THUNDERBIRDS FIC: He Is, They Are (5b/10)
Part V: Virgil and Scott (Part Two)
On the scaffolding over 'Three's silo doors, Onaha stood with her weapon trained down at them with the same precision she wielded her chef's knife. Another click behind and above them on 'Two's scaffolding was Kyrano, not a sign of hesitation in his sight down his own barrel. Then, from the landing to the left of the individual lifts to Dad's office, Brains made his own appearance, his terrible eyesight obviously no hindrance to his ability to train loaded death at the family scrabbling backwards into a tiny stunned cluster.
"A-alan?"
"Yeah, Brains?"
Virgil had to hand it to the kid; he didn't sound the least bit worried about the weapons pointed at them or the paranoia that temporarily stayed their triggers. Good for him. Alan made his way to the front of the group so Brains could plainly see him. He even had his hands spread out to his sides, calm and peaceful. It was entirely possible that they'd all seen too many Westerns over the years.
"You-you know what The Hh-wh-hood feels like." Virgil felt John's eyes slide to find his - Feels like? - but he couldn't look away from the barrel aimed right at his big brother's (obviously vulnerable, go for the weakest link to set your prey off balance) head. "Are you a-alone?"
"It's us, Brains. Just us. Fermat and I checked all the 'birds for trackers before we took off, too, just like you said to. We're clean."
The cool way Brains regarded him, still not a proven friend, said they had all better lay off the TV for a while. Virgil didn't like how comfortable Brains looked with a gun in his hands. Brains, however, didn't seem to care what kind of looks he was getting. The stutter was there, but the Fuck You under the tone was unmistakable. Until he got his answers, he wouldn't give an inch. "No-no-nobody moves. Alan, Fermat, you boys check 'Two for stow-stow-hide-hitchhikers. Mister Tracy, he reads mm-minds. I n-n-need you to tell me something only ww-w-we would know without thu-thinking about it."
Dad stepped forward out of the bundle of his children, his arms spread peacefully wide as Alan had done. Yep, too many Westerns for the Tracy boys.
"My mother taught you how to handle that shotgun out in the north pasture of my parents' place. When it was over, you made me come out with you to dig the shells out of the trees. Mother said you were a good enough shot that Dad would be impressed, but then she reminded us both that we needed to know how to shoot so we would know we didn't have to. We're alone, my friend, I swear."
While the aura surrounding their father was fascinating to watch in that moment, Virgil couldn't help focusing on Brains. Of his many talents, lying wasn't one of them. If he felt something, it was all over his face. In this case, as Dad went on, Brains seemed to sag more and more until he deflated completely with relief.
"Bb-b-boys?"
"We're good, Brains."
Shotguns clunked to the scaffolding like the weight of them simply became too heavy for all of them. They remained in their protective, elevated positions, braced along the rails, even as the parents wielding them ran for the ladders to get down to the bay floor and their children.
The whole of the silo swirled in a chaotic jumble of color and limbs and shouts, something that had never greeted them after a rescue before. Virgil couldn't describe it, really; if he were to try to paint it, it would have no definable shape at all. Too much happened, too fast, too warm, too full. Mostly, there would be pockets of color, bright oranges and yellows and greens and blues, chunks of relief and love and family. Black spots would fill the empty spaces, though, their thoughts flickering on the canvas like lightning bugs in the night. Black, fearful, angry spaces.
Mostly, those black spaces would be his father's eyes. Because even as he was surrounded by all of his children, alive and whole, Virgil could see Dad's loss like black ichor overwhelming his eyes.
He thought he'd been afraid up there on 'Five. He thought he'd understood fear then, knowing he was about to die in what could only have been a nightmare because, really, who gets to die with all of their most wicked fears attacking them at once? Fire, violence, suffocation, surrounded helplessly by his family dying around him - all that was missing was the rushing wave of snow and he could have filled out the entire list of Top Five Ways Virgil Tracy Does Not Want To Die.
But now, seeing his father like this, a dark pillar in a sea of jubilation and Holy Hell We're All Still Alive, standing so alone and angry? Now Virgil was afraid. Now, above all else, he knew things couldn't possibly ever be the same.
But then Alan and Fermat broke away running from the group, laughing, with Scott close behind Alan's heels. The lift door slammed down between them, securing the smaller boys from Big Brother's red but not exactly threatening face. Alan even twittered his fingers at Scott, the little tease. Whatever it was Virgil missed, it must have been good.
At his side, John nudged his shoulder and crinkled his forehead to ask the question Virgil figured none of them could answer honestly the next few days, but John gratefully didn't say anything. Taking it as a cue, Virgil laughed, even though he wasn't so sure what he was laughing about, and let it fade out in time with everyone else's. Darting his eyes to make sure no one else had seen his distraction probably wasn't all that stealthy, but no one else seemed to notice.
When Scott turned around in his lift, shaking his head, Virgil finally saw why he was actually chasing the kids around. He took one look at all the green foam on the floor and decided he didn't even want to know.
Kyrano shook his head at the mess, but Dad put a hand on his shoulder. "Leave it alone for tonight. The boys can clean it up in the morning."
"Mister Tracy - "
"Please." Dad didn't wait for an answer, but he took Onaha by the hand and led her toward the lift that would end behind John's portrait. "Now, what can we do for you?"
"Order pizza?" Gordon snickered helpfully, ducking into his lift before anyone could catch him.
From the moment Virgil's own (rather sticky) lift door closed on him and started that too fast ascent, the more he wanted it to go back down, stop, take him anywhere but up. But no, the world didn't cooperate with him like that, not when he wanted it to, so the door slid open, revealing a jagged tear above him and pile of plaster on the floor in front of him, he felt his spine snap into the rail behind him. Furniture was overturned. Ropes lay in a coil next to the foot of the desk. And yup, that was blood on the plaster.
Nope. Not ready for this yet.
He absolutely had to get the almighty hell out of there.
There were a handful of useful excuses about why he had to go back - yeah, he totally forgot to put the, um, parking break on and left the keys in the ignition in his rush to get to bed, yeah - but he wasn't about to draw attention to himself. They needed to get John's head properly looked at, and Scott's. Dad, too. They were a mess, even more than the office. They needed to come first. He'd just go down and make sure he did whatever it was that he'd say he was doing later and make his way up when he didn't feel like an elephant had taken up residence on his chest. No big deal.
Manipulating the controls on his lift, he told himself the gut-drop nausea was the same he got every time he rode his way down to his 'bird. Nope, it had nothing to do with the day they'd had at all. He was overtired, hadn't had anything to eat in nearly thirty hours, and still couldn't swallow away the adrenaline in the back of his throat that blasted him over and over throughout the day to keep him going those next few minutes. That was all it was.
Of course, his bed was this way …
But he'd left, um, something, that way …
Four hours ago, he should have been dead. Four hours ago, he was never going to see this beautiful piece of machinery again. And that didn't even compare to the idea that, four hours ago, he was never going to see his brothers again. He wasn't going to get to tell Alan that no, "don't you have homework to do" wasn't the best he could do. He wouldn't get to say so many things he knew didn't need to be said but should be said because everybody needs to hear those things now and then. Four hours ago, he wasn't going to see so many things that, while they were only things, it would break his heart not to have a piece of them one more time.
Four hours ago, this was all gone.
He didn't have anything in his stomach to throw up, but, boy, it sure tried. Good thing he'd made it as far as the sick bay, huh?
