Gordon sits on the couch, alone, and doesn't breathe.
Sometimes people move too fast or speak too quickly and he doesn't quite get things. So, he'll hold his breath and let the world stop. Let his mind wake, let his eyes look, let the sound in his ears fade out to the rhythm of a single heartbeat.
Badum.
It's a moment purely for him, a brief space between reality and dream, until he'll exhale and everything will move again.
It was the day before the 'chemistry test of hell' that Scott taught him how to do it - back when Scott was learning how to fly, and Gordon was still taking high school chemistry. Their designated slot to meet was Wednesday afternoons in the library café. Not because it forced Gordon to study, but because John worked part-time downstairs and got a sweet staff discount.
"Just don't overthink. Breath in, hold it for a moment, and read the first question. You've got this." Scott did the typical 'lift one shoulder as though I'm not giving good advice' shrug. He looked tired, which would explain the second coffee he was chugging through. Maybe Gordon should have asked why. He just assumed anyone juggling air force training and constant meetings with their father, would be tired. "It's what I do."
"But if I fail, I have to retake the whole year! I can't go back to learning about hydrogen and oxygen, Scott, I might die. John said his whole grade average lowered because of this test, and Virgil almost burnt his eyebrows off. Dad doesn't have much confidence in me either, I mean, he said I'd be too busy making pretty colours in the test tubes, but that's still science—"
"Woah, okay, slow down." Scott shoved the plate with his left-over cake in Gordon's direction. "John doesn't know what low grades look like, and Virg didn't even take Chemistry. Don't let them get to you. You'll be fine."
"You think so?"
"Really." Scott gave that gruff laugh and leaned back in his chair, looking timeless in his favoured black jacket—even if it had a couple of holes. It was nice, having him home. After the first year they shared of high school, Scott was off, out into the real world, with no obligation to those he left behind whatsoever. But he stuck around, so Wednesday afternoons were a little bit like magic, even if all Scott did was tell Gordon to breathe.
Gordon's inhaling now and, even though it feels like his lungs might burst, it's still and silent and he can think. The kitchen table is empty, but if he closes his eyes, he can see them all, splintered off in different directions like the thread of a spider's web, threatening to snap with the slightest tug.
Up through the stars, John's on Five. Through the earth, Alan's in the hangar with Brains. Across the ocean, Virgil's halfway home and Scott—
"Scott's not back yet?"
Scott's not back yet.
Gordon exhales sharply and, like a rubber band that's been stretched too far, time pings back with a snap. Sound floods Gordon's ears and his eyes shutter open, blurry.
John hovers, there but not there, before Gordon's eyes.
"Nah," Gordon waves a hand. He's fine. He can take care of himself. "Probably gone for a bit of a joyride, right? Visiting a secret girlfriend? Buying birthday presents?"
"Hmm," John frowns and hovers and hovers and frowns.
All while having his coms switched off. Say it, John. It's not good.
"His fuel won't last much longer," says John. His hands pause. He doesn't breathe. Gordon wonders if the world stops for him too. "He'll have to come home eventually."
Somedays, Scott Tracy is a storm.
A muddle of tumultuous clouds, lashes of lightning, a force to be reckoned with. Gordon's seen it before, the sky turning black in Scott's eyes, ground trembling with his words.
He remembers it happening outside school, once, after someone insulted Alan. If Virgil or John were there, they might have calmed him down. If Gordon were a little braver, he would have too. But he'd dispersed into the crowd and pretended not to notice, pretended not to hear the whispers around him, that's why no one messes with any of them.
Gordon was a little scared, but not of the storm. More the idea that the clouds would eat his brother whole.
"He said he was heading home." The spider web thread shimmers as Virgil's voice makes ripples in the air. His hologram leaps up next to John's. "As long as you can still see him flying, I wouldn't worry."
"Not worried," John says. "Just pissed he switched me out."
Some people can come home after work, turn off the ignition in the car, and just sit.
