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eirabach · 4 years

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Dangerous Games [2/2]

Oh my God, finally.

This fic really really wanted to be 200k of pining and zero plot. I managed to cut it down to just under 30k. You’re... welcome? I guess? I don’t really know if anyone will read it, but if you’re brave enough to do so I wish you godspeed. See you on the flip side! I really really hope the read more works.

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go

Rating: M

Wordcount: This part, 15k give or take 80.

AO3: Here

Summary:

In which Penelope plots, and lives to regret it. Possibly.

But then again, possibly not.

[or, Pen and Ink versus TOS episode The Cham-Cham. Except with hardly anything in common with The Cham-Cham. I don’t make the rules. They do.]

He sleeps, which surprises him. So does she, and that surprises him even more.

He wakes up to find that she’s tucked herself against him in the night, her hand pillowed under his shoulder, her cheek pressed into his chest, and every muscle is screaming at him to move, move goddamnit, but there’s a pretty solid chance he’ll never move again.

Penelope shifts in her sleep, her brow furrowing, her other hand coming up to twist in the cotton of his t shirt, and honestly if he died right now he’d be a pretty happy guy. Maybe a touch too happy. He tries to shift his hips away without waking her, but she just tightens her grip, her leg curling around his, her nails sharp where they scratch against bare flesh.

Aw, shit .

He squeezes his eyes tight shut and mentally recites Four’s start up sequence until he starts to lose all feeling in his arm. And, luckily, elsewhere.

“Pen?”

Nothing.

“Penny? Lady P?”

He opens one eye and squints down at her. Her face is soft in sleep, her lips gently parted, and he feels real bad but his fingers are starting to turn blue.

“Penelope, we have a situation.”

“Wh - Gordon?”

“The very same.” She blinks up at him for a moment, then sits bolt upright, her elbow making solid contact with his stomach as she does so. “Ouch! Damn, Penny!”

“Oh! Oh, I am sorry.” She looks around, hair sticking to her cheek. “What’s the situation?”

“It’s morning?” He nods toward the windows where dawn’s red light is filtering through the voiles. “I uh - thought you might want to know.”

“Well thank you for the alarm, I think.” She moves to get out of bed, then stops and turns back to him. “I’ll be out with Vishkin most of today. He wants to go skiing.”

Gordon balks at this for at least half a dozen reasons, foremost amongst them being that he has no particular wish to have Penelope out of his sight when Vishkin is around. Of course if he dares to tell her that he’ll be subject to another possibly well-deserved tirade, so he decides to go for wounded pride instead.

“Oh come on , you know I’m a better skier than you!”

“ Alan is a better skier than me. You cheat.”

“I don’t!”

“Gordon, snowball fights?”

“Strategy, Pen.”

“Well.” She huffs, and climbs out of bed. “Once was enough. And anyway, look at you. I can’t let you out on the slopes.”

Gordon follows her eyeline to the exposed skin of his stomach. The bruises are yellow and green now, fading away at his hip, but they’re still enough to have Penny folding her arms over her chest, her eyes fire.

“I’m -”

“Don’t. Even. Try.” She reaches for Pauline’s wig and heads for the bathroom. “Besides, I have another use for you.”

---

A Saturday morning spent propping up a free bar in a beautiful location. It would have been perfect, pretty much, if it weren’t for the company.

Parker grouses at him from the end of the bar, a constant litany of displeased muttering, and the other staff aren’t exactly up for a chat. He tries to watch the holovision, but the news is barely worth the name and every panel show is a repeat.

He gives up, wanders into the kitchens around lunchtime and makes a couple of sandwiches. They’re tasteless and sit heavy in his belly. He hadn’t expected this to be so boring .

He had expected Penny to check in.

“You look cheerful.”

He almost drops the renements of his sandwich as he hops to his feet, brushing crumbs off his sweater vest before he holds out a hand to Margot Mearns.

“Ms Mearns! I - is everything okay? Can I - do you want a sandwich?”

“Tempting,” she drawls, looking down at the renements of his, “But I’m fine.”

She’s nothing like the nervous, quiet creature who’d arrived on Vishkin’s arm. She drapes herself over the bar and clicks her fingers in the direction of Parker who drops his glass cloth with the altricity of a man used to following demands.

“Gin and tonic,” she tells him, then, with a sideways look at Gordon and a little smirk. “Make that two.”

“Oh I really - “ But Parker’s already sliding two glasses along the bar and glaring balefully at Gordon over that stupid moustache. Ingratiate yourself, Penny had said. He may need the lubrication. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” She takes one of the glasses and knocks the drink back in a single gulp. Even Parker’s eyes widen. “I’m not paying for it.”

She signals for another, then eyes Gordon’s drink, the bubbles having barely settled. “You going to drink that?”

“Uh,” Gordon nods quickly and takes a sip. Parker hasn’t been stingy with his measures and he’s not used to much more than the odd light beer, so it’s not really surprising that he struggles to hold back a cough. “Uh - wow.”

Margot looks down at him along the length of her precision perfect nose. “Your wife says you’ve hurt yourself.”

“Yeah - yeah, a bit. I need to stay off the slopes, take it easy, y’know?”

“Colin will be delighted .” She takes a solid gulp of her second drink. “She’s very pretty.”

“Pardon?”

“Your wife, Paula?”

“P - Pauline.”

“Very pretty. Colin will be pleased to have her to himself for a bit.”

“I uh -”

She pats his hand and knocks back the rest of the gin.

“Oh don’t panic, he never keeps them.”

“Sounds like a real swell guy.”

“Where are you from, Kansas? Yeah he’s a swell guy alright.” She takes a compact from her purse then pulls a little wrap of white powder from her bra and empties its contents on to the mirror. “Want some?”

Gordon’s pretty sure that if his dad has a grave he’s spinning in it.

“Uh -”

She shrugs, and moves to cut a line. “Your loss.”

Yeah, in more ways than one.

“I was a big fan, by the way. When I was a kid.”

She looks at him then, suddenly shrewd. “You still look like a kid to me. Tell me, Gerald -”

“Greg.”

“Gerald. Tell me. What do you think my manager and your wife are up to right at this moment?”

International espionage , or at least he very much hopes so.

Stick to the script, Gordon. He shrugs, tries to keep his expression neutral. He’s not too sure how Penelope wants him to play this game, but he’s going to have to pick up strategy as he goes along.

“I mean, I’m pretty sure, skiing?”

Margot’s smile grows wider, something cat-like in the narrowing of her eyes.

“Uh huh, come here. Let me tell you a secret.” She grabs a fist full of his sweater and pulls him to her. Her breath is hot against his ear and he struggles not to recoil. “Colin has never skied in his life .” She sits back, satisfied, and cuts another line. “Why on earth would he start now.”

“She’s not that sort of girl.”

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? How many times I’ve said it? Lemme tell you, if Colin wants you to be something, you become it. And sharp, too.”

“Not Pauline.” He shakes his head. “She’s one of a kind.”

Margot’s smile is full of pity, and topped with a tiny smear of white powder.

“He used to say that about me, you know. Funny thing is, when you say it, I almost believe it.”

“Hey, I’m an honest guy.”

She grimaces, bitterness suffusing her every word. “No such thing.”

“Hey.” He rests his hand lightly on her wrist before she can return to the dregs on her mirror for a third time. “If you want to talk…”

She laughs, and for the first time it actually sounds like genuine amusement.

"You're cute, Gavin. I can see why she likes you."

---

Penelope has never been jealous in her life. She’s never had any need for it having never coveted anything that she couldn’t have in a heartbeat, but there’s an unwelcome seething in her stomach at the way Gordon’s hand rests on Margot Mearns’ wrist. It’s uncouth. Unbecoming. Unacceptable.

“Parker? Be a dear and escort Ms Mearns to her room will you? She looks a little overtired, and we have so very many things to arrange. Mr Vishkin is waiting."

Gordon’s leaning forward, speaking lowly enough that Penelope can’t make out the words, and Mearns laughs, high and clear. Parker raises an eyebrow.

“She looks right enough to me, milady.”

“As requested, please Parker. And tell Greg that I require his assistance post haste.”

Parer looks down his nose at her, and she stiffens her spine in the face of his obvious disapproval.

“At once, mi- Mrs Jones.”

He slopes off to do the deed, but not before Mearns leans toward Gordon and drops a kiss to his cheek. Gordon looks gobsmacked. Penelope feels her stomach turn to stone.

Some of the tension slips from her shoulders as Mearns follows him from the room but it only fades completely when Gordon approaches, waggling his eyebrows, his eyes sparkling for her. Mine , her heart snaps. Mine.

“‘Sup? I hear I’m wanted.”

She doesn’t bother replying to the innuendo, only nods after Parker’s retreating back.

“You seemed to be getting along swimmingly.”

Gordon grins. “It is my strong suit.”

“Undoubtedly. Did you discover anything about our erstwhile guests?”

"Plenty of trouble in paradise by the sounds of it. How were the slopes?"

"Powdery. Trouble you say?"

"Seems old Vishkin isn't treating his lady as well as he ought to be."

Penelope suppresses a shudder at the memory of Vishkin's hand against her lower back. "Well that is a surprise."

"I know right? Who'd have thought. But Pen, do you think we could use that?"

Before she'd decided to bring Gordon, using Vishkin's sexual inconstancy against him had absolutely been in the plan, but that doesn't make her any less shocked to have Gordon be the one to suggest it, especially after his reaction the previous night. It stings a part of her she rarely bothers to notice.

"Gordon you don't like him touching my shoulder, I can hardly expect you to keep up the cover if -"

" Whoa whoa Whoa, wait, what ? I absolutely did not mean, Jesus Pen. What do you take me for?"

And of course the thought wouldn't have occured to him. That's why she - that's why she cares so deeply for all the Tracy boys. Those ridiculously big hearts and fantastical belief in the goodness of others. She's never been entirely sure she quite fits in.

"I'm teasing, darling," she says, bright smile to hide the shadow of the lie. "Now how about I fill you in on our guest's current business plans. Would you believe he's practically bankrupt?"

---

Gordon doesn't have much to do with Tracy Industries finances. As long as there's enough money in the pot to fixup his sub every time some crazy guy smashes it to smithereens he's more than happy to leave that to Scott. Or John. Or Grandma. Anyone else.

Ten minutes in Penelope's company and he knows the ins and outs of every disastrous business deal and musical flop that Vishkin has faced in the last six years.

It's a lot. Penelope's a lot. Her face is flushed and her smile is wide and there's a horrible little slug of jealousy crawling up behind his breastbone and into his throat.

"You got all that from skiing with him?"

She beams up at him, eyes shining. He feels a bit sick. "I'm terribly good at my job, darling."

"I knew that."

"Did you indeed." She seems to find it funny. He wonders if it is. "We have fifteen guests flying in for tomorrow night. They're private charters so I need to ensure their pilots have all the correct paperwork."

"You mean make sure they're on your payroll."

She pats his cheek fondly. "You're catching on!"

"So what's the plan?"

Penelope furrows her brow, attention on something over his shoulder. There's noise in the distance - raised voices followed by the splintering of glass. When she speaks again her voice is hushed and urgent.

"What do you think about poor Ms. Mearns? Do you think she's the type to open her heart to our dear Greg?"

Gordon grimaces slightly. The whole thing is starting to leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "I can give it a try. I'm probably not going to - well - y'know."

Penelope wrinkles her nose in distaste. "I should hope not. Verne!" Verne, a tall dark haired guy who's been casually painting the same six square feet of walk for the past hour and a half, trots over to Penny with the sort of alcracity that only ex members of the military possess. "Verne will you be a dear and keep an eye on Greg's virtue? We are very recently married, you know. It would be a shame to spoil it."

He stares at her. Verne doesn’t seem perturbed in the least. Gordon isn’t entirely sure Verne would know how to look perturbed if his life depended on it. It’s weird. This whole thing is super weird. "Are you asking him to spy on me?"

"Gordon, darling," she says with the sort of pained patience he usually associated with Virgil after six hours out. "That is literally his job."

"It is, sir," says Verne, staring at a point three inches above Gordon's head. "If it helps sir, I think she likes you."

Gordon scoffs. "Everybody likes me."

"I don't like you," mutters Parker as he passes by, dirty glasses in hand. "I think you're a bleedin' liability."

Penny scowls. "Nonsense. Parker do keep your nose out . Gordon is doing exactly as I'd hoped."

"You hoped I'd get wasted with pop stars?"

The room seems to be spinning. Parker mixes one hell of a drink.

"If she trusts you, she's our in. You only need to encourage her."

Parker snorts. Verne's lip ticks upwards at the corner. And Gordon knows better, he does, but there’s a part of him - deep and dark and buried - that just can’t help himself. It’s the part of him that pranks Scott, that dives, that holds his breath that little bit longer, that just wants to try it and see .

"Is that what you've been doing, getting Vishkin to trust you?"

Penny goes to answer - something glib, he expects, a casual brush off - then stops. Scowls.

"I've been doing my job." She lifts her thumb and rubs at the mark Margot's left on his face. Frosted pink stains the pad of it and she looks down at it in distaste. "Parker? A word."

She stamps back outside, Parker morosely following, and Gordon is left standing in the great hall with Verne, silent protector of his virtue.

He wonders if Verne will be any better at it than Virgil ever was.

He hopes so.

---

It doesn’t take a genius to see the difference in Margot Mearns whenever Vishkin is around. They return to the bar together, Vishkin’s ruddy cheeks and booming laugh in stark contrast to the silent, wraithlike Mearns, and it’s enough to give Gordon whiplash. Where she’d been snide and bitter and a little bit scary she’s cowed and quiet and he hadn’t really liked her before, but now he really doesn’t like Vishkin one bit.

Whatever kind of person Margot really is, it’s not the person she is on Vishkin’s arm.

