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tracybirds · 19 days ago

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Started this a wee while ago because @astranite and I were excitedly discussing astronomy textbooks and in particular BOB which is a real astronomy textbook for the undergraduate level, written by Carroll and Ostie as mentioned in the fic. We started joking about Lucille being an academic and writing the second BOB and then well... this happened :P

Many thanks both to @astranite and @gumnut-logic who have both read bits of this at some point - I hope you enjoy the finished fic!

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"Imagine a world with no stars."

John reached down, brushing his fingers across the familiar preface, the uncomfortable weight of his mother's textbook feeling like home.

"Hi Mom," he whispered, his heart aching as he turned the pages.

Her orange highlighter was everywhere, notes in her clear, rounded hand scattered across every paragraph as month by month, year by year, she read yet another paper that strengthened the collective understanding of the universe. He knew that some of these notes made it into the second, third, and even fourth editions of BOBv2, but others lay dormant, waiting for a fifth edition that would never come.

Until now.

John took a steadying breath. He hadn’t dared to touch his mom’s personal copy of the astrophysics textbook that had redefined a generation in years. The Tracy text, with its dry wit and clear conceptual language, voiced with an undeniable love for the heavens above, similarly ignited a passion in everyone who read it. John was too young to know exactly when BOBv2 – the Big Orange Book – had become the standard text, but in doing so, Lucille Tracy had cemented her name as one of the great educationalists of modern astronomy. A companion to the original Carroll & Ostie, a text that delved with enthusiasm into every branch of space science, his mom had inspired a generation of astronomers.

His mom had inspired him.

And, as it turned out, there were people who wanted to see that legacy continued.

John scanned the email that had arrived without fanfare in his inbox that morning, though he already knew every word.

“Dear Mr. Tracy…” it began, and John knew they hadn’t meant him. Scott had forwarded the email himself, not reading beyond the subject line that mentioned only the title of the astronomy textbook he held in his hands.

This was how John learnt that his mom’s old publishing company were seeking permission to engage a new author to perform the necessary revisions for a new edition. John had never thought of Scott as being the executor of their parents’ estate, had never given much thought to any of the legalities of what their parents had created.

He glanced up as TB5 rounded the dark side of the Earth, the familiar patch of ocean his family called home slowly moving towards sunset.

His brother had gotten home less than an hour ago and it was for this reason, John told himself, that he hadn’t drawn attention to Scott’s error.

In truth, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

Well.

That wasn’t quite true.

John’s grip tightened around the book as he steadied himself once more.

This text had belonged to everyone, that’s how his mom had wanted it, and that’s what John would want too.

He connected to Scott’s line.

With each ring, his heart sank further and further.

“Hey John, wha–”

“Don’t do it,” blurted John.

Scott’s blue face scrunched up as he peered at him through the holo. “Don’t do what?” he asked.

“Mom’s book, let me instead,” said John, his words beginning to stumble across themselves in his hurry to make Scott understand. “I can do it, just don’t let someone else take it away from her.”

“Woah, woah,” said Scott, looking more alarmed with every second. “Nobody’s going to take Mom away from you, what are you talking about.”

“They want to revise BOB,” said John desperately.

Scott’s silence rang between them, a pause that filled the distance between them before John huffed and thrust the book into the holocam.

“BOB,” he said impatiently, “Mom’s textbook, the Big Orange Book the Second.”

“Can you.. can you start from the beginning, John,” said Scott weakly.

John’s fingers twitched, struggling to steady his shaky inhalations.

“Mom’s publishing company sent you an email. You sent it to me so I read it, but it was for you.”

With every word, John willed Scott to hear him, to understand what he was asking. It wasn’t the revision that was troubling him, John had worked alongside academics too long to question the need for an updated edition as new evidence emerged and new lines of reasoning developed into discoveries.

“It’s the only link to her that’s just mine,” he said quietly. “I have to share everything else, and maybe that’s selfish of me to ask, Scott, but I want this one. I don’t want someone to overwrite her words, her passion, her memory with a fake. Someone who’s just pretending they could ever know what she would have said.”

“I can say no,” suggested Scott, but every fibre of John’s being rebelled at the thought.

What was worse, he wondered, to remain true to her memory and thus condemn his mother’s greatest achievement to history? Or to give up his claim to her and allow her work to shine anew, albeit polished with a varnish he’d never known.

Obscurity or lies?

John knew which he’d choose.

It felt like burying her all over.

“John,” said Scott hesitantly. “Would you want to do it?”

John’s eyes widened. At once a thousand reasons to say no erupted, his mind running through emergency scenarios and the intensive workload that revising a beast like BOBv2 would take, not to mention remembering the half a dozen other projects he’d made promises to look at when he got a chance.

There was no chance he would ever be able to agree to what Scott was suggesting.

There was no chance he’d ever say no.

“How?” he asked breathlessly.

“We’d make it work for you, John, you know we would,” said Scott. “We’d do it for Mom, but we’d also do it for you.”

John’s smile was wobbly, and he rapidly blinked back the tears that welled in his eyes as warmth flooded and swelled in his chest.

“Then let’s do it,” he said hoarsely.

***

“John!” shouted Alan, racing up the stairs two at a time. “You’ve got a package, Grandma picked it up on the mainland, it’s here – it’s here!”

John leapt up from the sofa, his quiet conversation with Brains and Virgil forgotten in a heartbeat as he reached out with eager hands.

“Scott, Gordon!” bellowed Alan, running outside and leaning over the balcony’s edge. “Hurry up, John’s book is here.”

There was a mad scramble, water splashing all over, but John hardly heard it, his hands turning the brown paper over and over. He could feel the bio-bubble packing material, its gentle give beneath his fingers making him doubt the reality of what he was about to find.

Alan slammed into his side, legs bouncing with excitement. John could see the amused glances traded between Virgil and Gordon out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored them, suddenly terrified that he’d ruined his Mom’s book forever.

“We all know you gave it everything,” said Scott, dripping water all across the floor as he gripped John’s shoulder with firm encouragement. “She’d be proud too. Let’s see it.”

The spine was orange, the dusky colour of sunsets as the night gave way to twilight and the field of astronomy arose. Tracy & Tracy stood out, stark white and magical. Each leaf was glossy and vibrant, full of excitement and wonder.

He glanced down at Alan, whose eyes were wide in awe, and smiled, opening the book to the dedication page.

To Jeff, who travelled my stars and inspired my heart. – L.T. 1st edition To Scott, John, and Virgil, who helped me to dream. – L.T. 2nd edition To Gordon, who gave me new adventures. – L.T. 3rd edition To Alan, for all the skies we’ve seen together – J.T. 5th edition

John wrapped an arm around Alan, who had gone still as he read.

“It was time you were added to the Tracy text,” he said quietly.

Alan only hugged him back.

“It looks incredible, John,” said Virgil. “It’s all paid off.”

One by one, everyone gave their congratulations and wandered off, the novelty soon wearing thin. Even Alan slipped away, his video games beginning to call, but not before making John promise to get him his own copy.

Eventually, only Scott remained and he fell down on the sofa next to John, watching him quietly as he flipped through the pages one by one.

Soon enough John paused, running his fingers over the familiar foreword, every letter of Lucille’s passion immortalised once again. His foreword came second in deference to the original and, sandwiched between his mother’s words and the contents page, John had allowed himself more sentiment than he usually considered wise in a public sphere, comfortable in the knowledge that only the few who were truly inspired by what he and his mom had made would ever read them.

“She would be proud,” he said with certainty. “Of this, of what we’ve done without her.”

“She would,” Scott agreed. “They both would.”

John nodded, and closed the text, laying it carefully on the coffee table.

His green eyes shimmered earnestly, a mirror of their mother.

“Thank you, Scott,” he said. “For giving me this.”

“It’s yours, John,” said Scott. “Always.”

#thunderbirds are go #sometimes i fic #john tracy #scott tracy #lucille tracy #she's present enough for a tag imo but she's just mentioned #sorry lucille lovers

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hebuiltfive · 1 year ago

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Heartbreaking 😭😭

The moment a defiant whumpee breaks down for the first time.

