THUNDERBIRDS FIC: He Is, They Are (3/10)
Summary: Fixing what was wrong with their family would take longer than the span of a Disney movie, but they'd get there eventually. They lived on an island. It wasn't like there was anywhere else to go.
Disclaimer: Thunderbirds is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. Don't thank me; thank them. As with the previous chapters, this fic is rated T for language (I've been married to the military too long not to have a mouth) and Gen (because for a happily married woman I am terrible at romance). Spoilers are still Movie-based, although I do try to work in some show details, too (although that's mostly in the later chapters).
III. Scott and John
The Tracy boys knew their NASA history backwards and forwards, every mission, every glitch, every success, every single rotation of crews from Mercury on up the line. When they were kids, legends of Gordo Cooper's antics and Al Shepherd's chronic ear problems and the inner workings of Redstone rockets were their fairy tales (The Little Test Pilot Who Could, Goodnight Moon, Today I Feel Dizzy). They were their examples when Dad didn't know how to explain things (Things happen, boys, hatches blow for no reason). It wasn't until they were older that they realized, no, their knowledge was not normal. But then, they weren't normal. Just look at Gordon. That kid was as far from normal as it got.
Yeah, Dad was slightly obsessed. Just take a look around.
Scott had to work to keep the smirk off his face when the Amnesia Tree beat a branch square into his brain with thoughts of how many times Gordon had had his mouth washed out with soap after repeating Virgil's namesake's favorite line. Sometimes Scott swore the kid did it just to see the looks on the adults' faces, like they thought it was so damn cute and hated to know they would have to punish him for it. Gordon knew he was cute, and he knew he had the big brass ones which made the grown ups respect him. He was such a weird, complicated kid. He wasn't any less weird or complicated as a man. Freak.
He exchanged a raised eyebrow with the abnormality in question as they watched (from the relatively safe distance of the generator pit) Dad try to contain his frustration over in the corner. Obviously the tweaks he was making with the satellite relay functions weren't coming along as he'd hoped. But then, his children were trapped on a sinking ship without a single rescue dingy in sight. Scott thought the man was coping startlingly well for now. He thought they all were.
"What's so funny?"
"You are."
"C'mon, you've gotta be proud of me. I haven't made a single 13 joke."
"I am." Scott's nod was deliberately solemn, trying to discourage the breaking of Gordon's quiet streak. Sure, he figured they'd all already thought it a few times, but they'd all had the good grace not to say it out loud. It was tempting Fate if one of them did it. "Very proud."
"But it's tempting."
"Don't."
"Not even one?"
"Holding pattern, Gords."
"I don't think I can."
Scott rolled his eyes. Really, there was nothing normal about his brother. The kid was actually asking permission to make a smartass comment. He knew he should probably take it as his brother feeling the gravity of the situation and wanting to keep it in the right perspective, even if it ran completely against type for him, and yet, it was just stupid. Who asks permission to make smartass comments? Wasn't that one of rules of being a smartass? Only Gordon ... "Okay, go for it. I know you want to."
Gordon bounced on the balls of his feet, giddy and entirely six years old. "Houston, we've had a problem."
"Got that out of your system?"
"Fuckin' A, bubba! Systems are a-okay." The grin on his brother's face was priceless enough to make it hard for Scott to be mad at him. Who knew how many smiles any of them had left in them? He wasn't going to take that away. Then, as if he were reading Scott's mind, Gordon's smile did falter. They shared a look that said it all: systems were anything but a-okay.
Systems were anything but fuckin'-a-bubba, that's for sure.
Gordon's smile withered some more before it crooked into grimaced apology. He busied himself with a screwdriver and the base for the timing element for the heat exchange. The ceramic base had sustained a slight fracture in the initial explosion, and of course, because none of them had bothered to rub a leprechaun's head on the way up here for luck, the replacements were locked away on the other side of the station (which might as well be the dark side of the moon at this point). It hadn't stopped Gordon from trying to find a creative solution, though, with some spare copper wire and a soldering gun. Scott would never let it be said that his little brother didn't use his creative mind for both good and evil. If it worked, he'd never say his brother was less than an evil genius ever again.
Well, maybe that was taking it a little far, but still … His brother was a lot more inventive than people gave him and his pranks credit for.
Leaving him to it, Scott eavesdropped on John trying to talk Virgil through yet another frustration, which was quickly becoming less talk and more sighing from both of them. While John was the one to know 'Five inside and out, he had never been any better at explaining her to them than any of them were at explaining their 'birds to him. To have to ease Virgil through what was essentially her power up sequence, which hadn't been done since she'd taken flight, and do it without taking power away from Scott and Gordon in the pit, well … It didn't sound like it was going well at all. Virgil was doing his best to keep up, but, like Scott, John's mind saw the progression from Point A to Point G in one fell swoop and forgot to explain B through F along the way. Each of his brothers were geniuses in their own rights, had tested off the charts - which made John's brilliance look so damn phenomenal that it was hard to believe he wasn't at least part computer up there in that head of his - so when even an overachiever like Virgil wanted to throw his hands up in surrender, it had to be pretty big.
Sparks unexpectedly flew in Gordon's face, prompting a growled "hey!" as he shook out his foot from where his toes had connected with the corner of the toolbox. Virgil yelled a tight "sorry!" back - the third one in ten minutes - but it did nothing to improve Gordon's mood. Everyone was getting punchy. Things were short-circuiting left and right, as another yelp from Gordon testified.
"This is getting ridiculous." Gordon pulled his wrist back like he was ready to smack the generator into submission, but let it fall weak and flat at the last moment before he hit something he couldn't fix.
"That wasn't me," Virgil hollered, "I swear."
An electrical zzt! of something disagreeing had Gordon swearing a blue streak back. Scott carefully reached into Gordon's personal space to pluck the wrench from his brother's hand with an I'll take that, thank you wince, and then he held his arm out with a sweep. As you were.
Glancing between the pit and John's workstation, Scott could see it was time for a change in direction. Virgil was bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, and breathing hard. John's head was ducked while his free hand ran over his hair over and over, pulling on random bunches until his hand came away with red crust from the cut. Over by the airlock, their father wasn't doing much better in his futile attempt to reroute the power from the keypad itself to the door's sliding mechanism. The last thing they needed was for one of them to lose his temper and jack this up any more than it already was.
"Gimme two seconds." Scott clapped Gordon on the shoulder, about ready to switch himself out with Virgil when 'Five decided her death throes had been ignored in place of their piddly human problems. As the lights flickered, he glanced up at his father and saw him thinking the same thing he was, but everything cut short when another explosion had Dad slingshoting overhead into the work console half way across the room.
The force of the explosion knocked Scott off his feet, his tailbone catching whatever impact the back of his head didn't absorb. An electric shock vibrated up his leg as a small secondary explosion next to him mourned one more lost opportunity to get the hell out of this mess. He was pretty sure his teeth bit through his right cheek, the blood overpowering his throat. Gordon called his name, but the ringing in his ears was too loud, warning him to not try to shake it out if he wanted to still be able to hear when this was over. Then his brother was there, with Dad's help, pulling him to his feet around smoke and sparks and more chaos. Gordon reassured their father of something, sounding like he was a substitute teacher in Charlie Brown's classroom.
"The heat exchange is blown," he told them. Yeah, his own voice didn't sound right either.
Dad gripped his arm a little too tight. "You don't say."
Gordon coughed around a snort. Scott groaned. He'd definitely had enough of the peanut gallery for a while. His ankles tried to go in the direction he wasn't going, dropping his knees in another. His father and brother caught him with a synchronized "whoa" and eased him over to the work table.
"I'm good," he apologized even as he ceiling his hands over his father's to keep them from gripping his face like an overzealous aunt. He heard John and Virgil shakily laugh next to him. "Oh, shut up."
Dad snapped his fingers, patience long gone. Scott met his eyes then followed the finger without direction. Not until he was satisfied that he didn't have another son out of commission did their father sigh and hang his head.
"Damn, kiddo."
As much as it hurt, Scott wrangled his own face into a grin that might another day have been mistaken for a grimace and knuckled his skull. "Cast-iron, old man, just like yours."
Dad laughed, the first real laugh he'd had since Take Off, and gripped the back of Scott's neck. "All right. Take five. Virgil, Gordon, you're with me. You two, stay put." Before Scott could even open his mouth to protest, The Commander (not Dad, Commander; there was a difference) zipped the air. "Five minutes. I won't ask for more unless you give me reason to, I promise."
He didn't wait for a reply, turning his back and effectively cutting off the conversation. Scott was glad his newfound headache did at least something productive: Gordon and Virgil smirked at their father's over-reactive mothering, Serves You Right twin gleams in their eyes. Gleams were good. They went to work with a slightly renewed energy, Scott shaking a Why I Oughta fist at them both.
The hits he took for the team, man …
John licked his lips next to him. Dryly, like a sauntering cowboy, he said, "Don't you just hate it when he does that?"
Yes, all right, he got it. Undertones understood. You know, for all the bitching they did about his so-called mother henning of them, they never actually let him do it. Scott rolled his eyes, but he did nod. He could do five minutes. It was what he'd expect of the rest of them. Hell, he did order them on a regular basis. Besides, there was nothing in his father's order that said he couldn't still work. He simply couldn't be on his feet to do it.
