#thunderbirds are go fic

[lenle-g]

“Scott, and I’m one-hundred percent serious about this, do you want me to come down there and make you some pasta?”

from Love is Stored in the Pasta @astranite <3

[idontknowreallywhy]

Following in his footsteps

Finished this idea off on the commute so apologies for typos, clumsy wording and for inconsistencies in the sounds Brains stutters on…

It’s a bit of a mystery as to why Scott, the first born, was named after the 4th of the Mercury Seven whose flight and piloting decisions were somewhat controversial and left him in conflict with flight control (sound familiar?). Anyway I find myself intrigued by that particular 1960’s flyboy, particularly as to one thing he did 1/3 of the way through his trip with his fuel running low…

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

“S-SCOTT C-C-CARPENTER TRACY!!!”

John later confirmed that this was indeed the first time in Tracy history that Brains ever been apoplectic enough to middle name any of them. His ire was usually quiet and dry, with occasional sarcasm. Every so often some non-vital but comfort-providing item might be removed from a Thunderbird for “essential maintenance”… the cushioning of One’s pilot seat, the power supply to Two’s coffee machine…

But generally, after more than a decade living with the Tracys, their long-suffering engineer had cultivated the talent of providing emotionally restrained feedback. Albeit there was good reason MAX was unable to mimic the phrases that were muttered over mangled landing gear, flooded engines, overstrained thrusters and the like.

This Wednesday morning, however, something had clearly pushed him over the edge.

“What did you doooo?” Alan hissed in alarm and was immediately shushed by a heavily frowning Virgil, whose fingers appeared unable to release the unfortunately tense chord he’d just leaned into. John’s hologram popped up looking serious. Even Gordon looked incredibly uncomfortable.

From the guilt-ridden look on Scott’s face, he could think of least three reasons his neck might be on the block this morning.

A tightly wound ball of fury approached the seating area and the speed with which International Rescue’s commander leapt from the couch betrayed his initial instinct to bolt from the room and never stop running. However, decades of experience of facing the music from many and varied sources meant his feet remained firmly rooted to the floor, while the rest of his body sought the security of parade rest.

Brains stood in front of him vibrating with rage. The ends of MAX’s arms were positioned at an approximation of where the robot’s hips might be. The room held its breath. Virgil’s foot remained wedged against the sustain pedal. The melodramatic chord continued reverberating around the lounge.

The engineer suddenly raised a hand and everyone flinched. Had their friend finally resorted to violence?

Scott closed his eyes and awaited whatever engineering justice was deemed merited for… whatever it was he had done.

But the shorter man’s movement as he reached up to Scott’s face was slow, deliberate and with a slight frown of concentration he stuck a 75mm square of blue duct tape precisely in the middle of Scott’s forehead.

Virgil jaw dropped and his foot finally slipped off the pedal. The dampers clunked back into place, allowing an ominous silence to reign for a few moments.

The colour coded rolls of multi-purpose tape included within each baldric was one of Brains’ affectionate little thematic touches but also acted as a crude fingerprint… blue tape could only ever have been used by one person.

The Commander’s eyebrows twitched almost audibly as he tried to puzzle out the strange sensation but his eyes remained screwed shut.

When Brains spoke it was barely more than a whisper and the brothers in the room found themselves leaning in. The brother in space appeared to have located a bucket of popcorn.

“D-do you h-happen, to know how l-long I have spent p-perfecting One’s fuel reserve s-system, S-Scott?”

Scott swallowed, hard, and opened his eyes again.

“Quite a long time?”

“Yes.”

“Ahh, did I ever thank you? I should have, I’m very sorry - thank you for that and for all your work, Brains. It really is appreciated.”

“Is it?”

“Of course!”

“Hmmm.”

Scott opened his mouth again but, accepting that his attempt to divert the conversation had failed, clearly thought better of digging any deeper until the nature of the situation became more clearly defined.

Brains’ hand lifted for a second time, another square of blue tape delicately held between thumb and forefinger. This was placed with some care on the very tip of Scott’s nose.

Alan snorted. Gordon punched him in the arm and was elbowed back. Virgil glared them into silence then nearly lost control himself at the sight of his elder brother going cross eyed in an attempt to establish what on earth he was being decorated with.

Brains spun on his heel to face the rest and they all leaned back hurriedly, feigning casual interest. Nobody wanted to appear to be aware of, to be accidentally associated with whatever crime it was Scott had committed.

“Th-thunderbird One uses t-two fuels but h-has th-th-three fuel tanks. As you all know, th-the balance of fuel t-to achieve m-maximum speed is p-precisely c-calculated and th-the system that g-governs it is h-highly sophisticated.”

Everyone nodded except Scott who was trying and failing to pretend he was unbothered by the additions to his face. His nose twitched compulsively.

“D-due to certain t-tendencies of her p-rimary p-p-pilot, One h-has a reserve t-tank. Th-that blend of fuel w-will not achieve the h-highest speeds b-but will ensure she is able t-to return h-home if a SENSIBLE…” the word was ground out as if it was painful “…speed is m-maintained.”

Brains paused. Every eye in the room shifted to Scott. Max bleeped, judgementally. Brains continued, his voice deadly calm and deeply terrifying for it.

“T-to ensure One’s p-pilot d-does not m-miss the fuel status w-warnings amongst th-the p-p-plethora of information on the h-holographic display I installed th-three LED bulbs t-to m-make it QU-QUITE CLEAR w-when l-levels w-were running low and w-when speed n-needed t-to be m-m-m-moderated in order t-to avoid d-damage t-to her supply p-p-p-p-pipeline a-a-a-and e-en-en-engines!”

Brains’ veneer of calm was cracking and Scott, who had clearly solved the mystery, appeared to be chewing through the inside of his face. Brains spun back to face the object of his wrath. MAX’s mechanical eyes narrowed.

“W-warning l-lights are only effective w-when th-they are v-visible!”

Scott gulped and fell back on the only defence he had left - he gave his old friend a dimpled half-grin and a doomed attempt at mitigation:

“They were a little… distracting?”

“D-distracting.”

The full stop was potent and echoed around them. Brains appeared on the edge of an eruption the like of which Tracy Island had never seen, even when the volcano was active. But he mastered himself and produced a final square of tape which he held in front of Scott’s face for a moment before slapping it down on to the top of his head, rubbing it slightly to ensnare as much perfectly styled hair as possible before storming from the room.

MAX remained just long enough to shake a medium-weight hydro-spanner with extreme prejudice before flouncing impressively and trundling after his master.

Alan and Gordon clung to each other, faces contorted with silent mirth. Virgil caught John’s eye then cleared his throat and appeared about to speak before being forestalled by his Commander’s raised palm.

Lacking a little of his usual gravitas due to the tape fluttering gently in the huffed breath from his nose, Scott still poured every ounce of authority he had left into an order of three short syllables:

“Not. A. Word.”

[edutainer2022]

So it's done! The little story that tidied me over this week of missile hellfire and long stretches of power outages. Jeff is back from Oort Cloud and is forced to question his strengths and aptitudes when things go unexpectedly very, very wrong very fast. All boys get to feature, eventually, but Scotty is having the worst time of all. Many thanks to @janetm74 for cheering me on through brief patches of power going up.

GRAVITY

Some days were worse than others. Some days the heady rush of pure JOY and BLISS of being back with his beloved boys, his Ma, in his own home, back on his own PLANET, beneath the blue skies, breathing unprocessed air... were not enough to tide him over the bone deep weariness. Days, when the bustling world around was suddenly too much effort. Too much, period.

That morning he woke up, gruff and bleary, feeling every ounce of gravity amplified weight down to his marrow. He didn't remember sleeping a wink, but he knew he was late. The corner of the blanket peeled away, catching on his stubble, revealed a silhouette perched on the side of his bed. Scott. Already dressed to the nines in a suit that looked like it was shipped straight from the Milan runway. It probably had been. His son's aftershave was fancier and more expensive than he could ever afford or had any clue to choose at that same age. Predawn light was casting a grey hue over Scott's features, gleaming in silver highlights, making him look older. Tired. His eldest looked hauntingly like Jeff felt, sagging under the crashing weight, stretched thin, even put together all sharp like that, bright and early. The sudden heartache of that thought came out as a hoarse groan.

