Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.

Of all the places that Alan had been in his short life, he decided that John Tracy's station quarters were probably amongst the most depressing.

The place was just so damn...tidy.

His own room back on Tracy Island was a haven of dirty socks and half-eaten bowls of cereal. John's room, however, was clean to near laboratory standards. He'd been forced to turn the lights off as soon as he'd entered the quarters, not wanting to risk blindness from the glare off John's immaculately polished floor. Aside from a few neatly stacked books and that ridiculous potted-plant, the room was utterly devoid of home comforts. No heaps of dirty laundry, no moulding cups of coffee...not so much as a dust-bunny in sight.

It just didn't feel natural.

John was currently in the station's galley-style kitchen. Alan could hear the faint banging of cupboard doors being open and closed, and felt a mild pang of annoyance that his brother was out there instead of being in here caring for him in his hour of need. Alan fidgeted restlessly in the bed, straining his ears to listen. Now he could hear John talking to someone over the com-link...most likely Scott, he realised ruefully. Those two were probably having a good old laugh at his expense. Little baby Alan getting air-sick on his first flight into orbit, ha-bloody-ha.

Damn inconsiderate gits.

Tired of being ignored, Alan gave a pitiful moan. When John failed to materialise in the doorway, however, he moaned again...louder this time. He could still hear John pottering around in the galley, and his brother's obvious lack of consideration caused Alan to frown irritably. Didn't John care?! Didn't he care that Alan was lying here – enfeebled, helpless, and hovering on death's door? Didn't he care that Alan had left his stomach somewhere in the stratosphere above Tracy Island? Didn't he care that Alan had been forced too – he shuddered – borrow one of his shirts?

...One of John's outdated, dull, shapeless, unfashionable shirts.

...The shirt's that Gordon always said looked like they had been stolen from a particularly ill-dressed hobo.

He glared angrily up at the ceiling, mentally berating his older brother. He was feeling sick enough without the added indignity of having to wear this grey-checked flannel monstrosity. However - having thrown up on both his IR uniform and the three changes of shirt that he had brought with him for the trip - it was a choice between borrowing John's things or else go naked. Truth be told, in the face of the barren wasteland that was John Tracy's wardrobe, he had been more than tempted to go with the latter.

The subtle 'click' of the door handle pulled Alan from his misery. The bedroom door opened suddenly, light from the corridor flooding into the darkened quarters. Sensing an audience, Alan quickly closed his eyes and gave a soft groan of pain.

"Alan?"

Much to Alan's satisfaction, John's voice was low and quiet with concern. Finally, he thought tetchily to himself, it's about time I got a little sympathy around here!

He allowed his eye-lids to flutter weakly open. "...John? John...is that you?"

He saw his brother arch his eyebrows sardonically. "Well it's not Pamela Anderson – sorry to disappoint you. How are you feeling?"

John was standing at the foot of the bed, his shock-blonde hair back-lit like a peroxide halo. Still dressed in his IR flight-suit, he had unfastened the collar along his throat and unbuttoned the shirt down to his waist. To Alan's amusement, his older brother was wearing a rumpled Snoopy t-shirt underneath his uniform.

The younger Tracy gave a faint cough and sank lower into the pillows. "...C-come closer, my brother, so that I might look upon your face one last time." He shivered dramatically. "It's s-so dark..."

John raised his eyes heavenward, shaking his head in silent exasperation. "Its dark because you've turned the lights off, idiot. Now sit up and take these." In one hand he held two pills - in the other, a tall glass of water. "They'll make you feel better."

"Nothing can make me feel better now, John," Alan whispered softly, clutching the blankets closer around his chest, "I'm beyond mortal medicine. I'm dying."

"You're not dying, Alan."

Alan raised his chin resolutely, setting his jaw in an expression of stoic determination. "It's alright, John; you don't need to protect me from the truth. I've accepted my fate like a man."

John made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue. "No, really, you're not dying. Just air-sick, that's all."

"Speak up, John...your voice is fading." Alan paused and wheezed pathetically for breath. "The end is nigh..."

The elder boy watched with detached annoyance as his younger brother made his dramatic death-bed performance. He really was a terrible actor. John half-suspected that if he were to look the word 'ham' up in the dictionary, he would find Alan Tracy's picture right there alongside it.

Alan's eyes rolled back into his skull, a theatrical tremor running through his body. "...Tell Tin-Tin..." he gasped "...that...I...love...her..."

"Oh for Pete's sake," John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to give Alan a quick cuff around the head, "Tell her yourself you little twerp. She's waiting on the com-link to Tracy Island."