Verne has stopped his painting and moved to hanging great curtains of fairy lights around the bar itself - a ruse, Gordon suspects, to keep an eye on Gordon himself as he shuffles behind it and puts on what he hopes is his most ingratiating grin.

“Can’t get the staff these days I tell ya! What’ll it be, folks?”

"A hit, if you don't mind!" Vishkin laughs, his belly shaking, and Gordon notes the way Margot cringes away from the movement.

"Gin," she breathes. Vishkin deflates. Gordon does as he's told.

"Margot, sweetheart," he soothes, his big hand covering hers before she can reach for the drink. "Just try won't you? For me? I do so much for you."

Margot grabs her drink with her other hand and throws it back.

"Fine," she half whispers in a tone that suggests anything but, "you need to leave."

"Margot -"

"Now!" It's a shout do incongruous that both Vishkin and Gordon start in shock. Vishkin recovers quickly enough to eye Gordon suspiciously.

"I guess I'll go see if I can find my lovely ski instructor. Don't drink too much. You know how you get."

Margot says nothing, but mulishly finishes her drink. Gordon busies himself making another and Vishkin leaves only to be replaced almost at once by the big bald guy who appears as if from nowhere, brandishing a piano stool. Gordon wonders vaguely where they're hiding - how many of them are listening in to his every word. Still, bald guy sets the stool down and scuttles back off to god knows where, and Gordon is left to play gentleman.

"Take a seat. You wanna - you wanna talk about it?"

Margot drops heavily down on the stool and glares at the piano as though it’s mortally offended her, a single crease between her eyebrows. “I’m trying to write. I can never write when I try.”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. Why?”

“Why?” She laughs bitterly. “Because Colin is determined to have another album out of me. That’s the whole point of this little trip. Spoil me, show me off. Remind his friends that I exist. Like anyone in the music business cares about a woman over forty. Like I can even remember how to play . God, it’s been years. Years.”

Her anger and her breath all seem to escape at once and Margot rests her fingers on the keys ever so lightly, as if to touch them would break whatever spell she’s fallen under. It’s an opportunity, he thinks, though he isn’t quite sure for what. Only that Margot Mearns looks in serious need of rescue, and well, that’s kind of his job.

“You know my brother plays the piano. He’s pretty good.”

And just like that, he breaks it for her.

“That’s cute,” she says but clearly doesn’t mean, and reaches for her drink. A discordant noise echoes through the hall. “Does he want a job?”

“Nah - I mean. He’s got one of those. Like, really got one. I guess he plays to relax. He always says you can’t force music. It’s a feeling, y’know?”

Margot snorts. “Quite the philosopher. I bet he’d be crazy annoying on tour anyway.”

“You think he’s right though? Maybe you just aren’t feeling it.”

“Do you know how I do feel? Too damn sober, that’s what.” She throws back the drink and Gordon winces.

“No offence, Ms Mearns, but I kinda don’t think that’s likely.”

She doesn’t really answer him, only clicks her fingers and points at the piano lid. Big bald guy obligingly sweeps her empty glass away and leaves a margarita in its place.

“I mean - when Vi- when Victor is feeling kinda shitty he hammers out all these old tunes my mom used to play us. Like all this folk revival stuff from when she was a kid? Maybe - I don’t know, is there something you could play to maybe… loosen those emotions up a bit?”

“I don’t know if you’re trying to help or if you’re always this annoying.”

“Pretty much both.”

“I bet you do yoga.”

“I’m very flexible.”

She sighs, and shuffles over on the piano stool. “Sit.”

“Um -”

“ Sit .” Gordon does so, and Margot hovers her hands over the keys. “If you’re going to be obnoxiously positive you can sit here and play muse to me for a bit. Your wife won’t mind. Colin’s keeping her busy.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

She turns her head, her eyes narrowed. “You know, you really don’t act like a host. I could buy this place. I could buy you .”

Gordon knows for an absolute fact that that isn’t the case, but he attempts to look chastised anyway.

“Sorry? This isn’t really my strong point. Pauline’s the expert, I’m just here for the ride.” And that, that’s not even a lie.

“No.” Margot lifts one hand and idly tugs at a lock of hair behind his ear. Gordon’s heart rate ticks up, just briefly, and he wonders if Penny’s spies will report this back too. “No, it’s okay. I like it.”

“Maybe that’s where you should start,” he hazards. “With what you like.”

“And what will that achieve?” she half snorts.

Gordon risks a smile. “How will you know unless you try?”

“Try being happy and you will be?” She laughs. “Spoken like a true innocent.”

“Yeah, “ he says as she turns back to the keys. “Yeah. Maybe.”

---

Penelope cooks like she was taught by a cordon bleu chef, because she was.

Supper consists of a tiny tartlet drizzled in something unctuous, sides of gently grilled vegetables neatly stacked like cordwood on the fine bone china plates, and an atmosphere you could cut with a knife.

Mearns picks at her food, turning it around and around on her plate. Her eyes are bloodshot, her fingers shake, and there's a dusting of white powder in the ends of Gordon's hair. He's trying to keep up a conversation, bless him, but Mearns has nothing to say with Vishkin in the room, and Penelope is keeping Vishkin busy.

His tablet flashes constantly on the table in front of him, messages gently curated and occasionally created to ensure he's never allowed to forget even for a moment his precarious financial position. He's sweating, his food forgotten, and he speaks only to snap at Mearns as she requests another, expensive, drink.

Vishkin is getting desperate, and desperate men get sloppy.

“Colin, please -”

He stands, shoving his food away, his tablet crashing to the floor followed by half a bottle of good wine that splatters over his too shiny shoes and up the legs of his too cheap trousers. “Please? Please? Haven’t I - Don’t I do enough ?!”

“Hey!” Gordon’s on his feet now, and Vishkin’s got six inches on him but righteous anger makes him the bigger person in the room by far. “Don’t speak to her like that!”

“Who the hell do you think you are!”

“Mr Vishkin! I’m so sorry -” Her turn, her role to lay a restraining hand on Gordon’s thigh and turn a beseeching expression on the other man. She beckons to Parker, who hovers, like all good staff, just at the edge of the drama. “Let my man clean that up for you.”

“Forget it,” he spits, turning on his heel. “For get it! Margot, come.”

He leaves, all bile and dripping wine stains, and Mearns stays. Her eyes are wide and adoring as she looks up at Gordon, and Penelope buries the sickness it brings beneath the thrill of success.

“Margot?” She lowers her voice. Confidential. A confidante. Gordon turns to her, but Mearns doesn’t. Mearns has eyes only for Gordon. Penelope can see the cracks spreading across her surface.

“Do you - did you mean what you said earlier?”

“About what?”

“Being happy.”

Penelope knows this - she’d been listening, down in the little boat shed by the lake, listening through the old-fashioned radio hidden in the old boat as the man she - as Gordon told Mearns stories about his mother that she’s never heard, as he laughed along to songs she doesn’t remember. So she knows, what he said about being happy. About how you have to just try , no matter what the odds. She knows. She doesn’t know if it’s worked on Mearns the way it has worked on her. She can feel Gordon watching her but she keeps her own eyes fixed on Mearns, waiting for the opportunity to turn those cracks into a fissure.

“Does he make you happy?”

“What do you think?” It’s scoffed out, a half sob, and if Penelope could allow herself to feel anything right now it might be pity. “I can’t get away from him, Greg. I can’t.”

“Maybe,” Gordon’s voice is cautious, so she allows herself a tiny nod. Go ahead. Ask. “Maybe, we can help you?”

“You? How ?”

“Tell us, Margot. Tell us about the people. Let us help them. Let us help you .”

And Margot looks up at Thunderbird Four, her big eyes wet with tears, and Penelope -

Penelope smiles.

---

That night in the half breath before sleeping she tells him, "You know I think she's half in love with you."

"Who isn't?" he says, cocksure. Then, "She's not the one for me, Pen."

"No. No I should hope not."

It feels a bit like she might be trying, then.

---

The guests arrive in a series of private cars all with serious faced drivers who nod at Penny as they pass. The guests themselves pay them no mind, instead falling over themselves to greet Vishkin who holds court in the chalet's hall like a king.

Knowing what he does about the state of Vishkin's kingdom it reminds Gordon of the mass frenzy of little creatures that descend on the sinking corpse of a once great whale.

Penny watches too, her eyes narrow. Her hands folded neatly in front of her black satin dress, her posture perfect.

Knowing her as he dies, Gordon can sense the nerves coming from her in waves. Margot had told them between sobs of a shipment due to be dropped off tonight in the midst of the Indian Ocean, and from there to be ferried to those prepared to pay for an ounce or more of human flesh. He’d been disgusted, Penelope had been calm, Margot had asked for nothing but their secrecy - a promise he still doesn’t know if Penelope intends to keep.

"Remember. Secure the shipment, keep Vishkin distracted, notify Headquarters. Understood?"

That's all this is, now. An exercise in time wasting until the shipment is safely in GDF hands and GCHQ give permission to swoop in on Vishkin and put him away for good.

"Oh, totally. Got it. You look beautiful by the way."

She pats at the skirt of her dress, her nose wrinkling. "I'll do."

She sweeps away, the perfect hostess, and Parker appears at his elbow, a silver platter on his arm.

"Canapé, Mr Greg?"

Penelope approaches Vishkin, her arms outstretched, and Gordon's stomach sinks like lead. Distraction.

"Suit yourself," mutters Parker before stuffing one in his own mouth and disappearing into the glittering crowd. He’s caught by Margot, resplendent in sequins, and Gordon watches as she pulls him down to whisper urgently into his ear. Music strikes up from the speakers, staff whip guests coats away and return with trays of drinks, and it begins.

---

It's strange, the way there are two parties going on in one room and with Gordon both at the center and absent from both of them. It reminds him uncomfortably of the weeks of missed calls, of mission briefs given over and around him, and it makes his heart ache for island air and the roar of engines.

Penny dances at the edge of his eyeline, delivering drinks and instructions and all with a glint in her eye that smacks of a purpose Gordon misses with half his soul. The other half is lost to him, hanging in the spaces between her laughter and caught in the touch of her hand.

They've succeeded, Margot's evidence and the shipment they're to intercept enough to get Vishkin tucked away for many years, but there's still a sense of something lingering. Unfinished business.

Squid sense on high alert and a room full of liars to test it on, Gordon makes the executive decision to go get a drink. He's probably going to need it.

Luckily it's the big bald guy who makes it since his heads too much of a mess for any of Parker's overdone cocktails, and luckier still he knocks it back just as the music pauses, Penny moving toward him as Vishkin hands Margot the mic to polite applause.

She smiles like a shark, all teeth and no eyes, and he wonders if anyone else in the room even notices or if they're all too busy hiding their own secrets behind makeup and glitter and the greater good. She's good, hell give her that. She holds the room in the palm of her hand and it's hard to believe she's been dragged into this against her will.

Margot beams that liar's smile around the room and sweeps her skirts aside to sit at the piano.

"If you'll forgive me the indulgence," she says, "this is an oldie, but - ah." She laughs her tinkling laugh. A showgirls laugh, blisters and pain hidden behind the sparkle. "Someone told me it was a goodie. What would I know."

The staccato hits, and Gordon feels his heart lurch uncomfortably.

Heaven help a fool who falls in love, indeed.

Penny's half a step behind him, champagne flute in hand, and he barely even registers he's taking it from her before it's gone and her lips are pursed as though she's trying not to smile.

"Do you mind? I rather think I earned that."

He isn't denying it, but this feels like a moment and he's not letting this one pass him by.

"Dance with me?"

She's looking at him like this is definitely a moment. His heart skips once, twice…

And then his hand is in hers.

---

It would be a lie to say she thought he'd never ask; patience isn't one of her virtues.

She takes him by the hand and leads him, not to the centre of the dance floor where the guests mingle and sway, but to a shadowy corner hidden from Parker's prying eyes by the mass of the crowd. In her heels it's barely a stretch to rest her forearms on his shoulders and press her chest against his.

His eyes flicker downward at the motion and she treasures the little thrill that runs through her. Jeff Tracy raised his boys to be gentlemen, not monks .

"My team are tracking the package as we speak," she half whispers, "as soon as we have a location we'll have Vishkin."

"And Margot?" Gordon's hands hover either side of her hips, and really must a girl do everything herself? She lets her arms slip from his shoulders and run down his biceps. A gentle squeeze and a shift of her weight as the tempo changes and she rather loses her train of thought.

"Hmm?"

“Is she gonna be okay?”

Okay is a loaded term. Privately, Penelope thinks not. Margot Mearns has spent most of her life around Colin Vishkin or men very like him. Powerful men who made her powerful in turn. Covered her in diamonds and compliments and cold, hard cash. Penelope has seen enough in her own life to know that Margot’s propensity for little wraps of white powder may be the easier addiction to break.

“We will look after her,” she says instead, loathe to bring the mood down any more than she needs to. “Will that do?”

“I guess.” A beat, and his hand is firm against her lower back, drawing her closer as she allows herself to melt into him. “She tried to do the right thing in the end. That ought to count for something.”

Penelope sighs, and lets her eyes drift shut as they sway. “You do insist on thinking the best of everyone, don’t you.”

A smothered snort of laughter is followed by the gentlest of pressures on the crown of her head. “That’s me, the eternal optimist.”

“And do you find that your faith pays off?”

“I dunno.” He releases her, spins her around and pulls her back in to face him. “You tell me.”

The final notes of the song die away and leave in their wake a silence that seems to shudder within her, the ringing in her ears louder than any music. Champagne bubbles linger, tart on her tongue, and Gordon’s hand is warm and solid in hers.

From across the room, Parker gives her a nod.

Finished.

It’s finished.

And then Gordon’s squeezing her hand and Vishkin is cheering drunkenly and she thinks, no. No, it’s not.