They were supposed to meet several executives first thing in the morning to get Jeff up to speed a bit more. To get the company brass reacquainted with the Tracy Patriarch too. There had been many new promotions and appointments over the past eight years. But Jeff could barely keep his eyes open. The thought of getting up and moving gave him a shiver, which, in turn, deepened the worried frown on Scott's face. The taut lines in the corners of his son's eyes and mouth became prominent. Much as the pallor and dark circles, belying a sleepless night. Scott took a call out in One, right off the roof of Tracy Tower. It was the fastest and most expedient option, regardless of Virgil's protests. That's how Jeff remembered most of his sleep being drained by nightmares - One screeching off and him spending eight endless years calculating and hoping (praying) the rocket plane made it out of the Zero-X launch blast radius in time, taking his son to safely far enough. He winced at the memory and squinted against a nauseating headache. Scott's worry was obviously reaching the red zone.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder, then moved to press for the pulse. His boy's fingers were uncharacteristically cold, but maybe Jeff was just catching space chills.

"Dad, are you alright? I will cancel the morning! I'll get you to the hospital right now, then Virgil will fly Grandma in!"

The on the go plan was all IR Commander, but blue eyes blown up twice the usual size in panic was Scotty at any given time Dad was about to disappear. Again. He hated the treacherous frailty that got his unwavering boy so scared. As much as he hated the very idea of hospitals, enthusiastically shared by all his children.

"It's okay, Bluejay! No need to worry! Just one of those days. I'll sleep it off. You go ahead with the meeting and I'll rise and shine to have brunch with you, deal?"

Between the Zero-XL assembly under wraps, the possibly one-way mission to the middle of the galactic nowhere, and Jeff's subsequent laborious rehabilitation, the Tracy Industries senior executives really needed some quality face time with the Tracy-in-charge. So they would have it. Jeff was under no illusion he was in any shape to be that, anymore. Scott was, still. But that would have to change maybe sooner, than they both wished, if mornings like that became a recurrent thing.

Scott didn't appear entirely convinced and there was definitely a ping being sent up to Five to monitor Jeff's space-addled sleeping hunk extra closely. However, the anxious scowl softened into warm mirth as Scott smiled down at Dad's rugged face. Cool fingers moved from the pulse point to brush away the matted grey curls from Jeff's forehead. The gesture was definitely well practiced on any and all of the younger brothers, but in that moment all Jeff could see in the slight tilt of the head and a special, radiant fondness in the blue gaze, was the boys' mother. He nearly choked on a sob and covered his eyes, feigning a fit of cough. Scott moved immediately to give him a glass of water from the bedside table. Once done blinking away the stinging moisture, Jeff caught the tail end of a hastily covered wince in the boy's features. If he were operating at full capacity, he would have probably dug to the bottom of it with proper insistence. As it were, Jeff settled for a squeeze of the premium wool clad bicep:

"How're you holding up, son? Tough night?"

"I'm okay, Dad! You don't need to worry! A couple of bruises here and there. Mostly my ego, as I landed in a heap when the jetpack gave out. I'll never hear the end of it from everyone!"

The edges of Scott's "cheeky flyboy" smile were tighter than Jeff should have been placated with. But gravity was already pulling his lids down.

***

He marginally remembered a quick tender peck on his forehead, or maybe he dreamt it up, conflating the endless years of longing for his mother and for his wife even before that. The scent of his eldest's aftershave, laced with a familiar wiff of One's fumes, lingered and calmed him down. He came to think of it as home and hope over the past months. Jeff next woke up to an anxious face of a different son.

John's hologram practically vibrated with anguish, bouncing on the bedside comm unit. Eyes wide and wild, John looked all too much like an Alan Jeff last remembered - eight years old and left at the Warton boarding school for the very first time.

"Dad!!! What's going on!?!! Are you alright?!!!"

Jeff's headache still didn't agree with the yell, audible practically from orbit. He didn't master much but an incoherent grumble to that.

"Somebody called 911 to the TI Conference Room for Mr. Tracy! I can't get through to Scott's comm! You were supposed to have a meeting first thing today! Are you okay!?"

Words rushed and stumbled one over the other, so unlike John's usually impeccable, professionally honed articulation. It took an extra moment for John to compute Dad's state of underdress - a testament in and of itself of the ginger's distress.

"Dad? Are you still in bed?"

Awareness was catching up with him and with it the heavy drag of gravity and dread. His ginger spaceman was still faster on the uptake, his own overwhelming horror finally pinned on a name:

"SCOTT!!!"

The only Mr. Tracy at the TI Conference room at that moment. It all was coming to Jeff in bits of a disjointed puzzle - the overnight rescue, Scott's ashen paleness he chalked up to lack of sleep, the stifled painful grimace his son wasn't quick enough to hide. And Jeff wasn't there for him!

***

If the younger employees of Tracy Tower were secretly looking forward to meeting the Resurrected Space Outcast, Founder of Tracy Industries and International Rescue, Hero of the Century and a Living Legend - Jeff Tracy - it was probably not barefoot and clad in pink flamingo print pijamas, sporting a bedhead and an overnight shadow, stumbling his way down the hallway at an alarming speed with a formidable assistance of the wall and an occasional doorknob. Jeff practically flung himself into the Conference room and nearly toppled over several people in expensive suits, crowded over a prone body on the floor. He shoved somebody's shoulder aside with enough force and less ceremony than was maybe appropriate.

His knees hitting the floor gave a jaw-jiggling rattle and it remained to be seen if he'd be able to make it back up unassisted, but he didn't give a damn. Scott was still and sheet white against the navy blue of the carpeting. Somebody had the presence of mind to loosen his tie and unbutton the shirt. Scott's face and chest were wet as someone apparently tried to sprinkle water on him to ease the fainting. To obviously no effect. Jeff might have noticed a shadow of bruising on the toned torso, but his eyes were on the beloved yet lifeless waxy face. He cupped Scott's cheek and shifted the other hand to rub his sternum forcefully .

"C'mon, Bluejay! Give me those eyes! Time to wake up!"

Either the father's voice or the strenal rub had the effect - Scott eyelashes fluttered and a sliver of blue became visible. Jeff felt encouraged, thankful the baffled and paniced executives were giving him a wide berth.

"There you go, Scotty! Open them up for me, eh? Dad is here, Bluejay!"

Jeff moved his palm from Scott's chest to grab a cold limp hand and squeeze. His other hand never left the son's cheek, the thumb caressing cool clammy skin carefully. Give the boy a sensory anchor.

"Stay with me, kiddo! It's alright!"

Blue eyes were still cloudy and unfocused, eyelids heavy. Scott seemed to have just then noticed Dad's presence.

"Dad? Yu'came?"

Jeff's chest constricted. Of course, they were supposed to be in that meeting together. But Jeff succumbed to weakness and left Scott alone. Again.

"I'm right here, Bluejay! Dad is here!"

The pained, far-away gaze still didn't land on him.

"Yu'never come... Only Mom comes... I call'n'call an'yu'never come..."

He was feeling cold sweat and shivers raking his own body, his head was swimming from strain and fear, but he had to keep Scott conscious and talking.

"Dad is right here! I'm with you, Scotty! Just look at me! Can you do that for Dad?"

Scott seemed to have made an effort to look at him, the brilliant blue almost black with strain.

"Yu'never come when I'm dying..."

With that Scott's eyes rolled back into his head and a thin rivulet of blood trickled down the corner of his lips. Jeff couldn't tell if his son's skin went colder to his touch as his own hands went icy numb. There was a distant sound coming through the pounding in his ears - an animal-like wail of Scott's name in a voice Jeff didn't recognize as his own. Space shifted around him, bodies shuffling urgently as more people entered the room. Multiple hands were prying him away from Scott's unmoving body, but they would need a crowbar. Jeff was putting up a fight to stay latched to his son, or so he thought. In the middle of a vicious flail he was suddenly tipping sideways some distance away, Scott completely obscured from view by a wall off luminicent lined uniforms of paramedics. And Jeff's world went black.

***

[Lucy, please! I know you miss him, love! Oh my God, I KNOW, baby! I know you're all alone there! Please, don't take him! PLEASE! He hasn't lived yet! Our boy, Luce! I let him down so much! I'm so sorry! I asked so much of him, and he gave up everything! I screwed up! Take me, hon! If you absolutely must, take me instead! I'll watch over them all with you, dear! But you can't take him! You won't! I know you won't let him! He needs to live! Please, don't let him stay with you, Lucy! PLEASE!]

***

He started awake yet again with his eldest son's name on his lips, voice hoarse like he'd been shouting over the ocean surf, crashing on the island shore. Caramel eyes were startled by his roar that time. Gordon was quick to collect himself and put on a smile.

"Hey, Dad! You're awake!"

