Archive of Our Own

John threw his arm over his face as the lights suddenly turned on and tried to burn out his eyeballs.

Scott muttered apologies, voice kept considerately quiet. John heard the flick of the switch and the click of the door closing as all settled back to blissful darkness. 

Shuffling noises continued: the thwump of what he guessed was a very expensive suit jacket tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, a muffled curse as something was tripped over and the cracking of Scott stretching out his back. Then footsteps hushed by deep pile carpet came back to his side of the room. 

John kept his eyes screwed shut, arm still draped across his face. He could feel his own heartbeat, a touch too fast and in time with the throbbing pain in his head. The hotel sheets were a ridiculous thread count, all silky smooth with crisply made corners, but they scraped against his skin because they weren’t the same worn, soft ones he had at home or his sleeping bag up on Five which was also home.

He’d be getting smotherhenned any second now that Scott had found him, but honestly, he was too tired to care. 

The ache in his muscles matched the gnawing of guilt at his insides for leaving Scott in the meeting alone. 

Then he refuted that thought because he wasn't meant to be doing the whole tearing himself down thing anymore, and the meeting had been an objectively fine one, hashing out a few items for Tracy Industries with the legal department. They were going over the fine print for an acquisition of a small health hazard of a company before the contracts could be finalised and work could begin on bringing it up to scratch. 

The lawyers came highly recommended by Jack, their family lawyer and old friend, and it was just a couple of points better settled in person, giving a nice excuse for him and Scott to spend some time together away from the Island. Not the bloodthirsty investors and board members John had had to verbally tear to shreds on several occasions.

Scott had been fine. It wasn't like he couldn't handle himself. Except that John would rather be there to take the load off of Scott’s shoulders as much as he could. And because this sort of detail work was far more John’s area than his brother’s.

Scott was decent at it, had built up the skill over the years since dad wasn't here and had thrown Scott to the wolves. He was now careful to check thoroughly where he used to make hasty, barely caught in time mistakes. But it was more out of duty and sheer necessity, and John thought privately, the colossal fear of failure hanging over Scott’s head at any given moment. 

John actually liked picking documents apart, clause by clause, sentence by painstaking sentence. Usually. 

Except for today, where he’d walked out only an hour and a half in. 

It’d been fine, to start with. He’d ignored the dizziness and irritating pinching between his brows. He’d done the correct greeting people and handshakes business then knuckled down to review the document and be pedantic about the positioning of commas, trying not to fidget with his suit too obviously when the tie was too tight around his neck or rub at his eyes as his contacts felt weird. 

Far too much time had been spent pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to force his brain into gear to focus on the words in front of him. The legal jargon slipped between his fingers, lines blurring together, when this was his thing —even if not in precisely his area of expertise—dancing between meaning and technicalities, finding the thread of logical arguments building on one another, untangling it when it faltered. 

He’d just made it worse. There’d be careless mistakes Scott and the lawyers would now have to fix because of him. John had spent more time staring at the single dead pixel in the corner of the holo caused by a fault in the projector and shuffling his feet around in his shoes as the seams of his socks had twisted up, than actually listening to explanations, which was also meant to be his thing. 

When they finally caught his attention from completely spacing out, everyone had been looking at him in concern: Scott, the two lawyers, his own pale reflection in the glass tabletop. He’d excused himself before he put his foot in his mouth and said something stupid. 

On the way out of the meeting, he’d leant against the closed doors behind him for a minute as the world dissolved into sparkling lights. The familiar, overwhelming feeling that he shouldn’t even be in the room dug at the jagged hole opening up in his chest. He’d dashed at his eyes, storming out of the building before anyone had a chance to ask what was wrong, before he burst into humiliating tears in the middle of the lobby. 

Dodging people barely helped as they pressed in on him; moving as quickly as he could was far too slowly; he was light headed, swaying as gravity tried to drag his body down. No one had noticed. He swore everyone was watching him. 

It was too loud. It was too bright. The words sensory overload pinged in a corner of his mind. At least he wasn't particularly recognisable to the general public, outside of the specific crowds at astrophysics conferences. He hoped. 

His hands flickered at his sides, accidentally, while held out slightly for balance. He hadn’t meant to let them, not where others would see and stare for drawing attention to himself for existing . The rapid, fluttering movements were one of the only things holding his world together right now and if he stopped it would all implode and he’d fall apart to fragments and he really didn't want that to happen right this second.

The hotel was next door, a short, long walk away. John had had to cling the handle bars in the elevator, gaze fixed on the doors to stay upright. While sifting through his memory for the floor number, the multitudes of details swirled before he could press his finger to the lift button, the metal cool beneath his fingers, indented with the number and its braille counterpart embossed. 

He could easily handle going to space but on Earth could barely manage this . It took another few deep breaths in the hallway while his stomach had felt like it had been turned inside out to get it together enough to fumble for the room access card. 

He had flopped onto his bed, basically fallen, as soon as he got inside. The lights remained off. He’d removed his dress shoes and contacts lying horizontal, head pressed to the mattress, because it was one of the few things that made the dizziness any less worse. 

Even though the noise was gone in terms of decibels, he’d clamped his hands over his ears—no one could see him so he could and everything was still too loud in sensations .

At least his bed had been unmade from the morning. Neither he nor Scott liked anyone poking around their stuff while they stayed somewhere. Scott’s bed on the other side of the room was made up with impeccable military corners, better than how they’d found them, as Scott always did even when John was pretty sure he hated it. 

It would’ve been too hard to wriggle between tightly tucked in sheets as exhausted as John was; this was why he despised gravity and all the issues he had with it. A cutting voice in the back of his head snarked that it was more the fault of his love of space than any Earthly forces.

And here he had stayed, lying on his side still in his suit, shivering slightly from the too cold air conditioning. When he felt the mattress sinking down as Scott sat on the edge of his bed, John curled up tighter.

Then there was the smotherhen. A concerned, “John?” was uttered by big brother as a hand brushed through the air centimetres over his shoulder in a question before a nod from John had it resting there. 

“You alright?” Scott asked, “And I’ve brought takeaway if you’re feeling up to it.” 

“‘S only a headache,” John mumbled.

Scott’s hand gripped his shoulder more firmly. “Seems like some headache, Johnny.”

“Don’t.” 

John couldn't handle even the gentle ribbing right now. Or Scott needling him about what the hell was wrong with him to make him admit to it, which was pretty hypocritical coming from Commander ‘I’m actively bleeding out but I’m Fine .’

