A/N: Sorry about the wait for this. Real life and writer's block tag-teamed me. Thank you to everyone who has left reviews - you keep me writing!
The events of this chapter take place a few hours before John wakes up.
It was one of the longest evenings of Scott Tracy's life. And he'd had some real contenders in the past.
He'd thought he'd known loss. His mother died when he was sixteen years old, and the pain had been like nothing he could've imagined. But he'd gotten through it, had grown strong enough calluses over wounds that would always be there. He'd helped his father turn her death into an inspiration, had participated wholeheartedly in the foundation of International Rescue. But then he'd lost his father too, and he'd thought it might kill him, then.
So yes, Scott knew loss. But it hadn't prepared him for this.
He still couldn't quite fathom it, the hole that had been so abruptly ripped in his life. He still hadn't figured out how to breathe under the weight of the horror and guilt and pain that were crushing him. And part of him, the part that had done this before, that thought it was an old expert, knew that it was only going to get worse as his shock wore off and reality truly began to sink in.
No one seemed to know quite what to do. It had been hours since Gordon had gotten back, but they were all still gathered in the main room. It was as if when they moved, they would be moving on, making the admission that they were no longer waiting for something to happen, for the comm to hum to life again and really be John calling this time, brushing off another near miss for International Rescue.
So they just sat there, none of them looking at any of the others, none of them saying a word. Grandma had rejoined them at some point with Kayo and Lady Penelope, but none of them had much to say either. The normally composed Lady Penelope had silent tears carving tracks through her makeup, and she'd let Gordon fold her in an embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. Kayo's expression was utterly blank, and she'd sat next to Scott without even being able to look at him.
It was Sherbet who finally broke the silence. The little pug had been fairly still and quiet, apparently picking up on the solemn mood of his owner. But he was still a dog, and as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, bathing them all in golden light, he started to whine, pawing at Lady Penelope's leg.
"I can take him outside," Gordon offered, his voice dull and hollow.
He stood, but Lady Penelope shook her head.
"I should really be taking him home," she said, standing as well. "There's not really anything I can do here, is there? Besides, you should all be getting some rest."
She said it like she knew it was improbable. She had a guest room on the island, but Scott didn't blame her for not wanting to stick around just then. Kayo offered to fly her home and stay with her until Parker returned. Before she left though, she looked around at what was left of the Tracy family.
"I…I am so very, very sorry," she said, her red-rimmed eyes traveling over each pale face. "John will be dearly missed."
She left with the promise that she would be there for anything they needed. Gordon went to see her and Kayo off, and Virgil put an arm around Alan's shoulders, guiding him gently in the direction of his room. Finally, only Scott and Grandma Tracy remained. Scott felt like the air itself was trying to suffocate him.
"We'll get through this, kiddo," Grandma said gently.
"I don't want to get through it." The words were petulant and childish, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Scott didn't want to consider a future where he'd developed another flimsy callus over the gaping chasm left behind by the death of another family member. "I want my little brother back."
"I know." Grandma's voice was thin and tired.
Scott's heart ached to look at her. She'd stayed strong through so much, through the loss of her husband, and then her son, and now her grandson. But how much could one person really be expected to take?
She stood slowly, and for the first time Scott could remember, she actually looked her age. She looked down at Scott, opening her mouth as if to say something. He waited, desperate for some of the wise words that she always seemed able to dispense in the hardest of times. But then she just shook her head, her eyes gleaming and her lip trembling. She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it gently, and then turned away.
Scott watched her go, feeling as if he'd been set adrift. And yet he was still unable to move. It still felt like giving up, like betraying John. And he just…couldn't.
He stood and crossed the ring of couches, dropping into the chair that would send him to Thunderbird 3. He reached under the seat for the manual trigger, and soon he was sinking through the floor. He felt none of the usual thrill of being dispatched, none of the eager excitement that came from knowing he was on his way to save lives. Instead, his stomach was heavy with dread as he went through the motions of the loading sequence.
He shivered slightly as he stepped aboard Thunderbird 3. Then he froze.
