I done wrote a thing!! Thankyou @flashfictionfridayofficial for giving me a kick up the backside with this one. It's a bit introspective and possibly nonsense, but it's ideas I've had for a long time - I'm hoping that this might finally prove to be the start of me actually finishing Lone Star, but we'll see I guess... (I've made promises like that before. 😅)
Anyway, no particular warnings, just a lot of ponderous existential blah.
Or read it on AO3
Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go
Rating: Universal
Genre: angst
Warnings: none
Words: 945
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John gazed down at the planet below him, and blue seas and brown-green lands looked back at him. The slowly-revolving view was vast, taking up the entire fused quartz window, and yet with landscapes, vistas, mountains and lakes rendered almost indistinguishable by the sheer scale of it; the Earth writ large and incalculably small all at once.
Planet Earth.
Home.
To him that was a uniquely complicated word.
He took a sip of cocoa from his leak-proof mug. The world turned.
Of course, it never used to be that difficult a concept. Way back in the beginning home was actually very simple: wheat fields, a dirt track, a farmhouse painted blue. Roses in the yard, cookies warm from the oven, an apron-wrapped hug. Laughter, joy, love.
But that sense of home had disappeared far too quickly.
Home was somewhere else now. Right now his family were all safely back on Tracy Island, tucked up in their beds, rescues complete and flight hours exhausted for the next… - he checked his watch - ten hours at least. By that time the sun would be high in the sky over the villa, and the petrels would be chitting and charping up there with it. But for now there were only snores and the sound of breaking waves drifting softly in through the windows: the island’s own heartbeat.
By rights John should be asleep now too - he’d been up just as long as they had - but he couldn’t feel less like sleeping at the moment.
He took another sip of his cocoa, ignoring the small knot that grew in his chest every time he looked out of the window.
Instead he began idly calculating the exact distance between him and Tracy Island right now, incorporating the gap between Thunderbird Five and Earth of course, but also estimated distances from his current position above the Kaloo Desert back round to the South Pacific, reckoned both circumferentially and directly through the planet itself… Was that cheating? If a direct path wasn’t actually travelable, did it still count?
He frowned. Like so many things, how far he was from home was very much a matter of perspective. Miles and kilometers obviously, but also time. After all, the journey from Thunderbird Five to planetside took only twenty minutes by space elevator; fifteen at a push. Factor in the time it took to reposition Five and by that measure he really wasn't very far away at all.
The knot in his chest twisted.
It was never just a matter of measurement.
The fact was that despite the communications links, the regular care packages, the day-to-day check-ins and obviously the rescues, up here he was still a world away from everything down there. In every practical way he existed in an entirely different realm to the rest of his family, and the rest of humanity pretty much. He breathed a different atmosphere, he experienced a different gravity, night and day were rendered practically alien concepts to him. It wasn’t just a different landscape up here - there was no landscape!
When he’d first moved to Five he’d missed movement more than anything else. There was no cool morning breeze in space, nor the swish of leafy trees. There were no plants, no animals, no other living being of any description that wasn’t either computer-based or tin can-enclosed. Everything here was metal and glass; cold and sterile and still.
But even that didn’t fully describe it.
He sighed and set his half-drunk cocoa on the side table and sat back on his bunk, eyes closed.
The feeling of detachment was far more profound than the things he missed or the sensations that space lacked. It was more than just the distances. It wasn’t quantifiable. Wasn’t explainable. It was barely comprehensible. And it was all-encompassing.
Everything he was, everything that identified him as a person, as a human, was down there. His family, his history… Every concept of personhood, every aspect that had made him who he was and everyone whose existence in turn determined the shape of his own was now separate from him. The whole world - the whole of civilization past, present and future - could implode tomorrow into a single speck, and he would still remain, a final monument to the existence of the human race, drifting in his man-made cocoon until the end of time. Just him, alone, endlessly floating until the last star blinked out.
It was a lonely thought.
And yet…
He sat there for what seemed like an age, listening to the whirs and creaks and hums of Thunderbird Five, as familiar to him now as any home he’d ever known planetside. He knew every nut, every bolt, every corner and every cranny. He’d memorised the layout the same day Dad had first showed him the initial plans. He’d even personally had a hand in designing some of the systems. This was the sanctuary his father had custom-built just for him: his dreams made real in cahelium and silica.
He thought of Tracy Island once more, and all his family: seven people in one house, clattering and talking and bumping and tripping over each other, teasing each other, borrowing each other’s stuff, stubbed toes, hurt feelings, arguments, jokes, noise…
He loved his family. Of course he did. And he believed they loved him too.
And yet…
Home is somewhere you’re comfortable, right? Somewhere you belonged. Somewhere you wanted to be.
His chest ached.
What did he want? Where did he belong?
The world kept turning. His mind drifted.
One foot in one world and one in another, he thought just as sleep finally pulled on him, dragging him under.
This was supposed to be a @flashfictionfridayofficial , but I was a bit late and got my timezones mixed up, and then the word count went over and... well here it is anyway.
Or read it on AO3 here.
Also tagging @tagloveandthunderbirds 'cos ❤️
Fandom: Thunderbirds/Thunderbirds are Go
Word count: 1048
Warnings: feet/shoes
---------------
“You ready to do this, Sweetheart?”
Lucy took her time smoothing down the front of her dress, purposely not looking at the empty dance floor yawning in front of her.
“Are you? You know dancing isn't exactly my forte; a first dance in front of all these people just seems like asking for trouble." She shuffled in her chair. "Are trampled feet covered by the wedding insurance?”
