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
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.