Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
Warning for a panic attack in this chapter.
The coastline of New Zealand looked more or less the same as Scott was used to when they finally arrived. The analogue dial of Other-Scott's watch continued to taunt him, but if he had to guess, the journey had taken somewhere between one and two hours, and had largely passed in silence. Whether that was because Other-Gordon needed to concentrate on piloting, or simply because he was still holding up his promise of no more questions, Scott wasn't sure, but he appreciated it regardless.
Being a passenger instead of the pilot was always an odd situation, and more than once he'd caught himself trying to shift imaginary controls in response to the clouds and air streams they passed through. If Other-Gordon had noticed, he hadn't commented.
"Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control, requesting permission to land, over." Beneath them, the city sprawled almost coast to coast, and Scott peered down, looking for familiar landmarks. Some of them were there, some of them were not. As low as they were flying – heading for the airport, no doubt – the Sky Tower should have been easily visible, but its distinctive shape was absent.
It shouldn't have surprised him. Sky Tower was a telecommunications tower, and he'd already discovered that this universe didn't use the same type of technology that he was used to, so its lack of presence made sense. But it had always been there, built sometime before the millennium and a major aspect of Auckland's skyline. He'd flown past it many times, and even used it as an unofficial navigation point.
For it to be not there, either destroyed or never existed in the first place, reminded him that no matter how familiar some things might be, he really wasn't home.
I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, was a line famously quoted from an old movie. Scott had a bit of a soft spot for the Wizard of Oz – old fantasy films in general – but he'd never imagined he'd ever be playing the part of Dorothy.
At least Dorothy still had Toto, he mused sadly. If only he'd taken Mini-MAX with him on that mission, then maybe he wouldn't be entirely alone… if Mini-MAX would even have been able to operate without a network to link into. Most likely, he'd have had nothing but the inactive husk of the small bot. Scott wasn't sure if that would have been better or worse.
"Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird, clearance granted for runway four-bravo, over," the radio crackled, yanking him back to the present.
"Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control, copy that, over," Other-Gordon acknowledged. Scott watched him adjust their angle of approach accordingly and kept his mouth shut as the landing gear engaged and they gently touched down onto the tarmac scant minutes later. Other-Gordon visibly relaxed as soon as they were safely down, taxiing his way carefully over to a hangar emblazoned with a large T.A. As they entered, Scott could see several planes inside of various sizes and designs.
The one thing they had in common was the T.A. on their tails, identical to the letters on the hangar, and Scott found himself wondering what it stood for. Other-Gordon had used the same two letters as a callsign, and he eyed the nearest plane – a much larger one than the Ladybird – as Gordon rolled them to a gentle stop.
"What does T.A. stand for?" he asked, suspecting that Other-Scott would know that and having no wish to get caught out and face awkward conversations. This was the sort of information he'd tried to get out of his doppelgänger, but either he'd thought he would already know, or it was so basic he forgot about it.
The incredulous look he got from Other-Gordon as the man paused his post-flight checks suggested it was the former.
"Tracy Aerospace," he said. "Dad's company. Doesn't it exist in your universe? I thought you said you were a billionaire!"
"I am," Scott grumbled, "and it does, but it's Tracy Industries."
"Right," Other-Gordon said, going back to the post-flight checks. "Rule number one: no talking."
"Wha-"
"You look like Scott but you don't sound like my brother and that's something folks'll notice, especially around here. The fellas on the ground know Scott well, so you've lost your voice. That's the story."
That made sense, but how was Scott supposed to tell Other-Gordon what he was looking for if he wasn't allowed to talk? He asked as such as the younger man finished up the last of the checks and undid his harness.
The aquanaut just shrugged. "What are you after? Underpants… what else?"
Scott chose to ignore the not so subtle dig; it was getting old, but no doubt Other-Gordon wouldn't let it go until he'd got changed, and likely not even then.
"Casual shirts, jeans and sneakers." He repeated the list he'd given Other-Scott earlier and watched Other-Gordon's face at the word 'jeans'. He didn't look particularly pleased, but Scott wasn't going to back down on those. "Should probably pick up a hoodie or two as well. Pyjamas and shoes, too."
