THUNDERBIRDS FIC: He Is, They Are (10b/10)
Since pretty much everyone had been forbidden to clean anything else in the house (ahem, Virgil) until noon the next day, the dining area was still enough of a mess that dinner was being set up in the living room with card tables. Dad assured them he'd survived many a holiday with them, along with plastic plates, vinyl tablecloths, and Solo cups. Gordon wondered if there would be a designated Kids' Table.
Virgil peeled off from the herd along the way, his eyes lit with a wicked something Gordon couldn't help being proud of. Someone was up to no good.
Hooking his thumb toward the escapee, Gordon asked Scott, "Where's he going?"
"No clue."
From the top of the steps that led into the dropped floor of the living room, Gordon had to wonder how Dad survived this rumored Christmas tradition of plastic. Having Alan and Scott put one of those things together, getting the catches to actually catch on the legs and not have the table wobble until the beverages tipped off, was near impossible. It was enough to make Gordon want to up end the entire contraption. There was no way Dad and Uncle Tom got through more than one holiday of that together. No way.
The rest of dinner felt normal, like the whole family - all thirteen of them, except the sorely missed Grandma - just was again. Until Dad had to go speechifying, it was even fun. But no, the old man had to go and ruin it all.
"You all know that words are not my specialty," Dad said from the head of Adult Table Number Three. "Either I say too much, I say too little, or I say the wrong thing and we're all in trouble for a week. When it comes down to it, I hope, though I don't have the right words, you all still know the words in my heart for each and every one of you. This family would not be complete without each and every one of you. Thank you for coming home, and thank you for making sure the rest of us made it home to you. Thank you for making this place home. To my family."
Feeling awkward but completely in agreement with all of it, Gordon hoped someone would stuff some steak in Dad's mouth before he could be any more sincere or thoughtful.
There was a reason Tracy men didn't do speeches.
Once everyone was done, the TV came on so they (Gordon, Brains, and Tin-Tin) could catch the game replay while they cleaned up. Somewhere around the top of the third, John and Scott cornered Dad. He didn't look entirely happy about it, but he followed them out of the living room. A few minutes later, Lady Penelope and Brains stealthily collected Alan and Virgil, leaving Gordon to finish up.
Keeping one eye on the game while he worked, Gordon breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't until he hollered at the stunningly bad one-two-three bottom fifth inning that he realized he was alone in the room. For the first time since that alarm went off yesterday morning, he was completely alone. Not a single soul was there to be grateful he was still alive or admiring that he was acting too much like a grown up or concerned he wasn't grown up enough. For a few pitches, he could just stand there and be a guy (not a kid or a man, just a guy) who would love his Royals, win or lose, until he took in his last breath.
For the first time in he lost track of how many hours, he was simply Gordon.
"Gords."
Gordon rocked back onto his heels, but he couldn't drag his eyes off the television. "Hmm? What?"
"Uh, meeting?"
"Uh, baseball? Mauer's having an off day. It might be the only - OH, COME ON!" Just as both the Twins and Royals managers stalked onto the field, Gordon threw his shoe at the television. "Off your knees, Blue! You're blowin' the game!"
"That's it. You're outta here." Scott's arm wrapped tightly around Gordon's neck, bending him in half at the waist and leaving him essentially blind. He steered Gordon through the halls and up the stairs, miming a detour into the frame when they came to the library door before pulling back in time to prevent the first concussion back. Yeah, because Gordon so wanted to be benched before they even were up to bat again.
When Scott let him up, John stood in front of Dad, looking like he was finally done for the day. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed and shifted his shoulder as much as he could around the sling strap. "I don't know what else I can tell you. We've made our decision."
"I'm not arguing with the decision, John; I'm arguing with the timing of it." Dad wiped his hand down his face, which did nothing to lighten the bruises under his eyes. "It's going to take time to regain the world's trust. We have a target on our backs now, which may not be a risk even our closest friends will be willing to take. Things will be that much more dangerous out there for us now."
