An idea that struck me this morning that doesn't entirely work... but eh. Just a little one pager...
whump, angst.
~*~*~*
Sometimes, John will change the number.
Five to rescue, though his monitors were showing six, that last dot with a shade far closer to red than orange, his feeds fluttering through hues. It means they won’t make it in time, and the lifesign will be his burden, not his brothers’. They carry far too many souls in their hearts as it is, and telling them would only drive them to wonder what they could have done differently, how they could’ve shaved a millisecond if it would’ve meant life instead of death. And John knows there’s nothing. It’s the red that means at least part of the rescue will be recovery.
He prepares for it though, emotionally, mentally. One of his siblings will probably find the person behind the previously failing light, assuming they were gone at the time of the incident because the shade of their stuttering heartbeat wasn’t on John’s scanners. And that’s his blessing to them, as much as it's the lesser of the two worst case scenarios.
There’s a deep orange that’s just too on the line to know for sure, and in those cases he’s honest. He has to be.
Hates it though.
He hates the way Scott pushes One’s engines carelessly to their max, and the determined blankness in their sunshine brother’s eyes, and Virgil’s worried frown as he tries to hold himself, Two, and his siblings together on terra firma. For a chance. Sometimes, that orange works out in their favor, and other times it ends with exactly what he’s always feared about them losing people.
Obsession. They all have it; it didn’t help them find Dad in the end (that was luck and love), it didn’t save Mom or Grandad, and it's not healthy for them to put so much of Fate’s whims on their own backs.
“John?!” Scott’s voice echoes as if through a tunnel. “How many lifesigns?”
Trembling, he goes to answer. The underwater quake had shaken and stirred. Evac had been underway, and Gordon was down there now. Not answering. His suit telemetry… unreliable.
Six lifesigns had long since changed to five, the ghost of the one they couldn’t save weighing on John’s mind. Then, six once Gordon entered the water. And now…
“Six, but Scott" - the red he knew too well wavered through wet, blurring vision - “you have little time. You need to go. Now!"
Summary: A visit to his brother's university doesn't go as planned - but it's what was needed.
Characters: Virgil, John
Words: 3K
Warnings: depression, hinted.
A/N: I have a small contribution. Look, it's been so long, I'm going to drop this and run. Have 3K of Virgil playing piano.
Or, Read on Ao3
~*~
Muted/Unmuted
The restaurant had a coat check, and that’s how John knew he’d have to use the Tracy name to get himself a table coming in without a reservation like he was. Taking advantage of their privilege wasn’t among his favorite things to do - or any of theirs really - but he made a mental note to donate to a local food kitchen, deciding the time with Virgil was worth him using his name for personal reasons.
“Near the music, if available,” he advised the hostess once he’d handed over his gray overcoat. Though it looked flat on the hanger, it was specially tailored to his silhouette. Around his neck, he continued to wear the long, wide scarf he’d walked in with. It had kept him warm walking through the campus of Denver Tech. Though it was warmer inside the building, he’d carried some of the outside chill with him. He’d been out walking a lot longer than he’d intended - once he’d managed to find the Edwards building from Virgil’s scrawl, one of his suitemates had redirected him into town, here, where Virgil had apparently picked up a last minute shift.
John hadn’t even known that Virgil was working, not with the coursework he had on his plate to keep up with his two majors. But Virgil was like Scott, like John himself, and like their father before them: a man of action. He liked to keep his hands busy.
He couldn’t deny the skip in his step, for it had been too long since he’d had a chance to visit Virgil in person, let alone had the chance to listen to his music live. Gordon or Alan or even Scott would’ve lamented the time lost, especially when the weekend was already so short to begin with, before finding something else to keep themselves busy. But John had arrived earlier than expected and it made him smile to know nothing had really changed about his brother since going their separate ways to University. Virgil would always step up when he was needed.
There was nothing John would rather be doing with his first evening visiting than spending a few hours listening to his brother play the piano. The large textbook adding weight to his satchel reminded him he had his own studying he could do. It would be just like old times - him lounging in the armchair deep in a book and Virgil practicing his scales and arpeggios before launching immediately into whichever piece was his current creative outlet. Sometimes it was the school play, sometimes a competition piece, and for a while his Juilliard entry, back when he thought he might apply.
“I’ll likely settle down here for a while,” he advised the woman seating him as he relieved himself of the weight on his shoulder and placed his bag on the private booth before sliding in himself.
“Of course, Mr. Tracy.”
Privacy curtains blocked out the tables in his periphery, and though he wasn’t directly in front of where Virgil would play, they had secured him a space adjacent to the small stage space with two pianos, currently empty.
He worried not about the clientele, letting the people fade away from his mind. But he was curious about the place his brother spent so much of his time, noting the soft, warm lighting, swirls of cloudy marble for each table counter, and seating cushioned with velvet. The kind of luxury they’d grown up with.
Movement at his left caught his eye as Virgil situated himself at the piano. A black suit, slimming, but not among those specially tailored to his form, gave him the appearance of similar elegance. John recognized it for what it was, a uniform just as much as those worn by the other employees. A tie, nondescript enough that he couldn’t make out its coloring in this light. Though his hair was gelled into his usual coif.
When he noticed John's eyes on him, Virgil gave him a small smile in acknowledgement from across the tables as he flexed his wrists in preparation for his set. John waved back, then opened his textbook to the latest chapter.
The piano keys, pliant under Virgil's capable fingertips, fluttered familiar melodies with the accompaniment of gently clinking glassware and the hum of dinner chatter. For awhile, John lost himself in physics, math, possibility, and theory. A glass of amber, cooled by stone, opened his mind to think a little looser and with a little less pressure sitting behind his brow.
He thanked the server for bringing out his first course and used the opportunity to glance around the room. For as much as he liked to keep to himself, people-watching was among his favorite pastimes. When they were younger, he and Virgil used to make up backstories for the people they encountered. It had been a simple form of entertainment and yet great practice for their respective creative endeavors where they both relied on their powers of observation and expression.
But for all the exercises in years past, his brother stole his gaze this evening, so familiar and yet changed in the months since they'd seen each other last. His face had filled out a little around his high cheekbones, five o'clock shadow a bit more prominent in the evening light. The suit squared his strong shoulders, and it made him seem bigger behind the instrument. Not that Virgil ever seemed small sitting at the piano keys, not with the way he enchanted audiences and conjured emotions in tones.
