#Virgil needs a hug

[personfrommars10]

Patton: *up beat and cheery like usual* Do you ever just have an existential feeling of dread and then go back to normal like 5 seconds later?

Virgil: yes, except for I have an existential feeling of dread all the time

Patton: Do you want a hug buddy

Virgil: no I am darkness, I don't need hugs

Patton: *walking over to him ready to give him a hug* too bad I'm giving you one anyway

[astranite]

Oh how well the brothers know each other and fit together.

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.

[hubba1892]

[caitcat04]

I've not been in the tss fandom for a while and I forgot the TERMOIL these characters are in

[edutainer2022]

They're not worried at first, not really. Because the ironclad rule, previously established by Dad, is - when in a Board meeting in person, he's off limits. Well, it had to be broken that other time when Scott was taking Gordon out of swim practice on a Friday, with Allie fresh collected from the kindergarten, Virgil and John tagging along because they knew Dad would be away in a meeting, and the bunch of them kinda... got hit by a car. Scott wouldn't have disturbed Dad, but Scott was out cold, having pushed Alan and Gordon out of the way. Virgil had, quite possibly, a couple of broken bones, having tried to tackle Scott off the path of the car. John was shaken and the knee was badly split, but otherwise okay. Between himself, the driver incoherent and the wailing Tinies, it was up to John to call 911 and then take his chances with Dad. It didn't go well. In fact, it didn't go anywhere far at all, as the call was cut short with Dad's stern gaze and a clipped retort. That's how Grandma got involved in the whole conundrum. It wasn't pretty, after... Even less pretty than Dad actually making it to the hospital, guns blazing, and tearing into the babbling hapless driver right on the ER floor.

Anyway... It was Scott now in TI meetings, not Dad. So they all knew there would be a delay in answering any messages. Scott always did, right after the meeting or through a break. He would most likely call the Island or John too. He very much missed them all the longer it took to sit through the budget hearings or reports. They weren't worried. Technically, John was monitoring at all times. Well, Eos was, with John busy juggling multiple calls. And there was security, of course. Kayo was not thrilled that Scott refused the security detail on his person and in the room at all times, when in NYC Headquarters, but Scott drew a hard line - there was entrance security, rooftop landing pad security, surveillance and Eos. The people of the company needed to know they were completely trusted.

So there was absolutely nothing to worry about, when the family chat messages, including several well aimed hilarious memes and an adorable pic of a sleeping Alan, went unanswered and unread for four hours straight. Sensors indicated Scott was in the building, on the executive floor, so maybe the meeting extended into private conversations, or some other issues needed to be addressed. Except Virgil could feel a cold hollow spread in his chest. He didn't have a Squid sense, but he did always have a Scott-radar. Gordon actually drifted into the lounge too, an uncharacteristic frown on his face. It was about time for Scott's check-in call and they usually made an evening event of it, if there were no rescues. Virgil caught his Fish brother's gaze and they nodded in unison - time to call John. Eos' sweep of the building yielded nothing new - Scott was still on executive floor, doing the CEOing, presumably. John, having fully picked up on the brothers' anxiety, was ready to let Eos check all the Tracy Tower camera feeds, all floors and premises. But it was first decided to dispatch John to try Scott's PA with a believable white lie, in case their biggest brother was in the middle of something important, up to and including chatting up a cute intern.

Virgil felt his heart fall through that cold hollow. Gordon was on his feet, wringing his hands in a nervous frenzy. Scott's PA was surprised by John's inquiry, as Scott bid everyone goodbye about two and a half hours ago. The general consensus was that he left the Tracy Tower for the day. Gordon was hissing at Kayo through his comm. John's face went from a habitual pallor to positively ashen. He was saying something to Eos, but Virgil didn't hear over the ringing in his ears. It was not uncommon for Scott to ditch the security (to Kayo's unbridled delight, of course... not) and sneak away, just loose himself for a short while in the huge city. But he would never, ever dismiss the family call. Not when he was away for the better half of the week already. And it was not like him to leave his comm behind and just disappear.

Eos' data readings was right. Scott hadn't left the Tracy Industries Headquarters. In fact, he couldn't have left, if he wanted to, seeing as he was currently sprawled on the executive bathroom floor with a ceramic blade in his chest. The blue tinged image was glimmering merrily in the center of the lounge. The sheer power of Gordon's bellow got Alan tumbling down the stairs. John was not talking anymore but barking commands to the building security and medical service, and the hysterical PA. Kayo was probably halfway there in Shadow. Someone (Grandma?) was nudging Virgil towards the Two chute, but he couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. He was just standing there, transfixed by the visual of Scott with a knife in his heart. Looking very much dead. The one thing that made it through the cotton muffled ringing in his ears was the heavily sob-addled confirmation by Scott's PA that he was, indeed, alive. Barely, from the looks of it, but still with them. That's when Virgil started moving. He wasn't sure how and when muscle memory kicked in, but somehow he didn't dive headfirst into the cahelium hull of the massive bird. Kayo and John in his elevator would make it there faster, but Two was still the fastest option available on the island. One was parked on the roof of Tracy Towers. Taxiing to get ready for take off, Virgil was marginally aware of Grandma and Brains strapping in in passenger seats. Two was airborne mostly through Virgil's skill to pilot the girl in his sleep and the no small assistance of the trusty co-pilot. His vision was mostly still filled by the morbid image of a dying brother. Gordon was deadly silent and equally grim. Alan’s hands and lips were visibly shaking.

John's hologram popped up, swaying slightly either from movement in step with John, or from re-entry vertigo. Probably both. Scott was whisked to the hospital and was already in surgery. John would meet them all there, going over TI personnel files with Eos. Kayo was tearing the building and the onsight security apart. Aunt Casey has already sent GDF to seal the perimeter. It was apparently an inside job. The knife was indeed ceramic, as nothing else would make it through the metal detector. No prints. Maybe if... WHEN Scott is conscious, he would be able to identify the attacker. Although, this could be a dead end, as the Chaos Crew camouflage tech helpfully prompted. Whether it was a disgruntled employee, a grieving relative of someone they didn't save, a hit job from their competitors or the Hood - remained to be investigated.

Truth be told - Virgil couldn't care less, as they were huddled in the private waiting lounge through the hours of surgery. The blade missed the heart by a hair. There would always be people after them, after the figurehead of the Humanity's Hope. Gordon was out for blood. Kayo was probably already spilling it. John was directing her aim, judging from the hard cold glimmer in his eyes. Penny and Parker were on the case in the event it was a coordinated conspiracy, not a one-off hail-Mary assault. Virgil wasn't particularly interested. He kept mesmerizing the unread messages in a vain attempt to overlay the vision of Scott still and translucent, blood stains on the sky blue shirt. Virgil knew his own heart would only really resume beating once he saw Scott breathe again. In the flesh, not the eery ghostly holo.

Two minutes, Virgil thought. It's now gonna be the two minutes rule. If the messages go unanswered or unread for longer than two minutes, they're sending in the cavalry. With their luck, there's always reason to worry. Virgil wasn't taking any more chances.

Character A isn't very good about responding to messages. Character B knows this and accepts it; A will reach out when they feel like it/have the time. There's no rush.

Except their absence is stretching on longer than it typically does. A lot longer. It's hard to remember the last time anyone heard from them.

[lefaystrent]

Me, Myself, and These Guys Who Kinda Look Like Me Ch. 7

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: Thomas/The Sides

Summary: It starts with dreams. Then Thomas starts seeing the dream people in the waking world.

Thomas doesn't know how to bring it up to anybody or if he even should at this point.

AKA, Thomas has to acknowledge the six colorful characters in the room, much to their long-awaited delight.

Ao3 Link: click here

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

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"I believe you wanted a conversation? Let's talk."

And so they do.

Rules are established to assist with boundaries, and in the days that follow, they are adjusted as they adapt.

Rule number one: Thomas's bedroom is a sacred temple. When the door is shut, no one shall utilize incorporeal states of being to trespass. Anyone may knock as needed, but it's up to Thomas if he'd like company. Likewise, if the door is open, it is understood that company is welcome.

Seems simple enough, right?

Thomas wakes up to the sound of his bedroom door creaking open. He scrubs the sleep from his eyes, peering at the alarm clock to see he's been asleep all of three hours.

"Whass it?" Thomas mumbles and pushes up clumsily. He thinks something must be wrong, or that he must not have heard a knock. Maybe he's dreaming. Wouldn't be the first time that he thought he woke up in a dream.

The door practically slams closed.

"Eh?"

Is he...being spied on? What did they want? Who was it? Why did they have to wake him? Can he lay back down and go to sleep? Wow, that was loud. And rude. Or something's wrong. What's wrong? Was he having a nightmare? He thinks he was having a nightmare. There was a math test involved. Ew.

The door opens again, wider this time. Virgil hovers in the doorway, shoulders hiked up to his ears and shame-faced.

"I am so sorry," he blurts out. "I didn't mean to do that. Or wake you. I'll go."

"No, no, what's wrong?" Thomas calls back before the door can close. Sleep dust cakes his eyes, but he's got half a brain functioning. He can tell something's off.

"It's stupid," Virgil deflects, as if that is a compelling defense.

"S'not stupid. What's up, buttercup?"

Wow, Thomas really is only half awake. The only reason his head hasn't reacquainted itself with his pillow is because of his propped-up arm. His eyes don't get the memo. They droop down, closed.

Virgil doesn't answer.

Huh.

Thomas has a sneaking suspicion he'll have to open his eyes again.

"Virge?"

"I, uh, I was just checking on you. In case anyone was trying to break in. Or if you had fallen. Or if there was a gas leak. There could be a gas leak right now. You never know, ya know?"

"...eh?"

"Anyway, I'm dumb, go back to sleep dude. Sorry."

And the door shuts once more, more mindful this time.

If it had just been Virgil, Thomas thinks he could have puzzled through it. Clearly Virgil is the anxious sort. After the fire incident, Virgil has insisted on being present whenever cooking is involved. Even if he's not the one cooking, he wants to watch like a hawk. It's like his own personal lifeguard, but on land. In his house. This is a perfect analogy.

Thomas can hella relate to having anxiety. Most people, when they meet Thomas, mistake him for being an extrovert. And that can be an exhausting image to keep up, but Thomas is an actor after all. Regardless, he wants to cut Virgil some slack. With the installment of the new rules, he's having trouble adjusting, and that's okay. It's all part of the learning process.

Virgil confides that sometimes he would check on Thomas in the middle of the night (or day, curse Thomas's sleeping habits) to soothe his random bursts of paranoia. Thomas sympathizes, he does. If something happens to Thomas and he dies, what happens to the dream people? Where do they go?

It's not just Virgil though. Roman and Remus keep forgetting about the knocking rule.

