#john tracy

“How much did we pay for this place!?” the voice pierced Scott’s skull. He scrabbled to pull the bluetooth earpiece away from one poor abused eardrum, whilst simultaneously trying to jab at the volume control.

“Gordon?”

“Who else!” the vowels still bashed around Scott's cranium, he jabbed at the controls some more.

“What’s wrong? I mean, is everything alright?” Scott stuttered. 

“Yeah, why wouldn't it be?” Gordon was staying away for some meetings connected to one of his personal passion projects, Scott had been told the details, in much detail, but didn’t trust himself to reiterate them with 100% accuracy. 

“No reason. What was your question?”

“Oh yeah. How much did we pay for this place?”

“What place?” He really hoped Gordon started making more sense soon, it had been a long day. 

“This apartment, the one I’m staying in, we own it right?”

Scott wracked his brains, “yeah, it’s part of the property portfolio, we just asked for a base in the main head office locations.”

“Well have you seen this one?” Gordon sounded like he was walking around an echoing gallery.

Scott shook his head, and then remembered he was on a voice only call, “nope, is it nice?”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s a bit soulless, ya know?”

Scott stood up from the desk and stretched. “So you mean Virgil hasn’t covered all available wall space yet?”

Gordon snorted, “maybe that's it! But, Scott, like everything is polished white, everything. I’m afraid to sit down,” Scott could hear him pacing as he spoke. 

“Well try not to wreck the joint and mess up the resale value.” Scott tried to sound serious, but the laugh crept in at the edges. 

“That’s my point though, this must have cost a bomb! And I just think for whatever kinda money it was, then it ought to have a better kitchen.” Scott could hear Gordon opening and closing cupboard doors, presumably in the disappointing kitchen.

“Sorry squid, they don’t come with a fully stocked pantry when you buy them.” Scott laughed.

“Har har! Very funny. But I’m serious, it’s like a little galley kitchen, enough for an espresso machine and nothing else, how is a guy mean to make a grilled sandwich?”

“I don’t think the demographic they're aiming for are making their own grilled cheese.”

“They must be so sad, it must be true, money can’t buy you happiness.” another cupboard closed.

“It can buy you a lotta sandwiches though.” Scott pointed out. “Is it at least convenient to the office?”

“Yeah, but like, so are loads of other places, thats the whole point of a city - right?”

“True. If you really don’t like it there, book into a hotel.”

“Nah, it’s ok.” but he didn’t sound so sure. 

“Or you could decorate…” Scott offered. 

“What? And risk the resell value.”

“I think the family coffers can take the hit. If you’re going to be there more often for your project, then you might as well make yourself more comfortable.”

“Are you trying to get me to move out Scott?”

“N-no! Of course not!” Scott tumbled over his words in his haste to get he words out.

“Ha!” Gordon cut over him laughing, “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! You wouldn’t catch me giving up my beach side living for city centre life. It’s ok to visit and all, but home is home.”

Scott nodded, “Yeah, home is home.”

“I might take you up on the home renovation though, that could be fun.”

“Hey, hang on, don’t start doing anything structural, remember that other apartments are depending on some of those internal walls for structural stuff like holding the ceiling up!”

“I know, I know. Jeeze, you sound just like Virgil. Although he would say something more professional that ‘structural stuff’ something like load bearing or ….. I dunno, lintels are things I think?”

“Yeah lintels and stuff. Maybe stick to the aesthetic for now. I look forward to seeing what you do with the place.” the grin on his face was fond, just as well Gordon couldn’t see it. How bad could it really be, even if Gordon did lean into the hawaiian prints. 

Property portfolio part two

John managed to juggle a tablet, an overnight bag, a cardboard container of takeaway, the tie he had already taken off, a refillable water bottle and his phone. Eventually managing to get his phone up to the scanner and thereby gain entrance to the apartment building. It shouldn’t be this difficult. 

Next came three flights of stairs, because the prospect of being trapped in an elevator with anyone and the resultant small talk, was more of a deterrent than adding the extra steps to his day. 

A further fumble with a digital pad, finally had John across the threshold of the apartment that would be his home for the night. 

He stopped dead. Stepped back, checked the number on the door. Having confirmed this was in fact the right apartment, John stepped forward once more. What greeted him was a six foot faux taxidermy flamingo. He raised the phone to his ear, whilst keeping his eye locked on the feathery bouncer, edging past it and into the living area beyond. 

He was clearly on speaker phone when the call connected because he could hear feet pounding on a treadmill. He didn’t bother waiting on pleasantries. 

