#lenle-g

“And I fired a grapple hook off, getting the angle just right to wedge it into the top of the cliff face, not an easy shot I can assure you.” Gordon gestured upwards sharply, now with less than half his concentration on the selection of root vegetables in front of him. They would all need chopping to roughly equal sizes to roast evenly but they could wait a second while he recounted his latest feat of heroics.

“I know Gordon.” John said, reaching round behind him to get to the pots of fresh herbs for the basting of the turkey. “I was there.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Ok.” Gordon could hear that eyeroll. “Maybe not physically, but I was listening.”  

“Yeah, so let me tell it, because I say something really funny in a minute.”

John nipped back round him to the refrigerator for butter or something. “You’re not meant to be joking about on the job.”

“It’s not joking around, it’s lightening the atmosphere and putting the rescuee at ease in a tense situation.”  

“Fine.” John reached round for a mixing bowl. “Before you carry on and tell me everything I already know, have you preheated the oven yet?”  

“No.” Gordon turned back to his vegetables. It wasn’t often they got a house full but tomorrow was a special day at the end of a good week. They’d only had half a dozen dispatches, no fatalities, not even a broken bone. Virgil, Alan and Scott were on the way back and weren’t they going to be pleased to see that John had descended in their absence. Particularly Scott as it was his birthday tomorrow. If Gordon played it right he might even be able to play it off as Gordon’s present to the eldest: coaxing John out of the heavens and a full Thanksgiving-style roast even though it wasn’t the time of year for it.  

“I’m going to get so many brownie points for this. You here, Scott’s favourite food already in the oven: this was all my idea.” Gordon grinned, giving a particularly tough carrot a few enthusiastic chops. They went soft and sweet on a long slow roast – delicious.

“Do you need those brownie points for anything in particular?” John squeezed past him again, back to the refrigerator.  

“Well. There might have been a slight incident on Tuesday.” He paused. “No wait Monday.” Gordon counted back the days since the thing with the sock, conducting his thoughts. “Definitely Monday.” He whipped around, triumphant to have caught John out. “But I thought you knew anything anyway, so surely -”

The words died in his throat. John was close. Very close. Right behind him.  Eyes wide. Bowl in one hand, with the butter rub that would be pushed under the skin of the turkey to make it moist and flavorful. Too close. Gordon had frozen at the slight pull of resistance from the knife in his hand as he turned. The knife that he had sharpened to tackle the carrots and potatoes and parsnips and sweet potatoes. The one he had been gesturing with for the last fifteen minutes.  

Gordon’s gaze drifted downwards and for a moment thought he had imagined the soft gasp from his brother. He couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. John. Too close. His knife. Where John was. Blood, creeping across the front of John’s shirt.  

John’s shirt was almost brand new. Not that new in fact, probably a few years at this point but it still had that soft new feeling of something that hadn’t been laundered too much. It was one of Johns favourites, but he wasn’t here enough to wear his civilian clothes a lot. Certainly not to wear them out, so they were always fresh and neat and clean. But now this one was covered in blood.

CRACK

Pottery dropped to the floor, the aroma of parsley and basil and rosemary and more blooming into the air.

Gordon was still gripping the knife. He moved, just a fraction of an inch, and John’s hand darted out to grab his wrist.

“Don’t move it.” he breathed.  

Gordon knew that. One of the basic tenants of first aid. Don’t go pulling objects out of wounds if you’re not prepared to deal with the bleeding that will follow. He wasn’t going to just rip the knife out. He wasn’t. He knew that. But. It had been instinct, just for a moment there to get it out.  

But John, who saw everything, who knew everything, knew what to do. Had stepped up even with a knife in his gut.

Slowly, forcing each finger carefully back Gordon released his grip on the knife handle, with John’s grip still firm around his wrist and red filling Gordon’s vision.  

Gordon locked shocked eyes with John, noting his normally suntan-free skin had lightened by several shades.

“I -” John started, swallowing heavily and continuing shakily. “I need you to help me sit down.”