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. That wasn't fair on Scott. He was getting better at letting them in when it was needed. All the smothering came from a good place of looking out for little brothers prone to getting themselves into trouble, and John also had a history of being less than honest about exactly how ‘Fine’ he was.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard of the bed as the blurry dark crowded in at the corners of his vision at the rush of his blood pressure dropping. Because he, Thunderbird Five, head of communications for IR and an astronaut breaking records for space hours and expertise, had really pushed himself today. Went totally wild with it. He had, he checked his mental notes, landed on Tracy Island yesterday evening, sat in the passenger seat of Tracy One as Scott did all the flying to get here and immediately clocked out as soon as they got to the hotel. Then attempted to attend a meeting today. Wild , he bit out in sharp, sarcastic thoughts. Maybe that ignored the busy week he’d already pushed through. Even if he usually had to rest the day after the rough descent down from orbit because that was what his body needed and that was meant to be okay .

John reached over to flick on one of the bedside lamps to make it easier on Scott. He squinted in the brightness but it was better than the main light. In the background was the rustle of biodegradable bags and the distinctive snap of takeaway containers being opened: Chinese, from the place he and Scott had really liked the last time they were here, predictable so he wouldn't have to deal with trying something new.

Objectively, the food smelled good but John’s stomach turned. He spent several amusing minutes poking at his noodles, trying to figure out whether it was merely his usual space issues or he was coming down with something.

Scott bumped his shoulder ever so gently. “I got the not too spicy ones for you in case you weren’t feeling so good.”

“Thanks, Scott.” John’s voice came tiny and squeezed out. 

He picked up a mouthful and they were okay, it was him that was at the point of so hungry he was nauseous, and Scott had realised that he hadn't had lunch or dinner and made sure to bring back food John would like. Because he was thoughtful and he cared , and John had the best big brother so why did that make him want to cry?

They ate in silence. Companionable silence. It was kinda nice actually, just sharing space with Scott.

John did not cry all over his brother and his noodles. He would’ve gotten his tablet to read on and distract himself except he’d need his glasses which were in his bag, though he could turn up the font size, except the headache made staring into a bright screen currently unpalatable, so the entire point was moot.

He tipped his head back, resting it on the wall, then turned to Scott.

Scott had scoffed his entire meal far too quickly, shovelling noodles into his mouth with his set of chopsticks, whilst scrolling on his phone. Hair falling out of its careful gelling, top buttons of his blue business shirt undone, meeting out of the way and laughing at something inane, he seemed far more relaxed than this morning. Share space with Scott was nice because he too rarely got to .

John looked away. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping an arm around them, rocking slightly before it made him too dizzy. He stared off around the room, mostly to keep himself from giving in to the urge to worry at the numb, hollow wound in his thoughts. To map out its shape and form, going over it like the hole left by a pulled tooth. To not drag himself into a John classic overthinking spiral, and attempt to ground himself or whatever. 

The room. Too much beige. Carpet, curtains, walls, really what were they thinking? 

John liked colour. He’d chosen the stripes running throughout Thunderbirds Five and his bright orange baldric with the matching narrower lines through his uniform on purpose. They broke up the monotony of whites and greys space stations were far too prone to and he soaked it up, everything from the stickers and few books in his little room to the colour coded holotabs that displayed each of his siblings’ vitals. Bright and vivid, they reminded him of alive, alive, alive . 

Here, even the abstract painting was nearly monochrome. Virgil would have a lot to say but John could only muster a vague disgust towards it. Or maybe it was mostly his mood turning to harshly critical.The place was nice enough, clean and neat, nearest to TI. They didn't need fancy. 

Hints of the darkened evening view shone through the gaps between the curtains in the form of city lights. John had watched the sunset in hours previous briefly paint the dimness of the room through slitted eyelids. 

There had been the colour he wanted, but he’d ignored it instead of opening the curtains up to the light like he usually would in lieu of visible stars. He had stared at the wall, drifting in his thoughts amongst the achy pain and exhaustion instead of choosing to do literally anything else.

And here he was overthinking, doing exactly what he wasn't supposed to be doing. Fantastic job, John .

Doors to the hallway and bathroom, both shut, John listed. Lamp on Scott’s bedside table, dark grey, not black, switched off.

The blue blanket Scott brought everywhere lay as a bright splash on top of the covers of Scott’s bed, a familiar sight no matter where they were.

They didn't have to share a room, with the large beds on each side where John took the one nearest the window under claim it would be better for the stargazing he wouldn't do because of the light pollution but would make Scott edgy from feeling too exposed and too far from the exits. His brother’s face had crumpled in relief before he’d gleefully bounced on his bed like he was totally still five, as John laughed with him. 

With their money they could easily afford two, could get the frankly a waste of money whole penthouse suite of rooms, but they didn't need to. And it was nice to be close.

He and Scott hadn't regularly shared a room since before Alan had been born, and John was fully aware that as adults it would drive them both mad within a week, but on the occasional business trip or even rarer holiday, it was nice . Waking up disorientated and jet lagged in the middle of last night, he’d fallen back to sleep to big brother’s calm, even breathing. Plus Scott could look over and reassure himself at least John was here and okay, as substitute for checking in on all his little brothers before he turned in.

…it had actually been a bit after Alan had been born that the rooms had been shuffled. When it had been Mum and Dad and baby Allie he had to sneak past to go stargaze outside for a few months until Alan was big enough and got the cot, sharing a room with Gordon. Then it was him and Virgil so Scott as the eldest, encouraged by Dad, could have his own room. 

Virgil was a lot quieter and less prone to dragging him into crazy schemes, and John had loved sharing a room with him, of course he did, but something had still ached as he helped take Scott’s aeroplane posters down from between his glow in the dark stars to put them up on bare blue walls that smelt of new paint. Virgil had never woken up when John went to stargaze, no matter what he tripped over or how much he swore, so he never came with him on those forbidden midnight trips either. Scott had . 

But after Mum, because John was evidently all for following miserable trains of thought tonight, Scott technically had still shared a room with them. Just when no one, especially Dad, would notice. John had woken up to the door opening after everyone else was asleep each night to Scott tiptoeing in to curl up on the floor between his and Virgil’s beds, wrapped in the blue baby blanket that had been Allie’s until it was put away but had originally been knitted by Mum for Scott.

John had always shuffled over to make room for Scott beside him. Scott shouldn’t be alone, he wasn't meant to be alone but everyone had known that evidently except for Dad. He’d always woken up at dawn when Scott left too…

Scott’s hand back on his shoulder startled him, and between the flinch he barely processed the worried, “Earth to John?” 

A wave of dizziness hit and John buried his head in his knees. 

“Sorry,” John mumbled.

“No apologies needed.”

Scott gently took the container of noodles out of his hand which he was holding and had kinda forgotten about, even as the pointed edges dug into his palm. John’d only managed half of his before he had to put it aside. Maybe later, if he got over the nausea. 

Scott held out an arm, giving John the option of being pulled into a hug. He swallowed and shuffled closer, then leant against Scott. 

“What were you thinking about, a million miles away?” Scott inquired.

“Virgie’s a better painter than whoever caused that monstrosity.”

Scott huffed out a laugh. 

Then a tense beat and a, “Really what is it, John?”

