This is a hodgepodge story – for @flyboytracy who wanted a privateers!AU around a legend – what it was believed to be and what it really was (with some pretty sky imagery!), for @janetm74 who wanted something specific and actually probably got furthest from the ask (but I added Scott!), and @gumnut-logicut_logic who posted FabFiveFeb with the right word for Virgil for me to tie this all together: underwater.
I hope the three of you don’t mind I combined your prompts/asks. I spend a lot of time on this AU when I delve into it, so while it’s my playground, I also have to get myself into the mindspace for some sailing and the parts of their story that’s different than the canon (or at this point my other AUs 😊 ). So writing privateers is my pride and joy, but it is also a bit of an investment for my time.
I hope this is worthy of all three things – and thank you so much for the asks and support. I hope you love this as much as I enjoyed writing it and finding my sea legs again. With continued thanks to @the-original-sineater for being my on going Privateers sanity check. :D
So, New to Thunderteers? Here's what you need to know - 1700s, they all have the same Thunderbird (it's a sailing ship), and Scott inherited the title of Captain from his father after he disappeared.
...
Summary: Virgil wonders what’s below and Gordon tells a story about a kraken.
Characters: Gordon, Virgil, Scott, Alan Past-Jeff
Genre: Adventure, AU
Words: 3K
Warnings: Missing Dad (but only as much as the show does), Military!Scott - this AU’s equivalent, but it’s hinted at.
*****
Fathoms
The evening sky painted the tides, the sea swells echoing the colors of the clouds to converge at the horizon and the last bursts of sunlight. Waves cloaked in gold lapped against the oak of the ship’s hull, and the flutter of her sails softened the explosion of fire into gentle colors reminiscent of the Georgia peaches they’d bought along the Savannah River for trading further North. Far above the shades darkened into sienna, into purple and the beginnings of subtle starlight.
Near the bow of the ship, her First Mate who had a mind for color and the rhythm of words to name off those descriptions as second nature, looked not at the sky, but below, leaning slightly over the side of the ship, caught in the lull of the deep swirls below. They seemed to steal the color away into dark, and it reminded Virgil that the ocean was not so unlike the night sky above in that regard.
So little was known about both, what they were, why they existed, what secrets they held, what else they might be able to discover.
“You seem pensive.”
Virgil hummed to acknowledge the presence of his young brother while Gordon settled beside him, leaning his back against the side of the ship with an air of ease and familiarity since he’d grown up on the ship. The Thunderbird was his home, as much as the sea was in his spirit.
“This never gets old,” the bosun continued. Facing away from the starboard side that had Virgil entranced, Gordon admired the seascape across the West before turning his head around to his older brother. “The sunset, I mean. Don’t you think they’re somehow…richer than sunrises? More golden yellow. Why is that, I wonder?” The waves murmured below them. “Virgil?”
For some new to our Thunder family, I thought it might be worth giving this story a boost, and for those that went on this journey once with me already - isn't it wild that it's been a year? I hope its okay to be giving this a personal reblog. I re-read it myself recently thinking of how I could celebrate this fic and its impact on my life. Not just in fandom, but overall. There's meaning behind the phrase Hold Fast, that in the writing of the story I realized was advice I needed myself.
So for backround, I started posting this story in January of 2022 with the epilogue completing that March. It was a time period where I put a lot of my whole heart into this story, and heads up - it hurts. I've posted bits and pieces from my Thunderteers Verse, and this is specifically intended to be this Universe's version of Gordon's hydrofoil accident. It started with a "I really need to write this just to know what happened" and it became an epic in itself.
So Warnings: It's not easy. They lose a crew member, there's a funeral, Gordon has loss of mobility, and very much the boys face their own mortality.
In all my writing, though, I truly hope I succeed in layering in the joy and love. So if you like angst, and you like feels, and the smiles that persist in spite of darker times, I hope you'll give this fic a try. Even though its an AU, even though it has standard Gavii-level FishTank focus at times. It likely will help you understand me in the long run, I think.
It's not just Hold Fast though. This time period ABSORBED me, so there are also some one-shots created that read adjacent to this. I'd still read Hold Fast first, but in an easy collection for you are some of those stories below, listed as I would recommend they be read. Plus this story also has a soundtrack for your listening pleasure.
Playlists / Playlist Commentary - 10 tracks, 38 min.
Hold Fast [Ao3]
Extras with mini scenes during this time all Ao3:
Lord Gordon's Reel - Virgil writes a song (wee!Tracys)
Brother's Oath - Scott makes a decision (earth & sky)
Blow, Ye Winds Blow - Virgil helps Gordon (For the love of FishTank)
Appendices.
It should be obvious how I love this Universe if you choose to set sail with me, and if you ever have questions, or comments to share, or just need an emotional support shanty, my ask box is always open. Drop my a line, and thank you for giving this post a read through if you made it this far.
Summary: In "Hold Fast," Scott makes a decision. It did not come to him easily.
