Twelve: In My Molly's Chambers

If there's one part of Kayo's job that she does not enjoy in the least, it's this: Seeing the boys at their worst, their most vulnerable, their most raw and ripped open.

Such are the words that run through Kayo's mind as she watches Scott stalk like a caged lion around his father's plush office atop Tracy Towers, arms crossed, brows together. Virgil sits on the sofa, head bowed, elbows on knees. He's fiddling with something in his fingers; a bright piece of metal that winks in the light.

Jeff Tracy is not what Kayo would call a big man; his son Scott is an inch or two taller, and broader in the shoulders. However, Jeff's mere presence, weighted by his money and power and influence, make him seem much larger than life, even as he sits behind his desk. His pen flashes a few times as he signs various documents, and he hands them without looking to the man in the three-piece suit who is standing behind him. After the last one is signed, Jeff looks up and nods, and the lawyer gathers the papers and leaves. When the door closes silently behind the lawyer, Jeff removes his glasses, takes a deep breath and rubs his hands over his face. His stubble scratches against his palms, speaking eloquently of the fact that he was awakened from sleep to handle this situation.

The room is so quiet, Kayo can hear the squish of Scott's Chucks against the carpet. Jeff walks to the window and looks out at the early morning Los Angeles landscape, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Well, Virgil," he says into the silence. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The young man in question shuts his eyes and stops fidgeting, enveloping the bit of metal in one fist. "I'm sorry, Father."

Kayo stiffens; the only time the boys call Jeff 'Father' and not 'Dad' is when they're in deep, deep trouble. She glances up at Scott, who is still pacing, his mouth clamped shut against the stream of invective begging to spill from him. Kayo has already broken up one shouting match today.

Jeff turns to face his wayward third son. "'Sorry?' Son, you have many gifts, but understatement is not one of them." He grabs the remote for the huge television screen and keys it to life, flicking to an online news feed. The pictures are three feet tall, and in lurid living color. "'Billionaire Boy Marries Busty Barmaid,'" Jeff quotes from the headline printed above the overexposed photo of Virgil in a rumpled tux, shirt open to the waist, his arm around a voluptuous blonde woman in a skin-tight white mini-dress and Lucite platform heels. A froth of white tulle is pinned atop her lush curls as an abbreviated veil, and she is carrying a bouquet of white roses. There are several more photos; one of the two in a kiss so deep the photographer caught the wet gleam of entwined tongues, another with the newlyweds laughing with the Elvis impersonator who has obviously just pronounced them husband and wife.

"Virgil Grissom, I miss your mother every day, but if it were a choice between her being in the ground and her seeing these photographs, I'd dig her grave myself."

At this, Scott gasps and stops pacing, and even Kayo feels a stab of pain. To invoke Lucille Tracy's memory is sacred among her boys, and Kayo knows that this hurts Virgil worse than if Jeff had pulled out the loaded pistol kept under the desk and shot him through the heart.

Virgil has not looked up, but at his father's words, he puts his head in his hands, allowing the object to fall to the floor. Kayo moves to pick it up: It's the three-carat diamond ring that was, until a few hours ago, property of the new Mrs. Tracy. Jeff holds out his hand, and Kayo drops the ring into his palm. He looks at it appraisingly, then slips it into the pocket of his button-down shirt.

"I'm glad that you at least managed to get the ring back," Jeff says mildly. "Tiffany?"

Virgil nods miserably. "Yes. Yessir."

Scott snorts. "What do you know, Virge? You still have good taste even when you're a behaving like an complete idiot."

"That's enough, Scott," Jeff warns.

"Sorry, Father," Scott murmurs contritely, not looking sorry in the least.

Kayo feels like she might be sick. She wishes her father were here; he'd know how to support Jeff, how to help him get Virgil back in line and talk Scott off the ragged edge of disappointment and anger. She feels so helpless, sitting like a stone amongst these three men she loves. However, Kyrano is on the other side of the world, chasing rumors of his half-brother, thus necessitating Kayo's presence as his stand-in. She is only eighteen, for all her father's training, and feels it.

