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namjoonchronicles · 3 years

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the money project | 7

↳ pairing seokjin x you

↳ genre melodrama, angst, enemies-to-lover, fake marriage, intense pining on each other

↳ words 7.8k

↳ warning slightly strong languages, fluff, suggestive content

↳ song ‘marmalade’ by nep, ‘postcard’ by troye sivan ft. gordi, ‘car’s outside’ by james arthur, ‘forever’ by labrinth, ‘ghost of you’ by 5sos, ‘cloud 9’ by beach bunny

Do you know the feeling where you look at something and they begin to shrink in size despite you just standing there? That’s how you know you’re panicking. People are talking but you can’t really hear what they say. Then when they call your name, you look up and everything turns to normal again.

“So a scientist? You do research and develop medicines, like that?” Seokjin’s mother was gentle, with an elegant undertone that you managed to pick-up after listening to her from several calls she had made to you over the days.

“That would be a great summarization, yes…” you ensure that a smile is present on your lips and you watch her manicured nails slide down the back of her phone as she sets them down on the table. Seokjin's mother lives in a mansion, southern Jeju Island. She had recently moved here and loved the view and the healthy air, away from the traffic and pollution Seoul embedded with. The properties here are expensive and the locals don’t really like town people, she said. So she had always been an outcast. This too, you found out from her. Her home was littered with rare artworks and paintings that reminded you of an art gallery, and it was fitting considering how interested she was in them. She was such a beauty. Still is.

“I would never dream Seokjin would aspire to have a scientist wife, I know he could be really impatient with things,” she chirped and the light reflected in her eyes, “But I’m sure he had given you a long thought. It’s always a joy having you around. I’ve received the homemade kimchi you sent. I only eat 4 slices a day…”

“But why? Didn’t they taste alright?” you sparked an obvious panic.

“No, no,” she raised her hand slightly from the table, shaking her head, “Quite the opposite. I was being careful not to finish it too fast…”

“Oh I could make one jar for you right now, we can go get the things in the nearby grocery!” You suggested.

“I think that’s a grand idea!” she smiled.

The helpers arrive with a trolley and they begin arranging the food on the table. Seokjin mother excuses herself to catch another call and that’s when you snuck your hand under your thigh massaging it tenderly because they begin to go stiff. You take the time to peek at your phone. One unread message from Seokjin.

“How’s the dinner?” - Seokjin

“Pretty okay…” you replied.

When you lifted your head up, the maid was done setting up the table. It was a formal dining setting. The kind that you see in hotels and expensive restaurants. You widened your eyes and took pictures of the arranged cutleries. There’s more than one spoon on one side and also forks and knives too.

“She does that to scare people,” Seokjin replied with a laughing emoji.

“Well, it’s working,” you typed back.

Seokjin wouldn’t help. He would rather watch as the chaos takes place and probably would ask his mother about it so they could laugh about it together. Frantically, you search google. There’s pictures on how to set them up but not really how to use them. They do explain how to use it but it’s in essays. You darted at the view of his mother’s moving shoulder from the corner of the balcony outside, scrolling down the said essay when Seokjin’s caller ID flashed your screen.

“Tsk, I was reading…” you groaned into the call, tapping ‘Answer’.

“Listen up, focus,” he commands under his breath, “You used the silverwares from outside to inside. The weird knife is for fish. The spoon that’s oddly big, is for soup. The spoon at the top is for dessert. Got it?”

“Outside in. Weird knife, fish. Big spoon, soup. Top spoon, dessert,” you repeated.

“Atta girl, I have to go now,” Seokjin said in a rush and you could hear some ruffling and then the line cut off before you could say bye. A tiny ‘thank you’ escaped your lips at the view of the ‘Call ended’ screen.

Why did it matter to you that you don’t mess this up? You know in your heart that when you stepped into this mansion, you wanted Seokjin to be proud. You wanted to carry yourself with pride. You wanted to walk into his mother’s life and made sure she will never forget your company for as long as she shall live. And not only that. You were indebted with her son. Without him, your mother would have to still wait for her turn. And now, by next week, she could be home. She doesn’t need to be hospitalized anymore. Your father can pay his bills with the work that he had. Your brother no longer had to worry if he could afford the next semester fee. You owe so much to Seokjin. Pretending doesn't feel like pretending anymore. It wasn’t as agonizing anymore. It is starting to blur.

Seokjin’s mother jogs to the table, apologizing profusely about the delay. You made some mistakes during dinner, using the dessert spoon for the soup and she didn’t really mind. She said she thinks the soup spoon is way too big for her mouth anyway. She was actually pretty chill, pretty laid back. You could see why some of that rubbed off on Seokjin. She has such a magnetic smile, a personality that just reels you in. When she speaks about the art, her face lights up and she gets you interested in many of the arts that she collected. She showed you a room full of sculptures. You couldn’t help but let out a gasp.

No matter how much you try to remind yourself that the sculptures are stones, the carvings were immaculate, that it seemed that it was covered in veil. One particular sculpture was pushing away a male figure that was holding her thigh. Her face displays a dire need to escape his grasp. It was so vivid, it felt as if you were right there watching it unfold.

“Bernini’s,” Seokjin mother smiles fondly, “It’s called the rape of Proserpina.”

“Simply exquisite… the marble looks like flesh,” your voice drifted, taken over by the admiration you felt.

“Seokjin liked this one too.”

⸻

Seokjin flew from one place to another for his work. Buying materials for the housings and having them bought and shipped to his home country. You both would call frequently to check on one another. It was never planned, you just began taking his calls whenever he did.

“I have started to pack the things and wait for the moving truck to arrive,” you showed him the old apartment’s empty spaces and the boxes outside the door, “I am excited to start redecorating the new place with prettier things. You told me to get an air fryer, so I went to shop for one but I can’t really understand the specs…”

“Why do you need to understand specs, just get one…” Seokjin turns to his computer. He had set the phone to stand from the side so you could see his side profiles while he works.

“I don’t know, I’ve never used one,” you shrugged, “Should I just get the one you used?”

“Yeah, they work great…” he drawls, hanging his jaw open while his face is shone by the light from the computer screen.

“Listen,” he started, “I’ve checked my past transactions and I realize that some of those didn’t go through for the last three months, can you double check your bank account? Did you receive the amounts at all?”

“Um no, I stopped getting texts from the bank,” you tuck your hair behind your ear as you sat on the floor to unscrew a trolley with a screwdriver, “I still have a lot so don’t worry about that.”

“But that’s the agreement, it isn’t an agreement if the payment isn’t done,” Seokjin writes something down on a small paper, “A contract is a contract.”

Blinking at the screw you’re undoing, you muttered out half-heartedly, “Y-yeah…” When you couldn’t recognize the somber tone leaving your lips, you cleared your throat and tried to liven up the mood, “All I’m saying is you should take your time to figure that shit out. I know a contract is a contract.” Hoping Seokjin didn’t catch it.

“Seokjin…” you called his name, barely a whisper.

“Hmm?” He hums back, peeling his eyes off the screen and turns to you on the phone.

“I met someone,” the doorbell rings from your side, “He asked me out this weekend. And he's here to help me move.”

⸻

The notice was written on a piece of A4 paper and was stapled on all four corners on the board. It reads, ‘Research Assistant. Major: Pharmaceutical. Contact: XX-XXXXXXX’

You hoped to meet a dependable one. You set the notice up at noon and by 4pm, you already received a text. It was odd to apply for a research assistant through a text rather than a call, but you decided to let that pass. You don’t want to be flaky, this person might be shy. His name is Kim Namjoon, he is in his third year going to four and would be very interested to be a part of your research team. A junior, and very eager. You asked to meet at the university’s coffee hub. He agreed. Said that he will be there right after his afternoon lecture ends.

The coffee hub is a haven to all coffee lovers who enjoy a quiet time, and some reading space. It had vine walls, with an open air balcony away from the road which reduces the sound pollution and it’s really relaxing. The croissant here is also really good. Ian and Suri hate this spot, it’s too windy they say. She doesn’t like her hair ruined, and Ian doesn’t like anything Suri doesn’t. From the distance, you see a tall young man in khaki trousers and black buzz cut hair walking towards the coffee hub entrance. He had one strap of his backpack sling over one shoulder and a book in one hand.

When he climbed up the stairs leading up to the balcony where you were, you slipped your hand over your ring. Slowly, you wriggle the ring off. Then you slid them inside your jean’s back pocket as you stood up to greet Namjoon. He bows. Towering you even from two-arm length away. He came with a beaming smile, with crinkles around his eyes, a dimple appeared in his cheek— and you forgot how to breathe.

He sets the book on the table.

“Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood, I see you’re a man of taste…” you smiled back at him. He charmingly returns the warm gesture, the welcoming introduction.

“It is not easy to find a like-minded soul in a place like this,” Namjoon chuckles handsomely, “Kim Namjoon,” he stretched out his hand for a handshake which you gladly take.

Without realizing, you spent hours talking to him about books, poetries and talking about museums— which was something you couldn’t share with Ian and Suri because they were never interested in those. While you were working, you would find time to escape the scientific world and dive into the deepest mind. Science has always been necessary to sustain life, but art is what we stay alive for. You felt heard. You talked about your interests, the things you like and adored. He too exchanged his magnificent view of the world, and it seemed like he had given a lot of thoughts about the world, life and produced social discussions. Talking about the core of problems, and with every question you provided every mechanism that could have led to it. And that was how it goes, back and forth.

Realizing that the sun is beginning to set and the people are starting to leave, you looked at the time.

“Oh my goodness, I’ve taken so much of your time and I didn’t ask anything about the research assistant post that is open,” you sat up, shaking your head trying to make sense of what has gotten into you. Namjoon titters in return.

“Has it not said much about the chemistry we have?” he smartly replied.

You smiled to your lap and lifted your head up to say, “I agree to the notion, and I hereby welcome you to the team. We start August…” you tipped your head to the side and looked into his dragon eyes, not realizing how magnetic they were, reeling you in. You couldn’t look away and he didn’t try to break the contact. It didn’t feel dangerous— if anything, it felt inviting. Irresistible pull. The gaze. Warm and alluring. His pupils dilated. Even his face was hit by the sunlight. His skin turns bronze. It was when the waiter came to your table that the magic dissipated.

Namjoon kept his gaze on you briefly despite that. Then he darts his eyes to the side before biting his lips, thinking.

“There is an exhibition tomorrow,” he clears his throat, “I think you’ll enjoy it…”

“Oh, is it only tomorrow, because I need to pack my things…” you begin to pack everything into your bed as he says, “I’m moving soon…”

“Oh,” Namjoon nodded.

You hurried to stand up and thanked him for his time. Then he watched you leave.

You took the bus and walked up your old apartment, hoping to get dinner delivered and then begin packing a few more boxes. You were digging the key into the keyhole when your phone rang an unsaved number.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” the deep voice greeted.

“Namjoon?” you asked.

Namjoon was sitting in his room on his bunk bed, throwing the tennis ball to the wall until it bounces back into his grasp, his large hand making it look small. Phone against his ears.

“Do you need help with moving?” he asked.

“Um, not really?” you replied.

“Oh I was just trying to find an excuse to meet you again, and I don’t,” you could hear him smile and you could almost see the shy smile he wore.

“You’re right, I don’t need help with moving I’m afraid…” you grinned as you pushed the door open with your body and set your bag on the counter.

“But you do have an excuse to meet me though,” he straightens up and bit his smile. The tennis ball bounces on the opposing wall, up the ceiling and into his hand in a rhythmic beat.

“Oh really, do I?” you sang.

“Yes you really do,” he darted playfully.

“Is that so? Mind elaborating?” you hunched over the counter, a flirtatious smile playing on your lips.

“You took my book home,” Namjoon’s tongue peeps out between his lips.

You frowned immediately, tipping your head to one side in confusion. It didn’t sound like you. You were ready to deliver a powerful rebuttal but as you try to recall whether or not you left the book on the table, your memories turned blank. It refused to create memories that didn’t happen. When you checked your bag and the red cover stood out, you held your breath and pinched the bridge of your nose.

From the silence, Namjoon caught you.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow and help you with the moving you didn’t need help with,” Namjoon smiles at the wall.

“I want to apologize about this, I don’t steal. I never steal, I promise,” you started explaining yourself, “I must have been out of my mind, that I just gathered everything into the bag.”

“Look it’s fine, Harumi Murakami’s work is a steal I agree,” he tutted his tongue, “Let’s arrange a proposition, I help you with the moving and not report you of stealing my book or you don’t accept my help and I get the police to arrest you. Choice is yours.”

You gave it a thought. It was obvious he wanted more time with you. He seems nice and you never really hear about him from the seniors and your current batchmates so it’s safe to say that he is pretty harmless. If he wasn’t, you’d be the first to hear.

“Fine,” you dropped your shoulder. The tennis ball stopped bouncing and remained in Namjoon’s hand. Then, “I could send the book over if you want?”

“No, I’ll come fetch it, chivalry is not dead,” Namjoon darted.

⸻

His slender fingers danced on the keyboard. Empty mug on the right side of the table left abandoned till the coffee stains a ring at the bottom. Seokjin cracks his head to the sides. His forefinger and thumb pinches his shoulder and a sigh leaves his lips. The window on his left is foggy, no trace of light except for the lamp by the roadside. He rests the back of his head on the chair, his eyes clenched as he frowns. The stress from staring at the screen for a long period of time started to tax him mercilessly.

“My daughter,” Seokjin heard your father say, “She’s not easy to love.” Seokjin’s brows twitch as he ruminates the night you had dinner with him and his father on the ship.

“I am afraid that you will not treat her well,” your father said, “She’s been through so much. She had saved her mother, and me, more times than I could count. She had spent her life dedicated to us. I don’t want you to hurt her,” he continued. With the puzzling and aggressive warning, Seokjin tried to control his expression so as to not put off the elder man. Despite the rejection, Seokjin grabs a tong and places a lobster on his plate.

“You yourself are an attractive young man, I’m sure you have choices of women far better than my daughter. Do you understand what I am saying, boy?”

Seokjin directs your father to the grill where he could watch the chef grill the lobster he chose, and while they watch the flames go up in smoke, Seokjin replied, “It’s quite the opposite, sir. Your daughter has choices of men far better than me. But we chose each other. And if you fear I hurt her, I’m afraid about that too. Not by me, but my surroundings.”

Seokjin blinks to the black screen of his computer, taken back to the present. He peeks through his bangs at the view of the airline tickets website heading to Seoul wondering if he could jump into an airplane right now. That’s right, he must have been away for too long. The moment you said you met someone, his heart sunk to the bottom of his stomach. He went to sleep right after the video call you both had. And when he did, he had a dream. In that dream, he was in the middle of a faceless crowd who was unaware of him there. He caught a glimpse of you and suddenly, these crowds turned into walls then to a maze. The vines grew but when he touched them, his fingers bled. He walked through the columns he was in, turning at the corners after corners, after endless corners to never see the way out and always catching only the sight of your fingers slipping at each edge. It was always close enough for him to touch but because of his doubt, his fear, he didn’t. As the maze grew in size it seems, Seokjin braved himself to touch you. After several tries, he managed to catch your hand and held it firm, enough to yank you towards him. That’s when the walls crumble into sand.

You looked at him unsuspectingly.

“I met someone,” your voice was distorted and detached. The moment your hands slipped out of his grasp, he shook himself awake.

And that’s why he is at the airport now, trying to catch a flight home to Seoul from Beijing. He is gripping on the bag strap until his knuckles turned white with eyes burning into the ‘departure’ sign at the top of the automated glass doors. He passes the ticket to the stewards and heads into the plane.

And I chase it down with a shot of truth.

In the plane, Seokjin requested for today’s newspaper. The front page reads “Kim Holdings Bribed Me.” Seokjin straightens up in his seat.

Seokjin checks for a press conference held by the accuser. He was wearing a black mask and held his face down in shame. The housing project Seokjin had started is under the scrutiny that the money obtained was a bribe and there was an alleged attempt for money laundering. The accusations came from none other than the Devil uncle and his illegitimate son, Ian. Seokjin believed that the sex tape scandal will soon follow if he dare to continue with appointing the new CFO* to replace the uncle.

CFO* : Chief Financial Officer

The Devil Uncle started several NGO* orphanages homes to avoid taxes and in turn, the orphans under the care were abused and severely neglected. Seokjin was trying to uncover more evidence to yank it from the nub and he cannot do that if he is in Seoul because the uncle and everyone that helped him will keep everything hidden. That’s why he had to leave. While the cat’s are away, the mice will play. He was collecting the evidence that would help him convince his father and the lawyer to get rid of the uncle. He was so close.

However, along with this news, Kim Holdings will look bad. What’s worse is that, Seokjin along with the new appointed CFO as the new faces of the company, would be most likely to be kicked out. Synonymously, new faces are expected to have less experience and usually shoulder the blame for the downfall of a project. The outermost layer of the wall gets the most abuse. Considering the years, Kim Holdings is no stranger to scandals like this. The same thing that gets them into trouble, is the same thing that gets them out: money. So what is the next step?

The division will try to contact Seokjin. The legal team will get involved, and Seokjin’s best bet is that they have already gotten their heads together. First, they will ensure if the accusation is legit and run in-house investigations. The financial department and ‘The Money Project’ team will be placed on lockdown. All paperwork are skimmed through and transaction records will be audited. When an accusation as serious as this occurs, it is absolutely fundamental that every single person involved is put under serious scrutiny and that includes the project leader: Kim Seokjin. He already expected his father would not come near him until he had fixed the whole problem and started with a clean slate. However,

His father is contacting him right now.

“There has been an attempt to cut you off the board of members,” Senior Kim sounded out of breath, “The legal team is investigating, where are you right now?”

“On my way home…” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose then glanced at the iPad screen on his lap.

“Good-good,” Senior Kim sounded pleased, “With how quick things are going, I am under the suspicion that someone in the board is trying to sever your project. I know you have a clear name in your head, but I believe there is more. I have just released the family registrar a week ago and I am certain someone is not happy about it.”

“I have more than one name,” Seokjin expressed.

“I know,” Senior Kim shot back, “There are several transactions that are disputed from your personal accounts that I would like to ask you about—”

“Dad,” Seokjin tries to explain, “It is not a bribe. That one is not a bribe, I promise.”

Senior Kim nods, “You’d think you’d be dumb enough to do bribes with a personal account? You’re my son, you can’t be that stupid. I believe you. I believe you now.”

Seokjin held his breath. The validation he had been begging for, all his life, is handed to him in a phone call. Seokjin knows how lonely it was for his father. He cannot trust many people and he had led a lonesome life with his reclusive attitude. He only had one friend, and that was your father. He is under the impression that everyone who knows him as a business magnate has no other intentions but to bring him down. And that belief can make someone very defensive even when he has no need to.

Midair, Seokjin learned about the scandal. He isn’t going to lie, running away from it would have been desirable albeit stupid. But knowing that you’re on the ground, with the possibilities of handling this alone, unsettles him. He is terrified. So many things could go wrong. But knowing that his father is on his side, eases him a bit. Having Senior Kim ensures experience. The rest, he will have to rely on the legal team and public relation (PR) team. He doesn’t know if you have learned about this. You said you were going to the lab for the morning. Upon remembering you, he texted Yoongi.

⸻

Seokjin pierced through the crowd, making his way through. Shoulders brushed, he muttered meaningless apologies. When he stepped out the glass doors of the arrival, he saw you. His feet lunge with gusto at the sight of you. He hopes to close the distance as quickly as he can. He leaves his luggage bag behind him, rolling on its wheels idly.

He collects you in his arms, burying his nose into your hair, inhaling your scent like he was deprived of it. His eyes are wide open, as if he couldn’t believe that he is on the soil of his home country after months away— and holding you in his arms. He couldn’t quite word his feelings. You were so tiny in his arms, and despite the impending fall that is waiting for him, it was you he was worried about. The worry was based on the understanding that you weren’t born in the limelight and all this is new to you. Seokjin doesn’t want the scandal to bludgeon you without him explaining the situation properly so he had Yoongi to conceal the whole thing. Only for Yoongi to reveal that you found out that he was on his way home and is already at the airport, waiting.

But when he loves me I feel like I’m floating. When he calls me pretty I— feel like somebody even when we fade eventually, to nothing— you will always be my favorite form of loving.

Patting the middle of his back gently, you wore the ring he gave you. You smiled into the rib-crushing hug, sighing contently. He rode his palm down one side of your body. Engulfing, it is almost as if he is a part of you— a part of you that you lost a long time ago. Your hand slid down the back of his head, down to his neck. It is the kind of hug that was compelling, different. When you feel his heartbeat, hear him breath, and the warmth radiating from him— you somehow lodge yourself in the state of acceptance; accepting that a part of you will always belong to him. You scratched mindlessly, the fabric of his long brown coat that he wore before sliding the tip of your nose on his shoulder and collarbones to shatter the moment with a chuckle, “That was some hug.” You felt his scruffy chin on your head. Pulling away, you stroked his chin with your thumb, back and forth.