Jeff snickered. “I checked the policy just before I came over here. We’re all set.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. But I’m wearing heels, don't forget; it's going to be like Bambi on Ice out there.”
He shrugged.
“Well I did suggest the hiking boots instead, but you shot me down; something about ‘the aesthetic’. Which looks stunning on you, by the way.”
He stood back to better take her in, grinning appreciatively.
“Last time I make that mistake,” she muttered, waving away the compliment. “Given ‘the aesthetic’ is currently cutting off the circulation to my pinkie toe, respectfully ‘the aesthetic’ can go jump in a lake.”
She mentally cursed the salesperson who’d talked her into putting fashion ahead of comfort.
Concern flashed across Jeff’s handsome face. “Are they really hurting you, honey? We can get you other shoes.”
She smiled up at him reassuringly. “No really, I’m exaggerating …sort of. They just kinda pinch, that's all.”
If she was totally honest with herself, it wasn't even the salesperson’s fault, really. She’d been the one chasing a dream of being perfect and ladylike, even if it was only this once. Dammit, why was dressing up fancy so hard?!
Of course it didn't help that her new husband managed it so effortlessly. He was currently working ‘the aesthetic’ to within an inch of its life, cutting a very dashing figure in his elegant new grey suit and tie, dress shirt and shoes all perfectly matched and filled out perfectly.
Seriously, where did he get off being so good-looking?
She’d just wanted to appear worthy of him, that’s all. Jeff Tracy: ace pilot, hometown hero, handsomest guy in the county and a genuinely good man to boot. He was the prince, and just once she’d wanted to feel like she could be his match - a princess - instead of some awkward, clutzy science nerd who’d somehow managed to win the husband lottery.
She sighed. Clearly that wasn't to be.
There was a pause, then without another word her very handsome husband - God, he really did look good in that suit - knelt down in front of her and took one of her feet gently in his hands. He examined the delicate and uncharacteristically high-heeled white shoe with utmost seriousness, before removing it and flinging it across the room.
“Jeff!”
Lucy felt her face burst into flames as a roomful of eyes turned towards them.
“What? Doesn't that feel better?”
In all fairness it absolutely did. She wiggled her newly-released toes appreciatively even as she fought the urge to hide underneath the table.
“You can't just go throwing shoes around. You’re making a scene.”
He stopped and looked at her, ignoring the rest of the room, then slowly and deliberately reached out and took hold of her other foot.
“I want to enjoy a dance with my beautiful new wife, and if these admittedly pretty little shoes are getting in the way of that…”
The second shoe flew over his shoulder, just missing a nearby waiter.
“...then they’ve gotta go.”
The room was hushed; everyone was looking at them. Part of her wanted to run and hide in the coatroom until they’d all gone, but he was holding her gaze, keeping her steady.
“I don't want anything getting between me and the most amazing, beautiful, perfect person I ever saw, ever again.”
He rose gracefully to his feet and held out his hand to her.
“So how about it? May I have this dance?”
…
It was late spring and the cicadas were singing. Airbase staff were bustling all around, knocking into her, sending papers flying everywhere. She knelt down to pick them up, and suddenly there was a hand in front of her.
“Can I give you a hand, Miss?”
…
It was fall, and the trees around them were every shade of red. They’d talked about everything and nothing, walking side by side, until he stopped and reached out to her.
“Would it be alright if I held your hand?”
…
It was winter and the snow was falling softly. His ice skates made long swooshing noises on the ice around her, while hers clacked noisily as she tried and failed to keep her footing. Another swoosh and then he was there in front of her, hand extended.
“Okay, so not my best idea. How about we go get a hot chocolate instead? My treat?”
…
It was the last days of summer, and the clear water of the lake lapped at her toes. She’d never felt so happy in her life. A perfect day. Beside her she felt him shift nervously, and then he was holding his hand out, a little red box in it, one knee on the ground.
“I’ve got a question I wanna ask…”
…
Her head flooded with the memories of a hundred moments, small and huge, all of them important. A hundred images of him offering his hand, and at last she understood.
He'd reached out for her.
She was the one. And she was worthy, just as she was.
Smiling, she accepted the offered hand.
“Of course you may, Mr Tracy.”
He grinned and bowed. “Why thankyou, Mrs Tracy.”
She rose and he led her, barefoot and spotlit, to the dance floor without a care in the world. Keeping her hand in his, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, enveloping her like a delicate, precious treasure, safe and protected. Their eyes met and he beamed at her like his face was made of actual sunshine.
She grinned back at him.
“You’re sure about that wedding insurance now? Last chance.”
“Don’t you worry about my toes, darlin’. Just keep a hold of me and we’ll do fine.”
And with that the band struck up an old favourite, and hand-in-hand they danced the night away.
This was supposed to be an entry for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial, but life got in the way and I went really over time (😅), so it's just a silly little something now, bringing a well-loved TOS character to the TAG universe. Enjoy!
Fandom: Thunderbirds/Thunderbirds are Go
Content: mention of Pen & Ink (canon events only)
Spoiler warning for TAG episode 1:10, Tunnels of Time
Or read it on AO3
**********
Lillian and her trusty scouring pad had just reached a particularly stubborn bit of baked-on sauce at the back of the oven when she heard the kitchen door go, followed by a great clattering of boot and chair.
“Cor Lil, do us a cuppa would ya? H’I’m gasping, I am!”
Of course, she thought. There's only one person in the world who could make that much noise just entering a room.
