A piece on how John and Gordon balance. Mainly TAG, but can be read as TOS. I do not own anything, enjoy! x
ooooo
Gordon and John stand side by side, ready to watch the sky dance. There's enough space in between them to make John feel comfortable, but not enough to make Gordon feel alone. It is the perfect distance and, somehow, both of them know how to form it without saying.
The night air does nothing to dampen the humidity of the day. Gordon is hot, and sticky, and all he wants to do is jump in the pool for an evening swim. To watch the meteor shower reflect in the ripples of the water, now that would be beautiful. But this is important to John. Even though he has Alan and Jeff hovering nearby, Gordon feels he should be here.
So they stand –with their acceptable distance– and watch flames fall from the sky. Shooting stars have never looked this bright, and they're only that way when Gordon's standing next to a man who appreciates them like John does. To Gordon, they are a wish, a fleeting beauty, one moment seen and the next forgotten. To John, they are life, an endless fascination, each one a miracle to be imprinted on his memory core.
Gordon gets bored easily. He fidgets, 'oohing' and 'ahing' in all the right places. John has as much focus and patience as any surgeon would, and he stands, still and poised. Occasionally, Gordon looks at him and sees the reflection of reserved wonder in those sea-glass eyes.
That makes Gordon focus again, for a brief while, to appreciate the view through his brother's adoring gaze.
Eventually, the show grows slower. There's no longer a stream of wishes falling through the sky, just one or two dotted here and there. Gordon's not sure how long it's been, but his neck is starting to ache, and dots of light appear every time he blinks. Alan and Jeff retreat back inside. Virgil and Scott were sensible enough to watch from their rooms. John is too entranced to even think about moving.
Gordon stays next to him because, in his opinion, it's far better to share something you love then to experience it on your own. John might disagree with his introverted outlook, but he hasn't protested yet. One day, the astronaut could want to talk about this particular meteor shower, and he'd need someone else to understand. That's why Gordon's here, to understand.
But soon, his mind wanders, as it usually does. Gordon looks behind him at the pool and watches it for a moment. He breaks the cultivated silence. "John?"
"Hmm?"
"If rivers could speak, what do you think they would say?"
John pauses mid-blink. Lowering his head, he turns his gaze away from the sky and looks towards his brother. Gordon can't tell what he's thinking. Probably wondering why Gordon is still trained on water when he could be pondering galaxies, light speed, eternity. John doesn't say this however, and his expression retains nothing but a slight look of amusement. "They would probably tell people to stop polluting them."
Gordon narrows his eyes in thought. It isn't the answer he's looking for; it's more practical, reasonable, realistic. Well, as realistic as talking rivers can get. "Huh…I suppose they would."
John nods, satisfied. This turn of conversation is not unusual between Gordon and him; together they don't know how to do anything other than unusual conversations. Gordon often gets the reasonable answers from John, while he supplies the fantastical.
"Why? What do you think they would say?" John asks quietly, attention returning back to the emptying sky.
Strangely, Gordon feels ashamed at his own answer. He holds it back and jokes instead. "They'd probably just tell me to put some clothes on."
John smiles. Gordon smiles. He lets the silence linger; because he knows John can't appreciate the beauty of something while distracted by noise. Gordon loves chaos, and sound, and things that make him feel alive, so sometimes he doesn't understand. But John feels just as alive when surrounded by silence, especially times like these.
ooooo
Gordon will never be considered the smartest of the Tracy family. Not by his father, and never by Scott. Virgil would stick up for him in some way, because he's loyal like that, but still he'd never consider him 'up there.' Alan wouldn't care, because being smart is not what's important to him about his brother.
Intelligence is a sensitive point to raise around Gordon, especially if someone calls him stupid. Because there were many times in his childhood when people did so. For John, its emotions, and when people question whether or not he actually feels them.
John is smart, and everybody else knows it. Gordon's smart is a different sort of smart. It moves against John's analytic, black and white cleverness, and most times they clash. It is a curious intelligence. An inventive, imaginative and downright inquisitive love for knowing things, unusual things, that rides alongside a passion for telling people about them.
Not many people want to listen, that's the problem, and it's most likely the reason they don't understand. John listens. Often he points out what's wrong about Gordon's newly obtained knowledge, or he hums about it for a moment, before looking vaguely impressed.
John likes to read books about space. John likes to write books about space. John just likes space.
Gordon likes to read books about the ocean. He doesn't write books about it, but he could, and he certainly likes it.
