Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Cloudbase to Angel One, come in, Angel One, over.”

“Cloudbase, Angel One hearing you loud and clear. Over.”

“Radar is showing an unidentified aircraft on the western border of patrol airspace, moving at approximately twelve thousand miles per hour, not responding to my hail. Please conduct visual check.”

“SIG, Cloudbase, will escort them from the premises. Over and out.”

“This is Spectrum Angel One. Be advised that you are in restricted airspace. Please identify yourself. Over.”

“Spectrum, this is Thunderbird One of International Rescue. Relax, I'm just taking a shortcut.”

“Thunderbird One, you're ‘taking a shortcut’ through an area specifically identified as a no-fly-zone under international law without an identifier beacon. You are very lucky I like to confirm who I’m shooting at before I do it. Request flight path change two hundred miles further west.”

“When you say request–”

“I have missiles and I will use them.”

“Real hospitable, Angel One. Changing course now. Over and out.”

“Angel One to Cloudbase. It's all right, Lieutenant, it's just International Rescue–I’ve got visual now, and he's changing–what the–”

“Cloudbase to Angel One, are you all right? Over.”

“SIG, Cloudbase. Just wasn't aware it was possible to do a triple barrel roll at bloody Mach 15. What’s that idiot trying to prove?”

“Maybe he's showing off for the pretty girl.”

“Hmph. Next time, Cloudbase, I'm shooting him down.”

“Might want to clear that with the Colonel first, Rhapsody. See you at 1800 hours. Over and out.”

(Two days later, when Dianne Simms, on leave and at a party in London, was introduced to Scott Tracy by their mutual acquaintance Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, they both pretended that they didn't find each others’ voices familiar in the slightest.)

Chapter Text

Gordon Tracy glanced at his reflection in the elevator mirror. His hair was still unstyled and sopping wet, and his t-shirt was almost as damp because he'd thrown it on before drying off.

He was grinning like an idiot. 

The doors opened to the executive floor of Tracy Aeronautics with a ding, and he jogged (well, kinda bounced) down the hallway towards Da–Scott’s office. The guy in charge of Finance–what was his name, again?–gave him a disapproving look, and he responded with a smirk and a wave. Nothing could kill his good mood today. 

He blasted through the office door like a bad guy into a saloon in a western. “Knock knock!”

Scott, seated at his desk at the far end of the room, sighed (rather dramatically, in Gordon's opinion), glancing apologetically at the woman seated across from him. “Gordon, I could have been in an important meeting.”

“Are you?”

The woman–she was younger than Gordon had initially assumed, probably around Scott or Virgil's age–smiled at him. “He's not.”

“Don't encourage him, Simms.”

“Oh, encourage away.” Gordon hopped up onto the couch by the wall of windows and seated himself on its back, leaning against the glass in a way he knew would drive Scott crazy. “I love encouragement. Are you new?”

“Kind of. I’m an intern.”

“She’s covering for Nicole today,” Scott said, rubbing his forehead. (He looked tired. More than usual.) “Dianne, this is my little brother Gordon. I’m not sure we’re actually related. Working theory is he was left by aliens on our doorstep.”

“That was John. I was left by the merpeople. Nice to meet you, Dianne. Where’s Nicole?” 

“Hospital appointment,” said Scott, and there was something in his voice that warned Gordon that it was serious. That sucked. He liked Nicole: she’d been Dad’s assistant for pretty much ever before Scott inherited her, long enough he kinda remembered her and Mom hanging out. (And she’d gotten very good at slipping visiting children sugar cookies behind their father’s back.)

He made a face and kicked the sofa cushion. “Tell her I said hi when she comes back.”

Scott nodded. “I thought we were meant to be meeting at the pool?”

“Yup.” Scott had brought Gordon into LA with him for an in-person coaching session–the island pool was plenty good enough for solo practice, but there was only so much a teacher could do over holo. “But I need to talk to you and didn’t wanna wait.”

“That sounds like my cue.” Dianne stood, picking up her tablet from the desk. “I’ll go get that exploratory meeting set up with KSC. I’m assuming you want the start time fairly fuzzy?”

Scott smiled wryly. “As fuzzy as humanly possible. Thanks.”

“Got it. Lovely to meet you, Gordon.”

She exited the office, shutting the door behind her, and Scott stood, coming around the desk and leaning against the edge, arms crossed. “Please tell me this is a ‘good news’ thing and not a ‘I put soap in the pool’s filtration system and need to spin the story before anyone else tells Scott first’ thing.”

“Relax, I would never pull a prank that unimaginative twice. Nah, I came to tell you that Coach wants to talk to you, and I told him it'd probably be easier for you to call him then for him to try to catch you when you're free.”

Scott half-smiled ruefully. (And wow, he looked like Dad sometimes.) “Yeah, probably. You know what it's about?”

“He wants to put me forward for a little competition you might've heard of.” Gordon studied his nails casually. “Starts with ‘O’, ends with ‘lympics’ …”

“Gordon–” Scott’s eyes went wide. “Seriously?! That's incredible!”

Gordon shrugged, but the grin was back, couldn't be stopped. “It'd just be qualifiers at first, no guarantees. But if I can get my butterfly under 52 seconds, I've got a decent chance of going to Buenos Aires.”

“That's fantastic. So proud of you, Squid–c’mere–”

Gordon jumped off the couch and returned the bear hug eagerly. “Can't promise a medal.”

“Just qualifying would be awesome, Gords. I can't wait to watch you.”

(An annoying, selfish little corner of Gordon's brain really hoped there would be no major disasters on the day of the hundred-metre butterfly finals.)

He released his big brother after a long minute, bouncing on his toes. “How much more have you got to do here? I cannot wait to fly home and practice more.”

“Not too much–maybe another hour, unless I have to–uh. ” Scott paused, an odd expression flickering suddenly over his face, his hand reaching backwards towards his desk.

And then his eyes rolled back in his head and his knees gave out.

“Scott! ” Gordon jumped forward with a yelp and just barely managed to grab him before his head smacked against the desk; but his brother was so much bigger and heavier than him that he couldn't really ‘catch’ him, settling for just getting him safely to the carpet. Scott was completely limp, skin suddenly ashen; and he didn't react at all as Gordon rolled him into the recovery position. “C’mon, Scooter, wake up, talk to me, c’mon –”

A voice from the doorway–the girl from earlier. “Is everything–oh bloody hell–I’ll call an ambulance–”

“No, wait, give it a sec–” Gordon was freaking out, obviously, but his panic hadn't spiked to the point that he didn't remember that syncope generally resolved within thirty seconds. Assuming Scott had just fainted–but his pulse was strong, if a bit quick, and his breathing was steady. That meant he was okay. (Right?) “Can you grab some water?”

She nodded, looking alarmingly pale herself, and bolted back into the hallway. Gordon patted Scott's cheek gently. “Hey, big bro, rise and shine. Please wake up, like, right now, or I'm gonna lose it.”

Scott groaned, eyelids fluttering; and Gordon exhaled shakily, rubbing his back. “Perfect timing. Just relax, you're all right.” (Was he talking to Scott or himself? Didn't matter.)

“... Gordo? Wha …”

“In the flesh. You're fine, you just got a bit woozy there for a second. Lie quiet for a minute, okay? Get that good old brain blood flow back to normal.”

Dianne returned with a bottle of water, closing the door carefully behind her, voice low. “How's he doing?”

“He's responsive. Just needs to chill for a bit.” Gordon swallowed. Now that the immediate crisis was over, his adrenaline supply was dwindling, and he had a sudden and very strong desire for backup. “Can you please call Virgil? Wait, no, you won't have a direct–call John, he'll call Virgil. Open comm, ask for International Rescue, say Scott Tracy keeled over, and you'll get him pretty quick.”

“Will do.” She handed Gordon the bottle, shooting Scott a worried glance, then retreated from the office again. 

Gordon nudged Scott's shoulder. “Hey, Scotty, if I help you sit up, think you can drink some water?”

“I think so,” Scott mumbled; and Gordon carefully guided him into an upright position, leaning his back against the side of the desk. He opened the bottle for him, but Scott drank from it unaided, taking a couple of careful sips before closing his eyes again. 

“Dizzy?”

“Just kind of lightheaded.” He rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Sorry.”

“Only you would apologise for freaking fainting.” Gordon scooted closer, squeezing his brother's knee, running his mind back over his first aid training. “When's the last time you ate?”

“Uh–” The guilty silence said it all.

“You dumbass.” Gordon raised his voice. “Hey, Dianne?! Can you please get my starving idiot of a brother some crackers or something?”

“On it!” came a yell in response. 

Gordon smacked Scott's arm. “Dude. You know better.”

“I know. I was just … busy. And I didn't feel much like eating.”

“Excuses, excuses. Virgil and Grandma are gonna murder you.”

Scott grimaced. “Please don't tell Grandma?”

“Might be too late for that, depending on how much of a flap Virgil's in right now.”

Scott sighed and took another gulp of water. 

Di reappeared a moment later with an open packet of Triscuits, looking visibly relieved to see Scott sitting up. “Hey. John said to tell you that Thunderbird Two is ten minutes away, and that you're a dork with no sense of self-preservation. His words, not mine.”

“Well, that's definitely the pot calling the kettle black.” Scott accepted the box and pulled out a cracker, munching cautiously on it. “Thanks, Simms. Sorry for the scare, both of you.”

“Just glad you're okay. I'm going to go down to the cafeteria and find you some actual food that hasn't been sitting open in the break room for the past three weeks.”

“Thank you.” Scott leaned his head back against the desk as she retreated again. “I did think these were a bit stale.”

Gordon reached over and grabbed one, biting into it experimentally. “Nutty bouquet, with hints of cardboard.”

Scott snorted, closing his eyes. 

Gordon sat down properly next to him, his thigh against Scott's shin. “You realise what this means?”

“Hmm?”

“I get to tell everyone you were so shocked when you heard I'm going to the Olympics that you literally passed out.”

Scott, somehow, managed to glare at him with his eyes shut; and Gordon cackled and patted his shoe. 

(When Nicole took early medical retirement and handed over the reins to graduating intern Dianne Simms, Virgil’s congratulations present to Scott's new EA was an absurdly detailed list of advice on how to prevent that day's little ‘incident’, or anything like it, from ever happening again.)

Chapter Text

Big business deal signings weren’t usually Virgil’s thing. But, for a change, he’d actually been involved in this one. Gazelle Enterprises was doing some seriously cool work in production line robotics automation, and he’d had been sufficiently impressed by their tech to recommend that Scott look into a collaboration. The fact that it was still functioning perfectly while on fire had had a lot to do with it.

A few months of negotiations later, they’d hashed out a mutually beneficial partnership deal, and today was signing day. Or, rather, signing evening, because the Tracys had been very late (little incident at a power station in Melbourne). The offices were almost completely empty by the time Scott, Virgil, and John arrived; but at least Gazelle’s CEO, Warren Grafton, had not only waited but was being pretty gracious about it. (Virgil did notice, though, that there was slightly more relief in Dianne Simms’ expression as they finally entered Scott’s office than seemed to be warranted by the situation.)

