Chapter Summary: Virgil and Gordon and music and sometimes brothers.
A/N: In honor of 10 chapters of this concept, the plan has always been to give you a hell of a chapter 10 with a few moments in time strung together. If you haven't found me yet and might be interested, I figured now would be a good time to share that I do have a tumblr with my writing and some extras (including tunes). You can find me at gaviiadastra there as well.
The Chapter title Music Makers comes from "Ode" by Arthur O'Shaughnessy, and it is very lovely.
Thank you for the reviews and support for this story - I am so appreciative of your encouragement. I've had some help with a few sections as well, so thank you also to JanetM74 and Gumnut for the assist.
1.
"You missed the cherry blossoms."
San Francisco wasn't too unlike Denver in Spring, but while Denver had some beautiful display of cherry blossom trees over in Cherry Creek, the Northern California Cherry Blossom Festival was an event, the second largest outside of Japan coming in right behind the one in the nation's Capital. Virgil remembered the trip they'd taken to Washington DC as a family, the spring he caught flowers buds in his hair. The festival had seemed bigger than the one that took place in San Francisco the past two weekends, but then again, he had been just a small child at the time.
This time, his heart hadn't been in it with John leaving and Gordon still not awake. The slow rain of pink through his fingertips made him think his brother. Drifting. And he would not have gone in the first place if John hadn't dragged him out of the hospital for a bit of fresh air…for his last few days on terra firma - John's words, not Virgil's.
"I don't really want to leave right now," John had said, silhouetted against the line of pink trees, stormy emerald eyes blinking against the glare of the sun.
"John," Virgil had whispered, "you have to." It wasn't because John had no choice. There was always a choice, but the ISS was John's dream, a once in a lifetime opportunity that he could only take up while under NASA's employment. Once their project got off the ground, John Tracy would no longer be an astronaut. His work would be anonymous; he'd be invisible. They all would be.
Gordon would hate if he took that opportunity away. John needed to go to space.
Virgil knew his brother belonged above the mesosphere, that John's veins were made of a particular brand of stardust that was quite potent in its call towards home. But it was to be John's first time beyond the skies, and Virgil would be lying if he said he wasn't a little fearful for his little brother rocketing through the atmosphere into the vacuum of space.
"Are you frightened?"
"Of what's out there? No," John had explained, a crushed petal falling from his grasp. "Of what I'm leaving down here – I'm terrified."
April had turned into May all too quickly, yet ever so slowly at the same time. Scott had been called back to duty, and Alan back to school. John had returned to Houston for his last trainings before take-off. Virgil had missed his graduation ceremony.
Gordon remained motionless, and the cherry blossom trees had lost their vibrant colors.
"You would've liked them," Virgil says, but there's no response from the figure on the bed. "John would've been able to give you the scientific name. Uhh… here, let me try to find…" He slips his hand out from under Gordon's to type the search in his phone.
"Oh, gee, there's a lot. Prune-us Sair-ah-sus," he says finally, pocketing the device. "I probably butchered that. I was never good at Latin."
He picks up the hand again.
"Do you remember when Mom dragged you along to my first piano recital? Probably not. You would've been just three or four at the time, and Alan wasn't born yet. I had never played in front of an audience before and so I practiced for months beforehand. It was Einaudi's Primavera."
He hums a portion of the tune, sinking back into the memory of being eight.
"Mom probably hated hearing it after the first week." For just a beat, he lets himself chuckle thinking of their mother dealing with his earnest younger self. "Dad had gotten me my first suit for the recital, and Mom helped me with my hair so I could look like a professional. I'm sure we have pictures somewhere."
Virgil pauses a moment, smiling as he remembers the rest of the story.
"You always said you liked my playing, but you wouldn't know it from that day! You screamed and screamed, and Dad had to take you out of the auditorium while you fussed. I remember trying to look out into the audience, but I couldn't see through the lights. But it was just Scotty, John, and Mom who met me after my performance, and I just knew that you'd ruined my big day."
Virgil notices that a small sliver of light shines through the windowpanes to dance along a strand of red in Gordon's hair.
Gordon in his purest form was joy – a laugh to accompany a joke, a sparkle in the eye with a mischievous glint, an open ease in the way he walked and spoke, a smile when you need it most. Gordon's soul was a reservoir of light that he could never quite fill to full. Because just as quickly as he soaked the rays of the sun into his being, he released them to share with the world around him.
When Gordon was born his hair had been an almost white blond– Alan's had been the same way. But as Gordon grew, the blond darkened into gold the color of sunflowers in fall. In winter, when Gordon wasn't spending 90% outside, hints of auburn would poke through.
He wonders if the auburn has the same sun soaking powers as the blond around it or if auburn is what happens when you make a ray of light sad.
