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ghost-proofbaby · 19 days ago

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

"HALLOWEEN PARTIES"

EXTRA CONTENT- "BEYOND THE HOURS"

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader → warnings: strong language, mentions of breeding kink, mentions of possible future pregnancy, lots of suggestive conversation and making out. not edited. upside down does not exist, minors dni → wc: 9.9k+ → a/n: @take-everything-you-can plagued me with thoughts of what our idiots would get up to on halloween, and i just couldn't help myself. it definitely spiraled out of control though. my bad. ALSO, QUICK DISCLAIMER: please if you get a snake don't do what reader and eddie did. snakes a homebodies. we are just going to pretend it's okay in this context for the name of fiction, alright? obligatory snake owner ramble over. let's GO.

enjoy the main story's masterlist here

The thumping of the bass was audible before you’d even exited the elevator fully.

Any other day of the year, you’d assume your group of friends would be earning an instant noise complaint for the volume of the music coming from behind Steve and Robin’s apartment front door. But it wasn’t just any other day – it was Halloween, and somewhere amongst the rhythm of what surely had to be Steve blasting Abba, you could make out fellow neighbors playing music just as loudly.

If anything, the overly quiet apartments were more concerning than the noisy ones.

“Do you think Lestat is going to do okay with the music?” Eddie suddenly frets, one hand reaching to tug on what little fabric there was of his costume. It almost made you smile, a reminder of what exactly your usually ‘scary’ boyfriend was donning.

Britney Spears, circa 2001. One of her most iconic VMA performances.

He’d decided it the moment you two had come home several months ago with the most important accessory that was draped around his neck – a juvenile ball python named Lestat, who looked surprisingly content as he hung onto Eddie’s shoulders.

“I don’t know,” you hum, looking over at Eddie, a little bit concerned now that he’d brought it up, “Maybe it’s a bad idea-”

“I’m texting Nance to turn the music down.”

“What if it freaks him out?”

“It’ll be fine.”

“What if he gets stressed and bites you, Eddie?”

To any onlooker, the sight of you might have been a bit funny. Furrowed brows, arms crossed, sticky blood spread out across your stomach and sternum.

The theme tonight for the two of you had been iconic performances. Eddie insisted, and part of you knew he was just afraid to dress up so extravagantly all alone when it came to this small get-together, but you hadn’t hesitated to pull together your own version of Lady Gaga’s iconic VMA performance from 2009. If you two were going to commit to a theme this year, you were committing.

Eddie balances his phone in one hand, typing with a single thumb. Impressive, given his history of ardently avoiding owning a smart phone. His other hand trails up to his collarbone, sneaking a careful finger below Lestat’s head, holding him up and pouting his lip a little, “This little guy? Biting me? He would never.”

The sight was cute. Obnoxiously, overly, endearingly cute.

“He’s still a snake,” you try to argue, stopping right outside of apartment 34C. The music was more clear now as it switched from whatever Abba tune had been playing to Maneater by Nelly Furtado, “If he gets scared enough, he might.”

“I’d hardly call him a snake,” Eddie snorts, shoving his phone back into his pocket, smiling as he tilts his chin to awkwardly stare at the snake now carefully slithering over his knuckles, “Dude misses the mice on his first strike every time we feed him. And if there was ever a time he was going to bite me, it would have been when I was taking that moss out of his mouth as he was eating.”

That earns a huff of a laugh from you as well. The image of Eddie on Monday night, absolutely losing his mind as he’d noticed that Lestat had gotten his mouse entangled in some of the moss decorating his enclosure, not even hesitating to open the tank once more and throw his hand in right along with the tongs to prevent your new ‘son’ from ingesting it, crosses your mind. It hadn’t mattered how much you reassured him that it was probably normal in the wild, that Lestat’s body could certainly handle it. Eddie had been insistent and blinded by what could only be described by paternal instinct.

If you’d asked yourself last Halloween if that had been where you see your life heading in a year’s time, you would have rolled your eyes.

“You do realize how dumb that was of you, right?” you insist, remembering your fear and the way your breath had caught in the moment. It was funny now, but you’d never gripped onto Eddie’s shoulder tighter than when he’d recklessly done so. You loved the snake, you really did, but you’d realized in that moment you might still love Eddie just a little bit more.

The conversation is cut short as it’s clear that Nancy had received Eddie’s text, the music behind the door quieting a bit along with a change of song.

Your jaw nearly drops, “You did not make Nancy do that.”

The opening notes of I’m a Slave 4 U were impossible to miss.

“I did.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Are you gonna insult me the entire night, or let me make my iconic entrance?”

You don’t get a chance to answer, Eddie carefully passing by you, Lestat’s head bouncing a little as it passes a bit closer to your face than you would have been comfortable with a few months ago.

The snake, funnily enough, had even been your idea to begin with. Your want, your desperate argument you’d wasted countless breaths upon while getting ready for bed with Eddie.

It’ll be fun, you’d whined to Eddie as you’d both crawled into bed, we even have the space in the living room.

Sweetheart, you’re fucking terrified of snakes, Eddie had easily rebuttalled. He wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t stop you from huffing like a petulant child.

That’s an exaggeration, you argued right back.

Your hands had still shook ferociously that first day of bringing home the snake when you’d been the one to move him from the small container the store had placed him and into the full fifty gallon tank now occupying a fairly large chunk of the apartment’s living room.

You’re still lost in your head as the door swings open for Eddie right as the first chorus of the song begins. He’s dramatic, fully committed, a glimmer of who he must have been in high school shining right through as he struts confidently into your friends’ apartment.

A version of Eddie you somehow missed despite never having met. You almost wonder if you would have still ended up here if you’d met then; you almost wonder if you would have still ended up at each other’s throats inevitably, even in those days.

You probably would have. You secretly hope that it all would have still happened exactly as it has.

“No fucking way!”

Robin is the first voice you can hear excitedly shriek out a reaction to Eddie, followed by a sharp hush from Nancy. They’re deeper in the apartment, out of your line of sight. You can hear Jonathan’s muttered response lost in the music, and you can smell Argyle’s presence rather than hear or see it.

Weed had been expected, but Steve and Robin were strict in their rule of only partaking on the balcony.

“Yes fucking way,” Eddie responds, clearly giddy. You finally trail in behind him, not necessarily shy but certainly not nearly as extravagant as he had been. You hang back a bit, biting back a grin, just admiring your boy.

All warmth, rosey cheeks spread wide in his boyish grin, eyes bright as he wiggles his brows as Robin.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Robin whispers as she rushes forward, glancing over her shoulder, clearly looking for Steve before she leans it a tad bit closer towards Lestat.

“Mama didn’t raise a bitch,” Eddie snarkily replies, moving to slowly remove the snake from his neck.

“Language,” you jokingly scold him, reaching out to take the snake from his hands as he brings it to his chest, giving Robin a closer look at the nearly-glimmering pale scales of your pet. Almost instinctively, he starts to pull the animal away, but once he sees the look on your face, he’s quick to hand him over. “No cursing around our son.”

Nancy finally walks up, still no sign of Steve as she joins your side and Lestat wraps his body slowly around your wrist, “Oh my God, don’t tell me you also refer to this thing as your child.”

“This thing?” Eddie huffs, more offended than you, “Nance, he has a name.”

Robin has gravitated towards you now, entirely captivated by the ball python, eyes shimmering as she lets out the smallest gasps and squeals under her breath, “What’s his name?”

“Lestat,” you whisper, watching Nancy and Eddie grow closer and clearly get more immersed in their own private conversation, “But Eddie wanted to name him Frodo.”

“Frodo,” Robin chuckles a little, looking at you questioningly as she holds out a timid finger. You give her a nod, moving a thicker part of the snake’s body to face her rather than the head, “Sounds like Eddie.”

It did indeed. Once the bickering of whether or not you two would even get the snake to begin with had faded, the entire argument of what its name would be had started up. Eddie wanted the snake to be named after his favorite books – you wanted to name the snake after your most recent reads.

You’d clearly won. At the sacrifice of promising the inevitable first of many cats you and Eddie would eventually have be named Frodo instead. But you’d still won.

Robin’s eyes finally leave the snake long enough to take in your own outfit, and you hadn’t realized it was possible for the girl’s grin to widen, “Wait - are you dressed as Lady Gaga from her Paparazzi performance?”

“Oh, my dear Birdie,” you coo out the endearment, shivering slightly as the cool body of the snake continues to slither up near your elbow, “This night is just getting started.”

—

You were right. The night had just begun.

The first few hours pass fairly chaotically. A languid and rapid mixing of everyone excitedly catching up on each other’s lives, various drinks beginning to be concocted. Some delicious, and some spurring gags from others simply from the description of the hard liquor that had gone into them.

Argyle had managed to lure many of the group out onto the patio at various intervals to partake in the devil’s lettuce, as he had proudly proclaimed it. Nancy and Jonathan had figured out a way to set up a makeshift karaoke party in the living room, lyrics for songs being displayed on the main TV. And Steve, for all his attentive hospitality as the one of the co-hosts of the night, had remained painfully oblivious.

Eddie had gone behind his back when it came to bringing Lestat. Steve had made it clear when the two of you had purchased the puppy in reptile form that he wanted nothing to do with the python, while the rest of the group had been easily intrigued – especially Robin. And so once Eddie had decided upon his Britney outfit, the next logical step had been securing Lestat’s attendance at the party. He hadn’t texted Steve - or Nancy, as a matter of fact - but rather Robin.

The girl hadn’t even taken a minute to respond, overly enthusiastic to meet the snake.

Everyone had slowly become a part of a more silent bet as the night dragged on, and for once, you and Eddie were on the betting side of it all. The drinks were poured, the weed was smoked, the music was sung along to painfully off-key, and Steve never once noticed the snake that was frequently wrapped around various parts of yours and Eddie’s body.

The quick exchanges probably didn’t help. When Steve needed your help in the kitchen at one point, you’d smoothly handed Lestat over to Eddie in passing. When Eddie had agreed to join Jonathan and Argyle on the balcony at one point, he’d easily and carefully draped the snake across the nape of your neck from behind the couch. Hell, you’d even spent a good five minutes engrossed in a conversation with Steve, all the while Lestat had been comfortably coiled around your bicep opposite the man.

As the hours passed by, you found yourself wanting to be caught.

Your phone pings suddenly as you bury yourself deeper into the leather couch, giggling over Steve’s current rendition of What’s New Scooby Doo?.

You shuffle carefully to pull it from where you’d wedged it against your hip, trapped weakly by your white bottoms speckled with glittery blood.

WORLD’S HOTTEST BOYFRIEND: I want a cigarette :-(

You do a double take of the contact name, blinking rapidly before you finally connect the dots.

