#fic: TSOF

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: A Night Unsleeping (TSOF Missing Scene)

Summary: Missing Scene from “Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm” – the late evening of the day of the party, Virgil tries to do what he does best. He tries to fix things.

Characters: Virgil, Gordon (small cameo from Scott)

Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort

Words: 2777

Universe: Adventures of Chicken Dad

Warnings: Gordon has thalassophobia from the hydrofoil accident, aftermath of panic attacks.

A/N: A metaphor I never fully described in the story, since there was so much jam-packed into the conclusion already. I decided it was time to share it. I swear their love language is making tea/coffee in this AU. Also, I apologize, I usually do try to make one-shots able to be read stand-alone, but this one really will not make sense if you haven’t read TSOF. This takes place after Gordon’s panic attack and after the TSOF party, but before the finale. Finally, Virgil’s just newly exploring a male love interest in these scenes, so hints of M/M and pan Virgil right in time for the upcoming Thunderpride event <3

With thanks to @the-original-sineater for the read through :D

Read on Ao3

or continue below

*****

A Night Unsleeping

The nautical décor within [Gordon’s] rancher home was not, as Virgil learned, just to remember the sea, but also to represent the dual sides of Gordon’s passions – where the raw resources of the land created the possibility for the journey of man to cross oceans, to escape what’s behind, or reach towards the new. Or a little bit of both. – Chocolate and Hazel, Ch 3.

~*~

As if it knew it had been celebrated and welcomed to do so, the weather turned overnight. It was with a cold, crisp breeze that Virgil and Scott dispersed for the evening to their respective resting spaces for the night. It wasn’t night Island Time, but after the long rescue, the fear after picking up on Virgil’s 9-1-1 call, and then spending the evening helping Scraps with hosting, Scott crashed longways on Gordon’s couch with his long legs hanging off one of the arms. Virgil retired to the guest room that had been his for the length of his stay and recuperation.

He closed the open window down to just a crack, keeping out the cool air of the wind but letting in the honeyed tones of the bamboo reeds in the backyard garden. He closed his eyes, but not with his head pillowed by the clean sheets. For a few moments, he remained sitting upright on the bed, closed his sight off from the room around him, and lulled himself into a soothing space. Breath softened into rhythm and his heartbeat slowed with the rustle of night.

His heart had gone through the most awful of lows and the most euphoric of highs in just one day. Though his lips still tingled with the warmth of Everett’s touch, lingering even in his solitude, there was a part of himself just as strongly vibrating with the echo of Gordon’s fear so strongly trembling in his arms and again later, this time with forgiveness.

Love and guilt and regret and joy swirled into numbness inside him, a strange sensation that he was aware of even as he tried to sort out the individual emotions from each other between breaths.

Tender touches, soft whispers into his hair.

Waves loud in his ear, then a stuttering heartbeat pressed against his chest.

The panic rose within him, and the heartbeat became his own. He reached up to press his hair back, his skin suddenly itching with too much feeling, and it was with a detached kind of awe that he felt the tightness around his reddened eyes and cheeks and discovered them both damp from his own weeping. If he were home on the Island, his fingertips would flutter across the Baby Grand and his soul would cry music until he could find his strength again. Here on the farm, with Scott in the next room and Gordon beyond him, Virgil instead laid himself down to find the pillow as soft as he remembered. And yet it pressed harshly against his throbbing temple.

He tried to rest.

He longed to send a message to Everett. Was it real, it would say. Come over and find out, he imagined Everett would respond, and under different circumstances, he’d be sleepless with the desire not to let such a beautiful moment end.

But Everett had recognized, empathized even, that there was one place Virgil wanted to be for the evening, and it was by Gordon’s side.He needed for Gordon to be healthy, especially after the total cluster he’d made of their conversation that afternoon, before he could explore the depth of his feelings any further than he had already. 

Taking him out to sea. What had he been thinking?

But he hadn’t known of Gordon’s fear.  

You should have. The voice, dark and rumbling deep in his mind, was relentless.

Again, he checked his watch for Gordon’s vitals – bpm was a little high for someone at rest but as steady as it had been that evening.

With a sigh, Virgil rolled off the guest bed and padded out of the room. It was providing him no haven that evening.

In his socks, he shuffled back into the kitchen, and though he meant to make himself one of those chamomile teas Gordon swore by for restless nights, the pile of teak wood and string and canvas he’d collected earlier lay messily on one of the counters. The display model ship Gordon had so angrily thrown – the hull had taken a particular beating from the shock waves, and where sails had caught fury instead of wind, fabric and string had twisted into a giant knot made of smaller ones. Trying to keep his noise level low, Virgil bypassed the tea kettle and instead filled a pot with water to boil. But once it was on the stove and heating, he brought all of the small pieces over to the kitchen table to begin sorting.

For him, it was like a 3D puzzle, and though he didn’t have the knowledge of the design of tall ships specifically, he knew how to catch a wind. He could backtrack through the design of this, even if he had to look up some references along the way.

A brief detour to locate the super glue he remembered stored in one of Gordon’s cabinets, and soon he was able to get to work fixing the centerpiece. He didn’t know what it meant to Gordon, just that it had been the ever-constant décor on the kitchen table; even as he traded out kitchen towels and placemats, the ship remained. And when he shattered it earlier that evening, Gordon had been livid at himself for doing it immediately after.

Gordon’s relationship with the sea was… Complicated was the best word. Gordon had opened his heart to him almost by rote to reveal the extent of his injuries after the hydrofoil, where not just the physical remained. He used clinical words to describe it, but through them Virgil recognized that Gordon himself was a whirlwind of complex feelings. He feared the sea, yet he loved her. She was a part of him, and yet she wasn’t. She was his past and he carried her influence in his spirit, even if she wasn’t his future anymore.

He ached for the youth – for he had been just a wild, wandering boy at the time – who learned on his own how to live with the vacancies in his heart and pack it full of new things to love. Virgil didn’t know if he could’ve done it if were him with the loss of his hands to paint or the loss of his hearing for music. Gordon was the strongest person he knew, he thought resolutely, his hands busy with the model to keep him from thinking too much about what felt unfathomable.

Once he started to hear the water boiling within the pot, he finished making his tea, letting the herbal leaves steep while he stretched. He’d once gotten an earful from Gordon about the proper temperature and steeping times for different teas. Herbals were his safest bet, and the chamomile would still help with his relaxation even if he couldn’t sleep at this point. He added a little bit of golden honey for sweetness and stirred it around with the teabag.

Lowly, he started humming the more focused he became on the ship. He started with the hull foundations until the frame was recognizable again, and he let it set while he worked on detangling the sails from the thin string that was to be the network of rope on the model. The clock ticked over to the next hour of the early morning, and Virgil checked his watch, again, for Gordon’s vitals. Each hour, on the hour as he’d promised… and half hour if he thought about it, and ad hoc when the urge to check became too overwhelming.

“I’m alive,” Gordon’s voice cracked, though there was an amusement in his eyes as he regarded Virgil working at the table. “How long has that teabag been in your mug?”

“It’s fine,” Virgil shrugged to which Gordon shook his head in response, but as Gordon had surprised him entering the kitchen, he swept his gaze over him for clues as to what his brother was doing awake at this hour after the day he’d had. “What’s wrong?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Gordon said as he approached, sliding into an adjacent chair. His expression fell, recognizing the destruction on the kitchen table, but he nodded at how much progress Virgil had made on the main structure.  “That’s right, never mind, you’re playing lab doctor right now.”

“Nightmare?” Virgil inquired softly, letting the implication slide even as he logged the higher-than-normal numbers he was still receiving from Gordon.

“Nuh-uh. The electrodes are irritating. Woke me up.”

“Hmm.” 

He was lying.

Gordon was a bit too exhausted, not himself enough, to pull his expression together into one of feigned ease, and Virgil could tell from the tightness in his jaw and his wandering eyes that Gordon had just fudged the truth. Maybe, not necessarily untrue, but also not the whole truth either.

Virgil was grateful he’d thought ahead to boil a full pot. He stepped away and gave Gordon his moment to process, so by the time he returned to the table with a duplicate of his own cup of tea, his brother had started fiddling with a section of sail.  Virgil sat across from him, his eyes schooled into calm kindness.

“Gordon,” – he slid the teacup over, placed on top of a cotton crocheted coaster - “I can’t help if you keep hiding from me. Isn’t that what we’re trying to do better?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“I don’t blame you. We’ve been doing this dance around each other for so long. It’s ok, you don’t need to share what you don’t want to. Just if you could please be honest with me about your health, at least?”

“You were right, and I’ll be ok,” Gordon met his gaze. “I’ve scheduled a therapy appointment for the morning. Too much has happened today.”

“You’ve got that right. But good. I’m glad.” He smiled at him and returned to the portion of sail he’d been working to free earlier.

“What about you?” Gordon asked. He pointedly removed his teabag, placing it on a napkin and out of the water once it had shifted to his preferred color of flavor. “You had a lot happen today too,” he said, and if there wasn’t a suggestive wink awaiting behind his brother’s grin, Virgil would retire from IR and take up a desk job. “Well, how did it go?”

“Great,” Virgil responded. “Really, really good. We are taking it slow.” He admitted the truth, knowing his embarrassment was acting as a distraction for Gordon, from whatever had kept him awake. But it wasn’t embarrassment, not really – more caution. Not because he worried about Gordon’s reaction; the world had come a long way in its prejudices, and his family in particular had only ever been supportive of him making discoveries about who he was.

The fall out of his break-up with his high school love had been horrific. Virgil valued honesty, and she hadn’t understood why he was telling her he thought he might be pan when he was already in a relationship with her. At the time he called Scott, away at college, his older brother had comforted him that no, he was more than just his high school relationship, and one day he would find someone worthy of his heart and they would be a lucky person indeed.

He'd fallen for Everett’s energy long before today, never letting himself take it any further until Gordon had practically thrown him at his friend that evening.

And he was thankful, but how his world had shifted so much in just a matter of hours.

“What words! Poetry,” Gordon snorted.  “But I do need to give you the spiel – just be kind to him, yeah?”

“I intend to be.”

“And I’ll be giving him the same message in the morning, just so you know.”

“You don’t need to protect me.”

“Yeah, I do.” Gordon smirked, “Besides I am not doing it for you. I have personal interest in making sure this doesn’t go up in flames.”

“He’s a good man.”

“A great one,” Gordon agreed. “So are you.”

Virgil flushed, bowing his head.

More than once his brother yawned, and Virgil tried to send him back to bed. Each time, it reminded him of his own exhaustion fluttering at the edge of his awareness. But they both seemed driven with the same momentum as they got closer to finishing the ship, even as the tea did its job to ease the tension they’d been holding. They got the three main masts attached, and without the rest of the ship’s attire, Gordon described it as “naked.” Which Virgil shouldn’t have found funny, but in the wake of everything else, he did.

They woke Scott with their laughter, though the eldest barely grumbled his displeasure and he dazedly stumbled into Virgil’s room – the guest room – mumbling about how “if you’re not going to use it…” before slamming the door shut.

It made them laugh harder.

“Thank you for doing all this for me. Just like my big brother, always cleaning up my messes.”  

In the drop of his shoulders, Virgil could see regret as loud as if the words were spoken. The memories of the art studio, the broken connections tentatively being reformed, the withheld truths. Not just the boat. 

“This one was our mess,” Virgil corrected, “we’ve both done our fair share of wrecking things over the years.” He recalled the burst of frustration from Gordon’s mouth, the exclamation that time after time he destroyed. And Virgil had assured him that they just go hand-in-hand sometimes, and Gordon had created just as much. He passed the ship over to Gordon to string up his section of sail. “But I think we do a better job when we are forging together for once.”

#Gavii Scribit #Adventures of Chicken Dad #Fic: TSOF #but a filler missing scene #For the Love of FishTank #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #romance #Virgil Tracy/Original Male Character #romance is just referenced because it's really Gordon being nosy #thunderbirds fanfiction

[planetnini]

the story of us, bradley bradshaw -- masterlist

࿔･ﾟ*࿐ Y/N Y/L/N earned her title as one of the greatest fighter pilots that the United States Navy had ever seen, and so naturally she had been called back for a mission at Top Gun. After receiving the news, she comfortably settled with the team but there were still unresolved feelings and conflict between her and Bradley. Despite this, the two somehow always manage to gravitate toward each other and find themselves in more and more precarious situations - perhaps Clover and Rooster could find a way to be friends (or more) once again.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠! bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x fem!pilot-reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬! angst, hangman (sorry, he gets better), alcohol consumption, swearing, violence

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞! anyone else obsessed with miles teller atm? not just me then but i hope you guys enjoy this becos.... yeah i love me some good angst. also y/n call sign is clover which is rly cute and self explanatory!

part one 

part two (in the works)

part three

part four

part five???

