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Tracy Island, 2065
Virgil watched as his oldest brother bent over the pool table and lined up a shot, eyes narrowed in concentration. Then, quick as a flash, his cue struck, and a yellow ball spun across green felt, bounced off the bumper, and dropped into the corner pocket.
Well, he was definitely going to lose this game. But that was fine–winning hadn't been the goal of dragging Scott in here, anyway.
“So.” Virgil reached for the chalk, even though he was unlikely to need his cue any time soon. “You all right?”
Scott didn't take his attention off the table, circling it as he planned his next move. “Why wouldn't I be?”
“It's been a strange couple of days.”
Scott shrugged and bent, judging an angle–then took the shot and sank another ball. Virgil chalked his cue and put both items on the side table. “Is this your way of telling me to shut up and let it lie?”
“Yup. Are you going to listen?”
“Nope.”
Scott finally looked him in the face. “Look, Virg, what good is getting heated about it going to do? Dad put me in charge, I made a call, he decided I wasn't good enough and pulled the plug. It happened, it's over, lesson learned, moving on.”
Virgil winced. “That's … not actually what he said, Scott.”
“Close enough.” Scott turned back to the game, angling his cue.
“I think you should talk to him about it.”
“There is no way that conversation doesn't end in a shouting match.”
He wasn't wrong. Scott had a much firmer grip on his temper than he had when they were teenagers; but when it flared, it burned hot. And flare it would, eventually–so better to control the moment. “So you're just going to stew about it until you inevitably boil over next time you disagree with him in the field?”
“Are you saying I can't take orders?” Scott snapped.
“I'm saying the combination of your hurt feelings and both of your tempers isn't going to end well, and that's the last thing we need in the middle of a rescue.”
Scott took the shot. The cue, tilted too sharply downward, caught the surface of the table and scraped, tearing a four inch strip through the fabric.
“Exhibit A,” mumbled Virgil.
Scott huffed and tossed the cue onto the table, then stalked out the games room door. Virgil didn't follow.
A different Tracy Island, 2055
Virgil stared at the piano, fingers positioned on the starting chords of Einaudi’s Nuvole Bianche.
He couldn't quite bring himself to press the keys.
“Does it have to be tonight?”
The hologram of his brother, hovering above the console in the middle of the lounge, sighed. “The alternative is to let Grandma have her way and sedate him. Is that preferable?”
Virgil grimaced. “It's not my ideal scenario, no.”
“Then yes, it has to be tonight.” John rubbed his forehead–an open admission of fatigue that was almost unprecedented from his little brother, at least as an adult. “I don't like it any more than you do, V. But it's got to be done.”
Virgil bit the inside of his lip, gaze drifting without his permission to an empty red desk. “Yeah. I get that.”
Outside the windows, against a backdrop of stars, a gold fleck of engine fire became noticeable; and, a moment later, the distant roar of engines caught up with the light.
“Thunderbird One's on approach,” John said unnecessarily. “Do you want to take the lead, or do you want me to?”
“I'll do it, but can you–” Come down, he didn't finish. John hadn't been planetside in over three weeks, not since the Zero-X had gone up in a puff of smoke over the Pacific. And Virgil wanted him home, so badly–but he was also terrified of inviting a direct refusal by openly making the request. John, he remembered from childhood experience, was brittle in the face of grief. He couldn't risk snapping him.
“I'll do it,” he repeated, clearing his throat and turning his attention back to the piano. But he still couldn't play.
They waited in silence as Thunderbird One landed and ran post-flights; until finally, the wall panel spun, and a still-uniformed Scott stepped out. Even in the low light, he looked drained–his hollow cheeks and bruised eyelids better evidence of exhaustion than any amount of yawning ever would be.
“Hey,” he said wearily, nodding to both John and Virgil as he unfastened his bandolier, pulled it over his shoulder, and tossed it in the general direction of the couch. Virgil had the horrible suspicion that his intention was to nap on said couch and get straight back in One the moment she’d finished refuelling. “You didn't have to wait up for me.”
“Yeah, we did.” Virgil took what was supposed to be a calming breath. It wasn't particularly helpful. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“I'm beat, guys. Can it keep?”
“No, I'm afraid it can't,” John said. His voice was uncannily steady–the horrible dissociative tone that never failed to freak Virgil out. “Virgil?”
Just say it. Get it out. Get it out get it out get it–
“Scott, John and I talked, and–and we think we should stop looking for Dad.”
2065
“I still think Scott needs to do this himself.”
