Chapter 46.

Gordon wrung his hands nervously as the holo-table beeped, signalling an outgoing call.

He was confident that his plan was a good one. He had the backing of Scott, Grandma, and Celery.

What could possibly go wrong?

"Gordon!" a well-spoken voice danced around the room, closely followed by Penelope's holographic form flickering to life, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Gordon smiled with confidence he didn't have, "Lady P! Sorry for ringing so late, but I have a proposal for you. And Parker and Sherbert, of course."

Penelope's eyes widened in curiosity, "A proposal you say? Please, do elaborate. I'm all ears."

The lounge was silent for a minute as Gordon's mind suddenly went blank. He vaguely remembered John once complaining about something similar; a completely rational train of thought disappearing with zero warning, leaving behind nothing but the sound of chirping crickets.

Alan had taken the liberty of dubbing the aforementioned phenomenon 'a brain fart'. John hadn't been impressed.

Stood before the woman he harboured a not-so-secret crush on, Gordon felt his brain fall victim to a fart of epic proportions. Had it occurred outside the confines of his head, everything on the island would have perished instantly, including Virgil's potted plants.

Celery sneezing jolted him back to the matter at hand.

"Uh, I was wondering if you and Parker would like to come over for dinner tomorrow evening? And Sherbert, of course. Are you busy?" Gordon asked, stroking a sweaty palm across Celery's head.

"Tomorrow evening, you say?" Penelope repeated, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she twisted to look at something over her shoulder, "Parker? When is the Duke of Norfolk's garden party? Next Tuesday? Oh, wonderful. Yes Gordon, the diary is free for tomorrow evening. What time shall we aim to arrive? And do you need us to bring anything? A bottle of wine, perhaps?"

Gordon cringed as drunken memories from Sydney Harbour and Abu Dhabi jostled for dominance inside his head, "Uh, no thanks. Just bring yourselves. As for time, is seven o'clock okay?"

"F.A.B," Penelope replied with a bright smile, "In that case, we'll see you tomorrow. I can't wait!"

Gordon was about to reply, but was interrupted by the raspy voice of his grandmother echoing around the room.

"Gordon? Is this pile of underpants next to the dryer yours? I'm about to put a wash on and can't remember which detergent you like best!" the Tracy matriarch bellowed.

Penelope quirked a playful brow as Gordon flushed scarlet. Of all the times his grandmother could have chosen to take an interest in his underwear…

"I'm kind of busy, Grandma!" Gordon barked, his voice a stark contrast to the pleasant smile plastered across his face.

"I remember you mentioned something about a rash?" Sally bulldozed on, oblivious to the distress she was causing her fourth grandson, "I think you might be sensitive to the detergent we've all been using. I'm going to try washing your underpants in the same stuff I use for John's allergies. That should hopefully bring you a bit of relief."

Gordon felt part of his soul leave his body as Penelope let out an involuntary snort of amusement.

"I think we need to take you for another eye test, Grandma," Gordon replied, willing his tone to stay conversational, "You must be confusing my stuff with Alans. I never mentioned anything about a rash."

"Are you sure?" Sally screeched, her voice like nails on a chalkboard, "I remember you complaining the last time you took your wetsuit off. And this pile of undies is definitely yours. I can see your favourite pair of pineapple boxers on top!"

Gordon didn't think he'd ever felt more embarrassed in his life, "Nope, your glasses must be broken. Go and fetch your contacts and tell Alan to do his own laundry. Crazy old woman!"

The silence that followed was heavy, and it took all of Gordon's willpower to suppress the groan of humiliation that suddenly hovered at the back of his throat. In the space of just sixty seconds he'd managed to simultaneously tarnish his image in front of the woman he fancied, and incur the wrath of the woman who'd basically raised him.

Penelope would never take him seriously again, and Grandma would no doubt flay him alive for calling her 'crazy' as soon as she got her hands on him.

"Gotta go, see you tomorrow," Gordon gabbled, terminating the comm link before he could faint from embarrassment.

Okay, that was one down (three if he included Parker and Sherbert). Now he just had to convince Kayo, which he'd do after apologising to his grandmother and pleading with her to follow through with her sensitive detergent suggestion.

Mothers, or grandmothers, always knew best.

-x-

Twenty hours later, Gordon was very much regretting his decision to give the dating malarkey 'another stab'.

Oh, something was going to get stabbed alright.

Right now, it was most certainly what little remained of his dignity.

"Put the chicken on the stove," Gordon quoted from the recipe sheet Scott had given him, "Okay, sounds simple enough."

Stepping over Celery's sleeping form, he fished a packet of chicken out of the fridge before placing it on one of the hob rings, packaging and all, "There, the chicken is on the stove. Now how do I turn this stupid thing on?"

The Tracy household was equipped with a state of the art kitchen and boasted every appliance known to man. The stove in particular was a feat of engineering brilliance; motion sensitive temperature controls, voice recognition, and an automated shut off feature to name a few. The latter came in particularly handy when an emergency call came through in the middle of breakfast/lunch/dinner.

Long gone were the days of Scott having to abort Thunderbird One's launch sequence because he'd left the oven on.