Virgil was unaware of his prying eyes, his expression locked on the space where his sheet music usually rested. It was blank. Where his fingers flew over the keys with ease, the music itself was beautiful. Light and ever so gentle. But looking over the crowd, enamored with their respective dining partners or focused on the business portions of their dealings that evening, not one gave a care to the direction of the music. So much so that Virgil was practically background; when he paused between songs, there was no applause or acknowledgement to his performance.
John’s antipasto turned in his stomach, the silverware suddenly loudening in his ears in a moment where Virgil paused and caught him looking, no doubt his expression bewildered. Barely a breath, and his brother was back in his set. And this time, with his mind less divided with his schoolwork set to the side, John heard it.
The music was beautiful. That hadn’t changed, and Virgil was as precise as ever.
But it was soulless, as lifeless as the chestnut eyes that refused to meet his.
~*~
Virgil performed two more sets after the first finished, three in total spanning from six to half after nine, with short breaks in between where he scurried somewhere in the back. John tried both times to catch him on his way to the restroom, but both times his brother had eluded him. After the second, a part of him wondered if the disappearing act was intentional.
“Would you like a refill, Mr. Tracy?” a server asked, a gloved hand reaching for his glass of water before he could answer. “Do you know him, sir?” she asked, noticing his gaze during the final set. “The pianist?”
The more he watched, the more he noticed. There was a lack of embellishment, and his heart pounded over the lack of flourishes in the melodies. After a while, every tune started to sound like the same song repeated, Virgil’s movements rote and uninspired.
“No.”
“Oh, well, if you are into music, we have dueling pianos every Thursday night. It’s a bit more lively with two of them.”
“Does V- he ever play?”
“Oh, yes, sometimes he’s on the schedule. But you’ll want to come for Monsieur Allard. Should I see about securing you a reservation this upcoming week, Mr. Tracy?”
John shook his head and broke the news that he was just in town for the weekend, waiting until she’d left to hiss out the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t the server’s fault that Virgil was playing at barely half his talent, stifled and muted in this space of opulent luxury. It was apparent they didn’t know who Virgil really was, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked. And if John knew his brother, that had been intentional, a place to unwind where he could just play and not be his father’s son with their name marketed for the clientele.
But, oh, the cost. He didn't know everything, yet. He intended to find out, but one thing he knew - this place was bleeding the life from him.
He paid his check long before Virgil finished, loath to linger any longer than he needed to in the restaurant. His meal had been as luxurious as their menu boasted, and though the decadent flavors had turned flavorless in his observations, he sent his compliments to the chef and left a generous tip nonetheless.
Out front, he received in message form. And with that he slung his messenger bag back over his shoulder, retrieved his coat, and happily left the building behind him.
Virgil beamed when he saw him, his arms laden with a garment bag and struggling with his phone. He'd since changed into casual jeans and flannel where the collar peeked through a similar overcoat.
"You made it!" he laughed, pushing off the wall he was leaning on and slinging his free arm around John's thin shoulders.
"A bit early," John admitted, the excitement infectious.
"Come on," Virgil gestured In the direction of campus. "A short walk then we can get you out of the cold."
They walked in step, and Virgil voiced the directions as they went. John had memorized them on his way in the first time, but there was no reason for him to tell Virgil that, especially when the instructions came with storytelling about which classes he had in the buildings they passed or which dormitories had the most drama.
"The arts building is to your left."
John didn't know what to say. He knew Virgil didn't have any classes there; they'd discussed their respective semesters at length this past summer.
Virgil smiled at him, and it seemed genuine.
But those eyes. John couldn't ease the turn in his stomach left by the way they looked through him. The glassiness he'd witnessed was long gone, but that didn't mean whatever was doing that to his brother was resolved.
And they'd seen this before.
"Are you okay?" The words burst out of him. "You'd tell one of us if you weren't, right?"
Virgil's expression crumpled.
John stopped in his tracks, a tentative hand reaching for his elbow "Virgil?"
"Why do you ask?" he replied, spinning toward him.
“You - you just didn’t seem like yourself.” John dropped his hold on him.
Virgil sighed, wincing as the instinct to tug at his hair left residue on his fingers. He rubbed them anxiously on his jeans. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”
“It’s who they want you to be.”
He bowed his head. “I’m Vince Tanner there; I really thought I’d be doing right by mom’s name. I’d be playing after all. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t come say hello; they have rules around us approaching the dinner patrons.”
“They what?!”
“Anything on the set list has to be pre-approved, all these crowd pleasers. They all sound the same after a while, you know? And I’m not normally so irritated by repetition; but I can’t even -”
Virgil reached out his hands before him, as if invisible keys had sprung out to answer where the words couldn’t, and he played a tune John couldn’t hear. “I tried once. They said I was too disruptive to the guests.”
John hummed. “What about this Allard person? He any good?”
Virgil snorted. “He sounds sophisticated and smart.”
“Do you get to release any of that,” - he didn’t have the music theory knowledge for the right descriptions, but he knew Virgil understood what he meant - “during the dueling piano nights?”
“No. That whole thing is a joke, and we’re supposed to be there to make Andre sound good. That’s all.”
“Virgil!” At this time of night, the campus was still busy with night owls like themselves or those returning from evening festivities at their party or tavern of choice - some even on their way to. John didn’t care how his voice raised. There was no visible wound, but Virgil was being bled dry nonetheless. “Why do you even show up?”
“Diego called out sick.”
“Not just today. Any day. Why are you letting them do this?”
For that, if Virgil had an answer he didn’t share it, his jaw tight. In the yellow light of the street lamps, his skin turned sallow, and he’d crossed his arms over his chest. To protect himself from the cold or from the conversation, John didn’t know fully. But Virgil always did wear his heart on his sleeve.
“You’ve given me an explanation. Thank you,” John stepped in front of him and grasped him by the shoulders. “But that’s still not an answer.”
“Can you let it go?” Virgil pleaded, his voice small and deflated. “I don’t want to bring this visit down anymore than it has been.”
“No, I can’t.”
He glanced up, his eyes welling. “I’m fi-”
“You’re not.”
