She missed John.
It was a dull ache, one that hurt more than she would ever be able to say.
But right now, with them, doing something useful, she could pretend she was able to ignore it.
She'd returned to the hospital. The few days away from each other seemed to have done everyone good. Both were still a little cold to her, but it was an improvement, even if Scott remained rather hostile, quicker to temper than ever. Virgil, however, seemed happy to have her return, claiming she was the prettiest thing he'd seen in days.
She could help but smile. She'd always been fond of him.
He and John were so similar in nature: they shared the need to know, to consume any and all information they could, but Virgil was always warmer. He always knew when he needed to stop. It was just that John… There had always been something that had drawn her in, pulled her heart.
What it was, she had never known.
Virgil was an awful flirt. While not as bad as Scott, who would hit on pretty much anything that moved, it seemed she'd only seen Virgil really make a move on someone he wanted to pursue (unless they were playing that stupid game and collecting phone numbers). John, however, wasn't a flirt, even behind closed doors, so when Virgil turned to her, making some stupid comment about how she looked, she had to admit she would blush without fail, the simplest of comment leaving her smiling for hours or more.
She was sure he only did it for the reaction, but she treasured them nonetheless.
He laughed, a deep and rich rumble, what at she'd missed, and she didn't care. She loved the sound. Virgil was warm and secure, he was safe. John, however, was, when she thought about it, so often cold. So quiet.
Virgil was, normally, surrounded by sound. Alive.
His notes had been silenced by the accident, but he would recover them—was recovering them, the sound of life slowly returning to him. He and Scott would be okay as long as they had each other.
They would get there.
Virgil had talked Scott into accepting the situation; she assumed, last she'd been here, he refused, he could fight it later, but for the moment, things were as they were.
So he sat like always next to Virgil's bed, using it as a table for the book and sheet he had apparently been giving by the coach, the braille alphabet. The book was a child's, 'Where's My Ball?'; with large print and braille underneath, it had small patches you could touch and feel, and Scott hated it, but he was determined to make it through it and the few others he had taken.
In the hands of the grown men used to dealing with near-death situations, it looked a little out of place as Scott concentrated on it, having to struggle through the words. The book was understandably being torn to pieces, heavy scrutiny and mockery over the 'plot'.
'That says cat,' Virgil spoke up after it became clear his brother couldn't work out the word.
'That does not say cat.' He frowned, running over the word again, studying it.
'Does.'
'Not.'
'Scott, I can see the word. It says cat.'
'No need to rub it in, Mr. I-Can-See.' Scott sighed. 'And it doesn't say cat.'
Virgil scoffed. 'Does.'
Sometimes it was hard to believe they were adults.
She missed John, but she would survive. She would make it, as long as she could listen to Virgil laugh.