“You need a shave,” you grinned, hoping to cheer him up but his smile was so brief. Wearing a worrisome expression, he dropped his gaze to the floor and swallowed his saliva. In the car, he was deathly quiet. All you could hear is the car engine emitting a soft purr at the acceleration. His beautiful face ghosts on the reflection of the car window. Restless eyes with a calm outward appearance. It was a confusing pair. Your fingers inches towards him, then you hold it out with faith that he will capture them. He caught it in a hindsight, immediately. You both sat there in the backseat of the sedan, looking out the car window on each side— fingers laced, hands intertwined, uncertain of the future and the fate it brings, but certain of each other.

Under the advice of the PR team, Seokjin and you will be housed together. The car stops in front of the house Seokjin had personally curated according to your wishes and dreams. In front of the poorly lit front door, Seokjin pressed his thumb on the pad next to the panel and the door’s shaft retracts mechanically, revealing a spacious living room with several pieces of furniture you remember picking out. Seokjin stood with his back leaning against the door, waiting for you to come in. The walls along the doorway were ash green, with beige-colored wood panels and wall skirtings in pearl white. The lights on the ceiling lit up as you walked in. Seokjin studied your back as he walked behind.

“I am still waiting for the bench to arrive from Japan. It will look better—” he spoke in one breath.

“ — it’s already so beautiful,” your voice softens, “You really tried to make my dreams come true. This is so-so much better than I imagined.”

“You haven’t seen the best thing,” he guides you to the kitchen. The marble counters lit, wide spaces and oven and microwaves. He pushed a button underneath the counter and it moved up and down; adjustable heights. Fridge camouflaged as cabinets. Hoods to suck in the smell away. Cutlery from Italy. Collection of knives from Japan, custom-made. Dishwasher. Glass cabinets. Everything is complete. The sink has a garbage disposal installed so you don’t have to deal with bones and icky things. Your hand glides hesitantly on the finishing, unable to wrap your mind around it— your dreams, realized. Seokjin leans to his side with folded arms on the wall opposite to the kitchen counter wearing a faint smile on his lips.

Your surgery is this week too. The look on his face was perplexed at how the situation would unfold. But who could have known.

“I’ll be home more, not sure if that’s to your likings,” Seokjin unfolds his arms and pulls out a tall stool from underneath the counter. He hangs his head down, avoiding eye contact with you. He clasped his hand, then unclasped them. Darts his eyes to the side and blinks repeatedly. He opens his mouth to speak then closes them again. You clasped your hand over his knuckles and squeezed them.

“I don’t know what it’s like, can’t really say I understand but,” you leaned your hip on the counter, patting your own hand that covered his, “You seem to be worried that things might get worse than it is, but here’s one thing I can assure you that you’re doing well… you’re keeping me safe like you promised.” He lifts his eyes slowly to meet yours. Standing in close proximity like this allowed you to count his lashes, the pore in his skin, and the way his lips shaped. Inching closer, you rested your head on his shoulder. His hand moved to conquer yours, sandwiching them together as he studied the lines in your palm— intently. You could feel how he was breaking inside, trying to stay strong, to put a believable front. Not because he is, but because he was expected to be.

You bear witness to him holding on the bits of strength he had— dying in the process. His stubbornness, the way he gets angry, and what gets him angry, how he smiles, how his lips curve— the memories etched in your memories. Your soul ignites when you’re with him. You’re unsure if he noticed but the distance had made your heart grow fonder. Every time he calls, his voice holds you captive like the sound of the falling rain. No one was ever interested in your life before, and with him, you felt you have an earnest audience who, no matter how stupid your presentations were, would clap for your efforts. You didn’t have to hide anything from him, you felt safe and protected. You might not know everything about Seokjin, but in this moment, you wanted to believe that you did. So you don’t have to feel alone anymore.

With your head pressed on his shoulder, he felt complete. He worried that the fact that he hasn’t showered would have made him smell repulsive, but you haven't budged in disgust. The sound of the rain hits the glass window, pattering. Your stomach growls.

“Moment’s ruined,” Seokjin jokes.

“Isn’t it,” you shot back, agreeing to his remarks. Hoisting yourself away from him, you dashed towards the fridge asking semi-loudly, “Should we cook some food?”

Seokjin’s eyes followed you, “Sure, what do you have in mind?”

“Have a seat and watch the TV, you had a long day,” you fetched the apron with a strange string and had trouble putting it on. Seokjin moves next to you and helps you with it.

“I can peel stuff, and debone things,” he offered help.

“Please, please, let me have this kitchen to myself,” you begged him, while pushing him out to the living room, “I don’t want you to be playing around in the kitchen. Go check your emails or stock market prices or whatever it is you businessmen do in your free time.”

Seokjin pushes his back into your hands lightly. You pushed him with all of your might until he finally gave up. He disappears into his home office. Seokjin leaves the door ajar so he could peek at you getting busy in the kitchen. Poking your head in the fridge with your bum out, you snatched spring onions, some tofu, eggs, minced beef. Adding minced garlic to the gochujang, you beat the eggs to make thin omelets on a different pan. Then you sliced the spring onion thinly, some sausages and uncooked ramen. You added some peeled and cubed potatoes as well. On a large circular flat pan, you arrange sliced sausages, onions, potatoes, fishcakes and minced beef. Chili powders, peppers. Sliced kimchi and marinated beef.

You added beef bone broth into the arrangements on the pan then added the premixed sauces, before putting it on the stove in the middle of the dining table. You ignited the flames on low and skipped to his office room. You bit your smile and proudly called him for dinner.

White rice in a bowl, the Army Base Stew is ready as it simmers slowly into a boil. Seokjin ate appetizingly. He barely spoke and kept stuffing his mouth with more food. You pinched the last slice of fishcake into his bowl with your chopsticks. He thanked you with his eyes. Eyeing his luggage in the dark corners of the living room, you asked if he needed washing and offered that you could help him with that. He replied that he will do it on his own later and he suggested that you could share the washing machine so it could run at once. You nodded.

“But what about my clothes? My PJs…” you asked him.

“There is some in the closet upstairs,” he slurps the leftover soup in.

You lifted your eyes at him, flickering hesitatingly. Your brain was processing that perhaps the available clothes were a handover from Rachel’s stay.

“Are they Rachel’s—”

“No.”

He stood up abruptly, collecting your empty bowl and placed them on top of his. He pushed his tongue against the wall of his cheek, trying to force the remnants of food from between his teeth. His eyes burn into the view of the finished food, focused into cleaning up.

“Go take a bath, put your dirty clothes outside the door,” he adds, turning his back to you. You stood up slowly, the chair pegs dragging against the wooden panels. You inched next to him to wash your hands. You disappeared upstairs. Seokjin stops washing the dishes momentarily. The water gushes out the tap onto his veiny hands and redden knuckles.

“What the hell does she take me for? Putting her in Rachel’s old clothing? That was such a damaging accusation,” Seokjin hisses under his breath before resuming to wash the soap away, “Do I look like a guy who would do that? After all that she-devil did to me and will do to me?” He nags into the sink. After the dishes were hung to dry on the dish racks, Seokjin unbuttons his dress shirt and removes his belt as he climbs up the stairs. Sliding the fabric off of his shoulder, he fetches the towel before unzipping his pants. As the soiled garment pooled around his ankles, he wrapped the towel around and tucked the end low on his slim waist. He collects your clothes with one swoop of his arm and he dashes to the laundry room.

He placed your blouse and his dress shirt into the same compartment. His jeans and your slacks next. He worked on the detergents and pressed on the buttons for the machine to begin washing. It wouldn’t be weird to sleep in one bed, would it? You’ve done it so many times before. He returns to the bedroom. Your phone on the bedside table, flashes. He didn’t mean to. He swore he didn’t mean to.

[Namjoon] Movie in an hour?

[Namjoon] sends an image.

He squints his eyes and lowers his upper body for a closer look. Forefinger swipes to clear all notifications and he realizes you don’t have any passwords on. He glances over the shoulder to see if there are any signs of you but from the sound of the shower turning on, he concludes that he is safe for now. He locked them again and placed it facedown on the table. He smashed his lips together and padded to the bathroom door, grabbed the knob and carefully twisted them. He saw your silhouette on the shower curtain, and turned to the sink. His heart is pounding against his ribcage. He knew because he placed his palm on top of his chest, attempting to calm his raging nerve. His eyes hooded, darkening.

He advances to the shower curtain, rips it open. Before you could even make sense of what was happening, Seokjin’s lips were on yours, pushing you against the mosaic tile wall. His hands were sleek on your skin. His back muscles stretch, shoulder blades move in sync with the movement. Steams puffed up the ceiling as you continue to elicit sinful noises. Hand marks drawn on the wall while you clawed his back, leaving red trails along his ribs. Water cascades down his body, pooling on your feet, trickling down his chin. Your hand sought purchase on his biceps as he devoured you whole. He bit your lower lips and dragged his teeth slowly to graze them. Ask you if he could have you.

But he didn’t. He stood there with his hooded eyes, watching your silhouette from the reflection in the mirror.

The curtain rings cling against each other as you step out of the shower. You put on the towels calmly when you see Seokjin. He was brushing his teeth, one hand clutching the brims of the counter. Glued his eyes to the mirror in front of him. Moving next to him, your hand grabbed the toothbrush and toothpaste.

“What did you do while I was cooking?” you asked.

“Watched the news…” he answered simply, “Your good friend Ian was there with the accuser.”

You brushed slower now. Can’t seem to meet him in the eye. Seokjin’s arm traps your upper body to the counter as he fetches the shaving cream and the shaver. You caught a glimpse of his side profile from the mirror, sending flutters to your heart. You are going to live with him for now. And this is the view you have to get used to. Naked, wrapped in towels in the same bathroom. Sleeping in the same bed, waking up next to each other. Eating on the same table, cooking together. Asking about his day and him asking yours. You choked on the foams and he gave a half-hearted glance. He was unaffected. Continued his task of smearing the shaving cream over neck and jaws. He starts from the base of his neck. The blade tipped upside down, his eyes thinned as he tilted his chin upward.

You watched the blade erase the trace of the foam, revealing his skin from underneath it. Simply incredible.

“What is it?” Seokjin tutted his tongue and placed the shaver down. He frowns at you.

“OMG chill, I haven’t seen anyone shave this close. I find it oddly, sexy,” you shrugged nonchalantly, grabbing the tube of your facial wash and moving away.

“Where are you going with that?!” He eyed the facial foam.

“Washing my face downstairs!” you rolled your head, walking behind him.

He caught your wrist. He yanks it back to where you were.

“You have a habit of saying notorious things and then walk away without dealing with it's consequences, do you do that to everyone you meet?” he resumes shaving, his eyes glide to you, sideways.

“I don’t exactly know that many people,” you darted back and began splashing your face with water, “I say whatever that is on my mind, and it’s not like you don’t know you look good…”

Seokjin fights the urge to pout, to give out any definable expression, “What’s the use of looking this good if—”

You gasped, “Oh my god...my eye. The soap got into my eye, help…Help!” You patted the air and tried to find his body, and when you did, you glided your palm down and yanked his arm towards you. Pulling the face towel from the wall, the metal ring rattle against itself. He wipes the soap away from your eyes, while hushing you to stay still. But your hands flap, whining that the pain was still there. Seokjin turned on the tap and guided you to the running water. He continued shaving while you wiped your face down. You left the bathroom and got dressed. You hear the shower being turned on. The television flashes on and the midnight news is on. Of course, the news covered Seokjin's case. The accuser who made the police report was an architect in-charge of the older version of the blueprint. And Seokjin was right, Ian was standing on behalf of the accuser, wearing a black mask and dark grey suit. He scratched his temple and his wedding ring was on display.

The accuser finished his statement, bombarded by questions by reporters but he refused to entertain any. Not only that, he was seen leaving the premises in Ian's protective arms as he was swarmed by hounding reporters who could be heard asking repetitive questions. This was such a confusing situation. While Seokjin is away, you learn a few things about him from Yoongi. His likes and dislikes, his antics and how he manages his problems. He was like the ocean. He can look so calm, hiding violent creatures within him. Or like an onion, layer by layer coming off. You climbed on the bed into the duvet after the news ended. Seokjin got dressed and went downstairs.

He grabs a tall glass of water and punctures a blister of anti-allergen pill. For the garlic he ate from your cooking. He didn’t want to tell you and gave you unnecessary panic. He slips the tiny yellow pill into his mouth and drinks water. He fetched a bottle of Zoloft and slipped them in his mouth. He heard the stairs creak when you climbed down. He didn’t glance up to see who it was because he knew.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“Anti-anxiety,” he said, “Helps me relax...”

Slipping in the duvet together, you both stared at the ceiling. You heard the raindrops from outside and the thunder rippling through the sky. The weighted blanket feels like a hug and despite you trying to hide it, your heart is at ease, knowing that Seokjin is right beside you tonight. Unlike always.

“Well, this is strange,” you huffed.

“I know…” he shot back.

“When we’re apart, we call each other every other day and I get to talk to you until you fall asleep and now that we’re next to each other… you feel like a stranger,” you let out a small giggle at the end.

“Am I?” he blinks at you, lying next to him.

Not exactly. Your heart whispered.

“Am I?” he turns to his side, tipping his eyes downwards where your lips are then back to your eyes.

He spoke in hushes, “Your voice helps me sleep…” his eyes darted left and right, seeking for yours, “You keep running in my mind like a broken record.”

Your eyes flutter as his finger grazes your skin. He hooks his fingers, pushing away the baby hair from your face. Just then, the lightning flashes at the window and you jump closer to him, grabbing the front of his pajamas and he wraps one arm over your shoulder. With his neck in your face, you held your breath and gulped. You could see his Adam’s apple bobbing hesitantly. Bergamot, clary sage notes on his aftershave balms. His skin looks smooth and so inviting. He stiffens. Froze when your lips brushed against his neck next to his Adam’s apple.

Pulling away slightly to find his clouded eyes, widening against yours. You slipped out a smirk on the corner of your lips. Fully aware that he caught it.

“I find it pleasing that we are not from the same field. I know nothing about your business and you know nothing about my research and yet we are here in this room together…” You returned to your side of the bed, putting one hand on top of the other, staring at the ceiling, “You hide things so well… I wish to be like you.”

Seokjin blinked to the side where you were. How will he explain that his staidness isn’t to hide the things he fears but to fit whatever narration the office gave him? How will he explain to you that hiding fear isn’t strength? He is hanging by a strand of thread at the edge of the cliff and his father is holding the other end. His mind flashes to the sight of Ian in the media conference siding the accuser. He is sure that Ian’s father would have a key-role to the accusation considering how sloppy and uncoordinated the attack was. Seokjin is sure that he doesn’t want to keep that uncle in the association. The corporation is no stranger to false accusations but this was indeed too much.

“Seokjin,” you softly called his name, “Are you asleep?”

“Hm…”

“Will this affect our contract?”

Do you want it to?

To be continued…

[Note] Taking this chance to apologize for the delay and would like to thank you for taking the time to wait so earnestly for my entry. And just like that, my semester break is gone. I will begin my second half of the final year in a week, and I would like to stress that this is not a hiatus announcement but rather a formal notice, a sort of note to my loyal friends who diligently wait for my updates all this while. Please look forward to the next chapter <3

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gumnut-logic · 3 years

Text

Useful (Fic 3)

Fic 1 | Fic 2 | Fic 3

Five times his family needed Virgil’s heavy lifting muscles and one time he needed theirs.

These are getting a little outlandish, but I hope they are still fun :D

These are for @katblu42 who sent me a Fandomversary Ask. This time it is Gordy’s turn :D Yes, this has gotten a little out of hand :D But I has a plan, I promise. Unfortunately after writing three this morning, I now have to go waste all my energy at work. I hope I can write the remaining three tonight or over the next couple of days. ::pouts::

Oh, and there is what could be considered a little ship in this, but honestly, it isn’t much...really just Virgil being hopeful more than anything else :D

I hope you enjoy this :D

-o-o-o-

“Hey, Virg, c’mere.”

Virgil nearly lost his drink as Gordon yanked on his arm. “Gordon?!”

His fish brother muttered something that could possibly be considered an apology in some reality, somewhere, but kept pulling, dragging Virgil across the room.

They were at a London function, dressed to the nines, cufflinks and all, and Virgil had been in a very interesting conversation with his plus one. That plus one being Cass McCready and she was dressed in a most appealing manner that had him itching for a paintbrush…among other things.

Instead, he was being dragged across the floor by his fish brother and Cass was fast vanishing behind him in the crowd.

Her amused smile was rather alluring at least.

Gordon and he were going to have words after this.

His brother finally stopped tugging when they reached a group of rather burly looking men and women. All of them were dressed in evening wear, but there was a certain anticipation in all their expressions.

What?

A small table had been set up with two chairs. A particularly large man was sitting in one of them, an air of confidence emanating off of him.

Virgil stared.

“Virg, it is up to you to uphold how Tracy honour.” Gordon straightened beside him.

“What?”

“I need you to arm wrestle this man and prove your heavy lifting muscles to these dunderheads.”

There was a muffle of snorts at that and Virgil suddenly realised he knew a couple of these guys.

This was Blue Squad. Cass’ firefighting team.

A soft sigh of silk and Cass appeared at his elbow. “Looks like you have a challenge there, Tracy.” She was smiling at him.

It was a nice smile.

“C’mon, Virg, Tracy honour is at stake.”

He turned to his brother and glared, only to find Penelope on the fish’s arm.

Oh, honour, definitely.

Shows of masculinity really weren’t his thing. Scott had been known to flex his muscles occasionally for the ladies, even if it wasn’t immediately obvious, but Virgil was quite happy to draw attention in other ways.

Cass placed a hand on his arm and whispered in his ear. “The team need a little encouragement. Show them how it is done.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. This was her squad…and then he saw the sparkle in her eye. His lips curled as he saw the pride in her people shining there.

“Virg…” It was almost a whine as Gordon tugged on his tux again.

“Okay. Fine.”

“Yess!”

Gordon should never play poker.

Or maybe he should. His military brother did know how to play a situation, after all. This was possibly all a show.

Virgil folded himself into the chair opposite and found himself looking up at the firey opposite him. “Hi. Virgil Tracy.”

“Butch Huggins.” His voice was like a rumbling rock fall and his smile ever so confident. This was definitely a guy you wanted on your side when busting into a building on fire. He looked like he could take down a wall even in his tux.

Gordon, what the hell have you gotten me into?

A glance up at the spectators involved and he found himself ringed in eager smiles, Cass’ included.

She did have a lovely smile.

“Are we doing this?” The rock fall was apparently getting impatient.

Virgil swallowed and, unclipping his cufflinks, a present from Scott some time ago, rolled up his sleeve.

Butch did the same, revealing tattoos of flame up the length of well-defined forearm.

Maybe he should have brought his exosuit with him tonight.

The image of his claw and everything it was capable of filled his mind for a moment.

Gordon was dead when they got home tonight.

One dead fish.

And Scott might even grill him. Yes, Virgil was petty enough to bring in big bro on this one.

Where was Scott anyway?

Probably enjoying some female company. This Firey’s Charity Ball was full of very capable women, after all.

Butch slammed his elbow down on the table enough to trigger Virgil’s funny bone from afar.

Okay, well, apparently he was doing this.

Why did he feel so small? He wasn’t used to feeling small.

But confidence wasn’t something he was lacking, it was just the laws of physics didn’t seem to be leaning in his direction at the moment.

Cursing his fish brother from here to Atlantis, Virgil placed his elbow on the table. Butch grabbed his hand.

It was like being grabbed by a gorilla. Honestly, the man’s hand was huge.

If he was injured doing this and off rescues for any time at all, Gordon wasn’t going to be the only Tracy death later on.

Scott would kill both of them.

Cass was watching, though.

Virgil kicked himself for being so stupid.

Could he kill Gordon twice?

“Okay, we ready?” Gordon was flicking his eyes between Virgil and Butch.

“Ready.” Seriously, the man had a crumbling mountain for a voice.

“Let’s get this over with.” Virgil glared at his little brother.

Though something was warm in his stomach that Gordon was proud enough of him to set him up like this.

A little warm.

Very little.

“Ready, set…” Focus. “Go.”

And suddenly the mountain was falling on him.

Butch grunted, obviously throwing himself into this.

But Virgil Tracy had had mountains fall on him before and his shoulders were well trained in catching them.

The force travelled up his arm into his shoulder. His bicep was assisted by a considerable trapezius and deltoid, and while his forearm worked, his well-built pectoral joined in the refusal to move. Virgil pivoted just a little in his seat as practised reflexes took the strain.

And negated it.

Butch yelped as his hand was flexed backwards and slammed elegantly to the table top.

Oh, shit.

Virgil let go immediately. “Are you okay? Let me see that.” He reached for the man’s hand as it was quickly yanked away the moment he released it.

Butch stared at him. “How the hell?”

But Virgil didn’t have the chance to answer as the crowd around them erupted into cheers and hollers. There were hands patting him on the back and grabbing at him.

Someone kissed his cheek.

He blushed as he realised it was Cass.

Suddenly appreciating that he was still sitting down and there was an entire squad of fireman glaring at him…with some respect along with the outrage, Virgil hurriedly clambered to his feet.

“Way to go, Virg, I knew you could do it!” Gordon was bouncing on his feet.

Virgil shot him with his eyes.

