Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
"So where are we going now?" Scott asked, changing the topic.
"Your call," Other-Gordon shrugged, even though Scott was fairly sure he had a destination in mind from the way he was driving. There was no hesitation about their route. "We can take a break and get ourselves a bite to eat, or we can get the rest of the shopping done and find food after."
Scott mentally ran through what they had left to get. "How likely are the paparazzi to hound us for the rest of the day?" he asked.
"Most likely they'll be asking around what we were buying for a while," Other-Gordon told him. "After that, it depends how interesting they find us, and if they can find us again."
Scott drew the line at paparazzi squawking about his choice of underwear, and sighed. "Might as well get those underpants now, then," he said.
"If you're sure," Other-Gordon said. He sounded dubious, but Scott glanced at him and saw concern, rather than disagreement.
"I'm sure," he said firmly. "Unless you're about to tell me I'll need fittings for that because if that's the case then I'm sticking with what I've got."
Other-Gordon laughed. "Well, it's lucky for all of us that there won't be any fittings in the next shop, then," he grinned. "Underpants, socks and pyjamas are all in the same place. We're sticking with Scott's usual haunts now," he added. "Less for the paparazzi to get their teeth into."
Scott swallowed, thankful for the heads' up. Typically, sharp ginger eyes didn't miss it.
"Say, we didn't get to have that chat about a pattern yet, did we?" Other-Gordon commented. Scott sighed.
"I should be fine," he said.
"Scott." The disappointment was clear. "I can't help you if you don't let me."
He was right but that didn't stop Scott disliking it.
"If I'm expecting it, it's fine," he clarified, although Other-Gordon's raised eyebrow said things were still as clear as mud.
"Expecting what." It wasn't a question, but an expectation, and Scott sighed.
"People that know your brother," he admitted. "The paparazzi, being recognised in the streets… they're one thing. That's fine."
"It's people who know Scott," Other-Gordon finished for him. Scott nodded. "That explains Madeleine, but not George. Jones… We weren't with him long enough for him to notice anything?" Scott nodded again. "So, George is the opposite? We were with him too long?"
"Something like that," Scott agreed. "He saw when I slipped and tried to use the catalogue like I would at home."
Other-Gordon made a noise that sounded a little like a suspicion had been confirmed.
"I don't know for sure if it'll help," he said. "But try to remember two things."
Scott looked over at him again and resisted the urge to tell him to put both hands back on the wheel as one fist raised, a single finger extended.
"First, outside the airport no-one here knows Scott that well. Certainly not well enough to notice any small differences. Even your voice might not be enough to raise most people's suspicions, that's mostly a precaution. They're not going to see one small slip and peg you as an imposter. Scott doesn't go shopping much, and he prefers going to Kansas or New York for the most part. Auckland's only for short day trips. Anyone acting familiar outside of the airport is doing exactly that. They're acting." A second finger raised. "Secondly, you're Scott Tracy. You might not be my Scott, but you're still Scott Tracy. Have a little faith in yourself."
"Aren't you watching me and logging all the differences between us?" Scott asked, and Other-Gordon rolled his eyes. He did, thankfully, at least put his hand back on the wheel.
"That's how I know you can pull this off," he said. "There are differences, but they're ones I see because I'm family. Tom, Dick and Harry aren't going to notice a jot."
"George did."
"George saw you doing something weird," Other-Gordon shrugged. "No more catalogues, no more swishy fingers."
"Swishy fingers?"
"You looked like you were conducting an orchestra," Other-Gordon told him bluntly.
Okay, Scott could see that.
"Hold your head high and pretend you own the place," the ginger advised. "We won't be in this shop long." He pulled into another car park, next to a sleek building advertising Outstanding Private Garments for the Gentleman. "But if that doesn't work, remember four for Four," he added. "Three if you just need some space."
Despite himself, Scott found himself grinning. "Three for Three, four for Four," he repeated. "I can remember that." Associating the numbers with Thunderbirds was simple, but definitely effective.
"Whatever helps you remember," Other-Gordon shrugged. "But like I say, we shouldn't be in here long. Ready?"
