Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John jabs at the call button for the elevator, the squeak echoing through the empty foyer.  The heavy oak doors to the banquet room mask the sound of the ongoing benefit – the rowdy conversation, the music, the clatter of silver cutlery on fine china. It helps, a bit, to have that racket toned down a few decibels – releasing the pressure on his brain that is crowding out all rational thought. It doesn’t make him less angry though. Gordon had no right to say that.  It just makes space for the anger to grow a little, pushing up against the headache brewing behind his eyes. He jabs the button again, even though he can see the elevator is already on the way.   

John loosens his bowtie and untucks his shirt, having given up on appearances. Those were already ruined anyway by his very presence. It was Scott who was meant to be the other Tracy present, not him, and as a hurried last minute substitution they hadn’t come up with a convincing reason why the eldest wasn’t there, let alone found a properly fitting outfit for John. They were lucky he had even been in the same country, but his ‘delivering keynote speech’ outfit was not ‘high profile charity auction’ appropriate, so one hasty visit to a suit hire shop later John had presented himself in a passable tuxedo, even it was a little small to be comfortable.   

Used to his form fitting uniform, or even Brains’ custom tux, wearing something that didn’t quite fit had started the evening off like a stone in his shoe. And then was Gordon.  

The elevator arrives with a sophisticated chime and the tinkling of inoffensive light jazz. John is through the doors before they have been able to glide fully open, jabbing the button for the ground floor. He needs the cool night air, a fresh breeze and to be away from here.  The doors close with an aggravatingly leisurely pace before the elevator starts its journey down the hundred plus floors.   

John leans against the back wall, letting his shoulders slump. He’s going to hear it from Scott for bailing. Gordon’s probably already ratted him out, without explaining why obviously. John can almost hear the lecture now: blah blah blah public persona blah blah blah social responsibility  - as if they don’t take on enough responsibilities as it is! Though Scott will be laid up with that broken leg. If John is quick enough he might be able to get off the island and back to Five before Scott even realises he’s been on the island, and with a judicious use of the mute button that lecture won’t be so bad.   

John is idly watching the floors count down while mentally walking though the path from the light aircraft hangers – which he and Gordon would be using to get back – to the space elevator platform, when the current elevator jolts to one side.   

“What the...?” John’s shoulder smashes into the wall with enough force that he bounces back, staggering in his tight dress shoes to keep his balance. Another jolt – the whole elevator moving in a way it really shouldn't be able to – and John stumbles, slamming into the floor. He barely gets his hands out to prevent a broken nose, hugging the vibrating, shuddering floor. Distantly, from far above is the screech of collapsing metal. Something heavy collides with the roof of the elevator, the music stops and the lights go out.    

Chapter Text

Gordon has been having a great evening. Fine food, fine company, fine wine – not that’s he’s having any wine. He’s as off duty as he can get, but it’s been ingrained in him to be ready for the entirety of his adult life, and so it’s non-alcoholic beer for him. He likes being in the sort of place a fine wine is served though.   

“What was all that about?” One of the hangers on he’s accumulated gasps, a little over half drunk and keen for gossip. There isn’t any, just a blurred line between playful banter and actual insult that has sent John stalking silently from their small group. Gordon briefly considered running after him to apologise, but there would be time for that later and one of the waiters is bringing over another platter of those delicious toasted cheese things.  

He’s on his third when the chandelier starts to shake, a soft tinkle of crystal blowing in the wind. Which is odd because there are no open windows in this room, not even a balcony to look out over the city. Gordon pauses with a volovant half in his mouth, senses screaming that something is wrong.   

He’s poised, and uncoils like a snake when the gentle shake above becomes a full blow tremor down the walls. “Down! Everyone down!” he yells, people scattering to all corners. Gordon’s running, heading for the door, when all the lights go out and one wall explodes in a cloud of plaster.   

The sound of John’s breath bounces off the walls, and his heartbeat echos in his ears. The elevator has stilled, silent, allowing John to slowly push himself to a sitting position. It’s pitch black. Not even the regulation emergency lighting is on. Which, he will admit, is worrying.   

He fumbles for his watch - the one piece of IR tech he has on him at the moment -  to call the others. But it doesn’t light up as he expects to. A lump of concrete forms in his stomach. Fingertips dancing across the watch-face he can’t make out any damage and these things were built to take a lot; a little shaking couldn’t hurt them. Usually.  

“Which means an EMP of some sort,” John speaks aloud, to have something to fill the darkness. “Great.”  

He pulls himself to his feet, grasping along the wall he thinks is the front of the elevator for the control panel. He finds the floor buttons, the door buttons and then the call button. A few frantic pushes and..... silence. Not even the hiss of static. Which is not surprising given the state of the other electronics but still bitterly, crushingly, disappointing.   

Next John tries the doors, finding the thin centre seem. There is no purchase though, no way to get a hand or finger or even fingernail in the gap and pry them apart.  

