#thunderbirds angst

[idontknowreallywhy]

1 - Presence

I’m pretty sure that the more determined I am to sit and write something fluffy in a spare moment, the more angsty it comes out. This morning I was going to write some nice earth and sky but smashed the Virg instead…

And so we have some Virgil post Scott’s going MIA because that’s clearly where the fluff lies. It’s a slightly weird idea and I maybe have fallen off the mixed metaphor cliffedge here, but sensory stuff fascinates me so…

Err… I’m sorry?

In mitigation I might have an idea for a follow up scene when Scott is finally back…

(Not well proofed, thrown down in a coffee break)

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

It was an unexpected thing that finally broke Virgil:

The smell of washing powder.

An odour none of them ever noticed, because it was everywhere. A background chord running through all the linen in the place, over which all the other scents of the household were layered like a complex symphony. Until some of those more discordant scents became too loud and overpowering at which point the item was laundered, and a new score was opened beginning only with that familiar chord as a canvas.

By unspoken agreement, his room remained as he’d left it. Perhaps none of them had truly accepted he wouldn’t return to fill it with life again. Perhaps it just wasn’t necessary to thrust the knives of practicality into that particular wound yet… they weren’t short of space at the ranch.

Virgil would visit, once or twice a week, usually late at night when the effort of holding everything and everyone together had drained the last drop of his resolve and he needed to renew his vow to his big brother.

It required preparation though. He would shower, thoroughly, using a fragrance free soap he had ordered especially. Only when he was positive that all traces of his own cologne, hair products, coffee, his own smell were washed away would he open the door. He didn’t want to add anything to the faint music that persisted inside.

The bed had only been slept in three nights, on that brief visit home before he was deployed for the last time and so nobody had thought it worth stripping the sheets and laundering them. There was a light gloss of super-shiny gel on the pillow and the quiet but unmistakeable melody of his brother lingered.

The blue fluffy dressing gown on the back of the door had been worn longer and played the more powerful tune of his cologne, with a harmony of pancake batter, coffee and, on one cuff, a hint of whisky from the evening he and Virgil had sat on the back porch exchanging dad jokes and Scott had laughed so hard he’d sloshed his drink all over his hand.

He would check everyone else was asleep, then slip to his brother’s door, enter quietly and reverently remove the robe from its hook to wrap around his shoulders, lifting the outsized hood to cover his head. The intense familiarity was always a shock and so he’d stand there for a moment, surrounded by his brother’s song to catch his breath. Then, slowly he would kneel by the side of the bed, his face resting on the edge of the pillow and he would rest for a while and imagine his big brother’s arms around him. He could almost feel Scott’s forehead pressed against his own, or maybe his cheek resting on the top of his head. He’d promise again that he would look after the others. He’d be big brother as long as he had strength left in his body. And somehow, some strength would return. He’d made it through nearly three months now. He could keep going. He could do it for Scott.

He couldn’t linger there for too long. He couldn’t fall asleep here, couldn’t risk a sweaty nightmare eradicating all he had left.

He’d replace the robe and close the door, sneak back down the hallway and return to his own room. Then, and only then, could he allow the tears to fall.

One night he missed a step.

He didn’t check on the others. Maybe he also messed up the stealth part as he was jolted out of his bedside reverie by his youngest brother’s gasp:

“Scotty??!!”

He spun to face the doorway and was able to see Alan’s heart break all over again as the wrong brother looked out from under the hood.

That had been a long night. He’d done his best to explain what he’d been doing and held back his tears as he confessed he didn’t think Scott would come back as a ghost to visit them. He held the devastated child as they both wept and lay awake until the birds signalled another day to survive through was moments away from dawning.

He’d thought little more of it until one evening, well after the kid’s bedtime, Alan burst into the kitchen in a terrible panic and seized grandma by the hand, dragging her upstairs. Curious, Virgil followed and paused at the top of the stairs as he heard Grandma’s low comforting voice interspersed with hiccuppy sobs. They were coming from Scott’s room.

Virgil peered around the half open door to see his grandmother and brother crouched together on the floor, Alan clutching his empty hot chocolate mug and sobbing his heart out. He caught grandma’s eye and she indicated with a look that she had things under control. She’d handle this. He wasn’t needed this time. Virgil nodded and was about to back out when his gaze fell on the bed. And Scott’s robe in a heap by the pillows. And the marshmallows on that robe, surrounded by a spreading brown stain.

Virgil lied and said he had a migraine the following day. He shouldn’t be angry with an 8 year old for wanting to drink his bedtime cocoa with the ghost of his big brother. But he was. Because he, Virgil, was a terrible big brother. Scott wouldn’t have been angry. He’d have laughed and said it was cute and ruffled Allie’s hair and that was why Scott should still be here and Virgil couldn’t do this. They left his food outside the door, with a little get well soon card drawn in a rare fit of cooperation by Gordon and Alan. Alan had surrounded his name in hearts and kisses. He didn’t deserve it.

Late that night, after his usual shower he crept back along the corridor to Scott’s room, quietly opened the door and shut himself inside. Grandma had, indeed, handled it. The bed was neatly made again with freshly laundered sheets and the robe was hung back on its hook, fluffier than ever from the dryer. A new score was opened, only the starting chord could be heard.

Virgil took a deep breath in through his nose and tears filled his eyes.

He was gone.

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

(Ok I do need to TBC it as I can’t leave him like that… I’ll fix it I promise)

update: Part 2 “Absence” is here

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #tw grief #scott tracy #virgil tracy #alan tracy #thunderangst #angst #bereznik #Tw MiA family member #Presence fic

[gumnut-logic]

The Hurt

Thanks to @idontknowreallywhy for reading through ::hugs::

Dumps and runs.

-o-o-o-

He’d left his dirty uniform on a bench in the locker room.

The random thought surfaced amongst a sea of emotion he couldn’t afford right now.

He was clean at least, hair still wet from the shower, and standing at the edge of the caldera. His feet were half covered in warm sand slowly losing the heat of the day.

The water lapped rhythmically against the shore and his heartbeat attempted to meet it, slowing, only to be caught up in the emotion again.

It thudded in his chest.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

He closed his eyes and focussed on what he could hear.

Again, the water, gentle, repetitive, forever.

The wind. Rustling trees. The red blossoming pōhutukawa behind him, its sound more the roar of a distant crowd than the yapping of the palm leaves high above.

Birds.

He counted three…no, four different kinds at least. The ever-present petrels and squabbling tui, silver gulls and a distant sea eagle.

Water seeping into the sand.

The sudden consumption of them all as Thunderbird One swooped in above the Island and righted herself in a roar of engines as she disappeared into her hangar, the pool swallowing her and her soundscape in one.

A moment of silence…

Before the Island came alive again. The petrels protesting, the tui defending their trees…

The wind cooling a tear on his face.

Virgil scrubbed his cheek, wiping it away and stabilising himself.

He started the ritual again.

The sand between his toes, the water lapping…

He let his shoulders settle and his eyes close.

Focus.

On the music.

Just another day. Just another shitty day. He did everything he could. He saved lives. It was done.

Images flashed, and he gasped his eyes open again.

Water rippling across the caldera greeted him.

He followed the waves, tracking them, predicting interference and pattern only to have wind wipe it all away.

It was just another day.

He had done everything he could.

That was the sense of the matter, the logic and reality.

But it hadn’t been enough and it hurt regardless.

He let himself fold down onto the sand, his butt hitting the soft mix of pulverised rock and coral, his elbows landing on his knees and his head in his hands.

It really wasn’t worth getting upset about. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last and he should be stronger than this.

Stronger.

All the excuses, the psychological training, the reasoning behind his reaction…it was all there.

Yet, still it hurt.

He scrubbed away another tear.

Goddamnit.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped.

“Hey.”

Scott.

Concerned blue eyes stared at him a moment before his brother sat down on the sand next to him.

There was only the noise of the Island for a long moment.

“Do you think there are more nests this year?”

Virgil blinked. Looking up he found Scott staring across the caldera at Mateo and the petrel colony there.

