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thepinkpanther83 · 2 months ago

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And They Were Roommates (Pt.19)

Chapter Nineteen: “Soup, Sickness, Stardom”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

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Previous Chapter: Chapter Eighteen: “Man Flu” Next Chapter: Chapter Twenty: “A Feast for the Dysfunctional”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Nineteen: “Soup, Sickness, Stardom”

The coffee pot gurgles behind you like it’s mocking your existence.

You’re hunched over the counter in Eddie’s faded Hellfire Club shirt, trying to remember if your body has always felt this… off. It's probably just the lack of sleep. And the cold. And the fact you spent last night dodging a man who whined like a dying poet and then actually vomited with enough flair to earn himself a posthumous Oscar.

Yeah. It’s definitely just that.

The bathroom door creaks open behind you. Eddie emerges, steam trailing after him like he’s some mythic creature risen from the swamps of Vicks Vaporub. His hair is damp, curls clinging to his face, and the sleeves of his hoodie are too long, hanging past his fingers like he’s shrinking inside of them.

“You look alive,” you murmur, handing him a mug of black coffee.

“I feel like I won a war I wasn’t trained for.” He sips, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re an angel. I saw you in a dream. You were feeding me soup on a flaming pirate ship.”

“You told me I was pudding.”

“Multifaceted dream. I contain multitudes.”

You open your mouth to sass back- but something shifts. That same off feeling from earlier tightens just behind your ribs, nausea cresting so suddenly that your mouth waters.

“Ugh- shit.” You shove your mug down and bolt past him toward the bathroom.

Eddie flinches, dodging instinctively as you rush by. “Whoa- what the hell?!”

The answer comes in the form of retching.

You don’t even get the door all the way closed.

He hovers uselessly just outside, pacing in his socks. “Oh no. Oh no, did I actually infect you? Are we in some twisted co-sick AU now?”

You groan a reply, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain.

“I told you not to kiss me yesterday,” he laments, guilt already pooling in his tone. “I was like, ‘no babe, I’m a biohazard’, and you said, ‘you taste like cherry cough drops,’ which was hot but dangerous.”

You groan louder.

He gives the door a gentle knock. “Babe? Sweetheart? Please say something that’s not puking.”

You finally catch your breath and croak, “You’ve cursed me.”

“I knew I was patient zero.”

You rinse your mouth, dragging yourself upright. He’s waiting outside the door, hair puffing up wildly as it dries, a little furrow of worry between his brows.

“Back to bed,” he says firmly, guiding you with a hand on your back. “Doctor Munson will now be taking care of you. I’m certified in… vibes. And tea.”

You chuckle weakly, collapsing onto the couch as he tucks the same blanket around you that he’d dramatically flailed in yesterday. His hands are warm, lingering on your shoulders.

He disappears into the kitchen for a minute, clanking around like a well-meaning but incompetent nurse. When he returns, it’s with dry toast, a full glass of water, and a ginger ale he probably fished from the back of the fridge. The toast is unevenly buttered. The water has one of those bendy straws in it for no reason. You could cry.

“This is awful,” you mumble through a bite.

“I know,” he says proudly. “I’m horrible at this. But I’m here.”

You look at him- still pale, still sniffling a little, and your chest aches, though it’s not just the bug that’s got you off-kilter. He’s looking at you like you’re fragile and precious and his.

Something churns inside of you, but it isn’t the toast.

You’d gone back to bed, you’re not sure for how long. You’re not sure what woke you first- the sunlight slicing across your pillow or the faint, ragged strumming of Eddie’s guitar from the living room.

Your stomach churns again before you even move.

At first, you chalk it up to the lingering scent of cold meds and used tissues clinging to the walls like ghosts of the night before. But then you sit up- too fast, and the room tilts.

“Shit-” You lurch out of bed, one hand slapped over your mouth as you barrel toward the bathroom again. You barely make it in time, gripping the cool porcelain as your body revolts.

The sound of strings stops mid-strum.

“Babe?” Eddie’s voice is muffled, tentative. “You okay?”

