Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3! Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 | Ao3
Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3
Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 | Ao3
Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3
Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3
Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3
Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3
Chapter 10: Part 16 (you are here)
A/N: Let’s ignore that I should be resting. I don’t have a chapter ready but I do have a part done, which now that we are past the harder, heavy sections.... why not. You deserve it for sticking with me, tumblr. Who wanted big brother BootScoot? it might be obvious I was sick at the end/still
*****
Part 16 (Part of Chapter 10)
The hour grew late and it was deep in the night before the party dispersed and they made their way back to Gordon’s home. Scott planned to stick around until the next day to help with clean-up efforts as long as there were no significant callouts. He flung his boots off by the door, and by the time he came out of the guest restroom, Gordon and Virgil had taken over the couch he planned to frequent for the evening. Though, only one of his siblings was awake, staring down at the sleeping figure of their younger brother, still with a mix of awe and paranoia that if he looked away he might disappear.
“He’ll feel like hell in the morning if we leave him like that.” Scott approached the two of them, gently slipping his hands under Gordon’s back and knees and lifting him up into his arms with a grunt. In sleep, Gordon sighed deeply, his head downturned in the pillow of Scott’s chest.
“Wanna help?” he asked Virgil, swinging the door to Gordon’s bedroom further open with the flick of his foot. “Can you grab his cane and the blanket?”
Virgil hadn’t had the chance to look around Gordon’s room earlier that evening, so focused he was on getting Gordon comfortable that he’d beelined for the weighted blanket that rested at the foot of his bed. But now, in the quiet of their breathing, Virgil took a moment to look around the haven space that his brother had created within his home.
The primary color scheme was green, if only for the plants that covered wall to ceiling, including a thriving peace lily so like the one he’d been given when he arrived.
Beyond the greenery, Gordon favored the natural look of the wood of his house, with splashes of color to accompany the neutrals. What was missing was the nautical aesthetic that pervaded the rest of the home; counter to the ship’s wheel of the living space, Gordon’s bedroom was a call back to land with its wide windows opened out towards the farm, foundations of wood with one complete wall in rustic red brick.
Tucked in a corner was a writing desk and chair set Virgil hadn’t noticed at all initially with a laptop sitting closed on top.
Overtop his headboard, a massive macrame art piece draped down from a piece of driftwood, the thick beige cords braided and knotted into an array of chevrons and diamonds above a backdrop of long fringe. Shelving built atop a modest series of dresser drawers was filled corner to corner with different recipe books, instructional manuals, the occasional fiction novel, collections of plant and animal identifications, and finally, what Virgil immediately recognized as copies of John’s texts. The books were well-loved and interspersed on the bookcase with a small display of single stem vases and picture frames.
He recognized in the collection of memories a copy of their parents’ wedding photo, one of the few Christmas family photos where all five kids were looking toward the camera and Dad had been home to join in, a candid shot someone had taken of a young Gordon cooking with Grandma in which more flour had landed in Gordon’s hair than in the batter.
“Is this your first time in here?”
No, not really. But also, in an entirely different way, “Yes.”
It was one thing to notice the large television screen and the French casement windows on his way towards grabbing the blanket Gordon needed, and another thing altogether to spend the time noticing the details he’d missed. The important information, like the cross-stitch hoops hung on the wall with inspirational quotes and initialed with a JS, the open banjo case set near a guitar case and one nearly the same shape, but much smaller – his old ukulele.
“Come around here.” Scott gestured for Virgil to come closer to the side of the bed, reaching for the blanket in Virgil’s hands and opening it wide to cover their brother’s curled form. He tucked the corners in close. “Over here.”
Gordon’s nightstand held simply a chicken figurine and handmade cotton coaster. But hanging above, originally blocked from Virgil’s view by Scott’s height, was a watercolor of a trio of delicate daffodils against a light background of blue sky fading into the edges of the canvas. In the lower righthand corner was his own signature scrawl of V. Tracy.
He remembered it well, a set of three art pieces he’d donated for one of Lady Penelope’s charity auctions, watercolors because it had been for ocean conservation. Of the three florals, the daffodils were his favorite, and he could remember down to the song the inspiration behind them. By nature of the charity, one that had been so close to his brother’s heart, his music had switched to a song that reminded him of Gordon and he painted his forgiveness in yellow flowers. That’s what made the final painting the best of the three.
And yet he hadn’t meant for Gordon to ever see it back then.
“How?”
Scott gestured towards the sky.
“John sent Gordon the auction details,” Scott admitted. “The rest was him. I didn’t know he had one of your pieces until the next time I visited.”
Not just one of his pieces, but that piece. Virgil guessed Scott didn’t understand just how significant it was that the artwork found its way to Gordon’s hands. Forgiveness was a tricky thing; he’d been missing his brother and momentarily ready to ignore the aching in heart for the happy memories they held. But when it came time to donate the work, he hadn’t thought twice sending it away to Lady P. The release was welcome, but he hadn’t been ready.
But the flowers were where they belonged, and he was happy now to see them framed amidst the rest of the natural flora of Gordon’s space.
“Come on, Virgil,” Scott tugged on his shoulder. “We should give him peace to rest. Let’s talk.”
“One moment.” He needed to check his vitals one more time, and if he hitched the blanket more comfortably around Gordon’s shoulders even though Scott had already done so, his older brother had the good sense not to make a big deal about it. Gordon was healthy, safe, and comfortable, and that’s what mattered.
~*~
“We never wanted to keep this from you.” Scott leaned back against the counter sink, his arms crossed at his chest, but expression soft. “It was the right thing to do for Gordon at the time.”
Virgil hummed, his fingers idly strumming the banjo they’d forgotten to return to its case, abandoned at the door when Gordon had crashed on the couch. The music kept him centered, considering the day had been one of the lowest lows and the highest highs. His heart had been through a roller coaster of fear, and regret, and hurt, and vulnerability, and love.
Emotionally, he was spent.
“I don’t have it in me to be anything other than grateful anymore,” Virgil said, and he meant every word of it, glancing up from the wail of the banjo to Scott’s sky-blues. “I’m not mad. It hasn’t gotten me anywhere in the past being mad. Clearly.”
Scott nodded. “You’ve had a long day.”
Understatement, truly. He laughed wryly, propping the instrument against the table, and standing up to meet his brother’s height, and Scott straightened his shoulders.
“There’s just one thing I’d like to know still,” Virgil said. “Did you know what Gordon was doing pushing me away for the sake of International Rescue?” He’d never said it with such disdain. “Please tell me that’s not why you never told me where he was.”
Scott shook his head sadly. “I just tried to do what was right by the two of you. Gordon’s reasons were his own, as were yours. I wouldn’t have kept it quiet because of IR. I believe our family should come before International Rescue.”
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. It’s time to actually mean it. What’s done is done, but when I get home, things change. We all plan to come to the bonfire, and if there are other events, we attend those too. We invite him to the Island if its something he wants to try to do, and if not, we come here as often as he will have us. I don’t want to lose anymore Christmases or birthdays. He doesn’t deserve to miss anymore either.”
Scott nodded. “I agree. Of course I do. But, Virg,” he gently placed his hands on either side of Virgil’s shoulders, realizing his brother hadn’t realized what he’d said, “I need to ask, are you ready to? Come home with me tomorrow, I mean?”
A beat as Virgil expelled a breath, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 15 (Chapter 9)
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3! Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 | Ao3
Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3
Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 | Ao3
Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3
Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3
Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3
Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3
A/N: Alright, chickadees. They talk finally - in another 3K. It’s a lot of dialogue as you might expect.
*****
Chapter 9
(Read on AO3)
Gordon had been practicing the art of misdirection his whole life.
Using his private credit card, he ordered a set of blackout shades for his bedroom windows on the island. In a deep blue, they still matched the design of his room so that he could trade out his sheer blinds for the new ones without having to explain to anyone why he suddenly wanted the ability to choose when to look out to sea. His family still asked about the change in decor.
Naturally. So wrapped in their own memories of his time in the hospital, they easily accepted his response that, after all he'd been through, he just wanted a change, a bit more control in how much light he had coming into his room after the months under hospital LEDs.
The lie slipped through with an ease that he felt guilty to be proud of. The desire for control was real, the sensitivity to light not so much. It was control of his life back, control of his legs, his mind, his emotions. Control of his pain and the tremble of his hands.
None of those things were making his walk down to the beach easy, and more than once he found himself halting to turn back to the looming structure of the villa where the color of his dark shades continued to steal his gaze away, so different to the way the rest of the window panes looked from the ground. They drew his eyes, a welcome portal of dark against the rest of the transparent glass of the Tracy home, reflections of the sea from all sides...
