#scott tracy needs a hug

[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

[idontknowreallywhy]

WIP Wednesday

A snippet of what is really a small pile of snippets of a one-shot conversation I imagine Jeff and Scott having post a wonderful scene by @edutainer2022 where Jeff tells Scott he is his hero on an interview and Scott is Shook.

Posting this but now because even tho I have way more WIPs than is healthy, I do want to finish this one and maybe publicly acknowledging it exists might nudge the brain into finishing it.

🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙

“I thought you’d be disappointed…”

He felt rather than heard the words choked out into his clavicle.

Jeff couldn’t help muttering a word his mother would still not hesitate to clip his ear about and tightened his arms around the unfamiliar breadth of his eldest boy’s shoulders.

“Son, I’ve spent eight years wishing I’d taken more time to tell you all how proud I was. I swore that if I ever saw you again I would tell you every day. And…” he swore again and a Scott flinched slightly “I’ve already broken that vow. I’m sorry. But I never for a minute thought that you… that you didn’t KNOW.”

“Not your fault” came the mumbled reply. “M’sorry, I should have…”

“No!” The objection came out harder than he intended and watery blue eyes looked up at him in shock and, hell, that was definitely guilt.

“No, Scott. Don’t make this your fault.. don’t make excuses for me. You’ve done that for far, far too long.”

🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙

[edutainer2022]

That's basically what they all work persistently towards with Scott. That he feels secure enough to NOT earn his presence in the lounge with "work". Scott's ultimate happy place is around his loved ones. They all know it. They all are more than happy to provide company and moderate white noise. If only Scott would just nap, get some chips, then sleep again - not shackle himself to The Desk. When the lounge is deserted (late rescues, other commitments, other leisures) - Scott doesn't stay there for long, either working from Dad's old study or from his own rooms. Home doesn't make sense to him without people he loves most in the world near.

Never knew what love really felt like until i moved in with my best friends and realized that i didn't like staying in my room all day, and id much rather take naps on the couch where one or both of them are in the same room, doing their own thing peacefully. They make fun of me for all my dad naps, but it's so peaceful and comforting to fall asleep around the people you love and know that they'll look out for you and/or wake you up if something happens. I spent all day Saturday asleep, literally woke up late, got breakfast, sat down on the couch, and konked out for an hour. Woke up, vacuumed, went back to sleep. Woke up to make some chips, went back to sleep. When they leave town without me i can't take my couch naps cause it's not as comfy without them there. Humans are made for communities. Humans are made for best friends. Humans are made for napping with someone nearby who loves you.

[edutainer2022]

Power outages are wanky again after the night bombing. So I distract myself with a story instead of work, while the power is up. It's Gordon's 21st birthday and he gets a meaningful moment with Scott. Some sad memories resurface, but mostly it's all love all around.

Thanks go to @janetm74 for support and for cheering my recent craving of Gordon and Scott dynamics.

COMING OF AGE

The party, Tracy-style, was, of course, as bright, and fun, and loud an affair on the island as would befit Gordon's twenty first birthday. Rivaled maybe only by Gordon's eighteenth, several years back. Some details of that one Scott still didn't need to know about, for biggest brother's peace of mind. There were yet more festivities planned on the mainland, rescues permitting, including a get together with Gordon's swimming team buddies and a deep dive into the finest night club scene the world had to offer with brothers and Kayo. Some parts of those developments Scott probably too didn't need to know about.

Despite the general merry all around and copious amounts of good food on the offer, Scott had to be hunted down on the balcony, overlooking the ocean. Alone. Figured! Trust Scott to develop an empty nest syndrome despite all his little brothers and loved ones being around and accounted for, with no intention to leave.

Gordon plonked a tumbler of whiskey on the bannister, where Scott's hand was gripping it, and a gaudy neon cocktail, complete with a tiny umbrella and tinsel, for himself. Scott arched a brow quizzically.

"What? For the record, you do realize this isn't my first alcoholic drink?"

The arched brow slid into a slight frown, but Scott didn't take the bait.

"I'm also not a virgin."

The expression of abject horror on big brother's face was completely worth it.

Gordon pressed the glass into Scott's hand and raised his own concoction in a mock toast.

"Here's to me not being legally your problem anymore, Scooter!"

An instant flash of rue, across big brother's face, not concealed on time, was probably the crux of the whole moping on the balcony in solitude situation. If Gordon were honest, his own nonchalance was only half convincing.

Scott smiled the fond little-brother smile down at him, however, and Gordon felt something unwind in his chest he didn't know was coiled tight. Strong, sure arms drew him into a warm hug. Big brother rested his chin on the chlorine bleached mop and hummed.

"Aw, you'll always be my problem, Gordie!"

Gordon let himself relax a moment against the blue denim. The safest place in the world.

A memory surfaced and Gordon shifted to look up at Scott. Maybe not the best of his ideas to speak up that instant, but they hardly ever were.

"Hey, remember Mom's funeral?"

Scott frowned again, unsure where that was going. But Gordon was already immersed in reminisce.

"It was the morning of and Allie was crying as you put him in that tiny black suit. I was being difficult and you let me wear blue fish socks!"

[Scott, already in his funeral suit, made sure everyone was up and getting ready that morning, so that Dad wouldn't be upset more. He was at the end of his wits with Allie's meltdown, though. The toddler wriggled and cried for Mommy as Scott was trying to wrangle him into a tiniest mourning suit. On cue, Gordon flat out refused to put on the suit either and wanted to attend the funeral in his squid pijamas. Scott struck a deal with the pre-schooler that he could wear yellow socks with the blue fish print to go with the dress shoes. Mom's favorite.]

Scott's smile was sad again and Gordon mentally kicked himself.

"You weren't difficult, Gordie. You were six and Mom was gone. It's okay!"

It wasn't! That was the point Gordon was getting at, in a however roundabout way.

"You let me wear the fish socks and it felt like Mom was there with me. And then, at the wake, Allie was cranky again and you had to carry him. So I wanted you to carry me too."

[Tall and athletic at fourteen, Scott nonetheless couldn't pick up the toddler and the six-year-old little swimmer at the same time. So he found an unoccupied futon and hoisted both baby brothers into his lap. Virgil and John gravited near too, leaning both sides of him. Virgil, quiet and almost zoned out from all the tears. John - a translucent ghost from insomnia. People were swirling around, making smalltalk or making compassionate faces at their Dad, shaking his hand and patting his shoulder somewhere in the middle of the crowd.]

