Author's Note: Over in the other fandom that I write consistently for ("Hawaii Five-0 (2010)"), I started doing something fun by taking a list of "100 Ways to…" do something, and turning each "Way" into a short story mostly featuring the two lead characters of that series. It continues to be very popular, so I thought hey, I'd like to do this for my other love!

I think I've finally found a list that's suitable for the "Thunderbirds" world, and so with apologies to the Natural Papa website, from which I am borrowing this particular list, I'm going to jump right off the cliff and give this a whirl in this fandom.

You might find some of these Ways uproariously funny and others simply slices of life. You might find stories that occur way in the past, 'right now' in the present of the series, or way in the future. You might find crackfic in here (meaning something that's intentionally unbelievable or insane) and you might find short stories that should come with hankie warnings (and no, I won't necessarily warn you). Some Ways may be related, most will probably be standalone mini-stories. All in all, it'll be a roller coaster ride, and one that I hope you enjoy. I will post two Ways per day, so you have 50 days of new TB fic on the way!

Without further ado, let's see how the Tracys handle "100 Ways to be a Better Father…"

WARNING: I am giving a blanket content warning. I have no way of knowing what will or won't appear in each Way right now, but I can tell you that there will most likely be cursing dotted throughout, and since some people get their panties in a twist about that, here's your fair warning!

100 WAYS TO BE A BETTER FATHER

Acknowledgement: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for allowing me to use the name 'Ruth' as Grandma Tracy's first name. I may use it throughout these hundred ways, so this is a blanket acknowledgment!

Way 1
Be present with your children.

Jeff wasn't around much after Lucy died.

And Ruth couldn't blame her son for it. Not really.

It was hard on Scott. More than on any of the others, and she supposed Jeff knew it, but Scott, well, he'd stood up straight and tall, and just allowed the weight of the world to settle on his shoulders. It'd been obvious from the time he was a toddler that he was a born leader like his father, but at barely nine years of age, it was a tough, tough road to go.

Oh, he hadn't done it alone, of course. There'd been the grandparents on both sides of the family, and all their brothers and sisters, and their children. There'd been so many aunts, uncles and cousins present that three months after the funeral, Grandma – as everyone called her even if she wasn't theirs – had basically sent them all home.

It wasn't that they weren't grateful for the help, but Scott was getting way overwhelmed with everyone coming to him since his dad was MIA, and having to field questions from his little brothers. All the women fawned over Alan and Gordon, of course, and John just handled things in his usual, quiet way, never letting on whether he was sad, happy or anywhere in between.

Virgil anchored Scott, but Scott was in need of a father. Not a little brother. Not a grandmother or grandfather. Not a newborn baby brother who needed constant feedings and diaper changes every couple of hours around the clock. Not when he was trying to keep his grades up at school and everything else.

Ruth sighed at the memories as she let the knitting she'd been doing fall to her lap. She looked up and across the office to where Jeff was seated at his desk, and Scott was seated right next to him on the edge of it, and the two were discussing something or other having to do with International Rescue.

She looked at how they both sat. Looked at the gestures they made. Looked at the way they held themselves…partially born of the same military training, but partially because they were so much alike.

She wasn't sure what they were discussing, but there was as much give as there was take from both men, and Ruth couldn't help but smile at them. Things had been rough after Lucy had left her husband and children far too soon. But things had evened themselves out now, and at thirty years of age, Scott was still the born leader, now in charge of the most amazing organization that had ever existed. Jeff's brainchild…but Scott's baby.

Scott grinned at his dad, who chuckled in response. The love in both men's eyes was something you could almost reach out and touch. Grandma picked her knitting back up and the needles started clacking together again.

No, Jeff wasn't around much in those early years. But he was around now. And he was putting Scott in charge, but he was there to support him in whatever way Scott needed. Making up for lost time, maybe. Or maybe, just being the dad he always would've been had the love of his life not been taken from him.

Either way, Ruth didn't know how she could be more proud of either of them. She looked up to find her son watching her. When he winked, she knew she'd been caught out.

It had taken over twenty years, but Jeff seemed happy, at last.

They all did.

And really, that was all that mattered.

Way 2
Heap lavish amounts of praise on your kids.

If there was one thing Jeff Tracy's parents had taught him, it was to make sure you told someone when they did something well, and also told them when they didn't.

He was raised well, Jeff was, imbued with manners and tact and all those things that help you get along in a man's world. Only thing was, while he knew the right things to say, and could always say them to his Air Force subordinates as well as he could to his wife, Jeff never really quite got the hang of that fine line between wanting to boost your child's self-confidence, and trying to help them do whatever it was they'd done, better.

Especially when 'whatever it was' wound up turning the east wall of the living room into a work of art that more resembled graffiti than Rembrandt.

