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edutainer2022 · 2 years

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This is a shamelessly self-indulgent, teeth-rotting follow up to ‘Cracks’. Expect lots of angst and fluff. And fluffy angst. And a Tracy puppy pile. It’s an angsty kind of puppy pile. It’s a thing. Scott sleeps his fever off through all of it, but he’s very loved by everyone. They’ll be okay. Not just yet, but eventually.

PUZZLES

With no small help from the Mechanic and no slight propulsion force of Grandma´s crisp medical orders, who cut their trip short before all the boys could be back from the rescues, Scott was safely installed in his room, tucked in bed, and Jeff was left to gather his bearings and the suddenly frail shards of his wits. If his mother had anything to say on the whole matter at hand, she opted to put it off for the time being. He was instead all but marched to the shower in Scott´s suite (no, against rational considerations, he refused to put more distance than that between himself and a now quiet, still Scott) before resuming his vigil over a sleeping son. Jeff couldn’t begin to fathom how he was going to face that boy’s demons (and his own) in the spotlight of lucidity. But it was the liminal dusk of fever and all the routine, simple worries it ensued, for now. A respite. He could hear the boom and rumble of Thunderbird 2 landing in the hangar. He could almost feel the urgency and concern reverberating through the core of the island, straight from his second son’s heart. That meant Virgil would soon be by his brother’s side. Still Jeff spent an extra minute under the scolding spray to make sure the last of biting salt was washed out of his eyes. Those moments to compose himself must have stretched to longer minutes than he was aware, as it was almost night when he stepped back into the room. Virgil was already there, propped half up on one of the pillows, Scott gathered in a strong embrace against his chest. It was a well-practiced arrangement between the brothers, Jeff could see with a sharp pang in his own chest – their limbs and bodies locked perfectly as a jigsaw puzzle, Scott’s head nestled right over Virgil’s heart. Just how many occasions of pain, and stress, and heartache in his sons’ lives called for such a huddle? Shadows gathered in the room, pooling in the corners and by the bed, shrouding Virgil’s face, deepening his boy’s frown. Painted over by shadows, Virgil looked eerily like Jeff’s own father – an unwavering rock of a man. Among the solid obscurity the only shimmer of movement - his son’s eyes, the dark, haunted glisten of an underground lake. Tears. Jeff didn’t fail to note Virgil hadn’t greeted him. Had barely looked up at him from Scott’s sleeping form.

‘Scott gets nightmares when he has a fever.’

Jeff shivered at the sound of Virgil’s baritone – flat and as drained of color as the shadows around his sons. When exactly did that become a thing? Was it always so and he just missed too many cold-induced fevers in his eldest childhood, sauntering around the solar system? Or was he too busy wallowing in grief and reshaping the world to fit his aspirations of grandeur while his second son hushed the screams, plaguing his eldest dreams, with flannel pajamas and soothing hugs? Or was it a newer development in Scott’s sleep pattern, after his Big Damn Hero father finally saved the humankind with a bang and a flare? Jeff felt he could be sick right there and then, disgusted with himself, but the shadows shifted, a moon beam sneaking in just in time to reveal Virgil’s chin trembling, eyes wide and desperate – a silent plea for help from his gentle child, who never asked for much. When Scott first fainted in the lounge John of course left the comms feed open for all the brothers. All his sons must have overheard what Scott’s feverish mind let slip the way he wouldn’t otherwise, not voluntarily – the crushing guilt over not being fast enough to trade his own life for Jeff’s in the Zero-X incident and the morbid certainty he was never enough to make up for Jeff’s absence in his brothers’ and the humanity’s lives. However far from the truth, it was bad enough Jeff would have to live and deal with this burden - the devastating legacy he left his son. He could now see Virgil too going under with it, drowning in his brother’s shadows.