“No,” Virgil shook his head finally, “I’m really not.” He tightened his arms around himself, breathing deep to push back the swell of tears threatening to fall. “I’m not okay. I’m not.”
This would be the moment big brother would have wrapped him in a hug, Gordon would’ve done the same long before, and Alan wouldn’t have known to push that hard. But John? John had a different answer. Keeping his hands firmly on his brother’s heaving shoulders, he urged them both out of the walkway and toward the building they’d just passed.
~*~
John let Virgil believe the door had just been open; his rule-abiding would’ve had him running all the way back to Kansas if he’d known they’d broken into the music and arts building. The lock jammer built into his watch was a gift from Parker upon John’s graduation. He hadn’t known if it would work on its own; he’d only had his hope that Denver was as unaware of their security issues as Cambridge. But sure enough, John budged the door open easily and ushered his older brother through the threshold.
After admitting his struggles Virgil had gone silent. That was ok, John knew. At this stage, the music would speak where Virgil couldn’t yet.
“Do you know where the music room is?” he asked him. “That’s ok,” he continued when Virgil shook his head mutedly. “We’ll find it.” To the center seemed to be a concert hall, with a gallery lined along the walls of the surrounding hallways. Likely the classrooms would be further back. John stepped further into the left hall, looking for any indication of whether it was approaching the art wing or the music one.
“Here.” John cocked his head at his brother’s voice, where Virgil was holding the door to the concert hall open and gesturing for John to come back the way he came. “They have a few performances this weekend,” Virgil explained thinly. “I figured the piano might still be here.”
The theater was Virgil’s space, not John’s, and within a few minutes, Virgil had found the controls he needed to give them a bit of light. The grand piano was situated stage right, facing towards the orchestra seating to provide the audience a side view of the instrument and the pianist.
While the audience seating looked much more comfortable, John opted for grabbing one of the chairs set up for the back violins and pulled it closer to Virgil’s side. He wanted to stay close. Virgil hands hovered over the keys. Bright eyes looked over to him, unsure.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Play something you wanted to play tonight. Something not on the approved setlist.” John couldn’t help the condemnation laced in his words, nor did he try to.
Virgil’s flat smile twitched at the edges, and he huffed in agreement, though the sound was shadowed by a trickle of tones that molded into an elaborate musical story.
Angry and somber, the melody from Virgil’s hands was familiar and the instinct to fill in the poetry of the words overtook him - not enough for John to sing out loud, but with each progressing chord he felt a jolt to his gut.
It was a cry, a song lamenting the loss of times of war.
“It feels so wrong to feel the way I feel when there’s this happening. Every day, when I wake up my thoughts drift to Scott, and I wonder what he’s seen that day. How much worse it must be to be in the thick of all this violence.”
His breath hitched.
“I want to play something that matters.”
A harsh crescendo of notes from Virgil’s left hand. The right continuing the melody, softly while the chord bounced along the auditorium and faded.
“Something mom would be proud of.”
He stopped.
“You know,” John tried. “Others’ experiences don’t negate your own just by being worse. I’m worried for Scott too.”
A flicker of life with a trill, and his hands fell to his sides.
He looked at John. “Every day my decisions feel like mistakes. Would dad be proud of the path I’ve chosen? Would mom understand? I feel so wrong and worthless. All the time.”
“Oh, Virgil.”
He sucked in a breath and turned away, hands poised back above the ivory. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”
“Doesn’t need to be, just make it real.” John leaned forward, then asked if Virgil wanted him to go.
Virgil shook his head. “No. You can stay.”
Vulnerable with the cover of night, in a space sacred to Virgil, emotion poured from him, fragmented at first - anger, sadness, jubilance quieted all too quickly - before they converged into a jumble of sound and frustration.
His soul bled beat after beat. A refrain of Juilliard’s audition pounded from the heart.
Slashed with another, until it was the two melodies speaking to each other before one assimilated the other.
The cry of war mashed with the trill from earlier, turned minor with panic and worry, persisting. Unrelenting - soulless and lifeless.
And then it built back up from a singular note, repeated into a quickened pulse, blurred with discordance, then the themes came back, louder, fiercer. Crescendoed while Virgil’s heart purged itself upon the keys.
Songs from the restaurant cascaded around them, the pretty made furious as it washed over them.
Virgil pushed back from the piano stool, standing, his whole self looming over the the movement of his hands, while he borrowed from the strength of his trembling arms and shoulders and back as he pounded on the instrument - and pounded until the music left them breathless, choked of air until there was only heat and noise. Until -
He broke.
A sob slashed the last chord, and Virgil fell to the stage with a thump of his large form. John tumbled forward to his knees in front of him, the pressure behind his own eyes released from watching. But at least Virgil hadn’t been alone. And as soon as he was near enough, Virgil launched himself at the closest brother he had while John gathered him close and whispered not that he was ok, but that he wouldn't be alone.
Summary: Gordon's committed to the bit. The bit just happens to be an obnoxious amount of granny squares.
A/N- In the finale: warning for a bit of whump. Whole lotta love though. Words for this part come to 2K.
Part 1 here | Part 2 here | Part 3 here | AO3
Thank yous: craftyfam, patient readers, my yarn stash for inspiration, Kat for the read through and assuring me this was post ready. FFXIV I can't thank you because you are a menace and a distraction no matter how much I love you.
*****
Part 4: Finale
Because Gordon never goes half-assed into anything, Virgil is still finding granny squares.
He has to keep reminding himself that he appreciates Gordon’s dedication. He actually relies on this part of his brother’s character. Frequently, in fact.
But as he pries a stray granny square out of his sock drawer and tosses it into the project basket housing its companions, Virgil has to roll his eyes. Fondly of course. In the project management world, they call this scope creep - with no real end in sight, the project keeps getting bigger and more involved, and it’s all too easy for it to just keep living on indefinitely. But then, Gordon is one big Scope Creep anyway since he was never one for boundaries in the first place.
His definition of an appropriate time to stop was very different from Virgil’s.
At this point, the new square isn’t anything Virgil hasn’t seen before. He knows by now what to expect from Gordon’s work. And, honestly, it’s just like Gordon to somehow manage to desensitize Virgil away from everything he knows about color theory, however briefly. So, neither the presence of the piece of fabric nor the color combination provides any shock value anymore.