#the story of us; sn #topgun #nini tsof masterlist #top gun maverick #top gun #miles teller #miles teller x reader #rooster bradshaw #rooster fanfic #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster fic #bradley bradshaw fic #top gun maverick imagine #top gun imagine #miles teller fanfiction #hangman x y/n #jake seresin #natasha trace #phoenix top gun #hangman top gun #javy machado #coyote top gun #payback top gun #fanboy top gun #maverick top gun #pete mitchell #bradley bradshaw angst

[drawberry03]

Damn, it's been months I think but it's finally here! TSoF: The Sensation of Falling Chapter 2, part 1 (that's right, part 1!). I realized that Chapter 2 was longer than the previous and if I wanted Chapter 2 to be posted, I'd rather it not take even longer, so I split them.

I've gotten busy from working on my thesis (I made a game!) and I wish I could say I might post more frequently, but I really can't XD especially with my internship coming up (I'm an IT student in case anyone was wondering).

Chapter 2 part 2 has more pages than part 1 so it will probably take... idk another month (if I'm being optimistic), we'll see depending on how busy I get.

In case you wanna read the real fic here's a link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896269/chapters/15748030#workskin

#hey arnold #shortaki #arnold shortman #arnold x helga #helga pataki #arnold and helga #hey arnold fanart #phoebe heyerdahl

[poshbiscuit]

The Prom Bet AU (TPB + TSoF) now has 20 thousand hits and I just wanted to jump back on here to say thank you. I know I’ve disappeared (for like the fifth time) and I’m sorry about that, and honestly I cannot say for sure that I will update again. I really don’t see that I will. Nothing major, it’s just that I’m in college so I’m hella busy, and I simply don’t love Heathers like I used to. I won’t speak for Ryan here but I know they have said the same thing, we’ve just moved on to different things. The Prom Bet hitting this mind-blowing milestone of course did mean that I had to at least say something and express my appreciation. Twenty thousand people is a number I cant even comprehend (well, I was never very good at maths to be fair) and it doesn’t feel real. I have never thought of it as an iconic work per se, just another chansaw fanfic. However, I think it truly dawned on me when someone said it was in the fandom-agreed list of the most famous heathers fics of all time. That was what blew me away. Some silly little story I wrote, 2 years after the ‘peak’ of the Heathers fandom, which I never thought would be a big thing in the slightest, is famous? And then the number really hit me and I realised just how crazy this all was. This also did unfortunately mean I felt bad for the way it has been left. I regretted writing TSoF in a way because I felt like just leaving it as TPB sufficed perfectly, and now I’ve added this random half-assed, unneeded sequel that was left unfinished after a measly 2 chapters that added nothing substantial? To be honest, I just now want to focus on the positives and not worry about what I have and haven’t done. Since 2018, I have been reading your Heathers stories. Since 2019, I have been writing my Heathers stories. The past 4 years in this fandom have been a blast, and yes I’ve left a few times and randomly reappeared, only to silently fade away again. However, I wouldn’t change a thing. It warms my heart that The Prom Bet has had such an impact, and that so many of you consider it to be so prestigious. I’m not sure I agree, as there are some killer fics out there! Nonetheless, thank you. Keep writing, keep doing what you’re doing. I know there perhaps aren’t as many fics as there used to be, and they don’t get as many hits these days, and that can be discouraging. I know that. But somewhere out there, there are still tens, if not hundreds, maybe even thousands of people who wait patiently for the things *you* create. When you start thinking of the numbers as people, that’s when it gets crazy. And that is when you realise what an incredible thing you are doing here: creating wonderful art for others with no monetary reward, just simply because you love it. As Veronica would probably say, that’s beautiful. So thank you for 20,000 hits on The Prom Bet AU and about 40,000 hits across my 6 fics (Jesus Christ) . Thank you for these 4 years. This isn’t (another 💀) goodbye post really, just a “thanks, I’ll see you whenever I see you” post. Always remember the joy you are bringing to people’s lives. Don’t stop doing what you love for anyone’s sake. Writing is hella hard but you got this.

Thank you :)

#heathers #chansaw #heathers the musical #heather chandler #veronica sawyer #heathers ao3 #ao3 #heathers musical #mcduke #theatre

[mostweakhamlets]

Idea for Millennial!Holmes AU (mostly if this were a tv series or if i ever get the motivation and ideas to write it out as a fic)

There’s like seven years between STUD and TSOF so I think if Holmes is only 27 those seven years should be used for him to just be fucking up 

There should be major development in him as a person and as a detective. Scotland Yard should be beating him in cases because they have the tech and resources he doesn’t. Criminals should be getting away because he’s a little slower that what he eventually works up to. He gets hurt. He makes mistakes. He doesn’t get many clients. Scotland Yard hates him--except Lestrade who slips him cases from time to time when Gregson approves.  

But he and Watson get close because they’re struggling together. They’re broke and neither can get much work. They’re fucking up about 30% of the time but it feels like 100% of the time to them. 

Then, eventually, Holmes starts solving more cases. Lestrade starts letting him use Yard resources. He refines his methods for years until eventually he’s at his peak and his cases catch up to where he is when the books pick back up. 

#millennial au #that's the official name #sherlock holmes #this is my modern au no one can take it from me #give me holmes when he's young and anxious #fucking up #questioning himself #and having these self discoveries #maybe he comes to terms with his biggest fears #one week #and the next week he realizes he likes mushrooms #adulthood is a gift and holmes is going to explore it #it'll be a fun coming of age series #but a late coming of age #because he's already an adult #but damn I bet 27 is a scary age

[birdiethebibliophile]

since you finished tsof, do you have any plans for what to write next?

Yes! I’m going to try to work on some original stuff (which, unfortunately, I will not be posting) but I’m also in the midst of planning/starting a long fic that’s going to be a Critical Role modern AU (Widofjord, for my followers in the know). I have ideas for other longfics I could work on, but for now, that’s what’s coming up. Thanks for asking!

#my writing #asks #anonymous

[prismatic-bell]

I’m just curious

I really loved some of what came out of Sherlock S4, but a lot of it I feel went right off the rails. Part of this, and no small part I don’t think, came out of what I’m going to call “adaptation divergence.”

See, in the original Canon, Mary Morstan is nobody. She’s actually one of Holmes’ clients (from The Sign of Four). Watson marries her offpage in between TSoF (correspondent to the A.G.R.A. subplot in The Lying Detective) and A Scandal In Bohemia (correspondent to A Scandal In Belgravia). Likewise, she dies offpage in between The Final Problem (correspondent to The Reichenbach Fall) and The Adventure Of The Empty House (no correspondent Sherlock episode).

In Sherlock, the Canon/canon divergence begins in earnest when John meets Mary after the events of Canon!Final Problem. In fact, she’s the only character drawn from the original Canon who doesn’t read as an updated version of her 1880s self*. Canon!Mary Morstan’s biggest contribution to the overarching Sherlock Holmes plot is to go “no, dear, stop pretending you’re a respectable gentleman, go chase down a murderer with Mr. Holmes even though it’s bedtime and I should have become tired of this nonsense a long time ago.” Sherlock!Mary Morstan is sharp, witty, and more than that: by the time we say farewell, I think it’s fair to say Sherlock loves her in a very specific way that’s super-hard to explain if you’re not old enough to have close friends who’ve been married. It’s more passionate than sibling-love, but still entirely platonic. It comes from a place of “this person, whom I adore beyond description, feels that you help to complete their ideal life, and I adore you not just because of who you are by yourself, but for who you are to them, as well.” This is the way in which Sherlock loves Mary--she has a brain he admires and loves, but he also loves her for loving John.

So why kill her off, especially when we were starting to get this sense of a Sherlock-John-Mary dynamo in which nobody is the third wheel? Sherlock and Mary have a meeting of the minds; John and Sherlock have a meeting of loyalty and emotion; John and Mary have a meeting of the hearts. Mary does nothing to diminish John’s and Sherlock’s friendship--in fact I think it’s fair to say she loves Sherlock in much the same way that he loves her. “You are a good and fair person and I appreciate you for that, but you also saved this man I love from depression and despair and darkness and helped him return not just from the war on the ground but the war in his mind, and for that, I love you.” It’s really kind of beautiful to see this relationship that could have been queerbaited into a love triangle, or poly-baited into a wink-wink-nudge-nudge are-they-or-aren’t-they, and wasn’t. They’re all just friends, good friends, close friends, soul-friends, with an amazing onscreen chemistry and dynamic . . .

. . . . but there’s no more Canon to draw on for Mary. There aren’t even any other women in the Canon who appear prominently enough to roll into Mary, the way Gregson was sort of absorbed and modified into Molly Hooper. And so, although the Sherlock canon has branched far, far away from the original Canon, they killed her off to “stay true to the original events.”

Basically, it frustrates me that the series was taking on its own life separate from the Canon and doing so skillfully enough to still be clearly Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, but not carbon copies of the original, and then backtracked to fall back in line with the source material. It hit that sweet spot between new and old, and did so beautifully . . . . until it didn’t.

So I’m just curious, because a lot of people seem to share that opinion with me. If I went back, disregarded 95% of Season Four, and wrote a three-fic “fix-it season,” would anybody be interested in reading it?

*Yes, this includes Irene. My New Annotated Sherlock Holmes notes her description as “the famous adventuress” and explains that “adventuress” is not like “poetess” or “authoress,” but rather refers to a woman who makes her fortune by functioning more or less as an escort (yes, that kind of escort).

#sherlock #sherlock bbc

[genjis-beanie]

Lmao I binge read your TSoF fic in class when I have nothing else to do XD. It's great!

AWWW. I’m glad you enjoy it so much. But make sure you’re doing well in class, too! :>

#Anonymous

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Epilogue

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.    *Warnings for previous chapters: phobias and panic attacks*

Prologue here

Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3

Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3

Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3

Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3

Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3

Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3

Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3

Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3

Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3

Chapter 10: Part 16 | Part 17  | Ao3 

Epilogue: You are Here | Ao3 

 Tracy Seaside -the playlist here

A/N: Do me a favor and make sure you are caught up, as I did a lot of writing the past few days. I will admit, finishing this one is a special sadness.

*****

Epilogue 

As with the cadence of the tide, time ticked on, the seasons changed, and fall became winter on one side of the world while spring became summer on the other. Christmas came, went, and the folks at Tracy Seaside started their year growing anew, planting tiny seedlings into moist soil at high humidity in the greenhouses to get them started before transplanting them into the ground. 

His brothers were there through all of it, if not directly during their planned visits, at least in spirit as they continued to bridge the gaps that the years had created. With Gordon and Virgil’s reconciliation, the tenuous bonds he and his siblings had been scrambling to keep from fraying over time were reforged, rebound and continued to grow strong. As strong as the grappling cables of Thunderbird 2 with Virgil’s voice added among their chorus. 

In February, Everett and Scraps planned the surprise birthday of the century, and the speculator world went wild, imagining where Earth’s four most heroic and eligible bachelors could possibly be on Valentine’s Day, and more importantly - who with? Gordon was, of course, none the wiser, as Scraps knew her way around keeping him occupied and away from news articles that would let the cat out of the bag. It was an easy sell when Grandma had already promised to visit and had expressed the desire to make him a three tier birthday cake. Well, he didn’t leave his kitchen for the need to “supervise” his grandmother, and by the time the two made it across the estate to Scraps’ home where the rest of the Tracy’s were waiting, he was still wearing his baking apron and covered from head to foot in flour, but with one edible birthday cake.

Come spring, they added two new hens to their flock and broke ground on a new enclosure and fenced-in pasture for their future plan to bring in goats and sheep. 

There were many exciting changes around the corner, and Gordon looked forward to the longer days, the additional sun in his heart, the flutter of new life and new beginnings, this time with the tether to his brothers stronger than it had ever been. 

Yet one thing remained looming over him. The SOS. 

He was among the first to know about the possibility that their father was still alive, still out there somewhere, after Scott (in an iR submersible pod) retrieved first Brains’ old robot and then never-before-seen footage of the explosion from the Hood’s escape capsule. It was both a thrilling and terrifying truth.

 Foundation shifting. 

It colored everything, knowing that for all the home-growing he did, his father likely was somewhere out there, maybe managing to make food to sustain himself. For all the times he felt distant and disconnected from his family, his father was further. What were miles in comparison to lightyears?  

He watched his brothers fret, obsess, and make plans.  

It was a pleasant day in April when Scott pulled himself away from the technology on the Island to sit down with him and explain what searching for their father would involve: all of the Thunderbirds, and all of his brothers to pilot them. 

He knew terror, he knew fear, and they were palpable in his ears as he processed Scott's words. But there was no greater dread than the heart-dropping realization that this mission would be risking the lives of his whole family, that in a moment, they could all leave the atmosphere and he may never hear from them again and would never know what happened if that were the case. 

But if… if on a chance they succeeded, they could have Dad back. 

He wasn’t sure he had the strength to lose his family again. For a chance.

Gordon talked to Grandma for a long time that night. About her memories of her son, about his brothers, about what it meant to be the ones left behind, and what- what they would do if the worst were to happen. Neither of them closed the call feeling better, per se, but after airing their fears, it helped to know they were not alone in their grief. 

But there was also hope.

