Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
(Sorry for the additional alert if you're following me/the story; apparently the chapter refused to upload properly the first time)
The problem with plans was their tendency to go wrong. Finding his way back to the infirmary was no challenge – the white building made for a clear target, and the trail was clear enough to Scott's eye. Getting back inside was no issue, either. The window was left ajar, simple enough to silently pull open and slip through.
Finding Other-Gordon perched on one of the chairs, one of Scott's bracers in his hands, was not part of the plan, and he mentally cursed himself. He'd escaped from the infirmary, so it would be obvious to anyone with a brain cell that he'd return that way, too, especially with his gear there. Gordon had many brain cells, which he frequently used in unorthodox ways, and Other-John had even warned him that Other-Gordon was crafty.
"Welcome back," the ginger greeted him calmly. "The others are on a mission." Scott swiped the gear from him, carefully running his hands over the remote control units to make sure they were still intact. He didn't know their range, and doubted that even Brains had managed to make something that could get signals through multiple universes – especially as his comm unit failed to do so – but he was still cautious about activating them. Just in case.
"I saw." Technically he'd only seen One's launch, Two's runway presumably out of sight from Other-Scott's hiding place. "Power plant meltdown." Other-Gordon's gazed briefly flicked to his wrist, where Other-Scott's watch still sat.
"Has John found your brothers?" he asked, and Scott shook his head. "Ah well, no news is good news, right? If John can't find them, they're still safe at home."
Unwilling to engage in further conversation, he scooped up the rest of his uniform, tempted for a moment to put it on for comfort's sake but discarding the notion, before glancing at the map in the watch face and heading out of the room.
"You're not going to put that back on, are you?" Other-Gordon asked him, following. Scott ignored him, following the hallway almost to the kitchen, where Other-Kyrano was doing something with the odd contraption in the middle of the floor, before making the right turn towards the stairs. "Father's in the lounge." For someone who had been almost silent the entire time up until then, Other-Gordon was suddenly making a lot of noise.
"I'm not going there," he told him firmly.
"You're stealing Scott's clothes." Other-Gordon didn't bat an eyelid. "I'll help." Scott wished he was surprised, but it was a Gordon thing to do. "Here, this way." Unlike his father, Other-Gordon had a preference for the stairs, which suited Scott just fine. He had no issues with elevators, but the one at the end of the hallway was another example of the different technology. Stairs were far more trustworthy.
Last time, Not-Dad had guided him quickly and firmly into the lounge, but Other-Gordon strode ahead after reaching the top of the stairs, away from the door to the lounge, and turned into an extended corridor with six doors all set into the right-hand side. These, according to the map in his watch, were six equally-sized rooms, all with smaller rooms set into them. The second one from the far end contained the flashing blue light indicating that it was Other-Scott's room. Presumably, that put the rest of them as the other four brothers' rooms, and probably Not-Dad's room.
"My room," Other-Gordon waved vaguely to the door immediately in front of the branch of hallway they'd just left. "John's is that one." He indicated the door next to his, at the end of the corridor, before continuing to walk. "Alan's, Virgil's, and here we are! Scott's." He pushed open the door with no hesitation and strode inside. Scott checked the watch face again. It agreed with Other-Gordon, so he followed.
Even without either guides, he wouldn't have had any problems identifying the room's owner. Images of various, fast, planes decorated the walls – many unrecognisable to him, but unmistakable in their theme regardless. Blue was the prominent colour, edging its way around the room and various screens and alcoves set into the walls. The bed linen was also blue. Towards the far wall, the en suite took out a reasonably small chunk of the room.
Other-Gordon didn't wait for him to adjust to the reality that yes, this room felt like a room he could see himself having, heading over to a closet door and throwing it open.
"Clothes," he announced. Scott was slightly concerned at just how nonchalantly the younger man was rummaging through his older brother's room, although, he was a Gordon. His Gordon was probably just as likely to do that. Well, that was one of the hazards of younger brothers, he supposed. Thoughts like that just made him remember just how far away from his own younger brothers he was, and he stepped forwards to the closet to look at Other-Scott's wardrobe before he started dwelling over things he currently couldn't change.