Thomas dives headfirst back into work the first chance he gets. He sits at his desk in his bedroom, screen displaying a script. It's the final countdown so to speak, and Thomas is delaying the inevitable because the perfectionist in him tells him it's not good enough. There's something missing. It could be better. It can always be better.

"You should throw in a 'Mean Girls' reference there at the end."

Thomas glances towards the bottom of the script. He tilts his head. "Yeah, you're right, I could wear a pink shirt."

"Exactly."

It takes a moment, but Thomas frowns and looks to his right where Roman is reading the script happily over his shoulder.

"I thought I had my door closed..."

The faint smile on Roman's face freezes. His body tenses so hard Thomas can almost feel it vicariously. "Uh...yeaaah."

"Roman."

"...I may have forgotten you can see us."

"..."

"...how mad are you?"

Thomas isn't mad. He understands that it will take time. For years they've lived a certain way. He doesn't expect things to change overnight. However, this has to be corrected. In order to do that, Thomas has to be firm in the boundaries he's set.

Thomas takes one look at Roman's obvious dejection and caves hard.

"Do you want to help me edit the rest?" he asks.

Enforcing boundaries is difficult, okay?! Really, he has no one to blame but himself. He's a sucker. A big softie sucker.

When he discusses this with Logan, the man comforts him by parsing out the reasons behind why he struggles to say no.

"Give me an example," Logan instructs.

"Well, just last night I was laying in bed trying to go to sleep... okay I might have been scrolling on my phone. But anyway! I was in bed, and then the closet door opened."

"Remus?"

"Remus."

"He has a fascination with closets that baffles me beyond comprehension."

"I've noticed. It was kinda spooky at first, which I think was the point. But he ended up coming out and started talking to me."

"Was that all? Sorry, that sounded dismissive, let me rephrase. Is that the only actions he took?"

"Uh...pretty much? He sat beside my bed on the floor and just talked about random things. Like dolphins and Catholicism."

"He has a rather stream of consciousness mentality to the way he jumps from one topic to the other. I believe he only wished to engage you in conversation, albeit at an inopportune time."

"Yeah..."

"Based on the context of this conversation, I guess that you allowed that conversation to continue without interruption?"

Thomas did. He had put down his phone and it invigorated Remus to have Thomas's undivided attention. It's like he'd been saving up years' worth of ideas for this moment.

And Thomas... Thomas didn't want to take that away from him.

"Yeah, I did," Thomas admits meekly, as if he'd been in the wrong. Was it so wrong of him?

Janus sweeps by them on his way to peruse Thomas's book collection. Thomas would think it's an excuse to eavesdrop if Janus hadn't been spending the past few days with his nose in a book. At the very least, he may be taking his sweet time going about it, thumbing through the options.

Janus does indeed reveal he's been listening by commenting, "You're not going to offend him if you tell him to go away, if that's what you're worried about."

"That's not..." Thomas rubs his knuckles together. He squints his eyes as if that will reveal his feelings better. "I don't want to tell anyone to go away."

Janus shrugs and doesn't say anything further. His silence rattles Thomas more than what he could say. It leaves him thinking on it more.

Logan taps at his chin and Thomas waits for him to make sense of this for him. "Perhaps not to go away then. If it is reframed more politely as you saying, 'I am interested in this topic, but as I am busy at the moment, could we discuss this at a later time?' Would that be preferential?"

Still no. Thomas shakes his head.

"What do you believe would happen if you did say something along those lines?"

Thomas imagines it. He imagines cutting off Remus. How it would kill the light in his eyes. He thinks of pushing Roman out of his room. How he'd feel betrayed after Thomas promised to entertain his dreams. He pictures Virgil at his door, Thomas snapping at him to leave him alone. How Virgil would think he doesn't appreciate him.

"I don't want to make them feel bad," Thomas says at length. "And I don't want them to hate me."

Logan places a hand on his shoulder. It's solid and grounding, and for a moment Logan is almost distracted by the contact but pushes through it.

"Remember what we discussed the other day? And how Virgil verbalized a similar fear? That he was afraid you would hate us? You are jumping to a false conclusion and imagining the worst-case scenario. This is known as catastrophizing."

"Besides that," Janus adds, comparing two books in his hands, "if voicing what makes you uncomfortable makes someone upset, then they obviously only care about their own self-interests."

Logan nods in agreement. "For relationships to succeed, communication must take place in some form. If you struggle to verbalize your needs, I would like to propose an alternative."

The proposal is Thomas's stuffed bear Benjamin.

It's wonderfully simple, if a little silly. Whenever one of them has forgotten themselves and phase through a door or wall they should not have, Thomas hands them the bear. It's a wordless gesture that says, "I see you, I'm not mad at you, this is just a reminder." Surprisingly, everyone is supportive of the idea.

Maybe a little too supportive. They are so eager to not overstep into Thomas's life that they frequently overcompensate. As Benjamin becomes an accepted part of Thomas expressing his need for space, Thomas picks up on how much the others are reluctant to voice their need for space. Or their wants in general.

"You guys can come to me if you need anything," Thomas had told them during their heart-to-heart the other day. "If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."

They said sure.

They didn't lie. They're just afraid.

The most Thomas has gotten out of them is Logan and Roman expressing interest in aiding Thomas with meal prep. It's okay now and then, but Thomas makes it clear that it's not necessary and that he absolutely should still be responsible in making his own meals occasionally or order takeout. Logan sketches out a weekly schedule to assist in everyone's expectations, and Roman lists all of the recipes he would like to try.

It's not that fair though. It's for Thomas. The others can't exactly eat.

Or....can they?

"I know you guys don't need to, but have you tried eating?" Thomas asks them. They're sitting at the dining table, a notebook between them.

"Many a time," Roman says. "Every time you eat cookies, Patton tries to steal some. And don't get me started on when you bring donuts home. Logan-"

Logan butts in, "Ahem, Thomas doesn't need that many details, thank you Roman," He fidgets with the pen in his hands, tapping it against the wired spirals of the notebook.

Roman jerks his head in Logan's direction while giving Thomas a look that screams Logan would very much like to try a donut.

Thomas holds back a grin. "But what about lately? Since you guys can touch things better now."

Logan shares a glance with Roman. "There's no need. We don't feel hunger. However..."

"Is it possible?" Roman ties into his thoughts.

"To what end? Do we have a working digestive tract? Could the food be converted to energy? Or would it phase through us at a certain point?"

"There's only one way to find out."

Thomas gets up to scrounge around his kitchen. He thinks he should really go grocery shopping soon; he's running low on quick snacks. He settles for some pretzel sticks and returns to the table.

"Who wants to go first?" he asks.

Logan gestures to the bag for Roman, showing he would rather observe. Roman plucks the pretzel bag from Thomas's hands and stares at the packaging curiously. Cautiously, he removes the clamp sealing it closed and pulls out a stick.

"Can you smell it?" Logan asks.

Roman's face pinches in minor disgust. "Why would I smell it? I'm supposed to taste it, Sub-astute Teacher."

"Smell is entwined with the ability to taste. Without it, perception of flavors would be extremely limited."

"Oh, well," Roman says and gives the stick a whiff. Then he gives it a bigger whiff.

"Anything?"

"I guess? It's different. I don't think pretzel sticks have a strong smell anyway, do they?"

"Go ahead and try it."

Roman nibbles the stick. They observe his jaw movements and listen to the muffled crunching of his teeth. He chews mechanically, much longer than anyone would need to. His brows raise just about to his hairline as he swallows.

"It's salty!" he announces excitedly. "I hate it! I can taste it! And I hate it!"

Roman tosses the rest of the stick in his mouth and plunders into the bag for more. Thomas and Logan watch incredulously as he polishes off the whole bag. Roman never stops telling them about how horrible they taste. He finishes the bag and smacks his mouth.

"Ugh, it's so dry!"

Thomas wordlessly retrieves Roman a cup of juice. Roman gleefully downs the glass in one go.

"That's so much better! What is this? It's so sweet!"

"Apple juice?"

"I love apple juice! Logan! I love apple juice!"

"Yes, I have gathered."

"I must tell all of my friends about this!"

That evening, they gather round the kitchen with everyone to taste test everything in Thomas's fridge and cabinets. If Thomas needed to go grocery shopping before, he certainly needs to after this. They have no limits to their stomach capacities. Patton eats a giant stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and claims he feels no fuller for the effort. Virgil scarfs down an entire tub of rocky road ice cream with such feral intensity that he's left abashed after.

"It was okay, I guess," Virgil says too nonchalantly.

"Who let this raccoon in here?" Janus comments, to which Virgil hisses.

"If we can eat things now, does that mean we'll need to shit?" Remus questions. He's found the pickle jar and is sharing with Logan. They seem to enjoy salty/sour flavors more. "Because then Virgil's gonna have the shits later."

"That was an intolerable amount of lactose," Logan agrees.

Roman whines in protest through a mouth full of pizza, "Must you speak of such crass things while we're eating?"

"It's not like we're real humans," Virgil says, but looks doubtfully at the empty ice cream container while holding his tummy.

Janus has discovered the beauty of wine and has been sipping religiously at a glass. "Real enough to eat."

"Are you feeling the effects of the alcohol?" Logan pauses to wonder.

"I don't think so, but I'm nothing if not determined."

"Spitters are quitters," Remus says, finding some kind of relevance with that train of thought to the current context. When Virgil smirks and says something about professionals gargling, Roman screeches like a banshee. Thomas thinks that is the point of Virgil's interference. He shares a fist bump with Remus.

"Anyway, back to our shit talking," Remus says peppily. Roman's face turns an impressive shade of red.

Janus snickers into his glass, "Oh I am here for shit talking. Who are we shit talking about?"

"Your mom!"

"How very original, Remus."

"Is it okay if I eat the rest of this peanut butter?" Patton asks Thomas. There's not much left in the jar anyway.

Thomas smiles. "Go for it, buddy."

Patton does a happy little shuffle dance and goes to town. The others go back to questioning if they will need to start using the bathroom now. Thomas asks what Patton thinks, since they're standing by each other and he hasn't been talking much.

Patton nods slowly, sagely. "Everybody poops."

As much as Roman is hilariously uncomfortable with the topic, everyone does share a curiosity to the limits of their corporealness. For the rest of the evening, they keep checking in with each other. "Need to poop yet?" "No, you?" "Nah, need to pee?" "Nah, but how would we know?" "It'd be instinctive." "You're instinctive." "Remus, please desist."

Thomas can confidentially say that he's never been a part of a more bizarre conversational topic.

For those at home wondering, none of them ever felt the urge to go. They are left to surmise that the food and drinks they ingest are entirely utilized with no leftover waste. Furthermore, alcohol has no affect, much to Janus's dismay. It doesn't stop him from trying.

