Scott's waiting when that invisible, imaginary bell rings. The one Alan had mimicked, the one that marks the start of the first round. He's sitting in the lounge, changed out of his uniform and casual to all outward appearances, and when John arrives at the top of the stairs, he stands up, conciliatory. "Hi, John."
John towers at the top of the stairs, tall and righteous and still in deep, heavenly blue. His hair is lightly tousled and his hands are still in fists at his sides, but his voice is cold steel when he answers, "Don't you dare."
Scott's hands go up, protesting his innocence. "John, I haven't said anything. Look, I understand if you're angry. But we don't need to—"
Angry is only the very beginning of what John is, and the crucial fact of John's anger, the razor sharp edge to it—when things have gone far enough that John's angry, then John has damn good reason to be. "You cut all comms. The middle of a rescue, far side of Mars, and you cut off all communication. There's no excuse for that."
It's further infuriating how cool Scott can be under fire, how unperturbed he is by his brother and his towering fury. "Well, that's because it doesn't need excusing. You were micromanaging. Alan and I had it under control. We did the supply drop, we got out of orbit, we made our way back. I admit I was blunt about it, but there's no need to—"
John's staring now, like he doesn't quite believe what Scott's saying. "You told him to go dark. I lost every goddamn status signal from TB3, I had to route to readouts from the surface, I had to patch into the Martian satellite network—which consists of maybe three satellites and a third of a space station—in orbit above Mars. Just to be sure you hadn't crashed."
Scott remains the cooler head, and he sits back down. "You knew we hadn't," he answers pointedly. "It was a simple supply drop for a colony that got cut off by dust storms. Easy. Nothing to worry about. I needed Alan to concentrate. You were fretting in his ear about all kinds of nonsense and it wasn't helping get the job done. We lose comms all the time, we manage. Think of it like a training exercise."
"Don't you talk down to me, don't you dare," John snarls in answer. "Not when you put our youngest brother's damn life on the line because you're reckless and impatient. There's no excuse, Scott."
Behind him, though neither John nor Scott are aware, Virgil and Gordon are sitting on the stairs down from the lounge, just listening. Twenty-four and twenty-one, respectively, but it doesn't matter. They're both kids again, listening to the grown-ups argue, wide-eyed and more nervous than they want to admit.
Scott shrugs. "Fine. I'm sorry you got upset, maybe I was out of line. We'd had a long flight out and I just wanted to get it over and done with. Alan had it under control, though. You really need to learn to put more faith in him, John, he's a hell of a pilot, and he's growing up fast. He's never going to reach his full-potential with you in his ear, second-guessing his every instinct."
This works on Gordon. It works on Virgil. It's never needed to work on Alan, because Alan does what Scott says, takes what the eldest says at face value. Sometimes, it's the right thing to say. Sometimes Scott argues with people who really need to step back and think about what they're saying, and the arguments on both sides are better for it.
But it doesn't work on John, who's starting to get tunnel vision, knuckles white beneath his gloves. "This isn't about anything I've done," he hisses, and there are bright spots of colour on his high cheekbones, flushed red and hot. John's never angry, except when he really, really is. "This isn't about me getting upset, you haven't upset me."
"From where I'm sitting, you seem pretty upset," Scott observes mildly, and then repeats his apology, "And I'm sorry about that, John, honestly. I didn't think it through, and I apologize."
"I don't want your damn apology, I want you to listen to me. Every time you're out with Alan, it's a nightmare. You flout protocol. You break every regulation in the book, you don't act like an astronaut, you act like it's a goddamn airshow. You can't. He can't learn that from you, it's unacceptable."
Scott just arches an eyebrow at this. For all that John's the one with balled up fists and fire in his chest, Scott's the one with the balance of power, calm and cool and unruffled. Still, he's the older brother by four years, and the head of the family by default. So when he sighs and puts on The Dad Voice, it's a power play. "Listen, Johnny, you're not a pilot. This is how Dad trained me, you just—you have to put everything out there. There's no such thing as training wings. It was a controlled risk. You were nattering on about radio interference, all while Alan needed to focus. Due respect, John, you don't know what you're talking about."
Scott got their father's voice, all cool reason and rationality. Jeff Tracy wasn't a tyrant. He was a reasonable man who did rational things, and only ever asked that the people he argued with try to be reasonable in turn. John got their mother's voice. In Lucille's voice, her words were law, and god help the disobedient, because if Mom was mad, then you were really in trouble. John echoes their mother, all righteous anger, "If you ever pull anything like that again while you're riding shotgun with Alan, then I'm getting your Space Operations License revoked. You're a hazard and he's not going to benefit from learning your bad habits. There's no margin of error in space, there's no rip-cord, no eject-button. You rely on every resource you have, and you do not cowboy around. Ever. No more of your bullshit, Scott, I mean it."
Well. That gets Scott on his feet, and darkens his tone from patient bluster, tolerance of his brother's histrionics, into a serious challenge.
Frowning at John, as though he doesn't believe what he's heard so far, "You're not threatening me."
This is a threat.
John's not threatened. "I'm giving you one more chance than I'd give any screw-up civilian outfit. You don't belong in space. You're not properly trained for it, you don't know what you're talking about. You got your SOL clearance on a technicality, because TB1's done enough flight hours at the edge of the atmosphere to qualify."
Scott's gone poker straight, stiffened right up the spine. He's gone a little bit cold at the fact that John's making a dig at his credentials. "You're out of line, and you need to calm down."
"I'm always fucking calm, I'm a fucking astronaut."
John's almost as tall as Scott is, and he closes the distance between them in a handful of long, swift strides. A gloved finger hits his brother in the collarbone, and he's right in Scott's face. Nobody gets in Scott's face, because Scott's face is a few inches out of most people's range. "You are the one with the fuck-ups. You're the one who overcommits, you're the one who rushes in, you're the one who makes the stupid calls. When you go out with Virgil, he's not your backup, he's your keeper. South Africa? You'd be dead. Fireflash? Kayo and two hundred people would be dead. You ride the line when you're in One; you're a goddamn liability in Three. When you hit orbit, you're the amateur, Scott, and you better learn your damn place."
Now Scott's off-kilter, and he loses ground, takes a literal step back. Scott resolves arguments by taking control of arguments, but he's lost control of this one, and his own temper starts to flare. "I suppose you think you can train Alan?" he asks, snide and attempting a shot at the fact that John's never been a pilot. "You've never been in the same league as the rest of us, you're dispatch. Watch your mouth, John, you're crossing a line."
This doesn't land. John just steps back and all the fury flowing through him has cooled to contempt, hardened into armor against anything Scott could throw at him. "Alan's a better pilot," he pronounces, "than you deserve to train."
It's the last thing he says. He turns on his heel and leaves his elder brother staring after him, as he stalks past Gordon and Virgil, drawn to the top of the stairs.
