Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
Warning for (another) panic attack this chapter.
Silence lingered between them, Scott focusing on the touch on his shoulder to keep himself grounded, before the younger man broke it again. "Say, George is taking a while."
"Taking a well-deserved break," Scott retorted, and Other-Gordon chuckled.
"I wouldn't blame the fella," he agreed.
There was a knock on the door and a new man entered, George immediately behind him.
"Mr Tracy," he greeted. "Mr Tracy. I am the manager of the store, Jeremy. My man tells me you'd like to order a custom hoodie?" The newly-introduced Jeremy was looking at Scott, presumably because he was the oldest and therefore the assumption was that he was in charge – or the one with the money – and he really hoped his discomfort at Mr Tracy didn't show.
"That's right, Jeremy." Other-Gordon pounced, immediately drawing the attention towards him. "And there's no need for formality. Just call me Gordon, and he's just Scott." Jeremy, Scott was pleased to see, didn't appear to be anywhere near as overwhelmed as George. The other man was lingering back somewhat uncertainly by the pile of jeans and polos they'd already chosen, clearly content to let his manager deal with them.
"Very well," the manager said. "We are, of course, more than happy to oblige." He presented Other-Gordon with a stack of catalogues, which the ginger immediately started flicking through. Scott peered over his shoulder to see pages and pages of what apparently got classified as a hoodie in this universe.
So far, none of them looked at all appealing.
"If you'd like to select a basic style, we can then discuss the desired alterations and take your measurements," Jeremy continued. "Typically we should be able to complete it within seven working days."
"That sounds good to me," Other-Gordon shrugged. He glanced up at where Scott was still peering over his shoulder. "Should I let you pick?"
Scott assumed that was just to keep up the ruse, but he took the invitation to pluck the catalogues out of the other man's hands and flick through them. Knowing that it would be modified to specifications helped, but as he couldn't actually say what he wanted, he wanted to find something as close as possible to work from as a base.
Other-Gordon struck up a conversation with Jeremy while he looked, but Scott didn't bother to listen in. Anything important, the ginger should recap for him when it became relevant.
Eventually, he found the section that focused on the top and the hood separately, and realised that all of the previous examples were a complete waste of his time when he could basically pick and choose from options, much in the same way they constructed Pods to best suit the rescue.
With that mindset, the whole task suddenly became much less intimidating. Scott perused the individual sections intently, occasionally jabbing at the page and flicking his finger up as though he was selecting something on a holoscreen, only to blink when the image didn't move.
Printed paper. Not a hologram.
Hopefully, Other-Gordon was keeping Jeremy distracted enough that his habitual slip-ups didn't catch any attention.
"Is everything alright, M- Scott?"
George. He'd forgotten about George.
The man had come up next to him while he was looking at the options, and was eyeing him with something that looked a little confused and – oh hell, was that pity? What had he done to get that?
He opened his mouth, remembered he wasn't supposed to talk, and shut it again before giving a firm nod. No, things were not alright, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone, let alone a sales assistant he knew nothing about.
George retreated, but hesitantly enough that Scott knew he wasn't convinced. Dammit.
Other-Gordon hadn't come to his rescue this time, still talking with Jeremy, so Scott shoved the incident away and tried to focus on the catalogues in front of him again. It didn't work; he could feel George watching him, and the same emotions he'd experienced at Lemaires' started to bubble up.
That was not good. George was watching him, George was suspicious that something was wrong, the bandages around his knuckles felt all too visible, and Scott could feel the walls around their minor deception crumbling away.
He needed George to stop watching. He needed Other-Gordon to step in and catch his attention, get the spotlight off of him so he could ground himself again. He needed to pull himself together, and he couldn't do that while George was watching.
He turned a page, more to do something than because he was paying any attention to what was on it, and it rustled. His hand was shaking. The instinct to turn it into a fist was strong, but there was paper in his hand and that would make a noise and then everyone would know something was wrong.