"There were all those people around! But they were there for Dad, not for us! I remember I looked up at you, Scotty, and you looked so completely alone. Like you were drowning. We had you, but you had nobody there."

In the present, Scott blinked away telltale moisture and tried for a reassuring smile. Ever the big brother.

"I had you lot, Gords! It's alright!"

"That's my point!"

Gordon didn't plan to be that intense, but maybe the dash of rum in the cocktail was getting to his head. He was clutching big brother's bicep for emphasis.

"You got us! I mean, I know Virgil and John help out, but I'm an adult now too, or whatever. You got me too! You don't have to be alone!"

Scott's next smile, Gordon could argue, was of the we'll-see-about-that variety, but there was genuine gratitude in the now wistful blue.

Another tight hug was the only response he got, for now, till somebody called them back into the lounge for a family photo.

[idontknowreallywhy]

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

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

Piano Angst - the aftermath

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

Virgil was definitely avoiding him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must have been serious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss you. S x

[edutainer2022]

With Jeff's return, there's a new dynamics of there now being two father figures on the island. And some unaddressed logistical and legal issues arise. This is a Jeff and Scott story. I'm always fascinated with them navigating things new and old, post Zero-XL.

As ever, many thanks to @janetm74 for support! Another night of bombings brings on a fic.

TWO FATHERS (TWO SONS)

Being dead was tedious, as it turned out. But not as tedious as coming back to life. The paperwork alone was threatening to swallow them whole. Jeff had a strong suspicion he hadn't even been privy to the worst of it - Scott handling the steel cage fights with the various red tapes across various countries, Tracy Legal, the TI Board, and the GDF. With a strong, if discrete, assistance of John's hacking and communication skills, he suspected (but never asked, for plausible deniability). He was more than greatful for that. His own energy was mostly channeled to gruelling rehabilitation and reacclimitization, and to not going insane from joy of being with his loved ones again. He was prepared to wrestle back every second the exile in deep space cut off his life expectancy. Truth be told, he'd be more than happy to let it all be and just stay on the island, basking in awe at his amazing boys and friends. But his sons were adamant the world got Jeff Tracy back, reinstated to his full glory - Scott's the strongest voice in the chorus. So he rolled with it. He could never again deny his eldest anything.

He might have kept to himself the increasing worry over the hue of grey pallor and deepened frowns exhaustion was casting over Scott's features those days. Every trip to the States or elsewhere to deal with the ever arising issues - an unseen struggle. Jeff's return was supposed to lift the burden off of his boy's shoulders, not add to it.

He was lounging on the couches that afternoon too, waiting for Scott to come up from the hangars. One just landed into the pool, heralding Scott's return from yet another trip to New York. In the meantime Jeff busied himself with going over more rescue logs. A habit he tried to dedicate whatever spare time he got to. Dear God, there were so MANY rescues over the past almost decade. So MANY close calls.

The elevator clicked and Scott came round the corner, his suit jacket already off, tie loosened. The young man's face looked wane, lost in thought. Jeff waited till Scott sat down next to him on one of the couches. He'd adopted another new habit - to ask how his boy's were openly and mean it. To process every word for concealed pain. But Scott was more or less an exhibit of how he felt - forehead pinched in a frown and eyes squeezed against a building headache. Jeff was half of a mind to skip chat (and possibly a nightcap) and altogether to order his son to bed, braving The Look. But Scott spoke first.

"Dad, I need to fly you in to see the lawyers and the judge next time. To transfer custody."

Oh... Jeff hadn't given it much thought, all the other priorities and sensations vying for his attention upon return. He just resumed being the boys' Dad - never for one second over the solitary years away had he stopped thinking of himself as such. But of course, Allie and Gordie having been orphaned minors, guardianship arrangements must have been made. It didn't surprise him one bit Scott had stepped up. As he did with everything else. If Jeff were honest with himself, his eldest did so a lot longer than eight years.

"Gordon aged out, but Allie's still a minor. I will need to forfeit guardianship and return parental rights to you."

There was a weariness in Scotty's voice, in his whole posture. An air of defeat. Jeff raised a hand to run a circle over the hunched back in a silk dress shirt, but his palm hovered millimeters shy of contact. It was supposed to be for the better! Their world was finally, painstakingly turning the right side up again. Scott was never supposed to be a father to the Tinies. If anything, Jeff had harbored tentative hopes his eldest might have started a family of his own by then. Yet he couldn't deny that for Gordon and even more so for young Alan - Scott was the one father figure they knew best. Allie was just a little kid when Jeff went missing, and now he was an incredible youth - brave, kind, smart, funny, exceptionally skilled and professional. He was growing up to be a remarkable man that Scott raised him. Jeff was still catching up on a decade worth of cultural trivia and technological updates, he couldn't presume to be making fully informed choices regarding the boy's future. He knew what he had to do. His hand landed on the son's shoulder finally and gave it a warm squeeze. Scott looked up, wrought with worry.

"I think we should leave it as is, Bluejay. Allie is gonna be eighteen soon, so the point is moot. This changes nothing for us here, at home. I'm your Dad. I will always be! But for the world of college funds, and insurances, and stock options - you're his parent."

Blue eyes regarded him with doubt. Scott drew in a breath to protest, but Jeff was not done.

"Allie will trust you with things he would never share with me as he grows older. Just you wait! For that you're his parent too. You have been for a while, son. I wish things were different, I wish I could lift that much weight off your shoulders. But I promise to be there every step of the way - for him and for you."

Scott's lips were moving to say something, but no sound followed. Damp blue gaze was searching Dad's face, astonished. But even despite welling tears, his son's features looked lighter. Calmer. Like an old ache got soothed. Maybe it had.

Jeff gave his elder boy's shoulder another soft squeeze and moved to stand up, having made up his mind.

"Fancy a nightcap, son? C'mon, I know you haven't worked through ALL of my good stuff. And then you're going straight to bed, Bluejay!"

He made a pointed gesture that probably resembled his own mother a bit too much. But he could indulge himself in mischief just that once. His failed attempt at a stern glare was met by a smile and mirth dancing in bright blue eyes. As Scott sprung up to follow him, sketching a salute, he could consider his goal accomplished as a father for the night.

[edutainer2022]

'COTTY'NUGGLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[edutainer2022]

So I survived the first ten hours of today's carpet bombing (yay!). The jury's still out on the rest of it. As a distraction, I've tinkered with yet another thing set to explore the Mechanic and Scott as foils. In the middle of the night, after a rescue gone bad the Mechanic gets some unsolicited insights and food for thought. Many, many thanks to @janetm74 for cheering me on!

