Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
The table was already piled high with steaming food when they entered the room, but Scott's attention was more taken by the man sat at the head. Not-Dad caught his eye and gestured to the seat at his right. Scott hadn't planned to sit near the man if he could help it, but it appeared the patriarch had other ideas.
Swallowing down his reluctance, he crossed the floor, greeting Mrs Tracy, who was attempting to set the table even as Tin-Tin tried to persuade her gently to take her own seat, and took the offered chair.
Steely grey eyes swept up and down his outfit, and Not-Dad's mouth settled into a thin line, but much to Scott's relief he didn't comment. Not directly, at least.
"I see you had a successful trip," he said. Scott shrugged.
"Fashion here's different," he said, glancing over as the rest of the family took their seats, Other-Virgil slipping in before Other-Kyrano finished bringing the food over to the table. "As you've no doubt noticed."
"That I have," Not-Dad agreed. "At least no-one outside of this organisation will be seeing you, so now you have your own clothes I suppose you can dress as you wish." He still sounded somewhat dubious about it, but Scott would take what he could get.
"Those were my thoughts, too, Father," Other-Scott joined in, from where he was sat a little way down the table between Other-Virgil and Mrs Tracy. "He might as well be comfortable while he's here."
"Indeed," Not-Dad said. "I have informed some trusted friends of your predicament in the hopes of increasing our chances of getting you home, and locating anyone else who may have come through. I am sure their names will be familiar to you; as I recall, you mentioned a 'Lady P' earlier?"
Had he? Scott didn't remember everything that he'd said to the man, but that seemed likely enough. He nodded.
"I assume that refers to our London agent, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward," Not-Dad continued. "She has been made aware and intends to visit in the near future."
Scott felt a flash of frustration that things were being organised over his head – or behind his back, maybe – but buried it deep with the reminder that here, he wasn't Commander. He wasn't anything, except someone in need of rescuing, and this man next to him was the man in charge of the organisation trying to get him home.
"Yeah, we have a Lady Penelope," he confirmed. "And Parker?"
"A fine butler," Not-Dad agreed.
Scott nodded awkwardly, a little unsure at the way Not-Dad's first description for him was 'butler'. It wasn't inaccurate, but to him, Parker was so much more than just Lady Penelope's butler, and he wasn't sure if that was a relationship that had carried over.
Lady Penelope and Parker had been invaluable after the Zero-X, after all.
Scott cut that train of thought off out of habit before it could spiral too far. The last thing he needed to do was start crying about Dad while sat next to his doppelgänger in another universe.
He was saved from any further awkward conversation by Other-Kyrano announcing that the dinner was ready and inviting them to help themselves.
"Thank you, Kyrano," Not-Dad said, before picking up a platter of carved meat and offering it to Scott. For his part, Scott was looking at the large, homemade spread and trying not to drool at the prospect of edible food.
"Thanks," he said, helping himself to a few slices. That appeared to be the cue for everyone else to tuck in, and Scott found himself part of a full dining table for the first time in a long time. Other-John was absent, of course, no doubt squirrelled away on Thunderbird Five eating rehydrated food, and it was obvious that this Tracy family, too, had lost their mom, but with the Kyranos and even Other-Brains apparently resurfacing when he hadn't been looking, not to mention Not-Dad, it felt like the sort of meal Scott hadn't been able to have in eight years, and had thought he'd never have again.
He took a large bite of the food to stop his rising emotions overflowing. Other-Alan, sitting opposite him, shot him an unimpressed look but thankfully seemed too busy listening to Tin-Tin next to him to comment.
"Magnificent as always, Kyrano," Not-Dad announced after a few moments, which seemed to be the cue for the rest of the family to interject with their own praise. Scott was more than happy to join in, which got several pairs of eyes on him, seeming like they were gauging how genuine he was. Only Tin-Tin had a knowing, and slightly sad, smile on her face.