And Tmtrust in Brain’s workmanship to protect his family like he'd always done, confidence in his brothers’ abilities, and belief in that stubborn Tracy tenacity to never give up. 

They promised to return, and so it was with faith in that promise that Gordon waited for news. 

~*~

On the day of launch, minutes before countdown, Virgil sat on the floor and against the wall  of the Zero-XL to callup Gordon. There was barely a second for a breath before Gordon accepted the call, and it was apparent he was wide awake despite the dark on his side of the world. 

“Hey,” Virgil whispered, wearing his iR blues.

"Hey " The quiet sound of  Gordon's voice came through with with a low, content murmuring in the background. It was the voice he used when speaking to his animals, words disguised as a coo. 

“Are you in the coop?” Virgil's lips curled into a light smile Despite the weight of their task sitting heavily on his shoulders, the coop was a place of calm. “Is my girl there?”

Gordon’s smile twitched, but it was as if it hurt to muster. “Sue me”

He recognized now that Gordon was sitting against the back wall of the coop, and wearing a long sleeve flannel. Some of the chickens must have been resting in his lap. As he shifted to pick up Ginger to show her to Virgil, Mocha gave a small squawk of displeasure at the movement and jumped up to his shoulder.

“Gordon” - brown eyes met brown - “we’re going to bring him home.” 

For a moment Gordon considered him, continuing to pet the soft feathers on Ginger’s back while his face broke into a number of expressions before he schooled it back into calm. 

“Well, yeah,” he said. “You’ve promised my girls to swing by when you get back.”

“True. But, Gordon.” He waited until Gordon looked back up at him, eyes prickling. “I’m promising you. We’ll all come home.” 

~*~

There was a moment, deep in the Oort cloud, after Alan returned and they suddenly lost communications with Scott, that Virgil truly thought he’d have to tell his family that they’d failed. He’d have to break his grandmother’s heart at the loss of her son… again. And Scott… his own heart was thundering in his chest at his worry for their eldest brother, wondering how he could possibly tell Gordon. Wondering if Gordon would ever forgive him for losing their brother in the cold void of space. Eyes wide with terror, he found himself looking to John for answers.

And then they found lifesigns. Two of them. 

There was business to be done after that. The med bay to ready, the Zero-XL to reassemble. Home to get to. In the deep vastness of space, they reunited with their father, and the back of Virgil’s head tingled where his father’s hand had found stability within their embrace. 

It caught up to him much later, what it would have meant if the Hood had managed to leave them stranded in deep space. So quickly they had to act to halt the T-drive and to stop him, that Virgil didn’t have the time to think about just how close they were to never making it home and what that would’ve done to his brother and their grandmother.  

He secured their father’s straps for the return journey home, trying hard to find the balance between keeping him secure and taking extra care not to pull too tightly around the tender areas of his body.

His father leaned towards him to garner his attention. 

“Virgil?” His voice croaked with lack of use. “I need to know. Where’s your brother?” The grey in his father’s eyes swirled with the storm of the unknown.  “Where’s Gordon?”

“He’s safe,” Virgil assured him, knowing how their number might have looked to their father. It was a long story to tell and not Virgil's to do so.  “Funny you should ask though. I know a rather good healing retreat that would love to have you.”

“Son, I’m going to be ok.” 

“I know, Dad.” He smiled at him warmly. “We all are."

The End 🐓

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Farming Estate AU #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Chicken Dad

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 16

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*  

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3 Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3 Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3 Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3 Chapter 10: Part 16 (you are here) 

A/N: Let’s ignore that I should be resting. I don’t have a chapter ready but I do have a part done, which now that we are past the harder, heavy sections.... why not. You deserve it for sticking with me, tumblr. Who wanted big brother BootScoot? it might be obvious I was sick at the end/still *****

Part 16 (Part of Chapter 10)

The hour grew late and it was deep in the night before the party dispersed and they made their way back to Gordon’s home. Scott planned to stick around until the next day to help with clean-up efforts as long as there were no significant callouts. He flung his boots off by the door, and by the time he came out of the guest restroom, Gordon and Virgil had taken over the couch he planned to frequent for the evening. Though, only one of his siblings was awake, staring down at the sleeping figure of their younger brother, still with a mix of awe and paranoia that if he looked away he might disappear.

“He’ll feel like hell in the morning if we leave him like that.” Scott approached the two of them, gently slipping his hands under Gordon’s back and knees and lifting him up into his arms with a grunt. In sleep, Gordon sighed deeply, his head downturned in the pillow of Scott’s chest.

“Wanna help?” he asked Virgil, swinging the door to Gordon’s bedroom further open with the flick of his foot. “Can you grab his cane and the blanket?”

Virgil hadn’t had the chance to look around Gordon’s room earlier that evening, so focused he was on getting Gordon comfortable that he’d beelined for the weighted blanket that rested at the foot of his bed. But now, in the quiet of their breathing, Virgil took a moment to look around the haven space that his brother had created within his home.

The primary color scheme was green, if only for the plants that covered wall to ceiling, including a thriving peace lily so like the one he’d been given when he arrived.

Beyond the greenery, Gordon favored the natural look of the wood of his house, with splashes of color to accompany the neutrals. What was missing was the nautical aesthetic that pervaded the rest of the home; counter to the ship’s wheel of the living space, Gordon’s bedroom was a call back to land with its wide windows opened out towards the farm, foundations of wood with one complete wall in rustic red brick.

Tucked in a corner was a writing desk and chair set Virgil hadn’t noticed at all initially with a laptop sitting closed on top.

Overtop his headboard, a massive macrame art piece draped down from a piece of driftwood, the thick beige cords braided and knotted into an array of chevrons and diamonds above a backdrop of long fringe.  Shelving built atop a modest series of dresser drawers was filled corner to corner with different recipe books, instructional manuals, the occasional fiction novel, collections of plant and animal identifications, and finally, what Virgil immediately recognized as copies of John’s texts. The books were well-loved and interspersed on the bookcase with a small display of single stem vases and picture frames.

He recognized in the collection of memories a copy of their parents’ wedding photo, one of the few Christmas family photos where all five kids were looking toward the camera and Dad had been home to join in, a candid shot someone had taken of a young Gordon cooking with Grandma in which more flour had landed in Gordon’s hair than in the batter.

“Is this your first time in here?”

No, not really. But also, in an entirely different way, “Yes.”

It was one thing to notice the large television screen and the French casement windows on his way towards grabbing the blanket Gordon needed, and another thing altogether to spend the time noticing the details he’d missed. The important information, like the cross-stitch hoops hung on the wall with inspirational quotes and initialed with a JS, the open banjo case set near a guitar case and one nearly the same shape, but much smaller – his old ukulele.  

“Come around here.”  Scott gestured for Virgil to come closer to the side of the bed, reaching for the blanket in Virgil’s hands and opening it wide to cover their brother’s curled form. He tucked the corners in close. “Over here.”

Gordon’s nightstand held simply a chicken figurine and handmade cotton coaster. But hanging above, originally blocked from Virgil’s view by Scott’s height, was a watercolor of a trio of delicate daffodils against a light background of blue sky fading into the edges of the canvas. In the lower righthand corner was his own signature scrawl of V. Tracy.

He remembered it well, a set of three art pieces he’d donated for one of Lady Penelope’s charity auctions, watercolors because it had been for ocean conservation. Of the three florals, the daffodils were his favorite, and he could remember down to the song the inspiration behind them. By nature of the charity, one that had been so close to his brother’s heart, his music had switched to a song that reminded him of Gordon and he painted his forgiveness in yellow flowers. That’s what made the final painting the best of the three.

And yet he hadn’t meant for Gordon to ever see it back then.

“How?”

Scott gestured towards the sky.

“John sent Gordon the auction details,” Scott admitted. “The rest was him. I didn’t know he had one of your pieces until the next time I visited.”

Not just one of his pieces, but that piece. Virgil guessed Scott didn’t understand just how significant it was that the artwork found its way to Gordon’s hands. Forgiveness was a tricky thing; he’d been missing his brother and momentarily ready to ignore the aching in heart for the happy memories they held. But when it came time to donate the work, he hadn’t thought twice sending it away to Lady P. The release was welcome, but he hadn’t been ready.

But the flowers were where they belonged, and he was happy now to see them framed amidst the rest of the natural flora of Gordon’s space.

“Come on, Virgil,” Scott tugged on his shoulder. “We should give him peace to rest. Let’s talk.”

“One moment.” He needed to check his vitals one more time, and if he hitched the blanket more comfortably around Gordon’s shoulders even though Scott had already done so, his older brother had the good sense not to make a big deal about it. Gordon was healthy, safe, and comfortable, and that’s what mattered.

   ~*~

“We never wanted to keep this from you.” Scott leaned back against the counter sink, his arms crossed at his chest, but expression soft. “It was the right thing to do for Gordon at the time.”

Virgil hummed, his fingers idly strumming the banjo they’d forgotten to return to its case, abandoned at the door when Gordon had crashed on the couch. The music kept him centered, considering the day had been one of the lowest lows and the highest highs. His heart had been through a roller coaster of fear, and regret, and hurt, and vulnerability, and love.

Emotionally, he was spent.

“I don’t have it in me to be anything other than grateful anymore,” Virgil said, and he meant every word of it, glancing up from the wail of the banjo to Scott’s sky-blues. “I’m not mad. It hasn’t gotten me anywhere in the past being mad. Clearly.”

Scott nodded. “You’ve had a long day.”

Understatement, truly. He laughed wryly, propping the instrument against the table, and standing up to meet his brother’s height, and Scott straightened his shoulders.

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know still,” Virgil said. “Did you know what Gordon was doing pushing me away for the sake of International Rescue?” He’d never said it with such disdain. “Please tell me that’s not why you never told me where he was.”

Scott shook his head sadly. “I just tried to do what was right by the two of you. Gordon’s reasons were his own, as were yours. I wouldn’t have kept it quiet because of IR. I believe our family should come before International Rescue.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“You heard me. It’s time to actually mean it. What’s done is done, but when I get home, things change. We all plan to come to the bonfire, and if there are other events, we attend those too. We invite him to the Island if its something he wants to try to do, and if not, we come here as often as he will have us. I don’t want to lose anymore Christmases or birthdays. He doesn’t deserve to miss anymore either.”

Scott nodded. “I agree. Of course I do. But, Virg,” he gently placed his hands on either side of Virgil’s shoulders, realizing his brother hadn’t realized what he’d said, “I need to ask, are you ready to? Come home with me tomorrow, I mean?”

A beat as Virgil expelled a breath, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Oh.” Softly, “Can I let you know tomorrow?”

#gavii scribit #fic: TSOF #Farming Estate AU #chicken!Dad #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #hurt/comfort #thunderangst

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 15 (Chapter 9)

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*  

Prologue here

Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3

Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3

Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3

Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3

Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3

Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3

Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3

Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3

Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3

A/N: Alright, chickadees. They talk finally - in another 3K. It’s a lot of dialogue as you might expect.

*****

Chapter 9

(Read on AO3)

Gordon had been practicing the art of misdirection his whole life.   

Using his private credit card, he ordered a set of blackout shades for his bedroom windows on the island. In a deep blue, they still matched the design of his room so that he could trade out his sheer blinds for the new ones without having to explain to anyone why he suddenly wanted the ability to choose when to look out to sea. His family still asked about the change in decor. 

Naturally. So wrapped in their own memories of his time in the hospital, they easily accepted his response that, after all he'd been through, he just wanted a change, a bit more control in how much light he had coming into his room after the months under hospital LEDs. 

The lie slipped through with an ease that he felt guilty to be proud of. The desire for control was real, the sensitivity to light not so much. It was control of his life back, control of his legs, his mind, his emotions. Control of his pain and the tremble of his hands.   

None of those things were making his walk down to the beach easy, and more than once he found himself halting to turn back to the looming structure of the villa where the color of his dark shades continued to steal his gaze away, so  different  to the way the rest of the window panes looked from the ground. They drew his eyes, a welcome portal of dark against the rest of the transparent glass of the Tracy home, reflections of the sea from all sides...   

“Move, Gordo,” he told himself. “They’re just curtains.” And yet they represented comfort and control; behind them was the safety of thick windows, sound-proofed walls, and the burst of the holovision screen that could take him anywhere in the world.   

But he needed to do this; he needed to know for sure. He tore himself away from the view of the home built into the mountain and disappeared down the trail past the poolside.  

Virgil and Brains talked about enhancements to Four more and more every day. Just last night they’d shown him their design for arm controls that would allow him to direct the submarine’s claws. The idea was not yet built, but conceptualized, and while two engineers tossed their enthusiasm back and forth to each other as they spoke, the pit in Gordon’s stomach grew to a size in which the emptiness hurt more than the sting of his back.   

For so long he’d ached for the open skies and fresh air, for his independence to move about as he pleased. The weight in his chest whenever he looked outside the window was the last thing he’d expected from his recovery. And the  sound! Outside, the hiss of the waves persisted as static in his ears.   

