#jeff tracy needs a front row seat to his son’s angst

[edutainer2022]

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.

[edutainer2022]

@janetm74 Oh, I'm glad you asked! Maybe darker than the prompt intended.

CW: suicidal thoughts; mental health issues.

THE GOOD PLACE

His time was up. The realization hit him with such icy clarity his fingers went numb.

He asked himself so many times, why he had survived THAT PLACE. How COULD he. Was he even really alive. After Dad was gone it came to him - he needed to fill in for Jeff Tracy. However pale a replica, they needed him. Till the kids grew up. Till the company climbed back from a sudden nosedive. Till IR found its sealegs again. Till the Hood was captured. Then the Mechanic. The Chaos Crew. They all needed him. Now Dad was back and his borrowed time was up.

Dad was everything everyone ever needed, not Scott. So his mind reached for the familiar comfort of "the good place" - he could be gone before the euphoria settled down and everyone blamed him in earnest for not saving Dad sooner, before Dad looked into how utterly he screwed up running IR on so many occasions, before everyone hated and disowned him. His time was up. He was under a false impression he maybe got a lifetime after all, after TV-21. His time was up in That Place, he only got to go on to fill up for Dad. Now Dad was back. He had outstayed his welcome. He didn't even know who he was anymore, where he stood. Not a Commander, not a test pilot, not a CEO, not a father. Not Jeff Tracy. But that was alright - he could put himself to good use as a Thunderbird one last time. As a brother. Soon. THAT was a good place to be.

***

Jeff noticed the signs he spent years praying were behind them to never be seen again. Not Since Scotty's return from the hospital, from THAT PLACE. A faraway look, electric blue eyes dim, soft, but sad. Short bursts of dissociation, especially among the bustling activity and chatter around Jeff, as the other boys, Kayo and even Brains were talking a mile a minute, relegating their antics and heroics. Jeff had an unnerving feeling Scott had handed him an armful of lively sweet puppies he'd been looking after and nurturing, and was quietly fading into background, like a ghost. Jeff's heart went cold at the memory.

The last time something remotely like that happened, Scott was slipping into the ideation of death as a release from torment (and later - emotional pain and survivor's guilt) he used to resort to in Bereznik prison. The boy only mentioned it to the high profile trauma therapist Jeff hired. Till Jeff did something he was never proud of, but would do again in a heartbeat. At Jeff's behest Kyrano broke into the doctor's office and copied the session notes - Jeff was too desperate to care about ethics, too afraid he was loosing Scott to pain still, even safely home, and needed answers. Jeff never spoke of it to anyone. He was now devastated to recognize the same signs after his return - certifiably the happiest time of their family lives.

***

He didn't master the courage to confront the eldest up front, but Jeff got his worst fear confirmed soon enough. His own voice went hoarse in the horrified chorus over the comms as Scott shoved Gordon and several trapped miners into the overweight elevator crate and stayed behind awaiting the explosion, his smile serene and kind. It was a testament to his boys' ingenuity and coordinated effort, or an ultimate miracle pulled by Lucy in heaven, that they managed to reach Scott underground in the nick of time and snach him up, only with a couple of scratches to show for it, before the mine turned into a well of liquid fire. That, and a black-eye, as a raging, traumatized Gordon decked him.

Jeff called off the formal debrief till morning. He spent some time sorting out the shaken, devastated boys before finally locating Scott all the way up at the Roundhouse. His son was seated on the barrister of a terrace, overlooking the ocean. Alone. Jeff considered his options, trying his best to recall the therapists notes from long ago. His primary goal was not to startle and not to accuse. Jeff opted for settling quietly behind Scott's back, so the boy could lean on him if he needed to. The father's hands went up to settle on the young man's shoulders, but Scott barely even stirred in acknowledgement. That was the kind of fugue state Jeff feared the most. He made sure to keep his voice down to almost a whisper.

"I need to ask you something, Bluejay, but you first need to promise you will forgive me. Deal?"

A soft hum was Jeff's only answer and he dared to prod further.

"Are you in the Good Place right now, son?"