Clearly, his counterpart liked rollnecks and shirts. There was quite a collection of them, ranging from simple mono-coloured designs to rather louder, patterned, offerings. Scott dismissed the rollnecks immediately, hunting through the shirts until he found a mono-coloured one that felt like it might be some sort of cotton, rather than silk. Silk was for special occasions – business meetings, and formal events he attended only because he had to. The selected shirt was some sort of yellow-brown colour, not his first choice but apparently the only blue Other-Scott owned was in the forms of rollnecks and cardigans.
Ignoring Other-Gordon's presence in the room, he shrugged off the by now muddy pyjama top he'd woken in and pulled the shirt on, leaving the top buttons undone and rolling the sleeves up until it mimicked his preferred style at home. There were no jeans in sight, so with some reluctance he found the least-smart pair of pants, which were at least dark blue, and in concession to company retreated into the en suite long enough to shed the pyjama bottoms and pull them on.
"How long have you been wearing those underpants?" Other-Gordon asked him when he emerged, and Scott rolled his eyes.
"There is a line," he said firmly. "Unless there are some new, unworn ones lying around, I'll stick with what I'm wearing, thanks. Now, shoes?" Other-Gordon pointed to the next door over, sitting himself down on the bed and letting his feet rest on the headrest. Scott paused, the position familiar.
"Your back bothering you?" he asked. Amber eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"How do you know about my back?" Other-Gordon asked slowly. Scott yanked open the indicated door and glanced over the various shoes in a growing state of despair. No sneakers. How could there be a Scott who didn't own any sneakers?
"Hydrofoil accident," he said. "Four months in hospital."
Other-Gordon let out a noise that sounded almost like a hiss, which Scott ignored as he poked at the shoes dubiously. What was with all the smart shoes or sandals? Did Other-Scott have nothing in between?
"Scott wouldn't have told you," Other-Gordon mused out loud. "Nor would John. You haven't spoken to anyone else." He sighed. "Your Gordon, too?"
"When he was sixteen," Scott confirmed. "Finished his career in W.A.S.P. before it even started. They said he'd never walk again." Other-Gordon made a noise of agreement.
"They said that about me, too," he said as Scott finally accepted that a pair of sneakers were not about to materialise and, as with the pants, grabbed the least-smart pair of shoes and a random pair of what felt like cotton socks. "I guess they were wrong."
Scott let himself smile. "Gordon's got the gold medal to prove it." Remembering the accident, and the months of pain after it, hurt. Remembering the moment Gordon stood on the first place podium, gold medal around his neck and American national anthem blaring out all around them barely two years later filled him with pride.
"So do I," Other-Gordon said, watching him pull on the shoes and tie the laces firmly. "Father's going to have a fit if he sees you looking like that, you know." Scott glanced down at himself, light brown shirt still unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up to three-quarter length, untucked over dark blue slacks and a pair of black shoes. It was almost just like home.
"I don't see the problem," he retorted. Other-Gordon eyed him dubiously.
"Well, it's your funeral," he conceded, stretching out and shifting into a sitting position. "I'll show you the guest rooms." Scott gathered up his uniform and waited for him to stand, leading the way out of the room and closing the door behind them. "Dad's room." Other-Gordon gestured to the last door on that stretch of the corridor, and then headed down the hallway opposite, stopping at the first door. "Kyrano got this room ready for you."
Right by Not-Dad's room. Scott sighed but entered the room. It was a nice enough room, the same size as Other-Scott's with a queen-size bed, en suite, and even a veranda he could step out onto. The view was impressive, with palm trees and craggy rocks co-existing harmoniously, and the shimmering ocean behind. No view of the pool, he noticed, not quite sure how he felt about that. Sure, his room at home didn't directly overlook the pool, but he could at least see if he looked in the right direction.
He located a closet and placed his uniform inside, out of immediate sight of curious individuals. No doubt Other-Brains would want to examine it in detail at some point, and if Scott wanted the best chance of getting home, he would have to allow that, but that would be happening under his supervision. Just in case the remote controls were still active.
"Do you want the rest of the house tour now or later?" Other-Gordon asked him.
"Now works for me," he said, glancing at the watch on his wrist. It still showed the map, a flashing blue light signifying Other-Scott's room. How did he turn that off? It had served its purpose now, and Scott was used to maps being easily dismissed if they didn't automatically vanish.