Suddenly the darkness is both oppressively claustrophobic and distressingly infinite. The walls could be an inch from his nose or a mile away and he wouldn’t know the difference. His heart rate shoots up and his throat tightens.  

He groans into the void, hurriedly putting his back to the wall and sliding down to the floor. The metal is cold under his palms, fingers splayed out as far as they can go, and he can feel the coolness seeping through his jacket and shirt as well. It’s a nice contrast to the sudden heat that has swept through him, sweat bursting across his forehead and at his hairline.  

He recognises the symptoms: heart racing, eyes itching, the pressure of the ceiling pushing down on his shoulders. “No time for a panic attack.” He tries to sound confident, but his mouth is dry and his throat cracks.  

The one corner of his mind that still contains rational thought knows that he’s absolutely fine, but that’s being subsumed by overwhelming fear. The darkness is all. The pressure. John squeezes his eyes shut, because at least that’s meant to be dark, and pretends that he’s up on Five. That’s an enclosed space, that would feel the same right? No. Because the metal under his fingers is still, missing the ever-present hum that is the heartbeat of the grand station’s engines. If Five were this silent he would likely be dead.   

In one of Two’s pods then? Yes, that would do. He takes a deep breath in, or as deep as he can manage. Two is in for maintenance . Breathes out. He’s helping restock one of the pods . Breathes in. G ot a tool set in front of him. Breathes out. Virgil’s round the corner. Breathes in. Going to do an oil change next. Breathes out.  Then restock the med pack. Breathes in.  

John has no real awareness of how longs he sits like that, arms out, breathing deep and slow, forcing his mind to focus on the imaginary task rather than the reality of his situation, but eventually John’s heart stops trying to beat out his chest. He’s calmer, doesn’t feel light headed or like he might throw up. He is, however, covered in sweat tired as the adrenaline rush subsides.  

He opens his eyes, and though it’s barely any different it’s easier to cope with. Another quick search for the control panel gives no better results, and his watch is still dead.   

Chapter Text

Sitting up, coughing, Gordon runs a quick hand over his head, body and limbs. No blood, nothing broken. The ballroom is filled with a low murmur of moans which means not everyone’s been so lucky.   

He clicks a subtle button the side of his watch, activating a live comm link to the island. “Gordon to HQ, you read?” He pulls one lady to her feet – she's shaken, ornate hairstyle fallen loose and one dangling earing missing -  but not visibly hurt.  

“We read Gordon.” Scott’s voice comes back immediately, calm and sure, just like it always is. “We’ve picked up some sort of explosion at your location.”  

“Yeah, that’s about right.” He brushes the worst of the dust out of his hair and off his face.   

“Situation report. Injuries?”  

“I’m fine, a little dusty and this shirt is ruined, but fine. We’ve got a lot of people up here though who are going to need evacuation.”  

“Virgil and Alan are already on their way so triage for now, but stay put until we’ve assessed for structural damage. And John?”  

John.  

“I... I don’t know. He wasn’t with me.”   

The lights flicker on. Half the bulbs in the chandelier have shattered, casting a mottled and uneven light onto the ruined opulence below.  

Gordon leaps onto a nearby table that looks at least half stable, to get a better view of the room. There are people everywhere, but none of them have the distinctive build and hair of his brother. The lights go off again, and a disheartened groan rises up from the stirring mass of partygoers. Gordon’s heart sinks.  

Where did you go?  

“I don’t see him.”  

John is sitting cross legged in the centre of the elevator – keeping as much space as possible around him in all directions – when a sudden burst of static startles him from the semi-meditative state he’s been trying to maintain. The flashbang of a small supernova irradiates his eyeballs. Or the small status light on his watch turns on.  

“John? John, can you hear me? Respond.” The signal is distorted and a little tinny but Scott’s voice is a salve to his soul.  

“I can hear you.” John doesn’t hide his relief, and neither does his brother, which means the situation must be bad out there to crack Scott’s confident façade. John’s hands itch to help, to know.  

“Are you alright? Hurt? Give me a situation report. Why haven’t we heard from you?”  

“No injuries. I am trapped in an elevator though. Have been for a while now. All controls are off line and my watch has been too. What happened out there?”  

“Do you know what floor you’re at?”  

John was barely paying attention at the time, so gives his best guess, blinking frequently and heavily to let his eyes adjust to the shocking light. “Somewhere between five and ten.”  

“Hmmm, think I’ve located the shaft you are in, looks like from the preliminary scans there is some debris up above you that’s caused the problem.”  

It’s been many years since the last serious elevator accident. Layered safety features make it almost impossible for them to fall, even the newer designs that have horizontal and diagonal movement. The ability to quote decades of data should comfort John, but there’s something about the word ‘debris’ that makes his shoulders itch.  

“Above? Is Gordon ok?” Now his eyes are accustomed, his watch casts a dim glow around the space. Not enough to see clearly beyond his own nose, but enough to define the space, reveal the walls and stop visions of endless blackness.   

