#steve maybe keeps coming back to the bakery just to see eddie

[sofadofax]

saw this on instagram (yes, instagram) and i can’t stop thinking about steve recognising eddie at a bakery and immediately falling in love with the guy he kinda had a thing for in high school but never allowed himself to think about too much. like, he’s always had eddie in the back of his mind since finishing school but suddenly seeing him has him all heart eyes and also kind of surprised with what eddie ended up doing with his life. idk, you can think about the statistics, i’m not a writer (please someone write something and tag me 🙏) but THIS will be in my head all day at work

[formosusiniquis]

have your cake

So way back in August 2023 the steddiemicrofic challenge was Cake and 311 words, my head empty brain came up with one thought and it was Steve Munson having a bakery called Mun's Buns and so many months later I finally got around to finishing my vision

Ships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson; Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins; implied/past Tommy Hagan/Steve Harrington/Carol Perkins WC: 6408 | T | tags: Future Fic, the lightest of post homoerotic friendship breakup angst, fluff, Tommy POV AO3

The bakery has a stupid name, is the first thing Tommy thinks when Carol tells him where he's supposed to meet her on his lunch break. He’s still thinking that, when he sees the place for the first time through his rain speckled windshield. It's a modest storefront, small for what Carol says is a booming business, tucked in next to a used bookstore and a music shop. There's a baby yellow awning hanging from the front just underneath a sign lettered in soft blue that reads Mun's Buns.

He's late, is the second thing he thinks after pulling up. Caught up in some stupid bullshit for his dad he hadn't managed to slip away until 12:30. Even then it had only been because Tommy had told him he was going to be late for their cake tasting. He'd rolled his eyes when his father and Greg, a guy that Tommy only considers a co-worker in the sense that they are technically on the same payroll since Greg in every other aspect is incompetent and an idiot, had winced. Shooing him away like a kid who'd just admitted that he's already twenty minutes past curfew. But catching sight of the way Carol has her arms crossed, tapping her foot fast enough to kickstart a motor, while her hair hangs limp in a way that it hadn’t this morning a third thought crosses his mind: maybe he should have been a little more worried.

Waiting isn’t going to make things any better. So he steps out of the car, let’s the misty damp cling to him in a way that makes his dress pants and button down feel like a poorly tailored second skin, and takes his licks like a man. "Late, thirty minutes late. Christ, it's the only thing I've asked from you Tommy." Her right hook stings just as badly as it did sophomore year when she punched him for asking out Erin Murphy instead of her.

Shit like that is probably why no one expected them to make it this long or this far.

When they went away to college; different schools, hours apart. His parents had been gleeful as they'd warned him that high school relationships didn't always last. That he should keep his options open, he didn't want to miss out on the love of his life just because of comfort. He didn't get offered the family ring when he decided to propose right after graduation. Carol has always been particular. Wanted the house to come back to before the wedding could happen, wanted a long honeymoon. That meant saving, a lot of it. Tommy knew and Carol did too, they'd overheard his mother and aunt gossiping in too loud voices after too much wine that they hoped the long engagement meant they were both trying to figure out a good way to break it off with one another. 

Still, over the course of their now five year engagement no one's asked once if they wanted to trade for it.

Carol thought it was horrendous anyway. She’d had her ring picked out since ‘85, styled her class ring so it would look like the oval cut diamond she wanted. Had him slide it on her finger the second it came in.

Cause in the politest of terms, Carol could be a raging bitch. She was Tommy's favorite person in the entire world.

There’s going to be a bruise on his shoulder tomorrow, even if she’s guiltily smoothing a hand down his arm now. Thrust toward the door first in offering, Carol is sorry she hit him but she’s not apologetic. “I’m serious, Tom, if we lose this appointment and have to go with Sweet Treats for our cake I'll- I'll-"

Whatever threat she was preparing is drowned out and then cut off by the echoing TONG of the door chime. A light in the back shifts color for a second, out of place enough that he wonders if he even really saw it. Head tilting toward Carol, his question catches in his throat when he notices her pinched off appraising. Better not to add to the ammunition she might already be building.

And if Carol is looking he better do it too. She'll want to debrief when they're having dinner tonight, just like they did with the florist, the caterer, the three wedding planners they'd met with, and each of the venues that they'd visited. And it wasnt because she was demanding, fuck you Greg. It wasn't because she was being nitpick-y, alright it was a little bit because she was but he liked being particular with her. He liked being involved in his wedding.

So he looked around.

The way they utilized their space -- a building that big and there's barely enough room to stand, we want someone who knows how to work with limited space for the venues we're looking at -- was the reason their first wedding planner hadn't gotten hired. Small, but not cramped. There are a handful of tables scattered in the open space in front of the counter. It’s the kind of small town cozy that Hawkins had tried for and he doesn’t see very often anymore now that they’ve moved out to Indianapolis.

It’s lunchtime, still too early for people to be seeking out the rows of deserts in their neat glass counter and too late for the breakfast crowd. But one of the tables is occupied by a teenager with long, black braids scribbling in a notebook while a slice of ice cream cake melts on a plate by her elbow. 

Everything was neat, organized, and compliant with health code regulations -- they hadn’t even made it in the door of the first caterer’s when she noticed a trail of ants and roaches marching into the open kitchen door.

Carol had always been quick when she was making up her mind about something. Like those Sherlock Holmes stories they’d had to read in school, in a couple of seconds she could spot everything she needed to make a decision. After a decade Tommy still couldn’t keep up; but he was always best at following someone else’s lead.

The smile she’s got frosted across her face is as sugary and fake as the roses on the cupcakes he can see behind the low topped counters as she approaches the only visible staff member. A girl, young in the way that nebulous way anyone younger than him was now, with thick squared glasses that magnified two distressingly blue eyes. The counters looked like they were designed to sit low enough that she could easily see over the top while in her wheelchair.

“Welcome to,” her customer service tone borders on bored. Two words into a clear script and she sighs, as if saying the name physically pains her, “Mun’s Buns. We’ve got a special series of summer flavors: Strawberry Lemonade, Lavender Mint, Chocolate Fudgsicle, and,” she sighs again, “for the grownups a boozy Blue Moon with orange zest.”