It shocks them nearly as much as their audience. They try stubbornly to hold it in, to keep their expression firm. Whumpee’s body rigid with the effort; jaw set, fists clenched and shaking. They can’t trust themselves to speak, can’t trust themselves to breathe, and so they bite their lip in a desperate attempt to remain composed. They fail, and when their body forces them to inhale, the shuddering gasp that comes out is a sob. The tears begin to flow unrelenting, and their frustration at their weakness only makes them flow faster. They can only angrily swipe away at the onslaught or turn away, all useless attempts to hide the shame clear on their face.

I like to think about someone watching them, standing still as whumpee’s crumbling apart. Maybe it’s caretaker. It’s the first time they’d seen whumpee look so small, so hurt. They want to help, want to give the comforting words whumpee could never accept before. But indecision stills their hand. What could they say that whumpee would hear?

Or maybe it’s whumper, watching in near shock as their oh so stubborn captive dissolves into tears before them. They don’t even mock them at first, simply watching whumpee’s trembling form. Watching them, even as whumpee tries to hide their shame. Watching and feeling nothing but satisfaction.

There’s simply something so sweet about a character defined by their defiance falling apart.

#thunderbirds fic rec #five reblogs #astranite

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mrmustachious · 7 months ago

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Saw this and wanted to take part so I made a new post. No obligation to take part, I just thought the fandom could do with a new tag game going around!

Rules: if you're tagged, share one or two sentences (or lines for artists) from your unposted WIP with zero context.

☆☆☆☆☆

“We don’t need to do anything. It’s you who needs to get over yourself and realise not everyone is out to get you.” Alan pointed at him accusingly, and Gordon was taken aback.

☆☆☆☆☆

Tagging: @tracybirds @astranite @tanushakyrano @silverstarfics @whatgaviiformes @spaceshipsoutthepool @janetm74 @alexthefly @hebuiltfive

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #tag game

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idontknowreallywhy · 4 months ago

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Resurface 31 - Review

Happy Birthday Virgil 💚 I didn’t get you a present but I finally got you and your brother back on the path to Best Brodom. Just, um, bear in mind it’s just the start of the journey and maybe don’t read the last paragraph until tomorrow?

I hope this is ok, I have agonised because this chapter contains Virg headcanon that is dear to me and I just hope I did it (and his inner voice) justice. It’s probably too long but… well… here it is. Thanks to @sofasurf and @astranite for the encouragement / chivvying / poking with stick to just get this done and out there.

Story so far

They had to start somewhere… literally at the top is as good a place as any, right?

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

“You’ve dyed it! You’ve dyed your hair!”

Scott blushed and his hand returned to his forehead, as if to hide the evidence.

“Uh, yeah… thought I might give it a go…” he cleared his throat awkwardly “I couldn’t find exactly the right colour it was kind of hard to tell on the website… who knew there were so many types of brown, huh?” He paused and grabbed a dishcloth to rub irritably at the gel residue on his fingers before glancing over at his brother. “I mean, obviously YOU would.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes. Scott wasn’t kidding, the former greys were a much redder shade of brown than the rest and on close inspection looked a little… odd… but he wasn’t about to make his brother even more self-conscious by pointing it out. He picked up his coffee with both hands and took a long sip to buy himself some time to work out what to say.

“You don’t approve?” The chuckle was more than a little forced.

“You don’t need my approval, Scott. I’m just… surprised, I guess? You’d always swore you’d never dye it. Didn’t you say you’d earned every last one of them and had nothing to be ashamed of?”

His brother snatched up his own coffee and feigned a sudden interest in the view from the window.

“Is no big deal… you were bothered by it so I just sorted it out.”

“I was bothered by it?”

“Uh, yeah. When… the other day when you were really… err…” Scott cleared his throat “… upset, you said so and I figured maybe you were worried I was getting old or… or maybe I was looking too much like… uh, well…”

“I complained… about your hair?” Virgil was baffled. The silver streaks were the subject of much banter in the Tracy household but for a long while had been a part of who Scott was. While in theory Virgil might have said almost anything in his state of confusion, he had still been himself even while his perception of the world around him had been faulty. He just couldn’t imagine being negative about a feature he’d always felt rather affectionately for.

“Well, not in so many words but…”

“Can you remember my exact words?” Virgil knew full well that if Scott had been worrying about this enough to break his avowed hair dye abstention he’d have gone over what had been said again and again and again. And then probably again just for good measure. Sure enough, the response was immediate:

“You said you didn’t want me to be grey. And then you literally begged me not to go grey. So I decided not to. It’s not a big deal.”

Virgil closed his eyes.

Ah.

Sometimes it would be handy to see the world in the simpler, more solid way other people did, as if everything was a hollow photograph existing in straightforward three-dimensional space. He’d never choose to live life without the full range of his sensory experiences and feelings overlaid in glorious technicolour… but he learned very quickly other people, even artists, did not see the same and thus he tended to avoid any accidental references to it.

Obviously he was less careful when he was out of his mind.

He suppressed the sigh and took a measured breath.

Virgil opened his eyes to see his brother had already drained his coffee and was almost vibrating with the effort of maintaining his fake casual stance leaning on the kitchen island. He’d have expected pacing by now except that this was his big brother’s way of showing that not only did he want to hear his brother out, he wanted to reassure Virgil he was, definitely, listening.

He grabbed Scott’s hand which was discharging some of the discomfort via quiet but incessant tapping on the work-surface and interlaced their fingers. The relentless movement continued more softly and for a moment Virgil allowed himself time to notice the vibrations travelling through his knuckles and up his arm and for his mind to quietly acknowledge the subtle shift in rhythm from need-to-explode to need-to-connect. He mirrored it back and Scott squeezed his fingers in response.

“Let’s walk for a bit?”

Virgil knew it was the right call even before the relief flooded Scott’s face and he made a beeline for the door.

They made their way down on to the deck and then up the stone staircase via the roundhouse and took the path towards the caldera.

“I didn’t mean your hair, Scooter.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I don’t think so. I reckon I can explain but you’ll need to give me a minute and try not to be too… literal about it?”

“I can do that.”

“Right.” The path narrowed and demanded single file. Virgil gestured for Scott to lead the way and smiled wryly to himself as the steep incline accentuated the slight height difference between them to the extent that his current view of his brother was very much the waist region. Nevertheless, he could see from the slightly uneven movement of his hips that the leggier man was moderating his stride so as not to get too far ahead to hear.

Ha, he was so familiar with his brother’s body language he could even read his…

“So…?”

Oops.

“Sorry, got lost in my own head there.”

“It’s not a problem.” Scott’s hurried response betrayed his even-worse-than-usual anxiety for a brother and Virgil really needed to fix that asap. But first he needed to sort out the immediate confusion.

“Ok… you know I see a lot more things in colour than most people do?”

“Two makes forest green noise and One makes gold and light blue.” Scott immediately confirmed and Virgil experienced a little rush of warmth at the thought his big brother had felt the detail important enough to commit to memory.

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s the kind of thing. Well it isn’t just sound it’s… everything? Smell, taste, heat… and err… kind of… mood? Not exactly mood… um... The way people are? Their personalities, almost?” Virgil faltered a little, desperately searching for better words to form a neat box around the web of overlapping sensations in his head, but it felt much like the time he’d tried to explain to Alan why magenta made his teeth fizz. Some things just… were. Maybe if he tried to tie it to something easier to pin down:

“Ok, maybe the best way I can explain is - you know it was me that picked the colours of the birds? Well, One, Two and Four anyway…”

“I didn’t!” Scott was evidently curious “I never thought to wonder who did.”

“Well, it was me. Mostly. Well a bit. Brains was going to have them all in silver and I suggested that some form of colour coding might be a plan, for easier recognition compared with other organisations’ ships and machinery and bright colours are a more friendly sight for scared rescuees, you know?” Virgil paused to use his breath to navigate a particularly steep part of the track. Scott, possibly misinterpreting the pause for uncertainty sent encouragement over his shoulder: “Makes sense to me. Our public face needs to be unthreatening.”

“Yeah, exactly and in that time just after the… um, well it needed to be clear they weren’t military ships…” there was a grunt of agreement from in front. “It took a while to decide which would be which colour. For Three Dad picked red because in little Allie’s mind rockets were always red and it was his way of reaching out to the little guy I guess. But it’s not right really, Alan is light blues and bright purple. And of course One should have been primarily Cerulean to contrast with the Maya Blue but he wanted silver to represent speed and so… we had to compromise on her design but I did win with Four because he thought she should be orange, like a life buoy, you know? But I said no - Gordon’s bird couldn’t possibly be anything other than sunshine yellow. John picked his own so I didn’t get involved there but…”

“Virg, you’re losing me a little. Alan is… blue and purple?”