He couldn't retreat into the changing room with clothes to try on because there were none left. He couldn't leave the room without drawing attention to himself. He couldn't even catch Other-Gordon's attention without George noticing that.
Other-Gordon was out of arm's reach.
Four for Four.
Normally, Scott would never even consider it. Normally, Scott would be somewhere where everyone knew exactly who he was and he could talk and walk out of the room without consequence. Normally, it wasn't someone else's reputation on the line.
It was that last one that tipped it. Scott didn't care about his own reputation, but it was Other-Scott who would take the hit and Scott could never, ever, let someone else take a hit that should be his.
But…
He didn't need to get out, he just needed George distracted.
Four for Four.
Other-Gordon was out of arm's reach. He couldn't poke him once and be done with it.
George was still watching. His chest felt like someone had constricted it with a rubber band. Breathing normally was becoming more and more of a battle.
He scuffed his foot against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
He couldn't do the fourth. Fourth meant get me out of here and it was less him that needed to leave and more George that needed to stop watching.
Three wasn't an arranged signal. Would Other-Gordon notice it? Would he understand it?
Scott glanced at the ginger and saw that he was still talking to Jeremy. No change.
Dammit. He turned another page, not seeing what was on it. The rustling was louder.
"-won't take up your valuable time," Other-Gordon was saying. "Once we've decided on the pattern, we'll call for you."
"Well, if you're sure," Jeremy replied. "Please, don't hesitate to reach out."
"As soon as we've decided," Other-Gordon repeated.
"Very well." Scott was too busy trying to keep his breathing even to pay much attention to what Jeremy was saying, but when George was uttered, he forced himself to listen. "-leave Gordon and Scott while they decide. If you could help me gather a collection of material samples in the meantime-"
He stopped listening again as the invisible rubber band around his chest squeezed tighter. Beneath his fingers, he could feel paper crumpling, and then there were hands coaxing him into letting go.
"Scott, can you hear me?" Warm hands grasped his and he nodded. Keeping his breathing even was all but impossible now, lungs stuttering and chest heaving. "Okay, do you think you can match my breathing?" One of his hands was pressed against a shirt, only it was rising and falling in an exaggerated fashion. Other-Gordon's chest, his brain supplied. "In…" The chest rose slowly and steadily. "And out…"
Scott tried, latching onto the steady count and the steady rise and fall against his hand, but then he was hiccupping and any attempts to keep control over his breathing were destroyed by the interruptions.
Other-Gordon didn't let go. "Tell me five things you can see," he said instead.
He was in full calm rescuer mode again. Scott recognised that, just like he recognised the task. Normally, he was on the other end, coaxing someone else through the routine. Normally-
"Scott! Five things."
Blinking, he dragged the world back into focus. Other-Gordon was right in front of him, exuding calmness even though he was clearly worried as well.
"You," he gasped, forcing the word out past a hiccup.
Other-Gordon rewarded him with a reassuring smile. "What else?"
What else? They were in a room, there was a- "Door." It was shut. Nearby was a pile of- "Clothes." The ones they'd already chosen. Mostly blue. Blue was the best colour.
"That's three," Other-Gordon counted. "Two more, Scott."
Two more. Right. He moved his head around to the side. "Rack." The rejected clothes were still hanging on it, where it was pressed up against the wall. "Wall." The wallpaper looked like someone had taken one of John's shirts and decided it made good décor. It really didn't.
"Okay," Other-Gordon said, still calm. "That's good. Four things you can feel."
He was still holding his hands. They were warm.
Scott squeezed one lightly. "Hand," he listed. Beneath his other hand, where Other-Gordon's chest was still rising and falling like clockwork, he could feel the silk of the other man's clothes. "Shirt. Bandages." They were still tight across his knuckles, linen brushing against his skin in a way he was suddenly hyper aware of.
Another stream of hiccups interrupted him, his diaphragm lunging awkwardly inside his chest. Other-Gordon held him steady, not moving but keeping his presence there.
