#im crying whyyyy so close to endddd

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 17 (chapter 10)

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings for previous chapters: phobias and panic attacks*  

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3 Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3 Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3 Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3 Chapter 10: Part 16 | Part 17 (you are here) | Ao3 NEW Tracy Seaside -the playlist here

A/N: Things you may have missed 1) there’s a part for chapter 10 that was launched this weekend featuring big brother BootScoot. I’d encourage reading that first. 2) I’ve also shared a heavily curated playlist I adore. All links are up above. And finally 3) I wrote a one-shot that occurs between chapter 9 and 10 that details what’s going on between Virgil and Everett if you are picking up the vibes. Gordon’s a little shit, but all he wants is to be the best goddamn wingman that ever was. Chocolate and Hazel available on Ao3. *****

Part 17 - Chapter 10 Read on Ao3

Over the next week the chill rolled in. Gordon pulled his fall and winter accessories from storage and packed up all but a couple of his short sleeve tees in favor of the cozy sweaters he kept hanging in his closet. The same flannel he’d picked up for the party, had had its fair amount of use overtop sleep clothes in the evenings, as the cold seeped through his windows and doors.

The quiet of the house was unexpectedly loud, and if emptiness had a physical feeling, he imagined it was similar to the effect of the cold. While extra clothes and warm blankets helped to block the frost from reaching his skin, it didn’t stop it from existing, and it certainly didn’t stop it from affecting him to the bones in all too real way.

But he had shelter against the cold, and so too did he have protection against the hollow feeling in his chest. In the form of his canine companion who cuddled against his side but never on his lap and nudged his hand over her head in place of waiting for pets, and who knew sit, stay, and come, but refused to let her paws be touched. Occasionally, Skipper would roam the halls in a state of confusion and peek into the dark guest room, before finding her way back to Gordon with the heaviest of lonely sighs and wiggling her head under Gordon’s hand for those ear scratches she deeply desired.

Dogs spoke such vibrant emotion.

It was such a thing of beauty, being an animal parent and wondering randomly what they were doing during the times he wasn’t present. With the change in the weather, the hens were likely inside playing with the indoor accoutrements instead of exploring the outside range of the coop. Though, Tabetha was often braver in that regard than the others. Meanwhile, TaterTot liked the highest of perches, while Mocha often claimed the swing roost, with the beading up the side. Their ducks were free-range, so they’d eventually would start to spend more time in their winter enclosure, knowing the farm provided a regular supply of food and water and shelter, but it hadn’t gotten cold enough for that yet. Then there was Skipper, who was either sleeping somewhere between the two houses, or more likely, following Jules around the farm work.

Regardless, they all were likely warmer than he was now, representing their estate on farmer’s market day with Everett and two of the day shift hired hands. His fingerless gloves were made of Italian cashmere, warmer than wool but breathable, in a neutral tone of nutmeg. They were the finest things on him, with the rest of his clothes an array from the first things grabbed from his drawers – a purple beanie, a pair of jeans, a grey merino sweater, and his usual work boots.

Tucked inside their tent behind the rows of wine and mead, he shivered as the wind came through their tent, flapping at the edges. He made sure to greet those that entered and, in between guests, sipped on the warm caramel flavored hot chocolate from the Moretti’s shop. He deserved it firstly because he and the cold were not friends and secondly because he’d resisted the coffee rolls the baking family were selling fresh that morning and which were still responsible for the continuing smell of cinnamon in the air.

“Where’s the handsome one?” a crackling voice spoke, passed down from day-shifter Billy at the produce further up their set up.

“Right where you’re looking, Ms. Mayfield,” Gordon answered without a beat, his grin wide as he started wrapping up her Saturday wine. Old Ms. Margaret Mayfield was harmless in her teasing, he knew.

“Hmm, still a lucky girl, I am, dearie.”

“Of course, you are.” He nudged Everett as he spoke and handed over the wine so he could start ringing her up. “Why don’t you tell this one all about it, and he might give you a nice discount on your produce today.” They had one running anyway.

Seamlessly, he passed her over to him with an added plus of putting Everett on the spot, and the deer-in-headlights expression on his friend’s face only encouraged him more. He could barely stifle his laughter in his sleeve.

Ms. Mayfield giggled, her face flushing. “Oh, you boys are too good to me.”

He gave Everett the credit, the man brushed it off quickly, schooling his face into calm while Ms. Mayfield raved about dark hair and flannel to him while he tried to focus on her numbers. She left with a skip in her step, and all 190 bs of Everett swung toward him with a piercing look.