SILENCES IN BETWEEN

One landing down in the hangar was not easy to miss, yet he tried to habitually tune the noise out. The disembarking mechanisms would soon shift the Thunderbird's pilot either up through the shute or to the lockers area. Either way the Commander would be out of his hair soon enough. He just needed to brace himself and weather the landing without confrontation. It was the dead of night. The island was silent. The big green bird and its pilots were out on the mainland, along with the kid and the Hood's niece. Brains called it a day after nine hours straight of futile struggle over the T-drive calculations. The stubborn faulty numbers were currently keeping the Mechanic awake. He heard One leave for a call out, but didn't follow the rescue chatter. Now it was obviously over and if he was lucky, the Commander wouldn't rile him up over yet another delay. He just needed to sit tight for several minutes more and then go back to work. It was in the forced tense interval that he noticed the sounds that usually heralded the pilot leaving for upper levels of the villa never came. No levers creaking, no footsteps. Just the eery quiet.

If asked, he'd deny worry ever entered the rationale of his peeking out of the T-drive platform into the vaster hangars area. Not worry for Scott Tracy, at least. Maybe worry for his time-sensitive work being potentially derailed by the idiot having faceplanted from the landing patch.

Scott Tracy was standing on solid ground, however. If maybe leaning too heavily on One's landing berth, eyes squeezed shut. Blue neoprene on one of his arms was torn through, saturated liberally with blood. The eyes that opened next gave the Mechanic pause - usually bright color was almost black with strain, vacant, like the IR Commander was seeing ghosts. The ashen face contorted against a scream, threatening to break containment. The Mechanic was surprised to witness such raw, undiluted grief in someone he had chalked up to be too full of holier than thou grandeur. Scott Tracy swayed on his feet and the Mechanic felt himself rushing down the platform scaffolding.

"That looks like it might need a clean-up."

The voice that would usually have the Commander up in arms clearly didn't register. The younger man flinched instinctively from his reaching arm, but the gaze was still glazed over, unseeing. Haunted. Scott Tracy going into shock on him definitely trumped the faceplant. The Mechanic tightened the grip on the man's good arm and steered him to the workshop allocated to him personally. First aid kits were in more ample supply on the island than palm trees. Scott didn't object per se, but did struggle to put one foot in front of the other. He was yet to utter a sound. Somehow that worried the Mechanic more.

He finished up tying the bandages and once again nodded towards the syringe of painkillers only to receive another headshake no. In between the two of them they managed to unclasp the baldric and to peel off the top of the IR uniform which was now tied around Scott's waist - the good sleeve and the blood-stained stump the Mechanic cut off with cahelium sheers. By the time he was done with the patchwork of the wounds, the Commander was pale to the point of looking grey and the Mechanic could swear he heard the younger man's teeth grit. There was nothing much more to say.

Scott moved to stand up and the Mechanic just about managed to catch the blanched Thunderbird by the midriff.

"Whoa! Easy there!"

"I'm fine."

That was the first full sentence Scott had uttered so far and it was such a blatant lie the Mechanic had to stifle a snort.

"Not by my standard you're not! Which is a pretty low threshold, I gotta tell you."

He shifted Scott's torso in the general direction of the cot he got set up in his private working area for long nights of calculations or insomnia.

"There! How about you lie down a bit?"

He wasn't a Good Samaritan by any stretch of imagination or by trade, but the idea of chaperoning the barely coherent Commander all the way up to the residential floor (and possibly holding vigil, because nobody else was readily available and the guy just wouldn't let himself black out safely) didn't exactly appeal to him. It would also take precious time off the T-drive. Murky blue eyes blinked up at him, owlishly.

"They're dead. I didn't save them."

The Mechanic figured as much. If he felt like it he could probably hack into the rescue records or video feed, but it was pretty self evident. Thunderbird One failed. What didn't quite compute for him was the sheer GUILT that came with the territory. Not self-pity but punishment, the need to deny oneself basic care or consolation. He didn't yet know what to do with the fact Scott Tracy unironically believed he owed the world to save it.

The man in his hold was trembling, literally standing on his last leg.

"Do I need to call your Grandma?"

Another small headshake nearly got the blue eyes rolling back. The Mechanic took a hasty stride and helped deposit Scott's frame onto the cot. He then turned away, giving his unexpected guest room to feel he probably wouldn't get, if surrounded by family. Well-meaning and obviously caring, they were, nevertheless, bearing down with an expectation of a happy resolution to pain. An endgame. An ever after. The Mechanic was developing a hunch he and Scott Tracy were at the opposite ends of the same tether, though - an ignition cord of shame, loathing, despair, self-destruction. Each holding a lighter.

The stifled sobs came soon enough and he busied himself with the holo projections of T-drive specs. When the quiet weeping subsided into keening and then faded into even, if labored, breathing, the Mechanic moved to turn around. He made a quick errand to the adjacent workshop, favored by Brains, and came back with a tattered, lopsided knitted blanket. It was obviously designed for someone shorter and younger than Scott Tracy, but it would have to do. The young man's face was stricken with tear marks and there were beads of sweat on the forhead. The Mechanic paused to consider his options and reached to check for fever. The frown of the pallid features deepened as a tear escaped from the closed lids.

"I'm sorry, Dad! I'm so sorry..."

He froze, hand hovering over the clammy skin. The low grade fever was definitely in place and the Mechanic really wished someone intervened and took Mr. No Painkillers off his plate lest it got worse. But the island was still calm and appeared deserted at that hour. Fifty two thousands miles above Thunderbird Five was probably busy dealing with whatever tragedy had unraveled, or grieving too, in the aftermath. The Mechanic was, therefore, it. Oh, the irony!

The rest of the night was a blur of studiously avoided fever mumbles, a minor breakthrough with the T-drive calibrations, and general exhaustion. He stumbled off at the crack of dawn to grab a shower and an early coffee before the island erupted with frenzy, catching up with the night events. Coming back with a steaming mug, he found his nook empty. Cut off neoprene and bloody gauze was cleared out. The cot was made neatly and the flimsy blanket folded with military precision.

The Mechanic shrugged, took a liberal gulp of coffee and fired the holo console back up. He would need to show Brains the new results once the engineer was done fawning over the distressed Commander. He knew the cleanest break from the whole conundrum would be to never speak of it again. The dopey DIY cover taking up permanent residence in his workshop went uncontested.