"There was already a target on our backs," Virgil said softly from the ornate chocolate leather sofa. Gordon wanted to wash that guilty green color from his face. Hadn't they already established the custody of guilt in all this? "We just didn't know it."
Scott gave Gordon a gentle push toward Virgil's sanctuary on his way to John's side. Gordon couldn't help being amused at how their ranks immediately closed up around Dad (rounded out by Lady Penelope and Brains), banishing anyone on the sofa to the Unpaid Hacks Section.
Plopping down next to Virgil, Gordon leaned into his shoulder, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. For whatever reason, that particular couch had a tendency to induce sleep in him (not that it would be that hard right now). Perhaps it was the floor to twelve foot ceiling walls entirely lined with books and archaeological artifacts and moon rocks. Books made for good pillows, especially the kind Dad kept around.
Still, he should probably pretend to put up the appearance he thought he had a voice in what was happening. "What'd we miss?" he asked. "Where'd Alan go?"
Virgil shrugged. "He wanted to be alone. Unless he gives Dad a reason not to be, he's home until the next semester starts in August, so it's not like we can't hunt him down later. Otherwise, not much. Brains isn't saying anything either way. He won't put in the calls for parts until Dad gives him a go."
"So it's kids versus parents. Nice."
Another half hour of discussion went by with Dad and Scott raising their voices while Virgil and Gordon watched the Wimbledon conversation from their sofa box seats. Back and forth, should they or shouldn't they, Dad's conscience, Scott's nerve, John's safety, loyalty, responsibility, everyone's safety, logistics, blah blah blah. Anyone else in the room might as well have been invisible.
Gordon was about ready to go back to the Royals when Dad crossed his arms and turned his attention to the sofa. "I'm not hearing anything from the two of you. Virgil?"
"I think everyone has a point about everyone else's points, but honestly? We've talked it to death. I don't think it's possible for us not to be International Rescue anymore. So let's just get this call out of the way so we can go to bed. We'll have a lot of work to do tomorrow."
"Gordon?"
"If a task is once begun, see it through 'til it's done." Gordon wasn't the least surprised when his brothers joined him to finish their grandmother's favorite poem in unison with him. "Be your task either great or small, do it well or not at all." Over the collective grinning groans at his apparent (deliberate) sentimentality, he said, "We aren't done yet, Dad. If we quit now, all we did was try to do a great thing badly."
Scott leaned over from his new perch on the arm of the sofa and whispered in his ear, "When did you go evil genius on me?"
Without looking away, Gordon craned his chin toward Scott's ear and whispered back, "That was Alan."
"Sneaky little shit."
"Copy that."
John swiped the remote from the table and tossed it to Penny, one last overriding of their father's authority. "Make the call."
"Jeff," Lady P said, which sounded an awful lot like They're doing this with or without you, so you might as well give in and make the call.
"Far be it from be to do a great thing badly," he said. He took a beat to focus on each of his children, studying their faces like he realized they weren't children anymore. As much as it probably hurt him - Gordon supposed it was every parent's greatest thrill and worst fear in one - Gordon could see he saw it, too: Jeff Tracy's babies weren't babies anymore. Four men stood in front of him. Heaven and Hell help him. He mumbled something to himself, low and amusingly irritated, and pulled the trigger. "Do it."
One perfectly manicured pink nail thumbed the remote.
Dad threw his shoulders back a little bit straighter and tugged down his t-shirt. No one expected Billionaire Jeff Tracy to appear anywhere in a plain t-shirt, especially the tabloids. For him to show up in any kind of meeting dressed so casually, there had to be a good reason. He wanted her to see him as an ordinary man in a t-shirt with ordinary, good kids not in uniform. Gordon couldn't help thinking Dad knew this was coming even before they all ganged up on him - and he dressed for the occasion. Nice.
Gordon never got tired of watching the stack of three motorized shelves that first moved outward from the rest of the bookcase before gliding up out of the way so the thirty-two inch screen could slide forward. So damn cool. Lady P hopped off the table corner with the same airy grace she did everything else. She aimed the remote at the eye at the top of the screen until all that was left to do was wait.
