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A kind of a build-up chapter for Virgil, because heās decided to be brave and face something but that comes at a cost because I am incapable of letting them be fixed first time around. I also had to apply some very very minor whump to Scott just because it amuses me so to do and he was RIGHT THERE being a doofus and asking for it.
Hesitating to put this one out because there is so much good fic thatās appeared over the last week and I havenāt read it all yet but⦠I think if I donāt get this one out of draft mode Iām never going to properly focus on the finale chapter and I really need to get that done so I can finally post the art a fabulous someone did for me four months ago when I last thought I was nearly finished š«£š¬š
Virgilās studio was recessed into the cliff which meant it was protected from the elements. It was accessible only via his bedroom and a key coded door meant it was protectedā¦ish from marauding younger brothers.
Although a huge picture window dominated one wall, very useful for those sky paintings, this could and often would be shuttered at the press of the button, transforming the room into a haven over which he had unfettered dominion.
Advanced atmospheric regulation meant he could ensure the air it wasnāt too arid for sculpting or too damp to allow a painting to dry. An objectively impressive array of light fixtures popped out at various levels, the angle and tone of each completely customisable at the flick of a slider (or twelve) on his tablet, meant he had absolute control of what bounced off his surroundings into his eyeballs. And the sound systemā¦
Well.
What would be the point of a soundproof room if you couldnāt occasionally crank it up to symphony orchestra brass section volume. Virgil had played the French horn in high school and fully appreciated the sensation of his ribcage vibrating when the trombones sat behind him got into their groove.
He was safe here.
And yet, he couldnāt settle. Everything felt, off. Scratchy. As if sand had got into a sensitive mechanism and no amount of oil would flush it out again.
Virgil tucked the sketchbook under his arm and got up to adjust the brightness of the overhead spots down a little and nudged the temperature control up another increment. Heād been fiddling with it all morning but couldnāt quite find the precise balance he needed. Turning his back on the easel stool, he sat down heavily on the couch, removed a pencil from behind his ear and glared at the page.
Heād thought it might be a good idea to sketch out a few anatomical poses to build the detail on top of⦠to save Scott having to hang around while he got the basics done. Despite having shut himself in here all morning, heād barely got beyond sketching a vaguely humanoid shape. Perhaps heād got a little more fixated on the angle of an arm than strictly necessary⦠in fact heād roughed it out in so many positions his graphite brother was giving off distinctly octopoid vibes.
The real one had been popping in and out all morning, providing coffee and snacks and unspoken reassurance but now was Here and Getting Ready and Virgil was also supposed to be Ready do some Healing. Find Some Closure. Desensitisation. All that healthy stuff. He tried to ignore the creeping doubt as to whether he was, or would ever, in fact, be ready toā¦
āCan I make a suggestion?ā
He jumped a little and dropped his pencil as Scott called out from behind Virgilās bedroom door. He put the book to one side and crawled under his chair to locate it.
āVirg?ā The door opened and he could imagine Scott peering around it, with all the darkness creeping up his neck and around his throat⦠his heart raced and his breath escaped in a tiny squeak.
Uuuuh⦠he wasnāt ready. Not ready at all. Maybe he never would be. Maybe this was⦠maybe he was justā¦
āVirgil, are you alright?ā
Realising heād frozen with his upper body wedged under the couch and that Scott was inevitably now aiming the Concerned Eyebrows at his behind, Virgil forced out an airy āAll good, I just dropped my⦠my⦠errā¦ā he huffed a fake laugh to cover up the gap. Stifled the panicky breathing⦠the word had gone. Just gone. He spread his fingers out, feeling the grain of the wood beneath him, sanded almost-but-not-quite smooth, and focussed on drowning out the whistle in his ears with an inane little tune Gordon was humming earlier. This was transientā¦
āPen. I mean pencil. Pencil!!ā
The floorboards vibrated a little as knees slid into view just beside him. Navy blue knees. No, not navy. Shade 1620 āAirforce Blueā - he had a tube of it on the easel. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hex 00308F. Several paint tubes, just in case. And some inks. Zero zero three zero eight eff. Navy blue was 000080. The three and the F somehow changed everything.