[edutainer2022]

A cold, vicious cyclone caught me unawares in the middle of the city the other day, right as I decided it was too hot for the coat. So, naturally, Scott gets under the weather in NYC, quite literally (and is being a stubborn doofus about it). It's an Earth and Sky fluff, but in the end, John decided he wanted in, so Earth and Star have a good hearty chat too. Virgil and John are being very good brothers. Absolutely nothing hurts. A greatful boop to @idontknowreallywhy, @astranite and @janetm74 for soft fabrics and Top Gun featuring.

UNDER THE WEATHER

The perks of living on a tropical island included not only it being remote, secluded and perfect to house a state-of-the-art rescue operation. It was also the whole being TROPICAL deal. Whenever one stepped out - it was reliably warm. The downside of living on a remote tropical island was losing the habit to navigate the regular four-seasons weather. Or the fickle New York City climate.

Truthfully, Scott didn't miss it much. Of course, he'd be fondly nostalgic about Kansas and snow slides, or, would occasionally get caught up in the inherent wistful mood of early NYC fall. But he definitely didn't miss THIS - being caught up in the icy torrent and orange warning winds two blocks away from the Tracy Tower. In nothing but his dress shirt and slacks.

They were at Tracy Industries headquarters with Virgil for the better half of the week. Virgil was involved in pre-screening the latest batch of R&D pitches, before they would move on to Brains and John for the final approval and production. Scott was held hostage by the Department of Finance for budget amendments and redistribution.

When the opportunity presented itself, well into the afternoon, to escape his own untimely death by paperwork or premeditated murder of a high ranking employee, Scott ran for the hills, slipping expertly beneath the radar of Kayo's handpicked security detail.

His underlying motive was quite noble - to walk to that coffe-shop Virgil liked and get his brother and himself some decent coffee. Virgil loved coffee and Scott loved Virgil - the rationale for his sortie was ironclad. Of course, pursuing exclusively immaculate fraternal care didn't provide for ditching his earpiece and wrist com. The hasty retreat also meant his designer (and more importantly in his current predicament - woolen) jacket got left hanging on the back of his chair by the bay window. He forgot this wasn't Tracy Island, the sun outside the window and climate control in the offices and their penthouse at the top of the Tracy Tower lulled his vigilance. And now, without a comm to get a timely warning from Eos or to call a cab (or the security SUV with a profound apology, or One from the landing pad on the roof), Scott was caught in the sudden onslaught of a cyclone.

The prudent thing to do would be to go back to the Tower. So, of course, Scott decided in favor of the opposite and broke into a run for the rest of the distance to the coffee place. The relentless laws of physics - speed and resistance - made sure he was soaked through the very last thread of clothing on his body and chilled to the bone by the time he got there.

His hair plastered to the forhead, the supershiny gel having lost the round with the freezing downpour, rivers of water drained down from the top of his head all the way past the suit slacks and dress shoes splashed in muck. There were poodles of water INSIDE his shoes. His socks were wet. His shirt was drenched. The squelching of the fabric as he walked up to the counter suggested he was wet EVERYWHERE. Yuk! That, at least, he didn't know as he was getting numb all over from the cold.

Scott was aware he probably looked like a wet stray cat. It was that or his shirt became see-through in the rain - as a barrista with a cute smile tried to waive his fee for the coffee. Unacceptable! He paid for two extra large, extra strong brews,  and rushed out, stifling a sneeze. Must have been the shirt, since one of the take-away cups had a phone number scrolled on the side. Which was a small consolation, as he broke into a jog again, making his way back through the raging elements.

***

The Tracy Industries front desk in the lobby, thankfully, didn't detain him, so he snuck into the elevator, not making eye contact with anyone. It was getting increasingly hard to hold the coffee cups - his hands were numb and shaking, and his teeth were clattering in time with full body shivers. Scott was sure he had hit the executive floor button, but the elevator made no stop, gliding all the way up to the private penthouse. Figures. He'd probably earned himself a lecture not only from the on site security team, but from John as well.

The door slid open on his approach across an antechember and he was welcomed in the hallway by a wall of flannel presided by furrowed black brows. Scott brandished the procured coffee cups like a shield, instinctively. He would sound more nonchalant if he were not stuttering from the cold.

"Hey, Virg, I got your favorite coffee!"

His face muscles were too frozen for a smile.

Virgil was holding a massive towel, or maybe a full body length terrycloth sheet, like an unfurled banner, and appeared completely unmoved by Scott's heroic endeavor.

"How very kind of you! Now step on the rug and strip. I'm not mopping after you!"

Scott looked down and found himself standing, indeed, on one of Gordon's old bright pool towels. It was already soaked halfway through with all the water Scott was dripping. He felt marginally ashamed as the elevator likely sported poodles too. But it was hard to maintain several self-deprecating emotions at once, being that cold and miserable.

The styrofoam cups were tentatively deposited on the glove table. Scott peeled off his soaked dress shirt and shed the trousers more than eagerly, toed off wet (and probably ruined too) shoes. Francesco the designer would bite his head off. But that could wait. He needed something warm off the rack now! A move off the towel was aborted, however, by the reappearance of the Eyebrows over the terrycloth edge.

"Uh-uh! Everything, Scooter! You're NOT wedging your undies behind the shower stall. Again!"

Scott sighed. That was ONE TIME! He was sneaking back past the curfew and tried to conceal evidence. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. The moment the last wet cloth on him joined the pile on the floor, he was wrapped head to ankles in the sea of soft blue fabric and steered in the general direction of the shower.

"You know the drill! Try to warm up under hot water as long as you can. If you feel lightheaded - yell, I'll be right here."

The scolding shower helped somewhat. He could still feel the freezing grip around his ribs, but his extremities were not as numb anymore, at least. There was a stack of warm sleepwear waiting for him as he stepped out in the cloud of fog. Scott smiled - it was a motley assembly of his own clean trunks and sweatpants, a well-worn soft flannel shirt and a Denver Engineering hoodie, that swapmed his frame. Hair toweled off and curling every which way, he was mostly ready to venture back out into the colder world, but felt dead tired.

There was a nest of throw pillows and a blanket, assembled on the couch, unfolded to full length, in the living room. Scott made an immediate beeline for it and tugged the blanket around his shoulders, trying to fold his feet beneath as well. The shivers were crawling back. Virgil emerged from a door that was decidedly neither Scott's nor his own room, carrying a pair of fluffy bright orange socks and an extra comforter.

