An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
YIPPEEEEEE I finally managed to keep going, and this one was fun!! Featuring at least 5 references to TAG continuity (play spot the reference) plus a fun throwback to TOS because I was simply on a roll. I know that the Tracy's, especially Scott, are supposed to all be mad tall but idk it just makes them a little more real and interesting and more human (and it's also funny to write John and Scott be like that @astranite) :) I love dropping cryptic hints into chapters that you won't find out about until later chapters (don't worry Gordon's time will come I love him too much to just leave his story unwritten). This chapter took longer than usual so I hope its worth it! previous here
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
We continue with a rather long chapter so it's just on ao3 :) Also yes just ignore that the previous is written as number 14 on tumblr haha whoops... it was starting to annoy me that it didn't match up with the ao3 chapter number so yes, this follows directly after the chapter and the clock strikes thirteen. I didn't miss a chapter I Promise. Previous here. pls enjoy Scott being even more sad this time as a 17 year old with too many feelings (because isn't that what being 17 is).
A humble gift for @astranite because we've spoken about this a lot and they know I have way too many feelings about it SO I HOPE YOU ENJOY A HUMBLE OFFERING!!!! I probably should have written this in June for Thunder-pride but life AND time escapes me. No names or characters are mentioned but @astranite you'll know what this is, and it's pretty encoded in the subtext.
This is just a world I like to explore, totally cool if it's not your thing!!! (i.e. feat a trans main character and describes dysphoria, so read at your own discretion). Feel free to skip this one, I'm writing many other cool things that may appeal instead :)
She’s got four now. There’s a healthy gap of years between them all, equidistantly spaced and planned and loved and adored by the same adults that gave her a new crown. She knows what it’s like to have a brother, but of course, that’s not what she said – sometimes she watches the two eldest play together, and wonders just what it might be like to grasp something like that in her hands. It never used to matter, because they were just children. And suddenly she finds herself in a new hierarchy, one where she’s definitely different, and it starts to eat up her soul.
She wonders what it’s like to have a sister.
She doesn’t have any. The dolls her grandmother bought for her 13th birthday are hers alone, sitting tidy and dressed and safe up on a shelf away from the sticky hands of curious children. She brushes their hair just like her mother brushes her own, delicately bringing one finger under another as she separates their silicone locks into tiny braids. She’s been told these are old, and she has to treat them well, as the new woman of the family. It’s a new title, recently bestowed, and she’s still not quite sure what to make of it. Words are nothing more than words, after all – her grandmother has an odd, knowledgeable way with them, but there’s far more interesting things for a thirteen-year-old to do than ponder on the intricacies of the things adults speak and mean.
Her mother dies.
The crown is heavy now. It weighs down her head, and she’s tired, so tired. The games and the playing disappears for a while – there’s no time to think about the bond between siblings when the only thing they’re currently sharing is a palpable grief and darkness that seems to have crept between all the spaces in the walls. Her grandmother strokes her hair. Just like your mother, she says. Her father can’t look her in the eye anymore.
She stopped wearing dresses three months ago.
She tries one on at sixteen. And it looks awful. Her father, who still avoids her gaze, says she looks nice and that the boy she’s dating will love it. The boy she’s dating is seventeen and pretty, blond and beachy, and she’s got bruising deep shadows under her eyes that his brightness just illuminates. She couldn’t put to words what she likes about him – she’s not even sure there’s anything quantifiable, but there’s a small thrill in her heart every time she realizes one of his shirts fits her just the same. And then she realizes that it doesn’t fit her in one, crucial way, and she sobs until she can barely breathe.
He breaks up with her soon.
By the time she leaves highschool, it’s her turn to start avoiding her brother’s gaze. She’s taken to wearing her hair in a bun, and it makes her grandmother scoff, because she’s tucked away those little golden ends that are the picture of her mother’s life. She still can’t bring herself to cut it, even when she’s a year into college and struggling to even look in the mirror. She wakes with thought of scissors, of razors and terrible boyfriends and a deep, unsettling, unnamable yearning, and gets on the bus in the rain with a hat on.
The military requires neat hair.
The bun stays and her temple strains at the conclusion of every exhausting day. She broke the mirror on the first day at her new accommodation and only just avoids getting stitches. She pulls at the skin on her neck and tries to sculpt it into a new shape. When she finally leaves the Airforce, she puts all her military photos and memorabilia in a shoe box under her childhood bed. She sits on the little mattress, the one she used to share with her brothers when they were sad, and sighs as it sinks slightly under her weight.
The day she cuts her hair for the first time, she’s full of thoughts of her father.
When she looks in the mirror, it feels like she’s breathing for the first time in her entire life – it was funny, because she could have sworn her lungs weren’t bursting from exhaustion as a child. Her brother does it for her, young and happy, enthusiastic with a pair of clippers and with the raging audacity to believe he’s capable of anything he puts his mind to. He doesn’t do a good job of the back and the top is still a little too long, swinging in her eyes, but she hugs him anyway because suddenly, it hurts just a little less to look in the mirror.
She has no idea what’s happening, caught in a downwards spiral.
Her father acts like he’s mourning twice. Her grandmother asks if she kept the ends. She thinks about leaving, about ignoring all their calls and disappearing into the abyss where the other forgotten people go, but her brother’s still got tiny slivers of hair embedded into his clothes and makes such a point of complimenting him that the lead in his heart is dislodged for a brief moment.
He’s not sure when the voice in his head changed.
It makes her feel sick. He’s not sure what to do, and clings to his father’s legacy the way an encrusted barnacle buries itself into the side of a ship. He does everything he tells him to do and ignores the lump in his throat when he tells her what an amazing woman she is.
His uniform is blue.
And then his lips are blue.
[
breathe
]
It’s his brother that saves his life, and his father that gives him a hug. The feeling on his chest makes him want to throw up all over again.
His father dies.
He loses himself all over again.
He finds himself all over again.
He can’t believe how long he was floating. He doesn’t have to wonder what its like to be in space – it’s a lived reality, what feels like a lifetime ago, and even that didn’t feel as helpless and uncontrollable as the crash dive he’s found himself in, hurtling through the sky so fast it’s impossible to stop just long enough to cry.
He tells his brother at 8.47pm, over a shared cigarette.
It’s strange, in ways. He tells him about the dolls in the bottom on the cupboard, the photographs he can’t look at, and the name that he can’t bring himself to let fall from his lips anymore. He talks about boys and girls and everything in between and his brother just laughs and says that he better find himself a real barber.
He leaves a rose on the twin graves of his parents.
He hopes she’d be proud. He’s been piloting the body of a dead girl for a while – he’s even caught himself staring at her grave and thinking about how lucky she was to be alive.
One day, he finds himself face to face with the man he’s tried to be for his entire life.
And then, he can finally answer his first question.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
back to our regular scheduled programming folks! Previous here. We've moved past Scott and now we're really diving into Virgil - there's only 5 chapters left of part 1 'set in 2055' now! After, for the 2nd half, we're going to make a big jump to post-2060 when they're all in IR. This story means so much to me and is something I've put a lot of thought, a LOT of backstory and complex history into. It's very exciting as a writer to finally start seeing all of this work come together, and being able to put little hints in these chapters about stuff coming soon...
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fourteen: and the clock strikes thirteen
February 2055
It’s just before midnight, and Virgil and Scott are making fried rice.
It was supposed to be pasta. Virgil sometimes gets texts from his brother, lamenting about a lack of family made food in his immediate vicinity – and besides, he’s got all the ingredients. He can’t let Scott down. Not after everything.
Virgil’s a vegetarian. He doesn’t really even know why. He supposes it’s got something to do with a rampant advocacy movement at his university for animal rights, or maybe how annoying meat is to cook, or even the internalised shame that comes standard with growing up bigger than all of his siblings. It doesn’t really matter either way.