The fish ignored him and kept bouncing until Penelope wrapped an elegant hand around his arm and distracted him with a smile.

She winked at Virgil.

A strong hand wrapped around Virgil’s bicep in almost a mirror move. “Smooth, Tracy. Huggins needed to be put in his place. I can use this to up the training regime. You’ve slapped down a benchmark.”

Virgil turned to find that beautiful smile on her face again. Her squad was grumbling behind her, shooting admiring glances mixed with glares in his direction.

Maybe he should join the squad next vacation just to fix that.

Yes, that was the entire reason why that suddenly seemed even more attractive.

Cass’ smile widened as she tugged gently on his arm, letting her head drop to his shoulder as it became a laugh.

Hmm, maybe he should thank the fish after killing him.

-o-o-o-

Fic 4

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #cass mccready #nuttys fandomversary

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willow-salix · 3 years

Text

TAG MiniBang 2021

Because the combined bad influences of Flyboy and Sonata were at work here we also decided to bend the rules a little and post early...

I was privileged to work with one of my best friends on this project, @misssquidtracy . We went a little rogue (seems to be a theme for us) and shared both parts of the challenge with both of us contributing to the art and the writing. Squiddy provided a beautifully done pallet knife piece as the background for my foreground art and we plotted the story together to ensure that it worked for both of us. We had been looking forward to sharing the writing but unfortunately, due to life constraints on her part she was only able to write a little of the fic but what she did add perfectly compliments the tone and style of my writing.

Big thanks to @tagminibang ) @godsliltippy ) for organising this event.

So, here it is, our offering to the TAG Mini Bang. We hope you enjoy it.

Ting ting ting

“Not again,” Virgil groaned, hauling himself up the stairs from the kitchen to the lounge. He regretted ever giving Gordon that bell, he really did. Yes his brother had gone through a tough time, yes he had scared the hell out of them when the Chaos Crew had left him at the bottom of the ocean in his mangled craft, yes they were incredibly grateful that he was alive and mostly whole, but if they had to hear that dinging one more time they might possibly murder him themselves.

“Yes, Gordy, what do you need?”

“I’m lonely, and I’m hungry, come and sit with me for a bit?”

“Sure-”

“But maybe make me a sandwich first?”

“A sandwich?”

“Yeah, with extra cheese and a pickle on the side, not too large a pickle but not too small that it’s gone in one bite. I want to taste it, you know, but not be overwhelmed.”

“Sure-”

“And can you get me a drink too? One of my special milkyshakes, you know, with the ice cream and frozen banana in it?”

“Coming right up,” Virgil sighed, heading back down to the kitchen again.

“Gordon still demanding everything and anything?” Scott asked as he jogged in from the poolside. His T-shirt was sticking to his chest and his hair was damp with sweat but he still looked like he could do it all again. Not that they would have time, they were lucky if they got to do any planned exercise at all, usually they were forced to skip it and work out on the job when a call came in.

“Of course he is,” Virgil growled, slapping a slice of cheese on a piece of bread with far more force than necessary.

“What did the cheese do to you?”

“It’s guilty by association.”

“Ah,” Scott said, like that explained things perfectly.

A few slices of chicken received the same treatment and Scott wondered if the meat had actually been dead when it arrived on the island or if Virgil had simply smacked it into submission so well that the chicken had flown clear into next week and arrived as sandwich filling.

“Can you fix his drink?” Virgil asked.

“Can’t gotta shower this off before Grandma accuses me of stinking up the place again.”

“Any excuse,” Virgil scowled. “It would only take you a second.”

“A second too long, bro, I’m escaping while I can and you’d be wise to do the same,” Scott said, heading for the stairs and freedom.

“How can I escape when Gordon needs help?”

“You’re forgetting one important thing,” Scott told him wisely.

“I am? And that would be…”

“John’s home.”

Virgil snorted out a laugh. “He’s less likely to do it than you are.”

“No, you're misunderstanding me. If John’s home that means…” Scott let his sentence trail off into silence heavily filled with insinuation.

“Sel’s here,” Virgil finished triumphantly, catching on perfectly.

“Give that Tracy a prize,” Scott grinned, shooting triumphant finger guns his brother’s way as he headed up the stairs.

And they said that John was the genius in the family, they hadn’t seen Scott at his most devious. Virgil wasted no time in yanking out his phone and texting the witch to come and take over.

“Here’s your sammich, Squidward,” Selene cooed, plonking the plate down on Gordon’s lap while smacking a kiss to his forehead. “Virgil started it but I finished it for you, Brains called him down to his lab with some kind of air filter emergency so I took over. I brought you some of those crisps you like from my private stash too.”

“The cheesy curl ones?” Gordon asked hopefully.

“Yep,” she grinned, waggling a family sized bag of Quavers in his general direction.

“Did you bring my drink?” Gordon asked around a mouthful of chickeny goodness. Say what you wanted about Virgil but he made a damn good sandwich, even if Gordon could taste that this was made with a little less love and a little more impatience than usual.

“No, sorry, did you want one? Virgil didn’t say that. I’ll go get you something, just wait right there.”

"Not like I can leave if the mood takes me," Gordon grumbled as he opened the chip bag.

She was already gone, only to race back in a few moments later with a can of coke.

“What? What’s wrong, boo?” Selene asked when she saw the pouting look of disappointment on Gordon’s face.

“It was supposed to be one of my special milkyshakes,” he whined.

“Right, got it, my bad!”

She was gone again, taking off to the kitchen where, upon closer inspections, she did indeed find the beginnings of a milkshake. There were two scoops of ice cream already in the blender, melting in the warmth of the room. A half peeled banana sat abandoned on the counter next to a carton of milk.

“Typical,” she groused as she set about breaking up the banana, pouring the milk and setting it to blend as she tidied the mess away. Once done she poured it into a tall glass, added a straw and a few slices of fresh banana to decorate the edges, just as he liked it, and delivered it to the waiting aquanaut.

“Great, thanks, Sel,” he grinned, handing her his now empty plate and swapping it for the glass. She put the plate on the coffee table and sat on the couch opposite him.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Sit with me and keep me company?” he begged, looking so miserable and pathetic that she couldn’t say no.

“Of course I will.”

Gordon swung his injured leg up and she moved to sit next to him on the couch, placing a cushion on her lap for him to rest his cast covered foot on.

Gordon settled down with a contented sigh, sucking happily on his straw, the milkshake level in the glass steadily dropping.

“I’m bored,” Gordon bitched five minutes later.

“That peace lasted a long time,” Selene laughed, putting her phone down on the side table to give him her full attention. “What can I do to help? Do you want to watch something or play a game?”

Gordon made a face. “You’re crap at games, Sel.”

One eyebrow rose in disbelief. “I wouldn’t exactly say crap…”

“You tried to play with Alan and died three times in two minutes, lost all your lives and were forced to float along behind him as a ghost for the rest of his turn.”

“Anything is crap when you say it like that,” Selene huffed.

“Only when it’s true.”

“Tell me then, oh great games master, what do you want to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then don’t moan you’re bored,” she pointed out.

“I mean there’s nothing to do. No one is around.”

Selene gestured to her chest. “Am I suddenly invisible?”

“No, of course not,” he scoffed. “That would be far too cool, why don’t you have witch powers like that?”

“Because I live in the real world, not a movie?”

“Lame,” he declared, dismissing it.

“Back to the original point that I am, in fact, right here. Therefore your comment that no one is around is redundant.”

“I meant no one I can do anything with.”

“Thin ice, bub, thin ice.”

“I meant like my brothers or someone. Alan is busy revising for his final exams, Virgil’s with Brains and I’ve no idea where Scott is but I think he’s avoiding me, which is just mean if you ask me. I’m a delight.”

“Yeah, you sure are,” she drawled, not sounding too convinced. “You’re also forgetting a brother.”

“Who?”

“John? You know, gorgeous ginger love of my life that’s chilling in his room right this minute? That brother?”

“John? No way.”

“What’s wrong with John?” she squawked indignantly. Her man was the most perfect of people, amazing and fabulous, just all round awesome. Although she might be a tad biased.

Gordon shrugged, scrunching his nose up in a ‘meh’ kinda way that said everything and nothing.

“No, come on, tell me what you meant,” she demanded.

“No offence, Sel, but John’s a bit…”

“A bit what?” she asked, her tone warning him that he was in very dangerous territory.

Gordon, with the grace of an elephant and confidence of a man that knew he was injured and therefore wouldn’t get slapped, plowed on.

“A bit boring.”

“Boring?!” she hollered, her voice travelling to the four corners of the island so effectively that Alan lifted his head, wondering if some distant God was echoing his thoughts as he slogged through his history homework.

“How very dare you!” Selene continued, working up a good glare that Gordon was completely immune to. He simply sipped the last of his milkshake, smacked his lips and raised an eyebrow, daring her to do something about it.

“He is not boring.”

“Matter of opinion,” Gordon shrugged, handing her the glass to put down on the table.

“Right, that’s it, you can besmirch my fun factor but I will not allow you to do so to my man. That’s a step too far.” She gently, for which he was thankful, shoved his leg off her lap and dragged his hover chair over from its spot beside Virgil’s piano.

“Get the hell in, hoppy, we’re going for a ride.”

-x-

"You deal with him, he's driving me nuts and pissing me off at the same time."

"Me? I'm the very picture of perfection, I could never drive anyone nuts."

John declined to comment on that one for fear of never stopping, he had twenty-four years worth of stories after all.

“The pissing you off is subjective too,” Gordon finished triumphantly.

"He's your problem now," Selene announced, shoving Gordon's hover chair further into the room before making her escape, slamming the door shut behind her.

John closed his eyes, praying for patience. His fiancée was well known for her legendary patience when it came to pampering and mothering his family whenever any of them were sick or injured. She'd spent almost every day with Gordon since his run in with the Chaos Crew and had done so with relentless cheer, for her to have given up now was not a good sign.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Gordon protested hotly.

"Are you sure?"

Gordon averted his gaze, suddenly taking great interest in a dust particle dancing across the shaft of sunlight filtering in through the window, "Yes, I'm sure. I wasn't doing anything. That was part of the problem."

"Ah," there it was. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I'm so bored," Gordon wailed. "And your girlfriend is being mean to me."

"Fiancée," John corrected him, not looking up from his work.

"It's not my fault I hate sitting around doing nothing all day. I’ve gone from a physically and mentally intensive, fifty plus hour a week job, to sitting on my ass from dawn until dusk. Can you blame a guy for getting twitchy?"

"Unfortunately, you don't have much of a choice at the moment," John reminded him, quite needlessly he thought.

"Gee, thanks for the reminder," Gordon huffed, trying to cross his arms although the cast and sling he was sporting prevented it. That just seemed to annoy him even more.

"I can't do anything right now! How do you do it?"

"Do what?" John asked, squinting through his magnifier at the small window frame he was carving from a piece of polymer clay.

"Just sit around all day."

John raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I don't sit around all day."

"OK, float around then. It's not like you're actively running around like the rest of us are."

"I'll pretend I never heard you say that," John scowled, wishing Selene had dumped his brother into the sea instead of into his quiet, peaceful room.

"You're sitting around right now," Gordon pointed out, gesturing to the desk John was sitting at, which was currently doing double duty as a work table for his latest project.

"One day you'll learn to appreciate the benefits of a quiet, occupied mind and a still body," John told him.

Gordon sighed, propping his good elbow on the desktop, his chin resting in his upturned palm as he watched his brother fiddling with tiny things that seemed utterly useless to him.

"What are you even doing?"

"Working on a series of book nooks for Sel's side of the bookcase," John answered, sounding slightly distracted as he measured the finished window against its place in an intricately carved brick wall.

"Why?"

"Because she likes them."

"I mean why are you making it? Can't you just buy her one? It's not like you can't afford it."

"Where's the challenge in that? Besides, things are always more special when you make them yourself."

Gordon yawned and leant forward to rest his head on the tabletop.

"Do you want to help?" John offered, although honestly Gordon's version of helping was always patchy at best.

Gordon scooted closer to look over John's shoulder, eyes darting over the rectangular box that he was building the nook inside. About the size of two thick books sandwiched together, the nook already had a little cobbled street and two shop fronts in place. The tabletop was scattered with a selection of impossibly tiny screwdrivers, picks, scalpels and other instruments of possible torture that he couldn't hope to name.

"Pass," he announced decisively, flicking the control of his hoverchair so he spun in a wide circle, pointing to the door. "I'm out."

"Peace at last," John sighed, flicking his magnifier back into place over his right eye as he set aside the window to be baked later and reached for a fresh blob of clay.

-x-

"What ya dooooooing?" Gordon yodelled, slamming the bedroom door open so hard that it smacked into the wall and shook several picture frames. He scooted his way into the room without even waiting for an invite.

"Gordon!" John huffed, clutching his heart where it was trying to leap out of his chest from the shock of his brother’s sudden, and very noisy, entrance.

"Hi, I got bored, thought I'd drop in on my favourite big brother," Gordon grinned as he glided his hoverchair closer.

"Are Scott and Virgil busy?" John asked, that would be the only reason Gordon would have promoted him to his favourite.

"Yes," Gordon admitted, "but that's not the reason why I'm here."

John turned his head to shoot him a raised eyebrow of doom, clearly communicating without words that he didn't believe him in the slightest.

"So, what are you doing?"

"Working on this book nook," John replied patiently, holding up the small cauldron he was crafting.

"The same one?"

"Yes."

Gordon’s eyes nearly fell out of his head, "Still? It’s been four days!"

"Yes," John hissed out, starting to get frustrated by the constant questions.

"Why?"

"Because it takes a long time. If you're going to do a project you should do it right."

"At the speed you're going it's gonna take forever," Gordon snorted, casting an assessing eye over the work John had already done.

"That doesn't matter," John assured him. "It's not really about the time it takes or the end result, it's about the process, the journey to get there."

"Sounds lame to me," Gordon yawned.

"Obviously," John drawled, rolling his eyes.

"What do you mean by that?" Gordon demanded to know, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Because it's you."

"Hey! Rude."

"Accurate," John said, placing the little cauldron down and selecting another piece of clay which he placed on a ceramic tile.

"Why?"

"Because it requires a calm mind. It's good to slow down sometimes and just be still."

"Says the console jockey."

Console Jockey? He did not just say that!

"So you don't think my job is stressful? Or as tiring and important as yours?" John snapped, wondering if it was bad form to smack your injured brother around the head with a partially constructed book nook. He glanced at the nook, he had put a lot of work into it… It would be a shame to waste it. That thought alone saved Gordon.

“Well, yeah I get that it might be a bit stressful, but it’s not like you have to do much that puts you in danger, not like us,” Gordon continued, digging his hole even deeper, a hole that John was looking forward to shoving him into.

“We all have our specialities, you couldn’t do your job without me doing mine,” John retorted, trying very hard not to let Gordon’s comments get to him. Gordon would never understand what it was like for him to be stuck so far away from the action, away from his brothers when things were going wrong.

Gordon, thankfully for him, had been unconscious from the moment he had activated his emergency code. He hadn’t heard the frantic calls going out over the comms as the family mobilized to help him. He hadn’t heard the desperate scramble as Thunderbirds took off, racing to the scene. But John had heard it all.

John had been the one to stay on the line with Gordon, talking to him the entire time, knowing that he probably wouldn’t hear it but feeling that he needed to say it all the same. He wanted to know that if his little brother regained consciousness for even a second he would hear a familiar voice, that he would know that they were coming, that they would rescue him. He would know that he wasn’t alone.

He knew what it was like for people that were in danger, knew the comfort they got from someone talking to them, listening to their stories, being there for them verbally if not physically. John was often the one that spent the most amount of time with those they rescued, keeping their spirits up as much as possible until his brothers got there.

His brothers were seen by their rescuees as the real heroes, the ones that leapt in and plucked them out of danger, but John was the one that got them that help, the one that made sure the rescue played out as best it could, liaising and coordinating until the job was done. But Virgil, Scott, Gordon and Alan were the ones that got the thanks , the ones that got the hugs after they dropped their charges off, not John.

Not that he minded too much, he knew that his job was just as important as theirs, maybe even more so because, when someone put out that call for help, when they sent their desperate plea out into the world, they deserved to know that someone would always be listening out for it, that someone would hear and that help would come.

He knew all of this, and he knew that Gordon did too, it was just the frustration of inactivity that was making him say the things that he was. John just wished that that knowledge made it easier to listen to.

“I might not be doing the physical rescuing,” John continued, feeling the need to push his point home. “But I work just as hard, when you’re home you’re off duty until a call comes in, you can relax, swim, watch movies and laze around until you’re needed. When I’m up there I’m on duty 24/7 and even when I do manage to catch some sleep it’s not deep or particularly restful. Any little noise, any call that triggers the system's keyword algorithm gets transferred automatically, I have to go from asleep to awake in seconds to take it.”

Gordon was quiet for once, watching him closely. John didn’t like it, it made him feel like an exhibit in a zoo. And here we have the little seen Tracy, see how he stays inside his hide and hardly ever ventures out… he knew how they saw him, why they likely thought he had the easy job.

“These help, they give me something else to focus on. I need to keep my mind active and challenged while still trying to relax.” John paused, trying to think of a way to explain his thinking that Gordon might understand.

“These are almost like a meditation,” he started. Gordon understood meditation and finding your zone. “Creating something out of almost nothing. It keeps my mind focused, helps with finger dexterity and hand eye coordination with the added bonus of it relaxing me. It’s good to slow down and take some time to do something creative, you should try it some time.”

Gordon listened to his brother and he tried to take in all his words, he tried to understand the meaning behind them, he really did, but it just didn’t make any sense to him. He understood about wanting to be lazy, to sit around and do nothing sometimes. He loved to laze on the couch with his snackies and an Into the Unknown marathon playing out on the holoscreen, but that was watching something exciting, interesting, to him that was relaxing. This...whatever it was that John was actually doing, made no sense whatsoever to him. The idea of trying to relax by actually thinking...that was the most alien concept of all.

Gordon knew, probably better than his family gave him credit for, what it was like to be mislabelled. Within every sibling pool, there were the mandatory roles: the serious one, the caring one, the smart one, the funny one, the calm one, the angry one, the one who sang in the shower, et cetera. He’d proudly embraced the role of ‘the funny one’, and had diligently flown the flag for the humour camp for as long as he could remember. If a brother came home from a rescue in a slump and needed a cheery pick-me-up, it was Gordon who stepped up to the task, irrespective of his own mood. His smile and laugh were infectious, and he had yet to encounter a frown he couldn’t (eventually) turn upside down.

But with every ‘role’ came misconceptions. Scott was serious, therefore people were quick to automatically assume that he was a killjoy. Similarly, John’s intellect and preference for solitude often went hand in hand with him being branded antisocial, since there was apparently no possible way someone could enjoy their own company so much, yet still pursue and maintain meaningful relationships with actual people.

Gordon was no stranger to this treatment. He liked to laugh and be spontaneous, and consequently, was often regarded as the Tracy who didn’t take his work seriously, the Tracy who had the attention span of a gnat (albeit a very handsome one), and the Tracy who couldn’t be trusted with anything that required delicacy, be it physical or emotional. His affinity for making people laugh, though an exceptional quality, frequently acted as a double-edged sword. On the one hand, his relentless optimism made him the most effective of the bunch when it came to emergencies involving children and young adults. On the other hand, it sentenced him to a fate where the bad jokes he cracked would always be two steps ahead of the secret deep thinker that lay within.

“Let me see it again,” Gordon sighed, trying his best to be a supportive and understanding brother, since he did feel a little bad about the things he had just said. He hadn’t meant to say them, they had just come out. That was the trouble with being laid up from an injury, not only were you out of action but you were in pain, and pain made you grumpy and less likely to monitor the things that came out of your mouth the way you should.

He knew that John worked hard, hell he knew that what his brother had said was right, John was never truly off duty. They were all aware that he didn’t get enough sleep, enough down time, enough time to relax and just be. They knew that if John was on Five he would consider himself on duty, at work, and therefore he’d never allow himself to take time out. Things had changed since Selene had blundered her way into his life, now he spent a lot more time on the Island, which meant that he was finally taking some time out for himself. If one of the ways he chose to do that was by crafting ridiculously tiny things out of clay to stick in a hollowed out box that was his business. Gordon wasn’t there to judge, he was there to spend time with his brother.

John moved aside a little so Gordon could get a closer look, trying to resist the urge to smack his hand away every time Gordon reached for a tiny piece that had taken him hours to perfect.

“These are really small,” Gordon mused, poking at a window that John had just finished painting, leaving behind a smudged fingerprint. “Woops, sorry, Bro.”

“Maybe you should try making something of your own,“ John suggested, carefully removing the window from his brother's possession and picking up a brush in order to attempt a fix.

Gordon nodded and John passed him a ceramic tile and a miniature rolling pin.

“How about you try cutting me out a few shop sign bases?” John suggested.

“Do I get one of those scalpel things?” Gordon asked, a little too eagerly for John’s liking.

“Maybe we can work up to that,” John hedged, subtly moving the scalpel out of his brother’s reach and passing him a square cookie cutter. “Use this cutter for now.”