“How about a wedding cake.” He’s impressed. Carol made it through the speech without interrupting.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl raises her voice, enough to make them both flinch back. Customer service isn’t a requirement for this part of the job necessarily, but Carol had bailed on two venues because the staff hadn’t been polite enough.

Her smile doesn’t crack though, “Yes.”

Even though he’s pretty sure this girl has to be basically blind with the inch thick frames, she levels Carol with a lethal stare. “Not you.”

From the open entryway behind her Tommy had been able to make out what sounded like the highlights of yesterday’s game. He assumed that space had to be the kitchen where these rows of deserts were made. He’s still surprised when a guy’s voice is shouting back, “I don't know, Max, do I? Why don't you check?”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Max shouts back, glowering at then in stand in for her mystery boss.

“With your finger, asshole. It's in braille. When I gave you this job you said you were actually gonna work.”

“Douchebag." Her eyes never leave them, while her hands rummage around in a space beneath the counter where the cash register sits. Max offers no explanation or apology for her shouting or for her boss. A large red appointment book gets slammed down on the nearest counter, making Carol jump but the neat two by twos of chocolate frosted cupcakes don't budge. He watches, a little fascinated by the way her finger scans the page before slowing. "Did you write this or did Dustin?"

Carol has always valued gossip over professionalism, he thinks that’s why she’s done so well as a hairdresser even though she was always awful at chemistry. It’s also why he’s held off from pointing out that they could solve this a lot faster if this guy would come out from the back. "Why?" 

“Cause one of you can't spell and one of you is trying to invent braille shorthand. So I'm not really sure what to do with TomGan Wed.”

“It might be Thomas and Wedding.” Carol leans over the appointment book as she says it, using a tone of voice he has never once heard her use in the entire time he’s known her. He thinks it’s supposed to be helpful.

“Wedding sampler.” The girl calls toward the back, “It's getting late.”

“I’ve got it,” the voice from the back shouts back.There’s an effortless assurance Tommy can hear from where he’s standing. It hits him with a wave of nostalgia so strong he grabs Carol’s arm on instinct.

“Really,” she says, cutting her gaze over to him. He’s not sure what she sees. “If we could hurry this along, it's just we've only got an hour.”

“You're late.” The glare she gets shuts Carol down faster than he’s ever seen.

“Right.”

“Okay I've got it.” The voice from the back is now the voice in the doorway. Hidden for a second by a serving tray loaded with samples of rich looking cake, it’s the first time since arriving that Tommy has actually wanted to be here. Not just because he can make out strong shoulders and a body of a man that’s still very fit but clearly enjoys his work too; the hint of love handles above strong thighs. Only then that tray dips, and for the first time since 1985 Tommy finds himself looking at the shocked hazel eyes of Steve Harrington. “Oh.”

Carol reacts for him, taking in a breath sharp enough she might puncture a lung. They’ll both wind up suffocated on the floor of this stupid bakery with an awful name, because Tommy can’t manage to breathe at all looking at Steve. Still unfairly handsome, faintly pink at the shock of seeing them too he imagined.

His hair is long, is the first real thought his half fried brain manages to put together. Soft looking even where it’s damp at the temples where sweat has pooled. He has it pulled back with a couple of the same butterfly clips that Carol likes to use.

His second, somehow more hysterical thought: this wasn’t how Steve Harrington was supposed to be included in his wedding.

Tommy was six years old and knew he wanted to marry Steve. When he’d told his mom -- to ask for her ring, Steve thought it was romantic like princes and princesses that they had a special ring that they got married with -- she’d grabbed by his arm so hard it’d left finger shaped bruises. So he’d held that certainty quiet in his heart until he was ten, and suddenly it was okay to want to play with girls on the playground -- he thinks it’s because Steve got tired of there never being an even number when they tried to play kickball, he had a way of making everyone want to do the thing he was. Carol wasn’t afraid to tell Tommy C. that he was dumb or to tell Mark L. that he hadn’t actually made it to the base, Steve liked her fast. Too fast, and Tommy had to tell her that one day he was going to be able to keep Steve all to himself. But he knew that it wasn’t right to say that now, even if he wasn’t all the way sure why it wasn’t. He was ten, but he would be eleven soon, and he took this part of him that he’d kept secret for so long and he whispered it to Carol under the slide while Steve tried to convince Brad P. that he could too pick two people for his kickball team first.

He was ten and Carol said they could share. Boys can’t marry boys, but girls can. So they could both marry her and live together forever.

It became a joke when they finally shared it with Steve, thirteen and boys going out with girls wasn’t funny the way it used to be. Sarah Jane asked Carol if she had a chance at going steady with Steve. She told Tommy about it later and they both told Steve that he was too good to date any of the girls in their grade. “Well I’ve got you guys,” his voice cracked when he said it, throwing an arm around both of them. Carol didn’t care as much, but even she’d noticed the way Steve was changing from boyish to handsome.

They were sixteen and disaster was just around the corner, not that he knew that. Steve dated around but he always came back to them. The head, the heart, the body. They don’t feel complete without each other -- at least Tommy doesn’t. Mr. Kripke, who was hungover more often than he wasn't, passed out ten minutes into study hall. Carol didn’t even wait to see if he’d wake back up before she left her assigned table for theirs. She smoothed out a lined piece of notebook paper for them, and Tommy scoffed like he was supposed to. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing MASH?”

“It’s dirty MASH, and I thought you’d think it was funny.”

“I think it’s funny,” Steve had said, “that you’re getting eiffel towered on your wedding night. Who else is joining in, Carrie?”

“We couldn’t agree on who got you for their side of the aisle. So we’re taking you to bed instead.”

He was sixteen and the way that the two of them looked when they shared a joke was the hottest thing in the world. The way their smiles mirror when they turned to him, sharp and ready to flay open the softest parts of him.

Tommy’s two days older when Steve lets him kiss the taste of Carol out of his mouth.

It was three days after he turned seventeen and he had to pretend he didn't want to die when he saw how Steve looked at Nancy Wheeler. Like he didn’t want to rip his hair out because Steve was fucking infatuated with this mousy little teacher’s pet and wouldn’t even look at him anymore.

He still doesn’t like to think about the breakup. He pokes it like a fresh bruise. Less often now, but when he does he digs his fingers in. Baits Carol into fights he doesn’t mean just so he can pretend like he hasn’t lost something that hurts like a limb.

