Deconstruction of Falling Stars

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/4611735.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Major Character Death
Category: Gen
Fandom: thunderbirds are go
Character: John Tracy, Virgil Tracy
Stats: Published: 2015-08-19 Words: 4157

Deconstruction of Falling Stars

by akire_yta

Summary

“People sink into the depression stage where they confront the reality of their loss and their
own helplessness to change it. People may withdraw, experience sleeping habit changes, or
pull back from people or patterns as they process their loss. People may also blame
themselves for having caused or in some way contributed to their loss, whether or not this is
justified.”

Notes

For the TAG Five Stages Challenge, with the prompt: Depression - John and Virgil

I feel I should apologize to whoever had the Virgil prompt, as Virgil kind of settled himself in
alongside John and made himself at home. Title courtesy of the cleverer-than-I JMS and
Babylon Five

**
John fell to earth on a Tuesday. By then, most of the rage had burned itself out, lost in the silence of
space.

He climbed slowly into the space elevator’s pod, feeling cold despite the regulation of his suit, the
carefully controlled climate. He closed his eyes as the pod sealed, and the automatic systems wound
him out and down.

John fell to earth slowly, at the end of an unbreakable tether. But he fell, just the same.

***
Virgil paused, the glass in his hand chilling his fingers as he slowly studied the monitor-blue glow
spilling out of John’s room. Condensation pooled against the pads of his fingers as he thought.

John always was a steady presence in his peripheral vision, on Earth or off it, as he called Five a
hundred times a day to coordinate rescues. But now that he thought about it, it was hard to fix in his
mind the last time he’d seen his brother when there wasn’t some crisis dominating everything.

He’d greeted John when he’d returned to Earth, recalled by Scott’s declaration that their focused
search was over. John had been angry in their last holocom conversation, angry in his own way, eyes
tight and creased at the corners, fatigue hanging off him like an oversized coat. But he hadn’t lashed
out, not like Gordon and Alan had been doing; John was always focused in everything he did, even
his rages. But even so, as soon as the pod had docked, John had pushed Virgil, by grandma, even
past Alan with barely a pause, and had locked himself away with Scott in dad’s office.

Dad’s old office, Virgil realized he should call it now. Or Scott’s. It was Scott’s now.

He transferred his glass to his other hand, stretching the cold out of his fingers as he studied John’s
door some more. It had been firmly shut when he’d headed down to the kitchen for a midnight
snack, about an hour ago.

Sleep had been eluding him, even if his appetite was strong, made worse by all their erratic schedules
as they all scrambled to fill the gaping chasm that their father’s disappearance had left. The glow was
steady, a cold hazy light. It suggested John wasn’t sleeping either.

Virgil went back to the kitchen and made a plate, simple things cut small, easy to eat with fingers
while your brain was away thinking of other things. It had been too long, but Virgil knew how John
got.

The glow was still there when he returned. Virgil steeled himself and let himself in. “Knock knock,”
he said by way of apology.

John didn’t turn around. His feet were up on the desk, and on the display in front of him, little pixel
figures jumped and smashed their way through a virtual jungle. “Mm?” John hummed, fingers flying
across the old controller, eyes firmly on the display.

Virgil put the plate down on John’s desk, and took a moment to check his brother over. The old
NASA t-shirt and loose sleep pants wouldn’t normally raise any alarms, if not for the fact that, from
the look of them, John had been wearing them for awhile. John’s hair was the worst, lank and
unstyled, rumpled as if John had just been pushing back from his face with his fingers. The dark
circles and general sense of exhaustion were still there, stronger now John was out of uniform and
slumped in his seat.

John always looked put together, his things neat. John slumped and rumpled, surrounded by his stuff
like a hurricane had ripped through it was so wrong on so many levels that Virgil felt uneasy just
being there.

He took a deep breath, and pushed the plate over to within John’s reach. “Tag me in,” he said,
picking up the other controller from where it was resting on its charging plate.

‘Player Two Detected: Ready Player Two,’ flashed up, pulsing as it counted him down in. Virgil
vaguely remembered this game; it was one John used to help teach Alan how to mod, his sneaky
way of getting their littlest brother comfortable with coding. “What are we doing?”