He cleaned up with a little more attention than his body really had the energy for, scrubbing away at the small metal diamonds on the floor even after the sour of his stomach was long gone and the waste bin was full of cleaning wipes. But then he found dried blood on the floor a few feet away from some rescue he wouldn't be able to pinpoint and had to get rid of that, too. He was already on his hands and knees anyway. Might as well get it all. And the vinyl of the cots needed a good scrubbing. They were always sanitary - he wouldn't dream of taking his family out on a rescue without having scoured things to as close to clean (Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Grandma would say) as it could get - but a little extra effort wouldn't hurt.
By the time he arrived at the pilot seats, he lost count of how many packages of wipes he'd gone through. It couldn't be that many, though, not when his girl still felt so violated. He'd make it better. He'd make her gleam again, because he was never letting Alan back on board his machine thinking she looked dark again.
"Virgil?"
Ow.
Um, yeah, the dashboard was still above his head there.
"Sorry, man."
Virgil winced, his hand immediately chasing the sting in the back of his head while he slid (gingerly this time) out from under the console, hands shoring his balance and propping him against the jean-clad leg behind him. He turned his head up to Scott but didn't quite manage to get his slap-happy eyes to coordinate enough to look at him. Besides, Virgil knew what was there. Scott's face was set, determined to get through the rest of the day without further injuries (good luck with that one if he was going around sneaking up on people), but his eyes would have that concerned I'm Your Brother and You Will Tell Me What I Want To Hear look they got after a job. They'd never tell him, but Scott Tracy was the dictionary definition of predictable (this was probably the wrong business for that, but oh, well). Any other day, that might be comforting; today it was another symptom of the what the hell they had limped through that made Virgil want to take his Mister Clean to every single surface he could get his hands on.
Instead, he smiled up at the man. Nope, nothing to see here, boss. "Hey, Scott. John."
The synchronized glances were rather amusing as they both catalogued his whole body for signs of trauma, obviously found nothing, and turned their attention back to the patiently waiting stare directed up at them. While John was satisfied and kept a good few steps back, Scott's eyes narrowed, his crow's feet ejecting their talons like he could actually see through Virgil's soul if he tore at it hard enough. Virgil wasn't entirely sure he couldn't.
"You shouldn't be out here."
"As soon as I get this mess cleaned up."
John glanced around the cockpit and shook his head. "Come inside. This can wait until tomorrow."
"I'm almost done. Shouldn't you be in the sick room?"
"Special dispensation. Shouldn't you be in the house?"
"Not until she's clean."
Scott shrugged, his arms flapping to say Fine, and then he twisted around until he found the packet of wipes on the console. He pulled a long string of them out before throwing the package at John. "Then let's get it done" was all Scott said before he took his wipes to the chair Virgil thought of as Gordon's. He wouldn't tell Scott so, but he'd already done that chair - twice. The notion that either John or Gordon spent any time in that chair before Virgil got to it made his skin crawl as it was. Another wipe down wouldn't hurt.
It was maybe five minutes of quiet, knuckle-scraping cleaning later that Scott finally (got bored) broke the silence. "How long are you planning to stay out here?"
"Where's Dad?" Virgil countered.
"On the phone with Lady P trying to convince her to come home. I don't think he's going to let anyone out of his sight for a while. Seriously, Virg, come inside. You're scaring him."
"Since when does she not want to be here?"
"Our lovely Lady is having a sit down with Lisa Lowe in," Scott glanced at his watch, rolling his eyes as he calculated the time difference, "about six hours. Tea and cannoli and an offer she can't refuse, if you get my drift."
"Speaking of food," John said, tapping his own wrist at Scott.
"Onaha made dinner. Please, Virgil? You've already been out here over an hour. It can wait. Please?"
And there it was. Twice, even. Please. Virgil wondered if Scott actually knew what kind of weapon that word was against his brothers because, really, he didn't use it all that often. Scott, like Dad, gave orders more than asked. Oh, he had his manners and all, but when he was only talking with them, when he wanted them to do something? Please wasn't a part of his vocabulary, not unless he truly meant it.
But this time? This time Virgil was a twenty-year-old kid who was … well, he was … he didn't know what he was, but he was thisclose to begging his brothers not to make him go in there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because this time, it was all different. This was their home. It had been the only truly safe place they'd had since Mom died. Even their 'birds hadn't had that element of safe to them, not when they'd already shed blood and seen death the way they had. Yes, home had escaped death, but it had been violated in a way he couldn't put words to.
He hadn't even seen it yet, but he knew. This time, it was worse than lingering nightmares and death.
He wasn't scared. Not really. It must look like he was scared out of his mind. He'd think he was scared if he were Scott or John. It wasn't fear, though. He didn't know what it was, but it wasn't fear. He was angry. Oh, hell yes, he was angry. And if he was going to be any good to any of them, he had to get this out of his system out here where it couldn't hurt anyone. The house had enough hurt in it right now.
How many times over the last few months since Paris had Virgil calmed Scott's nightmares with the reassurance that he was home, that he was safe? How many times had they told each other Alan would be okay, that they could make things right with him again if they only got him home? How could Virgil ever in good conscience again tell his brothers that things would be all right because they were home?
There wasn't a word for what had been done to them.
There wasn't a word for what had been done to his ability to take care of his family - or his ability to let them take care of him.
Virgil wasn't sure how, but when John said "Please?" it came out sounding even worse than Scott's.
He wanted to beg them to ask him to storm any other castle. He'd do it, fearlessly, sword in hand and brave heart on his sleeve for all to see. He'd follow his brothers anywhere. Just not there. He wanted to scream at them that it was his turn, that he'd take care of everyone else when he'd had a chance to take care of himself because he was no good to them until he did. Why was an hour to scour away the scum of the day that much to ask?
Then John's hand was on his, staying the scrubbing. Virgil yanked his hand away as gently as possible and then let the wipe go back to erasing the scuzz of the day.
"Virg? I don't think The Hood bothered with removing the facing of your control panel. There's nothing under there that wasn't there before today."
"You don't know what he might have done," Virgil countered. "We don't have a damn clue what he did."
Behind him, John whispered something to Scott. A second later, there was a pained groan that had Virgil's attention all too quickly. "What?"
A series of turning corners on mouths and lifting eyebrows and wrinkled noses flew by so fast that Virgil didn't have time to interpret whatever conversation The Two were having, but it came to a quick end when John rolled his eyes.
"Fine," Scott muttered and headed toward the hatch.
"Don't stay out here too much longer," John said, soft but supportive. "I'll only be able to keep that one," he jutted his chin toward a huffing Scott, "at bay for so long. Work it out and leave it out here. Yeah?"
"I'm almost done."
With nothing else to say, John kicked his toes lightly into Virgil's thigh to say goodbye on his way out, his good arm visibly having to exert a fair amount of force to get Scott out the door.
Three full trash bags later, Virgil thought he might - might - be ready to tackle the house. Sure, Kyrano and Onaha had probably been at it for a few hours, but Virgil was never above helping them out when he could. They were family, not servants. This was not their responsibility.
He gave 'Two a light pat on the hull on his way out. Thanks for getting us home. Again.
How wrong was it that he was pretty damn proud of himself for managing to take the entire ride up to Dad's office without puking this time? As the door slid open, he held his breath just in case. Then he spotted Gordon hopping off Dad's desk, obviously waiting for him.
"I'm under strict orders to keep you from cleaning anything except yourself the rest of the night. Into the shower with you." He leaned over and sniffed at Virgil's chest, which he until then hadn't realized was still clad in his flight suit. "Please. Before you kill us all."
Wow. Synchronized flinching. A new Olympic event.
Awkwardly, Gordon hooked his thumb over his shoulder and started walking backwards. "I'll be in my room when you're done." He didn't say why or what for, but it was good enough.