What it does do is remind him that he’s got his own project balancing to do. That of actually… you know… finishing the damn thing. And figuring out what to do with the rest of the squares, he reminds himself as he slides on his socks and laces up his boots for the day.
The newest acquisition - two rounds of golden yellow followed by two rounds of aubergine purple and a final in white - doesn’t look as visually discordant alongside its peers, the scrambled rainbow they are. They are all the ones that didn’t make the cut for Gordon’s afghan, the squares Virgil keeps finding anew, and inevitably the future ones Gordon will continue to make until he receives another lightning strike of an idea.
Right beside it is a second project basket. Gordon likes a big blanket, so enough squares to fit a king sized bed are already packed up and labeled in their sequential order. As he’s had time, Virgil has started sewing them together based on the design Scott helped with. There’s enough space still for him to store the bolt of fabric John helped him find too, once it finally arrives.
Virgil’s grateful for their help, and their part in the project has made it just that bit more special. He hopes Gordon feels that way too. It took Scott reminding him that it wasn’t his own aesthetic he was trying to please for the design to come together. Otherwise, Virgil has no doubt what he would’ve designed would’ve been lesser for his own misery trying to force order into chaos.
Somehow, with the power of math, Scott’s perspective on patterns and probability and randomization had been just the ticket. Gordon also probably hadn’t realized just how many squares he’d made that started with the shade of yellow or orange or his typical bright shades. Just that little bit of consistency was all he and Scott needed to figure the rest out as they laid out the squares. It wasn’t a pattern, a fade, or even entirely randomized. But a couple edits later, they had the final layout, the squares numbered, and Virgil had gotten to work joining his own granny stitches into his brother’s work in the only color Gordon considered “neutral” - yellow.
Unable to resist the smile it brings, Virgil tugs the blanket out of the basket and unfolds the two rows he’s finished, with the third halfway complete. It doesn’t bother him that his connecting yarn is still live - the hook has his last loop stabbed into the working skein, and even if it does come unraveled a little, crochet is not so difficult to start again.
It had taken a few tries to find the right hook to help him match Gordon’s stitches. Even though Virgil taught him a few years ago, no two makers’ work was exactly alike. And Gordon was as carefree with his gauge as he was in the rest of his life.
Excitement thrums through him; it’s morning, the birds are chirping, and he’s feeling motivated and productive. The crochet work is soft in his hands, the next square in the sequence visible in the project basket below but hiding the rest of the queue for the third row. It’s the perfect day to grab some coffee, hide away in his studio for a few hours, and let the project surprise him.
That’s the way a WIP should work: it should inspire along the way.
Virgil has just thrown a towel over the basket to make it seem like it could be laundry - just in case he runs into a wayward squid - when the alarm in his room sounds and John’s voice comes over comms.
They have a rescue.
~*~
Virgil awakes to the smell of antiseptic and the uncomfortable feeling that his mouth tastes like cotton.
Something about that makes him want to giggle, except he can’t actually do that.
“Easy, Virg.” Hands, soothing, graze his hairline. “They’ve got you on the good stuff.”
He can tell. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet to know if he’s in a hospital or the infirmary, nor does he know what happened to land him there.
Based on the cotton in his throat and in his head and in his lungs, maybe he ate Gordon’s blanket.
The giggle turns into a groan.
“You’re okay now. Rest, Virgil.”
Since the voice is Scott, he does so.
~*~
The next time he remembers waking, he’s in the infirmary on the island. Again, this he knows not because he’s opened his eyes to figure it out, but because his senses tell him so. Only one brother knows sea shanties enough to be familiar with that one and, if Gordon is here humming it, they’re both definitely not in a hospital.
The words he wants to say trudge through the molasses on their way out.
“Wha’ happ’n?”
“Virgil!” It’s surprise, and excitement, and relief all rolled into one, but Gordon has the good sense to keep his voice low once the original shock of him waking settles.
Gordon knows the drill well, his voice barely above a whisper as he closes the blinds and scoops some ice chips into a cup. Virgil’s grateful for the gentle way he moves about the room; he can hear him shuffling around, dictating as he goes. By the time Gordon returns with the cup of blessed relief for the feeling in his esophagus, Virgil has managed to tearily blink his eyes half-open.
Beneath his brother’s brushed fringe hides a bruise the size of a fist, purpling so harshly at his hairline that Virgil ignores the ice chip Gordon offers him in favor of reaching up to check the injury out for himself. Immediately, his body protests the movement, and Gordon urges him to lower his arm back to the support of the bed.
“Yeah, maybe don’t try that?” Gordon waves him off. “I’m fine. What do you remember?”
Through the pain in his lower half and the color of Gordon’s face, the memories of the rescue come back clearer. Unfortunately, of all things, they’d been called out to a mudslide. He’d checked Gordon out in the field, he remembers. A panicked civilian with a wayward right hook while Gordon was calming his husband. The man had been incredibly apologetic, and Gordon assured him no harm was done, but Virgil pulled him off duty as a concussion risk and left him in Two with Grandma talking to him.
Then, when Virgil went after a lifesign in a toppling two-story…
“A house hit me.”
“Well, more mud than house. You’re ok though. You were buried from the waist up. Had some compartment syndrome. Everything you’re feeling - or not - is temporary.”
“You came to get me.” Virgil could argue that grounded meant grounded, that Gordon should never’ve gone after him in such dangerous conditions, that he’s the big brother and Gordon’s the little one and he should keep himself safe when he’s told to do so. But there’s a challenge in his little brother’s warm honey eyes already, and he remembers faintly words spoken in worry and fear, assurances that tighten in a coil around his heart.
“I did. There wasn’t anyone else.”
He owes Gordon everything.
Virgil hums, “Thank you.”
Between the pain medication and water soothing the grittiness in his throat, he feels more aware by the minute and ready to try sitting up for a time. Gordon helps him settle a few pillows into position and raises the head of the infirmary bed to the appropriate level. He’s got to let Scott know he’s awake - and Grandma - Gordon tells him. Before either of them decide to have scolded Squid for dinner.
Virgil doesn’t have the energy to chuckle, but it does as he knows Gordon intended: leave him with a smile for the few moments Gordon needs to step away to communicate Virgil’s situation.
