Okay, here we go…it is time for some Fluff! Grab your pens, keyboard, tablets and phones and create something to make someone smile :D
Have at it! And let slip the poodles of fluff!
In discussion with my fellow writers and readers a couple of years ago we came up with the idea of a post-Whumptober challenge fest involving fluff…buckets of it…to apologise to all our characters for the nastiness we commit during the wonderful whump season.
And considering the last couple of years, we need all the fluff we can get.
So the concept of Fluffember…er…Fluffy November…is back. Words were needed, so here they be, one for each day of the month.
This year I thought I would supply a little Thunderfam-focussed addition, aimed specifically at the Thunderbirds fandom. So we have a little Thunderbirds Fluff & Fun below. These words are tuned just a little more to the fandom, but ultimately they are just for inspiration, so do with them what you will :D
There be words, there be a tag to tag your works with. Other than that, go for it. You can choose one or many, work backwards, forwards or higglety-pigglety. There can be art, writing, papier mache, sand sculptures or sonnets. Whatever your muse desires, take it and run with it.
Create and have fun!
Nutty
(off the edge, but learning to fly)
Text version below.
Above reads…
Fluffember 2021
1. Whisper
2. Cuddle
3. Thought
4. Safe
5. Paint
6. Sunrise
7. Write
8. Happy
9. Image
10. Hold
11. Soft
12.Brush
13. Sofa
14. Thank you
15. Cake
16. Shoes
17. Tree
18. Heart
19. Met
20. Bed
21. Note
22. Found
23. Clouds
24. Caress
25. Tune
26. Gentle
27. Sea
28. Wish
29. Fluff
30. Special dream
Thunderbirds Fluff & Fun
1. Pants
2. Rug
3. Shoelaces
4. The glue incident
5. Dimples
6. Delicious cookies
7. Sea breeze
8. Eyebrows
9. Escaped pet
10. Bagels
11. Dad or Mom
12. Cahelium
13. Big bro/sis
14. Passing wind
15. Barbecue
16. Little bro/sis
17. The secret, secret launch chute
18. Little huts
19. Wings
20. Grotto
21. He bounced
22. Everyone
23. Villa
24. Singing
25. The claw
26. Cool air of the hangars
27. Virtual
28. Shaft of sunlight
29. Muscles
30. Family
Problems of shopping with an American when you live in England number five hundred and two.
Me: Don't go anywhere, don't move from that spot, you got it?
Virgil: *nods* Got it. All good. No need to worry. Situation is under control.
Me: You sure?
V: I'm sure.
Me: I'll be two minutes, I'm just picking up an order and then we can go.
V:*crosses his arms and leans casually against the nearest shop fitting* It's fine, I don't mind shopping.
Me: This is why you're my favourite.
V: You said that to Alan yesterday because he shared his chips with you.
Me: Maybe I lied.
V: Maybe you're lying now.
Me: I am, you got me, I'm gonna be at least ten minutes because that line looks huge.
V: Better hurry up then.
Me: On it *salutes and runs off deeper into the store*
V:This won't be too bad...
Sales assistant: *pops up out of nowhere like a meerkat the second I leave* Hello sir.
V: *jumps out of his skin* Oh, uh, hello.
SA: What can I interest you in today?
V: Oh, nothing, thank you, I'm just waiting for my sister.
SA: You're here now so you might as well take a look around.
V: Actually, I promised my sister I wouldn't move.
SA: Oh, we won't go far. Just follow me, and I'll show you some of our newest items that might suit a strapping fellow like yourself.
V: No! I... *Gets hustled along and gives up trying to argue*
SA: What are you in need of?
V: Nothing, I'm good, got all I need.
SA: Nonsense, everyone needs something.
V: *pondering* I guess I could use a new pair of pants, I blew a hole right through my last pair.
SA: A hole? *eyes grow a little wide* Oh, erm *clears her throat, recovering her composure* Right this way, sir.
V: *follows along behind like a giant puppy*
SA: Do you have a style preference?
V: Not really, just standard pants, standard cut, but I do need them to be hard wearing as they'll take a bit of a battering.
SA: *coughs delicately* Indeed, sir. And what kind of material?
V: I usually stick with denim.
SA: I... I'm sorry sir, but we don't carry anything of that sort.
V: *looking confused, her tone indicating that 'that sort' was something displeasing and rather obscene* O...K, then can you just show me what you do have?
SA: Of course *stops near the department and looks him up and down* For sizing I'd assume a large or extra large?
V: *blushes a little, he thought he kept himself in reasonably good shape quite honestly* I don't know I don't usually have that kind of sizing.
SA: *straightens her shoulders, obviously wishing she'd never approached him in the first place* Then let's stick with style, we have boxers, briefs or trunks along with the less traditional jockstrap style if you feel so inclined.
V: *chokes and splutters* Excuse me?
