A/N: I'm a little unsure about this, think it could be tweaked a li'l bit more, but it basically says what I wanted it to say and it's not too long as to become obtuse and clunky. I took a wee liberty with Jeff's full Sunday name- Jefferson Grant Tracy has a nice ring to it. I'm pretty sure it's kind of established fanon if not actual bonafide canon. xTx
oOoOo
The little planetoid has drifted through the Oort Cloud for millions of years and it's just Scott Tracy's luck that he's there when it finally breaks apart. A few ominous rumbles beneath his feet give scant warning before it fractures abruptly, throwing him off the cliff. Suddenly he's freefalling in what little gravity there is left. Bright blue light pierces the visor of his helmet, a rain of sparkling space dust renders him temporarily blind while he tumbles through thin air. His cries are useless, his brothers too far away. He manages one coherent thought, "well, if dying in the Oort Cloud is good enough for Dad, then it's good enough for me", before resigning himself to his fate.
Then someone grabs his hand and breaks his fall. It's a strong hand, a vice like grip, he knows his knuckles are going to be bruised.
The dust cloud clears a little while the planetoid takes stock of its actions. Scott, dangling like a tree ornament, looks up at a figure clad in all-too familiar blue and silver. It's a good thing the other man is holding on tight because Scott begins violently trembling. It's not, as he first wondered, his own doppelganger manifesting in order to save him. He knows that face like he knows his own. It's the face of the man who taught him how to be a Rescue Scout. It's the face of the man whose blood runs through Scott's veins, through to Virgil, John, Gordon and Alan. It's a calm face, even after everything the man has been through. It's the face Scott thought he might never see again. The face of his father, the man who made him, known to the rest of the world as Colonel Jefferson Grant Tracy.
Scott knows he's looking up at this man the way Alan looked at him just a few moments ago in that haphazard little room made up to look like home. A look of disbelief and love, of complete trust and an almost sublime sense of wonderment. It's the Tracys' natural chain of command, from the youngest up to the oldest, flowing easily as an unimpeded river. That this moment of fraternal realisation should be happening millions of miles out in space seems fitting, somehow.
"Dad?" he asks, as though he doesn't quite believe his eyes, and that the fierce, life saving grip on his hand is just some kind of phantom sensation caused by wishful thinking.
"I've got you, son."
And there it is. The undeniable truth. Jeff Tracy is alive and well after all these years. A childlike whimper halts itself just before it leaps from Scott's throat. This is his father. His hero. His saviour. Above all the cries for help that shatter the airwaves daily, the faintest cry was the loudest one of all.