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Chapter Text

Sand could come in so many forms; soft and giving to let feet sink into it's warm embrace, gritty and course against hands brushed over a well-worn pant leg, soft and waterlogged to leave discolored bursts under each footfall. Sand was light as it fell through fingertips, yet heavy when piled in bags before storefronts to stymie the flow of water from a brutal storm. You could feel sand, invisible, but present as it weighed down limbs that had been forced to work harder and longer than they were designed. It made each step slow, heavy, almost deliberate with the soft scuffing of boots over a polished wood floor.

Gordon could be the beach with how much sand inhabited his body, making him want to fall where he stood in the middle of the kitchen. Grandma wouldn't approve of that, though. If she were home, she would insist he go to his room and get a full sleep cycle in if he wanted to be of any use to his brothers.

A sluggish blink of eyelids sent a hazy film over the room and the amber glow of a sun making it's way to the other side of their island. Another blink cleared the fog before his jaw fell open and he drew in a deep yawn that tightened the muscles in his chest. As he let out the breath, Gordon took a step towards the stairs, the drag of his shoes breaking the quiet that had settled around him.

No one was home, which only encouraged the idea of collapsing onto the couch to bypass the rest of his trek to his room. The promise of a stiff back and unimaginable pain to right himself after such a position was the only reason he was forgoing that option.

Another step sent sand through his knees as they tingled and threatened to buckle. He stumbled, catching himself on the wall that connected with the stairs and he pressed his face against the cool paint, letting his eyes close for just a moment. The wall would hold him long enough for his uncoordinated hand to find the railing and cling to it. Palm and fingers anchored to the solid wood, glossy and smooth under his fingertips and just as cool as the paint against his skin. He didn't want to move, but falling asleep standing would be hazardous.

One lid peeled open to reveal the russet brown that drifted up each step he would have to climb. He drew in a slow, franipani-scented breath through his nose and let his shoulders droop with the task before him. The sand was collecting in his feet again, making his first ascension towards the lounge feel like a rise from thick sludge that clung to his skin. Another step followed, then another, each level weighing at his limbs and forcing him to pull at the railing to gain momentum.

Halfway and he stopped, using the chill of the wall to rest. He could imagine a mountain stream flowing over his face as he lay on the bank, content to let the trickle of spring water over stones lull him into the warm pebbles, eyes drifting shut. He could hear the soft rustle of leaves as a breeze brushed through them, sending birds chirping from branch to branch. Gordon's fingers flexed over the wooden rail - a branch anchoring him to the stream's edge - pushing himself away from the woodland imagery to continue his slow ascent.

The top of the stairs opened to an empty lounge, the soft sounds of the island floating into the room and pulling another, deep yawn from the blonde. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes as his hand came up to cover his mouth. Again, the couch called to him with its custom made cushions and feathered throw pillows that had cradled his head on more than one occasion.

No. Gordon was well aware that his brothers would be home any time now, dealing with their own levels of fatigue or left over adrenaline. The lounge was short term and would lead to a very groggy Gordon still having to make the trek to his room. The bed offered comfort, quiet, and darkness that would go uninterrupted for as long as was required.

The thought of his bed made Gordon sway with the need to crash onto it and the thick comforter that would catch him like a perfect cloud. Penelope had recommended the bedding for all the brothers, Gordon's being a smooth seafoam and teal ombre colored cotton with flecks of gold embroidered through the top like a school of fish catching the light of the sun. He could almost imagine being wrapped in the ocean as he lay under it with the sound of the waves breaking outside his balcony door and the salty smell drifting in the air.

Legs moved on automatic as the teasing thoughts spurred him across the room and up the next mountain of stairs. Memories of the flooded building had Gordon wishing he could swim up the flight, the water cushioning him against the gravity that pulled at him now. He could sleep like john, floating weightlessly without the urgency of people in need. Everyone was safe, in a hospital or off to a secure area for evacuation. He need only concern himself with the slow climb to the darkened hall of their rooms.

Fingertips found the wall again, eyes shut with the beginning of familiarity. Last door on the right. No need to see. No need to waste the energy to ensure he was moving towards the room he could find in his sleep. He found the first bump - Alan's room - when the gentle hum fell past his lips. It was one from their mother, a sweet lullaby for little ones who couldn't be calmed by star stickers on the ceiling or teddy bear kisses. The words were somewhere in his subconscious, but the melody still played clear in his mind. There was a smile - like John's - sitting behind his eyelids, but the rest of her had faded over the years. Gordon had other ways of remembering her, though. Smells, mostly. Gardenia flowers or strawberry baked into bread. 6Those would bring her laughter and hugs. She always gave him an extra squeeze that would lift him off the ground before his could land and run off to play.

