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Lucille Tracy was across the hall, pushing the nursery door open, before she’d even fully realised she was awake.
She flicked the lightswitch, on the dimmer setting. Scott was sitting upright in his crib, blue eyes wide with tears, his expression full of the sheer tragic misery that only toddlers are truly capable of displaying.
“Hey, Scooter,” she cooed, half-laughing at his woebegone little face. “You’re okay, you’re okay.” She scooped him into her arms, and he buried his face against her neck, cries subsiding into whimpers. “Easy, easy. Mommy’s here, I’ve got you. Shhhhhh. What’s got you all upset, huh?”
He didn’t seem to be hungry–hadn’t needed a night feed in ages, anyway–and didn’t need changing. Did kids this little get nightmares? That wasn’t a fun thought. She bounced him gently for a minute or so, but he didn’t soothe–she could still feel the tiny gasps. “Poor little guy. It’s all right, sweetheart.”
She could just take him back to bed with her–but she’d been trying to avoid that, the past couple of weeks. Jeff would be back from Shadow Alpha One on leave next month; and, as much as she adored their son, she did kiiiiiiinda want to be able to guarantee privacy with her husband for at least most of the evenings. Scott needed to get used to sleeping in his own room. And he’d been doing pretty well–but she supposed some backsliding was inevitable. She’d have to calm him down before she could resettle him here.
She glanced out the window, through the gap between the curtains. It was definitely cold out there, with fall giving way to winter–but clear, the moonlight almost as bright across the desert as daytime. “How does a walk sound, Scotty?”
The only response was a hiccup. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
A couple of minutes later, she had a coat and boots on over her pajamas; and she’d bundled Scott up into the tiny blue snowsuit Sally had bought him–it was still a little big, but it’d do the job. She propped him up onto her hip and headed out onto the front porch.
She’d brought a flashlight, but she didn’t need it. The ranch shone silver beneath the stars; the path to the corral clear across what passed for the lawn. Scott had still been sobbing intermittently as they’d prepared to go; but, out in the cool air, he began to relax, looking around curiously at this unfamiliar view of his home.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said, smiling at him, and he grinned tearfully back. “Yeah. I liked sneaking outside at night when I was tiny. Scared my mom a lot, actually, with my disappearing acts–so, come to think of it, maybe don’t do that?” He gurgled. “Oh, who am I kidding. You’re definitely going to do that.”
They wandered along the path, eventually reaching the fence. Lucille whistled; and a shadow shifted, moved towards them, and coalesced into the form of her old dapple grey mare. The horse nickered curiously as she approached, sticking her nose over the fence and nuzzling first at Lucille, then Scott. Scott giggled, reaching out and petting the horse’s nose. “Hello, Birdy. Good girl. Gentle, Scooter. That’s right, there you go. You know, I was just little when my dad bought her? Well, not as little as you. So don’t get impatient on the pony front just yet.”
She’d gotten into the habit of narrating pretty much her every thought to Scott out loud, over the past year. It was unexpected–because she’d always been good at being on her own, previously. Growing up on a working ranch with minimal staff, no siblings, far enough away from the nearest town that she’d had to do school online, hadn’t exactly been the most social of childhoods. And after her folks had–well. It had just been her and the animals, at that point. Which was why, when Jeff had sheepishly proposed the mother of all long distance relationships, she’d agreed to the idea with barely a qualm. Solitude was no novelty.
Scott had been a surprise, but a happy one. Sally had helped out, a lot, staying with her in those first two months postpartum–and of course, Jeff took as much leave as he could without jeopardising his position as commander on Alphie. But for a hefty percentage of the past year, it had just been her and her baby. And it was impossible to look into those big blue eyes and not start chatting away. Even when he was napping, she found herself whispering to him. It didn’t disturb him–if anything, he seemed to rest all the better for it.
After a couple of minutes talking to Birdy (or making noises that vaguely resembled talking, in Scott's case), they said their goodbyes and started back up the track to the house–better to get back inside before they had a chance to get properly cold. She stopped on the porch steps and turned around for one last look at the open sky–thousands upon thousands of glittering stars. And the moon, bright and full.
She swallowed back the lump in her throat. She was fine, just her and Scott. Truly.
But the brief snatches of time she’d spent with Jeff Tracy had taught her that there were better potential states of being than ‘fine’.
She pointed to the moon, jiggling Scott on her hip. “Wave to Daddy?”
Scott blinked at her in confusion. “Dada?”
