A/N: I don't know. This has just been going through my head for a while now and I felt now would be the time to write it. It isn't even long enough to be a story, it's just a… a thing. I don't know what the technical term is. It's longer than a drabble and shorter than a vignette (which I always thought was a salad dressing – who knew?!), I think. It's just a thing. I watched Operation Crash Dive again this morning and am still reeling from Gordon's unbridled manliness. This.. thing… has no plot and no purpose. I just thought I would. After all, as my Dad takes great pleasure in telling me, there is nothing in the world more quintessentially masculine than the act of shaving one's face.
Dedicated to Teobi, who totally understands my stubble fixation.
Disclaimer: I still don't own Thunderbirds but I do so love borrowing Gordon. I'll borrow another brother next time, I promise. Even if I do have the most fun with Gordon. Especially when he's varying degrees of naked.
Stubble
If there was one thing Gordon didn't miss about the world of swimming, it was waxing. He remembered threatening to tickle a beautician to death after she'd become a little overzealous while engaged in the task of waxing his chest. In her defence, she'd been a little distracted by his chest in the first place and hadn't realised how often - or thoroughly - she'd smoothed the wax strip down. To say that it hurt was something of an understatement. He was convinced he'd lost two or three layers of skin in the ordeal. There was a horrible, sore, red stripe down the middle of his perfectly sculpted torso for two weeks afterwards. As if that wasn't painful enough, he had then had to immerse his entire body, after it having been waxed to oblivion, into a chlorine infused swimming pool. His entire swimming career appeared to have been one constant tirade of itching, regrowth and a very uncomfortable stinging sensation all over his body.
Shaving, he thought to himself as he looked in the bathroom mirror, a clean white towel firmly girding his hips, was different. Shaving was man's work. A tough, macho guy - or even John - fearlessly dragging cold steel across his throat before his first coffee of the day. That required skills. Mad skills. Shaving was what separated men from boys. And girls too, he hoped.
Gordon was quite lucky in that he didn't actually need to shave every day. Not like Scott, who shaved at breakfast time and had five o'clock shadow by ten-thirty. Scott, Gordon thought to himself as he squeezed shaving gel onto his fingertips, was probably sponsored by Gilette.
"Listen, fellas," he began in a thick New York accent, pretending to be some business executive in attendance at one of Gilette's advertising meetings. "We need to add another blade to our razor heads. Scott Tracy still shaves twice a day. If we can get that walking shagpile looking smooth for an hour, guys, we can do anything! Ten blades, no bullshit!" he declared, pointing aggressively at the mirror.
He chuckled to himself and smoothed shaving gel across his face. "You're not destined for a life in advertising, Gee Cooper Tee," he told himself with a grin.
He remembered when he was young being absolutely fascinated by the movie Home Alone - he must have seen it about three million times. His dream was to be Kevin McCallister when he grew up. One night, when his father was out of town on business and his brothers were busy doing homework or seeing girls or doing whatever it was big brothers did after Alan had gone to bed, six-year-old Gordon had sneaked into his father's room and proceeded to re-create the scene where Kevin put his dad's aftershave on and screamed. He was sure that nothing on earth could possibly be painful enough to invoke that sort of reaction, as he cheerfully poured a small amount of Old Spice into his cupped palm before rubbing his hands together.
The moment his hands came into contact with his cheeks, he knew that he had made a terrible mistake.
The pain was unbearable. He tried his best not to scream. He didn't want anyone rushing in and finding him writhing around the floor in agony, his Perry the Platypus pyjamas askew. He growled, he ground his teeth and clenched his fists, he breathed quickly through his nose and panted through his gritted teeth as he flapped his little hands in front of his face, desperate to get some soothing cool air onto his cheeks. He used words he didn't even know he'd learned and certainly one or two that his grandmother would never have approved of.
Eventually he staggered into his father's en-suite bathroom, turned on the cold tap in the basin and filled it three-quarters full with cold water - hopping from foot to foot as he tried to not scream in pain. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged his head into the basin and let out a sigh of relief as the cold water instantly soothed the burning sensation on his face.
"Gordon?" a voice had asked, sounding more confused than angry. Gordon immediately resurfaced, took a few deep breaths and turned to give his grandmother a winning smile.
"Grandma! Great to see you!" he told her, snapping his fingers and pointing at her as he threw her a cheeky wink.
"What are you doing?" his grandmother asked, frowning slightly.
Gordon paused for a moment, not sure how best to answer her perfectly logical question.
"Me?" he asked, looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes. His grandmother tilted her head to one side and folded her arms.
"Yes, you," she answered, firmly. "Don't stall for time with me, young man - don't forget, I raised your father!"
"I'm not stalling! Hah! What made you think that? I was, y'know. I was just seeing what it was like to be a fish," he told her, matter of factly, shrugging his shoulders.
"Oh really? Well then, young man, if you want to know what it's like to be a fish so much, I'll take you down to the local swimming pool tomorrow and see if we can get you signed up for some lessons. Maybe tiring yourself out in the water will make you realise that it's not always easy being a fish!" she decided.
"Really? Gee! Thanks, Grandma!" Gordon replied, enthusiastically, running over to hug her tightly and completely forgetting that his head and face were soaking wet. "You're the best!"
"I know, kiddo," she answered, hugging him back. She crouched down to his eye level and gave him a knowing look. "That aftershave stings pretty bad, doesn't it?" she asked, a grin playing on her lips and her eyes twinkling. Gordon blushed and nodded.
"No wonder Dad's always in a bad mood if he has to put that on his face every day!" he answered, seriously. His grandmother had chuckled and sent him to bed with no further argument.
Gordon laughed to himself at the memory. "The woman knows everything!" he muttered as he dragged the blade under his chin towards his lower lip. He still hated aftershave, just the smell of it was enough to make him break out in hives. He paused and pursed his lips in reflection. Macaulay Culkin may have been the subject of some bad press when he got older – but if it wasn't for him, Gordon may have never discovered his love for swimming in the first place.
"What a guy," he mumbled, nodding reverently.
He rinsed the remnants of shaving gel from his face and patted himself dry with a towel. He studied his face closely, making sure he hadn't missed a spot - he still laughed hysterically at the memory of Alan's brief flirtation with facial hair. Of all the fashion disasters that had ever befallen his younger brother, a moustache was possibly the worst-advised of all. Thankfully it only lasted for two weeks and quickly vanished, never to be spoken of again, after Tin-Tin had asked him if he'd like a saucer of milk for the gerbil above his lip.
After thoroughly moisturising his face and neck, he gave himself one last look in the mirror. He grinned and shot himself a brief wink.
"Go get 'em, big guy!" he told himself encouragingly as he finally left the bathroom. He stood with his hands on his hips looking at the mess around him and sighed. He would never be able to keep his room as fastidiously clean as John or Scott did - but sometimes he thought he might get ready a little faster of a morning if he could only remember where he'd left his jeans the night before...