“Light blue. Bright purple. When he’s cheerful, yes. He gets steely blue when he’s angry same as you.”

“So we all have a colour?”

“Yeah. Well, a palette of them. Kind of. It’s… I’m sorry it’s the best way I have of describing the presence you have. Words can be a bit limiting sometimes.”

“Maybe you should try painting it?” Scott‘s voice lifted a little and he was looking at him intently. “I’d like to see us the way you do.”

They had finally reached the top of the volcano and stood together admiring the view to the east. A vigorous breeze, sharpened by the bright metallic tang of salt, dried the moisture from Virgil’s lips and he pressed them together with a doubtful hum.

“I’ve tried before and it didn’t really…” the glimmer of eagerness dulled and Virgil hurriedly sought to breathe life back into it “but I guess I could give it another go?”

His big brother smiled and lit up again for a moment before the cloud crossed back over his face and his eyes dropped from Virgil’s.

“And I’m… grey, then?”

“No! Not usually! You’ve always been blue, like the sky… there are so many shades of it, with hints of yellow or gold…”

“There’s a but coming, I can feel it.”

Virgil grabbed Scott’s hand again as if to reassure himself his brother wouldn’t float away before he managed to express this.

“Sometimes it’s like you fade a little.”

“I fade?”

“You try to be a lot of things, Scotty and it’s admirable, it really is, and you do it so well but sometimes I worry there isn’t enough of you left to be you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You’re blue when you laugh at your own jokes, or smotherhen us and make a leaning tower of pancake… when you beat Gordy at his own prank game or act all melodramatic when you’re smuggling in the sweets Grandma doesn’t approve of. When someone says pie and your eyes gleam and when you randomly recite Shakespeare inaccurately and out of context or run up the stairs for no reason and surprise hug Allie… those times you’re a rainbow of blues. In the field when you’re problem solving at the speed of light and oh! That time you flew Shadow just for fun you came back shining so brightly…”

Yet again at the mention of Shadow, Scott had startled but recovered quickly and deflected:

“My Shakespeare is always in context.”

“Sure it is, Scott. And it’s very YOU.”

A flicker of resolve hardened his brother’s expression and Virgil was suddenly terrified as to how his clumsy explanation could have been interpreted by someone who was already chronically shackled to the ‘brave face’ impulse…

“But Scott, listen to me, this is important.”

He waited until his brother dropped his eyes from the horizon and met his own.

“I’m not saying it’s just when you are happy, you know? When you’re worried or angry or even sick or even… no, especially when you let yourself be vulnerable for one damn second, you’re you then too.”

“Then…” Scott sagged a little and an edge of indigo desperation coloured his voice “I don’t understand what the grey thing is meant to mean!”

“The grey thing… I guess it’s how my brain interprets the way I sometimes miss you when you are right in front of me. When you get hidden by everything else you think you are supposed to be. You lead so naturally, you do it without even trying but sometimes… sometimes you put on that damn grey baldric and it smothers you.”

“But the baldric is silver. My baldric is silver to match One!”

“It used to be blue though. Blue to match you.”

“Oh. And that’s what is bothering you?”

“No! No, I’m not saying the baldric needs to change. You can have salmon pink or zebra stripes if you like - that’s what I meant about not being too literal about this. I just… I wish you wouldn’t feel like you had to act like someone else. Just… be you, you know?”

A slight squeeze of the hand said message received but Virgil knew it might take a while to process. An unspoken agreement saw them taking the shallower broader path down towards the shore.

“Please don’t say that thing about the baldrics to Gordon, you know he’ll come up with something hideous.”

“He really would. It’d be burnt orange with pink polka dots within minutes.”

“I can just see it now.” Scott facepalmed melodramatically then ran his fingers into his hairline.

“So you weren’t worrying about the hair?”

“No, Scott. I don’t have any problem with your hair. I’m sorry I confused you. I just want you to be happy and be yourself. That’s literally all I would have meant by it.”

“I’m trying, Virgil, I really am.”

“I know. I’m proud of you.”

He really had been trying. Scott’s attempts to reconcile his past and present and figure out who he was again had actually been a source of real joy to Virgil. It had been so long coming.

Years of encouraging, nagging… in all honesty borderline-harassing his big brother to break out of his self-imposed exile from life, to take the opportunities to enjoy himself when they came… and finally, FINALLY there had been some movement. Previously there were deleted emails, invitation cards hidden in drawers… if it wasn’t for Penny’s sake or for the good of the business, Scott didn’t see it as worthwhile. But this time, Scott had pinned the gilded rectangle of card to the noticeboard with a hurried circle around the date and a carefully inked question mark.

It was bitterly ironic that after all that time… even after actually standing over Scott with folded arms and while he messaged his friend to RSVP in the positive… when he’d nearly actually succeeded in nudging his brother into the light somehow as a result Virgil himself had run headlong into the dark. A cold, slimy tendril of fear crept into his heart and asked who on earth Virgil thought he would be if Scott didn’t need him anymore…

He shook it off because it was ridiculous.

Not to mention selfish.

“Scott, I’m sor….” he began but his brother had not been party to the developing inner monologue and was still some way behind him, despite leading the way off the rocky track on to the beach.

“So I can get rid of this?” He gesticulated irritably at his own forehead

“YES, Scooter.”

“Thank heaven, I hate it. Will it wash out?”

“Eventually. I have to top mine up every few washes.”

“Yours literally obliterates light particles though.”

The affectionate shoulder nudge was brief but it heralded a return of the easy natural proximity he’d missed so badly. His brother was back by his side and Virgil realised with a shock that breathing was suddenly effortless again.

There were other things they needed to discuss, difficult things he knew were coming and no doubt even more difficult things he was still as yet unaware of. But for a few moments, Virgil was more than happy to enjoy the respite of their well-rehearsed haircare banter:

“That’s not the dye it’s the secret ingredient. I told you, quit the super shiny addiction…

“SUPREME shiny…”

“Pfft, you know it’s the same formula, you’re just paying for the fancier packaging.”

“Not true, it’s a far higher quality product.”

Virgil poked his brother in the side of the head “And yet by some miracle, chemically identical.” He made a show of wiping the tip of his finger off on Scott’s shirt while meeting the faux-glare dead on. His brother’s eyebrows said outraged, the sparkle in the blue said bring-it-on. “Ditch the dark side Scotty, leave the slimy stuff to the teenagers and join team pomade. More natural, less greasy. Best tip Dad ever gave me.”

His brother’s flinch was fleeting but sent a shockwave through the narrow pocket of air between the two of them. Scott’s eyes slipped from his, the pocket widened and the warmth suddenly drained out of the sun.

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #resurface fic #scott tracy #virgil tracy #idontknowreallywhy fanfic

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edutainer2022 · 7 months ago

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This was inspired partially by this whump prompt about bed sharing. Besides, I had advertised to @janetm74, @astranite and @idontknowreallywhy a sprained ankle for Scott after my own recent injury. This is one go at it of several I have in mind. A harmless late night conversation between Dad and Scott over the latter's bum foot leads into a wormhole of unexpected deeper anguish. Jeff has a lot of emotional revelations ambushing him upon return from Oort Cloud. But it all gets better. Jeff loves his eldest boy so, so much.

SLEEPLESS

He was miserable and in pain. But mostly stupid. His body burned through the painkillers, Virgil made sure he took for his sprained ankle, somewhere halfway through the movie. He didn't want to take more to be out of commission the next day. They were grounding him anyway, of course. Dad was taking over several conference calls with TI at The Desk as well, because apparently Scott was now only good for lounging on the couch cushions, his foot propped up. Dad's firm stare made that part non-negotiable.

Virgil and Alan were sound asleep after the movie, so they decided to leave them be, tucked in together with a throw blanket. Gordon had his hands full, literally, with a still wobbly from orbit and now sleepy John, helping him along to his rooms, and was likely to crash there too. Scott didn't want to worry Dad more with needing an anesthetic cream, so made his best to hide a wince, a gasp, and a limp, before making it upstairs and bidding Dad good night. A detour to the bathroom to rumage through his own med-kit seemed like too much trouble. He's been through worse pain. He'd be fine.

