I took a favourite song and ran with it. I see this as an extension of the couple from -Knockin’ on heavens door- sooo enjoy this silly little bubble of toothpaste kisses (and theres a lot) and all 🧡
Word count: 3k
You’re not really sure when this thing between you both officially started. What you do know is that Eddie has proved to be one competitive little shit. No matter how sleep drenched his bones are, clutching the cold sink for leverage on 5 a.m- Wednesday starts, or how dehydrated he is from late night shots and a night of seeing what it takes to make the sheets untuck from the mattress, he will always be the last one to spit.
So now a mundane task, a basic human necessity, has you on high alert twice a day.
It’s Sunday. There is no particular rush to move, but the flecks of gold seeping through the shutters are a clear hint that the sun is lower in the sky and the traditional morning hours have long passed. Eddie and you have managed to fester in the sheets a little too long for your liking. No matter how good bed head Eddie is, everything eventually gets a little too warm and a little too sticky, and the reality of being sloths catches up with you.
Judging by the way he is chewing on the end of a pencil and frowning at his latest campaign, you assume you can escape to the bathroom without much fuss. Following that brilliant plan, you begin to shuffle toward the bottom of the mattress to slip off. It seems far better than the usual routine of climbing over the curly wilder-bed-beast.
What you do not notice is that as soon as you start the little wriggle downward, Eddie abandons his notepad, sneaks a leg out from under his blanket, and is completely ready to run.
“Where are you going, darlin’?” he grins, making you freeze at the foot of the bed.
Too late.
You bolt with a fit of giggles, trying not to trip over the maze of clothing you both created last night.
There is a childish pitter patter thundering through the narrow trailer corridor. The pair of you are racing toward the bathroom, hoping you do not trip over your cat in the process. Bertie has decided that the old bathmat is his chosen nest, making him the regular audience for your ritual.
“Ed’s, come on, I thought you were busy?”
“I am never too busy to miss my daily succession.” He sticks out his tongue as he hands you your toothbrush, the stripey paste dolloped on in true haphazard Munson style.
“All right. Back to back, please, my lady.”
You follow his ridiculous command, spinning around until you are facing away from each other. Eddie glances in the mirror and catches you doing the exact same thing. It earns you a tap to the hip and a muffled, toothbrush filled “cheat,” which makes you whip your head back with a foamy giggle gargle.
Then the competition begins.
And God, it should not be this intimate.
You brush. He brushes. You match his rhythm, his stubborn pace, the quiet huff of his breath, the tap of his foot on the tile. Every small sound he makes seems charged, like it is meant to rile you up. At one point you are fairly certain he is head-banging just to show off
Two minutes have definitely passed, and you are starting to feel extremely unsexy as a glob of toothpaste foam creeps from the corner of your mouth. Your wrist aches from the stubborn pace you are maintaining, competitive adrenaline buzzing through you. Eddie shows no signs of slowing. You can hear him keeping a steady brushing rhythm, foot tapping, head bobbing, acting like he is performing a full concert. It is infuriating.
You really need to spit.
You reach a dangerous point. Foam fills your mouth too much and your throat starts to tighten. Your body is begging you to cough or breathe or do anything at all.
And that is exactly what happens.
You choke. It hits suddenly, your body taking over completely.
You cough violently, toothpaste and water splattering across the floor and narrowly missing Bertie’s tail. You are gagging and spluttering and completely losing the battle.
Eddie reacts fast. He spits, tosses his brush, and moves toward you in one quick, focused motion.
He cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking the line of your jaw. His other hand rubs your back with firm, steady pressure. His eyes are wide and dark, all adrenaline and worry.
“Breathe, sweetheart. In. Out. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
Your coughing eases. Your throat feels raw and your eyes sting. Eddie guides you onto the closed toilet seat, stepping between your knees as if shielding you from the entire world.
He pushes your hair off your face and studies you like you are the most important thing he has ever held. Toothpaste still clings to your lips, and he wipes it gently with his thumb.
“Oh baby,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that low tone that always curls down your spine. He places his thumb against your swollen bottom lip, and you bite down lightly on instinct, grounding yourself on him, tasting a faint mint on his skin.
His breath stutters. Just a little. But enough to make pride spark in your chest.
“I think we might be incredibly stupid,” he says in a softer voice, the room suddenly quiet and ridiculously intimate.
You pout, embarrassed beyond belief. “You still won.” Your voice is shredded and hoarse.
“And you almost died,” he replies, the teasing smile returning slowly. He leans in, nose brushing yours, his fingers curling under your jaw in a way that makes your pulse jump.
His mouth finds yours in a warm, mint flavored kiss. It is soft at first, then deeper when he feels you melt into it. You taste like toothpaste and adrenaline and the kind of affection only two idiots could build out of a bathroom competition.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“Next time,” he whispers, “I’m brushing your teeth for you.”
Eddie watches your lips after that kiss, eyes hooded and dark, jaw flexing like he is fighting the urge to kiss you again immediately. Then something in him shifts, a warm protective spark, and he slides his arms beneath your thighs.
You gasp as he lifts you, clinging to him automatically, and he holds you against his chest as if the two of you were meant to fit exactly this way.
“Bed,” he says, voice low and certain.
Your hands slip around his shoulders, fingers curling into the curls at the back of his neck. His skin feels warm from the chase and from worry and from wanting. He walks you down the short hallway with a slow confidence, every step sending heat through your stomach because you know that careful pace all too well.
He lowers you into the messy bed nest with a gentleness that contradicts the look in his eyes. Then he crawls over you, caging you in with his arms, the sunlight falling in thin golden stripes across his face and turning his eyes molten.
He does not kiss you right away.
He looks at you.
Thumb on your cheek.
Breathing you in like he needs the moment.
Then he moves.
His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose and your forehead. Toothpaste kisses linger everywhere, warm and mint scented, pressed in frantic patterns like he is trying to make up for the scare you gave him. You laugh softly, curling your fingers in his hair and tugging him closer until his lips finally return to yours.
This kiss is different. It is messy and hungry and heated, a slow unraveling of breath and need. You feel him sigh into your mouth, a low sound that shivers through you, and your hands slip deeper into his curls.
His fingers slide beneath your shirt, settling at your waist. His palms warm your skin in slow strokes, steady and sure, exploring just enough to make your heartbeat flutter without pushing anything further. He kisses you harder, then slower, then deeper, each shift sending sparks across your skin.
You and Eddie move together in the sheets, the mattress dipping and rising under your bodies. Every kiss grows heavier. Every breath intertwines. Every brush of his lips pulls another sound from your throat.
He finally pulls back for air, lips pink and a little damp, forehead resting gently against yours.
“See,” he murmurs against your mouth, “this is much better than choking to death over brushing your teeth.”
You tug him back down using his hair -which you know drives him wild- kissing him again, and Eddie melts into you completely, letting out a soft sound that settles deep in your chest.
Eddie settles above you, curls brushing your forehead, lips still warm from all the mint flavored kissing. His thumb strokes your cheek again, but this time the touch lingers, tracing your skin in a way that feels both sweet and full of promise.
You kiss him lightly, a soft press of lips, then pull back with a tiny smile.
He follows you for another kiss, then another, each shorter than the last, almost like he is trying to catch your mouth before you can escape.
You laugh, breath warm against his chin.
“Are you trying to steal all my kisses at once, Munson”
“Not all of them.” He grins as he leans closer. “Just the ones that make your toes curl.”
Your heart jumps.
He knows exactly what he is doing.
You poke his side, and he squirms dramatically, letting out a gasp that is far too exaggerated to be real.
“Eddie, you are impossible.”
“And you love me,” he replies without hesitation, then nips your lower lip in a way that definitely counts as cheating.
Your fingers slide up his shoulders, brushing the warm line of his neck.
“I might love you. I might also be planning my escape from this web-bed.”
He pulls back with a mock gasp, hand pressed to his chest.
“After I carried you like a hero from the bathroom battlefield”
His voice is playful and full of pride.
“All right then. You need to earn your freedom.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that”
Eddie kisses the corner of your mouth and whispers,
“You can start by kissing me again.”
You do.
Soft at first.
Then deeper when his fingers slide into your hair.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to brush his nose along your jaw and murmur,
“You taste like toothpaste and trouble.”