John shrugged, tangling his fingers in the hotel sheets.

He felt Scott stiffen, was waiting for the smothering tirade to begin because Scott had always had to poke and prod until he figured out what what wrong so he could fix it, but Scott let out a breath and didn't push. 

Because he’d learnt when John needed time to process and choose to let him in. Because that’s how much he cared about John, enough to take it on board and comfort him in other ways, and for both of them break the cycle of when they used to have screaming matches out of sight of the others because neither of them were willing to try to see from the other’s point of view. 

John blinked back tears, as he was evidently tired, sick, overwhelmed, vaguely depressed and emotional , then curled into Scott’s side, slumping to fit better beneath his brother’s arm. 

Scott pressed a kiss to his hair. “I’m here, for whatever it is.”

“I know,” John whispered.

Scott’s voice washed over him, telling him about home as he texted with Virgil. 

“Virge says all’s good on the island. The Squid rescued a squid and Allie’s caught up with his school work. Kayo has apparently ordered another sword because no one can stop her. Grandma made mystery meatloaf again, miraculously better this time, and Brains has cracked his latest invention. Everyone says hi to you too.”

John half-listened, mostly paying attention to the soothing vibrations of Scott speaking and the sound of his even breathing. Knowing what was going on at home through Virgil’s anecdotes painting a vivid picture of their everyday life continuing on, relayed by Scott, was a relief when he was away from his endless screens and data streams on Five, especially when he felt so helpless.

For a while he drifted; the dark behind his eyelids almost comforting when Scott was warm and cradling him close, tethering him to the Earth so he wouldn’t be torn away. But the throbbing in his head hadn't stopped, nor the exhaustion that dug in its teeth but wouldn't do him the mercy of dragging him under, and lying about in a suit was uncomfortable . Plus the inside of his mouth felt gross. And he needed to use the bathroom.

So up he got, with a noise too aggravated to be called a sigh. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, wriggling his toes for a minute so he wouldn't straight up keel over when he stood. Scott squeezed his shoulder briefly.

Walk across the room, slam his hand into the wall when he felt like he was tipping over. Reach the bathroom. Wince at the sensation of cold tiles through his socks. Do his business, then avoid eye contact with the mirror above the sink as he stuck his hands beneath the freezing then boiling hot water. 

Or stare at his reflection instead, just to really take in how awful he looked. The whole nine yards of sickly pale complexion and blank eyes did not do him any favours. Or the pinched expression caused by pain and dizziness both. Add to that the shock of violently ginger hair serving by contrast to make his skin appear yet more colourless, which wasn't surprising given he hadn't seen the sun in months and didn't have a freckle in sight. 

His skin crawled with leftover concealer smudged over the bags beneath his eyes that really should be considered carry on luggage by this point. 

The wrinkled suit completed the picture and the politest thing he could think about himself was he looked like shit. 

And there he went again. Fine, he looked like he was malfunctioning on about two hours of sleep. Which would be less unfortunate if it was actually true. He’d actually been getting a decent amount.

And then something, something, self talk, self image, just got to get it together, yadda yadda— shut up brain .

John washed his face. He took the extra seconds to adjust the water to a pleasantly warm temperature, even when there was a time when he wouldn't have bothered. 

He braced his hands on either side of the sink as another wave of wooziness hit and waited it out, eyes fixed on the tiny soaps on the counter to give himself a visual frame of reference when his vestibular system wasn't doing it.

Scott always collected the tiny soaps. Not matter that they had plenty of soap at home and a cupboardful of the same brought back from previous trips. Was just a thing he did, because they might be useful and hanging onto every scrap was what you did when you’d known nothing. 

Then there was Scott, rapping on the door to make sure John hadn't fallen over and cracked his skull open. Or in thoughts rather kinder to them both, bringing him his toothbrush and checking he was okay. Big brother smotherhen . An echo of fondness washed over John.

They brushed their teeth together; Scott’s brush was blue and John’s fluorescent orange because that was the system. 

Scott danced from foot to foot, unable to stay still, and John discovered Scott hadn't grown out of stopping every five seconds to say something through a mouthful of bubbles. He changed topics mid-sentence and jumped between ideas happily. The ADHD was definitely not in question. It was good to see Scott being, well Scott . John listened, occasionally answering back with a remark or other as he sat on the edge of the bath, an arm wrapped around a grab bar to keep himself steady. 

That part was remarkably similar to being up on Five, though the need to hold on was from too much gravity rather than the lack thereof, and in space he’d calibrated himself by experience until the lightest touch would suffice. A death grip on the bars was the giveaway of new, barely qualified astronauts. He shook himself, to change the track of his thoughts to not rip up the piece of comfort he could find in the familiar patterns.

Up there, he’d gaze at the stars outside and carry on a conversation with Eos. He half laughed at the memory of the first time she’d seen him cleaning his teeth and demanded to inspect his mouth technically-not-bones-but-John- why -aren’t-they-bones out of curiosity. He relayed it to Scott and got to watch sensible commander big brother try not to snort toothpaste out of his nose. 

Scott was patient even when John fumbled his words. When he resorted to the thingy thing for words he knew in upwards of ten languages off the top of his head on a good day. He let him have the extra age needed to gather his thoughts as his brain got stuck on a loading screen and he had to wait for it to bloody buffer, he was that tired. And with the rest of it .

He was so fucking tired of it all. John pressed his forehead against the cold tiles in hopes it’d reduce the aggressively pinching pain there. He could deal with pain, it was unpleasant and distracting and he couldn’t help the anxious concern that always gathered over it, rational or not, but at least he could think . 

Thoughts running at hyperspeed, constant analysis of every variable as it came up, those were what he relied on. The world didn't come to him easily, certainly not the peopley aspects, but he made up for it by working it out. All of it, the power balance in the room from how people stood, the expressions on their faces he needed to read into to get, the meaning from words they didn't say, then down to how he moved, to pitch his voice correctly, time it to an invisible rhythm inside his head so it didn't come out flat, the lines carefully scripted weaving selected threads of logic into a cohesive argument and putting everything through a filter of applicable social and cultural context so as not to cause offence by an apparent crime as irritating as being overly direct and clear.

Or in space, fingers dancing through his holograms, pulling up data, his research, Five’s constant feeds, he held it all in orbit inside his mind, a rotating puzzle that challenged him to push beyond and create , to test new solutions at every turn, caught up in the thrill of discovery.

Right now he was too dizzy, emotionally numb and brain-foggy for any of it. He would get mad about it if he had the energy, scream and rage at the universe for making him so tiny and fragile and human . But he didn't .

John knew he bled exhausted frustration, that he’d gone quiet again, so Scott’s hand back on his shoulder shouldn’t’ve been a surprise. He flinched at the sudden contact even when he knew it was coming.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“No apologies needed,” Scott replied softly.

Again. Because here was the second time they’d had this exact exchange this evening and clearly John never learnt.