"Apparently you told Dad that my song made you cry," Virgil continues. "And that you needed to give me a hug so I would stop being sad."
He sighs wistfully.
"It's how I felt watching the cherry blossoms, Gordon. It was like seeing spring and knowing the beauty is still there, but not being able to reach it, like watching through frosted glass, and I understood why you cried."
This time when he hums the melody his fingers flutter in movement and intermittently Virgil sings the melody, replacing notes with "da" before falling back into hums.
Virgil loses himself in the lonely music, in cherry blossoms through frosted glass, in green eyes looking longingly to the stars, in the flickering of a sun ray desperate to find a path to his brother's light.
He knows how his piano reacts to his hands, the exact distance from the keys to his fingertips as they descend.
As the music ascends, his keys rise to meet him.
A twitch.
Tap.
Virgil's music falters.
Tap… tap…
"Gordon?" Like a dream, he watches fingers nudge his hand. His heart races as he meets his brother's gaze. Honey eyes tell a story of confusion, blinking, searching. "Gordon!"
Tap.
"…ug." The word is intelligible, but Virgil knows what it is by Gordon's eyes.
Hug.
Virgil reacts.
2.
Virgil feels his brother's eyes on him; brown eyes follow as he fidgets throughout the hospital room – fluff the couch cushions, check the blinds for dust, straighten their Grandmother's afghan draped across Gordon's legs.
Gordon's eyes sparkle. He's amused. They tell him to sit, and so he does.
"Sorry, Gordo You know how I get."
It hurts for Gordon to speak, and so he doesn't yet unless he absolutely needs to. He can breathe and blink and tap, and although his moments of awareness are scattered, he is awake enough to know boredom. Watching Virgil not very stimulating and he actually feels rather exhausted even though he just woke up.
Following Virgil with his eyes is hard work.
"Stop making fun of me."
If he could tap his nose right now he would, so instead he flutters his eyelashes and lays on the puppy eyes.
Virgil will tell you himself just how much he loves music, how at the end of a long day his fingers itch to play the piano, how songs are emotions and vice versa, and how he could fill the complex systems of the future Thunderbird 5 with his music database and knowledge of music history. Virgil knows music the way Gordon knows the sea.
What Virgil doesn't realize and his brothers do – frustratingly so – is just how much of Virgil's day is filled with songs he doesn't realize he's humming.
Classical can bridge many emotions, but often it's all in the genre. Jazz means focused. Rock and Soul mean Playful. Soft Pop means contemplative. That's if you try to fit Virgil into a box, which is not fair to his brother honestly. Virgil is more than four walls.
So what's amusing to Gordon, and the reason his eyes shine despite the numbness, is that Virgil was humming "Yellow Submarine" while fiddling with the blinds. It was slow, like a lullaby instead of the standard tempo, but Gordon recognized it all the same. This means two things – first Virgil is in a relatively good mood, maybe a little sad, and second that he was thinking about him.
And he brought the tune over with him, which judging by the glazed look in his eyes, Virgil doesn't realize he's still humming.
The Beatles were made for uke in Gordon's opinion. But don't take his word for it; he's not the one with the minor in music theory here. He still thinks he's right though and would be happy to prove it once his body starts working again.
He sighs as deeply as his lungs let him (it's not deep) and begins tapping out the rhythm on his sheets because that's about all his body will let him do.
He closes his eyes and thinks of being out at sea on a – RUN! FIRE CRASH WATER PAIN.
Okay, then, so maybe not on a boat, he is not going there yet – maybe a dock. The dock of the bay, which coincidentally is also a great song. It's a summer sunrise, and he's playing his ukulele to the fish below him and the sea birds who are singing along. It's a windy morning.
Virgil is not helping him keep the beat. He keeps interspersing the melodies with harmonies and it's distracting when he does that.
When Virgil stops humming, the image fizzles away and he has to start all over.
"Gordon, what are you doing?"
It's a silly question; Virgil knows he can't answer.
"I'm sorry, Fish, were you trying to get my attention?"
Two blinks for no.
"Do you need pain meds?"
Two blinks for no. He's actually quite high at the moment thank you very much.
"Uhh… are the lights too bright?"
He thinks for a moment….Now that you mention it, Virgil, yeah that might be nice. One blink.
Virgil steps away for a moment and the light in the room is instantly snuffed as he shuts the blinds.
It only takes a minute for Virgil to fall back into the comfort of notes.
Gordon taps.
"Oh my god, you little shit. I get it now," Virgil exclaims. His voice softens. "I am sorry you are bored."
Single Blink for yes. Oh woe is me.
"And you're still making fun of me," Virgil grins.
Two blinks, even though he knows his eyes say differently.
"Oh, yes, you are."
We all live in a yellow submarine… Tap Tap Tap taptap taptap taptatap. Taptap taptatap.