You giggle, but it dissolves into a quiet breath when he kisses just below your ear, slow and deliberate, a touch that tells you he is teasing you on purpose.
“Eddie,” you whisper, your hands curling into his shirt.
“Yes, sweetheart”
“You are doing that thing.”
“What thing”
His voice is innocent.
But he is very much not innocent.
“The thing where you pretend you are not trying to start something.”
He laughs softly against your skin, warm breath making your stomach flip.
“I am always trying to start something when I have you in my bed.”
He lifts his head, eyes soft and full of affection, fingertips brushing your waist in a way that makes you shiver.
“But only if you want it,” he adds, voice gentle, full of quiet love.
You look at him, at the boy who chased you down the hallway, who rubbed your back when you choked, who is now kissing every inch of you like you are a diamond.
You pull him down for a slow kiss that leaves no room for doubt.
His lips curl into a smile against yours, and his forehead rests on yours as he whispers,
“Good. Then let me take my time.”
He kisses you again, slower and sweeter this time, hands exploring in lazy, affectionate patterns, bodies shifting closer as the sunlight softens around you both. Then begins his trail downwards, a steady path over your chest and down the softness of your tummy,leaving little wet splodges and tiny knips of lust. There is a small star button in the centre of your underwear band that even earns a little peck.
He pauses there for a moment, lips resting lightly against that tiny star as if it were something precious. His breath warms your skin, and when he looks up at you, there’s a softness in his eyes that steals a little more air from your lungs.
“Cute,” he murmurs, almost to himself. You can feel the smile in his voice.
His fingers trace the edge of your waistband, not pushing or pulling-just memorising it, letting the closeness speak for itself. Then he dips his head again, laying another slow kiss just beside the last one. Each touch feels unhurried, deliberate, as though he’s savoring the shape of you, the heat radiating through your skin, the way your breath catches when he lingers.
He trails upward again, mouth brushing over your stomach with featherlight affection, a silent promise in every press of his lips. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs sweeping small, steady circles that seem to sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.
When he finally rests his cheek against you, there’s a quiet exhale-content, warm, and full of wanting that doesn’t need to speak loudly to be understood.
“Tell me if you want more,” he whispers, voice low, husky and raw.
All it takes is a swift, desperate nod from you, and he’s tugging down your underwear and flinging them to one of the many piles on the bedroom floor.
He's finding your inner thigh, gliding his tongue up in slow little swirls. Then he stops. He’s just at that place he knows gets you all jittery and needy.
Timing it just right, open-mouth kisses are placed right at the centre, a gentle sucking following it, and your hips twitch to his command, eager to let him continue. He hears a small, squeezed yelp and knows he’s got you dipping into that gooey headspace. He breaks his tongue away, leaving the pad of his thumb in its place as his splayed fingertips rest on the base of your tummy, applying light pressure below your belly button.
With his other hand, he dips further into your core, the sweet wetness latching to his fingers, tempting him further so he can reach that sweet spot. The small stretch has you twisting, opening your eyes to see Eddie’s mischievous ones staring right back, silent words being passed between heavy breaths and Eddie's fingers increasing their pace.
He manages to start tapping the thumb that was applying light pressure to your most sensitive spot, the rough, guitar-calloused pad, creating the right amount of friction.
He works in a practised rhythm that makes having a musician boyfriend one of the biggest perks, because shit that boy knows how to work his hands.
The way you start to pant and fidget, applying pressure onto Eddie, relying on him to get you to that final high that is so, so close, just leaves Eddie in complete awe. The curling of your toes and fingers, the added push he adds to your lower stomach and the soft, encouraging whispers of praise that are tumbling from his lips are all mixing up into one big fruit salad of pleasure. It's almost too much; it feels overwhelming, with your ears ringing and your chest panting. But he's there. Guiding you through and adding the right amount of rough and soft, light and dark.
Eddie senses you teetering on the edge, your body trembling beneath his touch. He slows his movements, just enough to keep you begging, his gaze never leaving your face. "That’s it, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice thick with reverence and want. "Let go for me."
Your fingers clutch at the sheets, desperate for something to anchor you as waves of pleasure crest inside you. Eddie keeps his rhythm steady, grounding you with the steady pressure of his hand, coaxing every last drop of sensation from your shaking form. The room feels hazy, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the strength of his arms, and the safety you find in his devotion.
As you come down, breathless and loose-limbed, Eddie presses a gentle kiss to your hip again, grinning up at you, his eyes alight with pride and adoration. “You’re incredible,” he says softly, tracing lazy patterns on your thigh. “Could watch you fall apart for me all night.”
As your breath evens out and the aftershocks ripple through you, you catch Eddie's gaze; it's smug and satisfied. But you’re not about to let him keep the upper hand. With a grin, you leap onto him, pushing his shoulders back and pinning him beneath you before he can react. Your laughter bubbles out, bright and unrestrained, as you straddle his hips. “Your turn, Munson,” you tease, delighting in the way his eyes widen, surprised and thrilled all at once.
"What-?" he starts, but you cut him off with a soft, giggly kiss, your hands already roaming over his chest and feeling him harden beneath you. Eddie’s cheeks flush, his cocky composure dissolving as you take charge, your own confidence fueled by the high he just gave you.
He laughs, a little breathless, his hands coming up to hold your waist, letting you lead. "Didn’t know you were planning a sneak attack," he manages, grinning up at you.
“Gotta keep you on your toes,” you whisper, before leaning in to show him.
So with toothpaste kisses and lines, I’ll be yours and you’ll be…mine
Thank you for reading <3 likes, comments & reblogs are always appreciated
Some people who may enjoy- @bangaveragewhitewine @bettyfrommars @oneforthemunny @enam3l @kookygranger @eddiesxangel @insertcoolnameherethanks @writinginthetwilight @daisy-munson @ali-r3n @strangereads @mrsjellymunson @hellfirenacht @munsonsuccubus
Is Hustler!Steve still relevant in 2026 because THIS is very much him…
Oh 100%
Those sunglasses he always wears so that you can't tell what he is looking at (usually you)
One of those nights when you have a mark, but he can't be bothered with one because he's too preoccupied with why that dude in the cheesy necktie keeps touching your lower back like that (he's going to find a way to steal the necktie as a souvenir)
Oh yes…I am hooked once again (never left the train either) that necktie im sure will be used as a sling shot to flick the motel lights off once it’s served Steve’s purpose of choice
note: after an unintended hiatus, Coach Steve was exactly what I needed to start writing again! this is a sweet one, and I hope you enjoy!
more coach/teacher Steve fics | full Steve masterlist | divider by @strangergraphics
Three quiet knocks pull your attention from the stack of worksheets and colouring pages in front of you.
There is no mistaking the familiar little beat, knockknock-knock.
You are smiling before you even lift your head, and your stomach swoops pleasantly.
His body fills the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, whistle around his neck and that grin you have quickly grown so fond of on his lips.
“Inside on such a beautiful day?” Steve asks, tilting his head toward the open windows and the playground beyond. He had done a lap of the school yard and the staff lounge, eager to catch even a glimpse of you. Finding you alone in your sunshine yellow classroom, glowing beneath the bright primary colours and gallery wall of children’s artwork, was like finding treasure.
“No rest for the wicked, Coach.”
You tap your red pen on the worksheets before putting it down, wiggling your fingers to get the blood pumping again as Steve steps inside your classroom.
“We can’t all have class outside because the sun is out.”
Steve’s hand covers his heart, playing at being wounded by your words as he comes to sit on the edge of your desk. The space remains clear of papers and pens, reserved for him in case he called by. Your chair swivels, as if pulled by his magnetism, angled to face Steve and bask in his sunny smile that’s just for you.
“Well, if the teachers are keeping those kids cooped up all day, the least I can do is put on a little outdoor dodgeball.”
Steve slides his Ray-Bans from his pocket and lifts his whistle to sit between his shiny white teeth, modelling his sunny-day gym class look for you. His polo shirt is tight around his tanned and freckled biceps, and you know all too well that he debated if it was too early in the year for shorts before settling on his track pants this morning.
He looks edible. But this is not the time or the place to daydream about him slowly peeling that polo off, or running your hands along those strong arms, the dark fuzz of hair and firm body beneath.
