Pause.

Scott Tracy sits at the kitchen table, alone, on Christmas Eve.

He has a glass in his hand, and he's not sure what he's drinking, but it's alcohol that isn't eggnog.

Whatever's in it, it shouldn't be firing down his throat at quarter past eleven, not on what's supposed to be the happiest night of the year. Still, he drinks. It heats Scott's throat with a taste he doesn't even like, but it's doing the job of making him numb.

Lights from the Christmas tree—at least, the lights that aren't broken— reflect in amber liquid, blinking in the background as an unwelcome reminder. Halfhearted paper decorations are strewn around the room, put together briefly by Alan and Gordon before a rescue got in the way. The tree's a little wonky, sat in the corner due to tradition more than necessity, and most of the baubles have lost their colouring.

When Christmas is a date they'd prefer to skip over, refurbishing decorations isn't exactly priority. It's hard for International Rescue, always has been, and it's no different this year.

So Scott waits up thinking that maybe, if he never sleeps, Christmas will never come.

It's a childish thought, but in the depths of the night Scott let's his hope be a little juvenile. He stares out the window half expecting a sleigh to ride across the sky, and is strangely disappointed when all he sees is the moon, dousing the Island in snow-like beams.

It reminds him of John, and how he was supposed to be home two hours ago. Scott takes another sip of his drink and sighs.

It's quiet all through the house. But something is stirring this Christmas Eve; and it's larger than a mouse. Scott can't ignore the pad of a brother's footsteps on the landing, or pretend that they'll just go away. Half tempted to hide the glass, Scott decides against it, thinking that Virgil will understand.

Virgil always understands, even when he insists that he doesn't.

Because it's supposed to be Virgil to join the midnight conversation, hovering in the shadows like a watch worn and wary sentinel. Scott just comes to expect it. It's like he has some sort of detector for when one of them is out of sorts.

It's certainly not supposed to be Gordon who's there instead.

Gordon with the bandages tight around his midriff. Gordon with dark circles beneath his eyes. Gordon, whose ever-lasting smile is fighting a losing battle with his grimace. One hand hovers over his waist, the other rubbing at the back of his neck. "Can't sleep?" he asks, voice too loud for this silent night

Scott grunts his version of a non-committing yes and pulls a chair out from the table. Gordon eases himself down with surprising grace. He looks at Scott's glass.

Where Alan would have been oblivious and Virgil would have removed it, Gordon reaches forward and takes it for himself. Scott snatches it back before he can drink, balancing the glass in his own hand, preferring to look at the reflected lights than at his brother's face.

"Don't you think I deserve it?" Gordon asks, and his usual smile, like a sudden burst of sunshine on a cloudy day, is nowhere to be seen. This one's tired, and fed up, with just a hint of bitterness that makes it hard for Scott to swallow.

"No," Scott's reply is a thick growl.

"What do I have to do to get a drink round here? Fall off a cliff?"

Scott leans back and closes his eyes, thinking that if he ignores Gordon too, he'll go away, just like Christmas.

oOo

Fast forward.

Could this all be over now?

It didn't work; Gordon's still here, humming a Christmas tune beneath his breath. Only, it doesn't sound cheerful. It's twisted into something macabre with Gordon's lack of tune.

Scott just wanted a nice, peaceful night, where he could wallow in every bad decision he's made, but instead he's stuck here listening to this. Gordon's tracing shapes into the table with his finger, battling sleepy blinks that he's desperate not to give in to.

It throws Scott back in time.

Back to a sandy haired child who wanted to stay up until midnight, but would fall asleep at nine, too exhausted from dancing around the room to the Sugar Plum Fairy. A boy that, without fail, Scott had to untangle from Christmas tree lights every year until he turned fourteen.

Gordon used to write a last minute letter to Santa just in case, usually a list of apologies for tugging Alan's hair, or not sharing his motor boat toy with Virgil. He'd want to bake cookies, and sing songs, and play games. The whole family was relieved when he fell asleep on Jeff's chest, only to realise later that his relentless energy was all part of the fun.

