A/N: Yet again, I apologize for taking so ridiculously long. Thing is, with this fic, I can never be sure about who I'll be writing about next, or what they'll be thinking about, because basically, I didn't think it through before putting pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. Either works fine. Still, the chapters get here eventually, so here's Jeff. It's a little short, but never mind.
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit.
Chapter 5
Drenched with stubborn disbelief, Jeff strode through his island home, barging past a terrified Onaha and pushing Tin-tin and her father out of the way as he pounded in to the main room, where the television was still loudly announcing the events as they unrolled at the site of devastation where his sons were. Lisa Lowe was covered in ash and dirty snow, her bright green coat standing out against the blacks and reds of the burning background. Her glossy lips moved quickly, shaping words which, to Jeff, were incompatible with reality.
". . . More ambulances are expected to arrive within the hour, now that the first wave has cleared the road. The two remaining Thunderbirds are working to extinguish the fire, but although they've got it under control, they seem to be facing some difficulties completely putting it out. Perhaps the fact that two of their comrades are dead has. . ."
"NO!"
Jeff let out a loud howl, hurling a blue vase full of flowers at the television screen. It smashed, and the speakers crackled before fizzing out. In the silence, the sound of birds singing further away on the sunny paradise island could be heard clearly. In his twitching rage, Jeff grabbed a china figurine – a Christmas present from Penelope Creighton-Ward two years ago – and hurled it at the remains of the television screen. It splintered in to tiny shards, and the head snapped in to two pieces as it hit the floor. Each half rocked gently, the glossy paint shining sadly in the bright sunlight, before slowly coming to a rest. Jeff didn't even notice all the pieces.
Continuing his angry reluctance to accept what everyone else called the truth – the death of two of his sons, though he didn't know which – he stormed in to office, leaving his sobbing mother in the comforting arms of Onaha, and not even noticing the shock and misery of the others. Slamming his fingers down on a couple of buttons, he realise he was shaking so hard that it took three attempts to call John. When he finally got through, the astronaut was clearly distressed and only half paying attention . . . or, Jeff thought, trying to avoid meeting his father's eye.
"John, what the Hell's going on?" his voice was harsher and louder than he had intended, but he needed conformation that the rumours were just that – ugly rumours. The blonde, however, was still staring at something Jeff couldn't see, and was frantically trying to bring some kind of order to his helpless situation.
"Hang on, I'm just trying to get hold of Scott, he hasn't been answering me. I think Alan had just got a couple of people out of the building, and then there was an explosion or something, I can't be sure. He isn't answering either. I can't bring anyone up."
So. Scott and Alan were dead. The oldest and the youngest. There seemed to be some kind of poetic air that made a lump swell in Jeff's throat as his face turned a sickly grey. Feeling that he didn't need any further conformation, he cut the connection with John and sat back in his plush leather chair, feeling sick. Suddenly, after all the years of trying to bury her, his thoughts turned to his beloved Lucille, overwhelming him until he felt as though he was drowning. He wondered if she would forgive him for causing the deaths of their sons. Come to that, he wondered if he could ever forgive himself for causing the deaths of his sons by sending them in to situations where they had to stare death in the face on a regular basis. Probably not.
Under his breath, he cursed International Rescue. Such a foolhardy venture, continually risking the lives of his precious sons, just so that a few pathetic strangers who made no difference to the world could add a few more years on to their pointless, parasitic lives as they crawled around in the mud, grasping selfishly at whatever aid was given to them before hoarding it in their worthless homes like jealous magpies, too blind to see beyond their own worthless little cocoons. Were these the lives that Scott and Alan had died for? Slamming a fist down on his desk, he waited for the tears to come, but although his eyes were sore and felt as though they were popping out of his head, not a single tear formed.
Instead, trying to vent the roaring tidal wave of grief, Jeff let out an anguished cry which echoed through all the rooms of his reclusive homes. The cry trailed off in to dry, agonised sobs, but instead of acting as a release of pain, Jeff felt twice as wretched as he had done before. Looking out of the window, he saw the sea sparkling in the sun as though it was winking at him, and the thought crossed his mind that it would be easy to just walk down to the beach, and wade in, not looking back. Dear, sweet Lucille would be waiting for him, her arms around Scott and Alan who, suddenly, he thought of as children again, waving happily from the other side, toothy grins beckoning him towards eternal rest.