“Move, Gordo,” he told himself. “They’re just curtains.” And yet they represented comfort and control; behind them was the safety of thick windows, sound-proofed walls, and the burst of the holovision screen that could take him anywhere in the world.
But he needed to do this; he needed to know for sure. He tore himself away from the view of the home built into the mountain and disappeared down the trail past the poolside.
Virgil and Brains talked about enhancements to Four more and more every day. Just last night they’d shown him their design for arm controls that would allow him to direct the submarine’s claws. The idea was not yet built, but conceptualized, and while two engineers tossed their enthusiasm back and forth to each other as they spoke, the pit in Gordon’s stomach grew to a size in which the emptiness hurt more than the sting of his back.
For so long he’d ached for the open skies and fresh air, for his independence to move about as he pleased. The weight in his chest whenever he looked outside the window was the last thing he’d expected from his recovery. And the sound! Outside, the hiss of the waves persisted as static in his ears.
He’d made it as far as the series of steps hidden down the trail before his knee started to give out, but Gordon was, if nothing else, persistent. What was a bit more soreness in his joints when he’d felt before the agony of his bones shattering into his muscles and through skin? Just a matter of one step in front of the other, in front of the other, the way his doctors taught him. The way Virgil had encouraged him on the other side of the parallel bars. Except this time, it was his heartbeat keeping him off balance, the hard pounding against his rib cage the closer he got to the beachside. Dirt became sand, and the steps eased into a descending path of white, of shells powdered down into almost nothing.
One step.
Another.
On the shoreline, Gordon stopped where the dirt met sand, raising his eyeline from the remaining expanse of beach to meet the familiar white of swash.
The waves roared.
He cowered back at the booming in his ears - of the ocean and his heartbeat teaming up so that he felt every movement of the sea pushing him backward.
“I can’t do this.”
There was iron in his mouth, salt water clinging to his eyelashes, dripping past his lips.
His body was flying through the air, curling around itself to prepare for collision, but yet it wasn’t. The back of his heels hit the steps, and he fell to his backside. Standing no longer, his arms found each other encircling his knees, and he rocked and rocked and rocked while the sea mocked him, from all sides goading him into a form so small he was nothing, like the sand.
He blinked past the wet blur of his vision and brought his hands up to his ears to press the sound down, then turned scrambling back up the hillside.
~*~
Gordon coughed, his mouth dry, and took a large sip of the glass of water Virgil had kindly brought to his side. Through the weighted blanket, he felt the warmth of his brother’s hand on his knee as he spoke, and though he listened openly, Virgil’s expression tightened.
“Was that your first panic attack?”
“I suppose it might’ve been.” Gordon nodded. He hadn’t really thought much of it at the time but he’d learned a lot about himself since then.
“What happened next?”
“Well I meant to go back to my room…”
Virgil’s face paled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t make it.”
In the silence between them, the water Gordon swallowed sounded so much louder to his own ears. He shook his head. “I’d be lying.”
“Are you telling me this is the day?” Virgil pulled his hand back suddenly and started tapping at his own thigh.
“I don’t remember it! Honest, Virgil. I need you to know I would never have done something like that if I had been in control of myself. It’s no excuse, I know. It was all primal response. I am so sorry for the damage I caused. To the studio. And to you.”
“I was painting you an underwater scene.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I set you off again. After you had just -”
“It was all the same panic, Virg. I just barrelled in -” his voice cracked, “- and all I remember is the red paint under my fingernails. I tore at your canvases. Who does that?”
The tingling reached to the tips of his fingers, and he curled them loosely where they rested on his legs, clean.
One of the floorboards creaked with the light pad of footsteps towards the front room, and before the door swung open, both of their communicators vibrated with a message. Virgil picked it from his watch.
“Scott says he won’t be far, and to let him know if he’s needed.”
“Okay.” He nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay, good.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“What happened today? You know, if I had known, I would never have recommended the boat, and I just - why wouldn’t you have said something to stop me?”
“Hmm.” He gave Virgil credit for giving him time to think about his answer, but Gordon could tell the longer he thought about it the more anxious Virgil was getting in the silence. But it was one he wanted to make sure he worded properly. Too much hurt had come from misunderstandings already.
“Do you remember your first love?” he asked finally.
An ancient hurt crossed Virgil’s expression. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I don’t mean it that way.” He flicked a knowing glance to him, because he understood where Virgil’s mind had gone, and those were not the kindest of memories. Nor were the ones he needed Virgil to dredge through. “Even before high school. Yours is music. Ma’s music. At some point you started playing her songs again, right? Do you still?”
“Yes.” Virgil’s hair fell into his eyes, as he bowed his head, no doubt remembering one of the tunes she’d taught him. Virgil’s mind had always been in a constant stream of music memory like that. “I think I know what you are trying to say.”
Good. “Then you know what it is like to love something that evokes the most negative emotions at the same time it carries the strongest of positive ones.” He remembered that version of himself stepping back onto sand for the first time, and bolting. “When I left the island, it was because I was slowly being choked. Imagine Ma’s music following you. Everyone was ecstatic about Four. My therapists wanted to give hydro a try. And from all corners of our home there were the waves converging, smothering; I could hear them… everywhere… until the number of safe spaces got smaller and smaller. And I broke.”
“I’m sorry, Gordon. I was so hurt you left, I never stopped to let myself think of why.”
“I didn’t offer it either.” He sighed. “So, then I bought all this land on a whim because it was by the sea. John thought I was crazy for investing in so much empty land, but he helped me anyway. I lived where Kai-san lives now. I tried to find the ocean within myself again, because who was I, Gordon Tracy - aquanaut, without the sea? I thought if I continued to break my heart, one day it would leave it open again, and if I fell, maybe one day I’d fall into becoming whole.”
“Did it work?”
“Does playing Ma’s music make you feel whole?”
“No. Most of the time it makes me feel emptier. It reminds me of what we’ve lost.”
“So then why do you still play it?”
“Because it still makes me feel closer to her.”
Gordon nodded; he knew this all along. “Gordon Tracy - aquanaut is still deeply a part of me. Being close to the sea reminds me of who that person was. So, no it didn’t work. I ended up hiring folks to build the rancher and I found myself trying to force myself to face the sea less and less. It’s not about being whole again. Those losses will always be there. I filled the space with little joys that became new passions, new paths, but that doesn’t mean they erased the past.
“There’s a reason I keep Sea side in the name still. It’s for who I was. I had to learn to love her differently, from afar and for her history with me. Because at some point I acknowledged that the fear was real, that it is still here, within me, and the sea is no longer who I am.” He brought his hand to cover his chest then slowly lowered it. “I shouldn’t have tested my limits too far like that; I just told myself it would be worth the risk to get my brother back, and at some point I stopped thinking rationally. That is not on you. I was going to tell you today anyway. I hadn’t meant to show it to you. It made it way too visceral for the both of us.”
It was a lot of his heart to bare, his entire journey of many years into just a few sentences, and in her half-sleep at his side, Skipper whined as she picked up on the tension pouring off of him. He found himself staring at the woodgrains again and his fingers quickly found the top of her head to pat her into calm, and admittedly, vice versa. So focused he was on the softness of her fur that Virgil’s arm snaking around the back of his shoulders startled him, and he gasped.
“Hey, look at me, please.” And, as Gordon did so, Virgil gathered him into the wingspan of his arms, speaking softly into his hair. What came out of his mouth was the last thing Gordon expected to hear after revealing the truth. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.” He pulled him back to look him in the eye, and it was hard for Gordon to meet his intensity. “I mean it.”
“It doesn’t feel like I am.”
“I should not have to remind you that courage does not mean the absence of fear.”
“I know.” But it was easier said than done.
With Virgil still holding him steady on the couch, neither one of them seemed willing to put distance between them again, and they fell into an ease of touch, much like the way Gordon had leaned into Scott earlier.
“I remember it, you know?” Gordon muttered, closing his eyes with the gentle rhythm of Virgil’s hand in his hair. “The accident.”
“We don’t need to talk about it. Not tonight. Not unless you want to?” Gordon shook his head into his chest. “Me too, though.” Virgil’s voice rumbled through him. “The building collapse. I remember everything. I can only imagine… Gordon, can I ask one more question?”
“Sure. What’s one more?” he shrugged.