Characters: Scott Tracy, Virgil Tracy (Earth & Sky)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Words: 1.7K
A/N: Thunderteers is my playground, and the boys wanted to play, so here we are. This one will need to have context for “Hold Fast” as this takes place immediately after the last scene in Chapter 8.
More Thunderteers Here
*****
Brother’s Oath
Read on Ao3
“Gordy we need to talk.”
The seconds ticked by, and Scott straightened up and grabbed Gordon’s trembling hand.
“We have a job,” Scott admitted. “To Baltimore and back. Then more lined up after.”
“You’re leaving.” He shivered.
Scott nodded, regretfully. “We need the work. We can’t stay here without income while covering Doctor Hackenbacker’s services, the dock fees, the boarding fees.” Gordon’s breath hitched, and Scott squeezed his hand. “We’ll be fine, though. John did the math.”
“I can go with you,” Gordon whispered. “Virgil can take care of me on board.”
Scott closed his eyes, “Gordon, no.” His voice broke. How was Gordon supposed to heal aboard the sway of the ship? What if, God forbid, they encountered a storm, and he was pitched across the floorboards? “I can’t risk you.”
-From Hold Fast, Chapter 8 "Harbor"
_______________________________________
Standing upon a wooden pier, a man with sea-jewel eyes, tall and dark-haired, squared his shoulders and twisted his interlocked hands resting in the small of his back. Weight evenly distributed, the wood below the heel of his boots gave no protest, and in the stillness he scanned the harbor every inch a statue amidst the hustling movement of the dockhands, of which many were just youngsters. In the prime of his twenties, he outwardly looks every bit a leader; his stance resonates with his confidence of command, his presence a force on its own which speaks louder than even the golden shine of the epaulette along his right shoulder marking him as a merchant ship’s Captain.
Scott Tracy doesn’t feel the difference in age between him and the boys working the dock, though those musings he reserves for his heart. It wasn’t so long ago that he was their age, though climbing the ship’s shrouds towards the sky instead of racing along the dock. At the same time, he feels the stretch of years between them heavily and starkly, the responsibility that came from being eldest of five and the sudden addition of being abandoned, possibly orphaned, leading a ship’s company, his brothers and brothers in arms, into the unknown. The weight of his decisions he bears on his shoulders, for which his mark of command gives him authority, but does little to assist with the burden.
His gaze is severe and unwavering as he stares out towards ships in the harbor, and yet not focusing on them at all, but rather something beyond, something only visible to those that have challenged the horizon. He’s chosen a spot beneath a southern palmetto away from the central activity of the dockworkers, the fisherman and the sailors coming to port. The fronds give him ample shade from the heat of the sun, and they sway above him with the cooling breeze off the sea. Though, it’s not strong enough to flutter the edges of his coat, the signifying garment as static as the man who endures it, and he appears utterly unapproachable, untouchable, in his moments with the horizon.
Except to one.
The second man is broad to Scott’s tall, his features similar but different with strong cheekbones to replace the dimples in Scott’s smile, the cleft in his chin more prominent, the color of his hair deeper. Unfazed by his Captain’s manner, he spares no thought to the square of Scott’s shoulders and skips the pleasantries. It’s only with a slight tilt of the Captain’s head towards the sound of the wood thundering around his boots that Virgil knows Scott has registered his presence at all.
“When were you going to tell me?” It lashes at him, and he turns to his brother then to see Virgil’s arms crossed, the brown of his eyes alight and reddened around the edges. “When were you going to tell him? After everything!”
“I told him when he needed to know.”
“I don’t believe that. You’ve devastated him.”
“You’ve seen him? He was asleep when I left.” He’d wept himself into exhaustion.
“Well he woke up asking for you,” Virgil tells him. “I had to send John in to assure him you hadn’t left yet.”
Scott tightens the grip at his back, as if by sheer strength he could expel the burning where his fingers still freshly carry his brother’s tears. He pulls himself to look away from the ferocity in Virgil’s eyes, back toward where the clouds hang low in the blue.
“Do not mistake duty for cruelty, Virgil.” He speaks his words carefully and intently, absorbing every spark of his brother’s anger into his heart. “This decision was not made lightly. We told you once affairs were in order. Once we were certain.”
Once there were no more excuses to keep them held back, once they all agreed it was for the best to leave. Him and John and Alan. Virgil would have been a part of it too had his attention not been solely focused on their younger brother’s recovery, and rightfully so. The finances had been an obstacle Scott and John agreed they could keep off of Virgil’s plate until he needed to know. It just so happened that once he needed to know, he really needed to know.
It was a reluctant John’s idea first, though for his sake, Scott swore he’d take that knowledge into whichever sea would become his grave. John brought it to his attention and Scott made the call. It was as simple as that. Meanwhile, Alan had been the hardest to sway; he’d never known differently than having all four of his older brothers aboard the Thunderbird.
To him, hiring hands had been its own betrayal.