"Say," Other-Alan cut in, "how does this compare to what you normally eat? Our Kyrano's the better cook, isn't he?"
It was a loaded question, and Scott narrowed his eyes at him.
"Alan, that's enough of that," Not-Dad said. "There's to be no comparison of which universe is 'better', you hear me?"
"Yes, Father," Other-Alan frowned. "But I can't be the only one that wants to know what he really thinks of the food."
"Alan!" Other-Scott added in, but Scott shrugged.
"It's the best homemade meal I've had in years," he said honestly, nodding at Other-Kyrano, who seemed flustered at the praise. "None of us can cook half as well back home."
"Not even your Kyrano?" Other-Alan pressed, despite the sharp snap of his name from Not-Dad.
"Alan," Tin-Tin interjected gently, putting a hand on his arm. He ignored her, too, and light blue eyes pinned Scott where he sat.
Scott took another mouthful of the mouth-wateringly good food and swallowed it before answering.
"Kyrano hasn't lived with us for years," he said simply. "It's just the four of us – five when John's down – with Grandma, Brains and Kayo – she's our Tin-Tin – on the island."
There was silence, and he took the chance to help himself to more of the food on the central platters. It really was good, and if he was eating, he could at least pretend he wasn't the focus of several varyingly sympathetic looks.
"Where did he go, if you don't mind my asking, sir?" It was Other-Kyrano who asked, and Scott tried not to react to being called sir.
He shrugged again. "None of us know," he admitted between mouthfuls. "He retired and vanished. Kayo tries to get in contact with him every now and then, but as far as I know she's never been successful."
Scott could feel the elephant in the room, the question on all their tongues even though none of them – not even the otherwise abrasive Other-Alan – wanted to be the one to say it. He sighed and speared a section of meat with his fork, knowing that the question wouldn't go away until he addressed it.
"Yes," he said, "it was just after we lost Dad." He shoved the fork into his mouth and chewed aggressively on the meat, staring down at his plate rather than facing anyone at the table. A hand landed on his right shoulder, presumably belonging to Other-Gordon, who was sat immediately next to him, but no-one said anything in response.
After a moment, Not-Dad cleared his throat. "Brains, how are you doing with the research?" he asked.
"O-oh!" The scientist jumped, clearly not expecting to be addressed, and Scott sent him a mental apology for being the reason he was suddenly the centre of attention even though he was impatient for updates on that front, too. "I, uh, have gathered a-all the data I, uh, can detect from, uh, Thunderbird One's hangar w-where Scott, uh, appeared," Other-Brains said, putting his cutlery down as he spoke. "There appears to be a-an, uh, anomaly of some sort in the, uh, atmospheric r-readings but I, uh, haven't b-been able to, uh, isolate the c-cause yet."
"But wouldn't the cause be the collision that brought him through?" Other-Virgil asked.
"T-that would be the, uh, logical assumption," Other-Brains agreed, "but, I'd, uh, like some m-more data before I, uh, conclude that for, uh, certain."
Scott was caught with a mouth full of vegetables when bespectacled eyes found him from the other end of the table, where Other-Brains was sitting between Tin-Tin and Other-Kyrano. "I, uh, would like to run some, uh, samples from you to, uh, isolate the a-anomaly from your, uh, home u-universe," the scientist continued.
Scott swallowed the food. "Whatever you need," he agreed eagerly. Maybe a little desperately. "Just say when you want them."
"I'll, uh, let you know," Other-Brains promised. It wasn't ideally the answer Scott was looking for – a definitive time would have been nice – but it was something and he nodded in acknowledgement.
That seemed to be the cue for the hubbub of conversation to start up again. Scott stayed out of it, content to eat and listen, and at the head of the table, Not-Dad seemed likewise content to listen to what his sons were saying as they started talking about what seemed to be normal, everyday things. Scott had the context for none of it and was unsurprisingly completely at a loss as to what any of them were talking about.