SA: * holds up a pair of boxers to his front* These look like they would suit you, they are quite hard-wearing, extra strong elastic, plenty of room for-
V: *snatches the boxers away, face bright red* I just want some pants, just a plain pair of pants!
Me: *ambling over with my order* Why are you screaming and waving a pair of pants around?
V: I'm not! *Still holding the boxers*
Me: *points at them* Pants.
V: These are boxers, underwear, not what I wanted at all. I just wanted some pants! I didn't want to be paraded around the underwear section and have my size debated!
Me: You asked for pants. Those are pants.
V: No, these are pants! *Slaps his thigh then yanks at the seam of his jeans*
Me: Oh. He means that he wants a pair of trousers or jeans.
SA: Oh, well he could have just said that.
Poor Virgil, he's never going to forgive me for leaving him alone in the menswear department.
A/N: One of these days I will stop giving Gordon new boats, but it will not be this day. This piece is for two of @gumnut-logic’s Fluffember/Fluff & Fun, being posted in between the two prompts. So - day 20 Grotto and day 24- Singing. There’s some media below the cut as well. Enjoy! Warning for possible (minor) claustrophobia.
Words: 884
Character: Virgil, Gordon
-----
Grotto
“Where exactly are you taking me?” Virgil was used to joining Gordon for his sporadic ventures around the Kermadec Islands, but after the long walk over to Mateo through the underground bunkers, they’d exited through the top of the rocky cliffside. The view was breathtaking, Virgil couldn’t deny it, but he also wouldn’t put it past Gordon to lead him on a wild goose chase.
Not intentionally. Virgil appreciated his brother’s passion, but he was no marine biologist. And Gordon could talk your ear off about barnacles. There seemed nowhere else to go from here. So what was Gordon up to?
“I told you,” Gordon said, stretching his back out as he joined him in the open air, “the grotto.”
“We’ve been to the grotto numerous times, Gords.”
“By sea.” He grinned toothily, breathing in the wild sea air as it rustled through his hair. “I promise you’ll love this.”
It spoke of his trust for his brother that Virgil held back the heavy sigh. “So where are we headed from here?” He gestured out to the Pacific where sun rays danced in flickers over blue waves, framed with pearls of sea spray on the shore. In the distance, a pod of dolphins swam over the swells.
Okay, it really was beautiful. How did he get so lucky that this is what he woke up to every morning? His fingers twitched with the desire to paint, though he didn’t have his set on him. As he took out his phone, hoping to capture the scene while the dolphins were still about, Gordon stood on his tiptoes to lean over Virgil’s right shoulder in attempt to watch as he captured the landscape digitally.
“Perfect.” Gordon grinned. “You ready for the next bit?”
“There’s more?”
“Well, yeah. I didn’t bring you up here just for the cliff views.” Gordon said. “It’s lovely, but we could’ve just opened a window for that. We’re headed down there.” He pointed towards the side of the rock, and Virgil followed Gordon’s finger towards the narrow staircase built into the cliff.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope! That’s how we get to the grotto from here.”
The stairs were not as bad as Virgil originally thought they’d be based on his first glance, but he did have to take them a bit more carefully than Gordon did. His large boots were not made for small steps, and so Virgil was grateful for the handrail he could grasp with his left hand, while his right trailed over the Mateo geology, the heavily compressed layers of tephra that made up their islands.
As they approached the bottom of the cliff, Virgil realized there was a small dock where two small rowboats were tied up, innocently bobbing in liquid azure.
“Do you want Jake or Elwood?”
“What?”
“Jake?” Gordon pointed to the boat on the right. “Or Elwood?” He gestured to the boat on their left. “You know. We’re getting the band back together?”
“I know who the Blues Brothers are, Squid.” He rolled his eyes fondly but stepped towards the Elwood in response. “Is there a reason we couldn’t just take the motorboat over?”
“Yep,” Gordon responded, popping the p as he stepped into the back of the boat by the oars. “You’ll see.”
He kicked off the dock, maneuvering the boat around until they were faced back towards the rock. From this angle, Virgil could finally see the small cave opening, a black space in the rock, and ever so small. That’s where they were headed?!
“It’s only accessible during low tide,” Gordon shared unaware of the panic Virgil felt as his heartbeat rocketed. “Lean back when I tell you to.”
“Wha-!” He sputtered. “It’s safe, I promise,” Gordon answered. “Now, lean!”
Years of instinct, of responding the instant one of his brothers gave direction (because seconds could mean life or death), had Virgil leaning into the wooden center of the boat, while rock passed by his face and near his nose. Hearing Gordon’s echo-y whoop near his ear made him realize he’d closed his eyes somewhere along the way. He blinked himself back to a world where his heart worked properly and his lungs functioned and rocks didn’t sit inches from his face.
“That never gets old!” Gordon laughed, and the cave echoed back to him.