“Why didn’t you trust me with this before? When you were first aware of it on the island, before everything else happened? I would’ve helped. You have to know that?”
“Yeah, I knew that. It’s not what you are thinking, what you accused me of the other day. I would never have blamed you for anything, Virgil. You have to know that. ” And he said it without the question, demanding that Virgil understand him. He grasped onto his wrist, and held on tight. “I just explained so much to you about what I was going through in that time. My heart knew I was going to leave before I did. I didn’t know how not to be an aquanaut. International Rescue was what brought everyone motivation. It was the first thing everyone thought of in the morning, the last thing at night. I was supposed to be your co-pilot. And I couldn’t face you knowing I was never going to be Thunderbird Four.”
“I never needed you to be Thunderbird Four. I needed my brother. I would’ve done anything to make you feel more comfortable.”
“You would’ve come with me.”
“Yes, absolutely. You know I would’ve.” The vehemence to the statement made Gordon smile sadly, even as Virgil’s countenance showed he hadn’t yet realized the magnitude of what he’d just admitted.
“I know,” he said pointedly, sitting back to see what Virgil was thinking. The moment of comprehension was obvious, crossing Virgil’s face with the thought of losing Thunderbird Two, of International Rescue, and the people they’d saved. “That’s the reason why I couldn’t tell you.”
~*~
Another ping from Scott came through their phones before they spoke again, managing nothing but calm breathing after talking for so long in the quiet of the home. Gordon’s throat felt raw and scratchy, but he felt steadier, his hand trembled less, and eventually he’d managed to make his own way to the kitchen to refill his waterglass.
The reflection of the firelight danced across his windows, and the distant laughter muted by the panes inspired a bounce in his step as he returned to Virgil.
“I wanna rejoin the party.”
His brother’s lack of enthusiasm was apparent as he frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Absolutely. I’ve had what I needed to calm myself. Now, I want to celebrate with our friends.” Gordon knew himself to be the most extroverted of the Tracy brothers, though Scott could certainly give him a run for his money by his ease in working a room alone, but there was a purposeful encouragement in the way he used the word ‘our’ when speaking to Virgil. After all, the bonfire was always a celebration of friends and family, and the line where they became one.
For Virgil’s sake he agreed to wear the heart monitor the medic had dug out of Scott’s kit left by the door, knowing the large flannel he’d planned for the party had more than enough room to hide the electrodes beneath the stripes of blue and yellow. Scott, it seemed, had stolen his neon pink shark slippers.
“Gordon,” Virgil said as he finished securing the test. “One more thing before we go. You need to actually hear it.” He took Gordon’s banjo out of his hands, gently resting it against the wall out of the way, and wrapped him in his arms one more time. “I’m sorry . And I love you.”
“Oh!” he squeaked, squeezing back. “I’m sorry and I love you too.”
~*~
Jules’s lanterns along the path led the way for them towards the hum of voices, and while there were plenty of people dancing within the canopy, Gordon turned to where he knew his close friends would be by the bonfire. He saw Scott take a bag of ice off Scraps’s hands, and his friend turn back toward the caterer’s vehicles. Both of them caught sight of them and waved, and he knew they’d be back around, even as Bryce Sheridan dragged Scott into his conversation with the Mayor.
They approached the circle of seats, and Everett stood from his Adirondack to give Gordon his chair and Virgil the one beside it, shifting to the log nearby with a kind smile. Virgil propped Gordon’s cane up against the chair in easy reach, and handed him his banjo, then grabbed them each a souvenir blanket for when the night got cooler.
Gordon looked above at the extra star in the sky that let him know John, despite being the kind of person who disliked parties, was with him too. Thunderbird Five uncloaked for only him and his brothers to know.
Warmed by more than the blanket, more than the fire, he lifted his banjo.
“Elvis?” his friend asked, guitar in position.
“You got it, Ev.”
They both strummed their instruments into song, and in the place where strings met, where the fire glowed with possibility, his heart danced.
Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 14 (Chapter 8)
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3! Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 | Ao3
Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3
Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 | Ao3
Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3
Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3
Chapter 8: Part 14 (You are here) | Ao3
*****
Chapter 8
Ao3 Here
Emergency services departed with significantly less fanfare than when they arrived, the shrill sirens quieted and the lights devoid of flashing as they made their way back up the hill and away from the Tracy Estate. Virgil wished they’d taken Gordon with them on their solemn ascent, but his brother had argued: if it was calm and care the doctor ordered, he’d find that here on his Estate a lot easier than he would in a hospital. Too many memories.
Their scans had picked up no signs of any ongoing heart issues, but the paramedics had still felt it would benefit Gordon to be seen by a licensed professional, just to rule out the possibility. And Virgil agreed with them, though he understood Gordon’s haunted eyes and his shuddering recoil at even the word hospital.
What had kept him from forcing the matter was actually Scraps, the way she knelt beside him on the dock and answered questions about his medical history, with all the command of Scott on a mission in the sky. The two of them had been here before, and as horrible as Virgil felt about accidentally causing his brother a level of stress that literally had taken his breath away, it was nothing compared to the giant pit in his gut at realizing he also wasn’t the right person to help him, that - for all their history after his accident - the person who was best equipped to speak on Gordon’s behalf was not him.
He didn’t have the right answers this time, not for Gordon. And he’d certainly done enough damage already for one day. So he’d sealed his lips as Scraps took control of the situation.
He’d dropped down to sit on the dock himself, burying his face in his hands while Gordon’s vitals were being checked.
“Hey, you okay?” It had been Gordon’s voice, but a delicate, wrinkled hand that came to rest on his shoulder to catch his attention. Kai-san’s head had cocked towards the flurry of activity dockside, and Virgil pulled himself from his musings to catch his brother’s eye. Gordon had offered him a weak smile, through the rescue blanket curled his shoulders and the pressure cuff squeezing around his arm, and the team of medical responders surrounding him.
He remembered opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again. Nodding.
One of the EMT’s had knelt beside him, and he shook his head.
“I’m fine.”
He hadn’t been going into shock; he just… was shocked. And overwhelmed and scared and thankful and sad, all at once.
As emergency services had finished packing their equipment back into the vehicle, they tried once more to encourage Gordon to let himself be checked out in the hospital, this time emphasizing that he should be admitted at least for observation. Gordon had clammed up at the suggestion.
Long ago, his darkest moments after the hydrofoil accident had not been due to what had happened to him (though not every day was a positive one), but the strong emotions surrounding how he felt after - the adjustments he had to make to define his independence, the feeling of being watched, being an experiment. Being judged.
"I can watch him." Virgil had offered, scrambling for his identification. "I'm iR.” They all were certified paramedics as part of their rescue training. In this case he was just grateful there was something he could offer to make up for the nightmare of their excursion. He owed him that - to step back from his own opinions on what was best for his brother, and just listen to him this time.
He shook the paramedics’ hands and thanked them for trekking all the way out here, then watched them leave in their vehicles up the hill before he caught his breath and turned back towards the residents of the estate, clustered together. Scraps was kneeling in front of Gordon, keeping his view focused on her instead of the open water behind them, and Kai-san, glancing back toward the bobbing boat, as the dockside was her responsibility.
“Virgil.” His name carried a huge weight in Gordon’s lungs as he expelled it with a breath. “Thank you.”
It filled him with warmth to know that Gordon perceived his offer to monitor him from a place of trust and that, like it had been ages ago, Virgil’s care was the exception to the disgust Gordon felt at all the eyes. Virgil’s eyes, so like his own, had been welcomed.
He swooped down beside him. “Don’t thank me yet. Vigilant Virgil, and all.”
“I remember.”
They sat there briefly, their voices fading, the gentle hum of music from Virgil’s sound system carrying with the sounds of laughter from the party. And in between, the whoosh of waves lapping upon the shore close by.
“Can you move?” Virgil asked. “I think it’s time we get you dirtside and back home.”
“But our guests!" Even as Gordon glanced back up towards the activity above, he nodded and gripped their shoulders from either side to lift himself up, and Virgil slid his arm at the small of his back to help support him to his feet and left it there once he was standing.
Scraps pressed a gentle kiss to Gordon’s temple. Now that the immediate concern was over, Virgil saw in her a similar sense of relief, but the strain of being torn between two responsibilities, that of a host and that of a friend. She could not be in two places at once, and so she had to place an immense amount of faith in Virgil.
“I’ve got the party,” she told Gordon, speaking into his hair. “Listen to your brother, honey. You’re in good hands.” And, through the embrace, she pierced Virgil with a look so intense that he knew she’d break him apart with her gaze alone if he made a liar out of her.
