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It had been a joke, an unsavoury joke that had made Scott consider fratricide, but it didn’t take very long for it to become a tradition. A sheet, hung proudly on the fridge, replaced on the first of each year.
The goal, funnily enough, was to not win Bingo. Again, this was very much not funny to Scott but he was outnumbered in this, as he was in most things, so Bingo it was. Each slot was decided upon beforehand and changed each year. Whoever first sustained the injury or required the medical intervention mentioned in the slot would get their name written down on it and if a single person, or in one rare occasion both Virgil and Alan at the same time, completed a line of Bingo then dinner was on them for the whole family.
Grandma Tracy was fully supportive of the idea, much to Scott’s chagrin, until he realised her play. By making this into a competition, there was actually less injuries occurring on the field because each brother was competitive as all hell, Scott included.
This year, as most years went, was going in Gordon’s mis-favour. The dumb kid was too brazen in his rescues, even when he was trying to be careful. He was simply too caring of others, constantly risking his own life in the attempts to save others. And, given most of his work was underwater, Gordon’s rescues had a heightened risk that was only beaten by Alan’s space rescues.
As Scott looked at the current tally, he decided that he hated this fucking game, even if it had somehow limited injuries in the long run.
“Come on,” Gordon sang, hanging off of Scott’s shoulder.
Alan, always copying Gordon, was on Scott’s other side and without even looking at him Scott knew that he was grinning ear to ear.
“Virgil.” Scott barked. “Help me out, won’t you?”
“Oh no, dear brother,” Virgil said. “This one’s completely on you.”
Shaking Alan off of him, knowing Gordon would be harder, Scott grabbed the damn pen and marked his name onto the square declaring PAPER CUT. Given that it was right in between CHEST TUBE, marked down as Alan, and HYPOTHERMIA, marked shockingly enough as Alan and Gordon, Scott’s entry seemed tame but it was still embarrassing that his brothers had not only noticed it but had been excited to make him admit that he’d accidentally cut not his finger but the tip of his nose with some paperwork.
Honestly, these boys were going to be the death of Scott he was certain of it.
There was a loud cheer and Scott swore he heard John cheering too all the way up in space because of course he was enjoying this too.
Scott’s phone buzzed alongside all of the others and when he checked it, any played up frustration melted away.
“Mass casualty,” Scott said. “Alan, I want you with TB2.”
A chorus of FAB’s answered him and all at once the brothers around him shifted into professional rescuers, already discussing what to do as they rushed to their respective vehicles.
Despite it all, Scott was proud of every single one of them and he was beyond content to work alongside them.
“You don’t have to do this.” John said.
Scott swallowed the lump in his throat. He stepped forward, the pen shaking in his hand. It was a stupid game, it really was, but he had to play by the rules. On the square that declared VEHICULAR ACCIDENT, Scott wrote three names, blinking back the stinging in his eyes.
Virgil. Scott’s second in command. Virgil had been pinned to the pilots chair, calming Alan even as the blood pooled around him. He had been looking out for his siblings until the very end and Scott hadn’t needed to see the transcript to know it.
Alan. The youngest. He had sustained a bleed on the brain, head bashing into the floor of Thunderbird 2 when she went down because the damn kid hadn’t put his seatbelt on. He’d made it to hospital at least but the damage had already been too great.
And Gordon, earning the years first Bingo, and his personal tenth. His last Bingo. A single glass shard straight to the throat. He hadn’t suffered, the doctor claimed, but that meant nothing to Scott because dead was dead.
Scott’s legs crumpled beneath him but John was right there, guiding him to the ground and holding him close. John didn’t like contact, Scott knew that he didn’t, yet he clutched onto John all the same, desperate for a brothers warmth. Desperate for a brother at all. It was just the two of them now, Scott and John, and yet it felt like Scott had died alongside his little brothers.
He really hated this fucking game.