Disclaimers: Thunderbirds is the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and their teams. Bow low and grateful at the altar of their brilliance. Tequila and a crisp twenty should do it. Any bastardized quotes/lyrics you find belong to the people they belong to who aren't me. Like all my stories, this is rated T/M for military grade F-bombs and some implied violence. There are no TAG spoilers, but it is TOS and film compliant with my other Tbirds stories. If you haven't read my other stories, do know you'll miss out on hints and backstory of what to look forward to now. This story takes place about eight-ish years after He Is, They Are and two years after Picnic, so age everyone appropriately.
For the first time in a while, this one is a multi-chapter (ten) fic. Welcome to the party. Stay awhile.
As always, thank you for your time. You guys make my day.
Bones
by That Girl Six
You've got bones in your closet.
You've got ghosts in your town.
Ain't no doubt, yeah, they're gonna come out.
They're waitin' for the sun to go down.
You can't hide from your demons.
Feel 'em all lurkin' around.
You're runnin' scared 'cause you know they're out there.
They're waitin' for the sun to go down.
— Little Big Town
*
(Scott)
It wasn't for the first time, but Scott sank into the overstuffed sofa with the distinct thought that Dad's office was probably the single worst place on the island to hold rescue debriefings. Seriously. Poolside with umbrella drinks and cabana girls in seashell bras and hula skirts would be less distracting.
Not that Scott was exactly complaining. Just yawning. A lot. 0236 hours a lot.
Bad couch.
When Dad finally realized the weird of the mural (especially with Alan sketched in like a photo inset in a magazine), remodeling the whole house became an obsession. He turned the office into something so soft and breezy — bad couch — it begged to be slept in. The bright, retro green and orange plastics were gone, replaced with soothing blue and sand clouds that practically sighed Om. Sure, it was great for Dad while he bit his nails over the long hours for their returns, but wow, was it bad for trying to stay awake long enough to get a word out. Gordon had suggested it was Dad's way of forcing them to be as quick as possible or to lull them away from arguing about the details.
Bad plan. Bad.
Yawn.
Yawning so much it led to … Yeah. There it was.
And then it was gone.
Zen-mode had nearly set in when Alan dragged himself across the room and settled down all painfully slow old man on the other end of the couch. His pale, bare torso glowed a stark contrast against the dark blue microfiber, which color-coordinated with the remnants of bruises from the accident. His jaw burned red where the understandably frustrated civilian took a cheap shot at him tonight. That would leave a nice, ugly contrast, too. Damn.
Whoosh. See? There went Scott's Zen. Gone. Buh-bye.
Sleep deprivation and soon-to-be bruise number Scott-lost-count got him where it hurt most. How many times had Alan stood in the middle of this office and screamed at Dad, nearly begging to get the chance to have bruises of his own? Now, though, the boy who had been so hurt by most of what the old office stood for was deeply hidden beneath another six inches of height, broader shoulders, and well-trained muscles. Bruised muscles. If I have any say in it, he's never getting in a race car again muscles. He didn't bother hiding it behind the frumpy clothes he used to either, probably from the knowledge his grown body couldn't stop Scott from seeing that much smaller boy sinking into the cushions any more than it worked on Dad. Hell, these days, he wore the bruises with pride.
It didn't matter how new and ridiculously huge the couch was. It didn't matter that the ugly mural was gone or how there was nothing in the office to conjure up memories of the scarier, immature days of IR. Alan shouldn't be on this couch. Not like this.
Wow, he was feeling maudlin tonight. Sleepy and done for, at any rate.
Bad couch.
Alan yawned over on his end and tipped to the side, all TIMBER! and ready to order up whatever Rip Van Winkle had with a hint of lemon and melatonin on the side.
Such a bad place for debrief.
Scott scootched his hand under Alan's shower-wet head and tried to lift him back up to a sitting position, but all that weight and muscle worked diligently against him. Rather than risk cricking Alan's neck or making his lower back issue any worse, he let him drop, smooth and controlled, into the cushions. He flicked Alan's ear instead. Alan paid him back by inching closer until his head dug into Scott's hip. Brat. Scott couldn't do much beyond use Alan's biceps for an elbow rest. If it weren't for the jaw (and back and neck and everything pretty much jaw down), he would've gone for the kid's temple and dug in. Biceps were better tonight. This morning. Whenever. Scott was a good big brother.
"Hang in there, man," Scott warned the both of them through a yawn. "Bed after brief. You know the rules."
Raising his Tag Heuer to eye level without bothering to open his eyes, Alan mumbled, "I've got at least ten minutes before the others make it down here. I'm good."
"Not even."
"Kyrano and Dad are working Gordon out of a charley horse and foot thing. Ten's underestimating." Before Scott could open his mouth to ask, Alan added, "And don't go up there to check on him. It'll take them even longer, and we'll never get out of here. That guy got him good in just the right spot, but Gords says he's fine, so he's fine."
