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.
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!
From the Beginning
Prologue here
Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3
Chapter 2: Part 4 (you are here) |
A/N: *Warning* for memories of known character death. I’ve decided to continue to post parts here as they are written before posting the full chapters, as a thank you for coming along this journey with me. More frequent posting here, aaaaand I’ll try to keep continuity as much as possible. I promise there's a plan
*****
Ma had always loved flowers. There were few things he remembered about when his mother was alive, but the bouquet of fresh flowers she brought home whenever he “helped” her with the grocery shopping was one of them. He used to follow her around with his small shopper-in-training cart, proudly wheeling around the bouquet they chose together at the front of the store, and it was almost like the flowers were his gift to her. If he weren’t four and without a job or money to pay for them.
His smile was all the gold she needed, she’d told him, not so secretly sliding some candy bars in their pile for her little helpers.
When she died, it was the flowers that he remembered from her memorial, the white rose he placed on the wooden casket while Scott held him on his hip, the funeral flowers that took over their living room after. It was a shame Ma had left when she did. He knew how it worked, he told Virgil, because she had taught him about caring for the flowers and the blooms were going to droop before Ma could see them. Was she going to come home soon?
He doesn’t remember what was said. But he remembers how it made him feel seeing Virgil’s face fall and burst into tears as he fled the room. Gordon sobbed into Grandma’s shoulder after that, rocked to sleep by her gentle hushing.
Sure enough, one-by-one the flowers died from lack of care in the days that followed, drying out and browning. Only one plant was immune, the large sword-like leaves larger than his hands reaching up towards the sky, up towards Ma it seemed - once he understood at least a little more why everyone around him was so sad.
The plant was the only thing that didn’t seem affected by the gloom, and it was devastating to his younger self the day she was, her leaves limp, weeping around the edge of her pot. The flowers were the strangest he’d seen yet, pure white, flat like a shield or sometimes slightly curved around the spiky end of the stem, but when they sagged they faced their roots, down-turned. And there was something about them then that reminded him all too much of praying faces and lowered heads.
There he was, his small child brain trying to understand why the world would take away Ma and her flowers and the sword-plant too. And it was Virgil who stepped up beside the plant with their mother’s copper watering can in hand, angled the spout towards the soil, and gave it life again. That young, he couldn’t remember how long it took but he watched it until a red bird outside drew his attention. And when he returned. the plant had sprung back up to her former joy.
Gordon wondered if Virgil remembered that peace lily. For all his memories of acquiring it, he couldn’t remember what happened to it in the end. But it was the first plant he cared for, something he and Virgil did together for many years. She’d been a perfect starting plant for him, dramatic and vocal. He knew their language much better after all these years caring for them because he’d kept a peace lily in his home ever since. Their spathes (not actually the flowers he learned eventually) an apostrophe of white amidst the lush green, a shield of hope and symbol of life renewed.
The morning after Virgil arrived to the estate, Gordon tried not to consider his drooping Spathiphyllum as a sign, but it was hard to ignore when it was both his main plant, the cultivar called “Domino” with white variegation swimming along the green leaves, and the starter plant sitting on his bedside table, freshly potted up and still over-flowing with flowers from the growth-hormone the growers used to encourage hearty flora. The foliage of the “Domino” cultivar was gorgeous without flowers in his opinion, but his own plant was not ready to be split and propagated just yet.
It was his turn to take care of the chickens, so he woke with his alarm instead of with the Colonel’s morning trumpet, but he knew a few minutes would be ok, and he didn’t want to leave his houseplants thirsty for too long.
Watering his plants (and he checked his coffee plant in the kitchen too just in case) was his first task of the day, and by the time he finished feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs from the coop before the hens stepped all over them, counting out the number needed to supply himself and Virgil as well as for Scraps and the others staying on-site in the house, and returning back home, both plants had unsurprisingly perked back up with their drink that morning.
He too was feeling more alert upon his return, his usual mug already halfway empty and an orange freshly peeled into slices on a plate beside him. Quietly he hummed the theme song for Into the Unknown while reading the morning comics strip.
The light shuffle of uneven footsteps reminded him he wasn't alone in his home. The tune in his head instantly quieted as Virgil entered the room, and like a deer caught in headlights he glanced up at the newcomer still trying to find his way around.
Virgil's discomfort matched his own through the haze of sleepiness and presumably jet lag.
"Hi."
"G'mornin." Gordon fumbled closing up the tablet. "I hope I didn't wake you."
Virgil shook his head, standing stiffly in the doorway.
"Did you want to sit? I can get you coffee."
"Okay," Virgil agreed, sliding into the chair opposite Gordon.
He stared a moment, then scrambled to do as he promised, the feet of the chair scraping loudly on the floor as he pushed himself back. With the coffee brewed and still warm on the hot plate, it didn't take long to prepare Virgil's beverage. He selected one of his larger mugs and served it to him black
"It's medium roast hazelnut," he said conversationally as he topped himself off to finish out the pot and added a bit more creamer. Gordon leaned back against the counter, watching Virgil and taking a sip.
Virgil drowsily lifted his own with two hands around the side, before squinting at the words on the side of the ceramic. "Number 1 chicken dad, huh?"
Gordon blinked.
"Oh! Oh yeah. That was a gift from Scraps two - no, three - years back. The silhouette is actually one my girls. Mocha I think. Appropriate choice now that I think about it."
"Big cup."
"Yep."
Virgil looked away from him out the window. His brother had always been built strong, broad shouldered and tall, but he’d toned over the years, and his work in International Rescue showed. It was one thing to see him on the television screen, limited by the angle of the reporter but often seeming so larger than life in the yellow power suit he sometimes wore. It was another to see him directly, the scar above his eyebrow that wasn’t there before, the callused hands that clasped onto delicate ceramic, the pull of the material of his shirt betraying the power underneath.
“Scott mentioned you have an appointment with Dr. Mendoza this afternoon,” Gordon said, and Virgil sharply looked back over at him. “You’ll like her I think. She’s strict but thorough.” He’d know. The larger town was still small enough that everyone knew everyone, and Sara visited the farm once monthly since he’d arrived.
If Virgil caught that Dr. Sara Mendoza was his physical therapist as well, Virgil didn’t mention. He just hummed, his brown eyes so like his own absorbing the information around him, but not giving much back. That was different than he remembered. Virgil used to wear his heart on his sleeve. Yesterday, the angry spark of fire, had been more the Virgil he knew. Perhaps that change was from what Virgil had seen in the rescue service. Or, perhaps those walls were intentional. Built overtime.
But Gordon didn’t go through that training on reading body language for nothing. At least WASP had been good for something.
That – and some things hadn’t changed about his brother, the spark in his eye when he was witnessing something beautiful, the light wiggle of his pinky finger as his brain started deciding details even before a canvas was in front of him. He may not have been ready to talk, but Virgil’s attention also had been divided and Gordon followed his gaze towards a cardinal outside the window.
“Here. Eat,” Gordon said, handing him a banana from the countertop. “Then I can give you a tour and make some introductions.”
Virgil sighed. “I’m not really in the mood to meet people today.”
