I'm Mimi, 35 in AZ. 🏳️🌈 🔮 🇲🇽🇺🇸 | Formerly MrsKokitzTelford | Don't Repost my stories or art anywhere. On Wattpad & AO3 as idorkish| 18+ ONLY. Otherwise, unfollow me OR get 🚫. I don't feel comfortable having minors following my page. I write, I draw, and I may even show off my Gremlin once in a while.
I want to give a warm welcome to all my followers, new and old.
Let’s get the rules out the way. Rules:
Do Not Follow or Interact if you are under 18 years old.
I write what I write. I tag as much as I can, so if you don’t like something, filter the tag or just keep scrolling past.
I support BLM, LGBTQ+, POC, and sex workers.
Trump supporters & TERFs can get fucked with a cactus for all I care.
This is a kink/BDSM-positive space. I am pro-RACK (If you want to know what it is, feel free to ask)
If you are under 18 or your age is blank, I will block you. (Hell, at least put that you're 18+. I get weirded out when children follow and interact with me. I AM 35 YEARS OLD, KIDS! I AM OLD ENOUGH TO BE YOUR ACTUAL MOM!)
About the writer -
Answers to Mimi, Levi, Mom (only to a few of my “kiddos”), Trixie, Wembly, Mel, Wifeypool (only to my wife), Rom (for those who know lol)
She/her or they/them pronouns. Genderqueer, often female presenting, pagan, Pansexual, ethically non-monogamous, Mexican-American, mother and wife, and full-time Goblin.
I am a mom and own a business, so I will sometimes post about both. I don’t give out the name cuz I don’t want stalkers but let me know if you legit want info on the business.
I am active in the local kink community and do not kink shame. Your yum may not be yum and that is OK. I practice RACK and enthusiastic consent
This is a personal blog with lots of interests. It got too much for all the different fandoms and interests I have to use multiple blogs so they are all together!
Previous urls: mrskokitztelford,
Here is my full Masterlist
Tag Lists: I no longer do tag lists as those who asked to be part of them rarely interacted. Why do the extra work?
Curious to know who and what I write for? Well you can check this post.
Want to know what my common post tags are about? Check this.
Why Kozlings? Because I am utterly and totally in love with Herman Kozik (Sons of Anarchy).
Current Obsessions:
Horror/Halloween/Slashers
Sons of Anarchy
Mayans
Marvel - comics, tv, & movies
Star Wars
Star Trek
Fantasy settings & creatures (mmmm...monsters hehehe)
D&D
Anime
COD
Always feel free to send me messages, asks, or suggestions on anything!
Hear me out.. Transformers (specifically bayverse) x Task Force 141.
I don’t have any thoughts than that. I just think Optimus doing his “We should not harm any humans—“ something goes wrong. “We must kill everyone who breathes” and Price just being like: “I like that idea”.
Bayverse!Optimus is a beast and I think him and Price would get along. Optimus started out with that "protect humans" mindset before he changed his tune. Price probably started out like that, wanting to keep casualties to a minimum, do only what was absolutely necessary. Then he grew, aged, learned that playing by the rules doesn't always get results.
Optimus starts nice then flips like a switch and Price vibes with that.
Nonbinary Reader x Male MonsterMute Reader - Slasher Aesthetic - Horror Movie Vibes - Time Travel Romance - Cowboy Music
Word Count - 9716(TW contains horror elements, blood, a gun, and my attempts at comedy. Read with caution)
This story is complete! No links, no tricks
Also, this is extremely special to me. And I can’t imagine a better time to share it with all of you than Halloween! I have been so excited and chomping at the bit to share Butch with all of you, it’s one of my all time favorites.
One:
I can’t die, and that really sucks. It’s like having an itch you can’t scratch. It’s annoying beyond all reason. Sometimes it’s painful. Other times you can’t think. Being unable to die is like being bitten by a mosquito who grants wishes. Doesn’t matter how good it is, it’s still annoying.
I’m not sure when it started or why it’s even lasting. I’ve been shuffling along this mortal coil, hoping to find ways to end this torment. Perhaps at the end of the world it will only be the cockroaches, Cher, and me. But for now, it’s me and the rest of the world, rat race and all.
I remember that song my grandpa used to listen to. He’d play it over and over, annoying everyone in the house. Well, everyone except me. It was about a cowboy out herding cattle when he saw this band of riders who warned him about hell. I used to sit and listen to it with grandpa on loop, picturing the cowboy, the spectral riders, and what they meant by hell. I was fascinated by it, the imagery of the song and its lesson. I never truly understood what it meant. Even when my mom yelled at my dad in the hospital beyond grandpa’s bed how that ‘old moron is going to hell.’
While they fought, I hid under grandpa’s bed, humming that old song to comfort him and myself. It never occurred to me my parents didn’t know I was hiding, not until they got home anyways. So I was there as the nurses turned the light out and the world became this melodic quiet filled with breaths and beeping.
Outside, I heard the old church bells ring at midnight. I opened my eyes, staring out across the dimly lit room. I lifted my head, hearing something strange amongst the quiet drone of the hospital. It was footsteps, heavy ones. Along with them was a slight jingle.
Stomp! Clink.
Stomp! Clink
Stomp! Clink.
A red glow caught the corner of my eye. Standing in the doorway was a figure, tall, strong, and wearing black cowboy boots with spurs.
Stomp! Clink. Stomp! Clink.
The figure walked into the room, illuminating my grandpa’s hospital room with the red glow emanating from their body.
“Let’s see here,” said a man’s deep voice. He picked up grandpa’s chart and hummed to himself. “Yup. Got the right room.” He set the chart down with a clatter. “Okay, hoss, time to get up and go.”
I saw a hand come down to his side, reaching towards his boot. The hand was thin, and wide, but mainly, it was mainly bone.
I gasped and the figure stopped. The hand reached up, grabbing the side of the bed as he knelt down to peer down under the hospital bed. Red glow met my eyes and I found I could no longer breathe, let alone speak.
“Looky here,” a low southern drawl greeted me.
Everything locked up in my chest. My pulse, my breath. My voice. It all snuggled tight into a box.
“Funny. I ain’t ever been seen before. Must be special,” he said with a low chuckle. The bony hand reached out, patting the top of my head. “Nothing to worry about here, pardner. Just doing my job.”
I stared hard at those red glows.
He chuckled. “You know this fella?”
I nodded.
“Well, shame,” he murmured. His head tilted one way then the other. “Youngin’ ain’t ye? Well, double shame. Sorry about this, pardner. Cover your ears.” He stood back up, reaching for his boot again. From it he pulled a gun.
I didn’t cover my ears.
The red glow faded along with his footsteps.
Stomp! Clink. Stomp! Clink.
I didn’t come out from under the bed even as the beeping from grandpa’s monitor went monotone. When the nurse came I stayed under the bed. I was eventually found and pulled out, but I wasn’t the same.
Death came and shot my grandpa.
I stopped speaking after that, and frustrated as they were, my parents sent me away. It was a camp for troubled youth. And, well, it was supposed to be for kids more troubled than me, I just couldn’t talk. So, to say the very least, I was out of my element.
Right away it was well known I stood out amongst everyone else. I was smaller, weaker. And oh yeah! I couldn’t talk, so I couldn’t stand up for myself or rat people out, not exactly anyways.
The camp was right beside a huge lake, right out in the middle of the woods. It was supposed to be therapeutic for us kids. Us oh so troubled kids. All people did was isolate a bunch of people who needed help, not nature. I needed counseling, better parents, other kids here needed medication, a stern hand. But yeah, nature.
One day I was locked in an old storage shed. Which was one of the weaker punishments I had been given. At least I was left alone, at least I wasn’t being cornered in the showers. It was dark though, very dark. Beyond the shed I could hear voices and laughter. It was movie night, and I could smell the popcorn. I loved popcorn.
I sighed heavily and just accepted my fate. When one of the adults came to get something from the shed in the morning I’d be found. I sat there, staring down through the darkness. Then I heard it.
Stomp! Clink. Stomp! Clink.
I stood back up, standing on a bucket to see outside. There was a red glow at the edge of the lake.
Stomp! Clink.
It got closer, going towards the end of the dock. That’s when I saw him. The red glow hovered around him as he stared down into the lake. He wore a cowboy hat and a jacket with fringe flowing from the sleeves.
I stood on tiptoe, trying to see why he was standing at the edge of that dock. He looked up, almost towards me, but his red eyes went further. Voices approached from beside the shed.
“-just for a while.” A guy said.
“Ugh, it smells like shit down there,” a girl said.
It was two of my main aggressors, Alex and Alex. Yes, they both had the same name, and they had tag teamed together out of some weird narcissistic bond. Boy Alex was feeling up Girl Alex as they walked past me. His hand was on her butt while she was eating popcorn. They were heading towards the dock.
Death in his western regalia stepped aside, letting them go to the foot of the dock. Boy Alex was whispering to Girl Alex, and the next thing I saw was them taking off their clothes.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Girl Alex said. She went in to kiss Boy Alex, but he instead shoved her into the water. He stood there laughing, dick wagging as he stood over the dock.
Girl Alex never came up.
“Come on! You’re faking it!” He leaned over. “Alex?”
She jumped out of the water and grabbed him, pulling him by his hair into the water with a wild shriek.
Death shot Boy Alex. He was pulled out of the lake in the morning. Girl Alex got out of the lake without him and never said a word.
But before all that, I was still watching from the shed. Death came towards it, opening the shed and looking down at me as I approached.
“Got your back, pardner.” He winked at me and gave me finger guns.
I couldn’t say anything, so I nodded at him.
He extended his hand. “The name is Butch!” Tassels hung from the side of his glove as well. “Put ‘er there.”
I took Butch’s hand, shaking it, but he grabbed hold of me, squeezing me tight in a way that made me warm inside. Made me feel safe.
“Like I said,” he whispered. “I’ve got your back.” There was a tone to his voice, a softness and care that was different from my grandpa. There was more to it, more that my young, fragile mind couldn’t understand. Butch gave my hand an extra squeeze, and then and there I knew I didn’t want him to go. But he had to, so I let go.
He turned, walking away from me. Stomp! Clink. Stomp! Clink.
I tried to follow him, but as I headed towards the lake I saw Girl Alex rise up out of the water. She looked angry, beyond pissed. Our eyes locked and for a moment it was silent. She roared at me, screaming like a monster. So I ran.
Like I said, Boy Alex was pulled out of the lake in the morning and everyone was sent home.
I was instead sent away to a school for special needs kids. Where the kids were kind, but the adults were cruel. I wound up taking on a role of protector rather than victim. Well, both I suppose. I don’t want to get too much into my time at the school. The damage was done. Let’s move on.
I was sent back to that camp, a few years after it was shut down it was reopened. I guess enough parents complained they didn’t have a ‘good setting’ for their kids. I was older then, just a month away from being eighteen.
I thought it would be different.
But no. Girl Alex had been hired on as one of the counselors. From then on, my life became a nightmare.
Girl Alex was a success story. She turned her life around when Boy Alex was discovered dead in the lake. She was wonderful. She was beautiful. She was kind.
You know where this was going. The girl was a monster, plain and simple. Always was, always would be. But now she had power, she had authority. Which, for a monster, is not a good thing to have.
At first I thought she never remembered me. Surely she remembered the night at the lake, but maybe she didn’t realize I was the one she roared at. Things were calm and quiet, camp seemed to be okay.
But that was all a cover. Girl Alex was just waiting. It wasn’t until the Monday after camp started that things changed. Something was wrong, supplies were low, or a generator was busted, I can’t remember. So a group of counselors left to go into town. They’d be back the next day. Girl Alex was left in charge.
It was dubbed the Cruel Monday. By the time the other counselors returned, there was not much they could do. The camp was torched, bloodied, and no survivors were found. At least, not at first.
They found Girl Alex’s mask near the lake where I had ripped it off. She was somewhere at the bottom of the lake. I’m sure they found her when they drained it some years later. Meanwhile, I was attached to her, held on by a rope with cement blocks. She’d got caught in her own trap.
“Geez, pardner. Look what they’ve gotten you into.” I shouldn’t have been able to hear that, but I did. I shouldn't have been alive at all, lord knows I wasn’t breathing. I was pulled from the lake and laid out on the shore opposite of the dock.
“This isn’t fair,” Butch whispered. He sat beside me, a piece of long, dried grass sticking out of his dark face where a mouth would be.
I was staring up at the sky, watching smoke flow into the abyss above me. There was no sky, it was a vortex, spiraling and pulling at me. Butch kept his hand upon my chest though and it kept me from rising. I saw people in the vortex, no, souls. I saw Girl Alex clawing at the edges, using large teeth to keep herself in place.
“You can’t go yet,” he voice called me back and I turned my head to look at him. He looked lost in thought, deeply troubled. “I don’t want you to go.”
I opened my mouth to try and say something, but a shout covered me. “Over here! I found someone!”