His heart is music, his soul is color. Where sound is oversaturated with the wisps and hums of machinery tracking his vitals, his heartbeat in rhythm, color becomes his touchstone. Outside the window will be the cerulean of the sky and sea. Green, which he thinks in its most basic form because it’s every combination of the hue throughout the robust plant-life of their Island. Dandelion yellow - the sun and safety and Gordon’s baldric.
Past the shut blinds, it’s all just a sliver. More prominently, there’s just white and infirmary clean grey. He has to blink away the dullness, as he tears his gaze away from the window and finally musters the strength to glance at himself and especially at his lower half past the pain where Gordon promised his lack of feeling, muted through painkillers, was temporary.
Color, so much of it that it’s blinding, greets him with the neon of signage amidst the Las Vegas cityscape and the celebration of the New York Pride parade they attend each year. The blanket draped across his lap is authentic Gordon through and through, in familiar squares assembled in a chaos true to their variety. No rhyme, no reason.
So much care.
“Grandma will be in shortly.” Gordon plops into the chair at his side, wiggling in the armchair to reacquire the work he’d placed on the seat cushion. He catches him looking, wide-eyed. “It’s not your project, promise. Though I did bring it in for you to work on when you’re feeling better. It’s over by the holoscreen whenever you want me to bring it over. You’ll be here for a bit healing, so I figured…” He shrugs, trailing off.
“Gordon?” He slides his fingers between the stitches and curls them gratefully into soft, comforting colors. “What are you doing?”
“I’m - uh -” Gordon flushes in dim light. “I’m weaving in my ends finally,” he admits, holding up the darning needle. “Sorry if you had another idea for the squares, but once I finished putting yours together, I realized we had enough still to donate some more blankets and those really should be finished.” Gordon weaves a red tail end back and forth between the strands the way Virgil taught him, and the way their mom taught Virgil. “I really did go a little overboard on granny squares didn’t I? I just figured it would be okay for me to help you along. So you could finish what you were working on. Was that ok?”
“More than.”
It also tells him a significant amount about how serious his injuries were and how long he might have been out of commission, if Gordon’s found the time to finish as much as he has. The concern for what he’s put his family through spikes his heartbeat again, and his younger brother glances up to check on him, the monitors, back at him.
Virgil gives him a weary smile, tugging the blanket further up his chest. “I’m ok,” he assures him. “Thanks to you.”
“Don’t do it again,” he admonishes, shaking his head.
Neither of them can promise the other, not in their line of work, and they both know it.
The words go unspoken, but they are woven delicately in the strands of their gifts to each other. Virgil feels the care against his skin, in colors that chase away greys, and soft cotton that sifts fear and worry out through openwork patterning. And when Grandma finally makes her way in to check in on him, his heart is so full with the chance he’s been given, the support he’s always had by the people he cares for, that the love hits him with a wave of exhaustion.
Into sleep he falls, deeply into dreamless rest by the time Grandma finishes her checks and Gordon tucks him in with a thankful salute to the stars above.
A/N: When I am in a writing lull I default to two things: crafting and post-Hydrofoil/post-SOS. I hope this is still enjoyable - dedicated to the craftyfam for inspiration.
In this part: Scott
On a new day, Scott realized he wasn't alone in the lounge. Sometime in the early morning his younger brother must have stumbled in, still encumbered as he was with the cast helping his leg to heal, but Scott had been too engrossed with the work begging for his attention to notice.
He apologizes for it now.
Gordon has used pillows to prop himself up against the arm of the sofa so that he's sitting, and there's a space right past the injured limb for Scott to gently position his weight. This couch is made for Scott’s height, so Gordon seems entirely too small against the decor pillows.
He’s healed nicely after the events of finding Braman - the strain on his arm and shoulder had just needed rest. Their caution saved his neck and spine, though he hadn't been able to escape the head injury, which still gives him headaches from time to time. And the leg - well that needed a bit more than just TLC.
Scott’s hand finds the ankle attached to the uninjured leg, his voice crackling a “good morning” from the lack of use and dryness he hadn’t realized was there. Gordon, with honey-brown eyes that shine with a knowing amusement, pauses the movement of his hands and lets the strand of orange yarn drop at the reminder of Scott’s presence. They both share in the explosion of color just outside the lounge windows.
Clouds like peach fluffs remind Scott of just how long it’s been since they were able to enjoy the dawnslight together. Prior to the accident, their routines aligned with daybreak, the timing of their exercises overlapping. Gordon’s, of course, included laps in the pool. The pool which was decidedly off limits with Gordon’s current accessory. Scott would often go for a run, chasing the sun. Scott’s not so much a fan of this new normal created by the Hood’s attack - the world where Gordon is unable to partake in what runs through his blood, and where the rest of them are spread far, far too thin.
“Granny for your thoughts?”
Scott shakes his head. “They’re not worth the - wait, what?”
In response Gordon tosses him a square of fabric, blaming aerodynamics when it lands on his own foot instead of on Scott’s face where he was aiming. “Well, I can’t reach my wallet and you don’t need my pennies anyway.”
“So this is your substitute?” Scott picks it up between two fingers to inspect it. He’s not trying to make it seem like there’s a practical joke here… but it’s Gordon. So there’s a practical joke here somewhere.
If anything, it’s the color combination. Gordon’s never been afraid of putting clashing colors together, though Scott’s never been sure if that’s truly fearlessness or whether it’s just Gordon being oblivious about it. There was a period when they were younger where Dad thought Gordon might even be colorblind - had him tested and everything. But when all was said and done, Gordon could see what he was doing when he dressed himself with one green sock and one orange - he just didn’t care.
The square’s got the same energy, the only pattern being that no color is repeated. Otherwise, it’s random and clashing, and oh so Gordon.
He loves it immediately.
Even the Barbie pink near the autumn orange.
“Can I keep this?”
“Sure. What’s one granny?” Gordon cuts the orange yarn with a flourish and loops it back through his work. “I have hundreds more where that came from.”
“Oh, wow, that’s … a lot.” Scott wonders if they all channel Gordon’s chaos the way his square does.
“Yeah, well. Not being able to swim is a lot.”
“Oh, Gordon…”
“Don’t. I’m irritated, and it’s not your fault. Pick a color for me.”
“Hmm. Teal.”