“A little warning would’ve been nice.”
“What do you mean?” Gordon questioned in the darkness. “I gave you warning.” As he spoke, he helped Virgil back into a sitting position.
“Oh, Wow.” He gasped in the space that met his gaze. Around them the waters glowed blue, luminescent even through the depths and reflecting crystalline silver shimmers on the cave walls around them. The space was large enough for their boat to move freely through, a hidden heavens behind the small crack in the rock, and Virgil felt his heart stutter in the beauty. “This is lovely.”
Rowing as they went, Gordon said, “That’s not even the best part. Try singing something.”
Virgil let the flicker of blue in the water pull the note from his gut, as it bounced from wall to wall, around, over, and through them. It permeated space and souls like the songs of nature and creation, and when Gordon joined his voice in harmony, the natural acoustics transmitted reverb down to their bones.
-----
End Note: media is from the Blue Grotto in Capri from my honeymoon in 2019.
For @gumnut-logic's Thunderbirds Fluffember prompts, Day 10: Bagels.
There's a tiny bit of whump/angst in here, but it's only brief.
Or read on AO3
-------------
“Shhhh! You wanna wake up the whole house?”
Alan froze mid-hop, still holding his throbbing foot.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he whisper-shouted back. “Who puts a dresser there?”
“Uh, Grandma did?” replied Gordon, “When we first moved in? Seriously, it’s been there for years.”
Alan looked back at the modest, very hard piece of furniture he’d inadvertently kicked.
“Really?” he said, cocking his head to one side, “‘Cos it doesn’t look familiar at all.”
Gordon’s expression hovered somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
“Unbelievable. How do you pilot a whole rocket when you can’t even pilot your skinny ass down a corridor?”
“Well, dear brother, it’s a delicate balance of skill, awesomeness and not doing it at stupid o’clock in the morning!”
Gordon grunted and carried on down the hall, leaving Alan hobbling to keep up.
“Hey, you’re the one that wanted to surprise everyone with breakfast, little bro. Cool fact: breakfast means A.M.”
“Yeah, that was a dumb idea. Let’s go back to bed and surprise them with dinner instead.”
“No way.” Gordon turned back to face him, brown eyes bright. “It was a great idea - we almost never get to eat breakfast all together anymore. We’re doing this.”
His gaze flicked back down the hallway towards the family bedrooms beyond.
“They need it,” he added quietly.
Alan sighed. They really did.
It should have been a relatively simple rescue: retrieve a group of geologists from the side of a volcano before it erupted. Easy. John had been monitoring the seismic activity; they should have had hours. But volcanoes rarely run to schedule, and so Scott had still been in the abandoned camp when Mount Sidley blew her top, sending white-hot rock and ash hurtling towards him.
Alan and Gordon had watched from the island in horror as Scott’s feed cut out; listened as John urgently, repeatedly, desperately called his name; held their breath as Virgil grabbed a pod and barrelled into the heat and dust after him.
It had been an agonising wait, but eventually they had both emerged from the grey, shaken and absolutely covered in ash, and with Scott sporting a broken ankle.
It could have been so much worse.
So now Scott was grounded, on crutches and miserable about it. John was down from Five, freaked out and blaming himself for the whole thing. And Virgil had gone full smother-bear, alternating between trying to reassure John that their big brother was fine, and yelling at Scott that he wasn’t fine and to sit his ass back down right the hell now.
In short, they needed a distraction.
A stiff clap on the arm brought Alan back to the present. His brother’s lopsided grin seemed to glow in the grey, pre-dawn light. “Right, let’s get cooking!”
How was he this perky this early in the morning?
---
“So what are we actually making?” Alan asked, opening kitchen cupboards and closing them again randomly. His own cooking expertise only extended as far as adding pickles to a grilled cheese, while Gordon's skill lay in being able to convince, beg or blackmail someone else into cooking for him.
“I’m thinking bagels.”
Okay, that didn’t seem too hard. Toast ‘em, schmear ‘em, job done, right?
“Let me just look up a recipe…”
...What?
“Should we do ‘everything’ ones, or do you want to go for a classic sesame seed, or...” Gordon was visibly bouncing. “Ooh, rainbow ones...”
“You want to actually make the bagels?”
“Sure. How hard could it be?”
---
It took about twenty minutes of arguing to decide on a recipe, then another fifteen to locate flour, yeast, bowls and all the other paraphernalia they needed, but finally they were ready to begin.
“So it says a cup and a third of warm water, two sachets of yeast, then a pound of flour, four ‘tsps’ of salt and mix,” Alan said, handing his brother a measuring jug.
Gordon eyed it dubiously.
“How warm is ‘warm water’? Do they give a temperature?”
Alan looked again. “Nope, just says warm. Hey, which of these is a ‘tsp’?” he said, holding up two spoons he’d found in the cutlery drawer.
