An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
YIPPEEEEEE I finally managed to keep going, and this one was fun!! Featuring at least 5 references to TAG continuity (play spot the reference) plus a fun throwback to TOS because I was simply on a roll. I know that the Tracy's, especially Scott, are supposed to all be mad tall but idk it just makes them a little more real and interesting and more human (and it's also funny to write John and Scott be like that @astranite) :) I love dropping cryptic hints into chapters that you won't find out about until later chapters (don't worry Gordon's time will come I love him too much to just leave his story unwritten). This chapter took longer than usual so I hope its worth it! previous here
The convoluted dynamics between the Mechanic and Scott keeps fascinating me, as they're antagonistic/contrasting characters, but also mirrors. This is a bit of a darker spin on the issues that drive them and inform mutual (explosive) reactions. I left the ending open to interpretation (hopefully!). Maybe there's hope for a road to a working relationship. Maybe there's more than one. Maybe it's a dead-end, or a clean slate.
Many thanks to @janetm74, as always, for bearing with the twilight of my mind.
CW: mention of implied past assault and mental torture. Nothing graphic.
MEANINGS
The way that day started, he would never have guessed how it would end. Yet there he was. There they were.
The morning met a round up of a grueling overnight rescue. For the first time since the neurolink to the Hood had been severed, they tried out several of his customized mechas on a rescue for difficult to reach places. The Illustrious Commander was, of course, vocally against the field test. Or granting him any more access to their systems beyond what was necessary for the T-drive. No surprise there. But Brains was excited, and with a helfty support from the orbit, the Commander was outvoted and outgunned. In the end, the rescue nearly cost the Commander's life anyway, when the idiot ventured further beyond where his mechas would go. Beyond what was prudent, humanly possible, or sane. The Mechanic had long got his own suspicions, but that night - he saw red.
Technically, it was the next morning, when he stormed the locker room showers in the hangars. Thunderbird One was the last one back to the island, held back on site by reporting to the local authorities. Or maybe delaying the inevitable. He suspected the other Tracies were giving their Intrepid Leader a wider berth before the debrief. The Mechanic had no such qualms.
He yanked the stall door so hard - the hinges keened. Paying no heed to the scalding water blasting from the showertop, he slammed the younger man face first against the wall, an effective chokehold immobilizing his any attempt to wrestle free or fight back. The Mechanic saw Scott spar with Kayo or with his brothers in the island gym, on occasion. More often he would pummel the equipment, working through whatever demons haunted him. The Mechanic was certain he was at least one of those. Scott was good in a scrap. Very good. But with at least five inches and fifty pounds on him, Scott was currently no match to the Mechanic's FURY. He was so angry his voice went hoarse:
"Listen up! You wanna get yourself killed - that's between you and whatever the heck you believe in. But don't you DARE use me as a TOOL to punish yourself EVER AGAIN! I won't be your flagelation puppet! You pull another stint like that - you can build your own damn T-drive!"
He was panting, the blinding ire had winded him. It took a moment to realize Scott wasn't struggling against his firm grip. In fact, the man was completely still, each muscle and sinue stiff, thrumming with tension like a live wire. Frozen. He was expecting a lashing out. A showdown. He'd have welcomed it, in fact. The tension building for weeks from the very bowels of the dormant volcano got him antsy. He was ready to erupt. And so was the Tracy Commander. But from the vantage point of his height the Mechanic could see blue eyes squeeze shut. The hiss came out stifled, like Scott's airways were closing up:
"Go ahead... Get it over with..."
Only then it occurred to the Mechanic how dubious the situation was. The realization rippled a chill through his veins, despite the heat of the running shower, rapping over his back. He looked up Scott Tracy's GDF file way back in the Hood's thrall. The classified parts and the ones Tracy Sr. made sure were stricken from the record altogether. The Mechanic knew firsthand what it felt like to have no control over one's own body. Over one's own mind. And now he was nearly perpetrating the same brand of violence. Or so Scott's triggered instincts read into his intent. His hands let go of the other man's body almost automatically and took a step back. Horrified. Through the fog of the scalding water he could see the rigid body start shaking, leaning against the wall. That particular clash was far from over, he understood as much. But they didn't exactly do apologies, so without another word he stalked out.
***
He expected nothing less than a throw of hands when Scott Tracy next showed up in his workshop. Technically, it was a portion of Hiram's labs, allocated to him, complete with sleeping quarters and even a bathroom of his own. He WAS cordially offered guest rooms on the upper levels of the villa, but he knew better than to accept. His current status didn't bode well with broad daylight out in the open. Besides, he preferred not to stray far away from the T-drive specs and test simulations. In case inspiration struck at odd hours, which it frequently did.
Surprisingly enough, Scott Tracy was not seeking a fight. Or immediate termination of his arrangement. Or a lawsuit for aggravated assault. Which would be a moot point anyway, since the Mechanic was technically a fugitive. His jailer, Rigby, definitely reported he didn't exactly comply to being released into the Tracies' custody before the Hex exploded.
He wasn't quite sure either if Scott Tracy was seeking oblivion or offering a truce, when he stepped into the workshop at a small enough hour of the night, brandishing a bottle of scotch. The Mechanic wasn't a conossieur of top shelf alcohol, but he knew enough to recognize the Macallan 1926 single malt that could easily pay for most of Zero-XL deep space supplies. It took several minutes of comically shuffling among the battery of cups, amassed through long hours of agonising over failed T-drive tests, but they finally poured two fingers each. They were drinking a century and a half old scotch out of chipped, coffee-stained novelty mugs. In complete silence. The Mechanic didn't feel like pursuing a fight after the incident in the showers. Or a more recent one, in the hangars. He gave Scott the space to speak first. Or not. A flash of blue finally turned to him.
"I'm sorry."
That was new. Apparently, they WERE doing apologies. But the Mechanic needed a bit more context to go on, so he took another sip in carefully crafted quiet.
"I'm sorry I made you feel like a tool. Again. I didn't think... it would hurt you thus."
Hurt was a word he didn't expect. But couldn't but appreciate. Hurt rarely featured in any conversation around his previous gig as Hood's henchman, if it were not the hurt he inflicted. There was definitely no shortage of the latter. He raised the cup in acknowledgement and the tension in the blue eyes eased up a faint bit. He took an extra minute to consider his own words.
"I'm sorry for lashing out. You scared me."
Maybe it was the second helping of scotch talking. He was almost befuddled to pinpoint the truth of it. His inventions had never been heretofore used to save. Only to destroy. And on the first try they failed. He could hardly ever imagine regretting not saving Scott Tracy, of all people, yet there they were.
A mirthless bark of a laugh broke through his impromptu reverie.
"You're new here. You'll get used to it!"
Maybe it was scotch talking too. Maybe Scott Tracy was so accustomed to his own self-destruction mode, he didn't see the points of no return anymore. Didn't see the point anymore. The Mechanic could certainly drink to that. But his newfound freedom, newfound lease on life, and with it - newfound PURPOSE, made him hyperaware of such all too familiar mindset. He wasn't Scott Tracy's sibling, or friend, or mentor. He wouldn't roll over and let the man martyr himself on the altar of his perceived failures. Several days ago he probably wouldn't believe himself ever thinking that. Definitely the scotch talking. Yet there they were.
***
They could certainly attribute the rest of the night to the rest of the scotch. It didn't come to words between them beyond that, but it did come to a showdown. His split and swollen lip and a bruise blooming on the edge of Scott's jaw would tell a story, come dawn. Definitely scotch talking.
The eruption was inevitable, as they probably both knew - tension cackling in the space between resentment and recognition. Speaking of live wires. He maybe should have been aware Scott was still chasing retribution for himself. He might have been aware he was still on a mission to reclaim control by all means. For a brief, cathartic while it didn't matter. So there they were. Back to square one.
The air was expelled from his lungs as he hit the dirt.
âOw,â he mumbled as he rubbed his sore side and pushed himself up. âNo fair.â
âLife isnât fair, Gordon.â
Prompt Used: Set Up For Failure
Gordon avoided the swing that came his way, and he pushed the wooden sword aside with his own. He jabbed forward, but his own stab was blocked.
He took a step back to regroup. His eyes searched for an opening, and when he saw one, he swung again.
The lunge was obstructed by a mighty hit from the other sword. His weapon was ripped from his hands as the wood of both weapons banged loudly. Gordon watched it fly off, panicked now that he had no weapon to defend himself.
John was near the stern, looking out to sea. He had enjoyed looking at all the planes on board as well as the ships sailing by - business and pleasure, but this too was a sight to see. Especially as he had grown just a smidge annoyed of hearing Scott talk about the T-34 Mentor to the Scouts, so he had a bit of peace to enjoy it.
John was amazed at how the light and clear blue sky would reflect off the Gulf of Mexico, turning the normally brownish waters the same beautiful color. Out in the distance, some offshore oil rigs still dotted the distance. While biofuels and renewable sources were finally being produced with an even lower waste footprint, there still was the need for some oil products.
He was feeling a bit tired and warm from the sun as he leaned over the side to look at what appeared to be a pod of dolphins swimming by... or were they those blue men-of-war that Gordon said don't touch?
There were others sounds, but they seemed distant and blurred.
John watched the pod seem to double and triple in size, confusing him.
Then his head started feeling light.
"Oh no." He thought vaguely, as a few moments later as he hit the rail at his waist.
The pilot gave a faint yelp as he tilted over, the vertigo getting worse as he saw thick netting and a more angry water churning by the hull.
His vision started to swim as he kept moving forward. He tried to grab the rail, but caught air instead...
A pair of rough hands grab his baldric and pulled back. John stumbled from the course correction and fell back, still feeling as though the world was going down a drain...
The same hands cradled him under the arms now as he was then set on the ground. The person was propping him up against their legs and chest.
There were running sounds on the deck toward them, but they sounded about the same as the waves - ocean or his ears John wasnât sure.
The person holding him had a hand on his jaw, trying to get him to look at them. He could see someone, even though the image was slightly blurry as grey edges flickered in his blind spots. John just couldn't speak.
There were more muddled sounds nearby, vocalizing a sound similar to a distant flock of seagulls. That was until louder bass timber - a voice John reminded himself - shooed them away.