It is, however, highly unprofessional the way she throws herself into Gordon, crushes her lips against his and swallows the shocked little sound he makes as she knocks all the air from his lungs. There’s bound to be a lot of paperwork. She does hope Parker’s taking notes.

Someone's hollering, wolf whistles echoing around the room, and if the way she pulls his tie loose serves to encourage them all the better, because he's kissing her back as though his life depends on it and she needs to get out of here.

Secure the shipment.

Create a distraction.

Call headquarters.

Two out of three is a solid start.

Gordon groans against her mouth and moves to cradle the back of her head in his hand.

He's going to pull her wig off.

She needs him to make that noise again.

"Get a room!" someone bellows, and there's a mumble of scattered laughter as she finally pulls away.

She's breathing heavily, but Gordon looks like he might faint. Oh well. In for a penny.

The music starts up again - recorded, now, Margot seems to have disappeared - and the guests turn away to look after their own interests again.

"Come with me?"

"Anywhere."

She beams. "The bedroom will do."

She half expects him to whoop, but instead there's just some little half sigh half whimper that makes her dash for the door just a little quicker.

Not quite quickly enough, unfortunately.

Parker clears his throat from the shadows, and Penelope tightens her grip.

"Pardon the intrusion," he says in a tone that suggests no such thing, "but the shipment?"

"Call it in," she says, "I'll -"

"I'll deal with it," Parker says, his expression one of abject misery. "You have… other doings, I h'xpect "

She releases Gordon just long enough to sweep Parker into a hug he has no time to return.

"Thank you, you darling man."

"Hmmph," he mumbles, expression unchanged. "Shall I tell them you were urgently called away?"

"Oh yes!" She calls over her shoulder, pulling Gordon behind her into the night as Parker disappears back into the party. "Very urgently indeed!"

---

It's bitterly cold outside, she's sure,but she doesn't feel it. The two of them stumble the hundred yards or so to their chalet in a tangle of limbs, practically falling through the door and slamming into the dresser with enough force to take Penelope's breath away - if she had any to spare.

She's torn his tie lose, shoving the jacket from his shoulders as his fingers fumble with the tiny buttons on the back of her dress.

"S'ok?" he manages as the first one comes loose and his jacket hits the floor. "Wanna stop?"

She doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t have any intention of doing so - not now. Not when it’s taken so very terribly long to start. Not with his mouth at her throat and her hands in his hair and God but hasn’t she wondered what his laugh would feel like, puffed out in unbelieving breaths against the line of her collarbone? Hasn’t she dreamt of curling her fingers in sunbleached waves and daring him lower?

But the hair between her fingers is all wrong and it makes her hot blood freeze instantly. There's something she's forgotten, something terribly important, and she doesn’t want to stop, but she has to. She has to. Damn it all though, she just wants to try .

“Gordon -”

The worst part is how she doesn’t even have to say it.

The tiniest shift in her body, the merest trace of distress in her voice and he’s away from her in moments - half a room away and flushed the colour of Thunderbird Three. He rubs at his hair, that stupid hair, and stares, determined, at a point somewhere in the vicinity of Penelope’s left foot.

In that moment, she’s reasonably sure she feels her heart crack.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Pen - Lady Penelope - I really -”

“Don’t apologise.”

“But - I - “

“I believe I grabbed you . It ought to be me apologising.”

“Don’t.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot and scrubs at his eyes with a shaky hand. The half laugh he lets out makes her want to cry. “Jesus. Don’t apologise.”

Well now, of course, she must. And in doing so she must admit the truth of all of this - to him, even if not to herself.

Girlish nonsense, her Grandmother would have called it.

Would that it felt like it. Nonsense, she can laugh off. She cannot laugh off the look in his eyes, nor the pang in her chest.

“We mustn’t -”

“Yeah,” he holds his hands up. Surrender. She hates it. “Yeah no I super got that part, it’s fine, it’s - I mean -” he laughs again, and she hates that even more. “God I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not.”

“I really, actually think I am. It’s pathological, apparently. Ask John.”

“I could,” she says. Whispers, actually. “That's the problem you see. I could.”

---

Gordon’s spent the majority of his adult life submerged in icy water, but it’s never hit him as hard as this.

“What?”

Penny wrings her hands together, hair falling in her face, sweater askew, and he’d be amazed at seeing her so discombobulated - at having done that - if only he had the faintest clue what was going on.

“John’s watching,” she says again, and she won’t meet his eyes and she won’t make any sense because John isn’t watching. In fact Gordon can categorically state for an actual fact that John would rather blind himself with a rusty spoon than watch any of the events likely to unravel following a kiss like that. They’d hear his shrieks through the vaccuum .

Gordon knows this.

And Penny promised.

"It was the only way, you see."

" What was the only way?"

She reaches past him to the bedside table and tips up the communicator. A small green light flashes up at him.

"The disruptor?"

Penelope bites her lip. "Isn't. Not entirely."

Gordon's brain stops. Reverses. Replays the night of their arrival.

"You lied about it?"

"I didn't think it would matter. It was Scott's preference." She just out her chin, and the action sets the confusion and stymied desire bubbling in his belly until the coalesce into something like anger.

Of course it's Scott. Listening in. Probably Virgil, too. Definitely Alan.

God, they'll have been taking bets.

“So, what? What are you telling me? That we’ve been on an open comm link to the island all this time?” Gordon looks around wildly. “Are they watching now? Am I starring in one of Grandma’s Space Operas? Hey, Grandma!” He cups his hands around his mouth and calls up to the ceiling. “Hope you didn’t burn the popcorn!”

“Gordon, please - “

“Gordon please what?” his voice is cold, colder than he meant it to be, but he takes a certain grim satisfaction in the way she winces as it hits her.

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“Penelope, you astound me on a minute by minute basis, but even I can’t believe you’d accidentally keep a secure communication line running when you’ve blocked every other transmission in or out of this place.”

“No - No that was - the lie wasn’t intentional. I didn’t set out to deceive you. I was going to tell you but you seemed so happy - it's not the island. It's only John.” Penelope wrings her hands together, her eyes darting between him and the holocomm as though undecided which offers the greater threat, and Gordon’s anger deflates into something close to defeat.

Only John, she says. Like the guy running the most effective communication monitoring device in the galaxy isn't an absolute gossip hound. As though he will ever, ever let Gordon live this down.

As though there was going to be anything to live down.

“Of course I was happy. I was here with you .” He shakes his head. “Shit, Penny. It isn’t rocket science. You don’t need Brains to figure this one out.”

“You said - about John -”

“Yeah, well.” Gordon drops into the wicker chair by the window. “Yeah, it was nice to think we’d actually get to spend some time alone. You know how I feel about you. If you didn’t - if you don’t - all you had to do was say so. You don’t need John to chaperone .” He laughs bitterly. “You’ve got Parker for that.”

“He shouldn’t have come. I don't need a chaperone. I don't want one."

Gordon rubs his hand across his eyes. He’s suddenly exhausted, tired beyond measure of all of this, but mainly just tired of pretending. Scott was right. Again. He isn’t cut out for this.

“I can’t even figure out what that’s meant to mean, Pen. Not everything has to be all intrigue and secrets. Some things are just better if you just let them be .”

“I don’t know if I know how to do that.”

There’s something in her voice, something beyond guilt or unhappiness or denial or any of the dozen other things he might have expected to hear. It’s honesty, real and seering and shocking.

“Sure you do,” he says without thinking, then, as he watches her, “don’t you?”

“That’s the thing about you, Gordon,” she says, stepping up to the chair and reaching for his hand. “You’re - everything is so horribly straightforward with you. You know who you are. You know how to - you’re just so much better at this than I am, darling.” She sniffs, and he realises with dawning horror that she’s barely restraining tears. "So much better.”

"I really feel like that's not true."

Penny smiles weakly and he can't help but smile back.

"No?"

"Nah I mean - for a start if I was any good at this we really wouldn’t need this much of an excuse."

Penny looks up at him through her lashes.

“Is that what this is? I thought we were bringing down an international smuggling ring.”

He stands up, moving close enough to tangle the fingers of his left hand through the ends of her hair. He taps the side of his nose with his other hand.

“What a cover, eh?”

Penny sways into him, his wedding ring catching in the carefully constructed curls.

“A double bluff, then?”

“Something like that.” He thumbs gently at her chin. There’s a smear of lipstick at the corner of her mouth. He wonders if he has it’s twin. “Gotta play both sides to guarantee a win.”

“Spoken like a true middle child.”

“Yeah, well, in my family the middle child is John .”

“I wouldn’t do this with John.”

Penny drops the communicator to the ground and he hears the crunch of electronics underfoot, but he hasn’t the time to worry about that - not when her arms are round his neck, her mouth hot against his own.

She pushes him back towards the edge of the bed, only pulling away as his thighs hit the mattress. Pauline’s wig is discarded in a heap at her feet, followed immediately by the little black dress.

Oh.

Oh shit .

She doesn't want a chaperone.

“Well uh - no I mean - you’re not really his - “ Penny slides one pale knee onto the bed, and pushes him back with two fingers. He’s still mostly dressed in Greg’s penguin suit, the tie loose around his neck. She’s still moving, coming to hover above him to rest a single finger against his lips and Jesus Christ is he still talking? He isn’t sure how he’s still breathing.

“Darling, I ask only one favour from you tonight.”

“Anything.” Anything, God, anything.

“Be quiet.”

He mimes zipping his mouth shut, and throws away the key.

---

Gordon isn't sure when, exactly, he'd fallen asleep. He remembers pulling the sheets up over their heads to form a soft, white cocoon, and the way Penny had pressed her laughter against him as he'd sworn never to leave, ever. He remembers that her hair had tickled his nose and his side had protested, but that it had been worth it - more than worth it. He remembers thinking that he'd happily never sleep again if it meant missing a single moment of her skin against his.

Guess his body has been betraying him a lot recently.

Still, he's awake now, wrapped in a curtain of white cotton and blonde hair and wondering, just a little, if this is what heaven would have looked like. Penny's hand twitches on his belly, her head pillowed on his shoulder and he figures yeah, yeah,it probably is.

There's a full moon tonight, pouring through the open curtains and bleaching everything a stark, otherworldly silver. Penny is bathed in it, beautiful and glorious, and he's absolutely fucked. Literally, figuratively and decisively. Forever.

Still, he really ought to at least close the curtains and retrieve Pauline's wig from its Ignoble resting place on the floor. If anyone were to approach the chalet -one of the staff, Margot, Parker - they'd get an eyeful of a while bunch of things Penny would probably rather they didn't.

Penny sighs and shifts against him just enough for his ribs to protest and yeah, he should probably get up.

Just the mental image of Parker's doleful face at the window is enough to get him moving. He extradites himself from her grasp as gently as he possibly can making certain to replace his shoulder with a pillow and patting her hand gently as he lays it on the mattress. She mumbles sleepily as he drops a reassuring kiss to get forehead.

"Nothing to worry about," he whispers against the crease between her brows. "Be right back."

He pads over to the window and is reaching for the curtains when a movement catches his eye.

"Shit!" He makes a frantic grab for the curtain to cover his dignity and peers out into the night. The moon casts the valley in sparkling white and blackest shadows, and the darkest if them all is the single figure at the edge of the frozen lake. Gordon squints against the windowpane.

"Margot?"

The uneasy feeling he'd managed to quash beneath the thrill of Penelope's affections returns tenfold, hurrying his efforts to pull on a pair of pyjama pants and grab the closest coat. It's pink and smells faintly of apricots. It absolutely does not fit and he doesn't really have time to care. Instead he stuffs his feet into unlaced boots and lurches out into the cold.

It’s really goddamn cold.

He's not quiet as he stomps down to the edge of the lake,but the figure out on the ice pays him no mind, their back to him even when he calls out.

"You okay out there?"

She doesn't turn to face him, but it's definitely her. She's still dressed for the party, her beaded dress trailing from her thick jacket.

"Margot? Margot come off the ice."

At first he thinks she hasn't heard him, but then she looks over her shoulder and smiles. It's a black slash in the moonlight. Her teeth gleam.

"No, I don't think I will."

"Oh for -" Gordon toes at the edge. It's solid, but probably only a couple of inches deep and best and he has no idea whereabouts the spring that feeds it might be. "It isn't safe."

"Then go back." Harsher, "I didn't ask to be followed."

"I -"

"Oh don't bother." She laughs and the mountains seem to laugh with her. The ice creaks. "Thought you'd take a nighttime stroll in your pyjamas and a woman's coat did you? Men always take me for an idiot."

"I really don't." He hesitates, then takes one step onto the ice. Another. Another. She watches his approach with that slash of a smile. "I know this must be difficult for you."

The ice shudders, the vibration reverberating up his spine.

“You don’t have to do this.” He holds out his hand, dares to let his body weight shift ever so slightly toward her. “I can help, just -”

The answering laugh ricochets around the valley and hits him full force in the solar plexus.

“You?” She sneers, dawn breaking behind her and setting the valley aflame. “Gordon Tracy, what possible use could I have for you ?”

Oh.

Oh, now that is a turn up for the books. Swallowing hard, he wills his heart rate to kick it down a notch, concentrates on keeping his voice steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Because you can blame your father for it, you know. So many photographs .” She bares her teeth like a shark coming in for a kill.. “Enough to drive a girl mad . A pathetic little dye job might work on an idiot like Vishkin, but it was never going to work on me. I’d have thought your little spy friends would have known that. Tell me,” she folds her hands together as if in supplication or prayer. “Oh do tell me that you love her again, it was utterly adorable. She's got you wrapped right around her little finger hasn't she? Just like another li ttle lapdog.”

There’s a lot to unpack, there. Like a whole lot. But the ice is snapping in the space between them and it won’t matter who Margot Mearns thinks he is when they’re both drowning in the depths.

