"Virgil."
Stubborn silence met equally stubborn silence. The discordance hovered momentarily, before it was extinguished with an exasperated sound. Then a longer pause, followed by more footsteps–and Virgil could stomp when he wanted to–tracing Alan's retreat.
Gordon remained still, hoping for a third set of footsteps. It was bad enough that he'd started babbling like an idiot in front of Alan. But now, well . . . things couldn't get worse. Unless, of course, John showed up. That would definitely be worse, despite what John said. But then, John'd been under the influence of a lot of things at the time–fear, pain, narcotics, shock . . . Damn! He'd forgotten about shock. Thoughts and feelings swirled like loose feathers, evading his mental grasp.
He gave up trying to subdue them. "How'd you know?" he asked, his voice muffled.
His father stepped into the lighted area. "Alan," he said softly, "By way of Scott." Moving carefully to the spot vacated by his youngest son, he hesitated, then squatted down, bringing himself within Gordon's visual field. For several moments, neither spoke.
Jeff covertly studied his son. The uniform covered the minor cuts and bruises that Gordon had sustained–although he'd pulled the bandage off from his neck–with the gloves hiding the worst of those injuries. Visually, he looked fine.
But it was the flat affect, the blank moments, and the stillness that had Jeff concerned, as well as what he had overheard these last couple of minutes. It was something he'd overlooked–in spite of the signals he'd gotten–in the confusion of the situation on Five, the worry about John, and the subsequent rescue. Part of him longed to gather Gordon in his arms and just hold him. But he knew their relationship had gone beyond that.
Leaning backward, he hit the bulkhead, and winced. The impact was slight, but the back injury he sustained the previous year chose inconvenient moments to flare up. And his position was not helping. Jeff grimaced as he settled himself on the floor, well aware that he held an extremely fragile moment. Purposefully keeping his gaze from his son, he waited.
The silence did nothing to quiet the turmoil inside Gordon. Maybe it wasn't too late to catch up with Virgil. A pounding from him would be better than what was probably coming. Subordinate to commander, citizen to world, sibling to sibling, son to father–he'd screwed up royally at every level. Feeling rather deer-in-the-headlights-ish, he lifted his head, and looked at his father.
That look struck Jeff to the depths of his being. To the casual bystander, Gordon's face was carefully blank. An expression all the boys had learned from him, and emulated well. But the eyes were the windows to one's soul, and only the eldest two had learned to guard them.
Gordon hadn't. And the haunted, reticent look Jeff saw there cut him deeply.
Before he could say anything, Gordon spoke. "John . . . It wasn't. . . . I . . ."
"I know," Jeff said.
"How?" He didn't remember saying anything to anyone–other than Alan.
"It doesn't matter," said Jeff. And–in spite of Scott's conscience-stricken after-action report–it didn't matter. He hadn't yet talked to Alan, nor John, but even so. The whole situation was no one's fault, for it could have happened on anyone's rotation, to any of them. "You did what you could, given the circumstances." He shifted, seeking a more comfortable position, and added, "Would it have changed anything, if. . . ." He hesitated, seeking the right words. "If they'd injured John?"
"I don't . . . maybe . . . " Gordon faltered. "John didn't . . . "
"John doesn't." Jeff grimaced at the stiletto of pain in his spine. "But that's John, not you." He glanced obliquely at his son, debating how far he could push the subject, and reiterated, "Given the circumstances, you did what you thought was right. Second-guessing yourself won't change anything."
Gordon's expression relaxed. Jeff sighed, belatedly realizing the eggshells he just had walked on–both as father to son, and commander to subordinate. It didn't make his final conditions any easier to lay down. "One other thing," he said.
Apprehension returned to his son's face, twisting at Jeff's conscience. "What?" said Gordon, guardedly.
"You're going to see Dr. Perry," Jeff said, naming the psychologist who was one of the partners of their family doctor. Briefly debating if he should require it from all the boys, he quickly dismissed the thought. Let's deal with one son at a time.
"What!" The degree of apprehension shifted. "No way!"
"Gordon." The admonishment came out harsher that he'd intended, and Gordon flinched as though he'd been slapped. Jeff took a deep breath, searching for a way to soften his reaction.
"Why can't I just talk to Onaha?" Gordon appealed, "Or Kyrano, or. . . . or. . . . ?"