Master thief my backside…
“You’ve got legs, haven’t ya? Get it yourself,” she called, not looking up. “Can't you see I’m busy?”
“Aww, but I’ve ‘ad an ‘ard day. H’I’m dead on my feet!”
“You’ll be dead under my feet if you keep carrying on,” she grumbled. “Though on second thought,” - she extricated her head from the oven and took off her marigolds - “I'd better do it for you. Who knows what you might set fire to if I left you to it.”
She clambered slowly to her half-asleep feet and finally looked over to see Nosy Parker seated at the kitchen table, covered in dust, trying and failing to stifle a chuckle.
“Looks to me like you’ve been burning a few things yourself, girl. Get a look at your face!”
Eh?
She limped over to the hob and checked her reflection in the shining silver kettle there, only to see a grime-smeared ragamuffin staring back at her.
“You could be an extra in H'Oliver!” Parker chortled, clearly delighted with his joke.
She just barely resisted the urge to fling the kettle at him - she had only just polished it, after all - and instead wiped her face with a nearby tea towel before flinging that at him instead. He spluttered some sort of outrage at the assault, but she noted that he never actually stopped smirking at her.
“Whatcha so ‘appy about anyway?” she asked, filling the kettle and setting the hob on. “I thought you was bone-tired.”
Parker yawned and stretched, kicking his boots off under the table, which earned him a royal scowl.
“I am. Been traipsing round a bleedin’ temple all day, ‘aven’t I? I’ve been shut in, shot at, gassed, nearly buried h’alive…”
“Well that's bad luck. Still, perhaps they’ll get you next time.”
He glowered at her, but carried on.
“Frankly I’m just glad we made it out in one piece. No thanks to Gordon Tracy of course - ‘e was no ‘elp at all. All that equipment ‘e brought, and what good did it do us? ‘Er Ladyship said the same thing. Well, not in so many words…”
“Is she alright?” Lillian asked, leaning casually on the countertop. Her Ladyship was a tough lady indeed, but for all his catastrophising it sounded like they'd had quite a time of it.
“Oh yes, right as rain,” replied Parker. “Save perhaps for a smooshed nose, courtesy of that great fishy lummox.’
“Gordon did that?”
Lillian quickly scrolled through her various kitchen utensils in her head, considering how they might best be inflicted on a young Tracy’s sensitive bits. A jaded old bird she may be, but she didn't mess about when it came to Lady Penelope’s wellbeing.
That was one thing she and Parker had in common.
Perhaps sensing impending bloodshed, Parker held up his hands in an attempt to placate his companion.
“He never meant any ‘arm, Lil. It was my fault really, setting off that booby trap like that - he was jus’ trying to save ‘er from a fatal stabbin’. And ‘Er Ladyship gave ‘im a right ol’ earful over it, so I reckon the poor lad’s suffered enough.”
The kettle whistle blew and Lillian straightened to go and make the tea, still quietly plotting.
“The truth is,” he continued, “I think ‘e might be a bit sweet on her."
She was so surprised she almost dropped the kettle on her foot.
"Really? Gordon?"
He nodded. "Like a puppy, ‘e is, following ‘er around, trying to h’impress ‘er, like; he’s like a little blond labrador.”
“A dogfish,” she suggested, grabbing a packet of biscuits from the overhead cupboard.
“Ha! H’exactly!” he chuckled. “Wet nose and wet behind the ears, that one!”
Carefully, she balanced the full cups on a tray and took it over to the table.
“But ‘e’s not that young though, is he? Twenty-four?”
“About that,” replied Parker, shovelling a hobnob in his mouth. “Seems younger though, somehow. Too young for ‘er, anyway.”
“You would say that though, wouldn’t ya? Nobody's ever gonna be good enough for her s’far as you’re concerned.”
He grinned sheepishly and reached for another biscuit.
Lillian stared into her teacup, thinking.
“You don’t think she might like ‘im too, then?”
Parker’s biscuit fell in his cup.
“You wot?”
“Well I was just thinkin’,” she said, handing him a teaspoon to fish his biscuit out, “all this talk about how annoying he is and ‘ow he’s always getting into scrapes ‘n’ all that…” She took a sip. “It just seems that if she didn't like ‘im, she might not care quite so much what ‘e does.”
“Don't talk soft, woman!” exclaimed Parker, forgetting all about his slowly-disintegrating hobnob. “She’s fond of all those Tracy boys, Gordon included. It's part of her nature to worry after ‘em. Nothing more than that, I'm sure.”
“Hmmm. If you say so…”
They sat in silence for a minute, pondering.
“Though…” Parker started. “...Nah.”
“What?”
“S’nothing.”
She picked up another teaspoon. “I’m going to stick this somewhere painful if you don't come out with it.”
"You wouldn't dare," he scoffed.
"...Sideways."
A gulp.
“A moment?” She leaned forwards.
“Alright, alright, keep your ‘air on! It's only that I was just thinkin’, back there, there was a… a moment.”
“Between the two of ‘em, when we were up on that stairway, starin’ death in the face…”
He paused, waiting for sympathy.
She brandished her spoon at him. “And?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Well, we all thought that might be it - ‘The H’End’, as it were…”
“Uh-huh?”
“An’ he was saying something about us not having much time, and it being now or never…”
“Yes?”
“And the way they was looking at each other, it was like…”
“Yes?!”
She was right on the edge of her seat, tea and spoon both entirely forgotten.
