A/N: When I decided to return to fanfic and repost my favourite stories - this was the first one I thought of. I offer no apology for what you are about to read, I had an absolutely fabulous time writing it and I don't think that's anything to be ashamed of. It may not be perfect, but if it makes you laugh then it's done its job.
In the interests of full disclosure, I would like to prewarn anyone who is a bit squeamish, or who can't bear the thought of anything bad happening to any of the Tracy boys, or even just the die-hard Alan fans amongst us (and there's nothing to be ashamed of there either, if you're that way inclined!) - please stop reading immediately. Please. I honestly won't be offended if you do - but if you don't, you might be offended, and that's never the intention with anything I write. I am genuinely all about the laughs and never about the nastiness.
Dedicated with much love to anyone else who's watched Move and You're Dead and found themselves yelling "Move, you bastard – MOVE!" Most especially to Teobi who gave me the courage to return to fanfic - and also, if ever she reads this, with love to Celandine Sandyman.
Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds, nor would I ever presume to. I have no qualms, however, about borrowing the boys and using them for my own unscrupulous purposes of mischief from time to time. I think Gordon still has teeth marks on his shoulder from one such brief loan spell...!
In Memoriam
Alan Tracy did not, as one might suppose, die a hero's death. He was not killed in a tragic accident while saving lives. He was not overcome, as he had hoped, in the throes of passion with his on-off girlfriend, Tin-Tin Kyrano. He wasn't even the runner-up in a wrestling match with a giant alligator, or fried on a collision course with the sun.
No, indeed. His death was caused entirely by a peanut.
The day had started normally enough. Alan had got up, got dressed in his favourite cowprint jacket, white trousers, and his favourite accessory, strapping his wristwatch to the belt of his white jeans, in a move of true individuality. He carefully backcombed his hair until his bouffant resembled that of Edward Cullen's biologically impossible lovechild, then doused himself with aftershave and gave himself one last, lingering look in the mirror before making his way to the living room.
The living room was unusually vacant. Normally, his father was sat at his desk, poring through seemingly endless reams of paperwork, his glasses sliding down his nose and him pausing every five minutes to push them back up. Tin-Tin would be floating around somewhere, smelling like vanilla and pretending that she didn't notice how the wiggle in her walk made all the Tracy boys look away quickly and blush momentarily. Not even the walking testosterone that is Scott was immune to it. Especially not when she was modelling one of her new swimsuits.
Speaking of Scott – he was usually in the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Not today, though. He listened carefully. He couldn't even hear Gordon in the pool. He walked out onto the patio, and to his shock, he didn't see Virgil lounging by the pool, cocktail in one hand and the latest copy of Kine magazine in the other.
Where WAS everybody?
He returned to the living room and decided that he'd see if anything interesting was on television. Fortunately, he quickly found a speedway race that was taking place somewhere in England, so he dashed into the kitchen to grab a snack, then returned to the living room in order to watch it.
The only thing he could find to snack on was a tub of dry roasted peanuts. They were his father's favourites, and there was always a huge supply in the cupboard. They were also the perfect snack food when watching any sporting event. This was a scientific fact. Scott had told him so. It had apparently taken a dedicated student of science many years of research to discover this. Scott never did tell Alan exactly who had carried out the research, but he did seem to know a great deal about Major League baseball between the years 2058 and 2062. This also seemed to coincide with the time Alan remembered that his eldest brother went through his 'Fat Elvis' phase.
Alan settled down into the couch opposite the television and opened the tub. He watched a few laps of the race and absentmindedly ploughed his way through half of the tub. Between the end of one race and the beginning of the next round, he felt a little restless and decided to do something to relieve the boredom. So, feeling a little adventurous, he took a peanut out of the tub, threw it in the air and attempted to catch it in his mouth.
Fail.
Never mind, he thought. There's still around half of the tub left.
He quickly got the hang of it. Memories suddenly came floating back to him of doing the self-same thing while watching Spider-Man 8 with Gordon years earlier. Their father warned them to be careful they didn't choke on them. Gordon had, moments later, pretended to choke to death on one, but couldn't keep a straight face long enough to be remotely convincing about it. As soon as Jeff yelled the words "Jesus Christ!" Gordon was in hysterics. He got grounded for a week.
Alan couldn't help but chuckle to himself at the memory as he threw another peanut in the air. He was just at the point of catching it when he was momentarily distracted by an unusually loud noise from the television. Instinctively, he drew a deep breath as he looked over – and the peanut got lodged in his throat. He tried to cough it up, but it was stuck fast.
He coughed, and he tried to breathe through his nose, and he spluttered, and he gasped, and he coughed, and then he panicked. He tried to call for help, but no sound above a feeble croak came out. As he looked around, he saw a heavy lamp on a nearby table, so he managed to stagger over to it and push it over. The lamp shattered into at least eighty thousand pieces as his eyes finally started to cloud over. He barely heard the footsteps running into the living room as he slid to the floor, his breathing becoming more and more shallow until finally it stopped completely.
