The ramblings of a Nut who should be doing something else – Adelaide, South Australia


Title: Live
Part 2 of 6, Follows on from Listen
Author: Gumnut
5 Aug 2018
Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015
Rating: Teen
Summary: For the world is unkind and it needs your touch.
Word count: 1042
Spoilers & warnings: None
Author’s note: Okay, this follows on from Listen but is standalone, each can be read by themselves, and each will be different (well, I think so, I haven’t written the other four yet and who knows what the boys will have me doing). Un-beta’d so everything is my fault. I’m sorry, Scott 😀
Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother. 

Alan dashed down the corridor, desperately looking for a hiding spot. He was so dead. How was he supposed to know Scott was going to walk into Gordon’s room before Gordon did? He hadn’t known, but that didn’t negate the fact that there was now glue, feathers, an ample amount of blue dye and one very pissed off eldest brother to contend with.


Aw, shit.

Where to go…he darted between a bathroom and a closet before his eyes landed on the answer to everything.

Virgil’s studio door.

He smiled grimly.

Anyone and everyone was banned from entering their artistic brother’s personal domain. Thinking of it now, glue, feathers and blue dye might be one of the reasons why. But regardless of the reason, it would keep Scott out.

Alan slunk down the corridor and quietly opened the door, slipping through a crack barely as wide as he. Equally as quietly, he closed the door behind him.

It wasn’t until the door shut with a soft click that he realised that the lights were on and someone was definitely in the room.

Reflexes learnt on far distant moons and beside the family pool had him diving for cover behind a desk before he’d even identified the room’s occupant as Virgil.

He held his breath, fully expecting a raging second eldest brother to come crashing down upon him followed by the pending older landslide he’d prepped earlier.

But nothing happened.

Still barely daring to breathe, Alan peered around the edge of the desk. Virgil had his back to him. He was wearing an old pair of faded jeans and a short sleeved black t-shirt, both sported paint stains. As did the slightly canted black beret on his head.

Alan raised an eyebrow as Virgil raised his paintbrush to the canvas. Okay, this was something he hadn’t seen before. Sure he had seen his brother paint before. Heh, he’d even been a subject of several of those paintings over the years. But the beret – that was new.

And so were the shoulder movements. Virgil lifted his brush off the painting – a massive canvas taller and wider than his brother by a metre or so – and began moving his body rhythmically.

Alan’s eyes boggled until his brother turned slightly to expose his wireless earbuds.

Music. Virgil was listening to music. While he was painting.

And he obviously had no idea Alan was in the room.

Virgil’s brush was now conducting some unseen orchestra and the expression on his brother’s face could only be described as absorbed. His head bobbed to an unheard beat, his shoulders rolled, flexing his torso, and his right knee jigged in counterpoint.

And suddenly, whatever he was listening to must have come to a crescendo, because Virgil jumped up, flung his arms wide and arched his back. He opened his mouth and sung without words.

Alan blinked. His brother was singing to the music, whatever it was, but only mouthing the words. Not that it seemed to matter to him. He was definitely lost in whatever was playing in his ears. There was very little painting getting done.

And then Virgil started wriggling his butt.

Alan buried his face in his hands. Oh god. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or hysterical. Perhaps a little bit of both. A small voice in the back of his mind was screaming at him that he was on sacred ground, an inch away from death and mortification, and not sure which would be worse.

Another apparent crescendo as Virgil jumped again. Oh, great there was a pantomimed microphone.

He was dead. There was no doubt about it. He dropped his gaze to the ground almost terrified to look anymore.

There was a single white feather on the linoleum.

Alan drew in a breath and looked up.

His eldest brother was standing in the cracked open doorway, hair covered in feathers and half his face the same colour as his eyes. Those eyes momentarily distracted by Virgil shaking his booty yet again. Just beyond him stood Gordon looking like all his Christmases had come at once.

Alan opened his mouth to say something, but Scott slapped him with his eyes. A finger to his lips, he grabbed his arm and dragged him through the door, shoving him into the hallway. Gordon was equally ejected. Scott peered inside the studio for a moment longer before pulling the door quietly shut. Hopefully Virgil was none the wiser.

One killer older brother was enough.

He then found himself being dragged alongside Gordon down to the comms room where he knew the soundproofing would hide the tirade he knew was coming. Scott planted himself in front of the two of them. Alan cringed waiting.

But nothing came. Nothing loud.

Calmly, quietly. “I’m disappointed, Alan. I thought you had more respect for Virgil.” Alan opened his mouth, but Scott held up a hand. Another feather floated to the floor. “He asked you to respect his privacy. As much as he respects yours.” His glance flickered to Gordon. “I don’t want to hear a whisper of this. I don’t want your brother to know you were in there, I want no discussion whatsoever, or so help me you will wish you had never stepped foot in this house much less that room.” Gordon opened his mouth. “No, Gordon, just no. Both of you act like adults, for goodness sake.”


The two of them, even Gordon, stared up at him as if he had threatened them with bodily harm. Well, he had, vaguely, but the threat needed to be strong enough to tie up one of the worst pranksters and his cohort. If a threat would do that, he would do it.

“I’m going to shower and get this mess off my head.” He glared at Alan. “I hope this is a water-soluble dye, Alan, otherwise I’m lining you up in front of our next customer to explain why the Field Commander of International Rescue is wearing Celtic warpaint.”

His youngest brother visibly swallowed.

Flicking another glare in their direction, he headed off to his shower.

And if he smiled on the way there, no one had to know the image of his booty-shaking brother was the cause of it.


Part Three – Lie

Leave a Reply