He let his hands fall into his lap, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, parallel with John's. He leaned his head back into the cupboard behind him, the metal surprisingly cool against his scalp. He closed his eyes, tuning out the sights and sounds of destruction and confusion and imminent death around him. For just a minute, it was going to be him and John, alone, The Two. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that. Maybe that night they'd sat up drinking during Christmas break? Or was it last summer? Whatever it had been, it had been too long.
He would never do anything to trade away any of his brothers, but there were times when Scott did miss the idea of the two of them, The Two, like they'd been before the name had been co-opted and modified for the younger two. For so long, they'd been the only ones. Without John, Scott might not have learned how to be a big brother, to be a friend, to share, to think about others. Scott knew all too well from conversations over the years how easy it was for his brothers to discount their own importances in his life. Alan was just the baby; what did he matter? (Which, thinking back on the night before, fighting about him with Dad, Gordon's clandestine mission, and everything that had happened since, he really would have to have a talk with the kid about that when they got home.) Gordon was fourth, never special, never a stand out in any way that mattered. Virgil was the middle, even if he was Scott's partner in crime when it came to IR and life on the island with John gone so much. John was Number Two, gone all the time, out of sight, out of mind. Okay, so maybe he needed to talk with all of them about that. They were all so important; without them, Scott wouldn't be Scott.
But John? Without John, he never would have learned to be Scott to begin with.
He allowed himself one jerky, selfish breath, one dark moment to realize that he hadn't had enough time to tell them all that. He wouldn't be him without them. But then the breath was gone, one precious breath in the last few hours they had before the clock ran out, and he had to get back to work. His job was to get his brothers back to the island, safe and sound, so that he could spend more time in this life forgetting to tell them exactly how much he needed them because no one actually says that kind of schmaltzy shit to someone when it doesn't matter.
Besides, he figured they understood when it did matter. It had to be good enough.
Scott's eyes opened. Moment gone.
There would be no deathbed confessions today if he could help it.
Adjusting into a more comfortable position, Scott's hand found the corner of the broken frame that John usually kept right at his work station. Scott hadn't spent enough time up here on 'Five to know what pieces of the family his brother kept with him, but that one in particular was one all five boys kept within easy reach. It was different to each of them, but for the most part, it was stress relief. One look at that picture and none of them could keep from laughing.
Three years ago, there was a major slip in protocol. The Tracy Boys (all six of them) made People's 50 Most Beautiful People issue in the Most Eligible Bachelors section - without Jeff's permission. His adult sons found it funny, especially when little Alan, not even twelve years old yet, and just barely sixteen Gordon were called out: Careful, ladies, these two aren't available outside the prom just yet.Jeff went thermal, calling in an entire wing of Gage Whitney to handle what his sons saw as the press just trying to get a rise out of him. Besides, what was he going to do? Recall every copy of the magazine after it had already been out two weeks? It renewed a waned interest in the family, setting them apart like the previous generation of Hiltons and Johnsons had been reluctantly outed to the public before them.
The picture of the goofy, grinning Tracys - which looked professional and possibly taken during Virgil's graduation, though that would mean one of his classmates had sold him out, which Virgil refused to believe - had been accompanied by a short blurb about them. There wasn't anything even remotely interesting said, only the usual tear-jerker about Mom's death and Dad sequestering them away when the press got too hot. It got the boys each a few dates and a "fan" letter or two, but that was about it.
That was what they were to the celebrity aquarium - a blurb. Where other quote-unquote celebrities in the section of the magazine were quoted on such bracing topics as what they look for in a woman, what they cook to impress a woman, or what their favorite book was on a rainy day (to impress the ladies, of course), the story on Jeff Tracy and his kids (The Tracy Boys, like they were a boy band or something) was filled with little fact. It might as well have been piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.
But then, one afternoon, cheeky little Gordon, who had yet to start filling out and was still a growth spurt away from not getting his height checked for rides at the fair, had had the balls to call their father out on it. It wasn't that they got the story wrong. Oh, no. It was that they didn't bother to get Jeff's opinion on a woman's baked goods. Gordon had ended up fully clothed in the pool at Dad's hand. Scott couldn't remember seeing his father laugh so hard.
"What?" John asked, not bothering to open his eyes to Scott's sighing laughter.
"Baked goods."
"Ah."
Scott reached up behind him to return the frame to its proper place, turned his head, still anchored at the crown on the cupboard behind him, and grinned grimly. "You need to have a little chat with the wife."
John didn't say anything at first. His eyes remained closed, but he smiled a smile Scott had seen too many times on the faces of victims in Danger Zones, the way a man smiles at his wife when the options are gone. All they can do is shoot her up with some morphine to make her goodbyes as painless as possible. John's free hand caressed the floor, tracing the diamond pattern stamped in the steel plates of flooring. Scott was starting to wonder if John had heard him when he spoke, so deathly quiet that Scott had to strain to hear him.
"She took a bullet for me."
"Yeah, she did," he agreed, infusing the required reverence for the dying into his voice.
"I didn't see it coming."
"Nobody did."
"She did. I didn't have enough time to - "
"No one could have. John, none of us could have seen this."
Scott wasn't quite prepared for the anger in his brother's voice as he focused it, hard and bitter, furious enough that it hurt to hear it. "She took the bullet for me."
"Hey." Scott bumped his shoulder into John's, mindful of the sling but needing to get his point across. This was not John's fault. They would have come up here to help, no matter who was commanding her at the time. Being mad at them, at his machine, at anything wasn't going to do anyone any good. "She took care of you the best she could. After that, you did everything you could to protect you both. You held on until we got here. That's all we could ask."
"She's hurt."
"But she isn't gone. Not yet." From the tone, Scott had to wonder if they were still both talking about 'Five.
John's hand rested flat against the floor between their hips. "You feel that?"
"What?"
"That vibration. It comes and goes about every five minutes." John turned his chin and eyes toward him, the back of his head staying where it was. "She's stirring the tanks, trying to give us every single atom of oxygen she can get out of them."
"She's a good girl."
"The best."
Scott grinned. Even now, they were somehow finding a way to compare 'birds. If John pulled the But mine's the biggest, Scott might just have to save a piece of her for John to eat later. For now, though, he wasn't lying. He needed John to talk to his 'bird, to get her to tell him what they needed to do to get out of this mess. Waxing poetic about their metallic wives wasn't going to get the job done.
"How ticked is she gonna be if we tear into the wall?"
"Hotwire the locking mechanism?"
"Yeah."
John didn't even have to think about it. He shook his head, sending a thrill of disappointment through Scott's throbbing head. "All the power is in the scrubbers at this point, and we need it there. We designed her failsafe, in case of catastrophic damage, to function like a rocket. The oxygen provides power just as much as breathing air. But she wasn't meant to do that for longer than it would take for you guys to get up here. At this point, there isn't enough power to open the doors and maintain atmo to get us to 'Three. And even if we did get there, we have no way of knowing what condition she's in. You're talking about step eighty when we're still back on step twenty-four."
"So what do we do that we aren't doing? Because obviously what we're doing isn't working."
"I don't think the power up will work. There are too many steps to skip in the right order, but every time we try, we end up frying Gordon. I don't … I just don't know."
Scott wiped a hand down his face, using it to hide his disappointment. All that stuff about his brother being a genius? Yeah, that didn't change simply because John didn't have an answer. If he didn't have an answer, it wasn't because he wasn't seeing it; it was because there wasn't one. That was something Scott wasn't about to accept quite yet. There had to be a way. He wouldn't let this be the day there wasn't a way.
"So we're already squeezing as much oxygen out of her as we can get. What else do we have here that's good?"
"Can I get back to you?"
Scott had to pull his hand back before he reached for the bloody mess on the back of John's head. Yeah, that would make him think a little slower, too. Figuring that was the problem, he gently agreed. "Sure, man." Scott detoured the hand to John's uninjured shoulder and squeezed. "Hang tight and see what you can come up with. I'll be back in five."
"Dad's gonna freak if he sees you up and around before he clears you."
"Somehow I think he'll let it slide today."
John's smile was teasing. Yeah, right. "There's ibuprofen in the drawer over there under what's left of the Southern Hemisphere."
Scott winked, made a show of heading that way, and then circled around to find his father, only to have to rush back at the absolutely beautiful sounds of Alan shouting for their father. He found his legs wobbly as he ran, like if he got there it would be a mirage tricking his tired, guilty conscience into thinking he could hear his brother's voice one more time. But they were all sprinting to John's side, a staggered chorus of "It's Alan" celebrating the first good news they'd had in next to two hours.
As soon as he got there, thankful he was tall enough to see over Gordon's shoulder, he was pretty sure he didn't care how terrified the baby of the family looked because he'd never seen anybody look so damn perfect. Alan was okay. All the kids were okay. Something was on their side for a few priceless minutes.
The relief in everyone's breathing surrounded him, filled him, telling him it was okay to breathe with them. A few quick moves on Fermat's part and they'd be back in business. They'd get home, get that bastard off their island, and do some quick ass redesign work to keep John from ever being a sitting duck again. And then, just like that, it was gone as they all started to realize that the signal Alan was so desperately trying to send them wasn't going to make it. It was only the eye of the storm, calm and gorgeous and hopeful, soon to be overtaken by the clouds and rage of the storm any second. They were just too damn far away.
