[ Cisco's been trying, recently, to listen to his gut. To listen to his own intuition, even if he doesn't understand why or from where certain ideas and feelings are coming. Yet, despite the fact that all that morning and early afternoon, there is a knot in his stomach that won't go away, he doesn't really expect disaster. He writes it off as the lingering effects of a bad night's sleep, as distraction from his work, as a dozen things.
Until his phone rings. Not a text, not a personalized ringtone that he'd programmed in for one of his friends; just a plain, startling, standard ring. He answers it, and on the other end is a polite but busy woman working at the hospital, letting him know they'd admitted someone to the ER with him listed as their emergency contact. When she says Eddie's name, that he was admitted with a gunshot wound and is in surgery, the world shifts, becomes at once surreal, slow. She tells him the facts - that Eddie's in surgery, that the hospital is willing to contact him at this same number when there are any developments.
Cisco is overcome with the kind of detached calm that only comes in times of absolute crisis. He thanks the woman for the call, tells her that there is no need to keep in contact by phone, since he will be heading over immediately. His heart is racing, but he is quick and efficient, saving and closing up the programming he'd been working on, getting his keys and locking the workshop on the way out. He hails a cab, sits stunned in the back watching the city passing by outside the windows. It takes longer than he'd expected; traffic is a snarl of detours and honking horns. The driver, seeming embarrassed, explains: ]
No avoiding it. Big ruckus here I guess. Car chase, some idiots getting in a big shootout with the cops, like they think they're the stars of GTA: Quarantine.
[ Normally, Cisco would be delighted to meet someone who made Grand Theft Auto jokes here. But rather than acknowledge it, or engage in conversation, he just says, a little hollowly: ]
I know.
[ Cisco vaguely hears the driver asking questions, after that, but they go in one ear and out the other. He doesn't answer, just looks out at the blocked-off area as the traffic crawls by. He sees police cars, flashing lights. Smoke. It feels like a dream.
Things fade even more into a blur after that. Somehow, he navigates through it; pays for the taxi, gives Eddie's name at the front desk and is directed to a brightly-lit waiting area. It's a while before he gets a chance to flag down a harried-looking nurse and ask if there's any news about Eddie. The nurse hands the question off to someone else, who makes a call, tells Cisco that he's in surgery, and is going to be for some time.
The waiting isn't agonizing, for the most part. Agony is sharp, purposeful, simple. Instead, it is boring, and stressful, and endless. Cisco sits there for hours, stunned, mind an awful blank. Normally he can't stand idleness, has to always be chatting or reading or working on something, dreaming up some invention or design. But his brain can't focus on anything for more than a few seconds. He looks up every time he sees a nurse's legs walking by, and the hours slip away, awful in a dull, confused, horrible way.
After an eternity or two, a doctor finally comes up to Cisco, tells him that Eddie is going to make it, but that it was a close call. Things start being real again, then. The doctor explains that Eddie will be in recovery for a few more hours, that no, he isn't allowed to have visitors during that time. No, not even family or lovers. It will be a while before he's settled in a room and can have people around.
So Cisco goes back to waiting; this time, though, it's waiting with a purpose. He researches the news coverage of the incident, reading and rereading all the reports. He calls the station, grills them for every bit of information he can get. The people responsible had been taken out - small comfort - and the situation was being dealt with. All told, only one officer had died. Cisco feels a surge of intense relief, that it hadn't been Eddie. He could feel guilty about that relief, later, but for now, he is just glad it was someone else.
By the time he is allowed into the room where Eddie is resting, Cisco is feeling both jittery and exhausted. He pulls up a chair next to Eddie's bed, being quiet, not wanting to wake him up. The nurse said it still might be a little while, before Eddie is conscious. His face looks pale, against the pillows, and there are an intimidating number of machines hooked up to him, their displays all beeping away.