“What the hell kind of place have you sent me?”

“Hello to you too John, how was your day?” Scott laughed, only slightly out of breath as he continued running. 

“Six foot bright pink flamingo, Scott.”  that caused a stutter in the rhythm of Scott's feet.

“Is this one of those cryptic clue things, because if you can’t get it, what hope do I have?”

“No. It's this apartment, or rather it’s in this apartment. A six foot flamingo, right in the lobby. Who is managing our property portfolio, should we be asking questions about the type of properties they are investing in? What if this was something sketchy?” John edged further into the apartment edging around a knitted zebra floor rug. 

 Scott just laughed.

“I’m serious, we can’t risk reputational damage by getting embroiled with anything……dodgy”

“Dodgy? Had a long day bro? Not your finest verbage” Scott had got back to speed and the treadmill beeped in approval. 

“You know what I mean! We have to be careful, it’s literally our name on the door.” John ploughed on, trying to hammer home his point. Sometimes you had to use a big hammer with Scott. 

“Don’t worry John -” Scott tried. 

That set off the firework “I HAve to WOrry! It’s literally my job! Scott”

“No, no I mean you don’t have to worry!” There was a growled ‘I’ll be the judge of that’ but Scott doggedly continued “There's nothing …. Dodgy about the place.”

“Scott there's a chair shaped like a banana…”

“Ok, apart from that maybe, theres no actual criminal connection. I just let Gordon decorate it.”

“Oh is that all,” the sarcasm was so dry it was parched. “Are you mad? What were you thinking?!”

“Oh come on, the kid was spending more time out there, and I think the sterile environment was getting to him. You know he doesn't cope well in …..clinical spaces.”

John took a moment to let that sink in, “ok, fair point.” John was always willing to concede to well applied logic. Or alternatively well applied tugs on the sentimental big brother heartstrings. 

Scott thought he had won in the following silence, but it turned out that John had been taking a photo. It pinged up on his phone and Scott jumped up onto the side rails to see the image. Which turned out to be a wise decision because he would have been bound to loose his footing from shock.

“What am I looking at here, John?” Scott spluttered. 

“My thoughts exactly! If I have to see it, so do you, dear brother.” 

“Thanks, I hate it.” John was not the only brother who could stick a deadpan delivery.

There was a click audible down the phoneline. “Oh, I think it's actually a drinks cabinet.” John reported “A drinks cabinet that just happens to be shaped like a rubber duck disco ball, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Scott gave up on his run and turned the machine off. “Look, If you really don’t like it there, book into a hotel.” The offer was genuine. 

“No, it's alright. It does weirdly remind me of home. Just, Scott, do me a favour? Give me a heads up next time I’m going to be staying in one of Gordons….’projects’. I feel thoroughly underdressed.”

The punchline had Scott snorting in a manner unbecoming for the commander of an international rescue organisation. Which John considered a win.

“Ok, bro, catch you later!” Scott signed off, before he made more of a fool of himself. 

Virgil and Gordon had gone there with Thunderbird 2. He had sent Kayo there on her way back from another mission to reset the facility's cooling system with the Thunderbird S.

Four people were standing directly behind where Virgil and Gordon were removing the crumbling concrete. A woman had sprained her wrist, and while Virgil continued removing the concretes for fifth person, Gordon had left to make sure the woman got out safely.

The excessive temperature was interfering with the sensors and the data John was receiving. Had Kayo's voice not interrupted their normal conversation with Gordon and Virgil, none of them would have known that the tunnel next to them was also about to explode.

They had only a few minutes; Virgil was determined to save the last person behind the closing tunnel.

The explosion occurred just as Virgil had created enough space for the man to escape. The flames hadn't reached them, but the explosion had caused the already unstable tunnel to collapse even further.

Virgil wasn't running with the man who had managed to escape. Because until the man emerged from the tunnel, he was using all his strength to keep one of the supporting columns in place.

Data from Virgil's exo-suit was triggering alarms. The hydraulic lifts were about to break due to the extreme heat and weight. But Virgil refused to leave, insisting that the fifth person could get out safely.

John had asked him to back down.

Gordon too.

Kayo too.

When another explosion occurred, Virgil was trapped under tons of concrete, along with his broken exo-suit.

Now they were all at the hospital for hours, waiting for news from the operating room.

It was 23:59. One minute later, it would be his brother's birthday, who was fighting for his life inside.

