A brief note: I generally don't like to include writer's notes but for this specific story, I thought it necessary. I came across a story by PreludeinZ quite by accident, a story titled The Harvard Hypocrite, a Thunderbirds AU. This story has spawned a series of other stories (chronologically: The Harvard Hypocrite, Close Quarters, Good Fathers, and Shared Spaces), which you can read in their entirety at NonsenseIncorporated on this site. Shifting the Sun will be bit of a companion piece, picking up where Shared Spaces leaves off. (I'd recommend reading the other stories, but it's your call.)

The fact that I've written this story at all is a bit of a fluke, considering I don't normally take to anything AU and am not even particularly invested in the Thunderbirds bit of the internet. Long story short, I left a comment on The Harvard Hypocrite, Prelude and I got to talking, and now she's been very kind and helped me with my own rather odd contribution to the series.

Oh, and did I mention this is a crossover? - ED

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A dinner meant tuxedos and speeches and microscopic canapés circling the perimeter on shiny trays. It meant people and drinks and networking opportunities, a slow, reverential circumambulation of the VIPs of the room. And it meant Scott had to endure a variety of yes-men trying to get into his good graces, into his father's good graces, and it was getting late, closer to the time when leaving a party wouldn't seem so much like ducking out but the rational decision of a sound mind. And Scott was just about to grab John and tell him that when Scott heard a voice through the haze of voices and the muted clink of champagne flutes.

"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" A mocking pause. "It is the east, and Scott Tracy is the sun."

Scott turned, and it took him a moment to put a name to the smug bastard sitting behind the green stretch of poker table, a glass by his elbow. Robin Locke—LA staple, tabloid darling—was casually shuffling a deck of cards, his loyal band of followers clustered behind him. "It's been an age," he said, offering a lopsided grin.

Not that Scott would be one to concede to a point but Robin was right: it had been an age, maybe even a lifetime because that's what Afghanistan had been, a universe unto itself. But Scott supposed if he were ever to run into Robin by accident, it would be here, at a high-stakes poker game in the backroom of a charity function.

Robin spread the cards in his hands. "Want to play?"

Scott hesitated, just for a second, because it was late and John should get home—but the pause was enough for Robin to shoot his friends a look. "I guess Boy Wonder here doesn't want to party with us plebs."

The others laughed.

Scott glanced at John and wondered if he remembered how much of an idiot Robin really was, and there was the smallest change in John's eyes, a barely imperceptible narrowing that meant he was definitely game. But they probably shouldn't. Robin was about as bright as a low-watt bulb. Taking his money wouldn't be fair, and this was when Scott, in his great benevolence, should show him mercy and move on.

"Surely you could step down from Olympus for an hour and grace us with your good looks," said Robin. "And your money."

"All right," said Scott. "But only if John gets to play."

Robin tilted his head at John. "Have a seat, stretch. Looks like you've got your big brother looking out for you."

The crowd around the table rearranged itself, making room for Scott and John, and Robin held out the deck to Scott. "You can shuffle," he said. "Make sure we're on the up-and-up." He thought he was being gracious.

Scott accepted the deck, the weight familiar in his hand. There was an art to the hustle: pretend to be awful too soon and Robin would know he was lowballing. So Scott opted for Virgil's utilitarian approach to card games: a quick, non-descript shuffle, the moderately confident technique of the everyman. He set the deck down in the middle of the table.

Robin dealt.

Scott picked up his cards, a quick glance at John. They didn't really have a baseline for Robin, but judging by experience, he shouldn't be too hard to figure out. After all, the guy was wearing blue at a black-tie event, a tailored, three-piece suit of slim, clean lines which told Scott what he already knew: Robin was an arrogant ass who didn't care about the rules.

"So when was the last time we saw each other?" said Robin. "And I mean, really looked into each other's eyes and saw the soul that burns within?"

"Hamptons?" Scott wasn't actually guessing. "John and I came to your party."

'Party' sounded innocuous for what it had been. One of those beery ragers only the rich kids of the Hamptons could throw, kind of like an Ent gathering but for douchebags. It had been John's last summer before Kansas U, and Scott had managed to coax him out from behind his book for a last hurrah, which had admittedly been more about Scott than John.

"Oh yeah," said Robin, the memory coming back to him. "That was, what, six years ago?"