He’d made it as far as the series of steps hidden down the trail before his knee started to give out, but Gordon was, if nothing else, persistent. What was a bit more soreness in his joints when he’d felt before the agony of his bones shattering into his muscles and through skin? Just a matter of one step in front of the other, in front of the other, the way his doctors taught him. The way Virgil had encouraged him on the other side of the parallel bars.  Except this time, it was his heartbeat keeping him off balance, the hard pounding against his rib cage the closer he got to the beachside.  Dirt became sand, and the steps eased into a descending path of white, of shells powdered down into almost nothing.

One step.   

Another. 

On the shoreline, Gordon stopped where the dirt met sand, raising his eyeline from the remaining expanse of beach to meet the familiar white of swash.

The waves roared.

He cowered back at the booming in his ears - of the ocean and his heartbeat teaming up so that he felt every movement of the sea pushing him backward.

“I can’t do this.”

There was iron in his mouth, salt water clinging to his eyelashes, dripping past his lips.

His body was flying through the air, curling around itself to prepare for collision, but yet it wasn’t. The back of his heels hit the steps, and he fell to his backside. Standing no longer, his arms found each other encircling his knees, and he rocked and rocked and rocked while the sea mocked him, from all sides goading him into a form so small he was nothing, like the sand.

He blinked past the wet blur of his vision and brought his hands up to his ears to press the sound down, then turned scrambling back up the hillside.

~*~

Gordon coughed, his mouth dry, and took a large sip of the glass of water Virgil had kindly brought to his side. Through the weighted blanket, he felt the warmth of his brother’s hand on his knee as he spoke, and though he listened openly, Virgil’s expression tightened.

“Was that your first panic attack?”

“I suppose it might’ve been.” Gordon nodded. He hadn’t really thought much of it at the time but he’d learned a lot about himself since then.

“What happened next?”

“Well I meant to go back to my room…”

Virgil’s face paled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t make it.”

In the silence between them, the water Gordon swallowed sounded so much louder to his own ears. He shook his head. “I’d be lying.”

“Are you telling me this is the day?”  Virgil pulled his hand back suddenly and started tapping at his own thigh.

“I don’t remember it!  Honest, Virgil. I need you to know I would never have done something like that if I had been in control of myself. It’s no excuse, I know. It was all primal response. I am so sorry for the damage I caused. To the studio. And to you.”

“I was painting you an underwater scene.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I set you off again. After you had just -”

“It was all the same panic, Virg. I just barrelled in -” his voice cracked, “- and all I remember is the red paint under my fingernails. I tore at your canvases. Who does that?”

The tingling reached to the tips of his fingers, and he curled them loosely where they rested on his legs, clean.

One of the floorboards creaked with the light pad of footsteps towards the front room, and before the door swung open, both of their communicators vibrated with a message. Virgil picked it from his watch.

“Scott says he won’t be far, and to let him know if he’s needed.”

“Okay.” He nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay, good.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“What happened today? You know, if I had known, I would never have recommended the boat, and I just - why wouldn’t you have said something to stop me?”

“Hmm.”  He gave Virgil credit for giving him time to think about his answer, but Gordon could tell the longer he thought about it the more anxious Virgil was getting in the silence. But it was one he wanted to make sure he worded properly. Too much hurt had come from misunderstandings already.

“Do you remember your first love?” he asked finally.

An ancient hurt crossed Virgil’s expression. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I don’t mean it that way.” He flicked a knowing glance to him, because he understood where Virgil’s mind had gone, and those were not the kindest of memories. Nor were the ones he needed Virgil to dredge through.  “Even before high school. Yours is music. Ma’s music. At some point you started playing her songs again, right? Do you still?”

“Yes.” Virgil’s hair fell into his eyes, as he bowed his head, no doubt remembering one of the tunes she’d taught him. Virgil’s mind had always been in a constant stream of music memory like that. “I think I know what you are trying to say.”

Good. “Then you know what it is like to love something that evokes the most negative emotions at the same time it carries the strongest of positive ones.” He remembered that version of himself stepping back onto sand for the first time, and bolting. “When I left the island, it was because I was slowly being choked. Imagine Ma’s music following you. Everyone was ecstatic about Four. My therapists wanted to give hydro a try. And from all corners of our home there were the waves converging, smothering; I could hear them… everywhere… until the number of safe spaces got smaller and smaller. And I broke.”

“I’m sorry, Gordon. I was so hurt you left, I never stopped to let myself think of why.”

“I didn’t offer it either.” He sighed. “So, then I bought all this land on a whim because it was by the sea. John thought I was crazy for investing in so much empty land, but he helped me anyway.  I lived where Kai-san lives now. I tried to find the ocean within myself again, because who was I, Gordon Tracy - aquanaut, without the sea? I thought if I continued to break my heart, one day it would leave it open again, and if I fell, maybe one day I’d fall into becoming whole.”

“Did it work?”

“Does playing Ma’s music make you feel whole?”

“No. Most of the time it makes me feel emptier. It reminds me of what we’ve lost.”

“So then why do you still play it?”

“Because it still makes me feel closer to her.”

Gordon nodded; he knew this all along.  “Gordon Tracy - aquanaut is still deeply a part of me. Being close to the sea reminds me of who that person was. So, no it didn’t work. I ended up hiring folks to build the rancher and I found myself trying to force myself to face the sea less and less. It’s not about being whole again. Those losses will always be there. I filled the space with little joys that became new passions, new paths, but that doesn’t mean they erased the past.

“There’s a reason I keep Sea side in the name still. It’s for who I was. I had to learn to love her differently, from afar and for her history with me. Because at some point I acknowledged that the fear was real, that it is still here, within me, and the sea is no longer who I am.” He brought his hand to cover his chest then slowly lowered it. “I shouldn’t have tested my limits too far like that; I just told myself it would be worth the risk to get my brother back, and at some point I stopped thinking rationally. That is not on you. I was going to tell you today anyway. I hadn’t meant to show it to you. It made it way too visceral for the both of us.”

It was a lot of his heart to bare, his entire journey of many years into just a few sentences,  and in her half-sleep at his side, Skipper whined as she picked up on the tension pouring off of him. He found himself staring at the woodgrains again and his fingers quickly found the top of her head to pat her into calm, and admittedly, vice versa. So focused he was on the softness of her fur that Virgil’s arm snaking around the back of his shoulders startled him, and he gasped.

“Hey, look at me, please.” And, as Gordon did so, Virgil gathered him  into the wingspan of his arms, speaking softly into his hair. What came out of his mouth was the last thing Gordon expected to hear after revealing the truth. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.”  He pulled him back to look him in the eye, and it was hard for Gordon to meet his intensity.  “I mean it.”

“It doesn’t feel like I am.”

“I should not have to remind you that courage does not mean the absence of fear.”

“I know.” But it was easier said than done.

With Virgil still holding him steady on the couch, neither one of them seemed willing to put distance between them again, and they fell into an ease of touch, much like the way Gordon had leaned into Scott earlier.

“I remember it, you know?” Gordon muttered, closing his eyes with the gentle rhythm of Virgil’s hand in his hair. “The accident.”

“We don’t need to talk about it. Not tonight. Not unless you want to?” Gordon shook his head into his chest. “Me too, though.” Virgil’s voice rumbled through him. “The building collapse. I remember everything. I can only imagine… Gordon, can I ask one more question?”

“Sure. What’s one more?” he shrugged.

“Why didn’t you trust me with this before? When you were first aware of it on the island, before everything else happened? I would’ve helped. You have to know that?”

“Yeah, I knew that. It’s not what you are thinking, what you accused me of the other day. I would never have blamed you for anything, Virgil. You have to know that. ” And he said it without the question, demanding that Virgil understand him. He grasped onto his wrist, and held on tight. “I just explained so much to you about what I was going through in that time. My heart knew I was going to leave before I did.  I didn’t know how not to be an aquanaut. International Rescue was what brought everyone motivation. It was the first thing everyone thought of in the morning, the last thing at night. I was supposed to be your co-pilot. And I couldn’t face you knowing I was never going to be Thunderbird Four.”

“I never needed you to be Thunderbird Four. I needed my brother. I would’ve done anything to make you feel more comfortable.”

“You would’ve come with me.”

“Yes, absolutely. You know I would’ve.” The vehemence to the statement made Gordon smile sadly, even as Virgil’s countenance showed he hadn’t yet realized the magnitude of what he’d just admitted.

“I know,” he said pointedly, sitting back to see what Virgil was thinking. The moment of comprehension was obvious, crossing Virgil’s face with the thought of losing Thunderbird Two, of International Rescue, and the people they’d saved.  “That’s the reason why I couldn’t tell you.”

~*~

Another ping from Scott came through their phones before they spoke again, managing nothing but calm breathing after talking for so long in the quiet of the home. Gordon’s throat felt raw and scratchy, but he felt steadier, his hand trembled less, and eventually he’d managed to make his own way to the kitchen to refill his waterglass.

The reflection of the firelight danced across his windows, and the distant laughter muted by the panes inspired a bounce in his step as he returned to Virgil.

“I wanna rejoin the party.”

His brother’s lack of enthusiasm was apparent as he frowned. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Absolutely. I’ve had what I needed to calm myself. Now, I want to celebrate with our friends.” Gordon knew himself to be the most extroverted of the Tracy brothers, though Scott could certainly give him a run for his money by his ease in working a room alone, but there was a purposeful encouragement in the way he used the word ‘our’ when speaking to Virgil. After all, the bonfire was always a celebration of friends and family, and the line where they became one.

For Virgil’s sake he agreed to wear the heart monitor the medic had dug out of Scott’s kit left by the door, knowing the large flannel he’d planned for the party had more than enough room to hide the electrodes beneath the stripes of blue and yellow. Scott, it seemed, had stolen his neon pink shark slippers.

“Gordon,” Virgil said as he finished securing the test. “One more thing before we go. You need to actually hear it.”  He took Gordon’s banjo out of his hands, gently resting it against the wall out of the way, and wrapped him in his arms one more time. “I’m sorry . And I love you.”

“Oh!” he squeaked, squeezing back. “I’m sorry and I love you too.”

~*~

Jules’s lanterns along the path led the way for them towards the hum of voices, and while there were plenty of people dancing within the canopy, Gordon turned to where he knew his close friends would be by the bonfire. He saw Scott take a bag of ice off Scraps’s hands, and his friend turn back toward the caterer’s vehicles. Both of them caught sight of them and waved, and he knew they’d be back around, even as Bryce Sheridan dragged Scott into his conversation with the Mayor. 

They approached the circle of seats, and Everett stood from his Adirondack to give Gordon his chair and Virgil the one beside it, shifting to the log nearby with a kind smile. Virgil propped Gordon’s cane up against the chair in easy reach, and handed him his banjo, then grabbed them each a souvenir blanket for when the night got cooler. 

Gordon looked above at the extra star in the sky that let him know John, despite being the kind of person who disliked parties, was with him too. Thunderbird Five uncloaked for only him and his brothers to know. 

Warmed by more than the blanket, more than the fire, he lifted his banjo. 

“Elvis?” his friend asked, guitar in position.

“You got it, Ev.” 

They both strummed their instruments into song, and in the place where strings met, where the fire glowed with possibility, his heart danced.

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Farming Estate AU #Chicken!Dad #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderangst #Thunderbirds AU #Original Characters

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 14 (Chapter 8)

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings: phobias and panic attacks*  

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3 Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3  Chapter 8: Part 14 (You are here) | Ao3 

*****

Chapter 8 Ao3 Here

Emergency services departed with significantly less fanfare than when they arrived, the shrill sirens quieted and the lights devoid of flashing as they made their way back up the hill and away from the Tracy Estate. Virgil wished they’d taken Gordon with them on their solemn ascent, but his brother had argued: if it was calm and care the doctor ordered, he’d find that here on his Estate a lot easier than he would in a hospital. Too many memories. 

Their scans had picked up no signs of any ongoing heart issues, but the paramedics had still felt it would benefit Gordon to be seen by a licensed professional, just to rule out the possibility. And Virgil agreed with them, though he understood Gordon’s haunted eyes and his shuddering recoil at even the word hospital. 

What had kept him from forcing the matter was actually Scraps, the way she knelt beside him on the dock and answered questions about his medical history, with all the command of Scott on a mission in the sky. The two of them had been here before, and as horrible as Virgil felt about accidentally causing his brother a level of stress that literally had taken his breath away, it was nothing compared to the giant pit in his gut at realizing he also wasn’t the right person to help him, that - for all their history after his accident - the person who was best equipped to speak on Gordon’s behalf was not him. 

He didn’t have the right answers this time, not for Gordon. And he’d certainly done enough damage already for one day. So he’d sealed his lips as Scraps took control of the situation. 

He’d dropped down to sit on the dock himself, burying his face in his hands while Gordon’s vitals were being checked.

“Hey, you okay?” It had been Gordon’s voice, but a delicate, wrinkled hand that came to rest on his shoulder to catch his attention. Kai-san’s head had cocked towards the flurry of activity dockside, and Virgil pulled himself from his musings to catch his brother’s eye. Gordon had offered him a weak smile, through the rescue blanket curled his shoulders and the pressure cuff squeezing around his arm, and the team of medical responders surrounding him. 