Virgil was standing beside the pilot's seat, his arms crossed. His dark eyes were shadowed and exhausted as they fixed on Scott, and they saw far, far too much. But Scott forced himself to meet them.
"I can't leave him alone up there, Virgil," he said, bracing himself to ward off a lecture. "I can't."
Virgil's expression wavered dangerously for just an instant, before he took a deep breath and regained control.
"I know," he said, his voice only a little thicker than usual. "That's why I'm coming with you."
Scott's automatic instinct was to protest, to insist that this responsibility was his alone. Virgil had already been through the hell of searching for John's body, and Scott didn't want to subject him to that again. But then he remembered the guilt in Virgil's eyes when he'd guided Alan off of Thunderbird 3 earlier. He remembered the lack of closure they were all still feeling after countless hours of searching had failed to yield their father's remains. He remembered the bond that Virgil and John had shared since birth, deep and unshakeable.
It would be crueler to try to stop Virgil from bringing his brother home.
"Suit up," Scott said finally. "We launch in five."
Virgil nodded tightly and retreated to the compartment of the rocket that held spare suits for the boys and any unexpected passengers. While he was changing, Scott settled into the pilot's seat and began the usual startup sequence. Despite having been put back in less than standard conditions, Thunderbird 3 was as ready for launch as she always was.
A minute later, Virgil returned, this time wearing a standard blue spacesuit. He strapped himself into the copilot's seat, and Scott could feel his eyes on him. He glanced up to meet Virgil's unreadable gaze, raising an eyebrow in question.
"Alan's gonna be furious with us."
Scott looked away again. He focused on the controls for a moment.
"Alan can't handle this," he said.
"Can we?"
Scott clenched his jaw, blinking rapidly.
Why us? he couldn't help thinking plaintively. Why is it our family that has to suffer tragedy after tragedy when all we do is try to help people? Why are we the ones who have to handle so damn much?
"Better us than him," he said finally, because that would always be true. Just like it should've been true this time. Scott would've given anything, anything to have been in John's place.
Virgil said nothing, just flipped the switch that would make Thunderbird 3's silo open for them, giving them access to the heavens. He stayed silent as Scott worked the controls, and soon the rocket was shuddering around them, pressing them back in their seats as it carried them upward. They left Tracy Island behind in a cloud of exhaust, shooting up through the thinning atmosphere until they were clear of it entirely.
Scott had entered in the coordinates of the satellite's last location, but he still kept his hands on the controls as they flew. He wished the trip were more difficult, to give him something to focus on besides the purpose of this mission. But it was an easy route, and Scott's thoughts were drawn inescapably back to his brother.
John had always been so happy up here. Scott used to worry about him, drifting alone in space. He hadn't been able to understand how it was that he could spend so little time around people and still be content. He'd worried that John had just been taking one for the team, isolating himself so that his brothers didn't have to.
But when he'd brought up his concerns with his father, Jeff had just smiled.
He's not wired like you, Scotty, he'd said. The way you feel when you're with people, that's how he feels when he's alone. And he still gets to be with people, really, it's just on his terms.
And he had. For all that he was perpetually over a hundred miles away, John had been in closer contact than ever with his family since taking his place up on Thunderbird 5. He'd always seemed to have some kind of sixth sense about knowing when to call, even if it was to say nothing at all.
In the early days after their father's death, John had sat up with Scott through some of the sleepless nights. He'd never been one for mindless chatter, but on those nights he'd talked and talked and talked, about everything and nothing, telling Scott stories about his time in NASA, about that time he and Virgil had broken Scott's favorite model rocket during a game of hide and seek and blamed it on a baby Gordon, about different fan conspiracy theories for the upcoming Star Trek 100th anniversary special. Anything it took to keep the deafening, terrifying silence at bay in the dark.
He hadn't judged, hadn't tried to fix anything, had just refused to let Scott be alone. He'd kept him from shutting down, falling apart. Even once he'd returned to Five and the boys had found their new normal, he'd remained a confidante, a lifeline.
