Seven: Cold World
There is no doubt whatsoever in Kayo's mind that the members of International Rescue are tough. On the occasions when she herself is not called out to support them, she has waited by the comm and listened to them walk (or swim or fly) through hell and back to save lives. She has been their extra set of eyes, another calm voice above the fray, one of the tethers that anchor them to their lives beyond the pain and terror that is always in the offing when the call goes out.
With waiting, however, comes the inevitable moment when they all come home, and it's always with a strange mix of relief and dread that she watches them heave into view, the blue of their uniforms barely visible underneath mud and blood and soot. After the blood-stained neoprene has been peeled away and the mud washed down the drain, Kayo has seen Scott fall into the chair at his father's desk, reach for the bottle of very old scotch that resides in one of the drawers, and pour himself a double without ice or water. She has watched Alan and Gordon play game after game on the console, battling each other for hours without a word spoken between them. John will literally disappear, keeping his communications to 'audio only' for days.
Virgil seems to be the one who handles their disappointments and setbacks with the greatest amount of ease. Occasionally he'll join Scott in a silent drink, holding out his glass across the desk for Scott to pour and then raising it in a wordless toast to those they couldn't save. He'll let the younger two duke it out on the video screen for a while before shutting it off and throwing them out of the lounge to swim or sweat it out. He'll call John and just let the sounds of the house filter into TB5 for a while, making certain that their space-side extension of the family doesn't feel alone.
Virgil himself, Kayo has noticed over the years, lets glimpses of his own pain out after he's had time to chew on it a while. She's seen the portfolio that he keeps hidden from his grandmother's eyes, full of paintings and sketches of hurricane-ravaged landscapes, rivers running red with blood, cities on fire, and a faceless man with eyes glowing from the depths of a black hooded cloak. She's heard him compose music that sounds like a storm, notes shrieking and wailing up and down the keyboard of the baby grand. Years before she revealed her secret, he played a sinister piece; when she'd asked him what it was, he'd told her it was his theme song for the Hood. Since then, the song has played in the back of her mind every time she's encountered her uncle.
However, there comes a time in the lives of even the strongest tree or the highest mountain when the roots fail and the rocks tumble, usually from repeated stress applied over time. Then, when the moment is right, a strong shake or a high wind will finish the deed, and down it comes. Such are the images that are running through Kayo's mind as she watches the boys-her brothers-come up from the depths one by one. Scott, Alan, Gordon; they stumble past, clotted with gray muck from hair to boots. She's been on the comm for hours, so she's tired too, her head buzzing and her eyes bleary, but these beloved faces wear devastation as well as a layer of grime.
"He's back there," Gordon tosses over his shoulder. "It's bad, Kay."
When Kayo climbs up the ladder and drops through the hatch of Thunderbird Two, the craft is dark and silent. This is highly unusual, as Virgil typically busies himself with post-mission checks, making resupply lists, and ensuring that everything is ready to go at a moment's notice. Today, it's as if TB2 is mourning losses along with her pilot, who is still seated unmoving in the cockpit.
"Hey," she ventures, but he's so still, as if he hasn't heard her. The stillness makes her want to reach out and shake him, say his name, but suddenly she's frozen and her throat closes on the words. For one, two, three heartbeats, she stands there in a cold sweat-until she hears him breathing in the silence of the hangar. Her knees wobble and she has to sit down hard on the diamond plate floor for a long minute, regaining her composure. If he's shattered, she reminds herself, it won't do any good for her to crumble right along with him.
She's never been so glad to hear such ordinary sounds: the shifting of gritty soles against the deckplates; the clank of gear still hanging off him; thick syllables from the man himself. "Mm. Gord?"
Kayo forces herself to her feet, finds a calm center, and holds herself there. "It's me," she says, her voice not sounding quite like her own to her ears. "The guys are upstairs." Now she approaches, keeping her voice level and her hands at her sides, though she wants to touch him just to reassure herself that he is indeed among the living. Silly, she thinks. She's never acted like a silly girl, even around the man she loves more than anything on this earth, but the impulse is there nonetheless. She gives it a hard shove to the back of her brain and demands: Focus, Kyrano. "You about done here?"
He nods. "Yep. Done. That's a good word for it."
She feels as if she's been pierced by a shard of ice. Things have been bad before, it's just what happens in their line of work, but this...this is flat, dead, done. "You tried your best. It's all you can do." Stupid, she thinks, stupid words, that's all they are, and she's sorry she's said them. "I'm gonna go," she says. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I'll let you finish up here."