"One more," he coaxed after they passed, and Scott took a deep breath in.
Something else he could feel – hand, shirt, bandages. Around his wrist there was a weight, barely there but different. "Watch." Other-Scott's analogue watch. He still hadn't returned it. Was he supposed to?
"You're doing great," Other-Gordon assured him. "Three things you can hear."
"You." Gordon was always making noise and Other-Gordon was doing the same. If he wasn't talking, it was the steady in and out of his breath. It was the noise that promised he wasn't alone. "Me." He could hear his own breathing, stuttered and slightly wheezy. His heartbeat, sounding out a rhythm that was starting to slow down.
Other than them, the room was silent. Jeremy and George were gone, a fact that he only just registered, leaving just him and Other-Gordon. Scott closed his eyes, trying to find another sound.
Their watches were perfectly synchronised, the tick, tick, tick, of the seconds emitting from both their wrists. Scott wasn't used to watches that made noises – at least, not the regular clockwork ticks of seconds passing by – and in the silence they seemed loud. "Watches," he said, before Other-Gordon could prompt him again.
He opened his eyes again to see Other-Gordon wearing something that looked a lot more like a smile than earlier. Absently, he noticed that his chest wasn't being compressed any more.
"Two things you can smell."
Focusing was easier now. This close, and paying attention to it, Other-Gordon's aftershave was easily detectable. The room itself smelt of some sort of furniture polish, no doubt coming from the desk he now remembered was behind him. He offered both to the waiting Other-Gordon, and got a proper smile from him.
"Okay, one thing you can taste."
It had been hours since he'd eaten anything, the last thing being that apple pie Other-Scott had also descended upon. Unfortunately, the residual taste had long gone, leaving him with nothing but the usual bland saliva inside his mouth and the taste of indoor, slightly-furniture-polish tainted, air.
Other-Gordon chuckled when he mentioned that.
"We'll find some food before the return flight," he promised, grin just one side of cheeky, before the more serious expression settled back on his face. "Are you good to talk?"
Ideally, Scott wanted to pretend that hadn't happened and carry on with the shopping, but he knew better than to think Other-Gordon was going to willingly drop the subject. His hand was still pressing against the other man's chest, and he pulled it back, although he didn't let go of the warm hand.
"As good as I'll get," he admitted begrudgingly, and Other-Gordon nodded.
"I'll keep it brief," he promised. "Why three times?"
He had noticed. Noticed and acted upon it, despite it not being an agreed signal.
"I didn't need to get out," he said. Amber eyes narrowed at him, Other-Gordon's disagreement palatable. "I needed them out."
"What was the difference?"
What was the difference? Scott frowned. At the time it had been so clear, but the other side of the panic attack, putting his finger on precisely what he'd wanted was harder.
"If we left, coming back would be odd," he settled on.
"Okay," Other-Gordon accepted, although Scott didn't think he was entirely happy with the answer. "You still want to keep shopping?"
"I'm not quitting," Scott said firmly. There was the hint of an eyeroll from the younger man.
"Well, no-one's ever accused Scott Tracy of being a quitter," he commented, clearly amused, before the seriousness returned. "When we get back to the car, we're creating a full set of signals," he promised. "And I want you to tell me if you're seeing a pattern."
Scott saw the sense in both of those, even if needing to do it rankled. It was to make sure he didn't inadvertently throw Other-Scott under the paparazzi bus, he reminded himself, well aware that Other-Gordon's motivation was not that but refusing to face that one. As long as he focused on it being for Other-Scott's benefit, he could do it.
Begrudgingly, he nodded.
That seemed to satisfy Other-Gordon enough, as he stepped back, out of his personal space, and let go of Scott's hand. Scott let him. "Did you see anything you liked in the catalogue?" he asked, retrieving it from wherever he'd put it earlier. One of the pages was crumpled.