Tin-Tin and Mrs Tracy seemed to be holding a conversation about fashion and something that sounded like Pennylon, which Scott assumed was a brand or something, while the brothers engaged in some apparently long-standing banter, although he definitely heard billiards and bet in the hubbub.
Nothing was said about International Rescue, and Scott wondered if that was because he was there, even though he'd sat in on one of their debriefs, or if this family also had a ban on talking business over meals. It was probably the latter.
"Gordon," Not-Dad said suddenly, cutting into the conversation. "What's this about a bet I hear?"
The son in question grinned, and further down the table, Other-Scott rolled his eyes.
"It's not a real one, Father," Other-Gordon said. "But with Scott here wanting clothes that our Scott wouldn't normally buy, we had to come up with a reason for his sudden change in taste."
"So he claimed I bet he couldn't beat the whole family at billiards," Other-Scott added. "A bet that I apparently lost, with those clothes as my forfeit."
Not-Dad chuckled, startling Scott, who hadn't heard anything except stern patriarch from the man since he'd first met him. Suddenly he seemed a lot more like Dad, and a lump formed in his throat. Scott hurried to put another mouthful of food in his mouth to have a reason for his need to swallow.
"He did, did he?" the older man said. "How many times have you played him so far today?"
"I stopped counting after twelve," Other-Scott said.
"I see," Not-Dad mused. "And how many times has he won?" Even Scott could tell he knew what the answer was going to be before it was uttered, but Other-Scott said it anyway.
"Not even once."
"Maybe we should play chess after dinner instead," Other-Gordon suggested. His brother laughed.
"But chess wasn't the bet, was it, Gordon?"
"I think you've made your point," the ginger sulked.
"I'm glad you think so," Other-Scott said sunnily. "Maybe that'll teach you to make outlandish claims."
"I didn't see you making any suggestions to the contrary," Other-Gordon pointed out. Sat between them, Other-Virgil's head was swivelling like an umpire at a tennis match. Conversation across the rest of the table had died down, leaving the two of them the only ones talking.
Two brothers sniping at each other was familiar, and Scott buried himself in the delicious food to try and distract himself from the fact that at home, it would be his brothers sniping at each other, and he might even be involved himself.
No-one seemed to notice his retreat from the conversation, or at least had the manners not to comment on it if they did, and he kept quiet for the rest of the main course.
Dessert passed in much the same manner, with Grandma presenting a gigantic chocolate gateau piled high with fresh strawberries and cream. The entire table fell upon it with gusto, Scott very much included. The ones he picked up from Paris, while the best of professional baking, just weren't the same as homemade.
"So," Not-Dad said, once the plates were all licked clean and Other-Kyrano and Mrs Tracy were bustling around in the kitchen, having cleared the crockery. Tin-Tin had also got up to help them, but none of the others had moved, so Scott took the cue to stay where he was. "What do you boys have planned for the evening?"
"I'll be continuing with drawing Scott's brothers," Other-Virgil said.
"Drawing his brothers?" Not-Dad asked, and he nodded.
"They don't look identical to us," Other-Gordon chipped in, "so Virgil's working with Scott to get portraits together for our reference."
"I see," Not-Dad said, and Scott found himself being regarded by the man again. "I'd like to see those once they're completed."
"Yes, Father," Other-Virgil agreed.
"He won't let any of us see them yet," Other-Gordon complained.
"I told you," the artist said, yet again. "Once they're coloured, and not one moment before."
A steaming cup of coffee appeared in front of Scott, and he glanced up to see Tin-Tin smiling at him. Not wanting to interrupt the conversation now going on between Not-Dad and his sons about the portraits Other-Virgil was working on, he nodded at her in thanks.
Similar cups were finding their way in front of everyone at the table, and Scott assumed a post-meal coffee was part of the routine here. Once everyone was served, Tin-Tin, Other-Kyrano and Mrs Tracy returned to the table with their own drinks and a platter of home-baked cookies.