So now Scott was wide awake in bed, every minute move, twist or tug of his foot - a pure liquid fire of agony on pulled and inflamed tendons. A bathroom with the coveted anesthetic now seemed a whole world away. He felt miserable and stupid, and lonely, and maybe wanted to cry a little. And for someone to come over and help, but he wouldn't ever dare worry them or take away from their rest. He opted for a grunt and some angry squinting against treacherous tears. He'd glare daggers at someone, but he would need a mirror for that.

In answer to his thoughts a door hissed open. From the size of the silhouette Scott first thought it was Virgil, checking up on him. But the steps of the visitor were heavier. Slower. Dad!

Jeff wasn't using his cane for the short trip to his son's room. He had a tube of sports anti-inflammatory gel in one hand, likely, from his own medical kit on hand. Dad perched carefully at the foot of Scott's bed and yanked the cover up, pulling the bruised and swollen foot into his lap. All without a single word. Scott tried to squawk in protest.

"Dad! I'm fine! You don't have to!"

The soothing gel was cool on the skin. Dad's hands cool too, careful and daft.

"C'mon, Bluejay, you should know better by now. I haven't been around lately, but I've been doing this a while, son. I KNOW when you're in pain!"

"How did you know I wasn't asleep, Dad?"

Jeff chuckled at that, giving the injured ankle another gentle pass and a knead with his fingers.

"Dad-radar. A bit rusty but ever true!"

Scott exhaled in relief as the applied anesthetic was already taking the edge off, and relaxed against his pillow. It felt so good to have Dad so casually take care of him. It felt so safe and comforting, he immediately felt guilty. He should be the one taking care of Dad, exhausted by his ordeal and still recovering. He should be putting up an unwavering front, not a wobbly bum foot.

Jeff considered his handywork, gave Scott's knee a pat for good measure and tucked the covers back, but not before shifting Scott's foot carefully on a couch throw pillow, installed in his bed by Gordon the day before, for elevation. Dad put the cream away on the bedside table and loomed over Scott again.

"Now, kiddo, I can give you another pill for the night. I know your system burns through them like Thunderbird One through fuel. But just one."

Dad's posture went tense, his eyes darker, even in the shadows. Scott's heart constricted as a sudden guess occurred - a memory of him nearly overdosing that one time his body (and mind) was so stressed and he was so desperate to just GET BETTER ALREADY after THAT PLACE, was probably a lot fresher for Dad than for himself or his brothers after... everything. It WAS an accident, but maybe Dad never quite shook the shadow of a horrific doubt.

Scott shook his head. No pills.

"I'm good! Thanks, Dad."

The last part came out small. Timid.

Dad's features relaxed and he moved to sit back down on the bed and lean on the headrest.

"OK! Now scoot over, Bluejay!"

A pillow was yanked from beneath Scott's head and rested on Dad's lap. Jeff patted it, inviting Scott to relocate. Scott tried to protest again, but large hands were already guiding his head and shoulders onto the pillow. Fingers automatically raked through his ungelled hair. Dad's other hand landed on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles. Scott shifted carefully not to pull his ankle again and curled into a ball, like a giant cat in Dad's lap. He felt so snug. So safe. Of course the ugly mug of shame reared again.

"Dad! You need to rest!"

"And I do rest. See? No prancing around."

Dad wiggled his toes in garish neon green socks with alien head prints, now perched on Scott's comforter, comically. There was a smile in his voice. But the palm on Scott's shoulder tightened in a soft, but pointed squeeze.

"You need to rest too, Bluejay. Or you can tell me why you haven't been sleeping, if you want."

Scott's whole frame froze for a moment. He tried to deflect with a quip - that hardly failed.

"My foot hurts!"

Jeff rubbed his palm up and down his son's arm for comfort.

"I know, kiddo. But you haven't been sleeping for some time before that. That's why you got a cramp on your run, that's why your leg gave, and you twisted and sprained that ankle."

Scott coiled tighter on himself, facing away from Dad, eager to spring and run. Run away from that conversation - bum foot or not.

Jeff sensed the son's tension and shifted his ministrations to small circles over the young man's upper back.

"I told you I've been doing this a while, son. Your sleepless tells are kinda my forte since you were two days old."

Silence stretched. What Jeff missed through Scott's childhood, he certainly compensated a thousandfold after Scott was retrieved from THAT PLACE and could barely make it through an hour of sleep, plauged by nightmares and memories. Eight years stranded in space didn't dull Dad's instincts - Scott, indeed, hadn't been sleeping, unless passed out with exhaustion, ever since the Zero-XL mission came back. How could he?!

A rugged breath came out with barely audible words:

"I was late."

Jeff's hand hovered over his shoulder.

"Come again?"

Scott squeezed his eyes shut and drew in more air.

"I was late to save you! The planetoid was already falling apart, and you weren't there! I was late! I failed you! I should have come sooner! I should have never stopped looking! I should have..."

Eventually he was heaving dry sobs, close to hyperventilating, blurring disjointed apologies out.

Dad was now clutching him with both arms, rocking in cadence with Scott's full body shivers. Arms, treacherously weakened by years in low gravity, struggled to pull the lean muscle mass of the son's body close to his chest. Jeff settled for tugging gently at Scott's upper arm to coax him to look up at the father.

"Can you look at me, Bluejay? Please! Look at Dad!"

Jeff's voice was hoarse, toned down in a long forgotten habit not to startle. He also didn't quite trust it not to quiver, shellshocked by the boy's anguish.

A blue eye, clouded with tears, finally peeked up at him. Then Scott reluctantly uncurled from a ball and twisted sideways to face Dad. That was a win.

"Look at me, Bluejay! Stay with me! Good. Good! Where am I?"

Scott blinked owlishly once, twice, processing the question. When understanding hit the pain flared up again. He tried to hide it beneath lowered lashes, but Jeff was relentless.

"Where am I right now, Scotty? Indulge me!"

Scott sighed.

"You're here, Dad."

"And how did I get here, son?"

Jeff took a moment to grab a sleeve of his hoodie - Scott's old hoodie, to be precise, now almost swamping his father's frame - and wipe the tears from his son's cheeks and chin.

Another sigh was accompanied by a dismissive flail.

"It's not... I was LATE, Dad! I promised Alan and I couldn't bring you back! I nearly lost you!"

"That's not quite how I remember it, Bluejay. You were tumbling past me into the void among all those boulders."

That certainly topped the charts of the vivid images that kept the father up at nights quite often. The fact that Scott stayed behind alone in the danger zone, having sent Allie away, against all protocols, would have to be a conversation for a different time. For a different time of the day, for sure. For now he had a different matter at hand.

"Scotty, there's no scenario, universe or timeline, where I would choose my own life over yours! Or your brothers'. I'm here. I'm home. You got me here, because you stayed strong and true. You kept IR going. You kept our family going. You kept the company going. You spared no effort or expense to build Zero-XL. You led your brothers and you saved me. Dad's right here! I've got you, son! I love you so much! You can rest now!"

That too would have to be a far longer and even more emotionally wrought conversation, once the sun was up. It might need to involve Dr. Ross, the family psychologist, who'd already wondered tentatively if Scott wanted to resume therapy after Jeff's return, or if Jeff would consider father-son sessions to work through their new dynamics. But that too would have to wait till dawn.

For now the interim goal was almost accomplished. Scott's blinking became slower, his breathing more even. Jeff rejoiced when he managed to cradle the boy's head against his chest, as Scott folded into a cuddle after some careful prodding. Broad shoulders going limp in Dad's firm hold heralded him finally succumbing to slumber after weeks, possibly months of guilt-infused insomnia. But a father had too much on his mind to sleep just yet.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy needs his dad #jeff tracy #jeff tracy needs a front row seat to his son’s angst #thunderbirds 2015 #my fic #methinks i have astronomy

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squiddokiddo · 1 year ago

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Greetings!!! I just wanted to say how much I love your art! The way you draw Gordon is my favourite. Your style is amazing and unique and I particularly love the colours you use, they're so colourful, and all the little details you put into it.

