Scott Tracy was someone who knew what he liked and how to get his own way.

From the earliest age he had his set likes.

He knew he liked the colour blue. He was not so hot on blue/purple's or lilacs.

He knew he liked apple pie. He was not so keen on cherry pie.

He knew he liked pancakes and waffles for breakfast. He did not like oatmeal or grits.

And in general, these likes stayed roughly the same as he grew up.

As he got older he could tell you he liked Oxford Blue better than Cambridge Blue (which was fortunate later). He liked Cadmium Blue better than Ceylon Sapphire Blue.

He liked apple pie with ice cream over apple pie with cream.

He liked pancakes with maple syrup and bacon and waffles with chocolate sauce and cream.

The one thing that always changed, however, was his taste in drinks.

When he was five his favourite drink was chocolate malt milk. He had already learnt to turn on his big blue eyes and dimpled smile to get what he wanted. His Mom and Grandma might have been immune to them – they had learnt early on, very early on – but his Dad and Grandpa had not mastered saying no to such a lethal combination.

And so it was, at the tender age of five, Scott Tracy had his first taste of beer. He had been curious what his Dad and Grandpa were drinking because it was from a bottle and not a glass or cup, which everyone else drank out of. He asked his Mom and she had told him it was a drink for grown-ups only.

He WAS a grown-up. He had two younger brothers and his parents were always telling him what a great Big Brother he was being. So he waited. And waited. And, sure enough, Mom and Grandma took three-year-old John and two-year-old Virgil up to bed.

Immediately he stood in front of his father, knowing time was of the essence. He looked his dad in the eye and asked, 'Daddy, what are you drinking?' Jeff pulled Scott onto his knee. 'It's called beer, son.' Scott looked thoughtful. 'Can I try a bit, Daddy?' Grant nearly sprayed his mouthful all over the table before roaring with laughter. He could see where this was heading.

'No, Scott, you're too young.'

'But I've got responsibilities now, like you have.' Jeff stared at his five-year-old, mouth open. What the hell?

'I'm sorry, son. No can do.'

'Please, Daddy, just a sip?'

'No.'

'I won't tell Mommy.'

'No. Besides, you won't like it.'

The eyes and smile came into play.

'Please.'

Jeff screwed up his face so he couldn't see his son's.

'No.' He peeked at his son.

Scott deployed the pout. And a little wibble of his lower lip.

Oh God, his son was pouting. He was doomed.

Huffing a sigh, Jeff held the bottle up to Scott's mouth and allowed him the barest of mouthfuls.

It was the most disgusting thing he had ever tasted so far. He screwed up his face, pursing his lips as a deep shudder worked its' way through him. Both his Dad and Grandpa were laughing now. Scott opened his eyes and looked reproachfully at the two adults.

'Daddy. How could you possibly like that?'

'You'll understand when you're older.'

'I really don't think I will.'

'Trust me, son, you will. Now, not a word to your mother or grandmother, or they will both tan my hide!'

'Promise, Daddy.'

TBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTB

Not long after he had turned eight Scott had his next encounter with alcohol. Not that he knew that at the time, and not that he could recall it.

They had thrown a huge garden party. It was their grandparent's 40th wedding anniversary, and the middle of one of the hottest heatwaves in living memory. So the party had become a BBQ/Pool party, which pleased a three-year-old Squid very much.

What did not please Gordon was having to go to bed while everyone else was up and enjoying themselves. It had taken both Mom and Grandma to take the over-exhausted child upstairs and settle him.

When they both eventually returned almost an hour later, they were surprised to see, or rather not see, any children in the garden. Scott, John and Virgil, along with their close friends Suzie and Hank from next door, were all conspicuous in their absence. By this time the seven 'responsible' adults who had stayed outside were noticeably tipsy. Lucy didn't dare think what state the kids were in.

Sure enough, a 15-minute search yielded all five kids in the tree house. How they had managed to get up there in their state was anyone's guess. Because all five were definitely tipsy. Possibly even a little more drunk than their parents/godparents were.

Scott had found a box of apple juice – reading Cider, but he'd never had that brand of apple juice before – and between them all they had managed to drink all twelve bottles. Twelve bottles between five children aged 5, 6, 6, 7 and 8.

Virgil had curled up asleep on the couch with Suzie's legs in his lap. Both were gently snoring. Scott, John and Hank were in the corner, laughing their heads off at something. Eyes overbright and red spots on their cheeks, the three oldest boys cheered when Lucy, Jeff and Alice entered the treehouse.

The three adults looked at each other. They looked at their kids. They looked at the bottles littering the floor. They looked back at the three awake children, who looked back at them with huge grins, wide eyes and swaying bodies. They were swaying while sitting down.

'At least they seem to be happy little drunks,' Jeff remarked, which earnt him a swipe from both sides. 'You were supposed to be keeping an eye on them,' Lucy hissed. 'How on earth did they manage to drink so much cider in such a small amount of time?'