In answer, Scott plucked at the lever in the side of the door, letting it open. Other-Gordon took the hint.
The inside of the shop was much more like Lemaires', if less filled with customers, than the workshop store had been. The class difference was painfully obvious, and Scott found himself wondering why rich meant stuffy here. It was going to be a relief when he could shuck off Other-Scott's clothes – still too smart for Scott's liking even if it was clearly supposed to be casual wear – and put on something that fit his own definition of casual.
Not-Dad could scowl about undone buttons and rolled up sleeves all he wanted, but if Scott was going to suffer being in a different universe, he'd at least do so comfortably.
A salesman headed over to them, apparently drawn like a magnet to the sniff of money, and Scott contentedly stayed back as Other-Gordon repeated their spiel about a lost voice and explained what they were after.
You're Scott Tracy. It almost mirrored Not-Dad's departing message remember you're a Tracy, and Scott wondered if this was what the older man had meant. He threw a grin in the salesman's direction when the man looked at him, kept his back straight and hands – both of them – in his pockets.
Just doing that made him feel like he really did belong there. It was a dangerous thought, and Scott quickly clarified to himself that by there he meant in the shop, and not in this universe, because he certainly did not belong in the latter and couldn't wait to get home.
As the man led them down aisles, presumably towards the underwear Other-Gordon had specified, he caught a look of approval from the ginger.
It wasn't much, just a brief curl of the corner of his mouth and a split second of eye contact out of the corner of his eye, but it lifted a weight Scott hadn't noticed settling on his chest.
He could do this. It was just some clothes.
Some clothes in a different universe and subsequently different fashions. Apparently this universe had not yet discovered his preferred style, or at least didn't offer them for Gentlemen. He pointedly ignored Other-Gordon watching him even as he nattered away to the salesman, no doubt keeping him distracted, and mentally ran through the options in front of him.
Comfort and practicality were both important, and it was with that in mind that he made his selection, hoping he wouldn't notice the difference too much when he was wearing them. He didn't know how often they did laundry, but in a vain hope he wouldn't be in this universe for too long, he grabbed a week's worth before turning back to the other men.
Other-Gordon's face betrayed nothing about his selection, but he did obligingly prod the salesman into leading them to the socks.
Once again, fashion differences made themselves known as trainer and ankle socks seemed to be entirely absent from the choices, leaving Scott with the simple choice of what pattern he wanted on the calf-high woollen offerings. They reminded him more than a little of soccer socks, and he kept half an eye on Other-Gordon as a yellow pair found their way into the selection amongst the blues, whites and blacks. To his frustration, the ginger seemed to have pulled on a poker face, no doubt anticipating that Scott would try and throw him again with colour selection.
Still, even that gave him some sort of sense of normalcy, which in turn kept him calm and focused on what they needed to do, and not what anyone else was thinking of him. Other-Gordon keeping up a stream of chatter with the salesman – whose name Scott realised he still hadn't caught – was enough to quell the last of the what-ifs, and even selecting a few pairs of pyjamas was much less of a trial than it could have been.
Even if Scott really wished he could just wear a tatty old t-shirt and shorts like he defaulted to at home. Unfortunately, Gentlemen apparently wore sleeping shirts made of cotton with matching full-length trousers, much like the ones he'd woken up in earlier that morning, and once again had a limited selection that seemed to mostly vary in the shape of the collar and length of the arms.
Assuming that this universe's Tracy Island tended towards the same temperatures as his home, he opted for mostly thinner, short-sleeved choices, and ignored the many patterned ones in favour of plain where he could. Blue, yes, but there was also dark grey and another red and black chequered pattern he couldn't bring himself not to choose.
Amber eyes narrowed at the final selection, Other-Gordon logging it and no doubt wracking his brain for anything that might be inspiring his now second choice for that combination. Scott was mostly hopeful he wouldn't figure it out, but the other man had proven himself to be extremely sharp. There was always a chance he would.