Butch’s hand slid lazily from my chest as someone picked me up. I reached for him, but his trouble remained painted in his glowing red eyes. I was carried away, taken to the hospital where I was treated. My inability to speak labeled me as an unreliable witness, an idiot as my dad called me, so the massacre of Cruel Monday was never solved.
Being the lone survivor of an unsolved massacre at least gave me cushion when I turned eighteen. Without my parents I could agree to interviews, I could be studied, given money to appear at true crime conventions. I doubt my story would be believed, and part of me didn’t want Girl Alex to receive the credit, so I made up the Monday Ripper.
Books. Movies. A TV show. Various and endless podcasts all told the story, or some facsimile to the Monday Ripper. And I was the final survivor.
Of course, my parents tried crawling back. My dad’s health was suffering and, oh no, they didn’t have the money. But guess who did? Me! For once, I had the upper hand.
“Monday Ripper,” my dad bemoaned from his bed. I had agreed to give my parents money, but under the stipulation I had control. Dad was in the same shitty nursing home they left grandma, the place that killed her. I didn’t allow mom to visit. He never let her visit me wherever they sent me anyways.
I looked at my dad, knowing exactly what he was going to say. I sat beside him some days, hoping to hear a thank you or something from him.
“You should have died that day. Things would have made sense then,” he said between wheezing breaths of oxygen.
Oh, how wonderful modern medicine was. Without that oxygen tank, why, he wouldn’t be able to breathe. Next step would be a ventilator.
“You were never supposed to exist-” he started coughing hard, and something on his monitor began to beep. One of the nurses should have been alerted and came, but they didn’t. Exactly why he was here.
I was about to lean over his bed when I heard footsteps approaching.
Stomp! Clink.
Stomp! Clink.
Butch’s hand rested on my shoulder. Oh! I knew he would come. I stretched out my hand, placing it upon the valve of the oxygen tank. I looked my father in the eyes as Butch’s hand squeezed tighter upon my shoulder.
“Do it, pardner.” His voice was so deep in my ear. My skin tingled from my ear down to my spine. I took a shuddering breath and twisted the valve closed.
Death shot my father.
I turned, looking Butch in the eye. He tilted his hat to me. “Long time no see, pardner. I know you’ve been looking for me.”
I nodded, holding my breath in my chest.
“Don’t worry,” he winked at me. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.” He slipped his fingers under my chin, his thumb pressed to my lips. “You worry me, kiddo.”
What did he mean? He sounded like he was talking about something I should already know.
He sighed softly. “Can’t stay too long.” He motioned behind me. “These little meetings, they gotta be brief. Understand?”
No, I thought. I looked back into his eyes. Why was he always there when I needed him the most? After Grandpa died, he had appeared at all these strange times in my life. When I should have died, when I shouldn’t have existed.
“I’ll be back. Can’t say when, but, yeah,” Butch chuckled. “I’ll see you around, pardner.” He walked away, fading behind a large nurse who looked annoyed that my dad was dead.
“It’s so strange,” my mom said the day after his funeral. She was washing dishes, looking outside at the yard. “Not having him around.”
You can say it’s nice mom, I understand.
She turned and looked back at me, her brow knitted together. “Is that why you chose that nursing home?”
I just looked at her and shrugged.
“I wish you could talk. It’s weird.” She went back to washing dishes. “Wonder if we’ll get any more free food today.”
I went back to my room to continue writing. Sequels to reboots simply don’t write themselves. I don’t know why I’m allowed to write movies, it feels wrong.
At one of the conventions, I had met a fan and we had got to talking. Layla would message me all the time, and I’ll admit, I got attached to hearing from her. Occasionally we would meet, share a hotel room and do stuff normal adults would do.
“You can tell me,” she whispered under the sheets one night. “You know who did it right? The Monday Ripper?”
I laid there staring into Layla’s eyes. I would be speechless even if I could talk.
She rose up slightly, tenting the sheet with her head. “Tell me. I can keep a secret.”
She knew I didn’t talk, why was she asking me now?
Layla began to get on top of me and straddled me. Her hands slid up my chest towards my neck. “I’ve always admired you, you know? I wish I had the guts to do it sometimes.”
Did she think I was the Ripper?
Her hands clutched around my throat. “It would be so exciting. Tell me about it. Please. All of it.”
I grabbed her wrist and pushed her hands back.
Laughing, Layla tossed her head back. “Let’s do it together! A real reboot.” She leaned down as if to kiss me. I escaped her, leaving the confines of the sheet. Of course I attract the crazies. I’m used to that much. But she put on such a good front.
I began getting dressed. Meanwhile, Layla got off the bed, the sheet still draped around her like she was a ghost. “I’m serious!” She replied.
I grabbed my things, leaving money for the cleaning staff on the TV. I then opened the door to leave.
“Don’t go!” Layla screamed.
I went. I even started to pick up speed.
I heard footsteps behind me, chasing me down the hall. But they weren’t the ones I longed to hear.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
Rapid succession of tiny feet as Layla ran down the hall to get me. The naked girl was still clad like a ghost in a sheet. Her arm rose up under the sheet, extended a knife towards me. She got it into my shoulder.
I won’t get into the gory details, it’s boring for me to talk about. But I had managed to get to the stairwell, locking Layla out from getting to me again. I slumped against the door, breathing what I feared might be my last breath.
I thought about what my dad had said, how I should have never existed. Boy. Was I feeling that right now. All the times I could have died, probably should have died. It felt like the universe was out to get me for escaping it.
Stomp! Clink. Stomp! Clink.
He’s here! I forced myself to open my eyes, seeing Butch come up the stairs towards me, gun drawn.
Oh good, I thought. Finally.
I held my hand out towards him.
“Welp, this certainly is a mess.” He checked his gun, spinning the barrel before pointing his gun at me. “Won’t be much longer there.” He closed one eye to aim.
My breath shuddered as my hand extended to him. “Butch…” It was the first thing I had ever said since I was little.
Hesitating, Butch’s eyes widened as he looked at me. “What did you say?”
“I love you!” Layla’s hysterical scream ripped through the stairwell.
Butch turned around, terrified by the sudden intrusion and shot Layla. She fell backwards, tumbling down the stairs until she reached a landing. Her naked body was splayed out against the white sheet, stained red by her blood and mine. Exactly what she wanted.
“Fucking hell!” Butch stared down the stairs at her. “Well, today is your lucky day. I only had the one bullet.” He looked back at me. I was still reaching for him, all my strength going towards that motion.
Kneeling down before me, Butch took hold of my hand. “It’s weird enough you can see me. But you said my name.”
Was this the same Butch I had seen so many times?
“I’ll stay here till you're found. It’s the least I can do.” He held my hand fast in his. “Strange. Have we met?”
I nodded weakly.
“I see then,” he breathed. “Well, pardner, I’m sorry I forgot your lovely face.”
This wasn’t the same Butch I had seen several times before. But he would be. That much I could feel. Don’t ask me to explain the feeling, I just knew.
Before I knew it, I was everywhere again. Not only had I survived the Monday Ripper, but now I survived a psycho fan. How lucky was I to survive so much. Someone must have wanted to keep me alive.
Yes. Someone did want to keep me alive.
Two:
It came as no surprise to me that my former camp was bought and opened up as a sort of resort, museum, reenactment theater. People would actually pay to stay the night there and act in a sort of mystery dinner party fashion. They didn’t do the story I survived, no they said that would be tasteless. They created a new story, but the Monday Ripper was still the killer.
I was invited to join on the anniversary of the actual event. It felt crass to me, but I joined anyway. I had nothing better to do. So I signed books, posters, etc until the main event. Everyone seemed to be excited, meanwhile all I could do was look at that lake. I was surprised they filled it back in, it seemed like a bad idea. Kids died there, you know?
“What was it like?” A young man asked me as we went towards the dining hall. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t talk but uhm…I always figured you gave a watered down version of your experience. I mean, I always tell the soft version of my dad,” he laughed nervously.
I glanced at him and took a deep sigh. I signed to him. “My killer is gone. Don’t go easy on yours.” I walked away from him, diverting my path away from the dining hall and going to the lake.
I sat on the dock, looking down into the water as I remembered watching Boy Alex go under and never come back up. Girl Alex’s roar still haunted me, more than any of the things I had gone through.
Stomp! Clink.
I held my breath tight into my chest.
Stomp! Clink.
I turned back and looked up, seeing Butch standing there behind me. The lake turned red with his glow.
He sat down beside me, looking out over the lake. He pointed across the way to the shore where he had laid me. “That was when you should have died the first time,” he said gently. “But I stopped it.”
I looked at him, hoping he would turn his eyes to me. “Then, at the lake when that girl and boy tried to kill one another for fun, you would have been forgotten.” He pulled a knee up to his chest and held it. “Then I saw you in your grandfather’s room.”
I furrowed my brow at him. “That’s not the order things happened.”
He looked at me with a laugh. “Confused? Don’t be. Death exists everywhere and anywhere. Right now, I'm here with you, but I’m also on the other side of that lake with you as well, making sure you don’t die.”
I scooted closer to him, resting my head upon his shoulder.
“I won’t let you die, not yet anyways,” Butch whispered. “There are things I can’t tell you now. But just know pardner, I’m with you always. Everywhere and anywhere, all at once.”
It was then I decided that, no matter what, I was going to do what I could to see Butch again. If he really was everywhere and anywhere all at once, then he would be waiting on me to do something.
But if he’s here now, then there must be a reason he’s out here now.
I looked back towards the camp where everyone must be gathered in the dining hall now and waiting on me.
Butch sighs. “Yeah. I gotta get to work.” He stands up, smoothing out his jacket then holding up his gun. “I’m technically not supposed to be here. But eh, call me crazy.” His red eyes flick down to me as I gaze up at him. “Don’t worry,” he finger guns at me. “I’ll be back for you, pardner. You can bet your sweet ass on it.”
Whatever that meant.
He went back up the dock and vanished into shadows. I went back to looking at the lake, gazing down at the dark waters.
Someone slipped and fell at the dinner party. They fell right onto one of the Monday Ripper props, and well, that’s all she wrote. The camp shut down, again, but probably not for long. Much like me, it can’t die.
“Would you say you’re a bad luck charm?” The question came from a crowd, from a face I couldn’t see due to stage lights.
I was taken aback by the question. Not because it was offensive, oh no, I’ve heard far worse in my day. Moreso, I was impressed by it, and the fact it had taken someone so long to figure it out. Hell, even I hadn’t thought of that.
The question and answer segment was part of a documentary filmed about me. It was a sort of indie project created by fans of the Monday Massacre story who wanted to get the true inside scoop on me and what became of me after the massacre.
I’ll admit the documentary was done extremely well, using clips and bits from my own personal collection, plus from those affected by the many tragedies that followed me. It should have been obvious from the body count in my wake that I was a ‘bad luck charm’.
“Interesting theory,” I signed and my interpreter spoke. “Shall we put it to the test?” Laughter rippled through the crowd, but in all honesty, I did want to test that theory. I wanted to see Butch again.
“I would say luck is an uncommon force surrounding our little survivor here,” the director of the documentary suddenly perked up.
I glanced his way, and noticed a slight smile on his lips. I could tell he had been holding this in for a while.
“The luck they have is very good, but that same luck doesn’t rub off on others the same way. Almost like God is using all the luck in the area to keep them alive.” He laughed, the crowd laughed, but he had no idea how his answer was more than likely correct. By all accounts I should have died decades ago when I was young. I should have died several times by now. But Butch has defied the odds, has defied the powers that be, just for me.
That’s when I knew for certain I was not affected by death. I couldn’t die.
By this point I was used to being in the spotlight, so when the documentary became an underground hit I was ready for what was to come. Luckily, the makers of the film got their due. They deserved it, they worked hard and made me into some believable folk hero.
“I don’t know if there is much left for them to go through,” the director said in an interview I was watching. “A massacre, an attempted murder, geez, all they’ve been through. It’s amazing really. But I don’t think much else will happen to them at this point. They’ve learned to traverse this world in such a way, they won’t come across much more danger.”
I hope he’s wrong. Sweet guy, but he doesn’t know the complete story. I never told him that bit. Well, if he knew where I was now he’d think differently. I was chained up inside my old cabin at the camp.
Yes, that camp.
Apparently, Girl Alex was never really dead. Who knew? I thought she’d been dredged up as a bloated mass from the bottom of the lake. But I was wrong. She’d suffered amnesia until she saw my documentary, now she’s back from the grave and who knows what else to seek her revenge on me. Cool I guess
Girl Alex tapped the TV screen with her knife. “Why didn’t you tell them? Huh?” She came towards me, looking like an unhinged soccer mom. Which she was now, apparently. Amnesia had been good for her. Too bad it didn’t last.
I had my hands chained up, what the hell did she expect me to say?
Lunging at me, Girl Alex snarled in my face. “About me?” She tilted her head to the side and giggled. “I was the Monday Ripper. You knew that! You saw me.” She placed the point of the knife against my temple. “Why didn’t you tell them?”