You wipe your mouth and flush before croaking out, “Guess you really are contagious.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I’m really sorry, babe.”

You emerge a few minutes later, pale and sweaty, and find him standing awkwardly in the hallway. His hair’s still wet from his shower, damp curls sticking to his neck, and he's wearing the same ratty Corroded Coffin hoodie you thought you’d stolen weeks ago.

“C’mere,” he says, tugging you gently into his arms. You resist for a second, but your knees disagree, and he’s warm, solid, even if he smells faintly of eucalyptus and day-old soup.

He kisses your forehead, frowning. “You’re burning up.”

“You just fried your own brain with cold meds, Munson. Maybe your internal thermometer’s busted.”

“Still.” He tucks you closer, his voice unusually soft. “Let me take care of you today.”

You start to protest, but he’s already steering you toward the couch like a sleep-deprived nurse with a vendetta. You’re tucked in with Sir Reginald III guarding your feet before you can blink.

“I made more toast,” he announces. “And tea. Like a real nurse. Nurse Munson, at your service.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “The toast better not be burnt.”

“It’s not burnt,” he scoffs. “It’s… crispy. With flavor.”

He disappears into the kitchen just as your stomach flips again. You will yourself to breathe through it.

He returns a few minutes later balancing a plate, a mug, and- of course, a paper crown for you.

“Thought you should be queen for the day,” he says, plopping the thing on your head. “Since I was king of suffering yesterday.”

“You’re still a drama king.”

“True, but now I’m a functional drama king.”

You’re finally starting to feel halfway normal again when Eddie’s pager buzzes loudly against the coffee table. You both stare at it like it’s some kind of cursed relic.

He groans. “If that’s Gareth again, I swear to God-”

The shrill ring of the house phone interrupts him.

You blink. “...Okay, that’s weird timing.”

Eddie scrambles off the couch, blanket trailing behind him like a tattered cape, grabbing his pager as he goes. “That’s my bat signal. I can feel it.”

He nearly slips in his socked feet rounding the corner, grabbing the receiver off the wall-mounted phone like it's a live grenade as he checks his pager message.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just presses the phone to his ear and walks a few steps away, eyes wide.

“Hello? ...Yeah, this is Eddie Munson. Who’s- oh, hey! Yeah, I got your page- right, yeah, my girlfriend and I were just sick- what? No, not that kind of sick- what? No, man, not like that- look, what’s up?”

You watch him pace, running a hand through his hair as he listens. Whatever he’s hearing makes him perk up like a dog at the word walk. You swear you see the fever lift off him like steam.

He turns toward you, eyes wide and electric with something dangerously close to hope. You raise your brows.

“Okay,” he says into the phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I can be there. Just tell me when. Thanks- seriously. Alright.”

You watch, toast halfway to your mouth, as Eddie’s posture shifts- still sick, still tired, but suddenly alert. Listening hard. His mouth moves fast, hand running through his curls. His tone is serious. Polished, even.

You barely catch the tail end: “Yeah, I can talk more- give me a second, let me grab a pen.”

He spins around, eyes blazing.

“I think this is the call, sweetheart.”

You blink. “The call?”

He talks for a bit longer, taking notes. He hangs up with a clang and just stands there for a second, staring at the phone like it might ring again and change its mind.

“…Well?” you finally ask.

He turns to you, stunned. “They want us back.”

You blink. “Who’s us?”

“Corroded Coffin!” he grins, suddenly animated, fever forgotten. “That guy from the gig- he said we’ve got a sound. Wants us to come in and talk about doing another show. Maybe a set at the Hideaway or somethin’ I don’t know. He said maybe even a studio day down the line if we don’t screw up.”

You just stare, watching the way his shoulders lift like someone finally told him he was allowed to dream again.

He mouths to himself: Local. Producer. Wants. To. Book. Us. Again.

He grins so big it almost splits his face. “Baby, we might actually get to do this.”

Eddie Munson might actually be going somewhere.

You’re already along for the ride.