You school your dreamy gaze to that pretend-pissed-off look that makes his stomach feel fluttery and his cheeks warm.
“Mm, we’re the worst. That’s why you’re their favourite.”
Steve smiles, feigning modesty as he slips his glasses off again so he can see you properly. The tiny reminder of his legend status - how he is once again the most popular guy in school - makes his heart stutter. This time, it means something.
Kids in every grade from first to sixth worship Coach Steve. He is gentle with them, patient and always with a positive word to say, even when he feels stressed and gloomy. He helps to tie shoelaces and patches up their skinned knees and elementary squabbles, never forgets a name and takes note of the kids who need a little extra help or an extra few kind words of encouragement. He is equally popular with the Middle School basketball team, his gym and health classes.
He is just as sweet with you, sweeter behind closed doors and away from curious eyes and nosy colleagues. In different ways, of course. It started with shared morning coffees in the staff lounge, an apple left on your desk and a sweet sticky note stuck between piles of worksheets, a helping hand with decorating your classroom before the new school year began. It was easy to fall in love with him.
Now, Steve glances back at the kicked-ajar classroom door, out to the yard beyond the bright windows where the kids' voices and laughter float in on the spring air. There are still a few minutes left of lunch, and students and teachers alike are enjoying the sunny blue sky outside.
His eyes flash, confidently mischievous, and he drops his voice before speaking.
“Hey, teach. Gimme a kiss?”
There is a softness in his eyes, contrasting his cocksure smile; Steve can’t hide the enormity of what he feels for you behind the Cool Coach persona.
Both of you lean a little closer, Steve on his pedestal-perch on your desk, and you in the teacher’s chair.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you patience, Mr Harrington? Or your Ps and Qs?”
Steve shrugs, tilts his head as he tees up to tease you a little more, make you smile.
“Maybe I need extra classes. You free after school?”
He hooks his foot, clad in his classic white sneakers, around the wheeling base of your chair, dragging you close enough to close the too-big space between you.
“Mm, maybe. I might have a hot date…”
He is looking at your mouth, remembering the shape and feel of it from the last time you kissed him. His tongue darts out to wet his plush lower lip, a muscle memory that makes you ache with want.
“Don’t tell me. ‘Mark Papers’? I hate that guy…”
He loves that joke, really. Loves playing up the hatred for his rival for your attention, and hamming up how he could convince you to ditch ‘Mark Papers’ to spend time with him instead.
You are near enough now to smell spearmint lingering on his breath from his contraband chewing gum, and his spicy-fresh cologne with a hint of sweat from the warm day and running laps with the sixth graders.
“You’ll find yourself in detention if you’re not careful, Coach.”
“Yeah? You going to make me write lines?” he murmurs.
Steve bends himself almost in half to taste your lips; sweet relief and cherry lip balm. Your cheek leans against his warm palm, and his smiling mouth moulds itself perfectly against yours to share a few soft kisses.
“You’re trouble, Harrington,” you whisper, brushing a few loose hairs behind his ear. Your smile betrays your teasing.
He cannot resist a second taste and kisses you again until you are both smiling too much to go on. It is all too brief and fleeting for both of you, but it is enough to keep you going for the rest of the school day.
His consolation for not getting to kiss you again until after the school bell will come when you shepherd your second graders to the yard later for gym class. Maybe you could be convinced to take a break from lesson plans and grading to watch the kids run around during his fun warm-up exercises, to pretend you’re not looking at the dreamy coach behind your sunglasses when he jogs past with a grin and wink. He wants to linger by your spot in the shade when the kids are too focused on throwing and dodging than their teachers' quiet flirtations and secret smiles.
So gently, you stroke his cheek and press one more lingering kiss to his mouth. The ticking clock on the wall matches the upside-down time on his wrist.
“I need to go collect my kids,” you murmur, feeling pouty about it. You have an exercise on punctuation to teach after lunch, but your whole classroom will be watching the clock until it’s time for gym class with the Coach.
Steve presses one kiss to your head before standing, offers you his hand to help you out of your chair. Your hand feels small in his; you squeeze three times and feel four back in response. He picks up your fresh stack of worksheets as you smooth your skirt.
“One on each desk?” he asks.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know. But let me help anyway.”
Steve shrugs, scanning his eyes along the exercise sheet with a smile before starting a weaving lap around the classroom. Each sheet is placed carefully, and he looks like a giant between the second-grade-sized tables and chairs.
“Thanks, Stevie.”
Your fondness-heavy words make his heart pump faster.
“Any time. Gotta get myself in the teacher’s good books,” he says, winking at you.
Back to teasing again, you murmur, “Teacher’s Pet,” as you tidy away your lunch box and grading to take home.
All too soon, he is back at your classroom door, and this time, you are right by his side. You squeeze his hand once more before parting ways; you go right towards the playground, and Steve turns left for the gym, both slow-walking backwards so you can keep looking at each other for a moment more.
“See you soon, Coach.”
Steve smiles, puts his hands in his pocket so he doesn’t pull you back in and make a scene in front of the troop of first graders coming back inside with their teacher. They whisper excitedly when they see him; their hero-worship is adorable, completely understandable. They can have his attention and some high-fives, but right now his gaze his fixed on you, committing you to memory until he sees you again in forty-five minutes.
“See you later, Mrs Harrington.”
thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed flirting with Steve in my docs! reblogs, comments and likes are loved, cherished and adored!
Summary: You've come home to your quaint and close-knit small town, tail between your legs after a failed attempt at life, only there's a new handsomely moody resident no one told you about. Staring down the dark abyss of dreams unrealised never looked so good.
Warnings: Eddie is in his thirties, reader is late twenties, reader has a family backstory – brief mention of dead parents, swearing, implied sex, mention of Hawkins but no allusion to ST plot
Word count: 8k
Author's note: Like Gilmore Girls if Rory was a loser. Apologies to the tumblr overlords, this has taken me since June and I cannot tell if it's even any good! And sorry for nicking the title @rosewaterandivy – it's Jess' best quote!
Masterlist
If you had to choose a season to move back to your small hometown in Connecticut and wallow in the grief of failure, it would be Fall.
Spring or Summer would be too hopeful, new beginnings and indisputable reasons to go outside, the nights too hot to sleep. Winter might err on the side of too miserable. The town always looked like a snow globe under a fresh sprinkling of powder, but when the rain came and turned it to slush, it could be just as bleak as a big city. But Fall – with its vibrant red and crispy brown leaves, warm cinnamon doughnuts and hot chocolate from the bakery, comfy sweaters and slow browsing at the bookstore – would be the perfect cocoon for your broken heart.
So, you dared to hope anyway, as you snuck back into town in the middle of the night with the breeze that loosened the first fallen leaves. Avoiding the town's gossip and pitying, prying eyes as you drove through empty streets, shopfronts dark but still twinkling under fairy lights. The news would spread like an uncontained flame by the morning, that you could always count on, but for now it was a quiet homecoming. And you could pretend things were just the same. Like there was still something bigger out there waiting for you.
You drop your shoes at the door and lock it quietly behind you. Leaving your bags until the morning, your tiny bed calling you to disappear under the colourful blankets and freshly washed sheets. Everything is how you left it, stilled by time, and you’ve just willingly slowed right down to join it. The Ivy League pennants, band posters and hardcover bildungsroman would be taunting if you hadn’t immediately shut your eyes to it, burying your face in your pillow and letting your body unclench and feel safe. Sleep is beginning to pull at you when you feel the warmth of a body slide in beside you, the smell of saffron and rose, of summer days at the movies and winter nights on the couch, enveloping you along with her arms that reach across your waist. “Nice try, kiddo.” She whispers, and a sleepy smile pulls at your mouth – the first in a long time.
You were home.
***
“Everyone’s staring.”
“Nobody’s staring.”
You tilt your head to the window, where a small group of the nosiest town residents have gathered, talking animatedly and gesturing towards your table inside the diner.
Your aunt sighs, “Okay, I was trying to be gentle.” She throws a plastic menu at the window. “Get a life!” The gruff diner owner comes over and stands at the window, arms crossed, face stony enough that any of the ogglers that weren’t spooked by the menu throwing now disperse quickly.
