#thunderbirds fanfic

[m-calculus]

A Cozy Evening

Scott ran his fingers through the silky fur of the puppy sleeping with its head on his lap. He leant back, letting his body sink into the plush sofa.

Puppy sitting wasn’t his usual gig, but when one of his old Air Force buddies had put out the SOS looking for a sitter at the last minute due to a family emergency, International rescue was always ready to help.

Scott used his free hand to lift a pumpkin-shaped mug with warm hot chocolate to his lips, taking a large sip. He pulled the crochet blanket over his lap, as the fire crackled in the grate.

Sure there were messes to clean up, the puppy was not yet toilet trained, but he smiled as the puppy twitched in its sleep; no doubt dreaming about their game of tug-of-war earlier in the evening.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Where's Mine?

It was a blessed break in rescues, and Virgil was taking the opportunity to restock his personal snack stashes.

The most important ones would be in Thunderbird Two – both in the cockpit and cunningly secured in the various pod bodies. Rescues could be both arduous and time-consuming, and there was rarely the chance for a proper meal. Their ‘official’ ration bars and packs were all well and good, but each of the Tracys had their own preferences.

Scott’s personal snack stashes were aboard Thunderbird One (and Thunderbird Two, Virgil had found them – and occasionally ‘appropriated’ part as a ‘transport tax’). And were, unsurprisingly, apple-pie themed. Apple-pie flavoured protein bars, apple-pie flavoured cakes, apple-pie flavoured chewing gum, apple-pie flavoured fruit/custards, and one time, even mini-apple-pies in a cold box.

Gordon’s snacks were his ubiquitous Celery Crunch Bars, a left-over from his calorie-controlled Olympic training diet. The noxious green bars (as well as their wrappers and crumbs) occupied Thunderbird Four – and Thunderbird Two. Gordon didn’t bother trying to hide his snack stash – nobody else would eat the disgusting things. And that went double for his ‘cheese’ spray cans.

John’s ‘stash’ was no secret. Thunderbird Five’s kitchen pantry was filled to bursting with bagels – and chocolate. Grandma had long despaired of the astronaut’s diet, and had threatened – numerous times – to blockade John’s supply line and only allow whole fruits and vegetables into orbit. John’s vowed retribution of stopping production of her precious soap operas quickly shut down any attempts to interfere with his diet.

Alan’s snacks were a diabetic crisis waiting to happen. High energy, high sugar snacks graced Thunderbird Three (and Thunderbird Two – Virgil was beginning to think his precious ‘Bird was considered as little more than a mobile snack shack), a rotating roster of brands as Brandon ‘The Bear’ Berringer lost and gained new sponsors. The only exception was the venerable ‘Spaceman Food’, based on NASAs food rations in the early days of manned space exploration.

All the brothers had gone through a phase of hoovering up the highly processed ‘snacks’. Virgil had a memory of insisting that his father eat them constantly – thinking that they were what he ate in space, and not wanting his father to be ‘unhappy’ on Earth. Jeff, whose orbital diet was much better than those early pioneers’, choked down the bars to humour his son. Lucy had finally taken pity on her husband, and convinced Virgil’s younger self that when he was in space his father missed ‘Earth food’, but couldn’t take it into space, so when at home he should be left to eat the same as the rest of the family.

Virgil’s own snacks tended to be more varied. Although there was a definite trend towards coffee-flavours, it wasn’t exclusive. At various times, there could be pre-packaged cakes and cookies, protein bars, dried fruits, chocolates, and various sweets. An outbreak of pilfering from Virgil’s stash had been combated by the inclusion of chocolate-covered grasshoppers, candied ants, and meal-worms with various chip flavours. All of which hadn’t been too bad, Virgil thought. His brothers’ disgust was misplaced, food was food, after all. And good food was good.

And Virgil liked trying new things, so he scoured the online market places for small businesses with interesting, shelf-stable snacks to compliment his tried and true favourites. As he sat on his bedroom floor with the various boxes and containers around him, he was pleased with the assortment this time.

He was sharing out the various incoming supplies to boxes to replenish his various snack stashes. Thunderbird Two – the Pods – his Workshop in the Hangars – Studio – and his ‘Official’ stash in the Villa’s pantry.

The klaxon blared, and John’s hologram popped up. “International Rescue, we have a situation.”

Virgil jumped up, grabbed a box at random, and hurried out of the room.

The situation was in Cairo, a massive sinkhole had opened up beneath four residential blocks of flimsy high-rise buildings at approximately breakfast time. The death toll was massive even before International Rescue had been contacted. All that was left to them was to stabilise the edges to prevent it enlarging beyond the six blocks it had consumed by the time International Rescue had taken control of the Danger Zone, before trying to extract the pathetic few lifesigns before they too blinked from existence.

The heat was intense. It was now noon in the middle of the northern hemisphere’s summer, and the temperature had surpassed the 35 degree Celsius mark hours ago.

The air conditioning in the Pods were good, but it had its limits, and Virgil’s gecko pod had reached it over an hour ago. He was hot, tired, hungry, and still had hours of work to be done.

A moment of realisation had him reaching for a compartment built into the side of the pod body, where he had stashed a handful of the snacks he had brought with him.

Without looking he had fished one out, and brought up into his eyeline. It was a freeze dried ice-cream, a ‘Paddle-Pop’ which was apparently an ‘iconic’ Australian treat.

Virgil had had no idea what flavour ‘rainbow’ was supposed to be, but the concept had been intriguing, and he eagerly tore open the packet now, and, considering, decided to start at the top, sticking part of the treat into his mouth.

It was, he decided, a kind of bubblegum flavour, and the sweetness was welcome, even if he wasn’t convinced by the texture. It had a kind of chewy, gluggy marshmallow feel to it, and Virgil quickly decided that he would let it slowly dissolve in his mouth.

He wondered idly if he could break the remainder into bite-sized pieces for future use, as he refocused on what he was doing.

John’s hologram flared into life in front of him. “Virgil–” John performed a comic double-take as he saw the ice cream in Virgil’s mouth. “Uh, do you have an estimate for when we can commence retrieval operation?”

Virgil eyed his readouts, and performed a couple of quick mental calculations. “Another half to three quarter hour,” he said, pulling his snack from his mouth by its stick. “Alan will be able to start pulling large rubble out of the way with Thunderbird Two, Gordon and Scott can reconfigure the pods for gecko lift, and I’ll go in with my exo-suit. Local rescue to standby and receive victims and remains. We’ve just got to finish coating the bottom of the south-west sector.”

John nodded. “I’ll relay those instructions,” he promised, before giving Virgil another questioning look as the snack was stuffed back into his mouth.

Virgil was going to need a lot of energy, and fast.

An undetected weakness in a the section of the sinkhole that still had to be stabilised blew out Virgil’s projected timeline, and it was over an hour later before he climbed out of his pod in the relative coolness of Thunderbird Two’s module alongside Scott.

“Hey, Virgil! What config for the gecko lifts do you …” Scott’s voice trailed off at the sight of the ‘ice cream’ in Virgil's mouth, before deciding there were more important things to focus on. “Uh. Um. Should I set them up for claw or grapple?”

Once again, Virgil pulled the confectionery out of his mouth by the stick. “One of both to start with. If necessary, the other pod can be reconfigured, but until we start picking that mess apart, we won’t know for certain what we need.”

Scott nodded, and jogged over to the holographic controls, but not without giving Virgil a puzzled look as he shoved his treat a back into his mouth and headed towards his exo-suit.

The exo-suit was wrapped around him, locking into position, and he rolled his shoulders, stretching out before he started the physically intensive part of the rescue.

Jogging back towards the internal access, Virgil headed back to the cockpit, grunting in frustration when he couldn’t sit down wearing the exo-suit. He was going to be on his feet too long soon enough, and he would have liked to save whatever energy he could now.

Alan burst into the cockpit and beelined towards the pilots chair without acknowledging Virgil. Great. The kid was in a snit about being ‘left out’ again – Virgil sighed tiredly, Alan really should have learned by now that it wasn’t his age that had put him in the cockpit, it was his lack of specialisation in this type of rescue.

Alan triggered the comms even as he was adjusting the pilots seat. “Thunderbird 2 to Pods. Please update status.”

Scott’s voice came back immediately. “Thunderbird 2; Gecko Claw Pod. Clear.”

“Thunderbird 2; Gecko Grapple Pod. Clear.” Gordon chirped a handful of seconds later.

“FAB, Pods. Thunderbird 2 commencing lift off to take hover station above Danger Zone.”

Virgil was pleased to note Alan’s professional conduct over the comms. Maybe he had been wrong about the attitude? Maybe Alan was just tired.

“Thunderbird 2 in position. Standing by for extraction and to grab and lift designated targets.”

Alan cut the open comm line, before speaking again. “Alright, Virgil; where am I,” he glanced over his shoulder and started. The jolt went right down his arms and into Thunderbird 2’s control yoke, and she bucked enough that Virgil had to grab hold of the overhead grab bar to steady himself. “Shit, sorry. Um. Where am I dropping you off, Virgil?”