"Third dial," Other-Gordon said, gesturing to the same knob on his own watch. "That's basically the 'stop' button." Scott glanced at him, wondering if he was really that easy to read, before pressing the end transmission button Other-Scott had shown him. Sure enough, the map vanished and the analogue clock face stared back at him instead. "Thunderbird Two won't be far short of the danger zone now, so Dad'll be busy in the lounge for a while yet."
That sounded like a perfect time to explore the rest of the house, and the hangars, too, if he could wrangle it. Thunderbird One had appeared to be reasonably close to his own; he was curious about the other Thunderbirds.
"So what else do you have here?" he asked, heading for the door, and Other-Gordon was quick to catch up.
"Well, you know the bedrooms and the lounge," he said. "If we keep going round there's another guest room next to yours." He nodded at another door, set further down the hallway. "And that is Brains' main lab opposite." That drew Scott's attention. Somewhere in there, the scientist was looking for a way to get him home. If Other-Gordon hadn't been with him, he wouldn't have been able to resist entering, Other-John's caution to not interrupt him discarded. As it was, he had company and Other-Gordon wasn't showing any inclination to enter it. Indeed, he was already carrying on down the hallway, past the other guest room. Scott jogged to keep up.
Another door marked the end of the hallway. Other-Gordon pushed it open.
"Rather a narrow hallway, this one, but it has a gorgeous view of the ocean," he said, stepping through and turning a corner to reveal a corridor – narrow, just as Other-Gordon had warned – and lined with windows. The view was indeed beautiful, but Scott's attention was caught by the runway protruding from the beach much further below them. He could just about see the end of what looked like a row of palm trees on either side.
Other-Gordon stepped closer to him, following his line of sight before making a noise of amusement.
"See something familiar?" he asked. Scott nodded.
"Seems like there's more similarities than differences between Thunderbirds One and Two so far," he commented. It was easy to visualise the trees bowing backwards as a green behemoth travelled between them.
At least, he was assuming Thunderbird Two was green in this universe. Thunderbird One's colourings had been identical, anyway.
"It's not just for Thunderbird Two," Other-Gordon told him. "The domestic jets use that one, too. It's where I launch Thunderbird Four if Virgil isn't giving us a lift, too."
"Thunderbird Four?" Scott asked. "You don't have an underwater tunnel for your island launch?"
Amber eyes flickered with interest.
"Underwater tunnel?" Other-Gordon returned. "You have an underwater tunnel? How do you get Four there from the Pod?"
Scott mentally translated pod to module. Different yet similar terminology was a nuisance, but it was a nuisance he was going to have to get used to if he wanted to get home. He refused to consider the idea that he'd be stuck here forever.
"Magnetic grabs and pulleys," he said. It was a rather over-simplification of the complex mechanism Brains had set up in order to get the submarine quickly and efficiently between Module Four and the nicknamed 'squid tank' she otherwise settled in by Thunderbird One, but with the difference in technology – and the fact that Scott didn't fully understand the nuances of that particular A to B journey anyway – he saw no point in explaining further. After a moment or two of silence, Other-Gordon clearly hoping for a little more detail, the ginger man sighed.
"Well, this is what I think you're really after," he said, turning away from the sea and heading further along the corridor. What he was really after? Scott followed, intrigued as Other-Gordon rotated a large vase ninety degrees only for a section of wall to slide back.
Okay, so yes, this was what Scott was really after. Thunderbird One's hangar looked different without the 'bird inside, a large square hole where she normally sat. Trailing off down beneath the walkway they were stood on – the same one as earlier, Scott could see the lamps in the wall further along – was a slope. Scott assumed that headed in the direction of the pool.
The fact that their Thunderbird One was literally stored in the villa still felt odd to him, especially with no sign of any of her sisters nearby. Where was Thunderbird Three, towering above them? The landing pad for the space elevator, sharing One's gantry? Thunderbird Four's little tank, the little yellow sub bobbing happily beside her larger sisters?
It felt wrong, his Thunderbird stored all alone – even if she wasn't his Thunderbird, strictly speaking. Other-Gordon fell back, letting him walk over to the lamps. The route was partially blocked by a large metal tube snaking down and away, and it took some manoeuvring to pass it. He couldn't see where it led, but he could probably make an educated guess.