John made his introduction and immediately retreated to a chair in the corner to work (the only reason he’d even come was because he was halfway through three days of routine mandatory medical leave from Five, and Grandma had insisted that it was good for him to get out of the house); leaving Scott and Virgil to make small talk with Grafton and finalise the paperwork. Once they were set and everything was official, Scott and Grafton shook hands; and Di gathered up the relevant datapads. “I’m going to go down and get these filed. Be back in a minute, gentlemen.”

“Thanks, Simms.”

As she closed the door behind her, Grafton made an appreciative noise—and Virgil turned to him just in time to be fairly certain that his eyes had been following Di below the waist. “Wish my in-house counsel looked like that, Tracy. Was that ass on her resume or did you have to wait for the interview to get an eyeful?”

Scott, who had been about to pick his tablet off the desk, stopped, absolutely rigid. “Deal’s off. Get out of my office.”

“What?” Grafton laughed, awkwardly. “Come on, we’ve signed. It was a joke, man.”

Virgil folded his arms. “It wasn’t funny.”

“I was just kidding around!”

“I’m not,” Scott said flatly. “I don’t do business with perverts.”

Grafton spluttered for a moment; then made an ah-ha face. “Oh, I see, my bad–you’re banging her, I und–”

Virgil was not quite fast enough to prevent his older brother from breaking Warren Grafton’s nose.

The older man staggered back, hand flying to his face, blood already visible through his fingers. “The hell, Tracy?” he yelled thickly. 

Scott’s face was white. “Get. Out.”

“I’m pressing charges!”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” John said, very calmly, still seated, from the other side of the room; and Grafton turned to look at him. “In the past thirty seconds, I’ve already discovered two shell companies connected to both you and some very interesting financial activity in Switzerland. You want to see what I can do in thirty minutes?”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Or at least that was what Virgil thought he was attempting to say. The bloody nose made it somewhat unintelligible. 

“Extorting, technically.” John flicked to another page of data on his holoscreen. “Oh, look, the Canaries as well. You seem to be a fan of the classics. I don’t suppose you know the minimum sentence for bank fraud over a hundred million dollars?”

Grafton went a shade paler, and for a moment, he wavered–then retreated from the office with a last glare at Scott. 

Scott exhaled, sagging slightly against the desk, holding his right hand against his chest with his left.

“Let me see that,” Virgil said reflexively, reaching for it; and Scott, flinching, permitted him to examine his fingers and knuckles. “Nothing broken, but it’s gonna hurt like crazy for a day or two.” 

“Worth it,” Scott muttered.

Virgil made brief eye contact with John, who had joined them by the desk. “Sounds like we dropped the ball on the background checks.”

“It's all Grafton’s personal crap, not Gazelle’s, and it's several layers deep. I don't blame Finance for not finding it. But maybe we should loop EOS into this stuff in future. The problem at this point is that you did sign, Scott. What's the contract cancellation clause?”

Scott shrugged. “Don't care.”

Virgil had been in the lounge during the call with Di where they'd gone through the contract, including the cancellation penalties. They weren't crippling, exactly, but they were unlikely to make the shareholders very happy. “I’m not saying he didn't have it coming. But you're going to need to give an explanation that'll satisfy the board.” Scott shrugged, again, mutely; and Virgil took a careful breath. “Scooter–”

John’s hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna get you some ice for that hand. Come on, Virg.”

Virgil turned to John, frowning; and John glared back and shoved him towards the door. Scott, still half-sitting against his desk, did not appear to care. 

They headed in silence down the hall to the executive kitchen, and Virgil opened the freezer door with a bang and yanked out a bag of ice. “We’ve got to talk to him about it.”

“No,” said John firmly. “We are going to ignore the Dianne-shaped elephant in the room as long as humanly possible.”

“He clearly has feelings for her.”

“Obviously. But think it through, V. What’s he going to do if we force him to confront it? He’ll get in his head about it, as always, and he’ll panic and freeze her out. We let him remain comfortably in denial, and at least she’s around, as a friend. He needs that.”

“So, what, they just orbit each other forever without doing anything about it?”

“I admit it’s not a good long-term solution. But it’s the best we can do until the other situation is resolved. He’s fragile, right now.”

We all are. Virgil pressed his lips together as he thought of the half-constructed Zero-XL. But Scott especially–the expression on his face as he'd confessed his fears for their father, one morning on the beach a few weeks earlier, loomed large in his memory. And he wasn't completely confident that Di was interested–if he were to push him to act, only for him to be rejected– “You’re … not wrong. But–”

He stopped as the elevator dinged outside; and a few seconds later the woman in question appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I may potentially be going insane, but I'm fairly confident I just saw Grafton stalking out the front door with blood all over his face?”

“It’s certainly within the realm of possibility,” John said evenly. “The deal’s off, by the way.”

“But–Scott signed the contract already. We’ll have to pay the cancellation fee, and we've started a bunch of the relevant projects so we'll have to find another firm to fill the gaps at short notice, or do some really quick R&D. The board’s going to flip.” Virgil shifted uncomfortably; and her eyes shot to the ice in his hands. “What happened?” 

“Doesn't matter,” John said, gently but firmly. “Go home, Di.”

She watched them for several seconds, varied emotions flickering rapidly across her face; then sighed and rubbed her temple. “I turn my back for five minutes–all right, all right, I’m going. Tell Scott I said goodbye.”

Virgil nodded, and she turned to leave; but then he cleared his throat. “Di, hang on a sec–” John's elbow connected surreptitiously but sharply with his back, but he ignored it. “Did Grafton say or do anything before we got here that, uh, made you uncomfortable?”

She grimaced briefly, but shook her head. “Technically, no. Just generally oozed sleaze. But nothing–” Her eyes returned to the ice. “–worth blowing up a half-trillion dollar deal over.”

“We’ll be the judges of that,” Virgil said; and beside him, John nodded. “Have a good night, Di.”

She bit her lip, a tiny smile reluctantly creeping out. “You too. Thank you.”

(The board was not, as predicted, thrilled; but Grafton's arrest for bank fraud three weeks later and the subsequent collapse of his company did a lot to mollify them. John insisted he had nothing to do with his exposure. Kayo and EOS, on the other hand, remained suspiciously silent.)

Chapter Text

“What about the GDF?” John said, rapping his fingers absently against the edge of the table. “We could just dump the whole mess on them.”

“You think they can be trusted with it?” his father said sceptically. 

“They built the Zero-X in the first place. If the Hood hadn't hijacked it, they'd be opening this can of worms eight years ago without us having anything to do with it. Technically, the moral responsibility is theirs. And we can't fight the whole world to protect it–but they're allowed to.”

“That's an excellent point.” Dianne Simms, in holographic form, grimaced. “Not sure we can get the shareholders to see it, though.”

Once again, they were meeting with the Tracy Aeronautics legal department on the “what to do with the galaxy-shattering technology” question–though there were a few differences this time. It was just John and his father in a hotel room in the Philippines, no Grandma or Scott; and the dilemma was no longer “what do we tell everyone about Jeff Tracy’s survival?” but “how the heck do we prevent what we've already told everyone from blowing up International Rescue, Tracy Aeronautics, and possibly the entire planet?”. 

That was, perhaps, a slight exaggeration. But John was good at worst-case scenarios. 

“It definitely won't fly,” Lou Marks said, shaking his head. “The amount of money that's been poured into this requires some kind of return on investment, or we're looking at full-scale mutiny from some of the major stockholders. Unless you want to lose the company?”

John saw his father's eyebrows twitch, and made a mental note to have EOS start pulling together resumes for potential replacement CLOs. 

“Could we sell it to the GDF?” Di asked.

Jeff grunted. “Unless they've changed substantially in the past decade, I'm guessing not.” 

“They're on the cheap side,” John confirmed. “At least when it comes to external purchases. We've been trying to get them to switch to TA-produced planes for years, but they won't budge. Their internal R&D budget, ironically, is very generous. They're just appalling at utilising it.”

“If the Zero-XL had been their project in the first place,” Lou groused, “they wouldn't have blinked once at the price tag. But they'll never agree to buy it outright, not even at our cost–they have too many rules about external contractors in the name of preventing interference in their operations.”

Both rooms on opposite sides of the Pacific went quiet for a moment as another potential door slammed in their faces.

“What,” Di said slowly, “if it is their project in the first place?”

Jeff leaned forward. “Come again?”

“The Mechanic built the original T-drive for them first, right? He was never actually formally convicted of anything, just held in protective custody awaiting indictment. Anything he did for the Hood was under duress. And then he ended up assisting in his captor’s arrest, albeit indirectly, and now that that’s all come out they've got him in witness protection, not in prison. Colonel Casey could make the case to the higher-ups that he's still an operative in good standing. If so, then they built the Zero-XL, or at least the expensive parts, just using TA resources. They wouldn't need to agree to a purchase contract to fund it, they'd just be paying their own bills.”

And the door cracked open again.

“That,” said John, “might just work. It'd still be a hard sell, but–it could work. If we can get the colonel on board.”

“Kim'll be as keen to get the T-drive secure as we are,” Jeff responded, a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. “She’ll agree.”

“Shall I set up a meeting with her, then? Lou?”

“Worth a try,” he confirmed. “If they agree they'll probably insist on a payment plan, so there’ll be a deficit in R&D for a while, but if we've got a guarantee of eventually balancing the books it'll keep the more vocal stakeholders off our backs. That said–” He looked at Jeff. “It won't do much for your boy's personal assets. Any money he put to the Zero-XL directly, outside the company, will be unaffected by any deal with the GDF–they might agree to pay us as contractors, but not a private individual–and based on the numbers I've seen it almost certainly drained him dry.”

“No,” said John, as his father winced. “It didn't.”

“I know how much he spent, John,” Di said. “It kind of did.”

“For about twenty minutes. You didn't think I’d notice my big brother emptying his accounts? I figured out what he was doing, talked to Virgil and Gordon and Alan, and spread the financial outlay over all our trust funds instead. A good big chunk of the money Scott thinks he spent is sitting in escrow. He might not be quite as absurdly loaded as he was a year ago, but he's hardly broke.”

Across the table, Jeff rolled his eyes; but he reached out and gave John's hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks, kiddo.”

John shrugged. “Any time.”

Di laughed. “You're a menace, Jonathan Tracy. When were you going to tell Scott this?”

“Uh. Never? I was just kind of planning on gradually putting it back in his accounts and hoping he'd never notice so he couldn't put up a fight.”

“Uh-uh.” Jeff shook his head, grinning. “You're having the conversation, all of you, once we get him home. And please check with me in future before you casually commit financial fraud.”

John sighed. (But he could feel himself smiling.) “Okay, Dad.”