"I was getting there," Scott admitted, plucking it from his hands and trying to ignore the crumpled page as he quickly flicked back to the customisation section at the back. "This," he pointed out, finding the right page. "With this, this and this."
His fingers automatically swiped again, and he grit his teeth. With only Other-Gordon as witness it didn't invite the panic to surge back up, but he could feel calculating eyes on them. There was no comment, though.
Instead, the catalogue was whisked from his hands and the other man repeated his selection back at him. Clearly, he'd been read again, but if it kept their secret then he'd accept it. Other-Gordon was simply trying to help, and if he was using his knowledge of his own brother to help him read Scott, then that was fair enough. He was doing the same, after all.
"You looking for more blue, or some variety this time?" Other-Gordon asked. "The fellas'll be back with fabric and colour samples in a minute."
"Probably," Scott shrugged. There was always a chance he'd see something else he'd like better, but blue made for a safe default.
Oher-Gordon made an amused noise. "You ready to face them again?"
"I'll be fine," spilled out of his mouth automatically, and a ginger eyebrow raised at him. He sighed. "I should be fine," he corrected. The eyebrow stayed raised. "Can we just get this over with, please?"
"Four for Four," the younger man reminded him in an obvious concession, before strolling over to the door and opening it. "Ah, Jeremy! Good timing; Scott finally settled on something."
Scott had a sudden fear that the manager had been standing outside the door long enough to hear what they'd been saying, but squashed it ruthlessly. Other-Gordon would handle it if he thought it was a problem.
Jeremy entered as Other-Gordon stepped aside for him, George appearing behind him. Both men were carrying fabrics with different patterns and colours.
"Wonderful!" the manager beamed. "Here are the fabrics we have available in stock at the moment. If none of these suit, then we do have a wider selection, but we will need to contact the suppliers for a shipment." The two men settled their armfuls onto the table, and without prompting Scott headed over to start sorting through them. "Would you like assistance?"
Scott waved both men off as they started to hover, no doubt intending on pitching their most expensive options, although that was less of a concern than the fear one of them – particularly George – was looking at him too closely.
Other-Gordon swept them both up in conversation about the selection he'd chosen, pages of the catalogue turning as he gestured, and Scott tuned it out as he rummaged through the fabrics in front of him. Judging by feel, he discarded all the ones that weren't cotton or similarly soft – hoodies were for comfort, and that was what he was going to prioritise – before critically eyeing the patterns on the remaining ones.
There were several different shades of blue, which he automatically headed for, before pausing. At the bottom of the pile, in amongst a cluster of loudly patterned monstrosities better suited for Gordon's tastes, was a flash of red. Pulling it out to look at, he swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat.
Red and black chequers greeted him as he shook it out. It wasn't an identical pattern to Virgil's favourite flannel shirt, but it was close enough to have his fingers trembling as he held it up.
The pile of blue, varying shades and patterns and his automatic go-to, was instantly forgotten. He didn't normally wear those colours, unless he was borrowing Virgil's flannels for some reason, but here, in another universe, it felt a little bit like home.
The lump in his throat felt tighter, and he was glad no-one expected him to say anything because right then he wasn't sure he could. Still, he gave himself a moment, because Other-Gordon was still talking, still distracting, and he refused to have another breakdown. Especially over this.
He didn't even bother looking at the other patterns. There was nothing else there, not even any of the blue ones, that could possibly change his mind.
After half a minute or so, he turned around to face the other three men in the room, red and black chequered fabric in his hands.
Other-Gordon's eyes widened in surprise, and Scott felt a little smug that he wasn't completely predictable.
"A fine choice!" Jeremy beamed, and Scott got the suspicion he'd picked one of the pricier patterns. "Will that be all?" The question was, mercifully, directed at Other-Gordon, who had slipped back into his analytical expression and was clearly revising some earlier conclusions.
"That's all, Jeremy," he confirmed. As well as it being the conclusion of everything on the list, Scott was fairly sure that despite their earlier conversation and his own claims that he'd be fine, Other-Gordon thought they needed to leave the shop sooner rather than later.