Gordon waved vaguely, still examining the jug. “Uh, that one.”
“The big one?”
“Yeah, sure,” he replied, not looking up. “Y’know, they really should specify what temperature water to use. This is the sort of thing that could really rattle a lesser cook.”
Blue eyes rolled. “Whatever, Julia Child; just get it measured so we can start mixing.”
---
“This is worryingly wet.” Alan poked tentatively at the mixture. “What does the recipe say?”
Gordon shrugged and grabbed the tablet. “Step two: ‘Add another pound of flour until you have a dough.’”
Ah, okay. Sure. Because putting all the flour in together would be total madness(!) Alan grabbed another 1lb bag from the counter, dumped it in the mixer and turned it on.
The subsequent white mushroom cloud engulfed both Alan and half the kitchen, rendering both brothers speechless; Alan from coughing and Gordon from trying not to wet himself.
“...My ba'…” Gordon finally wheezed, “...'t says... ‘Gradually add!’”
---
“Woah!”
Gordon pulled the bowl of dough out of the proving drawer where it had been for the last hour and waved it at his brother.
“It’s alive. It’s aliiiiive!”
Alan cocked an eyebrow. They had been expecting the mixture to rise, sure, but this... The sticky, gloopy dough had ballooned to completely fill the massive bowl and was bulging dangerously out of its saran wrap covering.
“Uh, how much yeast did you add?”
“Two sachets, like the recipe says.”
He peered past his brother into the proving drawer. There were several bubbling beige lumps where the mixture had already escaped.
“Well something’s not right. Why is it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s about to take over the Earth. I mean look at it - it’s a beast.”
Gordon gasped, eyes wide. “How could you?” He wrapped a protective arm around the bowl. “It can hear you, you know.”
A part of Alan started to wonder if idiocy was genetic.
---
“Hey, quit it Gords!”
“What? I didn’t do anything.”
“You threw dough at me.”
“Did not.”
Alan walked over to the wall and pointed to a lump of pale, squidgy splatter.
“...You’re the one that ducked. That one’s on you.”
---
“We boil them?”
“That’s what it says,” said Alan, setting a large pot of hot water onto the stove.
“Let me see that.” Gordon snatched the tablet up from the counter and frowned at it. “Well, that sounds horrible. Boiled bread.” He grimaced. “Yummy(!)”
He reached for one of their irregularly-shaped bagels from the baking sheet where the brothers had laid them out, held it over the pan, then stopped.
“...I’m not sure I can do it.”
Alan sighed. “Why not?”
Gordon’s brow wrinkled. “Well, it’s just... We made them. They’re like our babies now. It feels wrong.”
Alan nodded thoughtfully, then without a word, reached past him, grabbed the baking sheet, and in one smooth motion tipped the whole lot straight into the boiling water, where they immediately sank straight to the bottom.
The brothers watched for a moment in silence.
Gordon slowly pulled out his phone and took a photo. “You’re doing amazing, sweeties.”
---
“Finally!” Gordon groaned, making a big deal of stretching his back out. “I was starting to think we’d never get to the actual cooking bit. How do bakers do this every single morning?”
Alan ignored him. “You don’t think they look a bit...flat, do you?” he asked, looking doubtfully at the tray in front of him.
‘A bit flat’ was being polite; the bagels were completely horizontal. How that was possible when the dough had been so massive, he had no idea, but all the air just seemed to have fallen out of them, making them look more like giant tap washers than bread.
“Maybe they’ll puff up in the oven?” Gordon suggested hopefully.
It was not a convincing theory.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now anyway,” he said, flexing his neck gingerly from side to side. “Let’s just get them in, and we’ll see what happens.”
It took some manoeuvring to fit all the bagels into the oven, but eventually they closed the door on them and set the timer.
“God speed, little bready treats,” said Gordon, saluting. Then he turned to his brother. “Wanna watch Buddy and Ellie while we wait?”
---
It’s a little-known fact that the Tracy villa fire alarm sounds a lot like the International Rescue callout siren, especially to a bleary-eyed and un-caffeinated heavy lifter.
Virgil was halfway to his chute before his still-booting brain registered the difference.
He pulled up short, still trying to work out exactly what was happening, then turned and headed towards the sound of raised voices coming from downstairs.
“Shut it off!”
“I’m trying! Just keep fanning.”
The smell coming from the kitchen was awful; an unholy mix of vinegar and burnt motor oil. Quietly, the engineer poked his head around the doorframe, taking a moment to process the utter carnage in front of him. Smoke was pouring out of the oven, on top of which sat a tray of round charcoal-like rings. There were bowls and dishes scattered around every surface, splatters of cream-coloured goo on the walls, and literally everything was covered in a film of white dust.