Virgil stared himself for a bit. “Maybe?” A frown. “I haven’t done the count this month yet.”

He battled to remember the date. Was it today, yesterday or tomorrow?

He had no idea.

He should probably fix that.

“I found Dad out here once.”

Virgil’s eyes darted back to his brother. “What?”

“Early on. You weren’t here at the time. You and Gordy were on the mainland for one of his swim meets, I think.” Scott looked down and dragged a finger through the loose grains of sand between his knees. “It was one of our earliest rescues gone bad, and I have to say, that I swear he was speaking to Mom.”

“What?”

Scott arched an eyebrow. “He did that sometimes. When things were really bad.” His brother looked away. “And that was definitely a bad one.”

Virgil opened his mouth, but Scott held up a hand.

“Don’t start cranking up your medical expertise, Virg, he was fine. It was just a coping mechanism. We got it checked out. Dad was fine.”

Virgil pressed his lips together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His big brother shrugged. “Nothing to tell. Rarely happened. Maybe twice the whole time he was here.”

The ‘was’ hurt.

But then that was a simple hurt of existence.

“Why are you telling me now?”

Scott sighed and wrapped an arm around Virgil’s shoulders. “You’ve had a bad one. It’s okay to be upset.”

Virgil looked away and didn’t answer.

“There is no shame in caring.”

And there it was, the knife that cut through all the reasoning his brain could throw at him.

His throat tightened. “I shouldn’t care so much.”

“If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be my brother. You wouldn’t be you.”

Another tear crept out the corner of his eye and he rubbed at it.

The arm around his shoulder tightened and Scott curled his hand into Virgil’s hair, guiding his head to his shoulder. “It’s okay, little brother, it’s okay.”

Of course, that was enough to break all the control he could manage and before he knew it, he was sobbing on his big brother’s shoulder. Scott had his arms around him and everything was messy and embarrassing and god, it all hurt.

Reassuring words and a hand rubbing his back. Somehow he was now five and being hugged by his big brother because he’d fallen over and scuffed his knee.

And all those people had died.

All those children.

Emotion swamped everything.

-o-o-o-

Eventually the wind returned, the water lapped at the shore and the tui started another argument in the pōhutukawa tree at the head of the beach.

Scott was stroking his hair.

Virgil swallowed and pushed himself upright.

His big brother did not let go, his hand still on Virgil’s shoulder.

Virgil scrubbed his face. “Shit, sorry.”

Scott’s voice was painfully soft. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

There was something in his brother’s timbre and Virgil looked up at him.

Scott was intent on Virgil, but there was pain in those eyes and the evening light was highlighting the greys in his auburn hair.

Virgil grabbed his brother and hugged him ever so tight.

“Virg?” It was half strangled.

Virgil didn’t answer.

He just returned the love.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #scott tracy #earth and sky #nuttyfic #nutty has a stressful day so Virg gets it #sorry Virg #thunderangst #hugs #lots of hugs #angst #poor virg

[hebuiltfive]

Every day I ask myself am I writing too much Scott and then, by extension, am I putting Scott through too much?

And every day I conclude that: no. No, I do not.

Sorry for projecting, Scotty. Love you really, flyboy 💙

#thunderbirds are go #five rambles #thunder rambles #added on another bit of scott angst today #i mentally put this boy through too much

[edutainer2022]

As per usual, @janetm74 incredible insight into Jeff and Scott gave me a push to wrap up a little piece that has been in my drafts for a while. It's mind-numbing fluff. A morning talk-show with Jeff Tracy upon return to Earth provides grounds for some much needed revelations.

ONE WORD ANSWERS

As interviews were going these months, this was a smaller one. Done privately from the desk in the lounge via a holo-com. Ever since the dramatic return from Oort Cloud, already christened the "Rescue of the Century", every media outlet worldwide wanted a piece of him. Jeff didn't feel much like putting up with most of it - eight years in outer space on meager rations and slim hope was a brutal awakening once they were safely back on Earth. Besides, he'd rather not waste any more time than necessary on media coverage, away from his family. He'd done his fair share of that in his active duty days, and Lord knew he had A LOT to catch up with in his sons' lives. A lot! Some things he gleaned and pieced together in observations and a backlog of reports were more... thought provoking than others. But some visibility was needed and even expected. He understood that.

The interview for a morning show in a different timezone was to be short, capped up with a ten-questions blitz to lighten the mood. The outline of questions, as per usual, was screened by John and Tracy Legal, and pre-approved by Jeff himself. His only recommendation this time around was the order of points in a blitz.

If the boys were surprised he asked them to sit in through the interview, obscured by the sunken lounge, they didn't show it. Jeff made sure everyone was on the island, Scott back from NYC and the Tracy Industries Board full of questions and incessant worries as to the perspective changes in status quo, Alan back from campus orientation, even John planetside for the weekend (something that had become a frequent and welcome habit). They knew Dad sometimes struggled with social situations these days and needed some cheering along and support - which was provided with unreserved abandon.

The interview was running its course smoothly, as they neared the 10 questions section. The show anchor was all smiles - the mock-blitz questions were submitted by the viewers and the most frequent or special ones were selected.

- So, Mr. Tracy, you were the First Man on Mars, the Founder of International Rescue, you set multiple supersonic speed records. How would you describe yourself in one word?

Oh, that was an easy one. He would have used so many words years ago as applied to himself or others applied to him - some more on point, some vain. A pilot. An astronaut. An entrepreneur. A husband. A son. A hero. A Thunderbird. A man of the world. A friend. A savior. A failure. A legend. An idealist. A leader. A survivor. Jeff Tracy still was all those things, in different measures. But eight years of the endless night, with nothing but his thoughts, memories and dreams for company, have distilled his self-awareness to one point of absolute clarity:

- A father.

He could hear the collective breath escape his sons' lips and a soft glow washed over their features.

He smiled in response and the blitz went on.

- What are you most proud of?

That too was a no-brainer, but he might need more than one word to answer exhaustively. Never hurts to elaborate on global television:

- My sons. There are no words to express how proud I am of their accomplishments and of the incredible people they grew up to be: my youngest son Alan is a prodigy, the youngest rocket pilot in history, Gordon is an Olympic champion, an environmental activist AND an Aquanot for International Rescue, Dr. John Tracy, the Voice that Answers, holds multiple PhD degrees in Astrophysics and Computer Science, my son Virgil is an accomplished pianist, like his mother, and a recognized artist on top of being busy full time with International Rescue engineering.

Smiles were blooming on his boys' faces up to a point it became apparent he stopped his answer at four. Jeff could swear there was a sheen of tears in Alan’s eyes, whereas light brown and turquoise turned momentarily hard. Virgil's whole face was a shimmer of disbelief and betrayal. Scott's eyes, soft and understanding, and infinitely sad, would be enough to stop the interview right there and backtrack. But he needed to see this through just right. The news anchor was beaming, as they were down to the last question:

- That is certainly a LOT to be proud of, Mr. Tracy. I'm sure the whole world, anyone who has ever needed help from International Rescue, would agree. But our viewers want to know one last thing from the Hero of the Century. Do you know you're called that? That's a tough mark to measure up to! Well, who is YOUR Hero, Mr. Tracy?

The anchor probably would have never guessed how simple and ready that answer was in his mind. He didn't need a moment to think:

- My eldest son. Scott Tracy. Everything International Rescue is today, everything our family is today - we owe to him. I owe him my life. I know nobody stronger in the face of so much pain and pressure. I could survive in outer space, but I am not sure I could ever do what he did in my absence. I have never admired or respected anyone more. I am a better man for being his father. So it's simple as that, Scott Tracy is my hero.

