Work Text:
Hot, creaking pain seared below Gordon’s shoulders, and deep into his lower back. Even curled in on himself the pain wasn’t much relieved, but it was leagues better than if he’d stayed sitting upright on the lounge.
The copious amounts of pillows and blankets strewn around his bed, the floor and every other inch of his room were placed in convenient-to-grab locations without moving at all from his ball atop his sheets.
His awards and medals — the medal — were stowed behind his door, where he couldn’t accidentally glance at them, and spiral down into a hole of pointless self-pity. Gordon was proud of them, truly and unbearably proud of his achievements, but there was a curling upset that came with knowing he’d never compete even close to that level again. There was no competition that meant anything anymore, and while he lived for rescuing, he missed the rush of competing, the soft fall from the minute or so of adrenaline exhausting but comfortable in the way a post-rescue crash never could be.
Broken out of his pain-fuzzed thoughts, Gordon heard the low chime of John’s hologram fill the room.
“Gordon,” John said, only to be greeted by silence. “Gordon,” he tried again.
“Gordon!”
Gordon was not responding because Gordon had double dosed himself on retail painkillers, and holed up under his covers. He might have forgotten to take himself off rotation, but he wasn't exactly thinking clearly; sue him.
“We need Thunderbird 4,” John said, voice terse and demonstrating a level of control most people simply didn't possess. International Rescue was running ragged, and Gordon was sure that John hadn't slept much in the last fifty-six hours. Grandma would've insisted that she take over dispatch at some point, but it was clear that her help, while undoubtedly appreciated and unequivocally necessary, had been some time ago.
Thanks to the soundproofing built into the villa on Tracy Island, Gordon felt rather than heard Thunderbird 3 return to her silo, and the deep, distinctive thud of Thunderbird 2’s landing hatch closing.
Gordon groaned.
It wasn’t particularly unusual, the pain that had stayed grasping to Gordon’s bones ever since the accident, but there were days that the quiet buzz turned into a cruel and loud tug. Tracy stubbornness only let Gordon shoulder his way through so much of the pain. Though, quite frankly, their day job coursed enough excitement and adrenaline through his body to boost him through most of the pain.
“Gordon, both Alan and Virgil should be off rotation for the next eight hours.” John’s voice grew increasingly impatient. “I need you to take thunderbirds 2 and 4, get the trapped divers out, and restabilise the research base, now .”
Gordon considered telling John that, technically, Gordon was also not clear to fly. Instead, he gathered the famous willpower that had defied medical diagnoses, and dragged himself out from the comforting warmth of his covers and heat packs. “FAB John,” he said, hoping the wince he gave as he stood didn't reach his voice. “On my way.”
The extra thirty seconds it took for Gordon to rouse himself, he knew, could be costly, so he shoved down the searing pain, and charged on. “Virgil, we’re swapping out.” He said, using his personal wrist comm. “Don’t power Two down.”
“Sure thing, Gordon,” Virgil said, voice tinny, “Be careful down there.”
Gordon grit his teeth as his robotic arms swirled and buzzed and attached his equipment, spitting him out into Two’s cargo hold, alongside his bright and cheerful sub. His back screamed at him to curl into a corner rather than take his place in Virgil’s seat.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Gordon mumbled.
He taxied Two to the runway, palm trees parting, landing lights marking the way as Gordon let the swell of adrenaline narrow his focus to each new problem as it came.
Preflights complete, Gordon settled, eyebrows furrowing in concentration.
“Thunderbird Two is Go.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice,” John’s voice floated through Gordon’s room.
“S’fine, Johnny,” Gordon said, face buried into his pillow. “Not your fault. Heat it up, roll it out. I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
John hummed, the edge of the bed dipping between him as he sat by Gordon’s feet. He’d always had wide, short feet. Particularly good for swimming, of course, but made it a pain to find shoes that fit properly, and didn’t hang inches over his toes to make sure he could actually get his foot into the shoe.
Gordon’s breath hitched quietly. John had come all the way down to apologise to him. It was a non-issue, really. Gordon was used to the flashes of fire that spread through his back, it was no one’s fault. Sometimes it hurt just a bit too much, needed a break from the straining and pressure and sudden movements of rescues.
“I could have sent Alan, or even Scott, if you really needed a break.”
Gordon shrugged. “Nah, those people needed my help, John. They’d have been dead long before Alan got to them, and Scott would’ve been shit-farm exhausted.”
Gordon delighted in his and John’s shared use of absurd and impolite strings of language, kept largely between the two of them.
John let out an amused huff, hand resting on the back of Gordon’s ankle. “Pretty sure that’s not a phrase.”
“Pretty sure you dropped out of the sky to apologise for nothing.”
“I’ve given us all the next eighteen hours off,” John said.
Gordon sat up and turned his head to look over his shoulder at John. “ You gave us the next eighteen hours off?”
“Sound more surprised, Gordo.” John rolled his eyes. “We’ve been working our fucking asses off, we deserve a day and a half off.”
Gordon relaxed back into his pillow, honey-coloured strands of hair flaring and sticking every which way. John made a good point: they all had workaholic tendencies, but sometimes someone had a streak of common sense and forced them all into functional “weekends.”
“Fuck, yeah,we do.”
“Right, well.” John stood up, discomfort in the sudden close of the conversation clear. “Do you need anything else?”
“Celery Crunch Bar?”
“Need, Gordon.”
“Celery Crunch Bar and more heat packs? Please Johnny?”
“Don’t call me Johnny,” said John with a roll of his eyes, and went to get Gordon his celery and heat packs.