The same voice then tried again to get John to speak. He tried this time, but all that came out was a soft moan.
John then felt the other person's hand run through his hair, who also assured him he was all right. Between the hand and then a light kiss on the top of his head, John realized he was indeed conscious and being held by a brother. Otherwise, he'd be stretched out on the deck - and admittedly the kiss would be a little odd.
Then the same gentle hand was at his throat, checking his pulse.
"John - can you hear me now?" said Virgil as he leaned into John's view, gently lifting his chin again to check the redhead's eye reaction.
a really key part of any healthy relationships is nonsexual biting. itâs really important to just bite each other sometimes. it will keep your relationship alive biting is the stuff love is made of
TAG timelines are so confusing, because I want the boys to have time to have done all the things in their usual fanon backstories (NASA, USAF, Olympics, hydrofoil crash) plus (all but Alan) having had some experience running IR with their Father, but their ages are out of whack with the fact Jeff disappeared 8 years ago by the time of the show.
That (roughly) puts Alan at 18-8 = 9 (at the oldest: no wonder he barely remembers Jeff), Gordon 22-8 = 14, Virg 25-8 = 17 John 27-8 = 19, Scott 30-8 = 22 when Jeff vanished, which are all pretty young so... does that mean the boys made International Rescue on their own? Maybe in his memory, not their Mother's. Only, there was clearly some sort of IR was running at the time, as Jeff is in uniform for eight years straight and he knows about the Thunderbirds and isn't surprised by his boys piloting them??
Maybe it was the older three with Gordon in training, but still, unless they're older (and there's a bigger gap until Alan which doesn't really sit right as an idea), that's pretty young.
If any of y'all have thoughts on this I'd love to hear them.
I wrote a HUGE timeline for my fic that runs over 5000 words and starts at Jeffâs birth all the way to the day heâs rescued, it matches the TAG timeline fairly accurately so if your interested I can type up an abridged version! It allows the boys to be in IR with Jeff at fairly reasonable ages :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
We continue with a rather long chapter so it's just on ao3 :) Also yes just ignore that the previous is written as number 14 on tumblr haha whoops... it was starting to annoy me that it didn't match up with the ao3 chapter number so yes, this follows directly after the chapter and the clock strikes thirteen. I didn't miss a chapter I Promise. Previous here. pls enjoy Scott being even more sad this time as a 17 year old with too many feelings (because isn't that what being 17 is).
A humble gift for @astranite because we've spoken about this a lot and they know I have way too many feelings about it SO I HOPE YOU ENJOY A HUMBLE OFFERING!!!! I probably should have written this in June for Thunder-pride but life AND time escapes me. No names or characters are mentioned but @astranite you'll know what this is, and it's pretty encoded in the subtext.
This is just a world I like to explore, totally cool if it's not your thing!!! (i.e. feat a trans main character and describes dysphoria, so read at your own discretion). Feel free to skip this one, I'm writing many other cool things that may appeal instead :)
Sheâs got four now. Thereâs a healthy gap of years between them all, equidistantly spaced and planned and loved and adored by the same adults that gave her a new crown. She knows what itâs like to have a brother, but of course, thatâs not what she said â sometimes she watches the two eldest play together, and wonders just what it might be like to grasp something like that in her hands. It never used to matter, because they were just children. And suddenly she finds herself in a new hierarchy, one where sheâs definitely different, and it starts to eat up her soul.
She wonders what itâs like to have a sister.
She doesnât have any. The dolls her grandmother bought for her 13th birthday are hers alone, sitting tidy and dressed and safe up on a shelf away from the sticky hands of curious children. She brushes their hair just like her mother brushes her own, delicately bringing one finger under another as she separates their silicone locks into tiny braids. Sheâs been told these are old, and she has to treat them well, as the new woman of the family. Itâs a new title, recently bestowed, and sheâs still not quite sure what to make of it. Words are nothing more than words, after all â her grandmother has an odd, knowledgeable way with them, but thereâs far more interesting things for a thirteen-year-old to do than ponder on the intricacies of the things adults speak and mean.
Her mother dies.
The crown is heavy now. It weighs down her head, and sheâs tired, so tired. The games and the playing disappears for a while â thereâs no time to think about the bond between siblings when the only thing theyâre currently sharing is a palpable grief and darkness that seems to have crept between all the spaces in the walls. Her grandmother strokes her hair. Just like your mother, she says. Her father canât look her in the eye anymore.
She stopped wearing dresses three months ago.
She tries one on at sixteen. And it looks awful. Her father, who still avoids her gaze, says she looks nice and that the boy sheâs dating will love it. The boy sheâs dating is seventeen and pretty, blond and beachy, and sheâs got bruising deep shadows under her eyes that his brightness just illuminates. She couldnât put to words what she likes about him â sheâs not even sure thereâs anything quantifiable, but thereâs a small thrill in her heart every time she realizes one of his shirts fits her just the same. And then she realizes that it doesnât fit her in one, crucial way, and she sobs until she can barely breathe.
He breaks up with her soon.
By the time she leaves highschool, itâs her turn to start avoiding her brotherâs gaze. Sheâs taken to wearing her hair in a bun, and it makes her grandmother scoff, because sheâs tucked away those little golden ends that are the picture of her motherâs life. She still canât bring herself to cut it, even when sheâs a year into college and struggling to even look in the mirror. She wakes with thought of scissors, of razors and terrible boyfriends and a deep, unsettling, unnamable yearning, and gets on the bus in the rain with a hat on.
The military requires neat hair.
The bun stays and her temple strains at the conclusion of every exhausting day. She broke the mirror on the first day at her new accommodation and only just avoids getting stitches. She pulls at the skin on her neck and tries to sculpt it into a new shape. When she finally leaves the Airforce, she puts all her military photos and memorabilia in a shoe box under her childhood bed. She sits on the little mattress, the one she used to share with her brothers when they were sad, and sighs as it sinks slightly under her weight.
The day she cuts her hair for the first time, sheâs full of thoughts of her father.
When she looks in the mirror, it feels like sheâs breathing for the first time in her entire life â it was funny, because she could have sworn her lungs werenât bursting from exhaustion as a child. Her brother does it for her, young and happy, enthusiastic with a pair of clippers and with the raging audacity to believe heâs capable of anything he puts his mind to. He doesnât do a good job of the back and the top is still a little too long, swinging in her eyes, but she hugs him anyway because suddenly, it hurts just a little less to look in the mirror.
She has no idea whatâs happening, caught in a downwards spiral.
Her father acts like heâs mourning twice. Her grandmother asks if she kept the ends. She thinks about leaving, about ignoring all their calls and disappearing into the abyss where the other forgotten people go, but her brotherâs still got tiny slivers of hair embedded into his clothes and makes such a point of complimenting him that the lead in his heart is dislodged for a brief moment.
Heâs not sure when the voice in his head changed.
It makes her feel sick. Heâs not sure what to do, and clings to his fatherâs legacy the way an encrusted barnacle buries itself into the side of a ship. He does everything he tells him to do and ignores the lump in his throat when he tells her what an amazing woman she is.
His uniform is blue.
And then his lips are blue.
[
                                          breathe
                                                                                                    ]
Itâs his brother that saves his life, and his father that gives him a hug. The feeling on his chest makes him want to throw up all over again.
His father dies.
He loses himself all over again.
He finds himself all over again.
He canât believe how long he was floating. He doesnât have to wonder what its like to be in space â itâs a lived reality, what feels like a lifetime ago, and even that didnât feel as helpless and uncontrollable as the crash dive heâs found himself in, hurtling through the sky so fast itâs impossible to stop just long enough to cry.
He tells his brother at 8.47pm, over a shared cigarette.
Itâs strange, in ways. He tells him about the dolls in the bottom on the cupboard, the photographs he canât look at, and the name that he canât bring himself to let fall from his lips anymore. He talks about boys and girls and everything in between and his brother just laughs and says that he better find himself a real barber.
He leaves a rose on the twin graves of his parents.
He hopes sheâd be proud. Heâs been piloting the body of a dead girl for a while â heâs even caught himself staring at her grave and thinking about how lucky she was to be alive.
One day, he finds himself face to face with the man heâs tried to be for his entire life.
And then, he can finally answer his first question.
Happy Birthday Virgil đ I didnât get you a present but I finally got you and your brother back on the path to Best Brodom. Just, um, bear in mind itâs just the start of the journey and maybe donât read the last paragraph until tomorrow?
I hope this is ok, I have agonised because this chapter contains Virg headcanon that is dear to me and I just hope I did it (and his inner voice) justice. Itâs probably too long but⊠well⊠here it is. Thanks to @sofasurf and @astranite for the encouragement / chivvying / poking with stick to just get this done and out there.
Resurface 31 - Review
Story so far
They had to start somewhere⊠literally at the top is as good a place as any, right?
Scott blushed and his hand returned to his forehead, as if to hide the evidence.
âUh, yeah⊠thought I might give it a goâŠâ he cleared his throat awkwardly âI couldnât find exactly the right colour it was kind of hard to tell on the website⊠who knew there were so many types of brown, huh?â He paused and grabbed a dishcloth to rub irritably at the gel residue on his fingers before glancing over at his brother. âI mean, obviously YOU would.â
Virgil narrowed his eyes. Scott wasnât kidding, the former greys were a much redder shade of brown than the rest and on close inspection looked a little⊠odd⊠but he wasnât about to make his brother even more self-conscious by pointing it out. He picked up his coffee with both hands and took a long sip to buy himself some time to work out what to say.
âYou donât approve?â The chuckle was more than a little forced.
âYou donât need my approval, Scott. Iâm just⊠surprised, I guess? Youâd always swore youâd never dye it. Didnât you say youâd earned every last one of them and had nothing to be ashamed of?â
His brother snatched up his own coffee and feigned a sudden interest in the view from the window.
âIs no big deal⊠you were bothered by it so I just sorted it out.â
âI was bothered by it?â
âUh, yeah. When⊠the other day when you were really⊠errâŠâ Scott cleared his throat â⊠upset, you said so and I figured maybe you were worried I was getting old or⊠or maybe I was looking too much like⊠uh, wellâŠâ
âI complained⊠about your hair?â Virgil was baffled. The silver streaks were the subject of much banter in the Tracy household but for a long while had been a part of who Scott was. While in theory Virgil might have said almost anything in his state of confusion, he had still been himself even while his perception of the world around him had been faulty. He just couldnât imagine being negative about a feature heâd always felt rather affectionately for.