Not unlike Scott's early that morning (was it still the same day?), Gordon's grin was thin, taut, not bright enough to cover the shadows visible on tanned skin. Jeff tried again, putting a worth of questions into the name:

"Scott?"

Gordon's smile faltered and Jeff felt the heady rush of weightlessness, his mind slipping away from the tether of sanity.

"Scotty's in surgery, Dad! There was internal bleeding and he crashed in the Conference room. The paramedics said he coded there, but they got him to the hospital on time! They're working on him now!"

Coded. Scott died on his watch. Because Jeff wasn't there. He took a breather, let his boy take over his slack and his duty. Again. Scott was paying with his life when Jeff was unfit to deal. Again.

He shifted in what appeared to be a hospital bed, but the range of his movement was limited by the IV line, now pulling at his hand. Gordon stopped him from getting up, hands, weighing his shoulders back on the mattress, a lot stronger than he remembered.

"Whoa, Dad! Nah-uh! Stay put! Your BP tanked and you blacked out there too!"

That probably explained the dizziness and the hospital ward spinning slowly around him. Jeff took a cautious look around the room, but for the monitor tracing his vitals it was empty. Gordon read the question in his gaze.

"Allie got so worked up with worry - he threw up. John's with him, helping to clean up. Grandma's watching the surgery and consulting in the OR gallery. They actually let Virgil in the OR! Those puppy eyes are a menace! Or maybe Johnny-boy donated the hospital a research lab or something. Anyhow, they let him stay with the anesthesiologist - you know how Scooter's body eats through painkillers! Freakish metabolism and all! So they wouldn't want him wake up mid surgery,  and Virgie knows the dosage and his stats by heart. It's good, right? Scotty's not all alone in there!"

Gordon was rambling, not pausing for air, and Jeff knew that to be the boy's primary tell for intense anxiety. He reached for his second youngest hand to ground himself as much as to offer comfort.

The door hissed open and Alan waded in, followed by a mile of ginger topped blue. Allie's face was blotchy and ashen, fresh tear tracks marking the skin. John was gripping the boy's shoulder with one hand. He had a tablet clutched to his chest with the other.

"Dad!"

Alan sounded so young Jeff's heart ached. He lifted the IV bound arm and Alan was quick to tuck himself to Dad's side, lanky teen limbs curled into a ball. The boy was not bothering to be discrete about crying again. Gordon flopped over Jeff's legs, uncharacteristically lost for words and craving contact too. Jeff waited till John walked around and perched by his shoulder. The ginger was engrossed by the video feed on his tablet. The live stream from the OR Jeff was not sure the hospital authorized or even knew about. He didn't care. He was dying to ask how the surgery was going, for how long, but Jeff wasn't sure how much John had clued the Tinies in. So he craned his neck to better see the screen and waited. Silence stretched. Virgil's massive form in sterile scrubs, cap and mask was visible, hunched over Scott's face, his fingers drumming lightly over the brother's bare shoulder. Jeff couldn't tell if Virgil was tapping in Morse code or playing out a mute tune. Either way it was definitely a way to reach through to big brother and not to disrupt the doctors. The surgery site was a hustle of frantic activity Jeff didn't dare follow too closely. At some point John's eyes went almost sea-green dark and the grip on the tablet turned his knuckles white. Jeff squeezed his shut, hugging Alan's trembling shoulder closer.

[Please, Lucy! No! Please!]

Time stretched further without meaning in perfect silence. John finally shifted to get up and announced:

"They closed him up! He'll be wheeled to Critical Care now."

Turquoise met caramel across the ward and it occurred to Jeff the statement was addressed more Gordon's way, as the blond was on his feet immediately. There was a LOT of communication between his family going right over his head. Maybe they didn't trust his strength that day. Or maybe they were just too used to not factor him into the synergy of their tightly knit world. Either way, it hurt more than he could ever let them know.

Gordon got his cue and was peeling Alan up and away from Jeff's side.

"C'mon, Al! Let's go find Grandma before she instills fear of hell into the nurses! And maybe grab some snacks for everyone! On my word, Dad DOESN'T want the local variety of green jell-o!"

Alan, as well as everyone else in the room, knew it for what it was worth - a diversion tactics to get him away. Allie could be stubborn with the best of them, and he wasn't a kid anymore, despite a widely acknowledged belief, but he knew there would be no real talk of Scott's post op prospects with him around. Not right then at least. Besides, the boy looked veritably drained by fear and all the uncertainty, and could use a change of scenery.

Shortly after Gordon chaperoned Alan out the doors to Jeff's ward hissed again. Virgil appeared like a giant ghost, swaying on his feet. He shed the surgical mask, gloves and cap, but was still in the OR scrubs. Drenched through with sweat. John was by his brother's side in one long stride. The boys leaned into each other for a long moment, their foreheads touching. Jeff longed to envelope his sons into a massive hug and let them draw strength from their father, as should be. He longed to rush to Scott's side and hold on to him as tightly as he knew how, not letting the boy slip away. He longed to console the Tinies and shoo away the haunted desperation from their eyes. He longed to ascertain them all they were not loosing Scott. Because they couldn't. HE couldn't. But he was marooned by the stupid IV, bedridden by gravity, exhausted by dread and guilt, eating him alive. Not for the first time that day Jeff felt redundant and useless, a fragile husk rolling around, causing mere nuisance.

Virgil heaved a breath to center himself and John stepped around him to head out. But not before giving his brother another quick fierce hug. Virgil seemed to be gathering his bearings, his mind booting up, previously lost in whatever he saw and felt going on in that OR.

"John, wait! Scott is critical. They won't let you in!"

John's face was a chiseled mask, a shade paler yet, if it were at all possible.

"I just bought this hospital equipment enough to research immortality. I'm going to be with my brother!"

With that he was gone through the door. Virgil seemed lost for a moment, lonely in the middle of the room. Chocolate eyes landed on Dad and just like that - the dam broke. The tidal wave of years worth of fear and pain, and toll of anticipatory grief as well as the actual one, for reasons Jeff only began to piece together, breached through defenses and Virgil collapsed into his father's eager arms, sobbing.

***

Maybe it was fitting he only got to do his vigil bid by Scott's side after all his kids, and his Ma, had exhausted themselves. Maybe it was his turn to step up, finally. Or maybe he wasn't ready before. How could he be? No amount of bracing himself could prepare Jeff for seeing Scott in the Critical Care unit - translucent and perfectly still - machines doing breathing for him, pumping blood for him, doing all the living for him. Even after That Place there was more life in his son's body, more tangible reality beneath the gossamer skin. His son's spirit was nearly unmoored, yet Jeff felt like he was the one needing life support. A lifeline. So he reached for the one that had yanked him from the brink more than once, led him out of cosmic limbo, sure and true - his son's hand. And held fast.

***

[I'm right here, Bluejay! Dad is here! I never come when you're dying, because you're NOT! I'm right beside you! Mom will show you the way home! I'll be waiting right here, son! I'm not going anywhere, I promise!]

[tracybirds]

Happy birthday Virgil <3 Started this for Fishtank Week so it's a little more Gordon than Virgil but shhh :D Many thanks to @gumnut-logic for the read-through!

Enjoy!!

CW: long term hospital visit + disorientation (Gordon, you can assume it's post hydrofoil if you like that incorporating that backstory for TAG Gordon)

---

Gordon misses the sun.

He doesn’t know what day it is, still too muddled and confused by the way it’s apparently April, and he’s missed not one but two brothers’ birthdays in the long haze of recovery. Time passes in cycles of pain and medicated relief, and he’s fallen out of sync with the world outside.

The shades have been drawn in all that time, even the slightest line of light glaring to his sensitive eyes. He’s not even sure what the colour of the walls are in this room, can’t remember them even though he’s certain the lights go on sometimes.

He hopes they’re yellow.

They’re probably white.

The door opens and the nurse bustles in, muttering to herself as she checks the lines.

“Morning,” he mumbles. It’s not been good for a long time.

He doesn’t pay attention to her chatter, not anymore. The information slides out of his memory as fast as it enters, and he doesn’t feel like asking her for her name. He knows she’s told it to him a hundred times already, sees it in the tightness around her eyes and the way her smile grows fixed.

He’s gotten pretty good at reading people’s expressions. It’s not like he can read anything else.

They won’t let him – no holos, no old-school screens, no music, not even books. He knows the rules; they’re inscribed on the inside of his head, sending alarms of searing pain if he tries to circumvent them.

When the nurse leaves, he’s left alone again in stark silence and shaded windows to wait for the next disturbance.