“You need to lay down.” Gordon corrected, first responder instincts kicking in from somewhere in his subconscious while his conscious was still largely frozen.

Gordon stepped around to John’s back, where he could take most of his weight in a controlled descent to the floor, then pulling him back until he was horizontal. There was a med kit in the book case. But there were dish cloths here. Gordon grabbed the nearest clean one as a compress: laid carefully around the knife so as not to dislodge it put then pushed firmly to stem the bleeding.  

John gave a reflexive flinch, squeezing his eyes shut and letting out a low groan.

“Thunderbirds One and Two on final approach.” Scott’s voice boomed across the room. He sounded happy, relaxed: back from another successful mission after a pretty damn good week. “We’ll be landing in five.” He didn’t know.

“This was all my idea.”

Scott took the steps up to the gantry two at a time, heart light. He was already in a good mood when he had landed: yet another day where he barely got his uniform dirty. In and out, quick and easy, that’s the way he liked his peril. Virgil was taxiing Two back in and wouldn’t even need to do a medkit restock today. He was loath to say anything out loud, but Scott offered silent prayers that this was yet another day they had come back home with barely a scratch.  

Walking across the hangers he paused mid stride at the space elevator resting on it’s own pad, tucked neatly into the corner. Scott usually had to wrestle John down for his scheduled rest days, of which today was not one.  John always, without fail, notified him if an unscheduled visit was needed  for health and safety reasons and there had been not so much as a whisper of anything wrong on Five for weeks. Which meant this was a social visit.  

Scott broke out into a broad grin and lengthened his stride, making quick work of the several flights between the hanger and the house. With John down that would make a complete set for the first time in who-knows-how-long. Scott wasn’t big into birthdays, his own in particular. They were just a reminder of how long it had been since the holes had been ripped in his family, and there was usually some sort of incident to attend to anyway. But maybe, just maybe, he might get a couple of minutes of them all together for his birthday.

He tried not to storm into the kitchen – the first place to look for John was by the bagels – but he was keen, so at first he didn’t notice a ginger mop of hair on the floor as it was six foot below where he would usually be looking. Was this some sort of post-orbital stretching? Almost continual space duty was taxing on the body but surely they could come up with something other than being a human trip hazard asleep on the kitchen floor.

Gordon was leaning over John, back to Scott.  Typical for him to be involved in something inappropriate but he had picked up all sorts of weird things during his lengthy physiotherapeutic tour of the world after his accident.  Scott shook his head, but frowned as his noticed a bright red pool of paint, spreading across the plain while tiles. What the hell?

Gordon must have heard him come in, for he glanced over his shoulder. Scott had seen Gordon look that pale and shell shocked exactly twice before. Once for Mom and once for Dad, and it struck terror at Scotts core in an instant.  

Like an optical illusion his perspective changed and a brand new and much more terrifying scene resolved before his eyes. John wasn’t asleep, he was unconscious or close to it. That wasn’t paint. He was lying in a pool of blood.  

Scott didn’t remember covering the intervening distance but in a flash he was standing right next to his two brothers, where he could see the blood soaked cloth in Gordon’s hands. And the handle of the kitchen knife standing out from John’s side.

“Help me.” Gordon begged, looking up at him, face ashen.  

Gordon and Alan leapt up from where they had been waiting on the stairs just out the medbay. Scott straightened from leaning against the wall. Scott looked worried. Alan looked worried. Gordon looked damn near terrified.

“He’s going to be fine.” Virgil said, giving his final pronouncement now the bandaging was complete. “It nicked a blood vessel but we’ve got that sown up and it didn’t perforate any internals. Muscle damage mostly. He just needs a bit of rest now.”  

Alan immediately relaxed, shoulders lowering and a relieved grin spreading across his face. “See,” he nudged Gordon, “I told you he was going to be fine.”

“I.... I didn’t mean to.” Gordon stuttered, eyes on the floor.  