Thinking about it now, Scott realized he'd never told John that, how much those vigils had meant to him. He'd never thanked him.
Swallowing hard, Scott looked out at the cold silence around them. Maybe that was what John loved so much out here. Maybe it brought him the peace he brought everyone else.
Had loved. Past tense.
Suddenly, Scott couldn't handle the silence.
"I remember when you were born," he said softly, not taking his eyes from the stars.
"Hmm?" He'd apparently startled Virgil out of thoughts of his own.
"The night you were born." Scott wasn't quite sure where the words were coming from, just that he needed to say them. "I wasn't allowed into the delivery room with Mom and Dad, but Grandma was sitting with me right outside. We knew the moment you arrived, because you started screaming…"
Scott smiled faintly. "I remember trying to run in to check on you. Mom and Dad had been telling me for months how important my job as your big brother was gonna be, and I took them seriously. I think I thought the nurses were torturing you, or something, and I had to save you. But Grandma wouldn't let me go. She said you were fine, Mom and Dad were looking after you, but I didn't believe her. Not with the way you were still wailing like the world was ending. But after a few minutes, you just stopped. Just like that, total radio silence. I think I got more worried, then."
"Nice to know your smother hen tendencies kicked in early," Virgil said, but the familiar teasing clearly took effort, and lacked its usual spirit.
"You'd better believe it," Scott sighed. He adjusted one of Thunderbird 3's thrusters, letting a beat of silence go by as he contemplated simpler times. "It was when John was born."
"What?"
"Mom told me later that you stopped crying the moment John was born."
Virgil didn't reply for a moment.
"Oh."
Scott didn't look at him. He thought about the moment a few minutes after, when Grandma had taken him by the hand and brought him to meet his brothers. He remembered the two little bundles tucked in Mom's arms, their tiny faces wrinkly and pink but so peaceful somehow. He remembered being alarmed by how small they were, how fragile, and how he'd been filled by a fierce surge of protectiveness that had never quite gone away.
"She never told me that," Virgil said softly after another long moment.
Scott hummed noncommittally, the memories drawing him deeper. They were less painful than reality.
"You two looked so alike, when you were really little," he said. "Your eyes were the exact same shade of baby blue before they changed, and you both had hair so blond it was almost white. And your smiles…you both had the same big, gummy smile that always made Mom laugh."
Scott smiled to himself at the memory, but it was a tight, painful thing.
"You started talking way before he did though," he went on, because the silence was still unbearable, and the words wouldn't stop now. "I think Dad was actually a little worried about him, but Mom always said he'd talk when he had something to say, and not before. And she was right, like always. Johnny skipped his first word and went straight to his first sentence. It was when-"
"Scott. Please- please stop."
His brother's tone had Scott looking to his left, where Virgil was sitting rigid in his seat, his head tilted back. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched tight. His breathing was desperately even, but still the track of a tear gleamed on his cheek.
The sight yanked Scott back to cold reality, and his throat closed up as his heart twisted. He couldn't quite imagine what it was like, to be one half of a set of twins that would never be whole again.
"Sorry," he said, and fell silent.
It was less than a minute later that they reached their destination. They both stared out at the debris field that was all that was left of the satellite that had claimed John's life.
"Where'd it go?" Virgil demanded, sitting forward in his seat.
Scott's eyes had been locked on the scattered hunks of metal, his brain presenting him with images of the last violent moments of John's life, but he tore his gaze away to look at Virgil.
"Where'd what go?" he asked.
"You weren't here before, but there was more wreckage. The main body of the satellite was more intact. Alan and I searched the whole thing when we thought- when we thought there was still a chance…"
He clenched his jaw and looked back out at the debris field. His eyes shone too brightly.
"There should be more here," he insisted.
"A Stelair ship took the primary wreckage."
Scott jumped as the artificial voice crackled through the cockpit.
"Eos," he said, straightening. He'd almost forgotten about the AI. He'd been trying to avoid thinking much about Thunderbird 5 at all, fully functioning, orbiting alone and unoccupied waiting for a pilot that would never be returning.