Tasting the coffee, Scott was pleased to discover Tin-Tin had clearly remembered how he liked it from earlier. The proffered cookies were just as delicious as the cake had been, and by the time they'd finished drinking and eating, Scott was feeling pleasantly full.
He was going to have to make sure he went for his morning run, especially if this was always how they ate here.
"Are you ready to carry on with the portraits?" Other-Virgil asked him after all the cups on the table had been drained dry and the hubbub of conversation had faded away, and he made his way to his feet.
"Sure," he answered. "Lead the way."
Other-Virgil's room was full of frosted glass panels, or so it seemed as Scott followed him inside. Books, on what appeared to be a variety of subjects from art techniques and historic artists to music to what Scott assumed were engineering manuals, lined alcoves in the wall opposite the bed. They were familiar in topic, if not in the particular titles, to the sorts of things he was used to finding in his Virgil's room.
"Why don't you pull up a chair?" Other-Virgil invited, nodding at a wooden chair sitting innocuously in the corner as he perched himself on his bed. The sketchbook from earlier had had the respective pages neatly torn out, and Scott caught a glimpse of John's sketch taped to a large board. Various colouring pencils surrounded the artist where he sat, and Scott obediently retrieved the chair in question to put it down next to the bed so he could see what Other-Virgil was doing.
"What do you want to start with?" he asked, looking at the greyscale picture of his brother and trying to imagine it coloured in. As John was the last brother he'd seen – albeit holographically – before ending up in the wrong universe, it was almost painfully easy to bring him to mind.
"Well, we might as well start with the skin," Other-Virgil said. "Darker or paler than you?"
That was a good reference point to start with, Scott figured. "Paler," he replied. "Quite a bit paler. He's ginger and lives in space most of the time, so he doesn't get much sun."
Other-Virgil hummed thoughtfully, fingers dancing over a selection of pencils but not actually selecting one to start. "Do you remember our John well enough to know which one's darker or paler?" he asked.
"I can't say I was paying much attention to that," Scott admitted, wracking his brain to remember how pale Other-John had been. "Mine's maybe a little paler?"
Other-Virgil nodded and finally selected a pencil. "Say," he began as he started lightly colouring. "When you say he's in space most of the time – don't you fellas have a rotation for Thunderbird Five?"
"A rotation?" Scott tried to imagine telling John he had to share his 'bird with someone else on a regular basis – someone who wasn't EOS – and failed miserably. John would probably lock down Thunderbird Five and refuse entry to anyone if Scott so much as breathed a notion about sharing space monitor duty regularly. "No, John's up there most of the year. He's happiest there, so it works out."
"But aren't there health detriments to staying in space for so long?" Other-Virgil asked, and Scott winced.
"A few," he admitted, "but we've done what we can with our technology to minimise them, and it's not unusual for John to come down for a few days if we're quiet. We can route the calls straight to Tracy Island if necessary, although the signal isn't as good and we're more liable to miss things." He frowned thoughtfully. "You guys have a rotation?"
Other-Virgil nodded as he set down the pencil he was using and selected another one. Scott peered at the canvas; John's sketch did look remarkably pale, but the pencil Other-Virgil had selected seemed slightly darker so maybe he planned to layer it up. "John and Alan switch every month, or near enough," he explained. Scott recalled Other-Alan's surprising agreement to Other-John's declaration that he wanted telemetry – it made a lot more sense now. "But John tends to do slightly longer spells than Alan, and very rarely Scott takes a turn if one of them can't."
Scott couldn't imagine sitting up in Thunderbird Five for an entire month, on space monitor duty. He'd done short spells of a couple of days, and that was more than enough for him.
"How does this look so far?" Other-Virgil asked after a few more moments, putting his pencil down and turning the board until Scott could look at it properly. "Too pale?"
Scott peered at it again, but without the vibrant hair or piercing eyes, judging the skin colour was a lot harder than he'd expected it to be.
"Maybe a little?" he offered, a bit uncertainly.