He picks up the menu and places it back on the table, pointing at your aunt, “No throwing.” She smiles at him, and you swear you see a hint of a smile in return before he walks away. You always thought he had a crush on her.
Your shoulders slump even further, practically melting into the table when you shove in another mouthful of fluffy pancakes, “Everyone’s staring.”
“It’ll be old news by next week. They’re just excited to have you home.” She pats your arm, her other hand curled around a large mug of coffee.
“It’s pity, not excitement.”
She offers a pout, so sincere and warm it tugs at your chest, “Are you gonna be okay while I’m at work?”
You muster a nod, “Yeah, I was just going to stop by the bookstore and stock up, then begin my life as a shut-in.”
“That’s the spirit.” She swallows the last of her coffee, leaving cash on the table and kissing you on the forehead. “I’ll bring home pizza for dinner.” You’re too busy finishing your pancakes and wallowing in self-pity to notice her make a ‘keep an eye on her’ gesture at Luke, the diner owner and oft-worshipped sustenance provider.
Your aunt was only sixteen years older than you, the same number of years you were when she’d moved into this town and into your house after a basic tale of orphaned tragedy befell you. The whole situation was made slightly less tragic by the colour she brought along with her – movie nights overflowing with popcorn and junk food, a superior taste in music, a loose set of rules regarding your young adolescent social life (mostly to encourage you to actually leave the house and make friends), tales of the world that awaited you, and a fairly inadequate cooking ability (hence the close relationship with the local restauranteur). She was there for all the adolescent milestones. Unrequited crushes, driving exams, college applications, the many rejections in both romance and professional attempts – always with a fresh tub of cookie dough ice cream, a Macy Gray CD and a funky outfit.
She made sure to let you know that home would always catch you, even if you felt like you were too old to still be falling.
With a deep breath you leave the comfort of the diner for the crisp morning, not having to walk too far down the main street to the front door of the bookstore. It jingles when you open it and you’re relieved to find it empty. Andrew, the owner, must be out the back. You lose yourself in the aisles, eventually moving to a seat in the corner with a couple of potential purchases when your neck begins to burn from reading spines.
You’re curled up in this spot, rain pattering quietly against the window, wearing a soft grey sweater that was neither a grab at nostalgia nor comfort, but your only option in clean clothing, when through the smell of paper and the pumpkin spiced candle burning at the counter, something dark and woodsy catches your attention, pulling you out of a trance along with a deep voice.
“Thanks for holding it for me.”
“How’d you like the last one?”
“I read it in a coupla’ days. Pretty good for you know, not Steven King.”
He looks over at the same time your eyes travel up, catching you in his dark stare as Andrew bags up his purchase, brown eyes glinting in the warm light. Your breath hitches and you look back down at your book, quickly, reflexively. There’s a moment when he continues staring, only briefly, but enough to make you hot under your sweater while you pretend to read, then he moves, leaving with the tinkling of the bell on his way out.
“W-who was that?”
Andrew looks up at your voice, “Oh! You wouldn’t have met him yet. That’s Eddie. He moved to town about a year ago. He works a couple of shifts at Gypsy’s during the week and bartends in Woodford on the weekend. Big Fantasy guy.”
You smile at that last remark, but quickly put it away. “Well then.”
“I guess that’s what happens when you don’t come home for a while.”
And there it is. You take your selections to the counter, impatient to get back home and away from probing eyes – even the impossibly dark and pretty ones.
***
Eddie noticed the change as soon as he woke up that morning, there was a crack in his bedroom window he’d been meaning to fix, and it whistled with the wind, beating his alarm to the punch.
The trees were something else in this part of the country. Halloween was big in Hawkins, but here they had a whole festival for Fall before the carved pumpkins even made their way to doorsteps. The road was carpeted in red and brown on his short drive to work, but it seemed the leaves weren’t the only change the town was talking about. He’d heard whispers in the diner when he stopped by for his morning coffee. The town’s golden girl had returned. A small blue car parked in a normally vacant spot outside the house on Peach.
He'd met Lorelai a few times around town, and her niece was apparently a lot like her, just with a slightly tighter grasp on reality. But she’d been away for a while, living in New York, a Joan Didion meets Ann Powers type if he were to make a comparison from what little he knew. Only now she wasn’t, and the talk of the town was she’d moved back in, unemployed. He felt a little bad for her. He couldn’t face returning to Hawkins after his own lost years on the road – hell, he’d moved here instead. It couldn’t be easy, especially with a town this idling. But from what he knew, she was an Ivy League girl, chasing a by-line, going from success to success – maybe she needed to be taken down a peg. He’d tossed that thought away quickly, it didn’t make him any better than the gossip mill.
For the most part, the townspeople were odd but welcoming. It’s not a place he’d thought he’d ever end up, it was even smaller than Hawkins, but it grew on him quickly and he on them. Gypsy, the town’s mechanic found him useful, it was as simple as that. He didn’t go to the To Kill a Mockingbird-like town meetings, but he unwillingly got caught up in all the town’s comings and goings when he worked shifts at the bar.
Eddie was content with his new middling but peaceful existence after all the challenges life had thrown at him.
That was until he’d gone to the bookstore on his morning break, hoping to pick up the latest book in the series he was reading, and saw you. His eyes wandered over to the corner, and he knew who you were straight away, curled up in the chair sporting a Yale sweater, so engrossed in your book you barely even notice him.
So, you were pretty – stop and creepily stare, beautiful really – as well as smart. And they say you’d inherited your aunt’s dry wit. Great. Looks like the Universe wasn’t done throwing spanners his way; thick heavy ones he’d never quite figured out how to dodge in time. He comes to his senses and bolts out the door, paper bag in hand. Fucking, great.
***
“Honey, I’m–oh that’s a lot of laundry.”
Your aunt stops short in the living room, large pizza box balancing in her hand.
“This is the second load.” You place a folded t-shirt on pile number three taking up the sofa. “New York is dirty.”
“Hmm,” She turns towards the kitchen, “Fresh, clean air goes on the pro list for Connecticut. Along with Joe’s pizza.”
“I’m sorry, you think New York doesn’t have better pizza?”
“Joe is from New York,” she yells over the clatter of plates, “plus a Stars Hollow slice is probably like half the price.”
“Can’t argue with that.” You mumble. A flash of wild hair enters your mind out of nowhere, and you take a breath before speaking again. “I saw the new guy in town today. Eddie?”
The clack of her heeled boots echoes through the house as she runs back to you, pizza almost sliding off the plates.
“Wow. That was quicker than I was expecting.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned him. It must’ve been front-page news when he moved in. With that hair.” You gesture around your head, moving your piles of clothes so you can both sit.
“I had a feeling you’d find each other on your own.”
You roll your eyes, “Oh, please.”
She points at you, “Don’t even try it, kid. I’ve been home five seconds and you just had to talk about him. I knew you two would hit it off.”
“We didn’t hit it off. We made exactly zero point three seconds of eye contact in the bookstore, and I asked Andrew who he was after he left.”
She takes a bite of her slice, talking through a mouthful, “Of course you met him in the bookstore. Was there any hint of this happening in your cards?”
“I haven’t done a reading in a long time.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I know what the future holds, and it’s bleak.”
She tuts, “Scaredy cat. We’re doing one right now.” She stands up to look through the drawer under the landline.
“Nooo.”
“Yes!” She holds up a packet of tarot cards with a satisfied and slightly menacing grin.
***
Leaves crunch under your feet as you walk the streets to the diner, Nick Drake blasting through the foam headphones of your old portable CD player. You’d found it the other day during your attempt to clear space for your big city baggage, giving up when you became too nostalgic and your room only got messier – a problem for a future, less burned you.
Fortunately, the one place nostalgia only wrapped you up gently in its warm embrace and didn’t feel like a swift kick to the chest, happened to serve the best coffee and pancakes anywhere in the world (or so you presumed, you weren’t that well-travelled).
You remove your headphones as you take a seat at the counter. Luke offers you a head tilt of acknowledgement and places a hot takeaway cup next to you.
“Oh, I was just going to sit here for a while.”
“It’s not for you.”
A ringed hand places some change next to the cup, and you follow the leather jacket-clad arm up to that head of wild curls. He shifts awkwardly at the attention as you feel the heat crawling up your neck again, like you were a high school girl with a crush on the one boy who didn’t look like the rest of the cookie-cutter teenagers, Sabbath t-shirt and longer hair than the trending style. Instead of greeting him, like a normal human being, you pivot, turning your attention back to Luke.