There’s a basket on the floor. Gordon reaches for it, placing it instead on his lap while he digs through his options. In the end the color he holds up for Scott is more turquoise than teal, but it’s close enough to the bird feathers outside the window, which inspired his choice in the first place, that he nods his approval.
For a while, Scott watches him work the green-ish blue over the row of orange. Without knowing exactly what Gordon’s doing with the hook and the yarn, Scott catches the general pattern: spaces over the clusters of color and new stitches where the previous row had spaces. Each row around the row before it with corners shaped into a square.
He understands the principle.
“What do I do with it?” he asks. It's small, despite the volume of its color. “Will it work as a coaster?” Scott hopes so; he could use some life for when working at Dad's desk.
“It's perfect for a coaster.”
“What are you doing with them? You can't possibly need hundreds of coasters, can you?” There's actually very little Scott assumes about Gordon’s logic. This is one he feels fairly certain about.
“Ha, no.” Gordon's sly smile would make warriors cower. “Virgil's making me a blanket.”
“Virgil is?”
“Well, yeah. He doesn't know I know. But it's Virgil so of course he is.” Gordon leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “I'm leaving them around the villa for him to find. There's one in his favorite coffee mug right now.”
Gordon cackles. An actual full belly laugh. “I haven't had any sent back to me in retaliation,” he explains further. “Ergo…”
“Ergo,” Scott echoes, the pieces coming together. He absolutely understands now that Gordon is doing just the part he enjoys, a welcome distraction from his current misery. The injured aquanaut gets to enjoy the instant gratification of the small project while Virgil…
…does the heavy lifting.
That’s so entirely them it makes his teeth hurt grinning.
Scott glances at his square with a rush of warmth being welcomed into the language his brothers seem to share over yarn. He never learned when Mom taught Virgil her magic, but he knows it’s important to the two of them and that Virgil taught Gordon at the hospital all those years ago now.
There is still one more thing he’s wondering.
“Gordon? About these ends?” The square looks unfinished with the strands dangling with each color change.
“Oh, do they bother you?” He beams. “I don't mind them so much.”
Scott's gaze immediately jumps to Gordon's gaze away from the trailing yarn. That little shit. Virgil will hate that. Hell, Scott can't stand them unfinished like that himself. And Gordon knows exactly what he's doing.
“You're maniacal.”
Gordon shakes his head. “No, I'm bored. And Virgil likes fixing things, remember?”
A/N Prompts used - window mostly, but also thoughtful because it became a Gordon pov character study. Happy birthday, squidling.
~*~*~*~
Gordon startles as his reflection becomes apparent in the now clean glass of Two’s windshield. Not to where he’s unsafe; Virgil’s made sure of that with both of them secured from above within her hangar. But enough that he pauses, sitting back on his heels. It gives his shoulder a break, since his entire right side is sore from channeling all that elbow grease into relieving his brother’s girl of the dirt and grime left over from their latest rescue. A mudslide. Naturally.
He can imagine the jokes now. If Alan were here, it would be unending laughter at the fact he was startled by his own reflection. And if it were Scott or John or even Kayo, there’d be a nudge or two towards the fact he can’t yet stop looking at himself. But since it’s none of those siblings, and it’s instead Virgil – Virgil, who’s obliviously focused with his headset blocking out the rest of the world – there’s no one that can make Gordon embarrassed by his entirely human reaction. Not that he would feel embarrassed. No regrets and all that. Plus, he had dirt on all of them, including Tin, if they tried to imply otherwise.
His expression in the window pulls into an amused smirk. This is one usually directed to others and isn’t one he sees for himself all that often. Except, he’s pretty sure he’s passed on his mischievousness to Alan, so he’s at least had it mirrored back at him from his youngest brother. There’s a bit of John in it too. He raises his hand up to where the inherited competitive streak sits along the curl of his lips.
The image of himself does the same.
It’s more prominent in his own features than John’s. His older brother was more subtle about his ruthlessness simply because he didn’t have to try to be the best in most things. He just was. In Gordon’s case, the tenacity had always been there – probably ever since he was lucky enough to be conceived in a family of overachievers. By the time he was able to think for himself, the sky had been done, the stars had been done. Hell, even math and sciences and music were all spoken for.
Whether Gordon then found things unique to his brothers’ passions on purpose, or whether those things found him, he didn’t really know. But they came to him, and through swimming and the sea and marine life and laughter, he found out how to be his own man. But he worked hard to get there.
The determination, though; that lives in his eyes. Honey-brown, and soft where the light catches joy, but hard as topaz when alight with fire. Today, they stare at him somewhere between amber and jasper, heavy with the memories they are cleaning off the window. If he had to put a pin on what exactly had originally caught his attention, it was them: the eyes and their unnatural brightness staring back at him.
In order to keep the hair out of his face, he’s pinned back his fringe with a few bobby pins stolen from Kayo’s collection. There’s scarring above his brow, long since healed over time, but still stripes a shade lighter than his natural skin tone if one looked closely enough.
Shrapnel.
From the same accident that injured his back. And yet, so grievous was his injury to his spine, he hadn’t really had time to think about how his face had changed, how serious the head wound could have been. More times that he cared to admit, he wondered why. Why he survived. Why it happened to him in the first place.
Maybe in another life, he would have been able to stay in the service long enough to be decorated like Dad, like Scott. He imagines who that man would’ve been, WASP Lieutenant Tracy. For a moment, his eyes catch those across from him, the scars fade behind a company issued cap, and the gaze hardens.
He shakes himself free of the image. It’s a distant dream. Though medically released from duty, he parted ways with WASP knowing he’d given his all to the path he’d chosen for himself. At least he could always say that – he never wavered. And when all he had was his heart beating that kept propelling him into the next moment, it was knowing he hadn’t given up that kept him from true despair.
Virgil was a large part of that too.
He glances to his right and Virgil’s watching him, not saying a word, just observing him survey himself. Gordon slides down to begin cleaning another section of the window – because contrary to popular belief – he likes this work. Sure, he sometimes might get a little behind in straightening his own room, and there’s literally no sense in not trying to play basketball with trash when the disposal is right there asking for it. But this is nothing on the tasks the military would use to break him down with his fellow recruits. Plus? There’s something incredibly satisfying about revealing the pristine beneath the dirt, just like those oddly satisfying videos of grime being cleaned off old rugs.