Through the haze of white and smoke he could just about make out the figure of Gordon across the room jabbing at a tablet, presumably trying to find the alarm controls, while Alan had one tea towel held over his nose and was ineffectually flapping another at the sensor on the ceiling.
“This isn’t helping."
"Keep trying!"
"You did turn the oven off, didn’t you Gordy?”
A pause.
“Whoops!”
“Oh, for f-”
“Alan!!”
Virgil jumped and immediately scanned the area for the source of the voice, only to find her immediately beside him. His grandmother looked ready to kick ass; hands on hips, eyes blazing. Behind her, John, Kayo and a crutch-assisted Scott stared open-jawed at the devastation.
“Just what is going on in here, you two?”
The two smallest Tracys visibly winced and turned slowly, eyes wide, guilt written all over their flour-covered faces.
“Grandma! Guys! Uh…”
They looked desperately at each other, something silent passing between them, then back to the newcomers.
“...Surprise!”
---
After the obligatory lectures from both Grandma and Scott, everyone mucked in to help straighten up the kitchen and sort out coffee and juices. The bagels were declared a write-off after Virgil was induced to try one and almost choked, (quietly) pronouncing it to be 'worse than Grandma's'. It was somehow both cremated and raw inside, and apparently saltier than the Dead Sea. Instead, ready-made pastries were deployed from the freezer and MAX set to cooking up bacon and eggs, and soon everyone was fed and happy.
After breakfast, John had tapped EOS for the security footage of the younger Tracys’ baking disaster, and was now playing it on a loop in the living room, much to the mortification of Alan and the delight of everyone else.
“This is priceless.”
“Ahhh, right in the face! Whoosh!”
“Casper the Friendly Astronaut.”
“Stop it...Too funny…”
“Why didn’t you put the splash guard on?”
“There’s a splash guard?”
“Oh my god I can’t… Play it again, Johnny.”
“Don’t call me Johnny.”
Gordon grinned as he watched his brothers and sister enjoying their impromptu movie morning.
“Room for another one?”
He glanced up, then shuffled along the sofa to make space for Grandma, taking the bowl of popcorn she offered. For a minute they sat there together in companionable silence, popcorn perched between them, until he noticed her watching him from the corner of her eye.
“So, are you gonna confess?” she asked quietly.
He kept his face carefully neutral. “Whatever do you mean?”
She leaned closer. “I mean that I might not be any great shakes in the kitchen, but even I can see it’s suspicious that someone so partial to elaborate midnight snacks doesn’t know how to use the oven.” She raised one silver eyebrow at him.
He held her gaze for a moment longer before breaking out into a wide grin.
“I never could put one past you.”
She smiled gently. “Does Alan know?”
He looked over at his little brother, who was trying unsuccessfully to escape a Scott Tracy hair-ruffling.
“No. He needed the distraction as much as any of them.”
She chuckled softly and put a warm hand on his shoulder. “Good call, kid.”
She followed his gaze as the roughhousing descended into a full-blown pillow fight.
“Good food is all very well, but sometimes laughter really is the best medicine.”
For the Fluffember prompts Image and Clouds, with thanks to @gumnut-logic for the prompt list! It's not much, but I wanted to add something!
The rescue had been successfully completed, family re-united, minor injuries treated and the area made safe. Gordon was securing the POD in the Module, and Virgil took a moment to just breathe.
It was a cool day, but the sun was shining and there was enough strength in her rays to warm his weary shoulders. He let his gaze sweep upwards above the winter-bare tree branches to the cloud-scattered blue sky.
A slow smile spread lazily across his face as the combination of silver-grey and blue made him think of Thunderbird One, and by extension, Scott. The sky was so much a part of Scott. They belonged to each other just as Gordon and the ocean did.
As his focus drifted upward further still he spotted the gibbous moon, high above the clouds and far enough from the sun to be floating amid a deeper azure blue. The moon triggered memories of his Dad. Bedtime stories of adventures up there with "Uncle" Lee that always held the boys enraptured - especially John, who's eyes would sparkle with the light of the stars with every mention of the wonders of space.
Virgil's thoughts turned to John, now spending more time up there among the stars he loved than he did down on solid earth. He could remember John telling bedtime stories to Alan about brave explorers traveling through space to far off places and the things they learned there - including stories about Dad's mission to Mars. And as Alan had grown John had taken him stargazing and shared his knowledge and love of the celestial wonders found way beyond the blue of Earth's atmosphere.
He took out his phone and snapped a photo. The resolution wasn't great on his phone's camera, but he didn't need minute detail, just a lasting reminder of this moment. An image that somehow encapsulated so much of his family. Scott was in the colours of the sky, the racing wind, freedom itself, streaking through the blue. Memories of Dad were in the moon, and John and Alan were tied to the thought that the moon was more often associated with a darker sky pin-pricked with starlight.
The only one missing from the image was Gordon, but he was here in the moment, yelling at him to stop standing there gawping at the view.