Gordon knows the routine well enough by now. He’ll lie in darkness until visiting hours start and someone walks in the door.

He thinks they’re following a schedule, but if there’s a pattern he doesn’t know it.

It’s dark again, ambient noise, perfect temperature.

He hates it.

It’s exactly what he needs.

There’s little difference between waking and sleeping, but still he startles when the door swings open.

It’s Virgil’s day, and Gordon melts in relief. Alan chatters, John questions and Scott hovers, but Virgil? Virgil just lets him be whatever he needs to be, knows how to follow his lead, knows when to push and when to let things go.

He can be angry, he can be miserable, he can be proud of the smallest thing. Gordon doesn’t know when Virgil became the brother that he could bare his soul to, but he knows he’s endlessly grateful.

“Hey,” he says, speech still slurred by sleep.

Virgil’s response is mumbled, face half in shadows as he turns on the dimmed night lights around the room.

He hardly looks at Gordon when he sits in the usual spot and Gordon studies him instead, trying to keep the pieces of the puzzle in his muddied head.

“Something’s happened,” he says with certainty.

Virgil snorts.

“Understatement of the century,” he mutters, unable to keep himself from catching Gordon’s eye.

Gordon shakes his head, his movements slow.

“Something’s happened,” he insists. Then he squints, taking in the way Virgil’s mouth is turned down at the corners, the steady set of his shoulders, the dark shadows under his eyes. “To you,” he finally concludes. “What happened to you?”

Clear as day, Gordon can see the clench in Virgil’s jaw, his teeth gritted together.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Virgil glares at him. “Nothing important.”

Gordon lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“That’s not funny,” says Virgil, his voice strung tight and sharp.

“Wasn’t a joke.”

There’s more Gordon wants to say, more he wishes he could say, if only the words would stop dancing in and out of his memory. He offers Virgil a tired smile, and hopes it’s enough.

Virgil’s face softens, but still he hesitates.

Gordon reaches clumsily for his brother’s arm.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “Don’t make this place mean I can’t be with you. We’re a team, you and me.”

Slowly, Virgil nods and Gordon breathes a sigh and settles back, letting the words wash over him. For a moment, he can pretend the dimmed lights float in from a hallway lost to childhood, trusting that Virgil won’t ask anything more of him than to listen.

He thinks he can do that.

[m-calculus]

A Cozy Evening

Scott ran his fingers through the silky fur of the puppy sleeping with its head on his lap. He leant back, letting his body sink into the plush sofa.

Puppy sitting wasn’t his usual gig, but when one of his old Air Force buddies had put out the SOS looking for a sitter at the last minute due to a family emergency, International rescue was always ready to help.

Scott used his free hand to lift a pumpkin-shaped mug with warm hot chocolate to his lips, taking a large sip. He pulled the crochet blanket over his lap, as the fire crackled in the grate.

Sure there were messes to clean up, the puppy was not yet toilet trained, but he smiled as the puppy twitched in its sleep; no doubt dreaming about their game of tug-of-war earlier in the evening.

[hebuiltfive]

I have an idea for an AU. I have no idea if it will work at all, but it's here to stay I think. I have no idea if it's been done before either, but I'm going to attempt to write it.

Two words: Regency Tracys.

Think Bridgerton, but with a twist. A huge twist (as planned so far).

It might end up being a terrible idea. I might not write it out well at all, but this idea has got me hooked and it hasn't left me alone the last couple of days...

[katblu42]

Symphony

Been thinking about this one a bit over the last few days, so I thought I'd give it a bit of a re-run.

It's just a bit of fluffy, music-related Earth and Sky.

Scott tore his eyes away from the unread emails, stretched his arms above his head, let out a long breath and turned the chair away from the desk to face Virgil at the piano.

“I like this one.  What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t really have a name.”

“I’ve heard you play it before, though.  Did you write it?”

There was the slightest hint of hesitation in Virgil’s response, although the music never wavered.

“I guess you could say that.  I haven’t ever really thought about notating it.”

“Aren’t you concerned you might forget it?”

A wry smile crept across the musician’s features, but he said nothing. 

“You should write it down.  And come up with a name for it.”

Virgil tilted his head a little by way of considering the notion, then asked “Why do you like it?  What does it make you think of?”

Scott stood, stretching more muscles, letting the music carry his thoughts away from TI paperwork as his gaze drifted upwards.

“Well, I like the way the melody climbs and swirls.  It kind of reminds me of flying.  And there’s a feeling of constant motion, fast, easy – sort of free.”  He closed his eyes for a moment before returning his gaze to his brother.  “In some ways it kinda reminds me of Dad.”

Virgil’s response began with the quirk of an eyebrow and the hint of a smile.

“Funny you should say that . . .”

“Why?  Is it about Dad?”

Virgil finished the last phrase, letting the final chord hang in the air before taking a slow breath and looking up at his big brother.

“No.  It’s you.”

“Me?”  Sapphire eyes widened with surprise bordering on shock, and his forehead creased in puzzlement.  “You wrote a song about me?”

Virgil looked back at the piano. 

“Not exactly.  It’s more like . . .” His gaze drifted upward.  “It’s hard to explain.  It’s sort of how I hear your presence, or your essence or something . . . I don’t know.”  His voice trailed off into mumbles and a shrug.

Scott was left speechless, staring at his brother’s awkward uncertainty, as the significance of his own interpretation of the music and what it represented really hit home.  It took him a moment, and he had to work to bring moisture back into his mouth before he finally found his voice again.

“Do . . .  do you have something like this for all of us?”

Virgil felt the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks, and he didn’t look up from the piano.

“Uh, yeah.  I sort of do.”  His hands drifted back to the keys and a new piece of music began, one with a complimentary theme to Scott’s.  It was in the same key, had the same tempo, and still embodied that sense of soaring movement, but this one felt somehow bigger, more far-reaching – almost heroic.

Scott let out a gasp.  “Is that . . .?  This one is . . . It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

Virgil gave a single nod.

“It fits with yours.  Like the second theme in a sonata-allegro.”  Virgil glanced over at his brother, taking in the blank look at the musical term.  “That’s the usual form for the opening movement of a symphony.”  His eyes drifted closed as he played, and he sighed.  “I can hear them both in counterpoint, but I can’t play both at the same time and do them justice.  I’d need an orchestra for that.”

Dumbfounded at this revelation, Scott could only marvel at his brother’s musicality.  Here he was listening to these amazing musical creations that rendered larger than life, full-colour images in his mind, and Virgil was complaining that what he could do with the piano alone was not enough.  He didn’t think he could even imagine what this music must sound like inside Virgil’s head.

The music came to a stop and Virgil turned again to look up at Scott.

“The variations on these two themes would encompass something like what I hear for Grandma and Kayo, a little of Brains, some of Grandpa . . .” he turned away again, “then everything would come back to you and Dad.”

For a moment silence hung between them.  Virgil’s fingers flexed, as though the music within him was searching for a way out as they reached once again for the piano keys.  A new piece of music began.  This one slower, gentler, quieter in terms of movement if not exactly in terms of volume.  Scott felt this one was more thoughtful and emotional.  It brought to mind light and colour and had a sense of space, but it also somehow felt warm.

“Mom?” The smallest possible upward inflection made it a question, which was answered with another nod and the soft smile that made his little brother look so much like her.

The melody moved and changed, built, swelled, adding a complexity in the musical patterns reminiscent of a conversation, an exchanging of information.  The lightness now sparked imagery of stars. The feeling of space changed from that of a breeze in an open field to the vastness beyond Earth’s atmosphere. The gentleness was now reinforced with a sense of almost hidden strength – Scott thought that might’ve come from a stronger bass line, but he wasn’t sure.

“Is this . . . John?”

Virgil’s smile brightened.  “You’re good at this.”

“No, the music speaks for itself.  You’re the one painting these images of our family with notes and chords.”

The smile faltered as Virgil held the last chord, then he let his shoulders sink a little.  Scott silently cursed himself for bringing back that awkward self-consciousness in his brilliant brother, but before he could say anything Virgil spoke again.

“I guess they would be the second movement if this were a symphony.”  There was a brief pause, then he straightened back into his playing posture.  “No prizes for guessing who the third movement is.”

This piece of music was a jaunty, up-beat number that seemed designed to make people move – to dance, to tap their feet or clap along.  It definitely felt like a dance of some sort, and it contained hints of sea shanties, or maybe a sailor’s hornpipe.  It was the musical equivalent of laughter, sunshine, pure happiness, and it had a lilt that moved like the sea.