When she shines, she really shines.
Oh, lord. He loves this ship. He’ll never admit it to Virgil, and Four is still his number one girl, but he loves what Two represents – steady, strong and sturdy through heavy winds. She’s an extension of Virgil himself, and if he didn’t love her already he’d still adore her for that alone.
Gordon sighs, and when he does so, Virgil lifts one side of his headphones off his ear and tilts his head curiously.
“You ok?” he asks.
Gordon beams at him. “Just admiring my handsomeness.”
“No shit.” Virgil tosses a wet rag at him, which Gordon catches in his left hand before it hits him in the nose. He eyes the bucket below them, then leans over to let it drop. Virgil grins when it misses, and he grabs a clean one he’d left hanging from his side pocket. For a moment, Gordon fully thinks he’s gotten away with it. But then, Virgil says “you’ve come a long way” – the words chuckled to himself only once he’d realigned his music and began humming in that way that meant he hadn’t meant for Gordon to hear.
Gordon smiles to himself, and he winks at his reflection.
First Part here
or Ao3 here
Summary: Gordon stares at himself. In part 2 - ...and Virgil watches
Words: <1K
~*~*~
Reflection - part 2
Virgil’s got a pretty good sense of what goes on in his periphery.
Granted, he doesn't immediately scan for entryways and nearest exits every time he enters a room the way his security-inclined siblings do. Kayo somehow manages to do it without an obvious deviation to her gaze, so it's not apparent at all that that's what's happening. But it is, and it speaks volumes to his sister's ability to multitask.
But this doesn't preclude Virgil from being in tune with what's happening around him. He may not be able to sense danger from the way someone’s shoulders hunch to hide themselves when entering a building, but he does have a strong sense of observation when it comes to what he knows well, or what he wants to know well. Things like the island landscape he's painted a thousand times and more; the exact paint hues he needs to combine to create the sapphire in his baby brother's eyes; the number of wrinkles on Scott’s shirt to know if he actually slept that night; how jittery John is in his fingers incremental to his caffeine intake.
Things like that.
So when Gordon rotates his shoulders and eases back to sit on his heels, Virgil notices the movement. He doesn't say anything right away because the moment doesn't warrant it. The chore is a little too heavy for ribbing about laziness, which would be the appropriate response if it were any other type of rescue. As it is, they are both trying to forget about the losses made all too real by the lingering mud on Two’s windshield, caked on so firmly that the water jets only managed to release about two thirds of it. The rest was down to human persistence.
Gordon's persistence.
And his own.
For him, it hurts when he lets himself think about it too much, which is why Virgil buries his ears in Beethoven’s 7th and lets the ache of the composer’s hearing loss envelop him instead while he listens for shifting key centers and tension tossed between instrumentation. The technical music analysis keeps his brain from wandering back to muddied faces, slack with breathlessness. Except for in the second movement, admittedly. Allegretto wasn’t just “less lively.” She was brutal, and his eyes may have blurred with sadness in the key of A-minor for just a moment while faces swam in the glass.
It still helps. Somehow. The painful reminder of human experience.
So that’s him - his heartbeat so firmly tied to the environment around him: the shape of its sounds and the timbre of its sights. He carries on because he must.
When it comes to Gordon, though? His brother is perseverance embodied - all the determination of an Olympian, resolve of a soldier, courage of a survivor, and tenacity of someone who gets up every morning balancing chronic injury with self-care and selflessness. His backbone might be physically lighter after surgery, but it’s equally fiercer.
Gordon’s been doing this work in silence, and Virgil wonders exactly what he’s been thinking while Virgil’s been drowning screams with violins. He knows it is possible for Gordon to detach, become the soldier he was trained to be. But it’s rare for their resident aquanaut to let Virgil witness it. Those experiences are something Gordon will channel with Scott, every now and again.
But Virgil has seen it before - regretfully. And this isn’t it.
Virgil squeezes his eyes closed, and when he opens them Gordon’s pressed his fingertips to his mouth, a strange expression on his face while his eyes lock on the crisscrossing of scars near his hairline. Painful memory or badge of honor? Virgil wonders. A little of column A, a little of column B. From his experience, nothing was ever so black and white.
He just hopes that when Gordon looks at himself in the mirror, when he’s not smiling for the rest of the world to see, he still notices the bravery and feels every iota of admiration marked with his name. Just as on more than one occasion, Scott has reminded Virgil of the same. It’s inherent in human nature to be harder on ourselves, to sometimes see ourselves so differently than those around us. It was never so obvious to Virgil as when he sketched the first draft of each of their portraits. Scott the commander, John the intelligent, Gordon the tenacious, Alan the boy genius. Himself? The supporting role. Scott had shaken his head and called him the heartbeat while Virgil flushed with embarrassment and confusion. Then, he asked Virgil to try again, until he was satisfied that Virgil’s self-portrait captured what the others saw in him.
Shoulders straighter, wider in the frame. Eyes more confident, but softer, kinder.
Eventually, Gordon catches him watching. It was bound to happen; they’ve worked together too long and traveled too far for them not to be in tune with the other. In barely a blink, in front of him is the man he painted all those years ago, scars and all, but eyes carrying the blinding gleam and the joyful spirit of a man who would always get back up again and smile.
He shifts his earphones, Beethoven barely audible as if through a fog, and Virgil asks genuinely if he’s ok. Gordon, true to form, plays it off with a joke and a smile, even though they both know it’s what they call “a moment.” They’ve had many over the years. This is just another, and it won’t be the last.
This part isn’t keen observation; it’s intuition. Virgil just knows that this moment isn’t one he needs to press. Gordon’s ok. They both will be.
So he grins back at him, gives Gordon the lighthearted response he knows he needs, and resets his music.
Virgil takes a breath, emboldened by his brother’s endurance beside him.
A/N: for brothers relaxing, my second submission for FishTank Week. I'm not entirely happy with this one, and I may come back to it to make it better. For now - enjoy
Angst, btw
~*~*~*~*~
The pebble beach was as resonant as ever, water trickling over stone with an effervescent cascade towards the horizon and back again. At water’s edge, Virgil sat upon a larger boulder, his back to Tracy villa, and beside him was his ever reliable co-pilot, staring just as hard towards the place where the sky met the sea. They had found each other here, and Virgil had smiled as he settled in beside him with the same idea: Gordon in search of closure within the caress of life-giving ocean and Virgil on a mission of sound and seascape to erase the terrors lingering in his heart.
