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As far as clouds go, Gordon is among the strangest. The wind tugs at his clothing, hanging loose and informally on his silhouette, and at his hair where he stands aloft amidst the sails. The seabirds close to shore weave their dance between the ropes above, circling him curiously. Even though his form is strange to them, he’s not unwelcome in their home in the air. If anything, he’s just a part of the flying clouds that make up the rigging of their ship.
The gulls’ calls sound like laughter, and he smiles with them. The birds will accompany the ship for a time, darting towards the quick meal at the bow where the front of the ship often disturbs the sea life below. If the voyage is to be a lucky one, they’ll grace the wood of the ship with a gift or two that’ll be left to wash away only with the next rain.
Gordon can feel the sway of the ship stronger from above; though with the Thunderbird still anchored close to shore, the waves are gentle as they lap against her firm hull. The movement is a tease for the voyage ahead, as Gordon has always found himself more comfortable in their journeys out to sea than he’s ever felt in his tentative steps on land. The ship has watched him grow and come of age, from awkward limbs racing up the rigging, to strong shoulders heaving her lines and helming her wheel. She’s given him the freedom to roam, to explore lands and seas unknown, and even with the thrill of adventure, Gordon feels most safe in the comfort of her embrace. If that isn’t a home, he doesn’t know what else is.
He knows her in the early morn - the way the sunrise paints cotton and how the mist tingles at the fuzz on his arms at the start of his shift. He knows the echo of their shanties within her oak beams, and the squeak of her joy when the creatures of the sea ride along with her bow waves upon them really catching the wind and when the tang of citrus remains on his tongue from breaking fast.
He knows her in the rain, the smell of wood and cotton when burdened with wet from above as well as below, the crackle of lightning in its brief and staggered illumination of her flags. He knows her in the cold, when the puff of his breath is visible and the wind cuts into his skin. Among whales, massive and elegant as they groan their song into her hull.
He knows her in the evening – Virgil and John’s cooking and their different nuances for flavor and spice, the vibrato of Virgil’s violin paired with the warm timbre of the Scott’s cello pulsing along her foundations. The way she creaks below Alan’s eager footsteps. He knows the soft glow around flame-lit lanterns in the darkest of night and the hush of melodies uttered in multiple languages up towards twinkling stars. The way his hammock rocks him to sleep with her movement.
He knows her in both fair winds and motionless skies, in the brightest of sunlit days and the most cloud-covered of nights. Through doldrums, archipelagos, and the far reaches of the seas, and along coastlines, he knows her.
And his soul trembles just as she does, her unfurled sails shuddering in anticipation of catching the wind.
Gordon hears Scott's laughter approaching long before he sees him, the athletic build of his older brother’s form scaling the mast with ease. His brother, his captain, gives him a toothy grin while climbing up beside him with a final grunt and finding his own handholds on the ropes. The flag above, as if sensing that Gordon's balance is most critical in this moment, sharply shakes the air out of its folds in salute for their most recent visitor.
But Scott never needed the acknowledgement, not up here where they are just Scott and just Gordon.
“It’s so much easier to breathe up here,” his captain says, inhaling the salt air deeply, his cheeks flushed pink from the wind and exertion. Gordon hums in acknowledgement. He doesn’t need to imagine why because he knows. Their world is as big as the oceans themselves most days, and on others their ship never feels smaller; their entire lives woven into her compact walls. There were few places Scott could relieve himself of the burden of command, for even his quarters had his station in the name. No, up here among the clouds is one of the few.
Gordon nods, agreeing with him, but not for the same reasons. He looks to his brother beside him, sees the moment Scott catches sight of Virgil below them - one hand on his hip, the other positioned at his brow in mock salute as it blocks out the sun. The doctor watches them, waiting, worried but trusting. And Scott rolls his eyes in Gordon’s direction, looking younger than he is for a brief moment before squaring his shoulders back.
“Duty calls.”
“Are you sure that it’s duty?” Gordon asks, his eyes beaming.
“Virgil calls,” Scott corrects. “He means well. You can stay through departure if you want,” Scott offers with an innate understanding. “I’ll take us out this time.”
Gordon nods his thanks and agreement. He’s not a sky-chaser like Scott nor is he a star-seeker like John, their navigator. From above, though, there’s more to see of the world before the horizon - more movement below the surface, brighter sunlight as it dances over swells, greater perspective of oak as it cuts through water and of the people aboard, the family they’re all a part of. He breathes easier with the journey in reach, the land at his back, and the connections of their ship to the wind and their souls to the sea as vivid as the friction of the rough rope in his palm.