A/N: About to go on an April break because I need it (Scott's words are mine)! Don't forget I'm moved over to Ao3, and you can find me on tumblr. thanks!
Edit: Hi. Shoe chef is intentional, folks. He has no teeth in the memory from Grandma and can't say the word 3. Sorry if it's confusing, but I find it cute so it's staying :)
"Why is my email in German?"
At least he thinks it's German based on the dases and ders intermixed. Scott took French during his education, but don't ask him to recall any of it. He clicks the button that he thinks is where it used to say "settings," but selecting it brings up a blank screen he can't get past, and he huffs his frustration.
"Because you can't read German," answers the figure sitting at his work desk, at his computers.
"But I can't respond if everything's in German…." Refreshing the screen seemed to work, and so Scott squints at the strange combination of letters. He turns his phone to the side as if that's going to help rearrange the characters, then looks over at his younger brother in exasperation. "John?"
The redhead has his arms crossed over his chest, and meets his gaze sharply, pointedly.
"Scott?" Only John could sound both overwhelmingly patient and irritated at the same time; honed from many years of being just a few steps faster than his peers. Within the timbre of Scott's name on his lips was the apparent message that he was waiting for his older brother to catch on, and still didn't plan on backing down.
"Ich spreche perfekt Deutsch," John says after a moment as he gets back to work. "And Alan's downloaded a few games on the personal side of your phone if you need something to do. There's Solitaire, and Candy Crush, and some hotel builder game – and don't you dare cheat with in-game purchases. Better yet, go play roulette with your hobby basket and find someone who isn't me." His eyes soften, his fingers still typing away while he speaks. "Get yourself out of the lounge and away from all this, Scotty."
Resigned, Scott swipes away from the open email and the umlauts firing over his small phone screen while it's still linked to the main computers. He manages to find the new game applications on his phone and chooses minesweeper, but after a few selections he realizes he's not actually using the numbers to figure out where the mines are and instead clicking around the screen thoughtlessly – his mind back with John.
Guessing what he would be working on.
If it was something he'd left pending.
If he could help. If John would let him.
The screen flashes as he accidentally detonates the minefield only after a few clicks, not even through one game. Scott sighs, glancing over again at his brother working for him. John hasn't stopped what he's doing, but Scott can tell there's a part of John listening, tuned into what Scott is up to despite his apparent focus on the other tasks.
If he had half of John's multi-tasking skills for his own productivity…
He went there again. Back to the to-do list he had piling up before he was laid up in the infirmary.
Frustrated at himself, he slams his phone on the soft arm of the couch, and quickly pivots towards the steps to the lower floor. He pauses a moment, the anxiety in his brain already firing and his fingers itching to go back and grab the phone that is supposed to keep him connected to everything at all times.
He feels John's eyes on his back as he continues to step away from the temptations of the lounge.
Scott realizes he has a problem. He's stubborn and dedicated, and proud of those characteristics in himself, goddamit. But he's not so oblivious to the issue or obstinate about it when it's so obviously affected his health. And worse he's let it affect his relationship with his family.
As happy as he was to be back to a semblance of normal, at least in that he was "allowed to move about the cabin freely," he was still not cleared for duty or his work. That left him with an influx of time he didn't know what to do with. His siblings were not grounded with him – life moved on, and rescues didn't pause just because he felt his life was.
That was another thing his siblings were trying to show him wasn't the case. His work did not equal his life.
It's easy enough to say, to acknowledge. Harder still to make a change and do something about it.
In any case, with clearer eyes, and a rested body, and a nourished belly, he absolutely sees the problem at hand, even if he doesn't really know how he got there or the exact situations that caused the strain on his family.
Realizing it was May, he asked Alan if his grades came in, and the boy had gone completely silent. He eventually found the report card in his personal email, dated long prior, and only then did it jog the memory of Alan coming into the lounge. But Scott for the life of him can't remember what happened after that.
John had come down. When was the last time John was down?
And Virgil. He was usually so tuned into whatever latest inspirational spark had taken hold of his brother. But he was afraid to admit that he didn't recognize the piece that had been sitting in the lounge set up on the easel, nor did he want to think about the brief glance he'd gotten of the drying rack and the number of pieces still being stored there.
On his first morning after being allowed back to his own room, he realized he couldn't remember the last time he went running to meet up with Gordon in the morning. He'd gotten up moderately early, only starting to get back into a schedule, and sitting waiting for him was his AM shake, made special and free from the acidic fruit and dairy that risked making his stomach feel worse.
The thought makes his gut ache anyway.
He hasn't been there for his siblings much, if at all, lately. And hell had they been there for him.
They still are, even between rescues and the business of their own day to day lives.
Not at the moment though – it's just himself and Grandma in the kitchen, the large hobby basket placed in front of them on the counter, while Scott sits slouched on one of the stools and Grandma comes up beside him, leaning casually on the counter.
"Why so glum, kid?" Blue eyes like his own, but with worlds more wisdom, inquire and wait for him to find the words.
He needs to say it. He knows it sounds stupid as it comes barreling out of his mouth faster than Thunderbird 1.
"I feel so useless." He can't look at her while he says it, but he can just feel her watching him. "And I know. I know what you're going to say, but every part of me feels jittery. I need to do something. I need to be productive, and every time I reach for something fun," it comes out a curse under his breath as he gestures towards the basket, "I feel guilty."
He swallows. "And I feel guilty when I'm not doing anything fun and just sitting here. Because maybe one of these things could make me still feel productive. And I just feel so useless and restless all the time."
Finally she moves when its apparent his feelings are done gushing out of him, wrapping her arms around him and tucking her head into his bony shoulder.
"I'm not sure what you think I was going to say, bluebird." She squeezes him tight. "That's a lot of pent-up frustration to deal with, and I am sorry you are going through this." She releases him, lifts his chin with a delicate hand to encourage him to look at her. "Did you want my advice, or do you want me to listen?"
"What do I do, Grandma?" He says instead, the spark of blue as wide as the open skies.
"Your brothers love you, kiddo," she says, clasping his shoulders. "They've put all this together not with the intent to overwhelm you, but to give you a place to start." And because it seemed like he needed to hear it, "no one expects you to be instantly better. You must be kind to yourself. Just start somewhere."
Grandma reaches for the cupcake pan. The boys used to help their mom bake, back when they were so young their smiles revealed gaps where their adult teeth were to come in. She smiles at the memory and says, "be my shoe chef?"
He takes both John and Grandma's advice by starting somewhere, anywhere, selecting at random the first thing he grabs from the hobby basket. And when Alan, Gordon, and Virgil return from their rescue, their voices carry over the lounge and down towards the kitchen where Scott has himself engaged in his first set of instructions.
He smiles at them as they join him at the table, and eventually John too makes his way down, right on time for dinner. He gives Scott a wink as he slides in beside him.
The cupcakes, as per usual, look a disaster, but they taste much better than they appear. Though that likely has something to do with the additional layers of icing the boys added after dinner.
And though it wasn't perfect, it was a good day. It was a start, and that's all any of them could ask for.