In two brisk strides Jeff was by the side of the bed, climbing up to envelope Virgil into a hug of his own, guiding his son’s massive form, stiff from the day of hard rescue, rigid in stupor of unexpected sucker punch of Scott’s ailment and heartbreak, to relax against his chest. His ribs creaked in protest as he was now hoisting the combined weight of his two adult sons – Virgil still holding a sleeping Scott, never letting go. This would have been easier attained, when they could both be tucked under his chin and Virgil’s feet were so small they could fit in his father’s palm. Still, he could manage it. He let his boys carry too much of the heavy world he crafted for far too long. He would hold his boys now as best he could. He wanted to console Virgil, to soothe away at least the blame for missing the signs of Scott’s rising fever. It might have been Virgil’s job as the IR medic, but it was sure Jeff’s job as a father to pay attention. And he failed. In so many more ways than one. He lost sight of so much. Virgil let out a whimper and Jeff opted against words – kissing the top of his son’s head instead and rubbing his hand up and down his son’s strong arm.

‘You have to tell him. YOU have to tell him, Dad. He doesn’t believe me…’

Virgil’s ragged whisper was now muffled by Jeff’s shoulder, where his face was buried, away from the one moonbeam of light, chasing the silent shadows, away from Jeff. His second eldest was pleading to the ultimate authority to let Scott know he was enough. To let him know he was irreplaceable. It would be easier if Jeff were certain he was enough to get the idea through. He certainly failed to convince his eldest through the previous twenty years before his disappearance. Jeff felt rather than heard Virgil’s muted sobs through the rustle of his shirt and the tremble of the boy’s shoulders in his embrace. As if sensing the younger brother’s distress, Scott’s brows knitted in a frown and he hugged Virgil closer, but remained unstirred. If his soul had been crushed to pieces earlier that day – it now sure hurt like each shard was being pulled out, leaving a jagged wound. So Jeff tightened the hold on his sons to keep the cracks from shuttering his heart to dust.

Virgil’s tears blissfully subsided into soft snores, as he heard the space elevator hiss and clank into the docking platform on an otherwise silent villa. Two more sons back home. He had no doubt John would not let Alan go alone. Not today. Not after what they all heard. Alan. He would have to tread gently around the boy. The well of hidden sorrow and heartache, flooding Scott, too deep for the most stalwart of them. On cue the door opened and both his spacefaring sons walked in, pale and somber. Already out of uniform. The nightlight of the hallway brightened Alan’s gaunt and exhausted face for a moment. The boy’s eyes were visibly red-rimmed and puffy. Jeff was prepared to welcome the youngest boy into a snuggle at his side, on the very edge of the bed. But without a sound Alan burrowed to wedge himself between Virgil and Scott, immediately latched to his biggest brother’s midriff like he would never let go. The boy tackled his father thus, when they first met among the stars. Jeff knew the ferocity and the sentiment of that embrace.

John spoke instead, moving to the other side of the bed.

‘Alan gets nightmares when Scott is ill or hurt’.

Oh. Another patch in the tapestry of his children’s woe he was unaware of. His littlest boy chased by relentless fear the only parent he ever truly knew, the only one left to him would be ripped away too. Ripped away by the perceived duty to uphold their father’s heroic legacy. Jeff stilled for a moment, straining to hear if there were more sobs. But for the rustle of sheets all was quiet. Small mercies. Either that or Allie had already cried himself dry on his way back from the orbit. The latter was more likely, if the dark circles under John’s eyes and a frown framing his lips, pursed thin, were any indication. The painful crease between ginger brows betrayed a headache.

On instinct Scott’s arm shifted to drape over Alan’s shoulders and a content sigh escaped, as something untangled in his eldest chest and he breathed deeper for the first time through the ordeal. Virgil’s arm moved in synch, chasing purchase where Scott was now cuddling Allie, never breaking contact. Another piece of the puzzle locked securely in place.

