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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

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twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR EIGHT

in which graves are dug up, walls are built, and nobody knows what happened in the bathroom that night.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 4.6k+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

8:00 ────ㅇ────────────── 24:00

DINGUS: hey, do you guys remember the first night they met?

BIRDIE: you mean when we took her to the bar to meet everyone and they very clearly fell in love at first sight? no, doesn’t ring a bell.

DINGUS: stop being such a fucking smart ass

NANCE: @DINGUS What about it?

DINGUS: she just called me asking me about it. said eddie was nice until you guys went to the bathroom. apparently he acted differently when you guys came back, but i can’t remember anything about what was said?? did eddie actually start acting differently???

BIRDIE: i remember that! thought it was weird or eddie just started overthinking? i dunno. i was in the bathroom obviously.

ARGYLE 😎: oh i remember that night very clearly brochacho

ARGYLE 😎: kind of surprised you don’t, dude

JOHNNY: Oh God yeah @DINGUS you’re living up to your namesake dude

NANCE: You really don’t remember, do you?

DINGUS: @NANCE and how the fuck do YOU remember? you weren’t even there, nance. you were in the bathroom as robs put it.

NANCE: Best friend privileges. You really might want to remember, Dingus.

BIRDIE: @NANCE message me real quick?

DINGUS: hey! no fucking whispering! that’s not fucking helpful! @JOHNNY @ARGYLE 😎 what did i say?

NANCE: @BIRDIE I will. Let me call Eddie first.

—

HOUR EIGHT - 11:00 PM

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop - you were trying to sleep. If anyone asked you, you could have honestly defended yourself. The couch was uncomfortable, your back aching as you repeatedly twisted back and forth to just try and find a minute of rest. Your mind was reeling, still replaying all of your moments with Eddie leading up to this night. Suddenly, you were overthinking it all. You couldn’t differentiate between things that really happened, or things that you’d simply blown out of proportion due to your innate need to spin the narrative of Eddie being the villain.

“Yeah, I… I think she’s sleeping.”

You hadn’t even heard Eddie opening his door finally, your back facing the hallway as you stayed curled up tightly. His footsteps are heavy as he gets closer to you.

“She’s… uh, she’s on the couch.”

Immediately, you can hear a shrill voice shouting over the line. It’s hard to miss. You can imagine the way he’s wincing, holding the phone out from his ear in an attempt to not let her scolding damage his ear drums.

“I didn’t think she went to bed!” he hisses, trying to stay quiet, under the impression you’re still asleep, “I- Jesus H. Christ, Nance! Calm down, calm do-” he’s cut off as the anger over the line still leaks into the calm air of the room, “No. No, I wasn’t- I was going to let- Nance. Please, can I get a fucking word in?”

You hold your breath during his pause, and the clear scolding, Nancy’s scolding, finally ceases.

“I wasn’t going to let her sleep on the couch,” he says slowly. You almost turn over, almost face him and show him you’re very much awake and not sleeping. “I didn’t think she’d go to bed while I was in there. I thought… I thought- Jesus, I thought at worst, she’d snoop through my shit. Maybe go for a walk or something. I didn’t- I just… Fuck, I needed space. It’s just been a long night.”

Nancy’s voice is no longer audible, but it’s clear he’s listening to what she has to say. You’re nearly overcome with guilt; you’ve done plenty of things wrong, but to eavesdrop on a private conversation? It might be your worst crime against Eddie yet.

Suddenly, he says, “It’s just been a lot.”

Something in his tone has changed. It’s gone soft, whispering from his lips in sudden muted blue. It’s a type of sadness you can’t quite place – it’s the kind of mourning you’d seen in his eyes in the photo.

Nancy must say something, because he hums in response. It’s obviously not good enough of an answer for Nancy over the phone, because her voice grows back to audible levels, less shrill, more stern.

Eddie answers with words this time. “I… I think I do.”

He thinks he does what?

“I do. I really fuckin’ do.”

He’s more sure in his answer the second time around to the unknown question. The guilt grows. Inflating, turbulating, ready to crack your ribs. The vines are no longer there to hold you together.

You’re put out of your misery when Eddie murmurs out a bye, Nance and you can hear his phone snap shut. If it were just a mere few hours ago, one hour ago, you would have made a comment about it - you would have joked again about what year it was, how maybe the two of you should get to sleep so first thing in the morning, you could drag him down to the Apple store to get a normal phone like the rest of you. But you’re not a time traveler, and Eddie is still an ocean away from you.