Steve Harrington turns twenty-eight next week, and he’s standing in front of them both holding pieces of what might turn into their wedding cake.

“Wow I can’t believe you’re in Indy!” False excitement grates, but at least Carol has gotten herself together enough to speak. He thought he’d have at least another few months to prepare for the thought of seeing Steve, by their ten year reunion he was going to be married and happy and over it.

“Yeah, this is- Married, wow! I kinda can’t believe you haven’t already.” He says it to Carol, his platitudes had always been for Carol, but his eyes find Tommy. 

While Carol chatters at them and for them both, nervous, he knows she’s nervous. The situation is sudden and strange and fraught. But Tommy just looks at Steve, who looks at him. He’s getting married in three months, one week, and two days from now and for the first time in eleven years Steve is looking at him.

"Takes a while to save up for when you want the best of everything. Dad's still the skinflint he always was, I think he'd pay me less than minimum wage if he could get away with it."

And those soft brown eyes look so sad, looking at him. Sometimes he thinks no one will ever understand him the way that Steve did.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best, or having a long engagement." Carol defends. It's the same line she's been giving everyone. Defensive of him and herself and the choices they've been making. He can't believe Steve is someone she thinks they have to defend against.

“I really hope you're happy, man," he says, and the sincerity is a balm on the sting of this conversation. He pushes his hair back from his face, the way he always has when he's uncomfortable and trying not to make it obvious. And there's a fresh new hurt when Tommy catches sight of a plain gold band on Steve's finger, shining bright between the golden highlights of his hair.

“I’m happy about this,” he can say honestly. Carol is one of the only things he’s ever been sure about. She held him steady as she could when his other sure thing left him with a cracked foundation in a convenience store parking lot. “What about you? How long after meeting the future Mrs. Harrington did you wait to put a ring on her finger?”

“Tommy,” Carol chides as the teen in the corner snorts. To anyone else it would sound like a reprimand for being nosy, he, and he suspects Steve, knows she’s telling him to stop worrying a scab that has no hope of healing right.

Married and they didn’t know. Wouldn’t have found out until the reunion. It’s not like he expected an invitation, maybe an engagement announcement sent to their parents’ houses. They’d sent one to Loch Nora when the real ring had finally made it to Carrie’s finger. It was equal parts olive branch and offering. They’d gotten it back return to sender with no forwarding address.

The bell above the door tongs again, loud enough to make Carol jump. The platter of cakes doesn't shift at all in Steve’s hand. His arm shows no sign of fatigue. It’s almost distracting enough that he misses the obvious. The bell signals someone is coming into the store.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. I know I said I wasn't gonna be late but Mike…” There just inside the door is the Freak. Undeniable even with his head down as he digs through his shoulder bag. From the riot of poorly maintained tangles that still hang around his shoulders to the expanded mess of tacky ink on his arms. The only thing that’s changed is the age in his face and the band on his shirt.

“Munson?” Carol has the reflexes and the personal grace to address him first. Shock more than the disgust it might have been when they were still kids.

Tommy feels like a kid still. Looks to Steve in an instinct he’d thought he’d stamped out years ago, only to be met with wide eyes and teeth grit tight enough to draw out the square line of his jaw.

“Christ, I still get nightmares that start like this.” Munson says, eye darting between the three of them. “Max, am I naked?”

“Don't know, don't wanna know.”

“I thought you'd be able to tell by the energy in the room.” He wiggles his fingers, still bedecked in silver, like they can divine the vibrations or some witchy shit.

That’s enough to make Steve break just a little. A soft, exhaling scoff before he finally starts to move out from the counter. Tommy catches, and he doubts Carol misses it either, how Steve passes the closer tables to set his tray down between them and Munson.

“I can tell I don't want to be here for this.” Their redheaded audience member says, “I'm taking my 15.”

“Don't go harass Mike, he's finally working,” Munson says.

“Will and El are on shift on the other side,” Steve calls out, not looking at any of them as he moves cakes from his tray to the table. A deliberate selection he seems to be making.

“Whatever, I’m gonna call Lucas and break up with him so he can play better or whatever.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Munson calls out, “I’ve only got him on a five point spread.”

If Carol’s nails break from how hard they’re digging into his arm, somehow it’ll be Tommy’s fault. Not the fact that they’ve advanced the worst part of their ten year reunion by months, and also Munson is here and knows shit about basketball.

“Sorry, think my hearing’s going, sounded like you said you want him to lose and he’s getting kicked from the next one shot. I’ll let him know.”

“She gets that from you,” Steve and Munson say in sync. Glaring playfully at one another the way Steve used to with Carol.

“I’ll tell Robin you were-”

“Do not sick Buckley on me, Max made the deaf joke not me.”

“Weird, that’s not what I heard.” Steve has always claimed his hair as his best feature. It isn’t -- Carrie liked his eyes, Tommy his hands -- but it’s hard to deny that it doesn’t look good, flipping over his shoulder. His smile is private, just for Munson, soft the way he got whenever he picked up a new girl. Carrie taps the back of his hand, two sharp smacks, their signal for years that he needed to pay attention and notice something she had. Wide, nervous eyes dart to Steve -- like he hadn’t already been looking at Steve -- so he does his best to assess the way Carol would.

Jealous, viciously, Steve had been theirs in every way that mattered since they were ten years old and Carol had never liked sharing her toys with anyone but them. She watched his face for any sign of unhappiness anytime a new girlfriend came along, and when she found one she passed it along to him. So he could pick and joke until Steve was all theirs again.

So he checked the face. Tried to ignore the way Steve was lit up from the inside out with a joy he could barely remember, and then he saw the hearing aid.

He tapped back, three times. O.M.G.

“The 1985 Homecoming court here to reveal that this has all been a long con, Stevie?”

“Yeah I faked the name change paperwork and picked up a fake ID, sorry I took my business somewhere else.” Steve says it with the sincerity he’s always made those kind of jokes with, his strange sense of humor never coming across when he always sounded so serious. 

Munson gets it though, snorts loud and ugly, before a smile pulls wide across half his face the otherside taught with a gnarly scar. “Now I know why my fake ID business went belly up when we got to the city, not like I only sold three in high school.”  He gestures to the three of them in a wide arc.

