#tiny Tracy whump

[tinytracys]

MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!

We have a Situation!

[forest-falcon]

Not written anything in ages. Just scribbled this down while making dinner. Gonna continue to scribble this evening and hope for the best!

Scott whump plus tinies being tinies.

💙🧡💚💛❤️

The Butterfly Effect

Chptr 1

It was nothing.

Scott's head throbbed in retaliation at the thought, and the pilot suddenly regretted the English breakfast he'd savoured just a few short hours ago.

Tentative fingers explored the swelling at the back of his head. 

He inhaled a hiss as the injury bit back, and the eldest Tracy found himself nose-breathing to abate his rising nausea.

Ok, so it was something...but it had to be nothing.

Nothing until he was home, dry and safe - then he could rest...sleep it off - ice it, if needs be. 

Nope.

Scott lost the bile battle and found himself filling a in-flight bag he usually reserved for passengers.

Goddamn it.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, willing the universe to equip him with a functional brain - one that could last out the two-hour flight back to Tracy Island. He just needed to plot a course, then One could bring him home.

Then, and only then, could it be something. 

One hovered patiently, her hum soothing and familiar in the absence of family.

"Thunderbird One?"

Fuck. He had to get going now before younger brothers grounded his clumsy ass. Scott summoned his best game face and ignored the sensation that his hair was gelled wrong.

"John? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He'd confess his stupidity once home. Suffer the wrath of the Virgil-brows, and worse - Grandma, if he could just skip out on a hospital stay. 

"Thunderbird One, you've not moved from your current location for some time. Is everything okay?"

"Sorry John, just had some stuff on my mind. Will fill you in later. I'm setting off now."

Scott allowed his fingers to dance over the controls, trusting muscle-memory over conscious thought. Thinking seemed to be a prelude to filling further bags - a desire he had no wish to to kindle.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yes. FAB. M'good." 

One's boosters fired and Scott swiped the hologram of his brother away.

Thunderbird One began her journey back across the South Pacific Ocean.

* * *

Scott's line went quiet.

"M'good."

John chewed on a pen-cap as he turned the phrase over in his head. 

"Is everything okay, John?"

EOS hovered just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

"I think so."

"Penny for your thoughts."

John chuckled. Pennies hadn't been used for decades.

"Did Scott seem... different at all to you?"

"Not noticeably."

"Can I have a reading on Scott's vitals please? I'm sure everything's fine..."

"Blood pressure is slightly low, and heart rate raised, but all within normal parameters given recent exertion on mission."

"Good."

 "My records show that Scott has been working longer hours than usual. He perhaps sounded a little tired, especially given his choice of words."

"I thought so too. I'll get Virgil to check in on him when he's home. If something's bothering Scott, I'm sure Virg can work his magic with a tête-à-tête."

"Failing that, a stay on Thunderbird Five should help to take the weight off, once I've removed the artificial gravity."

John threw his pencap at the AI.

"Thunderbird Four?"

"Present and correct!"

Gordon's voice sounded like a double espresso in comparison to Scott's. 

"Mission status, if you please."

"All crew have been safely extracted."

"And the vessel?"

"Four's never better."

John rolled his eyes and looked to EOS for strength.

"The ship, Gordon."

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Thunderbird Five. The sea is full of ships," Alan's voice chirped in.

John glared at the comms line. He could hear their smug, stupid smiles. He was being set up. May as well get it over with.

"What is the status of Shippy. Shippy. Bang. Bang."

"Ooooh, that ship. I mean, she's not really a ship, more of an S.S.O, strictly speaking," Gordon sniggered. 

S.S.O, was nearly as bad as Brain's R.A.D, in John's book. Gordon had coined the phrase Ship Shaped Object, to define any ocean vessel not fit for purpose.

"Yeah she's toast. S.S.O Rust-Bucket's embarking on her final voyage to the ocean floor." Alan supplied.

Our amateur angler friends are back on dry land, so we'll be heading back. Clean up will have to wait until the storm has passed."

"FAB."

[gumnut-logic]

I need to tell you something (Bit 2)

Bit 1 | Bit 2

Here is a little more of this fic....which is growing in my head as we speak because apparently I need to turn tiny little prompt fics into bigger ones with more plot needed ::rolls eyes:: But anyway, here be fic :D

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight for the read through and the plot cackling :D

I hope you enjoy this Virgil whump and Scott's pissed off POV.

-o-o-o-

Some people were just tedious.

Scott Tracy, Commander of International Rescue, President of Tracy Industries, billionaire extraordinaire was currently attending to an earthquake and saving lives.

Scott Tracy, guy who just wanted to do his job and save those lives, was currently being held up by some prissy business man whose Audi was blocked from leaving the scene by one of One’s landing struts.

Apparently the guy had a meeting.

A very urgent meeting.

That had nothing to do with the lives Scott had been interrupted from saving.

John was, no doubt, calculating how many keystrokes it would take to destroy this man’s priorities. Which meant Scott would also have to talk down his space brother after debrief tonight.

Scott saw through John’s calm exterior. His brother had a vindictive streak.

“I am sorry, sir, but this is an emergency.”

“So is my meeting! I’m losing money as we speak!”

Scott couldn’t find the energy to care.

The thing that was really pissing him off, though, was the GDF operative who was standing next to him…and doing absolutely nothing! Can’t even manage crowd control.

Maybe he’d let John do the nasty he had been begging to do for years.

No, Scott had to be realistic. John had likely been doing the nasty to whoever he pleased, just under the table so his big brother wouldn’t notice.

Or could at least pretend to not notice certain company collapses.

Which reminded him. John, really should step back from castrating Lemaire. He was getting a little towards the visible side of things.

But then John did have a temper.

And so did Scott.

“Sir, I really don’t care. You are wasting my time and I need to get back to saving lives.”

“It would only take you a minute to-“

“I don’t care. Do I need to repeat myself?” The GDF guy arched an eyebrow and seemed amused?

“Scott?”

Virgil’s voice spread calm just by hearing it. Scott could do this without killing anyone, he really could.

He turned to find his brother behind him.

That wasn’t where he was supposed to be…

“Virgil? What? You’re supposed to be on the east side.”

“I know.” Virgil looked down. “But I have to tell you something.”

“Excuse me, Commander, but you still need to move your craft.”

He turned to glare at the man. “What is it, Thunderbird Two?” Remember who you are talking to.

Virgil didn’t answer.

Scott turned back to his brother, his frown switching from glare to concern. He reached out a hand and touched Virgil’s shoulder. The man was almost hunched.

Somewhere in the back of Scott’s brain, alarm bells started ringing. “Virgil, are you okay?”

His brother looked up and Scott cursed the helmets they were wearing. It was hard to see…

Virgil mumbled something and visibly swayed.

“Virgil!” Scott grabbed at his little brother. “What the-?”

“I’ve been shot.” His brother folded.

Scott struggled to catch him, desperate to prevent a nasty impact with the ground. “Virgil!”

But his brother’s eyes were closing.

“Thunderbird Five, Virgil is down. I need vital stats now!” Shot. Virgil said he had been shot. Scott eyed his brother’s body. Dirt, dust, but no sign of obvious injury.

Five pinged Scott’s wrist control and Virgil’s stats. Moments ago, they had been stable…now.

Scott cursed and yanked out his mediscanner, waving it sharply over his prone brother.

Goddamnit.

He gently rolled his brother onto his side.

Blood dripped from a tiny hole in Virgil’s uniform and joined the puddle in the dirt.

“John, I need Thunderbird Two over here now!”

As Scott yanked out padding from his portable medkit and cut a bigger hole in his brother’s uniform to stuff it into, he heard Two roar to life from the other side of the danger zone. She rose and rumbled across the landscape, setting down smoothly beside her sister ship.

There was sudden profanity from the man who had complained about One’s parking.

Scott cared even less on what his thoughts were about Two.

But as he lifted his bleeding brother into his arms and hurried to Two’s waiting elevator, he couldn’t help but notice that the Audi was considerably flatter under one of Two’s landing struts.

Vindictive, definitely.

-o-o-o-

TBC

[katblu42]

Breathe

This started out as a poem of about 100 words written for the Flash Fiction Friday prompt Rise and Fall, about three weeks ago. I felt it needed expansion.

I kind of whumped Scott and Gordon. Sorry!

***

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Slow, even, peaceful. Baby brother is sleeping.

He was eight years old and the house was comfortably dark and quiet with all his little brothers already tucked up in bed.  He couldn’t go to bed himself without saying goodnight to Mom, and after checking on each brother in turn he found her in the baby’s room, standing beside the crib with a hand gently resting on his tiny chest.  For a second he thought something must be wrong, but Mom had a soft smile on her face that suggested everything was fine.

“Mom?”

“Oh, hey Scotty.” She smiled and held her other hand out to him, inviting him to come closer.

“Is Gordon okay?”

“He’s fine.  I just like watching him breathe.”

Scott felt his forehead scrunch up in puzzlement, and his Mom gave a little laugh.

“I’ve done it with all of you boys,” she explained.  “There’s something very calming about it, knowing your little one is peacefully resting, safe and sound.”

She took his hand and encouraged him to place it on Gordon’s chest, where her hand had been.  He felt each little rise and fall in the rhythm of his littlest brother’s breathing.  In and out.  Up and down.  Constant, even, almost hypnotic.  He thought he understood what his Mom meant about it being calming.

He didn’t truly understand it until many years later, when seeing a sleeping brother’s chest rise and fall in a regular, steady pattern was reassurance that said brother really was going to be okay.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Breeze lifting, ebbing. Gliding through blue and white sky.

He was drifting, floating amongst the clouds.  So often he had stood on solid ground gazing up at the birds surfing the air currents, effortlessly riding the wind, their wings spread wide and rarely moving as they hung there in the blue, and wished he could be among them.  Now he knew how they felt.  He had flown, soared, glided on man-made wings of many kinds – and sometimes he had done so with no wings at all.  Sometimes he flew, sometimes he fell.  Right now, like a petrel riding the wind above Tracy Peak, he felt like he was floating in the air. 

But something wasn’t quite right.  There was no rushing wind roaring in his ears, whistling past his face and through his hair, tugging at his clothes.  No fresh, cool feeling of air and space and freedom.  Somehow the atmosphere around him felt too warm and close, too thick.  All was quiet and still around him except for the faint rhythmic whispering nagging at the edges of his consciousness. 

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Waves rolling, breaking, back and forth across white sand.

He wasn’t as fond of the water as Gordon always had been.  His place was in the sky, while Gordon’s was most definitely in the ocean.  But the whispered ebb and flow of the water across the sand was just as relaxing to Scott as it was to his aquanaut brother.  When the sea was calm and the waves gentle the sound of the ocean’s rhythmic breathing could soothe an anxious or overworked mind.

At other times the ocean churned and rolled with a tempestuous fury no one could combat, crashing and frothing, thundering onto rocks and sand.  Gordon loved her no matter what her mood, but Scott was wary of the ocean’s anger, especially when the Squid was out there amongst it.  He knew his little brother’s affinity for all things aquatic, and his already extensive, but still ever-growing knowledge of oceanography and marine life, coupled with large doses of Tracy determination would always serve him well when things got rough.  But Scott would always fret over the safety of his little brothers.

For now the waves were calm, the slightly irregular rhythm of their back and forth was comforting and familiar.  Unless . . . was that the breathy sound of water washing over sand, or was that the sound of actual breathing?

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Murmurs, voices. Words? Someone is calling his name.

He was rapidly becoming aware that his brothers were worked up about something.  He wished they would keep the volume down and let him sleep.  At first the murmurs were indistinct, but as his mind crept closer to wakefulness he recognised the voices.  Virgil.  Deep baritone, usually steady and measured, but right now agitated, more rushed and slightly raised in pitch as well as volume.

“. . . pod is down.  Last known location . . . not answering . . .”

He struggled to pick out the words.  It was as though they were fading in and out – or perhaps it was his own awareness that was doing that.  He knew the words were important, but they kept slipping from him.  Then the voice changed.  Different voice, different brother, but the signs of agitation were all too much the same.

John.  It must be John, calling him and waiting for an answer.  Calling again, louder, more urgent.  Communications was his space-brother’s job, and right now it seemed his focus was on getting an answer from his big brother.  But Scott couldn’t make the sounds form into coherent sentences in his mind.  It was just noise.  Insistent.  Familiar enough for him to find meaning in the undertones between the few words he could catch. 

Virgil was worried, fretting, and John’s voice had that clipped, controlled edge to it that Scott knew was reserved for only the most stressful situations.  So he pushed his mind to reach through the haziness, trying to hold on to the voices, to latch on to the words, to form an answer.

He heard a groan.  Awareness dawned slowly that it was his own.  For a moment his brothers’ voices fell away, then they rose again, more concerned, more frantic and tumbling over each other.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Reaching, failing. Pain. So close, but so far away.