“Fine. Organising the evacuation. We’re not sure what actually happened yet so we’re being cautious and waiting for Virgil and Alan to arrive, they should be landing in the next few minutes.”  

“Right. Makes sense.” It does make sense, it’s what he would do if he was running dispatch. Collect information, assess the situation, deploy the correct equipment. “I don’t suppose you have an eta for my extraction right now?”  

“Not at the moment, not until we get the injured out the building.” Prioritise . Scott’s doing it by the book and any other time John would be ecstatic that Scott was keeping to the protocols they’d spent literally years putting together, instead of haring off and doing his own thing. John rolls his shoulders and uncrosses his legs to ease the cramp from being in one position for – probably - hours.  

“Just don’t take too long.”  

“Don’t worry, I won’t mess with any of your programmes.” He can hear Scott’s smile, which is uncalled for as he’s not that particular about it. There are many different ways that you can organise the dispatch screens. If you are comfortable being wrong. ”You just relax. I can even count this as part of your downtime if you like.”  

“Relax? Very funny.” John pushes himself back to lean against the wall and rest his head back. “Nothing very relaxing about being stuck in a metal box in an uncomfortable suit.” The shirt label is rubbing against his neck again, and it’s too tight through the back. ”You could always play me an audiobook? Scott?”  

“Sorry.” Scott’s distracted. ”I’ve got some readings here that – hang on.” The line goes silent.   

Huh, that’s what it feels like to be put on mute. It turns out he doesn't like being out of the loop all of a sudden. Maybe he shouldn’t do that quite as often; it’s become his stop gap solution for when he really needs to concentrate. Or swear. Hearing dispatch frustrated does nothing to inspire confidence on a rescue, and they definitely don’t need to hear what comes out of his mouth when it all starts to go wrong.  The hairs on the back of John ’s neck stand on end and his stomach shrinks, a terrible sense of foreboding clutching his throat.  

“John, brace!” Scott’s voice crackles with urgency. “You’ve got incoming, debris shifting down your elevator shaft.”  

“Brace? How am I meant to do that there’s nowhere - “ John scrabbles to his feet as a thunderous rumble mutes the conversation: a horrific clatter of metal on metal.  

Chapter Text

John pants into the darkness, waiting for the world to stop collapsing around him. There really isn’t any good place to brace in a smooth featureless box, but he’s done his best; squeezing into a corner, drawing his legs up and covering his head as best he can.  

When everything has stilled, he lifts his head, breathing as shallowly as possible. The remains of steel floor supports have speared through the roof of the elevator and filled almost all the empty space – one rests right along his side. He could rest his head on it. It’s nicked his arm in passing – the dim light isn’t enough to see the colour properly, but there’s only one thing that dark stain spreading across his shirtsleeve can be.    

“Come on, respond John!” Scott is shouting. Unnecessary, considering he is right next to John’s ear. Rude.  

It takes a couple of tries of clearing his throat to get his acknowledgment out. There is a jagged piece of metal piercing right where he’d been sitting. He’d been about a foot and thirty seconds from becoming a kebab. This must be what it’s like to be inside a pin cushion.  

“Are you hurt? It sounded like – are you hurt?”  

The edge of desperation in Scott’s question snaps John’s attention back.   

“I - there’s of debris in here. I -” John clenches his jaw and closes his eyes for a moment before he can go on. The small light from his watch casts weird geometric shadows through the forest of metal, disguising the limits of the elevator. If he was honest he wants out of there with no delay, but the years of training forces him mind onto a different track: assess and evaluate.   

He shifts carefully, to get a better view of the obstructions between him and the door. Shouldn’t have gone for the opposite corner really -  a thought interrupted by a wave of heat and screeching nerves running across his chest and down his right arm, the one shoved up very hard against the elevator wall. Broken perhaps, dislocated maybe. The pain in his shoulder warns him not to move much.   

“Broken bone most probably, not urgent,” he admits, trying to estimate how much the stain on his short arm had grown. Not much, and now he starts to feel the slice so he can tell it’s relatively small, so not worth mentioning.   

There is silence from Scott, no doubt trying to assess if he was lying. They all had a dangerous habit of under estimating – and under reporting – their injuries. John usually made allowances for that and adjusted accordingly. A warm trickle of something ran down his back. He’d have to move to check if it was just sweat or blood, but he’s more or less pinned into the corner by sharp wreckage.  

John had thought his night was going badly before but this is something else completely.  

Gordon’s wait for Two’s arrival is excruciating. Not only is he without his equipment and forced to resort to table cloths and lacy napkins for bandages, and has no distinctive blue and yellow suit to help him stand out from the crowd. He’s had to explain at least a dozen times that he’s first aid certified to get anyone to listen to a damn word he’s saying. Triage is a lot easier with the authority of International Rescue behind him.  

Triage is also much easier with John at the other end of an earpiece. Scott is trying, and he’s not doing badly, but where Scott takes a moment to bring up some data or relay an updated ETA John would already have it. Gordon wouldn’t even have to open his mouth to ask, and his brother’s absence is weighing heavily on his mind.   