“Language,” Virgil said absently, once he had pulled his snack out of his mouth again. He glanced again at the holographic display of the top levels of the debris pile. “Right next to that two story chunk of apartment building in the centre. That’s my first priority location for search and rescue. That looks like it’ll have a high concentration of survivors.” He frowned. “I know solar power is better than any of the alternatives, but in a situation like this, it really messes with our close range sensors. I wish there was a way to remotely stop the battery discharge.”

Alan nodded. “Be careful. I don’t want to be digging you out again because your exo-suit shorted out with you in it.”

Virgil frowned. “Brains and I reworked the entire grounding system after that. It was a one in a billion chance.”

The little brother snorted. “Yeah, well, Scott had to make a supply run to the mainland for hair dye after that. I don’t wanna have to do the same.”

Virgil chuckled. “No chance, kiddo. You have to shave before you worry about that.”

He took two big bites of his treat, tucking the chunks into his cheeks hamster style before returning the snack to its package in his baldric, and setting his helmet in place and striding over to the floor hatch and locking his grasping claw onto the winch-fed safety line.

Alan double-checked their position. “Good to deploy, Exo-Suit.”

“FAB. Exo-Suit away.”

It was five, long, hot and dusty hours later when John finally called the rescue.

They hadn’t found anyone alive for the last three.

Virgil sighed as he hauled himself into Thunderbird Two’s pod to divest himself from the exo-suit.

No doubt there would be the usual recriminations. Why had they taken so long? Why had the spent the time shoring up the sides? Grieving families rarely understood that first the site had to be made safe for the rescuers. All they saw was people letting their loved ones die.

All they would see was the people who were supposed to save their loved ones flying away and leaving them.

Not all the missing had been accounted for.

Scott was going to have to pay PR another bonus after this one.

Virgil groaned as the weight of the exo-suit disappeared from around him, along with its support. It wouldn’t be the first time he hadn’t been able to stand upright once the framework had been removed from around him. He had learned quickly to leave his helmet on until after he knew he could stand upright.

It had taken a considerable bribe to buy John’s silence as to the exact cause of that broken nose.

Satisfied that he would remain upright, he removed his helmet, and took a deep breath. No matter how much Brains protested, the built-in filters gave the air a distinct taste, and it was a relief to breathe the fresh air of the module.

His stomach gave a growl as he stepped into the internal corridors leading to the cockpit. Virgil idly wondered if he could convince Scott to pick up some takeaway on his way back to the Island as he once again pulled the freeze-dried ice cream from his baldric and stuck it back in his mouth.

John was on the comms as he gained the cockpit. “...giving you a heads-up, Alan. Scott’s already told me to remote pilot Thunderbird One home. Given the duration and environmental conditions of this one, he doesn’t want to risk anyone flying alone. You’ll be taking shifts at the controls all the way back to Tracy Island.”

Alan snorted. “Yeah right. Scott and Virgil will have a hissy fight, Virgil will win ‘cause it’s his ‘Bird, Scott’ll sulk in the co-pilots seat, while Gordon and I are sent back to the bunks to ‘rest’, despite having done the least amount of physical work. Meanwhile, you’ll secretly have remote control and will be flying us home anyway.”

John smiled. “Maybe.”

Virgil flopped into one of the jumpsuits, shucking off his baldric and harness before pulling coverall uniform off his torso and tying the arms around his waist. “Nope,” he mumbled around the confectionery. “The Thunderbird Pilot you’re calling is not available. Please call again when he is conscious.”

Alan and John stared at him. “You okay, Virgil?” Alan asked, standing up to try feel Virgil’s forehead.

He batted the hand away. “Fine, Alan. Nothing that a good shower, a good meal, and a good sleep won’t fix. A good massage would be nice, too. Remember that place in Japan, Johnny?”

“I remember. The masseuse literally walked all over your back for an hour. I don’t know how you stand it. And don’t call me Johnny.” There was a question in John’s face as he considered Virgil. “Say, Vir–”

He was cut off as Scott stumbled into the cockpit to collapse groaning into a chair, followed by an altogether too energetic and bouncy Gordon who slammed, performing a comedic double-take when he noticed Virgil.

“What the seven seas, Big Guy? You have ice-cream and you’re not sharing? Dude, where’s mine? I thought these guys were kidding me! Where’d you even get ice-cream from, anyway?!”

Virgil closed his eyes as his three other brothers joined in on the chorus of questions and recriminations.

Maybe keep the freeze-dried ice creams for his studio in future.

Notes:

This one’s been sitting in my WIP pile for the last six months.

A co-worker had brought a freeze-dry set up and set up a little side-hustle selling freeze-dried snacks. I brought a packet of paddle-pops and amused myself at various loading sites, waiting a couple of hours and pulling out a freeze-dried icecream and sucking on it for the next four hours. In 40deg Celsius heat.

It’s the little things that make life worth living.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the TOS or CGI Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[scribbles97]

Listen

Whelp... after one hell of a haitus Scribbs is back writing for the Thunderbirds Are Go fandom again! It's been a while and what I've produced is only short, but it felt good to get back to my comfort characters again. Thank you @gumnut-logic for the hugs and support that you continue to give me <3

Virgil had known as soon as Gordon had sunk into the co-pilot seat on Two. 

A run of back-to-back rescues was the final nail in the coffin on a week that had seen them reach six out of eight continents, and more ocean than he dared to count. He wasn’t sure when he had last seen Scott, their paths crossing less frequently than normal with the financial year end meaning the board were demanding more of his older brother’s attention when he himself wasn’t out on a rescue. Grandma had caught them each time they had returned to the Island, hot food cooked by MAX readily available for them to wolf down as the ships refuelled. 

John had assured them as the retrieval mechanism had wound Four back into the module that there wasn’t anything else to demand their immediate attention. Their space-bound brother confident that they could all take a much needed break - world ending disasters notwithstanding. 

The way Gordon had paused as he had sat down and not immediately stretched his legs forwards as he always did on their way home was enough of a tell. 

Virgil had been piloting with the aquanaut at his side for years, and had known his brother for nearly two decades before that. They had seen the swimmer through rehabilitation after two life-altering accidents that had left him scarred and fragile - but not as broken as doctors would have anyone believe. 

Yet, he knew better than to comment. 

It wouldn’t be received well. 

Not when Gordon was still well enough to climb out of Four and make it back to the cock-pit of Two. There was clearly a niggle, something somewhere apparently sitting just not quite right, but that must have been all. 

Virgil hoped that a hot bath and some yoga once they got home would see his younger brother right. Gordon hated the bad days, the worst ones when his back locked up and the tension in the same muscles that provided much-needed support left him crippled. 

Virgil hated those days too. 

Hated that there was little any of them could do to help. 

It was the same reason Gordon was always so prickly when his back did decide to play up, knowing full well that painkillers and patience were the only real options when it came to riding out the ache. 

That he was quiet most of the ride home, save for the occasional sigh, simply served to assure Virgil he was right in his diagnosis. 

Gordon had two extremes when he was bothered by something - full throttle chatter, or deadly silence. Not that he’d ever admit it, and not that Virgil would call him out on it in the moment. 

Still, it was a big brother’s prerogative to at least ask. 

“You good?”

Gordon’s sigh was heavy next to him, answer enough in itself.

“Ready to be home.” 

Which was code for tired. 

Which was code for hurting. 

Because, for all Gordon was prickly when it came to his back, he wasn’t stupid. He was perhaps the most aware of them all as to how close he had come and how far he had to drag himself back. The rest of them had merely been spectating supporters, very much aware of the problem and its implications, but with no real idea of what it was like. 

None of them had a spine that was a third artificial. 

Gordon knew his limits - even if he did sometimes push them too far - and knew when to ask for help. An athlete at heart, he knew when to listen to his body and how to look after himself. He knew when enough was enough, and what was needed to reset himself to best function. 

He knew when to ask for help. 

Scott would have heard the coded response and immediately had any of them down to the med-bay. Big brother, ever protective over his brood, would have needed a full explanation and a med-scan before he had been convinced that it was just an ache that their little fish had been feeling. 

He meant well, but sometimes their oldest brother was blinkered by his need to keep younger brothers safe and well. Not that Virgil blamed him, Gordon had given them all enough grey hairs to warrant wrapping him in cotton wool for the rest of his life. 

Virgil knew he himself could be guilty of just the same, but he’d been working on it over the years. He’d taken the time to figure out the more subtle signs and listened to what Gordon was really telling him. 

Ready to be home, was an answer. 

It wasn’t stubborn silence - I’m hurt but I don’t want you to find out. 

It wasn’t inane chatter - I’m really hurt and you’re going to take me to hospital whether I like it or not. 

And it wasn’t an outright admission - I’m hurt but I already patched myself up so it’s fine. 

“Want a heat pack?” He offered, glancing across to gauge how well the question would be taken. 