"You can't keep tempo for shit."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well let them drug you up and see how sluggish you end up, Maestro.
"Then again, you seem pretty out of it. Do you want me to keep going?"
One blink – yes please.
It becomes their game – the tapping game. Virgil hums, Gordon taps, and sometimes Gordon tries to slip him up.
It makes him feel just a bit more like Gordon Tracy.
3.
Gordon shatters in his arms and Virgil knew; he knew the knowledge he would never walk again would be too much for Gordon's already battered soul.
He sobs.
Virgil sobs with him.
He doesn't remember the exact moment the tune came to him, just that he started humming it for Gordon, grounding him.
Grounding them both.
He tries not to remember where the song came from, but it's impossible to forget, because in his head it's his mother's voice singing to him. And he tries to shake away the memory of cold snow, crushing him, as he wipes at Gordon's cheeks the way his mother wiped his in her last moments.
He feels Gordon's fingers twitch in hair and then go slack, and he helps to gently lower the arm to the bed so Gordon doesn't injure himself further.
He's exhausted. They both are.
Gordon's breath evens. Then, Virgil's does too. Through Virgil, their mother sings her sons to sleep, so that, by the time Jeff Tracy returns to see the wreckage he left behind, the scene is deceptively calm.
Interlude
"Virgil, would you stop playing Für Elise on my legs!"
"Well excuse me! Next time I'll just let your legs atrophy."
4.
The one advantage to the sudden upheaval in his education was that instead of continuing to grad school, Virgil was able to use his skills for a practical purpose under the tutelage of one of the world's most brilliant minds; and meeting Brains had been awesome.
It meant that his own blood, sweat, and tears went into the building of the birds. And also very possibly his fury.
It meant he could stay on their island home to help Gordon's recovery. For all the good it did him. One day the idiot would learn that pushing himself doesn't make him cool, it makes him stupid.
The last thing he had expected to see when checking in on his brother for the night was him standing. Without assistance, without protection nearby, the walker and the chair both out of reach. Of all the stupid, idiotic –
Words had been exchanged, and not nice ones.
He needed to walk out before he said anything he regretted.
To be fair, welding at 2AM didn't make him dedicated, it made him equally as stupid. He'd just been so mad, but after an hour or two, the rage had dissipated, and he'd stayed primarily to get the job done.
He's not too much of a completion-ist, though, to admit when he's getting tired. His work is sending all that ire right back to him. The angry shower of sparks very much tells him Thunderbird One's panel does not appreciate his carelessness. One is going to be Scott's and already she is so like his older brother. He can practically hear Scott telling him to clean up and get some rest before he screws up his baby.
Better listen.
He definitely needs to shower once he gets to his room; the sweat has started to make him itchy, and he feels grimy now that he's had the time to think about it. He picks up rag from their supplies with a yawn, and wipes at his face.
Ug. Gross. The dryness in his throat warrants a stop by the kitchen as well for rehydration. He thinks that perhaps the headache he's had throbbing behind his eyes was actually lack of water and not so much his brother.
Tired as he is, it only takes less than a second for Virgil to notice the prone form on the ground as he walks through the faintly lit lounge on his way to the kitchen. And that dryness in his throat from earlier is nothing in comparison to the fear lodged in his throat as he chokes out syllables that are supposed to be Gordon's name as he kneels beside the figure.
His hands are trembling as they reach out to search for a pulse at his neck, and with his other hand he pushes back the strands of golden hair to reveal his brother's face: pale, flushed cheeks, closed eyes.
Jesus.
Tear streaks.
"Virgil?" Gordon's voice is groggy, but he stirs underneath Virgil's hands.
"Gordon! What's wrong?"
"Go away," he mumbles. "I'm sleeping."
Virgil retracts his fingers sharply and sits back on his heels.
Sleeping.
He was just sleeping. His heart is a jack hammer in his chest, and Gordon was just sleeping.
He sighs as he tries to get his heart rate under control. But then….
"Out here?" It's a very long distance from Gordon's bedroom to the lounge, and there's no sight of his chair. Or his walker.
"I had no choice," Gordon says weakly, opening an eye to look at his brother. "Good a place as any."
Virgil's heart clenches at the pain behind the words. Sleeping, yes, but still hurt, and the lack of movement below him tells him exactly what happened. Gordon had followed him.
Their fight had been hours ago.
He feels his hackles rise again. "Goddamn it, Gordon, this is exactly-"
"Virgil! Not now! Please, not now."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I tried! You left."
"You weren't listening!"
"Shut up, Virgil," he snaps. "God. Just – I don't know - go get Brains or something. Leave me alone." The biting words quickly turn into a pained cough, a gasp as the spasm hits, and Virgil feels the fight leave him. He reaches out to rest his hand on Gordon's shoulder blade and hates that his brother flinches at his touch.