Chapter Text

Virgil sat on the beach, sketchbook in his lap, box of pastels by his side. Sunsets were always a fun challenge, mostly because of the time limit: blue was shifting into orange and pink and red, mere moments altering the lightshow–forcing rapid-fire messy work with no room for perfectionism or overthinking–the tension of the past week bleeding out of him onto the page. Scott was okay, or going to be–they'd brought him home from the hospital earlier that day–but Virgil's stress hormones hadn't quite got the memo yet. 

Footsteps crunched on the sand behind him; and then his father sat down at his side, glancing at him and his half-finished work with a brief smile before looking out at the sea. “You good, kid?”

“Yeah. Just … unwinding.”

Jeff nodded, watching the incoming tide ripple across the sand. “So,” he said after a moment. “Dianne Simms.”

Virgil sighed, running an orange pastel over the paper. “Yep.”

“She’s in love with him.”

“Yep.”

“He in love with her?”

“In denial, but yeah.”

“Why hasn't he done anything about it? Gordon implied that she's been with TA pretty much the entire time I've been gone.”

Virgil grimaced and put down the pastel, turning to his father. “We’ve never openly discussed it, but–that's probably part of it–she’s with TA. Other than during law school, she's always been an employee of his, and Scott’s pretty by-the-book about that stuff. He'd be terrified of thinking he was taking advantage of his position of authority. But more than that–it’s Scott.” 

He stopped there, because there wasn’t really a way of saying that his big brother was a tightly wound ball of trauma without either sounding like he was blaming his father or discussing the undiscussable. 

“… yeah. I get it.” Jeff blew out a sigh and propped his arm on his knee. “She was his assistant, right?”

“Yeah, for nearly four years. They were really close–she even came here a couple of times. But then she went off to law school, and–it was weird. She kind of ghosted us. Except I think she still hung out with Kayo and Penny sometimes, because I overheard them talking about it once, but they never brought her up in front of Scott. And then she graduated and came back to TA and she and Scott were friends again, but it wasn’t quite the same. Like, Grandma invited her here for Thanksgiving last year, and she said no–even though she’s English, so there’s no way she already had plans. So I couldn’t figure out if she liked him too, or if she was deliberately keeping her distance.”

“Sounds like it’s probably both,” said his father, and Virgil nodded.

“Recent events have clarified that, yeah.”

“You’ve never discussed it with him?”

“I wanted to. John talked me out of it. He thought he’d just freak himself out and start avoiding her. And he’s probably right.”

Jeff made a hmm noise. “Fair point. And if anything happens between them, it’s got to be because they want it, not because we’ve pushed them into it. Doesn’t mean, though–” He smiled slightly. “–that we can’t give him a little encouragement.”

Virgil chuckled. “You’re giving your approval awfully quickly. You barely know her.”

“Any woman that willing to make an impassioned defence of my son is automatically in my good books.”

“Even if it was you she was telling off?”

“Especially if it was me. Seriously, though. Is she good for him?”

Virgil thought carefully before he answered, mind running back over what he’d witnessed over the past eight years–laughter and late night calls and Scott’s smile, tiny but present, whenever she entered a room. “Yes. She is.”

“Then she has my blessing. I trust your judgement.” Jeff clapped him on the shoulder. “Dinner's on the table. Gordon cooked. No idea what it’s supposed to be but it smells good.”

“Awesome.” Virgil closed his sketchbook and pastel box, then got up and helped his father to his feet. “Dad–just checking what your idea of ‘encouragement’ is, exactly?”

Jeff shrugged casually. “Oh, just the odd subtle nudge.”

(The nudges were not subtle.)

Chapter Text

Tin-Tin Kyrano hadn’t been to Tracy Island for ages. She’d lived here for a few years, when she was tiny, in the roundhouse with Tanusha and her parents–but after Jeff Tracy had ‘died’–and after her father had the first heart attack–she and her mum and dad had left for London; and they’d only made the occasional visit since. It was far more common, especially since the existence of Thunderbird Shadow, for Tanusha to come to them (typically disregarding the existence of the front door and climbing through her little sister’s bedroom window instead). 

Hopefully, now that Mr Tracy (she hadn’t quite gotten up the courage to call him Jeff yet, despite his protests) was home, that would change, because hanging out with your half-sister and her quasi-siblings on their private tropical island was pretty brilliantly awesome. Even if Alan Tracy occasionally drove her round the bend.

The ‘kids’, as the ‘real’ grown-ups had patronisingly referred to them as (even though they were all over eighteen, thank you very much), were out by the pool. Tanusha, Tin-Tin, and the youngest three Tracys were actually in it; while Scott and Virgil were on deckchairs a safe distance from the splash zone, Scott to protect his bandages and Virgil his sketchpad. Off through the glass doors of the kitchen, she could see her mother and Grandma Tracy battling for custody of the kitchen. She wasn’t sure where their fathers had gone, but she suspected they had decided a private conversation was in order–Mr Tracy had definitely noticed his old friend’s pained breathlessness. 

(As had ‘Nusha–it was unavoidable, he was visibly much worse than he had been the last time she’d visited in person–but she clearly didn’t want to talk about it.)

Tin-Tin shoved the thought from her head, forced herself to focus on the conversation, shifting her weight on the donut float. “Seriously, Alan, you should consider it. At least for a semester or two.”

“I can’t exactly keep Thunderbird Three on campus.” Alan, on a matching float, dragged a hand  through the water idly. “Besides, Virgil and Gordon did correspondence degrees–and John got two freaking PhDs remotely–so that’s good enough for me.” 

“We’ll figure it out, if you want to attend in person,” Scott said, adjusting the cushion behind his back with a wince. “Me and Kayo can fly Three.”

Gordon sent a splash in Scott’s general direction and missed completely. “Dude, Kayo’s already covering One, and you have two broken ribs and a hole in your lung.”

“And you had a broken everything six months ago. It’ll heal. And Dad and I are looking at some stuff that might make it easier to fill gaps, once it’s set up.”

Virgil lowered his sunglasses and peered over them at Scott. “‘Stuff’?”

“It’s all still speculative. Dad said he’ll fill you guys in when we’ve got something concrete. Alan, if you want to go to college as a brick-and-mortar student, you can. Don’t hold back because you think you can’t be spared.”

“You’re being a hypocrite again,” John muttered from his position face-down on a lilo, at the other end of the pool. 

“How?” Scott protested. “Do you see me on duty right now?”

John pushed himself up on his elbows, the float dipping dangerously, and glared at Scott. “Two days ago you tried to convince me that you could still fly missions as long as you didn’t get out of the cockpit.”

Tanusha, sitting on the edge of the pool, took a noisy slurp of her drink. “I feel untrusted.”

“No, that’s not what I–Kay, you know I think you’re a great pilot, I just–”

She made mischievous eye contact with Tin-Tin, who giggled. “She’s kidding, Scott.”

He huffed and leaned back. “My point is–Alan, do you want to go to college in person? Because we’ll make it happen if you do.”

Alan shook his head; and he looked seriously uncomfortable. “No, I don’t. So you can all stop fussing about it.”

Tin-Tin chewed the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t meant to turn it into a thing. But she’d enjoyed her first year at Cambridge in person way more than her current virtual classroom life (though that might, objectively, have more to do with the stress of being at home right now than it did with school itself), and she’d thought Alan might prefer it too. But apparently she’d missed the mark. 

Sorry, she mouthed at him; and he shrugged and mouthed back It’s okay.

“If you’re sure,” said Scott. “No pressure either way. If you need me to talk to Dad about–” His comm beeped, and he glanced at it for a second–then smiled faintly and answered the call. “Hang on a sec, guys. Hey, Simms.”

“Afternoon,” a holographic redheaded woman said cheerfully. “How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty good, considering. Thanks. What’s up?”

“Is your dad around? He’s not answering.” 

“He’s … busy. I can pass on a message?”

“No problem. I called to let him know he’s alive. Officially and legally.”

Gordon whooped. Virgil pulled off his sunglasses. “That was fast. Nice work, Di.”

“I can’t take any credit–it’s a high-profile enough case that the powers-that-be apparently decided to skip the bureaucratic nonsense for once. So now that’s sorted, we’ve got to resolve the probate issues.” 

Scott visibly tensed, his smile suddenly looking distinctly wooden. “Have you discussed it with him already?”

“Kind of.” The woman–she was a lawyer, Tin-Tin assumed from context–appeared to consult her notes. “It makes sense to restore a controlling interest of shares back to him, if you’re still planning on him taking the company over again?” Scott nodded. “But he said he didn't want to revert any of the other assets back from any of you if it can be avoided. It’s going to cause an interesting issue with the inheritance tax, but we’ll figure it out.”

“That … works.” Scott grimaced, rubbed a hand over his mouth briefly. “Especially since I … don’t really have anything other than the shares to give back to him, anyway.”

Tin-Tin was suddenly aware that everyone else but Scott was looking at John, who was pretending not to notice. 

The lawyer looked confused for a moment–then groaned. “You’re kidding me. You guys still haven’t told him–I thought you were going to talk about it when he got home?”

“I was getting to it, Di,” John said defensively, cautiously pushing the lilo towards the edge of the pool. “He’s wounded and requires sensitive treatment.”

“He’s been out of hospital for a week!”

Scott looked helplessly at Virgil. “Is someone going to fill me in here?”

“Jonathan?” said Virgil, smirking. 

John, halfway through trying to climb out of the pool without falling back in, made a face at his older brothers. 

Tanusha sighed and turned around, pulling her legs out of the water. “Long story short, Scott, you’re not broke, and John should probably be in jail.”

“... what the heck?”

“It wasn’t illegal,” John protested, finally on solid ground. “Well, not telling you about it was, I guess. When you transferred everything from your personal accounts to use for the Zero-XL, EOS flagged it and I intercepted the transaction, checked with everyone–” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the other brothers. “–and replaced four-fifths with money taken evenly from our trust funds. Eighty percent of the money you ‘spent’ is sitting in a holding account. Which is the awkward part because that account’s in my name, so technically I’ve stolen from you. I’d take it as a kindness if you didn’t press charges.”

“John–” Scott was staring at him wide-eyed (and possibly a little teary). “Guys–you didn’t have to–”

“Yeah, we did,” said Alan.

Gordon nodded firmly. “Duh.”

Scott turned to Virgil, who reached over and squeezed his arm. “He’s our dad too.”

Scott blinked rapidly. “You all knew about this?”

“I didn’t,” said Tin-Tin helpfully. 

“Tin-Tin’s my new favourite.”

Di laughed. “Sorry, Scott, you’ve officially been ganged up on. John, you should probably put the money back now, for the sake of my plausible deniability if nothing else. And Scott, don’t you dare get any ideas about paying back what the company put towards the Zero-X. It’s under control.”

“Fine. But I am very–” Scott pointed accusingly at John with his free hand, but he was smiling. “–very pissed at you right now.”

