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

[edutainer2022]

The issue of power dynamics and adjustments after Jeff's return opens infinite possibilities (for angst). Jeff's idea of picking up where he left off might be less simple or even feasible. Scott literally spoke in my head through this one and John chimed in. Jeff gets an earful and needs to think.

Many thanks go to @janetm74

IN STRIDE

"May I remind you, Bluejay, I built the whole gig from the bottom up! I know how it operates. There's no need for triple reporting - it's a waste of time!"

"With all due respect, you don't, Dad."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't know how IR operates. Not anymore. You weren't there."

"Through no fault of mine!"

"True. It was MY fault. I take full responsibility. You weren't there when I negotiated new parameters with the GDF and the World Council. I was not the First Man on Mars they could trust implicitly. I was NOTHING to them. I realize I'm nothing beyond your shadow, but that's not the point! You were GONE, Dad. Uncle Lee left. Kyrano resigned. Aunt Val got promoted. There was no active duty GDF officer on the IR roster anymore. There was NO roster till Virgil and John completed training and Gordon graduated high school. I'm still a downed washout for your old buddies in the Airforce. I can live with that. But I will NOT jeopardize what IR is now, the reach and freedom we're given on the off chance the GDF brass will extend you the benefit of the doubt unconditionally again. You were on six IR missions total, Dad. Zero failure rate. The triple reporting is what keeps us in the game when the worst comes to the worst. Without it we wouldn't be allowed to lift off the ground. It keeps the boys and Kayo safe from liability!"

"But not you?"

"That's part of the deal with the GDF. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Scott!"

"Dad, don't. Let Virgil handle it. Trust me."

"How bad?"

"When?"

"There's a scale?"

"Oh yeah, Dad! You have no idea!"

"I obviously don't. Okay, then. Right after?"

"Right after you were gone? Nosedive."

"Oh..."

"The stocks plummeted, the markets were in shambles, the Board all but rioted. Scott had to hold that up - at a point we didn't have the extra funds to run IR anyway. Then there was the GDF issue. They tried to strongarm Scott into handing the Thunderbirds and the Base over, instead of appointing operatives. Scott refused. We stood down for a couple of years. There were issues with the Tinies' custody anyway. The island was deemed "inaccessible to child services". Scott was needed in NYC and Alan stayed with him through middle school. It was better for Gordie's Olympics training to be Stateside as well. Virgil finished up his degree and I was in England, prepping for the ISA stint."

"And then?"

"Dad, you alright? You seem pale!"

"I'm okay, Johnny. Go on!"

"Well... then the waves settled a bit. The company was not belly up anymore, on the contrary. Scott got a hang of it. We could fully fund IR without the Global Council or GDF input, including launching Five. Virgil and I were fully trained. Once Gordie won the medal we had a specialized Aquanaut too. Kayo finished school and Kyrano sent her over to supervize security. Brains was on board. Scott fought tooth and nail for the Big Wigs to let him helm the op independently. Like he just told you - we still needed to make concessions on reporting. I'm not gonna lie, Dad, they ARE keeping Scott in a chokehold. The hardest part was to convince Scott to pull Allie into homeschooling. He wanted the kid to have a normal life. We tried launching from Gran Roca, but the island is just so much more suitable. So to keep the child services off Scott's back we asked Grandma to move in. You know the rest, more or less. The Hood came back, we found the signal, then we found you."

"I need to talk to Scott!"

"You do. But not right now, Dad. Let Virgil deal with him first."

"That happens a lot?"

"We got our routine."

"So you're wrangling your Old Man?"

"Maybe."

"I left a mess behind, didn't I?"

"You're back now, Dad. Talk to Scott. You both need it!"

[edutainer2022]

A happy retrieval of ALL of my fanfic notes after the recent smashed phone debacle prompted to tinker a bit with a WIP long, long in the works. The focus is on the backstage of the TV-21 fiasco - in the present and in the past. Especially, the ripple effects of it on Scott, John and Virgil.

All the thanks to @janetm74!

DO-OVERS

"It isn't what it looks like!"

It really wasn't. He wished John's eyes didn't turn to hard crystal from where the brother was standing in the bathroom doorway. Scott knew the turquoise lazer scanners already did the math and counted the pills, scattered on the tiles. But it WASN'T what it looked like. Scott spilled them.

Well, technically he threw them on the floor like they were burning coals, but the intent counted, right?

His hands were shaking. Everything was wrong. TV-21 was lost. Again. No amount of upbeat platitudes Scott said to calm down  and cheer up Allie could make it better. He let Dad down. Again. He didn't save what mattered to Dad most. Again. He just wanted to stop shaking. Or maybe to just stop. Maybe John, pale in the doorway, didn't need to know that.

