Work Text:
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak
Whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break.
– Macbeth, act IV, scene iii
“–which means, of course, that we'll have to replace the ukulele.” The hologram of Virgil shrugged. “But otherwise, all in a day's work.”
“Good … uh, job, boys,” Jeff said, leaning back in his desk chair, looking like he wanted very badly to laugh and was just barely holding it in.
(Alan still hadn't entirely adjusted to the sight of him in that seat–ever since shortly after he’d hit double digits, that had been Scott's chair. Not that he didn't love having Dad back; but it was funny, and not in the ha-ha way, to see his seemingly-all-powerful big brother defer to someone. Especially weird now that Scotty was temporarily grounded for stabbed-by-construction-materials reasons. Seeing him vulnerable was … not cool.)
The big brother in question was on the sofa opposite Alan, lounging next to Kayo, the outline of bandages barely visible beneath his shirt. “Explain to me why it was necessary to shoot the coconut?”
“It had it coming,” Gordon’s holo said.
Kayo's lips were pressed together in suppressed amusement. “Obviously, Scott, it was to prevent the mongoose from getting there first. Keep up.”
“So, you're coming home now?” Alan asked. It wasn’t that the recounting of Thunderbird Two’s latest mission wasn’t hilarious–he was definitely intending to hold it over Virgil for a month, at least–but he and Gordon had plans, of the college application essay variety. (John had already questioned why he'd asked the brother with the world's most abysmal spelling skills to help with that, but Alan had informed him, with great dignity, that there are far more important elements to a kickass application than petty considerations like proofreading.)
“Yup, ETA in two and a half hours,” Virgil confirmed. “Unless you've got anything else while we're out here, Five?”
“Negative, Two, you're good to head back to base. Technically speaking you're coming up on your air hours limit soon, anyway.”
Virgil shot a look at Kayo and Scott. “Ah, well, in that case, since it would be impossible for me to violate GDF regulations–”
“Precisely,” Kayo said, straight-faced. “Flight time restrictions are a law as immutable as gravity, never once flagrantly and wildly exceeded by me or anyone else on this couch.”
“I wish I could believe literally any of that was sincere,” Jeff muttered. “All right, thanks, Virgil. See you soon.”
“FAB, Base. Over and out.”
The link with Two ended, but John’s hologram remained. “We’re, uh, going to have to report the mongoose thing to the WWF, Dad. They’re not endangered, but they’re on the watchlist.”
“Please tell me we’re not going to get sued.”
“Hopefully not. It survived unscathed, after all. I’ll have TA fling some charitable donations at local conservation charities and that should appease any–sorry, hang on, just a–” John's eyes flicked sideways as he checked an alert they couldn't see, and he stilled, the amusement dropping from his face.
“Something wrong?” Jeff prompted after a couple of seconds.
“Uh.” John's eyes refocused on his father. “Call from a resort in New Zealand. They've–they’ve just had a ski lift collapse. No apparent avalanche risk,” he added quickly. “But it's too far up the mountain for the injured to safely climb down, and the Christchurch emergency services are tied up dealing with a fire–”
“It's cool, I got it!” Alan jumped up and headed for One's launch tube–but was stopped halfway by Scott's hand on his shoulder.
“Kayo–can you–” Scott said unsteadily.
She nodded with a quick, tense smile. “Of course.” She stepped briskly past Alan and spun behind the wall.
“But–” Alan looked to his father for reinforcement–but Jeff wasn't looking at them, eyes fixed instead on the surface of his desk. “You said I could take the next CSIT in One!”
“This … isn't a CSIT, Al.” Scott’s eyes darted to Jeff–then back to Alan. His hand was still clamped around Alan's arm. “Trust me on this one, okay?”
“But why?” Alan protested. “It's a quick pickup job–practically a pizza delivery, I’ll be done and back before Two gets home. John said there's not even an avalanche risk!” No response was forthcoming. Even John's holo was silent, the astronaut apparently choosing to focus on anything but the injustice being perpetrated. Alan huffed and shrugged free of Scott's grasp. “Seriously, what is your deal right now? I've been doing more dangerous missions solo for years! I'm not a kid any more!”
