Thunderbirds: A Collection
By The Lady Razorsharp
AN: These are little fics that are interesting in their own right, but don't fit anywhere else. This collection may act as a repository for things that may someday take off into a longer story, but mostly, these are just fun little exercises. Some are inspired by a photograph or a piece of art (see my tumblr account at ladyrazor underscore blog at tumblr dot com), and they are about the Thunderbirds universe in all three of its iterations (TOS, 2004 Movie, and Thunderbirds Are Go). Pairings will vary, and I'll warn for anything sexy or potentially triggering. Most of these also inhabit the same universe as the rest of my writing.
One: Cross Training
Alan has some hands-on experience rescuing the rescuer.
"It's not that different," Alan mutters to himself, climbing up into Thunderbird One. He drops hard into the command chair, feeling it adjust automatically to his height and weight so he can reach the controls. He glances overhead at the myriad of buttons and switches, already seeking out familiar patterns and locations of essential readouts, lining them up with his mental map of the controls of his beloved 'Three. A smile flits across his sooty face; his father must have anticipated this moment, where his sons would need to stand in for each other at a moments' notice.
"It's not that different," he keeps repeating to himself. Flip, flip, flip. A 3-D schematic of 'One pops into view, showing him the trio of red spots dotting the fuselage. A few of the boosters are tweaked, but that's to be expected; she came down hard. They should be able to make it out of here just fine. Piece of cake.
"We're okay, Scotty," he tosses over his shoulder at the oblivious pilot slumped in the seat behind him. He hazards a glance at his silent brother, taking in the cracked helmet, the blood splattered on the inside of the Plexiglass from the cut on his forehead, the closed eyes, the boneless sprawl. He wills himself not to cry; instead, he wrenches himself from the command chair and straps Scott down so he won't slither to the floor.
At Alan's manhandling of his person, Scott stirs and blinks. "Whazzat…Huh?" He goes to swipe at his bloody nose and whacks his knuckles against Plexiglass. "Alan?"
It's all Alan can do not to throw himself at his big brother. They've still got a long way to go to reach any sort of safety, so Alan pulls back and takes his brother's helmet in both hands, forcing Scott to look at him with those eyes that mirror his own. "You're okay, Scott. We're gonna get outta here right now."
Scott blinks again, smiling drunkenly. "FAB, lil' bro," he agrees, and is out cold once more.
Alan's jaw is set as he moves back to the chair, Scott's chair, except now it's his, and he'd better fly 'One as if he's been flying her all his life.
When the landing gear lifts, Alan realizes that it's true. 'One is 'Three, and vice versa. They are all part of each other, that sameness hidden deep within, ready to be called upon at a moment's notice. Not interchangeable, like meaningless components easily replaced. Complementary. Extensions of each other. A common denominator.
Inventor. Father. Father of five. Father of ten? Boys and 'Birds together.
Alan wishes his father were here, so he could ask him.