Work Text:
I hope Gordon likes this.
There was a despondency in the way Virgil sat before his easel; it oozed off him thick and dark like the remnants of the day’s 7th coffee that sat stagnant in his browning mug. Virgil rubbed his eyes in a desperate attempt to both confront and avoid looking at the painting that waited for him.
It was fascinating in the way it did that, he supposed. The painting enchanted him in the way it repulsed him. Intrigued him in the way it disgusted him. He didn’t want to acknowledge the canvas anymore. But he had to. For Gordon.
The painting was pretty much finished anyway, and it was good. One of his best. Scott had come to Virgil’s studio in the middle of the night and told him. Virgil could not bring himself to think so, not given the circumstances.
Virgil stood up from his stool and placed his crusty paintbrush onto his palette in an act of finality. The painting was done. He thought that the lead weight in his throat would have cleared, but it remained, resilient and suffocating. His brother was gone. And no finished painting could fill the hole that his absence left. He was trying his best. All of his brothers were. Dealing with loss was something of a regular occurence to the Tracy family, but this was something else. It was like sunshine had vanished, like light had faded.
Like hope had died.
Each of the brothers had their own way of trying to distract themselves from thinking about it in International Rescue’s emergency downtime. Scott had taken to swimming 50 lengths of the pool in the early mornings, where the sound of rushing water used to be like birdsong at dawn. John had come down from orbit and had started to compile all of Gordon’s unorganised research on the marine life of Tracy and it’s surrounding islands. Alan, despite his grief, tried so hard to fill the villa with sunshine and happiness again but he was exhausted. Virgil spent most of his days in his art studio, painting ocean after ocean, but none of them felt right. Except for this one.
On waiting for the canvas to dry, Virgil inspected the painting up close; he traced the curve of the crashing waves, scrutinised the layers of blue and green and white and purple and black. As he studied the piece, he considered himself glad that water was not his enemy. Water was not the bastard that took his younger brother away. If there were anything to be thankful about, the brothers were at least eased by the fact that they didn’t have to resent water in the aquanaut’s absence. Gordon would have wanted them to enjoy the pool and to enjoy the ocean, even without him.
Smiling sadly, Virgil unwound the clamps of the easel and hoisted the painting off it. Virgil had forgotten how dark it was in his studio until he left it. The bright sunlight cascaded through the massive windows of the villa to greet him harshly as he shuffled to the makeshift memorial shrine at the end of the lounge. Scott was there, perusing and fondling the various trinkets and photos and memories of Gordon that had been lovingly arranged onto a small table. He was sniffling. Neither of them needed to say anything and Virgil turned his attention toward the empty easel that had been placed next to the table in preparation. The painting was gently placed onto the easel and he adjusted the clamps before he stood back to look at the piece in the place it belonged.
“I miss him,” Virgil said, before his emotions got the better of him and he burst into tears.
Scott acknowledged him, then, and sighed with a mixture of pride and sadness as he admired the piece before him. He put a hand on Virgil’s shoulder.
“I miss him too. We all do.”