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whatgaviiformes · 3 days

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Fic: Grannies - part 3

A/N: Sorry this took so long. Unedited.

Summary: Gordon’s committed to the bit. The bit just happens to be an obnoxious amount of granny squares

Part 1 here | Part 2 here

Also just added to AO3

In this part: Virgil

“Your brother,” Virgil says, sinking heavily across from Scott at his work desk. The words trail… “Infuriating.” The chair was only there some of the time - mostly when more than one of them had to be on a conference call.

Scott raises an eyebrow, his typing unhindered by his younger brother suddenly resting his cheeks on the wooden desk in defeat. “And? What did Gordon do now?”

It’s of no consequence to Virgil that his big brother can tell just who’s the problem. It's obviously Gordon. They all have their little tiffs every now and then, but none of them would ever headdesk over the youngest, John's too far away for arguments to linger, and since Virgil is coming to Scott…

Virgil and Gordon work together too closely sometimes.

The interesting part is Gordon's off duty; he was called out to Eddington to spend some time on site with his marine research and would continue to be on leave for another four days.

“He leave you with a parting gift?” Scott asks. “Replaced your hair gel with Vaseline? Reorganized your paints? Switched your phone to pig latin?”

“Ugh, do not put those ideas out in the Universe,” Virgil warns, warily raising his head from his hands to glance around the villa. He doesn’t put it past Gordon to have ears around, especially those named Alan. Feeling safe that no one is hiding nearby, he swings back to Scott, his eyes narrowing as he catches sight of familiar stitching resting on the desk underneath Scott’s coffee. “You!”

Virgil clambers for the square, pushing the mug to where the desk is bare. Luckily, Scott’s mostly drunk it through and so the liquid barely swirls halfway up the side in his haste to grab for the fabric below it.

He glares at Scott.

“It’s finished.” He raises the granny square up to Scott’s eye level, his fingertips white where he holds up the coffee-stained yarn. “How is this one finished?” The confusion on Scott’s face dissipates, and Virgil notices the quirk of his smile that tells him Scott is biting the inside of his cheek to keep his expression in check. “Why are you laughing? Stop it,” he says.

Scott takes this as permission, of course, to crack a smile, and Virgil’s eyebrow twitches indignantly.

“This is about the blanket, then?” Scott calmly and gently pries his coaster from Virgil’s fingers and straightens it back on the desk, followed by the mug in its proper position. “Before you start shouting betrayal, Gordon is still a shit and equal-opportunity pest. John wove in the ends for me last time he was here.”

“John did?”

“Yes.”

Virgil deflates; the sigh deeply lodged in his chest as he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Do you think he’d be willing to do about, oh, 200 more? And how do you know about the blanket?”

“Neither one of you are entirely subtle.”

“Gordon figured it out, didn’t he?”

Scott hesitates. Nods. “There’s really only so much you can do with them. Retaliate, or make something. Gordon knows you well enough to know you won’t discard them. So…”

“So, he already knows I’m making something. Left all of these ends unwoven on purpose? Chose the most offensive colors known to humankind, specifically to annoy me?” Virgil shakes his head, groaning. “Nevermind, I don’t need you to answer.”

“You know who he is,” Scott says with a grinning shrug. “I can’t let you disown him.”

“Pity.”

“Is that what dragged you down here all defeated?”

Virgil points a finger. “I am not defeated. I’m frustrated. And I’m not sure there’s a point to all of it if there’s no element of surprise.”

“Virg-”

“I’ve been trying for,” he checks his watch, “five hours to arrange these squares together, and nothing looks right. So what do I do? I take a break, weave in some ends, come back to it after. And after - I have more ends and still no design.”

“That sounds pretty defeated to me.”

“He wants me to go insane!”

“He wants you to embrace his chaos,” Scott amends. “Come now, Virgil. You got this. Let us help,” he encourages, and Virgil has no choice but to sigh as his brother reaches for the comm to Thunderbird Five. “John, we have a situation.”

Their brother smirks when he answers. His hair is a shade darker than usual and waving in its wet, unstyled shape, indicating that John’s only recently gotten out of the shower. He’s dressed, but hasn’t switched his glasses for contacts. “You know, that’s my line,” he responds dryly. “Good Morning, Virgil.”

It’s 3PM.

But it is the first time Virgil has had a chance to speak to John since he spent the bulk of his morning with the project at hand. Virgil usually checks in with their distant space monitor during his morning coffee, so Virgil internally scolds himself for the rude gesture he was about to make and recognizes the irritation he feels is not John’s - or even Scott’s - fault. He waves instead.

It’s easier to let Scott explain. As the oldest of them, he has a way of focusing on facts and details for emotionally charged situations. It’s one of the reasons he’s a great commander. Of course, if he’s the one emotionally charged, that’s a different story.

“Show me his stitches, again?”

Now, John however, he’s concise - often three steps ahead before he clues the rest of them in.

Scott picks up the coaster and pushes his chair back to come around the desk to give John a better view. Once Virgil spins his chair to fully face John’s hologram, Scott places a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re not doing that,” John tells him, matter-of-fact. “Crochet what ends you can when you join squares together. Measure everything so I can get enough fabric, and I’ll help you put a lining on it.” He says the list of instructions with the same inflection as when directing a rescue, his hands flying across the resources in front of him.

It’s not a bad idea. With a lining, the most weaving he might need to do would be ensuring all ends were on the “wrong” side of the squares.

“What about if something pokes through the spaces of the granny square?”

John raises an eyebrow at Virgil’s question. “He’ll deal. He knew what he was doing when he didn’t finish them off properly. Don’t worry, we’ll find something so obnoxiously fishy, he won’t care. I found a pattern here with anemones in little hats.”

Virgil can’t help but giggle at that, and John smiles at him brightly, his eyes larger behind the wire frames.

“I’ll keep looking,” he tells him. “We can keep workshopping ideas.”

“Thanks, Jay. Now about the arranging,” Scott says. “I have some ideas about that, Virgil, if you’re willing to show me what you have.”

Grateful, Virgil nods. “Another set of eyes would be great.”

“F-A-B! Let’s go make order out of chaos.”

#fic: grannies #gavii scribit #Gordon tracy #Virgil tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #crafty tracys

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dragonoffantasyandreality · 2 days

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Kamen Rider Thunderbirds Chapter 5: Anything Goes! - Part 1

(Prologue, ...)

Hello guys! :3

This part of the chapter I had the most fun with! Its just... well let's just say chaos... XD

@uniwolfcorn @teapotteringabout @skymaiden32 @knyee @janetm74 @the-original-sineater @thundergeek59 @riallasheng @katblu42 @mariashades @room-on-broom @yarol2075 @river-sam2 @llamawrites @etrnlvoid @cosmic-orchaid

-0-0-0-

“Why does food in America has to be so bloody expensive?” Koji huffed in annoyance.

“Is there a place where you can find food for cheap?” asked Recko, looking semi-curious.

“Mate, we wasted less money on it elsewhere before we came here!” his friend pointed out, his British accent grew sharper at his growing irritation.

Yuuki and Taira giggled their friend before turning back to their cooking.

“Yā~, I can’t wait for Sakiko-chan to join us this afternoon!” Taira grinned excitingly as he was preparing a big chicken.

Yuuki nodded as he cut holes into the fat of the pork steaks, then beating with the back of the knife to tender them.

“I think she promised us she’ll bring the Beaver Tails?” he gave a bashful smile.