"What about the others?" he asked, and Other-Gordon raised an eyebrow at him.
"You want to see the other hangars?" he asked, in a voice that told Scott that Other-Gordon had no intentions of being his guide there. In fact, with the ginger man between him and the door they'd come through, Scott realised he'd been cornered. Even though he was closer to the other exit, Other-Scott's own access point, that lead to the lounge and Not-Dad, and a situation he was not interested in facing just yet. He scowled.
"What do you want from me?"
"Answers," Other-Gordon said, at least having the grace not to deny the trap now that Scott was aware of it. He really needed to get his head in the game; he couldn't afford to be making slip-ups.
"Well I want those, too," he retorted, crossing his arms and fixing the shorter man with a hard look. "Particularly about how I'm getting home."
"John's given you all the answers we have on that front," Other-Gordon said calmly. Scott knew that, but it didn't do much for the frustration that he was stuck away from his family, with no way of letting them know where he was – or even that he was still alive. "I want to know about you."
Scott's brain screeched to a halt. Him? He'd been expecting a grilling on his home, his family, his own International Rescue. Other-John had already done some probing, and Other-Brains would doubtless be after every scrap of information that could help him solve the puzzle, but information on him?
"Why?" he asked, back-footed, cornered, and hating every moment he wasn't in control.
"Because I want to know exactly who we've got living with us until we can get you home," Other-Gordon said bluntly. "You're like Scott, which was apparently enough to have you two trying to punch each other's lights out once already, but you're also not like Scott."
"That's not what your John said." On the one hand, Scott was glad he wasn't the only one who thought there were some differences – cowering from his father being the immediate one that sprang to mind, never mind fashion sense, although from Other-Gordon's attire, it might just be that fashion was different in general – but on the other, he wasn't sure he wanted to be micro-analysed by a too-sharp ginger.
"I'm not John," Other-Gordon pointed out. "I also don't have the luxury of hiding in space while a stranger with my brother's face appears and throws my family for a loop."
"Throws your family-" Scott started, fully prepared to remind him that his family would be out of their minds, but Other-Gordon talked over him as though he wasn't talking.
"You've already punched my brother, broken my Dad's nose, and then also got into a shouting match with my Dad," he reminded him. "I don't know what your family's like, but here, Dad's word is law. No-one talks back to him like that. Not us, not Kyrano, not his friends. So where do you get off disrespecting him in his own home?"
It wasn't rage Scott saw in amber eyes glaring up at him, not budging an inch despite the height difference putting him at a natural disadvantage. Not entirely. There was curiosity there, and a healthy dose of suspicion. Annoyance, and maybe even a hint of compassion, buried right at the back. Scott was reminded of his own outburst, sometime earlier, in that very same hangar, and knew he wasn't the only one thinking about it.
Other-Gordon didn't mention it, however, remaining stock still and pinning Scott with the intensity of his gaze. Behind him was the escape to the lounge, and the very man he was determined to avoid. Other-Gordon blocked the other way out, and Scott wasn't naïve enough to think he'd be able to get past him. Gordon could match him just fine – Other-Gordon looked to be older, a little wiser. Almost certainly stronger.
Besides, Scott was tired of running away. In order to get home, he knew he needed to co-operate, and while Not-Dad was high on his list of individuals to avoid as much as possible because Other-Gordon was right, he would keep clashing with the man as long as he tried to act as Scott's superior, he wasn't a coward and had no intentions of starting to be one now.
"You heard what I said earlier," he started. "My father's gone. You're not an idiot, work it out. What would you do if yours vanished without a trace?" He didn't want to talk about it. He could barely talk about their Dad and the Zero-X with his own brothers, let alone strangers who knew nothing. It was easier to fall into the tried and true big brother mode of making them reach the answers by themselves, even if the man standing in front of him wasn't one of his brothers.
From the sharp look Other-Gordon sent him, he'd seen through the façade.
"Scott would take full command." It seemed like he'd be humoured anyway. "And he'd be terrible at it." Wait, what? Scott squinted, trying to work out who the insult was aimed at and why. "How long ago?"
That was unexpected.
"Why?"