“You’re serving strangers before me now?” He pours coffee into a dramatically large mug he’s placed in front of you. Your favourite green one with the chip on the saucer.
“Eddie’s lived here for longer than you have in the last five years. If anyone’s the stranger–“
“Alright, alright, I get it!” You drag the mug towards you. “You must all be so pleased it was all for nothing.”
Luke crosses his arms, “All for noth–you want me to get the scrapbook out?”
Your eyes widen, “Please God, no.”
He smirks, “Eddie hasn’t seen the scrapbook.”
You glance at him, the poor guy’s eyes moving quickly between the back-and-forth conversation. “Andrew says he’s a reader. Real readers don’t enjoy my writing. Just let him leave with his coffee unoffended, to go about his day.” Luke walks away with a chuckle, and you’re left with Eddie, who looks lost, unsure of whether he can leave. You take a sip of your coffee. “Sorry, that was a weird way of introducing myself.” You give him your name, opting to not offer your hand as well due to its clamminess.
“Uh, Eddie.” He tips his head.
“I know,” you nod. “This is a very small and very strange town you’ve found yourself in.”
He smiles a little, scratching the back of his neck, drawing your eyes to the prominent vein there. “I’ve gathered as much.” You turn back to your coffee, hands and eyes focused on the ceramic cup. He clears his throat, “I guess I’ll see you around then.”
“More than you’ll want to.”
He opens his mouth, frown lines etched across his forehead briefly before he turns and walks away instead. What kind of thing is that to say to someone you just met? Your bitterness, it seems, will be clinging on like a shadow.
***
After a few days back in town, you’re already starting to feel claustrophobic. Tired of the pitying tuts and arm touches. The questioning of your “next steps”, which, depending on the devotedness of the asker’s conservatism, made you either feel like you were a fresh graduate again or that you were recovering from alcoholism.
Of course, when you try to make a break for it and go for a drive, the universe decides to have a chuckle at your expense once again. Your head finds the steering wheel in exhaustion when the engine gives nothing but a sputter in response to your key, and you find yourself making the short walk to the mechanic in town instead.
“Hey Gypsy.” She beams in dirty coveralls at your appearance.
“I was wondering if I’d be seeing you soon. How’s the little zipper running?”
“Not very zippy. Can’t get her started.” Your arms fold on top of the car separating you. “Would you be able to come take a look?”
She shrugs, “Not today. Flat out. Eddie can go.”
Your back straightens as he appears, in similarly soiled coveralls but his are tied at the waist, a ratty t-shirt fairing no better to the grease, his hair pushed away from his face by a red bandana. You forgot he might be here.
He looks over at Gypsy’s call. “Eddie, go take a look at Ivy’s car.”
You clarify with embarrassment at the look of confusion he gives you. “Terrible nickname. The college acceptance letters arrived at the same time as another town festival. There was a town crier and t-shirts made. It was horrifying–“ you trail off. “Um, I live at the end of Peach, but if you’re busy–“
“I’ll grab some tools.” You wait for him as he does just that. Leading in silence a couple of streets away. The sun was cutting through the chilled air today, bouncing golden off the leaves.
You hand him your key when you get to the car, praying it wasn’t one of those situations that made you look like an idiot when it worked for someone else.
“It just won’t turn over.”
Eddie leans an arm on the top of your car while he tries the ignition, squinting against the sun as it sputters just the same as it had before. He pulls a lever below the steering wheel to pop the hood, clicking the metal arm in place, his hands immediately getting lost in the depths of the engine. He pulls out something that looks like a small metal screw and holds it up.
“Spark plug needs replacing.” You just nod, trusting he knows what he’s talking about. He wouldn’t be working with Gypsy if he didn’t. “When was the last time you had a service?” You open your mouth and close it again as you try to do the math. Eddie licks his bottom lip, “Never mind. I can bring some more tools over and give it a once over while I’m at it.”
“If you find a free parking spot in New York City, you don’t move.” You smile weakly, and it grows genuine when Eddie chuckles in response.
“Yeah, same as Chicago.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
He shakes his head, “No. Just lived there for a while.” He points down the street. “I’ll go get some tools and come back?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” You shrug. “Take your time.”
He taps the spark plug on his palm, and you think he’s about to say something else before he turns and walks off. Why does he keep doing that? God, you want to know what he’s thinking.
Ten minutes later, you’re sitting on the porch swing reading when he pulls up in a pick-up truck. He unloads a few heavy bits of equipment, getting to work without a glance in your direction, so you go back to your book.
You spend half an hour like that, both seemingly concentrating on your own tasks. Eddie unaware that your eyes keep wandering to his arms while he works. You, ignorant to the fact that it’s taking the full strength of Eddie’s willpower to keep his gaze on your car.
You give in when you realise you’ve spent fifteen minutes on one page, brain unable to absorb the words, moving inside instead with the intent of making yourself a snack, but you realise you should probably offer Eddie something. The fridge is empty, in desperate need of a trip to the store, so you end up making two peanut butter jelly sandwiches. He’s underneath the car when you appear again, wedged in on one of those rolly things. You’re about to tap his foot with your own when you have a panicked vision of startling him. You interrupt as softly as you can.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah, I’m almost done.”
“Okay, um do you want a sandwich?”
You step back when he rolls out, he squints up at you, eyes softening when he sees the plates in your hand.
He sits up, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s just peanut butter and jelly. We don’t really have anything else edible. Actually, the bread’s questionable.” You wince while he stands.
He holds up his grease covered hands, which you stare at until he speaks, “Can I wash up?”
“Oh yeah, just in the kitchen.” You turn back towards the house, and he follows you, but you turn to find him gone when you place the plates on the kitchen table. You open your mouth to call out before he appears, bootless and in socks. You smile, “You didn’t have to take your shoes off, it’s not that type of house.”
“I didn’t want to track anything in.”
“We play slapsies to figure out whose turn it is to clean, and we’re definitely overdue.” You look down at the crumbs on the floor with a scrunch of your face.
Eddie walks over to the sink and scrubs vigorously up his arms, then takes a seat next to you. He eats his sandwich in four bites.
“I think we have some Pop-Tarts.”
He shakes his head, “I’m okay, thank you.” You expect him to get up and go back to work, but he sits for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table. “Your writing isn’t offensive by the way. It’s good.” Eddie stammers an explanation at the puzzled look on your face. “I googled you at the library.” He rubs his forehead roughly. “That was fuckin’ weird.” Your laugh eases some of the tension in his shoulders and he hopes to god it’s not directed at him, but the idiot routine has worked in his favour before. “I just heard that you’d written for The Times and all these places, and I was curious. You’re really good.”
Something squeezes your chest, grief once again pulling you under.
“Yeah, well, not good enough as it turns out.” He doesn’t know what to say. No one ever does. You interrupt the threatened silence, saving him from having to come up with something pitying and take his plate away, telling him you won’t keep him from finishing up the work. He gets back to it with a nod, working quickly and starting to pack up in another ten minutes. You meet him at his truck, knock-off leather wallet out.
“I’d say don’t worry about it, but I’m not sure Gypsy’d be happy with me coming back with nothin’.”
You laugh, “Too many free of charge jobs for pretty girls then?”
He shakes his head, “No–I don’t–it’s not…”
“I’m just messing Eddie, it’s fine. I don’t expect anything for free. Gypsy works hard. So do you, I’m sure.”
He tries to undercharge you, but you give him a little more, knowing it’s still not enough but accepting his kindness out of necessity. You watch from the porch as he drives off, jumping at the sudden voice coming from your neighbour, shouting across your gardens.
“You hittin’ that yet, sugar?” Babette was turning the last corner of her 50s, living smitten with her husband of ten years and their two cats.
You call back, “No.”
“He’s got some jawline – and a great ass. Better get in there quick, hun. The young divorcees have been circling him since he got here.” Your head tilts in thought as she walks back inside. She was rarely ever wrong, Babette.
***
“You scored the sofa, good job.”
Your aunt plops down next to you, sinking into the worn red fabric. She digs a hand into the large paper bag on her lap and pulls out fries, then a soggy burger, which you take from her.