"Which scale, ours or his?"
"It's barely a two on the Gordon scale."
"You believe him?"
Alan nodded sharply, his authority on the Gordon Scale clearly not to be questioned. "Let it go."
"What about you? That guy decked you pretty hard."
"The shower sucked, but hey." Alan didn't finish the thought, so whatever came after Hey was obvious only to him. He adjusted his shoulder along the crevice between cushions and put his hand flat under his unbruised cheek for a pillow. "Tin-tin stocked my medicine cabinet with valerian tea if it keeps me up. I'm good. Now shut up. I've still got nine minutes."
And just like that, Alan was asleep. He even snored.
"Don't you just hate how he can do that?"
Without looking toward Virgil or the door arch where his voice came from, Scott dropped his head back and closed his eyes. "Almost as much as I hate how you can just show up without making a sound, freak. One of these times, I really am gonna get you a bell to wear around your neck."
"Give up tactical advantage when it comes to the Terrible Twosome? I don't think so. Gordon's been bored lately without his partner, and now that Alan's been upgraded to restricted duty, I'm rigging my door and sleeping with a loaded Super Soaker under my pillow."
Scott waffled his fingers over his stomach and grinned up at the ceiling. "We live in dangerous times, little brother."
He listened for the sounds of Virgil taking over the cushy desk chair, because obviously Tracy Three was smart enough not to leave room for anyone next to him. Scott couldn't've slept yet if he tried, no matter how much he might want to. He'd never had the ability to crash through the adrenaline like Alan or John, but he could lay there and rest, hovering in that quiet space where things were hazy enough to mimic those minutes right before sleep. Sounds got fuzzy for a bit so that he couldn't quite measure the time passing, but he heard a few soft clicks on the wireless keyboard, John's greeting to Virgil, and the two of them start to chat about the non-rescue parts of their days.
This was the way it should be. No meditation or bruises required.
Sure, Scott loved the rescues and the purpose it gave him to know he could do something good for the world, but he loved this part, too. Being a part of a family that loved each other unconditionally, never having to doubt if someone loved him enough to carry on a conversation that wasn't about How was work? or What do I need to get from the store? He liked knowing he would never be truly alone in this world (or in Alan and John's case, out of the world). Different military or school separations, sometimes under inadequate conditions, had taught them all to be able to communicate about everything but work long before they all worked together to the point of not needing to ever ask that work question. He treasured that about each of them. How many people got that chance to talk about nothing with the people they loved these days? How many did it with the ease his family seemed to do?
They were talking about Freddy Mercury, by the way. Virgil was on a Queen kick, which started two weeks ago almost exactly on cue. He had a seasonal thing when it came to his record collection, marked by a tendency to listen to a particular artist at the same time of year every year. It was apparently some sense memory thing with him. There were always variations and new artists to mix in and around, but some things were constant. Queen was an October/November/December thing. Always.
John started talking Brian May and his astrophysics papers (which John could quote verbatim off the top of his head, nerd). Virgil countered with Mercury and graphic design, and just like that the geekathon took off full rocket.
Scott, since it wasn't his turn to listen to it, was more than happy to hand over Virgil's stress release to John and let their conversation fade back out. The last thing he needed was Radio Ga Ga worming into his ear right before bed with a day sleep ahead of them. It would be hard enough with the sun and jungle bugs telling them what to do.
Lazing back into the not-exactly sleep zone, Scott didn't notice when Dad came into the room. Part of him was disappointed about that. As much as they had all struggled to remind friends, acquaintances, teachers, and strangers all that Jeff Tracy was just a father, a completely normal man, there was something incredible about watching that completely normal man walk into a room. Dad had this way of commanding attention, as if he was a magnet drawing everything and everyone toward him. But this walk wasn't the same walk everyone outside their family saw. This one didn't terrify his children like they were boardroom peons. Instead it was a walk of strength and comfort they had needed and soaked up their entire lives. Maybe it was that he missed how Mom's own walk had countered Dad's, breezing kindness and joy at everyone around her, her smile for Jeff and Jeff alone something envied and inspired. Sometimes Scott craved to feel that sense of magnetized warmth.
Instead he got Alan jerking awake and flinging his arm up into Scott's throat when Dad tried to wake them both. With the way his head extended back, the contact with his Adam's apple might as well have been some Vulcan Matrix ninja chop in a dark alley in a rainstorm (those kinds of fights always happen in a downpour in the movies). Scott choked on the ball of air driven out of his lungs and coughed long enough that Virgil came over from the desk to pound him on the back. Alan thoughtfully rolled out of the way, his eyes still too dazed at the wake up call to know anything other than MOVE!
