Dislcaimer: Thunderbirds is the property of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, as well as Carlton and Universal. No profit is intended to be made from this story; it is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended, and none should be inferred. All original characters are the property of the author. This story should not be used or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

A/N: Remember to check my author profile page (just click on my user name) for extended author notes and review responses! I will also be sending the author notes as review replies to all users who left me a signed review. Thank you again to Ariel-D for beta reading this chapter – we're almost there!

Blood is Thicker Than Water: Part V
Redemption

October 2019

Thoroughly engrossed in the paper that lay on his desk, Jeff Tracy didn't notice at first when his son walked into the room. The door opened quietly enough that the seventeen year old went undetected until he was a foot from his father's face. It was the sensation of being watched that broke the older man's concentration. Blinking, he set the paper down and looked up.

"Gordon! Where's John? You're not supposed to be using the stairs without help."

The young man shrugged and absently rubbed at his right shoulder. "Having lunch. But I needed to talk you now, and you know how long it takes John to eat." An over exaggerated grimace touched his lips. "There'll be nothing left by the time I get back down there."

"You're lucky you didn't fall back down," Jeff replied, thankful that his son had managed to make it up the stairs on his own. He couldn't hold back the tiny feeling of pride at even a small accomplishment like that, but Gordon hardly needed to be taking unnecessary risks in his own home.

Instead of responding, Gordon simply stood in front of the desk, his knuckles braced against the hard wood, and stared back at his father.

"All right," Jeff finally sighed, grabbing a nearby chair and dragging it over so that his son could sit down. It was very easy to tell when Gordon was serious about something - he didn't joke. And, save the small jab at his brother, he didn't seem to be in a laughing mood.

He hadn't been since the accident really, though Jeff had been ecstatic to see that after more than seven months his son seemed to be perking up again even in the smallest sense. Gordon's recovery had been born of small accomplishments: leaving the hospital on his own, walking again without the aid of a cane when doctor's had declared him a likely paraplegic for life, finishing his classes - given, later than the June graduation date - with the help of his brother . . .

But the hardest part seemed to be an internal battle that Gordon fought daily. It was one where he had to discover for himself what part of him had to be left behind in the wreckage, and what part of him needed to be salvaged and made whole again. Some of his decisions were obvious. Though there was no doubt as to the fire and determination that Gordon Tracy possessed in him, he seemed to be missing a great deal of the anger that he had carried before. That part of his flame, the temper, seemed to have never been lit again.

Perhaps in the future, Jeff thought silently to himself, we'll see that again. But he truly doubted that it would be for selfish reasons, and he knew that Gordon would think seriously before making any rash decisions over the remaining years of his life. Some lessons, sadly, were learned the hard way.

"What do you want to talk about?"

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a tiny smile crept onto the young man's face. It was a smile full of sadness, though in his eyes there lay the suggestion that in the future the sadness might vanish to be replaced with some other emotion.

"I've been thinking, Dad. I've been home for three months now, and things have started to slow down a bit. I'm finished with school, I mean, and . . ." He stopped suddenly, his hand absently reaching up to brush a thin white scar that ran from his forehead up to the baseball cap that he wore on his head. The cap had been his companion since he had arrived home, and Jeff had a hunch that Gordon was unwilling to take it off until he was ready to fully accept what had happened. When the recovery was complete, then perhaps Gordon would no longer have to hide the remains of the disaster from himself.

"And you're what, Gordon?"

His eyes staring off into a time and place that his father could not see, Gordon shook his head and looked absently out towards the window. "I'm finished, Dad. I mean, sure I've finished school and all. Sure, I can walk again . . . But I can't do anything. I can't get a job."

Not the type of job that he wanted, at least. Jeff had been the first one to hear about the letter that had arrived from WASP soon after the accident. Enclosed with it had been Gordon's application to the organisation, and the letter had been one of regret and refusal from the commander in chief. They couldn't hire a man who was crippled, let alone one who possibly was untrustworthy with sea vehicles.

