I kept my hand under the shower head until the water was cool enough. When I was satisfied that he wasn't going to be scalded, I turned around to see my temporarily blinded brother struggling to bind the waterproof wrapping around his arm cast.

"Give it to me," I said.

John hesitated for a moment, his emotions playing over his face. I don't know why it happened but after he was blinded, he lost the ability to regulate his expressions. When he didn't like something, instead of looking impassive, he now looked like he had swallowed a wasp. Right now, irritation and frustration were locked in an epic battle. After a moment, he sighed and held the wrapping out. I took it from him and smiled.

But then I stopped because, for the first time, I took in the gravity of my brother's injuries as he stood awkwardly, naked apart from his boxers and his arm cast. From head to toe, John was peppered with a rainbow of bruises. And those ribs. I stopped myself from hissing because it would have made him feel even more uncomfortable. It looked as though his brother had been in a fight with an eighteen-wheeler and had lost. And even if he couldn't see it, John could certainly feel it.

As I started to bind the waterproofing around his cast, I took a closer look at John's face. It wasn't as bad as it had been but it was still pretty horrific. The cracked eye socket had come with its own mountain of swellings and cuts and there were smaller injuries from flying debris.

The explosion had been a freak accident, something no one – not even Brains – could have seen or prevented. After being caught full-on in the blast, John had cracked the back of his skull on the bulkhead behind and, well, the rest was history. Occipital lobe damage on top of everything else.

As I tucked the end of the wrap into the edge of the cast, I sighed. Poor Brains was still beating himself up about the whole thing, even though John had explained that it wasn't his fault.

"What?" John asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"Nothing," I said. I tapped an uninjured portion of his arm. "You're all done. Do you need a hand getting into the –"

Before I could finish the sentence, John raised a hand.

"No. You have seen me at my worst, but thou shalt not see me naked."

I was going to push the issue because an already fractured skull connecting with a tiled floor would not have ended well. But I didn't. Why? It was simple: the downturn of his lips, his doleful eyes, the expression that screamed, I need to retain at least a thread of pride.

So I relented.

"All right. I'll be right outside. Holler if you need me. The towel is right beside the shower."

John blinked a few times, clearly shocked at my quick re;enting, and then nodded.

"Okay."

So I left him to strip off and clean the snot from his hair.

Seriously, there had been so much snot. It's probably a good thing that John rarely cries.

I kept the door of his en suite open a crack so I could listen for the sounds of a falling spaceman and walked to the middle of John's bedroom. Or at least, what was supposed to be a bedroom. Alan had his guitar on the wall, Gordon had his Olympic medal in a display case – and both had murals of photographs that threatened to overwhelm the walls. I had my paintings and Scott had his flying certifications and air force commendations. We all had our little touches and personal tastes. What did John have?

A solitary teddy bear with a half an ear missing and a grumpy expression. No, really. It is the grumpiest toy I have ever seen. It's got these tiny button eyes that look like they're always judging you. I suppressed a shudder. Very strange.

Another thing that was strange was what had just happened. I sat down on the bed and plucked up the teddy, holding it in both hands. John had asked me why I didn't like him and that… Well, it truly took the wind out of my sails. And then it made me feel…guilty. Because, looking back, I can see exactly what he means.

John and I are very different people. We're built in different ways, inside and out. I'm dark-haired and he's a red-head. I have brown eyes, he has green. I'm pretty well put together and he's…how can I put this? A noodle – apart from those deltoids. They're huge in comparison to his scrawny little chicken legs and his tiny waist. That boy has a 26 inch waist. That's a full ten inches smaller than mine – and I'm not pudgy!

Anyway. We're different in terms of appearance but also in personality. I meant what I said when I called him a fatalist. He always heads straight for the worst case scenario. Do not pass 'Go.' Do not collect $200. That's Jay, all right. Whereas I tend to see the positives in life – although I readily admit to displaying my own fatalism when we were dealing with the Luddites in London. But, generally speaking, I tend to look on the bright side. You've got to have faith, right?

John's different. It's like he's always poised for the worst. Like he's steeling himself for the final blow.

And now I know that is exactly what he's doing.

"I've spirited myself away to Five because I don't know what else to do… I'm afraid that one day, I'll lose someone else and it'll be the end of me."