"There is no way Scott said yes to a hoodie," Other-Gordon frowned. "Hoodie and jeans? Those are workshop clothes; do you fellas really wear those?" Scott bristled, and he raised his hands. "Look, I am all for getting items that'll make Scott go crazy, but I don't want to be murdered in my sleep because the media thinks he's gone cuckoo, so give me a minute to come up with a reason that won't wreck his public image for the next decade."
Scott frowned, but before he could say anything else, Other-Gordon grinned and pushed at his wrist watch. There was a dial tone for several moments before the string of numbers was replaced by Other-Scott's face. The other man looked concerned and a little suspicious. Scott supposed he hadn't been expecting the call, and an unexpected call from a younger brother was definitely cause for concern – especially when it was a Gordon.
"Hey there, Scott!" Other-Gordon chirped in a tone that immediately had Scott on edge, even though it wasn't aimed at him. The faux-innocent, sing-song voice meant trouble, and he felt slightly guilty for whatever chaos was about to fall Other-Scott's way.
Other-Scott dropped all pretence of concern and frowned at him in full-blown suspicion.
"You've only just arrived," he said slowly. "You can't have got in trouble already."
"You underestimate me, brother dear," Other-Gordon scoffed, before pulling a sickly-sweet grin onto his face. Other-Scott's expression went from suspicious to mildly horrified, and Scott couldn't stand it anymore.
"Gordon," he warned, loud enough for the watch to pick him up. While he was all up for pranks, he couldn't quite bring himself to let his counterpart be on the receiving end of one he was involved in. It felt uncomfortably like pranking himself.
Other-Gordon huffed. "You're no fun," he sulked, before turning back to the watch. Other-Scott, Scott was pleased to see, had lost the look of horror and was back in the realms of confusion. "Say, Scott, how do you feel about being a trend-setter?"
And the look of horror was straight back.
"What?" Other-Scott demanded. "Setting what trend? I'm not a fashion icon, Gordon! Set your own trends."
Other-Gordon hummed thoughtfully. "That's a fine plan, Scott, except anything I buy will be too small for him to wear, which somewhat defeats the objective."
Other-Scott made a noise of frustration. "I told you, Gordon. Anything that ends up in the media is your fault."
"Did you say that knowing your clone here wants hoodies?" Other-Gordon asked, eyebrow raised. Other-Scott choked. "Because he does and I know better than to try and talk him out of it."
"Hoodies?" Other-Scott looked bordering on mortified. "Dad would kill me." Something that could be guilt coiled in Scott's gut; no matter what his feelings were about Not-Dad's existence, the idea of Other-Scott getting in trouble with him on his behalf didn't settle well. Other-Scott shook his head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, Gordon, but what's your plan?"
"I figured we could pass it off as experimentation," Other-Gordon shrugged. "But you're not well known for that so it would cause a stir."
"You're right about that," Other-Scott mused, and Scott shook his head.
"I guess I don't need one," he offered reluctantly – he wanted one, but there was mildly inconveniencing someone and there was ruining someone's reputation.
"No." Other-Scott shook his head firmly. "We'll make this work."
"Well, it's your funeral," Other-Gordon muttered, before a grin slowly spread across his face. "You know, fellas, I think I've got it!"
"Do I want to know?" Other-Scott asked dubiously.
"It's simple," Other-Gordon continued as though his older brother hadn't spoken. "We all know you wouldn't willingly wear one, so we make it unwilling. Scott, you lost a bet."
Other-Scott ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose that would work," he conceded reluctantly. Scott could see the logic – short term embarrassment at the hands of a younger sibling would barely interest the media, but still explained why he was still in possession of a so-called workman's outfit. "But I'm insisting on custom made. You are not coming back with some cheap off the shelf monstrosity."
"Wouldn't dream of it!" Other-Gordon chirped in a tone that said he had been considering doing exactly that. "We should start moving now, though. Jones is coming over and I think he wants to know why we haven't left the cockpit yet."
"I can't say I'm in a hurry to have you wrecking my reputation but you probably shouldn't make Jones suspicious," Other-Scott sighed. "Hey, wait – what is this bet I've supposedly lost, Gordon?"
