Whether it's because of his superhuman healing and metabolism, because he moves too fast to catch things, or just a fluke, it's true. Eddie can't remember having seen him get sick in the entire time he'd known him. Not even a sniffle. And now that it's happening, a little heartbreaking to watch, because apparently when Barry gets sick, he gets sick in a big way.
Eddie wakes up with the sun shining in the big window by his bed the same way he's woken up for the past couple of months - pressed up against all the soft warmth of Iris, her back against his chest, his arm resting on her waist, bent slightly at the elbow so his palm can lie against Barry's belly. He's the first one to wake up, as always, and when he pushes up on an elbow to admire the way Iris lies with her face buried in the speedster's neck, cuddled safely between her men, he thinks again that he's never been so content.
At least until he notices Barry looks pale, that he's shivering, with sweat beaded on his forehead. A half hour later, and he's awake and throwing up, trembling in their shared bed, Eddie's more than willingly given up any pretense of a trip to the gym today, and Iris is getting ready for work. She catches Eddie in the hallway just outside the open door of the bedroom - he has the day off, and she spends 10 minutes giving him instructions on how to do this. What Barry likes, how he needs to be treated, what makes him feel better, things she knows from all their years of shared history. And Eddie asks questions, takes mental notes, makes his own suggestions, expresses his concern as the newcomer to their family, someone who's only loved Barry for a half a year.
They do all of it outside the bedroom so Barry can hear them. It's a purposeful thing, done so he can hear their concern without having to feel like it's forced. Barry sometimes has a hard time accepting love without fear, especially since becoming The Flash. It's something Iris hadn't fully grasped, not until Eddie saw it in Barry, understood it intimately and personally, and made clear to her.
While she goes in to smooth Barry's hair back and kiss him good-bye despite the risk of catching whatever he has, Eddie makes toast in the kitchen, he brews ginger tea, he gets a squeeze bottle of lukewarm water. He gets a thermal mug full of fair trade freshly-ground coffee and gives it to Iris with a lingering kiss before she goes out the front door calling out over her shoulder that she loves them. Their girl, going out to do battle.
Eddie carries Barry's 'breakfast in bed' into the room and puts it on the side table, slides onto the bed in a tank top and pair of sweat pants, smiling at him, and reaches out to push Barry's hair off his damp forehead. He doesn't really speak, just nudges Barry over in the bed, helping him move out of the sweaty spot he'd been sleeping in, gathers him up against himself, and gets the bottle of water. Helps him drink. Helps him eat. Ignores the weak comments that Barry can take care of it himself with warm reassurances that he doesn't have to. Tucks the beat-up stuffed animal Iris had dug out of storage before she left for work into Barry's arms without judgement or comment.
A few hours and a few Star Wars DVDs on Eddie's laptop later, and Barry is asleep, curled against his side, face buried into his throat, shivering occasionally and curling closer while Eddie rubs his back. It's not a place he ever would have expected to be, a year ago - safe, with two people to love, two people to be loved by, whose preferences he can remember and needs he can meet. With a brain full of Star Wars trivia he never had an interest in before, suggesting anecdotes about The Flash for Iris' blog.
But it's a place he's glad he's in, even in the bad times. Because, when Barry stirs, mumbles something in his sleep that suggests the fever's dredging up terrible things, and Eddie can shift, whisper that everything is alright and actually mean it, kiss him on the forehead and stroke his hair, feel him settle again - that's worth the world.
There's a certain point where he starts to question how good a guy he really is. If he's actually a decent person who really means the best and wants to help other people or just a twisted creep with skewed priorities.
That point comes about the fourth time he sees the small, hunched-shouldered young man with his hair long and loose and his dark eyes red-rimmed outside one of the meeting rooms at the rec center. Eddie's been using the weight room in the gym here every afternoon after work for the past month, since he transferred from Keystone, and every Tuesday night as he's leaving, flushed from exercise and damp from the shower, and he sees him. Fidgeting, his hands twisting together, his head down, hair hanging around his face - Eddie's good at reading body language, but even if he hadn't been, it wouldn't have surprised him when he checked the schedule that first week and found that the room the long-haired young man goes into every Tuesday night is a grief support group. The grief is written all over him, a heavy weight that drags him down. There's something about the distance in his eyes, the way he holds himself, tense and hunched, like he's used to bearing up under the weight of it all by himself that makes Eddie's chest clench painfully.
It's one of those random encounters - he has to tell himself it's not fate or destiny - a strange feeling of attraction and then revulsion at himself for being attracted, and Eddie knows how wrong it is to linger on the steps every Tuesday after he finishes his workout to watch him disappear into that room. Knows how screwed up it is to comfort himself with the fact that he never lingers close enough to the door to listen in. He figures if he has to reassure himself that he's not a creep, he probably is. It's just that there's something so captivating about him, that there's something in Eddie that aches with empathy and wants to talk to him. To make sure he's okay.