"Be brilliant, boys," she instructed them as John took a seat on the other sofa arm, lining the four of them in place, the Von Trapp-ed Tracy children. (Do, a deer, a female deer!) At the last second, Virgil switched places with John with a pointed glare at the sling John was trying very hard to get out of. "It will be all right."
As long as she was truly as scary as Dad said, sure.
To prove her point, Lady P raised her hand with a dainty flair to silently count off the seconds on her fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two.
The screen cut from black to blonde as Lisa Lowe sat down at a desk in a secure location she'd been directed to in New York. She adjusted the camera so that she was framed with the plain gray masonry behind her head before she sat back with a certain degree of nervousness that Gordon couldn't help being grateful for. It would have scared him a lot more if she wasn't nervous. "Hello?"
One last breath and Dad took the remote from Lady P to push the button he couldn't take back. The small video box from their end of the conversation popped up so they could see what she was seeing. No adjustment necessary on this end, Dad dove right in. "Good evening, Ms. Lowe. Thank you for meeting me. You know who I am?"
Ever the six-year-old, Gordon loved this part. People tended to go fish out of water mouth and numb around his father, especially when they didn't know what to expect. He was always so tempted to tell them it helped not to know him. People never wanted to get that part; he was just their dad. He changed diapers and cleaned up his kids' puke with the rest of them. Anything else he did was coincidental. It was like seeing the Mona Lisa; everyone spent so much time waiting in line to see something that really wasn't all that big or impressive, especially when there was so much else in the room to see.
Fumbling for the right words - Psst! This is the part where you say 'Yes, Mr. Tracy' - Reporter Barbie nodded.
Dad took it in stride with a smiling, careful prod. "Ms. Lowe, you should have received a delivery earlier today. Did you bring the box with you?"
Again she nodded, although she seemed to know she was doing it this time, which was a start. She dug into her humungous purse and pulled out a black box to show them. "I assume you're going to tell me how to open it then?"
"Not just yet. First, there are a few more conditions."
Lady P strategically moved shoulder to shoulder with Dad the way Gordon had seen her do every other time they'd brought a new agent into the fold. It didn't matter if she could kill you with one perfectly manicured finger or not; she looked like she could. That was enough. Gordon forgot sometimes to appreciate what a team the two of them made, like Bonnie and Clyde without the bank robbery and murder and screaming sister-in-law.
Sitting between Scott and John, Gordon could feel them both straighten to military attention. This was it.
Taking the golden rule of You get more flies with honey than vinegar that Grandma had drilled into every Tracy head from zygote-hood, Dad was big on giving first in any business transaction. And yes, this was business. Maybe years from now it would be different, but for now, Lisa Lowe was not a friend. She might be an agent by the time the meeting was through, but she was not a friend. So business it was, and in business, Jeff Tracy gave.
With the flick of a remote button, the little screen showing the library side of the conversation panned out to show the three of them sitting on the table.
"Ms. Lowe, I'd like you to meet the faces behind the uniforms of International Rescue." Gordon didn't miss the dig in his father's voice, though he doubted Lisa knew it was there. Maybe one day she'd realize what Alan had been trying to tell them seemed lost on her, that the men behind the uniform were someone's sons, someone's brothers, someone's grandsons and friends. Gordon followed Scott and John's cues while they offered the woman a short, curt wave as Dad introduced them.
"Your … " Lisa swallowed, blinked, and did pretty much everything people do when they're gobsmacked. "Your men are your children?" She belatedly remembered to add the "sir".
"You're meeting them so that, perhaps, when you open that box you'll understand the weight of what I'm giving you - and the world. Ours is a small circle of highly trusted people, people I have to entrust with the lives of my children. As you can imagine, I don't have the option of court documents to ensure people's cooperation in our operation, but I do consider the use of the combination to open that box as good and binding as your signature. I'm putting my children in your hands, Ms. Lowe. If that is a responsibility you cannot accept, we can end this meeting right now."