YOU: when the hell did you change your contact name in my phone?

WORLD’S HOTTEST BOYFRIEND: Unimportant.

WORLD’S HOTTEST BOYFRIEND: Do you think if I hand Lestat off to you right now that Steve would notice?

Your eyes flick up as the song ends, Robin having jumped up to finish off the performance with Steve, the two of them a mess of flailing limbs clinging to each other and joyful laughter bubbling out of them for unknown reasons.

Well, partially unknown reasons. One of them was surely the strange concoction the two of them had chugged at some point in the night that had included both watermelon flavored vodka and green apple whiskey. That had been one you’d cringed and stuck your tongue out at.

YOU: 50/50 chance. And NOT unimportant btw, what’s my name in YOUR phone?

Just as Eddie exits the bathroom, Steve perks up at the sound of the door and distant flush, removing himself entirely from Robin’s embrace, “Fuckin’ finally! I have to piss.”

Everyone holds their breath as he rushes past Eddie, but he still remains completely unaware of the snake that Eddie is carrying.

The slam of the door times perfectly with Eddie’s collapse onto the couch next to you, a shy and guilty grin already gracing his face before you even begin bursting at the seams with continuing the text conversation face-to-face.

“Seriously,” you waste no time, turning to him quickly and your knee easily overlapping his thigh as you shuffle into a more comfortable position, “When did you change your name in my phone, asshole?”

He takes his time answering, pulling on the ridiculously small jean shorts he wears as his shoulders quiver with the effort of holding in his laughter, “Words hurt, baby.”

You hate the way nicknames as simple as baby can send still shivers down your spine.

“You couldn’t have at least been a little more creative? Like, world’s hottest boyfriend? C’mon, you can be more clever than that, surely.”

It’s easy to do this, to egg him on and prod at his ego in the softest of ways. It’s also always been a dead giveaway to him that he’s gotten under your skin.

“My name with a pretty black heart next to it just wasn’t cutting it anymore,” he pouts exaggeratedly, leaning into your space a bit, holding the snake a careful distance away as he looks into your eyes and a suspiciously jubilant look crosses his face, “What would you have preferred?”

“Something shorter,” you breathe out, feeling some of the alcohol coursing through your veins now, making your headswim as you suck in the scent of his cologne heavy in the space between you, “It’s a bit of a mouthful, if I’m being honest.”

“It is,” he nods, and his lips spread salaciously, pupils growing just a tad bit wider before he delivers a devastating blow, “But we both know you can take it, can’t you, baby?”

Damn him. Fuck him. Send him all the way down to the depths of Hell, for all you care.

He’s caught on to a clear game he can play now that you’re tipsy, one that he certainly has the upper hand in, and you can’t tell if the night ending in him winning it would actually spell your loss. You swear, you can already feel his hands on your hips, tearing off the costume you’d spent several weeks carefully sewing sequins into, his lips getting sticky with all the fake blood across your torso, his-

Huh. Never had you realized yourself to be such a horny drunk.

“Now I need a cigarette,” you grumble, leaning away from him, trying to break whatever spell he was casting. None of your friends’ have even noticed the interaction happening on the couch, saving you from eternal embarrassment.

If you’d had less pinot noir and shots of Fireball whiskey in your veins, you’d probably still find the decency in you to be self-conscious at toying with these things in public. Maybe scold him, maybe douse out whatever flames he was attempting to ignite.

Eddie leans back as well, clearly satisfied with himself as he lifts Lestat up to preoccupy himself by pretending to study the lightened coloring of the snake. Mostly white, with splatterings of a traditional morph at random across the body. The woman who had sold the snake to the two of you had referred to it as a piebald. If you had been shopping with an actual breeder rather than a reputable rescue, he would have cost an arm and a leg.

Luck had been on your side the day you’d stumbled upon the snake. You wish luck was still on your side tonight.

Eddie sticks out the tip of his tongue to mimic the snake a few times before he focuses on you again, “You know, we could always see if Robin wants to watch him while we both go grab one.”

You have no clue how the girl had heard him from across the living room, but she suddenly appears at his side, just as eager in appearance as her original text giving the blessing to bring Lestat had been.

“Did someone say I could hold the snake?” she bounces a bit on the balls of her feet, looking down with utter fascination, “Please tell me you guys just said I could hold the little guy. When you first got him, I did a ton of research so I’d know proper handling tips, and also how to know if he gets too stressed. Also I may or may not have been nervous about how often they bite, but I found out that-”

“They don’t bite,” Eddie interrupts with reassurance, offering a small smile as he looks up to her, “At least, not very often. You usually have to aggravate them pretty badly, or catch them on a really shit day for them to strike.”

It had been a huge selling point in convincing him. Ball pythons were docile in nature, and they’d be quicker to match up to their namesake by balling up than actually strike out at someone.

Of course, the day you had been informing of this, you had no idea he was already aware of it. He knew they didn’t bite, he knew the specifics of what a habitat for them needed, he knew their dietary needs – he’d already had an Amazon shopping cart filled with supplies after the first time you brought the snake up to him, unbeknownst to you.

“Yeah,” Robin nods ferociously, hands reaching out carefully, already more than prepared to take the snake, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now hand over the baby and go do whatever debauchery you two are clearly wanting to get up to.”

“We aren’t getting up to debauchery!” you try to defend the two of you, watching Eddie carefully uncurl Lestat from his arm to pass him into Robin’s waiting hands, “Eddie just wants a cigarette and-”

“And you want to join him and probably get in some hot and steamy makeout sessions, right?” Robin finishes your sentence for you, quirking an eyebrow for a second before letting out a whisper of a squeal when Lestat takes to her quickly. His tail wraps around the length of her wrist and you’re shocked as you watch him stay just as curious as he had been while held by you and Eddie. A tad bit more reserved, but no sign of balling up any time soon.

Eddie stands from the couch, patting his largest back pocket to ensure his pack of cigarettes and lighter are still safely tucked into it, and you know it’s useless to keep arguing with Robin. She’s entirely entrapped by the snake in her hands now, whispering in a high-pitched tone that surprisingly doesn’t seem to bother Lestat. All her coos nearly resemble baby-talk. It’s cute – sort of. A direct mirror of how you and Eddie have been acting at home when you handle the ball python.

You stand slower than Eddie had, hawk eyes still glued to your friend, “Just- Just be careful, okay? Avoid touching his head, and don’t wave your hands around too much while talking, because it can scare him. He also might try and crawl up to your hair because Eddie lets him hide in his at home, and sometimes he’ll pull on it because it sticks to him, so just-”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie stresses, throwing an arm around your shoulders, giving your bicep opposite from him a quick squeeze, “She’ll be fine.”

Robin nods, clearly only half listening to the debate as she watches Lestat wander up her arm in clear wonder.

It sort of does feel like Lestat is your actual human child, as though you’re leaving your toddler with a babysitter for the first time.

Eddie tugs you deeper into his side, musky cinnamon and boyish charm filling your nose as he leans down and murmurs, “C’mon.”

A Ghost song starts to thump over the speakers as you allow Eddie to guide you over to the sliding door beside the kitchen, the layout different and even a tad bit nicer than your own apartment. It’s odd, the view of the kitchen being clearer than the living room, the exact opposite of how your home is.

Home. Even in your tipsy state, even after so much time having living with Eddie and even going as far as to now own a pet with him, the notion fills you with warmth.

Maybe you’re actually a sentimental drunk.

As the two of you pass by Argyle, he briefly lifts his head, cherry-shaded eyes peering up excitedly until Eddie quickly shakes his head, making the poor man sink back against the loveseat that he occupies with Jonathan and Nancy. You almost feel bad, but it’s clear Argyle is too far gone to even feel disappointment right now.

“After you, m’lady,” Eddie chivalrously slides the door open for you, half-bowing and putting on a half-assed British accent as he sweeps his arm for you to exit onto the balcony first.

“It’s Lady Gaga to you,” you snark as you slip out into the crisp Autumn air, cheeks cooling instantly.

“Oh,” the door slides shut with a soft thud behind Eddie as he joins you, face immediately covered by the shadows of the evening, “My apologies.”

It’s nice out. Far nicer than any October has been in the city in what feels like years. The air is refreshing, dare you even say sobering, and the city lights below wink at you as you hear all the distant noises of life. Car horns, children’s laughter, music from other parties. It sounds as though one of the neighbors below is blasting heavy rap, and you swear you can hear the trill of a radio pop song from your left.

Beer, cider, pumpkin spice – it all fills the air. It’s Halloween, and it’s nice.

The breeze is electric with all the livelihood, sending goosebumps up your arms as you approach the railing, looking out across a night sky painted some sort of faded cross between navy and grey rather than a stark black of midnight.

It all turns to static the moment Eddie wraps his arms around your waist from behind you, heavy pack of cigarettes in his palm as his lips find solace in one of the few bare patches of skin on your shoulder.

“God, I love Halloween,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot as it catches across your costume.

God, I love you.

You can’t help the cheesy thought as a hand comes up to grip Eddie’s forearm, giving three short squeezes, pulling him just a tad bit closer. But it’s true – Halloween was wonderful, you’d always enjoyed any excuse to get together with your friends and family, but it had never felt quite like this.

Planning cliche dates during the season, movie marathons spent cuddling up with your other half rather than sitting across on a couch from friends. Kisses in the pumpkin patch. Cider on his lips. Putting up decorations and ending up chasing each other around the apartment, landing in a pile of limbs that slot against one another perfectly. Arguing about which decorations should go on the balcony, which garland to line your front door with.

It wasn’t a replacement for spending time with your friends. And there were still crude jokes, still bickering over timing of plans and locations to visit. It still felt like spending the holiday with friends – it was spending it with your best friend.

Eddie Munson. Your best friend. Your boyfriend. The sentiment is unexpected to past you, but so entirely welcome by the you currently enveloped in his embrace.

“I used to insist on spending Halloween alone, you know,” you mumble as his chin digs in the point where your shoulder connects to your neck, vision blurring as you continue to stare out at the tiny busy streets, “Just, like, lay around in my dorm. Watch shitty horror movies on my laptop until I got too scared and had to find some dumb comedy to help me sleep. It was the only day of the year where my roommate sort of acknowledged my existence. She was the one who’d go out, and she’d get all this candy and share it with me.”

You don’t know the point of your rambling, but Eddie is listening intently anyways.

You turn carefully in his arms, now mesmerized by how his face looks in the warm glow of the seasonal lights Robin and Steve had put up. Shades of orange flickering across his amber eyes, shadows making all his sharpness in his features more prominent.

“Talking about it now sounds kind of boring,” you muse, laughing a bit dryly, “The most festive thing I would do was going to the Halloween store with Robin and Steve once they opened.”