Another bump - Virgil's room - separated the troublesome two, but rarely was it effective. The smell of cedar and musk mixed with what Gordon knew to be oil paints. His second eldest brother had been toying with the medium since pulling a piece out of a collapsed library - much to Scott's frustration - trying to point out the textures and dimension the artist had achieved. It wasn't beyond Gordon to appreciate the art, but he certainly didn't share the same enthusiasm. The first piece Virgil had created, surprisingly, ended up in Gordon's room. It was a small canvas with deep swirls of blue fading up into green and almost lifting off the surface. At the center rested a patch of yellow and white, glowing against the contrasting dark. His brother had been adamant that it was just a fluke that it looked like Thunderbird 4 in the middle of the ocean, but Gordon figured it was just Virgil's inner worry. Small things could be lost in such vast spaces.

The low rumble in his throat as he continued to hum stopped and he took a steadying breath before a yawn forced him to lean on the wall. The urge to stay there, let the floor be his bed, wafted over his exhausted mind, but as chest and shoulders relaxed, gordon moved on, using the smooth wall to keep himself upright.

Last bump and he was leaning on the doorframe, blindly shifting the handle and pushing the door open. Eyelids lifting, he was greeted by the warm island air breezing in from the open balcony door - Grandma's doing - and the shades drawn enough to darken the bed.

Against the support of the frame, one foot found the back of the other, toes pushing at the heel of his shoe. This was the benefit he had over his brothers. No laces to untie or straps to unbuckle, just slip on and slip off. Bare toes pressed against hardwood, glossed to shine in the afternoon light, but Gordon paid it no attention as he padded across on sand-leadened legs until toes found plush carpet. Eye closed once more, his mind's eye found the edge of the bed and dragged the corner of the designer bedding back. The thought of removing his shirt was dashed by the need for sleep, his body already in motion as he crawled into the mattress' embrace. Coils sank beneath him as his legs came up to bury themselves under the blanket, feeling the silky coolness slide over calves until he could pull the rest up to his neck. His head had already found the down pillow, letting it cradle the weight he'd been carrying since the completion of the rescue.

And as he finally relinquished himself to the drag of sleep, Gordon's eyes shut out the light of the fading day, his mind letting go of the troubles left to wait once he arose anew. For now, he let the cool fabric of his comforter, the soft sea breeze, and the sound of waves crashing below lull him away from his home and to the deep recesses of sleep. There would be no dreams - though, one of long blonde hair and pink lips still lingered most days. No, today was like sand, dense and invasive as it grabbed hold of overworked limbs and pulled. Gordon would let it, the bed would hold and the ocean would wash over him with little gold fish swimming in the sunlight.

And so, Gordon slept.

Chapter Text

The face in the mirror bore the weariness of a forty-eight hour rescue with a two hour nap in the middle. Brown eyes, red from smoke and ash, slid over the dark patches of oil and dirt, finding short black stubble resting across his jawline and chin. A calloused hand, sore from hours of working to remove debris, ran over the sandpaper skin before pressing into tired eyelids and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Virgil had opted for his personal bathroom over the showers in the hangar. There was something remarkably more relaxing about being in your own space when decompressing from the fight for everyone's lives. The soft rush of warm water falling from the antique faucet was one reason. The large clawfoot tub was the other.

Ever since Virgil had been to their grandfather's ranch and he'd been introduced to a tall, spotted filly named Ginger, a fascination with western life had been developed. And then there were the hours of old reruns. His favorites starred John Wayne and Robert Fuller. They were rough and tumble men who fought for good a majority of the time.

At age twelve, Virgil had asked about the large bathtubs used in the shows and why he never saw anything like them in the homes he'd visited. It wasn't until he had been ushered into his grandparent's bathroom that he realized how close he'd been to one for over a year. Since then, Virgil made it a point to use their tub whenever he and his brothers came to visit. Once Tracy island was up and they were allowed to move in, Dad had surprised him with one of his own, much to the amusement of his eldest brother. John didn't care either way and the tinies were too concerned with their own rooms to worry Virgil over his.

And it was days like today, he found the benefits of submerging himself into the therapeutic warm water.

First, however, he needed to take care of the face staring back at him.

Rolling his neck to loosen the muscles in his shoulders, Virgil opened the cabinet and pulled out his razor and the canister of gel. Setting those aside, he turned on the tap and let the water reach a comfortable warmth before ringing his hands under the stream and bending down to splash it over his tired face. For a moment, that almost seemed enough. He could quit now and just go crawl into his plush bed with the fleece comforter. Tempting, though it was, he could still hear the steady flow of water into his tub. It would be worth the delay.

Taking hold of the beige bar of soap, Virgil let it sit under the warm water, drawing it back to rub between his hands. A smooth lather grew to release the thick aroma of cedar and orange, the engineer setting the soap back in its tray. His palms rubbed together in slow circles before breaking apart to begin the deep cleaning of his face. Grime from the damaged pods lifted away with the bubbles, fingers massaging his temples and forehead - a dangerous move with his eyes tightly shut and the call for sleep so near.

Relinquishing his hands to the water falling into the sink, Virgil let the suds wash away. The water pooled into his hands once more, coming up to remove the mixture of dirt, oil and soap from his face.

Easy part done, Virgil turned his attention to the next task before he could get in his bath. The rich scent of elderberry, birch, and basil filled his nose as he opened the lid of the shave gel and placed a dollop on his finger. It was cool against his heat-blasted jaw, a complete contrast to what the rest of his body wanted. The prickly hairs stood against the gel as he led the thick foam over his chin and down his neck, stretching out the tight muscles and wishing he could massage the ache from them. Instead, he let his hands fall back into the warm water as it flowed from the faucet.