The holo projector barely flickered out when he was barreled into midriff by a flurry of warm and blond, and fierce. Alan hugged him tight and mumbled "Thank you!", no doubt aimed at his words not only on all other brothers, but on Scott. He meant every one of those. Soon he was in a circle of strong arms and within reach of the most beloved young faces, incandescent with emotions and hope. All but one. Scott lingered behind, as he was disturbingly wont to since their first hug in the Oort Cloud - hence Jeff's little staged performance today, as a desperate measure. He held his eldest son's gaze unwaveringly across the lounge, aware of the tears streaming from still astonished blue eyes. It was an instant loss to step out of his boys' embrace even for a brief moment, but there was something he needed to do. He crossed to the couches in three big strides and held Scott as tightly to himself as the still recuperating muscles would allow. It hurt to know the boy would be this surprised to be acknowledged and appreciated. But Jeff was gifted a second chance to let all his sons know how cherished they were. How precious. He'd waste no minute of that. A tight hold of arms was soon around him and Scott again, more confirmations of affection all around washing over. There was nothing he'd rather do for the rest of his life.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #jeff tracy #jeff tracy needs a front row seat to his son’s angst #methinks i have astronomy #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy needs his dad #thunderbirds 2015 #my fic #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #john tracy #alan tracy needs a hug

[phading]

Stellar - Just Posted

It's late, I'm exhausted, emotionally drained and so, so ecstatic to have finished this fic! Hope you enjoy.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #thunderbirds fanfiction #john tracy #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #scott tracy #alan tracy #phading #a phade fic #angst #poetry #secrets #hospital

[silverstarfics]

In which everything goes from bad to worse...

The End of Beginning - Chapter 2 - Silverstar1 - Thunderbirds Are Go (Cartoon 2015) [Archive of Our Own]

#thunderbirds are go #all aboard the scotty angst train #remember when I said this becomes a sick fic at one point #haha yeah #have fun!!

[whatgaviiformes]

Ficlet: unnamed.

A/N: apparently I can't get this out of my head. So I am sorry for writing this. I hate that I wrote this.

Warnings for whump, angst, drowning (yes again), and temporary character death. There be no medical accuracy here.

Ficlet

They are men of action, so Virgil hadn't thought twice about jumping into the rapids after the little boy, and Gordon hadn't thought twice about going in after his brother. He tracked them from shore because he'd been in a pod. Lucky for them because he could keep up with the speedy river currents and make a plan. 

It involved getting ahead of them, a rocky area he could grasp onto, and a little bit of prayer. 

A lot of prayer. He had to help the boy first because that's what they did. The grasp was weak, shaky, but he was conscious, and Gordon brought him to the riverbank. One life.

The boy coughed, looked up at his hero with wide eyes, but Gordon was looking away, back towards the river where he'd seen Virgil's form bob over the surface and slide back under. There had been no fight. 

He didn't have time. 

"Gonna be okay, kid?" He asked, kindly, his voice a pitch higher than usual, but the kid didnt know that. Virgil needed him. 

The kid nodded. 

Back in the water to make two lives saved today.

Stroke after stroke to race the river, dodging and pushing off of slippery rocks, until finally he found purchase on a green baldric, attached to a limp, waterlogged version of his older brother. 

On shore, he was still, blood near his hair line. 

Gordon sprung to action, calling for help through his comm, checking his airway, feeling for a pulse on the cold skin. He pounded on his brother's chest in counted cycles and placing his mouth over his blue lips to force air in, precious air that would only help if he could get the water out, and his lungs working, his heart beating. 

Again again again.  Two breaths 

Again again again. 

How long was he under? 5 min? 8? 

How far into the trek had he hit his head?

How long since he pulled him out?

He didn't know. Time drained in the resuscitation rhythm, again again again. Breathe. 

A rib cracked. 

He kept going. 

It felt heavier now, harder to press his weight into Virg's heart through his stacked hands as they shook. 

How long? 

He'd stolen his toast just that morning. Shining eyes and a deep baritone of a laugh. So full of life, happy and whole. Gordon had thrown a piece of egg in his hair. 

Again. Again. … again. 

Breathe. 

Too long, way way too long. He found the wrist. 

No.

Nononononono

Where was that help? 

Virgil. It keened out of him as he sat back on his knees, his body vibrating. Hoarse where he'd been calling for him and the counts interspersed with pleas, his voice cracked and his cries fell silent. 

His brother. Virgil always had warm hands, even in the cold of winter his hands could be counted on for warmth, his body a furnace and his hug a blanket. 

He loved popcorn and plants, and art, and -Oh, god, the music.

All of it slipped through his fingers. 

Gordon's grasp fell slack, and the wrist dropped like a stone to the ground. His heart stuttered with the sadness so intense, so deep, that he let the dark shudder through him. 

And then Virgil coughed.

~.~.~

It's Virg himself that climbed out of the dark. A cough, so light, then another and another and another. He remembered none of it. Consciousness was fleeting, his body too battered. 

But when Scott arrived with help, Virgil was breathing, Gordon looking over him with wet haunted eyes, his entire body vibrating. 

He pried Virgil's wrist out of Gordon's hands, and nodded to the paramedics when they could move closer. Scott maneuvered himself between them, between Gordon and the work of the people behind them, and brought him close to his chest. 

Gordon clutched at his arm with inhuman strength,  the strength of the frightened, of those who have seen horror.

"You did it, Gordon," he said. "It'll be okay."

Gordon said nothing. 

He shook. It was different being in Scott's arms. He wanted Virgil's.

But Gordon had given up. He didn't do anything. Virgil had been fighting his way back, and Gordon, for just a moment, was about to call it. He's not sure he deserves Virgil's hugs or his laughter or his music ever again. And so he retreats, goes numb in Scott's arms, and loses himself in his grief.

#gavii scribit #ficlet #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderangst #thunderwhump #angst #whump #drowning #virgil tracy #gordon tracy

[retrowave-racer]

A hero in some peoples stories, a villain in others. Filled with regret for her time spent in Phalanx, Tia Thunderbird adopted a hero persona and traveled the universe helping those in need that she came across.

This one is a bit later in the day since I’ve been so busy! Tia is absolutely one of my favorite secondary cast ocs, her design was something I was always proud of. I really wanted to show more of her character and story, I hope this illustration portrays it well!

#original character #oc tober #oc angst #digital art #digital illustration #Tia thunderbird #oc #oc tober 2022

[idontknowreallywhy]

A particularly lovely chord progression somehow ended up with me driving a wedge between Earth and Sky and I promised I’d try to fix it.

Super long car journey today presented an opportunity but events got away from me and I accidentally made it worse. Oops… um… I’m sorry? Apologies to @ajpendragon @alexthefly @astranite @janetm74 @sofasurf and anyone else who asked for a fix and will remain disappointed for now…

Piano Angst - the aftermath

It had been nearly a week and Scott felt like he was missing a limb.

Virgil was definitely avoiding him.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen each other - they’d worked together perfectly normally on several rescues. They’d both joined in the usual banter over mealtimes. There had even been a family film night - albeit, instead of joining Scott on their usual couch, Virgil had squeezed in with the Tinies and spent the evening competing with Gordon as to who could wind up Alan the most about his movie choice.

But they’d not been alone in the same room. At least, not for more than the few seconds it took for Virgil to make some excuse and leave it.

He’d even apparently conscripted Gordon into constantly keeping him company whilst he did maintenance on Two. Despite all Scott’s loitering around the hangar, the Fish never seemed to get the hint to make himself scarce. Except that one time when Scott had hinted at the availability of leftover pizza in the kitchen but then Virgil had raced off hot on Gordon’s heels. Which would not have been of any note whatsoever if it hadn’t been for that momentary flash of panic Scott was sure had crossed Virgil’s face as Gordon jumped to his feet.

It wasn’t just the lost chance to really TALK to his brother either. There was a physical distance too which was almost more painful. It turned out that Virgil’s elbow nudges at dinner, his arm across Scott’s shoulders as they walked across the lounge, his habit of stretching out and throwing his feet over big brother’s legs when they had a moment to chill together on the couch… these felt as natural and as essential to Scott as eating or drinking and he missed it more than he could have explained. It made his jaw hurt.