A hand on his shoulder, unnaturally tentative as they all still were around him. Still. He scrunched his eyes still tighter and tried not to let it bother him, he wasnāt the type to be bitter about being āPoor Fragile Virgil best-not-surprise-him-lest-he-freak-out-and-see-things-againā¦ā ok, he was still a little bitter perhaps. And being not very kind to himself either. Heād tell Scott off for that.
Scottā¦
He pressed his fingertips into the floor just enough to stop them shaking, just enough to hurt. As his neck and shoulders tensed in sympathy he felt his brotherās arms curl around him, holding him steady, keeping him from bumping his head on the wooden frame. Holding him steady, keeping him from sinking through the floor into who knew where⦠he dragged in a breath, cursing his vocal chords for the little whine that caused.
āIām here. What do you need?ā
āPencil.ā
The harmonic skitter of light wood rolling over heavy before the pencil was nudged up close to his hand and he grasped it like a lifeline.
He couldnāt open his eyes, not yet. He was terrified he wouldnāt be able to trust what he saw if he did.
He could feel Scott breathe, the weight of his arm. He could hear the repeated āItās ok, Iāve got you.ā
Yet both those senses had betrayed him before too. Only one had not. It had never lied to him, but, quiet and unshowy, it was easier to ignore if the others told him a better story.
Right now, the impersonal fog of the dry cleaning spray Grandma had used almost overwhelmed him. It was a white noise.
A grey noise?
He reached past the grey for something familiar, something safe - something to prove this wasnāt hollow. There was the ever-present scent of coffee on his brotherās breath and the subtle hint of super-shiny gel⦠no, he corrected himself, heād upgraded to the pricier āsublime shinyā recently⦠which he swore was better despite Virgil pointing out the identical ingredients, smell and, even taste⦠alright he might have taken the debate a little too far but when Scott had poked his tongue out at him Virgil hadnāt been able to resist giving him a sample. For scienceās sake.
The look on his brotherās face had been spectacular.
He chuckled and a little of the dread melted away.
He still needed to sneak some down to Brainsā lab to run a chemical analysis actuallyā¦
āVirg? You with me, short stuā¦OOOFFFā
Scott had clearly ducked his head under the couch to try to see what was going on and the resulting clunk demonstrating heād immediately forgotten that heād done so vibrated through Virgilās teeth.
āScott! Your head!ā
āIs fine. Thick skull, remember?ā
āThe thickest.ā Eyes still resolutely closed, Virgil assessed his tone. It was light, but not the too-light tone Scott adopted when trying to conceal an actual injury from a brother⦠There was more than a hint of worry, obviously, which Virgil needed to Do Something About because he was painfully aware it was him causing it.
āVirgil, are you ok? What do you need?ā
āIām ok. I⦠yeah. Iām good.ā He was. He could do this.
āAlright.ā The audible skepticism was perhaps justified but Scott had clearly decided to let him call the shots today.
āIām not criticising your process here but would it be easier to do the arting somewhere other than under the couch.ā
Virgil grunted, which was frankly all the response the question deserved. Then, eyes tight shut he shuffled backwards. The sensitive skin just below the edge of his little finger brushed against Scottās leg and he shivered as he recognised the fabric. Polywool. Strong but soft. Permanent military creases. More capable of withstanding a worried brother knee-sliding across a wooden floor than the string of ludicrously expensive but patently unScott-proof suit pants that the CEO wore to TI meetings and managed to destroy on a regular basis. But not robust enough for any kind of action. This was dress uniform. Just for show. Heād never have got in a jet wearing it.