He wouldn’t. He promised himself then and there.
He nodded, and she stepped back just as Kai-san came up with Gordon’s cane and their phones, having just finished securing the catamaran and retrieving the items they’d left aboard in the hustle to get to shore. Virgil pocketed the electronics, and Gordon led them back to the elevator that would take them up the hillside, accepting Virgil’s hand on his back but determined to walk back on his own power.
Though how his arm trembled in the silence.
He knew it was a sign of the utter concentration that had overtaken his brother. Learning to walk again had been much the same, quiet where all Gordon’s energy was focused on putting one foot in front of the other and vocal only once he knew whether it was a cheer for his success or a scream for his failures.
Virgil knew the farm well enough now that he was able to guide Gordon around where the party-goers would be congregating, and so they took the hidden trail that led them through the garden and to the back entrance of Gordon’s farmhouse where the wind teased a mild echo out of the bamboo chimes hanging from his porch ceiling. They scraped their shoes along the rough bristles of the welcome mat outside the entryway, and Virgil pressed the door open for his brother to walk through.
Virgil slipped his shoes off; they’d been rendered unrecognizable now that they had been dragged through the rougher trail, caked in sand and dirt where the piano key design had once been white.
His back was turned only briefly, but in the time his back had been turned, Gordon had walked past him and into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, he spotted Skipper peering at him from the light of the guest room where she’d skittered away from the noise and firelight, now curious about their return but tentative to leave the current safety of her space.
“C’mon, Skip-”
Her name was cut short by the sickening crunch of wood breaking from the other room, and Virgil flinched at the memory of splintering beneath his feet and beams cracking above him. The sensation of falling, then pain. The toll of a bell that existed only in his ears, his mind, as he faded.
But this wasn’t the sound of a building collapsing on him. It was a much smaller sound, more a shatter than the thunderous boom of foundations rumbling, but it shuddered through him with as much power as that day. It sounded like it could’ve been Gordon’s cane, or the wooden kitchen chairs, and either way, he feared his brother overbalancing. Feared him falling.
He ran.
Gordon stood breath heaving amidst the kitchen, pristine save for the mess below the refrigerator where a scattering of magnets and photographs had fallen to accompany the skeleton remains of the model ship that once was proudly displayed on the kitchen table.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” His brother sounded as far away and as lost as those swallowed by the deep. He did not turn when Virgil sprinted towards him; he could not look away from the debris on the floor, though he spoke like those doomed spellbound by siren song, “I always do that. Why do I always destroy everything?”
“You don’t.” Virgil clasped his shoulder, squeezed gently to pull him away. “You also create.”
Gordon shook his head, turning away, “That does not sound like me.”
“It is you,” Virgil argued. “Look around yourself, Gordon. Every slab of wood, every life here, all the laughter out there. You have a hand in all of it.” He stepped in front of him, blocking the view of the mess the way Scraps had earlier blocked the view of the sea, and he lightly lifted Gordon’s chin upward to encourage him to meet his gaze. It wasn’t until he saw dim amber that he shared, “This place has your heart all over it. Destruction and creation just go hand in hand sometimes, Gordo.”
He knew it well. The reign of fire that made way for new life, the demolition of the old to rebuild something new, the erasure of drawn lines to paint beauty overtop.
He led Gordon away from the kitchen, towards the couch in the living room where Gordon curled onto his side, and uttered a sigh as his body came in contact with the soft cushions. He offered to collect anything he needed, and after delivering a fresh glass of water, he stepped into Gordon’s bedroom with his permission to find the blanket at the foot of his bed.
He tucked it around him, feeling the additional heft in its structure, which gave it more weight as Gordon burrowed into it. By that time Skipper had come out from hiding at the noise they’d made, and spread herself out on the floor by him, eyes drooping. Gordon’s fingers curled around her fur. He massaged the area by her ear.
Content that he was settled and resting and that Skipper would alert him if she sensed anything, he turned back away to straighten the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if the model was salvageable or if he could recreate the boat with enough of the pieces, but he could certainly try.
Virgil’s back was to the front entrance and he was picking up bits of mast when a booming series of knocks at the door caused him to jump about a foot in the air. He recognized the force and rhythm to be that of Scott, and his brother barged in even as he turned to go open the door. Blue eyes darted between rooms, scanning with a military-trained level of inquiry.
“Scott! What are you doing here?”
“John heard your emergency call,” Scott told him, striding up to him. “Neither of you have been answering your phones,”
The accusation stung, but it reminded him that he’d tucked both phones out of the way. He fished them out of his back pocket, realizing both he and Gordon had been receiving multiple calls from their siblings. They must’ve panicked, and Scott appeared to have come right from a rescue, the sweat clinging to his hair and his suit covered in a layer of dirt and stone. Mountain retrieval, perhaps, or a cave-in.
“You’re right,” he said, glancing down at the phones in dismay they’d not checked in with them sooner. The frequency of calls, and their hastened cadence, spoke volumes. “I’m sorry, Scott.”
“Never mind,” Scott said, his tone softening. He pulled Virgil close, seeming to realize this was their first in-person conversation in weeks. Virgil clasped him tight. He’d missed his older brother, and he knew the farm retreat had helped heal his mind and body; he hoped it was visible and that Scott was proud of his progress. “You seem so much better, Virg. I’m glad.” And the glisten in his eyes proved he meant it. “Fill me in. Is he ok?”
“Yes, he’s ok,” Virgil assured him, pulling back and glad that he’d come. “This way.”
He had a feeling Scott understood more than Virgil knew; but, even still, there was little he could report without risking oversharing details that Virgil felt were Gordon’s to tell. The strands of trust between them were tenuous at best, and though he wanted to weave them together and make them strong - and it seemed Gordon did too - they were still fresh, new threads he wasn’t ready to test in case they broke.
He‘d left Gordon under Skipper’s capable supervision, and by the time he walked back into the room with Scott, the pup had wedged her way on the couch with him, and Gordon had shifted to give her additional space. He’d been drifting wearily earlier, but now he was staring at the woodgrains of the wall with his hand at Skipper’s head. She perked up at their footsteps, barking in confusion at the extra set of feet and alerting Gordon to their presence.
“Scott!”
“It’s me. Budge over, Squid.”
“You’re gonna get my furniture all dirty.” But Gordon made room for him anyway, and Virgil settled adjacent to them in a reclining chair since two humans and a dog were already too many on the couch.
“How are you?” Scott asked.
“I’m ok. Just memories.” Scott nodded like he knew what that meant, and Virgil noted the way Gordon leaned into Scott’s hand carding through his hair. “I didn’t think you could come.”
“They caught my call out earlier,” Virgil explained.
“Oh.” Gordon stared out towards Virgil, speaking softly. “That makes sense. I’m sorry I scared you, Scott. Everything’s fine here, though. If you need to head back.”
Scott’s hand stalled. His lips thinned, and the strain at the corners of his eyes reminded Virgil starkly of their father - countless business trips away during his son’s recital, or swim meet, or the “big” game. Torn between duty and family. But it reminded him not of the times his father left for a long mission or meeting, but the times he didn’t. The time he had made it home for Scott’s thirteenth birthday and John’s science fair presentation on quasars and Alan’s pre-school performance where he’d been cast as a shrub and Gordon’s career day.
For himself, it was the art gallery he’d been invited to display three of his paintings for. It was the expression his father bore when Virgil caught sight of him and called him over with the kind of joy that revealed he’d been surprised he made it: closed eyes with regret that his children had doubted him and that, in many ways, he understood it.
It was no secret between them that their father could never guarantee the fulfillment of his promises. It had taken him away from them in the end, the promise to never give up at any cost.
Gordon was unaware of the battle spilling over his brother’s face, but Virgil saw it, watching Scott steel himself before his very eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to. What if a rescue comes up? That’s important.”
“So are you.” Scott dropped his hand to Gordon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I should’ve been here in the first place. So I’m here, however you need me.”
Stunned into silence, Gordon swallowed.
Virgil cleared his throat, “Uh, yeah, I should finish cleaning up the kitchen.”
“Don’t. Please stay.” The sharpness in Gordon’s command halted him even before he was able to stand. To Scott, Gordon asked, “Right now, the best way to help me would be to help Scraps. Can you help with the party? Because I-I need to talk to Virgil.”
Scott glanced over to him, his expression unreadable through the array of emotions being quelled through his military training. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps pain, but either way, he hesitated in his response, his hand lingering on Gordon’s shoulder.