"ALAN!" Tin-Tin screamed as she ran into the living room and saw him lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. She raced over to him, turned him over, checked for a pulse and discovered there was none. "Mr Tracy! Scott! HELP!" she yelled at the top of her voice. Tears started to roll down her cheeks and her eyeliner ran into the tears, which she realised probably wasn't her most attractive look.
"What in the world is going on here, Tin-Tin?" Jeff demanded as he burst into the living room. "What have you done?" he demanded, slightly bewildered at seeing an unconscious Alan with his face thrust into Tin-Tin's bosoms. They'd never done this in the living room… and asked for an audience…
"Tin-Tin, he's never going to breathe while you're smothering him with those things!" Scott grumbled as he pushed Tin-Tin aside to grab hold of Alan. "Alan! Alan, can you hear me?" he pleaded, raising his voice with concern. Tin-Tin fell backwards dramatically, and unfortunately her strappy top was unable to adequately contain her collision with the floor. Jeff screwed his eyes shut and let out a cry of panic.
"For Chrissake, Tin-Tin, will you put them away?" he ranted. "I've got an unconscious son to deal with, here!" he needlessly pointed out.
"Dad… he's… not unconscious," Scott interrupted him, quietly. Jeff frowned.
"Not unconscious? Well, what is he then? He's hardly doing a jitterbug around the living room!" he snapped. Scott gulped, took a breath and then looked up at his father.
"He's dead, Dad," he told him, seriously. Jeff glared at Tin-Tin angrily.
"My youngest son is dead, and you try to distract me by getting your ta-tas out?" he roared, gesticulating wildly in Alan's general direction. Tin-Tin promptly burst into tears. "Jesus!" he growled.
"Seriously, Dad – Alan's… well… he's dead," Scott repeated. He had been at the site of rescue operations in the past where breaking this sort of news to a family member was usually met with either hysteria or complete avoidance of the subject. He decided that Jeff was just avoiding the horror of the fact that he had lost his youngest son.
"He can't be dead, Scott. Who the hell's gonna pilot Thunderbird Three?" Jeff asked, as if the fact that Thunderbird Three was now devoid of an astronaut would make Alan miraculously leap up, fully recovered.
"Oh, Mr Tracy!" Tin-Tin sobbed, rushing over and cuddling into him. He was a little perturbed by the fact he could feel her bosoms pressing into his chest. If he was honest, he felt a little violated.
"Umm," he began, clearing his throat, hoping that someone would save him. He raised his hands to signify that he was decidedly not a party to Tin-Tin's excessively demonstrative behaviour.
"What's going on?" Gordon asked, rushing in. He wasn't surprised to see Tin-Tin in floods of tears, or Alan unconscious on the floor. "What's he done this time?" he inquired.
"He's dead," Scott replied, simply. Gordon laughed.
"Yeah, I pulled that stunt years ago! I got grounded for a week – remember, Dad?" he asked, punching his father playfully in the arm. "C'mon, Alan! Get up, stop fooling around!" he yelled, nudging Alan in the belly with his foot. Alan didn't move. Gordon frowned.
"He's… He's still dead," Scott told him, starting to get a little annoyed that nobody was listening to him.
"He's making a great show of it," Gordon commented, visibly impressed.
"Oh, Gordon!" Tin-Tin began, finally releasing her vice-like grip on Jeff - who let out a long sigh of relief. Scott rolled his eyes.
"Here we go again," he muttered. "Listen. Alan. Is. Dead. He isn't alive anymore. He's stopped breathing. His heart has stopped. There is no pulse. He's not with us. His soul's gone to a better place. He's dead. Gone. Finished. It's over. We're a man down! He's currently resting in peace! Or at least he would be resting if you'd stop shoving your tits in everyone's face, if you'd stop stressing about who's gonna relieve John in Thunderbird Five and if you'd stop thinking this is one big joke! It isn't! The boy is dead! Dee, Ee, Double Dee – dead! You got that?" he ranted.
Three pairs of eyes stared at him in reply.
"You spelled 'dead' wrong," Gordon pointed out. Scott narrowed his eyes and growled softly at Gordon. "Just an observation!" he added, holding his hands up.
"Oh, Gordon!" Tin-Tin repeated, rushing over to him and cuddling into him. Gordon was aware of the fact that Tin-Tin was now pressing her bosoms into his chest. He nodded, sagely.
"Don't worry, Tin-Tin. I'm here for you," he told her, kindly, holding her close to him. "I realise that you probably don't want to be alone tonight, so…"
"Oh, Gordon, would you?" she asked, as if the idea that one of the Tracys would keep her company that evening hadn't even crossed her mind. Gordon closed his eyes, his expression grave as he sighed and nodded.