Virgil wasn't a big believer in the healing power of even an hour-long shower - that's what his piano was for - but he had to admit, as he stepped out of the steamy goodness, he felt a lot more grounded. The still somewhat warm plate that someone left on his dresser led him even further along the road to Normal to the point where he felt his second (or was that his tenth by this point?) wind coming on. The fresh clothes were just short of a shot of caffeine. Sleep would be a long time coming.
Where all the other doors along the hall outside his room were closed, he found himself drawn to Gordon's open door. He leaned against the doorjamb and hugged his arms over his chest, watching Gordon's thumbs work miracles over the controller of the game (well, he assumed it was miraculous considering he, A, had no idea what game it was and, B, was too tired to focus his eyes enough to see any sort of score). On Gordon's bed, Alan lay splayed on his stomach with his head on the foot and feet trapping one of the pillows. He snored softly, the sound humid coming off his pillowed right arm. Neither of them had managed to get into anything but cargo shorts. Virgil guessed there was a clean shirt somewhere under the wet towels on the floor.
He really wished they would put their shirts on. Even in the dim light of the lowest setting the lights could be on, Virgil could see the bruising on both brothers' chests and arms. With a guilty pang, he realized Gordon hadn't been exaggerating every time he swore at them up on 'Five; he had several burns on his arms, already shiny with the progress of healing and burn cream. Alan's left side was one long bruise, which explained the stutter in his snore. His wrists showed the same rope burns that the other kids and their parents had.
"If you're gonna stand sentry," Gordon's voice startled him, "There's a blanket in the top rack of the chest in that corner. Get it for Snoring Sally up there, would you?"
Virgil didn't say anything, but he did grab the light blanket and flung it out to release it from its folds. He wasn't sure why, but he was surprised to find it was actually Alan's quilt from Grandma Tracy. "Isn't it a little warm for this?"
Gordon didn't even glance away from his game, but he shrugged as much as the motion of his controller would allow. "He always has a little trouble adjusting the internal thermostat the first few nights back. He'll be shivering in no time, and he'll wake up bitching about how hot it is. Then he'll be in a jacket again before breakfast."
"I didn't know that."
The quiet, thoughtful tilt to his head exonerated Virgil, easily saying No reason you should. "Until Christmas, he would usually wander in here the first few nights and sit up with this thing." He held up the controller, finally finding a good place to pause the game and shake out his wrist. "By the end of the first round, he's usually cold and ends up sleeping the night away in here. I finally just kept that ratty old thing in here. Grandma made him a new one that he keeps at school anyway. He doesn't miss this one 'til he's home. Just don't cover his feet. He hates that."
Virgil did as directed, his hands breezy and light as he tucked his brother in for the first time in he couldn't remember how long before sitting down next to Gordon, shoulder to shoulder. He didn't say anything, concentrating instead on the game, which looked innocuous enough. Cartoonish cars zipping in and out of equally animated scenes that might be a Tuscan village. No violence whatsoever, anyway.
Still focused on his game, Gordon finally asked, "You feeling better?"
"As opposed to … ?"
"It took Dad an hour to realize you hadn't come in. He kinda freaked out."
"Ah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry about that. How bad?"
"The hole in the ceiling isn't the only plaster we'll be patching in his office. I give it twenty-four hours before there's a hole for each of us for one reason or another." Gordon took a deep breath and shook his head like he had gone off track and needed to steer himself back. "But what about you? You didn't say much on the way home."
"Honestly? My brain can't even process the question right now, let alone answer. Words are a little big at the moment. Graphs and pie charts might be better. Stick figures. You know the drill."
"I have a feeling there's gonna be a lot of that going around. Break out your crayons."
Virgil snorted. Talk about your understatements … "What about you?"
"Leaving the door open."
"Huh?"
Gordon didn't answer, but he had a smile on his face Virgil couldn't quite read. The cartoon car zipped onto a cliff's edge, clearly in danger of dropping straight down into the water below like Wile E. Coyote when he ran out of road. Out of bounds, the little guy was saved by technology so that it bumped along and jerked the screen in a weird way, letting the driver know he needed to pull back onto the road. Gordon eased the controller around, bringing his cartoon vehicle back into the race. The zippy three-sixty turn it did was purely for fun. Even the character yelled a joyous "Whoo-hoo!" Little Brother wasn't trying to win.
Virgil let his head fall back against the mattress, his eyes closing out the flickering of the screen on the walls. The sun was gone now, leaving only the flood of security lights Virgil didn't even know they had. He wasn't sure which set of lights was brighter, but at the moment, neither felt natural. He let the sea breeze ghost over him, willing it to carry his worry away with it. It didn't hurt to remind himself one more time that they were home. They were safe. Gordon and Alan were right here, under his watchful eye. Nothing was going to happen to the little troublemakers again. Dad would be watching the rest of them, and Scott would catch any holes in the system. They were going to be so in each other's pockets, so cared for, that it would drive them all gloriously insane. It would be okay.
Again Gordon startled him, obviously more aware of his surroundings than his gaming betrayed. His voice was quiet, though, and maybe even a little secretive. "You saw the chair next to my door, right?" He thought about it but honestly didn't remember seeing it there. Taking his silence as answer enough, Gordon said, "Scott's got it in his crazy stupid moron head he's sitting guard duty tonight."
Well, that's just … um … huh?
He would say something along the lines of how ridiculous that was or laugh it off or something, but really, Gordon was completely serious. It wasn't all that ridiculous, and it definitely wasn't funny.
The truth was Virgil had no idea how any of them were going to handle this. Who would wake up screaming in the middle of the night? Who would finally blow up for no reason other than not having any other outlet for the frustration, the anger, the fear? Who would be the first to injure himself from running too hard or swimming too hard or simply punching out the wall because it was a better alternative to punching out a brother when they certainly couldn't punch out who they were really mad at?
More importantly - he stretched his aching fingers, knuckles cracking from too much hard scraping - who was he to say any of those reactions wasn't entirely acceptable?
If Scott felt like sleeping in a dining chair all night, why should they stop him? Hell, maybe they should be taking shifts. It wasn't like they didn't all have king-sized backaches anyway.
Stealing a glance toward the hallway, sure enough, Scott's long legs had appeared, crossed at the ankles in the hall. Why he hadn't bothered to say hello or just, you know, come into the room and hang out with them like a normal person, Virgil couldn't guess, but he wasn't about to poke at it either. He wondered if one of Brains's newfound shotguns was propped up against the wall.
If nothing else, it looked like Virgil was stuck in Gordon's room for the night. No way was he going to try to cross Scott now, not if he dozed off. Scott had the reflexes of a rattlesnake, even when startled awake.
"No sneaking out for beers tonight then. Suck." Nudging Gordon's shoulder with his own, he pointed at the controller Alan had discarded and wiggled his fingers with a little Gimme. "So how do I play this thing?"
Virgil wasn't sure why, but Gordon winced at the word "beers". He flicked his controller a little harder than usual, his movements becoming more and more snappish until he finally tossed his controller at the dresser. His hands came up to his hair, yanking hard enough that he'd probably come away with a handful if he didn't cut it out.
"Gordon?"
The kid's head snapped up, eyes furious, determined, and heartbroken at the same time. "You know what? If I want a beer with my brothers, I'm gonna have a damn beer. None of that you're too young shit either. I know for a fact, between the three of them, you've had more than a few after some lousy rescues. Dad wouldn't care today."
"No," Virgil agreed slowly. "He probably wouldn't."
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you think I'm losing it. It was funny up there, but now that we're back home, I'm saying - "
"What was funny?"
That stopped Gordon half way pushing himself off the floor. He dropped back down and eyed Virgil enough that it was starting to feel creepy. "You told me I was too young to have a beer."
"I did?"
