EPILOGUE

It's the last day of April, and John still can't make a decent cup of coffee. Brains has never had an assistant before, let alone the boss's son, and he still doesn't know how to treat him. "A step above how you'd treat an indentured servant," Jeff had said, but this goes against Brains' nature. Especially when he's never even had an assistant before.

Anyway, John's not what he'd expected. When Brains had been told to keep a tight rein on him, he had expected someone who needed—well, reining in. John's already pulled up so short that it's like he's barely there at all. He does what he's told, does it quietly, and if sometimes he seems a little vague and tired, Brains isn't hard on him for it. He's polite, he's deferential. Whenever Jeff's in the shop, John conveniently finds some errand that needs attending elsewhere. Brains thinks it's kind of a shame to see a son avoid his father.

It's the last day of May, and a transcribed page of shorthand has come back with the wrong math. Or, rather, it's come back with the right math, but it's not the math Brains had done.

"H-hey. John?"

The redhead is doing something tedious in the name of optimizing Brains' digital filing system for the ongoing catalogue of blueprints and wiring diagrams that are produced on a daily basis. Really, Brains had just been running out of things for him to do. There's plenty of real work to be done. Not a lot of busywork for the boss's dropout son. He's not gotten any better at coffee.

"Mm? Did you want coffee?"

Brains' ersatz assistant is less vague than he was, a bit more alert. That first month, Brains had started to worry that the younger man was sick, somehow—nothing contagious, surely, but enough to explain how tired he seemed, how often he bowed out of work for unspecified appointments. John's clearly starting to feel better than he was—and Brains is starting to wonder if his sudden absence from college is explicable as burnout. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

"D-did you transcribe the math c-correctly on that last page of c-calculations I gave you?" Brains pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and gestures with his slim holographic tablet, brings up an expanded view of the work he'd had John input for him. "I-it's only this isn't what I h-had written down."

John blinks at him and his answering shrug is a little sheepish. "Uh. Truth be told, Brains, I can't read the bulk of your writing. I've been picking out the numbers and the major operations and working out the rest myself."

Brains gapes at him for a moment. "You've been doing m-my math?"

John just shrugs again. "I like a bit of math."

It's the last day of June, and John and Brains are under a deadline. A serious deadline. Jeff has ordered the finalized schematic for the first of the Thunderbirds on his desk by morning. Production's supposed to start on the Fourth of July, auspicious and all-American.

And Brains has had to make exhaustive use of his not-so-new-assistant, since discovering that he's got a brilliant mind for the harder edges of science and engineering, and, as he says, that he "likes a bit of math." There are just a few final touches, just a few more things to make sure they have right. John's insistent that Jeff not know about his involvement at this level of the project, and looking at his partner—assistant, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, hunched over the table with his fingertips massaging his temples—Brains wonders if the stress is what John's trying to cover up.

"Y-you can t-take off for the night," Brains tells him, kindly. "I have a f-few more hours, there's no need for both of us to b-beat our heads against a wall. I'll work it out, John, you've done plenty."

"We're so close though," John protests, and he thumps a fist on the lighted tabletop, where a blown up, holographic schematic of Thunderbird 1 hovers in mid-air. "I just...god. I just can't get my brain to focus. If I...if I could—"

This sentence isn't finished, and John gets up, leaves the room with his hand in the pocket of his jeans and an abstracted expression. Brains doesn't question him when he comes back, and they get it done.

It's the last day of July, and they're on the beach. It feels strange, tagging alongside the boss' sons, but when Gordon had shown up, there had been no argument—John was going to the beach and, more importantly, he was getting out of that lab. This was probably for the best, considering the fact that John had been on his seventh coffee, and Brains had decided he had better keep an eye on John during office hours, or else face the wrath of Mr. Tracy.

"And how did you become an RA?"

"I'm cool, Johnny," he says, just as he applies a big white glob to his nose. "The kids like me."

This is Brain's first time meeting Gordon, but he would not have used the word cool to describe the young man—and Brains is quite practiced in the art of qualitative data. Loud, perhaps. Quick. Very, verytan, but definitely not cool.

Polite, though. Well, they've both got that at least. "It's Brains, right?" Gordon asks, but he doesn't wait for an answer. Brains is left with the distinct impression that he rarely does. "I'm Gordon-s'it true you're building my dad a rocket?"