âWell, not in so many words butâŠâ
âCan you remember my exact words?â Virgil knew full well that if Scott had been worrying about this enough to break his avowed hair dye abstention heâd have gone over what had been said again and again and again. And then probably again just for good measure. Sure enough, the response was immediate:
âYou said you didnât want me to be grey. And then you literally begged me not to go grey. So I decided not to. Itâs not a big deal.â
Virgil closed his eyes.
Ah.
Sometimes it would be handy to see the world in the simpler, more solid way other people did, as if everything was a hollow photograph existing in straightforward three-dimensional space. Heâd never choose to live life without the full range of his sensory experiences and feelings overlaid in glorious technicolour⊠but he learned very quickly other people, even artists, did not see the same and thus he tended to avoid any accidental references to it.
Obviously he was less careful when he was out of his mind.
He suppressed the sigh and took a measured breath.
Virgil opened his eyes to see his brother had already drained his coffee and was almost vibrating with the effort of maintaining his fake casual stance leaning on the kitchen island. Heâd have expected pacing by now except that this was his big brotherâs way of showing that not only did he want to hear his brother out, he wanted to reassure Virgil he was, definitely, listening.
He grabbed Scottâs hand which was discharging some of the discomfort via quiet but incessant tapping on the work-surface and interlaced their fingers. The relentless movement continued more softly and for a moment Virgil allowed himself time to notice the vibrations travelling through his knuckles and up his arm and for his mind to quietly acknowledge the subtle shift in rhythm from need-to-explode to need-to-connect. He mirrored it back and Scott squeezed his fingers in response.
âLetâs walk for a bit?â
Virgil knew it was the right call even before the relief flooded Scottâs face and he made a beeline for the door.
They made their way down on to the deck and then up the stone staircase via the roundhouse and took the path towards the caldera.
âI didnât mean your hair, Scooter.â
âYou didnât?â
âNo, I donât think so. I reckon I can explain but youâll need to give me a minute and try not to be too⊠literal about it?â
âI can do that.â
âRight.â The path narrowed and demanded single file. Virgil gestured for Scott to lead the way and smiled wryly to himself as the steep incline accentuated the slight height difference between them to the extent that his current view of his brother was very much the waist region. Nevertheless, he could see from the slightly uneven movement of his hips that the leggier man was moderating his stride so as not to get too far ahead to hear.
Ha, he was so familiar with his brotherâs body language he could even read hisâŠ
âSoâŠ?â
Oops.
âSorry, got lost in my own head there.â
âItâs not a problem.â Scottâs hurried response betrayed his even-worse-than-usual anxiety for a brother and Virgil really needed to fix that asap. But first he needed to sort out the immediate confusion.
âOk⊠you know I see a lot more things in colour than most people do?â
âTwo makes forest green noise and One makes gold and light blue.â Scott immediately confirmed and Virgil experienced a little rush of warmth at the thought his big brother had felt the detail important enough to commit to memory.
âYeah! Yeah, thatâs the kind of thing. Well it isnât just sound itâs⊠everything? Smell, taste, heat⊠and err⊠kind of⊠mood? Not exactly mood⊠um... The way people are? Their personalities, almost?â Virgil faltered a little, desperately searching for better words to form a neat box around the web of overlapping sensations in his head, but it felt much like the time heâd tried to explain to Alan why magenta made his teeth fizz. Some things just⊠were. Maybe if he tried to tie it to something easier to pin down:
âOk, maybe the best way I can explain is - you know it was me that picked the colours of the birds? Well, One, Two and Four anywayâŠâ
âI didnât!â Scott was evidently curious âI never thought to wonder who did.â
âWell, it was me. Mostly. Well a bit. Brains was going to have them all in silver and I suggested that some form of colour coding might be a plan, for easier recognition compared with other organisationsâ ships and machinery and bright colours are a more friendly sight for scared rescuees, you know?â Virgil paused to use his breath to navigate a particularly steep part of the track. Scott, possibly misinterpreting the pause for uncertainty sent encouragement over his shoulder: âMakes sense to me. Our public face needs to be unthreatening.â
âYeah, exactly and in that time just after the⊠um, well it needed to be clear they werenât military shipsâŠâ there was a grunt of agreement from in front. âIt took a while to decide which would be which colour. For Three Dad picked red because in little Allieâs mind rockets were always red and it was his way of reaching out to the little guy I guess. But itâs not right really, Alan is light blues and bright purple. And of course One should have been primarily Cerulean to contrast with the Maya Blue but he wanted silver to represent speed and so⊠we had to compromise on her design but I did win with Four because he thought she should be orange, like a life buoy, you know? But I said no - Gordonâs bird couldnât possibly be anything other than sunshine yellow. John picked his own so I didnât get involved there butâŠâ
âVirg, youâre losing me a little. Alan is⊠blue and purple?â
âLight blue. Bright purple. When heâs cheerful, yes. He gets steely blue when heâs angry same as you.â
âSo we all have a colour?â
âYeah. Well, a palette of them. Kind of. Itâs⊠Iâm sorry itâs the best way I have of describing the presence you have. Words can be a bit limiting sometimes.â
âMaybe you should try painting it?â Scottâs voice lifted a little and he was looking at him intently. âIâd like to see us the way you do.â
They had finally reached the top of the volcano and stood together admiring the view to the east. A vigorous breeze, sharpened by the bright metallic tang of salt, dried the moisture from Virgilâs lips and he pressed them together with a doubtful hum.
âIâve tried before and it didnât reallyâŠâ the glimmer of eagerness dulled and Virgil hurriedly sought to breathe life back into it âbut I guess I could give it another go?â
His big brother smiled and lit up again for a moment before the cloud crossed back over his face and his eyes dropped from Virgilâs.
âAnd Iâm⊠grey, then?â
âNo! Not usually! Youâve always been blue, like the sky⊠there are so many shades of it, with hints of yellow or goldâŠâ
âThereâs a but coming, I can feel it.â
Virgil grabbed Scottâs hand again as if to reassure himself his brother wouldnât float away before he managed to express this.
âSometimes itâs like you fade a little.â
âI fade?â
âYou try to be a lot of things, Scotty and itâs admirable, it really is, and you do it so well but sometimes I worry there isnât enough of you left to be you.â
âMe?â
âYes, you. Youâre blue when you laugh at your own jokes, or smotherhen us and make a leaning tower of pancake⊠when you beat Gordy at his own prank game or act all melodramatic when youâre smuggling in the sweets Grandma doesnât approve of. When someone says pie and your eyes gleam and when you randomly recite Shakespeare inaccurately and out of context or run up the stairs for no reason and surprise hug Allie⊠those times youâre a rainbow of blues. In the field when youâre problem solving at the speed of light and oh! That time you flew Shadow just for fun you came back shining so brightlyâŠâ
Yet again at the mention of Shadow, Scott had startled but recovered quickly and deflected:
âMy Shakespeare is always in context.â
âSure it is, Scott. And itâs very YOU.â
A flicker of resolve hardened his brotherâs expression and Virgil was suddenly terrified as to how his clumsy explanation could have been interpreted by someone who was already chronically shackled to the âbrave faceâ impulseâŠ
âBut Scott, listen to me, this is important.â
He waited until his brother dropped his eyes from the horizon and met his own.
âIâm not saying itâs just when you are happy, you know? When youâre worried or angry or even sick or even⊠no, especially when you let yourself be vulnerable for one damn second, youâre you then too.â
âThenâŠâ Scott sagged a little and an edge of indigo desperation coloured his voice âI donât understand what the grey thing is meant to mean!â
âThe grey thing⊠I guess itâs how my brain interprets the way I sometimes miss you when you are right in front of me. When you get hidden by everything else you think you are supposed to be. You lead so naturally, you do it without even trying but sometimes⊠sometimes you put on that damn grey baldric and it smothers you.â
âBut the baldric is silver. My baldric is silver to match One!â
âIt used to be blue though. Blue to match you.â
âOh. And thatâs what is bothering you?â
âNo! No, Iâm not saying the baldric needs to change. You can have salmon pink or zebra stripes if you like - thatâs what I meant about not being too literal about this. I just⊠I wish you wouldnât feel like you had to act like someone else. Just⊠be you, you know?â
A slight squeeze of the hand said message received but Virgil knew it might take a while to process. An unspoken agreement saw them taking the shallower broader path down towards the shore.
âPlease donât say that thing about the baldrics to Gordon, you know heâll come up with something hideous.â
âHe really would. Itâd be burnt orange with pink polka dots within minutes.â
âI can just see it now.â Scott facepalmed melodramatically then ran his fingers into his hairline.
âSo you werenât worrying about the hair?â
âNo, Scott. I donât have any problem with your hair. Iâm sorry I confused you. I just want you to be happy and be yourself. Thatâs literally all I would have meant by it.â
âIâm trying, Virgil, I really am.â
âI know. Iâm proud of you.â
He really had been trying. Scottâs attempts to reconcile his past and present and figure out who he was again had actually been a source of real joy to Virgil. It had been so long coming.
Years of encouraging, nagging⊠in all honesty borderline-harassing his big brother to break out of his self-imposed exile from life, to take the opportunities to enjoy himself when they came⊠and finally, FINALLY there had been some movement. Previously there were deleted emails, invitation cards hidden in drawers⊠if it wasnât for Pennyâs sake or for the good of the business, Scott didnât see it as worthwhile. But this time, Scott had pinned the gilded rectangle of card to the noticeboard with a hurried circle around the date and a carefully inked question mark.
It was bitterly ironic that after all that time⊠even after actually standing over Scott with folded arms and while he messaged his friend to RSVP in the positive⊠when heâd nearly actually succeeded in nudging his brother into the light somehow as a result Virgil himself had run headlong into the dark. A cold, slimy tendril of fear crept into his heart and asked who on earth Virgil thought he would be if Scott didnât need him anymoreâŠ
He shook it off because it was ridiculous.
Not to mention selfish.
