First published foray into the all-consuming superpower AU. Based off a series of prompts on tumblr, including "time is relative" and "the sound of an empty sky."
The roar fades to a growl. To a hum. To a drone. To a whisper. To nothing.
And Thunderbird Three is gone from the blue into the black.
Scott doesn't watch. The early subtropical afternoon is as hot as it gets, but inhabiting the half dozen paces between him and Virgil is a swath of unseasonably cold air brought back from Montana. Under Scott's watchful eye, Virgil's hands tighten on the balcony railing, as though his hold on the narrow pole of titanium is the only thing keeping his body tethered to Earth instead of rising into geostationary orbit with their youngest brother.
"It'll be good for him."
Virgil gives no sign he's heard. Perhaps he hasn't. It's hard to tell these days. His body inhabits the island, but his mind... Scott has no idea what Virgil's thinking most of the time. What he's seeing.
Scott half turns toward him, leaves his own hands locked around the railing, treated to be just cool enough to be touched without burning skin. "You with me?"
A scoff, brittle like ice that hasn't yet cracked. "He hates being ordered up there."
He knows. He knows. "John can help him."
"John has helped him." There's a glim to Virgil's eyes, one Scott hates he's relieved to see now, treasured in its rarity. "You think this is due to a lack of discipline?"
"He's still young, and you know how nervous he can—"
"He was fine until you got on his case." The railing might have at one time creaked under Virgil's chokehold, but his arms are leaner than they were last week, two weeks ago, more, which means he's not working out as often again. Scott can't remember the last time he saw Virgil this present inside his own body instead of hovering some dozens of feet above or scattered hundreds of miles away from it. "Come on, Scott, it's not like he hurt anyone, and you know he's going to do better next time. There's no need to—" Virgil releases the railing to jab a finger toward the sky, so quiet now, so still.
To ship him off to space. To put him in John's hands so he can wash his own.
Maybe Virgil's too nice to say it. (He isn't.) More likely he's slipping again, gaze becoming cloudy as he gets dragged away by another what-if, another possibility, another snarl of maybes that can't be combed out with logic.
Virgil's role, his abilities: they're important—he saves lives—but it doesn't prevent him, standing a few strides away, from existing somewhere more distant and unreachable than their brothers who are pushing the limits of what's safe in geostationary orbit.
He made the right decision, sending Alan up. Nuclear fallout is serious—John would be the first to agree with him if asked. They can't take chances. Not again. They learned their lesson once, and if Dad were here—
But he isn't, so Alan is going to spend some quality time with a brother who's been there once before, and Virgil is...
Virgil is turning for the balcony door, either galvanized into action or an empty vessel following whatever rudimentary instincts remain.
The slow steps, the lack of imperative to follow—it's the latter, not the former. Expected but never the hope. Once, he might have stayed, a well of gravity long lost keeping him close. Once, Scott might have called him back, invested time he wouldn't get back. Once, they might have argued, words thrown like fists as they battered the truth past the other's self-righteousness.
Now, he drifts, beyond reproach, beyond reach, an open door and a foot on the threshold, and with the ice between them a memory only one of them will shiver through until Virgil next decides to go cognizant, Scott bends—just bends—a rule he's only allowed to break in the direst of emergencies.
Stopping time doesn't make the sky any less empty, any less silently judgmental. Stopping time doesn't mean he can bring Virgil back, body or mind; doesn't mean he can recall Alan back to the island without anyone knowing; doesn't excuse him from the constant simmer of his own thoughts. A damnation of the worst kind, and one only he can inflict on himself.
Just because he hasn't been able to fix things by taking time entirely his own to think them through doesn't mean he's failed or that he should stop trying. There are infinite angles to explore, even though these days he feels certain he's found every angle except the singular one that will fix everything.
Sighing, he shuts his eyes, takes a stretched-out moment to rest them. Alan had to go to Five. Irradiating some trees and a high-up, remote section of a mountain is the best scenario they could have asked for, but next time they might not be so lucky. John wasn't, and he's scarcely stepped foot on terra firma since.
No, better his brothers think him overcautious and overbearing than innocents die slow, agonizing deaths. As long as the ire doesn't turn entirely to apathy, they'll be fine. He'll be fine. He will.
He should also be working—paperwork, scheduling, maintenance, something—instead of standing here. Time isn't quite the infinite expanse he perceived it to be as a youth; even today's simple mountaintop rescue has left him with a lingering, pervasive ache that he's sure is a recent development. Considering he used to have all the time in the world, more and more he feels the galling lack of it in his life.
But Alan is safe—as safe as a developing nuclear reaction gets, anyway—and the world didn't suffer from any notably damaging radiation. Far from the worst day they've had. Maybe he and Virgil will even continue their conversation at some point. If not today, perhaps tomorrow or the day after, if schedules and coherency and interest levels align.
He could take the stairs that are cut into the side of the extinct volcano down from the balcony, circle through the narrow pathway behind the house, and head inside through any of the other entrances, but he doesn't. Maybe it's a lingering tatter of hope that perhaps has arrived. Virgil was so fully present only a few minutes ago—by Scott's count, anyway; less according to an actual clock—and with Alan gone to space for a week, that's one less series of probabilities he has to focus on.
If having Virgil's full attention means an argument, a fight, he'll take it, but he won't go seeking it out either. There are teetering piles of paperwork, lists of tasks he still has to complete before the sun drops below the horizon and he can drop into bed, lists that are actually productive.
And yet hope—it is a funny thing. Unshakable, like the chill still curling against his skin despite the utter lack of air movement.
So he opens his eyes. Watches the edges of his vision wobble as time carries on in its untampered way. Feels the salty zephyr tug at his collar, his hair.
Listens to the balcony door, so soft, click shut.