And you’re not a strong swimmer. The water’s were rocky, were vicious, and if you dared to try and backstroke to his side of the water, you’d surely drown. He had to come to you.

You’re praying he comes to you. Eyes tightly screwed shut, still resembling a ball on his old couch.

Please reach out for me, your mind screams, please wake me up. Please tell me to come back to bed with you. Please tell me we can forget all the words said in the kitchen. Please, please, please.

You don’t know where the pleading comes from. But whatever gods and goddesses may exist, whatever higher power in the Universe that would normally ignore you, hears out your silent pleas.

His hand is warm when he first grabs your shoulder.

It’s not rough, surprisingly gentle as fingertips press into your clothed skin and the first shake comes. It’s hardly enough to rouse a truly sleeping person. And Eddie realizes this as the second shake is a bit more firm, moving you a little more with a soft whisper of, “Hey, wake up.”

The command isn’t as harsh as you’re used to from him. It’s crushed velvet, smoothing over your skin like the blanket you’d previously pondered for, making the guilt begin to deflate. A slow release of air and the accompanying feelings of dishonesty and disloyalty leaves your chest weathered when his next whisper comes not only louder, but closer.

“C’mon, you’ve gotta get up,” he insists, but all you care about is his cologne. He never changed it from that first night. Always something warm, always something spiced. And you hate it, because it’s still the feeling of coming home from a long week, “You’re not sleeping on the couch. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

That makes your sleeping facade crack. Your lips betray you - one twitch, and Eddie knows you’re awake, pressing you to roll onto your back.

“I know you’re awake now. Let’s go,” you can hear the dimples in his tone. You can picture the lazy smile, the shining eyes. With your eyes closed, you can pretend you never had to meet mean Eddie. When you’re not looking at him, it’s almost as if the man you initially met still exists, to have and to hold, to make inside jokes with as you let the scenery around the two of you fade to black.

You crack your eyes back open to find him looking down at you just as you’d expected, but not nearly with as much mischief or mirth as you had craved.

The Eddie you first met is gone. He’s not coming back, and you can’t live with your eyes closed. Hell, maybe he had drowned in that ocean between you two as well.

Maybe if you took the leap, just attempted to take on the waves, you’d meet him somewhere at the bottom of it all.

“I thought you said you’d carry me?” you tease.

His hand. His hand is still on your shoulder, and his palm is still searing you. You couldn’t pull away from its burn if you tried.

“I’d carry you if I had to,” he corrects, “You’re awake, therefore, I don’t have to.”

“I don’t know. I think my legs may be broken.”

Eddie says your name firmly. It takes you off guard, momentarily distracts you from the way he squeezes your shoulder, “Let’s go before I change my mind and leave you out here.”

You decide against putting up any further fight. You’re just happy he’s talking to you again. How odd and peculiar that feeling is.

You rise from the couch and take him in. He’s no longer in his jeans, having traded out his earlier day clothes for something more comfortable. A pair of comfortable grey sweatpants, one or two sizes too big with the drawn string pulled to its limit and tied into a knot. He’s wearing a faded band shirt, loved in every way possible: it’s been cut along the bottom to shorten it in length, several holes torn along the torso and in the neck hole, the once black fabric now a stormy shade of grey far darker than the sweatpants. There’s a logo across the chest, peeling away at the edges.

“Deftones?” you ask, squinting to make out the words written amongst the logo, “What is that? A band?”

He chuckles, almost in disbelief, before he realizes you’re serious, “Wait, you’ve really never heard of them?”

You shake your head, “No, are they any good?”

You’re still making no move to stand, Eddie towering over you as you tilt back to meet his gaze. The disbelief is morphing, ever changing, pulling in and out of his features like the sea against sand. Like the waves of his self-imposed ocean that taunts you. You only dig your toes into the sand, you only stand at a far enough distance to not get your feet wet yet. You’re not ready to dive in. You’re not brave enough yet.

His chuckle this time isn’t in disbelief.

“Yeah, yeah. They’re great. I can show you them later, if you just come to bed.”

The game of teasing and begging is over, and you refuse to push your luck. He’s talking to you. Normally. You finally stand and shrug off that hand on your shoulder, finally trying to get your wits and not glance down at the waistband of his boxers.

“Okay, lead the way,” you gesture before spinning your upper body around with your feet planted in place, a soft crack coming from your back.

There’s no words exchanged in that brief walk to the bedroom; there’s nothing else to really say. The fight happened, Eddie locked you out, you’re both having to start from square one. The ocean still calls to you, and there’s nothing you can change about it.

His room is the same as it was hours ago, when you’d locked yourself into it. A little messy, a little boyish, but comforting all the same.