The blond on the video screen in the corner shrugged. “But he's not gonna. So it's up to us.”
Virgil played a couple of bars of Mozart from memory, then stopped with a sigh. “All right. But we handle this diplomatically. I don't want it to be a fight.”
“If it turns out it needs to be, it's got to be.” John's tone shifted in what Virgil considered an extremely ill-timed attempt at humour. “Makes no difference to me, anyway–I can just end the call.”
“And leave me to take the heat? Some big brother you are.” Virgil crossed his arms and turned sideways on the piano stool so that he could see John properly. “Seriously. Please don't wind Dad up. That won't help Scott at all.”
“On my best behaviour, promise.”
“Evening, boys.”
Virgil closed his mouth, cutting off the sceptical retort that he'd been about to direct at John, nodding to his father as he entered the living room. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello Dad,” John echoed from the screen.
Jeff Tracy sat down at his desk. “Anyone know what happened to the pool table?”
“Accident,” Virgil said. “My fault. I'll get it fixed up.”
“Thanks.” Jeff took a quick gulp from the cup of coffee he’d carried in. “Up a little late, aren't you?”
Virgil wondered if he should paint this scene and title it Do As I Say, Not As I Do. “Yeah, I know, but we wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?” Jeff said absently, beginning to rifle through the stack of papers in front of him.
Virgil made eye contact with John, then cleared his throat. “About the Seascape rescue.”
Jeff’s hand stilled, but he didn't look up. “What about it?”
“Respectfully, we think–” Virgil took a breath, hesitating.
“We think you were too hard on Scott,” John finished for him.
Jeff took a deep breath and folded his hands on the table in front of him, then, finally, looked his sons in the eye, expression neutral. “Do you now.”
“Yes.” Virgil put his hands on his knees and squeezed nervously. “He did a good job, Father. He ran two missions while you were away, and both went like clockwork. No casualties, no damage to our equipment. But you barely gave him a chance before bawling him out and undermining his authority, just because he made a different call than you would have–even though everything went well. And he's taking it pretty hard.”
Jeff tensed slightly at the last sentence, brows coming together in a frown. “Do you understand why I objected to your mobilising for the first fire jet?”
“Because no lives were in direct danger,” John admitted. “But it was reasonable preventative action–I spoke to the guys on the rig, and–”
“I know, I get that. And like I said, I'm proud of you all for the way it ultimately turned out. But the fact remains–” Jeff shifted in his seat, leaning forward. “I’ve set hard limits on what justifies a callout for a reason. John, rough estimate–how many calls do you get a day that you or I reject and redirect to local emergency services?”
“Typically a few dozen.”
“How many of those could have been resolved more quickly by a Thunderbird?”
“I don't monitor the results of absolutely all of them, but–probably at least half.”
“And how many of them result in casualties due to slow local response?”
Virgil could see John's shoulders stiffening. “More than I'd like.”
“Okay.” Jeff's expression softened, just a little. “So those are lives we theoretically might have saved. But imagine if we'd mobilised for all of them, or even half of them. How many extra flight hours is that for your brothers?”
“We wouldn't mind, Dad,” Virgil said.
“That's exactly what I'm getting at. If I let you, you'd take off for everything, not just the rescues where we're the only possible option. And you and Scott would run yourselves into the ground inside a few years. I know I act more like a commander sometimes, but I am your father, and I want–I need you to be–”
He took a careful, measured breath, collecting himself, and continued. “I know we all discussed, and accepted, a certain level of danger when International Rescue began. But that doesn't mean it's right to throw caution to the wind completely. Sure, we might save more lives in the short term, if we helped more often–but what about the future? The only way we could afford to loosen the launch criteria would be to expand significantly, and in this political climate, we can't trust–” He sighed and shook his head. “I hate saying no when people are crying out for help. I really do. But if we want to keep doing this for any length of time–that’s how it has to be.”
It made sense. It felt horrible , and Virgil hated it with every fibre of his being, but it made sense. He swallowed and hugged his arms against his chest. “I understand. But–Dad, wouldn't it’ve been better to talk to Scott about that, rather than just chewing him out with no context? Because right now, he believes you think he's a failure.”
Jeff's eyes widened. “Has he said that?”
“Not in precisely those words, but yeah.”
Virgil had seen his father look varying levels of uncomfortable over the years. This was pretty high on the spectrum. “That was never my intended meaning.”
“Then maybe you should tell him that.”
“No need,” said a voice from the doorway. “I got it.”
2055
Scott stared at Virgil for a long moment, expression blank.
