So @janetm74fics and I (#bloody idiots) both decided to answer Prompt #199 from @belovedwhump.

"There's blood on the floor."

The young, factory technician with wide, brown eyes and a ponytail looked to be somewhere around Alan’s age. White knuckled fingers clutching a data pad against her chest, she stared down at Scott in absolute horror.

"I'm aware of that, thank you,” Scott replied carefully from his prone position on the cold, concrete, factory floor. He raised his voice slightly to make certain she could hear him above the hiss of ruptured steam pipes. “Are you alright?”

"Your blood is on the floor." Her gaze remained fixed on the pool of thick, red liquid slowly spreading out around him.

"Yes, we've already established that,” IR’s commander reminded her calmly. “I’ll be fine. I’m not in a position to help you right now but my team is on their way.”

"Why is your blood on the floor?”

Scott let his eyelids fall shut, just for an instant. Keeping up the reassuring patter of conversation was becoming almost more than he could handle. Minutes ago, when a massive, overhead crane in the manufacturing plant had collapsed, sections of jagged metal had pinned him to the floor. Scott wasn’t able to raise his head far enough to assess the damage, but a floaty feeling combined with the throbbing agony in his right thigh told him he was losing blood much faster than Virgil would approve of.

"Scott! Can you hear me?" The baritone roar of IR’s medic blew through comms, accompanied by the screech of buckled factory doors being violently forced open. Taking a shaky breath, Scott let it hiss out slowly through gritted teeth. His brother was here and he could afford to relinquish just the tiniest bit of control.

Virgil burst into the space, face blanching when he laid eyes on his older brother prone on the floor with crimson blood hemorrhaging from a deep laceration on his upper thigh. The pool of bright, red liquid was deep enough to splash when the medic’s knees hit it, the medkit thudding onto unbloodied concrete next to him.

"Scott, do not try to move. Please, just this once, listen to me,” he pleaded, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

"Not moving, Virg," Scott ground out, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He was breathing through his nose in short, ragged bursts, fighting to keep his expression neutral. The sweat beading on his forehead and his white-knuckled grip on a piece of nearby scrap metal gave him away. Scott was hurting big time.

"S’everyone … safe?" he whispered.

Alan skidded through the mangled doors, his gaze flicking back and forth between Scott and the terrified technician. It was clear that Virgil had Scott and as much as he longed to join them training took over and he turned his full attention to the trembling, young woman. Murmuring reassurances he took her arm gently, guiding her around debris towards the doors.

"The factory’s clear, you got almost everybody out," Virgil reassured. “Alan’s helping the last one now.” His face crumpled. “I’m sorry, Scotty.”

Without hesitation Virgil pressed his palms directly over the wound, leaning in with his full body weight. Scott, well aware of what was coming, didn't scream. Instead, a violent, full-body shudder racked his frame. He let out a sharp, choked hiss, every muscle in his body corded with tension as the pressure of Virgil’s grip slowed the immediate rush of blood.

"Gordon, I need a pneumatic tourniquet. Move!"

"On it, Virg!" Gordon’s voice crackled in Virgil’s helmet as he raced toward Thunderbird Two.

"Don't… look at me like that," Scott rasped, gripping the sleeve of Virgil's uniform with unexpected strength, glassy eyes doing their best to focus. Signs of severe shock were setting in rapidly.

"Hey. Eyes on me, big brother," Virgil ordered softly, maintaining the constant, unrelenting pressure because he had no other choice.

"M’tired, Virg…" Scott breathed, eyelids drooping.

"I know you are. Just hold on. For me."

Gordon was suddenly there, sliding across the dusty, concrete floor, tearing open a sealed packet. "Tourniquet ready," he reported, expression rigid in rescue focus as he positioned it around Scott’s thigh.

“Higher,” Virgil instructed.

A low, guttural groan tore from Scott’s throat as the tourniquet unsympathetically clamped down, completely halting the severe, arterial flow. His back arched slightly off the concrete, hands grasping at air before he forced himself back down, panting heavily, chest heaving. Gordon secured the tourniquet in place, the exact application time blinking digitally on the fastening strap.

In cautious, slow motion Virgil removed his hands, sagging back onto his calves with relief. Scott was shivering violently, Gordon quick to wrap the laceration and tuck an emergency blanket around their commander. Alan raced up with an anxious expression and a hovering stretcher.

Virgil pushed himself to his feet, assessing the section of metal that pinned his brother. “I can lift this safely,” he concluded, after examining the wreckage of the crane from all angles. “I won’t be able to hold it for long. Gords, Al, get ready to slide Scott out.”

By the time the big man had positioned himself, boots planted exactly where they needed to be, Gordon gave him a sharp nod. “On three,” he counted down. “One, two, three …”

Virgil shouted as he strained to lift the heavy steel, the muscles and tendons in his arms and shoulders bunching and stretching against his neoprene uniform. “Now!” he grunted, squinching his eyes shut as perspiration rolled down his forehead and dripped from his eyelashes.

“Clear!” Alan shouted.

Virgil let go and stepped back. Metal met concrete in a deafening clatter of sound and a cloud of dust. Everyone but Virgil held their breath as the wreckage of the crane shifted above them before settling back into place. The medic was already down on one knee, checking on his older brother.

Chestnut lashes fluttered. "Great job you guys," Scott whispered, the hint of an exhausted smile tugging his lips.