@preludeinz tagged in me who will pass to @drdone
For all his life, John’s had a bad habit of gnawing at his nails.
It used to drive their father to distraction, the way John would lose himself in thought and, slowly, his thumb would drift up towards his mouth, his teeth scraping over the nail until their father growled and leaned over to bat John’s hand back down.
Virgil’s been thinking of those moments more and more lately, in the waiting lulls between blazes or when he’s tucked up in bed too tired to sleep. The exasperated, annoyed noise their father would make whenever one of them did something he didn’t like.
Virgil can’t even imagine the sound Jeff would make, watching John watch Alan sleep, too small in a too big bed.
John starts when Virgil closes the door as loudly as he dares. John’s hand almost bounces off the armrest as he guiltily yanks it down. “Oh, man,” he sighs as he relaxes slightly, half rising as Virgil takes the two small steps to Alan’s bedside. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
Virgil steadies John, helps him back down. “How’s he doing?”
John’s already turned back to Alan like he might disappear again if they turn their backs. “Resting. First twenty-four hours. You know the drill.”
They all do. That’s kind of the problem. Virgil’s not sure how long Scott’s going to need, and a glance tells him that John’s not going to be levered out of that chair for anything as mundane as food or sleep.
There was a vending machine in the hall; not great, but better than nothing. He’s not entirely sure John hears him, but Virgil steps back out into the hall without repeating himself anyway.
He just needs a moment to breathe; too much has happened since he last slept. Alan, and the accident. Brains, and the Mechanic. The Mechanic and Alan. It was all pivoting on Alan, and he was in no state to answer questions.
There were edges Virgil knew he wasn’t seeing yet, but he’d learned long ago to trust his instincts, the one that told him to hit the deck just as the fire seemed under control. All Virgil’s instincts now were screaming that despite the lull, a blow-up was just about to hit with a ferocity to burn skin from bones.
He’s only got a few coins in the pocket of his jacket, but it’s second nature now to flip the gate, fool the machine to send him both snacks and his change back for another selection. He catches his reflection in the machine glass, pale and wide-eyed, hair a mess. The glass is cool as he rests his head against it for a moment, the triple thunk of gate and snacks and coins all dropping felt more than heard.
His brother nearly died tonight, street racing for a shadowy underworld figure, and he’s here getting Cheetos.
“Virgil?”
Virgil rubs his face as he exhales hard and straightens up. John’s stood in Alan’s doorway, unwilling to have their youngest out of his sight. But he’s got his phone to his ear. “Yeah? That Scott?”
John nods. “No,” he says to the voice on the other end of the line. “I can stay…Virgil is in no state…”
Virgil plucks the phone out of John’s hand. “Sending him out now. Tell Gordon to grab my charger when he comes back, would you?” John’s scowling as he ends the call. “Here,” he says, shoving the little crinkly packets into John’s hands. “Go. I’ve got him.”
John tries, but Virgil holds his ground against fire. John’s close, but he’s not yet quite a force of nature. Only when Virgil hears the automatic doors at the end of the hall wheeze out and in does Virgil sink into John’s chair and bury his face in his hands.
It’s so ingrained in him not to waste food that John clutches the packets in his fist as he wanders, almost in a daze, down and out of the hospital. Only when the cruiser’s lights flash does John see Scott, leaning tiredly against the driver’s side door.
“I’m not that tired, I can..” John begins, slowing as he takes in Scott’s slouch, the way his elbow is braced against the arm held across his belly. John’s the one who gets migraines, but the way Scott’s pinching the bridge of his nose speaks to a wicked tension headache. “Scott, what is it?”
Scott’s exhale is loud in the cool air. It’s so late it’s almost early, the air cold enough that John can see the plume of Scott’s breath. “We’ve got a lead. But it’s about to evaporate, and I know Captain Casey, she’d want to do this by the book, full inter-agency cooperation. There’s protocol and everything.”
Even drowning in exhaustion and emotion, John’s good at joining dots. “Too slow?”
Scott nods, his shoulders rolling back and straightening up. “Our source says he’s about to vanish. We’ve got one shot at getting the guy who did this to Alan….John?”
The engine is still warm under the fingers John trails over the hood as he walks around to the passenger side. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Rent Day Blues 