In the end they had to let Alan see the numbers for himself. Scott respected that and appreciated that his brother had the good sense not to take anything at face value. Over a long day of pouring over the logs and John’s projections and losses, Alan finally ceded. He was vocal about his displeasure though; he didn’t trust leaving his brother to the fates of the world of land.
In truth, Scott didn’t either. Not completely.
So when he says “once we were certain” what he means is that it had taken him two days and three nights with his quarters locked from the inside, one bottle of fine scotch and two of John’s wine, and more candied pralines than he had the right to have stashed in his cabin for him to tear away at his heart and come to terms with the fact that his brother had a small chance to heal upon land and no chance at all upon the sea.
That he had to make the right decision for his family, for their father’s legacy, for the ship and her crew, and for Gordon all at once.
That Gordon, who felt the pull of the tides even stronger than Scott himself, might forever be tied to shore. And Scott wouldn’t know for sure, nor would he be able to do anything about it even if he did.
That he might have to learn how to bear being aboard the ship without him.
That the best thing he could do for him was to leave him.
He awoke to the bottles shattered in pieces on the floor of his cabin after those nights. And when it was all said and done, he steeled himself, wiped the red away from his eyes. He became Captain, and he walked to Willshire’s purposefully to close out the room he couldn’t handle using because Gordon was down the hall and it wasn’t fair to carry the chaos in his mind so close.
Virgil knows none of this, so he scoffs, the hurt still apparent in his stance and blaze of his expression. But Virgil does know Scott, and there’s a moment in the silence as the scoff cuts off where he can feel it still resonating in his brother’s bones.
“Scott?”
“Did you know,” he says, his voice heavy and slow, “that I made a promise to him. I promised him we wouldn’t leave each other. Not until one of us was sewing the other’s hammock.” They were fourteen and twenty, and without a Captain, without half of the crew because they needed their wages not to go on a wild goose chase looking for the late Captain Jeff Tracy under an under-qualified leader. In the wake of their father’s disappearance, it was Gordon who first swore allegiance to Scott’s captaincy, with the brotherhood and loyalty of brown eyes that idolized his older sibling.
Virgil pales, no doubt remembering the most recent sewing of a hammock aboard their ship, seeing alongside it the lifeless face of their brother. It’s the same thing he’s been seeing since the events that nearly took Gordon’s life. Scott almost regrets saying it as soon as he glances at the look of pain that crosses Virgil’s face. Almost.
“So don’t treat me like this was easy. You didn’t need to make this decision. I did.” For the first time, Scott flings his hands back out of their hold, and stabs himself in the chest with his forefinger. “I know I’m responsible, so you don’t need to remind me.”
“I’m not saying it was easy,” Virgil argues. “I’m saying maybe it would’ve been a little easier had you just told us what you were thinking. You owe it to him when it affects him like this.”
“I told him today.”
“With no discussion. When it was already decided.”
“Precisely.”
“He didn’t even get a say.”
“Virgil, precisely.” And there’s something in the way that he says it the second time, with his brother’s name attached; it causes his lip to tremble, the words to stutter. “I-”
He couldn’t have done it, he’s trying to say. He would’ve talked himself out of it ten times over if the conversation he had with Gordon a few hours ago had happened before he’d squared away with the dockmaster and the boarding house and secured people who were relying on them for transport and purchased perishable wares for trade. There is a part of him still working through how many people he’d disappoint if they were to stay.
“Oh.”
And because it’s Virgil, his first mate, his brother, beside him always instead he says, “I hate this. Tell me honestly, what do you think his chances are of walking again? Of sailing?”
He needs to know. There’s so much that he doesn’t know about what’s going to happen next that he needs just this one thing from Virgil. But it’s a truth Virgil can’t give yet himself. He hums, his lips pursed, and he runs his hand through messy hair. Gordon has only just barely started standing, with assistance. Time will tell.
He tells him so. “We’ll know more by the time you return at Christmas.”
“Christmas then,” Scott nods. It’s a promise.
Virgil’s anger has long since vanished into hurt, his jaw clenches and he too stares out to sea. “When does she depart?”
“In two days. You’ll be staying?”
“Obviously,” Virgil says. “But I don’t know how to handle not being there for you.”
“Brother, the best thing you can do for me,” Scott says honestly, closing his eyes, “is to be there for him.” Because if he has to break his oath to Gordon, there’s no other person to whom he would trust his brother than Virgil. For the delicate care of his health, but also the strengthening of his spirit and his light through the worst of the storms, it’ll be Virgil who gets him through this. Scott will do his part.