Sophomores, they had decided it was time to throw their first real party now that Steve’s parents had moved out of Hawkins in all but name. Steve was a latchkey kid of new proportions and took to self sufficiency in a way that had seemed adult to him then; and in hindsight looked more like a child fighting for his life. Steve bragged how he’d been saving up the weekly checks they’d sent to ‘sustain him’ while they worked in the city during the week. His contribution to Tommy and Carol’s vague plan to throw a kegger by the pool. When they’d floundered, immediately, with the hows, Steve had been the one to suggest going to Munson.

“Love this preview of the reunion,” Carol cuts in, there’s no bite but Munson bristles anyway like she’s being rude for reminding them that there are customers present. “Steve?”

It’s funny, Tommy thinks, the way Steve still straightens his back at Carol’s tone. All this time and he can’t fight the old ingrained instincts either.

“Dustin made the appointment,” Steve apologizes, even as he’s posture perfect and preparing his pastries. The unsaid, ‘I definitely wouldn’t have’ doesn’t go unheard and it doesn’t sting any less even this far from their last interaction.

“Munson could join us,” Tommy offers, a new olive branch since their last one was never seen. Even if it does raise three sets of brows and makes Carrie’s nervous smile tighten even more in the corner of her mouth.

“Well at least one of us has to,” Munson, Eddie, says. Just says, tone like it was meant to be something said under his breath.

He's grown up a lot since high school, they both have. Still, he's only got twenty minutes left on his lunch break and it's been a long day. "God, is that why it's called that?" Growth, he doesn't say that Steve Munson sounds a lot dumber than Steve Harrington.

"It's charming," Carol and Steve both say. Though Carrie is definitely lying and Steve barely gets it out from between his gritted teeth, a sore spot. He's always been good at finding Steve's bruises.

"It's charming," Tommy agrees, like he always did when he was out voted.

Eddie has a smirk spread across his face and a ‘too proud of himself’ look in his eyes. Mouth open to make some quip that Tommy is going to pretend is funny, for Steve’s sake. Now that they’re here, he’s going to do something to show that they could talk to one another again. Steve clicks his tongue, taps his index and middle finger down to his thumb two quick times before he can.

He turns to the girl in the corner, "Erica, scram, go help Robin and the kids with the new donation that just came in."

The teen continues to scribble in the notebook in front of her, bulky headphones over her ears, she makes no sign that Tommy can see that she's heard Steve speak. "Erica, go, or I'll tell your mother you moved out of the dorms. You're 20, it's not child labor, and you've got a timecard."

She sighs and wordlessly packs up her things, she gives Steve a scathing look that takes Tommy back to high school. The withering eyebrow and rolled eyes would have been just at home on Steve’s own face in 1985, but she marches behind the counter, the sound of her dish rattling in the sink before she disappears out the same door that the redhead had gone out.

Now that the room has been cleared, an awkward silence has found the space to squeeze in. Munson, the original, still standing in the doorway and Steve standing between his unlawfully wedded husband and the two people who had lost their chance at him years ago.

The wedding and the reunion both on the horizon had dredged up a nostalgia that Tommy and Carol had been dealing with in their own ways. Dredging up old yearbooks, Carol had found a shoebox of old notes that she’d kept. Conversations written in three different inks by three different hands, nonsensical after all this time. Tommy woke up from dreams that he hadn’t had in years. Always of Steve and Carol, a study in opposites, but similar where it mattered.

“Well,” Steve says, taking charge of the situation like he always would when the other two faltered, “you’re here for a reason. We might as well get started on it.”

Steve’s fingerprints are still on them, just like he’d noticed theirs on him, molded as they were together. They’ve always bowed to his expectations, and his whims. When he ushers them to the table with a spread hand, Tommy and Carol go where they’re beckoned.

And so does Munson.

They keep an empty chair between them, an artificial divide for Tommy’s sanity, but with the sprawl of Munson’s legs their knees still occasionally brush together. Carol had taken the spot closest to Steve, who has stayed standing. He is their gracious host, marking the head of the round table.

“I pulled out the full sampler before I realized it was you,” Steve says. Even with as off balance as the interaction has felt, Tommy doesn’t feel his hackles raising. While it’s possible he’s gotten more subtle with his digs, Steve’s vicious tongue was usually unmistakable. “I can tell you about as many of them as you want though if you want to pretend like we don’t already know what I’ll be making you. I’m sure neither of you have eaten lunch yet.”

“You are going to take us on?” Carol asks. Shock always gives her tone an extra edge, defensive and catty, even if she’s really just waiting to see if another shoe will drop.

“Obviously,” Steve says, placing a faintly orange square of cake in front of her. He slaps Eddie’s hand away from another piece without looking away from either of them. “That’s as far as I’ll be going in participation though.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s mouth twitches up with the joke, a filthy smirk that leaves Tommy flushing hot. Too warm to not be a bright and obvious red at the acknowledgment of that old private in-joke.

It doesn’t get better when Carol moans, “Oh my god, Steve!” Even if it is about the cake.

He laughs, and Tommy suspects the two are actually trying to kill him. He chances a glance over at Munson who looks like he doesn’t care at all that his husband has made Tommy’s fiance moan. He is watching Tommy though, an inquisitive look like the one Carol gets when she happens to catch a nature documentary.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with Carol, “I’ll do something small with that citrus cake for you and Tom so you’ve got something you’ll actually eat on your wedding, maybe a pineapple buttercream on top like that nasty Juicy Fruit gum you like so much.”

“I mean it’s really crazy how you’re so good at this when you’ve never had any taste,” Carol compliments, she never did learn how to be nice.

He could probably count Steve’s teeth in the answering smile. Tommy can feel it like an ache in his chest how much he missed this. He snatches another cube of cake off the tray just so has something else to focus on.

“That’s the fancy one for the people who hate their guests,” Munson says as the cake has settled on the flat of Tommy’s tongue.

“It’s lavender,” Steve corrects, and the floral flavor is lodged in the back of his throat at least gives him a reason now to feel so choked up. “And it is for a particular sort of bride.”

“Are you saying I’m not fancy and particular, Munson?” Carol asks. 

She’s obviously talking to Eddie Munson, who lifts his hands up in answer. But it’s Steve who says, “If you tried to feed that to Gail she would leave the reception bitching the whole time.”

