Chapter Seventeen
"Virgil?" Alan's voice crackles through the line. "Hey, could you watch Gordon for me for a bit? I wanna go take a shower and maybe grab a bagel." Bagels are quick and easy and are eaten plentifully in the Tracy household when the time simply isn't there for a full meal; which, any of them will admit, is more often than not. "I haven't had any dinner and…" The kid breaks off with a yawn and Virgil feels a little guilty that no one's been up to send him to bed. "Mmm, I don't think Gordon's had anything either."
"I'll bring him something up," Virgil promises warmly. "Be there in five, Sprout. Thanks for keeping an eye on him for us."
Alan snorts through his nose at that, as if thanking him is absolutely ridiculous.
"What did'ya think I was gonna do?" His little hologram shakes his head, face all scrunchy. "Leave my partner in crime to fend for himself? Don't be dumb, Virg."
Alan is quick to dash out and squeeze Virgil in a tight hug when he gets up there, but he disappears off in the direction of the kitchen without a backwards glance shortly after.
All this is a lot to ask of the youngest of them, big brother supposes as he pushes the door open, After all Alan's only… Oh! Virgil finds himself blinking at a hazy pair of brown eyes that are watching him from the bed. He'd not expected to find Gordon's awake, though the younger of them seems none too pleased about it as he groans theatrically at the sight of him and slings an arm over his eyes.
Virgil laughs at him. He can't help it. Gordon always manages to make him laugh.
"Hey, buddy." Virgil sits carefully on the edge of Gordon's mattress and finds himself grinning as the aquanaut cracks one eye back open, squinting out at him from under that arm. "I know it's getting late but... I did bring you a sandwich!" Big brother holds the floppy slices of bread between them like they're the sweet, greasy holy grail, and Gordon instantly begins to struggle upright, his hands intent on seeking out the sparse meal. Virgil would move in to help but the gentle giant knows his brother's limits perhaps better than even Gordon himself does - his help isn't needed right now and Gordon values his independence just as much, if not more so, than Scott.
Stubborn, the whole lot of them. It's practically the definition of the name Tracy at this point
"Mmm… Is that peanut butter?" Gordon cracks a tired grin that drags Virgil back to the present. "And jelly?" He notices the purple leaking from the sides. "I love you."
Virgil laughs at him again for that. He'd think Gordon's drug dose is too high if such declarations over the trivial weren't perfectly Gordon normal.
Virgil keeps a close eye, impressed, as the aquanaut manages to much his way through the whole sandwich, even though it's kind of on the stuck-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth side of the proper peanut butter balance. A glass of water, cold and filtered, helps free up his tongue and encourages his next set of pills to settle. These for the pain, these to prevent infection, these to reduce inflammation. It was a lot, though nothing compared to what he had to take for his broken back, years ago, but still raw enough in his memory.
Gordon rubs a hand over his ribcage as he lies back down, letting Virgil's big, warm hands guide him. There's a kind of syrupy pressure in his chest, probably some kind of side effect of the hypothermia, and the frostbite across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose is starting to burn again for sure. Little brother squeezes his eyes shut and groans, hoping the tramadol is going to kick in again soon.
"Alright, bud?" Virgil asks softly, concerned, but Gordon only nods, clearly trying to collect himself, compartmentalize the pain.
As he does, Virgil takes a second to line up this Gordon Tracy - hollow-cheeked and pale - with his memories of his little brother. A kid, once, blond hair in a disorganized spill across his forehead, an easy crooked smile in the reflection of a rearview mirror. A teen waving Olympic gold for the Butterfly up to the TV cameras with adrenaline-shaky hands. Then... a little older and a terrifying crash of metal and water, the hydrofoil flipping nose over stern. The fire, the terrible spinal damage and the 'he'll never walk again' that Gordon Tracy was too damn stubborn to heed. The months of physical therapy and recovery, Virgil patient and gentle by his side, big strong teddy bear arms there waiting to catch him when he stumbles and falls. To prop him up over and over against the parallel walking bars when Gordon would hiss 'again' and 'again' and 'again' from between determinedly clenched teeth.
He's going to have to use the old crutches again for a while now, to keep the weight off that leg. Maybe even the old wheelchair.
Gordon'll hate being stuck in that thing again more than anything.