Beyond food, Thomas tries to encourage the others to ask him for things they want. Something as simple as watching a movie is a challenge. If they sit down together to pick a movie, it always comes back to what does Thomas want to watch. And even when Thomas isn't watching TV or doing anything with his electronics, they will jump up from them as if electrocuted and ask him if he'd like the TV or computer.

Patton's the worst about it. Thomas nearly felt bad about telling him, "No, I'm good, you can keep watching whatever." It's like he can't believe he isn't monopolizing Thomas's belongings. So they get into "nice-offs" where they're trying to be courteous to each other. "No, you can." "No, you, I insist!" That sort of thing. There's an edge of panic to Patton when he does this.

If only this were as easy as handing him a stuffed bear.

After a few times, Thomas can't stand to see him this way and finally grabs the offered tv remote out of his hands. The brief relief that washes over Patton is replaced by confusion when Thomas sets the remote on the coffee table. Then confusion transforms into astonishment as Thomas grabs one of his hands in both of his.

"Patton, you're okay," Thomas tells him. "You're allowed to enjoy yourself. I don't always need the tv, and whenever I do want it, I promise I'll let you know."

Patton stares so hard at their joined hands that Thomas wonders if he can hear him. They haven't held hands since that day Patton cried. Haven't touched either. Thomas suspects...no, he knows it's a sore subject. He knows with Patton, and most of the others, maybe all of them? They've lacked human touch for so long that they don't know what to do with themselves whenever they receive it. They must crave it. Hell, Janus was brought to tears because Thomas touched his face.

It's another process though, another adjustment. It's a lot of responsibility placed on Thomas for these people he's just starting to know. He likes them, he does. He's caught off guard sometimes by how much he enjoys their company, the sparks they bring to his life as he learns more about them. It's not a bad thing by any means.

Thomas holds Patton's hand and hopes this is a good step. He caresses the top of Patton's hand with a thumb, and Patton's eyes flick, watching the movement.

"You're the priority though," Patton says softly, at a loss.

Thomas's heart breaks for them.

He leads Patton by the hand back to the couch. They sit together and Thomas gently nudges the remote into Patton's hand that he isn't holding.

"Sometimes, maybe. But right now? It's your time. What do you want to watch?"

With a subdued joy that Thomas hopes one day will have all the strength of a hurricane, Patton clicks through the apps and turns on 'Steven Universe'. Thomas sticks with him to watch. He's already seen it, but he'll watch it again any day. Plus, he doesn't want to take his hand away when Patton clutches so tightly.

They progress in paces of patience. Soon, Thomas will need to jump fully back into work now that he's recovered from his sickness. He's texted his team and he'll be meeting with them tomorrow.

The big question is, will his new roommates be able to interact with them?

"We should engage in preliminary testing," Logan suggests.

Roman cheers, "I concur! Why wait for tomorrow what you could do today?"

"Famous last words," Virgil quips.

"Then what do you suggest, Negative Nancy?"

"Why even try? If you never try, then you can never fail. If you never fail, then you won't be disappointed."

"Technically, he's not wrong," Logan admits.

"You're agreeing with him?!"

"I didn't say that. I am no defeatist. I don't fear failure. Indeed, I feel no sense of fear whatsoever."

"God I wish that were me," Thomas bemoans his introverted existence.

"How about I streak naked down the street?" Remus suggests. "That'll get some looks!"

Logan is not the only one who doesn't possess a sense of fear, apparently.

There's enough interest amongst the group to go forward with the testing today. Patton thanks Remus for his contribution but tries to let him down gently and say maybe another time. Roman supplies fanciful ideas of vigilante fighting. Even if bad guys can't see them, they can pretend Thomas has telekinesis powers and make him look cool by floating things at the enemy. Patton also thanks Roman for his contributions but tries to let him down gently as well.

"How about shopping?" Janus says. "I'm always a hoe for a shopping spree. Especially when it's someone else's money that's being spent."

"Thomas isn't some cash cow," Virgil reminds him with narrowed eyes.

"No, don't be silly, he's a cash man."

Before they can get into it, Thomas chimes in, "Sure, I can spare a bit. Where would you guys like to go?"

Predictably, Remus says a sex shop. For the first time, Thomas can kinda see how long-term exposure might render the others a little dismissive towards him. But it is a valid option! Thomas is a grown man, with grown man needs. He's just...not gonna be going to an adult store with people he just became friends with. That's like, level fifty in terms of friendship.

"How about a grocery store?" Logan says. "It would be a practical way to spend your money."

"That's his way of saying he wants more Crofters jam," Virgil translates. Logan doesn't spare him a glance and simply mutters, "Falsehood."

Thomas feels in a teasing mood, so he asks Virgil, "And what about you?"

"Me?" Virgil lifts a singular eyebrow. It's a thinner brow than Thomas's, as if he shapes them. Thomas can imagine him easily with an eyebrow piercing. It'd go great with his aesthetic.

Why is he thinking so much about Virgil's eyebrows?

Thomas inwardly shakes himself and plasters a smirk on his face. "Yeah, you. Do you want some more ice cream?"

Virgil gives a mixture of a scoff and a cough. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Spend your money however you want, Sanders."

"And that's Virgil's way of saying yes, he would love more ice cream," Janus translates.

Patton raises a hand. "Can we get more peanut butter?"

"And pickles?" Remus asks.

"Oh, how about pizza!" Roman says.

"Sure, anything you guys want," Thomas smiles, unable to hold himself back from wanting to indulge them.

Thomas hops in his car and drives to his local Walmart. Logan rides shotgun while Roman, Remus, and Patton squish together in the backseat. It's a twelve-minute ride that the three backseat passengers insist must be enjoyed with all the enthusiasm of an eight-hour road trip. They play car games to pass the time, and Thomas plays the radio for background noise. Logan points out a traffic light in disrepair before Thomas notices and reminds him to treat the intersection as a four-way stop.

They reach Walmart and it's not as dreadfully busy as it could be, but it's still Walmart. Thomas exits the car and trudges up to the store like a man going to war.

It takes him a bit to realize that the others have suddenly gone missing. Surrounded by strangers after spending over a week at home is a bit of a slap to the senses. Thomas is more troubled with securing a shopping cart and avoiding bumping into anyone. He surveys the store and debates where to start before heading towards the very back of the grocery section, intending to work his way up.

By the time he's grabbing a pack of butter, Thomas notices the immediate quiet. There's a chill that's not coming from the cooler beside him. He cranes his neck around to look over the buzzing masses. People pass this way and that. A lady with five kids getting milk. An old man perusing the discount baked goods rack. A couple heading towards the deli counter. More and more inconsequential bodies flit across his vision. And in the middle of the aisle, as if the rest of the world falls away and his eyes are drawn to him, there stands Virgil.

He stands alone, the brightness of his purple patches standing out amongst the crowd. Calmly, he watches people pass by him. No one looks his way, not even once. A teenager passes right through him on her way to catch up with her parents. Virgil's lips twitch up and he turns to meet Thomas's gaze.

Thomas is held captive in the moment. Virgil looks at him, and there's no guessing what's on his mind. Thomas knows. He knows it in his heart.

Virgil shrugs helplessly. They gave it a shot. This changes nothing. He'll tell himself he doesn't want to be perceived anyway while ignoring that little piece inside that pleads otherwise. That piece that's been waiting for so long for someone to just look and notice and not act like he isn't there, like he doesn't exist.

It's a lonely thing to watch the world go by and be told that you can't partake.

As much as it hurts, it's okay, because Thomas at least sees him for who he is. It's enough.

Yet again, Thomas thinks they deserve so much more.

***

The ride back to his apartment is significantly less noisy. Thomas catches glimpses of Virgil and Janus in the rearview mirror sitting in the backseat, neither talking, both looking out their respective windows. They disappear once Thomas parks the car, and Patton and Logan join him while he empties the trunk of its groceries. They're also far too quiet for comfort as they help carry bags inside.

The next day rolls by, Thomas meets with his team, and Roman lingers in the background, an unseen guest. Thomas can see his wistful smile as he watches Thomas interact with his friends. There's longing there to be included. When no one's looking, Thomas offers him a wave. It's enough of an acknowledgement that Roman perks up and swings his feet a bit where he sits on a table.

The meeting goes well. They've brainstormed some future video ideas and have a shooting schedule mapped out. Best of all, no one looks at Thomas like he's a walking hazard. They seem to be relieved that he's recovered and well rested and more responsive than he's been in a long time. Thomas returns home afterwards, and life goes on.

There's not much in the way of testing discussed after that, for a while at least. The previous lack of success is disheartening, and really though, what else is there to test? They are real people to Thomas only.

And Thomas would be a liar if he doesn't admit that he occasionally speculates if this makes him clinically insane. As real as they are to him, no one else can see or interact with them. Doesn't that check the boxes on a lot of psych evaluation tests?

If it's a form of insanity, it's a relatively mild one in terms of negative impact. It could be a lot worse. He's sure Logan could grant him some neat facts to put it all in perspective. That would involve telling Logan about his concerns revolving whether they are real or not. He doesn't want him to think he's invalidating his existence.

Isn't he though? By just questioning this, isn't there a part of his mind that still can't wrap around this? What more can he do to prove to himself that they truly exist?

Without conversing to the others about it, Thomas discreetly slips out his phone and snaps a picture of Remus. He's just sitting on the living room floor, swaying back and forth absent-mindedly. You can see the corner of the entertainment center in the picture. It's not a remarkable picture by any means and doesn't have the best lighting, but Remus brings a sense of peculiarity with his dark prince outfit.

The picture is taken with none the wiser. Thomas purses his lips and stares at his phone screen. He taps his fingers on the back of the case.

Remus's figure never fades. It's definitely a picture of him. Now what does he do with it?

He can send it to someone. Just to see if they can see an image of the others. If not in person, maybe they can be viewed through technological means? But who should he send it to? Not his brothers. Or his parents. Hmm, he can't think of a friend he can send it to without garnering a series of questions for an explanation. Well, he can possibly play it off. But what if he can't?

He scrolls through his contact list before spying his godson's name. Gavin sends him random stuff all the time. Thomas can just tell him it's a meme trend or something.

Trying not to overthink it, Thomas sends the pic along with a question, What do you see in this picture?

A few very nail-biting minutes later, Gavin responds. Is that ur house?

That isn't...the worst response.

Yeah lol

Ur tv cord? Idk is something I'm missing?

Yeah, the invisible man. You can't see him?

Nah, he invisible.

Darn, I told him to turn off that setting before I took the pic. Maybe next time.

Gavin sends back a laughing emoji.