“A couple ground rules,” he finally breaks the silence. Oh, this oughta be good. “One, no more looking through my shit for…. Uh, magazines.”

“Trust me,” you hold up a hand in defeat, “Learned my lesson the first time. You can keep your gross Playboys.”

His brows wrinkle in minute irritation, “Gross? They’re not gro- You know what? Whatever. Yeah. Stay away from my gross playboys. Second rule, I have enough pillows we can make a… wall, I guess?”

You have to bite back your amusement, you have to remind yourself of the roar of an ocean. Maybe if you taste the salt on your lips again, you’ll remember that this is all temporary.

“Sounds good to me,” you agree.

“Obviously that means staying on your side of the bed. And it’s not a big bed, obviously, so-”

“What side of the bed do you prefer?”

“Excuse me?”

He’s dumbfounded despite the question not being a hard one. “The bed – which side do you prefer?”

“I, uh, I-” he brings a hand up to the back of his neck, a nervous habit as he rubs his curls that are matted at the nape, “The left, I guess? Or I mean, if we’re looking down at it, it’d be the right, but…” he waves his hand in the general direction of the side he’s referring to, the one closest to the wall, “You know.”

A nervous Eddie is a sight to behold. The fidgeting, the flush of his neck and cheeks, the stuttering sentences. He’s nervous about sharing a bed with you.

“Perfect,” you offer a smile, although you don’t think it does much for him considering he’s looking down at the ground in bashfulness, “I prefer the right side. I just refer to them by left or right when you’re laying down, by the way.”

You don’t have to add that tidbit – you don’t need to reassure him that your mind works in the same way as his in the slightest. But you do, and the red of his cheeks lightens.

“Cool,” he murmurs.

“Cool,” you echo.

The awkwardness can be afforded as the two of you straighten out the comforter, not needing to focus on shaking hands or fluttering chests as Eddie climbs in first and begins to rearrange his spare pillows as a barrier. His sweatpants slip down a bit lower as he does this, and you catch sight of the band of his boxers.

The band of his boxers pressing into the jut of his hips. The streak of alabaster, soft and unmarked unlike his arms, and the coarse patch of hair that interrupts the center of it all.

“Have you ever considered getting hip tattoos?” you blurt out, and immediately, you both freeze.

You really need to learn to think before you speak.

“Uh… what?” Eddie chuckles nervously, presenting an opportunity to redeem yourself.

He didn’t even have to catch you staring. You’d outed yourself.

And yet, you choose to double down, to take the embarrassment in stride as if it doesn’t phase you, “Hip tattoos. Have you ever thought about getting some? I think they’d be pretty sick.”

Your self-destruction pays off when Eddie smiles up genuinely at you. Sugar coated sweetness, a bit of authentic amusement.

“You’re right. They would be pretty sick.”

He should have mocked you for staring at his hips. He should have taken the opportunity to embarrass you and run, but the tides are shifting between you two, and you keep taking two steps closer to his ocean. The sand only grows colder and colder the closer you get to the edge, and it has your mind reaming with the possibility of what it would feel like to recklessly dive in.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to need you to say that again, this time into the microphone,” you make a fist, an invisible microphone in your grasp as you thrust it out towards Eddie.

He laughs. He laughs, and its reverb travels through the caverns of your chest. Suddenly, you’re sipping a watered down Amaretto Sour and his breath smells of Jack & Coke, and the lowlights of the room have become treacherous bar lighting as you lean into his shoulder, sitting side by side on bar stools.

The echoes still carry as he swats away your hand, eyes squinted with the mirth you’d be seeking out since he ‘woke’ you up, “Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, a funny idiot.”

“Oh, now you’re just pushing it too far.”

“Too far? I don’t think I’ve gone far enough.”

Why don’t we ever hang out? Why don’t we ever banter like this when out with the others?

It’s so easy, easy to continue to giggle as you turn out the bedroom light before crawling into bed with him, feeling his warmth radiating even through the pillows between the two of you. Pillows, oceans – they all have started to feel the same.

Once the two of you have settled, you on your side and Eddie on his back, a nicer sort of silence blankets you. It’s almost as soft as his voice when he woke you, almost the same type of crushed velvet if you don’t reach out to it. But if you were to touch it, brush your fingertips over the material with intention and inhibition, you’d find the roughness. Roughness that mimics sand amongst an ocean’s waves, a roughness that says there’s more to be spoken about.

“The bed’s nicer than the couch,” you speak out loud rhetorically, not necessarily to him, but to the coarseness. To the sand and to the fake velvet, “More comfortable.”