Thank you for all the aro & ace positivity too, I've needed to hear it lately.

I really enjoyed the fic you wrote, and if it is something you enjoyed and want to do more of, I would be very happy to hear more adventures of Gords and Squirt.

I like seeing whatever you make, whether its only Gords, or your ocs, or even just stuff that reminded you of them. And ocean stuff, the ocean is awesome. It's all cool, so whatever makes you happy!

I've kinda been lurking around the thunderfam for a while, hi. Your art is comforting and it makes me smile, so here I am to say thank you. Because, yeah, making any sort of art is hard, and you are amazing and deserve to hear it!

I feel like I should have a question, because this is an ask, so: What is your favourite sea creature, aside from Gordy, of course? :)

--AstraNite (I really like cuttlefish, they're neat!)

Hi, thanks so much for dropping me this ask. It was a really sweet surprise, I definitely needed a pick-me-up.💛💛

I'm going to try and address everything you've mentioned, give me a minute lol.

I'm really glad that you like my drawings, I haven't been getting a lot of comments on them atm so I'm really grateful for your feedback. It's interesting that you find my art comforting since a lot of the things I make are for my comfort too. I've said this before but I had a really rough childhood and TAG and Gordon have brought me a lot of comfort during some really tough times.

I'm happy to hear that my drawings are bringing other people comfort too.💛💛

°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o

Ace and aro positivity: yes I'm also aroace and there's nothing but love for fellow aros, aces and aroaces on this blog.

°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o

I'm so happy that you liked my fic, it was my first so I was really nervous and ocs can be very hit or miss but the fandom seems to really like Squirt which makes me so so happy.

I have been trying out more writing but none of it came out anywhere near as good as the first one. I do hope to post more Bigsquid and Squidkid adventures and hopefully expand on their relationship and Squirt's backstory (which is still an ongoing mystery to me) but I'd also like to try making things that aren't OC centered because I know it's not something everyone enjoys lol.

°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o

Ok onto sea creatures, cuttle fish are very interesting, the way that they change colour to camouflage and intimidate other animals. Yeah they're pretty cool.

My favourite sea creature (apart from Gords) uhhhh I like sharks, no particular species, they're all cool. I think sharks have a really bad reputation when they're actually quite chill. They don't tend to attack humans, their eyesight is bad and they often mistake us for seals and other animals that they eat.

As Gordon would say: They're sea puppies.🦈🩵

°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o𖦹°o

Thanks for dropping into my askbox, I hope my answers were ok. If you ever want to chat or anything my pms and inbox are always open.💛💛

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderfam #gordon tracy #sea-squirt tracy #thunderbirds oc #squiddo's ocs #squiddokiddo answers #squiddo's inbox #astranite

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iamshmolphrog · 10 months ago

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currently fangirling over these creatures in particular

ohh! look at her! she is stunning! may i introduce the Weaver Ant, the badasses of the formidicae family

@etherealspacejelly @frogofalltime @astranite @all my fellow creature enjoyers

#ant #bug #bugposting #insect #weaver ant #creature #happy posting #neurodivergent #actually autistic #autism

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gumnut-logic · 9 months ago

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This fic defines words.

I love John’s POV.

I love how you built up his frustration and anger. So familiar for those days where you’re so tired, so frustrated, and you have nothing left and that one last straw breaks and even then its just worse. You built his emotion up so wonderfully.

I love how you’ve portrayed Virgil’s love for his brother and his patience and proof that he’s not a push over, even when a brother is blowing a gasket, he will stand his ground, but not with anger, but with more love.

I love how you have John understanding that. John’s inner monologue is ever so familiar. Needing but hating to need.

I love how you have portrayed John’s dilemma between his two homes and how no matter which he is in he will miss the other. The need for people but the energy people require. The need for touch and the need for solitude.

I have to say, if you hadn’t tagged this as neurodivergent, I would have just considered it normal - cos that is what it is. And yeah, I’m neurodivergent and have connected with this fic so much. This is how it just is. To me it isn’t divergent, it just is :D So yeah, I figure you’ve hit the nail with hammer on this one :D

I love how instead of yelling at each other there is understanding and hugs and love. Despite both of them being sore and exhausted, they take the time to wind down to a point where they can share each other’s space.

I love the hugs.

I love Scotty knocking and joining them in the puppy pile. Part of me was screaming for Scotty once it was clear John was actually injured, cos we know how big bro frets over his brothers. I’m guessing Virg fended him off with reassurances enough to give John time to wind down. And Scott respected that, meeting them both in the middle by waiting just a little and trusting Virgil with John’s care. He could also have been doing a whole pile of other things post-mission, but I suspect love was on the list :D

I just love the whole thing. Have read it twice, grabbed a friend and demanded they read it, too. It’s just a kind, loving fic that is as much a bunch of hugs as it is words.

Thank you so much for sharing this. It certainly made my day brighter ::hugs you ever so tight::

Nutty

(It just rained through a 38C sky, and it literally stinks. It smells bad outside. The clouds were brown and yuck. But the temperature has dropped to 30C in half hour and it’s weirding me out)

Limp

John and Virgil!!! The whole range of hurt/comfort, angsting and fluff though leaning rather towards comforty. Scott also sneaks in for a good bit at the end. And there are hugs. Also there is autistic John and Virgil which it isnt about but its very there :)

This started off from the first line from a tumblr prompt from @aliceinwhumperland and the idea from @katblu42 to have John being the one limping then it grew from there!!! Minor warning for injury and medical stuff. Also that this reached 6k words!!

---

"You think you're hiding it, but I can see that limp from space."

Virgil leaned closer to his comm, giving John a prime view of dark, angular done-with-this-shit eyebrows.

John definitely didn’t panic. He just didn’t want the totally needless scrutiny of a medic brother all up in his business. Or asking questions like, ‘What did you do to yourself this time?’

“What limp?” he replied. He could play it off as obtuse and then no one had to ever to find out.

Virgil gave a Scott-worthy facepalm. “Do I have to worry about a concussion too?”

Okay maybe that was too obtuse. But he was running on few hours of sleep, back to back rescues and no bloody breakfast so who could blame him.

“I’m fine, Virgil.” John rolled his eyes.

Virgil didn’t dignify that with a response.

Well then, John could prove it. Ignoring the ache in his left foot and that the last time he tried this was probably what had gotten Virgil’s suspicions on him in the first place, he twisted through the central hub of Five to the entry to the gravity ring.

Lowering himself carefully in what was usually a thoughtlessly graceful manoeuvre, he landed on his feet in the grav ring, a triumphant, “See, I’m perfectly fine,” already on his lips. Except as soon as his left foot touched the ground with his weight on it, a sharp stab shot through it.

He couldn’t hold back the painfully obvious wince. Or the sudden gasp.

Virgil’s disappointment was another blow. “And here I thought I had one sensible brother. How did it happen?”

Mechanism of injury, a completely ordinary question for a medic to ask. One he’d compliantly answered for many accidents, even ridiculous earthside ones such as, ‘Fell over again and it’s all gravity’s fault.’ But up here he was meant to be in his element.

John crossed his arms stubbornly, wobbling on one foot.

“Couldn’t say.”

“Johnny.” Virgil was exasperated by now.

“Definitely not telling you anything if you call me that.”

“Johnathan Glenn Tracy.”

“Nope. That’s not even my name.”

“John.”

“Congratulations, you figured it out,” John spat.

Virgil looked taken aback.

A lump rose in John’s throat.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a shit day.”

He could feel his face growing as red as his hair with shame. It would definitely be visible over holograms. To make it worse, Virgil was probably as exhausted as he was. The last rescue had been nasty, earthquakes so often were, and Thunderbird Two had been on several more before that. He didn’t deserve to have to deal with John’s sarcastic, bitchy attitude as well.

John admitted defeat and hopped over to the wall to hold onto a grab bar to keep his balance and take the weight off his foot. And resisted the urge to bang his head against it because that sort of thing had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

His foot was throbbing, Virgil’s expression was soft because he’d already forgiven him and John was just over it all.

“Please promise you won’t laugh.” He couldn’t deal with that on top of everything else, no matter how unlikely it was that Virgil would.

“Alright, I promise. I’m not going to judge you, John.”

