Chapter 122.

Virgil was a man who appreciated a good routine.

Regardless of where he found himself in the world, he always made it his mission to be in bed before a certain hour. Ten o'clock was his preferred deadline for the land of nod, but he'd willingly hold out until eleven if required.

Jetlag combined with the need to get up early the following morning had seen him hit the hay at ten o'clock on the dot, much to Alan's dismay. Like Gordon, he'd managed to catnap on the flight over, so wasn't feeling overly fatigued. He'd probably crash in an hour or so, but until then, his attention required a target. Unfortunately, all four of his brothers were asleep, and his grandmother and Kip were enjoying moonlight cocktails in the private garden suite Bluebell had organised for them, meaning that they too were firmly off the pranking cards.

Virgil had nabbed the left side of the bed, which was the side closest to the window. Alan's faced the door, but had the added benefit of being next to the telephone and closer to the bathroom. Speaking of telephones, Alan was surprised to see that the hotel still used the old-fashioned cordless handsets. Having grown up surrounded by the hands-free movement, he felt a sudden irrepressible desire to pick the phone up and speak into it, just like he'd seen in the old movies Scott sometimes watched.

A devilish grin that would have made Gordon proud played at the corner of Alan's mouth as he scooped the phone out of its cradle, wandered into the bathroom, bolted the door behind him, and dialled zero.

"Hello, Reception. Imogen speaking."

"Hi Imogen, it's Alan Tracy in room eighteen," Alan began, fighting to keep the snicker out of his voice, "My brother Virgil has an important call that he needs to make to our colleague in London at eleven o'clock, however he's gone and nodded off. Would you mind giving him a wake-up call in say, ten minutes?"

"Of course," Imogen replied.

Alan lowered his voice slightly, "Cool. Only problem is that he's terrible at getting up. He threw the last alarm clock he had clean out the window, and we don't trust him with phone alarms for that very reason. Would you be okay doing a follow-up call fifteen minutes after the first? And then another two at ten-minute intervals after that one?"

"So four in total?" Imogen clarified, "I must say, I've never had a guest who's required so many. Two is usually sufficient."

"Well, my brother is far from normal, I'm afraid," Alan confessed, "Sorry for giving you such a bizarre request, but I'm about to hop into bed myself, so won't be in a position to remind him. Oh, one more thing. He had a couple of beers before he turned in, so will probably deny having any knowledge of needing to make a call. Just ignore him. I guarantee he'll thank you for it in the morning. Are you cool with all of this?"

"Absolutely," Imogen assured, "I've written myself a reminder, so expect calls at quarter past, half past, twenty to, and ten to."

Alan fist-punched the air as he hung up. Ten minutes gave him enough time to comfortably brush his teeth, change into his pyjamas, and feign sleep long enough to make it look like he was perfectly innocent. People were always quick to credit Gordon as the prankster of the family, but Alan came in an extremely close second.

Taking care to not disturb Virgil as he lay down on his half of the bed, Alan twisted his head so that his face wasn't visible and eyeballed the numbers on the digital clock with bated breath.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Snapping his eyes shut, Alan worked on keeping his breathing slow and regular as Virgil snorted awake and groped over him to grab at the shrieking phone.

"Yesh?" Virgil grunted, "Imogen?...A wake-up call?...Well, that's very thoughtful of you, but I don't have a call to London at eleven o'clock….Perhaps you've confused me with another room?...Uh-huh….Okay…Well, thank you anyway…Yes, goodnight."

Alan fiddled nervously with the hem of his pyjama shirt as Virgil tossed the phone onto his own bedside table and flopped back down. He hoped Imogen had enough of a backbone to persevere with the other three calls.

Fifteen minutes passed, and the phone remained silent. Resisting the urge to call chicken on the entire thing, Alan watched with dry eyes as the clock went a minute over.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Virgil gave a loud puff of exertion as he propped himself up once again and retrieved the phone, his frustration at being roused from his peaceful slumber a second time well-masked.

"Imogen?...Yes, it's Virgil…I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you that I definitely don't have a call to London in thirty minutes…My brother you say?...He can't have told you, he's right here asleep next to me…Look, I understand that you're just doing your job, but I'd like for the rest of my night to be undisturbed please…Thank you…Yes, that will be all."

The whole bed shifted as Virgil dumped the phone with slightly more force than was necessary and fell back onto his pillow again. Alan, who was doing a commendable job at faking unconsciousness, felt excitement tinged with a tiny bit of fear course through him at the thought of what would happen if Imogen held her nerve and rang a third time.

Ten tense minutes passed before the phone screamed to life again.

'Holy hell on a Thunderbird, she's brave. I wonder if Scott would consider recruiting her.'

Any reservations Virgil had had about 'waking' Alan were promptly dashed as he snatched the phone and sat bolt upright.

"Imogen?...This is getting ridiculous, I-…what do you mean, who else?...Look, it doesn't matter. If you wanted to talk to me this badly, you could have least waited until the morning. I'm disconnecting the phone…I'm sorry?... I'm an alcoholic?...Tell me, is this how you speak to all of your guests, or am I an exception?...What do you mean this is making you uncomfortable? I'm harassing you?...Excuse me, but you're the one who keeps calling me! Goodnight…I said GOODNIGHT!"

The right side of the bed shook slightly as Alan tried to stifle his laughter into his pillow. Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain, for he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of a kick directed at his backside.

"The next time you feel like interfering, don't."

-x-

"Come on, Gordon! Get up!"

Gordon blinked sluggishly and cracked an eye open, instantly wishing he hadn't when the sunlight that was pouring through the window nearly fried his retinas.