And suddenly, even with your stomach still lurching with sickness and your head pounding, the whole morning takes a sharp left turn.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Eddie's voice is gentle but persistent, his brow furrowed so hard it looks like it might snap off his forehead. He's crouched by the front door, one boot already tied, watching you wrestle yourself into a pair of sneakers like it’s a full-body sport. You’re pale, and when you pause to catch your breath, he makes a noise in his throat like a suspicious cat.

“I’m fine,” you insist, dragging the heel of your palm across your temple. “Just- didn’t sleep much.”

He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. Mother Hen Munson is in full cluck this morning.

“You look like you got your soul sucked out by a ghost,” he mutters, standing up and brushing his curls back with one hand, the other already reaching for the tote bag he stuffed full of last-minute ‘just in case’ items.

“Gee, thanks. Really building my confidence here, Eddie.”

“I’m serious.” He hoists the bag and starts ticking off fingers like a man possessed. “Tissues. Cough drops. Thermos. Tea. Extra socks. Those ginger things Wayne swears by, even though they taste like boiled regret.”

Your eyes roll so hard they almost fall out of your head. “Did you pack me an overnight bag or a survival kit for Everest?”

“Not that it’ll be today, but it’s an hour long drive to a place with no CVS and questionable plumbing,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “If you die of a cold mid-gig, the band’s gonna look real stupid accepting our Grammy posthumously.”

You smile despite yourself, cheeks pinking just a little. “You’re such a drama queen.”

He shrugs, strapping the bag over one shoulder. “I contain multitudes.”

But then his eyes soften again, and he steps in close, resting a calloused hand against your forehead like you’re breakable porcelain. “You really sure, sweetheart? I’ll call the guys. We don’t have to do this today.”

Something about the way he says we squeezes your heart in a way you’re not quite ready to examine.

“I’m okay,” you tell him again, gentler now. “Really. Just... need the wind in my face and some loud-ass music.”

Eddie nods slowly, still not convinced, but willing to let you win this one. “Alright. But if you faint mid-power chord during practice, I’m catching you and finishing the solo.”

You smirk. “As long as I go out to your greatest hit.”

“‘Hot for Teacher’ it is,” he grins.

“Eddie.”

“Fine, 'Crazy Train.’ Happy?”

You laugh. It sounds like gravel and sunlight. And for now, that’s enough.

You settle into the passenger seat of Eddie’s van, the door creaking shut with a stubborn thunk. The vinyl squeaks under your weight, and for a second, the silence hangs heavy, save for the soft purr of the engine and the click of Eddie’s lighter.

He cracks the window and takes a drag, not even trying to hide it.

“You know that’s not tea,” you murmur, nose wrinkling.

He exhales out the corner of his mouth. “It’s medicinal.”

“You’ve got VapoRub in your pocket and tea in the thermos. Pick a side, Munson.”

“I’m on my side,” he croaks, then coughs hard enough to make his eyes water. “And my side needs nicotine.”

You don’t argue. You don’t have the energy. The wave of nausea that slammed into you back in the apartment is retreating for now, but it’s left a salty, metallic taste in your mouth and a pressure behind your eyes like a hangover that forgot to bring the party first.

Eddie glances over as he shifts into gear, his hand lingering on the stick like he’s debating pulling the van back into park.

“You sure about this?”

You nod once, quick and decisive. “I need air. And motion. And not to feel like a sick slug under a heat lamp.”

Eddie snorts. “That was poetic. Gonna write that one down for the next album.”

“Put it right after the one about puking into the void.”

He grins and nudges your knee before pulling out of the lot. The engine rumbles like a beast with indigestion, and the city blurs past in autumn-time browns, yellows and oranges.

It’s quiet for a few minutes- peaceful, even. Then Eddie reaches for the tape deck with a look of solemnity usually reserved for funerals or Metallica bootlegs.

“Brace yourself,” he says.

You arch a brow. “For what?”

“For the ultimate motivational playlist.”

You don’t get to argue before the speakers crackle and wail with the unmistakable opening riff of Dio’s Rainbow in the Dark. The volume is too loud for this hour. Too loud for two sick people. Too loud for the van, which shudders like it might just vibrate into another dimension.