For the One Prompt Challenge @tracybirds, because I had to do a FishTank scene since it’s me. To make it different, though, I threw it in my Thunderteers Universe. So here’s a snippet for my Hold Fast, peeps. <3
(Gordon is A, Virgil is B)
“You don’t need to worry about me,” said A. “Well, someone has to!” B paused - they didn’t mean to raise their voice. They sighed and continued “A.” A rolled their eyes but B wasn’t deterred. “When was the last time you ate? Slept?” A got up abruptly, hoping to avoid a lecture. Their head spun and they reached for something to steady themself, almost crashing into the bookshelf…
Ao3
More Thunderteers
Masterlist for the One Prompt Challenge here
*****
Blow Ye Winds, Blow
The ship lurched to the side, sending Virgil careening towards his desk and scattering the open books atop it as he caught himself with his hands. A vial of finely ground yellow-white powder rolled out of his grasp as he fell, though the cork stopper luckily kept its contents secure. The glass did not break with the drop, though it teetered on the edge of the table a moment before Virgil quickly righted himself and reached for it.
The powder was known to relieve strong pain, and Virgil, as their doctor and physician, had been working with it a long time. Long enough to have an educated sense of how to mix an appropriate dosage into a pill format for their boatswain, his brother. The vial was from his medical chest, and somewhere around here, he had more of the ingredient. Though his study felt the same on the surface, he was still finding small parts of the workspace rearranged from the temporary tenant they’d hired to take his place, inventory included. What he had found remained well-stocked, which he appreciated.
If he ever needed to take up temporary residency in port again, Virgil might add this Dr. Meddings to his approved list of substitutes for his brothers’ care. It was a list so short that it now included just the aforementioned doctor and his friend, Dr. Hackenbacker, who likely would never fare well at sea. Unknown on that one. Hiram seemed rather attached to his Charleston practice.
Virgil found his footing just as the ship heaved again, giving a great croak along the wooden foundations. With a sigh, he stuffed the powder into his satchel for safe keeping. He’d never be able to measure out the ingredients with the ship tossing them like this, but at least he’d located what he needed for when the sea calmed and her waves quieted.
Since he’d be more helpful up top, Virgil strode out of their medical cabin and climbed up to the main deck where the open air hit him with a burst of salt and the freshness that warned of a distant storm soon to come. A glance down at the tossing waters and up at the dense clouds above revealed it likely wasn’t far off.
At the helm, Gordon grunted with the effort to keep the ship aligned, his knuckles white on the spokes of the wheel.
Virgil approached.
“And it’s wind -,” the blond sang through clenched teeth. His words choked off with the effort of straining, and his breath heaved with the waves. “Windy weather, storm - stormy weather, boys.”
Song was joy, but it also was distraction.
“Not quite yet, Fish. We have time.” His words were kind as he stepped up close beside him. “Where is everyone?”
“Alan’s taken them to secure what’s in the hold, then the guns.” He spared a glance at Virgil. “Then the sails. I haven’t gotten her to a stop yet.”
Virgil hummed, watching intently the tremble of Gordon’s hands.
“I’m fine,” he reported.
“I’m fairly certain the only reason you’re still standing,” Virgil countered, “is because of that wheel.” After caring for his back after the fall that had nearly taken his life, Virgil knew too well the pinch of pain in Gordon’s forehead, his heavy stance as he leaned on his opposite leg when his hip was hurting, the stubborn streak of his brother’s determination when he was dedicated solely to proving himself. “Where’s your cane?”
Gordon’s eyes narrowed at him. “I got this. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Well, someone has to!” His voice raised sharply with the wind, then tapered. Virgil sighed, carding his hand through hair that blew wildly with the strong gusts. “It’s my job to worry.”
“Not about this,” Gordon argued. “I’ve been at this half my life.”
The wheel pulled at Gordon’s arms.
“Gordon,” he urged softly, placing one hand on the helm to help provide the counter-support Gordon needed and the other at the nape of Gordon’s neck. “Come now. You’re still not at full strength. Be kind to yourself, Fish. When’s the last time you ate?” Dark eyes, swollen underneath darted to him, betraying the night he must’ve had with pain intense enough it meant no rest, and Virgil added, “Or slept?”
Gordon rolled his eyes, wiggling his shoulders to dislodge the concerned hand against his collar.
At the same time, the water surged against the side of the ship, dislodging more than just Virgil’s hand. The wheel swept Gordon’s arms away, and the younger man stumbled back with uneven footing into Virgil’s hold as the ship veered out of their control.
“Gordon!” He held onto him tightly, shifting his own gait to compensate for the roll of the Thunderbird. But with the support of the helm no longer at his disposal, Gordon fell heavily against him, profanities spilling from his lips, and his limbs limp, heavy, and shuddering. Virgil felt Gordon’s fingernails dig into the material of his coat sleeves.
An attempt to keep them both standing would pull at Gordon’s back, so Virgil gently knelt, bringing them both to a resting position on the Quarterdeck while the wind swirled around them.
“Don’t say it,” Gordon mumbled weakly, catching his breath.
Virgil shook his head. “I wouldn’t. Our Captain though? Scott thinks he knows everything.”
The quip did as was intended, and Gordon snickered lightly.