He shrugged. “Well anyway, then next thing I knew, we was grappling into the air and out the roof to safety.”
She blinked.
“...What? That's it?!”
She picked up the tea towel off the table and threw it at him again.
“You almost ‘ad me then, you bleedin’ tease! Gettin’ me all invested like that…”
“What? That's what ‘appened!”
She was fuming. “I thought you’d at least say he kissed her hand or something. ‘A look’, he says!”
He flushed. “It was more than that-”
“Load of nonsense. You’ve been watching too many of those serials on telly!”
She got to her feet and stormed over to the oven.
“I can't be sittin’ here listenin’ to this rubbish all day. Got things to do,” she grumbled, pulling her rubber gloves back on.
He folded his arms, glowering. “Well that's just fine then! Last time I tell you anything.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
And so they retreated to their respective corners to sulk; her scrubbing the oven, him harrumphing in his chair, stormclouds hovering between.
A minute passed. Then two.
“...You can finish up your tea before ‘elping me with the dinner, if you like?”
Happy Pride everybody!!! Hope you've all enjoyed the month's festivities and all the Thunderbirds-y goodness. I've got a bit of reading and art to catch up on, but what I've seen so far has all been amazing - you're all so damn talented! 😊
For the Thunderpride gift exchange I was lucky enough to be matched with the incomporable @emtb319 ! I've taken their prompt of seaside and kinda run with it, but if you look closely and squint a bit, you might just spot hints of their other prompts - stray cat and green - as well.
Also just to say that although this was meant to be pure Earth and Sky fluff, it did get a bit angsty in the middle (when does it not with me? 😅) But I promise it all turns out well in the end.
Hope you like it. Thankyou so much for the prompts, and happy Pride!
Word count: 2365
Also available to read on AO3
Just You
The morning of the annual Pride beach party had broken warm and bright, and now at mid-morning the place was jumping. Right across the crowded seafront, smiling people draped in banners and flags of every kind thronged together in a cacophony of colour and sound. Grilling stations had been set up along the edge of the beach to cater for the hungry revellers and, on the stage at the far end, performers in elaborate costumes kept the mood high with a joyous concoction of music, spectacle and thumping beats.
From his vantage point on the stone steps leading up from the beach, Scott Tracy was surrounded by the sounds, sights, and smells of a damn good time. Entranced, he took a moment and just breathed the jubilant atmosphere in.
It was intoxicating.
After a few minutes, he sensed his brother draw up next to him, a cool oasis of calm in a tumultuous sea of sensation.
“Quite the scene, huh?”
He breathed. “...Yeah.”
A delicious-smelling package was suddenly thrust into his hands.
“Got you some chips,” smiled Virgil knowingly.
Scott’s spirits soared and he tore into the paper cone immediately. Real British chips - distinct from fries and, according to Parker at least, far superior - were a rare treat that were best enjoyed piping hot.
That first bite of salty, crispy fluffiness elicited a moan of pleasure from him that frankly bordered on the obscene.
Parker might have had a point.
Thankfully the ambient noise from the party spared him most of his blushes, although of course Virgil’s ever-sensitive ear caught it; but he just chuckled, rolled his eyes and turned his attention to his own similar package.
Over on stage the bands were swapping over, with the new one announcing themselves - Cat Distribution Network - before launching into a cover of some old dance track. It was apparently a popular choice; the crowd on the beach cheered, pulsed and tossed in waves to the beat.
“They sound good,” said Virgil, popping one of his own chips into his mouth. “That song works well pitched lower like that. Makes the chorus more robust. And the sax solo in the middle eight is an interesting choice - I’ve not heard that done before.”
Scott had no idea if the changes to the song were any good or not, but he nodded anyway, happy to hear his brother chatting away about something he enjoyed.
“So, you gonna go change?”
Unlike Virgil, who was already back in his familiar red flannel and jeans, Scott was still sporting his distinctive IR blues from the opening ceremony earlier.
He shoved another morsel of fried goodness in his mouth.
“Food first.”
Virgil smirked. “Alright,” he said, “but I’m not explaining it to Brains if you end up with grease stains down your jacket.”
It was an empty threat - their uniforms were engineered to be way more than stain-resistant - but Scott made a show of wiping his fingers on his brother’s sleeve anyway, just because. Virgil grumbled, but let it slide. He could hardly complain; oil stains were kind of his signature look.
Scott finished off his chips and, crumpling the paper into a ball, pitched it straight into the recycling bin; nothing but net.
“Show-off,” grumbled Virgil, picking his own attempt up off the floor and spiking it in.
“Gotta make a good impression Virg,” replied Scott, just a little smug. “We’re official representatives at this event, after all.”
Technically it was Tracy Industries who were the actual sponsors for this year’s shindig, but it had been agreed all round that an appearance from International Rescue at Pride was just too much good publicity to turn down. It was also for that reason that a certain green sky-whale was currently parked on a specially-built platform just off the main beach, temporarily adorned with about fifty different painted flags of the LGBTQIA+.
There’d been a lot more than just oil on Virgil’s shirt for the last few days.
But unlike his ‘bird - or a certain squid, who even at this moment was sparkling his way somewhere across the packed beach dressed head-to-toe in pink, yellow and blue sequins - Virgil himself had apparently gone the subtle route with his own attire this year, choosing only a small green and blue pin in recognition of his own identity.
It was a very Virgil move.
“So, didn't fancy getting all dressed up, huh?”
Virgil shrugged. “Nah. I wasn't feeling it,” he said, nudging a stray pebble down the steps with his boot.