“Gordon.” Scott said sharply, bringing Gordon’s eyes up to his, and Virgil shot Scott a warning look to take it easy on him, even if he had spent the last hour holding John’s stomach together for Virgil to stich, then cleaning up his blood from the kitchen floor.

“Whatever you are about to say I don’t want to hear it.” Scott said a little more gently but with uncharacteristic lack of tact. “Whatever you need to say, you need to say to John.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to see me.”

“He does,” Virgil said “he’s been asking for you.” As soon as he had been stable enough to talk John had started to ask about Gordon, and it was only a promise that he would see him soon that kept John in the bed while Virgil was trying to god-damn stitch him up. Painkillers always made John stubborn.

Gordon made no move to go in and Virgil heaved a huge sigh at the difficulty of having younger brothers. “He’s awake right now, but he needs his rest so get a move on.”  Virgil grabbed Gordon by the shoulder and shoved him towards the door. “We’ll be having pizza when you’re done. Alan go and put the oven on would you, you can see John later, when he wakes up.”

Alan nodded and scampered along the corridor. He was a good kid. Virgil gave Gordon another push through the door, and closed it gently behind him.

Scott looked tired. He always looked tired, but more tired than usual.  

“Not what I expected to come home to.” Virgil said wryly.

“No.” Scott agreed. “I suppose it had all been going too well these last couple of weeks, we were due for a disaster. I thought someone had broken in or something at first.”

Virgil had heard Scott bellow for a medic from three floors away and as he had rushed in his first thought had been an attack from the Hood or the Chaos Crew as well. Amongst the application of a proper emergency compress and manouvering John down to the medical room Gordon had haltingly explained there was no intruder to pursue. Which stopped them putting the island into emergency lock down at least.

“Do we need to do anything?”

“With Gordon?” Scott raised a questioning eyebrow. “I doubt it. He’s had the fright of his life. So have I. I don’t know about one year, I think I’ve aged about ten years tonight!”

Virgil slung an arm around Scott’s shoulder as they followed in Alan’s wake to the kitchen. “At least he’ll definitely be down for your birthday.”

John was only half aware of the conversation going on outside the room, quite happy to let the wonderful drugs do their fine work, but the soft click of the door and tentative shuffling footsteps made him force his eyes fully open. Gordon stood by his bed, awkwardly swaying from side to side and not quite looking him in the eye.

“Hey.” John -  mustering himself to say something a little more intelligent -  sat a little more upright. Not much more upright though.

“Hey.” Gordon returned, eyes flicking to the almost empty blood bag. “Does it hurt?”

John was just going to reach round for a clove of garlic when Gordon turned, and at first it was like a punch. But after that initial impact the pain morphed from something blunt and bruising to sharp and breathtaking.

“No, I’m on the good stuff.”

Gordon nodded. Acknowledgement? Approval?

“Errrr..... Virgil said you wanted to see me, but, well I don’t know, if you want to rest, or whatever, I don’t mind - “

“I did.” John interrupted. “I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

Gordon met his eyes in surprise. “Me? I’m fine. I’m.... I’m not the one who got stabbed. I’m the one who....”

Deer in headlights. John knew what that meant now. John was aware of every second they were frozen in that awful tableau, the slow spread of warmth outside, the frozen spear stabbing inside. The look of shock and terror and disbelief written across Gordon’s face. The big brother in him wanted to do something about that. He wanted to make the fear go away and promise that it would all be ok. The little part of him that was always on Thunderbird Five snapped at him to prioritise so he’d left that comforting for later and focused on the bleeding.  

John reached out – being careful not to pull on the i.v. - to take one of Gordon’s hands in his. “I’m going to be ok Gordon. A bag of blood and a few stitches, a bit of bed rest and I’ll be right as rain.”

“I’m sorry.” Gordon whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have been running around right behind you like that.”

“I should have not been waving a knife around like that. I almost killed you.”

