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Gordon sliced an arm through the water and grabbed the rim of the pool–but, instead of pushing off and flipping into a turn like he had the last fifty-nine laps, he hauled himself up and spun into a sitting position on the edge, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of tropical dawn sun on his wet face. He could keep going–would have, a few months ago–but there was just enough of a twinge between his shoulders that he needed to be cautious. He couldn’t afford to push himself too far, not now that Dad might notice if–
He hadn’t told his father the details of the loss of the previous Thunderbird Four, down with the Calypso. He knew Jeff Tracy knew about the recovery of Braman–it had been an unavoidable part of the story of finding him–but he’d begged Scott and Grandma to leave his injuries out of the retelling, and, hesitantly, they’d agreed. The Tracy family held onto remorse like dolphins held grudges; and if Dad knew, he would absolutely blame himself, no matter what Gordon said. He couldn’t bear the thought of his father looking at him with guilt in his eyes–or worse, pity. He’d had quite enough of the rest of the family treating like he was made of glass without adding Dad to the mix. So, ever since they’d brought Jeff home, he’d worn a rash top in the pool that would cover the scars, kept his still-mandated physiotherapy exercises to his room instead of the hangar gym, and nixed the broken-back jokes. (Well, most of ‘em. He still took the opportunity to troll Virgil occasionally, if Dad was nowhere near.)
He shook the water from his hair, scrambled to his feet, and padded back down towards the kitchen, grabbing a towel from the box near the door (Grandma would kill him if he dripped everywhere). A quick glance through the glass door as he dried himself showed that the kitchen itself was unoccupied; but his father was sitting at the dining table, a half-empty glass of water in front of him, staring blankly at the wall.
He looked kinda … freaked out.
Gordon slung the now-damp towel around his neck and pushed the door open. “Morning, Pops!”
Jeff started; and for a second, as he looked up at Gordon, his eyes were far too wide. The chuckle, when it came, sounded forced. “Sorry. I was lightyears away.”
“Looked like it. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just–” Jeff rubbed his forehead. “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”
“... okay.” A prickling worry was crawling at the base of Gordon’s skull. His father had, incredibly, passed every post-isolation psych eval Grandma and John could throw at him with flying colours … but. But. But but but. There was a tiny paranoid corner of the aquanaut that felt like this was just too stinking good to be true. He wanted to believe that Dad was fine, he really did.
But that thousand-yard stare–and the jump afterwards– really hadn’t looked good. And Jeff still seemed miserable, for all he was trying to cover it.
“I’m gonna make breakfast,” he announced, heading past the table towards the kitchen counter. “Any requests?”
“I’m not picky–whatever you feel like is fine.”
“That’s a relief. Because my repertoire is confined to scrambled eggs, whisked eggs, agitated eggs, and Eggs à la Scramble.”
Jeff’s lip twitched up, just a fraction. Yesss. “Scrambled eggs, please.”
“Coming right up.”
But first, priorities. Gordon headed for the espresso machine and made himself an Americano, with a heaping addition of cream; then, after a moment’s contemplation, he tweaked the settings and made a second cup–black, this time–then popped it on the table in front of his father.
“It’s quarter-caf,” he said, as Jeff looked up at him in surprise. “And if it does anything to your heart rate that brings Grandma down on us, I was never here.”
“Thanks.” Jeff wrapped his hands around the cup and took a slow sip, closing his eyes for a second. “Man. I missed this.”
“I’m surprised there wasn’t any in the Zero-X stores.”
“Unbelievably, coffee is not considered essential for survival under international law.”
Legally, it was a requirement for all spaceworthy craft to carry a minimum of a year’s emergency rations per crewmember seat, even while still in testing. Gordon usually had Opinions about the GDF’s regulations–but given that this particular one had saved his father’s life, he supposed he could give it his endorsement. Despite its glaring caffeine-related omissions.
Gordon hesitated. “You know what–I’m not actually feeling eggs. Do you think you could teach me your pancake recipe?”
The smile was real this time. Gordon did a mental backflip. “Sure.”
Ten minutes later, they had the batter mixed, and the first test pancake on the stovetop. There was no sign of any of the island’s other inhabitants yet, but that wasn’t surprising. It was still pretty early, and Virgil, Alan, Grandma, and Brains were not morning people; John was ‘upstairs’; and Gordon had seen Scott and Kayo heading out for a run up to the peak shortly after he’d gotten in the pool. (Whether it was advisable for Scott to be climbing rocks this soon after a literal lung puncture was an open question, and Virgil and Grandma would probably still come down on the absolutely not side–but Gordon was no snitch, and Kayo would take good care of him.)
Jeff poked experimentally at the edge of the pancake with a spatula, checking if it was ready to flip–and Gordon was struck with a two-decade-old memory of him doing exactly the same thing in the kitchen at Gran Roca, Mom laughing behind him as she cut up strawberries for toppings–and the question that had been resurfacing over and over again in his mind for the past couple of years jerked back to the surface.
“Dad. Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“How’d you know, with Mom? That she was, y’know … the one.”