I’ve already mentioned she didn’t deserve the notoriety. Victims of serial killers get dick-all attention compared to the killers. That was the fate she deserved unlike her victims.
Her blonde bob swayed as she pulled away from me, turning off the television set by stabbing through it with the knife. She turned back to me, taking in deep, slow, purposeful breaths.
Ah, I can tell she does yoga from that breathing.
She waves her hands down her face. “Deescalate, don’t hyperventilate.”
I bet she uses essential oils.
“Seeing your stupid, blank face again brought it all back you know.” She sounded perky, cheery even. “My daughter simply insisted we go watch that documentary. She loves the Monday Massacre films, you know?” She grinned at me. “Little does she know it’s Mommy! Little did I know,” she cackled.
Please, don’t monologue. Anything but the monologue.
To my surprise she lunged at me, carving that knife into me like I was the crust on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Oh no, excuse me, one of her kids must have an allergy, so a sunflower seed butter and jelly sandwich.
Glaring into my eyes, Girl Alex looked at me, prim, proper, completely fucking batshit crazy. Aside from some blood on her face, she looked like anyone. She pulled the knife back and stabbed it down into the bunkbed post.
“Stay there,” she murmured. She gathered up my clothes. “I just have to burn these, then I’m gonna put you back into that lake where you belong.” Her voice was sing-songy.
She was creative once. Maybe years of motherhood have dulled her edges. Or it was the amnesia and brain damage, who knows? Well, I certainly never expected this, so good on her for surprising me again.
The shock was wearing off and the pain from her slicing and dicing into me was setting in. I could barely catch a breath the way she had my arms chained up. It hurt, it hurt bad. Maybe she had a point. If the lake didn’t kill me the bacteria in it infecting these wounds would.
Why am I being sarcastic now? What’s the point? My dad must be laughing at me. His shoulders shaking, arm crossed against his ribs as the guttural, deep laugh rose up from the pits of hell.
Girl Alex stepped back into the room, wearing her Monday Ripper outfit. The mask was mass produced, the outfit was probably from Gap. “Do you know how many of these I bought?” She grasped hold of her face through the mask. “Never once realizing it was me? I couldn’t stomach watching the movies.” She strutted towards me. “All I knew was that my kids and husband loved them. Maybe that’s why they loved me so much.” She tried pulling the knife from the bedpost but was having a hell of a time.
“I’ve got a real nice rock to hold you down with. You won’t be escaping that lake again anytime soon.”
I really wish I knew how she did that in the first place.
Girl Alex gave up on pulling out the knife and squatted down before me. “Hope the follow up documentary does me justice.” She slapped me, hard, across the face then stood up to try and remove the knife she embedded in the wooden post.
Stomp! Clink.
Holy shit, no way.
Stomp! Clink.
“Moterfucker!” Girl Alex snarled as she tried to yank out the knife. “What the fuck is holding this piece of shit!”
Stomp! Clink.
I closed my eyes and relaxed. Butch was here.
The knife wiggled and Girl Alex laughed. She yanked again, dislodging it a bit more. She laughed in triumph as she pulled it out.
Bang!
She stumbled, tripped backwards. Waving her arms in the air she tried to hold herself up. Instead, she fell, the back of her head colliding with the corner of the dresser the television set sat upon. She fell onto the knife too for good measure.
I opened my eyes and watched as Butch stood there in the doorway. He was watching Girl Alex on the ground for a moment before he stepped into the room.
“We have got to stop meeting like this, pardner.” He swooped into the room, kneeling down before me. He made quick work of the rope and picked me up, laying me down on the bunk bed. He opened my clothes, looking underneath at Girl Alex’s art piece.
“Dammit pardner.” He touched my face, holding it gently. He leaned down, placing his lips upon mine. Oh, how lovely. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more romantic moment than this.
Of course I’m joking, I’m bleeding out.
Or maybe not. Much like Snow White, I suddenly felt better because of a kiss. I didn’t feel so weak, so gross. I looked down, seeing that Girl Alex’s pumpkin carving was gone. Just dried blood remained.
I sat up, smoothing my palm down my chest.
“Much better.” Butch took off his jacket and draped it around me. “Now, let's take care of this mess, if you don’t mind.” He motioned to Girl Alex dead on the floor.
We drug Girl Alex out to the lake, tying her to the rock she had intended for me. How funny it would end up this way all over again? I never expected this. I gazed up into the sky, seeing the moon was full and beautiful.
“Ready pardner?” Butch picked up the large rock.
I nodded.
Butch chucked the rock into the lake, aiming for the middle. The rock pulled yanking on Girl Alex’s legs and dragging her along the shore then…plop. Into the lake she went.
“Lots of memories at this place, ain’t there pardner?” Butch chuckled.
I tackled him. I kissed him, hungry and wanting to devour him. He grasped onto the ground, gasping for a breath as I stole each one he had. His hands grabbed hold of me and I’m not sure which way he’s gonna move me. There was a softness to his face, that the shadows under his hat were a smooth, cool flesh. Shadow flesh. I straddled his hips, looking down at him as I pinned him to the ground.
Butch relaxed upon the ground, his hands going up my hips. “Gonna ride a cowboy, eh pardner?”
God he’s stupid, I love him.
I leaned down to kiss him again as something poked into my thigh. Perfect. I kissed down his chest, his shadow flesh curled up along my face. I kissed further, opening his chaps up and laying aside his massive belt buckle. A dark shaft came up from inside, it curved and shadows licked off the tip. I took Butch into my mouth, sucking him generously as his moans and sighs came out rather loudly. I was surprised. But his low voice just made them sound all the better.
I had been waiting for this moment for so long, I wanted to do all I could to him.
The air was cold, clinging to my body as I pushed him down into the damp earth near the lake. His eyes were glowing bright, illuminating me, us, together in that place. The water lapped at the shore, followed by my deep breaths. Inside me I could imagine him as raging fire, reigniting the light inside of me for the first time in decades.
I let out my voice, a moan here, a grunt there. I had to still for a moment, breathing out thick clouds in the cold airå as I looked down at him.
Butch reached up, touching my face and brushing away my thick hair. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he muttered.
It took me aback at first.
“Sitting there in that stairwell, bloodied, cold-” his voice drifted and a tremor clutched his throat. “You said my name.”
It was his first time seeing me, but it had been one of many for me.
“I wanted to know you. Why you knew me.” His palm pressed to my cheek, sliding so I could kiss the center. The shadows were soft, the bones were as close to his soul as I could find.
A soft, low chuckle escaped his lips. “I pissed off a lot of people loving you, pardner.”
My eyes widened and I lifted up my head, staring down at him as the chill wrapped more around my naked body. Did he say what I think he said? My mind reeled, but it was also the calmest it had ever been.
“Butch,” my voice crackled.
A smile came through his eyes, and another gentle laugh rippled from his throat. “When death comes for you, it will be an army that I will have to fight off.”
Tears came to my eyes.
“But I’ll do it.” He closed one eye, raising his finger gun to me. “Bang, bang.”
That’s so stupid. I laid over, kissing him passionately and starting the motions again. I didn’t want him to leave me, ever. I wanted him inside me. This idiotic desperado with his finger guns and fringe, he’s mine, only mine. And he’s taking on the very nature of death for me, for some foolish reason.
“I can’t hold on much longer, pardner.” His voice was strained, not in a painful way, more like he was trying to desperately hold on. “You’re too good at this.”
I take pride in my work, but this is the greatest compliment I ever received. I wanted him undone and struggling. I wanted to suck the very breath from his bones. Well, if he breathed at all I mean. I cranked up my efforts to beyond ten, I was aching but pleased as I roughly shook him to his core. My core was awakening also. The flame from him was filling me, spreading to every nerve, every forgotten piece of myself.
“Fuck! Fuck!” He was holding onto me so tight, like he needed me to survive the storm I was bringing upon him. Good, he needed a life preserver apparently.
The only word I could think of was blossoming. I blossomed. All those years hiding under my dying grandfather’s bed hadn’t been for nothing.
Yippie-yi-o. Yippy-yi-yay.
I’m the ghost rider.
Butch didn’t move or speak for a long while. We laid there by the lake, staring up at the sky as my breath began to settle.
“Been many a moon since I felt that,” Butch whispered. He stretched out his arm, laying it over my belly. I place my hands over his. “Might be many more.”
Don’t say that! I turned my head to look at him, seeing his eyes focused upon me, a smile glistening inside. He didn’t want it to be long, but unfortunately, it would have to be.
Three:
With Girl Alex gone, my past was all but erased. No one from before existed anymore, and thus, it would seem like a fitting conclusion to the story. Wouldn’t it? But that is not how most stories end, not when they’re good like mine.
The camp was purchased, yet again, only this time it was bulldozed. Thank god. The lake was filled. An even bigger sign of relief. Now it was a prosperous little subdivision of tiny houses. Okay I guess.
Any idea that it was the location of the Monday Massacre was heavily edited and a new storyline was pushed to see these adorable tiny houses. Nothing bad ever happened there, no sir, they promised. Everything was squeaky clean. No skeletons in any closet. Maybe in the ground. But certainly no one was to know that.
I never even knew until a few years after its completion when I had the nerve to go and visit the lake. But to my surprise there was no lake at all. I simply stood at the spot where the lake had been. Now there were tiny houses covering it with pristine lawns, raised gardens, blah, blah, blah.
I don’t know what I was feeling as I stood there. Disappointment? Relief? Anger? Really, I had no way to sort through them. It was strange. I was ready to lay things to rest, to put my past behind me and finally, fucking finally move forward. But I couldn’t? Or maybe it had been forced for me. Wow, I’ve gotten so good at processing shit that it’s like a computer error going off in my brain now.
“Looking for a home?” Someone with too big of a smile approached me.
I had a home, but what did she know? Idle chit chat was nothing I cared about, I simply knew how to do it. I nodded.
“Oh! My! Gosh! We have so much to sell! We’re building new lots everyday!” She motioned to the house before me, right where the dock would have been before. “This place is wonderful, isn’t it?”
Would’ve been better with a lake, I thought snidely to myself. But she probably would’ve popped a gasket had I said that. “Yeah it’s cute.”
“Oh! My! Gosh! Cute doesn’t even begin to describe it.” She grabbed me, triggering a response that made my blood run cold. “Let me show you!”
“So, I wasn’t aware of this property,” I muttered while trying fervidly to ignore her hand grabbing my arm. “What used to be here.”
“Oh! My! Gosh! It used to be this big property that belonged to this old man. Poor thing couldn’t maintain it anymore. It became so overgrown that even the poor little animals couldn’t live here!”
I don’t think this woman knows how nature works.
She dragged me inside. I was standing right where the dock would have ended. One more step and I would have been in the lake again. That dark, decayed water full of death. It had swallowed boy Alex and Girl Alex. Now, I was standing on top of them. If I went a little to the left, well, I was where Butch and I had been.
I didn’t hear what ‘Oh! My! Gosh!’ Was saying. I was too fascinated by where I was standing and what it meant. My heart was racing, my palms sweaty.
I bought the tiny house, not that I needed it or anything. More out of obligation and sense of respect to Girl Alex, Boy Alex, all those pulled under by the lake that was now filled in. I was the only one who knew of this resting place, of the history this land holds. Only I knew how much blood was spilled on this earth.
“We’re holding a Halloween decor competition,” a neighbor of the tiny house subdivision told me. “Best house wins a really awesome prize.” They seemed so excited about it. I found it hysterical. Halloween was on a Monday this year.
This place is either filled with old people trying to escape clutter, but still have too much money for their own good, as well as supposedly alt couples who prefer the color beige to educate their kids. I could be judgy, but I don’t get out much.
“Here! Look this over.” They handed me a flier that was decorated in so much halloween clipart I could feel design majors everywhere crying.
“You seem like a spooky one.” She said in a warbling tone to mimic a ghost.
I looked at her and her pristine beach waves, peasant dress, and turquoise jewelry. I’ve seen her a million times in different places.
I started signing to her and she looked scared for a moment.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-” Her eyes were wide, watching my hands as I pulled them back from signing.
“It’s a Halloween contest!” She said loudly while doing exaggerated movements with her arms to get the point across.
I scowled at her. I didn’t talk, I could hear her just fine. I tapped my ear.
She gasped again. “Oh! I’m sorry I-” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I’M SO SORRY-”
I slammed the door in her face and turned my music way up. I watched her from between the shutters on the door. She looked mortified, then angry, then scoffed as another neighbor came by her.
Holy shit Butch, where the hell are you when I need you the most?
I looked at the flier, after having kept it rather than shove it back at her. A Halloween contest to see who could have the best decor around their tiny house. Well, I knew some people in the production side of the movies. I bet I could show them a thing or two about spooky.
I never really cared for Halloween much. Then again, I never liked many holidays. I liked the food that came with them and that was about it. Halloween was always the time I was busiest anyways, what with meet and greets, conventions, book tours. People love my scary ass tales when it's October.