He hadn't touched the prescription bottle in his bathroom cabinet for years. Since a smirking mustached general on a GDF committee, assembled to evaluate his claim for IR to go operational again, wondered out loud how they would know his judgement in the danger zone would not be impaired, if the GDF discharged him for being too traumatized to see straight in the first place. His therapist wouldn't be happy about that, but he stopped taking her calls around the same time too.

Today he just needed to calm down. He needed to be strong for Allie, who didn't remember Dad's first Thunderbird, and for Gordie, who did. For Virgil and John, who remembered Dad's dark, stormy grief and withdrawal from them. For Grandma, who needed him to see her son's dreams through.

One little pill, maybe two. But his hands were shaking, as the TV-21 exploding conflated with a different one behind his eyelids - so much combustion energy to take Dad away. So one pill became a palmfull. He was just staring at his hand for a while. Okay, it WAS tempting. John DEFINITELY didn't need to know about that. It would just stop. All of it. The pain, the failure, the fear, the losses. Gone. Like Mom was gone. Like Dad was gone. Nothing he said or did could make it right.

But then he saw his brothers, ashen from grief and days of crying, all clad in black suits. Again. Alone and lost without him. Again.

So he threw the pills forcefully away, as if burned. They clattered like pebbles on the tiles and skipped everywhere. That's when John came in because John too knew his tells. And now John didn't believe him, clutching his shoulders and shaking, yelling that he drank water, yelling into his comm for Virgil and a bloodtest kit. Even if it wasn't what it looked like. Not really.

***

Virgil was doing what he did best - fixing. Maybe also hiding. He couldn't fix TV-21 and Dad's shattered dream. He couldn't fix Scott's heartbreak and poorly hidden assumed failure now any more than he could fix it all those years ago. But he COULD help fix Four and with it - the mood of the despondent little Squid. One brother sorted out was exponentially better than zero brothers. Then his comm blared red.

The code was "Two-one", and 2-1 meant TV-21, and TV-21 was bad news. Bad, bad news. John's grim, tense face in the holo confirmed as much and Virgil felt the island shift and spin beneath his feet, as he legged it to Scott's rooms.

***

[Once the Tinies were settled for the night, Scott stayed down in the living room to try and catch Dad on his way out of the office. He'd been locked in there for the past several hours with the young engineer, who designed TV-21. Shaken by nearly loosing Dad to the crash, they only ever glimpsed a flash of fuming fury when Dad and "Brains" returned from the failed test flight. So Scott lingered on the couch way past the bedtime in hopes to talk to Dad some more. A mistake, as it turned out.

The teen's attempt at a smile and a simple, if heartfelt, reassurance was shot down sternly when Dad finally emerged for a glass of water and a stifled curse, only to disappear again back into the study, lit by gossamer holo-light of schematics and figures in the conference call.

"Nothing you say or do can make this right, Scott! Go to bed!"

Virgil and John watched in horror, from behind the rails of the upper floor how Scott swayed, as if slapped, when the door slamed behind Dad again. The lanky figure then doubled over, bracing himself on a chair. Scott tried and failed to gasp through a wrecking sob, clamping a hand over his mouth to suppress the sound.

The brothers were frozen in shock, hesitant what to do as Scott looked about ready to keel over. He was probably hyperventilating, air weezing with effort through constricted pain.

Virgil stepped tentatively towards the stairs, John clutching his sleeve nervously. But Scott steadied himself for a moment only to bolt through the kitchen and out of the back door into the pitch darkness.

The brothers didn't wait any longer, practically tumbling down the stairs and on to the back porch, but Scott, the high school track star, was long gone.

They would be in so much trouble if Dad caught them downstairs, awake, on a school night, but Dad obviously was... otherwise occupied.

John, pale and wide-eyed, on the verge of tears himself, kept dragging Virgil's sleeve to run after Scott. Only which way? The farm bordered on the meadow. It was already dark. Scott could be anywhere.

Where Scott went - Virgil followed. That was the way of things. It included Rescue Scouts and multiple other pursuits. So the boy tried his best to push through the stinging of his own eyes and think like big brother, the Falcon Scout, would. They needed flashlights. The night was chilly, gusts of wind rattling the loose tiles on the old barn. Scott ran out in his sleep tee-shirt. So they would need to pick up his jacket too, on the way out.

But first, they needed to placate and possibly bribe Gordie into keeping Allie from crying if he woke up. And they needed to figure out a search grid for big brother. Letting Dad in on the commotion wasn't an option.]

TBC

[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]

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.