“Storming the castle.” John still hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen. His fingers tapped rapid-fire
across the control surface. “Saving the princess.”

Virgil smiled softly, despite himself, as his character sparkled into being. “I’m a space dragon? Nice.
One of yours?”

John just shrugged, the noise of his shirt scraping against his chair unusually loud. Virgil took
another deep breath, and followed John’s avatar into the castle.

Virgil kept half an eye on the screen, half an eye on John. John was staring at the screen, expression
unchanging, the blue glow turning his pale skin pasty and wan. In his hands, Virgil’s controller
vibrated as, in the game, a digital knight hacked at him with a sword. John didn’t turn his character
around, even as the dragon onscreen exploded into a shower of sparkles. “I’m out,” Virgil declared,
leaning back.

All that got was another disinterested shrug. Virgil dropped the controller on his lap, eyes never
leaving John as he sat and pounded the buttons with his thumbs. On screen, the castle gates stayed
firmly closed.

Virgil woke up sprawled uncomfortably on the floor, controller still on his lap. The plate of food was
untouched where he’d left it on John’s desk. John was nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, Virgil stood and stretched the worst of the kinks out of his neck and went to dump the plate
in the kitchen.

***

Virgil’s sleeping beside him, steady snores just on the threshold of hearing. John sighed, and with
shaky fingers quits out of the game.

He’s so tired, he’s not even sure what day it is. Not that it even matters; he’s grounded, away from
his ‘Bird, away from his tools, away from the Search that Scott has declared done.

John normally hates unsolved mysteries - he would read the last page of a mystery novel, just to get
over the tension so he could enjoy the plot. And this isn’t just a fun mystery, a whodunnit that wraps
up neatly on page 340.

They know, with as much certainty as they can muster, whodunnit - The Hood. What they don’t
know is how, and when, and where. John had some of the most sophisticated scanners at his
disposal, the best view of anyone, and he still hadn’t seen; even if they couldn’t have saved their
father, it feels wrong somehow, disrespectful almost, that no one even bore witness.

That’s what’s bugging John, more than anything. No one saw, no one knows anything. There’s no
certainty anymore.

He feels a little weak in ways that only somewhat have to do with being back in the gravity well, but
he forced himself up and through the sleeping house. A part of him, the tiny part that lets him fight
through the long days, make the hard calls, is furious that everyone else can sleep, like nothing has
changed. But for the most part, that little piece of himself had burned itself out of recriminations and
accusations by the time he touched down planetside, and the rest of it threw itself against Scott’s
walls for all of five minutes before Scott gave him his orders.

He was grounded. The Search was over. They had to regroup, figure out what International Rescue
was now.

As far as John can see, now all that’s left is...void.

John stepped out onto the deck, hunching up a little against the cool ocean breeze, and tilted his head
back to look at the stars. Void he’s familiar with; endless night is his home. But this is colder, darker,
and John wonders idly if it’s going to swallow him whole.

It’s the same question he keeps coming back to - if they couldn’t save their own father, what good
were they?

IR had been the goal for so long, something they shared, something so full of purpose that without its
rhythm governing his days, John felt untethered and unmoored.

John stood on the deck, shivering in the wind, and stared up at the stars for answers until dawn came
and washed them out.

Turning away from the noises of the household slowly stirring, he headed up the nearest path into the
jungle and away.

***

The next time Virgil saw John was three days later. For a small island, it was sometimes hard to keep
track of everyone. But cyclone season was starting, and the sky had turned dark and angry, clouds
the colour of old bruises hanging low in the sky. Everyone was pushed back into the main house,
and Virgil realized suddenly that this was probably the first time since Scott called off the main
search that they were all clustered together like this, without focus or purpose.

Virgil found himself doing laps of the house, checking on Alan in the living room where he was
listlessly flipping through his school work under grandma’s watchful eye, and on Gordon out on the
deck sullenly watching the fat raindrops speckle the surface of the pool. Brains was sitting at the
counter near the kitchen, nose buried in his schematics.

“Anyone seen John?” he asked, looping back to the sunken ring.

Alan lifted his head out of his lessons, and looked around. “Not in a while. I think he was talking to
Scott earlier.”