"How about we move on to his hair for now?" Other-Virgil suggested. "You say he's ginger?"
Scott nodded. "Very striking," he confirmed. "Brighter than your Gordon's."
Other-Virgil selected a pencil and made some firm strokes across the curl above John's forehead. "Like this?"
"Something like that, yeah," Scott confirmed, watching the almost orange pencil continue to follow the sweep of John's hair. Other-Virgil nodded in acknowledgement, and settled in to keep colouring the hair. He didn't seem to have any difficulty with the colour; Scott didn't have to make any corrections, only a couple of confirmations when asked, during the entire process.
Then it was time for his eyes, and this particular little brother of his had never had the easiest eyes to describe, not helped by the fact that Scott saw them through a blue-tinted hologram far more frequently than he actually saw them in person.
"Blue turquoise or green turquoise?" Other-Virgil asked after his initial attempt, and Scott hesitated. They always looked almost blue in the hologram, but then the hologram itself was blue, so…
"Green?" he hedged. "Maybe?"
Other-Virgil seemed slightly amused at his inability to remember the exact colour, if the uptick to his lips was any indication, but dutifully selected a few pencils in the blue-green area, as best Scott could tell, and started adding in flecks to the irises.
Seeing his brother come to life from the paper as Other-Virgil added more and more detail with the pencils brought that lump back in his throat, which Scott swallowed around in the hopes of pushing it down before Other-Virgil looked up and noticed.
No such luck, apparently, as brown eyes glanced up at him and gained a sympathetically concerned look.
"Are you okay?" Other-Virgil asked, setting the pencil and board down and twisting to look at him properly.
"I'm fine," Scott insisted, but he could tell Other-Virgil wasn't convinced in the slightest.
"You know," he said gently, "we don't have to do this all now."
It was very reminiscent of Other-Gordon's attitude during their shopping trip, and Scott slouched back on the chair.
"You need to know who you're looking out for," he pointed out. "We've already established I can't describe them well enough, so this is the only way we've got."
"I suppose that's true," Other-Virgil allowed, "but that doesn't mean you have to push yourself so hard."
"They're my brothers," Scott snapped back, harsher than he intended. "If they're somehow here-"
"I understand," Other-Virgil interjected. Startled at the interruption, Scott's mouth clicked shut. "Gordon's right; you're just like our Scott, and we know how overprotective over us he gets." A hand landed on his shoulder, and those deep brown eyes searched his. For what, Scott wasn't sure. "If your brothers are somehow here, we will find them. John's already listening out, and I'm sure your brothers are smart enough to get themselves somewhere where they can be easily found by the right people. What we're doing will help, I agree, but if they're here, it's not what will find them."
Scott grit his jaw.
"I have to do something," he said. A measure of desperation bled through into his voice.
"Look after yourself," Other-Virgil told him, not unkindly. "That's what your brothers will want." Scott looked up at him, startled, and Other-Virgil held his gaze steadily. "I'm sure that, if you're like Scott, I must be like your brother, too," he continued. "Look after yourself. Let us help you."
His hair was different, but his eyes were just the same.
Other-Gordon had said the same thing. Scott wondered if he was in for a similar speech from all of them at one point or another.
"I have to do this," he said, leaning forwards and gesturing at the still-uncoloured sketches of his three youngest brothers. "I have to."
Other-Virgil surveyed him for a moment, but must have seen something in his face, because he nodded and pulled his hand back.
"I understand," he said. "So, would you say we're done with your John?" He picked up the coloured picture and showed it to Scott.
It was definitely John. The sketch had caught his likeness perfectly, but with the addition of the colours, it was really him.
"Yeah," he said, around that lump that seemed determined to appear in his throat at any reminder of his brothers. "That's him."
Other-Virgil took a moment to look at the finished drawing, and Scott wondered what he was thinking. Whatever thoughts were running through his head, though, he didn't say them and after a moment set the image aside. It was Virgil's sketch that he prepped next.