Her breath caught. She'd gotten a clear ‘momma’ out of him half-a-dozen times–but she'd assumed, with Jeff being gone so much, that it would be a while before he would–
“Yes,” she managed. “Up there in the sky.” She waved in demonstration. “Say goodnight!”
Scott stared at her for a moment longer–but then, obediently, raised a snowsuited arm and waved to the moon; and she laughed, and he giggled; and when she put him back down into his crib, he went right to sleep.
Jeff Tracy sat on the bench seat by the kitchen window, hands curled around his mug, watching the headlights from the out-of-view street ripple over the garden. They’d lived in Los Angeles for nearly four years, now. It still didn’t quite feel like home. Never would, now–not with the move to the Pacific on the horizon. Tracy Island would be ready to use as a base in only a year or two, at this rate. Would that ever be home? What did ‘home’ even mean, anyway? His parents had moved around so much when he was a kid, he’d never really had a chance to get attached to a specific place. This house was a relatively recent acquisition, bought only a year after–
The closest anywhere had ever come to being like he suspected ‘home’ was supposed to was Gran Roca. But that feeling had died with his wife.
Footsteps in the hall–then Scott entered, pausing in the doorway with a guilty smile. “Can’t sleep either?”
“At least you’ve got the ‘excitement’ excuse. Please tell me you weren’t going through your suitcase again. You’ve triple checked it.”
“Quadruple, actually.” Scott poured himself a glass of water and dropped onto the bench beside his father, their legs bumping together.
“You do realise that the GDF does provide new cadets with supplies.”
“Says the man that complains about their every logistical decision.”
“Not all of them. They have pretty good taste in flight school candidates.”
Scott half-smiled and gulped down his water, then leaned his head against Jeff’s shoulder. “Promise me you’re not mad.”
They’d been through this already, a dozen times. Jeff was no fan of the Global Defence Force; but Scott’s idea of serving with their air division while they prepared the Thunderbirds was a good one. Additional sources of experience and knowledge were always worth cultivating: Jeff was self-aware enough to know that he couldn’t teach his sons everything they’d need to know in the days ahead. But the kid had still been awkward about suggesting it–as if he was betraying his father by signing up for the organisation that Jeff had very publicly turned his back on–and had continued to be awkward about it every step of the way, despite Jeff’s assurances.
“Trust me, if I was mad, you’d know. Just remember–” Jeff placed his cup on the windowsill, then put an arm around the teen. “International Rescue is not going to be the GDF. Our focus is human lives in immediate danger–not chasing down criminals, not getting involved in armed disputes. We’re not in the bad guy catching business. There’s a place for that, absolutely–but it’s not a place we’re filling. Keep your priorities straight, okay?”
(Jeff knew from bitter experience that his own moral compass, when faced with the brutal reality of combat, had not always pointed due north. He was never going down that road again. And his children were going nowhere near it.)
“FAB, Dad.” Scott exhaled, relaxing further against his side. “What’s that mean, anyway?”
Jeff chuckled but didn’t answer–just held his son.
After a minute or so, Scott’s grip on his glass abruptly slackened, and Jeff had to grab for it to prevent it crashing to the floor. The boy–because he’d always be a boy to his father, technically an adult or not–had gone limp in his embrace.
“So much for ‘can’t sleep’,” Jeff muttered fondly, putting the glass on the sill next to his cup and shifting around so that Scott was pillowed comfortably against his chest. This was going to be murder on his own back–but he couldn’t bring himself to wake the kid again. He had to be up before six to report to the base: he needed every second of rest he could get.
Scott sighed contentedly into his father’s shirt; and Jeff stroked along his spine and tried not to think about how much he was going to miss his little boy.
“Scott, wake up.”
Scott dragged the pillow out from underneath his head and smushed it on top of his face. “Shuddup, John.”
How long had he slept since he and Kyrano had gotten back from Vera Cruz? Not long enough, clearly. His brain felt like sludge. He'd had a crazy day of it, in Sudan as well before Mexico–and on his return his father had taken one look at him and ordered him to bed before taking off himself.
“Scott, I need you to wake up, now.”
His head hurt. His whole body ached. He wanted so badly just to pass out again.
But there was something weird in John's voice. Something simultaneously flat and intense.
He lowered the pillow and squinted at the hologram of his brother on the bedside table. “What?”
John's face was a neutral mask; but his eyes were just a little too wide; and even in desaturated virtual form, Scott could tell there was zero colour in his cheeks. “I've lost contact with Dad–he was on a spaceship, and it was going into overload, and–I lost contact–”
Scott was up and out the door before John had finished his sentence.
He didn't sleep for the next four days.