Not only that, but he studies it. He is as fascinated by every hidden crevice, trench, cave, plant, and creature as John is about rocks, gravity, black holes, and all those things Gordon doesn't really pay attention too.
The thing is, Gordon doesn't really like space, and John isn't particularly fond of the ocean. They do, however, like each other. Most of the time. There is a silent, but mutual, agreement between them that they listen to one another when they rave, even if they don't really care.
So when Gordon learns a new fact about the Munnopis Isopod, he calls John up in 'Five. John nods and listens, and that's all Gordon needs him to do. Nod and listen. He repays the favor when John wants to talk about the new updates to the International Space Station.
When John comes home from 'Five for a break, the first thing he does is collect more books. Gordon will find him reading in his room—probably the new edition of an old professor's work. Gordon screws up his nose at the hideously long title, before he gets John to shift over, and sits down next to him. Because if he wants to spend time with his older brother, this is probably what he's going to get. John will groan in annoyance, but he still doesn't protest.
Just because they read different things, doesn't mean it stops them from reading together. When Jeff walks in and finds space and the ocean side by side, it never fails to surprise him. How one person with interests far above, and one down below, can possibly get along the way they do.
ooooo
But on some days, they don't get along at all. Because when they clash, it's the moon and the sun, only catching a glimpse of the other in passing. There couldn't be more polar opposites among Tracys when it comes to emotion and mindset. The truth of it is, sometimes it works, many times it doesn't.
On the day they get the bad news, it doesn't work at all.
Gordon doesn't understand how John can't be angry.
He's as composed as always when the news is delivered. Calm as the summer sea, his face is unchanging as he stands with the rest of his family. Virgil has to sit down, Alan runs from the room; Scott follows him in a daze. He needs the distraction.
Gordon's angry. About everything.
John just stands there. A calmness, like the calmness of a grave, unmoving, not saying anything. Just this once Gordon needs him to say something. His calmness isn't healing, it isn't peaceful, it's scary. Because the amount of emotion toiling through Gordon, setting his blood on fire, that's what he's supposed to be feeling. Isn't it?
"Is this It then?" Gordon whispers, blood hot as it courses through his veins. Virgil looks up and doesn't answer.
John turns his head ever so slightly, but doesn't look him in the eye. "Apparently."
"We're just going to give up?"
"There's nothing more that can be done. The facts are simple."
"I don't care about the bloody facts John!"
John's answer is toneless. "I know you don't, but you can't idealize this, Gordon. Not this time."
That's it.
Right there.
Gordon the romantic, John the realist. Gordon the hopeful, John the pragmatic. Gordon the naïve, John the wise, the experienced, the ever slightly superior.
Gordon the one who wants to believe their father is alive. John the one who knows that he's not.
Something snaps. Anger bursts like a flame in his chest and all Gordon can see is red. John's serenity, his sensibility, it doesn't make him feel normal. It doesn't help, it isolates him. Gordon starts to yell. He yells at John to feel something the way he feels it. To say something, to explain how this could have happened. Gordon yells until his voice cracks, until Virgil's on his feet again, moving to his side. John looks on with a horrible apathy, something that Gordon suddenly longs for. "Why don't you care?" Gordon hisses, trapped in Virgil's grasp. He knows it's unfair, but right now, he's not concerned about that. Because this is something John should care about. "You never care!"
John blinks and there's a moment of hurt in his eyes, because that's something Gordon's never supposed to bring up. "I do," he says. Those two words, colorless, icy, they slice through Gordon's fury and make him feel cold to the bone. Gordon starts to shake, because without fury, he's left with sorrow. It doesn't look like he cares. Someone that cares wouldn't just give up. They can't. How come this isn't affecting him like it is Gordon?
Virgil holds him tighter as sobs begin to escape. John looks on, eyes dull.
Where Gordon turns to fire, his brother turns to ice, and it's one of those times both of them realise they don't understand each other like they thought.
ooooo
John doesn't come home a lot after the news about Dad.
Everything remains as it never was. Things are the same, but they aren't, and Gordon is in the in-between. Days pass, weeks, and everything attempts to work as normal. John never mentions Dad; he retreats further into his introspective world. He turns to facts, to numbers, to rescues, things that he can know and comprehend. Gordon turns to memories, possessions, and brothers, things that he doesn't have to comprehend. Nothing feels right, but it's all still happening around them.
Gordon calls John one day, to tell him about a new research project. There's no nodding and listening. There's a disinterested head tilt, a placating smile. His mind is on so many other things, so many more important things, like saving lives. So Gordon cuts off, let him get on with his job. He doesn't ring him that much anymore. He doesn't want to be a bother.