Gordon shrugged and spent a few minutes rolling and squishing the clay trying to get the thickness to the exact measurement that John insisted on. It wasn’t easy or fun.

“Nope!” Gordon announced, giving up and pushing the tile away. “It’s still boring. Pass.”

He swung his hoverchair around and headed in the direction of the door. “Later, Bro.”

“Oh...OK...later, I guess,” John stuttered, wondering just what he had done to deserve such a chaotic family as his.

“Oh, hey, boo, where are you go- WAHH!”

John’s head shot up as Selene’s yelp rang out from the hallway.

“Sorry!”

“So you should be, you little shit,” she grumbled to his retreating back as she thumped into the room.

“What happened, love?”

“Let’s just say that if his chair had wheels I’d have lost a few toes,” she said, wincing in imagined pain.

John scooted his desk chair back and patted his lap in offer, one that she happily accepted.

“So, why was Gordy doing his boy racer bit? What did you say to him?”

“Me? What makes you think I said anything to him?”

“Because I know you two?”

“Fair,” he sighed, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. “I don’t know what to do to help him.”

Selene turned her head to look at him, not liking the helpless look on his face.

“Babe, you are helping him, you’re there to keep him company or talk to him if he needs it, that’s more important than anything. What happened to make you think that you weren’t helping?”

“He was asking me about these again,” John nodded towards his work area on the desktop. “But he didn’t seem to understand, that or he just didn’t want to.”

“He’s Gordon,” she sighed. “You know what he’s like, he’s full on, he’s in your face and he’s not at all subtle. Taking his time with things just doesn’t compute with him.”

“It would do him good though, if he doesn’t learn to embrace it he’ll be exactly the same as he was last time.”

“Was he really that bad?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.

John nodded. “He doesn’t do inactivity well. When he had his hydrofoil accident his therapist talked him into signing up for a virtual college degree in Environmental Management of Rivers and Wetlands. It was supposed to take him at least a year as a part time course with ANU in Canberra, but he blew through it in the first semester and earned himself a distinction for his insights on the impact of Anthropogenic Noise on Wetland Habitats. His professor was so impressed he offered him a fully funded PhD, citing his time with WASP and the time he spent in the bathyscaphe as practical experience that would make up for his lack of degree. Obviously he turned it down, but he still likes to rub our faces in it now and then.”

“Wow,” Selene breathed. “Forget his professor being impressed, I’m impressed.”

“He has a phenomenal brain,” John said, a small but very proud smile on his face. “When he actually decides to use it to its full potential, that is. There is nothing he can't do when he chooses to focus on something, he’s all in. It really helped him to feel like he was gaining something and moving forward even though he was sitting still.”

Selene nodded, understanding completely. She knew that all of her boys were wicked smart, but Gordon always presented himself as the least academic. He was more of a doer, wanting to be out in the field, learning as he went, diving in head first to every situation.

But as Selene and John both knew, appearances could be deceiving.

“If that’s what helped him last time, then we need to find a way to convince him to try something new,” Selene insisted.

“I tried, he’s not interested.”

“That was with your things, babe. We need to find something that’s a little more him, and I think I know just the thing.”

-x-

“I have arrived!” Gordon yodelled, announcing his entrance in his own unique way. He slid his hover chair in through the open door like the boss that he was, bringing his shining presence in to brighten up his middle brother's obviously dull existence. “Didja miss me?”

“Like a hole in the head,” John grumbled, turning to look at the grinning face of his brother. His eyes immediately began to water as they were assaulted by the far too bright colours of the shirt Gordon was wearing, a tie dyed monstrosity that Selene had made for him for his birthday.

“A little more gratitude, if you please," Gordon huffed.

“Grandma finally released you?”

“Yep,” Gordon stretched out his injured leg and patted the air cast on his now slingless arm. “Got time off for good behaviour.”

“I find that hard to believe,” John teased, then nodded to Gordon’s arm. “How’s it feeling?”

“Not too bad, my grip still isn't great but Grandma promised me that once the bone has finished knitting I’ll just need to exercise it and build the muscle strength up, then it’ll be as good as new.”

“That’s great, it won't be long before you're able to go back out with Virgil and stop, how did Sel put it, 'haunting the house like the ghost of Christmas future'?"

"Can't come soon enough," Gordon sighed, butting his chair right up close to John's, knocking his arm in the process. "What you do- you're still doing that? Still? It's been a week!"

"It's not like I get a huge amount of down time," John pointed out. "I'm only here now because Sel said she'd dump me if I didn't make an effort to come down earlier in the evenings so I could actually eat a meal with you all."

"You actually believed that threat?" Gordon laughed.

"Of course not, she'd never dump me, but I thought I had better humour her and let her feel like she at least had a little sway," John shrugged, pushing aside the little piece of doorstep he had been painting. "Honestly, it's nice to come down for a meal and family time, I hadn't realised how much I'd missed it until it was happening again."

"I guess we all got a bit too caught up in International Rescue after we lost Dad," Gordon admitted.

"Like we had nothing else in our lives," John nodded, completely understanding.

"Yep."

Gordon fell silent and John let him, concentrating on mixing the perfect colour acrylic to add a few highlights to his stones.

"Can I have a go at making something? I bet I could do it quicker than you," Gordon asked, reaching towards what Selene called the sharps tub. John smacked the lid down on it just in time.

"Actually, we got you a present."

"You did?" Instantly distracted, Gordon sat up straighter, excited by the prospect of a gift. "What did you get me?"

This," John answered, opening his desk drawer and extracting an interestingly shaped bottle, upright with a thicker, rounded bottom and a thinner neck, ending a cork stopper.

"Wow, is that an original?" Gordon asked, taking the bottle carefully and turning it to study it from all angles. He knew exactly what this shaped bottle was, there had been a collection of them in Commander Shore’s office that he would stare at every time he got called in for some reprimand or another.

"19th century," John nodded. "Sel found it in a little shop in Mayfair. They assured her it was a genuine, used on a ship, captain's decanter from around the time of the civil war. They hadn’t fully traced it when Sel bought it but they think it came from one of the ships that fought in one of the smaller skirmishes around 1861.”

“This is really cool, thanks,” Gordon smiled, still turning the bottle over and over.

“It’s to hold this,” John continued, drawing Gordon’s attention back to him.

Grinning, John delved back into his desk drawer and pulled out a rather faded and quite dusty box. He brushed the dirt off the top and slid it over to Gordon.

"A ship?" Gordon frowned.

"Yep, Selene and I thought that you needed a little project of your own, so she had the idea to get you a ship in a bottle. You don’t see them a lot these days, but apparently her Grandfather had a couple and they always fascinated her.”

“So you put the ship in the bottle?”

“Yep, instructions are inside, go nuts.”

“Pfft, instructions,” Gordon snorted. “No one needs instructions, they’re a waste of time.”

-x-

“Ouch,” John hissed, hopping in place on one foot as he bent down to pick up what looked to be a tiny piece of mast that had attacked the sole of his foot. “Gordon, why are there bits of ship all over my floor?”

“Because I dropped them,” Gordon replied, his voice muffled due to the tongue of concentration that was peeking out from between his teeth.

Huffing, John gathered all the pieces off the floor, both pieces of ship and bits that they had been cut out of, and deposited them on the desk next to Gordon.

“How’s it coming along?” John asked, settling in his own chair. He’d only been gone a day but Gordon had managed to take over the entire bedroom, spreading his belongings, bottles, snack wrappers, his phone and a discarded hoodie, all over the place, as well as half the contents of the vintage ship box.

“It’s ridiculous. I think it’s missing pieces or something, it’s broken.”

“Well it was an old kit, but we were assured that it was complete,” John frowned, sliding the tray over that Gordon was supposed to be storing all the pieces in. “Have you checked the contents list and matched each piece to make sure they’re all there?”

Gordon looked at him blankly, like he was talking a foreign language.

“Did you check that everything was there before you started?" John elaborated.

“Of course I did,” Gordon promised, crossing his fingers and hoping his brother didn’t see.

“Against the list?” John clarified.

“I eyeballed it, OK?”

“Not good enough,” John insisted. “That’s not how you go about doing things like this, you can’t just slap them together and hope for the best.”

“Why not?” Gordon whined. It worked for him in almost everything else he did in life.

“Because this happens," John gestured to the mess surrounding them.

“Fine, I’ll read the damn instructions.”

Leaving Gordon to it John slid his almost completed book nook over and picked up his paintbrush to start adding some finishing touches before he started on the wiring for the lights. He’d barely done more than five minutes when Gordon started huffing.

John waited a little longer, trying his hardest to ignore the ever increasing sounds of frustration and impatience from his brother. In the end he couldn't stand it a moment longer, he had to ask the most loaded question ever.

“What’s the problem?” John asked, pushing his own work aside.

“These instructions don’t make sense,” Gordon bitched, flapping the paper in John’s face. “Look at the little picture here, you have to stick this little pole into that hole in the deck but the deck doesn’t want to stay together and that piece there keeps sliding and the pictures make no sense.”

“That’s because you missed around eight steps in between,” John told him, praying for patience.

“No I didn't, I followed the pictures exactly,” Gordon insisted.

“The steps aren’t in the pictures,” John explained. “See right there?” he pointed to the words above the pictures. “The pictures are a diagram of each finished stage, not how to get there. They are for reference only, not instructions.”

“Urghhh, this is going to take forever,” Gordon pouted, crossing his arms. “What’s the point?”

“The point is that by the end of it you’ll have something unique that no one else does, something you can be proud of and know that you built with your own two hands.”

“I’m not sure it’s worth the effort,” Gordon muttered.

“It is,” John promised. “I’ll help. How about I read out the instructions and you follow along? We’ll get through it quicker that way.”

Gordon wasn’t convinced, but John looked so hopeful that he didn’t have the heart to refuse him, especially since he and Selene had gone to so much trouble to get the things for him in the first place. He might be a miserable little sod, but he wasn’t that ungrateful. He knew that they had gone out of their way to get something they thought he’d like, the least he could do was make the thing, even if he knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. Maybe John was right, working together they could get through it quicker, and that could only be a good thing.

“Alright,” Gordon agreed, “let’s give it a go.”

Slowly, methodically, John read out each piece that was needed and Gordon located them, storing them neatly in a wooden box that Selene provided when she popped in to bring them drinks an hour or so later. She stayed just long enough to steal a kiss from John and drop one on the top of Gordon’s head before she beat a hasty retreat, not wanting to get roped into helping. She wasn’t the best at following instructions and didn’t want to get grumped at.

By the time they had all the pieces checked and catalogued they had discovered there were indeed two pieces missing, but thankfully they were easy fixes, just a small , round piece of wood to represent a porthole, which they could easily make a replacement for and a piece of mast. One snipped toothpick later and that was sorted too.

John started with the first set of instructions, reading them out patiently as Gordon found and fitted them together.

“So, how’s work been?” Gordon asked, like a chatty hairstylist, as he carefully dipped the end of a thin dowel into a small pot of wood glue.

“Same as ever,” John deadpanned, “a bunch of idiots that got themselves into trouble and needed help, and only half of them related to us.”

Gordon sniggered, glancing at John, seeing the sly smile on his brother’s face. He’d forgotten just how amusing John could be when he delivered something sarcastically witty with such a serious tone. Gordon hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it, wondering just what his more serious brother would come out with next. John was always like that, he seemed so quiet and reserved but, when he was relaxed and in company he was comfortable with he’d take you by surprise by letting loose a zinger that you couldn’t help but laugh at.

“Let’s not talk about work,” Gordon suggested, “we haven’t hung out properly in ages, you’re either up in Five or there are other people around.”

“Is that your way of saying you’ve missed me?” John teased.

“Maybe,” Gordon allowed, “but if you ever tell anyone I said that I’ll deny it and tell Grandma you want her to make your birthday cake this year.”

John held his hands up in surrender, although he couldn’t hold in the laugh that bubbled up as he reached for the instructions again.

“OK, let’s get this done before we stop enjoying each other’s company.”

They worked slowly but steadily over the next few hours, putting together the structure for the first mast. Once it was done they called it quits and abandoned it for another day, the smell of something tasty coming from the kitchen proving to be too much to ignore.

-x-

“Gordon, that’s my finger.”

“Oh, sorry, can you just like… I don’t know, yank it off?”

“If I wish to leave half my identifying fingerprints behind, yes.”

“Do you really need them?”

John didn’t dignify that with an answer, the look he threw at his brother communicated his thoughts perfectly.

“OK, OK, I’ll get some dissolver from Virgil’s studio, wait right there,” Gordon instructed him, grabbing his crutches and hobbling his way out of the room.

John sighed, keeping his hand perfectly still, the hull of the boat dangling from his fingertip. He was still there five minutes later when Gordon clumped his way back in, Selene hot on his heels. She had the glue dissolver under one arm, a large bag of chips under the other and a plate of sandwiches in each hand.

She dumped the plates on the desk, then the chips, before turning to see the state her fiancé was in.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Gordon winced, dropping down into his abandoned desk chair and reaching for a plate.

“Can you at least help me before you start stuffing your face?” John asked, waggling his hand, which made the boat sway violently from side to side.

“Can’t, eating,” Gordon mumbled around the massive mouthful he had just taken.

“What did I say?” she demanded to know. “No hurting the hands, you know how I feel about that.”

John wiggled his fingers again, drawing her attention to his plight. He looked so pathetic with the half built little ship swinging from his hand that Selene took pity on him, intervening when he looked like he was about to grab the thing and yank it off himself, fingerprints be damned.

“Oh for the love of the Gods, let me do it!” Taking his hand she used a paintbrush to smear glue dissolver around the area of skin it was stuck to. She took her time, rewetting and using the brush bristles to push the dissolver under the boat, trying to ease it free from his skin with minimal pulling.

“Thank you,” he sighed, sitting patiently while she worked. Thankfully it didn’t take her too long, although it took a lot of cursing under her breath and the odd ouch from him to get there.

“One boat,” she announced, placing it triumphantly on the desk.

“Fanks,” Gordon said, spraying chip crumbs as he did so.

“Welcome,” she said, brushing at her leg which had unfortunately been in splatter range. Still holding John’s hand she bestowed a kiss to each of his abused digits before releasing him.

“Right, I’m out of here. Play nicely, you two, I don’t want to have to send Grandma in to babysit you both.”

“It won’t come to that,” John assured her, reaching for his own sandwich. “We’ve not got much left to do now. We just have to attach the rigging to the masts, check that they fold properly then insert th-”

“I’m out, I don’t need to hear anything about insertion, not after you just glued a boat to your hand,” Selene declared, her exit swift and to the point, the door shutting firmly behind her.

“She has a point,” Gordon admitted, swallowing his last bite. He pushed the chip bag in John’s direction, although there was barely more than a handful and a few crumbs left in it.

“But we’ll never admit it to her face,” John insisted, steadily munching through the large sub she had brought for him.

“Never,” Gordon agreed.

-x-

Gordon sighed dramatically as he crutched his way down the hall from his bedroom. John’s bedroom door was open but his brother wasn’t inside. The ship, now fully rigged, sat beside the bottle on the desk, just waiting to be placed inside once some sand had been poured in as a base. Gordon had chosen all different shades of blue to represent the sea and had even watched a few videos on how to do sand pouring art, something he’d never expected to find even remotely interesting, yet he couldn’t bring himself to go in and make a start on it.

John had barely been home the past week and when he had it had only been for food and enforced sleep. Even then he had been known to sneak out of bed the second Selene was asleep, being discovered on numerous occasions sitting at their father’s desk until the small hours working on this, that or the other.

Emergencies, and therefore the need for their services, had seemed to increase three fold, something Selene was blaming on the moon phase and mercury going retrograde and, for want of a better explanation, they were all inclined to agree. There was no rhyme or reason for the surge in idiots that were calling in at all hours of the day and night with trucks caught under a too low bridge causing a pile up, hands stuck down toilets, drunks climbing to the top of electricity pylons and repair men getting trapped inside ATM machines they had been fixing.

His brothers had been on the go near constantly, whether it was from rescue call outs or working on their plan to find their father, but none more so than John. While Selene had always been good at what she liked to call Tracy Wrangling, none more so that when she was dealing with a stressed out Scott, even she had admitted defeat and left them to their own devices. Self preservation was key after all.

John had been dealing with not only rescue calls and Chaos Crew sightings, but signal tracking, GDF liaising and general hoop jumping, all of which had kept him far too busy.

It had been over a week since they had done anything to their project and Gordon was feeling the loss. Not so much of the project, although that really had helped with his frustrations at his lack of physical ability, not that he would ever admit that to John, but in spending time with his brother.

Much to his surprise he’d found that he was reluctant to work on it alone, it had become their thing to do together. It was a time where they would hang out, shoot the shit, reminisce about childhood memories, times that they had spent together talking about their hope for the future where they would find their father alive and bring him home.

Both of them knew that it wouldn’t be easy, that if they did manage to find him there would be no telling what physical or mental state he would be in. Gordon knew from experience just how tough physical injury, limitations, and recovery could be on the mind and the body, especially in someone who had been as active and viril as Jeff Tracy.

They all knew, although no one seemed to want to talk about it, that as hard as it was going to be to actually locate him and hopefully bring him home, that would only be the beginning of what could potentially be an incredibly long and difficult journey of rehabilitation and reintegration into the family and the world as a whole.

John had been right, taking some time to be quiet, to slow down and think while keeping your mind and hands busy really was a productive way to spend your rest hours and, stupid as it sounded, Gordon didn’t really want that to end.

He was only a week or two away from potential cast removal and a return to physical activities like his beloved swimming and strength training in their home gym and, while he couldn’t wait to get back to it, he knew he’d feel the loss of his enforced quiet time.

He glanced again at the abandoned ship on the desk and turned away, clumping down the hall towards the stairs. So it would take them a little longer to get it finished, Gordon was fine with that because for once he wasn’t feeling the need to rush.

-x-

“Remember to pour it slowly,” Gordon instructed as he held the funnel in place, its long pipe reaching right down into the bottom of the jar. “Start with the darkest one, that’s going to be our base colour.”

“I’ve got it,” John assured him, selecting the tub of midnight blue sand and scooping some out into a smaller pot to make things easier. At Gordon’s nod he began to slowly and steadily pour the sand into the open neck of the funnel. As he watched Gordon expertly directed the tube, allowing the sand to pour out to pool in the bottom of the bottle.

At Gordon’s signal John stopped pouring and waited while Gordon carefully removed the tube and used a long metal skewer to poke and prod the sand into something that looked vaguely like waves.

“The next colour up,” Gordon requested and John did as he was asked. They repeated the process four more times with different shades of blue, John pouring in a little at a time, Gordon directing the tube to deposit more in one place than others, mimicking the movement of sea waves as best they could. In between each layer Gordon used the skewer to poke and mix the colours here and there, blending the layers into a smoother transition.

“That’ll do,” Gordon said confidently, twisting the bottle so John could see the full effect.

John had to admit that he had been pleasantly surprised when Gordon had announced that he had ordered some coloured sand and looked up how to do sand art on the internet. He hadn’t really known what to expect, although he would admit, if only to himself, that he had thought that Gordon would be a little heavy handed and impatient, but once again he had proved him wrong. He really had done his research and the result was a beautiful mix of colours that really did give a perfect impression of a gently moving sea.

“That’s looking great.”

“I know,” Gordon grinned, modest as always. “Where’s that resin gone?”

“Here,” John answered, pushing it across the desk towards his brother. “Make sure you read the instructions and measure the amounts accurately or it won’t set and you’ll ruin the sand and the bottle.”

“Yeah, yeah I got this,” Gordon assured him as he did indeed read the instructions through properly. Once he had familiarised himself with the ratio of resin to hardener, he measured carefully and poured them into a mixing jug. Once it was fully mixed he slowly, gently, poured the mixture a little at a time into the bottle on top of the sand. With each little pour he waited for the resin to trickle down between the grains, slowly adding to it until all the sand was covered.

“And now we wait,” John said, carefully placing the bottle in the patch of bright sunlight coming in through the window.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Gordon offered casually, not really expecting his brother to agree. John hardly ever watched anything with just him, they had vastly different tastes in movies and John usually made some polite excuse to escape.

“Sure, sounds good.”

“Really?” Gordon goggled, his eyes almost falling out of his head. “You don’t have anything more important to do?”

“More important than watching a movie with my little brother? I don’t think so,” John grinned, retrieving Gordon’s crutches from where they were leaning against his bookshelf and tossing them to him one by one. “Come on, last one to the lounge picks the movie.”

“Hey, no fair!” Gordon yelled, scrambling to his feet as he fumbled with his crutches. “You’ve got legs like a giraffe and neither of them are broken!”

“Sucks to be you,” John tossed over his shoulder as he took off down the hall to victory.

-x-

“Careful,” John warned.

“I am being careful,” Gordon snapped. “I got this.”

“Your hand’s shaking.”

“Thanks for that, Captain Obvious.” He steadied his, only slightly shaky, hand by propping his elbow on the desk for stability. “OK, let’s do this.”

They both held their breath as Gordon maneuvered the body of the boat through the opening in the bottle, making sure each sail stayed carefully folded down and the strings remained untangled before he fed it down the neck and into the bottle.

