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Officially, Sally Tracy was cleaning the medbay. If there’s time to lean, and all that.
Unofficially, she just needed to be in the hangar area when Jeff and Scott got back, so she could catch her son before he went upstairs.
It was Jeff’s first visit to Tracy Aeronautics’ LA headquarters since his return–his first time properly out in public, actually, if you didn’t count the hospital in Baguio. He and Scott had headed over in the civilian jet a couple of days ago for a pile of meetings–the primary goal was to transfer the bulk of the administrative leadership of the company back to Jeff (a responsibility Scott seemed very happy to relinquish); but she’d seen enough of the agenda to know that Jeff had also snuck in a fair few sessions about the planned expansion of International Rescue. She shook her head fondly at the thought, scrubbing at a mark on the instruments bench. (It looked suspiciously like a stain from one of Gordon’s energy drinks.) Jeff had been back all of five minutes before he’d thrown himself back into trying to make things bigger and better. But then, she’d expect nothing less from Grant’s boy.
The trip hadn’t been a problem logistically–Scott was still technically on medical leave, though he was chafing against the restriction more and more every day, so it did nothing to change the number of available Thunderbird pilots. But their absence–specifically, Jeff’s–had still managed to pose an unexpected issue.
Something was wrong with Virgil, and he wasn’t there to fix it.
Well–‘wrong’ might be a little dramatic. But something was definitely … off. She’d walked in on him sitting by himself at the dining table two evenings ago, reading an unusually official-looking email on a holoscreen–and he’d jumped like he’d been caught with his hand in the candy jar and closed it before she could get a look.
That wasn’t what was concerning, though–she didn’t begrudge the boys their secrets. No, what had her worried was the way he’d been acting ever since. There’d been something in his expression–a brittle mask of cheerfulness–that put her forcibly in mind of another Tracy man, nearly thirty-five years ago.
“If we tell him now, Sal, he won’t go,” her husband had said, as he’d locked the biopsy results in a drawer. “I’m not taking Mars away from him, and neither are you.”
And ten minutes later, Grant had been talking and laughing with his oblivious son as if everything really was fine. As if his body wasn’t destroying itself from the inside out.
Whatever was eating Virgil, he was clearly determined that nobody else notice–to the point he was almost overdoing it. That said, she was fairly confident the younger boys hadn’t clocked it. Kayo might’ve–she’d made eye contact with Sally for a beat too long at breakfast that morning, after a moment of Virgil acting weirdly chirpy for 8 AM–but she’d said nothing.
Sally had gently probed–and had the metaphorical door slammed in her face. Oh, very politely–but it was clear that Virgil was not about to admit to his grandmother that anything was even the matter, much less confess the details. Six months ago, she’d’ve pushed further–or, if sufficiently desperate, recruited Scott, who had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer and wouldn’t take no for an answer. But there was an alternative available now, someone that might actually have some measure of success without having to actively bludgeon Virgil into opening up–the problem, of course, being that he’d been an ocean away.
The ‘vehicles in motion’ siren blared, and she looked out of the shielded window to see the main door rising, exposing the darkened runway and the sea and stars beyond; a minute later, the little blue jet swooped in and touched down, at a substantially higher speed than she suspected was typically recommended by your average flight instructor. (She was tempted to give the guilty party a scolding for recklessness, but, honestly, it could have been either of them at the controls, and she didn’t feel like conducting an interrogation to figure out which.)
They taxied in, and she waited while they ran post-flight checks, then came out to meet them in the hangar as father and son disembarked. They both looked tired–Scott, especially, had worrying dark smudges under his eyes–but they were smiling, Jeff rolling his eyes at a comment of Scott's she couldn’t quite catch.
“Evening, boys–did you have a good trip?”
“That man–” Scott pointed at his father, his aggrieved facial expression softened by a twinkle in blue eyes– “–is the most embarrassing human being to have ever walked this planet.”
“All I did was tell a few friends how good a job I thought you’ve been doing with TA,” Jeff said mildly.
“A few friends–try the whole company! And I’m not even going to get started on you trying to set me up with every single woman in Los Angeles!”
“I invited Dianne to have dinner with us one time. Along with six of our other employees.”
Sally chuckled and stretched up to kiss both her boys on the cheek. “Good to have you home, both of you. Scott, honey–bedtime. Doctor's orders.”
“I’m fine, Grandma.”
“It’s past ten in this timezone, and you’re clearly exhausted. Just humour me, sweetheart.”