For the first time since John had entered the sleeping quarters, Alan lifted his head from the pillow. "She is?"

"Yes."

He hesitated momentarily, then frowned doubtfully. "Really?"

"Yes!"

This information seemed to alleviate Alan from the depths of his sickness. His imminent death apparently forgotten, he sprang out of the bunk with a new-found vigour, crossing the room with swift, agile bounds. Once he reached the door, however, he stopped suddenly, doubled back, took the pills from John and doused them down with the glass of water.

"Thanks," he breezed happily, pausing only to give his brother an enthusiastic slap on the back. Then he passed him the now-empty glass and raced out of the door...leaving a rather bemused John Tracy staring in his wake.

"You're welcome," he said, to no-one in particular.

Empty glass still in hand, John padded quietly down the corridor to the galley. It had been his idea to install the small com-screen in the station's modest kitchen. It had proved useful on several occasions, allowing him to interpret incoming calls even when he was away from his workstation on the communications bridge. However, in the two years that he had been stationed on Thunderbird 5, today was the first time that he had ever received a message from Tin-Tin...and, truth be told, he more than half hoped that she wouldn't make a habit of calling regularly.

...It was depressing enough knowing that his baby brother was enjoying a more active sex-life than he was. He didn't particularly want it rubbed in his face every time the two young love-birds felt like a chat.

Alan and Tin-Tin's emerging romance was the worst kept secret on Tracy Island...even John – who spent most of his time in orbit – was aware of their relationship. Despite their persistent denials that they were 'just friends', Scott had gleefully informed him that he'd caught the two kids emerging from the broom-closet, hair dishevelled and tell-tale hickeys emblazoned on their necks.

In spite of himself, John smiled absently. Ah, to be fourteen again. Young, in love, and still content with a little heavy necking now and again...

The door to the kitchen was open a crack, and the bleached-blonde Tracy came to a halt just outside it. Inside, he could hear his brother's adolescent warble as he chatted happily to Tin-Tin over the com-link. John leaned comfortably against the wall, settling down to listen in. It wasn't eaves-dropping per say, he reasoned; he was nothing more than an innocent passer-by, innocently hiding outside the kitchen door, innocently keeping quiet as his brother prattled on to his girlfriend.

...It wasn't his fault if he just happened to overhear Alan's conversation in the process, right?

Tin-Tin's voice, admiring and awed: "I bet space takes a lot of getting-used too, huh?"

"Are you kidding?" Through the opening in the door, John saw Alan give a nonchalant wave of his hand. "I'm a natural."

A natural?! This from the miserable little worm that had just spent the past hour with his head down a toilet? John momentarily toyed with the idea of bursting into the kitchen with one of Alan's vomit-splattered shirts, but quickly decided against it.

"I still can't believe that you're actually in orbit! It's really brave of you, Alan."

Alan shook his head modestly and smiled. "Oh, I don't know about that. I'm just a simple guy trying to make a difference in the world."

Tin-Tin beamed over the monitor, eyes gleaming with teenage-infatuation. "Everyone back here is so proud of you..."

Still hidden behind the door, John bristled, wholly incensed by what he was hearing. Alan...brave?! John Tracy was not petty by nature, but he couldn't help but feel irritated by the unfairness of the situation. For the past two years, he had spent most of his time in space, risking his life daily to ensure that International Rescue continued to operate to help those in need. He never complained, never argued...and never received so much as a thank-you. Alan went into space once – just once – and suddenly he was some being hailed as kind of hero?

It just didn't seem right.

There was a long pause from within the kitchen, and John could almost hear the two teenagers gazing adoringly into each others eyes...

"Alan?"

"Yeah?"

"...Why are you wearing that hideous shirt?"

John started suddenly, a deep scowl lining his forehead. What the hell did she mean by that?!

"What?" Alan looked down at the grey-checked shirt that he was wearing. It was about three sizes too big for him, and hung loosely around his lithe adolescent frame. "Oh this! Not mine. Definitely not mine! It's John's."

From over the com-link, Tin-Tin gave a knowing giggle. "Oh, well...that explains it."

John had had enough. Being underappreciated was one thing - he was used to that – but to insult his shirt...his favourite shirt, his pulling shirt...was quite another.

Seething inwardly, John spun on his heel and strode briskly down the corridor, wondering to himself whether he could really last the next five days without shoving his brother out of the nearest air-lock.

"Okay," Alan paused to stuff another fist-full of crisps into his mouth, "So what exactly is it that you do again?"