"In that case, I'll leave you with George to take the measurements while I calculate the bill," the manager declared, and Other-Gordon nodded.
"That sounds excellent," he agreed. "Thank you for your help, Jeremy."
"It was no problem at all," the manager replied. "Thank you for your custom."
Something about the way he said it put Scott on edge, but Other-Gordon continued to grin delightedly until the man left. Without the barrier of his manager, George immediately looked a little flustered again.
"If you'd like to follow me, M- Scott," he invited, pulling a measuring tape out of a pocket as he headed for another door. Ah yes, the fitting bit. Why couldn't Other-Scott have agreed to swiping one off the shelf? Still, he reluctantly followed, Other-Gordon keeping pace by his side, entering a small room with a stool in the centre and mirrors surrounding it. While nowhere near as lavish as Lemaires', it was still clearly a fitting room.
He barely waited for George's instruction before stepping up onto the stool, hoping this wasn't going to take too long.
It didn't, although it was still longer than Madeleine's quick and nimble fingers. Scott felt like a puppet on a string as he was asked to turn, raise his arms, lower his arms, and the rest of the seemingly-ridiculous contortions required for accurate measurements. The neckline measurements were not fun – Scott was not a fan of things wrapping around his neck, even if it was a measuring tape wielded by a tailor – but he held still and hoped neither of the other men in the room noticed.
Other-Gordon almost certainly did. Those amber eyes hadn't left him the entire time since Jeremy had left.
George finally stepped back and let him off the stool, coiling the tape measure back up and making one last scrawl on the clipboard he'd been using to record.
"Thanks, George," Other-Gordon said before he could say a word. "That'll be everything. How about you go on ahead and give those numbers to Jeremy?"
His tone was friendly enough, but George jumped and nodded before all but fleeing from the room. It was Scott's turn to raise an eyebrow. The dismissal of their sales assistant might as well have screamed that Other-Gordon wanted a private word.
"If Jeremy hasn't called the paparazzi I'll eat my hat," the ginger said without preamble. "If his shop gets in the papers with our name attached, he'll get good business."
So that was what the manager had meant earlier. Scott supposed he should have seen it coming, although with social media back home it was usually a case of someone snapping a single photo and loading it online for everyone to see, rather than calling the press.
"The Tracy name makes good advertising," he commented dryly.
"That it does," Other-Gordon agreed. "Remember, no talking. Don't let the sunglasses or hat fall off, because Scott will murder me if the press suggests he's going grey, and keep your hand in your pocket."
His hand? Scott glanced down and saw the bandages wrapped around his knuckles. He stuffed it in a pocket. "They'd have a field day with that, wouldn't they?" he observed grimly. Other-Gordon shrugged in agreement.
"Most likely." Amber eyes looked at him seriously. "And remember, four for Four. We'll have to give them something, but we're absolutely not giving them a panic attack to gossip over. If you need out, tell me."
Scott nodded. He knew what paparazzi were like, and he was mostly certain he'd be fine, but he was well aware it wasn't his reputation on the line. For Other-Scott, he could ask for help.
"Any questions?" Other-Gordon asked, and Scott shook his head.
"I know paparazzi," he assured him. "They might not be identical here, but I'll be surprised if it's too different."
Other-Gordon grinned. "In that case, let's get this over with."
There was no paparazzi in the main shop, it transpired as they left the side room to re-enter the shop floor, but Scott could hear a crowd of people outside. He did his best to ignore them as Other-Gordon chatted with Jeremy, making the payments while side-stepping any promises to promote the shop and arranging for collection of the items that weren't ready to be taken away.
Scott was delighted that at least some packages – tied up in brown paper and string before being deposited in bags emblazoned with what had to be the shop's name – were ready to go; it meant he'd have something that wasn't Other-Scott's to change into as soon as they got back to the island.