Almost as immediately as the thought came, he banished it, the faces of John, Virgil and Gordon floating to the forefront of his mind. How could he so selfishly leave them alone, just as they needed him? He wondered how they were taking it, and supposed that Virgil and Gordon had chosen to stay on at the rescue site. At least, there had been no call from either of them to say they were coming home. Perhaps they were trying to find their brother's bodies, although from what he had seen behind Lisa Lowe, he doubted that there was anything left to find.
The light of Lady Penelope's portrait began to flash, indicating that she was trying to call him. He stared at the pretty face, and realised that for the first time in years, he didn't want to speak to her. He didn't want to speak to anybody. Finally, he felt the tears begin to form in his eyes, misting up the world. As the salted drops spilt down his cheeks, he put his head in his shaking hands and the world closed in upon him in a suffocating, claustrophobic darkness.
The sound of the piano echoed up to Jeff's office, and he smiled, although he felt a little guilty as he listened. Having refused any human contact until he had felt the deep thrumming of his office which indicated the return of Thunderbird 2, nobody had been able to inform him of the fact that his dead sons were not Scott and Alan. He had only learnt this when he almost run in to his eldest son, who was carrying a sleeping Alan down to the infirmary. Jeff had been amazed at how life like Alan had seemed, despite being dead, and when he realised Scott was alive, it hit him that one of his other sons must be dead. Immediately he suspected that it was Virgil – what other explanation could there be for him not being right next to Scott, as he always was? His heart leapt, and suddenly he felt like running through his home, singing, thankful for the fact that it was Virgil and not Scott who had died, before feeling a burning shame at his relief.
Listening to the melody – an overture written by some long dead composer – he suspected Bach, but could not be sure – Jeff sighed, and scribbled his signature at the bottom of a document requesting extra resources for some department or another of his company, then put it aside. Once Scott had explained the situation to him in full, Jeff at been disgusted at himself for how quickly he had dismissed Virgil's life in comparison to Scott's, and how readily he had cursed the lives of the people International Rescue had saved. He wondered, not for the first time, whether it was this feeling of guilt that had stopped him from sitting beside Virgil and Gordon until they woke up, like his mother had. He still found it quite difficult at times to look Virgil in the eye, although the boy did not seem to have noticed, for which he was grateful. Occasionally, he imagined how Virgil, or even Scott for that matter, would react if they ever found out about the way he had thought, and every time he did, he winced.
Gently, he touched the broken halves of the face of the figurine he had hurled at the television screen in his anger, as he had taken to doing recently. He had seen the looks Kyrano had given the thing, as though he wanted to throw the broken pieces away, restoring them with the rest of the shards in the bottom of a rubbish bin somewhere, but the little head was somehow more comforting than anything else on Tracy Island. As he rubbed his thumb along the broken edge, he noticed the flashing light on Lady Penelope's portrait, and opened the channel, glad for her company to distract him from the less than savoury thoughts plaguing him.
"Penny, what can I do for you?"
"Jeff, it's wonderful to see you. I was wondering if I could come and visit you, now that the boys are better? Last time I called you, things seemed a little hectic."
Hectic had been an understatement. Initially, Penny had carried on trying to get in contact with Jeff until she had eventually given up hope of getting through. A few hours later though, she had tried contacting the island again, to be answered by Kyrano. He had been torn between trying to comfort his daughter, his wife and Grandma Tracy, leaving Brains to try and talk to Jeff. As he answered Penny's call, Tin-tin had taken the opportunity to run off out of the house, doubtless to one of her hidden dens on the far end of the island, so she could mourn in peace. Realising she had not called at a good time, Penny had apologised, promising to call back later. The next time she had called, Virgil and Gordon had been found alive, and had been safely returned, though not yet conscious.
"Of course! When shall we expect to see you?"