Scott's throat constricted painfully.
"What do you mean, they took it?" Virgil asked when Scott couldn't speak.
"The satellite was registered to Stelair Aeronautics," Eos explained. "They came to retrieve their property."
"So they just- they just picked up their junk and- and left?" Scott sputtered. "They didn't try to get in contact with the people who lost a man trying to save their pilot?"
"I attempted to make contact with them, but they ignored my hails," Eos said.
Fury burned in Scott's blood. John had died for that pilot, and the company just brushed it aside like it was nothing?
"But we know John wasn't there," Virgil said, although there was an edge of anger to his voice as well. "We can still find him, Scott."
So they started looking. And looking. And looking.
"There!"
Scott's heart turned over in his chest at the sound of Virgil's exclamation. He squinted in the direction his brother was pointing, and another jolt went through him as he spotted the soot-streaked yellow paint of John's exopod drifting in the distance.
"Alan and I saw a wing before, but that's a bigger piece," Virgil said. "Maybe…"
He didn't have to say anything else. Within seconds, they were approaching the remains of the suit, and hopefully John. Scott extended a claw-tipped arm from Thunderbird 3, carefully grasping the debris and drawing it inside the rocket. As soon as it was secure, Scott and Virgil freed themselves from their seats and made their way back toward the cargo bay.
Scott raised his hand to the control panel that would grant them access, but then he paused. It was hitting him, then, just what he might be about to see. Could he really do this?
He felt Virgil's hand land on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and let them in.
Neither of them said a word as they went to inspect their findings. Scott caught himself holding his breath as they drew closer, hoping and dreading.
It turned out to be the main body of the exopod, surprisingly intact. And totally empty.
Scott stared at the charred metal, a wave of…of everything crashing over him.
"This doesn't make sense!" he snarled, slamming his fist into the unforgiving metal floor. "He didn't just evaporate. Where is he?"
"Maybe he did, Scott," Virgil said, his voice as soft as Scott's was harsh. "That explosion-"
"You said there should've been something left!"
"I was guessing. Explosions work differently out here; I could've been wrong."
"Well, which is it?" Scott shouted. "Is John still out there, or isn't he?"
Virgil flinched, and another wave of guilt slammed into Scott. He turned away, raising his hands to his face before remembering that he was wearing his helmet.
"Virgil, I-"
"Scott."
He looked down to see Virgil running his fingers over a dark stain on the inside of one of the shoulder greaves. Scott had identified it as soot, but on closer inspection…
Nausea coiled in his stomach, and he squeezed his eyes shut, blocking his view of the carbonized bloodstain. The cold, incontrovertible proof that what had happened to his brother.
Ringing, helpless silence descended. Scott forced his breathing to remain steady as minute ticked by, then another. He wanted so badly to hit something else, to rage and scream, anything to get this hurt out of him, but Virgil was still in the blast radius.
Eventually, there was simply nothing else for it. They had enough fuel to keep searching, but to what end? There was nothing to find.
There was no one to find.
"Virgil," Scott said finally. "He's gone."
Jeff had learned to hate the sound of his door opening. It was quiet, unassuming, just the soft snick-hissssss of the panel retreating into the wall, but even when he was asleep, he heard it. His body's reaction to it was physical, leaving him tense and aware at the first hint of the sound.
But after almost two years in captivity, he'd learned that there was little point in actually responding to it. Whatever was waiting on the other side of that door would be there no matter what he did, and it had become something of its own defiance to simply ignore it, pretend as though every nerve in his body wasn't stretched painfully tight in anticipation of what was to come.
So that was what he did when the familiar sound jolted him from his sleep. He opened his eyes but simply stared up at the featureless white ceiling, crossing his legs and bracing his hands behind his head.
"I don't suppose you've reconsidered."
Jeff snorted, finally turning his head to offer his captor a disdainful look.
"Really?" he said. "You really think there's still a point in asking me that question? You know what they say about the definition of insanity, right?"