He had figured he just had to give Virgil time and be available when he was ready. So he’d made a conscious effort to *not* be working whenever they had downtime, hovering in the communal areas and looking un-busy. He rushed through the paperwork later, once everyone was in bed and then stayed up for hours each night studying the last couple of month’s worth of mission logs and recordings, desperately trying to work out what had triggered… whatever it was… the other day.

He’d been lying, Scott was certain of that. Ironically that certainty had made him very uncertain of everything else - Virgil never lied to him. He was awful at it. Honesty usually shone out of his big puppy-like brown eyes. When he was withholding something they were clouded with guilt.

But to invoke their mother’s memory as a cover-up?

It must have been serious.

His research efforts turned up nothing at all out of the ordinary other than it had actually been a pretty successful run of rescues, a bit of a reprieve from the average. He couldn’t find any aspect of the scenarios they’d faced that seemed like it might have particularly upset his brother.

It had to have something to do with him. Virgil was acting perfectly normally with everyone else. He re-listened to every interaction they’d had over the comm. Had he been too brusque in directing the rescues recently? Was his tone wrong? He didn’t think he sounded any different although after a while his own voice really began to grate on him. Virgil’s responses seemed normal and he didn’t appear to react to anything in a negative way. Perhaps his brother was maybe a little quieter on the comm than usual… should he have noticed that sooner?

Or had he embarrassed him by making it clear he’d noticed him getting carried away that afternoon? But Virgil had never seemed to be worried about Scott witnessing his piano binges before - most of the worst more-recovery-than-rescue missions had been thrashed out on the piano over the years… No. The only way to find out was to ask him directly.

He hovered at the door of the hangar, took a couple of breaths to slow his galloping heart rate and pushed it ajar. He could hear Gordon talking at a mile a minute about something to do with aquaculture and Virgil was leaning up against a pod module with a politely interested look on his face. His eyes flicked briefly over to his eldest brother but didn’t linger, instead focussing firmly back on little brother with renewed focus.

Scott felt rather like he’d taken a grapple to the chest and backed out, closing the door softly behind him. He ignored the elevator and elected for the long slow trudge up the stairwell. By the time he made it to the lounge his vision was blurry and he had reached the limit of what he could bear. He found a sheet of notepaper from the desk drawer and scribbled a note. He folded it precisely in half, opened it again and checked it, then refolded it, running a shaking thumb among the edge. He tucked it underneath the door to his brother’s bedroom on the way to his own.

Virgil, I’ve upset you and I can’t for the life of me work out when or how it was in order to apologise properly - but please know I am so sorry.

I’ll be on my balcony the rest of the evening if you want to talk.

I miss you. S x

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #thunderfam #thunder angst #angst #earth and sky #earth&sky #piano angst #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #music is everything #scott tracy needs a hug

[gumnut-logic]

Just another random scene, this time inspired by this post.

-o-o-o-

The wind caught his brother’s hair, soft and full of curls lacking its usual product. Strands of dark, almost black, danced across pale skin.

But it was the anguish in Virgil’s eyes that caught Scott by the throat.

“Hey.” He reached out and drew his brother closer. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But-“

He dropped his forehead to Virgil’s, catching his curls between them. “It was not your fault.” His brother’s breath wheezed between teeth and Scott frowned. “You did everything humanly possible. We can’t save everyone.”

Virgil closed his eyes, his breath still harsh and hurting. “I tried…”

“I know.”

“So hard.”

“I know.”

His brother’s next words dissolved into a sob. Scott lifted his head and dragged Virgil into a hug.

He held the big man as he trembled. and stared out into the caldera of their home, thinking about their reasons for doing what they did.

And the wind teased his hair.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #earth and sky #nuttyfic #maybe I should write some proper fic instead of these snippets #angst #thunderangst

[hebuiltfive]

Sunday Snippet!

I've been working on some background to this WIP (What Should Have Stayed Buried) and, well ... Sorry. This whole story is going to put Scott through the wringer, but this snippet? This is only a fraction of it all, I think. It's nowhere near perfect yet, as it's still a WIP, but enjoy... kinda.

Trigger warnings for heavy angst content, mentions of torture (both mental and physical), abuse and captivity, and... just general pain. It's not intense but I'm covering my bases, just in case.

They were never getting out. They were never going to be free. No matter what he told his wingman in those moments of innate darkness, he still knew that tidbit of truth within this world of falsehoods and deceptions. This was their new forever, an infinite span of bleak desolation with no shortage of nightmare fuel to have them all burdened with sleepless nights.

Sometimes his personal nightmares strayed far away from the holding cell, to the embraces from warm bodies and whispers of admiration and love from brothers during cold, winter nights. To the scent of fresh lavender and aviation fuel that were synonymous with parents who cared. To the crunch of burnt cookies along with high tea, a combination that should have had the hostess politely turning away Grandma's offerings (though she never did), her puppy yapping up at him from the ornate rug beneath his feet.

Those moments in the dreams were a nice reprieve, a fairytale he could hold onto whilst the real memories ebbed and flowed from his psyche during the day. But, as nightmares usually tended to do, they often strayed from from that pleasing imagery and blended with the hellish reality he was currently living in. That picture perfect life of an heir with a promising future was unceremoniously crushed beneath heavy, steel-toe capped boots, and the culprit, customarily only certain captors he found particularly revoltingly cruel, stared him down with slimy, smug smiles, crushing the dreams of the could have beens, and probable would have beens, had he just paid more attention on that fly-by.

There was no room for what ifs in this hellhole, though. There was no time to dwell on what could have been. There were only dull recollections of the past, a heart weighed down with regrets and an unending amount of self-loathing that began building as a result.

Stern guards, who came to collect him for the day's torment, tugged and pushed him around as though he was a ragdoll, uncaring when he would fall to the cold ground, knees cracking at the unforgiving concrete surface. He always tried to hide any weaknesses but, with the lack of calories in his system from the lack of food, and the lack of any decent sleep for a variety of reasons, of which none were pleasant, sometimes the frailty showed. Sometimes, when his legs buckled beneath him, he couldn't do anything but let it happen. The incarcerators would laugh and jibe, and then happily humiliate him more in some cases because the Great Captain Tracy had been broken so easily.

#fic: what should have stayed buried #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #thunderfam #angst #mentions of torture #abuse tw #captivity tw #i hope im tagging this right #let me know if I'm not #five fics

[edutainer2022]

This is a shamelessly self-indulgent, teeth-rotting follow up to ‘Cracks’. Expect lots of angst and fluff. And fluffy angst. And a Tracy puppy pile. It’s an angsty kind of puppy pile. It’s a thing. Scott sleeps his fever off through all of it, but he’s very loved by everyone. They’ll be okay. Not just yet, but eventually.

PUZZLES

With no small help from the Mechanic and no slight propulsion force of Grandma´s crisp medical orders, who cut their trip short before all the boys could be back from the rescues, Scott was safely installed in his room, tucked in bed, and Jeff was left to gather his bearings and the suddenly frail shards of his wits. If his mother had anything to say on the whole matter at hand, she opted to put it off for the time being. He was instead all but marched to the shower in Scott´s suite (no, against rational considerations, he refused to put more distance than that between himself and a now quiet, still Scott) before resuming his vigil over a sleeping son. Jeff couldn’t begin to fathom how he was going to face that boy’s demons (and his own) in the spotlight of lucidity. But it was the liminal dusk of fever and all the routine, simple worries it ensued, for now. A respite. He could hear the boom and rumble of Thunderbird 2 landing in the hangar. He could almost feel the urgency and concern reverberating through the core of the island, straight from his second son’s heart. That meant Virgil would soon be by his brother’s side. Still Jeff spent an extra minute under the scolding spray to make sure the last of biting salt was washed out of his eyes. Those moments to compose himself must have stretched to longer minutes than he was aware, as it was almost night when he stepped back into the room. Virgil was already there, propped half up on one of the pillows, Scott gathered in a strong embrace against his chest. It was a well-practiced arrangement between the brothers, Jeff could see with a sharp pang in his own chest – their limbs and bodies locked perfectly as a jigsaw puzzle, Scott’s head nestled right over Virgil’s heart. Just how many occasions of pain, and stress, and heartache in his sons’ lives called for such a huddle? Shadows gathered in the room, pooling in the corners and by the bed, shrouding Virgil’s face, deepening his boy’s frown. Painted over by shadows, Virgil looked eerily like Jeff’s own father – an unwavering rock of a man. Among the solid obscurity the only shimmer of movement - his son’s eyes, the dark, haunted glisten of an underground lake. Tears. Jeff didn’t fail to note Virgil hadn’t greeted him. Had barely looked up at him from Scott’s sleeping form.