"No." He turns, and their eyes meet, amber to olive, and suddenly she's moving to hold him against her, his shoulder-mounted scope jabbing into her ribs and his gloves leaving muddy streaks on her shirt. There are no tears from either of them, not yet. Time enough for that later, when the walls start to come down.
Virgil weighs two-twenty-five soaking wet, but right now he's wearing fifty pounds of gear and at least ten of pure dirt, so pulling him up out of his seat is proving a challenge. "Come on," she encourages, tugging his left arm up high enough so she can get underneath and throw it across her shoulders. It's either worrying or a good thing that he lets her do it, but she decides not to dwell on it right now and just focuses on getting him up and mobile. Eventually he's on his feet, moving slow but still moving. She eyes him critically and decides that he's nowhere near surefooted enough to descend the ladder, so she makes an executive decision. "Let's lose the hardware."
His fingers are clumsy, but between the two of them, they get his scope undone and set aside. He presses a hidden latch on his baldric, and it hits the floor in a heap of muddy green; he kicks it for good measure. Kayo raises an eyebrow at this, but she says nothing and instead works at the pressure point that keeps his blues molded to his frame. With a tiny hiss, the seal breaks and the neoprene sags slightly around his wrists, knees, and ankles. Kayo tugs off his gauntlets, tossing them on top of the baldric, then kneels to undo the buckles on his boots.
"Uh, we should scrub. The suit, I mean." Virgil sighs and tries again. "Need to get the dirt off the suit."
Kayo nods; IR's trademark blue suits are treated to resist a myriad of chemicals and can withstand a certain amount of direct heat, but who knows what he's come into contact with today that could compromise the integrity of the suit. To this end, she leads Virgil into the small compartment that can act as a mobile triage unit, an airborne ambulance, or, in a pinch, a living space about the size of a walk-in closet, complete with bathroom and a tankless water heater. The memory of their first time together flits at the edges of her mind, the fold-down bunk recalling that of a disused hurricane shelter, and a night where her newly adult self let Virgil bring her gasping into womanhood.
Since he's just standing there, Kayo reaches up and coaxes a stream of water into the small Plexiglass cubicle that acts as a shower. After making certain that the water is good and hot, she gently pushes Virgil, still in his blues, into the stream. As the water pours over him, Virgil raises his head and shuts his eyes, and his hair plasters itself to his forehead. Kayo finds a stiff brush and begins to scrub the accumulated detritus of a rescue gone bad from the uniform. Soon the suit is its bright self again, and she tosses away the brush. Virgil, for his part, is staring at his hands, watching the water drip from them as if it's the most interesting thing in the world.
Kayo turns her attention to the hidden zipper that begins at the base of his throat and takes it down to the middle of his chest. She helps him pull off the form-fitting sleeves, and then takes the zipper down past his hips. It takes a few uncoordinated moments and a few tugs and pulls, but eventually Virgil is standing full in the spray, free from anything identifying him as part of International Rescue. As soon as the uniform is off, the amber eyes lose their unfocused gaze, and it's as if he sees Kayo for the first time.
"Where did you come from?" he asks over the noise of the water.
She smiles. "Just thought I'd help you out. You, uh, weren't exactly...you know." She gestures vaguely. "Coherent." Her smile disappears, and she reaches out to touch his face. "Rough day."
He nods. "Yeah." A litany of sorrow hangs on that word, but she doesn't press for more.
Instead, Kayo steps back and bends to collect the dripping suit. "You get cleaned up. I'll see you upstairs." However, as she straightens with her armful of sodden blue, he's there, standing in front of her, water sluicing from him in rivulets and puddling on the deck at their feet. He blinks the water out of his eyes and reaches for her hand, pulling her with him as he walks back to the steamed-up cubicle. Kayo lets the suit fall in a heap and follows him into the water, taking his face into her hands and kissing him long and slow. His hands are tugging at the hem of her shirt, peeling the knit fabric from her like a second skin and then moving to untie the drawstring of her cargo pants. She kicks off her shoes, again recalling that long-ago night where her clothes joined his on the floor of the shelter. In seconds flat, they are skin to skin once more, older and wiser but still needing each other just as much.
Virgil hoists her up against the wall, and she wraps herself around him. The water is still pounding down on them, the steel against her back is cold, and there is nothing else in the world except his ragged breath in her ear and his strong arms bearing her up once, twice, over and over against the metal until he gasps and shudders. Their motion stops, and she gracefully untangles herself as he remains pressed against her with his face buried in her neck. He rarely leaves her wanting more, but this time is for him, and she simply folds him into her arms and lets him fall apart.
Yes, she thinks, the members of International Rescue are tough. Except when they're not.