âScott, Iâm sorâŠ.â he began but his brother had not been party to the developing inner monologue and was still some way behind him, despite leading the way off the rocky track on to the beach.
âSo I can get rid of this?â He gesticulated irritably at his own forehead
âYES, Scooter.â
âThank heaven, I hate it. Will it wash out?â
âEventually. I have to top mine up every few washes.â
The affectionate shoulder nudge was brief but it heralded a return of the easy natural proximity heâd missed so badly. His brother was back by his side and Virgil realised with a shock that breathing was suddenly effortless again.
There were other things they needed to discuss, difficult things he knew were coming and no doubt even more difficult things he was still as yet unaware of. But for a few moments, Virgil was more than happy to enjoy the respite of their well-rehearsed haircare banter:
âThatâs not the dye itâs the secret ingredient. I told you, quit the super shiny addictionâŠ
âSUPREME shinyâŠâ
âPfft, you know itâs the same formula, youâre just paying for the fancier packaging.â
âNot true, itâs a far higher quality product.â
Virgil poked his brother in the side of the head âAnd yet by some miracle, chemically identical.â He made a show of wiping the tip of his finger off on Scottâs shirt while meeting the faux-glare dead on. His brotherâs eyebrows said outraged, the sparkle in the blue said bring-it-on. âDitch the dark side Scotty, leave the slimy stuff to the teenagers and join team pomade. More natural, less greasy. Best tip Dad ever gave me.â
His brotherâs flinch was fleeting but sent a shockwave through the narrow pocket of air between the two of them. Scottâs eyes slipped from his, the pocket widened and the warmth suddenly drained out of the sun.
âYears of encouraging, nagging⊠in all honesty borderline-harassing his big brother to break out of his self-imposed exile fromâ
Donât make me cry on this good day itâs Virgilâs birthday đ Scottâs so sweet trying to be considerate of Virgilâs feelings with the dye but OH VIRGIL seeing things in colour!! Thatâs a really cool concept and fits nicely with who he is. In the most odd way itâs borderline hilarious that Scott was like oh shit guys better dye my hair when he heard Virgilâs heartfelt plea⊠I love how he thinks so literal because my first thought was dont go grey as in skin donât go grey as in keep living for me ScottâŠ
Very nice to have a break from being so busy this week to read something wonderful đ«¶
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
back to our regular scheduled programming folks! Previous here. We've moved past Scott and now we're really diving into Virgil - there's only 5 chapters left of part 1 'set in 2055' now! After, for the 2nd half, we're going to make a big jump to post-2060 when they're all in IR. This story means so much to me and is something I've put a lot of thought, a LOT of backstory and complex history into. It's very exciting as a writer to finally start seeing all of this work come together, and being able to put little hints in these chapters about stuff coming soon...
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fourteen: and the clock strikes thirteen
February 2055
Itâs just before midnight, and Virgil and Scott are making fried rice.
It was supposed to be pasta. Virgil sometimes gets texts from his brother, lamenting about a lack of family made food in his immediate vicinity â and besides, heâs got all the ingredients. He canât let Scott down. Not after everything.
Virgilâs a vegetarian. He doesnât really even know why. He supposes itâs got something to do with a rampant advocacy movement at his university for animal rights, or maybe how annoying meat is to cook, or even the internalised shame that comes standard with growing up bigger than all of his siblings. It doesnât really matter either way.
Strictly, Virgilâs making fried rice. Scottâs never been a good cook, and besides, heâs nursing a particularly nasty hand cut and a large bandage, so Virgil kicks him out of the kitchen to go sit at his little round table. Heâs only got 2 chairs and they donât match, but thatâs besides the point. Virgil Tracy can make a good (average) fried rice.
He starts with a cup of rice. Basmati, but heâs not particularly fussy. Heâs not the kind of person who insists on brown rice, because he learnt young that restrictions tend to lead the prospective chef into the realm of a developing eating disorder. Virgilâs trying to get better, not worse. He wishes he had a rice cooker, but has a bad habit of eating microwave meals â cooking for one person is arguably one of the more irritating things about moving away from his family, and he fucking despises cleaning up. So, cook the rice in a big pot.
While the rice simmers away, Virgil chops up his vegetables of choice. John gifted him an alarmingly large cooking knife for his 19th birthday â for reasons only known to the psyche of his immediate older brother â but itâs proved useful in his quest to Fix Scott Tracy. Heâs chosen 4 carrots, the wonky ones, because having empathy for inanimate root vegetables leads a man to make poor choices at the grocery store. Celery too, instead of peas. Disgusting, but Scott likes it, so heâll cope.
Heâs put his pride aside for a moment and bought a packet of bacon. He fries that up with a boat load of oil. After cleaning the pan (heâs only got 1), he fries up some haphazardly chopped spring onion, which makes him want to cry for the third time in 24 hours.Â
Itâs all coming together. Scottâs gotten out a packet of cards while he waits, and is making an impressively tall card stack on the table. Heâs staring at it with such concentration, hands rock steady, and Virgilâs struck by the urge to take a picture to flick across to Gordon. Their brother has a poor attention span at the best of times, and to see him hyper fixated on such a small task is⊠hilarious.
He throws the vegetables into the spring onion pan, and goes about stirring them with his wooden spatula. Specifically, wooden, because heâs got a weird thing about plastic cooking utensils from the one time that Grandma managed to melt hers to the stovetop. He can still smell the rancid aroma of chemicals, and sometimes wonders if heâs lost a year or two off his lifespan. Virgil hates cooking carrot, because he can never find the balance between too crunchy and overwhelmingly soggy, but heâs trying his best for the wounded soldier thatâs sitting behind him.
Scottâs managed to get a triangular stack 6 cards high, and heâs attempting to add a 7th without sending it crashing to the ground.
Virgil takes a quick bite of the vegetables, and nods. Itâll be fine. Next, he carefully adds the rice to the slowly overflowing pan, and stirs it all around together. He can tell that Scott barely even remembers heâs cooking, from the fact that he hasnât made a gripe about the lack of sauces. Heâs getting to that. Virgil loves egg, and heâs a vegetarian, not vegan, so he cracks 5 into a well in his mixture, before beginning to beat the already solidifying mass.
âYou going alright there Scott?â
His brother just widens his eyes, and makes a very quiet shhhhhh. âNo words or itâll fall,â he whispers, raising a hand to add another 2 cards.
Now that the eggs are cooked, he stirs the mixture together, so itâs less of a homogenous affront to cooking. His bottle of soy is extremely difficult to open, the lid stuck with dried sauce from lazy cleanups, but he adds that plus some sesame sauce. In a divine fit of inspiration, he chops up a garlic clove, mashes it under his knife blade for good measure, and throws that in too. If heâs honest, he doesnât really know what itâs going to do, but he enjoys the sauce and garlic and onion and all the good smells floating around his kitchen. Itâs been a while since heâs even used the stovetop, and it feels good.
Stir and stir and stir. He takes another bite, this time of the whole thing. Its ridiculously oily and the carrot is a little bit undercooked, but it tastes like Kansas and the glass of ginger beer that his grandfather would let him have a little sip of when he was cooking. It smells like love and heâs stupidly proud when he dishes it up, adding all the cooked bacon to Scottâs plate, piled high. Heâs even gone and bought a bar of dark chocolate for after.
To be honest, he remembers being a bit better at this, a lifetime ago, but it hardly matters.
Scott is so concentrated on the task in front of him that Virgilâs almost sad to have to gently tap him on the shoulder. âDinner, Scott.â
Scott jumps, and swears a blue streak. His cards wobble, but stay standing. âVIRGIlL!â he seethes jokingly, sliding himself out of his chair. âIf you knock it over I will pack my bags and never come back.â It hits a little too close to home, and Scott looks down. âSorry.â
Virgil breaks the moment, unbothered. âI present, fried rice.â
Scottâs face lights up like their motherâs ancient, dingy Christmas tree. âHoly shitâŠâ he reaches out to take his plate, but Virgil pulls it back, throwing his head over to the balcony.
âI donât want ants and you donât want to use the table. Outside, please.â
Scottâs eyes have gone comically big and he obliges, practically skipping over to the sliding door to the outside. Virgilâs on the third level, high enough for wind to be a pleasant cool, so Scott manoeuvres himself down to sit on the floor with his good hand.
Virgilâs upstairs neighbours cultivate plants, so theyâve got a degree of privacy from the vines dangling down like a curtain. Scott leans against the railing as his brother places a steaming plate in the space in front of him.
âOh VirgâŠâ he stares at it. âMaybe I need to have breakdowns more often if this is the reward for it.â
âNah,â Virgilâs already started eating, his pronunciation slightly muffled. âJust ask dickhead.â
âWhen Iâm on Tracy Island with Dad and Lee, Iâm gonna be jetting here at least once a week for this.â
âAnd me?â
Scott shrugs, his shoulders melting as he starts to eat. âFoodâs number 1 but yeah, I suppose I can make time for you. Make me a pie and your place as Brother Number 1 is cemented for life.â
â⊠I think I can make that happen.â
âWait, deadass?â
âNot today âcause I donât have the right stuff but I can order one for you for tomorrow.â
âI-â Scott canât help but cut himself off, containing to shovel rice into his mouth. â-legiterally love you.â
They sit in amicable silence for a while. Scott is eyeing Virgilâs portion when he inevitably finishes his first, but old habits die hard and he refrains from stealing any. Virgil continues to eat, while Scott stands up gently, to lean over the railing. Scott cracks his neck on both sides, swiftly, before finally stretching to sit back down almost immediately after he got up. Heâs a ball of nervous energy, the kind that only comes after a moment of intense vulnerability, and he compromises by spinning the watch heâs wearing around his wrist, repeatedly.
It hits midnight.
Scottâs watch beeps once, crisp and quick. Dinner is finished, empty plates waiting stacked on the floor of Virgilâs balcony, and neither of them are quite sure what to say at the 12th hour.
âSo,â Virgil starts. The obligatory small talk is finished.
âSo,â Scott says back. When heâd finally stood up out of Virgilâs arms to wash his face, they hadnât exchanged any words. A mutual decision to have dinner before any more serious conversations delayed the inevitable.