"If you don't know, Dad can't yell at you for it later," Other-Gordon grinned back at him.
"Gordon."
"What, don't you trust me?" the ginger asked, pulling a face of fake hurt. Other-Scott scowled at him.
"With my life, yes. Not with my dignity." Scott could relate to that.
"We'll see you later, Scott." Other-Gordon didn't bother responding to the veiled accusation before signing off, returning the watch to actually looking like a watch just as a young man crossed the distance between the neighbouring plane and the Ladybird. "Here we go, remember you've lost your voice and let me do all the talking."
Scott had a sinking feeling that was going to be easier said than done, but obediently followed the other man out of the cockpit just in time for the man on the ground to stride over to them.
"Gordon Tracy, is that you piloting a plane?" said man called, shaking his head in amazement. "Why, I couldn't believe my ears when they told me it was you of all people coming in to land that red beauty of yours!"
"Gee, laugh it up why don't you, Jones," Other-Gordon commented dryly. "I didn't fly all the way here with the worst backseat pilot in the world to get flack from you, too, fella."
The man – Jones – squinted at Scott and for a heart-stopping moment he thought the man had realised he wasn't this universe's Scott, before he burst out laughing. "Scott Tracy letting someone else pilot? Now I've really seen it all. Say, how you been, old chap?" He stuck out his hand and feeling rather like a deer in headlights, Scott took it for a firm shake.
"Ah, Scott's not so good," Other-Gordon intervened before the silence stretched long enough to be awkward. "He's only gone and lost his voice, but there's shopping to be done so yours truly got the short straw." The ginger gave a theatrical wince. "Turns out not having a voice doesn't stop a fella from backseat piloting like crazy. He insisted on checking over all my post-flight checks! I ask you; you'd think he didn't trust me with a plane."
Scott shot him a look. While no doubt if Other-Scott had really lost his voice that all sounded perfectly feasible, he thought the ginger was laying it on a little thick. Other-Gordon caught the look and rolled his eyes.
"Well Mr Just Because I Can't Talk Doesn't Mean I Won't Be A Pain here seems like he wants to get this over and done with," he told Jones. Not strictly inaccurate, Scott supposed, although that hadn't been what he'd meant. Other-Gordon lowered his voice. "Truth be told, he doesn't want to be here; lost a bet and doesn't like the forfeit."
Scott put a warning hand on his shoulder and Other-Gordon laughed. Jones joined in politely, almost as though he wasn't certain what the joke was, or if he should be responding to it.
"I'd say that means 'hurry it up, oh favourite brother of mine'," Other-Gordon translated. "Lock her down for me, would you? There's a good man."
"Yessir," Jones agreed. "Your usual car's been prepared for you. Mr Tracy said you didn't want a chauffeur today?" A chauffeur? No, Scott absolutely didn't want one of those – it was bad enough being piloted by a brother, or brother from another universe, as it happened.
"Not today, Jones," Other-Gordon confirmed. "I wouldn't inflict Scott in this mood on anyone," he winked, and the man gave another awkward chuckle. "I'll handle it all today." Scott jammed his hands in his pockets impatiently. "See you around, Jones."
"Likewise, Gordon, Scott." The man nodded at both of them and Other-Gordon led the way through the hangar unerringly to where a classic vintage-looking convertible was waiting for them. With the roof down, he could see it was a right-hand drive – of course, New Zealand drove on the left; at least that was the same – so without prompting he let himself in to the front left seat and tried not to be too obvious about staring.
Plane controls might have been the same, but cars apparently weren't. If push came to shove, he could probably figure it out – the car was at least an automatic, not stick-shift – but he was quite content to let Other-Gordon take the wheel. Hopefully he wasn't quite as chaotic as his Gordon behind the wheel.
He wasn't. At least, not by Scott's standards. He was, however, still the fastest car on the road, overtaking other cars with manoeuvres just shy of being classified as swerves, with a delighted grin on his face. That, at least, was typically Gordon, and the ache that blossomed in his chest whenever any of the Other-Tracy family did something that reminded him of their counterparts – his Tracy family – made itself known again. Scott fought the instinct to clutch at his chest, instead clinging to the door with a grip far too tight for the situation.