They had seen each other around after that, of course, lives casually overlapping at high-profile functions where their fathers had been invited and the sons had tagged along. But the last significant memory Scott had of Robin was at that party, drunk and distant and obnoxious, head of his posse of like-minded fratheads. And apparently not much had changed.

Robin gestured for a refill to his empty glass. "The Hamptons," he mused. "You see, I remember that. I remember you. Don't remember your brother though, but…" he nodded at John, "…who does?"

Scott felt more than saw John shift beside him, the slightest movement, halfway to a flinch, and whatever doubts Scott had about blindly disliking Robin flickered out. They were going to run the table in rings around him.

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Robin was losing. Scott put it down to Robin's three drinks that he couldn't tell he was being played. John put it down to base stupidity. They were both probably right. Not that either of them needed to consult with each other on the subject, or at least not by anything more than brief glances and near imperceptible changes of expression. Scott and John had been brothers for a quarter of a century. John was newly twenty-five. Scott had a degree in mathematics and five years in the air force behind him, and he could read the deck just as easily as he could read the other players, though he read neither of these as easily as his little brother, after knowing him for twenty-five years. At his best, John played cards the same way the Devil plays the fiddle, as though there were souls at stake.

And God help anyone on the other side of the table.

They could both do the requisite math for the game itself, easily, but it was John's lead Scott followed through the metagame. Scott was good at the immediacy of each hand and its odds, he knew that a Queen-King Suited weren't as good as they looked, and equally knew that his opponents mostly didn't know that. Robin certainly didn't. But the cards on the table only represented half the game being played, and by far the less interesting half. There was a bigger picture to be seen, measurements of probability and behavior, of chip counts and betting structure and just damn good card sense. There was more to poker than math, and John had always had a particular penchant for game theory.

Scott threw away a pair of aces on his brother's infinitely subtle instruction, folding in theatrical disgust and telling John he was a rat bastard. The next hand he drove the betting recklessly higher to eliminate one of Robin's cronies, and then watched his brother clean the idiot out with nothing better than three of a kind. The game being played with the cards was so simple a drunk could follow it. The game being played with the players was so complex and subtle that Scott stayed resolutely sober to appreciate it fully. It was artful and elegant and brilliant, and it made Scott's chest swell with warm pride for his little brother as John neatly pared the table down to just the three of them, two against one.

The best part was that Robin still thought he was winning. To be fair, he wasn't entirely wrong. He had more chips than anyone else; he'd taken the pot that cleared another of his lackeys—but not as many as Scott and John together. He had assumed that the way Scott and John had been sniping at each other across the table was just brotherly bickering, but Robin didn't have any siblings and couldn't possibly hear the conversation coded into the casual exchange of insults.

"This town ain't big enough for the three of us," said Scott, exaggerating a Texan drawl, arching an eyebrow and inquiring of his brother whether they should drive Robin out first and then enjoy the last of the game themselves, or whether one of them should have the exclusive pleasure of kicking his ass.

"I suppose midnight is pretty much the same thing as high noon," John murmured in answer and passed the deck over to Scott for his deal. "Your turn," he said lightly, the sort of unnecessary comment that translated to permission for Scott to finish the game himself, and that he'd rather end it sooner than later, and not draw it out any longer than necessary. The next round or two would probably see some reckless betting on John's part, enough to throw the chip-lead in Scott's direction, and to set him up for a head's up game that would finish Robin properly.

Scott had been given permission to take the gloves off, and the cards came alive in his hands. He executed a flashy waterfall shuffle, then spread the cards into a perfect arc across the table, tipped the ace at the end up and let the cards fall along a line like dominoes. He swept the deck back up, performed a nimble one-hand cut, and then another simple riffle shuffle to finish. Robin's mouth opened slightly in surprise and he stared in a kind of numb befuddlement at the cards that landed in front of him.

Scott dealt the first of what would be a series of losing hands. "Thanks for the invite, Robin." He was being blithely insincere. "I'd say it's been fun, but it's been about as fun as go-fish with a four-year-old."

"That seems uncharitable to four-year-olds," John remarked and anted in with a cool ten thousand dollars. His own highball glass of cranberry juice and vodka had been nursed along slowly for the duration of the game, still half-full, and would likely remain that way until he decided to go out.

