Way 3
Focus on the positive when speaking to your children.

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind…"

Well, maybe Jeff could've handled that better, but all he wanted to do was look at John cross-eyed and say, "Lavender? Really?"

Then again, he had told the boys they could choose their own sash colors. How did he still make mistakes like that after all these years?

He sighed.

"I'm not entirely sure that's necessary…"

So what was he supposed to tell Scott, anyway? That stripes on the tops of their uniform boots to match the sashes, the little stripes on the hats and the stripes 'round their Thunderbirds was a little over the top and not really very military-like at all?

He suspected Tin-Tin was somehow behind all that, but didn't dare call Scott on it. If he was wrong, Scott would think his dad thought he was turning into Alan (Mr. GQ) or something, and just…no.

"That's a very…interesting…viewpoint…"

Right, well, telling Virgil outright that when he'd suggested paintings of all five boys both in and out of uniform, that 'out of uniform' hadn't meant 'in the buff' was maybe closer to the mark, and Jeff had, after all, thought Virgil had left his Naked Tracy Portraits behind in his youth, but…just…no. Not in the damn Lounge, of all places.

Suggesting Virgil rethink how he'd feel if Lady Penelope chanced upon the 'not-on-a-rescue' portraits with them all looking suitably undressed and what she'd do to him if he tried to paint her portrait that way did the trick, however, thank the Fates.

"So you…decided to go with…that."

If John's lavender sash was a bit unnerving, Alan's white one was just plain ridiculous. Blood? Dirt? Hello. Still, he was the baby of the family, and Jeff knew if the kid wanted white, he'd have white whether Jeff liked it or not.

He wondered how long it'd take for Al to realize the shit that he'd get from his grandmother having to bleach the thing constantly was not worth the stubbornness of getting your first color choice.

"Yellow."

There was some irony in it being a 'Yellow Submarine,' Jeff supposed, but this was almost turning farcical rather than life-and-death serious, and he was about at the end of his rope.

But that first day, when the boys lined up in the Lounge for inspection, and John was looking smart and sophisticated in his lavender…and Alan was looking sharp and ready in his white…and the boot stripes actually almost lent an air of uniformity to their ensembles…and Virgil had (thank God) repainted off-duty portraits of him and his brothers fully-clothed…

And later, when they went to check out all the 'birds for one final inspection before declaring IR open for business, Jeff did have to admit that having the little sub be yellow made sound sense deep beneath the waves where it was dark…

So all in all, Jeff guessed that telling Scott, "I like the stripes," and telling John, "Looks good," and telling Alan, "Nice contrast," and telling Gordon, "Good call," and telling Virgil, "Much better," was all a damn sight better than IR never starting operations to begin with because of arguments that would turn into fights where six grown men might come to blows over colors and sashes and painted pictures.

He'd learned a long time ago to pick his battles.

One of these days, he would simply have to address Virgil's penchant for wearing ascots and dressing gowns to breakfast, but…one thing at a time.

Way 4
Say I love you. A lot.

It was something he hadn't said nearly often enough to his own father. And it was a mistake he regretted to his deepest core, to this day.

Jeff had been gone for two years now. He'd lived long enough to see his first grandchild born, but not long enough to hear him talk. See him walk. See him start school.

It's not that their father hadn't been a warm, loving man. He'd just been…well, he'd been Jeff Tracy. He'd give hugs when glad they'd gotten out of sticky situations. He'd say 'I love you' when a situation warranted it in his opinion. But he wasn't overly demonstrative, physically or verbally. His affection came more often in the form of praise for the work they'd done, rather than directly addressing the emotion.

And really, it was fine. They'd all known their father loved them, and it went without saying how much they loved and respected him.

Except it shouldn't have gone without saying.

He should have said it more. They all should have.

So now that Jeff was gone, the victim of a car wreck just like his wife so very many years before, there was one thing Scott Tracy had promised himself the day they'd buried the man who'd started it all.

Little Drew Jefferson Tracy…DJ for short, or Deej, as Gordon insisted on calling him…ran across the Lounge at breakneck speed, launching himself into his filthy father's arms just as Scott swung around on the wall, returning from a rather nasty mudslide rescue.

He held the little toddler to him, knowing his mom wouldn't care that the boy would need to shower with his dad in the aftermath of such a messy display of love.

But Scott had learned his lesson the hard way, and as he held DJ in his arms, he kissed his cheek and whispered, "I love you," into his son's ear.

His wife smiled at them, then returned to the kitchen – the boys were always hungry after a long rescue like this. Hungry and tired.

DJ gave Scott a sloppy kiss on the lips and grinned. "I love you too, Daddy."

Scott could see his father in his little boy's eyes more and more as he grew older. And he added silently, as he did each and every time, I love you, Dad.