John was never much for tactile contact. Jeff knew that much, although his ginger spaceman had been quite generous with hugs and small touches to his old man and even his brothers upon Jeff’s return. Jeff had to wonder if something unfroze in his touch starved son, willing him to seek more contact. Regardless, he was quite aware of his son’s limits and didn’t expect John to join his brothers at all. Maybe he underestimated the force of Scott’s turmoil. Or John’s own. The mattress dipped on the opposite side and in a fluid motion John rolled to spoon Scott’s still frame. Forehead resting between his eldest brother’s shoulder blades with a soft thud, John’s long fingers clutched fistfuls of Scott’s shirt, knuckles almost glowing white with strain in the dimness of the room. A hitched breath and a hiss, too close to a stifled sob, for comfort, John let out, his eyes squeezed shut, made Jeff think of the airlock seals pressurized, spaceships docking in the vast void. Coming among one’s own. Coming home. He reached, gently, so as not to startle the touch averse son, and stroked the shock of red hair.

For a moment Jeff just marveled at this synched machinery of brotherhood. His brave, amazing boys presented an unwavering united front, pulled out nothing short of a miracle, saving him from the bum end of the galaxy, but there were cracks. Not just the indefatigable façade they showed the world, but the walls and the roots, and the very foundations of his family were crumbling under the toll in the wake of his choices. His beloved boys devised an elaborate technology of checks and balances, communicated in silence through nights like this (he didn’t dare think how many nights like this), to keep themselves from disintegrating.

The gear was still missing a final piece. Light and efficiently precise on bare feet, Gordon entered, two throw blankets in hand. Gordon entered and Jeff could swear the shadows retreated from his brothers’ sleeping forms. Of course.

‘John gets cold, when dirtside.’

One blanket was already being draped over his immediate older brother’s lanky form, careful not to disturb. The second blanket Gordon was ready to throw over Jeff himself. Attentive to detail, collected and considerate. Jeff mused longingly how he hasn’t quite met this Gordon, how he missed entirely his fishboy growing into this Gordon. Eight years in outer space did a number on his circulation, but today he had a Virgil for a blanket. The boy was a human shaped furnace. Jeff smiled gratefully but shook his head no, all the while watching (wondering) how Gordon was going to fit into his brothers’ arrangement. Between himself and his three eldest (the six feet squad, Gordon’s term) and Alan, Scott’s customized king size bed was pretty much full to capacity. But his second youngest son was half squid not for nothing – there was never a crevice, cleft or nook Gordon couldn’t squeeze in. Jeff had many a grey hair, earned looking for a hiding little Squido, to attest to that. With a swimmer’s grace Gordon hopped onto the far end of the bed, shimmied closer, folded and with appalling comfort tucked his feet beneath John. Jeff’s middle son shifted ever so slightly to accommodate the intrusion into his space, but didn’t protest. Jeff watched, mesmerized, as the blond aquanaut actually had the audacity to fluff the covers over Scott, fully intending to use his oldest brother’s hip as a pillow, all the while curled in some unfathomable ball. Of all his sons Gordon appeared the least shaken by Scott’s unwitting revelation. Halfway down to rest his head over Scott, the blond youth caught his father’s inquiring, haunted gaze and sat back up, with a sigh.

‘We watch over Scott. He gets sad. Not like when someone ate the last of leftover pizza sad. Or a rescue gone bad sad. That too’. – Gordon’s hand moved from picking invisible lint off the comforter to ruffling Alan’s hair, lightly. – ‘But when he thinks no one’s watching, he gets really sad.* Like, it-hurts-to-just-be sad. And today…’

Gordon’s voice trailed off and Jeff’s heart sank so deep he doubted he’d ever hear it’s beat again. Today they blinked and missed the cracks in Scott the depth, and breadth, and darkness of a singularity to swallow him whole, because they were too busy watching their father, like he hung the effin’ stars. He was ready to flinch from his sons accusing stare, but Gordon’s eyes were warm – a welcome contrast to the cool swathe of moonlight and relentless shadows.

‘…today you watched over him. You did good. It’ll be alright.’

Off Jeff’s double take Gordon settled against Scott, stretching one arm to reach Virgil’s grip on the eldest and clasping John’s fist, still curled over Scott’s shirt, with another. The brothers’ hands locked immediately, completing the circle of touch. The twist and turn of the boy’s agile body didn’t look comfortable, but Gordon was out like a light. The puzzle complete. All his sons were home.

He did good today… Jeff would hold on to that hope into the next morning, as he held his whole world in his arms to ward off the shadows, seeping through the cracks.