“I hope she will!” the optimist nodded, giving the chicken a little smack of pride.

As if expecting it, Taira looked over his shoulder to smile at his friends in the living room.

Recko was grimacing in disgust, “Ew… Why are you eating this?”

“Uuh, isn’t it illegal to bring meat across the borders?” asked a rather perplexed Koji.

“It’s the Canadian sweets, we were talking about! And no, we don’t want to bring anything deadly across the boarders!” the optimist grinned, prompting a fit of laughter in the room.

Taira let the chicken roast in the oven, and Yuuki deep fried the pork pieces after covering them with batter and breadcrumbs.

The smell flowed across the apartment, entering the nostrils of the poor Raider, who was laying down on the bed with begging eyes, even whimpering of pity.

Noticing, Recko went to his canine companion to reassure him that he’ll get a nice and delicious meal soon.

Suddenly, a growling noise echoed the apartment, taking everyone’s attention to Koji, who was carrying the rest of groceries to the kitchen.

“Oh dear! Hunger struck me,” he held his gut with a modest look.

“You should eat something. Some snack?” Taira suggested as he took the groceries.

“Oh! I know!” Koji smiled as he dove his hand into bag. He then pulled out a well sealed metal can. “Ah, my favorite! Canned beef steaks!”

“Not surprised…” Recko smirked in amusement, becoming aware of Raider wagging his tail at the sight of the can.

“I used to eat this Shiitake a lot, man!” his friend grinned, “This stuff is one of the things that are tasty, growing up in England.”

“I thought they were… Meh…” Yuuki raised his hand and lightly shook it side to side.

Koji chuckled as he clasps his hands and rubbed them eagerly in preparation.

“Ah, say what you will about canned beef steaks; a man’s disgusts are another man’s delicacy!” the ex-cop licked his lips.

He began searching for something to open it.

He found a can opener, a small kitchen knife and a fork. But for the last five minutes, and to his horror, he finds that the can opener was broken, the small kitchen knife snapped in two, and the fork bended!

“Let me open it,” Recko volunteered as he took the can from Koji, who ran off to the other room to grab one of his useful tools.

After trying his best to tear the lid open with his bare fingers, the biker kid stared at it with a cold stare.

“Who the heck makes it like this?” Recko uttered in a cold tone.

“H’Oh, for Kouta’s sake, man! Let’s h’open h’already!” outraged Koji with his sharpest Cockney accent as he came back, grabbing the can and attempted it to open the stubborn lid with his battle knife.

Suddenly, the tin container violently slipped out of his hands, ricochet a wall before it hit on the shoulder of a semi-suspecting Yuuki.

Horrified, Koji immediately ran up to his poor downed friend, “Ah! Gomenasai*!”

“Daijobou~…*” croaked Yuuki, rubbing the blossoming bruise where he got hit.

Taira picked up the offending can and chuckled, “Looks like we got a stubborn one!”

“Any ideas left?” Koji asked with a desperate expression.

“I have a plan! Maybe… I could use my powers to open it?” Yuuki lifted a finger like he just had a lightbulb lit up in his head.

“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, buddy,” Taira pulled face of uncertainty.

“It is not,” deadpanned Recko.

“We have to at least try!” the young cook replied, taking the offending item from his friend and placed it on the tiled floor.

With a deep breath, Yuuki’s eyes glowed bright golden as he stared directly at the lonesome can of beef steaks. His hair rose and waved in the air, as if gravity gradually lost its effect as the universe around him ceased to exist momentarily.

At first, the tin container slightly shook, growing more violently. Then, it bulged and twisted at the sheer force of his power, seemingly ready to be torn apart.

Realizing what was about to happen, Taira suddenly yelled, “Abunai*!”

An explosion rumbled in the kitchen, followed by a ringing silence.

“Was that your plan – lick it off the walls?” Recko deadpanned, wiping the pieces of meat off his face. He then looked down at his dog, who was licking the food off the floor happily.

“Oh…” Koji whimpered as he looked around the room, seemingly about to cry.

He thoughtfully took a piece of meat of Taira’s surprised face and put it into his mouth. He swallowed it and let out a sigh of disappointment.

“Uuuhh… I have cabbage cake if you want,” Yuuki grinned sheepishly.

The ex-cop turned and smiled faintly.

“Thanks, I don’t feel hungry anymore… And we should probably clean up before Sakiko comes in.” He added, following the sight of a poker-faced Recko, who was looking with grim silence at the ceiling.

-0-0-0-

*Japanese translation:

Gomenasai = I'm so sorry

Daijobou = Its okay

Abunai! = Look out!

#Kamen Rider Thunderbirds series #my fanfics #fanfiction crossover #thunderbirds fanfiction #kamen rider fanfiction #thunderbirds #thunderbirds 1965 #kamen rider #thunderfam #kamen rider fandom

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mrmustachious · 1 month

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For every note this post gets, I'll write another fic for my 100 drabble challenge

I'm currently at 15/100 so we'll add on to that. Please give me motivation to get these done!

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction

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katblu42 · 2 months

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Symphony

Been thinking about this one a bit over the last few days, so I thought I'd give it a bit of a re-run.

It's just a bit of fluffy, music-related Earth and Sky.

Scott tore his eyes away from the unread emails, stretched his arms above his head, let out a long breath and turned the chair away from the desk to face Virgil at the piano.

“I like this one. What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t really have a name.”

“I’ve heard you play it before, though. Did you write it?”

There was the slightest hint of hesitation in Virgil’s response, although the music never wavered.

“I guess you could say that. I haven’t ever really thought about notating it.”

“Aren’t you concerned you might forget it?”

A wry smile crept across the musician’s features, but he said nothing.

“You should write it down. And come up with a name for it.”

Virgil tilted his head a little by way of considering the notion, then asked “Why do you like it? What does it make you think of?”

Scott stood, stretching more muscles, letting the music carry his thoughts away from TI paperwork as his gaze drifted upwards.

“Well, I like the way the melody climbs and swirls. It kind of reminds me of flying. And there’s a feeling of constant motion, fast, easy – sort of free.” He closed his eyes for a moment before returning his gaze to his brother. “In some ways it kinda reminds me of Dad.”

Virgil’s response began with the quirk of an eyebrow and the hint of a smile.

“Funny you should say that . . .”

“Why? Is it about Dad?”

Virgil finished the last phrase, letting the final chord hang in the air before taking a slow breath and looking up at his big brother.

“No. It’s you.”

“Me?” Sapphire eyes widened with surprise bordering on shock, and his forehead creased in puzzlement. “You wrote a song about me?”

Virgil looked back at the piano.

“Not exactly. It’s more like . . .” His gaze drifted upward. “It’s hard to explain. It’s sort of how I hear your presence, or your essence or something . . . I don’t know.” His voice trailed off into mumbles and a shrug.

Scott was left speechless, staring at his brother’s awkward uncertainty, as the significance of his own interpretation of the music and what it represented really hit home. It took him a moment, and he had to work to bring moisture back into his mouth before he finally found his voice again.

“Do . . . do you have something like this for all of us?”

Virgil felt the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks, and he didn’t look up from the piano.

“Uh, yeah. I sort of do.” His hands drifted back to the keys and a new piece of music began, one with a complimentary theme to Scott’s. It was in the same key, had the same tempo, and still embodied that sense of soaring movement, but this one felt somehow bigger, more far-reaching – almost heroic.