The kitchen floor was cold against his back, apart from where his own blood warmed him. It probably wasn’t even that much, but he’d lost enough to make him a little light headed and to be glad he wasn’t still trying to stand. He tried not to show how much it hurt when Gordon pressed down, but every breath jostled the metal protrusion. It might not even be that deep but his imagination was conjuring unhelpful images of being run through. John thought he had felt feint vibrations from the depths of the island and was hoping that wasn’t his imagination. His concentration was slipping and Gordon needed backup.

“You didn’t. And I’m going to be fine.” John peered into Gordon’s face to see if he was taking it all in.  

Gordon nodded, slightly teary. He might have to be told it a couple more times, but he would get it in the end.

He wanted to sleep. Forget for a while that the things that were never supposed to happen had happened, twice now to him and his family.

Two. 

Two times.

It kept adding up. It kept adding up and John needed it to stop because if it didn’t stop next time it would be Grandma or Kayo or his brothers-

Brothers. Four of them.

He needed them all.

His bedroom door creaked open and, as if summoned by the thought, a little blond boy with race car pajamas tip-toed in. A boy who was supposed to be asleep, like John wanted to be, because sleeping children didn’t know about the numbers- adding and subtracting in all the wrong directions.

“John, I had a nightmare.” 

Oh Allie, you’ve woken into a far worse one believe me-

“And I guess Dad’s still out ‘cause I couldn’t find him.”

We couldn’t either… 

“Can I count the stars with you?”

I’m sick of counting, Allie.

But John didn’t say any of that. Didn’t tell him about time shifting. About sleep that didn’t come. Didn’t tell him that the numbers had decreased again. 

Zero.

Zero parents now.

Didn’t tell him because he couldn’t. 

Couldn’t take away from Alan what John wanted so badly for himself.

Just one more night. One more night believing the world was all in place. That the sky wasn’t about to shatter.

So John said yes, and he counted the stars and told their stories until Alan fell asleep again. And if Alan had thought it was strange that John held him tight the entire time, he didn’t show it, just accepted the attention contentedly. 

Because Alan was only nine. 

He didn’t think of an extra hug as a warning sign. That the arms around him wished they were shields, wished they could keep out all the things that were going to hurt him. 

But Alan wouldn’t be nine forever. And John wished he could stop those numbers too, because his brother would grow without any parents watching him.

He would have instead a grandma, and a sister, and many brothers. People that loved him, true, but none who had thought they’d have to raise him.

John had a longing for them, his brothers. All of them at once. He loved them too, after all.

So John, with sleeping Alan in his arms, tip-toed down the hall to Scott’s room.

That’s where they would be of course. When you were having a nightmare, you went to your big brother.

There were three inside Scott’s room, just as John knew there would be.

Gordon, asleep in Scott’s bed, face flushed from tears none of them wanted to admit to. Virgil, sleeping as well, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, shivering despite the blanket on his shoulders. And Scott, the only one awake among them, Virgil’s head on his shoulder, ever awake and watchful.

When Scott saw John standing there with Alan in his arms, he smiled. And it was such a painfully sad thing John almost wished he hadn’t smiled at all, because Scott was trying so hard. Just like he had before.

Scott was twenty. That was supposed to be a good number. Why did the world always shatter on Scott’s good numbers?

Fourteen had been Mom. Now twenty was Dad. 

And Scott was left playing the roles of both parents when he should just be flying fast planes and teasing little brothers, not raising them.

But when Scott invited him in with a look, how could John say no? You didn’t say no to anyone on a night like this. He didn’t want to be alone.

John laid Alan gently down next to Gordon, covering them both with blankets that would surely be kicked off, then he sat down on Scott’s other side, relaxing into his brother’s hold when he put his arm around him.

In his head, John counted each of Scott’s breaths. They were even in a way that meant Scott was trying hard to keep them that way, but John could hear the threat of tears at the end of each. But he counted them anyway, there were far worse things he could have chosen.

Each time he reached five he started over again, because five was another good number. He could count five on one hand. A finger for each brother, and one more for him.

Five of them. 

It was a good number to be.