“I kicked a wall,” John mumbled, “On purpose, because I got mad that the bagel dispenser wasn’t working and a call came in so there was no time to fix it and I couldn’t sleep last night and I’m stressed about literally everything and just wanted a fucking bagel but clearly that was too much to ask of the universe!”

John shut his mouth with a clack. The words had come out in a torrent rising in volume that he couldn’t hold back. Over such a stupid thing too.

When John could finally bring himself to glance up from the stars beneath the floor outside, Virgil’s gaze held nothing but empathy.

“You’re right, it has been a pretty shit day.”

John nodded quietly.

Virgil continued, “Just— John, you know you don’t have to hide stuff like that from us, from me, right? We’ve all done stupid things in anger before and probably will do so again. That big, blue splodge of paint on my studio wall? Yeah, I chucked a paintbrush at it because a painting wasn’t working out and I was frustrated and it was three am after a string of bad rescues and I lost it a bit.”

Huh. John hadn’t known that. Virgil was usually least likely to blow up as far as it went.

“Point is, you’re not alone in this. Tracy temper, remember? We’ve all got it and we are all working out how to work with it. But it isn’t an excuse to conceal an injury that might need treatment even if it seems like it, ‘Should be fine,’ or ‘Isn’t that bad,’ or you think it’s caused by something stupid and you’re worried about us judging you. Because we won’t.”

John took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth.

He wasn’t even getting lectured at for being an idiot, or having it brushed off as nothing because, ‘Red heads and their tempers, y’know,’ or plain old being yelled at because, ‘John, you’re meant to be better than this.’

Virgil cared about him. That was simple fact.

So John cooperatively answered Virgil’s questions about pain, the range of motion he had and when exactly had the injury occurred this morning. That he couldn’t bear weight on it was pretty telling something was wrong. And it really did hurt.

“You’re going to need to come down here so I can get x-rays of that foot,” Virgil said apologetically.

John bit back the wave of disappointment, along with the accompanying urge to snap and snarl.

“I know.”

He really didn’t want to go back to earth and deal with everyone’s concern and fussing when he just wanted to ignore them and go to bed. Up here on Five no one was close enough to be affected by his moods unless they put in a comm call which he could, as above, ignore.

But John dutifully transferred control over to Eos and the island, packed his bag because he’d probably be there for a while but he wasn’t going to think about that and loaded himself into the space elevator. He knew how dangerous untreated injuries were in space better than anyone.

The descent was slower than usual, as was protocol for an injury where speed was not of the essence and a less turbulent descent outweighed the need for timeliness. It gave John plenty of opportunity to stare at the rounded edge of the space elevator’s inner ceiling. Frustration over near guaranteed being grounded bubbled up until he had to screw his eyes shut and force himself to focus on the way the g-forces felt against his body so he didn’t utterly lose it.

Landing on earth came with a jolt that managed to catch John by surprise. He flinched, then checked the systems read outs and undid his restraints. Remaining lying on the launch couch was one third to demonstrate he could be sensible and wait instead of trying to walk off a potentially serious injury, another third because he didn’t want to tangle with gravity on his own, and also so that he could childishly pretend he was still up on Five and far away for a little longer.

Virgil knocked on the space elevator doors and a second later they slid open. John gave him a weak smile.

The journey through the hangars to the infirmary was made with Virgil’s supportive arm around his waist and John’s arm draped across his brother’s broad shoulders as John stubbornly limped along. He did take a moment as his feet first touched the concrete floor and gravity really took hold to lean into Virgil’s half hug and just breathe.

The infirmary was the same as it always was, with its sterile smell overloaded with the sharpness of antiseptic that made it different from the atmosphere on Five, and thankfully quiet.

John manoeuvred himself up onto the closest bed, sinking into the stiff foam mattress as much as was physically possible. Stars, he was tired.

Virgil was exceedingly gentle as he eased John’s foot out of his space boot. He stripped the sock off too, propping the foot up to rest in his lap to examine it. John grimaced as Virgil necessarily poked and prodded at where it was sorest. Though the bruises and swelling were not particularly hard to spot from where contact had been made with the solid bulkhead.

John anxiously chewed his lips waiting for Virgil to get the portable x-ray, zap him and be done with it.

Moving his sore foot around at all the required angles for the shots was… a process.

He did his best to be patient as Virgil took the x-rays off to Grandma for a second opinion on how they would most effectively treat him, but ended up curled in a ball on the slightly plasticky hospital sheets, stubbornly facing the wall with his foot carefully positioned in a way that it least hurt.

He wasn’t asleep, it was not late enough for that and he was far too wired but he was knocked out of his reverie nonetheless by Grandma stroking his hair.

“Definitely broken, kiddo. No getting around that.”

Even John could see it when they showed him the x-rays. He could only be grateful the fracture was neatly aligned and wouldn’t need surgery, he’d seen plenty of worse breaks in the field. It still meant weeks of being grounded, away from Five and unable to go home to his stars.

Virgil applied the cast under Grandma’s supervision. John shuddered at the sensations even as he tried to keep still. He was proud of how far Virgil had come in his medical education and he made sure his brother knew that.

The usual checks after coming down from space wore on his nerves. He took the painkillers for his stupid broken foot, the anti-nausea meds as his stomach wasn’t settling from the change from microgravity and the tall lidded cup of the least disgusting flavour of electrolyte drink as directed.

He fidgeted with his baldric, tracing over the lines of his suit; everything was a lot today. For all of them; John didn’t miss the dark circles beneath Virgil’s eyes or the way he slumped as he sat on the bed next to John once Grandma had left and the cast was setting.

Virgil had briefly crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself, hands rubbing the flannel of his sleeves. Then he uncrossed them, hunching his shoulders to appear smaller, less intimidating, fingertips still going over the soft, worn fuzzy material of the cuffs of his flannel.

John placed his hand, palm up on Virgil’s leg. Virgil took it and John squeezed his fingers once as they sat in silence for a while.

Changing out of his space suit for the loose pyjama shorts and t-shirt Virgil brought was difficult and awkward with his foot. And how clumsy he was here in general.

Trying to walk on crutches was, to put it in far politer words than John vehemently used, a disaster.

One second he was standing with the crutches around his arms, adjusted to the correct height, his casted foot off the ground, everything done properly, about to take a step. The next he was a tangled pile of limbs on the ground.

John’s cheeks were burning red yet again. Stupid, fucking gravity and his miraculous ability to trip over nothing.

He shoved the useless hunks of metal away from him as the room blurred, swiping at the angry tears as they formed.

Virgil crouched in from of him, checking him over for injury. Well, further injury.

There wasn’t any, apart from his rather dented pride. John didn’t count the damp tears trickling down his face as he studiously attempted to ignore them.

Virgil made a soft noise as John let himself be pulled into a hug. Warm flannel absorbed his tears as John hugged Virgil tighter. Somehow it felt like he hadn’t seen him for months even though it couldn’t’ve been that long, could it? Unless they counted for quality time rather than John being periodically dragged down to earth… He missed his quietest and closest brother in age even if they’d been talking mission only this morning.

Maybe John tried to hide from the world for a little while, and Virgil let him. They both needed this; Virgil’s face was also buried in John’s hair.

After a while, sitting sprawled on the hard infirmary floor caught up to them with all the aches of too long days of heavy work. And broken bones. John shifted with a grimace.

Now he had to get back up off the ground when the crutches were clearly not a help, when he was pretty near useless down here, unable to resist the inevitable pull of gravity to the centre of the earth and the unforgiving ground.

…He was probably being far too dramatic about it. Should just get it together like everyone else seemed able to do.

But it was still a problem that he didn’t want to deal with because fundamentally, he wished he was back on Five.

He had been going to tell someone about the injury, of course. Just as soon as he’d thought up a watertight excuse slash explanation. As soon as got himself under control and stopped being so sensitive over everything that he’d snap at anyone who got near him. So he would not end up like this, a too-emotional mess on the floor.

Virgil once again checked his cast and his broken foot were undamaged by his fall. John wondered whether it was as much for Virgil’s sake of making sure idiot big brothers weren’t going to suddenly keel over as for John’s. John rubbed a hand roughly over his face. It was because Virgil cared. And maybe time had proven he had a right to worry.

