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Jeff moved down the stairs steadily, one hand on the rail, in a display of caution that would have disgusted him a decade earlier. But a week on Tracy Island hadn’t quite been enough time to acclimatise him to Earth gravity; and he preferred not to re-enact the moment, his first morning back home, when he’d tried to get out of bed unassisted and promptly face-planted on the rug. Both his mother and his second-eldest had had plenty to say about that little incident, and Jeff had found himself on forced bedrest for the next four days (with exceptions for highly-supervised physiotherapy).
He’d grumbled, of course, as a matter of principle–but he’d loved it. He’d felt just awful enough, muscles and internal organs collectively protesting against the altered environmental pressure, to be grateful for the excuse to relax (in an actual bed, with actual pillows); but the comfort element was totally eclipsed by the joy of human contact. At least one of his family members had always been around at any given moment: his mother, hovering and fussing–Virgil, also hovering and fussing–Gordon, providing dramatic (and, Jeff suspected, highly embellished) accounts of their exploits over the past eight years–Alan, shyness gradually receding–Scott, ostensibly reviewing Tracy Aeronautics’ quarterly reports but, in reality, taking a nap on the bed next to him.
But, oddly, not John. He’d appeared in passing, a handful of times a day–but he’d never stuck around for long, and never without at least one brother present. The pattern had occurred to Jeff on day three, but he hadn’t been sure enough to comment on it. But, after Virgil had reluctantly granted him the freedom of the house, provided he promised to be careful, suspicion had become certainty.
John was avoiding him.
Or at least avoiding being alone with him. The closest they’d gotten, ironically, had been the past four or five hours. Jeff had been a spectator (which was its own special brand of uncomfortable) in the lounge, watching as John co-ordinated a rescue op from the centre console. That was, he gathered, an anomaly: he’d gotten the impression, from snatches of talk over the past week, that John usually spent the bulk of his time on Five. That was a Conversation they’d have to have at some point–Five had been designed to be remote-operable for a reason: John couldn’t keep up that many consecutive space hours indefinitely without adverse consequences. But for now he had the comfort that at least his middle child hadn’t fled all the way to orbit to get away from him.
But, despite spending the afternoon in one another’s physical presence, John’s focus had been, rightly, entirely on the holographic projections and static-tinged voices of Tanusha and his brothers as they dealt with the aftermath of a cyclone in New Caledonia. Jeff wasn’t sure if John had even clocked that they were technically unaccompanied–his grandmother had gone off to Brains’ lab after a couple of hours, once the worst was over and ‘rescue’ shifted to clean-up and recovery, muttering something in passing about modifications to the medscanners. Jeff suspected she’d also noticed the way John was dodging him and was deliberately giving him an opening. Unfortunately, her efforts at tactful interference had come to nothing: Thunderbirds One and Two had loaded back up and taken off fifteen minutes earlier, but John showed no sign of being off the clock, still laser-focused on the handover to local services; and Jeff, tense from the strain of being a silent spectator, had slipped off down to the kitchen for a glass of water.
He took the last step slightly less carefully and winced at the jolt that ran through his hip. He was getting old. He’d been aware of it, kind of, out in deep space; but he hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time looking at his own face, barring the basic necessities of personal hygiene, and it had been a shock to see himself in a well-lit mirror for the first time in years and notice that his hair was several shades lighter than he’d realised.
(Maybe it would have been less strange if he’d ever seen his own father with grey hair. But Grant Tracy had never gotten to that point.)
He headed for the sink and grabbed a glass, managing to fill it from the faucet and gulp it down without incident, though it required putting a frankly unreasonable amount of thought into the gravitational logistics. Fresh off that success, he eyed the coffee machine speculatively. What Mom and Virgil didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. But then there was always the possibility of his mother reappearing from the lab without warning. And the security camera in the corner–Gordon had informed him darkly that EOS was a ‘little snitch’.
(He wasn’t sure about how he felt about John’s … ‘friend’. Observing the boys’ interactions with her had not been very helpful in clarifying his own opinions: Alan and Virgil seemed comfortable enough with the AI, but Gordon had practically declared her his nemesis, and Scott studiously avoided acknowledging her existence at all.)
Regretfully dismissing the idea of caffeine, he decided instead on fresh air and headed for the sliding doors at the other end of the dining table. He had a decent window before the pool area would become off-limits for One’s landing–it’d be nice to sit in the sun for a while. Not that he wasn’t thoroughly enjoying the constant activity around him–but he’d gotten very used to being alone with his thoughts. And there was a fair bit he needed to … process.