"And I said that you sucked for letting me die … "
This time it was Virgil's turn to flinch at the word "die" because, really, ow. All of a sudden, there it was, BAM!, imminent death and screaming lungs and oh, holy hell, he was too young for this shit. He'd forgotten that conversation. He'd forgotten the wilting look on their father's face when Gordon teased him, trying so hard to not show the slightest inkling of fear, even if they all heard it, whether he thought so or not. While oxygen deprivation had never been an issue for him, he knew it could do weird things to the head, but the idea that he'd quite possibly forgotten the last conversation he'd have with his brother before they died was twisted in this weird way. No, he wouldn't have been alive to remember that he'd forgotten, but still … He'd forgotten his last conversation with his brother when it should have mattered most. Like there wasn't enough cock-knockery about the last ten hours …
Together they finished Gordon's sentence, feeling ill. " … without ever having had a beer." Oh, man. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Wow. Yeah. Sorry. I guess I just kinda blanked on - you know what?"
Virgil was the big brother here, and if he wanted to share a beer with his kid brother after the lousy day they'd had, well, he was damn well gonna do whatever it took to get his brother that beer.
Gordon raised his eyebrows at his crooked grin, a strange combination of excited and grateful. Virgil knew without saying that Gordon knew exactly what he was thinking. He nodded his head toward the sloth on the bed. "What about him?"
"Nope." Virgil grinned wide. "Just you and me."
"How are we gonna get past the warden out there?" Before Virgil could answer, Gordon was pushing himself to his feet. "Screw him. There is a beer somewhere in this house with my name on it."
Virgil took a quick moment to tuck the blanket around Alan and ghost his hand over his brother's head. He wasn't sure why it was funny, but the thought that the kid would most likely be the only one sleeping tonight amused him. Well, maybe not amused, but it seemed somehow fitting. Alan had gone to the mat for them today. He deserved a good night's sleep - which he wasn't going to get if Gordon had anything to say about it.
On the other side of the door, Gordon couldn't be bothered to keep his voice down. "You know you're an idiot, right?"
Virgil got to the doorway in time to see Scott's front chair legs hit the floor, possibly as lost as he was. "Hello, curve ball?"
"Yes, you, with your schemes and your Talk to him, Gordon, you're the only one he'll talk to and sitting here like a damn prison guard. You. Are. A. Moron."
Scott's eyes flicked up to Virgil's, wide with questions Virgil had no clue whatsoever how to answer because this clusterfuck of imminent breakdowns of little and big brothers of all sizes was hardly his forte, but Gordon snapped his fingers in front of Scott's nose, demanding he keep his attention front and center.
"You're our brother. That's it. Not our guard dog. Not our mother hen. You aren't Mom. You aren't Dad. You are our brother. You're supposed to be on the same level as the rest of us, down here. This putting yourself to a higher standard with this mythical sense of greater responsibility like you're Superman or something is getting ridiculous. You are one of us. I'm pretty sure Mom had the c-section scar to prove it. Now get your ass off that chair and come down and have a beer with us like a brother would. Stop your damn scheming and sit with us because if you don't, one of us is going to lose it. Virgil just asked me how to play a video game, for fuck's sake, and you're a lousy sheriff, and I just want one fucking thing to be normal right now."
"Gords, breathe." Virgil reached out for his brother's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off.
"You breathe."
Scott got up out of his chair, hands raised nice and peaceful-like. "Gordon?"
"What?"
"Let's go for a walk." Scott nodded back into the bedroom. "Before you wake Alan."
"I don't want to go for a walk. I want a beer with my brothers. I am not gonna die without ever having had a beer with my brothers." Gordon shook Scott's hand off and emphatically kicked the chair over and then kicked it again for good measure because he was apparently just as mad at the chair as he was every other piece of broken furniture in the house. He kicked it again, hard enough that it scuffed the wall. He threw his arms up, bent at the elbow like he was guarding his face in the boxing ring - which had Scott's back hugging the wall - and showed off his burnt arms for the first time. "We've had a truly shitty day, and I want my brothers. If you can't be that for us right now, that's fine. I get it, and I won't hold it against you. But either way, you are going to put that stupid chair away."
As Gordon bent over and picked up the gun, Scott mouthed What was that? at Virgil. Like he was supposed to know. Gordon thrust the shotgun at Scott, careful even in his temper to point it away from anyone valuable.
"Give me the shells. Now." When Scott didn't move, he propped the weapon against their brother's chest until he put his hands on it to keep it from falling as soon as Gordon let go. "I mean it."
"Do it," Virgil said. "The ones from your pocket, too."
When the shells were in Gordon's hand, he pocketed them for some special occasion. And just like that, he took in one long breath, the anger whooshing out with it. "All right," he said, calming himself. "Okay." He bent over at the waist, hands braced on his thighs, until he snapped back up with such a fragile smile on his face that Virgil thought nothing but sheer determination was going to hold it together. "Okay, so, that happened."
"Gords?"
"No, I'm not okay. And I'm pretty sure Virg here isn't anywhere near okay either. Don't ask us again."
"Virgil?"
Caught deer-in-headlights fashion, Virgil couldn't argue. Nope, he was nowhere near okay. He'd tried, but no. He wasn't exactly thrilled to be called out on it, not when he was trying so hard to be back in big brother mode, but it was there, constantly lingering. Not okay.
"I said he isn't fine," Gordon said for him. "And neither are you." He wiped his hand down his still-stubbled face, turning in a circle, only to be confronted by Scott and his damn puppy dog, let me fix iteyes. "Damn it. I can't go back in there like this. Onaha keeps a deck of cards under the bar for us, and there's no way I'm falling asleep right now. You're welcome to join us. Virg, let's go."
Without waiting to see if they were being followed, Tracy Three and Tracy Four headed into the darkness of the stairwell, elbow to elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil saw Gordon's mouth set, hard, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He knew, before Virgil even heard the soft footsteps catching up to them.
"I'll get John," Scott volunteered. "You get the booze."
FAB.
(End Chapter Five)
Follow the White Rabbit to Part Six (A), Scott and John
So. Stuff to credit. I'm entirely too pop culture, if you can't tell. Hee!
Negative, Ghost Rider… is a favorite phrase in our household (thank you, Army life). Don't mind us. We are both children of the '80s. Top Gun was essential watching at the time. Bands played the theme song every school concert you went to. You couldn't get away from that sucker. Same thing with Danger Zone and Kenny Loggins.
The Johnny Cash song which refers to the man who shot his bad bitch down is Cocaine Blues. And again with 25 Minutes to Go. I get seriously creeped out by the end of that song, but it's still a classic. Oh, by the way, Johnny Cash's name when he was born was simply JR because his parents couldn't agree on a name. He named himself Johnny Cash because the Air Force wouldn't let him enlist with only initials.
Speaking of children of the '80s. Ferris Bueller and his clarinet. Oh, lord. Never had one lesson. Apparently, neither did John. :-)
So. Gordon's playlist also included Bawitdaba and Cowboy by Kid Rock, Hair of the Dog by Nazareth, Fuel by Metallica, Sunshine of Your Love by Cream, The Good The Bad and the Ugly by Ennio Morricone, and All You Need Is Love by the Beatles. I think that's everybody.
Lady P having tea with Lisa Lowe with the cannoli is, in my mind, like Connie Corleone bringing Don Altobello the cannoli at the end of The Godfather Part III. If you don't know how that turned out, well … It's The Godfather. Heh. And Connie is every bit as vicious, if not even more so, in that movie than Michael. She's delicious. Methinks Lisa Lowe is having an interesting conversation.
The video game Gordon's playing? I have no freaking clue. Ha! Use your imaginations.
Um, I think that's everything this time around. Clearly I have seen too much television in my time. You really should take it away from me. :-)
Thank you, again, for taking the time, whether I hear about it or not. You guys rock!