Scott let out a gasp. “Is that . . .? This one is . . . It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

Virgil gave a single nod.

“It fits with yours. Like the second theme in a sonata-allegro.” Virgil glanced over at his brother, taking in the blank look at the musical term. “That’s the usual form for the opening movement of a symphony.” His eyes drifted closed as he played, and he sighed. “I can hear them both in counterpoint, but I can’t play both at the same time and do them justice. I’d need an orchestra for that.”

Dumbfounded at this revelation, Scott could only marvel at his brother’s musicality. Here he was listening to these amazing musical creations that rendered larger than life, full-colour images in his mind, and Virgil was complaining that what he could do with the piano alone was not enough. He didn’t think he could even imagine what this music must sound like inside Virgil’s head.

The music came to a stop and Virgil turned again to look up at Scott.

“The variations on these two themes would encompass something like what I hear for Grandma and Kayo, a little of Brains, some of Grandpa . . .” he turned away again, “then everything would come back to you and Dad.”

For a moment silence hung between them. Virgil’s fingers flexed, as though the music within him was searching for a way out as they reached once again for the piano keys. A new piece of music began. This one slower, gentler, quieter in terms of movement if not exactly in terms of volume. Scott felt this one was more thoughtful and emotional. It brought to mind light and colour and had a sense of space, but it also somehow felt warm.

“Mom?” The smallest possible upward inflection made it a question, which was answered with another nod and the soft smile that made his little brother look so much like her.

The melody moved and changed, built, swelled, adding a complexity in the musical patterns reminiscent of a conversation, an exchanging of information. The lightness now sparked imagery of stars. The feeling of space changed from that of a breeze in an open field to the vastness beyond Earth’s atmosphere. The gentleness was now reinforced with a sense of almost hidden strength – Scott thought that might’ve come from a stronger bass line, but he wasn’t sure.

“Is this . . . John?”

Virgil’s smile brightened. “You’re good at this.”

“No, the music speaks for itself. You’re the one painting these images of our family with notes and chords.”

The smile faltered as Virgil held the last chord, then he let his shoulders sink a little. Scott silently cursed himself for bringing back that awkward self-consciousness in his brilliant brother, but before he could say anything Virgil spoke again.

“I guess they would be the second movement if this were a symphony.” There was a brief pause, then he straightened back into his playing posture. “No prizes for guessing who the third movement is.”

This piece of music was a jaunty, up-beat number that seemed designed to make people move – to dance, to tap their feet or clap along. It definitely felt like a dance of some sort, and it contained hints of sea shanties, or maybe a sailor’s hornpipe. It was the musical equivalent of laughter, sunshine, pure happiness, and it had a lilt that moved like the sea.

“Gordon!” Scott exclaimed with a laugh.

The comparatively brief third movement came to its conclusion, but Virgil barely paused before beginning what Scott guessed to be the fourth.

“And that leaves . . .” Virgil spoke softly as he began the final theme.

This one was in march tempo, strong, bright, driving forward with a sense of heroic purpose, and bringing back some of that swirling, soaring movement from earlier. Scott could pick out hints of his own theme, and a faster version of parts of John’s, but the piece definitely had its own identity. There was a sense of urgency to it, as though the melody was trying to push the tempo into moving faster.

“Wow. Alan would love this,” Scott found himself thinking aloud.

Virgil stopped playing after the end of the next phrase.

“There would be more. If this was a symphony, I mean. The fourth movement would bring in some more of the other main themes, tie everything together, finish with a bit of fanfare.” Virgil was once again looking up at Scott, a mixture of curiosity and self-consciousness etched into his features. “You really think Alan would like it?”

“Virgil,” Scott answered with a sigh and a shake of his head as he took the few strides over towards the piano stool, “it’s amazing. All of it. The whole symphony.”

Virgil gave a shrug and his brow creased a little.

“There’s a lot more to it in my mind. Only so much can be translated through the piano.”

“Then orchestrate it.”

A sigh, a shake of the head and a hint of a smile was the only response. Scott firmly planted a hand on his brother’s shoulder and piercing blue eyes locked gaze with warm brown ones.

“I mean it, Virgil. Write your symphony. Give it the life it deserves.”

Scott could see the struggle to find the right words as Virgil’s eyes struggled to hold with his.

“I . . . It’s not mine, Scott, it’s . . .” Virgil lost the battle to keep looking at the determined pride in his big brother’s blue eyes. His gaze lowered and he focused on his hands. “I mean . . . it’s all of you. It’s not music I’ve created, it’s the music that you are.” Then, almost too quiet to hear, “At least to me.”

“So, you don’t want to share it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said this symphony isn’t yours. I think you’re wrong. It’s very much yours. Something that you maybe want to hang onto, keeping it all for yourself. And that’s okay.” Scott shifted his grip, pulling his brother close. “After all, this is family – The Tracy Family Symphony. And if I’m the only one who ever gets to hear even this glimpse of what you carry in your heart, then I consider myself privileged.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fandom #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #scott tracy #fic reblog #i think he should orchestrate it #and share it with the world #and i think there should be a companion piece that's all Virgil #that maybe is built on something that's barely noticeable #and yet a fundamental part of each movement #like a heartbeat

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gumnut-logic · 2 months

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Five pick up and one drop off (Pick up 5)

Pick up 1 | Pick up 2 | Pick up 3 | Pick up 4 | Pick up 5

This one took a bit of wrangling, but here it is.

Monique first appeared when Scott needed a little roadside assistance.

I hope you enjoy her second appearance :D

-o-o-o-

Monique was his pickup truck and he loved her.

She had been red a long time ago, but nowadays she was more brown and just old. He did keep her maintained and she was definitely road worthy. But she was old. And when you’re old, things sometimes broke down.

Which is why Virgil Tracy, billionaire, International Rescue operative, engineer, artist, musician and coffee fan was currently lying in the weeds on the roadside under the old girl.

There was grease in his hair.

It was his fault really. He had been so busy of late; he hadn’t had time to get out to the farm and service her. And since she was no longer driven regularly, well, he had hoped, but this was inevitable.

Sorry, Grandpa.

He sighed. He wasn’t going to be able to fix this out here in the middle of nowhere country Kansas, and consequently he was stranded.

Looking at the state of the bearings involved he was lucky he had made it out here without seizing something up and coming to a very sudden stop.

“Sorry, Monique baby, but you’re not going anywhere for a while.” He sighed and reached for the rag he knew he would be needing.

“Virgil?”

He jumped.

Unfortunately, being under the car with little or no clearance, he whacked his head on the gearbox.

“Ow! John, what the-?”

“Virgil, you okay?”

His brother’s voice came from his collar comms, of course. Johnny was not standing next to the car. Though, come to think of it, Johnny would be preferable to the brother he knew he was going to have to call.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Jus’hit my head. What do you need?” Please not a rescue. He was on leave and leaving Monique on the side of the road was just wrong.

And he was working out logistics on how to get Monique into Thunderbird Two fast enough not to slow them down. But then she would be in the way and could compromise a mission, and damnit, he really didn’t want to leave her on the side of the road!

“Just checking in. You’ve been stationary in the middle of nowhere for some time now and its not like Monique has a computer I can interface with for a tech report.”

“You mean hack. My Lamborghini has not felt right since you played in her processor.”

“I needed information! You looked like you were being attacked!”

“I was being kissed, John. Clean your lenses.”