“I heard that, Mr. Virgil.” With the hurling of the ship, Scott had just arrived on deck. He bent down towards both of them, a hand on his hip, the other holding out Gordon’s cane from where it had rolled. “And you’re right. I will say it. Virgil probably told you so.”
“Pot. Kettle,” Gordon retorted, waving him away.
“Hmm. We aren’t talking about me, Mr. Gordon.” Scott handed Virgil the cane and turned away from them to snatch the unattended wheel.
Gordon barked out a laugh, hissing as it caught his side. Thoughtfully, he watched Scott take up the helm.
“You need to heave-to, Captain. Then take in sail,” Gordon explained with sincerity, aware that, of course, this was something Scott already knew.
“Aye, aye.” Scott saluted as he would to the Admiral above him in rank and grinned. “Now get off my Quarterdeck and let Virgil take care of you.”
Wordlessly, Gordon nodded, letting Virgil know he was ready. His head spun and he wobbled as Virgil helped him up to a standing position.
“It’s going to be okay, Gordon,” Virgil assured, steadying him. “You’ll be back among the oak soon.”
“Not soon enough,” Gordon replied.
He vibrated against his brother, wincing as the movement shot fire through his back and blinking heavily on the journey to their officer’s cabin. But he wasn’t alone.
Summary: Autumn, 1775. “The rigging ran through his blood; it was an energy, a lifeforce.”
Genre: Angst, Whump
A/N: *****Please note the chapter 1 warnings.**** (!!!!!) From the Beginning
Status: COMPLETE
Chapter A/N: Another 3k later, and holy... it’s done. My heart feels empty and light, and I’m not sure how much of me is left after all this, but my little - “I need to write this bit so I know what happened” story turned into a fully fledged, angst adventure - 50 pages and 27K words. It took over a lot of my heart, but I did it! And I actually kept to the posting schedule.
**blabbers thank yous**
All right, me hearties. Fair winds and following seas....
****
Epilogue “Hands”
He knew it was a very specific request, and not one the general populace would be able to answer. His best bet was the one person in town who seemed to know the most of the comings and goings of the harbor, and so he sought out Sampson along the dock.
“If it’s ink you’re looking for,” the dockmaster leaned in, “the Marina pulled in a few days ago with a decorated crew.” He meant the brig positioned aways out from the Thunderbird. Gordon had seen her come in, and knew Sampson didn’t mean “decorated” in the way little medals of silver and gold shown on military officers’ jackets. Sampson nodded in the direction of a few sailors loading a dinghy, where their clothes hung wet and loose in the day’s heat and where peeks of black ink spun up their arms and skin.
Gordon beamed, thanking the man, and set off in the direction of the Marina crew. He was able to distinguish them from the townsfolk immediately. He recognized many of the dockhands assisting, and Gordon realized it wasn’t just the tattoos that made them stand out, but the unfamiliar faces.
“Gordon,” Virgil bristled beside him, falling into step. “Couldn’t you find a practice in town? Somewhere clean.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Elias practiced clean.” He flashed him a grin that he knew would get under his brother’s skin. “They’re sailors, not pirates, and they all look perfectly healthy. It’ll be fine.”
Summary: Autumn, 1775. “The rigging ran through his blood; it was an energy, a lifeforce.”
Genre: Angst, Whump
Posting Schedule - Weekly! A/N: *****Please note the chapter 1 warnings.**** (!!!!!) From the Beginning
Chapter A/N: Posting a bit early this week, as we are anticipating a busy Sunday. Let’s give Gordon a bit of a check in, hm?
*****
The world pitched, and hands reached for him.
He’s four and with fever, and it’s a soft, dainty hand that presses his hair back, covers his forehead with a hush and soft cloth to wipe away the sweat. Ma’s hands that curl around him, tethering while the world seesaws him into oblivion.
The pain lances through him and the world turns, and he calls for her, his voice small.
Summary: Summer, 1768. Virgil finds his best inspiration at sea. A Thunderteers Story
Characters: Gordon (10), Virgil (13), Scott (16)
Genre: Fluff (with an angsty end)
Tags: Wee!Tracys, Privateers!AU
Words: 2,800
Warnings: Alcohol, Drinking
A/N: There is, in fact, a Lord Gordon’s Reel that prompted this story, though it is a traditional tune, popularized in the 20th century with a five part version recorded by fiddler, Michael Coleman. I’ve been listening to this version by Ciaran Tourish. YT | Spotify . Enjoy!
The story in full is below, but if you enjoy, please consider checking out also at Ao3 | FF
More of the Privateers!AU is available here
-----
Lord Gordon’s Reel
Atlantic Ocean, Summer 1768
Virgil finds his best inspiration at sea. Although he is still supposed to be shadowing the ship’s physician and writing an essay at the end of the summer about his practical learnings aboard his father’s ship, the time away from his rigorous tutoring gives him the space to think. Quite literally, as there’s nothing but sea swells in every direction.