“Phase one, complete,” John intoned in such a serious voice that Gordon couldn’t help the laugh that he snorted out.

“Pass me those long nosed tweezers?” Gordon asked, holding out a hand.

John slapped the requested instrument into his brother's hand like a nurse in an operating theater, provoking another burst of laughter.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

Making sure the strings of the sails were still dangling outside of the bottle, Gordon carefully moved the body of the boat further down into the bottle with the metal skewer until the stern touched the top of the resin and sand layer.

“Now the sails,” Gordon whispered, hardly daring to breathe as John moved in to help, taking over the holding of the strings while Gordon reached in with the tweezers.

Gently, working together, they started the delicate process of tugging gently on each string, unfolding the paper sails and locking them in place.

“String one.”

“Got it. Watch number four sail.”

“Yep, thanks...OK… can you just give string five a little pull? Perfect.”

“Sail three is flopping!”

“Gah, hang on, just got to tighten that...yep that’s got it.”

“Maybe if I gather…”

“Yep, that’s good, do that again.”

“This next bit is going to require a delicate touch, maybe I should-”

“Hey! I can be delicate!”

“It’s not coming up...back sail two is stuck, release it...careful!”

“There, saved it.”

John gently pulled the strings a little more and there it was, their ship, sails proudly upright and everything. He kept hold of the strings, while Gordon held on to the boat with the tweezers as they carefully lifted the bottle from its side to its proper upright position.

Using the skewer John maneuvered around Gordon’s hand and nudged the boat into a better position before he carefully released the strings. They both held their breath, hoping and praying that the sails wouldn't collapse the second the strings fell.

The boat, with its sails, stayed strong.

“Yes!” Gordon cheered, holding up his free hand for a high five, grinning when his brother’s palm smacked against his own.

“Scalpel,” Gordon joked as John handed it to him so they could lop off a little of the trailing strings. Then, using the skewer, they arranged the strings around the edges of the boat.

With the boat finally upright and in place, they added another layer of light blue coloured sand with a sprinkling of white to mimic the tips of the waves. They finished it off by pouring in a little more resin, both to set the sand and hold the boat in place, using the tweezers to make sure it was correctly positioned.

“Phew,” Gordon breathed, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his cast covered leg. “We did it. Go team.”

“We did,” John smiled. “And it looks damn good.”

“It really does,” Gordon agreed, shifting his head to look at the bottle from all angles.

“Nothing left to do but let it dry and put the stopper in,” John said. “How do you feel now it’s done? Was it worth the time?”

“I still think we could have done it a lot faster if you’d just let me skip a few steps in the instructions and do it my way, but it wasn’t that bad,” Gordon admitted. “I’m oddly proud of it.”

“You should be, you did good,” John leant back in his chair, crossing his arms as he relaxed. “Are you going to stop teasing me about my book nooks now?”

“Pssh, no,” Gordon snorted. “Ships are cool, yours will always be boring.”

He didn’t see the bottle of water coming until it was too late.

-x-

Gordon walked straight to John’s room from the infirmary, feeling oddly free without his crutches and casts. Six weeks was a long time, after all.

The bottle with its little ship sat exactly where they had left it in the center of John’s desk next to the abandoned book nook that was still not finished. It took him very little time to insert the cork stopper and pour a little of Selene’s spell bottle sealing wax around the top, a bright, cheery yellow wax that matched his beloved Thunderbird Four.

He smiled as he thought of his little craft, waiting down in her dock for him, ready to be taken out when the next call came in. It had been a long and frustrating time but finally, blessedly, that time was over.

He poked an experimental finger into the wax seal, checking that it had set properly. It had, and he couldn’t help feeling a little sad about it. It had been a project that at first he’d had very little interest in, but slowly it had turned into so much more. Not just something to wile away a few hours but a chance for him to reconnect with the brother he spent the least amount of time with.

Years ago, back when he had been small, John had been his everything. When Alan had been too tiny to be of any use and Scott and Virgil had been too old to be bothered with him hanging around, it had been John that had been there for him. It was John that had patiently listened as he read aloud from his sealife books, who had watched movies with him, played with him, and spent the most amount of time with him. Back then, their three year age difference had seemed like so little but so much at the same time, an older brother that made him feel wanted and included when the other two saw him as an annoyance.

Gordon couldn’t quite put his finger on when things had changed, when they had slowly drifted apart. John had seemed to grow up so much faster than he had, Alan had welded himself to his side, looking up to Gordon as he had to John and things had never been the same again.

It had been too long since they had been able to just hang out, to laugh, to tease each other without things going too far and one of them getting annoyed. It had been nice and Gordon had realised that he didn’t want to go back to nothing but hollocalls to Five when an emergency came in or the odd family dinner and movie night where he had to share with the rest of the family. John was the only brother that Gordon didn’t spend one on one time with as standard and he realised that, no matter how much he might blame it on John being so far away, in reality it was as much his fault as John’s.

Gordon picked up the bottle, leaving a box in its place. The model kit of the Mercury Project space capsule and its launch pad had been hard to find even with his junker contacts. In fact, he had almost given up and admitted defeat before he'd thought to look at the label on his ship box and sent the shop owner an email.

Smiling to himself, knowing that there was no way John would be able to resist that challenge, he took the finished bottle, with its little ship, to his room where it would take pride of place on his bookshelf, a constant reminder that even in the worst of times, positivity could still be found.

“Thanks, Bro.”

#tag mini bang 2021 #tagminibang2021 #Gordon Tracy #John Tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirdsarego #thunderbirds fandom #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds fanart #TAG Mini Bang 2021 #TAGMiniBang2021

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somemultifandomshit · 3 years

Text

Prompt Request Harry x Allie; The Society

69. “You can’t be serious.” + 70. “Opposites do attract, I guess.” + 71. “Go on. Tell me you hate me.”

Soulmates. New Ham and no parents and soulmates. Allie couldn't believe her ears when she heard Cassandra and Gordie announce it to the citizens of New Ham.

They’ve been here for an entire year now, this strange place they’ve begun to call home. When they first got there, almost everyone was marked with a fresh tattoo. No one remembers how they got them, or even when. At some point, they’ve begun to realize some of them have matching tattoos.

Sam and Grizz have matching clouds. Will and Kelly adorn the same speckles of a constellation she doesn't remember the name of. Helena and Luke have a matching yin-yang symbol. Even Cassandra has an identical puzzle piece to Gordie’s.

Some people don’t have any new tattoos, like Elle and her cousin Campbell. If what Cassandra says is true, she’s thankful for it.

“You can’t be serious,” it’s Harry.

He whispers, his tone slightly intrigued and slightly astonished.

The small group of friends leisure around the Bingham kitchen counter, huddled speaking in hushed voices. They’ve been having meetings here with the small few of them for the last six months, Allie doesn’t think it’ll change.

“As far as I can tell, only pairs have matching tattoos,” Gordie answers.

“Well what about the people who don’t,” Sam signs. Gordie shrugs at him in answer.

“I know it’s a lot to process. We could be, completely wrong. But this is what I’m willing to bet my money on. If we have any new information, you’ll be the first to know,” Allie finishes, bringing the meeting to a close.

Allie was voted mayor two weeks after Cassandra’s resignation. She’s been mayor for the last nine months.

“I trust your judgement, Allie,” Kelly chimes.

“Me, too,” Becca stands.

“Well, anyone on kitchen duty, if we don't leave right now, we’re gonna be late,” Will cuts through the conversation, halting any additional comments until they can meet again.

Everyone slowly shuffles out of Harry’s kitchen throwing over their shoulders a “Bye Harry” and “Bye Allie” in unison. Sam and Grizz are the only ones who hug her tight before they leave.

Harry and Allie are left alone in the kitchen, he starts picking up the mugs and dishes left on the counter used.

"All this time, and their loyalty is still unmatched to this day. It’s impressive, Pressman,” he smiles slightly at her.

“It’s cause they like me better than you, Bingham.”

He laughs loudly and sets the dishes in the sink, turns and leans on the counter, looking at her with folded arms.

“Soulmates,” he breathes out softly, “I never expected that, that's for sure.”

She puts her weight into her elbows, leaning on the island across from Harry.

“I don't think anyone did.”

He crosses the distance between them and stops in close proximity, so close she can smell the cologne he hoards from the rest of the boys.

His extends his hand and moves a curly hair from in front of her face. He takes one small step back, stretches his arms behind, and pulls off his shirt from the top. He tosses the shirt over his shoulder and reaches for the bottom of Allie’s, tugging it over her head until it’s mussed her hair, and is thrown next to his on the floor. He grasps her hips and lifts her onto the island, where she’s at his eye level now.

She can feel him trace the dragon that begins at her ribcage and ends on her lower hip, dangerously lower. He looks at his own shoulder, where the exact same dragon lays over his bicep.

“Soulmates, huh,” he whispers still tracing the dragon. “Opposites do attract, I guess.”

“Who would've thought, enemies to soulmates,” she giggles at the notion of it.

“Enemies, really? You think I was that bad,” his arms circle behind her, settled on her lower back, faces close.

“Who said I still don't,” she’s jokes.

He smirks at her and pushes her hair off her shoulder, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Go on. Tell me you hate me.”

She knows, he knows, she doesn't hate him. He knows it’s the opposite.

Her eyes dart to his, “We’re not so different, you and me. You like telling people we are, but we’re the same, we’re cut from the same cloth.”

“No,” he pauses, looking at her seriously, “you’re better.”

#harry bingham #allie pressman #harry x allie #allie x harry #hallie #prompt #soulmate au #the society #ts #Kathryn newton #alex fitzalan #multimultiwrites

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crocodileniall · 4 years

Text

masterlist wattpad

1.1 In which they meet

warnings: alcohol use

word count: 3940

Sometimes Julianna felt like she was in a movie. One of those angsty coming of age teenage movies that had an awesome soundtrack and characters that were unlikable but they were honest and that’s why people loved them. That’s how Julianna felt but her life was nowhere near as exciting as coming of age films were.

Julianna lived on the western coast and had been for the last three months. At eighteen, she ran away from New York to go to London. She worked in a cafe for five years and slept on couches to end up here.

She showed up to her publishers house after she dodged emails and phone calls from 20 year old Julianna. In her hands there was a three hundred page manuscript of poems and prose from her angsty years.

Her publisher slammed the door in her face. Juliana broadcasted the poems as loud as she could until her neighbors complained. And born of it was Julianna’s career, part time poet, full time lover.

Julianna did book tours and readings all across the world and as much as she loved it, her inspiration ran dry. Life inspired her and she wanted to explore her fascination with isolation. That’s how she wound up in what could only be described as a house that had lots of character.

When Julianna found out someone had moved in next door, she couldn’t believe it. It was almost too good to be true. Julianna did the most neighborly thing she could think of. She carried her plate of muffins over, knocking on the door gently.

The door swung open and a brunet appeared before her. Julianna took a breath, smiling. “Hi my names Julianna. I live next door. I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

The brunet looked her up and down, pushed his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “There’s only two houses.”

“I know,” Julianna laughed. “The neighborhood is quite small.”

“This isn’t a neighborhood,” he argued, seeming exasperated. “There’s only two houses.”

“I believe it is a neighborhood,” Julianna argued back, shifting on her feet. She let out a sharp sigh. “Do you want these fucking muffins or not.”

The brunet let out a startled laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Woah.”

“Pardon my French,” she rolled her eyes, extending the plate towards him.

He slowly took the plate from her, looking her up and down. “Thanks. I’m Niall.”

“Good to know,” Julianna responded dryly.

“If you want this to be a neighborhood it can be,” Niall conceded, eyes drifting off to the coast behind her. “But I’m isolating myself for personal reasons.”

“Me too,” she responded. “I’m a writer.”

“Are you?” He asked, looking her over once more. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Julianna narrowed her eyes at him, eyebrows scrunching up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Niall shrugged, holding the plate in his arm. With his other hand, he pushed the door open wider. “Do you want to come in?”

“I suppose,” Julianna nodded. “By the way this is Gordy.”

“I guess he can come in too,” Niall nodded, gesturing for them to come in.

Julianna followed him inside, snapping her fingers for Gordy to follow. He was eager to run inside the house, making work of inspecting (sniffing) the entire place.

The house was very similar to hers. A tiny living room dimply lit from a lamp plugged into the wall. The kitchen was small with only an island and two stools to sit at. The layout was exactly the same as Julianna’s. She didn't have to go down the hall to know that the bathroom was right across from the bedroom.

Niall lead her into the kitchen where he offered her a cup of tea. Julianna accepted, sitting down at the kitchen table. “So what about you?” She asked, looking around the place.

“What about me?” He echoed, turning to grab a mug out of the cupboard.

“What’s your story?” She asked, looking over at him.

Niall shrugged his shoulders, pouring water out of the steaming kettle into her cup. He dropped a teabag in and set it down in front of her.

“Do you want to hear my story?” Julianna asked, picking up her mug.

“Not particularly,” Niall chuckled. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“I’m a poet,” Julianna told him, sitting back in her chair. She had a kind of hellish smile on her lips. “I ran away to New York when I was eighteen. Got published. Ran away to here. That’s the condensed version for your benefit.”

“I appreciate that,” Niall smiled, eyes flicking from her to Gordy who’d made himself comfortable on the sofa. “What kind of poems do you write?” He asked, bringing his cup to his lips.

“Mostly about sex,” Julianna answered.

Niall snorted tea right out of his nose. He coughed, reaching for the dish towel on the table between them. “Jesus fuck,” he breathed out.

Julianna laughed, eyebrows raising. It was a belly laugh that made Niall’s cheeks heat up. She cleared her throat, sobering up. “As I was saying right now I’m isolated alone so there’s not much of that going on. I’ve been exploring different arts, nature, myself.”

“And how’s that going?” Niall asked, dropping the towel back on the table.

“Pretty good,” she nodded. “I’ve got no complaints. I’ve written some decent stuff. Still got a ways to go, I think.”

“And does this come naturally to you?” Niall asked, leaning on the table. “As opposed to the sex poems.”

“It’s about the same,” Julianna shrugged trying not to let her cheeks give her away. “Though obviously one is more thrilling than the other.”

“That’s true,” Niall agreed, reaching forward to grab a muffin.

“So now you get to tell me your story,” Julianna told him, head tilting to the side.

Niall chuckled, scratching at his jaw. “I’m a musician.”

“I know,” Julianna nodded. “I recognized you before you sat down.”

“So why’d you ask for my story?” He asked.

“Because being a musician isn’t a story,” she chuckled, shrugging. “And that tells me absolutely nothing about you.”

“I’ve been in the industry since I was sixteen. I grew up in the limelight. It turned sour. I wound up here,” he shrugged. “A tale as old as time.”

“I feel like there’s more to that story,” Julianna responded skeptically. “But I’ll accept it for now.”

Niall smiled, eyes dropping to the table. He took a bite of the muffin, ignoring the way it crumbled onto his pants. “These are good,” he said. “You bake a lot?”

“Sometimes,” Julianna shrugged. “When inspiration strikes.”

“Well anytime inspiration strikes, I’m your guy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Julianna murmured, holding her cup between her hands. She took a sip, meeting his eyes.

A silence settled over them that Julianna couldn’t quite put her finger on. Niall didn’t need to tell her, she already knew he was going through a hard time. She could see it in his tired eyes. And the couple days worth of scruff on his cheeks was a sign she couldn’t ignore.

Julianna also couldn’t help but to imagine that scruff rubbing her thighs absolutely raw. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel guilty about it. He was good looking and he had a voice that sounded like honey. It wasn’t her fault.

As an afterthought, Julianna added, “and any time you want some company, I’m your girl.”

“What happened to isolation?” Niall asked, amused.

“Isolation is all well and good but sometimes it’s a bit lonely out here,” Julianna admitted. “It doesn’t help that Gordy can’t talk back. He’s a good listener if you ever want to borrow him.”

“I might take you up on that,” Niall chuckled, looking over at him. He was sleeping on the sofa, ears twitching.

“I should get going,” Julianna announced, setting her half drank cup down. “As my publisher says, I have a funny way of stealing time from people.”

Niall only hummed in response, eyes following her as she walked toward Gordy to wake him up. Before she could leave, Niall said, “if you have a copy I’d love to read your poems sometime.”

“Of course,” Julianna nodded. “I had you hooked when I said they were about sex, huh?”

Niall laughed, a loud one that filled up the tiny house. It made Julianna smile. He shrugged his shoulders, muttering, “maybe.” And that made Julianna smile a bit wider.

Gordy followed her out the door and down the steps. The entire walk home, she couldn’t help but think about how Margaret told her not to go over and she did and now she admitted crush on Niall.

The following morning, Julianna was greeted by Margaret’s scowl. It probably had to do with her drunken texts. Margaret pushed past her, collapsing onto the sofa.

“Honestly, Anna,” she shook her head. “It’s like you do the exact opposite of everything I say.”

“He’s extremely good looking,” Julianna reasoned.

“Your groceries are in the car. I’m not getting them for you I’m mad at you today,” Margaret announces, crossing her arms over her chest.

Julianna stuck her tongue out at her, walking towards the door. Gordy followed her out, sitting on the porch to watch her.

There were only a few bags. Julianna didn’t require much. She was a flour and yeast kind of girl considering how much time she had on her hands to procrastinate.

“So you love him,” Margaret concluded as Julianna put her groceries away.

“I might,” Julianna nodded. “He’s got brooding eyes and this thick accent- irish. And I swear his smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. All crooked and sad.”

“Here we go,” Margaret laughed. “This is going to be another sex book. I can feel it.”

“Oh it is not,” Julianna huffed, stopping to look at her, hands on her hips.

“You sack every man you set your eyes on,” Margaret laughed. “And that’s the truth. And you churn out your best poems once you sink your teeth into someone new.”

“Thats so far off it’s almost ridiculous,” She scoffed.

“Let’s see off the top of my head I can think of Mathew, Nick, Neem, Jorge, and last but certainly least, George.”

Julianna laughed, nodding her head slowly as it all came into perspective. “Ah yes. Those were only my brief lovers, too.”

“And we got a best selling book,” Margaret chuckled. She shrugged, “as a friend I would tell you not to start anything with him. I looked him up and not much good came about besides some monstrous donations to charities through the years.”

“And as my publisher?”

“As your publisher,” she laughed, leaning forward. “I’d tell you to sink your fuckin teeth into him, babe.“

Julianna had a pleasant smile on her face as she sat down in a chair across from her. “This is all hypothetical of course. There’s a possibility that Niall is turned off by the very sight of me.”

“You said he asked to read your book?” Margaret asked. “Which he knows is about sex. I would say he wants it as badly as you do. I heard his last relationship went up in absolute flames. Probably hasn’t gotten any in a while.”

Julianna huffed out a laugh at her brazen comment. It did have her feeling a bit relieved. “You satisfy my Id,” she said, legs swinging to dangle over the side of the chair.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Margaret smiled. She looked around the dusty living room and sighed. “I don’t know how you’re doing this. Honest to god I’d go insane.”

“I’m having fun,” Julianna admitted, staring up at the ceiling. “I did some surfing earlier. Wrote about the ocean and how it’s so sharp that it cuts my shins if I go in too deep. Considering making gnocchi for dinner.”

“Sounds like you’re living the absolutely best life,” Margaret mused, standing up. “I’d love to stay and hang but I have a meeting in a few hours and the drive back is long as shit.”

“Hate to see you leave, but I love to watch ya go,” Julianna grinned, saying the same thing she said every time.

It made Margaret roll her eyes. She smoothed her hand over her hair and shook her head. She leaned down and gave Gordy a few scratches on the head. “Try not to go completely mad out here.”

“We are far beyond mad,” Julianna declared just as Margaret walked out, letting the door clang shut behind her.

Julianna allowed herself a few more long moments of self reflection before dragging herself out of the house, a bag on her shoulder full of the essentials. Her journal, a notepad, a water bottle, snacks. Everything she needed to survive.

She took Gordy’s lead, racing him down to the edge of water. He loved to run down and let the tide chase him back up. He loved it most when Julianna did it with him.

She only lasted a few moments before she collapsed in the dry sand beside her bag. Gordy licked at her face, begging her to go again. She didn’t have it in her, ruffling his ears. “I’m getting old,” she told him, shaking her head. “Or I’m just out of shape.”

Gordy took off back down to the shore, Julianna laughing at his excitement. She pulled her sketch pad, taking a few moments to scribble in the crashing waves. Her attention didn’t last very long. She found herself unable to concentrate, rather watching Gordy run about like a maniac.

He brought her a stick, tail wagging. Julianna had to give in, standing up to throw it. He took off after it. Gordy was a creature of habit. He could spend hours doing exactly this. Julianna decided to give in to him hoping to tire him out completely.

When the tide grew higher, Julianna declared it time to go in. She shouldered her bag, whistling for Gordy who’d run into some dunes not far from her. He ran out, tail swinging in the air.

Julianna bent over to pet him. Gordy put his sandy paws on her legs, leaving paw prints on her jeans. “Come on,” she chuckled, nodding to the house. Gordy matched her pace as they walked up to the house.

Only when they got inside did she realize how tired she was. Gordy went to his bowl, eating his leftover breakfast. Julianna pulled out a bottle of wine, pouring it into a glass. She rummaged through the cupboard, shrugging as she found a box of Mac and cheese.

