Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates.
AN: Just a quick two-shot for John and Scott fans. Part 2 should be up later tonight. Hope y'all enjoy! :)
You're the Voice
It had been a hell of a month, even though International Rescue had launched six months ago. Every plausible scenario under the sun had been broadcasted through the tinny speakers in Thunderbird Five; John had had the hardest time weeding out what calls ranked high enough on the Totem Pole of Disaster to call in the cavalry. But the month had come to an end, and he was going home.
At last, considering he had pulled a triple rotation after Alan had weaselled his way out of his time on Five.
As soon as Thunderbird Three had docked, and the airlock was secure, John had tossed his holdall into the lounge of Three and thrown Alan towards the communications console, mindful of the fact that Alan's arm was in an immobiliser. John was that desperate to leave Five behind.
A quirked eyebrow from Scott, who was leaning casually against the wall in the docking tunnel.
"Everything okay, Johnny?"
There was no response, and that worried Scott. It wasn't like John to ignore questions posed his way. Scott wondered if the time John spent in isolation had impacted him in such a way, and he resolved to get to the bottom of the issue.
"Are you coming, Scott?"
"In a moment; just making sure that Alan's settled in."
John grunted and began running start up on Thunderbird Three's engines. The sooner he got out of Five, out of orbit and back on a planet with a gravitational field, the better.
Late evening on Tracy Island saw John sitting on the teak planking of the balcony, legs slotted between cast iron railings, a luke-warm beer bottle in his hand. He had been unusually quiet – even for him – and he was sure that his father, not to mention Scott, had picked up on it. John wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or a bad. All he knew was that he internalised most of his problems, and sooner or later, it was going to implode. Or explode, depending on who prodded the right buttons.
"You can sit down, y'know. I'm not going to bite." John didn't even have to turn around to find Scott hovering behind him.
With a rueful smile, Scott eased down onto the wood panelling, slotting his legs between the railings with difficulty – they were almost too narrow for the thigh muscle that he had built up.
"You're helping me if I'm stuck here," Scott mentioned, wiggling to get more comfortable.
John glanced down. "Actually, I'd leave you like that; then I could have a go at being Field Commander."
Scott barked out a laugh. "In your dreams, little brother. In your dreams."
There was a moment of sobered silence. Scott handed John a new bottle of beer, knowing that the one John had would taste horrible by now. The glass clinked and each brother took a long swallow.
"What's up, Johnny?"
John seemed to ignore the question as he tilted his head back to gaze up at the stars. The brightest star in the sky was directly overhead. Mom's star was watching over them.
"I hate being on Five." It was said so matter of fact that Scott had to wonder how long this had been eating away at John. "I want to go out on rescues sometimes."
"You're not up there all the time," Scott pointed out, although they both knew it was a bit of a falsehood. Alan had shirked more time off Thunderbird Five than he had spent on it.
John shot Scott an unfathomable look, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. His oldest brother had completely missed the point he was attempting to make. The purpose behind John's desire to go out on rescues was so that when disaster struck for the second time, as it was so prone to do when International Rescue were around, he could be there to help get his brothers out of whatever difficult patch they found themselves stuck in. Being up on Five rendered him helpless when that happened.
It was almost as though Scott had read his mind. "John, you being up on Thunderbird Five is more beneficial than you realise. We may be the face and hands of International Rescue, but you're the most important part. You're the voice of International Rescue."
John took a swig of his beer and snorted in disbelief, which caused Scott to sigh. Words meant little to the second Tracy son; he was a scientist and he believed things through tangible proof. An experiment was needed, Scott knew, to get John to see his point, and Scott had formed an idea. With difficulty, Scott managed to wriggle out from behind the bars, stretched and rose to his feet.
"John," he asked, one hand outstretched while the other rubbed at the indentations the iron bars had imprinted onto his thighs. "Do you trust me?"
"With my life. You know that."
"Then come with me."