"Gordon. I am sorry. Let me help," he says softly. "I am not leaving you here."
"Why not?" Gordon responds bitterly. "You did earlier."
"I know." It surprises him when he says it, and Gordon's not innocent either, but he can't deny that he ran, retreated, and made himself scarce in work that couldn't be done safely with a phone distracting him. "I know, Gordo."
"It's not fair. You can't just leave when you know I can't follow." Even so, it's obvious that Gordon still had tried, and it's a stab to the gut to think about how long his brother had been stuck in the lounge, to realize that he is so used to this level of pain that he can sleep through it. He looks up at him, eyes glazed with pain when he pleads, "Please don't do it again. Please don't leave me alone." Then with a twist of the knife, "You've always been the one that stays."
He is the freaking worst brother in the history of existence.
There's little Virgil can do in reply but hang his head, as he helps work the kinks out of Gordon's back, moving slowly towards his lumbar region where multiple surgeries and lingering nanobots have started to rebuild the damage. Gordon's spine is 40% bone, 50% metal, and 10% nanobots.
Both the surgery and the nanobots were new procedures, and while Gordon's case was a perfect scenario for the parameters, there was a timetable to be upheld. The nanobots were dispersed into his spine overtime, every two weeks, by way of a large needle. Each injection was a step closer to full recovery.
With nanotechnology, they didn't know how badly it could wrong, and even Brains had reminded him he had to stick to the approved physical therapy plan if he wanted to keep those nanobots working. A shock to one of their microscopic systems could mean a full failure in their duty to realign a critical nerve. Gordon could ruin everything with his obstinacy.
Virgil had just been afraid for Gordon, afraid to fail when the stakes were so high. He hadn't meant to leave him. Not like that, not with the gut-twisting wound of betrayal that came with it. Virgil just needed time to process – he always had. His anger was the slow vibration of magma. It was easier to work through his emotions when he had time to think through them, and he didn't mind going to bed angry. And if he was still angry in the morning it meant that whatever had transpired, it was worth his frustration.
Gordon, though, pushed and pushed until whatever confrontation was forced to happen in the here and now until his point of view was seen or the matter was resolved. His anger was fire, a deluge of sparks until you were surrounded. It was never a good combination.
Virgil left before he exploded. Gordon from a year ago would've known that.
"Any better?"
"A little," he nods.
But Gordon is not the kid he was a year ago.
It's a muscle pain, Gordon admits, a stiffness he knows well. Any damage to his spine – well, that's a different kind of pain. Even still, they need to check to make sure he didn't injure himself further, and that it is ok for him to move. He is just going to leave for a second Virgil promises, and he runs to the infirmary for the scanner.
It's programmed to find the status of every nanobot in Gordon's system and will automatically report back to Brains and the team of doctors on the mainland. The green lights across the image of Gordon's spine seem promising, and Virgil adds a brief journal entry to send with the timed log: Over-exerted in exercises today, muscle stiffness resulting in spasms and inability to move, but no apparent damage to nanos. Massaged area. – VT
Just in case, he'd rather have a doctor sign off. He adds: OK to move?
A message comes back with a ding, indicating it's from one of Gordon's doctors in reply.
"So what's the damage. Am I still one step closer to being a cyborg?"
Virgil is not going to dignify that joke with a response, frowning, but tells him he is okay to move. They agree on the recliner on the opposite side of the lounge. Virgil helps shift him to his side so that he can be picked up, and he tries to be as gentle as possible with his movements, carefully slipping one arm below Gordon's knees and the other at his upper back. At the same time, Gordon slings his arm around Virgil's neck.
They've had a lot of practice. Lift from the legs, never the back.
Gordon hisses with the movement and tucks his head into Virgil's chest.
"What furnace ran you over?" He asks through gritted teeth.
"I know. Sorry about the smell. I was welding."
Gordon grunts in reply as Virgil situates him in the recliner, raising the footrest and lowering the backrest into position. They have a few heating pads around the villa, the closest being in a supply cabinet, but Virgil treks down to Gordon's room instead for the one that lives there so he can also bring back Gordon's hoverchair at the same time. Gordon's not fond of the chair and what it means, but he'll appreciate the independence it affords him once he's feeling better. He'll be able to come and go as he's ready.
Gordon nods appreciatively when he sees what Virgil has brought back, and it is with expert hands that Virgil guides the heating pad to Gordon's lower back. The blond exhales, breathing deeply.
"30 minutes only, Gordo. Set a timer." He gives him a thumbs up, but Virgil knows he needs to keep an eye too. Gordon has a habit of just leaving the heat on. "I mean it."
Water next. Even though the headache behind his eyes has a bit more of Gordon's name on it now, he is still parched. And Gordon could use some extra fluids too.