‘Scott gets nightmares when he has a fever.’

Jeff shivered at the sound of Virgil’s baritone – flat and as drained of color as the shadows around his sons. When exactly did that become a thing? Was it always so and he just missed too many cold-induced fevers in his eldest childhood, sauntering around the solar system? Or was he too busy wallowing in grief and reshaping the world to fit his aspirations of grandeur while his second son hushed the screams, plaguing his eldest dreams, with flannel pajamas and soothing hugs? Or was it a newer development in Scott’s sleep pattern, after his Big Damn Hero father finally saved the humankind with a bang and a flare? Jeff felt he could be sick right there and then, disgusted with himself, but the shadows shifted, a moon beam sneaking in just in time to reveal Virgil’s chin trembling, eyes wide and desperate – a silent plea for help from his gentle child, who never asked for much. When Scott first fainted in the lounge John of course left the comms feed open for all the brothers. All his sons must have overheard what Scott’s feverish mind let slip the way he wouldn’t otherwise, not voluntarily – the crushing guilt over not being fast enough to trade his own life for Jeff’s in the Zero-X incident and the morbid certainty he was never enough to make up for Jeff’s absence in his brothers’ and the humanity’s lives. However far from the truth, it was bad enough Jeff would have to live and deal with this burden - the devastating legacy he left his son. He could now see Virgil too going under with it, drowning in his brother’s shadows.

In two brisk strides Jeff was by the side of the bed, climbing up to envelope Virgil into a hug of his own, guiding his son’s massive form, stiff from the day of hard rescue, rigid in stupor of unexpected sucker punch of Scott’s ailment and heartbreak, to relax against his chest. His ribs creaked in protest as he was now hoisting the combined weight of his two adult sons – Virgil still holding a sleeping Scott, never letting go. This would have been easier attained, when they could both be tucked under his chin and Virgil’s feet were so small they could fit in his father’s palm. Still, he could manage it. He let his boys carry too much of the heavy world he crafted for far too long. He would hold his boys now as best he could. He wanted to console Virgil, to soothe away at least the blame for missing the signs of Scott’s rising fever. It might have been Virgil’s job as the IR medic, but it was sure Jeff’s job as a father to pay attention. And he failed. In so many more ways than one. He lost sight of so much. Virgil let out a whimper and Jeff opted against words – kissing the top of his son’s head instead and rubbing his hand up and down his son’s strong arm.

‘You have to tell him. YOU have to tell him, Dad. He doesn’t believe me…’

Virgil’s ragged whisper was now muffled by Jeff’s shoulder, where his face was buried, away from the one moonbeam of light, chasing the silent shadows, away from Jeff. His second eldest was pleading to the ultimate authority to let Scott know he was enough. To let him know he was irreplaceable. It would be easier if Jeff were certain he was enough to get the idea through. He certainly failed to convince his eldest through the previous twenty years before his disappearance. Jeff felt rather than heard Virgil’s muted sobs through the rustle of his shirt and the tremble of the boy’s shoulders in his embrace. As if sensing the younger brother’s distress, Scott’s brows knitted in a frown and he hugged Virgil closer, but remained unstirred. If his soul had been crushed to pieces earlier that day – it now sure hurt like each shard was being pulled out, leaving a jagged wound. So Jeff tightened the hold on his sons to keep the cracks from shuttering his heart to dust.

Virgil’s tears blissfully subsided into soft snores, as he heard the space elevator hiss and clank into the docking platform on an otherwise silent villa. Two more sons back home. He had no doubt John would not let Alan go alone. Not today. Not after what they all heard. Alan. He would have to tread gently around the boy. The well of hidden sorrow and heartache, flooding Scott, too deep for the most stalwart of them. On cue the door opened and both his spacefaring sons walked in, pale and somber. Already out of uniform. The nightlight of the hallway brightened Alan’s gaunt and exhausted face for a moment. The boy’s eyes were visibly red-rimmed and puffy. Jeff was prepared to welcome the youngest boy into a snuggle at his side, on the very edge of the bed. But without a sound Alan burrowed to wedge himself between Virgil and Scott, immediately latched to his biggest brother’s midriff like he would never let go. The boy tackled his father thus, when they first met among the stars. Jeff knew the ferocity and the sentiment of that embrace.

John spoke instead, moving to the other side of the bed.

‘Alan gets nightmares when Scott is ill or hurt’.

Oh. Another patch in the tapestry of his children’s woe he was unaware of. His littlest boy chased by relentless fear the only parent he ever truly knew, the only one left to him would be ripped away too. Ripped away by the perceived duty to uphold their father’s heroic legacy. Jeff stilled for a moment, straining to hear if there were more sobs. But for the rustle of sheets all was quiet. Small mercies. Either that or Allie had already cried himself dry on his way back from the orbit. The latter was more likely, if the dark circles under John’s eyes and a frown framing his lips, pursed thin, were any indication. The painful crease between ginger brows betrayed a headache.

On instinct Scott’s arm shifted to drape over Alan’s shoulders and a content sigh escaped, as something untangled in his eldest chest and he breathed deeper for the first time through the ordeal. Virgil’s arm moved in synch, chasing purchase where Scott was now cuddling Allie, never breaking contact. Another piece of the puzzle locked securely in place.

John was never much for tactile contact. Jeff knew that much, although his ginger spaceman had been quite generous with hugs and small touches to his old man and even his brothers upon Jeff’s return. Jeff had to wonder if something unfroze in his touch starved son, willing him to seek more contact. Regardless, he was quite aware of his son’s limits and didn’t expect John to join his brothers at all. Maybe he underestimated the force of Scott’s turmoil. Or John’s own. The mattress dipped on the opposite side and in a fluid motion John rolled to spoon Scott’s still frame. Forehead resting between his eldest brother’s shoulder blades with a soft thud, John’s long fingers clutched fistfuls of Scott’s shirt, knuckles almost glowing white with strain in the dimness of the room. A hitched breath and a hiss, too close to a stifled sob, for comfort, John let out, his eyes squeezed shut, made Jeff think of the airlock seals pressurized, spaceships docking in the vast void. Coming among one’s own. Coming home. He reached, gently, so as not to startle the touch averse son, and stroked the shock of red hair.

For a moment Jeff just marveled at this synched machinery of brotherhood. His brave, amazing boys presented an unwavering united front, pulled out nothing short of a miracle, saving him from the bum end of the galaxy, but there were cracks. Not just the indefatigable façade they showed the world, but the walls and the roots, and the very foundations of his family were crumbling under the toll in the wake of his choices. His beloved boys devised an elaborate technology of checks and balances, communicated in silence through nights like this (he didn’t dare think how many nights like this), to keep themselves from disintegrating.

The gear was still missing a final piece. Light and efficiently precise on bare feet, Gordon entered, two throw blankets in hand. Gordon entered and Jeff could swear the shadows retreated from his brothers’ sleeping forms. Of course.

‘John gets cold, when dirtside.’