The corners of Dad's mouth worked up and in, flat and out, like he couldn't decide if he should laugh or worry about what Alan might've been dreaming about to wake up that way. They all knew better than to try to wake Scott or Gordon, but Alan wasn't usually a cause for nocturnal black eyes. Maybe, if he wasn't seeing stars, Scott would worry, too, but eh, stars and sleep deprivation. Besides, Scott had worked hard over the last few years to give Alan his space, and he'd been rewarded with Alan coming to him when he needed it most as long as Scott didn't push.
On the floor and flat on his back, Alan pushed at Scott's knee and gripped it hard to apologize. It was gentle in contrast to the neon sharp grin he blinded their father with. "Hi." He might as well have worn footy pajamas and knuckled his eyes. All he was missing was Bugs Bunny.
Scott took the knee apology for what it was, but Dad glanced a Is he kidding me, this kid? at Scott before he leveled a look at Alan. He didn't bother to or have to say anything. Jeff Tracy had raised five boys, along with a helping hand at another boy and a girl; he could wait out an entire silent monastery and win. He was closer to a smile than before, but he crossed his arms over his chest.
"What?" Alan asked, pure Daddy, I'm adorable innocence but with an edge to it that made Scott's jaw twitch. Oh, boy.
Dad raised his eyebrows. Alan stared back, but Scott saw his eyes go from amused to Zoinks! pretty quickly.
Scott leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and glared down at his brother. Dad was looking for a particular answer, and Alan was definitely avoiding giving it to him. Scott tapped at Alan's shoulder, mindful that it would send a shock down the spine if too rough, but Alan would get the hint with his field commander voice (just in case). "Did I miss something?"
"I'm maybe not supposed to be here." Alan's disheveled hair was all innocence. The sneaky crook to his mouth, not so much. "But it's not like I was doing anything, and I needed to be here for this. I'm the one who didn't duck. Dad, I was asleep, I swear. Tell him, Scott. I fell asleep right away and haven't done anything more strenuous than lay here, no harm done."
"Only maybe?" Dad prodded, all justification/excuses ignored. "Nice try with the shower distract, kiddo. Bed. Now. Before I tie you to a bed in the sick room and put you back on the DL for another month."
Scott kept his elbow on his knee to brace himself while Alan used his hand to lever himself up. It was obvious at the strain on his brother's face that the shower hadn't done a damn bit of good, and he'd be hurting a whole lot more tomorrow, today, whenever they were all up. Ouch. Once Alan was safely on his feet, Scott squeezed his wrist, pulling on him until Alan dropped his ear next to Scott's mouth.
"Use your head."
Alan nodded at Scott's throat. "Are you okay?"
"It's fine. I'm not kidding. Live to fight another day, Al."
Alan straightened and closed his eyes, the guilt apparent in how he curled his lips against his teeth. He seemed to struggle with something, but a grunt from Dad behind him set him back on edge, all trace of the once-innocent child gone. It couldn't feel too nice on his jaw, but he said between clenched teeth, "Yeah. Come to my room when you're done?"
His arm acting like a railroad block, Dad and his ridiculously powerful hearing put an end to that idea right then and there by pointing toward the door. "Bed, buster. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars."
"It won't take long. And if I'm asleep by the time he gets there — "
Dad's grip visibly tightened on Alan's arm.
"Dad, I'm okay."
Dad raised one eyebrow at Alan, demanding truth.
"We're okay."
Scott emphatically popped his eyes out. Why Alan couldn't leave well enough alone some days was beyond him. Yes, he would stop by the room. Yes, they would probably end up talking well into the morning like they usually did when Alan needed it. There was no reason Dad had to know, but now their father would probably be doing security checks of their doors every five minutes until they gave in.
"Fine." Message received, Alan rolled his eyes for Dad's benefit and took off without another word about it. He raised his arm up as close to shoulder height as it would probably go, bending it at the elbow in a sharp, one wave gesture of good night at everyone. "Later, 'gators."
"'Night, Alan," Virgil and John both called.
When Alan was gone, Dad fell into his seat on the sofa. He pinched at the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, crinkling the lines around his eyes that much thicker. "I'm going to have to hire a full time doctor for around here just for him, I swear. John, short list me."
Scott didn't think Dad actually meant to say it out loud, so he shook his head ever so slightly in John's screen direction. Not that the sentiment wasn't accurate or unwarranted, but it had been a long enough night. The last thing they needed was for Dad to pile on with family medical problems when post-rescue adrenaline could only keep them awake and coherent for so long.
It wasn't exactly the tack Scott would've used to redirect their father's attentions, but John asked from his safe distance of, oh, a geo-freaking-stationary orbit, "Is Gordon all right, Dad?"
Because, you know, speaking of his children needing a full time doctor to cater to their injuries…
Dad's hand fell from his face, scrubbing the jaw scruff with his knuckles down along the way. "Kyrano's having a hard time relaxing the muscle, but Gordon insists it'll be fine in a few hours. He didn't ask for anything stronger than Tylenol, his heating pad, and some tea. Do one of you want to tell me exactly how he strained it in the first place?"