He was more awake now, aware enough to know he lay on an uneven, hard surface in a cramped space with only the flickering lights of a damaged Pod for illumination.  The voices of two brothers buzzing in his ears reminded him he had been on a rescue, and he hadn’t been alone.

The flurry of panic that pounded through his chest caused a heavy ache as he swept his eyes over the immediate vicinity.  Through a haze of dust – or perhaps the haziness was something to do with his throbbing head – he could see his little brother. Nearby but just out of reach.  Gordon wasn’t moving.  Scott needed to know more, needed to reach him, needed to help. 

He tried to reach out his hand, but his body didn’t seem to want to respond.  He tried to take a deep breath in preparation for a concentrated effort at moving his limbs, but he found a sudden large intake of breath was not an option.  Instead, he slowly sucked in a lungful of air and mentally braced himself.  He managed to force his right arm to begin to move up and forward before pain lanced through his side, slamming the door on the notion of any further movement.

Stars pinpricked his vision and a strangled moan escaped him as he forced his eyes to refocus on the blue and yellow of his brother’s dirt-streaked uniform. God, he hoped it was just dirt.

“G’don,” a whispered wheeze.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Too slow.  Too shallow. Little brother is struggling.

He was feeling helpless.  Fully aware now of where they were and how they came to be there, and so very aware of his own injuries, but still unable to communicate with Virgil and John, or to assess or help Gordon.  He tried to keep the creeping fear from tipping him into a panic as he watched for any sign of movement from the aquanaut. 

It was there.  Barely perceptible. The slight rise and fall of his chest with each breath.  That was a good sign.  Gordon was breathing.  He realised that was one of the sounds he had been hearing earlier as he drifted towards consciousness. 

Scott tried to gather enough breath to call out to Gordon.  Bad idea.  Not only did it hurt, but the urge to cough had him fighting for more air, struggling to cough, to breathe, to ignore the pain.  And still his concern was for the brother he couldn’t reach, just beyond his fingertips, injured and unmoving, but thankfully alive. 

All he could do was watch and listen.  The rise and fall of the yellow baldric in the murky light.  The calls of concerned brothers trying so hard to reach them that all but drowned out the shallow breaths that were further apart than was healthy.  This was bad.  He needed to do something.  Gordon needed him.  They both needed John and Virgil.

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Need you now. Hurry! International Rescue . . .

He was determined.  Closing his eyes for a moment and summoning all his energy, drawing in as much breath as his constricted chest would allow, Scott managed to speak.  Just a few words, but enough to convey the urgency.

“Scott!”  John’s voice managed to convey equal parts relief and concern.  “We’re coming.  You just need to hang on a little longer, Virgil’s almost there.”

“Gord’n . . .”  Scott barely managed to groan out.

“I know, Scott,” the gentle, reassuring and familiar space monitor tone returning to the forefront.  “I’m monitoring his vitals.  We’ll get you both the help you need.” A rumble and scrape of moving earth, the scrabble of small stones and dirt skittering, a sudden shaft of bright light . . . rescue.

[soniabigcheese]

Ooo now that i know how this works, can i request 'Tears of fear' wee john? 💌

Thank you for the ask and here you go

@badthingshappenbingo

Fanbase: Thunderbirds Are Go Characters: John Tracy, Lucille Tracy Genre: a LOT of whump and bullying

AND .... YAY ... ANOTHER LINE!

Hero and Villain Puzzle Box

Sorry if it takes a while to get to the point but I promise you I will get there

John had always been a shy kid, preferring to bury his nose into his beloved books than draw attention to himself, unlike his big brother Scott. However, because of his bright copper hair, that was always the first thing everyone noticed.

And because of his quiet, reserved nature, he was also a target for bullies. They were sneaky and always waited until Scott was otherwise distracted before pouncing.

Their favourite tactic was to cause a fight and have the hot headed, overly protective big brother sent to the principal's office. Once there, there was nothing Scott could do, as he waited for his undeserved punishment.

So, for the umpteenth time, Lucy was faced with a tearful John, clothes torn and pages ripped out of his books, sometimes sporting a black eye. More often than not, a haunted, defeated expression on his face.

And each time, she gave him a gentle hug, dabbed his face with a cold towel and helped to repair his books.

"You know Johnny," she said one day, "you really need to stick up for yourself. Scott won't be there to defend you all the time. He'll be moving up to the big school soon."

"I know mom," he whispered, his eyes downcast, "I'm sorry."

This went on for a while and Lucy became increasingly worried that her beautiful son would lose that sparkle he once had. In between dealing with feisty Gordon suffering from croup and Alan almost due, she was at her wits end.

Then she had an idea that found her digging through dusty boxes in the attic and Jeff wondering if this latest pregnancy had finally driven her around the bend.

"AHA!"

Triumphantly, she held aloft a small item that she'd had in her possession from when she was a small child herself. It was a silly old puzzle box that had seen better days.

Sitting at the table, she waited for John's return, holding her breath for whatever state he would arrive in.

Thankfully there wasn't much bodily damage, just more torn clothes and ripped up books. His bag was dripping, where they'd squeezed a bottle of detergent into it, thus destroying all his schoolwork.

At least she'd arranged to have his schoolwork advanced to their computer so that it wasn't completely lost.

He dropped into his seat and scowled.

"I hate this school," he announced, tipping the ruined contents of his bag onto the floor.

"Oh honey," she exclaimed, cringing at the mess he was making but deciding that he was more important than a messy floor, "you're doing so well with your studies. Moving might set you back a little bit."

Yes, she realised that this was the wrong approach and it would be so much easier to have him transferred. But the nearest school was too far away and that meant a good hour or so drive, even with the school bus.

Oh sure, they could home school him, but where would that leave them? Home schooling the rest. And they needed that social aspect in their lives. Hiding away would only give the bullies the upper hand.

Anyways, she pulled this trinket from her pocket and handed it to him.

"You know what this is?"

He took it ever so gently and turned it around in his fingers, inspecting every inch of it.

"It's an old puzzle box." "That's right, I called it my Hero and Villain box."

He looked confused, so she took it from him and showed him the tiny little clip that opened it.

"You see," she began, "I was shy like you."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Oh yes," she continued, "I was also bullied too. Had my hair pulled, called names, books destroyed etc. They never found out who they were nor were they caught. But ... my grandpa gave me this box and told me what I'm telling you now."

She pushed the clip and a lid slid back.

"When I got too scared, I would sneakily pop this open," she winked and nudged him with her elbow, "we weren't supposed to have anything in class but I had it hidden in my pocket. Anyways, I'd open this and pretend that it was a cage to trap the villains in ... and let the hero out."

Eyes wide as saucers, John was astonished and intrigued at this revelation from his mom.

"Did it work?"

"Sometimes it did. It takes a little getting used to. But yeah, it helped me out. Just make sure that you keep it safe."

She handed it back, folding his fingers over it and planting a watery kiss on his cheek.

"Now, how about helping me with dinner okay? You can peel the potatoes, whilst we figure out how to keep this trinket hidden, right?"

She took the old bag and inspected it with a frown. It had definitely seen better days and, not only were the pockets torn, there were holes big enough for this puzzle to fall out.

So, after dinner and whilst helping John with his homework, she took one of Scott's old sports bag and started to stitch a hidden pocket inside. There, she slipped the puzzle inside and winked at John.

"There ... " she whispered, "... its nicely hidden away now. Just remember to keep it safe and think of me and Heroes and Villains.

The next day, in a lighter mood than usual, John headed to school, where most of the day went really well - for a change. But his euphoria was short lived towards the end of the day.

An overnight storm and flash flooding had caused the creek just outside the school grounds to swell and become thick with mud.

That's where the bullies .. three of them ... had managed to catch John and pushed him to the ground. They systematically started to kick him as he struggled to find his Villain Box.

It fell from his fingers and rolled over a couple of slippery rocks ... right in front of the biggest thug. Who eyed it beadily and watched as John's face turned from panic to sheer horror.

Oh please please don't

His heart thudded in his chest, and tears tracked down his dirty face as he could only watch helplessly as a heavy boot nudged at the box, before stomping down on it. The pieces shattered. At the same time, so did John's heart.

He'd promised to keep it safe. And now he had failed miserably.

Pleased that they'd succeeded in making John finally cry, they turned to walk away. But he wasn't finished just yet. Fists clenched and face turning puce with anger, John struck out, punching as hard as he could. His fist slammed into the ear of one boy, the eye of the other and as for the biggest and nastiest one....

... he saved his hardest punch to break his nose.

And whilst they were still reeling from the vicious little red tornado, John scooped up most of the pieces of the puzzle, grabbed his bag and fled.

Needless to say, he was never bothered again.

[weathergirl8]

Master of Deflection - Part 6

Finally found time to post this sucker during this crazy week of graduation prep! Graduation practice tomorrow and actual ceremony Friday night for my associate's degree!

This is for you @ak47stylegirl and anyone else who enjoys Alan whump/smothering. Of course, there will be some extra Virgil in there too, because I just love the big guy.

@misssquidtracy @gumnut-logic @godsliltippy Thank you for your support on this fic!!

I bring you some Sky Turnip and Land Cabbage 💙💚

As a friendly reminder, I originally came from the TOS and TB 2004 era. I’ve tried to write a few TAG point-of-views, but my comfort zone is the previous. This will take place with Gordon as the redhead, and Virgil as the middle bro. Sorry!

Summary: Being the youngest of five is always hard, especially when they pounce at the slightest hair out of line. Sometimes the art of deflection can sting.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Virgil tried to suppress a yawn as he grabbed the needed medication from the infirmary. Alan’s fever had climbed nearly another degree. The medic of the family instinctively made the call to start antibiotics quickly. Virgil was confident they were now dealing with more than the common cold and that a bacterial infection was beginning to set in.

Entering Alan’s room, the middle Tracy was concerned to see the bed empty. Only the sight of the strewn sheets and a pile of used tissues remained. “Allie?”

“I’m in here,” Alan’s hoarse voice called from the bathroom.

Virgil sat the meds down and met the crumbled form of his baby brother. Alan sat on the bathroom floor, the wall seeming to be the only thing holding him up. “Sick again?”

“Yup,” Alan grumbled as he reached to flush the toilet. Virgil handed him a towel to clean himself up. “Thanks.”

Virgil helped him up but quickly took hold of his younger brother’s waist as the teen’s legs nearly crumbled. “Alan, you okay?”

“Yea,” the teen panted as another cough erupted from him. “Brain and body just don’t want to cooperate at the moment.”

“C’mon, let’s get you back in bed,” Virgil urged as they made the short walk to Alan’s bed. “If you don’t start keeping things down, I’m going to have to start an IV, kiddo. I’m worried about dehydration.”

“You’re preaching to the choir. This isn’t exactly a party,” Alan wheezed, letting his head sink back into his pillow.

Virgil observed him as Alan coughed and tried to take in a deep breath. “How long has that been going on?”

“I dunno,” Alan shrugged. “Awhile, I guess. It’s not like I’m writing all of this down.”

The middle Tracy handed Alan two pills, motioning for the teen to take the antibiotics. “When you’re not exerting yourself, is it hard to breathe?”

Alan gave his older brother a weird look but decided against the first thought that entered his mind. He wouldn’t exactly call laying in bed exerting himself, but who was he to judge? “If you call breathing with my mouth mostly, then sure.”

Virgil now wished he had kept the kid in the infirmary so he could ease his mind and have all of his equipment at his disposal. Knowing it wasn’t something the baby of the family would do, he opted for what he had in front of him. “Alright, if it gets worse, let me know immediately. Here’s something that will help with nausea, and something to hopefully help with that cough,” he said, handing Alan the tiny pill and cup of cough suppressant.

“Why do these always have to taste so gross?” Alan complained as he quickly swallowed several gulps of water.

“That’s how you know it’ll work,” Virgil smirked, winking at his annoyed sibling.

-TB-

The sunrise was Scott’s favorite part of his morning run. The smell of the morning dew across the island jungle and the colorful orange and yellow hues that rippled across the water.

He slowed his pace to a jog as he came across the broadest part of the beach on the Island. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, the oldest Tracy paused as he noticed a figure ahead. Confusion met him as he recognized the build of the person. Scott quickly jogged forward, calling out to his younger brother. “Virgil?”

“Hey, Scott,” the chestnut-haired Tracy greeted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a towel.

Scott struggled for a moment. He knew he was treading on thin ice for his brother to be up this early. Virgil was always active, but athletically the medic was more of a gym guy. He found more solace in lifting weights and punching bags. Sprinting and running were always something the other brothers had enjoyed, barring John. It was rare to catch Virgil on a run outside of the gym, especially on one before the sun had been up for at least one hour in the sky.

“Pretty view, huh?” Virgil interrupted his thoughts, almost sensing his brother’s unease.

“Always is,” Scott smiled in appreciation. “No sunrise seems to be the same.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Virgil replied, taking a seat along the sand.

Scott’s concern only increased, but he followed his brother along the cool sand. His blue eyes searched the ocean while taking small glances at Virgil.