Virgil, unable to help himself, keeps glances backwards at the displays, watching his brother's skin temperature and heart rate. Gordon must have caught his slightly pedantic monitoring as he shoots Virgil a dirty look. The younger man drags the blanket up over his head, hunching his shoulders and dropping his head out of sight under the neat, precise thread pattern, so he can't be observed anymore. Kid hates that, Virgil knows; being observed. It reminds him of the way they had all kept such a close eye on him after the crash, Doctors and Tracy's alike, as if any little thing could cause him to fall apart at any moment.
"Ack, sorry Gords." Being 'watched' makes him feel weak when, really, Virgil doesn't think he knows anyone stronger than his little brother. Still, the machines keep a good measure of core temperature and heart rate and Virgil just can't help his fastidious observance of them. It's so reassuring to see that they're both within normal parameters. Not normal normal, but Gordon's current normal for sure.
Gordon grumbles about it a bit more, but he settles down pretty soon after, obviously exhausted. It's not long until he falls asleep but Virgil stays there anyway. Counting breaths, watching the unconscious flex and pull of the boy's fingers as he sleeps, all curled in the edge of the blanket.
Huh. Virgil huffs a heavy breath out of his nose. He still just looks like a little kid, all tuckered out after a long day playing in the cornfields and in amongst the little grove of trees up by the pond.
Gordon's face is empty and smooth and oh so young. Far too young for any of this to happen to them, Virgil thinks, as only an older sibling can. Gordon, Alan... they're clever and capable and irreplaceable in the field but they're both just so damn young.
Virgil's still worrying over it as he falls asleep in the hard chair by his brother's bed.
...
Ugh.
It's way too early to be awake.
Virgil is a blurred shape beyond the confines of Gordon's bed and the frayed tassels of his blanket. Mom's blanket, all itchy wool and sharp angles of oceanic colour. His name embroidered dedicatedly at the hem. Virgil's fast asleep, his head tilted back at an awkward angle and his mouth hung just that little bit open. He must be shattered. Turning his head so he can see him properly, Gordon finds his big brother is sprawled in the armchair by the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him and a holo emitter held loosely in one big, pale hand - whether he was reading or keeping tabs on Gordon, it's unclear. He's still in his daytime clothes though, no pyjamas in sight. Boots, jeans, white t-shirt, red checked shirt. Splodges on paint on his cuffs. Dirt still under his nails despite his recent, rushed shower.
The bunker had been filthy, no wonder…
Gordon sucks in a tight breath, his fingers knotting themselves in the blanket, squeezing the fabric hard against his palms. He doesn't want to think about the bunker. About being shot and left in the dark and how cold it w…
Trying to distract himself Gordon twists his head further to try and look at his brother better in the weak light. The chronometer is turned away from him, but it can't be earlier than five or six am and big brother is firmly out for the count. Virgil's eyes are underscored by dark circles that have nothing to do with the shadows being cast around the room.
Gordon doesn't have the heart to wake him. It's ok. He's felt worse for sure. Ever so tentatively, the blond Tracy manoeuvres a shaky hand outside the blanket, laying it flat against a patch of blue on the thick fabric. He focuses on the texture of the weave under his fingertips and watches the daylight, creeping in his window, make the intrepid journey from his pinky to forefinger to thumb.
The miserable, pooling heat in his leg had woken him sometime before dawn. It's a low, awful throb that pulses with each beat of his heart. He doesn't want to wake Virgil to ask for more painkillers. Best to stay low and slow and to watch the sunlight crawl. Gordon finds himself taking small, lethargic sips of air, just enough to limit his movement, to avoid lighting up that neat circle of stitches again.
...
The thin sunlight has gone a warmer shade of gold by the time Virgil wakes, with a start. Gordon is curled into a ball, feeling sorry for himself. He's tired and sore and hungry and all he really wants is a pain pill or two to knock down the warm, prickling discomfort in his leg.
"Getting shot sucks." The first thing he hears is Gordon's voice, and it comes out hoarse and heavy with injustice. "I want a new leg please."
"Huh, don't you say that in front of Brains." Virgil is up like a shot and crouched dutifully at his little brother's side with a glass of water and three round tablets before Gordon can waste another breath on complaints. "He might take you seriously and start building you a robot limb. How long have you been awake?"
"Hey, that'd be cool." Gordon seems unphased by the warning, more concerned with swallowing down the drugs than Virgil's amusement. "Bet he could make it waterproof and everything."