Scott winced inwardly at the memory of hearing the incident over their radios. The hard part of the rescue should've been over. Gordon had expertly done his job, docking with the dead-in-the-water tourist submarine that had (they still had no idea how) managed to get itself said dead in an old World War II minefield. It had been tedious work threading 'Four through the floating bomb balloons without detonating the explosives, but even that hadn't bothered Gordon. The family fish had incredible patience when he needed it. Once on board, he'd managed to, with some quick backup conference with John, sync control of the vessel's systems enough to tow her out while still fielding the munitions. It should've been over and done with.
But civilians in life-threatening situations were rarely predictable. There were those who were incredibly helpful to IR's personnel, keeping the people with them calm, shushing scared children and adults alike, and assessing injuries to the best of their abilities before 'One ever landed. There were those who were simply quiet and grateful, sometimes managing to get the Thank you out when they were handed off to the proper authorities post-rescue. There were the ones like the nervous father who clocked Alan when there was no right-then-and-there word on his twin third graders aboard the sub.
Then there was the guy tonight who was so far gone in his fear and claustrophobia that the vessel's captain asked Gordon to take a med check of him before he returned to 'Four to get them the hell back to dry land. It turned out Thuy, they'd been told his name was, either had military or ninja alien training because he swept his leg out so fast Gordon didn't have a chance to counter. Thuy had him on his back, left knee bent awkwardly to the side and serrated blade to his throat.
The dull whoof! of Gordon's back hitting the metal floor had been excruciating to hear over 'One's speakers. It didn't matter how many years it had been since either the hydrofoil thing or the rebar cluster; when Gordon went down, every sound was excruciating.
Gordon had had his audio running the entire time through his watch, so he'd been able to calmly tell them he was golden even with the knife to his throat, but still. It had been a little too sketchy for Scott's future nightmares.
But telling Dad that? The man had been so edgy the last thirty-some hours that Scott had no doubt seeing or hearing how much they'd all hurt with Gordon was not the way to go. It wasn't like he hadn't seen Gordon himself, talked to him himself, and probably driven Gordon to kicking their father with his spasming leg to back him off all by himself. There was no upside to piling on.
"Nothing Gordon couldn't handle." Scott met his father's eyes, daring him to see any different. Nope, no hypocrisy there at all.
Dad blinked first, like Scott knew he would. Anxious father or Boss, it didn't matter; he was a week coming off a bad flu bug and too exhausted to see his own exhaustion to do any different. Dad clapped his hands on his thighs. "You know what? You guys all need sleep, too. Go on to bed. We can do this some other time."
John asked "Dad?" with the What the hell? rather clear in his voice. A quick glance at Virgil said he was thinking the same thing. Scott was careful to keep his expression easy, if tired.
"Really, go. You need the rest after the last few days. You're taking the weekend off, by the way. Wherever you want, although with as pale as you're looking these days, John, I'm suggesting the beach. Miami, maybe? Water therapy would be good for Gordon and Alan, too. Be ready to talk itinerary for the weekend over lunch if you can all be up and coherent by then. I want arrangements made by the end of the day, east coast time, just to make sure everything is sec-ttled. I don't want you boys getting there without all your bases covered."
Scott glanced at Virgil to see if he'd heard it, too. There had been a distinct break between "want" and "you boys", along with what was a quick change in word choice, as if he realized he was in the middle of saying something he truly shouldn't. Virgil casually gripped the arm of the loveseat to lever himself up and out of it, but not before he flashed his middle and index finger then index finger on the edge like a catcher giving his pitcher the pitch signal. He'd heard it, too, then.
"Sure, Dad. A weekend would be nice." Virgil stopped close enough to Dad to clap him on the shoulder. No one in this family went to bed without giving the others at least a "good night." People like Thuy or, god help them, The Hood and his people meant they would never be able to put themselves in a position where they would regret the next day not showing each other something resembling affection. Mom and Grandpa had taught them that. So had Scott. And Virgil. And Gordon. And John and Alan. Every civilian they saved whose loved ones they couldn't. Different occasions all, different circumstances all, but lessons each and every godforsaken one.
Virgil whispered something to their father meant only for them. It put a smile on Dad's face. His gentle "Get some sleep, Virg" sounded an awful lot like words they didn't usually full-on say. So did Jeff's wishes for sleep for Scott and for John to hold up for just a moment. Virgil hefted Scott out of the sleeping death couch and they left the room together, Virgil's arm draped over Scott's tired shoulders as if to either guide him personally to his bed to prevent sleepwalking or suffocate him in a headlock. John's voice floated behind them as he picked up the conversation oh-so-casually with Dad. Scott had to smile. John would take care of Dad now. It would all look better in the noon-ish.