âYou know I love you?â Virgil starts, gently.
âI know.â He means, and I do too, but Virgil doesnât need it said.
âItâll be okay.â Virgil trusts his brother, and now, he finally believes him.
Scott wants to reply with trademark optimism. He wants to say something about their ability to persist despite everything, despite what the world throws at them. But he canât quite bring himself. âHow did we do it, when we were kids?â
Virgilâs not sure. âI suppose we were young. You know how you can just bounce back from anything? And I used to always feel deeper than you did.â
Scott laughs, melancholy. âI suppose thatâs true.â
Itâs a difficult thing to phrase, and it takes Virgil a few tries to gather his words. And when he does, he almost reaches out to grab his brotherâs hand. âSo⊠what are you gonna do? Because I think you might need more help. When you walked through my door, I couldnât stop staring at the pain in your eyes. Every time you thought I wasnât looking I was trying to convince myself I was projecting.â
âIâm not sure,â he says. âI think I just want to be around for you. Both of us have this stupid habit of being alright when weâre focusing on each other.â
âClosed loop,â Virgil nods sadly. âYou gotta stop doing that.â Virgil is an honest man. Scott is not. The only time Virgil struggles with the truth is when heâs alone, at obscene times of the night and buried knee deep in feelings. Heâs fulfilled two of those qualities and it feels like heâs talking to himself anyway when he continues. âIâm not suddenly better but it feels like somethingâs lifted off my chest because youâve opened up. Iâm nothing without you being alright, and I truly feel like you will be. Is this your first time talking about it? Really talking about it?â
Scott nods his confirmation. âFirst time talking to one of you anyway. Itâs hard unloading shit onto a brother when youâve spent your whole life making sure they donât have to worry.â
âI never want you to feel like that again,â Virgil blinks back a tear. âI want us to be a team.â
Tell me you miss me. Tell me youâre proud of me.
âDid Dad ever tell you about when you were born?â Scott asks without missing a beat, and Virgil frowns.
âNo?â
âYou came out with the cord wrapped around your neck. You were blue and purple.â Scott was only four, and has infantile amnesia like every other adult, but considers the patchy memories and feelings some of his first. âIt was the worst day of our lives and even though I donât really remember it properly, I sometimes see the panic on Mumâs face when she was still exhausted from labour. You looked dead.â
Virgil didnât know this, and heâs not sure why itâs relevant. âJesus Christ.â
âDad doesnât like to talk about it because it was the scariest day of his life. You were so⊠limp. Bright fucking blue and so still and dead they thought theyâd lost you. I remember how Mum screamed.â Itâs a scream thatâs since been joined by many others, sounds that haunt his waking moments when heâs lost in the space between objects and the taunting emptiness of a blank wall. âIâll never forget it.â
âI never knew that.â Itâs just another thing to add to the list, a growing inventory of Scott Tracy and what made him the man he is.
âI only say that because I made myself a promise, years later, that I would sooner die than see you like that again. I will fight tooth and nail so youâre never unconscious and blue and dying in front of me. Iâll look after you.â Thereâs a part of Virgil that can sense a fall coming, and itâs only a matter of who will be the one to take the step. âWe are a team.â
âThank you.â Itâs the only thing that needs to be said. Scottâll make it through. And now heâs faced with the even more monumental task of facing himself.
âSo yeah. Itâs something Dadâs trying to get me to work on. Iâll be working with John and seemingly Gordy and Alan if theyâre still interested when theyâre older. It fucking sucks because Iâm going against every single instinct Iâve ever had in my life, that I have to look after you guys and all you have to do is stay safe. Suddenly Dad wants it to be a two-way street and itâs hard.â
Virgil feels like heâs just been punched in the guts. âIâm glad youâre trying with me.â It was only a couple of hours ago that Gordon told him to stop running. To finally face his big brother and release the thoughts, like opening the door on a thousand moths gathered and dying around an artificial light. But Scottâs not quite all there still, lost in a spiral of thoughts in his own mind, and doesnât think to ask.
Scott laughs gently and nudges him in the shoulder. Virgilâs noticed his turmoil, but all of a sudden, itâs everything and the only important thing in the world. His brother isnât asking the right questions and has fallen bizarrely silent, instead of poking every wound he can see with a stick and waiting until he uncovers the aggressor.
Itâs disconcerting â Scott Tracy isnât asking any questions at all. It hurts to admit that his biggest brother has changed, and he feels that familiar guilt settle in a pit in his stomach. It feels selfish and disgusting, expecting a grieving and traumatised man to ask, less even to care, about his own life, but he supposes that not all his thoughts had to be perfectly sensible and appealing to the rational of someone else who wasnât facing a private mental battle. Virgil Tracy did almost lose Scott in the same war that lost him his peace. Heâs allowed to mourn.
âGod I need a cigarette right around now.â Itâs 12.50pm, and thereâs a gentle breeze meandering through the city. Theyâve been sitting with their own thoughts for a while, absorbing the company, and a quiet has settled over the pair.
âYou smoke?â Virgil looks up, amused.
ââŠsometimes.â
Virgil laughs. âIs that why you stunk that time when you had to sneak back through the window after that high school graduation party in 48â? I thought it must have been, I donât know, like a barbeque smell or something. You just fucking reeked of smoke.â
âYou KNEW about that?â
âIâm not stupid Scott. You literally fell through the window, completely off your tits drunk. I watched you hurl your guts up with John standing at the door, making sure you didnât die. Youâre so lucky Dad wasnât home because I think the whole house must have heard the 1am thump.â
âOh my godâŠâ Scott plants his face down on the railing, the cool helping his burning forehead. âThatâs fucked because I donât remember either of you being there.â
âAsk him about it. Heâll remember. None of us had ever seen you drunk before. You were about to go to Yale for a math degree like the little nerd you were and you show up, completely fucked out of your mind.â
Scott laughs. âOh V, thereâs so much you donât know about what I did as a teenager⊠Grandma was such a dragon lady raising us that I HAD to rebel. She doesnât know to this day that I used to take the Cessna out alone when I was like, 12.â
âFlippidy flyboy alert.â
âDonât remind me,â Scott sticks his head back in his arms. âI was effortless good at math so I could just⊠fuck around, to be honest. Everybody loved me and I think it got to my head. I nicked Dadâs cigarettes and thought I was hot shit.â
âYou used to be such a rebel Scott, itâs funny looking at you now. Crewcut all American daddyâs boy who doesnât have a clue what the inside of a police station looks like. Stop being so serious, youâre gonna wake up a businessman with an imminent aneurism.â
âI never got arrested-â
âYou literally used to have a middle part Scott. You were so cool.â
Scott waves a hand. âDonât you start smoking or doing dumb shit like I did. Itâs dreadful for me, I know. I stopped when I was 19.â
âAre you now?â
âI did a bit in January, because it helps me to relax. But Iâve stopped again because I know itâs so bad for me. I just occasionally want one.â
Virgil puts on a mocking voice. âOh, Iâm not addicted I could stop any time.â
Scott nudges him again. âWanker. Anyway, at least I was cool as a teenager. What have you been doing? I was like⊠practically blackout every single night when I was 17.â
âI think the difference between you and I is that I actually give a shit about my liver.â
 âSâpose I lived on campus at Yale.â
âAnd I have a very different idea of what cool means. Itâs not drunk sex.â
âDamn,â Scott laughs. âThatâs probably valid. I made some extremely poor choices.â
âI donât have a secret nephew or niece out there, right? You werenât⊠that dumb?â
âOh god no Virgil. Never that stupid. I got it all out my system in my first year, dated that guy for my second year, and then calmed down in my third. I had a degree to get and it was starting to get in the way.â
â⊠guy?â
âIâve never told you?â Scott stares at him. âDid I seriously not?â
âI think Iâd remember something like that when I was closeted at 14 and terrified of Dad.â
âOh dude⊠same. When I told Dad, I had a whole speech prepared, about how I cared a lot about his opinion and I just wanted him to be happy for me. I told him, ready to defend myself, and he genuinely just stared at me for a minute, and goes, âhe better not be getting in the way of your degree.â Thatâs it. And then said he was happy for me and asked if I was bisexual. Our father even has all the lingo down.â
âWhat the FUCK Scott.â
âFunny, right? Sometimes I forget Dad is a 2009 kid, not some ancient all American homophobe. Youâve told him, right?â
âYeah, when I finished high school. I genuinely had no idea.â
âDamn. Is it the military? Iâve been growing my hair out since Christmas so I look a bit less Airforce now. Really kills your chances with women, having a fucking crew cut.â
Virgil scoffs. âI need to hear the full story one day.â
Scott raises an eyebrow slightly. âDonât remind me of it ever again. I am emotionally compromised and youâre not allowed to take advantage of that.â
âGod, note to self. Get Scott drunk on his emotions and Iâll hear many unfiltered thoughts.â
âYep. I like my brain matter stirred, not shaken.â
Virgil eyes him. âNow youâre really starting to sound drunk.â
It is a dark, warm night in February, and perhaps the clock has just hit 1am. But their world is irreversibly changed â nothing drastic and earthshattering, but thereâs a newfound concord in their relationship that theyâve been missing for years. He supposes that Gordonâs always been the one with an uncanny ability to sense trouble, to know when to send a well-placed inconsequential text message. Hey fucker Iâm thinking about you and I love you. Scottâs not the same, but neither is he, but it doesnât matter. Not really.
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
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
---
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.Â
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 Johnâs 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 didnât compare. Never could. It had been so damn long since he'd actually been physically in John's presence.Â
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.Â
"You ready to head home?" Scott said suddenly.Â
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: heâd 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.Â
"No."
The single word came out blunt anyway.
Scott tensed up. To leave without John⊠he couldnâtâ
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.Â
It was rare for John to be this thrown by anything. But then this wasnât an everyday situation, or rather it never shouldâve become one so ceaselessly.
âJay, whatâs going on?â
Scott didnât know how not to worry.
"No!â John shook his head frantically. âNo, 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 heâd 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.â
To leave without John⊠he couldnâtâ
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.Â
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.
 âSo therefore I canât go home,â 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 theyâd been messing about over the comms as each brother requested John do different voices and Jeff pretended to not hear.Â
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 hadnât thought. Grabbing him into a hug wouldnât work with John. Never had. Sometimes that meant Scott wasnât sure what to do.