Fandom: Thunderbirds
Rating: Gen
Genre: Family
Characters: Scott, Alan
It’s time Alan went to bed, but in true pre-teen fashion, he’s being stubborn about it.
Fluffember/fluff&fun day two, using both prompts cuddles and rug. Been a little while since I last wrote anything for this duo, but this was the prompt interpretation that jumped out at me after some musing, so this was how I took it! This is pre-series, but a little while post-Zero-X, with Alan aged 10 and Scott aged 22.
Scott caught sight of the glow beneath Alan’s bedroom door and sighed silently. Eleven pm wasn’t late by his standards, but for a ten year old it was far too late to still be up. Not for the first time, he considered removing the games consoles from his room and reinforcing the old room of games in the den only, but that was not an argument to be having with an overtired ten year old right now.
Knocking on the door as a warning, he nudged it open. The room was a glowing red – red lamp shades throwing the whole room into Alan’s favourite colour, as though the walls and covers weren’t also red. Scott knew that Virgil was despairing about the colour scheme and hoped that Alan would grow out of his incessant need for red everything as he got older.
Considering Thunderbird Three was red, and Alan had had his eyes on that rocket since Dad first showed him International Rescue, Scott didn’t see the obsession dying down any time soon.
He could understand Virgil’s despair, though. Red was a very overpowering colour when it was the only colour. Scott didn’t have to be an artist to know his eyeballs were being assaulted every time he entered his youngest brother’s bedroom.
In his red pyjamas, Alan was laying stomach-down on his red plush rug, legs up in the air and kicking back and forth lazily. Blue eyes, although they looked more purple as they reflected the tinted light emitting from the wall lamps, looked at him as he entered, widening a little as though their owner hadn’t expected the interruption, before narrowing into a look that Scott knew all too well.
Alan was scheming.
Eleven at night was far too late for preteen schemes, so Scott elected to ignore the warning signs as he strode into the room.
“C’mon, Alan,” he said, reaching the rug and crossing his arms. “Bed time.”
Alan promptly put his head down on his folded arms and looked up at him challengingly.
“I’m in bed.”
Scott glanced up at the fully-made bed, complete with red comforter and pillow, deliberately and raised an eyebrow. “No, you’re not. Up you get, Alan. Your bed is behind you.”
Red-tinted blue eyes met his challengingly.
“Make me.”
Scott’s shoulders slumped and he sighed again. He shouldn’t cave, he knew that. He was hardly a parent, but he had his own memories of how Mom had treated him and John when they were Alan’s age, and more recent examples of parenting from Grandma stepping up, and neither woman ever let them get their own way every time.
“Aren’t you too old for that game?” he asked, parroting an oft-heard phrase from his childhood, but his feet were taking him forward without permission and his knees were bending down even as Alan shook his head with a little devil grin on his face.
The kid had him and they both knew it.
“Up,” he insisted, hooking his hands underneath Alan’s armpits and pulling, fully expecting the usual trick of deadweight child as his brother threw everything he had into making himself as awkward as possible to pick up in what seemed to be every child’s favourite game at some point or other.
Scott knew he’d done it when feeling particularly petty, even if he’d normally loved being picked up. Grandma liked to point out even now that he’d always loved being in the air. Alan was similar… except at bed time.
The expected resistance was absent, and Scott almost overbalanced as Alan peeled away from the rug easily, only to grip hold of him tight enough to be one of those things that stuck firmly to rocks at low tide – barnacles, if his hours beachcombing with Gordon had taught him anything.
Or just a limpet. That worked, too.
“Right,” he told the bundle clinging to him, adjusting his grip to make sure he wasn’t going to drop him for the few moments he had him in the air, “bed time for you.”
The resistance came when he set Alan down on the bed and his brother refused to let go.
“Alan,” he said warningly, only to get a wide grin, complete with scrunched up eyes.
“Scott!” the limpet parroted.
“It’s bed time for you, kid,” he tried, shifting his grip so he could start peeling clinging fingers away from his t-shirt. Every time he got one away, another returned. “Alan.” His voice slipped into a slightly deeper, marginally demanding, register. “Let go.”
“Make me,” came the cheeky response. Definitely tired.
“Alan, it’s time you went to bed,” he said, turning around and sitting down on the bed so that he had both hands free to pry his brother off of him.
Alan lashed out with a foot, kicking the mattress by Scott’s legs, at the same moment he lunged his weight forward, and Scott found himself on his back on Alan’s bed, with the ten year old in question sprawled on his chest.
“In bed,” the blond said smugly. “Night, Scotty.”
“Uh, no, Alan,” he corrected. “You’re on your bed, not in it. In fact, you’re on me, not your bed.”
“Same thing.”
“No, no it’s not,” Scott sighed, sensing a losing argument and not even bothering to get started. John could correct Alan on idioms tomorrow. “Come on.”