Scott answered this one. 'This apple joose tasteted funny, Mom, but we liked the bubbles.' There was a noticeable slur to his speech. Lucy facepalmed. Turning to Jeff she said, 'you and Greg can take out the three stooges there, while Alice and I take Suzie and Virgil.'

Getting the children down from the treehouse was an endeavour all of its own, but after much discussion and vetoing of ideas – 'no, Lee Taylor, we are not just dropping them over the side!' – they eventually had all five children asleep in Scott and John's room. Lucy had called their doctor who assured them they wouldn't have any harmful effects since the cider was not very alcoholic, no more to worry about apart from possibly normal hangovers.

The five children slept in the next morning. There was quite a bit of sickness, and some groaning. And that was just the adults.

Scott never drank cider again.

TBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTB

The next time Scott got involved with alcohol was a time he would rather forget.

He wasn't a bad child at all, in fact it was often commented on just how good he was. He followed the rules to a fault sometimes, which had led to many frustrations with his younger siblings – Gordon – and some snide remarks from schoolmates.

When he turned thirteen Scott went through a small rebellion. He was tired of being mocked at school for being so good. Even his closest friend, Hank, said he was a 'goody-goody Daddy's boy.'

Today he was going to do something about that.

Waiting for his dad to inevitably go to work that Saturday morning, he waited until his mom was distracted getting the others up and ready. Slipping in to his dad's forbidden study, he eyed up the bottles standing there. He chose the clear one because it looked like water, and filled the water bottle he had purposely emptied and brought in. He then topped up the vodka with water so that it didn't look different.

That afternoon Scott met up with Hank, Charlie and Ben at the mall. The four took turns to drink the 'water' each one had brought with them.

By the time Scott was due home he was sicker than he had ever felt. He threw up in the bushes outside the house. Some part of his brain told him he needed to get inside and to bed before his parents found out. He wasn't sure he would make that.

Salvation came in the form of the quiet twins. 10-year-old Virgil and 11-year-old John, only 10 months between them, were outside reading and painting. They both took one look at a very green-looking Scott and, taking a side each, helped him to bed, where he promptly fell asleep.

He woke up several hours later to a cool compress on his head and his dad sitting beside him. He did not look happy.

'I'm not going to ask, son. I'm sure you thought you had good reason for doing what you did, and you would not be the first child to drink alcohol nor will you be the last. However, I want you to think this over. You upset and worried your brothers. You upset and worried your Mom and me. Do you understand?'

Scott nodded miserably. Tears started as he bit his lip, thinking about what he had done. 'I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to let you down. I was just tired of been called names all the time.'

Jeff's face softened. He was pretty sure he had done the same thing around the same age. Glen had come over and told Jeff and Lucy that Hank had gotten drunk and why, how the other two boys had been goading Scott for months and finally Scott had snapped, how sorry Hank had been. It had been an eye-opener for them, Scott had never even hinted that he was getting trouble from his friends.

Jeff passed Scott some tissue for his face. 'We'll say no more about it. But you are grounded for a month. No trips to the Mall, no exploring with your brothers and most of all – no flying.' It was the severest punishment Jeff could hand down, and he was pleased when Scott didn't raise even a suggestion of a complaint.

Scott never broke the rules again.

At least, not when he was home.

TBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTBTB

University life was a different matter altogether. It re-introduced him to beer in vast quantities, and he found that his dad had been right. Beer did taste better when you were older. But Scott was a driven young man now, and although he partied a little, his focus was his USAF entrance with a double First, and he had taken on a multitude of extra classes with the promise of joining, not only as a commissioned officer, but of attending the OTS (officer training school) after six months instead of the usual 12.

Yale taught him to drink beer.

Oxford taught him to drink ale.

War taught him to drink Scotch.

He had joined as a Second Lieutenant. Within two years he had risen to First Lieutenant, a talent for troubleshooting and outside-the-box thinking gaining him a slightly more rapid advancement. It had become vital as the country of Bereznik went to war with itself. USAF was there to be peacekeepers and to drop supplies.

He went into the war as a fresh-faced innocent First Lieutenant.

He left the war as a jaded and injured Captain.

He learnt to drink more Scotch than could possibly be healthy for him.

Then came International Rescue.

Scott was back to drinking beer. Only every now and then, and only as Shore Leave Rules, another rule he refused to break.

Then he lost his dad, they all lost their dad.

Back came the Scotch. Shore Leave Rules went out the window.

Scott remembered how to drink Scotch without the long-lasting effects.

John and Virgil watched, concerned, from the side lines.

But this is now.

Now Jeff is back.

Now the Scotch stays in the cabinet for special occasions.

Scott drinks beer and Shore Leave Rules apply, and he could not be happier.