He forced himself to stand, keeping a hand in a white knuckled grip on the handle bar. The mouthful of toothpaste burned until he spat it into the sink and washed the taste out. He marvelled at how simple each action was on Earth, no matter how unfamiliar now to him.

He turned, to leave the bathroom. Then Scott was close, right in his face. Because he was standing there, toothbrush still in his mouth and waiting for his turn at the sink. John looked ever so slightly down on him with the extra centimetres given to his height by microgravity. 

It surprised him. He should’ve expected it. No matter any gleeful teasing with the others about shortie big brothers, the Scott in his head was always taller than him.

John slumped. Then instead of sliding around Scott like he usually would, he stumbled into him. John wrapped his arms around big brother’s waist as he buried his face in Scott’s shoulder. 

Scott took it in his stride. He hugged John back because this was a hug, ready to hold him up, already holding him up when he faltered; a gentle hand rested on the nape of his neck, rubbed at tense muscles. 

His head hurt. He was dizzy and queasy and achy and oh so tired . 

Scott was relaxed even when John must be hanging on too tight, mumbling reassuringly through a mouth full of toothpaste. 

John’s intended deep breath came shaky. He swallowed hard.

Clingy. He was being clingy . How uncharacteristic of him.

Why Scott even bothered … 

John ruthlessly cut that thought off. He didn't need to go down that road. Scott cared. About him. And John deserved that much, he knew that . 

Even when emotionally he felt like he’d been gargling glass and the world sliced him open like he had no skin, as if he wore no space suit between him and the void. 

The tiles were cold, freezing cold, biting into his toes. The lights and fan hummed, the wrong pitch, it was wrong like the space station about to explode. It was wrong and it hurt .

Suddenly touch was too much and he had to get out, had to get away. A hug became a trap. He was trapped. His skin crawled, so he flailed to make it stop, so Scott let him go, so he pulled away first.

John’s head was full of static. He said something to Scott, must have done because he could feel his lips moving and the vibration of his voice. 

Scott looked at him, eyes following even as his feet remained planted to the ground. John couldn't read his expression. 

Walk out of the room, hand on the wall, don’t fall, don’t fall . 

The world, the thoughts inside his head swirled, like the time the computer systems on Five had crashed and displayed every open tab, document and possible screen at once, flashing, spinning, colliding, glitching together into an incomprehensible mess at full volume. The past John there had given into the instinct to screw his eyes shut, hands over his ears for a couple of crucial seconds before he pulled himself together enough to fix the problem and reboot the systems.

Here he leant hard into the cool, calm, blank sensation at the back of his mind; anything to get away from the thousand flashing warning signs. Even if it made him feel fizzy, staticky and not quite all there.

He registered the neatly folded set of pyjamas on the end of his bed. He hadn't left them there, so Scott had and that meant… something. Something , it meant something, he just couldn't think right now. 

Trembling fingers tore at shirt buttons because he had to get dressed, in pyjamas as it was night, that was the clearly logical answer. He sat on the edge of his bed, tugged on the loose t-shirt and soft pants, and clumsily took off his socks. He could feel their seams. They hurt. The little black spots crowding at his vision when he bent over were ignored as John threw everything down, away from him, hard, because he didn't want them touching him anymore.

He stood up, crossed half of the room; he couldn't stop, he should, should, should—

It all happened in a rapid succession: John whipped his head around at the flick of motion at the corner of his eye as Scott came out of the bathroom forgetting he really couldn’t do that, he tripped over the dress shoes he’d left on the floor earlier and gravity caught up with him.

He’d learnt eventually that it was easier to let himself fall. Safer too than flailing about for something to grab, likely injuring himself in the process of knocking objects off of surfaces, with limited success with limited balance to reference when righting himself. So controlled descent it was. Intact lithobraking, rather than crash landing. Or maybe that just sounded better.

A tipping sensation, the carpet rushing closer and a thump as he made contact with the floor.

John was here . 

Here and now.

It was all too much .

The though echoed around his mind, pitching louder. Too much toomuchTOOMUCH—

Scott was beside him instantly. 

Unthinkingly, he reached out to touch John. To comfort him.

“ Don'tdon’tdon’t. ” The words fell from John’s lips, automatically, unbidden, out of control.

His whole body shook; he was being torn apart, a poorly constructed ship, burning up, falling out of orbit. Tears streamed down his face.

Scott backed off.

It was a relief .

John sobbed in big, wet gasps, with a hand clamped over his mouth in an attempt to muffle them. So no one could hear, so it wouldn't be so loud, even when he couldn’t stop, though they were well past that now—

Every sensation was magnified a thousand-fold, jaggedly digging into him. He hated this, he hated this! His head hurt, throbbing and piercing with the headache from before drilling into his skull. He wanted to claw his skin off with his fingernails. To make it go away . It was crawling even from the soft fabric of his pyjamas, from the razor sharp echo of the seams of his suit like they were still touching him.

His emotions boiled over with pathetic, pathetic, pathetic , because that’s what he really thought of himself, wasn't it? John was too weird, too sharp, too intense in all the wrong ways. He wasn't meant to be like this, freaking out over the slightest things. Other people weren’t like this .

His fingers clawed at the carpet, nails digging into it to find something to grab onto. Except the carpet was rough and it burned so John had to flick the sensation off his hands hard enough to make his wrists hurt. 

Breathing was too loud; he was hyperventilating. The sound of his own rapid, raspy breathing was as painful as being dragged across tarmac where the surface would abrade you raw. It was thunderous to his own ears as it caught, hitching and obvious and he couldn’t stop it. It consumed everything else.

The tears were awful and wet on his skin. His raspy gulps for air stuck in his throat, he was choking on them, he could taste the tears, they were drowning him.

John couldn't stop it, couldn't control it, he wasn't in control anymore, his body was just doing this, this was just happening, he was doing this, he couldn't control it.  

Not the hacking sobs, not the flinches away from every sensation he couldn’t escape. 

Everything, everywhere was too much all at once.

He still felt like he was falling, even with the floor beneath his body. 

Then Scott disappeared from his blurry line of vision and the planet tipped over. John must’ve cried out. 

He didn't care anymore Scott was seeing him like this, it was too late and it was Scott’s way to be there in their worst moments and John needed his big brother not to leave him. 

So Scott was there again, like it was a fundamental law of the universe that he’d come back for John. He sat on the floor beside him, with him, but not pressing in on his space and not touching. Because he understood John and cared beyond physical touch being his first instinct to comfort a brother. Scott knew his presence was what John needed, to show he was there for him, even silently.

All John could do was cry until he was left lying on the floor limp with exhaustion.

The comedown from meltdowns was always awful. That’s what had happened, he’d had a meltdown. 