Anyways, friends I had made through the years came to my tiny house to give it the horror treatment. They were all too happy to show off their talents and turn my tiny house into a haunted house. In retrospect, I might have let them go a bit too far, as everyone else in the tiny subdivision were putting up things from Home Depot, Wal-mart, etc. There were a couple of giant skeletons, but it was all the work of dads with not much to do, or moms wanting to impress their kids, somehow. My house looked like it had risen up from the lake to come and torment all the other houses.
“That certainly is…unique!” A mom said to me.
“You can’t seriously think this is okay?” This old man had been yelling at me about anything and everything I did to my property. My flowers had been too colorful. My porch wasn’t painted enough. My doormat was too far from the door. So this fell on deaf ears.
A child who had been gawking with an open mouth and zero expression suddenly burst into absolute joyous squirming. “It’s so cool!”
Ah good, the reactions I wanted. To be left alone and judged in silence.
“I know who you are.”
Not good! I bristled, turning cold from my chest to the tips of my fingers and toes. Please. I don’t want to be known. I barely want to be perceived.
The man who stood before me didn’t look like he fit into this tiny subdivision either. He was wearing cowboy boots and everything else was jeans. I just looked him up and down until his hands signed.
“Monday massacre.” He signed with a huge, smile on his overly tanned face.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
He held up his hands. “Hold on there,” he chuckled. “I’m a fan!”
I’ve had fans. My eyes remain firmly narrowed.
Oh wait. I can actually talk to this guy. “I’ve had fans before,” I signed to him.
He shrugged. “I know. And I ain’t intending to be one of them. I’m just surprised to see you back here, that’s all.”
“You know where we are?” I said with my hands.
He smirked. “How can I not? My family used to own this place after all. Well, before I was ever a twinkle in my dad’s balls.”
Crap, that was funny.
He chuckled. “We sold it to the people who turned it into a camp, you see.” He leaned against my stair railing. “I used to spend summers with my grandparents in that old house across the road.”
I knew that house. I used to think it was abandoned by how much stuff piled up around it over the years.
“I’ve been fixing the place up, hoping to sell it too,” he sighed.
“How bad was it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Hoarders leave a challenge, I’ll give ya that. But for the time being, a tiny house ain’t so bad.” He nodded at me. “What about you?”
My eyes returned to their natural narrowed and judgemental state. “What about me?”
He places his hands upon his overly jeaned hips. “Why are ya here of all places again? Wouldn’t this be the exact place you’d wanna get away from?”
I shrugged at him and turned to go back inside.
“Name’s Billy.”
Of course it is, I think to myself as I close the door behind me.
Halloween came, and with it, the whole tiny subdivision gathered together to make sure the night was a success. They would be inviting people in to come trick or treat while also voting on the best decorations in the neighborhood.
I knew what I was about. I didn’t expect to win, I only decorated in order to get all the ‘community’ off my back. I also didn’t expect trick or treaters at my house of horrors but I still bought candy anyways. Maybe I am a bit of a dreamer, who knows?
I had been fooling around with Billy on and off through the month. His cowboyish nature did things to me, and like Butch said, who knows when we could be together again. Billy was a replacement, a toy hidden under the bed in a small box. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t need him, but he was fun to keep around for emergencies.
“You ain’t in costume,” Billy said as he walked up my stairs. That overly tanned face of his was painted to look like a skeleton. Faker, I thought. You aren’t my cowboy.
I flicked my eyes to him. “Why would I be?” I took my bowl of candy and myself back inside. Billy followed behind me.
“I’m surprised to see you with candy.” He took a piece from the bowl and began to unwrap it.
I raised my hands again. “Do you really think you know me so well? Tell me what else you know about me?”
Billy popped the blue raspberry hard candy into his mouth, smudging the paint on his lips. “Why, I have the book on that,” he chuckled, inching closer towards me.
I swear to god, if this is another super fan situation, I’m going to-
“I don’t mean anything by it. I just, I dunno, I’m pretty reclusive my own self.” He leaned back, smiling out the window at the lights and line of kids coming up the road.
I watched him closely, he was relaxed.
He chuckled softly, gazing out into the distance. “You’ve been through enough to know your limits. I figured Halloween would be one of them.” He turned and smiled at me.
I shrugged. Maybe I was on high alert for nothing.
Billy leaned in, pressing a blue raspberry flavored kiss to my lips. Before I could respond, he gasped. I opened my eyes, seeing a look of terror on his face. He clutched his throat, gasping and choking for breath.
Oh shit! He was choking on blue raspberry! That was the least killer flavor!
Billy looked at me, eyes bulging, face changing colors from bright red, to purple. Veins appeared and he was thrashing around, throwing himself against the walls.
I was surprised I couldn’t move. It was my grandfather’s hospital room all over again. I was frozen, trapped there unable to do anything. Billy came to me, weakly throwing himself at me and clawing down my body as he fell. Billy didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve to come into my wake.
Stomp! Clink.
This isn’t fair.
Stomp! Clink.
Why do I suck so bad? Why can’t I move?
Stomp! Clink.
I looked up into Butch’s red, glowing eyes as tears appeared.
“So that was you,” Butch murmured as he stared back at me. “The kid under the bed.” He took his gun out and held it in his palm. “I know that look from anywhere, pardner.” He wiped away the black paint from my lips.
I looked down at Billy on the ground.
Bang.
The restoration on his grandparent’s place was going well. The smell of fresh paint and wood was everywhere. Or at least, it had been. I tucked myself away up in the attic. Apparently, no one knew Billy owned this place, so it had been left alone all this time.
“It’ll be soon,” Butch whispered to me.
I took in a deep breath and sighed, standing up to join him at the window. I placed my hand over his, gazing into the red glow. He squeezed my hand tight.
“Death is pretty easy though,” he murmured to me. He turned to face me, taking both my hands in his. The glow from the window reminded me of an altar in a church. The stained glass illuminated over a couple as they made their vows.
“Life is hard, but it’s what makes death worthwhile,” he told me in a smooth, even voice. He clutched my hands tight, raising them up to kiss my knuckles. “But this death, oh, what a show it will be.”
“Butch,” I whispered.
He nodded, giving me a big grin. “This has been a wonderful journey, pardner. I followed you in this life, now, I’m going to follow you into the next.” He placed his gun into my palm.
“Guns ablazing,” he whispered.
I opened my mouth, my tongue unsure, my throat unused, but I sang like my grandfather used to sing to me. “'Cause they've got to ride forever, On that range up in the sky. On horses snorting fire. As they ride on, hear their cry.”
Butch chuckled, leaning in and kissing me. “Are those your final words?”
I shook my head. Despite my silence I had so much to say. You wouldn’t be able to keep me quiet if you tried.
I heard voices fill the house, door opened loudly, footsteps began rattling about as if they were on the walls and ceiling. The horde of death sent for me was finally coming. Butch had told me all about them. Every time I almost died, it was death coming for me. But everytime, another death stopped them. All those grim reapers sent after me, were now fighting to be the first to take me. I was a game, a prize. All these years alive had made me the bane of the underworld. I was a royal in a palace, with Butch as the dragon guarding me.
I couldn’t die, but that was because Butch wasn’t ready to let me go. I don’t blame him. Had our places been switched, I would have done the same thing. Well, maybe later on we will switch. Maybe we’ll stand side by side and not behind separate lines. Kids growing up. Playing cowboys. Riding on forever in that range up in the sky.
I stepped forward, aiming one of Butch’s gun to the door.
Stomp! Clink.
Butch aimed as well.
The door swelled and bucked as death came for me. They reached in with long, bony hands, screaming my name over and over again. I pulled back on the trigger, holding in my breath and steeling myself.
Click. Click.
Bang.
The sky above the lake was beautiful. There were so many stars, so much light in what should be endless darkness. I laid there, feeling the moist earth against my bare back. I rose up, seeing figures standing on the other side of the lake with all their backs turned towards me. I stood, watching them without saying a word.
I took a deep sigh and walked to the dock, going to the edge and looking down at the black depths. I saw stars there too, lighting up a vast, endless abyss that should have taken all light and killed it.
There’s always hope, I told myself. There’s always Butch.
I stepped off the dock and sank into the deep waters. I fell down, going further and further until there were only stars above me again. A red glow lit up the area around me.
“It’s okay, pardner.”
I smiled, closing my eyes and breathing in the lake.
I smelled a campfire as I stirred. I opened my eyes to the red glow of it, and a vast horizon of endless stars before me. I sat up, looking into the fire. I guess it didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing. The death hoard tucked me somewhere. I reached towards the fire, seeing my hands were pale and my nails pitch black. I stared for a moment, seeing my bones begin to rise from the smoke of my skin.
Stomp! Clink.
I turned and looked up at Butch who was carrying a jug in one hand.
“Good morning, pardner.” He tossed a gun down into the dusty earth before me. He tilted his hat back, revealing more of his red eyes to me. “Today is just the beginning.”
Summary: Healing from childbirth isn’t linear. Clark is there with you and Leia all the way. You never had to ask.
warnings: postpartum, themes of depression, fatigue
requested by @icybarness, tysm i hope you like it! <3
more kent family adventures here!
The first days after Leia was born were a blur.
A beautiful, aching, overwhelming blur.
You loved her instantly, deeply, fiercely—but loving her didn’t stop the ache in your body. Or the moments of emptiness you couldn’t name. Or the tears that came out of nowhere when she cried and you didn’t know why, or when you sat down too fast and felt the sharp sting of healing, or when the weight of simply existing in your body again—this new body—became too heavy.
And Clark… Clark was always there.
Not just in the grand, movie-scene kind of way. Not just as Superman, flying around and saving the world before lunch. But in the real way.
In the everyday.
You never had to ask.
When you came home from the hospital, wincing with every step, he already had the pillows fluffed and stacked on your side of the bed. The peri bottle was filled, the softest towels were within reach, and the fridge was stocked with your favorite meals from Ma Kent, labeled with reheating instructions.
At night, when Leia stirred and whimpered, you’d start to sit up, but Clark was already halfway out of bed, scooping her up in strong, careful arms before you could swing your feet to the floor.
“I’ve got her, sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your forehead. “Go back to sleep. Please.”
He didn’t flinch at the unglamorous parts. The mesh underwear, the pads, the stitches, the tears you tried to hide when breastfeeding hurt more than you thought it would. He would kneel in front of you, hand warm on your knee, voice low and steady.
“You’re doing amazing,” he’d murmur, brushing a thumb along your cheek. “You don’t have to be strong every second.”
On the days you couldn’t bring yourself to shower, he’d set Leia in her bassinet by the bathroom door and sit on the floor, talking to both of you so you wouldn’t feel alone. On the nights when you’d crumble into him without warning, he’d hold you without asking for an explanation, one arm around you and the other cradling Leia against his chest.
And it wasn’t performative. He didn’t keep score. There was no “I did this for you”—just the quiet, unshakable truth that taking care of you and Leia wasn’t a chore to him. It was his life now. And he was happy about it.
He never complained. Never made you feel like you had to earn his help.
And when the tears came, he never tried to “fix” them.
There were days where the guilt swallowed you whole. For not being stronger. For not bouncing back. For missing your old body, even though you loved what it had done. For feeling overwhelmed when you “should” be happy.
One afternoon, a few weeks in, you sat in the rocking chair, staring at the wall while Leia slept against your chest. You were still in your robe. You couldn’t remember if you’d eaten. Clark walked in quietly and kneeled next to you.
You hadn’t said a word.
But he reached for your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, voice low and sure. “You don’t have to be okay every minute. You’re healing, love. And you’re not alone.”
That was the thing about him.
Clark saw everything. Even the cracks you tried to cover. Even the exhaustion in your bones.
And he never made you ask.
He made you tea before you could reach for it. Topped up your water bottle. Held Leia while you cried, letting the tears soak into his shoulder without flinching. He did laundry at midnight, rubbed your back when you ached too much to sleep, and stayed close—so close—so you never had to reach far for comfort.
He reminded you to eat, gently and without judgment.
He praised you every day, even when you didn’t believe the words yourself.
And when you finally felt a little stronger—standing longer, smiling more, moving without wincing—he still watched you like you hung the moon.
One particularly hard evening, when your body was still sore and your mind was heavy, you whispered into his shirt, “I feel like I’m not doing enough.”
Clark leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look there was so steady, so sure, it made your throat close up.
“You carried her. You brought her here. You’re healing. That’s more than enough,” he said, voice thick with conviction. “I want to do this for you—for us. You and Leia… you’re my girls. Taking care of you is the best thing I’ll ever do.”
You never had to ask him to carry any part of the weight.
Because from the moment Leia arrived, he already had it—arms outstretched, ready to hold you both.
And in those quiet moments, when the baby was fed and finally asleep, when the world outside paused just long enough to catch your breath, you’d rest your head on Clark’s shoulder… and feel it.
The safety.
The steady.
The love.
And even when the healing wasn’t linear, even when you had to take it day by day—you were never doing it alone.
Not with him.