Gordon finds himself missing his mother more than he ever has before.
When Gordon looks at John, he sees her. Her fine-featured looks, her delicate grace. The resemblance is in everything, everything but the eyes. Every time John floats before them to relay news of a rescue, it becomes more painful to notice. Gordon doesn't understand why it hasn't affected him before now. Because John's always looked like that. But mostly he doesn't understand why, when he looks at Scott and sees Dad, he doesn't feel the same way.
One day, Gordon asks Alan if he thinks John looks like their mother.
"I don't know," Alan bites his lip. It's a strange topic to bring up, but the youngest doesn't question where it came from. Lately, these family queries have been popping up a lot from Gordon. It's always, 'do you remember when we did this?', because Gordon wants to remember. John always switches off before the nostalgia starts. Alan thinks for a moment. "I guess he looks like the pictures… I don't really remember her."
"No," Gordon says, a chill spreading through him. "Neither do I."
It's a strange thought, that she has become just a picture in his mind rather than a presence. But he wants to remember her, badly. More than that, he doesn't want the same thing to happen to Dad. The renewed grief for both his parents eats away at him, so much so, that it gets to the point where Gordon wonders if he's missing her, or John.
Because John doesn't come home a lot since Dad went missing.
ooooo
"Why can't you just admit it John? You were wrong," Scott's yelling at a hologram that looks like their brother. Gordon's wondering if John feels as distanced as he does, because it's not tangible. It's not really John, and it's all Gordon's seen of him lately. Projected blue lines and dots that make up this person.
John stares Scott down with a look that could crumble mountains. Because now he's feeling fire. Cracks have begun to show in that perfectly refined mask, and there's a glint in his eyes that can only be described as wild. If there's one time John breaks silence, or gets angry, it's in defense of his own actions. They are different like that, he and Gordon. Gordon makes mistakes all the time; he's just wise enough to admit them.
"I wasn't wrong Scott," John snaps, and suddenly, Gordon feels their positions have been reversed. Gordon now looks on with a sense of coldness, of apathy, while John is sparks and flames. "I double checked everything. Like I always do."
"Well you must have missed something!"
"I never miss anything," the way he says it is so raw, so sure, because he can't afford to miss anything. The edge of desperation is almost undetectable. It hits Gordon like a landslide that John can't admit this.
Because Virgil's in the infirmary with a broken arm and a bruised collarbone, and John can't have that on him, it will push him over the edge.
"Well you missed something this time," Scott doesn't normally yell at John. It's hard for Gordon to see. He feels like a butterfly stuck in the middle of two hurricanes, because neither of these brothers will back down. Scott won't because Virgil's injured, and he feels that blow as keenly as Virgil does. John won't because he can't back down. The knowledge that he did something wrong, injured a brother, that might just break him.
Scott doesn't notice the dark rings beneath John's eyes, or the way his fingers intertwine with one another. Gordon notices. He wonders how he hasn't noticed before. Then he remembers that he hasn't spoken to John in a while.
The other day, Alan told him that John had discovered a new star.
It hurt, that John hadn't rung him like he used to. So when Gordon heard that one of his old friends found a Sea Angel in the Antarctic, he kept that to himself. He'd told Virgil, and Virgil had been overenthusiastic and asked too many questions. It was nice, and Gordon loves Virgil for that, but he doesn't really get it.
Gordon can't remember the last time he and John actually talked. Not about things that weren't rescues.
So he looks at John, tired and frantic John. John who doesn't usually make mistakes, but has today, and is too scared to admit it. Gordon wonders if he's feeling as unbalanced as him and if, somehow, that has something to do with them not talking.
The yelling is picking up and it's starting to hurt to watch John try not to break. So amongst the hurricanes, the butterfly steps forth. He moves between them and states with an unwavering voice. "John, you need to come home."
This silences Scott in a heartbeat. He looks at Gordon, mildly irritated that he interrupted. John knew he was there, he was acutely aware of that fact, and now he's staring too. It's hard to judge what he's thinking. Something gleams in John's eyes and they harden. There's a slight note of panic to his voice, "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm not coming home-"
Gordon keeps his tone calm. As calm as John's usually is, and he can tell it's frustrating him. "This isn't about what you did wrong-"
"I wasn't wrong. I checked everything, I swear. You need me up here," John's hissing now and he's getting agitated. He's at the point where he would lock up the sun if he could to avoid blame. The light of reason is gone and all that left is desperation not to be at fault. At fault for this, for countless other things.