At least— At least he was with Scott. Alone was fine as he could ride it out hidden in a quiet corner somewhere. There had been other times when he’d been amongst people he knew but they didn't know him, and they’d been all touching, reaching hands and staring eyeballs, asking probing questions when he couldn’t find his voice to scream at them to go away. Well intentioned, even though he’d been making it pretty fucking clear he didn't want them anywhere near him, backing away until he hit a wall or he froze up, flinching at every movement, but they wouldn't listen. So much for supposed ‘natural experts in reading body language’. The worst people were the ones who wouldn't listen even if he told them exactly how terrifying that was.

Thoughts whirled but they were jagged and hard to grasp, random memories flashing up of being in the middle of school or uni or charity galas. 

Maybe he should stop thinking for a bit. He would if that was possible. 

His eyes were sticky with tears. And his brain didn’t work like that.

Things would be easier sometimes if it did. But then he wouldn't be him .

“John, you okay?” Scott whispered.

They were both holding their breath.

It took several seconds of trying to form the shapes of words with his lips and clumsy tongue for John to be able to speak.

“ ‘M-not-injured. ” His voice was thick, the syllables running together. 

Telling Scott that felt important. Smotherhen. He’d seen John fall. Scott always worried over them.

“You need anything? Suggestions? Or me to be quiet?”

Scott’s nerves showed through transparently. Worrying over John.

John shrugged and curled further in on himself, his body stiff and sore. Exhaustion settled over him, dense and viscous. His head throbbed.

“Don’t—dunno. Just wanna—wanna lie here for a bit,” he managed.

Scott nodded. “Long as you want, I’m here.”

Blue eyes were gentle, slightly crinkled at the edges and all trusting big brother.

He let John lie there on the floor instead of expecting him to get up and be fine and pretend, even though it was weird, even when normal people didn't do this. 

The ground pressed up in equal opposition to the force of gravity and John sank into it. A normal force as defined by physics. Even with the scratchy carpet against his cheek, somehow it helped.

Eventually the universe felt like it wasn't so likely to tear itself apart. 

John rubbed a hand over his eyes then took the tissues Scott offered, wiping at the dried tears and snot all over his face.

“Think I want to sleep for a year now.” 

“Yeah, I’d bet.” Scott’s slight smile held empathy , of exactly how much completely breaking down could take out of you.

John had been there, for not the exact same thing, rather for panic attacks and flashbacks and frustrated overwhelm boiling over, the times when Scott needed him .

He fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt, running it between his fingers then making tiny folds in it. Then tugging too hard and probably stretching the material.

Even the thought of trying to stand seemed impossible. His head spun as soon as he experimentally lifted it from the carpet. He made a tiny noise in the back of his throat. 

The efforts of tensing his muscles and finding the ground beneath his hands in preparation to fight his way upwards with gritted teeth were forstalled by a quiet question from Scott.

“Is it okay if I pick you up?”

John blinked at him. Scott sat in the same position he had been in as he waited out John’s storm, not too close, not too far, cross-legged on the floor with his fingers tapping uneven patterns out on his knees. His head was tilted to one side, brows furrowed.

He asked John. Because he cared. Because he cared about what John needed and listened to him about how he wanted to be helped, proven over and over again. Another wave of emotion rolled over John.

Tapping his fingers like Scott was doing or wiggling them about helped him think. Staying on the floor indefinitely wasn’t a particularly good option and the texture of the carpet even through his clothes was beginning to make him want to burn it. 

Keeping his balance long enough to get up and cross over to his bed wasn't really a stunt he wanted to try, given how fucked up his vestibular system and the rest were at the moment. It had been worse than it used to be, in the few times he’d come to earth in the last months between long periods in orbit, even keeping up with exercise and such better.

At this point, a not insignificant degree of the space issues were in all likelihood permanent. He’d already had to start wearing glasses because of them in the last couple of years. Humans weren’t designed for living in microgravity, he wasn't some sort of exception to this rule. And he really didn't want to contemplate every aspect and implication of that right now, he couldn’t, he couldn’t handle it now—

“John,” Scott called softly, “There’s no rush.” 

He knew that. With his brothers, Scott could be patient, and he’d make time for them even when he was busy, even for John. 

His lower lip stung, he’d nearly bitten through it, hadn’t he? When he poked at it with his tongue, it was swollen and maybe slightly bloodied. 

John tried to focus back on Scott and the problem of whether he could tolerate the too much input of someone, even his brother, touching him for long enough for Scott to carry him over to his bed so he could go to sleep. 

There weren’t really any better options and his brain was all scrambled and trusting Scott was the most obvious constant in the universe.

Scott picked him up ever so carefully. When he positioned his arms, one beneath John’s shoulders, the other looped under his knees, he made sure the hand gripping John’s bicep was over his t-shirt sleeve instead of skin on skin. 

As Scott straightened from his crouch, he made a slight grunt of effort but still found the breath to reassure John. 

Being lifted caused the world to spin and tumble over itself, the familiar swoop in his stomach of parting ways with the Earth became the want to search for solid ground instead of the longing to reach away from it. 

Scott hugged him firmly to his chest. Sky and solid ground at once.

John was suddenly reminded of the first memory he had of Scott trying to carry him, back when they were kids. It had been night and somehow no one had told them off for being up so late; John had been reading about stars on the couch, telling Scott everything about them and how he was going to go up there one day, as his eyes were threatening to close. They’d both ended up in a ungainly heap of limbs when Scott attempted to scoop him up, books and all, but for one brief second gravity had let go, then they were both giggling and clinging to each other on the living room rug, Scott making him promise that if he went to the stars he had to come back to be with Scott sometimes too.

John’s fingers found Scott’s t-shirt, twisting up the fabric and wrinkling it as they tightened. Scott didn't have to say anything as he held John, shifting him even more securely as he crossed the metres of room that moments ago to John on the floor might as well have been lightyears. 

When Scott put him down on the cool sheets, John lay where he landed with limbs askew. It took several deep breaths to get his body to cooperate to move to a more comfortable position, loosely curled on his side. 

He tried to close his eyes, tried to rest for a moment, except losing his vision caused the vertigo to worsen so he was back to staring fixatedly at a spot on the wall, waiting for it to go away back to bearable. A small bump marred the paint, likely formed by an imperfection in the surface below, so minute that he doubted anyone else staying in the room would ever have noticed.

John could still feel the phantom pressure of where Scott had touched him as he lifted him up. He shuddered involuntarily. Rubbing at those spots, his shoulders and down one side, underneath the backs of his knees, helped dispel the staticky sensation that would eventually fade away. 

It had taken a long time for Scott understand John didn’t always want touch and hugs and people crowding into his space, but that didn't mean he didn’t love him.

As kids, it had been a particular source of irritation, or maybe distress for both of them. Scott hadn’t got that simply brushing hands without warning was enough to hurt when John was already overwhelmed. Or that the flinching and shuddering away wasn't on purpose but because any more sensations would make him feel sick. John hadn't had words for it then either.