Behind amber-tinted shades, equally amber eyes glanced over at his death grip, but Other-Gordon said nothing. Scott wasn't sure if that was a relief or not – the younger man knew enough to know that these speeds wouldn't phase him in the slightest, which meant he was drawing his own conclusions. Scott had no idea what those conclusions might be, and any desire to ask was quashed by the knowledge that that would open the topic up for conversation.
He'd chosen Other-Gordon to avoid more of that sort of conversation.
"What are we getting first?" he asked, turning his head away from the streets to look at Other-Gordon. With the wind whistling past their ears, the natural inclination was to raise his voice but he consciously kept his voice at normal levels. Other-Gordon should still be able to hear him, if with a bit of difficulty.
The ginger sent him an assessing look before the grin was back, and that look was too much like Gordon's devilish grin for Scott to not know what he was going to say, despite the man not being his Gordon.
"You can't stay in the same underpants forever!"
Scott groaned, the hand not gripping the door catching his face – ow, he forgot about the shades. He left it there, acutely aware that with any Gordon around in a non-professional setting, the facepalm was never far away.
"Okay, new underpants. Then what?"
Other-Gordon laughed, looping them around another car as the bulk of the city approached, before settling into something that seemed like he might, vaguely, be taking the excursion seriously. Whether that was due to Other-Scott's threats – which he did seem to be wary of – or because he was actually mindful of Scott's own wishes, he had no idea. If he had to guess, probably the former. Scott wished his Gordon respected his threats against causing chaos.
Then again, he'd never had a doppelgänger, let alone one subsequently left in the hands of his prank-loving brother.
"Francois Lemaire has a new men's range out," he shrugged. "Might as well start there."
"Lemaire?" Scott asked, his voice strangled. Other-Gordon gave him a sharp look.
"He's Tin-Tin's favourite designer," the younger man said. "She suggested him."
Lemaire? Designer? Admittedly, Scott didn't know what the rich airhead did when he wasn't throwing himself in mortal danger and complaining loudly when they had to rescue him from his own stupidity, but he found it hard to believe that between birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and throwing himself into the coma of a comet he was designing clothes.
"Problem?" Other-Gordon asked, and Scott realised he was scowling. Taking a deep breath, he forced his expression to smooth out again.
"He won't be there, will he?" he asked. "If he's anything like the Lemaire I know, there is a high chance I'll be losing my temper."
"What's wrong with Lemaire?" Other-Gordon actually sounded confused, which was enough for Scott to cling to the hope that maybe, maybe, the man wasn't such an idiot here.
"Birthday party in the Mariana Trench," he groaned. "Flying into a comet. Hunting mermaids." And that was just the tip of the iceberg. "He calls us International Babysitting Service now."
The hiss Other-Gordon let out implied the other man found that all as ridiculous – and insulting – as Scott did. "I guess that fella's not your favourite human," he observed. "We've not had those sorts of problems with him." That was a relief. "I doubt he'll be here, though. Fella lives in France."
That was another relief, although Scott wasn't going to relax entirely until they were done with the man's shop. It would be just his luck that this universe's Lemaire would be dropping by for a visit when he was there, and that was not a meeting he wanted.
"Then we might as well see if his range contains anything I want to wear," he shrugged, realising that he hadn't actually agreed or disagreed with Other-Gordon's suggestion. The younger man groaned as he pulled into a parking lot tucked behind a large building emblazoned with Lemaire.
"You're not going to be too fussy, are you?" he asked. Scott detected a tone of dread behind what was clearly supposed to be a rhetorical question.
"Not if they have decent clothes," he answered, and Other-Gordon made another disgruntled noise as he killed the ignition.
"Sure. Now, remember: you're my brother, you've lost your voice, I'm doing all the talking." Scott rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement. "Underpants, shirts, jeans, pyjamas, shoes and a custom hoodie." Other-Gordon still didn't seem too happy about some of those things, even with Other-Scott's blessing, reluctant though it had been. "Am I forgetting anything?"
Scott shook his head and Other-Gordon jumped out of the car, casually circling around to open Scott's door before he realised the lever needed to be pulled, not pushed. What happened to doors opening at the touch of a button? He was really starting to miss familiar technology.