For the first time, Virgil ventures a question. "So...what happens now?"

Jeff comes to sit on the sofa in front of Virgil in the 'conversation' area of the office. "I'm assuming that this was a true mistake, no? You have no intention of remaining attached to this young lady, correct?"

"Her name was-is-Misty," Virgil replies with just a touch of indignation at the repeated omission of his bride's personhood. "No, I, we decided that it's best if we...go our separate ways. For both of us."

"She got her fifteen minutes of fame, a romp in the hay, and lifetime alimony," Scott snarls. "Pretty good for a few hours' work, I'd say."

At this, Kayo's blood turns to fire in her veins. "Let's go, Scott," she snaps, and to her credit, all three Tracys whip their heads up in surprise at the trademark Kyrano authority in her voice.

"No," Virgil says weakly. "He's right. This was ridiculous, and it's my fault."

Jeff's frown deepens. "Is Scott right? Did you have relations with this girl?"

Virgil colors to the roots of his hair. "Yes, Father."

The memory of their night together not six months prior cuts into Kayo's heart so deeply that she expects to see her shirt soaked with red. Her ears are roaring and she can barely hear Jeff's reply: "I hope you were...responsible, son."

The nauseated feeling creeps back into Kayo's stomach as Virgil nods. "I used a-" his eyes flash to Kayo, and then back at the carpet-"a condom, Father. She insisted."

"Hmm. Seems as if she might have been the responsible one in this marriage," Jeff quips. "Are you sure you want a divorce? I can call the legal team and have them shred the papers if you'd like."

"Dad." This from Scott; if his father deigns to make a joke, it's a signal that they may just survive this after all.

"Virgil," Jeff begins, heaving a sigh and running hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. "I know this has been a rough year for all of us. Gordon's crash was a terrible thing for us to live through, but we did, and I'd like to think it'd made us stronger in the end." He clasps his hands together and leans forward, elbows on knees, mirroring his son's posture. "We need to stay strong, son. There's things in the works that I can't talk about yet, but I'll need your help. I can't tend to both that and you at the same time. Do you understand?"

Kayo feels more than sees Scott come slowly to attention beside her. This is The Project, the Legacy, the Life's Work that will soon be revealed, the holy of holies, never to be played around with and only mentioned in hushed tones thus far. Virgil hears his father's meaning, because he comes to attention just as Scott has. "You mean-the Thunderbird Project? You still want me to-"

Jeff clasps Virgil's shoulder with a strong, scarred hand. "I don't just want you, son, I need you." He glances up at Scott, and Kayo's eyes widen as Jeff looks over at her as well. "I'm going to need all of you. We need to be strong. Unbreakable. United." He shakes Virgil's shoulder gently for emphasis. "Can I depend on you, son? No more foolishness."

Virgil has suddenly gained starch to his spine even as he gulps back tears. "I won't let you down, sir."

"Good." He leans forward and clasps Virgil in a hug; his son clings and buries his head in his father's shoulder like a child. "Let's put this behind us and move forward as a family."

Years, later, in the wee hours of a Tracy Island night, Kayo sits with Virgil's head resting in her lap, sifting his hair through her fingers as soft piano jazz plays from the speakers at the head of his bed. The memory of that morning is replaying in her mind, but she's not quite sure why.

She glances down at the man sleeping peacefully in her embrace, his powerful frame at repose, his hair falling across his brow and his mouth relaxed into a soft near-smile. He is hers, heart, body and soul, his youthful indiscretions long gone, as if committed by someone else in another lifetime. Kayo chuckles to herself; the only things the erstwhile Mrs. Tracy has over her is a ring and an actual, if abbreviated, ceremony.

Maybe they should think about it, she muses, as Virgil stirs and clasps one arm around her waist. Maybe it's time. Maybe that's why that memory has surfaced, of a wedding gone wrong to inspire a union that has all the potential to go right.

She wonders if his mother would have been pleased, and settles to sleep in her beloved's arms.