A beat, an exchange of glances between them.
“Of course, Squid. Can I shower first?”
“Yes,” Gordon seemed unaffected by the suggestion. “You know where your change of clothes is.”
“Sure do.” He peeled himself away from the living room, and after a minute or two they heard
the creak of the hall storage closet, followed by the catch of a showerhead in the washroom.
So effortless it had been for Scott to stride in, offering nothing and everything, just himself in whatever way Gordon needed him. The ease to which their older brother walked around the cottage and knew the people here no longer surprised Virgil anymore. It hurt instead, and he wondered how much of his father’s regret matched his own expression.
“I owe you an explanation.”
Virgil scowled.
“No, you don’t owe me anything.” After all the weeks dancing around each other, the conversations that had felt directionless, the pieces falling into place that left him horrified and embarrassed, the last thing he wanted was to approach this conversation from a place of obligation. Gordon owed him nothing. “But I can promise to listen if you choose to share it with me.”
“Come sit beside me,” Gordon reached for him. Eyes damp, Gordon gestured to the seat which Scott had vacated, and Virgil listened, resting a hand on Gordon’s knee once he settled. His brother gave a large sigh before he began. “So, I have a fear of the sea. Thalassophobia if you want a word for it. And it kind of changed a lot of things….”
Can I brag on my friends for a second? ‘Cos I am going to do it anyway.
The amazing @the-original-sineater and @godsliltippy teamed up to commission/create artwork of Chicken Dad aka Gordon, aka my Stardew Valley farmer, who is also (not coincidentally... In fact, it’s very very intentionally) a particular squid we all know and love, who inspired my AU fanfic.
They both said I could do anything I want with him, so I’ve decided to share him with you and then go cry in happiness on him for a bit. Here he is in all his chicken dad glory.
What did I do to deserve you both? You treat me all too well. Thank youuuuuuuuu.
(just for the funsies here he is in game from a screenshot from today)
Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 13 (Chapter 7)
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3! Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.
*Warnings have been updated to include phobias and panic attacks* Please be aware for this chapter. The section with the panic attack will be marked for you to skip, but note that this story will continue to explore the aftermath.
I do think this will answer some of those pending questions you all have. :)
New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. Chapter 6 has been updated on Ao3 and will bring you to caught up. Chapter 7 is long enough on its own, and we will likely continue with this length as this story continues and concludes, now that we are in the heavier material. I should probably tell you, the links below are right. When you get to Ao3, the prologue has thrown off the chapter count.
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 | Ao3
Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3
Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 | Ao3
Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3
Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3 [You are Here]
A/N: There’s still so much love.
It’s been awhile since I acknowledged thank yous - so to @gumnut-logic for the Virgil sanity check in this one and @the-original-sineater for having to keep this whole concept quiet for so long and providing feedback.
I’ve put this one on Ao3 directly again because it’s another 3 almost 4K words at once.
Gonna go hide now, so I hope you like
*****
Chapter 7
Virgil considered himself a rather level-headed guy in most cases, but that was only because he settled himself in his projects. Honestly, anyone would seem level-headed in comparison to Scott. But working had always helped him clear his mind, and he appreciated having a similar mind to talk to during his endeavors. At home his never-ending project was Thunderbird Two with her constant upgrades because she deserved the best. Meanwhile, Brains’ pragmatic focus was a blessing for re-grounding himself when he needed it. Here, Everett wasn’t necessarily an objective bystander, but he promised Virgil he could compartmentalize his loyalty to Gordon if it meant that Virgil could get his feelings off his chest. The radio had taken most of them, the tractor the last quarter (even Scott would say he was fine to work on the heavy machinery, and it had really needed its steering upgraded), leaving Everett to provide an ear for the last 2% of his frustration while they worked on the final preparations for the party.
Regardless of the tension between them, Virgil would never risk the success of the event when it obviously mattered so much to Gordon and the rest of the people who’d offered him their friendship and hospitality. He was determined to get the stereo working for them and for his own satisfaction, so though he had a plan B, it was not an option. He had his heart set on getting the rustic antique functioning.
How far he’d come.
And so much had changed.
He had not known what to make of Scott’s suggestion that he visit Gordon of all people to heal from his injuries. At first, he’d been resistant, happily blissful in his ignorance of the comings and goings in the other man’s life. His brother’s idea was insane and laughable at best. As far as he was concerned, they had the finest of care facilities on Tracy Island and on the mainland if needed, and what could Gordon possibly do for him anyway? And what did Scott know of Gordon? Virgil hadn’t wanted the glimpse beyond the curtain.
“You’ll understand.”
“No way.”
“It’s already arranged.”
“It’s not happening.”
But it had, and he hadn’t been happy. It took an ultimatum and wrangling by all three of his siblings to just - give it a try. Before he could think about it, the next time on terra firma was stepping onto land he’d never seen, of an estate his father’s son had apparently built in the wake of the quarrel that destroyed them. If you could call it that. It was more that Gordon had ravaged the heart of something that couldn’t be fixed or replaced, then left, like a coward, and never came back. The Gordon he once knew, even the one after the hydrofoil accident, could never be so heartless.
September Prompts
24. Harvest Moon
With Chicken Dad - pre story
I cheated and you totally got this in advance....
But for everyone else:
Summary: a broken man, a maran, and the moon.
Genre: it's fluff, I promise. if you squint
Characters: Gordon Tracy, John Tracy
Words: 1.7K
Ao3 if you are so inclined. I started an "Adventures of Chicken Dad" series
Full Moon Rising
“I don’t know what I am doing, you know,” he tells the small creature. The laugh bubbles out of him with a bite of hysteria and an overwhelming exhilaration towards the feathered being that represents something new. At the Sheridan farm, some of the chicks had been like small fluffballs in his palm, but this one, at just a manner of months old, has the look of the hen she will grow to be. She fits in one hand still, and a miniature set of eyes looks up at him with curiosity. “I promise,” he tells her, petting the soft dark chocolate feathers on her back, “even though I am new at this, I will make sure you have a loved, fulfilled life. We’ll get you a nice coop outside and some friends. You’ll be cared for.”
There was a part of him that still feels silly having somewhat spontaneously decided to start his own chicken flock after touring the local homestead. But there was no one he was really trying to impress, no one except the chick he already loved with his whole heart. All those young baby chicks had been so small and delicate that he’d been scared when he was holding them. But she felt strong in his grasp, the dark feathered youth with the orange spark in her eyes and copper running down her head and neck. A Black Copper Maran, the woman told him.
She said chickens were an investment at first, and they certainly weren’t “free eggs” as some people would tell you, but in the end outdoor chickens were relatively easy care since the coop could be coordinated as self-sustaining. Food, water, shelter, protection from predators, a bi-weekly change of the nesting material, and twice a year a larger cleaning of the coop. Easy.
A few more pointers to keep them healthy, and she’d given him her number for any questions he might have. Don’t let them get too hot. Keep them dry if it gets too wet. Give them enough space; they preferred not being so confined.
He understood that. He’d bought all this space for the same reason. It would be easy to get her set up with a whole run if she wanted, something that was not too big, not too small. He feels a bit like her in this small house by the sea. It is larger than a fishing shack, though that’s what he calls it anyway with its few rooms, and the ever-present spray of the waves below.
So near the edge. He swallows past the dryness in his throat, counts a controlled exhale, and re-focuses.
“As I said, I’m Gordon, and I’m your chicken dad, I suppose.” The floor is not the best place for him to be sitting, and he stretches his legs out along the creaky wood of the small seaside home. When that does little to relieve the pain in his back and leg, he groans and rolls to his side, grabbing the seat of the chair nearby to help lift himself back into a better sitting position. It was the least graceful he could be getting up off the floor, but he is pretty sure the chicken won’t blackmail him.
He hates being further away from the creature he’d hoped to comfort as she considered her new space and the new face, but her curiosity towards him is stronger than her desire to look around the home. She walks toward him.
That’s his girl.
“We need to get you a name. What strikes your fancy, sweetheart?” he croons, lowering a hand towards her, which she nuzzles with her beak.
She trills an answer.
“Sorry, I don’t speak chicken yet, but we’ll work on it.”
~*~
She settles into his hold, protected by just the one arm so the other can focus on supporting himself with his cane as he walks through the small garden of herbs. They spent the afternoon bonding, and she’s been at his side in a small makeshift pen, watching him assemble the vegetable stew that will be his dinner. His only stipulation for the inquiring eyes was that she should understand that he’s still figuring out the learning curve for cooking for only one person instead a family of eight, and he asked her not to judge him for his proportions. As such, he’s out of rosemary.