A couple of months later, Brains reviewed the wrist comm usage logs, with an eye to improving efficiency, and noticed a pattern.
By the next morning, Scott's had been reprogrammed to automatically display the entire family's biomonitor status the moment it detected him waking.
Neither of them ever discussed it.
“Scott.”
“Uh-huh?”
His older brother did not look up from the (utterly-incomprehensible-looking) data on the holoscreen. Virgil felt a stab of guilt. In his defence, it wasn't like he and John didn't help with Tracy Aeronautics. But R&D was more his thing, not audits or contracts: Virgil had tried to help with the financials, in the past, but he was absolutely crap at it; and the controller of Thunderbird Five had his own workaholic issues going on without adding Scott’s stuff to the mix. (Plus Scott was awful at delegating.)
Not that big business was really naturally Scott's thing, either. Or, for that matter, their father's. But when Jeff Tracy had decided, after leaving NASA, to focus on turning Grant Tracy's little billion dollar family business into some serious money, he'd figured it out. And Scott had too, because that was what he'd always done–stepped into his father's shoes in order to spare the rest of them.
“Go to bed. It's three AM. Even John's asleep.” EOS had confirmed that, at the same time she'd alerted Virgil that Scott was still awake. Thunderbird Five’s new inhabitant had her uses.
Finally Scott looked up, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the difference between bright holograms and the moonlit lounge. “I’m all right, V. Go back to bed.”
Virgil crossed the room and joined him at the desk. “Do you need me to read you the studies on the effects of sleep deprivation again?”
Scott glared at him half-heartedly, then rubbed his temple, leaning his elbow against the desk. “I've got stuff to do.”
“And if I call the office and ask if this ‘stuff’ has to be done by the morning, what're they going to tell me?”
Got him, he thought with satisfaction, watching as Scott slumped in his chair. He didn't speak for a moment; but when he did, his voice was small. “I don't do this on purpose, Virg.”
“I know. But you need to at least try to rest.” Virgil stepped behind the chair and massaged his shoulders, and Scott leaned back, exhaling. “Anything you want to talk about? Or is it more generalised stress?”
“Haven't slept since Vientiane,” Scott admitted quietly, and Virgil winced. That was two days ago–no, three, now.
“It wasn't your fault, Scooter. John's pretty sure they were dead within twenty seconds of us getting the call. It was literally impossible for you to save them.”
“I know. I know. But every time I close my eyes I keep seeing …” Scott trailed off, sighing. “I'm tired, Virgil. I want to sleep so bad, and I can’t.”
Virgil leaned forward and put his arms around him, and Scott relaxed against his shoulder. He hesitated, because it wasn't a suggestion he wanted to get in the habit of making, but– “I can sedate you if you want?”
“No. Hate it. Can't fly for ages after.”
“Okay. Can you think of anything that helps? Tea, music? I could give you a proper backrub?”
“No, ‘sokay. Just this is actually …” His voice was growing thicker, slower. “... really nice. Being held. Not feeling alone.”
Well, that was heartbreaking. Virgil bit his lip. He would, cheerfully, hug Scott all night if that was what it took. But this position was already starting to kind of hurt, and sleeping sitting up wouldn't be fantastic for Scott either. He reached over and turned off the holo unit. “Come on, then, let's get comfy.”
They migrated to the largest of the sofas in the conversation pit. Virgil flopped down; and Scott lay down beside and half on top of him, face smushed against Virgil's t-shirt. Virgil wrapped his arms around his brother, moving one hand in tiny circles up and down his back. “This good?”
“Yeah,” Scott breathed. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome, big bro. Love you.”
Scott didn't respond; and Virgil could feel the shift in his weight as he abruptly slipped into unconsciousness. And, a minute or so later, Virgil joined him.
“Seriously. Virgil was bouncing like a kid in a candy store.”
Jeff eyed his second-youngest sceptically. “Uh-huh.”
“I mean, it's not like Four hasn't been into space as well, couple of times–but it doesn't really count if another ship’s giving you a ride, you know? Two was like, really in space.”
The half-closed door to Jeff's bedroom (his bedroom, his brain reminded him gleefully–not a cold metal wreck among distant stars–his room, his home) pushed open fully, and Scott came in, tablet in one hand, mug of coffee in the other. “Knock knock.”
“Gordon's trying to tell me that you used Thunderbird Two to repair Spacehub.”
“Oh, that one's actually true. To be fair, she did have a launch vehicle.” Scott swatted Gordon gently on the back of the head. “Changing of the guard. Unless you want to help with the quarterly reports–”
Gordon grimaced and jumped off the end of the bed, sprinting for the hall. “See you later, Dad!”