His hand landed on the door lever, ready to push the door open.
And stayed there.
Because suddenly, inexplicably, his heart was hammering a mile a minute.
He stepped back abruptly, dropping his hand, but his pulse didn’t settle–it sped up even further, his breath matching it with rapid gasps.
It’s a door, dumbass. It’s safe. Just open it.
He attempted, again, to touch the handle, common sense and bloody-minded Tracy stubbornness briefly overriding the scream of deeply-ingrained instinct–but his palm stung as if burned, and he backed up, bumping against the corner of the table, trying and failing to get a decent lungful of air.
He hadn’t actually gone through an outside door on his own yet. He’d left the house several times over the past few days, obviously–but someone else had always been with him–someone else had always opened the door and stepped through first. The only doors he’d used unaccompanied for nearly a decade had been airlocks. Where he had to confirm the values on half a dozen gauges before he even opened the chamber. Where a single mistake meant vacuum. Where stepping through without a helmet was the simplest available method of–
He still couldn’t breathe. His vision was tunnelling, black and purple spots spreading around the edges; he bent forward, hands on his knees, ears ringing, only just suppressing the sudden urge to puke. Couldn’t move, couldn’t think–
“Easy, Dad–” A hand on his arm, sudden but gentle–the squeak of a chair on the floor–and another hand, carefully but firmly guiding him down into it–pushing his head between his legs. “There you go–I need you to breathe with me, okay?” John. Sounding as steady as if he talked people down from panic attacks every day. Which he probably did. For some irrational reason that made Jeff laugh–except it came out more like a choke. John rubbed his shoulder, then grabbed his right hand and pressed it against his own chest. He could feel the rise and fall as John exaggerated his own breathing–and, belatedly, he remembered to mimic it. Inhale–pause–exhale–in–pause–out –
Eventually, the tightness in his chest eased off enough that he could sit up, leaning back in the chair, eyes closed as a thin barrier against the embarrassment of it all. He gave a raw chuckle. “Gordon was right.”
“What about?”
He opened his eyes. John was crouched in front of him, still holding his hand. His expression was neutral, but there was a wideness to the green-blue eyes that gave the lie to his apparent calm. Jeff squeezed his hand and nodded up to the camera in the corner. “EOS is a snitch.”
“I’m sorry for invading your privacy, Mr Tracy,” said a small, sheepish voice over the intercom. “But John said I should always alert him if one of the family appears to be in distress.”
“You did the right thing, EOS,” John said firmly, eyes still fixed on his father. “Can you give me an atmospheric conditions update for Tracy Island, please?”
There was a brief pause, as if the AI was confused by the non-sequitur–or maybe she was just buffering. “Outside temperature, 30.7 degrees Celsius. Wind speed, 13 kilometres per hour. Humidity, sixty-eight percent. Atmospheric pressure, 1017 millibars.”
Jeff exhaled slowly. “The problem’s that obvious, huh?”
“Probably not to most.” John shrugged and stood. “But I will confess to the occasional it’s just a door moment myself after a few too many consecutive weeks on Five.” Yeah, Jeff was definitely going to have to have that Conversation with him soon. “Do you want me to …” He nodded towards the sliding doors.
“No–I need to get it over with.” Jeff placed a hand on the table and hefted himself back to his feet. “I can’t rely on you boys to let me in and out like a housecat.”
John gave a quick flash of a smile and a little huff that, from anyone else, would have been a laugh. “FAB. I’ll be right behind you.”
Jeff nodded an acknowledgement and walked back to the door–not nearly as steadily as he would have liked. Breathe in–and then out again–and grab the handle. He hesitated, and John placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. “1017 millibars, huh?”
“Uh-huh, just over sea-level average. You want to hear the oxygen content as well?”
“Nope, I’m good.” And then, before he could let himself think about it, before his traitorous brain could freeze his muscles, he tugged the handle sideways. The door slid open, noiseless on well-oiled tracks–and a gust of warm, salt-scented air hit his cheeks. He laughed shakily. “See? Nothing to it. Just a door.”
John pressed his shoulder again. “How’re you feeling?”
“Okay.” His heartrate was still uncomfortably elevated–but he could breathe freely, and the ocean air felt good in his lungs. “Stupid, mostly.”
“No judgement here.” And then John withdrew the touch, leaving Jeff feeling strangely cold despite the tropical heat, footsteps retreating back across the room. “I should get back up there–the Bouloupari fire department is staffed by idiots. I’ll warn you when Scott’s on approach.”