“Margot, I swear, if you want to talk we can talk but we need to get off this ice -”

“And there’s that, of course. Dear, heroic Tracy boy. Trying so hard to fix me. Tell me, International Rescue , what’s it like to keep trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?”

“Why wouldn’t you want to be saved?”

“Well, sweetheart, because I intend to save myself.” She opens her folded hands to reveal a little silver box. It’s pink in the dawn light. Innocent. He’d thought Margot was innocent, too. “It’s a shame. It worked so well for years. No-one looks at a woman next to a powerful man, and Vishkin was a sap and an idiot. He's outlived his usefulness. It’s no loss." She sighs as she runs a finger lightly over the detonators surface. “But you, you were cute.”

He has time for one deep breath before the mountainside explodes.

---

Penelope bolts upright, her heart thundering, the remnants of her dream skittering away from her before she can even begin to get it under control.

She isn't usually one for nightmares.

She blinks sleep from her eyes and casts her bleary gaze around the room. It's darker than it was, the curtains drawn, and although the sheets beside her are rumpled they're empty and cold. She swings her legs out of bed and eyes the discarded clothes and shattered comm innards with a professional's seasoned eye. She didn't dream him, then. Not this time.

She's a little unsteady on her feet as she picks her way through the aftermath of her decision, muscles protesting slightly after months of under use. She peeks between the curtains to see a still,perfect night, bright moonlight diffused by the frost patterns on the glass. Almost dawn, then, and Gordon can't have gone far. She swallows the rising feeling that he shouldn't have gone at all and dresses swiftly and warmly. Someone, she certainly hopes Gordon, has lain Pauline's wig on the dresser but instead she reaches for one of his hats, pulling it low over her ears. In fact when she looks around she realises almost all of his ski wear is still in the chalet. Wherever he's gone he's likely wildly under dressed. Not that she minds that, of course, but she can hardly have him getting frostbite.

It’s that blue hour before the sun rises fully, and the valley feels like holding its breath, still, watchful. There are boot prints hidden beneath the frost, and a hushed, urgent whisper that carries across the lake. She can’t make out words, only the crisp, harsh tone of breath gritted out from too-cold lungs, and she finds herself wishing she’d had the forethought to bring Gordon’s ski wear with her. A prickle down her spine, a creak slam of a door, and she wishes she’d had the forethought to bring her gun.

Fifty yards from the edge of the lake, she comes across the source of the sound. The little boat hut door is hanging slightly from its hinges, swaying to and fro beneath its own weight. She’s about to walk by - she will send the carpenters round when this is all nicely concluded - when she spots the slick stain on the ice.

Blood.

She approaches as quietly as she can, back to the wall of the little hut, her ear pressed against it for any sound of movement. She hears nothing, but still she only peeps around the corner, fists ready, and into hell.

There’s a pool of gore glistening black in the moonlight between the old boat and the doorway, and at its centre - at its centre lies realization.

Penelope steps forward until the pool, dark and sticky, laps at the toes of her boots. Colin Vishkin smiles up at her through bloodstained teeth, his unseeing eyes turned toward the faint glow of Thunderbird Five, and for the first time in her life Penelope Creighton-Ward is faced with the terrible truth.

She’s got the whole thing wrong.

She’s failed.

It hits her at the same moment the world goes dark.

---

It's been a long day. Most of John's are. He doesn't really have the time for this.

“Say that again, Parker?”

“‘Er Ladyship ‘as been unexpectedly distracted.” Parker is hissing, his face far too close to his watch, and his one huge eye seems to float, Sauron-like, above Thunderbird 5’s central conn. “Most unfortunate it is, at that. Hi'm reportin' on 'er behalf such as she wishes but if you ask me she'd be better not -”

“Yes, I got that part.” John’s eyes flit over the other readings. Nothing unusual. No sign of any of IR’s personnel alarms being triggered. “Does she need help?”

“Not ‘arf,” sniffs Parker. “Brought the wrong bleedin’ brother if you ask me.”

“Are you - are you calling me because you want me to…” John fumbles for the words then settles on, “extract Gordon?”

Parker blinks. Considers.

“Leave ‘im. Damage was done there years back. Send Mr Virgil out to recover this cargo is what ‘er ladyship said.”

“Lady P wants Virgil to fish some cargo out of the Indian Ocean. Got it. Any particular reason, or?”

“And ‘ere’s me thinking you were the smart one.” The giant eye rolls, and John barely resists the urge to cut the feed. “‘Taint just any cargo this. Ms Margot Mearns 'erself asked me to call you not the GDF. ‘Er Ladyship doesn’t muck about with small time smugglers.”

“Just employs them,” mutters John, reaching for the link that’s been kept open to Penny and Gordon. He’s not bothered to test it since their arrival - hasn’t really had the stomach for it to be quite honest - so it isn’t a complete surprise when it doesn’t immediately spring to life at his touch.

“EOS? Patch me in to Gordon. Signal disruption must be messing with the link.”

A pause, then, “I can’t do that John. The link is disabled.”

John frowns. Turns back to Parker. Somewhere beyond his great disembodied face he hears a sickeningly familiar crack and then -

Shit.

Scott’s going to lose his mind .

----

That first time, Sally heard it on the radio.

It wasn’t a radio, she knows that. Even back then there were a hundred newer, stronger, better technologies than she recalls from her twentieth century childhood. Her boy invented half of them, or paid the man that did.

Still, in her memory, she heard it on the radio.

In the chalet the little ones were tucked up, snoring, and Grant had left the supper to simmer while he headed out to the slopes to call the others home.

Supper burned, and she was on the wrong side of the mountain.

This time, she hears it from John. This time she’s on the other side of the world, tropical sun at her back, but in her heart, oh in her heart she hears it on the radio .

(And the avalanche swallows her whole.)

“Grandma? Grandma are you getting all this?”

"Loud and clear. Scott's on route."

"Scott's here ." Her eldest grandson barrels into the room, hair standing on end, shoulders stiffer than her hip. "Status, Five."

"Unknown. Communications are blocked. I've been unable to raise Parker."

"Anyone on the ground?"

"GDF won't get involved without consulting GCHQ."

" And? "

"GCHQ won't compromise the mission."

Scott presses his knuckles into the desk. Sally can feel the way his body trembles through the wood.

"Compromise the mission, " he scoffs. "Like Penelope's a soldier. "

Sally tried to keep her voice soft, her own fears tamped back in the face of Scott's furious terror.

"In their eyes, she is."

Virgil appears in the doorway,and Sally shakes her head briefly. Extra voices aren't likely to help when Scott's in this state of mind. His head dips and when he lifts it all that anger is directed at John.

"Why weren't you watching . Damn it, John! If you're not watching what's the point ."

John's expression darkens, his fury, so rare but so brutal, radiating from words muttered from behind clenched teeth.

" I'm not a spy, Scott."

"None of us are goddamn - " he runs a hand through his hair and pulls. "I shouldn't have let him go."

"You couldn't have -"

"Stopped him? I could have had him grounded on medical grounds - I could have locked him in his room - I could have- "

"No. No you couldn't." Virgil speaks slowly, tilting his head in an attempt to make eye contact with Scott as he paces. "He's an adult, Scott."

"As his commanding officer I -"

"Enough!" Sally slams her palms down onto the desk and waits for silence to follow the reverberation. "Enough."

"Grandma -"

"Grandma, nothing. We have a situation. Pull it together. John, play the call and raise Alan. We haven't got time for all this posturing."

“I’ll suit up,” says Virgil, already heading for his station, but John stops him with a single shake of his head.

“No can do, Virgil. Two is needed to pull some cargo shipment out of the Indian Ocean.”

“Excuse me, what?” Scott pauses with his shoulders already halfway into their supports. “A cargo collection?”

“It was what Parker was calling about,” says John. “This cargo, whatever it is. It’s what Lady Penelope was after.”

Scott blinks. “Will it be any use to her if she’s dead ?”

“I don’t know , Scott,” John grumbles. “All I know is -”

“If it matters enough for Parker to call it in, then it matters enough for us to do as he asks.” Her three eldest grandsons turn as one to face her. She hears Alan stumbling his way through the kitchen. “Have a little faith, boys. Virgil?”

“On it.”

He disappears. Alan blinks owlishly at her from the other side of the room.

“We go, Grandma? Scott?”

“You’re go,” she tells them, and lets their take off hide her fear.

---

"Scott, stop panicking."

Scott Tracy is the Field Commander of International Rescue, and the Field Commander of International Rescue does not panic.

"Scott?"

John, who clearly doesn't know what he's talking about, floats above One's console with his arms folded like a pissy school teacher.

"I don't panic," Scott grumbles,pushing One just that bit harder. "I'm just busy."

"Busy panicking."

"Busy looking for our brother , or have you forgotten he's already injured and now he's lost somewhere near avalanche central? Cause I'm not panicking, but you could do with looking a tad more concerned."

John's lips narrow until he's wearing what Gordon calls his 'detention face'. "We don't even know that Gordon's involved in this. All we know is that Parker was in the vicinity when -"

"Spare me the hope speech Johnny, please." Scott leans forward into the throttle and One roars in reply. "You and I both know that when Gordon's in the vicinity disaster is pretty much guaranteed."

"Where's Alan?"

"Securing the spare exosuit, why?"

"Because I don't want him listening in while I call you a prick."

Scott scowls. "Glad you're concerned about one of your baby brothers."

"Annnd there we have it." When he's feeling smug John taps his fingers again his upper arm just like dad did - does. Scott hates it. "Gordon isn't a kid, Scott."

The snow-capped peaks of the Alps appear in One's view screen, tinged pink with the dawn light, and Scott knows Gordon isn't a kid - not on paper and certainly not in Four - but in Scott's secret heart Gordon will forever be fourteen, waving his brother off to boot camp while wearing braces and sporting a recently broken nose.

Scott's last act before leaving Kansas had been to ensure the boy who broke it never, ever forgot Gordon Tracy's biggest brother.

He wishes taking vengeance on the world was that easy.

"He nearly died , John."

"But he didn't."

" John ."

" Scott ." John sighs, and Scott finally sees a little of his own fear in the way John scrubs at his tired eyes. "We get into situations like this all the time. We haven't died yet. He won't."

"No," Scott agrees, "he won't." And powers into the dawn.

----

When Gordon was five years old he’d started lifesaving classes down at the Y, and he’d decided very early on that pyjamas were a terrible piece of equipment when a life was at stake. It hadn't helped that mom had sent him with John's and they'd dragged three feet behind him as he'd tried to twist them into floats. He'd ended up tying himself into knots.

They’re not a fat lot of use now, either.

He strikes for the surface by instinct, fighting against the drag of his pants and the searing cold. His shoulder seizes from the exertion and he breaks the ice with a cry he sincerely hopes Mearns doesn't hear. Stupid body. Stupid cold. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He gasps, and chokes. The air isn't cold, it's thick and acrid and sending red embers fizzling through the ice around him. Somewhere he’s sure he hears rotor blades, but that could just be his heart trying to batter its way from his chest. He scrambles from the water, and, still on his knees, twists to scan the spot where he'd last seen Mearns.

She's gone, and in her wake the world is on fire.

The chalets have gone. Only shards of wood like dead trees and sheets of battered roofing remain, flames licking at the sky between the rivers of snow and ice that pour, even as he stares, down the mountainside to swallow them whole.

Fire. The mountain is on fire. The mountain is falling, and Gordon is running, pyjamas freezing against his skin, to try and hold it back.

He’s gotta hold it back. He’s gotta. He’s gotta -

The burning remnants of his chalet - their chalet - disappear beneath the snow with a terrible, hideous crack .

Penny.

Oh fuck, Penny.

The world burns, and Gordon Tracy burns with it.

---

Penelope has always been a great proponent of taking stock of one's surroundings. A strong believer that one should always endeavour to be thorough no matter how perturbing the circumstances might be. Her current circumstances are certainly that. The place she finds herself is dark and cramped. Further observation shows that there appears to be the majority of a wall supported millimetres from her aching head, and, perhaps most distressingly, she appears to be nose to nose with a corpse.

It is fair to say that given the choice this is not her preferred manner of spending any morning, least of all this one.

Cautiously she takes note of her limbs - attached and without any obvious sign of injury - and then of her faculties. Penelope Creighton-Ward. Lady. Twenty six years old and apparently trapped in a boatshed cum mausoleum by forces unknown.

The facts don't necessarily make her feel any better but they're always nice to have.

Vishkin’s glazed eyes peer unseeingly and unsettlingly into her own as she struggles to free herself, what little light there is casting eerie shadows over his livered skin. He’s been dead for hours, his belly swelling, the skin taut and cold as she finally manages to shuffle into a half crouch.

He’d bled to death in this boat house while, yards away, she and Gordon had seen fit to celebrate their victory .

There’s no justice in death. It gives Penelope no pleasure to look down on those black-red teeth as she struggles to steady herself against the sticky ground. And she knows, as surely as she knows her own name, that if Vishkin was already laying dead in this shed, that whatever has trapped her here with him was meant to kill them all. Parker, her team, herself.

Gordon.

Gordon, who had left their bed, under dressed and utterly unprepared for whatever Machiavellian forces awaited him. Gordon, who has no way of reaching his brothers. Gordon, who would be safe at home were it not for her own selfish wants .

It won’t do. None of it.

The air in the tiny crawlspace is thick and growing thicker, and when she dares to rest her cheek against her temporary ceiling she feels the chill of ice right down to her very bones. The only light source seems to come from a cracked wooden panel that hangs over Vishkin’s right shoulder. The air, such as it is, seems to be coming from that direction too.

“I am so very sorry,” she tells the dead man, shuffling on her knees as best she can. “Truly, I am.”

Then, niceties disposed of, she plants her elbows in his distended belly and gets to work.