You wince, gritting through a spike of nausea. “Jesus, Eddie.”

“What?!” he shouts over the music, eyes wide and innocent. “It’s classic healing frequencies!”

“You’re gonna heal me with metal?”

“Metal, sunshine, and the promise of pizza on the way back.” He pauses. “Mostly the pizza.”

Despite everything- despite the pounding in your head and the fog in your limbs, you let yourself smile. You roll down the window a few inches and let the wind slap your face. It helps, a little. Just enough.

He glances sideways again, this time a little longer than safe. “You sure you’re good?”

You nod, slower now. “Yeah. Just- keep driving. I’ll tell you if I need to puke again.”

“Please aim for the bucket,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the old 7-Eleven bag crumpled near your feet.

“Oh my god, Eddie.”

“I’m just saying, this van is vintage. If you ruin the carpet, we both lose.”

You roll your eyes and tip your head back against the window, the thrum of the van and the guitar solo humming through your bones. Outside, the buildings start to give way to trees and signs for cheap motels and diners. You're not sure what waits for you at the end of this adventure, but you know one thing for certain:

If this is the start of something big, you’re not letting Eddie do it alone.

The van pulls into Gareth’s driveway with a groan of brakes and a final, dramatic sputter like it’s sighing relief. The house looks the same as always- brick with a crooked mailbox, garage door half-jammed open and the unmistakable hum of amps and muffled drum thuds leaking into the afternoon air.

Eddie throws it into park and shoots you a look, part nerves, part defiance.

“Ready to ruin their day with amazing news?”

You smirk. “As long as I don’t throw up on any of them, I’d call it a win.”

Eddie reaches across the console and gives your hand a squeeze, warm and dry despite the lingering congestion in his face. “Rock ‘n roll, sweetheart.”

Inside the garage, it’s full-band chaos in full bloom. Gareth is behind the drum kit with no shirt and too much energy, Grant’s wrestling with a tangle of cords near the amp stack, and Jeff’s hunched over his guitar like it’s whispering government secrets.

They barely notice when the garage door creaks open and Eddie strolls in, triumphant as a cat dragging in a mouse.

“Ladies and gents!” he croaks dramatically, voice still rough from his sickness. “Your fearless leader has returned- with backup.”

You follow a beat behind, arms crossed, leaning in the doorway as Gareth flings a drumstick into the air and catches it.

“No way,” he grins, standing up with a clatter. “Thought you were half-dead yesterday.”

“Three-fourths dead, actually,” Eddie says. “But I was resurrected by the gods of potential opportunity.”

Grant glances over, eyebrow cocked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie pauses for effect, then grins wickedly. “We got the call.”

He lets it hang in the air.

Jeff squints. “Like… a phone call?”

“Like a producer call.” He wiggles his fingers theatrically. “Local guy. Rick Altman, he says we should meet up with another guy, Nate Caputo. Owns a studio out in the sticks- Live Mike. Rick wants to hear us. Booked us a demo session with Nate.”

The garage goes quiet except for the soft fuzz of a speaker that’s still powered on. Then Gareth drops the stick he was spinning.

“No shit.”

“No shit,” Eddie repeats, beaming. “Wants to hear what we’ve got. He said he liked the sound from the last gig- word got back to him from that guy who was there. We made a blip, boys. A real one.”

Jeff slowly sets his guitar down and runs a hand through his hair. “Wait. Live Mike Studios? That place is legit. Like… tape-to-reel, analog everything, high ceilings, bad coffee, good acoustics-”

“Hour out of town, central Indiana, middle of nowhere, real deal,” Eddie confirms.

Grant stares, blinking. “He’s gonna record us?”

“Well, we’re gonna record for him,” Eddie clarifies. “But yeah. He said bring a set. Give him something that sounds like Corroded Coffin raw, but tight.”

Gareth whoops and grabs Jeff in a messy, full-body hug. “Holy shit, dude!”

“I told you those extra rehearsals weren’t a waste,” Jeff yells back.

“Guys,” Grant says, eyes huge. “Do you think he has, like, a snack table?”

“Oh my god, Grant.”