“You can ask,” Virgil exhaled, surprising the elder. “I know you’re wondering why I’m out here so early.”

Scott tried to suppress the grin that he knew was also on Virgil’s face. “Didn’t want to push.”

Virgil nodded in understanding, letting his hands rest on his raised knees. “Bad dreams and worried about Alan,” he stated plainly.

“I checked in on the kid before I started my run. Al was sound asleep, but he still felt warm and sounded congested. I think that humidifier might be helping,” Scott said, watching Virgil as he stared out into the water. “I didn’t want to disturb him. He needs his rest.”

“Allie’s exhausted,” Virgil admitted. “Between the coughing, vomiting, and congestion, his sleep has been interrupted. I gave him a round of antibiotics and something to help with the other symptoms. Alan’s definitely caught something bacterial for sure. Those cold waters from the rescue didn’t do him any favors.”

“I’m sure those will help,” Scott reassured. “He just needs time for the meds and his immune system to work.” The elder Tracy studied his brother once again. ��Do you want to talk about the dreams?”

Virgil sighed as he threw a rock he had been playing with toward the water. “It was about the last mission.”

“I figured,” Scott added. “I would’ve been surprised if you didn’t. I know what it felt like being on the receiving end. I can only imagine what it was like in the moment physically.”

“Definitely won’t be in my top 20,” Virgil chuckled solemnly.

“Who said it was getting past the top 50?” Scott laughed, nudging Virgil.

“Point taken,” the middle Tracy smiled.

“All jokes aside,” Scott started. “Are you okay?”

“Okay is a relative term, Scott. We compartmentalize and move on-“

“-Virg, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I do,” Virgil acknowledged meeting Scott's intense gaze. “Look, you know what happened. I don’t have to tell you again. I just…. I can’t get the image of the gun shoved against Alan’s neck out of my head and that look on his face. That look… Damnit, Scott. He’s too much like you!”

Scott tried not to laugh but empathized.

“I could tell Alan was scared, but the kid refused to show it. He was so trusting. Trusting of me to get us out of that situation.”

“You did, Virgil. Allie is safe because of you, and so are you. I was just as worried about you as I was our baby brother,” Scott countered. “You did what you had to, and no one was harmed.”

“That’s not the point, Scott. You have no idea how close it came.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asked, confused.

“There’s a bullet hole in the floor of the rescue platform. A hole that was inches away from hitting Alan when he hit the deck.”

Realization dawned on the oldest Tracy. “Is that what your dream was about? That the bullet actually hit Alan?”

Virgil remained silent as he collected his thoughts. He felt Scott turn to face him, the older pilot’s knees resting against one of his own. “Mostly, but what stuck with me most was that look. Like I said, having a hard time getting it out of my head.”

Scott placed a comforting hand along Virgil’s knee, squeezing it. “I know you don’t need me to tell you about how great you are when quick decisions need to be made. That goes without saying, but Allie trusted you with his life because so would I. Any of us would. The next time a lunatic threatens one of my brothers with a gun, he’ll wish neither one of us were around.”

Virgil smiled. “Thanks, Scott.”

“Anytime. You good?”

“I’ll be fine,” Virgil replied. “We probably should head in. Breakfast will be started soon, and I need to check on Alan and make sure Dad isn’t camping at his side.”

“Dad was still asleep when I checked on Al,” Scott said as they began to walk up the path that led to the main villa. “Besides, he has an early call with one of the new brokers, if I remember correctly.”

“Good, that should keep him occupied,” Virgil grinned.

TBC…

[whumpinggrounds]

Something from Mara's perspective maybe? She's clearly losing touch with her ideals so a couple scenes of her in WRU with everything just becoming more and more normalised would be interesting

okay okay okay i v much appreciated this prompt! here is my best shot below :) and i am tagging the usual lost cause jude crowd!

@shapeshiftersandfire @itstrueiwasthewraithberry and @oceansevaporatetoo

CW: pet whump, lady whump, noncon body modification, intimate whumper, caregiver to whumper, training whump, mentions of/implied noncon,

The scariest part is that whole weeks pass where Mara doesn’t notice the change. She wakes up and goes to work, comes home to happy, smiling Isabella. The days pass so easy, so smooth, like a dream. Work is going well, really well. The higher ups like Mara’s ideas, and her coworkers respect her, and she’s looking at a raise after her second year. At home, Isabella cooks and cleans and jumps at Mara’s word. After months of happy, easy companionship, it feels…well, it feels natural. It feels right.

So, Mara stops thinking about it. It doesn’t do anyone any good to think about whether their arrangement is good or right or fair. It just is. It can’t be changed, and it shouldn’t be. After all, Isabella seems happy enough. She’s always smiling, and she doesn’t have to work too hard, and Mara doesn’t hurt her. Not really.

Well, okay. The stuff they do in the bedroom…plenty of people do that. All kinds of people do that with their partners, and it isn’t anything Mara needs to be ashamed of. She makes sure Isabella has a good time, too, and it isn’t like the Box Babe ever tells her no. They’re programmed to like stuff like that. Mara knows they are. More than that, she knows Jude – or knew Jude, back when she was a person. She knows Isabella’s body, all the little signs. She knows that the pain might make Isabella’s lip tremble, but the pleasure is what makes her close her eyes. Mara reminds herself of that and feels sure again, steady. She feels drawn to Isabella again, wanting to hold her close and make sure she knows that she’s Mara’s, Mara’s, Mara’s. Pets like that. The security. Feeling owned.

As for the rest of it? The rest just kind of…slips. It makes sense, for Isabella to call her owner ‘Miss Mara.’ With all the checkups, it’s safer for both of them. The same is true for like…sitting on the furniture. And, okay, sure, Mara was a bitch during dinner, but Jamie’s not the smartest in any room she’s in. Mara needed to send a message. She has Handler Collins to send one to Isabella, but Mara herself is the only one around to train Jamie.

The only real catch is Violet.

Mara’s girlfriend is gorgeous and interesting and super convenient, though it still makes Mara wince to think about it so cavalierly. Isabella’s fun, sure, but Violet has a brain, and can go places. With both of them around, Mara’s like, on cloud nine. The problem is that Violet is into pet lib. It’s how the two of them met. Since then, Mara’s stopped going to the meetings, because, obviously, it’s too suspicious. Besides, she doesn’t have friends in the local group, nor can she make them, given her day job. Violet still goes all the time, because she’s trained as an EMT, and the local group needs her, but Mara wishes to god she’d stop. They’ve settled the argument about Isabella a thousand times, gone round and round and always, Violet concedes, exhausted, that Mara is right. But the arguments themselves make Mara uncomfortable and edgy and frankly angry. It’s hard for her to be as patient with Isabella afterwards, as understanding. On her grimmest days, Mara has to roll her eyes at that dark irony. Violet would be sick if she knew what consequences her pretty little ideals had in the real world.

But at least Mara has Isabella to comfort her, and a beautiful spotless apartment, and a tidy paycheck at the end of every month. At least she wins every argument, and the arguments only come every few weeks, anyway. Days pass, and then weeks pass, and Mara feels more and more sure of herself. Isabella is safe, and she’s here, with Mara, where she belongs. They’re happy together. It’s sad that Jude’s gone, that she’ll never come back, but in a way, getting a fresh start, a clean slate, is kind of…it’s kind of nice. Mara lets herself be lulled right into feeling happy, feeling secure, and never thinking that any of this might be wrong.

Then comes the day that Mara’s walking down the hallway and she runs into Handler Atkins with a trainee.

They must be going to see Director Hammond for some reason, because they’re not supposed to be on this side of the facility. When Mara sees the boy, she physically draws back, unable to repress the visceral reaction.

The boy trails behind Tracy Atkins, taller and broader but far more hesitant. The handler trots along energetically, boots clicking along the floor, and behind her, her trainee shuffles along barefoot, head bowed. He’s in the usual black shorts and white shirt, and there’s a black leash leading from Atkins’ hand to the collar around his neck.

“Hey, Doc!” Atkins smiles broadly, and Mara forces a smile. “C’mere! Take a look at my boy!”

Swallowing, Mara steps forward, scanning the boy as she does. She can’t resist the urge, and Handler Atkins asked her to, anyway.

The boy behind her is tall, probably six foot. Mara really shouldn’t call him a boy – he’s likely in his late twenties, maybe even older than her – but the nervous, vulnerable, vaguely blank look on his face makes him seem much younger. Dark eyes, dark hair, cut close to his scalp. Handler Atkins tugs him up right in front of Mara, but even as he gets within a few feet of her, his eyes stay fixed on the floor.

“He, uh, looks like he’s almost ready.” Mara tries to keep her voice mild, maybe even impressed. It’s, well, it is impressive. In a fucked up way. But look at Tracy Atkins, this tiny five two woman leading around a six foot man on a leash. Mara smiles, for a second, at the ridiculousness of it, and she can tell that Handler Atkins appreciates it.

“He is.” Handler Atkins coos at her boy, tickling under his chin. He stands stock still and takes it, head bowed, hands folded in front of him. “You’re almost ready to go home, aren’t you, honey? Aren’t you?”

There’s a mean little smirk on Handler Atkins face, like she’s making a joke that Mara doesn’t understand. She jabs her trainee in the side, and he winces. “C’mon, 121, aren’t you going to answer me?”

The boy stays silent, and Mara frowns. That’s not right. Especially at this point in training, the trainee should be jumping to please his handler, should absolutely answer such an easy question.

Handler Atkins glances, snickering, from the silent, withdrawn boy to the confusion on Mara’s face. Finally, she relents. “Chin up, 121.” While Mara watches, Atkins runs her finger over a livid red scar on the boy’s throat, one that had been concealed by his dropped chin. “Prospective paid extra for a Domestic that can be counted on for…discretion, you know?”

Brow wrinkling, Mara stares at the boy, then Atkins, and then horrible understanding hits her. “Oh my god, the vocal cords?”

“It’s a neat little procedure! Only took him two weeks to recover. He’s a trooper, my 121.”

“Yeah…wow.” Mara feels faint, feels sick. This man – this boy – is, is never going to speak again. They’ve – this woman who sits in Mara’s office once every two weeks, she’s taken that from him. Forever.

That day, Mara puts a sign on her door and sits in her office all day, trying to think. A few times she puts pen to paper, but she doesn’t write anything, just scribbles aimless doodles. That night, with Isabella, she’s rougher than she’s ever been.

For the next three weeks, Mara takes long walks through the training division of the facility, until she can look a brutalized trainee in the eyes and not feel anything at all.

[strongerwiththepack]

For the whump prompt spin:

Scott - memory loss - hotel.

Another prompt from the Whump Generator, I’ve just decided to dedicate today to writing I guess! Thank-you for the prompt, hope you enjoy x

Scott & Memory Loss & Hotel

The nausea hits him first. The room is spinning before he even opens his eyes. He scrambles out of bed, reaching for the waste bin before violently emptying out the contents of his stomach. He wretches a couple more times before wiping his mouth and sitting back against the bed.

Speaking of the bed, it’s definitely not his. He studies his surroundings, it’s dark, light just peeking through around the closed curtains on one wall. It looks like he’s in a hotel room. And a nice one at that. The problem is he can’t remember how he got here. In fact, he doesn’t even remember leaving the island. There’s no way he could’ve drunk so much to cause a blackout like this.

He brings a shaky hand to his head and runs it through his sweat-covered hair. He feels terrible. He needs to talk to John. He goes for his watch but…it’s not there. He does notice something else though. Twisting his arm around he sees tiny track marks going all up his arm, some already have deep bruising around them.

He takes a few panicked breathes. Somethings not right. He suddenly feels very vulnerable. Why can’t he remember anything?

He shakily gets to his feet and places a hand on the wall as the room spins again. He slowly walks over to the curtains and pulls them open, squinting at the blazing light that floods into the room. The whole wall is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows. The room is high up, overlooking New York. It would be a fantastic view if he weren’t so freaked out.

John. He needed to call John.

Holding his head he looked around the room and noticed an old-fashioned landline. International Rescue had a private number that connected straight to Thunderbird Five and could encrypt all incoming calls from any device anywhere in the world. It took Scott longer than he would have like to get his brain to supply the correct number to him.

“Hello? This is International Rescue.” John sounded uncertain on the other end of the line, it was almost unheard of to get a call on this line.

“John, thank-god!”

“Scott!?” He heard a clattering on the other end. “Where the hell have you been!?”

“I-I don’t know.” Scott answered shakily. “I just woke up in a New York hotel room but John I have no clue how I got here.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” John queried carefully.

“Uh… I guess on the island, we had a barbeque on the beach? And then I went to bed?” Scott clenched his fist at the lack of memories his brain seemed to want to supply him.

“Scott…” John choked over the line. “That was over a week ago. You’ve been missing this whole time.”

“What? No that can’t be right, I-I…how could I not remember a whole week John?”

“There’s something else Scott.” John started, Scott did not like the tone in his brothers voice. “You’re currently wanted under suspicion of terrorism.”