***

After some gentle, yet determined, coaxing, the orange socks were tugged onto Scott's icy cold feet and a second blanket was tucked snuggly around him. Virgil settled by his side against a couple of snatched pillows, pondering idly that they would need to get a spare weighted blanket for the penthouse too. They would also owe John more socks. The Scott-sized frozen burrito shuffled closer and Virgil wrapped an arm around his wayward big brother, offering more of his body warmth. The chills worried Virgil. Scott was fit and healthy, but he was chronically exhausted and hadn't been exposed to cyclones without IR-grade water-proof gear, or at least a raincoat, in a while.

"So... you wanna watch Top Gun?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Scott's face immediately shot up, beaming with a thousand suns. He also did an enthusiastic giant caterpillar wiggle, blanket and all. Virgil thought in that moment his core memory was probably Scott, all bright eyes, gap-teeth smile and dimples, bouncing with excitement and unbridled energy. He wished he got to revisit it more often.

The opening frames rolled on the holoscreen to the sound of the all too familiar Anthem. Virgil finally reached for so hard earned cup of coffee, now reheated, and couldn't contain a snort.

"Aw, Scooter, you actually scored a number for your troubles?"

It was obvious Scott wasn't going to last through the movie - his eyes were droopping and voice slurred, mostly muffled by plaid flannel.

"M'dashin'!"

A smaller hologram appeared at that exact moment on Virgil's comm. John looked way too amused:

"Actually, that's the number of a homeless shelter around the corner from the coffee shop."

Virgil's laughter full on rumbled at that. He raised a hand to ruffle the back of big brother's head:

"Oh yeah, you're a dashing idiot."

"M'cold."

The muffled complain was exemplified by a full body shiver.

"Sure, Scotty! You're a cold, wet, dashing idiot."

There was no protest to that, just a soft, slightly stuffed snore. Virgil adjusted the hold on the now sound asleep biggest brother to snuggle him closer.

***

The F-14A Tomcat was playing chicken with a MiG-28 on the screen. John's hologram lingered. Virgil could tell the space ginger was concerned more than he let on. John finally spoke.

"Is he gonna be alright? Should I cancel his Friday?"

Untamed by the gel, the now dry and fluffy ringlets made it difficult to reach Scott's forhead, but the back of Virgil's hand found the way, careful not to disturb. The skin was cool to his touch, no signs of fever.

"He'll be alright. He just needs to warm up and sleep it off."

He moved to rub a soothing circle over Scott's back as the big brother relaxed deeper into sleep. It was sorely tempting to clear Scott's schedule for the next day and mandate more rest. But Virgil was aware it would pose a risk of Scott, not held down by a cold, hairing off to the island in One, insisting to be back on the roster, if not on TI business. That would be a shame, as a big part of the weekend, Virgil had been looking forward to, was going to see Tosca at the Metropolitan Opera with biggest brother.

John  was still hovering, unconvinced. Virgil siged, but smiled:

"Well, Johnny, unless you want to come down from orbit and join me at the box, I'd rather our reservation to a sold out six months in advance opera didn't fall through."

John looked appropriately appalled and quite earnest:

"I love you more than my life, brother, but I do draw a line at too many people doing too many loud things in a confined space. Call me Johnny and see how often I come down from orbit!"

Virgil stifled a huff of laughter, as Scott shuddered and groaned quietly, but, thankfully, didn't wake up. The warm-up circles over his back and shoulders resumed. Virgil hugged him closer. John shifted attention to the swaddled biggest brother in fond amusement.

"What did you bribe him with, anyway?"

Virgil didn't have the energy to protest.

"Apfelschtrudel from that place Gordon found. And he can preview the R&D projects I selected for Brains, if he gets bored. No call-outs, no reports, no work mail though."

The gazed Virgil fixed on John was full of fair warning. It was John's turn to smile.

"Don't worry. You love watching opera and Scott loves watching us doing what we love. He'll be fine. And locked out of his work accounts, for good measure."

Silence stretched for several moments, interrupted only by Scott's soft snoring.

Virgil looked down on the slumbering brother in his arms, then back at John.

"I wish he did more of what he loves. Just Scott. For himself - not for us, or for the company, or the world."

That wasn't an issue easily solved in a casual conversation through an impromptu movie night. If at all. John knew that too, all too well. The brother in orbit chewed on his lip, lost in thought.

"You could sugget he get coffee in that place again. She's a Hudson Uni postgraduate. Cultural Anthropology."

Virgil was mostly used to John's the Resident Genius thoughts veering in unexpected directions, but the ginger thoroughly lost him there.

"Huh? Who's a postgrad where?"

John rolled his eyes in exasperation commonly reserved to explaining things to the bristling rescuees and a five year old Gordon.

"The barrista that gave Scott a shelter number today. She works part time and volunteers there often. One time she even volunteered at the IR disaster site. Remember, the sinkhole? She seems nice."

Top Gun closing scenes were replaced by assorted social media pages and university profile pages. Virgil gulped.

"John! You can't go doxxing random people!"

John's hologram up in orbit shrugged:

"I have Eos run background checks automatically on anyone who comes in contact with you guys. We can't take any chances!"

There was sound and, sadly, field proved reasoning behind what nearly cost them barely averted tragedy on several occasions. But still... Virgil kept staring at a pretty blond smiling from the holoscreen.

"That gotta be illegal!"

"Only if I get caught."

Turquoise eyes twinkled in nothing remotely resembling remorse. He still didn't cut off the call.

"Do you wanna come down here for the weekend?"

Virgil suddenly felt the need to have more brothers accounted for and within reach. There was hope in the way John actually gave it a thought.

"Only if you don't make me go to the opera. I ordered you pizza, by the way."

A wave of warmth washed over Virgil and he tightened the grip on Scott's frame instinctively.

"You're my favoretest brother not asleep at the moment!"

He was graced with another eyeroll.

"You spend entirely too much time around Gordon. I'll have Eos screen the calls and land the elevator on the Tower tomorrow evening, your time, if there's no major catastrophe."

Virgil resisted the urge to fistpupm in the air. Definitely too much time around Gordon. Another thought occurred to him as he remembered a detail John mentioned when vetting the unsuspecting compassionate barrista.

"Hey, John! Could you..."

"Right ahead of you, brother. An anonymous donation was made to the homeless shelter and free kitchen an hour ago."