âIâm sorry,â 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.Â
What he needed was Johnâs own quiet strength, to calm and care for and carry people through to hope on only his voice. Yet what he had was himself.
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.
This fic follows @janetm74 's Suffering In Silence which I love. So much. This is about the emotions and the hugs and coming home.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Also thank you to the amazing art and inspiration of @lenle-g !!!
---
Scott powered down Thunderbird Threeâs engines as he docked with Five and the clamps engaged, anchoring the two Thunderbirds together. John's voice was calm over the radio when he granted them permission to dock. It was so perfectly calm, without even a tremble to break the illusion that he had everything together, to the point it came out flat. Scott winced. Beneath it all John sounded completely exhausted.Â
Gordon had been quiet most of the flight but for terse navigational directions, focused to point of singularity on why they were here. Around them, the metal hull of the rocket ticked and snapped as it cooled, adjusting to the lack of engines firing as they were left floating in the cold, unforgiving, lonely void of space. Scott shuddered, averting his gaze from the viewports to the stars. Nope, give him his blue skies any day of the week.
He jiggled his foot beneath the dash in a rapid tempo, hand bouncing on his knee in time. The anger that had flared up at his father while defending John had fled, leaving him with only restless worry. It filled him to the brim where thoughts about their father and their discussion turned argument, about Alan, and most importantly in this moment of John intermixed with flight plans and overflowed into movement.
Gordon shifted in his seat, picking up on Scott's emotions, ever in tune with everyone else. His mission focus snapped as he twisted around in his seat.
Hey Scotty, are you gonna explode?" he burst out. "'Cause you seem like you're about to."
The tap tap tap of Scott's leg shaking sounded too loud in the rocket's cabin. He was probably driving Gordon mad with it like it did their father when Scott got impatient in a meeting. Scott pressed his foot to the floor, forcing himself to go still.Â
"Sorry Gordo, I'm all good," Scott muttered as the airlocks clunked together and begun to pressurise achingly slowly.
At least picking at the outer leg seam of his uniform with his fingers was less disruptive and obvious when he couldn't help the need to move.Â
Gordon rolled his eyes. "I didn't say you had to stop, I just want to know how you're going. Y'know with everything."
"So now you ask me about my day?" Scott snarked back as he resumed bouncing his leg.Â
He wouldn't say it was a relief Gordon didn't care, but it was. His brother was now mimicking his jittering but bigger and louder because this was Gordon he was talking about. He was probably also doing it to show Scott that it was okay.
"You seemed pretty wound up after your chat with dear old dad even by the time I came in,â Gordon said.
"How did youâ? I didn't tell you we spoke."
Gordon counted off on his fingers. "One, we're going to get John down from Five even though Alan has very conveniently extended his rota. Two, the back of your neck gets red when you're mad."
Scott rubbed at it self consciously. "No it doesn't."
"Ya, it does bro. How do think I get the message of when to steer clear with the pranking? It's the same with Virge but don't tell him I told you that."
Scott blinked in silence in light of Gordon's astute observations.
And three," Gordon continued, "You can't sit still anyway but it's like ten times worse when you're worried about a brother. That brother isn't Alan when he's tucked up snug as a bug in a rug in the sick room probably watching racing vids by now, it's John."
Scott put his head in his hands as Gordon gestured expansively. "Ergo, you and Dad fought because as usual he thought everything was peachy when John's been practically radio silent lately, so if it ain't broke no need to fix it. Plus you're pissed about the whole thing with Alan."
Gordon kept talking as Scott tried to process exactly how much his little brother picked up on because Gordonâs anxious tell was the inability to shut up.Â
"Bonus lucky number four, John's been in space far too long and it's getting to him, and damn it to all hell but Dad was wrong and I'm really glad we're here."
They both let out a long breath after that, looking to each other. The airlock safety dinged.
Scott leapt out of the pilot's chair as fast as he could, pausing only when Gordon didn't follow.
Brown eyes watched him, as soft and sharp as the tangle of contradictions that forged Gordon.Â
"Johnny will just want you. You're our big brother, he'll be a mess and you know he hates anyone seeing him like that. Heâll take it better from you."
Scott leant over the back of Gordon's chair to wrap him in a hug. "Thanks, Squid."
"Anytime. Now you bring our space-case home." That ridiculous nickname was said with all the affection in the world.
Scott saluted him, getting a casual two fingers flicked from a brow back as he pressed the door release.
The doors shifted open with their customary hiss-clunk, allowing Scott entry into Thunderbird Five. His brother's Thunderbird, just as clearly as One was his own. Maybe even more so when it came to it. It wasn't like Scott lived on his twenty-four seven without pause, even if after long rescue shifts sometimes he felt like he did.
John was waiting for him on the other side in his customary blue uniform and lilac baldric, looking smaller than Scott thought someone so tall and lanky could possibly make themselves. His arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. Hugging himself, Scott realised.
A step closer showed exactly how crumpled his clothes were, as if he'd pulled them off the laundry floor pile. Or slept in them. Or, if Scott was going to bet on it, spent a good amount of time crying his heart out while hiding in his bed, like Scott had found John too many times in their lives after he retreated. Their father would never allow anyone under his command and certainly not his sons to be seen with their uniforms in such disarray in any other circumstances.
Another couple of steps until he was standing right in John's space had him meeting his brother's over-bright eyes. It was impossible to miss how red and puffy the skin around them was. John glanced away down to their feet, blinking quickly.
His hair stuck out like a set of radio antennae, his fringe bent in no less than three different directions.
Scott had been right. Gordon had been right. John wasn't coping up here alone.Â
"Hey, John," Scott said softly.
"Scott."Â
Only now John's voice sounded utterly wrecked, like he had in fact spent the last hours sobbing.
Scott was ready to kick himself for not doing anything earlier. This would've kept on going, leaving John suffering in silence when he couldn't make himself say anything to their father for even longer, if Scott hadn't stepped in.Â
Twelve weeks. John had been stuck up here alone, no one to keep him company, the time stretching out longer and longer as Alan put off or cut short his own rota whenever he could get away with it. It was a pattern, going back far longer than this round.Â
Scott would've gone mad in about a day over his allotted month without room to run in the fresh air beneath the sky and more importantly, have his family by his side. John had had none of that for far longer.
This was why Scott didn't take rosters on Five very often without good reason. But if he was up here, he was damn well going to stick it out and do his job properly. He'd be having a long talk with Alan about taking responsibility for his own actions after he got John home and gave him a chance to settle before tempers blew up the house. The kid would take it hard being told that he'd hurt John, but this couldn't go on.
The reason why stood right in front of him.
John wobbled on his feet, rocking forward before hesitating as he reached out towards Scott.Â
"Â Oh, Jay," Scott murmured near silently, just between him and John.
Scott opened up his arms and John fell into them.Â
John didn't hug back; his arms remained pinned around himself, crossed protectively over his chest, but he leaned his body into Scott's before tucking his face into the crook of his big brother's neck.
Ever so carefully, Scott folded him close as John trembled.Â
His brother felt far too... Scott refused to use the word fragile, his John was as strong as the rest of them, no matter what anyone said, and yet he also wasnât the collected Thunderbird Five they usually knew. All Scott wanted to do was hold him, to keep the weight of the world off his brotherâs narrower shoulders and stand between him and the storm. Right now that was what John needed; it didnât make him any less of a Thunderbird though.
John would step out again from that shelter, quicker and cleverer than anyone or simply however John was in the moment, but that was his choice, not Scottâs to keep him. It was about whenever John felt ready to do so, Scott swore to himself: he would be there for as long as that took and be still there to come back to, yet when the time came heâd let go and cheer John on from the sidelines.
It had been the same with Gordon when after the accident the world had been screaming that he was fragile. In the early days Scott had been... overprotective too. He'd treated his brother like glass and stopped him from doing what he wanted to do out of fear, for his own sake, not Gordon's. They had a deal now: Gordon would tell him upfront what he could and couldn't do, and Scott would believe him. Heâd call dad out when he refused to listen to Gordon too, backing his brother up when he wanted it.
Even when hard rescues turned recoveries had Scott wondering why the hell he was letting any of his baby brothers do this, he'd never take away being a Thunderbird from Gordon against his will. Nor from John. Heâd fight the whole world kicking and screaming if it tried to, because being different didn't make any of his brothers broken.Â
He held John, a hand resting on the nape of his neck to gently tangle in soft, blonde hair while Johnâs uneven breaths were warm against Scottâs collar bone, where his eldest little brother hid his face.Â
Sometimes after nightmares Scott was left lying awake, staring at the blurry ceiling in the dark. The majority of his service held no happy memories; none of the promised glory was found in the senseless bloodshed of a violent conflict there had been no reason for but greed. When he was so shaken, so sick to the pit of his stomach that the tears heâd woken up with wet on his face flowed freely, Scott thought he wasn't as strong as Dad wanted them all to be either.
John was far too like him when you got down to it. So was Gordon. Alan was barely not a kid and still figuring out a lot of how things worked. He hadnât had the easiest time of it growing up without Mum holding his hand like she had been there for the rest of them, not matter how they all had tried to compensate for the youngest. Scott had tried, heâd stepped up as the man of the house even when Dad checked out. He hadnât known what to do with five motherless boys either.
Scottâs Virgil too had a sensitive artistâs soul, he always had. He was a bit of a hopeless romantic and an easy crier, but Scott couldnât truly tease him for it. Virgil made the choice over and over to continue to be soft and to be kind no matter how many times he was knocked to the ground. He was the one Scott looked to when he felt he was forgetting how to believe in the good in people.Â
Right now, John had forgotten how to take up room in the world. In Scottâs arms, it was as if he would shatter if he was dropped suddenly or grow smaller until he faded away invisibly. Even when Scott knew he wouldnât , deep down he was still scared that his brother would disappear into space, becoming another part of the stardust and the big, empty void instead of being his John . He saw it in the silence that settled over him after so long away, where his usual quiet gaped like an open wound. He couldnât bear to lose John to it.