Strictly, Virgil’s making fried rice. Scott’s never been a good cook, and besides, he’s nursing a particularly nasty hand cut and a large bandage, so Virgil kicks him out of the kitchen to go sit at his little round table. He’s only got 2 chairs and they don’t match, but that’s besides the point. Virgil Tracy can make a good (average) fried rice.
He starts with a cup of rice. Basmati, but he’s not particularly fussy. He’s not the kind of person who insists on brown rice, because he learnt young that restrictions tend to lead the prospective chef into the realm of a developing eating disorder. Virgil’s trying to get better, not worse. He wishes he had a rice cooker, but has a bad habit of eating microwave meals – cooking for one person is arguably one of the more irritating things about moving away from his family, and he fucking despises cleaning up. So, cook the rice in a big pot.
While the rice simmers away, Virgil chops up his vegetables of choice. John gifted him an alarmingly large cooking knife for his 19th birthday – for reasons only known to the psyche of his immediate older brother – but it’s proved useful in his quest to Fix Scott Tracy. He’s chosen 4 carrots, the wonky ones, because having empathy for inanimate root vegetables leads a man to make poor choices at the grocery store. Celery too, instead of peas. Disgusting, but Scott likes it, so he’ll cope.
He’s put his pride aside for a moment and bought a packet of bacon. He fries that up with a boat load of oil. After cleaning the pan (he’s only got 1), he fries up some haphazardly chopped spring onion, which makes him want to cry for the third time in 24 hours.
It’s all coming together. Scott’s gotten out a packet of cards while he waits, and is making an impressively tall card stack on the table. He’s staring at it with such concentration, hands rock steady, and Virgil’s struck by the urge to take a picture to flick across to Gordon. Their brother has a poor attention span at the best of times, and to see him hyper fixated on such a small task is… hilarious.
He throws the vegetables into the spring onion pan, and goes about stirring them with his wooden spatula. Specifically, wooden, because he’s got a weird thing about plastic cooking utensils from the one time that Grandma managed to melt hers to the stovetop. He can still smell the rancid aroma of chemicals, and sometimes wonders if he’s lost a year or two off his lifespan. Virgil hates cooking carrot, because he can never find the balance between too crunchy and overwhelmingly soggy, but he’s trying his best for the wounded soldier that’s sitting behind him.
Scott’s managed to get a triangular stack 6 cards high, and he’s attempting to add a 7th without sending it crashing to the ground.
Virgil takes a quick bite of the vegetables, and nods. It’ll be fine. Next, he carefully adds the rice to the slowly overflowing pan, and stirs it all around together. He can tell that Scott barely even remembers he’s cooking, from the fact that he hasn’t made a gripe about the lack of sauces. He’s getting to that. Virgil loves egg, and he’s a vegetarian, not vegan, so he cracks 5 into a well in his mixture, before beginning to beat the already solidifying mass.
“You going alright there Scott?”
His brother just widens his eyes, and makes a very quiet shhhhhh. “No words or it’ll fall,” he whispers, raising a hand to add another 2 cards.
Now that the eggs are cooked, he stirs the mixture together, so it’s less of a homogenous affront to cooking. His bottle of soy is extremely difficult to open, the lid stuck with dried sauce from lazy cleanups, but he adds that plus some sesame sauce. In a divine fit of inspiration, he chops up a garlic clove, mashes it under his knife blade for good measure, and throws that in too. If he’s honest, he doesn’t really know what it’s going to do, but he enjoys the sauce and garlic and onion and all the good smells floating around his kitchen. It’s been a while since he’s even used the stovetop, and it feels good.
Stir and stir and stir. He takes another bite, this time of the whole thing. Its ridiculously oily and the carrot is a little bit undercooked, but it tastes like Kansas and the glass of ginger beer that his grandfather would let him have a little sip of when he was cooking. It smells like love and he’s stupidly proud when he dishes it up, adding all the cooked bacon to Scott’s plate, piled high. He’s even gone and bought a bar of dark chocolate for after.
To be honest, he remembers being a bit better at this, a lifetime ago, but it hardly matters.
Scott is so concentrated on the task in front of him that Virgil’s almost sad to have to gently tap him on the shoulder. “Dinner, Scott.”
Scott jumps, and swears a blue streak. His cards wobble, but stay standing. “VIRGIlL!” he seethes jokingly, sliding himself out of his chair. “If you knock it over I will pack my bags and never come back.” It hits a little too close to home, and Scott looks down. “Sorry.”
Virgil breaks the moment, unbothered. “I present, fried rice.”
Scott’s face lights up like their mother’s ancient, dingy Christmas tree. “Holy shit…” he reaches out to take his plate, but Virgil pulls it back, throwing his head over to the balcony.
“I don’t want ants and you don’t want to use the table. Outside, please.”
Scott’s eyes have gone comically big and he obliges, practically skipping over to the sliding door to the outside. Virgil’s on the third level, high enough for wind to be a pleasant cool, so Scott manoeuvres himself down to sit on the floor with his good hand.
Virgil’s upstairs neighbours cultivate plants, so they’ve got a degree of privacy from the vines dangling down like a curtain. Scott leans against the railing as his brother places a steaming plate in the space in front of him.
“Oh Virg…” he stares at it. “Maybe I need to have breakdowns more often if this is the reward for it.”
“Nah,” Virgil’s already started eating, his pronunciation slightly muffled. “Just ask dickhead.”
“When I’m on Tracy Island with Dad and Lee, I’m gonna be jetting here at least once a week for this.”
“And me?”
Scott shrugs, his shoulders melting as he starts to eat. “Food’s number 1 but yeah, I suppose I can make time for you. Make me a pie and your place as Brother Number 1 is cemented for life.”
“… I think I can make that happen.”
“Wait, deadass?”
“Not today ‘cause I don’t have the right stuff but I can order one for you for tomorrow.”
“I-“ Scott can’t help but cut himself off, containing to shovel rice into his mouth. “-legiterally love you.”
They sit in amicable silence for a while. Scott is eyeing Virgil’s portion when he inevitably finishes his first, but old habits die hard and he refrains from stealing any. Virgil continues to eat, while Scott stands up gently, to lean over the railing. Scott cracks his neck on both sides, swiftly, before finally stretching to sit back down almost immediately after he got up. He’s a ball of nervous energy, the kind that only comes after a moment of intense vulnerability, and he compromises by spinning the watch he’s wearing around his wrist, repeatedly.
It hits midnight.
Scott’s watch beeps once, crisp and quick. Dinner is finished, empty plates waiting stacked on the floor of Virgil’s balcony, and neither of them are quite sure what to say at the 12th hour.
“So,” Virgil starts. The obligatory small talk is finished.
“So,” Scott says back. When he’d finally stood up out of Virgil’s arms to wash his face, they hadn’t exchanged any words. A mutual decision to have dinner before any more serious conversations delayed the inevitable.
“You know I love you?” Virgil starts, gently.
“I know.” He means, and I do too, but Virgil doesn’t need it said.
“It’ll be okay.” Virgil trusts his brother, and now, he finally believes him.
Scott wants to reply with trademark optimism. He wants to say something about their ability to persist despite everything, despite what the world throws at them. But he can’t quite bring himself. “How did we do it, when we were kids?”
Virgil’s not sure. “I suppose we were young. You know how you can just bounce back from anything? And I used to always feel deeper than you did.”
Scott laughs, melancholy. “I suppose that’s true.”
It’s a difficult thing to phrase, and it takes Virgil a few tries to gather his words. And when he does, he almost reaches out to grab his brother’s hand. “So… what are you gonna do? Because I think you might need more help. When you walked through my door, I couldn’t stop staring at the pain in your eyes. Every time you thought I wasn’t looking I was trying to convince myself I was projecting.”
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I think I just want to be around for you. Both of us have this stupid habit of being alright when we’re focusing on each other.”
