#fictsof
Fic: Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm - Part 7
Summary: Alternate Universe. Gordon is a farmer. And he seems to have nothing to do with International Rescue. Now on AO3!
Prologuehere
Chapter 1: Part 1|Part 2 |Part 3 |Ao3
Chapter 3: Part 6 | Part 7 (you are here) | NEW! Ao3
A/N: It was and was not a dream, folks. These two last parts have made up chapter 3, so I’ve posted the Ao3 if you have the time.
*****
Hot water drenched the back of Gordon’s neck while he carefully ensured he kept the stream out of his eyes and face. Generally, he timed his showers more appropriately after working the farm. Partially because it made more sense to clean after he worked the hard labor of his land. And partially because his nightmares were often the memory of the accident that had taken away his ability to ever walk properly again. The last thing he wanted to do after a restless night was step under the jet stream of his showerhead.
Gordon angled the handheld spray around towards his chest and let the water cascade warmth over his bare skin where it ached. Packed deeply into a box and buried deep, rarely did the cobwebs of his mind conjure forth the memories of his family. He had walls of his own – not to keep anyone out, but to keep the hurt locked in, with the hope that, somehow, he could find a way to move his inept legs forward if he just kept those memories buried deep.
He couldn’t move forward when he wanted to keep running back.
Once he was clean and awake, he dried himself off, the soft cotton rubbing against his skin where it was raw and red from the heat. But he felt more alert, the memories stuttering in his heart only lightly, emotions calmed by the steam, instead of suffocating him, pressing into him from all sides.
Piano tones trilled from a phone behind the guest room’s closed door, distant and dingy by the time the notes reached Gordon’s ears where he busied himself in the kitchen. He avoided looking at the peace lily he’d brought out for Virgil that morning. Though the walls were thin and he could hear the light exercises the doc had given Virgil the afternoon before, if Virgil were as heavy a sleeper as he had been in the past it was unlikely he’d heard the sounds of Gordon’s distress that morning.
With his mind clear, it was obvious that Virgil’s presence had disrupted whatever deep dark hole he’d managed to hide the remnants of that hurt. There was so much about the day he destroyed Virgil’s studio that he didn’t remember and so much that he did after all these years, the little details pouring over him in waves. The paint under his fingernails. The shatter of glass. The defeat in those broad shoulders that had only ever lifted him up.
He was unforgivable.
But, as he roughly re-arranged the plates in the dishwasher to set it to clean, he let himself admit to the fact that he didn’t want to be.
Hereally really didn’t want to be.
Virgil was his family, and Gordon would do anything for him. It had made sense, for a long time, that that meant staying away. And though he might have been telling himself he was walking forward all this time, starting anew, the reality was that he was still just running.
Hemissed his brother.
A plate clattered as he slammed the door shut and pressed start on the machine.
Damn.
Dammit all.
And damn Scott for making this proposal in the first place, for assuring him it was what Virgil really needed, for effortless digging through the trenches of Gordon’s fears. For risking everything, because he’s not sure he can do it again if Virgil walks away – now that he’s here, now that Gordon can no longer block out what he knows he’s been missing.
Damn his body, his mind; damn his heart and the Virgil-sized hole of his own making.
He was grasping at the counter tightly, his knuckles white around the dishrag, his head bowed, and the pain shooting up his back - because, of course… of course on top of everything, the weather wasn’t going to hold – when Virgil stepped crisply into the room.
“Whoa.” Virgil’s timing was, as it had always been, impeccable. “You okay?” Gordon’s breath caught in his throat because he heard tenderness there - “Gordon?” – and concern where Virgil’s voice pitched with his name.
“Yep, it’s fine,” he responded quickly, straightening and waving him off with a smile. “It’s just going to rain. How’re the ribs?”
Virgil frowned and tucked his hands into his back pockets. “Fine.”
No, they weren’t.
The thing about broken ribs was that while eventually they’d heal on their own, it was a painful recovery of restricting activity but staying active enough to alleviate the risk of chest infections, icing the area, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep. And because Virgil had more than one injured, he needed to spend a lot more time caring about his breathing, and there were exercises for that too.
“It’s going to be humid today,” Gordon warned. “Try to take it easy if you can.”
Virgil shook his head. “I’d like to finish the tour,” he moved stiffly towards the table and sank into a chair, “and talk about yesterday.”
“Ah okay.” Gordon retrieved two glasses from his cupboard and filled them with water. He settled into the chair beside him and slid the drink over. “Hydrate.”
“Thanks.” Virgil shifted. “Uh, so, first, I’d like to apologize for scaring your birds.”
“Apologize to Ginger next time you see her,” he encouraged him. “Wear red again and she’ll forgive you in no time.”
“Still,” Virgil pressed, “it was uncalled for.” He took a sip and licked his lips. “So, I talked to Scott last night.” Gordon nodded. He expected as much and refrained from mentioning that it would’ve been the middle of the night Island time, but he let Virgil continue.
“He told me what you do here.” Virgil’s eyes shined. “I didn’t know.”
“What exactly did you think this was all about?” He asked kindly. Virgil’s confusion implied he truly hadn’t been keeping up with his brother’s movements the way Gordon had been keeping up with his, and the rage in Virgil’s voice the day before had been spun with fear and confusion and hurt. “What did Scott tell you this was for?”
Virgil scowled. “He told me to take some time away from the distractions of iR and find something besides the machines to work on.”
“I can see how that could be misconstrued,” he admitted diplomatically. The last thing Virgil would be able to handle would be feeling like a liability to the family dream. “So, obviously, you’re not here to be shipped out to the family’s side project, or whatever it was you thought.”
“I don’t think it’s a side project!”
“You’re here because healing is what we do. It’s what I do. I don’t home my animals to sell or make a profit. Half of them are rescues. And I certainly don’t invite guests here just to work.” He fumed a little at the implication. “Profits go back to supporting the estate. The people who choose to stay are my family. And we accept guests and visitors because we do animal-assisted therapy for those that need it.”
“I know that now. I’m sorry that Scott forced this,” he gestured to himself, “on you.”
Gordon blinked hard at him. “Are you for real?”
“I just mean I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can. We don’t need to make this harder for ourselves.”
“Goddamit, Virgil, I agreed to this.” He looked at him incredulously. “Scott doesn’t tell me to do anything. He’s not my commander.” Gordon locked eyes with him. “Let’s get one thing straight right now. Scraps oversees if we have overnight guests. They stay in the mansion. This is my home, and I invited you because it was the right thing to do. If you’d rather stay on the other side of the estate or leave completely,” it destroyed him to say, “no one is keeping you here.”
Virgil sucked in a breath, wincing. Gordon could see the pain rush through his face, then slowly fade into quiet.
“No,” he whispered eventually. “I don’t want that.”
“Okay, then,” Gordon calmed his pounding heart. “Okay. Good. I have something for you then.”
He scooted from the chair, and turned to the counter and picked up the four inch pot of fresh spathiphyllum he’d been caring for until he’d gathered the courage to exchange the peace offering.
“Cultivating growth is the best thing you can do for the planet, and for yourself,” he said, tucking the pot close to his side and extending his hand towards Virgil. “This place was founded with the purpose of nurturing,” his fingertips itched with the phantom memory of paint on his fingers, “instead of destroying.”
“That’s for me?”
“Your first plant here. If you want her.”
Virgil nodded silently, caught it seemed in his own memories of the peace lily, and shook Gordon’s hand.
