12. Scott, John and Virgil – Poker
poker: noun
1. a metal rod with a handle, used for prodding and stirring an open fire.
With Virgil, it's easy. A few kind words and his golden heart is out and he's blubbing all over the couch cushions. John does not mean this in a disparaging way. Not at all. In fact, he's almost jealous of his brother's ability to be open with his emotions.
John's not like that at all. It's almost like he just doesn't feel things as keenly as Virgil. Almost as if in the womb, Virgil got a double dose of emotional intelligence – and John only got a half-portion. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel. It just means his emotions aren't as close to the surface or as easy to find as Virgil's.
Scott, on the other hand, is an entirely different animal.
Oh, he feels all right – and he feels keenly. It's just that with Scott, he tends to hide his emotions. Not necessarily through a lack of desire to deal with them. Rather, it's a lack of time to deal with them.
With Scott, it's not as easy – but it's not difficult if you know the tricks. And John does. He knows all of the tricks. Scott's an open fire – prod with a poker a few times and he'll burst into flames. Then, once John's eyebrows have been singed and the fire of Scott's emotion has cooled down, they'll talk.
"Scott, you need to stop this right now. You're being childish."
There's the poker – sharp and iron and heavy, shoved right into Scott's open flames. But it's for his own good. The words aren't really meant the way they sound.
"What the fuck did you just say, John?"
John unconsciously sweeps a finger across his fair brows as Scott's anger flares – and then Scott's off with a Gatling gun of abuse, every syllable aimed at John.
They've danced this dance a hundred thousand times before, but John's still glad he doesn't have to face Scott in person. If he riles him up enough, it's not just his eyebrows he needs to worry about it. John brings a hand up to ghost over his cheek as Scott's hologram jabs a finger in his direction, his lips moving in rapid fire.
A few months ago, Scott punched John – a sucker punch, right on his cheekbone. Scott's defence was that he had been provoked and John agreed. He had to, since he had done the provoking.
But now, as John lets his hand fall – or rather, he pushes it down, since nothing falls in zero-g – Scott's lips are slowing down. The flames are dying down and realisation floods into his eyes, dousing the fire.
There is a pause as John waits and Scott looks.
"You did it again, didn't you?"
"Yes," John says. "You needed the outlet."
Scott shakes his head and runs a hand through his short hair.
"One day, I won't fall for it," he says wryly – though the hint of relief in his voice is palpable.
"Maybe," John replies.
And then they're on to another topic – and John's eyebrows live to see another day.