---

The alpine range covers a huge geographical area, so even the limited information that John does have - they flew into Geneva and now somehow all hell has broken loose - is being rendered utterly useful by sheer scale, both of the mountains and the red tape.

"No luck, Eos?

"I have received no response to your transmission, John. Would you like me to send it again?"

He sighs, watching the little blue blip that represents Thunderbird One flicker in and out of whatever disruptor field is scrambling their communications. On the rare occasions he dies manage to reach One Scott's testy and getting worse. It's been almost an hour since Parker's call had been interrupted by the cracking of the mountainside,and neither John not Scott need a reminder of exactly how long a human being can survive being buried under a glaciers worth of ice.

It's not long enough.

He needs another plan.

"John?"

"Yeah, no. No, they're not interested."

Eos flashes. "We could increase their interest,"

They could. They absolutely could. They could have GCHQ on their knees in ten minutes flat. Four, if Eos helps him compile the code. But.

"I suppose that would be unethical?"

"You suppose correctly, plus we don't want to rescue Lady Penelope only to have to tell her we've lost her her job."

That's when it comes to him. A flash of inspiration that has his fingers skittering over the controls with a speed that makes any human companions gape, wide eyed. Eos doesn't gape. Eos understands.

"I will attempt to open the line to Scott. Co-ordinates are -"

"Close as they're gonna be," he mutters, Five's processors battering their way through the disruptors code. "Ready?"

"Scott? Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird One, Scott, come in."

Static crackles through the unit, and Scott, when he answers sounds as though he's at the bottom of a trench on a planet half a galaxy away.

"-me -n. Five. Ov- go?"

"Scott, I'm sending you my best guess coordinates. I've triangulated from Parker's call and known geographical features of the area, but it's a big area. You'll need to send the drones. Do you copy?"

More static, then "-AB"

One's symbol flickers again, and doesn't return.

John turns his attention to Virgil's progress over the Indian ocean, and watches over the only brother he has left.

---

Armageddon, or something like it.

And Gordon’s dealt with end-of-the-world before plenty of times. It’s his job. It’s his life . But this -

He has no idea what to do.

Thing is, fourth of five. You kinda forget how to be alone.

Because the other thing is, he pretty much never is, not even in the depths of the ocean. It makes no sense that he would be alone here, on semi solid ground.

No Four, no Brains, no John or Eos in his ear. No reassurance from Grandma or nagging from Scott. No Virgil hovering overhead, no jokes from Alan to lighten the mood. Nothing but him, the sagging, burning, frozen chalets, and the absolute certainty that if he doesn’t do something there's a good chance he'll never not feel alone again.

It makes no sense that he's drowning on dry land.

His hair is frozen. There’s bile at the back of his throat. There’s -

There’s a man. A man clambering between shattered, blackened walls. A man with a truly awful moustache.

“Parker?”

The man coughs bitterly and scowls the scowl of the recently and extremely put-out. “The very bleedin’ same.”

And he’ll never admit it, not to anyone , but Gordon suddenly feels hope spark somewhere in his frozen, aching chest.

He runs a rescuer's critical eye over Parker. There's ice in his moustache and his colour is high, but otherwise he seems unharmed.

"What happened?"

"'arf the bleedin' mountain 'appened!" Parker shrugs balefully further into his coat. "Ran for me bleeding life."

“How the hell did you outrun an avalanche?”

Parker narrows his eyes, his gaze fixed on one particular spot just above Gordon’s collarbone that Penny had also been oddly - if pleasantly - drawn to.

“Seems it’s been a night of unlikely successes Mr Gordon, sir.”

“Is that what you call this? Cause I think we have very different definitions.”

Parker glares at him for a moment longer, then peers over his shoulder.

“Where’s her ladyship?”

And every word Gordon’s ever known sticks in his throat. His expression must say them for him.

“Holy Christ,” spits Parker. “Fucking buggering hell. What ‘appened?”

“Bomb,” he manages, because that’s all he can imagine it could have been. “Set off an avalanche. Mearns… probably wasn’t actually the good guy.”

“You don’t fuckin’ say.” Parker grits out. “Blown up and bleedin’ buried an’ all. You go south, I’ll go north. There were ten left on site with you an’ me.”

Gordon wouldn’t know, of course. Gordon wasn’t paying attention. Gordon is a goddamn hopeless idiot.

“Communications?”

Parker just glares.

“Right.” He turns to the spot where he’d last seen Penny. It’s a smouldering, wet smear on the landscape. His feet are too cold, they won’t move. None of him moves, only his heart, every beat echoing in his ears and his throat and the tips of his burning fingers.

Penny. Penny. Penny.

“Gordon! Gordon over here!”

At the edge of where the main chalet had stood Parker is frantically pulling at pieces of plasterboard, scrabbling around until he reveals a faintly familiar bald head.

The guy. The guy with the piano stool. He can’t remember his name. He can’t remember -

“Now hold on Mr Lester, International Rescue is on the way!”

It doesn’t matter what he can remember. International Rescue. That’s him. He’s it.

Gordon skids across the snow to land on his sodden knees. “Lester! Hey, hi, can you hear me?”

Lester blinks up at him. His face is free, one hand pillowed against his cheek, but the rest of him is buried beneath a mixture of snow and ash. He’s as grey as his surroundings, his lips stained scarlet. “Lady - Lady -”

Gordon swallows, afraid to risk a glance at Parker.

“It’s me, it’s Gordon. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

“Every - fire.”

Lester’s eyes are unfocused, his pupils dilated. Blood runs from his nose and the corner of his mouth. Gordon slips his cold fingers between the other man’s cheek and palm and feels the way bone grinds against bone.

“Yeah we sure had some of that, and some of the other too. Can you squeeze my hand?”

He knows he won’t. This isn’t his first rodeo. He smiles encouragingly anyway.

It feels like even more of a lie than usual.

“Verne?”

“Gonna get him right out too, don’t you worry. Everything’s gonna be okay, just hang tight.”

Over the creaking and crackling of the suffocating building comes a new noise. A faint, distant thrum that gets gradually louder until -

"Looks like company." Parker sniffs, looking up. "Knowing our luck it's the bleedin' Hood."

"Hey!" Gordon jumps up, pointing to the sky, the shittiness of the whole situation momentarily forgotten as the drone buzzes it's way overhead. "I know that drone! Hey! Hey !"

The drone stops and hovers overhead long enough for both men to get a good look at the bright IR emblazoned on her side. Gordon almost collapses with relief.

"Son of a bitch, they found us."

A signal relay drops from her belly and Scott’s voice echoes around the valley.

“Gordon Tracy! What in God’s name have you been doing?”

Parker mutters under his breath, but Gordon’s too busy trying to keep his knees from buckling.

“Scotty, I swear, I’ve never been so happy to be yelled at in all my life.”

"I'm not yelling!"

"Totally yelling, but that's okay. Got at least eight trapped here and this fire and ice thing is no fun for any of them, you on it?"

"On it," then a pause. "You okay, Thunderbird Four?"

The use of his call sign makes his shoulders feel a little higher, makes the churning in his belly easier to ignore.

"FAB, One. Now get down here and help ."

“Gordon?”

Parker’s voice is quiet, small.

Lester is quieter still.

“Oh god damn .”

He drops straight back to his knees, takes Lester’s face between his hands and hovers his cheek over his slack mouth.

The only breath he feels is his own, sour and sick and far too quick. Far too quick.

Thunderbird One was too damn slow.

---

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when Scott Tracy enters a room people take notice. When he arrives at a disaster zone, Thunderbird One descending from the heavens like some super shiny Messiah, Gordon is always vaguely shocked if people don't start cheering.

Truth is, it's hard to cheer anything with a dead man's head in your hands.

"I've got this, Mr Gordon," says Parker, gently replacing Gordon's hands with his own. "You go on lad."

Gordon watches the ice crystallise on Lester's parted lips for a moment longer, and then he's running. Running like his life depends on it which, honestly, it probably does.

"Scott! Scott over here!"

Scott, to his credit, does actually engage his jetpack rather than just leaping from the cockpit but it does look to be a close run thing.

"Status?" It's snapped out, Field Commander to Operative, but his hands are already patting Gordon's shoulders, frantic blue eyes scanning him for any more injuries than he'd left with.

"Absolutely fucked," is his first answer, then, as Alan makes a more traditional departure from One's belly, "explosive brought an avalanche down on the top here. We've got at least seven missing." He looks back at Parker. "One deceased."

"Whoa," Alan is lugging the spare exosuit behind him. It's almost twice his size. "An explosion ? How did - and what are you wearing ?"

Gordon grimaces. "You know how they say never meet your heroes? Well really, really don't. "

"All right," says Scott, and whatever worries he must have had about Gordon's own safety must have been assuaged because he's finally stopped pawing at him, "Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Five. Come in John. John?"

"No signal," Gordon says, "like seriously none. Parker managed to call GCHQ but -"

"He didn't call GCHQ," Scott interrupts. "Or they didn't tell us if he did. He called us."

"Oh. Well. Lucky then, I guess "

Scott rolls his eyes. "I guess . Come on, we need lifesign readings stat. Where's Lady Penelope? I assume she set this communication blocker up so she ought to be able to turn it off."

Summoned, Parker rises to join them.

"No 'ope of getting a signal out of here at the minute. Had to climb halfway up a bleedin' mountain to call Mr John, and that was on a temporary line. When we find milady…"

"Whoa, hold up." Scott turns to Gordon with wide eyes. " Penelope's missing?"

It's not a phrase Gordon particularly wants to dwell on, the dam he's thrown up between IR calmness and hysteria creaks unpleasantly under Scott's pitying gaze.

"Yeah, I mean if… if you mean I don't know where she is then yes. Yes, she's missing."

“What are we waiting for!” Alan clamps his feet into the exosuit and stretches for the arms. “We gotta find her, right Scott?”

---

“Right,” says Scott, because that’s Scott’s job. Keep Alan on task. Co-ordinate. Encourage. Stop staring at Gordon, because Gordon is staring into the abyss. Say something. Do something. He has no John, no Virgil. No Dad. Only a brother who’s never failed a rescue, and one who he cannot possibly fail. “And the others, too. Gordon?”

Gordon, and the abyss, stare back. Alan casts a nervous glance in Scott’s direction.

“Gordon? You okay? Thunderbird Four, do you copy?”

“Christ, okay, yeah. I’m on it. Come on Al,” he moves toward the splintered remains of what was obviously once a chalet. There’s blood on the snow where Parker had been kneeling and a scarf carefully laid over a still, wet lump. Scott doesn’t want Alan anywhere near it, but the youngest trots after his elder brother and god, ain’t that always the way.

He wonders how much Gordon remembers of the night their mother died. He wonders if he knows how much of their father Scott sees in him now.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Peachy,” it’s a snarl said with a smile, the sort of smile that precedes hysterics. “We’ve no way of searching for life signs and no way of reaching them if we did. That exosuit is useless without Virgil - we could crush survivors without even knowing they’re there.”

“I’m not gonna crush anyone!” Alan protests, “Come on, we gotta try!”

Scott remembers. He remembers his father’s hands, shiny red and black at the tips. He knows what trying looks like, how futile it can be.

Gordon knows too.

Alan will learn.

God he doesn’t want Alan to learn that today.

Scott looks up to the sky, wishing desperately that he could somehow will Thunderbird Two into existence, then pulls on his gloves, and tries.

---

Thunderbird Two isn’t as quick as One, not as streamlined. She’s built for strength, not speed. Virgil chases Scott’s trails regardless, until they disappear over the horizon and he’s left scouring the ocean below.

Pick up a package. This had better be a hell of a delivery.

John’s floating above the dash, his hands busy with things Virgil can’t see. He assumes John means to be there, he doesn’t know. He’s not said a word since Two was left lumbering over the ocean in Scott’s wake.

“See anything, Five?” he asks, just in case John’s forgotten the connection. “It’s a big ocean if I’m doing this by sight.”

“Working on it,” John says tersely, and Virgil knows that’s probably not true because if John was working on it he’d have solved it by now.

“Not sure what I’m looking for.” Virgil pretends to talk to himself. Lets John off the hook. Whatever hook he’s on. “Did Parker -”

“Fifteen miles to your two o’ clock. There’s something in the water. No engine.”

“Right.” Virgil sets the controls, spares John another glance from the corner of his eye. He’s testy. Stressed. “Scott?”

“Out of range,” comes the semi-spat reply and yeah, that’ll do it.

“Hell of a disruption Lady Penelope’s set up out there.”

“Tell me about it,” John grumbles. “Kayo is going to have a field day with this one.”

Half a mile below, Twos radar picks up something small and metallic. “John?”

“Could be, hang on Two.” In moments the HUD shows the bobbing motion of a shipping container as it floats benignly between two large inflatables. It looks pretty battered. Rusty. Nothing like something Lady Penelope might need. Nothing like something worth dying for.

“You sure, Five? It looks…” like a goddamn waste of time . “Old.”

“It’s the only thing out here without a call sign or an engine.” John looks distinctly unimpressed too. “I can’t imagine what else it could be.”

“I’ll take a look.” Virgil’s already firing the magnetic grappler, already lowering the pod to reel it in. “Like tin can fishing, right?”

“Right,” says John, but his eyes are far away. “Virgil, whatever it is… what’s your eta to Geneva?”

“Forty minutes.” He rises from the pilot’s seat and heads down to the pod, waiting only to hear the metallic clang as the door shuts. John makes an unhappy sort of noise, but Virgil doesn’t hang about to listen. He’s got to check he’s picked up the right package. Could be rusty old car parts. Could be fifty thousand rubber ducks. Could be...

He opens the container with the handheld laser, and keeps it in front of him as he peers inside.

Nothing. Why would Penelope send him after nothing?

Why would she waste their time? Why, when he should be out there at Scott's back and -

Oh.

Oh, crap.