“Over the hood of your car.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“TMI, Virgil.”

Virgil couldn’t help grinning. It wasn’t often he won a verbal spar with his space brother. “I am fine, John. No kissing happening here.”

The frustrated groan from orbit only made him grin more.

“So you don’t want me to notify Gordon that you need rescuing?”

The grin vanished and it was Virgil’s turn to groan. Okay, needling John was never a successful ploy. One day he would remember that his brother was a genius and had all the answers.

A sudden banging on the side of his truck startled him enough to hit his head again. What the-?

“You okay down there, mate?”

Uh? Virgil pushed himself out from under his truck and found himself squinting up at a guy about his Dad’s age.

“Broken down?”

“Uh, yeah.” He got his feet under himself and leaning on Monique, stood up.

There was a giant black pickup truck on the other side of the road, three times the size of Monique. A sticker with flickering flame towards the rear declared ‘Burning dinos’.

“Need a hand?” The guy had a grey beard and hair, bit of a belly, and tattoo down one tanned arm.

Virgil grabbed that rag and wiped his hands best he could. “No, she’s not going anywhere, I’m afraid. Thanks for stopping, though.”

“Not a prob. Just doing the neighbourly thing.” The man frowned. “Say, are you from around here?”

“Not quite-”

“You look familiar.” The man’s frown deepened.

Uh, oh.

“You been on the HoloV?”

“Uh-“

The man peered at his face, enough for Virgil to have to take a step back and collide with Monique.

“You look a lot like one of those rescue guys. You know, the ones who fly those planes that make all that noise.”

“Well, yeah I-“

But then the guy was laughing. “Sorry, you must get that a lot.”

“Sometimes.”

“It’s not like one of those billionaires would drive something like that, is it?”

And he was gesturing at Monique.

Virgil frowned. “Well-“

“After all, I earn enough and look at my girl. She’s got everything I can afford and still she needs more.”

A glance at the black monstrosity and there was definitely no need for more. He seriously doubted the vehicle had ever done a lick of work, or in some cases, could.

He could hear his father saying it now - ‘she ain’t pretty, but she’s practical’. Dad always was function over form. Monique may be old and worn, but she’d earnt every scratch and scrape, and she wore them proudly.

“So, you doin’ her up?”

“What?”

“Your truck. She a work in progress?”

“No, she just needs some repairs. My brother will pick me up soon.” He really should call Gordon, despite the ribbing involved.

“Sure you don’t want a lift?”

“Yeah, thanks anyway.” Was it rude to hope the man would leave?

Probably.

Unfortunately, either way, he didn’t.

“So, what is it? The money?

“Excuse me?”

“The reason why you drive a broken truck.”

“Uh-“

“Just imagine if we had the money. You could fix up it up, give it a new paint job.” He arched an eyebrow at Monique. “Or buy a new one.”

“I like my truck as she is.” Bar a busted bearing or two.

The guy eyed Virgil like he had a disease. “Why?”

“She’s an heirloom.”

“I can see that.” He took a step back as if to really look at Virgil’s truck. “Is that a backyard eco-conversion?” A look of pure horror crossed the guy’s face.

“Yeah.” Dad and Grandpa had done it together back in the 2030s. Grandpa didn’t want to take the truck off the road, so the gas engine got the boot and Dad had helped him install the eco-conversion.

“You do realise an eco can’t compare to a traditional gasoline engine? My girl has six hundred horsepower under her hood. She works hard and plays hard. She can pull 15,000 pounds and not break a sweat.”

Virgil folded his arms. “Impressive.” Except for the whole burning hydrocarbons issue, deal breaker that it was. He wasn’t going to mention Monique’s specs, she was after all, more than she looked.

Besides, he could hear the sound of his girl in the distance. She could pull a lot of things.

Thunderbird Two shot into a low hover above Monique, tossing hair and grass alike, her roar all encompassing. “Hey, Virg, Johnny said you needed a lift?” Gordon’s voice bounced around as big truck guy’s jaw dropped.

“Thanks, Gordon.” Virgil turned to his companion and held out a hand. “Thanks again for stopping.”

The man’s hand was offered absently as he stared up at Virgil’s girl.

“You might want to stand back.”

He vaguely nodded and backed his way across the road to his truck.

“Gordon, grapples will do the job. It’s not far.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and, pulling open Monique’s driver side door, climbed in and put on his seat belt.

The clunk of four magnetic grapples, a gentle tug, and Monique left the ground.

Virgil couldn’t help but look down at the man staring up at Virgil’s girl.

Was it wrong to enjoy the shock on the man’s face?

Probably.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #nuttyfic #this one fought me #Gordy didn't get the yellow motorbike I promised him #maybe next time

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shirubie · 3 months

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Romance Showcase Event: TAG: Love & Thunderbirds

Calling all romance fans of the TAG fandom! Love is in the air (and in space, and underwater...)!

This event is to showcase stories and art, old and new, that has romantic love as it's main theme. Want warm and fuzzy cuddles, awkward crushes or burning passion? You'll find it here!

To participate, post or reblog and use the tag #TAG:Love&Thunderbirds. Doesn't have to be your own stuff, you can link to works you like and want to share with the fandom. Just make sure to credit the original creator (no reposting please).

I'm not planning a specific start or end date for this event, so there's no deadline, you can post whenever you want.

A few ground rules:

-All ships are welcomed, even OC ships, as long as the story is centered on romance. Respect other people's ships even if they're not ones you like. Don't forget to tag your ships so that people can find/avoid them (everyone wins that way!)

-Please tag/warn for any adult or triggering content.

-Please credit the artists if you are not the creator of the work.

This is my first time starting an event, I hope to do a good job. If you have any suggestions you can send me a message.

Have fun everyone!

#thunderfam #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds fanart #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #thunderbirds fandom #thunderbirds are go fanart #thunderbirds are go #TAG:Love&Thunderbirds

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idontknowreallywhy · 2 days

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WIP Wednesday

A bit of a random one… an OC viewpoint on a wee!Tracy.

It was the first day of the academic year and Felicity Miles had already broken her resolution to actually leave school at a reasonable time. She glanced at the brightly coloured clock suspended over the electronic whiteboard and sighed as she calculated her chances of catching the next bus home to be almost precisely zero. There wouldn’t be another for an hour… well at least she wasn’t in a rush now. As long as everything was gone by the morning so the cleaner didn’t report the damage, all would be well.

Turning her attention back to the task in hand she averted her eyes as she sprayed a little more of the concentrated bleach on the table top and then recommenced scrubbing with the wire brush she’d lifted from the school kitchens.

Learning points from today:

- give the kid more paper

- don’t leave sharpies lying around.

She finally obliterated the carefully written ‘26/104’ and moved on to ‘27/108’.

It was likely not the most efficient approach to erase one fraction at a time but she felt strangely compelled to follow the pattern through in the same way the fascinated little dark haired boy had.

1/4

2/8

3/12

4/16

5/20

That was as far as most of the class had got before they moved on to the next task. Based on the report of their previous teacher she hadn’t expected this one to have got even that far. Apparently getting him to stay in his seat or focus on anything that didn’t involve airplanes or running very fast for 3 minutes or more was considered a win.

She frowned. The unspoken hint that they’d given up on him had put her hackles up. He was clearly a bright kid. Very. He also spoke as well as he didn’t sit. That, combined with his height, gave him the presence of a much older child. Maybe that was working against him - were people expecting too much?