He can't keep it up much longer, he knows. This not feeling anything. That feeling of suspension, of unrealness, had gotten him through those first few hours. But now that everything is settling down... now that he can see Eddie's face, his stubble standing out too much because of how wan his skin is... Cisco can feel the horror of it all building up inside him, slowly. All of that horror will need to come out, sooner or later. But for now, he just sits, dully texting everyone who needs texting, giving them the basics. Eddie, shot. Eddie, going to make it. At the hospital. No idea when he's going to be released. Doing okay, thanks. No, nothing to be done to help. ]
no subject
Until his phone rings. Not a text, not a personalized ringtone that he'd programmed in for one of his friends; just a plain, startling, standard ring. He answers it, and on the other end is a polite but busy woman working at the hospital, letting him know they'd admitted someone to the ER with him listed as their emergency contact. When she says Eddie's name, that he was admitted with a gunshot wound and is in surgery, the world shifts, becomes at once surreal, slow. She tells him the facts - that Eddie's in surgery, that the hospital is willing to contact him at this same number when there are any developments.
Cisco is overcome with the kind of detached calm that only comes in times of absolute crisis. He thanks the woman for the call, tells her that there is no need to keep in contact by phone, since he will be heading over immediately. His heart is racing, but he is quick and efficient, saving and closing up the programming he'd been working on, getting his keys and locking the workshop on the way out. He hails a cab, sits stunned in the back watching the city passing by outside the windows. It takes longer than he'd expected; traffic is a snarl of detours and honking horns. The driver, seeming embarrassed, explains: ]
No avoiding it. Big ruckus here I guess. Car chase, some idiots getting in a big shootout with the cops, like they think they're the stars of GTA: Quarantine.
[ Normally, Cisco would be delighted to meet someone who made Grand Theft Auto jokes here. But rather than acknowledge it, or engage in conversation, he just says, a little hollowly: ]
I know.
[ Cisco vaguely hears the driver asking questions, after that, but they go in one ear and out the other. He doesn't answer, just looks out at the blocked-off area as the traffic crawls by. He sees police cars, flashing lights. Smoke. It feels like a dream.
Things fade even more into a blur after that. Somehow, he navigates through it; pays for the taxi, gives Eddie's name at the front desk and is directed to a brightly-lit waiting area. It's a while before he gets a chance to flag down a harried-looking nurse and ask if there's any news about Eddie. The nurse hands the question off to someone else, who makes a call, tells Cisco that he's in surgery, and is going to be for some time.
The waiting isn't agonizing, for the most part. Agony is sharp, purposeful, simple. Instead, it is boring, and stressful, and endless. Cisco sits there for hours, stunned, mind an awful blank. Normally he can't stand idleness, has to always be chatting or reading or working on something, dreaming up some invention or design. But his brain can't focus on anything for more than a few seconds. He looks up every time he sees a nurse's legs walking by, and the hours slip away, awful in a dull, confused, horrible way.
After an eternity or two, a doctor finally comes up to Cisco, tells him that Eddie is going to make it, but that it was a close call. Things start being real again, then. The doctor explains that Eddie will be in recovery for a few more hours, that no, he isn't allowed to have visitors during that time. No, not even family or lovers. It will be a while before he's settled in a room and can have people around.
So Cisco goes back to waiting; this time, though, it's waiting with a purpose. He researches the news coverage of the incident, reading and rereading all the reports. He calls the station, grills them for every bit of information he can get. The people responsible had been taken out - small comfort - and the situation was being dealt with. All told, only one officer had died. Cisco feels a surge of intense relief, that it hadn't been Eddie. He could feel guilty about that relief, later, but for now, he is just glad it was someone else.
By the time he is allowed into the room where Eddie is resting, Cisco is feeling both jittery and exhausted. He pulls up a chair next to Eddie's bed, being quiet, not wanting to wake him up. The nurse said it still might be a little while, before Eddie is conscious. His face looks pale, against the pillows, and there are an intimidating number of machines hooked up to him, their displays all beeping away.
He can't keep it up much longer, he knows. This not feeling anything. That feeling of suspension, of unrealness, had gotten him through those first few hours. But now that everything is settling down... now that he can see Eddie's face, his stubble standing out too much because of how wan his skin is... Cisco can feel the horror of it all building up inside him, slowly. All of that horror will need to come out, sooner or later. But for now, he just sits, dully texting everyone who needs texting, giving them the basics. Eddie, shot. Eddie, going to make it. At the hospital. No idea when he's going to be released. Doing okay, thanks. No, nothing to be done to help. ]