"Because I've seen Scott when he's been left entirely in charge," Other-Gordon said. "Dad tore into every decision he made when he got back. Didn't agree with any of it, even though Scott was trying to follow what he thought Dad would have done. You aren't fumbling for approval, but I bet you were to start with."
What would Dad do? It was an instinctive mantra at this point. Other-Gordon was wrong; he still wanted Dad's approval, he wanted to know he was doing things right. Should he have pulled Alan from school? Should he have let Alan join the team so young? Were the changes he'd made in the eight damn years since the Zero-X the best things he could have done?
If Dad came back, would he be proud of him? Or would he be like Not-Dad, and tear into all his decisions?
It was that line of thought again, and he trampled it down firmly. He couldn't think like that. Not now, not ever. If he started to doubt, if he started second-guessing himself… No. He had to look forwards. Always look forwards, never back.
Other-Gordon was watching him like a hawk, and Scott wondered how much of what he'd been thinking had been visible on his face. The ginger didn't give him any clues, simply standing and waiting for him to talk.
"Too long," he admitted. "Eight years."
Other-Gordon's poker face broke for just a moment, shock flitting across his expression before he slammed the walls back up.
"Geez," he muttered under his breath, before he frowned. "Your International Rescue's been operating for eight years?"
"IR did their first rescue just over eight years ago," Scott confirmed. Six months Before, with Dad, Kyrano and Uncle Lee doing the heavy lifting while Scott and then John assisted around college. Five years out of operation, until they were all old enough – except Alan, who was too young but snuck in anyway. Three years since they'd taken up the reins again, with him at the helm.
Other-Gordon looked like he had several questions. Scott didn't want him asking any of them.
"What about here?" he asked, challenging Other-Gordon to try and turn it back into a one-sided interrogation.
"Three years," the man admitted, but the calculating look was still in his eyes and Scott wasn't sure he liked it. Something along those lines must have shown in his face, because all at once, tension leaked from the other man's shoulders. "You do realise we're on the same side, here?"
"You're the one that started interrogating me," Scott snapped back, and Other-Gordon raised his hands in mock-surrender, just like Other-John had done earlier.
"Were you going to tell me anything if I didn't?" he asked, and Scott had to admit that no, he wouldn't. A thought struck him and he glared at the shorter man.
"You'd better not tell anyone." The only thing worse than telling them himself would be having them gossiping about him behind his back, putting together bits and pieces with no guarantee of finding the right answers.
"Tell them what?" Other-Gordon challenged. "That the reason you're so snappy is because you've been single-handedly looking after your family for eight years and being separated from them has you on edge? Or that Dad's got you off-kilter because secretly you still want approval from yours but know you can't get it?"
For the second time that day, Scott's knuckles found the wall of the hangar, and protested loudly at the treatment. He'd realised Other-Gordon was getting something more than he'd outright said, but hearing the thoughts he'd been determinedly burying even from himself thrown in his face by a stranger with his brother's eyes was more than he could take.
"Geez," Other-Gordon muttered, stepping closer and taking hold of his outstretched fist. "Are you always this self-destructive?" Scott tried to pull his hand back, but the other man's grip was strong. "You've gone and wrecked Tin-Tin's bandaging; she won't be happy about that." Scott scowled and tugged again; Other-Gordon let him pull free that time. "Scott." It was the first time the man had referred to him by name and he met his eyes. "We're going to help you. Remember, we're International Rescue, too."
Scott glanced sideways, at the empty hangar that usually housed Thunderbird One – not his Thunderbird One, but Thunderbird One regardless. Earlier, he'd been too overwhelmed by everything to properly appreciate what that meant. Two conversations later, it was starting to sink in.
"I guess that's true," he admitted.
"You guess?" Other-Gordon demanded, but there was a grin on his face and a sparkle in his eyes that stole Scott's breath all over again. He'd known he was this universe's Gordon, but with the serious face and wrong colour hair, it hadn't really hit.
With his face lit up like that, he wondered how he could have ever looked at the unknown ginger man sitting between him and Other-Scott in the kitchen what felt like hours earlier and dismissed the niggling familiarity. This man, ginger hair and older age aside, was definitely Gordon.
"You okay?" Other-Gordon asked, and Scott's shoulders slumped.
"I miss them," he admitted.