"I saw the look." Virgil didn't let go of Scott's shoulders, even as they rounded the corner toward the hallway that would lead back to the bedroom suites. Apparently he thought Scott did in fact need a little preventative steering.
"Did he seem weird to you?"
"Which he? They were both weird. I take it we're stopping by Alan's then?"
"He won't go to sleep unless we do, but help me rein him in? He's trying, but he's exhausted. He shouldn't have come with yet tonight."
"I'm not so sure tonight has anything to do with it." Virgil shook his head through a yawn and pinched at his eyes. "I need a kitchen detour if this drags out too long."
"Damn, let's hope it doesn't take that long."
Virgil didn't move his arm, not yet.
Scott elbowed his new barnacle gently in the ribs. "Go. I'm good."
As much as Scott hoped differently, he found Alan stretched out on his bed with a book and too-open eyes. His room smelled strongly of the valerian tea Kyrano practically force fed them all whenever they showed signs of the aches and pains of the job. The cord snaking down next to his leg said the heating pad was under his tailbone (probably cranked to High, too). At least the room didn't smell so much of the nauseating blend of herbs and salves Kyrano also put together. That stink stayed with you for months.
Scott knocked softly on the frame to get his attention. Alan startled a little harder than Scott wanted to see, but he figured that was what he was here for anyway. Alan would explain when he was ready.
"Hey." Alan quietly closed his book without marking the page. He wouldn't need to. Alan just had one of those memories, like John. It was kind of scary sometimes how Alan had become the family chameleon, taking on traits from each of them in one way or another. Scott supposed it was mostly out of necessity with the age gaps. Alan was his own person, and they all loved him for that, but as a kid? Being able to relate to him had been something of a trick. In hindsight, Scott had to appreciate the effort. It had made things easier for them, too.
It made what once would've been a dreadful walk across Alan's room much easier, too. Scott easily took to the head of the bed and asked, "Everything okay?"
"You mean besides how much I want to strangle Dad right now?"
Grimacing at the anger in Alan's voice, Scott couldn't help thinking about how some things never change. Alan's arguments with Dad had matured, so that the things that blew Alan's stack were less about his place in the family as the youngest and more about how to operate within a family with six (seven, counting Grandma) powerful personalities. Not that that stopped Alan from being easily irritated with their father. Those two were going to knock heads until kingdom come and then some.
Scott didn't sit down without invitation, but he did lean against the wall next to Alan's head and tap his fist lightly on his shoulder. "Talk to me."
"Did he tell you guys we're all taking the weekend off again?"
"How in the world do you know that?"
Alan's lips pressed into a tight, colorless line. He cocked his head to the side, curled his lips even tighter so that they disappeared into his teeth, took a deep breath in, and let it all go. Whatever it was, there was a decision forming behind his eyes. He reached for the remote control in the opposite corner of his bed, pinched it in his hand, and finally looked at Scott. "Do you think Dad will keep John like usual, or can I call him?"
"What's going on?"
"Where's Virg?"
"On his way. What's going on?"
Alan didn't answer, but he pointed his remote at the television on his wall. It flared to life, bringing up the home screen to International Rescue's communications system. Another improvement stemming from Dad's attempt to scour all trace of the Hood from the island had been the tech upgrade. All of the televisions in the house were now connected to make it easier for each of them to contact whichever brother would be doing the lonely dance up on 'Five. Anything to keep them out of Dad's office unless it was official business, right?
John didn't look directly at them, and he carried on his conversation with Dad as if nothing happened. A message popped up on the screen's lower right corner, flashing letter by letter in real time typing: TWO MINUTES, AL. YOU'RE RIGHT. GET THE OTHERS.
"What the hell does that mean?" Scott asked.
"It means I'm getting damn tired of some nightmares never ending." Alan dropped the remote and smeared his hand down his face and over his jaw, wincing at the touch of the bruise. "Go get Virg, please? Don't let Dad see you."
Scott wanted to argue. He'd never liked the cloak and dagger stuff Alan seemed to thrive on, but he'd also learned that it was how the younger two worked the best. Alan especially had grown up under a cloud of secrets with the stalkerazzi after losing Mom and Grandpa and then with the start up of IR, so secrets and keeping information limited to where he wanted it to go was much more natural to him. Between that and the tandem pranks with Gordon — and other things with Gordon — they seemed to even have their own language. Secrecy (and the resulting drama of it all) was just one of their little quirks. It didn't make it any less irritating.
His movements were stiff and stuttered as Alan pushed himself out of bed, his back to Scott. No room for discussion, then. The first steps he took toward the bathroom door had him walking almost as roughly as Gordon on his medium-pain days, his torso bent forward because he couldn't straighten all the way up. They'd all been there, but Scott couldn't help the wince of sympathy. It had only been a month since Alan's crash during the time trials at the racetrack. Images both front-page splattered and imagined of that one would haunt him for a while.