“Tell me,” he said finally, a vicious edge to the whisper, “you did not just say what I thought you said.”
Virgil tried to open his mouth again, and failed.
“Scott,” John interpolated. “It's been twenty-three days. If there was any intact wreckage from the explosion, we'd have found it by now.”
“I know you want … closure,” Virgil managed, before Scott could launch into the inevitable outburst. “We all do. But all the evidence is pointing to … to there being nothing left to bury.”
Scott rounded on him again. “I’m not looking for a body, I'm looking for Dad. You want to give up?”
“No, of course not. But–” Virgil stood, raising a hand placatingly. “You can't keep this up, Scott. You've been flying twenty-hour days for over three weeks, spending every second between rescues scanning for something that almost certainly isn't there. You're so worn out you're not thinking straight. You need to rest, and–”
“I'll rest when I'm dead.”
Virgil winced reflexively. “Scooter–”
“Don't ‘Scooter’ me–”
“You guys have scanned every square centimetre of that hundred kilometre radius at least twice,” interrupted John, pallor noticeable even in holographic form. “The only thing that there might be a chance of finding outside that area is the escape pod the Hood used, if it didn’t make it to orbit–but that won’t do us any good. Like I said, if there was anything there, we'd have found it. The Zero-X has to have been atomised.”
There was an alarmingly hysterical waver in Scott's voice. “I am not giving up on him! He can't–he can't be–if my father was dead, I'd know!”
“He’s our father too, Scott,” Virgil said gently. “And you know that doesn't make any sense. He’s gone. I know it hurts. It hurts so bad. But we need to let him go.”
“But–” Scott shuddered, once, pressing a curled fist against his mouth. “I can't–I need him, I can't–”
His knees buckled; but Virgil was already moving towards him, and he dashed forward and caught his arms, controlling the fall. Scott sagged against his shoulder, not so much crying as gasping, too-rapid heaving breaths shaking his entire frame; and Virgil held him, fingers white-knuckled, trembling with his own sobs.
“I c-can't do this–without him,” Scott choked out.
Virgil looked helplessly towards the centre console; but it had gone dark.
2065
Virgil turned. Scott stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on their father. “Sorry. Didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was just passing in the hall, and–well. Ears burning.”
Jeff gestured him in. “Son–”
“It's all right, Dad. Like I said to certain people–” This with a quick glare at Virgil as he passed– “I don't want to make a big deal out of it.”
“But maybe we should.” Jeff moved his papers across the desk, and Scott took it as the invitation it was, sitting down on the newly-empty edge. “How much did you hear?”
“Came by somewhere around me and Virg hypothetically running ourselves into the ground.”
“Right. Well, then you heard me say to your brothers why I'm so strict about when I let you fly. I'm not angry with you, and, while I question the decision to intervene as early as you did, I do genuinely think that you did a good job with both of the Seascape callouts. But I was concerned you were setting a precedent, for yourself and your brothers, and I let that concern get the better of me.”
“We could do more, Dad. I'm willing to accept the risk.”
Jeff watched his eldest son for a moment; when he spoke, his voice cracked. “I'm not. I–I know it sounds absurd, given that this whole outfit was my idea in the first place. But every time any of you are in the field I can't breathe freely until you're safe home. I believe in what we're doing, and you can't imagine how proud I am that you all do too. But there is a big difference between being willing to sacrifice for a worthy cause and being willing to throw your life away. I will not permit you to do the latter. Understood?”
Scott listened silently, looking as tense as Virgil felt–then his eyes flicked across the room and made contact first with John's, then Virgil’s–and Virgil nodded.
“Yes, sir,” Scott replied softly. “And I'm sorry, Dad. But you could have said that in the first place.”
“And I should have.” Jeff pressed Scott's knee briefly. “You did well, Scott. I wish I hadn’t shouted at you. But in future, keep to the boundaries, all right? You're my boys, and I … worry.”
“I know, Dad. But I also know–” He glanced at his brothers again with a quick dimpled grin. “You are being a colossal hypocrite.”
“I beg your pardon, young man?”
“You're concerned about us running ourselves ragged,” said Virgil. “But you're the one downing coffee at eleven o’clock with apparently every intention of settling in for a few more hours of work.”
Jeff looked resignedly at the screen. “I don't suppose I can expect any assistance from your quarter?”
“None whatsoever,” John said cheerfully.
“This whole thing started with us pointing out that you need a vacation, Dad. A real one.” Virgil stood and joined his father and brother at the desk. “Which, judging by Lady Penelope's account, you're absolutely terrible at.”