"Of course you do," Other-Gordon said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "If there's one thing I bet you and my Scott are definitely identical in, it's being a ridiculous smother hen." Despite everything, Scott had to grin ruefully at that. "Come on, let's get something done about that hand of yours before Tin-Tin spots it."
Other-Gordon turned and climbed around the large metal pipe without waiting to see if Scott was following. Scott watched him go, noticing that he was just as nimble as his Gordon, and frowned. Should he not be letting Gordon go out on missions after all? Or was Other-Gordon actually perfectly fit for duty, and Not-Dad was grounding him for no good reason?
"If you had the choice," he started, mouth running ahead of his brain, "would you go on more rescues?"
Other-Gordon stopped and turned to face him again, amber eyes searching.
"Why?" he asked. Scott met his gaze evenly and waited. Other-Gordon grumbled something under his breath about there being two of them now. "I'd go on all of them, if Dad let me." The bitterness that crept in told Scott everything he needed to know.
"No reason," he shrugged, casting one last look at the empty space where Thunderbird One lived before heading for the door himself. Other-Gordon made a noise of protest, a little brother's my big brother is being annoying again noise that made something go tight in his chest, but he didn't let it show.
"Seriously?" Other-Gordon grumbled a little louder. "You don't think I believe that, do you?" Scott shrugged at him, and amber eyes narrowed. "Just because you look like my big brother doesn't mean you get to act like it!"
"I'm acting like me, not him," Scott informed him airily, falling into the familiarity of brotherly banter, even if this wasn't his brother.
"Well just because I look like your brother doesn't mean you get to act like I am," Other-Gordon continued, not at all deterred. Just short of the door, Scott stopped suddenly.
"What?"
"You heard me," Other-Gordon insisted, although there was something ever so slightly different in his voice, a note of uncertainty as though he'd realised he'd said something wrong but wasn't sure what. "Just because I look like-"
"You don't," Scott cut him off, turning round to face him. Other-Gordon blinked, mouth half-open a little like a fish before he closed it again.
"I… don't?" he asked. "But… you and Scott are near enough identical, and you said Dad looked like-" He cut himself off before he could finish that sentence; Scott was grateful for it.
"You don't," he admitted. "I can tell you're him, but you don't look like him." No, that was a lie. He had the same high cheekbones, the same angled jaw, the same eyes. It was just the hair and the fact that there was no question he was a man, not a teenager just crossing into adulthood, that made him look different.
If it was just Other-Gordon, he'd wonder if the man had dyed his hair – Other-Scott was also older than him, although he didn't want to ponder on what that meant for timeline continuity – but Other-John and Other-Virgil also had the wrong colour hair. Other-Brains, Other-Kyrano and Mrs Tracy also looked notably different, and Tin-Tin was not only visually different but had a different name as well.
"That's strange," Other-Gordon mused. "Is it just me?" Scott shook his head.
"More like it's only me and your Scott," he said. "And your father. Everyone else is different."
"So if someone other than Scott had come in, you might not have attacked them?" Other-Gordon asked, almost dryly. Scott shrugged.
"Who knows," he replied, although privately he doubted it. It didn't matter what the other party looked like if his brothers were at stake. Other-Gordon sent him a small grin, before brushing past him and opening the door.
"Still, you'll have to tell the others that," he said, strolling back along the narrow corridor. Scott followed, ignoring the pain shooting through his knuckles. "I know the fellas are keeping an eye out for anyone else that looks like us while they're off base just in case, but if they don't know what they're looking for they might miss something."
He was right, and Scott nodded. He hadn't realised they were all looking, not just Thunderbird Five, but it made sense and there was a rush of gratitude at their efforts.
"Talk to Virg once he's back," Other-Gordon continued. "That'll be the easiest way to make sure we get it right." They skirted the lounge door with Not-Dad's voice emitting from it, interspersed with Other-Scott's tinny speaker-voice reports and traipsed down the stairs again – a route that was rapidly becoming familiar as they once again headed for the infirmary. "But come on, what does your Gordon look like? He's gotta be handsome, right?" There was that grin – that Gordon grin – again, and Scott rolled his eyes.
"I'm the wrong person to ask about that," he scoffed, watching Other-Gordon pull a disgruntled face, and managing a small grin of his own. "His hair's blond, and…" he trailed off, not sure how to put it into words. As far as basic descriptions went, there wasn't any other big differences, just lots of small things Scott couldn't even put his finger on exactly.