"Heavy though." Virgil shakes his head, fond and disparaging. "You'd sink to the bottom of the pool like a stone. You'd have to grow gills for real." He teases.
"Nah." Gordon throws his head back into the pillow again, eyes squeezed closed. "Brains 's a genius. He'd make it of some crazy light metal. Or carbon fibre or something. Y'know?"
"Sure kid." Virgil snorts through his nose. "Is the tramadol kicking in?"
"Mmmm, yep." Gordon pops the p, peeking through his eyelashes at the mountain perched at the side of his bed. "Would kill for a cheeseburger though. W'time is it?"
"Eight AM." A glance at the holographic chronometer tells him and Gordon groans loudly at the information. "Not exactly peak cheeseburger hour I'm afraid."
"Ugh, horrifying." The aquanaut complains, never one to be up before at least eleven if he can help it. "Truly awful. What kind of twisted punishment is this anyway? Eight am is the worst. I'm not built for thissss..."
"Oh, shut it you." Virgil swats lightly at his whiny brother's arm. "Horrifying or not, you're awake and I'm awake and I think a certain early bird spaceman could probably be persuaded to make us some breakfast."
"John's home?" Gordon perks up considerably at this and his covers get shoved down to his knees, careful of his bandaged thigh, in a sudden eagerness to get out of bed. He has to give his breathing a moment or two to settle before he can pull the blanket off entirely and start awkwardly trying to drag himself into a seated position. "No one told me John was home!"
"Been a bit busy I guess." Virgil seems sheepish, his hands fluttery and wary of helping without a direct request. Watching Gordon's slow and strenuous drag into to an upright position is torture, but he knows from the months of PT they did together that there are things Gordon needs to do himself, which brings him to... "Uh…" Virgil's nose wrinkles. "You're not gonna be able to walk on that, you know."
Gordon groans loudly once again.
"Yeah, I know, I…" His arms feel too shaky for crutches he's going to have to… ugh… "There's nothing I hate more than that damn wheelchair." Gordon sounds vehement.
"I know." Virgil makes it practically an apology. "But worth it for John's pancakes? Right?"
"I knew there was something we should keep him around for. The pie yesterday was pretty damn good as well." Gordon tries to drag up a grin from his endless reserves of them. Still… the chair. Ugh. A hand gets wiped over his face, once, then twice. He could ask Virgil to bring breakfast up here for him, and big brother would probably comply but… Gordon's getting sick of being trapped in his room and he does really want to see John. "Alright, fine." he agrees, eventually. "Go get the damn thing then, will you?"
Virgil complies silently, fetching said 'damn thing' from wherever in hell it's been stored. He offers his arms out, steady and stable, just in case little brother needs help getting up.
Gordon wraps his fingers round Virgil's thick forearms without comment, his teeth gritted as he heaves his leg to the side, shuddering as his feet meet the cold floor. Virgil goes to transfer him into the chair but there's something in Gordon that has him reaching out, snagging Virgil's sleeve in clutching fingers and leaning hard into him. He presses his head into Virgil's shoulder. The cold of the wood floor soaking up into his bare feet. His hair a sweaty, messy spill across his forehead, tickling his big brother's collarbone.
Virgil finds the back of his head with a careful hand, cupped and cradling. He can hear his little brother's breath stagnating in his chest, the sound short and trembly. Big and little. The perfect duo. The dream team.
Virgil carrying him out of the cold, his brother's blood slippery under his fingers.
"Hey," Gordon says hoarsely.
"Hey," Virgil replies, snaking his arm around to return the hug as much as he dares. His mouth meets the top of the tangle of blond and presses itself there.
Together they breathe out something like gratitude, something like exhaustion.
They're all still here. They made it through. Gordon made it through. It's going to be a struggle but it's got to be all upwards from here. He made it out.
Gordon pushes away first and there's a weary facsimile of the good old Gordon Cooper grin there, the one from after the accident that doesn't reach his eyes, the one Virgil knows well enough not to comment.
...
A/N: I'm SO weak for soft bro times! Bless these boys. John's pancakes are a 2015 classic staple at this point, so that's what's happenin' y'all. Breakfast with the beat-up boys! I'm psyched and I'm writing it! hehe! Leave us a review with your thoughts! xxx