He heads to the kitchen and fills up two 32 oz jugs.
"Here you go. Hydrate," Virgil says when he returns, handing over Gordon's favorite. He is happy to see Gordon's small smile at the cartoon llama and motivational phrase: Listen to your llama, drink your water and hold the drama. Virgil has an entire shelf of coffee mugs to express himself. Gordon has water bottles.
It's such a simple thing, Gordon's smile. But he'd thought for a long time he'd never see it again.
For a few moments, the dim lounge is quiet save Virgil's desperate guzzling as the water soothes his dry throat. Finally, some relief.
"You going to slow down there, big guy?"
He shakes his head as he swallows.
This evening was too much.
From the throb of his headache to the prickling in his fingers, Virgil's body vibrates with the whiplash of the emotions from the past few hours. Exhaustion, anger, fear, anger again, sadness, guilt.
"Do you want to maybe not drown yourself?" Gordon asks. "That's my job."
Virgil stops gulping the water with a gasp of air, and the remaining fluid sloshes as the water jug topples out of his trembling hand. Gordon flinches at the loud thump it makes as it hits the hardwood and rolls. Virgil is shell shocked where he stands.
"Fuck. Not like that," Gordon corrects quickly. "Shit, sorry. I just meant no one can drown you but me."
Ah.
"I need to sit." Virgil falls back to piano bench, dropping his head into hands and rubbing at his eyes.
Too much.
"A-are you ok?"
"I don't know." A pause as Virgil looks up. "Are you?"
"I don't know."
They've made a mess of this evening, such terrible things they said to each other in Gordon's room, and they're both tired, drained, with maelstroms behind their eyes.
Gordon holds his gaze as Virgil looks away.
Virgil glances over as Gordon looks away.
Beneath fluttering fingertips, Virgil bounces his knee. Gordon closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing, the heat on his back, on the beat of Virgil's foot tapping on the floor.
He asks, "Hey Virgil? Can you play something?"
"Yeah," Virgil breathes. "I can do that." He had been about to ask Gordon if he minded.
Back poised, Virgil turns away and opens the lid of his baby grand in the moonlight, and he plays, channeling every moment of the night into melodies that speak in ways he knows neither one of them can.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
Then again, maybe it is that simple
5.
"You want to do what?!"
"I want to use your accident as a simulation for training." John continues to layer cream cheese onto his toasted bagel as he speaks, but Gordon has stopped his knife mid-spread, the heaping dollop of hazelnut hovering dangerously on the dull edge.
"You're joking."
"I'm not," John says, his countenance severe as green eyes stare piercingly to meet Gordon's shocked expression.
"O-kay" Gordon says slowly, placing his breakfast down onto his plate and pushing the breakfast meal aside. "Why exactly?"
The hydrofoil had exploded before anyone could ever have anticipated the destruction; there had been no time. The only way to use his accident for a rescue simulation was to admit what really happened. And while Gordon was grateful for what John had risked by hacking confidential WASP files to discover the cause of the accident, no good could from clueing in Scott and Virgil to the knowledge that it was sabotage, that someone – they still don't know who - had tried to murder him and had succeeded for seven others. He planned to take the knowledge to his grave and has asked John to do the same. Which is why it was strange for their Thursday morning to start with such a suggestion.
The four of them had been running sims for weeks. There was nothing that would beat live testing the equipment and they had done test drives of the pods and ships, but running mission scenarios was different. Before they introduced International Rescue to the world, they needed to be able to trust each other completely, to know how to work the problem.
Scott had naturally taken to the role of commander, his instincts well in tune with countering the details of John's "missions." Since it was all simulations, Virgil would often challenge Scott's decisions, walk through the equipment they would have at their disposal, and offer additional suggestions. Brains and Jeff had started to create practice rescues as well, so John got the practice he needed to best support communications.
Overtime, the rescues became more complex. They were all experts in their fields, so it was natural for them to lean into the rescues that met their niches, but when they went live that wouldn't always be the case. Just yesterday, Gordon had given his family a crash course on how to best avoid getting the bends in a deep sea rescue, and Gordon has learned more about functioning in zero gravity than he hopes he will ever truly need.
Sometimes John and Brains would program the mission to have an urgency to it, sometimes it was a mission of precision. And they'd failed. A lot. A lot less lately as they started to get into the groove, but they always worked the problem until they solved it.
Even knowing what he did about the bomb that had been placed deep in the hydrofoil's engine, Gordon's knew his accident was…unsolvable.
"But how are we supposed to solve for the impossible, John?" John doesn't answer; he just looks at Gordon patiently, pointedly. Waiting. "Oh my God, you want to give them a Kobayashi Maru!"
John nods. "Yes."
"No, I don't like it," Gordon says, shaking his head.