On the scaffolding over 'Three's silo doors, Onaha stood with her weapon trained down at them with the same precision she wielded her chef's knife. Another click behind and above them on 'Two's scaffolding was Kyrano, not a sign of hesitation in his sight down his own barrel. Then, from the landing to the left of the individual lifts to Dad's office, Brains made his own appearance, his terrible eyesight obviously no hindrance to his ability to train loaded death at the family scrabbling backwards into a tiny stunned cluster.
"A-alan?"
"Yeah, Brains?"
Virgil had to hand it to the kid; he didn't sound the least bit worried about the weapons pointed at them or the paranoia that temporarily stayed their triggers. Good for him. Alan made his way to the front of the group so Brains could plainly see him. He even had his hands spread out to his sides, calm and peaceful. It was entirely possible that they'd all seen too many Westerns over the years.
"You-you know what The Hh-wh-hood feels like." Virgil felt John's eyes slide to find his - Feels like? - but he couldn't look away from the barrel aimed right at his big brother's (obviously vulnerable, go for the weakest link to set your prey off balance) head. "Are you a-alone?"
"It's us, Brains. Just us. Fermat and I checked all the 'birds for trackers before we took off, too, just like you said to. We're clean."
The cool way Brains regarded him, still not a proven friend, said they had all better lay off the TV for a while. Virgil didn't like how comfortable Brains looked with a gun in his hands. Brains, however, didn't seem to care what kind of looks he was getting. The stutter was there, but the Fuck You under the tone was unmistakable. Until he got his answers, he wouldn't give an inch. "No-no-nobody moves. Alan, Fermat, you boys check 'Two for stow-stow-hide-hitchhikers. Mister Tracy, he reads mm-minds. I n-n-need you to tell me something only ww-w-we would know without thu-thinking about it."
Dad stepped forward out of the bundle of his children, his arms spread peacefully wide as Alan had done. Yep, too many Westerns for the Tracy boys.
"My mother taught you how to handle that shotgun out in the north pasture of my parents' place. When it was over, you made me come out with you to dig the shells out of the trees. Mother said you were a good enough shot that Dad would be impressed, but then she reminded us both that we needed to know how to shoot so we would know we didn't have to. We're alone, my friend, I swear."
While the aura surrounding their father was fascinating to watch in that moment, Virgil couldn't help focusing on Brains. Of his many talents, lying wasn't one of them. If he felt something, it was all over his face. In this case, as Dad went on, Brains seemed to sag more and more until he deflated completely with relief.
"Bb-b-boys?"
"We're good, Brains."
Shotguns clunked to the scaffolding like the weight of them simply became too heavy for all of them. They remained in their protective, elevated positions, braced along the rails, even as the parents wielding them ran for the ladders to get down to the bay floor and their children.
The whole of the silo swirled in a chaotic jumble of color and limbs and shouts, something that had never greeted them after a rescue before. Virgil couldn't describe it, really; if he were to try to paint it, it would have no definable shape at all. Too much happened, too fast, too warm, too full. Mostly, there would be pockets of color, bright oranges and yellows and greens and blues, chunks of relief and love and family. Black spots would fill the empty spaces, though, their thoughts flickering on the canvas like lightning bugs in the night. Black, fearful, angry spaces.
Mostly, those black spaces would be his father's eyes. Because even as he was surrounded by all of his children, alive and whole, Virgil could see Dad's loss like black ichor overwhelming his eyes.
He thought he'd been afraid up there on 'Five. He thought he'd understood fear then, knowing he was about to die in what could only have been a nightmare because, really, who gets to die with all of their most wicked fears attacking them at once? Fire, violence, suffocation, surrounded helplessly by his family dying around him - all that was missing was the rushing wave of snow and he could have filled out the entire list of Top Five Ways Virgil Tracy Does Not Want To Die.
But now, seeing his father like this, a dark pillar in a sea of jubilation and Holy Hell We're All Still Alive, standing so alone and angry? Now Virgil was afraid. Now, above all else, he knew things couldn't possibly ever be the same.
But then Alan and Fermat broke away running from the group, laughing, with Scott close behind Alan's heels. The lift door slammed down between them, securing the smaller boys from Big Brother's red but not exactly threatening face. Alan even twittered his fingers at Scott, the little tease. Whatever it was Virgil missed, it must have been good.
At his side, John nudged his shoulder and crinkled his forehead to ask the question Virgil figured none of them could answer honestly the next few days, but John gratefully didn't say anything. Taking it as a cue, Virgil laughed, even though he wasn't so sure what he was laughing about, and let it fade out in time with everyone else's. Darting his eyes to make sure no one else had seen his distraction probably wasn't all that stealthy, but no one else seemed to notice.
When Scott turned around in his lift, shaking his head, Virgil finally saw why he was actually chasing the kids around. He took one look at all the green foam on the floor and decided he didn't even want to know.
Kyrano shook his head at the mess, but Dad put a hand on his shoulder. "Leave it alone for tonight. The boys can clean it up in the morning."
"Mister Tracy - "
"Please." Dad didn't wait for an answer, but he took Onaha by the hand and led her toward the lift that would end behind John's portrait. "Now, what can we do for you?"
"Order pizza?" Gordon snickered helpfully, ducking into his lift before anyone could catch him.
From the moment Virgil's own (rather sticky) lift door closed on him and started that too fast ascent, the more he wanted it to go back down, stop, take him anywhere but up. But no, the world didn't cooperate with him like that, not when he wanted it to, so the door slid open, revealing a jagged tear above him and pile of plaster on the floor in front of him, he felt his spine snap into the rail behind him. Furniture was overturned. Ropes lay in a coil next to the foot of the desk. And yup, that was blood on the plaster.
Nope. Not ready for this yet.
He absolutely had to get the almighty hell out of there.
There were a handful of useful excuses about why he had to go back - yeah, he totally forgot to put the, um, parking break on and left the keys in the ignition in his rush to get to bed, yeah - but he wasn't about to draw attention to himself. They needed to get John's head properly looked at, and Scott's. Dad, too. They were a mess, even more than the office. They needed to come first. He'd just go down and make sure he did whatever it was that he'd say he was doing later and make his way up when he didn't feel like an elephant had taken up residence on his chest. No big deal.
Manipulating the controls on his lift, he told himself the gut-drop nausea was the same he got every time he rode his way down to his 'bird. Nope, it had nothing to do with the day they'd had at all. He was overtired, hadn't had anything to eat in nearly thirty hours, and still couldn't swallow away the adrenaline in the back of his throat that blasted him over and over throughout the day to keep him going those next few minutes. That was all it was.
Of course, his bed was this way …
But he'd left, um, something, that way …
Four hours ago, he should have been dead. Four hours ago, he was never going to see this beautiful piece of machinery again. And that didn't even compare to the idea that, four hours ago, he was never going to see his brothers again. He wasn't going to get to tell Alan that no, "don't you have homework to do" wasn't the best he could do. He wouldn't get to say so many things he knew didn't need to be said but should be said because everybody needs to hear those things now and then. Four hours ago, he wasn't going to see so many things that, while they were only things, it would break his heart not to have a piece of them one more time.
Four hours ago, this was all gone.
He didn't have anything in his stomach to throw up, but, boy, it sure tried. Good thing he'd made it as far as the sick bay, huh?
He cleaned up with a little more attention than his body really had the energy for, scrubbing away at the small metal diamonds on the floor even after the sour of his stomach was long gone and the waste bin was full of cleaning wipes. But then he found dried blood on the floor a few feet away from some rescue he wouldn't be able to pinpoint and had to get rid of that, too. He was already on his hands and knees anyway. Might as well get it all. And the vinyl of the cots needed a good scrubbing. They were always sanitary - he wouldn't dream of taking his family out on a rescue without having scoured things to as close to clean (Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Grandma would say) as it could get - but a little extra effort wouldn't hurt.