Virgil hadn't really ever been the type to draw attention to himself. Not shy exactly, at least not the way John was sometimes in a crowd, he preferred to play a background, backup role to bolder, more adventurous (reckless?) brothers. Sure, he’d done all the usual art student-y things in college - hair colour, nose piercing, his infamous goth phase - but none of it had stuck.
The truth was that Virgil had never really felt the need to shout about who he was. He just…was. Even with his sexuality, there had been no “coming out” as such; somehow they’d all always known he was gay, just as Virgil had always known that they knew.
Still, it was a surprise not to see him with at least a little glitter in his hair today. Pride was a big deal in the Tracy household. Obviously Gordon was the usual driving force for getting the family into the spirit of things, but Virgil had always been right there behind him, ready to make his little brother’s more outlandish plans happen with all the enthusiasm and creativity that a double masters in engineering and art demands.
So why had Scott been left to source his own fairy wings this year?
“Are you okay, Virgil?” He asked, realising the need to tread carefully. “You don't exactly seem…yourself.”
Brown eyes looked up at him from under thick, slightly knitted eyebrows.
“I’m fine, Scott.”
Uh-huh. Nice try.
“Virg…”
He put one hand gently on the shorter man’s shoulder, noting the tension carried through it. Scott squeezed gently, and was happy to feel taut muscles relax just a little.
“Talk to me, Virgil.”
His brother held fast for a moment, but then seemed to wilt.
He sighed.
“I just… Look, I love Pride. Really I do. It's vibrant and joyful and so so important. But…” He swallowed. “I just wonder if… Is it all worth it?”
Scott tilted his head.
Nope, gonna have to run that by me again.
“If what's worth what?”
Virgil huffed, clearly struggling for the right words.
“If… If maybe I’m getting too old for all this.”
There was a moment where Scott knew he should be sensitive and simply listen, but he just couldn't hold back the sudden laugh trying to burst the back of his throat.
“Too old? You?!”
He gave in and let it out.
“Virgil, for god’s sake! If you’re over the hill then I must be at death’s door! You’re not even thirty yet! ‘Too old’...”
Glare-powered daggers stabbed at him as he fought for composure.
“It's a young person’s game, Scott. All of this…” He swept his arm across the scene of the party. “I just don't seem to have the energy for it at all.”
Down the beach, as if to illustrate the point, Cat Distribution Network were on their second encore; a loud, clangy, cymbal-fest of noise that sounded to Scott a lot like the last tropical storm they’d had back home.
Okay, maybe he had a point right this second, but…
“Virgil, you don't have to be young to enjoy Pride. It's not just for teenagers and Gordon; it's for everyone, from stroller to walker, every walk of life. It doesn't have to be the parade or this party - there's all kinds of things going on, from the clubs to the local library. Everyone’s welcome at Pride; there's something for everyone.”
He reached across and pulled his brother closer to him, needing more contact.
“And I know you know that. So tell me, what's really going on?”
Virgil said nothing for a moment, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, brow furrowed.
Scott waited.
“I guess… I s’pose it's just that these days it's hard to feel connected to that side of me anymore. Being gay, I mean.”
Virgil shifted and sat down on the step, resigned to spilling his guts, and Scott went with him, refusing to let go.
“I guess with what we all do, how busy we are, it doesn't leave a lot of time for other things - dating and whatnot - and that's fine; I love what we do. It's what I signed up for. But lately it feels like… oh I don't know! Like I should be doing more. Being more gay.”
Scott's brain glitched.
“Being more gay?”
Virgil nodded.
“Doing more. Making a show of it. No-one ever looks at me and goes ‘oh yeah, there's a gay guy’. I’m not flashy or flamboyant or camp; I don't go to nightclubs or have… Oh, I don't know, posters of Judy Garland on my wall. I’ve never been that kind of person.”
He put his head in his hands, hiding his face from Scott.
“I guess what I’m saying,” he said quietly, “is that I don't really feel as if I belong here. I see all these people showing off their identities and revelling in them and I… I just don't feel…valid.”
There was a moment of silence as each of them processed what had just been said. Virgil seemed to shrink in on himself, spent from the effort of verbalising it all, but Scott remained motionless, brain churning.
Wow.
Where to begin?
How long had Virgil been feeling like this? Feeling like his own identity didn't belong to him?
His brother was so sensitive to everyone else’s feelings and moods, but he almost never talked about his own; not without being asked, or using them to offer advice to someone in need of it. He was always so busy playing backup to the rest of them, seeming so comfortable in his skin, self-assured, not needing to perform…
Had Scott really misunderstood his brother so badly?
Virgil was still sitting there, not moving, head still in his hands. Slowly, gently, Scott shifted around until he was right in front of him, then reaching slowly out and gently pried his brother’s hands apart, scooching down to try to catch his eye.
“Virgil, I don't…”
No, that's not right.
He took a breath and started again.
“I can't know what it feels like to be gay in this world. It's something I’ve never known; never could know. You have all the knowledge of how that feels. All I can tell you is how I see it from the outside.”
“And what I see… is you.”
Virgil looked up at him, brow furrowed.
“Those things you just listed?” Scott continued, resting one hand on his knee. “They're all only one way to be gay; they're not the blueprint. Stereotypes and archetypes aren't the be all and end all; there's as many ways to be queer as there are stars in the sky, and just as many ways to celebrate that queerness.”
Brown eyes dimmed, full of doubt.