“Closed loop,” Virgil nods sadly. “You gotta stop doing that.” Virgil is an honest man. Scott is not. The only time Virgil struggles with the truth is when he’s alone, at obscene times of the night and buried knee deep in feelings. He’s fulfilled two of those qualities and it feels like he’s talking to himself anyway when he continues. “I’m not suddenly better but it feels like something’s lifted off my chest because you’ve opened up. I’m nothing without you being alright, and I truly feel like you will be. Is this your first time talking about it? Really talking about it?”
Scott nods his confirmation. “First time talking to one of you anyway. It’s hard unloading shit onto a brother when you’ve spent your whole life making sure they don’t have to worry.”
“I never want you to feel like that again,” Virgil blinks back a tear. “I want us to be a team.”
Tell me you miss me. Tell me you’re proud of me.
“Did Dad ever tell you about when you were born?” Scott asks without missing a beat, and Virgil frowns.
“No?”
“You came out with the cord wrapped around your neck. You were blue and purple.” Scott was only four, and has infantile amnesia like every other adult, but considers the patchy memories and feelings some of his first. “It was the worst day of our lives and even though I don’t really remember it properly, I sometimes see the panic on Mum’s face when she was still exhausted from labour. You looked dead.”
Virgil didn’t know this, and he’s not sure why it’s relevant. “Jesus Christ.”
“Dad doesn’t like to talk about it because it was the scariest day of his life. You were so… limp. Bright fucking blue and so still and dead they thought they’d lost you. I remember how Mum screamed.” It’s a scream that’s since been joined by many others, sounds that haunt his waking moments when he’s lost in the space between objects and the taunting emptiness of a blank wall. “I’ll never forget it.”
“I never knew that.” It’s just another thing to add to the list, a growing inventory of Scott Tracy and what made him the man he is.
“I only say that because I made myself a promise, years later, that I would sooner die than see you like that again. I will fight tooth and nail so you’re never unconscious and blue and dying in front of me. I’ll look after you.” There’s a part of Virgil that can sense a fall coming, and it’s only a matter of who will be the one to take the step. “We are a team.”
“Thank you.” It’s the only thing that needs to be said. Scott’ll make it through. And now he’s faced with the even more monumental task of facing himself.
“So yeah. It’s something Dad’s trying to get me to work on. I’ll be working with John and seemingly Gordy and Alan if they’re still interested when they’re older. It fucking sucks because I’m going against every single instinct I’ve ever had in my life, that I have to look after you guys and all you have to do is stay safe. Suddenly Dad wants it to be a two-way street and it’s hard.”
Virgil feels like he’s just been punched in the guts. “I’m glad you’re trying with me.” It was only a couple of hours ago that Gordon told him to stop running. To finally face his big brother and release the thoughts, like opening the door on a thousand moths gathered and dying around an artificial light. But Scott’s not quite all there still, lost in a spiral of thoughts in his own mind, and doesn’t think to ask.
Scott laughs gently and nudges him in the shoulder. Virgil’s noticed his turmoil, but all of a sudden, it’s everything and the only important thing in the world. His brother isn’t asking the right questions and has fallen bizarrely silent, instead of poking every wound he can see with a stick and waiting until he uncovers the aggressor.
It’s disconcerting – Scott Tracy isn’t asking any questions at all. It hurts to admit that his biggest brother has changed, and he feels that familiar guilt settle in a pit in his stomach. It feels selfish and disgusting, expecting a grieving and traumatised man to ask, less even to care, about his own life, but he supposes that not all his thoughts had to be perfectly sensible and appealing to the rational of someone else who wasn’t facing a private mental battle. Virgil Tracy did almost lose Scott in the same war that lost him his peace. He’s allowed to mourn.
“God I need a cigarette right around now.” It’s 12.50pm, and there’s a gentle breeze meandering through the city. They’ve been sitting with their own thoughts for a while, absorbing the company, and a quiet has settled over the pair.
“You smoke?” Virgil looks up, amused.
“…sometimes.”
Virgil laughs. “Is that why you stunk that time when you had to sneak back through the window after that high school graduation party in 48’? I thought it must have been, I don’t know, like a barbeque smell or something. You just fucking reeked of smoke.”
“You KNEW about that?”
“I’m not stupid Scott. You literally fell through the window, completely off your tits drunk. I watched you hurl your guts up with John standing at the door, making sure you didn’t die. You’re so lucky Dad wasn’t home because I think the whole house must have heard the 1am thump.”
“Oh my god…” Scott plants his face down on the railing, the cool helping his burning forehead. “That’s fucked because I don’t remember either of you being there.”
“Ask him about it. He’ll remember. None of us had ever seen you drunk before. You were about to go to Yale for a math degree like the little nerd you were and you show up, completely fucked out of your mind.”
Scott laughs. “Oh V, there’s so much you don’t know about what I did as a teenager… Grandma was such a dragon lady raising us that I HAD to rebel. She doesn’t know to this day that I used to take the Cessna out alone when I was like, 12.”
“Flippidy flyboy alert.”
“Don’t remind me,” Scott sticks his head back in his arms. “I was effortless good at math so I could just… fuck around, to be honest. Everybody loved me and I think it got to my head. I nicked Dad’s cigarettes and thought I was hot shit.”
“You used to be such a rebel Scott, it’s funny looking at you now. Crewcut all American daddy’s boy who doesn’t have a clue what the inside of a police station looks like. Stop being so serious, you’re gonna wake up a businessman with an imminent aneurism.”
“I never got arrested-”
“You literally used to have a middle part Scott. You were so cool.”
Scott waves a hand. “Don’t you start smoking or doing dumb shit like I did. It’s dreadful for me, I know. I stopped when I was 19.”
“Are you now?”
“I did a bit in January, because it helps me to relax. But I’ve stopped again because I know it’s so bad for me. I just occasionally want one.”
Virgil puts on a mocking voice. “Oh, I’m not addicted I could stop any time.”
Scott nudges him again. “Wanker. Anyway, at least I was cool as a teenager. What have you been doing? I was like… practically blackout every single night when I was 17.”
“I think the difference between you and I is that I actually give a shit about my liver.”
“S’pose I lived on campus at Yale.”
“And I have a very different idea of what cool means. It’s not drunk sex.”
“Damn,” Scott laughs. “That’s probably valid. I made some extremely poor choices.”
“I don’t have a secret nephew or niece out there, right? You weren’t… that dumb?”
“Oh god no Virgil. Never that stupid. I got it all out my system in my first year, dated that guy for my second year, and then calmed down in my third. I had a degree to get and it was starting to get in the way.”
“… guy?”
“I’ve never told you?” Scott stares at him. “Did I seriously not?”
“I think I’d remember something like that when I was closeted at 14 and terrified of Dad.”
“Oh dude… same. When I told Dad, I had a whole speech prepared, about how I cared a lot about his opinion and I just wanted him to be happy for me. I told him, ready to defend myself, and he genuinely just stared at me for a minute, and goes, ‘he better not be getting in the way of your degree.’ That’s it. And then said he was happy for me and asked if I was bisexual. Our father even has all the lingo down.”
“What the FUCK Scott.”
“Funny, right? Sometimes I forget Dad is a 2009 kid, not some ancient all American homophobe. You’ve told him, right?”
“Yeah, when I finished high school. I genuinely had no idea.”
“Damn. Is it the military? I’ve been growing my hair out since Christmas so I look a bit less Airforce now. Really kills your chances with women, having a fucking crew cut.”
Virgil scoffs. “I need to hear the full story one day.”
Scott raises an eyebrow slightly. “Don’t remind me of it ever again. I am emotionally compromised and you’re not allowed to take advantage of that.”
“God, note to self. Get Scott drunk on his emotions and I’ll hear many unfiltered thoughts.”
“Yep. I like my brain matter stirred, not shaken.”
Virgil eyes him. “Now you’re really starting to sound drunk.”