As their father issued orders to Alan and the kids to rendezvous and all the safe stuff they had talked about - which, it suddenly occurred to him how rather scary it was that his father had anticipated such an event - Scott had to tamp down the urge to yell his own orders. Take 'One and get as far away as they can. That's all he wanted them to do. Get the hell off the island. Any English-speaking country would have friendly-enough soil to take them in long enough to get help. It wasn't ideal - leaving thugs and potential murderers free access to their home didn't seem like the most brilliant thing they could do - but it would keep Alan and the other kids alive.
It was too brief a second, one that if he used it he couldn't get back, but Scott felt Virgil's hand gripping his wrist so damn hard from behind their father's back. He glanced at his brother and saw him fighting not to do the same thing. Their machines were still there. If they did it right, the kids would have enough time to get out of there, yet neither of them had the heart to disobey their father's orders and waste their last contact with their brother arguing about it. Scott curled his hand around to wrap his fingers around Virgil's wrist in return.
Hadn't this been the whole point of International Rescue? To have the machines capable of saving people's lives when nothing else could? Wasn't that what their machines were for? And yet, here they were, useless simply because their operators couldn't bring themselves to break their father's heart. There was something entirely screwed up about that. Not that their lives weren't screwed up already, but this was just … It wasn't right.
Most of all, Scott couldn't believe that the last time he saw his little brother's face it was going to be as he was screaming for their father, panicked and frightened and so very fourteen. For the first time, he truly got it, hard, so that he hyperventilated. The Hey, look, my family's on TV was awful and heartbreaking in a way that made him physically sick. And then Alan was lost to him, to them, and it started all over again.
If they got out of this, he would have to talk to their father. No more press for IR, not unless it was vital to the operation. No good will from governments that still thought of them as second string was worth any of them seeing this kind of thing again.
Still, even as they all looked at each other, sick with their disbelief, Scott couldn't help hope their father had some sort of Gene-Kranz-helmed brand miracle up his sleeve. Just one more. Maybe Mission Control on speed dial for a cab ride back home? A rousing speech of some kind to motivate them into figuring out that one light bulb moment of eureka to get them out? A superpower vest? Something, anything to help them work the problem and get them the freaking hell out of here. There had to be something.
That's when Dad said the magic words, like he'd been following the movie script all along. "Boys, we work the puzzle." As if it was that simple. Billion dollar pieces of broken machinery could be fixed with a snap of the fingers and a directive, just sticking one colorful blob next to another as long as they had the four corners in place. Easy peasy.
"Which one?" Gordon said. Scott heard the darkness in his voice, saw it in the way his shoulders turned to sharp edges when he straightened up away from the console. It was awful and mean to hear the kid's voice break first. Scott had to think it wouldn't have been such a dagger to hear it from one of the others first, but from Gordon? Eternally optimistic Gordon? It stung.
Scott saw their father flinch and knew he was thinking the same thing. He covered well, though, swallowing around the bitterness, his Adam's apple taking on the stress as he ordered, "We hope Alan listens and they figure something out on their end, but we don't wait. We can't help him 'til we're back on the ground. Work the problem here. John, I need an inventory of what is still functioning and how much longer it can function. Scott, Gordon, I need you to try to reroute some of the power to 'Five from 'Three, see if we can't draw something from her to give John what he needs. Virgil, I want you checking the emergency packs. If we move to the oxygen, it may give the scrubbers enough time to resupply at least a little air for us. Find me a plan, boys."
As the others leapt to execute the orders, their fight renewed with the knowledge that they had to get back home because there was simply no way they could leave Alan to that maniac (which, yes, that was certainly a priority), Scott felt his own feet nailed to the floor. He watched his father's retreating back with a feeling of fire rising from his fingers, along the hair on his arms, up through to the now brutal pounding in his head. It became harder to breathe in a way he'd never felt before. But then, Scott was fairly sure he had never, ever been this angry before.
They'd had a plan. Dad didn't follow the plan. Sure, it sounded mutinous and petty, but Scott didn't care at the moment. They'd had a damn plan, and Dad didn't follow the fucking plan. He didn't get to tell them to find him one now.
"Scott?" John asked quietly next to him, but Scott shook his head.
He'd mutiny all he wanted in his own private piece of mental real estate, but he wasn't going to drag his brother down with him. He went to work, seething as the burn flowed down his spine where his tailbone was still protesting right there with him. His hands shook as he removed the panel that opened next to the now fried heat exchange. He saw Gordon glance at him, up to John, and back before he picked up the wrench he needed for his own task and left him to it.
Damn it. He didn't want them seeing his temper. Not now. And yet …
This wasn't the fucking plan.
When his father had come to visit him, unannounced, that April day four years ago, Scott had welcomed him into the apartment he shared off post with McCallister and Baia, much to his roommates' embarrassment. Scott didn't think anything of it, but the other men were unprepared for having to fit the aura of Jeff Tracy into their small living room/dining room/kitchen. They did their best to keep the man entertained with stories about Scott's more colorful exploits (which Gordon would one day put to shame), but soon they left the Tracys to their own mischief because, quite frankly, it may not have been an inspection, but to McCallister and Baia, it felt like one anyway. Just being in a room with Jeff Tracy made them want to be better.
Dad sat him down in his tiny apartment, opened a bottle of Woodford Reserve, lit some cigars, and let Scott have it. It was ready. International Rescue was mechanically ready to go operational. All he needed was the personnel, and while it had never been discussed so that the five of them would have real choices in their lives, it was their father's hope that they would join him. Scott remembered the surge of electricity that went through every neuron in his head, putting together the pieces of the puzzle faster than Dad could get the words out, seeing his father's dreams as if they were his own. By the time the sun went down, there were blueprints taped on the walls and spread out on the floor, bits and bobs of capital S Something coming together to make one generous, dangerous, incredible picture.
Yeah, they'd all known that something major was happening with the island. A man doesn't buy an entire damn island only to get away from the press, no matter how protective he is of his children and their privacy. Even presidents didn't go that kind of extreme. They'd all seen the parts flown in here and there, and stored somewhere under their feet, though they'd never been allowed down there. Dad had always promised they'd know when the time was right. But still, the way it all fit together, the pieces of machinery and their uses like they were designed to be an extension of each Tracy's personality … It was damn brilliant.
When he left the next morning, Dad didn't even need to ask if Scott was in. Eleven months later, he gripped hands with a slew of confused officers and comrades who wished him luck even as they shook their heads in dismay at the loss of a potentially exceptional career. By then, John was on board with only six months left to fulfill in his own NASA enlistment. When Virgil was told, it was like kismet, all the remaining puzzle pieces coming together to make one perfect picture. It hadn't made sense until then, but once they had all the pieces, all of them had had that moment of Well, yeah, that was kind of obvious.
Gordon and Alan were still kept out of things; Dad wouldn't take their choices away, especially since they would feel like they were gone already with the three older boys joining the cause. But they all came home and got to it, training, modifying the designs, becoming. More pieces of the puzzle were added, muddling the picture a little bit, forcing Scott to find a way to get to high enough ground so he could see the picture more clearly and make the proper adjustments. With only Gordon and Alan's pieces set to the side, Scott realized he'd figured out something his father hadn't seen yet. It terrified him.
It had been a deal breaker kind of moment. Six months before they'd taken on their first rescue, Scott came to his father with tumblers of Woody in each hand, sat the man down, and named his one condition. If he was going to let his family go into god knows what to face god knows what, he was going to be the first one there. His brothers had trusted him with that responsibility his entire life, and he couldn't change that about himself now, even if their father was their boss. He didn't care if Dad thought his own back needed watching or not. Either he got to go in first or he walked.
Dad listened intently, carefully, showing Scott for the first time what it would be like to have his father for his commander, issuing orders and running a show. He saw his father take into consideration his request as both father and commander, mulling it over with the swirl of bourbon, and agreed.
He remembered Dad's smile at that, him ruffling his hair like he was still a little kid, and just nodding. Okay, Scott, he'd said, like he understood, which Scott liked to think he probably did because his father was just as balls to the wall as he was. Okay.
Never once had he gone back on that. Not once. Until today.
Dad hadn't followed the damn plan today, and now it was going to cost them. Scott could wring his neck for that one - right after he wrung his own. Physically impossible, yes, but he figured he could let it slip what he was thinking to Gordon and let the guy have at it. Gordon was getting mad enough himself, if his staring contest with their father was any indication. That was not the plan either.
Scott truly wished he could have come up here alone. It didn't take all four of them to come up here. He could have seen the situation for what it was, got John out, and left 'Five to burn before that psychopath had the chance to lock them in. She could be rebuilt. John couldn't. None of them could.
He wasn't questioning his father, not really. He trusted Dad to get them through anything. Dad was a survivor, and they all knew, come Hell or high water, he would make sure his sons were, too. If anything, Scott was mad at himself. Big Brother cocked up well and good this time.
Scott was supposed to go in first. He was always supposed to get there first.
So. Right. Puzzle. He needed to get on that, stop feeling sorry for himself, and work the problem. But Gordon was right: which problem? The heat? The broken machine? Alan? Dad? Oxygen would be out in thirty minutes; they were going to hit atmo in thirty-seven minutes. Gordon and Dad were still staring at each other, looking like a good old fashioned wall-to-wall counseling session was in order. John was trying not to look away. Virgil was just plain quiet. And Alan was, well … they'd never know what Alan was, would they?
