Chapter Sixteen
John, prompted by a meaningful look from Virgil, had left Scott's side just as Brains had materialised; the engineer's hair rumpled and holodiscs of medical scans spilling from his arms. John leaves the whispering pair setting up scans over his brother's sleeping head with no small measure of worry about what they're up to.
They're just keeping an eye. John tells himself. It's sensible to be precautionary. There's no way he'll be blind forever...
On the trail end of that worry, the young astronaut decides to look in on Gordon on his way back to bed. It feels a little early to sleep but there's a pressure headache building behind John's eyes and his sugar levels must be low because his hands are getting shaky. He'll have to he'd Virgil's advice sooner or later. He grabs a bowl of oatmeal from the kitchenette to settle the score, then heads back up toward the corridor of their rooms.
Alan, evidently the chosen babysitter for the evening, grins sunnily up at him as a ginger head pops around the door. John can't help but muster up an exhausted replica of his own at the sight of it. The kid waves vaguely at Gordon then gives him a double thumbs up, which is reassuring. Gordon is flat on his back, fast asleep, but the bowl of apple pie on his bedside table has been scraped clean.
John's smile gets a bit more real, then wavers.
Gordon's swirl of ice cream scoop hair is flattened against the pillow and his face is very pale, eyes closed and darkly circled. John's disturbed by the stillness of his brother in a way he can't quite pinpoint. He supposes that it's because Gordon is, inherently, the embodiment of perpetual motion: he just can't stop doing. Seeing him lying so still, even in sleep, is… yeah, unnerving.
John knows his way around a VSM, a vital signs monitor, as well as any of them do and the readouts aren't all that reassuring. Gordon's blood pressure, blood oxygen levels, temperature, pulse rate, perspiration, adrenaline levels, and respiration all glow in various traffic light shades of worrying, though not urgent.
The spaceman doesn't stay long after that. It's far past time he went to find his own bed.
...
The laundry done; washed, ironed and sorted into the eight individual cubby holes ready for their owners to collect them, Grandma Tracy tucks a stray pair of Gordon's tropical pants into where they belong and shuffles her tired old bones back up toward the unusual quiet of the villa.
When all of them are home the place is usually a hive of constant activity. Alan takes on a perpetual kind of impish glee, the sort that feels like being the one who licks the icing spoon or getting to splash in the shallows. He fizzes with it, all big popping-candy grins and delirious excitement that he gets to see his space-oriented brother in person. When John's home, Grandma finds herself quickly worn out by having to keep a much closer eye on Gordon. The second youngest meets John with eyes wide and a grin even wider; his head full of plots involving duct tape, sticky labels and stolen shampoo bottles, the family Goldfish fully intent on making up for lost time. Ruth becomes the careful mediator who makes sure he doesn't pull too many pranks on his most wayward sibling. After all, none of them will ever forget the time he had managed to, somehow, rearrange the precise planets on John's orrery. Simple fun on the surface but it had taken John two hours to reset the methodical mechanisms and reorder the planets and John had been quietly furious; deeply displeased at the complete waste of his time. He'd been impossible to get a straight answer out of for days. Virgil, in comparison to the younger two, goes into medic mode at the instant of touchdown running around headless chicken style intent on helping John find anything he needs; water, painkillers, another pillow? Anything John, anything! Scott makes a scene of fussing just as bad, if not worse.
She's heard him called Smotherhen more than once. Takes after his Mom like that. Lucy had always been ever so careful with her boys, and Scott seemed to take on that duty after her passing with double the fervour.
He just doesn't want to lose any more Tracy's, she thinks, morbidly. Poor boy's had enough of that for a lifetime.
Ruth makes her shuffling way across the long dining space and finds that, as it is right now, the villa is quiet... and Ruth does not like it.
She makes her way to the kitchen and looks around. It's been spotlessly cleaned by some (likely ginger) miracle. But… the emptiness, the lack of crumbs and clutter and dirty plates, it makes it feel like it's been abandoned.
Ah, well, almost abandoned, Grandma Tracy spots Kayo leaning against the counter by the coffee machine. The younger woman holds up an extra mug, her eyebrows high, and it draws a tired smile onto the elder's face.
"It's like you read my mind, dear," Ruth approaches, her voice warm with fondness.
"I think we're all in need of a little extra caffeine," Kayo retorts as she makes up the brew, sweet and milky, just how their Grandmother likes it. "Though don't tell Scott I said that, he drinks too much of the stuff already."
"Mmm," Ruth murmurs in judgemental agreement, her lips pursed as she takes the steaming mug from the young woman. "He really does." She shakes her head before taking a long draught of the warm liquid, sighing with satisfaction. "Mmm, perfect, thank you."
Kayo smiles at her, light and pretty as sunshine through fine linen, glowing from inside to out, and she picks her own mug up again, leaning back against the counter.