One blanket was already being draped over his immediate older brother’s lanky form, careful not to disturb. The second blanket Gordon was ready to throw over Jeff himself. Attentive to detail, collected and considerate. Jeff mused longingly how he hasn’t quite met this Gordon, how he missed entirely his fishboy growing into this Gordon. Eight years in outer space did a number on his circulation, but today he had a Virgil for a blanket. The boy was a human shaped furnace. Jeff smiled gratefully but shook his head no, all the while watching (wondering) how Gordon was going to fit into his brothers’ arrangement. Between himself and his three eldest (the six feet squad, Gordon’s term) and Alan, Scott’s customized king size bed was pretty much full to capacity. But his second youngest son was half squid not for nothing – there was never a crevice, cleft or nook Gordon couldn’t squeeze in. Jeff had many a grey hair, earned looking for a hiding little Squido, to attest to that. With a swimmer’s grace Gordon hopped onto the far end of the bed, shimmied closer, folded and with appalling comfort tucked his feet beneath John. Jeff’s middle son shifted ever so slightly to accommodate the intrusion into his space, but didn’t protest. Jeff watched, mesmerized, as the blond aquanaut actually had the audacity to fluff the covers over Scott, fully intending to use his oldest brother’s hip as a pillow, all the while curled in some unfathomable ball. Of all his sons Gordon appeared the least shaken by Scott’s unwitting revelation. Halfway down to rest his head over Scott, the blond youth caught his father’s inquiring, haunted gaze and sat back up, with a sigh.

‘We watch over Scott. He gets sad. Not like when someone ate the last of leftover pizza sad. Or a rescue gone bad sad. That too’. – Gordon’s hand moved from picking invisible lint off the comforter to ruffling Alan’s hair, lightly. – ‘But when he thinks no one’s watching, he gets really sad.* Like, it-hurts-to-just-be sad. And today…’

Gordon’s voice trailed off and Jeff’s heart sank so deep he doubted he’d ever hear it’s beat again. Today they blinked and missed the cracks in Scott the depth, and breadth, and darkness of a singularity to swallow him whole, because they were too busy watching their father, like he hung the effin’ stars. He was ready to flinch from his sons accusing stare, but Gordon’s eyes were warm – a welcome contrast to the cool swathe of moonlight and relentless shadows.

‘…today you watched over him. You did good. It’ll be alright.’

Off Jeff’s double take Gordon settled against Scott, stretching one arm to reach Virgil’s grip on the eldest and clasping John’s fist, still curled over Scott’s shirt, with another. The brothers’ hands locked immediately, completing the circle of touch. The twist and turn of the boy’s agile body didn’t look comfortable, but Gordon was out like a light. The puzzle complete. All his sons were home.

He did good today… Jeff would hold on to that hope into the next morning, as he held his whole world in his arms to ward off the shadows, seeping through the cracks.

*The idea is borrowed from Sherlock (BBC series). Scott indeed makes the saddest faces, when he’s turned away or alone.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #thunderbirds 2015 #jeff tracy #tracy puppy pile #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy needs his dad #jeff tracy goes soul searching #tracy brotherdom of angst #virgil tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #gordon tracy is kinda amazing #virgil needs a hug #my fic #methinks i have astronomy

[phading]

Shots of Various Kinds - Chapter 3, I PROMISE, is Up!

Final chapter just posted on A03. Where would he go? He’s cornered, trapped, hurting, betrayed, stuck in the past, terrified. Think like Gordon. Think! Where would he go?

Suddenly Virgil knew. He just knew.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderfam #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #scott tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #whump #angst #hurt/comfort #a phade fic #phading #read the tags

[silverstarfics]

Today’s prompt was ‘I’m proud of you’ and I could have written pure fluff. I had planned to write pure fluff. But somehow this happened? 

(Warning: a character gets outed against their will so skip this one if you think that’s something which might upset you. Here, have a virtual hug instead <3)

AO3 link

@thunder-pride

All of them have had their fair share of unwanted paparazzi coverage - certain people significantly more so than others – to the point where Gordon joked that it was an official Tracy coming-of-age tradition, earning a horrified look from Alan and a stern lecture from Scott. So, really, this sort of thing shouldn’t have been a surprise. And yet.

It wasn’t even as if Gordon was secretive about his sexuality. It was common knowledge amongst friends and family; he’d just never outright stated it in an interview for public dissection. He flirted with anyone who took his fancy and painted a little flag on his baldric during pride month. So, really, from his perspective, getting outed by the press wasn’t a big deal, because how could he have been outed if he had never been in the closet to begin with?

He was mostly upset on behalf of his poor date who had suddenly faced reporters at his front door and had been forced to disconnect his phone when it rang off the hook for several hours straight. Or, you know, not-so-straight, which was kind of the issue in the first place. Gordon didn’t give a shit what the press thought – or what anyone thought of him save for his family – but he drew the line at them harassing someone he’d come to care for. It wasn’t as if it was even a serious relationship – mostly just casual hook-ups which had led to getting dinner together when Gordon next had some downtime – so the poor guy had definitely not signed up for this.

“It’s none of their goddamn business,” Scott declared, a livewire of pure fury. He was angrier than Gordon himself, ranting about privacy and boundaries and the audacity. Several emails had been sent to a very expensive firm of lawyers and if the reporter who had initially broken the story valued her life, then she should probably start running for the hills and become a recluse for the rest of her life.

“I know,” Gordon repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time.

They were in one of the spare offices up in the Roundhouse and he was lounged upside down on a blue couch. The blood rushing to his head did nothing to cure the faintly queasy sense of discomfort which had accompanied the cold pit in his stomach.

It was like he’d said already – if he’d ever been a closet to begin with then it had been made of frickin’ glass, so he hadn’t technically been outed… So why did he feel so weird about the entire thing? It was sort of violating to have everyone discussing his personal life. The tabloids had been pawing through his entire dating history for the past two days. He sort of wanted to be sick.

“I just…” For the first time, he let a hint of unease creep into his voice. He closed his eyes, sensing Scott’s footsteps come to a halt. “I hate the way they’re talking about this like it’s a dirty secret. It’s who I am. I went on a date with a guy. Big deal. Why are they talking about it as if they caught me drug dealing? And it’s- God, I don’t even know. I don’t care who knows, but I care that they’re spinning the story into this whole reveal. It’s supposed to be my choice, you know? I’m meant to be the one who says, hey, by the way, this is me.”

“It’s not everybody knowing which bothers you, it’s the loss of autonomy.”

“Exactly.”

Gordon felt the couch dip as Scott took a seat beside him. When he opened his eyes, his brother was silhouetted against the sinking sun, dark hair highlighted with gold light, jaw still set with indignation on Gordon’s behalf. For a moment, he looked so much like their father that Gordon lost the ability to breathe. He wondered briefly how Jeff would have dealt with the situation. Probably in much the same way as Scott had – with a bloodthirsty legal team.

“Sit up before you make yourself sick,” Scott instructed him, leaning back against the cushions with a weary sigh. There were dark circles beneath his eyes again, tension keeping his shoulders rigid. He scrubbed his hands down his face, repressing a yawn. He’d been up for over twenty-four hours fending off the press whilst setting their own PR team on the case, despatching TI security to protect the poor, unfortunate date and checking in with Gordon at the same time. He probably didn’t even realise just how grateful his younger brother was for all of it.

“Thanks.”

Scott reached forward, snagged Gordon’s shirt, and hauled him the right way up. “Come again?”

“Just… thanks.” Gordon shrugged, tucking his hands under his thighs to keep from fidgeting. He stared at the sunrays falling across the carpet to avoid meeting Scott’s gaze. “For all of this. I know you’ve always got my back, but you’re, like, genuinely angry on my behalf right now and it’s just… nice. So, thanks. I have got a favour to ask though.”

Scott switched his phone onto silent as it vibrated again. “What type of favour?”

“Let me do an interview. Just one. It’ll be an exclusive scoop, so I want it to be with the right person, which is sort of where you come in because I have no idea how to arrange that. We’ve got an entire team for this kinda thing, right?”

It could have been a trick of the light, but Scott’s smile looked impossibly fond. “I’ll handle it. Penelope has some contacts too.”

“Cool.” Gordon exhaled slowly. His head was spinning slightly, although it was difficult to tell whether that was a result of sitting upside down for so long or a delayed reaction to having his sexuality used as a tabloid headline. “Cool, cool, cool. Also, um… actually, there’s one other thing. We have scholarships, don’t we? Like, there’s one set up in Mom’s name. Is there one in Dad’s? I have a vague memory of that.”