"Do you need someone to carry the bags for you?" Jeremy was asking, and Scott rolled his eyes, taking advantage of the dark shades Other-Scott had insisted upon. His motives couldn't be more transparent if he tried, with the paparazzi buzzing around outside. Still, Other-Scott had told him to leave the paparazzi nonsense to Other-Gordon, so he kept his body language neutral and waited for the other man to respond.
"Thanks for the offer, but Scott and I can manage just fine," Other-Gordon grinned. "I'd say we've taken up quite enough of your time today, Jeremy."
"It really wouldn't be a bother," the manager insisted, but Other-Gordon remained firm, handing some of the bags to Scott – specifically his right hand, in a less than subtle reminder that his bandaged left was to stay hidden in his pocket – and taking the others himself.
"Thanks for all your help," Other-Gordon said. "Scott'll be back to collect the other items later, as we agreed."
Scott wondered what Other-Scott was going to have to say about being forced to pick up the hoodie he'd clearly been reluctant about. Then again, he'd been the one to insist on the custom, so maybe he was already aware Other-Gordon was going to pull that. He wondered what the contingency plan was if Other-Scott was caught up in a rescue, as their continued secrecy in this universe meant he couldn't turn up in Thunderbird One and IR uniform.
Other-Gordon turned and started walking towards the door, dismissing Jeremy's continued attempts to help them carry the bags – or rather, to get involved with the paparazzi. Scott followed him, and hoped this wasn't going to turn into a total disaster.
Cameras flashed the moment the door opened, and Scott found himself very thankful for the shades as they stopped him from being blinded.
The different technologies were immediately obvious; instead of small, sleek cameras, there were big ones with large mirrors and bulbs for maximum subject-blinding. Scott never thought he'd miss the paparazzi, of all things, but he found he vastly preferred not being blinded while they took his photograph.
The noise, however, was the same. Voice after voice clamouring for answers, parroting questions at the speed of light as microphones were shoved in his face. Immediately ahead of him, Other-Gordon had stopped, and sensing which brother was willing to talk, the reporters flocked straight to the aquanaut.
"Gordon Tracy!" they were all saying, talking over each other. Scott made out snatches of words like "clothes" and "shopping" and "unusual", but focused on doing his best to not be the centre of attention – which was much harder than he thought it would be. Then again, he was used to being the one the rest of his brothers hid behind, rather than being the one doing the hiding.
He kept his gaze firmly focused on the ginger hair in front of him, and tried to ignore any stray microphones or occasional calls of his own name as he was noticed. The problem with paparazzi was that they didn't know how to give up, and the fact that he wasn't even saying 'no comment' was drawing more and more of them like flies.
Other-Gordon was talking to the majority that had flooded him with microphones and notebooks, and Scott was fairly sure he heard the word bet at least once. Unfortunately, that appeared to get more of them swarming over to him.
"What do you think of your brother's choice of forfeit?"
"Do you think these might be a permanent addition to your wardrobe?"
"What does your father think of this?"
That last one hurt, and Scott had to fight not to let his reactions show on his face.
"Scott Tracy!"
"Scott Tracy!"
"Scott Tracy!"
He was sorely tempted to walk to the car to try and shake them off, except paparazzi were entirely unshakeable, and if he tried that without Other-Gordon, there would be a problem. Thankfully, he wasn't feeling anything beyond the usual annoyance at being hounded; whatever the reason might be, it wasn't panic inducing – at least, not yet, although he was hoping it was going to stay that way – but Scott still wasn't enjoying the ordeal.
Other-Gordon was moving, stepping backwards towards his side, and Scott looked at him out of the corner of his eye as he put his hand on his shoulder.
"Sorry, everyone," he said loudly enough to catch their attention. "I'm afraid Scott's lost his voice, so he can't answer your questions today."