“Fiesta burger?”
“Of course.”
The bookstore-come-movie theatre starts to fill up as you take the first few bites. The lingering stares had almost completely subsided now that you’d been back a month, and the freshness of failure wasn’t hanging around you like a bright neon aura. Your body relaxing back into familiar spaces and the routine of a quieter pace of life.
You’re eating the last handful of fries when an unmistakable head of hair finds a seat in front of you.
“Oh good Eddie, you can help settle an argument from earlier. Megadeath or Metallica?”
You begin rolling your eyes, but stop when Eddie turns around, softly perplexed at your aunt’s attention.
“Uh, do you mean who do I prefer? They’re not really comparable.”
She chuckles, “God, you’re such a nerd.”
You quickly clarify her tone when you spot a blush spreading across his cheeks, “That’s a good thing in our house. We lo–we like nerds. You should hear her talking about the golden age of Hollywood.”
“What’s your specialist subject?”
Your stomach does a flip, a smile tugging at your lips. It’s been a while since you met someone who was able to keep pace with the two of you.
“She has many.” You shy away from the cheek pinching.
“Do you want to go get the popcorn before the movie starts?”
You try to remove your aunt from the conversation but she just points to the food she’s filled her cheeks with and mumbles, “Why don’t you and Eddie go?”
Eddie follows you to the small snack bar at the front, “Please excuse my aunt. She can be a bit…familiar.”
He leans against the candy cabinet while a teenager scoops the popcorn into a bucket. “I like her,” he smiles, “you two are really close, huh?”
“She’s my best friend,” you admit. “Which sounds a little sad, I know, but she helped raise me. She was there when…she’s always been there.”
Eddie nods, “I get it. My uncle raised me.”
You brighten at this morsel of information on the cryptic metalhead. “Really?”
“Yeah. We’re not exactly best friends; it was more of a Gandalf guiding the hobbits type of relationship, but I’d still do anything for him. He never gave up on me, even when everybody else had already written me off.”
“He sounds like a good man.”
He nods again as you take the bucket of popcorn, “He is.”
You want to ask him if he misses him. Where exactly he is. Where he’s from. But seeing as this is the most Eddie has talked to you since you’d met, you don’t want to spook him, so instead you say, “You can move seats and pretend you don’t know us if you want. We won’t be offended. She provides a lot of commentary during movies and she’s not a very good whisperer.”
He smiles and follows you back to the seating area, “It’s okay.” He doesn’t take his seat in front of you. Instead, he sits beside you on the couch. There’s still plenty of room with the three of you, but you clock the move nonetheless. As does your aunt, who raises her eyebrows as she takes a handful of popcorn.
***
“How ‘bout this one?” Your aunt holds up a white picnic basket.
“Way too big. Have you seen the contents of our fridge?”
“You’re being too honest. You have to falsely advertise and stuff it with napkins to lure them in.”
“What did we do with all the baskets from previous years? Shouldn’t we have some at home?”
“We donated them every time we did a clear out, thinking that we never go on picnics, why would we need picnic baskets, forgetting of course, this quaint annual tradition of our little town.”
“Right,” you nod. “The women get to make a basket of homemade food. The men get to bid on it, and the world gets to rotate backwards on its axis.”
“I think it’s fun,” she claps.
You pick up a smaller basket, just big enough for two containers of leftover takeout. “That’s because you’ve always got someone cute bidding on yours, even if it's full of napkins and stale pizza.”
The town square is full of excitement as you place your baskets amongst the pile, ignoring the mayor’s disapproving look at his watch and finding a place in the crowd, coffees in hand. The bidding begins on baskets decorated with flowers, stuffed with homemade pies, cookies and sandwiches. Partners making their loved ones happy, crushes revealing themselves in Hallmark simplicity.
Then your basket is held up.
“Shall we start the bidding at three dollars?”
“Hey.”
The mayor shrugs, gavel loosely held in his hand.
“Five dollars.”
Your head spins around, looking for a voice in the crowd, “Who was that?”
“Six!”
The quick opposing bid from a face you vaguely recognise, “Is that Peter Cutler from middle school? I thought he was married.”
“Ten.” A different voice altogether has your head spinning around in confusion.
“What’s happening? Who are all these people?”
“Uh, oh.”
You look at your aunt, “What?”
“That’s why Babette was showing your picture to the UPS guy.” She winces as the situation sinks in. You really were being auctioned off. For a mere ten dollars.
“No, no, no.” You shake your head. “What do I do?!”
“Uhh,” she looks around frantically, spotting something in the crowd and making a motion like a plane landing.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping…I think.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifty dollars.” Now there’s a voice you recognise, though you can’t see where it’s come from. Deep, cool, and liable, you think, to get you on your knees at some point.
“Do you know what’s in this, young man?” You roll your eyes at the mayor’s unhelpful commentary, “Alright, fifty dollars going once…”
Silence from the scattered group apparently vying for your attention – all for under a crumpled twenty. “Well, it’s certainly nice for my pitiful worth to be yelled out for all to hear.”
“Sold. To the leather jacket-clad young man, who plays the loud music.”
You watch Eddie go up the makeshift stage to collect the basket. “What just happened?”
“Think you just scored a date with the sweet metalhead.” Your aunt smirks into her coffee.
You look at her, “Did you plan this?”
“I may have nudged him to swoop in, but it seems your knight didn’t need much of a push.”
Eddie finds you after, the auctioned dispersing with their buyers for a romantic or platonic lunch, your aunt off to negotiate some light fixtures from the electrician she bagged.
“Thank you for saving me.” You smile at him as he approaches.
“You looked uncomfortable. This is supposed to be fun, for charity – I think. I’m not really sure what this was all about.” He holds up the basket, “It feels kinda sexist to me.”
You smile, “One of those traditions it’s hard to criticise without sounding like an asshole because it’s for the benefit of the town.”
Eddie nods, peaking into the basket, “So watchya bring?”
“Oh, it’s not–we should just go for pizza or something, that’s–if you want to.”
He takes a plastic container out and sniffs under the lid, scrunching up his nose, “What is that?”
You laugh, “I don’t even know. Could be Kung Pao, could be Sweet and Sour.”
“You were going to let some poor, innocent guy eat this?”
You shrug through laughter, “I didn’t know what was going to happen! Figured it might be an easy out in case it went horribly wrong, which it almost did!”
Eddie smirks, “Almost. So, this isn’t worst-case scenario?”
“No,” you admit. “Not at all.”
He blushes, putting the container back in the basket, “Seriously though, how do you not have a reputation as the town food poisoner?”
You push his shoulder, “Hey! It’s been a while since I’ve taken part in a town ritual. My friend and I used to bid on each other’s baskets and hang out. She moved away around the same time I did. Currently travelling the country with her band while her mother prays for her soul.”
“She sounds cool.”
“She is. You’d like her. She’d give you a run for your money on encyclopaedic music knowledge.”
“Maybe, I’ll give her a run for her money on picnic hangouts.”
“Are you literally threatening me with a good time, Eddie?”
“I believe I am.” He holds a hand to his chest before gesturing outwards, “After you, fair maiden.”
***
“So aside from giving D&D advice to young friends over the phone, what else do you do with your spare time?”
Eddie throws his crust into the pizza box, leaning back on his hands as his foot taps gently on top of the water underneath the bridge. A swan flaps its wings further down the pond.
“I run music classes at the senior centre on Tuesdays.”
Your face screws up; every new bit of information too much to handle. “What are you a fucking saint?”
His eyebrows raise, a chuckle in disbelief. “I guess the devil worship rumours haven’t followed me from Hawkins.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yeah, about 800 miles that way, Indiana.” He points behind him. “Less quaint, but smaller in minds.”
“So, what brought you here?”
You see the toss up happening in his head, whether or not he wants to divulge that much information, “That one’s a much longer story,” he gestures to the sky that had quickly begun to darken in the last half hour, “we’ll be out here all night.” He clears his throat, then offers to help you up when he stands. You’d been out all day since the basket auction – book shopping, talking.
“Thanks again for saving me from a dreadful lunch.”
Eddie rubs his jaw, “I might’ve stopped you from finding true love or somethin’.”