Gordon’s grimace said enough, “I’ll get it - probably best to keep moving.” 

Virgil simply nodded, returning focus to keeping the flight of his ship as smooth as possible. They’d get home eventually, little brother would get his bath, some painkillers, and with any luck a few days off of rescues to recover fully. 

Whilst he did, Virgil would do what he did best, and listen.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Tried but failed to reach a conclusion on what I’m loosely calling the paint mystery but the majority of the chapters have deviated so wildly from any kind of plot that I may have to rethink whether it’s a story or just a collection of scenes.

Unrefined, unedited previous bits for reference:

Bit the first

Bit the second

Bit the third

The interlude after the third where I lost control of the characters and everyone went a bit nuts

Now, Bit the fourth which was supposed to be the end but that still eludes me… ALL the thanks to @astranite @womble1 and @sofasurf for the beta reading and suggestions and encouragement and to the Thunderfam generally for being a friendly safe community to practice a new thing within.

Light

A rush of harmonics drowned out Two’s steady hum as her sister raced up beneath her and barrel-rolled overhead before shooting off into the Californian twilight. Virgil watched as her vapour trail angled up, up, up and over backwards before taking a steep dive and spiralling back towards where he and Gordon watched in various shades of amusement and baffled awe.

“How is he still conscious?” Gordon murmured. “I’d be either sick… or dead. Ugh… nope, definitely dead.”

Virgil watched as his elder brother steered the rocket plane into the vertical zigzag he recognised as the signature move of the ‘Vomit Comet’ Scott had piloted for the trainee astronauts during his 6 month NASA secondment from the Air Force.

“He doesn’t have a… normal relationship with G force, Fish, you know that.”

As if to prove the point, One screamed past them, spinning, and doubled back to overtake at a distance which set Two’s proximity sensors blaring.

Again.

Virgil cringed and covered his ears.

John’s wry smile materialised in front of them. 

“Aunt Val is going to be inundated with emails from the alien spotters again isn’t she?”

Virgil snorted. Then sighed.

“Should we… you know, rein our dear flyboy in a little?”

There was a delighted snicker in the background as John coughed uncomfortably.

“He couldn’t doooo it” came the familiar singsong voice of Virgil’s digital niece. John, who now appeared to be heavily focused on brushing non-existent dust from his baldric, frowned slightly.

“I did open a comm with him, yes.”

“And?”

“He was… whooping, Virgil.”

It was Gordon’s turn to snort. He looked up from his tablet where he’d already accessed the usual conspiracy theory websites to check for new flying saucer sightings over Arizona.

“What, Scott? Pfft, seems unlikely”

John raised an eyebrow and patched in the audio from One’s cockpit.

Virgil’s breath caught in his throat as he was accosted by a sound he hadn’t heard since his brother was a teenager. Warm, hearty, unfettered laughter punctuated by… yes, that could only be described as a whoop… and then an elated giggle. 

Virgil was aware that to most people sound didn’t have colour but it was second nature to him. Scott’s usual speaking voice was a familiar steely blue, rich and dependable. It could deepen to almost navy if he was angered or concerned, or gain highlights of cerulean when he was amused or speaking affectionately. Now it was as if an arc of blazing summer sky was overlaid on the late evening clouds ahead of them, marred only by the static effect of the comm. Virgil was overwhelmed by a sudden longing to hear his brother laughing properly, truly, untainted by digital interference and simultaneously afraid the opportunity to do so would never arise.

Nobody moved, not waiting to break the spell. Then One did it for them, as her pilot pushed her into yet another feat of aerobatic madness and her own burning white squeals of delight muffled those of the man at the controls.

John muted the feed. Virgil releases the breath he was holding and swallowed, glancing at Gordon whose jaw had almost parted company with his face, his tablet hanging from a limp hand, his mission of winding up the ufologists forgotten. 

It was sobering to realise how infrequently a website tracking the rare and precious phenomena of happy-carefree-Scott would be updated. He met John’s eye and inclined his head. He couldn’t intervene either. Drop kicking a puppy would be less morally questionable.

“How’s his fuel?”

John’s gaze shifted upwards as a graceful sweep of his left hand obviously brought up some kind of display and a swift flick of the right closed something else down. Virgil was momentarily distracted by the image of his elegant brother conducting a symphony orchestra from space, his attention snapping back as he noticed the slight furrow in John’s brow.

“Low, I take it?”

“At this rate he’ll drop into F tank in about 10 minutes. Which will get him home if he flies in a straight line…”

“If.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s F tank when it’s at home?” Gordon had abandoned his tablet and was observing his elder brothers’ with overt curiosity.

John rolled his eyes. Virgil bit his lip and radiated guilt. Scott had never been told about that particular upgrade to his ship and it always made him uneasy to keep such a secret but the secrecy was necessary for it to work as intended.

“Gordon you have to swear to keep this to yourself… but you remember all those times when the paragon of caution that is our big brother has reassured us his fuel supply was “Fine” when One was actually running on fumes?” 

More like the distant memory of fumes in some cases. His little brother of course knew all too well because he’d flown enough missions himself to take fuel to whatever godforsaken location Scott had stranded himself in.

“Well… Brains and I installed a little extra tank about which the fuel gauge is ignorant and so is One’s primary pilot.”

Gordon appeared to ponder this for a minute.

“Won’t that just make him believe he really can fly on fumes?”

“Precisely what I said” John threw a hand in the air. “I had suggested a flow rate limiter instead, so she can’t do more than Mach 6 once the gauge gets below a certain level”

“But that’s slower than the Big Green Mom Bag!”

“Oi!” the Mom Bag’s pilot objected “But, yes. Can you imagine what his reaction would have been if…” Another screech of scram jets announced One’s return from who knew where and she decelerated with a shudder to match Thunderbird Two’s more sedate pace, flying above and just a nose ahead with her pilot looking down at them and flipping a cheeky salute. Virgil nudged the comms open again:

“Having fun, you big show-off?”

Scott’s hologram appeared, all shark-like grin and wildly dilated pupils. Virgil found himself leaning back into his chair, slightly intimidated by the intensity of his sibling’s manic expression.

“Well?! What are you going to PLAY?!”

Three younger brothers performed a perfectly synchronised double-take.

“P-play?”

“The concert, short stuff! What are you going to play in the concert? You should play that one that that goes ba-da-da-da da da ba-da-da-da da da da dum…” and then One was spiralling off again in a roar of jet engines, her pilot’s hologram blurring into incomprehensibility from the vibrations and leaving his younger brother blinking in confusion.

He shut off the comm before it gave them all a headache. At some point prior to the spontaneous post-tornado-rescue singalong in the school hall, their old teacher Ms Knighton had accosted Virgil and persuaded him to be the guest soloist at a benefit concert she was already planning to fundraise for disaster relief in their hometown. ‘Persuaded’ wasn’t quite the right word. He wasn’t aware that he’d actually been given any kind of an option. The woman was a tidal wave of organisation and he’d been well and truly swept along.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about it anyway. He’d not played in front of anybody but family since their Mom had passed and he hadn’t planned to either, for all that the idea gave him a tiny flutter of anticipation. He’d been meaning to send an apology citing work commitments later that week.

THIS was what had got Scott so excited?

He squirmed guiltily as he’d begun to theorise that his renowned flirt of a brother had encountered an old flame during the course of the evening and that was what had caused the adrenaline spike. But, it seemed Scott wasn’t celebrating for himself at all. This vanishingly rare level of joy from his big brother, was on HIS behalf?

He suddenly pictured Scott sat in the front row of every little school performance, even the ones Mom couldn’t get to. He’d always put the constantly jiggling denim-clad legs down to frustration at having to sit still and listen rather than climb and run but then… maybe that wasn’t it at all?

There was the gift of the electronic piano… and that time his brother flew back from college to talk round his father who’d objected to Virgil’s nervous suggestion that maybe he could do joint honours music alongside his engineering degree. Granted, when he realised IR on the horizon, Virgil had changed his mind and decided to keep music just as a hobby but thanks to his brother, it had been HIS decision to make. 

Now he thought about it, he couldn’t think of a single occasion when he’d sat and played the lounge piano where Scott wasn’t either at dad’s desk, on the sofa, or leaning against the body of the instrument chatting or just watching with a fond smile.

Scott had been his cheerleader at every step.

“Earth to Viiiirg!” Gordon leaned over and poked him in the side of the head. “So what are you going to play then?” Virgil smiled awkwardly and rubbed away the sudden excess of water in his eyes.

“Guess I’d better figure out what “ba-da-da-da da da” is.”

[eos-in-orbit]

hi all, feeling nostalgic. Please recommend me your favourite TAG fanfics

[hebuiltfive]

The Alaskan Train Crash: International Rescue, We Have A Situation.

