Kudos to artemisscribe for the title. Also technically a fic to celebrate Scott's birthday, although no birthdays are mentioned beyond this point.

Short, intense rescues are Scott's favorite kind—a swift punch of adrenaline, rapid movement, no time to think, only time to act. He can be in and out within an hour or two, especially when things go well, and by the time he touches back down on the island, he's usually still buzzing, ready for a quick shower and the next call.

The next call doesn't always arrive—but it could, so he inevitably finds himself settling behind the lounge desk without having to think about it. He's too wound up to sleep, is well aware trying now won't lead anywhere good, so more work—and being close at hand to the potential for other rescues—it is.

Except when he goes to pick up his favorite pen from its customary spot on the left side of the desk, he discovers it isn't there.

He frowns. Checks again, just in case he's somehow missed seeing it. He hasn't, and it isn't on the desk at all, which means...

"John, who was the last one to sit here?"

It's after twenty-one hundred hours and no one is active on a rescue right now, so John's hologram fades up to full luminosity over a handful of seconds, quite literally brightening the lounge with his presence, if not with a smile. In fact, he looks rather baffled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean someone snatched my pen, because it isn't here." He's well aware of the pettiness of having a favorite pen, but in the barely controlled chaos that is their lives, he's found it's the little things that help them preserve their sanity.

There's a pause of the sort that jangles instincts long honed by years of being an older brother, but when he glances up from his search, it's to find John staring at him with a complete lack of guilt and instead something bordering on concern.

Trained by one too many sneak attacks that have ended in pillow fights and wrestling matches—and broken furniture—Scott glances behind him, finds no creeping-up brother there, and so returns his attention to the ghostly hologram, tinted more orange than it appears during daylight hours or when someone is active on a mission. "What's that look for?"

John's hands move in a pattern that indicates he's accessing information. "Did you by any chance happen to hit your head while you were last out?"

Coming from Gordon, the question would be an insult; from John, it's one that makes Scott pause in the middle of opening the desk's top drawer. "No?" Not any harder than usual, anyway. He frowns. "I'm not concussed."

"Never said you were."

Scott shuts the drawer with more force than is strictly necessary. Maybe he should head down to the gym instead of hanging around up here. "You insinuated."

"I'm just checking." John's attention shifts from whatever data he's pulled up and returns to him. Even with over twenty-two thousand miles separating them, Scott can't shake the sensation that John can see directly into his head. Sometimes the notion doesn't bother him. Tonight it does.

"Forget it." He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his lower back. "I'm going for a run."

"Scott, hang on. I'll answer your question, it's just..." John takes an audible breath. "I thought," he says, slow, like he's testing the weight of each word, "that you moved most of your stuff upstairs."

"Why would I—"

The anger drains away, leaving behind a nauseating hollowness, heavy enough that it drags Scott back down into the chair—Dad's chair. Drops his elbows onto Dad's desk and buries his face in his hands to muffle his "Aw, hell, not again."

How? How is it possible to forget that Dad's back? Normally the knowledge that he's returned to their lives pulses bright in Scott's chest, makes his ribs ache with every beat of his swelling heart as he remembers anew they found him alive, alive, alive. Even during rescues, when he's wholly committed to doing whatever it takes to save lives, there's a part of his body thrumming with the knowledge that their most important rescue ever was successful, and yet...

"I do it too."

Scott drops his hands to discover John has transferred his hologram to the desk's smaller projector, putting him at eye level. Closer like this, more details are apparent: the creases gathered between his eyebrows, the way his frown is sympathetic instead of criticizing, even a hint of ginger eyelashes visible when he blinks.

"Do what?"

John glances around, and it takes Scott a moment to realize he's checking something in the commsphere and not actually peering about to locate eavesdroppers. "I forget he's alive too."

Hearing it stated so bluntly makes Scott wince, but knowing he isn't the only one who's made such a terrible mistake loosens something that's been knotted tight between his shoulders, allows him to slump forward and prop his chin on his fist. "It's awful. Forgetting, I mean, not that he's... that we found him."

John shrugs. "Habits take effort to break, especially after years. I still try to check my scans at least once a day."

"Really? I thought you deleted those right after we got back."

"I did." John's smile is wry. "Old habits, though."

"Are annoying," Scott tacks on, the kind of petty comment he finds easiest to indulge in with John, particularly during these late hours when their island world is dark and quiet, ocean breeze whispering the potential for more action but not promising it.

John laughs, a quick bark of amusement that makes Scott reflexively smile. "Yeah." John folds his arms, which means he's taken the majority of his focus off the displays in front of him. "Especially when you realize just how pervasive they've become."

In some ways, their lives have changed drastically since they returned from the Oort Cloud one family member stronger, but in these peculiar moments dominated by entrenched mindsets and long-developed mental pathways, Scott finds himself wondering just how much they've closed ranks—and how ostracized Dad might be feeling as a result.