Halfway through the query, Jeff went very still; but after a moment he relaxed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I guess it was–I didn’t think this at the time, to be clear, this is with the benefit of hindsight–but I’m pretty sure it was when she told me that NASA was a useless waste of taxpayer money.”
“... that’s gonna require some elaboration.”
“We hadn’t actually met yet.” Jeff flipped the pancake. It didn’t quite land perfectly–but it was a pretty impressive performance for someone who hadn’t done it in nearly a decade (and had screwed-up muscle control from years in inconsistent gravity, to boot). “She had no idea who I was or what I did for a living.”
“But you’d just been to Mars. Weren’t you, like, famous?”
“It would be a stretch to say your mother was living under a rock, but–not that much of a stretch. The ranch was her whole world, after her parents passed. Only reason she was even at that party was because the bride was her cousin.”
“Why were you there?”
“Lee dragged me as his plus-one. I think his stepfather was the bride's uncle’s second–no, third–oh, don't ask me to explain it, there are too many Taylors. I've seriously never told you this story before?”
“I don't think so. I was so little when she died, I don't really remember it coming up beforehand, and–you've never really talked about her much since.”
Jeff remained silent as he took the pan and transferred the contents to a plate, then put it back on the stove and poured another scoop of batter in. Finally, he continued. “I … wasn't getting out much myself at the time, either–Dad was still around, but–the cancer was spreading, and … I'd missed so much time with him already–and I kinda hated the whole newfound fame thing–so my social life was pretty much nonexistent. Lee staged an intervention and pulled me out to a family wedding, and then promptly ditched me to go flirt.
“So I’m alone at a party where I know next to no one, sulking at the bar–and out of nowhere this drop-dead gorgeous redhead in a genuinely terrible bridesmaid's dress comes up next to me, orders an Old Fashioned, and looks across the courtyard to Lee and his groupies–you know that face John makes when he’s totally disgusted? That. I ask her what her problem with him is, because I'm figuring maybe they had beef as kids and I can get some entertaining dirt on my crewmate–and, y’know, she’s cute–and she launches into an epic rant about how it’s ludicrous that we give astronauts so much recognition given that they contribute literally nothing useful to society.”
“Wait. She recognised him and not you?”
“Yeah. I did ask her about that, later–apparently someone had pointed Lee out to her, but I guess they didn’t know I was there too.” Jeff shrugged. “Want to flip this one?”
“Sure, I’ll give it a shot.” Gordon took the skillet's handle in both hands, jiggled it experimentally, then flicked his wrists as hard as he could.
The pancake flew straight up to the ceiling and stuck there.
They both stared at it mutely for several seconds–then dissolved into laughter.
“Oh man.” Gordon wiped his eyes. “It’s gotta come down eventually … right?”
“I certainly hope so,” Jeff managed, leaning against the counter, valiantly pulling himself together. “If it doesn’t, you’re the one explaining this to my mother.”
“You’re a cruel, cruel parent.” He reached for the batter to prep the next attempt. “Go on, finish the story.”
“Right. So she’s making some admittedly excellent points about the wastefulness of funding a space program that’s accomplishing nothing concretely helpful while Earth itself is going to hell in a handbasket–humanitarian aid should trump research missions ‘with no purpose beyond ego’, I believe was the exact phrase used–and she wasn’t wrong–we didn’t actually do anything all that genuinely useful until the mid-Thirties, if you’re coming at it from a solely pragmatic angle. And I’m egging her on, because she clearly has no idea who she’s talking to and this is the most incredible thing I’ve seen all night. Then the flower girl comes up to us and asks me if she can please have an autograph, and what does Mars taste like?”
“Huh. What does it taste like?”
“As I explained to the kid,” Jeff said with dignity, “I did not, in fact, lick any rocks–but I suspected that someone in the research labs had probably tried it, so she should write them a letter.”
“I’ll ask Captain T later. How did Mom react?”
“Oh, she was mortified. The moment the kid skipped off, she started apologising–but not backpedalling.” He smiled fondly as he tested the edges. “She was horrified that she might’ve hurt my feelings–but she made it very clear that she stood by her stance on NASA itself. So I told her that I’d forgive any offence caused–if she danced with me. And she did–and we argued about it for nearly an hour–and at some point we moved onto other topics, with less combative results–and when the sun came up, we were sitting in the bed of her truck in the venue parking lot, still talking. Here, I think it’s ready to flip.”
Gordon’s second attempt was much more successful, ending up partially in the pan. Once the dangling edge was corrected with the spatula, he asked, “Did you ever win the debate?”
Jeff snorted. “Not really. She did eventually concede the uses of space research, even if she never liked the idea. I never could convince her to try leaving atmo herself, though. But she understood that I loved it, and she supported that. Kept the complaints about it to a frankly saintly minimum. What I put that woman through–” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m honestly surprised she never divorced me, after I spent all that time on Alphie when your brothers were tiny. I asked her once, actually. Why, despite everything, she still wanted my sorry behind.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said she loved me for the same reason I love the stars.” Jeff paused, handed off the latest finished product to Gordon. “Never did figure out exactly what she meant. But, yeah, if you're asking when I knew, deep down, it was that first night. When it was immediately obvious it wasn't fame or money that she cared about–it was human beings. And for some bizarre reason, she chose me to care about most. No idea why I deserved that level of luck.” He stared down at the empty skillet. “Though if you're asking when I consciously realised that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my–well. That was at your grandfather's funeral. But that's a … less fun story.”