Gordon could have been the star at the top of the Christmas tree with all the light that he projected, and Scott wouldn't have known the difference. His excitement was contagious and magical; bouncing about the room with a spirit that they never thought would die.

But it's dead now, and Scott wonders what part he played in that.

Gordon shouldn't be up on Christmas Eve, he shouldn't be tracing triangles into the table over and over again with his finger, and he certainly shouldn't be here with broken ribs and a broken smile.

"Does it hurt?" It's a stupid question, but Scott asks it anyway. Asks it like Gordon's a stranger, as though Scott can't read the small nuances in his face that indicate yes, it hurts, very much so.

"On a scale of bruised toe to hydrofoil?" Gordon's brief laugh is hollow and as unamused as Scott's expression. "Well, probably around the broken bone area."

Scott levels him with a stare that commands seriousness, but knows he won't get it. Gordon's purpose in life is to somehow fight maturity. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to realise he's already failed. "You shouldn't have done it," Scott says quietly, and has to draw his tone back from one of reprimand.

Gordon's jaw sets. "I know. You said."

Scott teeth grind together, irritation fumbling in his slippery grasp. "Ever think that maybe I was right?"

"I just…" Gordon rubs his hands together and can no longer look Scott in the eye. "I wanted to get that guy back home for his Christmas, that's all."

"Yeah, well, you didn't." Scott's reply is cold, and harsher than it should have been.

oOo

Rewind.

Scott shouldn't have said that.

Whether it was the drink talking, or Scott just wanting Gordon to fully understand the consequences of his actions, he's not sure. Either way, it has now resulted in an icy silence between them, one that is not at all foreign.

Scott sips, and Gordon draws triangles on the table. Neither leaves. Scott doesn't understand why.

Christmas inspires the same question as both life and death. It is simple, yet complex, a resounding: why? Why is Scott able to experience Christmas with his family, while others aren't? Why are those people chosen to be torn apart by fate, and not different ones?

Christmas brings with it many unwanted questions. Accidents pile up, losses become harder to bear, and every near-miss sets Scott's nerves alight to the point where he becomes insufferable to those around him. Everything is more intensely felt, the joy, the sorrow, embedding into the mind of whatever rescuer has to listen to stories from the soul. Stories of loss or reunion, stories that go on too long, or ones that are never finished.

It gets to the point where Scott just wants to turn it all off.

He wants to rewind, back to memories coloured like fairytales, where everything was bright and bold and innocent. Where they didn't have to spend Christmas day worrying that there might be a rescue, or Christmas Eve in dreadful silence.

A silence which is broken by the crash of a door swinging open.

Gordon jumps, hissing as he shifts too quickly. Scott winces alongside him, because his brother's pain is his own, it always has been.

John, as calm as the night that surrounds them, walks through the door. The astronaut pauses on seeing them. "What is this? A welcome home party?" he asks dryly, dumping his bag on the ground and moving toward them without any other greeting.

Scott raises his glass in answer. John's lips twitch.

Gordon furrows his brow and grumbles, "Damn, I thought you were Santa."

A solitary and elegant eyebrow rises at the comment. "For all you know, I could be."

"So that's why you're late," Scott mutters, and suddenly it's big brother ruining all the fun again. Younger brothers share a look that says more than words, one that Scott isn't privy to, and probably never will be.

John rolls his eyes and sits down. "You didn't have to stay up for me."

"We're not," Gordon remarks, nudging Scott more patronizingly then with affection. "We're staying up to not talk about what happened today. It's working really well."

"Doesn't it always," John doesn't have the decency to act concerned. He just reaches for Scott's glass with a resigned sigh.

Scott chews on his lip and sits back, wondering how they got here.

