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Virgil stared down at the box, transfixed by the shining silver insignia nestled on the velvet cushion inside. It looked so small there, such a tiny and insignificant thing, and yet it was the source of the funny hollow ache in his chest.
He glanced up as a shuffling at the entrance to the kitchen signalled the presence of another person. It was John, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a crisp white suit. He was fiddling with his cuffs, adjusting them even though from where Virgil was stood everything looked perfectly fine.
"Oh - hi, Virg." John cleared his throat awkwardly, wiggling his fingers in greeting. "Hadn't realised anyone was in here. I was just coming in to grab…" He gestured at the box Virgil was standing in front of.
"What for?"
"Oh, uh, for the charity auction Pen wants me to go to. She asked if we had any items we could donate for it, and Scott said I should take that along."
"Right. I see." Virgil looked down at it again. "I was wondering why it was out."
Usually he would've tried to keep the conversation going. Right now, though, the ache was intensifying, and he couldn't help but reach into the box and carefully take out his father's USAF insignia. Virgil hadn't ever held it before now. The metal was cool on his palm, and the metal glinted in the mid-afternoon sun. It was quite light, which took him by surprise. The weight felt foreign in his hand.
John watched him knowingly from across the room. "It's odd, isn't it?"
Virgil nodded wordlessly. He never spent a lot of time looking at his dad's old stuff - that was Scott, who often disappeared into Jeff's old room when he needed a breather, seeking comfort and guidance from old mementos as if his dad's spirit remained in some way in the space. Virgil wasn't as material as that; Jeff's desk, sat in pride of place in the den, was enough of a memorial for him. But faced for the first time with the prospect of losing his father's insignia, the physical representation of such an integral part of his identity, Virgil was surprised to find the idea hurt.
John was looking at him knowingly. He'd always been able to read Virgil uncannily well, maybe the best out of his whole family. "You know Dad would have wanted us to do this," he said.
"Yeah," Virgil exhaled. "Yeah, he would." Giving to others had been the most important thing to him, and International Rescue was just one of countless examples. Dad wouldn't have hesitated to give it away if it meant raising money for anyone that needed it. "It's just…"
"I know." John's voice was soft.
Virgil sniffed, swiping roughly at his face. God, he hadn't thought he'd cry over this. "God, this is stupid. I'm fine most of the time, but every now and then I just… I miss him so much, Johnny."
It said a lot that for once John didn't correct him on the use of his nickname. Virgil pressed his palms into his eyes, willing the tears away. That was the thing about grief; you were fine for days, weeks, sometimes months, and then it crept up on you all over again. A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder and he leant instinctively into his brother's embrace. John hugs were rare, but every now and again they did happen. Virgil appreciated each and every one. He breathed in slowly, ignoring the freshly-laundered suit smell and focusing instead on the sent of stardust and his brother's strawberry shampoo.
"I've gotta head off soon," John eventually said. The apology was evident in his tone. "Penny's going to have my hide if we're late. Are you gonna be okay?"
"I - yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Virgil gave him a watery smile, wavering but not insincere. "Go and greet all those posh people."
"There won't be many of them there, according to her," John said gratefully. "Shouldn't be too bad."
Virgil, knowing better, managed to stifle a snort. "Go and make Dad proud."
"FAB."