"It's not a rocket," John says, but when he tries to find the words to describe it, he ends up amending his statement. "Okay, so, it is a rocket, but it's not what you're thinking. It doesn't leave orbit."

"Laaaame," Gordon says. "What's the point of a rocket if it doesn't go into space-you know what? I just realized. I don't actually care. Hey, Brains, build me a submarine, wouldya? Monster of a thing. Ten-thousand meters—no. Hundred-thousand, just 'cause we can."

"I actually c-can't do that," Brains tells the young man. "The pressure within the cabin would be unb-bearable."

Gordon waves a hand, as if being smushed to death like a drowning bug would be the least of his problems. "Sure you could," Gordon says. "Skills like yours and a Harvard education, you can do anything."

"I actually went to C-Cambridge."

"No, sure, yeah. But John's got Harvard in his back pocket still—well, some of it, anyways."

This is the only thing Gordon's said so far that seems to be worth any value, so Brains looks up at John—already burning under the sun—and takes a second look at the man who he had assumed must have attended some sort of technological institute, if not the technological institute. "Harvard?" he says. "N-n-not MIT?"

There's a bitter laugh from the older brother and a tongue-in-cheek grin from the younger. "No," John confirms. "Not MIT."

It's the last day of August, and the lab is hot. Horribly, mercilessly hot, but John looks unaffected, surrounded in whirring fans and holograms of every different color. The only hint of heat is the beads of sweat sitting below a drenched, deflated curl. "What are you w-working on?"

John doesn't look away from his screens. "Just playing around with some of the code for the main jet. I think if I can find a way to have a single control—"

"You code?"

There's a wry smile on John's lips. "Used to. I mostly worked on game theory back before college, but it's pretty applicable here. I just have to re-learn it, which is apparently easier said than done."

John throws his hands to the sky, lets them fall in his lap. This is a chance, Brains knows, to say the thing he's been trying to say for the past month. "It would p-probably be easier to learn in a formal setting," he says, testing the waters. "A technical school, perhaps."

There's a pause and then a, "Probably."

"I have friends who lecture there, John," he says. "MIT would be happy to have you. I could recom—"

"It's not really my call, Brains," he says, returning to his screens.

And that is the end of that.

It's the last day of September, and Brains can't remember the last time his heart had found home in his throat. "Ahh, Brains. Right on time—shut the door, shut the door."

Brains does as he is told, mostly because he is about to do something he shouldn't and when he is fired, he'd at least like a good recommendation for his next place of employment. "Mr. T-Tracy. So g-good to see you, sir."

"Please, have a seat—"

"I'd prefer not to this time, sir."

Brains has sat in the chair opposite Jeff Tracy many times in his life, musing about the Thunderbird project—discussing everything from big pictures to devilish details. It's a comfy chair. Nice, but Brains would rather have a quick exit when Mr. Tracy tries to slug him. "What is it, Brains?"

Well. Now or never. "I need a coder."

Mr. Tracy smiles like Brains has just handed him a winning lotto ticket. Or better, maybe, seeing as Mr. Tracy already has more than most lotteries could provide. "That's great news—I didn't think you'd reach this stage so early. I'll get in touch with some old friends and see what kind of students are—"

"I want John."

Until that moment, Brains would have thought it scientifically impossible for a smile that big to vanish that quickly. "John?" he says. "John hasn't coded since—"

He's cut off with the sound of a tablet sliding across glass. "This is a profile I've made up for him. It c-covers the last six months of work—all of it is John's. I didn't touch it."

Mr. Tracy scans it as if he knows what he's looking at. Mr. Tracy is very good at that sort of thing.

"I took the liberty of calling some of my old friends. They are willing to start John in the winter semester." Brains gains momentum as he goes on. "I d-don't know what he did, sir, but you need to know that your son is wasting his potential by bringing me my coffee."

It's the last day of October, and there's a Halloween party at Jeff Tracy's penthouse. Jeff Tracy is, predictably, absent. It's small,or small-ish, anyway, mostly a family affair. Family and friends, and apparently Brains is a friend to John now. He's quite glad to be.