"I think at a time like this, it wouldn't do any of us any good to be alone," he reasoned, his eyes gleaming. "After all, it's what Alan would have wanted," he added, glancing over at Scott as he stuck his tongue firmly inside his cheek. Scott rolled his eyes and buried his face in his hands.
"Yes. I'm sure it is," Tin-Tin replied fervently, clinging onto his hand tightly as they both practically skipped out of the room. Jeff looked at Scott, his brow furrowed.
"You're sure he's definitely dead?" he asked. Scott looked away from him and slammed the palm of his hand into his face.
"I admit I'm not a qualified medic, but I'm pretty sure, yeah," he answered, after counting to ten silently in his head. Jeff ran to his desk and pressed a button.
"Y-y-yes, Mr T-tracy?" a voice asked.
"Brains, we need you. Alan might be dead. We're not sure!" Jeff told him, urgently. Scott raised his eyes heavenward and shook his head in despair.
Moments later, Brains appeared and ran over to Alan.
"A-alan! N-n-no!" he stammered, running into a power-slide until he stopped still alongside Alan's prone body. Scott raised his eyebrows, impressed by Brains' move.
"What we want to know, Brains, is… is Alan dead?" Jeff asked, seriously. Brains looked down at Alan's lifeless body, then looked up at Jeff, then back to Alan, and back to Jeff again.
"Are you k-kidding me?" Brains demanded. Jeff shook his head.
"No. Are you positive he's dead?" Jeff asked.
"Mr T-tracy. I don't know if you're aware of what a d-dead b-body looks like – but if you aren't, well… just t-take a look at Alan," Brains replied.
"He is a very heavy sleeper, though," Jeff pointed out. Brains looked at Scott, who shrugged at him.
"He won't listen to me, either," Scott explained. Brains nodded.
"Ah. In d-d-denial," he realised.
"It's more than just a river in Egypt," Scott agreed.
"You're both just being too quiet around him, that's the problem," Jeff told them, shoving them both out of the way. "I'll show you. Alan? Alan? ALAN?" he shouted.
"Alan…Alan…Alan…Alan… Alan can you hear me?" the voice sounded louder and more urgent. Alan finally opened his eyes. He looked around and realised that he wasn't at home. He was still stood on the bridge. His grandmother had passed out minutes earlier. Soon it would be too late for either of them. If Scott and Virgil didn't get to them in time, the bridge would blow up completely.
"Oh. Sorry, Father… it's… it's this heat. I… thought it was too late," he explained.
"No, Alan, it isn't too late, just stay still. Stay awake. Your brothers will be there shortly," Jeff reassured him.
"It's so difficult, Father," Alan mumbled, starting to drift off again.
"Alan, NO! You stay awake. Listen to me. You have to keep talking," Jeff insisted, his face etched with worry.
"I don't think I can do it much longer, Father, I'm… my legs, they're so sore I can barely feel them," Alan protested weakly, his knees wobbling from the strain of being stood still for so long.
"I don't care if you can't feel your goddam feet! Alan, listen to me, stay still!" Jeff shouted.
It was too late. Alan's knees finally buckled and he instinctively put his foot forward to steady himself.
The only thing he could hear above the explosion and the roar of flames was his father's strangled cry of "No!" The force of the explosion made the ledge wobble so violently that Alan was flung from the ledge and began plummeting towards the flames below him. He suddenly became aware that the squealing sound he could hear was his own screaming, as the flames grew closer and closer, threatening to envelop and thoroughly destroy him…
He sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. The nightmares weren't getting easier as the days went on. Two deaths in one dream? If he were a superstitious man, he'd think there was something in that.
Shaking his head vigorously to try and get the images of his nightmare out of his head, he decided the best thing to do would be to get up and do something. Naturally, he was a Tracy, which meant that as soon as his eyes were open, he was hungry. He decided to head towards the kitchen and make himself something to eat.
Quietly, Alan tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. He took out the peanut butter, then a knife from the cutlery drawer, then finally opened a cupboard and took out a loaf of bread. He popped two slices of bread in the toaster and waited. He started drumming an arrhythmic beat on the kitchen worktop and whistling out of tune to himself, trying to display bravado as the images of his nightmares remained in the forefront of his memory. The bread was now starting to toast and smelled incredible. Warm and comforting. Just what he needed. He wondered if there was any milk left in the refrigerator.
To his joy, there was indeed milk in the refrigerator and, after he had poured a large glass out for himself, he heard the toast pop out of the toaster.
"Smells great!" he told himself as he took a slice of toast out. He slathered peanut butter over the toast and, knowing nobody was looking, licked the knife clean before he retrieved the other slice of toast. It was stuck. Alan had no intention of losing an entire slice of toast, so he pressed the button and tried to look down into the element to see if that had dislodged the toast. He saw that it hadn't.
"How am I going to get it out now?" he wondered.
Suddenly, his eyes rested on the knife next to the toaster. He smiled to himself.
"Bingo!" he muttered, picking the knife up and sticking it into the toaster…
THE END