Scott stayed long enough to see Alan make it behind the door before he went off in search of Virgil as requested. He assumed Gordon wasn't meant to be part of John's others, but swinging by just in case probably wasn't a bad idea.
When he caught up to Virgil, Little Brother was licking a drip of coffee off the side of one of two mugs. His face pinched at the heat of the cup on his tongue, but he dove in for a second preventative lick anyway. Even though this was his best time of day (you know, when the rest of them would want to be asleep if it weren't for the adrenaline), Virgil loved his coffee around now. It wasn't like any of them had stable circadian rhythms anyway.
Virgil handed the unlicked cup over as he joined Scott, neither of them bothering to stop walking. He didn't ask any questions beyond dual arched eyebrows at the moderately stealthy way Scott slowed and pressed against the wall the closer they got to Gordon's door. He listened for all of half a second before ushering Virgil on toward Alan's room.
"No Gordon?"
"Either he's out cold or Kyrano's fallen asleep in there again."
Virgil licked his cup again. "I didn't think it was that bad."
"Neither did I, but with Alan in the itchy-to-get-back-to-work phase, he and Dad'll kill each other if Dad asks him one more time if he's okay. Dad needs to get rid of the energy somehow. It's Gordon's turn to suffer."
"Whatever we're doing this weekend, remind me to not get hurt. In fact, I nominate you. It's your turn."
Scott snorted. "Your protective nature is astounding me right now."
Virgil clapped him on the shoulder blade, all grins. "C'mon, buddy, time to take one for the team. Generals first."
"I'm asking Dad for a demotion in the morning. Private sounds damn good when you put it this way."
"Right, because you could so handle Alan or Gordon outranking you."
They passed through Alan's bedroom door, both laughing at the idea of Scott ever relinquishing true control of their team in the field simply to avoid a stint in Mollycoddling Hell with Dad. Alan glanced away from the screen to greet them, but the scowl on his face wasn't at all thrilled. It didn't take long to realize it wasn't directed at them, but it was enough to have them synchronously bringing their coffee mugs to their lips to hide their smiles. Scott slid his eyes toward Virgil, who shrugged and nodded sideways toward the foot of the bed. Scott dropped by the bookcase on the way so he could put his cup down. He had a feeling he didn't want to have anything hot or liquid within smashing distance.
John sighing "I realize that, Al, but — " from the screen only affirmed it. This wasn't going to end well, Scott could just tell.
"Then why can't we flat out call it what it is: ridiculous? You have a life to live, and so do I. We all do."
"I kind of think that's his point."
Alan dropped his chin with a grunt (also known as the I'm not a kid anymore whine), as if he thought John was agreeing with the he in the equation. And yet, Scott couldn't help but think he didn't look like a kid at all, not the way his torso curled in under the weight of his still-recovering body when he wanted to be nothing less than recovered. He'd pushed himself too hard tonight, and it didn't look like he had any intention of stopping until he got the answer he wanted.
Virgil interrupted, because he was the one better suited to. He took the head of the bed, yanked the Royals baseball cap off Alan's head, and fit it over his own head, his hair be damned this close to sleep. He danced a jig back far enough that Alan (probably) wouldn't risk twinges to his lower back to chase him. When Alan pressed his head into his headboard, Virgil sat gingerly on the foot of the bed. "What's this?"
"Your father," Alan emphasized the your with a growl, "is a paranoid lunatic."
Without a word, Scott closed the bedroom door. He stood against it and crossed his arms over his chest. He had a feeling he wouldn't like what the two of them had to say, but he'd always guard their right to air whatever was on their minds. It wasn't like he'd never questioned Dad or his decisions before. Still, he wasn't so sure if he was keeping Dad out or secrets in, and that bothered him.
Virgil grabbed Alan's foot and squeezed. "What's wrong?"
Alan waved at the screen for John to see. He was either too mad or too smart to know that if he said it the wrong way he wouldn't have anyone on his side. Smart or chickenshit, they'd have to wait and see.
John sounded like he was holding back himself as he explained, "We're coming up on Moving Day, and Alan has decided this time he wants to pick a fight with Dad about it instead of just throwing a tantrum."
Alan gave John a thrusted middle finger, but he didn't say anything, which meant that, yeah, that pretty much was the truth of it. Scott narrowed his eyes as Virgil turned to look at him with the same HUH? that must have been on his face. But then something popped over Virgil's head, a lightbulb bursting to drop shards of glass in his coffee. His face shadowed as he muttered something that sounded like "Gordon, sonofabitch".
Scott leaned harder into the door as if that could keep even the shadow of mutiny from escaping. "And Moving Day would be what, exactly?"
"Sometime in the next few days, The Hood will be moved from his deep, dark hole in the ground to a different deep, dark hole in the ground." John tossed a pen or something on his desk, the click-roll the only but glaring outward sign that he was just as frustrated or angry as Alan. Damn. Not good.