Maybe he could persuade Other-Gordon to let him pilot back to the island.
First, though, he had to get through this shopping trip so he could stop having to borrow Other-Scott's clothes. Stepping out of the car, he followed Other-Gordon into the shop.
It was exactly the sort of ordered chaos Scott expected from clothes shopping. Mannequins flanked the entrance, decked out in what was presumably the latest fashions but looked totally bizarre to Scott, while a woman decked out in equally outrageous clothes – not Gordon-outrageous, but so much fabric outrageous – bustled forwards to greet them. Behind her, equally awfully dressed men and women were guiding around customers who just screamed 'I'm rich'.
Scott was immediately reminded exactly why he did as much clothes shopping as he could get away with online.
"Monsieur Tracy, Monsieur Tracy," the woman greeted them. "My name is Madeleine; how may I be of assistance today?"
Automatically, Scott opened his mouth to answer, but Other-Gordon jumped in before he managed to make a sound. "Scott's looking for a new wardrobe," he said smoothly, drawing the woman's attention to him and away from Scott, who inwardly scolded himself for forgetting that he wasn't supposed to talk. "Could we see your shirt selection?"
"Of course, Monsieur," Madeleine replied. "If you would follow me?" She posed it as a question but began to walk further into the shop without waiting for a reply. Scott and Other-Gordon stepped forwards at the same time, following the woman through a maze of clothes and other customers before arriving in a booth lined with lavish couches. "Please, take a seat." Madeleine gestured to one of the couches and Scott took the invitation. Other-Gordon settled down beside him and immediately reached out for what appeared to be a physical, gloss-paper, brochure on the table. He flipped through it for a moment before passing it over.
Scott accepted it and saw that Other-Gordon had already opened it to the shirts for him.
"Did Monsieur have a particular style in mind?" Madeleine asked after a moment. Not knowing the jargon as well as perhaps Grandma would have liked, and unable to speak without inviting awkward questions anyway, Scott shrugged.
"You'll have to forgive my brother," Other-Gordon jumped in before she could take offence. "The fella's lost his voice."
"Oh," she gasped softly. "My apologies, Monsieur Tracy."
Scott shot her a reassuring smile even as Other-Gordon waved off her apology. "Don't worry about it. I'm here to work as a translator."
Leaving Other-Gordon to keep the woman occupied in conversation, Scott leant back and flicked through the brochure, eyeing the various outrageous shirts – apparently this universe's Lemaire liked to design clothes with far too much excess fabric – before finally locating something that looked simple enough. He'd still have to roll the sleeves up and worry at the collar until it sat comfortably, but it definitely looked like something he could wear comfortably enough.
He prodded Other-Gordon in the ribs; sharp amber eyes snapped over to him, wide in surprise for a split second before narrowing.
"You found something?" the younger man asked, after a pause that felt just a little too long. Scott nodded, belatedly realising he had no idea if that sort of thing was acceptable sibling behaviour in this universe. Realising he couldn't clarify anything while he was pretending to have lost his voice, he pushed the thought aside to deal with later, and prodded at the picture on the page.
Madeleine made a motion to look over, and Scott swivelled the brochure so that she could see the one he'd chosen.
"A wonderful choice, Monsieur Tracy," she beamed, while Other-Gordon made a sound that could be amused. He didn't say whatever it was he was thinking, though, instead joining in the conversation when the woman asked how many and pulled out another brochure of fabrics and patterns.
"I dare say a few wouldn't go amiss," Other-Gordon told her – although Scott suspected it was a prod at him as well. He zoned out the rest of the conversation as he stared at the ridiculous variety of colours and tried to find the sensible blues. He had no desire to adopt Gordon's sense of fashion, or John's for that matter.
He suspected John might quite like some of the horrors he was hurriedly passing by. He'd never understood his immediate brother's taste in clothes.
Finally, a nice plain blue, not too far off his favourite shirt at home, caught his eye, and after inspecting it to make sure there weren't any hidden patterns he tapped at the glossy paper to draw their attention.