It had to be weird, Scott thought as they started the same process again, for the brown-haired man to know he was colouring in a version of himself from another universe – that hopefully, if Scott really was the only one to have fallen through, he would never meet. Still, Other-Virgil seemed well enough up to the challenge, even if he raised an eyebrow upon Scott's confirmation that yes, Virgil's hair was black and not just a very dark brown.
The eyes, at least, were slightly easier. Unlike with Other-John and John, where the former he'd only seen through various sized screens and hadn't been able to get any real gauge on the exact shade of his eyes, Other-Virgil – as well as Other-Gordon and Other-Alan – had the exact same eyes as Scott's own brothers.
Other-Virgil, entirely understandably in Scott's opinion, spent several minutes studying the finished drawing once Scott proclaimed it accurate, but just as with John's portrait, kept his opinions to himself.
It was dark outside Other-Virgil's bedroom window by the time all of the sketches were coloured. Instinctively, Scott looked at his wrist for the time, only to be stymied by the analogue dial he'd yet to get anyone to explain to him.
"It's getting late," Other-Virgil commented, seemingly only just noticing how dark it was even though he'd turned the lights on about halfway through colouring Alan's. "Should we show the fellas now or in the morning?"
"Might as well do it now, if they're still up," Scott shrugged. "What is the time, anyway?"
"Aren't you wearing Scott's watch?" Other-Virgil asked, and Scott sighed.
"Yeah, but I can't read it," he admitted. "We haven't used this system in half a century back home."
"Do you want me to talk you through it now?" Other-Virgil offered, setting the drawings aside and leaning forwards. "It shouldn't be too complicated for you, I shouldn't think."
Scott glanced down at the dial, taunting him with numbers and spokes he couldn't quite decipher. "That would help," he admitted, extending his wrist. "So, what am I looking at here?"
Other-Virgil shuffled closer and caught his forearm to steady it. "Well, each point on the edge of the face are the hours, with twelve at the top, followed by one on the immediate right," he said, pointing at the points in question. Scott nodded. "The shorter hand is the hour hand, and it points at the hour. If it's pointing between numbers, like it is right now" – it was between the nine and the ten markers – "the hour is the one it's passed. That makes it nine, here." Scott nodded again.
"The other hands," he started, assuming all of the long thin spokes coming from the centre had the same term. "Minutes and seconds?"
"That's correct," Other-Virgil confirmed. "The wider, slower, hand is the minutes. Each hour point is five minutes apart for the minute hand, starting from the top of the dial."
Scott did a quick count. The minute hand was lurking down by the seven hour point, so that meant, "it's nine thirty-five?"
"That's right," Other-Virgil told him. "But we normally say twenty-five to ten. Once it's past the half hour, we say 'to' the hour, rather than 'past' the hour."
That was unnecessarily complicated, in Scott's opinion. "I'll try to remember that," he said out loud, watching the third, slender, hand move around. That was presumably the second hand. "Seconds are counted the same way as minutes?"
"They are, yes," he was told, Other-Virgil looking quite pleased. "I didn't think you'd have any trouble with it. Say, what do you fellas use?" He let go of Scott's wrist.
"Numbers," Scott shrugged, letting his hand fall back into his lap. "Computers update the time every second or minute, depending on the clock, so we just have to read out the numbers."
"Computers do that?" Other-Virgil asked. Scott found himself surprisingly relieved that the other man seemed to at least know what a computer was. "That sounds very complicated for something as simple as keeping time."
Scott shrugged. "It's simple enough for us to use," he said.
"Well, I suppose it's what you're used to," Other-Virgil commented. "The other fellas should still be up, so we can show them the portraits of your brothers now." Scott watched him gather up the four drawings and made his own way to his feet, putting the chair back in the corner where it had been earlier.
Forgot to post this last night, whoops, but in my defence I am absolutely drowning under uni work at the moment, so I'm quite surprised I even had the energy to proof read and post tonight...
Thanks for reading!
Tsari