“I have a suggestion there, actually.” John glanced down at something they couldn't see. “The Paris Aeronautics Expo is next week. I know you weren't planning on going–but it'd be a good break, while giving you something to focus on while you're there that's not worrying about what we're up to all the time.”
“That's a great idea!” Virgil looked at his father. “How about it, Dad?”
“As an added bonus–” John pursued. “It's in the public eye, which is probably a good thing right now. The word ‘recluse’ has been used next to your name in a fair few newscasts recently. If we don't want people to start asking awkward questions about what you’ve been up to …”
That, reflected Virgil, was a masterstroke–because while Jeff Tracy might hesitate to prioritise his own wellbeing, he would definitely prioritise the secrecy of International Rescue. He glanced at Scott, who was barely repressing a grin.
“Oh, all right,” Jeff grumbled, but there was a smile lurking around his eyes. “I'll go to Paris, if it'll get you boys off my case. And–” He stood, turning to Scott. “I promise I will keep my nose out of operations here while I'm gone–I trust that you’re a capable leader, and that you can handle things without me. Just try not to do anything that’ll add to my count of white hairs, okay?”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Scott said ceremoniously, standing up and offering his father his hand.
Jeff shook it firmly. “You do realise that means giving up Thunderbird One to Alan for another full week, right?”
Scott grimaced jokingly. “Oh, in that case, call the whole thing off.”
Jeff laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, then stepped out from behind the desk. “All right, bedtime for everyone. Yes, me included.”
“FAB,” his sons chorused.
2055
After the first minute or so, Virgil lost track of time. He sat on the hardwood floor, his big brother breaking apart in his arms, his eyes wet and burning and his chest aching fit to implode.
He hadn't seen Scott cry in nearly a decade.
And then there was a footstep across the room–and then blue-suited legs came into his line of sight–and then John sank down onto the floor, inching forward and pressing his chest against Scott's back, arms wrapping around them both.
It could have been ten minutes–it could have been an hour. But, eventually, Scott's breathing evened out, his body going limp between his brothers.
“Come on, Scotty,” Virgil said soothingly, stroking the back of his head. “Let's get you to bed.”
The three of them disentangled themselves, carefully, and Virgil helped a visibly-dazed Scott to his feet. John hesitated on the ground a moment longer, and Virgil eyed him with suspicion. “What was your descent speed?”
“Not telling.” John, very cautiously, hauled himself upright, wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with one gloved hand. “I'm fine.”
So, not in compliance with the recommended guidelines, then. And judging by his holographic communications over the past few weeks, he'd had Five’s artificial gravity switched off pretty much the whole time as well. Not a good recipe for easy adjustment to Earth conditions.
One problem at a time, Virgil told himself. He tucked a supporting hand under Scott's armpit and guided him towards the elevator (stairs were not happening tonight). Scott, unnervingly compliant, allowed him to pilot him all the way to his room; and John followed, though with one hand against the wall most of the way.
He momentarily considered, and rejected, trying to actually get Scott into proper pajamas and tucked in–instead, he just lowered him on top of the comforter and pulled his boots off, then grabbed the spare blanket from the end of the bed and tugged it over him. “There you go. Off to sleep now, okay? We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Thanks, V,” mumbled Scott thickly, eyes already closed.
Virgil squeezed his shoulder, then turned back towards the doorway. John was still standing there, leaning heavily against the frame, eyes shut. “You good, spaceman?”
“If I walk another step,” John whispered, “I'm gonna puke.”
Virgil sighed. He could carry another, even lankier, brother down the hall to his own bed. Or, the much simpler option– “Come on, I'll help you lie down.”
He successfully manoeuvred John around and onto the other side of the bed; and John rolled onto his side with a groan, pressing his forehead against his big brother's shoulder.
Virgil watched for a moment–then went back around the bed and climbed onto the mattress, head pillowed against Scott's chest, slinging an arm over both of his brothers–the tension ebbing from his body as he felt them breathe beneath it.
“Virg?” Scott murmured, very softly.
“I’m here.”
“I don't–know how to do this.” His voice caught. “Not without Dad.”
“Neither do I. But you've got us.” Virgil tightened his grip on his brothers briefly, careful not to overdo the pressure on gravity-sensitive John. “And we’ve got your back, and we believe in you.”
“Always,” John confirmed quietly.
Scott didn't reply. But Virgil felt him, and John, very gradually, relax.
And then he slept.