"No dice," Jeff interrupted, shaking his head. "Onaha and I talked about this last year, when. . . ." He bit off both the words and the memory. "It's not her field," he said quietly, "And after what happened, well. . . . I respect her advice." He held up a hand to still further protest, and his voice softened. "Gordon, I need to know you're all right."
"I'm fine." The response was quick and defensive.
Jeff smiled. "I'd like a second opinion," he said, in a voice that broke no argument.
Gordon was silent, acknowledging defeat. Then he asked, "What about John?"
"When he's recovered." Jeff shifted again, not quite stifling the wince. His back was definitely not appreciating his current position.
Gordon's expression changed, and Jeff could have kicked himself for directing his son's thoughts back in that direction. He stood–a subtle attempt at both closing the discussion and relieving the strain on his back–and for the first time in their discussion, looked directly at his son. He took a deep breath, the words bitter before he even said then. "You're grounded until then," he said.
"Grounded?" Dismay quickly replaced the resignation, as Gordon protested, "But, Dad. . . ."
"You're grounded," Jeff repeated, steeling himself. It left International Rescue extremely short-handed, with John out for who-knows-how-long. And he'd definitely have to automate Thunderbird Five again, in order to bring Scott back down, for there was no way that he and Virgil could handle things alone. But if that what it takes. . . . "Until Dr. Perry gives you clearance."
The mutinous look returned, and for once, Jeff was relieved to see it. He briefly considered softening the blow, telling Gordon that John would be grounded for the same reason, but then rejected the idea. He had never required one son's actions as surety for another's, and he wasn't going to start now. It took all of his willpower to turn and leave Two, when his instincts demanded otherwise. It was just the way relations were–with all the boys.
Stunned, Gordon watched his father walk away. He couldn't remember any of them being grounded from rescues for anything other than purely physical reasons. The indignity of being the first shredded his carefully build defenses, and for a moment, he was unreasonably angry with John for putting him in this position. And at Scott and Alan, for squealing. Then Virgil, just because. And finally Dad, for grounding him, making him see a shrink before he could. . . .
Gordon pounded his fist in frustration on Two's deck. It wasn't fair. If John hadn't decided to stay on Five, this wouldn't have happened. The fact that he would have been there alone–with its potential consequences–completely escaped him. I don't need to see a shrink.
His body finally protested that it had been sitting there too long, and that it wasn't the most comfortable of sites. Still hurt and angry, Gordon pulled himself upright, his various muscles protesting at their cramped positions. He headed toward the loading arm hatch.
Once there, he punched in the code-again-to let himself out of Two. This time, he settled into the loading arm, allowing it to swing him to the floor of the hanger. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he was out of the seat and heading toward the elevator.
Just short of the elevator platform, he was decked by a blow. There was no question who was waiting for him. Gordon scrambled to his feet, and faced his brother.
"You . . . "
"What do you want me to say?"
"How about 'I'm sorry'?"
"It won't change anything."
Something in the air collapsed. "No," admitted Virgil. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his fist, righteous anger sighing from him. "But, damn it, you could have said something."
"I. . . ." He spread his hands helplessly–there was nothing he could say to that. Guilty as charged, Gordon stood mute.
Virgil eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the punch line. Gordon should be protesting his innocence, with a thousand reasons why he'd shouldn't be blamed for this. The unusual behavior was disquieting, as though the rules of a game had suddenly changed, and it made him uneasy.
He wasn't the only one. Watching Virgil warily, Gordon wondered if he would have to go through this with each of his brothers. And Dr. Perry. Don't forget her. He briefly wished that he could trade places with John, let him deal with all this. John was better at it anyway, and–other than momentary giddiness–he didn't have the reaction to anesthesia that John did. If I'm gonna be grounded, it might as well be worth it.
Grudgingly, Virgil offered detente. "Dad's headed back to Honolulu, and I have to go get Scott," he said, "He's automating Thunderbird Five while John's. . . ." He stopped, struggling with his anger, and extended his olive branch further. "I need a shotgun on Three."
"I'm . . . grounded." Saying the words aloud hurt worse than hearing them.
"What?" The admission startled Virgil, and he looked at his younger brother in sympathy. "How long?"
Gordon shrugged.
Virgil whistled softly. The sound stopped abruptly as he worked through the remaining copilot possibilities, his expression changing from sympathetic to considering. "That leaves . . ." Consternation replaced consideration, as he realized who was left. "Oh, crap."
Watching his brother's sinking expression, a grin–the second honest grin since this whole mess began–spread across Gordon's face.
"Damn," said Virgil in resignation.