The positions are in reverse, because neither Gordon nor John could possibly be feeling fire at the same time. Gordon just feels sad, and alone, and he doesn't care if John messed up. Virgil's alive and he doesn't blame him. Virgil never blames anyone. "John, you're spending too much time on your own, and you look tired, maybe that's why you-"
"You don't know that Gordon you don't know anything," John spits. "You don't understand. I need this."
You don't know anything. Gordon feels sick when he says that, because of all people, John knows how he feels about intelligence. Gordon shakes his head. But maybe he doesn't understand this time. John's playing with madness being up there for so long.
No. Gordon does understand, because these are the sort of things that he notices. Gordon understands that he isn't John. Gordon can't survive without human contact; he needs to be surrounded by people to keep his mood up. Loneliness is not a good look for Gordon, it walks alongside sorrow. John's pleasure is cultivated in isolation, because it's where he thinks best, and thinking is what is important to him.
Gordon knows why John doesn't want to come home. He isn't after the memories and familiarity that Gordon seeks for.
Gordon blamed John for not caring. The truth is, he cares too much. It's too painful for him to come home; it gets too hard to wear the mask, so he separates himself in the stars. Just as John claims Gordon doesn't know anything. It is the opposite, Gordon knows and recognizes, too much.
Just like he sees that John longs for company. It's hidden in all the times he sighs, but never protests, when brothers join him. In all the time he smiles, and relaxes, alone but never distanced in their company. So it's because Gordon knows too much that he repeats what he said. This time, it's an order. "John, you should come home."
ooooo
John came home.
He's here now, and they sit side by side, with a gap that's a little too wide for Gordon's liking.
It's dark outside and the stars are out. They haven't talked in weeks, and they still sit in silence. Gordon doesn't know what to say. For a moment, he feels like he's sitting next to a stranger he's known his whole life. There's no warmth in that knowledge. Gordon doesn't recognize John's dark shadow that stretches out before him. That makes Gordon feel empty. It's the realization that he doesn't recognize his own either, that's what makes him feel afraid.
Afraid that too much is changing. Because he doesn't remember mum, he doesn't want to forget Dad, and he doesn't want to lose anything else. Especially not a brother. Especially not a brother who separates himself by his own volition.
Virgil is Gordon's best friend; Scott is his comforter and leader, Alan his partner in crime. John is his opposite. People reveal themselves in their opposites, they parallel one another. Gordon has felt he was missing a part of himself ever since Dad disappeared. So perhaps it's Dad, or perhaps it's John.
Gordon looks over at him; he sees the reserved wonder that appears in those eyes when he gazes at the sky. Its back, it never leaves, and Gordon remembers a life time ago.
For once, Gordon doesn't know what to say. For once, John does. The elder turns to him, the usual serenity gracing his face. "Did you know that if you put Saturn on water, it would technically float?"
Gordon looks up. A tentative smile edges its way onto his face. "I did know that, I think you've told me before. Get your act together John." John rolls his eyes. Gordon grins. "Did you know that there's a vapor cloud in space that holds 140 trillion times more water than all of the oceans combined?"
John snorts. This is basic level stuff. "I told you that. It's ten billion light years away, so don't get too excited."
"Aw man, I was just going to go pack my swimming trunks."
John laughs, an uncommon sound, and shifts that little bit closer towards Gordon. It bridges the gap, the tiniest space that meant so much, and Gordon no longer feels isolated. The shadow is there and it's his brother. John sighs as he looks upward. "Water and space coexisting, who would have thought."
"Who would have thought," Gordon repeats. He wonders if John missed him.
John's lip twitches and he draws his gaze from the sky. "Hey Gordon."
"Hmm?"
"If rivers could speak, what do you think they would say?"
Gordon pauses and feels something lift. The tenseness, the unhinging feeling, it's gone in a second. If John didn't care, why would he remember that? It's guilt that Gordon feels now, guilt for ever thinking that his brother was wrong for dealing with grief in his own way. Because they aren't similar, that's the truth of the matter, so Gordon shouldn't have expected anything less.
"I think…" Gordon looks up towards the sky and feels a glow of appreciation. "That they would tell stories of the stars."
John raises an eyebrow.
"Water reflects what's up above it, after all."
John's smile is full now, and genuine, and he doesn't need to say anything more.
So they sit side by side—with their acceptable distance—John the realist and Gordon the romantic. There's no need for apologies between the two, there rarely ever is, because that's just how they work. They flow in and out, and it's not similarities that bond them, it's the differences. It is balance. They may walk in opposite corners of the soul, but balance is harmony, and without that, neither is complete.