For some reason, this only made Barrett smile. Jeff had frequently been seized by the urge to punch that expression from his face, but he knew better than to try. Barrett never came into this modern cell without activating the invisible force field that separated him from Jeff.
"Indeed I do," he said. "Which is why I've decided to stop hoping for different results from the same methods, and to start changing the methods."
Jeff sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the foam-padded shelf that served as his meager bed. He raised an eyebrow at Barrett.
"Don't you think you've tried everything already?" he asked.
"Oh, hardly. I should've thought of it earlier, of course, but I suppose I'm not used to dealing with men who carry their greatest weaknesses outside of themselves."
Jeff frowned. He didn't know what that meant, and he didn't like not knowing. But he also wasn't about to give Barrett the satisfaction of asking about it.
Barrett stepped further into the room and off to the side, clearing the doorway. Jeff wondered if he'd brought in a new specialist, someone trained in the extraction of information. He wondered how long it would take this one to give up.
But it was just a typical thug who walked into the room, one that Jeff recognized from far too long a time spent in captivity at this godforsaken facility. His jaw was set, the muscles in his neck standing out as he carried something heavy in his arms.
Make that someone.
"NO!"
Jeff was on his feet before his brain had even entirely caught up with what he was seeing. He charged the force field blocking him from the door, crashing into it with painful force and rebounding slightly. He just threw himself against the barrier again, slamming a useless fist against it. It was pointless, he knew, would only leave him bruised and stinging. But he didn't care, couldn't care, could barely even think.
Because John was gathered in the guard's arms, his head lolling back and his eyes closed, pale as a corpse and just as still.
"What have you done to him?" Jeff demanded. The hoarse shout was directed at Barrett, but his eyes were fixed on his son, straining for some sign of life.
"Very little, as of now," Barrett said, as calm as Jeff was agitated. "I assure you, he is quite alive. But he proved…difficult, in transit. Measures had to be taken."
A trail of drying blood snaked down from John's nose, and the hand that Jeff could see was scraped and bloody. Whatever had been done to him, he'd fought back.
"Our research suggests that this one is the smartest of your brats," Barrett told Jeff. "Graduated from Harvard at seventeen, recruited by NASA the same year, highly sought after as an independent programmer…it's enough to make any father proud. Of course, then most public record of him vanishes five years ago. 'Taking time off to focus on independent projects,' NASA's press release said. But it wasn't really independent, was it?"
Jeff couldn't concentrate enough to come up with a response. He was still straining against the force field, his gaze locked on John's limp form. He was so still.
"Very sweet of you, to run your little rescue operation with your sons," Barrett went on, watching Jeff with sharp, self-satisfied eyes. "They must be very loyal, to have given up their lives for your idealistic dreams."
His tone implied that he didn't think the sacrifice had been voluntary. Jeff finally dragged his eyes away from John to glower at his captor.
"Barrett, if you hurt him-"
"You'll do what, precisely? My money is on giving me what I want, after a while." Barrett smirked and shrugged. "But I suppose we'll find out."
Ice began to creep through Jeff's veins.
I'm not used to dealing with men who carry their greatest weaknesses outside of themselves. The implications of those words were finally starting to sink in.
"Barrett." Jeff did his best to adopt a different tone, his mouth suddenly dry. "Mr. Barrett, please. He's done nothing to you. Let this stay between us, you can do whatever you want to me."
"As you so astutely pointed out, doing whatever I want to you has failed to yield results," Barrett said. "But I assure you, I'm not doing this to you and your family for the hell of it. Nothing more has to happen to John, not a single thing. So long as you're prepared to give me what I've been asking for so patiently."
He made it sound so simple. And it was, really, just not in the way Barrett hoped. Jeff shot a tortured glance at John, but he kept silent.
"That's what I thought."
At a nod from Barrett, the guard dumped John unceremoniously on the ground. Jeff flinched as he watched his son's head crack against the polished floor, but John didn't so much as twitch.