"You could, I suppose," Jeff replied carefully after several moments of thought. "There are many areas that you could go into."

"Like what? Dad, I'm good at one thing, and that's swimming. I like the water. But no place," his words caught in his throat, "is gonna hire me after this. I can't work with water. I just can't."

So that was it, then. "Gordon, if you're worried about working, don't worry. You can stay here if you like. I'm not expecting you to work if you can't. But I would like you to try and find a job, because I think there are positions out there-"

"Dad!"

The sudden outburst caught Jeff by surprise. "Gordon, there's no room for debate. I want you to at least try. You can't run away from what happened, and I think you know that."

"I know, Dad," Gordon whispered, his hand still absently grasping at his forehead. "I don't want to run away."

"That's good to hear, Gordon."

"And I may have found a job."

The words echoed around in Jeff's mind a few times before they finally sunk in. "What? Correct me if I'm wrong, son, but I'm pretty sure you just said that you had nowhere to work."

Instead of answering, Gordon looped his finger under the edge of his ball cap. A quick flick of his wrist had the cap in his hand, revealing growing stubble that was not red, but . . .

Brown.

Eyes growing wide, Jeff managed to splutter, "What the hell-"

"It's to keep the secrecy," the now chestnut-haired teen replied calmly. "I mean, people kind of know what I look like. They've seen me on TV, and now that you're having to let that one television station cover the rescues so the communications aren't compromised at the accident scene . . . they'll probably see me again. Only this way it'll make it less obvious. I can dye my eyebrows and stuff too. I just hadn't got there yet. Don't ask me to do all the hair, though. I have my limits, and no one's gonna be looking down there."

Jeff Tracy had expected many things of his son. But he had not expected, from a young man who - save from one day three years back - had never expressed any interest whatsoever in joining the family business, for Gordon to so willingly give himself over to the cause.

How wrong had he been about his son in thinking that he was giving up . . . But perhaps that was because he had not truly seen how strongly the spark of life had returned to his child. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not sat down to consider why his son forged on with a burning determination.

So as not to make the same mistake he had made once before, Jeff Tracy wisely looked at his boy - a young man, now - and gave him the nod of affirmation that was needed. It was Gordon's choice, and he would not deny his son the opportunity to make the decision that, no matter how hard it seemed to Jeff, was a valid one.

"You're sure about this?"

Gordon nodded in response. "Yeah." For a brief moment, a look passed across the young man's face that Jeff had never seen in all the time that he had raised the former redhead: humility.

"I can't do anything else," Gordon finally admitted in resignation, "but I want to do something. I can't just sit here, after everything that's happened, and not do anything. But I think you were right Dad, all those years ago." A passing ray of light from the waters outside the window twinkled off a slowly forming pool of liquid in his eyes. "I was right, too. This organisation of yours . . . It is worth something. It's something special, and I still want to be a part of it." He met Jeff's gaze with as steady a one as he could hold. "If you'll still let me."

Had he not seen the humiliation on his son's face, so naked and exposed for mere seconds, Jeff might have been inclined to think on the matter. After all, it had been a decision born of immaturity - no matter how noble the intentions had been - that had landed Gordon in the mess that he was in.

But the Gordon that had piloted that hydrofoil had died the moment the craft had hit the water. In his place was a young man who carried the same determination, who might eventually - and indeed showed signs of it - recover his sense of humour, and who had seen enough on that night back in May to halt any man in his tracks.

It was that young man who had walked in his father's office, and was unselfishly pledging his life for a cause that might be able to, or so Jeff thought, redeem him in the eyes of the deceased. And that young man, who was mature and lacking in innocence, was a person who Jeff Tracy knew he could trust.

"You won't be able to fly missions right away. You realise that, don't you? You need to learn how to run the craft, and I want you to rest up a bit more before you do anything physical."

"I know. I can learn though, Dad. You have simulators. I don't need to be able to run or even walk to do that."