“What?” Scott whispered. “Why?”

“You were caught on CCTV at the scene of an apartment complex explosion.” John said wearily. “When we couldn’t provide a location for you, they identified you as the prime suspect.”

“I-I wouldn’t.” Scott replied, clenching his teeth.

“I know Scott, but the footage hasn’t been tampered with, you were there. We’ve been looking for you for over a week now.” Scott could hear the worry in his brothers voice. He must’ve put his family though hell.

“I can’t remember anything John.” Scott slammed a shaky hand against the wall. “What-what if I did do it?”

“You wouldn’t Scott.” John replied calmly. “Virgil and Gordon are on their way, we’ll figure this out.”

Just then a loud boom sounded through the reinforced glass of the windows and the whole room rattled. Scott spun around to see an explosion rock a skyscraper a few blocks from him. Flames were already engulfing the side of the building.

“John! Another building just exploded.” Scott looked in horror at the view of the total carnage he was witnessing.

“Thunderbird Two is already on the way.” John assured. “Virgil and Gordon will do what they can.”

“I can help!” Scott exclaimed even as his hands trembled and his legs wobbled. He continued to watch the building burn, sirens sounded in the distance.

“No, Scott.” Johns no-nonsense voice came across the phone. “Virgil and Gordon can handle it. Just stay put.”

“But John-“

“Every intelligence agency in America is looking for you right now Scott. Stay. Put.” John ordered. “Virgil and Gordon will come and get you once they’re done, we’ll figure this out on the island.”

John was right of course. He still felt awful and what if he had another blackout? He could risk harming his brothers or anyone else in the way for that matter.

His hands shook as he thought of what John had just told him. He couldn’t really have set those explosives, could he? His gaze travelled back to the track marks in his arm. He’d been compromised somehow, that much was clear.

“Scott?” John voice came across the line. “Are you still there?”

Scott could hear the fear behind it. He’d caused that.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just going to-“

The phone dropped from his hand as a searing pain in his head made him drop to his knees. It lasted for less than a second before he stood up straight, grabbed his discarded backpack from the nearest chair and left the room.

Scott Tracy would be seen walking from the hotel and across New York until he was lost in the crowds.

But Scott Tracy wouldn’t know this until he woke up in London two weeks later with blood on his hands and track marks up his arms.

fin.

[alexthefly]

I posted 1,106 times in 2021

15 posts created (1%)

1091 posts reblogged (99%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 72.7 posts.

I added 218 tags in 2021

#thunderbirds are go - 45 posts

#thunderbirds - 41 posts

#thunderbirds fanfiction - 25 posts

#virgil tracy - 25 posts

#gordon tracy - 22 posts

#thunderbirds 2015 - 16 posts

#scott tracy - 16 posts

#thunderfam - 11 posts

#tag - 9 posts

#thunderfluff - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 41 characters

#the things we do to feel cute and snuggly

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Half a Cup of Chaos

For @gumnut-logic's Thunderbirds Fluffember prompts, Day 10: Bagels.

There's a tiny bit of whump/angst in here, but it's only brief.

Or read on AO3

-------------

“Shhhh! You wanna wake up the whole house?”

Alan froze mid-hop, still holding his throbbing foot.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he whisper-shouted back. “Who puts a dresser there?”

“Uh, Grandma did?” replied Gordon, “When we first moved in? Seriously, it’s been there for years.”

Alan looked back at the modest, very hard piece of furniture he’d inadvertently kicked.

“Really?” he said, cocking his head to one side, “‘Cos it doesn’t look familiar at all.”

Gordon’s expression hovered somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Unbelievable. How do you pilot a whole rocket when you can’t even pilot your skinny ass down a corridor?”

“Well, dear brother, it’s a delicate balance of skill, awesomeness and not doing it at stupid o’clock in the morning!”

Gordon grunted and carried on down the hall, leaving Alan hobbling to keep up.

“Hey, you’re the one that wanted to surprise everyone with breakfast, little bro. Cool fact: breakfast means A.M.”

“Yeah, that was a dumb idea. Let’s go back to bed and surprise them with dinner instead.”

“No way.” Gordon turned back to face him, brown eyes bright. “It was a great idea - we almost never get to eat breakfast all together anymore. We’re doing this.”

His gaze flicked back down the hallway towards the family bedrooms beyond.

“They need it,” he added quietly.

Alan sighed. They really did.

It should have been a relatively simple rescue: retrieve a group of geologists from the side of a volcano before it erupted. Easy. John had been monitoring the seismic activity; they should have had hours. But volcanoes rarely run to schedule, and so Scott had still been in the abandoned camp when Mount Sidley blew her top, sending white-hot rock and ash hurtling towards him.

Alan and Gordon had watched from the island in horror as Scott’s feed cut out; listened as John urgently, repeatedly, desperately called his name; held their breath as Virgil grabbed a pod and barrelled into the heat and dust after him.

It had been an agonising wait, but eventually they had both emerged from the grey, shaken and absolutely covered in ash, and with Scott sporting a broken ankle.

It could have been so much worse.

So now Scott was grounded, on crutches and miserable about it. John was down from Five, freaked out and blaming himself for the whole thing. And Virgil had gone full smother-bear, alternating between trying to reassure John that their big brother was fine, and yelling at Scott that he wasn’t fine and to sit his ass back down right the hell now.

In short, they needed a distraction.

A stiff clap on the arm brought Alan back to the present. His brother’s lopsided grin seemed to glow in the grey, pre-dawn light. “Right, let’s get cooking!”

How was he this perky this early in the morning?

---

See the full post

27 notes • Posted 2021-11-10 00:21:54 GMT

#4

See the full post

28 notes • Posted 2021-11-16 10:06:41 GMT

#3

Lone Star, Part 1 - Scott

So here it is, my very first fanfic ever. No beta. There's a lot of problems with it, but I’ve been poking at it for far too long so... yeah. Part 1 of 3 (probably).

Please be kind. But honest.

Honestly kind.

Like, rip me apart, but feed me cake afterwards?

-------------

“So what do you think, John? Will it fall?”

The flickering image of his brother was already swiping data and tapping calculations. “Structural integrity of the tower is compromised, but the new nanite repair system has kicked in. As it stands there’s an 86% chance the tower will stabilise itself.”

“Well okay, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Mmmm,” replied John, still swiping, “The problem is the risk of aftershocks. I’ve factored some minor tremors into the projection, but anything more than that would require a recalculation.”

“Meaning the odds would go down.” Scott pressed his lips into a line. Given how big the initial earthquake had been, it was a testament to modern engineering that Dakar Tower was still standing; if it could just stay like that for the next hour then that should be enough time for the occupants to evacuate without International Rescue intervening at all. But it was a risk.

“Okay. Continue monitoring and let me know if the odds drop below 75%.”

“I would suggest 65%.”

Scott frowned. Thunderbird One was fast, but still... “That’s cutting it close.”

John’s expression remained steady, but Scott detected a flash of strain in his brother’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, “but it’s a calculated risk. Thunderbird Two’s still busy in Nassau, and with the best will in the world neither you nor Virgil can be in two places at the same time.”

Scott pursed his lips. He didn’t like it, but… “Okay John, I see your point. 65% it is, but in the meantime try the GDF again and see if they can get there any faster.”

“Already on it.”

Scott ran his fingers through his hair as John’s hologram winked itself out of existence. Sometimes it really felt like he and his brothers were the only ones holding the world together.

Strictly speaking a toppling tower was more in Thunderbird Two’s wheelhouse, but Virgil and Gordon were currently knee-deep in the middle of hurricane debris in the Bahamas, and with Alan out at a lunar mine collapse and Kayo deep undercover with the GDF, Scott was the only one available.

Except he was supposed to be heading out to an avalanche in the French Alps. Luckily there were no casualties reported - the victims had been at a function in the ski lodge and were snowed in. The lodge itself was sturdy and had provided good shelter; In a pinch they could survive for about 12 hours before hypothermia became a problem, but for various reasons he hated the idea of making them wait. Avalanches were a sensitive subject, but they were also horribly unpredictable. Then again, so were earthquakes.

He huffed. John was right; they couldn’t be in two places at the same time. He made a mental note to bring up contingency plans with Colonel Casey again at their meeting next week. Then he tapped his comms. “Brains, how long until refuel is complete?”

“Ah...Another six minutes, S...Scott.”

“Alright. I’m launching as soon as it’s done, so make sure you get clear.”

“Yes, J...John’s already advised me.”

Scott smiled. Of course he had. Perhaps we can’t be everywhere at once, but apparently John can.

“Okay Brains. Thanks.”

Scott took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It had been one hell of a day and it wasn’t over yet. International Rescue were scattered right across the world - above it, in Alan’s case - and it was only because of John’s supreme multitasking skills that the left hand still knew what the right hand was doing. Or what continent the right hand was on...or something. He was too tired for metaphors.

But yeah, thank goodness for John.

As he often did, Scott found himself picturing his brother up there on Five, swiping and scanning away in the cold quiet of space, working to keep them all safe down here. It always struck him as...not funny exactly, more ironic, how their most distant brother in every sense was the one that was always involved in what they were doing, always an integral part of their rescues. It didn’t matter what timezone you happened to be working in, John was always on duty.

See the full post

36 notes • Posted 2021-10-30 15:30:31 GMT

#2

A Lucky Man

Today was a bad day so I decided to write my feelings. The result is questionable and very rough, but I'm posting it anyway because it's better than nothing.

-------------------

Or read it on AO3

Scott Tracy was well aware of how lucky he was.

Every morning he woke up in their luxurious villa on their private tropical island that he shared with his loving family; brothers, sister, grandmother, friends, all of whom he would do absolutely anything for.

As he went about his day perhaps Gordon would be in their Olympic sized swimming pool, or maybe Alan would be playing on his state-of-the-art games console. Virgil might be tinkling away at their grand piano, or Kayo could be working out in their well-equiped on-site gym. Perhaps John would dial in from their giant freakin' space station to catch up.

He didn't actually need to work for a living, but rather than be idle he was privileged enough to be CEO of a multi-billion dollar company, renowned throughout the world. Status and money followed him wherever he went, opening every door with a handshake and a smile.

And then of course there was the elite rescue organisation that gave him real purpose. He and his family and their marvellous machines could go where others couldn't, do what others couldn't, save people that others couldn't. It was the most incredible rush and such a deep, deep joy, knowing that he was making a difference to someone. The looks of wonder on people's faces when they knew that International Rescue had arrived to help. How many other people got to feel so fulfilled at work?

He really was an incredibly lucky man.

But then there were the other days. The days when it became difficult to see the good in the world. The days when the light dimmed and all he could see were shadows. A rolling wave of snow bearing down; the echo of a lullaby no longer sung; a flash of light and debris falling from the sky; the lingering scent of cologne in the hallway; a boat hitting a wave at just the wrong angle; hospital beds and bleeping monitors and so much pain; a sea of faces that he just couldn't save...

On days like those, all he could do was run. Sneakers on, gravel underfoot, he'd leave the world behind and just run away; run and run and keep running until he'd outrun the hurt and the pain. Outrun the cries of a motherless boy. Outrun the lonely young man's rage. Outrun the tears. Outrun the bitterness. Outrun the weight of the world on his shoulders. Outrun the burning injustice of it all. Run. Run.

And when he couldn't run anymore he'd return home, wrung out and hollow.

Empty.

But the emptiness never lasted, because home wasn't empty. A reassuring wrinkled hand on his shoulder, a corny joke to tease a flickering smile, a flannel-wrapped hug to warm the soul, a cup of joy with marshmallows floating on top.

The gentle hum of home.

Many loving hands supporting him and lifting him back up.

Scott Tracy really was a very lucky man indeed. Sometimes it did him good to be reminded.

37 notes • Posted 2021-11-24 23:25:44 GMT

#1

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53 notes • Posted 2021-11-06 01:04:24 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[tsarisfanfiction]

That One Scene (of many!)

Earlier, @janetm74​ sent me an ask including the question “What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need?  (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)”  I linked to several old snippets, but also said I might write out a scene that’s been in my head for literally a year.  This is that scene.  There has been zero editing and I haven’t even read it through since writing it, so it’s liable to be riddled with errors.

Part of a vague idealistic rewrite of the 2004 movie, which at this point in the plotline doesn’t resemble the movie much at all, but you can’t expect me not to throw in some good old Scott!whump now, can you?  Teeny tiny hint of Gordon!whump thrown in as well, and John fans... I’m sorry? (I’m not)

“My dear Jeff.” The Hood’s voice was pitched like silk, but dripped like oil.  “You must be so proud of your boy right now.  Look at him, pulling off a rescue solo even though he knows he’s being hunted.”

Jeff didn’t answer, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen where reporters yelled praise for the solitary Thunderbird that had taken charge of the danger zone and organised the rescue efforts from the local authorities.  Tried to block out those same voices turning in the next breath and wondering where the rest of International Rescue were, why Thunderbird Two and the firefighting equipment wasn’t there.  One woman even observed that Thunderbird One hadn’t landed, but was set in an autopilot hover a little way up in the sky.