"And..?" Other-Gordon prompted, although he was tugging at his bangs – falling in front of his forehead, rather than swept back like his Gordon's – and trying to look at them, no doubt trying to figure out how he'd look blond. Scott shrugged helplessly.
"I'm a pilot, not a novelist," he pointed out. "It's not the big things, it's the little ones." He frowned. "How old are you?"
"How old are you?" Other-Gordon shot back, releasing his hair in favour of pushing the infirmary door open and pointing towards a chair. "I'd say you're younger than Scott, except he's not going grey yet." Scott scowled and resisted the urge to touch his temples, where he knew the accused hairs were most prominent.
"I asked first," he pointed out, and Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.
"Twenty-three, now sit down or I'll get Tin-Tin to redress your hand." Tin-Tin had seemed like a sweet enough young woman, but if she was being used as a threat – and Scott knew a threat from a sibling when he heard it – then she was no doubt more Kayo-like than first impressions betrayed. Scott sat. "Why?"
"That would probably explain the rest," Scott muttered, trying to work out what his Gordon would look like in four years' time. The same age as Virgil, which meant Other-Scott, and probably Other-John as well were older than him. He consoled himself with the fact that with Not-Dad around, they were probably under less stress, hence the lack of greys. "Gordon – my Gordon – is nineteen."
"So I look different because I'm older?" Other-Gordon surmised, unwrapping the old bandages and pouring something that stung like disinfectant on his swollen and once again bleeding knuckles. "You didn't answer my question."
"I'm twenty-seven," Scott admitted, and Other-Gordon blinked.
"Not twenty-six?"
"Why would I be twenty-six?" Scott asked, taken aback. Other-Gordon frowned and opened a fresh roll of bandages, carefully but efficiently rewrapping his hand.
"Well if your Gordon is four years younger than me, you should be four years younger than Scott, right? Scott's thirty." It was Scott's turn to frown. Clearly there were more differences than just technology, and his gut coiled unpleasantly, not sure it liked the implications. "What are your other brothers' ages?"
"What are yours'?" he retorted, and Other-Gordon raised an eyebrow at him as he tied off the bandage.
"I asked first." Typical younger brother, turning his earlier words against him.
"John's twenty-five, Virgil's twenty-three and Alan's fifteen," he said. "Yours?"
"Your Alan's-"
"Yours?" he repeated firmly, cutting off any comments about his youngest brother and International Rescue. He knew fifteen was too young; he didn't need to hear that from an alternate universe's version of one of his own brothers. Other-Gordon gave him a look that said the topic was not dropped, but answered anyway.
"John's twenty-eight, Virg's twenty-six and Alan's twenty. Seems like the difference is me and Alan," he observed. Scott didn't miss the intent in his voice when he said the youngest's name, but ignored it.
"Seems like it," he agreed instead, checking over the bandaging despite knowing it was professionally done. Other-Gordon was sharp, too sharp, and once again their conversation was veering into territory Scott would rather it didn't. "That seems like something Brains should know about," he said, and once again ignored the look the younger man sent him. Other-Gordon knew exactly what he was doing, and Scott got the uncomfortable feeling he was once again being humoured.
His dislike of being humoured didn't outweigh his determination not to talk about things like Alan's young age or Dad's crash, though, so he suffered through it with a glare.
"We'll tell Brains when he comes looking for more information," Other-Gordon said out loud. "Surely your Brains hates being interrupted mid-flow, too?" He did, but that had never stopped Scott from doing it when it was an emergency, and anything relating to getting him home qualified in his books.
A hand landed on his shoulder, Other-Gordon leaning down slightly to meet his eyes firmly.
"I know you want to get home, but don't take it out on Brains," he said, his grip tight. "Brains will find you once he's finished processing the data he got from your arrival." Scott scowled, glancing away, and the other man sighed. "I can stop asking questions if that helps."
That would help. He met Other-Gordon's eyes again and relaxed at the sincerity he saw in them, nodding. Other-Gordon scrutinised him, although what he was looking for, Scott didn't know, before letting go and taking a step back.