This time, the culprit was the bar stool he pulled out in the kitchen. Nose deep in a book written by a NASA colleague of his about a new black hole discovery, he felt the air fly by as he missed the soft cushion. By the time he realised that he had missed the seat completely, he spread his arms out wildly to try and catch himself, and felt his heart stop.

His body hit the floor and the sound that escaped him as he was subject to gravity’s cruel calling was frankly embarrassing. It took him a couple of seconds before he felt that he wasn’t injured enough to attempt to sit up and reach for the book, now just out of his reach.

The shock to the system as his backside hit the hard wooden floor was bad enough, but worse was the sound that met his ears from somewhere behind him.

“Spectacular form, Johnny,” Gordon laughed, “be seeing you next fall then?”

John rolled his eyes, pulling himself up from the floor with the book in hand to see the blond brother stepping into the kitchen in his soaking wet swimming trunks, a towel draped over his shoulder, dripping all over the kitchen floor.

Grandma Tracy will not be pleased to see this mess when she returns from the mainland supply run.

“And the water is supposed to be in the pool,” he nodded at the floor, “not the kitchen, Gordo,”

“Ah, details, details - lighten up a little!” he smirks, coming up beside John and shaking his messy mop of hair, sending little droplets of chlorinated water flying everywhere, including John’s new book.

He quickly moved it behind his back to protect it from further abuse by water, “stop grinning at me, you’re acting like a dog that’s just taken a swim in a lake just to spite me. Go take a shower.”

The younger brother, smile still plastered over his face, started moving towards the stairs with a spring in his step. He’s such an idiot.

Properly taking the intended seat (the painful landing somewhat subsided now, thankfully) and reopening the book to his last read page, John couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed by Gordon’s antics.

As much as he knew that Gordon was just having fun, it was annoying fun all the same, like he knew just how far to toe the line before John would get truly angry at him. And that’s saying something, he liked to think he was able to keep his anger in check very well. In fact, it had been years since he had been angry, even longer since he was truly angry at any of his brothers, and -

Gordon was stood perfectly still at the bottom of the stairs.

John frowned, looking up from his book to properly take in what he was seeing. He looked stiff as a board, one of his hands held up to the side of his face, the towel that was over his shoulder now discarded on the floor.

“Gordon?” John called out, “are you okay?”

He didn’t answer.

With hope that this wasn't some immature attempt at pulling his leg, disturbing him from his book, he slowly rose to his feet, watching him carefully.

Awash with an all too familiar sensation, the feeling that normally comes when he’s on space monitor duty and can tell something is about to happen. A call about to come in, geological sensors predicting natural disasters, Langstrom Fishler’s newest creation, whatever that may be.

Something was wrong here and now.

“Gordon, can you hear me?” John stepped away from the counter he had been sat at and started towards him.

As he came closer, he could see his own reflection in the mirror on the far wall.

And Gordon's face was there too, eyes wide and features stiff, unblinking with his lips just parted, his hand just away from his cheek. Water was still dripping down his features from his wet hair, and John could just about hear his breathing change from over here. From practically not breathing at all, to fast and shallow. His skin was suddenly sheet white, as compared to just a minute ago.

Gordon took a deep, choked breath and then fell backwards on to the hard tiled floor.

John immediately rushed to catch him, just barely missing but hopefully alleviating what could have been a serious injury to a mere bump.

Before he realised it though, Gordon was practically thrashing his way out of John’s grip, and John instinctively released him once they were both on the ground.

He had never been on the receiving end of such treatment from the younger brother, because whenever Gordon engaged in play-fighting, it was exactly that - play. Fake. Not using full strength.

Gordon is a physically fit, powerful young man and slippery as an eel when it suits him.

And yet, the sheer, primal terror that he seemed to be experiencing was beyond anything John could have expected.

Gordon flung himself across the floor, curling up at the foot of the stairs, his breath ragged and laboured.

“Gordon - Gordon - can you hear me?” John managed to utter out as he clamoured over to his brother.

The brother in question did not answer him, he was clutching his chest and breathing erratically - his eyes wide and full of panic.

John froze above him, trying to think - think what to do. He was experiencing some kind of traumatic episode, potentially flashing back to his experiences - although what had set him off the way it has, John had no idea - and he was racking his brains trying to remember what he needed to do to help someone in that state. It felt like a lifetime, though, before it all came back to him. As though he was not even here, as though he was back on board Thunderbird 5, unable to touch and hold someone but only able to communicate from a list.

He can do this.

