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gumnut-logic · 4 years

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The Tattoo (Part Five)

Thank you all so much for your wonderful support for this fic. It’s bouncing along and you guys are encouraging me so much ::hugs you all::

This fic is all @vegetacide ‘s fault :P

Many thanks to @scribbles97 @i-am-chidorixblossom and @vegetacide for all the plot help and reading :D

I hope you enjoy this part :D

-o-o-o-

Virgil hated medication. Hated it with a violent passion. It messed with everything. Made him dumb, stupid and out of control. And the fog. The post-medication fog was almost as bad as whatever injury he was trying to hide from.

This time was no different. His head was full of cotton wool and it was hard to put two thoughts together.

He knew he was in the infirmary. The crinkle of plastic cotton sheets gave that away. That and the smell. Grandma kept this place clean the old-fashioned way – antiseptic and scrubbing brushes. The fact MAX, one of the most technologically advanced AIs on the planet, often helped her do the cleaning was an oxymoron, but what worked did the job as far as she was concerned.

As usual, he made the same mistake he always made in this situation and tried to move.

He couldn’t help the groan as his arm complained.

“Virg?”

Gordon.

A slow blink and the orange of his little brother’s shirt wobbled into focus. “Gords?”

“Hey, Virg. How are you feeling?”

A grunt and a few more neurons came online. Apparently, apart from some stiffness, only his arm was giving him trouble.

And his head.

Damn fog.

“Been worse.” He focussed on his brother’s face and frowned. “Are you okay?” Gordon’s eyes were red rimmed and strained, his face pale. It was so unlike his little brother’s usual demeanour, alarm bells started ringing and the fog was shoved aside as much as possible. “Gordon, talk to me.” He shoved his good arm under and pushed himself up.

Gordon reacted immediately, shooting up out of his seat and attempting to usher Virgil to lie back on the bed. “Hey, relax, Virgil. I’m f-fine.”

But his sunshine brother’s voice cracked on the last word and Gordon, the brightest ray of light amongst his brothers, WASP agent, survivor, tough as nails IR operative, had a tremble in his voice.

What the hell?

Virgil made vertical, Gordon’s hands attempting to both help and hinder. The world spun for a few long moments, but he was more worried about Gordon. “What’s wrong?”

“Damn it, Virgil, Grandma’s going to kill me if you hurt yourself.”

A breath. “I’m fine.” Focus. He threw off the covers and swung his legs around so he could sit without falling over. His arm was strapped to his bare chest.

Oh.

Ohhhh.

Shit.

Gordon was looking at him with worried eyes. “I can explain.” The words fell from his mouth.

His brother had his hand on Virgil’s good arm. “Virg, please lie down. Grandma’s angry enough already.”

“What?” Damn the fog!

And Gordon was hugging him.

Ever so gently, his arms, so much wirier but no less athletic, seemed so small to Virgil. They always had. Emphasis on the words ‘little brother’.

Virgil’s one good arm returned the embrace as best he could. “Gords, what is it?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“What? Gords, I don’t have the brainpower, or the coffee, for a guessing game.” Ugh, medication meant no coffee allowed, damnit!

Gordon stepped back and despite all the aquanaut’s years of experience and full adulthood, all Virgil could see was that scared kid who had lost his remaining parent in a fireball all those years ago.

He grabbed his little brother’s arm. “Gordon, talk to me.”

Strained carnelian eyes. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Your tattoo.”

A swallow. “Because I needed to.” It had been a dark time.

There had been too many dark times.

Gordon’s eyes were focussed on Virgil’s shoulder, now swathed in bandages, likely hiding most of his tally.

“But Cass…”

Virgil’s heart froze. Pain far too recent to face. He couldn’t go there. Not yet.

No, please, not yet.

“It was Dad. And Mom. I…I wanted to acknowledge them. I needed them...with me.” How the hell did he explain it?

How did he explain the gaping holes they had left behind that he could not fill? Their ghosts haunted him in the deep of night. They hovered at the edge of his perception, taunting at being there, but when he turned, they were just as gone as they actually were.

Cass smiled at him in his dreams, his list of unfulfilled promises in her beautiful eyes.

“It helps.” A reminder of reality.

“But all those other dates?”

“A reminder. To try harder. To acknowledge their loss.”

“But-“

“It is my choice, Gordon. It does what I need it to do.”

His brother’s expression altered just a little, resignation creeping in. But then… “I have a book.” It was a whispered admission.

Blink. “What?”

Gordon straightened just a little. “I have a book. With names. Notes. What I remember about them. The ones I couldn’t help.”

Virgil’s eyes widened. “Gords…” His hand tightened around his brother’s arm.

The aquanaut looked up at him. “I do understand. Perhaps not the medium. But…yeah.” He looked away and sighed. “Dad’s pissed.”

Oh, shit.

“He and Scott had a showdown like I have never seen. It’s like Dad expected Scott to look after us. Like we aren’t adults. Like it was his responsibility.” Gordon’s lips thinned. “And Grandma…hell, Virg.”

And there was the source of the strain in his brother’s eyes. Family could hurt like no other.

“Help me up.” Virgil shuffled to the edge of the bed.

“Oh, god, hell no, Virg. Grandma will have your ass.” He floundered in an attempt to stop Virgil from climbing off the bed.

“Well, apparently, she already has everyone else’s, so I’ll just add it to her collection.” His feet hit the floor and he wobbled. But a little more spine and he was fully upright, still dressed in his grubby jeans.

The remains of his shirt lay on a chair in the corner. A few unsteady steps and he grabbed it. With his arm strapped up, it would be enough to hide his shame.

“Virg, don’t do this.”

“Could you please help me with my shirt?”

His brother sighed. “Damnit, Virgil, Grandma, Dad and Scott are all going to kill me for this.”

“Not your fault.” He fumbled with flannel and the material slipped from his fingers to fall to the floor. For the love of…!

But Gordon was there. His hands picked up the shirt and draped it across Virgil’s shoulders, helping him into the one remaining sleeve and buttoning it up to hold it in place best the ruined piece of clothing could do.

“Thanks, Gordon.”

His brother was not impressed. “You can put that on my headstone.”

“This is not on you.”

“It’s not on Scott either, but that doesn’t seem to matter.”

Virgil straightened as best he could. “I’ll fix it.”

“Virg-“

A hand on his brother’s shoulder, he tipped his head down a little for emphasis, grabbing his brother’s eyes with his own. “I’ll fix it.”

Gordon still wasn’t happy, but he put his hand over Virgil’s for just a moment. “I’m coming, too. Even if all I can do is prevent you from falling on your face. I’m dead either way, anyway.”

“This is not on you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Virgil sighed, let his hand drop and turned towards the door.

Steps a little wonky, he went looking for the rest of his family.

To kick his own share of asses.