Robin lost all the ease from earlier. "We're not done yet," he said, pushing twenty thousand dollars' worth of chips into the pot, a reckless raise before he even looked at his cards. "Maybe your math is off."

Scott chuckled and followed the raise, waited as John did the same, and Robin peeked at his cards, blanched momentarily, then checked. Scott dealt the flop and as soon as his eyes met John's across the table, he knew exactly what his brother had. "Actually," said Scott, "I have a degree in Mathematics, summa cum laude from Yale. Johnny's got a Master's in Computer Science from the hallowed halls of the University of Kansas. You've been losing since you agreed to play the pair of us, Robin. We're not playing poker. We're playing you."

It was hard to get a laugh out of John at the best of times, but now and again there was this way his eyes would light up, a way he'd smile. It was better and more refined than anything as coarse as laughter, and reserved exclusively for people who knew him best. He smiled exactly that sort of smile across the table as he said, light and casual, "More to poker than money. And more to poker than math. Knowing the math is the easy part. Usually the hard part is knowing the people you're playing with. But the problem with you is—there's not much to know. Arrogant. Drunk. As bad at the math as you are with your money, or you'd know better than to play cards with any single member of our family. Never mind the two of us at once."

"Not that it would have taken the two of us," Scott added.

Robin downed the rest of his drink, and Scott could read his irritation. "Just play."

John shrugged. "We almost don't really have to." His fingertips tapped his two cards lightly, and he went on, "I've got jack-ten, suited. Now if I take my paltry thirty grand and go all-in, like so—"

His chips slid across the felt into the middle of the table, and suddenly the money in the pot totaled up to more than Robin's hundred grand. He flipped his cards over, revealed his Jack-Nine, both spades. The flop made this eighty-percent of a straight already, and John had excellent odds. Scott had a dependable two pair, queens and kings, but he had already decided to throw this hand in John's direction, as soon as he deals the turn. There were no aces anywhere in evidence yet, and Robin certainly didn't have them. "—then my brother's going to call, because he's got two pair, king high."

Scott inclined his head in a gracious nod and called. The pot now sat at an even hundred grand, and Robin had made the mistake of including his own ante in his total—but those chips were already forfeit. It would cost him another thirty grand to stay in the game, would take a bite out of his bank that totaled up to fifty thousand dollars. For the first time, he picked his cards up and stared at them, as though actually attempting to do the math he'd been told so much about. "And that will drive the pot up, so it'll cost you if you want to keep playing."

John had folded his hands on the table, leaning forward in a slightly predatory fashion. "Now, what you've got is a longshot for a flush," he informed Robin, as though Robin didn't already know, and as though he didn't startle when John told him exactly what he was hoping for. "You've got two hearts, lowish, because you overplay when you get overconfident, and you don't seem to realize why a flush is the fifth most valuable hand in the game. If those were my cards, I'd fold them. But I'm reasonably sure you won't listen to me."

Scott knew John well enough to know that his little brother was attempting to be merciful, to teach Robin a lesson by telling him what he should do and why he should do it. Scott knew Robin better than John did, and he knew this would, without a doubt, backfire.

Robin's fingers tightened around his cards. "You don't know what I have."

John shrugged, apparently indifferent. "Call, then."

"You don't know anything about me." There was a new heat in Robin's tone.

Scott glanced at John, but his brother didn't seem cowed in the slightest. Across the table from Robin, Scott's little brother was nothing but cool, effortless disdain. "All I need to know," John answered, speaking slowly and deliberately, as though he was talking to someone with a recent head injury, "is that you're lousy at cards."

"Oh, piss off."

John was unruffled. "Then play."

Robin pushed more money into the middle of the table, a mound of chips, enough money to buy a house. And Scott couldn't help but shake his head. It was easy, sure, but it wasn't supposed to be this easy. His gaze drifted to the collection of empty glasses beside Robin. He felt a twinge of guilt and his own poker face slipped just slightly. He hesitated, toying with his chips. Just four, five thousand each, his last twenty grand. His odds weren't as good as John's, but they were better than Robin's. Scott folded. He had twenty grand, which was less than what he bought in with, but more than what Robin's going to take home tonight. "I'm out. Robin?"

"Just deal the damn cards, Tracy."

So Scott did.