Six months after the return of Jeff Tracy and International Rescue has finally come back off their hiatus. One of their first missions with their dad back at the helm? A mysterious train wreck in remote Alaska.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Additional Tags: Artist!Virgil, Post season three, slight AU, Mentions of hospitals, Mentions of Blood, description of train crash, Light Angst

Series: Part 1 of The Long Game

NOTES: This has been MONTHS in the making and, I won't lie, I'm a little nervous about finally putting this out in the world. This is only the first chapter of the first part of (what I'm now thinking will be) quite a large story. Disclaimers to say that I obviously do not own any of the characters in this story. They were created by the wonderful Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. The only things I do own are the ideas and situations they end up in. Trust me, they'll end up in some sticky situations in the near future!

Read it below or on AO3 here.

The Hood’s haphazard approach to his criminal scheming, coupled with a blatant disregard for any life that wasn’t his own, only ever led to one outcome — disaster.

The unfortunate beneficiaries of today’s outcome were currently trapped under the wreckage of the buckled front carriage of a derailed freight train. The scene was horrific to look at, even with all of Scott’s years of experience and training that came with being in the rescue business. The whole of the train looked as though it had been flung from the tracks, and had flipped onto its side, except for the back carriage, which had somehow managed to stay the right way up, and the front carriage, which had been capsized completely. In stark contrast to the crisp white snow underneath the wreck, there was a dark patch of leaking oil developing. As Scott hovered in the air over the derailed train, guiding his jet pack over the wreckage to get a sense of the scope, he knew he had to work fast.

There had been three workers on board. Whilst two of the three had seemingly been rendered unconscious by the incident, one was still very much awake and aware of her current predicament. She had made sure that the receiver of her distress call also knew this. John had forewarned his older brother of the severity of this woman’s pleas for assistance whilst Scott had flown Thunderbird One to the danger zone at top speed; the way the woman had begged Thunderbird Five for help had sent shivers down (a normally stoic) John’s spine. Still, despite the advanced warning, nothing could have quite prepared Scott for the look of pure terror on that woman’s face as he landed himself beside the wreck and jogged over to that capsized front carriage.

Two Hours Earlier.

Virgil had just wanted the lounge to himself so he could finally finish his oil painting in relative peace. It had already taken him far longer than he’d expected to get the painting complete. Usually that was due to rescue missions interrupting him and not his two younger brothers, as was the case today. Gordon and Alan had come bounding into the lounge, as loud and as energetic as always, and then began to play the loudest alien-killing game they could have possibly found. Virgil knew that his easel and pallet in front of him had not gone unnoticed by the Terrible Two, but the boys didn’t seem to care. Or, rather, they didn’t seem to realise the disturbance they’d caused. That was normally the case, anyway.

Virgil should have known that asking for any semblance of peace in the Tracy household was very rarely answered. The villa was always a hive of chaotic activity, even when those rescue missions called half of the family away. As Virgil was usually on call in those situations, he rarely managed to find a moment’s grace unless he was up into the late hours of the day. As it was, the sun had already begun to set over Tracy Island and sleep would soon be beckoning to all of them. He only had a few hours left to get some painting done before Scott had another reason to berate him for staying up late again. Thankfully, Tracy Island was large enough to not only house International Rescue’s operations, but also cater enough room for everyone who lived there.

He had not long retreated from the lounge, away from Alan and Gordon’s loud but seemingly futile efforts to defeat an invading alien race, to finish up his work in his art studio.  He should have just stayed there this morning and not gone down to the lounge, but when that room was not occupied by bored, young adolescents, the lounge was just as serene as the quiet his studio offered. The views out onto the expanse of the Pacific inspired Virgil’s creative muse, and the colours seemed to flow so much better on his canvas when the warm, tropical breeze blew up through the open veranda. That being said, the picturesque scenery that now filled his peripheral was just as humbling.

His canvas, he’d carefully carried down from the lounge, had been placed on a new easel that stood in front of a large window. In the near distance Mateo stood, the rocks on the island glinting in the last rays of sun. Far more quieter than the disruption his brothers were currently causing upstairs. Content once more, Virgil started to mix the paints he needed on a new pallet.

He got all of two swipes of raw sienna onto the canvas when there was a gentle knock of knuckles against the wood of the art studio door.

“Virgil?” It was a voice that Virgil had thought he’d never hear again, up until a few months the back, that is. A voice that he was still trying to get used to hearing again after living so long without it.

Jeff Tracy had opened the door and was standing under the frame, his hands sitting idly in the pockets of his jeans. He looked over the artwork his second eldest was working on. To a stranger, or casual observer, they might have been deceived by the seemingly dark piece. With the shades Virgil had decided to use so far, that would have been an understandable mistake. But Jeff knew his sons, even after eight years of being separated from them, and he could see the hope that radiated through the painting. In the background, still only an outline and yet unfinished, he could make out the shape that he guessed would become Thunderbird Two. Jeff could see Virgil’s behemoth of a ship was to rise in the distance, to assist in the abstract disaster that was happening in the foreground. The smile that lit up his worn face gave Virgil a warm glow inside. “Looking good, son.”

In those first few weeks of Jeff Tracy’s return to earth after spending almost a decade lost in the outer reaches of the solar system, International Rescue had gone on an understandable hiatus. The Global Defence Force had offered to pick up the rescue work whilst the family became reacquainted and new routines were established. After all, just having their father sitting with them at their breakfast table in the morning again gave the boys enough of a shock. Despite the stresses and occasional disagreements that naturally came with the reshuffling and reorganising of the organisation, having their dad back was one of the greatest miracles to happen to the Tracy brothers, and they all thanked their lucky stars every day for having him home again.

“Do you have a moment?” Jeff asked, gesturing forward as a way of asking whether Virgil was okay with him stepping into his space.

By the look on his dad’s face, Virgil knew that ‘a moment’ was more than likely going to last longer than Jeff had suggested in his wording, but Virgil nodded all the same. As Jeff stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Virgil placed his pallet and paint brush on the side table beside his easel. He rubbed his paint splattered fingers on his equally paint splattered apron.

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

Virgil was used to being the one everyone came to for advice and assistance in the family. Along with Grandma Tracy, he was the soundboard that his brothers, and Kayo and Brains, relied on when they needed a solid voice of reason. Virgil never minded. He never saw any of them as a burden or a bother. Whenever they needed to seek comfort in Virgil’s warmth and way with words, Virgil was there for them.

“I wanted to just let you know that Grandma will be taking me to the mainland tomorrow.”

Virgil’s heart sank a little at Jeff’s words. He knew what his father’s words were code for, knew exactly where Grandma Tracy was taking him: the hospital. Jeff’s health had been fragile upon his return to Earth. Having had to survive eight years on a rock in the Oort Cloud, it came as no surprise to any of them. They were all wise to the fact that the situation would have been a detriment to anyone’s health, and they all were sure that, had Jeff been anyone else, he wouldn’t have lived through the ordeal for nearly as long as he miraculously had. Jeff’s health had been a major talking point in the reorganisation of International Rescue. The main question was whether he was fit enough to take back the mantel of Commander In Chief, or whether it was better for him to take a backseat and oversee operations from the sidelines instead. Both Grandma and Scott had been firm advocates in Jeff taking the back seat, but Jeff Tracy was Jeff Tracy and he wasn’t the kind of man who was content with being sidelined. In the end, they had all agreed on him sharing the job with his eldest son, at least until he was in a better condition.

Hence the hospital visits. Scans, blood work, physiotherapy, drugs and tests were part of their new normal, and they’d been advised that this new normal was going to stay in place for the foreseeable future. Jeff didn’t mind, so long as it meant he was still able to be of assistance, but the constant hospital trips had the boys naturally worrying.

“If dad is so unwell that he needs to be constantly visiting Doctor Mayhew every month, he shouldn’t be placed in a position that could cause him stress!” Scott had exclaimed on more than one occasion. Jeff never listened to him, always claimed that he was fine which only led to heated debates between the two. Usually it was Grandma who managed to calm them both down, but once or twice, the unfortunate role of mediator had landed on Virgil’s lap. Whilst he still didn’t see it as a burden, it was the only time he minded. It was the one time he didn’t like being a soundboard to his family.

“How long this time?” He asked his father, arms folding across his chest.

“A week. Maybe two. They want to check my legs, I think. It’s going to require a few tests back to back and they say that it’s easier if I just stay there whilst they get the results.”

Virgil nodded. It made sense for him to remain in one place. His next question was one he didn’t want the answer to. “Does Scott know?”

Jeff held silence for a moment or two, and Virgil knew the answer instantaneously. “No. He doesn’t. Not yet.”

Virgil pursed his lips, nodded once… twice, and then began to undo his paint apron. So much for a relaxing evening with his canvas. “He needs to know, dad.”

“He overthinks everything—”

“That’s Scott for you—”

“— and I don’t like how stressed out he gets. I don’t want to add to it, or be the cause of more stress.”