Work the problem, jackass.
Of course, the problem with that directive was that it was getting harder to think. He could focus on things he already knew - five times five was good - but coming up with something new, that was becoming a problem. He thought about trying to hotwire the locking mechanism, but he figured that wasn't going to do them any good. Opening the hatch now would take juice they didn't have. Juice would be good right now, actually. Man, he'd sent Gordon down to the beach without even juice to wash down the muffins this morning. No wonder Alan was mad at him.
No, that wasn't why Alan was mad. The family was on TV; that was why he was mad. And something about pictures. It wasn't the one that he'd seen Gordon flinch over, the one that fell when 'Five decided to hiccup an extra explosion when The Hood - seriously, what kind of name was that anyway? - announced his presence to them. No, that was the picture from the magazine. Scott wondered if Dad was still mad about that, too.
He knew he was getting repetitive in his thoughts - blame himself, don't blame Dad, work the problem, lather, rinse, repeat - and the heat was getting to him. It was getting to all of them. That hole Dad just put in the screen under the broken Northern Hemisphere said he was pretty damn mad.
They really should have let him come up here first.
It wasn't until he caught Gordon in a stare that wasn't directed at anything - not Dad, not the machinery in front of
him, not anything - that Scott got it all. Easier thoughts, repeated thoughts, things getting harder. They were running out of air. It was real, and they were running out of air.
Scott kicked the cupboard next to John's head before he saw his own foot moving. Even his apology was in slow motion so that John's stunned "Hey! You be nice to my girl!" took a moment to register.
"Sorry, Johnny."
'Five didn't take his apology. Another whine of sound and flickering of lights had their heads snapping up in unison, comically in the same slow motion. Then their hips and feet and everything in between joined them.
Dad finally lost it then, but the effect of throwing his wrench was a bit lost when the lack of gravity carried it up and away from the intended target on the floor. "You have got to be kidding me!"
Scott watched Gordon's eyes close in a too long, thoughtful blink as his head rose above the monitors. By some miracle of something Scott couldn't put his finger on, he saw That Look pass over his little brother's face, war for control, and then, beautiful as it could possibly be, a grin split across his cheeks hard enough to hurt. Gordon's hand went to the ceiling to brace himself as he crossed his legs like he was sitting on the living room rug. "Well, that's it, then. Johnny, bring out the keg."
Virgil let out a calming breath so that he sounded about half in control as he teased, "You can't have any. You're too young."
"Dude, you're really gonna let me die without having ever had a beer? I don't think so. You're such a goody goody. I can't take you anywhere." Gordon chuckled and used his hands to push off, pulling a Dick Van Dyke in the lack of gravity. "I love to laugh," he sing-songed, giggled, and then froze his face in a glare. "No, seriously, where's the beer?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," John said.
Gordon's "It's in the fridge, isn't it?" sounded pretty much like Well, duh. Scott tried to contain his laugh while John stared their brother down, waiting for the answer to come to him. When it did, Gordon looked so damn disappointed, Scott pushed off the wall to get as close to Gordon as he could and patted him on the head. The kid pouted, "And the fridge is in the kitchen. Well, whose dumb idea was it to put a fridge in a kitchen anyway?"
"Brains," John laughed, out of breath.
"I'm disappointed in your hospitality, John," Gordon said petulantly, yawning. "The amenities in this joint suck."
John's fingers flicked at a piece of debris floating in front of his eyes. "I'll take that … under advisement. We can comp you this trip, but you might … want to take it up with the management before you make further reservations."
"Dad, I … I want a beer." Gordon crossed his arms over his chest. Scott thought that if he could have, his brother would have stomped his foot. The next yawn simply didn't have the same effect.
Scott's heart pretty much broke at the same time their father's face crumbled. He could see Dad's And I want … (to see your brother grow up, to see you marry, to see you boys get another day, want, want, want) building, struggling to make it past the knot in his throat. His lungs were starting to burn, his head ache, but he wasn't sure if it was from seeing the pain in his father's face or knowing the same look was on his own. When Dad reached over, pulled Gordon to him, and kissed his temple, Scott was sure it was his father's pain because it had to be hurting so much more than theirs.
He watched Dad say something soft and quiet to Gordon, who nodded. When they separated, Dad said, "We aren't done, boys. The heat shield is damaged, I realize, but I believe we might still have enough protection that, if we can ride it out, she'll hold. Our trajectory will put us within a few hours' rescue range from Japanese shores. It'll be a tough swim; I'm not saying it won't be. I'm asking you to give me just a little more. Whatever you can give me. Please."
Under any other circumstance, Scott saw it as his job to be the leader here. Big brother, leader, whatever. They were all the same. He should be the one to rally them, to give their father that one last shot he so desperately needed. But he was stunned when he simply wasn't needed. Gordon nodded first, whatever Dad had said privately to him doing the trick. In that nod, Scott saw the man his brother would have become, strong and confident beyond his years, able to face anything. Next to him, John nodded, too, but it was Virgil who spoke, taking Scott's job and breath away from him.
"You got it, Dad."
Scott oddly thought he'd never been so proud to be rendered irrelevant.
Dad nodded, his throat obviously not working again. They all looked at each other to keep from seeing him push himself off the ceiling to hide whatever else he couldn't say from them. With practiced ease, like riding a bike, their father swam through the weightlessness, scooping up the floating emergency packs and strapping them to his arms until they were all collected.
Scott did step up then, big brother, helping his little brothers get ready for school. Their backpacks were a little heavier than he thought they should be for the first day of school, but then … No. Not backpacks. He shook his head, clearing it. Emergency packs. He strapped Virgil in first because his would be the quickest. Just like in the crashing airplane, he was supposed to help himself first, but as far as he was concerned, helping himself meant helping Virgil. Virgil would need the oxygen so he could help John with his pack, which would allow Scott to help Gordon once he was done with Virgil. Or was that Gordon first, then Virgil?
Since when were their backpacks so heavy? Maybe it was all the medicine he had to bring with him. Wait, no, it wasn't allergy season. Why did it hurt so much to breathe? Besides, John kept his plant experiments on the other side of 'Five. Unless the scrubbers were filtering the plant pollen with the rest of the air.
Geezus. 'Five really did want to kill them all, didn't she? Although what they'd done to make her mad, he couldn't remember. He was pretty sure he had had that nightmare before, but now it seemed so much more vivid. No more movies for him.
"Scott?"
"Hmm?"
John's voice sounded so small, so scared as he asked, "You awake over there?"
Scott wondered if there was a storm, that he'd somehow missed one. He heard some banging, but it didn't sound like thunder. He loved storms. They were perfect for just curling up in bed and watching the lightning try to conquer the sky. "If I say … no … can I not … go to sch…schooool?"
"You have to keep awake … for me … kiddo."
"Are Virg … and Gords … going?" For some reason, Scott couldn't remember why he thought Virgil and Gordon were sick, too. If they weren't going, he didn't want to go either. He was too hot, like the fever was trying to consume him, so that he tried to kick the blankets off, but they didn't want to move. It was too damn hot.
"Yeah, they're … Dad, he's … "
Scott could hear John sounding panicked, hyperventilating, like he wanted desperately to keep him from falling back asleep. He wanted to help John out, really he did, but his head hurt like nobody's business. If they would only let him sleep the fever off, he'd do whatever John asked. Just a little bit longer.
But then, 'Five turning on them had to be John's worst nightmare, too. Scott dreamed that enough for the both of them over the years, from the moment Dad had told them his plan. But he could make it okay. It was only a nightmare.
"Don't … wo-worry, Johnny. I'll go first. She … won't … "
Scott forgot what he wanted to tell his brother 'Five wouldn't do, but he knew John would be okay with it. Scott would go first, he always got to go first, and he'd fix it all.
Big brother would fix anything.
(End Part Three)
Follow the White Rabbit to Part Four, John and Virgil
There are multiple references here to The Right Stuff and the Mercury astronauts, their history in NASA, as well as the Apollo 13 mission. I know next to nothing about space travel except what I've learned from them and Jim Lovell's book, Lost Moon. For those of you who haven't seen or read the book, Gus Grissom has a way with saying "fuckin' A, bubba" - a lot.
The fictional law firm Jeff sends on the attack, Gage Whitney Pace, is the law firm where several Aaron Sorkin characters work/ed from both The West Wing and Studio 60. It was also used for 24, I believe.
Piña coladas and getting caught in the rain are fun things to do in Rupert Holmes's song Escape (The Piña Colada Song).
The "Dick Van Dyke" Gordon pulls is from Mary Poppins when Bert and Uncle Albert are floating up on the ceiling because they can't stop laughing.
Author's Note: So I have to tell you, you guys left me speechless for about two days. Seriously. I don't know what to say. This kind of support and enthusiasm (whether that's only with reading, or with reviews and alerts and all that, I'm referring to it all) is something I have never experienced before. Thank you from the bottom of my black little heart. And yep, this story is still brought to you by Charlie Simpson's eyebrows, Matt Willis's wink, and my kids, who have sat through the episode Terror in New York Citythree times this weekend alone. This chapter, if she could read, would be for my youngest, who each time we watch it yells "LOOK OUT, VIRG" every time the Sentinel fires at 'Two, only to be disappointed that he never listens to her.