“You sure he’s alright?” Gordon asks again, even though Scott’s already told him several times that John isn’t in any immediate danger.    

“I can patch you through if you want, talk to him yourself if you don’t believe me.”  

“You’re busy, and I don’t want to take up a channel.”  

“Then stop asking!”  

The fact is John is hurt, to one extent or the other, and Gordon is working under the hanging shadow that the last time he’d seen him, he’d said some awful hurtful things. Until Scott had relayed that John had picked up Gordon had been horribly afraid they were going to be the last last things he ever said.  

And Gordon doesn’t think he can go through that again.  

Gordon is saved from dwelling on that thought further by the distinctive roar of the green angel herself, hovering somewhere above and plainly audible even through the ceiling. Her arrival brings a hopeful smile to more than one face, and Gordon finds himself joining the crowd, instinctively looking upwards.   

“The cavalry has arrived.”  

Chapter Text

John is tired of being still.   

Scott’s been relaying IR’s progress, and despite them making his extraction a personal priority it’s taking Virgil an age to stabilise the building enough for rescue crews to enter and he’s not the only one trapped in an odd pocket of the building. Personal, after all, isn’t always the same as important.   

John’s been stuck in this awkward position for hours now; his legs are cramping, and his butt is numb, his head is pounding and his arm.... well, the less he thinks about that the better. It shoots jagged fire when moved and unfortunately even breathing is enough to do that now. He tries not to breath too deeply, keeping it shallow and light.   

He’s tired of being still, and he’s also just plain tired. Lethargy pulls around him like a blanket, weighing down his shoulders. Maybe he can sleep, and when he wakes up this will all be over.  

No such luck.  

“Good afternoon, this is your 3am check in.” Gordon pipes through the comms, sounding ridiculously cheery all things considered, voice bouncing around the enclosed space.  

“Is it really 3am?” He can usually tell when Gordon is joking, but there is a fuzziness sitting behind his eyes which makes John unsure of his own instincts, and unsure of how much time has passed.   

“More or less. In this time zone or another.” John can just imagine Gordon leaning back in his chair, feet up on the console, cheeky grin plastered all over his face. Water canteen in one hand, sandwich in the other. No, that’s just his own hunger and thirst imposing into the mental picture.  

“So helpful Gords.” John lets his eyes drift close, just for a moment. If it were really 3am he deserved a nap.  

“I aim to please. I do want a sit rep from you though.”  

“My situation is, as it has been for hours, ‘uncomfortable’.” Beyond uncomfortable. There is dust or something in the air, making his eyes itch and water. His arm begins to bleed again – just a little, just a trickle – when he palms his eye sockets. The relief from the itching is only momentary and now his vision is slightly blurry; the tiny space zooming in and out of focus like an old style camera lens.   

“Would sir like room service? The special tonight is grilled salmon.”  

“Leave me alone if you’re just going to be an ass.”   

“Can’t do that Jonny-boy.”  

“I'm sure even you can work out where the off switch is.”  

“Wow, harsh. But I have strict instructions to bother you until I am satisfied with your current condition.” Gordon puts on a pompous voice, the same he uses when he’s doing an impression of one of Penny’s more dour great-uncles. It’s funny then, not funny now.  

“That’s right, takes a direct order to want to spend time with me.” Bitterness and hurt break through the tiredness to put a sting in John’s words that he would have usually buried.  

There is a pause. Gordon doesn’t have an immediate retort.  

John leans his head against the elevator wall, luxuriating in the silence, the metal cooling against the thrumming heat in his skull. If he could just stretch he’d feel so much better. Shake out the knots crunching in his legs and shoulders.  

Maybe not stretch his shoulders; one arm a fiery slash and the other a dull insistent ache from where he fell when the elevator first stopped. Or was it....? No, it was later. That’s right. He has no concept of time trapped in here, that’s all, and things are starting to get muddled. His head full of fluff.  

The last time he felt like this was when he had the flu – three days of fever and chills, bad dreams and confusing time skips as he dropped in and out of sleep. That was three or four years ago now, when Alan was little more than a baby.   

No.   

That’s not right.   

Ten years ago. It might have been ten years ago.  

It was the winter after they went skiing and they played hide and seek in the snow. He had huddled up against a snow drift just like this, the freezing air cooling his cheeks red and flush from running. Waiting for Scott to come and find him.  

Scott is going to come and find him.   

Maybe he should find a better hiding place than this.  

He shifts, to get up and run behind a tree, but the movement triggers waves of fire from his shoulder. It’s so surprising it steals his breath away.  

John opens his eyes again, barely, the shadowy forms of fallen steal replacing the forest he had been imagining.  

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean it and shouldn’t have said it.” Gordon. That’s Gordon’s voice. Where is he? Is he hiding? Another shift, to look around for his brother stirs the pain again and this time he gasps, sharp and shocked.  