-o-o-o-

End Part Five

Part Six

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy

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tracybirds · 5 years

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Fluffember Day 14 - Message

Okay, we did it fam, 3k words later..... this is.... not what I planned :P Anywho, it’s the time honoured tradition of bullying John bc apparently I don’t understand what fluff is. I also don’t understand fifteen-year-olds but there we have it

Prompts by @gumnut-logic bc what a grand world this is! Thank you for all the lovely encouragement :D

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“Where have you been?” exclaimed Jeff. “I’ve been worried sick!”

John shrugged as he sloped inside and dumped his bag on the kitchen counter. “Robotics club,” he muttered. “Went late. Sorry.”

“Sorry? Your older brothers have been searching up and down the county, ever since you didn’t get home on time, and all you can say is sorry?”

“Yes.”

Gordon held his hand out to Alan and began to drag him out of the room. John looked firmly up at his father, jaw set in a stubborn line.

“I have told you before, John,” said Jeff with a sigh. “You need to communicate with us. For heavens’ sake, just a message would have been enough.”

John held his father’s gaze mutinously. His shoulders hunched in on himself as he looked away.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered. “Can I go now?”

Jeff pursed his lips. His son felt more and more distant from him every day and he felt helpless to prevent it. John just didn’t speak to him anymore and Jeff was going spare with worry. He wished Lucy was here. He knew to an extent that John was just being a teenager, pushing boundaries in an attempt to create his own space. He knew she might not have had any more success with their prickly son who wanted nothing more than to live in his own universe and be left alone. But she would have helped him not feel so lonely in the never-ending battle to reach out to John.

“Call your brothers,” he told John. “Let them know you’re home. I need to take Gordon to his writing tutor.”

Jeff left, corralling Gordon and Alan, and leaving John standing alone in the kitchen. He looked down at the communicator on his wrist before sighing and calling Scott.

“Scott?”

“John? Virgil, it’s John.” Scott’s hologram blinked up at him. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Just got home,” mumbled John. “Robotics went late and I–”

“No, it didn’t,” interrupted Virgil. “John, you don’t think we knew you were at Robotics after school? That’s the first place we looked.”

John faltered. “Don’t tell Dad,” he whispered.

“Don’t tell him what?” demanded Scott. “John, what’s going on?”

Anger flared inside him against a brother who couldn’t possibly understand and John suddenly hated his brother. He knew it wasn’t fair to Scott to do so, but he hated him all the same.

“Nothing, Scott,” he snapped. “Just don’t tell Dad.”

He shut off the comm and ripped it off his wrist. His eye caught sight of a flash and he froze.

John stared at the blinking light on his comm. He wasn’t going to look at it. The message that was waiting to be read taunted him. What if it’s Scott, he wondered. What if it’s Dad?

He knew deep down that it wasn’t.

He also knew if he left the communicator downstairs, eventually one of his nosy brothers would pick it up and flick through trying to find out who could possibly be messaging John all night. Probably Gordon, thought John bitterly.

He was almost tempted. At least then they’d know. And the flashing wouldn’t be left to torment him throughout the night as more and more messages flooded his communicator.

He could tell himself he was just insulted by their lack of imagination. He could tell himself their words meant nothing to him. He could tell himself they were merely jealous and didn’t know how to cope with the feeling of inferiority. Only he wasn’t sure anymore what he had that anyone could want to be jealous of.

The communicator seemed to flash even more urgently as John snatched it up and escaped to his room upstairs. It was the smallest, but as the alternative was sharing with his brothers, he was quite willing to compromise for the sake of privacy and the ability to shut the door.

He dropped the comm on the desk and flopped down on his bed, staring out the window at the setting sun. Shadows crept across his room and gradually the silent house grew alive with activity once more. There might have been a soft knock on his door, twice, no three times, but John firmly ignored it. He didn’t move to turn the lights on as the Earth turned her face from the Sun, the only illumination in his room the twinkling stars and the hallway light that shone from underneath the door. Eventually, clouds covered the sky as the night cooled and even the hallway light was switched off as the house sighed a final breath before sleep enveloped its occupants.

The communicator was still blinking.

***

John had left the comm in his bag this morning, buried underneath his lunch. He didn’t need it, those Luddites on the news were doing just fine and so would he.

John’s morning was blissful. No insults peppering his concentration, no eye kept on the LED on his comm at all times, no sinking dread whenever it flashed. His teachers nodded approvingly as he found he was able to fly through his work without half a mind churning distractedly through the problem plaguing his daily life. Eventually however, his peers would have to notice his ease. And there were more ways than one to leave a mark.

The whispers started in third lesson. A hiss as John slipped the earpiece in to complete his task list. A muffled giggle as he walked over to the paper recycler. He ignored it all, schooled his reactions carefully so as to not give them any further ammunition. He began to eye his peers carefully as they moved around him, careful to not leave his back covered and to navigate around their casual touch. None of them would touch John willingly and he had learnt to be wary of any outstretched olive branch. The shattering of his trust never ceased to be a source of endless amusement to them.

After lunch, he was exhausted from the constant vigilance and anxious to return home. Tightly wound and with a brain strung out on vitriolic mockery, John only heard the word whispered behind his back. He reacted.

***

“He’s been what?”

Jeff had taken that call in his office and his two assistants looked at each other uneasily. Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up over his forehead.

“No, no, I quite understand. Is the boy okay?”

There was a silence as Jeff carefully listened to the other person speaking.

“I’ll be right down,” he said, looking significantly at Rose. She began scurrying through the remaining schedule, cancelling appointments and sending emails of apology. James immediately began to clear away and reorganise the files open on Jeff’s holoscreen as he stepped away from the desk. “Just let me call Lu-someone to pick up the younger boys.”

He began to stride out of the room, already calling Scott.

“You need to pick up Alan from school,” he said without any form of greeting.

“Dad?” asked Scott, confused. “Dad, what’s going on, the kids at school are saying John’s been in a fight.”

“Just get your brother please,” he said. “Tell Virgil to collect Gordon. Go straight home. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yes sir,” said Scott. “We’ll be there.”

Jeff signed off, hurrying through the building. Being called in to collect his children from the school office was unfortunately nothing new to him. But the idea that one of his sons had been suspended was not one he was used to. And for the boy waiting for him at the other end to be John? Jeff’s thoughts raced frantically. Where had everything gone so wrong? The idea that any of his sons would resort to serious acts of violence was abhorrent to him, although he knew they had their rough and tumble moments at home. But never John, John had always sat apart from that, preferring to one up his brothers with his brains over his fists.

He screeched into the empty visitors parking at the school and strode into the admin building.

“Afternoon Shelly,” he said to the woman in the reception office. “I’m here to collect John.”

Shelly nodded, grimacing a little at Jeff.

“He’s outside the principal’s office,” she said. “And Jeff? Go easy on him. I’ve known John since he was a toddler, picking at the icing on his older brother’s birthday cake. This isn’t like him.”

Jeff nodded, looking troubled. “And the other boy? Robbie?”

Shelly’s lips thinned. That was all the response Jeff needed.

“Thanks for looking out for him, Shelly.”

“Any time, Jeff.”