“This wouldn’t be the worst combination,” Julianna mumbled, looking between her glass of wine and the box in her hand. There was no one there to judge her, anyways.

Julianna pulled a pan out, filling it with water. She turned the stove on, setting it on top. She leaned on the counter, sipping her wine slowly.

The silence sometimes ate her alive. Julianna ambled into her bedroom, turning her record player on. It was Joni Mitchell’s beautiful voice that began playing and that was fine with her.

The water on the stove had barely boiled when Niall knocked on her door. Julianna tried not to let her smile become smug as she pulled the door open.

“Hey,” Niall said, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

“Hey,” Julianna responded, opening the door for him to come in. “I’m making Mac and cheese if you’re hungry. I have wine too.”

“Mac and cheese and wine,” he murmured, walking in slowly, eyes traveling to look around the place. “Quite a combination.”

“It is,” Julianna agreed, pulling out a glass for him. “I didn’t feel like cooking.” Julianna filled just glass up, handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking it from her. He sat down at the table, watching her.

“So did you come over for my book?” Julianna asked, back to him as she watched the pot of water begin to boil. She poured the macaroni into the pot.

“Right,” Niall responded surely. “The book. Of course.”

“It’s I’m my room,” Julianna mentioned offhandedly. “I’ll grab it in a sec.”

“No worries,” Niall responded a bit eagerly at that. “I’ve got no where to go.”

“That’s good,” Julianna smiled, turning around to face him. “I’m excellent at killing time.”

“Are you?” Niall laughed, elbows resting on the table. “How do you kill time around here?”

“I’ve taken to surfing quite a bit,” Julianna told him, sitting down with her own glass in hand. “I write. I run. I write some more. Drink lots of wine. Write some more. And then after I do all that it’s only noon so I take a nap.”

Niall laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the routine. I’m a bit envious. I can’t seem to get out of bed until two.”

“Well I’m sure you deserve to catch up on your sleep,” Julianna responded kindly, a slight shrug in her shoulder. “And I’m envious that you can sleep that long. I’m too restless.”

“At first I couldn’t sleep,” Niall admitted, taking another sip of wine. “Used to the city noises as opposed to the ocean. Now it puts me right to sleep.”

“The ocean is quite nice,” she agreed, looking him over. Niall’s hair was disheveled and Julianna decided that was the only way she liked it. His eyes were less tired and his scruff looked only day old now.

“You’ve got pretty eyes,” Niall told her, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked at her. “What color are they?”

“Green,” Julianna answered, completely aware of the fact that she was probably blushing.

“I’ve never seen eyes that color before,” he murmured, bringing his glass to his lips.

Julianna had to look away. She took a gulp of her wine and stood up to check on the pasta. She stirred it slowly, feeling Niall’s eyes on the back of her head. “You can’t flirt with me,” Julianna said, almost suddenly.

“Why not?” Niall asked, amused at her demand.

“Because,” Julianna turned around, arms crossed over her chest. “I’ll write poems about you. And they‘ll get published. And you will hate me for it.”

“That’s okay,” Niall chuckled, eyes unwavering. “If you flirt with me I’ll write songs about you. You’ll hear them on the radio and it’ll ruin your day.”

“I don’t listen to the radio,” Julianna answered slowly.

“And I don’t read poetry,” Niall shrugged, sitting back.

Julianna shook her head, fighting her smile with every ounce of her being. “You’re going through shit. That’s messy.”

“I could assume the same about you. Why the fuck else would you willingly come out here?” He asked, eyebrows raised. “Because you like isolation. I don’t believe it. You’ve gone through it.”

“And so what if I did?” Julianna huffed. “Is that a crime?”

“Of course not,” Niall chuckled. “But using it as an excuse to deflect your feelings could be considered a crime.”

“That’s subjective,” Julianna decided. “and you fuck with the creation process when you call me on my shit.”

“How?” Niall laughed.

Julianna moved around him, pulling the milk and butter out of the fridge. She set them down on the counter and sighed. “It’s a logical progression. I develop a crush, I mull over said crush and pine mercilessly. The emotions bubble up until I unwittingly confess my feelings to you.”

“That’s how it happens every time?” Niall asked, unconvinced about this process.

“Without fail,” Julianna nodded.

“If you insist,” Niall conceded. “How long will this take?”

“Why? Are you in a rush?” She asked, setting the pot of Mac and cheese on the table. She handed him a bowl and a fork.

Niall took them, chuckling lightly. “Not in a rush...” he trailed off, looking up at her. “Maybe eager?”

“Eager,” Julianna echoed, sitting down across from him. “Interesting.”

“Is it?” He asked, amused.

“It is,” Julianna laughed. She pulled her hair up into a bun on top of her head, eyes trained on the table. She took a long sip of her wine, already beginning to feel her skin flush.

Deciding to change the subject, Julianna asked, “are you ready to spill the gritty details of the industry.”

“Maybe,” Niall murmured. “What do you want to know?”

“Why’d you leave?” She asked, looking up at him. “Seemed like you had the world in the palm of your hand.”

“That article you mentioned,” he decided. “The narcissist one. That’s why I left.”

“You didn’t want the world to find out who you truly are?” Julianna asked in the teasing tone she somehow always had.

“Of course,” Niall nodded. “Do you know what happens to sales when people find out you’re an egotistical piece of shit? They plummet. I had to get out while I still had a little dignity.”

“Of course,” Julianna agreed. “Happens to the best of us.”

Niall chuckled, fingers scratching at his jaw. “I left because there was no trust. Or respect. At the end of the day, it’s my shit splashed on the front page.”

“That must be hard,” Julianna murmured. “Knowing what’s true but no one else does.”

“It makes everything else not fun anymore,” Niall shrugged. “And I knew if I didn’t get out I’d completely lose it.”

Julianna laughed. “Like Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch.”

“Exactly,” Niall laughed. He took a deep breath, shoulders seemingly relaxing. He ran his hand through his hair. “How’d you make that so easy?”

“What?” Julianna asked.

“Opening up to you,” Niall shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. “That was scary how you did that.”

“It’s the humor,” she explained. “If you don’t make things so serious they won’t feel so serious.”

“That logic is absurd,” Niall shook his head again, looking her over. “You’re a bit absurd.”

“And you’re a bit of a narcissist but you know,” she shrugged. “We’re not all perfect.”

“Again with the narcissist,” Niall laughed.

“If it’s a joke you can separate it from real life,” Julianna laughed. “I’m not even kidding. It works.”

“I don’t think it does,” he argued, shaking his head. “I think you’re just kicking me while I’m down.”

“I’m not,” she laughed, cheeks now aching.

“If you insist,” Niall murmured, a soft smile on his face.

Julianna decided it was this moment that her crush had grown into the next phase. Pining. She had absolutely no business pining after him. He was so obviously emotionally unavailable and Julianna fell for them every time.

Niall left soon after they finished dinner. He checked the clock on the wall murmuring something about how she’d just stolen two hours from him. Julianna handed him her copy of her poems, begrudgingly.

“This is a special copy,” she said, placing it in his hands. “Don’t let your sticky fingers ruin it.”

“Why is it special?” Niall asked, challenging her with his eyes.

“Because it’s my copy,” she clarified, hand on her hip. “And I better not see you until you finish it and have at least three comments.”

“That’s a lot to ask,” Niall responded, looking at her, one eyebrow raised. “I’m quite busy, you know?”

“Right,” Julianna rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll find the time.”

“Would it drive you crazy if I never read it?” Niall asked her, leaning against the doorframe, not quite inside, not quite outside. “If I just took your book. Never had a comment. Never spoke to you ever again.”

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” Julianna shrugged. “And I’d never let you steal my copy. I know where you live.”

Niall laughed, nodding his head. “Okay.”

There you have it :) the first chapter of Never Enough!

let me know what you think, what you liked, what you’re excited for :)

thank you for reading!

#Never Enough au #niall horan fanfic #Niall Horan #niall fanfic

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pokemonswshbutionlyplayedsword · 4 years

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Imagine Chairman Rose plans this retreat thing for the leaders in the Wild Area where they are paired up with another leader and have to learn about that leader's pokemon type. They can't use their own Pokemon, only Pokemon of the type their partner specializes in. Milo is paired with Nessa, Bea with Allister, Melony with Gordie, Raihan with Kabu, and Piers with Opal. How do you think that would play out?

That sounds exactly like something Rose would plan. Of course, they’re not too thrilled. They have better things to do than go out into the Wild Area. So they pretty much swap teams. It lasts for a weekend. They go out on Saturday morning, come back Sunday afternoon. They have to hike out to a place Rose picked for them and set up their camp together.

Milo is kind of excited. He’s always had the type advantage over Nessa, so he’s eager to see how she’s such a powerful trainer to be able to beat him most of the time. They make a lot of jokes together on the hike up. They set up their respective camps and let their pokemon roam before swapping teams. Milo is the first to explain grass types to Nessa. She sits and listens attentively. Then he takes Nessa’s team, listens to her explanation, and goes off to fulfill Rose’s request of beating 10 wild pokemon with their partner’s team. It’s easy with the rock types around, until he has a run in with a wild grass type and struggles to overcome the type disadvantage. He gets it done, though. Back at the camp, Milo makes their dinner and they have a great night. In the morning, they hike back to where they report back to Rose and then go home.

Nessa is grateful she got paired with Milo. He’s pretty much her best friend. They have fun. They race each other while they’re hiking, they make jokes, it’s a good time. Nessa listens to what Milo says pretty well, but she’s worried that she’s going to struggle. Fortunately, she doesn’t. She manages to get her task from Rose done. Milo does it faster and is working on making curry by the time she gets back. She’s happy to see her team and she feels like she learned a lot about grass types. She knows she’s ready to defend against the type advantage next time they battle. The hike back is fun, but not as fun as the hike up. They’re both pretty tired, but they still find the energy to joke around and have fun. They’re happy to get home and rest, though.

Kabu has a lot of experience in the Wild Area, he wasn’t ready, though, for Raihan’s crackhead energy. He turns a corner and Raihan’s like “Kabu look at this giant rock I climbed on I don’t know how to get down.” It’s a struggle to explain fire types to Raihan while keeping his attention. He listens to Raihan, though, admiring his obvious passion about dragon types. He’s eager to see what Raihan’s pokemon can do. He’s impressed with their power, but he sees what they lack that he loves about fire types. He easily finishes Rose’s task, and heads back to the camp. He’s finished the curry by the time Raihan gets back. He gets a good night’s sleep (he knows Raihan does not) and then beats Raihan back to the area they meet Rose at.

Bea already knows about ghost types because Allister talks about them a lot. She carries Allister’s camping equipment up to their spot. They sit and hang out before swapping teams and heading out. She’s serious about finishing the task. She actually beats 15 pokemon instead of 10. Of course, Allister is back already and waiting for Bea to get back and help him cook dinner. They both go to bed early at the night and make an early hike back. Of course, they go back to the same place because they share a gym, but they’re closer for the experience.

Allister is excited. He doesn’t usually get to go to the Wild Area with Bea, so he’s thrilled to be able to. He could have carried his own stuff, but he knows that Bea respects him so he lets her carry his stuff. They swap teams and Allister struggles with coping with not being immune to normal type moves. He gets it done, though, and gets back to the camp. He’s a little hungry, but he doesn’t think about touching the cooking equipment without Bea. She gets back soon, though, so it’s fine. They go to sleep and then he enjoys the early morning mist in the hike back.

Opal is interested in Rose’s reason for pairing her with Piers. She supposes it has something to do with Rose respecting her and hoping she’ll make Piers more like him since he hates the way Piers acts. She lets Piers carry her things because he offered. She admires the way he pays attention when she gives him her speech she prepared. They’re in a more difficult area in the Wild Area than the others, but she’s not worried. She takes notes in her little notepad when Piers gives her his explanation. She’s amused watching Piers tell his pokemon to behave for her. “Ms. Opal.” That’s cute. His pokemon are well behaved and very powerful, so she’s able to finish the task quickly. She’s back before Piers. She makes curry, and it’s done by the time he gets back. It’s funny how tired he is, but he seems to stay up all night. She tries to tell him to go to sleep, but it apparently doesn’t work. Nice young gentleman still carries her stuff back for her, though. Piers is an okay kid in her book.

Gordie is not looking forward to spending the weekend with his mom that he’s fighting with. They hike up in silence. He dreads taking her team. He’s heard her talk about them a million times, so he doesn’t really listen. He does, however, have a long talk about rock types. He hopes Melony gets why he doesn’t want to be ice type by the end of this. He decides that Ice pokemon aren’t that bad, but he still prefers rock types. They end up having a very nice evening together over Melony’s home cooked curry that Gordie really missed. Their hike back was better than the one before. They’re closer than before.

Melony hopes this is a good opportunity to get her son back and to get him to convert to ice types. He doesn’t seem to care much about them, though. She listens carefully to what Gordie says to show she cares. It’s obvious he’s very passionate. She takes his team, and she has to admit, they’re powerful, and charming lil guys. She decides she understands why he likes them. Maybe she can finally bring herself to end the argument. That evening, they talk about it, and their fight gets a little less severe. Not perfect, but it’s a step. Melony sees it as an absolute win. They have a nice hike back.

Piers is worried about being paired with Opal. He doesn’t really like fairy types bc they’re pretty much the exact opposite of dark. He still respects her a lot and because she’s an old lady and they have the most difficult area. He carries her equipment for her. When they get to the campsite, he’s a bit tired, but he still has work to do. He gives Opal his run down of dark types. It’s shaky and he stumbles over words because he’s worried. He listens to Opal’s speech, and then spends a bit ordering his pokemon to behave themselves. He’s worried about them giving Opal trouble. Then he takes Opal’s team, thinking it’ll be easy. He prays to Arceus his pokemon aren’t behaving like this Alcremie. It’s being such a jerk and he takes twice as long to finish the task as it would have with his own team. He gets back and is grateful to see that Opal already cooked some curry. It gives him extra time to brush the sugary mess Alcremie left out of his hair. He’s happy to see his own team again. He stays up all night working on song lyrics, but Opal tells him to go to bed. He’s exhausted the next day, but still carries Opal’s things.

Raihan is confused why he got put with Kabu. He thought he’d be put with Piers, but he’s down anyway. He thinks their area is a little easy for him. The hike with Kabu is fun because he can see how concerned Kabu is for his wellbeing (who isn’t this dude is careless af) He’s interested in what Kabu has to say, but this will be a piece of cake anyway. Wrong. He doesn’t get far with that attitude. Kabu’s pokemon only respond to a passionate trainer who takes the challenge seriously. He gets back and Kabu’s already made curry. He stays up all night on his phone texting Piers about his “date with Opal.” Leon also makes fun of him for having to go on the trip. The hike back is a little harder because he’s tired, and he’s a bit disappointed to be beaten by Kabu. It was a pretty good trip though.

Dang, that was long. Sorry this got so long, but I had fun with this. I like the idea. Pairing Piers up with Opal was a great idea.

#pokemon swsh #pokemon milo #pokemon nessa #pokemon kabu #pokemon bea #pokemon allister #pokemon opal #pokemon gordie #pokemon melony #pokemon piers #pokemon raihan #ask #avatardreamer

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hedwigstalons · 4 years

Text

High Expectations - Ch4

This time the chapter art had me digging out the pencils. Sorry Gordy - you’re looking a bit old and tired rather than the youthful Olympian I envisaged.

Also, more thanks to @willow-salix who helped me try and improve both wonky writing and wonky chins.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three

Chapter Four

The call connected but brought not the cheery tones of a brother but the now overly-familiar sound of yet another voicemail request to leave a message after the tone. The last few days had been a litany of missed calls and crossed text messages. Whenever he had a break between training and physio appointments the family seemed to be watching another event with phones off. Whenever he returned from a gym or pool session there would be another blinking icon waiting for him. Another failed attempt at contact.

It was great seeing the messages wishing him good luck followed by messages offering congratulations as he cleared his heat but it would have been nice to speak to his family in person. Everyone else on the squad seemed to be able to schedule video calls with loved ones. You would have thought that with such a large family he would have struck lucky at some point.

Gordon scrolled through the call history. Alan. Scott. Virgil. Even John, the least sociable of his siblings and apparently with an allergy to small-talk, had made two attempts to reach him over the last few days. And there, right at the bottom, one single attempt from his father to make contact shortly after his initial heat. He wondered how the call would have gone. Would he have received congratulations for making it to the final or would he have had to justify his second place finish? It was too late to speculate now. His coach was rapping impatiently on the door; it was time to head to the pool for the race of his life.

The changing area was filled with the incomprehensible babble of a multitude of languages. Old rivals sat alongside new upstarts. Gordon plugged in his earphones in an attempt to drown out the sound and get into the zone. He had been competing for long enough to know what worked for him; even his coach knew better than to try and intrude at this point. The familiar playlist hammered into his head as he leant back against the cool tiles. Eyes closed. Breathing regulated by the sound of the beat. He waited to be called through for his race.

The playlist wasn’t working. He wasn’t normally prone to nerves but this was the big one, the race everyone had been talking about. From the early whispers as a kid on the junior circuit through to actual squad selection the word ‘Olympics’ had never been far away. This was the dream. This would be his defining moment. It was as if none of his other achievements mattered. This was what he had been training for all these years. Everything else was just a warm up.

He checked his phone one last time. Nothing new. Of course there wasn’t, everyone would be up on the balcony already but it gave his hands something to do. Every muscle felt jittery. The announcement that it was time to go pool side had him bouncing up as though the starting gun itself had gone off.

xoxoxox

Alan practically hung over the balcony rail, straining to see the far end of the pool where the competitors would be making their entrance near the starting blocks.

A heavy hand on his shoulder pulled him back and stopped him leaning out too far.

“Steady there. He’ll be out soon enough. Don’t want you going into the water.”

Alan huffed at Scott but complied, sitting heavily back in his seat, eyes roving to the big screen that was showing a shot of the top end of the pool. It was difficult to be patient when his brother would soon be competing in an Olympic final. For most of the spectators it was just another race in the session but for the Tracys it was personal.

It wasn’t just Alan that fidgeted with impatience though, there was an air of barely repressed excitement running through the family group, the atmosphere in the venue just served to increase the tension. This was a big medals day in the pool and Team USA had already added a gold and two bronze to their total haul. The swimming squad was representing their country well and showing that USA was a sporting force to be reckoned with.

A cheer rippled through the venue as the athletes entered. A kaleidoscope of tracksuits parodying the flags and emblems of their nations appeared at the top end of the pool. The yellow and green of Australia shone out amongst the variants of red, white and blue worn by the representatives of USA, Russia and France. Eights athletes filed in to take their place on the seat behind their block. Eight bodies jiggled legs and stretched out arms and shoulders. Take a drink. Adjust goggles. An array of displacement activities and rituals as each competitor did what was needed to mentally prepare themselves for the task ahead.

At a signal from the officials eight figures stood and disrobed, exposing honed muscles and expanded shoulders. Gordon, placed in lane six after his narrow inclusion in the final, bounced on the balls of his feet. Slightly shorter than the average swimmer in the line up he was dwarfed by the Norwegian in lane five, his neighbour in the pool towered a good eight inches above the young American.

There was no holding Alan back now and even his more self-controlled family were leaning forward against the railing to get a better view than that already offered by their front row seats. Eyes were fixed on the distant figure fifty meters away at the far end of the pool.

Giving a start of realisation and guilt that he had almost forgotten Alan dug into his backpack, pulling out the banner he had cajoled Virgil into painting. He shoved the two ends into the hands of Scott and John who proceeded to tie it to the balcony so it could be seen hanging down from the guard rail. It was impossible to read the expressions of the swimmers from this distance but Alan swore he could see Gordon turn and smile in their direction. Whether this was true or not the others couldn’t tell but their squid certainly seemed to gain an air of calm after the banner was unfurled.

A further signal from the officials had the competitors stepping up on to their blocks. Silence descended over the crowd.

Poised.

Taut.

Ready.

The starting gun had eight figures launching into the water with enviable grace and speed.

Stroke. Glide. Breathe. Repeat. Each competitor found their rhythm and gave the performance of their life.

Ordinarily the pack would form a V shape. An arrowhead through the water as those that had won their heats were graced with the more desirable centre lanes.

Today was no ordinary day.

Today was the day Gordon Tracy dredged into reserves he barely knew he had. Start strong, stay strong, end strong. There was no let up in his pace and determination. Focus and rhythm aligned. The arrowhead was broken. Soon the commentary was focussed on lane six and the seventeen year old competing in his first Olympics.

Cheers erupted from the Tracy section as the swimmers reached the final board and triggered the timing pads. From their seats aligned with the end of the pool they were in the perfect position to see Gordon hit home in first place.

For the swimmers in the water the rankings were less clear cut. Without the benefit of a grandstand view eight sets of eyes were focussed on the board awaiting the final results. Moments stretched into eternity as they waited for the official times.

1 USA GORDON TRACY 1:44.20 WR

There, on the first line of the board was the confirmation of not only his success but an achievement surpassing all hopes. A world record.