“You don't have to perform it for anyone or put on some costume. You painted the flags on Two. You helped Gordon with his costume. You…”
He could feel himself flailing.
“Virgil, you love so completely. You live your life with your whole heart, every single day. You do it your own way; you always have.”
He reached out to put one hand on the back of Virgil’s neck, bringing him in closer until their foreheads touched.
“You are you, and you are gay, so being you is showing your gayness. No ifs, no buts. It just is. You don’t have to prove anything. Those two things are inexorably linked, Judy Garland poster or not.”
He felt a small chuckle rumble through his brother’s chest and breathed an internal sigh of relief.
“Just be, Virgil,” he said. “That's all. Just be you.”
A breath. Two.
“...Thanks Scott.”
And suddenly he needed to be closer than just a forehead. Arms acted on their own accord, wrapping around each other in a fierce hug, each of them desperate to reassure the other that they were there, that it was okay.
It was all going to be okay.
From over his shoulder Scott could hear the party clearly still going on strong. Cheers and noise bounced around the beach as the next band struck up on stage, and as the first chords sounded, the crowd roared their approval.
I am what I am,
I am my own special creation…
Scott and Virgil looked at each other, and dissolved into fits of giggles at the serendipity of it all.
Sometimes it was just like that at Pride.
Eventually they managed to get a hold of themselves again. Virgil extricated himself from his brother’s arms and stood up to brush himself off.
The song was still going into the second verse, with the crowd singing along to every word in raucous harmony.
“Now this?” he said, inspiration dancing in his eyes, “This is a Pride song worth getting a little dressed up for.”
Grinning, he reached across to Scott’s baldric and nabbed his laser cutter. Then working quickly, he bent down and burned a small tear in each jean leg, before ripping them right across the mid-thigh. He kicked off the remaining tubes of denim, leaving him in a pair of ragged shorts. Then he shrugged his shirt off, whipped off his undershirt (drawing interested looks from more than a few passers-by), and finally pulled his red flannel back on, tying the bottom of it tight across his chest, Daisy Duke style.
The effect was striking.
“How do I look?” he asked, standing proud.
Scott smiled.
“Very you.”
Virgil beamed.
“Dance with me?” he asked, holding out a chivalrous hand to him.
Scott took it with a little curtsy. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, smiling broadly.
And with that the pair of them made their way joyfully down the steps - sand, heels and spirits all kicking high - to join the celebration.
My first ever attempt at the @flashfictionfridayofficial challenge. It's a bit ropey, but it's a thing that exists, so yay progress!
Fandom: Thunderbirds/Thunderbirds Are Go
Word count: 999
Rating: teen
Warnings: Kissing, brief mentions of alcohol and poor mental health.
...
“Now boys, promise me you’ll be good for your mother. Mind your manners, do your chores - all that good stuff, okay?”
An enthusiastic chorus of “Yes Sir”s - together with Scott’s attempt at a salute - and Jeff was compelled to bend down for one last hug with his two tiny Tracys. For a moment he soaked in the smell of soap in his sons’ hair, the feeling of little arms wrapped around him, and of sticky wet kisses on his cheeks.
His heart ached.
Finally he rose again. “Alright boys,” he said, clearing his throat, “to your duties. Dismissed!”
And with that they were gone, racing past their mother on their way to whatever adventure Scotty had convinced Virgil to go on with him today.
“Stay in the yard you two,” Lucy called after them before walking over to Jeff, holding his hold-all. “I packed your father’s penknife for you,” she said, “just in case.”
Jeff took the bag and kissed her on the cheek. “You didn’t need to do that, Honey. Lee's got all the tools we could possibly need on board.”
“I know,” she replied, shrugging. “It’s just in case.”
He chuckled.
Her favourite phrase.
“Alright then; just in case.”
*
“Promise you’ll write?” she asked as they got to the front door.
Jeff turned back, eyebrow raised.
“Write? Is this Victorian England? We have holo’s; I can just call you.”
“I know,” she said, nodding. “It’s just it’s so far, and comms can be unreliable-”
Jeff laughed. “Those same comms you want to send emails through?”
Lucy scowled up at him. “Don’t be an ass, Jeff! I just meant you’ll be so busy, and trying to match up Moon/Earth timezones and stuff, it’s easy to miss each other. I just thought… just in case… it might…”
She huffed and looked at the ground, as if the right words might be scattered down there, and he felt a fresh wave of love for his remarkable, bewildering wife, whose brain was so much quicker than her mouth; who got flummoxed and tongue-tied even as she was thinking circles around you. Trying to keep up with her was like trying to keep pace with a whirlwind.
But god didn’t he just love trying?
His clever, clever Lucy, unfathomable and completely fascinating.
Gently, he reached out and brushed her flushed cheek, willing her to look at him.
“It might…?” he prompted.
Brown eyes met grey. Something brief and inscrutable passed across her face, then she smiled.
“Well…” She cleared her throat. “I just thought it might be something to look back on one day, when we’re old and grey, remembering when we were parted lovers. Like those love letters you see in movies sometimes.”
“Uh-huh. And you thought I’d be ‘leading man material’, huh?” He grinned, puffing out his chest.
“Shuddup,” she grumbled, batting his arm. “Remind me again, how are you planning to fit that ego of yours inside that tiny rocket?”
“Ouch. Kick a man on his way out the door, why don’tcha?” He staggered, clutching his chest and feigning a grievous wound, eliciting giggles.
“Oh yes, definitely got the ‘leading man’ theatrics down!”