The guidance processors must be in her.  Scott would never risk the technology falling into the Hood’s hands, even while he followed his heart and directed firefighters and led evacuations.

“Like Scott would let you stop him.”  Gordon’s voice was snide and mocking, and Jeff fought the urge to tell him to shut up, that antagonising the man would do more harm than good.  “Jealous?”

A yelp, and Jeff tore his eyes from the screen to see Gordon curling in on himself, teeth grit and eyes blazing in defiance.  The Hood’s eyes were a blazing red, before fading back to a more human colour.  The transformation put Jeff’s teeth on edge.

“Jealous of a child who doesn’t know when to prioritise his own skin?  I think not,” Kyrano’s brother dismissed, raising a phone to his mouth.  “I think he’s played hero long enough.”  The expression on his face looked like a smile, but it was too twisted, too cruel, for the label.  Jeff’s eyes widened in horror and he lunged forwards, only for the restraints around his arms to slam him back against the leg of his own desk.

“No!”

“Detain him.”  The order was spoken into the phone, but the Hood met Jeff’s eyes and held them.  Like the cat that got the cream, except Jeff had never seen a cat quite so sadistic.  “Do whatever it takes to get the guidance processors.”  He lowered the phone slowly, deliberately, without even ending the call.

It was unnerving, how quickly the men helping Scott on the screen turned, a friendly clap on the shoulder turning into a hard punch and immersing his eldest son in the middle of a brawl where he was quite frankly too outnumbered.

“No!” Jeff shouted again, fighting against the unrelenting restraints.  Beside him, his two sons were snarling their own protests.  “Stop them!”  Scott was a trained fighter, but so were the Hood’s pet thugs.  There were screams from the television, reporters dumbfounded at the sudden violence towards a member of the world’s favourite rescue organisation, camera feeds shaking as they ran back, away from the brawl.

Only one stayed focused, steadily approaching as the flash of dirty white uniform slammed to the ground. The camera person, whoever they were – no doubt in the Hood’s posse – walked right up to the knot of bodies, and the men parted before them.  Scott, his brave, brave son, pushed himself up with defiance sparking in his eyes, but there were too many and Jeff closed his eyes rather than watch the brutal attacks up close.

“Oh, Jeff,” the Hood coaxed. “What a cowardly father, unable to watch his son fight for his life.  Where’s that Tracy stubbornness now?  Or did that skip a generation?  Young Scott seems to have it.  I’m sure the other one, the one in that space station… what was his name?”

John.  Jeff hadn’t even begun to process that, the frantic MayDay call cut off mid-transmission as Thunderbird Five exploded.  Not with invaders in his home, threatening his other sons, out scouring for his missing youngest, wherever Alan was hiding.  He hadn’t seen him since he’d failed to answer Jeff’s summons after messing around with Thunderbird One.  At the time, that had been a source of blind fury.  Now it was relief – the Hood’s men hadn’t returned yet, which meant they hadn’t found him.  One son was safe for the moment.

Not with Scott hunted across the globe because his eldest son had somehow known trouble was coming.  Jeff still didn’t know why he’d launched without permission, and feared he’d never get the chance.  To lose one son in one day was heart-shattering.  To lose two – or more…  Jeff wouldn’t survive it.

“John,” Virgil growled, the sound out of place coming from his middle, peace-making son.  “His name is John, you bastard.”  Is, not was.  Denial. Maybe Jeff was still in that stage, too.

“Young John,” the Hood continued.  Jeff opened his eyes to see him giving Virgil an inclined head of acknowledgement.  Virgil just looked murderous.  “He would have had it too, I’m sure.  Certainly these two sons of yours here have it, Jeff.  No doubt the youngest will put up a fight when he’s found, too.”

“You won’t touch him,” Jeff snarled.  In the background, he could hear grunts and thwacks from the television, but his attention stayed firmly on the monster standing in front of him.

“I don’t need to, Jeff,” the Hood sighed.  “Do you need another demonstration to remind you?”  The threat hung in the air, waiting for something.  What, Jeff wasn’t sure.  “Look at the screen, Jeff, or one of these brave young men next to you will be finding out just how long he can last.”

Jeff sent him a glare, one act of defiance to declare that he wasn’t defeated, before reluctantly looking back at what was happening to his eldest son, alone and outnumbered far beyond his reach.

Scott was on his knees in front of the camera, blue eyes still sparking defiantly as he fought against the beefy grips pinning him down.  Blood ran down the side of his face, bruises already beginning to form on every part of exposed skin Jeff could see, and his heart ached.

“Where are they?” an unfamiliar voice demanded.  Scott spat blood.  It landed square on the camera lens.

“Go to hell,” he ground out, voice still strong despite the pain lacing through it.  Blue eyes focused on the camera, looking almost through it.  “You want to steal the Thunderbirds?  Over my dead body, you bastard.”

He was addressing the Hood, Jeff realised.  He glanced at the man to see his jaw tighten, a tic developing that proved he knew it, too. Long, slender fingers twitched, something loosely resembling a fist before they forcibly relaxed.

“That can be arranged,” he said with a fake levity, bringing the phone up to his mouth again.  “Well?  You heard the young man.  Kill him. Thunderbird One will be easy pickings without her pilot.”

“No!”  Not another son.  Not any of his sons, and why would Scott say that?  The Hood was right – Thunderbird One would be easily boarded without him, even if they just had to wait for her to run out fuel.  Scott wasn’t stupid, wouldn’t throw away his life like that.

The men on the screen hesitated, looking around and up, presumably at the Thunderbird in question. How high was she?  Where had Scott directed her autopilot?  Jeff’s heart was in his mouth; he could feel it on his tongue, thrumming fast and loud.

Then it happened.  A flicker of movement, a loud impact, and Scott lurched forwards as the camera cut.

“SCOTT!”

more>>>

[sailing-on-a-puddle]

Oh no! Poor Tiny Tracys! They need to escape the giant cat in the Thunderbirds!

I think the background music adds to it somehow. I can't explain why.

These are hilarious. I'm here for this brand of Scott whump 😁

COURAGE

Thundertober Day 18

Scott will go to any lengths to protect a brother from a furry fate…

NOBODY MESSES WITH A TINY TRACY! LET HIM GOOOO, YOU FELINE FIEND!!!!

@thunder-tober

[eirabach]

Backlash [4/5]

Gordon + Used as Bait and who am I really whumping here I’m not sure anymore. Myself, I think. For @godsliltippy and @badthingshappenbingo and on ao3 here

The recycled air in the cargo bay is so thick Alan almost chokes on it, his gloves too bulky, his boots too heavy as he scrambles up to Four’s entry port and turns his laser on the lock without a moment's hesitation. There’s a steady sort of hissing sound as the door cracks open and the two atmospheres seek an equilibrium, and this wouldn’t worry him particularly if it weren’t for the blue and yellow helmet that rolls morosely past him to clatter to the floor. Idiot. Why’s he taken his helmet off again and they’re in space and hasn’t he told him --

Whatever Alan has or has not told Gordon burns away to irrelevance as he finally manages to crawl into the cockpit. It’s not a large space at the best of times, but with Four’s nose battered and burnt it seems smaller, claustrophobic almost without the bright lights, without Gordon. It’s a tiny little space. There’s no reason it should take Alan as long to spot him as it does, only that --

Only that maybe, he doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t want to acknowledge the sight before him because -- because he’s seen this before. Just once, but that had been enough. Way more than enough. He’s had a lifetime’s worth of seeing his brother lying still and bloodied in his own ship and -- shit. Shit, what’s happened to his face ?

There’s blood, blood everywhere, thick red streams that have run from closed, swollen eyes, dark clots at his throat, at the corner of his mouth and Alan -- Alan can’t help it. 

The noise he makes isn’t a scream, not quite, nor is it a moan. It’s something worse than that. Something darker and deeper that crawls up his throat, out of his mouth, fills the cockpit. Fills the commlines. Fills his ears and he’s dead, isn’t he ? Gordon’s dead.

“Alan Tracy, please listen to me!”

He hasn’t realised he’s biting his tongue until he releases it, spluttering iron and bile as Eos snaps at him again.

“Gordon Tracy is not dead. He is injured. Commence triage.”

“Eos I --”

“Airway,” she says. “Breathing. Circula --”

“I know,” he hisses. “I -- okay. Okay.” He pulls off his gloves with trembling hands, allows himself two beats to swallow his terror, then -- he’s a professional. It shouldn’t matter that he’s crying.

He’s as gentle as he can be as he moves Gordon into the recovery position. The space is too cramped for it really, but he’s afraid to move him, afraid that the purple-red blotches in his cheeks and the heavy swelling of his eyelids point to some horrible head injury that Gordon won’t thank him for saving him from. Coma. Paralysis. Brain damage. He hovers his cheek over the bruised mouth and rests two shaking fingers against the carotid artery. Counts.

“57,” he says, hands already scrabbling for the med kit stowed away behind Gordon’s seat, “slightly elevated for Gordon, but -- where’s all the blood come from? And what the heck’s happened to his face?” Alan rocks back on his heels. “He’s not gonna be happy about that. At all .”

“I cannot see how that would be a priority,” says Eos, and he almost, almost smiles.

“Sure you can’t. Can you --” he takes a breath then, realisation flooding through him. “John? John can you get a med scan?”

The comm hangs for a moment as though there’s a lag, before John’s voice rings out, terse and strained. 

“Biometrics suggest head trauma, subconjunctival haemorrhage, perforated eardrum right ear -- possible intracranial bleeding thanks to excessive negative G --”

“He’s had a stroke ?”

“I’m just reading it out, Alan.” John’s voice is clipped tight, and normally Alan would understand, would sympathise, but Gordon’s just lying there and John’s just --

“He’s your brother !”

“I am aware of that, Thunderbird Three. Get the mobile scanner will you. I need -- I need Grandma to take a look.”

Grandma . 

Alan had muted Scott and Virgil in a fit of pique, but they won’t have muted him. They’ll have been listening and -- oh shit. Oh shit .

He hits his comm. Winces. Waits.

Nothing happens. 

The Island, Scott, is silent.

“Grandma?”

There’s a weird sort of scuffling sound, muffled voices, and then, clear as a bell, “Alan, sweetheart. I have no visual. Get the mobile scanner and talk me through.”

He’s already dug it out of the kit, already holding it above Gordon’s face, and -- “John thinks he’s had a stroke.”

“I know.”

“Did I --” The words catch in his throat, heavy with guilt. “Was it me? Did I do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re --”

The scanner buzzes into life and he holds it as close as he dares to Gordon’s bloodied hair, his swollen face. “Did I do it ? The G forces -- Gordon’s not -- he’s not trained for it like me or John or, or Scott -- I didn’t -- I forgot --”

“Gordon knows what he’s doing, kiddo, now move the scanner toward the back of his -- yes like that, there’s a dear. You hold on now okay, give me a second. What do you see?”

Alan knows, in a vague, disconnected sort of way, that Grandma doesn’t actually need him to talk her through Gordon’s injuries. The med scan will have given her every detail down to the molecular level. But it’s something -- it’s something to do while he waits for her verdict. While he waits to know . 

“Swelling around the eyes, subcutaneous hematoma -- there’s blood around his mouth but his airway is clear. Heart rate is 57bpm.” He pauses. “He hasn’t moved, Grandma. Not once.”

“All right,” and it’s the funny thing about grandmas, and about Alan’s grandma in particular, that things might be about as far from alright as it’s possible to be and yet somehow she makes him believe her. “He hasn’t had a stroke, but he is concussed. He may have hit his head during the explosion. I assume he wasn’t wearing his helmet?”

“Yeah, you assume right.”

He feels his grandma’s sigh right down to his bones. “That boy will be the death of -- right, okay Alan. Poke him. Hard as you can.”

“Uh --” Alan looks down at his unconscious brother. “Where?”

“Wherever you think it’ll hurt.”

“Jeez, Grandma. I’m telling him it was your idea.”

“You’ll be very welcome to, when you wake him up.”

The red-purple blotches spread across Gordon's face are the obvious target, but Alan can't quite make himself touch them. Instead he sends out a silent plea for forgiveness, and drops his elbow right into his brother's crotch.

The reaction is blessedly immediate. Gordon arches, making a horrible sort of gasping, retching sound as he attempts to crawl away and Alan has to put both hands on his shoulders and squeeze before he manages to hurt himself even worse.

“Hey, hey Gordon, it’s okay. It’s me. You’re all right.” A sob escapes him, relief bubbling up behind his eyes. “You’re all right.”

“All right?" Gordon's voice is rough and unsteady but notably, infuriatingly, Gordon. "You -- in the -- I need that Alan!”

The sob warps into a wet little laugh. “Not what I heard.”

“For fuck’s sa -- what the hell happened.” Gordon's wild, frantic bloodshot eyes flick around the cockpit, never settling, never focusing and Alan's relief freezes in his chest, drops to his stomach like ice. “Turn on the -- turn on the lights will you?”