Unfortunately, it was all wasted on Gordon.

"Let's crank this thing right up," he muttered, turning the heat up to maximum as he ferreted in one of the cupboards for a saucepan. After locating one that looked suitably sized and dumping the chicken into it, he turned his attention back to Scott's ingredient list, "Okay, now where does Grandma keep the pasta?"

Celery raised her head in curiosity as her owner set about opening and closing every single cupboard the kitchen had to offer.

"We must be out," Gordon mused, biting his lip in worry, "Never mind, I'll use noodles instead."

Oblivious to the rapidly charring chicken atop the stove, Gordon trotted off towards the larder to retrieve a packet of instant noodles, pausing en route to grab a Celery Crunch Bar, "Okay, so that's the chicken and the pasta taken care of. What else do I need…hmm, cream and parmesan. Shouldn't be a problem."

Both items were acquired without difficulty, although it was with a smidgen of regret that Gordon realised he'd have to limit his sauce intake. Scott had been kind and made his portion of pasta with dairy free cream the night before, and parmesan was naturally low in lactose apparently. Gordon had no idea if there was even any dairy free cream left, but at the rate the chicken was burning, he knew he wouldn't have time to find out.

The stove was hastily turned down, its contents smoking like the Australian wildfires Scott and Virgil worked every year to help extinguish. Thankfully, the chicken had been saved just short of going nuclear, although the smoke detector didn't seem to agree.

"Deactivate!" Gordon yelled, sighing in relief when silence descended over the house once more, "Okay, nearly there. What does the recipe say to do next..."

Scott's sauce recipe was blessedly simple to follow, however possessed one fatal flaw, much to Gordon's horror.

He'd forgotten to write down quantities.

Gordon was so past caring. Between the burnt chicken, pasta substitution, and lack of dairy free cream, his hopes of redeeming himself were sinking through the floor. He was just amazed he hadn't set anything on fire.

"What do you think, girl?" he asked, peering down at Celery, "Should we use the whole carton of cream, or just half?"

Woof.

"You're right," Gordon replied, dumping the whole carton over the top of the cremated chicken before reaching for the parmesan, "More is always better. I think I'll add the cheese gradually though. Don't want it to be too salty."

Woof, woof.

"Of course!" Gordon slapped a palm to his forehead and dove for the pepper mill, "Gotta have seasoning."

Woof, woof, woof.

-x-

John had never been fond of surprises.

Mainly because he associated them with heart attacks.

Scott putting a stump-toed gecko in his bed had been a 'surprise'. Virgil accidentally letting off a firework in his room had been a 'surprise'. Alan's birth had been a 'surprise'.

And none of them had been welcome.

"Are you serious?" John shook his head so fast his brain almost rattled out of place, "I thought we were finally done with all this romantic rubbish? Why does Gordon want to put himself through all the stress of hosting yet another date?"

Scott sighed and handed his brother a mug of tea, "No idea. Said he wants another chance to prove that he can take things seriously. I think it's probably best to let him get it out of his system. Plus, he's volunteered to cook. He's perfectly capable of making food, I've seen him with my own two eyes, but he panics easily and tries to do too much at once. Still, might do him some good to make something other than a sandwich for once."

John hissed as memories of the taco eating contest flashed across his head, "I'm not touching whatever he ends up making. He'll probably end up using ingredients I'm allergic to anyway."

"Why don't you write a list of all your allergies and pin it to the fridge?" Scott suggested, "It'll certainly take a lot of the guesswork out of cooking when I'm on duty."

John grunted in approval, "That's actually not a bad idea."

Scott beamed and raised his own mug, "The only kind I have."

Forty minutes later…

"Seriously?" Scott gaped as his eyes scanned the two pieces of A4 paper John had stuck to the fridge, "You're allergic to glitter? And shoe polish?"

John gave a sniff of defiance and dumped his mug in the sink, "Kindly tell Gordon to not use either in his cooking."

Scott cringed, "Might be too late."

-x-

Gordon had always taken pride in his appearance.

Sure, he wasn't as much of a peacock as Scott and Virgil were, but he was still aware of his Tracy genes and liked to show them off whenever an opportunity presented itself.

"What do you think?" Gordon asked as he paraded down the staircase, his usual blond quiff slicked back against his head.

From the safety of the lounge, Alan snorted, "You look like a roll-on deodorant."

Gordon gave a disgruntled harrumph before swanning off to check on the status of his culinary masterpiece.

"Chef's privilege," he snickered, dipping a spoon into the alfredo sauce and licking it clean, "Not bad…could probably do with a bit more salt."

Cue salt.

"Better…but it's still lacking depth."

Cue parmesan.

"Oh yes, now that's good. A little more black pepper and we'll be good to serve."

Cue black pepper.

"Hmm, I wonder if some of my canned cheese will make it a bit thicker…"

Cue canned cheese.

"Maybe just a dash more salt."

Cue salt.

"Oh, that's incredible! One more quick taste won't hurt."

Cue spoon.

"Man, that's even better than the stuff Scott makes!"

Cue spoon again.

And again.

And again.