He could feel the shoulders tense under his palms, but Scott didn't bolt away. Jeff took that as a yes. A slow tilt of the head and Jeff could see pain and anxiety in blue eyes. Scott was expecting a betrayal. Jeff could feel the crack in his heart awash with a wave of agony.

"Dr. Ross never told me anything, kiddo! I stole her notes. I needed to know how I could help you. As I do now!"

There was another small sound, too close to a whimper this time. Scott dropped his gaze to the ground down the slope. Jeff treaded further, ever so carefully.

"You could tell me why you needed to slip to the Good Place, if you want to. But you don't have to, Bluejay! It's alright".

Jeff ventured a slight pressure on the boy's shoulders to have him lean against his chest. The silence stretched for minutes, filled by the shrieks of seagulls above. Jeff bid his time.

"I didn't save you sooner. I gave up. Everyone could have so much more time with you if I hadn't stopped looking. Instead, I played pretend. My time is up, Dad."

Jeff could hear the tears in the quiet, broken voice, but let them flow. It took everything in him not to shake the boy by the shoulders, wrap him in a bear hug and scream in protest. He remembered the doctor's notes how dangerous it was to break the delusion violently. Scott could shut down. Or worse... Jeff shuddered and tried to regain what little composure he could.

"I see, Bluejay. I understand. I'll just stay in the Good Place with you then. Right here, eh?"

That elicited the reaction Jeff hoped for against hope. Blue eyes flashed up at him in horror.

"You can't stay, Dad! Everyone needs you! You need to go be with them! You can't stay!"

Jeff's hands never left his son's shoulders, clutching the boy ever so closer to himself. Scott was trembling.

"But I wouldn't know the way out, see? I don't think I can do it without you, son. You'll have to show your Old Man the way out."

He could feel his fingers go numb with dread. Jeff wasn't lying one bit - he was sure he couldn't do it without Scott. Any of it. Never could. His son's frame went limp against Jeff's chest. Defeated. His voice was barely audible.

"I don't know a way out, Dad. I don't even know who I am, anymore. I only know what I have to do. I need to go."

Now was not the time for Jeff to bask in his own despair. His own deepest fear upon return was not knowing who he could even be to this incredible young man, who was EVERYTHING for everyone around and so much more. Now Jeff needed to grasp at a thinnest straw to pull his son from the brink of the void.

"That's okay, Bluejay. How about we find you together? And then you'll find a way out of the Good Place. I'll be right behind you every step of the way."

He sealed the promise with a soft peck on the temple and was rewarded with an almost imperceptible nod. That was a start.

Jeff's vision swam from tension. Surprisingly, that's when more light steps entered the terrace. He should have been accustomed now to the habit the elder boys developed to monitor Scott closely for any signs of distress. Maybe Jeff himself was still on probation as far as dealing with the worst of it was concerned. After some gentle prying, Scott's nearly lethargic weight was taken off Jeff's arms. Huge brown eyes glistened with tears, before squeezed shut as Virgil enveloped his big brother into a crushing hug. Jeff nearly toppled backwards, completely drained, but unexpectedly strong arms caught him. John. His ginger boy pressed the his into Dad's shoulder as they both watched Virgil cradle Scott close.

"We would need those doctor's notes, Dad."

Jeff started at the whisper. Then sighed. Of course John monitored their conversation after the dramatic events of the day. John and Virgil were ready to intervene. Jeff shook his head in time with his own thoughts. The copied notes were destroyed. Kyrano took pictures with an obsolete film camera, so there would never be a leak. Otherwise John would have already found and accessed the digital files, no doubt. What Jeff read about the state of his eldest psyche back then left him so desperate he did the unthinkable - he came clean to Dr. Ross about the breach, taking full responsibility, offering her to press charges in exchange for any smallest pointers how to not let Scott slip away. He also gave her back all the photos and negatives to destroy. She opted not to prosecute him, but refused to disclose or discuss her sessions with Scott further. Jeff, however, got a valuable insight into his own fatherhood out of the stern berating he endured. So maybe that was a way to go - solicit help to have Scott come back to himself. He didn't need to call Kyrano for smuggled away negatives. His boy was going through a similar struggle again, but he was a different man doing so. So was Jeff. To help his son he needed help being a better father too. He needed to call Dr. Ross.