"NO!" Her hand clapped over her mouth immediately.
Dad gave her a moment to regain her composure, which gave Gordon enough time to contain himself, too. Seriously, Jeff Tracy was only a man, people. He wore holes in his jeans like anyone else.
It took her a moment, but when she got herself together, she had a look to her that Gordon associated with the higher profile interviews he'd seen her do before. As flustered as she'd been, Dad had picked her for a reason. He didn't even know about how annoyed Alan could be with her. Before going out into the world to report on wars and International Rescue and other investigative works, she'd done her time in the White House Press Corps. She knew her stuff. It was a mistake to think she didn't.
"I'm perfectly willing to hear what you have to say, Mr. Tracy, provided I set some conditions myself? Your agents said I would be allowed to ask a few questions?"
Oh yeah, Dad saw his fish on his hook. She wasn't going anywhere. It wouldn't stop him from playing with her for a few yards of line, but he wouldn't have to work to reel her in at all. He flashed what Gordon thought of as Dad's statesman look, chin slightly up, eyebrows up higher, pleasant line but no smile to his lips, not yet. "Go ahead."
"I'm assuming you've come to me because you need someone to spin the situation yesterday. Unless I get the whole story, the real story, I can't report anything. I won't be lied to, Mr. Tracy, and I certainly will not compromise my integrity with the network or my viewers in order to protect you if you jerk me around."
"You'll have as much honesty as I'm allowed. I cannot give you the identities of anyone in my organization without their permission, but you will know everything you need to know to do your job effectively."
"And that job would be what exactly?"
"If our arrangement becomes acceptable to you, you will be the sole authority on International Rescue. You'll have insider access, including radio communications. We have not offered this to anyone else, and I don't intend to again."
"What about Ned Cook? He's been digging into this as much as I have, if not more."
"I have it on good authority that if I'm going to bring a member of the press into the organization, you are the one we can trust. Do we have a deal?"
Her answer was to remove a pen and old steno notebook from her bag and to wait with her hands folded together like a schoolgirl with her listening ears on.
Satisfied, Dad let himself sit on the corner of the table. "On the lock, Lisa, I'd like you to press in the following combination: four, eight, fifteen, fourteen, twelve. Inside, you will find … "
Gordon tapped Scott's shoulder and nodded toward the door. Scott's eyebrows narrowed for a moment, but he shrugged and pitched his chin with permission. It wasn't like Gordon was needed for this part, not with Dad sitting there with his arms crossed and Scott sitting there with his arms crossed and Penny sitting there with her arms crossed. He knew enough about body language to know that if Lisa Lowe wasn't quaking in her Manolo Blahniks by now, his being there wasn't going to change it. He didn't like doing the intimidation part anyway. That's what they had Scott Tracy: Interrogation Specialist for.
He wandered the halls, not entirely sure what he was looking for, but he figured he'd know it when he found it. Not that there was much going on. The moratorium on cleaning of any kind was still in effect, so he was kind of relieved to see that there wasn't a single broom or waste bin in sight. It wasn't often that anyone in this house took time to just be, not cleaning or rescuing or rescuing the cleaners or cleaning up after the rescuers. The way Grandma talked, that was pretty much the way most people lived; life was one long laundry and dishwasher cycle, no matter what they did with their lives. He hoped everyone else took time to not do those things once in a while. This house could use more of that.
Finding the door to Dad's office wide open, Gordon poked his head around the doorframe. He almost didn't see Alan sitting there watching the wall like the men on it would peel away and become real if he didn't watch it every single second. Figuring that if Alan was hiding out here he was probably as peopled out as Gordon was, he was about to go in search of some other hidey hole when Alan called out to him without looking away to see which of them it was.
"Is it done?"
"Your favorite reporter has been and will continue to be properly guilted, yes." Gordon planted himself on the desk next to him. "She'll definitely never baked goods us again. So? What did you think of your first IR meeting?" He didn't mean for it to sound quite as teasing as it did.