“Gordon!” Scott exclaimed with a laugh.

The comparatively brief third movement came to its conclusion, but Virgil barely paused before beginning what Scott guessed to be the fourth.

“And that leaves . . .” Virgil spoke softly as he began the final theme.

This one was in march tempo, strong, bright, driving forward with a sense of heroic purpose, and bringing back some of that swirling, soaring movement from earlier.  Scott could pick out hints of his own theme, and a faster version of parts of John’s, but the piece definitely had its own identity. There was a sense of urgency to it, as though the melody was trying to push the tempo into moving faster.

“Wow.  Alan would love this,” Scott found himself thinking aloud.

Virgil stopped playing after the end of the next phrase.

“There would be more.  If this was a symphony, I mean.  The fourth movement would bring in some more of the other main themes, tie everything together, finish with a bit of fanfare.”  Virgil was once again looking up at Scott, a mixture of curiosity and self-consciousness etched into his features.  “You really think Alan would like it?”

“Virgil,” Scott answered with a sigh and a shake of his head as he took the few strides over towards the piano stool, “it’s amazing.  All of it.  The whole symphony.”

Virgil gave a shrug and his brow creased a little.

“There’s a lot more to it in my mind.  Only so much can be translated through the piano.”

“Then orchestrate it.”

A sigh, a shake of the head and a hint of a smile was the only response.  Scott firmly planted a hand on his brother’s shoulder and piercing blue eyes locked gaze with warm brown ones.

“I mean it, Virgil.  Write your symphony.  Give it the life it deserves.”

Scott could see the struggle to find the right words as Virgil’s eyes struggled to hold with his.

“I . . . It’s not mine, Scott, it’s . . .” Virgil lost the battle to keep looking at the determined pride in his big brother’s blue eyes.  His gaze lowered and he focused on his hands.  “I mean . . . it’s all of you.  It’s not music I’ve created, it’s the music that you are.”  Then, almost too quiet to hear, “At least to me.”

“So, you don’t want to share it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said this symphony isn’t yours.  I think you’re wrong.  It’s very much yours.  Something that you maybe want to hang onto, keeping it all for yourself.  And that’s okay.”  Scott shifted his grip, pulling his brother close.  “After all, this is family – The Tracy Family Symphony.  And if I’m the only one who ever gets to hear even this glimpse of what you carry in your heart, then I consider myself privileged.”

[astranite]

CH2 Coming Home Loudly

John isn't okay because it sure is lonely up in space. Scott follows through on his promises; he's here for his brothers and nothing, not even the distance between Earth and Thunderbird Five could stop him. Gordon is also Making Sure This Happens. --After suffering in silence, John comes home.

@janetm74 's Suffering In Silence which this follows. Ch1 upon tumblr.

@lying4sport

---

It had been twelve weeks since anyone had last hugged John or touched him at all. Scott would've been the last, leaving him on Thunderbird Five months ago with a quick squeeze of his shoulder to say goodbye. If Scott had known then that it would be for this long or had put together the pieces about the debacle with Alan already, he would have given in to the urge to tackle John into a hug, professional dignity while on duty be damned. He only had now and his brother in his arms.

All things considered, the stifled sob John let out was far from surprising. 

How he tugged away from the contact fully was even less so. Scott let him go, not forcing his brother to put up with his personal space being invaded when he was so unused to having anyone else around. He wouldn't anyway, even if his own heart ached. John needed physical affection to be on his own terms as much as he did need it.

John's arms went back to hugging himself as he rocked on his feet from heel to toe and back again, sniffling. "It's really nice to have you here."

"I'm glad to see you too. I really am," Scott replied. That barely begun to express how badly he wanted only to sit at John’s side and talk about anything or nothing at all, simply to be close.

Pretending to inspect the big ol' International Rescue sign became far more interesting as Scott turned away to let John surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. Spelled out in blaring capital letters, it was underlined red on the front of their space station

Funny how they had built this massive sign into Thunderbird Five up here where only John saw.

Scott ran his hands through his hair. He'd heard his brother's voice, seen his image through their communications array every day and near every mission since John had last rotated out, but it didn’t compare. Never could. It had been so damn long since he'd actually been physically in John's presence. 

He missed him ever so much.

He spun back to John, slowly to give him warning but too fast because right now he needed his brother in his sight. John seemed a bit more with it, the mask of Thunderbird Five, the larger than life promise of salvation overshadowing the very human operator slipping back into place. There were still cracks in it to see his brother through as John fidgeted with his uniform, twisting his fingers around his baldric until it crumpled.

He was more the utterly exhausted, probably covered in mud and hangry level of put together of the others after a mission, than John's usual never less than perfect. Scott would take what he could get though. If John started crying again, Scott couldn't guarantee he wouldn't either. 

"You ready to head home?" Scott said suddenly. 

He craned his neck around to look at the gleaming control panels, their blinking lights shining as brightly as they should. There. Sorted. Given this was John, of course it was: he’d never leave Five anything less than gleaming. They could go home.

John paused, his movements dying down into unnatural stillness. He lifted his chin, looking Scott straight in the eye like he was presenting his case before a committee of the entire world judging him, instead of it only being them. 

"No."

The single word came out blunt anyway.

Scott tensed up. To leave without John… he couldn’t—

Scott forced himself to take a deep breath. John wasn't exactly making sense, but when it came to his oh so clever little brother, it was most often Scott who was missing part of the equation.

"You don't want to? Or is there something else?" he asked, hesitant. 

It was rare for John to be this thrown by anything. But then this wasn’t an everyday situation, or rather it never should’ve become one so ceaselessly.

“Jay, what’s going on?”

Scott didn’t know how not to worry.

"No!” John shook his head frantically. “No, I want to go home."

His hands flailed through the air as if he was trying to sketch out a diagram of the problem for Scott. They rose upwards before John brought them down fast, flicking them, flapping them in rapid, repeating succession.

It struck Scott how long it had been since John had let him see him do that. With came the piercing realisation of long since he’d been physically in front of John to see him. In front of a camera and across comms, John held his hands below the field of view unless one was delicately wrapped around his microphone.

A tiny piece of the tension eased. John took a deep, shuddering breath, placing his words deliberately: "Father told me to pack my bags. I'm not packed. So therefore I'm not ready.”

To leave without John… he couldn’t—

As Scott reached for him, out of an instinct to comfort his brother in any way he could, John flinched back. He flattened himself against the wall, limbs compressed inwards as if he wanted to to sink through the glass and disappear into the star punctured void outside. 

John had always had the talent of making himself small. Scott was the one here on Five who was too loud and out of place.

 “So therefore I can’t go home,” John murmured. Or rather he mumbled, barely audible syllables clinging to each other instead of cutting through the noise clear as day. Scott had nicknamed the latter as his newsreader's voice once upon a time, on a day they’d been messing about over the comms as each brother requested John do different voices and Jeff pretended to not hear. 

It was what the world heard of Thunderbird Five, through and through. But not all there was to him.

Scott's hands found their way into his own hair again, tugging at it. He hadn’t thought. Grabbing him into a hug wouldn’t work with John. Never had. Sometimes that meant Scott wasn’t sure what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

This was unfair, so fundamentally unfair that Scott didn't know what to do with it. He wanted John, down on Earth for however long he needed, happy and safe, but this wasn't the kind of rescue where Scott could throw him over his shoulder and carry him out of the burning building. It wasn't that sort of strength Scott needed. 

What he needed was John’s own quiet strength, to calm and care for and carry people through to hope on only his voice. Yet what he had was himself.

[waty-art]

Five Times Scott Agreed And One Time He didn’t.

A Thunderbirds Are Go fanfiction

“Gordon, where is my paperwork?” Scott demanded slowly while Gordon gently pulled the coffee cup out of his hand and set it on the cleared desk.

“Where you'll never find it.” Gordon shot back cheerfully, pulling his shocked brother down to where the ground lowered in the center of the den.

Or

Five times Scott gave up arguing and agreed with Gordon, who just wants Scott to take care of himself, plus one time he didn't.