“Considering none of them were obviously prepared to fork over more than twenty dollars for me–“ you laugh, hiding your face in embarrassment–“god, that’s such a horribly medieval sentence. You’re right, this tradition is terrible.” Eddie smiles. “Anyway, I’m not exactly in the right headspace for dating right now.”
He licks his bottom lip, “Oh?”
You flush, wanting to back track. Wanting to stop your mouth from saying something you don’t even really believe, “I just–don’t know what I’m doing with my life, you know. Everything’s–I’m–it’s all a mess. Dating sucks enough as it is, I’m not about to drag the little self-esteem I have through that minefield.”
“Right.” He shifts, eyes darting around, “Yeah, minefield.”
“What about you?” Why were you still talking.
He looks at you then, head bobbing in question, “What about me–“
“Babette says the divorced mums of Stars Hollow are after you.”
He chuckles, “I don’t know about that.”
“You should be careful.”
His eyebrows shoot up, “I should?”
“Small town, and all that.” You shrug, and Eddie smirks at your stumbling.
“It’s not exactly my style.”
You ignore the drop in your stomach. The glimmer of hope in your chest at the way he looks at you, “No?”
He shakes his head, swallowing his lips, arms crossed over his chest. “More of a bookstore and pizza kinda guy, I guess.”
He’s offering it to you. A subtle acknowledgment. Of this being more than just a favour from an almost friend. His eyes swimming with a sincerity that you can’t pretend to not see.
“Good.”
He smiles bashfully, looking down at his feet. “Good.”
You pick up the pizza box by your feet, and Eddie’s gaze follows you.
“Walk me home?” Another offering. A definitive end-of-date ceremony. He nods in response, letting you lead the way back through town.
***
The rain soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your forehead, the cause of that awful squelching sound in your shoes, at least covered up the fact you’d been crying for the last twenty minutes; tears and raindrops mixing to provide the perfect cover.
When you take a seat at the end of the bar, Eddie’s concerned furrow of his brow proved, however, you weren’t really hiding it that well at all.
“What happened?”
You shake your head, throat constricting so you take a second before talking. You don’t want to cry in front of him. “Nothing. Just had a really bad job interview today, like worst I’ve ever had probably.”
“Shit, sorry.” He leans over the bar instantly when your eyes tear up again, holding onto your sodden shoulder.
“It’s not a big deal, like at all,” you try to smile. “I just feel so stupid. It’s such an easy job, writing newsletters and memos for the city council’s office–I could do it in my sleep. How could I tank it?”
“Hey, you don’t want that job anyway.” Your laugh is wet, self-deprecating. A sound Eddie knows all too well.
“I do!” His eyes dart around the crowded bar quickly when your voice rises, before settling back on you. “I want something, anything I can just do, and it doesn’t really matter if I’m good at it. I want a paycheck, I want to be independent again, to have some form of control over my life. I don’t want to think about how much I suck anymore, I just want to get on with life and forget I ever had any stupid dreams!”
“C’mere.” Eddie tugs you up off the barstool and steers you around the bar, out the door with a lit-up exit sign above it. It’s stopped raining outside, but you’re more focused on Eddie’s hands. One is firmly gripping your arm while the other wipes your face and hair with a clean dish towel you hadn’t noticed he’d grabbed.
The softness in his eyes only pulls more tears from you, which you quickly help him wipe away.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologise. You had a bad day.”
“It’s more than that–I’m,” you cover your face with your hands, “I’m such a loser.”
Eddie pulls your hands away, “Hey, c’mon.”
“It’s true! I keep failing, I can’t even talk about myself for ten minutes to get a mind-numbing job. Everything that I’ve worked for all these years means nothing because I’m not good enough. I was never good enough. I just studied my ass off, and for what? A few years of stumbling through, barely scraping by, rejection after rejection after rejection. I hated the city, it was so big and everybody’s always in a hurry, but I didn’t want to just come home. I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do? I’m pathet–“
The feeling of Eddie’s lips crushing against yours makes you suddenly aware of the rapid beating of your heart. It slows, with the lowering of your shoulders as he melts your collision into a soft pace of movement. Then he pulls away, leaving only an inch or two between your faces.
“What–I–are you turned on by pathetic losers or something?”
You feel the breeze of his laugh tickle your face, and your body relaxes further into his hold. “You’re not even close to true loserdom, sweetheart, trust me, but yeah, everything about you turns me on. I thought that was obvious.”
“Why would that be obvious?”
“’Cause I can’t even talk around you.”
“I thought you were just quiet.”
A pained laugh escapes him, and his hair brushes your shoulders as he shakes his head, “No. I’m not just quiet.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” He leans in slightly, your head pulling to match like a magnet, before he leans back out again. “Why did you come here?”
You take a breath, “I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want her to know I failed again.”
He nods slowly, knowing who you mean by her. Knowing how it feels to want to hide things from someone who altered their life to raise you. “I get it. But I’m sure she wouldn’t–“
“I wanted to see you too. Didn’t want to talk to anyone else. Just wanted to see you.” He kisses the side of your mouth with a gentle smile when you confess to his shoes. “Is that okay?”
Another peck to your lips. “It’s good.”
“Good,” you whisper in return before he steals your breath with the longest kiss yet.
“I get off in twenty, can you hang around 'till then? I can take you to mine, I think I’ve got…pretzels, maybe. Definitely some beer…Sorry, I didn’t really think that through.”
“I’d like that.”
Kiss. “Fuck.” Kiss. “Just give me.” Kiss. “Twenty.” Kiss. “Minutes.”
Eddie drives you back to his. After pouring you your favourite drink and checking the clock behind the bar in between every customer. And it doesn’t take long for you both to abandon the pretence of beer and pretzels, tossing the salted snack bag on the floor when your lips and hands tug him in another direction. Turns out he does have a lot to say. About you, your body, how it reacts under his sheets. Eddie Munson is a talker after all. He could just never find his words around you.
Until last night.
Which is why your first reaction is confusion when you awake the next morning, a crack in his window and the breeze of the morning raising goosebumps along your skin – the bed empty. The bathroom empty. The kitchen empty. The living room empty.
But then your brain reminds you. Pathetic. Weeks of bashful flirting and one night of sex doesn’t mean, what? A pancake breakfast and your problems solved?
You dress quickly, huffily, as buttons are fumbled and things are dropped repeatedly. Idiot.
***
“And where were you last night young lady?”
“I don’t want to talk about it before coffee.” You brush past your aunt on her way out of the house to work, catching the not-so-subtle scan of the clothes you’d left in yesterday.
“Gypsy called this morning. She said you can pick up your car this afternoon.”
You groan, head hitting the front door in a thud. Your car. The reason why you took the bus to your interview yesterday, because Eddie had warned you that you’d need a new…something to do with your engine anyway, and then he’d ordered it and told you to drop off your car whenever you wanted. Because he was a nice guy. Who did you favours. Who didn’t owe you anything, least of all the kindness he showed you last night.
“Fuck.”
“Okay, well good luck with whatever’s going on there.”
You wave her off as she skips lightly down the front steps.
***
Please be on lunch break, please be on lunch break, please be on lunch break.
“Hey!”
Fuck. “Hi. Is Gypsy around?”
Eddie steps from behind the car he was working on, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “No, but your car’s ready, I’ll grab the keys.” He startles you with a peck on your cheek before he disappears into the back office. Black Sabbath is pouring out of a speaker on the work bench, which he turns down on his way back to you, swinging your key around his finger. He’s grinning, and you frown at his energy.
“Don’t worry about payment this time, alright.”
You scoff, unable to help it, and then his hands find your arms and you stiffen under his touch, “I can pay for it, Eddie. I don’t need your help.”
He steps back at your tone; at the way you don’t melt. Squinting at you.
“What happened? I thought we…I thought last night was good?”
You stare at his scuffed work boots. “It was.”
“Okay, so…I’ll see you around six at the diner?”
“Why would you see me at the diner?”
“Because I–” he pauses, “Did you read the note?”
“What note?” You huff, looking at him now.
His frown deepens for a moment, then he’s grinning again, “You thought I didn’t leave you a note. You’re mad…you like me.”
“Excuse me?!”