“There’s…” Scott took a moment to steady his voice. “John and I set one up in his name after- Yes, there’s a Jeff Tracy scholarship.” He draped an arm along the back of the couch and let Gordon fall heavily against his side. “You’ve got an idea then, I’m guessing?”

“Maybe.” Gordon lifted his feet onto the edge of the couch and picked at the loose thread in his shorts. His hands were trembling slightly, but he couldn’t figure out why, only knew that he was more grateful for Scott’s presence than he could put into words. “Can we set another one up? For LGBT+ kids? Not in my name, it feels kinda weird doing that while I’m alive. But yeah. Is that a thing we can do?”

Scott lifted his arm from the cushions to pull him closer. “Definitely. It’ll take a few days, but I can get it approved by Friday at the latest.”

He fumbled for his phone, trying to stifle a yawn, and Gordon swatted his wrist.

Scott shot him an offended look. “What was that for?”

“It can wait until morning. We both need a break. You’ve been up the entire night.”

“So have you.”

“Exactly.” Gordon clambered off the couch. “C’mon, let’s grab some food and crash for a few hours. Like, a lot of hours.” He caught Scott’s hands and tried to pull him upright. “Scotty.”

Scott reluctantly slid his phone into his pocket. He was clearly itching to check those unread messages and emails, but for now his younger brother was still his top priority and Gordon was planning to make the most of that for as long as he could. It was rare for him to be able to get Scott to eat a proper meal and actually sleep for once. The same fierce love which had led Scott to verbally tear several people to shreds whilst simultaneously typing out an email with his other hand ran both ways even if the dumbass couldn’t always see that.

Virgil had saved two plates for them, both stashed in the fridge with a note warning Alan not to touch on pain of death. Gordon shoved one in the microwave and propped himself against the counter to wait while Scott sat on a bar stool and tried not to fall asleep. Unusually, they ate in silence – Scott responding to emails and Gordon lost in his own head.

“Hey,” Scott prompted.

Gordon blinked, suddenly realising that his empty plate was gone. He pushed his knuckles against his eyes to rid them of the tired blur. The world seemed very big all of a sudden. People were talking about him – not his achievements but his identity – and it made his skin crawl. He imagined that this was the closest he would ever come to understanding how John felt about social events.

“Gordon,” Scott called softly, rapping his knuckles against his brother’s head. “C’mon, bud. Bedtime. Don’t make me carry you.”

Gordon slid off his perch with a tired laugh. “Carry me? I’m not ten anymore.”

“And?”

“And you wouldn’t let that stop you.”

“Exactly.”

Scott tugged him into a warm hug. Gordon let his head fall against his brother’s shoulder and finally felt the tension leak from his muscles. The world was passing judgement and if he were honest with himself then that was scary as hell, but Scott was still here, defending him from bullies as if they were kids again. He buried his face in Scott’s shoulder and breathed.

“I’m really proud of you,” Scott murmured. “I’m so sorry this happened, but I’m proud of you.”

Gordon lifted his head with a watery smile. “Permission to make a Pride joke?”

Scott gave him a light shove towards the stairs with a laugh. “Go to bed, squid.”

#Is it obvious that i love writing these two? #because i really do #anyway back to writing heart wrenching angst for another fic #i mean uhh what nooo i didn't say that #thunderpride #thunderpride 2023 #thunderbirds are go

[right-brain-of-froggy2]

The Exordium

An insight into Scott's last mission as an Air Force Captain.

TW: injuries, overall military-esque violence, mentions of Bereznik

AO3 link here!

Seriously, this is just my brain plotting out a Top Gun: Maverick inspired one shot with Scott for the past month and finally having some free time after Christmas in July to do it. I did my best for military terms, but definitely took some liberties as this is supposed to take place in the ~2050s. Hope y’all enjoy!

Note: Preacherman is Scott and the other three are OCs

“Dagger Two, where are ya Valentine? I don’t see your position. Speed up, speed up.”

“Copy, Preacherman.”

“Maintain low altitude. I have visuals on SAMs.”

Scott peers around his shoulder, past Kronos in the WSO control seat and out the window. True to his word, Valentine swings out with a sharp increase of speed. He settles into the secondary position of a two jet attack position. Scott pushes the throttle to its max with his wingman in sight.

The mountain is coming up fast like a brick wall. Scott braces his body and shoots the F-30 up vertically, out of range of the first set of SAMs and before the second’s sensors. Kronos puffs heavy breaths behind him. It takes all of his concentration to breath in, breath out, to fight against the G’s threatening to crush his body. The oxygen can’t flow fast enough from his mask.

“Preacherman, we’ve got sight of two Whispers in the clouds. Our radar isn’t finding them.”

“Visual?” Scott asks once he catches his breath.

Kronos peers looks as far as he can around the canopy. “No radar. I can’t see ‘em either! Must be somewhere far behind us.”

“Not good. One minute, thirteen seconds inbound,” Scott informs his team.

“Smoke! I see smoke! Preacher, bank right!” Valentine’s voice cuts through the static of high altitude.

Scott takes the warning from his wingman to heart. Despite being the leader, he follows Valentine’s shouts and banks the F-30 in a tight loop.

“They’ve got lock,” Kronos shouts after smashing an array of keys. The missiles follow the direction changes almost as fast as Scott can make them. “Firing flares.”

The explosion of flares versus missiles sends a shockwave through the fighter jet. Kronos braces his forearm against the left side of the canopy to look out back. “Two Whispers inbound! First visual contact!”

Scott barks his orders like he’s more than the twenty-three years his body is. He can slip down into the mountain cliff crevasse, but Valentine and Sparrow are too far to follow. The Whispers will shoot them down before they can get to cover. “Valentine, break off! Break off!”

The second jet screams out to the right, taking one of the Whisper jets with it. But the other is trailing after Scott without a scratch. A drop off results in Scott shooting out into open air. No more Earth walls to protect him. Scott’s gripping the control stick with both hands and gasping in oxygen as he shoots up in altitude at a ninety-degree angle. The Whisper follows, unsuccessfully attempting a bullet spray. Scott pulls on the brakes, flipping the jet upside down before swopping down to get behind the Whisper jet.

The new Berezniki technology may succeed theirs, but Scott’s the best pilot of his division. And he’ll be damned if now isn’t the perfect time to prove his dogfighting skills.

“C’mon, Kronos, work your magic. Buy us some time!”

Kronos switches to a laser guided missile lock now that the enemy jet is in front. Scott doesn’t see how he does it. He never does. The jet rattles as a set of flares and machine gun bullets fire blindly out to the Whisper. It evades but doesn’t see the missile hidden by the smoke from the flares. The Berezniki jet explodes into an array of shrapnel and fire that falls beneath their wings. Scott whoops a short breath of relief.

“Enemy down. Confirmed ejection. We ain’t gonna worry about that one,” Kronos says as he taps on the canopy covering. But that means there’s still one fighter left they can’t see.

Scott’s thrown off balance as it comes down out of the clouds in pure silence. He rolls the F-30 out of the way of its guns. But before it has a chance to make a second dive at Scott and Kronos, Valentine’s F-30 launched an ambush of missiles.

“Woo boy! Second fucker down!”

“Language, fellas,” Sparrow quips. His voice is all smiles and adrenaline.

“Target thirty meters ahead. Drop bombs when you’ve got a clear shot.” Scott focuses on keeping the F-30 steady as he lowers their altitude to only 100 meters off the ground. He does a flyby and hears a short confirmation that the bombs hit the target. That’s half the battle; the other half will be Valentine and Sparrow making the finishing blow with a SEMI.

“Dagger Two, you got a lock?” Scott asks. He can’t look over his shoulder to see if his wingmen are back behind. “Dagger Two?”

“Negative, Preacherman. We’ve-”

Valentine is infuriated by a crunching sound and Sparrow’s uncharacteristically shrill voice. “Third Whisper! No tracking, visual to right twenty degrees. Valentine-”

“We’re hit! We’re hit!”