“Don't be so melodramatic.” Gordon is going on. “It's just an apology, I can admit when I’m wrong.”  

“Wha’ you ‘rong about?” John is struggling to make out the words, Gordon’s voice muffled. He must be under the snow.  

No.  

That’s not right.  

That’s not...  

“About what I said at the benefit.”  

“Wha’ you sa’ at the ‘fit?” John’s forehead crinkles with thought, but he smooths is again quickly – it hurts too much. He can feel each muscle pulling on the others, pulling over his bones. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, getting in the way and making him mumble.  

Gordon might say something else, but a blizzard of snow and static buries him deep.  

Chapter Text

Somewhere above, in the depths of Two, Gordon slams his hand down on the console in frustration. He can chatter with the best of them; it’s a practiced skill that proves invaluable to distract and sooth, but it needs at least a little involvement from the other party. Gordon has been carrying the conversation for the last twenty minutes, and there have been only mumbles from the other end for the last five.

“Hey, take it easy on her.” Virgil is two rooms away recalibrating his exosuit for an extraction, but - as always - he’s hyper aware of anything that could so much as scratch his lady. “What’s the problem now?”

“Are you ready yet? He’s been slurring pretty bad,” Gordon says over his shoulder, “I can barely understand him.” Gordon’s fingers itch for a bio scan or a suit readout or anything else with some data to it. Part of his exhaustive training – aka being lectured at length by various family members – was to look for evidence to back up his gut; that instinct alone could get people killed. But with what little tech John had on him knocked out in the explosion all Gordon is left with is a horrible sinking feeling.

Virgil’s heavy mechanical footsteps approach the chair, and he’s leaning into the dashboard, swiping the display back to the building blueprints with a practiced gesture. He’s studying his route in.

“You suspect a head injury?”

Gordon drums his fingers on the console, thinking. The symptoms could be consistent with a head injury, except John hadn’t mentioned a blow to the head. He could be a stubborn fool sometimes but wouldn’t have left that out. His perfectionism would see to that.

“I’m not sure.”

Virgil gives him an enquiring look. “You got a hunch then?”

“We deployed atmosphere sensors down there, right?” The last few hours have had Gordon up and down the building, lifting, evacuating, triaging and doing general dogsbody work so Virgil can get in to do the heavy lifting. This has been their first opportunity to down a bottle of water and a protein bar in at least five hours, so some things have become a blur, but Gordon’s pretty sure they deployed sensors at some point.

“We put them about half a dozen floors above him, remember? In the boardroom where the historical society were meeting.” Virgil points out the room, and Gordon’s gut sinks a little lower as he remembers the huddled group they herded out nearly ninety minutes ago.

“I’ll send them further down while you get back there.” Gordon is already sending the commands, the four little hover drones flying in strict formation through the corridors. Armed with an array of cameras, sensors and samplers the Fab Four are reliable information gatherers, but they have only the most basic AI - for the purpose of collision avoidance - and need active human piloting.

The amount of debris that’s about, they may not be able to get into the shaft itself, but they can get pretty close and at least provide a visual of what Virgil will be navigating.

Speaking of which -

“You sure I shouldn’t go? I’m about half your width.” Gordon suggests. A lot of their time today has been spent working around the more severe collapses, backtracking around impenetrable piles of rubble that it’s not safe to remove. Virgil has many talents, but sliding through small gaps is not one of them. Particularly when sheathed in several hundred pounds of machinery that augment his normally wider-than-average shoulders.

“I got this.” Virgil clicks his helmet in place, checking the seal and air flow and flicking the shoulder light on and off several times. “I’d have to completely rebuild the suit to fit you. Keep trying with him and keep the comms open to me.” With that Virgil is away, and Gordon is left with just his worries and a guilty conscience for company. 

Chapter Text

The subtle hum and swoosh of the exosuit’s hydraulics is reassuringly familiar to Virgil in the otherwise silent stairwell. Sometimes he has to tamp down the confidence it gives him – it’s easy to tip into over confidence with all that strength and power at his disposal, which is when people die. And today, least of all days, he can’t afford that.  

The Fab Four are just ahead of him as he reaches the closest floor to John, their blinking red lights diluted when his own highpowered flashlight sweeps past them – there are enough bulbs broken here that there is no other light. The hallway takes on an undeniably creepy atmosphere with it’s dancing shadows and gentling floating dust, the distant echos of shifting masonry like a giant creature skulking in the wilderness.   

Virgil inches forward, knocking pieces of rubble away with his feet and leaning around sections of fallen ceiling. The further he goes the more difficult it gets: the hallway crowded so he has to turn sideways and even climb over debris he can’t move. His attention jumps to the drones when one of them starts a piercing sequence of beeps from where it is hovering up ahead, and the others join the choir in quick succession.   

“Gordon - you getting that?” he asks, hands already running a check across his helmet’s seals, and refreshing the display with his air supply.  