He walked forward, turning through the corridors until he came across his little red-headed boy sitting hunched over and staring at the floor. He was swinging his legs idly and the fluorescent lights seemed to bleach his skin from fair to white. It didn’t nothing to allay Jeff’s anxiety.

John looked up as he approached and Jeff could see the odd, closed-off expression that had become so familiar ever since John had begun his adventures in high school and teenagedom.

“What happened, John?”

“Dad, please don’t do this now.”

“You have twenty seconds to give me a reason not to ground you for life. We’re doing this now.”

“I punched someone in the face and broke his nose,” said John, his eyes flashing. For a moment, Jeff could see the mask slip away, the anger and the hurt written all over John’s expression. “And I know, there’s no good reason to hit someone like that. But it was just…” John trailed off, that strange and distant expression settling over his features like a comforting friend. “I was just stupid.”

“There may be no good reason to hit someone but there’s never no reason,” said Jeff sharply. “I’d like to think you could have spoken to me about whatever caused this long before it got to this point.”

The door opened behind them.

“Mr Tracy? Come on in.”

Mrs Solis, the principal of the high school his three eldest boys attended, was not inclined to waste time. She explained to Jeff the statements that had been made against John, the apparent lack of motivation prior to the blow, and the strict no-tolerance policy implemented surrounding violence at the school.

“This was an unprovoked attack on a boy. We cannot tolerate this kind of behaviour.”

“Nor would I expect you too,” said Jeff. He had kept an eye on John throughout the meeting and it seemed he was not going to delve deeper into his reasoning behind the thrown punch. For all that this was meant to be a three-way conversation, it appeared that John was prepared to allow his father and his principal discuss his fate over his head.

“He will need to be kept home for three days, and on John’s return, he will need to report to my office at the beginning of the day. He will be required to meet with the guidance department weekly for the remainder of the year. And of course, he will need to meet with Robbie and apologise before he will be accepted back into class.”

“I won’t.”

Mrs Solis blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t apologise,” said John, folding his arms over his chest. “You can kick me out of classes, put me on report, revoke my club privileges, but you can’t make me apologise to him.”

Jeff had never heard a pronoun sound so venomous on John’s tongue. Mrs Solis tutted impatiently. “Young man, do you understand that if you had been a year old, an attack like this would have prompted a call to the police?”

“Why do you not feel an apology is in order, John?” asked Jeff. He hoped he could prompt John into defending himself for although it was certain he had been in the wrong, Jeff knew there was more to this story than John was willing to share.

“Because that jerk started it,” burst out John. He picked up his backpack and upended it on Mrs Solis’ desk – a tablet, food, old fashioned textbooks, half-wired mechanisms and oddly enough his communicator fell out. Jeff hadn’t even noticed his son wasn’t wearing it. It was blinking furiously when John snatched it up and thrust it at his father.

“That might clear my feelings up,” he snarled and then stormed out of the office.

Mrs Solis shook her head. “I don’t envy your trip home together,” she said, gathering her materials.

“Aren’t you going to listen to it?” asked Jeff, staring at the flashing LED.

“Of course not,” said Mrs Solis indifferently. “I’m happy to discuss it with John when he has calmed down and returns to school, but it would seem this meeting has come to an end. Good day, Mr Tracy.”

Jeff scowled at her, and hurriedly gathered John’s things into his backpack.

Outside the office, he held the comm in his hands. John was nowhere in sight.

“He’s gone,” said Shelly, looking up. “Caught the 308 bus. I’m sorry Jeff.”

“Not your fault, Shelly,” said Jeff with a tired smile. “Just, hell, how did I miss something this big?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” said Shelly sympathetically. “And I think you’ve a better excuse than most.”

“It doesn’t matter how busy Gordon and Alan keep me,” said Jeff. “I can’t deny I’ve relied on the older boys to look after themselves these past few months. They still need me.”

“Yes,” said Shelly. “But Jeff, you’re all still grieving. John is still grieving. Lucy’s death is going to affect them for the rest of their lives.”

Jeff started. It was the first time since the funeral that anyone had directly acknowledged the gaping hole left in the fabric of their lives.

“I don’t doubt that John would normally rise above his adversaries,” said Shelly quietly. “But life isn’t going to be normal for a while. It might never be normal again.”

Jeff looked back down at the comm. He had assumed his son had needed space to process what had happened when he’d shut down all attempts at communication. It appeared he had miscalculated desperately, and John was paying the price.

He strode out to the car and strapped John’s comm around his wrist. He reached out and pressed on the flashing light before starting the engine. Curiously, no hologram was projected, only a voice spoke.

The message was clearly addressed to John, and it had arrived that afternoon. It was a website notification, telling John that Username JTsux420 had posted an update. Jeff listened to the comment with a thunderous expression before swiping to the next message. Swiping through he realised every new message for the past twenty-four hours were all notifications for the same site, all detailing things the users didn’t like about John, or found weird, or that he wasn’t good at. By the time Jeff had reached the bus stop where he could see John walking across the fields towards their home, he was fuming and cursing at the unknown users who had been making John’s life hell under his very nose.

“John,” he barked at the receding figure.

John looked up startled at the sight of his apoplectic father. Jeff could see the fear in his widened eyes and struggled to rein in his anger.

“John,” he repeated, much softer. He turned the engine off and leapt out of the car. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”

He flinched back when Jeff reached out to him, and Jeff faltered, unsure of how to approach this boy who had turned into a stranger these last few months.

“Talk to me, kiddo,” he said softly. At the nickname, John’s face crumpled and Jeff found himself crushed in a hug.

“Mom knew,” he said softly into Jeff’s chest and his heart stuttered. Of course, Lucy had seen their son struggling. If she had known, why hadn’t he? “I told her on the mountain.”

Jeff froze.

“She said to just ignore them,” said John in a rush, as though if he didn’t get the words out now, he might never get up the nerve again. “And Dad, I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t do it.”

“John,” exclaimed Jeff in horror. “John, no. She was wrong.”

“But,” John said, looking confused, “but she said, she promised.”

“No John,” said Jeff. An ache tore through his heart afresh at the thought that he could have prevented all this pain if only he had paid a little more attention to his children. “Your mom was the most wonderful person in the world and she loved us all dearly. But she wasn’t perfect. And she got it wrong.”

John was silent and Jeff could see his mind processing this new information.

“You should have told me,” said Jeff, gently. “Especially after your mom died.”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled John, looking shame-faced. “It wasn’t that big a deal at first. And then I just couldn’t handle it anymore.”

“Like a frog in boiling water,” said Jeff.

John quirked a smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

“You are going to apologise to that awful boy for hitting him,” Jeff said straightening up. “But not until you and I have spoken to the principal about transferring you to another school and prosecuting everyone involved with that appalling website.”

“Do we have to?” asked John. Together they began to walk back towards the house where Jeff could see Scott turning the lights on for them.

“We don’t have to transfer you,” said Jeff. “But from what I heard I can’t think of any reason to go back.”