“I know,” he answers to fill the space. I know, meaning he’s slept on his couch.

It makes sense. It’s his couch. But your mind runs rampant with the scenarios. Did he discover this through afternoon naps after hard shifts? Or maybe after one too many night outs that ended in collapsing face first into the cushions because he was too drunk to make it to his bedroom?

You jump when he sits up suddenly, “Fuck.”

“What’s your problem?” you twist from your position of your back facing him, squinting into the darkness.

“The photo.”

“What photo?”

“Photo evidence, you idiot! We have to send a photo to those fuckers.”

You had nearly forgotten that this is what this is; your friends and a bet are the pushing force behind this all. It’s not fate, it’s not the moon bringing two tides together. You didn’t happen upon his beach because you two decided to give this, whatever this was, a fighting chance.

You sit up next to him, crinkling your nose, “My phone’s in the living room, I think.”

“I can go get it.”

An offer of chivalry you didn’t even have to ask for.

Same as him sharing the bed. Same as him paying for your meal when you forget your wallet, or catching you when you trip up steps outside a bar. You really wish the list would stop growing.

He’s shuffling out of the bed, down the line of pillows and off the end of it, before you can even protest. You didn’t even tell him where the godforsaken phone might be besides that it’s in the living room. That doesn’t stop him.

It feels like an eternity, but is probably no more than a full minute, before he’s returning back to the room. He’s looking down at the phone, your screen lit up and basking his face in the only light in the room.

“What is it?” you can only assume the chat is messaging for a photo, by the scrunch of his brows and the small part of his lips.

“Nothing.”

That was the first thing that made your stomach drop.

The second comes when he returns to the bed, fighting his way up into his original position, handing the phone over to you as you glance at the notifications.

A notification from Steve. A private message, not sent in the groupchat.

STEVE-O: i’m sorry, i really don’t know what happened that night. the others won’t tell me either so they’re kind of useless. whatever it was, i don’t think it was you, though, honey.

Honey. Mother fucking Steve Harrington, and his need to use nicknames.

“All good?” Eddie asks, as if he didn’t just have access to this message, as if he doesn’t know what Steve’s said. You don’t know why the thought of Eddie seeing Steve’s careless nickname throws you over the edge. You just assume he’ll take it out of context, that he’ll spin it as a weapon against you.

“Fine,” you curtly reply, opening your phone and ignoring the message, going straight to the group chat and opening your camera. Your heart is still racing in terrible inconvenience as you glance over your shoulder at him, “How do we wanna take it this time?”

“I don’t know about you, but I personally just love to take it laying down-”

“Are you trying to make a sexual innuendo right now? Because if so, stop. It’s terrible.”

More giggles, more chuckles, more taunting waves of a daunting ocean that is scaring you less and less. Maybe the jump is worth it. Maybe the initial chill will break and show you warmth. Maybe it would never be cold to begin with.

At least he’s teasing you, which is a good sign. You lay down in the same position as earlier, this time Eddie propping himself up to peek over the wall of pillows so his face is in the picture.

It’s too dark to really see your faces very clearly. You can still make them out, to be fair, but it’s hard. You have to strain your eyes quite a bit to make out the mess of your hair and the indents of Eddie’s dimples.

Eddie’s dimples. His dimples. Oh God, he’s smiling.

“Turn on the flash,” he reaches over, invades your space with boy and spice and nostalgia to tap on the screen himself and do as he had just requested.

“What was the point of telling me to do it, if you were just going to do it yourself,” you grumble, trying to yank the phone out of his reach. He only leans further, pressing into the boundary of pillows, his collarbone knocking against the back of your shoulder.

Warmth. So, so much warmth. It occurs to you that it’s not just the smell of his cologne that feels like a long week’s homecoming; his touch and presence can manage to do the same, when he’s not being a pest of course.

“Shut up and take the photo,” he bickers before giving up and settling back into his pose. He even adds to it, throwing up a peace sign with the hand not holding him up.

You can’t help but tease him for it, mimicking the motion with your own hand and failing at holding back your tittering. When you tap the button to take the photo, the screen flashes white and you both immediately groan before rubbing your eyes.

“Fuck.”

“Wow, bright idea.”

“Was that a pun?” Eddie stops mid eye rub, side-eyeing you, “Fuck off. That was a terrible pun.”

“I never said my puns were good!” you try to defend yourself, blinking to bring relief to your scorned irises and focus on the photo of the two of you, “I said my jokes were good.”

“Puns are jokes.”