"Hence our weekend off from actually doing our jobs," Alan added, sounding truly disgusted. "Or have you never noticed how Dad starts taking all kinds of clandestine phone calls in the days leading up to, surprise!, mandatory fun? And then, while we're putting on a show for the press without knowing we're doing it or why, we're supposed to do it without noticing the guys with ear pieces that talk incessantly into their wrists while they shadow us until we're back on the plane home? Oh yeah, it's a big operation, and we're just the suckers who keep doing it over and over, you know, like the addiction counselors all tell you not to do. The man is insane and stupidly addicted to his paranoia. I've had it."
Well, then. That definitely wasn't what Scott had expected.
Nightmares never ending, indeed.
Virgil quietly turned to head out the door. "I'm getting Gordon."
"Let him sleep," John said at the same time Alan waved him off with "He already knows."
"Oh, yeah, I know he knows. Which is why I'm wondering why we," Virgil fanned a snappy wrist between himself and Scott, "didn't. Alan? He said this was all you."
"Yeah, he told me he thought he might've said something. To be fair, he was a little loopy with rebar rust at the time."
"Not funny."
"Sorry." Alan rubbed his hand over the back of his head and avoided Scott's gaze, which meant he was nervous. Yep, the kid knew they'd be having a little reminder chat about secrets. "Leave Gordon alone, okay? He didn't know anything I wasn't ready to tell anybody then anyway, only that I had started calling it Moving Day. He didn't know know. I needed another round or two to be sure."
This time, the lightbulb shattered into Scott's mug. "Like, how long ago was this? Nine months ago, when you and I went to the farm? Is this — ?"
"Yeah, it's that." Alan's smile wasn't nearly as See, I told you I'd tell you eventually as it was Forgive me? "Just, please, listen?"
Virgil cooly took up sentry at the door, shoving Scott toward Alan's side to set up multiple physical lines of defense, as if Alan's confession needed synchronized key turns and retinal scans. That, and maybe to keep Scott from storming off if he lost it enough to quit listening.
His voice was the epitome of calm as Virgil asked (much nicer than Scott would), "How long, Al?"
"For Gordon? I didn't want to freak him out. The Hood isn't his happiest subject either, and I thought I could handle it. He's only known since the last time."
"How long for you?"
"Six years."
"Six — Damn it, kid." Virgil closed his eyes.
Scott's eyes went red.
He wished he could have Virgil's patience for these brother things sometimes. He listened the way John did, hardly a proactive twitch in his body until he was actually needed for advice, smackdown, or whatever. Scott, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to fix the problem, whatever that problem was, sometimes before he got all the information. Was it a flaw? Sure, he supposed, but his inability to dawdle over details often kept their collective ass out of the fire, so he couldn't regret it too much.
Ever the peacekeeper, all Virg had to do was say his name. "Scott."
"All you have to do is listen," Alan reminded him. "You can yell at me later."
Oh, there would be yelling, all right.
On a nod from Virgil for him to sit, though, Scott knew he'd keep his counsel for as long as he could. It didn't make much sense to his natural order of things, but when it came to talking about The Hood, he let Alan run the show. Even after nearly eight years, Scott knew he still hadn't heard everything that had happened that awful day. Who was he to decide how Alan or any of them should behave about him?
Still, he probably should sit on his hands and make sure Virgil hip-checked him if he tried anything.
"All right." He gave both Alan and John his best This is the big brother stuff I trained for look. "I'm listening."
*
(Jeff)
It was late as all hell, but come Chime One, Jeff's internal adrenaline pump went to work. He spun in the swivel wingback chair toward the bank of monitors in the closet he'd repurposed as a private office in his bedroom suite. He'd rather be taking the call from his IR office, where he didn't feel like he was hiding in a jazzed up panic room or something, but his Dad-sense was tingling. At least one of the boys was still up and running around. Better safe than sorry with this call.
Eyes bright, smiles on. Showtime.
"Talk to me."
"Jeff, my friend, you really should've come with me all those years ago instead of doing this saving the world from itself thing. The fun alone, man, and you can't tell me you don't miss playing with a little heavy artillery now and then. You're missing out. Two words: Mo-damn-jito."
He knew it was an act, but the smile that greeted him was damn good to put him in the moment, even if he knew, for one thing, Court Ryland wouldn't touch a mojito with a ten foot bendy straw. He certainly wouldn't call Jeff dressed in some Tommy Bahama get up if he thought there would be pictures for future blackmail. These calls were on the most secure line either of their best tech people could set up, and even then they were never recorded. But this? Was that? Yeah, that was Fiona flitting around in the background with a rather attractive young man with his tongue in her ear. Wow. They were having a helluva night. Things must have gone well.
Of course, Jeff knew better than to get his hopes up. They were all still working, and that meant the adrenaline could be lying. God knew they were.