“I like being with Scott and Virgil,” offered John. “And I could move into a new class instead. And the Robotics Club just got in a supply of nitinol and Charlie said he’d teach me the new CX8 language. And–”

“Okay,” said Jeff with a laugh. “Okay. But if this ever happens again, even if it’s not as bad as this, you need to promise to tell me, or if I’m away, Grandma.”

“Promise,” said John. “Message received, loud and clear.”

#john tracy #jeff tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #fluffember 2019 #nervous about this one tbh #balancing the emotions in it was HARD #sometimes i fic #fic

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smoothdogsgirl · 5 years

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Sox vs Mets

Title: Sox vs Mets

Pairing: Chris Evans x Jan

Word Count: 1131

Summary: Chris and Jan have a difference of opinion about baseball.

Authors Note: Happy Birthday @mycapt-ohcapt. Enjoy!!!

THIS WORK IS NOT TO BE COPIED OR REPOSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. I WILL BE CROSS POSTING THIS TO MY AO3 ACCOUNT.

Chris couldn't help but smile as he pulls into the driveway of his Sudbury home. Even though it had been a long morning of running errands with his younger brother Scott in preparation for the family's annual Memorial Day weekend bbq at his mother's house. The best part of coming home these days didn't just include his overexcited pup but also his wife, the woman who had turned his house into a home. Getting out of the car he makes his way up the steps to the houses wrap around porch. As he opens the front door he can here Dodgers feet move across the hardwood floors. As he closes the front door behind him he is greeted by a brown and white fur missile that has launched itself into his legs, causing him to stumble just enough that he has to catch himself on the doorframe to keep from falling.

With a chuckle, he crouches down in a squat, scratching Dodger behind his ears causing the dogs entire body to wiggle and wag in excitement. "Hey boy. Have ya been good?" He asks the dog and receives a nudge face in the shoulder, as the dog leans in closer and leaves slobbery kisses on the side of his face. "Thanks, bud," Chris states as he stands up and wipes the side of his face with the bottom of his t-shirt.

Journey's 'Don't stop believing' is playing through the living room's surround sound speakers. Following the music, he soon reaches the living room, where he stands leaning against the doorway watching Jan folds the freshly washed old picnic blankets they keep stored in the garage. She is dancing and singing along to the music as she works. Quietly he makes his way into the room sneaking up behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he chuckles as he feels her jump.

With one hand, she smacks his arm. "Dammit, Chris! What the hell is wrong with you, ya meatball?" She exclaims.

He buries his scruffy face into her neck placing a few chaste kisses. With one hand he takes the blanket she's folding and tosses it on the couch next to the stack he made. Once her hands are free he turns her in his embrace to face him. Gradually they begin to dance along to the music until Dodger joins them carrying his stuffed lion over to them.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this handsome, but what brought on this impromptu dance?"

"What a man can't dance with his beautiful wife on her birthday," Chris asks as he places kisses on her forehead, nose, chin, and lips.

"I figured you forgot it was my birthday since you were gone before I woke up this morning."

"Yeah, Scott messaged me this morning to remind me we had to run some errands for mom, to help her prep for the party this weekend..." Chris sighs, "not to mention I wanted to make sure we could spend the rest of the day together."

"Ahh, so I take it you guys are done now? Did you and Scott finish running all errands Lisa had for you?"

"Yup, we're all done unless she needs anything else. So I'm now all yours... anyway you want me." He says waggling his eyebrows at the end.

"If that's the case, then let's take our boy to the d-o-g p-a-r-k for some fun in the sun," Jan suggested.

"Not exactly what I had in mind babe, but it's your day so we'll do whatever you want." He replies placing another kiss on her forehead. Moving past her he folds the last blanket before picking up the entire stack, moving it to the box of stuff that was already prepped for the bbq. Looking over his shoulder he states, "what are you waiting for? Go get ready."

Jan smiles, before heading off to the master bedroom. A few minutes later she comes back having put on a pair of Mets converse, her sunglasses, and a Mets ball cap. She detours to the kitchen grabbing to Hydoflasks filled with water from the fridge, Dodgers leash, and his favorite rope toy.

Dodger bounds over as she enters into the living room, she quickly attaches his leash before he can run off again. She also gives him his rope toy to carry. "You ready to go handsome?"

"I will be when you remove that gawd awful hat," Chris says making a face of pure disgust.

"Come over here and make me!" Jan retorts as she makes her way to the front door with Dodger, grabbing Chris' spare car keys.

Chris quickly follows her catching her by the door, he reaches out and grabs the hat off her head, "I can't believe you brought this into my house...babe you're in Boston now. This is Sox country."

Jan stops and turns to face Chris, "Your house...and here I thought it was our house. Us being married and all." She then snatches the hat back, placing on her head, turning and walking out the door.

While Chris locks up the house she lets Dodger into the trunk of Chris's SUV and sits in the passenger seat. He joins her a few minutes later, he starts the car and pulls out heading for the park. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he speaks up, "I'm sorry for being such an ass."

"Babe, I get your a Boston meatball...but you knew I was a Mets fan when you started dating me, when you proposed and when you married me. So suck it up buttercup and get your head out of your ass." She then turns her head looking out the window, "it could also be worse...I could be a Yankees fan."

Chris snorts, "Don't... that's blasphemous." Reaching across the center console he takes her hand and interlaces their fingers. "And again I'm truly sorry for being an ass." He then pulls her hand closer and kisses the back of her hand.

Jan turns back to him, "that's a great start to an apology pretty boy."

Chris remains quiet as he turns into the parking lot for the dog park. Dodger begins barking as he realizes where they are. Once he parks he turns in his seat facing her, "So dear wife, what can I possibly do to make this up to you? To bring that smile back on your face birthday girl."

A devious grin appears on her face, "after the park on the way home, we stop and you pick me up a couple dozen cannolis from Franco's. If you play your cards right I might just share them

with you."

"You Mrs. Evans are devious...you have yourself a deal babe," Chris states, "love you."

"Love you too ya dork."

Feedback and Comments Welcome. If you would like to be tagged on my work pls let me know.

Tags:

@marvelismylifffe

@chelsea072498

@esoltis280

@not-moose-one-shots

@ariallane

@blacktithe7

@saffreelove

@beccaheartschrisevans

@kirstie-lotr

@always-an-evans-addict

#Chris Evans x Original Female Character #Chris Evans X Reader #Chris Evans RPF #Dodger Evans

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the-orion-protocol · 7 years

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prologue / chapter 1 + 2

Prologue

People are going to die on Mars.

But then, they're supposed to.

It's almost arguable that that's the entire point of sending people to colonize the Red Planet---to make a new place for humans to live their lives to their ultimate conclusion; to create a foundation for generations to follow. The first pioneers, the people who will beget life on another planet; all of them are supposed to die on Mars.