To some that might be terrifying. But Virgil, like his brothers, and his father, and his father before him, has the sea running in his blood. Time at sea is strenuous in ways he would never have experienced as a doctor locked in by land, but it’s invigorating, and relaxing, and rewarding.
He loves it.
The ship means family. One of the deckhands, Elias, plays fife in the evenings when he’s not working on someone’s ink, or his own. The open wound concerns Virgil, but the art fascinates him, and he might include his observations in his essay. Scott, when he’s not in lessons with his tutor or their father, spends his evening playing dice with Benji, their helmsman, down in the galley. Gordon, the little spitfire of a toddler he remembers pulling at the material of their mother’s dress to let her know he wanted to be held closer to the sunshine, has grown into boyhood and follows Scott around like he’s his hero. When he’s not spending time with Scott in lessons, Gordon spends every other waking moment with the deckhands among the ship.
The memory of their mother gives Virgil pause, taken too soon from this life with the birth of little Alan. The boys all went to live with their grandmother then, and he loved her dearly, though perhaps not her hardtack. But their grandmother couldn’t pick up her grandsons after a few years, and so Gordon found a new way to chase the sun, following after his father and oldest brother to reach towards the light with sails instead.
Maybe in another life, Virgil would’ve joined their father on the ship when he reached the right age too. Maybe John would have. But John always had his head even further beyond the clouds towards the stars, and Virgil, instead of playing with dice or cards as a youth, brought the apocalypse of destruction to their household – until his family realized he was able to put whatever he destroyed back together again, better than before. Both of them had shown an early aptitude for maths and sciences, and so tutors were brought in, they started their education, and the rest, as they say, is history.
So, the sea gives him breath, moments to feel, to listen. Slowly, after a few days away from the hustle and bustle of the city, the immense pressure of his schooling, finding the right descriptive words for his letters, he finds himself able to create again.
Little doodles that lay dormant as he resisted the urge and focused his quill on writing words came bursting to life in his journals under graphite pencils and in the margins of his reports on the fauna of the places they traveled.
Music started with their structured morning chants lead by the deckhands and Virgil would follow along, until notes filled in around the chanties and the tune in his mind was something different altogether.
Classically trained, the first time he pulled a downward stroke on his violin with the bite of a fiddle it had been while at sea. Fiddling was a technique, not an instrument, so his lines of rigidity fell away the more he found the appropriate bite to enhance his sound. He lost none of his posture but learned to sway, to dance with the motion of the bow.
Like the stars flickering in to welcome the moon, grace notes started twinkling in his mind, filling the page of notes that only existed in his muscle memory. Dolphins arched through the water, chasing them as they sailed, and he heard double stops, two notes at once working in tandem. His sea songs had movement, like the roll of the waves and with an underlying pulse, beating to connect everyone to the rhythm.
And then he learned to move his fingers at a speed beyond beat.
While the melody was there, the layers changed, the swing evolved, and the song in the end was never the same song twice. And sometimes the sea gave him fresh inspiration, which the others called improvisation, but what he called magic.
That was her gift to him.
~*~
Gordon lives for summer.
It wasn’t just because the days were longer, the sway of the wind warmer and softer against his cheeks, but because his brothers joined the crew. The closer they approached the port in New York - home his father called it, but it hadn’t felt like Gordon’s home in a long time – the more Scott started to join him with the crew, would play games, and sing, and he smiled, like he hadn’t in ages.
Gordon hated when Scott stopped smiling, so Gordon lives for summer because it’s when his brother is at his happiest. All of them were happier really.
Most days, the stories he made up of the shells in his collection would cheer his oldest brother up. Other times, he’d climb into the bunk beside him and pretend he was the one that needed comfort. The worst days, Scott being Scott tried not to let Gordon see, smiling despite himself with Gordon’s attempts to cheer him up, but the light would never reach his eyes.
Gordon was quite young when their mother passed away, but not too young to forget the tragedy. He remembers that his father and oldest brother were at sea, and that Scott was only a bit above Gordon’s age, when Alan came into the world.
Gordon was smart enough to know that his brother carried their family back home on his shoulders, a never-ending worry that when they reached New York, their life would shatter again, that they would only just start to feel the ripple of anguish again over something awful, terrible, that happened while they were away and unable to be there. They’d found out via a letter.
Gordon will never tell him that at age five, he remembers most clearly his older brother, Virgil, crying out first for Momma, and then Scotty.
The loss scarred Scott, and approaching port, having his brothers near him –
It filled Scott with light again.
Gordon wished Scott could be that relaxed all the time, but what does he know? He’s still just a young midshipman, and his father tells him frequently just to “focus on your studies, little fish.” And he’s the Captain so he has to listen, but he thinks maybe if Scott hadn’t been told to focus on his studies all the time, it would bring that smile out more often.