“Well go on,” Tommy finds himself goading now that he’s swallowed, “finish calling your shot, Stevie. You said you knew what we were walking out of here with.”

Carol reaches across the table, locking eyes with Eddie as she snags the piece closest to him. The one his fingers had been inching toward like he thought Steve wouldn’t notice him trying to take it.

“I’ll make a small citrus cake for you, Carrie, we’ll hide it in the back of the larger cake so you can get the pictures of you cutting it and smashing into each other's faces-”

“We will not be doing that,” she interrupts, the warning for him and also unnecessary. He already knows how she feels about being embarrassed in public.

“Then the big cake for your guests will be a chocolate cake, I can cover it in a buttercream or a fondant icing also chocolate, because it’s the only kind of cake the Hagan family will eat. Even though I’m sure John hasn’t given you a dime for the wedding, he’ll complain until Hannah gets married if he doesn’t like the cake.”

“Really,” Steve continues, “the only thing up in the air is how many people you were able to get away with not inviting, Care.”

The two of them start talking actual wedding logistics, and as Tommy grabs another bite of cake -- this one looks like it might be a normal flavor -- he figures the real show of good faith would be talking to the only other person at the table while he eats what Steve correctly dubbed his lunch.

“Y’know he never actually answered me,” he says in an undertone.

Munson seems surprised at being spoken to, only widens his eyes in response to Tommy’s unasked question.

“I asked Steve how soon after the first date he proposed, he never actually answered.”

Eddie softens at the edges before he can even say anything. Steve had a way of doing that, bringing out the romantic in a person. He loved with a passion that demanded it be matched. “Technically I proposed to him, but he says it doesn’t count because we weren’t together and I was high on morphine after a major surgery and thought he was Apollo, come to whisk me away.” The smile on Munson’s face looks dopey and drugged up now, like the very memory of whatever hospital stay is so ingrained in his mind he can feel the high now.

“But,” he goes on, “he told me we were getting married whether it was legal or not about three months after he got legally married to another woman.”

“Stop,” Steve has always been able to sense when he’s about to be the butt of the joke. He has a finger pointed at Eddie like a teacher delivering a lecture. “You can’t tell people that. It was for tax reasons, I’m not cheating on my wife.”

“You say tomato, I say whichever one of us is your least favorite has to be the extramarital affair.”

“I say, you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” Tommy can hear the warm affection behind the insult, the way their picking is a safer way to express their passion for one another.

He thought he would be jealous of whoever finally managed to reel in Steve Harrington for good, and he is. The emotion is there, present in the snarling tangle of emotions that this encounter has left in him. One that he and Carol will have to slowly tease and pick out tonight when they’re home in bed. Trying to make sense of what each thread is and what it means for them. But the one bright pulsing thread he can make sense of is happiness. He’s happy for Steve, happy that he gets to see an old friend so at ease and obviously cared for.

And he’s sad that his time is up, his lunch hour so close to an end he’ll be late getting back to the office. Something he can already hear his Dad and fucking Greg giving him shit for. Which means they have to end their time here.

Steve walks them to the door, flips the sign to mark them closed for lunch.

“Congratulations again, you two,” he says, “I really am happy I can get to be a part of this with you all. Even if it’s a little different than we used to imagine.”

Carol reaches out for the both of them, puts her hand on his arm. Tommy finds that he’s the one who actually says, “We’re glad you found someone who makes you this happy, dude. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, he’s alright most of the time.” It's said with such fondness it becomes a declaration. It’s hard to imagine how they thought they could ever be the something that could make Steve this happy. But maybe in a different life, under different circumstances it could have been.

There’s a minute where they all stand in the doorway. He wonders if they’re all afraid that this might be the last time they see each other, speak to one another, until Steve is delivering the cake on the day of the wedding. Maybe it’s just him, he was the one who pushed back the hardest after things ended.

Someone finally gives in and pushes the door open. It’s TONG a death toll for their current conversation. But it also sends a jolt through Steve, he straightens to his full height like a shock has gone through him. “Here,” he says, “here, um.” He digs around in his apron until he finds a pen and a receipt pad. Jots down something before tearing it off and putting it in Tommy’s hands, “It's our home number, in case you have any cake emergencies or something.”

They really can’t stay any longer.

Carol takes the note, better at keeping track of these things than Tommy is. It’s hard to know if they’ll actually use it, maybe after they talk about it, but if they do she’ll be the one to do it. She’s always been braver than him.

There’s no way of guaranteeing anything but the fact that they’ll have a cake on the table on their wedding day. But he hopes that Steve might stay for the ceremony once he brings it, he can even bring Eddie if that’s what gets him there. 

Alone in his car, Tommy lets himself take a minute to think about Steve Harrington one last time. He isn’t going to get what he wanted as a kid. Doubts that he’ll ever be as close to Steve as he’d been in childhood, too much time has passed and too much has changed.

But there’s an opportunity to get to know Steve Munson, and he isn't going to pass it up. Even if he doesn’t know how to name a bakery.

[estrellami-1]

Tagged by @apomaro-mellow @i-less-than-three-you @every-aj-needs-an-angel… hopefully I got everyone! 😅

Rules: generate 5 random words using this generator and then write something using those words! Tag 5 (or however many you want) mutuals to challenge! (If you don’t like your 5 words, try again. This is supposed to be fun!)

My words: mosh, boulangerie, smuggle (technically it was ‘smuggling’ but y’know. Semantics), pearl, fawn

They met at a mosh pit in Indianapolis.

It was rather funny, the way fate works, if you ask Steve, considering he’s from France and Eddie’s from…

Well. He’s not entirely sure, to be honest. He speaks French rather well, but there’s an accent that attests to him being a transplant instead of a native.

Still, they meet and hit it off; they’re sharing the same hotel, same floor, even, so they split the cost of one room.

When in Rome—or, in this case, Indianapolis—do as the locals do.

In this case, as Eddie’d put it with a salacious grin: fuck like rabbits.

They’re on the same plane back to France too, as fate would have it. Steve to go back to his boulangerie, and Eddie to do whatever it is he does in France.

Steve privately thinks Eddie’s in France just to annoy Steve. He’s finding it increasingly hard to care.

They hook up again, more than once, more often than not in Steve’s flat.