Scott looked at Jeff appealingly, but his father just shrugged. “It’s easier for everyone involved if you just let her have her way, son.”
“All right, all right. Goodnight.” Scott sketched a vague salute and walked off to the house entrance.
Jeff looked down at his mother, eyebrows lowering slightly. “I’ll admit he pushed himself more than I’d like, but he is okay, Mom. I kept a close eye on him.”
“I know, hon.” She patted his arm. “But he'll be all the better for a rest anyway, and I wanted to talk to you alone for a minute.”
“... enough to camp out in the hangar?” The frown intensified. “What’s wrong?”
“Virgil’s been acting … real strange. Something’s clearly bothering him, but he’s trying to cover it up by being aggressively upbeat. I tried to check in on him, but he’s a brick wall. You think you could talk to him tonight, if you’re not too tired? Assuming he’s up, of course.”
Jeff nodded, look of concern deepening further. “I’ll go see if he’s awake now. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“No problem, kiddo.” She gave him a quick hug, stifling a yawn. “And I think it’s past my bedtime.”
“Goodnight, Mom.”
Jeff, after a moment’s consideration, did not go straight to Virgil’s room. Instead, he headed for the empty kitchen; and, after a brief perusal of the hot drinks station, made himself a coffee (decaf, because his mother was a tyrant and had literally had Brains reprogram the machine to detect his fingerprints and prevent him making anything else) and Virgil a mug of the honey-and-chamomile tea he’d noticed him favouring in the evenings.
(Sometimes that kid was so like his mother it was unnerving.)
Armed, he went upstairs, cautious of spillage, and made his way to Virgil’s room. There was still a strip of light underneath the door, so he knocked with his shoe.
“Yeah?”
Jeff nudged the handle with his elbow and pushed the door open. Virgil was sitting on his bed in a t-shirt and sweats, tablet propped against a cushion in front of him, stylus in his hand, a smile emerging as he saw his father. “Hey, Dad–didn’t know you were back,” he said, pulling off his headphones.
“Just got in.” Jeff raised the mugs in question. “You up for a chat?”
“Sure.” Virgil stood to relieve him of the tea. “Yum. Thank you.”
“No problem.” Jeff nudged the door shut and sat down on the end of the bed as Virgil resumed his previous position. He glanced down at the tablet. On the screen was a half-finished digital painting, of a sunset cast across familiar terrain: the hills near Gran Roca. It was gorgeous, and both the beauty and the memories stabbed softly at his heart. “That’s magnificent, Virgil.”
“Thanks,” Virgil replied, with the tiny pink flush he always got when someone complimented his artistic endeavours. “It’s a draft; I'll do it properly in oils at some point.”
“You know,” said Jeff slowly. “I was thinking maybe we could all go over there for a couple days in a month or so. Once cyclone season is over.”
Virgil looked up at him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. It was an understandable reaction. He knew the boys had repurposed the ranch as a test base a few years ago; but Jeff hadn't been back there since ‘46. Since that horrible week after they'd lost Lucille, when being in her home had felt like a bullet to the gut. But now–he felt that maybe he could handle it. Oh, sure, it was still going to hurt. But it seemed necessary: to step into the pain in order to pass through to the other side.
“That would be great, Dad. If you're sure?”
“I'm sure.” He took a sip of his coffee. “But that's not what I came in to talk about.” No point in beating around the bush. “Your grandmother said she thought you were feeling down. Something happen?”
“What?” Jeff had to give him some credit: if he hadn’t spent over fifteen years married to a woman who would do that exact same thing with her eyebrows when she was putting walls up, it would have been a very convincing performance. “No idea where she got that from. I'm right as rain.”
“I can tell when you're lying, Virgil Benjamin.”
“I'm not–I’m okay. Honest. Nothing’s wrong.”
“What's not right, then?”
Virgil gave him a look that was half-resignation, half-weariness. “You're not going to give up, are you?”
“Nope.”
He sighed and leaned back against his pillows. “Fine. It's not actually a problem, it just … feels strange. A couple of years ago, I … kind of started writing a piano concerto. Just to see if I could. And it turned out okay, so a few months back, I sent it in to a few orchestras. Just because it would be cool to hear it with all real instruments instead of having everything but the piano be synthesised, you know? But I didn't really expect anything to happen. And then we went and picked you up, and then Scott got hurt, and I forgot about it.” He wrapped both hands around his mug. “And then the other day I got an email from the New York Philharmonic. They want to include it in this coming season.”
“Virgil, that's … phenomenal.” Jeff squeezed Virgil's knee as he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Well done. I can't wait to hear it.”