That settles that. If Gavin could see Remus, he would have said something about his outfit or ask who he is or why he's at Thomas's apartment. The kid asks a lot of questions, and to be fair, Remus is very questionable in general.

Thomas doesn't let the others know of his discovery. What they don't know can't hurt them, right?

It turns out to be truer than Thomas can imagine. Curiosity killed the cat. Ignorance is bliss. Be careful what you wish for.

While no one has spoken of the discoveries from the Walmart outing, it doesn't mean it hasn't been on their minds. In fact, Logan in particular has taken notes to record the aspects of their existence. He approaches Thomas and shows him some of his theories and hypothesis.

"I would like to attempt a new test, if you would be so inclined," Logan says, and while he holds his posture well, Thomas senses an underlying nervousness to him.

Thomas doesn't want to deny him this, not when they've struggled with learning how to reach out to him.

"What do you have in mind?" Thomas asks.

They relocate to the backyard. Everyone else joins them. They probably would have anyway, but Logan specifically requests that everyone convene together.

"Are we finally running into oncoming traffic?" Remus asks excitedly, bouncing on his heels.

"Not today, Remus. I have devised an experiment to test the boundaries of our physical attachment to Thomas. Prior to Thomas's illness, we could not stray beyond roughly eighty feet from Thomas. When arriving to this distance, we experience a tethering sensation, as if we cannot walk any further. With the increase to our corporeal prowess, I suggest we ascertain whether this distance remains or if it has increased."

"So you just want us to go for a walk?" Patton asks.

"Oh, why didn't you just say that, Isaac Nerdton?" Roman scoffs.

Logan adjusts his glasses. "Because I wanted all parties to know precisely what– okay, fine. We are going for a walk. But!" He claps his hands to accentuate his point. "This will be regulated so that we can account for all variables. I suggest we test one subject at a time to calculate if there are any differences between distance amongst us."

Thomas raises his hand and waits for Logan to call on him. "So what do I do?"

"You just stand there."

"Cool, I can do that. I'm good at standing."

"Who's gonna go first?" Virgil asks. He shifts his gaze between everyone to see if someone will volunteer.

Patton shrugs. "I could, I guess?"

"What would this prove anyway?" Janus comments, snide in the way he checks his nails through his glove. It would be a funny image if he didn't sound genuinely dismissive of the whole affair. "This won't change anything. Even if we miraculously can wander off to new horizons, Thomas is still the only person who can see us."

"We could break into people's houses and steal their stuff," Remus says.

"Let's not take other people's things," Patton says. "We wouldn't want people to come steal from Thomas, would we? It's not right."

"Morality only matters to those who have a place in society. Last I checked, we don't."

Patton deflates and looks at Janus with a pained expression. "I think it still matters how you treat people..."

"Good for you," Janus says, sickly sweet.

Virgil steps between the two of them. "Okay, what crawled in your ass and died?"

"Cynicism? Disillusionment? A reality check? Take your pick."

Virgil growls and looks at Logan. "You know what? I'll go."

"Wait, wait, let's not start things off angry," Thomas urges. Virgil has begun walking, so Thomas skitters up behind him, grasping on to his jacket. Virgil halts but doesn't turn around.

"This is merely for educational purposes. I did not expect this to warrant a strong emotional reaction."

Roman claps a hand on Logan's shoulder. "Not your fault, Specs. Someone must have pissed in Janus's cheerios this morning."

Janus crosses his arms and puts on an unaffected tone, "Do whatever you wish. Don't let me stop you."

Thomas shares a look with Logan. "I'd like to go through with the test because it's important to Logan. Whether what we discover is any different than what you guys are used to, it doesn't matter. What matters is that it's important to Logan to find out."

There's a brief softening of the eyes behind Logan's glasses. He shuffles quickly with his notebook and pen and then unceremoniously dumps them into Roman's arms.

Roman sputters, "What–?"

"I'll do it," Logan announces. "After all, this is my hypothesis. I will take the initiative and be the first to go."

Logan gestures for Thomas to step aside to the "starting point". Thomas lets go of Virgil hesitantly, but Virgil doesn't protest or turn to look. Thomas shuffles over to the side in the grass and holds still while Logan stands beside him.

"I will count my steps as I go along to measure the distance. Once I reach a point I can no longer move forward, I'll return."

"Okay, easy peasy," Thomas says with false cheer.

Janus doesn't debate any more. Patton offers no assurances. Remus doesn't interrupt. Roman holds the notebook stiffly. And Virgil's head only moves as Logan walks by him. He watches as Logan treks across the grass behind the apartment complex.

Logan keeps his head bowed, watching his steps with careful attentiveness. He crosses the road and carries on through more grass. He rapidly approaches the tree line that begins there on the other side.

"Anyone wanna make bets?" Remus asks. The suggestion falls on deaf ears, but Patton does come over to stand beside him and hold his hand. It must not be a frequent occurrence because Remus glances down at him in surprise but doesn't discourage it.

For Thomas's part, his eyes are glued to Logan's back. His form is getting smaller, more distant.

"That's more than eighty feet," Virgil murmurs, loud in the quiet. His hand scratches at his neck, and when that doesn't seem to do anything for him, he shakes out his hands. Then he shakes out his hands again.

Roman turns to gauge Virgil. He frowns at what he sees, though Thomas can't see Virgil's face from this angle. "You good, Virge?"

"I don't like this," Virgil admits. His foot begins tapping a mad dance into the ground.

"I don't either," Patton drones, morose. Perhaps he's sensitive from Janus's remarks.

Logan treads into the woods. They can see his black polo and blue jeans through the spindly tree trunks. At first, he's there, but quickly he's swallowed into the vegetation.

Virgil runs his fingers through his hair and blows out a stream of air. "What if he gets lost?"

Roman laughs, "Get lost? He's going in a straight line, Virge."

"What if something happens to him? What if– what if– I don't like this."

"I thought you were on board with this."

Virgil doesn't answer. He starts pacing back and forth, and Thomas can see his expression now in his peripheral. His brows are knotted, eyes too wide. His pacing becomes erratic.

"Hey, hey, don't do that. You're just gonna work yourself up," Roman calls to him, coming over to stop him. Virgil tries to walk around him, but Roman blocks his path.

"Why didn't one of us go with him? We should have gone with him!"

"Virgil, please, it'll be alright. Pat, may I have an emergency dose of positivity over here?"

"I don't like this," Patton repeats, and his tone is even more dejected. He holds onto Remus's arm with both hands. He leans into him, shaking at the arm insistently. "I don't like this."

"...Patton?" Remus hums in confusion. He looks around to the others to see if they're witnessing how close to crying Patton seems, but Thomas's eyes can't leave the tree line where Logan vanished.

"We have to go get him. Please, we have to–"

"Stormcloud, please," Roman soothes, and Virgil clings to the front of his tunic like a drowning man. His breaths are coming shorter and shorter, his words jumbling amongst the gasps. Roman stands there, dumbfounded. "Uh, Remus?"

"Kinda busy with Pat," Remus says, watching as Patton unravels. Tears cascade down his face and the first whimper of a sob comes out. "Okay, what the fuck is going on?"

"He's gonna die, he's gonna die-" Virgil rants over and over and he launches into a full-blown panic attack. "Janus, Janus, help!"

"Please!" Patton wails and falls to his knees. Remus barely manages to catch him and guide him down safely.

Thomas's feet move without intention. He takes one heavy step, then another, movements sluggish and wooden.

Janus is there suddenly, hand at his elbow to stop his forward momentum. Thomas is barely conscious of the peering eyes, one human and one snake. Janus glances between a hysterical Virgil and a sobbing Patton and turns to Thomas.

"Thomas, can you hear me?" he asks.

Thomas can, but it's like he's under water. He tries to step forward again, but Janus won't let him. Thomas feels the resistance as if steel cables are latching onto him with grappling hooks. Serrated edges sink into his flesh. No, no, it's not from outside. It's inside. There's a pull inside him, and it tugs.

"Janus!" Virgil begs.

"Please!" Patton cries.

"What the hell is wrong with them?!"

"I don't know! It's not like this has ever happened before!"

"Janus, what is Thomas doing?"

The words drift over Thomas, like seafoam floating by in a vast sea. There are more important matters to attend, like how he can't see Logan. If Logan is gone, then that means–

"Thomas, listen to me," someone says, and there are hands cupping his face. Thomas can't feel them, yet he knows they're there. "You have to shut this down. You have to stop this. Now."

But Logan is gone. He's gone, and Thomas is left bereft without him. The earth beneath his feet tremors, and the sky splits open in a downpour. The sun will fall and set the world ablaze. And Thomas feels the ache building up in his chest with mind-numbing certainty.

"Thomas!" the voice yells at him, hands shaking him. Thomas looks up into a face that he knows. He knows that face. He knows, he knows, he knows. How could he not? That's why it's so familiar. Why couldn't he see it before?

"I'm sorry," Thomas whispers.

His chest splinters in agony. Fear bleeds out abundant. Grief ravages his heart.

Thomas falls to the ground screaming.

[idontknowreallywhy]

A particularly lovely chord progression somehow ended up with me driving a wedge between Earth and Sky and I promised I’d try to fix it.

Super long car journey today presented an opportunity but events got away from me and I accidentally made it worse. Oops… um… I’m sorry? Apologies to @ajpendragon @alexthefly @astranite @janetm74 @sofasurf and anyone else who asked for a fix and will remain disappointed for now…

Piano Angst - the aftermath

It had been nearly a week and Scott felt like he was missing a limb.

Virgil was definitely avoiding him.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen each other - they’d worked together perfectly normally on several rescues. They’d both joined in the usual banter over mealtimes. There had even been a family film night - albeit, instead of joining Scott on their usual couch, Virgil had squeezed in with the Tinies and spent the evening competing with Gordon as to who could wind up Alan the most about his movie choice.

But they’d not been alone in the same room. At least, not for more than the few seconds it took for Virgil to make some excuse and leave it.

He’d even apparently conscripted Gordon into constantly keeping him company whilst he did maintenance on Two. Despite all Scott’s loitering around the hangar, the Fish never seemed to get the hint to make himself scarce. Except that one time when Scott had hinted at the availability of leftover pizza in the kitchen but then Virgil had raced off hot on Gordon’s heels. Which would not have been of any note whatsoever if it hadn’t been for that momentary flash of panic Scott was sure had crossed Virgil’s face as Gordon jumped to his feet.

It wasn’t just the lost chance to really TALK to his brother either. There was a physical distance too which was almost more painful. It turned out that Virgil’s elbow nudges at dinner, his arm across Scott’s shoulders as they walked across the lounge, his habit of stretching out and throwing his feet over big brother’s legs when they had a moment to chill together on the couch… these felt as natural and as essential to Scott as eating or drinking and he missed it more than he could have explained. It made his jaw hurt.

