Disclaimer: I own nothing, all rights belong to their respective owners.

It's that time of year! Happy Birthday, Bee! Got to stick to tradition and get something written. Although after literally months of planning one story, the boys decided they weren't having any of it and this was the result. I hope you like it!

"I look like a penguin," Virgil grumbled. He tugged at his tie, scowling in the mirror. He was used to roaming the island in shorts, sometimes accompanied by a shirt, sometimes not. Or he was in uniform or overalls, tinkering with his 'bird.

He was not used to wearing a suit.

"That's an insult to penguins," Scott said. Virgil couldn't be bothered to turn, he just glared at his brother's reflection. Scott was sprawled across Virgil's bed, looking far too relaxed if the easy grin on his face was anything to go by.

"Remind me why I have to do this?" Virgil said.

"You promised Grandma you would send her a recording."

Virgil sighed, defeated, before eyeing his reflection critically again. If Scott had given any other reason, Virgil would have found an excuse to back out. But his brother was right, damn him. Virgil had promised and he couldn't let his grandmother down.

"It won't be that bad," Scott said, standing up and coming to join him.

"Playing for a gala full of rich snobs?" Virgil said, his lip curling. Scott laughed.

"As far as they're aware, you're a rich snob, too."

"Shut up." Virgil didn't have a more eloquent answer for his brother. It wouldn't have been as bad if his father was going as well. Any business deal or transaction his father made could potentially benefit International Rescue. Virgil would have been able to handle it if he knew it would help them in their work.

But his father couldn't make it, tied into business meetings the other side of the world instead. Virgil was going alone. He was glad he didn't have to mingle and make small-talk with the guests – he had met enough of them to know they had nothing in common. But sitting at a piano, even if it was in the corner, was just as terrifying.

"Come on, Virg," Scott said, his tone softer than before. Virgil realised his fear was showing in his expression and Scott had noticed. Scott always noticed. "You're like this before every performance and bring the house down every time. You're gonna be great."

"Easy for you to say." Virgil shot his brother a small smile though, grateful that Scott was here.

"Look at that jacket, Virgil Tracy!"

Both men jumped and Virgil turned, seeing his grandmother framed in the doorway. He glanced nervously at his jacket but couldn't see anything wrong.

"He's fine, Grandma," Scott said lazily, sitting back down on the bed. Virgil stifled a grin at the look of disdain their grandmother shot his brother.

"Take it off," she ordered. Virgil hurried to obey. "I still have time to give it a press. Mind you pack it right, you hear? You're not going to an event looking like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. I raised you better than that."

"That's his normal look," another voice said. Virgil scowled.

"Get out."

Gordon hadn't even stepped through the door. He froze, a hurt look crossing his face.

"Virg-,"

"I don't want to hear it," Virgil said, turning his back on his brother. "It's too late, anyway. The damage is done. Now leave me alone."

Gordon opened his mouth, but then shut it again and skulked off. Virgil suddenly realised that his grandmother's look of disapproval was now aimed at him.

"That's no way to talk to your brother, young man. Go and apologise."

"I still need to finish packing, Grandma." Virgil shot her an innocent grin but her narrowing eyes revealed she wasn't fooled.

"The second you touch back down, you're going to make it up to him, you hear me?"

Virgil forced himself to nod. At least by then it would be over and he might not want to strangle Gordon so much. His grandmother left the room, taking the offending article of clothing with her, muttering something about stubborn boys under her breath.

"You still haven't told me what he has supposedly done," Scott said, watching Virgil closely. Virgil shrugged, pulling the tie off and throwing it at his brother.

"He knows," he said, shortly.

"Not judging by the look on his face."

"Just…drop it, okay? I'll deal with Gordon once I get back."

"Virgil-,"

"I need to finish packing, Scott," Virgil said, hating that he now felt irritable on top of nervous. "You can either help me or leave me alone. But I don't want to talk about Gordon."

Scott held up his hands in surrender. To Virgil's relief, he dropped the topic and chucked the tie back at Virgil.

"I'll supervise," he said smugly. Virgil stared at him before realising Scott truly had no intention of moving. He pulled his bag towards him. He hadn't finished packing: he hadn't even started. His hope that the klaxon would go off for a rescue that desperately needed Two and her most experience pilot was slowly dwindling. He only had an hour before he was supposed to leave.

