She sat with Virgil in the silent room. It was… She really wasn't sure. Unnerving would probably be the most accurate description, honestly.
One of the things that had always drawn her to Virgil was how he always sounded so alive—no matter what, there was something listen to when she was near him, but now… now there was nothing.
Silence.
It didn't suit him.
Neither did the anger. The hate. Scott was the hothead of the family, his temper quick to flare and burnt painfully bright, but like all fires, the quicker it burnt, the quicker it passed. Gordon's was like Scott: it flared up quick, but his sat and smouldered, taking weeks to burn out properly, and even then, the embers could remain, waiting to be aired to spark all over again. Virgil wasn't like that, though; he was the level-headed brother. He got angry, but it didn't last, and it didn't spark like theirs.
She looked up at him, watching as he slept. There was little else for him to do at the moment aside from sleep. It was that or sit and hate.
He would sit, jaw clenched, and let that hate build and bubble. She didn't know what would happen when it finally became too much. She didn't want to know.
She wanted to sleep like Virgil. Just sleep through all of this and wake up once the world started to make sense again.