"I'll give you some time to get reacquainted," Barrett said as he retreated towards the door. "Just remember, you have four more of these. Don't make the mistake of thinking this one is indispensable for my purposes. It would be a shame for the world to lose a mind like John's, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make if you refuse to see reason."
He left, the door sliding shut behind him. Jeff just pressed himself closer to the force field, and the instant it was no longer there, he was running across the cell and dropping to his knees. He reached out with urgent hands and pressed his fingers to the junction of John's jaw and throat. He only really started breathing again when the steady rhythm of a pulse met his touch.
Slower now, he moved his hands to John's face, carefully assessing for damage. There was a dusky bruise darkening under one eye and across his cheek, but nothing appeared broken. Jeff peeled back an eyelid to see a sluggish, dilated pupil. Drugged.
Jeff held himself perfectly still for a moment, struggling for control. The wrath that was choking him now wouldn't help John.
It took a long internal count to ten before he was sure of himself. He did a cursory manual scan of the rest of his son's body, checking for any other damage. There was a shallow gash over his collarbone, but it had already stopped bleeding. Finding no other obvious injuries, Jeff slid one arm below John's knees and the other behind his shoulders, before staggering to his feet with a grunt of effort. He carried John across the cell to deposit him on the padded bench. There was no telling when he would wake up, but at least it wouldn't be on the floor.
Because that would make everything all right.
Jeff sank down onto the bench beside his motionless son, dropping his head into his hands. As his adrenaline faded, the true horror of the situation was settling in, gripping him tight.
Over his time in captivity, one of the only things that had kept Jeff going through some days was the knowledge that his torments were his alone. He'd clung desperately to the knowledge that his family was far away from this personal hell, safe and together on their island sanctuary. But now John was here, and Jeff's worst nightmares were coming true.
You have four more of these, Barrett had taunted. The threat to Jeff's other children had been clear, but what exactly did that mean? Had he- God, had he already captured the rest of them?
Jeff swallowed back a wave of nausea at the thought. But surely it was impossible. He'd trained his boys to be careful, had given them the best security he could manage. And yet…if Barrett had gotten his hands on John, protected in the haven of Thunderbird 5, were the rest of his sons as safe as he'd thought?
The possibilities tormented Jeff, but there was nothing he could do about them now. He forced himself to take a deep breath, to adopt the state of deliberate calm that had gotten him through many a harrowing situation. He dropped his hands and looked back down at John. He was burning with questions, but there would be no answers yet. All he could do was be there for the son that was accounted for, so that was what he intended to do.
John had never much liked to be touched, but the exception had always been when he was sick or scared. Jeff still remembered nights when he and Lucy had been woken by a tiny form wriggling between them, sweaty with fever or eyes wide from a nightmare. Lucy had always treasured the chance to cuddle John, but on the nights when she was working a late shift at the hospital, it fell to Jeff to comfort his quietest son.
He'd bought a special projector to keep on his bedside table, and on the bad nights he would turn it on, so that a galaxy's worth of stars spilled out across the ceiling. He'd let John lie on his chest, both of them peering up at the recreated heavens. He'd pointed out each of the constellations to the little boy, told him the stories that went with them, making up some of his own along the way, until John inevitably relaxed into a more peaceful sleep.
It had been a long time since those childhood nights, but in this case, Jeff thought the old rules would still apply. He'd been on the receiving end of a few of Barrett's drugs. Even if John wasn't alarmed by waking up in a new place after God knew what had been done to him, he was still going to feel like absolute crap.
Jeff repositioned them so that his back was against the wall and John's torso was in his lap. He used the edge of his worn grey t-shirt to gently wipe the tacky blood from beneath his son's nose, wishing there was more he could do, wishing their problems were still the kind that could be fixed by projected stars and whispered stories.
"I'm here, John," he murmured. The words felt weak, useless in the face of the horror that no doubt awaited, but they were all he had to offer. "I'm here."
A/N: Jeff Tracy isn't dead. Fight me.
Also, one of my favorite headcanons is that John and Virgil are twins, so that's just something we're all gonna have to deal with.