You completely ignore him, and instead sigh deeply when you see the photo, “We need to retake it. No flash, this time. They can adjust brightness on their own time.”

The photo is terrible, truly. The photo captures the moment somewhere between your enjoyment of copying Eddie and the pain the two of you had brought upon yourselves. Squinty eyes, coiled lips. Two peace signs of two drastically differently sized hands.

Don’t you dare, you scorn your mind at that trail of thought, don’t even start that comparison.

“Why?” Eddie protests, once again beginning to lean over and take a closer look at your phone, chest brushing your shoulder again, “Oh, c’mon, it’s fine – just send it so we can sleep before they bother us again.”

You just shake your head, already reopening the camera app and being sure to adjust the settings. No blinding this photo.

“Say cheese, pretty boy.”

It’s not until you’ve tapped to take the photo that you both realize what you’ve said.

Pretty boy.

Eddie is leaning in still, just as he is in the photo you’ve taken, and both of you look far too happy to be sharing a bed. The words – the nickname, the compliment – are still formed on your lips in it. If the flash was on again, you’d see the blush of his reaction.

Neither comment on it. You won’t lean into your embarrassment for a second time tonight, and Eddie isn’t in the business of teasing you cruelly anymore, it seems.

You can hear him swallow hard before he asks, “Is that one good?”

“Fine,” you squeak before clearing your throat, “Um, yeah, it’s good. I sent it.”

“Okay, good.”

“Good.”

The awkwardness is stifling. Heavy and drowning and goddamn stifling.

You toss your phone far too quickly onto his nightstand, wishing the bed would swallow you whole.

If you two were friends, it would have been mindless teasing. The same as when Steve calls you honey, or Robin rambles about how hot you look on a night out. But you two aren’t friends.

You two aren’t friends because of some mysterious change that occurred in Eddie while you went to the bathroom. You haven’t forgotten the burning question, and the longer you two lay there, the more you let it consume you rather than regret.

“Hey, Eddie? Can I ask you a question?”

He’s laying flat on his back as he answers you, hands nervously wringing on his stomach, “You just did, but sure.”

It should be a good thing. He’s still teasing you, it’s still a good thing. But all your questions die in your throat.

What happened when I went into the bathroom that first night?

Why did you turn so cold towards me?

Was it my fault?

Why aren’t we friends?

The last one doesn’t go down without a fight. It reverberates and battles you, it tries to pull you into the ocean head first.

Why aren’t we friends?

“Do you still drive a motorcycle?”

That sure was a funny way of asking what you needed to.

He’s quiet for a moment, clearly puzzled by your random question, but nevertheless he says, “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.”

You’re picturing him stalking away from you again, without so much as a goodbye, straddling the bike and tucking his head away into the motorcycle. The last glimpse you’d ever had of everything he could have been to you. It’s enough to make your eyes water, your bones shake, your toes curl into coarse sand until they bleed.

The next time you hear his voice, he’s whispering your name. You don’t respond, and so he tries it again, saying it a bit louder this time.

“I know you’re not asleep. No one can fall asleep that quickly.”

“I can,” you snap, still choking on his waves and personal mourning, a yearning you need to find the grave of once more to bury – for good this time.

“Clearly, you can’t,” he shuffles, but you don’t check to see if he’s sitting up. (He’s not, he feels like his back is glued to the bed). His voice is back to crushed velvet and kindness, vulnerability and softness, a sort of home you can never return to, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

That piques your interest. You turn, laying on your back and looking at the same ceiling as him in that moment, “For what? Earlier in the kitchen? Or at the bar?” you feel his flinch, and are quick to add, “Because consider it water under the bridge, okay? You’re forgive-”

“I mean for everything. I’m sorry for… everything.”

Everything. Ten letters, four syllables. It means a whole lot more than it should be capable of.

“Everything?” your voice is hardly audible as you turn to look at him. He’s half hidden by the wall put between the two of you. But if you squint, if you adjusted the brightness, you wonder if you’d see his eyes shining with the same remorse yours burn with. You wonder if you’d see the dirt caked under his nails from also digging up graves he shouldn’t have tonight.

“Everything.”

Ten letters, four syllables, one leap of faith. The ocean isn’t as cold as you’d thought it would be.

—

BIRDIE is typing…

DINGUS: i swear to god rob. if you’re not about to tell me what the fuck i did that night, you better lock your phone and just go to bed.

BIRDIE stops typing.

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#twenty four hours #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #i gotta stop with the metaphors lol #i know it would notify them that robin stops typing but i think it'd be so funny to watch her lil bubble of dots disappear #robin was ready to scream about them sharing a bed

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