“Yeah?” he asks softly, arms still tangled around you, grinning gently, “I don’t think that’s too boring.”

“It was,” you insist, pressing just a little closer to him, “God, it was so boring. Not going to the store with those idiots – I mean, that was pretty fun. But it was nothing compared to setting up a snake habitat, or carving pumpkins with you. Now I can watch whatever slasher you want before bed, and I still sleep just fine, cause I’ve got you to protect me.”

His smile matches your own – radiant, proud, happy.

“Oh, definitely,” he nods once, twice. So sure, ego inflated for the bit, “Any scary men with a chainsaw dare to break into our apartment, and I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Our apartment. The perfect ring to it.

“Didn’t you scream about that spider in our apartment yesterday? Like, full on squeal, hopping up onto the couch, begging me to save you-”

He cuts off all your teasing, even though it was true, with a kiss. Simple, strong, sure. Fingers dancing under your chin to pull you up to him, meeting you halfway and not even hiding his smile at your antics as he effectively shuts you up.

“We agreed to not talk about that,” he mumbles against your lips, tasting like the last shot of whiskey he took with Nancy.

“You agreed to not talk about it,” you pester back, trying to pull away from his kiss. But his other hand comes up, trapping your face between both his palms, and it’s a useless effort, “I just promised to not immediately share the photo of you up on the couch with everyone.”

Half the words are hardly articulate as his lips continue to nip at yours, struggling from your wide smile and the way your entire body is shaking from your giggles. You can feel the cold metal of the railing brushing your exposed lower back, a breeze picking up that can be blamed for the goosebumps racing down your spine rather than Eddie’s wandering hand. It’s not devourment, it’s not desperation, it’s not Earth-shattering.

It’s something like mending. Something like a promise.

Living together, celebrating the holidays together, owning a pet together – they were all baby steps leading to something even brighter in the future. An unspoken truth between the both of you. An inevitable crescendo to all that had been built.

Eddie whines a bit when you pull away again, but this time, your forehead stays pressed to his. A joint effort between the way you tilt your head and the way his hands press you against him.

“Do you remember the last time we were on a balcony together?” you ask in a low whisper, trying to mimic the same suggestive tone that he’s always been able to put on at the drop of a hat.

You’re not quite as talented as him. You’re actually just a giggly drunk.

His brows furrow, “What? This morning?”

“No.”

“Two nights ago, when you insisted Lestat needed to see the moon?”

“No.”

“Are you talking about the afternoon we had a redo of our pumpkin carving contest? Because I still won again, fair and square, ba-”

“I’m talking about the bet, you idiot.”

His fingertips press a bit deeper into your flesh, his lips forming a wobbly ‘o’ as he stares down at you, “How was I supposed to know you were referring to that? That was definitely not the last time we were on a balcony together-”

You shut him up with the same courtesy as he had done to you, adding in a roll of your eyes before your hands wrap around his neck to pull him into you. This time, you make it hot and heavy. Lips and teeth and tongues, grabby hands from the both of you making their way across all the exposed skin and scraps of costumes you two wear. It takes Eddie aback at first, clearly not expecting the sudden passion, but he recovers quickly.

He remembers exactly what you’re referring to quickly.

Your back collides a bit harsher with the railing as he rolls his body up against yours, not a breath of space between the two of you as he wedges his knee between your thighs. You have no idea where his pack of cigarettes has vanished to, but you don’t care. All you really care about is the way he’s holding you, the way he’s suffocating you, the way he’s watering you.

It’s hard to believe the garden within that he’s nurtured at your side for the last year was ever something broken. That there was once a time it was nothing more than dried vines and pathetic blossoms begging to see the light of day. Now, the warmth of a thousand suns was gifted to you every morning you awoke to his smile. Every joke, every small caring act, every kiss stolen just because one of you felt like it. You two may have accidentally killed that first plant you bought the week you moved in properly with him, but this?

You can’t imagine a day where the two of you ever might let this die off.

His lips break from yours, predictably painting a path along your jaw as he murmurs, “I think I do remember. But, just in case – wanna remind me?”

And for a second, you almost do.

All your coils are tight across your body, burning in your abdomen and shaking in your knees, but all it takes is the faintest movement of a shadow to remember all your friends inside the apartment still.

“We can’t,” you whisper, as if they might hear you in the glass, trying to pry yourself away from him just as his teeth start to graze your neck, “Seriously - we can’t.”

Eddie chuckles lowly against your neck, and you know exactly why.

You’d started this without even considering the consequences.

“Started something you can’t finish, didn’t ya, baby?”

Oh, damn him. That stupid low and teasing tone. That dimple you can feel brush against your skin as he moves his mouth to the other side of your neck. All the heat in your body travels south, pooling between your hips, aching for him to go against your wishes to avoid embarrassment and just finish this.

He doesn’t, though. You’re starting to believe he’s less drunk than you are, a clearer mind than your own with far more sensibility than he seems capable of most of the time. His lips leave your neck, his hands finding the polite placement of hovering over your hips. The fog is starting to clear, if only just the slightest bit, and-

You were wrong. So, so wrong.

He’s not sensible. That wicked hand placement was nowhere near polite. In an instant, he’s latched onto you tightly and spun you around, quickly bending you over against the railing so your chest presses into the metal and the cold sends shockwaves across your entire body. Your ass is pressed to his crotch and one hand holds you securely, tight enough that he can be sure you won’t fall, as the other crawls up your back at impeccable speed to press you further down.

Immediately, you’re squealing, “Eddie!”

His laughter is just as loud as all your protests as you come face-to-face with the true height of a three-story balcony, knuckles paling from gripping onto the bars.

You’d hate him for it, but you feel the security of his palm and knuckles around your waist, and you know he’s not letting you go anywhere over that railing. He’s hardly even allowing your head to hang over it.

The moment you start to lean back up against his hand on your back, he’s allowing it immediately. There’s no friction or fight as you stand up straight once more, back against his chest and your hands already prepared to swing back to smack him before both of his arms come up around your shoulders and cross your chest.

“You asshole,” you gasp out, flailing hands deciding to grip strongly onto his forearms as he cradles you up in the tight embrace from behind, still chucking in your ear as you both take several steps back. Your heart pounds, and you’re pretty sure your nails are biting into his skin.

Maybe they’ll leave a mark – you hope they sort of hurt.

“Just had to make sure you really do remember that night,” he jokes, trying to lean his head far enough over your shoulder to get a good look at your face, “I think the bars would have been a bit more exposing, though, yeah?”

Your nails dig in deeper, and his grin widens.

Bastard.

“What if I had fallen?” you snap, finding it hard to be mad at him. Those damned strong arms around you, the thump of his own heart right against the space between your shoulder blades, that fucking dimple.

“I wouldn’t have let you.”

If the two of you had children some day, would they have his dimples?

“We’re both drunk-”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“-And I’m pretty sure this balcony isn’t up to OSHA standards-”

“Oh, it definitely isn’t.”

“-And you almost left our poor son motherless,” you finish off with a forced scowl, shaking off his embrace to face him properly, “Are you prepared for that? Were you prepared to be a single father?”

God, you hate his fucking smile. God, you hope if you have real kids someday, they have that same shit-eating grin.

With a pout of his lips, he steps back up to you, looking down tauntingly, “You’re right, baby. I didn’t even think about poor Lestat.”

You hum, standing your ground, but your defenses are quickly crumbling. Your mind is running with too many thoughts, exhausting itself over everything except the residing anger you should feel at your absolute nuisance of a boyfriend.

The feeling of being held down by him in that position once more. How the heat of his body had warmed you, and you’d only noticed now that the cool air was attacking your exposed back. Swimming in the visions of what color eyes your children might have, pigtail curls of a little girl with Eddie’s defiance or a little boy who wears his shit-eating grin as he exhibits your same unbreakable curiosity.

You definitely shouldn’t have drank so much tonight. It doesn’t matter what kind of drunk you are – it was a bad idea regardless.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Eddie’s voice takes you out of your thoughts as he slides his arms around your waist, always needing to be touching you, clingy to a ridiculous degree.

You weren’t complaining, though. How could you? If given the option, you’d make a home out of his bones in a fraction of a heartbeat as well.

“Nothin’,” you lie through a sigh, head tilted dramatically, much preferring to focus on the ginger contours of Eddie’s cheeks than whatever future Jack Daniels had been painting in your mind.

“Bullshit,” he doesn’t hesitate to call you out on it. And it’s not the alcohol fueling his boldness – it’s just how he is. He knows you better than the back of his hand, the roof of his mouth, his favorite songs on guitar. He knows you. “You got this dreamy look in your eyes, and you’re staring so hard over my shoulder, I’m almost scared I’ll turn around to see a ghost in the window-”

Jack Daniels will be your arch nemesis after tonight, the culprit behind the way the words suddenly tumble out of your mouth, “Do you think we’ll have kids someday?”

You wait for the air to leave the space between the two of you with the same urgency it’s left your lungs. You wait for a crack in the air, a chasm to suddenly appear. It’s heavy – God, it’s a heavy question to suddenly ask your boyfriend of one year at a Halloween party. You’re both drunk on your friends’ balcony, and you were having a perfectly sweet moment, and you’d just gone and ruined it. And to top it all off, Eddie was still just smiling, and-

Wait.

Eddie was smiling.

The air was still there, filling his lungs with calm breaths. No sign of fear within his twinkling eyes. No chasm squeezing between the stitches holding you two together.

He’s just smiling.

“Is that really what you were thinking about?” he quietly asks.

You almost don’t want to answer. You almost want to force out cackles of fake laughter, to double over and face the ground rather than his humored expression.

“Yeah.”

Maybe he doesn’t believe you yet, maybe he has to double check before he breaks out into his own laughter. Maybe the alcohol in both your veins is just delaying the inevitable that you’d been originally expecting.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe not.

Instead of laughter, instead of mocking you, he keeps a cheery expression as he shrugs softly, “I mean, maybe? I sort of hope so. And, don’t get me wrong, I know a kid is a pretty far leap from a snake, but I’d say we make a pretty good team at keeping living things…. Well, living, y’know? Besides, I solemnly swear I won’t try to name our kids after Tolkien. I’ll reserve those names for the pets.”

All the air leaves your lungs again, but this time, it’s a little less painful, “What?”

“Annie’s a cute name,” he continues on, completely unphased. It’s nearly impossible to remember that you were the one who had started such a serious conversation about the future, “I also like the name Parker. I remember you mentioned that one once, right? Something about being able to nickname the kid Pac-Man, I’m pretty sure. I think that’d be pretty sick.”

And oh, was he right. You had mentioned the name Parker once. Just not to him. Not directly, at least.