In his cupboard he is out of rosemary.
In his garden, the herb is plentiful. His last harvest he took about a third of the plant to give the rest time to continue to produce, so there will be new stems for him to trim fresh. She’d looked up at him with such interest he couldn’t bear to leave her alone in the house, and if he had to be honest with himself, the company was welcome.
Over the hill, the sea chants her hush, and he tightens the grip on the little chicken as he walks through rows of seasonal fruits and vegetables and into the herb garden – some in the ground, and others in grow pots. Once the house is ready, he’ll be able to transport them inside for the winter. He doesn’t have the space in the shack.
“What do you think? Should we put your coop over here by the garden?” he asks her. “Or maybe over towards the pond and you can befriend the ducks.” He points with his cane towards a place in the distance, over land so expansive he isn’t sure what he can do with it all, and it scans past the skeleton foundations of the rancher being built on the land, and the frame of its only floor. That is intentional so he’ll have minimal steps in the space that’s to be his refuge. The construction workers have all gone at this time of day and so the building stands empty amidst the fields.
His heart pounds; he wants to fill it, to turn the house into a home and rebuild.
The young chicken purrs and he looks down at the slowly drifting eyes, feeling her flutter in his arms. “Sorry, honey. I’ll be fast.”
The snips rest heavily in the pocket of his cardigan, and awkwardly he shifts his cane under his armpit so he can cut the sprigs of rosemary once he reaches the plant. He feels silly again. It’s a two-handed task, and his body has already been rebelling at the treatment from the afternoon so kneeling down makes him feel every piece of metal screwed into his bones.
As the groan slides past his lips, the chicken jumps – not out of his arms, but onto his shoulder where she messes with his hair, and he laughs, as she re-settles.
“Thanks.”
He makes quick work of the rosemary, and stumbles back through the uneven dirt of his garden, this time with the chicken on his shoulder, an array of herbs in his free hand, and the light of the full moon casting an orange glow where the first stars of night speckled past the dusk. He’d always known the moon based on her force on the tides, but here, now, he watches her as a different man. She is light, the last bit at the start of night where she gives more time to the harvest.
He smiles up at her. The moon is the turn of tides, the change of seasons, the light of the harvest. He is just one of many farmers in the course of history to gather by the moonlight. He won’t be the last.
Days will get shorter and the frost will eventually wipe his lush garden clean.
But it will begin again.
He can do it too; he will begin again.
“Your uncle is up there,” he says, looking to the sky. It all must be so expansive to the little chicken, and he wonders what the world looks like to her, what it must be like from her perspective to see the sphere come and go and color the earth in amber. He maneuvers the sprigs of herbs into his pocket (he’ll clean them when he gets in) and takes a photo on his phone, sending it off to John on Five.
His older brother was the first to explain to him the significance of the full moon nearest the change of seasons when they were younger and would appreciate the view from planetside. Between her hue and her size, she is magic, and he gets it now, the beauty of the celestial body that is powerful enough to move even the treacherous sea.
There’s a full moon rising
The little chicken shifts on his shoulder, and he’s staring up into the starlight and a suspiciously resonating satellite crosses the night sky when the call comes in; the phone is still open in his hand.
“Gordon,” John says. “You sounded lonely.”
He doesn’t know how John can do that, can read emotion through written words. He’ll say it's his familiarity with the nuances of language, but Gordon doesn’t think that’s enough of an explanation for the subtleties of the human heart.
“I’m not,” he tells him, thoughtfully. “Not really.”
There are times he feels a ghost of himself, walking along the fields without direction and cut off from the pull of his heart, creaking as loudly as the shack in the wind, and as empty as the outlined walls of the buildings on his estate.
This is not one of those times.
“Are you ok?” John asks, and the chicken leans forward towards the strange hologram of his brother. “What is that?”
“Who,” he corrects, nudging her back. “This is your chicken niece.”
“A chicken! Gordon!”
He nods.
“Her name is Mocha,” he tells him, thinking of the blend of dark brown in her feathers, the sugary sweet version of the coffee Vi- his brothers would make for him in the heat of the Island summer, all whipped cream and cocoa powder and cold brew. And it’s not so much longing this time, or remembering what he lost, but acknowledging the little things that make him happy. Old things like iced mocha and cute animals and house plants and cooking. New things like the color of ochre, and the moon and stars, and the tang of freshly snipped spice on his tongue, and the rows of crops on his land, and the sheer feat of walking.
The responsibility of the little life on his shoulder.
Because it’s the little joys that will carry him through his own change of seasons and out the other side.
(Yes, I turned my Sims4 screenshot into the banner)
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3! Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.
We are getting into some history now. Got your theories?
**Warnings will be need to be updated in the next chapter, but forewarning that they are coming and this chapter does lead directly into the heaviest section of this story**
New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. Chapter 5 has been updated on Ao3 and will bring you to caught up. Chapter 6 is long enough on its own, so here ya go:
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 | Ao3
Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3
Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 | Ao3
Chapter 6 Part 12 (you are here) | Ao3
A/N: I’ve had this chapter ready for a week... full disclosure, getting nervous now. I hope you enjoy.
Also - tumblr has been doing some weird formatting on the paste in, so I’ve sent this one back to Ao3 after the snippet instead of under the read more.
*****
Part 12 (Chapter 6)
Mocha wouldn’t leave his side.
Well, his shoulder really, since that’s where she’d jumped up to when he entered the coop. She distracted him from his task of spreading the feed and collecting the eggs, as if sensing that he’d had little to no sleep the night prior with Virgil’s words ringing in his ear and the pressure of the party sitting heavily in his stomach. Mocha was a good girl, and chickens were intelligent creatures. She knew, and in Gordon’s opinion, the hens were his second-best therapy.
First-best therapy were the conversations with his actual therapist, a colleague of Jules’ with whom she used to work. The young woman often had a busy schedule between her other clients, and Gordon only called her ad hoc anymore. But last night wasn’t an isolated incident; it had been a few nights in a row of the same lack of sleep, and he recognized that it wasn’t just one-off restlessness but a deep insomnia that was keeping him awake.
They scheduled an appointment in the following days since it wasn’t urgent. In the meantime, he could talk to Jules, as she would lend him an ear often - as a friend, though, and not as a client. Having a licensed therapist on site, in his employ, and married to his best friend, came with the additional perk that it was easy for them to fit a conversation into their day to day. And certainly, any questions she asked that challenged him, he knew came from a place of true care. That made all the difference for him, but Jules’ professional services were for the guests only, not Gordon himself.
They were too close.
She was his people, which is why she knew exactly what he needed and where he needed to be. It’s not like the chicken coop was the most relaxing or aesthetically pleasing of places, but it had always helped Gordon ground himself. Some people preferred meadows and beaches; Gordon preferred feathers and clucking and dirt-crusted boots.
The previous night had stirred up fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was one thing for him to reconcile the grudge he felt had been over destroyed canvases and his anger management; it was another thing altogether to learn that his brother had felt as alone as him the whole time. The unforgivable, somehow forgiven.
Managing just a few hours sleep, there was a weary, facetious part of him that had been tempted to skip preparing Virgil’s coffee for him that morning. He could easily have said it was because he had so much on his mind with the party tonight, and it would’ve been partially true. But even as he was thinking it, the coffee filter had been set and the reservoir filled, and it was easier to keep going than to stop. Maybe muscle memory, but maybe he also just wasn’t that person anymore.
Even still, he left it to run and stepped into the dawn, already outside and dodging loose rocks on his way towards the coop when the Colonel signaled morning. He called Scraps to discuss the preparation plans while he collected the eggs, keeping his hands free with the earbud that linked to his phone. She must’ve heard something in his voice. They really only needed one person to work the coop, but Jules had been sent anyway. Gordon was grateful and decided ultimate-best therapy was the company of both his hens and the family he’d chosen.
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3! Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family
New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. Chapter 5 has been updated on Ao3, available here:
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 | Ao3
Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3
Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 (you are here) | Ao3
Part A/N: You all wanted a stupidly long section, today didn’t you?
*****
Part 11
They didn’t speak of it further the next few weeks, neither the horrible accusation that Gordon had given up on his family, nor about the night Virgil learned he very much hadn’t. But after their night sharing Ma’s-turned-Gordon’s tea, Virgil seemed happier overall and he continued to heal. The hoverchair had long been abandoned in the back of the house. His sessions with Sara for physical therapy decreased to once a week, though his therapy appointments with Jules increased. Not that Gordon knew what they talked about.