"And I suppose that you'd like Thunderbird Four, given that-"

"No." Biting his lip, Gordon shrugged in apology and lowered his head so that Jeff couldn't see the young man's eyes. "No. I'd like to learn to fly Thunderbird Three."

A thought struck Jeff then, but he kept it buried deep inside, knowing that things would be better if he never revealed to his son how much he knew about his reasoning. He had a feeling that Gordon was aware of how obvious his feelings had suddenly become. "Thunderbird Three is my ship, Gordon. We gave Virgil Two when he joined."

"But you fly Thunderbird Two, sometimes, when Virgil needs help."

He knew why Gordon didn't want the submarine. He knew that some wounds still remained to be healed, and that water was currently not appealing to his son. His worry about not being able to work with the water suddenly made sense. It was not an inhibition imposed by society, but by his own mind.

"Why Thunderbird Three, then?"

"Because I owe John a favour," Gordon blurted out, pinching his lips together as he spoke. "And I . . ." He paused in order to think his words through. "I wanna take him back next time he goes up to the station."

That was a noble enough goal in itself, given how much John had helped his brother during his recovery time. But perhaps a compromise could still be reached. "If I allow you to do that, will you promise me that you'll continue to train in the others areas? I'd like you to eventually be able to sit in on missions with Virgil, so that he could fly instead of performing the rescues himself. That would be the ideal situation if you were to join."

He never mentioned Thunderbird Four, though he knew that Gordon would make the connection that eventually he might be called on to perform a rescue with the craft. It was one last sacrifice that he would have to make. He would have to convince himself that he could get over the accident enough to make use of his greatest skill and talent.

"We need you, Gordon, and not just as a pilot. I have no doubt that you could learn. I'm not expecting you to fly solo by any means. But . . ."

"I know." Cutting his father off, Gordon waved a hand in the air and extended his other towards his father. "I know what you mean, Dad. And I'm willing to do it."

Jeff took his son's hand firmly in his, giving it a hard shake and looking deep into the brown eyes that stared back at him. He was so proud of his son. Seven months ago he had been afraid to lose him forever. Four months ago he had wondered what his son would do with himself. Now, when everything was finished and things were starting anew, he had been shown that his hope had not been in vain.

And by the look of excitement that was slowly spreading across Gordon Tracy's eyes, Jeff was not alone in his feelings.

"Now go tell your brothers."

Nodding, Gordon grinned widely, put his hat back on, tipped it towards his father, and stumbled out of his chair towards the door.

"Gordon! Slow down! Do not run down the stairs!"

"Gotta go, Dad," called the rambunctious young man, as he closed the door behind him. "Just remembered, John might eat my lunch if I don't get back soon."

Some things, Jeff thought wryly as he listened for his son's less than graceful footsteps receding in the distance, would never die, no matter how hard they were suppressed in a person.

Never had John Tracy been so satisfied as he was now. It wasn't the fact that he was finally back at the station that elated him nor the breathless awe that he experienced every time he gazed out to the realm of deep space. No, it was a contentment born of pride, the most pride that he had ever felt in his life, for what his younger brother had accomplished.

They stood side-by-side, shoulders almost touching save for John's extra height, facing outward towards the vast emptiness of space and the glowing ball of blue sapphire that was the Earth. For many moments there was simply silence as they watched the planet rotate slowly about its axis, storms and sand dunes and crystal oceans fading in and out of existence as the sunlight struck its mighty surface.

"It's nice," Gordon finally said softly. He nodded once, bit his lip, then continued to stare. "I can see why you like it up here."

"And why I miss being on the ground." John smiled sadly. "It's hard to not miss the Earth when you can literally hold out your hand and hold all of its beauty between your fingers."

"You sound like a poet." The young man snorted and ran his fingers through thick locks of brown hair.

"That bad, huh? Well, you seem to like it here. How about you give it a shot?" The blond grinned at his brother's nonchalant attitude. "No? I guess we're set, then."