“What?” Alan waves the med scan light in front of eyes more red than brown, but he already knows, doesn't he. He knows and god. So does Gordon. His hands are plucking at Alan's uniform, at his wrists, and the fingers that finally grab hold of the med scanner are pale and clawed with fear. “What do you -- what do you mean turn on the lights? The lights are --”

Those eyes again, wide as they can be with as swollen as they are, blood in the eyelashes. Pupils huge and black in a sea of red.

“Al," And it's a small sound, too small, little and sharp and horrible, a piece of grit that Alan knows he’ll be carrying around with him for the rest of his life. “Al, I can’t see.”

[gumnut-logic]

Knit Five, Purl One (Knit Three)

Knit One | Knit Two | Knit Three

This is my TAG Secret Santa fic for @gaviiadastra​ :D

Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight​ who continues to bear the brunt of my crazy with this one. Also to @the-original-sineater​ @janetm74​ and @tsarinatorment​ and probably a few other people because I’ve been rambling about this one for a few days now :D Thank you to all of you :D Thunderfam, you are amazing ::hugs tight::

Well, this time it’s Allie’s turn. Lots of Alan in his element in this bit which rambles all over the place and pretty much did whatever it wanted. Virg is appropriatedly grumpy :D As promised, it is as big as Knit One and Two combined and tops out at around 3300 words. Mostly brotherly fluff with a little, tiny bit of Virg whump on the side (only the littlest). Still Kermadec AU, but you wouldn’t know it, cos we’re going into space :D

I hope you enjoy :D

-o-o-o-

“I don’t need babysitting!”

“I’m not babysitting, Alan.”

His second eldest brother sat beside him in Three and Alan glared at him. “Could have fooled me. You shouldn’t even be going. You’re still injured.”

“If you think any of us are letting you go that far out of Earth’s orbit without back up, you aren’t as smart as we think you are.”

“Exactly, babysitting.”

Virgil sighed. “Perhaps if you stopped pouting like a baby, your argument would have more clout.”

Alan growled. “This is going to hurt you.”

“I’ll live.”

“Virgil-“

“Just get us up there and I will be fine.”

Stupid self-sacrificial older brothers. Didn’t trust him to go on his own. Virgil shouldn’t be here, but there was no one else. Scott was out in One, Gordon in Two, Kayo in Shadow and John juggling all of them.

“I should dump you on Five and take John.”

“I’m the demolitions expert, Alan. You are wasting time.”

Alan grumbled again. He was going to hurt Virgil and there was no way to avoid it. Except perhaps increasing time and power usage a little? Wouldn’t help the initial launch, but it might ease up on orbital approach.

He punched calculations into Three’s navigational computer. The numbers that came up were a little kinder.

Was going to suck anyway.

“Thunderbird Three, what’s the hold up?” John’s voice was sharp. Ever since Eos had discovered the situation, their space brother had been on edge.

The possibility of an asteroid hitting a space station did that.

“In pre-flight, Thunderbird Five. Hold your horses, we have time.” Alan grit his teeth.

“Not as much as you would expect, Alan. You need to be up there as soon as possible.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Five.” He knew that, damn it. “Launching in five.”

He triggered the familiar five second countdown.

And forced himself to focus on the launch as Three’s massive rockets fired beneath them and pushed them towards the sky in a multiple G crushing thrust.

Usually this was his favourite part, but the grunt of the man with the healing rib beside him was anything but enjoyable.

Alan altered their trajectory just a little more as they cleared Tracy Island airspace, easing up on the thrust and making for orbit just that little bit slower and at a shallower angle, hopefully giving his brother some relief.

But because of the distances involved, making orbit wasn’t the end of acceleration.

Alan paused and let Three ride her momentum for as long as he could. “Engaging ion engines.” He said it without looking at Virgil.

Three responded beautifully as she always did, throwing them forward into the darkness of space at speeds no other humans could travel.

Alan eased her up to the velocity needed to reach the asteroid in time, his teeth physically hurting, he grit them so hard.

When they finally reached cruising speed, Alan let out a shaky breath and turned to his big brother. “You okay?”

Virgil was pale. “I’ll live.” There was a lot of breath in those words.

Alan settled Three into the long haul ahead. It would take them at least two days to get out there and another two to get back. The boring part of space travel was very boring.

Perfect time for some video games.

But first he had to see to his brother.

Virgil hadn’t moved so Alan took the opportunity to unlatch himself and grab a medkit and its medscanner.

“Alan, I’m fine.”

“It was a strain. Scott would kill me if I didn’t keep an eye on you. He didn’t want you out here anymore than I did.”

“You can’t go on your own.”

Alan grunted, not willing to lose yet another argument on that front. Big brothers were stubborn asses.

He flicked on the scanner and waved the yellow light over the right side of Virgil’s uniform. The readout promptly gave him reassurance that his big brother was still in one piece, if a little creaky.

“Are you satisfied?” Virgil had reason to be a little terse. It had to have hurt.

“No. You want some painkillers?”

“I’m fine, Alan. Stop worrying.”

His shoulders dropped. “Okay, whatever.” It would be completely different if their positions were reversed.

Ever so different.

Big brothers were hypocrites.

He put the scanner away, but he did keep an eye on Virgil. Watched, as the lack of gravity and acceleration slowly let him relax.

But even then it took Virgil half an hour to finally unlatch himself and move about the cabin.

Alan had spent the time going over the details of the mission, unable to deflect his own anxiety until Virgil grew more comfortable. He was going to be difficult to manage if anything went wrong. Back up, yes, but Alan preferred that Virgil didn’t have to do anything.

So Alan double checked the specs of the mission and ground them into his brain. He was alone on this, because if he wasn’t he would be endangering his big brother who really wasn’t up to it.

Eos had detected the asteroid. She and Thunderbird Five monitored all the near-Earth bodies in real time all the time. The slightest deviation of projected trajectories and Eos was all over it immediately.

This asteroid was a smallish one, and it had been predicted to pass close to Earth and it did.

Close enough that an unpredicted orbital wobble combined with Earth’s gravity had deviated that projected trajectory directly into Earth’s L2 Observatory along with all the crucial technology currently stashed at the Lagrange Point.

Their mission was to stop that from happening. It was likely that they would need to blow up the thing, but that was why Virgil was there – to make an assessment onsite.

So Three was crossing the one point five million kilometres involved.

“Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Three. Mission status?”

Ugh, typical.

“En route, Thunderbird One. Velocity stable. ETA forty-six point seven hours.”

“How’s Virgil?”

The groan from his left pretty much summed up that one. “Grumpy.”

“Alan?” The warning in Scott’s tone was enough.

“Vitals are good. No further damage. I will continue to monitor.”

“I’m right here you know.” Virgil was definitely grumpy.

“Acknowledged, Thunderbird Two. Three, this is your mission. You have command.”

“I know, Scott. It’s cool. We’re fine. Relax.” Over the top, really.

There were two grumbles at that, several hundred thousands of kilometres apart.

“Fly safe, Thunderbird Three.”

“FAB, Three out.” Alan let his fingers kill the comm signal.

So now they only had a good part of two days to kill before they could actually do anything.

Protocol would keep him in his pilot’s seat for a good chunk of it, but he would retire to his quarters. Maybe he could convince Virgil to go early and get some rest after all that?

But his brother had grabbed a bag of some kind and was settling into the co-pilot’s seat. Alan frowned as he watched him unpack some needles, unwind some blue-grey yarn and start casting on stitches.

“What are you doing?”

“Knitting.”

“Knitting what?”

“Yarn.”

“Well, derr. What are you making?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Oh, so a Christmas present?”

“Wait and see.”

Alan grumped. “Okay, be like that.” Turning back to his console, he pulled up the mission and went through the possibilities again.

He had to be sure he kept Virgil safe.

-o-o-o-

As he expected, they made it to the asteroid with time to spare.

Virgil had retired to his quarters with minimal prompting which was responsible on his brother’s part, but still had Alan worried.

There wasn’t really anything wrong with Virgil beyond his healing rib and the remains of the wound in his leg. The stitches had been removed, but Virgil wouldn’t be running any races just yet.

His brother overslept and Alan was quite happy about that.

John reported in on a regular basis and Scott poked them again while Virgil was asleep. Alan confidently reported that their brother was indisposed and couldn’t be woken.

Scott seemed happy with that.

Alan spent the rest of his free time going over what data he could retrieve from this excursion. John had hooked him up with NASA and their astronautical university. While Alan had undergone his own training as a pilot and astronaut with the close tutelage of both John and Scott, he hadn’t trained with NASA. Since he had left school, he had picked up some studies with the university. Nothing with an ultimate goal in mind. He didn’t really care for any letters on end of his name like John. He was just happy exploring space at his own pace.

Unlike other students he did have quite an advantage.

And the university knew it.

So they put up with his erratic interests in order to get a hold of his raw data.

Today’s data was going to include asteroid C-345 and the effects of whatever Virgil shoved into it.

He was looking for basic composition and samples before they destroyed it. Each and every piece of information was important. Alan took some pride in being able to provide that information while doing his job at the same time.

Five’s scans of the object listed it as a C-chondrite type asteroid, but the readings weren’t entirely clear. Spectrographic analysis was claiming more metallic content despite the definite classification of the main composition.

John had extrapolated that perhaps the single body was made up of more than one asteroid that had collided and merged.

In any case, it was looking to be an interesting discovery.

Not as amazing as discovering life on Europa, but furthering human knowledge nonetheless.

He kicked in deceleration at quite a distance, sensors combing the space around the rock. Asteroids often had their own little orbital system of debris and there was no reason to risk colliding with any random crap being dragged around by this lump of rock.

Virgil had returned to the co-pilot’s seat minus the considerable wad of knitted fabric he had accumulated over the last two days. Alan could give his brother some credit, when the man focussed on a task, he was some kind of machine. The amount of knitting he had managed was considerable.

Still wouldn’t let Alan know what he was making. Though at a guess it was a sweater and possibly for Kayo? It certainly wasn’t a stretch. Kayo and his brother had been getting closer and closer since last Christmas.

Why he thought she needed a sweater in the tropics, Alan had no idea.

Right now he had more important things to worry about.

“Thunderbird Five, how are we going for time?” Of course, he knew the answer, but it was a habit of his to chatter before a rescue, or in this case a situation. It let off tension.

John understood, apparently, as he never complained.

“Time to spare, Thunderbird Three. You made very good time.”

And he was never shy with the encouragement either. One big brother thing that mostly he didn’t mind.

Alan shifted in his seat. “I think we’re getting a confirmation of your conglomerate theory, John. That is one hell of a motley rock.”

“Language, Alan.”

Alan rolled his eyes. “Really? Grandma is one point five million kilometres away. Give me a break.”

Virgil beside him snorted. “You think that’s gonna stop her? Grandma has her ways. Safety lies in prevention, trust me.”

Alan stared at him flatly. “What? Since when have you ever crossed Grandma.”

His answer was a smirk. “Once. A very long time ago. That was enough.” He reached out and poked the controls in front of him. “John, can I have a confirmation on this compositional analysis? This can’t be right.” His brother was frowning at the readouts.

“That was my initial thought, but yes, it’s confirmed, Virgil.”

“Then I agree with Alan, that is one hell of a motley rock.” He flicked up a hologram of the asteroid in all its jagged glory. “We have an oddly distributed mass due to a differential in composition here, here and here.” He pointed at the hologram. “One explosive is not going to do it. I’m thinking at least three drill sites with a focus on this metallic mass here.” He highlighted a section of the slowly rotating rock. “If we can’t break that section up, we aren’t going to be successful.” He turned to Alan. “Thanks for the extra time. We’re going to need it.”

Virgil unlatched himself and pushed out of his seat in the direction of the back of the cabin. “I’ll configure a pod for sampling, then prepare the payloads.” A yank on the hatch and he was off into the depths of Thunderbird Three.

Alan found himself rolling his eyes again. Big brothers had a tendency to forget who was in charge, too.

“Thank you, Thunderbird Five. We’re working on it. Thunderbird Three out.”

John’s snort echoed across space.

-o-o-o-

Alan flipped the pod on its long axis, spinning to avoid debris.

“Cutting it close there, Thunderbird Three.”

“I know what I’m doing, Virgil. Give me a break.” He spun the pod again. The little asteroid was definitely a pain in the ass. Beyond having an odd composition, it did indeed have a massive debris field accompanying it. It was making his life just that little more difficult.

His brother grunted, obviously unsettled.

Alan could understand why Virgil was so touchy, but this was Alan’s realm. He was at home out here in this real-life game of Asteroids.

He darted to the left and swooped down under one of the larger fragments, his eyes tracking the position of every body within eyesight and sensor reach.

“Nearly there. Just need to…” He flipped the pod yet again, but this time synchronised with the spin of the main chunk of rock and settled ever so smoothly into a ‘landing’ on his targeted spot, the pod claws shooting cahelium pitons into the surface and latching him there firmly.