John smiled back at him. “I can live with that.”

“Kids!” They all turned to see Grandma in the kitchen doorway. “Burgers are ready!”

Alan and Gordon scrambled for the edge of the pool. Tin-Tin followed them at a slower pace, taking Tanusha’s offered hand and climbing out. 

“I’ll get yours,” Virgil said to Scott as he put down his art supplies and stood up. “See you later, Di.”

“Bye, V. Enjoy your burned hockey pucks.”

“I think Nurin won custody of the grill, so we should be okay.” Tanusha waved to the woman on the holo. “Di, call me later–I noticed something weird at Voltx Labs the other day that might affect the cabling supply deal.”

“Bloody typical. Thanks, Kayo–I’ll talk to you in a bit. Have a good evening, everyone.”

Scott smiled. “You too, Simms.”

The hologram vanished, and Tanusha jogged to catch up with John as he headed inside as well, leaving Tin-Tin to bring up the rear. 

“Hey, Tin-Tin?” 

She stopped and turned back to Scott. “Yeah?”

He watched her for a moment, worry lines across his brow. “Your dad. It’s really bad now, isn’t it?”

Tin-Tin bit her lip, hard, then nodded.

“If anything … happens … you know we’re all here for you, right? Not just for Kayo–for you and your mom too.”

“... yeah,” she whispered. “I know. Thank you.”

He smiled, reassuringly but tightly–and it wasn’t sympathy, it was understanding, and it made her feel simultaneously better and worse. 

She sat down, perched on the end of his deckchair. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“The woman who called just now–she’s your lawyer?”

“One of them, yep.”

“How come you called her ‘Simms’?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s her name?”

“Her last name?” He nodded. “Everyone else calls her Di. You don’t. Why?”

He crossed his arms. “What, are you majoring in psychology now?”

“I’m considering it. Because everyone on this island needs soooooo much therapy.”

Scott yanked one of the cushions from behind him and threw it at her. “Go make sure no one puts mayo on my burger.”

She jumped up, tossing the pillow back at him with a giggle. “FAB.”

(Tanusha did, finally, have the conversation with her, the next morning. And it sucked; but it helped.)

Chapter Text

Tanusha had always loved running up here. 

It felt good –pushing herself until her lungs ached and her legs burned and her head throbbed and she couldn’t focus on anything other than her trainers on the dirt track. Right up until she reached the point where the mountain path became a rockclimb, and she had to stop and lean against the cliff and get her breath back, and then all the thoughts she’d successfully banished returned with a vengeance. 

She remembered, far too late, that she hadn’t come up the trail alone; and she turned guiltily to see Scott jogging a hundred yards behind, face pained, hand pressed to his chest.

“Scott–” She darted back down the path. “I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”

He gave her a thumbs up with his free hand, ignoring her signal to stop until she got to him, catching himself against her shoulder. “I’m fine,” he gasped. “Stupid lung just hates me.”

She helped him over to a boulder at the side of the trail, and he slumped onto it. “I’m sorry, Scooter, I didn’t mean to ditch you.”

He waved the apology off, closing his eyes, panting raggedly. She dropped down next to him and rubbed his back; and they sat together in silence for a few minutes, listening to the crash of waves below. She thought maybe she could hear a kea through the trees.

“You okay?” she asked finally.

He nodded. “Are you?”

“–of course,” she said, caught off guard. 

“No one would blame you if you weren’t,” he said quietly; and she gave him a Look. “All right, I know, pot, kettle. But I mean it. You’re family. Whatever you need, we’re here.”

“It’s just–” She scrubbed a hand over her eyes. “It’s not fair–”

And she bit the rest of the sentence off, because it would be unfair to speak the rest of the thought aloud–to acknowledge the cruel irony that he’d found his father at the same time she was losing hers.

He put an arm around her shoulders. “I know your relationship with him is … complicated … and I’m not going to try to tell you how to grieve. But–please be there for Tin-Tin. She’ll need you.”

She nodded, leaning into him. “We’ve talked about it. I won’t shut her out. I promise.”

“I’m glad.”

He said nothing more, and neither did she. There wasn’t really anything to say. And, eventually, they got up and walked down the trail to the house.

(When they got back, Jeff and Gordon were making banana pancakes; and Brains and Virgil had the milk frother apart in pieces on the counter; and Alan was yawning adorably at the table; and Grandma handed her a cup of steaming black coffee without her having to ask. And none of that fixed anything, but it was a comforting reminder that she wasn’t alone.) 

Chapter Text

“Brains has programmed basic flight sim functionality already.” John gestured to the demonstration holo of Thunderbird Six’s cockpit, floating above the console. “I'm going to build on that and put together some training scenarios.”

“Right.” Di made a note. “Timeframe?”

“Should have a few for Six done by next week, which they can get going on to start with.”

“How tough are we talking?” Virgil leaned back and slung an arm along the back of the couch. “Just basic skill tests, or are you going full Kobayashi Maru?” 

John shrugged. “You’ll see.”

“Please don't haze the new kids,” Jeff muttered from his desk. 

It was the first semi-official International Rescue planning meeting since Dianne Simms’ addition to the team, and John had actually come ‘downstairs’ for the occasion. He didn't begrudge it, either, which vaguely surprised him. His dislike of being planetside had diminished gradually but substantially over the past year; why, he wasn't entirely sure.  

Scott was, of course, late. He'd diverted to a train crash outside Zhengzhou on his way home from his original mission in Tbilisi, a decision which Jeff had raised his eyebrows at but hadn't contradicted; and they'd decided not to wait for him, getting stuck in within twenty minutes of Virgil arriving with Di. 

“Hazing’s a strong word. Let's say … challenging.”

“I'll get them to sign waivers, shall I?” Di asked dryly. “Just to ensure no one sues you for emotional damages.”

Jeff pulled off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt (which was, incidentally, the awful flamingo-patterned number that John had thought Grandma had hidden at the bottom of the linen closet). “On second thought. No sim scenarios get issued without Virgil testing them first.”

“Why me?” Virgil asked. 

“You’re the only one I trust not to troll the new recruits.”

Well, that meant John would have to nix about half of his ideas. Disappointing. “FAB.” His wrist buzzed, and he checked the readout. “About time. One's on approach.”

“Crud,” Virgil muttered. “I think I left the deckchairs out again.”

Di was looking (rather longingly, John noted) at the holo of Six. “You think I could give the simulations a go sometime? Just for fun?”

“Sure, if you want. But be warned that even the basic ones aren’t easy. I've already ‘crashed’ twice.”

“That means nothing,” said Virgil. “Six is basically a small One, and you’ve never been able to fly her.”

John glared at him, but didn't respond, because, as if summoned by his words, Thunderbird One roared into view, and conversation was forced to pause during the noise of the landing procedure. 

“My natural operational habitat,” he said loftily, when he was guaranteed to be audible again, “has a lot less turbulence.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and asked to see the sim specs, and they were arguing whether flying through a tornado was a reasonable beginner scenario when the wall spun and Scott stepped out, still halfway through doing up his shirt.

“Sorry, guys, there was–Simms–” He paused, visibly startled. “Hi!”

“Hello,” she said cheerily, apparently unfazed. “How was China?”

“Rainy.” He suddenly seemed to remember his state of undress and scrambled to do up the rest of his buttons. John bit back a smirk, and, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Virgil doing the same. “Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but–what are you doing here?”

“I … work here?”

Scott’s eyes flicked across to their father, an odd mixture of emotions in them. “That’s new.”

“I’m sorry, Scott,” said Jeff; and John couldn’t imagine how he thought he was fooling anyone. “I forgot to mention she was coming. Dianne's agreed to transfer to International Rescue full time as COO, focusing on logistics and legal. Signed the contract yesterday.”

“You forgot?” asked John, very blandly; and his father gave him a look that implied that if any additional words came out of his mouth he would not live to regret it. 

“We’ve been busy,” said Virgil unconvincingly. It was just as well subterfuge wasn’t his day job. 

“That’s …” Scott blinked, twice, and then rallied. “That’s awesome news–congratulations, Simms. Welcome to the team!”

She flushed, just a little. “Thanks.”

John and Virgil made eye contact; and John cleared his throat. “We were talking about the training schedule, but we got a bit off track. What was it you wanted to cover next, Dad?”

Jeff looked down at his notes. “Right. The next thing on the Dianne-specific agenda–we need to do something about the, uh, frequent fliers.”

“Oh, yes, please.” Scott flopped onto the sofa next to Virgil. “If I never see Francois Lemaire again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Langstrom Fischler is probably the greater actual threat,” John mused. “In terms of endangering civilians, anyway. We could tell them we won’t help next time, but then what do we do if they call our bluff?” Because bluff it would be–he knew without asking that, if it came to it, none of his siblings would be willing to actually stand by and watch any of their ‘regulars’ experience the consequences of their own actions. 

Scott grimaced. “Simms, can we sue them? For, I don’t know, recklessly endangering the rescue crew or something?”

“We could try, but I doubt it would hold up in court–IR’s intervention is technically voluntary. No one’s making you–us–do this.”

“We could send them the bill,” Virgil muttered.

It was a joke, and one they’d made before–but, suddenly, for the first time, John took it seriously as an option. He looked at Di. “Could we?”

Her eyebrows were lowered, but a smile was creeping onto her face. “Actually–yes. We could.”

“And enforce it?” asked Jeff. 

“Yes–if we laid the groundwork correctly. I think, if–we could send them a terms of service, stating that, going forward, if they negligently cause any circumstances that require our intervention–whether they themselves called us or not–they’re liable for the financial cost of the operation. Plus labour and a hazard fee. A very substantial hazard fee.”

“Stick an extra billion or two on there for emotional distress,” John said. “Being in the same room with someone as stupid as Fischler causes me actual physical pain.”

“I like it,” mused Jeff. “I like it a lot.”

“Same.” Scott leaned forward, grinning. “Would it be illegal for us to spy on them so I can see their faces when they read the email?”

“Yes.”

“Bummer.”

“We don’t want to put other people off calling us, though,” said Virgil. “It’d be clear who it applies to, right?”

Di nodded. “I can make it obvious in the wording that it applies specifically to them due to a history of negligence, so no one else’ll worry about it in the event they do take it to the press. John, could you get me a list of people and companies to contact and the relevant mission files?”

John fired off a text to EOS on his comm. “It’s on its way.”

“Great–I’ll put something together the next day or so. If that’s okay, Jeff?”

“Go for it.”

Scott smirked. “And if they decide to continue to be idiots anyway?”

Di picked up her stylus, spinning it between her fingers with a flourish. “Then International Rescue might actually turn a profit.” 

(John tried very hard to convince Virgil to let him go ahead with his original plans for the simulators; but he was, tragically, overruled.)

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Alan could see that this situation was pretty much entirely his own fault. 