-
It was one of those rare nights where the house was completely still.
Leia was finally asleep—not just the thirty-minute doze that ended with a wail, but that deep, blissful sleep that came after a warm bath, a quiet lullaby, and several rounds of gentle bouncing in Clark’s arms. You’d both tiptoed out of the room like spies escaping enemy territory, hearts pounding with fear of waking the tiny tyrant.
Now, the two of you sat in the dim light of the living room, curled together on the couch. You had your head resting on Clark’s shoulder, his arm around you, your fingers tracing absentminded patterns on the back of his hand. The baby monitor hummed softly beside you, the green light calm and steady.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you could breathe.
No cries. No spit-up. No laundry folding or bottle washing or frantic diaper changes.
Just you and him. And the silence.
You turned your face up toward his, watching the way the warm lamplight softened his features. He looked tired, but happy. Always happy when he looked at you.
“Clark,” you started softly, “I don’t think I’ve told you enough… how much I appreciate you.”
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt, just shifted so he was fully turned toward you.
“I mean it,” you continued, your voice already thick. “You’re so… here. Not just in the house, but here. With me. With her. You don’t just help—you want to help. And you’ve never made me feel guilty for needing you. You’ve been patient on the good days and the bad, and I just—” You broke off, swiping at the corner of your eye. “I feel like you’re doing so much more than I am.”
Clark’s face softened, and he reached over, taking your hands in his. His thumbs brushed slow, soothing circles against your skin.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and sure, “you’re doing everything. You carried her. You brought her into this world. You’re healing, you’re loving her, you’re loving me. That’s more than enough.”
You shook your head slightly, still not convinced. “But I see you—running around, taking care of her, taking care of me… you’ve been doing so much. And I’ve been worried, deep down, that maybe you’d—” You hesitated. “Resent me for it.”
The look in his eyes at that moment nearly undid you. Shock, then something deeper—something almost pained that you’d even think it.
“Resent you?” he repeated softly, like the words themselves didn’t make sense in his mouth. “Honey, no. Never. This—” he gave your joined hands a gentle squeeze, “—this is what I want. I want to be here. I want to take care of you and Leia. You’re my family. My girls. This isn’t something I have to do, it’s something I get to do.”
Your throat tightened, and you leaned into him, letting his arms come around you. His hold was strong but warm, grounding you like only he could.
“You really mean that?” you asked against his chest.
Clark kissed the top of your head without hesitation. “With everything I am. Taking care of you two is the best thing I’ll ever do. And I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.”
You let yourself melt into him completely, feeling his steady heartbeat under your cheek, his hands rubbing slow circles on your back.
For the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest lifted a little—not because the exhaustion was gone, but because you knew, beyond any doubt, that Clark wasn’t just enduring this season of life with you.
He was loving it.
He was loving you.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Your heart ached, full and overflowing.
“And,” he added, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “if my greatest purpose in life is making sure my girls are fed and rested and happy and covered in a frankly embarrassing amount of kisses, then I think I’ve found exactly where I’m meant to be.”
You laughed, watery and warm, curling into his chest.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” you whispered into his shirt.
“I think you might be that,” he whispered back.
Then, after a beat, “Although Leia’s definitely a close second. She’s got my hair, but your whole attitude. We’re doomed.”
You grinned through your tears, snuggled deeper into his arms, and felt—really felt—the quiet joy of being loved so well.
In this little house, in the late-night hush, with your Superman beside you and your daughter asleep down the hall, you realized something important.
No matter how messy or exhausting or overwhelming parenthood got, the three of you were always going to be okay.
Because you had him.
And he had you.
-
It was a quiet morning—sunny, gentle, and the kind of soft blue sky that reminded you of spring afternoons spent laughing on grassy hillsides. The light spilled into the bedroom as you slowly stirred, Leia curled up beside you after a fussy dawn feed. Her tiny breaths rose and fell, her little hand tucked close to her cheek.
You turned toward Clark, who sat at the edge of the bed folding baby laundry in that comically delicate way of his—as though every onesie was made of gold thread and clouds. You watched the way his big hands handled everything with such care. You couldn’t help but smile.
“…Hey,” you said softly.
He turned immediately, eyes warm. “Morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”
You hesitated, then gently ran your fingers over Leia’s soft hair.
“I think… I think I want to go outside today,” you said, quiet and shy, like the words might break if you spoke them too loud.
Clark blinked, and then his face lit up. He sat up straighter, grinning. “Yeah? You sure?”
You nodded. “There’s this place I’ve been thinking about. The park… the one by the lake, where you and I used to go on picnics.”
Clark’s eyes went soft in that way they always did when he looked at you like you hung the stars. “Our spot,” he murmured.
“Our spot,” you echoed, cheeks warm. “I want to go there. As a family.”
He didn’t waste a second.
“I’ll pack everything,” he said, already moving into action like this was a top-level mission from the Justice Gang. “Leia’s diaper bag, a blanket, snacks, sunscreen, a hat for you, a hat for her, backup onesies—”
You laughed softly, hugging Leia close. “Clark. We’re just going to the park.”
“That’s what you think,” he said dramatically, scooping up a pacifier with the same seriousness he reserved for alien invasions. “But we are going to the park as a family of three for the first time. This is historic. Monumental. We must be prepared.”
You giggled so hard Leia stirred with a soft grunt, blinking up at you with bleary baby confusion. You kissed her forehead and whispered, “Guess what, baby girl? We’re going on your very first adventure.”
-
The park was just like you remembered.
Wide open fields. The little hill under the big oak tree where Clark once tried to teach you how to throw a football (and failed miserably because he kept getting distracted by kissing you). The small lake that shimmered like glass in the sunlight. The birdsong. The breeze. The way the air smelled like sun-warmed grass and a thousand soft memories.
Clark carried Leia in the front baby carrier, her little legs dangling, her sun hat slightly crooked. He wore the dorkiest, proudest dad grin the entire time, waving at strangers who cooed over the baby, announcing loudly, “First park trip! Look at her! She’s doing so good, right, baby girl?”
Leia burbled happily.
You followed beside him, feeling lighter than you had in weeks, hand resting on his back, watching your little family in motion.
When you finally reached your spot beneath the tree, Clark laid out the blanket like it was some ancient royal tapestry, helping you settle down gently while still keeping one hand on Leia’s back like she might float away.
You both sat under the swaying leaves, sunlight dappling across your skin. Clark had Leia out of the carrier now, gently holding her up in the air as she squealed.
“She’s smiling,” you said softly, eyes full of awe.
Clark looked down at her, expression softening. “She knows she’s somewhere special.”
“Like a family heirloom,” you joked, wiping a happy tear from your cheek. “We bring every big moment to this tree.”
“First kiss. First picnic. First time we ever said I love you.”
“And now,” you whispered, reaching over to touch his knee, “our first time here as three.”
He turned to you, eyes suddenly glassy.
“You brought us here,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You… you’re feeling better, and you wanted to come here. That means everything.”
You leaned against him, letting your head rest on his shoulder as Leia made happy baby noises in his lap.
“I wanted to come here because it’s where we started. And I wanted to remember how far we’ve come.”
Clark kissed the top of your head, then kissed Leia’s, holding both of you like the sun might never shine this warm again.
You stayed like that for a long time—under your tree, by your lake, as the breeze carried the sound of your daughter’s gurgly laughter and the slow rhythm of a family finding its way back to joy.
Healing wasn’t linear. But this was when you knew everything would be okay.
Clark knew it too. It was right here. In this moment. With his girls.
Ghost likes country music but that's a secret he'll take to his last grave. He refuses to even let Price know his little secret. If Soap finds out? He'll never emotionally recover from his disappointment. He'd rather explode than face Gaz's judgement. And if fucking Graves finds out? He's jumping into the ocean and never coming back to shore.
WARNINGS: piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), banter, teasing, secret office romance, established relationship, sort of sex tape but not rlly cause it'd be an audio sex tape??, fluff, porn with plot, no spoilers!<3
summary: finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.
word count: 4,362
a/n: hey everyone!! I literally never write anything that isn't Bill Skarsgård related, but I saw the Superman movie today and couldn't help thinking how HOT David Corenswet was!!! so this fic goes out to my best friend who I saw this movie with, hope you like it you little gremlin (ily babes let's play starstable soon tihii) credits to @krayonimous for the gif!!<3
"Oh, come on,"
My words were whispered under my breath, dragged out by my annoyance at the sight of the front page of The Daily Planet today.
Superman Speaks: The Peace-Mission, by Clark Kent.
I pushed the paper away like it offended me, letting it slide crooked across my desk. The headline still stared up at me, taunting as ever, and I could practically hear his voice in it-- soft-spoken, heavy with concern, and full of just enough gravitas to make even the skeptics stop and feel something.
It was getting annoying, at this point-- every other week came another exclusive, and yet another quiet little masterstroke from Kent. Would it ever end?
Clark's desk was still empty, of course. The chair next to mine was untouched, his coat not draped over it yet, and I could feel my irritation fester. If that had been me, I'd have been fired a month ago. But because of these damn exclusive Superman interviews, he had secured himself a spot at the company, no matter what.
I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk-- once, twice, just to give myself something to do with the irritation.
And then, right on cue, the elevator dinged.
Voices rose-- someone greeted him before I saw him, and then there he was, walking in like he had just stepped off the cover of his own feature, glasses a little fogged from the humidity, tie not even pretending to be straight. Still, with perfectly tousled dark hair like that, and with eyes the shade of dreamy lagoons, it was impossible not to stare. He smiled, nodded, and offered a sheepish morning to the general hum of recognition around him for getting the front page. And then, just to top it off, someone clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on 'another one'.
... God.
He even had the nerve to look embarrassed about it.
I looked back at my screen like I was busy, like I wasn’t tracking the exact number of steps it took him to get from the elevator to his chair, like I didn’t hear the gentle thud of his bag hitting the floor next to mine--
“Morning,” Clark murmured, settling into his chair.
“Barely,” I replied, eyes on my inbox-- if I allowed myself to look at him, I'd just think about how broad his shoulders were now that he was so close, and I couldn't do that to myself, not at work.
Clark didn’t respond right away; he just scooted his chair in with unnecessary force, trying to get my attention. I didn’t look over, but I knew he was smiling. “You saw the story?” he asked, all innocence.
"Impossible to miss,"
"What did you think?"
Inhaling sharply, I shrugged; "I think it's very convenient that you're always at the right place at the right time,"
Clark huffed a quiet laugh; “You didn’t like it,"
“Oh, I never said that,”
“You didn’t have to,"
I finally glanced at him, trying not to gawk at his beauty. Clark was already watching me, elbows on his desk, with that same irritating softness around his plush mouth that made him look more sincere than he had any right to be. His tie was really a disaster, though-- looped too tight, one side bunched like he had gotten distracted halfway through.
Not that anyone but me would notice or care; it was sort of endearing on days when he didn't have a new front-page Superman interview, anyway. “It's just interesting, that's all," I said. "That Superman only talks to you. One could argue that you might be bribing him."
That only made Clark's boyish smirk widen. “Superman is a man of the law,” he murmured, teasing as always. “He would never accept bribes. I ask and he talks, that's all,”
“Mhm... Right,"
I turned back to my screen, biting down on a grin myself. I didn’t need to look at him to feel the air crackle between us. The buzz of it always gave me a high-- always. What had started out as office friction had turned into something sharper, something hotter, and now it sat between our desks like a huge elephant no one wanted to admit was there.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clark lean back and stretch slightly, his tight, white shirt stretching over his broad chest-- he had the balls to look smug about this, yet that slight rosy colour appearing in his cheeks contradicted his every move. He enjoyed this too, I was certain of it. “You know,” he murmured. “You could always pitch for the next one. Superman might be up to giving you an interview... Everyone knows you're the best writer in the office.”
I looked at him slowly, not yet impressed. “Oh, really now?”
Clark shrugged again, lifting his hands in faux surrender. “It’s not my fault he likes talking to me,”
I gave him a flat look, snorting. “You’re intolerable,"
“I think you should try,” he murmured, dragging a folder out of his bag as he disregarded my last words. “He might be up for it. On the record, and everything."
That was it-- my eyes rounded out. "On... the record?"
That was new.
Clark's blue eyes practically shimmered as he put his earbuds in, casual as ever, yet his smirk betrayed him; "Who knows? You might get lucky tonight,"
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
The scent hit me before I even dropped my keys-- garlic, butter, and something rich and comforting I couldn't put my finger on. I stopped halfway through taking off my coat, catching sight of him in the kitchen; Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in my favourite pan like he had lived here for years.
I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding. This was my favourite sight to come home to.
I could already sense the smile in his voice without him having to turn to me; “Hey, you,” he murmured.
Oh, wow. “You made dinner,” I breathed, watching the way his white shirt stretched across his broad back-- finally, I could gawk at him now that we weren't at work.
“You were grumpy this morning,” Clark replied, unaware of the way I was looking at him right now; or was he? “I figured you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make you.”