By the time he arrived at the pilot seats, he lost count of how many packages of wipes he'd gone through. It couldn't be that many, though, not when his girl still felt so violated. He'd make it better. He'd make her gleam again, because he was never letting Alan back on board his machine thinking she looked dark again.
"Virgil?"
Ow.
Um, yeah, the dashboard was still above his head there.
"Sorry, man."
Virgil winced, his hand immediately chasing the sting in the back of his head while he slid (gingerly this time) out from under the console, hands shoring his balance and propping him against the jean-clad leg behind him. He turned his head up to Scott but didn't quite manage to get his slap-happy eyes to coordinate enough to look at him. Besides, Virgil knew what was there. Scott's face was set, determined to get through the rest of the day without further injuries (good luck with that one if he was going around sneaking up on people), but his eyes would have that concerned I'm Your Brother and You Will Tell Me What I Want To Hear look they got after a job. They'd never tell him, but Scott Tracy was the dictionary definition of predictable (this was probably the wrong business for that, but oh, well). Any other day, that might be comforting; today it was another symptom of the what the hell they had limped through that made Virgil want to take his Mister Clean to every single surface he could get his hands on.
Instead, he smiled up at the man. Nope, nothing to see here, boss. "Hey, Scott. John."
The synchronized glances were rather amusing as they both catalogued his whole body for signs of trauma, obviously found nothing, and turned their attention back to the patiently waiting stare directed up at them. While John was satisfied and kept a good few steps back, Scott's eyes narrowed, his crow's feet ejecting their talons like he could actually see through Virgil's soul if he tore at it hard enough. Virgil wasn't entirely sure he couldn't.
"You shouldn't be out here."
"As soon as I get this mess cleaned up."
John glanced around the cockpit and shook his head. "Come inside. This can wait until tomorrow."
"I'm almost done. Shouldn't you be in the sick room?"
"Special dispensation. Shouldn't you be in the house?"
"Not until she's clean."
Scott shrugged, his arms flapping to say Fine, and then he twisted around until he found the packet of wipes on the console. He pulled a long string of them out before throwing the package at John. "Then let's get it done" was all Scott said before he took his wipes to the chair Virgil thought of as Gordon's. He wouldn't tell Scott so, but he'd already done that chair - twice. The notion that either John or Gordon spent any time in that chair before Virgil got to it made his skin crawl as it was. Another wipe down wouldn't hurt.
It was maybe five minutes of quiet, knuckle-scraping cleaning later that Scott finally (got bored) broke the silence. "How long are you planning to stay out here?"
"Where's Dad?" Virgil countered.
"On the phone with Lady P trying to convince her to come home. I don't think he's going to let anyone out of his sight for a while. Seriously, Virg, come inside. You're scaring him."
"Since when does she not want to be here?"
"Our lovely Lady is having a sit down with Lisa Lowe in," Scott glanced at his watch, rolling his eyes as he calculated the time difference, "about six hours. Tea and cannoli and an offer she can't refuse, if you get my drift."
"Speaking of food," John said, tapping his own wrist at Scott.
"Onaha made dinner. Please, Virgil? You've already been out here over an hour. It can wait. Please?"
And there it was. Twice, even. Please. Virgil wondered if Scott actually knew what kind of weapon that word was against his brothers because, really, he didn't use it all that often. Scott, like Dad, gave orders more than asked. Oh, he had his manners and all, but when he was only talking with them, when he wanted them to do something? Please wasn't a part of his vocabulary, not unless he truly meant it.
But this time? This time Virgil was a twenty-year-old kid who was … well, he was … he didn't know what he was, but he was thisclose to begging his brothers not to make him go in there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because this time, it was all different. This was their home. It had been the only truly safe place they'd had since Mom died. Even their 'birds hadn't had that element of safe to them, not when they'd already shed blood and seen death the way they had. Yes, home had escaped death, but it had been violated in a way he couldn't put words to.
He hadn't even seen it yet, but he knew. This time, it was worse than lingering nightmares and death.
He wasn't scared. Not really. It must look like he was scared out of his mind. He'd think he was scared if he were Scott or John. It wasn't fear, though. He didn't know what it was, but it wasn't fear. He was angry. Oh, hell yes, he was angry. And if he was going to be any good to any of them, he had to get this out of his system out here where it couldn't hurt anyone. The house had enough hurt in it right now.
How many times over the last few months since Paris had Virgil calmed Scott's nightmares with the reassurance that he was home, that he was safe? How many times had they told each other Alan would be okay, that they could make things right with him again if they only got him home? How could Virgil ever in good conscience again tell his brothers that things would be all right because they were home?
There wasn't a word for what had been done to them.
There wasn't a word for what had been done to his ability to take care of his family - or his ability to let them take care of him.
Virgil wasn't sure how, but when John said "Please?" it came out sounding even worse than Scott's.
He wanted to beg them to ask him to storm any other castle. He'd do it, fearlessly, sword in hand and brave heart on his sleeve for all to see. He'd follow his brothers anywhere. Just not there. He wanted to scream at them that it was his turn, that he'd take care of everyone else when he'd had a chance to take care of himself because he was no good to them until he did. Why was an hour to scour away the scum of the day that much to ask?
Then John's hand was on his, staying the scrubbing. Virgil yanked his hand away as gently as possible and then let the wipe go back to erasing the scuzz of the day.
"Virg? I don't think The Hood bothered with removing the facing of your control panel. There's nothing under there that wasn't there before today."
"You don't know what he might have done," Virgil countered. "We don't have a damn clue what he did."
Behind him, John whispered something to Scott. A second later, there was a pained groan that had Virgil's attention all too quickly. "What?"
A series of turning corners on mouths and lifting eyebrows and wrinkled noses flew by so fast that Virgil didn't have time to interpret whatever conversation The Two were having, but it came to a quick end when John rolled his eyes.
"Fine," Scott muttered and headed toward the hatch.
"Don't stay out here too much longer," John said, soft but supportive. "I'll only be able to keep that one," he jutted his chin toward a huffing Scott, "at bay for so long. Work it out and leave it out here. Yeah?"
"I'm almost done."
With nothing else to say, John kicked his toes lightly into Virgil's thigh to say goodbye on his way out, his good arm visibly having to exert a fair amount of force to get Scott out the door.
Three full trash bags later, Virgil thought he might - might - be ready to tackle the house. Sure, Kyrano and Onaha had probably been at it for a few hours, but Virgil was never above helping them out when he could. They were family, not servants. This was not their responsibility.
He gave 'Two a light pat on the hull on his way out. Thanks for getting us home. Again.
How wrong was it that he was pretty damn proud of himself for managing to take the entire ride up to Dad's office without puking this time? As the door slid open, he held his breath just in case. Then he spotted Gordon hopping off Dad's desk, obviously waiting for him.
"I'm under strict orders to keep you from cleaning anything except yourself the rest of the night. Into the shower with you." He leaned over and sniffed at Virgil's chest, which he until then hadn't realized was still clad in his flight suit. "Please. Before you kill us all."
Wow. Synchronized flinching. A new Olympic event.
Awkwardly, Gordon hooked his thumb over his shoulder and started walking backwards. "I'll be in my room when you're done." He didn't say why or what for, but it was good enough.
Virgil wasn't a big believer in the healing power of even an hour-long shower - that's what his piano was for - but he had to admit, as he stepped out of the steamy goodness, he felt a lot more grounded. The still somewhat warm plate that someone left on his dresser led him even further along the road to Normal to the point where he felt his second (or was that his tenth by this point?) wind coming on. The fresh clothes were just short of a shot of caffeine. Sleep would be a long time coming.