This one hadn’t been kind to them.
Tap, tap
“Gordon?” Virgil asked. “I mean this in the kindest way possible, but can you take just a minute to stop - for me please?”
Amidst foot-tapping, Gordon suddenly paused and studied him gently, before launching into a new rhythm with his fingers on his knee. “What are you talking about?”
“Ugh!” Virgil scrambled for the tapping hand, holding it like they once did as kids in effort not to lose each other. This time, it was to silence the energy. “Shhh!”
“But I wasn’t making any noise.”
“Just.” He sighed. “Shush, for a moment. This is supposed to be relaxing.” He released Gordon’s hand.
The water was like breath, ebb and flow. Inhale exhale. And again.
Tap, tap tap.
“Gordon!”
“Sorry! I don’t know what you want from me.” The younger man shrugged, the expression of “and I was here first” apparent, but unspoken.
“I want you to be still for once!”
Virgil got his wish as Gordon clamped his lips tight, shifting to swing his arms around his knees in effort to keep his subconscious movements minimized. Finally in silence, Virgil closed his eyes, as he offered his memories to the tide. The stress coiled in his shoulders, pressing into his heart and stifling the movement of his lungs slowly eased, and in the waves he found his breath again.
Expelled into tense silence.
“Sorry, that was harsher than I meant it,” Virgil apologized. The figure beside him was stiff and still and vacant. “Are you ok?”
Gordon nodded mutedly, one hand clasping his opposite wrist, while his free fingers fluttered rhythm in the air, ghosting across his knee. The small position broke Virgil's heart.
“Thank you,” he whispered, closing in to hug him around the shoulders. “I needed that.”
“I know.”
He squeezed harder; he wanted Gordon to feel how much he meant it.
“Virgil, I-”
“You what?” He released him part of the way leaving a hand on his shoulder in encouragement for him to look up as Gordon dropped his gaze back down to the waterline.
“I-?” His voice was as quiet as a secret. “It’s not relaxing to me.”
“The quiet?”
“Yes? No?”
“Gordon?”
“It’s the stillness, Virgil,” he admitted, resigned. “I don’t find being still all that relaxing. Would you?” he challenged. “If you were me?”
His hurt thundered in Virgil’s ears. Not all of it from the present. Most of it was too recent to be considered distant-past, but too painful to be anything other than a time they used to know. A challenge once impossible, now overcome and part of history. It was all too easy for Virgil to focus on the here and now. Hell, most of the time Gordon was just as carefree about that too.
He would never take for granted Gordon’s perseverance.
But he wasn’t the one still living it. And Gordon was good at secrets. Too good, especially with his own.
“No, Gordon I would never -” Horrified, Virgil shook his head, miserable at the thought of what he’d said, what he’d implied. So far he feels from himself that he didn’t notice earlier, panicking at the knowledge that Gordon was only tight lipped until he wasn’t - until the thing he was holding close to his heart was impossible to ignore. “Is your back injured?!”
“No.” Gordon shrugged him off, irritated. “No more than normal anyway.”
“I’m sor-”
“Stop. I didn’t tell you to guilt you. For the record your worrying doesn’t help me relax either.”
“So what does?” And this time when Gordon didn’t answer, Virgil got the message, quieting the questions stirring within him until Gordon was ready to share more, and at Gordon’s pace.
After a beat, he shared, eyes empty as he stared out to sea. “Living. Laughing.” He glanced over at Virgil’s torn expression, “Days like this, I can’t,” his voice broke, “feel alive if I’m still. I just feel trapped.”
“So move.” Virgil hopped up, careful of the water slick on the rock’s surface as he reached for Gordon’s hand to help him stand. “Here’s our music,” he said, gesturing to the rock and wind and bird call all around them.
Gordon flushed. “Are you sure? You won’t laugh?”
It was just a sway with the seaspray in the shimmering light of the sun off the ocean, but it made Virgil’s heart dance.
My submission for week 1 of FFF. I used the prompt quiet. Since I am out of practice, I'm giving myself the grace to start small and maybe a little less than my usual standards. (I wrote this sprint style in the tumblr app for premium chaos).
*****
The quiet thundered over comms.
Once the ringing dissipated in his ears and he forced himself to his knees with a groan, it was that lack of sound mirrored back at him that sunk his heart into his stomach.
Quiet. Too quiet.
And Scott hadn't been as close to the blast.
"Sound off!" The words were gritty though his teeth. "One."
A crackle, blessed sound, followed not by a number but a mumble.
" 'wo." Stiffled but firm.
"...Three." This was John, not Alan. Sound off had been their father's way of keeping track of five energetic children, so they went by birth order, not their thunderbird counterparts. It would be strange to switch it up now.
Scott frowned, the stab of his heart slowly easing with each acknowledgment breaking the silence. Except John's response, though strong, had been a beat or so behind their usually always-ten-steps-ahead spaceward sibling. It couldn't have been easy watching that explosion. Downtime seemed to be in order
They hadn't made it through everyone yet.
Where are you, four?
Over comms he heard not Gordon, but Virgil as if through a tunnel, "...hold that down...gauze..."
Then slowly, with the vowels drawn out like each was a pain to voice, "Fou...r."
"Less talking, more pressing," Virgil admonished. "Gordon's down, Scott. I could use you over here. Bring the stretcher from Two?"
Scott was running before the sentence was finished. It was good then, Virgil and Gordon were together. Virgil had sounded distracted not panicked, which was a good sign. And Gordon was talking, at least. That left the John of it all, and...
"Alan?"
...
...
"Five! I'm here. My comms were smashed, but I saw Virg and came to help."
Blessed relief coursed through him, even as the adrenaline of hearing of Gordon's injury inspired his sprint to move faster. Just a few more.
"Kayo? Grandma?"
"Here. Area's secure."
"Fine darling. Better hearing your voice," Grandma admitted. "Now go get our boys out of there. John's coming down."
"Good thinking, Grandma." He grabbed the stretcher and a second medical kit just in case and started his sprint to his brothers' position. "Now, tell me what you know."