It is a dark, warm night in February, and perhaps the clock has just hit 1am. But their world is irreversibly changed – nothing drastic and earthshattering, but there’s a newfound concord in their relationship that they’ve been missing for years. He supposes that Gordon’s always been the one with an uncanny ability to sense trouble, to know when to send a well-placed inconsequential text message. Hey fucker I’m thinking about you and I love you. Scott’s not the same, but neither is he, but it doesn’t matter. Not really.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
READ THIS FIRST
This chapter was frankly hard to write but it was worth it ( I Cried. Quite a bit. Sobbed in fact). It marks a turning point in the fic - several small clues I've dropped throughout the previous chapters all culminate here.
This chapter describes a panic attack in action. Includes references to depression and a direct discussion of self-harm and suicide. Discussion of war and death (in general terms and in a combat situation). Discussion of religion and faith.
I've updated all the tags in the fic to reflect this and it's still rated M. Previous is here. Please read at your own discretion. Stay kind and gentle my friends, that's all we can do :)
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thirteen: a foreign god
September 2042
When Scott and Virgil were young, their father was busy, cavorting on the Moon and Mars, putting his name to just about everything quantifiable on and off the planet. And young, unattended boys without their fathers get bored. When Scott and Virgil were young, as children on a Kansas wheat farm and Arizonian ranch, they used to play a game, imaginatively coined Jeff.
Now, Jeff, in practice and theory, was extremely easy to understand. 7-year-old Virgil had no trouble. One person plays the role of Jeff. The other as the unnamed second. Ready to be conquered, so to speak.
Jeff starts by putting on a pair of his father’s boots, the heavier and more mud stained the better. He lies down on the couch and closes his eyes. The fun of it was that Jeff must grumble, make the noises that a man closer to 50 than 40 would make. Never mind that their father was in his 30’s – the passage of time isn’t real and their father was as old as one of the massive oaks in Grandma’s yard. The second, carefully, must then cover the ‘asleep’ Jeff in pillows, carefully and without missing a single inch. Once covered, the second has to leg it outside, as fast as his legs can carry him. Depending on Jeff’s mood and relative charitability, he can choose to wait until he hears the second is gone, or can ‘wake up’ mid covering, and start a chase. Assuming the second makes it outside, he then hides in a place of his choosing. Jeff wakes up as loudly as he can at any given moment, screams, and begins the hunt.
Today, Scott was Jeff. This tended to be the way. Scott played the role better, more skilled at emulating Jeff’s craggy expressions and overall intimidating demeanour. He grumbles and groans while making his way to Grandma’s couch, complaining about a sore back and aching feet and just about every gripe he knows old people have. Virgil hides around the corner, giggling.
Scott lies down, and begins snoring, loudly and exaggerated. One foot in front of the other, Virgil slowly pads his way up to Scott, holding a pillow in his hands. He freezes, softly giggling, when Scott comically opens one eye with a squint.
Virgil takes another slow, cautious step, almost losing his balance. He places his first pillow right on Scott’s face, and repeats the process, backing up like the ninjas in the cartoons he watches with Grandpa. Scott’s soon buried in a mountain of plush – from underneath, he could just hear a gentle mumbling, I’m gonna get you, in the best approximation he could do of a true Kansas accent.
Virgil takes his cue and guns it, hurtling out the lounge room to the outside world. He’s left the door open to maximise his chances and it works – he’s soon out in the warm autumn afternoon air, pounding his bare feet as fast as he could across the grass to the shed.
“JEFF!”
Oh dear. Time’s up! With a quick backwards glance, he slips into the open shed door, hoping Grandpa was inside to help him hide. He can’t see him, so he heads straight for the car he was working on, its engine dissembled in pieces on the floor. He stares at the ground intently as he steps over all the parts, careful not to mess anything up. Grandpa would be furious if he ruined his system.
He could stay in here – but that’s boring. Better to be running, chased by a handicapped brother in far too big shoes, then cheating and languishing in the half shell of an ancient car. His mind made up, he stands up, and pads over the pieces again, but his gaze is consumed by the objects on the floor, not looking at what he was heading towards.
Scott pauses, when he hears his brother scream his name. He frowns – that’s not how the game is played. It sounded like it was coming from their grandpa’s shed, so he breaks into a run, to find the source of the noise. When he gets there, Virgil’s standing on the grass just in front of the entrance, hysterically crying with his hand pressed to his face.
“SCOTTY!” Virgil sobs. “GRANDPA!”
Scott comes hurtling over, game forgotten. “Virgie, what did you do?” Virgil’s far too consumed in his tears to be able to get out a coherent sentence.
“GRANDMA!” Scott yells, sitting his little brother down on the grass before he fell over in shock. “Virgie, let me see.”
Virgil’s sobbing, an ugly mess of tears and blood, but he lets his hand fall from his face to show off the gory split in the gap between his eyebrows. He’s got both eyes closed, blood dripping down his nose, and Scott’s struck for a brief moment with paralysing fear.
“Hold on Virgy, let me look,” Scott swallows, and peers closer at the gaping wound. “What happened?”
Virgil takes a deep breath, feeling a little braver now he’s got Scott with him. “I ran into the engine lifter!” he cries. Aforementioned hoist is old, built by their grandpa, a simple hook attached to the roof on an adjustable length. Unfortunately, left hanging right at Virgil’s eye level. It was rusty, and Scott’s even more terrified when he remembers what Grandma had told him about tetanus when she’d taken him to get vaccinated. “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” He presses his hand to Virgil’s forehead, blocking the flow of blood while he hollers. “GRANDMA!”
Sally knows that tone, and she pauses from where she was prying bread out of the toaster with a knife. Could she go one weekend without those boys getting into trouble? John flicks his gaze over to her, from his place at the kitchen table. She sighs. “Don’t touch anything in the kitchen John. I’ll be back.”
“GRANDMA!” Scott yells again, at the track-suited figure approaching from the house. “HURRY UP!”
She breaks into a sprint, seeing one of her grandsons on the floor. When she gets there, she spots all the blood on his face and blanches. “What happened?”
Scott’s quick to recount while his brother continues to cry. “He ran into grandpa’s hook.”
She’d have word with her husband later. “Scott, run into the kitchen and get my first aid kit ready.” He nods, and sprints off, with a final worried look back. She scoops up the child, and brings him back to the house, to sit on the table with a bewildered John looking on.
Gently, she prods his forehead. She’d met Grant as a flying doctor, travelling to rural callouts from her base in Kansas City, when he’d sliced his finger off on farming equipment. She’s been here ever since, as an on call rural doctor for the Kansas City hospital 4 days a week. She’s trying to wind down, since she was fast approaching 60, but her grandchildren seemed to have a knack for keeping her in the profession.
“Virgil sweetie, I’m going to need to give you stitches and a tetanus booster. I’m going to clean your face first, okay?”
Virgil whimpers, and Scott immediately grabs his brother’s hand.
“Scotty, can you sit on the table and put Virgil in your lap please?”
Scott does as he’s told, and Virgil sinks into his chest. The younger boy had always been interested in medicine, watching on eagerly whenever she’d performed a procedure, but that was when it was on anyone besides himself. Virgil screws his eyes shut, letting his grandma apply local anaesthetic and begin her work. He’s got both hands in Scott’s, gripping them as tightly as he can.
“All done,” she announces, after a short, silent while. “John, will you go and get a lollypop for the brave boys?” John nods, and does what he’s told.
Later, when they’re sitting pressed together on the couch, a big bandage over Virgil’s forehead, Scott pulls his brother into another hug. “I’ll get Grandma to teach me how to do that. Then I can fix your face when you hit things.” Virgil laughs, and buries himself a little deeper into Scott’s embrace.