By their bones buried or their ashes scattered, human lives, ended and spent, will be a measurement of the success of the colony's efforts. Earth is a planet rich in ghosts, where the dead outnumber the living tenfold. But the dead are not a native commodity on Mars, and the Red Planet has no ghosts of its own---until the day it does.

As of November 19th, 2061, there are just shy of ten billion people alive on Earth. There are 400 people alive on Mars.

There are meant to be 401.

"Astronauts don't murder people."

By the tone of Lady Penelope's answering sigh, Scott gets the idea that she's not really interested in treading over this particular patch of philosophical ground. He sees Penelope so often in hologram that it's easy to forget just how arrestingly pretty she is in person. She's no less so than usual today, today being a chilly English afternoon in late November. But it's possible that there might be the slightest hint of strain, tension, just around her eyes. And they narrow, just slightly. The way she lifts her teacup to her lips somehow makes it plain that it's an act of mercy that she does so.

His brother probably doesn't hear the whistle of a bullet, dodged, as Penelope takes a sip of lightly sweetened Earl Grey, instead of tearing John in half, conversationally, for the capital crime of interrupting her.

But then, John rarely sees anyone in person, so perhaps it's understandable that he wouldn't pick up on it. Penelope's got a particular subtlety about her when she's especially annoyed, and when John really gets riled up about something, he doesn't always realize when he's being annoying.

And he must be really riled up at this, because he's being especially annoying---almost belligerent---as he takes note of Penelope's frustrated sigh and Scott's deliberate lack of comment and insists again, "Well, they don't."

Scott reaches for the double espresso parked just beyond the edge of his plate, lately emptied of a dense and buttery scone, complete with clotted cream and jam. At his elbow, his brother still hasn't touched a flaky piece of pain au chocolat, nor his cup of Orange Pekoe, probably gone cold by this point. This might be down to the fact that what was meant to be a friendly rendezvous with Lady Penelope has instead turned into a secret meeting about a secret murder on Mars, and now into a moral debate about the likelihood of a specific subset of humanity to commit said murder.

Being the only astronaut at the table, John seems to feel as though he's obligated to mount a staunch defense of the character of his colleagues. Scott's inclined to think he's taking it a little personally.

But then, maybe that's understandable, too. Not seeing John in person nearly as often as he should, it's easy to forget that off the clock and on the ground, John's more than capable of a certain vehemence. Maybe the death of a fellow astronaut is just an item on the very short list of things John will take personally. Something that seems like just a shame to the rest of the world might be something more like a tragedy, for John.

The news is a few days old by now, and it's not like Scott hasn't heard about it. Everybody has; the first colonist to die on Mars, and only four months after the initial wave of settlers had arrived with the transport ship Helios. Details as reported Earthside are limited by the relatively narrow availability of communication with the Martian Colony. There've been memorials and tributes to the colonist in question, though the cause of his death hasn't publicly been described as anything other than the result of a technical mishap. Media speculation is predictably ugly and rampant, but it's still just speculation, and generally held to be in extremely poor taste. Lady Penelope's usually well above influence by such forces.

After all, strictly speaking, from over a hundred million miles away, there's no way to know that it was murder.

Or what it's got to do with International Rescue if it was.

The bottom of Penelope's teacup hits her saucer. Blue eyes lock with green across a windowside table in a quaint, charming little tea room in the nearest village to Creighton-Ward Manor. The fact that the place is virtually empty, Scott suspects, has more do with the secretive, knowing smile that Penelope had offered their hostess, and the heavy looking envelope she'd laid on the counter before they'd taken their seats. This is saying nothing of the fact that Parker stands outside, staunchly guarding the door. Aside from the initial service of tea and homemade sandwiches, scones and pastries and jam on cheerily mismatched china, the staff have been curiously remote, none of the usual hovering attention of waitstaff to their patrons. Scott gets the idea that this is an arrangement Penelope's made use of before.

And her voice is as sweet and smooth and chilled as the cream on the tea tray as she begins, "John, darling. For the sake of your apparently intractable sensibilities, I shall henceforth make the distinction that it was technically a colonist who's committed the act aforementioned, and not, if we're being strictly technical, an astronaut per se. Regardless, the facts of the matter remain, there has been a murder on Mars."

Before Scott can even raise an eyebrow at this, John's retrieved a slim silver tablet from his pocket and laid it atop the table, his fingers flickering across the surface to pull up relevant details. And he answers back, still waspish and defiant as he elucidates what he must think is a blindingly obvious truth, "People die in space. Space is dangerous. Accidents happen."

Scott watches his brother skip past a handful of news articles about the incident in question and then discard these in favour of something else. What he projects up into the air above the detritus of their afternoon tea is nothing like the sensational coverage that most of the media had been preoccupied by. What John's brought to bear on the argument at hand is the actual incident report, complete with the holographic WWSA encoded seal in the top corner. "And this was an accident," he asserts.

Penelope appears utterly unsurprised by the appearance of what are probably highly classified official documents from the World Wide Space Agency. Scott is slightly less than unsurprised, and can't help a groan in his brother's direction. "Are you supposed to have those?" he asks.

"I got curious. I called in a favour," John replies glibly, with the sort of easy avoidance of the question that doesn't actually get past his older brother, so much as it's temporarily permitted to slide. John taps a finger on his tablet again and pulls up a complex electrical schematic. "There was a technical failure of an airlock on one of their habitation pods, one engineer was killed by sudden depressurization. Personnel investigated and put it down to an isolated equipment malfunction. The appropriate steps were taken to verify that it was an individual fault and not a systemic problem." He glares at Penelope, plainly irritated with their London agent as he goes on, "It wasn't a murder, it was an accident. And it's an insult to every last person who undertook this mission---not to mention the man killed in its course---that you'd suggest otherwise. Maybe you've let yourself be taken in by the sensationalism in the media coverage, Penelope, but this is the actual report. And I thought better of you than to believe you'd settle for anything less."

Scott's been on the receiving end of enough of John's categorical shutdowns to feel like this must necessarily put an end to the matter. But Penelope hasn't even blinked and doesn't seem surprised in the least by the official version of events.

"That," she corrects, with an icy gleam in her eyes as she pulls out her own tablet and hands it across the table, "is the official statement as relayed to the WWSA via the World Wide Space Station. It is explicitly intended as a cover up. This is the report that was encrypted and embedded within the same, along with a missive from the Mission Commander---submitted to WWSA high command under the Orion Protocol."

Whatever this means to John is lost on Scott, but he doesn't miss the way his brother's eyes widen slightly. John takes the tablet and starts to skim through its contents. Scott watches as his younger brother sits back in his chair, lapsing into what seems like a fairly troubled silence as he reads the provided report. For lack of another likely opportunity, Scott takes advantage of the distraction to steal his brother's pastry. Penelope takes another sip of tea. And a long minute of silence creeps by, as John does what he does best.

While John assesses the situation, out of the corner of his eye, with his mouth full of puff pastry and French chocolate, Scott covertly assesses his brother.

