Title: Home for the Holidays

Author: ArtisticRainey

Summary: This is the story of a certain Christmas, when a certain someone is caught up in a certain spot of bother, which causes others a certain amount of concern for certain others.

Notes: There are elements in this story that I've taken artistic licence with, such as places, relations, and names, as we know little about the Tracy family's pre-International Rescue life. These elements are purely fanonical and should not be construed as canon in any way. Thanks go to Tikatu for beta and advice, and for prodding me to actually post something instead of leaving it to fester on my hard-drive for another two years…

The summer had disappeared as quickly as a plate of cookies near my boys, and before I knew it, it was the twenty-fourth of December. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel in time with an upbeat, modern Christmas tune as I drove home from Topeka, where the head office of my successful aeronautical engineering company, Tracy Construction and Aerospace, was located. The busy lights of a thriving city braced for last minute Christmas shoppers gave way to sprawling fields, now frozen and bare under the moonlight. Even in the barren winter, Kansas was still beautiful to me. Farmhouse windows glinted like stars in my wing mirror, and the road turned shimmering gold as I drove onwards. I knew the beauty of the land during the summer, too, when the slender wheat stalks waved like gentle fingers in the warm winds and the fields of sunflowers stretched to the horizon. I knew all its splendour. Kansas had always been my home.

The lights of Andersonville, the town where we lived at that time, came into view quicker than usual. I had left the office early as it was Christmas Eve, but there was another reason why I wanted to get home with haste: my boys were, at last, coming home.

The house had been emptier for some months after Scott, my eldest at twenty-one years of age, left for his final year at Yale. He was already talking of doing a master's degree at Oxford, and as much as it would pain me to see my son leave the country, there was no way I was going to stop him. My second eldest, Virgil, who was eighteen, had left to attend the Denver School of Advanced Technology. The boy had spent most of his childhood with a screwdriver in one hand and a technical manual in the other; there was no doubt that the DSAT was the right place for him. Only my three youngest were left at home with me.

In the week leading up to Christmas, I began to think we lived in a junkyard instead of a house. I was working longer hours to clear my desk so I could take the week long vacation I had been hoping for. That meant I wasn't at home to supervise the Christmas decorating. To this day, I'm still surprised that the boys didn't blow up the house right then. My third born son, John -- who had just turned sixteen at the time -- for all his brains, didn't have much common sense. On the day he was born, my father took one look at him and said, "That boy is destined for greatness." Then again, he said that about them all. Somehow the trick of putting together a plastic Christmas tree eluded John. In retrospect, it wasn't smart to put him in charge. I still can't understand how they got tinsel stuck in the dishwasher. And I don't want to know. Thankfully Patty-Ann Simmons, the lady from next door who always struck me as a 'Mrs Santa Claus' figure, sensed the problem. In a snap the tree was up, we had light-up snowmen in the garden, and the house smelled like gingerbread and cinnamon. Life was in some semblance of order by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, and Scott and Virgil were due to arrive home.

The low moon peeked out from behind the silvered clouds as I pulled into the driveway of our house. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a family lounge, a den for the kids, a study for me, and an attic, all finished in cream stone with a veranda in front for lazy summer evenings, and a generous garden out back. Tracy Construction and Aerospace had hit the ground running, and I was planning to expand the company under the new name, Tracy Industries. I had already started amassing my fortune at that stage, but money was far from my mind as the drive crunched under the car wheels. My boys were coming home.

At the press of a button the garage door opened, and I drove in. I was very glad for our gas central heating, considering that the temperature was set to plummet well below zero. After I turned off the ignition I smacked my forehead and groaned: Patty-Ann's husband had asked me to take a look at their burner; he thought there was something wrong. I had told him it would be better to call a technician, but I made a note to check in the day after Christmas anyway. Richard was widely known as a man who worshipped Murphy's Law; there was probably nothing wrong. I headed into the kitchen: terracotta and peach to offset the honey coloured wood finishing. My artist, Virgil, decorated it all. He liked decorating the rooms as much as he liked painting on canvas. It was a handy trait, considering I never had time to do it myself.

I hummed as I walked out to the hallway, my shoes clicking on the hard floor, and stripped off my heavy coat, hanging it up in the small closet under the stairs among the mass of jackets already there. An assortment of hockey sticks, tennis racquets, and dirty running sneakers were piled up on the floor, and I told myself again that I had to get the boys to tidy up. Who was on cleaning duty that week? I couldn't remember.