“I’m not sure exactly what gas they are detecting, it’s not one in their data bank. Ringo’s taking samples so we can add it. The oxygen levels are going down though. Like, way down. Dangerously down. Where - “  

Virgil’s been checking his map display, now a lot more detailed than when he started out, the basic building plans augmented by their own scans and notes on the damage. He could walk through any hallway in the building with his eyes closed and with confidence. The only thing that’s missing is John’s gentle updates in his ear.  “I’m not far, maybe 20 meters. Keep monitoring the oxygen levels for me.”  

The forest of obstacles gets thicker, larger, and more time consuming to move. He’s stuck for at least five minutes levering out one particularly stubborn wall piece, but even solid marble is no match for Tracy willpower. It topples over with a crash, kicking up a cloud of dust and dislodging other pieces in a cascade across the hallway. There’s likely no saving this building – it will need to be torn down and rebuilt from the ground up, which is a bit of a shame considering some of the architecture.   

When the dust settles the way is a little clearer, and Virgil is at the elevator door. He raps on it four times, signalling his arrival. Opening a door like this – heavy, highly polished and tightly fitted - by hand is near impossible, with a crowbar it’s doable with a bit of effort and luck, with his specialised equipment it’s more a matter of choosing the correct point to apply pressure.  

The doors judder apart, the metal just warped enough that he has to apply not insignificant force to get them wide enough that he’ll fit. The elevator has stopped with it’s floor at about Virgil’s shoulder level, giving him a disturbingly low view of the inside, like he’d been shrunk right down to borrower size. The fallen beams make a chaotic tangle through which he can barely see John, squashed right into the far corner.   

“John, I’m here. Show me you can hear me.” There is no movement from his brother, not that Virgil can see anyway. His sensors flash red down his arm, indicating dangerously low levels of oxygen outside the safety of his suit.   

“You got any response from him Gordon?”  

“None.” Gordon’s voice is taut with a concern Virgil shares.   

Great.   

No, not great, far from great, but no need to panic. Because while it’s going to take a while for Virgil to get through the forest of debris that even Alan would have trouble with, he has a couple of tricks up his sleeve. Or more accurately on his sleeve, borrowed from Scott for the period he’s out of action.   

A tap awakens the small robot tucked in the pouch clinging to Virgil’s bicep, a series of beeps signalling Mini-Max has loaded his software and connected to Thunderbird 2. He hovers just at eye level while Virgil it taking out one of the emergency O2 tanks from his other pocket and connecting a mask.   

“You need to take this,” he waves the device in Mini-Max's face “To John. And hold it over his mouth and nose until I get there. You got that?”  

Mini-Max looks into the elevator, and then back at Virgil and gives a short sharp nod.  He dips a little under the cannister’s weight but a bit more power to his jets has that equalled out, and he’s away, drifting carefully into the darkness.  

“Does Scott know you took him?” Gordon asks at the same time he pulls through Max’s camera feed to the corner of Virgil’s helmet display. The image being in his helmet rather than his arm means that Virgil doesn’t have to stop work to watch the little droids progress. He starts planning out his own route; scanning the nearest debris and unholstering the angle grinder. “I’m going to give him back.” He replies a touch defensively.  

“Sure, sure. That’s what we’ll tell him.”  

The first piece comes away – some sort of scaffolding by the looks of it – which Virgil places carefully to one side, where he’s not going to trip on it. Max makes it to John and Virgil supresses a flare of fear at his brother’s stillness.  

Max’s camera shakes a little – did he just give John a shove to try and wake him up? - and then zooms in on his face for a moment, then out again, then loses focus, then back in focus, then out of focus again. There is just enough junk in the way that Virgil can’t see what’s happening with his own eyes, so just has to grind his teeth and continue to grind through the next obstacle in his way.  

This is what it’s always like for you, isn’t it John. Seeing just snippets of what’s happening on site, trying to put the pieces together for us. Don’t know how you stand it.  

Another metal pole comes away, and Max retreats just enough to show that the oxygen mask is now hooked over John’s ears. It’s a little wonky, and not completely sealed, but it’s on and Max’s beeps are triumphant.  

“He’s breathing Virgil. I can see it. He’s breathing.” Gordon’s voice is a whisper. Virgil can’t see that sort of detail from where the video is for him, but Two’s screens are much larger and much higher resolution.   

He’s breathing.  

They’ve been gifted a little more time.  

Chapter Text

Gordon is almost finished setting up the med-bed by the time Virgil is able to lay a hand on their brother. He watches, filled with anxious restlessness, through both Max and Virgil’s cameras as Virgil makes his slow and careful excavations into the corner where John is huddled, the different but similar views a little confusing. Max’s full of quick movements and sudden stops as he adjusts position to get of the way. Virgil is of course steady and calm, his movements deliberate and considered.  