He attempted, cautiously, to shift his footing so as to put less strain on his arms–and nearly slipped, sneaker sliding against the rock. His numbed fingers, curled into the crevice above, just barely kept him from falling into the boulder-strewn waves. 

He whimpered, because he wasn’t that much of a grown-up, and no one was going to hear him anyway. No one would hear him if he screamed, not on this side of the island. He’d tried–yelled for help ‘till he was hoarse–but the wind and waves and distance were too much to overcome. 

There had been multiple points of failure, as John would put it, that had brought him to this crisis; and they were all his own. Mistake one was choosing to go for a pre-dawn run–a highly uncharacteristic course of action–half-an-hour before anyone else, even Gordon, was up. Mistake two was not telling anyone, or even leaving a note. Mistake three was choosing a path he was less familiar with: he knew Scott and Kayo came up here sometimes when they felt like a tougher workout, but he hadn't tried it in ages. Mistake four was wearing ordinary street trainers instead of hiking shoes with actual tread. Mistake five was not bringing a headlamp. Mistake six was sprinting too hard, too fast, on unpredictable terrain in low light with impaired vision on less than three hours of sleep. 

Mistake seven was not bringing his fricking comm unit. 

He'd even left his earpiece behind, tossing it onto the bedside table in his impulsive urge to escape the house before anyone could see him and ask what was wrong (because that was a conversation he did not want to have). It was highly unlikely, judging by the position of the sun in the sky, that anyone had even noticed he was gone yet. He was not, in the absence of a mission, a habitually early riser; so no one would question his absence from the house's common areas and go to drag him out of bed until at least nine-thirty. And then, when they couldn't find him, they'd probably ask EOS where he went–and she'd just say he went for a run–and there were no cameras up this trail–and it might be several more hours before it occurred to anyone that he'd been gone for a while.

How long could he hold on? 

He wasn't even quite sure how he'd fallen–all he knew was that one second he'd been running up the rocky path, heartbeat roaring in his ears, gasping for air–and the next he'd been scrabbling for purchase as he crashed over the edge. Somehow, he'd gotten hold of a crack about ten feet down, before he went into total freefall–grabbed it with one hand, then the other; and now here he was, hanging onto the side of the cliff like a demented Spider-Man. 

He couldn't feel his fingers. He could barely feel his arms. He wished he couldn't feel his shoulders, because the muscles were shrieking. A petrel was staring at him judgmentally from further along the cliffside. He made a face at it, and it flew away.

“Nice one, Al,” he muttered. “You even drove off the freaking bird.”

He squinted up at the sky. It was maybe … eight? Half-past? It had been just after dawn when he'd gone over the edge, so he'd been hanging out (hah) here for … two hours, ballpark? He really wasn't sure if he could manage another two. 

Could he go down? He peered at the waves breaking below. There were a lot of rocks, and he didn't fancy his chances of missing all of them. But maybe if he kind of pushed away from the cliff–no, he wouldn't be able to get out far enough, not jumping from this angle. 

He pushed his forehead against the rock with another whimper. “Help. Please.”

He didn't particularly expect a response, especially since he'd whispered it. But, a couple of seconds later, he could make out a faint yell, almost snatched away on the wind.

Someone calling his name.

“Here!” he called back, even though he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't just imagined it. “Help! I'm down here!”

The call came again–and this time, he could recognise the speaker.  “Alan?! Where are you?”

“Gordon!” he screamed back, hope rushing through him. “Down here!”

“Down where?”

“Down off the freaking cliff!”

He could hear his footsteps, now–and then, up above, his big brother leaned over the edge, eyes wide. “Oh crud. Hold on!”

“What do you think I'm doing?!”

“I don't have a rope with me–just a second–” Gordon activated his comm. “Island priority one, my location–need climbing gear and an extra pair of hands, now!”

Alan leaned his forehead against the stone again, this time with a sob of relief. Gordon was here, and at least one other would come soon, judging by the conversation Gordo was having up above. His big brothers were gonna save him. He wasn't alone, he wasn't forgotten. Not right in this moment, anyway. 

“Allie–” He looked up. Gordon looked like he'd laid down on the ground, head and shoulders sticking over the edge. Smart–that way he didn't risk leaning too far and falling himself. “Scooter’s coming, buddy. You're gonna be okay. Just hold on a bit longer, all right?”

Alan was vaguely surprised that Scott was up. He was normally a pretty early riser, true; but he and Dad had gone out in the civilian jet for ages after Scott had returned from Texas last night. He’d heard them heading to their rooms past 3 AM, as he'd lain on his own floor staring at the ceiling. 

He'd had no idea exactly what they’d talked about, but it was a pretty safe bet it had something to do with the fact that, yesterday, his oldest brother had, halfway through a rescue, unexpectedly made out with IR’s new in-house counsel and logistics manager while broadcasting on the group comms channel. Quite what had happened after the hurricane, Alan wasn’t sure; Scott hadn’t told him. But, when he came home, several hours later than the rest of them, he’d been grinning sheepishly–and everyone else’s reaction had been along the lines of, in Gordon’s words, flipping finally. As if they'd all seen this coming. 

Alan, however, had not. Di had always been one of those random background fixtures of his existence, like Colonel Casey or the guy at their favourite Chinese takeout in Tauranga–she’d been around nearly as long as he could remember, comfortingly familiar but never family. So the sight of her and Scott glued at the lips had been … something of a shock. 

“How long?” Alan called, trying not to sound panicky. Or at least not a genuinely uncool level of panicky. 

“Just a few minutes. You've got this.”

“Can't feel my hands.” And coolness was out the window. “Gords, I'm scared.”

“You can do this, Alan. You’ve done way crazier stuff. Since when are you a ‘morning run’ person, anyway?”

That was dangerous territory–scarier than the cliff. “Just felt like it.”

“Uh-huh. So EOS’s assessment that you were, quote, ‘in emotional distress’ isn't at all relevant?”

Alan winced. “Is this really the time to psychoanalyse me?”

“I feel like that old quote about holding a guy over a volcano and finally meeting the man is relevant here.”

“Yes. Okay. I'm upset! Doesn't matter right now!”

“Well, we've got to talk about something.”

“Then can you pick a different distraction?”

“Fine. But you are not getting out of an interrogation when Scott gets here.” Crap. “I've got an idea for a new surfing trick for two. You in?”

Alan laughed shakily. “Duh. What is it?”

A couple of minutes of watersports conversation later, they were interrupted by the buzz of a hoverbike, and Gordon scrambled to his feet. “Cavalry's here. Just give us two secs, Al. Don't go anywhere.”

“Hah. Hah. Hah.”

He could hear rustling and voices above, and it seemed to take forever–but finally, Scott appeared, climbing over the edge, harnessed up. (The professional part of Alan's brain was automatically calculating belaying balances.) “Hey, Squirt. You good?”

“Kinda,” he managed, the relief of having his biggest brother near stupidly overwhelming. “I'm not sure I can climb, like, at all.”

“That's fine–I’ll take care of it. Just hold still.” 

Scott rappelled quickly down the cliff, coming level with him, then fitted a second harness on over his shorts and clipped it to his own. “There we go, you're secure. I'm gonna hold onto you and Gordo will help walk us up. Okay?”

“FAB.” 

He waited as Scott swung a leg over and came around behind him, wrapping his arms firmly around his chest. “I've got you. You can let go now.”

It took way longer than it should have, his fingers deadened and clumsy; but at last he prised his hands free, and Scott took his weight. “Perfect. Good work. Gordon, we're ready!”

The ascent was almost anticlimactically quick. Twenty seconds later, Gordon was pulling him out of Scott's arms and over the edge; and he sagged against him with a groan. Scott was only a moment behind–and then his arms were back around him again, around them both, squeezing tight. 

“I'm okay,” Alan managed, as much to himself as his brothers. “I'm okay. Thank you.” 

“Duh.” Gordon ruffled his hair. 

Scott released them both, taking one of Alan's hands between his–and oh now the pins and needles were kicking in and it hurt– “Ow ow owwwww.”

“Sorry.” Scott started to massage his hand and wrist gently, and Gordon took the other hand and followed his example. It helped, kinda; but the returning bloodflow was still painful. 

And then suddenly he was giggling, sounding hysterical even to his own ears; and Scott dropped his hand in favour of pulling him into his arms, rubbing his back, murmuring in his ear. “I've got you, little buddy. It's all over. You're safe. I'm here. Just breathe.”

He couldn't hug Scott back, because his arms still wouldn't obey him; but he could snuggle against his t-shirt and cry–and he did, the turmoil of the last two hours–and last day, and last few months–bleeding out of him in a brutal rush. He could hear Gordon on his comm, talking to Virgil, but his brain couldn't make out the words–didn’t want to make out anything except his big brother's heartbeat and comforting whispers. 

At last the sobs eased up; but Scott didn't let him go.

Gordon poked his back. “Is now a good time to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Talk about what?” asked Scott.

“He's having his quarter-life crisis early.”

“Gordon, shut up.” 

“Hey.” Scott squeezed him a little tighter. “What's going on?” Alan didn't reply. “Gordon, what do you know that I don't?”

“EOS woke me up thirty minutes before my alarm to tell me that Alan had gone out for a run and he seemed to be freaking out. And I remembered he was kind of weird and quiet last night. So I went looking for him on all the usual trails, but obviously this isn't one of the usual trails so it took a while to find him. And he admitted to being upset just now.”

“Since when are you and EOS friends?” Alan muttered sulkily. 

“We have negotiated a fragile detente for the purpose of pranking Ridley. And the rest of the new team. Mostly Ridley. But don’t distract from the point, Alan Bartlett. Is this about Scott and Di?”

Scott flinched, tensing.

“... not about, exactly,” Alan mumbled. “I like Di. And I am happy for you, Scott. Really.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’?” Gordon prodded.

“But everything’s changing,” he blurted. “We’re training all these new people that we don’t know and Dad said we’re going to be rotating the teams so we won’t be together all the time any more and now Scott’s got a girlfriend and–” He choked on the words, burying his face against Scott again. This was stupid. This was selfish and childish and dumb and he needed to grow the heck up and–

“Hey hey hey.” Scott pressed his lips to the top of his head. “You are not gonna lose me, Alan. Never.”

Alan shrugged. He knew that Scott meant it, but–he had never had a real girlfriend before, not one that was likely to stick, so this was uncharted territory. Any shift in his priorities was all too likely to rob Alan of the precious little quality time he did get with his big brother–add the new rotation policy to that, and he’d be lucky if he saw him at all. He felt sick and tired and ashamed of himself for his self-centredness–but knowing he was being a brat didn’t make it not suck. 

“Allie.” Gordon rubbed his shoulder. “Do you remember when Scott went off to GDF flight school?”

He did, vaguely. Mostly just crying in Virgil’s arms afterwards. “Kinda.”

“Do you remember Buzzy Bear going missing?”