He remembered opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again. Nodding.

One of the EMT’s had knelt beside him, and he shook his head. 

“I’m fine.” 

He hadn’t been going into shock; he just… was shocked. And overwhelmed and scared and thankful and sad, all at once. 

As emergency services had finished packing their equipment back into the vehicle, they tried once more to encourage Gordon to let himself be checked out in the hospital, this time emphasizing that he should be admitted at least for observation. Gordon had clammed up at the suggestion.   

Long ago, his darkest moments after the hydrofoil accident had not been due to what had happened to him (though not every day was a positive one), but the strong emotions surrounding how he felt after -  the adjustments he had to make to define his independence, the feeling of being watched, being an experiment.  Being judged. 

"I can watch him." Virgil had offered, scrambling for his identification. "I'm iR.” They all were certified paramedics as part of their rescue training. In this case he was just grateful there was something he could offer to make up for the nightmare of their excursion. He owed him that - to step back from his own opinions on what was best for his brother, and just listen to him this time.

He shook the paramedics’ hands and thanked them for trekking all the way out here, then watched them leave in their vehicles up the hill before he caught his breath and turned back towards the residents of the estate, clustered together. Scraps was kneeling in front of Gordon, keeping his view focused on her instead of the open water behind them, and Kai-san, glancing back toward the bobbing boat, as the dockside was her responsibility. 

“Virgil.” His name carried a huge weight in Gordon’s lungs as he expelled it with a breath. “Thank you.”

It filled him with warmth to know that Gordon perceived his offer to monitor him from a place of trust and that, like it had been ages ago, Virgil’s care was the exception to the disgust Gordon felt at all the eyes. Virgil’s eyes, so like his own, had been welcomed. 

He swooped down beside him. “Don’t thank me yet. Vigilant Virgil, and all.” 

“I remember.”

They sat there briefly, their voices fading, the gentle hum of music from Virgil’s sound system carrying with the sounds of laughter from the party. And in between, the whoosh of waves lapping upon the shore close by. 

“Can you move?” Virgil asked. “I think it’s time we get you dirtside and back home.”

“But our guests!" Even as Gordon glanced back up towards the activity above, he nodded and gripped their shoulders from either side to lift himself up, and Virgil slid his arm at the small of his back to help support him to his feet and left it there once he was standing.

Scraps pressed a gentle kiss to Gordon’s temple. Now that the immediate concern was over, Virgil saw in her a similar sense of relief, but the strain of being torn between two responsibilities, that of a host and that of a friend. She could not be in two places at once, and so she had to place an immense amount of faith in Virgil.

“I’ve got the party,” she told Gordon, speaking into his hair. “Listen to your brother, honey. You’re in good hands.” And, through the embrace, she pierced Virgil with a look so intense that he knew she’d break him apart with her gaze alone if he made a liar out of her. 

He wouldn’t. He promised himself then and there.

He nodded, and she stepped back just as Kai-san came up with Gordon’s cane and their phones, having just finished securing the catamaran and retrieving the items they’d left aboard in the hustle to get to shore. Virgil pocketed the electronics, and Gordon led them back to the elevator that would take them up the hillside, accepting Virgil’s hand on his back but determined to walk back on his own power. 

Though how his arm trembled in the silence. 

He knew it was a sign of the utter concentration that had overtaken his brother. Learning to walk again had been much the same, quiet where all Gordon’s energy was focused on putting one foot in front of the other and vocal only once he knew whether it was a cheer for his success or a scream for his failures. 

Virgil knew the farm well enough now that he was able to guide Gordon around where the party-goers would be congregating, and so they took the hidden trail that led them through the garden and to the back entrance of Gordon’s farmhouse where the wind teased a mild echo out of the bamboo chimes hanging from his porch ceiling. They scraped their shoes along the rough bristles of the welcome mat outside the entryway, and Virgil pressed the door open for his brother to walk through.

Virgil slipped his shoes off; they’d been rendered unrecognizable now that they had been dragged through the rougher trail, caked in sand and dirt where the piano key design had once been white. 

His back was turned only briefly, but in the time his back had been turned, Gordon had walked past him and into the kitchen. 

Meanwhile, he spotted Skipper peering at him from the light of the guest room where she’d skittered away from the noise and firelight, now curious about their return but tentative to leave the current safety of her space.

“C’mon, Skip-” 

Her name was cut short by the sickening crunch of wood breaking from the other room, and Virgil flinched at the memory of splintering beneath his feet and beams cracking above him. The sensation of falling, then pain. The toll of a bell that existed only in his ears, his mind, as he faded. 

But this wasn’t the sound of a building collapsing on him. It was a much smaller sound, more a shatter than the thunderous boom of foundations rumbling, but it shuddered through him with as much power as that day. It sounded like it could’ve been Gordon’s cane, or the wooden kitchen chairs, and either way, he feared his brother overbalancing. Feared him falling. 

He ran. 

Gordon stood breath heaving amidst the kitchen, pristine save for the mess below the refrigerator where a scattering of magnets and photographs had fallen to accompany the skeleton remains of the model ship that once was proudly displayed on the kitchen table. 

“I shouldn’t have done that.” His brother sounded as far away and as lost as those swallowed by the deep. He did not turn when Virgil sprinted towards him; he could not look away from the debris on the floor, though he spoke like those doomed spellbound by siren song, “I always do that. Why do I always destroy everything?” 

“You don’t.” Virgil clasped his shoulder, squeezed gently to pull him away. “You also create.”

Gordon shook his head, turning away, “That does not sound like me.”

“It is you,” Virgil argued. “Look around yourself, Gordon. Every slab of wood, every life here, all the laughter out there. You have a hand in all of it.”  He stepped in front of him, blocking the view of the mess the way Scraps had earlier blocked the view of the sea, and he lightly lifted Gordon’s chin upward to encourage him to meet his gaze. It wasn’t until he saw dim amber that he shared, “This place has your heart all over it. Destruction and creation just go hand in hand sometimes, Gordo.”

He knew it well. The reign of fire that made way for new life, the demolition of the old to rebuild something new, the erasure of drawn lines to paint beauty overtop. 

He led Gordon away from the kitchen, towards the couch in the living room where Gordon curled onto his side, and uttered a sigh as his body came in contact with the soft cushions. He offered to collect anything he needed, and after delivering a fresh glass of water, he stepped into Gordon’s bedroom with his permission to find the blanket at the foot of his bed. 

He tucked it around him, feeling the additional heft in its structure, which gave it more weight as Gordon burrowed into it. By that time Skipper had come out from hiding at the noise they’d made, and spread herself out on the floor by him, eyes drooping. Gordon’s fingers curled around her fur. He massaged the area by her ear.  

Content that he was settled and resting and that Skipper would alert him if she sensed anything, he turned back away to straighten the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if the model was salvageable or if he could recreate the boat with enough of the pieces, but he could certainly try. 

Virgil’s back was to the front entrance and he was picking up bits of mast when a booming series of knocks at the door caused him to jump about a foot in the air. He recognized the force and rhythm to be that of Scott, and his brother barged in even as he turned to go open the door. Blue eyes darted between rooms, scanning with a military-trained level of inquiry. 

“Scott! What are you doing here?”

“John heard your emergency call,” Scott told him, striding up to him. “Neither of you have been answering your phones,” 

The accusation stung, but it reminded him that he’d tucked both phones out of the way.  He fished them out of his back pocket, realizing both he and Gordon had been receiving multiple calls from their siblings. They must’ve panicked, and Scott appeared to have come right from a rescue, the sweat clinging to his hair and his suit covered in a layer of dirt and stone. Mountain retrieval, perhaps, or a cave-in.

“You’re right,” he said, glancing down at the phones in dismay they’d not checked in with them sooner. The frequency of calls, and their hastened cadence, spoke volumes.  “I’m sorry, Scott.”

“Never mind,” Scott said, his tone softening.  He pulled Virgil close, seeming to realize this was their first in-person conversation in weeks. Virgil clasped him tight. He’d missed his older brother, and he knew the farm retreat had helped heal his mind and body; he hoped it was visible and that Scott was proud of his progress.  “You seem so much better, Virg. I’m glad.” And the glisten in his eyes proved he meant it. “Fill me in. Is he ok?”

“Yes, he’s ok,” Virgil assured him, pulling back and glad that he’d come.  “This way.”

He had a feeling Scott understood more than Virgil knew; but, even still, there was little he could report without risking oversharing details that Virgil felt were Gordon’s to tell. The strands of trust between them were tenuous at best, and though he wanted to weave them together and make them strong - and it seemed Gordon did too - they were still fresh, new threads he wasn’t ready to test in case they broke. 

He‘d left Gordon under Skipper’s capable supervision, and by the time he walked back into the room with Scott, the pup had wedged her way on the couch with him, and Gordon had shifted to give her additional space. He’d been drifting wearily earlier, but now he was staring at the woodgrains of the wall with his hand at Skipper’s head. She perked up at their footsteps, barking in confusion at the extra set of feet and alerting Gordon to their presence.

“Scott!” 

“It’s me. Budge over, Squid.” 

“You’re gonna get my furniture all dirty.” But Gordon made room for him anyway, and Virgil settled adjacent to them in a reclining chair since two humans and a dog were already too many on the couch.

“How are you?” Scott asked.

“I’m ok. Just memories.” Scott nodded like he knew what that meant, and Virgil noted the way Gordon leaned into Scott’s hand carding through his hair.  “I didn’t think you could come.” 

“They caught my call out earlier,” Virgil explained.

“Oh.” Gordon stared out towards Virgil, speaking softly. “That makes sense. I’m sorry I scared you, Scott. Everything’s fine here, though. If you need to head back.”

Scott’s hand stalled. His lips thinned, and the strain at the corners of his eyes reminded Virgil starkly of their father - countless business trips away during his son’s recital, or swim meet, or the “big” game. Torn between duty and family. But it reminded him not of the times his father left for a long mission or meeting, but the times he didn’t. The time he had made it home for Scott’s thirteenth birthday and John’s science fair presentation on quasars and Alan’s pre-school performance where he’d been cast as a shrub and Gordon’s career day. 

For himself,  it was the art gallery he’d been invited to display three of his paintings for. It was the expression his father bore when Virgil caught sight of him and called him over with the kind of joy that revealed he’d been surprised he made it:  closed eyes with regret that his children had doubted him and that, in many ways, he understood it. 

It was no secret between them that their father could never guarantee the fulfillment of his promises. It had taken him away from them in the end, the promise to never give up at any cost. 

Gordon was unaware of the battle spilling over his brother’s face, but Virgil saw it, watching Scott steel himself before his very eyes. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You have to. What if a rescue comes up? That’s important.”

“So are you.” Scott dropped his hand to Gordon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I should’ve been here in the first place. So I’m here, however you need me.” 

Stunned into silence, Gordon swallowed.

Virgil cleared his throat, “Uh, yeah, I should finish cleaning up the kitchen.” 

“Don’t. Please stay.” The sharpness in Gordon’s command halted him even before he was able to stand. To Scott, Gordon asked, “Right now, the best way to help me would be to help Scraps. Can you help with the party? Because I-I need to talk to Virgil.”

Scott glanced over to him, his expression unreadable through the array of emotions being quelled through his military training. Perhaps it was pride, perhaps pain, but either way, he hesitated in his response, his hand lingering on Gordon’s shoulder.

A beat, an exchange of glances between them.

“Of course, Squid. Can I shower first?”

“Yes,” Gordon seemed unaffected by the suggestion. “You know where your change of clothes is.” 

“Sure do.” He peeled himself away from the living room, and after a minute or two they heard

the creak of the hall storage closet, followed by the catch of a showerhead in the washroom. 

So effortless it had been for Scott to stride in, offering nothing and everything, just himself in whatever way Gordon needed him. The ease to which their older brother walked around the cottage and knew the people here no longer surprised Virgil anymore. It hurt instead, and he wondered how much of his father’s regret matched his own expression. 

“I owe you an explanation.” 

Virgil scowled. 

“No, you don’t owe me anything.” After all the weeks dancing around each other, the conversations that had felt directionless, the pieces falling into place that left him horrified and embarrassed, the last thing he wanted was to approach this conversation from a place of obligation. Gordon owed him nothing.  “But I can promise to listen if you choose to share it with me.”

“Come sit beside me,” Gordon reached for him. Eyes damp, Gordon gestured to the seat which Scott had vacated, and Virgil listened, resting a hand on Gordon’s knee once he settled. His brother gave a large sigh before he began. “So, I have a fear of the sea. Thalassophobia if you want a word for it. And it kind of changed a lot of things….”