With a heave – ten year olds could be heavy if they were on just the wrong spot – he rolled over onto his side, so that Alan was less on him, and more on the bed where he should be.
The limpet still didn’t let go, and now one of Scott’s arms was trapped awkwardly beneath him, so he had one less hand to try and pry the stubborn child off with.
At this point, it was starting to feel not worth it, even if the Grandma in the back of his head was telling him he shouldn’t let Alan have his way.
Was there really any long term harm to giving in for one night? The level of red in his vision was obnoxious to his retinas, true, but if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t have to see that – as long as he turned out the lights so the red glow didn’t permeate through his eyelids – and, really, Scott could see no other downsides to waiting until Alan fell asleep before wriggling loose.
No downsides except the fact that Alan’s grip didn’t loosen at all even after he finally fell asleep, leaving Scott with the decision of attempting to get free but risking waking his brother and going through the whole rigmarole again, or giving in and staying where he was for the night, even if it was a bit earlier than he usually went to bed.
The idea of an overtired temper tantrum if Alan woke up made it an easy decision, and Scott let his head rest against the too-red pillow again, waving one hand to turn off the lights so he didn’t have to put up with the colour any more before wrapping the arm around his youngest brother.
Tomorrow, he promised the tutting grandmother in his head, he’d make Virgil put Alan to bed. Or John. John was probably the best bet, thinking on it more. Virgil was enough of a hugger in his own right that Alan wouldn’t even need to resort to trickery.
But that was a problem for tomorrow’s Scott. Tonight’s Scott was going to pull the comforter up over the pair of them and get an early night for a change.
Tags: On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Set Post S02:E10
Brief Excerpt:
“What’s going on Brock?” Jason asked, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the younger man. This was not the place or time.
“I...I don’t think I can take my clothes off,” Brock said quietly, almost too quietly.
Screw it, Jason thought, and reached out to place a hand gently on Brock’s knee, not anticipating the flinch that it would cause. Pulling his hand back quickly, he looked at Brock in concern and then the pieces started to come together.
When Brock's injuries from diving out of their exploding vehicle in Mexico are revealed, Jason is there to help. Written for Day 28: Soothing Baths for Flufftober 2021.
Thanks to the wonderful @sugaredmayhem for editing, and thanks to everyone over at the SEAL Team Discord ( @disasterfandoms, @galaxysanduniversesinmymind, @quality-on-a-patch-of-awesome, @bravo-four-seal-team and I’m sure I’m forgetting others) for creating this pairing and encouraging this fic!
Can be read on A03 or the rest is under the cut!
Jason paced the hallway, waiting for the rest of his team to finish getting geared up.
Their time so far in Mexico had been a shit show and he was frustrated with what little they had to go on for this next operation. A dying man’s confession of a safe house, and minimal time for a proper game plan was never a good foundation for an op, but this was the closest they had been to getting Doza this whole time and they weren’t going to miss out for a shower and some rest.
Catching a small whiff of his own stench, Jason almost second guessed his last thought, worried that the enemy might smell them coming before they even caught sight of them.
Nodding as each of his men peeled out of the armory, he fist bumped everyone as they headed towards their vehicles. Hopping from op to op with little to show for it was extra exhausting; hopefully this would be the one to end Doza’s reign of terror.
XXXXX
Back at the base, Jason tilted his head back, running his fingers through his hair. The hot water of the shower poured over him, rinsing the sweat away, the smell of gunpowder, and any traces of blood. As he closed his eyes, he could still see Doza’s body laying on the floor. Finally, he thought to himself as the water continued to pound down.
Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the changing room. By that time, most of the team and other members of the Mexican Marines had left, Jason choosing to take a longer shower than most. But as he started to pull on his shirt and pants, he noticed that Trent and Brock were tucked in the one corner.
Trent appeared to have showered, his long hair still dripping water on the back of his shirt. He had his sweatpants pulled up on the left side, a fresh bandage covering the cut he sustained from the church siege. He was talking, no he was arguing with Brock, who was still sitting on the bench, with his full gear still on from the operation.
Jason hesitated for a moment, not knowing if this was something he should step in for or not. But then he overheard Trent say something about an injury and before he knew it, he was standing next to Trent, looking down at Brock with a small frown.
“Hey, I got this. Go watch the door, okay?” Jason said, tilting his head in the direction of the exit. Jason wasn’t surprised when Trent didn’t follow his orders immediately, checking in silently with Brock. Even if he was Bravo 4, Trent would always be concerned with the health of their team members over whatever command Jason could issue, and that’s part of the reason that made him such a good medic.
Trent moved towards the door, Brock must have signaled he was okay with Jason’s suggestion. As soon as Trent was out of sight, Jason sat down next to Brock on the bench.
“What’s going on Brock?” Jason asked, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the younger man. This was not the place or time.