It took Robin a solid ten seconds to fully appreciate he'd lost the hand. He was never going to win. He had a four and a nine of hearts, and John a straight flush, king high, all spades. It didn't clear him out, but it was obvious that the game was over. Functionally, mercifully, it was almost a tie. Robin had been whittled back down to the value of his original buy-in, the thirty grand that every other player had brought to the table. This would be the best place to end the game.

Scott was already picking up his chips, tacitly removing himself from play. John got to his feet, leaning forward to gather up his winnings from the pot.

Robin threw his cards down. "You Tracys think you own the world."

"Don't we, John?" said Scott, grinning. "It sure feels like it."

Robin grimaced. "Scott Tracy, perpetual golden boy, the flying ace." He paused. "And John—the Harvard has-been."

John froze.

"You didn't think that secret would keep, did you?" Robin's smile was slow. "It's the scoop of the century. Or at least since Gordon's infamous birthday bash. One Tracy was an anomaly. Two is a pattern." Robin leaned forward on his elbows. "Are you high right now? Is that how you won? A little something to sharpen the edge?"

And in the silence that fell, Scott wished Robin had just hit John instead. The expression on John's face was stricken, awful, heartbreaking. Scott couldn't believe he'd allowed this to happen, that he'd been stupid enough to bring his little brother into the toxic presence of Robin Locke.

No one was supposed to know. Scott wasn't even sure how the hell Robin possibly could, except that Robin trafficked in gossip of the worst, most malicious sort, given his own sordid history with the tabloids. Maybe it was a guess off a credible rumor, grown from a kernel of truth about the way John had been at Harvard, been successful at Harvard, and had left, abruptly and without warning.

Scott was frozen, just the same as John, because he didn't know what to do. Any reaction seemed like a trap.

Robin had never been one to let a silence stretch too long. "You have to admit, John, this is pretty big. Gordon was an idiot. You're not. Kinda ruins the image, doesn't it? That spotless Tracy image. Probably why your old man hushed it up. How did he figure it anyway? You trip out at Christmas dinner or something?"

John had come a long way in six months. Six months of sobriety, six months of recovery, six months of slowly, carefully rebuilding his entire self, sorting through the wreckage of the life that had come crashing down around him, dusting off the parts that were still good, fitting them back into his own foundation. John wasn't exactly back to his old self—but his new self was sturdier in some ways, had acquired a quiet strength of someone who'd gone through hell and come out the other side.

A comment about Harvard six months ago would've been enough to break him into pieces, would've had him stumbling from the room in a state approaching panic, convinced the world was coming apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Now, Scott watched his brother lift his chin slightly, set his jaw, the bright green eyes flicking over Robin, taking him in, really and properly, reading him like he'd read the cards when they were still on the table. "At least my father cared enough to stop me."

There was a split second when Scott saw Robin's jaw set before Robin lunged forward, grabbed John by the shirt, and the entire room seemed to freeze. Scott didn't remember standing because time blinked between one moment and the next, and all he knew was that someone had laid hands on a member of his family, some hardwired instinct came flaring back to life. He could see where Robin's grip tightened on John's collar, the way his brother had frozen with a few chips between his fingers, the way Robin's cronies clustered by the bar in the corner of the room, too far away to be considered threats, too close to be discounted.

Robin looked at Scott, the surprise registering slowly in his glassy eyes, as though he'd just remembered John had brought his big brother. This was good, because John's big brother was about to put a fist through Robin's teeth if he didn't let go of him in three seconds.

It took less time than that. Something in Robin changed, a crack in his anger, and maybe it was because the room had gone silent, and all heads had turned, and he was just the cliché of the drunk picking a fight he couldn't win. Because he let go, and John stumbled back, stricken, startled but not hurt, and for the barest moment after, Scott's blood was up, fists clenched, and he had to tell himself to breathe, Scott because Robin was drunk and stupid, and Scott shouldn't kick a man when he was down. Even if they were bastards like Robin Locke.

Robin adjusted the cuffs of his dark blue suit. The arrogance was back, the articulated swagger, everything that had made Scott want to sit down and take every last cent of his money in the first place. Suddenly it felt like the card game had been the best way they could have picked to lose. And maybe Robin had somehow guessed this too, because he grinned. "Big, scary Scott Tracy. Always just a little too late to do any good."

*
P.S. Big thanks to Prelude who had a very real "Hold my beer" moment in bashing out the poker scene in a very short time. She can write poker, I can't.