John gave a much-put-upon sigh and continued to sift through the pile of computer print-outs. "I monitor electrical and radio signals being relayed from the various commercial satellites in orbit. If I pick up anything that requires International Rescue's attention, I open an audio link and request further information...information which I then relay to father back on Tracy Island, so that he can coordinate the rescue effort."

"So...what? You're the operator?"

John bristled visibly, pale eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "I'm the data statistical analyser and orbital-communications monitor."

Alan looked decidedly unimpressed. "You're a glorified call-boy, John."

John opened his mouth to argue, but quickly snapped it shut again. What was the point? Alan could quarrel the hind-legs off a dead donkey if he wanted too, and the elder boy wasn't in much of a mood to put up a fight. He had too much work to do, too many reports to file, too many repairs to complete...the last thing that he needed was an argumentative Alan Tracy on his case as well.

The two brothers were sitting together on the communications bridge. Alan's air sickness was - for the most part - now under control, and he had just spent the past twenty minutes touring Thunderbird 5. Now he had decided to join John in the main hub of the space-station, to watch while he went about his IR duties. Alan had always suspected that his brother's job was boring. Now he knew it for certain.

John's eyes skimmed over the geographical print-out in his hand, a rare smile curving at the corner of his mouth. "Look at this reading for the Australasia grid," he murmured suddenly, pointing at the jagged red line that ran along the length of the graph. "Tectonic activity has increased by point-two percent over the past six months. Point-two percent!" He shook his head in academic appreciation and gave a low breathless, whistle. "Don't you think that's fascinating?"

Oblivious to his brother's excitement, Alan stifled a yawn. "Yeah, if by 'fascinating' you mean 'mind-numbingly boring'. Where's all the cool stuff?"

John frowned – obviously baffled. Cool? What could possibly be considered cooler than tectonic activity read-outs?!

"'Cool' stuff?"

"Yeah, you know, missiles, laser cannons...transporter-pad?"

John sniffed airily and returned his attention to his work. "This isn't Star-Trek, Alan. This is a statistical communications port. Didn't father brief you on operations before you came?"

"Well, yeah...but I thought that he was just kidding around." Alan slumped limply down in his chair, obviously disappointed. No guns? No explosives? What the heck was he going to do for the next five days? "So there's nothing interesting up here at all?"

There was a long pause while John stopped to consider his question. "I installed a new screen-saver for the weather monitoring programs," he ventured finally, "Animated fish. That's pretty fun, right?"

Alan stared at his brother in ill-disguised disgust. Of all the lame things that John had come out with over the years – and there had been a few – that little comment had to rank up there in the top ten. Really, was his brother so woefully devoid of a sense of fun that an animated screen-saver was the high-light of his existence on Thunderbird 5? Alan sighed internally as he considered his brother: John Tracy – the boy who had no cool.

He shook his head in utter disbelief. "How is it possible that I'm even related to you?"

John gave a quiet grunt and leaned over the workstation, adjusting the radar display slightly. "They say that space-travel affects male sperm quality," he commented matter-of-factly. "Dad had only been on one space-flight when I was conceived. By the time that you were born, he'd been on eight." He blinked tiredly and gave a small shrug. "I'm guessing that you were the product of a faulty swimmer. It's the only explanation."

Alan tilted his head thoughtfully to one side and considered his brother through narrowed eyes. "You know, even when you're trying to be funny, you still sound like a Discovery channel geek."

"And even when you're trying to be useful, you still sound like an irritating little prat." John raised a neat-fingered hand to his forehead and massaged along his hairline. "Please, Alan, I'm trying to get some work done. Why don't you run along, huh?"

...Maybe go stick your head out of a view-port while you're at it...

Blatantly ignoring his brother's request, Alan leaned closer to John, still munching noisily on his packet of crisps. "Seriously though, don't you kinda think that you got the raw end of the deal? I mean, Scott, Virgil and Gordon get to pilot the fastest most technically advanced aircraft all over the world...and you're stuck up here – literally in the middle of nowhere – analysing your little data readings." He raised his blonde eyebrows and gave a sad shake of his head. "Honestly John, I almost feel sorry for you."

John stared moodily at the radar, jaw clenched tightly shut. "I wouldn't feel too bad for me if I were you, Alan."

"Why?"

John was – generally speaking – remarkably respectful towards other people's feelings, but even he could not repress a satisfied smirk as he turned to look at his younger brother.

"Because father is planning on stationing you up here too as soon as you're old enough."

Alan's mouth dropped open, half-chewed crisps clearly visible within.

"What?!"

Tbc...