*****
February 2055
Scott’s not entirely sure what’s changed in the space of all of one afternoon. Recovery isn’t linear, he repeats. He supposes it must be the same with familiar relationships. You can’t just throw someone back into your life with reckless abandon – there’s a cooling off period, a waiting period, when Virgil’s mind is whirring with regrets and guilt and the counterintuitive urge to shut his brother out once again.
When he comes back, he’s got his hoodie up. “Hey,” Scott starts, gazing at the bag in his hand. “What’s for dinner?”
Virgil doesn’t answer, and as he brushes past, Scott notices the big, over ear headphones. He heads straight into the kitchen, placing the bag on the floor as softly as he can. Scott can’t see him, a wall separating the two rooms, so he stands up, and goes in to lean against the door. “You alright?”
Virgil stares, shifting his headphones off a single ear. “Yep. Pasta.” He gestures to the big pot of water slowly heating on the stove in front of him.
“Need any help?”
“Nope,” Virgil puts his headphones on properly, turning back to the counter, and that’s the end of that.
Scott gingerly leaves, to sit back down in the same place he’s been for several hours.
He decides he’s going to ignore it. One mustn’t push too hard with things like this. He’s like a loaded spring – and Scott’s well aware of the ambiguity of the pronoun. He’d been the same, 4 months ago. Still was, in some ways. He’s killed before, and he’d do it again, but the list of people is remarkably short. Just one name, in fact.
Virgil’s got a wine cabinet in his front room. It stands amongst the other collection of sparse furniture, stained black from what Scott presumes was a D.I.Y in the heat of boredom. He remembers it being brown, when Dad first bought it. He opens it, struck by a sudden urge to drown his sorrows in something strong.
He takes out a bottle. Scott thinks about going to get a glass, but he’s suddenly frozen, staring at the red liquid inside. His hands start to shake, and before he even notices, it slips out of his grasp.
Broken glass explodes onto the floor, but he barely registers the distant shatter and subsequent silence. It was Virgil that spoke first, appearing from the kitchen with a frown and his headphones around his neck.
“Are you… Scott what did you do?”
On autopilot, Scott goes to pick up the glass off the floor.
“Don’t!” Virgil rushes forward, but he’s too slow for Scott, who immediately drops the shard when his palm splits open. He gazes at it, his expression vacant.
“Scott, stay there, I’ll get the first aid kit, okay?” He changes his mind when he spots the blankness in his expression, and its only his good sense to grab Scott by the waist that stops him from falling as he starts to crumple to the ground.
“Jesus…” Virgil mutters as he manoeuvres his shaking brother onto the floor. “And I thought you were the capable one.” It’s a needless gripe, but Virgil’s scared. It’s always been him that’s gotten hurt, and Scott the big brother ready with a band aid.
“Hey Scott, look at me, okay? Look at me.” He says it like an order, not letting his voice betray him. Scott frowns, turning to stare at him. Virgil takes Scott’s other hand, and gently presses it into the wound. “Press your hands together, alright Scott? It’s gonna be fine.”
Scott nods, his eyes glazed over.
Virgil fetches his kit, practically sprinting, and returns to Scott sitting propped up against the wall clutching his hands together.
“Let me see.” His voice is soft now that it’s a little more under control. For now, he ignores the puddle of wine and glass and blood. When he pries Scott’s hands apart, they’re stained red, but its superficial, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m gonna put a bandage on, alright? It’s not deep, you’ll be fine. Scott, count with me while I do this.”
“Un,” Virgil says. Scott looks up, to stare into his deep brown eyes while he takes out bandages.
“Deux,” Virgil’s soft and gentle as applies a sterile pad and starts to wrap his hand in bandages.
“Trois,” he looks up for a brief moment to see the colour starting to come back into Scott’s face. “What’s next, Scott?”
“…quatre.” He sounds younger than Virgil’s ever heard him.
“And then?”
“Cinq.”
He keeps wrapping, moving to secure it on his wrist. “Next?”
“Six.”
“And?”
“Seven.”
“That’s English, Scotty.” He doesn’t even notice the childhood nickname. “What is it?”
Scott frowns. “Sept.”
“Good.”
“Huit.”
“Yep.”
“Neuf.”
“And finally?”
“Dix.”
“Good job.” Virgil’s not trying to be patronising, and he hopes it doesn’t come across that way. “Just breathe, Scott. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
Scott’s clinging onto every word. He closes his eyes, gaining a little more conscious thought.
“I’m done Scott. I’m gonna help you get up, alright?”
Scott nods, and Virgil wraps his arms under his brother’s shoulders. They stand up together, and Virgil’s dismayed to feel Scott’s racing heart. Once again, he walks him over the couch, guiding him to sit down slowly.
Scott’s breathing way too fast now, pushing air out through his mouth with barely contained sobs. Virgil quickly puts Scott’s hand on his chest, and tries to keep his own heartrate even. “Look at me Scott. You’re okay. I promise. You’re fine.”
Scott squeezes his eyes shut, and grabs his brother’s other hand with the one he doesn’t have on Virgil’s chest.
“I’m here Scott. You’re not alone.”
Scott keeps breathing, slowly synching with Virgil’s controlled, deliberate breaths. They stay there for several minutes, having fallen silent, just concentrating on the rhythm of their movements.
When Scott finally opens his eyes again, they’re a bright blue, shining with tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be Scott. Honestly. Are you alright?”
Scott lets his hand fall back into his lap. “No.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
The tears start to fall from Scott’s eyes. “Just be… okay.” His expression screws up in anguish, and he brings his knees into his chest, burying his face.
Virgil gently unfolds his brother from his position and brings him into his own chest. He’s much smaller, physically, but it feels like Scott’s the child again. He’s lying, but it’s what Scott needs to hear. “I’m fine Scott. Honestly. I’ll be fine.”
And he knows the second part is the truth. “What happened back there? If you want to talk about it.”
Scott sniffs, and Virgil can feel tears blotting his t-shirt. “I’m sorry Virgil, I just, I dunno, got overwhelmed.”
“That’s alright. It happens.”
“I’m sorry I broke your bottle.”
“Don’t worry. You’re okay, so it doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry you have to pretend to be grownup.”
“I’m 20 in 6 months, I don’t have to pretend. You’re allowed to need help, Scott.” It’s hypocritical, and Virgil knows it too well. And he knows that Scott knows it too.
“So are you.”
“You’re the priority right now,” he whispers. “I can get help later.”
Scott doesn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch out into the minutes. He’s done this before, and Virgil knows it’s because he’s debating whether to start talking.
“I almost killed myself Virgil.”
Virgil knows. He could see it the moment his brother walked through the doors of his apartment. He doesn’t say anything, just lets him speak.
“I almost left you. I was so fucking close, like, locking the shower door and staring at my wrists ready.”
Virgil knows. He sees it in the clothes Scott wears, despite chastising him about the heat. He sees it when he changes the temperature of his apartment to be lower, so Scott doesn’t sweat underneath the long pants and button up shirts he’s grown so fond of. “Does Dad know?”
“Yeah… that’s why he’s so insistent. That’s why I went to the facility, because I called him at 2 in the morning about to die. I don’t what would have happened without him.”
Virgil doesn’t know this. “Scott…”
“And it hurts, it hurts so bad because Dad has been through so much. And he’s just… okay? And I hate that I’m so weak.”
“You’re not Dad, Scott. You’re not Dad and you shouldn’t compare yourself to him. And I know he was a soldier, but bear in mind that he wasn’t serving in the worse humanitarian crisis the world has ever seen. Hell, Dad’s main job was destroying unmanned space mines.”
“I’ve killed people, Virgil.”
“I know.”
“I’ve shot down planes over the sky and seen their faces as they die.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been part of crews delivering aid to civilians and I’ll never forget how they looked.”
“I know.”
“I’ve watched my best friends be blown into pieces.”
“I know, Scott.”