Ah, Virgil. He'd been early to the crayons and finger paints, and had never really put them down since he was barely a year old. Of course, there'd been the usual fight with the infant-turning-toddler about whether eating the crayons was of equal importance to drawing with them.

Lucy had managed to curtail that particular habit, so Jeff hadn't had to worry his head about it.

And then there was the penchant young three-year old Virgil had for taking said crayons to any available surface throughout the house. This included things such as the dining room tabletop, any piece of wall he could reach, the television screen, the linoleum in the kitchen, the framed photo of Jeff's paternal grandparents that sat on Jeff's dresser top, and – at one point – it also meant that baby Johnny's snow-white hair had turned interesting shades of purple and pink courtesy of watercolors.

Scott had thought that one funny as hell, in spite of his father's scowl.

So when Virgil had announced to one and to all that he was going to attempt his first wall mural, he'd done it on a day when neither his grandmother nor his father were present. Scott had, at first, firmly proclaimed this was not anything he was going to be doing anytime soon. But damn Virgil's puppy dog eyes and extremely effective lower pouting lip, Scott later gently advised him to choose an out-of-the-way wall, and to also choose quite carefully precisely what he'd be painting onto it.

And not to make whatever it was too big, for the love of all that was holy.

Virgil, with the wisdom of one who is halfway between the ages of ten and eleven, waited until his father was gone for twelve days to Florida, and his grandmother was gone six of those twelve days to visit with her ailing sister.

Scott had his hands full with the little ones, and really wasn't paying much attention between bath times and meal times and homework-doing and reading bedtime stories and "Dammit, John, turn off the flashlight and go to sleep!" type of things and feeding the dog – the very same dog Jeff had told Virgil never to dye blue again – and so Scott didn't actually catch on to what Virgil was up to until it was too late to undo it.

Sure, Aunt Lily had been coming over in the evenings to check on them and help Scott get everything handled in the hours between after-school and bedtime ("John, if I have to tell you to stop reading one more time, it's eleven at night!"), but on Saturday, she wouldn't be over because Grandma was coming home just after one in the afternoon, and Scott had assured both her and Aunt Lily he could handle things.

Um…yeah. Not so much.

Grandma's reaction to Virgil's artwork had been one of surprise. At least she hadn't torn him or Virgil a new one. Virgil had already gotten that lecture from Scott only twenty minutes earlier.

Ruth Tracy didn't do such a good job of masking her laughter, and while Scott had expected to catch hell for letting Virgil get away with it to begin with, Grandma had instead, with the wisdom that can only come with years, advised Scott to just let it be, as Virgil was only artistically expressing himself and his pride in his family. Scott figured if she'd seen herself on that wall, she'd have thought differently, but he wisely held his tongue.

Young Scott, barely a teenager, wasn't quite so sure his father would see things the easy way Ruth was, but he bowed to his grandmother's wishes, and left it alone.

John asked how come he couldn't paint stars and astronauts on his ceiling when Virgil could paint them all up onto an entire living room wall. Grandma handled that by saying it was only because the ceiling was too high for John to reach.

Which was why Jeff found John teetering precariously on a paint ladder when he got home the next day.

Scott nearly bit his lip clean through when Jeff stepped into the living room, Gordon in one arm and Al in the other.

The thing that was most worrisome was the lack of any sound in the ensuing minutes.

Scott waited.

Grandma winked at him, but it didn't stop the twisting feeling in Scott's gut. Damn, whenever he was upset, it always got him in the stomach.

Jeff walked back out of the living room. Virgil was, as was every younger brother's right, hiding behind Scott. Grandma was cheerily rolling out a pie crust there in the kitchen, while John was scowling with all the put-upon-ness of an eight-year old who thinks he's been wronged in not getting something an older sibling's gotten.

Jeff looked at Scott a moment, then at Virgil, who chose that very moment to peek around Scott's head. John crossed his arms and pouted. Grandma pretended to ignore them. Jeff cleared his throat.

"Son," Jeff said, shifting Gordon and Alan slightly as his arms began to tire, "Virgil?"

Virgil dutifully stepped out from behind his older brother to take his medicine like the responsible (scared shitless) young man that he was. "Yes, Father?"

Well, maybe Jeff had learned something over the years after all, about how to compliment and correct at the same time without it ending in tears and slamming doors, because he said:

"Your living room mural is extremely good for someone your age."

Scott's eyes widened in surprise, but not nearly as wide as Virgil's.

"However," Jeff continued. He cleared his throat. "While your grasp of human anatomy is second-to-none, I would suggest perhaps you might want to paint pants onto all of us before your cousins come to visit next Saturday."

Virgil happily agreed.

Grandma told her son he'd handled that very well indeed.

And Jeff, bless him, spent the rest of the evening explaining to John precisely why nude portraits were considered art when done by professional artists, but not so much when it was Dad and his boys on the living room wall of their home…