The family watched as down in the water Gordon shook hands over the lane dividers with the swimmers to left and right. He was a sportsman to the core and he congratulated those who had provided stiff competition. Only then did he turn and wave to the balcony, acknowledging the family that had supported him through years of training then followed him to the opposite end of the Earth to witness his crowning glory. The cameras tracked between the Tracy in the pool and the Tracys in the stand, capturing their moment of shared joy for eternity.

xoxoxox

The fluttering feeling in his stomach was off-putting to say the least and probably wasn’t helped by the two celery crunch bars and a glucose tablet he had inhaled after getting out the water, he knew they were needed after his intense energy usage though. The last time he’d tried to skip the obligatory post-race refuel he had nearly taken a header off the podium as his blood sugars crashed. He wondered if throwing up on an official was more embarrassing than fainting on them.

The call to head out to the podium soon put a stop to the nerves as he was ushered back pool-side between the other two medallists. This time there was no escaping the fact that all eyes were on him but there was no performance required; the joy spread across his face was pure and true. This was the culmination of years of early morning training sessions. Gym, yoga, vitamins, nutrition schedules. Every missed party. Every rejected invitation to go bowling. The sacrifices he had made had come together to create one perfect moment.

The medal, the anthem, the flowers; everything played out as he had imagined. The flash of a thousand camera bulbs only partly responsible for the tears in his eyes.

His dream.

Complete.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #high expectations #Gordon Tracy #olympic final #my art

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midnightiscoming-kasabian · 7 years

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Interview: Listen to Kasabian's sixth album 'For Crying Out Loud,' Serge Pizzorno tells us why

Every album bar one, of Leicester band Kasabian has reached Number One on the UK album charts. In 2014, they also won Best Album and Best Band at NME’s 2014 awards, and that summer proved themselves worthy Glastonbury headliners. Their sixth album, released earlier this year, knocked Ed Sheeran off his perch and has been deemed their best yet, so why aren’t they bigger here?

Could it be their creepy moniker with its associations to a member of the Manson gang? Perhaps it’s the fact that each album tries to shape-shift from the one before, making it hard to peg them? Or is it because British lad and larger swagger; the cornerstone of their music, doesn't always translate out of the pub and across the pond?

Maybe it’s as simple as we just haven’t heard the songs? In 2014 they did a nominal 9-city tour and the album 48:13 hadn’t been released when they were on the road here. Prior to that, they had been absent for five years*. Their then record label's reluctance meant that albums from that period – Velociraptor and West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum weren’t even released in America. And the band are hardly heard on radio.

But if ever there was a time to give Kasabian a try, For Crying Out Loud, their latest, serves as an excellent entry into their oeuvre. It includes electro-banger, "Ill Ray;" the feel good vibes and modern psychedelia of "You're In Love With a Psycho;" "Good Fight" a perfectly structured pop song where they discuss feelings (very unusual for lad rock); and even a love song "Put Your Life On It."

The album was written in six weeks. A self-imposed deadline by songwriter, co-vocalist and guitarist Serge Pizzorno, in an effort to do things radically different from 48:13; which delivered the thumping and addictive "eez-eh" but took a year and was laden with experimental interludes, electronic loops and bleeps.

For Crying Out Loud is largely guitar-based, with an electro-indie sound that marked their first ascent in 2004 with the likes of other guitar bands such as Arctic Monkeys and The Libertines. Songs were written mostly on Pizzorno’s Rickenbacker before it was taken to the rest of the band which includes Tom Meighan, Chris Edwards, Ian Matthews and Tim Carter.

We speak to Pizzorno ahead of their Bay Area show this Sunday, Sept. 24 at the Regency Ballroom, to find out about why he thinks we should check out their latest album. And after 20 years why he doesn’t care if detractors don’t appreciate his lyrical skills.

AXS: You set a task for yourself to write an album in six weeks – within that what other guidelines were there – like, you must talk about feelings? Or that you should try and take the Berry Gordy Motown approach?

Serge Pizzorno: Yes, I was really strict because at the time, I was really into pop structure. The art form of songwriting, of writing a truly great song. Experimentation has always been my go to: messing about with form and changing things up. This album was the opposite: nothing could be longer than three and a half minutes, I could only use the guitar to write and it had to be written quickly. It was just to see what that would feel like. It happened really quickly, then we recorded it and put it out.

AXS: One of the other guidelines, I read was writing in 9 to 5 shifts rather than late at night? Was that out of necessity cause you have kids or was it to see what kind of a different color you might get?

SP: Exactly that. I found it really productive though because it made me appreciate my time in the studio. I tended to get loads done and the next day I couldn't wait to get back in. I was shocked because in my head I was adamant, "like I can write what I want, when I want." Obviously, when I set out to do this I didn't know that it would work. I am very reactionary so if you ask me now, how I will write the next one, I'll probably say I'm going back to Jamaica for a holiday and to the spend some time there writing. You know for that complete change of scenery again and see what gets written.

AXS: You’ve said For Crying Out Loud is the best record you’ve ever made – why? Don’t bands say that after every new record? Critics have said their fair share but in your opinion, what sets this one apart?

SP: I didn't say that. Tom said it.

AXS: Oh that Tom!

SP: Yes exactly. (laughs) I wouldn't have called it our best record. I don't like to think like that. It does have a sort of Punk, street-disco theme. Seventies are a big influence but here, it's been put through modern filters.

AXS: Last time, you came to America for a very short tour. Before that you hadn’t been here for 5 years*, do you still feel America is worth another shot?

SP: We love touring and we love America so we will always tour here. But we're not 18 anymore, and not able to just jump in a van and play live shows for six months. It just doesn't suit my personality. Being on the road is for adventure, gathering information and allowing yourself to be influenced by what you see. Then you take it home and make stuff out of it. I need to create and I can't do that if we're constantly on the road. My time's better spent elsewhere. But like our gig last night in New York, it was insane and we all looked at each other and said: "I wonder, what's happened?" I mean if the gig is crap, you can understand but it wasn't. It was really good. I'm scared now, all the other gigs have a high bar to reach.

AXS: Why should Americans listen to “For Crying Out Loud,” apart from the fact that we might get a history lesson with “Ill Ray” (the video is based on the finding of King Richard III's bones in a Leicester parking lot)?

SP: (laughs) That's right. It's pure feel good music; there's not many albums like that being made at the moment. It's pretty hard to write. I think it's very easy for artist to fall back on pain and write music from there. It's such a mad time all around the world, For Crying Out Loud is positive, makes you want to dance, or go out and do something by the end of it. I don't know... I would never go too deep in trying to sell an album to anyone, I believe everyone should listen to whoever they want; do whatever you want. But if you want a record that is uplifting and has an amazing energy, this is it!

AXS: Speaking of that track – the video is very interesting, could you tell us about the idea behind it?

SP: I received a load of treatments and they were all terrible. I was on holiday, and I thought: "I best come up with an idea." So in the cab ride with my kids from the hotel to the airport, I wrote the treatment; scene by scene, on my phone. Then I have a friend who's a director (Dan Cardan), and it just so happens, his girlfriend is Lena Headey (Queen Cersei from Game of Thrones); obviously writing a queen in there, I don't think that could be any better queen in the world right at this moment. And that carpark where King Richard III's bones was exhumed, it's such an iconic scene from my hometown.

AXS: Crazy food references, the UK press seem to give you a hard time with “I’m like the taste of macaroni on a seafood stick.” There’s a kookiness to it that matches the mood in “You’re In Love With A Psycho” but perhaps it isn’t as elegant as an Alex Turner turn-of-phrase. But why do you do it? Just for a laugh, to goad those critics? Or it just makes sense to you?

SP: Everything is done to piss people off, let's face it. (Laughs) But that line made me laugh, first and foremost, there is always humor behind our songs. And secondly, there's always people that would just get the joke, those with that surrealist humor; it's too tempting not to write lyrics like that. It's a booby trap: if you don't get it, it's like "see you mate." They're my favorite lines in every song. What's annoying is that critics tend to just concentrate on that and miss all the other nuggets of beauty like quoting Charles Bukowski in a pop song. It's something to be celebrated but they won't mention that because it doesn't fit in with the narrative they have written about you: "Now, we perceive you as hooligans so you can't be possibly clever." Well, there's more to it than that.

AXS: One of my favorite songs on the album is “Good Fight” it has an almost doo-wop feel and is so uplifting – can you tell us a little bit about your inspiration for the song?

SP: Just came from a loop, the beat of an old Motown flow. I was also thinking about Nirvana Unplugged and the chorus from "Spiders From Mars." And the song wrote itself really.

Kasabian Tour

Sept. 23—Los Angeles, CA—The Wiltern Sept. 24—San Francisco, CA—The Regency Ballroom

www.axs.com

__________

*2 years

#kasabian #interviews #interviews 2017 #axs 21.09.17

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thelastswallow · 7 years

Text

Fantastic Birdlife of the The South Pacific; A Field Guide

In the interesting my current resolution to “finish everything” (More BBT coming) here’s a long gestating Harry Potter/ Thunderbirds crossover, which is admittedly somewhat confusing in the modern era.

Summary:In the year 2050, Hugh Creighton Ward is sent by the ministry to a small island in the Mid-Pacific to recover a stolen piece of British magic.

The Ministry’s representative at the Fijian Consulate in Suva is a seasoned diplomat and therefore does not show any anxiety when Lord Creighton-Ward announces at breakfast that he will accept the American’s request. Displays of concern are left to his predecessors, who scurry between the apas cloth hangings, tapping angular noses and rubbing embroidered eyes, and to the consulate house elf, who wobbles the teapot as he pours the earl grey into his Lordship’s cup.

Instead, the consul decapitates his soft-boiled egg before arching an eyebrow and saying, “Are you sure, Your Lordship?”

Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward takes another bite of his bacon – flumed in daily from London, rather disappointing, he had been hoping to try the local fare – and chews deliberately before swallowing, “Quite sure.”

“We can provide you with a Nimbus 10,000, the latest model, and, of course, an escort,” says the consul. “It would be the safest way to travel.”

Twelve years in the diplomatic corps and a lifetime in the British aristocracy mean that Hugh can refrain, with only the mildest difficulty, from an exaggerated eye-roll. Bringing the consul’s suggested escort of half a dozen jumpy ex war-wizards seems the quickest way to turn this fracas into a calamity. And flying five hundred miles over open water by broomstick seems the quickest way to sunburn and a head cold. “Thank you, but no.”

“Or say the word and I can have Vishal saddle the kanivatu.”

Hugh winces. The bruises have faded, but the memories of his night ride on a roc named Dulihan, to deliver a precious amulet into safe hands during the war, remain fresh. If he remembers rightly the kanivatu is an even larger species than its western cousin.

“No. I think I must take him up on his kind offer.” He glances down at the invitation. It has been prepared with some care. It cannot have been easy in this day and age for him to lay his hands on parchment. Only a blot on the tail of the ‘Y’ indicates that the writer is unfamiliar with the use of quill and ink. “He has taken trouble to be courteous. I must do the same.”

“But your Lordship, if it comes to… if we should need to intervene… You cannot be really planning on going up in that death trap?”

Hugh spears another chunk of bacon. “It may be fun.”

>>>

Just before noon, the consul accompanies him to the pier. With him are two under-secretaries, whom the consul insists, are purely functionaries. The wizards’ muscles strain against their robes. Their wands are singed like seasoned duelists’. The consul has not given up the hope that Hugh might accept a bodyguard.

At noon precisely, the buzz of engines announces the arrival of his ride. The aeroplane lands on the choppy water, like a wasp landing on a picnic. It nimbly manoeuvres between the docked yachts and comes to rest at the edge of the pier. Its silhouette too reminds Hugh of a wasp, with a nipped in waist and two pairs of matched wings.

A handsome man in his middle years steps out of the plane. His hair is gathered at the nape of his neck in a neat tail and he wears both a pistol and his wand in a holster beneath his buff pilot’s jacket, in easy reach should he need either. When he speaks, it is in the clipped tones of one who has strived to lose all trace of his natural accent. “Lord Creighton-Ward.”

So the rumours are true then. Hugh is far too schooled in the game to show surprise. Nevertheless the sight of the man uncaps the torrent of memories, Marrakesh, the stag’s head, the long trek through the wasteland. “Kyrano.”

Luca Kyrano passes a steely eye over the Consul and his companions, who both now seem to be willing themselves small enough to disappear inside their robes. “Will you be travelling alone?”

“I think you have taken care of that.” Hugh walks past the two quivering jellies and the open-mouthed consul. “Shall we go?”

Once aboard, Kyrano invites Hugh to sit and strap himself in with a gesture. He slides into the pilot’s seat himself. He seems as comfortable with the muggle technology as he ever did on a broomstick, guiding the machine out into open water and then opening up the throttle, so they are soon soaring into the forgetmenot blue sky.

“Our flight time is three hours, Your Lordship. Please let me know if there are any questions I can answer for you.” Kyrano says in a voice that invites just the opposite.

Instead Hugh contemplates the sea and the sky, and the novelty of this truly enjoyable muggle way to travel. It’s faster than even their fastest broomsticks and up here, with nothing but the sea below and the sky above he can begin to see the appeal.

But presently, his mood turns sour, as his thoughts turn again to the mission ahead. He had told the consul he was here to act as a voice of temperance and reason, and the consul had agreed whole heartedly as one does when one thinks one is speaking to an assassin. But the truth is Hugh had come in hopes of being a mediator, even though he has never known Jeff Tracy to be anything less than stubborn to a fault.

Will ten years have softened him? Somehow Hugh doubts it. But can he be brought to see reason?

“We are on our final approach now, Your Lordship,” says Kyrano.

The little volcanic island is just a speck on the horizon. The tracery of magic around it is an artful thing indeed. Spells over spells, built up in layers just like a wasp’s nest. Without Kyrano to guide him in, he could have scoured the sea for days and not found it.

“We call it the MIDAS net,” says Kyrano, “The Magical Intelligence Defence System.”

“It’s very impressive,” says Hugh as the plane begins to dip in altitude. “Your work.”

“And one other’s.”

Kyrano has a daughter. He had asked Penelope about her the last time she was home.

“Who?” She had responded sniffily. “Oh, that Kayo girl. She’s alright, I suppose. She plays chaser for Griffindor, but she’d be rather better as a beater.”

He asks Kyrano about her now.

“Tanusha is well, thank you, Your Lordship.”

“And is she happy at Hogwarts?” There is no way to phrase the question without it seeming like a trap.

“She is.”

“Then why-?”

Kyrano offers him a tight smile. “We keep an excellent ’24 Cognac. If my duties permit I would be pleased to share a glass with you this evening. You have been invited here in the spirit of transparency and friendship. No doubt your masters would prefer expediency and tradition, but I think you are unique enough among your peers to keep an open mind. Please do, Sir.”

He refuses to be drawn further or to say anymore until the seaplane has landed and pulled alongside the dock. “Mr Tracy will meet you at the house. Follow the path, it will lead you straight there. Just beware of falling coconuts.”

The walk along the path to the house is very pleasant, the jungle canopy guarding against the worst of the tropical heat. Tracy’s building works have admirably preserved the native wildlife. Birds move through the jungle, and Hugh, who has always been an amateur ornithologist, can hear the squeak of the Polynesian Triller and the song of the red-vented bulbul. The call of the stitchbird, stops him in his tracks. It is out of place anywhere but New Zealand’s North Island. He glances up.

From a perch up high in the canopy a pair of bright blue eyes meet his own. There’s a gasp and the eyes vanish back among the leaves. The trilling of the bulbul becomes more urgent. Then suddenly he’s under fire.

His wand is in his hand before he can think. The first projectile he catches, so it hovers in mid-air at the level of his nose. The second he is clumsier with, so it soars back into the trees and explodes in a shower of purple goo.

“Awww!” The tree gives an extremely un-bulbul-like groan and with a cracking of branches, a small jelly and custard covered monster slides down the trunk, wiping goop from his eyes.

A moment later, a second little boy, even smaller than the first, makes a rapid descent from another tree. “Gordy!”

Hugh plucks the second water balloon, this one seeming to be filled with mushroom soup, out of the air and sets it safely down on the ground. The smaller of the two boys is trying to help his companion, who is berating him, “Alaaan, I told you to be a Kadavu fantail. We’re too far north to hear a stitchbird.”

“S-sorry, Gordon.” Little Alan wipes custard out of Gordon’s eyes with the end of his own t-shirt. “I can’t do the fantail.”

Hugh hunkers down. “And who might you be?”

Little Alan slides behind his brother – they cannot be anything but brothers – and stares out bashfully at him, his eyes wide as saucers. Gordon stands with his knees braced and his hands on his hips. He sticks his tongue out at Hugh.

That’s when a hail of firecrackers explodes in the trees all around him.

By the time his hearing has recovered and the glare has gone from his eyes, the two boys are only laughing, shrieking wraiths disappearing through the trees.

He dusts the grey powder from his jacket and continues his walk.

The island’s single main dwelling is certainly large, but also warm and welcoming in the way wizard’s houses – with their penchant for medieval kitsch - rarely are. Sometimes, Hugh wishes he could trade the tradition of Creighton-Ward Manner and all its eldritch history for somewhere with central heating. He had suggested they install it last year, just as an experiment, in the east wing, but Gappy, their house-elf wouldn’t hear of it, and had taken to beating himself with a flatiron until the subject was dropped.

He emerges out of the jungle and onto the patio of the main house. Two more boys sit cross-legged, playing chess by the poolside. A third, in a wide brimmed cap, has his feet dangling in the water and is reading a hidebound scroll. All three look up as he appears. The tallest of the three boys nudges the smallest, just has his bishop beats a pawn into submission. The younger boy jumps up without a word and runs into the house.

Just then, an exuberant blackcurrent-smelling blur sails past him, whooping, and cannons into the water, making an enormous splash.

“Gordon!” The red-headed boy scowls, his face a constellation of freckles. He has only just managed to rescue his scroll. “Knock it off!”

Gordon surfaces, laughing like a hyena.

A patter of running feet behind him and the littlest of the five boys dives into the water, feet first with a screech of delight. This time, Hugh cannot avoid the gigantic splash.

“Alan!” The red-head tumbles over in his rush to get away from the poolside, landing hard on his bottom.

“Whoops!” Alan grins from ear to ear as he surfaces.

There is a soft yet somehow still forceful clearing of the throat. All four boys turn towards the open glass door and Hugh is reminded, just a little, of four dogs who hear their master’s whistle. The man Hugh has come halfway around the world to see stands in the doorway. The dark-haired boy has run to fetch him, and lurks uncertainly behind him now.

“Out of the pool, you two.”

“Aww, Da-ad!” But Gordon is already swimming for the ladder.

“Dad, he nearly damaged my Babylonian Scroll.” The freckle-faced boy removes his cap and runs his hand over a shock of red hair that would do any Weasley proud.

“But he didn’t. Now, go help your brothers clean themselves up.”

“But…” The boy seems ready to howl at the indignation of this, but a mild look from his father changes his mind. “Yes, Dad.” He throws a towel over little Alan as he follows him into the kitchen.

“Scott?”

“Yes, Dad?”

Scott is wrestling the chess pieces – tetchy at not being allowed to finish their game – back into their box. He is the oldest of the boys, and his limbs are already starting to stretch out and his voice to dip and whine like a violin being tuned. He looks much like his father. Very soon he will be a heartbreaker.

He is also watching Hugh with a fierce intensity, so intense, in fact, that he lets a knight poke him in the thumb with its sword. It squirms free and careens across the tiles towards the bushes. Its brethren, excited by its escape, tip over the box and spill out across the table, setting off in pursuit.

“Oh shi – shoot! Sorry, Dad.” Scott takes off after their little congress, dives into the bushes.

“Virgil, go tell your Grandma our guest has arrived.”

“Yes, Dad.”

And that just leaves his father.

Ten years, the war, or simply the challenges of raising five boys have turned Jeff Tracy’s hair grey, but his handshake is firm as ever.

“Hugh.”

“Tracy,” The old joke, the edges sanded down by countless repetitions, is given new meaning by the passage of so many years.

“Good of you to be the one to come.”

“I don’t see that you left me much choice.”

“You could have left it to Hardcastle or one of his ilk.”

“Nonsense. I have grown quite fond of Hardcastle. I wasn’t going to let him fall prey to you.” He smiles a tight smile to show that he is joking, at least a little. “The Ministry is baying for blood, Tracy.”

Tracy’s gaze slides sideways until he’s staring out at the little triangle of sea visible through trees. “My blood?”

“Or a suitable substitute.”

“I suppose it is pointless asking why the British Ministry of Magic thinks it can stick its beaky nose into all this. I am an American citizen.”

“An American who has stolen a piece of British magic.” He pauses long enough to glance towards the bushes. “Five pieces in fact.”

How had it come to this? How did one go about losing five underage wizards? Even five underage wizards with a father as sly, resourceful and just plain slippery as Tracy.

The answer, it seems, lay at least partially in those old enemies of statecraft, carelessness and bureaucracy.

When the oldest boy had turned eleven he had received his Hogwarts letter, but when he had not turned up at platform Nine and Three Quarters at the start of term, it had been assumed he had accepted a place in New York’s Greymalkin Academy instead. Apparently, Greymalkin had assumed the same thing about Hogwarts and neither school had bothered to check with the other.