When he said that, all the times I shut him down or cut him off came rushing back.

"Don't underestimate Alan just because he's the youngest. Gordon's more capable than we give him credit for. Scott will make the right choice. I know what I'm doing, John!"

The more I thought about it, the more incidents started springing up in my mind until a lead weight of guilt had formed in my belly. I looked down at the threadbare teddy again. Its eyes were still judgemental.

"You're quite right, Bear," I said. "I feel awful about it, now."

The bear stared back. Had it been alive, surely it would have nodded its agreement.

The sound of the water cut off and I tossed the toy aside – then thought better if it and replaced it in its correct stance, nestled on top of John's pillow. I walked to the en suite door and knocked, not daring to peep through the crack.

"Everything okay in there?" I asked. No answer. "Jay?"

Still nothing. Last thread pride or not, the silence was scaring me, so I pushed open the door.

The bathroom was steamy and the shower cubicle's glass door was fogged. Even so, I could still make out the flesh coloured lump on the floor and, the last time I checked, John wasn't three feet tall.

"Jay, what's wrong?"

This time I got a response – or at least, a sort of response. Not so much words; more of a low groan. In full-scale rescue mode, I fought my way through the steam, grabbed the towel and pulled open the door.

My brother was on his knees as the water drained away beneath him. From the look of the drag marks through the condensation on the wall, his legs had betrayed him.

"Okay, Jay," I said, draping the towel over his bony shoulders – thankfully it was long enough to protect his modesty. "Time to get back on your feet."

As I slipped my hands under his armpits and carefully extricated him from the clutches of the shower, he mumbled something incoherent.

"Sorry, Jay?" I asked as I placed him onto his feet and pulled the towel closed around him.

He opened his sightless eyes but kept his face downturned. It was hard to tell whether his cheeks were red from the heat of the water or his embarrassment about the situation.

"Pride…gone," he mumbled.

So, embarrassment it was, then. Glad I got that cleared up.

Slinging an arm around his shoulders, I guided him out of the bathroom. When we reached the bed, I deposited him onto it. I stepped back and took in the sight in front of me. He looked like something that had washed up on the beach, all bedraggled and tragic, with his milk-white shoulders poking out of the towel and his hair plastered to his face. All he needed was a bit of seaweed behind his ear to complete the look.

"Don't worry, John," I said, trying to cheer him up. "I didn't see anything I shouldn't have. What happened?"

His face still burned brightly. When he spoke, he sounded exhausted.

"My knees just…went," he said. "Before I knew it, I was scrabbling against the tiles like a drowning kitten or something. Dammit, I hate this! I feel pathetic."

"You're not pathetic," I said, shaking my head and scowling – not that he could see the gesture. "You're being held together by stitches and hope at the moment. Don't beat yourself up about it."

He brought a hand up to scrape the soaked hair from his face and allowed himself a curt laugh – although it was cut short by a gasp.

"Ribs?" I asked.

John nodded, his entire body stiffening.

"Yes, ribs," he said. Then he laughed again, but this time it had a tone I didn't much care for. It sounded…self-derisive. "I bet if you were in my position, you'd be out bench pressing one of the pods."

Broken head, arm, ribs, bruising and blind or not, I couldn't stop my irritation at him from escaping.

"Cut that out," I snapped.

And there it was. The look John had been hiding. The one that showed his true feelings. The one that showed he hadn't been kidding when he said he thought I didn't like him.

Feeling like a heel, I sighed.

"Sorry, Jay," I said. "I didn't meant to snap. It's just… I don't like hearing you put yourself down by comparing yourself to me."

John tugged the towel up over his right shoulder. It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm sorry. I'm way too emotional at the moment and I know I should stop talking but I can't."

The doctors had mentioned that mood swings could be a symptom of his head injury; they hadn't mentioned anything about truth-telling, though. Maybe the explosion had managed to knock some sense into my brother's complicated head.

I sat down on the bed beside him and smiled.

"So, keep talking, Jay."

"I dunno, Virg," he said. "I dunno what else to say." Then a tiny smile crossed his face and he turned to me, his eyes not quite looking in the right direction. "What's with the nickname, anyway? You haven't called me 'Jay' in years."