The entire ridiculous make-believe scenario had come to you during a girls’ night, after one too many glasses of wine and Nancy bringing up the topic. You, her, and Robin had all spent a good hour coming up with names for children and the best nicknames to suit them. Some had been genuine, and some had been for nothing more than shits and giggles.

Parker, and the nickname Pac-Man, had been serious for you. Parker Anthony. You hadn’t figured out a second middle name to complete the initial acronym of Pac that night, the rosé eventually getting to you, but you had been serious.

“You were listening that night?” you breathe out, only feeling slightly betrayed, “What the Hell? I thought you said you were going to put your headphones on and listen to some Metallica to unwind after work.”

“I lied,” he cheeses, hot palms against your barren lower back, “I’m nosey. Sue me.”

“You could have just joined us, Eddie.”

“And miss the chance to hear you plot out the middle names of our future children?” Eddie snorts, “Not a chance, sweetheart.”

He says it so casually, you wonder if it’s possible for a heart to burst from optimism.

“So,” you pause, take a deep breath, feeling the embarrassment creep back up your throat, “Is that, uh…. Is that a yes? That you do think so?”

Why was it so hard to repeat yourself, to just say the words already spoken?

Eddie had made it clear you had nothing to lose. You two were on the same page. He hadn’t scoffed in your face, he hadn’t even pulled away at the mere mention of the idea. Instead, he had leaned fully into it, head-first as he slid right into the imaginary future with you. He’d given a name to the little girl with his hair and his spunk, to the little boy with his dimples and his mischief.

Was it still a little too soon, too fast? Was that where the hesitation was born from?

It just all felt a bit too easy. After the rocky start you two had endured, this entire last year had just felt too simple.

Of course, even if the hesitation was sitting there in the pit of your stomach alongside all of your anxieties, all of your waiting for the other shoe to drop, Eddie easily soothes it all over as he gives a slow nod and responds, “Yeah. I do – I really do.”

And you clearly wear your heart on your sleeve, emotions painted across your eyes and cheeks for him to read clear as day, because he notices that catch in your breath.

“Not right now,” he rushes to add on, “I mean, listen, we’re still adjusting to Lestat. I think I’d like to be a cat dad too, before I even think about being a girl dad.”

“You’re gonna be a girl dad?” you laugh out without thinking, starting to thaw into a conversation that Jack Daniels had begun but you know you can surely finish with Eddie at your side, “That’s… unexpected.”

His face scrunches for the first time during the entire conversation, “What? You don’t think I’d be a good girl dad? I already deal with my rat’s nest of hair, so I know I’d be at least decent at braiding. And can you imagine getting to take a mini-you to shows, or buying her some cute unicorn helmet once she’s old enough to ride ol’ Nightfury? God, I think I might die from cuteness overload…”

Your cheeks are aching, ears ringing with his words. But all you can do is latch onto one little phrase: mini-you.

Here you were, picturing duplicates of Eddie bounding around the two of you, and you hadn’t considered what he might be seeing.

Not a child with his spunk. No, he’s seeing a little girl with your wit. A little boy with your stubbornness. Those eyes of his, nearly resembling heart-shapes at this point, weren’t wanting to see carbon copies of his whiskey irises. He wanted yours to be looking back up at him.

Hearts clearly can’t burst from an overload of optimism, of happiness. Yours beats wildly as proof, still intact behind your ribs that bloom with rosebuds for the boy pressed to your front.

“Mini-me?” you murmur, making him trail off, focused entirely on you so sincerely you could choke up. You shake your head, letting out a soft huff of air, smiling down at the ground, “No, I- I think you’ll be an amazing dad, Eddie. I just didn’t…. I just forgot…”

“That I’m with you all the way?” he finishes your sentence for you, one eyebrow arched as he gives a squeeze to one of your hips, “You could decide tomorrow you don’t even want to talk about having a kid ever again, that you’d rather get ten more snakes and live as some sort of cryptic couple somewhere in the Midwest the rest of our lives, and I’d be just as excited. I don’t really care where we end up, sweetheart – I just care that it’s with you,” You can no longer tell if it’s his words or the remnants of alcohol in your system that has you tearing up. All you know is that you are, and it’s ridiculous, but it’s fine, because all you see are dark brown eyes and entire realms of possibility in front of you, “Girl dad, snake dad, cat dad – whatever you need from me, I’m your guy.”

When the first tear falls, you're quick to shoot one hand up to your cheek in order to swipe it away as the other reaches out blindly to smack Eddie softly, “Shut up. Stop being cheesy. I’m too drunk for this.”

“You’re right,” he nods ferociously, taking over the duty of wiping away your tears without so much as mentioning it, “Wanna make out again instead?”

You let out a snort, and it eggs him on.

“Or, hey,” his eyes light up, some of the seriousness of the moment fading naturally, “Maybe we ditch this party and start practicing. You know, in case we still want kids someday.”

His pupils widen a bit, and you know surely that it’s only half a joke. You don’t miss the way his breathing picks up at the thought.

“Careful, big boy,” you tease, leaning into his feathery touch on your cheek, relishing the way the nickname draws him under your spell even when you aren’t saying it with an ounce of gravity, “It’d be awfully dangerous to get yourself worked up in such short shorts.”

Saying it outloud almost makes you want to see it, genuinely.

“Worked up?” he scoffs, backing up a little, caught off-guard, “Who says I’m getting worked up? I’m not getting worked up.”

It doesn’t matter how many steps back he takes from you, you still follow, your palm still lands dead center on his chest as you roll your eyes, “Right. Because I’m totally meant to believe that the guy who used to jack off to Playboy magazines with girls who looked like me isn’t going to pop a boner at the thought of fucking a baby into me-”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Nearly more resembling a bite, his canines digging right into your bottom lip as he pulls you forward and collapses back against the glass door behind him.

No words are spoken, no subtle interruptions for this kiss. Toying a dangerous line, dancing along a narrow cliff, and he’s the one who’s decided to drag the two of you off of it.

You don’t mind. You’d follow him to the ends of the world if he asked you to.

When one of his hands reaches up to your scalp, tugging at the roots of your hair for no other reason than he can, your mouth opens up into a silent laugh. An invitation, a jeer, a challenge. A quiet whisper of go ahead, do it. Consume me already.

He’s already everything to you. He’s already a definition of home thinly veiled with skin and bones, a future with a heartbeat.

His tongue down your throat doesn’t change the matter. Just reclaims it.

A whine is lost in translation somewhere from the back of your throat and right into his cheeks. His right hand wraps around some of the skin of one of your thighs, encouraging it to lift up to his hip, and you can still feel the memory of his usual rings imprinting into your skin. A permanent tattoo, a ghost of a feeling that’ll haunt you for all time – you love it. You want to live there forever, right here in this haunted house, collecting memories and dust of all that he is.

Haunted houses are only lonely when you’re left to wander these halls all by yourself, and you think he’d truly cross over into the actual afterlife rather than leave you like that.

The kiss is almost enough to forget where you are and who’s waiting on you inside the apartment. It’s almost enough to have you recreating that fateful night from over a year ago, to let him bend you back over this balcony railing again, and this time, any squeals you let out won’t be of fear. You’d face that fall head on.

His hot hands on your waist, his tongue in your cheek, his knee once again pressed between your inner thighs. Him, him, him-

A sharp rap sounds on the sliding door behind Eddie, and you’ve never jumped apart faster.

It’s Robin and Nancy at the door, Lestat happily wrapped around Robin’s forearm as she waves and points eagerly to him and Nancy simply crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow as though she might have been a disappointed mother rather than a friend at the moment.

You done? Robin mouths, exaggerating her silent enunciation.

As you nod, Eddie only deeply sighs, throwing his head back against the glass with a soft thump. Nancy is quick to throw out a palm against the glass and tap back at him, mimicking swatting him for his theatrics.

Eddie pays no mind to Nancy’s retaliation, or maybe he just doesn’t see it, as he whines out, “I didn’t even get my cigarette.”

“Oh, cut it out, drama queen,” you snicker, trying to hide all your breathlessness as you fully pull away, “We’ve left our son alone long enough. You can chainsmoke to your heart’s desire once we get back home.”

You’re already walking towards the door, Nancy and Robin having retreated further into the kitchen, when he catches your wrist to tug you back close to him. He leans down, deliberate and careful to make sure his lips catch against the lobe of your ear, whispering soft as night, “Can’t chainsmoke if I’m too busy fucking a baby into you, sweetheart.”

It feels like someone’s poured literal fire across your body. As if flames have been dumped over the crown of your head, and are licking their pathway down your spine.

“Eddie.”

If you don’t get inside within the next ten seconds, you’re definitely going to make a decision you regret.

He’s chuckling the entire time he steps around you, opening the door and waving for you to slip inside in front of him. Your entire body is still burning so violently, you barely register the way his fingers hang at his side and make a point to brush the back of your thigh when you pass him.

Bastard, you want to snipe, but instead you just smile.

—

The next morning, you’re awoken by the incessant pinging of your phone.

You try to ignore it at first, burying your head deeper beneath the covers as a headache pulses at the edges of your mind, but after the fifth ping, it becomes impossible.

“Who the fuck is texting us this early?” Eddie’s muffled voice complains into his pillow, facedown with one arm thrown across you securely.

You can even feel him kick his bare legs in a show of defiance next to yours at the edge of the bed. If it wasn’t for the late night prior catching up to you, it’d be something sweet to laugh at.

“What time is it?” you croak, scooching further up the bed, making Eddie’s arm around you only tighten. As if he can stop you from getting out of bed, or delay the inevitable by resisting you checking the phone, “Is it even early?”

His free arm that had been tucked below his pillow flings out to the bedside table quickly, grabbing blindly for at least one of your phones. It doesn’t really matter if it’s yours or his; he’s got the password to both.

“It’s eight in the fucking morning,” he curses, seeming more awake as he notices that he was right in it being early. “How in the fuck is anyone up right now? We didn’t leave until nearly three.”

His arm is finally loose enough for you to sit up properly, tugging the comforter with you to keep your bare chest covered, “Lemme see it.”

“If it’s Harrington, can you post my bail for murder?”

“You’re not killing Steve,” you nonchalantly reply as you snatch the phone right out of his hand. It had been yours, unsurprisingly. You don’t even know if Eddie remembered to put his own phone on the charger before the two of you had promptly passed out. You hardly even remember how you managed to do so, “But – yeah, it’s Steve.”

“Fucking Harringt-”

“And Robin. And Jonathan.”

“Have I mentioned I hate our friends?”

The fog of sleep has officially lifted for you, and despite the wave of fatigue and aching joints you’d argue you’re far too young to be experiencing right now, you smile at your grumpy boyfriend. He exchanges his pillow for your stomach, shoving his entire cheek tightly to you as his arms wrap around you slowly. Clinging to you like a child, squinting against what little light pours in through the curtains.