“Make it fast, Thunderbird Three.”

Alan sighed. Europa and Gordon had been easier. Apparently, the younger the older brother, the less worried nagging.

But Virgil was right, he didn’t have time to complain. “Securing samples.”

Given the moment to actually look at the landscape around him suddenly had his jaw dropping. Having been distracted by the mechanics of reaching this spot, he hadn’t realised exactly what he was landing on.

Sunlight, unhindered by atmosphere, lit up the crystalline structure of the asteroid.

“Virg, you gotta see this!” He shot the camera feed back to Three.

“Oh.” His brother’s gasp was definitely of the artist kind. “Wow. How is that possible?”

“Stuffed if I know.”

The surface of the asteroid was covered in green crystals. Readouts screamed a variation of olivine with a mix of other common minerals amongst it. Embedded in the centre were a series of almost pure iron lumps that glistened almost as much at the crystals slowly rotating against the stars.

“I’m getting extra samples. This is amazing.”

The combination of drill, claw and catchall attached to the front of the pod were easily manipulated. With the hope of extra information, he also deployed his small fleet of remote samplers. It hadn’t been possible to set them here from Three due to the debris field, but with a bit of luck, they would be able to avoid the worst of it this close to the epicentre.

“Virg, is there any way we can deflect rather than destroy this rock?”

“I doubt it.”

But he could hear the inquiry in his brother’s voice and knew Virgil was running the numbers again.

“It is beautiful.”

“And deadly. There are people in that observatory.”

“I know, I know. But…” The claw held up a large crystal and it glinted in the harsh sunlight. “…we could learn so much.”

Virgil grunted, obviously hip deep in calculations. “We are recording everything. You can give all the data to the university. They will work it out.” Another grunt. “No, I’m sorry, Allie. We don’t have the time or space. It has to go.”

“Damn. I’ll grab everything I can.”

“Keep it safe, Thunderbird Three.”

“Yeah, yeah. Yes, Mom.”

Virgil only grunted in return.

-o-o-o-

In the end, it was easier than expected. Alan gathered as much rock as Three’s return fuel load could account for. They then drilled and dropped off the three required payloads and retreated.

Alan got the feeling Virgil didn’t want to trigger the detonators any more than he did, but his brother was on point and within seconds the asteroid was little more than a cloud of dust that the Observatory’s deflector array would be able to handle easily.

It was quiet in the cockpit as Virgil confirmed the scans lined up with the math as they followed the remains to the Lagrange point and the cluster of technology stashed there.

The crystalline sparkle of olivine was barely seen against the milky way as it passed through harmlessly.

“Mission accomplished, Thunderbird Five.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Three. L2 sends their thanks. Head for home.”

“FAB.” Alan spun his ‘bird about, confirmed the navigational calculations and fired her ion engines, slamming both himself and his co-pilot back in their seats.

Virgil grunted.

“Sorry!”

His brother audibly swallowed. “Necessary, Squirt. Not your fault.”

Alan groaned to himself.

But it wasn’t long before his ‘bird was back up to cruising speed and they were heading home.

-o-o-o-

The samples were amazing.

Alan ran scans as he slotted them into proper catalogued and sealed storage. They needed to remain as sterile as they had been in space in order to preserve them as they were discovered.

Of course, Alan, being Alan had set a side a few small pieces for his own collection. The University could have the majority of the find, but Alan liked a little souvenir himself.

One fragment sealed for eternity, one for his space rock collection on the Island…and one for Virgil.

He held up the beautiful clear gem to the light of the cargo bay and it refracted it green.

Perfect.

“Alan?” Virgil entered from the direction of the cockpit. “You hungry?”

Alan turned and held out the gem. “Here’s your souvenir.”

Dark eyes latched onto the green gem and Virgil pushed off the door without a word.

He was still staring as he gently took the mineral sample from Alan’s fingers.

“Peridot.”

“Yep, perfect colour for you.” Alan turned back to the sample storage and secured it down. He stashed his own little crystal in his baldric so he could admire it on the way home.

Virgil was still staring at his rock. “Thank you, Alan.”

“That asteroid was cool. I wish we didn’t have to blow it up.”

Brown eyes flicked to his. “It was unavoidable.”

“Well, it sucked.”

Almost predictably, a hand landed on his shoulder. “If it hadn’t endangered lives, we would never have seen it.”

“I guess.” A thought. “Hey, do you think we could do some exploratory work with Thunderbird Three sometime?”

Virgil blinked. “I don’t know. Thunderbird Three is a rescue vehicle.”

“Yeah, but she can take us so far and discover so much.”

“The civilian space services-“

“Don’t have the grunt, Virg. Look at what we can do. We could do so much more.”

“Thunderbird Three has to be available to save lives.”

“I know! It’s just…so easy for us…and so hard for them.”

Virgil stared at him a moment. “You’re right.” His eyes dipped to the green gem in his gloved hand. “What do you have in mind?”

Alan blinked. “Uh, I don’t know.”

Those eyes latched onto his again. “Then you better start thinking, because if we’re going to speak to Scott about this, you’ll need a solid proposal with costings attached.”

Alan’s eyes widened. “O-okay.”

But the hand on his shoulder squeezed gently and Virgil’s mouth curved into a grin. “We have the time, after all. Two days to Tracy Island.

Alan couldn’t help but grin in return. “Enough time to finish that sweater, you think?”

Dark eyes narrowed, but his smile returned. “Ample.”

-o-o-o-

They were halfway home when John interrupted with the news that Tracy Industries had been implicated in the fire at the marine centre.

-o-o-o-

TBC

[katblu42]

Tie Me To The Moon

Reblogging a story that is particularly close to my heart right now. This one is from my Wheel of Whump spins, and my spin for John gave me Cuddling for Comfort and Graveyard. So . . . warnings for Graveyard, Wakes and Funerals, Grief/Mourning, Angst, Sensory Overload/Panic Attack.

It is pre-canon (Young Tracys).

The day started early.  Scott had spoken with John and Virgil the night before about how much he was relying on them both to help get Alan and Gordon ready, since Grandma and Dad would both have a lot on their plate.  So, John had set the alarm for 6am to give them time to wake themselves up before tackling the tinies.

By 9am all five boys were awake and fed and dressed in their Sunday best, shoes shined and hair combed awaiting final inspection before the cars arrived to take them to the church.  Normally it would have been Dad who inspected the troops before such an important occasion but, like many other things over the last week or so, today the job was taken on by Scott.  He left no stray hair or speck of lint unscrutinised, while their father was barely able to do more than glance at his boys and give Scott a pat on the shoulder as he passed on his way out the front door.

Scott decided it would be best if he went in the lead car with Dad.  It was the one that had been fitted with the kiddie seats for Gordon and Alan, and Scott could sit between them and keep them settled.  That left John and Virgil to ride in the second car with Grandma.  The car trip was mostly silent, but Grandma told them they both looked very smart and did her best to smile despite clear indications she was holding back more tears.

As they neared the church it was impossible not to notice the large number of parked vehicles, some still offloading passengers.  John let out a large sigh as their car pulled up in front of the chapel.  The soft murmurings and general bustle of the gathering crowd penetrated their insulated little bubble even before the driver opened the door to let Grandma out.  Virgil waited until he’d caught John’s eye and received a nod before opening his door so both boys could exit on the same side of the car.

The kindly young driver from the funeral home seemed to be keeping most of the well-meaning mourners at bay as the family gathered and were solemnly led into the church and ushered to the front pew.  John tried to focus on the flowers, the quiet organ music, the soft glow of sunlight filtering through stained glass rather than the coffins or even the photos of Mom and Grandpa, and definitely not the endless stream of people filling the rows of seats behind them.  It was a slightly tight fit getting all seven of them in the one pew, even with Alan on Dad’s (and later Scott’s) lap, but John was glad of the warm press of Virgil on his left and Gordon on his right.

The service was a simple, no-frills affair with the Minister officiating, but friends and family doing most of the talking.  John listened through Dad and Grandma retelling stories he’d heard before, but there were little details revealed that he had never known.  The anecdotes shared by the others who stepped up to the pulpit microphone – one of Grandpa’s farming neighbours, and an old friend of Mom’s from school – almost felt like stories about other people.  It didn’t feel like they were talking about the people John had lost.

For John losing Grandpa was like a constellation of stars going missing from the night sky. It was Grandpa that had told him people are all made of the same stuff as the stars. He had been a quiet, watchful presence in his life, providing light and joy whenever he looked up and saw that twinkle in Grandpa’s eye.  Like Ursa Major and Polaris, Grandpa was always there guiding him, giving direction when needed, but never wanting to overstep or overshadow his parents.  Not the brightest light in his orbit, but an important, comforting presence that meant John always knew his place in the world.

Mom had been the sun at the centre of his life, his family, his everything.  Without her all the light and warmth was gone from the world.  Instead of a regular (though slightly wonky) orbit his world now felt like it was tumbling through space and gravity was constantly shifting.  One moment he was too heavy to move and the next he was so light he might be flung out into space. Night and day and seasons, years and everything he measured his life by had been connected to his Mom – waking him and tucking him into bed, making sure he dressed warm enough or wore sunscreen or had his raincoat, keeping track of birthdays and holidays and school excursion days were all her.

During the service no one spoke of Mom and Grandpa like that.

There was music.  One of Mom’s favourite piano pieces.  Virgil had wanted to be able to play it today, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to even sit at the piano, much less play at all since the accident.  So a recording had been found and it was played as a backing track to the slideshow that flickered through image after image of happy memories telling part of two life stories.

There were prayers.  Reassuring words from the minister about heaven and God’s love, and the love we should all share with each other.  John wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about heaven, or God calling Mom and Grandpa home to his kingdom.

There was a poem read out by one of Mom’s work colleagues.  It was something about not crying or being sad because they were gone, but being happy because they had lived.  Many of the people in the room were obviously ignoring the advice – his immediate family included.  There were a good many wet handkerchiefs and tissues in hands, a great deal of supressed sobs and eye rubbing, and a few sleeves swiped across cheeks before the service was over.

Scott and Dad were among the pall bearers who carried the coffins out of the church and onto the waiting machinery that would take care of their final movements.  John and his brothers and Grandma were the first of the mourners to follow in the sombre procession.  Only a small number of people were permitted to follow the hovering gurneys across the grass and through the little cemetery to the waiting square-sided pits.  Just family and a few close friends to witness the way the machinery slowly and smoothly lowered each coffin down into the earth, hear the minister recite the final ritual words, and each place a flower or a sprinkling of dirt atop the coffins in a last goodbye.

The rest of the large crowd had been encouraged to make their way into the Sunday School hall where the wake was to take place.  Refreshments had been generously laid out on the tables inside.  More photographs of both lost loved ones were on display throughout the room, along with so many more flowers and a large number of cards.  But many of the people in attendance that day were still milling about outside the church buildings when John and his family returned through the cemetery for the wake.

John’s feet dragged as he approached the gentle hubbub of mingling friendly faces with sympathetic expressions.  He could pick out people he knew well if he let himself concentrate, but the sheer number of individuals he was heading towards was a little overwhelming.  They didn’t make it inside the hall before the onslaught began.  Almost everyone wanted to say something, speak of sympathy, tell a story, offer “any help you need.”  So many wanted to reach out, hold a hand or squeeze an arm, some came in for full-on hugs, cheek kisses and loud, teary exclamations of how sad it all was. 

John lost his Dad and Grandma to the throng faster than he thought possible, but before he could be swept up in it himself he was thrown a lifeline.  There was a familiar presence by his side, a brush of hand against hand, or specifically pinky against pinky – a request and an offer.  John grabbed hold of Virgil’s hand and held fast, tethering himself to his brother like an anchor.

He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened or how long it had taken, but eventually they all made it inside the Sunday School hall.  John was only aware of Virgil’s hand in his, the rest was a blur of faces, voices, bodies.  Virgil dealt with anyone who stopped them to offer their personal condolences, listening to what they had to say and responding politely but managing to keep the interactions brief and shielding John from most of the attention.  Somehow they made their way to a cluster of chairs where Grandma and Dad were seated, Alan in his father’s lap, still accepting condolences from well-wisher after well-wisher.

John was aware of sweat beading on his forehead as Virgil told him to take a seat next to Grandma for a bit, and then his brother disappeared into the crowd to go and fetch Grandma a cup of tea.  He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers as he tried to look around the room.  His eyes fell on Scott standing a few feet away, taking all the sympathetic social interactions in his stride, nodding, smiling, shaking hands, accepting embraces.

John’s mouth was dry and he wondered if he could make it across the room to grab a drink from the trestle table against the wall, but there was a sea of bodies he’d have to negotiate in between.  For a moment his vision blurred and the vague images of people swam in a dizzying fashion before he could find something to focus on.  Alan had obviously grown tired of the hair ruffling and cheek pinching and wriggled free of his Dad’s grasp, and was now trying to run through the small gaps between grown up pairs of legs.  Gordon was keeping an eye on him – in between snaffling more cakes and cookies from the food table.  John watched the terrible two until they were obscured by too many featureless figures.