John, with a spiral galaxy wrapped around his wrists, who always dreamed of coming face to face with the planets. John, in his rocket pyjamas, measuring each of his presents to try and work out what they were. John, doing false calculations to prove to Virgil that Santa really could go around the world in one night.

John, who wasted time with Scott throwing rocks at stars, now sits and drinks with the weight of what he dreamt of, all those galaxies and planets, heavy on his shoulders.

"Sorry you didn't get him out Gords," John says softly, and he reaches an arm across the table just to bridge the gap between them. "It was a hard one."

Gordon meets John's eyes, expression changing with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope. It lands on something far too sad to exist on Christmas Eve. Something far too sad to exist anywhere near a person that would giftwrap his smile just to make everyone else feel happy.

Scott doesn't understand why John can't be angry with him, or frustrated, that Gordon almost gave his life for another. That they almost lost their heart on Christmas.

But Gordon's the type of person that would stand at the bottom of the ocean and cup daylight in his hands, if only to give the fish a chance to see the sun. So surely, Scott should have expected this.

oOo

Change channel. Switch the frequency.

Scott doesn't want to listen any longer.

"Do you think he had kids?" Gordon's triangles have turned into fingers scratching memories out of the table, digging his nails into the wood as though it's his mind.

"Perhaps," is John's answer, as refined as it is careful.

Gordon's glance flitters like a bird between older brothers, and it hurts that amber eyes meet John's with a need for reassurance, and Scott's with a strange sort of fear. Gordon's words are breathless from his ribs, or the hurt of an illusory nightmare. "Imagine losing your father on Christmas Eve…"

Imagine it. Imagine losing a father at all.

Imagine losing a brother.

Scott's hand curls around his glass tightly, and it doesn't matter that it's empty; he just needs to hold onto something. John notices, as John notices all, and sits back to appraise brothers that still don't know how to face things like he does.

"Perhaps he didn't have kids," John says with an indifferent shrug that he wears too well. Scott is hit with the sharp realization that he's jealous of that cloak. "Perhaps he lived alone, perhaps he hated Christmas, perhaps he wanted to end the world –would it matter? Would it stop you doing what you did?"

Gordon stops scratching the table and holds John's words in his hands. "No," he whispers, and for once it's something Scott agrees with. "No, it wouldn't matter." He bites his lip and looks at Scott, some of the child that still lingers in that soul coming out to greet him.

Scott holds his gaze, like an outstretched hand, to try and get him to understand without saying a word. To understand that it's not only other people's stories that Scott is worried about.

Yes, he wants to bring parents back to kids, siblings back to siblings, lovers back to lovers, it's the best and worst part of his job. But Scott also cares about their story, and how, with every Christmas that comes and goes, Scott feels he's getting closer to the one where there'll only be four of them instead of five.

Any extra risk to that and Scott's not sleeping, trying to avoid Christmas all together.

"I guess I shouldn't have gone in alone." Gordon's words are an arm reaching back at Scott, an arm that is too tired and sore to be arguing. Even then it's still framed with an I guess that is half convinced he's right, but wants to appease a brother who needs it. "I guess I should have waited."

John's nod is curt, involving himself where he didn't have to be involved. His hard eyes saying, damn right you should have waited, the only slip-up in his insouciant shroud.

Gordon shrugs. "So…I guess I'm sorry too."

Scott dips his head and breathes out; fighting whatever surge of thick emotion is suddenly clogging his throat. "So am I," he whispers back. It's Scott and Gordon's favourite truce, to both apologise, even if neither really mean it.

Silence descends, and they sit.

"Hey, why wasn't I invited?" the somber atmosphere is washed away by dulcet tones. Scott looks up at Virgil hovering in the doorway—where he should have been two brothers ago—and the relief is automatic. His very presence has the same effect on them all. John offers a thin smile while Gordon audibly sighs, even if neither realise they are doing it.