Gordon bumped his shoulder up against Jeff's. “Thanks for telling me, Dad. It's … nice to talk about her.”
“I wish I had more when you were younger.” Jeff set to work on the next pancake. “What prompts the sudden desire to examine the nature of love and commitment? Random anthropological interest–or does it have something to do with a certain blonde Englishwoman?”
Gordon groaned. “It's obvious?”
“It's extremely obvious. I think I'd been home barely twenty minutes when I realised you had a big enough crush on her to be detected from orbit.” He glanced at him reassuringly. “Relax–I approve. She's clever, capable–challenges you–but kind to the core. You'd make a great pair–a pair that would drive us all mad with your bickering, but a great pair all the same. How come you haven't already made a move?”
“What if she shoots me down?”
“I might not have had extensive experience with women, but I think I understand enough about the way she looks at you to know there's zero chance of that.”
“You … really think so?” Gordon hopped up and perched on the counter at his father's side, watching him continue to cook. “You sure she's not way out of my league?”
Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Son. You are a literal Olympic gold medalist who pilots a submarine for International Rescue. If there is a higher ranking league, I'm very curious about it.”
Gordon felt his cheeks warm. “It's just … she's so awesome, Dad. She acts all cool and collected, but–she’s got the hottest temper–and a savage wit–but when I was in hospital all those weeks, she called me every day, just to cheer me up–came to see me at least twice a week. And–”
He stopped short, realising the slip too late.
But his father hadn't reacted.
He would typically find a lack of mother-henning reassuring, but–there was zero reaction. No horrified you were where for weeks?–no panicked interrogation as to why.
His mouth went dry.
“You know.”
Jeff took a measured breath and looked up at him. “Yeah.”
“Who told you?”
“No one. I figured it out. Yesterday evening, actually–I was going through Four's schematics, saw a reference to a rebuild late last year, and looked up the mission logs. And then your medical records. It was a … long night.”
Well, that explained some things–at least Jeff hadn't been having some kind of horrible PTSD episode earlier. No, he'd just been plain old worrying about his kid.
Should’ve gotten John to seal the records or something. Rookie mistake.
“Gordon–I–”
“No. Stop.” Gordon jumped off the counter, backed away across the kitchen, one hand raised. “Don't. If I hear one word of concern or guilt or gratitude out of you, I am going to freaking lose it.”
Jeff watched him for a few long, long seconds. “Would a hug be okay?”
Gordon inhaled slowly–exhaled even slower. “Yeah. A hug, I can do.”
Jeff extended an arm, and he stepped into it, leaning his head against his father's shoulder as he squeezed him tight.
“Pancake's burning,” Gordon mumbled after a couple of minutes.
“We can make more. I am not letting you go until I'm good and ready.”
He relaxed further into the hold. “I missed you so much, Pops.”
“I missed you too, Gordo.”
The pancake on the ceiling fell with a quiet splat.
When a sleep-rumpled and groggy Virgil stumbled into the kitchen thirty seconds later, he was greeted by the sight of his father and younger brother leaning against a cabinet, half hugging one another, giggling uncontrollably. The kitchen was in a state of general chaos–batter all over the counter, something unidentifiable charring on the stove–and yup, that was an undercooked pancake, right in the middle of the floor.
“Are you guys …. okay?”
Gordon glanced at Virgil, then looked back at the mess on the ground again–and promptly buried his face in his father's shoulder with a howl of mirth. Jeff, shoulders shaking, gave Virgil a thumbs-up.
Virgil stared for a second, then announced, “I'm going back to bed.”
The cackling only intensified. Virgil blinked, turned, and made his escape.
It was way too early for him to deal with this.
Tracy, Gordon: hey
Tracy, Gordon: if some1 told u they loved u 4 the same reason u loved stars, what would u think it meant
Creighton-Ward, Penelope: Potential.
Tracy, Gordon: huh
Tracy, Gordon: anyway
Tracy, Gordon: do u want to get drinks next week
Tracy, Gordon: sydney aquarium has a new bar
Tracy, Gordon: just us i mean
Tracy, Gordon: like a date
Tracy, Gordon: u dont have to just if u want
Tracy, Gordon: if u like me like that
Tracy, Gordon: if u don’t thats ok
Tracy, Gordon: well not OK i wouldn’t be happy about it but i’d get it
Tracy, Gordon: and i won’t make it weird promise
Tracy, Gordon: unless this is already making it weird it is isnt it
Creighton-Ward, Penelope: I thought you’d never ask. How’s Wednesday?
Tracy, Gordon: wed is perfect
Tracy, Gordon: JON SO HELP ME IF THERE IS WATER MISSION NXT WED MAKE KO DO IT I HAVE A DAAAAAATE
Tracy, Gordon: sry wrong chat
Creighton-Ward, Penelope: I assumed that, yes.