Coconut smell.
Author's notes: A small, odd one-shot that popped in my head out of nowhere. I mean - coconut? Anyway - i hope you will enjoy it. And i still don't own anything.
I can always recognise Island's infirmary when i wake up inside.
Not by sight. Not by sound. Not even by smell... i think. It's something different.
Even before my brain decides to start processing the input from my senses, i know where i am.
I can feel coconut.
Not smell it, per se. Nothing in infirmary does have coconut smell.
I know. I checked.
And yet i feel it. It's around me. It's inside my nose and lungs.
Rational part of me knows it is really only in my head. There is no coconut smell for me to feel.
Irrational part of me... part that is heartbroken boy... that part clings and hopes.
Mom loved coconut fragrance.
She always used coconut scented products. Soaps, shampoos, lotions. Dad used to joke that life with her was like never-ending vacations on a tropical island. I think he loved Mom even more for that – if it was even possible.
If only he'd know...
For little Scott Tracy it wasn't scent of the tropics. I was too young – still years before i got to travel the world and live on a Pacific island full of coconut palms.
It was Mom's scent. Warmth, safety and love.
It lingered in my bedroom long after she planted a 'goodnight Scotty' kiss on my forehead and left. I was never afraid of the dark and monsters under the bed while i could smell her. It calmed me when i was sick, and her fingers caressed my burning face. I breathed it in late in the night, when i cuddled to Mom's side – both of us waiting for the phone from Space Center that Dad's ship landed safely and everything was OK.
It was in the air when she died. Mixed with the odor of blood, gasoline and death.
Even almost a decade later, it still makes me want to cry. And retch.
Rest of the family noticed that, of course. It's impossible to stay so close to each other as we are, and do not pick up clues about what makes each one of us uncomfortable.
Gordon hates kiwis.
John meticulously removes all raisins from every dish served to him that contains them.
Cats creep Virgil out.
Grandma despises smell of beer.
Dad never used mint toothpaste.
Kayo never uses anything but mint toothpaste.
Alan never stays in his bed at night.
Brains is distrustful of houseplants.
And no one from family brings anything coconut scented on Tracy Island.
I love them for their thoughtfulness. I hate myself for my weakness.
I don't think anyone else makes the connection.
Dad would. But he is... gone.
Grandma... maybe she remembers. Maybe not. I'm too afraid to ever ask.
Virgil never paid much attention to how stuff smells. Unless it's a leak of a working fluid from somewhere.
Cleanliness is the only smell John cares for.
Gordon loves smell of the sea. And food that wasn't made by Grandma. That's about it.
Alan was too young.
Kayo and Brains never got to met Lucille Tracy.
And my own connections apparently became cross-wired somewhere along the way.
That's the only answer i can give myself. Without questioning my sanity. Whatever is left of it.
I hate waking up like that.
That first moment when sensation come is pure bliss.
Mom is here. I'm safe. Everything is right in the world.
It never lasts.
My brain starts working for real. Reality crashes in. Memory kickstarts. Broken and battered body lets me know how unhappy it is with me right now. Not-smell of coconut fades away. And my heart breaks again.
But it never lasts either.
Someone is always there. Virgil. Grandma. Gordo. Allie. Johnny. Brains. Kayo. Even Penny occasionally. There was even one memorable time, when i woke up to a sight of Parker hovering awkwardly near my bed. It was very weird for both of us. And in a hindsight... actually pretty funny. Oldtimer knows a lot of hilarious stories from his misspent youth. That one about three burglars, locked safe and a sausage made me howl with laughter.
Heh. Good times.
What i'm getting at, though...
I hate waking up in the infirmary. Injured and haunted by phantom memory from my childhood.
But i don't hate waking up being safe, loved and cared for. With my hand being warmed by another, familiar hand.
Speaking of which...
„Welcome back, Scott."
„Ngh."
„Yeah, i know. Headache. It sucks. Now stop being a baby and open your eyes for me, big brother."
„Fvff mre minss?"
„Even five hours... after i check your eyes. Come on, Scott – show me those baby blues."
„Hate your damn flaAAHHH!"
„There. Done. Wasn't so bad, right? So's your concussion, by the way. You'll be fine."
„I could tell you the same without having my retinas fried to a crisp."
„Grouchy. Y'know – both our lives would be much simpler if only you'd remember how unpleasant pupil checking is next time you decide to stick your head where it doesn't belong."
„..."
„Scott?"
„And miss your charming bedside manners?"
„Yeah, you're fine. Go back to sleep, asshole."
„Love you too. Good night... 'Gus'."
„Har-de-har-har. Sleep well, bro."
…...
„Good night, Scotty."