Welcome to the club, Virgil thought, but sighed as he threw the apron aside. Scott never knew how to take things easy. He was a classic overreacher, constantly trying to do more than his best. That perfectionism had only got worse in the months following their father’s disappearance, but that was a fact Jeff had still not been informed about. Their father had developed a legacy in people’s minds, one that only grew in his supposed death, and Scott felt compelled to continue that legacy. He had always looked up to Jeff, but this constant need to try and make their father proud, even in death, sometimes meant Scott took unnecessarily hazardous risks, and it had nearly landed him on death’s doorstep on more than one occasion. Virgil and the others had often tried to slow him down and make him see reason, but their talks rarely seemed to have a lasting impact. Come the next day, Scott would be back to his normal, overreaching self.

“Scott’s capable of handling a lot more than you think, dad.”

Jeff breathed out a long sigh. “I don’t want him to handle so much. He should share the burdens.”

“Good luck getting him to do that. We’ve been trying for years, but Scott is way too protective. It’s one of the reasons why he doesn’t want you being so involved in the rescues right now, what with your… health.”

“I know he’s looking out for me,” Jeff began, his eyes averting Virgil’s own gaze as he took in the view of Mateo from the window. “I just wish he wouldn’t try so damned hard all the time.”

Virgil let out a deep chuckle. “You and me both, dad.” Then, he began to make for the door. “But he needs to know all the same. If you want, I can be your bodyguard.” He joked. In honesty, the thought of having to referee another match between his dad and Scott worried him, but he’d do it if it meant avoiding a bigger conflict in the future.

Jeff’s lips quirked into a smile at Virgil’s humour, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a hologram of John appeared from the holo-disc on the side table beside the easel. “Guys, we have a situation.”

Exchanging worried glances with his father, Virgil dove out of the door of his studio and made his way up to the lounge as fast as possible, Jeff following quickly behind him.

[vegetacide]

Whumper-roo ahead

Been on a re-read kick as of late and came across this gem again. Mental health reminder that it's important to look after yourself.

An oldie but a goodie by @gumnut-logic

💚💚💚💚

[loopstagirl]

Gordon barely heard Virgil's cry of alarm as the wave crashed over John, instinct taking over and causing the – usual – prankster to sprint across the sand, only one thought lodged in his mind: getting to John. He must have looked a picture to his brothers, weaving slightly as he worked with the waves. He knew that whilst going in a straight line would seem like the most direct route to reach his brother, the constant movement of the water would have slowed him down. Instead, Gordon found himself moving with the water, making his route slightly diagonal, but knowing that it was what was needed in order to get to John. He was vaguely aware of Scott speeding along after him, putting the redhead's very thoughts into practice as he tried to force his way through the waves.

After what felt like an age, Gordon knew that he was getting closer to John, and felt his legs give another burst of energy, pushing him to a greater speed than before. Within a few seconds, he threw himself down onto his knees next to where John was struggling to sit back up again. Reaching down, he sharply caught his brother around the chest, pulling the blond from the waves and clearing his head of the sea once and for all. As John coughed harshly, trying to expel the salt water that he had accidentally swallowed, Gordon slipped around the other side of the older man, letting John lean his weight back as he continued to cough. Rubbing his hand soothingly up and down in between John's shoulder blades, Gordon found that he was murmuring in a soft voice, encouraging his brother to clear his lungs. He hadn't even considered what he was doing, instead just letting the rescuer in him instinctively take over.

Just as John finally gained control of his slightly erratic breathing, shakily pushing himself into a more upright position whilst eyeing the still oncoming water with something that could resemble trepidation, Scott arrived. Refusing to meet Gordon's warning look, he regarded his immediate younger brother in concern for a long second. Finally satisfied that John was indeed alright, if a bit wet, the worry gave way to anger.

Ao3 ->

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Buzzard

“You’re gonna be sooo awesome, Scotty!” Alan yelled as Gordon danced around the family group singing ‘Danger Zone’ at the top of his (high efficient swimmers) lungs.

Scott Tracy mock glared. “What do you mean ‘gonna be’, Squirt? I am awesome, and don’t you forget it!” The last was punctuated by fingers jabbing his youngest brothers ribs, eliciting high pitched giggled squeals.

“What’s your callsign gonna be, Scotty? I bet it’ll be something cool, like ‘Maverick’. Yeah! Be Maverick!” Gordon danced closer, arms flinging in every direction.

Scott sighed. “Gords, you don’t choose your callsign. You’re given it.”

Jeff’s hand landed on his second-youngest’s head, stopping his progress, as he made a show of examining the boys ears. “Nope, no ear plugs left in. That means you definitely heard, and you’re definitely listening, right?”

Gordon sighed. “Right. Don’t get to choose a cool name. Like nicknames.”

Alan stared up at his oldest brother, suddenly anxious. “What if they give you a mean callsign, like – like ‘BoogerFace’?”

Virgil and John snorted, trying to disguise laughs. “From Maverick to BoogerFace in fifteen seconds. I hope you fly better that that, Scott,” John smirked.

Jeff sighed. “Nobody will be allowed to have a callsign like BoogerFace, Alan. There are rules about what is acceptable. That is not.”

He met his eldest son’s gaze. “But, Scott, not every callsign is assigned out of respect. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Did Scott ever understand. Colonel Jeff “Kirk” Tracy had taught him that a very long time ago. Having dreams and ambitions were all well and good. Speaking them out loud wasn’t always a good idea.

Basic training had been gruelling. But Scott Tracy stuck it out.

Basic Flight had been frustrating. He knew the theory. Had been studying it since he was five years old, and the stage one training planes they used were so primitive compared to what Scott had flown at home.

The instructors had been doubly hard on him. His civilian flight training and experience wasn’t considered a benefit here. Quite the opposite. It was “lazy” and “undisciplined”, and one instructor in particular had taken a personal dislike to Scott, based solely on the types of planes he had listed in his civilian log book. “Little rich boy wanting to play ‘Top Gun’,” was probably the nicest thing he had said about him.

Scott had doubled down, working hard on the training, and even harder ignoring the taunts. Some of his classmates had taken their cue from the instructors and gave him a hard time. If there was an applepie bunk, whipped cream shaving cream, custard in boots, you could bet it had happened to Scott Tracy.

It was almost like being home with Gordon.

But that was all over now. They had been tested, graded, and sorted. Some had washed out, others were taken off flight training, and there were those who where assigned transport corps. But Scott had made it. He was going to be a Fighter Pilot.

Few of the guys giving Scott trouble had made it. Even though he hadn’t reported anything, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the people who mattered. They didn’t fulfil the ‘team work’ requirement. They were history.

The few that had, were those who had recognised Scott for who he was. Respected him for not reacting to the provocation, respected his skills. As he respected theirs.

And now here they were.

The class had been divided into two teams. Attackers and Defenders. Infiltrate, target, and destroy, and get the hell out, verses stop them at all costs.

Scott was an attacker.

It was a virtual fire exercise in restricted airspace, but there were still a million things that could go wrong. The biggest risk was collision, either with terrain or another aircraft in the event of a dogfight.

Scott Tracy focused.

Afterwards, he couldn’t really remember details of what had happened. The attackers had won, some high-risk low-terrain flying had paid off and they were almost on the target before the defenders had realised they were there. A couple of the team had made attempts at the target, before a quiet young man from Alaska had fired, seemingly at random and from an almost ridiculous distance, and destroyed the target.

“Attack team disengage and return home.”

There were more hairy moments, as they fended off the pursuing Defenders, desperate to regain some of their lost honour, but all of the attack team made it across the line to the ‘safe’ zone and were on their way back to base.

Lost in the euphoria of the moment, Scott celebrated with a couple of acrobatic manoeuvres. The response was immediate.

“Tracy. Level flight and return to base. Immediately.”

Chastened, Scott formed back up with his flight and followed them in to land.

With his plane taxied and parked up, Scott removed his helmet and flopped back in the seat, letting the avgas scented breeze waft over him from the open canopy. Oh man, had he fucked up but good.

With no other option but to face the music, Scott trailed his flightmates into the briefing room, and took his accustomed seat.

Their chief instructor, Colonel Rudolph “Valentino” Isa took the lectern, and in typical fashion wasted no words in his assessment of their performance.

Moore was commended for his successful attack on the target.

Garcia, a Texan, was commended for his flight plan into the target.

“Tracy.” Scott squirmed in his seat. “Excellent performance in bound and in combat. Your display on return …” He frowned. “That was the first time. Don’t do it again.”

Scott gulped. “I won’t, sir.”

Debrief went quickly after that. As the flight was dismissed, Colonel Isa spoke again. “Garcia. Moore. Tracy.”

The three pilots quickly formed up in front of the chief instructor.

“Give these instructions to the ground crew. Your planes need new paint jobs.” He handed each men a sheet of paper.

Scott stared. Authorisation for a callsign notation on the planes name tag.

‘Buzzard’.

Scott glanced up, Isa was watching him, a small smile quirking his lips. “So you don’t forget. Dismissed.”

Garcia looked at Scott as they made their exit. “What did you get?”

Scott showed him the paper. “You?”

“‘Pathfinder’,” Garcia visibly swelled with pride.

