Virgil had been measured for his 'training' prosthetics as they called them yesterday morning, and a couple of hours ago, he'd finally had them fitted.

He hated them. He really, really hated them, ungainly and stiff on top of the feel and movement, but he could finally do things himself for the most part. Never before had he been so happy to pick up a cup.

These hands weren't the best, but they were good enough for the two of them to play cards. Scott had been given a pack of braille playing cards; it had been done originally because he had been complaining they were running out of things to play and do. Oddly enough, though, it had served to give him the kick to actually buckle down and learn his numbers and letters.

Since he'd been given his new hands, they'd spent the entire time playing poker, though they had nothing to play for, sadly. He had to admit, though, it was getting easier as they went; it wasn't natural by any stretch of the imagination but certainly easier. That wasn't to say he was getting better at it, though.

'High straight,' Scott said. It was nice to see his brother happy, and he could only assume the announcement had been shouted from his actions as he laid the cards down. Problem was that Virgil now had to lay his cards down. Easier said than done.

He sighed with amusement. 'Why do I even play with you any more? You always win.'

'You're getting better,' he offered, 'or maybe I'm getting worse. Hard to play like this.'

"Tell me about it." He shut his eyes for a moment, resting back against the pillows, plunging himself into a silent and black abyss. He was entirely cut off from the world right then. The very embodiment of isolation.

After a second or so, he could feel Scott pawing at his leg, panic in the movements.

'Sorry, Scooter.' He hoped his voice doesn't give away his exhaustion. It wasn't physical, he wasn't sure he had ever slept as much in his entire life (or ever would, he suspected); it was all he did when Scott wasn't there or a doctor wasn't poking at him. There was simply nothing else to do. No, he was mentally tired—tired of being awake, of thinking, of being alone.

Thoughts for later, though.

Opening his eyes, he looked to Scott, to the worry etched deep in his brother's expression.

'—wrong?'

'Just tired.'

'Really?' He leaned back in the chair, resting his elbow on the armrest to set his cheek against his hand. 'I'm blind, not stupid, and when have you *ever* been able to lie to me? What's wrong?'

'I'm a deaf pianist with no hands playing Texas hold 'em with a blind, crippled pilot.'

He sighed, looking down as he toyed with the sheets. He couldn't see what was said, but he knew Scott well enough to know the simple 'yeah' that would have been muttered.

'And yet you still win,' he forced. He could mourn for himself later; right now he would focus on Scott. Whatever it was that had torn his brother down so wholly the other day had not yet passed, and he was worried it would return, it would take rest of him, it would consume him entirely.

Scott laughed, gathering the cards up in front of him. 'It's a gift. So, again?'

'Yeah, sure. I have to win eventually, right?'

'You can—door,' he said, looking up and to the source of the sound, waiting for Virgil to announce who it was.