"Look, we will do everything we can, and we will still lose people. Scott and Virgil—" the and you goes unsaid "—need to understand that! They're getting too complacent, and they need to understand the stakes. We can't save everyone."
"We understand the stakes," he argues, but John is shaking his head vehemently.
"No. You don't. You all have shown you're going to be a hell of a team, honestly," he says. "But it's all been puzzling through the situations, how to use the pods. I need a way for it to feel real, and I can't use the avalanche, so —"
"Don't you DARE."
"I'm just trying to find something—"
"John, stop!" Gordon says, grasping at the redhead's shoulders and gently shaking him. "I need you to turn off rescue work here. How can you even think to do that to Virgil? What exactly are you trying to prove? I didn't think you would be so cruel."
Gordon can't fathom what would possess John to pressure his brothers – Virgil who, he clearly has mis-understood, and Scott, who after two months MIA, had been returned to his family with an honorable discharge and a pair of haunted eyes and agitated reflexes that were mere phantoms to what they imagine he went through captured behind enemy lines. If training in the Air Force was anything like WASP, Gordon knew just why and how Scott closed himself off from feeling at times.
John pales. "I'm not—"
"What is Virgil supposed to think if you give them the avalanche and they can't solve it?" Gordon feels heat flush up his neck. "What if they can solve it? I don't even know what's worse, but I won't let you do it! I won't!"
"I know. Look, I know, Gordon. You haven't let me finish; I said I am not going to use to avalanche," he says, urging Gordon to understand. He knows how difficult this is. He's been going through it in his head for days before mustering the courage to ask Gordon. "Just let me start over."
"Fine. But get to the point."
"Tell me - when is the last time any of you used someone's name on a rescue simulation?"
The question takes him by surprise. He knows they receive the victim's name in the scenario briefing, but he can't remember a time when they used names. The simulations were life-like enough that they could role play if they need to, yeah, but the point was to practice with the equipment. But then, they had been exceeding expectations there lately.
"How about the last mission? Do you remember the victim's name? How about his age?"
Gordon stares blankly at his brother. He thinks it started with a B, perhaps. Brandon? Bradley?
"It was Randy, and he was 8. Virgil geared up with the Jaws of Life, moved the cross beam to save him, and got him out of the fire to safety. You don't even know why the boy froze, do you? It was because he was scared. Randy was deaf and he didn't hear a thing Virgil said. Virgil can't do ASL in the exo-suit, and for the entire simulation he faced away from him. Virgil may have gotten him out, but he didn't give him very much trust in International Rescue."
"Yeah, but he would still be alive if it were a real situation."
"Gordon, the situation was never about the fire. It hasn't been about learning the equipment for weeks. Please. I am not trying to be heartless. I just… don't know how else to make it feel real to them. And I am worried."
"So, what? You're trying to make a point about their compassion, and yet you're showing them none? I don't want any part of it," he growls. "And you make your own no-win scenario. Leave mine out of it." Gordon slides his chair back and storms off.
After a few seconds, John too retreats to his room, after wrapping up the two uneaten bagels for later. He has a lot to think about.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Gordon finds Virgil in Thunderbird 2's hangar, checking her over for the test flight they are planning to undertake after simulations today. His dark hair is swept underneath a large headset that could appear to have a safety function to protect his ear drums, but no, Gordon knows they are his older brother's preferred set of sound blocking, bass pumping, wireless headphones.
He'd bought them for him himself, as a thank you after one of his more difficult nights, and he knew from experience how immersive the sounds were through the speakers. There was no one else around other than Gordon, which Virgil had yet to realize, and so it was a sign of just how focused Virgil was in his work.
Gordon steps further into the hangar and observes the adoration Virgil puts into his careful touches as he checks the green supply ship. Over the past year and a half, Virgil has channeled all of his creativity and ingenuity into her build. Thunderbird 2 was what Virgil needed, his special project to distract him from the burdens of Gordon's injuries as he healed.
He sits down on a crate and closes his eyes. Virgil had sacrificed so much for him. If anything, the simulations had shown just how eager Virgil was, and John didn't know their brother well enough if he felt Virgil was forgetting the stakes. Virgil knew the stakes better than anyone. The idea for International Rescue had been born from loss after all. A loss that Virgil was a breath away from being part of.
How can he possibly blame him for his excitement to share Thunderbird 2 with the world? For getting lost in the details? The problem was the simulations would always be awkward for him. He compensated for his lack of acting skills by leaning into what he knew well, which was his patience, knowledge of machines, and an innate talent for challenging Scott.
Gordon didn't need a simulation for him to have the upmost faith in Virgil's compassion. John hadn't been here to know how tenderly Virgil cared for him while he was healing and so he couldn't see what Gordon could: that when it was real and when it mattered, Virgil's heart would only be focused on the people they were trying to save.