Jeff smiled and reached up to clasp Jon's hand. His other hand moved to ruffle Virgil's hair, then Scott's, as the brothers were still fused in an embrace.

Writing Prompt #2771

"I don't know who I am anymore." His voice was barely audible.

"That's okay. Let's find you together."

[edutainer2022]

As per usual, @janetm74 incredible insight into Jeff and Scott gave me a push to wrap up a little piece that has been in my drafts for a while. It's mind-numbing fluff. A morning talk-show with Jeff Tracy upon return to Earth provides grounds for some much needed revelations.

ONE WORD ANSWERS

As interviews were going these months, this was a smaller one. Done privately from the desk in the lounge via a holo-com. Ever since the dramatic return from Oort Cloud, already christened the "Rescue of the Century", every media outlet worldwide wanted a piece of him. Jeff didn't feel much like putting up with most of it - eight years in outer space on meager rations and slim hope was a brutal awakening once they were safely back on Earth. Besides, he'd rather not waste any more time than necessary on media coverage, away from his family. He'd done his fair share of that in his active duty days, and Lord knew he had A LOT to catch up with in his sons' lives. A lot! Some things he gleaned and pieced together in observations and a backlog of reports were more... thought provoking than others. But some visibility was needed and even expected. He understood that.

The interview for a morning show in a different timezone was to be short, capped up with a ten-questions blitz to lighten the mood. The outline of questions, as per usual, was screened by John and Tracy Legal, and pre-approved by Jeff himself. His only recommendation this time around was the order of points in a blitz.

If the boys were surprised he asked them to sit in through the interview, obscured by the sunken lounge, they didn't show it. Jeff made sure everyone was on the island, Scott back from NYC and the Tracy Industries Board full of questions and incessant worries as to the perspective changes in status quo, Alan back from campus orientation, even John planetside for the weekend (something that had become a frequent and welcome habit). They knew Dad sometimes struggled with social situations these days and needed some cheering along and support - which was provided with unreserved abandon.

The interview was running its course smoothly, as they neared the 10 questions section. The show anchor was all smiles - the mock-blitz questions were submitted by the viewers and the most frequent or special ones were selected.

- So, Mr. Tracy, you were the First Man on Mars, the Founder of International Rescue, you set multiple supersonic speed records. How would you describe yourself in one word?

Oh, that was an easy one. He would have used so many words years ago as applied to himself or others applied to him - some more on point, some vain. A pilot. An astronaut. An entrepreneur. A husband. A son. A hero. A Thunderbird. A man of the world. A friend. A savior. A failure. A legend. An idealist. A leader. A survivor. Jeff Tracy still was all those things, in different measures. But eight years of the endless night, with nothing but his thoughts, memories and dreams for company, have distilled his self-awareness to one point of absolute clarity:

- A father.

He could hear the collective breath escape his sons' lips and a soft glow washed over their features.

He smiled in response and the blitz went on.

- What are you most proud of?

That too was a no-brainer, but he might need more than one word to answer exhaustively. Never hurts to elaborate on global television:

- My sons. There are no words to express how proud I am of their accomplishments and of the incredible people they grew up to be: my youngest son Alan is a prodigy, the youngest rocket pilot in history, Gordon is an Olympic champion, an environmental activist AND an Aquanot for International Rescue, Dr. John Tracy, the Voice that Answers, holds multiple PhD degrees in Astrophysics and Computer Science, my son Virgil is an accomplished pianist, like his mother, and a recognized artist on top of being busy full time with International Rescue engineering.