Virgil looks at them all with disapproving eyes, but his smile is as easy as a poet's dream. "Oh, and Merry Christmas." He wanders towards them, hand gravitating to Scott's shoulder mechanically, releasing tension that's been sitting there all evening.

"So it is," John says, looking at the clock without an inch of excitement that once lived in those reserved eyes. "Merry Christmas. Is sleeping a thing that we don't do now, or was your radar blaring?"

Virgil tilts his head and studies John. "Can we ever sleep after days like today?"

The silence is answer enough. Gordon whimpers.

"Well you definitely shouldn't be up," Virgil releases Scott's shoulder and slides himself down next to Gordon, eyes in a state of concern that may as well be eternal.

Scott laughs. It is a brief, short moment of light, which takes them all by surprise.

Trust Virgil to be the sensible one, still, after all these years.

It was little Virgil who stomped into the living room with both arms at his hips, who proceeded to tell them all— including their parents— that they should be in bed or Santa wouldn't bring them any presents. Virgil, who organized for them to sing Christmas carols, and painted decorations to give away to people that couldn't afford any.

It was Virgil who cried when he realised Santa wasn't real, and from that point onward, did his best keeping younger brothers immersed in the magic.

He doesn't have time to paint decorations anymore, and tends to injured brothers rather than disbelieving ones. Scott's smile twists back into a frown.

Virgil shoots Scott a peculiar stare, but understands, even if he pretends that he doesn't. "So then, what are we waiting for? Christmas is here now."

"The dawn," Scott says, though he's more sarcastic than he is serious.

"There will always be a dawn," John, ever the pragmatic, folds his arm across his chest and throws the eldest a questioning look.

But it's Gordon who takes the look and tosses an answer back for all of them to catch with open hands. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't stay awake for it."

In that answer remains a spirit of hope, and life, that isn't dead, only hidden. Fingers that were drawing triangles reach out to brush Scott's wrist, and he squeezes them quietly. It hurts knowing that he can't hold onto them forever.

oOo

Record.

Scott Tracy sits at the kitchen table, not alone, on Christmas Day.

He wants to remember this.

Even if it's fleeting, he wants this engrained on his memory core, not what they almost lost. Brothers talk nonsense, and life, questions that sit on tongues are now loose and open as they wait for light to appear on the horizon. All the while Scott is the observer, he sees flashes of what he once knew, little brothers who laugh at nothing.

It's all out in the open until the sun rises on Tracy Island. In the darkness secrets can fly, lives almost lost are pushed to the forefront of minds, greatest fears mutate to the point where reality and memories are blurred.

But when glowing rays leak onto sun faded deck, and the crystal sea before them glitters at early morning birds, then everything is wrapped tightly back up in a neat little box. Ribbons are pulled over midnight arguments. Problems that should have been talked about months ago finally air and dissolve from their dusty corners, spider webs breaking as lock and chain.

Scott's arm is around Gordon's shoulder now, and he's not letting go, because he doesn't have to, not yet. The four of them sit together and wait for whatever rises first—Alan, or the dawn.

Not that the two are dissimilar to Scott.

Both are a new day, optimism, a reminder of innocence that still lives somewhere in all of them.

Because Alan used to run down stairs on Christmas morning and he still does. He'll still break open everyone's Christmas crackers, piling the paper hats atop his head with a grin that sings carols of its own. He'll force them all to wear Christmas jumpers, and take too many photos, and ask for stories about Christmases gone by.

When a rescue call comes—because it will come—he'll remind them all why they do what they do.

Gordon's head droops onto Scott, and sleep is victorious where pride isn't. Once more he's the sandy haired boy, too tired to wait up, but hopefully dreaming of all things bright.

Virgil looks at him fondly, with carols in his mind, hands tapping the table like an invisible keyboard. John's smile is small, but it's there, and so is the boy in rocket pyjamas.

Scott just smiles. Because having them all here, one Christmas at a time, is something that he cherishes more every year. They are the only gift he ever needs, and that realization comes as the dawn appears.