Scott doesn't spend a lot of time in John's company. They talk to each other every day and some days it seems like every hour, but as far as time spent together---John's actual presence is a relatively scarce commodity in Scott's life. Still, he's known John for a quarter of a century and even in spite of their usual distance, in person, Scott's got an innate sense of when his brother's been rattled. And something about this is getting to him, though at first blush it's not entirely clear what or why.

For lack of information, Scott swallows, and clears his throat in a silence that's slowly growing awkward. There's an obvious question that needs asking and he feels a little dumb for being the only one who needs to ask it, "...what's the Orion Protocol?"

"Break glass in case of mutiny," John mutters absently in answer, not looking up from poring over the provided report.

Penelope sighs again and from the way she glares at John (and goes ignored), it's possible she considers this a rather shallow interpretation of the actual facts. "Essentially. The Commander has reason to believe there may be an extant threat to her command of the mission, and in this case a threat to her life. The Orion Protocol is a means to covertly request urgent intervention from those in authority."

"What's this got to do with you, though?" Scott asks, and refrains from asking what this has to do with him, by extension. He can probably guess what this has to do with him, because it's bright red, fifteen stories tall, and he's one of the few people in the world who know how to fly it. More importantly, it can reach the Red Planet within the span of twenty-four hours. "This is something that happened over a hundred million miles away, Lady P. Kinda seems like it must be out of your jurisdiction."

"I haven't got a jurisdiction." Lady Penelope's tone remains vaguely peevish as she corrects him on that point. "In this case, the WWSA reached out to the GDF, and the GDF reached out to me, to discreetly request your services. Not---and this is an important distinction---International Rescue's services. Not Thunderbirds One and Five. Your services, as Scott and John Tracy. This is an incredibly sensitive matter and it needs looking into. Therefore, this is a liaison. I'm liaising."

That's a new one. It might be the double espresso, but in spite of himself, Scott feels a flutter of something like anxiety. He glances at John, hoping to gauge his brother's read on the situation, but John's still transfixed by the information he's been provided. Scott clears his throat a little awkwardly. "Uh. Well, Virg and Gordon are a bit more on model for Frank and Joe Hardy, as far as mystery solving brotherly duos, but---I mean, it's not really what we do, Penelope. If somebody official needs a lift, we can try and hook them up, but I know for a fact that the WWSA has at least a couple spacecraft capable of making the trip at comparable speeds. We'd save them a day or two, maybe---or a week if it's the bureaucracy of an unplanned launch that's the holdup. I guess I'm not sure why you're talking to us at all. Why can't they sort it out themselves?"

John's capacity to pay attention to more than one thing at once is one of the reasons he's Thunderbird Five in the first place. He's apparently been listening well enough that he glances up at Scott's question, but he looks to Penelope as he answers, "Because they don't want to admit that it's happened. They can't. 'Murder on Mars' sounds great on the front of a tabloid, a hundred and forty-four million miles away, but on Mars, it's basically a nightmare scenario. A death this early in the colony's history---an accident is bad for morale as it is, but that's still just life in space. Accidents happen. But if that tiny pool of colonists has to contend with the notion that one of their community is a murderer?" John shakes his head and repeats himself for emphasis, "Nightmare."

Penelope's nod is brief, but there's no denying the triumph in her smile as John comes around to her view of the situation. If she were less than a lady, it might even be somewhat smug. "See? John understands. I knew you'd get there eventually, darling."

John's always been a big picture kind of guy. That's just another reason he's Thunderbird Five. In spite of the fact that it's a rather impersonal reading of the scenario, it's always been something Scott appreciates and admires about his brother; that John can see the whole of a situation, and doesn't let his heart rule his head.

Still. Sitting next to his brother, Scott's getting the distinct sensation that this scenario might present an exception to the rule. Nightmare is a strong sort of word, from John. Scott's curious why he'd use it.

If Penelope notices, she doesn't seem unduly diverted, and there's a certain intensity to her as she continues, "Someone's deliberately made this look like an accident, and it's too great a risk for Commander Travers to acknowledge it was anything but, even if her suspicions are otherwise. The implication inherent in the Orion Protocol is that there's someone within her command structure that she believes she cannot trust. If she were to force the issue, or if the WWSA turns up out of the blue to investigate, they risk panic amongst the colonists, and could potentially force this individual into taking drastic action. She needs help. And that, after all, is the essence of what you do. By several degrees of separation, on behalf of the citizens of Mars, I'm asking if you and John would be willing to look into the matter."

Well. There it is.

And if Scott's honest with himself, he can't pretend he doesn't feel a little flicker of excitement at the intrigue of the idea. There's no question that what's happened is a tragedy, but tragedy is more or less their family's bread and butter. His family's uniquely suited to tragedy. Penelope's not wrong---helping people is the essence of what they do---but more than that, this is a matter of a question to be answered, a problem to be solved. Both of these are things that John excels at. Big picture, there are plenty of reasons why he and his brother are perfect for this job, and they're starting to stack up at the back of Scott's mind; just the same as they must have stacked up for Penelope. And if the big picture is obvious to Scott, then it's gotta be obvious to John.

But before Scott can say so, John surprises him. He puts Penelope's tablet back down on the tabletop and gets abruptly to his feet, his chair scraping on the hardwood floor of the almost empty tea room. "No," he says, in a voice that's just a little too loud for the space that they're in, "That isn't what we do."

Then he pulls his coat off of the back of his chair and makes straight for the exit, without a further word.

It's not often that John wishes he knew less about a situation.

It's not often he completely shuts down someone asking for his help, either.

And especially not when that someone is Lady Penelope, but what's done is done and the fact remains; John's walking away from this one.

Literally, in this case.

Just to make sure his position is absolutely crystal clear.

He pushes through the front door of the tea room and out onto the high street of the small village. Parker doesn't stop him, apparently more concerned with keeping people out than keeping them in. Beneath grey skies, the day is cool and damp with the threat of rain. Nodding to Parker as he pulls on his coat, John picks a direction, and heads down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, before Scott can follow.

The breeze is chillier than what could strictly be considered bracing, but John still pretends he's only stepped outside because he needs a breath of fresh air.

He does, anyway. Need some air. And Scott won't follow him. Not right away, at least. They know each other better than that. John's aware that he's got time to walk this off. And he needs to walk this off.

The high street is narrow between tightly packed buildings, white walls beneath dusty red shingles, with one edifice or another occasionally framed in stark black timber. John's not really paying attention, and he walks quicker than he probably needs to. It's not like he's running away, or anything. It's just that he needs time and space in order to collect his thoughts. The road slopes gradually upward and curves away in a subtle arc. At the speed he walks, it's not long before the inner track of it takes him out of sight of the tea room.

He slows down slightly, then. Shortens his long-legged stride to half the length of the paving stones on the sidewalk, deliberately pacing himself. And then shivers in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

John wishes he didn't know about the murder on Mars.