“Shit!” Scott’s instincts take over before his mind can. The Lieutenant General is not going to be happy about his actions, that’s for sure. “We’re coming, Dagger Two! Hold on!”

“Preacherman, I’ve lost sight of the Whisper again. No radar, no clear sight.” Kronos supplies. He flips switches on the paneling to his right. “Negative heat tracking. We’re fighting blind.”

That is not good news.

Scott shoves the thought in the back of his mind as he races over to cover Valentine and Sparrow. The first two didn’t show all the tricks of the Whispers. He doesn’t speak as their conversation fills the radio waves. Smoke billows out of the back of the F-30 of his wingmen.

“Engine One, on fire. Taking emergency measures!”

“No good! Extinguishers damaged in impact!”

“Fire spreading, lost control of internal combustion rods.” Valentine’s voice is tight.

“Put it out!” Scott snaps.

They’re over the heart of Bereznik’s Tempo Base. There’s a reason this mission was kept hush hush, and a reason they were briefed on the horrid doings of Tempo only after agreeing. includes learning there would be no rescue inbound should they eject. Scott talked to his four brothers last night for an hour over his allotted time. The fact the higher ups allowed it is enough reason for concern.

The jet shakes as the engine erupts. It sends a shockwave through the plane and has her tumbling out of the sky. The smoke turns to a dark black. Scott’s thrown against his seat as he reverses direction to avoid the explosion. That smoke can only mean one thing: the fire’s hit the fuel tanks. IT’s a worst case scenario for any pilot.

“We’ve gotta eject!”

“Disengage fuel pumps to line four avids. Try to limp her out!”

Scott watches the cockpit of the F-30 fill with flames at the same time the Whisper emerges from the shadows. His eyes widen in terror for his team.

“Eject, eject, eject!”

“Eject now!” Kronos throws in. The fire is spreading.

“Throw the canopy!”

“Eject, eject!”

“I’ve got smoke,” Scott says. His voice is quiet over the sound of Sparrow’s gasp as his seat launches into open air. “Kronos, we’re gonna cover ‘em.”

He dives down where Dagger Two is rapidly losing altitude. The Whisper foregoes Scott’s F-30 and approaches the ejected pilots like a hungry predator. Sparrow is desperately holding onto his chute lines as he rips his mask off. Scott whips their fighter between the Bereznik aircraft and his two men.

The missile loses sight of the broken plane and latches onto Scott’s instead.

“Fire flares!”

“Flares are out, Preacher! Launching last counter missile.”

Kronos spins around in his seat to ensure the missile is negated. “Out of missile too. We’ve got only 27 rounds of bullets left.”

Scott’s mouth stays shut in a tight line. His eyes track the Whisper screaming through the air in a loop, coming around to target their jet. They can’t just leave the two falling to their demise. But Scott sees no way out.

His choice is made for him as the F-30 lurches into a tailspin.

“What the fuck Kronos?!”

“We’ve been hit! Nothing showed up, new tech that-”

“You better use those 27 shots up real quick!” Scott screams as he attempts to pull them out of their tailspin. It’s hopeless. The right side is burned to ashes, not a single remnant of the wing left. Both engines are a sputtering mess of flames and smoke. It starts filtering back into the cockpit. There’s only so much time before their own canopy fills with the same flames that filled Dagger Two’s.

Kronos falters for purchase on the above striped handles. “I’m ejecting us!”

“You will not!”

“Preacher! We’ve got to bail!”

Scott’s not panicking. Fighter pilots don’t panic. He attempts a maneuver to reverse the polarity of their spin. It only increases the speed. Up above the Whisper aims its nose down for the best angle of machine gun bullet fire.

“Scott!”

“Eject!”

That’s all Kronos needs before he’s releasing the canopy top. The force of the wind knocks Scott’s torso down towards his knees. Kronos ejects first. Scott pulls his cord in between his legs and his head whips back as his body is pulled from the flaming wreckage. With no pilot, the F-30 crashes in a blaze alongside its sister ship.

They were close enough to the ground that the parachuted provide little drag. Scott crashes to the ground and feels the bones in his left ankle grind together. Something snaps. Kronos fares better than he does with landing. His WSO unhooks his parachute gear and runs to Scott’s side to help him.

The Whisper does a flyby. It speeds up and bypasses the pilots. The Berezniki craft fires no more and turns back towards where it came. If Scott wasn’t wearing his helmet, the supersonic blast would have ruptured his ear drums for sure.

“I saw Valentine and Sparrow up ahead. C’mon!”

“Your ankle?”

Scott tries to stand. He hesitated in his first step with his left foot. Pain shoots through his body. But the adrenaline rush masks the worst of it. “Forget about it! Go! Go, go, go, go!”

He signals to Kronos and they take off in a sprint.

“Find us a way outta here Preacherman!”

He radios in to base as they run. The soldiers may be able to triangulate their position if they’re listening in on the frequency. But they won’t get any help staying silent. Either way, Scott and his men are sitting ducks. Calling for reinforcements is their best bet at survival.

“This is Captain Tracy. Scramble standby Dagger Three and Four.”

A pause over the radio. Then static. “Negative Captain Tracy. Enemy is hostile, engaging off target.”

“Send in the A-Tidals. Lucky One is on foxtrot.”

 “Negative. Airspace is not under clearance. SAMs are currently engaged. There is no entry.”

“Requiring backup! Dagger One and Two down. Repeat, requiring backup. Dagger One and Two down!”

“Captain Tracy,” the Brigadier General’s voice is cold. Scott didn’t realize he was even in the control room. His word is law and Scott’s scared for what he has to say. “We cannot send aid. Search and rescue will be locked down until threat is neutralized.”

Search and rescue?

Scott swears.

That old bastard knew this was a suicide mission and sent them in anyways. Scott decides to do his own search and rescue, with emphasis on the rescue part.

Sparrow is the first one they find. He’s cut loose from his parachute and running desperately towards them.

“Wrong direction!” Kronos yells. He makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand parallel to his temple as Scott’s hands are tied up with his radio. The look on Sparrow’s face is worthy of Scott’s pity.

“You got Valentine with you?”

“No clue where he’s at!” Sparrow gasps between breaths.

A round of air strike bombs rings out where Scott and Kronos crashed. Falling bombs fill the air with a backdrop of a beautiful blue sky. The trio is just out of blast range. For now.

Running in the direction opposite of Sparrow proves successful. Valentine is on the ground, one hand around his leg. His parachute is tangled up in the evergreen trees above.

“Valentine!”

The man garbled out some words. Scott catches none of them. He removed the lieutenant’s hands from his leg. They’re bloodied. Scott examines his leg and it’s not a promising one. One of the bones of his leg has ripped through the skin. A gash in his flight suit from landing shows the whole gory scene.

Kronos is right by his side. “It’s no good, the bone’s all stuck out. He’s immobile.”

“You didn’t… have to come back for me… Cap’n…” Valentine gets out with grit.

“Yes we did. Don’t be stupid,” Scott retorts. Scott points out the only two living humans nearby. “You two! Get him out of here!”

A gunship roars and the air fills with the thundering of military boots on snow. There’s the harsh shout of Berezniki that carries over the snowy countryside.

“Preacher-”

“Captain-”

“Do not disobey! There should be an access path in the cliffs some two miles from here. Take him and run as fast as you can. Hide if you’ve got to.”

Scott pulls out his gun from the holster and checks that it’s loaded. The bullets glint in the morning sunlight. He cocks it.

“Here.” Kronos pulls out his own gun and hands it to Scott. It’s a gesture that’s well appreciated. The situation becomes a ton of lead weighing down Scott’s mind. He helps Valentine up onto Kronos’s back and adjusts Sparrow’s gear.

“Write to my brothers, wouldja?”

Kronos knocks his helmet with Scott’s. The words Kronos and Preacherman connect. “I will.”

Scott nods. Kronos’s words are a promise.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #pre-international rescue #angst #bereznik #tw: minor violence #tw: swearing #this is 100% just a Top Gun: Maverick fueled manic write through #and very self indulgent #original characters