He had squirmed away if anyone trapped him in a hug him when he wasn't feeling like it or cried or on one memorable occasion, bit. Scott always took the rejections hard and John hated that his brother was hurting too. 

Eventually his siblings had gotten it through their heads that crash tackling him wasn't a greeting he took to kindly. Finding their equilibrium after that had been rough though. Scott was the main instigator of siblingly cuddle piles, arms around shoulders and affection, Virgil loved to be crushed in a hug because of the pressure, Gordon was all squid and Alan had been little Allie . 

John was John , prickly and strange, and had been left to his own devices when everyone else was together on the other side of the room. Mum had figured it out when he’d come to her sobbing because his brothers were leaving him out of the cuddle pile on movie night even though they were trying to follow the implicit, ‘John doesn't do hugs’ rule. Talking had helped and Mum had hugged him and helped explain to the others that he didn't always not like it, but sometimes it was too much and they just had to ask him first instead of pushing him because he often did want to be part of things. The evening had ended with him happily snuggled in the middle of the hug pile of his entire family.

After that place there been raw empathy from Scott in how surprise touches were a no go and visceral experience of how being grabbed in a hug could instil panic. 

Dad had been the first to be allowed to wrap Scott up in his arms, then Virgil, because he was the solid earth to Scott’s falling skies and that was how the world worked.

But when Scott was left pale and shaky after flashbacks and nightmares, unable to bear even them touching him, he’d often come to John. No hugs, or not for hours, it had been just them sitting on opposite ends of the porch swing. They’d talk until their throats were raw or silently exist in each others company until Scott could face the world once more. Sometimes then the invitation of an open hand across the gap between them would be enough too.

They still had each other now, even after years had passed, through fallings out after dad disappeared and John left them for space and figuring out their way back as brothers and best friends and in running International Rescue and Tracy Industries together .

The evening was coming in late, John guessed. The sun had set an amount of time ago and more had passed since then. He doubted he would sleep soon though despite the exhaustion, not with how keyed up he was and his perpetually scrambled body clock. It was quiet at least, the sounds of the city below them barely audible. 

At John’s assurance that he could, Scott stopped standing at the side of his bed and let himself move about the room, hanging up his own discarded suit jacket from earlier and tidying away the clothes John had left in disarray. John watched as he turned to idly straightening up objects to keep himself occupied as he paced. Scott ran his hands through his hair repeatedly, causing it to return to its natural pattern of curls, courtesy of the Tracy floof gene.

When big brother looked over to John, he gave Scott an expression that wasn’t exactly a smile but it was something so that Scott would know he was at least sort of okay. Or that’s what he hoped it would show.

John caught his fingers tapping at his sides, a calming wave pattern from pinkie to thumb, drumming on the different materials beneath his fingertips as one hand rested on his thigh, the other against the mattress. He went to swish them through the air in the same pattern before he froze, automatically stopping the movements, forcing them to be still, to be smaller, more acceptable . Self-consciousness rose as an awful, ugly lump at the back of his throat. John was doing his best not to hate himself for who he was, he was trying , but sometimes it crept back up when his emotions were already running raw. 

It wasn’t accurate to call it only self-consciousness , it ran deeper than that. It was the feeling that he was doing something wrong just by being in the room. 

The tension built up again as he forced himself to stay still. He couldn’t quite say it hurt to force that, except it did, the same way holding your breath too long hurt, the same way tense, coiled muscles would ache. 

John took a deep breath and began to tap his fingers again. The pattern ran too fast and anxious to coordinate, his fingers fumbling, as he had to tell himself, to repeat that who he is was not wrong as that feeling welled up again.

Because he’d hidden this nearly his entire life, hadn’t he? Pretending. Masking.

John was autistic. There was a word for him, an explanation of the way he thought and acted, of why he was so different to nearly everyone else he knew. Finally finding out had been a relief; he’d cried out of every overwhelmed emotion under the stars, including happiness when he learnt it applied to him.

He didn’t have to hide, he never should’ve had to. He made the movements bigger and more obvious, fluttering from his wrists until he was flapping his hands like he was flicking sparkling droplets water off them. It felt good as if a part of himself had clicked into place when it had been out of alignment and he hadn't really realised it was but now he did; it was held in the joy of learning more about the stars, of solving an equation or weaving words together as everything connected. Of sheer wonder about the world that he was learning how to feel again.

As Scott looked over once again to check on him, John managed a tired, genuine grin.

He heard the way Scott’s breath hissed out between his teeth, as the tension in his shoulders dropped away.

Curiously, Scott mimicked the flapping motion a few times with one hand, returning John’s smile before going to dig around his bag. 

Triumphantly, Scott held up a colourful rubix cube. Standing in the middle of the room he immediately went about attempting to solve it, a piece of hair flopping across his forehead. He tried several times to blow it away without breaking his sudden concentration. John couldn’t help but giggle.

Scott glanced up, waving the cube about. “Honestly I kinda forgot I had this in here. You reminded me, so thanks.”

A rush of warmth filled John’s chest, transforming into flapping hands. “I’m glad,” he said simply.

It had been John who bought the, well technically second, rubix cube for Scott a few years back. Seeing Scott’s ever increasing guilt over accidentally breaking styluses or pulling off shirt cuff buttons or picking at the finish of Dad’s desktop when his brother was already anxious or bored or stressed had hurt, but not nearly as much as Scott’s shame, as bit by bit John watched as he tried to force himself not to fidget and stim. Hence, the rubix cube. 

After Scott had come home from the military hospital, he’d found an old one, the first, in the bottom of Gordon and Alan’s toy box which had never left his brother’s thin, scarred hands until it had been rapidly worn down into shattered plastic pieces despite several repairs. He’d never asked for another though John wouldn't be surprised if he’d tucked the bits away in a drawer somewhere at the ranch instead of throwing them in the recycling. It was a detail John had not forgotten , precisely, but had put aside when faced with the rest of the pain of that time of all their lives and after.

So when the question came up of what to get, John had known Scott would probably like to fidget with them. He’d gotten several actually, so it would matter less when Scott inevitably lost or broke them, which were facts of life regardless of how careful he tried to be. They were things to be used, not to get dusty on a shelf; they were for Scott, and John, as gently as he could had made sure Scott understood that. 

The plan had been a success and he was brought to the now, where stuff to fidget with lived in bags, Thunderbird lockers and out in the open where they could be seen upon counter tops and desk surfaces. Rubix cubes remained a staple for Scott. 

John tried to sit up when Scott wandered over to him after the cube had been solved and rescrambled for a calmer big brother. 

It was a mistake. The room spun before John flopped back on the mattress. He’d forgotten for half a second and moved too fast. John winced, gingerly pinching the bridge of his nose; his headache was worse now.

Scott saw. “You taken anything for that?” he asked.