*The idea is borrowed from Sherlock (BBC series). Scott indeed makes the saddest faces, when he’s turned away or alone.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #thunderbirds 2015 #jeff tracy #tracy puppy pile #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy needs his dad #jeff tracy goes soul searching #tracy brotherdom of angst #virgil tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #gordon tracy is kinda amazing #virgil needs a hug #my fic #methinks i have astronomy

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edutainer2022 · 2 years

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Necessary preamble: 1) Jeff Tracy is gone not long ago and Gordon hates everything. But mostly Scott. Well kinda.

2) It's a grief fic. And it's an angsty fluff fic. It's a Gordon and Scott fic. Because we need those. Gordon Tracy just kept talking in my head.

TELL THE WATER

Gordon is thirteen. And angry. And hates Scott. Stop. Scratch. Repeat. Gordon is thirteen. Dad is gone. And he hates that. But Dad is not there, so Gordon has nothing real to hate. But Scott is there. Scott is always there. Which is kinda awesome, otherwise, because when big brother was away Gordon missed him something stupid. Scott is a smother and a pain in the... but he's more fun, than John. But now Scott is sitting at Dad's desk. All the the time. And in Dad's office in New York. And in Dad's plane. And with Dad's GDF guys. And he has the same aftershave scent, for God's sake! But he's not Dad! Dad is gone! And Gordon hates this most of all. So he balls up that hatred and anger into a hot, spiky blob, and spits it in Scott's general direction with everything his swimmer's lungs can give. Well, not the hatred part. But the Scott not being Dad part, anyway. His chest aches from excertion and his eyes sting. He knows the blow landed, because Scott flinches. It's the silence and the quiet that follow that are scary. Virgil dissolves into the shadows, hot on Scott's tracks, and John stays in his room that night, while Gordon cries himself to sleep. His squid sense suggests nobody is mad at him. Not really. And Gordon kinda hates that even more.

John picks him up from the pool, parks him in Dad's... Scott's outer office at Tracy Industries and vanishes to collect Alan from therapy. Tracy brotherhood grapevine goes it was the Tracy Legal advice to get the kid a shrink - it'll look good on the guardianship transfer record. Will make Scott look a responsible and capable caretaker. Gordon wonders what passes as points on Scott's record to be his legal guardian. Not decking him that other day for lashing out? Gordon's not an idiot, John's perpetually rolled eyes notwithstanding. He knows everyone is walking on glass around him now. Virgil gives him those soulful eyes and the not so big hugs, like it's no big deal, but he's there. And those are good. Those are the best. But he would rather Virgil yelled at him and tackled him, and swung. Because he knew how big brother looked at Scott - with the kind of fear Scott would shatter into splinters any minute. John ruffles his hair and takes Alan off his hands a lot these days. Scott's barely there anyway, buried in miles of spreadsheets and hours of meetings. Scott is not mad and does not hold a grudge. Gordon knows a sulking Scott. This is not it. Scott is focused, and rueful, and oh so patient with him. That's becoming Gordon's new favorite thing to hate. Second only to idling in the antechamber to Scott's... Dad's office and waiting for Scott to be done with yet another meeting. Virgil is flying Grandma in to New York before they're all to head back to the island. John's not back yet, so there's noone to talk to. There's Dad's PA... well, he guesses, Scott's now too. But she's engrossed in a hushed conversation with a paralegal, who just recently stepped out of that meeting. Eavesdropping is bad and all, but he's RIGHT THERE and there's nothing much to do otherwise. Their voices are low, anyway. He did make out "poor boys", and "will have to adopt the youngest anyway", and "such a tragedy". Virgil had Mom's musical ear, but Gordon didn't spent his whole life plotting mischief to not have developed a heightened hearing. The whispers weaved into a sympathetic tsk stringed by "Will he even want to foster both boys? It's a lot of responsibility so young. Emancipation is an option. Those Olympic track kids can handle themselves". Gordon didn't know what emancipation meant, but he understood enough to know the assistants wondered if Scott would want to disown him. If Scott should. And Gordon bolted.