[lenle-g]

From Serious Moments by @mariashades

This year, it was just after two in the morning when Virgil rolled out of bed and went looking for Scott. He’d been roused from a restless sleep when, informed by some subconscious awareness or instinct, he’d sensed Scott leaving his room. Padding quietly through the dimly lit house on bare feet, Virgil found the eldest on the mezzanine floor above the lounge, his tall frame curled up and wearing the old university tee shirt and sweatpants he usually slept in. Scott didn’t look up as Virgil approached, his eyes fixed on his watch and scarcely daring to blink as the numbers ticked over, a large open bottle of something dark in his other hand. Not even Virgil crouching beside the chair got a reaction. “Scott?” Virgil asked carefully, already planning how to get the bottle off his eldest brother. This was not a coping mechanism that he wanted to chance becoming a habit. “...I’m officially older than Mom,” was the reply, and Virgil felt his gut twist at the utter heartbreak in the words.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Push

A little Flying Fish one-shot thrown down on my commute. Less plot, more vibes, but inspired the fact my tiny Scott keeps enduring this Situation:

And not at all that a certain someone not too far away may have tried to approach a certain thing in a certain way. Nope…

Featuring One Idiot Flyboy and One Wise Fish

💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛💙💛

“Better not let the Virg see you limping about like that old man.”

Damn observant squid. Scott immediately corrected his gait and strode purposefully into the kitchen.

Ow. Ow. Ow. Damn it.

Gordon followed, because GORDON.

“What? I just had a wrinkle in my sock.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah ‘uh huh’. Now it is gone.”

“Course it is.”

Scott set the coffee machine running and for a few blissful seconds conversation was made impossible by the sound of grinding beans.

It also handily covered the noise of him cursing the entire physical therapeutic profession under his breath.

Sadly, between them Brains and Virgil had upgraded this to be the most efficient coffee-production mechanism on the planet, and the excuse was gone before Gordon got bored and left him alone.

Who was he kidding? Once the limpet latched on… a different tack was needed to scrape him off. And after all, attack is often the best form of defence…

“So, how’s your back after the super-sub rescue, Fish?”

“Getting there. I know the drill now. Slow and steady, just gotta be careful not to rush or over-extend it. The physio helps…”

Gordon had an eerie way of making an ellipsis audible.

“Good good, keep it up.”

“Thank you, Mr Motivator.” Gordon perused the range of noxious-coloured energy drinks in the fridge and in a clearly fake-casual voice threw the return grenade over his shoulder:

“How’s your physio going?”

“Fine. Good. Smashing it actually.”

“You don’t smash physio, bro.”

“I do.”

“Oh. Well, you’ll have to give me some pointers. For example, how to smash it so hard you appear decidedly more uncomfortable you did yesterday… I can tell by your posture - that ain’t no sock wrinkle, Scoots.”

Scott immediately stood up straighter and took a long gulp of scalding coffee to disguise the wince.

Gordon raised an infuriating eyebrow.

Scott eyeballed him impassively and took another swallow, just to make sure his throat lining was entirely obliterated. No point doing things by halves.

The raised eyebrow was replaced by an even more irritating expression of concern.

“Hip dislocations take a while bro… and your leg very nearly parted company with the rest of you… there was a lot of swelling in that joint. Give it time.”

Scott shrugged.

“Is all good, I’m nearly there. As soon as I get full rotation, I’m back in the air.”

“I knew it!”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“You’re trying to fast track it! It’s meant to be a GRADUAL extension of range! Faster isn’t always better, you great lanky donut!”

Scott didn’t have to listen to this. So he spun on his heel and made for the desk. He absolutely did not wobble and tip the rest of his coffee down his sleeve as his treacherous pelvis made a ridiculous fuss over nothing.

An even more treacherous part of his brain wondered if his little brother didn’t have a point. Scott threatened it with hyper-specific lobotomisation.

Little Mr Got-Straight-As-In-Physio slid under his shoulder and took a good proportion of his weight just as he stubbornly stepped forward again. Blinking frustrated moisture out of his eyes, Scott heartily wished it hadn’t helped as much as it did.

“Pretty sure you’re meant to use the crutches for a little longer yet too, huh?”

The groan escaped before he could stop it.

Gordon manoeuvred Scott to the couch. Scott’s right hip point blank refused to resist and the rest of his body meekly followed.

He dropped on to the couch, yelped, muttered a few words Grandma would have disapproved of and then stared mutinously at the ceiling.

He was so very Done with it all.

Little brother cocked his head to one side and then handed him a fluffy cushion. A hot pink fluffy cushion.

THE hot pink fluffy cushion.

He looked up at the one person who really and truly Got This. Gordon smiled and inclined his head towards the much loathed eyesore he must have brought up its home from the infirmary. Prescient little guppy that he was.

Scott glared at the cushion. Then pressed his face into it and screamed and shouted for what could have been thirty seconds or thirty hours.

Eventually he was spent. Taking a couple of shaky breaths he sat up and threw it with all his strength across the room. It hit the wall of the stairwell and dropped out of sight.

“Better?”

“Mmhmm.”

Gordon gently lowered himself on to the couch and looked down at his hands, slowly flexing his fingers, one by one.

“Sometimes I was so crushingly bored with all the teeny tiny increments… it felt like I was going backwards… so I’d push until it hurt. Like, really hurt. Because at least then I had something to fight. Then at least it would be interesting, you know?”

Scott nodded, quietly. Then rested his head on Gordon’s shoulder.

“Think I’ve made it worse.”

“Yeah. You’re an idiot. Runs in the family, I guess.”

Gordon ruffled his hair and Scott growled.

“You’ll get back on track, bro. Just might have made it a bit of a longer one.”

Scott couldn’t summon up anything more profound than a sigh.

“Y’know… I could always keep you company. When you’re doing the exercises, I mean. Could make a game of it or… or something. If you wanted, I mean… you don’t have to if it wouldn’t…”

“It would. I’d like that.”

“Cool. Team Hip Flexion is Go!”

Scott made a valiant attempt at the audible ellipsis thing.

“The Upright Knee Raise Crew? The Abduction Gang? Aaah I’ll work on it…”

For the first time in what felt like weeks Scott’s mouth twitched into a grin.

“I’m going to regret this aren’t I?”

“You can bet on it.”

[edutainer2022]

I made it to Vienna for the week-long Digital Humanism event and I've been meaning to place Earth and Sky in Vienna for ages. This is an absolutely indulgent, decadent, undiluted fluff, full of bosom headcanons, informed by the first Sunday of fall here, drenched in sunlight, late summer flowers and classic German poetry. That's it, that's the story - Scott in Virgil go to Vienna and absolutely nothing hurts.

Thank you always to @janetm74 for putting up with my ramblings.

SUNLIGHT AND POETRY

He could smell the eye-wateringly expensive coffee first. Then the steps, muffled by luscious grass, were followed by a nondescript grunt that probably summarized the general state of the joint World Council, World Bank and GDF committee. An equally obscenely expensive suit jacket was thrown on the lawn unceremoniously to dub as a picnic blanket and, finally, the full length of Scott flopped and stretched beside him, wiggling to get comfortable. A goody bag with a tell-tale Zacher Hotel crest landed in Virgil's lap and he put aside the sketchbook, wasting no time to dig in. Coffee and the most luxurious chocolate cake in the world certainly worked the magic to improve Scott's mood and soon he was grinning up to the sky, although Virgil knew to look for signs of weariness in the corners of blue eyes. He was tempted to return to sketching, though - Scott's relaxed smiles, although in a far more ample supply after Dad's return, were still a rare treat.

Usually, it would be Virgil dragging biggest brother along to Vienna, when Opera was in season or an art exhibition Virgil didn't want to miss - a feat frequently accomplished with toddler-wrangling worthy bribery in form of copious amounts of Austrian finest street food and baked goods or the deployment of most deadly puppy eyes. The exasperated groan signaled that the odorous Wienerwurst from a digny kiosk on the corner of Bristol Hotel was still in the cards that day, much to the hotel staff's (and finest chefs') incessant bewilderment. The Tracies rented the penthouse floor at the historic Bristol, facing Vienna State Opera, for years, the place deemed secure enough by Kyrano Sr. all those years ago. That time, however, it was Virgil who tagged along whole Scott had a week of sessions set up with the Joint Committee of Global Services on the update of interoperable search and rescue policies. Trust Scott to spend his hard carved downtime on redrafting global policies and making the world a better and safer place.