Brains is the sort of person who's more confident when he's dressed as a storm-trooper, even if he's a little short for it. A few other engineers have been invited and the card games have been busted out. There are a handful of Gordon's school friends present, plus Gordon, in swim briefs emblazoned with stars and stripes, goggles, and a gold medal around his neck.

Gordon's the one who opens the door on Brains' arrival.

"Guess what I am," he'd prompted, and Brains had been glad of his helmet to hide his blushing. Naked, is the answer. Very nearly naked. Tan and athletic and golden-boy blond, and with a ribbon around his neck. Gordon doesn't wait for an answer, anyway. "I'm a gold medal Olympian. It was not a difficult costume."

"V-very nice. Are your other brothers going to b-be here?" Hopefully fully dressed.

Gordon's got a bright purple martini in one hand and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Everyone but Scooter, because Scooter's in...oh hell, I dunno. Some desert somewhere. He's doing some test flight thing for Dad. Guess you know about that though. Uh...Virgil's waiting for Al at the airport, should be here soon. Oh! Yeah, I guess you don't know Allie or Virgil yet? C'mon, John's the one on the bar, get him to make you something while you wait. He's good at it, the nerd."

Brains is furnished with an approximation of a Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster, but he drops it when the door opens and Virgil fills it, broad-shouldered and bearded, and putting Gordon to shame, even when fully-clothed and a lumberjack. There's something about a man with an axe, even if the axe is rubber and comically oversized.

John's the sort of person who has a full star-fleet uniform. Alan's the sort of person who's dressed as the Chekov to his older brother's Spock.

Brains doesn't have any siblings. But there's something a little bit heartmelting about the way Alan launches himself at his oldest available brother, and the way John's grin is affectionate and genuine. Brains is a little bit distracted by Virgil, especially when Virgil mentions he's an engineering major, but he happens to notice John and Alan slipping out onto the balcony, to talk together privately. It must be nice, Brains imagines, to have brothers.

It's the last day of November, and Brains overhears a fight he's not supposed to.

The door of Jeff's office is open a crack, and Brains really shouldn't listen outside of it, but it's John's voice he hears, and he can't help but pause.

"-I'm aware I said it was your choice. But I had hoped you had better a better sense of discretion than to tell Alan about why you're out here. I would remind you that he's only ever tried to imitate every other thing you've done, and the tacit implication that your behavior is even remotely acceptable won't be allowed to stand. You're expected to set an example. I would really rather you hadn't let your youngest brother down."

Brains winces and is about to leave, but John's answer stalls him, confirms something he'd already suspected. There's a tight, restrained quality about the younger man's voice, and it's possible this is the only time Brains ever has or ever will hear real, genuine honesty from John, "I let Alan down years ago," he starts, "when I went to Harvard over MIT."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I let everybody down," John asserts, voice rising, "when I didn't tell you that Harvard wasn't what I wanted. It was what you wanted, and I set the precedent for not bucking your expectations. Maybe I've failed everyone in plenty of other ways since then, but that was where I failed first, and it was where I failed hardest."

Well, Brains is just transfixed, now. Rude or not, about to be caught eavesdropping or not, he needs to know how this played out. And secretly, quietly, he's rooting for John, especially when he says, "And I'm not going back. I'm not."

Jeff's answering growl of frustration is audible, even at distance. Brains is shaking outside the door-he can't even imagine how John feels. "You have almost a complete degree. Your education has been expensive, John, and I don't intend to have nothing to show for it."

"What I had to show for it nearly killed me. That's what Alan needs to know. He needs to know I'm only human and I can fail." John's pause is hard to read, until his voice follows it, a little choked. "But that he doesn't have to."

"John Tracy! This discussion isn't over-"

But the door swings open and John storms out, then slams it behind him and startles Brains, who yelps without meaning to, and startles John right back.

For a moment the pair of them stare at each other, John with his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright and Brains with a tablet clutched to his chest and no idea what to say.

"...Come on," John says finally, with his eyes darting back to his father's office door as he makes for the elevator at a brisk walk. "Come on, we're getting drinks. I need...I need someone to talk to."