“I...I don’t think I can take my clothes off,” Brock said quietly, almost too quietly.
Fuck it, Jason thought, and reached out to place a hand gently on Brock’s knee, not anticipating the flinch that it would cause. Pulling his hand back quickly, he looked at Brock in concern and then the pieces started to come together.
“The rocket launcher...you guys all dived out of the car, right?” Jason asked, thinking back to the ambush in the alley way. He had noticed the incident of course, but had been more focused on taking out the man who was holding the rocket launcher and then ducking from the responding gunfire that followed than watching specifically how his team had gotten out of the vehicle.
Brock nodded.
“You didn’t say anything,” Jason said, anger lining his words, but then softened his tone, not liking how Brock had hunched down even further in response. “Is that what Trent was arguing with you about?”
“Yeah,” Brock replied, lifting his head to meet Jason’s gaze. “I...I honestly didn’t feel it until we stopped moving,” he explained, sitting up a bit more, wincing at the pull of his clothes against his skin.
Jason nodded, it sounded like adrenaline had kept Brock moving, and now that the operation was over, his body decided to stop hiding the injury. Knowing what they had to do, Jason stood up, motioning for Brock to do the same. He reached around the younger man, unclipping his vest and setting it on the bench, ignoring the loud rattle it made against the wood. Jason then bent down to untie Brock’s boots. Brock quickly caught on to his actions, and lifted each foot, so that Jason could pull the boot off and then his sock in one fell swoop.
Jason had to pause for a moment, his breath catching at the intimacy of his motions. They were in the middle of a Marine base in Mexico, and he was literally undressing Brock. Shaking his head, he stood back up, trying to refocus. Brock was injured. That was the priority here.
“Got a pair of scissors?” Jason asked, watching Brock’s eyes widen as he realized what Jason had planned. But his hand didn’t shake as he pointed to his vest, and Jason quickly fished out the pair from the pocket he was indicating. Jason then strode into the showers, expecting Brock to follow him instinctively and was glad when he was right.
Signaling for Brock to hold back for a moment, he turned the shower back on, but at a much cooler temperature than his own shower had been. He then reached out, planning at first to pull Brock along by his arm, but then thinking better of it, grabbed Brock’s uncovered, and uninjured hand instead. Ignoring the warmth that radiated from Brock’s hand to his, he positioned Brock under the spray of cool water, still fully dressed.
As the clothes started to dampen, Jason began to cut the fabric along Brock’s right arm, followed by his left. His shoulder had taken the brunt of his fall, and Jason took extra care to pull the fabric from the burn, his fingers tracing over the wound gently. Jason could feel how tense Brock was as he held his body still, preparing himself for the pull of the fabric away from his skin, trying to not let out any sounds or show any emotion.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s just me here, okay?” Jason repeated in a low tone, his hand resting briefly on Brock’s cheek, feeling reassured when Brock’s eyes met his and he responded with a small nod.
Jason then repeated the same steps with Brock’s pants, starting from the waist and going downwards. Brock’s left hip and knee were the worst, and the little gasps of pain, the small whimpers that Brock now allowed out were daggers to Jason’s heart, but he knew he had to keep going. Any fabric lingering could cause an infection, and so Jason was painstakingly meticulous with his process, even as his own hands trembled when Brock let out a sound.
Finally convinced that he had removed all the fabric, Jason nodded in the direction of the shampoo and soap. “Do you think you can manage that?” He asked, trying to not succumb to the impulse to do it himself. Even though Brock was injured, he was still stunning, and it was taking every bit of Jason’s self control to not run his hands over every part of his body, but for a different purpose than before.
Seeing Brock’s nod in response, Jason turned to leave the showers. “I’ll go grab some dry clothes,” Jason added over his shoulders, and then headed out, feeling like he may be in need of another shower himself later, a cold one this time.
XXXXX
Now that Jason was no longer close to him, Brock could feel his whole body relax. Jason’s actions had been confusing as hell, and he had felt tense during that whole encounter, both from the pain of his burns and from the compassion that Jason was showing him. The handful of times that they had hooked up, Brock didn’t even think that they got fully undressed, and so to be fully naked in front of Jason, and by Jason’s hands...Brock let out a sigh, trying to commit the whole scene to memory. He was just glad that he didn’t throw himself into Jason’s arms...or drop to his knees, which might not have turned out as well this time around.
Brock reached for the soap, his whole left side twinging at the movement. He wished that Jason would have stayed, but also figured that helping him soap down might have been a step too far especially considering where they were. Brock carefully but quickly washed his body, and then his hair, the cool water causing him to start to shiver.
But as he stepped out of the shower, and saw Trent holding burn cream, bandages, and a sweatshirt that he recognized as one of Jason’s, he couldn’t help but smile. Maybe this was something more after all.
Maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something real.