As I pulled off my gloves, something that jingled bounded down the staircase.

"Welcome home, Dad!"

The cheerful voice of my second youngest son, the often impetuous and always jovial thirteen-year-old Gordon, greeted me. I smiled. There has always been something very special about that boy; special in the way he brings happiness wherever he goes. I always hoped that his smile would never dim.

"Good evening, son."

I shook my head and laughed as Gordon grinned at me and I realized what the jingling had been. My son was leaning against the banister, dressed normally except for the pair of felt reindeer antlers perched atop his head, complete with tinsel and little gold bells.

"Where did you get those?" I asked as I headed back towards the kitchen. A thud and another jingle told me that Gordon had jumped off the stairs and was following.

"Scotty brought them home for me. Alan got a pair, too."

I stopped and spun around, and Gordon almost banged into my stomach at the unexpected halt.

"Is Scott home already?" I asked. If he were, surely he would have come to greet me…

"Yeah, he arrived a few hours ago. Uncle Harry picked him up from the airport." Good old Harrison, my younger and only brother, who had taken charge of the family farm in my place when I had left to join the Air Force so many moons ago.

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"He and Johnny went to the corner store. They should be back soon," Gordon said.

I nodded. Good, at least one of them was home. I walked on into the kitchen and glanced at the wall clock: six-thirty. Virgil's bus was due to arrive in Topeka any minute, providing it had left on time. I had offered to pick him up from the terminus, but he declined. One of his best friends had offered to drive him home, so he was 'fine'. Well, that suited me. It meant I didn't have to hang around Topeka after work.

I had wondered why Virgil wanted to take the bus for such a long journey in the first place. It was over 400 miles from Denver to Topeka. When I asked, he had told me that after four months of studying planes, a bus would be a more than welcome change of scenery. I guessed that he wouldn't be saying that when he finally got home.

I dug my keys out of my pocket and hung them up with the others, and pulled out my cell phone, checking for new messages. Gordon took a bottle of soda from the fridge and snagged two glasses. Two. That reminded me.

"Where's Alan?" I asked as I loosened my tie.

"In the den. We're playing foosball. We're going to take on Johnny and Scott when they get back," he said with a grin.

"Great." I smiled back at. It was always nice to see my boys getting along.

Gordon collected the glasses and headed back upstairs. I shouted a cursory "Alan, I'm home!" and received the typical "Welcome back, Dad!" I was just about to follow Gordon when I heard laughter. The front door swung open to reveal my lanky towhead, John, wrapped up snugly against the cold, carrying two bulky bags from the corner store, and accompanied by someone I had been looking forward to seeing.

Scott had one arm slung about his brother's shoulders, and he was moving with an ease that he never seemed to lose, no matter how long he was away from home. He gave John a hearty pat on the back, eliciting a grunt from his victim, and strode over to me, his face relaxed in a mercurial grin.

"Hey Dad!" He said as he pulled me in for a quick, rough hug.

"It's good to see you back, Scott," I said. "How is everything? Good, I hope?"

"Same old, same old," he said with a shrug. "I'll tell you all about it when I'm more awake. The news is so boring it'll send even me to sleep!"

The boys divested themselves of their outer clothing. John went into the kitchen, while Scott and I headed into the lounge. We sat down on the comfortable cream sofas - the style and colour chosen by Virgil, of course - that were tinted by the cheerful lights of the Christmas tree, underneath which was a mound of presents for the boys (and me). Scott settled in so quickly it was as if he had never gone away. I always found it amazing that no matter where my boys had been and how long they were gone for, they could always fall back into the family routine. It was comforting.

"It's great to be back, Dad," Scott said with a lopsided grin. "Much as I love Yale, I'll always be willing to come back to Kansas."

We talked -- Scott didn't fall asleep, as he had claimed -- and after a while we fell into companionable silence. Scott seemed content to soak in the atmosphere of home. I could hear John puttering about in the kitchen; bags rustled, and he started putting things away, humming tunelessly as he did. My elder blond was a quirky boy who was quickly growing into a fine young man. He was cheerful and quiet, with a wit that could slice rocks and the patience of several saints – several thousand saints. He wasn't the most sociable teenager to hit Kansas, but he did just fine. He was the definitive big brother for Gordon and Alan, and now that he was the oldest left at home, he was the default 'mom' as well. My wife Lucille, God rest her soul, died long before her time, and I still miss her to this day. We cope; we've always coped. But we never forget.