Astonishingly, when it came time for the second eldest to start school, everyone had made the same blunder all over again. It was only now, on the cusp of the middle child’s eleventh birthday that Deputy Headmaster McCorkle had met Principal Snuff at The Genevan Hippogriff Derby and it had become apparent that no one knew where the Tracy boys were.

There had been panic. Flocks of owls flew between London and New York. Flurries of messages passed between the Ministries of International Cooperation, Magical Law Enforcement and Accidents and Catastrophes as each tried to work out who was to blame for losing two underage wizards. Why hadn’t New York registered they were missing? Why hadn’t the Ministry detected any use of underage magic?

But this was nothing to the pandemonium that ensued when it was discovered where the Tracy boys actually were. With their muggle father, it transpired, living on a private island in the middle of the Pacific.

Not only had Tracy moved there with his sons, he had brought with him two wizards. One, Luca Kyrano was a former auror. The other, Hiram Hackenbacker was fresh out of Hogwarts and was, by all accounts, one of the most brilliant students the school had seen in many years. Between them they had made the island unchartable and had woven a net of protective charms around it so dense that it could give Hogwarts itself a run for its money.

Within this net of protections, it was rumoured, Jeff Tracy was teaching his sons magic.

When it had come to light that this mad muggle had not only set himself up in a magical fortress but was training his sons in unlawful magic, the thing had spiralled from being a diplomatic snafu to a major international incident. The Minister had to be called back from his holidays. People were calling for the Aurors’ office to raid the island, seize the boys and drag them to Hogwarts. Others were calling for their father to be arrested and tossed into Azkaban. Even now, delegations from 12 different countries were at the Ministry shouting each other down about what should be done. The French delegation wanted to know why Tracy Industry personal devices still worked even in Charms Class at Beauxbatons? The Swiss wanted to know why the Ministry had been as lenient as to allow Tracy to keep his memories of the war in the first place. And the Chinese wanted to re-open the investigation into Tracy’s wartime activities. Surely one muggle could not have diffused a curse that had taken the lives of 14 trained aurors?

In the middle of all the hubbub, Headmaster Longbottom, an old friend, had approached Hugh and asked him if, for the sake of the children, he could intervene. In his role as confidential agent for the Ministry of Secrets, Hugh had thus far been well placed to observe the scandal, but had not been directly involved. Now, he suggested to the Minister, one morning over tea, as an old friend of the family, he might be able to quietly intervene with Jeff Tracy before the whole thing spiralled further out of control.

To say he was a friend of Tracy’s was actually rather an exaggeration. He had known him once, fifteen years ago and had always thought him a decent sort, for a Muggle. It had been during the war, that terrible time, the worst in his memory, when dark magic had spilled out of control, feeding and feeding upon the muggles’ race to nuclear extinction.

He had been working for the war office at the time, and Tracy had been a captain in the American Air force. Tracy had been stationed in the Azores, tracking down what he thought was a biological weapon, while Hugh had been in pursuit of the witch Gimelgram, whom he believed was behind a very nasty flaying curse. They had butted heads on the island plenty of times, Tracy forever trying to weasel into his investigation and Hugh, forbidden, of course, to reveal his quest or his origin to this muggle, until that fateful night.

“You’re a wizard, aren’t you?” He remembered very well Tracy’s words as he waited for him in the doorway of his hotel room. “I need your help.”

As the two of them made their way on foot through the jungle, Hugh had quizzed him on who had revealed to him the secret. Tracy had just shrugged and listed the pieces of evidence that had led to him concluding that the wizarding world existed on his own.

As it turned out, both men’s intelligence had been correct. A group of deathdealers were constructing long range missiles in a disused textile factory in the middle of the jungle. The payload would be Grimelgram’s pox, a simple and efficient way to deliver it to the heart of every city in the civilised world.

It was the first time Hugh had seen magic and muggle technology brought together to such devastating effect, though it would not be the last. And if Tracy hadn’t been there that day he is still not sure he would have been able to disarm the warheads in time. Over the course of the war he had needed Tracy’s help several times to deal with threats posed by muggle technology to the magical realm and he had come to like, if never entirely trust, Jeff Tracy.

And of course, in the aftermath of that first mission it had been Lucy who had been brought in to tidy up.

Lucy Whitefox had been a classmate and dear friend. They had come up as Griffindors together and Lucy had caught the critical snitch against Ravenclaw the year Hugh had been team captain. When she had arrived on the Azores she had been newly appointed to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, Special Branch which, at the request of The Old Man himself, George Weasley had agreed to head up.

She had been quite frank with both of them, telling them they had endangered millions of lives and if they didn’t wait for backup that the next time she caught them doing anything so stupid she would hex them into thinking they were a matched pair of Indonesian love birds.

Tracy had just grinned and said, “Ma’am, when you’re right, you’re right.”

Not long after Hugh had been called away on another mission, but he continued to work with Tracy from time to time, employing his expertise in the art of muggle warfare. And he knew that Lucy would work with him on cases too.

It was only after the war, however, that he had heard that Lucy had married Jeff Tracy, had one son already and another on the way. She had resigned from the ministry and gone to live and work in America, working with him in his fledgling enterprise.

Hugh had written Lucy letters and promised to visit them the next time he came to New York.

The next he heard she was dead.

The ministry had wanted her interred in Godric’s Hollow, buried with the full honours of a war hero. Tracy had demurred. Instead she had been buried in a small Presbyterian church near her birthplace at Inverness. ‘That way, everyone who knew her can come and say goodbye’ he had written in his letter politely thanking the ministry and definitively declining the offer.

Hugh remembered watching him and his five boys at the funeral and wondering what would become of them. He had never imagined it would be this.

“You’re playing a dangerous game here,” says Hugh. “You must have known the Ministry would have to react. We have laws.”

“Against the practice of underage wizards in uncontrolled environments, I know,” says Tracy. “But this is not an uncontrolled environment. It’s properly warded, there are no civilians here. Kyrano and Brains both have teacher’s licences.”

“You…”

“I was deputised by the Minister for Magic herself.”

“That’s not the point.”

“One of your most famous battles of the last century happened at Hogwarts. You can’t argue that it’s safer there than here.”

“Lucy shouldn’t have told you about that.”

“You told me about that.”

Jeff sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “This isn’t going to get sorted standing out here. Why don’t you come up? Dinner’s on and I can show you the house. You’ll find it interesting.”

And so for a while things are back to chilly civility. There’s a perfect grey goose martini waiting for him, and a tour of the house. Jeff shows him the features and Hugh makes sure to hide how impressed he is, at how magic and materials science are working hand in hand together. There’s the delicious smell of mahi-mahi and sweet potato mash coming from the kitchen, which Tracy says is being prepared by bots, apparently a sort of artificial house elf.

“Boys, come and set the table.” Their father calls from the bottom of the stairs.

Gordon, washed and dressed and blackcurrant free, is the first to bound down the stairs, still grinning from ear to ear. The middle boy, follows.

“Go and set the tableware,” says their dad, “Carefully. Gordon, no climbing on shelves. Let Virgil or Scott get the glassware from up high.”

Gordon ignores this. He bounds over to Hugh. “Hey Mister,” says the little boy, tugging his sleeve, “What’s in your pocket?”

He has Lucy’s eyes, Hugh realises, brown and soulful, but bright with mischief. He remembers those eyes well.

George Weasley had remembered them too. George also remembered Lucy’s kindness, her diligence and cleverness and the way she would sometimes spell his morning croissant to explode in a shower of confetti when he bit into it. Which was why, right now, Hugh’s pockets were overflowing with exploding frogs, musical jellybeans and radioactive gum drops.

“Gordon, leave him be.” The older boy comes and tries to drag his brother away. He has his mother’s eyes as well. Right now they are filled with concern, the eyebrows knit tight over them. “Sorry, Sir.”

As he tugs on his brother’s sleeve an anxious fluttering breaks out, like a small bird, in Hugh’s breast pocket. He opens his jacket enough to let the frantic letter escape. It dances excitedly in the air, tapping the boy’s nose until he takes it in his hand, whereupon it collapses with a relieved sigh. This then is Virgil, the boy whose acceptance to school has brought this whole sorry business to a head.

Virgil frowns at the envelope. “Thank you, Sir.” He does not seem inclined to open it and at that moment a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Dung Beetle decides to take flight out of Hugh’s trouser pocket and little Gordon leaps after it with delight.

“That’s an invitation to Hogwarts, young man. Have you heard of Hogwarts?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Your mother went there. Did you know that? It’s the best wizarding school in the world and one of the finest places to learn Quidditch, and in Hogwarts you are sorted into one of four houses, based on your best qualities.” He sounds like a damn promotional pamphlet. Penelope would be embarrassed to be seen with him, not that she isn’t already.

He remembers the scalded look she gave him when he had expressed the hope that she would follow in his footsteps and be a lion. “Oh Daddy, how tedious. I’m not going to be a dreary old Griffindor. How am I going to get anyone to trust me if they think I’m a self-righteous, do-gooding Griffindor? Why, even being a Hufflepuff would be better. At least then people would think I was dull and stupid. If I want to understand the worst of the worst, Daddy. I must be the worst of the worst.”

It is humiliating to be lectured in statecraft by one’s own 11-year-old. But so far, Slytherin seems to be working out well for Penelope. She certainly has that goblin fellow following her around like he was a faithful house elf.

“Anyway, you’ll like it there,” he finishes. “My daughter certainly does.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Virgil, doubtfully.

Dinner is a subdued affair, or it would be if Gordon hadn’t discovered a packet of lava mints among George’s treasure trove. He spends the rest of the meal trying to sneak mints into his brother’s drinks. After trying this one too many times, red-headed John leaps to his feet, produces a holly wand from out of his pocket and with a flick of it, transforms the packet of mints into a gold and green love bird, which perches in the rafters and will not come down.

It's a precocious piece of transfiguration for a 12-year-old, but Hugh can see his father is not best pleased at this ostentatious display. “John, sit down.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

Scott the chess-player is old enough to be rebellious, not to be cowed like his brother. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say that he did.”

“He shouldn’t have to apologise for doing magic.”

“I didn’t ask him to.”

“Do you know why it’s not okay to use magic in front of strangers, young man?” Hugh leaned across the table.

“Because Mug– ordinary people are afraid of magic,” said Scott, “And wizards are afraid of ordinary people finding out, because if they knew the power might slip out of the hands of the elite. It’s just Plato’s Philosopher King argument.”

“But it’s redundant to pretend we live in a world that lacks an elite.” John says. “We don’t live in an ideal, egalitarian society any more than we live in Plato’s republic.”

“Voltaire would say a society governed philosopher kings is an idea society though,” says Virgil.

“Daaa-aad,” says Alan, or rather shrieks, because Gordon’s just dropped an incredible expanding centipede into his mahi mahi.

“All right, you lot, that’s enough showing off. Clean off your plates and go upstairs.”

Disappointed and truculent at being packed off upstairs, the boys nevertheless do what their father tells them.

When they’re gone, Hugh loosens his hold on his astonishment. “Tracy, what have you been teaching them?”

“Well, not Derrida yet, clearly,” says Tracy, with a laugh. He laid down his knife and fork. “Now, I imagine you want to have a very serious talk with me. Shall we take a walk? I’m afraid in this villa, the walls have ears.”

It’s a lovely evening, there’s cool breeze coming in off the sea and a simple charm keeps the mosquitos off.

“I’ve been thinking I would send Scott and John to Hogwarts next year,” Jeff announces to the air.

Hugh grinds his teeth. “Your sense of humour requires work, old man.”

“It’s true. They’ve been on the island for four years. They need socialisation. And mixing with kids their own age will be good for them.”

“And their course work?” asked Hugh, imagining the two boys being dropped into a Hogwart’s class.

“Oh, I don’t imagine that they’ll be so advanced that they’ll be very bored. Your little girl enjoys it, doesn’t she? She’ll be about John’s age.”

Voicing his opinion of Penelope’s time in Hogwarts, that she’s treating it like a game she’s trying to win, does not seem helpful at this juncture, so instead he says, “What are you trying to do here, Tracy? You knew you were flouting our laws. You knew that ultimately the Ministry would target you. What’s so important that you had to pull a stunt like this?”

“Latin.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hogwarts doesn’t teach it. As far as I can tell, no wizarding school does.”

“And that matters to you, does it?”

“It’s vital. Magic is a science built on words. Every spell in the western armamentarium is derived from Latin and yet most wizards don’t even understand what they’re saying. I mention accio, accire, accitus and folks just stare at me blankly. You’re depriving your students of the most basic foundations of how their technology works.”

“That’s not…”

“Hogwarts hasn’t updated its curriculum in three hundred years. In some cases it hasn’t updated its teachers. It hasn’t faced a serious review of its practices in more than fifty years, because your elder stateman all have the same nostalgia, for ‘the old school’. Its practices are archaic.”

“Now, hang on.”

“Hugh, you keep a large section of your population in the dungeon. Another section of your population in the kitchen. That generally isn’t a hallmark of an enlightened society, which you would know if anyone ever bothered to teach wizards history.”

“And for that reason, you’re flouting the law? Setting yourself up as an enemy of the state? Building fortresses and consorting with rogues and renegades?”

To his surprise, Tracy laughs. “You’re not going to tell me that my association with Kyrano reflects badly on me? He’s a vaunted auror who The Old Man himself nominated for the Order of Merlin. I’m a ne’er-do-well Muggle who uses technology for dastardly purposes.”

That technology, as much as anything else is what’s making the ministries of the world spooked. It reminds them all too much of the war. The thought that the veil of their mystique could be penetrated by a single, persistent muggle is almost intolerable. That the same muggle might be drawing wizards to his cause, outright terrifying.

“We’re not out to destroy the roots of your society.” Tracy seems to read his mind. “But we want to make sure nothing like the war we just lived through can happen again. If you want me to go to London and testify –”

Hugh snorts. “They’d never let a muggle testify at a Ministry hearing.”

“Then Kyrano can go. They must listen to him. The old man owes him a debt as well, or do you not remember?”

How could he forget? It was during the long night of the war when it seemed to them all that it might never end.

They had mounted the stag’s head upon the curtain wall of their fortress in Marrakesh and Bleyfire, mad even in those days, had announced via words written on every stone in the city, that he would cook the Stag’s body and eat his flesh if the forces of the allies did not surrender by dawn.

Marshall Abbot had gone herself to London blessed by every charm for speed her unit could conjure, so that the news could not break in London before the Old Man could hear it from her lips.

Hugh was with the unit but not of it, he was an irregular, a confidential agent. The word that was never quite on anyone’s lips, yet never quite off it was ‘spy’. And as the unit had sat together in barracks, wondering what was to come, trying to comfort each other, Hugh had found his feet leading him down the road, to the small hotel in the town square where Tracy was billeted.

In Tracy’s little room they had shared a bottle of Scotch and speculation. What would the old man do? He could not capitulate, so there would be no surrender. Would he throw the allies against Bleyfire in a hopeless charge, have them break themselves against the walls of his fortress like waves crashing against a rock. Or would he do nothing, let Bleyfire continue with this grotesque display, destroy the morale of their troops and the spirit of their leader in one perfect blow.

They talked of their hopes for the future, now fading. Tracy told him of how he had once dreamed of someday standing on the moon, before the decimation curse, carried heavenward on a rocket, had blotted it out. Hugh talked of one day visiting the Merfolk, as his mother had done. They spoke of how neither would ever bring a child into this world caught in the teeth of war.

And then suddenly Kyrano had been there, apparating between them, though apparating here should have been impossible. He had snatched up Tracy’s glass and drained it before saying, “There is work to be done tonight, and you are the two men to do it.”

Hugh had known of the legendary auror, few didn’t, but had no notion that Kyrano might be aware of him, or the unusual ally he had in Tracy. But that night it had become plain that Kyrano must have been watching them both very carefully for some time.

“But why us two?” Hugh asked, when Kyrano had finished explaining a plan so suicidal it had Tracy grinning from ear to ear, from joy or terror, Hugh did not know. “A whistle from you and a dozen trained aurors would come running.”

“I do not need a dozen trained aurors. I need a wizard trained in the arts of subtlety and deceit. I need an outsider with an outsider’s perspective and an understanding of muggle technologies. I need two men prepared to gamble everything on one toss of the dice. This is the last real act of the war.”

Hugh had risen to his feet, but Tracy simply set his glass with a clink. “Hugh and I will help you, you know we will, but you’re going to need to tell us what’s in it for you. The war can expend our lives without blinking, but not yours. Why are you throwing your life away?”

Kyrano hadn’t blinked. “Bleyfire is mad, but this act, this calculated cruelty, this terrible wounding violence, that is the work of another, a hooded figure who stands in his shadow. That is my debt to pay. He’s my brother and I must stop him.”

And so, they had, on the longest night of the war, crossed the cursed wasteland. Without Tracy’s knowledge Hugh would have been defenestrated by Daedalus curse. Without Hugh’s special skills they might have all drowned in phosphine gas. But it was Kyrano who faced Jasper Flayskin, the man who had butchered fifty wizards in Salem. Just before dawn they had faced Bleyfire in his inner sanctum. He was as mad as Kyrano’s assessment, spewing flecks of yellow spit as he fired off the crazed, inventive curses that had made his name. It had taken all three of them to put him down.

Aftwards, Kyrano had been too hurt to move, so Jeff had helped him cut the stag’s head down off the wall. As the afternoon sun beat down, they returned the stag’s body to his parents.

Of course, the old man owes Kyrano a debt. He owes one to Tracy to, and to Hugh, which is why Hugh is allowed to be here, to ask for clemency for his friend in hopes that he sees reason. But the Old Man’s patience has limits.

“It’s because of that debt that I’m here. It’s because of that debt, it’s me not a team of war witches, stepping on your neck and wrenching your children away from you by force. There’s only one way this can go.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not if we had you on our side. You could make them listen. You have the ear of the brass, the old man even. We could convince them…”

“No. That’s not going to happen. Jeff Tracy, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, you must cease your enquiries into the wizarding world and relinquish your children at the appropriate time to pursue their magical education in an appropriately safe location.”

“And if I decline?”

“We will erase your memory. You will forget all knowledge of magic and the wizarding world. You will think your sons have received a prestigious scholarship in a British boarding school. You will be delighted for them and let them go without argument. They will of course be returned to you for the summer holidays.”

“I see. It seems you leave me no choice.”

Hugh inclines his head, relieved that Tracy sees sense and is going to be dignified about it. Threats are unpleasant enough but he does not wish to cause this man or his sons any undo pain.

And then the strangest thing happens.

A bird swoops down through the trees and alights on Jeff’s shoulder. The bird looks almost exactly like a peregrine falcon, but he’s never seen one in such southern climates and never with such striking silver grey plumage.

Then the bird turns its head. Its silver eyes glint and he realises what manner of creature the bird is.

A moment later a barn owl drops out of the trees and lands on Tracy’s other shoulder. A golden eagle, it’s plumage as silver as the peregrine’s, alights on the tree branch above his head, and is joined in a moment by a smaller osprey.

“Good Lord.” The wren patronus is the last to dart out of the trees. It sits on Hugh’s finger and cocks its head at him in an inquisitive manner. “How is this possible?”

Then the boys make their presence known, rushing into the clearing all at once. They crowd behind their oldest brother, who has his wand out and pointed at Hugh. The Peregrine watches Hugh with intense eyes.

“I think you better go, Sir.” There’s barely a shake in Scott’s voice. “Please.”

“Scott, put your wand down,” says Tracy. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not. I won’t let him threaten you.”

“Lord Creighton-Ward is only trying to protect you. He’s not going to hurt you.”

“He’s not erasing your memory. He’s not.” The boy is on the verge of tears. “You’re our dad.”

Virgil puts his hand on Scott’s arm. “Scott, do as Dad says. You’re scaring everyone. Tell him, John.”

“Yeah, Scott,” says John.

Scott lowers his wand arm, though his eyes are a sharp as the falcon’s.

The wren hops off Hugh’s shoulder and onto the palm of little Alan. He giggles, delighted, as the bird mimes plucking seeds of his hand.

“Did you make that?” Hugh kneels, so he’s at the boy’s level.

Shyly, he nods.

“How?”

The little boy laughs, as if this is the silliest question in the world.

“We taught him,” breathes redheaded John in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Who taught you?”

Scott shrugs.

Hugh looks up. “Tracy, this is, this is incredible. What you’ve achieved here – ”

Tracy bows his head. “I can take almost no credit. But you see, Lord Creighton-Ward, Lucy didn’t want her sons to be brave, or kind or ambitious or clever. She expected them to be all four of those things.”

Hugh stands. His hands are shaking. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave now. You’ve given me much to think about.”

Kyrano flies him back, they exchange barely a word. Hugh is formulating how he will make his argument.

The Old Man will not like it. The old man has something of a blindspot for his old school. Hugh will talk instead, to The Old Lady. She will insist upon inspections, but she will love an idea like this. And she is the only one he knows who can make The Old Man do anything he does not want to.

That summer and every summer after, he sends his daughter to holiday on Tracy Island to see what she might learn.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #harry potter #cross over #jeff tracy #And Penelope's dad

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