During the day, Virgil spent more time working on the radio, and in the evenings he did return to Gordon’s dinner table, though occasionally they’d be joined by Scraps and Jules or sometimes Everett. Other times, the two of them would join everyone over at the main household.
Of the regular on-site staff, only Kai-san dined her preferred fare in her seaside home at the edge of the estate, though she brought them fish from their catch every Friday. Introduced to others as Kai Haniko, the greying woman was even smaller than Gordon. She maintained the fishing shack and the boats, making up for her height with her wisdom and experience. She’d taken up residence in the house by the sea once the rancher had been safe enough for Gordon to sleep in, and she’d been an essential part of the staff of their estate ever since, despite the value she placed on her privacy.
In greenhouse three, Kai-san checked the pH levels of the water for the plants growing in hydro while he clipped away at some of the overgrowth during his inspection. A few of the grow lights needed to be replaced along the far back wall and the lemon trees were slow to yield, but otherwise the plants in grow zone 10 were continuing as expected. The humidity in the building was set to 50%, and Gordon wiped the sweat at his brow with the back of his hand in the heat.
“Accessory fruit?” Virgil asked, picking a blackberry off the bush as he stepped up beside him. He tossed it in his mouth, immediately grimacing at the flavor. Gordon reached over and picked one that was more ripe.
“Aggregate fruit,” he corrected. “You were close. Catch.”
He tossed it towards him, but Virgil hadn’t gotten the memo quick enough to dart towards it, and the berry hit him solid on the forehead instead of landing in his mouth. It left a smear of dark purple on his face before dropping as mush on the floor of the greenhouse.
Gordon snorted. “Fail.”
“Ah, shoot. Try me again,” Virgil said. “I wasn’t ready.” Spot on his forehead and all, he opened his mouth like a baby bird for a second attempt. They used to play this game long enough to make themselves sick when they were younger, or at least enough to destroy their appetite for dinner. It used to drive their mother crazy, except the value of having the plants far outweighed the slight downside to her children’s enjoyment of them.
At least that was what Gordon grew to understand once he began gardening on his own.
He found another and dramatically lined it up as if playing a game of darts, released it, and smiled as it hit true.
“Mmm, score,” Virgil chewed.
“They don’t call me a sharpshooter for nothing,” Gordon admitted, swinging back to the clippings of the nearby plant. “What did you need?”
Virgil nodded. “Right.” He finally wiped his forehead. “Scraps sent me to find you. She’s got a question from the caterer to run by you when you’re done here.”
The Tracy-Sheridan Estates Bonfire, which marked the change of season, was a week out, and they’d been thick in party planning. Each year, the location shifted between Gordon and Scrap’s home and the acres belonging to Scrap’s family, though the attendees included the current and former staff, residents and their families of both. They both had large families, but Gordon had yet to have more than one sibling able to attend.
The Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm was tasked with hosting this year, and if there was anything Gordon was most confident about, it was his party planning. He’d tasked Everett with the inventory lists, Jules with the garden landscaping. He and Scraps both handled decor for their theme. They’d done Tiki; they’d done Luau; they’d done Pie-palooza. This year their staff-voted on Keep It Cozy, and Virgil had immediately jumped on the chance to help with the event.
“Thanks. I’m taking a break here in thirty and I’ll head over. How’s the music coming?”
After an exhausting week preparing for their large change of seasons celebration, Scraps demanded that he and Virgil attend their usual Fish Fridays at their place, reminding Gordon that they deserve nice things and that he needed to take a break to relax before he burned out.
“It’s coming. Promise.”
...
The universe didn’t seem to agree. International Rescue had been called out during the middle of dinner preparations.
Gordon and Virgil both intensely watched the holofeed, while Jules stress-snacked with a bowl of chips, and Everett worked on their meal. Scraps was helping him with sides, but only when she wasn’t standing between her wife and her best friend, rubbing Gordon’s shoulder while she played with her wife’s hair, which was newly dyed purple to replace the fading strands of green.
IR needed hands – John was down on terra firma, both him and Alan taking Two while Scott arrived first at the site of the earthquake in One. Kayo and the GDF arrived before Two, and they watched as the camera zoomed in on a shot of Scott coordinating with Colonel Casey. WASP had been called in on standby to support rescue of the coastal city. As International Rescue functioned without an aquanaut, they had gained an ally in WASP for situations that needed a reach below the surface of the sea.
Four had never made it out of prototype, and Gordon had given Scott the go-ahead ages ago for her designs to be appropriately modified and donated to underwater research.
Glued to his phone, Virgil kept mumbling to himself, typing to whoever was on the other end of the phone – Brains or Grandma – revealing fragments of details that Gordon clung to like a lifeline.
“That building behind him is unstable.”
And -
“It’s ok, Scott has a grapple for that.”
And -
“Grandma says the feeds are about to go on a delay,” – the screen fizzled – “and not to freak out.”
“What happened?” Gordon panicked, turning towards his brother.
“I don’t know yet! The building collapsed and they think Scott was inside. She says they have normal vitals on him though.”
Gordon knew how quickly life could change, and he squeezed the soft hand that had suddenly grabbed his, not caring that Jules still had the salt of the potato chips on her fingers. If anything it distracted him from how cold he suddenly felt. After a couple seconds, the screen came back to life with an awful shot of the building disintegrating into debris, followed by an uncomfortable silence even though they knew what details Grandma was feeding them, and eventually Scott scrambled out from beneath some rocks and waved towards someone off screen.
At the same time, Gordon’s phone rang, and he fumbled to pull it out of his pocket with his shaking hands.
“I heard you two were watching.”
“Scott!”
“John patched me through. I’m ok,” he said. At the same time Virgil turned abruptly towards the sound of his brother’s voice, and Gordon turned the phone around to put it on speaker and switch to visual, holding it out in front of them. The others gathered closer to Everett to start getting their place settings together. Scott looked tired and grimy, his hair a mess of dust and a stripe of dirt across his face but smiling at the two of them. “Just a close call. No need to fret. We’re still cleaning up here so I can’t linger. I just wanted to catch you.”
“Too late, I’m going to fret,” Virgil said, squeezing in closer as if he could med-scan through the small hologram.
“Please, be careful,” Gordon warned.
“Always am!” Scott said, his attention drawn back towards the destruction, and snapping the call closed.
Their breathing heaved in their chests.
“Is it always like this?” Virgil whispered.
“No, it’s never so luxurious.” Gordon stilled his hands on the table, trying to keep the image of Scott stuck under those rocks out of his head by counting to eight. “Sometimes I don’t know right away. Sometimes I can’t reach anyone.”
He didn’t know how much Virgil knew of his own injury and the events following, or what he might have been told, but the words silenced him at least of all International Rescue talk for the evening. They still kept the rescue on mute where they could continue to monitor the events, and eventually Virgil’s comm pinged to let them know the family was all on their way back and that the rest of the cleanup efforts would be completed by local jurisdictions and the guidance of the GDF. Of immediate threats, IR had done what they could, he quietly shared.
More than once Gordon thanked his lucky stars that his friends were the type of people whose smiles fought at the grey fuzzing that made his brain hazy with anxiety. Rather than a somber meal, Everett’s well-seasoned fish filled where the fear had left him empty. He soaked up the pride that came from salad ingredients freshly harvested from their own hard labor as well as the potatoes they’d been afraid would have a smaller yield this season. Something Jules had said to Everett had even coaxed a laugh out of Virgil, and beside him, Scraps nudged his shoulder lightly, letting him know she was there even though he worried.
He always worried. His brothers gave so much of themselves to the rest of the world. He wondered sometimes how much they kept for themselves. Scott’s scare that evening wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last time he felt that fear of losing them pumping through him. And just as easily, the man across from him could’ve fallen from their grasp too. Yet there he was whole and hearty.
It had been so close.
Virgil must’ve felt eyes watching him. They exchanged a look where brown eyes met brown, and Gordon saw through the laughter where Virgil was of a like mind, fearing for a future that had not yet come to pass. But could. So quickly it could.
For so long Gordon had ached for them and hoped to be able to do something to stop the worst from happening, feeling the odd man out when it became apparent his fortune was no longer aligned with their dream. But even Virgil, who - unlike Gordon - usually had the power to do something about it, held a deep sadness in his eyes that proved he was not alone. Sometimes, all they could do was hope.
He couldn’t.