John moved slowly. Carefully. With precise focus, as he brought himself down to Gordon’s level, looking him right in the eyes.

There was a world of hurt in those eyes. His pupils glazed and unfocused, yet scanning for anything and everything.

John didn't waver, though. He took a breath himself, steeling himself for what he knew he needed to do to help his brother.

“Gordon,” he spoke clearly but quietly, “Gordon, I want you to breathe with me. In…”

John took a deep inhale, watching for a reaction from his brother. It was shaky, it was laboured, but Gordon did take a breath

“and out… good job, Gordon. In…”

John followed through on this, too. Repeating, in and out, until Gordon's violent shaking was subsided to simply trembling, the whites of his eyes no longer quite as prominent.

Next step.

“Good job, Gordon - do you remember where you are?”

“T…Tracy Island…”

“Yeah, that’s right. What colour is Scott's laundry hanging on the line, over there?” John slowly raised a finger to a spot towards his right side.

Gordon's gaze followed it, breathing slower now. He could see the focus come back into his eyes as he looked at what John had pointed at. “R…Red underwear. Blue… shirt. Jeans. Black socks. Blue towel.”

“Yeah, those stupid spider man ones, aren't they?” John smiled, “guess he loves to pretend he's spider man when he's grappling around on rescues.”

This elicited a very small chuckle from Gordon, a hint of a smile on his lips for the briefest of moments.

“Keep breathing for me, Gordo,” John reached forward and patted him gently on the shoulder, before moving from his kneeling position to a sitting one directly beside him, completely ignoring the damp floor where Gordon had shaken off his swim.

He nodded, taking deep breaths in and out as they had been for the past few minutes.

“Feeling better?” John asked, tilting his head at him.

“Dunno,” and a shrug was the response he got.

“I'll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

“Heart feels like it’s going at a million miles an hour. Chest hurts.”

John nodded. “I know. You’re doing great though.”

He was doing great, coming back down to earth (in a manner of speaking) largely unaided.

John was aware of the chance of an attack like this happening with Gordon after all he’s gone through, they all have had close calls with death over the years in their jobs at International Rescue, but never have any of them had an experience so violent. Scott has been known to take himself out into the jungle and vanish for a few hours. Virgil would retreat into something to keep him busy - the piano, cleaning something obessively, painting. Alan thankfully has not experienced much trauma in this regard, but considering that Alan has often been waiting on the sidelines while one of them is in trouble… he’s probably just too used to it, as awful as that is to think. It’s normal for him.

This was the closest that Gordon has been to death in a long time, and by some metrics, he did die. His heart was not beating and he was not breathing. He had to be resuscitated - by two of his brothers no less. As aloof an attitude as Gordon had to serious things like that, he was still human and still suceptible to the harsh realities of the aftermath to his experiences.

All the same… John was glad he was coming back around somewhat.

"Is there anything you want, Gordon?” he asked, watching as Gordon was breathing through his nose, deeply and with purpose, staring off at the opposite side of the room.

All he got in response was his brother reaching for - and squeezing - on his hand, pulling it to his chest.

Somehow that action - that small, tiny, inconsequential thing - was enough to trick John’s heart into settling back down from its adrenaline fuelled racing to something calmer.

He’d be okay. He’s Gordon. Of course he will be.

“I was…” he started with a crack in his voice, “… I was there.”

“I know you were. You’re not there now, though. You’re here, home, on Tracy Island.”

“No. I was there. He was there.” Gordon managed to choke out, his grip on John’s hand firm, shaking it as he stressed the words. “He was me.”

John couldn’t really think of something to say in response to his little brother’s very broken, terrified statement. Whatever had happened to him, Gordon had kept a lot of it to himself - only Virgil knew more than the rest of them but that was purely from a medical standpoint - Virgil had treated Gordon for his injuries, and had said no more on what was there.

Just that he had been through a lot - and that he was going to need time to cope with it all.

“I don’t…” Gordon started, before silencing with a hitched breath, tears building up in his glossy eyes. “… I don’t know how I can live like this.”

“Gordon, you can and you will get through this,” John squeezed Gordon’s hand back, turning properly to face him, “no matter how long it takes, because we all love you and want to see you happy again.”

Gordon’s head dropped down, his chin on his chest, eyes closed.

“We’ve got all the time in the world to help you Gordon, and you know we’ll never let you suffer on your own ever again.”

John heard something, and he could have sworn it was Gordon laughing, but his face betrayed nothing until he replied;

“I’ll remember this next time you’re bottling everything up, John.”