"The fella likes blue," Other-Gordon shrugged at Madeleine as she pulled out a notepad and pen from somewhere and started scribbling down. "But Scott, are you really only going to get the one design? That's a lot of identical shirts."
Regretting zoning out the conversation about exactly how many Other-Gordon had decided he would be getting, Scott instead raised an eyebrow at him, a look his younger brothers all knew meant don't try me. From the grin Other-Gordon gave him, he understood exactly what it meant, but was also as unimpressed by the warning as Gordon ever was. With some reluctance, because yes, variety was nice and he suspected Other-Gordon was actually telling him that buying many identical shirts was not an Other-Scott-like thing to do, he returned to the sample images and tried to find some others that didn't look like something John would wear – or worse, something not even Gordon or John would be caught dead in.
Fashion was ridiculous here.
He was certain his choices were being memorised by the too-sharp ginger next to him as he dug out the designs he was willing to wear and had them scribbled down by an eager to please Madeleine, no doubt being added to whatever mental databank Other-Gordon was compiling about him. Maybe it would be worth dragging the differences between him and Other-Scott out of the aquanaut at some point on the flight back, if only to try and get a better understanding of what he was – temporarily, he hoped – going to be dealing with.
None of his training – Air Force, International Rescue or business – had ever covered what to do when faced with a doppelgänger of himself that wasn't the Hood in disguise, and while Not-Dad was proving to be a problem, he didn't have any plans to alienate the family. They were his only way home; that, he knew for certain.
"Will that be all, Monsieur Tracy?" Madeleine asked when he finally decided there was nothing else he could even consider wearing and shut the samples brochure. He wasn't sure how many he'd selected in the end, but there was a satisfied look on Other-Gordon's face, so he decided to call that torment to a close and nodded. Beaming what had to be a fake customer pleasing smile, she elegantly made her way to her feet, apparently not impeded by the ridiculousness of her dress. "Then if you'd like to follow me to the fitting rooms?"
What.
Fitting rooms?
Had some formal clothes snuck into his selection or something?
Other-Gordon nudged him seemingly accidentally as he stood up. Scott assumed that was another signal to just go along with it. Reluctantly, he found his way to his feet and followed Madeleine's swirl of fabric, raising an eyebrow at Other-Gordon when the other man followed. He got a grin in return.
At least someone was having fun. Scott missed online shopping. He really hoped he wasn't going to have to go through this rigmarole for every item they were buying.
The fitting room really should be called a fitting chamber. It was at least as big as his bedroom at home, if not bigger, with plush seats and an area designed to be screened off, presumably for changing. Hopefully, it wouldn't be unusual for Other-Scott to use the curtains, because Scott was well aware how many scars he had from rescues, and while Other-Gordon had already briefly seen him shirtless he wasn't sure Madeleine would be expecting that many scars on a lazy billionaire's son.
"Please, make yourself comfortable while I collect the shirts," the woman said, gesturing to the chairs. "I will only be a few moments."
Then she was gone, and it was just the two of them in the room.
"You don't get your clothes fitted?" Other-Gordon asked, quietly, a beat after the door slid shut. Scott took that as an indication that no-one would hear him if he spoke, and leaned forwards with a sigh.
"I normally shop online," he grumbled. "Much less hassle."
"On… Line?" Other-Gordon parroted the word with clear confusion in his voice, and Scott rolled his eyes, half at the other man, half at the world in general. He should have known that would be another difference.
"Different technology," he dismissed. "You're not telling me I have to go through this for everything, are you?"
"You're getting a custom hoodie," Other-Gordon reminded him. "And designer jeans." Scott groaned. "But they won't measure you for underwear."
"You're never going to drop that, are you?" It was so old it was ancient at this point, but from the grin on Other-Gordon's face, that clearly didn't matter to him. Amber eyes flashed with amusement before turning serious.
"Don't forget the curtain," he warned. "Scott's scars aren't the same as yours."
"I wasn't planning to," Scott assured him. He probably shouldn't be surprised that Other-Gordon had gleaned that from when he'd borrowed Other-Scott's clothes, but hearing a comparison still startled him. "I-"
The door slid open and he cut himself off.
"Sorry for the wait, Monsieur Tracy," Madeleine greeted, an entire hangar of shirts trailing behind her on wheels. "According to your previous custom, these should be of an approximate fit."