Famous daddy syndrome didn’t help either. And that connection was hard to forget when this apple had fallen right at the foot of that incredibly dashing genetic tree.

Felicity made a point of never having favourites. ESPECIALLY not when they happened to be the offspring of one of her heroes. But she had always had a soft spot for an underdog and had a hunch that this one might need a champion in the near future.

She continued scrubbing, mind buzzing with ways she could capitalise on his evident interest in patterns and mentally rewriting tomorrow’s lesson plan to devote some time to the history of flight.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #wee!tracys #guess who ;)#idontknowreallywhy fanfic #wip wednesday

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hebuiltfive · 24 days

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I have an idea for an AU. I have no idea if it will work at all, but it's here to stay I think. I have no idea if it's been done before either, but I'm going to attempt to write it.

Two words: Regency Tracys.

Think Bridgerton, but with a twist. A huge twist (as planned so far).

It might end up being a terrible idea. I might not write it out well at all, but this idea has got me hooked and it hasn't left me alone the last couple of days...

#i have IDEAS FOR THIS #five rambles #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #regency!au #fic: regency tracys #work in progress title there

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cherocarofficial · 5 months

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1959 Ford Thunderbird Convertible

#ford maverick #ford motor co #ford model a #tom ford #ford #car #cars #classic car #ford mustang #ford f 150 #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds 1965 #desuhiko thunderbolt

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astranite · 2 months

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Limp

John and Virgil!!! The whole range of hurt/comfort, angsting and fluff though leaning rather towards comforty. Scott also sneaks in for a good bit at the end. And there are hugs. Also there is autistic John and Virgil which it isnt about but its very there :)

This started off from the first line from a tumblr prompt from @aliceinwhumperland and the idea from @katblu42 to have John being the one limping then it grew from there!!! Minor warning for injury and medical stuff. Also that this reached 6k words!!

---

"You think you're hiding it, but I can see that limp from space."

Virgil leaned closer to his comm, giving John a prime view of dark, angular done-with-this-shit eyebrows.

John definitely didn’t panic. He just didn’t want the totally needless scrutiny of a medic brother all up in his business. Or asking questions like, ‘What did you do to yourself this time?’

“What limp?” he replied. He could play it off as obtuse and then no one had to ever to find out.

Virgil gave a Scott-worthy facepalm. “Do I have to worry about a concussion too?”

Okay maybe that was too obtuse. But he was running on few hours of sleep, back to back rescues and no bloody breakfast so who could blame him.

“I’m fine, Virgil.” John rolled his eyes.

Virgil didn’t dignify that with a response.

Well then, John could prove it. Ignoring the ache in his left foot and that the last time he tried this was probably what had gotten Virgil’s suspicions on him in the first place, he twisted through the central hub of Five to the entry to the gravity ring.

Lowering himself carefully in what was usually a thoughtlessly graceful manoeuvre, he landed on his feet in the grav ring, a triumphant, “See, I’m perfectly fine,” already on his lips. Except as soon as his left foot touched the ground with his weight on it, a sharp stab shot through it.

He couldn’t hold back the painfully obvious wince. Or the sudden gasp.

Virgil’s disappointment was another blow. “And here I thought I had one sensible brother. How did it happen?”

Mechanism of injury, a completely ordinary question for a medic to ask. One he’d compliantly answered for many accidents, even ridiculous earthside ones such as, ‘Fell over again and it’s all gravity’s fault.’ But up here he was meant to be in his element.

John crossed his arms stubbornly, wobbling on one foot.

“Couldn’t say.”

“Johnny.” Virgil was exasperated by now.

“Definitely not telling you anything if you call me that.”

“Johnathan Glenn Tracy.”

“Nope. That’s not even my name.”

“John.”

“Congratulations, you figured it out,” John spat.

Virgil looked taken aback.

A lump rose in John’s throat.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a shit day.”

He could feel his face growing as red as his hair with shame. It would definitely be visible over holograms. To make it worse, Virgil was probably as exhausted as he was. The last rescue had been nasty, earthquakes so often were, and Thunderbird Two had been on several more before that. He didn’t deserve to have to deal with John’s sarcastic, bitchy attitude as well.

John admitted defeat and hopped over to the wall to hold onto a grab bar to keep his balance and take the weight off his foot. And resisted the urge to bang his head against it because that sort of thing had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

His foot was throbbing, Virgil’s expression was soft because he’d already forgiven him and John was just over it all.

“Please promise you won’t laugh.” He couldn’t deal with that on top of everything else, no matter how unlikely it was that Virgil would.

“Alright, I promise. I’m not going to judge you, John.”

“I kicked a wall,” John mumbled, “On purpose, because I got mad that the bagel dispenser wasn’t working and a call came in so there was no time to fix it and I couldn’t sleep last night and I’m stressed about literally everything and just wanted a fucking bagel but clearly that was too much to ask of the universe!”

John shut his mouth with a clack. The words had come out in a torrent rising in volume that he couldn’t hold back. Over such a stupid thing too.

When John could finally bring himself to glance up from the stars beneath the floor outside, Virgil’s gaze held nothing but empathy.

“You’re right, it has been a pretty shit day.”

John nodded quietly.

Virgil continued, “Just— John, you know you don’t have to hide stuff like that from us, from me, right? We’ve all done stupid things in anger before and probably will do so again. That big, blue splodge of paint on my studio wall? Yeah, I chucked a paintbrush at it because a painting wasn’t working out and I was frustrated and it was three am after a string of bad rescues and I lost it a bit.”

Huh. John hadn’t known that. Virgil was usually least likely to blow up as far as it went.

“Point is, you’re not alone in this. Tracy temper, remember? We’ve all got it and we are all working out how to work with it. But it isn’t an excuse to conceal an injury that might need treatment even if it seems like it, ‘Should be fine,’ or ‘Isn’t that bad,’ or you think it’s caused by something stupid and you’re worried about us judging you. Because we won’t.”

John took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth.

He wasn’t even getting lectured at for being an idiot, or having it brushed off as nothing because, ‘Red heads and their tempers, y’know,’ or plain old being yelled at because, ‘John, you’re meant to be better than this.’

Virgil cared about him. That was simple fact.

So John cooperatively answered Virgil’s questions about pain, the range of motion he had and when exactly had the injury occurred this morning. That he couldn’t bear weight on it was pretty telling something was wrong. And it really did hurt.

“You’re going to need to come down here so I can get x-rays of that foot,” Virgil said apologetically.

John bit back the wave of disappointment, along with the accompanying urge to snap and snarl.

“I know.”

He really didn’t want to go back to earth and deal with everyone’s concern and fussing when he just wanted to ignore them and go to bed. Up here on Five no one was close enough to be affected by his moods unless they put in a comm call which he could, as above, ignore.

But John dutifully transferred control over to Eos and the island, packed his bag because he’d probably be there for a while but he wasn’t going to think about that and loaded himself into the space elevator. He knew how dangerous untreated injuries were in space better than anyone.

The descent was slower than usual, as was protocol for an injury where speed was not of the essence and a less turbulent descent outweighed the need for timeliness. It gave John plenty of opportunity to stare at the rounded edge of the space elevator’s inner ceiling. Frustration over near guaranteed being grounded bubbled up until he had to screw his eyes shut and force himself to focus on the way the g-forces felt against his body so he didn’t utterly lose it.