He had figured he just had to give Virgil time and be available when he was ready. So he’d made a conscious effort to *not* be working whenever they had downtime, hovering in the communal areas and looking un-busy. He rushed through the paperwork later, once everyone was in bed and then stayed up for hours each night studying the last couple of month’s worth of mission logs and recordings, desperately trying to work out what had triggered… whatever it was… the other day.

He’d been lying, Scott was certain of that. Ironically that certainty had made him very uncertain of everything else - Virgil never lied to him. He was awful at it. Honesty usually shone out of his big puppy-like brown eyes. When he was withholding something they were clouded with guilt.

But to invoke their mother’s memory as a cover-up?

It must have been serious.

His research efforts turned up nothing at all out of the ordinary other than it had actually been a pretty successful run of rescues, a bit of a reprieve from the average. He couldn’t find any aspect of the scenarios they’d faced that seemed like it might have particularly upset his brother.

It had to have something to do with him. Virgil was acting perfectly normally with everyone else. He re-listened to every interaction they’d had over the comm. Had he been too brusque in directing the rescues recently? Was his tone wrong? He didn’t think he sounded any different although after a while his own voice really began to grate on him. Virgil’s responses seemed normal and he didn’t appear to react to anything in a negative way. Perhaps his brother was maybe a little quieter on the comm than usual… should he have noticed that sooner?

Or had he embarrassed him by making it clear he’d noticed him getting carried away that afternoon? But Virgil had never seemed to be worried about Scott witnessing his piano binges before - most of the worst more-recovery-than-rescue missions had been thrashed out on the piano over the years… No. The only way to find out was to ask him directly.

He hovered at the door of the hangar, took a couple of breaths to slow his galloping heart rate and pushed it ajar. He could hear Gordon talking at a mile a minute about something to do with aquaculture and Virgil was leaning up against a pod module with a politely interested look on his face. His eyes flicked briefly over to his eldest brother but didn’t linger, instead focussing firmly back on little brother with renewed focus.

Scott felt rather like he’d taken a grapple to the chest and backed out, closing the door softly behind him. He ignored the elevator and elected for the long slow trudge up the stairwell. By the time he made it to the lounge his vision was blurry and he had reached the limit of what he could bear. He found a sheet of notepaper from the desk drawer and scribbled a note. He folded it precisely in half, opened it again and checked it, then refolded it, running a shaking thumb along the edge. He tucked it underneath the door to his brother’s bedroom on the way to his own.

Virgil, I’ve upset you and I can’t for the life of me work out when or how it was in order to apologise properly - but please know I am so sorry.

I’ll be on my balcony the rest of the evening if you want to talk.

I miss you. S x

[gumnut-logic]

It hadn’t been his best plan, he had to admit it. But the idea sprung up and he had been at his wits end with a head full of…stuff…and he needed a distraction.

He was pretty sure he could explain a motorised spinning clothesline. After all, wasn’t that what the washing machine did anyway? A few basic laws of applied physics couldn’t do anything but help get clothing dry in the tropics.

Could it?

Of course, he was bullshitting himself and every human in a hundred kilometre radius and he knew it in some dark, deep corner of his soul, but yesterday had been hell and he needed to DO SOMETHING.

Scott had banned him from the hangars due to injury.

Injury, sminjury, so he had a sprained wrist. He could still do stuff.

Even if it hurt to play the piano and the thought of holding a brush up wasn’t pleasant.

Now you’re just a hypocrite.

Oh, shut up!

So, Virgil Tracy grabbed his toolkit and a few important bits and pieces from his workshop…he went in the back way so he didn’t go through the hangars, so there, Scott! And, carrying them in his good hand lest he be arrested on the way back up, snuck…okay, he was sneaking, but that was because a certain brother was a worry wart!...out onto the lawn and crouched down by the clothesline.

What followed was several lovely hours of tinkering away and experimenting and playing, yes, playing, and he had a good time which was much better than sitting on his ass in his bedroom pouting.

He had to admit that by the time he had the solar panel assembled and the motor suspended at the right place, his wrist was hurting a bit more than it should be and the medic in the back of his head was having conniptions, but the mental health value of the exercise certainly outweighed anything else.

That was until standing back and admiring his work, he realised he had an audience.

Of two.

Aw, crap.

“Whatcha doin’, Virg?”

“Mind your business.”

“Ooooh, touchy. Need some coffee?”

Gordon was standing with his arms crossed beside Alan. While Alan had some actual interest in his eyes, Gordon was channelling a combination of sprung older brother and mischief.

“What do you want, Gordon?”

“I see you have motorised the clothesline.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“How fast does it go?”

Virgil eyed his brother. The smirk was practically acidic and started eating Virgil’s eyeballs. This was going to hurt, wasn’t it.

“Fast enough.”

“Round and round? Like a turbo charged merry-go-round, possibly?”

“Gordon…”

But Alan reacted to that. “Woah, that sounds like fun.”

Virgil rubbed his face and was punished for using the wrong hand. Maybe he could claim short term breakdown of his logic centres? An addiction to tinkering?

Why the hell did he need a motorised clothesline at all? They had a dryer for that exact reason.

Did sprained wrists reduce mental capacity? Or was it just that he had known this would happen and he needed it as much as his little brothers did?

Yesterday had been hell.

Screw the excuses, they now had a motorised clothesline and all that implied.

Part of him was aghast at what he had done, the other part was too busy grinning as both Gordon and Alan hurried past and examined his creation.

Everything was loud in his head, but at least he wasn’t sad anymore.

Of course, that was the point where Gordon found the On switch and with a whirring sound and a pair of squawks, launched both himself and Alan into a high speed orbit of the metal and concrete axis of the contraption.

In other words, they started the merry-go-round and clung to the metal bars of the clothesline while it swung them around at a speed high enough for physics to lift them almost horizontal.

It was at this point Virgil realised the complete lack of safety mechanisms.

It was also the point where Scott ambled out onto the patio and exclaimed in horror.

Scott really did know how to meet just the right pitch to communicate terror where his brothers were concerned.

Ever wanting to protect Scott and his brothers from absolutely everything, Virgil jumped into kill the power on the spinning contraption.

The switch was beneath the clothesline and he had to dart in under the pair of screaming brothers - either joy or terror – neither younger brother was as clear as Scott in communication – as they spun around and around.

Killing the motor was easy, but seeing the expression on Scott’s face as he came running towards them, only had Virgil panicking enough to leap up and try to catch his brothers and slow them down faster – fix the problem at speed.

He was a Tracy and Tracys love speed.

Unfortunately, that expression on his brother’s face was enough to short circuit Virgil’s brain regarding his own safety – wasn’t the first time, likely wouldn’t be the last – he had a sprained wrist for exactly that reason, after all, and it was a major component of why he had to DO SOMETHING this morning or go out of his mind.

So, without thinking of the logical consequences, Virgil stepped into the path of his spinning brothers, intending on using heavy-lifting muscles to catch them and slow them down.

Instead, he got kicked in the head twice and went down for the count in a lovely wave of darkness.

-o-o-o-

“Virgil, what the hell were you thinking?”

It was a tired Scott voice. One that spoke of insane brothers driving him around the bend and into his grave.

Virgil opened his eyes expecting to see a terrible two lined up for discipline. But the room – Virgil’s room – was empty except for one older brother rubbing his eyes.

It was very bright and Virgil’s head complained.

“Virg? You with me?”

A grunt was all he managed.

“When I said ‘no working’ did I really have to include the clothesline?”

Virgil scrunched up his face. “You didn’t say anything about it specifically.”

Scott’s sigh of exasperation was enough. “Brains has declared it a breakthrough by the way. Apparently, you got more power out of those solar cells versus however fast you got that thing to go than should have been theoretically possible.”

“Oh?”

“He says it was a logical step on from the project the two of you were working on in the HANGARS.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Was Scott gritting his teeth? “You even have John excited due to some physics rule you broke in the process. He has Eos analysing our CLOTHESLINE.”

Virgil winced. “Please don’t yell.”

“I don’t possibly see how I can’t yell. You are the responsible one. Did you break something yesterday that you have failed to declare or have you always been this way?”

Virgil glared at his brother and tried to ignore how much frowning hurt his eyebrows. “You know the answer to that.”

It was Scott’s turn to grunt. “Don’t do it again. Gordon and Alan do not need encouragement. They have enough stuff to kill themselves with already.”

Virgil had to grunt at that as well.

“Sorry.”

Another disgruntled murmur was all Scott said after that.

But he did stay with Virgil and kept and eye on him and as time proved that there was no lasting damage from being kicked in the head by two brothers swinging from a clothesline, the holoprojector may have been switched on, Scott may have joined him on the bed and there may even have been some popcorn acquired.

At one point there was an enquiry from the door, but apparently Scott had locked it and Eos was the one who answered…for some reason in an English accent that said ‘Bugger off and leave them alone!”

Virgil just hoped it hadn’t been Grandma outside the door.

But for the moment, his mind was settled, his headache fading and he was quite happy sitting beside the brother he had sprained his wrist for by pulling him out of the air the previous day, and watching trash TV they could both poke fun at.

After all, who needed to tinker when he had all that?

-o-o-o-

[justbianca08]

Another situation i thought of while coffee crashing and listening to music in my comically oversized headphones

Patton, barely entering Virgil’s room: Hey, kiddo. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your headphones for a second? I’ll give them back if you need them while I’m using them.

Virgil: Awh, overstimulated again? Its fine you can have them. Do you need a hug too?

Patton: …yes please

Virgil: Awesome, let me put the playlist designed to calm me down.

And then Patton fell asleep with the headphones on while Virgil was hugging him tightly.

[silverstarfics]

hello what's this?

Yesterday's Promise - Chapter 124 - Silverstar1 - Thunderbirds [Archive of Our Own]

also for anyone who skips my author's notes (I do not blame you, they are unhinged): there's going to be a new chapter on Wednesday 27th. The reasons for this are as follows:

I had to split this chapter in half because having 30k+ to read would be insane even by my standards

For those of us who celebrate Christmas, it gives us something to break up that weird week between Boxing Day and NYE when time doesn't exist. For anyone who doesn't celebrate, hey, you get an extra chapter just as a little treat!

I wanted to upload the final chapter on NYE still. It just seems satisfying. Last chapter on the last day of the year - it makes my brain happy, y'know?

[edutainer2022]

So it's done! The little story that tidied me over this week of missile hellfire and long stretches of power outages. Jeff is back from Oort Cloud and is forced to question his strengths and aptitudes when things go unexpectedly very, very wrong very fast. All boys get to feature, eventually, but Scotty is having the worst time of all. Many thanks to @janetm74 for cheering me on through brief patches of power going up.