"That seemed like it went better," the ginger commented once the clothes were paid for and they were back in the car. The engine purred, although the car was still in neutral and Other-Gordon was leaning back in the seat. Scott hoped the fuel was as carbon neutral here as it was at home.
'Went better' wasn't a hard thing to surmise, considering it was the first shop Scott hadn't had a full-blown panic attack in – or any real panic at all. "What helped?"
They had one shop left to go, by Scott's estimation, and no doubt he was going to have to interact with strangers again for it. Even at home, shoe shopping still required checking they fit, so he didn't dare hope it would be avoidable here. After the reprieve of the relatively easy experience he'd just had, he hoped he could hold it together long enough to get a couple of pairs of sneakers.
"No fittings," he said dryly when Other-Gordon cleared his throat meaningfully. "It was easier to ignore everyone else."
"That's not going to be possible when we get the shoes," Other-Gordon reminded him, and he sighed.
"I know," he said. "But I can handle it."
"Do you want that café break now?"
Scott shook his head. "Let's get this over with," he said. "Putting it off won't make it easier."
"If you're sure," Other-Gordon replied, but there was no dubiousness in his tone this time. Scott suspected he wasn't the only one relieved at the success in the latest shop. The ginger shifted the car into drive and then they were rolling out onto the streets again. "How many shoes are you thinking of?"
"Two should be enough," Scott shrugged. "Both sneakers."
"No sandals?" Other-Gordon looked surprised. Scott shook his head again.
"I won't need those," he said. "Two pairs of sneakers will be plenty."
"Well, I suppose you can always steal Scott's shoes if you end up needing anything else," the other man mused. "You'll need protective boots before you get in the hangars properly," he added, "but we can't get those here."
"I have protective boots," Scott reminded him.
"Only when Brains isn't prodding at them," Other-Gordon pointed out. "I didn't look at your boots that closely but they looked weird."
"I'm almost certainly going to think the same thing about yours when I see them properly," Scott shrugged. "They're protective enough. Not quite as heavy duty as Virgil's, but they're still superior to steel caps."
"Sounds useful," Other-Gordon commented. "We're here."
That had been a considerably shorter drive than any of the others. Scott made to get out of the car, but a hand on his arm stopped him.
"Scott got new sneakers recently," Other-Gordon warned him. "So the chaps here will remember him."
The pressure that had lifted with the last shop made its return known with a vengeance, and Scott grit his teeth. The hand on his arm tightened, grounding him, and he glanced over at Other-Gordon.
"Will it help if I go over the story with you now?" the ginger asked, serious eyes meeting his through the shades. "Remember, they might remember him, but they don't know him. Behave like you did in the last shop and everything will be fine."
"The story?" Scott asked, taking a deep breath.
"That you like them enough to want more," Other-Gordon clarified. "As for your hand; you slipped over by the pool and grazed it."
Scott hadn't even considered his hand, and that he'd need to be using it.
"Scott, are you okay to go in or do you want that café break first?" Other-Gordon asked, seriousness laced all through the words. Scott swallowed. Instinct told him he was going to struggle, but his pride rebelled at the idea of running away.
His lack of an immediate answer seemed to be all Other-Gordon needed as he shoved the car back into drive.
"Wait-" Scott protested as he realised they were leaving. Sharp amber eyes looked at him.
"What did you have for breakfast this morning?"
Breakfast? Scott blinked, caught out by the question.
"All you've had since you got here was Grandma's apple pie," Other-Gordon continued. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starting to feel mighty peckish, and I had a nice, leisurely breakfast after my swim this morning."
Now that he'd mentioned it, Scott realised the churning in his stomach might not be entirely looming panic. He didn't actually remember breakfast. There was that early morning call-out; he'd chugged a coffee during John's briefing then gone to pluck the climber from the mountain, and then returned home with the intent of catching a couple more hours of sleep before properly facing the day.
Food, he realised, hadn't featured at all. He'd left One, somehow fallen through a universe collision, and then ended up here.
"Coffee," he eventually answered.
"And?"
Scott shrugged. "Early morning callout. Bed was the plan when I got back."