Again, thank you for taking the time, even if you're shy like me and don't comment. Your time alone is appreciated. Enjoy chapter three! Six
Disclaimer: Thunderbirds is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. Don't thank me; thank them. As with the previous chapters, this fic is rated T for language (I've been married to the military too long not to have a mouth) and Gen (because for a happily married woman I am terrible at romance). Spoilers are still Movie-based, although I do try to work in some show details, too (although that's mostly in the later chapters).
III. Scott and John
The Tracy boys knew their NASA history backwards and forwards, every mission, every glitch, every success, every single rotation of crews from Mercury on up the line. When they were kids, legends of Gordo Cooper's antics and Al Shepherd's chronic ear problems and the inner workings of Redstone rockets were their fairy tales (The Little Test Pilot Who Could, Goodnight Moon, Today I Feel Dizzy). They were their examples when Dad didn't know how to explain things (Things happen, boys, hatches blow for no reason). It wasn't until they were older that they realized, no, their knowledge was not normal. But then, they weren't normal. Just look at Gordon. That kid was as far from normal as it got.
Yeah, Dad was slightly obsessed. Just take a look around.
Scott had to work to keep the smirk off his face when the Amnesia Tree beat a branch square into his brain with thoughts of how many times Gordon had had his mouth washed out with soap after repeating Virgil's namesake's favorite line. Sometimes Scott swore the kid did it just to see the looks on the adults' faces, like they thought it was so damn cute and hated to know they would have to punish him for it. Gordon knew he was cute, and he knew he had the big brass ones which made the grown ups respect him. He was such a weird, complicated kid. He wasn't any less weird or complicated as a man. Freak.
He exchanged a raised eyebrow with the abnormality in question as they watched (from the relatively safe distance of the generator pit) Dad try to contain his frustration over in the corner. Obviously the tweaks he was making with the satellite relay functions weren't coming along as he'd hoped. But then, his children were trapped on a sinking ship without a single rescue dingy in sight. Scott thought the man was coping startlingly well for now. He thought they all were.
"What's so funny?"
"You are."
"C'mon, you've gotta be proud of me. I haven't made a single 13 joke."
"I am." Scott's nod was deliberately solemn, trying to discourage the breaking of Gordon's quiet streak. Sure, he figured they'd all already thought it a few times, but they'd all had the good grace not to say it out loud. It was tempting Fate if one of them did it. "Very proud."
"But it's tempting."
"Don't."
"Not even one?"
"Holding pattern, Gords."
"I don't think I can."
Scott rolled his eyes. Really, there was nothing normal about his brother. The kid was actually asking permission to make a smartass comment. He knew he should probably take it as his brother feeling the gravity of the situation and wanting to keep it in the right perspective, even if it ran completely against type for him, and yet, it was just stupid. Who asks permission to make smartass comments? Wasn't that one of rules of being a smartass? Only Gordon ... "Okay, go for it. I know you want to."
Gordon bounced on the balls of his feet, giddy and entirely six years old. "Houston, we've had a problem."
"Got that out of your system?"
"Fuckin' A, bubba! Systems are a-okay." The grin on his brother's face was priceless enough to make it hard for Scott to be mad at him. Who knew how many smiles any of them had left in them? He wasn't going to take that away. Then, as if he were reading Scott's mind, Gordon's smile did falter. They shared a look that said it all: systems were anything but a-okay.
Systems were anything but fuckin'-a-bubba, that's for sure.
Gordon's smile withered some more before it crooked into grimaced apology. He busied himself with a screwdriver and the base for the timing element for the heat exchange. The ceramic base had sustained a slight fracture in the initial explosion, and of course, because none of them had bothered to rub a leprechaun's head on the way up here for luck, the replacements were locked away on the other side of the station (which might as well be the dark side of the moon at this point). It hadn't stopped Gordon from trying to find a creative solution, though, with some spare copper wire and a soldering gun. Scott would never let it be said that his little brother didn't use his creative mind for both good and evil. If it worked, he'd never say his brother was less than an evil genius ever again.
Well, maybe that was taking it a little far, but still … His brother was a lot more inventive than people gave him and his pranks credit for.
Leaving him to it, Scott eavesdropped on John trying to talk Virgil through yet another frustration, which was quickly becoming less talk and more sighing from both of them. While John was the one to know 'Five inside and out, he had never been any better at explaining her to them than any of them were at explaining their 'birds to him. To have to ease Virgil through what was essentially her power up sequence, which hadn't been done since she'd taken flight, and do it without taking power away from Scott and Gordon in the pit, well … It didn't sound like it was going well at all. Virgil was doing his best to keep up, but, like Scott, John's mind saw the progression from Point A to Point G in one fell swoop and forgot to explain B through F along the way. Each of his brothers were geniuses in their own rights, had tested off the charts - which made John's brilliance look so damn phenomenal that it was hard to believe he wasn't at least part computer up there in that head of his - so when even an overachiever like Virgil wanted to throw his hands up in surrender, it had to be pretty big.
Sparks unexpectedly flew in Gordon's face, prompting a growled "hey!" as he shook out his foot from where his toes had connected with the corner of the toolbox. Virgil yelled a tight "sorry!" back - the third one in ten minutes - but it did nothing to improve Gordon's mood. Everyone was getting punchy. Things were short-circuiting left and right, as another yelp from Gordon testified.
"This is getting ridiculous." Gordon pulled his wrist back like he was ready to smack the generator into submission, but let it fall weak and flat at the last moment before he hit something he couldn't fix.
"That wasn't me," Virgil hollered, "I swear."
An electrical zzt! of something disagreeing had Gordon swearing a blue streak back. Scott carefully reached into Gordon's personal space to pluck the wrench from his brother's hand with an I'll take that, thank you wince, and then he held his arm out with a sweep. As you were.
Glancing between the pit and John's workstation, Scott could see it was time for a change in direction. Virgil was bent over at the waist, hands on his knees, and breathing hard. John's head was ducked while his free hand ran over his hair over and over, pulling on random bunches until his hand came away with red crust from the cut. Over by the airlock, their father wasn't doing much better in his futile attempt to reroute the power from the keypad itself to the door's sliding mechanism. The last thing they needed was for one of them to lose his temper and jack this up any more than it already was.
"Gimme two seconds." Scott clapped Gordon on the shoulder, about ready to switch himself out with Virgil when 'Five decided her death throes had been ignored in place of their piddly human problems. As the lights flickered, he glanced up at his father and saw him thinking the same thing he was, but everything cut short when another explosion had Dad slingshoting overhead into the work console half way across the room.
The force of the explosion knocked Scott off his feet, his tailbone catching whatever impact the back of his head didn't absorb. An electric shock vibrated up his leg as a small secondary explosion next to him mourned one more lost opportunity to get the hell out of this mess. He was pretty sure his teeth bit through his right cheek, the blood overpowering his throat. Gordon called his name, but the ringing in his ears was too loud, warning him to not try to shake it out if he wanted to still be able to hear when this was over. Then his brother was there, with Dad's help, pulling him to his feet around smoke and sparks and more chaos. Gordon reassured their father of something, sounding like he was a substitute teacher in Charlie Brown's classroom.
"The heat exchange is blown," he told them. Yeah, his own voice didn't sound right either.
Dad gripped his arm a little too tight. "You don't say."
Gordon coughed around a snort. Scott groaned. He'd definitely had enough of the peanut gallery for a while. His ankles tried to go in the direction he wasn't going, dropping his knees in another. His father and brother caught him with a synchronized "whoa" and eased him over to the work table.
"I'm good," he apologized even as he ceiling his hands over his father's to keep them from gripping his face like an overzealous aunt. He heard John and Virgil shakily laugh next to him. "Oh, shut up."
Dad snapped his fingers, patience long gone. Scott met his eyes then followed the finger without direction. Not until he was satisfied that he didn't have another son out of commission did their father sigh and hang his head.
"Damn, kiddo."
As much as it hurt, Scott wrangled his own face into a grin that might another day have been mistaken for a grimace and knuckled his skull. "Cast-iron, old man, just like yours."
Dad laughed, the first real laugh he'd had since Take Off, and gripped the back of Scott's neck. "All right. Take five. Virgil, Gordon, you're with me. You two, stay put." Before Scott could even open his mouth to protest, The Commander (not Dad, Commander; there was a difference) zipped the air. "Five minutes. I won't ask for more unless you give me reason to, I promise."
He didn't wait for a reply, turning his back and effectively cutting off the conversation. Scott was glad his newfound headache did at least something productive: Gordon and Virgil smirked at their father's over-reactive mothering, Serves You Right twin gleams in their eyes. Gleams were good. They went to work with a slightly renewed energy, Scott shaking a Why I Oughta fist at them both.
The hits he took for the team, man …
John licked his lips next to him. Dryly, like a sauntering cowboy, he said, "Don't you just hate it when he does that?"
Yes, all right, he got it. Undertones understood. You know, for all the bitching they did about his so-called mother henning of them, they never actually let him do it. Scott rolled his eyes, but he did nod. He could do five minutes. It was what he'd expect of the rest of them. Hell, he did order them on a regular basis. Besides, there was nothing in his father's order that said he couldn't still work. He simply couldn't be on his feet to do it.