Despite the late-winter-cool of the day, the church hall felt uncomfortably warm.  The large space with its vaulted ceiling, tall, wide windows and polished wooden floorboards felt dark and gloomy and so very crowded.  And the non-stop undercurrent of murmuring voices appeared to build in an unbearable crescendo John could not shut out.  Too many bodies, too many voices, too much, too close . . . he needed space, he needed air, he had to get out!

Virgil saw his brother get up and hurry a little unsteadily to the exit as he came back with Grandma’s tea.  He tried to keep an eye on the red-head so he could follow, but he had to excuse himself to Grandma and Dad, make his way over to Scott, politely interrupt the conversation and whisper in his big brother’s ear.

“John’s bolted.  I’m going after him.”

Scott acknowledged with a nod as his eyes darted to the door, already closed again after John’s escape.  Virgil wasted no more time in following, but once outside it took him a moment to figure out which direction John had taken.

John had no particular destination in mind, he just needed to get away.  His feet carried him across the gravel driveway and through the grass without him registering the change of surface.  He ran through the little cemetery without seeing the tombstones he passed, slowing only when he approached the boundary marked with a low stone wall before a neat, tall hedge.  Unable to go any farther he turned and wobbled dizzily. His vision narrowed leaving dull blurred impressions of light and shadow. He heard nothing but the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, and he sank down to the ground, sitting heavily, knees bent and pulled up towards his chest.  He scrunched his eyes tightly closed and slammed his hands over his ears, trying to block it all out.

Virgil approached slowly, but without trying to hide the sound of his footsteps.  He lowered himself to sit facing John, resisting the strong urge to reach out and touch him.  Seeing his brother in such distress clawed at his heart.  He couldn’t let him struggle through this alone.

“John?”  He kept his voice quiet and hoped he could be heard despite the hands staying firmly pressed against ears.  “I’m here with you.  Just me.  No one else is around.”

There was no noticeable response.

“If you can hear me, I need you to try and slow your breathing down a bit, John.  Deep breath in,“ and Virgil inhaled, “and out nice and slow.”  Virgil waited for a second, watching John’s shallow, ragged breathing for any change.  “In,” another inhaled breath, “and out.”

As Virgil continued repeating the instruction like a mantra John’s breathing gradually began to even out into slower, deeper, more controlled breaths.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought John’s vice-like grip over his ears might be relaxing a little too.

“You’re doing great, John.  Keep focussing on your breathing.  Keep listening.  Hear the breeze whispering through the leaves?  Did you hear those birds?”

John did hear the cry of a bird overhead, and an answering call a little farther away as his hands drifted away from his head.  As he lowered them to limply rest on the ground beside him he heard a gentle gust of wind rustle the hedges, and he registered that it did indeed sound a bit like a whisper.

“The sun’s broken free of the clouds.  Can you feel it on your face, John?  Can you feel the wind in your hair?  You do realise there’s dirt and leaves beneath your fingertips, right?”

John turned his focus where his brother’s voice directed it, feeling the warmth on the left side of his face, and the breeze toying with his hair.  There was indeed leaf litter and slightly damp dirt beneath his flexing fingers.

“If you’re ready to open your eyes you’ll see the moon’s out.  I like the way the moon looks in the day.  Against the blue of the sky the shadows make it look almost see-through.”

Translucent.  That would have been a better word for what Virgil was trying to say.  The thought flitted through John’s mind as he let his eyes drift open and scan the sky until they latched onto the gibbous moon framed by scattered cumulous clouds.  He was also aware there was irony in the way his brother was effectively using the moon to anchor him, to bring him back to earth and ground him in the here and now.

Virgil had stopped talking, leaving the wind and occasional twitters and cries of the birds to fill the silence as John watched the clouds dance around the moon.  He could feel his brother’s eyes on him almost as tangibly as he could feel the damp earth he was sitting on and the cool stone of the wall at his back.  Now feeling much calmer he took a deep breath and brought his gaze down from the sky to meet the concern and compassion contained in those warm, brown eyes.

“Welcome back.”  A hint of a smile played across Virgil’s face as he spoke.

A quiet moment stretched between them.  No words spoken, but information passing from brother to brother through eye contact alone.

Content that John was no longer caught in a spiral he couldn’t escape on his own, Virgil glanced over his shoulder towards the Sunday School hall.

“I should go back, but you can stay here if you want.  I’ll come and find you when it’s time to go.  Just don’t wander off or anything.”

John didn’t speak as he chanced his own glance back toward the ongoing wake.  Then, as Virgil made a move to get up and leave, John reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Stay.  Please?” 

Virgil stopped and stared first at the fingers digging into his wrist, then into pleading, desperate aquamarine.  He simply nodded and adjusted his position so he was sitting next to John, their shoulders touching.  John loosened his grip on Virgil’s wrist but didn’t let go, so John’s arm looped around his knees and Virgil’s arm crossed his body to keep the connection.  There was an almost imperceptible hesitation, but then simultaneously John leaned in towards his brother and Virgil wrapped his arm around John, pulling them into a secure embrace.

John finally let go of Virgil’s wrist, bringing his arm in close, grabbing a fistful of Virgil’s suit jacket and snuggling closer into his brother’s chest.  This enabled Virgil to employ both arms in the hug.  John rarely cuddled up like this with anyone, but all the times he could remember doing so were with Mom.  His next intake of breath hitched at the realisation, and Virgil held a little tighter.  The threat of tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he was grateful that, while not the same as a cuddle from Mom, he was still able to find this level of safety and comfort in the arms of someone who loved him.

“I want her back,” he sobbed, letting the tears flow and drip onto Virgil’s jacket.

“Yeah.  Me too.”

John heard the tears in Virgil’s voice, but he already knew his brother felt the same absence in their hug.

Neither boy could say how long they stayed out there, huddled together, holding tight while hot tears streaked their cheeks.  Time may as well have stood still for all it mattered.  Nothing else was important, just the feeling that this moment, however sad, was theirs alone to share until Scott came and found them to tell them it was time to go home.

[gumnut-logic]

Wire (Bit 11)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10

Bit 11

Written between 1am and 4.30am. Guess who has insomnia again. But eh, we gets fic.

Special thanks to @katblu42 for the plot suggestion that was added into this bit ::hugs:: Also to @janetm74 @scribbles97 and @tsarinatorment for their amazing support ::squeezes you so tight::

This is still whump. Sorry, guys. A little bit of a longer bit this time at 1337 words.

-o-o-o-

Virgil ran a corn leaf through his fingers.

It was the depth of summer and the sky was brilliant with sun, the corn silks drying and brown above swollen husks while the giant flower heads at the top of each plant danced in the wind.

Ever so tall.

Cornstalks rustled as if speaking to each other, whispering his name.

He couldn’t see out of the field. It appeared to go on forever and he didn’t know how he had ended up in the maze in the first place.

Scott had been yelling his name. There had been pain and movement and Grandpa urging him on.

But now there was just the cornfield.

The wind hissed.

They weren’t supposed to play amongst the corn. There were snakes in the field and Grandma did not like losing sight of her charges.

Of course, Scott had dragged him in once.

Only once.

The field was mysterious and exciting. They hadn’t gone far, but Grandpa had discovered them and the fallout had been extensive.

They both learnt that day exactly why they shouldn’t go into the cornfield as Grandpa had found a snake, showed it to them and then listed off exactly what happened to someone who was bitten.

Scott hadn’t been a fan of snakes ever since.

Of course, Grandma followed that lecture up with some extensive first aid training for what to do if you were bitten by a snake.

It had been a long few days after that.

They never went into the cornfield again.

Until now.

And Scott wasn’t here.

Virgil shivered. He wasn’t a kid anymore and had faced far worse dangers than a snake infested cornfield, but there was something more going on here.

He knew it deep in his soul.

His IR uniform was gone and in its place his comfortable flannel shirt, jeans and boots were a stark contrast against the green stalks.

The leaf was rough between his fingertips, silica strong, almost like wire, but sharper, prone to those thin slices like paper cuts.

“Virgil.”

He startled. His name was sudden, yet as whispered on the wind as the rattling leaves.

“Gordon?”

The wind shook stalks and continued to whisper unintelligibly, ignoring him.

Two hands landed on his shoulders.

His gasp was swallowed as those small hands gently turned him around on the spot.

Eyes dark and so like his own looked up at him with so much love any remaining fear evaporated and fluttered away.

“Mom?”

-o-o-o-

Scott stood in a hospital doorway still wearing the suit he wore for the press conference yesterday.

He felt grimy and he was sprouting stubble on his chin to match his lack of self care over the last forty-eight hours or so. He wasn’t sure of the exact number.

Numbers hurt.

The door he was standing in wasn’t Virgil’s. No, he had left his brother for yet another necessary task as the eldest, the protector of his family.

John had offered to do it for him, but Scott felt an irrational and driven need to see that what his brother had given everything for was worth it.

Of course, every life was worth it. That was the Tracy motto.

But Scott was human. Ever more so now he was in pain. And he felt the need to make sure...it was worth it.

The paediatric ward was brightly painted. A stark lie to the children it contained in an attempt to distract them from the pain these halls actually contained.

The tiny figure in the bed was quiet, strawberry blond hair falling over closed eyes. He looked much more peaceful now he wasn’t bleeding.

Scott was grateful Virgil had succeeded in saving the little boy. His name was John and he did look a little like Gordon.

Toddler Gordon.

Despite everything, Scott did smile just a little. At age three, Gords had been an absolute terror. Virgil, for whatever reason, had taken it upon himself to prevent the little brat from killing himself or others and the resultant hilarity of watching his twelve year old brother chase after the three year old was legendary.

Until the day Virgil actually did save Gordon. Fish baby or no, a dam on the farm was no place for a three year old.

Although this was not Gordon, this little boy was just as lucky as Scott’s little fish brother, even if it took the rest of the Tracys to finally get him out from under that building.

Little John had two broken legs, some nasty bruising, and had inhaled far too much concrete dust and fumes. This last coupled with some internal bleeding and a three year old’s tiny body had made it very touch and go. Virgil had protected him as much as he could, but there had only been so much his critically injured brother could do.

But the doctors had saved him and although he had a tough path ahead, Virgil hadn’t risked himself in vain.

It was worth it.

Worth the lax and non-responsive figure in that too white bed on the other side of the hospital.

Scott swallowed hard.

Focus.

The boy’s mother finally caught sight of him and he forced himself to straighten up and feign presentability.

“Mr Tracy!” She hurried over, eyes wide. “Ohmigod, I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

Something must have shown in his eyes because hers widened and she held herself back.

“Come in, sir. Have a seat.” She stepped away and offered him one of the same plastic hospital chairs he had already spent a good part of the day sitting in on the other side of the building.

He held up a kind hand. “No, no, I’m only here for a moment. I just wanted to see how little John was doing.”

The woman’s breath was harsh at the mention and he prayed she wouldn’t burst into tears because he did not have the reserves right now and would likely join her.

She glanced at her son. “The doctors expect him to make a full recovery thanks to your brother.” A pause and he knew what she was going ask. “How is he?”

The image of Virgil lying ever so still, head swathed in bandages from literal brain surgery coupled with a belly full of even more stitches...

“He’s...” Another harsh swallow. “...hanging in there.”

The gentle hand on his arm nearly broke him.

He drew in a breath and mentally shook himself. “Um, I came over here to give you this.” He held out the piece of paper he had signed himself not twenty minutes ago. “When...” He tried again. God, he was tired. “When people heard Virgil was injured he was sent gifts and money.” They were still coming in. His brother was truly loved by the general public. Virgil Tracy and his giant flying green machine. Virgil would smile and wave it off, but really, people loved him. “My brothers and I know that Virgil would want you to have this, to help John in his recovery.” The cheque had a considerable number of zeros written on it.

Her eyes widened as she read them. “My god.” She blinked. “Thank you. I can’t lie. We need this. But...but what about the others?”

“Virgil saved the rest. There were some minor injuries. They’ve all been seen to.” He glanced at the bed. “John was the last one.” Scott blinked rapidly. John’s babysitter hadn’t made it, killed in the initial collapse. John had been very, very lucky.

“Thank you.” And her hands were clutching his arm again.

Scott looked down at her. Virgil would definitely want this. He dropped his hand over hers. “You’re welcome.” Now he had to leave.

She nodded and let him go. But she didn’t step back, only staring up at him.

“Mr Tracy, all my hopes for your brother...”

Scott nodded abruptly, but had no more words. A dip of his head as he backed out of the room and stalked down the hallway.

All his hopes...

-o-o-o-

Next

[gumnut-logic]

Spin Dry

From here

I blame @selene-tempest​

Humour, fluff and a tiny bit of whump. Sorry, Virg, I’ve been missing you :D

-o-o-o-

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-