And they said Virgil and Scott were uncanny telepathic. Then again, it was to be expected. Anyone who was genuinely kind and considerate to their favorite Idiot, or attempted to course-correct his destruction path, inadvertently gained a lifelong ally in every one of them. Maybe he really needed to nudge Scott to go get more of the good coffee tomorrow. Equipped with an umbrella that time around.

[gumnut-logic]

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

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

Could it?

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

Scott had banned him from the hangars due to injury.

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

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

Now you’re just a hypocrite.

Oh, shut up!

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

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

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

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

Of two.

Aw, crap.

“Whatcha doin’, Virg?”

“Mind your business.”

“Ooooh, touchy. Need some coffee?”

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

“What do you want, Gordon?”

“I see you have motorised the clothesline.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“How fast does it go?”

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

“Fast enough.”

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

“Gordon…”

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

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

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

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

Yesterday had been hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a Tracy and Tracys love speed.

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

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

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

-o-o-o-

“Virgil, what the hell were you thinking?”

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

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

It was very bright and Virgil’s head complained.

“Virg? You with me?”

A grunt was all he managed.

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

“Oh.”

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

Virgil winced. “Please don’t yell.”

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

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

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

Virgil had to grunt at that as well.

“Sorry.”

Another disgruntled murmur was all Scott said after that.

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

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

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

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

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

-o-o-o-

[edutainer2022]

In commemoration of the recent bomber drone hit on Chornobyl  reactor sarcophagus, I absolutely had to do a thing. The GDF ask Scott to step out of his comfort zone and are shady, undeclared wars loom treacherous and deadly amid Global Peace, Jeff is dealing with memories worse than I expected. The Radioactive Trio are my bosom darlings, so maybe there will be a Part 2.

Always hugs and thanks to @janetm74 for talking all the wayward ideas through with me.

DÉJÀ VU

His father's face was somber and taut in the bluish hues of the wrist com - a rare occurrence after his return to them. That alone made Scott speed up the jog back to the villa.

It wasn't unusual for Dad to be up early lately, to see Gordon off to his first swim of the day and to catch Scott back from the morning run. They'd share a coffee (decaf for Dad), a chat about orders of business for the day, maintenance or training plans, and a centering, tentative sense of normalcy that had just ever entered their routine on the island before Zero-X ripped Dad away from them for years. Things weren't the same - Scott was the one with more information now and a decisive vote on the agenda of their family, but it was a start. For the first time in almost a decade Scott felt like the day ahead wasn't about to swallow him whole, like he could share at least some of the burden without apprehension or guilt. Almost without, that is.

The pit of unease and worry was growing in his stomach now. Dad would never have called him through the run without good reason. At first Scott panicked it was Dad's health, still very far from pre Oort Cloud bottomline, but the monitor and Eos would have alerted him sooner. Dad's face was inscrutable, his words clipped and dry. He needed Scott in the study ASAP, not the lounge, for some reason, so Scott accelerated up the rocky path back to the villa. Shower was obviously not an option, although he was sweating buckets. Years of growing up in Jeff Tracy's household, however, made him pause a second in front of the door, wipe the sweat away with the hem of his old Yale t-shirt and attempt to comb fingers through the hair, damp and curling in spikes every which way. Not that it helped much.

The study, which first Jeff, and then Scott favored for important conference calls and other business matters that couldn't withstand the bustle and hustle of the lounge and other communal areas, was now dominated by a hologram of Colonel Casey. Dad's face was positively grim as Jeff stood up to greet him. The maw of anxiety was by then snapping with teeth of steel in his gut.

Dad clasped a hand over his shoulder, a brief but welcome comfort, as he steered Scott to take his place at the desk. Scott nodded in a brief greeting as his father repositioned himself with an effort in the armchair by the wall, suddenly looking older than he usually did in the mornings. It didn't help that Aunt Val's face was serious, edges of her face hard and sharp.

"Colonel Casey."

"Scott! I need to request your help."

"Sure, what's the situation?"

He glanced across the room at Dad in mild bewilderment, as typically the GDF would not hesitate to forward initial data and rescue specs to John up in Five. The need to know was beginning to unnerve him.

"There's been a localized breach in the dome of the outer protective sarcophagus over the fourth reactor of the Chornobyl nuclear power plant."

That was... not good, by any yardstick. The abandoned and sealed reactor had been a radioactive hotzone for almost eighty years by then.

Colonel Casey droned on, as if reading off a script.

"The repairs require high altitude certified responders with experience in contaminated areas."

Yep, that sounded like a job description for him, alright. Fly in One, seal the dome up top, submit radiation readings from the patch for inspection, fly back. If he left now, he'd be home on the island in time for breakfast. Worst case scenario, he'd have to wait around for Virgil in Two to help with putting out the fire. The hardest part would be to wake Virg up this early. He glanced up with a ready smile, but Colonel Casey wasn't meeting his eyes. His father was sitting ramrod straight and still, hands gripping the cane.

"There's something else, Scott."

There always was! He gave the Colonel room to continue with an expectant silence.

"I know you made your stance very clear on NOT deploying International Rescue as law enforcement and I respect that."

For some reason it felt like Casey was addressing his father more so than himself.

"But under the circumstances, I have to request that you assisted the GDF investigation on site".

The pit in his stomach grew wider.

"Under the the circumstances?"

Colonel Casey paused, as if weighing her options one last time. Jeff's death grip on the cane turned his knuckles white and skeletal.

"We have reasons to believe the breach didn't occur by natural causes... or a local sabotage."

He was about five when the Big War erupted the first time. He'd been to a warzone since then - memories he'd rather not touch willingly. He knew the dill. If it wasn't wear and tear, or a disgruntled extremist with a dynamite pack... it was...

"We suspect the dome was damaged due to a collision with a high velocity unguided aircraft."

A drone. To breach the layers of concrete, designed to contain radiation for centuries to come, the drone had to carry a hefty payload. To direct a bomber drone at the one object under protection of the Global Peace Treaty for the exact purpose of avoiding a continent-wide nuclear catastrophe meant one thing. A war.

Scott squeezed his eyes shut against a rapid onset of a headache and a creeping panic. He caught a glimpse of Dad doing the same in his chair. Five rhythmic breaths later - one for each brother and Dad - he ventured to face Colonel Casey again.

"How can I assist the GDF investigation, Colonel?"

Surprisingly, Aunt Val's face softened in a shadow of a smile.

"I need you to oversee our investigators and be a liaison between the GDF team and the local authorities and rescue services."

"Liaison?"

"Translator, Scott. You speak astronaut Russian and..."