Blue eyes flashed. “Then how come you're being such a brat?”
“How come you're being such a jerk?”
“Alan,” said Jeff sharply.
Scott turned abruptly and stalked into the hall.
A second later, John's hologram switched off.
Alan flopped onto his face on the couch with a groan of frustration. Okay, maybe he was kinda being a teenage cliche right now–but it genuinely was not fair–Scott had promised –
“Alan,” Jeff said, very quietly.
“What.”
“We need to–talk.”
His voice was … off. Like Scott's had been. And gradually an odd prickling discomfort trickled down Alan's back as it dawned on him that he maaaaaay have just epically screwed up. Exactly how, he had no idea–but it was, belatedly, becoming very apparent that there was more going on here than Kayo stealing his mission assignment.
He sat up, sheepish with remorse, and ran a hand through his hair. “Okay.”
Jeff stood and came down to join him on the couch. For a minute, he was quiet, then–“What’s a CSIT?”
“Cat Stuck In Tree. Y’know. The easy ones.”
Jeff made a noise of comprehension–and fell back into silence, for an uncomfortably long time. Outside the window, Thunderbird One launched. He didn’t react. He looked … exhausted.
Old.
Alan shifted closer, nudged his knee. “Dad?”
“Sorry.” Jeff rubbed his forehead. “I–there’s a conversation I should have had with you, a long time ago, and I'm guessing no one else has had it in the meantime–” He lowered his hand and looked Alan in the eye. “Has anyone explained to you about–about how your Mom died?”
Alan sat very, very still. “... No. I–asked Scott, once. Years ago. But he looked so … so … and then I said never mind.”
“I see. What have you been assuming?”
“Everyone says ‘accident’, when it does come up, so I figured … car crash, or something.” He could have looked it up, obviously–the details were bound to be somewhere, in an obituary, or John’s files. But he'd always shied away from the idea. If he didn’t know what happened, it was somehow less real–and then he could pretend he didn’t grieve a mother he’d never really known. “You're … about to tell me it was a skiing accident, aren't you?”
“Not … quite. We–we were on a family trip to Colorado. You were still so little–so obviously we weren't taking you on the slopes, and Lucille and I were taking turns with you at the lodge. Scott wanted to try the black diamond, and she was always better on skis than me, so I stayed back with you and your Grandma–and the other boys, since they were too small for that course.” Jeff's hand wrapped around the edge of the sofa and gripped. “They were about halfway up the mountain when the ski lift collapsed–and the break at the top triggered an avalanche that buried the rest of it.”
Alan stared at him, mute.
“I–I saw it happen from the window. It was–I handed you to Virgil and ran. There was no heavy-duty recovery equipment on site, just shovels–it was all miles away with emergency services, and they took nearly an hour to get there. It was just me and the staff and some other visitors, digging. At last I got to Lucille and Scott, and–she’d shielded him, managed to get her body around him to protect him from the fall, and then the cold. He'd hit his head hard, and broken a few bones, but he was breathing. She … wasn't.”
A shuddering inhale. “About half the people on that lift died that day. There were so many bodies, I–I still dream about it, some nights. I don't really remember what happened, after the moment I found them–just getting Scott into the air ambulance, and–holding her.” His voice cracked. “Anything involving a ski lift is never going to be an ‘easy’ rescue, Alan. Not to Scott. Not to me.”
Alan put his arms around his father’s trembling ribs, pressed his cheek against his chest, and held on tight–and Jeff returned the embrace fervently, curling around him, face against his neck.
“I'm so sorry, Dad,” Alan whispered, tasting salt in the process. He hadn't even noticed he was crying. “I'm so sorry.”
It was both apology and condolence, and it was completely inadequate as either.
He had no idea how much time had passed when Jeff eventually released him. “I should make sure Scott’s okay.”