Landing on earth came with a jolt that managed to catch John by surprise. He flinched, then checked the systems read outs and undid his restraints. Remaining lying on the launch couch was one third to demonstrate he could be sensible and wait instead of trying to walk off a potentially serious injury, another third because he didn’t want to tangle with gravity on his own, and also so that he could childishly pretend he was still up on Five and far away for a little longer.

Virgil knocked on the space elevator doors and a second later they slid open. John gave him a weak smile.

The journey through the hangars to the infirmary was made with Virgil’s supportive arm around his waist and John’s arm draped across his brother’s broad shoulders as John stubbornly limped along. He did take a moment as his feet first touched the concrete floor and gravity really took hold to lean into Virgil’s half hug and just breathe.

The infirmary was the same as it always was, with its sterile smell overloaded with the sharpness of antiseptic that made it different from the atmosphere on Five, and thankfully quiet.

John manoeuvred himself up onto the closest bed, sinking into the stiff foam mattress as much as was physically possible. Stars, he was tired.

Virgil was exceedingly gentle as he eased John’s foot out of his space boot. He stripped the sock off too, propping the foot up to rest in his lap to examine it. John grimaced as Virgil necessarily poked and prodded at where it was sorest. Though the bruises and swelling were not particularly hard to spot from where contact had been made with the solid bulkhead.

John anxiously chewed his lips waiting for Virgil to get the portable x-ray, zap him and be done with it.

Moving his sore foot around at all the required angles for the shots was… a process.

He did his best to be patient as Virgil took the x-rays off to Grandma for a second opinion on how they would most effectively treat him, but ended up curled in a ball on the slightly plasticky hospital sheets, stubbornly facing the wall with his foot carefully positioned in a way that it least hurt.

He wasn’t asleep, it was not late enough for that and he was far too wired but he was knocked out of his reverie nonetheless by Grandma stroking his hair.

“Definitely broken, kiddo. No getting around that.”

Even John could see it when they showed him the x-rays. He could only be grateful the fracture was neatly aligned and wouldn’t need surgery, he’d seen plenty of worse breaks in the field. It still meant weeks of being grounded, away from Five and unable to go home to his stars.

Virgil applied the cast under Grandma’s supervision. John shuddered at the sensations even as he tried to keep still. He was proud of how far Virgil had come in his medical education and he made sure his brother knew that.

The usual checks after coming down from space wore on his nerves. He took the painkillers for his stupid broken foot, the anti-nausea meds as his stomach wasn’t settling from the change from microgravity and the tall lidded cup of the least disgusting flavour of electrolyte drink as directed.

He fidgeted with his baldric, tracing over the lines of his suit; everything was a lot today. For all of them; John didn’t miss the dark circles beneath Virgil’s eyes or the way he slumped as he sat on the bed next to John once Grandma had left and the cast was setting.

Virgil had briefly crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself, hands rubbing the flannel of his sleeves. Then he uncrossed them, hunching his shoulders to appear smaller, less intimidating, fingertips still going over the soft, worn fuzzy material of the cuffs of his flannel.

John placed his hand, palm up on Virgil’s leg. Virgil took it and John squeezed his fingers once as they sat in silence for a while.

Changing out of his space suit for the loose pyjama shorts and t-shirt Virgil brought was difficult and awkward with his foot. And how clumsy he was here in general.

Trying to walk on crutches was, to put it in far politer words than John vehemently used, a disaster.

One second he was standing with the crutches around his arms, adjusted to the correct height, his casted foot off the ground, everything done properly, about to take a step. The next he was a tangled pile of limbs on the ground.

John’s cheeks were burning red yet again. Stupid, fucking gravity and his miraculous ability to trip over nothing.

He shoved the useless hunks of metal away from him as the room blurred, swiping at the angry tears as they formed.

Virgil crouched in from of him, checking him over for injury. Well, further injury.

There wasn’t any, apart from his rather dented pride. John didn’t count the damp tears trickling down his face as he studiously attempted to ignore them.

Virgil made a soft noise as John let himself be pulled into a hug. Warm flannel absorbed his tears as John hugged Virgil tighter. Somehow it felt like he hadn’t seen him for months even though it couldn’t’ve been that long, could it? Unless they counted for quality time rather than John being periodically dragged down to earth… He missed his quietest and closest brother in age even if they’d been talking mission only this morning.

Maybe John tried to hide from the world for a little while, and Virgil let him. They both needed this; Virgil’s face was also buried in John’s hair.

After a while, sitting sprawled on the hard infirmary floor caught up to them with all the aches of too long days of heavy work. And broken bones. John shifted with a grimace.

Now he had to get back up off the ground when the crutches were clearly not a help, when he was pretty near useless down here, unable to resist the inevitable pull of gravity to the centre of the earth and the unforgiving ground.

…He was probably being far too dramatic about it. Should just get it together like everyone else seemed able to do.

But it was still a problem that he didn’t want to deal with because fundamentally, he wished he was back on Five.

He had been going to tell someone about the injury, of course. Just as soon as he’d thought up a watertight excuse slash explanation. As soon as got himself under control and stopped being so sensitive over everything that he’d snap at anyone who got near him. So he would not end up like this, a too-emotional mess on the floor.

Virgil once again checked his cast and his broken foot were undamaged by his fall. John wondered whether it was as much for Virgil’s sake of making sure idiot big brothers weren’t going to suddenly keel over as for John’s. John rubbed a hand roughly over his face. It was because Virgil cared. And maybe time had proven he had a right to worry.

John protested as Virgil went to pick him up, on the grounds Virgil had already been doing plenty of heavy lifting on rescues today and he had to be exhausted already, and John really didn’t want him to throw his back out or his knees or whatever other worst case scenarios John could come up with.

He also knew he’d look utterly ridiculous in Virgil’s hold, all gangly, lanky limbs out of proportion with Virgil’s shorter, stockier build. And John was more likely to accidentally elbow someone in the nose, which had demonstrably happened before and the guilt still chewed at him, than even Scott fighting tooth and nail against being slung over someone’s shoulder when he there was no way he could even physically stand, let alone walk any distance. He warned Virgil away sharply.

“John. I know my limits, and you aren’t any worse than Scott.” Virgil sounded done with it all. “And I’d rather carry you than have to pick up the pieces or reset that cast, which I have also had to do before, because one of my brothers is injured and deserves help but they are too damn stubborn to let me.”

The fight in John left him as a hissing exhale, like a hole in a space ship venting atmosphere.

Virgil scooped him up off the ground, promising to figure the rest out later as John avoided flailing too much.

His brother’s arms were secure around his knees and under his shoulders, holding him close so there was no danger of him hitting the ground, of the falling that some part of John secretly feared, even with the rocking movement of Virgil’s strides. John’s cheek stayed mushed against Virgil’s flannel-clad chest.

The walls of the house passed him in a tired blur. He really didn’t want to be left to sit around in his room where no matter how tired he was he wouldn’t sleep yet. Lying there staring at the ceiling all afternoon with nothing better to occupy him than his turbulent thoughts was frankly not a good idea.

He said as much to Virgil, probably far too bluntly. The usual multi-stage filter he sorted his words through before he ever said them had met its untimely demise in face of his exhaustion several hours ago.

It wasn’t like he wanted to hang around amidst the noise and movement and peopleing of the lounge with everyone else either. John being difficult again, as usual, the voice in the back of his head snarked.