“He’s releasing the tether,” Scott’s voice preceded him down the stairs. He was still wearing that
tightly controlled, stony expression he’d put on when he’d called off the search. It made Virgil’s
heart ache even harder to see it still hadn’t gone away. “That storms getting stronger.” Virgil nodded,
and headed down.

It felt a little strange now, after nearly a year of using the launch tube daily to suit up and descend, to
walk down the stairs into the hangar. He always forgot how deep into the island the Tracy’s had dug.

There was a scent of burnt fuel and exhaust in the air. “Elevator get away ok?” he asked, announcing
himself as he stepped over the threshold into the little remote launch facility bolted to the rockface.

John straightened up, too quick to be casual. “Fine,” he said, not turning to look at Virgil.

Virgil stepped slowly, carefully, feeling a little like he was back on rescue. The edge of the console
was cold and solid under his hands. “Surprised you’re not going back up with it?” he tried, choosing
his tone with delicate care..

John’s laugh was sarcastic, edged with something Virgil wouldn’t normally associate with John. “Me
too. But Scott says…” John sighed, reaching out to tap a display for a moment as the numbers rolled
ever higher. “He wants us...the GDF will just have to handle things for a little while longer.”
Virgil turned, leaning his hip against the console. On the display, the elevator reported back it had
cleared the atmosphere. “And what do you want?”

From this angle, John’s face was in side profile, all angled cheekbones and exhaustion. “I don’t,
remember.“ His mouth quirked, just for a moment, into a moue of bitter humour. “I watch, and I
assess, and I recommend. Guess I wasn’t watching well eno-…” he shook his head, lank hair
twitching with the movement as he cut himself off. “Scott’s call,” he corrected himself. “If he says
we’re grounded…” he trailed off again as the elevator reported it’s status.

Virgil took an educated guess. “You’ll be back up there soon enough. And we’ve gotta regroup. We
need time.”

John sucked in a deep breath, loud in the small space. “Time? Right now, out there? There’s this
cyclone, and there was an earthquake in Japan yesterday. A forest fire in Germany, a building
collapse in Melbourne.” His voice was low, insistent, inevitable. “A thousand disasters today, and a
thousand more tomorrow.” John finally, finally, lifted his head to look right at Virgil. His eyes were
blood-shot, red-rimmed in a too-pale face, and Virgil wondered how many nights had John been
sitting, alone in his room, staring at that stupid game. “We can’t even find our own father, Virg. We
can’t stop the storm. We can’t…” he shook his head again, slumping forward to rest his hands on the
edge of the console. Shoulders curved, backlit by the display, he looked nothing like his strong,
confident brother. “What good are we, really?”

Virgil was speechless. “I...we help, John,” he said after too long a pause. “We can’t help everyone,”
he added, remembering suddenly his father’s voice, saying those words to him after the first time he
wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, to get everyone to safety. “But we help enough. There are
people alive today who wouldn’t have been, because of us. Remember that.”

John’s breathing is uneven, and Virgil finds himself twisting to try and see John’s face, get some
sense of what his brother is thinking. John just turned away. “Elevator’s on course to dock,” he
announced, voice as flat as a machine’s. “I’m gonna take a walk.”

Virgil straightened up. “John, cyclone, remember? Winds are already getting up out there.”

John brushed past Virgil without making eye contact. “I know. I’m just going up to the round house.
I’ll be okay.”

Virgil wished he didn’t know what John sounded like when he was lying. He wished he knew what
else to say.

***

The game was easy; he’d rewritten half of it years ago anyway, he understood the engine and the
mechanics. There were more complex games in the library, new titles John didn’t know, that had
Alan and Gordon’s names in the stats registry. But he kept opening this one, night after night.

He’d tried to sleep, he had. But the storm whipping against the glass sounded like a death rattle, and
if the days were too long, then the nights were even longer.

The round house had no corners for shadows to hide in, at least, and the curved walls were familiar
enough that he could relax his guard, just a little.

The game should have been easy; he knew the rules, knew how it should play out. Every pixel was
familiar, every frame held no surprises. But he was tired, and his movements were a little sluggish,
and his eyes burned as he tried to focus on the too-bright display.
The doors to the castle stayed firmly closed, no matter what he tried. John let the controller drop into
his lap in disgust with himself, and he let his head drop back until he was staring at the ceiling.