"Hold on a moment," Other-Gordon said. "You're telling me that slice of apple pie's the only thing you've eaten in… how long?"
"I ate dinner last night," Scott defended himself.
"Gee." Other-Gordon shook his head. "That settles it. We're going to a café and you're going to eat."
Scott didn't have an argument for that one, and his stomach made its agreement known by grumbling at him suddenly. Other-Gordon laughed.
"We've got all day," he reminded him. "We can take our time, remember?"
Scott sighed, but knew when he was beaten. "You got a place in mind?"
"A few," Other-Gordon said. "Say, you don't have any allergies, do you?"
"Nothing I'm aware of," he assured him.
"In that case," the ginger said. "The Nine Bells has some private booths and a good menu."
The name wasn't familiar to Scott, but he hadn't spent much time in Auckland for the sake of sight-seeing – or shopping – so he didn't know if it didn't exist in his universe or if he'd just never had cause to go near it.
"I'll take your word for it," he said, and Other-Gordon shot him a grin.
"They serve apple pie," he promised, and Scott rolled his eyes. Even he'd noticed Other-Scott's fondness for the food, so it was no surprise at all that Other-Gordon had his favourite dessert pegged already. "And their coffee's good."
"What about their tea?" Scott asked, keeping a straight face as he got the double-take reaction he was hoping for.
"You drink tea?" Other-Gordon asked. Scott shrugged.
"Only in England."
Other-Gordon huffed, and Scott let the threatening grin creep onto his face. "I should have seen that coming," the ginger grumbled. "You're terrible."
"I'm a big brother," Scott shrugged. "Can't let the younger ones win all the time."
"Definitely a Scott," Other-Gordon muttered, shaking his head. "Let's get some food in you."
"That sounds like a plan," Scott agreed. Now that he was aware of the gnawing hunger, it clearly had no intentions of letting him forget about it.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, and Scott let himself properly look out at the streets as they drove through. Much of it was unfamiliar to him; shop fronts were styled differently, and there were no holograms lighting up sales as they tried to entice customers to browse. That was no doubt entirely due to the difference in technologies, although he was getting the impression that even society seemed to be subtly different at times.
If Other-John and Other-Brains couldn't find a quick way to get him back and he was stuck here for a while until they figured it out – and they would figure it out, because Scott couldn't afford to think otherwise – he was going to have a lot to learn even though he doubted he'd be leaving the island much, at least not as Scott Tracy. If he was going to be living here for a while, he was definitely going to get involved in International Rescue somehow.
He couldn't imagine sitting back and watching others do what was his job without stepping in to help, and inaction was never his style.
"Everything alright?" Other-Gordon asked suddenly. "You've gone quiet."
Scott shrugged. "Just thinking," he answered, not looking away from the passing buildings.
"Don't hurt yourself."
Scott rolled his eyes. Some things transcended universes, apparently.
"Penny for your thoughts?" the ginger continued. Scott wondered if he was worried he was spiralling again.
"Just about-" he cut himself off, remembering that even if they were in the car they were out in public – a public that didn't know about International Rescue's identity. "The family business," he hedged.
"Yours or ours?"
"Yours, mostly," Scott admitted. "Where I'll fit in."
"Dad won't say no," Other-Gordon assured him. "It's short-staffed for obvious reasons, but those don't apply to you. I know the two of you aren't seeing eye to eye right now, and I won't lie – working out where you sit in the hierarchy is going to take a lot of compromise, mostly on your end – but if you're going to be hanging around, you might as well make yourself useful."
It was the second time Other-Gordon had confidently said he'd be able to join their International Rescue, although Scott was well aware there'd be a lot of difficulty fitting in.
He'd been Commander of his International Rescue longer than this International Rescue had been operating. But he didn't know their technology, their limits and procedures. Even the jargon was different.
"I'm not afraid of hard work," he said, and Other-Gordon laughed.
"No-one's going to doubt that," he promised. "You don't do well sitting around, do you?"
"Another shared trait?" Scott assumed dryly. To his surprise, Other-Gordon shrugged.