Of course. Of course he'd do this after our back-and-forth banter this morning. "I wasn't grumpy," I put my coat away before finally approaching Clark, leaning against the kitchen counter as I tried to see what he was making. "But you know I can't be acting over the moon for you at the office. Everyone would catch on."
He hummed, still stirring. I watched him work, letting the silence stretch between us in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable. It never did with him-- not here, not like this. The air felt warmer than it should have, like the kitchen lights had dimmed a little just for the two of us. “Smells good,” I murmured, my back pressing against the kitchen counter as I turned, reaching up to brush a soft, black strand of his hair away from his forehead.
“It’s your favourite,” He said it without looking up, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t planned this out from the moment he left the office. Sweet, sweet boy.
I could only smile; I liked us when we were alone, when we didn't have to hide our feelings. No cape, no headlines, no rivalry-- just Clark in my kitchen, sleeves rolled, cooking for me because he wanted to. Because underneath everything, he knew me, and I knew him.
... More than anyone.
“Clark,” I murmured softly, dreading my next words. "I'm worried someone's going to find out that you're getting these Superman interviews because... well, you are Superman. I wouldn't want you to blow your own cover."
Clark didn't answer anything at first-- then, his brows furrowed into that look I knew too well. "Is that why you were so grumpy this morning?"
"I wasn't grumpy," I mumbled, tracing a line down his broad shoulder to his hand. "Just concerned."
Clark finally set the spoon down, resting it carefully on the edge of the pan before turning to face me fully. His blue eyes were unreadable, and it made my anxiety bubble. “I appreciate you worrying,” he said, voice low and soft. “But I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep the lines separate.”
I searched his face, and the way his jaw flexed as he chose his words carefully. I scanned the quiet certainty in his posture, how even now (smelling like garlic and city air) he held himself like someone who had the world to carry. “I know you do,” I admitted. “But... still. Every time someone jokes about how close you are with Superman, I feel like I’m holding my breath.”
At that, Clark snorted, cracking up into a smile; "You're the one that makes the most jokes about that,"
"Yeah, but that's because!--"
"If anything, you're the instigator of those rumours,"
"I'm not, I just-- Clark, do you hear what I'm telling you?"
Muting his laughter, he let his shoulders slouch, showing that he was backing down. "I do have a solution, though," he murmured. "I wasn't joking about what I said earlier."
I didn't need a mirror to know my eyes shot out a spark or two. "Me interviewing you?"
"Yes,"
"As Superman?"
"Yes,"
"That sounds... fair," I mumbled. "Finally, you won't know the questions beforehand. It's actually much more ethically sourced than how you do it, if we're taking media laws into account."
Clark huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his fingers along the edge of the counter before stepping just a little closer to me. “Ethically sourced?” he echoed. “You’re going to cite journalism codes of conduct now?”
“I might,” I said, chin lifted. “Someone has to keep you humble.”
His hand found my waist-- light, familiar, and grounding. “So, let me get this straight,” he murmured, voice dipping just slightly. “This will be a legitimate, recorded interview with Superman. Questions unapproved. No edits. No off-the-record pauses.”
“Exactly,” I nodded once, hoping to bite down my smirk. “Full transparency.”
He tilted his head, black hair kissing his forehead, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully behind his glasses-- “Will you go soft on him?”
“No,” came my answer, instant as ever. “I’m going to grill him like a Thanksgiving turkey.”
Clark grinned, all teeth this time. “I’d expect nothing less,”
The space between us thinned again, shrinking in that way it always did when we weren’t pretending. His thumb rubbed a slow, absent circle at the small of my back, and the scent of garlic and butter and whatever else he’d conjured tonight clung to the warmth around us like something domestic we were still getting used to.
“I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this,” I said, a little breathless, more off-guard than I meant to sound.
“You’ve wanted to get him in the hot seat for months,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, and if it keeps people from asking too many questions, then yeah, Let’s do it. On the record.”
I held my breath, feeling my heartbeat soar. "Now?"
"Sure," Clark shrugged. He pulled me closer like it was no big deal, like he didn't know that every touch from him set me on fire-- "But if we're doing this, then we're going to do it my way."
"... What?"
｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ
Oh, I should've known.
I should've known that Clark would do something like this, that cheeky bastard.
My attitude this morning could've set this off too, I had no idea-- all I knew was that I had to keep quiet if I wanted this audio to be able to go on the record.
Still, it was impossible not to squirm as Clark's big hands greedily grabbed at my hips, long fingers caressing my skin as his tongue swirled my right hip-bone; holy fuck. He reached for my underwear, tugging it upward to get better access, to get me twitching harder against my duvet. "You've-- You've got a lot of heat on social media lately," I started, stumbling through my questions whilst running my hands through Clark's thick locks as he continued to make me weak.
He hummed against my skin, leaving wet kisses up along my stomach. "I don't read that stuff," he murmured. "Superman doesn't have time for selfies."
I rolled my eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. How could he be so composed, even now? Even after he somehow managed to get me out of my clothes with all of his intact and on? "You're gonna-- You're gonna refer to yourself in third person?" I glanced at the audio recording device I had propped on the bed, swallowing hard as Clark's kisses started darting down again, his lips brushing against the hem of my dampening underwear.
"Hm?" he answered, mind clearly wandering.
"This is on the record-- Superman,"
"And what about it?"
"Doesn't it sound a bit--" My breath hitched as Clark's hands left my hips, now grabbing at the underside of my thighs to spread my legs. I glanced down at how he had situated himself between them, comfortable and cocky as ever, blue eyes darkening with want. My voice was barely a squeak; "Pompous?"
At that, Clark raised a brow at me, clearly amused. "Really, now? Pompous?"
I decided not to push it-- I had other things to focus on, now that I really had Superman here...
Between my legs.
"Today, the-- the secretary of defence said he was going to--" Before I could stop it, my breath hitched once again, watching Clark press open-mouthed kisses against my clothed clit. Was he trying to make this impossible? Totally. This interview would be deemed impossible by any other interviewer, surely, but me? Nu-uh. I was going to prevail, no matter how hard he made this for me. "Look into your actions," I continued. "He's going to-- look into them."
At that, Clark laughed; I could feel the rumble of his chest vibrate the bed, with how big he was compared to me.
"That's funny?" I snapped, trying to gain some leverage.
Clark raised himself a bit, blinking up at me with that classic, cocky, all-American boy smile like he had done nothing wrong. "My actions?" he echoed, hooking his fingers around my underwear. "I stopped a war."
I shrugged, hoping to act as normal; "Maybe,"
"Not maybe," he huffed, peeling my panties down my thighs. "I did."
"Well, you did illegally enter a country?--"
"For the sake of peace," Clark was getting snappy now; if I hadn't heard it in his voice, I would've pieced it together with how he tossed away my underwear, settling between my legs once again. "Don't be like that."
"Like what?" I mumbled.
"Like that,"
Before I could pry more, before I could say anything proper, my body betrayed me-- my back arched against the feeling of his warm breath falling against my soaked sex, and I held back a whimper that I certainly didn't want on my recording machine.
"Be nice," Clark said, before gently wrapping his lips around my clit without warning, suckling me softly.
My hands practically flew into his dark, thick hair as I tried to cushion my moans into my pillow, but to no avail-- a quiet moan left me, and I could feel Clark smile against me. Still, I knew I had to keep my brain sharp, knew I couldn't give in this easily; "Did you-- consult with the president? Before trespassing?"
At that, Clark groaned against me, sending vibrations up along my spine that I had never felt before. "No," he mumbled against my sex, before grabbing my thighs harder, pushing them further against me like he wanted me to fold in half. I could only whimper as he then laved his tongue between my folds, circling my clit with the softest kitten-licks known to man-- he was trying to drive me nuts, wasn't he?
"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, so you?-- fuck--"
"Language,"
"-- Sorry,"
I could feel his smooth skin against my inner thighs, freshly shaven, and the sensation only added to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside me with every move. Clark's tongue moved in slow, teasing circles now, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against me, icy-blue eyes flicking up to watch my reaction every so often.
I wasn't going to let him win; he could have the front page for all that I cared, but not this. I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to finally let out a cohesive sentence; "Do you know why that-- looks bad?"
Clark didn't answer, too busy wrapping his lips around my clit again, a little firmer this time, which was enough to have me fighting the urge to clamp my legs around his head.
"Superman," I tried, glancing at the recording device once more; was this footage even usable? Should I bother not calling him his real name? "It seemed like you were acting as a-- as a representative of the United States without having consulted the-- the government?"
Irked, Clark raised himself to properly look at me; with his big hands still gripping the underside of my thighs, plush mouth glistening with my slick, he suddenly didn't seem so happy to be answering my questions anymore. "I wasn't representing anybody except for me,"
"Did you not think about-- what it would look like?" Now that I wasn't getting the life sucked out of me, I could finally catch my breath. I propped myself up on my shaky elbows, meeting Clark's blue eyes with compassion. "I understand that you must've been under a lot of stress, but--"
"Oh, you have no idea,"
"But could you perhaps have considered the consequences?--"
"That wasn't as important as!--"
"What is more important than avoiding war, Superman?--"
"People were going to die!"
At that, we both stilled.
My mouth parted in shock at the fact that sweet, gentle Clark had raised his voice at me like that. I stared down at him, frozen.
It didn't take long before he raised himself to his knees, visibly taken aback by how much my questions were affecting him. He blinked a couple of times, trying to recover, as his hands slowly lifted from my thighs, letting them naturally crease over his.
None of us spoke until I dared-- "I'm sorry,"
Clark didn't move. Avoided my gaze. Didn't breathe either, as far as I could tell.
With a sigh, I reached for the audio recording device, shutting it off; that was enough for now. The interview wasn't as important as what was happening in front of me. I didn't care that I was undressed. I didn't care. Carefully, I sat up, daring to gently cup his face; "Clark," I murmured. "You're a good man. You did what you thought was right. I don't hold that against you, no one does."
Clark's jaw was tight under my palm-- still warm, still damp from me, but set. “I know you don’t hold it against me,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, but rough. “But you still asked, like you wanted me to say it was wrong. Like you thought it was."
“I don’t want you to say it was wrong,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “I want to know that you at least thought about it, Clark... That you didn’t just act on instinct or impulse."
His eyes flicked up to mine at that, too fast, too sharp.
There it was-- proof that Superman was human, in his own way. Impulsive. Rash. Passionate. Rattled with guilt.
Clark exhaled like it hurt to admit his mistakes, even though he hadn't said them out loud. He knew that I knew. Carefully, he leaned into my touch, just barely, his hands now hovering over my legs, unsure if he was still allowed to touch me after raising his voice, like that one slip of temper meant he didn’t get softness anymore.
My fingers sank into his hair again, stroking through it slower now, calmer. "You saved the day, Superman," I murmured, a trying smile finding its way to my lips. "That's what's important, okay?"
"Okay," Clark echoed, his heavy blue gaze avoiding mine.
Enough. I couldn't stand to look at that sad face anymore; "Let's forget the world for a moment, hm?" I pressed a kiss to the right corner of his mouth. "It's just you and me, now," Left. "And that wouldn't be possible without you, so come here and reap your reward."
Finally, Clark's eyes peeked up at me again, interest spiking. "What do you?--"
I didn't let him finish that sentence.
It also didn't take long before my arms draped around his neck, pulling him down with me onto the bed with a heated kiss. Clark accepted, caging me with his broad shoulders, mouth moving against mine like he wanted to remember every curve, every push, every whimper; he let out a pleasured sigh and smiled into the kiss, melting my heart.
Clark's passion was all-taking-- he moved to softly nibble on my earlobe, licking a stripe up the shell, which he knew always got me giggling, as we got him out of his black jeans. I could feel the way our breaths clashed, how our chests pressed together in a moment of fire none of us could control, pure impulse, before his reassuring words came as always; "I've got you," he murmured, the soft head of his cock prodding at my entrance, his big, calloused hands once again gripping at my thighs.
"Need you," I breathed, nipping at his strong jaw. "Want you, Clark-- need you."
Clark hummed; "Bet," he teased, before rocking forward, just enough for the head to push inside.
The whimpers that fell from my mouth were impossible to stop, and my hands gave his dark hair an involuntary tug. "Fuck,"
I knew he didn't like swearing, and I knew that'd be the key to getting what I wanted. With an annoyed huff, Clark pushed his cock into me, letting out a shaky sigh against my shoulder as I shuddered against him. Thankfully, he couldn't see my sheepish smile of victory; I had waited for this since the second I saw that front page article. This feeling. Him inside of me. Just us.
The first few thrusts were deeper than usual, probably fueled by our fiery interview and my affinity for cuss-words tonight, but I didn't mind-- being filled up by Clark was such heaven, that I didn't really care how it happened. I'd sell my soul for this, surely; for my fingers to burn with euphoria coursing through my veins.
Clark pulled out halfway and pushed into me again, firmer this time, making my breath hitch as my nails left crescent moons into his broad back. "You feel so good," he murmured, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had me melting into my duvets. "Missed you like this."