A no-win scenario would break him.
When he opens his eyes again, Virgil is still oblivious to his presence, but he's abandoned his wrench and with his hands free has started to dance, his head bopping, energized with the beat that only he can hear. A shimmy and a spin and he finally catches sight of Gordon, who laughs with the scene. Virgil is so in his element today, and the joy Gordon feels is so counter to his anger from earlier that morning.
"Hey!" Virgil calls, a little louder than he realizes with the headphones still around his ears, but he removes them as he realizes and walks over. "How long have you been there?"
"Not long. Whatcha listening to?" Gordon can hear the pulse from the speakers.
"R&B Soul." Virgil pulls the headphones off his neck and sets them around Gordon's ears. The cool blues bassline vibrates through his bones and he too rocks his body with the music for a couple seconds.
"S'cool. I like it," he says, before relinquishing the headphones back to his brother.
Virgil accepts them back, his eyes suspiciously bright as he places them around his neck once more. "Sorry," he says chuckling lightly at himself. "It's just – you're dancing."
"I know. Who would've thought?" He grins devilishly as he attempts a pirouette and fails.
"I did."
"Yeah, yeah you did." Gordon goes quiet a moment, whispering, "Thank you."
"You really don't need to keep thanking me, Gordon."
"Yeah, I really do."
-o-o-o-o-o-
After dinner, Scott finds Gordon sitting on the edge of the pool, swinging his feet in the chlorinated water. It's wild to think that after all this time, Thunderbird 1 is waiting below for her first mission.
"You skipped simulations today."
He grunts. "I know. How did it go?" He knows Scott will assume he skipped for his health.
"Well we need an astronaut, that's for sure." A space mission. That's… different. "We could use you tomorrow if you're up for it. We still haven't been able to launch correctly and it's John's program so he's not talking."
"I am not a space guy, Scott."
"Yeah, but three of us are better than two," he urges. "We'll figure it out."
-o-o-o-o-o-
Mayday! Mayday! Impact imminent.
He can't get the sounds of John's pained voice out of his head, panicked calls for help that they have been trying for hours to reach.
Over and over.
Until finally, they did reach Thunderbird 5, and after so many times hearing his brother die, John had programmed for them to see it.
"We're too late; run it again," Scott had said, pale. "Okay, how do we improve our launch speed this time?"
Then for another three hours, they kept trying to tick off time, to get there faster, until their time plateaued and yet they still were unable to save their sibling.
The mechanical voice – All systems offline. The screams for help fade to nothing, and Virgil knows what to expect. It's been torture. Virgil collapses in front of the too white, too pale, too dead figure and screams for it to stop, ripping off the virtual headset.
His knees are weak, but he dashes to John all the same – he needs to see him, to feel him alive. But John's expression stops him in his tracks.
"It's not solvable."
John shakes his head, his expression tight. "No."
Betrayal flashes through Virgil's eyes.
"What the hell, John!" Scott shouts and Virgil jumps at the volume. He puts his hand on Virgil's trembling shoulder. "How long were going to do this for?"
"I-I didn't think you'd keep running it that long!"
"Of course we were going to keep running it, John – you're our brother. We would never give up on you. God dammit!"
"I'm sorry, look, Gordon was right-"
"Gordon knows? Is that why he's been skipping? I thought he was hurt."
"No, no. Well not really, but–"
Scott eyes flash, and he leaves the training room in a flurry of angry curse words. Virgil cringes as the door slams.
"Virgil, I mean it," John pleads. "I am so sorry. I didn't think you'd stay in there. I really didn't."
His fingers twitch, as he starts to feel life back in them again, his heart suppressing the vision of red hair caked with blood and unseeing green eyes. John is not the most tactile of people, but despite being quite tall among the Tracy family, his shoulders slump and he seems so small.
John is still his younger brother, though, and he's upset, and they both could use the hug Virgil had been wanting. He covers the rest of the distance to John and envelops him in his arms.
"Damn you," he whispers into red hair, and yet he never wants to let him go.
-o-o-o-o-o-
Scott is livid. Gordon is absent. John is remorseful. Alan is unaware, lucky kid.
Virgil feels sick. He taps on his watch and calls for Gordon. "Where are you?"
Through the communicator, the aquanaut responds that he's on the beach by the dock and invites him to join if he wants. Virgil wants. He needs to get out of the villa. Maybe get some fresh air as the sun ducks beyond the horizon.
After a few moments gathering himself, he begins the trek down. In his left hand he carries a guitar, in his right he holds his shoes, as he steps carefully over the granules of sand towards his brother.
Gordon is already strumming on the ukulele when he approaches.
"Did you know?"
"I had an idea," Gordon admits. "I didn't agree with it."