That was just it, Dad having put his foot down (two, actually, and a fist) on IR rota expansion and rearranging operations with A LOT more of their habitual toll outsourced to GDF and local response services, they had more time to pursue their interests and develop their personal strengths. To have a life in an unironic way. But that also meant spending less time together on rescues, even on the island. Scott of course up and found himself the next all-consuming cause, so Virgil was kinda... missing him. Missing his best friend in the way he hadn't since Scott left for Yale, then for AirForce. Maybe it was the ever present thrum of dread over Scott involved in any thing GDF since... That Place... that got Virgil wistful and a bit clingy. Scott, naturally, didn't mind. They were having a great time, actually, reconvening in the afternoons for leisurely strolls, good food and uninterrupted talks about everything and nothing. Virgil treated himself to revising his favorite exhibits at Albertina and Kunst Museum, then took to camping out on sundrenched lawns of Burggarten, sketching statues or people around. He never felt as at home in Vienna as Scott did. Much as their ginger spaceman could fit right in on any red brick Gothic campus, Scott, all towering height and blue eyes, and slim athletic built, and structured suits just MATCHED the stately grandor of old imperial capitals. Virgil always felt too big and too rural American among the understated regal splendor of Vienna. But here, in the landscape informed by art, and the shade of Mozart's monument, and calm, and familial bonding, he was in his element.

Scott was stretching in the evening sun, like a giant cat, and blinking his eyes slowly at Virgil - that definitely called for a sketch.

Chocolate treats were, apparently, Scott not only loot that afternoon. He shifted to the side, wiggled a hand into the suit pocket and produced a small tattered volume. Faded gilded embossing and yellowed pages belied the treasure only found in antique bookshops. Virgil wasn't surprised when Scott started reading. One of the Tracy family best kept secrets was Scott's affinity for classic reading. Passionate, well-spoken and charismatic - Scott was the darling of every AP English class teacher, the Speech and Oratory Team captain and persistently courted for a graduate degree in French Modernism through his Lit Elective at Yale. In a different life Scott would have been an inspirational military leader, a kickass defense attorney or an Office-track politician and public speaker. But a different life had not been in the cards for Jeff Tracy's eldest Son and Heir.

What DID surprise Virgil was Scott settling up to read out loud. In German.

"Wem der große Wurf gelungen

Eines Freundes Freund zu sein;

Wer ein holdes Weib errungen

Mische seinen Jubel ein!"*

And raven brow shot up quizzically and in perfect synchrony the shit-eating grin erupted:

"What?! I'm his brother too!"

"To the point of speaking German?"

The grin faded a shade. Damn.

"To the point of speaking World Bank finance and AirForce parade drills with the old European Uninion Anthem. Schiller's statue is right OVER THERE, I was in the mood."

The returned smile was muted, but mellow. Virgil thought back to an old comedy, "what? like it's HARD?" almost audible in big brother's nonchalant shrug.

Only Scott Tracy would make a point to swing by a rare books shop and get himself a 1820s copy when he felt like reciting Schiller's poetry on a sunny afternoon in the old royal palace park. Virgil certainly hoped that indulgence streak broadened and became a habit.

----

* A stanza from Ode to Joy, Friedrich Schieller

[tracybirds]

A little offering for FishTank Week 2024 :D This is to fill the prompt "wingman" in hopefully a fun and unique way haha

Thank you to @whatgaviiformes and helpers for putting together the prompts, and thank you @gumnut-logic for the readthrough <33

[Wandering Albatross deets here]

--

“Holy crap, Virg – come see!”

Virgil’s ears pricked up at the excitement that coloured his brother’s voice, and he leapt up with a grin.

Without a second glance, Gordon passed the binoculars to him, pointing out the speck hovering over the horizon.

“It’s an albatross! Keep your eyes on it, I’m gonna grab the gear.”

The albatross’ wingspan filled Virgil’s field of vision and he watched it intently, breathless, as it glided over the shimmering sea. The speckles of black deepened as his eyes followed its feathers from shoulder to wing and with a jolt, he saw the beak and knew what he was looking at.

“Gordon, it’s a wanderer!” he yelled, not daring to pull his face away from the magnificent, magnified view.

“What?!!” Gordon’s response could only be described as a shriek, as he clattered back down the stairs, dragging the tripod with him.

The salmon-pink beak was one Virgil would know anywhere, years of pouring over photos and videos with Gordon at his side and he could identify this bird in a heartbeat. The wandering albatross, the largest wingspan of any bird, had flown over them in delighted dreams and childhood stories, ever since Gordon first saw a model of one at some seaside museum when they were small.

It was the viewing of a lifetime, a bird that had been on both of their dream lists ever since they had known what birding was.

And now it was here.

Wings outstretched, the albatross flew, snow and charcoal against an overcast sky.

Time stood still, marked only by the quiet ‘click’ of Gordon’s camera beside him, as Virgil committed the ebb and flow of circling flight to memory. His fingers itched for graphite, but the sight held him captive, rooted to the spot as the two stood shoulder to shoulder in awed silence.

When the lonely seabird slipped over the horizon in search for other shores, Virgil at last dropped the binoculars to his chest and turned to Gordon.

His eyes were bright, his smile alive.

“I’m so glad we were both here for this,” said Gordon in a rush, and Virgil felt the familiar warm glow in his chest, as the chatter sprang forth from his brother, a running commentary of facts and observations and wonderings alike.

“Gordon,” he gently interrupted, and Gordon stopped talking mid-sentence. “I’m glad we were both here too.”

[squiddokiddo]

Continuation from this post here:

I'm so glad y'all liked the first part, hopefully this one will be good too, it's angst with some hurt/comfort, sibling fluff and 100% feels.

Thanks to @tracybirds and @mrmustachious for looking it over and beta reading it for me.✨

𖦹*⊹.𖦹*⊹.𖦹*⊹.𖦹*⊹.𖦹

It wasn't long before a light knocking broke their spiral of doom.

"Hey Squirt, you ok?" A cheery voice called from the other side of the changing room door, the one they'd been dreading, the first and last voice they wanted to hear.

"You seemed a little upset back there, and I just wanted to check in with you. Can I come in?"

They knew they wouldn't be able to avoid him forever.

"Yeah..." Squirt's response coming out a lot more mangled and scratchy than they'd hoped.

Gordon pushed the door gently, laying eyes on the sopping wet, chlorine covered mess that was his little sibling, squished up against the wall. The kid was so ashamed, they didn't even look up as he entered.

Grabbing the big bath towel from the bench, he made his way over, draping it over Squirt as he plopped down on the floor, wrapping his little bud in a soft cocoon. His hands remaining clenched to the fabric, he tried his best to meet Squirt's gaze under all those soppy strands of red hair.

"Hey." He started firmly. "I know what you're thinking..."

Squirt's eyes darted away anywhere they could escape their brother's, they started to well up again.

"I'm sorry..." They whimpered, tears spilling over their cheeks. "I let you down, I- I- you- I mean..." They stumbled over their words, searching for the right ones to patch up the damage.

Gordon pulled his sib a little closer, still clutching the towel like a big net to prevent the little guppy from escaping.

"You were amazing."

Suddenly, the weight lifted, the air was clear and they could breathe. Squirt lifted their head to look at their big brother, wide eyed and relieved. As another batch of tears slid down their cheeks, Gordon released Squirt from their soft prison and took their face in his hands, gently wiping away the damp around their eyes.

"Third place?? That's awesome!!" He beamed "I'm so proud of you, kiddo!!"

Squirt sniffled. "But, I- I should've done better. We trained for months, I'm an IR aquanaut, my coach is an olympic champion, how..." They trailed off. "You've given me so much and I failed."

Gordon sighed. "You're also still learning. How old are you? Twelve?? You were up there with fourteen and fifteen year old kids, they should have had a huge advantage but you still beat 7 of them!!"

Squirt shifted uncomfortably in their towel.

"And it wouldn't matter what happens, you could never let me or the others down." Gordon tilted Squirt's gaze towards him to drive his point home. "I am proud of you."

Here came the tears again...

Gordon pulled Squirt into a tight hug and just let them cry it out for a moment, their face buried in the crook of his shoulder, rubbing their back gently. They needed it.

"I love you, you dork." He muffled, his face smushed into the towel. Squirt replied with an incoherent mumble but Gordon knew what they meant.

"Right!!" Gordon released from the embrace, grabbing the towel and pulling it over his sib's head. An outburst of protests and giggles came from underneath as the aquanaut ruffled up the kid's hair with it. Squirt emerged from the makeshift guppy trap, a mess of wildfire now occupying the top of their head.

Gordon, sensing the possibility of revenge, had already gotten up and made his way towards the door again. "I'll let you get changed." He blew a mock kiss as he backed out of the room. "I wuv you!!"

Squirt scowled but couldn't help cracking a grin. "I love you too, weirdo..."