Previous-? Other-Scott also shopped there? He supposed that made sense, even if he suddenly felt the pressure to absolutely not slip up, because Madeleine probably knew Other-Scott. That might have been useful to know earlier.
There was a lot he hadn't been told before this trip, and he was starting to wish they'd spent a little more time talking before leaving the island. The sensation of being out of his depth was starting to make itself known again from where it had settled in the relative familiarity of the flight over.
"All looks that way," Other-Gordon said suddenly, and Scott realised he hadn't given any sort of response. He really had to get his head in the game. "So, which one first, Scott?"
Resisting the instinct to take a deep breath in front of Madeleine, he stood and gestured at the blue one he'd picked out first from the catalogue. She took it off the hangar for him with a large smile.
"Take your time, Monsieur Tracy," she told him. "Come out when you're ready."
Scott barely made it to the curtained off area, drawing the thick material across and shutting himself away from the other two, before slumping against the wall and taking a deep breath. Now was not a good time to get overwhelmed. If it was just Other-Gordon-
No, he'd done more than enough breaking down in front of other people already. He took another deep breath, looking down at the shirt gripped in his hands. His hands were trembling, the bandages over his knuckles suddenly stark against his skin. Visible. How was he supposed to explain away bandaged knuckles when he was pretending to be a lazy billionaire's son? Madeleine must have spotted it.
He tore his gaze away from the fabric and instead looked up at the ceiling, feeling the hat on his head dig in awkwardly as his head leant against the wall. More deep breaths, each shakier than the last, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realised he was headed for a full panic attack.
No. He couldn't do that. Not with Madeleine a single curtain away. Other-Scott had an image to maintain and he couldn't ruin it. He had to-
"Is everything alright, Monsieur Tracy?" Madeleine's voice was close, too close. She could probably hear his messed up breathing, knew something was wrong, knew he was falling apart the other side of the suddenly too-thin curtain, and-
"I'll check on him," Other-Gordon said. "Scott? I'm coming in."
He'd slipped around the curtain before Scott registered his words, amber eyes falling on him and widening for a split second. Then, like a switch had been flicked, his whole demeanour changed. It wasn't the jovial man that had been teasing for most of their time away from the island, but nor was it the sharp, military-like edge he'd held when he was being serious.
Instead it was calm, reassuring, and with slow, obvious movements the shorter man was taking the shirt from his hands, folding the fabric over one arm. "Sit," he instructed, quietly.
This was his International Rescue façade, Scott realised dimly as he sank down onto a stool he hadn't even registered was there. Other-Gordon crouched down in front of him, gently removing the shades he'd forgotten he was wearing and making firm eye contact.
"Breathe in," he said, voice still low. "Do you want me to count you?"
Scott took in another breath, inwardly wincing at how shaky it was, before exhaling again. Slowly, deliberately choreographing his movements, Other-Gordon rested a single hand on his knee. The touch was light, but grounding, and Scott's next attempt at a deep breath was markedly less shaky. Another, and then another, with Other-Gordon almost silently guiding him with words too quiet to be heard the other side of the curtain.
Once he had enough of a grip of himself that panic felt no longer imminent, he leant back, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
"Better?" Other-Gordon asked, and he nodded, opening his mouth to speak before a raised eyebrow reminded him otherwise. "Should we call it? You can come back-"
"No," Scott cut him off, clamping his mouth shut when he realised his mistake. He shook his head. If they left now, he'd have to come back later, and he wasn't sure he could do that. He certainly didn't want to have to face Not-Dad and tell him they didn't finish because he panicked. Better to get it over and done with now.
Other-Gordon eyed him dubiously for a moment before sighing and pulling himself to his feet. "If you say so," he said. "Let me give you a hand."
Give-? The blue fabric still draped over the aquanaut's arm caught his eye. Oh yes, he was supposed to have been putting it on. He didn't want help getting changed, and certainly didn't need it, but there was a look in amber eyes that said quite plainly that Other-Gordon wasn't going anywhere.
Then again, if their roles were reversed, Scott wouldn't be going anywhere either.