At first he'd expected it to stop, he'd expected the feeling to pass, expected to forget about it, to stop feeling whatever force of nature, whatever magnetic pull, is drawing him to this place at this time every week to see this person. But it doesn't stop. He's already a creep, and twisted, and he can't even really figure out what it is he's feeling or why, or why he can't let go of it. Why he can't get those dark eyes and fidgeting hands and the strong, fragile, singular angle of those shoulders out of his head.
The meeting goes in at 6:30, it gets out at 7:30, and Eddie is there when it does, near the exit of the building, twisting up a pale yellow post-it note, folding and unfolding until it's fragile under his fingertips. The young man with the long hair comes out toward the back of the group, his body closed in on itself, his expression dark, and there are a lot of excuses Eddie could make. He's never noticed Eddie's presence, never looked up and seen him, wouldn't recognize him. Eddie could come around the corner outside the exit and bump into him as if he'd never seen him before. He could ask him if he'd dropped something. He could engage in any one of dozens of non-threatening and dishonest ways.
Eddie's never been a good liar.
So instead, he pushes away from the wall as the young man comes closer, moves just slightly in his way so he has to glance up to navigate. Then Eddie catches his gaze, he looks at him, and dark eyes meet his as the long-haired young man falls still, brows raising in an expression somewhere between irritation and vulnerability, and Eddie wonders what he must look like, pink-cheeked and out of place and in the way.
"What do you want?"
It's defensive, self-protective, and the grief that's written all over the young man is joined by self-consciousness as he speaks, a hand comes up to hook against the opposite upper arm, shielding his chest. His shoulders lift, his feet shift a little, and Eddie recognizes that body language with a painful twist in his gut. He knows it intimately from years of facing down bullies while he's hurting because his dad hasn't been home for more than a few hours in the past week. He knows it from interviews with criminals who are intimidated by him in the interrogation room. So when he responds, his voice is pitched soft, careful.
"Nothing. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And I know you don't know me, and this is really, really weird. But I've seen you here a few times now, and...and I just wanted you to know...I hope you're okay."
For a moment, those dark eyes hold his, those dark brows furrow with confusion and suspicion and after a long, long moment, there's something else there. Tan fingers rub against the sleeve of his shirt, and the young man takes a shuddering breath, and Eddie exhales softly, licks his lips nervously. What can either of them say?
So he extends his hand, holding out the crumpled post-it note, and the other man unfolds himself a little, eyes flicking from Eddie's face to the paper and back again a few times before he takes it.
Eddie turns, and he leaves, and he wonders why, for just a moment, it looked like the grieving stranger knew him from somewhere.
Behind him, hurt and confused and with a strange sense of déja vu, Cisco unfolds the paper to see, in neat, crisp handwriting Eddie Thawne, and a phone number.
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causational) wrote2015-01-15 12:48 pm
eddie/iris/barry ot3; a get-well mini-fic for melissa
Whether it's because of his superhuman healing and metabolism, because he moves too fast to catch things, or just a fluke, it's true. Eddie can't remember having seen him get sick in the entire time he'd known him. Not even a sniffle. And now that it's happening, a little heartbreaking to watch, because apparently when Barry gets sick, he gets sick in a big way.
Eddie wakes up with the sun shining in the big window by his bed the same way he's woken up for the past couple of months - pressed up against all the soft warmth of Iris, her back against his chest, his arm resting on her waist, bent slightly at the elbow so his palm can lie against Barry's belly. He's the first one to wake up, as always, and when he pushes up on an elbow to admire the way Iris lies with her face buried in the speedster's neck, cuddled safely between her men, he thinks again that he's never been so content.
At least until he notices Barry looks pale, that he's shivering, with sweat beaded on his forehead. A half hour later, and he's awake and throwing up, trembling in their shared bed, Eddie's more than willingly given up any pretense of a trip to the gym today, and Iris is getting ready for work. She catches Eddie in the hallway just outside the open door of the bedroom - he has the day off, and she spends 10 minutes giving him instructions on how to do this. What Barry likes, how he needs to be treated, what makes him feel better, things she knows from all their years of shared history. And Eddie asks questions, takes mental notes, makes his own suggestions, expresses his concern as the newcomer to their family, someone who's only loved Barry for a half a year.
They do all of it outside the bedroom so Barry can hear them. It's a purposeful thing, done so he can hear their concern without having to feel like it's forced. Barry sometimes has a hard time accepting love without fear, especially since becoming The Flash. It's something Iris hadn't fully grasped, not until Eddie saw it in Barry, understood it intimately and personally, and made clear to her.
While she goes in to smooth Barry's hair back and kiss him good-bye despite the risk of catching whatever he has, Eddie makes toast in the kitchen, he brews ginger tea, he gets a squeeze bottle of lukewarm water. He gets a thermal mug full of fair trade freshly-ground coffee and gives it to Iris with a lingering kiss before she goes out the front door calling out over her shoulder that she loves them. Their girl, going out to do battle.
Eddie carries Barry's 'breakfast in bed' into the room and puts it on the side table, slides onto the bed in a tank top and pair of sweat pants, smiling at him, and reaches out to push Barry's hair off his damp forehead. He doesn't really speak, just nudges Barry over in the bed, helping him move out of the sweaty spot he'd been sleeping in, gathers him up against himself, and gets the bottle of water. Helps him drink. Helps him eat. Ignores the weak comments that Barry can take care of it himself with warm reassurances that he doesn't have to. Tucks the beat-up stuffed animal Iris had dug out of storage before she left for work into Barry's arms without judgement or comment.