He begins to find things missing.

There’s a pearl necklace from his mother. He’s had it ever since she passed, and it was his idea to give it to his daughter, if he should ever have one.

There’s a fawn-colored overcoat from his father. A little loose in the shoulders, but it fits Steve fairly well, and it keeps him warm in the colder months.

There’s a pie dish. Ordinarily he wouldn’t care, but this one is his favorite, for inexplicable reasons.

He asks Robin and Dustin, his friends-slash-employees. He asks his regular customers. He asks Eddie.

No one has any idea, or at least that’s what they say, but Steve’s pretty good at reading people and he feels like Eddie’s lying.

But Eddie’s hot, and a great lay, so Steve keeps his mouth shut, keeps inviting Eddie over, and does his best to keep a closer eye on him.

Things keep disappearing.

It all comes to a head when Eddie barges in one morning, wild-haired and wide-eyed, early enough that the bakery is barely open, that Steve himself is barely awake.

“Where’s the fire?” He teases, but it falls flat when Eddie smacks his hands on the counter and stares into Steve’s eyes.

“I fucked up.”

Steve blinks, thinks maybe Eddie needs a pastry or twelve, and places a gentle hand over Eddie’s, smiling at him. “It’s alright, we can fix it. What do you need?”

Eddie bites his lip, glances behind him. “To hide.”

Steve blinks. Okay, he thinks, maybe it’s more of a crazy ex situation. He nods. “Go upstairs,” he says. “My apartment. I’ll be up as soon as Robin is in. We can figure this out, okay?”

Eddie makes a sound that resembles a whine. “You’re gonna hate me.”

Steve raises a brow. “I find that hard to believe, actually, but I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” He leans forward, presses a quick kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “Go upstairs. I’ll be up in an hour.”

Eddie stares for a moment, presses a bruising kiss to Steve’s lips, and jumps the counter. Steve hears him sprinting upstairs, and he smiles as he shakes his head, continuing his task of placing pastries in the glass cabinet.

An hour later, Robin gets in, and Steve lets her take over, taking off his apron as he heads upstairs.

“Eddie?” He asks, as soon as he’s up.

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, standing up from the couch.

“Hey,” he smiles. He takes Eddie in, sees the way he’s holding himself, the way he’s been running his hands through his hair, and pulls him into a hug. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs. “C’mon, let’s sit down. Do you want a cup of tea?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I fucked up, Steve, you’re gonna hate me.”

“Like I said before, I find that hard to believe, but go ahead. Try and convince me.”

Eddie takes a breath, scoots away from Steve. Steve tries not to let any expression show. “There’s a reason I haven’t ever told you what I do,” he murmurs, not looking at Steve. Steve’s heart drops. “You mentioned the things that went missing. The truth is… I do know what happened to them.” He rubs his hands together, picks at a nail. “I’m a smuggler, a grifter, a thief… whatever pays the bills, really. Your mom’s necklace was real pearls. Your dad’s jacket wasn’t a knockoff, like you thought. It was the real deal, they both were.”

Steve sets his mouth. “And the pie tin?”

Eddie smiles in a way that makes him look like he’d rather be doing anything else. “That… was purely personal. I thought… if I couldn’t have you… something of yours would have to do.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighs. “The law’s after me. Again. I still have all of your things. I couldn’t bring myself to sell or smuggle them. If you want them… what am I saying, of course you want them. I- shit, Steve, I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you in the first place… you just make it so easy.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “I make what so easy? I make an easy target? An easy mark? An easy fuck?”

“Well,” Eddie says, with the beginnings of a grin, “you kinda do make an easy fuck. But no, I meant… you make it so easy just to be. Just to be a person. Not a criminal, not someone who’s run their entire life. You make it easy to pretend that I can have everything I want. You’re… you’re the hardest target, the hardest mark, because… I care about you, Steve. I’m falling for you. And I know I ruined every chance I ever might’ve had with you, but you’re… you’re so good, and even if you never speak to me again, I thought… maybe you’d help me.”

Steve sighs. “Just answer one question for me.”

“Anything,” Eddie immediately says.

“When we’re… together. Are you putting on an act? Trying to get me to like you, to trust you, so you could steal from right under my nose?”

Eddie’s eyes widen. “No,” he swears. “I mean… Maybe I didn’t show you every part of me, but that’s just because I like you, and I wanted you to like me too. I didn’t want to scare you off.” He offers Steve a crooked grin. “I’ve been told I can be a lot.”

Steve regards him, sends him a crooked almost-grin back. “I’ve been told the same.”

He stands, presses a kiss to Eddie’s lips, and steps back. “You’re good with money, which is one thing my business is sorely lacking. Bring back my things, bring whatever you want to keep for yourself. You start Monday.”

Eddie blinks. “So… I didn’t just irreparably fuck everything up.”

Steve grins. “Oh, you’ll make it up to me. Don’t worry. But for now, go get your things. I’m going to make a call. Who’s after you? What got you spooked?”

“Right now, just the police. But who knows, if they find anything…”

Steve nods. “I’ll make a call. They’ll be off your case by the end of the day, but you should lay low for a while anyways.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “Is this an example of keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“Oh, Eddie,” Steve tuts, leans in until their lips barely brush, and Eddie’s eyes are closing. “I’m going to do things to you that I’d never dream of doing to my enemies.”

Eddie lets out a shaky breath. “Promise?”

Steve pulls back just as Eddie’s patience wears thin and he leans in to kiss Steve. “Go get your things,” he says, smiling when Eddie blinks confused eyes open at him again. “We’re going to have fun tonight.”

Tagging: @steddieas-shegoes @nburkhardt @thatonegreyghost @ghosttotheparty @wynnyfryd and whoever else wants to do it! Feel free to ignore if you’ve already been tagged. ❤️

[beans-and-rice101]

Merry Christmas

Prompt: Imagine being the Christmas Gift Master for the Avengers or the Justice League. - @darkshadow3942

DISCLAIMER!!! I DO NOT PRETEND TO KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO LIVE WITH SOCIAL ANXIETY/BEING INTROVERTED!! I DO NOT PRETEND TO KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE TO LIVE WITH A SPEECH IMPEDIMENT!! MY KNOWLEDGE ON BOTH SUBJECTS IS INFORMATION I HAVE GATHERED FROM UNRELIABLE SOURCES! however i am lazy and can't be bothered to do research rn SO IF WHAT I'VE WRITTEN IS INCORRECT OR MAKES YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE OR UPSET PLEASE FEEL FREE TO LEAVE A RESPECTFUL COMMENT!!