It's the last day of December and their father's LA office is the kind of place that money can't buy. Money is a contributing factor, sure—a very large contributing factor—but this place costs more than just numbers on a bank statement. It requires a reputation, demands a finely spun web of associates, and the leases are all signed with gold-trimmed fountain pens, engraved with the names of schools that only produce powerful people.

Their father's pen had read Harvard University. John's pens will not.

There's a party going on downstairs, made up of the glitz and glam that the boys have long ago stripped off and untied. The rooftop of their father's LA office is not as nice as the rest of it, but it's where John and his brothers disappear to on the nights when they grow tired of speaking to strangers who know their name and distant family who definitely don't.

Brains has been invited to join them this year. It feels like more of an honor than it actually is—feels like more of a party than any he's ever been to. Each brother has a drink in hand and a smile on his lips, composing their own music of laughter and chatter that's so much more pleasant than anything that bleeds up from below. "That's your resolution?" John says, taking a sip from a glass that costs more than his first semester had.

Virgil's answering laugh is the kind of deep chuckle that makes a cool night feel warm. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to lower my CO2 emissions."

"You're an engineering major," Alan points out, looking just a little bit older with a bottle hanging from his fingers, even if it's only rootbeer.

Virgil takes a sip from a beer that is most definitely not of the root variety, rolling his eyes. "So I'll engineer a new way to create energy. I'm applying to graduate in a year or two—I'll need a senior project anyways."

"I think it's q-quite admirable," Brains cuts in, and Virgil raises the bottle to him, sending a thank you his way in the form of a smile.

It's Scott who speaks next, the pilot for the craft that Brains has been building for a year now. Thunderbird One, after all, had been Jeff Tracy's New Year's resolution. "I agree," he says. "Admirable. If Virgil wants to save the world, we'll let him."

Scott has just recently been brought in on the Thunderbirds project—two months ago. Maybe three. Brains suspects that he's been thinking a lot about saving the world these days.

"What about you, Johnny?"

Gordon and John sit across from each other, one with a glass of water, the other with the strongest whiskey the party had offered. All eyes fall to John, but John's eyes are firm on Gordon. It's a beat, two, before John digs into his pocket.

There's a rattle. There's a hollow clink as a bottle is slammed against glass. Everyone here knows what's in that little aspirin bottle—one pill, not at all aspirin. John looks at Gordon, downs what's left of his drink, and says, "I'm going to space."

It's an unusually clear night for the end of December, but everyone looks up at the stars as if confirming that they're still there. Everyone, of course, except for John and Gordon. "Space, huh?"

"Space," John confirms.

"Gonna take a lot of work," Gordon says.

"Sure is," John replies.

"Probably a little bit of school."

John's eyes shift to Brains, but then flicker right back to his brother. "I think I've got that part handled."

"Didn't have it handled last time, Johnny."

"Do this time, Gordon."

The classy, fluid music below plays on, but the easy chatter of the song on the rooftop has long since ended. There's a static sort of silent conversation, made up of words unsaid but still understood until finally Gordon is the one to snap. "Prove it."

"What?"

"Throw this pill off of that roof," Gordon dares. "That's when I'll believe you've got it under control."

The roof is quiet, John's smile hinting at rebellion. Brains has seen this look before and it almost always comes just after John is told he can't and just before he proves he can. It feels as though maybe the world has frozen over—like they're stuck in that single point of time—but then it's Virgil's voice telling them all, "Ten seconds from midnight."

John's the first to stand, snatching the bottle back from the tabletop. Then Gordon, close on his heel. The others follow as John approaches the ledge and when the second youngest steals a glimpse of the time, the second oldest starts the countdown. "Five."

Gordon slings his arm around his brother's shoulder. "Four."

Alan's next, bouncing in that specific way that he only does when he's around the people he most admires. "Three."

Virgil, smiling. "Two."

Scott. "One."

Fireworks pop and fizz against inky skies. From below, there's the cry of midnight. When John throws the bottle, they all watch until they can't see it anymore, and Gordon feels the weight roll off of John's shoulders. "Happy New Year, little brother."

"Happy New Year, John," Gordon says. "Happy New Year."

Author's Note: and that's the end of The Harvard Hypocrite. Thank you for reading. As rich as this story is and as complex as it makes these characters, the story doubles back on itself in Good Fathers, a piece about Jeff and John and what that first week in LA looks like.