A few hours and a few Star Wars DVDs on Eddie's laptop later, and Barry is asleep, curled against his side, face buried into his throat, shivering occasionally and curling closer while Eddie rubs his back. It's not a place he ever would have expected to be, a year ago - safe, with two people to love, two people to be loved by, whose preferences he can remember and needs he can meet. With a brain full of Star Wars trivia he never had an interest in before, suggesting anecdotes about The Flash for Iris' blog.
But it's a place he's glad he's in, even in the bad times. Because, when Barry stirs, mumbles something in his sleep that suggests the fever's dredging up terrible things, and Eddie can shift, whisper that everything is alright and actually mean it, kiss him on the forehead and stroke his hair, feel him settle again - that's worth the world.
flashpoint; grief counselling
That point comes about the fourth time he sees the small, hunched-shouldered young man with his hair long and loose and his dark eyes red-rimmed outside one of the meeting rooms at the rec center. Eddie's been using the weight room in the gym here every afternoon after work for the past month, since he transferred from Keystone, and every Tuesday night as he's leaving, flushed from exercise and damp from the shower, and he sees him. Fidgeting, his hands twisting together, his head down, hair hanging around his face - Eddie's good at reading body language, but even if he hadn't been, it wouldn't have surprised him when he checked the schedule that first week and found that the room the long-haired young man goes into every Tuesday night is a grief support group. The grief is written all over him, a heavy weight that drags him down. There's something about the distance in his eyes, the way he holds himself, tense and hunched, like he's used to bearing up under the weight of it all by himself that makes Eddie's chest clench painfully.
It's one of those random encounters - he has to tell himself it's not fate or destiny - a strange feeling of attraction and then revulsion at himself for being attracted, and Eddie knows how wrong it is to linger on the steps every Tuesday after he finishes his workout to watch him disappear into that room. Knows how screwed up it is to comfort himself with the fact that he never lingers close enough to the door to listen in. He figures if he has to reassure himself that he's not a creep, he probably is. It's just that there's something so captivating about him, that there's something in Eddie that aches with empathy and wants to talk to him. To make sure he's okay.
At first he'd expected it to stop, he'd expected the feeling to pass, expected to forget about it, to stop feeling whatever force of nature, whatever magnetic pull, is drawing him to this place at this time every week to see this person. But it doesn't stop. He's already a creep, and twisted, and he can't even really figure out what it is he's feeling or why, or why he can't let go of it. Why he can't get those dark eyes and fidgeting hands and the strong, fragile, singular angle of those shoulders out of his head.
The meeting goes in at 6:30, it gets out at 7:30, and Eddie is there when it does, near the exit of the building, twisting up a pale yellow post-it note, folding and unfolding until it's fragile under his fingertips. The young man with the long hair comes out toward the back of the group, his body closed in on itself, his expression dark, and there are a lot of excuses Eddie could make. He's never noticed Eddie's presence, never looked up and seen him, wouldn't recognize him. Eddie could come around the corner outside the exit and bump into him as if he'd never seen him before. He could ask him if he'd dropped something. He could engage in any one of dozens of non-threatening and dishonest ways.
Eddie's never been a good liar.
So instead, he pushes away from the wall as the young man comes closer, moves just slightly in his way so he has to glance up to navigate. Then Eddie catches his gaze, he looks at him, and dark eyes meet his as the long-haired young man falls still, brows raising in an expression somewhere between irritation and vulnerability, and Eddie wonders what he must look like, pink-cheeked and out of place and in the way.
"What do you want?"
It's defensive, self-protective, and the grief that's written all over the young man is joined by self-consciousness as he speaks, a hand comes up to hook against the opposite upper arm, shielding his chest. His shoulders lift, his feet shift a little, and Eddie recognizes that body language with a painful twist in his gut. He knows it intimately from years of facing down bullies while he's hurting because his dad hasn't been home for more than a few hours in the past week. He knows it from interviews with criminals who are intimidated by him in the interrogation room. So when he responds, his voice is pitched soft, careful.
"Nothing. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. And I know you don't know me, and this is really, really weird. But I've seen you here a few times now, and...and I just wanted you to know...I hope you're okay."
For a moment, those dark eyes hold his, those dark brows furrow with confusion and suspicion and after a long, long moment, there's something else there. Tan fingers rub against the sleeve of his shirt, and the young man takes a shuddering breath, and Eddie exhales softly, licks his lips nervously. What can either of them say?
So he extends his hand, holding out the crumpled post-it note, and the other man unfolds himself a little, eyes flicking from Eddie's face to the paper and back again a few times before he takes it.
Eddie turns, and he leaves, and he wonders why, for just a moment, it looked like the grieving stranger knew him from somewhere.
Behind him, hurt and confused and with a strange sense of déja vu, Cisco unfolds the paper to see, in neat, crisp handwriting Eddie Thawne, and a phone number.