Alan snorted. "It sounded an awful lot like any given dinnertime." He was quiet a moment before he relaxed, placing his hands behind his hips so he could lean back and cross his ankles. "I don't know how you people get anything done."
"There's a reason none of us want to do debriefings until after we've slept," Gordon agreed, absently scratching at the back of his head. (It totally wasn't out of embarrassment that the first thing Alan had to say when the Wizard pulled back the curtain was that they all looked like a bunch of rookies, no, not at all).
Alan shook his head, clearly thinking something about IR being this side of a government operation. After a beat, he waved his hand in a lazy circle at the mural on Dad's wall. "Did you know about this?"
Gordon ran his tongue over his teeth in an effort to contain his grin.
"You did, didn't you?"
"I didn't know know, if that's what you mean."
"You really can't keep a secret at all, can you?"
And maybe Gordon deserved it for that. He didn't have the energy to point out exactly how many secrets he had kept for all of them over the years (although John probably had kept a whole bushel more), but breaking this one did pack a bigger punch. On the other hand, if the others knowing about how Alan felt about the mural and so many other things led to an artful masterpiece like this, well, he couldn't be bothered to care that he'd lied. Sometimes broken promises and crossed fingers behind your back were necessary.
The charcoal drawing of Alan crouching at the poolside between Dad and Virgil's feet was pretty good for short notice. He maybe even looked a little cool with that badass look on his face. Virg hadn't had enough time to properly shade away what would be behind Alan or color it in, but another few hours of work and a new layer of glaze and no one would know Alan hadn't been home the day that picture was taken.
"If it helps, I don't think you were supposed to see it yet."
Alan's "He didn't have to do that" translated to a sweetly embarrassed I wish he wouldn't have done that - especially now that he looked like a colossal dork like the rest of them.
"I think he did."
"Because you're a tattle tale and can't keep a secret and are pretty much the worst spy ever."
"He still had to. Dad can't work a camera to save his life. The only way you were ending up on that wall was if Virgcasso did it." Gordon peered at the wall, examining the details Virgil had managed to sneak in there in so short a time. He really did take Virg's talents for granted sometimes. "Of all of us, you're the only one who looks relatively human here."
"Well, somebody had to," Virgil said far too happily as he slid up behind them. He leaned his head in between their upper arms, peering at the wall the same way Gordon had. "Man, I hate that thing."
Alan blinked.
Gordon raised his eyebrows at him. "You didn't think any of us actually like this monstrosity?"
Virgil walked backwards from them until his knees hit the sofa, humming. "All in all, it's just another - "
Gordon knew exactly where this was going. Virgil had pretty much locked them in his room one night after neither of them could sleep post-Paris and made him listen to entire damn album because, seriously, didn't it have such incredible sound and production value? Yeah, Gordon had fallen asleep somewhere along the lines of Goodbye Cruel World and vowed he would never wake up again if he had to hear it one more time. Dude, that movie was so very trippy. Never again.
"Stop right there," he pleaded.
"Before we go any further, do you love me?" Virgil retorted, switching musical gears.
"Not if you keep singing, I don't," Alan said bluntly.
Virgil stuck out his lower lip in a pout. "I thought I was your favorite brother? Traitor."
Gordon glared at Alan and crossed his arms over his chest. "Hey, I thought I was your favorite brother."
"Not today." Alan's mouth twisted, taunting and Nyah-nah-nyah-nah-nah at the same time. He walked over and kicked Virgil in the knee in appreciation before he left them both for destinations unknown, muttering something about finding a mermaid.
"Living room in ten, pajamas and sense of humor required," Virgil called after him. Hooking his thumb toward the door, he grumbled good-naturedly, "Ungrateful brat."
"No kidding. What's in the living room?"
"Sleep deprivation cures galore."
"Everyone?"
"Everyone who wants to be."
"Count me in."