“No, I–I’ll go,” Alan sniffed. He needed to blow his nose. “I … owe him that for being a butt just now.”
“I'm not sure–” Jeff cleared his throat, rubbing roughly at his eyes. “We never–he went to a therapist for a while, after, but he never talked about it to me. And he was pretty concussed. I have no idea how much of it he actually remembers.”
Alan nodded. “I'm not gonna interrogate him or anything. We should check on Johnny, too.”
“I'll give him a call in a minute. Maybe ask him to come down tonight, once Virgil and Gordon are safe home. It would be good to have all five of you in one place for once.”
“Yeah, that would be nice.” John was spending way more time on Earth nowadays than he had during their father's absence; but it still didn't feel like enough. Alan stood up and wiped his cheeks. “Dad–I really am sorry.”
“I know, Alan.” Jeff smiled, just a little bit. It looked like it hurt. “It’s okay. Go talk to your brother.”
Alan took a long breath, steeling himself, then climbed over the back of the couch and walked out into the stairwell. He could ask EOS where Scott was, but–he didn’t know if John would be talking to her right now–and if he was, he didn’t want to distract any of her processing power, especially if she was helping Kayo, too. Besides, it felt like cheating, somehow. As if having to put in the hard work to locate his brother was a necessary penance.
Fortunately, it wasn’t too long a search. His bedroom and the hangar were both empty–but five minutes walk up the cliff path found Scott sitting by the side of the trail, staring out at the ocean, knees drawn up and arms resting atop them.
“Hey,” Alan said, hesitantly.
“Hey,” Scott replied, without turning his head.
Alan sat down next to him. There were some unusual splashes, a few hundred metres off the coast–whales? Dolphins? Gordon would know.
“Dad told me what happened. About Mom.”
Scott was motionless for a moment, then– “I’m surprised he talked about it.”
Alan leaned against Scott’s side–the side without a hole in it. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
The stark, uncharacteristic honesty of it was jarring. But then Scott shifted and put his arm around his little brother with a gentle squeeze. “But–that’s okay, I guess.”
Alan hugged him back, careful to skirt the bandages. “I’m sorry, Scotty.”
“Forgiven and forgotten. I–you’re right, you’re not a kid any more, and I should have told you a long time ago.”
“Hey. This is the Alan Tracy Self-Criticism Hour. Get your own timeslot.”
Scott huffed out the tiniest of laughs and rumpled his hair. “Love you, Squirt.”
“Love you too, Scooter.”
Jeff stood in the balcony doorway, leaning against the glass, setting sun warming his back. Watching his boys. Gordon had taken one look at his oldest and youngest brothers’ faces on Two’s return and decreed the necessity of a pillow fort; and since his grandmother was visiting Creighton-Ward Manor and not present to object, he and Alan had turned a large percentage of the conversation pit into a nest of cushions. Virgil was sprawled half-asleep on his back, with an equally spreadeagled Gordon half on top of him; John was attempting a more dignified posture on the other side of the circle, but it was somewhat undermined by Alan’s insistence on sitting on his leg.
Scott, more cautious about cuddle piles out of injury-induced necessity, was curled up in one of the actual chairs close to Alan and John. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Jeff, seeming to feel his gaze–then climbed quietly out of the pit and joined him by the window.
Jeff slung an arm around his shoulders. “You and Alan make up okay?”
“Yeah, we’re good.” Scott’s voice was low enough that the other occupants of the lounge were unlikely to hear. “Thanks for … talking to him.”
Jeff nodded, unable to bring himself to verbally acknowledge the earlier conversation. “He’s a good kid.”
“You’re biased–he’s yours.” Scott half-smiled. “But yeah, he is. Good man soon, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Jeff watched as Alan hauled John into a hug, the redhead accepting it with obviously feigned reluctance. “I don’t get the credit, Scott. I didn’t raise him. You did.”
Scott tensed in surprise, just a little–then relaxed again. “That’s a stretch. But thank you.”
“Thank you, son.”