Virgil smiled lopsidedly. “I'm self-aware enough to know that my name is at least seventy-five percent of the equation–if some other random musician sent it in, I doubt they'd give it the time of day. It's not that good.”
“Young man, we have a rule about self-deprecation in this house.” Literally. His mother had put it up on the fridge last week.
“Okay, fine. It's a perfectly adequate piece of music. But–the thing is, they want me to be the one to play it. For at least part of the season. And even if I did the absolute minimum number of performances, I'd still need weeks of rehearsals with the orchestra to get it as good as it needs to be. I can't effectively base Two out of Manhattan for a day, let alone that long; and I definitely can't just take a month off because I want to go play piano. So.” He shrugged philosophically. “I'll have to turn them down and see if they still want just the music without the draw of a Thunderbird pilot to sell tickets. Like I said, not a problem. I just feel weird about it.”
Jeff watched him for a moment. “Do you want to perform it?”
“Doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“But I can't do it anyway. So there's no point in thinking about it.”
Jeff looked down at his cup, swirling the dregs. An uncomfortable thought had occurred to him, weeks earlier, sitting in a hospital room alongside his eldest son–and while Scott had assured him vehemently that the fear certainly didn't apply in his case, he was less sanguine about the younger boys. “Humour me for a second: thought experiment. If I were to somehow gain access to a time machine and go back to see fourteen-year-old Virgil and ask him what life he actually wanted, and receive an honest answer–what would he say?”
Virgil blinked. “I'm not following. Are you saying you think I regret being part of IR? Because if so, that's complete garbage.”
“I'm not saying that. I'm not even asking you how you feel about it right now. I'm asking–before it all began, when I was charging ahead with the early designs and Scott was all gung-ho about it and we asked if you wanted in–were you telling the truth?” Virgil stared at him blankly. “Because I'm … scared that I didn't actually give you a real choice. That you went along with me and Scott, because you knew it would please us, and you never thought about what you wanted at all.”
Virgil swallowed, tense. “I don't–I don't know. I don't remember. Honestly–” he forestalled Jeff as he opened his mouth again, “I don’t. But does it matter? I like my life now, Dad. I really do. What's the point in second-guessing it?”
“The point is that you're my son, and I love you. And I want to love, and know, you, as you genuinely are. Not a mask that you think you need to wear to gain my approval. I don't want you to have to feel that you have to change yourself to–”
“It's not changing, Dad. It's growing. I've never erased any part of me for International Rescue, just … added stuff on. There's a big difference between ‘wearing a mask’ and choosing to become who the people you care about need you to be. Heck, that's probably pretty close to a definition of love.” Virgil reached forward and put a hand over his. “Look, I don't remember what fourteen-year-old me was thinking. It was probably mostly yay, big rockets, anyway. But I remember what he chose. It's my choices that define who I am–I’m not a slave to some sort of fated idea of who I'm ‘supposed’ to be. Any reservations I may or may not have had at the time are irrelevant if, right now, I stand by that choice. And I do. Every single minute of every day.”
Jeff sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. “You are selfless to a fault, kid. Didn't get that from me, that's for sure.”
“What was that about the self-deprecation rule?” Virgil put his cup on the bedside table and leaned forward again. “I promise, Dad, there isn't a ‘real’ me stifled under a layer of engine grease and piloting skills. The me you know is me. I love my brothers, I love my Grandma, I love my job–if you can call it that, given that no one's actually paying us–I love my art and my piano and my hard-won engineering skills and my big green ‘bird. I love my life, as it is. And I love you, you worrywart.”
Jeff blinked rapidly. “I’m … gonna hug you now.”
“Yep, that's where I figured we were going with this.”
The embrace wasn't prolonged, but that didn't make it any less fervent. When Jeff let him go, he kept his hands on his shoulders. “With all of that said. I believe you when you say you want this life. But it is emphatically not selfish for you to want things for yourself, too–and I choose to try and help my sons fulfill their dreams if at all possible. So, another hypothetical for you: if manning Thunderbird Two wasn't an issue–if you were guaranteed to be covered and you didn't have to worry about leaving anyone in the lurch–would you want to play with the Philharmonic?”
“... yes. I would. I do.” Virgil pressed his lips together, just stifling a rueful laugh. “I really do.”
“In that case–do you think they'd be willing to wait until next season?” Virgil's eyebrows shot up, and Jeff grinned. “Because Scott and I were working on some stuff, in LA, and–we think we've got a plan.”
“Now this, I have to hear.”