“You don’t hate them,” you murmur, holding the phone in one hand to get a better look at the phone as the other cards through his curls, “You hate mornings.”

He hmphs in agreement, relaxing against your makeshift scalp massage.

DINGUS: WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A PHOTO OF ME WITH A SNAKE IN THIS CHAT?

BIRDIE: it is too early to be yelling

DINGUS: oh my bad

DINGUS: WHY THE FUCK DID YOU, ROBIN, SEND A PHOTO OF A SNAKE IN THIS FUCKING CHAT? WHO’S FUCKING SNAKE IS THAT?

You can’t help the gasp that leaves your mouth as you begin to see what the entire commotion was, and Eddie is lifting his head immediately.

“What?” he questions, moving to lift himself up and peer over the top of the phone, nosier than ever, “Why did you gasp? Is someone dead?”

You scroll up, finding the photo being referred to.

“Not yet.”

Steve, clearly partaking in another round of karaoke. Eyes glazed over, mid stumble based on the blur.

“What do you mean not yet?”

Most impressively, most notably, is the snake around his neck.

Lestat, without a care in the world, his upper body being cradled by Steve’s palm as your drunk friend appears to be serenading the snake.

You bite back your smile, eyebrows high as you glance down at Eddie, “You remember when we let Steve sing Taylor Swift while holding Lestat? About… two and a half drinks after he finally noticed we had him, and he didn’t flip out courtesy to all that Absolute vodka?”

“Oh, fuck me.”

Eddie flings himself back to the edge of the bed in search of his phone just as another notification pings.

JOHNNY: I’ll do you one better. I have a video.

You don’t know if you’ve ever watched Eddie excitedly type on his phone faster than he does once he’s read that message, already giggling like a fool long before you can see what he’s sent in the chat.

LOVER BOY: Johnny, my boy, you can’t just say that and NOT send it.

JOHNNY: Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish.

DINGUS: WHO’S FUCKING SNAKE WAS IT? IS IT EDDIE’S?

YOU: i will not stand for this erasure of me as lestat’s mother.

Eddie snorts and looks up at you with glee as he reads your response, “He’s going to kill us, isn’t he?”

“Can we be buried next to each other?” you respond with a question instead, looking at him lazily, “We could have matching headstones.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” his grin is worth whatever Hell there may come to pay with Steve and the Lestat debacle last night, “Should we look up designs or-”

He’s cut off by the trill ringing of his own phone, watching several messages roll into the groupchat in quick succession.

DINGUS: who the fuck is lestat?

BIRDIE: the snake, dingus.

NANCE: As someone who has seen the video… I think Jonathan should send it.

DINGUS: DON’T YOU DARE

You’re a mess of hoarse giggles, hardly able to look at Eddie for the fear of both of you descending right into a madness of laughter. Like two children staying up too late at a sleepover, the room rings out with all your little noises, Eddie propping up his chin to watch you with the widest of smiles.

Except you’re not children – you’re just two idiots, in your shared apartment, with your shared snake in the living room and your shared friends blowing up both your phones.

Mornings have never felt quite as sweet as this kind.

“We’re gonna hear an earful next time he sees us, aren’t we?” Eddie finally sighs wistfully, rolling over flat on his back, head propped up slightly in your lap.

“Oh, definitely,” you nod, taking to twirling his frizzed curls around your knuckles this time rather than scratching mindlessly at his scalp, “But who cares? You saw how in love with the snake he was after a few drinks. He’ll come around, sober this time.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, eyes fluttering shut.

You let the two of you sit in the quiet a bit longer, phones still buzzing with new messages, but the chaos can wait. For now, you just want to drink it in. Rays of vivid sunlight, the silence from the lack of the buzzing AC unit, the birds chirping annoyingly outside the window. You have one foot in relaxation, and one foot in the hangover you know you’ll have to battle once you choose to leave this bed.

“You know what sounds good?” you question, nearly under your breath. You’re really thinking outloud more than anything, but Eddie still entertains you with a hum in his tired state, “Betty’s.”

He’s the equivalent of a puppy dog who’s heard the word walk. One second, Eddie Munson is seemingly dead to the world, and the next, he’s perked up entirely. If it wasn’t for his nude state, he’d probably already be out the door with his keys in hand, dragging you right along with him.

His eyes shimmer despite heavy lids as he asks, “Almond croissants?”

A small nod, an ever present smile. You recall the conversation from the night before as you look into those deep russet eyes, and you see an entire future of late nights and almond croissants reflected back.

“Almond croissants.”

#ghost's stories #twenty four hours #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #beyond the hours #this can sort of be read as a stand alone but there's several references to the main story haha #ive missed them. sigh.#you can tell given the nearly 10k words that almost no one asked for

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ghost-proofbaby · 2 years ago

Text

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

HOUR TEN

in which you and eddie find out just how much can happen on the roof of a parking garage. a scary criminal could show up, a phone call could interrupt important moments, a bit could go too far, and... marriage vows could be exchanged?

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

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, one (1) use of y/n, minors dni

→ wc: 8k+

→ a/n: if this is bad don't hmu. i returned to my wordy girl roots. also shout out to @br0ck-eddie and @big-ope-vibes for beta reading this for me <3

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

�� previous part, next part▷

10:00 ─────ㅇ──────────── 24:00

HOUR TEN - 1:00 AM

Eddie is an erratic driver, which you should have known, but it doesn’t make you any less scared as he takes the empty curves of each street with intense speed. It doesn’t make you loosen your grip as you press into him as tightly as possible, practically molding your body to his.

You’re just grateful he was right – you didn’t see another soul for the entirety of the five minute drive. And if you did, you would have been mortified for them to see the way you clung to him.

His secondary location is a parking garage. If it were anyone else, if it were even so much as Eddie from ten hours before, sirens would be going off in your head and screaming for you to run as far as possible from this situation.

You don’t. Because it’s Eddie, and it’s Eddie being kind and flirty and civil. A new version of Eddie, and a new version of you.

You sit still and polite as he navigates the bike through a gap in the gate, the perfect size for a motorcycle to fit.

He keeps driving in circles, nearly making you dizzy, going up up up the parking garage levels until the ceiling breaks and you catch sight of the night sky again. The stars are more visible this high up, above the buzz of the city, closer to the atmosphere in altitude.

“Still alive back there?” he calls out as he cuts the engine, coming to a stop in one of the darker corners of the top level. You tell yourself it’s for practicality – if any sort of security happened upon this level, the two of you would remain hidden.

“Mhm,” you hum just loud enough for him to hear you through the helmet, arms aching from how tightly you continue to hold onto him.

If either of your hands were to slip, you’d graze against his partially exposed torso. Your fingers would make contact with his hips, would trace the expanse of curves and softness, possibly find their way to the trail of sparse hair down the center of his stomach.

It’s enough to make you fist his shirt into both hands, just to prevent that outcome.

“You sure?” he twists his body to look at you, and as he does, a hand comes up to rest on one of your arms.

It’s just a hand, and it’s just an arm. It’s just skin on skin. It’s nothing to call home about; Robin has grabbed your forearm plenty of times out of unbridled excitement, Steve has held onto it to guide you through crowds without losing you countless times, even Nancy has held your arm there before. None of them ever burned you before.

Maybe it’s not that Eddie’s touch scorns you, it’s not his palm kissed with flames. When his skin closes over yours, it only focuses your fire. That’s why it sears, that’s why it leaves your skin nothing but hot coals.

You burn for him.

“I’m positive,” your breath threatens to fog up the glass visor from the inside, “How do I get off this thing?”

He chuckles, and the hand holding your arm trails down, passing each of your knuckles with the press of a fingertip, drenched in intention. There is no reason for his touch to linger. There is no reason for him to draw roadmaps over your skin – it isn’t his to mark. And yet, the ashen lines appear all the same to you.

“Just swing off. I’ll stay sitting to balance the bike.”

You unravel your arms from around him, leaning your chest away from his back and immediately missing the proximity. You miss it as you clutch his shoulders, you miss it as you lift off the bike, you miss it as you stumble ever so slightly with your feet planted on concrete, and his hand shoots out to your hip in an effort to balance you.

It was an earnest effort, a casual touch, absolutely nothing but innocence in his fingertips as they wrap around your hip for a mere second before retracting. That doesn’t stop it from being gasoline on your fire.

He stands off of the bike unaware of the effect he’s continuing to have on you, pulling the keys from the ignition and popping the kickstand with such cruel casualty it begins to drive you insane.

“You need help with the helmet, or is it just part of your look now?” Eddie inquires as he walks around the back of the bike to stand in front of you.

The fucking smirk and the fucking dimples and the fucking eyes and the fucking-

“I need help,” you deadpan, playing into his game of cat and mouse. You’re willing to see how far you can push this until it breaks, is he? “You put it on me – you take it off.”

Your mind wanders to his comment, his threat, earlier. How if you didn’t get ready to come here, he’d undress you himself.

If him taking off this helmet is the closest you will ever get to that, so be it. It’ll give you something to think about tomorrow night in the comfort of your own bed.

Eddie shrugs happily, taking a step forward and carefully reaching out both hands to either side of the helmet. He’s slow in lifting it off, certainly just being careful and mindful of not hurting you, but it sends you hurtling even further to insanity. Inch by inch, the night’s cool air creeps up over your chin, over your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose. Your eyes flutter shut somewhere in the process.

When the helmet is fully removed, you keep your eyes shut. You wait for the shuffle of Eddie stepping back from you. You anticipate a comment on the state of your hair, your surely disastrous ‘helmet head’.

Neither comes. Instead, a warm breath hits your now cold cheek.

Your eyes open to find Eddie standing impossibly close to you. All downcast amber as his eyes trace over your face steadily, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips that remain slightly agape with each puffing breath. You don’t think he’s even recognized the way you had closed your eyes, nor the moment you’d opened them to catch him memorizing you up close.

“Eddie?” your voice cracks with the questioning, his name heavy on your tongue, “Is… Is everything okay?”

When his brown eyes meet yours, gilded honey and roasted chestnuts, they make your breath catch.

He nods with trepidation before breathing out, “Yeah. Everything’s…”

His words trail off, fading out into the buzz of the night surrounding you. The sounds of a city that never sleeps – distant sirens, a one-off car alarm, the random chirping of a bird, the beeping of a crosswalk signal. They all meld together into white noise, none of the singular components discernible. They’re nothing more than a background to the way Eddie is looking at you.

He raises a hand suddenly, still leaning in at a creeping pace, and tentatively reaches out to carefully tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. As his fingers curl into the skin behind your ear, lingering for far too long, the heel of his palm brushes your cheek.