Colonel Casey paused, but it was his godmother Val, who went a shade paler. Scott himself stifled a chill, although the study was perfectly climate controlled. He also spoke Bereznikian. He was semi-fluent, through no will of his own, in the crude amalgamation of Ukrainian, Polish and Hungarian. That Place was still reaching back to haunt and taunt him. To reassert its grip.

In the chair across the room his father hunched in on himself.

"I don't have to tell you any findings of the investigation are strictly classified. We need to keep it all under wraps, for now."

He could guess as much. Same as he was having a very good hunch who the GDF expert investigators in the radioactive exclusion zone would be. Maybe Aunt Val expected him to do a bit more than just "liaise with local authorities". "Keep an eye on young Cameron and make sure Marion doesn't do anything hasty and reckless, that could cause another Global Conflict", more like. Easier said than done. But he had never backed off a challenge in his life.

"Copy that, Colonel! Forward me the rendezvous coordinates and I'll be there in One. It'll be fastest."

Aunt Val was obviously pleased he was quick to read between the lines.

"You'll meet Leutenant Van Arkle and Corporal Ortíz at an airbase in Katowice, then fly from there to Chornobyl."

Scott frowned for a second. His father's face a mirror of his own concern. The GDF were willing to draw attention to the impact site with One of the IR fame swoooshing in over the megapolis to the Exlusion Zone, but not advertise the involvement of their own officers. That could never point to anything comforting. Two tagging along for the ride was out of the question now too. So Scott would have to prepare for any eventuality without backup.

He was up on his feet in time for Colonel Casey's hologram to blink out. Dad was getting up too, a lot slower. Jeff's eyes were ill, haunted, hoarse voice thick.

"You don't have to do it, son. You don't have to go there."

As far as Scott was concerned, he didn't really have a choice. Someone attacked a still hot, faulty nuclear reactor. Scott wanted to reassure Dad it wasn't That Place. Only it was a demilitirized zone in Eastern Europe, several miles away from the border with a rogue dictatorship, in the middle of a forest still rigged with field mines and littered with undetonated missiles, with multiple unknown hostile factors and agents on the ground. The parallels were hard to ignore, so his own fingers were going numb with long repressed dread.

Scott stepped around the desk and gave his father a swift, fierce hug. For a brief moment it felt like Dad wouldn't let him go. But arms, suddenly frail, fell back and Scott hurried out. He still needed a shower before heading to his macabre destination. "No thieves or dangerous radiation" was, apparently, not in the cards. Again.

[idontknowreallywhy]

[edutainer2022]

@sofasurf Oh no... it wouldn't be good! At all... But Thunderbirds have a remote override (if not HABITUALLY turned off by a hotshot flyboy, of course).

What's gonna be even better is drinking half a bottle of off-brand Coke, offered by a kindly local volunteer, in one go and heading back into the danger zone. An about to collapse building, perhaps? A mine? Virgil and Gordon are busy with evacuating the area elsewhere. Alan and Kayo are on debris clearing duty in pods. But Scott and his grapple packs are needed inside. John is kinda worried since Scott's suit readings are all over the place - pulse is racing, oxigination dropping into orange. Truth be told, Scott is also kinda dizzy and his eyesight swims out of focus. He's sweating a bucket. If he didn't know better he'd say he was having a heart attack. Maybe he SHOULD know better because after each wayward stunt Virgil usually recites stats of strokes and heart attacks under 30 at him. He also maybe shouldn't have quipped about it to John now. A John who's very blurry around the edges. Must be interference with his comms. He's also deep inside the guts of the disaster site, there're people needing his help - so his premature cardiac episode can wait till he's done his job. John's miniholo is going positively GREY. He's not only dizzy now but nauseous. About to throw up, more like. Which is a BAD idea in a helmet. So the helmet has to come off. Vomiting brings him to his knees, which is... a bummer. He shouldn't have passed up that protein bar Virgil offered how many hours ago? An attempt to get up brings him further down. There's an echo of John's voice in his helmet that clattered to the side. MiniJohn is gesticulating wildly on his wrist comm, but he can't answer. He can't move. He's so very tired. John's voice is soon joined by a yelling baritone. Virgil is pissed at him. Figures! He finally worked himself into a heart attack. But he's taking a rest now, right? Someone else is screaming too, wailing for him to GET UP AND GET OUT! But the voices are drowned out by the roar of collapsing stone, as the ground and the walls shake and shift, and fold all around him.

Poison list

While it's important to approach writing with creativity and imagination, it's crucial to prioritize responsible and ethical storytelling. That being said, if you're looking for information on poisons for the purpose of writing fiction, it's essential to handle the subject matter with care and accuracy. Here is a list of some common poisons that you can use in your stories:

Hemlock: Hemlock is a highly poisonous plant that has been used as a poison in various works of literature. It can cause paralysis and respiratory failure.

Arsenic: Arsenic is a toxic element that has been historically used as a poison. It can be lethal in high doses and can cause symptoms such as vomiting, abdominal pain, and organ failure.

Cyanide: Cyanide is a fast-acting poison that affects the body's ability to use oxygen. It can cause rapid loss of consciousness and cardiac arrest.

Nightshade: Nightshade plants, such as Belladonna or Deadly Nightshade, contain toxic compounds that can cause hallucinations, respiratory distress, blurred vision, dizziness, an increased heart rate, and even death when ingested.

Ricin: Ricin is a potent poison derived from the castor bean plant. It can cause organ failure and has been used as a plot device in various fictional works.

Strychnine: Strychnine is a highly toxic alkaloid that affects the nervous system, leading to muscle spasms, convulsions, and respiratory failure.

Snake Venom: Various snake venoms can be used in fiction as deadly poisons. Different snake species have different types of venom, each with its own effects on the body.

Digitalis: Digitalis, derived from the foxglove plant, contains cardiac glycosides. It has been historically used to treat heart conditions, but in high doses, it can be toxic. Overdosing on digitalis can cause irregular heart rhythms, nausea, vomiting, and visual disturbances.

Lead: Lead poisoning, often resulting from the ingestion or inhalation of lead-based substances, has been a concern throughout history. Lead is a heavy metal that can affect the nervous system, leading to symptoms such as abdominal pain, cognitive impairment, anemia, and developmental issues, particularly in children.

Mercury: Mercury is a toxic heavy metal that has been used in various forms throughout history. Ingesting or inhaling mercury vapors can lead to mercury poisoning, causing symptoms like neurological impairment, kidney damage, respiratory issues, and gastrointestinal problems.