You slide into the garage fully now, leaning against Eddie’s side as the band continues to spiral through disbelief and excitement. He lets you rest there, arm slung around your shoulders, hand rubbing absent circles against your sleeve like his body needs to keep moving.

“So,” you finally say, “When do we go?”

They all turn to Eddie.

“This weekend,” he says. “Saturday. He had an opening. We’ll head out early, lay down two- maybe three tracks if we don’t implode. I already called off from work.”

“You-” Gareth looks like he might cry. “You didn’t even tell us before calling off?”

Eddie shrugs. “Some risks are worth taking.”

Jeff grabs a sharpie and starts writing something on the wall behind the amp stack- DEMO DAY: 11/15 in big, crude letters.

You feel a warm coil of pride wind in your chest. It’s messy, it’s sudden, and no one here has showered in what seems like a while- but it’s real. It’s something. And they’re doing it together.

Eddie glances at you, voice lowering. “You still good to come?”

“I’m not letting you drive an hour out into the cornfields of Indiana without a co-pilot,” you say, deadpan. “What if you get a nosebleed halfway there?”

He leans down, brushing his nose against your temple. “Then I’ll bleed on the tape. Make it punk.”

You nudge him. “Promise me you won’t stress about this. Just do your thing. Be you. You’re ready.”

He holds your gaze a little too long, lips parting like he’s gonna say something heavy- but Jeff interrupts with a loud clap.

“Okay! Game plan: we meet here Friday night to rehearse, pack up gear, maybe sleep a few hours. Leave at dawn. No coffee for Grant after midnight, no energy drinks for Gareth ever again, and Eddie- don’t lick anything weird before we go.”

Gareth snorts. “Dude, he always licks something weird.”

Eddie just grins. “Not this time. I’m saving my weird for the demo.”

It’s been a week since Corroded Coffin laid down their demo, and Eddie’s practically glowing- mostly healthy, loud, and riding the high like he was born on stage. You wish you could say the same about yourself. The nausea’s stuck around like an uninvited guest, hovering just beneath the surface.

The van rattles to a halt in the gravel lot of The Riff House- a punk haunt tucked behind what looks like a shuttered mechanic shop. The building leans with age, graffiti tags crawling up the brick like vines. Its neon sign flickers weakly, buzzing like a dying bug in the hazy afternoon light.

Eddie kills the engine and grins, eyes already scanning the front door like he’s home.

“Not the Hideout,” he says, unbuckling with flair. “This place has a real stage. Monitors. A green room. The toilets flush. Baby, we’re basically famous.”

From inside, the low hum of a bassline pulses through the walls- steady, alive, and unmistakably loud.

Eddie turns to you, his fingers still drumming on the steering wheel. “You alive?”

You groan, peeling your forehead off the window where you’d been leaning. “Barely.”

He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a gentleness that contradicts his usual bravado. His fingers linger a second, warm against your clammy skin. “You look like shit, babe.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, swatting weakly at his hand. “Real confidence booster.”

“Hey, I’m just saying- if we’re gonna charm this guy into giving us a shot, we might need to play up the ‘tragically ill but still rock’ aesthetic.” He grins, but there’s concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re up for this?”

You take a deep breath, willing the nausea to stay at bay. “I’m not letting you walk in there alone.”

Eddie’s expression softens. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something sappy, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and grabs the tote bag from the backseat. “Alright. But if you puke on the producer, we’re blaming it on the burritos we ate on the way up here.”

You snort, pushing the door open. The fresh air helps, even if it’s laced with the scent of stale beer and gasoline. Eddie rounds the van, slinging the bag over his shoulder and offering you his arm like some kind of gallant knight. “M’lady.”

You roll your eyes but take it, leaning into him more than you’d like to admit. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork,” he corrects, squeezing your arm.

The inside of The Riff House is exactly what you’d expect- dim lighting, sticky floors, and the kind of ambiance that makes you question your life choices. A few patrons glance up as you enter, but most are too absorbed in their drinks to care.