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Chicken!Dad #Farming Estate AU #thunderangst #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #tw: phobia

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 17 (chapter 10)

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family.*Warnings for previous chapters: phobias and panic attacks*  

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 | Ao3 Chapter 7: Part 13 | Ao3 Chapter 8: Part 14 | Ao3 Chapter 9: Part 15 | Ao3 Chapter 10: Part 16 | Part 17 (you are here) | Ao3 NEW Tracy Seaside -the playlist here

A/N: Things you may have missed 1) there’s a part for chapter 10 that was launched this weekend featuring big brother BootScoot. I’d encourage reading that first. 2) I’ve also shared a heavily curated playlist I adore. All links are up above. And finally 3) I wrote a one-shot that occurs between chapter 9 and 10 that details what’s going on between Virgil and Everett if you are picking up the vibes. Gordon’s a little shit, but all he wants is to be the best goddamn wingman that ever was. Chocolate and Hazel available on Ao3. *****

Part 17 - Chapter 10 Read on Ao3

Over the next week the chill rolled in. Gordon pulled his fall and winter accessories from storage and packed up all but a couple of his short sleeve tees in favor of the cozy sweaters he kept hanging in his closet. The same flannel he’d picked up for the party, had had its fair amount of use overtop sleep clothes in the evenings, as the cold seeped through his windows and doors.

The quiet of the house was unexpectedly loud, and if emptiness had a physical feeling, he imagined it was similar to the effect of the cold. While extra clothes and warm blankets helped to block the frost from reaching his skin, it didn’t stop it from existing, and it certainly didn’t stop it from affecting him to the bones in all too real way.

But he had shelter against the cold, and so too did he have protection against the hollow feeling in his chest. In the form of his canine companion who cuddled against his side but never on his lap and nudged his hand over her head in place of waiting for pets, and who knew sit, stay, and come, but refused to let her paws be touched. Occasionally, Skipper would roam the halls in a state of confusion and peek into the dark guest room, before finding her way back to Gordon with the heaviest of lonely sighs and wiggling her head under Gordon’s hand for those ear scratches she deeply desired.

Dogs spoke such vibrant emotion.

It was such a thing of beauty, being an animal parent and wondering randomly what they were doing during the times he wasn’t present. With the change in the weather, the hens were likely inside playing with the indoor accoutrements instead of exploring the outside range of the coop. Though, Tabetha was often braver in that regard than the others. Meanwhile, TaterTot liked the highest of perches, while Mocha often claimed the swing roost, with the beading up the side. Their ducks were free-range, so they’d eventually would start to spend more time in their winter enclosure, knowing the farm provided a regular supply of food and water and shelter, but it hadn’t gotten cold enough for that yet. Then there was Skipper, who was either sleeping somewhere between the two houses, or more likely, following Jules around the farm work.

Regardless, they all were likely warmer than he was now, representing their estate on farmer’s market day with Everett and two of the day shift hired hands. His fingerless gloves were made of Italian cashmere, warmer than wool but breathable, in a neutral tone of nutmeg. They were the finest things on him, with the rest of his clothes an array from the first things grabbed from his drawers – a purple beanie, a pair of jeans, a grey merino sweater, and his usual work boots.

Tucked inside their tent behind the rows of wine and mead, he shivered as the wind came through their tent, flapping at the edges. He made sure to greet those that entered and, in between guests, sipped on the warm caramel flavored hot chocolate from the Moretti’s shop. He deserved it firstly because he and the cold were not friends and secondly because he’d resisted the coffee rolls the baking family were selling fresh that morning and which were still responsible for the continuing smell of cinnamon in the air.

“Where’s the handsome one?” a crackling voice spoke, passed down from day-shifter Billy at the produce further up their set up.

“Right where you’re looking, Ms. Mayfield,” Gordon answered without a beat, his grin wide as he started wrapping up her Saturday wine. Old Ms. Margaret Mayfield was harmless in her teasing, he knew.

“Hmm, still a lucky girl, I am, dearie.”

“Of course, you are.” He nudged Everett as he spoke and handed over the wine so he could start ringing her up. “Why don’t you tell this one all about it, and he might give you a nice discount on your produce today.” They had one running anyway.

Seamlessly, he passed her over to him with an added plus of putting Everett on the spot, and the deer-in-headlights expression on his friend’s face only encouraged him more. He could barely stifle his laughter in his sleeve.

Ms. Mayfield giggled, her face flushing. “Oh, you boys are too good to me.”

He gave Everett the credit, the man brushed it off quickly, schooling his face into calm while Ms. Mayfield raved about dark hair and flannel to him while he tried to focus on her numbers. She left with a skip in her step, and all 190 bs of Everett swung toward him with a piercing look.

“You.”

“Moi?” He could laugh.  

“Virgil was right, you are incorrigible.” Everett shook his head, his glare breaking as he couldn’t hold the hard expression when faced with the mirth bouncing off the smaller man. “I get it now.”

“Aww.  What kind of little brother would I be if I didn’t give him a hard time when he’s not here to defend himself?”

“Do you have to put me in the crossfire?”

“Absolutely. Besides you are here and” – Gordon suddenly started reorganizing the display, voice cracking – “he’s not.  Therefore, if anything you’re the actual target, bro.”

“Hey boys?” Everett called out to the day-shifters over Gordon’s head, and he jumped at the sudden boom of his voice. “Good work this morning. You’re welcome to take your breaks. Cap and I got this.” Once the two youngsters sauntered off towards the various stalls and they were clear of customers, he spun back to Gordon, pulling their chairs forward. “You. Spill.”

“What’s to spill?”

“Mhmm.” Everett leaned his cheek on his knuckles, watching him fiddle with straightening the tablecloth.

“I mean it! What’s to spill?”

“Gordon,” he tugged gently on his arm. “Please come sit for a bit and talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he sighed, sinking into the chair.

“It’s okay to miss him, you know.”

“I-I—” It had only been a couple weeks against the span of years, but for all their ups and downs during his stay Gordon had gotten used to Virgil’s company. “I just am trying to re-remember how to live alone, you know.”

“I understand that,” Everett offered. “You know there’s always the house. You’re welcome anytime.”

“No, I know I have you guys. I still love my home, and I’ll be fine. It’s just I’m still adjusting to the quiet.” He gave him a wry smile.

It was actually a lot of things.

Everything had moved so quickly. Even before the party, he’d been in constant place of thinking of the next thing while physically working on the current. Then there was the party, the clean-up efforts, the change of weather, Virgil’s departure, and then all too suddenly a realization of “back to normal” that he hadn’t had time to process.  

It helped that Virgil hadn’t decided to leave immediately when Scott offered to bring him home, choosing instead to spare a couple of extra days with the farm. He’d wanted to make sure Gordon was in full recovery after the scare that weekend, plus there were a few straggler projects he’d needed to finish in Everett’s work shed. Even still, Wednesday morning came too quickly, and even though they still had party leftovers, they moved their Fish Friday meal early in the week in order to give Virgil a proper send off. Scott and Alan had picked him up bright and early the next day, and there was a heartbreak anew for Gordon to watch three of his brothers take off into the sky.

“I guess I do miss him,” he said. “Only a little though!”

The evening after the elaborate dinner, Virgil had sat them down on the sofa for a heart-to-heart of repeated apologies and promises for the future. His brother swore to him it would be different moving forward, and it was with such intense honesty in eyes and conviction in his voice that Gordon truly found himself starting to believe it.

Virgil had invited him home for Christmas. Home to the Island.  He still wasn’t sure if he wanted to go.  That sure was a lot of seawater, but Virgil had encouraged him they could make accommodations. His needs were no burden, but it was his call. He could tell in Virgil’s eyes that he wanted him there.

They’d pre-planned a rotation of visits between the family to take time off to visit on a scattering of weekends between now and the holiday. They’d never had something like that before, and a protective wall around Gordon’s heart couldn’t help but only believe it would happen when it happened, knowing the world wouldn’t stop needing iR just because of a pre-planned trip. But Virgil had seemed to believe they could make it work, and he still owed Virgil a little bit of trust.

So he focused on looking forward to John’s visit in two weeks. And if that went well, maybe then, he’d start firmly anticipating the next one, and then the next.

“Have you heard from him at all?” Everett asked.

“Not yet.”

“You should reach out,” he encouraged. “I think he’d like knowing you’re thinking about him.”

And that was the rest of what needed navigating, the small things that really meant big things. Small messages of the day-to-day that really meant welcoming his brother to be part of the events of his life, showing that he wanted to share it. Would Virgil even appreciate the random pictures of his chickens? And would he be welcomed in return? Would Virgil send him the little melodies in his head the way he would send them to John?

Everett was right.  He needed to start somewhere.

Small things that meant big things.

He shivered in the cold, opening his phone to start a new group chat, one with all of his brothers, and he sent them off a simple picture of his hot chocolate against the background of their display with the caption wake me up before you cocoa…

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Farming Estate AU #Gordon Tracy #thunderangst #OC: Everett #Thunderbirds fanfiction #im crying whyyyy so close to endddd

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 12

(Yes, I turned my Sims4 screenshot into the banner)

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family. 

We are getting into some history now. Got your theories?

**Warnings will be need to be updated in the next chapter, but forewarning that they are coming and this chapter does lead directly into the heaviest section of this story**

New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. Chapter 5 has been updated on Ao3 and will bring you to caught up. Chapter 6 is long enough on its own, so here ya go:

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11  | Ao3 Chapter 6 Part 12 (you are here) | Ao3

A/N: I’ve had this chapter ready for a week... full disclosure, getting nervous now. I hope you enjoy.  Also - tumblr has been doing some weird formatting on the paste in, so I’ve sent this one back to Ao3 after the snippet instead of under the read more.

*****

Part 12 (Chapter 6)

Mocha wouldn’t leave his side.

Well, his shoulder really, since that’s where she’d jumped up to when he entered the coop. She distracted him from his task of spreading the feed and collecting the eggs, as if sensing that he’d had little to no sleep the night prior with Virgil’s words ringing in his ear and the pressure of the party sitting heavily in his stomach. Mocha was a good girl, and chickens were intelligent creatures. She knew, and in Gordon’s opinion, the hens were his second-best therapy.

First-best therapy were the conversations with his actual therapist, a colleague of Jules’ with whom she used to work. The young woman often had a busy schedule between her other clients, and Gordon only called her ad hoc anymore. But last night wasn’t an isolated incident; it had been a few nights in a row of the same lack of sleep, and he recognized that it wasn’t just one-off restlessness but a deep insomnia that was keeping him awake.

They scheduled an appointment in the following days since it wasn’t urgent. In the meantime, he could talk to Jules, as she would lend him an ear often - as a friend, though, and not as a client. Having a licensed therapist on site, in his employ, and married to his best friend, came with the additional perk that it was easy for them to fit a conversation into their day to day. And certainly, any questions she asked that challenged him, he knew came from a place of true care. That made all the difference for him, but Jules’ professional services were for the guests only, not Gordon himself. 

They were too close. 

She was his people, which is why she knew exactly what he needed and where he needed to be. It’s not like the chicken coop was the most relaxing or aesthetically pleasing of places, but it had always helped Gordon ground himself. Some people preferred meadows and beaches; Gordon preferred feathers and clucking and dirt-crusted boots. 

The previous night had stirred up fury he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was one thing for him to reconcile the grudge he felt had been over destroyed canvases and his anger management; it was another thing altogether to learn that his brother had felt as alone as him the whole time. The unforgivable, somehow forgiven.

Managing just a few hours sleep, there was a weary, facetious part of him that had been tempted to skip preparing Virgil’s coffee for him that morning. He could easily have said it was because he had so much on his mind with the party tonight, and it would’ve been partially true. But even as he was thinking it, the coffee filter had been set and the reservoir filled, and it was easier to keep going than to stop. Maybe muscle memory, but maybe he also just wasn’t that person anymore. 

 Even still, he left it to run and stepped into the dawn, already outside and dodging loose rocks on his way towards the coop when the Colonel signaled morning. He called Scraps to discuss the preparation plans while he collected the eggs, keeping his hands free with the earbud that linked to his phone. She must’ve heard something in his voice. They really only needed one person to work the coop, but Jules had been sent anyway. Gordon was grateful and decided ultimate-best therapy was the company of both his hens and the family he’d chosen.

Read on Ao3

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Chicken!Dad #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #Thunderbirds are go fanfiction #thunderangst #Farming Estate AU

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 11

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family

New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. Chapter 5 has been updated on Ao3, available here:

Prologue here

 Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3

 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3

 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3

 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3

 Chapter 5: Part 10 | Part 11 (you are here) | Ao3

Part A/N: You all wanted a stupidly long section, today didn’t you? 

*****

Part 11

They didn’t speak of it further the next few weeks, neither the horrible accusation that Gordon had given up on his family, nor about the night Virgil learned he very much hadn’t. But after their night sharing Ma’s-turned-Gordon’s tea, Virgil seemed happier overall and he continued to heal. The hoverchair had long been abandoned in the back of the house. His sessions with Sara for physical therapy decreased to once a week, though his therapy appointments with Jules increased. Not that Gordon knew what they talked about. 

During the day, Virgil spent more time working on the radio, and in the evenings he did return to Gordon’s dinner table, though occasionally they’d be joined by Scraps and Jules or sometimes Everett. Other times, the two of them would join everyone over at the main household. 