“John, wait–”
The words were out of Jeff’s mouth before he could stop himself. He turned in time to see John pause by the entrance to the staircase, one ginger eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”
He didn’t have to face this right now. He could still back down.
Get it over with. Get it out in the open.
“Are you actually needed on comms right now?”
“Well–technically not, but it’ll go a lot smoother if I–”
“Jonathan,” Jeff cut him off gently. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Please stop.”
What little colour John had in his cheeks drained away completely. “I … It’s not like that, Dad–I just–” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably for a second–then his eyes flicked up to the camera, and abruptly he strode back across the room and past Jeff, out onto the patio.
Jeff expected him to stop at the deckchairs–but, no, presumably there were cameras out here that Jeff was unaware of, because he kept going, past the pool and down the path towards the beach. Jeff followed him, panting at the pace required to keep him in sight; thankfully, he stopped at the top of the rocky stairs down to the sand, glancing back over his shoulder with a guilty expression, then sat down on the top step, facing out towards the waves. Jeff joined him gingerly, wincing as he lowered himself to the ground.
“Sorry,” John murmured. “Wasn’t intending to run away from you like that. I just got … claustrophobic.”
Jeff shrugged. “Forgiven, as long as you tell Virgil that counts as my workout for the day.”
John smiled mirthlessly and leaned back, looking up at the deep blue expanse above. “I … didn’t mean to avoid you. Not consciously. I just–I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me.”
“How come?”
John straightened, eyes front, posture suddenly immaculate. When he spoke, his tone was unnervingly even–the same mission voice Jeff had been listening to all afternoon. “Because it’s my fault you were stranded.”
Jeff looked at him incredulously. “I don’t remember you being the one that hijacked that spaceship, kid.”
“No, of course not, but–I should have known. When we couldn’t find the debris. If I’d had half a brain cell I would have realised that it was a launch, not an explosion.” He wouldn’t meet Jeff’s eyes. “And then I could have figured out a way to calculate the route, and we could have gotten started on the Zero-XL immediately. Gordon wouldn't've–and we would have had you home seven years ago–six at the worst.” And suddenly the unnatural composure evaporated. “If I hadn’t been so completely blind–”
“No, son, please don’t–” Jeff reached out reflexively, palm cupping his boy’s cheek, turning him to face him. “It’s not your fault. It’s not,” he added firmly, as John opened his mouth to object. “I have never once thought that a single millisecond of the time I spent out there was your responsibility.”
“I should have known.”
“You were barely even twenty.” Jeff racked his brain for the right words–for something to say that would soothe the pain in his child’s eyes. “It’s not fair to measure your actions then against the knowledge and abilities you have now. You did the best you could at the time. And you all moved heaven and earth to find me the moment you knew the truth. I can’t imagine being prouder.”
“But–I should’ve–” John blinked hard, voice dropping away to a rasp. “I should have known you were alive–because you promised not to leave me. I should’ve trusted you.”
It was the least rational thing he’d ever heard come out of John’s mouth; and there was no rational response. So Jeff simply reached for his son–and John hugged him back, gripping so hard it hurt.
“I love you so much, kiddo,” he whispered thickly, shutting his eyes, swallowing back tears. “That couldn’t ever change even if it were your fault–and it’s not. You don’t deserve a moment’s worth of blame.”
John took a long, trembling breath. “I … don’t know if I can make myself believe that.”
“That’s okay. I’ll believe it for us both.”
They sat there together for long minutes, holding on tightly, listening to the rhythmic crash of waves; until finally John’s wrist beeped, and he pulled back to check his comm unit. “Scott’s incoming. We should go in.”
Jeff nodded; they were far enough away from the pool that One’s landing jets wouldn’t be a problem, but close enough that the volume of them would be, and he didn’t fancy going deaf just yet. “All right. Help your old man up, will you?”
John scrambled to his feet and pulled his father up, steadying him with hands on both shoulders as he swayed. Apparently his little panic episode had taken more out of him than he’d thought. “You should rest.”
“I’ve rested enough for a lifetime, thanks,” Jeff groused, leaning on his son as they started back down the path towards the house. “C’mon, let’s go get ready to debrief your big brother. That stunt he pulled on the side of that highway overpass deserves a good scolding.”
“You forget that he’s read your NASA records and knows exactly how much of a hypocrite you’re being.”
“‘Do as I say, not as I do’: the standby response of parents everywhere.”
John huffed out a laugh. “It’s … really good to have you back, Dad.”
“It’s good to be back, son.”