“I’m telling Lee you called his rocket ‘tiny’, by the way.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”
An eyebrow. “Try me.”
She went to bat him again but this time he caught her and, holding her in his arms, kissed her softly, tenderly, committing it to memory.
As they finally pulled apart, he saw the flush in her cheek was back. Not ready to completely let her go just yet, he cupped her face in his hand to admire it. He thought of the cherry blossoms in the orchard, just beginning to bud, and how the pair of them had walked together amongst them as he’d shown her the deployment papers. He’d lamented the fact he’d miss the full, floral display this year, even as he thought about what else he would miss...
“Alright Honey,” he said, holding her close, “if you write to me I promise I’ll write back. Write and tell me everything that’s going on at home. I want to hear all about what Meryl was gossiping about at the car-wash, or how much pork has gone up at the market, or exactly how much of an idiot Sheriff Buckley made of himself at the county fair.”
“You’re making fun of me,” she said, pouting.
“I promise I’m not, darlin’.” He took her face in his hands and looked her square in the eye. “I want to know everything. Tell me how Dad’s making a nuisance of himself trying to fix every fencepost around the place. How Mom won’t stop bringing you casseroles and you’re running out of places to hide ‘em.”
Lucy choked back a giggle.
“Write and tell me about every adventure and every scrape the boys get into. Let me know every single thought that goes through that beautiful mind of yours. I want to hear everything. Every moment. Don’t miss out a single thing - write it all. And one day we’ll read them together, side by side in the nursing home, surrounded by grandkids. Okay?”
“...Okay.”
-------------
All was quiet in the villa. Padding softly over to check the lock, Jeff returned to his screen and, after gathering himself together, brought up the hidden file.
The last time he’d looked at it, he’d not been in a good place. There had been whisky. It wasn’t… It was a mistake.
He was better now. His boys had pulled him through.
Together they’d found a new purpose.
It was time.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the file.
“Dear Jeff, how are you doing? I hope Lee isn’t driving you too mad yet. Virgil cut another tooth today…”
One last gift from his clever, clever wife, who’d known that not every love story ends in the nursing home. Who’d realised that one day one of them might need something to help remember the good times.
For @flashfictionfridayofficial 's prompt: Birth of a Star. I went slightly different on this one, but hopefully it's not too terrible. (Even if it is, it's silly 'o'clock in the morning right now so I'm officially calling it!)
EDIT: Apologies if anybody notices a tiny tweak or two in the wording from earlier versions - it was driving me barmy and I had to fix it!
Fandom: Thunderbirds / Thunderbirds Are Go
Word Count: 506
Audience: All
Or read it on AO3
----------------
She waits.
There in the darkness between the heavens and the Earth, alone in a sky filled with stars, she hangs like a raindrop waiting to fall. Inside, earthlight filters through fused quartz windows, casting long shadows across her corridors. Everything is still, like the chill air just before the snow.
Anticipating.
Then somewhere down on the planet below a door closes, and from deep within her a single system stirs. Hums of electricity buzz through her little by little, carrying messages with it:
- Boot: temperature control -
- Boot: oxygen filtration -
- Boot: air circulation -
From her outer wheel there’s a click and then a whir; gears shift and begin to turn, and a cable starts to wind. Round and round, more and more, she pulls on a weight that by rights she shouldn’t know up here; a weight that’s lessening, lighter and lighter until there is no weight. Still she winds, until eventually the spinning gears slow, and there is a satisfying thunk as her safety clamps find home.
- Elevator Status: Docked -
It’s time.
Banks of solid state LEDs flicker on to light the way. Her airlock doors open with a satisfying swoosh, and he’s here. The one she’s been waiting for.
The Voice.
He doesn’t come in right away but instead lingers in the doorway, tracing his fingers around the edge, as if to confirm its solidity. There are parts of her that he’s seen before, some he’s even had a hand in creating, but this is the first time he’s seen her intact.
Whole.
Hello, old new friend.
Finally he pulls himself forwards and floats into the main ring, following her coloured lines as he glides from panel to panel, room to room, getting his bearings. He keeps his helmet on for now - safety protocols are priority one - but he touches everything, committing it to memory, and in doing so he breathes life into her, making her much more than an assembly of parts; more than metal and glass.
Making her real.
By the gleam in his eyes, he feels it too.
At last he reaches the central hub, where her 3D planetary display sits serene, illuminated all in blue, imitating the planet itself.
Without hesitating, he brings up a side display and flicks through to find what he needs. He moves confidently over the controls, accessing menus, running checks; fingers breezing over the console as if he’d been doing this his whole life. Perhaps in a certain way he has, but only ever in his dreams before today.
- Status: All life support systems nominal -
He takes a deep breath and, letting it out slowly, removes his helmet.
A moment.
Two.
A breath.
“I’m home,” he murmurs, smiling softly.
...Welcome home.
----------
- Incoming Call: Tracy Island -
He taps the icon immediately.
“How’s it looking up there, John?” comes a commanding voice, young but full of authority. “Everything go okay?”
“FAB,” The Voice - Her Voice - replies, his tone professional, but with an undertone of pride.
Hi! Thankyou so much for the ask @amistrio! I might divide these into two posts if that's okay?
Gamma Crisis
This came about from a challenging myself to whump the one person that nobody dares whump. But because I'm a chicken who lacks discipline, it turned into a silly little sickfic instead. Still, I'm planning to include a little bit of angst further in, if I ever get that far.
It's the protocol they all dreaded. Protocol Gamma. Grandma's sick.