But Scott would never let it happen, not while he still breathed. He would hold John up until he could stand on own his feet again and never leave him alone and forgotten. Thatâs why he shouted down their father, the echo of his palms slamming into the desk thrumming through his fingers in synch with his heartbeat. Proper meals, rest, sunshine and time with their brothers would do John good, then they would all hear Johnâs laughter ringing out across the pool decks once again.Â
John let Scott take his weight. His brother was truly here, real and solid in his arms, Scott needed this to remember how it felt, that this was John not just the staticky waves of a voice down a radio channel or flattened 2D image from far away. Those werenât warm and human, it wasnât the same.
Scott froze when John wriggled after a minute, immediately loosening his grip to give John room to breathe, but John only let his arms drop to his sides so he could squish himself closer to Scott.
Using the few extra inches of height he had on his brother from how John slumped small, Scott wrapped himself around John more. He shifted so he could rest his jaw against Johnâs hair, taking a deep breath in.Â
Oh Jay, dammit . Scott had missed him so much.
He smelt so familiar; he was space and John and home. Scottâs brothers were his home, beyond the island, beyond Kansas, or Earth or space or whatever the hell else the universe was made up of.
Home, home, home, home, home. Scott mouthed the words near silently, a reminder, a promise .
Scott swallowed hard as John nuzzled into his shoulder. Like he knew exactly what Scott was thinking at any point, like he saw straight through him clearer than windshield glass of a Thunderbird, no matter he was trembling, John got him.Â
Scott tried not to cry over all of that either.
His brother shouldn't be a shaky mess from just getting a cuddle, he should be demanding them off of Scott whenever he wanted to without care that they were busy, and fighting over who got to sit next to him on movie night like the others.Â
Scott rubbed a hand up and down his back, promising himself first and foremost that they were all going to do better by John. Stars knew John would never say anything when he was hurting until he drowned beneath the gravity of it, alone on Five.
Galapagos Lava Lizard (Microlophus albemarlensis), family Tropiduridae, sitting on a Marine Iguana (Amblyrhynchus cristatus), family Iguanidae, Fernandina Island, Galapagos
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
READ THIS FIRST
This chapter was frankly hard to write but it was worth it ( I Cried. Quite a bit. Sobbed in fact). It marks a turning point in the fic - several small clues I've dropped throughout the previous chapters all culminate here.
This chapter describes a panic attack in action. Includes references to depression and a direct discussion of self-harm and suicide. Discussion of war and death (in general terms and in a combat situation). Discussion of religion and faith.
I've updated all the tags in the fic to reflect this and it's still rated M. Previous is here. Please read at your own discretion. Stay kind and gentle my friends, that's all we can do :)
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thirteen: a foreign god
September 2042
When Scott and Virgil were young, their father was busy, cavorting on the Moon and Mars, putting his name to just about everything quantifiable on and off the planet. And young, unattended boys without their fathers get bored. When Scott and Virgil were young, as children on a Kansas wheat farm and Arizonian ranch, they used to play a game, imaginatively coined Jeff.
Now, Jeff, in practice and theory, was extremely easy to understand. 7-year-old Virgil had no trouble. One person plays the role of Jeff. The other as the unnamed second. Ready to be conquered, so to speak.
Jeff starts by putting on a pair of his fatherâs boots, the heavier and more mud stained the better. He lies down on the couch and closes his eyes. The fun of it was that Jeff must grumble, make the noises that a man closer to 50 than 40 would make. Never mind that their father was in his 30âs â the passage of time isnât real and their father was as old as one of the massive oaks in Grandmaâs yard. The second, carefully, must then cover the âasleepâ Jeff in pillows, carefully and without missing a single inch. Once covered, the second has to leg it outside, as fast as his legs can carry him. Depending on Jeffâs mood and relative charitability, he can choose to wait until he hears the second is gone, or can âwake upâ mid covering, and start a chase. Assuming the second makes it outside, he then hides in a place of his choosing. Jeff wakes up as loudly as he can at any given moment, screams, and begins the hunt.
Today, Scott was Jeff. This tended to be the way. Scott played the role better, more skilled at emulating Jeffâs craggy expressions and overall intimidating demeanour. He grumbles and groans while making his way to Grandmaâs couch, complaining about a sore back and aching feet and just about every gripe he knows old people have. Virgil hides around the corner, giggling.
Scott lies down, and begins snoring, loudly and exaggerated. One foot in front of the other, Virgil slowly pads his way up to Scott, holding a pillow in his hands. He freezes, softly giggling, when Scott comically opens one eye with a squint.
Virgil takes another slow, cautious step, almost losing his balance. He places his first pillow right on Scottâs face, and repeats the process, backing up like the ninjas in the cartoons he watches with Grandpa. Scottâs soon buried in a mountain of plush â from underneath, he could just hear a gentle mumbling, Iâm gonna get you, in the best approximation he could do of a true Kansas accent.
Virgil takes his cue and guns it, hurtling out the lounge room to the outside world. Heâs left the door open to maximise his chances and it works â heâs soon out in the warm autumn afternoon air, pounding his bare feet as fast as he could across the grass to the shed.
âJEFF!â
Oh dear. Timeâs up! With a quick backwards glance, he slips into the open shed door, hoping Grandpa was inside to help him hide. He canât see him, so he heads straight for the car he was working on, its engine dissembled in pieces on the floor. He stares at the ground intently as he steps over all the parts, careful not to mess anything up. Grandpa would be furious if he ruined his system.
He could stay in here â but thatâs boring. Better to be running, chased by a handicapped brother in far too big shoes, then cheating and languishing in the half shell of an ancient car. His mind made up, he stands up, and pads over the pieces again, but his gaze is consumed by the objects on the floor, not looking at what he was heading towards.
Scott pauses, when he hears his brother scream his name. He frowns â thatâs not how the game is played. It sounded like it was coming from their grandpaâs shed, so he breaks into a run, to find the source of the noise. When he gets there, Virgilâs standing on the grass just in front of the entrance, hysterically crying with his hand pressed to his face.
âSCOTTY!â Virgil sobs. âGRANDPA!â
Scott comes hurtling over, game forgotten. âVirgie, what did you do?â Virgilâs far too consumed in his tears to be able to get out a coherent sentence.
âGRANDMA!â Scott yells, sitting his little brother down on the grass before he fell over in shock. âVirgie, let me see.â
Virgilâs sobbing, an ugly mess of tears and blood, but he lets his hand fall from his face to show off the gory split in the gap between his eyebrows. Heâs got both eyes closed, blood dripping down his nose, and Scottâs struck for a brief moment with paralysing fear.
âHold on Virgy, let me look,â Scott swallows, and peers closer at the gaping wound. âWhat happened?â
Virgil takes a deep breath, feeling a little braver now heâs got Scott with him. âI ran into the engine lifter!â he cries. Aforementioned hoist is old, built by their grandpa, a simple hook attached to the roof on an adjustable length. Unfortunately, left hanging right at Virgilâs eye level. It was rusty, and Scottâs even more terrified when he remembers what Grandma had told him about tetanus when sheâd taken him to get vaccinated. âDonât worry, itâll be okay.â He presses his hand to Virgilâs forehead, blocking the flow of blood while he hollers. âGRANDMA!â
Sally knows that tone, and she pauses from where she was prying bread out of the toaster with a knife. Could she go one weekend without those boys getting into trouble? John flicks his gaze over to her, from his place at the kitchen table. She sighs. âDonât touch anything in the kitchen John. Iâll be back.â
âGRANDMA!â Scott yells again, at the track-suited figure approaching from the house. âHURRY UP!â
She breaks into a sprint, seeing one of her grandsons on the floor. When she gets there, she spots all the blood on his face and blanches. âWhat happened?â
Scottâs quick to recount while his brother continues to cry. âHe ran into grandpaâs hook.â
Sheâd have word with her husband later. âScott, run into the kitchen and get my first aid kit ready.â He nods, and sprints off, with a final worried look back. She scoops up the child, and brings him back to the house, to sit on the table with a bewildered John looking on.
Gently, she prods his forehead. Sheâd met Grant as a flying doctor, travelling to rural callouts from her base in Kansas City, when heâd sliced his finger off on farming equipment. Sheâs been here ever since, as an on call rural doctor for the Kansas City hospital 4 days a week. Sheâs trying to wind down, since she was fast approaching 60, but her grandchildren seemed to have a knack for keeping her in the profession.
âVirgil sweetie, Iâm going to need to give you stitches and a tetanus booster. Iâm going to clean your face first, okay?â
Virgil whimpers, and Scott immediately grabs his brotherâs hand.
âScotty, can you sit on the table and put Virgil in your lap please?â
Scott does as heâs told, and Virgil sinks into his chest. The younger boy had always been interested in medicine, watching on eagerly whenever sheâd performed a procedure, but that was when it was on anyone besides himself. Virgil screws his eyes shut, letting his grandma apply local anaesthetic and begin her work. Heâs got both hands in Scottâs, gripping them as tightly as he can.
âAll done,â she announces, after a short, silent while. âJohn, will you go and get a lollypop for the brave boys?â John nods, and does what heâs told.
Later, when theyâre sitting pressed together on the couch, a big bandage over Virgilâs forehead, Scott pulls his brother into another hug. âIâll get Grandma to teach me how to do that. Then I can fix your face when you hit things.â Virgil laughs, and buries himself a little deeper into Scottâs embrace.
*****
February 2055
Scottâs not entirely sure whatâs changed in the space of all of one afternoon. Recovery isnât linear, he repeats. He supposes it must be the same with familiar relationships. You canât just throw someone back into your life with reckless abandon â thereâs a cooling off period, a waiting period, when Virgilâs mind is whirring with regrets and guilt and the counterintuitive urge to shut his brother out once again.
When he comes back, heâs got his hoodie up. âHey,â Scott starts, gazing at the bag in his hand. âWhatâs for dinner?â
Virgil doesnât answer, and as he brushes past, Scott notices the big, over ear headphones. He heads straight into the kitchen, placing the bag on the floor as softly as he can. Scott canât see him, a wall separating the two rooms, so he stands up, and goes in to lean against the door. âYou alright?â
Virgil stares, shifting his headphones off a single ear. âYep. Pasta.â He gestures to the big pot of water slowly heating on the stove in front of him.
