WHAT GOES AROUND by MS IMAGINE RATED FRTP

This story was written in response to the Tracy Island Writers Forum's 2006 Fic Swap Challenge.

Fic Swap Request: John and Gordon fail to save a young man on a rescue. Unbeknownst to them, the young man's father puts a curse on them for all future rescues. For every life they save, someone else who wasn't a victim will die.

It made Gordon sick, to be on the other side. To watch someone he loved drift between life and death. The wires and needles that intruded into her body were the worst part. If it weren't for that reminder, he would have believed she was only sleeping. Gordon wondered if that's how she'd felt, holding his broken hand and waiting for him to come back to life after his accident.

He scooped her hand into both of his own, brushing paper-thin skin with his thumb, tracing her sluggish blue veins. Those hands were deceptively small for all the strength they contained. They'd held him and raised him and kept him safe as a child. She was still keeping him safe, turning a lonely house in the middle of nowhere into a home that he loved, full of warmth and family. He knew it was all her magic, her food and smiles and loving presence. She'd been a mother to them all when their own couldn't be. She was the heart and soul of the Tracy family, quietly leading them all with gentle words and a powerful spirit.

"Hang in there, Grandma," he begged her, swallowing a hard lump in his throat when she didn't respond. The machines continued to announce her heartbeat, slow as it was, but Gordon couldn't help but wonder if she was really there.

He didn't want to give her up. He sat by her side, pretending she was resting and that she knew he was waiting for her to open those gentle eyes and reprimand him for not eating properly while she'd been ill. Gordon had spent much of his life impishly avoiding her chiding, but he'd do anything to have her wake up and scold him.

A soft creak announced John's arrival; Gordon glanced up to see him leaning on the doorframe. His eyes swept over the machines, the room, and her still face to settle on Gordon. A slight frown turned his mouth, the kind John always gave when he was thinking too hard.

"Do you think she can hear us?" he asked. Gordon shrugged.

"She knows we're here."

"Did you?"

That was a question that took him entirely by surprise, and Gordon found he couldn't look at his brother.

No, he hadn't known they were there.

His mind had been buried in layers of complex shades of grey. He'd spent months trapped in that nightmare of deep nothing. Alone. Afraid. In pain that he couldn't describe, because he couldn't feel his body, had no connection to his senses, but somehow, it still hurt.

"Yeah."

It was just a little white lie.

"Father wants to talk to you," John said. His voice, dulled at it was, still felt too loud for a hospital. Perhaps it was merely the intrusive subject matter. Gordon knew exactly what his father wanted to speak about. International Rescue resuming operations.

"I'm not so sure I want to -"

"It's important that we go back to work, Gordon. There have been a lot of missed opportunities these last few weeks. People have died and been hurt because-"

"Because we're being selfish enough to stay by Grandma's side when she needs us? Screw them!" He glanced guiltily at his grandmother and mumbled an apology. John crossed his arms over his chest.

"She's not going to scold you, you know."

Gordon winced, and John didn't miss it. A glance into the halls showed too many people about; he shut the door for privacy's sake and sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair on the other side of the bed.

"I know this has been a pretty rough couple of months," he began, leaning forward with elbows on knees - not that his brother was watching to see his concern. "A lot of bad things have happened. And Grandma, we all love her."

"There's a 'but' coming, isn't there."

John resisted a sigh. "She's an old lady, Gords. You had to know this could happen."

"Yeah."

Gently, Gordon placed his Grandmother's hand to rest on the waffle-weave blanket. Standard hospital linens for a woman that was anything but standard. It made him sad that they thought of her as just another patient. It was worse to think that after three weeks in a coma with no sign of improvement, there was less and less chance that she'd ever wake up to prove them wrong.

"I don't want to go to another funeral, John. �Specially not hers," Gordon said quietly. His brother watched him stare at the blankets, his cheeks turning red as he fought back tears.

"I'm afraid we can't much help that," John replied.

"It's not fair. We saved so many lives. And now� are we just having a run of bad luck, or did we piss someone off that we shouldn't have? In two months, eight people we know have died. And now Grandma-" Gordon could see John's frown deepen.

"Are you suggesting, I don't know, the Mafia or something? She had a stroke, Gordon."

The younger man pulled a face. "You jackass. I'm talking about karma, or whatever."

John sat back in his chair and tried for humour. "Maybe it would be more helpful to ask Kyrano. I'm a scientist. When you start slinging words like �karma' around, my eyes tend to glaze over."

"It happens just after we get home from rescues," blurted Gordon.

"What?"

Gordon began picking at an imaginary loose thread on his sleeve. "Gary and Coach drowned just after we got home from Mexico last month," he explained. John raised one eyebrow. So much for humour.

"I don't think I understand," he said, knowing that wherever this conversation was leading, it wasn't any place he wanted to be.

"Your professor died while we were in India."

"Gordon, Professor Greene had emphysema."

"Cadence Ebert and her sisters. They worked for the company. I took Cadence out on a date a couple of years back. We picked up those sailors, and four days later, all three girls were dead. Car accident."

"You're starting to worry me, Gords."

"It started right after Nigeria."

"What?"

"This started right after we abandoned that rescue." Puzzled, John searched his mind for the appropriate memory; he came up with Port Harcourt, a fire, an angry mob -- a crazy man who spat on him, and Gordon too, but no clues as to what Gordon was mumbling about.

"Maybe we should have stayed," Gordon continued. His fingers had moved from his sleeve and were now picking at his jeans. John was fast becoming disturbed.

"The locals were storming the oilrig and we were getting shot at. It was too dangerous. We had to leave," he explained, wondering why he needed to. Gordon's head bowed lower.

"Maybe. Lot of people died."

John silently tapped his fingers on one knee. He didn't want to ask.

"Then by your logic, what happened to Grandma?"

He really didn't want the answer.

Gordon looked up and held his brother's stare. His hands clenched into fists in his lap.

"You thumped Scott on the back. He was eating peanuts, and one got stuck in his throat. He couldn't breathe. You thumped him on the back. I was teasing him when Dad came running into the room."

"Gordon!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, not able to look at John's horrified expression.

"Our fault, Johnny," he murmured, hating himself for saying it. He heard the scrape of John's chair, but no more words before the door shut.

"Sorry, Grandma," he whispered around a thick, aching throat. "It's all our fault."

He was still murmuring apologies when her heart monitor went flat.