Rain trailed down the villa's windows with a steady pitter-patter as intermittently the grey sky growled with a fervent rumble in the distance. There was a difference to the way a storm sounded, striking instead a blanket of leafy, green canopy as opposed to the plains of their Kansas home – and this time it was joined in its chorus with the tossing of the sea waves upon the sandy beaches and rocky alcoves of Tracy Island.
Muted through the windowpanes it was, but Scott was listening for it. It was the sound of life-giving water returning to its home. Sky to sea. Eventually sea to sky, and back again.
The cycle helped him breathe through the weight in his chest.
The figurative one. Gordon was hardly heavy at the moment, more a feather's breath sleeping soundly on the pillow his torso provided, rising up and lowering down with the motion of his lungs.
There was a reason Scott kept his breaths steady.
He pressed at the space between his eyes, where his nose met his aching head. Though the slumbering form shifted at the movement, Gordon did not wake. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't help but smile fondly down at the figure curled on top of him and the childish googly-eyed smiley face that grinned at him on the camo shirt above where Gordon's injured right arm was sprawled over his belly.
The doll clothes had been John's idea. After a quick net search by EOS, some call outs from the Space Elevator on John's way to the Island, and finally a quick pallet pick up from the brand's warehouse in Thunderbird 1 on Scott's way home, they were now owners of a pallet of 6-inch dolls of randomized styles.
It had been easiest and quickest to buy them in bulk, and the clothes weren't sold separately. They'd have some doll toys they could keep in Thunderbird 2 for future rescues when all this was over, and the rest could be donated to the children's hospital on the mainland. But in the meantime, Gordon had picked a few pieces to wear, and the first order of business had been for his brothers to pry the damn dolls out of their packaging so they could get to the clothes, which were either pull over or Velcro.
Even with doll proportions where a good chunk of the size came from the large, non-anatomically correct heads, the apparel was still slightly oversized on their brother.
"How is he?" came John's patient, dulcet tone from around the corner, clasping two half-full glasses of amber and raising an inquiring eye when he realized Scott was in fact not at their dad's desk where he left him, but lying on the couch propped up slightly on one arm and with his long legs propped over the other.
"Exhausted," Scott answered thickly, his voice low. "We were just going to rest a moment."
And they'd needed it. Debrief had been…. Hard.
They'd made it through the details of the original rescue in the standard amount of time and dreaded the next part, though no one expected Gordon to flat out refuse to talk until Virgil left.
Virgil had paled at the statement, argued for Gordon to let him help until he was hoarse with it. And Gordon just shook his head. In the end, Scott agreed that they should do as Gordon asked, because he could feel how tightly Gordon was pulling at his collar.
Scott hated that look of betrayal in Virgil's eyes as he stormed off, the "fine" breaking off with a brittle catch of air. He'd wanted to follow Grandma and Alan to make sure he was okay, but Gordon needed him.
And though he hadn't understood it at the time, he did now.
His heart ached for Gordon.
It ached for Virgil too. He was going to be devastated.
"Hey, Scott. You with me?" John asked with a swirl of the glass, the ice clinking against the side. He gently nudged Scott's legs back as he sat down on the edge of the couch. "Figured we both could use one of these after that."
Scott hummed in agreement. Once Gordon had felt comfortable with just Scott and John in the room, the story had come tumbling out. Every painful and cruel detail.
He accepted the glass and shifted up just a bit to give John slightly more room. It was a more comfortable position for sipping, but not so far propped up that Gordon would start to slide. Just in case, he also rested his left arm across his stomach so he could support him if he did.
A crackle lit up the sky for a moment, and the cool burn of whiskey slid down his throat. "Helluva day," he whispered, his breath heavy.
John nodded, brushing back the ginger hair that fell into his face. "We can fix this, Scott," he stated, gaze sharp as emerald green abandoned the copper inside his glass to meet weary blue. "Kayo's out pursuing leads, and I have EOS looking. We'll figure this out."
Scott watched a bead of condensation cling to his glass, much slower in its run through the cycle than its raindrop cousins outside. He rubbed it gently with his thumb, which came back wet while the glass appeared silkier, smoother and yet when he looked at the world through it, everything distorted in angled amber.
John coughed, then cleared his throat. "So, I had to tell Grandma."
Scott frowned at him. "You heard what he said." Gordon hadn't wanted anyone else to know.
"Right," John scoffed. "Have you ever seen Grandma take no for an answer? She cornered me on the way to the restroom. She said she gets it. She won't reveal anything until Gordon's ready. But Virgil's really hurt."
He knew that and despised that this was something big brothers couldn't just put a bandage on and fix. "I don't like having to keep this from him."
"No one does," John agreed, "but we have to trust in Gordon. It's what he wants. For now."
Outside the thunder clapped, the storm closing in on the villa with a rush of rain. Even after all this time, even with listening so intently to the storm build, the volume took him by surprise. Despite the exercises, there were times – too often than he'd like to admit – that thunder didn't sound like thunder.