He tells Virgil none of this. They’re “resting” in the officer’s quarters, just them two. At twilight, its John’s hour, and their brother has long left the cabin and begun pouring his head over star maps with their Dad’s hired navigator. A shrill melody drifts their way from the fo’c’sle as the day crew settles in for the evening. With this many aboard, they’ve started utilizing the bunks in the officers’ quarters, and Gordon’s moved his stuff to the top bunk, more accustomed to compensating if the ship lurches. Virgil, who sleeps like a rock, will have less distance to fall in the lower bunk below him.
He’s leaning over the bottom of his bed, so that his hands dangle over the side above Virgil’s face. The blood rushes to his head as he thinks about Scott, but instead rambles about everything else.
He hasn’t seen Virgil in months. So instead, he tells him that he lives for summer and he’s excited to have him and John aboard again, and that he thinks honorifics are stupid, because he wants to be able to just call Scotty, “Scott” and not “Master Scott.” And while they are at it, the crew still calls him “Young Master Gordon,” and he hates both the reminder of his age and the honorific.
“What would you rather be called?” Virgil asks. His sketch journal is open but facing downward over his chest, and Virgil twiddles with the graphite pencil as he looks up at Gordon with amused brown eyes. “Captain Squid?”
Gordon huffs. He’d prefer Gordon. “I don’t want Captain,” he shakes off. “Too much responsibility.”
“Lord Gordon?” Virgil offers, his eyes smiling.
“Hmm.” He’s not one for Lord and Ladies, and usually ‘lord’ indicates an ownership of land, and land is something he definitely does not need. “Gordon, Lord of the Sea.”
Virgil laughs.
Because Virgil’s hair is right there under his fingertips, Gordon twists at one of the dark strands.
“Stop that!” Virgil says. But he’s still laughing, so Gordon giggles too and doesn’t stop. The journal falls to Virgil’s right as he turns to swat at Gordon’s hands.
He swats back a few times, but eventually his head starts to feel light from his position, so Gordon flings himself back over the side of the bunk. Once he’s upright, he curls to his side, and his face hurts from smiling so hard. Below him Virgil’s laugh fades, but he can hear the remaining grin through the wood.
“Lord of annoyance, more like,” Virgil protests.
And Gordon beams. He loves that.
~*~
In the morning, Scott makes coffee.
He makes coffee because Virgil likes coffee. The process is involved because he’s required to roast the beans, then grind them using the mortar and pestle, and then finally boil the water and let the powder infuse before he can even get a cup. There’s got to be a better way to filter out the grounds, though, because the spout of their coffee pot just doesn’t do enough.
That’s the part of the coffee he could do without, and why, on most days, Scott prefers tea.
As the aroma of the beans wafts up, sound drifts down, muted and woody through the floorboards above. There’s no stifling it; the galley is right below their quarters.
Virgil doesn’t know, but there’s a special part of his heart Scott keeps locked and protected with his brother’s music.
Scott doesn’t have the quick ingenuity to fiddle the way Virgil does. His cello, which sits between his legs, is just a bit on the large side for such music too. Though the image is a funny one, and he can’t help but wryly smirk while watching the pot do nothing.
Music is supposed to help with math, he’s told. That’s why his father encouraged him to start playing, but he kept at it because somewhere in the notes he feels his brother with him. And rarely, in the summer weeks, everything clicks into place, and they can play together.
The sound stops, and Scott, with his knowledge of the ship, can follow his brother’s footsteps as he makes his way down to the galley, no doubt drawn by the promise of the dark bean water he liked so much.
He’s already laid out some jam and toast for him, and he sets the coffee in a cup on the table as Virgil joins him. Virgil is taller than he remembers, his shoulders filled out and still not finished growing.
“I’m to shadow you today,” he grumbles, low and distracted. He doesn’t seem thrilled, but Virgil is pre-coffee, Scott acknowledges. And clearly still lost in creation, judging by the quick, successive tapping on the wooden table.
“Don’t seem so glum,” Scott smiles. “I’m working on my studies today. Dad is giving you a break this morning. I do have the afternoon checks later so you’ll want to join the Doctor.”
Virgil nods, letting the coffee do its work to wake him up. “Sorry. Thanks for the brew, Scotty. Master Scott,” he corrects, and he laughs into his coffee like there’s a joke there.
Scott raises an eyebrow.
“Just thinking about something Gordon said last night.”
“Oh? Want to share? Gordon says a lot of things.” Ten going on fifteen, their Squid.
Scott is rewarded with a gleam of brown eyes and a mischievous grin, and Virgil looks all too much like their younger brother in that moment.
Later, Scott joins Gordon on deck with a hushed, “as you were, Lord Gordon.”
~*~
“Master Scotty” takes off in retaliation. Virgil, with no responsibility aboard the ship is called Master by the crew for his ties to their father, but his brothers are not required to toss titles around him. That makes him a prime target for the wilder of Gordon and Scott’s names. He doesn’t mind when “Count Coffee” sticks. John rolls his eyes at “Dipper Duke” which Virgil thinks is a bit of a stretch when they can just sing any of the “Johnny” seas songs at him to get a reaction.
