2020-08-04 - Work Friends

It's after work, and Cecil doesn't often stop off for coffee, but today, he's making an exception. He wasn't at the office today. There are a few rumors. One of them is that he got robbed, another is he was involved in a crime scene. One even said he was in the hospital, but that one was easily quashed. After all, he's right here, in a booth, staring into his cup of tea as he wills it to cool enough to sip. He's not in work clothes, which is again unusual. He's in jeans and a v-neck t-shirt with a thin hoodie. It makes him look like less of a nerd, though those glasses of his do preserve his egghead status. His hair is disheveled. All in all he has 'long day' written all over him.

Tuesday evening, then. A few hours after work. The summer evening is sultry: Olivia went home and changed into a breezy summer dress and sandals before running some errands. A loosely crocheted, open-front, white sweater covers her bare shoulders, and her blonde hair is pulled up into a loose bun. It has come to that extended twilight that summer evenings stretch out into as if the heat is keeping the sunlight from disappearing entirely. The moon is heavy and low on the horizon. Time to cap off those errands with an iced chai.

The doctor steps up to the counter, orders, pays, leaves a tip, then receives her drink and turns to consider the space of the cafe as if the choice of where to sit holds some more significant weight than usual.

Her pale blue gaze skips from a couple of college-aged kids who look like they're studying, or pretending to while they flirt outrageously, to a thirty-something man with an open laptop who is typing away furiously. And then there is Cecil Harvey, a man whose name she learned at work before she actually met him in this exact establishment not so long ago. Of course the measure of time can be so very relative to what has been happening in one's life, particularly in Gray Harbor. The Criminal Psychologist (off duty) considers the Forensic Scientist (seemingly also off duty) thoughtfully. Casual but still somehow bespoke in his bearing. Disheveled. Worn.

Dr. Kincaid -- who introduced herself as Olivia at their last encounter, albeit obliquely -- circles around chair and table alike to approach where Cecil sits, her drink in hand. She tips her head just so and arches a brow in silent query. Does he want company?

Cecil looks up, and in the barest moment between glance and smile, there's a glimpse of stark vulnerability. For all that he hangs around the rough and tumble, tattooed manly men, there's nothing tough about him. In the blink of an eye, though, he's smiling, and he gestures to the chair across from him. "Olivia, wasn't it?" he asks, his mild-mannered English accent lending him an air of civility. "I'm sorry, I'm not great with names."

He sits up a little taller, and he takes up his mug, lifting it to his lips. The brew is just cool enough he can sip it without scalding his lips. The scent is of a strong Earl Grey.

That's all it takes. The smile, the hint of vulnerability, and the gesture. Olivia slides into a chair beside Cecil's, neither in his personal space nor across the table from him. She doesn't miss much, but she also tends toward discretion. It's always interesting to see which side edges the other out. Her name. "Yes, you remembered. I'm impressed. And you are the inimitable, sought out Cecil Harvey. You have quite a reputation at the precinct. And I can say from personal experience that you keep interesting company."

She sets her icy chai down on the table top and strings the strap of her purse over the back of her chair, all while continuing to keep half an eye on the man. "I'd say you passed that test with flying colors. It's Olivia Kincaid. But when we cross paths at work, we'll start fresh if that relieves the pressure." Humor sparkles in those blue eyes. Not mocking. Inclusive.

He sits up, she settles in, crosses one leg over the other and takes a slow breath. She watches him drink his tea. Not one to rush to fill silences, Olivia. "I think we have three most apt options here. We can make small talk, certainly pleasant until one or the other of us politely goes on our way. We can discuss work. Or you can tell me about what has you here on a Tuesday night taking comfort in a cup of tea, despite hardly knowing me except for an encounter and a common career path." She lays all that out gamely.

Cecil's smile lingers, and it's a genuine thing despite the weariness around his eyes. He doesn't look like someone who slept well last night. "I'm sought out?" he asks with painful sincerity. He seems to consider the idea over a sip of tea, and there's an uptick in that smile. Being sought out is neat. "I try to do a good job," he says, "though I think I might take some vacation time after this case is solved."

With a polite tilt of his head, he says, "Dr. Olivia Kincaid. I must admit, I admire your expertise. A friendly working relationship would be in honor." Her proposition requires him to take another sip of tea while he considers his options. Setting the cup down, he says, "I was nearly killed yesterday, which I'm not all that bent about, but they got my wallet and keys, and I've spent the day making phone calls and going from one office to another trying to get everything replaced."