You lean into it. Your face turns ever so slightly, eyes beginning to flutter again, desperately seeking out his touch. Enticing him to break, to cup your face fully, to give you more than you deserve in this moment.

Because he’s looking at you as if he’s about to kiss you. His eyes are flickering to your lips as you give in to futile want and heedless need, continuing to lean into his feathered touch, and you’re sure he’s about to kiss you. And you’re sure that you’ll let him.

His chest heaves just as painfully as yours. His pupils widen larger than yours, if possible. You watch an internal war rage behind his eyes, and you’re begging the part of him that wants you, wants this, to come out the victor. You want him to abandon all sensibility as you have.

Fuck civility. Fuck nuclear explosions. Fuck ocean waves. Fuck forest fires. Fuck friendship.

You’re past the point of return. All you want from him is his lips on your lips.

“Baby,” he whispers, a sickly sweet prayer falling from his lips, not a single ounce of malice soaked into the nickname. It’s not sweetheart. It’s not uttered in the same playful cadence as when he said it as he started up the bike. It’s not him teasing you. It’s a plea, a beg – he’s begging something of you that you’re too far gone to recognize.

But you hum in response, not knowing what he’s asking of you, opening your eyes as wide as you can manage in your moment of weakness, recognizing that his palm now fully cups your cheeks as his fingertips lazily press into your hairline. He’s closer now, leaning over you and covering you in his shadow, multiplying the darkness you reside in.

His nose bumps against yours. The oxygen you breathe in is replaced by his breath. He’s close, so terribly close, yet still so far. You’re tempted to finish the distance, but you need him to come to you. You need him to want this as much as you do, if not more.

You need to be the ocean this time. Because if you come to him, you’ll drown. You’ll descend to his darkest depths, and never find yourself above the surface again. Irreparable, collateral damage to yourself. All for wanting a man you’d claimed to hate ten hours prior.

Eddie’s freehand is grazing your hip, prepared to curl around you with force this time, to pull you into him and kiss you until the two of you are left bloodied and bruised, when your phone rings.

Both of you jump. In an instant, the closeness is lost – his hand leaves your cheek and hair, your eyes fully open, both of you stand awkwardly and flustered in the light shadows.

“I-” you don’t know what to say, hands shaking as you reach into your pocket and wretch out your phone.

JOHNNY BOY.

Jonathan is calling you, and you don’t know whether you want to commit a federal crime against him or your phone. Or maybe yourself.

You swear you can taste Eddie despite your lips never touching his. You can still feel the weight of his palm against you.

He has to take the phone from you, this time only because you’re holding it so tightly, glaring down at it so indignantly, he’s scared you might break it.

His thumb that once rested against your skin so gently is gliding across the screen, answering the call and putting it on speaker. “Hello?”

“Hey! Eddie!” Jonathan’s voice happily calls out, and it does nothing to chip away at your fruitless fury.

He was going to kiss you, and now he can’t even look you in your eyes.

“Are you both there right now? Or is she asleep?” Jonathan continues over the line.

You finally break your silence, “I’m here. We’re both here.”

“Where are you dudes?” A second voice from Jonathan’s side of the call asks, and you recognize that warm tone immediately. Argyle.

He won’t look at you. His gaze is sturdy on the phone, as if this wasn’t just a regular phone call but a video chat, as if there’s something more interesting being reflected in the screen compared to your currently desperate face.

You want to scream at him to hang up the phone. You want to beg him to throw the damn device over the wall behind the two of you and let it fall to the street, let it shatter and let the deal be damned just so you can feel his lips on yours and taste the sweetness of his tongue.

You just want to scream, honestly. Like a child. Stomp your foot, let out a fitful shriek, and pull the boy back into you.

You don’t. Partially because you’re grown, and partially because he won’t look at you.

There’s a doubt that creeps up as Eddie says something to the two boys on the line, a shadow of doubt that is darker than the night sky hanging above you two. Maybe Eddie didn’t want this. Maybe he’d just gotten lost in the moment, and now he felt ashamed.

The scream is left in your lungs, and the blooms on your vines quiver from the insecurity its residency radiates.

“Alright,” Eddie suddenly chuckles, pulling you back into the conversation, “So, uh, did you guys call for anything else besides playing babysitter?”

“No, that’s… all,” there’s hesitation in Jonathan’s voice, words unspoken that finally makes Eddie look up to catch your gaze.

Brown eyes meet yours – you burst into flames like it’s the first time.

The shadow of doubt eviscerates in the glow of the flames, the glow of your cheeks, as you watch him take you in with careful consideration. There’s no regret in those eyes, only remarkable care. A connection, a string tying you to him, the knots first set in place that night amongst friends.

He’s looking at you like the Eddie you thought to be dead and gone.

“You sure about that?” his tone is teasing, but his face is set in stone, eyes never leaving yours, “Sounds like you’ve got more to say, Byers.”

Argyle is the one who speaks up now, “It’s not that, it’s just… The photo you dudes sent is on your motorcycle. Are you even at your apartment right now?”

“Oh, absolutely. We actually only went outside to have a photoshoot on old Nightfury here. We’re currently safely tucked into bed, don’t worry, dudes.”

Eddie’s finally cracking a grin at you, and through it you’re transported to the past. Before you is a man of possibility, someone not yet an enemy. There’s a blank page set out before the two of you, and he’s wielding the pen like a weapon to be seen.

Nightfury? You mouth at him.

He blushes in response.

Oh, you’re definitely bringing that up after this phone call. Fuck talking about the almost kiss.

“Why do you sound so sarcastic?” Argyle questions, “Are you lying to us?”

“Argy- Yes, he’s lying. Christ, where is she? Put her on the phone instead,” Jonathan sounds entertainingly frustrated at the moment, and you take a step forward, palm reaching out for your cell.

Eddie doesn’t hand it over, head tilted at you, his youth breaking through the shadows that sharpen his jaw, “No can do, boss. Already tossed her body into the canals.”

“You what-” Jonathan’s voice is shrill, and Eddie bites back his laughter as he remembers that Steve is the only one in on that inside joke amongst the three of you.

“He’s lying,” you finally call out, taking another step closer, “I’m fine. He’s… it’s a joke. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. But are you guys actually at the apartment, or not?”

“We’re not,” your honesty has Eddie playfully scowling.

I hope you kiss me when this is over. I hope you berate me for not playing along, and I hope you press me against the cold concrete behind us, and I hope you kiss me until I can’t breathe.

The version of yourself from ten hours ago is practically wailing on the floor, kicking and screaming in defeat. You don’t even care. You can admit it – you want Eddie Munson to kiss you. You don’t have to say it out loud, you don’t have to voice that want quite yet. It’s enough for your beating heart to silently admit it and accept the truth.

“Then where are you two? Jesus Christ.”

Eddie opens his mouth to answer, but you’re shaking your head with warning, knowing he’ll only lie and make things worse, “Some parking garage. Don’t worry about it.”

“Some parking gar- are you two fucking stupid? It’s one in the morning, go home,” Jonathan’s using a brotherly voice you’ve only had the pleasure of hearing on rare occasions – usually when you’ve joined him, Steve, and Robin out at the bars, and the latter two have drank well beyond their limits.

“We know what time it is,” Eddie scoffs. Now that he’s set his stare on you, he’s unrelenting. He keeps you in his line of vision as if you’re a buoy in his ocean, as if he’s capable of getting lost in his own waves.

Hopefully he is. If you can’t be an ocean to him, you hope he has to suffer in his own depths.

“We’re being safe,” you assure the two boys over the line. If you took one more step, you would brush up against Eddie. Shoulder to shoulder, cotton sleeve against leather sleeve. You don’t, but the thought still thrills you.

“Safe?” Jonathan is now scoffing, making Eddie twist his face in annoyance, which makes you want to laugh. He’s getting a taste of his own medicine. “Do you two even know our city’s crime levels? Eddie, I’ve seen you in fights, you cannot-”

“First of all, you’ve seen me in drunken fights,” Eddie snaps in interruption, finally looking down at the phone he holds, “I can throw a fucking punch when I haven’t drank my body weight in whiskey. Second of all, we’re fine. I’m sure if I can’t take whatever big, scary criminal that comes our way, little miss independent here can. She’s scarier than we give her credit for.”

Silence. You almost don’t notice the way Jonathan and Argyle have gone quiet as you’re still hung up on the nickname of little miss independent.

Eddie’s the one who steps closer this time. He glances around the empty rooftop of the parking garage, and he takes a microscopic step closer to you. It’s more of a shuffle, really, but it’s enough for your shoulders to finally brush.

“Shit, man,” Argyle is sighing over the line, as you stare at the ground and Eddie stares at you, “Nance was right.”

Eddie freezes. There’s a choking sound from the phone, and it sounds an awful lot like Jonathan.

Nance was… right?

“What was Nance right about?” you ask, looking up to Eddie quickly. You expect him to be just as confused as you are but he looks petrified.

If all his blood hadn’t drained from his expression, he’d surely be blushing. But he’s stark pale beneath the moonlight, eyes glued to the screen as if Argyle could see his death stare over the line. He looks like a man caught red-handed. You have to look over his palms, the one holding your phone as well as the one quickly being shoved awkwardly into his pocket, just to double check that the skin there isn’t painted maroon.

“What was Nancy right about?” you repeat yourself, but the question is less directed at the phone now. You don’t care about Argyle or Jonathan’s answer – you care about Eddie’s, “What did she sa-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jonathan interrupts, “We’ve gotta go, but there’s no need for you guys to send a photo this hour. We, uh, we’re the only ones awake probably, so… consider this your official hourly check in. Please, stay safe.”

“Talk later, my dudes!” Argyle yells in the background.

The line goes dead. The black screen returns to flash both yours and Eddie’s face in the reflection. One looks overexposed, left out in the light for far too long, and the other looks shadowed, as if having been left behind in the dark.

You’ve been left in the dark. Whatever just happened between the three boys, you’re clueless to it.

You have to put your hand out for Eddie to give back the phone, still looking far more nervous than he was before the phone call. All the cocky attitude, all the hints of teasing, all the almost kisses are gone.

Now’s a perfect opportunity to grill him on what Nancy said. He obviously knows, and if you were smart, you’d dig your heels in and force an explanation from it. You deserve answers; after an exchange of apologies and a quiet acceptance from both of you at giving this a real chance tonight, you deserve to not be left as the odd one out still.

“Why is your bike named Nightfury?”

Except it’s not the perfect opportunity. If you ask him now, he’ll deny knowing anything about it. You’ve learned a lot about Eddie in the last ten hours, and the major discovery has been the way in which he uncurls pieces of himself for your eyes only. He is slow and shy in being observed, and he won’t offer honesty when put on the spot like that.

If you change the topic, if you let it slide, he might tell you on his own time. You’re praying he tells you on his own time.

He looks taken back by your question, watching as you tuck your phone away into the pocket of his sweats that rest on your hips, “What?”

“You mentioned your bike’s name is Nightfury,” you shrug nonchalantly, “Is it some superhero reference I’m not getting? It’s fitting, but I just… I don’t know. I’m intrigued, I guess.”

“Superhero reference? Uh, no, not quite,” he scrunches up his face, and you recall the weight of his palm on your cheek. The almost taste of his lips almost on yours, “It’s- Jesus Christ, now I wish it was a superhero reference. The truth is so lame.”

You break a smile and bump your shoulder against his, trying to shake the racing of your heart, “Can’t be more lame than all your action figures back home.”

“Didn’t you say they were actually cool?”

“I actually called them creepy, if I’m recalling correctly.”

The two of you move as a unit, gliding over to the concrete ledge that over looks the city, simultaneously leaning your full body weight onto your forearms as Eddie digs out a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket’s pocket.

He catches you eyeballing them, and immediately shakes his head, tapping the top of the carton against the palm of his hand (the same palm that was once cradling your face so gently), “I’m not sharing my cigs. Fuck off.”

There’s no malice, and that’s probably the only reason that, once he’s pulled his own cigarette out of the pack and discarded it onto the concrete in front of the two of you, you immediately shoot a hand out to take one. You await for him to snap at you, to smack your hand away, to repeat himself.

He stays silent as you pull one for yourself. Offers his lighter, even, once the end of his glows cherry red.

You wish he would just lean over and occupy your space again, cup his hand around the end of the cigarette that is dangerously close to your cheek, let the flint fueled flame flicker between you as your gasoline fueled embers sparked to life again. You wish, you wish, and you wish. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t even meet your eyes as you pass the lighter back and inhale the smoke.

You hold it until his fingertips brush the palm of your hand, before you exhale sharply.

“It’s from How to Train Your Dragon.”

You have your cigarette halfway to your mouth, leaving it hovering as you side-eye him, “What?”

“Nightfury. It’s from the movie, How to Train Your Dragon. The, uh, main dragon, Toothless, is a Nightfury.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. You already wanted to kiss him badly enough, already found your defenses drooping limply when it came to him, and then he had to go and say shit like that.

“You named your motorcycle,” you start slowly, tilting your head in his direction, “After an animated movie? Cute, although I don’t think scary metalheads like yourself were the intended audience.”

Your words make the corners of his mouth twitch. Smoke curls out from the center of his lips, puckered in consideration as he turns his gaze to the buildings towering around you. “I’m a massive nerd who holds a weekly D&D club and collects mythical creature figurines. I am exactly their intended audience.”

“You have a D&D club?”

You’ve learned a lot about Eddie tonight. And yet, every new discovery you uncover continues to surprise you.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he laughs quietly into the night air, “You saw the inside of my apartment, did you really not see the whole Dungeons and Dragons bit coming?”

You shrug, still watching him watch the city, “I… I don’t know. Contrary to belief, I really don’t know much about you. A shame, really.”

“Are you trying to say you’d like to know more about me, sweetheart?”

Yes. “God, no. I think I’ve had my fill of Eddie Munson Jeopardy for the night, thank you very much.”

You want to know the name of his band, you want him to ramble on about the game you know nothing about, you want him to elaborate more on his love for How to Train Your Dragon. You’re brimming with wants, overflowing your cup with curiosity. He shouldn’t intrigue you this way. It’s dangerous – you don’t know where you’ll put all this information when the night ends and you two part ways, both five hundred dollars richer and returning to the hatred that had been established.

Was it even hatred anymore? Or had it morphed into a softened version of itself, something more akin to indifference?

“Hey, Eddie,” you watch your cigarette burn away at itself, think of it like your insides as the flecks of ash fly off into the wind of their own accord, “What happens after tonight?”

You’ve caught him off guard; he’s not expecting the question, and it occurs to you he’s just as unsure as you are.

He doesn’t know where to go from here either.

“I dunno,” he murmurs. His arm shifts, and the hand that has his cigarette tucked between the fingers is now resting beside your own, “What do you want to happen after tonight?”

I want everything to change. I want to laugh with you again. I want to see you when we’re out with our friends and for you to smile instead of scowl.

You just shrug, and it makes your shoulders brush again, his leather crinkling against the movement, “Nothing has to change. We can… We can pretend it was all a bad dream, if you want. Although I’m definitely referring to your motorcycle as Toothless from now on.”

“No one will believe you,” he scoffs, ignoring your comment on nothing changing. But the curl of his lips had faded instantaneously, a subtle change that would have been missed if you weren’t watching him so closely. But you were. You noticed. You’d probably never be able to not notice. Even when he returns to scowling, even when he’s returned to the bottom of his ocean and you’re left with legs too weak to continue kicking in an effort to keep you afloat, “But… yeah. Yeah, it can all just be a…. Dream.”

Dream. Not a bad dream, just a dream.

“It’s weird that we don’t have to take a photo, right?” you’re quick to change the subject, to avoid deep diving into his implications.

It should give him whiplash, but he seems completely unaffected as he waves a hand around the open air in front of you two, “Not really. But we could still take one, if you want, though. Just for us.”

Just for us. A stolen moment and a blanket of security that this night existed, that it wasn’t just a shared fever dream and that it was all real. The Eddie you first met still exists six feet under, you two managed civility, and it was real.

“We could,” you agree, a bit too eager for your liking, “I mean, it’s a pretty view. We shouldn’t waste it.”

He doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s mentioned he comes here often, that this is a space he finds himself running to, just like the bar. He bites his tongue just as he had when you’d stolen a cigarette for yourself. A cigarette now wasted, because you hadn’t taken another drag in far too many minutes.

The hand that rested beside yours so casually inches closer, pinkies beginning to overlap. “Exactly.”

Your hand shakes the entire time as you reach into your pocket and produce the phone, as you hover the camera to perfectly capture your two hands and the cars that are so small in comparison on the streets below. Overlapping pinkies become hooked, twisted together, and you’re not sure if it was you or Eddie that took that final step.

You leave the flash off as two cigarettes glow orange like a sunset, like the ending to a beginning you’ve been hurtling towards at full force with Eddie this entire night.

It’s a nice photo.

Eddie lowly whistles as he glances over at the screen and the barely blurry photo displayed, “That’s a good one. We’ve gotta put it in the scrapbook, for sure.”

“The scrapbook?” you giggle, still memorizing every detail of the moment frozen in time, “What are we going to call it? ‘The Night Y/N and Eddie Didn’t Hate Each Other’?”

“The name can be a work in progress. After all, the night is still young. Maybe murder is still on the table and it can get shown on our Dateline special.”

You snort, and he grins. Your pinkies are still interlocked.

“Imagine the name of that episode. Just Keith Morrison narrating our greatest hits,” you muse as the breeze picks up around the two of you. It’s nice, cool and relieving from the flames that have been building and creeping up your wrist.

Both cigarettes are wasting away now; neither of you are willing to let go of the contact long enough to properly smoke them.

It’s as if he’s noticing it, too, as he curls his hold even tighter, a subtle squeeze you return without thinking. It’s just a small touch, a miniscule connection between the two of you, but it feels bigger than anything before. It’s larger than the almost kiss, it’s larger than his apology, it’s larger than everything. That’s what it is – it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things, but it’s everything to you. A rebuilding and rekindling of all the paths not taken.

Eddie pulls you from everything suddenly, not by pulling away his pinky, but by putting on his best Keith Morrison impression, “Two enemies, one apartment, an unfortunate series of city canals. Hatred is a fine line to dance, but just how far can one young woman go when a twenty-two year old man takes things too far. Tonight, on Dateline…”

Your free hand shoves at his shoulders, and his pinky clings stiffly to yours to keep his balance, “Shut up! Why am I the one murdering you? I’m a helpless woman! If anyone’s getting murked, it’s me.”

“Oh please, sweetheart, that’s exactly why you’d be the one to get away with it! No one suspects the sweet college girl who lives in the dorm down the hall to murder the big, bad wolf,” he cackles, returning to lean into your space tauntingly as he sets the scene, “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t throw my ass into those canals if given the chance.”

I wouldn’t. “I’m about ten seconds away from it.”

“Yeah?”

No. “Yeah.”

“Well, that’s hot.”

You remember his whimpers from the bathroom suddenly, and bloom into color. Instead of answering his banter, you bite your lip and look harshly down at your conjoined hands. Pinky in pinky, cigarettes dying down together. The burning end has neared where your fingers clench on the filter, and you tell yourself that that’s the source of the heat coursing through your body. It has to be, because it certainly can be the effect of Eddie. Eddie, touching himself. Eddie, moaning. Eddie, definitely not stubbing his toe.

Flames and oceans, you remind yourself, flames and oceans do not mix. Can not mix.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks with certainty, the cadence in his voice fading into something of serious discussion. The playfulness is still there, just more subdued, “And can it… not cause some big fight between us this time?”

Well, that can’t be good. “Go for it.”

“I told you why I hate you, so… why do you hate me?”

You understand his request immediately; it’s a loaded question, no doubt.

Why do I hate you?

For the life of you, you can’t pinpoint an exact moment. And unlike Eddie, you’re willing to tell him the truth, you want to reward him with honesty. The time of avoidant answers has passed for you, and you want to bare your soul to him in a peculiar sense.

“I- Okay, I don’t know exactly why,” you begin, considering finally disconnecting your pinky from his before deciding against it, “So I’ll talk you through it, but no interruptions, okay?”

“Okay. I’d pinky swear, but, y’know,” he raises your hands into the air ever-so-slightly, acknowledging the position he’s put you two in for the first time in the entire conversation.

You both laugh at the sentiment before you continue on.

“I’d like to preface this with the fact I know you won’t tell me the truth about this, even the others can’t tell me the truth about it, so don’t think of this as me seeking out answers. I’m the one offering an explanation, not you. So…just…” you take a sharp breath in and catch his eyebrows shooting up into his bangs from the corner of your eyes. You can’t look at him head on, a lingering fear of showing this type of vulnerability with him being impossible to shake, “That first night we met. You were nice, right? You were nice, we got along, and then… Then I went to the bathroom. And I came back, and suddenly, you… you weren’t nice. You weren’t quite mean, not yet, but you certainly weren’t acting the same anymore. And I don’t know why you changed, I don’t care,” An absolute lie. You cared. You cared so assiduously, far more than you should, to know why, “But after that, you were just… cold, I guess? And it all built up. I thought it was a game at first, I gave up trying to be friends and decided whatever was happening between us might be normal. You’d give short answers, so I gave short answers. You’d insult me or make fun of me, so I’d insult you or make fun of you. It was just a game. Until you got mean.”