So this is actually completely wrong when compared to the prompt but I took creative license so fuck you. Also it's way late for Kringle but WHO CARES. I worked pretty hard on this so be gentle?

~~~

"T-Tinsel? Check. Tree? Check-k. Obnoxious self-sus-sustaining Christm-m-mas lights? Check. Met-t-ticulously crafted gingerb-bread houses that n-no one w-w-will eat because I w-work for a t-t-t-team of ungrateful sh-shits? Ch-Check." You placed the clipboard down after ticking the last box. You had volunteered as Christmas organizer this year as Pepper was busy trying to convince Mr Stark to leave her pregnant ass alone for five minutes. Worst. Decision. EVER.

You had decided(in your naive eagerness) to invite not-really-Avengers as well because you pitied Quill when he tried to explain the concept of Christmas to the Guardians. Plus you wanted to meet the Spider-Man that Mr Stark had been fussing over. God that man needed to chill. You had only hoped he would relax enough this past week for you to get everything done. Hardly. But no use dwelling on the horrors of unpaid apprenticeship! You still had a lot of work to do. Let's see... Hang up the tinsel and assorted decorations, figure out how to attach the lights to the top of the compound, hide the food from Clint and Thor, pick up the order of mince pies from Bow's and Holly's Bakery, be at the airport at 10:00am sharp to recieve Mr Stark and Mrs Potts, arrange the assigned rooms for the Wakandan and spacefaring guests... God... What were you forgetting!?

You pulled out your phone and look back through your notes for the day. Ah, yes. Pick up Peter. Peter? Oh, right, Peter Parker. Spider-Man. Happy was away with family - who were invited to join, but declined - in California. This left you with the additional task of either driving Mr Stark to meetings and seminars or organizing for chauffeurs. You honestly preferred the latter, but To-Mr Stark always insisted on paying you for the ride. Plus, he wasn't that bad as travelling partners went. In fact, for the co-CEO of a multi-billion dollar company, Mr Stark is pretty cool. He isn't without his snark and a certain level of entitlement; and occasionally forgets that people like you live under different circumstances, but all in all, not the worst boss. Certainly better than the one that pays you.

Lost in thought, you very nearly ran into someone. Looking up at the person steadying you, you swallowed loudly at the sight of Steve Rogers. You smiled weakly and mumbled an apology as you looked down at your watch. "Oh sh-shit!"

"Uhh..?" Your gaze snaps back to Steve, who looks more than a little worried by your outburst. "Everything alri-?"

"I'M SORRY I HAVE TO GO THANKS FOR THE CHAT BYE!!" You sprinted past him; later you were informed that this was when you dropped your phone, but at the time your thoughts lay with the fact that it was 9:45am and you had to get your ass in gear.

You barely got to the airport as Mr Stark's plane was set to land. He and Mrs Potts had insisted on flying to San Francisco themselves to pick up Eddie Brock - Mr Stark's newest "find", whom he was as of yet, unsure of. Mr Brock had agreed on the condition that he stayed in a hotel of his choosing as opposed to the compound. Whether that was a lack of trust in you, Tony or himself, you weren't certain. Whatever the case, you didn't mind, as it was one less room for you to organize. As you contemplated Mr Brock, you turned up the radio, listening to the Christmassy songs.

Despite your responsibilities this year, you still found that you enjoyed Christmas. There was something about the cheesiness of it all. How over the top people would get, going to such great lengths to prove their Christmas Spirit. You were content with spending most Christmases by yourself, but lately you had been wondering what Christmas would be like when spent with someone. Don't be mistaken, you had plenty of memories with your family, and they stayed in touch, but it had been years since you had been home for Christmas. Your thoughts moved to the Avengers. Superheroes, secret agents, goody-goodies the whole lot of 'em. Most days, you found it hard to understand how so many different people could share a space... Maybe you envied them... You weren't much older than Peter Parker, but you would never consider to include you in the superhero equation.. You tried to convince yourself that you wouldn't belong, anyway. You had nothing to contribute; aside from coffee, bad jokes and a stutter that even your family couldn't decipher.

The car door opening jolted you out of your thoughts, and you looked over to see Mrs Potts sliding into the seat next to you. "How's planning going?"

"...How d-do you d-d-do it?" Mrs Potts laughed. After Mr Stark and Mr Brock were seated, you began the drive back to the compound. Along the way, you stayed mostly silent - unless it was to correct dates and names Mr Stark got wrong that Mrs Potts missed - and listened to the conversation. It was clear, at least to you, that there was both an air of caution from Mr Brock towards Mrs Potts, and a faint tint of distrust in Mr Stark's words to Mr Brock. You had never thought to ask why Mr Brock was of such interest to the billionaire, and from the air between the two men, you didn't intend to pry. You, personally, thought Mr Brock was quite polite, if a little blunt. He thought to include you in conversation, despite barely knowing you for a minute. When you started driving him to the hotel, preceding dropping off Mrs Potts and Mr Stark(who seemed hesitant to leave the two of you alone...), Mr Brock seemed to grow more closed off. You supposed he didn't want to distract you; or perhaps he didn't care.

With the lack of conversation, aside from occasional directions from Mr Brock, you started zoning out again. There was no point in returning to the compound straight after dropping him off. You would only have 20 minutes, then, to spare before it was time to go pick up Peter. Mr Parker? Should you address him formally as well? He was maybe two months older than you. You supposed it was better to be safe than sorry, but something about it felt wrong...

"Thank you for the lift." You nodded, smiling at Mr Brock as he got out of the car. "It was n-n-no problem, M-M-M-M-..." You sighed, giving up. You just nodded again. Mr Brock pulled his suitcase out of the trunk himself, waving off the doorman. You leaned out the side window, taking a moment to figure out your words before speaking. "I'll be b-b-back-ack at 6:15. Is that-at okay?" Mr Brock copied your earlier action before stepping back from the curb. You waved at him as you pulled away, contemplating what to do. You supposed you should at least pick up those pies from the bakery. In fact, it wasn't too far from Mr Parker's address... Nope. Didn't like it.

