[ the last time eddie had a proper shower was— well, he can't remember, honestly. probably the same morning everything went to shit back home - you know, when a cheerleader came to him looking for some relief and ended up dead in the middle of his living room. washing off in the lake is... fine. it gets the job done as far as cleaning off blood and guts and sometimes vomit, but the possibility of an actual shower feels like a dream.
eddie nods his head once, then somewhat awkwardly gets up. he murmurs a quiet be right back, and then he's off with his new shirt in the direction of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
it's weird, once inside. eddie stands there, staring at the door like he doesn't know what to do with himself, shirt still clutched in one hand. after a moment, he turns around on his heels, and startles a little at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink. eddie averts his eyes quickly, not interested in seeing himself covered in someone else's blood. not interested in knowing what he might have looked like to anyone who might have found him back home, if anyone even found him at all. to this day, eddie still feels sick and guilty every time he thinks about henderson's stupid crying face hovering above him.
gritting his teeth a little, eddie drapes his clean shirt over the edge of the sink and then turns away from the mirror slightly so he can peel his jacket and his bloodied shirt off. now that he's alone, it's easy to kind of backslide a little, his thoughts drifting back to the trial. to leon, and the girl who just - fucking folded him up like paper before dropping him like - well, like dead weight. eddie takes a deep, shaking breath and turns back to the sink, purposely avoiding looking at his own reflection. he moves the clean shirt out of the way, then turns on the sink and shoves his hellfire shirt under the water, watching the water turn a rusty brownish-pink color as the blood starts to come out of it and swirl down the drain.
a minute ago, a shower sounded like a goddamn miracle, but now eddie's not sure he has the energy for it. if he deserves a luxury like that when people are dead. in the end, he skips the shower entirely. rinses and wrings out his club shirt so he can use it as a washcloth, wiping and dabbing as much of the dried blood off of his skin as he can. when he's done, he wrings his shirt out again, turns off the sink, and reaches for his new shirt. it's such a stupid thing, but it does make him laugh a little, a quiet breath escaping through his nose as he pulls it on.
even all cleaned up, eddie does not look at himself. he takes his wet shirt and his jacket and about five minutes after slinking off, eddie steps out of the bathroom. he clears his throat, slowly making his way back toward the couch, and the fireplace. ]
Is it, uh. Is it cool if I like - drape this? To dry.
[ his hellfire shirt, he means, lifting his hand and giving it a little shake just in case it's not clear. ]
no subject
eddie nods his head once, then somewhat awkwardly gets up. he murmurs a quiet be right back, and then he's off with his new shirt in the direction of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
it's weird, once inside. eddie stands there, staring at the door like he doesn't know what to do with himself, shirt still clutched in one hand. after a moment, he turns around on his heels, and startles a little at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink. eddie averts his eyes quickly, not interested in seeing himself covered in someone else's blood. not interested in knowing what he might have looked like to anyone who might have found him back home, if anyone even found him at all. to this day, eddie still feels sick and guilty every time he thinks about henderson's stupid crying face hovering above him.
gritting his teeth a little, eddie drapes his clean shirt over the edge of the sink and then turns away from the mirror slightly so he can peel his jacket and his bloodied shirt off. now that he's alone, it's easy to kind of backslide a little, his thoughts drifting back to the trial. to leon, and the girl who just - fucking folded him up like paper before dropping him like - well, like dead weight. eddie takes a deep, shaking breath and turns back to the sink, purposely avoiding looking at his own reflection. he moves the clean shirt out of the way, then turns on the sink and shoves his hellfire shirt under the water, watching the water turn a rusty brownish-pink color as the blood starts to come out of it and swirl down the drain.
a minute ago, a shower sounded like a goddamn miracle, but now eddie's not sure he has the energy for it. if he deserves a luxury like that when people are dead. in the end, he skips the shower entirely. rinses and wrings out his club shirt so he can use it as a washcloth, wiping and dabbing as much of the dried blood off of his skin as he can. when he's done, he wrings his shirt out again, turns off the sink, and reaches for his new shirt. it's such a stupid thing, but it does make him laugh a little, a quiet breath escaping through his nose as he pulls it on.
even all cleaned up, eddie does not look at himself. he takes his wet shirt and his jacket and about five minutes after slinking off, eddie steps out of the bathroom. he clears his throat, slowly making his way back toward the couch, and the fireplace. ]
Is it, uh. Is it cool if I like - drape this? To dry.
[ his hellfire shirt, he means, lifting his hand and giving it a little shake just in case it's not clear. ]