John shook his head then grimaced. He should’ve, that would’ve been the smart thing to do but he hadn't thought or cared enough to move… The lump in his throat was back.

He wove his fingers together, anxiously twisting them.

“ Oh, Jay .” Scott voice was soft.

John screwed his eyes shut, willing himself not to start crying again at the childhood nickname.

Scott wasn’t judging him, that was obvious even when his brain was telling him that he would every time more evidence came out about John’s genius bad decision making. What his big brother wanted was for John to hurt less. 

John listened to the sounds of Scott rummaging about across the room, then the hiss of the tap from the bathroom before he came back and pressed two capsules and John’s drink bottle into his hands. 

“Paracetamol, that good?”

John swallowed them with a gulp of water and managed not to gag at the feeling of them going down. He sculled more water, he hadn't realised he was so thirsty, then forced himself to slow down so he wouldn't make himself sick. Chucking up all the painkillers when he was already nauseous would be less than fun and not out of the question at this point.

Scott took the drink bottle when he spotted John was about to unthinkingly leave it in gravity’s merciless grasp, placing it on the bedside table with a click, there in reach.

He hovered, making to perch on the side of John’s bed, then hesitated.

“It okay if I sit with you? Do you want me over here or to leave you be and not smotherhen?”

“You’re good.” John patted the mattress beside him vaguely. “I don’t mind the smotherhenning,” he admitted before he realised he indeed had no filter.

With the way Scott’s eyes widened in happy surprise, as he quickly curled up on the other side of the bed, pulling his feet up off the floor, John wouldn’t take it back if he could.

Back resting against the headboard, Scott settled, stretching his long legs out and toying with the rubix cube. 

John watched him twist it between his hands, no particular pattern or rhythm to it that would suggest he was solving it, just fidgeting for its own sake. The clicks from the mechanisms were a familiar reminder Scott was close. When he held it by its diagonally opposing corners, spinning it with his fingers, the colours blurred together for John in his exhaustion. 

The air conditioning blew cold air across the room and John shivered. Tugging the hotel duvet up ended with him kicking it off the bed out of spite within several seconds of it touching him. How could such supposed fancy covers be that awful of a texture? 

Sudden homesickness hit him in a wave. He wanted either of his own beds on the island or on Five with his galaxy and stars patterned quilts chosen for their softness which would feel right to hide underneath, not a box of beige walls and curtains. Curling up into a tighter ball, limbs all gathered up to his chest, was the best solution he could come up with that didn't involve moving too much. It wasn’t like he could get Eos to fix it for him.

But he could ask Scott, who already had his mouth open probably to find out what was wrong anyway. He was allowed to ask Scott for help.

“I’m moving to Pluto for the hot weather,” he said, nonsensically. Well, it was logical and straightforward in his own head, just less so outside of it. 

Scott got it though, making the connections. The thermostat was found and Scott switched it to a temperature that less rivalled Antarctica before climate change. 

Except the room remained cold and now John had started shivering, he couldn’t stop. Wasn’t like his own internal thermostat had ever the decency to work properly, there hadn’t not been a time when everyone in his life complained about his icy hands and feet, but space definitely made it worse too.

Tucking his freezing fingers beneath his armpits didn’t prevent his toes being cold, it just reminded him of how he’d ripped his socks off and thrown them onto the floor mid-meltdown. He’d packed the random black socks to be professional, but he should’ve taken them off in the morning when the seams had bothered him right from the outset and worn any of his softer space ones he’d brought instead of stubbornly suffering through. 

John sank into the mattress. 

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered. 

“John, what?” Scott blinked in confusion. 

“Earlier in the day, it was all sensory overload. And I’m tired and I was already spiralling and I’m sick and stupid gravity, and I know those factors add up.” John lay out the evidence.

Then he smushed his face into the not-right sheets, not wanting to look at Scott.

The words spilled over anyway. “I should have handled it better. Done— done something, then not have fallen apart!”

Why was he even saying this? He knew that it wasn’t the case, knew he was already doing his best. He barely believed them anymore or at least was trying not to, but old words stuck: telling him to stop stressing over nothing, or manage it just better , that he should take some deep breaths with a strongly implied get over it, no one else has a problem.

He spat that out to Scott too, sharp-edged and far too vicious. 

Fundamentally, he couldn’t have stopped it because he couldn't control it. He shouldn’t be tearing himself apart over this, shouldn’t be digging up every shard of the deep buried shame of having his vulnerabilities on full display. Being messy, inconvenient and human wasn't a fatal flaw to be erased.

“Okay,” Scott said, “So if I had a panic attack and for arguments sake could’ve reasonably predicted the triggers but didn’t manage to somehow prevent them from affecting me, it would be my fault?” 

“No, of course it wouldn’t be your fault!” John defended vehemently. Because he evidently had absolutely no filter left, he added, “What the fuck, Scott, why would it be?”

Then it dawned on him. 

“Oh.” 

The argument Scott made was logical, blunt and to the point, the way John would argue with him. Scott knew this. 

“It’s not your fault, John. You were doing the best you could. You know this,” Scott said gently.

Sometimes it helped to hear it from someone else though, to help stand against the rest of his mind that refused to believe it. 

Yet . One day. Slowly, he was getting better at treating himself kindly, with the same respect he’d give anyone else because they were a person and didn’t need to be anything more to deserve it.

“From what I understand of meltdowns, it isn’t like you can control it or stop it, they just happen. We could, if you want my help, figure out some stuff that would make it easier for you and probably help prevent them, not because there’s anything wrong with how you are but because this world is hard, even though it’s improving, to be neurodivergent in?” Scott asked it as a rambling question.

There it was. His big brother who loved him for exactly who he was and didn’t want to change John, but to change the world to be a better place that hurt less instead.

It had also been partly John’s reluctance to accept any accommodations that let it get to this point. He was working on it but internalised ableism was a bitch. With Scott maybe they could figure it out together.

“Yeah. That would be—” Everything. “Yeah.” John couldn’t make the words come out right to tell Scott how much he meant to him, though the way Scott smiled with soft, blue eyes squished up at the corners showed he understood .

“Tomorrow?” Scott twisted the rubix cube, gripping it tightly, his voice vulnerable. “And I get it. Even though it’s not the exact same thing, that feeling that it’s all my fault and I should’ve just been better when it’s something I can’t outstubborn or push down to work through, I get it.” Scott swallowed. “We’re both trying our best.

John nodded slowly. “We are,” he echoed. 

Silence was kind to them both, wrapping around them up in contentment woven from their quiet, matched breathing, reminding him of midnight talks muffled by covers and lying out beneath the stars, looking upwards.

It wasn’t broken by John next round of shivering, but it did ripple and Scott shifted.

“Do you want my blanket? It’s softer,” he offered. 