Virgil had no idea how he was packed and had even choked down something to eat in the right time. Scott was flying him over to the mainland as he had some parts to pick up anyway and Virgil was looking forward to the chance to spend a few hours with his brother away from the island.

That didn't stop him from making a last-minute attempt to get out of the whole thing, but John sent his location to Scott and Virgil knew it was walk or be dragged. He couldn't shake the feeling he was going to lose his dignity that evening anyway; he wanted to hold onto it for a few hours longer.

Once they were airborne, Virgil managed to forget about the gala for a few hours. Despite living on the same island, it had been an age since he was able to chat to Scott without any interruptions and they made the most of it.

When Scott contacted the runway to get permission to land, Virgil fell silent. His stomach was rolling but he thought Scott would worry more about the plane than him if he told his brother.

"You okay?" Scott finally asked. Virgil saw his brother glance at him but pressed his lips together in response.

"Mm hmm."

Scott chuckled, much to Virgil's annoyance.

"You're going to be fine, kid," he said. "As soon as you get up there, you'll forget about being nervous."

"Like you know," Virgil muttered but Scott rolled his eyes. Virgil knew he was being unfair. He also knew that Scott wouldn't pay attention to his annoyed tone. Unfortunately, his brother was right: Virgil was always like this before a performance.

He stayed quiet while Scott ran through the post-flight checks and had to be forcibly removed from his seat so Scott could secure the plane. There was a cool breeze, one that Virgil was unaccustomed to, and he shivered as he waited on the tarmac for his brother.

Scott finally appeared, securing the plane once and for all.

"Come on," he said fondly. Virgil would have dug his heels in, but he was uncomfortably aware that his brother was stronger than him.

There were two cars waiting for them at the front of the airstrip.

"Are you sure you don't need back-up?" Virgil pleaded. It wasn't uncommon for the boys to go in pairs when they were picking up parts relating to the 'birds, just in case.

"I think I can cope," Scott said, amused. "You're going to be late if you don't move."

To Virgil's annoyance, Scott waited until Virgil had got into his car. The driver had already been told where to go – Virgil blamed John – and started the engine as soon as the door closed. Knowing that he had no way out of it now, and with ever increasing nerves, Virgil sat back in his seat despondently.

To his surprise, he had only been in the car for ten minutes when his cell rang. Pulling it out, Virgil saw it was John. It felt strange answering it – he was so used to responding to his brothers on his watch that Virgil had to physically stop himself reaching for his wrist.

"Are you okay?" John asked as soon as Virgil connected.

"Just need to get this out of the way," Virgil said, knowing that sounding like a petulant child wasn't going to get him anywhere.

"You're amazing, Virg," John said, nothing but raw honesty in his voice. Virgil blinked, touched. "They wouldn't have accepted you otherwise."

"I'll never forgive Gordon," Virgil grumbled. There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line.

"Gordon?"

"Well, I sure as hell didn't send my recording in," Virgil said. There was another pause.

"Virg… That wasn't Gordon. That was me."

"What?!"

"I still had the recording from the last concert you did. When Grandma said how nice it would be if one of us could get recognition for our talents beyond IR, I figured why not. I knew you wouldn't think of it."

"I'm hanging up," Virgil said, staying on the line. He had been giving Gordon the cold shoulder ever since the organisers had called and asked if he would play. A resounding no had been on the tip of his tongue, but his grandmother had been in earshot and had looked so enthusiastic that Virgil had agreed and hung up before he realised what he had done.

"I know you can do this," John said, "and I know you'll enjoy it once you're there. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

Virgil didn't know what to say. If it had been Gordon, Virgil would have said his brother was doing it as a joke, an attempt to play a prank on him. They all knew how Virgil got before a performance. But John wouldn't do that to him. Virgil wanted to hold onto his anger and direct it at the right person. All he felt, however, was resigned.

"I've gotta go," John said suddenly, "there's something brewing."

Virgil groaned even as the line went dead. The last thing he needed right now was a rescue to come in while both he and Scott were on the mainland. Knowing Gordon and Alan could handle it and being happy to let them do so were two different things entirely. He asked the driver to put some music on instead of the radio, adamant he wasn't going to know about any potential rescues until after the gala was over.

The next few hours passed in a blur for Virgil. The driver dropped him off in front of a grand building and Virgil took a deep breath, reminded himself that he saved the world on a regular basis, and entered. None of the guests were due to arrive until that evening and Virgil was shown around.