Virgil found him later in the executive bathroom, but let him be. Every Tracy knew the Squid is gotta hide in nooks and there was that. Scott gave him the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. It never did anymore. Gordon hated that too.

He spent the whole flight home curled up in his seat, looking out, sick to his heart. He wanted to hate everyone, and to hate the island, to hate the stupid blanket Virgil tucked over him, but it didn't stick. He didn't want to hate Alan, who curled up to his side and slept the whole flight through.

Gordon tried not to hate that emancipation thing too. He looked it up. It was kinda badass. He'd be like an adult and everything. He could do whatever he wanted. Scott would not have to be his Dad anymore. Scott would not have to be his... anything anymore. Not hating that didn't stick either.

So Gordon tiptoed back to the lounge, once the rest of the villa hushed into sleep. Or whatever passed for sleep in the Tracy household these days. Scott was seated at Dad's desk, looking at a whole lot of nothing in the shadows. He was doing that a lot lately. All the time. Scott was also watching the holovid of Dad's explosion all the time, so Gordon knew his cue, when the bluish shimmer flickered out at the table. And it was just Scott, his fists clenched on the table top, his eyes the only source of blue in the expanse of shadows. For a moment Gordon could swear Scott's eyes projected that explosion, like their portraits did in the lounge. But it was just a trick of light. Scott never cried after Dad. Not in the ways that were visible or apparent in the morning. And that was telling something, as Gordon knew even John cried this time around. A lot. Scott would just sit and hypnotize the explosion, as if there were anything more to see. Gordon hated it with a vengeance.

He did erase the recording once, when Scott was away from the island. Big brother just bummed a copy at the GDF. Now Scott had it on his phone as well, which was the kind of off limits even Gordon dared not cross. Not yet, anyway. Virgil could. Virgil was Scott's unofficially assigned emotional support little brother, as Gordon once tried to explain to Al. Al, 4 at the time, got confused at "unofficially assigned" and "little brother", because Virg was "big brother", wasn't he. Anyway. Virgil wouldn't put his foot down with Scott and that holo-explosion mania, because Virgil looked at Scott like he would disappear into thin air too if he didn't hold his breath. John didn't have sway over Scott in matters that didn't involve multy-tier formulas. So that left Gordon next in line to do something about big brother's obsessive tendencies. Which Gordon wouldn't have to bother about if he were emancipated. The idea made him queasy.

Gordon shuffled from foot to foot, catching Scott's gaze. Instantly worried. Great.

'What's up, Fish? Had a bad dream?'

Gordon bargained to bail out and go with the nightmare thing. But he remembered Scott's phone, and how Scott could whip that explosion vid any moment, even in a meeting, or in a Thunderbird. And how, if Gordon didn't stick around till he was old enough, he wouldn't be able to wipe it off, or replace it with a cute panda, with hell to pay from Scott, but he'd be like an actual adult then, so it would blow off. Gordon squared his shoulders in his best big brother imitation:

'Nah, didn't sleep at all.'

Scott was on his feet and towering over him all in one stride, Gordon could swear. Damn, those legs were LONG. Scott was also squeezing his shoulder and peering down on him, almost doubled over Gordon's smaller frame, checking for signs of illness.

'Hey, buddy, everything alright? You want me to tuck you in?'

Gordon wanted to scoff. And to swat big brother's hand off. He was not A KID like Alan. He was discussing emancipation here. Serious adult stuff. But Scott's eyes were kind. And soft. And warm. Like the water. Safe. So he drew enogh air, dived in and landed face-first somewhere in the expanse of big brother's chest. Well, his abs, more like, but Gordon didn't complain. Not tonight.

'I don't wanna emancipate. I don't wanna be nobody's. I'm sorry I said that about you and Dad! Can I be yours, please! Please!'

Gordon didn't catch another breath till he almost had a mouthful of Scott's shirt. He reinforced his point with clasping both arms around Scott's waist in a drowning man's grip. He could hear the frown in his big brother's sigh. There would be more to this conversation come morning, for sure. But for the moment Gordon was crushed and instantly supported afloat by the powerful wave of big brother's hug.