“‘Sniper’,” Moore offered, pleased. He frowned at Scott’s page. “‘Buzzard’. Huh. What do you think he meant by ‘so you don’t forget’?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t know.” Isa moved past, almost strolling as he whistled a tune that tickled something at the back of Scott’s brain.

He shrugged mentally. Whatever it meant, it was definitely better than ‘BoogerFace’.

Scott occasionally wondered what Isa had meant. The Colonel often made a point of whistling that tune in Scott’s vicinity, it was always an annoying niggle. He knew that tune, but for the life of him couldn’t remember it.

Jeff had simply smirked when he learned of his son’s callsign and the story behind it, but, despite having served with Isa, refused to enlighten him as to the meaning.

The mysterious meaning of his callsign was quickly forgotten as he went into active duty, then active combat duty when the self-proclaimed Independent Nation of Bereznik went into one of the aggressive phases.

Scott quickly distinguished himself as a pilot on active duty, but his promising career came to a screaming halt as his plane suffered a catastrophic mechanical failure over the wrong line on a map.

That the cause of the failure was later proved to be sabotage by a Bereznikian agent working as a mechanic was small comfort after the eternity of six months in a Bereznikian “POW camp”.

Scott “Buzzard” Tracy left the Air Force via an honourable (medical) discharge, burdened by medals and accolades and memories that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Scott returned to the skies, growing more confident until his father unveiled his plans for International Rescue. In command of Thunderbird One, he felt more like a phoenix than a buzzard; reborn from the fires of the crashed fighter. Stronger, with a more clearly defined purpose.

He had joined the Air Force simply to fly.

He joined International Rescue to fly with a purpose.

It was a rare quiet day on Tracy Island, Scott was playing chess with Gordon (and losing), when Virgil started playing a tune on the piano that Scott recognised.

“Hey, Virg?”

“Hmm?” Virgil was mostly lost in his music.

“That’s a song, right? I mean, it has words?”

Virgil stopped. “Uh, yeah. It’s pretty old, by Nat ‘King’ Cole. It’s based on one of his father’s favourite folk tales. He was a Baptist minister, and used it for sermons.”

Scott frowned; as Jeff exaggeratedly focused on his paperwork at his desk, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“How’s the song go, Virg?”

Virgil stared at him, then shrugged. “Fine. Just remember: you asked for it, and there’s a reason I play piano.”

He started over again, this time singing, and as Scott listened to the words of the first verse, his heart sank.

“A buzzard took a monkey

for a ride in the air.

The monkey thought that

everything was on the square.

The buzzard tried to throw

The monkey off of his back.

The monkey grabbed his neck

And said ‘Now listen, Jack’”

“Straighten up and fly right

Straighten up and fly right

Straighten up and fly right

Cool down papa, don’t you blow your top.”

Jeff gave in to laughter as the second verse came around.

“Ain’t no use in diving

What’s the use of diving

Straighten up and fly right,

Cool down papa, don’t you blow your top.”

Captain Scott ‘Buzzard’ Tracy USAF (retired) sighed.

He wasn’t likely to forget.

Notes:

The song is called “Straighten Up and Fly Right”, written by Nat ‘King’ Cole based on one of his father’s favourite folk tales; although I personally prefer the Robbie Williams cover.

I don’t know what made me put two and two together, but it just feels so perfect …

And as for Jeff’s callsign, well, I figure he was always fixated on space, and the Air Force was just a step on the road for him, so what else were they gonna call him?

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[scribbles97]

I'm so glad you're back! I don't want to put any pressure on you, I'm just wondering if you'll come back to write 'Left Behind' one day?

Either way, I will enjoy reading what you write.

Oh lovely lovely nonny thank you for the message! It always means an awful lot to hear questions about a specific fic from someone 💕

I’m never going to make any promises because my muse is a fickle thing and will absolutely take and leave things as it fancies. Plus, Left Behind is a Mammoth of a story that I still have a lot left to plan and write - it’s a fic I’ve not actually written for near two years and getting back into something like that after so long isn’t easy. My writing style has possibly changed since then and I worry that that change could be jarring to readers.

However, I do so love writing about the relationships between the boys and their (many) parental figures. As well as writing the parental figures themselves and their relationships with IR and each other (Jeff and Lucy are always going to be my OTP).

So I’m not saying never, but I’m not saying absolutely.

What I will say, however, is that my muse is very much running towards the Thunderbirds ball pit and wants to play and I have a week off in a couple of weeks…

[quasar-concept]

Notice (Thunderpride Bingo Fic)

Coming Out + Trans Woman Gordon for @thunder-pride Rating: T Warnings: gender dysphoria (moderate), anxiety (mild), accidental misgendering (very mild)

Read on Ao3!

There had, of course, been clues. Gordon just hadn’t realised they were there, didn’t know to look for them, until much later. It was strange, the way the tingle of discomfort when Gordon walked past the mirror outside the changing room, was disguised by the thrill that came with high-paced training. 

Gordon sighed, softly and rhythmically pulling on the front of her hair. 

Every time Gordon got into the pool, the rush of water over her ears, the tug at her feet as she powered through layers of cold water, everything melded together. It was afterwards, when the adrenaline and the wrongness mixed together that made Gordon feel like she was made of TV static. 

She was lucky, she supposed, that her discomfort had been so easily mistaken for nerves, as she climbed the hyper-competitive ranks of swimming. 

Still. Maybe it would have been easier, if she wasn’t pushing thirty when she realised she was trans, if she hadn’t been on the tail end of a rescue, staring at her muddied hair in the back of Thunderbird 2, longer than it had ever been before. 

They were on mandatory downtime after several long, hard, back-to-back rescues, rounding out a long and hard month. The piano was alive with Virgil’s playing, a calm background to the wild conversation between Scott and Alan, the noises floating up and into Gordon’s room. Gordon assumed John was somewhere, sleeping off the rest of his gravity hangover. 

Gordon tugged at the loose shirt hanging over her shoulders, white singlet clinging to her waist. The quieter month that had preceded the most recent had been good. She’d had time to research, time to process. Then they had been hit with rescue after rescue, and there hadn’t been a good time for Gordon to pull any of her brothers aside, let alone all of them. So she’d not really been putting off coming out. They’d just all been busy.

Now, though, Gordon had that tight feeling in her chest again, that she couldn’t keep going without letting someone, anyone, know. 

There was a soft knock at her door, and Gordon stiffened.

John stuck his head in. “Gord—”

“I’m trans!”

John stared at Gordon, and Gordon stared back, just as shocked that it came out of her mouth as John was.

“Oh-kay. Thank you for trusting me with that.” John said, reliably smoothing over the awkward conversation. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes John, I do want to talk about it. Please.” Gordon’s shoulders sagged. 

“Alright.” John stepped into the room, door still open behind him. “I came to tell you there’s lunch downstairs, but do you want to talk now instead?”

Gordon nodded. She wasn’t sure she could hold it in, now that she’d said it out loud. She teased the end of her shirt, and gestured for John to sit on the bed. John shut the door behind him carefully, before crossing the room and sitting down amongst the jungle squid and whale plushies. Gordon stayed standing, staring at her feet. 

“So.” John prompted.

“So?”

“So, you’re trans?”

Gordon nodded. “Mmhm.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“I guess.” Gordon shrugged. 

“Okay.” John said. “When you’re ready.” 

Gordon nodded, so John knew she’d heard, and she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. How did she explain something so simple, yet so intricate? Something she wanted to share, but at the same time wanted to hold close. Would it make it more true, when others knew? Would it even matter, since it was already true to her? Gordon wasn’t used to being so choked for words. 

“I’m trans,” she said, slowly. “I’m a woman.”

“Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

“I wanna use she/her pronouns, but I…” Gordon spared a glance at her brother, his bright eyes soft, and expectant. “I’m gonna keep using Gordon, for now at least. I know that a lot… most trans people change their names, but I like mine, and, and I might change my mind later, but for now…”

“You’re under no obligation to change your name just because you’re a trans woman, Gordon.”

“I know,” Gordon said softly. “I just…” Heat prickled under her eyes. “I’m just.” She sniffled, trying to push away the on-coming tears. “Fuck! How did I not notice before?” Gordon scrubbed furiously at her eyes, whirling to face her older brother. “How on earth did I manage to go twenty-seven years, and not notice I’m a woman?”

John reached out, fingers brushing Gordon’s arm to tug her closer. “Come here, Gordon.” John pulled her gently onto the bed, and tucked her under his chin, and rubbed his knuckles on her back in small circles. 

“I’m just so…How?” Gordon whispered. 

“You just didn’t.” John didn’t tack on any softer words. He just continued to rub circles into Gordon’s back while she cried, hot and angry. 

After a while, Gordon’s grief for lost time, dissipated into gently pulsing hope. She pulled her arms out from where they were curled between her and John, and wrapped them around him. “Aw, man, John,” she said, voice hoarse. “Guess what?”

“What’s that, Gordon?”

“I’m so happy I told you.”