Despite living on a tropical island, Virgil had to admit that he was impressed; the hotel was luxurious and the guests would be well catered for. It was clear they hosted several events each week: Virgil was certain he saw a pile of masquerade masks on one table while champagne flutes lined another, ready to be filled.

After checking in with Scott – or, rather, his brother calling to make sure he hadn't bolted – Virgil changed into his suit and read through his music for the umpteenth time, his fingers playing an imaginary piano as he familiarised himself with the notes once again.

Finally, a soft knock on the door made Virgil's heart somersault into his throat before falling through the bottom of his stomach. He opened the door to find a pretty girl in a glittery dress standing the other side. She looked as nervous as he felt.

"Virgil?"

He nodded.

"Makela," she said. "I'm singing."

Virgil felt a surge of relief. There was someone else there to help direct the attention away from only him!

"Not until dinner," she continued. Virgil's relief ebbed as quickly as it had come. "I wanted to introduce myself first. Well, break a leg out there."

She turned and walked off, leaving Virgil realising he would have quite a nice view later on that evening. Then he shook himself and focused again on his music. If he got through the reception, he would be far more relaxed by the time the dinner came around anyway.

But even with his mind back on the music, Virgil was aware of the ticking clock. Another knock on the door and his preparation time was up. Even the imminent arrival of the guests couldn't stop his gasp of delight when he saw the piano though. It was everything he had ever dreamed of and Virgil ran his hands over the top in a soft caress. The porter gave a soft laugh.

"I'll leave you to get acquainted then," he said, causing Virgil to blush. "Guests arrive in the next half an hour. If you can start playing in about twenty minutes?"

Virgil nodded, slipping into the seat. It gave him enough time to set everything up and familiarise himself with the piano.

It was as good as he thought it would be. He was playing before the twenty minutes, letting the soft notes fill the air with anything that came into his head. He lost himself in the music and only noticed that the guests were arriving when he suddenly realised he was being watched.

Clearing his throat, Virgil fumbled for his music, turned it to the right page and started to play.

As soon as the notes started flowing, his nerves disappeared. Just as both Scott and John had predicted. Virgil let his fingers dance, settling himself comfortably into the music. It wasn't the most challenging piece, but he enjoyed the chance to play for other people apart from his family. Not that he would tell them that, and not that it would stop him from going through the same panic the next time he was offered the chance. But as people milled around, their voices a soft murmur over the clink of champagne glasses, Virgil lost himself in his own world.

He was given a break after an hour. He was grateful for the chance to stand up and stretch his legs. He stayed at the piano though, sipping a soda and looking around, leaning casually against the wall. One of the guests happened to look over at the same time and Virgil swore. He knew that man.

Sam Turner had been in John's year at school, and if Virgil remembered correctly, had not been friendly to his brother. But his father was heavily involved in the business world and ran a successful network of companies across the globe. Virgil couldn't fault the Turner's work ethic, but he could fault their personalities.

Unfortunately for him, Sam recognised him. He nudged his father and led the way over. Virgil sipped his drink and remained relaxed.

"You're one of Tracys kids, aren't you?" Mr Turner said, eyeing Virgil.

"Gordon," Sam said.

"Virgil," Virgil corrected, knowing full well that Sam knew who he was. Sam smirked and Virgil tried not to roll his eyes.

"Talented pianist," Mr Turner said, much to Virgil's surprise.

"Thanks."

"Shame you've wasted the rest of your life. Living on an island, contributing nothing to society. The very least you boys could do is help your father out."

Virgil forced himself to remain calm. He knew this might happen; it was hardly the first time that people had criticised them for appearing to do nothing. Even sitting in on the occasional meeting or signing some paperwork wasn't enough for people to accept that they – on the surface – were part of their father's business.

"They don't have the brains," Sam scoffed. Before Virgil could respond, Sam's father frowned.

"I seem to recall his brother beating you at every test," he said, disapproval clear in his voice. "And didn't the younger one beat you at swimming as well?"

Virgil smirked as Sam flushed. He didn't need anything else to be said to understand the situation: Sam was part of his father's business because he couldn't get anything else.

"We've made our choices," Virgil said carefully, "and I regret nothing. I have to get back."