A lingering smile receives one in return, though it rests behind blue eyes longer than it curves the corners of her lips. Those eyes. There's something to see there, though just what that is would require further examination. Olivia lightly folds her hands together atop the skirt of her blue dress. Is he sought out? "I'd say so, yes," she answers simply, bluntly, honestly. "A man with your skill set in a department of our size with the number of unusual cases that come through each week? Sought out might be an understatement. And I haven't even started on the subtle way your affect draws others to you. It's fascinating; I have the inclination to believe it's not at all contrived." She arches a brow with a playful smile skating across her lips as if to say 'prove me wrong'.

"Which case is it you are on right now?" That he'll be taking a vacation after. He admires her expertise. It's her turn to question what he knows of it. Albeit silently. Still, her relaxed body language telegraphs the inquiry well enough for someone watching for it. He's amenable to a friendly working relationship? She reaches out and lifts her iced chai in silent toast to the suggestion.

She's just finished a sip of that creamy, cool drink when he candidly speaks of his brush with death. "A mugging? Or something more ..." Setting down her drink she splays her fingers in the air with the word meant to relay specifics to Gray Harbor. "... esoteric?" His wallet and his keys. "That can't leave you feeling particularly safe in your own home. I'm certain you have friends who have offered, but you are welcome to stay at my apartment until things are cleared up if you like." Then she quickly adds, "There's a second bedroom. I'm not about luring coworkers into inappropriate liaisons." The lingering smile he initiated turns wry there, and candid.

Cecil stammers, "Oh, yes, well. I suppose I'm handy around the lab." Modesty demands he be slightly mortified at the idea of being a vital part of the team. As for drawing others to him, he just kind of grins stupidly and ducks his head. "I don't know about that." He pushes his hair out of his eyes and toys with his tea mug.

"The casino shooting," he answers her with a renewed energy. Work is a topic he's comfortable with. He spends so much time doing it. "We made a decent breakthrough in the case." There's a certain cagey air about the way he says that. Not a deception, but it's wrought with things he's not saying. He takes up his tea for another sip. Tea makes everything better. "I ran into some trouble gathering evidence at the harbor. There were a few men down there who objected, and I ended up locked in a crate while they considered how they were going to kill me. Thankfully, they didn't get the chance."

He regards Olivia quizzically. "You'd let me stay? That's rather kind of you. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, it's true, but I would hate to abandon my cats." He offers her a game little smile. How lame it must sound, that in all of this, he's concerned about his cats. "They expect breakfast promptly at 6:30."

All of it. Olivia takes it all in. There's an avid air to her despite her relaxed, pressure-free demeanor. A sense that she notices the little things and keeps track. There's nothing greedy there to be seen though. No rush or demand. She dips her chin slowly, agreeing that he is 'handy around the lab', amused again with him in on the joke. "It wouldn't really be your style to cop to that. At least not initially, I'd wager." Another drink of her iced chai.

The casino shooting. She nods slowly. "That one sounds like a Gordian knot of a case, and I haven't been briefed officially. If you want me to talk to any of the players, see what I can ascertain, say the word, Cecil." It's a big thing, Olivia using someone's first name, though the man might not realize that.

She listens to the explanation of his hardcore experience with the same ease and invitation, unflappable, it appears. "That sounds like it must have been incredibly traumatic. Cecil --" She begins, then casts an assessing glance around the not particularly busy coffee shop, leaning in toward the tabletop, fingertips of one hand touching the bare edge of it. "-- You know that part of my job, my training, my expertise involves helping our people get through those sorts of experiences. Remember that." No. She's not pressing further. Her fingertips drop away and she settles back in her chair, her posture somehow proper even when she's leaning into the chairback.

She'd let him stay? "Of course I would. I'll warn you that my apartment is sparsely furnished, but it has the essentials. And I don't have any pets, so your cats would be welcome if the change in location wouldn't disrupt them more than helping them." Cats and their demands. "I've heard that about cats," she agrees with a quizzical smile. "You look like you need some rest. I can give you the address and head home to put sheets on the guest bed while you get what you need." She reaches for her purse, digs a bit and pulls out a single key on a GHPD keychain and holds it out between two fingertips. "Say the word."