John smiled. “I’m happy you told me, too, Gordo.”

Gordon pulled away, and grabbed a bright blue squid. “So does this mean I’m your favourite sister?”

“Oh, I dunno,” John said. “Kayo holds that spot pretty tightly.” 

“Aww, but Johnny!” 

“You just lost all chance of gaining that title for a week.”

Gordon wacked John with the squid. “Rude, you are. Rude!” 

“Boys!” Grandma called from downstairs. Gordon winced, the smile dropping off her face. John put a hand on her knee, thumb rubbing gently. “If you want food, come quick!”

“We’ll be there in a minute, Grandma!” John called back. To Gordon, he said. “You want to tell them today, too?”

Gordon shrugged. “Maybe. I’m still a bit… feeling a bit raw, still, so maybe later.”

“Alright.” John nodded. “You let me know, and I’ll be there.” 

Gordon smiled weakly. “Thanks John.”

“Of course, Gordon. You’re my sister. I love you.” 

“Love you, too John.”

“Let’s get some food, though. We really don’t want to be stuck with Grandma’s leftovers.”

Gordon’s eyes widened in horror. “Absolutely we do not. Let’s go, let’s go.” Gordon shot out the room, and down the stairs leaving a trail of stuffed animals. She was playing it up, just a little bit, John knew, but that was okay.

John sighed, with a smile, as he picked up the few stray animals, and threw them back onto Gordon’s bed. A lot of new things might be coming their way, but some things never change.

[squiddokiddo]

✏️ and 🍪

Hey, thanks for asking!!

🍪 • I answered the cookie one here if you'd like to check that out.

✏️ • Have I ever written fanfiction?

Yeah, so far I've only posted 3 self indulgent ficlets for my oc Squirt linked below:

.⊹*𖦹 🦈🦈 🎃🎃 🍂🍂 𖦹*⊹.

I've written some cringey fanfic in my early teens for myself and a friend who, at the time, was crushing hard on John.

I collaborated with @katblu42 in 2021 on a TAG minibang project named Deep Water. Katblu wrote the fic and I made the illustrations but we both came up with the story together. (If that counts)

I'm also working on something for TAG Secret Santa this year, I would normally draw but I felt the prompts were aiming more towards fic territory.✨

.⊹*𖦹Ask game𖦹*⊹.

[hebuiltfive]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT TRACY!

I was going to post a snippet from my WIP, but there was nothing that suited a birthday post so I created a little extra piece. There's reference to the WIP, but I hope it isn't too confusing. The main aim was to have a little Scott and Virgil brotherly moment. I hope it worked.

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THIRTY

Characters: Scott Tracy, Virgil Tracy

Words: 2,267

Summary: He was supposed to be enjoying his 30th birthday party, but thoughts of impending doom never seem to leave the former Commander of International Rescue's mind.

(AO3 link here, or keep reading below the cut).

Time stopped for no-one.

Minutes ticked by on his watch face. Calendar paper that had been torn off noted how fast the months flew along. One minute you’re celebrating the start of spring, the next there’s snow on the ground because you’re heading into winter. Day after day after day, time continued, no matter the circumstances that filled a person’s life.

Time never stopped.

Scott Tracy found himself pondering this as he stared out towards the horizon. The sun had started to set, so he’d stolen himself away to the poolside for a few minutes of quiet reflection. He was never usually so pensive at such events, but he figured hitting a milestone birthday was as good a time as any. The party had been wonderful. It was a quiet get together with his family and close friends. Scott always preferred those kinds of parties on Tracy Island to the garish and loud parties he had to attend as the eldest of Jeff Tracy’s sons, the world’s eyes upon him as camera flashed in his face. He sighed. He was going to have to face one of those events again in a few days, and he knew there was no getting out of it. Despite his father’s pleas for him to not attend, Scott knew there was no other way around it. Besides, if something were to happen there, Scott would have preferred himself being the one in the line of fire than any of the other ‘Mr. Tracys’ the letter had so ominously addressed.

“You’re missing your own party.”

The unmistakable deep baritone of his brother Virgil came from behind him and broke him out from his pensive thoughts.

They all had worn matching party hats tonight, varying in colour by their ships. Whilst Scott wore a hat that was garnished with the colours of grey, blue and a streak of red at the top, Virgil’s was green with the pattern forming with hints of yellow and red. If Scott was being honest, he hated the having to wear the party hats. They always messed up his carefully styled hair. Scott was about to take his off once the lunch was over, but his Grandma had stopped him with a simple shake of her head. Begrudgingly, he kept it on, despite the absolute atrocity that would meet him when he finally could take it off at the end of the night. Thank God they no longer wore hats as part of their uniforms. Scott wasn’t sure his hair would have coped.

“What are you doing out here?” Virgil continued as he sidled up to stand beside Scott.

“Thinking.” Scott replied, glancing over at his brother once. He smiled a smile that was supposed to have convinced Virgil that all was well. The plan backfired, and Scott should have realised it would have because his brother Virgil had always had a keen eye when things were amiss.

“About what, dare I ask?”

There was a slight pause before Scott replied with his apathetic answer of: “Things.”

Virgil simply gave him a nod and said no more. It was a tactic Scott was so very familiar with after all these years. He wasn’t sure where his brother had learnt it but Virgil knew that, given enough time of waiting in the silence, Scott would crack and eventually tell him what was bothering him. He always had, he probably always would. As the eldest of his younger siblings, Virgil knew how to wait. He was patient enough and didn’t mind the silence that was now starting to become awkward.

In just over a minute, unable to take the quiet any longer, Scott finally broke. “The other day, Gordon asked me if I was starting to head into my midlife crisis.”

Virgil still said nothing, allowing Scott the space and time to open up however much he wanted. He continued to stare out at the horizon whilst Scott turned to him.

“But… I’m only thirty! I’m nowhere near the middle of my life yet, I hope.”

He’d only used The Gordon Incident as a way of distracting both himself and Virgil from the very real worry on his mind, but it occurred to him as he spoke to Virgil, his mind speeding along faster than Thunderbird One, that this idea of him hitting the middle of his life was a far more worrying concept than he’d previously given it credit. He wasn’t usually one to worry about age. It was, after all, something that was out of his control. Scott hated it, but he thought he’d made peace with it. Apparently he hadn’t. Gordon’s words had hit him deep and he hadn’t even noticed.

The plastic cup in his grasp, that was as red as the paintwork on Thunderbird Three, was lifted to Scott’s lips. He took a sip of the sparkling wine and then continued. “I mean, I know he was joking, but I don’t know. Thinking about everything I’ve done, everything I’ve not done; where I’ve gone wrong in life, or where I could make improvements… Virg, is thirty a good time to start questioning everything?”

After a few more moments of silence to make sure his older brother had truly finished, Virgil finally replied. “Scott, there is no right or wrong when it comes to anything in life. You know as well as any of us that you just have to go along with whatever is thrown at you, the good and the bad. There’s no time for regrets.”

The last sentence had Scott stunned for a moment. Those were his words. His words that he’d spoken to Virgil all those years ago. He blinked. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do. It was one of the first pep talks you ever gave me. I still have that picture somewhere too.”

“I didn’t know any of you even listened to my pep talks.” Scott joked. It earned him a laugh from Virgil and it was enough for the weight on his chest to ease a little.

Scott had been barely seven years old when he’d given his then-baby brother that talk. He’d found Virgil crying on the steps of the porch of the ranch house, two pieces of torn paper crumpled up in each palm. Their mother, busy with the newborn bundle that was Gordon and the toddler at her feet that was John, had told Virgil he wasn’t allowed to go down and see the horses that morning, so Virgil had tried to draw them from his memory. At only five years old, the talent that he’d come to possess for art in his later life was still a developing skill, and the crayon drawing was, in Virgil’s own words, “a mon-a-stross-i-tuss-ee” (monstrosity for those who don’t understand toddler). Scott had sat down beside him, arm around his little brother’s shoulder, and spoken about what he saw in Virgil’s slowly burgeoning talents.

“You told me that life was too short to worry so much. Remember?” Virgil offered, his big brown eyes as kind as ever. Scott shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, but he couldn’t deny himself a trip down memory lane, courtesy of his brother. Perhaps hearing the words spoken back to him, in Virgil’s voice this time, might help cure him of this sudden bout of worry. So, he listened.

His brother continued. “Life, you said, was about exploring and experimenting, finding what works and what doesn’t work. If you fail, you learn and you adapt. Strive for perfection, but know that you shouldn’t always expect to find it, especially on a first try.”

Hm. Perhaps Scott really did need to listen to his younger self’s advice. His face ridden with guilt, he glanced back over to the setting sun.

Virgil hadn’t finished. “When I was finished with my sobbing, you took me back inside to the kitchen table and you told me you were going to fix my drawing. Do you remember that?”

Scott, his lips quirking up in a smile, nodded as he recalled the memory fondly. “Wasn’t it dad’s industrial strength glue we found?”