"I think you're worse for it," he admitted. Startled, Scott looked away from the passing buildings to regard Other-Gordon again. "Scott doesn't do well sitting around all the time, but that doesn't stop him lounging for a few hours with the rest of us." Amber eyes glanced over at him. "I get the feeling you've forgotten how to."
That was getting dangerously close to Dad's crash again, never mind the fact that Other-Gordon was right. His own brothers had got on his case about it enough for Scott to know he hadn't relaxed in years. Not properly.
"I remember how," he muttered, the words coming out more defensively than he'd intended.
"Something tells me you're not going to be demonstrating that knowledge," Other-Gordon challenged, once again right because he was entirely too sharp. Scott knew he wouldn't be able to relax at all until he was home and knew his brothers were all safe and well. "I'm not going to stop you," the ginger continued. "But don't burn yourself out."
"I won't," Scott promised.
Other-Gordon's silence loudly proclaimed that he expected otherwise but knew better than to call him out on it. Scott appreciated it; that was a heavy enough conversation for his liking.
There had been a lot of those on this shopping trip, despite him choosing Other-Gordon to avoid them. It would have been so much worse if he'd come with anyone else.
Part of him wasn't looking forwards to getting back, because then he'd have the whole island watching him again. He also, he realised, needed to apologise to Other-Virgil for brushing him off so abruptly, even if he was glad he'd stood his ground against Not-Dad.
Dealing with Not-Dad on a regular basis was definitely going to be the hardest part of this universe. Scott knew he was going to have to talk to the man, especially if he was going to join their International Rescue, but he looked just like Dad, and even now his chest hurt when he thought about it.
"We're here," Other-Gordon said, pulling into a car park in front of a large building that proclaimed The Nine Bells in a neat cursive. It looked fancy, but then Other-Gordon had said they offered private booths, which Scott was well aware they'd need.
He followed the ginger into the building, where they were promptly greeted by a waitress.
"Good afternoon, sirs," she chirped. "A table for two?" Her eyes were firmly fixed on him, and he knew he was wearing shades but she was pretty cute so he sent her a wink and a grin anyway.
She flushed red. Good to know he still had it in another universe.
"A private booth, please," Other-Gordon said, stepping forwards and – ow – onto Scott's foot. Well, if he wanted him to be himself, then he was going to flirt with the pretty girls, regardless of whether or not he could talk.
"Of course," she stammered, still looking at him rather than the Tracy that was actually talking to her. "This way." Still bright red, and throwing glances at him over her shoulder, she slipped between the public tables until they came to a concealed privacy booth, no doubt for their richer customers. Scott supposed Tracys counted. She hovered as they both slid into seats, before placing menus in front of both of them – him first. He thanked her with another grin, and got a nudge in the shin from Other-Gordon.
"Would you like a jug of water?" she asked him. Other-Gordon jumped in with the affirmative, and she hurried off to get it.
"Must you flirt with the waiting staff?" the ginger asked after she was gone. Scott shrugged.
"She's pretty," he said. Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.
"If it makes you happier," he sighed, and Scott definitely heard the underlying relief there that something was cheering him up.
"I'll take the small victories where I can get them," he confirmed, pulling the menu down in front of him. "I don't suppose you'll take her number for me?"
"Not under false pretences," the other man retorted. Scott scowled; he had a point. Other-Gordon shook his head and grinned. "At least you're looking happier."
"Until you stole my fun," Scott grumbled, but he knew Other-Gordon was right. He couldn't flirt seriously with anyone while he was pretending to be Other-Scott.
"Just choose something from the menu," Other-Gordon told him. "Several somethings, if this is really your first meal today. Grandma will have my hide if you pass out on me."
"I'm not going to pass out," Scott protested, but he looked at the menu anyway.
Food, it seemed, was the same across universes. It wasn't much hassle to find something he liked – he'd never been a particularly picky eater, and from the amused looks on Other-Gordon's face, the ginger could probably have ordered for him without even asking.
"The same?" he asked resignedly.
"Near enough," Other-Gordon shrugged. "Coffee?"
