She misses her son every day. It's hard seeing glimpses of Scott out of the corner of her eye and feeling that lurch of grief in the center of her chest. She misses her husband, though he's far longer gone. Virgil's a carbon copy of Grant, like him in more ways than any of his brothers. She misses being young, misses being Emily instead of Grandma, and the way that Gordon's like a mirror reflecting back her own youth. And she misses John, by proxy, in the way that Alan's always the one who mentions him, always thinks of him, reminds everyone that he's still out there.

Alan's bouncing on his toes beside her, and it's only his age that shows his eagerness; his grandmother is just as excited as he is for the return of her wayward grandchild. The plane's finally taxied to a stop on the runway, and the aircraft is an interloper on the island. It belongs to the boys the same way everything of their father's does now, and in an odd sort of way it fits in, a sleek, modern piece of machinery with Jeff's usually stylish touches in the design. Just more little things that make her miss her son.

When John appears at the top of the stairs down from the plane's cabin, his grandmother suddenly remembers her daughter-in-law, and how long it's been since she went out of her way to miss Lucille. It's only seeing John in person that one remembers how willowy and graceful his mother was, and just how much the second son resembles her. The pair of them are easy to forget, in their long absence.

Lucille hadn't been that much older than John when she'd died. It's a funny thought to be struck by, considering how much older John looks than the last time he was home, how he wears his weariness so differently than his mother had, plain in his face and his smile when he sees his grandmother.

Grandma's waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and she holds out her arms expectantly as John descends. For a moment she worries that it's been too long, that they've lost touch, and that it will be an awkward, brief embrace-but John's steps quicken in the few feet of distance between them, and suddenly she's got her arms full of somebody who's very badly needed a hug from his grandmother for the past two weeks.

Nearly half a foot of height between them and his face still manages to find her shoulder, and her fingers tighten at the back of his neck. "Welcome home," Grandma murmurs, and ruffles John's hair.

"Thanks," gets whispered in her ear, muffled and if she's not mistaken, just a little bit teary.

If John's composure has slipped at all, it's firmly back in place as Alan gets his turn, flinging himself at his older brother. A hundred and fifty pounds of the baby of the family hits his brother in a tackling hug, and Grandma has to snag him by the back of the shirt to keep him from knocking John over.

"Easy, kiddo," she chides, but the smile on Alan's face is so bright and genuine she has to let him go almost immediately.

"We didn't think you were ever coming home," Alan declares, with his hands on his brother's arms, staring up at him with light in his eyes for what seems like the first time since the whole ordeal started. The hyperbole stings at his Grandma's heart, for how true it almost was. Alan, eternally optimistic, misses the other connotation.

"Well, here I am," is all John says in answer, eternally taciturn as Grandma threads her arm through his and gives it an affectionate squeeze.

"Here he is!" Gordon echoes, halfway down the stairs behind him with a bag slung over his shoulder, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "And me. You know, in case you missed me, Al."

"You've been on TV for a whole week and Grandma wouldn't stop watching you, I got sick of your big dumb face," Alan shoots right back and ducks out of the way, whooping, as Gordon drops his bag and goes to try and nab his brother in a headlock. Then they're tearing off up the tarmac, chasing and shouting and running off the energy of being kept on short leashes for the past week.

"Careful!" their grandmother yells after them, but she chuckles fondly as she does. It feels like far longer than it has been, but she's finally got all her boys back under one roof. John's watching the pair of them with a distant expression, and she leans her head affectionately against his arm. "Nothing changes, Johnny-cake," she tells him, in an attempt to reassure him that it's still home and that he's going to fit right back in.

There's a soft sigh and something far away in his voice when he answers, "I think maybe some things might."


Well. That won't do.

So from then on it's a campaign of aggressive grandmothering. There are nearly three years to make up for, and John seems glad to be a little bit babied. Scott's home, landed earlier that morning, but he'd gone straight to bed. Virgil and Gordon disappear down to the hangar, to try and find something to do with their Thunderbirds, grounded as they have been for the past week. John slept on the plane, he's not tired, so Grandma sticks to him like glue. Alan tags along behind, uncharacteristically shy and vanishing every now and again, as though he's not sure he's wanted.

They wander the house, stop by the guest room-by John's room, made up in anticipation of his arrival-for a change of clothes, and wind up in the kitchen. The lounge has seen too much of the wrong kind of idle traffic lately and Grandma dials up an order for cookies and coffee and milk, sends Alan off to do his homework, and sits down across the table from John.

"It's good to have you home," she tells him, and wishes she could be sure he felt the same way. Like everyone else in the family, she's trying to remember if he's always been this quiet.

"I'm sorry I didn't call more often," John volunteers, after the kitchen module has dinged and he's been provided with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a tall mug of milk. The cookies are uniformly, perfectly circular, unnatural things. He rotates one between the tips of his long fingers and his grandmother refrains from telling him not to play with his food. "We haven't ever talked as much as we should."

"You had a demanding job, Johnny. I still saw you around."

"Still." John shifts, takes a bite out of the provided cookie. He follows it with a sip of milk, puts the mug down and turns it just slightly, so the handle's parallel to the edge of the table. He's so measured, so deliberate about everything he does, it's almost like he's pretending at being a person.

"Do you want to talk now?" she prompts, patient the way grandmothers have to be.

John grows so still and it takes him so long to answer that she almost wonders if he's ignoring the question. He's heartbreakingly like his mother in appearance, with his straight, narrow nose and the deep red-gold of his hair, but his reticence and reservation-that they never shared. Alan channels Lucille most closely, and Alan's the one who's always been closest to John. If Lucille were still here, her son would probably have an easier time talking.

"...have you ever failed someone?"

Grandma's hand crosses the table to catch her grandson's fingers and a pair of big blue eyes meet hers, imploring. "You haven't failed anyone, John."

He shakes his head and his fingers tighten against hers and there's something he needs to be told, but she doesn't yet know what it is, "No, I have. I absolutely have. She's...she's so important, Grandma. I should've been able to make someone understand. I should've known what to do."

Whether or not EOS is a person isn't the question. Whether or not it's time for true AI to make its debut in the world isn't either. Whether or not John's going to be able to forgive himself, that's all his grandmother wants to know. Before she can find anything to say, he has a question of his own, "-how far would Dad have gone, for one of us?"

This is a sharp, short stab at his grandmother's heart, though John can't have known he'd hurt her by asking. She has to let his hand go and have a long sip of coffee before she can answer, as gently as she can, "You're not a father to this thing, kiddo. I know what you wanna think, I promise I do, but it's not the same thing."

"But I'm not nothing to her, either. I can't... I can't think of anything else that's close. I made her. That counts, that has to count," he answers back, and there's a flare of defiance in those bright blue eyes. "I'm responsible for her, I'm all she has. No one understands. They're going to kill her. I can't...I can't keep losing people. I can't, I won't get over it. It's too much."

Grandma sighs, low and heavy, and wishes she didn't have it in common with John when she says, "Sweetheart. We both lost your father." Her hand leaves her coffee cup, still warm from the heat through the ceramic as her palm cradles his cheek, his skin cool against hers. "But I lost a child, John. You're losing a collection of ones and zeroes, and I know what you want to be true, baby boy, I really do. I know you think you're gonna get to that kinda grief but-Johnny, I have to tell you, it's a whole other league. I hope you never know what it's like."

His eyes lock with hers for a moment and it seems as though there's something he wants to say. But instead there's a stubborn shake of his head, and he pushes up and away from the table, and leaves without a further word. His grandmother watches him go, missing his father.

And his mother, who might have known what to say.