Aconite: Also known as Wolfsbane or Monkshood, aconite is a highly toxic plant. Its roots and leaves contain aconitine alkaloids, which can affect the heart and nervous system. Ingesting aconite can lead to symptoms like numbness, tingling, paralysis, cardiac arrhythmias, and respiratory failure.

Thallium: Thallium is a toxic heavy metal that can cause severe poisoning. It has been used as a poison due to its tastelessness and ability to mimic other substances. Thallium poisoning can lead to symptoms like hair loss, neurological issues, gastrointestinal disturbances, and damage to the kidneys and liver.

When incorporating poisons into your writing, it is essential to research and accurately portray the effects and symptoms associated with them. Additionally, be mindful of the potential impact your writing may have on readers and the importance of providing appropriate context and warnings if necessary.

If you want to read more posts about writing, please click here and give me a follow!

[0-therw-0-rldly]

I’ll preface this by saying I’m not really a shipper. I just enjoy canon couples on TV Series/films.

Terms I’d like B*ddies to remove from their vocabulary because they don’t know how to use them correctly:

Media literacy: For a group that uses this term a lot you sure do misinterpret everything in this show.

Queerbaiting: Going to expand on this one. A show that’s already been pre established for having queer characters simply cannot queerbait.

Ship baiting: While sometimes you can argue that they could be doing that, that’s only if you look at the show in a very biased manner. You might think this is the case but the general audience doesn’t think the way you do.

Ship war: This isn’t a one tree hill situation where there was Team Brooke Vs. Team Peyton where the middle guy (Lucas Scott) had canonically been with both women. This is people not understanding fanon vs. canon and not being able to just watch the show. It’s like playing quarterback on Madden and thinking you could be better than Patrick Mahomes.

Plot device: everything’s a plot device. Move tf on.

Predator: You sound like crazy MAGA supporters calling everything regarding the LGBTQIA+ community as predatory. Sit down.

Co-parenting: I know this is a big one and discourse was brought up during the hiatus. Oliver and Ryan have loosely mentioned this years ago but it was never to be taken this seriously. Do y’all even know what co-parenting is or are you that big of a donut? Buck is someone who loves his best friend deeply and by extension, his kid too. Him taking care of him frequently does not make him a co-parent. Maybe he is a parental or uncle figure, but he isn’t a co-parent. Also, I swear y’all need to learn how a will works. He is a GODPARENT, not a GUARDIAN. Stfu.

Hag: This especially applies to women, but to say that someone 25-30+ is a hag for still being in fandoms or enjoying tv shows/films is inherently misogynistic. Men are never held to this much criticism for enjoying fictional media, but women aren’t allowed to?

Queer Coding: people of the same sex “looking at each other”, hugging, or having intimate moments all together doesn’t make them queer coded. It could mean that they just love each other that deeply platonically. While representation is amazing and just because you interpret a character as queer coded (just like my ship baiting comment) doesn’t mean others interpret it that way as well. In addition, network TV has stipulations, and also actors are allowed to decline storylines. Ryan has mentioned his character is heterosexual an abundance of times which means (at least for now) that he isn’t willing to go for this storyline.

Dead naming: Y’all construing the fact that Buck wants people like coworkers and some of his former love interests, to saying Evan is his dead name is inherently transphobic because do you even understand what a dead name is? Evan Buckley is shown as being fine with being called Evan by both Tommy and his sister. I’m pretty sure some of his love interests have called him Evan as well.

Fetishizing: You guys saw two hot guys who “looked at each other” and for 6 seasons have wanted nothing but to see those two make out with each other. Those of us who enjoy Tevan saw Buck giddy at the thought of Tommy and have wanted domestic fluff for them since.

Anything to do with racism, homophobia, and misogyny: I’ve seen the way you guys have conveniently weaponized Henren and by extension Aisha/Tracie when you didn’t get the Ryan/Oliver interview, don’t try to act like you’re morally superior. Not to mention wanting a canonically gay man to die in a show and not even holding those who use your ship name to write CSA fics accountable because you’re petty and want to throw hissy fits. Anyone looking at your comments as an outsider would think you’re homophobes and yes queer people can be homophobic.

I do hope you can expand your vocabulary. 🤍

[edutainer2022]

I'm chilling at a bus station in Budapest, waiting for my commute back home, so I added a couple of bits to the TV-21 aftermath story (both in the past and in the TAG present).

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. [No matter what 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.]

***

["Mom, I can't! I try and I try, and I try, but I can't! Nothing I say or do makes it right! I'm not enough! Mom, please! I canticanticanticant! I can't do this, Mom! Mom! Come back! I can't!!!!!"]

***

[A child's crying could be heard all across the quiet house. He didn't heed at first, habitually. Scott would deal with it. And on the rarest occasion that he couldn't - one of his elder boys would step up and sort little Alan out. He focused back on Hiram's muttering and the red dots flashing in different points of TV-21 the projection. The weak spots that led to the fiasco. The weeping didn't stop and eventually gave way to a high pitched wail. Jeff winced. He really didn't have time for that! He'd have to have sterner words with Scott. His ONE job was looking after his brothers. There was nothing more important than the project they launched with a young Dr. Hackenbecker. And it blew up in Jeff's face, quite literally so.

He stood up to his full hight. Hiram paused mid-rant with a polite smile. Jeff gave him a nod and jogged up the stairs, already exasperated. The hallway was dark - no light in any of the bedrooms.

The Tinies' room greeted him with a sight of Gordon clutching an inconsolable Alan in a squid hug, trying to muffle the sobs. Little Allie had dissolved into hiccups, vaguely resembling a call for ['Coddeeeeeh!!!!!]. Gordon's eyes blew up in panic as he saw Dad towering in the doorway.

Jeff took a long stride and plucked the crying child from his brother's death grip, then turned on his heel and marched down the hallway to the nearest room, shared by Virgil and John. The door flung open into the empty dark silence. The boys were not there. Jeff was fuming by then. Of course they'd use the opportunity of Dad being busy and sneak in with big brother to chat away all night. Or game. Or watch a movie. Or whatever it was teenage boys were not supposed to do when a parent was BUSY. Gordon was hot on his heels when he yanked the door to his eldest's open, clearly even more afraid of staying behind than he was of Dad's ire. Allie, who had quietened a bit in Dad's arms, screeched anew. Scott's room too was empty. Meticulously made bed had been untouched since morning. Three of his sons were gone.]

TBC

[edutainer2022]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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