On screen, his avatar died over and over again.

***

For the next three days after John rode out the cyclone in the round house, cut off from the rest of
them, Virgil had watched and waited.

John wasn’t eating; in the chaos of the household resettling around the gaping hole their father had
left, it was easy to miss. There were no set mealtimes, not much of a rhythm at all. But Virgil
watched, and made note.

John wasn’t eating. He’d come into the kitchen sometimes, open the fridge door or pick up an apple,
but then after a moment’s consideration, he’d close the door, put down the shiny red fruit, and walk
away.

It was already starting to show, in the sharpness of his cheekbones, and angular, twitching motion of
John’s hands.

John wasn’t sleeping much, either. No matter when in the evening Virgil chose to look, John was
sprawled in his chair, running sims or playing that stupid kids game. Even grandma had commented
on the redness around John’s eyes.

John’s response had just been to spend most of his days where the others weren’t. That wasn’t so
hard. Scott had all but locked himself in dad’s old office, fielding calls from TI and from the GDF
and from whatever other acronym had dad’s number. Gordon was usually swimming laps; at least
he’d stopped breaking his fingers on the walls. Alan still seemed a little in denial about the whole
thing, which was another problem weighing on Virgil’s mind.

Virgil didn’t understand denial; dad was gone. They weren’t. It was horrific and sometimes hit him
with a force that made him gasp, but denial didn’t change the facts.

And the facts were, dad was gone and none of them could claim they were dealing with it well.

The storm had cleared the air, and the crystalline stillness of the bay below was picture perfect as
Virgil climbed the steep external track to the round house. He could have taken the interior route -
fast, efficient, seamless like all the things his dad had commissioned - but he needed the time to
marshal his thoughts.

John was worrying him.

The blinds were all drawn, leaving the centre of the round house warm and dark. “Go away, Virg,”
John muttered from where he was sprawled on the couch, legs draped over the armrest and one arm
trailing on the floor. A discarded controller lay on the rug, just beyond John’s slack fingertips.

Virgil sat down on the ottoman, resting his elbows on his knees. “Talk to me, John.”

John let his other arm drop across his eyes. “About what, Virg?” Virgil just settled himself more
comfortably and waited. He could always outwait John, ever since they were kids. It didn’t take
long. “What do you want to talk about? How we’re just sitting here?”

Virgil brushed some invisible lint off his knee. “Or how about when was the last time you got some
real sleep?”
John finally lifted his arm from his face. “I...every time I close my eyes, I...I see the HUD on Five,
and I wonder what signal I missed,” John admitted quietly.

“John…” Virgil began, but John held up his hand.

“I watch, Virg,” John said firmly, the first echo of John that Virgil had heard in days. “That’s my
job. And dad…” he choked slightly. “Dad had told me to watch out, he told me he was investigating
him. The Hood,” John spat the name. “And I still didn’t see it coming.”

Virgil had no idea what to say. On the couch, John swung his legs around until he was sitting
upright, the movement slow and awkward, like gravity, or something even stronger, was clawing
him back down. “You know, I managed to actually fall asleep this morning. Just for a little bit. And
all I could dream about was what dad might have seen, just before he crashed. How he must have
been trying to make contact.” John scrubbed his face with his hands. “He must have been trying to
reach me, and I didn’t hear him Virg.”

Virgil cursed under his breath as he leaned forward. If this were Gordon or Alan, Virgil would just
wrap them in a bear hug and scruff their head until they stopped thinking such nonsense.

In front of him, John unconsciously mirrored Virgil’s posture, elbows on knees, head bowed. “I
just...I know, I got the same speech from dad. You won’t save them all. But…” John looked Virgil
right in the eye. “It was dad. It wasn’t anyone, it was dad. And I didn’t hear him.”

Virgil didn’t know how to fix this. It was too big a problem. “You need sleep.” The words spilled
out without thought, but once he said them, Virgil knew that, at least here, there was part of the
solution. “Go on, lie down.”

John shook his head and stood instead. He stretched, slowly, carefully, like every part of him was
aching. “I need to get up to Five,” John murmured quietly, glancing at Virgil like he was assessing
the impact of his words. “I need to work. I….I never did like waiting.”