He wondered how Virgil could even stand it.
...
That was the secret of Virgil, probably of the rest of the Tracy clan too. It wasn’t just Gordon, but all of them that felt helpless against the whims of fate at times. This time it was voices that dragged him from the confines of his bedcovers and had him stumbling into the kitchen.
Virgil had learned to keep his phone light dim and turned away from Gordon’s door, and that night Skipper had found her way into Virgil’s room – she was already sitting next to him, her head on his knee. His surprise showed he hadn’t expected for Gordon to find him again.
“Oh, sorry Gordon. I keep waking you.”
He waved the concern away. “Already awake again.”
“Fishface!”
“Alan!” Gordon grinned, scooting a chair closer to Virgil’s side so he could see his younger brother in the view of his brother’s phone. “How’s it been, buddy?”
“Boring without you, as usual,” Alan chirped. “I’m this close to beating your high score on Providence II.” The tiny figure pressed his fingers together into an even tinier gesture of miniscule space.
“Psht. I still got you on DPS. You don’t optimize your gear. I keep telling you that.”
“You two still play that game?” Virgil spoke. “Gordon, where the hell do you find the time?”
“I make time.” Otherwise, Alan was too easy to miss between rescues and his constant need for the newest games. He’d lost him for a couple weeks when Cavern Quest came out, but the promise of helping him procure that legendary bow he’d been wanting deep in one of the dungeons had encouraged him back. It had a piercing bonus – could see enemies through walls and a special ability to hit despite obstructions in the way. A little broken if you asked Gordon, but it made Alan happy to have the one-up when they played. “John plays too, but I think Eos interferes and makes him hit faster than us. It’s the only explanation.”
Alan giggled. “You know he can listen in on comms, right?”
“Don’t care.” His lips curled.
“Hmmm, your funeral.”
And like that the room went quiet. Alan’s gaze lowered, and Gordon shifted in his seat, watching both brothers intently.
“Alan, look at me, kiddo.” Virgil leaned forward, as if being closer to the phone meant that he could be closer to his brother. If not physically, but in spirit, his attention solely focused on the figure that called him. “Scott’s fine.”
“You weren’t.”
He gave a heavy sigh. “I’m getting there, kiddo. I’ll be home before you know it. Remember what I told you. Don’t let fear stand in the way of what we do. Now find Scott and give him the hug he probably needs. I know for a fact little brothers give the best hugs. Can you do that for me, Squirt?”
“Yeah,” Alan nodded. “Thanks, Virgil.”
“Of course, Al. Call me whenever.”
“And me,” Gordon added quietly before Alan gave one last wave and the phone clicked off. The quiet stretched, with the two of them sitting there until Skipper whined. Gordon reached over to scratch Skipper behind the ears. “You’re good with him.”
He hadn’t expected anything less. Virgil and Alan couldn’t work together the way they did without some level of knowledge of what made the other click. Alan had always responded to distraction, and in this case, being given a responsibility that spoke of trust.
But it was more than that.
Alan had never quite forgiven Gordon for leaving, and Gordon had never quite forgiven himself for it either. In fact, if he admitted it, he probably needed Alan more than Alan needed him. The youngest of the Tracy’s had three more older brothers. Gordon had just the one younger. But he knew Alan would always have a trail of older brothers protecting him where he could not. It wasn’t in Virgil – or John or Scott- he doubted.
Seeing it, though, – Alan calling out for Virgil’s comfort – was harder. He swallowed at the closed phone, and Virgil cut through his thoughts with a frustrated growl as he tossed it carelessly on the table’s surface to push it away.
“Ugh! I don’t get it.” Virgil threw his hands back, and Gordon jumped at the sudden movement. Like a string pulled taut suddenly snapping, Virgil turned on him, his eyes fuming. “I don’t get you. For years, I thought you abandoned us. Hell, I didn’t even know about this place until a couple weeks ago. Imagine what that was like, Gordon. Finding out from Scott what you’ve built here. And he knew all along. But it turns out. No, not just Scott knew. Everyone knew.”
His fist pounded on the table. “John’s favorite tea? Yours. Those hours Alan sits playing on his computer, talking online? Yeah, that’s apparently you on the other end. Does Kayo know? Grandma? Brains? Why, by all that’s beautiful, is it just me?” His voice cracked. “What happened to us, Gordo?”
“Oh, I-I… oh, Virgil.” This wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. He steadied himself with his hand on Skipper’s head, partly for her benefit to let her know Virgil wasn’t mad at her. But mostly for his own.
“Just tell me. Why didn’t you reach out to me?”
Mouth suddenly dry, he thought back to all those times his finger hovered over the call button, the letters he wrote then burned, the birthday and holiday gifts he bought then gave away or handed off to John or Scott to give anonymously on his behalf. And their encouragement to just talk to him, which he ignored because in the end -
“I didn’t know how,” he said, hating how gravelly his voice sounded in his own ears. “I left, the others reached out and you never did, and I didn’t ask.” He looked away, down at the soft fur under his fingertips as he rubbed gently, lovingly, at Skipper’s ears. “And then time passed, and it became easier to leave it alone because I thought you didn’t want to hear from me. I didn’t blame you; you were the one I hurt the most.”
“Of course, I wanted to hear from you!” Stifled by the confines of the table, Virgil pulled back and paced along the length of the kitchen.
“What could I have said?” Gordon pulled himself up from the table too, gripping his hands on the back of the chair for support while he tracked Virgil’s movements. There was nothing he could’ve done that would’ve helped heal the hurt he caused.
“An apology would’ve been nice.”
“Did you want to hear that I meant it, Virgil? That I wanted you to feel an ounce of the hurt I felt? That I went to your studio. Angry. Raving. And I meant to destroy everything with a spark of joy because I hated looking at it?”
Virgil paled.
“So, yeah, Virg, of course I was sorry. I destroyed everything. The thing that made you, you – you never had it taken away. But I-“
“ -I’m not talking about the studio.”
Gordon floundered as his brother’s words sunk in. Not the studio? That studio was Virgil’s pride and joy, the painstakingly organized paint tubes, the drying racks, the easel set up just so to capture the light at the right angle. Artwork that held his brother’s heart, and Gordon had ripped it all to shreds. “What?”
“I forgave you for the studio. Not at first. But I came to understand it. I saw you slowly losing patience session after session, remember. The eruption was bound to happen. What I wanted to know is why you gave up.” He rounded on Gordon and jabbed a finger into his chest. “After everything. You gave up. You left. Without a word. And now I find out it’s just me you abandoned. Why?” His voice trailed off, his hand fell silently to his side, trembling. “Is it my fault? I need you to just tell me. Is it because I couldn’t help? Do you blame me for not being enough to fix this?”
He anticipated the anger, the devastation, the heart-on-his-sleeve blame that Virgil had every right to bestow on him if not for the studio itself than at least for the lack of control they’d always told him would be his downfall as a kid. That quick to roil tempest that rolled inside him and destroyed everything in its wake. He’d built walls around himself based on knowing Virgil could never forgive him for that. But it turns out he could and he had. All those walls, all those years, and it had all been unnecessary?
He was still working through the impact of the word - forgiveness, and too quickly Virgil was asking him to answer to something that had never even crossed his mind.
He’d been thrown by the insecurity, the uncertainty, behind the anger. Virgil was strong, steady. Hands that had gripped his arms tight to pull him away from a fistfight, and the tender care to hide the black eye later. The guiding hand at his back while he took his first steps for the second time of his life. Virgil’s empathy had him suffering right along with him. So how could he blame him? How could he ever when Virgil had given him so much? And he hadn’t even cared, apparently, that Gordon had thrown it back in his face.
Just not enough to find him.
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do if you really think that,” he said, his voice cold.
“I don’t know you at all anymore,” Virgil shot back.
He flinched. “Yeah, well whose fault is that? How long have you been holding that one in? Do you think, after having all those doctor’s watching me, those specialists observing me, going through all those months of therapy with you, and Dr. Mendoza after, that I gave even an ounce of thought to an idea like that? What could you have done that they didn’t? Honestly, Virgil. Who do you take me for?”
“Then, why?”
“I can’t right now. I just can’t. Dammit all, Virgil. It’s not all about you. And it’s not about fixing me either. It never was. I am not defined by this,” – he pounds on his leg for good measure – “but it’s a part of me. And this is my life now. I would’ve liked for you to be a part of it too.”
He turned on his heel, ignoring the plea in his brother’s eyes. “Phone rings both ways.”
