When they fought, it was the unstoppable force and the immovable object. It was the strongest shield and the sharpest spear. A paradox, Virgil thought. Unwinnable. And yet, the collision was happening right in front of his eyes, right here in the lounge, and there was nothing he could do.

"I told you to abort your landing," John said, still in his uniform and frothing at the mouth.

Scott shook his head and held up a hand.

"And I told you that I knew what I was doing," he replied. "You have to learn to trust me."

Snorting, John took a step forward. The gap between the two brothers closed. Virgil lingered on the periphery, ready to leap in if necessary. Scott and John fights were rare but, regardless, they were explosive.

"And you need to learn that you don't know everything," John said. "You can't see what's going on beyond the length of your own nose, never mind what's happening outside One's cockpit."

Nostrils flaring, Scott planted his hands on his hips.

"Oh yeah? Well, you need to understand that being up there," he said, jabbing one finger at the ceiling, "and being out there," he jabbed the same finger at the broad sweep of glass that looked out onto the ocean, "are not the same thing. Just because you have sensors and eyes on everything doesn't mean that you can see what I see."

At the word you, laced with fury, Virgil swallowed. He tensed. Scott had punctuated the simple word with that same finger, this time jabbing it forward and landing with a quick blow to John's shoulder.

Oh, shit.

John tilted his head down, oh so slowly, looking at the fading imprint of his brother's finger. Then he slid his eyes up, green and glinting and furious. Scott raised an eyebrow. There was a quirk at the side of his mouth. Virgil closed his eyes for the brief millisecond he had before the explosion. Christ, he thought. This is it.

There was no apology in Scott's eyes. There was unadulterated rage in John's. Virgil opened his eyes to see the two collide. It was like watching slow motion, like seeing a sprinter take off at the sound of the gun. John moved forward, the tendons in his neck bulging and stretching with the set of his teeth. The muscles at his jaw flexed. Wiry as he was, he wasn't weak. Both gloved hands reached out, grabbing onto the collar of Scott's blue shirt. Virgil heard a few stitches pop.

For his part, Scott had the decency to look shocked. Because, no matter how many times this happened, how many times he riled his brother up until he snapped, Scott was always surprised. He seemed to forget the bubbling magma of rage that lingered just below their redheaded brother's skin. Stereotype it might have been, it was true in John's case. He had a temper. Scott's hands came up to clamp around John's bony wrists. They stepped backwards, Scott's superior weight nothing against the force of John's wrath.

Scott stumbled backwards. John fell forwards. And Virgil's eyes bulged. They were going over the edge of the sofa, down into the sunken living area.

Everything clicked back into reality. Time sped up. Virgil launched himself forward, jammed his fingers around John's high uniform collar, and wrenched his two brothers backwards.

The three of them went down, limbs flying in all directions. Virgil took the brunt of the impact, the strong muscles of his back flexing as John landed on his lap. Scott flew over the two of them, skidding to a halt with the grace of a cat. He straightened as Virgil clamped a hand onto John's upper arms. His brother was a vibrating frenzy. And all Scott could do was smirk.

"I swear to god," John said, struggling to turn around. "Scott, you are the most arrogant, idiotic, selfish –"

"John, stop," Virgil said.

It was like trying to hold onto a writhing fish. John, out of his element and fuelled with panic and fury, kicked and bucked and pulled against Virgil's grasp – but he could not free himself.

"You don't know everything!" John yelled, his face growing redder with each syllable. A sheen of sweat broke out across his forehead. "You aren't always right! Sometimes you don't see the bigger picture, but I do!"

"Jesus, Jay," Virgil said as his brother's movements became even more apoplectic. "Calm down before you burst a blood vessel or something!"

It was no use. John kept trying to wrench his arms forward, eyes bulging and devoid of all rational reasoning. There was only one thing left to do.

"That's it!" Flipping his brother over onto his front, Virgil twisted John's arms behind his back. Placing his knee against the sinewy muscles of his brother's back, Virgil gritted his teeth. "That's enough."

Still struggling, John wrenched his neck around to catch Scott's gaze. Then the words came out that had been threatening to spill for months.

"What happens when you get yourself killed?" There was a line of spit trailing from John's mouth to the polished floor. "What happens when your comm. line suddenly goes cold and I can't raise you anymore? What happens when you do something damned foolish, even though I told you not to, and then I have to tell everyone that you're dead? What happens then, Scott?" The redhead was screaming. "What happens then?"

There was a dull thud as John dropped his head, the strength gone from his neck. His forehead hit the floor and he said nothing more.

There was no sound for seconds that seemed to stretch into hours. Virgil looked from the seething figure below him, read hair sticking out in all directions, to Scott. He was nearly silhouetted against the windows, the light from behind stealing away colour and detail from his figure.

Virgil relinquished his grip and planted his hands on John's shoulders. He turned him over. John's eyes were open. There were no traces of tears on his face. He looked blotchy. He looked numb.

Glancing up at Scott again, Virgil shook his head.

"I told you," he said, his voice soft as he helped John to sit up again. "I told you, you can't throw yourself around as you don't matter. We need you."

Scott stood, arms hanging loose. John lifted a hand to wipe the spittle from his mouth and his forehead and said nothing. Virgil shook his head.

"Scott, you don't see everything," he said. "You truly don't. Not because you're in your cockpit and John has eyes on everything – that's not what I mean. You seem to think that you have to be mom and dad and the hero all at the same time. Yet, at the same time, you seem to think that it wouldn't matter if you were gone. Well, it would." Virgil gestured at the mess their brother was in. "This should be proof enough of that."

Footsteps soft and shuffling, Scott walked over and got down on his haunches. His hands clasped slackly together, wrists resting on his knees.

"I do understand," he said, looking at nowhere but the floor. "I really do. It's just that…" he shook his head. "I guess you're right, Virg. As always." He managed the ghost of a smile at that. "I am trying to be Mom and Dad and the best pilot and big brother and inspiration that I can be. And clearly, I'm failing miserably."

"It's not about failing," Virgil said. He wrapped an arm around John's shoulder as gravity caught up on their space-bound brother. He was slumping backwards, no longer feeling the surge of anger in his veins. "You're not failing. You're just…"

"An idiot," John cut in.

"Misguided was more what I was going for," Virgil said with a chuckle. "But yeah, idiot also works."

Accepting the criticism, Scott nodded. This time when he smiled, it was with both sides of his mouth. The sardonic smirk was gone.

"Message received and understood," he said. He reached out a hand, placing it gently on John's shoulder as if to erase the jab from earlier. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay," John said, trying to sit up but falling back again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone Mount Vesuvius on you."

He reached up to plant a hand on top of Scott's. Virgil laid a scuffed and oil-stained paw on top of them both.

Virgil, John and Scott together. They were the hands, the head and the heart.