“I’ve seen starving children and oh fuck, Virgil, and there was nothing I could do. That fucking mission when Olesya died wasn’t even the worst. I suppose it was just the last straw. I couldn’t take any more. Like… I just don’t know if it’s ever going to end.” Scott’s voice goes a lot quieter. “Olesya’s family were Polish. They managed to escape Poland just after it was annexed into Bereznik, when she was a kid. She wanted so badly to see her old country be restored. She never did.”
Virgil can only hold his brother tight, and never let go.
“You should have seen the POW’s we managed to liberate. And there’s so many innocent civilians in Bereznik. It’s a fucking nightmare. It’s worse than anything any human can imagine. And some of the soldiers want to be there, like jacking off to complete fucking human misery. It’s a tragedy.”
“… people will always brave and kind. And that’s all we can do.”
“Sometimes I wish I believed in a god, the way Tanusha does. I used to hear her prayers in the morning with Uncle K, and wished I had someone looking out for me above.”
“Mama will always look after us, Scott. I believe in her.”
“Do you?” he turns to look at him, his face a tear-stained wreck. “Olesya used to pray to her Catholic God, and she always made a point of including me in her blessings. Even though I don’t believe. I always thought it was kind. To care enough about someone that you ask your God to protect them.”
“You were doing the same, Scott. You just protected her with your actions, and she did too.”
“But I failed.”
Virgil chokes on his words a little, remembering what their Protestant grandpa said to him when his first pet died. “She’s alright, Scott. She was brave and kind, and if she believed that God was looking out for her and her family, then I’d like to think that she’s in heaven, at rest and peaceful.”
“Virgil,” he sobs, desperately wiping the tears off his face as his voice breaks, “I hope so too.”
And Scott cries in Virgil’s arms, until the sun has long gone down and the world goes quiet, just for a moment.
I was reading NYC real estate listings and being melancholy over the fact that I'll never afford any of them... BUT the Tracy's could so what a wonderful setting for a story. So I started writing this in between my main WIP and then got hooked. Anyone interested in a Tracy murder mystery? XD
CW: murder and a body
*****
Scott sits down on one of the plush lounges. Casey remains upright, her posture dead straight, gazing into the expansive room ahead of her. “This is a beautiful apartment, Scott.” Her eyes flick to the large kitchen on her left.
“Casey, what is going on?” Scott doesn’t feel like formalities, and can sense something is deeply, deeply wrong.
“A tourist pilot called us to report there was… a body, on your balcony.”
Scott's breathing hitches, and he stands up. “There’s a what on my balcony?”
Casey steps forward, planting a hand on his shoulder. “Your apartment is a crime scene. I have to ask you to stay here.”
“There’s a fucking body on my balcony and you want me to stay here?” Scott stares up at the older woman and senses the unspoken words between them.
“There is not a single person who can access this apartment besides… you and Virgil, at the moment. Not even management could get up here. And that balcony is enclosed.”
“What are you suggesting, Casey?”
Casey fixes him with a stern look. “Have you had contact with Virgil in the last 2 and a half hours?”
“What?”
“Have you, Mr Tracy?” She glances over at the library.
“No, I haven’t. What are you suggesting, that Virgil came home, murdered someone, and left a damn dead body on the fucking balcony?”
“Mr Tracy, the NYPD requested a GDF flyover after confirming the balcony belonged to you. I was in the craft.” Colonel Casey stops, her composure slipping for a second.
Scott can’t help himself, and stands up, quickly heading towards his library. Casey steps forward just as fast, and grabs him around the chest, spinning him to face her.
Scott throws her hands off, angrily. “Casey, what the fuck?”
“Scott. I was up on that craft. There’s a body just feet away from us.” She gestures upwards, and the officers surge forward, past Scott. “And I provided ID on it. If it’s not Virgil up there then… I’ve forgotten what you boys look like.”
Scott’s world dissolves into white, but Casey keeps talking. “And you, Mr Tracy, are now the only person who could have accessed that balcony between those hours.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Sometimes I have to remind myself that this started entirely as a Virgil centred fic, then Scott said 'what about me?' And Gordon seemingly keeps pushing himself in the narrative because dammit is he good fun to write. Bless the Tracy boys for being such good motivators. You can entirely ignore the fact I've made Gordon taller than Virgil (if you don't like that lol)... I'm writing TAG verse but Virgil being the shortest will always be my favourite thing since I have way too many feelings about the Mercury 7.
Previous here.
-----------------------------------------
twelve: the chain of command
February 2055
Gordon’s sitting on the floor, stretching, when his phone pings in his hearing aids. He’s not surprised – he’s got friends all over the globe, acquired from different swim meets and online talks and visits to various countries, but when he spots Virgil’s name on the screen, he’s a little confused. Virgil’s not the kind for chatting anymore. He’s poised to text John for a second, because Virgil texting him means that he’s probably accidentally killed Scott and John’s been bolstered up to number 1. But all it says is hey Gordon, and now he’s worried that Virgil might be dying.
He puts on his cheeriest voice when he hits the call button. Gordon’s got a pathological inability to take anything seriously, but that’s not true. It’s what he likes people to think. He’s even got Penelope convinced that he’s an idiot – and there’s something about that achievement that leaves him glowing with pride, even if she’s a condescending ass to him.
“Virgil!” he sings loudly.
His brother’s voice is quiet, and he can hear the beep of grocery store machines in the background. “… Isn’t it 1am?” Gordon immediately senses the sadness in his tone, and jumps to compensate for it.
“YEP! I am wired and fired and abysmally tired and using this phone call as an excuse to sit down for a minute.”
“What are you doing?” Virgil says.
“On a run. Seeing if Scooter’s bizarre ethos of running at the ass crack of midnight is the move.” For the moment, he’s still sitting, his phone streaming to his ears, reaching to stretch his calves as he grabs the tips of his trainers.
“Gordon where are you? That doesn’t sound safe.”
“Relax Dad, I’m at my school at the running track. One of my friends drove me.”
“Tell me you didn’t break in.”
“Oh yeah, it’s got nothing to do with the key I’ve got in my bag. And also the fact that Dad is a rather generous donator to my school’s art and athletics departments. Nepotism baby.”
Virgil laughs. And the slight ache of worry in Gordon’s chest subsides.
“Anyway, what you want Big V? I know I texted but I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I didn’t mean to imply anything, I’m just like an athlete so I know how important it is to keep your body fed.”
“Don’t worry Gordon, I… just blew it out of proportion because I was pissy at Scott.” Gordon’s not sure how it’s possible but he’s pretty sure Virgil’s voice has dropped even further since he last spoke to him. He’s deep and reverent, clever and quiet, and it strikes Gordon that the two of them are often underestimated in favour of the eldest boys. Plus Alan, who was shaping up to join the Tall Handsome Pilot Club.
Gordon’s an inch taller than Virgil, and it’s an inch that he treasures. “Sorry V. Anyway, what’s with the text? You haven’t murdered Scott right? I know its easy to get angry when you’re short, but trust me, it’s not worth the paperwork.”
“No actually, I was gonna see if you know Scott’s favourite lolly.”
“Lolly? Like lollipop? I didn’t think that Scott had strong opinions about them. Just get any flavour. I think he likes the Coca-Cola.”
“Oh, fuck sorry Gordon. Candy. What’s his favourite candy?”
“God you Australian freak. I always have to remember what Penny’s on about when she says sweets, in her silly accent. Um-”
Gordon likes sour candy. Alan likes to pretend he likes sour candy but secretly, he’s more into the plain rubbish you find in party mixes. John’s an ice-cream man. Virgil’s not a massive sweet tooth, but he’s a lover of liquorice and coffee flavoured candies, and occasionally gets Penny to post him an orange chocolate when he’s particularly nostalgic for the taste.
Gordon’s struck by a moment of confusion. Suddenly, he’s not sure of himself. “- oh Jesus Virgil, you’re really making me use my brain. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about what Scott likes. Maybe just get some apple pie and ice-cream? He’ll like that.”