Droplets trickled from fingertips as they reached for the razor and lifted it from the porcelain sink. Now, the mirror held an image of an older man, long since past. Their grandfather on Dad's side had always insisted on playing Santa for the younger boys. Virgil had been more than willing to assist with the illusion as long as it brought bright smiles to Gordon and Alan. It was years since those times and it seemed the engineer was on track to take up the jolly mantle.

The razor started at the top of his right cheek, pressing gently into the overexposed skin before gliding down to his jaw. Another swipe removed more of the abrasive stubble, leaving soft skin in its wake.

Two sources of water mingled into his ears, the high pitch of the sink faucet harmonizing with that of the deep flow in the bathtub. Virgil's mind wandered to a waterfall, powerful and loud, as the river above spilled over the edge and onto his shoulders. Halfway through with his face, he almost quit, wishing to accommodate the shoulders and back that desperately needed relief.

Quick swipes of the blade over his upper lip and he moved on to his left cheek, severing the hairs that normally made him feel more at peace with nature. Today, they were a reminder of everything he and his brothers had endured over the last two days. Each one was a tree lost to the inferno. They would grow back, but at the moment they were a scar across the land.

The razor tapped against the sink, sending foam down into the swirl of water before he rinsed it. Another pass, the hairs picking away with the sharp edge that rested so close to his skin. The blade slid over his jaw, then down his neck to remove the stubble hiding under the soap. Virgil continued the motion until his face was clear of any foam or hair. He replaced the cleaned razor into the cabinet with the shave gel, letting the door click shut so he could see his face once more. The water still ran, his hands dipping into it to pool enough to rinse over his jaw.

Brown eyes closed against the wetness. Virgil blindly reached for the hand towel that hung by the cabinet, pulling it free with ease. The soft fabric pressed against his skin to soak up the droplets on his cheeks and chin, the bridge of his nose, eyes, and finally back down to his neck. The image that met him now was clean, the dark hair a mess of waves over brows that sheltered puffy eyelids.

The dull sound of the water filling the tub drew him away, the smaller flow ceasing and the towel lost to the sink. A thick layer of bubbles had formed over the warm water - another luxury his brothers didn't quite understand. The squeak of the knob made him wince, adding another task to his to-do list once he'd obtained the required hours of sleep. Virgil, then pulled his shirt over his head before shrugging out of his boots and jeans, letting them stay where they lay. The boxers fell next, left to sit on top of the other clothes before he could carefully stick one leg into the hidden warmth.

He and Gordon had once found a secluded hot spring on one mission years ago, Scott giving them the go ahead for a short, much needed break. The waters had been just as hot as his bath, pulling him down into a sense of weightless bliss that nearly left him drowned after falling asleep. Perhaps that was due to his habits at home.

The water slowly crawled up his body as he lowered himself in, letting out a contented sigh as he finally came to rest, his head leaning back against the edge of the tub. His neck was cradled by a soft pillow, allowing his muscles to relax into the cushion.

"Radio on," the baritone had deepened with the relaxation of his chest muscles. "Play relaxation playlist." The speaker in the ceiling chimed in acceptance of his command before the soft, lilting piano of Gymnopédie No.1 filtered down to his ears.

A layer of bubbles crowded his chest, keeping the heat enclosed around his tired form. Fingers brushed the smooth surface as his arms slid down into the water, reemerging with a trickling slosh to rest on the rim. Foam shifted under his hands and he couldn't help scooping it out of the way so his fingertips could trail into the water. Finally off his feet, the overused muscles in his calves pulsed as he stretched his legs out. His feet emerged from the bubbles to extend muscles past the length of the tub before he brought them back into the heat they needed. Toes scrubbed where the floor and walls met in a smooth arch, sending small waves to disturb the foam that hid his knees. Maybe he had added too much soap, but he couldn't find a reason to be annoyed. With the sound of the water flow gone and the light piano playing above, Virgil could hear the crackling of millions of bubbles as they popped in the cool bathroom air.

Steam and the clean scent of linen filled his senses as he let his eyes drift shut. He absorbed it into himself, willing the stress of the last two days to seep out into the warmth. He could hear the beat of his pulse against his eardrum, noting the slower pace as he continued to breathe in and out. In and out.

Perfection.

Not downtime to visit some exquisite art museum or a world renowned orchestra. No. This. Virgil and his ancient, clawfoot tub, fingers toying with bubbles as the sound of Satie helped him drift.

There was no where else he would rather be at this moment in time. Each breath drew him down into ultimate, blissful relaxation. His back lost its ridgedness, curving to the bend of the tub. Time seemed to pass in a lazy stream that had no demands. No need for him to worry about the next rescue. He was off the roster for at least twelve hours, thirty minutes of which he would live in this water. He was a ranger, home from a long journey. His hat hung over his boots, horse in the stable, and just like the cowboys of old, he gently let himself drift off into the sunset of his mind.