“He went absolutely crazy.” Virgil’s deep laugh echoed around the poolside. “But you did what you said you were going to do. You fixed my drawing. You glued the two crumpled halves back together. You told me that life was too short to have regrets and that I should savour every moment, even those that were less than perfect.”

Behind them, the sound of Alan crashing the keys on the piano would have normally had Virgil running, but he remained standing beside Scott. His work here wasn’t over.

“Is this the part where you tell me, yet again, that I have to stop trying to be so darn perfect all the time?” Scott quizzed, only half joking. Though it was true that perfectionism was a deep rooted problem within the eldest Tracy, Scott hated being reminded of it.

This time, it was Virgil’s turn to shrug. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life, Scott, you know that. I can, however, advise that you stop dwelling on the what-ifs, the might-have-beens, and the what-comes-nexts. Thirty isn’t the end of your life.”

It could be though, Scott thought. In the line of work they were in, any day could be their last. On too many occasions had they all been reminded of that, and the same thought must have crossed through Virgil’s mind because he quickly added, “Well, as far as we know it isn’t.”

Scott chuckled sourly. It was the grim reality of what they all faced, but each one of them had accepted the odds. If it meant helping people, they’d all make that solemn vow again.

“Gordon was just being Gordon. Don’t let whatever he said get into your head. You know he would be kicking himself if he knew he’d caused this spiral.”

Oh, he knew. It was why Scott had come out to the pool, to watch the sun set, on his own. His brothers rarely meant their words with malice, even if Gordon sometimes had too much of a bite with his jokes. But Virgil was right; if he knew, he’d have been trying to make it up to Scott for the next month or so, and Scott wasn’t keen on that idea. “No, I know. And Gordon doesn’t need to know about this. God, please, Virgil! Keep this to yourself? The last thing I need right now is the rest of them checking in on me daily to make sure I’m okay. I’ve got enough on my plate without that.”

“You still haven’t worked out who that letter was from yet?”

There it was. The reminder of what was truly bothering him. “No idea.” Scott replied grimly.

The mysterious envelope that had landed on his desk back at Tracy Industries the other day was the talk of the family. With a message that could have been a thinly veiled threat, Scott had been non-stop dwelling on who the scribe could have been.

“But I don’t want to get into that now.” His head tilted back to the villa. “We should probably head back in. They’ll start to wonder where we are, and anyway I think I need another cup of this stuff. Where did Penny say she bought it from?”

Scott could see Virgil starting to worry over the whole letter business, and was glad when he didn’t decide to question him on it further. Scott was all talked out. Besides, Virgil was right when he had told him he was missing his own party. Rarely did they get time off to enjoy such intimate events with the whole family. He should have been cherishing the time with those he loved, rather than worrying over things he couldn’t currently control.

With a smile, Virgil turned and began to lead the way back in. “No idea, but Gordon could probably tell you. He does hang off every word she says.”

“I don’t know how she stands it.” Virgil offered another laugh as they entered the kitchen and strode back up the stairs to the lounge.

Scott was greeted by an overly excited, and possibly tipsy Alan, who began dragging him over to the holo-gaming area he’d set up. Apparently Alan was eager to try and beat him at Twister VR, though Scott was certain it would be another winning game to him.

By the time morning arrived on the island, and Scott awoke with a sluggish brain from all the alcohol and dancing from the night before, all dreary thoughts of regret from the previous night had gone. His talk with Virgil, as always, had helped quench those worries.

There was still one worry he had to work on, sluggish brain or not. The letter. Unlike his mid-life crisis worries, the mystery surrounding that piece of paper still remained. For a moment, Scott wondered whether he should have spoken more to Virgil about it. Perhaps then the worry over the contents of that letter, and what it meant, would have dissipated like his other worry had… No, though it was a nice thought, Scott knew that the only way to solve the mystery was to face it head on, consequences be damned. Though his father had warned  him against it, he would be attending the gala event tomorrow night. Alone. He’d just have to hope he was prepared for any eventuality, because Virgil was right; he shouldn’t dwell on the ‘what-comes-nexts’.

Besides, ploughing in and hoping for the best was his speciality, and he’d be damned if it failed him now.

[cg29]

@myladykayo 🥰Love this!

Obsessed with the concept of a character who has never been treated kindly or gently in their life (or in a very long time) and suddenly being treated gently and with care and being stunned and then overwhelmed by it.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Contagion

It was a rare quiet period for International Rescue, and its operatives were all making good on the unexpected free time.

Maintenance had been caught up on. Household chores were completed by human hands, to the exacting standards of Grandma Tracy, and now they had all scattered to pursue personal projects.

John, having elected to remain on Thunderbird Five, was in deep contemplation of the beauty of the cosmos, via the satellites’ state of the art telescope. Alan was chasing down a league record speed-run of a notably tricky game level. Grandma Tracy was pottering in the small, and largely neglected, flower garden. Kayo did yoga. Brains dusted off a pet project left over from his college days. Gordon had taken Thunderbird Four on a marine wildlife survey expedition in Tracy Island’s surrounds. Scott, having finished a backlog of Tracy Industries paperwork, was now idly spending time in an online chatroom with some old, and much neglected, buddies.

Virgil had drifted, unsettled, from one project to another, before being seized by inspiration, and setting up at the piano to score a piece of music he could hear in his head.

Scott had surreptitiously opened comm channels to Grandma and John, so they could listen as Virgil worked. They both loved the music that Virgil wrote, and listening as he composed brought back bittersweet memories of Lucy doing much the same thing.

So they all heard as Gordon came bounding exuberantly up the stairs into the lounge, whooping excitedly about some rare species of starfish that had apparently chosen to set up shop in their vicinity.

“Hey, Virge! You writing some music there? Great! I hope it’s catchy, ‘cause I’ve spent the last three hours with the ‘Pink Panther’ theme stuck in my head! I need something to dislodge it.”

Only Scott saw the expression on Virgil’s face, but Grandma and John heard as the piano tune slammed to an abrupt halt with a crashing of achromatic chords. The anguish in Virgil’s voice as he snarled at Gordon, “Why. Would. You. Say. That. I. Was. In. The. Middle. Of. Something. And. Now. It’s. Gone!”, was enough for them to abandon their projects and start heading to intercept.

Gordon’s self-preservation instincts kicked in, and he high-tailed his way out of the lounge, Virgil in enraged pursuit.

Scott sat for a long moment, trying to massage away an impending headache. Gordon screaming followed by a bellow from Virgil, was enough to have him out of his seat, and setting off after his brothers.

Humming the theme from the ‘Pink Panther’.

Notes:

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

And yes, I have ‘accidentally’ transmitted this particular ear-worm by simply announcing that I had it stuck in my head.

[idontknowreallywhy]

This is gorgeous. Especially how you describe the sensation of balancing and the movement of the line. How like Scott to make it that high on the first day 🙄 am now firmly of the view this is at least partly how he developed such an uncanny level of balance for later.

IRRelief for @tsarinatorment for your prompt “Teenage Scott getting a insignificant wound and any younger brother(s) jumping at the chance to play doctor” - you’ve written soooo many good responses for prompts, thank you!! I hope you enjoy this!!

@gumnut-logic as always thank you for organising these fun events :D

Scott has been given a slackline for his birthday :D Why? Silly question - why NOT? :D (ngl…. I’ve always wanted to try one that was my only motivation) They’re all small, but Alan is two and uh….. sorry to anyone who actually knows what is appropriate development for a two year old bc I do not and I have read so many child development articles that the google ads think I’m pregnant and for all that I’m still unsure of how I wrote him XD Toddlers man….

———————————————————————————————————

“Should you have moved it up so high?” asked Virgil, as he checked over the ratchet holding the slackline in place one last time.

Scott scoffed as he climbed on a chair at the other end of the line.

“It’ll be fine, Virg, it’s barely four feet off the ground. You saw how easy it was, even Alan could do it.”

“Yeah, when it was six inches off the ground and you held him by the armpit the entire time.”

“Fine, Gordon then.”

Virgil shook his head and stepped back, remembering the guideline that Gordon had held tightly to as he’d walked the length of slackline between the two trees. Scott had taken it down as soon as their younger brothers had lost interest in the new birthday present and wandered inside in search for more cake. The two were now left alone, daring each other to move the line higher and higher with each successful balancing trick.

Scott took a deep breath and placed his foot firmly on the line. His leg wobbled violently, his body unable to stop the instinctive over corrections as it tried to find its centre of gravity. In a smooth, practiced motion, Scott shifted his weight to his shaking leg and stood as quickly as he could, flinging his arms out on either side. The chair was now far below him.

He didn’t dare look down at the ground.

One breath. Two. Tension mounted as the elastic bearing his weight skated beneath his hips.

Three breaths and he let it go, falling back to the safety of the chair.

“What was that?” scoffed Virgil, his arms folded across his chest. “That was barely a second.”

“It was at least five,” said Scott. He gritted his teeth, glaring at the slackline.

Another deep breath and he tried again.

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