The waitress reappeared before Scott could give a verbal answer, so he nodded as she set the water and two glasses down on the table.
"Are you ready to order, sirs?" she asked, once again fixed on him as she withdrew a notebook from her apron and held a pencil up, poised to write.
Rolling his eyes, Other-Gordon placed the order for both of them. She looked a little put out that Scott, for all his grinning, wasn't actually saying a word to her, and clearly Other-Gordon wasn't feeling like a generous enough wingman to tell her that he couldn't talk.
She hovered for a moment longer after writing down the order, but Other-Gordon looked away from her in a clear dismissal, and Scott reluctantly followed suit, leaving her scurrying away a little disappointedly.
"Now I seem fickle," Scott huffed once she was out of earshot. Other-Gordon looked amused, smirking in an annoying little brother manner.
"You're telling me you're not going to start smiling at the next pretty woman you see?" he asked. Scott rolled his eyes.
"That's not the point," he denied.
"I disagree," Other-Gordon retorted. "Gee, you'd think they'd give the Olympic Champion the time of day, at least."
"Not all the girls care about gold medals," Scott smirked. It was Other-Gordon's turn to huff.
"They do when there's no tall dark and handsome winking at them next to me," he muttered. "If there's one thing that's not so good about the job, it's the secrecy."
"It's not worth the headache." That, Scott could say for certain. "Trust me."
"I'll trust your grey hairs," Other-Gordon agreed, and Scott scowled at him. He put his hands up. "I promised not to ask questions and I won't," he said. "But if there's anything you want to know, I'm available."
"Here?" Scott asked, glancing around at the café. The privacy booth at least meant he could talk, but he wasn't so sure Not-Dad would approve of International Rescue being discussed there.
"Well, maybe not here," Other-Gordon conceded. "But any time."
It was a comforting offer, especially after their first conversation where the man had physically and verbally cornered him and refused to let him near any of the Thunderbirds.
We're on the same side. The offer was an extension of that promise, and Scott nodded in acknowledgement.
"I still want that tour," he said, and Other-Gordon laughed.
"Well, that doesn't surprise me," he said. "I'll have to clear it with Dad, but I'm positive I can convince him."
That would be the first test to see if Not-Dad was, as Other-Gordon believed, going to be willing to let him join if they couldn't immediately find a way to get him home. Scott really hoped Other-Gordon's optimism was in the right place.
The younger man reached for the jug in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass before reaching for Scott's. He pushed it closer with a nod of thanks and watched as it filled up before taking a drink. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until the liquid hit his throat, and before he'd realised it, the glass was empty.
Other-Gordon raised his own glass in a mimicry of a toast before taking his own draft.
"You're not going to tell me the last drink you had was that tea you kept dropping, are you?" the ginger asked. Scott shook his head.
"Tin-Tin gave me coffee while we talked," he said, grabbing the glass and pouring himself another measure before throwing that back as well.
"How did that go?" Other-Gordon asked. "Was it useful?"
"I think so," Scott said, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin on his hand. "Most of what we discussed were things you already knew. Otherwise, it was mostly technology differences."
"Did she have any theories?" the other man asked, taking another drink of his water.
Scott shook his head.
"She just said she'd take it to your Brains," he shrugged. "The others came back so we went back for the debrief."
"Alan was mighty miffed with you then," Other-Gordon commented. Scott had noticed. "I'm guessing he saw you two together?"
"We met him on the landing," Scott confirmed. "He didn't seem happy. Is there any particular reason he's so…" He trailed off, trying to find a word to describe Other-Alan's attitude in a way that wasn't blatantly insulting.
"So Alan?" Other-Gordon asked. "Mostly it's because he's the youngest. Your Alan's not like that?"
Scott scoffed. "If my Alan talked back like that he'd be grounded and he knows it. He's younger than yours, but I'm not letting him grow up thinking he can get his own way all the time."
"Aw, Alan's not so bad," the ginger said, clearly defending his younger brother. "Sure, he can be a bit of a pain, but he's a little brother. Fame went to his head a bit after he kept winning races, and you didn't make the best first impression on him by punching Scott, or breaking Dad's nose."