The bakery smelled fresh and the air was warm, compared to the snow outside. You rubbed your hands together, regretting not wearing thicker clothes. "Order for Mr T-T-T-Tony St-t-Stark?" The barista looked through the boxes and picked up a large cream one with clear plastic on the top so you could see the treats inside. You smiled thanks and regretted not returning the "Merry Christmas!" that followed you out into the cold. You sighed, taking a moment to look around. The street you were on wasn't too busy, and the shops were cheerful enough, but it seemed you were destined to be in a mournful mood this afternoon. You checked the time. 12:42pm. Not too bad on time. You decided to keep the pies in the back so that you weren't tempted to eat them. You had cookies at home that you could snack on.

Pulling up at the Parkers' house, you braced yourself for conversation. "Hi. I'm here for P-P-Peter Park-k-ker." Ehh. It was understandable. That was what you told yourself as you rung the doorbell. You heard the sound of footsteps(sprinting??) approaching the door, and it swung open to reveal a boy with a cheery smile and messy brown hair. He yelled goodbye to someone inside, before hauling his backpack to the car. He was already in when you got there. Oh boy...

"So... You work with Mr Stark, too?"

"For. I work-k for Mr St-tark."

"Oh. Right. So... You've met the other Avengers? Like... Personally?" The dreaded question. You shifted slightly, preparing the words on your tongue. "N-no. Not p-p-personally. I only work-k for Mist-ter Stark."

"Oh." Peter looked out the window. Oh God... You knew what he was thinking about. Here it comes- "So... Is your stutter, like, a speech impediment?" You sighed quietly. "Yes, it's a sp-peech imp-p-p-pe-pe-RRAA!" You slammed the breaks in frustration, skidding a little. You took a deep breath, and turned to Peter, who looked more than a little shocked. "I understa-tand that you have qu-questions, and this is p-p-probably your first-t t-t-t-t-... Your first ex-per-i-ence-" You said the word slowly. "-with someone lik-ke me. But I have answered these que-questions too man-n-n-n-ny times before. P-p-please do not ask-k anymore." Peter had the conscience to look apologetic and he nodded in understanding. "Okay. I promise not to ask anymore questions like that."

"Thank you."

You arrived back at the compound at about 3:08pm, and watched Peter run over to greet Mr Stark. As soon as you had started driving again, you felt guilty for snapping. You were grateful to Peter for being the civil one and apologizing, and you knew he crossed a line... Forget it. He apologized and you forgave him. He even offered to take the pies in, so you guessed there were no hard feelings. Anyway, back to doing your job which, funnily enough, didn't include yelling at superheroes.

You had 2 hours before you had to go pick up Mr Brock, so you decided to run back to your apartment and amuse yourself until then. You had all but given up on completing your other tasks. The Avengers would simply have to put up the tree themselves. You would apologize tomorrow. You hoped Tony would understand...

Your apartment was kinda chaotic, but you were pretty decent at keeping things in the area they belonged, so it wasn't too hard to navigate. It also meant you were less likely to lose something valuable if you were broken into. You pondered this as you prepared a simple sandwich for yourself. The ideal Christmas dinner. At least munching on it gave your mouth something to do. You checked the time. 5:41pm. You supposed you could leave now and pick Mr Brock up early. Or wait outside for him.

You decided on the former, as you realized the latter made it seem like you were here for suspicious reasons. You found out from the front desk where he was staying and took the stairs to avoid people. Mr Brock's room wasn't difficult to find. You knocked. Inside, there came a sound like a wounded animal. You grew worried, as Mr Brock's voice sounded deeper when he answered. "Yes?"

"Uh, hi. It's m-me, ag-gain. I hope I'm n-n-not intrud-ding, bu-but I had t-t-time to spare s-so..." You trailed off as the room behind the door grew quiet. "M-Mr Brock..?" Getting no response still, you knock again. The door swings open to reveal... Mr Brock. He looks a tad more shabby and a bit nervous, but he smiles anyway. You recover your professionalism and return the smile. "I've pu-parked the c-car out the fron-nt. I hope you d-d-don't mind, b-but I'd like t-t-t-... The evening to m-myself." Mr Brock looks confused. "You're not going to the party?"

"I'm n-not an Avenger."

"Neither am I." You huff. "I d-don't work WITH Mist-ter Stark-k. I'm his assis-sis-sis-..."

"Assistant."

"...Yeah..." You give him a tight-lipped smile and gesture back to the stairwell. "I'm g-gonna wait in the c-c-car..." Mr Brock nods, turning back to his room. "I won't be long."

Indeed he wasn't. You were only sitting in the car for 10 minutes before Mr Brock slid in behind you, looking only slightly less disheveled. But he was in a suit, and you'd seen Mr Stark look worse, so you started driving. The car ride is much like before, only you occasionally catch Mr Brock muttering intensely to himself. Odd. Now that you think about it, Mr Brock seems to be absent of many common traits among the people Mr Stark tends to recruit. Perhaps that was the reason for the underlying hostility between the two. Mr Brock certainly makes you slightly anxious. But you boil that down to second hand stress on his behalf. Checking the time again - 6:12 pm - you force yourself to calm down. If Mr Stark trusted this man enough to allow him around his pregnant wife, surely he's safe enough to share a car with.

You pull up to the compound and smile encouragingly at Mr Brock. He returns it and nods in gratitude before getting out. You watch him stumble up the stairs, a distant part of you wishing you could join in. Inside looks so happy and bright. Such a distant, alien world to you. So far out of your reach. Held within your sight by one man who, while friendly enough, barely acknowledges your existence. These people are far removed from you. The good they do surpasses your life. This is what you force yourself to remember, and you wipe the tears from your eyes.

The drive home is difficult, to say the least. What with the tears in your eyes, and the pull you feel back towards the party, you're surprised the car moves at all.

Your apartment is cold when you arrive. Not only due to the obvious symbolism of how lonely you are, but also because you forgot to leave the heater on. You don't care much, though. After everything, you just want to crawl into bed. At least there, you can dream. You can return to the party, to be greeted by smiling faces, all of them delighted at your arrival. There, you can exist in the world you crave. Part of a family that stretches through space.

There, you might just have a Merry Christmas.