Virgil hoisted himself out of the couch with a little tug from Gordon. He stopped to stare at the mural, scowling. After a vocal blech of a shiver in the back of his throat, he headed for the door, humming another song that Grandma would wash his mouth out with soap for if she ever caught him singing it.
By the time Gordon joined them all down in the living room as requested, the coffee table was so full of junk food and hot chocolate and just stuff, he thought his eyes would go into overload. It looked awesome. In the middle of it all, Tin-tin and Fermat sat shyly accepting the praise and adoration of his brothers that they hadn't been able to shower on them until then. Tin-tin seemed to be doing her best to melt into the carpet as she and Alan played the age old game of Don't Look with each other. Fermat held Scott and John's attentions the most as the three of them dug through the movie selection for something. Nerds gotta nerd together, after all.
Everyone made it through the first movie together, no sleeping allowed. There was no way they were all going to make it through the second, but the first was the big one. Gordon couldn't help feeling, like the night before when none of the five of them wanted to away from the others so they could heal together, tonight was the night the sons and daughter of Tracy Island needed to heal together. Maybe one day they'd let the adults back into things, but for now, this was their night.
That, or he was too sleep deprived to realize what a lousy sap he was.
The FBI warning on the front end of Indiana Jones and the - which one was that one? - was pretty.
Sleep was good.
Real good.
Someone needed to change the channel. His family was on TV.
Good sleep. Good couch.
And it would be really good if no hatches blew tomorrow, just in case. Somebody should get on that.
Hmm … sleep.
Sleep makes everything better.
They really should all sleep in their own beds again one of these days.
Good sleep.
Insert that Scarlett movie girl business about … tomorrow … and all that. He was too tired to remember what it was, word for word. He'd think of it just as soon as … He'd think about it tomorrow.
Somewhere far, far away, John and Virgil were singing. "The sun has gone to bed and so has Gords."
Damn straight.
(May 2012)
So there you have it, the end of the first day of the rest of their lives. If you feel unsettled, if you feel like this story is just beginning, good. That's how you're supposed to feel. Like I said in the summary: what they went through isn't going to be solved in the span of a Disney movie - or a fic. I hope I got them to the point where it will feel like they're going to move forward as a family, even if they are still fighting nightmares and temper tantrums in the days, weeks, and months to come. Maybe Virgil will inhale a little too much bleach during a relapse cleaning spree. Maybe Scott will blame the wall and put his knuckles through it. Maybe Alan will be an total brat one day. Who knows for sure? All I know is how their first few hours went. So if this feels unfinished to you, I did my job. Yay me!
Those of you who have made it all the way through, thank you, from the bottom of my black little heart. There was a lot of crazy going on behind the scenes that kept this from being finished in a respectable time frame, and this certainly wasn't the novel I expected to write this year, but you have all made this an incredible adventure. Thank you for making me feel talented. I owe you all more than you could ever know.
For credit's sake:
- The title of this piece comes from a song by my beloved Harry Connick Jr., He Is, They Are, from his1991 album Blue Light, Red Light. Lyrically, it was everything I wanted to convey with this story. I hope it worked.
- The Human Torch was created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby for the Fantastic Four comics by Marvel.
- Anything you might recognize as a bastardized quote from a movie or song lyrics, please credit to their proper sources, not limited to but including: Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall, George Lucas's Star Wars, The Sound of Music, Meat Loaf's Paradise By the Dashboard Light, and the Beach Boys' Fun, Fun, Fun.
- The poem Always Finish is an anonymous poem that my grandmother had a cross-stitch picture of on her wall. It was one of her favorite sayings. I can't believe I just used it on my own kid the other day.
- Since it's mentioned multiple times, the idea of The Lost Weekend is inspired by the book by Charles Jackson. It's about a five day binge of excesses. Brilliant book, if a bit disturbing sometimes. Our Tracys co-opted the name, but not the behavior (as far as I know).
And on that note, thank you again, whether I hear about it from you or not. If you had half as much fun reading this as I had writing it, well, then I had twice as much fun writing it as you had reading it. Heh.