GRAVITY

Some days were worse than others. Some days the heady rush of pure JOY and BLISS of being back with his beloved boys, his Ma, in his own home, back on his own PLANET, beneath the blue skies, breathing unprocessed air... were not enough to tide him over the bone deep weariness. Days, when the bustling world around was suddenly too much effort. Too much, period.

That morning he woke up, gruff and bleary, feeling every ounce of gravity amplified weight down to his marrow. He didn't remember sleeping a wink, but he knew he was late. The corner of the blanket peeled away, catching on his stubble, revealed a silhouette perched on the side of his bed. Scott. Already dressed to the nines in a suit that looked like it was shipped straight from the Milan runway. It probably had been. His son's aftershave was fancier and more expensive than he could ever afford or had any clue to choose at that same age. Predawn light was casting a grey hue over Scott's features, gleaming in silver highlights, making him look older. Tired. His eldest looked hauntingly like Jeff felt, sagging under the crashing weight, stretched thin, even put together all sharp like that, bright and early. The sudden heartache of that thought came out as a hoarse groan.

They were supposed to meet several executives first thing in the morning to get Jeff up to speed a bit more. To get the company brass reacquainted with the Tracy Patriarch too. There had been many new promotions and appointments over the past eight years. But Jeff could barely keep his eyes open. The thought of getting up and moving gave him a shiver, which, in turn, deepened the worried frown on Scott's face. The taut lines in the corners of his son's eyes and mouth became prominent. Much as the pallor and dark circles, belying a sleepless night. Scott took a call out in One, right off the roof of Tracy Tower. It was the fastest and most expedient option, regardless of Virgil's protests. That's how Jeff remembered most of his sleep being drained by nightmares - One screeching off and him spending eight endless years calculating and hoping (praying) the rocket plane made it out of the Zero-X launch blast radius in time, taking his son to safely far enough. He winced at the memory and squinted against a nauseating headache. Scott's worry was obviously reaching the red zone.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder, then moved to press for the pulse. His boy's fingers were uncharacteristically cold, but maybe Jeff was just catching space chills.

"Dad, are you alright? I will cancel the morning! I'll get you to the hospital right now, then Virgil will fly Grandma in!"

The on the go plan was all IR Commander, but blue eyes blown up twice the usual size in panic was Scotty at any given time Dad was about to disappear. Again. He hated the treacherous frailty that got his unwavering boy so scared. As much as he hated the very idea of hospitals, enthusiastically shared by all his children.

"It's okay, Bluejay! No need to worry! Just one of those days. I'll sleep it off. You go ahead with the meeting and I'll rise and shine to have brunch with you, deal?"

Between the Zero-XL assembly under wraps, the possibly one-way mission to the middle of the galactic nowhere, and Jeff's subsequent laborious rehabilitation, the Tracy Industries senior executives really needed some quality face time with the Tracy-in-charge. So they would have it. Jeff was under no illusion he was in any shape to be that, anymore. Scott was, still. But that would have to change maybe sooner, than they both wished, if mornings like that became a recurrent thing.

Scott didn't appear entirely convinced and there was definitely a ping being sent up to Five to monitor Jeff's space-addled sleeping hunk extra closely. However, the anxious scowl softened into warm mirth as Scott smiled down at Dad's rugged face. Cool fingers moved from the pulse point to brush away the matted grey curls from Jeff's forehead. The gesture was definitely well practiced on any and all of the younger brothers, but in that moment all Jeff could see in the slight tilt of the head and a special, radiant fondness in the blue gaze, was the boys' mother. He nearly choked on a sob and covered his eyes, feigning a fit of cough. Scott moved immediately to give him a glass of water from the bedside table. Once done blinking away the stinging moisture, Jeff caught the tail end of a hastily covered wince in the boy's features. If he were operating at full capacity, he would have probably dug to the bottom of it with proper insistence. As it were, Jeff settled for a squeeze of the premium wool clad bicep:

"How're you holding up, son? Tough night?"

"I'm okay, Dad! You don't need to worry! A couple of bruises here and there. Mostly my ego, as I landed in a heap when the jetpack gave out. I'll never hear the end of it from everyone!"

The edges of Scott's "cheeky flyboy" smile were tighter than Jeff should have been placated with. But gravity was already pulling his lids down.

***

He marginally remembered a quick tender peck on his forehead, or maybe he dreamt it up, conflating the endless years of longing for his mother and for his wife even before that. The scent of his eldest's aftershave, laced with a familiar wiff of One's fumes, lingered and calmed him down. He came to think of it as home and hope over the past months. Jeff next woke up to an anxious face of a different son.

John's hologram practically vibrated with anguish, bouncing on the bedside comm unit. Eyes wide and wild, John looked all too much like an Alan Jeff last remembered - eight years old and left at the Warton boarding school for the very first time.

"Dad!!! What's going on!?!! Are you alright?!!!"

Jeff's headache still didn't agree with the yell, audible practically from orbit. He didn't master much but an incoherent grumble to that.

"Somebody called 911 to the TI Conference Room for Mr. Tracy! I can't get through to Scott's comm! You were supposed to have a meeting first thing today! Are you okay!?"

Words rushed and stumbled one over the other, so unlike John's usually impeccable, professionally honed articulation. It took an extra moment for John to compute Dad's state of underdress - a testament in and of itself of the ginger's distress.

"Dad? Are you still in bed?"

Awareness was catching up with him and with it the heavy drag of gravity and dread. His ginger spaceman was still faster on the uptake, his own overwhelming horror finally pinned on a name:

"SCOTT!!!"

The only Mr. Tracy at the TI Conference room at that moment. It all was coming to Jeff in bits of a disjointed puzzle - the overnight rescue, Scott's ashen paleness he chalked up to lack of sleep, the stifled painful grimace his son wasn't quick enough to hide. And Jeff wasn't there for him!

***

If the younger employees of Tracy Tower were secretly looking forward to meeting the Resurrected Space Outcast, Founder of Tracy Industries and International Rescue, Hero of the Century and a Living Legend - Jeff Tracy - it was probably not barefoot and clad in pink flamingo print pijamas, sporting a bedhead and an overnight shadow, stumbling his way down the hallway at an alarming speed with a formidable assistance of the wall and an occasional doorknob. Jeff practically flung himself into the Conference room and nearly toppled over several people in expensive suits, crowded over a prone body on the floor. He shoved somebody's shoulder aside with enough force and less ceremony than was maybe appropriate.

His knees hitting the floor gave a jaw-jiggling rattle and it remained to be seen if he'd be able to make it back up unassisted, but he didn't give a damn. Scott was still and sheet white against the navy blue of the carpeting. Somebody had the presence of mind to loosen his tie and unbutton the shirt. Scott's face and chest were wet as someone apparently tried to sprinkle water on him to ease the fainting. To obviously no effect. Jeff might have noticed a shadow of bruising on the toned torso, but his eyes were on the beloved yet lifeless waxy face. He cupped Scott's cheek and shifted the other hand to rub his sternum forcefully .

"C'mon, Bluejay! Give me those eyes! Time to wake up!"

Either the father's voice or the strenal rub had the effect - Scott eyelashes fluttered and a sliver of blue became visible. Jeff felt encouraged, thankful the baffled and paniced executives were giving him a wide berth.

"There you go, Scotty! Open them up for me, eh? Dad is here, Bluejay!"

Jeff moved his palm from Scott's chest to grab a cold limp hand and squeeze. His other hand never left the son's cheek, the thumb caressing cool clammy skin carefully. Give the boy a sensory anchor.

"Stay with me, kiddo! It's alright!"

Blue eyes were still cloudy and unfocused, eyelids heavy. Scott seemed to have just then noticed Dad's presence.

"Dad? Yu'came?"

Jeff's chest constricted. Of course, they were supposed to be in that meeting together. But Jeff succumbed to weakness and left Scott alone. Again.

"I'm right here, Bluejay! Dad is here!"

The pained, far-away gaze still didn't land on him.

"Yu'never come... Only Mom comes... I call'n'call an'yu'never come..."

He was feeling cold sweat and shivers raking his own body, his head was swimming from strain and fear, but he had to keep Scott conscious and talking.

"Dad is right here! I'm with you, Scotty! Just look at me! Can you do that for Dad?"

Scott seemed to have made an effort to look at him, the brilliant blue almost black with strain.

"Yu'never come when I'm dying..."

With that Scott's eyes rolled back into his head and a thin rivulet of blood trickled down the corner of his lips. Jeff couldn't tell if his son's skin went colder to his touch as his own hands went icy numb. There was a distant sound coming through the pounding in his ears - an animal-like wail of Scott's name in a voice Jeff didn't recognize as his own. Space shifted around him, bodies shuffling urgently as more people entered the room. Multiple hands were prying him away from Scott's unmoving body, but they would need a crowbar. Jeff was putting up a fight to stay latched to his son, or so he thought. In the middle of a vicious flail he was suddenly tipping sideways some distance away, Scott completely obscured from view by a wall off luminicent lined uniforms of paramedics. And Jeff's world went black.

***

[Lucy, please! I know you miss him, love! Oh my God, I KNOW, baby! I know you're all alone there! Please, don't take him! PLEASE! He hasn't lived yet! Our boy, Luce! I let him down so much! I'm so sorry! I asked so much of him, and he gave up everything! I screwed up! Take me, hon! If you absolutely must, take me instead! I'll watch over them all with you, dear! But you can't take him! You won't! I know you won't let him! He needs to live! Please, don't let him stay with you, Lucy! PLEASE!]

***

He started awake yet again with his eldest son's name on his lips, voice hoarse like he'd been shouting over the ocean surf, crashing on the island shore. Caramel eyes were startled by his roar that time. Gordon was quick to collect himself and put on a smile.

"Hey, Dad! You're awake!"

Not unlike Scott's early that morning (was it still the same day?), Gordon's grin was thin, taut, not bright enough to cover the shadows visible on tanned skin. Jeff tried again, putting a worth of questions into the name:

"Scott?"

Gordon's smile faltered and Jeff felt the heady rush of weightlessness, his mind slipping away from the tether of sanity.

"Scotty's in surgery, Dad! There was internal bleeding and he crashed in the Conference room. The paramedics said he coded there, but they got him to the hospital on time! They're working on him now!"

Coded. Scott died on his watch. Because Jeff wasn't there. He took a breather, let his boy take over his slack and his duty. Again. Scott was paying with his life when Jeff was unfit to deal. Again.

He shifted in what appeared to be a hospital bed, but the range of his movement was limited by the IV line, now pulling at his hand. Gordon stopped him from getting up, hands, weighing his shoulders back on the mattress, a lot stronger than he remembered.

"Whoa, Dad! Nah-uh! Stay put! Your BP tanked and you blacked out there too!"