He slaps his baldric, doesn’t even wait for John’s response before he’s saying;

“I’ll be there in thirty.”

---

Her fingers are raw, stinging and bleeding with every splinter she manages to tear away. Sweat drips into her eyes and her lungs ache, but it's okay. It's okay. Gordon's here.

He's a flash of blue and yellow in the corner of her eye, his voice a whisper that scrapes along her breastbone and settles heavy on her heart.

Did you find me Pen? I think I'm lost.

"Not a chance," she spits through the smoke, "not now. I won't allow it. I won't ."

Penny? Penny?

A shove, a tumble, and she leaves him behind in the dark.

---

Nothing Alan says makes any sense.

Gordon hears him okay, he’s using that Super Chipper Here To Save You voice that he always uses when he’s scared on a rescue. Gordon knows that voice. Gordon taught him it.

Gordon doesn’t know when Alan started using it to speak in tongues. It’s irritating.

“You’re being irritating,” he tells Alan. Alan stares at him. Says something in Dutch. “Fuck off.”

Alan doesn’t take the hint. In fact, he’s worse, tugging on Gordon’s jacket, yelling something in Swahili to Dad. Jokes on Alan, Dad can’t speak Japanese.

Hallucinations. There’s something important about hallucinations. Something he ought to know, and really, really he’s going to punch Alan if he doesn’t stop yelling and this coat is too tight and what the hell is hypothermia anywa-

Ah.

“I’m okay. Alan, Alan I’m fine.”

“You’re really not,” says Alan, and it might be in Klingon but that’s okay cause Gordon can speak Klingon. “We need to get you into One and warmed up.”

“We need to get Penny.”

“I’ll get Penelope, Gordon, I promise.”

“I dun- I don’t think you will.” A smile. People like smiles. Smiles get you your own way. “See, she likes me .”

“Gordon -”

“Gordon!”

And then, there she is. The prettiest hallucination of all.

She’s crawling out of a hole in the ground, wet and filthy, and he’s probably going insane but she’s looking at him like he’s the whole world and he’d rather have that than any grasp of his faculties. She scrambles to her feet and Alan stops grumbling in German and bolts toward her.

“Don’t.” She holds up a bleeding hand. “Alan, dear. There’s no-one to save in there. Get…” She stops. Stares. “Oh, my poor team.”

There’s a tragedy here, even his poor addled brain knows that, and Gordon’s told a lot of people about tragedy. He doesn’t want to tell Penny.

“I’ll go help Scott,” Alan says, taking jerking steps backwards in his borrowed suit. “It’ll be okay, Lady Penelope. We got this.”

Alan has not had to tell a lot of people about tragedy. He won’t be the one to tell her, either. Even though Penelope speaks perfect French.

“Vishkin’s dead,” she tells Gordon. “Murdered, I believe.”

Gordon tries to hold the words in his mind, rearranges them until they make sense. His tongue is too big for his mouth, but he tries to reply anyway. It feels important. Like Penny needs him.

“Yeah that’s - that’s pretty much the theme of the day. Was he -”

“Under there? Yes, I’m afraid so.” And she shudders, just a tiny little thing, but he can’t help himself any longer. He pulls her in as tight as he dares, and buries his frozen face in her damp neck.

---

Whatever has changed between his brother and Lady Penelope, Scott’s glad it’s Parker and not him who has to interrupt their reunion to retrieve her Ladyship’s compact and send the codes for the disruptor to EOS.

What GCHQ will make of one of their own sending their data to a sentient AI with a known habit of holding a grudge, Scott doesn’t especially care. Not when his baldric lights up like a Christmas tree as every comm line seems to burst into life at once. And over them all, clear and unfathomably welcome;

"Thunderbird Five to alpine site, communications have been restored. Do you read me? Repeat, do you read me?"

Scott slaps his communicator before John even manages to draw breath

"Thunderbird One requesting immediate assistance. We still have five missing, John, scan for life signs."

"FAB," John says, all business, then, "your flock accounted for?"

Scott risks a glance over to One where Gordon, encased in half a dozen aluminium blankets, is wrapping a similarly attired Penelope's hands in gauze. She looks down at him with an expression of such fondness that Scott can't help but feel a little bit creepy.

"Yeah, the black sheep's here all right, he's currently - well. I'll tell you later."

"I strongly suspect I don't want to know. Got them! All five, but Scott some are very weak."

"Patch them through. I don't know what we're going to be able to do with the equipment we've got but -'

"Hold that thought."

"Virgil!"

Scott doesn't quite run for Thunderbird Two with outstretched arms as she lowers herself to the ground a safe distance from the danger zone,but it's a very close run thing.

"The very same. Send me those details, John. Scott, tell Alan to get out of my suit and grab a pod. We've got some digging to do."

---

Trying is one thing when you’re sharing a bed. It’s quite another when you’re barely sharing a planet. Penelope sits in her parlour, her compact set next to the cooling tea on the occasional table, her still sore hands resting in her lap.

Mearns is gone. No sign of her on the GDFs patrols. No word through MI6’s impressive grapevine. It feels more personal, somehow, to be the collateral in someone else’s game plan. So Mearns is out there somewhere and Lester and Vishkin are dead, and Penelope has nothing to show for it but a palm full of scars and the way Gordon looks at her, small and transparent, from the edge of her teacup.

The worst thing is how she can’t quite bear to think it wasn’t worth it.

He moves as though attempting to peer around her. “Parker’s not there is he?”

“Not in the immediate vicinity, no.”

Gordon lets out a relieved huff and settles back against the headboard. “Good.”

“You can’t possibly be frightened of Parker.”

“Plenty of people have very good reasons to be frightened of Parker. He sent me down the sewer, remember?”

Penelope dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “That was before. ”

“Yeah, exactly. I bet it’d be a whole bunch worse now. Now he’ll put me down there in pieces. Really tiny pieces, Pen. Like those damn canapes he’s so fond of.”

She grins. “Calamari?”

“You can go off people you know.”

Penelope hums, tilting her head to one side. “I’ll take your word for that. Your hair’s back to normal.”

“Yeah.” He ruffles a hand through sleep-flattened curls and Penelope’s fingers twitch reflexively in her lap. “John said he found it ‘deeply troubling.’”

She laughs, quiet and low.

“Poor John.”

“Yeah.” And now Gordon’s not quite looking at her. “I think I’ve stressed him out a lot recently.”

“It isn’t your fault, you know,” Penelope tells him. “None of what happened is your fault.”

“I let her blow up the building, Pen. Vishkin’s dead. You could have died.”

“But I didn’t.”

Gordon huffs. “Does that work on you when I say it?”

“Not at all, no.”

They stare at each other, half a planet apart, and Penelope is horrified to find tears pricking at the backs of her eyes.

“I’m so sorry I lied to you.”

“What, about the communications? That saved us, Pen. If John hadn't failed to get through -”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Tiny blue Gordon balks, fizzling briefly out of existence against the edge of her teapot.

“Oh. Okay. Uh - what do you mean, then?”

“That I lied about why I wanted you to come.”

“You mean you didn’t need my impressive spycraft skills?” He presses a hand against his chest. “You wound me.”

“No I -” she shakes her head. “I was a coward. A terrible coward. I should have just told you from the start.”

He drops his hand then. Tilts his head to one side, voice soft.

“Told me what?”

“A hundred things.” She takes a deep breath. Lets the not-quite-right words fall from her on the exhale. “I miss you.”

His image crumples then reforms closer and when he smiles, oh when he smiles it’s like they’re back in their chalet, cocooned in the white sheets with nothing between them but lives built on secrets and lies so much less frightening than the truth.

“Yeah,” he says, always so very much braver than her. “Yeah, Pen. I love you, too.”

#thunderbirds are go #penelope creighton-ward #gordon tracy #pen and ink #thunderbirds are go fic #im telling you i do not make the rules around here #clare vs writers block #new fandom same bullshit

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1stunseeliefaelass · 4 years

Text

Darksiders Arthurian Tales Revisited

Chapter 26: Hauntings Ancient and New

"To be honest...I want to protect the ones I care about. And my Mama calls our home a tavern, but it's really a brothel. My Mama and the girls mean a lot to me, they were there for me when no one else was. Seeing the abuse some of those girls endured....just made me want to protect them. Mi familia." Arn tells her after some thought.

"That's a very honorable virtue you have. I hope you get to see your family again." Anna replies taking his hand.

Arn feels a warmth he's been missing for a long while. Course then his stomach interrupts that for him. He turns bright red as Anna giggles at the massive growl that comes from it. Luckily their food comes on down soon enough. Anna begins savoring her meal of lamb chops happily, whilst Arn enjoys a juicy steak inside broth. Arn's eyes widen as he savors the first bite, before he begins devouring it quickly. He stops halfway into it though as Anna is holding back the urge to giggle again. That and he can sense a possible boot about to be thrown his way. So he cleans up his manners and begins eating slowly like Anna is doing. He then chooses to pay for the meal to be a gentleman, since he has money from his arena winnings. Anna is thankful but decides to pay for a dessert for both of them to share. A pretty hefty ice cream sundae clearly made for two. Anna gets all giddy each time their spoons come close. Arn then gets an idea and asks if she'd like a bite of the ice cream flavor on his side. Anna nods accepting it, and lights up with delight as he spoon feeds her the bite. Her ears flitting to and fro to Arn's own delight. He's then surprised by Anna doing the same for him. His tail pops out and wags a little bit as he accepts the bite, then her smile makes his ears flit as hers are doing. Anna sees his tail is out and decides to reveal hers too, feeling comfortable enough around him. Oddly enough, it's got a cream colored tip that looks a bit like a heart. Arn can't help but comment on it.

"That is kinda cute."

Blushing a little Anna tells him, "Really? I used to get bullied for it."

"At least you have some color. Mine is just black.", Arn says raising his tail to show her.

"The guys who teased me probably would've liked you. They were all for solid colors, and compared me to a fox."

"I likely would've made them eat their words. Plenty of girls I knew had pretty fur colors." Arn states with conviction.

"Really? Shame we only met today. Would've enjoyed such a sweet protector."

Arn chuckles before saying, "And I probably would've liked having such a beauty for company, a f-friend even...if n-not more."

Anna giggles and blushes hard, "You really think I'm pretty?"

"Yes. Y-you're pretty. B-beautiful even!" Arn quickly shouts in extreme nervousness before holding his mouth shut.

Anna is surprised by that proclamation of course, "Oh wow....that's...gotta be the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me."

Arn flattens his ears and tucks his tail as he gets a bit more embarrassed, "I'm sure there's been other people who t-t-t-thought so."

"Actually aside from my parents and family, not really. Although.....if you're saying that....does it mean that you like.....that I'm your....eh uhm......you know your....c-c-crush I guess?" Anna inquires shyly as her own ears flatten too.

He is silent for a while before he finally replies, "I guess so."

Nergal suddenly comes up asking, "Do you wish to have a bit chardonnay, brandy, or bourbon? Or maybe a nice shot of gin? Or maybe you two lovebirds....wait sorry no... would you two adolescents like some absinthe?"

All of sudden Esmie pops in, "Oh no you don't amigo, get over here."

"I'm sorry but I'm assisting." Nergal explains before she jumps up and grabs him by the ear.

As the two begin bickering a bit, Anna glances at Arn before motioning away from the area. She then finally whispers to him as he doesn't get it.

"Let's get out of here."

Arn gets a moment of realization before quickly nodding and vacating with her right away. Esmie doesn't notice they're gone until Nergal chuckles a bit to himself.

"Wait....where did they go?"

"My work here is done." Nergal states before turning to walk off with Esmie still on his ear.

"Usted hijo de puta!" Esmie shouts before smacking him across the face, to no reaction whatsoever from him.

"Hmhmhmhm....That won't do much good. Now let's get going so that the couple can enjoy themselves. And also....kindly remove yourself from my ear. I'm not into rabbit foot bling." Nergal simply tells her.

"Oh calla ojete." Esmie tells him annoyed before letting go finally.

Nergal just laughs at her, "Question? Do you have anyone in your life? Aside from your son, any other man in your life?"

"I do not. As a businesswoman, I lack the time most other ladies have. It would benefit Arn to have a male presence in his life sure, but the regular bounty hunters from the local guild would likely do just fine. They're all good men, the lot of them. Although that Sygr fellow is.....actually nevermind. Forget I said anything." Esmie explains.

"So are you into giants yourself?"

"Shut. It." Esmie tells him a bit miffed.

"Already pushing buttons? Hmm, usually it takes longer. Perhaps what I said wasn't appropriate then. Maybe Sygr just reminds you of someone. You did say your friend, Arn's Father Argus, was a demon didn't you?"

"Watch it."

"Just how close were you two?" Nergal asks her, knowing full well what's coming.

Esmie about goes into her full form, but just as quickly holds back. Placing her hands on a nearby bench as she takes a few deep breaths. Finally she looks back at Nergal when she's absolutely sure she won't explode, "It's none of your business, not a story for you. Now leave it be."

"What kind of nightmare happened with you? Do tell, I'm rather interested. You tell, I tell. Simple enough?" Nergal questions her sitting down on that very bench.

"Argus and I were always friends. It never went further.....although I sometimes wish it did. I enjoyed his company, his personality, and even his appearance. But I knew better than to be a homewrecker. So when Argus began speaking of Clawdette, I let him have her. I never once got in their way, even viewed Clawdette as an older sister of sorts. She was tough, no nonsense, and while somewhat feral she was still caring. I was never jealous of her, not once. Their deaths both hit me harder than I care to admit. I kept it hidden from Arn as he grew, but I couldn't hold it together forever. Not all the time. You've no idea how many times I drank myself stupid over them. Or how much worse it got after Arn was taken away from me. I try to be strong, only to end up back in the pit."

"What's that like? The pit? I've never been in it, at least to my current knowledge."