John protested as Virgil went to pick him up, on the grounds Virgil had already been doing plenty of heavy lifting on rescues today and he had to be exhausted already, and John really didn’t want him to throw his back out or his knees or whatever other worst case scenarios John could come up with.

He also knew he’d look utterly ridiculous in Virgil’s hold, all gangly, lanky limbs out of proportion with Virgil’s shorter, stockier build. And John was more likely to accidentally elbow someone in the nose, which had demonstrably happened before and the guilt still chewed at him, than even Scott fighting tooth and nail against being slung over someone’s shoulder when he there was no way he could even physically stand, let alone walk any distance. He warned Virgil away sharply.

“John. I know my limits, and you aren’t any worse than Scott.” Virgil sounded done with it all. “And I’d rather carry you than have to pick up the pieces or reset that cast, which I have also had to do before, because one of my brothers is injured and deserves help but they are too damn stubborn to let me.”

The fight in John left him as a hissing exhale, like a hole in a space ship venting atmosphere.

Virgil scooped him up off the ground, promising to figure the rest out later as John avoided flailing too much.

His brother’s arms were secure around his knees and under his shoulders, holding him close so there was no danger of him hitting the ground, of the falling that some part of John secretly feared, even with the rocking movement of Virgil’s strides. John’s cheek stayed mushed against Virgil’s flannel-clad chest.

The walls of the house passed him in a tired blur. He really didn’t want to be left to sit around in his room where no matter how tired he was he wouldn’t sleep yet. Lying there staring at the ceiling all afternoon with nothing better to occupy him than his turbulent thoughts was frankly not a good idea.

He said as much to Virgil, probably far too bluntly. The usual multi-stage filter he sorted his words through before he ever said them had met its untimely demise in face of his exhaustion several hours ago.

It wasn’t like he wanted to hang around amidst the noise and movement and peopleing of the lounge with everyone else either. John being difficult again, as usual, the voice in the back of his head snarked.

Virgil had mercy on John and took the back route through the house instead of past the comms room where everyone would see him, even if it was only his family who he should know wouldn’t judge him. Everyone had been in the position of being carried about when they’d fallen asleep somewhere or were injured or were about to be chucked into the pool, so except in the last situation, John shouldn’t’ve been embarrassed or really cared, except that he did.

They passed by John’s bedroom. John curled a little closer to Virgil in something that could’ve been called relief. He really wasn’t sure he wanted to be completely alone right now; he trusted Virgil.

A booted foot nudged open the door before Virgil placed John down on one of the big, squishy beanbags in the corner of his studio.

John melted into it. He didn’t think he had bones anymore. Or any outside of the ones he’d just broken which had plenty of painful evidence of their existence. But no bones. He could even forgive gravity just this once when it was letting him sink into the soft surface.

He looked up at Virgil’s low chuckle.

“They’re good, aren’t they? Gordon found them online and I chose the colours.” Virgil smiled fondly.

They hadn’t been here the last time John had hung out in Virgil’s studio with him. A spike of sorrow stabbed at his chest.

New beanbags were a tiny change. It shouldn’t even matter. Except they demonstrated precisely how he was missing out on the details of his brothers’ lives while he was away.

The beanbag covers were greens and yellows, soft, earthen shades exactly what John would expect Virgil to pick. Colourful, but not in your face. Soothing and restful but not dull.

Observations probably not as important to anyone else as John found them.

Virgil ducked out and came back with John’s tablet, the one he used earth-side with its bulky, lilac shatter-proof case.

John took it carefully from Virgil’s hands, not because it was breakable even dropped from quite a height, but because of the consideration Virgil gave him, to bring him it to read on when he couldn’t go get something himself.

In space, alone, it wasn’t like there anyone to do that kind of thing for him. Even with the gifts snuck into monthly supply crates by his family, he’d sort of forgotten how it felt.

He shoved away the ever so familiar feeling of being torn in two. He loved the stars, loved being up on Five, he really did. In spite of this, missing his family while up there was a constant wound he packed with the duty of constantly being called upon, of constantly needing to be the Voice Who Answers, in hopes of staunching his bleeding emotions. It contrasted with how he never wanted to outstay his welcome on Earth.

Why was it that no matter where he was, he still wanted to go home?

Why did anger seethe and rise only to leave him all hollow and empty?

John gulped, running his hands over his face. He tucked one into his hair, tugging at the strands in an effort to distract himself. Why the fuck was he like this?

Virgil had turned away to get something off his desk, so at least he didn’t have to see John freaking out over nothing.

John forced a smile when Virgil looked back at him in concern. It wasn't like he could do anything about it.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Virgil said.

He was wearing his set of large, over-ear noise-cancelling headphones, covered in green stickers, his chin nodding along to a beat John couldn’t hear. Virgil wasn’t smiling but the creases around his eyebrow scar were shallower. Today had been getting to him too.

Left alone, John examined the art studio more thoroughly, letting himself become absorbed in the details, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

The whole place was very Virgil, in the best possible way. Storage for art materials was arranged with an engineer’s precision for putting and keeping things in their proper order, cupboards with closed doors painted olive green and neatly labeled in Virgil’s blocky handwriting. Only the pencils Virgil was currently using were left on his desk, in their tray reordered into an exactingly coloured gradient. John couldn’t deny that it also clicked in his brain with that urge to line stuff up.

An electric keyboard lived along a side wall by a bookshelf containing folders of sheet music and art theory books. John knew from Virgil that the music was arranged by each song’s dominant colour palette according to folder, when he asked as at first he couldn't make sense of the system when of course Virgil would have a system.

There were speakers in a few places around the room for the frequent times Virgil listened to music while creating. Good quality ones because Virgil said certain staticky types gave him the same sensation as putting gritty sand in his mouth.

It was Virgil’s space for making art and just being, so he’d adapted it to him. Virgil got overwhelmed when there was too much visual stimulation, with constant busy, bright colours and clutter of the world he couldn't put away, so here was an escape from that.

The walls and ceiling were light, giving an airy feeling. A large landscape window joined inside and outside seamlessly, looked over what John privately thought was the best view on the island, except for the observatory. You could see right out past Mateo, over pokey trees and ocean. Late afternoon sunlight poured in, and there were shades if it got too much.

Greenery was introduced into the room itself by the massive monstera plant in the corner, its umbrella-like leaves forming pleasing shadows on the floor, contrasting with the near liquid golden light. More smaller plants were scattered about. John brushed his fingers over the monstera, to reach out and touch the tangible connection with life and the earth.

Occasionally a piece of art was hung up for a while as it was finished before being moved to its intended display area in an other part of the house, like the watercolour sketch of playful dolphins amongst their reef obviously intended for Gordon. But mostly there wasn't anything to distract from the artwork, on canvas or as music, that Virgil was bringing to life.

John found the studio calming too, even when he usually tended towards wanting all his bright stars, books, open screens and telescopes in his space at once. There was something about the soothing surroundings, how the faint smell of paints and real paper lingered, mixing with engine bio-oil and coffee, that meant safety and home. His brother’s mark on it was undeniable.

John couldn’t help but search for the splatter of paint Virgil had mentioned earlier. It was blue and on a wall in this room, so it shouldn’t be hard to miss but in spite of all of his skills at searching, it was nowhere to be found. Eventually he resigned himself to the fact that Virgil must have painted over it, destroying the tangible proof that he’d acted out in anger.

The beanbags squished beneath him when he flopped back, long legs stretched out and foot smarting when he moved it, picking up his tablet for something to do. His substantial library of books wasn’t holding anything that could keep his attention right now as he flicked between them, opening and shutting pages. He tipped his head back, looking upwards, letting his tablet fall face down onto his chest.

And there it was. On the wall above him, the blue splodge of paint exactly from Virgil’s story.

Except it wasn't just a splodge because a rainbow of lines had been added around it, faithfully following the original shape and expanding upon it, forming a bird with wings outstretched, flying freely across the wall. Something utterly beautiful from from what had begun as only painful.

John’s breath caught. He didn't know how Virgil did that. He wrung out hope from anger, forming all the emotion into art where John just flailed because he didn’t want to touch his feelings with a thousand kilometre stick.

But here, in Virgil’s studio surrounded by the calm quiet where he could finally breathe, he could try.

So he picked up his tablet. Opened up the word programme. And began to write.

