#gavii scribit
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.
Advantages to being short
*walks around in NASA joggers and an oversized Denver hoodie*
Note that Virg secretly loves it when his bros wear his clothes cos it kinda makes him feel as if he is helping them just a little? He’s too embarrassed to admit any of it and will just grump if prodded…but never demand the clothes back.
100% it’s got to provoke the protective streak. Wrap them up in warm clothes, thereby make everything better
Gordon knows his style can seem outlandish. It’s just that bit extra - light and colorful, just like him. He’s proud of his style. It’s high-spirited. It screams the tropical surfer boy he knows he is, while his wraps, faux leather and bound more than once around his wrists, remind him of his own strength.
He’s come so far, and wouldn’t give up any of the parts of himself.
But he’s also the fourth of five, a number he’s proud of. Thunderbird Four, Lane Four headed for gold, the Fourth son. Hand-me-downs were not necessarily needed in their family, not by the time Gordon Tracy graced the world with his curious eyes and strong heart. But they were practical.
And so for all the brightness he adorned as part of himself, his family shined as part of him and he was proud to take their hand-me-downs. And sure, maybe that fluid sense of ownership still affected his grabby hands today.
But the clothes are there; like food on someone else’s plate, they are not his. So instantly they are better. More comforting.
And he is the short one.
He one day dreamed he’d be as tall as Scott. Granted, he’d been five at the time to Scott’s eleven. He’d watched Scott and John grow tall into beanpoles (Alan was headed right there with them, for the skies), while Virgil grew broad, all muscle. Gentle hands, strong shoulders.
So when John grew those 2 extra feet and his favorite pair of relaxing joggers came up above his ankles, Gordon couldn’t let him part with them completely. They mysteriously disappeared, and “Santa” brought him a new pair for Christmas.
Gordon has lazy days too. He’ll tell you he’s just wanting to relax, but he also wears them when he’s been missing John up there in the skies. None of his brothers quite have a mind like John. Gordon may not understand what a Quasar really is, but he and John can talk science the way Virgil and Brains can talk engineer.
Virgil.
The sweatshirt is so much more than it seems. Warm, like Virgil. Hooded and all encompassing, a hug of his brother’s kindness. Because Virgil left Denver for Gordon.
And he can never give Virgil that time back, to graduate a normal collegiate scholar with his peers, instead of an academic who struggled to finish learning engineering of all things remotely and from his brother’s hospital room.
And Virgil stayed.
So Gordon steals his brothers clothes because it’s a reminder of how much he loves them, and how much he is loved.
And risking their lives every day, having seen death charging towards him before… he’s not too proud to say it.
(For the record, he’s taught Alan the art and knows exactly where Scott’s Yale sweatshirt ran away to)
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 2: Part 4|Part 5 | AO3
Chapter 3: Part 6 (you are here)
A/N: Angst. I mean it this time. It’s short, and you’ll see why. But if I’ve done my job right, this is likely a question answered, but with more to follow right after.
All I can say is: Trust. And I’m sorry. *hugs*
*****
Every part of him burns, the tips of his ears, and most especially his throat, his chest, where his heart is racing, pounding to escape his rib cage. His hands tremble, the skin flushed and stained with the red under his fingernails, blood and A206 Crimson, where he’s splattered the paint tube, scraped his nails along dried acrylic, ripped at stretched canvas, and thrown wood to ground to split at his feet.
Buzzing, so incessant and discordant in his ears, cut only by the throb in his chest.
His hands. Shit, his hands.
He clenches his fist and tightens his jaw, as the detonations of his heart hammer against the breathing stuttering in his breast.
And he can hear himself, taken by anger so hot and heavy, turning him inside out where it’d been coiling, roiling inside him, and finally bursting forth with the fury of a guttural cry. He strikes at the shelving units, throwing the glass jar and all its paint brushes tucked inside against the opposite wall where it shatters. Skates his fingers quickly over book spines and spiral sketchpads and sends them careening with the force of gravity and the warpath of the wrathful.
He falls with them, his legs – stupid, useless legs – collapsing underneath him.
His eyes blaze, even as they blur wetly over the carnage around him, sight and memory and sound all distant and hollow behind the fire that’s overtaken him. A fire that burns at the beautiful, disables foundations, until everything crumbles and there’s nothing left but ashes.
There’s nothing left.
Nothing left of him. Of who he was or who he was going to be. And finally – finally – the world around him mirrors it. Creation devastated, as ravaged as his soul.
Seconds, ticks. A heartbeat that races the time between.
Gordon realizes what he’s done a millisecond before he hears footsteps thundering down the hallway towards the studio.
“Gord-!” Virgil flings himself around the doorway towards him, but the words freeze in his throat as he stops dead in his tracks, the air stolen from his lungs in a choked gasp.
Scott barrels into his back, panicked, his eyes wide. “Virg, what’s— oh, my God.”
Virgil can’t speak.
“I-I-I don’t…” Every word is raw, like knives in his throat, and he’s never felt the kind of quaking as the kind that’s overtaken him.
Virgil has barely moved from the door frame. Gordon watches him stride dazedly toward the broken easel, the painting he’d been working on of the reef. For him. He steps on the broken pieces of glass, pulverizing them under his boots, and Gordon winces with the crack, but his brother hardly notices.
“V-Virgil, I—“
He doesn’t even know what he planned to say.
“Gordon.” Scott’s voice is sharp, but when Gordon swings his neck around to answer his older brother, Scott’s gaze is achingly watching their sibling navigate the massacre of his studio. “You need to get out of here.”
Virgil falls to his knees.
“Now! Gordon,” Scott commands, and Gordon scrambles, as fast as his legs will let him.
Gordon awoke breathless, his eyes pooling and cheeks wet with the scar of Virgil’s haunted stare and devastated weeping.