Cecil looks at his teacup, his brow furrowed as he works out what happened to him. "The thing is," he says, low-toned and uncertain, "is that I was fairly calm, all things considered. While I was locked in there, I continued gathering evidence. My only thought was they're not going to get away with this. Then I waited for the Captain to come get me. Afterward, we had a coffee, and then I gave my statement, since now I'm a witness. I was fine. Until I got home." He glances at her and smiles a little. "It hit me once it was all over. Now that I know I'm okay, I keep going over what could have happened. I suppose that's not so unusual."

His gaze settles on the offered key. "Maybe for a few days," he says as he reaches for it. "The cats are young. I don't think coming over to visit will traumatize them. They've only lived with me a couple weeks. I can't believe how worried I was about who would feed my cats if I didn't come home. I thought of them trapped in that apartment all by themselves." His lower lip trembles, and he bites down on it. Then he utters a soft breath of laughter. "Watch me lose it over a couple cats."

Olivia is invitation incarnate. Everything about her, demeanor, slow breaths, keen blue gaze, unassuming body language, and that confidence: it all beckons with an inherent suggestion of keeping secrets secret and having heard enough that none of it will result in a poor reaction. "It's a very quiet head space in the moment for plenty of people. Almost peaceful. Matter of fact." He's not alone. If anything he is to be commended, her voice and expression suggest. "The follow up tends to zip up the bag. But once all the t's are crossed and the i's are dotted, that's when structure begins to erode and you're left with processing the trauma. It can easily become a continuous perseveration. And that's where the mind thinks of every minute iteration of what could have been." She quiets, gives Cecil time to hear the words, to hold them up to his own experience. "There are ways," she says slowly. '-- ways to interrupt those cycles. If you decide you'd like to try a few, I'm your gal Friday." There's the smile again. Genuine and warm while her eyes are sincere and full of that offer.

She releases the key to his fingers. Then she gives him her address -- makes sure he has it either written down or entered into his phone -- and in addition describes how to get there. What the brownstone style place looks like. How to jigger the key just right in the door. "Bring your cats," she reassures once again. "You'll feel better if you let yourself lose it. It can be incredibly cathartic. There are ways..." She pulls back. He knows enough to ask if he wants that sort of counsel. "Any time, day or night. Come and go as you like. I wander a bit at night, but I won't disturb you. Insomnia." A rueful bit of expression there.

Cecil's fingers close around the key, and he pockets it. Then he writes down the address; his phone was taken, and he hasn't gotten it replaced yet. He has neat writing, precise and a little blockish. "I wouldn't say no to medication, to be honest," he says. "I know it's all a perfectly natural psychological reaction with physiological elements, but in the midst of a panic attack, that knowledge doesn't help me much." He pockets the address as well. "Though a drug-free approach might not be so bad. I just want to stop thinking about it. I'm really not an adventurous person. I've had enough excitement to last me years."

He gives the wisdom of losing it some serious thought. He's nothing if not receptive, though it might take a bit of doing to unravel him, he's so tightly wound. It's not tension, per se, but the result of a very regimented life. Everything in its place. Except nothing is in its place right now. "They're friendly cats," he says. "I'm sure they won't be a bother."

"Sadly, I don't have the prescription pad of a psychiatrist," Olivia murmurs with a sigh. "However, I do have some xanax of my own that will get you settled tonight, barring any other medication interactions." She arches a brow: it's not the most ethical offer to make. "If it helps, we can connect you with a psych who can write you your own prescription. But I do suggest you talk with someone. It doesn't have to be me. But pushing through sometimes takes some talking, as bothersome as that sounds to most people." She taps the table top lightly with her fingers as if she were patting at his hand. "You'll get there. It will happen. The best way out is through." A beat. "Physical action can help, too. A hot shower. A massage. Some exercise."

Of course his cats are friendly. Olivia doesn't need to be convinced. Along with the address, she gave him her number. She made sure he knew how to get from his place to hers without a phone for directions. "Bring them over. We'll get them all settled in. Then you can mock me for taking the car in the divorce rather than the furniture." The words are more self-amused than bitter; but she's not joking.

"I don't know what to say," Cecil admits. "Except it happened, and it was scary, and I learned a lot about who I am as a person. That's something I'm tossing around in my mind as well." He half-smiles as he lifts his mug to his lips. After a sip, he says, "We won't run out of things to converse about, I think, Olivia." He's trying out the familiarity of an informal first name, but he seems to like it.