Virgil hums, plopping down next to him on the large beach blanket he's laid out along the sand. Virgil likes the guitar, and it's a lot more portable than a baby grand piano. But also, there's just something powerful about a beach bonfire with the sound of plucked strings.
It's easy for Virgil to fall into chords that complement Gordon's melodies, and they aren't playing anything in particular, but it's seamless when Gordon passes the harmony to Virgil. The ukulele transitions to the accompanying chords, and Virgil smiles thankfully, nodding as he picks up one of many underdeveloped melodies in his head. Virgil fingers fly along the frets, and its apparent in his loosening posture when he starts releasing the tension in his shoulders.
Gordon places his uke in his lap after some time and leans back into blanket, content to listen to his brother's playing.
The gentle notes drift with the tossing of wind currents, until suddenly Virgil rounds out a melody with a sigh.
"I think we need to talk."
Gordon nods and offers to call John and Scott if Virgil will start working on the bonfire.
John was keen for the invite, knowing he would need to be called on before his apology for the error would be accepted, but Scott had taken some talking to. After he left, he'd gone for a run along the bluffs and had settled a bit away. He finally agreed to come join with Gordon's persuasion, but he would be a while yet.
Virgil has the fire roaring and Gordon has stepped away to talk to Scott by the time John arrives, picnic basket and roasting skewers in hand. Virgil turns from stroking the fire and accepts the picnic basket, peeking inside.
Marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers. Hell yeah.
When Scott approaches, Virgil is playing a tune on the guitar, and Gordon and John both have their skewers extended over the flame, marshmallows browning in the heat. Scott is disgusted by the angry shriek of the alarms that sound in his ears at the sight of John, but he swallows down the memory, as he joins his brothers around the fire.
They are not sure what to say to each other, the smoke rising between them and drifting into the night sky, but Virgil's music is soothing against the tense air, and it's obvious who is still struggling to the most to meet each other's gaze.
Gordon shrugs and picks up his ukulele to join Virgil's song.
A lightly browned marshmallow enters Scott's field of vision, and he follows it to meet his brother's apologetic eyes.
"Thanks." Scott nods, taking the treat. He's not one for sweets as much as his siblings are, and he can't remember the last time he had an actual all out s'more. But John knows that, knows Scott's preference, and has quelled his instinct to stick his skewer in the fire itself to burn it black the way he likes it.
He's furious with him, but he still feels warm at the thought.
"Okay, let's talk."
John starts. He explains about the simulations, the number of missions he's designed to try to get them to focus on the nuances of the people they were to be saving (even many of these are new even to Gordon), and how he was so desperate to get them to feel something. How after days of trying, and days of running worse and worse scenarios in his head, he felt he needed to do something drastic to create a no-win scenario that would challenge them beyond how they had before.
"I'm so sorry, Scott. Virgil," John finishes. "I knew it would be rough, I just didn't think you'd be in there that long, repeating it on a loop like that. It must have been torture."
"It was," Virgil admits.
"We needed to save you, idiot," Scott says at the same time.
John is quiet, nodding. "Too real?"
It's Scott who says yes. "Okay, so how were you involved?"
Gordon frowns at him. "I wasn't."
"He knew what I was trying to do. But didn't agree with it. He didn't know exactly what I programmed."
"Be glad," Virgil tells him. It's awkward, after hearing John's explanation, describing to John and Gordon exactly how the program had made them feel, the desperation, the awful loop of the same terrible result over and over.
"Well thanks for the nightmare fuel, I guess," Gordon says. His brown eyes are dark, thankful that the secret of his accident is still safe, but so torn at how seriously John had taken his words to make something up. "Wait, is that something that could happen?"
"Anything can happen. That's been the whole point."
"Well, not if we have a say in it," Scott proclaims. "We are Tracys. Never give up, remember?"
"But John's right too. The reality is we can't save everyone," Virgil adds with a nod in John's direction. He doesn't agree with the methods and will have nightmares for days, but he understands how this whole mess started.
Gordon strokes the fire, adding, "Not going to stop us from trying, though. Hand me another marshmallow, Virgil, please." Virgil does so, and Gordon squishes it slightly, before promptly tossing it in John's surprised face. "Don't be stupid next time."
The marshmallow hits the center of John's forehead, leaving a trail of sticky sugar there before it drops silently to the sand. Virgil smiles down at the guitar, suppressing his giggle with a series of notes, while Scott's laughter is carried into the sky with the rising smoke, and John himself snorts at his own predicament.
Gordon wipes his hands on his shorts to clean off the remains of the marshmallow on his fingertips, before he picks up his instrument as well and joins Virgil in his song, just as he will for years to come, as they both will, and just as the four of them - and eventually five – will come to know each other's steps as naturally as they know their own.
END