Jeff chuckled, watching as Scott kicked his shoes off, climbed onto the bed next to him, and made himself comfortable against the headboard and cushions. After one or two very minor incidents in his first 24 hours back that his mother was making far too big a deal out of, Jeff had been officially confined to his room until his body readjusted to the idea of existing in Earth’s gravitational conditions; and for the past few days, his boys had been on an informal rotation, keeping him company and making sure he actually stayed in bed.
(It was absolute bliss.)
“What’ve you got there?” Jeff asked, shifting against the pillows so he could see Scott's screen.
“Q2 figures for the shareholders. Want to take a look?”
“All right.”
He accepted the tablet, propping it against his leg, and skimmed through the summary pages–then increased the font size, because he was having to squint. Scott made an amused noise. “We should get your eyes checked. Time for reading glasses.”
“My eyes are perfectly normal. Your screen is just small.”
“Sure, Dad.” Scott placed his coffee on the side table and settled against his shoulder, apparently reflexively–then froze guiltily. “Is this okay?”
“You're fine. You're not that heavy.” The weight was, objectively, kind of uncomfortable, his nervous system still convinced that anything heftier than a blanket was going to crush him–but he was perfectly willing to ignore that sensation in favour of enjoying the comforting warmth of his son's body next to his.
(He'd had no idea it was possible to miss hugs so much.)
Scott took him at his word and nestled closer. “I maaaaaay have kind of blown the R&D budget the past six months. Did what I could from my own investments, but some of it had to come out of the company. Finance is on my ass about it because I wouldn't explain why.”
That sparked a (worrying) thought. “Who knows about the Zero-XL? And me?”
“Pretty small circle. The obvious–us, the Mechanic, Colonel Casey, the Hood and anyone he told–and I told someone in Legal, too. Figured we'd get the ball rolling on getting you declared undead.”
“Hmm.” The world discovering that International Rescue had just pulled off the first successful FTL return trip would almost certainly have problematic–potentially catastrophic–consequences. Hopefully they'd be able to keep it covered up. But that was future Jeff's problem. Right now he was content to just sit with his son and refamiliarise himself with their world.
Aside from the R&D issue Scott had mentioned, Tracy Aeronautics’ numbers looked excellent. Clearly Scott had been running a tight ship. Jeff went through the figures and diagrams carefully, making the odd mental note–he couldn't easily make physical notes, his right arm was trapped under Scott. But, eventually, he got to a point where he definitely needed to highlight something for later checking–why was the public liability insurance budget so large?–and he opened his mouth to ask him to move.
And then closed it again, because the kid was out. He'd been so focused he hadn't noticed him pass out–but now Scott was fully relaxed, breathing rhythmic, drooling on Jeff's pajama shirt.
Well, this was apparently his life now, because there was no way he was waking his son up.
It was about twenty minutes before rescue arrived in the form of Virgil, smirking as he looked through the doorway. “How long did it take?”
“Shh.” Virgil's voice had been a little too close to normal volume. “Not sure, I didn't notice exactly when. Quarter of an hour, maybe?”
“Great, now I owe John a jar of pickles. You couldn't have made it thirty minutes, Scooter?” Jeff gestured for him to lower his voice, and he shrugged. “Don't worry, we're okay. Once he's out, he's out for at least three hours unless a bomb goes off right next to his ear. You want him off your arm?”
“Yes please,” Jeff said, slightly guiltily–but it was beginning to hurt. Virgil lifted his older brother carefully, moving him a little way down the bed and readjusting the pillows so that he was stretched out at his father's side. Scott's only reaction was a quiet sigh.
“Thanks.” Jeff ran a hand over his eldest's hair. “Don't take this the wrong way, but–I’m beginning to get the impression you boys have been burning the candle at both ends and somewhere in the middle.”
Virgil grimaced. “I have been trying to keep the workload at least kind of reasonable. We're very strict about Alan and Gordon's field hours. But you know Scott–he doesn't know the meaning of the word ‘stop’. I do my best, but …”
“... yeah, I know.” Jeff smiled ruefully. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Okay. You good here?”
“Yeah. I think I might take a nap as well, actually.” The unaccustomed quantity of reading had made Jeff's eyes hurt. Maybe he would have to cave on the glasses thing. “Thank you, Virgil.”
“No problem, Dad.”
Virgil patted his unconscious brother's arm and left, pulling the door closed behind him; and Jeff rearranged his own pillows, wincing with the effort, then lay down next to his boy and closed his eyes.