It's an ugly enough thought that it makes him feel a little bit sick inside, almost dizzy, like a sudden attack of vertigo. Although, in fairness, it's hard to say how much of that is down to the gravity of the situation, as opposed to just plain old, actual gravity, up to its usual malicious tricks. He's only been down for a couple days. The nausea might just be some latent jet lag, the result of jumping halfway across the world from the island, when Scott insisted they should to pay a visit to Penelope. Well, now he knows what that had been about. Really, he shouldn't be jet-lagged. TB5 runs on the same timezone as England, GMT, Coordinated Universal Time. Theoretically, this is his own timezone, but that doesn't seem to matter. Practically, he's been awake for something like a full twenty-four hours, and hasn't eaten much more than a chicken salad sandwich in the past eight of those. Realistically, there are plenty of reasons for the way he feels ill.

Instinctively, though, John thinks it's probably got to do with the murder.

John's always been capable of a certain personal detachment from the sort of work he does. It's part of the reason he excels at it. He's able to consider any number of objectively horrifying scenarios calmly and in the abstract, as questions to be answered and problems to be solved, objectives to be met. If they're the sorts of things that keep him up at night later on, that's just because he's only human. What matters is that in the moment, he's reliably capable of keeping a handle on everything.

This, though. This is something that drills down through all his hardwired composure and abstraction; breaks through to the bedrock of what he does---and a not insubstantial aspect of who he is---and leaves a great, gaping crack. And it exposes a deep, dark void of terror, something he's always known was there, but which he almost never taps into. He hadn't realized something like this could touch on such a fundamental fear.

This is something he needs to walk off. So he keeps walking.

There aren't many people out on the high street, between the weather and the time of day, he doesn't pass anyone on the sidewalk. His pace is growing brisk again; his anxiety tells in the way he walks a little too quickly, and he has to slow down. Not that there's anyone around to notice. Further up and on the other side of the narrow street there are a few cars parked, but for the most part, he's alone. John glances back as he stops to turn up the collar of his coat against the wind, blustering between the buildings as they start to space out a little bit---but he can't see anyone following him past the curve of the road behind him. Every passing minute increases the likelihood that FAB1 will come prowling down the street, and then he'll have to explain himself, but for the moment he's still alone with his thoughts, and he's not about to turn back. He keeps going and keeps thinking.

It's just that it's abhorrent, is what it is.

That's what makes his stomach twist and his chest tighten, what makes him have to swallow against the pressure in his throat---the sheer horror at the very thought of it. Murder. On Mars.

A tornado or an earthquake---or a Martian dust storm---that's just nature. The most important thing to know about natural disasters is that they're just natural. They just happen, there's nothing like discretion or discrimination in a tsunami or a mudslide. Industrial accidents, equipment failures, hell, even just plain old, run of the mill stupid bloody idiocy---those sorts of things are worse, in most ways, but they're usually still accidents. They're nothing like this.

This is cold-blooded, deliberate murder, with malice aforethought. John had read Dr. Sandra Travers' plea for help and felt cold starting to creep up his spine. He'd read her secret report of the truth of the incident, and then he'd read it again, and by the third time he'd expected to be able to detach himself from the feeling of numb horror, but he just couldn't quite shake it. The words still cut down to the bone, struck down to bedrock. Evidence of expert tampering. Something made to look like an accident. The sort of thing that would have passed for an accident, except some quintessential sixth sense had told her to look closer. Her suspicions were roused mostly on the grounds that the place where the airlock had failed had been a place where she was meant to be, and that it was instead an innocent and unlucky engineer who'd fallen victim to a trap, made all the more horrifying by its essential cleverness.

Caught up in his thoughts, which circle and spiral around words he'd read too many times, John stumbles a little on a crack in the sidewalk. He puts it down to a fifty-fifty split between vertigo and existential horror, and then looks up and back again, trying to work out how far he's come.

The buildings around him have turned from the prim white-paint exteriors of the main drag to the rusty reds of exposed bricks and mortar, a more residential part of town, already near to the outskirts. John slows down as he comes to a cross street, and realizes he's gone further than he meant to. He stops and, catching himself a little bit out of breath, sits down atop a low brick wall edging up on someone's front garden.

This is ridiculous.

He doesn't know how the hell they're supposed to "look into" a murder without anybody realizing it's a murder, anyway. He doesn't even know what Penelope wants, exactly, or why she's asking, or why this should be his problem, or his brother's. It's not what they do. It's just not. And they're not going to do it, anyway, so that's that. Someone else can deal with it, and he can go back to believing the cover up, and given time, perhaps he can convince himself that it's what's actually happened.

He's still trying to talk himself past the niggling little voice of his conscience, when Scott turns up about ten minutes later, and by then it's started to rain.

Scott's got an umbrella, a big black domed thing that looks like it'll stand up to whatever dolourous old England has to throw at it. Probably on loan from Parker. Probably John should've thought of that. Because raindrops patter stubbornly on black nylon, but Scott stays perfectly dry. By contrast, a drop of icy water falls squarely down the back of John's neck.

Scott's also got a scruffy old bomber jacket, formerly their father's. Rain would run off its smooth leather surface even without the umbrella. Its lining is plush and thick and fleecy, and thus Scott's turned up collar does substantially more against the cold and the wind than even John's good winter trench coat, in its navy blue cashmere.

And Scott just stands on the sidewalk, doesn't make a move to offer his umbrella, or join John where he sits on the low garden wall, because with a ratio of 4:1 vs John's 3:1, Scott's got him soundly beat as far as asshole-big-brother cred. That's just math. And whatever the scenario, John's always well-aware of the math. Eventually Scott clears his throat and breaks his silence.

"I told Penny you're probably just jet-lagged," Scott announces cheerfully, his voice just as warm and dry as he looks beneath his umbrella.

The way he feels isn't jet-lag. "Did she believe you?"

Scott grins, because they both know the answer. "Not even a little. So I said it was probably some astronaut thing, and that we'd both get some fresh air, walk it off, talk it over, take the rental car and meet her back at the manor."

It's starting to get clammy on the inside of John's collar and he shivers again; and this time it's because of the cold. "And you left the rental car ten minutes' back up the road because...?"

"John, if you wanted to sit and talk in the rental car, your melodramatic ass could've waited by the rental car."

"I wasn't about to ask for the keys."

"And ruin the high drama of your sudden and extremely rude little exit? No, of course not. You'd have had them in the first place if you hadn't let your driver's license expire."

Embarrassed now, John shrugs and pushes a hand through his hair, sweeps it off his forehead as the rain starts to weigh it down. "Yeah, maybe."

He doesn't know what else to say and so he doesn't say anything else.

Initially Scott just peers at him, and though he's broken the ice with the usual brotherly banter, he's plainly at least a little concerned. Probably with good reason. After a while he scuffs the toes of his boots on the sidewalk and then clears his throat a little awkwardly. "Hey. Uh, real talk for a minute, though, John---you okay?"

John deflects the question as a matter of reflex. "I'm wet and cold."

