A/N: Surprise, I had another snippet tucked away and ready. I should probably also clarify, these are not going to be concurrent one-shots. They are connected by a theme. And the Universe – blended, a mix of everything. One day, I will work up to longer sections, but for now Scott and Virgil. Also there's a curse word within... military you know?
Scott & Virgil
Scott hasn't even changed into civvies yet. He should probably. But there's something about the uniform that keeps him stabilized. It's the uniform and what it means and the "thanks for your service!" that keep people from seeing right through him, keep them from noticing instead the bags under his eyes, and that, if he had the energy to change into clothes that match how he feels, he would shatter into a million pieces.
He's been running on fumes, almost 56 hours from the first phone call, through whatever strings his father had to pull to get him temporary shore leave, and finally landing on terra firma again. It was as if the world jeered, flinging Scott along with him the second Gordon Tracy was thrown into the sea at speeds the human body could not withstand. Except Scott had not yet hit the water and Gordon had.
Hell, Gordon had.
Family. He needed to get to his family. It's the mantra that kept him moving; that and caffeine.
A beat. He can hear the throbbing of his heart, his breath caught in his throat. He's here, been here actually, standing outside the door with Gordon just over the threshold, and all he can think about his how he's in his uniform still. Gordon would be proud of Scott in his uniform.
His hand trembles as he reaches towards the door, but it swings open suddenly from the inside before he can touch it. He knows all too well the chesnut hair and oversized fleece that land in his grasp, and he recognizes the exhaustion, the red eyes, the wet on the sleeve by his wrist. He knows the plaid is its own type of uniform.
"Virgil," he breathes, just as the surprised form squeaks his own name and grasps onto Scott's decorated jacket, hiding his face in navy.
"You're here." The sound is raspy and muffled.
"Finally," he affirms, holding tighter to the figure in his arms. It has been months since they've seen each other.
"Sorry," Virgil mumbles. Scott isn't quite sure why Virgil feels the need to apologize to him. "I… I needed to get out; they keep telling me to stay positive around him, and I just…" Virgil sniffles, his eyes wet, cheeks damp as looks up at him. He steps back and rubs his eyes with his sleeve.
And it's Virgil standing there nervously, drained in front of him, trying to appear stronger than he felt, that sends Scott the last bit over into the water.
Oh, God. Gordo. 400 f*cking knots.
His head spins with memories of chaos energy, and he sees a mop of strawberry blond choosing his own clothes for the first time, running to him with mis-matched socks and a wicked grin; the summer vacation Gordon spent finding the best shells because he wanted Scotty to see how cool they were and how much he knew about them; the second before the Olympic scoreboard revealed 1st place and Gordon's tears of joy as he stood on the podium proudly, whispering along with the national anthem.
"…and you haven't even seen him yet. God, I am such a mess."
He is looking at Virgil, but he is seeing the much younger version stepping quietly, embarrassed, into his room, elephant plushie in hand and shaking from a nightmare.
"No more than the rest of us," he answers him, feeling the hours spent tired, panicked, fearful, sad hitting him all at once. His legs buckle, and he purposely slides down the wall for support.
Virgil sits next to him, tucking his knees close. "You're shaking. When's the last time you ate?"
Scott shakes his head. He doesn't know.
"Me neither."
Figures in scrubs blur as time passes, feet stepping gingerly past the two on their way to various patients. The clock down the hallway ticks away seconds, and though his muscles begin to ache from the stiffness of the hard floor, when Virgil leans into his shoulder, he lets him.
"He's due for another surgery in a few hours, you know," Virgil whispers, and Scott recognizes it for what it is, the gentlest of nudges.
"Sure," he answers, nodding. Later, Scott can change. He can go to the hotel suite his father booked, have a rest or a bite maybe, and change into something more comfortable while they wait for news of Gordon's surgery. But for now it is time. Tracy is go.
If he could just move.
Together, they help each other up, and Scott is not stupid to the reason for the extra hand at his arm as they step through the threshold. This time, when the world fractures, it's Virgil, not the uniform, that keeps him from shattering with it.