Virgil had mercy on John and took the back route through the house instead of past the comms room where everyone would see him, even if it was only his family who he should know wouldn’t judge him. Everyone had been in the position of being carried about when they’d fallen asleep somewhere or were injured or were about to be chucked into the pool, so except in the last situation, John shouldn’t’ve been embarrassed or really cared, except that he did.

They passed by John’s bedroom. John curled a little closer to Virgil in something that could’ve been called relief. He really wasn’t sure he wanted to be completely alone right now; he trusted Virgil.

A booted foot nudged open the door before Virgil placed John down on one of the big, squishy beanbags in the corner of his studio.

John melted into it. He didn’t think he had bones anymore. Or any outside of the ones he’d just broken which had plenty of painful evidence of their existence. But no bones. He could even forgive gravity just this once when it was letting him sink into the soft surface.

He looked up at Virgil’s low chuckle.

“They’re good, aren’t they? Gordon found them online and I chose the colours.” Virgil smiled fondly.

They hadn’t been here the last time John had hung out in Virgil’s studio with him. A spike of sorrow stabbed at his chest.

New beanbags were a tiny change. It shouldn’t even matter. Except they demonstrated precisely how he was missing out on the details of his brothers’ lives while he was away.

The beanbag covers were greens and yellows, soft, earthen shades exactly what John would expect Virgil to pick. Colourful, but not in your face. Soothing and restful but not dull.

Observations probably not as important to anyone else as John found them.

Virgil ducked out and came back with John’s tablet, the one he used earth-side with its bulky, lilac shatter-proof case.

John took it carefully from Virgil’s hands, not because it was breakable even dropped from quite a height, but because of the consideration Virgil gave him, to bring him it to read on when he couldn’t go get something himself.

In space, alone, it wasn’t like there anyone to do that kind of thing for him. Even with the gifts snuck into monthly supply crates by his family, he’d sort of forgotten how it felt.

He shoved away the ever so familiar feeling of being torn in two. He loved the stars, loved being up on Five, he really did. In spite of this, missing his family while up there was a constant wound he packed with the duty of constantly being called upon, of constantly needing to be the Voice Who Answers, in hopes of staunching his bleeding emotions. It contrasted with how he never wanted to outstay his welcome on Earth.

Why was it that no matter where he was, he still wanted to go home?

Why did anger seethe and rise only to leave him all hollow and empty?

John gulped, running his hands over his face. He tucked one into his hair, tugging at the strands in an effort to distract himself. Why the fuck was he like this?

Virgil had turned away to get something off his desk, so at least he didn’t have to see John freaking out over nothing.

John forced a smile when Virgil looked back at him in concern. It wasn't like he could do anything about it.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Virgil said.

He was wearing his set of large, over-ear noise-cancelling headphones, covered in green stickers, his chin nodding along to a beat John couldn’t hear. Virgil wasn’t smiling but the creases around his eyebrow scar were shallower. Today had been getting to him too.

Left alone, John examined the art studio more thoroughly, letting himself become absorbed in the details, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

The whole place was very Virgil, in the best possible way. Storage for art materials was arranged with an engineer’s precision for putting and keeping things in their proper order, cupboards with closed doors painted olive green and neatly labeled in Virgil’s blocky handwriting. Only the pencils Virgil was currently using were left on his desk, in their tray reordered into an exactingly coloured gradient. John couldn’t deny that it also clicked in his brain with that urge to line stuff up.

An electric keyboard lived along a side wall by a bookshelf containing folders of sheet music and art theory books. John knew from Virgil that the music was arranged by each song’s dominant colour palette according to folder, when he asked as at first he couldn't make sense of the system when of course Virgil would have a system.

There were speakers in a few places around the room for the frequent times Virgil listened to music while creating. Good quality ones because Virgil said certain staticky types gave him the same sensation as putting gritty sand in his mouth.

It was Virgil’s space for making art and just being, so he’d adapted it to him. Virgil got overwhelmed when there was too much visual stimulation, with constant busy, bright colours and clutter of the world he couldn't put away, so here was an escape from that.

The walls and ceiling were light, giving an airy feeling. A large landscape window joined inside and outside seamlessly, looked over what John privately thought was the best view on the island, except for the observatory. You could see right out past Mateo, over pokey trees and ocean. Late afternoon sunlight poured in, and there were shades if it got too much.

Greenery was introduced into the room itself by the massive monstera plant in the corner, its umbrella-like leaves forming pleasing shadows on the floor, contrasting with the near liquid golden light. More smaller plants were scattered about. John brushed his fingers over the monstera, to reach out and touch the tangible connection with life and the earth.

Occasionally a piece of art was hung up for a while as it was finished before being moved to its intended display area in an other part of the house, like the watercolour sketch of playful dolphins amongst their reef obviously intended for Gordon. But mostly there wasn't anything to distract from the artwork, on canvas or as music, that Virgil was bringing to life.

John found the studio calming too, even when he usually tended towards wanting all his bright stars, books, open screens and telescopes in his space at once. There was something about the soothing surroundings, how the faint smell of paints and real paper lingered, mixing with engine bio-oil and coffee, that meant safety and home. His brother’s mark on it was undeniable.

John couldn’t help but search for the splatter of paint Virgil had mentioned earlier. It was blue and on a wall in this room, so it shouldn’t be hard to miss but in spite of all of his skills at searching, it was nowhere to be found. Eventually he resigned himself to the fact that Virgil must have painted over it, destroying the tangible proof that he’d acted out in anger.

The beanbags squished beneath him when he flopped back, long legs stretched out and foot smarting when he moved it, picking up his tablet for something to do. His substantial library of books wasn’t holding anything that could keep his attention right now as he flicked between them, opening and shutting pages. He tipped his head back, looking upwards, letting his tablet fall face down onto his chest.

And there it was. On the wall above him, the blue splodge of paint exactly from Virgil’s story.

Except it wasn't just a splodge because a rainbow of lines had been added around it, faithfully following the original shape and expanding upon it, forming a bird with wings outstretched, flying freely across the wall. Something utterly beautiful from from what had begun as only painful.

John’s breath caught. He didn't know how Virgil did that. He wrung out hope from anger, forming all the emotion into art where John just flailed because he didn’t want to touch his feelings with a thousand kilometre stick.

But here, in Virgil’s studio surrounded by the calm quiet where he could finally breathe, he could try.

So he picked up his tablet. Opened up the word programme. And began to write.

He had no idea where he was going. No plot, no plan, no outline. When he usually did this, for reports, for academic works, he always had his ideas and arguments all laid out in his head and he simply had to put them on the page in front of him.

His fingers found the keyboard and he let them, doing his best not to second-guess and delete every word he put down. To think too much and bail out as it got too big and too scary even when this was just typing on his tablet sitting in a beanbag in the corner of the room, not doing anything at all that could be thought of as dangerous or would mess up his broken foot.

It wasn't really much. In subject or in word count or in technical finesse. He hadn’t been doing this writing thing for very long, not since university and stories scrawled in his near illegible handwriting hidden in paper notebooks beneath his bed. Not for himself.

He saved the document and slammed the window closed before he could look at it and convince himself it was all completely stupid and he never should’ve even tried in the first place.

But it was cathartic and it gave him somewhere to put the irrational seething anger, outlined by the sorrow that seeped through in the lines between, to bleed out on paper, in words that were his first language and first love. In the beginnings of stories that didn’t have to be perfect or real and contained far too much of himself to even think about showing anybody yet, but that maybe one day he would.

