This is for you, Mon Ammy xx

In his darkest days when he didn't know whether he would live or die, Gordon clung to life with the tenacity of a pit bull terrier. He refused to be beaten- not by pain, not by fear, not by an uncertain future. He was alive- and that was all that mattered.

There were days when the pain was indescribable and he dared not move in case he made it worse. He tried not to let it show but his brothers always knew when something was wrong because he went quiet.

Gordon's quiet, Scott would say. Go check on him, Alan.

Of course Alan would whine at being told what to do but he'd check on Gordon and the aquanaut would send him away with a flea in his ear.

I'm fine, he'd hiss. Go back and tell Scott to chill the fuck out.

Deep down he was pleased they cared about him so much. There was no danger of him dying in bed and not being found for weeks. Someone was always sticking their head around the door, or simply banging on it as they went past. Tin-Tin, bless her beautiful chopstick hairdo, brought him snacks and treats and oils that she would rub into his shoulder blades. It was a good thing they were best buds with zero romantic inclinations toward each other or he would have had Alan's bratty pouting to contend with on top of everything else.

As time went on, he learned to cope with the pain in various ways. They became part of him- they shaped him from the expressions on his face to the way he positioned his feet when he stood. He made sure to keep his back straight and never slouch. He threw himself into physiotherapy with the same determination that kept him alive when there were more shattered bones in his body than whole. He'd never be an Olympic swimmer again, but strength and agility were just as important, more sometimes, than speed.

He had become an old hand at going under the knife. There were enough pins and plates in him to keep airport security busy for a month. At first it had been frightening, and there were so many visits to the hospital. But after a while it became part of his routine and he got used to it like it was just another day at the office, which is what he used to say to his brothers each time he left the house. Gotta go to the office- hold the fort 'til I get back.

Months turned into years, and he was as good as he was ever going to get. He'd stopped having operations but they'd taken up such a huge chunk of his young life that he thought about them every day. He noticed tiny, pain-carved lines around his eyes and mouth. His eyes had a kind of stony look about them from trying to zone himself through each bout of agony. If not for his thick, sandy mop of hair he might look ten years older than he was. But he kind of liked his look. He had a strong, almost stubborn jawline, like Scott and their father. He was someone to be reckoned with.

Gordon was proud of who he was. A tough cookie who had been through more in his relatively short life than most of the kids he went to school with.

He grinned at his reflection and pulled on his fisherman's sweater. He, Tin-Tin and Alan were going fishing in a while and he wanted to look the part. One day he would tell his own children that he had nearly died and was stronger as a result. He would tell them that the only thing worse than fear was fear itself. That even the worst pain in the world could be overcome with grit, courage and determination. That accidents and operations didn't mean you were weak- they meant you were one dogged sonofabitch who wouldn't quit. Of course he wouldn't say 'sonofabitch' in front of his kids, at least not until they were older.

Then again, family legend said that Scott had claimed the word 'shit' by the age of four and John once came out with 'gimme the goddamned biscuits m*therf*cker' at supper in front of his grandma when he was two.

Gordon saluted his reflection, spun on his heels, massaged the sudden twinge in his lower back, and left the room.

Nothing was ever going to stop Gordon Tracy again.