Where all the other doors along the hall outside his room were closed, he found himself drawn to Gordon's open door. He leaned against the doorjamb and hugged his arms over his chest, watching Gordon's thumbs work miracles over the controller of the game (well, he assumed it was miraculous considering he, A, had no idea what game it was and, B, was too tired to focus his eyes enough to see any sort of score). On Gordon's bed, Alan lay splayed on his stomach with his head on the foot and feet trapping one of the pillows. He snored softly, the sound humid coming off his pillowed right arm. Neither of them had managed to get into anything but cargo shorts. Virgil guessed there was a clean shirt somewhere under the wet towels on the floor.
He really wished they would put their shirts on. Even in the dim light of the lowest setting the lights could be on, Virgil could see the bruising on both brothers' chests and arms. With a guilty pang, he realized Gordon hadn't been exaggerating every time he swore at them up on 'Five; he had several burns on his arms, already shiny with the progress of healing and burn cream. Alan's left side was one long bruise, which explained the stutter in his snore. His wrists showed the same rope burns that the other kids and their parents had.
"If you're gonna stand sentry," Gordon's voice startled him, "There's a blanket in the top rack of the chest in that corner. Get it for Snoring Sally up there, would you?"
Virgil didn't say anything, but he did grab the light blanket and flung it out to release it from its folds. He wasn't sure why, but he was surprised to find it was actually Alan's quilt from Grandma Tracy. "Isn't it a little warm for this?"
Gordon didn't even glance away from his game, but he shrugged as much as the motion of his controller would allow. "He always has a little trouble adjusting the internal thermostat the first few nights back. He'll be shivering in no time, and he'll wake up bitching about how hot it is. Then he'll be in a jacket again before breakfast."
"I didn't know that."
The quiet, thoughtful tilt to his head exonerated Virgil, easily saying No reason you should. "Until Christmas, he would usually wander in here the first few nights and sit up with this thing." He held up the controller, finally finding a good place to pause the game and shake out his wrist. "By the end of the first round, he's usually cold and ends up sleeping the night away in here. I finally just kept that ratty old thing in here. Grandma made him a new one that he keeps at school anyway. He doesn't miss this one 'til he's home. Just don't cover his feet. He hates that."
Virgil did as directed, his hands breezy and light as he tucked his brother in for the first time in he couldn't remember how long before sitting down next to Gordon, shoulder to shoulder. He didn't say anything, concentrating instead on the game, which looked innocuous enough. Cartoonish cars zipping in and out of equally animated scenes that might be a Tuscan village. No violence whatsoever, anyway.
Still focused on his game, Gordon finally asked, "You feeling better?"
"As opposed to … ?"
"It took Dad an hour to realize you hadn't come in. He kinda freaked out."
"Ah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry about that. How bad?"
"The hole in the ceiling isn't the only plaster we'll be patching in his office. I give it twenty-four hours before there's a hole for each of us for one reason or another." Gordon took a deep breath and shook his head like he had gone off track and needed to steer himself back. "But what about you? You didn't say much on the way home."
"Honestly? My brain can't even process the question right now, let alone answer. Words are a little big at the moment. Graphs and pie charts might be better. Stick figures. You know the drill."
"I have a feeling there's gonna be a lot of that going around. Break out your crayons."
Virgil snorted. Talk about your understatements … "What about you?"
"Leaving the door open."
"Huh?"
Gordon didn't answer, but he had a smile on his face Virgil couldn't quite read. The cartoon car zipped onto a cliff's edge, clearly in danger of dropping straight down into the water below like Wile E. Coyote when he ran out of road. Out of bounds, the little guy was saved by technology so that it bumped along and jerked the screen in a weird way, letting the driver know he needed to pull back onto the road. Gordon eased the controller around, bringing his cartoon vehicle back into the race. The zippy three-sixty turn it did was purely for fun. Even the character yelled a joyous "Whoo-hoo!" Little Brother wasn't trying to win.
Virgil let his head fall back against the mattress, his eyes closing out the flickering of the screen on the walls. The sun was gone now, leaving only the flood of security lights Virgil didn't even know they had. He wasn't sure which set of lights was brighter, but at the moment, neither felt natural. He let the sea breeze ghost over him, willing it to carry his worry away with it. It didn't hurt to remind himself one more time that they were home. They were safe. Gordon and Alan were right here, under his watchful eye. Nothing was going to happen to the little troublemakers again. Dad would be watching the rest of them, and Scott would catch any holes in the system. They were going to be so in each other's pockets, so cared for, that it would drive them all gloriously insane. It would be okay.
Again Gordon startled him, obviously more aware of his surroundings than his gaming betrayed. His voice was quiet, though, and maybe even a little secretive. "You saw the chair next to my door, right?" He thought about it but honestly didn't remember seeing it there. Taking his silence as answer enough, Gordon said, "Scott's got it in his crazy stupid moron head he's sitting guard duty tonight."
Well, that's just … um … huh?
He would say something along the lines of how ridiculous that was or laugh it off or something, but really, Gordon was completely serious. It wasn't all that ridiculous, and it definitely wasn't funny.
The truth was Virgil had no idea how any of them were going to handle this. Who would wake up screaming in the middle of the night? Who would finally blow up for no reason other than not having any other outlet for the frustration, the anger, the fear? Who would be the first to injure himself from running too hard or swimming too hard or simply punching out the wall because it was a better alternative to punching out a brother when they certainly couldn't punch out who they were really mad at?
More importantly - he stretched his aching fingers, knuckles cracking from too much hard scraping - who was he to say any of those reactions wasn't entirely acceptable?
If Scott felt like sleeping in a dining chair all night, why should they stop him? Hell, maybe they should be taking shifts. It wasn't like they didn't all have king-sized backaches anyway.
Stealing a glance toward the hallway, sure enough, Scott's long legs had appeared, crossed at the ankles in the hall. Why he hadn't bothered to say hello or just, you know, come into the room and hang out with them like a normal person, Virgil couldn't guess, but he wasn't about to poke at it either. He wondered if one of Brains's newfound shotguns was propped up against the wall.
If nothing else, it looked like Virgil was stuck in Gordon's room for the night. No way was he going to try to cross Scott now, not if he dozed off. Scott had the reflexes of a rattlesnake, even when startled awake.
"No sneaking out for beers tonight then. Suck." Nudging Gordon's shoulder with his own, he pointed at the controller Alan had discarded and wiggled his fingers with a little Gimme. "So how do I play this thing?"
Virgil wasn't sure why, but Gordon winced at the word "beers". He flicked his controller a little harder than usual, his movements becoming more and more snappish until he finally tossed his controller at the dresser. His hands came up to his hair, yanking hard enough that he'd probably come away with a handful if he didn't cut it out.
"Gordon?"
The kid's head snapped up, eyes furious, determined, and heartbroken at the same time. "You know what? If I want a beer with my brothers, I'm gonna have a damn beer. None of that you're too young shit either. I know for a fact, between the three of them, you've had more than a few after some lousy rescues. Dad wouldn't care today."
"No," Virgil agreed slowly. "He probably wouldn't."
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you think I'm losing it. It was funny up there, but now that we're back home, I'm saying - "
"What was funny?"
That stopped Gordon half way pushing himself off the floor. He dropped back down and eyed Virgil enough that it was starting to feel creepy. "You told me I was too young to have a beer."
"I did?"