As the elevator doors opened onto the main living area John was greeted by the most delicious smell.
It was a bad sign.
“Alan!”
His youngest brother started and almost dropped the bowl of steaming hot water he’d been concentrating so hard on carrying.
“John! Glad you made it. We weren’t sure if-”
“Of course I was going to come down. This is important.” He motioned to the bowl. “Want me to take that?”
“Nah, best not. It’s hot and you’re clumsy.”
John shot him a look, but held his tongue. There would be time for brother-dragging later.
“So is it-?”
Alan’s brow furrowed.
“Yep. Full-on flu.”
Dammit.
He’d been afraid of this, ever since Gordon came home from London with a temperature last week. He’d shaken it off pretty quickly (good thing too; he was a terrible patient) and the rest of them had managed to avoid getting too close, but Grandma was never one to let an infection risk get in the way of her Hippocratic oath.
“Is Scott on soup duty?” John asked, purposely turning his wayward thoughts towards the practical as another waft of deliciousness found his nose.
A shake of the head. “Virgil. Scott was flapping, so Virg took over and sent him to run inventory in the med bay instead.”
Med bay?
“It’s not that serious, is it?”
“Nah, he’s just being thorough. He’s got Gordon checking for extra blankets too.”
It sounded like Virgil was in full field marshall mode.
Scott might not be the only one guilty of flapping…
“Okay, I’ll head down there first and give him a hand. Are you sure I can’t carry that for you?”
“Nah, I’m good,” he replied. “You could get the door for me though.”
John pressed the button to summon the elevator, which opened immediately, and reached through to make sure the door couldn’t close...
…Which was unfortunately exactly when gravity decided to bite him in the ass. Hit with a sudden wave of vertigo, he found himself stumbling sideways just as Alan was stepping through. Elbow clashed with elbow, and steaming water sloshed out onto the floor and all down Alan’s shirt.
“Ow, hot!”
“Oh god, Al, are you al-”
Alan shook his head quickly. “Don’t panic, it’s not hot enough to scald. I’d probably better go get cleaned up though.” He nodded his head towards one shoulder, on which he was carrying a small towel. “Could you grab that please? I’ll get another one upstairs.”
Understanding, John took the towel and laid it over the puddle of water.
“Thanks,” said Alan, “I’ll come back for that once I’ve delivered this.” He cocked his head as something occurred to him. “Uh, John? Exactly how quickly did you come down?”
Uh-oh. Busted.
“What do you mean, exactly?”
Alan gave him a look that was so Scott it was scary. John pursed his lips and considered his words carefully.
“Fast enough to reflect the seriousness of the situation,” he hedged. “Not so fast as to be actually dangerous.”
Alan snorted and held the look, but John didn’t back down. After a few seconds of impromptu staring contest, Alan conceded.
“Fine, but if the others find out, I know nothing.”
John’s lip twitched. “Always.”
“Rude. Just take it easy and stay away from anything breakable, okay? We’ve got enough going on already.”
Hi! Thankyou so much for the ask! (And thankyou to @tikatu and @myladykayo , who also requested this one.)
This one-shot is a response to @tracybirds One Prompt Challenge , although I haven't actually gotten to the prompt bit yet. (I swear, I 100% intend to finish it... someday...) As it stands though, it's still very fragmented and piecemeal.
That said, here's a little snippet:
Lady Penelope is away on a very special solo mission, and so poor Parker is left alone with only his thoughts - and a concerned Alan - for company...
“She’ll be alright, Parker.”
Mister Alan's words broke through his thoughts like a cricket ball through glass, sending unwelcome splinters of worry shooting into his heart.
“Well of course she’ll be alright! Soft lad. Why on earth would you think she wouldn’t be alright?”
Methinks the chauffeur doth protest too much.
Because that was the fear, wasn’t it? Her Ladyship was as fierce and as strong as any woman - any person - he’d ever met, but you never knew, did you? These things happened, after all…
He brushed the thought off with a shake of his head. Of course she’d be alright! As if her Ladyship would tolerate anything less. Honestly, if she were here right now she'd give him what-for and no mistake. He could hear her in his head now: “Do stop worrying and try to get on with something useful, would you Parker?”
“She’ll be fine,” he said again, ignoring the slight croak in his voice. “Right as rain. You mark my words.”
The wind whistled through the alleyway, calling him out.
…God, he wanted a cigarette. Of course, Her Ladyship had put a stop to all that almost as soon as she’d met him.
Or at least she thought she had.
The Grey Ninja still had a few secrets.
The day she discovered all of FAB1’s secret hidey-holes was the day he’d finally retire.
He shuddered at the very thought.
Not needed anymore.
Perhaps he would take up golf instead.
He shuddered again.
Of course, she didn’t really need his protection any more now; hadn’t for a long time. Plenty’s the time she’d been the one to save him from disaster, be that from violent gangsters or the wrong side of Lil’s sharp tongue, but even so…
Back in the beginning, when she was a young slip of a thing and he was only just removed from that old, dirty life of his, he’d felt deeply - viscerally - the enormous responsibility he’d been given by His Lordship; guardianship of his most precious treasure. Anything even slightly untoward happened, and he was to protect her no matter what; that was the deal.
He turned his collar up at the chill that chose that moment to creep up his back.
If he really couldn’t be beside her during this, perhaps her most perilous mission to date, then he would just have to make do with being as close as he could. Cold weather be damned.
Because he felt the weight of it even now, deep in his marrow.