'You're always mine, Gordo. If you'll have me'.

Gordon floated on the heaving tide, for a while, just relishing the closeness, and the depth, and the love that ebbed and eddied, and whirled into everything that was Scott. That's how he knew his biggest brother finally cried in the open, since Dad. And he didn't hate it at all.

That's how Virgil knew the biggest brother finally slept in earnest through the night, since Dad, when he found them in the lounge the next morning - Scott sprawled on the sofa and Gordon squid-attached over him in a fluid heap of extremities and drool. Both smiling.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #gordon tracy #grief/mourning #virgil tracy #gordon tracy needs a hug and gets one #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy is a beloved biggest brother #tracy brotherdom of angst #methinks i have astronomy #thunderbirds 2015 #my fic

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edutainer2022 · 2 years

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Necessary preamble: 1) Apparently I don't like happiness, so this is distilled Tracy angst (with a tiny whiff of fluff). It's Scott's grief over Zero-X and Dad. Bounced off of John's and Virgil's.

2) The boys are vaguely in the anger stage. It's not a good place for any one of them. There's a very, very roundabout reference to suicidal ideation. Please, be advised.

PLAY OF LIGHT

Scott sees his father's face every time he looks in the mirror. The resemblance is uncanny, they coo. The spitting image of a father he didn't save. A hitch in his flightpath, a stumble in his skill or a strike of indifferent cursed stars - and his father goes super nova, debris of the massive ship evaporating in the blazing glory of burning plasma right in front if his eyes. Every time he closes them. They replace the mirror in his bathroom after Virgil plucks the shards out of his knuckles.

John trusts metaphors no more than he trusts emotions or guts. John ever truly trusts numbers. So when a moment between them is thin and sharp enough to cut glass, Scott knows to take the words "your fault" not as an accusation, but a verdict. It's a good thing he's already passed it on himself - judge, jury and executioner. He was in One. He had the estimate intercept coordinates to Zero-X, he should have punched it and made it on time. Punch it he did and make it he managed. In time for the fireworks. If he knows John at all, he knows there's a double edge. John ever truly trusts numbers he calculated himself. Scott is quite willing to stay standing beneath the sword, if it would save at least one of them. It doesn't.

Virgil gets to pick up a sobbing and retching John off the bathroom floor because a pale and speechless Virgil gets to choose which brother is hurting more right then in their little game of blame - dished and accepted. He chooses John. He chooses wisely.

Whenever Scott receives a punch - Virgil's heart bruises. But he lets Virgil plummet him with fists of lead, as he holds the brother later in an iron grip against his chest, thrashing and wailing in a bolthole down in the hangars, in the recluse of Two's collosal form. Virgil rains hits blindly over his shoulders and back. Because Virgil can't. If they all shatter to splints, Virgil can't hold it anymore. He clutches Virgil as he would a bleeding wound, till the edges catch and the seam mends.

Scott finds himself on the edge of a cliff often these days. It's a good spot. All the way up at the Round House. The highest point of the island. If he steps close enough there's no roaring ocean nor a canopy of trees to see beneath, down the slopes. No tether. Just the sky. If he tilts his head just right to the wind, he could fly. That's all he ever wanted to do. Fly. That's all he ever was good at. Not good enough - the sun reflected in the water all around mocks him with a brilliance of the exploding plasma. A mirror. He's trapped in the reflection forever.

The world opposite of the sky beacons him with a child's voice. Alan trots up and grabs his hand in a bustle and fury of trusting blue eyes and their Mom's smile and a little brother determination to tow him down to the villa because John told him so. Scott scans the palette of nearby trees and undergrowth for a flash of tell-tale ginger, but finds none. It's not an apology between them, but an understanding. And Scott steps away from the edge.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy #scott tracy needs his dad #virgil tracy #john tracy #tracy brotherdom of angst #tw: grief #tw:suicidal ideation #grief is a tide they say #tracy boys are not in a good place #methinks i have astronomy #thunderbirds 2015 #scott tracy needs therapy but noone ever brings it up #every tracy brother needs a hug

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