“You.”

“Moi?” He could laugh.  

“Virgil was right, you are incorrigible.” Everett shook his head, his glare breaking as he couldn’t hold the hard expression when faced with the mirth bouncing off the smaller man. “I get it now.”

“Aww.  What kind of little brother would I be if I didn’t give him a hard time when he’s not here to defend himself?”

“Do you have to put me in the crossfire?”

“Absolutely. Besides you are here and” – Gordon suddenly started reorganizing the display, voice cracking – “he’s not.  Therefore, if anything you’re the actual target, bro.”

“Hey boys?” Everett called out to the day-shifters over Gordon’s head, and he jumped at the sudden boom of his voice. “Good work this morning. You’re welcome to take your breaks. Cap and I got this.” Once the two youngsters sauntered off towards the various stalls and they were clear of customers, he spun back to Gordon, pulling their chairs forward. “You. Spill.”

“What’s to spill?”

“Mhmm.” Everett leaned his cheek on his knuckles, watching him fiddle with straightening the tablecloth.

“I mean it! What’s to spill?”

“Gordon,” he tugged gently on his arm. “Please come sit for a bit and talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he sighed, sinking into the chair.

“It’s okay to miss him, you know.”

“I-I—” It had only been a couple weeks against the span of years, but for all their ups and downs during his stay Gordon had gotten used to Virgil’s company. “I just am trying to re-remember how to live alone, you know.”

“I understand that,” Everett offered. “You know there’s always the house. You’re welcome anytime.”

“No, I know I have you guys. I still love my home, and I’ll be fine. It’s just I’m still adjusting to the quiet.” He gave him a wry smile.

It was actually a lot of things.

Everything had moved so quickly. Even before the party, he’d been in constant place of thinking of the next thing while physically working on the current. Then there was the party, the clean-up efforts, the change of weather, Virgil’s departure, and then all too suddenly a realization of “back to normal” that he hadn’t had time to process.  

It helped that Virgil hadn’t decided to leave immediately when Scott offered to bring him home, choosing instead to spare a couple of extra days with the farm. He’d wanted to make sure Gordon was in full recovery after the scare that weekend, plus there were a few straggler projects he’d needed to finish in Everett’s work shed. Even still, Wednesday morning came too quickly, and even though they still had party leftovers, they moved their Fish Friday meal early in the week in order to give Virgil a proper send off. Scott and Alan had picked him up bright and early the next day, and there was a heartbreak anew for Gordon to watch three of his brothers take off into the sky.

“I guess I do miss him,” he said. “Only a little though!”

The evening after the elaborate dinner, Virgil had sat them down on the sofa for a heart-to-heart of repeated apologies and promises for the future. His brother swore to him it would be different moving forward, and it was with such intense honesty in eyes and conviction in his voice that Gordon truly found himself starting to believe it.

Virgil had invited him home for Christmas. Home to the Island.  He still wasn’t sure if he wanted to go.  That sure was a lot of seawater, but Virgil had encouraged him they could make accommodations. His needs were no burden, but it was his call. He could tell in Virgil’s eyes that he wanted him there.

They’d pre-planned a rotation of visits between the family to take time off to visit on a scattering of weekends between now and the holiday. They’d never had something like that before, and a protective wall around Gordon’s heart couldn’t help but only believe it would happen when it happened, knowing the world wouldn’t stop needing iR just because of a pre-planned trip. But Virgil had seemed to believe they could make it work, and he still owed Virgil a little bit of trust.

So he focused on looking forward to John’s visit in two weeks. And if that went well, maybe then, he’d start firmly anticipating the next one, and then the next.

“Have you heard from him at all?” Everett asked.

“Not yet.”

“You should reach out,” he encouraged. “I think he’d like knowing you’re thinking about him.”

And that was the rest of what needed navigating, the small things that really meant big things. Small messages of the day-to-day that really meant welcoming his brother to be part of the events of his life, showing that he wanted to share it. Would Virgil even appreciate the random pictures of his chickens? And would he be welcomed in return? Would Virgil send him the little melodies in his head the way he would send them to John?

Everett was right.  He needed to start somewhere.

Small things that meant big things.

He shivered in the cold, opening his phone to start a new group chat, one with all of his brothers, and he sent them off a simple picture of his hot chocolate against the background of their display with the caption wake me up before you cocoa…