Scott sighed. "He wouldn't tell me where my brothers were," he explained. "Of course, at that point neither of us knew about this multiverse thing." He eyed the younger man. "But by that logic, I didn't make the best first impression on you, either."
"You got that right," Other-Gordon admitted. "You seemed too dangerous to let wander around, I'll admit, but Grandma and Tin-Tin didn't seem bothered by you and then Brains and John had their theory – which you near enough proved – and I figured I'd give you a chance, you know?"
"You interrogated me," Scott corrected dryly. The other man shrugged.
"Details," he dismissed. "You're not so bad, you're just out of your depth. Can't say I blame you. I couldn't say how I'd have reacted if it were me." He paused for a moment. "How are you holding up?"
Scott huffed tiredly and ran a hand over his face, wincing when they snagged the shades he forgot he was wearing.
"Right now, I'm fine," he said, his instincts rebelling against telling the truth – that the idea was enough to scare him, that he was terrified he couldn't get home. Worried how his family were taking his disappearance. "Ask me again after it's sunk in."
"I'll do that," Other-Gordon promised, taking another drink from his glass. Amber eyes scanned him searchingly, and Scott met his gaze head-on, daring him to claim he wasn't as fine as he was pretending.
If the ginger had noticed the façade, he didn't comment. Then again, it was at that moment the waitress returned with a platter of sandwiches. At the sight and smell of them, Scott's stomach growled loudly. The waitress was too shy to giggle, but he saw her eyebrows raise and he sent her a slightly sheepish grin before picking up one from the pile and toasting her with it.
Other-Gordon kicked him in the shins again. Scott ignored him.
"Your coffee will be ready in a moment," she said, smiling at him with cheeks coloured a rosy blush. "Is there anything else I can get you right now?"
Your number, Scott thought, but Other-Gordon studiously avoided any eye contact with him as he dismissed the girl – without asking for her number, or explaining why he wasn't talking. Little brothers were a nuisance whatever universe they were from, apparently.
Scott huffed at him once she was out of earshot and bit into the sandwich with a little more vigour than was strictly necessary.
Other-Gordon's response was a mixture of exasperation and faint disapproval as he took his own pick from the platter to eat. "I told you, you're not who she thinks you are," he reminded him. "You can send all the flirty looks you want, I'm not asking for her number for you."
"I know," Scott sighed, swallowing the mouthful. "Oh, these are good."
Other-Gordon grinned. "I told you the food here would be."
"You did," Scott acknowledged, polishing off the first one and grabbing another. He supposed that if he was going to be stuck in another universe for a while, at least there was good food.
The blushing waitress – whose name he never caught, but she didn't offer it and Other-Gordon didn't ask – kept coming back with more of their ordered food as they ate. The ginger devoured just as much as he did, proving he hadn't been lying about his own hunger, and conversation was mostly dropped in favour of sustenance.
By the time the final dregs of Scott's coffee were drained from the cup, he estimated they must have been there at least an hour, if not more. He still hadn't figured out how to read the analogue dial on the watch, and was at loathe to ask while they were in public.
Still, he was conscious that there was still one shop left to go, and the sun's steady march across the sky was unrelenting. They only had so much time, a fact supported by the way Other-Gordon checked his own watch before giving him a considering look.
"There's an hour left until the shops close," the ginger told him. "Do you want to give it another try, or should we head back to the island?" Scott raised an eyebrow at him. He was fairly sure the ginger knew what his answer was going to be.
Sure enough, he got a groan and a mutter about pushing yourself too hard, but Other-Gordon waved the waitress over for the bill without trying to change his mind.
I... totally forgot to update last week. Oops. Lab time's started so uni got a little distracting. Also you guys seemed to love the hoodie thing so I figured that had you satisfied for a little while :P (if you haven't seen it, louthestarspeaker did some amazing art for that! louthestarspeakerDOTtumblrDOTcom/post/643330505946873857/so-this-was-inspired-by-chapter-10)
Thanks for reading!
Tsari