Okay, warnings for child abuse and nasty dentistry in this bit. I haven't gone into great detail, but if you think this could be upsetting to you, please don't read.
-o-o-o-
Scott felt nothing but dread.
A quick trip to the showers, clothing and a word to John and he returned to the comms room like an executioner going to a beheading.
John, by his side, squeezed his shoulder.
To his surprise Virgil had relocated out onto the balcony. The sun was setting behind them and presenting a glorious pink sky over the ocean. The soft sounds of approaching night and the cool breeze calmed his hackles just a little. Virgil had moved a couple of loungers out onto the balcony. When he looked up and saw John, he stood up and grabbed another one.
A small table was full of food and Scott vaguely realised it was actually dinner time.
Gordon and Alan were conspicuously absent.
"Scott, John, have a seat. I've raided the pantry. Gordon and Alan are having a video game tournament in Alan's room." It was said with the scoff that made it obvious that Virgil knew they were missing for a reason. "Sit down and eat something."
Scott was anything but hungry, but he did as his brother asked anyway, grabbing a slice of bread and throwing some ham, cheese and a little mustard on it.
He watched Virgil as his brother sat down with a bowl of lukewarm soup. "Where did you get that?"
"Out of a can."
Scott made a mental note to put together some more edible soft foods for the next few days.
John grabbed three beers out of the cooler stashed beside the table and handed one to each of them. Scott popped the cap and swigged a good mouthful. The cool bubbles on the back of his throat were wonderful.
But he was delaying the inevitable.
Virgil was gingerly scooping soup into his mouth. The occasional wince proof that it was anything but comfortable.
Brown eyes flickered in his direction and frowned. "Eat your dinner, Scott."
He didn't answer, but shoved his sandwich in his mouth and chewed.
It was tasteless.
With half a bowl of soup left, Virgil winced one last time and put the bowl down and closed his eyes.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine. Just need to take it slow. Not my first mouth injury."
No, it wasn't. Scott's heart clenched.
The sandwich slapped on the plate and was discarded on the table. A glance at John and Scott realised his younger brother hadn't even bothered to put any food together and was just sucking on his beer bottle.
They were a sad trio.
"So, you going to tell me what has all of you so riled up?" Virgil stood up and put some covers over the food.
A gull screeched in the distance.
The breeze danced across Scott's arms and raised goose pimples.
Virgil sat down on the edge of his lounger and turned to face him. "Please tell me. I can't bear to see the fear in your eyes any longer."
His heart leapt into his throat. He sat up and mirrored Virgil's position, sitting on the edge of his lounger. John, silent as ever, slipped around and sat next to Virgil, his presence reassuring.
And insurance.
Scott swallowed. "Do you remember Grandma Taylor?"
Virgil blinked as if surprised. "Sure. How could I forget? She had a blue mohawk. Kinda unforgettable."
The thinnest of smiles curled the corners of Scott's lips. "Yeah, she was." The ultimate source of Virgil's artistic streak and entirely to blame for the horrible neo-punk era of Virgil's early teens. She influenced from beyond the grave to the point Scott thought his brother might be haunted by her.
"What about her?"
The smile disappeared.
"Do you remember how you got your eyebrow scar?"
Virgil blinked. "Yeah, helping Grandpa Taylor with his vintage car. Tripped over and encountered his toolbox. Nearly took out my eye on the latch."
"Did you hurt anything else?"
-o-o-o-
Virgil stared at Scott. The incident itself was pretty clear in his mind because of the scar he had to look at every morning in the mirror. He could remember the old car with its ancient canvas canopy and the wiggly windows he could barely reach. It had been a green car, but for the life of him, he had no idea what make or model. He couldn't remember seeing it again after that incident. Which was odd since Grandpa Taylor had been so enamoured with it.
'Helping' was a far too generous word for what Virgil had actually been doing. Wandering around the car, poking his fingers into things that four-year-old fingers probably shouldn't have been poking in. He remembered Grandpa lifting him into the driver's seat and for a few brilliant moments he had been the driver of the stationary vehicle.
Why he had been running was forgotten, but the sudden airborne feeling and loss of control followed by a blast of pain...he remembered that.