"Normally I sit in on the mission," he informed him. "We can go to the lounge if you want, or there's the games room if billiards or chess is more your speed right now." The offer to continue evading Not-Dad was clear.
"And if I want to be alone?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"If you want to be alone, I've shown you your room," Other-Gordon began. "But I don't think you do." Didn't he? Scott wanted time to let it all sink in, mull over all the information Other-John and Other-Gordon had bombarded him with and figure out what it all meant for him and his chances of getting home.
He caught sight of his useless communicator, still on his wrist, and remembered curling up against a boulder, begging and screaming for it to connect with another universe. Maybe Other-Gordon was right; if he was alone again he'd go back to focusing on what had happened. Dwelling, his brothers called it immediately before they did something outrageous to get him to stop staring into nothing, brain stuck in a loop of past events.
Looking back, letting himself think about what had happened always threatened to drive him crazy. It had been that way since the Zero-X, and held true even now. Especially now, when events defied all probabilities. He sighed.
"It's been a while since I last played chess," he said by way of an answer, and Other-Gordon cracked a grin. Chess would keep his mind focused, especially if Other-Gordon was half as good as Gordon or John; if he was, Scott was in for an inevitable thrashing.
Other-Gordon at least had the grace not to say 'I told you so', simply straightening up and offering him a hand, which he accepted, pulling himself to his feet.
"The games room's this way," he gestured, leading the way out of the infirmary and then further along the hallway, to a brightly lit room dominated by a billiards table. Various chairs and small tables dotted one side of the room – spectators for the game, or perfectly positioned for a quiet game of chess in the corner, as Other-Gordon withdrew a chess set and placed it on the table.
"White or black?" he offered as Scott stared at it. A proper, wooden chessboard with real, hand-carved pieces. He picked up a white knight and stroked its mane, feeling the indents of the carved hair with the pad of his finger.
"White," he replied after a moment. Other-Gordon watched him closely, but as promised didn't ask. Scott shrugged, folding himself into the comfortable chair and placing the piece back where it belonged. "It's been a long time since I last used a wooden set," he volunteered. "Gordon's the only one that owns one and no-one's allowed to use it until they beat him."
"You haven't?" Other-Gordon asked – despite his promise otherwise, but Scott knew he had opened himself up for that one. Talking about something as mundane as chess didn't hurt as much as their previous conversation had.
"Not since he got that board," he admitted. "John and-" he caught himself, not wanting to mention EOS and open that can of worms for debate. "John's the only one that has; they play whenever he's down from Five." Other-Gordon's eyes flickered in interest, catching the slip, but to his credit he didn't ask.
"White goes first," he reminded him needlessly, and Scott picked up the knight again, leaping it over the row of pawns. Other-Gordon hummed in interest before nudging a pawn forward. Scott recalled that particular opening as Gordon's favourite to use, a win in five moves unless their opponent knew the counter. It might have been a while since he'd last had the time to play – and the inclination to probably lose to Gordon – but Scott still remembered the counter, moving his knight into position.
Other-Gordon laughed, seeing his experiment foiled, and switched tactics. Scott got the feeling he'd just passed some sort of test.
The game went much as he suspected it would – while he wasn't bad at chess, he was out of practice and Other-Gordon was very, very good. He held out for a while, half an hour maybe, but eventually the inevitable conclusion of his King toppling occurred and he bit back a laugh, laying down the piece with good grace.
"You're not too terrible," Other-Gordon commented, collecting up the mass of white captured pieces and handing them over. "Some practice and you might even be a challenge." He winked, and Scott groaned good-naturedly, trying hard not to think about why he didn't get much practice before that ruined his mood. "Again?" What were his other options? Billiards, or sitting in on a mission with Not-Dad. It wasn't exactly a difficult decision.
In answer, Scott pulled his King upright and set up his forces again.
Some of you predicted this was coming... although I hardly tried to hide it. This is the longest chapter so far because once you get the fish going, he never shuts up. Most of you know I adore Scott; some of you probably know my favourite brother relationship is Scott&Gordon. If you didn't, this fic is probably going to make that very obvious. I have plans for these two...
Also, trying to sort out TAG's timeline is a headache and I ended up fudging a lot of it. Please just roll with it because I spent far too long agonising over this before giving up and throwing this out into the void. It's fiction. It doesn't have to make sense.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari