christmas (baby, please come home) |cowboy!eddie munson x reader|
prompt: it's not the most wonderful time of the year for everyone, including you and eddie.
apart of my munny's merriest that you can read here!
contains: angst. eddie is mean. past parental trauma. grief. holiday grief and sadness. angst really.
Heavy boots, covered with slush and snow from the frozen ground below, pounded up the creaking wooden porch. Eddie huffed, his breath clouding around him, a gloved hand reaching for the screen door. The toe of his work boots knocked against the doorway, kicking off the remainder of the snow from the icy, winter wonderland that arrived overnight, just in time for Christmas Eve. With it, came an icy chill that had Eddie working overtime to make sure the horses were warm.
It was an odd feeling, walking into the mud room, plopping on the bench to pull off his boots. Eddie waited, inhaling in the cold, crisp air, waiting for the warmth to flood back to his system. That cozy heat to thaw out the chill that shocked his system, left his cheeks red and frost bitten from the cold. The euphoric feeling of relief that coated him every time he walked in from the snow. It never came.
In fact, it felt colder in the house.
In the house that was decorated, halls decked and every square inch covered with Christmas. The usual homey contentment that came from looking at the decorations was gone, replaced with a miserable, heavy feeling settled deep in the pit of his stomach, feeling him with a sickening guilt.
Visions of your fight, hateful words piled on with yells and slamming doors, right there in the kitchen. A kitchen that should be filled with Burl Ives’ Christmas album on a loop was missing its merry music; it was missing you.
“We always spend Christmas with my family.”
“Yeah, exactly. It’s always about you, what you wanna fuckin’ do!”
Eddie could see your face as if it was in front of him again. The way your expression fell, crumbling before him, the betrayal in your eyes rimmed with flecks of hurt. It made his stomach turn all over again.
“You don’t- I thought you liked spending time with my family.” Your voice was small, far too small for your usual tone. “They always love spending time with you, Ed.”
“Oh, yeah, to you they do.” He scoffed, eyes rolling so hard he gave himself a headache. He could feel it now. “You always leave me with your asshole uncle, who always wants to tell me the same goddamn story about how he used to ride horses growin’ up, like I give a shit-”
“-Eddie! He’s trying to be nice and talk to you, so you’re not-”
“-So I’m not miserable? Well, guess what, honey. I’m fuckin’ miserable!” His voice was so loud it shook the wooden cabinets of the kitchen, your tin snowmen rattling on top of the shelves. “I am fuckin’ miserable every Christmas! I would rather be here alone, shovelin’ shit all goddamn night and day than be there!”
The hitch in your breath rang loud and clear in Eddie’s ear, his own face crumpling this time, a shaky hand rubbing across his eyes to try and keep his composure. But how could he? How could he stop the ache in his chest when he remembered the way you looked at him? The way your eyes filled with tears, lip quivering in fear. You hadn’t cried, not in there, atleast. Instead, you waited until you got to the bedroom, pulling out your own little overnight bag and filling it silently.
He’d been so furious, so unfathomably filled with weeks of pent up rage, Eddie had to step out. Fury filled steps, a swinging fist to a post that left his knuckles bloody, splintering into the pale skin that was already blooming with bruises. Eddie really regretted it now, sure he’d broken a knuckle at the way it had swelled, doubled in size and kissed with dark purple, welt-like bruises. Oh, what he would do, what he would give, to have you fuss over it, patch it up and huff at him for doing something so immature.
You didn’t.
Instead, you stayed silent, save for the heart wrenching, hiccupy sniffle you gave when loading your bag into the trunk. Eddie’s body was still buzzing, electric with every ounce of bitter grief he’d tried to ignore.
“Where you goin’?” Eddie gritted, tone sharp, it left you shuddering at the unfamiliar sharpness directed at you.
“You want to shovel shit, since it’s so much better than being with my family.” Your breath stuttered in your chest when you took that breath. One that had Eddie’s heart lurching, nervous system flooding with a damning shock that left his head reeling in fear.
“Better than being with me.” The crack in your voice matched the crack in Eddie’s own heart, splitting it right down the middle.
“I don’t want to make you any more miserable than you already are.” You spat, and suddenly, Eddie longed for the sadness in your tone because the bitterness that replaced it was worse.
Your own boots crunched on the ground, bare with snow and ice, but frozen from the cold. “Have a Merry Christmas by yourself, Eddie.” A hard yank of your car handle, and you were gone.
Eddie watched you go in a horrified stare, your car disappearing down out of his sight in a red flash, feeling like he was watching a movie- a fucked up movie through his own eyes, but not in his own body.
Then he was alone.
Eddie was alone, standing on his family’s land, holding his throbbing hand alone. He was alone then. He was alone later that night, when he crawled into bed, teary eyes and shaking hands grabbing at your pillow, smothering himself with it because it smelled like you- terrified it might be the last time he could smell you. And he was alone now. Sitting in a too still kitchen, in a too quiet house, on Christmas Eve, alone.
The burning threat of tears choked him, bubbling out of his chest and crept up his throat. Through blurred vision, Eddie could see the time. A little past four. He wondered what you were doing, what your family was doing. If your dad had started a card game yet. The same Rummy game he always made sure to deal Eddie in to- always made sure to include him.
If your uncle was on his fourth or fifth glass of eggnog, spiking it with an extra pour of Woodford. He’d always offer Eddie some, slurring and spilling a little onto the festive tablecloth. Drunkenly tell him about his childhood, how he grew up riding horses, the same droning story that Eddie would always nod politely at. He was sloshed through the holidays, but never mean- always a jolly drunk, bellowing laughs through shining eyes. No smashing of plates or bruising grips like Eddie’s childhood Christmases always had.
Or if your mom had got a chance to breathe, pull herself out of the kitchen with your aunts. She’d always hug him so warmly when she’d greet the two of you at the door, fussing over taking your bags and jackets, so happy the two of you were there. She’d even embroidered a stocking for Eddie last year, surprised him with it proudly. He’d nearly cried.
It was a weird feeling. This feeling that he was becoming a part of your family. That they wanted him to be a part of it.
He only had Wayne left, the rest of his family was long gone. It filled him with a grimy, gross feeling how much he enjoyed his time with your family. The sickening thought that he was betraying his own, replacing them and filling in their spots with shiny, new replicas.
Wayne would laugh at him, tell him he should enjoy it, he better enjoy it. “You know Darlene and me go to Florida ev’ry Christmas, boy. You better stick it with ‘er. She’s a good’en.”
Wayne would be furious at him if he knew. Probably take him ‘round back for the way he spoke to you, about your family. Eddie wouldn’t blame him, he was furious at himself for it.
Eddie’s eyes found their way to the mantle, your stocking and his lined side by side. His was full, stuffed with small gifts and goodies you’d cheerily slip in, tongue clicking at him when he’d try to peek. Yours was deflated, sans for a small pair of cabin socks Eddie had got in early November.
The bile in his throat brought him back to his very cruel reality in front of him. He’d been mean to you- he acted like his dad.
Eddie’s stomach lurched, moving to the sink, a shaking hand pulling his hair back, retching into the sink at the revelation. Parallels of his mom and dad, his childhood, how his mom would decorate the house from top to bottom, make it nice and festive for Eddie. His dad would come in, tear it down, mock her for it in a drunken slur. She’d always buy him a gift, make sure Eddie’s stocking was filled with what she could: penny candies, knitted gloves, dented wacky packs from the discount store. Eddie would make her an ornament, his Mamaw Munson would get her a little gift, but never his dad. Her stocking was always empty.
A choked sob caught in Eddie’s throat, vomit spewing into the shiny surface under him. Clammy forehead pressed to the cool countertop, he took a deep, shaky sob to try and keep the cry in. The mangled sob that shook his core, rattled his lungs, burned all the way from his stomach to his nose.
Calloused hands wiped at his wet cheeks, chapped from the cold, giving a fierce sniffle. Eddie felt eight again, noticing for the first time the way his mother’s eyes dimmed, how she tried to hide it when she opened the empty stocking. She had been hopeful that there had been something in there, that this year his dad would remember her, be better. He never was.
Eddie couldn’t be him, he wouldn’t be. He’d already reflected him in every way, too much for his own comfort lately- screaming at you, that rage that tore through him, bloody knuckles and aching throat that was leaving you in tears.
As his shaking fingers turned the dial, cradling the phone to his ear, he hoped you would answer- that he could just get to you, talk to you. Your mother’s cheery voice rang over the phone instead, a happy roar of chatter mixed with music playing behind her voice.
“Oh, Ed?” Your mother’s voice sounded concerned, he could practically see her frown, one you inherited. “Are you feeling better, hon? We miss you. I’m sending your stocking and gifts home- well, not the stocking, I’ll keep that but what’s inside.”
You’d told them he was sick, covered for him- just like his mom used to do for his dad. The kindness in her tone nearly sent Eddie over the edge, pulling the receiver away to take a breath, to keep the sob from coming out.
“Ed?” Your mom tried again. “Are you there?”
“Y-Yeah, I’m sorry. I just… Is s-she around?” Eddie’s voice was tight with emotion, and he knew if he said your name, it would break whatever facade he’s mustered at the moment.
“Uh-huh, one second.” A staticy rustle filled the receiver, your name muffled and falling from your mom’s lips.
Eddie didn’t realize he was holding his breath, until he released it, a desperate sigh of relief when you took the phone. “Hello?”
“H-Hi, baby.” Eddie tried, hoping his voice was soft enough, gentler now- than the last time he talked to you.
“Hi.” You bit, through gritted teeth, dragging the chord of the phone into the hall with you. “What do you want? I’m with my family.”
His water line brimmed again, overflowing with angry tears. “Yeah, I know, honey. I’m sorry, I just,” Eddie took a deep breath, stuttering in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
Your own lip wobbled, fresh with tears. You’d pulled into your parents drive the night before, eyes red rimmed from your cry, telling them something about the hay and your allergies. They’d believed you, pulled you in with a warm hug. It was nice, comforting at your home, surrounded by your family until you were asleep. A bed had never felt so cold.
“I don’t-” You grit, trying to keep your own emotions in. “This is why you called me?”
Eddie flinched at the venom in your own tone. “I am sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, baby, you don’t even kno-ow.” Eddie’s chest stuttered. “I didn’t mean any of that, I swear. I was- I’m just… I’m not doing great this year, baby.”
Your heart jumped at the shake in his tone, the rawness of his words. “You really hurt my feelings, Ed.” You admitted, your voice smaller. “I don’t- I don’t know why you don’t like my family. They love you-”
“-I don’t.” Eddie shook his head, fist balled around the phone. “I didn’t mean any of that. I love your family, I-I love you.”
“So, you said all of that, why?” You scoffed lowly.
Eddie’s knee bounced. He hadn’t expected you just to forgive him, but it was still hard- hard when you weren’t here, when you were away and hurt, and he was alone and miserable.
Miserable, the single word in the world he wished to never say or hear again.
“I…” Eddie’s hand threaded through his matted locks. “I don’t know. It’s weird. Not- no, no, no, not you or- fuck, that’s not what I meant.” Eddie rambled stupidly.
“I feel weird about being with your family on Christmas because…I like it.” Eddie’s vision was blurred, watery with tears. “It’s just different from what I grew up with, and… and I don’t know, sometimes it’s just, it’s overwhelming, baby.”
You stayed silent on the other end, the only sound signaling you were still on the line was the faint yells and mummers of your family, only making Eddie’s heart ache even more. “They’re all so nice, it-it makes me… I didn’t have that. My family didn’t have that, and-and every time I’m there it just makes me wish they did.”
The both of you fell into a silence, one that was becoming far too common. Eddie’s heart hammered behind his ribcage. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. This- nothing is your fault, you know that? This is on me. I shouldn’t have ever talked to you like that, said that shit. I’d beat the dog walking shit out of anyone who said that shit about you, and then I say it? That’s just-” Eddie let out a humorless, watery laugh, fist pressed to his forehead in an attempt to extinguish that fury burning through his chest again.
A cleansing breath later, Eddie’s head was in his hands. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, wobbly when he told you. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s… We can talk later, Eddie.” Your voice finally rang through, shaky and unsteady, clutching the phone like it was your life long. “Thank you for calling me. For telling me that.”
The silence settled again, both of you unsure, scared to make the next move.
“I, uh, I wish you were here.” You broke the silence this time. “My family keeps asking about you. They miss you, a lot.”
“I miss you.” Eddie sniveled, wiping his running nose with the back of his hand. “I mean, I miss them too, but I just… I miss you a lot.”
A pause, the slight clear of your throat. “I have to go.” You whispered, voice tight and Eddie knew you were close to tears. “I have to help my mom set the table, but… I’ll call you tonight.”
“I love you.” Eddie blurted, sacred he might forget to say it with how his head was swimming. “I love you so fuckin’ much.”
“I know.” Your voice was soft. It made Eddie’s stomach lurch all over again.
The line droned in a steady beep after your receiver clicked. Eddie held the phone there, eyes shining dully with unshed tears in the lights of the strung decorations. A defeated slump in his shoulders. He didn’t feel any better, worse if anything.
Eddie was surrounded by a deafening silence, the house too quiet. Too quiet to be Christmas. Too quiet without you.
The soft glow from the barn pulled Eddie’s attention, the doors pulled to keep the heat in for the horses. He twisted the phone in his palms, turning it over in his hands gently before jabbing his fingers back into the dial.
The line rang once, twice, nearly a third before it was answered.
“Gare, hey, I’ve got a big ask…”
“Honey,” Your mom’s eyes squinted, yellow rubber gloves dunked into the soapy warm water in front of her. “I thought you said Ed wasn’t coming.”
You nearly dropped the plate you were drying, breath caught in your throat. “What?” You hissed, leaning to look out the small window over the sink. Sure enough, there in the dark, snow covered driveway was Eddie’s truck.
“I-I didn’t think he was.” You shook your head, setting the plate down gently. “He said he wasn’t feeling well. I’m just- I’ll be right back.” Slipping on your boots, not bothering to lace them, you stepped outside into the frigid cold of the night.
Eddie didn’t see you, back turned, grabbing armfulls of bags out of the back seat. “What are you doing here?”
He jumped, nearly dropping your aunt’s present, eyes wide when he turned. “Shit, I-I…” Eddie’s tongue tied, jumbled and thick in his mouth. He didn’t expect to see you, standing there, in your little Christmas sweater that had his heart swelling. He wanted to kiss you, coo at you for being so cute, get you all blushy and giggle at his compliments.
Your lifted brow, arms crossed over your chest protectively stopped him. “I wanted to give your family their gifts. I-I was just going to leave them on the porch and tell you when I called tonight.”
Your foot twisted into the snow, eyes cast downward. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I did.” Eddie nodded firmly. “They’re not- It’s not great. The mall was closing early so I had to kinda rush, but, uh, I wanted to get them something.” He looked at you, eyes shining with emotion. “Wanted to get you something too.”
Your stocking was hooked onto his left pointer finger, a crooked bend of the knitted fabric, hanging heavy and filled with tiny trinkets and things that ruffled. You looked at it carefully, face quipping just barely, but Eddie caught it. “I didn’t want you to think I forgot about you.” Eddie muttered lowly, breath showing under the glow of the lights.
“Thank you.” You nodded, swallowing thickly around your words. “I can help you take them in.”
“No,” Eddie shook his head. “I don’t want to… I know you don’t want to be with me right now, baby, and I get it. I’ll just drop them off-”
“-Come inside.” You sighed, arms still tight around his chest. “My mom already saw you. It’s just easier for you to come in.”
Eddie tried to hide the hurt he felt with a simple nod. “I don’t want to ruin your Christmas.” He muttered softly. “More than I already have.”
“Eddie,” You sounded tired, words heavy with emotion, exhaustion maybe. “Come inside.” Your eyes lifted to his, so sweet, nearly pleading he was sure he might sob. “There’s still leftovers. I’ll heat them up for you.”
So Eddie followed you inside, gifts under his arms, letting your family greet him warmly, chocking his red eyes and matching nose up to the hay fever he’d been having. Your mom fixed him a plate, poured you both a glass of mulled wine.
In the tiny bed of your childhood room, the two of you talked in hushed voices, silent apologies traded over soft touches.
“I didn’t mean it.” Eddie whispered, nose pushing into your neck. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” You nodded, and you did. Even if it still hurt, still wounded from the words, you knew that was true.
Eddie’s cheek pressed against your shoulder, hands grabbing at you, pulling you closer and closer like at any moment you might disappear from his clutches. “My mom,” His voice cracked, eyes pinching shut. “She used to love Christmas.”
“Really?” You hum, tone as even as it could be with the shock. Eddie never spoke about his mother.
“Yeah,” Eddie nodded. “She, uh, she used to decorate every Thanksgiving. Pull out the tree after dinner, put it up. My dad,” Eddie swallowed around the bitter title. “He was always passed out by then, so she could do it pretty quickly. Get it up and ready before he’d wake up and bitch. It wasn’t a lot, a tree and some other stuff, but I’d always help her. She-She always let me put the angel on top.”
You weren’t sure what to say, what you were supposed to say. Eddie’s mom was a sensitive spot. One he didn’t talk about much, at all, really.
“She would really like your family.” Eddie’s voice was small, a rarity. Always the loud, rough and tough cowboy, commanding wild bucks all day. Small wasn’t in his vocabulary.
“They would have really liked her.” You said slowly, vibrations from your voice tickling Eddie’s ear.
Eddie knew it was true. He felt stupid, really, waves of horrible guilt crashing over him again as he clung tighter to you. Your family wasn’t the enemy, wasn’t one to try and replace his own family, just an extension.
He meant what he said, that his Mama would like your family. He already knew she’d love you, simply because he did. He hoped it was true, that your family would’ve loved her. He knew deep down they would have, that they would welcome her with the same warmth that they gave him.
That they’d always make sure her stocking was full on Christmas morning, because they always made sure his was.
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took a peek at amazon music’s The Boys character playlists (really just Butcher’s and Hughie’s… womp womp)… ohhhh old man Butcher my beloved.
all i can imagine is being at Butcher’s apartment for one reason or another.
☆ maybe the team went out to a bar together, and as everyone turned in for the night, saying their goodbyes, you and butcher were the last ones there. For whatever reason, he refuses to send you off by yourself to your own apartment this late at night and tells you to just come over and spend the night at his, that it’s closer anyway.
you try to ignore the zip up your spine when he leads you into his apartment with a hand on the small of your back. you try to ignore the soft flush of your cheeks when he teases you about snooping while you look through his one (barely filled) bookcase.
“what? you scared I’m gonna find your fuzzy pink handcuffs?” you tease right back, squatting down to flip through the vinyl records he has sitting in a milk crate next to the bookcase.
butcher rolls his eyes with a smirk, “mine ain’t fuzzy… d’you even know what those things are?”
you don’t react, but you do store that in the folder labeled ‘Useful Butcher Information’ that lives in your brain. ignoring his teasing, you let out a soft huff of laughter when you see a record you’ve only seen at your grandparent's house and in the back of a shitty thrift shop uptown.
“exactly how old are you?” you ask, pulling it out and showing him the record in question: Roy Orbison Sings Lonely and Blue (1961).
butcher walks over and takes the record from your hand, switching it for his beer. he had asked you if you wanted one when you two walked through his door, you had declined before, but have taken to stealing sips of his. it’s probably the closest you’ll get to kissing him tonight.
“old enough to know this is real music… not that Taylor Swift shite you force me to listen to in the car.” he snarks, slipping the record out of the sleeve, setting it on his cheap turntable.
you stand back up straight with a scoff, “you can make fun of my ‘brat summer’, but Miss Swift is where I draw the line.” the beginning of the record starts to ring softly through the room…
‘Only the lonely… (dum-dum-dum-dumby-doo-wah)’
“oh… you can’t be serious,” you smile softly and he holds a hand up as if telling you to ‘wait for it’. “…so corny,” you mutter shaking your head, still with that same smile.
butcher takes the beer bottle out of your hand, taking a sip before setting it on one of the shelves, “nope… classic.”
he lets himself be a bit softer around you, even if only for a moment. it’s only when you two are alone, usually late at night, usually after a few drinks that he lets the walls drop… only just a bit.
like now, when he pulls you into the empty space of his living room, placing your hand, the one that isn’t wrapped in his, on his shoulder, his free hand goes to the small of your back.
“so now you wanna dance?” you ask with a bit of snark.
butcher lets out a soft huff of amusement as you two start swaying, “what you lot was doin’ at the bar wasn’t dancin’… you was flailing about.”
“hm… whatever. least we were having fun, i mean… even M.M. got up!”
“‘cause he’s a sucker for ‘Earth, Wind & Fire’.”
“well yeah… who isn’t?”
“me.”
you roll your eyes with a soft sigh, “suuure… stick in the mud.”
you’re both quiet after that, only the sound of old music coming through shitty speakers and gentle steps against his floor fill the room. he dances you through the whole a-side of the album, the hand on your back has snaked around your waist, your head rests against his shoulder, and he holds your intertwined hands closer to his chest.
you take as much of this as you can get from him, knowing these moments are fleeting. there are so many unspoken words between the two of you, you’re too stubborn to make a move, and well… butcher’s too… butcher. he thinks he’s much too undeserving of something as precious as you.
and maybe he’s right. maybe he doesn’t deserve you, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting you, it doesn’t stop you wanting him. so for now… the soft, fleeting, moments are enough.
it’s always strange when those moments end, though. the way you can see his demeanor shift in an instant.
like now, the music stops and he looks away from you when you look up at him. you can see the way his face changes, like he’s snapping out of a trance or he’s caught himself doing something he knows shouldn’t.
butcher pulls away from you, wiping his hands on his pants as if the feeling of you lingering on his skin has to go. he turns to put the record away and turn off the turntable.
the silence lingers for a minute before he speaks up, “think we should turn in. you take my bed.”
you try to protest, “the couch-“
“don’t fight me on it.” the command isn’t harsh, it’s not mean, it’s only a bit stern, but he just wants you to listen to him.
he just wants to do something nice for you.
you nod with a quiet sigh and thank him with a soft smile. you both retire for the night and you both know you’ll be gone in the morning before he wakes up. you both know you won’t make any mention of it when you're both in the office tomorrow.
but you both know that for now, the fact that it happened at all is enough.
(divider by @/plutism)
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