Smiles were blooming on his boys' faces up to a point it became apparent he stopped his answer at four. Jeff could swear there was a sheen of tears in Alan’s eyes, whereas light brown and turquoise turned momentarily hard. Virgil's whole face was a shimmer of disbelief and betrayal. Scott's eyes, soft and understanding, and infinitely sad, would be enough to stop the interview right there and backtrack. But he needed to see this through just right. The news anchor was beaming, as they were down to the last question:

- That is certainly a LOT to be proud of, Mr. Tracy. I'm sure the whole world, anyone who has ever needed help from International Rescue, would agree. But our viewers want to know one last thing from the Hero of the Century. Do you know you're called that? That's a tough mark to measure up to! Well, who is YOUR Hero, Mr. Tracy?

The anchor probably would have never guessed how simple and ready that answer was in his mind. He didn't need a moment to think:

- My eldest son. Scott Tracy. Everything International Rescue is today, everything our family is today - we owe to him. I owe him my life. I know nobody stronger in the face of so much pain and pressure. I could survive in outer space, but I am not sure I could ever do what he did in my absence. I have never admired or respected anyone more. I am a better man for being his father. So it's simple as that, Scott Tracy is my hero.

The holo projector barely flickered out when he was barreled into midriff by a flurry of warm and blond, and fierce. Alan hugged him tight and mumbled "Thank you!", no doubt aimed at his words not only on all other brothers, but on Scott. He meant every one of those. Soon he was in a circle of strong arms and within reach of the most beloved young faces, incandescent with emotions and hope. All but one. Scott lingered behind, as he was disturbingly wont to since their first hug in the Oort Cloud - hence Jeff's little staged performance today, as a desperate measure. He held his eldest son's gaze unwaveringly across the lounge, aware of the tears streaming from still astonished blue eyes. It was an instant loss to step out of his boys' embrace even for a brief moment, but there was something he needed to do. He crossed to the couches in three big strides and held Scott as tightly to himself as the still recuperating muscles would allow. It hurt to know the boy would be this surprised to be acknowledged and appreciated. But Jeff was gifted a second chance to let all his sons know how cherished they were. How precious. He'd waste no minute of that. A tight hold of arms was soon around him and Scott again, more confirmations of affection all around washing over. There was nothing he'd rather do for the rest of his life.

[edutainer2022]

Necessary preamble:

1) I have no idea where this came from, I haven't written anything remotely resembling a fic in YEARS;

2) This snippet is not even the one I kinda wanted to put to writing, so maybe there will be a follow up (and lots of cuddles). I need to be writing a lot of work related stuff, though, so there. UPD Part 2 "Puzzles"

CRACKS

He knew he wasn’t a 100%, may never again be a 100%, with the finality of the dead weight of his eldest son unconscious in his arms. You have to be strong enough to carry your heaviest child out of a crumbling building. Well… that Thunderbird might have launched over the past eight years. The idea gave him an extra shudder but was filed away for another day. All his recuperation from almost a decade stuck in outer space allowed him to do was catch a fainting Scott before he split his scull on the sunken lounge table and to plop on the floor, cradling the now visibly shivering young man in his arms. In the moment Jeff Tracy very much longed for the time when all (or most of) Scott fit into his lap, but that heyday of his fatherhood might have slipped through the cracks long before the previous eight years. At least he could fall back to the well-trusted arsenal of parenting in the form of checking for fever by a peck on the forehead (burning up!) and rocking soothingly back and forth as Scott began to stir and wince. Oh, and he could yell for help over the comms. The echo tumbled across the empty villa.

The assortment of his sons popped up over the holo projectors. All so different, but undeniably uniform in the deep concern and a conspicuous shade of fear edged in their frowns. All scattered away across the globe and in orbit, shoulder deep in emergency rescues. All but their field commander. Who volunteered for Dad-sitting duty, while Grandma towed Brains and the Mechanic to the mainland, which should have been a dead give-away that Scott was not feeling too well. Should have been, if Jeff hadn’t been too rusty on Scott’s fever tells since that first time the boy spiked a temperature at 5 months old, nearly driving Jeff insane. The glazed over blue eyes haunted even his long restless nights in the Oort Cloud. A feverish Scott was quiet and withdrawn. A quiet and withdrawn Scott would never have slipped past the Virgil radar or John’s all-seeing gaze, or Gordon’s squid sense, or Alan’s empathy and kindness. But his sons were too busy watching their miraculously retrieved father, hovering over his every gravity-addled step and pursuing any hitch in the medical data readings. And Jeff? Jeff was just dazed, drinking in all the sounds and the sights, and the stories, soaking in being around his children. Catching up and readjusting to those eight lost years that carried them over from boys to men grown in their own right to sons again, relaxed, carefree yet attentive next to their father. Scott’s fever slipped through the cracks.