Scott rolls the handle of his umbrella lightly back and forth in the palm of his hand, the shaft of it resting against his shoulder, and his other hand tucked snugly in the pocket of his jacket. "Yeah, well. That's because when something rattles your cage, your standard M.O. is 'leave immediately and go as far away as possible.' You've been doing this since you were four. I'm just lucky gravity kept you from hauling your scrawny ass up a tree. C'mon, John, talk to me. I didn't know this would bother you so much."

John fidgets slightly and pushes his hands into his own pockets, mirroring Scott. His shoulders hunch a little bit against the rain and the cold, and he's aware that he must look miserable as he answers, "I guess I didn't either."

"What's wrong?"

What's wrong is the fact that John wants to wind his life backward by an hour, to before he'd been confronted with the notion that someone at the bleeding edge of humanity's best and furthest efforts into space exploration so far could be possessed of the will and the capacity and the desire to commit murder. That one of the best and brightest examples of humanity beyond Earth would willingly jeopardize the integrity of an entire colony, could be willing to take the life of a fellow colonist. John wants to pretend that it isn't true, and that if he doesn't acknowledge it, it just won't be.

But he can't exactly admit that to Scott.

"I don't think we should do this."

Scott scoffs and just about rolls his eyes clean out of his head. "Really? Funny, that hasn't been even remotely evident in the way you're carrying on. Not at all. Nope. Would not have guessed."

The sarcasm is what gets John's own natural defenses to kick in. In spite of himself he starts to dig his heels in a bit, starts to push back against Scott's probing. "Well, I don't. We're not...this just isn't what we do. We shouldn't be involved, we can't handle this. We've got no business---"

"See, I disagree with you there," Scott interjects, but he makes the charitable move of coming a little closer with his umbrella and holding it at such an angle so as to deflect the worst of the wind and rain. It also forces John to look up at him, as Scott goes on, "Someone needs our help. Penelope's right; that's what we do. Knowing someone needs us and knowing we're able do something about it, whatever the circumstances, I think we've got an obligation to get involved. And Penelope makes a pretty compelling case for why we might just be the only people who can handle this."

"We're not---"

Scott cuts him off again, "We're not WWSA. We're not GDF. If we're not Thunderbirds One and Five, then we're Scott and John Tracy: the two eldest sons of the first man to walk on Mars, surrogate nephews to Captain Lee Taylor, lately retired to the Red Planet, and known eccentric multi-billionaires. We've got the means and the motive, if you'll pardon my phrasing. The opportunity is just a question of 'we're richer than a small country; we do what we want'. We're the sort of people who would go see Mars. I'd argue that as far as people who could, we're kind of the best possible option."

John makes a minor hypocrite of himself as he says, "The WWSA are the best possible option."

Scott gives him a look. This is another hand-me-down from their father. John's very rarely on the receiving end, and gets the reminder of just how spooky it is---just how much Scott looks like Dad, in moments like these. "You were the one who laid out the reasons why they aren't, actually, so I know you know that's a lie. And you left before she could say so, but Lady P says if we don't do this, then the GDF wants her to reach out to Francoise Lemaire."

This is the sort of statement that brute forces John into a spontaneous revision of his assessment of "The Worst Things That Could Possibly Happen on Mars."

And "Murder of one Martian colonist by another Martian colonist" is just narrowly edged out by "Murder of one Martian colonist by another Martian colonist necessarily investigated by That Insipid Fucking Moron Who Tried to Land a Yacht On Haley's Comet".

Which is horrifying to the point that John doesn't want to believe that could ever happen, either.

So it might be he sounds a little more incredulous than he means to as he says, "You're not serious."

"Dead serious." Scott pauses to make sure John's been appropriately annoyed by the tastelessness of the pun, and then primly corrects himself, "I mean, if it makes you feel better, technically Penny'd be talking to Madeleine Lemaire---but husband and wife, you know, they're kind of a package deal. And you just know that the unfortunate other half of that partnership is gonna rock up to the Martian surface, park another big dumbass yacht on top of our dad's monument, and disembark wearing a deerstalker cap and brandishing a magnifying glass the size of his stupid face. He'll vlog the entire thing. Almost as good as being there yourself."

John glares at his brother, because by this point it's clear that Scott's being deliberately flippant in order to get a rise out of him. "This isn't funny."

Scott rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and nods his agreement. The rain's let up, just a little, but the arrhythmia of raindrops on his umbrella still runs in counterpoint to their conversation. "No, it's really not. This is a very unfunny, shit-awful thing that's happened, and a hell of a complicated situation it's put these people into. But you're the smartest, unfunniest bastard I know, and so I can't imagine anyone better to help deal with it."

Dealing with it is the last thing John wants to do. But Scott's not going to let up, either. So he should probably at least try and explain the reasons. He's just not sure where to start.

Scott cedes the last bit of ground and takes a seat on the low stone wall, finally sharing his umbrella properly. It's too little too late, but the gesture still has its meaning. "I feel like you and me have faced up to worse things than this before, John. Hell, I know we have. I guess I just don't get why you're freaking out."

John still doesn't have an answer. He shifts uncomfortably where he sits and privately laments the fact that the hard edge of the brickwork coping is particularly painful when you're not someone who spends much time sitting down. The astronaut's equivalent of taking a load off is just drifting in neutral posture, floating in zero-G. He wants to make a remark to defuse some of the tension, some offhanded comment about how this is a literal pain in the ass, but it's an astronaut's joke, and it'll be lost on Scott.

It suddenly occurs to John that this might be the greatest part of the problem.

"...You told Penelope you figured this was 'probably some astronaut thing'?"

"Is it?"

John nods and scuffs the toes of his oxfords on the cement of the sidewalk at his feet. "Yeah. Probably more than you'd understand, since you're not---I mean, it's just how you aren't---like, you're space-rated, sure, but that's...I mean, that's just not---" he trails off, not sure if what he wants to say would be insulting, and despite Scott's occasional obnoxiousness, not actually wanting to insult his brother.

But Scott has him covered. "I moonlight," he supplies, with another situationally inappropriate grin. "I'm not a real astronaut."

"Right. And...there's just a lot to unpack, here. About all this, and the way it happened, and the fact that it happened at all. And the history of humanity on Mars, and the context...it's complicated. It's really complicated. It's bigger than it seems, it's more than just tabloid headlines that say 'Murder on Mars' and it's more than just the WWSA's reputation---it's...it's even more than the fact that one person's dead and that another person's in fear for their life. It's more than just a murder."

He's rambling, and Scott knows it, because there's the pressure of his elbow against John's ribs. It's not a reprimand so much as it is an acknowledgment that Scott's listening. He goes on to cough pointedly and affirm, "Yeah, I kinda got all that. Gimme some credit, John. I know this is a big problem, but we're not exactly strangers to big problems. You especially. So I guess I'm asking---what is this for you?"

John takes a deep breath, and does what he does best. He drills his way down to the bedrock, gets to the heart of the matter, and renders the situation into its fundamentals. "This scares me," he admits. "This really scares me."

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