He did remember Buzzy–hard to forget, he was still in his closet, perched on the top shelf, standing guard over his t-shirts. But he didn’t recall ever losing him. “No?”

“Gordon,” Scott said, warning in his tone.

“Statute of limitations on that promise ran out years ago, big bro, so shut up and let me tell the story. Alan–you dropped Buzzy in the creek in that park near Grandma’s and he drifted away before we could fish him out. And you were a mess. We had a video call with Scooter that afternoon and you told him all about it, sobbing your little guts out. Then Grandma got you a new teddy, and by the time Scott came back on leave a few weeks later you’d forgotten all about it.

“But Scott hadn’t. This idiot–” He whacked Scott’s arm lightly. “–dragged me and Virgil and John down to that creek and insisted on searching in the mud for hours until Virg finally found him wedged in a fallen tree trunk, all torn and waterlogged and mouldy and gross; and then Scott washed him and sewed him back up and tucked him in bed with you while you were sleeping. And when you woke up you thought he’d walked back home on his own, which was so cute that Scott made us all promise never to tell you what really happened.” 

Alan had no memory of any of this. But he knew there was a line of mismatched but sturdy stitches along Buzzy Bear’s arm. 

“Scott Tracy’s love is a frickin’ force of nature, Allie. You couldn’t lose it if you wanted to. He’s always, always, going to want to smother you–all of us–in as much affection as humanly possible. And Di gets that–she knows us, and she knows the Tracy brothers are buy-one-get-four-free.”

“While Gordon is being overly flattering,” Scott said with a swallow, “he’s not wrong–I love you so much, kid. I love all of you so much. And Dianne understands that. We talked about it, yesterday, and–she said that the way I care about my family was one of the biggest reasons she liked me in the first place. She's not going to take me away from you guys, and I wouldn’t let her if she tried.”

“Maybe not on purpose,” Alan admitted. 

“Not at all. You didn’t lose Gordo when he started dating Penny, did you?”

“No, not yet, but–we’re all still going to be apart more–all of us, and we’re so busy as it is …”

“You realise the fact that we all live together as adults is not normal, right?” Gordon said teasingly. 

Objectively, he knew that. But it was Alan’s normal. And the idea of not having all his big brothers right down the hall (or up a space elevator) was kind of like having the ground ripped out from under his feet. 

“I know I’m being dumb,” he mumbled. “It’s just all so weird. And we just got Dad back, only a year ago, and now we’re splitting up?”

“Splitting up is a real stretch,” said Scott. “The idea is that we all work together on a regular basis so that the whole crew knows each other well and there isn't a division between the ‘Tracy team’ and the rest of IR. Which, yes, means we won't all be living on the same base at the same time all the time. But that doesn't mean we won't still have lots of overlap so the six of us can hang out. Because guess who's in charge of the schedule? Dad and Simms. And neither of them are going to be even remotely okay with us not getting plenty of family time.”

“Especially since us having actual breaks and lives outside IR was like half the point of the expansion in the first place,” Gordon said dryly. “Dad really wants grandkids.”

Alan chuckled reluctantly. The idea of being an uncle was bizarre, but … he kinda liked it. And he already knew that Scott was a great dad. 

He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as the noise of another hoverbike became audible–and a moment later, the larger passenger-slash-evac bike came careening around the corner, skidding to a stop with a flick of Virgil's wrist. (John, on the back, looked like he was going to hurl.)

“Alan, are you okay?” Virgil demanded, jumping off the bike. There was something very entertaining about the sight of his work boots pulled on over his pajama pants. 

“Yeah, I'm all right.” Alan shifted and winced. “My arms hurt a lot, though.”

“What were you thinking?” John climbed, with an inelegant stumble, off the passenger seat. “Coming up here without a comm, in the dark, without–”

“Lay off him,” Scott said, patting his back. “He knows. He won't do it again.”

He did know, and he certainly didn't intend to. But he hadn't actually said so. But Scott understood anyway. 

He leaned against Scott's shoulder as Virgil bent to check his arms and Gordon made fun of John's graceless entrance; and his fear of being left unloved finally receded.

(The first time a full team rotation schedule came into force, Di casually handed the draft to Alan the day before and asked his opinion. He had no edits to make.)

Chapter Text

It was a perfect afternoon on Tracy Island–the sun was warm enough for comfort, but not so hot as to require hiding in air conditioning. Sally Tracy had headed out to the pool to catch up on medical journals, only to find that two of the deckchairs were already occupied, next to one another. Dianne was sitting up in one, working on her tablet; and Scott was curled on his side on the lounger beside her, his own tablet lying abandoned next to his hand. Sally, with amusement, recognised the scenario from Virgil and Di’s very detailed ‘Care and Feeding of Scott Tracy’ document–the team had had a long mission out in the Alps the day before that had stretched well into the night, so it wasn’t surprising that Di had resorted to tricking her boyfriend into a nap under the guise of ‘work’. 

“Sorry,” she mouthed, moving to retreat; but Di shook her head and made a welcoming gesture towards the chair a little further along the pool; so Sally nodded and joined them, getting comfy and pulling out her own tablet. 

She was halfway through an article on microsurgery when Scott made a noise, pained and small–and Sally looked over to see that her grandson's forehead had contorted into a frown, eyes darting wildly under their lids. Oh, blast–

She started to stand, instinctively intending to go shake him awake before the nightmare could get any worse–but remembered belatedly that Di was right there, already moving to his side. 

But she didn't wake him. Instead, she crouched beside the deckchair, one hand moving to his head, the other resting on his shoulder. “Easy, Scott, easy,” she said softly, stroking his hair as he whimpered again. “Shhhhh. You're okay, love, I've got you. I'm right here–it’s only a bad dream–it’s not real–you're safe–I’m safe–everyone you love is safe–and they all love you–I love you–you are so, so loved–you can relax, dearest, everything's fine–there you go–that’s better–”

And, astonishingly, it was: under her words and her touch, the tense distress melted slowly from his face, and the flickering eyelids gradually stilled. 

The Scott nightmare protocol had long been to get him conscious as quickly as possible, mostly because any delay tended to result in him waking up screaming and-or swinging. Attempts to soothe him before that point had typically ended in failure (and, on one occasion when he was a teenager, a black eye for Jeff, which the poor boy had felt intensely guilty about), so they'd stopped trying. Apparently that had been premature. 

Di kept murmuring to him gently for a minute or so, until it was definite that his sleep was deep and dream-free–then withdrew carefully, glancing up at Sally with an embarrassed half-smile. 

“Well done,” Sally whispered, genuinely impressed. Di shrugged and grinned, sitting back on her own deckchair; and both women silently returned to their work. 

(Scott, when he eventually woke up from his nap, was completely oblivious that anything had occurred.)

Chapter Text

“Pro tip,” Scott announced as he exited the launch tube into the lounge. “Don't piss off kangaroos. They kick.”

Virgil sighed, hands continuing to move over black and white keys. “Do I want to know why you're telling me this?”

“Probably not.” Scott strolled around the edge of the lounge, joining Virgil by the piano and leaning against the corner. “This part of the concerto?”

Virgil nodded. He was practising his final edits before heading off to New York to rehearse with the Philharmonic in two weeks (edits to his part, he wasn't cruel enough to drop last minute changes on an orchestra). It was a couple of seasons after their original request, but better late than never. “I still can't quite believe this is happening.”

“I can,” Scott said with the quiet confidence that he always had when he praised any of his little brothers’ abilities. “You've earned it, Virg.”

“... thank you.” Virgil finished the section, then looked up at Scott. “Di said to ask you whether you have a suit colour preference.”

“Umm. Navy, I guess?”

“That’s awkward. Because I think her mother was insisting on black.” Virgil crossed his arms, hesitating. Lady Julia Simms was taking the wedding of her only daughter very seriously. The last guest list he’d seen included about six hundred of the Simms’ nearest and dearest, and he was pretty sure it had expanded since then. Di and Scott were going along with the absurdity, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that no one but Lady Julia was actually enjoying the process, or the idea of the final product; and his big brother's shoulders were creeping higher and tenser every time the subject came up. 

“Scott, this whole giant fancy shindig–it doesn't feel very you. Either of you.”

Scott shrugged. “It isn't. But things are weird enough with her parents already that we don't want to rock the boat if we don't have to, and–I just want to get married, as soon as humanly possible. I really don't care how. Suit colour isn't a hill worth dying on.”

Virgil pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “You have to do a civil ceremony on US soil for paperwork purposes anyway, right? The big bash in England is legally just a party?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Only a suggestion, but–why don't you just … get married? Have the legal ceremony as soon as you like–next week, even–get a celebrant out to the ranch, have a small party with friends and family you actually want there–go on your honeymoon–and then when the giant circus happens, there's no pressure. Or at least less pressure.”

Scott slowly grinned. “That actually sounds perfect. I'll pitch it to Simms.” He reached one leg out and knocked Virgil's boot with his shoe. “See, this is why you're my best man.”

Virgil's brain briefly stalled. “I'm your best man?”

“Uh, yeah?” Scott looked both confused and amused. “Duh.”

“But–sorry, I'm not trying to make you rethink, or anything, I just–kind of assumed you'd ask Dad?”

“Virgil–” Scott leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “I love Dad. But he's not the guy who's had my back through thick and thin for thirty years. You are.”

Virgil blinked a few times–then shoved the piano stool back, heedless of the scrape it made along the hardwood floor, and yanked Scott into a bear hug. 

“Thank you,” he whispered against his big brother's shoulder with a wobbly chuckle. 

“Thank you ,” Scott returned, clinging tighter for a moment; then released him, clearing his throat. “That said, I should warn you that I've already given Gordon permission to throw the stag because he wouldn't stop nagging me about it. A decision I've been regretting ever since.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line.” Virgil clapped him on the shoulder. “You know what? I think I'm going to exercise my best man privileges and give you your wedding present early.”

“That feels kind of like cheating.”

Virgil headed for the storage closet concealed behind a wall panel near his chute and popped it open. “Don't worry, this one's just for you. I'll give you both a proper joint one at the wedding.” He pulled out the guitar case he'd stashed there a few days earlier and met Scott halfway back to the piano, handing it to him, suddenly nervous. “Congratulations, Scott.”

“Thank you.” Scott lifted the case, grinning at him. “Is this part of the campaign to encourage me to have more–” He did quick air-quotes with his free hand.  “–‘relaxing’ hobbies?”

“Once again, running isn't a ‘hobby’, it's working out.”

“If I'd known you and Simms were going to gang up on me like this–”

“We've been ganging up on you for a decade. You just never noticed until recently.” Virgil nodded to the case. “Go on. Open it.”

“All right, all right.” Scott knelt on the floor, lying the case in front of him, and flicked the catches open. “Talk about impatie–”

He lifted the lid, and went completely still. 