"Missed you too," I moaned, pressing a weak kiss to his shoulder. "Stop-- saving the world all the goddamn-- time."
At that, Clark could only laugh; "Cause this is more important, yeah?"
"Obviously,"
"Right," he purred, his slow, deep, dragging thrusts practically muting me from that point on. I could only clench around his thick length, suppressing my cries of pleasure against the muscular range of his shoulders.
"Want me to stop saving everyone, hm?" Clark went on; "Want me to stay here and take care of you?"
I could only whimper-- yes, yes, yes.
With a satisfactory hum, his plush lips found my throat, sucking a mark against my skin, branding me over and over; he might as well have stamped a Superman-stamp on my neck. "I would if I could," Clark huffed, groaning against my skin; I felt his cock twitch inside of me at the intrigue of that thought, and it made me clutch him harder as he fucked me into the mattress, instincts taking over. "Would stay here-- make you feel good, make you cum, make you-- satisfied--"
I could hear it in the roughness of his voice that he was close, closer than he usually was at this point. Was it really our heated arguments today that had fried both our nerves? I couldn't tell.
To delay just a moment more, to continue revelling in our wet union, Clark propped himself up on his knees, guiding my legs over his thighs again-- his hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing firm circles, intent on getting me over the edge first. Fucking gentleman.
I choked down another lewd moan, the pleasure building quicker than expected. "God, Clark, I-- I can't--"
"It's okay," he murmured, watching me with those big, blue, loving eyes I adored. "Want you to let go when you're close, okay? Could you-- Could you do that for me?"
"Anything," I breathed. "Anything for you."
Clark let out a hum of approval, warm as always, as my vision started going hazy; he continued circling my clit with the nicest of pressures, making my toes curl, making my breath catch, and I soon enough had to tell myself to breathe, chanting it over and over in my head. Without meaning to, in the midst of me fighting the building feeling in my whole body, I shifted my hips-- I didn't mean for it to angle Clark deeper, but it gave me the grandest of rewards.
Clark let out the filthiest groan, feeling his cock engulfed in wet, tight heat, and that did it for him.
I didn't mean to, I swear.
His right hand left my clit, and with both, he now gripped my hips tighter as his thrusts turned erratic, desperate, impulsive, but with awareness of his strength; it didn't take long before he buried himself inside of me with a deep, shuddering gasp of relief. His forehead dropped against mine as he spilled inside me, body trembling from the force of it, panting with the shock of his unexpected release.
I had no idea what came over me, or how it happened-- but with how Clark was angled, it didn't take more than two upward rolls of my hips, helped by his strong hands, to have my clit pressing against his body, and it was a sensation so light, so desperate, so chased and sought by all-taking arousal, that it shattered me even harder when I realized I was cumming from practically... nothing. My legs trembled as I felt my clit pulse, lashes fluttering shut at the intense rush.
Only Clark could have me falling apart like that, and only I could have Superman collapse like this on a Friday night.
He might not be a man-- but he surely fucked like one.
clark kent using his x-ray vision while he fucks you <3
clark kent x fem! reader
minors dni, 18+!!
you could feel it in the way clark gripped your waist as he pressed into you, hips rolling with a slow, steady force. the pads of his fingers dug into your skin deep, no doubt leaving marks after. his light moans perfectly in tune with his thrusts, eyes half lidded behind his fogged glasses that had slid down a little. but his gaze was locked on you regardless, like he couldn’t look anywhere else— he wasn’t allowing himself to. he was lost deep into your body beneath him.
oh god, and he felt deep, too. feeling him stretch you in such a way, like he was buried into your core. he snapped his hips into yours with a sudden movement, causing you to dig your fingers into his shoulders, dragging them down his toned back. “oh my..clark, it’s— you’re so deep..”
he pulled out just enough to make a noticeable difference for when he slid back into you. you whined at the sensation of being full again, causing his breath to hitch. you took him so well.
“you okay, baby?”
you nodded, faster than you would’ve liked, arching your back. “i.. yeah.. i can.. oh god i can feel you in my stomach,” you moaned out, words faltering in pleasure.
clark slowed his thrusts to almost a stop, heart racing at the thought. his voice was deeper than you’d heard before. it was rougher, laced with lust.
“i know. i can see it. i can see me in your stomach.”
your eyes fluttered at his words. you barely had time to process before his hand left your waist to grab the hand you still had piercing into his back. he put your hand onto your stomach and placed his own overtop. he pulled out, pressed your hand against your skin, then pushed back in, forcing you to feel it. your whole body tensed at the feeling.
“what?”
“x-ray,” he said, his tone simple but weak, like he didn’t want to admit it, “right now, i can see just how deep i am.”
he pressed your hand into your stomach more as his pace picked up, hips rolling harder into you, pulling a moan from deep within you.
“oh, clark, it’s so..”
“right there, sweetheart. you feel that?,” he breathed, looking down at your stomach, eyes faintly glowing, “you’re taking all of me... good girl.”
that damn near killed you, wrecking you completely. you needed him faster than before, needed to feel him hitting as deep as he can, as fast as he can. you wrapped your other hand around his neck, pulling him down until his forehead was pressed against yours. “f-faster please.”
“yes, ma’am,” and with that he obliged, hips snapping quicker as he buried himself to the hilt. both of your breathy, raw moans filled the room, echoing off the walls. he couldn’t hold back anymore, he didn’t want to. not with how wrecked he had his girl underneath him. his hand never let go of yours, holding you down to feel just how full he can make you feel.
“look at you, clenching around me like that. wish you could see it, too.”
oh fuck. you couldn’t hold back anymore. your normally sweet, gentle boyfriend using his superpowers against you in the bedroom was enough, but hearing such filth come from his mouth? it’s enough to send you over the edge.
he tilted his head, lips brushing over your ear, “i can see you coming around me from inside.”
the second he said “i can see you coming”, you were done in. you moaned his name, just short of a scream, legs locking around his waist as the walls of your core clenched tight around him. he gasped as his own release surged through him, hitting him just as hard as your own did, watching himself spill into you as your slick leaked out.
never once did his hand leave your stomach as you came, now locking his fingers with yours over the top of your hand. his breathing was heavy against your neck, voice quiet and softer as he pressed light kisses to your jaw and cheek. “that’s it.. that’s my girl.”
your legs were still wrapped around him, though the tension in your body began to ease. after a few minutes of catching your breath, he raised up and let go of your hand, placing both beside your head. “you okay? it wasn’t.. too much, was it?”
you were quick to shake your head no, a laugh leaving you, “no, never. though, you seeing me come through my stomach was.. a lot. but in a good way.”
he smiled, kissing you lightly. “it’s.. it’s something else, i’ll tell you that. and i meant it, i could see every single bit of it. it’s beautiful. you’re beautiful. how perfect you take me, how your body holds onto me when you come.. most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”
You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.
You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.
For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.
Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.
You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.
You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”
You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.
Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.
“Here, sweetheart,” he says.
You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”
“Can I make it for you?” he asks.
Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”
Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.
You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Are you sharing?”
“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.
“Thank you.”
Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”
“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.
He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”
“That explains why it’s still warm.”
He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.
“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.
You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”
“Do you have big dinner plans?”
“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”
“Why not?”
You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”
“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.
“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”
He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.
It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.
“I’ll bring you some if it does.”
“I’d like that.”
You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.
“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”
“I can be punctual,” he promises.
“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”
“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”
You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.
“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).
Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”
Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.
Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.
When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.
It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.
And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.
You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.
—
The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.
“That smells amazing.”
You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”
“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”
His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.
The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.
“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.
“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”
“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.
He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”
If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.
His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.
You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.
Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.
“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.
You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.
“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”
You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.
“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.
You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.
“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.
There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.
“It’s a little brave,” you say.
“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”
You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.
—
Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.
You’re sitting beside him in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.
“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.
“I’m not worried about the sun.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.
He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”
You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.
So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.
“Do you worry about that a lot?”
“Hm?”
“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”
“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.
He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”
You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”
Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”
He makes everything sound so satiny.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.
“Promise?”
Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”
You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.
A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.
It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.
Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”
“And?”
“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.
He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.
“What’s amazing?”
You remember where you are urgently.
“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.
Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”
You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.
“Morning,” Clark says.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”
You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”
“You look good.”
Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”
“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, fimishing his macaron in one bite.
Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.
“You do look good,” he says again.
You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”
You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.
“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.
“What?”
His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.
“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”
“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”
His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.
Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.
“Don’t.”
“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”
“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”
“Take me somewhere else.”
His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.
He hits the button for the basement as you step in.
“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”
No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.
“Clark!” you say.
“Can I kiss you?”
He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.
You raise your hand to wipe it away.
“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.
Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.
Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.
“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
“Really?”
“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”
“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.
His eyebrows pinch. “What?”
“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”
“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”
His neck goes all shades of rose.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”
You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.
He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.
“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”
The elevator chugs back to life.
—
You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.
“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”
You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.
“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”
You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange your legs beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.
“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.
His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.
“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your
moment of delusion.
“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”
“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”
You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend–”
“Everyone’s safe.”
You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.
“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”
Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.
You shake your head, not without fondness.
All boys are the same.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times
When Dick is 8 and starts living with Bruce, one thing he does often when he needs some extra comfort or is just feeling silly is wear one of Bruce’s t-shirts. They’re so big on him, it may as well be a nightgown. He likes to sleep in them a lot, because they smell like Bruce and it makes him feel a little safer.
Bruce has offered to get him a few oversized shirts if his own to wear, but Dick vehemently refuses.
“No!” he tells him, shaking his head as Bruce’s shirt slips off one of Dick’s shoulders. “It’s not the same!”
He then promptly hops on Bruce’s bed, crawls under the covers, and snuggles with Zitka as he demands a bedtime story.
There’s just something so precious about Dick running around with bedhead, giggling, and Zitka held in one hand as the sleeves on Bruce’s t-shirt go halfway down his arms. About Dick yawning and rubbing at his eyes while wearing some faded band t-shirt Bruce got at a concert a few years ago. About Dick sitting on the couch wearing one of Bruce’s Gotham Knights shirts, watching on TV as their favorite baseball team plays a rival team in another city.
Alfred probably has tons of photos, both candid and posed. Of Bruce holding Dick while they wear matching t-shirts, both of them Bruce-sized. Bruce has a soft little smile on his face while Dick beams, tilting his head and hugging Bruce tight around the neck. If the two of them cuddled in the couch, half asleep with Dick drowning in one of Bruce’s t-shirts.
And it continues as Dick gets older. He’s just always stealing Bruce’s shirts. Even as an adult, Bruce will sometimes find Dick asleep somewhere in the manor wearing one of his shirts that Dick has always preferred since he was a kid. It’s old and faded now, fraying a bit at the hem, but it’s soft and Dick loves it, so he can’t get rid of it.
on the idea of Jason basically being the guy who raised Damian during their league days, the idea of Jason telling Damian bedtime stories has me in a chokehold.
Like, Jason being the only person Damian allows himself to be scared around, and when they’re alone at night and Damian has nothing but the darkness to comfort him on the knowledge that he spends every waking moment of his life in a league of assassins where existence is pain and he has to be on guard 24/7 just to fight to survive, sometimes he needs a distraction to help him get to sleep.
And well. listen. Jason’s still angry that he wasn’t avenged. his relationship with Dick was strained BEFORE he was killed off, and now he’s mad a Bruce both for leaving his killer alive and for replacing him. but he remembers after his mom died and he was on the streets, scared and alone at night trying to comfort himself with stories to distract from the bitter Gotham cold. back then it was natural to self soothe with stories about his heroes. Batman and Robin filled his nights both in his mind and his memories, thinking back to Dick’s Robin days and how much he adored the magic the mantle brought. and now that he has a little kid to look after? he finds himself falling back on those same stories to share that nostalgic sense of safety.
what i’m saying is that Damian grew up hearing bedtime stories about Robin. not even specifically Dick, or Jason as Robin. just Robin in general. and once he started hearing more about Gotham and the situation he would be in once he went to meet his father, be finally had a face to match with the magical name that lulled him to sleep every time Jason would concoct a tale to tell at bedtime.
Dick’s always been Nightwing to Damian. he met Jason after the pit, when he was different from his Robin days, angrier and bigger and more Red Hood than anything else. but once he heard about Tim?
Tim was the hero Damian fell asleep longing for.
even though Talia keeps telling him that he’ll have to kill Tim to cement his place as father’s heir, there will always be a part of Damian that views Tim as his childhood hero. bringing him a sense of safety from across the world before he even knew Damian existed.
i just think it would be cute if after everything, after all the bitter arguments and attempted murder and overall struggle for any kind of brotherhood to grow between Damian and Tim, there’s a quiet moment between Red Robin and Red Hood, talking about family and how complicated they all are, and it all comes out.
“I mean you almost beat me to death that one time,” Tim points out, swinging his legs off the side of the roof as Jason lounges next to him, helmet off and a cigarette dangling betwixt his teeth. “And look at us now, we get along great. We hang out more than I do with Dick!”