Of the regular on-site staff, only Kai-san dined her preferred fare in her seaside home at the edge of the estate, though she brought them fish from their catch every Friday. Introduced to others as Kai Haniko, the greying woman was even smaller than Gordon. She maintained the fishing shack and the boats, making up for her height with her wisdom and experience. She’d taken up residence in the house by the sea once the rancher had been safe enough for Gordon to sleep in, and she’d been an essential part of the staff of their estate ever since, despite the value she placed on her privacy. 

In greenhouse three, Kai-san checked the pH levels of the water for the plants growing in hydro while he clipped away at some of the overgrowth during his inspection. A few of the grow lights needed to be replaced along the far back wall and the lemon trees were slow to yield, but otherwise the plants in grow zone 10 were continuing as expected. The humidity in the building was set to 50%, and Gordon wiped the sweat at his brow with the back of his hand in the heat. 

“Accessory fruit?” Virgil asked, picking a blackberry off the bush as he stepped up beside him. He tossed it in his mouth, immediately grimacing at the flavor. Gordon reached over and picked one that was more ripe. 

“Aggregate fruit,” he corrected. “You were close. Catch.”

He tossed it towards him, but Virgil hadn’t gotten the memo quick enough to dart towards it, and the berry hit him solid on the forehead instead of landing in his mouth. It left a smear of dark purple on his face before dropping as mush on the floor of the greenhouse. 

Gordon snorted. “Fail.”

“Ah, shoot. Try me again,” Virgil said. “I wasn’t ready.”  Spot on his forehead and all, he opened his mouth like a baby bird for a second attempt. They used to play this game long enough to make themselves sick when they were younger, or at least enough to destroy their appetite for dinner. It used to drive their mother crazy, except the value of having the plants far outweighed the slight downside to her children’s enjoyment of them.

At least that was what Gordon grew to understand once he began gardening on his own. 

He found another and dramatically lined it up as if playing a game of darts, released it, and smiled as it hit true. 

“Mmm, score,” Virgil chewed. 

“They don’t call me a sharpshooter for nothing,” Gordon admitted, swinging back to the clippings of the nearby plant. “What did you need?” 

Virgil nodded. “Right.” He finally wiped his forehead. “Scraps sent me to find you. She’s got a question from the caterer to run by you when you’re done here.” 

The Tracy-Sheridan Estates Bonfire, which marked the change of season, was a week out, and they’d been thick in party planning. Each year, the location shifted between Gordon and Scrap’s home and the acres belonging to Scrap’s family, though the attendees included the current and former staff, residents and their families of both. They both had large families, but Gordon had yet to have more than one sibling able to attend. 

The Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm was tasked with hosting this year, and if there was anything Gordon was most confident about, it was his party planning. He’d tasked Everett with the inventory lists, Jules with the garden landscaping. He and Scraps both handled decor for their theme. They’d done Tiki; they’d done Luau; they’d done Pie-palooza. This year their staff-voted on Keep It Cozy, and Virgil had immediately jumped on the chance to help with the event.

“Thanks. I’m taking a break here in thirty and I’ll head over. How’s the music coming?”

After an exhausting week preparing for their large change of seasons celebration, Scraps demanded that he and Virgil attend their usual Fish Fridays at their place, reminding Gordon that they deserve nice things and that he needed to take a break to relax before he burned out. 

“It’s coming. Promise.”

...

The universe didn’t seem to agree. International Rescue had been called out during the middle of dinner preparations.

Gordon and Virgil both intensely watched the holofeed, while Jules stress-snacked with a bowl of chips, and Everett worked on their meal. Scraps was helping him with sides, but only when she wasn’t standing between her wife and her best friend, rubbing Gordon’s shoulder while she played with her wife’s hair, which was newly dyed purple to replace the fading strands of green.

IR needed hands – John was down on terra firma, both him and Alan taking Two while Scott arrived first at the site of the earthquake in One. Kayo and the GDF arrived before Two, and they watched as the camera zoomed in on a shot of Scott coordinating with Colonel Casey. WASP had been called in on standby to support rescue of the coastal city. As International Rescue functioned without an aquanaut, they had gained an ally in WASP for situations that needed a reach below the surface of the sea. 

Four had never made it out of prototype, and Gordon had given Scott the go-ahead ages ago for her designs to be appropriately modified and donated to underwater research. 

Glued to his phone, Virgil kept mumbling to himself, typing to whoever was on the other end of the phone – Brains or Grandma – revealing fragments of details that Gordon clung to like a lifeline.

“That building behind him is unstable.”

And -

“It’s ok, Scott has a grapple for that.”

And -

“Grandma says the feeds are about to go on a delay,” – the screen fizzled – “and not to freak out.”

“What happened?” Gordon panicked, turning towards his brother.

“I don’t know yet! The building collapsed and they think Scott was inside. She says they have normal vitals on him though.”

Gordon knew how quickly life could change, and he squeezed the soft hand that had suddenly grabbed his, not caring that Jules still had the salt of the potato chips on her fingers. If anything it distracted him from how cold he suddenly felt. After a couple seconds, the screen came back to life with an awful shot of the building disintegrating into debris, followed by an uncomfortable silence even though they knew what details Grandma was feeding them, and eventually Scott scrambled out from beneath some rocks and waved towards someone off screen. 

At the same time, Gordon’s phone rang, and he fumbled to pull it out of his pocket with his shaking hands.

“I heard you two were watching.”

“Scott!”

“John patched me through. I’m ok,” he said. At the same time Virgil turned abruptly towards the sound of his brother’s voice, and Gordon turned the phone around to put it on speaker and switch to visual, holding it out in front of them. The others gathered closer to Everett to start getting their place settings together. Scott looked tired and grimy, his hair a mess of dust and a stripe of dirt across his face but smiling at the two of them. “Just a close call. No need to fret. We’re still cleaning up here so I can’t linger. I just wanted to catch you.”

“Too late, I’m going to fret,” Virgil said, squeezing in closer as if he could med-scan through the small hologram.

“Please, be careful,” Gordon warned.

“Always am!” Scott said, his attention drawn back towards the destruction, and snapping the call closed.

Their breathing heaved in their chests.

“Is it always like this?” Virgil whispered.

“No, it’s never so luxurious.” Gordon stilled his hands on the table, trying to keep the image of Scott stuck under those rocks out of his head by counting to eight. “Sometimes I don’t know right away. Sometimes I can’t reach anyone.”

He didn’t know how much Virgil knew of his own injury and the events following, or what he might have been told, but the words silenced him at least of all International Rescue talk for the evening. They still kept the rescue on mute where they could continue to monitor the events, and eventually Virgil’s comm pinged to let them know the family was all on their way back and that the rest of the cleanup efforts would be completed by local jurisdictions and the guidance of the GDF. Of immediate threats, IR had done what they could, he quietly shared.

More than once Gordon thanked his lucky stars that his friends were the type of people whose smiles fought at the grey fuzzing that made his brain hazy with anxiety. Rather than a somber meal, Everett’s well-seasoned fish filled where the fear had left him empty. He soaked up the pride that came from salad ingredients freshly harvested from their own hard labor as well as the potatoes they’d been afraid would have a smaller yield this season. Something Jules had said to Everett had even coaxed a laugh out of Virgil, and beside him, Scraps nudged his shoulder lightly, letting him know she was there even though he worried.

He always worried. His brothers gave so much of themselves to the rest of the world. He wondered sometimes how much they kept for themselves. Scott’s scare that evening wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last time he felt that fear of losing them pumping through him. And just as easily, the man across from him could’ve fallen from their grasp too. Yet there he was whole and hearty.

It had been so close. 

Virgil must’ve felt eyes watching him. They exchanged a look where brown eyes met brown, and Gordon saw through the laughter where Virgil was of a like mind, fearing for a future that had not yet come to pass. But could. So quickly it could.

For so long Gordon had ached for them and hoped to be able to do something to stop the worst from happening, feeling the odd man out when it became apparent his fortune was no longer aligned with their dream. But even Virgil, who - unlike Gordon - usually had the power to do something about it, held a deep sadness in his eyes that proved he was not alone. Sometimes, all they could do was hope.

   He couldn’t.

He wondered how Virgil could even stand it.

...

That was the secret of Virgil, probably of the rest of the Tracy clan too. It wasn’t just Gordon, but all of them that felt helpless against the whims of fate at times. This time it was voices that dragged him from the confines of his bedcovers and had him stumbling into the kitchen.

Virgil had learned to keep his phone light dim and turned away from Gordon’s door, and that night Skipper had found her way into Virgil’s room – she was already sitting next to him, her head on his knee. His surprise showed he hadn’t expected for Gordon to find him again.   

“Oh, sorry Gordon. I keep waking you.”

He waved the concern away. “Already awake again.”

“Fishface!”

“Alan!” Gordon grinned, scooting a chair closer to Virgil’s side so he could see his younger brother in the view of his brother’s phone. “How’s it been, buddy?”

“Boring without you, as usual,” Alan chirped. “I’m this close to beating your high score on Providence II.” The tiny figure pressed his fingers together into an even tinier gesture of miniscule space.

“Psht. I still got you on DPS. You don’t optimize your gear. I keep telling you that.”

“You two still play that game?” Virgil spoke. “Gordon, where the hell do you find the time?”

“I make time.” Otherwise, Alan was too easy to miss between rescues and his constant need for the newest games. He’d lost him for a couple weeks when Cavern Quest came out, but the promise of helping him procure that legendary bow he’d been wanting deep in one of the dungeons had encouraged him back. It had a piercing bonus – could see enemies through walls and a special ability to hit despite obstructions in the way. A little broken if you asked Gordon, but it made Alan happy to have the one-up when they played. “John plays too, but I think Eos interferes and makes him hit faster than us. It’s the only explanation.”

Alan giggled. “You know he can listen in on comms, right?”

“Don’t care.” His lips curled.

“Hmmm, your funeral.”

And like that the room went quiet. Alan’s gaze lowered, and Gordon shifted in his seat, watching both brothers intently.

“Alan, look at me, kiddo.” Virgil leaned forward, as if being closer to the phone meant that he could be closer to his brother. If not physically, but in spirit, his attention solely focused on the figure that called him. “Scott’s fine.”

“You weren’t.”

He gave a heavy sigh. “I’m getting there, kiddo. I’ll be home before you know it. Remember what I told you. Don’t let fear stand in the way of what we do. Now find Scott and give him the hug he probably needs. I know for a fact little brothers give the best hugs. Can you do that for me, Squirt?”  

“Yeah,” Alan nodded. “Thanks, Virgil.”

“Of course, Al. Call me whenever.”

“And me,” Gordon added quietly before Alan gave one last wave and the phone clicked off. The quiet stretched, with the two of them sitting there until Skipper whined. Gordon reached over to scratch Skipper behind the ears. “You’re good with him.”

He hadn’t expected anything less.  Virgil and Alan couldn’t work together the way they did without some level of knowledge of what made the other click. Alan had always responded to distraction, and in this case, being given a responsibility that spoke of trust. 

But it was more than that.

Alan had never quite forgiven Gordon for leaving, and Gordon had never quite forgiven himself for it either. In fact, if he admitted it, he probably needed Alan more than Alan needed him. The youngest of the Tracy’s had three more older brothers. Gordon had just the one younger. But he knew Alan would always have a trail of older brothers protecting him where he could not. It wasn’t in Virgil – or John or Scott- he doubted.

Seeing it, though, – Alan calling out for Virgil’s comfort – was harder. He swallowed at the closed phone, and Virgil cut through his thoughts with a frustrated growl as he tossed it carelessly on the table’s surface to push it away.

“Ugh! I don’t get it.” Virgil threw his hands back, and Gordon jumped at the sudden movement. Like a string pulled taut suddenly snapping, Virgil turned on him, his eyes fuming. “I don’t get you. For years, I thought you abandoned us. Hell, I didn’t even know about this place until a couple weeks ago. Imagine what that was like, Gordon. Finding out from Scott what you’ve built here. And he knew all along. But it turns out. No, not just Scott knew. Everyone knew.” 

His fist pounded on the table.  “John’s favorite tea? Yours. Those hours Alan sits playing on his computer, talking online? Yeah, that’s apparently you on the other end. Does Kayo know? Grandma? Brains? Why, by all that’s beautiful, is it just me?” His voice cracked. “What happened to us, Gordo?”

“Oh, I-I… oh, Virgil.” This wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. He steadied himself with his hand on Skipper’s head, partly for her benefit to let her know Virgil wasn’t mad at her. But mostly for his own.

“Just tell me. Why didn’t you reach out to me?”

Mouth suddenly dry, he thought back to all those times his finger hovered over the call button, the letters he wrote then burned, the birthday and holiday gifts he bought then gave away or handed off to John or Scott to give anonymously on his behalf. And their encouragement to just talk to him, which he ignored because in the end - 

“I didn’t know how,” he said, hating how gravelly his voice sounded in his own ears. “I left, the others reached out and you never did, and I didn’t ask.” He looked away, down at the soft fur under his fingertips as he rubbed gently, lovingly, at Skipper’s ears. “And then time passed, and it became easier to leave it alone because I thought you didn’t want to hear from me. I didn’t blame you; you were the one I hurt the most.”