So now here he was, the Hero and the Legend, Founder of International Rescue, kneeling on the floor, arms full of son, feeling about as useless as when his tenure in fatherhood was only 5 months old and his wife was away for the first time. He could rush his burning up son to the infirmary back then, at least, one hand on the wheel – the other clutching the fussing baby to his chest. He didn’t feel like he could haul him on to the nearest couch now to go grab a Tylenol and a wet towel. The rescue operative at the back of his head supplied a simple solution to lower Scott on the floor carefully and to hurry for the hoverstretcher. But the glazed over blue eyes made a reappearance, Scott’s stare vacant and unfocused, so all Jeff could do was tighten the grip on his son’s torso and maneuver Scott’s head to his shoulder. The anxious father in him won over the weathered responder. The fussing would come next, he remembered that much. Scott was clearly out of it, his eyes directed way beyond Jeff’s broad frame, his voice too young and too small for the powerful, vigorous leader Jeff reacquainted himself with in his eldest. If Jeff closed his eyes this could be Alan, calling for his Dad. The Alan of the eight years ago, in the dim shimmer of the early, humorless family videos. A young boy lost, and scared, and heartsick. Jeff couldn’t tear his gaze away from his son’s pallid face, all too aware it wasn’t Allie, who still mostly could fit into his father’s lap.

Scott called for his Dad again and the feverish mind must have conjured the designated image – Jeff would cling to that notion, lest his sanity cracked, as he wouldn’t... couldn’t be the real ‘Dad’ on the receiving end of his son’s furrowed brow and a frantic apology: ‘should’ve been me, Dad, should’ve been me first to zr’ex… y’should’ve stayed behind with’em, I’m not enough, I’m’sorryI’msorryI’msorry”. It was the fever talking. Jeff knew this was the fever talking. It had to be. The father he was eight years ago fought the urge to hurl himself off that cursed planetoid into the lightless void. And to scream. To howl a pain so sharp it would pierce the fabric of reality the way his revolutionary T-drive wouldn’t and unravel the lifeline of his choices, and ambitions, and failures that could possibly culminate in his firstborn entertaining the idea it was best he sacrificed himself in Jeff’s stead. Fostering the guilt he didn't. The father he had no clear grasp how to be anymore, reached far and deep for muscle memory and just leaned his cheek against the sweat-beaded forehead, rocking his son’s limp frame and humming in tune. I’vegotyouI’vegotyouI’vegotyou. At least those skills of his were up to speed. He could put them to good use.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Wait, this was your first fic in years??? Hoooooooooo wow.

Absolutely gorgeous, a real heart wrench for how both Scott and Jeff have suffered in their respective ways.

And notable that the only time Jeff was going to hear that raw truth from Scott was when he was out of his mind with fever. I wonder if they will ever discuss it afterwards.

Necessary preamble:

1) I have no idea where this came from, I haven't written anything remotely resembling a fic in YEARS;

2) This snippet is not even the one I kinda wanted to put to writing, so maybe there will be a follow up (and lots of cuddles). I need to be writing a lot of work related stuff, though, so there. UPD Part 2 "Puzzles"

CRACKS

He knew he wasn’t a 100%, may never again be a 100%, with the finality of the dead weight of his eldest son unconscious in his arms. You have to be strong enough to carry your heaviest child out of a crumbling building. Well… that Thunderbird might have launched over the past eight years. The idea gave him an extra shudder but was filed away for another day. All his recuperation from almost a decade stuck in outer space allowed him to do was catch a fainting Scott before he split his scull on the sunken lounge table and to plop on the floor, cradling the now visibly shivering young man in his arms. In the moment Jeff Tracy very much longed for the time when all (or most of) Scott fit into his lap, but that heyday of his fatherhood might have slipped through the cracks long before the previous eight years. At least he could fall back to the well-trusted arsenal of parenting in the form of checking for fever by a peck on the forehead (burning up!) and rocking soothingly back and forth as Scott began to stir and wince. Oh, and he could yell for help over the comms. The echo tumbled across the empty villa.