They sink, soak up all the bad things that happened that day at the office – grumpy customers? Angry boss? No milk in the staff fridge? – shed it off in the car and sigh big, dramatic sighs. They give themselves a few more moments of silence, of in-between time, before they must walk through the door with a smile and no baggage from the day.
International Rescue don't get to do that very often. They drag their tired feet upstairs and go over every detail of what they did wrong or could have done better – because hey, people's lives are at stake. Gordon gets that.
He also gets why his oldest brother shuts them off and flies in circles for an hour. It's his version of shedding rescue-baggage. Gordon only wishes sometimes Scott would share that, so Gordon doesn't feel as – unworthy? guilty? crazy?– fragile, when he can no longer contain his.
Gordon sat at a library table, alone, and didn't breathe.
He'd been waiting on Scott for almost half an hour after school, even texted a couple of times, but there was no answer. He'd ordered two black coffees, no sugar, since that was the way Scott liked it. It was about time Gordon started liking coffee too, but it tasted how he imagined coal would taste.
Scott said once that he was a bit like black coffee, bitter and strong. Gordon liked him a whole lot better than the drink but could see the similarities.
It wasn't until the cups were cold and Gordon was halfway through his homework that he finally got company. Only it wasn't broad shoulders, but John's lithe figure that sat down next to him. "Sorry, I had to help a lady find a truckload of books, only to discover she didn't even have her library card." John laughed and shook his head, before reaching for one of the coffees. Not caring that it was cold, he took a long sip. "The badge reads 'happy to help' and that is very much a lie—"
"John?" Gordon put down his pen, noting the colour in his brother's cheeks, the dart of his eyes. "Is Scott okay?"
"Yeah, of course. He just got caught up in something. Said to say sorry, but you get second best today..." John trailed a little as he checked his phone, three texts lighting up the screen in a quick string of buzzes. "I've got a break due anyway. You want any food? Or some…some…"
The phone buzzed again. Gordon could see Dad's name.
"No, thanks." Gordon shuffled his worksheets back into his book. "I just wanted to tell him that I…passed my chemistry."
"Oh, nice," Gordon loves John, but he does not love the way his voice lifts an octave when he's responding to social cues and not listening. "That's great, Gordo really. We should celebrate. Just…give me a second—"
"John, what's wrong?" Because there was clearly something wrong for Scott not to respond to Gordon at all, for John to be like that and expect Gordon not to notice.
"Nothing. Really." John shut off his phone, placed one hand across the other, and looked at Gordon with renewed interest that was both genuine and unnecessary. "Seriously, Virg just thinks he needs my help for an assignment, you know how he gets. Tell me about your test."
Gordon believed him.
Well, maybe he didn't really, maybe he just wanted to talk.
He said okay, shook off his frustration and dived into babble about how the test went, about school, about friends, about the girl from third period with the bobbles in her hair. Gordon didn't see the invisible line, a break between younger and older, between experienced and inexperienced.
He thought about it when he went home, but he didn't think about why Scott might not have shown up, or the phone, or why John answered it as soon as Gordon got up to leave.
He'd only thought about how he was left alone.
As much as Gordon wanted to be like Scott back then, that was their fundamental difference. When Scott thought of others, Gordon thought of himself, and he hoped it had everything to do with being young.
Much later he'd find out Scott had been for his first test run in Thunderbird One, and it hadn't gone so well. Gordon had been worrying about cold coffee while Scott was about to die, and his father wondered why he had trust issues.
"It must have been pretty bad?" John says when he checks back in. The sun is fading and there's no sign of Scott, though Virgil's just pulling into the hangar.
"What do you mean?" Gordon asks, wary of tugging too hard, of losing grip on all his threads. "Did something happen? At the rescue?"
"Oh," Virgil and John share holographic glance. It's an oh that says, that's right, you're still there, you're still young, even though Gordon's been facing sea quakes and giant lizards and maniacal villains for over two years. Virgil's words soften, but the thread still blows gently. "No, nothing too bad Gordo. Just a near miss, is all."