A siren flashes by on the street below, and you can’t even make out the sound of his breathing. Now feels like a good time to pull away your pinky, to take a final drag of your cigarette, to leave behind his burning touch. The moment you try, he completely traps your finger between his pinky and ring finger.

He’s not letting you go without a fight.

You’re tired of fighting him.

“I actually think it took me a while to really hate you back, y’know? I think I was still holding onto this... this childish hope that you didn’t mean to be cruel. Or that you were just jealous of me intruding on your friend group – you told me yourself that you guys go all the way back to high school. I was this invader, and I excused your cruelty for a really long time because of it, because I told myself I understood. But then… six months ago, I stopped understanding. I had to admit defeat and hate you because you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Steve’s party.”

He says it so quietly, you almost miss it. He sounds remorseful, he sounds sad, he sounds regretful, he sounds mournful.

“Steve’s party,” you confirm just as quietly. Your pinky is slack against his as his grip finally loosens, “That night, everything you said… It finally felt personal. From the minute I got there, you were just… awful. You knew exactly where to hit me when I was down. And it took me shattering Steve’s poor glass to realize you really do hate me. You hate me, so I hate you.”

It’s out there, the truth – your only reason for hating Eddie Munson was because he hated you. It was based on a worthless principle. Born out of necessity, you had forced yourself to hate the man who currently has your pinky wrapped around his, who had pledged his protection over you with the same mouth that had claimed he’d never miss you if you evaporated from his life.

The hate would always be there. It wouldn’t wash away with his waves, and it wouldn’t turn to ash from your flames. You couldn’t get your hopes up that one night could fix it all.

“I was a dick that night. I know I’ve already said sorry but… I’m sorry,” he finds his reply in the darkness, in a hushed tone. Quiet and ridden with shame.

His pinky falls even more slack with yours as if he’s silently offering to let you go, as if the memory of what he’d done is enough to remind him you aren’t his to keep. But you’ve already given up the fight – your pinky stays with his.

“You were a dick,” you agree, “But I know you’re sorry now, it’s just a matter of… accepting it. Letting it go. I’ve not exactly been innocent in this. Remember Chrissy Cunningham?”

He laughs dryly, clearly recalling the blonde you’d caught him out on a date with.

“Jesus, fuck. Yeah, I remember Chris. I never did get a second date.”

“Because of me,” you try to tease, doing as he would and leaning your bicep into his.

He nods, “Because of you.”

You’d been extra spiteful that night. It was before Steve’s party, even. The moment you’d seen them in that booth, Chrissy giggling far too much at each of what had to have been Eddie’s terrible jokes, watching her perfectly manicured hand settle on his shoulder, you had been out for blood.

You’d approached them, and made Chrissy believe Eddie was already your husband. You’d even switched one of the rings on your right hand to your left ring finger. An entire debacle had been made in that diner, and Eddie looked ready to murder you when Chrissy had left and murmured something about ‘calling him later’ as you continued to credit him for being an absolute cheater.

She never did call. You must have really sold the entire lie with your crocodile tears.

“I was a bitch that night,” you supply as you let your cigarette finally drop from between your fingers, hitting the concrete as it begins to sizzle out, “So… I’m sorry. And we’re even.”

Eddie steals his cigarette into his other hand and takes a final drag before he properly puts it out, “Looking back now, it’s kind of fucking funny. Seriously. Did you know I knew her in high school?”

You don’t expect his lighthearted response, but you take it in full stride with a squeeze from your pinky, “What?”

“Yup. She never gave me the time of day back then. And after our date, I found out she’d been already trying to get back with her on-again, off-again boyfriend from back then,” he shrugs, turning to glance at you, “Guess I wasn’t the cheater.”

“Jesus, I’m sorr-”

“Don’t. Don’t apologize for her. Apologize for the fact you never even signed a prenup with me, or invited me to our wedding, wife.”

That makes you break. You both laugh so hard you have no choice but to relinquish your hold on each other, bringing your hands up to laugh freely into your palms.

“I am so sorry, my dear husband,” you taunt, “Maybe I’ll remember to invite you to the renewal of our vows in five years time.”

“Five years?” he crinkles his nose, shaking his head harshly, nearly tearing his curls from his makeshift bun, “Fuck that. I never even got to say my vows the first time. You owe me a wedding, princess.”

“You never bought me a ring.”

“My bad,” you barely squeak out before you succumb to even more laughter. Eddie’s dimples shine as he joins you, looking to the ground as his shoulders shake.

He sighs deeply once the two of you compose yourselves, turning and leaning his back onto the ledge, staring out at the empty parking lot, “Where should we have our honeymoon? I’m thinking the diner would consider hosting us, even after your fiasco.”

“The diner?” you feign offense and mimic his position, “Fuck that,” you parrot his words right back, “You’re taking me to Paris, pretty boy.”

It’s a deliberate choice; the nickname doesn’t slip carelessly this time. It’s said with a conviction that makes Eddie blush, that makes him look at you with dark eyes.

“Pretty boy and sweetheart,” he mumbles, gaze flickering down your face, “We make quite the odd married couple. I don’t know how they’d feel about us in Europe.”

“They’d certainly stop and stare at first glance,” you play along, still giggling quietly, “But I think then they’d see just how in love we obviously are and just….” you pause and let your eyes flutter shut for dramatic effect, not catching sight of the way he suddenly melts for you, “Swoon.”

You don’t see it, but he’s looking at you like he’s about to kiss you again.

“Here,” he suddenly says, fiddling with his fingers when you snap your eyes back open, “Allow me, Edward Munson, to vow myself to you…. Uh….” he pauses as he realizes he doesn’t know your full name, and so you jokingly lean in and whisper it to him as if you aren’t the only two up here. He repeats it back as if he’d always known it, and you’re both back to giggling, “In sickness or in health. In hatred or in murder. In…. bets and from this day forward.”

He’s holding one of his rings, one decorated with a chunky skull, and motions for your hand. You offer it and allow him to slide the ring on with as much ease as he had slid the helmet onto you.

It fits a bit big, but you both look down at it as if it’s the world’s greatest gift.

“Wow,” you breathe out, your hand still cupped by his, “It’s certainly no diamond.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Allow me to just go to the twenty-four hour diamond shop and get something more to your taste, my beloved,” he goads, finally dropping your hand.

The metal is warm on the inner ring from his skin, searing into you just as his touch does.

“You sure know how to commit to a bit, Munson,” you murmur beneath your breath, lifting your hand to inspect the ring more closely. You’ve never paid much mind to his rings before, only ever knowing that they were there and they were a staple to his look.

“That I do, wife,” he grins widely, boyish in his suddenly shy stance, “You’re already wearing my sweats and my shirt, why not add the ring? Complete the look?”

“Complete the look,” you repeat and shake your head, shrugging, “Okay, fine. But just for tonight.”

Just for tonight, because after tonight, nothing changes. Your heart pangs at the thought but you don’t let your smile or joking demeanor fade with him.

“Of course, of course,” he waves the hand that is now one ring lighter, “Just for tonight. Come morning light, everything goes back to normal. No one has to know you spent the night married to me, sweetheart.”

“I mean, I’ve already moved in for the night,” you remark, looking up into his eyes, “We have moved quite quickly, haven’t we?”

“We have. All that’s left is consummating the marriage, or whatever,” he shimmies a shoulder into you, turning to face the motorcycle, “Speaking of home, we should get going before any scary criminals show up and you have to beat them up for me.”

Your cheeks are burning red, your hand is carrying his ring and flames, “Oh, I’m sorry. We are so not brushing right past the fact you know the word consummate.”

It’s easy. Being with him is easy, on fire or not. It is easier to enjoy him and joke with him, fall into civility with him, than to force yourself to hate him. You don’t care if tonight changes nothing for him; it changes everything for you.

“I’m brighter than I look, doll.”

It is easy to burn for him. For tonight, and for the rest of your life, quite possibly.

He picks the helmet up off of the seat and holds it out for you as you follow him, immediately making you grumble in protest as you take it without a fight.

You decide to take one last chance before the helmet separates the two of you again. One last way to tell him you don’t hate him, you don’t know if you ever hated him, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever hate him.

“You know, I think we skipped a step,” you flip the helmet, not meeting his eyes this time, mustering all your bravery, “Usually, you have to kiss your bride, then consummate the marriage.”

Quiet. He’s too quiet.

You’ve stunned him into silence, and you take it as a sign that you’ve gone too far. You’ve brought the almost kiss back up in the most indirect of ways, and you regret it immediately.

“I’m sorry,” you immediately try to rectify, “I- that was dumb. Bad joke. I… I’ll leave the bits to you.”

You don’t give him a chance to reply as you shove on the helmet, much less gracefully than he had put it on you, and wait for him to get on the bike.

No words are exchanged. You can’t see if he’s blushing through the tint of the visor. You convince yourself that he’s only tense as you climb onto the bike behind him because he’s uncomfortable now, because you’ve breached a limit you’d never even noticed.

Of course he wasn’t going to kiss you. Of course you shouldn’t have mentioned it, let alone joked about it. You’re an idiot. Even in civility, you’re an idiot.

He drives even faster to the apartment this time, which is dangerous considering you don’t grip him nearly as tightly.

A game of fate you should have realized is dangerous to play. It is dangerous to burn for him, because he does not burn for you. This fire is one-sided and self-destructive, and although it is easy, you should have known better. The hating him is safer than the wanting him. The fury is safer than the yearning. The glasses shattered were safer than the moments shattered.

You arrive back at the apartment. He parks the bike. You return the helmet to him.

You walk up the stairs ahead of him. You don’t speak to him. You twist the ring he gave you.

You keep your head down at the door. He rustles with his keys.

The burning is too easy. You should have known better.

But then, he says your name, keys still hanging from the lock of the door to apartment 2C.

You look up at him, and wonder if he sees your embers, clear as day. You wonder if he’s about to tell you to collect your things and inform the others that the bet is off, that the two of you will scrounge together the money you owe them and forget the night ever happened.

“Tonight changes nothing, right?” he questions once he has your full attention. You can only nod, ignoring the sharp pain of reality, “Nothing that happens tonight has to matter, right?”

You swallow hard. “Right.”

He’s the one nodding now, seemingly lost in thought.

This is it. This is the part it all ends.

“Great,” he finally concedes, voice raspy. You’re about to parrot back the sentiment when his hands are suddenly back in your hair, and his breath is back against your cheek, "Then fuck it."

This time, almosts don’t cut it. He kisses you, and he tastes like salt water as he meets your ash.

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#twenty four hours #my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #i am nervous for this one jesus fuck #shaking as i post it but the show must go on!#gonna go offline for several hours now #or just simply read bluey's newest story hehe #no one look at me

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