Air caught, just for a moment in Scott's lungs. He forced the fear back down with a mouthful of fire, listened to the rain, focused on the cycles.
Above his fluttering heart, Gordon stirred. "Why," he mumbled, "...th'boat stop?" He blinked groggily up at the ceiling, at John then Scott. "Oh."
"Go back to sleep, Gordon," John encouraged. "Sorry we woke you."
"'S'ok." Gordon tapped to get his attention, and Scott looked down at the pressure, meeting small, but just as equally determined brown eyes. "Hey. Jus' a storm."
"I know, Gordo," Scott whispered. "Sleep."
Agreement was muffled into his shirt and faded quickly as the tiny grip went slack.
Eventually glasses were emptied, refilled, and finally abandoned as the storm blew through. And finally, when Scott's lids lowered, John cleaned up and took over at their father's desk to pick up the reports where Scott left off, keeping a watchful eye on his brothers as always.
For the record, Virgil did not storm off angrily; he walked emphatically. There was a difference, and Virgil was well in control of his own self despite the pressure building behind his eyes. He rubbed them raw on the way out of the lounge. Away from… whatever that was.
Virgil's long strides were no match for Alan and Grandma, that second hesitation of a family divided all he needed to get a head start. Once he stepped away, his feet did the rest, leading him toward his studio, creating distance between himself and the situation, the fact that they thought Gordon had died, that his partner wouldn't look at him and that he and their eldest brother had teamed up against him. That he was on his own to reconcile the hurt in his heart.
He marched past his easel and the half-painted canvas waiting upon it. The field of yellow sunflowers just starting to emerge upon the background of the Kansas sky was too dazzling to look at in that moment. The storm brewing beyond his windows was much more apropos. Their island paradise blurred beyond the large glass panes of his art sanctuary. Between the moisture stuck to his eyelids and the sprinkle tapping at the structure, he saw only a haze of grey.
His shoulders shook with the effort to keep himself collected where he stood with one arm draped over his torso, clasping at the opposite wrist where he rubbed his fingertips over the protective flannel sleeve. A heaving breath sucked in his pain, swallowed it down deep where he could keep it hidden in his gut.
It was about Gordon, really; he knew that.
But for all Virgil's degrees in engineering and his medical licenses, for all the time he spent honing his skills protecting his brothers and learning what they needed by their body language not what came out of their mouth, and the time he dedicated towards helping Gordon in particular with his injuries, he didn't have the skillset required to fix this strange, particular condition that had taken hold of their brother nor, it seemed, their relationship.
He needed to fix it.
Yet he still didn't know what he did, what caused Gordon to treat him so harshly.
No, that was a lie. He knew why Gordon had hesitated in his presence; he just didn't want to admit it to himself.
The reality was that somewhere along the way, he'd lost Gordon's trust. Whether it was the fact he couldn't keep a steady hand to heal him properly in the medbay, or the fact that they couldn't find him before he was injured and Thunderbird Two was too far behind, or the fact that Virgil had been so focused on the rescue that he hadn't noticed Gordon being taken in the first place, or all of those reasons together, he didn't know.
While Scott was the one that would be more inclined to lay the guilt thick on himself on the best of days, Virgil couldn't sugar coat the response he'd gotten. It was enough for Virgil to not trust himself.
He didn't blame him, and he knew trust couldn't be earned overnight. It was one of the strongest forces in the world, but as fragile as pastels, powder disrupted with the smallest of vibrations, and once settled anew, it would never be as radiant.
And it would take time. Like the clouds rolling in, at their own pace, with the accompaniment of rain nudging the glass.
There was music on the edge of his fingers, pressure at his wrist where subconsciously he imprinted sonatas into his skin. Minor key. Because that was the song he felt his trapped piano cry out to him from the distant lounge.
He heard the footsteps cut through the song before the timid knock on the door.
"Virgil?" Alan called through the closed door. "Grandma wants to bake. Can you come help me? Please."
Grandma baking was not a good sign; stress-baking was often the cause for when she mixed up baking powder and baking soda. It told him she was hurting. So was Alan. The "please" stabbed at him, reminding him that his family was in pain too and that he was only alone out of his own choosing. They didn't have to leave when Gordon threw Virgil out, and yet they followed him anyway.
And he'd hidden.
"Coming!" He turned away from the growing storm and crossed the length of his studio in just a few long strides, opening the door to a red-eyed Alan who fell quickly into his arms.
"You ok?" the younger boy croaked into his chest before Virgil even had a chance to think.
He wrapped his arms around the smaller figure, pulled him closer, fingers enveloped in blond hair. Not the right blond. "Not really. You?"
"No," Alan admitted. "I thought I lost a brother today." He pulled away, with a sheepish shake of his head. "I needed that hug, wanted it to be his. You're the closest to it at the moment."
"How about one more?" This time the hug was for them, until the drifting smell of burning reminded them that they had both a kitchen to save and a Grandma to comfort.