There’s silence on the end of the phone, save for a muffled breathing and persistent beeping. “… I don’t think that’s ever occurred to me Gordon, that I don’t know Scott’s favourite lo- candy.”
“Yeah.” Gordon’s nothing like Jeff Tracy, save for one aspect. It’s very difficult to make him lose his words. “Have a guess then? Surely there’s some kind of aeroplane shaped gummy.”
“Not sure that’s a good idea.”
Gordon goes quiet again. It’s silent in the massive hall he’s in – his voice echoes off the walls whenever he speaks. “Apple pie flavoured?”
“That’s disgusting Gordon.”
“Caramels. Like what Mum used to have in her car.” Gordon doesn’t remember this. He’d only been 5 when she died, but he remembers John telling him the reason he keeps a single one in his pocket.
“That may make him cry.”
Gordon’s missing information, but he’s got a gut feeling higher than the sky and more potent than any other Tracy brother. If Virgil feels, then Gordon senses – and for some reason, he’s not sure that he’s worried about the right brother. “How about you just get what you want then? Scott’s not picky, since neither of us have any memories about him expressing any strong opinions.”
“… I think I’ll just get jellybeans.”
“Good idea. Send me the yellow ones in a package marked NOT FOR ALAN TRACY.” Virgil laughs again, and Gordon stands up, reaching down to touch his toes. It’s not right to have a favourite brother, and he doesn’t, but he’s got a very soft spot for Virgil right in the centre of his heart.
“How’s the training going?”
Gordon can hear him walking now, his basket rustling with all sorts of unknown goods. He starts off on his own brisk walk around the track again. “Next year you’ll no longer be known as Virgil Tracy. You’re gonna be called “3rd brother of GOLD Olympian Gordon Tracy.”
“Did you choose to be up this early? Like, I know you wanna win and all but it doesn’t sound great for you.”
Virgil always with the concern. Gordon hasn’t told anyone about the yelling from his coaches, the pain he pushes through every day, and isn’t sure he wants to. He wants that title more than anything, because there’s nothing worse than being the “4th brother of Scott and John Tracy.” He has a suspicion that Virgil knows the feeling, but doesn’t care about it the way he does.
“Yep.” It’s not a lie. It had just been very strongly encouraged.
He’s well aware that Virgil knows he said it a little too quickly, but he doesn’t press the point. He picks up the pace, one food pounding in front of the other. It’s going to hurt later, when he’s slipping into a steaming hot bath with a grimace, massaging his aching calves and burning arms. Virgil’s fallen into silence, and for a second, they just stay on the phone together, while Virgil browses and Gordon runs.
He slows down to a jog when Virgil starts speaking again. He hears the telltale swoosh of train doors closing, and realises how much time must have passed. Gordon’s the type of person to concentrate, really integrate himself into a task, and he hopes he hasn’t been ignoring anything.
“I’m about 5 minutes away from home.” Virgil’s spent far too much money and far too much time, and the sun is beginning to lower in the sky. Gordon couldn’t be sure what time it is anymore, the artificial room lights clouding any sense of spatial awareness.
Gordon stops, to lean over his knees and breathe in, deeply. “Swell. Scott there?”
“Yeah.”
“Still just as insufferable as ever?” It’s a bizarre deja-vu, hearing the other side of the story with the worry centred on a different brother.
“He was having nightmares. Don’t tell him I told you.”
“Funny that V. He’s just as worried about you. Probably said the same thing.”
There’s a law to be followed in a family of 5 siblings. It’s universally acceptable to betray the chain of command, provided you have enough equal or more power to overthrow the rank of the person you are trying to betray. The way Gordon sees it, it’s a point system, with Scott at 5, going down incrementally to Alan at 1.
John cannot overthrow Scott alone, but combined with any of his siblings, he’s beaten the score of 5. Gordon and Alan together are only allowed to annoy Virgil. Gordon can betray Scott with the power of Virgil behind him, and it’s something he takes great advantage of. It’s like chess – something he’s notoriously good at, and everyone knows that a good player with a rook and a bishop can beat a novice with a queen.
And besides, it’s enjoyable ganging up on the eldest. That’s law number 2. “Be honest Virgil. Should I be worried about you?”
Gordon listens to the silence on the end of the call. “… I’m not great Gordon.”
Gordon’s not the type to ask what’s wrong. “And Scott?”
“Not great either.”
“Are you not great in general or because of Scott?”
It’s an incredibly loaded question and one that only Gordon would ever dare ask. Virgil’s voice breaks a little when he answers. “Both.”
“Can I help?” He knows the answer already and knows that Virgil won’t say it aloud.
He starts running again to fill the moment. One foot after the other, over and over, his gaze firmly fixed in the distance. It’s cathartic, feeling his heart beat increase in his chest, I’m alive, and I’m going to keep it that way. The day that Gordon Tracy stops moving is the day he gives up on breathing.
“Gordon?”
“Yeah?” he huffs out, increasing his speed.
“I’m standing at the door and I don’t want to go in,” Virgil whispers.
Gordon’s sprinting, sweat pouring down his face. He’ll never stop running for the rest of his life but he’s going to stop another brother doing the same.
He stops dead, almost falling over at the force of the movement. “Just go in Virgil,” he says, quietly, out of breath. “It’ll be alright.”
Virgil pauses just at the door, and there’s a brief moment when he debates whether or not to even enter. He holds up his hand to knock – and it hovers, quivering, before he makes up his mind. Avoidance never solved a single one of his problems. And Virgil listens to Gordon.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
It's been a minute... apologies if I've missed anything cool anyone posted in the last 3 weeks. Previous is here. The motivation to do things has dried up just a touch but I'm trying to continue in the hope that people like reading this haha.
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eleven: maladapted responses
February 2055
Penny: Scott my dearest. How are you?
Scott hates the way Penelope puts a period at the end of texts. You’d think one could safely assume that a savvy, technologically literate socialite like her could adhere to the latest trends of communication, but he supposes the streak of upper-class faux politeness would always win out. He doesn’t know that Penny doesn’t use periods with other brothers of his – but that’s irrelevant.
Scott: Alright
Penny: Do spill your guts. Your father has been for a visit.
Scott: tell me he hasn’t given you MORE information you absolutely don’t need
Penny: What can I say? I’m extremely likeable. I hope you’re well my love.
Scott: eh. as well as I can be. I stand inside and freeze my ass off then go outside and practically melt into a puddle
Penny: That’s Virgil for you.
Scott: so I assume John has been running his mouth off and he’s sent you to play therapist?
Penny: Not in much detail. He mentioned Virgil was feeling a bit down, and that you were worried. Your father was a little concerned too.
Scott: god, really no such thing as hiding from the English, hey?
Scott: don’t think ive forgotten that time you planted a bug in my room
Scott: stop trying to be sneaky
Scott: what did johnny cake say
Penny: Johnny cake wants you to know that he never wants to hear the words ‘Johnny cake’ again.
Scott: hey john? I love you but stop reading over pennies shoulder
Penny: ASSHOLE (love from Johnny cake)
Scott: well since im talking to two people now
Scott: re virgil
Scott: hes a bit better
Scott: we went rowing
Penny: Oh, Oxford. Penelope, come row with us darling! Oh yes, hand callouses are an excellent look on the cover of Elle.
Scott: he seems to enjoy it, apparently goes every day
Penny: Goodness. Early?
Scott: try 3am on for size
Penny: He’s really selling it. John says ‘who died and replaced our brother?’
Scott: OH MY GOD JOHN I FORGOT
Penny: Yes Scott?
Scott: VIRGILS GOT TATTOOS
Penny: Hang on Scott, I’m passing the phone over.
Penny: WHAT
Penny: REALLY??????