He put his drink down and slid back onto the stool. Sam looked as if he wanted to say something else, but his father took his arm and led him off, muttering in his ear. Virgil had no doubt that he was the subject of their conversation but he didn't care. If the school bully thinking badly of him was all he had to deal with, then that was fine by him.

He played for another hour before dinner was served. He accompanied Makela and was impressed by the girl's voice. Not to mention how much of her legs her short, sparkly dress showed off. Just as he started wondering if this evening could be made even more enjoyable – he had been given a room for the night, after all – Virgil caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

One of the porters had slipped back into the room, whispering urgently into his superior's ear. Virgil frowned, instinct telling him that something was wrong. He didn't mean a shortage of alcohol, either.

The suited man whispered back, gesturing for the porter to leave the room. He did so, only to return a few moments later, looking decidedly panicked. Virgil realised that he wasn't the only one now watching the exchange. As muttering broke out amongst the guests, all of them craning to see what was going on, Makela stopped singing. Virgil attempted to continue to play, but realised that no one was fooled.

"Please do not concern yourselves, ladies and gentlemen," the organiser said, stepping forward. "The meal will be served on schedule. The elevator on this floor is currently out of service. A few technical difficulties, nothing more."

He gestured frantically at one of the waiters, ordering for everyone's drinks to be refilled. As the staff jumped to do his bidding, Virgil slipped off the stool. The staff were too worried for this to be just a technical problem.

"I'm just going to get some air," he murmured. Makela didn't hear him; she, like everyone else, was watching the door. As the drinks started circling, Virgil was able to slip from the room as everyone started engaging with one another again.

As soon as he was outside the function room, his watch buzzed.

"Is everything okay?" John asked, concern lacing his tone. "You haven't set anything on fire, have you?"

"That happened once," Virgil grumbled, "and was not my fault. Hang on, what do you mean?"

"The hotel has just put out a call to the fire services."

"They said something about a technical problem. Give me five."

Virgil left his watch active, knowing that if it was something serious, then saving a few extra seconds having to relay the message to John would be crucial, and slipped around to the front of the building. He found one of the anxious looking porters.

"What's going on?"

"I can't talk about it."

"Come on, man, I'm not going to tell anyone."

The porter looked at Virgil, and then sighed. "The elevator's broken down."

"So?" Virgil didn't see why that was causing so much stress.

"There's a patron inside."

"You've called the fire services, right?" Virgil already knew the answer, of course, but he couldn't let them know that. The porter wrung his hands with more distress than before.

"They're going to be an hour," he said, "and this man is asthmatic and claustrophobic. He has left his inhaler up here and is already heading towards an attack. They might not get here in time."

Virgil swore and quickly backed away.

"John?"

"I heard. Virg, the kids have got One and Two over in India, there's been some flash-floods."

Virgil swore. He had forgotten about the potential rescue. But with International Rescue busy and the fire services an hour away, Virgil knew that it was going to be up to him.

"Someone's going to die!" A voice yelled.

Instantly, there was a rush of feet and panic as the guests spilled out into the foyer. Virgil ended up pressed against the wall; just another invisible member of staff right now. He felt sick; a crisis either brought out the best or worst in people and most of the guests looked excited. He couldn't imagine how the trapped man must be feeling – but knew that wouldn't cross anyone else's mind.

His watch suddenly vibrated again and Virgil slipped into the now deserted function room.

"Virg, it's not that simple."

Scott didn't even bother saying hello and Virgil didn't question how his brother a) knew what was going on and b) knew what he was thinking.

"What do you mean?" Virgil said, playing dumb. He heard Scott's eye-roll.

"I know what you plan to do. Is there anyone that recognises you?"

"Actually…" Virgil grimaced, thinking of Sam and his dad. He outlined the situation to Scott.

"Definitely no, then. Virg, they know you're one of five and they can't explain your lifestyle. The world knows there are five members of International Rescue. We can't let them put the pieces together."

"So what are you suggesting?" Virgil muttered, angry. He wasn't angry at his brother though; he knew Scott was right. They tried to maintain their secrecy, no matter what. If the world knew who the Tracy family really were, they wouldn't be able to help nearly as much. "That I let him die?"

"Of course not, you idiot." Scott snapped. "Just let me think of something."

An idea suddenly popped into Virgil's head. An idea that was so ludicrous that he thought it might just work. Cutting Scott off – and refusing to reconnect when his watch buzzed – he slipped off his jacket and tie. Leaving them draped over one arm, he slipped back into the foyer.