𖦹*⊹.𖦹*⊹.𖦹*⊹.𖦹*⊹.𖦹

[hebuiltfive]

WIP Wednesday

This is a small snippet from the prompt piece I'm still working on for @idontknowreallywhy (sorry it's taking so long to finish!) It kind of... spiralled out of control, and the build up to how we get to the actual prompt has taken me a lot longer to get to than I originally thought it would... Three chapters and almost 10,000 words worth in fact... but it's coming along. Slowly but surely. I promise!

---------------------------------------

“You have not been kidnapped.”

“No? Then what would you call it?”

Alan shuffled himself into a sitting position. He glanced curiously around the room, at the various other beds that lined the walls, all neatly made and crisply white, sterile. Then, he observed the machines that were stationed beside his bed. It appeared to be monitoring his vitals signs and made a soft whirring sound, reminding Alan of an old fashioned computer’s fan. Wires connected him to the machine from his chest with electrodes. Testing them, he tugged on the wires softly

“Please desist from interfering.”

Much to his own surprise, Alan did so. He dropped the wires from his grip and glanced up at the white ceiling. He wasn’t sure where the Disembodied Voice was coming from, or exactly who the voice was, and so he directed his next line of questioning to the pristine tiles above his head. “Where am I?”

“You are in MediBay—”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that one out already. I meant where am I? What is this place?”

The Voice did not reply. For a brief moment, the only sound echoing through the room was the machine to his left.

Alan rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”

[gumnut-logic]

Incidental

Sparked by this prompt, this is for all the Scotty whump fans. A random ficlet giving our eldest boi a hard time...but then John spoke up. Johnny has a lot to say today :D

Many thanks to the amazing @onereyofstarlight for reading through and discussing this insanity.

I hope it makes sense. I may have hit him on the head one too many times. Also language warning, Johnny gets potty mouth. His brothers really are going to be his downfall.

-o-o-o-

There was smoke.

It was everywhere.

But other than that, there was silence.

No, not silence. Someone was talking.

In his ear.

Calling a name.

His name?

“Scott! Virgil is on his way. Sit down and stop moving!”

What?

He turned slowly and the world turned with him. Somewhere in his midriff, something complained and he clutched his hand to his belly as if to hold it in.

But he didn’t stop turning.

Or did he? The world certainly didn’t, parading smoke blasted landscape around and around him.

“Scott please!”

John.

The voice was John. A beloved space brother ever watching over them, keeping them safe. “I love you, Johnny.” His voice was little more than a rasp.

“Scott.” His brother’s voice was ever so soft, caring and strong. “Please sit down. Virgil is coming as fast as he can.”

Virgil? Fast? Scott snickered and that something in his middle complained again.

He groaned.

But he clung to the amusing thought of his biggest little brother doing anything fast. Virgil never did anything without thought and planning. That was his job. That was him. Reliable, strong, and always there.

But not now.

Scott tried to turn but his head decided to join his belly in complaining.

Where the hell was he?

Smoke drifted past in grey shadows. It obscured the sun.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, his military training kicked in. It was like a switch being flicked, changing the world around him.

Smoke meant fire.

Or detonation.

Or collision.

He took a few steps forward, one hand swiping at the tendrils of smoke floating past, trying to swipe them away.

They danced more, but mostly ignored him.

So he had to walk further.

“Scott, please.” There was a pleading emotion in his brother’s voice, a desperation.

“I’m okay, John. Don’t worry.” It was automatic.

There was a curse in a language Scott had no hope of recognising. But he didn’t have any time to consider it as the words that followed were clearly in English.

“Fuck! He’s still alive. Scott, move!”

Scott blinked, confused. “John?”

“Threat at two o’clock, Commander. Move!”

No thought, just response. Scott threw himself to his left and rolled across the dirt to end up in some dry grass he hadn’t seen.

“Tracy! I know you’re here! I don’t die that easy. You’ve gone soft.”

That voice.

Cold seeped into his veins.

That voice.

“Come on, Tracy, you have to have more than that. You have all that tech and that’s all you can do?”

Do? What had he done?

He fought his foggy head. There had been a callout. Virgil had been painting something.

Something.

Something for Grandma.

So Scott had taken the call.

To his left an engine engaged and something moved in the smoke.

That voice yelled, panicked even.

And was suddenly cut off.

There was a hiss in his ear.

“John?”

“It’s okay, Scott. Threat neutralised.” An indrawn breath. “Virgil is on approach. Stay where you are.”

And he could suddenly hear his brother’s ‘bird. The smoke parted, the fire of VTOL and green cahelium took over from the grey. Reassurance welled inside.

Scott pushed himself to his feet as he stared up at Thunderbird Two, dropping to a smooth landing not far off.

John cursed in his ear. “For the love of-“

Scott ignored him.

Because the smoke had cleared to reveal…

A man lay limp in the grip of a pod, one of its big grippers, used for moving heavy objects. A gun lay discarded on the ground. The remains of a building, the obvious source of the smoke, lay beyond.

But the man…

“Scott!” This time it was Virgil’s deep voice in his ear. “For the love of god, sit down!” Out of the corner of his eye he could see his uniformed brother running towards him across the scarred landscape.

But the man…

Bereznik. The bastard had lured him here. He stared at the scarred face. Lured him. Or his brothers. It could have been Virgil answering the call.

It usually would have been.

But Scott took it instead.

The chances?

Fired burned in his belly, an anger, a hate. This man haunted his dreams, tortured him in his sleep.

Now here was here.

A hand landed on Scott’s arm.

No!

He struck out, pushing the hand away, stepping back from the face, the scar that…

“Scott!” Another face suddenly blocked out everything. Virgil, his hair askew, his eyes desperate brown, his heavy lifting hands gripping Scott’s shoulders and moving him gently. “Sit down. You are injured.”

Those eyes fixated on his. They wouldn’t let him look away.

“Virgil?”

“I’m here. You’re safe.”

Familiar words. Words that often followed his nightmares.

“Virgil-“ But his head was caught between dream and reality, protect and defend. “He can’t have you.” He struggled in a breath. “He can’t.”

The hands on his shoulders gently squeezed. “He won’t. I promise.”

Brown eyes, ever so faithful.

“Virg-…I…” Words were too hard.

Strong arms were suddenly holding him and gently lowering him to the ground. “I’ve got you, big brother.” A breath in his ear. “I’ve got you.”

The ground was softer than he remembered. Virgil immediately started muttering medical words to their brother in the sky. The medic poked and prodded Scott’s belly, lighting fires that took away thought.

A sting in his thigh and he was floating away.

He was consumed by the roar of his brother’s ‘bird.

-o-o-o-

He was woken by soft snoring.

A blink or two and he discovered white sheets and a mop of dark hair.

Virgil.

His brother’s name sparked a sudden fear, a need to protect. He-

A strong but gentle hand held his shoulder down on the bed and Scott turned his head to find John sitting on his other side. “Keep quiet. He’s been up at least thirty-six hours. He’s as stubborn as you.”

“Wha-?” Scott swallowed. “Situation report.”

Did John roll his eyes?

“You are in hospital. They had to remove a bullet out of your intestines.”

Scott blinked.

“Virgil?”

“Virgil is as much an idiot as you.” John relaxed back a moment letting out a breath. “He’s fine. Evacuated you, been fretting ever since.”

Scott looked over at the mop of dark hair. Virgil was still in his uniform, though his baldric and harness were draped over a chair on the other side of the room. A breath. “Situation report.”

Another sigh. “The GDF have secured the site. Lady Penelope is negotiating the retrieval of our pod. Thunderbird One is back in her hangar, safe and sound.”

Scott blinked again. His ‘bird? An image of smoke clearing and her silver hull gleaming in the dull light. Something settled inside of him. She was safe.

His family was safe.

But…

“What about-“

“Colonel De Falco is dead.”

The name etched itself into his chest. “John-“

John’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” His brother reached out and rested a hand quietly on Scott’s shoulder.

“How?” He fought his foggy memory. An explosion. The realisation. The anger.

The fear.

But Scott was a different man now. De Falco didn’t know who he was up against.

They had fought. There had been a gun, but Scott had subdued him.

Subdued him.

The pain in his belly.

The threat.

“It was you.”

Aquamarine blinked at him, calm and controlled. “He wanted you. I couldn’t let him.”

“You killed him.” His throat hurt.

John shrugged. “Incidental. There was no choice.” His brother held his gaze, unrepentant.

Scott swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, big brother.” John’s expression softened a moment, looking away, before frowning just a little and turning back to him. “Just…” Those eyes flickered to Virgil and back. “Just rest, okay?”

Scott stared at him. “Okay.”

His space brother wilted a little, tense muscles relaxing where he sat.

“Thank you.”

-o-o-o-