Now there's a thread around Gordon, only it's circular. It's tying his limbs to his body, it's keeping the others away, because Virgil just did exactly what he hates. He wants to protect Gordon too, but maybe Gordon doesn't want to be protected.
"Scott's a big boy," John says, and there's half a smile that says take this and believe it, Gordon. "He can take care of himself."
Somedays, Scott Tracy is a storm. A muddle of tumultuous clouds, lashes of lightning, a force to be reckoned with. But other days, Scott is a sunset, the tired light of the sky as it dipped into dusk.
Gordon found him once, after a rescue. Nobody told him what had happened during it, but the twist in Dad's face and Virgil's tired eyes told him a lot more than they would ever say. For people whose job relies on communication, they sure suck at it once the rescue stops.
Scott sat on the shoreline of Gordon's beach, an unlit cigarette between two shaking fingers.
Gordon didn't know what to do. Finding his big brother by the side of creeping tide trying not to cry wasn't really part of his skillset. But he didn't want to leave, so he sat, and took the cigarette from Scott's hands. "I think you're actually supposed to light it for it to work."
"I'm trying to quit." Scott said, voice cracking – like lightning? No, like the branch beneath a bird as it launched into flight. The sun melted onto his empty hands, and he looked at them, cold.
"I know." Gordon hummed. "You chew a lot of gum."
"You noticed."
"Yeah. Have you been here the whole time?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know."
"That's okay," Gordon said. "It's okay not to know."
If a tear melted with the sunset and ran down lifelines, Gordon pretended not to notice. He just sat and babbled about the ocean and the sky, about himself and Alan, about trivia and the trivial.
He didn't ask Scott what happened, and they never mentioned the moment to one another again. And why push it? Because Scott was a storm, wasn't he? He could take anything the world threw at him and hurl it back like a hurricane.
"He can take care of himself."
Yeah John, but maybe sometimes, he shouldn't have to. Gordon doesn't say that. Because shit communicators, remember? But he does screw up his fists and glare at the hologram version of his brother. "Maybe we should go after him."
"He'll be back before you've even left the bay," John says with a sigh. It's not meant to be unkind, and it reminds Gordon of those texts from Dad in the library, reminds him that John's dealt with this before.
Sure enough, Thunderbird One arrives back before dinner, and Scott's all smiles and jokes, smeared with smoke and grease and sweat. They eat outside in the cooling air, then Virgil heads to bed early, and Alan quickly follows – he's up early for another training course with Brains, poor kid.
It falls quiet. Scott pours himself a drink and Gordon doesn't breathe.
Destiny has a strange taste, for Gordon it is not unlike saltwater, and for Scott, he imagines, it is the fumes of Thunderbird One. Both know they'll probably die amongst the things they love, so they confront the taste of destiny more often than most.
But they will not die today, that's what's important, and probably not tomorrow.
What happened?
Can Gordon ask that? What would Scott take from it? What happened at the rescue? To Scott? To youth? To high school? To Wednesday afternoons where worries about chemistry were the biggest worry of all? Gordon almost lets the question go, almost lets curiosity get the better of him, but Scott gets there first.
"Tell me about your day." Ice chinks in his glass as he swirls it. Gordon can hear moonlight in the water of the pool lapping, feel stars in the pricks of midges that bite at his exposed skin.
"What?"
"Tell me about your day." Scott says, raising his eyes above the glass. "Your week. Are you happy?"
It's odd, for Scott to think about that now, but empathy doesn't just die when a person gets sad. And Scott Is sad, or angry, or something. Gordon can see the storm swirling behind his eyes – he knows all too well what it's like to mask feelings with a smile.
"No, I won't." Gordon shakes his head. As much as he'd like to fall into that trap, to babble mindlessly about himself and let them both escape for a while, he knows now what needs to be said. "Tell me about yours."