"Up! Up!" Scott urged, ripping the covers off Gordon's body and tossing a clean white shirt onto the bed, "The church procession is due to leave in twenty minutes. We overslept."

A groan travelled up Gordon's throat as he swung his legs off the mattress and groped desperately for the clothes Scott was laying out for him. He briefly contemplated bolting to the bathroom for a three-minute shower, but knew his hair and teeth had to take priority.

A stray foil wrapper that had missed the bin by a glorious mile caught his eye, and in a split second, memories of the fate of the chocolate that had been inside said wrapper came flooding back.

"Uh, Scott?" Gordon began, trying desperately to keep his tone offhand, "Are you feeling…okay?"

"Never better," Scott gabbled, cursing when he realised that he'd misaligned his shirt buttons, "I'm going outside to rendezvous with Virgil and John. Alan's dallying as well, so you've got some company. I'll see you both when you get there."

It was with a suitable amount of horror that Gordon realised that Scott had rolled straight out of bed and into his trousers and shirt. Under more normal circumstances, such an action wouldn't have warranted any special attention, but these were far from normal circumstances.

Gordon waited a safe amount of time after Scott had clicked the door shut before bolting into Alan's room, only to find his baby brother wrestling with an undershirt that was stuck halfway over his head.

"Any help would be greatly appreciated," Alan panted, fighting to extract his head from one of the sleeves, "It's like being born all over again."

A pair of swimmer's biceps were drafted in as Gordon expertly manipulated Alan's torso so that his head and arms popped out of the correct holes, "No sweat, little bro. Not like we wear this kind of stuff often."

Alan grunted and began slicking his hair back, "You okay? You look worried."

"Huh?" Gordon snapped out of his troubled inner musings, "Oh, no. I'm fine. Just a bit nervous about mingling with a bunch of strangers in such a formal setting."

"Pull the other one," Alan scoffed, "I can read you like the back of a cereal box. C'mon, fess up. What did you do this time?"

All the blood drained from Gordon's face, "Possibly my worst prank ever."

"Which also technically means your best prank ever," Alan corrected, "How low did you set the bar this time? Paper cockroaches in the lampshade? Fake vomit in the bathtub?"

Gordon was rapidly turning the same shade as his shirt, "Worse."

Alan looked suitably impressed, "Breaking out the big guns! I likes. Okay, did you put dehydrated cheese powder in the orange juice? Line the inside of the toilet roll with duct tape? Mock up a fake warrant for Grandma's arrest?"

Gordon sank onto the bed, dropped his head into his hands, and whined.

"Dude!" Alan gasped, dancing on the spot in excitement, "I don't think I've ever seen you in this much of a mess post-prank. Don't keep me hanging. Spill!"

Slowly, in stages, Gordon materialised from his hands: first, the bright brown eyes, then the white, bloodless cheeks, then finally, the tightly pursed mouth, both lips sealed tight in a bid to prevent the details of the atrocity he'd committed from escaping.

Alan waited patiently. Gordon was a talker by nature and had a natural penchant for gossip. Irrespective of whether it was himself or someone else at the epicentre of whatever drama had unfolded, he could never keep the details of any scandalous goings-on within the confines of his head. All you had to do was play the waiting game for a couple of minutes, and you'd be treated to an unfiltered divulgence with half a kilo of juicy details on the side.

"You know the little complimentary chocolates we got?"

"You mean the ones on the bedside table?"

"Well…I tucked one in-between Scott's buttocks last night while he was asleep."

Silence.

Gordon chanced a glance at Alan, and instantly wished he hadn't. His brother's face was completely devoid of all expression and movement, save for a tiny twitch of his right eye.

"Sorry. All I got from that was chocolate, tucked, and buttocks.''

Gordon snarled and returned his face to the safety of his hands.

"Let me get this straight," Alan began, his tone hesitant, "You shoved some chocolate up Scott's butt while he was asleep?"

Gordon scowled, "I'll have you know I didn't shove anything, thank you very much. I placed it very carefully. And he was supposed to find out first thing this morning when he got up and showered. I didn't know he was going to fall straight into his pants and out the door."

Alan grimaced as some rather uncomfortable images began to dance across his mind, "Surely he would have…felt it though, right?"

"It wasn't a Toblerone," Gordon snapped, his defences on red alert, "I already said it was one of the little complimentary ones. They're so small you could inhale them."

Alan's eyes silently dropped to his own chocolate's wrapper, which was sticking innocently out of the waste paper basket.

"I just saw it there and I couldn't help myself," Gordon rambled, panic seeping into his voice, "My mind just started reeling off all of the possibilities. You know I've talked about upping my pranking game for a while, and he was facing away from me, and-"

Any further justifications Gordon had were swiftly drowned as Alan folded in half and burst into laughter. Such a prank would have been glorious enough on its own, but the fact that they were all dressed up in suits and en route to a wedding made the entire thing even more spectacular, at least in his eyes.

"Dude!" Gordon wheezed, aghast at his brother's lack of concern, "When Scott finds out, I am yesterday's toast. You'll lose your favourite brother, Celery will lose her daddy, and the world will lose its most gorgeous aquanaut. He'll kill me until I die."

Alan couldn't get enough air into his lungs to formulate a coherent reply. When his laughter finally subsided to the point of spasmodic giggles, he straightened up and offered his so-called 'favourite brother' a look of genuine fondness, "Man, I used to be a huge fan of your pranks."

Gordon quirked an eyebrow at the obvious past tense reference.

"But, after this, I've upgraded to a full air conditioner," Alan finished, beaming expectantly, "Get it? Because an air conditioner is bigger than a fan?"

"Keep talking…I'm diagnosing you."