âNeed any help?â
âNope,â Virgil puts his headphones on properly, turning back to the counter, and thatâs the end of that.
Scott gingerly leaves, to sit back down in the same place heâs been for several hours.
He decides heâs going to ignore it. One mustnât push too hard with things like this. Heâs like a loaded spring â and Scottâs well aware of the ambiguity of the pronoun. Heâd been the same, 4 months ago. Still was, in some ways. Heâs killed before, and heâd do it again, but the list of people is remarkably short. Just one name, in fact.
Virgilâs got a wine cabinet in his front room. It stands amongst the other collection of sparse furniture, stained black from what Scott presumes was a D.I.Y in the heat of boredom. He remembers it being brown, when Dad first bought it. He opens it, struck by a sudden urge to drown his sorrows in something strong.
He takes out a bottle. Scott thinks about going to get a glass, but heâs suddenly frozen, staring at the red liquid inside. His hands start to shake, and before he even notices, it slips out of his grasp.
Broken glass explodes onto the floor, but he barely registers the distant shatter and subsequent silence. It was Virgil that spoke first, appearing from the kitchen with a frown and his headphones around his neck.
âAre you⊠Scott what did you do?â
On autopilot, Scott goes to pick up the glass off the floor.
âDonât!â Virgil rushes forward, but heâs too slow for Scott, who immediately drops the shard when his palm splits open. He gazes at it, his expression vacant.
âScott, stay there, Iâll get the first aid kit, okay?â He changes his mind when he spots the blankness in his expression, and its only his good sense to grab Scott by the waist that stops him from falling as he starts to crumple to the ground.
âJesusâŠâ Virgil mutters as he manoeuvres his shaking brother onto the floor. âAnd I thought you were the capable one.â Itâs a needless gripe, but Virgilâs scared. Itâs always been him thatâs gotten hurt, and Scott the big brother ready with a band aid.
âHey Scott, look at me, okay? Look at me.â He says it like an order, not letting his voice betray him. Scott frowns, turning to stare at him. Virgil takes Scottâs other hand, and gently presses it into the wound. âPress your hands together, alright Scott? Itâs gonna be fine.â
Scott nods, his eyes glazed over.
Virgil fetches his kit, practically sprinting, and returns to Scott sitting propped up against the wall clutching his hands together.
âLet me see.â His voice is soft now that itâs a little more under control. For now, he ignores the puddle of wine and glass and blood. When he pries Scottâs hands apart, theyâre stained red, but its superficial, and he breathes a sigh of relief. âIâm gonna put a bandage on, alright? Itâs not deep, youâll be fine. Scott, count with me while I do this.â
âUn,â Virgil says. Scott looks up, to stare into his deep brown eyes while he takes out bandages.
âDeux,â Virgilâs soft and gentle as applies a sterile pad and starts to wrap his hand in bandages.
âTrois,â he looks up for a brief moment to see the colour starting to come back into Scottâs face. âWhatâs next, Scott?â
ââŠquatre.â He sounds younger than Virgilâs ever heard him.
âAnd then?â
âCinq.â
He keeps wrapping, moving to secure it on his wrist. âNext?â
âSix.â
âAnd?â
âSeven.â
âThatâs English, Scotty.â He doesnât even notice the childhood nickname. âWhat is it?â
Scott frowns. âSept.â
âGood.â
âHuit.â
âYep.â
âNeuf.â
âAnd finally?â
âDix.â
âGood job.â Virgilâs not trying to be patronising, and he hopes it doesnât come across that way. âJust breathe, Scott. In through your nose, out through your mouth.â
Scottâs clinging onto every word. He closes his eyes, gaining a little more conscious thought.
âIâm done Scott. Iâm gonna help you get up, alright?â
Scott nods, and Virgil wraps his arms under his brotherâs shoulders. They stand up together, and Virgilâs dismayed to feel Scottâs racing heart. Once again, he walks him over the couch, guiding him to sit down slowly.
Scottâs breathing way too fast now, pushing air out through his mouth with barely contained sobs. Virgil quickly puts Scottâs hand on his chest, and tries to keep his own heartrate even. âLook at me Scott. Youâre okay. I promise. Youâre fine.â
Scott squeezes his eyes shut, and grabs his brotherâs other hand with the one he doesnât have on Virgilâs chest.
âIâm here Scott. Youâre not alone.â
Scott keeps breathing, slowly synching with Virgilâs controlled, deliberate breaths. They stay there for several minutes, having fallen silent, just concentrating on the rhythm of their movements.
When Scott finally opens his eyes again, theyâre a bright blue, shining with tears. âIâm sorry.â
âDonât be Scott. Honestly. Are you alright?â
Scott lets his hand fall back into his lap. âNo.â
âIs there anything I can do?â
The tears start to fall from Scottâs eyes. âJust be⊠okay.â His expression screws up in anguish, and he brings his knees into his chest, burying his face.
Virgil gently unfolds his brother from his position and brings him into his own chest. Heâs much smaller, physically, but it feels like Scottâs the child again. Heâs lying, but itâs what Scott needs to hear. âIâm fine Scott. Honestly. Iâll be fine.â
And he knows the second part is the truth. âWhat happened back there? If you want to talk about it.â
Scott sniffs, and Virgil can feel tears blotting his t-shirt. âIâm sorry Virgil, I just, I dunno, got overwhelmed.â
âThatâs alright. It happens.â
âIâm sorry I broke your bottle.â
âDonât worry. Youâre okay, so it doesnât matter.â
âIâm sorry you have to pretend to be grownup.â
âIâm 20 in 6 months, I donât have to pretend. Youâre allowed to need help, Scott.â Itâs hypocritical, and Virgil knows it too well. And he knows that Scott knows it too.
âSo are you.â
âYouâre the priority right now,â he whispers. âI can get help later.â
Scott doesnât answer immediately, letting the silence stretch out into the minutes. Heâs done this before, and Virgil knows itâs because heâs debating whether to start talking.
âI almost killed myself Virgil.â
Virgil knows. He could see it the moment his brother walked through the doors of his apartment. He doesnât say anything, just lets him speak.
âI almost left you. I was so fucking close, like, locking the shower door and staring at my wrists ready.â
Virgil knows. He sees it in the clothes Scott wears, despite chastising him about the heat. He sees it when he changes the temperature of his apartment to be lower, so Scott doesnât sweat underneath the long pants and button up shirts heâs grown so fond of. âDoes Dad know?â
âYeah⊠thatâs why heâs so insistent. Thatâs why I went to the facility, because I called him at 2 in the morning about to die. I donât what would have happened without him.â
Virgil doesnât know this. âScottâŠâ
âAnd it hurts, it hurts so bad because Dad has been through so much. And heâs just⊠okay? And I hate that Iâm so weak.â
âYouâre not Dad, Scott. Youâre not Dad and you shouldnât compare yourself to him. And I know he was a soldier, but bear in mind that he wasnât serving in the worse humanitarian crisis the world has ever seen. Hell, Dadâs main job was destroying unmanned space mines.â
âIâve killed people, Virgil.â
âI know.â
âIâve shot down planes over the sky and seen their faces as they die.â
âI know.â
âIâve been part of crews delivering aid to civilians and Iâll never forget how they looked.â
âI know.â
âIâve watched my best friends be blown into pieces.â
âI know, Scott.â
âIâve seen starving children and oh fuck, Virgil, and there was nothing I could do. That fucking mission when Olesya died wasnât even the worst. I suppose it was just the last straw. I couldnât take any more. Like⊠I just donât know if itâs ever going to end.â Scottâs voice goes a lot quieter. âOlesyaâs family were Polish. They managed to escape Poland just after it was annexed into Bereznik, when she was a kid. She wanted so badly to see her old country be restored. She never did.â
Virgil can only hold his brother tight, and never let go.
âYou should have seen the POWâs we managed to liberate. And thereâs so many innocent civilians in Bereznik. Itâs a fucking nightmare. Itâs worse than anything any human can imagine. And some of the soldiers want to be there, like jacking off to complete fucking human misery. Itâs a tragedy.â
â⊠people will always brave and kind. And thatâs all we can do.â
âSometimes I wish I believed in a god, the way Tanusha does. I used to hear her prayers in the morning with Uncle K, and wished I had someone looking out for me above.â
âMama will always look after us, Scott. I believe in her.â
âDo you?â he turns to look at him, his face a tear-stained wreck. âOlesya used to pray to her Catholic God, and she always made a point of including me in her blessings. Even though I donât believe. I always thought it was kind. To care enough about someone that you ask your God to protect them.â
âYou were doing the same, Scott. You just protected her with your actions, and she did too.â
âBut I failed.â
Virgil chokes on his words a little, remembering what their Protestant grandpa said to him when his first pet died. âSheâs alright, Scott. She was brave and kind, and if she believed that God was looking out for her and her family, then Iâd like to think that sheâs in heaven, at rest and peaceful.â
âVirgil,â he sobs, desperately wiping the tears off his face as his voice breaks, âI hope so too.â
And Scott cries in Virgilâs arms, until the sun has long gone down and the world goes quiet, just for a moment.
Scott laughs and they continue swanning around the kitchenware department. He picks up an extremely brightly coloured ladle. âLook John, it matches your hair.â
John holds up his middle finger, not looking up. âStay in your lane bug-eyes.â
âHowâs that driving going?â
This time itâs John turn to blush bright red, hesitating. âI have to wear glasses.â
âAnd youâre calling me bug-eyed? Honestly, Virgil being able to drive sooner than you is so foul.â
âDoes Virgil have a doctorate and several published books? I donât think so.â
******
SCROP TOP SCROP TOP SCROP TOP
In a fit of divine inspiration I HAD TO DRAW scrop top and John. With only a particularly delicious biro pen and printer paper cause thatâs how desperate I was. And then wrote some words to go with it.
Thank you @avengedbiologist for your big brain and idea to overhaul Scottâs poor fashion choices. Also @astranite for encouraging my raging Audacity.
Featuring Scott Tracyâs greying temples and whoops I accidentally made John Tracy hot
@astranite oooooooooo this scene is coming up in my fic, it's only 3 chapters away now (not fully written But Im Getting There) XD SCROP TOP BABEY scott tracy supremacy
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