Deciding the best route was to ignore him as best he could, Scott shrugged the waistcoat off, before plucking at the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. To his credit, Other-Gordon didn't try to actively help, only taking the clothes once he'd removed them and holding out the blue shirt for him to take.
"Monsieurs?" Madeleine called just as he was fastening the last button. "Is there a problem?"
Other-Gordon pressed the sunglasses into his hands and readjusted the hat on his head before slipping back outside.
"Nothing to be worried about," he assured her. "Whatever he's caught that's gone and taken his voice gives him dizzy moments, too. Fella just had a spell, but it's passed now."
So now he was ill instead of just having lost his voice? Scott wanted to be amused, but in reality he just felt thankful that Other-Gordon was quick at thinking on his feet.
"Oh, I understand," she said. Scott hurried to put the sunglasses back on and took one last deep breath before pushing the curtain back. "Monsieur Tracy, we can hold the items for you if you'd rather come back at a later date?"
Remembering in time not to talk, Scott waved her off with a small grin. It was forced; smiling wasn't something he felt like doing but the last thing he wanted was to have to come back.
"He'll be fine," Other-Gordon assured her. "This won't take long, will it?"
"Oh, not at all," Madeleine hurried to promise, and Scott's grin felt just a little less forced at that. "If you would stand here…" She gestured to a small step and Scott obeyed, watching as she bustled around him with pins, tugging at the fabric until it lay flat across his shoulders and hung just right. Compared to some fittings he'd had, it certainly didn't feel like it took too long; after what had to have been only a few minutes, she was nodding her approval and handing him the next shirt to put on.
Other-Gordon followed him behind the curtain this time, not giving him the opportunity to refuse the company. Scott got the feeling he wouldn't be letting him out of his sight again until they were back on the island, but where before he might have bristled at the lack of privacy, now he found himself reassured by the other man's presence. If nothing else, it helped keep his mind on the task at hand as he peeled the pin-infested shirt away from his body gingerly and accepted the new one while Other-Gordon hung the first on a hangar.
The rest of the fitting went in much the same fashion, Madeleine working quickly but efficiently and Other-Gordon shadowing him in a way that should have been bothersome but was somehow comforting, and before long all of the shirts – eleven, apparently – were stuck through with pins and back on the rail.
"Is there anything else you would like to order, Monsieur Tracy?" the woman asked once Scott was once again dressed in Other-Scott's borrowed clothes. She was clearly addressing him, but her eyes were on Other-Gordon, much to Scott's relief. While he knew what he wanted, he didn't know where he could get them. For that, he was reliant on the other man.
"Not today," Other-Gordon answered. "When will they be ready to collect?"
"For you, we will have them done by Tuesday," she replied. Scott realised he had no idea what the day was.
"Perfect," Other-Gordon grinned, before fishing out a card from his pocket and handing it to her. She beamed and scurried off, presumably to take the payment.
Scott had absolutely no idea how much that had just come to.
Whatever the damage was, Other-Gordon seemed entirely fine with it, keeping his grin on his face as she returned with the card and a paper receipt, so Scott assumed it was within expectations.
Other-Gordon and Madeleine finalised arrangements for the shirts to be collected on Tuesday, leaving Scott with the sinking feeling he'd likely be stuck borrowing Other-Scott's clothes for however many days away that was, before bidding farewell. Following suit, Scott offered his own nod of thanks and farewell before finding himself being subtly guided back out of the shop and towards the car by the ginger.
I'm back! Including this one, I've now got another five chapters written so we'll be doing weekly updates again at least for the month of February. For those that haven't been subjected to my chatting about it in discord or DMs, I write this particular fic in chunks that could almost be called arcs, before chopping it up into chapters, hence the sudden backlog. This section was only supposed to fill a single chapter, not be an entire arc, but the boys disagreed with me on that so here we are.
Therefore, we have more playing around with the differences between the universes - particularly fashion, the TOS ideas of which are loosely based on the 1960s - and a couple of familiar namedrops. I also know basically zero about Auckland, New Zealand, or correct communications between planes and airports, so sorry if there's any inconsistencies there. Let's just call it future advancements and an alternative universe!
Thanks for reading!
Tsari