"And I said that you sucked for letting me die … "
This time it was Virgil's turn to flinch at the word "die" because, really, ow. All of a sudden, there it was, BAM!, imminent death and screaming lungs and oh, holy hell, he was too young for this shit. He'd forgotten that conversation. He'd forgotten the wilting look on their father's face when Gordon teased him, trying so hard to not show the slightest inkling of fear, even if they all heard it, whether he thought so or not. While oxygen deprivation had never been an issue for him, he knew it could do weird things to the head, but the idea that he'd quite possibly forgotten the last conversation he'd have with his brother before they died was twisted in this weird way. No, he wouldn't have been alive to remember that he'd forgotten, but still … He'd forgotten his last conversation with his brother when it should have mattered most. Like there wasn't enough cock-knockery about the last ten hours …
Together they finished Gordon's sentence, feeling ill. " … without ever having had a beer." Oh, man. He ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Wow. Yeah. Sorry. I guess I just kinda blanked on - you know what?"
Virgil was the big brother here, and if he wanted to share a beer with his kid brother after the lousy day they'd had, well, he was damn well gonna do whatever it took to get his brother that beer.
Gordon raised his eyebrows at his crooked grin, a strange combination of excited and grateful. Virgil knew without saying that Gordon knew exactly what he was thinking. He nodded his head toward the sloth on the bed. "What about him?"
"Nope." Virgil grinned wide. "Just you and me."
"How are we gonna get past the warden out there?" Before Virgil could answer, Gordon was pushing himself to his feet. "Screw him. There is a beer somewhere in this house with my name on it."
Virgil took a quick moment to tuck the blanket around Alan and ghost his hand over his brother's head. He wasn't sure why it was funny, but the thought that the kid would most likely be the only one sleeping tonight amused him. Well, maybe not amused, but it seemed somehow fitting. Alan had gone to the mat for them today. He deserved a good night's sleep - which he wasn't going to get if Gordon had anything to say about it.
On the other side of the door, Gordon couldn't be bothered to keep his voice down. "You know you're an idiot, right?"
Virgil got to the doorway in time to see Scott's front chair legs hit the floor, possibly as lost as he was. "Hello, curve ball?"
"Yes, you, with your schemes and your Talk to him, Gordon, you're the only one he'll talk to and sitting here like a damn prison guard. You. Are. A. Moron."
Scott's eyes flicked up to Virgil's, wide with questions Virgil had no clue whatsoever how to answer because this clusterfuck of imminent breakdowns of little and big brothers of all sizes was hardly his forte, but Gordon snapped his fingers in front of Scott's nose, demanding he keep his attention front and center.
"You're our brother. That's it. Not our guard dog. Not our mother hen. You aren't Mom. You aren't Dad. You are our brother. You're supposed to be on the same level as the rest of us, down here. This putting yourself to a higher standard with this mythical sense of greater responsibility like you're Superman or something is getting ridiculous. You are one of us. I'm pretty sure Mom had the c-section scar to prove it. Now get your ass off that chair and come down and have a beer with us like a brother would. Stop your damn scheming and sit with us because if you don't, one of us is going to lose it. Virgil just asked me how to play a video game, for fuck's sake, and you're a lousy sheriff, and I just want one fucking thing to be normal right now."
"Gords, breathe." Virgil reached out for his brother's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off.
"You breathe."
Scott got up out of his chair, hands raised nice and peaceful-like. "Gordon?"
"What?"
"Let's go for a walk." Scott nodded back into the bedroom. "Before you wake Alan."
"I don't want to go for a walk. I want a beer with my brothers. I am not gonna die without ever having had a beer with my brothers." Gordon shook Scott's hand off and emphatically kicked the chair over and then kicked it again for good measure because he was apparently just as mad at the chair as he was every other piece of broken furniture in the house. He kicked it again, hard enough that it scuffed the wall. He threw his arms up, bent at the elbow like he was guarding his face in the boxing ring - which had Scott's back hugging the wall - and showed off his burnt arms for the first time. "We've had a truly shitty day, and I want my brothers. If you can't be that for us right now, that's fine. I get it, and I won't hold it against you. But either way, you are going to put that stupid chair away."
As Gordon bent over and picked up the gun, Scott mouthed What was that? at Virgil. Like he was supposed to know. Gordon thrust the shotgun at Scott, careful even in his temper to point it away from anyone valuable.
"Give me the shells. Now." When Scott didn't move, he propped the weapon against their brother's chest until he put his hands on it to keep it from falling as soon as Gordon let go. "I mean it."
"Do it," Virgil said. "The ones from your pocket, too."
When the shells were in Gordon's hand, he pocketed them for some special occasion. And just like that, he took in one long breath, the anger whooshing out with it. "All right," he said, calming himself. "Okay." He bent over at the waist, hands braced on his thighs, until he snapped back up with such a fragile smile on his face that Virgil thought nothing but sheer determination was going to hold it together. "Okay, so, that happened."
"Gords?"
"No, I'm not okay. And I'm pretty sure Virg here isn't anywhere near okay either. Don't ask us again."
"Virgil?"
Caught deer-in-headlights fashion, Virgil couldn't argue. Nope, he was nowhere near okay. He'd tried, but no. He wasn't exactly thrilled to be called out on it, not when he was trying so hard to be back in big brother mode, but it was there, constantly lingering. Not okay.
"I said he isn't fine," Gordon said for him. "And neither are you." He wiped his hand down his still-stubbled face, turning in a circle, only to be confronted by Scott and his damn puppy dog, let me fix iteyes. "Damn it. I can't go back in there like this. Onaha keeps a deck of cards under the bar for us, and there's no way I'm falling asleep right now. You're welcome to join us. Virg, let's go."
Without waiting to see if they were being followed, Tracy Three and Tracy Four headed into the darkness of the stairwell, elbow to elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil saw Gordon's mouth set, hard, but there was a twinkle in his eye. He knew, before Virgil even heard the soft footsteps catching up to them.
"I'll get John," Scott volunteered. "You get the booze."
FAB.
(End Chapter Five)
Follow the White Rabbit to Part Six (A), Scott and John
So. Stuff to credit. I'm entirely too pop culture, if you can't tell. Hee!
Negative, Ghost Rider… is a favorite phrase in our household (thank you, Army life). Don't mind us. We are both children of the '80s. Top Gun was essential watching at the time. Bands played the theme song every school concert you went to. You couldn't get away from that sucker. Same thing with Danger Zone and Kenny Loggins.
The Johnny Cash song which refers to the man who shot his bad bitch down is Cocaine Blues. And again with 25 Minutes to Go. I get seriously creeped out by the end of that song, but it's still a classic. Oh, by the way, Johnny Cash's name when he was born was simply JR because his parents couldn't agree on a name. He named himself Johnny Cash because the Air Force wouldn't let him enlist with only initials.
Speaking of children of the '80s. Ferris Bueller and his clarinet. Oh, lord. Never had one lesson. Apparently, neither did John. :-)
So. Gordon's playlist also included Bawitdaba and Cowboy by Kid Rock, Hair of the Dog by Nazareth, Fuel by Metallica, Sunshine of Your Love by Cream, The Good The Bad and the Ugly by Ennio Morricone, and All You Need Is Love by the Beatles. I think that's everybody.
Lady P having tea with Lisa Lowe with the cannoli is, in my mind, like Connie Corleone bringing Don Altobello the cannoli at the end of The Godfather Part III. If you don't know how that turned out, well … It's The Godfather. Heh. And Connie is every bit as vicious, if not even more so, in that movie than Michael. She's delicious. Methinks Lisa Lowe is having an interesting conversation.
The video game Gordon's playing? I have no freaking clue. Ha! Use your imaginations.
Um, I think that's everything this time around. Clearly I have seen too much television in my time. You really should take it away from me. :-)
Thank you, again, for taking the time, whether I hear about it or not. You guys rock!