Scott: yep. They’re nice, flowers and a cool homage to us and mum
Penny: geez… he’s all grown up now, hey?
Scott: I said the same thing
Scott: also don’t tell dad
Scott: he wont be able to help himself and he’ll tell grandma and she might juts die
Penny: I’ve wrestled my phone back. So tell me dearest, we need a plan regarding Virgil. Aside from this new revelation, has he been warming up to your company?
Scott: actually yeah. rowing was good, and this morning he actually sat with me and fell asleep. when he woke up we had lunch and it was cool. He’s asleep again, on my lap, so I dunno what he’ll be like when he’s awake
Penny: Ah, these things take time Scott. He’s warming up to you. There’s going to be moments where he temporarily regrets talking, and closes his shell up again.
Scott: ugh. It feels like shit
Penny: I know dearest.
Scott: and I feel like shit
Penny: I know, dearest. I was thinking that we should send John down to be there with you. Leave you and Virgil alone for a couple of days, then fly down to be a 3 again. It might help, so Virgil doesn’t feel so overwhelmed.
Scott: … could be an idea
Penny: It’s a deal. I’ll send John down when you say the word. Text us when you feel you’ve had sufficient alone time.
Scott: ok penny. talk later
Penny: I love you boys. Stay safe.
Scott: will do
Virgil sleeps the entire afternoon away. Scott’s a little worried when he’s finally allowed to stand up at 3pm, stretching his legs with a prolonged groan. He’s watched film after film, not daring to disturb the first peaceful rest Scott suspects Virgil’s had in months. Or even years.
Now he’s alone, once again. It’s 6pm, and he’s practically whittled the rest of his time away on his phone, flicking though photo after photo and barely registering the image. Virgil’s retired to his room, citing a headache, and Scott’s just nodded, too emotionally exhausted to counter.
Was it even real? He’s not sure. Less than 12 hours ago, they’d been laughing. Now Scott’s got that same leaden feeling tethering him to the floor. Perhaps he’d done too much. And now he was paying the price, his brother sequestered up in his room doing God knows what, seemingly regretting the time he spent opening up and finally shedding some of his loneliness. Or maybe that’s just Scott’s self-esteem talking, and Virgil really does just have a headache. Never mind.
In a bitter moment of reflection, Scott knocks on Virgil’s door for the second night in a row. “Virgil, what do you want for dinner?”
There’s a shuffle inside, and Scott’s glad that only one aspect has repeated. Virgil opens the door, pulling a shoe on with the other hand. “I’m taking the train to the shops. Hang out here and I’ll be back.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come?”
“I’ll be fine.” Virgil smiles, flat, in a hoodie and jeans.
“You’re going to melt,” Scott tries to joke. But Virgil’s got his phone in his hand and is already looking at the timetables.
“I’m not taking my keys,” he says as he brushes past. “Lock the door behind me please.”
“… okay.”
Virgil walks out the door, not hearing the whispered, love you, that Scott leaves in his wake.
But that’s not true.
He’s not entirely sure why he’s being such a petulant child about the whole business. He didn’t need to sweep past Scott in a hoodie, buried in his phone, and pointedly ignore the parting words he gives him.
It’s confusing. It’s beyond lonely. He’s been by himself for such a long time – he’s not sure he wants this 6-foot giant invading his space, making him feel the fucking emotions he’s been pushing deep down into his chest for the last 4 months. He’s forgotten cardinal rule number 1 – if you can’t be happy together then you have to be happy alone – and he’s paying the price for it.
The train is busy. He’s sardined between office workers, heading home from a long, gruelling shift. There’s a mother in front of him, with 3 children in varying states of distress, and he wonders whether his own mama ever had moments like that. Probably not – he’s not sure her income bracket ever placed her on a cheap train, heading towards a stupid grocery store trying to not bite his own lip off in annoyance.
He remembers when he used to take public transport with John and Scott. Their mother would drop them to the train station every morning, and from there, they’d take the high-speed train to Phoenix – a 25-minute journey at over 250 miles an hour. They’d play games, they’d laugh, and watch as Virgil ate his lunch way too early, forcing Scott to slip some of his into his bag. The three of them would then potter to school, hand in hand, since they were enrolled in a school for 1st grade all the way to 12th grade. Keep them together, Lucy rationalised. When she died, all three of them kept up the adventure, but a little more silently, headphones on. Grandma was insistent they finish their education.
He muses how Gordon and Alan missed out. Was that a good thing, or a bad thing? Grandma had homeschooled them, their entire lives spent learning in Arizona, until they moved to Los Angeles and Alan enrolled in astronaut specialised school and Gordon a mixed high school while he trained for the Olympics. At least then Gordy didn’t have to face the nightmare of being a Deaf kid in an educational, predominately hearing setting. And Alan could grow up, unencumbered by the bullying that came bog standard with Being Jeff Tracy’s Son.
Perhaps they would have been different. Perhaps it would have spared John the meltdowns and the anxiety. Perhaps Scott wouldn’t have worked himself to the bone, trying to raise 5 siblings with only a grandma for support. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been on a quiet spiral his entire life, only just realising it now. Maybe they’d all be a little closer.
But it doesn’t bear thinking about.
Somehow, Virgil is still tired. He’s not sure how – he’d woken up to Scott’s soft smile and confession that he’d been asleep on his lap, on and off, for almost an entire day. It makes his skin itch. The baby opposite won’t stop fucking crying, and it’s making him want to crawl up into a ball under his seat and sob. 5 more minutes. 5 more minutes.
He practically sprints off the train when he arrives at the station. The store he’s looking for is a metro, so he doesn’t have to go far, but he can feel a heaviness weighing down his every step. He’s struck by the sudden urge to just… get back on the train and never get off. To never face Scott, his father, or any of the expectations that being a Tracy obliged him to. He doesn’t remember signing a contract as a child. I am Jeff Tracy’s child and I will be good at it. If he did, the ink is taken directly from his bloodstream.
His throat constricts up suddenly, standing idly in front of the pasta aisle. Grocery stores are such an attractive place to cry – perhaps it was something about a place full of strangers, all just trying to stay alive as best as they can. Pasta only judges when it’s boiling, not sitting uncooked, idle on a shelf.
But he forces it back down. Crying for, what, the third day in a row? That’s just embarrassing. He pulls his hoodie up, irrespective of the fact that a worker was now watching him closely from the register.
What’s Scott’s favourite candy? Lolly, Virgil mentally corrects in his head. He’s already been made fun of for his American accent by other kids in his class, so the switch to Australian expressions is a fairly unconscious one. He used to be able to rattle off Scott’s favourite takeaway orders faster than he could his own, but he’s not sure he recognises him anymore. But he’s standing down the lolly aisle in Australia, not Arizona – and globalisation has only gone so far.
He's not expecting Gordon to answer when he texts him. It’s only just past 1am in LA, but he trusts his younger brother more when it comes to the specificities of Scott’s post military candy tastes. He’s certain brother number 4 will never change. If anything, it’s a desperate hope of his. His father has a tendency to send John to problem solve – the rational one, the one distinctly absent from interpersonal conflicts. His father likes to think of his children as split in half, The Big Three, and The Younger Two. It’s a trap all of them fall into occasionally, but Virgil knows it’s an erroneous assumption based on two distinct factors.
Error 1: Gordon Tracy Is Like Alan Tracy
This is not true. Alan Tracy is like Gordon Tracy, but that’s a very different idea.
Error 2: A Neatly Splitable Family
You can’t split a family of 5 into 2. Gordon’s not the greatest at math, but even he knows that a brother broken in half is not one worth having. Virgil and Gordon have the same eye colour and the same sensibilities and the same absurd likeability, and it’s what draws them together. Gordon is the water to his earth, and it allows them to get along for the very opposite reason he gets along with the others. It’s what has him texting his immediate younger brother over anyone else, when he’s a good few seconds away from crying.
