It was John who was the practical one. Aware of his brothers' state of mind, the suspected injuries hidden by Scott and Virgil, and the sun slowly being overtaken by cloud, urged him to gently suggest that perhaps it was time to go.

He had recorded the monument in fine detail. Enough to project a hologram from his phone. He had thoughts on that. Something that might help. But for the moment, his priority was getting his brothers safely home.

A quiet word with Eos and it wasn't long before a roar echoed across the mountains and Thunderbird Two made her presence known. The great green cargo ship reassuringly familiar in the sea of emotion this place had invoked.

She came in to hover close, her forward hatch lowered. Of course, Virgil was the first to move towards her, an arched eyebrow in John's direction. The half-smile John sent him in return was enough. Limping or not, his brother climbed the railing around the lookout and stepped onto his 'bird. Gordon grabbed Alan, saying something that could not be heard over Two's VTOL, and together they made their way on to the hatchway.

John stepped up beside Scott, who since releasing Alan, hadn't looked up and stood staring at the monument.

"Time to go, big brother."

Blue eyes looked over at him before darting in the direction of the hovering Two and then back to the grey flame.

"I miss her." Barely heard.

"I know." John reached out and put his hand on Scott's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go home."

A blue inquiry was shot at him before the muscles under his hand relaxed just a little and Scott let his head drop in a single nod. Almost reluctantly, Scott made his way to Two where Alan offered him a hand to climb on board.

John took a last look at the plaque, his mother's name and the flame forever frozen, reaching for the sky.

Two's VTOL flickered in echo.

Green was his mother's favourite colour.

He looked up and knew Virgil would be in his pilot seat by now, demanding control be returned to him. It wasn't a guess, more a law of physics.

He let his fingers brush over stone.

A quiet, indrawn breath quickly let out again.

"Bye, Mom."

The breeze overcame the heat of Two's VTOL and curled its cold fingers in his hair.

He strode over to the hatchway and climbed on board. As the hatch drew him up into the warmth of Two's belly, he caught sight of Mount Rainier, still massive, still silent, still there, until it was gone and all he could see was Two's cockpit and all he could hear was her engines and his brothers.

Two minutes later they were out over the Pacific and heading home.

-o-o-o-

Virgil Tracy wore flannel. No matter the climate. No matter the temperature. He wore flannel. At least when he wasn't wearing his uniform.

Well, almost any temperature. Apparently, John had spoken to Eos at length after their trip to Washington State. His purpose had been to explain the process of human grief. Her response was to heat the villa to thirty-five degrees centigrade to see if she could get Virgil to shed his flannel shirt.

What she hadn't expected, nor Kayo and Grandma returning from the mainland unexpectedly, was how many other items of clothing might be shed.

Five Tracy boys in only their underwear as they desperately tried to cool down a hot house on an already hot and humid day, was not a spectacle either of them had expected to see.

John and Eos had a rather longer discussion after that little incident. Eos also made a point of hiding from Scott for the next month or so.

So yes, Virgil wore flannel unless his AI niece's good intentions tried to cook him.

But what did change after Washington was the words.

Alan made a point of it. Not a big one, but a subtle one. No longer was the topic of their mother banned from conversation and Alan finally had a chance to get to know the woman behind the photos and the videos through his brothers' memories.

First up he discovered that there was a reason why Virgil wore red plaid. Apparently, he'd had a blanket as a child, now long lost, but he associated it with their Mom and it gave him comfort.

That story appeared one day when Alan came across Virgil sitting out on the balcony. He had the shirt off, but it was laid across his lap. His grey t-shirt pale in the sunlight.

Alan sat down beside him and a rare moment of storytelling just happened. Alan did prod a little with questions, but Virgil appeared quite happy to tell him of the time six-year-old John went swimming in a lake and lost his shorts. Gordon had been just a baby, and Dad wasn't there at the time, so it had been up to Scott and Virgil to fish their little brother out of the water and protect his modesty.

The fact Gordon's third word after momomom and dadadadada was jajajajajah made the story all the more amusing.

Scott, too, offered some stories. He mentioned the awards their mother had won. Alan had known his mother was smart, after all her five sons had a decent set of brain cells themselves. But it was more than the awards. It was the stories about the ceremonies and how Virgil had cheered wildly into a dead silent auditorium. How every eye had turned to them, including those of their mother standing on the podium. Her smile had been brilliant.

Unfortunately, that had only encouraged Virgil, and their father had to quiet him down. But Scott remembered her proud smile.

Virgil had been right. There were many stories and his brothers offered them to him when they could and slowly the woman who was his mother grew in his mind into a person rather than just a figure head.

There were still bad days. Days where Virgil would be found shivering on the lounge or silent on the balcony. But the difference was that now the blanket appeared and was wrapped around him with words, reassurance and understanding. All the brothers would gather and they would talk.

About Mom.

About Dad.

About each other.

Eventually Virgil would end up snoring on the couch, usually half on top of one brother or another. And they would all crash there, all silent support...well, all except for Alan, apparently. They all claimed he talked in his sleep. He still wasn't convinced Gordon hadn't fabricated the recording he claimed to belong to Alan and his slumber years.

So, it got better. Not perfect, because life never is, but easier.

Some days the flannel comes off, some days it doesn't. But ultimately, it didn't matter.

And if Scott froze solid the first time John led them all out onto the cliff that overlooked the caldera to show them the permanent hologram he had installed there, it was to be expected.

If Virgil's hands flew to his mouth to muffle his reaction, John chose to ignore it.

But the grey flame that now flickered above the volcanic rock said everything.

Their brother had installed a plaque, just like the one on the mountain in Washington, but the words were different.

Jefferson and Lucille Tracy

The source of the flame

Forever burning in our hearts

You were the lightning

To our thunder.

-o-o-o-

FIN.