That, of course, sparked a whole new set of questions. What had happened? Was he ill? Why was he out and about if he couldn't talk? Other-Gordon defected all of them, somehow managing not to answer anything specific while also not contradicting the earlier tale he'd spun for Madeline after the first panic attack.
For his part, now that the attention was on him, Scott plastered a grin on his face, like the ones he tended to pull when he was 'no comment'ing his way through crowds of them at home, and prayed the hat and shades were doing enough to hide the few differences in his and Other-Scott's appearances from eagle-eyed paparazzi and – once the photos were published – the rest of the world. Other-Gordon, doubtlessly by design, had come to stand on his left, close enough that it would be difficult to extract his hand from his pocket on purpose, let alone accidentally.
He was also close enough that Scott would have no problem doing four for Four if need be, something else he was certain Other-Gordon had done on purpose. Scott didn't take the offer; as he'd hoped, the paparazzi crowd wasn't enough to send him into a panic, so he stayed quiet and let the younger man handle them with an ease that belied practice. Of course, this universe's Gordon was an Olympic Champion, too.
"I think that's enough questions for today," Other-Gordon finally said, pressing on the back of Scott's shoulder in what he assumed was a signal to walk forwards. "Thank you for your time, but we've got more shopping to be doing, so this'll be all."
Of course, they didn't just accept that and leave, but Scott kept walking forwards, towards the car, with Other-Gordon at his side now saying "no comment" to the questions still hurtled their way, and the crowd unwillingly parted to let them through.
The bags were placed in the footwells of the back seat, and Scott clambered into the passenger seat as quickly as he could without looking like he was trying to flee – or letting any of them catch a glimpse of his bandaged hand. Other-Gordon wasted no time in putting the car in drive, and then they were pulling out of the car park a little faster than Scott suspected they should.
"You endured that longer than I thought you would," Other-Gordon commented once they'd left the shop and its hovering paparazzi's sight. "I thought for sure you were going to bail when they asked about Dad's opinions."
That was a little too close to their agreed-upon taboo subject, but Scott let it slide.
"I'm used to difficult questions from them," he admitted. "And I've got a lot of experience in ignoring persistent questions." He paused for a split second before grinning. "I have four younger brothers, after all."
Other-Gordon laughed. "I suppose that's true," he agreed. "Still, they didn't seem to suspect a thing, so I'd say it was a success. Scott'll have to deal with the fallout of being 'seen' out and about without a voice, but he can handle that. He'll just charm everyone until they forget about it." He sighed. "In a way it's a shame you can't interact with everyone. It'd be interesting to see how you differ from him socially."
"How's your analysis coming along?" Scott asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "I know you've been watching me."
"Well, it's a lot harder when I've only got your body language to go on," Other-Gordon admitted. "Difference in fashion aside, your tastes are mostly similar, except for that hoodie. Why red and black?"
Scott shrugged, not quite willing to admit the truth on that one. "Wanted to catch you out," he grinned instead. "It's weird how easily you're picking things up, even if it's because you're basing it on your actual brother."
"Scott goes for white or brown first if not blue," Other-Gordon frowned. "I don't think I've ever seen him go for red, and definitely not over blue like that. There were some very Scott-favoured blues in the pile."
Scott smirked. "Maybe we're not as similar as you thought."
"I'll figure it out," Other-Gordon promised, eyes narrowed in the same way Gordon did when he'd spotted a challenge. Scott hoped he didn't, but at the same time much preferred him focusing on that rather than everything they'd been discussing earlier that day on Tracy Island.
Well, the last chapter ended with some really lovely trust-building... so I decided that's more than enough generosity from me for Scott and threw another panic attack at him. What, you didn't think I was gonna let him off that lightly, did you?
Still shopping, still Scott&TOS!Gordon everywhere, and more hoodie shenanigans! You know, that hoodie's given me a real headache (and is half the reason this shopping trip's got so long; TOS why no hoodies? Scott wanting a hoodie was only supposed to be a throwaway line, not an entire plot point)...
Thanks for reading!
Tsari