"How about tomorrow? I have a few social calls to make, but I can cancel them easily." She smiled brightly at him, the confident, upper-class English accent rescuing him from his mournful reverie. Jeff returned the smile, but it felt almost forced. Judging by Penny's reaction, it must have looked forced, too. She frowned at him.
"Jeff, what is it? What's wrong? The boys are recovering alright, aren't they?"
"Hm? Oh, yes they are. Nothing's wrong. Really, nothing's wrong!"
Delicate music began to echo again from the hallway, and Jeff winced. He hoped Penny missed the sudden expression, but she spotted it and frowned even more deeply, her smooth forehead creasing in to wrinkles.
"Nothing? Really, Jeff, you know me better than that. Come along, tell me what's wrong."
Jeff shook his head and shrugged, avoiding the concern of the English beauty. She pursed her lips, but further information did not seem to be coming, so she moved to cut the connection, with a vague farewell, but Jeff looked back up quickly, deciding to grasp the chance whilst he felt he could.
"Penny, wait. Just suppose, for a moment, that a man thinks somebody he loves very, very much is dead."
Settling back in to her pink chair, Penelope nodded. "This is a hypothetical man? Not based on anybody you know?"
Again, Jeff shook his head, glad that his friend had caught on so quickly. "That's right. Completely hypothetical. Nobody real."
There was a small pause whilst Penny waited for Jeff to continue, but he seemed to have forgotten about her existence, listening to something in the background. She gave a small cough, indicating that she was still there, and would like to know just what, exactly, the hypothetical man had to do with anything. Looking up again, Jeff clutched his fingers together, trying to find the right words.
"Well. . . supposing the hypothetical man thought the dead person was one person, but it turned out to be somebody else. Would this man. . . I mean if he was. . . say for a moment he was relieved. . . even though he loved the second person very much, too. . . and if he felt very guilty about it afterwards. . ."
Miserably, he trailed off, and then he picked up the broken head of the figurine. A single, blue, glazed eye stared through him. Sometimes, the eye seemed to be happy, and sometimes sad, and sometimes disapproving. It currently looked incredibly disapproving, forcing Jeff to look away from it. Penny tipped her head on to one side, considering the hypothetical man. She tapped her manicured fingernails on the surface of the desk where she was sitting, and clucked her tongue once or twice.
"I suppose this man felt just as remorseful that the second person was dead as he had when the first person was dead?"
He contemplated this for a few moments. When Scott and Alan had 'died', Jeff had locked himself in his room, refused meals, and broken a few ornaments along the way. When it was Virgil and Gordon, he had very quickly been informed that they were alive, so there had been no room for any repetition. Still, he had been absolutely devastated about their conditions, so carefully, he nodded.
"Well in that case, I suppose this man must be excused. Clearly, he was relieved that the first person wasn't dead, and he couldn't help that. It was just very unfortunate that the other person happened to die at that time, don't you think? A man cannot mourn forever, or it would kill him."
A smile crept across his lips, and he nodded, picking up the half-face again. He touched the rose-pink cheek lightly, and although the surface of the China was cold and lifeless, it seemed to send a warmth up through his finger tips which reached his heart, surrounding it in a comforting blanket.
"Yes. That's right, Penny. Thank you. Thank you very much. I'm sure I'll. . . I'm sure the hypothetical man would be very relieved to hear that. I'm sure it would release a great burden of guilt."
"Glad to hear it. So who was it? Which son did you . . . sorry, the hypothetical man, think was dead?"
"The other hypothetical one."
Raising an eyebrow, Penny folded her arms. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"
"Some things are best left unsaid. We'll see you tomorrow, Penny."
"Goodbye, Jeff. I'm glad to have been of some help."
Feeling much happier than he had done in a long time, Jeff cut the connection and relaxed back in to his chair. Looking around at all the paper work on his desk for one last time, he decided to take a break from the stressful piles of receipts, requests, notices and bills, and set off in the direction of the piano. As a loud crash followed by a yell of distress and anger rang up from the hangars, the man smiled again, and ran his fingers through his greying hair, happy in the knowledge that life was slowly but surely returning to Tracy Island.