He let his hands fall into his lap, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, parallel with John's. He leaned his head back into the cupboard behind him, the metal surprisingly cool against his scalp. He closed his eyes, tuning out the sights and sounds of destruction and confusion and imminent death around him. For just a minute, it was going to be him and John, alone, The Two. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that. Maybe that night they'd sat up drinking during Christmas break? Or was it last summer? Whatever it had been, it had been too long.
He would never do anything to trade away any of his brothers, but there were times when Scott did miss the idea of the two of them, The Two, like they'd been before the name had been co-opted and modified for the younger two. For so long, they'd been the only ones. Without John, Scott might not have learned how to be a big brother, to be a friend, to share, to think about others. Scott knew all too well from conversations over the years how easy it was for his brothers to discount their own importances in his life. Alan was just the baby; what did he matter? (Which, thinking back on the night before, fighting about him with Dad, Gordon's clandestine mission, and everything that had happened since, he really would have to have a talk with the kid about that when they got home.) Gordon was fourth, never special, never a stand out in any way that mattered. Virgil was the middle, even if he was Scott's partner in crime when it came to IR and life on the island with John gone so much. John was Number Two, gone all the time, out of sight, out of mind. Okay, so maybe he needed to talk with all of them about that. They were all so important; without them, Scott wouldn't be Scott.
But John? Without John, he never would have learned to be Scott to begin with.
He allowed himself one jerky, selfish breath, one dark moment to realize that he hadn't had enough time to tell them all that. He wouldn't be him without them. But then the breath was gone, one precious breath in the last few hours they had before the clock ran out, and he had to get back to work. His job was to get his brothers back to the island, safe and sound, so that he could spend more time in this life forgetting to tell them exactly how much he needed them because no one actually says that kind of schmaltzy shit to someone when it doesn't matter.
Besides, he figured they understood when it did matter. It had to be good enough.
Scott's eyes opened. Moment gone.
There would be no deathbed confessions today if he could help it.
Adjusting into a more comfortable position, Scott's hand found the corner of the broken frame that John usually kept right at his work station. Scott hadn't spent enough time up here on 'Five to know what pieces of the family his brother kept with him, but that one in particular was one all five boys kept within easy reach. It was different to each of them, but for the most part, it was stress relief. One look at that picture and none of them could keep from laughing.
Three years ago, there was a major slip in protocol. The Tracy Boys (all six of them) made People's 50 Most Beautiful People issue in the Most Eligible Bachelors section - without Jeff's permission. His adult sons found it funny, especially when little Alan, not even twelve years old yet, and just barely sixteen Gordon were called out: Careful, ladies, these two aren't available outside the prom just yet.Jeff went thermal, calling in an entire wing of Gage Whitney to handle what his sons saw as the press just trying to get a rise out of him. Besides, what was he going to do? Recall every copy of the magazine after it had already been out two weeks? It renewed a waned interest in the family, setting them apart like the previous generation of Hiltons and Johnsons had been reluctantly outed to the public before them.
The picture of the goofy, grinning Tracys - which looked professional and possibly taken during Virgil's graduation, though that would mean one of his classmates had sold him out, which Virgil refused to believe - had been accompanied by a short blurb about them. There wasn't anything even remotely interesting said, only the usual tear-jerker about Mom's death and Dad sequestering them away when the press got too hot. It got the boys each a few dates and a "fan" letter or two, but that was about it.
That was what they were to the celebrity aquarium - a blurb. Where other quote-unquote celebrities in the section of the magazine were quoted on such bracing topics as what they look for in a woman, what they cook to impress a woman, or what their favorite book was on a rainy day (to impress the ladies, of course), the story on Jeff Tracy and his kids (The Tracy Boys, like they were a boy band or something) was filled with little fact. It might as well have been piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.
But then, one afternoon, cheeky little Gordon, who had yet to start filling out and was still a growth spurt away from not getting his height checked for rides at the fair, had had the balls to call their father out on it. It wasn't that they got the story wrong. Oh, no. It was that they didn't bother to get Jeff's opinion on a woman's baked goods. Gordon had ended up fully clothed in the pool at Dad's hand. Scott couldn't remember seeing his father laugh so hard.
"What?" John asked, not bothering to open his eyes to Scott's sighing laughter.
"Baked goods."
"Ah."
Scott reached up behind him to return the frame to its proper place, turned his head, still anchored at the crown on the cupboard behind him, and grinned grimly. "You need to have a little chat with the wife."
John didn't say anything at first. His eyes remained closed, but he smiled a smile Scott had seen too many times on the faces of victims in Danger Zones, the way a man smiles at his wife when the options are gone. All they can do is shoot her up with some morphine to make her goodbyes as painless as possible. John's free hand caressed the floor, tracing the diamond pattern stamped in the steel plates of flooring. Scott was starting to wonder if John had heard him when he spoke, so deathly quiet that Scott had to strain to hear him.
"She took a bullet for me."
"Yeah, she did," he agreed, infusing the required reverence for the dying into his voice.
"I didn't see it coming."
"Nobody did."
"She did. I didn't have enough time to - "
"No one could have. John, none of us could have seen this."
Scott wasn't quite prepared for the anger in his brother's voice as he focused it, hard and bitter, furious enough that it hurt to hear it. "She took the bullet for me."
"Hey." Scott bumped his shoulder into John's, mindful of the sling but needing to get his point across. This was not John's fault. They would have come up here to help, no matter who was commanding her at the time. Being mad at them, at his machine, at anything wasn't going to do anyone any good. "She took care of you the best she could. After that, you did everything you could to protect you both. You held on until we got here. That's all we could ask."
"She's hurt."
"But she isn't gone. Not yet." From the tone, Scott had to wonder if they were still both talking about 'Five.
John's hand rested flat against the floor between their hips. "You feel that?"
"What?"
"That vibration. It comes and goes about every five minutes." John turned his chin and eyes toward him, the back of his head staying where it was. "She's stirring the tanks, trying to give us every single atom of oxygen she can get out of them."
"She's a good girl."
"The best."
Scott grinned. Even now, they were somehow finding a way to compare 'birds. If John pulled the But mine's the biggest, Scott might just have to save a piece of her for John to eat later. For now, though, he wasn't lying. He needed John to talk to his 'bird, to get her to tell him what they needed to do to get out of this mess. Waxing poetic about their metallic wives wasn't going to get the job done.
"How ticked is she gonna be if we tear into the wall?"
"Hotwire the locking mechanism?"
"Yeah."
John didn't even have to think about it. He shook his head, sending a thrill of disappointment through Scott's throbbing head. "All the power is in the scrubbers at this point, and we need it there. We designed her failsafe, in case of catastrophic damage, to function like a rocket. The oxygen provides power just as much as breathing air. But she wasn't meant to do that for longer than it would take for you guys to get up here. At this point, there isn't enough power to open the doors and maintain atmo to get us to 'Three. And even if we did get there, we have no way of knowing what condition she's in. You're talking about step eighty when we're still back on step twenty-four."
"So what do we do that we aren't doing? Because obviously what we're doing isn't working."
"I don't think the power up will work. There are too many steps to skip in the right order, but every time we try, we end up frying Gordon. I don't … I just don't know."
Scott wiped a hand down his face, using it to hide his disappointment. All that stuff about his brother being a genius? Yeah, that didn't change simply because John didn't have an answer. If he didn't have an answer, it wasn't because he wasn't seeing it; it was because there wasn't one. That was something Scott wasn't about to accept quite yet. There had to be a way. He wouldn't let this be the day there wasn't a way.
"So we're already squeezing as much oxygen out of her as we can get. What else do we have here that's good?"
"Can I get back to you?"
Scott had to pull his hand back before he reached for the bloody mess on the back of John's head. Yeah, that would make him think a little slower, too. Figuring that was the problem, he gently agreed. "Sure, man." Scott detoured the hand to John's uninjured shoulder and squeezed. "Hang tight and see what you can come up with. I'll be back in five."
"Dad's gonna freak if he sees you up and around before he clears you."
"Somehow I think he'll let it slide today."
John's smile was teasing. Yeah, right. "There's ibuprofen in the drawer over there under what's left of the Southern Hemisphere."
Scott winked, made a show of heading that way, and then circled around to find his father, only to have to rush back at the absolutely beautiful sounds of Alan shouting for their father. He found his legs wobbly as he ran, like if he got there it would be a mirage tricking his tired, guilty conscience into thinking he could hear his brother's voice one more time. But they were all sprinting to John's side, a staggered chorus of "It's Alan" celebrating the first good news they'd had in next to two hours.
As soon as he got there, thankful he was tall enough to see over Gordon's shoulder, he was pretty sure he didn't care how terrified the baby of the family looked because he'd never seen anybody look so damn perfect. Alan was okay. All the kids were okay. Something was on their side for a few priceless minutes.
The relief in everyone's breathing surrounded him, filled him, telling him it was okay to breathe with them. A few quick moves on Fermat's part and they'd be back in business. They'd get home, get that bastard off their island, and do some quick ass redesign work to keep John from ever being a sitting duck again. And then, just like that, it was gone as they all started to realize that the signal Alan was so desperately trying to send them wasn't going to make it. It was only the eye of the storm, calm and gorgeous and hopeful, soon to be overtaken by the clouds and rage of the storm any second. They were just too damn far away.