That probably explained the dizziness and the hospital ward spinning slowly around him. Jeff took a cautious look around the room, but for the monitor tracing his vitals it was empty. Gordon read the question in his gaze.

"Allie got so worked up with worry - he threw up. John's with him, helping to clean up. Grandma's watching the surgery and consulting in the OR gallery. They actually let Virgil in the OR! Those puppy eyes are a menace! Or maybe Johnny-boy donated the hospital a research lab or something. Anyhow, they let him stay with the anesthesiologist - you know how Scooter's body eats through painkillers! Freakish metabolism and all! So they wouldn't want him wake up mid surgery,  and Virgie knows the dosage and his stats by heart. It's good, right? Scotty's not all alone in there!"

Gordon was rambling, not pausing for air, and Jeff knew that to be the boy's primary tell for intense anxiety. He reached for his second youngest hand to ground himself as much as to offer comfort.

The door hissed open and Alan waded in, followed by a mile of ginger topped blue. Allie's face was blotchy and ashen, fresh tear tracks marking the skin. John was gripping the boy's shoulder with one hand. He had a tablet clutched to his chest with the other.

"Dad!"

Alan sounded so young Jeff's heart ached. He lifted the IV bound arm and Alan was quick to tuck himself to Dad's side, lanky teen limbs curled into a ball. The boy was not bothering to be discrete about crying again. Gordon flopped over Jeff's legs, uncharacteristically lost for words and craving contact too. Jeff waited till John walked around and perched by his shoulder. The ginger was engrossed by the video feed on his tablet. The live stream from the OR Jeff was not sure the hospital authorized or even knew about. He didn't care. He was dying to ask how the surgery was going, for how long, but Jeff wasn't sure how much John had clued the Tinies in. So he craned his neck to better see the screen and waited. Silence stretched. Virgil's massive form in sterile scrubs, cap and mask was visible, hunched over Scott's face, his fingers drumming lightly over the brother's bare shoulder. Jeff couldn't tell if Virgil was tapping in Morse code or playing out a mute tune. Either way it was definitely a way to reach through to big brother and not to disrupt the doctors. The surgery site was a hustle of frantic activity Jeff didn't dare follow too closely. At some point John's eyes went almost sea-green dark and the grip on the tablet turned his knuckles white. Jeff squeezed his shut, hugging Alan's trembling shoulder closer.

[Please, Lucy! No! Please!]

Time stretched further without meaning in perfect silence. John finally shifted to get up and announced:

"They closed him up! He'll be wheeled to Critical Care now."

Turquoise met caramel across the ward and it occurred to Jeff the statement was addressed more Gordon's way, as the blond was on his feet immediately. There was a LOT of communication between his family going right over his head. Maybe they didn't trust his strength that day. Or maybe they were just too used to not factor him into the synergy of their tightly knit world. Either way, it hurt more than he could ever let them know.

Gordon got his cue and was peeling Alan up and away from Jeff's side.

"C'mon, Al! Let's go find Grandma before she instills fear of hell into the nurses! And maybe grab some snacks for everyone! On my word, Dad DOESN'T want the local variety of green jell-o!"

Alan, as well as everyone else in the room, knew it for what it was worth - a diversion tactics to get him away. Allie could be stubborn with the best of them, and he wasn't a kid anymore, despite a widely acknowledged belief, but he knew there would be no real talk of Scott's post op prospects with him around. Not right then at least. Besides, the boy looked veritably drained by fear and all the uncertainty, and could use a change of scenery.

Shortly after Gordon chaperoned Alan out the doors to Jeff's ward hissed again. Virgil appeared like a giant ghost, swaying on his feet. He shed the surgical mask, gloves and cap, but was still in the OR scrubs. Drenched through with sweat. John was by his brother's side in one long stride. The boys leaned into each other for a long moment, their foreheads touching. Jeff longed to envelope his sons into a massive hug and let them draw strength from their father, as should be. He longed to rush to Scott's side and hold on to him as tightly as he knew how, not letting the boy slip away. He longed to console the Tinies and shoo away the haunted desperation from their eyes. He longed to ascertain them all they were not loosing Scott. Because they couldn't. HE couldn't. But he was marooned by the stupid IV, bedridden by gravity, exhausted by dread and guilt, eating him alive. Not for the first time that day Jeff felt redundant and useless, a fragile husk rolling around, causing mere nuisance.

Virgil heaved a breath to center himself and John stepped around him to head out. But not before giving his brother another quick fierce hug. Virgil seemed to be gathering his bearings, his mind booting up, previously lost in whatever he saw and felt going on in that OR.

"John, wait! Scott is critical. They won't let you in!"

John's face was a chiseled mask, a shade paler yet, if it were at all possible.

"I just bought this hospital equipment enough to research immortality. I'm going to be with my brother!"

With that he was gone through the door. Virgil seemed lost for a moment, lonely in the middle of the room. Chocolate eyes landed on Dad and just like that - the dam broke. The tidal wave of years worth of fear and pain, and toll of anticipatory grief as well as the actual one, for reasons Jeff only began to piece together, breached through defenses and Virgil collapsed into his father's eager arms, sobbing.

***

Maybe it was fitting he only got to do his vigil bid by Scott's side after all his kids, and his Ma, had exhausted themselves. Maybe it was his turn to step up, finally. Or maybe he wasn't ready before. How could he be? No amount of bracing himself could prepare Jeff for seeing Scott in the Critical Care unit - translucent and perfectly still - machines doing breathing for him, pumping blood for him, doing all the living for him. Even after That Place there was more life in his son's body, more tangible reality beneath the gossamer skin. His son's spirit was nearly unmoored, yet Jeff felt like he was the one needing life support. A lifeline. So he reached for the one that had yanked him from the brink more than once, led him out of cosmic limbo, sure and true - his son's hand. And held fast.

***

[I'm right here, Bluejay! Dad is here! I never come when you're dying, because you're NOT! I'm right beside you! Mom will show you the way home! I'll be waiting right here, son! I'm not going anywhere, I promise!]

[asksanderssides]

Virgil is it okay if I have a hug?

Virgil: Sure, uh... I guess... I don't really hug people that much.

Patton: Aww, Virge, do you want more hugs?

Virgil: Nah, I'm good.

Roman: So, are you going to let anon go any time soon?

Virgil: ...

[edutainer2022]

'COTTY'NUGGLE

It wasn't common for John to be clingy. 'John' and 'clingy' seldom even occurred in the same sentence. John and physical contact was a rare occasion enough, so the death grip their ginger spaceman had on the biggest brother, both sprawled on the couch after a dodgy debrief, was hard to miss. Something happened on the last space mission. Something that wouldn't make it into their report. Something that had John tag along back to the island in Three, leaving Alan up in Five to man the comms. Something that now had John clutching a perplexed and visibly exhausted Scott to his chest, turquoise eyes daring anyone to pry big brother away. Nobody challenged John's claim.

Virgil was concerned, but kept to the piano, in the orbit of the shaken brothers, but giving John a berth he obviously needed. The medical scans checked out green. Whatever happened was not a physical injury. A silent thanks to Mom went up for that. Virgil could bide his time and wait till the brothers were ready to talk. Or not.

Soft sounds of piano music was accentuated by the slap of bare feet from the general vicinity of the kitchen deck. Unlike Virgil, Gordon took the pile of brothers as an open invitation and all but bounced in place, excited:

"We're doing the ''cotty'nuggle'!"

Along came an expert dive on the couch and a mild "omph!" from Scott. His arms went instinctively to tighten around the swimmer's back as Gordon wriggled and settled more comfortably. John's hand shifted to clasp Scott's on top of the Hawaiian shirt. His other hand moved up to shield Scott's eyes from the overhead lights.

Virgil smiled to himself as he regarded the scene. "Cotty'nuggle" as part of Tracy lingo originated with him, that's all an 18-month old Virgil ever wanted to do - snuggle his big brother. Snuggling Scotty was a refuge, a solace, a grounding reassurance in a whirl of life that kept taking so much. Virgil was beginning to feel left out, so closed the piano lid and drifted to the far end of an already crowded couch. John was being positively squashed by the combined weight of solid lean muscle. Virgil opted to perch himself on the armrest, lifting Scott's long, long legs into his lap. John met his gaze over the side of Scott's head, cradled on his shoulder, but said nothing. Gordon was apparently beginning to drift into snoozeville, blissed out by the brothers' warmth and light circles over his shoulderblades. The birdy-blinder trick, however, wasn't working for Scott as John expected. Biggest brother was awake and leaned his head closer, so a breath above whisper could be heard.

"You good, Jay? Gords and I are heavy, we're crushing you."

John reacted by tightening a hold on Scott's hand and shifting his palm from the brother's eyes to card through untamed curls. Scott showered after the mission and didn't come up to the lounge put together to the nines, as always - a clear signal something was very much off. There was a brief pause before John answered, as if considering the weight of the living, breathing body against him.

"You're here. I'm good."

Virgil caught the forlorn turquoise gaze again at that, but John closed his eyes quickly. Not yet, then. Later he'd get to the bottom of it. For now he let John enjoy the one perk of gravity he probably didn't mind at all - the real warm weight of a snuggled brother in his arms. Alive.

[gumnut-logic]

Virgil hugs came in many flavours.

So, okay, Scott was the eldest and technically speaking, he was the least likely to need any hugs from his younger brother. In fact, Scott took pride in branding his own big brother hugs because, let’s face it, he was the eldest and nobody wanted to knock him off that throne. Virgil had been quite adamant about it on several occasions.

So only Scott could give the eldest brother hugs and they were very useful for distressed younger brothers, sad younger brothers and even on those occasions where the hug turned into something that could more be considered strangling younger brothers.

Scott wielded his hugs just like any other tool in his arsenal. Expertly and precisely. But it had long been declared that Virgil gave the best brother hugs and if he was honest, Scott was quite happy not to compete.

What exactly made Virgil hugs better than any other Tracy hugs had yet to be determined. The fact that Virgil was the biggest brother probably helped. Not the tallest. Scott and John were still discussing that title. No, his sheer mass enabled the biggest, warmest, softest, cosiest hugs of them all. Virgil was just buff and meaty.

Scott groaned. Meaty. That was a Gordonism, a subject that required a whole other essay to discuss. His fish brother had a way with words that sometimes curdled the stomach.

But hugs, yes, Virgil with his well worn ever so soft flannel and big meaty…Scott groaned again…arms gave the best hugs.

But, as stated previously, they came in many flavours.