“Of course, I wanted to hear from you!” Stifled by the confines of the table, Virgil pulled back and paced along the length of the kitchen. 

“What could I have said?”  Gordon pulled himself up from the table too, gripping his hands on the back of the chair for support while he tracked Virgil’s movements. There was nothing he could’ve done that would’ve helped heal the hurt he caused. 

“An apology would’ve been nice.”

“Did you want to hear that I meant it, Virgil? That I wanted you to feel an ounce of the hurt I felt?  That I went to your studio. Angry. Raving. And I meant to destroy everything with a spark of joy because I hated looking at it?” 

Virgil paled. 

“So, yeah, Virg, of course I was sorry. I destroyed everything. The thing that made you, you – you never had it taken away. But I-“

“ -I’m not talking about the studio.”

Gordon floundered as his brother’s words sunk in. Not the studio? That studio was Virgil’s pride and joy, the painstakingly organized paint tubes, the drying racks, the easel set up just so to capture the light at the right angle. Artwork that held his brother’s heart, and Gordon had ripped it all to shreds. “What?”

“I forgave you for the studio. Not at first. But I came to understand it. I saw you slowly losing patience session after session, remember. The eruption was bound to happen. What I wanted to know is why you gave up.” He rounded on Gordon and jabbed a finger into his chest. “After everything. You gave up. You left. Without a word. And now I find out it’s just me you abandoned. Why?” His voice trailed off, his hand fell silently to his side, trembling. “Is it my fault? I need you to just tell me. Is it because I couldn’t help? Do you blame me for not being enough to fix this?”

He anticipated the anger, the devastation, the heart-on-his-sleeve blame that Virgil had every right to bestow on him if not for the studio itself than at least for the lack of control they’d always told him would be his downfall as a kid. That quick to roil tempest that rolled inside him and destroyed everything in its wake. He’d built walls around himself based on knowing Virgil could never forgive him for that. But it turns out he could and he had. All those walls, all those years, and it had all been unnecessary? 

He was still working through the impact of the word - forgiveness, and too quickly Virgil was asking him to answer to something that had never even crossed his mind. 

He’d been thrown by the insecurity, the uncertainty, behind the anger. Virgil was strong, steady. Hands that had gripped his arms tight to pull him away from a fistfight, and the tender care to hide the black eye later. The guiding hand at his back while he took his first steps for the second time of his life. Virgil’s empathy had him suffering right along with him. So how could he blame him? How could he ever when Virgil had given him so much? And he hadn’t even cared, apparently, that Gordon had thrown it back in his face. 

Just not enough to find him.

 “You don’t know me as well as you think you do if you really think that,” he said, his voice cold.

“I don’t know you at all anymore,” Virgil shot back.

He flinched. “Yeah, well whose fault is that? How long have you been holding that one in? Do you think, after having all those doctor’s watching me, those specialists observing me, going through all those months of therapy with you, and Dr. Mendoza after, that I gave even an ounce of thought to an idea like that? What could you have done that they didn’t? Honestly, Virgil. Who do you take me for?”

“Then, why?”

“I can’t right now. I just can’t. Dammit all, Virgil. It’s not all about you. And it’s not about fixing me either. It never was. I am not defined by this,” – he pounds on his leg for good measure – “but it’s a part of me. And this is my life now. I would’ve liked for you to be a part of it too.”

He turned on his heel, ignoring the plea in his brother’s eyes. “Phone rings both ways.”

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Chicken!Dad #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #Thunderbirds are Go fanfiction #farming estate au #thunderangst

[whatgaviiformes]

Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 10

Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!   Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family 

New to this fic? Please be aware for this story that parts are posted in sections here on tumblr before I upload the chapter to Ao3. We are about to begin Chapter 5, so you can either select the sections below or read all of what’s on Ao3 to be caught up.

Prologue here Chapter 1: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 Chapter 2: Part 4 | Part 5  | AO3 Chapter 3: Part 6  | Part 7 |  Ao3 Chapter 4: Part 8 | Part 9 | Ao3  Chapter 5: Part 10 (you are here)

Part A/N: So I went on vacation, got downed by COVID, then had to re-find my writing groove. I still have the cough and the smell of woodsmoke chasing me for some reason. While I was getting better, half the time when I went to go write, I played the game “for inspiration” instead. So, because so many folks are also playing Stardew Valley now (joiiiin meeee), I feel the need to reiterate - this is only vaguely inspired by SDV. Please note the genre, there’s a difficult background being explored, and at the end of the day this is a Virgil and Gordon fic. Thanks for reading if you are still hanging in there. I promise we’re making progress for all the ups and downs. I promise cute chickens will come. 

*****

Part 10

Things were good for a time. Having new guests was always a juggle to find a new routine for the duration of their stay, but with Virgil the schedule came about seamlessly. In the mornings, he helped Scraps with the barnyard animals, and every other weekday afternoon he had physical therapy with Dr. Mendoza which would leave him drained and irritable. But on opposite days, he would meet up with Everett in the shed – though he was barred from using heavy machinery, he still was an engineer who needed to understand how it all worked and make sure it was safe. It was there he set up his workshop where he could tinker with the parts of the radio while Everett ran maintenance checks.

On one Thursday morning, Sara showed up to the rancher home, and Virgil balked in surprise because it was an off-day and because it was morning, but Gordon came stumbling up from the chicken coop, flicking a feather from his hair, gushing half-hearted apologies for being late. That night over dinner, Virgil grilled Gordon for answers, and the young farmer awkwardly admitted the state of his health the past few years. His progress may have plateaued, but his monthly sessions and exercises kept it so that his back and leg wouldn’t get any worse. Yes, he could keep going at the rate he was: he was permanently injured, not incapable. Yes, it hurt. Chronic pain tends to do that. No, he didn’t want to see any more specialists; there was nothing more they could do.

It wasn’t giving up; it was facing facts.

“Was giving up on your family facing facts?!” Virgil spat, the chair screeching as he forced it back and stormed off to the guest room before Gordon could answer. Not that he knew what he would’ve said anyway.

Virgil dined in the larger home with the others for a few days after that, and Gordon barely saw him between their individual tasks. He even skipped farmer’s market day, choosing instead to work on his radio in the shed. Scraps came in his place, and it gave Gordon some time alone to talk to her about his brother’s progress.

“You should discuss that with your brother.” She’d seen right through him, even though he’d tried to make the question sound as business-like as possible. Just the owner of the estate asking about one of their retreat guests. But that’s just the thing; with Virgil it could never be “just business.” There were too many years, too much hurt, between them, for it to be anything other than a tenuous re-threading of what used to make them close. Her expression softened as she rang up a guest, turning to her business partner once the customer walked away. “He keeps things near the chest here because we are all close to you. But it’s obvious you’re not so alone in your hurt, Gordon. I think you two should talk. Really talk.”

That first part he knew. The second part not so much, as Virgil had given him the indication of the exact opposite. And they seemed to be doing as well as could be by not talking. He feared it would break them fully once they tried.

Like a stranger, Virgil would pad through his home, the lock clinking at night when Gordon was already in his room for the evening, the excess food from dinner stored in the fridge as leftovers. Of small victories, Gordon was grateful that at least Virgil hadn’t retreated to one of the rooms in the shared house, and that the spare bedroom in Gordon’s home seemed enough of a refuge.

Then one night while Virgil still was practicing his phantom act, a soft light from the kitchen startled him at the same time the weight at his ankle released suddenly as Skipper’s head perked up towards a sound unperceivable by the human ear. Virgil was awake.

Skipper jumped off the bed towards Gordon’s closed door, whining.

Gordon himself had been watching the clock in between closing his eyes to beg for rest. He knew, at least, the early hours of the morning were not made for his older brother, so he threw back the covers, slid on his slippers, and followed Skipper into the other room. Virgil blinked heavily, unsteady on his feet, when Gordon hit the light switch to flood the room - yellow and warm in place of the white light of Virgil’s little phone.

“Virgil? You ok?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he grunted, rubbing his eyes with one hand, while with the other he felt for the wooden back of a chair. “Go back to bed.”

“I was already awake,” Gordon said, noticing the stiffness in the way he fell into the chair, the way he was favoring one side. “What do you need? Should I call Dr. Mendoza? Scott?”

“No!” Virgil shot back between gritted teeth, his face pale. “Definitely not.” He reached for Skipper, who wagged her tail at the Virgil’s pets, circled around a few times, then plopped down below him underneath the chair, closing her eyes. Virgil put his head in his arms on the table. “I wish it were that easy,” he lamented to her, and her tail fluttered as he spoke. He fumbled with his words, as if he was about to say more, but held back.

Rarely would Virgil wake during the night when they were younger. It was something Scott and Gordon shared, while John often was only just going to bed after sneaking out to observe the skies. Alan would test how late he could stay up to play his games, but once he was out, he was out.

Gordon wouldn’t remember his dreams, but he remembered the terror. At first it was Ma, then it was Scott, who would find him and help him go back to sleep with white noise of the distant sea.

Nowadays, he relied on resetting his mind with the comforting aroma of caffeine-free chamomile tea with lavender and vanilla, and his white noise became the sound of his fan that kept the room cool.

Virgil hummed. “This smell reminds of John. He always makes something similar when he’s home from Five.”

Gordon nodded. “It’s not commercial, probably won’t be. Tea isn’t anyone’s specialty here.” He set a mug in front of him, a loose-leaf tea infuser hanging into the inside. “Just a hobby.”

“It’s yours? Is there anything you don’t grow?”

“No, we dabble in just about everything in some sort of way.” He slid into the chair opposite his brother, nursing his own blend, adding honey instead of looking up at him.

“I always thought it was Ma’s. John’s tea I mean.”

“As close as I could get. It took me countless batches to get it right, and then I gave myself a deadline since it was supposed to be his Christmas present. The proportions were off until about a year and half ago. I think I finally got it, though.” He sipped it slowly. For him, the memory was more about the fragrance than the taste.  Those nights when Scott would rock Gordon back to sleep with the recording of the sea in the background and John would sneak in quietly with Ma’s tea drifting past them as he carried it into his bedroom. Until it ran out and she was no longer around to make another blend. “Another reason it’s not for the market. It’s too close to the heart.”

She’s raised them to explore their imaginations, respect the Earth and her people, find the discipline within themselves to work hard to be the best version of themselves, come to know their own hearts. Where his brothers were able to take Dad’s dream and make it their own, their mother’s had always been with the land, and Gordon had always felt a little closer to her being here. Surprisingly, as the thought crossed his mind, Virgil echoed it.

“- and I keep remembering these little lessons and fact she taught us. Just these random things like how pumpkins are actually a fruit not a vegetable.”

“That depends on if you speak to a chef or botanist. Technically they are also a type of berry. So are watermelons.”

Virgil shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

“And raspberries aren’t berries at all.”

“You’re full of it.”

“I promise you I’m not.” He grinned over the cup of tea, happy to see Virgil finally relaxing into the scent as well and that he was no longer rubbing at his side.

Virgil sighed deeply. “You remind me so much of her.”

Gordon suddenly found the color of his beverage an interesting shade of brown, darker than his eyes, a bit closer to Virgil’s color. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize for that. Never for that.” He placed his mug empty on the table. “You’ve done good here, Gordon. And she’d be so proud.”

Gordon coughed. Nodded.

The words wouldn’t quite come.

Virgil yawned, stretching carefully to avoid pulling at his injury. The sound woke Skipper who wiggled forward to sit in front of him and place her head eagerly on his knee, and the two of them stepped back from the table. Skipper rubbed against Gordon’s leg, and he scratched behind her ear.

“Go on, Skip,” he encouraged. To Virgil, he advised, “She’s good company. Try a word game if you can’t go to sleep. Pick a category, like animals or color shades, and then name something in the category for every letter until you stop thinking about – whatever it is.”

A warm hand came to rest on his neck and shoulder, the motion tentative and uncertain but not unwelcome.  “Thanks.”

And quickly it was gone.

“Ah – I’ll get the dishes,” he offered.  

Gordon waited for the clink of Virgil’s door before he got up to rinse both mugs and place them in the top shelf of the dishwasher. He glanced around the empty room, the model ship on the table, his plant on the counter, back towards the dark of his bedroom. He breathed deeply the fresh night air let in through the cracked window near the sink, seeing the light of stars.

He left his slippers by the back door, threw on a light sweater, and walked barefoot through his garden towards the hammock nestled between two trees, where he closed his eyes and tried – he really did – to name various letters of animals.

Eventually, he gave up. His communicator was in hand before he thought about it.

“Hey, John.” The voice that saved thousands, red hair, turquoise eyes, a tired smile.

“Hey, Gordon. Can’t sleep again?”

#Gavii Scribit #Fic: TSOF #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #Farming Estate AU #Thunderbirds fanfiction