Gordon knows, on an intellectual level, that the ease with which Virgil is able to scoop John up – one arm under his knees, the other along his back, neck supported on Virgil’s shoulder – is not significant to how hurt John is. Virgil could probably do that exact thing unaided, and he has the sublime engineering of the exosuit to back him up. Virgil could support entire buildings right now, so seeing him carry John through the tangle of metal and concrete doesn’t mean anything . Gordon tries to tell himself that it’s just the dizzying movements of mini-Max's camera and it’s slight lens distortion  - or Virgil’s cam being at an eye height Gordon is never likely to achieve - that makes John look so small and fragile. This is just how he always looks , if Gordon ignores the smear of blood across John’s cheek bone and the readjusted mask covering half his face.  

“He’s breathing but unconscious. And also bleeding from somewhere but I can’t check all over, there’s not enough room.” Virgil’s frustration at the not-knowing is evident, though he doesn’t let it affect the careful steps retracing his path. Gordon hooks up a blood bag next to the bed. “I’ll be ready.”  

Turning looks tricky in such a confined space, and several mumbled swears drift over the comms as Virgil carefully manoeuvres the lax and floppy John around the jumbled ruins of the building. The med bed is ready, cheerful green status lights blinking their happy acknowledgment: ready to get to work.   

Which leaves Gordon with nothing to occupy his hands and steady his nerves.    

Scott’s grounding – casts and G-forces don’t go well together – and John’s eventual substitution to tonight’s party had given Gordon a thought-provoking mix of joy and disappointment. Joy because the benefit would still go ahead and he would get to spend it with John in the flesh, and a little ball of hurt disappointment because he thinks John thinks there are much better things to do with his limited Earth-time than spend it supervising Gordon so he doesn’t land himself in trouble. Again.   

John hadn’t said as much, but it was there somewhere, or so Gordon believes. Never one to let someone get in the first punch Gordon had twisted his fear into an attack and sent it back to where he thought it would come from.    

The memory is fresh and sharp enough to cut: the band playing something classical sounding in the background, a raucous laugh from in the corner and a general low hubbub of conversation.  All night they had been surrounded by an ever-rotating gaggle of ‘philanthropists’, each wanting their own piece of time with the elusive Tracy brothers. One had made some sort of off-hand comment about rarely seeing more than one of them together and Gordon had made them laugh with a response at his brother’s expense, one that more than implied he wouldn’t be seen with John except in the direst of circumstances.   

Maybe Gordon should have gone after him straight away, pulled him back to the party and the people they were both a little bored with. Maybe then he wouldn't have been hurt – in both senses of the word.  

Virgil’s arrival is announced by the thud of his boots on the ramp, and the soft whirr of the five hovering bots – Four returning to their charging stations and Max landing on the nearest console. Virgil lays John gently down on the bed, cradling his head and gently reclaiming his left arm from where it’s fallen, dangling almost to the floor.   

Gordon is over John like a rash: swapping out the oxygen mask for something more substantial than the emergency O2 cannister, applying several different types of electrode patch, inserting a line for fluids or blood or painkillers or whatever - all while Virgil deconstructs the exosuit.  

John offers no resistance to Gordon’s manipulations and ministrations, his pale, still form unnatural. John is never still, he doesn’t just sit and rest. He doesn’t zone out in thought like Scott does. On the occasions that John’s seen without the blue filter of a hologram – and isn’t that a little too rare these days – he's down to do something and he fills that time right to the brim. This week alone John’s debugged Three’s thruster aligning programme, delivered two presentations – one remote, one in person – written half a dozen mission reports and aced his quarterly physical fitness tests. Even when he is just sitting, it’s always with notebook in hand, scratching away at the ideas that continually harass him. Gordon’s always thought that John is just a couple of seconds away from leaping up, yelling ‘eureka’, and running off to make history with his latest brainwave – he's always just on the cusp of something amazing and incomprehensible.  

Gordon steps back to let Virgil take over. He crosses his arms to hold himself together while Virgil draws two blood samples and gives one to Max for analysis. Virgil’s hands are sure but gentle as they make their way over every inch of skin, searching for injuries they know must be there somewhere.   

“I think his shoulder is just dislocated.” Virgil prods the joint that definitely doesn’t look right, and Gordon can’t help but wince in sympathy. Dislocations are better than breaks – in general less long term damage and quicker healing with a couple of helpful tricks from Brains – but they were Gordon’s least favourite type of injury. “And here’s where he’s bleeding from. Can’t find any other injury. Pass me the gauze – thanks.”  

Gordon had it in Virgil’s hand before he’d finished the sentence, the sterile white fabric filling with deep red from the long gash down his other arm.   

“Look’s like it will need stitches.” Gordon suggests, swapping out the soiled strip for a fresh one.  

“Yeah, a few – it's long and deep in places but it’s clean as far as I can tell.” Virgil binds a hasty bandage in place until they can do a more thorough investigation, but if there’s no need for painful extraction of shrapnel then it’s almost an every day injury for them. Easily treatable, easily managed.   

“Is everything stable enough for us to leave?”   