Try as he might, Surfer Bum couldn't get anywhere close to Fiona's other ear, the one with an earpiece patching her and everybody else on the team into this call. Jeff almost felt sorry for the guy, knowing he was Fiona's prop for the duration of the op, but he figured Surfer Boy would be paid well enough. It was distasteful to have to do it, but covert ops had its moments that made an operative not like herself very much. Jeff owed her a nice dinner for this.
But there'd be time for that later. For now, Jeff lazed in his chair and groaned, "Tell me that shirt happened because you lost a bet."
"Oh, come on." Ryland saluted Jeff with a rather tall mojito glass with the logo of the bar — Carlito's, an old favorite — frosted on the glass. "You know you want to. Bring the kiddies. We've got the whole floor of the hotel for the next week. The more, the merrier. We can celebrate, I don't know, life? Women? The fact I can pull this shirt off when you can't? Where's your sense of adventure, old man?"
"Old man?" Jeff had to laugh, even if Court was laying it on a little thick. Anyone listening in, anyone who had ever known them back in their wilder military days pre-NASA would think it like every other public conversation they'd ever had. Hell, they probably had had this conversation to some extent more than a few times in their younger days.
"Hey, you're the one who got into the wrong business. Mine keeps me young. Women love me young."
"All four of your ex-wives have said so, yes. I take it you got your man back today?"
"It was a beautiful operation. One of my best, truly. You shoulda been there. I even snatched up an extra hostage for another group. Led me straight to my guy and then some."
Jeff carefully schooled his expression to something he'd use in the board room because, if he didn't, the entire act would be blown. "That'll be a nice payday."
"Hence the party. You know Fiona; that much adrenaline makes her cranky until you get a couple drinks in her. Fun times. Even your own mother would've loved it."
Even though Jeff couldn't see her anywhere in the background anymore, Fiona still listened in enough to say over the channel, "That's because his mom loves me more than him. She told me so this morning when I got to town."
Court snorted around his barely sipped drink. "Are you kidding? Everybody in that family loves me more than either of you put together. Mama T, the junior brain, even Alan's girlfriend. I'm lovable."
"You're psychotic," Jeff countered. "And blinding me. Fiona, buy the man a new shirt."
Fiona's light laughter didn't cover Court's challenge. "Why don't you and your own genetically engineered hockey team fly on in and say that to my face? When I drop your old man ass in the middle of the Everglades without a map or flashlight, then we'll see who loves me. Besides, the hot dog loves my shirt."
"Yes, well, I never said he got his taste in clothing from my DNA."
"That mailman was sure busy."
Jeff knuckled his chin, surprising himself by actually thinking on Court's offer a bit, and not just for the benefit of electronic ears. "Mojitos, huh?"
"Eh, I can't promise Fiona will leave any alcohol in the bar by the time you get here, but — "
"I give you thirty-six hours, but after that, it's all mine," Fiona piped up, sounding a lot more sober than she'd looked while tripping around the bar. No one else would notice, but she did it for Jeff's benefit. It was no secret he needed constant reminders of who he could trust when these jobs went down. Fiona was good. He had to give her that.
"My boys would drink you under the table, kid."
"I'd love to see them try."
Court got this evil gleam to his eyes, one Jeff remembered all too well. It usually meant they were about to get their asses kicked in a bar brawl, outnumbered way-the-hell-too-many to one, but it had admittedly been a blast when they were kids. "You worried, Tracy?"
"You've met my kids. Trouble finds them."
Fiona's voice feigned devastated shock. "I never get them in trouble. I'm an angel compared to them."
Court added, "One of these days, I'm going to take that personally."
"You know what? You're on." Jeff nodded at the screen. Maybe he could use a blast these days. Alan was always telling him it was time to get himself a life before he was too old to have one. "Thanks for the invite. I'll call when we've landed."
Neither Court nor Fiona bothered to sign off the call with anything but a holler at the other patrons of the bar, who all whooped something unintelligible back. As soon as the screen went dark, Jeff sat back in his chair with his head pressed into the headrest. He wished that call could've been even close to that much fun. Someday he'd have to spend some time with Court and his team for real, only to enjoy each other's company without any threat more violent than one of their K&R rescues (you know, fun with guns) looming over their heads. It had been far too long.
Still, Court had everything under control. His team was in place to move The Hood from the current facility to another equally untraceable concrete box in the ground. Other trusted members of his team had eyes on Mother, Fermat, Brains, and Tin-Tin. A hotel was secured for his boys as soon as he could convince them Miami was where they wanted to be for the weekend. He'd had some sort of glitch with an inside man of some kind, something involving and/or targeting Gordon, but he had it under control. Court always had his operations under control. You didn't get to be the best security firm in the world being anything less than perfect.
Jeff had given him the green light. Go go go. Rah.
Miami, huh? It shouldn't be too hard to convince the boys of that. They'd spent too many of their Lost Weekends in Podunk lately anyway.
(End Part One)