Scott’s blanket, he meant the sky blue one he’d had for years since after Bereznik and contained the remaining pieces of the baby blanket Mum had knitted for Scott which had long ago fallen apart after going through all five of them, then being pulled out again after Mum died, after Dad’s accident, after Scott returned from war. It was their big brother’s ever present, most notable and maybe only comfort item and Scott never slept without it really. 

“Only if it’s okay for you, you’ve got to sleep too,” John stated. He didn’t want Scott giving up something that he needed when he knew Scott would for his brothers in a too easy heartbeat.

“I have you close, just across the room, my blanket is there and I know I am safe here. So I’m okay.”

John stared at him for a moment, weighing up the words.

“I promise I’m being honest about what I can cope with, even though in the past I haven’t ever really been.” Scott glanced down at his feet, wiggling his toes, as always in constant motion.

They’d both come so far over the last few years.

“Proud of you, big brother,” John said aloud.

Scott accepted the words with a hesitant smile, instead of refusing them.

“Can you also maybe get me some socks?” His feet were freezing. 

“Sure, which ones?” 

“They’re stripy. Yellow and navy. With planets.” He probably didn’t need to give every detail but John always wanted all the details and Scott didn't mind. They were the softest ones he had with him. Not like the sandpaper seams of the plain black pair.

Scott crossed the room to dig though John’s bag to find them, then in a precise underarm throw he tossed the balled up socks, tracking their arc to land right next to John, after warning him and getting his okay first. John tugged them on, adjusting so they sat correctly before wiggling his toes. It was a simple thing, but it meant he’d warm up soon and that was one less sensation he had to deal with.

Scott gathered up the blue blanket from his bed into his arms, running a hand over it before returning to spread the bundle over John. The edge of it was soft, as John touched it first before the rest; the relief that it wasn’t awful sensory-wise like everything else bubbled up, even though the texture of the worn yarn was ever so familiar.”

The warm weight settled over him. John nestled beneath the blue blanket, letting himself uncurl into a more comfortable, less guarded position. He tangled his fingers into the holes in between the blanket’s stitches that formed the knitted and crocheted squares both. A few were larger than others, a result of them all, even the littlest, helping out to make them.

As Scott sat back on the bed with John, he did the same with his own corner. Even without touching, he was closer to his brother, hands entwined by the stretch of blanket, woven together by worn blue yarn and the love and memories it was made from. 

It felt like a hug from Scott, safe and comforting, when John was too overwhelmed for an actual one.

Scott turned off the lamp next to the bed, so the only light left was from Scott’s phone screen playing across the ceiling. John watched through half-closed eyes, resting though not ready to sleep.

“It’s getting bad again,” he admitted softly. His voice waved; he was messy and out of sorts, and in hindsight this had been going on for a while.

The painful numbness sometimes settled over his world, like it had for so much of today, at the same time as it grew brighter and louder, a staticky radio on full volume. It meant he’d well and truly hit burnout once again, trying to keep up with everything he tried to be. He’d promised Scott he’d tell him when he was feeling this way instead of hiding it and ignoring it until it was even worse . 

So here he was, telling Scott. 

“I think I need a break. Will explain more later, but I’m— I’m going to be alright. Eventually.” 

He was . He’d gotten better at this, and it was shitty and it sucked but he would be alright.

Scott took a deep breath in, held it, then let it out.

“Okay.” It was the quiet acceptance John needed.

Scott tapped at his phone for a moment. “Tomorrow’s cleared. We’re doing whatever you want provided it’s actually relaxing and not work. I’ll even find you some bagels for breakfast, how about that?” His voice softened. “We’ll figure it all out tomorrow, Jay.” 

John hummed. He was so, so tired. 

He eased himself closer to Scott in a series of awkward shuffles so he didn't have to sit up and set off the dizziness. He kept the blanket wrapped around him, unwilling to lose its warmth, fingers remaining tangled up in it. Scott was warm too; his brother had always run like a furnace, except in those awful months after he came home from the military hospital where he’d been constantly shivering, underweight and bone-deep exhausted. For the only time in their lives, John the one with warmer hands, gently rubbing Scott’s chilly fingers between his own when they spent too long sitting out on the front porch at dusk, waiting for the stars to come out.

He rested his head on Scott’s thigh, the soft flannel of his brother’s pyjama pants pressed to his cheek. Right now, he wanted to be near.

After all the tumult of today, he needed his brother.

“Hey, John,” Scott murmured. 

John held onto the affectionate fondness curling through his voice.

He reached out and took Scott’s hand, squeezing it briefly before placing it on top of his head, asking for comfort silently when he couldn’t bring himself to use his words.

Scott understood and begun to card gentle fingers through his hair, ever so careful not to catch upon any knotted strands or accidentally tug. He kept the rhythm slow and predictable, scratching slightly at John’s scalp before smoothing back the curls that had fallen over his forehead, exactly the way John liked. In times such as these he was envious of cats’ abilities to purr to show their contentment. 

The overwhelm wasn’t gone, nor all of the emotions that went with it but he was calmer now and he had Scott and he always would have his big brother.

He shifted, leaning into the touch and pressing his head against Scott’s stomach, curling that much closer even if it wasn't quite a proper hug.

“Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?” Scott asked.

“It might take a while.” Unfortunately it always did. He wanted and needed the rest but at least he got to linger in this moment for a little while longer.

“I don’t mind.” 

He only had to know his big brother to know that Scott needed this too.

John didn’t need to move to know what Scott’s soft smile looked like, it was ever so familiar when it came to his brothers and these days appeared more for Scott himself too. He was happiest around them, that was an unchanging constant in the universe: they were all each other’s favourite people.

They all loved each other for who they were. John loved Scott for his ideas and his passion, his bravery and conviction, for the way his eyes lit up as he saw the sky, for how he tried to do the right thing even when it was the hardest as his temper flared and sorrow ached, for how he saw the world when his attention was everywhere at once, right down to the little tells and fidgets that made up Scott. He wasn’t perfect, no one was, but John only loved him more for being human and vulnerable and Scott . 

Because of this, they all wanted to be there to help with each other’s struggles too. It was obvious tonight: Scott was there for the meltdowns with as much love as for the height of John’s achievements and successes. Scott loved him even when John wouldn’t hug him and didn’t know how to get his feelings across. He listened to him when he went on about stars and quasars, galaxy formations and asteroid trails, and even had been coming star gazing with him more often now they’d both realised they wanted each other there in those precious moments. Scott loved John for who he was, and being autistic was a big part of that.

He ran his fingers over the blue blanket, feeling out the same small section of ripples and bumps over and over, because he was safe and warm and didn’t have to stop himself. He could hear the clicking of the rubix cube as Scott fidgeted with it one-handedly, still stroking John’s hair. It was soothing somehow, like the little noises of Thunderbird Five’s life support systems running smoothly, and it meant Scott felt the same way. Safe, free . 

“Scott?” John said, attempting to blink his eyes back open then letting them slide sleepily shut.

“Mmm?” Scott hummed contentedly.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”