My current favourite headcanon is Scott & John teaming up to make a pile of pancakes the size of Tracy Island in an attempt to feed all 5 bros. But they should know better honestly because Virgil is just like 'challenge accepted'
John Glenn Tracy is master of the pancake pan. They come out crisp and thin and even and somehow magically, perfectly round every single time. The batter he makes is light and slightly bubbly at the edges and they cook to a warm golden brown colour; soft and perfect.
Scott does the toppings (because his pancakes in comparison come out lopsided and blobby with weird clumpy bits of flour and they taste nearly as good as Grandma’s). There’s lemon and sugar for him and maple syrup for Virgil and sometimes he does honey or jam or a little sprinkle of walnuts and chopped fruit to keep them all happy. On rare, treat occasions though, the eldest brother brings out the smarties and the chocolate sauce and the toast sprinkles and John scowls at his brother from across the kitchen, all narrowed eyes and pursed lips because that much sugar is doomed to make Alan and Gordon completely and totally hyperactive and that’s the last thing they ever need.
Plus that much sugar is bad for you and John fidgets nervously, his hands twitching over the strawberry he’s neatly slicing for his own pancakes, as he watches his little brother’s shoveling large forkfuls into their mouths, grinning like squirty-cream-smudged madmen because Scott won this time. The eldest brother just rolls his eyes and takes the knife from John; he doesn’t want their spaceman to cut himself by accident while he’s distracted by the terror twins and their mountain of sugar and his worries about the boys cardiology. The muscle under one of John’s eyes spasms sporadically as he laments the ruination of his perfectly good pancakes to the death-by-sucrose they’ve been subjected to. Scott has to tug him away by the elbow to get him to sit down and actually eat his own before they go cold; the idiot.
Virgil, however, is master of the waffle iron. He’s whipped cream and walnuts and chocolate mousse on hot, crispy waffles. Strawberries and blueberries and a drizzle of honey or coulis, cocoa shavings. Sometimes it’s hot, melted mozzarella and tomatoes, pesto and basil leaves on hot-pressed wholemeal slices. Crumbly bacon pieces and olives and feta and grumbling as Gordon splatters his artwork-on-a-plate with ketchup.
And Virgil makes enough waffles to feed a small island, which is really just as well because their small island has Gordon and Alan on it and those two just never seem to be full. Tiny bottomless pits for older brothers to stare at and despair and wipe crumbs away from sticky, baby-bird mouths.
Later though. When the pan-fried or ironed goods have been consumed, the two youngest boys regress back to toddlers; they get very sleepy when warm and full and, as they’re all curled up in front of the TV in the evening, it’s pretty much guaranteed that both of them will have fallen asleep pressed against their brothers. Virgil carries Gordon and Scott takes little Alan off to bed, and John trips along behind them and is the one to fetch each boy a glass of water encase they need a drink in the night, and who checks that they’ve brushed their teeth, and who makes sure that the landing light is always left on.
When John eventually gets shot into space, it’s not just his perfect pancakes they all miss.