Gordon shrugged, then repeated, "It's nice. But it's not home. I'd rather be someplace else." His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew distant. "I'll leave this 'Bird to you. If dad asks, tell him that I'm waiting for him in Thunderbird Three." Reaching over to clap his hand on John's shoulder, Gordon smiled briefly then walked slowly out of the room, his footsteps heavy with the limp that he still carried.

The feeling that had settled in his stomach intensified, and John leaned forward so that he could balance himself on the window's edge. The butterflies from the flight were still there, but intermixed with them were his feelings for his brother. The way Gordon had said it, "I'd rather be someplace else."

It was his redemption, John thought sadly. The more that Gordon recovered, the more he slowly grew towards the person that he used to be, the more he seemed to cling onto a sense of nobility that baffled most of his family. There was no doubt left that the young man would eventually recover most if not all of his physical strength. That was evident daily in his sure if still heavy stride. Yet . . .

"Is this the part where I offer you two pennies?"

John whirled around at his father's voice. Several seconds passed before he realized what the older man was even talking about. "Three years and I only get one more?" He grinned. "Interest rates aren't what they used to be."

Jeff returned the smile and moved to stand beside his son. "No, but what you put in the bank you get to keep. And I'm still interested in hearing your thoughts, son, if you still want to share them."

But he didn't have a thought at that moment. More than anything, John had a question that he wanted answered.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" The words slipped from his mouth before he could even think. All at once, in his mind, the rest of it tumbled out.

Will he forgive himself?

How long will this go on?

Why can't he just get on with things?

And as the questions came, so too, strangely, did the answers. He didn't even have to look at his father to know that the older man was still smiling. Because he knew the answers . . . He knew the answer, the answer that his father gave for everything when life became tough and sometimes unlivable.

"We're Tracys," he said quietly.

That was it. There was no other answer; they were Tracy sons, all of them, including Gordon. What they knew to do best, above all, was survive. It was what they did. It was what they were still doing. And it was what they would do in the future.

"I seem to remember a young boy that couldn't let go of the past," Jeff said, his voice gentle. "He wanted to do whatever he could, on his own, to right the world. Happen to know him?"

"I might." It seemed like such a life-time ago, yet there was no forgetting the memories that were as fresh as the feeling in his gut. "Natural blond hair? Mute? Paranoid?"

"Sounds about right." The older man sighed and banged his hand lightly against the window frame, so that it landed beside his son's. "He's still hurting. We all know how long that can last. But he's doing what he needs to do - he's moving on. One thing I've learned, John, is that this family doesn't go down easily. We stand proud while we're shot, and even then we run until we can't run anymore. It's our strength, that strength, that holds us all together. We keep each other upright. Look at you, at what you've done for Gordon." John quickly looked away, and his father laughed. "Determination? You showed that boy what he needed to do. When others would have cried and thrown in the towel, you stood by him and helped him through. You all did."

"I just . . . I couldn't let him down. And . . . I'm . . ." He took a deep breath. "I'm damn proud of him."

"That's it, then." The older man laughed with a confidence that echoed that which lay deep in John's own heart. "That's what we are. We're proud of what we're accomplished, and we won't let anyone beat us. We are Tracys, John. And nothing is ever going to change that."

With those words, John let all doubt fade from his mind. Nothing had ever stopped them before, and nothing would now. They had beaten the odds just like before. They couldn't change the past; the dead couldn't walk again. But they could carve the future to resemble the past in a way that it would be better than it had ever been before. When tragedy struck, they clasped hands tightly and strove forward, heads head high.

They were strong of spirit, and that spirit . . .

That spirit was unbeatable.

The two both looked out the window, then, their hearts filled with the hope of those words and the need to believe them. Life was never predictable. It was seldom safe, and it was often dangerous. But it could never be life at all if a person believed that and wallowed in fear and doubt forever. Sometime, at some point, a person had to go on. A family had to go on.

Just as we have, John thought, a smile finally finding its way onto his face, for the little boy in him knew that his mother would be proud of them all. In the window, a pale reflection mirrored the smile, and a pair of blue eyes twinkled steadily amongst the distant stars.

To be concluded in the epilogue.