When Virgil knocked on the door and opened it, John jumped like he’d been caught out. Then he glanced up and saw the blue paint splodge turned flying bird from the corner of his eye, and he could smile at Virgil with all the love in the world and more understanding of how his brother worked. Of why after hard rescues and bad days his first instinct was to turn to piano or canvas.

Seeing what Virgil was carrying on the tray in his hands had John wishing he hadn’t ever broken his foot so he could throw himself at Virgil to hug him this very second. Though if he hadn’t been injured, he never would’ve come down from Five today.

A blueberry bagel, toasted, with the special strawberry cream cheese that was his favourite but never lasted long in space. Or on Earth, unless his brothers saved it for him on purpose.

There was a cup of tea too, next to Virgil’s customarily massive mug of coffee.

John just stared up at him, until he found his voice to whisper all his thanks over and over. He took the plate and the cup in slightly trembling hands, then placed them on the floor next to him.

He raised his arms so that Virgil would crouch down and John could squish him into a hug.

John clung to red flannel for a few seconds longer than he usually would. Virgil returned it in kind, smiling at him with soft, brown eyes.

Then he was fussing over John’s foot again, propping it up on pillows and wrapping an icepack around it. John took it in because this was Virgil’s way of showing he cared. As well, it would mean he could get back on his feet sooner by not ignoring the injury. Plus it hurt less.

Before Virgil returned to his desk and pencils, John bumped their foreheads together in show of affection not as frequently done between them with the distance. It was often Scott and Virgil’s thing. Virgil hummed happily at him even when John wobbled as he leaned forward, making the collision slightly more forceful than he intended. Instead they laughed together over Tracy hard heads.

Enjoying each other’s company with no pressure to talk or interact was nice and exactly what they both needed. They could do their own things in parallel, Virgil with his art, a sketch forming beneath steady hands, and John with… whatever he was doing at this point.

Gathering up his courage, he cautiously reopened his word document from earlier and read over what he’d written. It was… okay actually. The typos and errors he grimaced at were numerous, but those were fixable problems.

It was a story, he’d written something. John found himself smiling down at his tablet with the urge to add more so he did.

The time passed in the light from the windows transforming from light gold to a fiery orange, stretching across their room and their island alike. As dusk grew closer, the bird calls and insect songs changed, and there were so many wonderful things about space that John could never give up loving but it didn't have this.

So maybe that was what was wrong with him. Instead of a flaw in his very humanity, it was more not enough food and too much stress, not sleeping right or talking to anyone. Those simple things he sort of… forgot about, ignored. John needed to be around family too, with the sunlight streaming in, plants in touching distance and the quiet company of Virgil and some care to feel better.

Maybe while he was down here, he’d even go stargazing outside tomorrow, lying on a picnic blanket on the grass like he used to. Monitor work could be taken care of at dad’s desk, there’d be time to help Allie with his school work then play video games together and once his cast was off, swim in Gordon’s ocean. To hang out with Scott too and help pull his beloved biggest brother out of his own overwork spiral. He hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Grandma or Kayo or Brains in a while either.

Only then would he return to Five, to his stars and space, his research and monitor duty proper. His little room up there, the gravity ring and central floating hub, with Eos as his companion, they were home too. Not in replacement of the island and his family but in addition. And he knew he could come down to Earth when he needed to even if, especially when it was just because he wanted a hug.

Right now, the soft patter of his fingertips on the glass screen blended with the scratchings of Virgil’s coloured pencils on artist’s paper.

He munched on his bagel and sipped his tea contentedly. Virgil had been cupping his warm mug of coffee in his hands, happily sighing as John fought the urge to giggle.

It was with a cheerier and more relaxed Virgil that they ended up squished together on the beanbag pile once the sun was fully set. John snuggled into his brother’s side, it really had been too long but he was here now.

Virgil’s fingers tapped contentedly against the knee of his jeans like he was playing a melody on the piano, other arm tucked around John, meaning John could feel the vibrations as Virgil hummed along. John went from messing with the case of his tablet to happily flickering his hands at his sides.

Also, how were the beanbags this comfortable? These ones didn’t even rustle and squeak like he remembered the ones they’d had as kids did.

Those had met a horrific end with their guts all over the house when Gordon had wanted to know what was inside them and out of scientific curiosity John had helped find the answers, utilising his ability to read and follow the instructions on the tag of how to open the pull-less zipper with an ancient paperclip.

He retold the story to Virgil whose eyes widened in surprise.

“So it was you!” he laughed. “I’d wondered how Gords did it, but I hadn't put anything past the fish.”

John lost his battle with holding in his own giggles and decided to let Virgil in on the secrets of a few other John-and-Gordon specials.

There was a knock before Scott ducked his head around the corner of the doorway, just as John glanced up.

Scott leant against the frame, intense blue eyes looking him over. John couldn’t tell whether they were sharper in person than over hologram or softer. They stuck on John’s cast, flicking to Virgil before scanning carefully over his body, same as if any of the others were injured in the field.

“Scott,” John stated. An acknowledgment that his big brother was here. The tight, tangled barbed wire ball that had been living in his stomach for days loosened further.

“You okay?”

How was he supposed to answer that? In this moment, laughing aloud with Virgil, yeah he was. But all the rest of the day, the week beforehand? John gave a noncommittal shrug that didn’t give much either way.

Of course that became cause for Scott to come closer. He knelt in front of John, ever so mindful of his broken foot.

Telegraphing his movements, Scott reached out and brushed John’s hair out of his face before silently kissing his forehead, all gentle big brother who was here for him no matter what.

He repeated the motion with Virgil.

John froze for precious seconds then threw himself at Scott.

It hurt. He’d forgotten about his foot in its awful cast for a moment, knocking it painfully against the floor with a broken yelp. But Scott caught him anyway. Virgil’s arms went back around him too and he was still humming but in a steadier pitch.

John was sniffling against Scott’s chest, soaking up his brothers’ warmth and all the love in the room, even as he wasn’t sure whether he was crying again from sorrow or pain or because they both cared about him so, so much and the happy-overwhelmed feeling got stuck as a lump in his throat.

Maybe together they could fix this mess John had somehow made. But right now John let them hold him close, let Scott rock them until the calm of the room could creep back in.

A cuddle pile formed on the beanbags once again, this time with Scott too. John leant back on Scott’s chest, still hiccuping occasionally from the tears. Both sets of their long legs alongside each other were tossed over Virgil’s lap, who’d very fairly called them a lanky, boney weighted blanket, while snuggling in with no suggestion they move. He could feel Scott’s chin resting on top of his head, breaths lightly tickling his hair.

Virgil had had to check again, with the medscanner he kept in his studio first aid kit, that John hadn’t screwed up his foot in its bright orange cast. Yet he hadn’t and even though John could still feel the pain of the impact, Virgil had given him another dose of ibuprofen which would take the edge off soon.

John’s eyes slid half shut with exhaustion. Scott let him fidget with his hands as he gripped them. Virgil was tapping out piano pieces again, a more relaxed melody now against the top John’s bare shin, the sensation grounding and reminding him Virgil was close.He had his brothers. All of them. All of his family. They loved him and they’d help him figure this out and that was more that enough, it was everything.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #john tracy #virgil tracy #astrawrite #autistic john tracy #autistic virgil tracy #neurodivergent tracies

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