As their father issued orders to Alan and the kids to rendezvous and all the safe stuff they had talked about - which, it suddenly occurred to him how rather scary it was that his father had anticipated such an event - Scott had to tamp down the urge to yell his own orders. Take 'One and get as far away as they can. That's all he wanted them to do. Get the hell off the island. Any English-speaking country would have friendly-enough soil to take them in long enough to get help. It wasn't ideal - leaving thugs and potential murderers free access to their home didn't seem like the most brilliant thing they could do - but it would keep Alan and the other kids alive.
It was too brief a second, one that if he used it he couldn't get back, but Scott felt Virgil's hand gripping his wrist so damn hard from behind their father's back. He glanced at his brother and saw him fighting not to do the same thing. Their machines were still there. If they did it right, the kids would have enough time to get out of there, yet neither of them had the heart to disobey their father's orders and waste their last contact with their brother arguing about it. Scott curled his hand around to wrap his fingers around Virgil's wrist in return.
Hadn't this been the whole point of International Rescue? To have the machines capable of saving people's lives when nothing else could? Wasn't that what their machines were for? And yet, here they were, useless simply because their operators couldn't bring themselves to break their father's heart. There was something entirely screwed up about that. Not that their lives weren't screwed up already, but this was just … It wasn't right.
Most of all, Scott couldn't believe that the last time he saw his little brother's face it was going to be as he was screaming for their father, panicked and frightened and so very fourteen. For the first time, he truly got it, hard, so that he hyperventilated. The Hey, look, my family's on TV was awful and heartbreaking in a way that made him physically sick. And then Alan was lost to him, to them, and it started all over again.
If they got out of this, he would have to talk to their father. No more press for IR, not unless it was vital to the operation. No good will from governments that still thought of them as second string was worth any of them seeing this kind of thing again.
Still, even as they all looked at each other, sick with their disbelief, Scott couldn't help hope their father had some sort of Gene-Kranz-helmed brand miracle up his sleeve. Just one more. Maybe Mission Control on speed dial for a cab ride back home? A rousing speech of some kind to motivate them into figuring out that one light bulb moment of eureka to get them out? A superpower vest? Something, anything to help them work the problem and get them the freaking hell out of here. There had to be something.
That's when Dad said the magic words, like he'd been following the movie script all along. "Boys, we work the puzzle." As if it was that simple. Billion dollar pieces of broken machinery could be fixed with a snap of the fingers and a directive, just sticking one colorful blob next to another as long as they had the four corners in place. Easy peasy.
"Which one?" Gordon said. Scott heard the darkness in his voice, saw it in the way his shoulders turned to sharp edges when he straightened up away from the console. It was awful and mean to hear the kid's voice break first. Scott had to think it wouldn't have been such a dagger to hear it from one of the others first, but from Gordon? Eternally optimistic Gordon? It stung.
Scott saw their father flinch and knew he was thinking the same thing. He covered well, though, swallowing around the bitterness, his Adam's apple taking on the stress as he ordered, "We hope Alan listens and they figure something out on their end, but we don't wait. We can't help him 'til we're back on the ground. Work the problem here. John, I need an inventory of what is still functioning and how much longer it can function. Scott, Gordon, I need you to try to reroute some of the power to 'Five from 'Three, see if we can't draw something from her to give John what he needs. Virgil, I want you checking the emergency packs. If we move to the oxygen, it may give the scrubbers enough time to resupply at least a little air for us. Find me a plan, boys."
As the others leapt to execute the orders, their fight renewed with the knowledge that they had to get back home because there was simply no way they could leave Alan to that maniac (which, yes, that was certainly a priority), Scott felt his own feet nailed to the floor. He watched his father's retreating back with a feeling of fire rising from his fingers, along the hair on his arms, up through to the now brutal pounding in his head. It became harder to breathe in a way he'd never felt before. But then, Scott was fairly sure he had never, ever been this angry before.
They'd had a plan. Dad didn't follow the plan. Sure, it sounded mutinous and petty, but Scott didn't care at the moment. They'd had a damn plan, and Dad didn't follow the fucking plan. He didn't get to tell them to find him one now.
"Scott?" John asked quietly next to him, but Scott shook his head.
He'd mutiny all he wanted in his own private piece of mental real estate, but he wasn't going to drag his brother down with him. He went to work, seething as the burn flowed down his spine where his tailbone was still protesting right there with him. His hands shook as he removed the panel that opened next to the now fried heat exchange. He saw Gordon glance at him, up to John, and back before he picked up the wrench he needed for his own task and left him to it.
Damn it. He didn't want them seeing his temper. Not now. And yet …
This wasn't the fucking plan.
When his father had come to visit him, unannounced, that April day four years ago, Scott had welcomed him into the apartment he shared off post with McCallister and Baia, much to his roommates' embarrassment. Scott didn't think anything of it, but the other men were unprepared for having to fit the aura of Jeff Tracy into their small living room/dining room/kitchen. They did their best to keep the man entertained with stories about Scott's more colorful exploits (which Gordon would one day put to shame), but soon they left the Tracys to their own mischief because, quite frankly, it may not have been an inspection, but to McCallister and Baia, it felt like one anyway. Just being in a room with Jeff Tracy made them want to be better.
Dad sat him down in his tiny apartment, opened a bottle of Woodford Reserve, lit some cigars, and let Scott have it. It was ready. International Rescue was mechanically ready to go operational. All he needed was the personnel, and while it had never been discussed so that the five of them would have real choices in their lives, it was their father's hope that they would join him. Scott remembered the surge of electricity that went through every neuron in his head, putting together the pieces of the puzzle faster than Dad could get the words out, seeing his father's dreams as if they were his own. By the time the sun went down, there were blueprints taped on the walls and spread out on the floor, bits and bobs of capital S Something coming together to make one generous, dangerous, incredible picture.
Yeah, they'd all known that something major was happening with the island. A man doesn't buy an entire damn island only to get away from the press, no matter how protective he is of his children and their privacy. Even presidents didn't go that kind of extreme. They'd all seen the parts flown in here and there, and stored somewhere under their feet, though they'd never been allowed down there. Dad had always promised they'd know when the time was right. But still, the way it all fit together, the pieces of machinery and their uses like they were designed to be an extension of each Tracy's personality … It was damn brilliant.
When he left the next morning, Dad didn't even need to ask if Scott was in. Eleven months later, he gripped hands with a slew of confused officers and comrades who wished him luck even as they shook their heads in dismay at the loss of a potentially exceptional career. By then, John was on board with only six months left to fulfill in his own NASA enlistment. When Virgil was told, it was like kismet, all the remaining puzzle pieces coming together to make one perfect picture. It hadn't made sense until then, but once they had all the pieces, all of them had had that moment of Well, yeah, that was kind of obvious.
Gordon and Alan were still kept out of things; Dad wouldn't take their choices away, especially since they would feel like they were gone already with the three older boys joining the cause. But they all came home and got to it, training, modifying the designs, becoming. More pieces of the puzzle were added, muddling the picture a little bit, forcing Scott to find a way to get to high enough ground so he could see the picture more clearly and make the proper adjustments. With only Gordon and Alan's pieces set to the side, Scott realized he'd figured out something his father hadn't seen yet. It terrified him.
It had been a deal breaker kind of moment. Six months before they'd taken on their first rescue, Scott came to his father with tumblers of Woody in each hand, sat the man down, and named his one condition. If he was going to let his family go into god knows what to face god knows what, he was going to be the first one there. His brothers had trusted him with that responsibility his entire life, and he couldn't change that about himself now, even if their father was their boss. He didn't care if Dad thought his own back needed watching or not. Either he got to go in first or he walked.
Dad listened intently, carefully, showing Scott for the first time what it would be like to have his father for his commander, issuing orders and running a show. He saw his father take into consideration his request as both father and commander, mulling it over with the swirl of bourbon, and agreed.
He remembered Dad's smile at that, him ruffling his hair like he was still a little kid, and just nodding. Okay, Scott, he'd said, like he understood, which Scott liked to think he probably did because his father was just as balls to the wall as he was. Okay.
Never once had he gone back on that. Not once. Until today.
Dad hadn't followed the damn plan today, and now it was going to cost them. Scott could wring his neck for that one - right after he wrung his own. Physically impossible, yes, but he figured he could let it slip what he was thinking to Gordon and let the guy have at it. Gordon was getting mad enough himself, if his staring contest with their father was any indication. That was not the plan either.
Scott truly wished he could have come up here alone. It didn't take all four of them to come up here. He could have seen the situation for what it was, got John out, and left 'Five to burn before that psychopath had the chance to lock them in. She could be rebuilt. John couldn't. None of them could.
He wasn't questioning his father, not really. He trusted Dad to get them through anything. Dad was a survivor, and they all knew, come Hell or high water, he would make sure his sons were, too. If anything, Scott was mad at himself. Big Brother cocked up well and good this time.
Scott was supposed to go in first. He was always supposed to get there first.
So. Right. Puzzle. He needed to get on that, stop feeling sorry for himself, and work the problem. But Gordon was right: which problem? The heat? The broken machine? Alan? Dad? Oxygen would be out in thirty minutes; they were going to hit atmo in thirty-seven minutes. Gordon and Dad were still staring at each other, looking like a good old fashioned wall-to-wall counseling session was in order. John was trying not to look away. Virgil was just plain quiet. And Alan was, well … they'd never know what Alan was, would they?
Work the problem, jackass.