The most common was the fond hug. An arm would snake around the victim brother and literally drag him into Virgil’s embrace. You could be standing alongside him, politely minding your own business and for some reason the engineer would just reach out and grab. Occasionally the arm wouldn’t make it all the way around and Virgil would clamp onto a body part and yank. Arms, chunks of uniform or clothing, a random ribcage. There was the time Virgil had actually pulled Gordon out of the pool by one leg. Possibly in revenge. But after Scott had suffered a cardiac arrest, Gordon had somehow ended up sprawled on top of Virgil on the grass. It had cumulated in laughter and a pile of noogie to Gordon’s hair, grins all round.

Yes, his brother had a hug zone around him and if you stepped into it at the wrong time, you were toast.

One of Scott’s favourites was the ones that defied gravity. Those big arms were strong and, on occasion, a little over enthusiastic. Ribcages creaked, hoarse voices begged to breathe, and feet left the ground.

Yes, even Scott had been tackle hugged and picked up off the ground and spun around. It had been after a particularly long deployment in the Airforce. He had been out of contact with his family for a long time. The day he finally got home, Virgil had barrelled into him in the farmhouse hallway, grabbing and lifting both him and his bags off the floor in an excited embrace that spun them around almost twice.

Scott had dropped his bags in surprise and squawked. His uniform bunched up against the ribbons on his chest and the world went around.

“Virg, my god!”

Dropped to his feet once more, he found himself wrapped in a brother who seemed much bigger than he had been when he left.

And he was clinging.

“Virgil?”

His brother cleared his throat, face buried in Scott’s jacket. “Missed you.”

Scott had returned the embrace wholeheartedly.

No words were possible after that as the two youngest realised their biggest brother was home and all hell broke loose as they and the rest of the family congregated.

But the genuine love in Virgil’s eyes as he stepped back to let the ratbags in on the party had stayed with Scott for a very long time.

Of course, there were other hugs that were much less joyous. Ones where everything was dark and hurting and Virgil would pick it up like he had radar or something. Could be linked to his legendary medic-sense. After all, mental health was exactly that. Just another form of health.

There was the time Alan vanished. Up and completely disappeared. This is a somewhat challenging thing to do on a rather singular rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Scott had been on the verge of calling John for a location, but a hand had landed on Scott’s tense shoulder and squeezed gently. They had been standing out on the balcony. Virgil gestured quietly and, looking up, Scott saw the tiny figure of his littlest brother curled up on the cliff just below the roundhouse.

There had followed a mad rush up the peak to make sure Alan was safe, find out what was wrong…because something was definitely wrong…and fix it.

Turned out some asshole online had been bullying Scott’s little brother, ruining the game contest he had been so excited about three days earlier.

Scott saw red and deployed John. The culprit had been found and eliminated.

Very eliminated.

John particularly hated online predators.

But after that conversation, Scott had turned around to find Alan curled up in Virgil’s arms sobbing.

Jammed up against the wall of the roundhouse, Virgil himself had wet eyes and was combing his fingers through Alan’s hair. As Scott sat down beside them on the floor, Virgil pulled Alan in a little tighter. The engineer buried his face in his little brother’s hair and closed his eyes.

In those moments it was like his brother was bleeding something of himself into the person he was hugging. His expression almost willing comfort into Alan.

Of course, Alan eventually dove in for a Scott hug as well, the thirteen-year-old dragging both of his brothers into a comforting pile that was able to push away the nasty experience and eventually bring back their confident little brother. But it was Virgil who performed the hugging first aid while Scott hunted down the person responsible – whether it be via John or other means.

It seemed to be their roles in the family.

And it wasn’t limited to family.

Out in the field it was more caring hands and reassuring touches and words, but it was Virgil’s way of comforting the injured. If he had time, he would talk with the rescuees. Warm and kind words asking gentle questions about their lives, distracting them from the bleeding, the screaming and the horror.

And ultimately holding those they couldn’t save, giving parts of himself to make those last minutes a little less terrifying.

It was after those rescues, those moments, when Scott would have to hunt Virgil down. Sometimes he would find him at the piano pounding emotion into the keys. Other times locked in his studio.

They had a running tally of how many times Virgil had had to replace the lock on that door. Scott rarely took ‘no’ for an answer when he knew a brother was in distress.

But the worst times often led Scott on a hunt across the Island to a remote beach, cliff or other lonely landform. Thunderbird Five’s scanners had been used several times. Times where Virgil was determined to be alone to suffer by himself.

Sure, Scott could respect that…if that was what Virgil needed.

It wasn’t.

Because the hug machine that was his brother needed hugs in return.

Sure, he had methods to refuel other ways, but honestly, these were the times Scott felt a direct transfer of energy was warranted.

Those were the days he would hunt his brother down, grab him and hold him until the trembling stopped. He would sit with Virgil staring out across the ocean either just being quietly beside him, or answering the raging questions of injustice.

Those were days he would drag him back to the couch and they would fall asleep together in front of a movie neither of them was watching. A hand or an arm continually in contact.

Those were the days where touch was needed to give back what was so freely offered at all other times.

Scott’s hugs may be tactical but they were no less full of love.

And love his brother, he did.

Ever so much.

-o-o-o-

[edutainer2022]

Many thanks to @janetm74 for her deeply moving and insightful story Grief: The Compass, and for putting up with my ramblings about the symbolism of Grandpa's compass and its meaning to Scott, as well as to Scott and Virgil going forward (especially after the revelations of Recharge). I had this little dream-like sequence in mind since the very early days of my return to TAG fandom as a intro to a larger story. Scott Tracy is, of course, very much not okay. It might not be obvious from the start, but it's true. He needs to find his way.

TRUE NORTH

The wind was ruffling early blossoms in the trees and his hair, as he jogged eagerly across the front yard to the farmhouse. Soft spring grass was tickling his bare feet. Mom was inside, he knew. He was so excited to see her.

The quiet hallway was filled with a soothing scent of cinamon and ripe late summer apples. Mom was probably in the kitchen, baking an apple pie. His favorite. He followed the wiffs of delicious smells, but the kitchen was empty. Each utensil in its place, exactly as Mom liked it. He needed to find Mom. The sense of urgency increased, as he passed the sunlit kitchen to the backdoor, out onto the porch and across the backyard. He shivered once, then twice, as a gust of vicious wind threw a handful of fallen leaves into his face. Golden and red, just like Mom's hair. Mom wasn't out back either and he was anxious now. On instinct, he followed the well-worn path to the meadow, stretching behind their old farmhouse in Kansas. Rough edges of pebbles dug into his feet so they were probably bleeding, but he kept going. He needed to find Mom!

His frantic paces came to a halt at the very edge of the meadow, though. As far as eye could see was cast in a swathe of pristine white. Snow. He knew deep down in his soul Mom was across that expanse of white. But he had no clue which way to go. Where to start. He stood at a loss, shivering, at the very edge of ice, licking his bare toes, the freezing numbness creeping up from the ground to his heart.

Then he remembered! Grandpa's old compass that Virgil made a point to give him for the duration of a rescue, would show the way. Ever since their heart to heart in the Arctic, Virgil would  give him the compass before each mission so he would find his way home safely. Just like that day. He was home now, but Mom wasn't there. He dug into a pocket, and, sure enough, his fingers curled around a solid cool weight of the antique gadget. Grandpa's compass would show him the way to Mom! But something odd was happening. As soon as he opened the lid, the arrow went haywire, turning in place, never resting on any one point. Despair and exhaustion nearly choked him and his knees were ready to give. He couldn't get to Mom no matter how much he longed to! No matter how much he missed her!

He was about ready to step into the unforgiving snow and take his chances, when heavy hands landed on his shoulders, pinning him in place.

"It's not yet time, Bluejay!"

The husky whisper was close to his ear. Dad!

"It's too soon, kiddo! You have to let me go first. You can then follow in my footsteps, but not just yet! Not for a long, long time. How about we go home now, son, eh?"

He wanted to protest. Mom was there, all alone, across the field of snow. He could find her, even if the stupid compass was not helping! He needed to be with Mom! But the voice failed him, caught up on a blinding pain in his chest. Strong arms were already steering him back to face the farmhouse again.

Even from afar, he could see all his brothers standing on the back porch, watching him. Allie seemed so scared, baby blue eyes wide and full of tears, clutching the railing. Gordon was standing apart, hunched over, his face dark and lost - he appeared so small and so young. John was ghostly pale, his eyes a green sea of pain. Scott could swear his ginger brother was swaying with each gust of wind. But it was Virgil who made him gasp. Standing one step down the porch stairs, his best friend was glaring daggers at him - the always soft face contorted with fury and anguish, kind brown eyes brimming with liquid fire. What made Virgil so angry? Had he done something stupid? He hadn't lost Grandpa's Compass! Right! The Compass! He looked down at his hand, still clutching the brass shell, and the arrow had miraculously settled, pointing due North. At the center of the porch of their home. At Virgil.

He felt an insistent nudge to start moving, as the voice by his ear spoke again, soft, but urgent.

"Let's go home now, Bluejay! Just like that, one step at a time! Your brothers are waiting."

He tried once more to twist and catch the sight of Dad, but thought better of it as a sharp pain pierced through his torso again. He still needed to make it home and give Virgil back the compass, so Virgil wouldn't be so angry with him. So Virgil wouldn't go looking for him all the way by the desolate cold white meadow. He also needed to find out what made John so upset, and he certainly needed to hug the Tinies. He sneaked a peek at the compass again - it was pointing firmly Home.

[edutainer2022]

@janetm74, oh, definitely! But maybe it's not always straightforward or optimistic.

Maybe it hits him at a random moment. At a moment that should be light and endearing.

He stopped being fun sometime after Mom. He stopped being Scott sometime after Dad. Maybe earlier, after That Place. He doesn't do hobbies, because he can't let himself channel energy into anything that's not Dad's legacy. He doesn't do downtime, because he hasn't earned rest, having not saved Dad.

One day Gordon would say "you should really try having a personality" and Scott would snap.

Because Gordie is fourth down the line. Scott made damn sure his only concern was being himself and doing what brings him joy.

Scott sees Virgil drift away - spending more time with Gordon, sharing hobbies and time on the beach. Scott gets it. Gordon is Scott before... everything happened to Scott. Virgil misses THAT best friend. Not whatever boring neurotic mess Scott turned out to be. It hurts, though... It hurts so bad...Virgil would probably die if he knew Scott thinks that.

Maybe it's John, who gets it. John actually sees his brothers quite well, as much as he doesn't do people-ing. Virgil knows how to be a brother that makes Gordon feel safe and happy. He has no idea how to be that brother to Scott now - between the Hood, the Mechanic, the Chaos Crew, and Scott burying himself deeper into work - Virgil's scared he's not enough as a best friend.

I love when the whumpee has to reinvent themself. No, you will never be the past you again, they are permanently changed by the trauma, but that does not mean death. You just have to find you again. The people who care about you might mourn, you might as well, but getting to know each other again can be quite interesting.