"When I say pit, I mean depression. That feeling of just pure emptiness. Like nothing has meaning. That feeling that keeps you up at night, the feeling you get that ensures you don't want to leave your bed in the morning. You just become so indifferent to almost everything and everyone. You stop paying attention to what's around you. You wallow in your own self pity, pain, suffering, or whatever may have brought you to that ever swallowing pit of despair."

"Well then, I guess I was born in this pit." Nergal responds simply.

Esmie gets a shocked expression and immediately questions, "How is that even possible? To be born into perpetual depression?"

"Try being born without the capability to express emotions properly. With them being distant or none existent at times. Them being overbearing almost difficult to handle. To have a need that you know will never be fulfilled. Knowing someone loves you, but you cannot love them back. But you must try, or else your purpose is no longer necessary in your eyes. Or seeking someone's approval, that you'll never get. I dunno if that's a pit but, it somewhat fits your description."

"Sounds like a mix of that and borderline sociopathy. Course I could just not know you well enough yet. You said you knew someone loves you at least, even if loving them is damn near impossible. So do you perhaps have the ability to express things like compassion or empathy?", Esmie inquires calmly.

"Based on what I can remember, compassion is an interesting emotion. It's....it's hard to describe. To feel remorse for something that is insignificant or is that incorrect?"

"You're way off. Remorse is to put it simply, feeling bad for something you have done. Compassion is just being kind and the ability to be that way. Giving kindness for the sake of it and for the sake of others. Sometimes even yourself to feel good for the day." Esmie explains.

"Ah I see....I have found I can be kind. At least according to the woman I share a bed with. If you count tree roots as a bed anyway." Nergal states before noticing Esmie's weird expression, "She's a Dryad."

"Oh ok, now I get it. But Dryads can read others extremely well, better than most demons I daresay. If she says you're kind, then surely she's correct. Does she tell you you're anything else? That you have certain things to you that you may not notice?"

"She tells I'm often cold and distant, and yet warm and close. It's very strange. I'm a very messed up individual by your standards. I need to go find some food of my own now though. Why don't you think upon the Sygr situation, I'm going to a tavern and probably going to make a man question his drinking problems." Nergal explains before walking off.

Esmie is unsure of what to make of the situation but decides to consider how being with Sygr might pan out for her. Where as Morgen and Death have finally returned for the books she requested. As expected, there was precious little. In fact the 'book' itself, was incredibly small and shaped like a heptagon with a seven pointed star etched on the front cover for a design. The cover was simply a darkened leather with pages that looked extremely old. Even the language it was written in baffled Morgen.

"I'm sorry miss, but this is all I could find. I'd have told you it's contents if I could read the language. But it's not one I know." The elder pixie librarian told her.

"It's quite alright. I half expected there'd be nothing. Oh well, we'll just bring these back to our carriage for now. Thank you...oh and of course here's money to replace their vacant spaces."

Death then picks up the heavy box of spellbooks and other books in general and heads out to drop it off at the carriage. Morgen stays behind to pay for it all of course. Then she joins Death outside.

"Sorry to make you do that heavy lifting. Hopefully you're healed enough after every...."

"Believe me I'm fine."

Morgen then looks back towards the old path and shudders, "I severely doubt those guards are though."

"Yeah but we likely would've had to kill them ourselves if they weren't hollow statues now. Let's just be glad we were spared an unneeded fight. So I'm guessing the language of the book is unknown to you as well?"

"I've looked through it, and I can't say I recall it's meaning. I feel like I should know what it's saying and yet I don't." Morgen expresses a bit discouraged.

Death pauses as he's tying the box down and gently places a hand under her chin. He then lifts her face up, "Hey now, don't get discouraged. Perhaps it's part of your memories, and you just haven't reached that part yet. So what if you don't recall? Memory is rarely perfect, sometimes it's even wrong all together. Now...where is everyone?"

"Thank you Death. And I don't know." Morgen replies looking around a bit confused before continuing, "Maybe we could just rest in the carriage for now? Wait until everyone is back."

"Or perhaps we could actually do something else around the village for a bit. A simple walk perhaps?" Death suggests offering his arm.

Morgen snickered softly but wrapped her arm in his, "Look at you being all open to enjoying social activities Mr. Antisocial."

"Said Ms. Social Butterfly, who wanted to rest in the carriage for the rest of the day." Death points out.

Morgen rolls her eyes as Death chuckles a bit. They walk past the tavern Nergal's in and notice a man looking very much drained. Then a few more are seen as they pass it by. They decide to avoid the tavern for now and focus on enjoying the walk together. Course they do stop for a bit of dinner as well. Morgen mostly tells Death a few of the nicer stories about her childhood as he listens intently. Course she does eventually coax him into telling a few stories himself. Such as any about how he met his friends and a few regarding his family members. Ultimately the two enjoy each other's company.

Arn and Anna meanwhile had decided to go see the secret place Anna mentioned before. After following an ancient looking pathway with ivy and other plants covering it, Arn saw it. A ruined castle like fortress that had clearly seen a battle once. One that was a massacre from what he could gather as he observed the skeletal remains of knights around him. What he didn't expect, was that he only saw knights of Uther's kingdom. No other combatants' bodies lay around there. Either none of the enemy died, they were each other's enemies for some reason, or something different happened. Arn briefly thought he could hear the sounds of the men's battle cries and deaths in the air around him.

Anna's voice suddenly pierced through to him, "Hey Arn, you ok over there? You kinda spaced out for a second."

"Yeah I'm fine.", Arn replied before focusing on her and avoiding the skeletons.

The two then began to enter the ruins proper. Arn found the fact that there were more skeletons inside to be VERY disconcerting. Course Anna came up to him and held his hand.

"It's ok, they're not gonna come to life I promise. They never have. Yeah they're a little scary at night but they're just remains...right?" Anna told him with a bit of nervousness.

"Well let's not try to disturb them. I get the feeling they didn't die peacefully.", Arn says even wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

Anna blushes after a slight jump but quickly tells him, "Yeah uhm...let's not disturb them. The main building is my favorite place, it's got lots of interesting things in there."

"Right." Arn responds as she guides him to the main building.

The two then enter and the foyer holds many hallways that have been ravaged by both fires and time. Anna only leads him down the main one though, as it's the least cluttered. It leads to massive double doors and the two find ancient stairs behind them. They manage to hold up surprisingly, but Arn is still nervous about it as they go up. Finally at the top, Anna pulls him by the hand to a specific room. On the door of it are many intricate designs pertaining to the moon, night sky, and stars. The name plaque that was once on it was broken off at the intial, an M. Inside the room was a gorgeous bed that looked WAY too pristine for such an derelict place. In fact, most of the room looked to be in mostly good condition. Aside from occasional broken small items across the floor. Arn also sees a portrait that's torn in a specific place, lifting the torn part up, he sees an eerily familiar face.

Anna notes his reaction and comes over, "Something wrong?"

Arn shakes his head and drops the torn piece, "Nothing...just an old painting."

"Right. Well I guess the white haired lady is very pretty huh? I always wonder who she was. She always seems so happy in that portrait with the other knights. Do you think she had a good life? Or do you perhaps think more cynically than me?"

"I don't know...but she does look very happy." Arn states simply.

He does smirk a bit however. Knowing that despite everything, Morgen still has days when she smiles just as brightly.

Anna of course picks up a nearby book and hugs it, "This is her journal, at least I think it is. I know you're not supposed to read them, but....it's been such an inspiration for me. I wish I could've met her. Everyone always says she was a kind woman when I ask them. That she was always willing to help those who needed her. While not as good in fight as her fellow knights, she'd use her magic to defend and heal all she could."

Arn thinks for a minute before saying, "You speak of her like she was your role model."

"She is in a way. Do you wanna see her armor? It's still all nice and shiny. It's in this walk in closet over here." Anna asks as she hurries over to the doors.

Arn follows her and is in awe with her when he sees it, "Looks like it never saw a day of wear."

He feels however in the back of his mind that something is amiss, but can't quite place it. Instead he looks upon the set in more awe. The designs are as intricate as they come, which makes sense given that Morgen is a princess. The theme surprised him however, white and silvery blue for the colors with unicorn styled ornaments on it. Hanging off the pauldrons were tiny white unicorn horns on thin chains. The helm of sorts had a short unicorn horn attached to the front, the horn itself being cresent shaped. Aside from those decals, were moon and night designs mixed with scenes of unicorns that looked straight out of vintage paintings. Little do he or Anna know however, that a certain spirit has been stirred by their presence. Anna however keeps Arn busy so they remain oblivious as he approaches the room slowly.

"Her armor is just so beautiful, I'll bet when she wore it she was even more beautiful as a result."

"I'm sure she would...Anna...I have something to say..." Arn starts to say when he suddenly notices something in the armor, a reflection behind them of a figure. He suddenly shouts, "Get Behind Me!", drawing his long knife and putting Anna behind him to face the figure.

They find a ghostly knight before them who asks them two simple questions, "Why have you come? What do you want with this place?"

"What's it to you?", Arn responds making sure Anna is safely behind him.

"I once lived in these halls. I served the lady whose room and closet you're currently standing in. I defend this place even in death from intruders who would do harm here. So I will ask once more, and once only. WHY HAVE YOU COME AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?" The knight booms down at them.

Arn growls before he finally answers, "We didn't mean any harm. We were just looking around, nothing was taken."

"You will leave then, now. I see no reason for you to remain in this place of death. Nor do I see why you..." The knight explains before pointing at Anna, "...need to keep coming back here after tonight."

Anna protests of course, "Uh please....I've never taken anything. I always leaves things where they belong."

"Yet you continue to VIOLATE the privacy of my fair lady. Something she valued highly above most things aside from her duties to this realm."

"She inspires me! I never meant any harm! I love her story and if anything looked too personal I wouldn't read it. I always skipped those more personal bits." Anna pleads.

"Your intent may not have been bad. But I cannot let this slight go. I can only forgive it if you leave and never return. There's nothing here for the living, not anymore."

Arn however has his own two gilt to give, "What do you know of your lady? What she has become?"

"Who are you to ask me that? A child of wolf and....something else. Something....older. Far older than me."

Arn grits his teeth, "Watch what you say ghost."

"I have no obligation to you. I'm already dead so your threats mean nothing boy. Besides, even a young wolf from the arena is no match for the dead. Especially a knight who has disciplined himself in combat when compared to a savage gladiator."

"I WARNED YOU!" Arn shouts before charging the ghost.

The knight sighs before simply grabbing him by his head. With this act he slams Arn into the ground once before releasing him, "That will be your only warning child. Leave now while I'm still in a decent mood. I won't harm you further so long as you follow my instructions."

Arn gets up and growls before going to charge again. Anna however grabs his arm, "Stop it. Let's just go.....even if it means....I can't come back anymore..."

Arn notes her voice cracks and sees her beginning to cry. He relents, but tells the knight, "This is not over. You will see reason yet."

"And yet you failed to until just now? Believe me. There's nothing left to this folly. Just leave." The knight replies simply.

Anna then leads Arn away to leave the area, whilst the spirit remains in the room. His lonely vigil ever present, even in his demise.

Arn hugs Anna as they walk away outside, "I'm so sorry Anna. It's probably my fault he's being so harsh to you. But I promise I'll make sure you can keep going back there whenever you wish."

"How....how can you promise that?" Anna inquires as she sobs.

"Let's just say, I know somebody he'll have to listen to." Arn tells her.

"About what he said....the knight. What was he talking about?"

"Uhm....well you know I'm Werewolf. But the other part of me....it's something even scarier. I don't want to discuss it, but a lot of people hate the race my Father came from."

Anna looks at him sadly, "Oh. That sounds pretty shitty of them."

"People have good reasons to hate the race. But not everyone in the race was or is a bad person. At least Mama says my Father certainly was always better than his kin usually were."

Anna finds herself confused, but ultimately continues to question him, "What about the other part? Where he compared you to a gladiator?"

"I was in.......the arena...until recently. I was captured as a child....and forced to fight most of my life. Fighting at an early age has its privilege....and its price." Arn tells her reluctantly.

Anna looks horrified, which Arn expected, what he wasn't expecting is why she was horrified, "How much have you suffered?"

"More than I care to describe Anna. Anyway, can we...change the subject at least? Please? I really, REALLY don't like talking about this. Lot of bad memories from that place still haunt me." Arn implores of her.

"Oh of course. Sorry to bring that up."

"It's ok. You deserved to know. I kinda owed you for getting us kicked out of there." Arn replies.

"I don't blame you Arn. It wasn't your fault. I should've known I wouldn't be welcome." Anna tells him softly as her tears slowly begin to dry.

"Now let's go talk to that person I think will talk some sense into him."

Esmie soon spots the two and immediately hurries to Arn, "What happened niño? Why is your nose bloody?"

"I'm fine Mama, just a grumpy old ghost. I need to talk to Morgen about him in fact. Where is she?"

"On a walk with Death. They're actually nearly back from what I can see. Why don't you head back to the carriage. I suspect we'll be leaving soo.."

"Mama please, just a bit longer. Besides, it may take a while for Morgen to help us out." Arn protests to her.

Esmie sighs at him, "And what could she possibly need to help you with niño?"

"The ghost that apparently fucked up my nose. He's guarding the place we were at and is being an ass. Especially in regards to Anna. I promised I'd help her continue to be able to keep going back to her favorite place. It's really important to her Mama. Please."

Esmie thinks silently for a moment before hearing Death question her, "Why is it that Arn looks like he was hit recently?"

"Arn actually has something to tell you and Morgen. It involves the thing that did this to him." Esmie explains simply, to Arn's relief.

"Really? Well out with it then, what happened?" Death asks.

"A ghost is haunting the ruins Anna brought me to. He was pissed off and has banished Anna from ever going back. But the ruins should have significance to Miss Morgen, and the ghost knight claims he served her. So I figure maybe he'll listen to reason if Morgen talks to him." Arn tells him.