His mouth twinged and he realised he was gritting his teeth. "No, just my head." He fingered the scar on his left eyebrow. "Hurt like the bejesus."
"You had stitches."
"Yeah."
"Are you sure you didn't hurt anything else?"
A frown. "I don't think so. Had a headache for days afterwards though."
Scott looked awful.
"What is it?"
His brother looked away a moment as if steeling himself before catching his eyes. "You say you don't know why you are afraid of the dentist."
Virgil straightened, immediately tense. "No, I don't know why. It's a phobia, Scott, it doesn't need a reason. It is not logical, but no less terrifying."
Scott held up a hand. "Hey, you know I respect that. If there had been any other way, I would have taken it."
Lips thinning, Virgil didn't comment on that. Too raw.
"But I think we found a reason."
"What?"
Scott swallowed visibly. "After you got your stitches, Grandma Taylor took you to the dentist."
A blink. "No, she didn't."
"Eos found the records."
"I had a bad reaction to the local anaesthetic they gave me for the stitches. You know how I react to drugs. Grandma took me home and I slept it off." He'd been stuck in his bedroom at Grand Roca for days, his face aching, his mouth sore...
"No."
Scott hand wrapped around his arm. "The records say that you attended the dentist and had a filling and a tooth repair."
"I don't have any fillings." Okay, technically not true anymore, thanks to the crown installed yesterday.
"They were in your baby teeth." Scott's fingers tightened just a little as John handed him a tablet with a photograph on it. "Do you remember this man?"
Virgil's eyes landed on a middle aged, balding, smiling face.
And he was stumbling backwards, tripping over the lounger he had been sitting on, scrabbling to get purchase and get out of there. Hands caught him and for a second he was there, strapped in a chair, bright light glaring into his eyes, that smooth voice sickly sweet and encouraging each time he cried out.
"Virgil!"
Scott. His beloved big brother was holding him. He was sprawled on the hardwood floor. His brother's heart pounded in his ear as Virgil slowly wilted against him. "Who was that?" He squeezed his eyes shut, confused at his reaction, the terror, and the question of why.
John curled up and sat in front of the two of them. "He was the dentist."
"What did he do to me?" It came out high pitched and fear-filled.
Scott's arms tightened around him as he answered. "We don't know." This time he felt his brother swallow. "Six months after your visit, a five-year-old boy died in that chair and Dr Leonard Bornstein was found responsible."
"Leo. Doctor Leo." It came out so dry and parched it hurt his throat. He could see the smile now, above him as he cried. "What did he do?"
Those arms tightened around him again. "He was a sadist. He tortured children and he was in the perfect position to do so. When questioned he blamed it on childhood fears and misbehaviour."
"Grandma didn't believe me." It came out in a rush, memories stabbing at him. "I was too sensitive. Needed to toughen up." Oh god. He squeezed his eyes shut at the betrayal, self-doubt and shame. "Let me up. I need to get up."
Scott's arms loosened around him and Virgil struggled to his feet. Both his brothers stood, both obviously worried about him and staring at him like he was a fragile explosive about to go off in their faces. He straightened forcing some strength into his spine. He was no longer a kid. "Alan said he died?"
John spoke up. "Several years ago, in a psychiatric prison."
"Why were we never contacted about this?"
"There was no court case, the diagnosis was enough. He pleaded guilty and disappeared into the system."
"A child died." In that chair, with the drill, its high-pitched whine humming in his bones, touching down on his teeth, his gum, the taste of blood in his mouth, fat fingers prodding at the back of his throat prompting him to gag...
His stomach rolled and his body complied, his sparse dinner making a return trip. He barely made it to a potted plant before losing it all.
Acid burned in the back of his throat as he tried to choke on himself.
A hand rubbed his back as a glass of water and a box of tissues appeared beside him. His already sore teeth screamed blue murder and he took the water gratefully, washing his mouth with its coolness. The headache that had threatened earlier in the day took advantage and settled in, the left side of his head pounding to the beat of his heart.
The hand continued to rub his back.
"God, this sucks."
"Yeah, it does. I'm so sorry."
"Well, at least I have a reason."
Scott drew him close, wrapping his arms around him again, a large hand holding his head to his big brother's shoulder. "Yeah, you have one hell of a reason."
-o-o-o-