Virgil had, finding it at Gran Roca a few weeks earlier, had more or less the same reaction. But their mother's guitar was in substantially better condition now than it had been then. He'd glued the broken neck back together with wood resin; touched up the paintwork to hide the crack; and revarnished the whole thing, so that the design a teenaged Lucille Taylor had painted over forty years earlier–leaves and bluebirds, all the way down the fretboard and over the body down to her signature at the base–shone bright and new. Restringing it had been a pain, and he'd had to rope in Alan and his smaller fingers, but they'd figured it out in the end. 

“I found it cleaning out the attic,” Virgil explained, kneeling down next to his brother. “Fixed it up. Allie helped.”

Scott ran a gentle finger along the break. “You can … hardly tell.”

Whose fault the damage had been was kind of up for debate. Scott blamed himself for dropping it off the porch, obviously, and yes, technically, that was what happened. But it had been Virgil's idea to take it outside in the first place; and neither of them had thought to ask permission. Despite that, Lucille hadn't even been angry. She'd just sighed and ruffled the hair of her frantically apologising sons and told them that they would get it repaired when they returned from their ski trip the next week.

Obviously, they hadn't.

“I was worried it would affect the tuning, but Alan said it’s all right.” Scott didn't respond, and Virgil touched his arm. “Scooter–I’m sorry, maybe I should have talked to you first–”

“No–it’s–” Scott inhaled shakily. “It's okay. I just–I don't feel I–”

And then he closed his eyes for a second, breathed out carefully, and opened them again. “I like it. I love it. Thank you.”

Virgil smiled. “Want to give it a test drive?”

“I haven't played in, what, five years? I probably suck now.”

It was actually closer to seven, from what Virgil could remember–the last time he'd seen his big brother with a guitar in his lap was when he'd been teaching Alan. And even before that, the moments had been few and far between, ever since he'd first left home for the GDF. “Only one way to find out.”

Scott grinned and– very carefully–lifted the guitar out of its case and slung the strap over his shoulder, then headed over to Dad's desk and spun the chair around, sitting down. He ran his thumb along the strings in a slow experimental strum–and then chuckled. “Alan did the tuning, didn't he?”

Virgil nodded, returning to the piano stool, and Scott shook his head laughingly and adjusted a couple of the pegs. Another, quicker strum. “That’s better.”

Virgil had thought it sounded weird, but he hadn't wanted to overrule his little brother amid his enthusiasm for the task. He listened as Scott played a D minor, brushing the strings in a gentle rhythm–switched to C major–and then back and forth. The instrument sounded as perfect as he remembered, even repaired, the sound rich and pure. Until Scott switched to a trickier chord–and snorted ruefully as he fumbled it. “Aaaand I’ve completely lost the ability to play an F.”

“You’ll get it back.” Virgil positioned his fingers on the keyboard. “Jam session?”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

(If Jeff Tracy teared up a little when he heard his sons’ instruments down the hall, he never admitted to it.)

Chapter Text

Lulu Tracy is six years old when Sam Blackton dies. 

She's in the lounge, by the window, watching on the holoconsole as her father flies to the scene. The copper mine is on fire, spreading deep underground;  she drags her Barbie dreamhouse downstairs and maps out the scene as Grandpa and Uncle John and Uncle Brains discuss it. Sam is hiding from the fire in a sealed ventilation shaft—he can be Ken, she'll put him in the middle floor bathroom—and there is another group of trapped engineers, six of them, down in their copper driller—she didn't bring down enough dolls to represent all of them, so one Barbie will do—downstairs living room. There's no easy way of accurately representing fire, but an orange scarf gets her pretty close, spread through the top level of the house and poking a little down the stairs. 

Daddy doesn't mind her watching rescues. She remembers Mummy objecting once, a year or so ago, when she thought Lulu couldn't hear them. 

“I know,” she'd heard Daddy say, through the crack in the ranch house door. “It scares me too. But if Alan taught me anything, it's that setting up forbidden fruit is just asking for trouble. Besides, I'd—I’d’ve given my right arm to be able to watch Dad work at her age.”

She doesn't quite understand what he means, but Mummy seems to, and that's the end of it. She can be in the lounge, or the office if it's their shift at the ranch, and watch—if she's quiet, of course. One rebuke from Uncle John was enough to teach her the importance of not being a distraction.  

She follows the progress carefully, tugging the scarf down the stairs. Daddy is on the scene, in Alaska; but Thunderbirds Two and Six are on the other side of the world helping with a cyclone evacuation, and Seven is in pieces on the hangar floor undergoing maintenance; so he's on his own for the foreseeable future. Lulu isn't worried. Daddy always fixes it. He can't get past the fire, but he's found the control room, at the top of the main shaft. 

“How much is still online?” Uncle John asks.

“About two-thirds of the dashboard is flashing red at me, so I'm gonna say … not a lot.”

Uncle Brains is looking at a holo of the mine, spinning and zooming. “We c-can’t stop it, so we need to r-redirect it.”

Mummy comes into the room, but she doesn't interrupt, sitting down on the couch next to Brains and working quietly on her tablet. Lulu thinks for a second about joining her—but bringing her simulation down to the pit would probably bug everyone, so no, she'll stay out of the way. 

Daddy manages to figure out which mine controls are still live, and Uncle Brains maps them against the blueprint—and then he goes very still and says a bad word under his breath. 

“Oh,” Uncle John's holo says after a moment. “I … see the problem.”

“What?” asks Daddy as Grandpa gets up from his desk and goes down the steps to join Brains. 

“There's only o-one remaining way of re-d-directing the fire.” Uncle Brains pulls off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“Which is?” Daddy prods, not very patiently. 

“Into the ventilation system,” Uncle John says, when Brains doesn't reply. 

Grandpa echoes the bad word. Lulu can see Mummy tense. 

“No way,” Daddy says sharply. “Find another option.”

“There i-isn't one, Scott.” Uncle Brains puts his glasses back on. 

“Then I'm getting Sam out first.”

Grandpa clears his throat. “Two's in Jakarta. If we asked Virgil to drop everything and come straight to you now, it'd take over an hour—longer to stop for the Mole pod. The drilling team doesn't have that kind of time.”

“They've got fifteen minutes, maximum,” Uncle John confirms. “If that. EOS hasn't been able to reach them for the past three.”

Lulu pulls the scarf further down the stairs, into the hallway against the living room door. 

“Can you get a lifesign read?” Grandpa asks.

“T-too hot,” Brains says, and Uncle John nods. 

“We’ll keep trying. It might just be interference. But the oxygen content down there has got to be …” He trails off. Mummy makes a noise that sounds like a sob.

“There's a neighbouring mine, right?” Daddy’s holo leans forward, gripping onto the sides of an invisible console. “I can use it to go around the fire and get to Sam, or—”

“Not without d-drilling equipment,” Uncle Brains says flatly. “And not in fifteen minutes.”

Daddy is the third person to swear. He steps back, runs a hand through his hair. Lulu wraps her arms around herself. 

“John,” he says, shakily, after a moment. “What are the odds that the drilling team are, right this moment, still alive?”

“Given the known maximum oxygen capacity of the driller, the time they'd been using it, the state of the shafts themselves—” Uncle John looks sideways for a moment. “Coin flip.”

Daddy takes a very slow breath. “So my options are save one but maybe let five die—or maybe save five, but …”

Nobody replies. 

“Dad?” he says, and Lulu has never heard his voice crack like that. 

It takes a few seconds for Grandpa to respond. “I won't order you to do it, Scott.”

Daddy rubs a hand over his face, then clears his throat, hard. “Dianne. Is Lulu in the room?”

“Yeah!” Lulu says eagerly, getting up and rushing to the top of the sofa. This is it, this is when he'll figure it out and she’ll get to watch him do something really cool and save everybody and everything will be—

Mummy stands up. Her eyes are too shiny. “Pumpkin, go outside now, okay?”

“But—” she starts to protest. Daddy cuts her off.

“Both of you. Go. Please.” His voice cracks again. “I don't want you to see me do this.”

Mummy looks back at him—then hurries up the steps and grabs Lulu’s hand and pulls her into the hall, down to the kitchen, out the door into the hot sunshine—and Lulu thinks about pulling the scarf off the stairs and shoving it into the dreamhouse bathroom, with Ken still propped against the tub. 

Chapter Text

Scott slumped onto the sofa in the Gran Roca lounge and tilted his head back, staring listlessly at the ceiling. His body felt heavy, numb, distant—the same horrible dissociative fatigue he sometimes experienced after a few days of back to back rescues—like he'd been drained dry until he was too weary to move, think, exist—

Dianne sat down next to him and curled against his side, cheek pillowed on his chest, thumb stroking over his heart; and he wrapped his arms around her with a long sigh. 

“You okay?” he murmured, after a moment, rubbing her shoulder blade. 

“I think so.” She twisted around, looking up at him. “You?”

“I … don't know.” 

She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through his hair, with juuuust the right amount of pressure on his scalp, and his eyes drifted shut without his permission. “Promise me something?”

Her fingertips made their way down to his temple, traced the edge of his hairline in soft circles, and ohhhh, that felt good—her touch grounding him, bringing his brain back inside his skull where it belonged while simultaneously melting it into a puddle of dizzy goop. Unconsciousness beckoned enticingly, the first tendrils of sleep curling cosily around him, and it was all he could manage to respond with a belated “Mmm?”

“Tell me. On the bad days.”

And the drowsiness evaporated. 

He opened his eyes, met hers—instinctively flinched at the quiet sympathy in them. “I’ll try. I’m sorry I just … dropped that on you.”

He didn’t say what he meant. He didn’t have to.

“It’s all right. I knew.”

“Dad told you?” It was the logical answer, but he didn’t like the thought.

“No.” She stroked between his brows, smoothing away the frown. “I figured it out years ago. Pretty much as soon as I learned the … specifics. You’re more of an open book than you think.”

Scott took his wife’s hand and wrapped it in his, small and warm. “I don’t deserve you.”

She lifted their intertwined hands and kissed the back of his. “Lies.”

“I can’t believe I lost it at you like that. You should be so pissed at me—”

“Hey.” She dropped his hand and placed a warning finger on his lips. “Don't you dare start spiralling on me, Scott Tracy.”

He chuckled hoarsely, caught her hand again. “Okay, no self-flagellation. But I do need to … set the record straight.” He took a breath, gathered himself as he looked up into another pair of wide blue eyes. “I was a jerk to you today, and I'm so sorry. But I need you to understand—my feelings for you are not conditional on what happens in that courtroom, all right? Yes, if we lose him I—I don't know how I'd bear it, but—whatever the outcome, even if it ends up being the worst possible—I love you, always. No matter what.”

Her eyes grew glassier, and her lip wobbled faintly before she drew it through her teeth. “He’s your baby brother. You’ve spent your whole life trying to protect him. And now you can't, and it's my job, and I'm so scared I'm going to fail you—”

He pulled her down, against his chest, whispering firmly. “No. Matter. What. Got it?”