"Was he vengeful?"

"I don't think so. He only bashed me into the ground once, and I.....kinda...was a.....a dick....I deserved it." Arn admits rubbing his neck.

Death facepalms, "What did you do?"

"Charged at him because he provoked me."

He then sighs, "Of course you did."

Morgen inquires of Arn however, "You said he was a knight, correct?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Pray tell, why banish Anna when it was you who attacked?" Morgen asks calmly.

Anna then timidly steps forward, "I sometimes g-go into an old room there....it has a journal t-t-that I'm guessing is yours.....I'm so sorry for reading it. It just inspired me so much."

Morgen pulls the young girl into a hug as she begins crying, "Easy there my dear. Granted I'd not recommend reading anymore journals. But I do not mind that you read mine. In fact, I'm glad those dismal pages inspired you in some way. Is this really why he's denying further entrance?"

Anna can only nod and sniffles a bit. Causing Morgen to gently stroke her head in a Motherly way. Death can tell by the look in her eye, and on her face, that somebody is getting a stern talking to now.

"You're actually going to talk to that spirit?" Death questions her.

"Yes. For her sake and the sake of others who may go there. The only beings I don't want there, are anyone that would steal from it or cause harm to the place. We're going."

Death sighs to himself, "I suppose I better come with you then. Just in case either his spirit, or someone else's has a vengeful moment."

Morgen nods and lets Death follow her. They come along the path and Death soon begins to feel the agony of many dead beings. Clearly a battle had taken place and he sees just how right he is when he and Morgen reach the fort. Morgen walks around the bodies a bit lost looking as Death starts hearing the voices of those who died in the battle. Course he knows he wouldn't normally hear it unless the area was haunted. He then finally goes over to Morgen as she's examining a body.

"Are you alright?"

"I knew these people...all of them....they fought...and....d-died...for me that day..." Morgen tells him with a crack in her tone.

Death helps her up from the ground before gently holding her, "You don't have to be here Morgen. I'm sure Arn and the girl will understand given your connection to the tragedy here."

"It was MORE than just a tragedy. This was a MASSACRE. All because I was spending more of my time here than at home. Away from HIM." Morgen says with a bit of anger mixed into the sadness.

"You say that as if you believe it's..."

"It WAS MY FAULT!" Morgen shouts at him.

Death remains calm though, knowing full well how overwhelming a haunting can be on someone within it's radius. Mentally, physically, and even emotionally. He gently strokes Morgen's head and tells her, "This wasn't your fault. These men chose to defend you, because you were WORTH saving. Because you ARE worth saving."

Morgen looks up at him in surprise and goes to reply before someone else speaks up, "He is right my lady. I knew the risks, we all did. Even those who survived this horror knew. Only very few of us did. I and those who remain upon these grounds never doubted you. The Reaper speaks true, you are and always were worth saving to all of us."

The two look upon the ghostly knight and Morgen asks him, "Tell me...how long have you remained here? How long has it been since we last spoke....Sir Alphonse?"

"Not yet long enough for you to have forgotten me it seems." Alphonse tells her simply.

"Your voice is as distinct as I recall it to be. As are your manners with guests it seems."

"You're speaking of the boy and girl from earlier?"

"Yes, I am. I can understand you wanting to defend me and any of my things that remain here. But I cannot let you bully or harm people. Especially those under my protection. Besides, the girl Anna doesn't strike me as ill intended. She can keep coming here if she so chooses as I see it. Do I make myself clear on that?" Morgen states authoritatively.

"Transparently your highness. Forgive my transgression, I only meant to keep your secrets as just that, secrets. I remember how important privacy was to you."

Morgen only sighs, "I forgive you, but I will say that I'm at least trying to work on telling people things that need to be said."

"Good. Perhaps you'd like to see what remains here? And take what you were unable to?" Alphonse asks her.

"I suppose I can. Assuming either of us can carry it all."

"As I lived to serve you, I can aid you in this as well my fair lady. No offense to your companion of course." Alphonse states.

"Pardon?" Death questions him.

"I would assume she chose you for companionship given the way you held her a moment ago. Not to mention the way you spoke to her."

"I....uh.....fair enough." Death says awkwardly.

"It seems I'm right to assume then. Given your reaction. Anyway, just this way, and be mindful. The place is old enough to be falling apart because of more than just unrepaired, burnt wood."

"Hmm, well lead on." Death replies with Morgen following alongside him.

Morgen is amazed at how well kept her old room appears aside from a few fallen objects, "How is this room so pristine?"

"A certain....'pest' who keeps coming back. And no I don't speak of the girl."

"There have been other visitors?" Death inquires.

"Yes only a few though. Usually the villagers will leave flowers on occasion to commemorate all we did for them. It's...always a good sight everytime they hold their memorial festival too. So I don't bother the villagers usually. I only got cross with Anna because she was reading your journal and learning secrets of yours. However, there is one man I keep tryng to turn away. He always comes by every few nights hoping I'll miss him. Occasionally he does escape my notice, with some small 'trinket' or two as well."

"That explains why you were so quick to judge Anna. Even so, would I know this person?" Morgen inquires.

"You would. One of your 'suitors' from some years back."

Morgen facepalms next, "I THOUGHT I made it VERY clear as to why I called things off between us."

Death then looks at her shocked, "Wait let me get this straight, you have an ex?"

"Yes. I had hoped he got it through his head though."

"Clearly not if he's sneaking in here and making off with your property." Death expresses with a bit of sarcasm to his tone.

Morgen shakes her head in annoyance before walking out of the room for a moment. Course she hears something that annoys her even more once she's out the door. With her eye twitching, Morgen seeks out the source of the noise. Only to find a cloaked figure coming through a window down the hall.

"Aleyn, what are you doing?"

The figure freezes a bit before turning around slowly, "Morgen? Is that you?"

"Who else would I be Aleyn?"

"I don't know that ghost that hates my guts?"

"Gee I wonder why he would hate you. There a reason you keep coming here to take little things I own?"

"You never came back until now. I suspected you never would after what happened. I had hoped you wouldn't either." Aleyn tells her before freezing again.

"Excuse me?"

"Look Morgen maybe we could talk about it more in a place that isn't haunted by an angry ghost?"

Morgen eyes him suspiciously for a moment, but finally tells him, "Fine. But you're helping bring what's left of my things here to my carriage. And if you say a SINGLE WORD against my current companion, you'll be walking home instead of 'talking privately'."

Aleyn laughed nervously, "Right....heheh...wait you've moved on?"

"I have. What of it?"

"Oh eh...nothing....something to talk about in our private talk later."

Morgen gets suspicious of him all the more but lets him follow her. When he and Death see each other, Death gives a judgmental stare whilst Aleyn gulps.

"Ha-have you come to take his soul?" Aleyn asks nervously pointing at Alphonse.

Alphonse facepalms, "Can I kill him now?"

"No, he's useful for now. Besides I can't afford to make anymore enemies. Having Uther's ire is bad enough." Morgen says.

"So it's true? You ran away from home again? Is it also true that you took Arthur as well?"

Morgen nearly defends herself but Death speaks up, "Her Uncle got her and Arthur out whilst I was rescued by Barrcus. A far better Father to her than Uther ever will be. And given you seem to have sympathy for Uther, does that make me the better man of the two of us?"

"Watch your tongue you son of a whore! You don't know her like I do!"

"Says the man who probably has her underwear tucked away in his bedroom, among other little things of Morgen's. Stalker much?" Death says sarcastically.

"How DARE you? I would NEVER do something so uncouth as to take a woman's undergarments."

"Then what did you take? It had to have been small enough for your shrimpy arms to carry." Death inquires smirking a bit.

Aleyn growls before saying, "That's none of your business."

"Maybe not but it's certainly mine." Morgen tells him firmly.

"Ah....uhhhh....right....well your perfume...some of your make-up that you rarely ever wore....I NEVER WORE IT MYSELF!" Aleyn quickly replies nervously.

"Uh huh. What else?"

"I actually found the wedding dress you would've worn to our wedding and...."

"OK HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! You are NOT about to tell us you do some fucked up role-playing involving that dress are you?" Death asks sounding concerned.

"NO! Now if you DON'T MIND I shall explain. I just keep it around my home as I figure you probably won't want it. Or if you ever did, I'd have it in pristine condition for you." Aleyn admits.

"Aleyn, you've no reason to keep it. Sell it or give it away. I never liked that dress anyway. Uther picked it out and it just....didn't suit me."

"You looked like a goddess in it."

"A goddess about to raped by Zeus himself maybe." Morgen retorts sarcastically.

Death actually laughs and questions them both, "Just what did this dress look like? I must know now. Just to sate my curiosity."

"Are you sure Horseman? I remember that eyesore way too well, personally I'd rather go through my death all over again than see Morgen walk down the aisle with that HORRIBLE 'dress'." Alphonse states firmly.

Morgen reluctantly shows him with her memories and Death laughs even more, "Hahahaha! I didn't think you could refine sexuality.....Hahahahahahahaha! Seriously seeing that dress reminds me of The Great Gatsby!"

Morgen snickers at that, "Come to think of it, I think it was around the twenties when Aleyn and Uther found that dress." She can only laugh as Death nearly hits the floor.

Even Alphonse laughs with them before Aleyn defensively asks Death, "Well then BARBARIAN, what would YOU have her wear? What wedding dress could you see her in?"

"Technically it's bad luck..huff haaaah...to see one's bride before the wedding...huuuuuuh ahhhh...so I can't really imagine it...now can I?" Death says sarcastically as he catches his breath.

"Cut the sarcasm and just answer damn you!"

"Fine then if you insist that much ya creep." Death tells him a bit annoyed before answering, "If I must give an opinion, sure I could see her in a strapless. But honestly a silvery blue would absolutely make her pop with beauty. She's called the Moon Witch is she not, why not make her rival the moon itself on such an occasion? It would definitely give the saying 'I love you to the moon and back' quite the new meaning I'd say."

Morgen's eyes light up at Death's words and she shyly inquires, "So does that mean you...?"

"Yes."

"I didn't even fini..."

"You didn't need to. I've heard similar questions before. Trust me, I know what you were about to ask. You wanted to know if what I said means I find you as beautiful as the moon, if not more so. Am I correct?"

Morgen blushes, "As always, you're perceptive."

"Heheh..It seems I've been lacking in that department with the romance side of things though lately. If anything I say things by accident." Death admits rubbing his neck with a chuckle.

Aleyn only groaned before muttering, "At least I actually tried and KNEW what I was saying."

Death growls briefly in annoyance before saying, "At least I can learn. The question is can you?"

"If you two are quite done measuring each other's dicks, the lady will likely need help removing her things from here." Alphonse told them both in equal annoyance.

He then grabs them both by their heads and tosses them into the room, "There, now they can do it themselves."

"Gladly, once we have a list." Death expresses simply as he gets up.

Morgen comes into the room to make a list onto a crystal. She only grabs one thing from inside the room, a tiny ornate chest. She then hands the crystal to the gentlemen to collect everything. Death naturally tries to be civil about it so they can be quick about it. Only for Aleyn to volunteer to carry everything.

"Look I'm done with the whole being stupid can you just...NOT?! Like please...THINK."

"I'm not doing anything but volunteering my help." Aleyn protests.

"Genius, she gave us an inventory crystal with a list on it, to put the stuff into it. It's really not that complicated. You don't have to do any heavy lifting. You're not impressing..."

"Just SHUSH. I can handle this, I WILL handle this in fact. Now what's the first thing?"

Death sighs shaking his head, "The contents of that chest there. Again you don't have to carry...."

"Shut up damn it! I said I'll handle this."

"Ok, fine. Have fun with that. I'm going to do the practical thing in the meantime. Let me know when you're done being a moron."

"Excuse me young fellow..."

"Y-young? EhEH...ehAH! Your stupidity is obviously showing itself." Death tells him sarcastically yet again.

Aleyn grumbles to himself as he tries lifting the chest, or dragging it. Death meanwhile goes about to room to collect what he can. He starts with a few small things around the room, then moves onto the wardrobe. He collects everything in there with ease whilst using the crystal's magic. Course he does pause a moment to observe her armor set.

"I have to ask...why?" Death inquires of Morgen after coming back out from the wardrobe.

Morgen notices him pointing and comes over to see what it is this time. When realizing it's her old armor she's looks at him with her eye twitching ever so slightly, "And what exactly is wrong with it?"

Death, sensing this probably should've been saved for later cautiously responds with, "I just want to know what was going on while this was being made. It looks fine, but it's....so ornate. It looks like it belongs more in ceremonies than it does on the fields of battle."

"I am a mage more than a swordswoman admittedly."

"STILL. That's....a LOT of detail for a set used in battle. Even for a mage. Usually mages want armor that isn't heavy. I mean look at me, I don't wear heavy plate very often, if ever. I don't even wear chest plates usually. The most armor I have is my kilts, which occasionally come with plate. Either way, the way I fight and cast spells requires that I'm able to move. So I need to accommodate myself by using armor that gives me more mobility. Though I wouldn't recommend not wearing anything up top. I only do so because I can get away with it through my healing ability." Death tells her before chuckling a bit towards the end.

"Bare in mind that ONE I am a Princess, and TWO, that Uther was the among those who wanted to see my design ideas BEFORE it was ever made. You can probably imagine some things got added in."

"Right. Anyway I know a place that makes far better armor for combat and for mages. We'll have to go there later. After all this madness. For now shall I keep letting that one dig his own grave or shall I just put the chest in the crystal?" Death states.

"Please do get it into the crystal. Before he passes out due to lack of oxygen."

"Heh, may be a little late for that. His brain already lacks a little bit of it." Death says laughing a bit before Morgen's slight glare shuts him up. "Oh come on I was just kidding."

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