He had no idea where he was going. No plot, no plan, no outline. When he usually did this, for reports, for academic works, he always had his ideas and arguments all laid out in his head and he simply had to put them on the page in front of him.

His fingers found the keyboard and he let them, doing his best not to second-guess and delete every word he put down. To think too much and bail out as it got too big and too scary even when this was just typing on his tablet sitting in a beanbag in the corner of the room, not doing anything at all that could be thought of as dangerous or would mess up his broken foot.

It wasn't really much. In subject or in word count or in technical finesse. He hadn’t been doing this writing thing for very long, not since university and stories scrawled in his near illegible handwriting hidden in paper notebooks beneath his bed. Not for himself.

He saved the document and slammed the window closed before he could look at it and convince himself it was all completely stupid and he never should’ve even tried in the first place.

But it was cathartic and it gave him somewhere to put the irrational seething anger, outlined by the sorrow that seeped through in the lines between, to bleed out on paper, in words that were his first language and first love. In the beginnings of stories that didn’t have to be perfect or real and contained far too much of himself to even think about showing anybody yet, but that maybe one day he would.

When Virgil knocked on the door and opened it, John jumped like he’d been caught out. Then he glanced up and saw the blue paint splodge turned flying bird from the corner of his eye, and he could smile at Virgil with all the love in the world and more understanding of how his brother worked. Of why after hard rescues and bad days his first instinct was to turn to piano or canvas.

Seeing what Virgil was carrying on the tray in his hands had John wishing he hadn’t ever broken his foot so he could throw himself at Virgil to hug him this very second. Though if he hadn’t been injured, he never would’ve come down from Five today.

A blueberry bagel, toasted, with the special strawberry cream cheese that was his favourite but never lasted long in space. Or on Earth, unless his brothers saved it for him on purpose.

There was a cup of tea too, next to Virgil’s customarily massive mug of coffee.

John just stared up at him, until he found his voice to whisper all his thanks over and over. He took the plate and the cup in slightly trembling hands, then placed them on the floor next to him.

He raised his arms so that Virgil would crouch down and John could squish him into a hug.

John clung to red flannel for a few seconds longer than he usually would. Virgil returned it in kind, smiling at him with soft, brown eyes.

Then he was fussing over John’s foot again, propping it up on pillows and wrapping an icepack around it. John took it in because this was Virgil’s way of showing he cared. As well, it would mean he could get back on his feet sooner by not ignoring the injury. Plus it hurt less.

Before Virgil returned to his desk and pencils, John bumped their foreheads together in show of affection not as frequently done between them with the distance. It was often Scott and Virgil’s thing. Virgil hummed happily at him even when John wobbled as he leaned forward, making the collision slightly more forceful than he intended. Instead they laughed together over Tracy hard heads.

Enjoying each other’s company with no pressure to talk or interact was nice and exactly what they both needed. They could do their own things in parallel, Virgil with his art, a sketch forming beneath steady hands, and John with… whatever he was doing at this point.

Gathering up his courage, he cautiously reopened his word document from earlier and read over what he’d written. It was… okay actually. The typos and errors he grimaced at were numerous, but those were fixable problems.

It was a story, he’d written something. John found himself smiling down at his tablet with the urge to add more so he did.

The time passed in the light from the windows transforming from light gold to a fiery orange, stretching across their room and their island alike. As dusk grew closer, the bird calls and insect songs changed, and there were so many wonderful things about space that John could never give up loving but it didn't have this.

So maybe that was what was wrong with him. Instead of a flaw in his very humanity, it was more not enough food and too much stress, not sleeping right or talking to anyone. Those simple things he sort of… forgot about, ignored. John needed to be around family too, with the sunlight streaming in, plants in touching distance and the quiet company of Virgil and some care to feel better.

Maybe while he was down here, he’d even go stargazing outside tomorrow, lying on a picnic blanket on the grass like he used to. Monitor work could be taken care of at dad’s desk, there’d be time to help Allie with his school work then play video games together and once his cast was off, swim in Gordon’s ocean. To hang out with Scott too and help pull his beloved biggest brother out of his own overwork spiral. He hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Grandma or Kayo or Brains in a while either.

Only then would he return to Five, to his stars and space, his research and monitor duty proper. His little room up there, the gravity ring and central floating hub, with Eos as his companion, they were home too. Not in replacement of the island and his family but in addition. And he knew he could come down to Earth when he needed to even if, especially when it was just because he wanted a hug.

Right now, the soft patter of his fingertips on the glass screen blended with the scratchings of Virgil’s coloured pencils on artist’s paper.

He munched on his bagel and sipped his tea contentedly. Virgil had been cupping his warm mug of coffee in his hands, happily sighing as John fought the urge to giggle.

It was with a cheerier and more relaxed Virgil that they ended up squished together on the beanbag pile once the sun was fully set. John snuggled into his brother’s side, it really had been too long but he was here now.

Virgil’s fingers tapped contentedly against the knee of his jeans like he was playing a melody on the piano, other arm tucked around John, meaning John could feel the vibrations as Virgil hummed along. John went from messing with the case of his tablet to happily flickering his hands at his sides.

Also, how were the beanbags this comfortable? These ones didn’t even rustle and squeak like he remembered the ones they’d had as kids did.

Those had met a horrific end with their guts all over the house when Gordon had wanted to know what was inside them and out of scientific curiosity John had helped find the answers, utilising his ability to read and follow the instructions on the tag of how to open the pull-less zipper with an ancient paperclip.

He retold the story to Virgil whose eyes widened in surprise.

“So it was you!” he laughed. “I’d wondered how Gords did it, but I hadn't put anything past the fish.”

John lost his battle with holding in his own giggles and decided to let Virgil in on the secrets of a few other John-and-Gordon specials.

There was a knock before Scott ducked his head around the corner of the doorway, just as John glanced up.

Scott leant against the frame, intense blue eyes looking him over. John couldn’t tell whether they were sharper in person than over hologram or softer. They stuck on John’s cast, flicking to Virgil before scanning carefully over his body, same as if any of the others were injured in the field.

“Scott,” John stated. An acknowledgment that his big brother was here. The tight, tangled barbed wire ball that had been living in his stomach for days loosened further.

“You okay?”

How was he supposed to answer that? In this moment, laughing aloud with Virgil, yeah he was. But all the rest of the day, the week beforehand? John gave a noncommittal shrug that didn’t give much either way.

Of course that became cause for Scott to come closer. He knelt in front of John, ever so mindful of his broken foot.

Telegraphing his movements, Scott reached out and brushed John’s hair out of his face before silently kissing his forehead, all gentle big brother who was here for him no matter what.

He repeated the motion with Virgil.

John froze for precious seconds then threw himself at Scott.

It hurt. He’d forgotten about his foot in its awful cast for a moment, knocking it painfully against the floor with a broken yelp. But Scott caught him anyway. Virgil’s arms went back around him too and he was still humming but in a steadier pitch.

John was sniffling against Scott’s chest, soaking up his brothers’ warmth and all the love in the room, even as he wasn’t sure whether he was crying again from sorrow or pain or because they both cared about him so, so much and the happy-overwhelmed feeling got stuck as a lump in his throat.

Maybe together they could fix this mess John had somehow made. But right now John let them hold him close, let Scott rock them until the calm of the room could creep back in.

A cuddle pile formed on the beanbags once again, this time with Scott too. John leant back on Scott’s chest, still hiccuping occasionally from the tears. Both sets of their long legs alongside each other were tossed over Virgil’s lap, who’d very fairly called them a lanky, boney weighted blanket, while snuggling in with no suggestion they move. He could feel Scott’s chin resting on top of his head, breaths lightly tickling his hair.

Virgil had had to check again, with the medscanner he kept in his studio first aid kit, that John hadn’t screwed up his foot in its bright orange cast. Yet he hadn’t and even though John could still feel the pain of the impact, Virgil had given him another dose of ibuprofen which would take the edge off soon.

John’s eyes slid half shut with exhaustion. Scott let him fidget with his hands as he gripped them. Virgil was tapping out piano pieces again, a more relaxed melody now against the top John’s bare shin, the sensation grounding and reminding him Virgil was close.He had his brothers. All of them. All of his family. They loved him and they’d help him figure this out and that was more that enough, it was everything.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #virgil tracy #john tracy #scott tracy #astranite

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