“I didn’t want to wake you before I went to work this morning, so I left a note. It must’ve slipped off the pillow. I said I’d meet you at the diner after I was done. To talk,” he traces a finger up and down your arm, “about how we can have a repeat of last night continuously until the day I die, a very lucky and fulfilled man.”
“Oh, well…”
“You were so mad.” He grins.
“No, I wasn’t–I was just–you–you don’t owe me anything. I know that. It’s okay, if it was just a one-night thing, it’s just a little awkward in this town is all–”
His lips press against yours in a smile, and you can feel the light chuckle knocking against his chest, “Sorry, I cut you off again. What were you saying?”
You shake your head, “Nothing intelligent.”
***
Red cellophane crinkles in your grasp, your aunt leaning above you on the ladder, hanging another caramel apple in the tree. The light from inside the house catches on the plastic, making them sparkle like Eve’s forbidden fruit. You can already hear the sugared screams of kids in the street, a big plastic bowl of candy ready for them on your porch steps.
“You’ll get a job kid, I know you will. But I really want to know more about this date tonight.”
You hand her another apple. “How do you know about that?”
“I ran into Eddie at the market, he’s walking around with a smile like he’s just been told a dirty joke.”
“Did he use the word date?”
“It was implied. I can read between the lines.”
“I guess it’s more like a date compared to what we were doing.” You mumble, but she still catches it.
“And what pray-tell were you doing?”
You flush, shifting your feet, “You know–after date stuff.”
She gasps, faux-clutching at pearls, and drawls, “Corrupted by the big city, oh my.” She laughs, “Going to a town event together, guess that means you’re going steady. Do you think he’ll give you his battle vest?”
“Oh my god, I’m not holding this ladder anymore. Make like an apple and fall.”
She shakes with laughter, spooking the kids walking up your drive, watching the witch hang juicy candy apples and cackling.
***
“Ooh, last year they had these amazing cookies.”
“Oh, Andrew’s spiced pumpkin ones? They’re legendary, we’ll get some from the bake sale stall. Just avoid the punch, it’s Ms Patti’s recipe, it could knock down a horse.”
Eddie squeezes your arm, and you melt further into his side, both of you walking around the town square and browsing the Halloween Fair stalls.
“How ‘bout I get us some hot chocolates instead and we tackle that hay maze. Get lost in a dark corner?” He raises his eyebrows, and you giggle.
“Okay, but I’m not kissing you with those vampire teeth in.”
He pats his jacket pocket where he stowed the plastic prop after play attacking your neck with it the moment he saw you. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, sweetheart.”
You watch him as he waits in line, standing near the bonfire with stars in your eyes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for your attention to be pulled away by nosey neighbours – the older couple who run Le Chat Club, one of two cat-themed trinket stores in town.
“So, what’s the next adventure?”
“Well, the five-year plan currently looks like paying off my student debt and finally finishing Ulysses.” You smile.
“Not moving away again? They say all the kids are moving to Seattle, must be some housing boom or something.”
“It’s not the housing it’s the music, Mary.”
“No, I’m officially unpacked and planted firmly back home.” You look back over at Eddie, now walking towards you with cookies and a huge smile on his face. “I’ve got a lot more reasons to stay this time.”
Summary: A mix of headcanons and scenarios of Eddie being protective (with a side of jealousy) over you
Requested by: @nevermorexlee
Masterlist
A/N: sorry for the long wait! I kept wanting to add stuff and I still do but I wanted to post it too 🤷♀️💀
-Eddie Munson is loud about a lot of things. He’s loud about how D&D is superior to every sport ever invented. Loud about how Hawkins High is a breeding ground for conformity. But when it comes to you? Eddie Munson is quiet in the ways that matter. You notice it first in the little things. Like how he always positions himself between you and the rest of the world without making it obvious. In the cafeteria, he sprawls wide at the table, arm slung across the back of your chair like it belongs there and one his boots wrapped around the leg of your chair keeping you next to him. At parties, he’s suddenly leaning against the wall closest to you, eyes flicking up every time someone new enters the room and he always makes sure to walk on the outside of the pavement, closest to the road.
-Eddie never announces it. He never makes a big show. He just acts. You’ll be laughing with someone to closely when Eddie suddenly interrupts, throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you away with a dramatic, “Sorry sweetheart, band emergency” There is no emergency. There never is. But later, when they’re gone, Eddie’s jaw is tight, eyes darker than usual. “Guy was staring” he mutters. You blink. “He was just talking” Eddie shrugs, trying to play it off, but his thumb keeps tracing circles into your shoulder like he’s grounding himself. “Yeah. Didn’t like how he was talking” he mutters while kicking the ground with one boot.
-The first time you realize how deep it runs is at a party, one of Steve’s, loud and crowded and full of people who don’t really understand Eddie but just about tolerate him anyway. You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a drink, when a guy you vaguely recognize from the basketball team slides a little too close. He’s smiling, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. “You’re Munson’s girl, right?” he asks. Before you can answer, Eddie’s voice cuts through the noise. “Hey” Not loud. Not angry. Sharp. Eddie appears at your side like he was summoned, hand settling on your lower back, fingers splayed possessively. His smile is easy, but his eyes? His eyes are warning. “She’s with me” Eddie says. The guy scoffs. “Relax, man. Just talking” Eddie tilts his head, grin widening just a fraction too much. “Yeah” he says. “And now you’re done” The guy backs off luckily before too big of a scene is caused. Eddie doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t say anything else. He just turns to you, voice instantly soft. “You okay?” You nod, heart racing not from fear, but from the way Eddie looks at you like the world could burn and he’d still shield you with his body.
-Eddie Munson gets jealous, but hates that he does. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the way his chest tightens when someone makes you laugh a little too hard. Doesn’t like how his thoughts spiral when you mention someone else’s name casually. Doesn’t like that he knows he doesn’t own you. So he swallows it, most of the time. But jealousy leaks out of Eddie in strange ways. He gets louder. More theatrical. Suddenly he’s pulling you into his lap, draping himself over you like a human blanket. Suddenly he’s reminding everyone in the room, not subtly at all, that you’re his. And if you call him out on it? He scoffs. “What? I’m not jealous” Then five seconds later: “So…you and Harrington talk a lot now, huh?”
-The worst part is when Eddie thinks he’s not enough for you. That’s when the jealousy turns inward. You catch it one night in the trailer park, sitting on the roof of his van, legs dangling while music hums softly from the speakers below. You mention someone, just in passing. A guy from class. Nothing important, something to do with homework. Eddie goes quiet. Not sulky. Not dramatic.Just very still, especially for Eddie. “You ever think” he says eventually, eyes fixed on the stars, “that you’d be better off with someone normal? ..someone that half the town doesn’t hate” Your chest aches. “Eddie-“ “Someone who won’t get you dragged into trouble” he continues, voice low on the verge of cracking from the tension he’s holding. “Someone who won’t make people look at you funny” You turn toward him, cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “I choose you” you say firmly. “Every day” Something in Eddie cracks. He leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for permission, forehead dropping to yours, breath shaky. “Yeah” he whispers. “I know. I just…worry”
-Eddie Munson worries constantly. About you walking home alone, about people judging you because of him, about not being able to protect you from things he can’t control. He memorizes your routines without realizing it. Knows what time you should be home. Knows which routes you take. Knows the sound of your footsteps. And if something’s off? He’s already moving. Like the night you’re late, you come around the corner to find Eddie pacing, hands running through his hair, eyes wild with relief when he spots you. “Where the hell have you been?” he snaps, then immediately softens. “Shit- sorry I just- are you okay?” You explain. Lost track of time. Eddie exhales hard, pulling you into his chest, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “Don’t do that to me” he murmurs. “I can’t-” He stops himself. But you hear it anyway.
-He’s not violent by nature, he’s dramatic, mouthy and sarcastic but when it comes to you, his instinct is comfort. When you’re upset, he doesn’t push for answers, he just opens his arms. When you’re scared, he becomes solid. Grounded. A wall at your back. When you’re hurt, emotionally or otherwise, he gets terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that makes people back off without him saying a word. He’ll scream your name in victory. Write songs about you. Brag about you to anyone who’ll listen. But when it matters? He’ll stand between you and the dark without hesitation, he won’t run away from the danger if it’s you in harms way. He’ll watch your back without asking. He’ll choose you, even when he’s scared.