She nestled against his collarbone with a tremulous laugh, still clinging to his hand. “Got it.” A long, quiet sigh. “You know it goes both ways, right? Yes, there is a theoretical standard of jerkiness that would cause me to be breakup-level angry at you—” She giggled as he tensed. “—and relax, love, you're nowhere near it, not even in the same hemisphere—but in the astronomically unlikely event you did do something I couldn't forgive—I’m convinced I would definitely still love you. No matter what.”

Scott squeezed his eyes shut and held her tighter. “Why?”

“Because, despite being objectively the most incredible man on the planet, you're still humble enough to ask that.” She pressed her lips to his hand again. “And because ten years ago I watched you with your little brothers and fell completely in love with the way you love.”

There was absolutely nothing he could say in response to that, mostly because there was a lump in his throat the size of Thunderbird Two. So he just buried his face against her hair and held on, breathing through the sheer everything of it all, stroking her spine as he felt her shudder with emotion. 

“You did so great, this afternoon,” he said, when he finally could. “You and Kayo and John nailed it.”

“I mean, it was mostly John and Kayo.”

“They couldn't’ve done it without you.”

She was silent for a second, then giggled wetly. “My law school professors would be so disappointed. I’ve lost the ability to take criticism or praise without tears.”

He gave a huff of amusement, then hesitated. “Not to be that guy, but … even when everything’s absolutely hitting the fan, you're not normally this, umm, weepy. Are you okay? Like, physically? Is your period coming up or something?”

A brief pause, as she presumably did the math in her head—and then she tensed. “Last one was Thanksgiving.”

“And they're, uh, supposed to be … ?”

“Monthly, Mr No-Sisters.” She sat up straight and looked him in the face, eyes wide. “I'm two weeks late.”

His heart leapt into his throat; he took a careful breath before responding. “That’s … quite late, right?”

“Very. We’ve been so busy I hadn’t realised—but—I was late last time as well, and I wasn’t—and stress can affect your cycle so it might not mean anything—”

“Still.” Scott pushed himself fully upright, exhaustion vanishing entirely, exhilaration (and maybe a tiny bit of alarm) thrumming in his chest. “Take a pregnancy test. Just in case.”

Her hand drifted seemingly unconsciously to her abdomen. “Right now?”

“Right now. Because otherwise the suspense is gonna kill me.”

“I don't have any. Well, I do, but they're on the island.”

A newfound disadvantage of the two-base system, he thought irritably. “Can you use the medbay scanner?”

“I don't think it can reliably pick it up until at least six weeks—but maybe the medbay will have tests?” 

“Let's go find out.” 

He started to stand, but her hand caught his arm, stilling him. “Scott, what if it’s negative?”

“Then that’s okay. We just got married. We've got plenty of time.”

“What if it’s positive?” 

The excitement-versus-dread ratio in his system shifted slightly more towards the less enjoyable end of the spectrum. He swallowed, buried fear under flippancy. “Then my father might finally shut up.”

She swatted his shoulder. “Scott.”

He inhaled, looked into her eyes and saw his own delighted anxiety mirrored back—and pulled her against his chest again  and kissed her hair. “Then we get a brand new tiny Tracy to love the socks off of.”

She giggled shakily. “That sounds like fun.”

“It does. If we’re very lucky, it might even be a girl.” 

“Is that genetically possible in your family?”

He snorted. “Guess we’ll find out.”

“It’s scary. The whole … parenting thing.”

Very.

The first night after they announced Dad’s ‘death’ back in ‘55, Alan had crawled into his bed at 2 AM and snuggled into his chest; and he’d held his tiny little brother tight and stared out the window until dawn broke. The prospect of fatherhood hadn’t gotten any less frightening since.

But he didn’t doubt Dianne for a second.

“You’re going to be an awesome mom.” He released her and jumped up, pulling her to her feet. “Now stop stalling and go do, uh … whatever it is you’re supposed to do?”

“Pee on a stick, babe.”

“Seriously? Gross.”

“You desperately need a refresher course on women.”

“And yet you married me anyway.”

“What was I thinking?” She reached up and kissed him, swift but tender. “Oh, yeah. I love you. That was it.”

“I love you too. Now can we please go find out if you're having my child now?”

She grinned at him. “So impatient.”

“Dianne Louise Tracy, so help me — ”

“All right, all right—”

She caught his hand and pulled him into the hallway, and they hurried down to the hangar medbay—and yes, there were tests, tucked in the back of a drawer, thank you Grandma!—and Dianne kissed his cheek and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Scott to wait. 

And pace. 

And to try, very hard, not to panic. 

Chapter Text

The sound of crying pulled Jeff, gradually but firmly, from sleep. He chuckled into his pillow and rolled over, blinking up at the ceiling. This week was the first in two decades that Gran Roca had had that sound within its walls.

Given the option, Dianne had expressed a preference for the farmhouse over the island for the first couple of months after she gave birth. Her husband had been happy to oblige, and Jeff had volunteered to stay in the house with them as an extra pair of hands. (The duty team assigned to Gran Roca, which currently consisted entirely of uncles and aunts, were very happy to coo over International Rescue’s new mascot during daylight hours but were firm about sleeping in the base dorms.) Fortunately, so far, Lulu had proven to be a relatively easy baby, at least by newborn standards. Although–he glanced at his watch–this seemed a little early for her to want another feed. 

He listened to the distant thuds and rustles as one of the parents retrieved their child, expecting the wails to stop quickly as usual. But, this time, they didn't–the baby kept going, apparently inconsolable–and after about ten minutes, he heard footsteps down the hall and down the stairs–Scott’s–and the cries went with him. Good boy, he thought fondly. Rule number one of fatherhood: let the woman who did all the hard work sleep whenever humanly possible. 

The noise was more muffled, downstairs; but it was still audible, and it was showing no signs of letting up. Jeff forced himself to wait another fifteen minutes before finally allowing himself to turn on the light, put on a robe, and follow his son downstairs. 

He pushed the kitchen door open to find Scott pacing in circles, bouncing slightly, his newborn daughter propped against his shoulder; and as Jeff entered, he turned to his father with poorly-concealed terror. “She won't stop. She's clean, she's refusing food, she's not gassy, and she's still crying. I can't figure out what's wrong–do we need a doctor, or–”

“Woah there.” Jeff put up a hand. “Let's not jump to any conclusions, okay?” Chances were she was reacting to his panic as much as anything else at this point. Settle Scott, then the baby. “C’mon, let's go out onto the porch.”

Scott hesitated, then nodded shakily and followed his father's lead; and they both went out the front door. It was a cool but comfortable night, the moon, waxing gibbous, lighting the desert enough that there was no need to turn on the porch light. 

Jeff closed the door behind them, then sat on one side of the swing chair and gestured for Scott to join him, and Scott obeyed, clutching his baby girl close. “Relax,” he forestalled his son as he opened his mouth to speak. “If you're calm, she'll calm.”

Scott looked rueful, but he settled against the cushions. “Easier said than done.”

“True. But honestly, there's no reason to worry just yet. She's brand new to the world. She just got forced out of her nice warm womb and now everything’s weird and huge and scary. Can't blame her for having the odd freakout.”

Scott laughed reluctantly. “That's fair.” He shifted Lulu carefully, supporting the back of her neck, and turned her around, cradling her. Her little face was still screwed up in abject misery. “Hey, baby girl. It's okay. You're okay. Daddy’s got you, and he would really appreciate it if you could stop scaring him now.” He brushed away a tear from a red cheek with a fingertip. “How are you so chill about this, Dad?”

“I’ve had five of these. First time around, I was as much of a mess as you are right now.” Jeff leaned back, foot propped against the floor so he could gently rock the chair. “Way more so, actually. I'd never even held a baby for more than about five minutes before you came along, let alone changed a diaper. You’ve at least had Alan to learn from, even if he wasn't directly your responsibility.” 

(At least not when he was this little, Jeff thought with an inward wince. His eldest had been entirely too close to being the youngest’s primary caregiver for a while there, after Colorado; while Jeff had turned inward, too consumed by grief to do anything but work and breathe.)

Scott stroked a tiny hand. Lulu seemed to like actually being able to see him: the shrieks were easing into hiccupping sobs. “I don't remember Alan ever being this small.”

“He wasn't. He was, what, nearly ten pounds birth weight? More than double John. Though John probably would've put at least another pound on if he'd gone full term. That would've made you the smallest, actually–I think you were only five pounds nine ounces.”

“Wow. Lulu, you've been around a week and your little six pound butt is already outdoing me?”

“Get used to that feeling,” Jeff chuckled. 

It was perhaps a little premature to say the crying had stopped, but it was no longer audible–Lulu was only gasping quietly now, blinking wetly up into her father's face. Scott booped her nose gently. “She's so perfect.”

“Isn't she just?”

Scott tugged his lower lip through his teeth. “She's a person. An entire individual beautiful little human being.”

“Yep.”

“Who's half me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Poor kid,” Scott whispered. 

“Lucky kid,” Jeff corrected firmly, resting his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezing. “You're going to be an amazing father. You already are.”

Scott inhaled slowly. “I don't know. I was literally making her cry just now. I'm so scared that I'm not … good enough for this. That I'll ruin her life forever without even knowing it.”

For a moment, it was on the tip of Jeff's tongue to point out, not for the first time, that Alan and Gordon were living proof of Scott's parenting skills. But he changed his mind–shifted closer and put his arm around his child's shoulders. 

“What you're feeling right now?” he said softly. “That fear–that love so strong it hurts to breathe? Every single minute of every single day for thirty-five years.”

Scott looked up, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. It never lessens. I love you so, so much, my darling boy. And I'm aware that on occasion I've done a pretty awful job of showing it. But.” He rubbed Scott's arm. “Did you stop loving me all the times I was a crappy dad?”

Scott shook his head, silently but emphatically.

“Exactly. Thank you, by the way.” He nodded down to Lulu, who was watching her dad's face with dazed little blinks. “The way you feel about me? That's her to you. Your brothers, too. And the way you care for Dianne? Right back at you, just as much. Yeah, you're gonna make some mistakes–you're human. But you are so very deeply loved, Scott, and that's not going to stop when you screw up. I know you probably don't think you ‘deserve’ it–that you're worth caring about. Doesn't matter. We think you are, and so the love is still there, and always will be.”

Scott's eyes shone glassy in the moonlight. “I have no idea how to process any of that.”

“That's okay. Just keep on loving us all back, and you'll get there eventually.” He ruffled his boy's hair, then looked down at his granddaughter. The blue eyes had closed, her breathing evened into tiny sighs. “Well done.”

“I think you get more credit than I do.”

“Nah. I just sat here; that was all you.” He stood, careful not to risk startling Lulu by upsetting the swing. “C’mon. The kid's setting us old folks a pretty good example right now. Back to bed.”

Scott stood too, his daughter cradled protectively against his chest. “Thank you, Dad.”

“You're welcome, son. Love you too.”