Someone had retrieved the man's medication: Virgil could see it sitting on the reception desk. They had clearly hoped for a way to get it down to the man, but hadn't yet thought of anything.

The staff were trying to usher everyone back into the function room and Virgil remained unseen as he stole across to the far wall. Making sure he remained undetected, he grabbed one of the masquerade masks and put it in his pocket. The staff were talking in a small group.

Moving swiftly, keeping his head down, Virgil approached the desk. Without stopping, he scooped up the man's inhaler and also slipped that into his pocket. No one took any notice; they were too busy barking orders or panicking. Virgil kept moving, ensuring that his head was down and turning his face away anytime someone glanced in his direction.

He crossed to the elevators. The doors had already been pried open. Virgil peered up, then down. He could see the elevator two floors below him. Then he looked at the steel rods and grimaced.

Wrapping one sleeve of his jacket around one hand, he leant precariously out and swung the jacket. It missed the rods on the first swing, but looped around it on the second. Virgil nearly fell as he reached for it, but he managed to catch the material and wrapped it around the other hand.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

Someone had seen him and Virgil knew it was now or never. To horrified cries of the staff behind him, he leapt into the elevator shaft. His body slammed into the rods and Virgil gasped as he started falling, the metal burning against his legs. Then he grabbed hold, using the material of his jacket to protect his hands against the metal.

Gripping on the best he could, Virgil took a moment to catch his breath. He used his chin to connect to John.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"Ignore Scott being a jerk and help me here, would you?" Virgil muttered. "I need you to find a way of contacting the guy below. Tell him help is coming."

"F.A.B."

Virgil had never heard John sound so reluctant. He did wonder himself if he had gone mad. But then, one jacket-wrapped hand over another, he started to climb down the shaft.

His arms were burning by the time he reached the elevator and he landed on top of the car. Virgil doubled over, his hands resting on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. Then he realised that despite his attempts at protection, his hands were still painful; redness covered his entire palms. His trousers were ripped in several places and Virgil's legs were stinging.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, Virgil patched himself back through to John.

"What have you told him?" He had no doubt his brother had found a way to establish contact with the trapped man. If there was a way of calling out, then John would find a way of reversing it and getting into the system. The fact that Virgil had just climbed down an elevator shaft meant that John would have taken it as a personal challenge: if Virgil was finding a way to help despite International Rescue being on the other side of the world, then so would John.

"That International Rescue are on the case. Please tell me he won't know who you are."

Virgil pulled out the crumbled mask and put it on. It was uncomfortable and didn't fit properly, but he was convinced it would do enough to disguise who he was.

"Won't have a clue," Virgil said. He would have felt more confident if the mask hadn't been pinching the bridge of his nose and making his voice sound nasally. He was running a rescue solo while sounding like he had a cold – great.

"Keep me updated on the fire services," Virgil said. He felt around the top of the car until he found the service hatch. Thankfully, it had a lever on the outside that allowed him to open it with relative ease and he pulled it open. Dangling his legs first, Virgil dropped into the car before straightening up and looking around.

The man was around his father's age, collapsed in a corner. His breathing was erratic and Virgil knew the man was trembling. He forgot about the gala upstairs though, forgot about the possibility of being recognised, and instead slipped into the role he felt he had been born to do.

"Hey," Virgil said softly, "I'm with International Rescue."

If the man noticed his rescuer was in what remained of a suit with a mask on, he gave no sign of it. He wheezed and clutched at his chest. Without another word, Virgil reached the man and eased him into a more upright position. He coaxed the man into taking a few deep breaths before handing over the inhaler, satisfied the man was calm enough to use it.

Almost instantly, the man's breathing evened out. He looked up, red-faced, and stared at Virgil.

"Who are you?"

"Just someone here to help. Can you tell me your name, sir?"

"Edwards," the man said. "Jacob Edwards."

"Okay, Mr Edwards. The emergency services are on their way. You're going to be just fine now."

"It's this space," Edwards said, visibly shuddering as he looked around. Virgil had to admit he wouldn't have liked to be trapped in here, and he worked in the more enclosed machinery IR had to offer. It made him think of Gordon and Thunderbird Four, and a stab of guilt shot through Virgil. He would make it up to his brother once he got back to the island.