And he does, frequently.
Their father puts a stop to it once he overhears Gordon whispering to Scott, “Sovereign Serious.”
It’s a bit too late for Gordon though. As private as they tried to be with their joke, the crew had already started to pick up on Master Gordon, Lord of the Sea and Irritation, and though they would never actually call him by that name, the title was thrown around between the brothers with a laugh joined by others.
But just because their father said no, doesn’t exactly mean any of them stop right away.
They are on the main deck and Scott has Gordon upside down when Virgil names the song he’s been gifted by the waves of the sea. His eldest brother is holding on to the boy’s squirming legs, and golden hair falls like it’s being pulled straight towards the deck. Scott cackles, his eyes crinkling with mirth, and Gordon, his face turning red, strains against the hold, laughing through the breathlessness.
“Sco-ott,” he hoots, “Put – me – down!”
In that moment, as if she wanted to be part of it, the sea sends them a wave that tosses the ship on the landing and rocks Scott off balance. He lands on his rear, Gordon lands on top of him, and Virgil holds his hand up to his mouth to keep from laughing in front of their father, who just shakes his head. But he’s smiling too, biting at his lip, and, when they both realize that they were trying to keep composure, all semblance of it is lost.
That. That right there is the brightness he’s had flitting about his mind the past few days. The laughter fills in the grace notes.
~*~
The first time Virgil plays “Lord Gordon’s Reel” outside the ship is in a coffee house and tavern in New York, deep in the bleakness of winter when he’s just finished a paper that’s absorbed most of his energy for the past few months. He’s missing his family, and the notes don’t carry right over saltless air, his fingers don’t move as quickly without the waves at his feet, but the folks in the tavern politely clap along well enough at the violin prodigy quaintly playing fiddle tunes behind their political discussions.
~*~
It’s years later and they are in Charleston the first time he hears “Lord Gordon’s Reel” played by someone else, passed along via attuned ears from port to port.
Parts have evolved over musicians, and the grace notes aren’t made from his family’s laughter anymore, but the core is the same. They sit in the tavern of the inn Scott booked for them for a few weeks, wide eyed because that’s his tune.
“Is that—” Scott growls beside him, deep and low in his throat. He throws back a little too much scotch and coughs because he already knows the answer.
It’s the first time Virgil has stepped away from Gordon’s bedside since they landed in town, with the once bright-eyed sailor barely clinging to life in the practice down the street belonging to one of Virgil associates. Brains is eccentric, but brilliant, and Virgil trusts him with his life. He trusts him with his brother’s.
But the song carries the ghost of his brother’s laughter. Virgil rubs his hand over his watery eyes. He doesn’t answer Scott, he can’t with how hard his heart is pounding for Gordon. It’s Scott that gets up first, with a wooden screech as he pushes his chair back, cutting through the song with the tumult of a tortured soul.
The sea and her tricks, Virgil thinks, wearily. He throws his whiskey back, then knocks the bottom of the glass against the table with a dull clink, feeling utterly spent and as empty as the glass by the time the song comes to a close.
The End
Summary: Autumn, 1775. “The rigging ran through his blood; it was an energy, a lifeforce.”
Genre: Angst, Whump
Posting Schedule - Weekly!
A/N: Please note the chapter 1 warnings
From the Beginning
*****
Chapter 2: Helm
The wood creaked under Gordon’s footsteps as he followed John’s long strides out of their officer’s quarters. Somewhere between the alcohol and the music from the night before, Virgil had forgotten their plan for the morning. He groaned, turning over in his bed after seeing no hint of the sun through their windows, and he let the swaying of their ship lull him back to dreamless sleep. Alan had not stirred.
After gently shutting the door, Gordon and John traversed the length of the ship towards the ship’s bow, keeping their steps quiet and their voices hushed, aware of the resting crew below their feet. The moon rose high in the sky, casting dreamy light through ropes and sails, while John’s lantern cast a small, warm glow. Enough for them to see each other and keep from falling over their own feet.
“Gordon, he’s been just fine,” John whispered, passing his lantern over to Gordon and pulling out his navigator’s tools to determine their heading and checking for the perceived drift. “If it’s there, it’s slight.”
Gordon nodded. “Visible only once you step back.”
“Perhaps,” John pursed his lips. “But that would be more indicative of something tangibly off kilter with the ship. And you have talked to Virgil?”
“He knows,” Gordon confirmed. “The wheel is fine, but we are still looking.”
“We need to inform the Captain.” Not Scott, but their commanding officer.
Gordon sighed. “I know we do – I just wanted to have something to tell him first.”
“You know Scott can help figure it out.”
“I-” he swallowed, the salt thick on his tongue. “I needed to be sure it wasn’t Benji.” Scott was not cruel and would not have punished Benji beyond perhaps a skipped meal. Their ship’s crew was built strong from a place of trust. But a dozing worker reflected a systemic issue. And the schedule, at the end of the day, was Virgil’s duty.