But without it heād never have got in that jetā¦
The voice of dread in his heart hissed at him. Virgil tried to squash it, but the edges were sharp and tried to steal his breath. He could feel his pulse begin to race again, echoing back through the thumb-tips he had pressed so firmly into the floor. No, that wouldnāt work. He knew this. He knew how to deal with this now. The hand on his shoulder tightened infinitesimally, lending him strength. So, he forced himself to take a slower breath and let himself acknowledge the thought. It was a logical fallacy, he knew that, but as the counsellor had advised he resisted the temptation to be angry with himself for thinking it. He could see where it came from. It wasnāt unreasonable or stupid for his subconscious to reach for something, anything to blame. It just wasnāt helpful. It wasnāt true.
What was true?
Heād come back. Scott had come back. He was here right now, humming Momās song as he rested his head on top of Virgilās and stroked his arm.
Virgil opened his eyes. Brown floor. Black pencil. 1620... Scottās legs. He raised his head a little, braced for the darknessā¦
Light blue?
Light blue shirt? Airforce shirt, yes, but not what he was expecting.
Scott interpreted his frown of confusion before he realised heād formed it.
āI was going to suggest maybe I donāt wear the jacket just yet? I could, I dunno, just hold it or something. Till youāre used to it?ā
Virgil realised he wasnāt blinking enough and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets for a moment.
āRight. I⦠yes. Iām sorry Iā¦ā he huffed irritably āThis is so ridiculous.ā
āNo it isnāt.ā Scott squeezed his shoulder again. āAnd you told me not to say things like that.ā
Virgil swallowed the impulse to point out that for Scott it was different. Maybe, after all, it wasnāt so different. In the absence of anything constructive to say he removed his hands from his face and made an attempt at a reassuring smile. It was going quite well until his eye was caught by a rush of movement as the hastily slung jacket slithered off the back of a chair and curled into a pile of darkness on the floor. He averted his eyes and returned his attention to his brotherās face.
āSo, what do you want to do?ā
Here, Virgil drew a blank. Beyond his request to paint Scott wearing the dreaded dress uniform, he was surprisingly unsure about what he wanted to do. He hadnāt got much past the idea to get himself, Scott and The Uniform in the same room and not go mad.
As the heap of fabric continued to noisily suck all the light from the room, he wasnāt sure the latter part was going as planned.
āI donāt⦠I donāt actually errā¦ā he tailed off but the point had been conveyed.
Scott hummed again, but not in a musical way this time. That was the āIR-Commander-is-formulating-a-planā hmmmmm.
āWe have all day... no need to rush anything. Do you want to go outside for a bit? Itās really nice out there?ā
Outside was Scottās go-to fix. If things were difficult, he did better in the open air⦠or at least somewhere with a clear view of the sky. Virgil suspected he knew why and tried not to think about that too much. What he did know was that it was when his brother tucked himself away - when he found a hidey hole, enclosed and dark - well that was when little brotherās alarm bell needed to ring. Outside was good.
Yet, Virgil knew Scott hadnāt suggested it for his own benefit this time. It wasnāt for the air but for the sun.
Virgilās comfort instinct was more towards warmth. The flannel wasnāt purely a fashion choice after all. It didnāt matter where he was - snuggled in bed, melting his face off in the sauna, taking an excessively long hot shower, hibernating on a sun lounger - it was all good as long as the goosebumps were kept at bay. Gordon had long ago given up trying to persuade him to lower the cabin temperature of Two. If Virgilās skin was warm and relaxed he had at least a chance of thinking clearly about everything else.
Outside in the sunshine sounded good. It had a decent chance of being better than here anyway, in the bowels of the earth where the darkness was closing in and an icy draft scraped across his face.
So Virgil nodded and allowed his big brother to steer him towards the doorway. Where he stood helplessly for a few moments as he realised the hand with which heād reached for the handle was a white knuckled fist clutching a pencil for dear life⦠and he didnāt quite seem to know how to put it down. He shivered again.
Scott rushed around behind him, chattering away and collecting whoknewwhat, then took charge of the door-opening and, taking a firm grip on Virgilās pencil-free hand, towed him up the stairs and out into the daylight.
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