A/N: No, I'm not writing about Gordon. Yes, it feels unnatural. I won't be surprised if he elbows his way into the other chapters but today I am determined to be strong and resist. Of course, having to concentrate on Scott in varying degrees of naked is a pretty good distraction. Ahem.

For those of you unfamiliar with my old multi-chapter TB stories - yes, I do always ship Scott and Tin-Tin. It's a thing. I've thought they were made for each other since I was about 7.

Disclaimer: I still don't own any Tracys but I'd like my own Gordon pleasethankyou.

Scott

Scott Tracy, it was widely agreed and acknowledged, was a man who could withstand a lot of pressure.

As a high ranking officer in the US Air Force, he had helped to plan, negotiate and carry out various missions on behalf of his country which required a steady pulse rate and a level head. As Field Commander of International Rescue, he continually encountered situations that put the lives of both the rescuees and his beloved younger brothers in mortal danger. As a mortal man who shared the same house as the Terrible Two - Gordon and Alan Tracy - he needed nerves of steel and the patience of a saint.

There were, however, reasonable limits to everything.

Although International Rescue still ran, more or less, to a similar standard of discipline and timekeeping required in the military, Scott was no longer quite the 'five-mile run along the beach at six-thirty in the morning' guy he had been when he was Virgil's age. He was more the 'growl at the alarm clock and smash it against the wall' guy these days. Of course, his brothers teased him about it and told him he was getting old, fat and lazy - but only when they were out of his reach and close enough to a clear exit to get away safely with their jibes.

At six-fifteen sharp, when he finally crawled out from underneath his cosy duvet and staggered into his bathroom, grunting feebly with each step and mumbling a string of swear words to nobody in particular, he was not in the mood for anything to interrupt his usual pre-coffee regime.

After an invigorating Black Mint infused morning shower, he groped the air, his eyes still screwed shut, trying to locate a towel. He dried himself off and went back into his room to get dressed, pausing briefly as he was unable to resist drawing a smiley face with the tip of his index finger on the steamed-up bathroom mirror. As he roughly towel-dried his thick, touseled black hair, he realised that his hair was starting to get a bit too long, but he was damned if he was going to ever ask to borrow Tin-Tin's hairdryer. Besides, he lived on an island in the Pacific, he was pretty sure anyone's hair would dry up faster than Jeff Tracy's drinks cabinet at Christmas if they just sat out on the patio for ten minutes.

He buttoned up his low-waist jeans and sighed heavily before trudging back into the bathroom. Despite the teasing he received on a rather constant basis about him needing to shave at least twice a day, Scott hated shaving. He shaved because he had to, rather than because he wanted to. He knew that if a rescue call came in, people would probably feel a little more reassured about the whole situation if their anonymous rescuer was someone who didn't look like a cross between a hobo and the Missing Link. If it was down to him, he would have facial hair to rival Papa Smurf. He rubbed his hand across his jaw and raised an eyebrow. He nearly had that anyway.

Letting out another sigh and clasping his fingers together as he stretched his arms out in front of him, he returned to the bathroom and picked up the tin of shaving gel. He started singing softly to himself, trying to force some semblence of a feeling of merriment inside of him. It didn't quite compare to John's rousing renditions of 'Good Morning' from Singin' in the Rain, of course - and on reflection he wasn't too sure that 'Hurt' by Johnny Cash was the most appropriate of tunes to start his day with.

He looked a little disparagingly at his six-blade razor as he brought it up to his cheek. At last he dragged the blade across his face - and instantly groaned in frustration.

"TIN-TIN!" he yelled, angrily. Tin-Tin admittedly felt a little light-headed at the ferocity of his tone as she popped her head around the bathroom door, and her face lit up like Christmas when she saw Scott stood in front of her wearing just a pair of jeans. He didn't have quite the same level of definition to his torso as his semi-aquatic brother did, but in far more ways than she could count, she much preferred it. She thought it may have had something to do with the hair.

"What's wrong?" she asked, innocently, almost forgetting that he'd shouted for her.

"Don't 'what's wrong' me, young lady!" he told her sternly, gesticulating wildly with his razor. She gripped tightly onto the door jamb. 'Young lady!' "There are six men in this house - why do you have to pick on my razor? It has enough to do without you muscling in on it! And why can't you buy your own?!" he demanded. "Dad can't pay you that badly - I see a new batch of fetching swimsuits arrived for you yesterday morning!" he pointed out, gazing off distractedly for a brief moment before forcing himself to stay on topic.

"Oh, that!" she answered, waving her hand dismissively. "It was an emergency."

"When is shaving your legs ever an emergency?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Are you implying that you've forgotten yesterday afternoon aready?" she inquired, her eyebrows raised as she blinked at him once or twice. He flushed, but only from his temples upwards, as the rest of his face was still covered in shaving gel.

"Oh. I see," he mumbled, trying to maintain some degree of dignity. "Well. Even so..." he broke off and shrugged ineffectually.

"Do I get an apology?" she asked, a playful grin at the corners of her lips. He smirked at her.

"I'll think about it," he told her.

"In which case, I'll 'think' about showing you my new bikini later," she answered. His face lit up.

"Which one?" he asked.

"That depends on how well you apologise," she answered with a flirtatious giggle as she left the room.

Scott started whistling a merry tune to himself as he continued shaving. He had a blunt razor and his Bulgari Black aftershave was going to hurt like hell - but he had a feeling that if his peace-making negotiation skills were as sharp as he thought they were, there was a very real possibility that later on, Tin-Tin might remember that red bikini with the sequins she hadn't worn for a while!

It was only six-thirty and already his day had started to look up extraordinarily. In fact, he felt so good about the universe and life in general that he thought he might even go out for a five-mile run along the beach.