“I’ll get the last report from Scott, but I can’t imagine that there is much that will hold us here.” Virgil hands the med kit to Gordon for him to stow, making for the cockpit.  “Get him strapped in ready for take off.”  

The medkit gets stuffed back into the overhead locker a little less neatly than it should do, so Gordon can spend more time on securing his brother into the bed. Virgil is one of the steadiest pilots in the world but turbulence is unpredictable and so overcaution is the watchword. One strap around his ankles, one around his thighs, pulled taught. The one around his hips and chest barely tight enough, to be considerate of any internal injuries. Once satisfied Gordon pops out the observation seat next to the bed and straps himself in – Virgil will know not to expect him co-piloting this flight.   

Once they are both secured Gordon takes John’s hand – the one not on the end of his dislocated arm – and holds it gently in between both of his. He squeezes gently, willing the warmth from his own body to seep into his brother’s. John’s skin is cool beneath a thin layer of dust that is smeared with blood in places. He wouldn’t like that. Dust is no-go in the carefully controlled environment of a space station, where a short in the wrong system spells disaster. Gordon fetches down the medkit again, and opens the pack of wipes down at the bottom. With careful slow strokes Gordon cleans away the dirt from John’s hand, wrist, and forearm, right up to where the bandage starts. He drops the used wipes in a pile at his feet – Two’s engines have rumbled to life so Gordon knows Virgil will be currently occupied, and he will have plenty of time to dispose of them before Virgil gets on his case about making a mess. The dirt is slightly too gritty to come off smoothly and dark streaks are left behind despite Gordon’s best efforts.   

Two lurches a little as she takes to the air – cross winds can be tricky in those first couple of seconds – and gives Gordon a familiar swoop in his stomach. Rollercoasters and take offs, both such a thrill.  

“We’ll be home in no time,” Gordon says, checking that the iv line Virgil had set up was still secure and hadn’t been dislodged by his cleaning, “And then I’ll clean up the rest of you.”  

“No need. Not a baby.”  

John’s voice is hoarse and dry sounding, without it’s usual calm confidence, and though it’s a little muffled by the oxygen mask it’s clear and unslurring. John’s eyes are still mostly closed, brows creased in a frown. Or a squint.  

“Hey.” Gordon says, sweeping down the light controls to fifty percent.  

“Hey.” The tightness in John’s face relaxes a little with the lights dimmed.   

“You’re going to need stitches in one arm and the other shoulder put back in, but are you in any other pain, any other injuries?” Anything we missed?  

John thinks for a good few seconds: he shifts slightly in the bed as if testing, checking. He clenches his hands, squeezing Gordon’s tight, and twitches his feet.  

“Just headache. And dizzy.” He concludes.  

“Just like any other day with me then.” Gordon doesn’t quite land the joke; his heart isn’t in it and John’s clearly still too woozy to appreciate it, though he tries a small smile.   

Gordon almost apologises again, spills all his guilt and self doubt. He’d happily beg – on his knees! - for John’s forgiveness, but in a moment of clarity knows just have selfish that would be to dump all that on his barely conscious brother and promises himself to pick up the conversation later.   

Max chirps for attention, and a stream of data takes over a screen: while the humans were otherwise occupied he had been busy. Analysing samples of the atmosphere Max has been able to identify the unknown chemical. Gordon isn’t even going to start with the pronunciation of the complex name – he tends to get lost about half way through – and instead skips straight to the end, one hand still in John’s. It’s caged in cold, hard, technical terms but the meaning is clear: treatment is oxygen therapy for twenty-four hours, and no long term side effects are expected.  

“See that John! Max says you’re going to be ok.” Gordon grins, but John can only blink up at him a little dozily. Gordon increases the oxygen concentration a little. “Just rest, you’ll be alright in no time.”  

It wasn’t exactly no time: two days in the infirmary with painkillers and sedatives and stiches, another couple in bed - exhausted and lethargic -  before John really felt like himself again. When he gets bored enough to escape his room he still has a headache squeezing his temples and can’t face much more than their speciality electrolyte cocktail and a few dry crackers, but at least he’s moving about under his own steam, limping only slightly.  

The change of scenery helps, spending too much time in one room was starting to trigger hazy memories for four cold steel walls that had him waking with a start, drenched in sweat more than once. He pushes that fear down into a deeply buried box: he simply can’t afford to risk becoming claustrophobic.   

Gordon in particular has been very solicitous – bringing him books and encouraging him to eat while he emphasises how sorry he is for something John has trouble remembering clearly. The whole of the evening is clouded, the words muffled and the images jumping with static. He can still remember giving his speech, which was the important bit. Research suggests the memory issues are just temporary but he’s in rush to reclaim them. Whatever happened Gordon has his forgiveness. John could probably recover those quicker memories if he tried, but it’s probably not worth it. Whatever ‘it’ was is done, water under the bridge, whatever harsh words exchanged being far less important than waking up, feeling safe with Gordon sitting by his bedside.