The assortment of his sons popped up over the holo projectors. All so different, but undeniably uniform in the deep concern and a conspicuous shade of fear edged in their frowns. All scattered away across the globe and in orbit, shoulder deep in emergency rescues. All but their field commander. Who volunteered for Dad-sitting duty, while Grandma towed Brains and the Mechanic to the mainland, which should have been a dead give-away that Scott was not feeling too well. Should have been, if Jeff hadn’t been too rusty on Scott’s fever tells since that first time the boy spiked a temperature at 5 months old, nearly driving Jeff insane. The glazed over blue eyes haunted even his long restless nights in the Oort Cloud. A feverish Scott was quiet and withdrawn. A quiet and withdrawn Scott would never have slipped past the Virgil radar or John’s all-seeing gaze, or Gordon’s squid sense, or Alan’s empathy and kindness. But his sons were too busy watching their miraculously retrieved father, hovering over his every gravity-addled step and pursuing any hitch in the medical data readings. And Jeff? Jeff was just dazed, drinking in all the sounds and the sights, and the stories, soaking in being around his children. Catching up and readjusting to those eight lost years that carried them over from boys to men grown in their own right to sons again, relaxed, carefree yet attentive next to their father. Scott’s fever slipped through the cracks.

So now here he was, the Hero and the Legend, Founder of International Rescue, kneeling on the floor, arms full of son, feeling about as useless as when his tenure in fatherhood was only 5 months old and his wife was away for the first time. He could rush his burning up son to the infirmary back then, at least, one hand on the wheel – the other clutching the fussing baby to his chest. He didn’t feel like he could haul him on to the nearest couch now to go grab a Tylenol and a wet towel. The rescue operative at the back of his head supplied a simple solution to lower Scott on the floor carefully and to hurry for the hoverstretcher. But the glazed over blue eyes made a reappearance, Scott’s stare vacant and unfocused, so all Jeff could do was tighten the grip on his son’s torso and maneuver Scott’s head to his shoulder. The anxious father in him won over the weathered responder. The fussing would come next, he remembered that much. Scott was clearly out of it, his eyes directed way beyond Jeff’s broad frame, his voice too young and too small for the powerful, vigorous leader Jeff reacquainted himself with in his eldest. If Jeff closed his eyes this could be Alan, calling for his Dad. The Alan of the eight years ago, in the dim shimmer of the early, humorless family videos. A young boy lost, and scared, and heartsick. Jeff couldn’t tear his gaze away from his son’s pallid face, all too aware it wasn’t Allie, who still mostly could fit into his father’s lap.

Scott called for his Dad again and the feverish mind must have conjured the designated image – Jeff would cling to that notion, lest his sanity cracked, as he wouldn’t... couldn’t be the real ‘Dad’ on the receiving end of his son’s furrowed brow and a frantic apology: ‘should’ve been me, Dad, should’ve been me first to zr’ex… y’should’ve stayed behind with’em, I’m not enough, I’m’sorryI’msorryI’msorry”. It was the fever talking. Jeff knew this was the fever talking. It had to be. The father he was eight years ago fought the urge to hurl himself off that cursed planetoid into the lightless void. And to scream. To howl a pain so sharp it would pierce the fabric of reality the way his revolutionary T-drive wouldn’t and unravel the lifeline of his choices, and ambitions, and failures that could possibly culminate in his firstborn entertaining the idea it was best he sacrificed himself in Jeff’s stead. Fostering the guilt he didn't. The father he had no clear grasp how to be anymore, reached far and deep for muscle memory and just leaned his cheek against the sweat-beaded forehead, rocking his son’s limp frame and humming in tune. I’vegotyouI’vegotyouI’vegotyou. At least those skills of his were up to speed. He could put them to good use.