"Shut your eyes," Virgil suggested quietly. He waited until Edwards had done so. "Now, imagine you're somewhere warm and sunny…"

Before Virgil realised what he was doing, he started describing the island to the man. He spoke of the colours, the vibrancy and sheer energy of the place. He mentioned the sound of the waves crashing against one of the coves, the smell of salt in the air and the feeling of a breeze through his hair as he stood watching it.

Edwards entire body relaxed and his breathing continued to ease. He took another drag on his inhaler but Virgil knew it was a coping mechanism rather than being on the edge of an attack again. He wasn't sure the man had ever been about to have an asthma attack: Virgil had talked enough victims through a panic attack to know the signs.

Eventually, Edwards opened his eyes.

"Thank you, young man," he said gravely. Then a smile quirked his lips. "Are you an artist?"

"What?" Virgil's hands rose, checking the mask was still in place. Edwards chuckled.

"I don't know who you are, don't worry. I don't want to know, either. But the way you described that setting; not many people notice that much detail or shades of colour."

Virgil smiled ruefully. "I dabble," he said, making sure he didn't commit himself to anything. Edwards might not want to know who he was now, but once they were out of the elevator and he recovered from the ordeal, Virgil didn't want to give him any clues.

His watch vibrating prevented any awkwardness.

"The fire services have just arrived," John reported. "They'll have you out of there in no time."

"F.A.B." Virgil looked back at Mr Edwards. "You're going to be just fine."

It didn't take long for the emergency services to get them out after that. Admittedly, Virgil knew he could have done it much faster and with far less jolting, but he was grateful when he heard voices and saw a crack of light appear as they started prising the doors open.

They had winched the car down to the ground level. Virgil pressed himself into a corner as their rescuers immediately converged on Edwards. Virgil was bemused when the man appeared to struggle for breath again – certain he had calmed him down – but then smiled when Edwards winked at him. He was creating enough of a distraction that Virgil slipped out of the elevator without being seen.

He ran for the stairs, whisking off the mask and dumping it in a trash can as he did so. He ran his hand through his hair and breathed deeply. But then he looked down at himself and winced. Not only had he lost his jacket, his trousers were torn in several places and his hands still hurt. Virgil was certain he could still play – it was his palms, not his fingers – but he had no idea how he was going to get away with it.

"Mission complete," he muttered into his watch as he took the stairs two at a time. Guests were back in the foyer and Virgil knew they had been trying to see what was happening below. Virgil sidled towards the doors, hoping he could slip back in before anyone noticed.

"What happened to you?" Sam Turner stepped directly in front of him, a sneer on his face and suspicion in his eyes as he looked Virgil up and down.

"Um-,"

"I did." Makela stepped up to them, her hand on Virgil's arm and an eyebrow raised. "Got a problem with that?"

Sam spluttered, muttered something under his breath and stormed off. Virgil glanced at Makela.

"Thanks," he said, cautious. She smiled.

"I saw him watching me earlier. Thought I would stir things up a bit."

"Only now-,"

"What?" Makela interrupted. "Everyone might think you're a bit of a playboy?"

Virgil grinned, realising that she had a point. He already had an undeserved reputation; Makela hadn't started anything, she had just lent some credibility to the rumours.

"What about you?" Virgil said softly. "Don't you want to know what I've been doing?"

"Nope," Makela said, "never kiss and tell."

She linked her arm through Virgil's and steered him back into the function room towards the piano.

"I do know there is more to you than meets the eye though, Virgil Tracy," she murmured. "And if you were doing what I think you were doing, then thanks."

She left him, stunned and speechless, at the piano. He stared at her as she took her position and when Makela looked back at him and smiled softly, he returned it. Just like Edwards, she wasn't interested in exposing him.

Although when she looked back again, a glint in her eye, Virgil smirked. Rather, she was interested in exposing him, just not in that way.

Wondering if he could salvage something of the night after all, Virgil once more started to play. He hoped that if John was recording something for their grandmother, then he had done it before the interruptions because Virgil's hands were making it impossible to play at his best. But when the guests came back in (again) and finally started their meal, no one appeared to notice.

As the evening drew to a close and the guests started leaving, Virgil toyed with his watch. He knew he should report it and tell Base everything that happened, just in case there was any fallout from his solo mission. Then he noticed Makela waiting, hovering uncertainly by her microphone and glancing at him over her shoulder and Virgil changed his mind.

For once, his brothers could wait. He had more important things on his mind right now.