A/N: Yes, another new fic, I know, but this is a well-overdue birthday pressie for a friend of mine. Original Verse fic, but does technically fit in my movie-verse fic list as well. Read it how you will. Happy belated birthday Sam1, hope you like this. Both Pride Goeth and Fulcrum will be up as soon as I can wrangle both Johns into behaving, honestly, he's a pest and a half! Xx
Thunderbirds is not owned by me, and it never will, unfortunately. I only write this stuff for my own entertainment and hopefully yours, so no copyright infringements intended and all that. Enjoy all.
His knuckles tighten on the parallel bars, fighting back tears as he forces his legs to take his weight. Braces still encase them from knees to ankles, a magnetised belt around his waist and lower back supporting his damaged spine through the stress being put on it.
He's out of hospital, he damn well walked out of that building, like he swore to God and Heaven that he would - he'd told his father and his brothers that he'd prove it to the so-called doctors who said he wouldn't ever again - but that was five steps from the wheelchair to the car, just to tell the press to take their misinformed information and shove it up their hineys. Much as he knows that was one of the defining moments of his recovery, that it gave him an immeasurable boost of self-confidence, the real work began at home.
Gordon knows that he wants this so badly that he feels literally sick with anticipation, but those five assisted steps to the car are nothing to the thought of being upright and strong and moving under his own steam; without braces, without crutches, without the damned Zimmer frame and wheelchair. He's going to be scarred, he's going to be pain-ridden for probably the rest of his life now, but at the moment, his focus is just getting to the point where he'll finally be able to walk under his own power, unaided and free for the first time in over four months.
The burn in his muscles and bones is eating at him, feeling like they've been twisted into sailor's knots and then torn loose, lines of fire searing up his calves and bolts of lightning exploding in his knees and hips as he grits his teeth, fiercely clinging to the wooden bars on either side of his torso. Sweat streams down his forehead and the back of his neck and down his shoulders, hot and itchy, but he wills it away, determinedly lifting each of his feet alternately, and agonisingly slowly, moving them forwards to inch himself one step closer to the end of the run. He swallows harshly, and pauses, gasping for breath, nails digging desperately into the wood, fighting for equilibrium as his legs shake painfully. He gulps back the hard, unforgiving lump in his throat, the tears pricking at his eyes. He knows he's not even half-way, and it damn well sucks.
"Gordon," John's voice comes from behind him as his brother murmurs into his ear, the older man's hands hooked firmly into the harness, ready to take Gordon's weight should he have trouble catching his balance. "If you're too tired, we can come back to it in an hour or two. You don't want to hurt yourself." Not when you've come so far already. Gordon hears him add silently.
Tiredness and exhaustion, not easy to define for Gordon on anything resembling a reasonable level right now, hits him with no warning. The toe of his shoe catches itself on the smooth floor of the gym as he goes to lift his left foot - and because his nerves are still raw and oversensitive on a general basis and they refuse to acknowledge that a foot has to be able to feel the ground before it can lift and take a step - with the imbalance of weight, his right leg suddenly crumples beneath him like aluminium foil. As his weakened limbs let out a series of painful spasms, pins and needles suddenly radiating out from all points of contact, the loss of stability, tenuous and often out-of-reach as it is, sends him crashing sideways with a yell and a gut-lurching swoop of fear.
He far from expects it to happen, even though John is right here behind him - because duh, falling - but Gordon comes to an abrupt halt in almost-splat, an arm wrapping strongly around his chest, his brother's other hand still using the goddamned harness to stop him from taking them both to the floor. He doesn't want to deal with them, but right now, even as John lowers them both to the hardwood properly, careful not to smack either of them senseless in contact with the evil thing above their heads, Gordon finds himself choking out a hoarse scream of mingled fury and pain, even as his brother pulls him snugly against his chest, gently manipulating Gordon's useless legs into a position that won't let them cramp up, thank Neptune.
Gordon curls in on himself, grief and anger boiling up and out as tears erupt, howling as he grips his brother's arms, trying to contain the humiliation, the pain and the overwhelming sense of fury that overtakes him. It's not that friggin' hard. It's not! It's walking thirty steps, for crying out loud. Only to him, it is.
John makes a soothing noise in his ear, weirdly enough for the least tactile of Gordon's brothers, and the blond strokes his sweat-damp hair back, getting him to sit up tall between the bars, still bundling him tightly, as though he can hold Gordon together with just his sheer force of will. Most of Gordon himself is consumed with the sudden, unexpected release of his wayward emotions - so utterly unusual for the normally happy-go-lucky young man that Gordon cannot identify with it, even through everything he has gone through - but the part of him that is listening to his brother's soft, firm reassurances recognises that John is here and willing to help. All of his family are. All he has to do is getting his stutter-choke breathing back under control again, and then everything will be just peachy.
"Take a breath, Gords." John orders firmly, and that's a shock in itself, because John at least normally uses his manners when he asks him to do something, but Gordon can sense that something in his tone is different, and even more oddly, he can tell that the difference is not intended to be offensive. It's reassuring that Gordon can still tell that, even through this. "Just breathe, Little Brother, it's not the end of the world. You got half-way. That's enough for the moment. We'll come back to it, just not right now. One step at a time."
Gordon breathes, like he's been ordered (orders must be obeyed, after all) nodding as he closes his eyes, because John is right, literally. Using his meditation techniques to calm himself, as the jagged pain in his body recedes to a dull roar, he lifts his clumsy, tension-locked hands to wipe away the hot tears, gulping through the anxiety, the fear, the doubts, even as they continue to flare - as out of control as a wildfire. There's always next time, there's always another try, he berates himself silently, even as he glares down the six feet of parallel run that he is yet to tackle in its entirety. He just wishes it was now, rather than any-time-in-the-future.
He will do it, one day soon, because out of the many things that the young man knows that can be said about him, Gordon Tracy is not a quitter. He might not be able to physically stand on his own right now, but he won't let this tear him down. Out of the ashes and into the flames, Tracy. Rest, recuperate, and then damn well get on with it.