Eddie scans the room, his grip on your waist tightening just slightly as he spots a balding man in a leather jacket waving from a corner booth. "There's our guy," he murmurs, voice dropping into what you've dubbed his "business Eddie" tone- lower, smoother, with just enough confidence to mask the nerves.

You can feel the shift in him- the way his posture straightens, the way his fingers tap a silent rhythm against your hip like he's already playing an invisible guitar solo. He's electric right now, vibrating with the kind of energy that makes people either want to follow him or get the hell out of his way.

The producer- Rick Altman, if you remember Eddie's rambling correctly, stands as you approach, extending a hand. "Munson. You look like hell."

Eddie grins, all teeth. "You should see the other guy."

Rick snorts, then glances at you. "And you must be the infamous girlfriend. Eddie here wouldn't shut up about you."

You manage a weak smile. "Sounds about right."

Eddie squeezes your side, his thumb rubbing small circles through the fabric of your shirt. "She's my good luck charm," he says, and there's something in his voice- something soft and private, just for you, that makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.

Rick motions for you both to sit. "Alright, let's talk business. You got the demo?"

Eddie's already pulling a cassette from his back pocket, sliding it across the table like it's a winning poker hand. "Freshly remastered. Gareth nearly cried when I made him redo the drum track six times."

Rick raises a brow. "Six?"

"Seven," you correct dryly. "But who's counting?"

Eddie shoots you a look that's half exasperation, half fondness. "Traitor."

The conversation shifts into talk of gigs, studio time, percentages- things that would normally have Eddie vibrating out of his skin with excitement. But every few minutes, his hand finds yours under the table, his fingers brushing your knuckles like he's checking you're still there. Like he's making sure you're okay.

And when Rick finally leans back and says, "Alright, kid. Let's do this," Eddie doesn't whoop or fist-pump like you expect, he just exhales, long and low.

Your breath catches for half a second. Just long enough to register the weight behind those words. He wouldn’t say things like that lightly, not when it’s real. And this? This is real.

Rick eyes the two of you for a beat, like he’s seeing more than what’s being shared. Eddie snorts and slides you closer to him in the booth, pulling you close without a second thought, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean back against the cracked vinyl, letting the noise of the venue fade as Rick dives in.

“We’ve got a window,” he says, already pulling out a folded calendar and a battered notepad. “Caputo’s got another act pulling out of a weekend slot in December. I’ll get you on stage, record a video, then we can book you in the studio again for a fuller session- maybe five tracks this time. Think you can swing that?”

Eddie nods, fast and eager. “We’ll be ready. We’ve got more material. Tighter, heavier.”

Rick scribbles something down. “Good. You got a following yet?”

Eddie smirks. “A cult one.”

Rick chuckles like he’s not sure if it’s a joke. “Start pushing your sets. Flyers, zines, hell, write your band name in Sharpie on every bathroom stall from here to Bloomington. You want this to go somewhere, you gotta make some noise… on and off the stage.”

Eddie nods again, more serious this time. “We will.”

You glance sideways at him, noting the set of his jaw, the fierce little glint in his eye. This isn’t a dream anymore- he’s treating it like a job. A purpose.

Rick eyes you again. “You gonna be there next time, Miss good luck charm?”

You meet his gaze, a hand on your stomach like it might calm the tiny storm still brewing low and slow. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Rick nods. “Alright. I’ll put the date on hold. Don’t make me regret this, Munson.”

Eddie flashes that feral grin again. “I only disappoint authority figures.”

Rick laughs- like really laughs this time, then tosses the calendar back in his bag and rises. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your phones on and your asses in gear.”

He’s gone before either of you can say more.

Eddie exhales slowly, letting his head tip back against the wall. “Holy shit.”

You reach for his hand under the table, threading your fingers through his. “It’s happening.”

“It’s happening,” he echoes, almost like he doesn’t believe it. Then his voice drops low, teasing. “Think you can survive a full month out in the middle of nowhere with me while I become a rock god?”

You smirk, biting back a wave of queasiness. “As long as you promise to get famous enough to buy me ginger ale whenever I want.”

He grins and leans in, bumping his nose against yours. “Deal, baby.”

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