A dizzying swoop of vertigo catches him off guard, makes him glad he's sitting down so he can blink his vision back into focus without worrying about staying upright.

John notices, because of course he does. "What's wrong?"

Scott shakes his head, then grips the edge of the desk to maintain his sense of equilibrium. "Just reminded of how hard this all is."

"No one said it was going to be easy."

"No, I—obviously. Just..." He exhales slowly. At least the room seems steady again. "I guess I just wasn't expecting it to be like this?"

John's projection tilts back a few more degrees, his way of relaxing into the conversation. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know." This is turning into the sort of discussion that necessitates a glass of scotch in hand, but he's still marked as active, and he isn't quite ready to give up the status. "I didn't really think about it."

"No, you were too busy snapping at everyone to hurry up so we could save Dad."

Scott shrugs and leans back in the chair so he can fold his arms. "We barely got there in time too." Knowledge that's haunted his thoughts since he had a moment to breathe, fear and relief knotted solid in his gut. "Every second counts."

It's always been that way for their family. If Mom had been granted a few more hours of air... If Gordon had been fished out of the ocean a few minutes later... If the Chaos Crew had delayed them for even an hour longer...

They lead lives of inches, of seconds, of crazy near misses and snap decisions based on gut instinct that can either save lives or damn them. Scott's long used to the lifestyle—or maybe he just likes to pretend he is, because finding Dad has really made him think about how, despite all their plans and contingencies and procedures, so often their work comes down to sheer dumb luck. Sometimes the elements misalign. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes good people die.

But sometimes, despite all the odds, people live.

"That may be," John replies, pulling Scott's head out of the Oort Cloud and back down to the planet's surface, "but you know habits are formed through repetition."

"Uh, yeah? Of course they are."

"Which is something to stay mindful of."

Scott sighs, fingers tapping his sleeve. "Is this going somewhere?"

"You need to relax."

"I am relaxed."

John points at his tapping fingers, and Scott automatically curls them around his arm instead. "I'm serious, Scott. Stop chasing work, and stop ordering your family around. We have Dad back—you should actually try to enjoy it."

"You think I haven't been?"

"I think that you're sitting up here trying to do more work than is strictly necessary when you could be joining Dad on the deck for a drink and a chat instead. You know, the dad we just got back?"

It's a comment designed to hurt, and hurt it does. The desk's position doesn't afford anyone sitting at it a view of the pool due to the protruding balcony, but Scott glances in its direction anyway, something like guilt pinching at his insides. "Does he..."

John's eye roll is of the audible sort. "Of course he wants company. Have you even been paying attention to the way he lights up whenever one of us talks to him?"

Now that he thinks about it... "Kind of?"

"You haven't."

"I've been kind of busy here, John."

"Sure, too busy for family."

Scott cuts a hand through John's face, terminating the call, because it's that or fight, and he's already batting away the gnawing guilt. John isn't wrong, technically, he's just... annoying about it.

As Scott stands, his gaze strays once again to the empty spot on the desk. That there's nothing there has to be a good sign, right? He hasn't reverted completely to old habits—he's starting to make changes. Awareness is the first step.

Thoughts of Dad sitting outside, alone and possibly feeling unwanted, make him straighten. "John?"

The main display lights up to show John with arms crossed, one eyebrow lost under his hair. On the angry end of annoyed, then. "What?"

Scott lifts his hands. "I'm sorry. I haven't exactly been handling this as well as I could."

"Hmm." John studies him for an elongating number of seconds before his arms relax. "Well, I am usually right about these things."

Scott returns a weak smile. "Someone has to be."

"Now quit stalling." He motions toward the stairs leading down to the kitchen. "Go. Work can wait. Hang out with him for a while."

"I..." Realistically, it's not like there's anything he has to get done right now—there are just things he wants to do. Or does he really? Paperwork is a habit now, not anything he enjoys. Successful rescues are immensely rewarding, and he doesn't want to give those up, but perhaps it's time he stops defaulting to what is comfortable and takes this opportunity to seek out a conversation long overdue. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." John's nod is brisk but not sharp, and he tips forward, reaching out to adjust something only he can see. "I'll send any mission alerts to your watch."

Scott drags his hands down his face, then reaches for the desk's lowest drawer so he can withdraw the bottle and a pair of tumblers nestled in its custom, felt-lined depths. "No, don't bother. I'm off duty for the next few hours."

John smiles, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and his fingers tap the air. "Understood. Enjoy your drink—and the company."

Scott tips him a two-finger salute and watches John's hologram fade out before he takes a deep breath and sets the glassware down on the desk so he can rummage through the top drawer for a pen and a scrap of paper.

No more chasing down work. No more needlessly snapping at his brothers. No more wasting this blessing of a second opportunity.

It's a rough list, incomplete, but it'll serve its function as a reminder. He replaces the pen and tucks the note into his pocket, collects the scotch and glasses, then takes the first steps down to the kitchen and, hopefully, toward making restorations with his family.