Virgil nodded as stood as well. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll talk to Scott, convince him to restart, if you
go downstairs and eat something.”

John turned away, the high thin blush on his cheeks still visible in the low light. “I’ve not had much
of an appetite.”

Virgil was already heading for the door. “Well, I’m going to talk to Scott, so figure it out. You’re an
genius. Work the problem,” he called back.

John’s laugh was weak, but real.

***

The thing about Virgil, John thought as he slowly and deliberately carved off a slice of apple, was
that he did what he said, he followed through. When everything else was getting blown about in the
storm, Virgil was the unmoving rock you could tether yourself to.

Virg had been locking himself in with Scott for hours at a time. Scott may have his own worries, but
Virgil had patience, and he’s never been afraid of hard work. Besides, as much as the weight of their
loss is bearing them down, they were always bigger than just five brothers - they were International
Rescue, and they were needed.

John caught Virgil’s eye as he preceded Scott out of the office, and deliberately crunched down on
the slice of apple balanced on the flat of the knife. Virgil grinned, and gave him a small wink as Scott
cleared his throat and made his announcement like it was all his own idea.

They’re going to start easing back into full operations. It’s a partial victory - Scott wanted Five to
continue acting as a relay rather than a manned station for a little while longer, while they work out
the kinks in the new lineup. But it was a start.

John carved off another slice of apple, as Virgil settled down on the stool beside him at the kitchen
counter. John stretched, feeling all the knots along his spine, but he forced himself to sit straighter,
pay attention as Scott led them through a discussion of what it meant to be a team of five and not six,
who was flying what, how it was going to work.

He had finished his apple without thinking about it, too caught up in the discussion to more than nod
thanks as he accepted the muffin Virgil passed him.

By the time the meeting broke up, the sun was low in the sky. John stretched again, and went to
wash the crumbs off his fingers.

***

Virgil was painting, taking advantage of the last days of their retreat to spend some time with the
canvas. By his bed, an open folio shows the bright colours of the post-Impressionists.

Dad had liked Seurat - he’d said the colours reminded him of a gentler time.

Virgil was feeling anything but gentle; his canvas was a riot of bold strokes, perfect counterpoint to
the soft tones of the folio, and as he used his thumb to blend the tones, he could feel his shoulders
unknot slowly.

His awareness that he was not alone came over him slowly enough that it wasn’t a shock to see a
shadow appear beside him. Glancing over, he smiled at John, standing there in slacks and a pressed
shirt. “How’s it going?” John asked, lifting his chin to indicate the canvas.

“Messily,” Virgil said, just to hear John’s soft chuckle again. John watched as Virgil mixed the
colours, smearing them on the canvas.

When John finally speaks again, it’s so softly that only the quiet of Virgil’s studio let’s him hear the
words. “We’re going to be okay.”

Virgil concentrated on breathing, just for a moment, bristles sinking slightly into the rich vermillion
red smeared across his palette. “Is that a statement or a question?” he asked at last, just as quietly.

“We’re going to be okay,” John repeated, more firmly this time, more like John. “You and me, and
Alan and Gordon, and Scott. Everyone. We’ll be okay.” He smiled, and Virgil could hear it in his
voice. “We save people, that’s what we do. We can save ourselves, right?”

Virgil nodded, swirling the painting into a vivid, vicious spiral. “Absolutely,” he agreed, not daring
to look up. John’s hand settled lightly on his arm, warm and real. John squeezed gently, once, a
wordless gratitude they both understood, before he withdrew back to the old couch Virgil had
jammed up against one wall. A comfortable silence fell in the studio as their breathing synched and
settled.

John was sound asleep the next time Virgil stepped back from the painting. Virgil looked from it’s
bright, angry swirls, centred around a vivid, burning white centre, over to where John lay, eyes
closed, chest gently rising and falling.
Virgil propped against the wall to dry. He threw a light blanket over John, and went to mix up
something in a midnight blue.

***

John returned to Thunderbird Five early on Wednesday morning. Virgil watched the elevator lift,
until it was just a tiny dot, before it was swallowed by the deepening blue sky.

He raised a hand in farewell, then went inside to find breakfast. Soon he’d be suiting up again, and
he had to be ready for anything.

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