My first instinct was to shrug and chalk it up to nothing. But the truth was, it hadn't reappeared through chance. It had been resurrected by circumstance.

"Do you remember when I first started calling you 'Jay'?" I asked.

John thought for a moment, his brow creasing with consideration.

"No, I can't say I do."

I rolled my eyes. The man may have had a brilliant mind but he had an appalling memory.

"We were in middle school," I prompted. I got a blank look in return. "Do you remember the sandwich incident?" Still nothing. I sighed. I really did need to spell it out. "The PB and J sandwich incident."

Realisation dawned slowly. I could see they play of memory over his face as his mouth drew into a silent 'o'. The PB and J incident. Wherein John ate nothing for lunch but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for so long that the other kids started to torment him. PB and J! PB and J! Don't pick PB and J! He'll get the ball all sticky with his weird PB and J hands!

"I knew they were making fun of you," I said, "so I sort of hijacked the nickname."

"Is that why they stopped?" John asked.

I laughed; I couldn't help it.

"Well, it's not like you stopped eating PB and J sandwiches so they had to back off," I said. "They stopped because the nickname Jay caught on and became, I dunno, cool."

"I did not know that," John said, then blew at the tip of his nose when a droplet slipped down from his forehead.

"And, I guess I started using it recently because…" I stopped for a moment. This truth thing was catching on. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. "Because. Well, you can't have failed to notice that I've kind of been around a lot since you got out of hospital."

"It has been impossible not to notice," John said. His expression filled in what he left unsaid. It's been so irritating!

I smiled and scuffed the toe of my boot on the floor.

"I've been doing it because I feel it's my duty to look out for you – for all of you guys, even Scott. And the last time I had to look out for you specifically was the PB and J incident and the nickname just slipped out."

The level of sheer delight that danced across John's face at that remark made me take a mental note: Remember to be nicer to the space dork in future!

"Wow, Virg," he said. "That's awesome." The he stopped and cocked his head to one side, still not quite looking in my direction. "But you know what's not awesome?"

My chest tightened.

"What?"

"The fact that we've had this entire conversation while I've been naked – please get me some clothes."

My laugh was obnoxiously loud but I couldn't have cared less. I crossed to the forlorn looking dresser that had been half-destroyed by the unexpected topple it had taken. I fished out some underwear and threw it at his head.

"Hey!" he groused.

I turned back to the dresser as he grumbled something about privacy. I rummaged through the drawers again, looking for something that wasn't black, white or navy. Jay, you need to learn to embrace colours. Sheesh.

"Virg, can you get me my shirt?" he asked. "You know, the beige one with the gold on it?"

I resisted the urge to throw up. I don't claim to know a lot about fashion, but even I know that particular shirt is an abomination.

"Y'know, I can't find it," I said as I plucked the horrific thing up, holding it at arm's length.

"That's weird," he said as I tossed the thing in the trash. "I don't know where it could be."

"Yeah, me neither," I said. There was no trace of guilt in my voice because I felt no remorse for disposing of that hideous thing. "I'll pick you out a t-shirt instead."

Preferably something that isn't plain – oh my God, YES.

Shoved at the back of one of the drawers was a t-shirt that hadn't seen the light of day since Christmas morning. It had that never-been-washed softness and was a royal purple fit for a king. But that wasn't even the best part of it.

John had hitched a pair of shorts up to his waist without standing– clearly in fear of falling down again – and smiled gratefully when I pressed the t-shirt into his hand.

"Thanks, Virg," he said as he slipped it over his head, the slogan spreading out across his chest.

"No problem, bro," I replied, grinning from ear to ear. I glanced at my watch; it was nearly dinnertime. "How about some food?" I asked. "If whatever Grandma's made is inedible, I can always made you a PB and J sandwich."

John reached out his left hand and grinned. I took it and pulled him to his feet, supporting his weight.

"I think it would have to be and PB and J bagel now," he said.

I laughed anew.

"That can be arranged," I said.

And so we made our way down to the kitchen, John clinging to my arm like the wobbly, blind-guy space dork he is, wearing the present Gordon had got him for Christmas the year before.

What was the slogan on his t-shirt, you ask? It was priceless.

Astronomers do it in the dark.