"It's been an intense day or two," she comments quietly, watching nothing in particular above her. "Two of the boys out of action and, I hate to say it but Virgil's not far behind them if he doesn't rest a bit more instead of chasing round behind them all. He might not be as badly injured as Scott and Gordon, but he's been looking pretty stiff and sore."
"They're all as bad as each other when it comes to having more concern for anyone else over looking after themselves," Ruth shakes her head, then dips it to sip at her coffee. "Those boys are just like their parents." She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in mock displeasure.
Kayo laughs, the sound warm and fine as windchimes in a summer breeze.
"Very true." Her cheeks dimple, "Alan and I can handle any calls we might get for now. John should be on his feet again soon and we've got Max and Brains ready for action… if we can talk Brains into leaving that lab of his for the field, that is." Ruth laughs with her, "What they all just need right now is plenty of rest."
…
For Scott, Virgil and Brains had decided, after much discussion, that there wasn't really much need at this point for him to remain trapped in the med room, taking up space and balling up frustration. The swelling behind his eyes that's been pressing on his optic nerves has gone down considerably in the last twelve hours, and they're all relieved to know there shouldn't be any permanent damage to them. They won't know for sure just yet though, as Virgil wants to keep them covered a while longer to prevent Scott from straining them and potentially making the long term health of his eyes much worse.
He'd look ridiculous in glasses, Virgil frowns, at least John's suit him. Scott scowls up at him like he can hear what his brother is thinking.
"Hey, it's just twelve or so more hours, ok?" Little brother promises, his voice thick with apology. "Could be twenty four though if any of that swelling flares up again." It's always best to give Scott the straight truth from the start, he works better with the facts all lined up in front of him, ready to be shot down one goal at a time. They had allowed Scott to wake naturally again before they broke the good news and he still seems pretty tired, like his sleep had been restless. "How'd you feel about heading up to your own bed now?" Virgil's pretty sure that big brother will sleep far better in the comfort and familiarity of his own room and rest and recovery is priority one right now.
Besides, John has worked his magic and Virgil wants to keep it that way.
Scott sighs and nods and even acquiesces to being helped up out of bed and up to his room. It feels so weird to be back up here and Scott finds himself frowning as he's settled further into his pillows.
It would probably feel better if he could see everything, but he'll take whatever he can get at this point. He'd gotten so sick of the sanitised smell and the hum of machinery. Or, at least, he'd thought he was. Now, left alone by Virgil to get some more sleep, it's strangely quiet and, oddly enough, Scott finds he almost misses the smell of the cleaning products.
Naturally, he's familiar enough with his room to know at least approximately where everything is. He can feel warmth on his cheek, the sun must be shining in through the window to his left. He can feel the familiar smooth cotton texture of his bedsheets, and he can almost convince himself he can see the reassuring red glow of light behind his eyelids... though maybe he's just being optimistic. Virgil had given him a lecture on not messing with those damn bandages. One hand rises to check and… yep, there's the thick weave under his fingers. Damnit.
Tilting his head, Scott knows his right hand bedside table holds the clock and that battered old copy of To Kill A Mockingbird their Grandpa had given him on it. Not that he can read it right now, but reaching out a hand cautiously at least informs him he's correct and it's right there. He picks it up, thankful that those horrible gloves and the thick protective bandages have been replaced by thinner, softer ones that allow for a greater range of movement. His skin is still very tender, but the new bandaging has given him back much of his ability to feel, so he runs his fingers across the cover, gratefully feeling every nick and tear around the edge of the cover, the bumps and ridges down the spine where he'd read it so often. He thumbs the pages, letting them flick through as he lifts the book closer to his face, creating a breeze across his cheeks and breathing in that scent of old book. Carefully, he places it back down on his bedside, nudging his clock slightly in the process, though luckily he doesn't knock it down.
The small chest of drawers to the left of his bed, closest to the window, holds a few photo frames. Unlike the book, he can't bring himself to pick them up. After all, what good is being able to feel the detail of the frames when you can't see the subjects pictured within? In his mind's eye though, Scott can see them clearly. The first, one of him and his father when he graduated high school, the second of his parents' wedding day, the third of him with all his brothers; much younger at the time, round faced and unaware of the horrors of the world that were to affect their happy little unit.
Damn The Hood.
Scott can't wait for the day when he'll be able to see those photos again… and even more so because that'll be the day he'll see his brothers for real again as well.
...
A.N. Apologies to anyone confused about Grandma Tracy's name. In the fandom it's Ruth and has always been Ruth, so I can't bring myself to change it when it suits her far better. Also, I had an anon asking about the hydrofoil accident, which was a bad high-speed boat crash that cut short a young Gordon's Olympic dreams in TOS lore. Hope that helps hehe. Love y'all. Thanks for reading 33