Scott drew me out of my musing with a soft, "Hey, Dad?" and a wave of his hand.

"Oh. Sorry son. What?" I asked.

"You zoned out there for a minute. Is there anything on your mind?"

"No, no." I waved it off. "I just let my mind run away with itself. So, what were you and John doing at the store?"

"Munchies," Scott said plainly, "for the traditional Christmas Eve vid-a-thon."

"Ah." Eating junk food and watching movie marathons was how we always spent Christmas Eve; sometimes I think we should start up that tradition again. "What are we in for this year?" I asked. "The Killer Androids from Pluto trilogy again, or something from back when I was a kid?"

"Not sure yet," Scott replied. "We have to wait until Virg gets home before we decide. When's he due in, anyway?" Scott glanced at his watch, and I followed suit. Seven.

"Any minute now, I would imagine," I said.

"How's he getting here?" Scott asked, suddenly putting two and two together and discovering that I wasn't picking Virgil up.

"One of his friends is giving him a ride."

"Good." Scott sat back in his seat. "I bet he wouldn't relish another bus ride after coming all the way from Denver. That I-70 can be murder sometimes."

I chuckled. No, he certainly wouldn't.

Just then, John flopped down on one of the comfy armchairs and pulled off his boots, sweeping some hair back from his face. It was reaching his shoulders by then, but it was always tied back.

"John, get a haircut," Scott said automatically.

John heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes. I smiled; John was tired of this particular argument, though it never came from me.

"Look, when I get it cut, it grows back within weeks, and it looks stupid. And anyway, it looks cooler like this." He gave an exaggerated flick of his hair.

Scott laughed and glanced over at me. I shrugged. I didn't care what way my boys grew their hair as long as it was suitable for school and work, and wasn't lime green. Scott shook his head and stood up, stretching. He was tired from his own long journey home, it seemed.

"I'm going to go up and check on the other two," he said.

"You just want to whup them at foosball," John said dryly, picking up the televiewer guide.

"We did promise them a game, Johnny," Scott said. John gave a noncommittal 'hmm', but Scott strode over and took hold of the blond ponytail, pulling on it. "C'mon, Johnny-boy. Up-up."

"Scott! Let go!" John tried to swat the offending hand away, but Scott pulled harder. "Scott! Oh, all right, you big kid. Hair pulling, geez…"

Scott laughed victoriously, and John grudgingly got up and made to follow his brother from the room. I coughed and raised an eyebrow.

"Boots, right," he said, knowing the score.

I smiled and thanked him, and he returned the smile in a very wry way as he picked up the offending items. The two trudged upstairs, and I soon followed suit.

I found myself checking my watch more than I should have. Virgil was fine, I assured myself. There was nothing wrong, just a little delay; that was all. But still, he would have called me... I wrestled with the idea of calling him, but it wasn't that late yet. I would wait, and who knew? He might arrive in any second.

I changed into some comfortable clothes and lay back on the bed, propped up by the latest set of fat feather pillows my mother had bought me. She knew I couldn't sleep on anything else, and in her motherly way she decided to make sure that I actually got rest after our initial traumatic move to Andersonville was over, and then every few years after that. We first moved into the house about six months after Lucille passed on. I found that I couldn't live in the home we had bought together after we got married; there were too many memories of her, and I knew I couldn't move on with my life until I got out of there. So we sold up and moved to a different neighbourhood, into the house between the Simmons family and Tom and Sandy Belle, but it was not an easy task. All of the boys were young, and it took the help of Mother, Harrison, my sister Madison, and a platoon of cousins and old neighbours to relocate us. I was barely coping, but I clung to the idea that if we moved, I could move on. I was right.

I was torn from my comfortable reverie by a sudden loud cheer from the den; apparently, Scott and Gordon had teamed up, and were currently beating John and Alan into the ground. I shook my head and palmed my face. I wouldn't have objected to a little pre-movie marathon nap, but it was not to be. I picked up the televiewer remote and turned it on to the Mid West America News channel and sat back. The seven-thirty bulletin was just starting. Seven-thirty; where was Virgil?

The headlines began to roll by, and my question was answered.

"A huge crash on the I-70 at the border of Colorado and Kansas brings traffic to a standstill."

The I-70. That was the road Virgil's bus took from Denver to Topeka! I found myself yelling for Scott, and all four boys piled into my room, panicked and puzzled. I didn't know what to say.