Of course, the problem with that directive was that it was getting harder to think. He could focus on things he already knew - five times five was good - but coming up with something new, that was becoming a problem. He thought about trying to hotwire the locking mechanism, but he figured that wasn't going to do them any good. Opening the hatch now would take juice they didn't have. Juice would be good right now, actually. Man, he'd sent Gordon down to the beach without even juice to wash down the muffins this morning. No wonder Alan was mad at him.
No, that wasn't why Alan was mad. The family was on TV; that was why he was mad. And something about pictures. It wasn't the one that he'd seen Gordon flinch over, the one that fell when 'Five decided to hiccup an extra explosion when The Hood - seriously, what kind of name was that anyway? - announced his presence to them. No, that was the picture from the magazine. Scott wondered if Dad was still mad about that, too.
He knew he was getting repetitive in his thoughts - blame himself, don't blame Dad, work the problem, lather, rinse, repeat - and the heat was getting to him. It was getting to all of them. That hole Dad just put in the screen under the broken Northern Hemisphere said he was pretty damn mad.
They really should have let him come up here first.
It wasn't until he caught Gordon in a stare that wasn't directed at anything - not Dad, not the machinery in front of
him, not anything - that Scott got it all. Easier thoughts, repeated thoughts, things getting harder. They were running out of air. It was real, and they were running out of air.
Scott kicked the cupboard next to John's head before he saw his own foot moving. Even his apology was in slow motion so that John's stunned "Hey! You be nice to my girl!" took a moment to register.
"Sorry, Johnny."
'Five didn't take his apology. Another whine of sound and flickering of lights had their heads snapping up in unison, comically in the same slow motion. Then their hips and feet and everything in between joined them.
Dad finally lost it then, but the effect of throwing his wrench was a bit lost when the lack of gravity carried it up and away from the intended target on the floor. "You have got to be kidding me!"
Scott watched Gordon's eyes close in a too long, thoughtful blink as his head rose above the monitors. By some miracle of something Scott couldn't put his finger on, he saw That Look pass over his little brother's face, war for control, and then, beautiful as it could possibly be, a grin split across his cheeks hard enough to hurt. Gordon's hand went to the ceiling to brace himself as he crossed his legs like he was sitting on the living room rug. "Well, that's it, then. Johnny, bring out the keg."
Virgil let out a calming breath so that he sounded about half in control as he teased, "You can't have any. You're too young."
"Dude, you're really gonna let me die without having ever had a beer? I don't think so. You're such a goody goody. I can't take you anywhere." Gordon chuckled and used his hands to push off, pulling a Dick Van Dyke in the lack of gravity. "I love to laugh," he sing-songed, giggled, and then froze his face in a glare. "No, seriously, where's the beer?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," John said.
Gordon's "It's in the fridge, isn't it?" sounded pretty much like Well, duh. Scott tried to contain his laugh while John stared their brother down, waiting for the answer to come to him. When it did, Gordon looked so damn disappointed, Scott pushed off the wall to get as close to Gordon as he could and patted him on the head. The kid pouted, "And the fridge is in the kitchen. Well, whose dumb idea was it to put a fridge in a kitchen anyway?"
"Brains," John laughed, out of breath.
"I'm disappointed in your hospitality, John," Gordon said petulantly, yawning. "The amenities in this joint suck."
John's fingers flicked at a piece of debris floating in front of his eyes. "I'll take that … under advisement. We can comp you this trip, but you might … want to take it up with the management before you make further reservations."
"Dad, I … I want a beer." Gordon crossed his arms over his chest. Scott thought that if he could have, his brother would have stomped his foot. The next yawn simply didn't have the same effect.
Scott's heart pretty much broke at the same time their father's face crumbled. He could see Dad's And I want … (to see your brother grow up, to see you marry, to see you boys get another day, want, want, want) building, struggling to make it past the knot in his throat. His lungs were starting to burn, his head ache, but he wasn't sure if it was from seeing the pain in his father's face or knowing the same look was on his own. When Dad reached over, pulled Gordon to him, and kissed his temple, Scott was sure it was his father's pain because it had to be hurting so much more than theirs.
He watched Dad say something soft and quiet to Gordon, who nodded. When they separated, Dad said, "We aren't done, boys. The heat shield is damaged, I realize, but I believe we might still have enough protection that, if we can ride it out, she'll hold. Our trajectory will put us within a few hours' rescue range from Japanese shores. It'll be a tough swim; I'm not saying it won't be. I'm asking you to give me just a little more. Whatever you can give me. Please."
Under any other circumstance, Scott saw it as his job to be the leader here. Big brother, leader, whatever. They were all the same. He should be the one to rally them, to give their father that one last shot he so desperately needed. But he was stunned when he simply wasn't needed. Gordon nodded first, whatever Dad had said privately to him doing the trick. In that nod, Scott saw the man his brother would have become, strong and confident beyond his years, able to face anything. Next to him, John nodded, too, but it was Virgil who spoke, taking Scott's job and breath away from him.
"You got it, Dad."
Scott oddly thought he'd never been so proud to be rendered irrelevant.
Dad nodded, his throat obviously not working again. They all looked at each other to keep from seeing him push himself off the ceiling to hide whatever else he couldn't say from them. With practiced ease, like riding a bike, their father swam through the weightlessness, scooping up the floating emergency packs and strapping them to his arms until they were all collected.
Scott did step up then, big brother, helping his little brothers get ready for school. Their backpacks were a little heavier than he thought they should be for the first day of school, but then … No. Not backpacks. He shook his head, clearing it. Emergency packs. He strapped Virgil in first because his would be the quickest. Just like in the crashing airplane, he was supposed to help himself first, but as far as he was concerned, helping himself meant helping Virgil. Virgil would need the oxygen so he could help John with his pack, which would allow Scott to help Gordon once he was done with Virgil. Or was that Gordon first, then Virgil?
Since when were their backpacks so heavy? Maybe it was all the medicine he had to bring with him. Wait, no, it wasn't allergy season. Why did it hurt so much to breathe? Besides, John kept his plant experiments on the other side of 'Five. Unless the scrubbers were filtering the plant pollen with the rest of the air.
Geezus. 'Five really did want to kill them all, didn't she? Although what they'd done to make her mad, he couldn't remember. He was pretty sure he had had that nightmare before, but now it seemed so much more vivid. No more movies for him.
"Scott?"
"Hmm?"
John's voice sounded so small, so scared as he asked, "You awake over there?"
Scott wondered if there was a storm, that he'd somehow missed one. He heard some banging, but it didn't sound like thunder. He loved storms. They were perfect for just curling up in bed and watching the lightning try to conquer the sky. "If I say … no … can I not … go to sch…schooool?"
"You have to keep awake … for me … kiddo."
"Are Virg … and Gords … going?" For some reason, Scott couldn't remember why he thought Virgil and Gordon were sick, too. If they weren't going, he didn't want to go either. He was too hot, like the fever was trying to consume him, so that he tried to kick the blankets off, but they didn't want to move. It was too damn hot.
"Yeah, they're … Dad, he's … "
Scott could hear John sounding panicked, hyperventilating, like he wanted desperately to keep him from falling back asleep. He wanted to help John out, really he did, but his head hurt like nobody's business. If they would only let him sleep the fever off, he'd do whatever John asked. Just a little bit longer.
But then, 'Five turning on them had to be John's worst nightmare, too. Scott dreamed that enough for the both of them over the years, from the moment Dad had told them his plan. But he could make it okay. It was only a nightmare.
"Don't … wo-worry, Johnny. I'll go first. She … won't … "
Scott forgot what he wanted to tell his brother 'Five wouldn't do, but he knew John would be okay with it. Scott would go first, he always got to go first, and he'd fix it all.
Big brother would fix anything.
(End Part Three)
Follow the White Rabbit to Part Four, John and Virgil
There are multiple references here to The Right Stuff and the Mercury astronauts, their history in NASA, as well as the Apollo 13 mission. I know next to nothing about space travel except what I've learned from them and Jim Lovell's book, Lost Moon. For those of you who haven't seen or read the book, Gus Grissom has a way with saying "fuckin' A, bubba" - a lot.
The fictional law firm Jeff sends on the attack, Gage Whitney Pace, is the law firm where several Aaron Sorkin characters work/ed from both The West Wing and Studio 60. It was also used for 24, I believe.
Piña coladas and getting caught in the rain are fun things to do in Rupert Holmes's song Escape (The Piña Colada Song).
The "Dick Van Dyke" Gordon pulls is from Mary Poppins when Bert and Uncle Albert are floating up on the ceiling because they can't stop laughing.
Author's Note: So I have to tell you, you guys left me speechless for about two days. Seriously. I don't know what to say. This kind of support and enthusiasm (whether that's only with reading, or with reviews and alerts and all that, I'm referring to it all) is something I have never experienced before. Thank you from the bottom of my black little heart. And yep, this story is still brought to you by Charlie Simpson's eyebrows, Matt Willis's wink, and my kids, who have sat through the episode Terror in New York Citythree times this weekend alone. This chapter, if she could read, would be for my youngest, who each time we watch it yells "LOOK OUT, VIRG" every time the Sentinel fires at 'Two, only to be disappointed that he never listens to her.
Again, thank you for taking the time, even if you're shy like me and don't comment. Your time alone is appreciated. Enjoy chapter three! Six