“Maybe it’s because of the murder.” Jason muses half-jokingly. “Like, they say you don’t know if you’re truly straight until you fuck a guy? Maybe you can’t truly realise you like somebody alive until you try to bump em’ off.”
Tim sends him a half amused, half incredulous look, and Jason snorts.
“That theory doesn’t hold up,” He brushes off. “If that were true then the demon brat would be my biggest fan.”
Jason gestures into the air pointedly. “Excuse you, that proves my point perfectly. Dames fuckin’ loves you.”
A dry stare. “We can’t even do small talk without physically fighting.”
Jason laughs. “That’s just because he’s an awkward little shit who doesn’t know how to navigate you after everything he’s done to you. Probably just guilt, cause’ lemme tell you, Replacement, you, have been his favourite since before he even met you.”
And now Tim is just baffled, looking at Jason in confusion as he scoffs, “What the fuck are you talking about?!”
“Dude, you’re his Robin. You’re the one I used to tell him about as a kid, tellin’ ‘im bedtime stories about Robin saving little kids like him who were scared of danger lurking in the dark. You were his symbol of hope, n safety n’ shit. He wasn’t even excited about meeting B when he got sent to Gotham; just wanted to see you in person.”
“Oh, so he thought putting me in mortal danger would do that then?”
“Timmers, he grew up with Talia. I was with that asshole for like, a year, and I almost killed you on sight at Titans Tower. You think she didn’t work her manipulative nails into Damian’s skull too?”
and Tim is just… speechless. it would be him learning that he was somebody’s Robin. he knew Dick was Jason’s Robin the same way Jason was his own, and Damian was Dick’s Robin, but Tim? Tim just shoved himself into the lineup and refused to fuck off. He wasn’t anybodys, or so he thought. the idea of Damian viewing him like that? in that special, one-of-a-kind way? the one Damian wanted to see in action, who filled his thoughts at night and became like a metaphorical night light during the scary parts of his childhood?
I need an au where Batman doesn’t reveal his identity to the Justice League until after Nightwing joins. But it’s just Bruce who takes off the cowl, maybe during a meeting where Nightwing was busy with Blüdhaven or Titans things and couldn’t attend.
It had been after a huge family meeting. A series of family meetings, really, held in the Batcave. Because the batkids want everyone to know (several select friends on their respective teams already knew but were sworn to secrecy), and they were tired of wearing masks all the time (both figuratively and literally, especially during downtime team bonding sort of situations).
So Bruce Wayne is revealed to the Justice League. And the whole Batfamily relaxes, because Bruce has insisted, always insisted, that if one of them revealed their identities, the rest would follow like dominoes. It was so obvious, Bruce insisted. They didn’t work with complete morons, he said.
Then one day an abrupt meeting is called, they received urgent intel on a case they’d been tracking for months now. But Bruce and Dick had been at a charity event, so they decided to just show up in civvies since most others would no doubt be arriving in a similar fashion. It was an abrupt meeting, yes, but as of now there was no plan to immediately head out and act on the intel. Besides, they can always use the spare suits the keep on the Watchtower.
But then when they arrive in the meeting room (last, unfortunately, because they’d been held up by reporters), the whole room goes stiff.
“I know you told us your identity,” Green Lantern huffs, muttering and it’s still really weird under his breath, “but you can’t just bring your kid up to our headquarters!”
There are many murmurs of agreement, and Bruce scoffs while Dick lets out a snort of a laugh.
Bruce is so offended that:
Hal Jordan thinks he has any right to try and scold him
Hal Jordan is trying to tell him where he can and cannot bring his kids when Bruce funds damn near the entire Justice League out of his own pocket
And that Dick is now looking at him with the smuggest smirk he’s had on his face in years.
“So you were wrong,” Dick says in a sing-song voice. “What have you been telling me for YEARS now? You can’t tell your friends, Dick, it’s not just your secret! You said. You can’t tell anyone or else the whole family will be found out, Dick! You said. We don’t work with a bunch of complete morons, Dick! You said. Puh-lease.”
Dick is smirking at him, and Bruce covers his eyes with a palm, resisting the urge to groan.
“Don’t say it.”
“I’m gonna say it!”
“Don’t say it, Dick.”
“I told you so!” Dick says in his snottiest voice. “I told you so, I told you so, I told you so! Jay and Timmy both owe me two-hundred bucks! I’ve been telling you so since I was eight years old!”
“The Justice League didn’t even form until you were ten.”
“That’s beside the point!” Dick says flippantly, then skips over to the pair of chairs Batman and Nightwing usually sit in. He plops down in Nightwing’s usual seat, still smirking, and throws his feet up on the table while the gaggle of superheroes watches him with their eyes bugging out of their heads. “Nice to formally meet’cha, without the mask of course. I’m Dick Grayson, but you all know me as Nightwing.”
Bruce lets out the most exhausted sigh they’ve ever heard, and he sits down heavily in his usual seat.
“Please tell me Damian was not included in your little betting ring.”
“Oh of course he was. Jason and Tim both owe him a hundred dollars. I get double since I’m the one who got to prove you wrong.” Dick is already texting Damian to get the security footage as proof. They have to keep it separate so Tim can’t delete it.
“Wait a minute,” Flash says, “are all the Waynes vigilantes?”
Dick snorts, then giggles, then looks at the constipated look on Bruce’s face and giggles some more.
“It’s a family tradition!” Dick says. “Gotta train your pre-pubescent kids to follow after the Bat, after all.”
“That’s enough,” Bruce grunts, and it’s so jarring for them all to see him use Batman’s tone with Brucie’s face. “Don’t we have intel to discuss?”
“Right, right,” someone says, then clears their throat. “So our inside source got us these documents…”
The meeting continues as normal, but Dick looks over at Bruce after a couple minutes and wiggles his eyebrows. Bruce slaps him upside the head and tells him in a hushed whisper to pay attention.
“How did we not know that was his dad?” Hal whispers to Barry.
Barry just shrugs. Bruce glares at both of them, and they shut up instantly and turn back to whoever’s presenting. Dick is practically giddy.
- Asking you out for the first time would probably take him quite some time. Tranq adores you so much but he just can’t bring himself to actually ask you.
- Most of all he‘d be nervous about the possibility that he read your signals wrong. He‘s a confident guy overall, but not when it comes to you.
- Just the thought of you getting all confused and trying to explain that you don’t see him like that makes him sweat. The thought of losing the friendship he built with you scares the hell out of him.
- Eventually it would probably be the others that convince him to finally make the first step.
-„Will you just ask her to dinner for fucks sake?“, Angel would snap at him during playing cards because Tranq keeps missing his turns from looking over at you.
- Hank‘s face would turn bright red, he didn’t think it was that obvious.
- Gilly: „Of course it’s fucking obvious, even Coco noticed“
Coco: „The hell is that supposed to mean?“
- Since their banter interrupted the game anyways, Hank would walk over to you, trying to keep his back straight and his breathing even. He was definitely not used to being all flustered like this.
- You were in the middle of a conversation with one of the other women, but you'd both pause to look at him as he approached. You could see little beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
- Tranq looked at you for a moment that felt like forever.
"We should have dinner together tomorrow. Just you and me I mean. I'll cook you something nice", he would say, leaning a little closer to you.
- His breath hitched just the tiniest bit at the end, but suddenly he seemed much more calm now that the words were out. He stopped fidgeting with his hands and he looked at you calmly, waiting for your answer.
- You'd be surprised, but in the best way possible. You had a crush on him for a while now, but after he basically ignored all you signals you figured he just wasn't that into you. You could feel blush creep all over your cheeks as you smiled at him.
- "That sounds lovely... took you long enough", you would chuckle before placing a soft little kiss on his cheek, which made the biggest grin spread over his face.
summary you’re a not so single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue movie night, a good sandwich, a better cry, and the best birthday party ever. [23k]
warnings afab!reader, fem!reader, mom!reader, mention of implied period/menstruation, money worries, unhealthy eating habits (not finding the time), food insecurity, physical/emotional fatigue. fluff heavy, love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, idiots in love, slight angst.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Eddie's carrying so much stuff he can barely see over the top of it, let alone open your front door. He stands fumbling at the top of the porch steps, hoping you'll hear the sounds of his arrival and come to help.
You must be in your room or the bathroom, as no one comes to save him. Eddie can hear the echo of the TV from the living room, kid's cable or one of Junie's VHS tapes, as well as the pulling sound of the pipes under the trailer. A faucet must be running.
When he finally manages to open the door, he's expecting to see you in the kitchenette with your back to him, humming as you clean the dishes and in your own little world.
You're not there, to his surprise.
Eddie puts all of his things on the kitchen table, takes off his shoes, and goes looking for you. There aren't many rooms to search, only your bedroom and the bathroom. He can hear running water the closer he gets to the bathroom, so he knocks on the door.
"Sweetheart, you in there?"
The tap turns off abruptly. The door opens, and Eddie frowns at the lack of you, finding only empty air. He looks down to find Junie standing there in the gap, short and small and completely soaked.
He can tell immediately what she's been up to, some mischievous playing while you're distracted elsewhere. She has a look on her face like she's both thrilled to see him and sorry to be caught.
Eddie bends down. “Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing?" he asks.
"Cold!" She giggles, wielding her wet palms at him threateningly.
He takes her little hands in his. "Freezing!" he agrees.
Eddie pulls a towel off of the hand towel rail and quickly rubs it up and down her wet arms. She's still in her clothes from daycare, which isn't necessarily unlike you. If she's having a shower tonight, you'll be waiting until after to change her into her clean pyjamas.
He checks his watch with a frown. It's well past bath time.
"Where's mom?" he asks.
"She's sleeping," Junie whispers, bringing a finger to her lips. "Shh."
Ah. That makes sense. He hangs the towel back on the rail and takes one of Junie's still-cold hands in his, walking her to your bedroom, where the door is closed. You wouldn't have closed it, not while June was in another room.
Eddie squeezes her hand fondly. She's becoming quite the deviant. He wonders if it's his fault.
He opens the door and sighs when he sees you, feeling sorry for his girl, all curled in on yourself sitting on the bedroom floor with a pile of unfolded laundry in your lap. He can imagine the ache brewing in your back, worse than the usual and persistent twinge you've mentioned between your shoulder blades.
Eddie kneels down beside you. Junie follows suit without instruction. Even her socks are wet, her soggy heel cold against his thigh.
"Y/N," he says softly, easing his hand under your chin.
He hooks his fingers behind your ear and lifts your heavy head, leaning forward to straighten you up. You rouse with a frown.
"What time is it?" you ask after a moment. Your voice barely comes out.
"Nearly seven. Are you feeling okay?" he asks, pushing your shoulders against the bed behind you for support, his hand falling to the juncture of your neck. Your skin is clammy. Your brow twists. "You coming down with something again?"
"Just tired," you mumble.
You close your eyes and cover them with one hand.
There's something to be said about it, how that, a few months ago, you would've sprung up to finish what you were doing, explaining to him in rushed tones that you don't usually fall asleep like that, you would never leave Junie unattended: he knows already. You're a parent, not a superhero (though sometimes he thinks you're both) —you aren't infallible. You get tired, and you try your best. Eddie wouldn't ever think that you don't. He certainly wouldn't think you're a bad parent for falling asleep sitting up in the middle of a chore, and you know that now. You know you can sit there and gather your bearings without explanation. That he'll look after you and Junie whenever you need him to.
A little shimmer of pride brims at the realisation.
He rubs your throat with his thumb before sitting back. Junie climbs into his lap and leans her soaking front into his chest, cold enough that Eddie quickly covers her with his arms in an attempt to warm her.
"What have you been up to?" he asks her.
She hums, pleased, and babbles about the water. "It dwas… it was cold and fast," she emphasises.
"You're not supposed to be in the bathroom without mommy."
"She's sleeping," Junie says quizzically. Like the rules don't apply when you're not awake to uphold them.
"I'm not sleeping," you say.
"You're still not supposed to be in there without me or mom," Eddie says, giving her a playful glare. "Now you're all wet."
Junie buries her face in his neck, hiding from his mild scolding and possibly trying to soak up some of his warmth. You rub your eyes.
You're in your work uniform with dishevelled hair, but you look cute anyhow.
Eddie pats Junie's back, unperturbed by her damp clothes. She's warming up the longer she sits there.
He supposes her willingness to simply sit and be cuddled is a conditioning of your unending affection. You're always praising and kissing and stroking her hair out of her face, always carrying her around when she could easily walk. You're ridiculously touchy, like a sponge for love. You want it just as often as you give it. He and Junie are both happy to humour you.
Eddie takes the initiative. He gives June a toss to the middle of your made bed and smiles when she giggles, grabbing a change of clothes for her from the wardrobe, and then a change of clothes for you. He's almost completely familiar with your wardrobe these days, having made multiple adoring contributions to it. Selfishly, maybe, he grabs a shirt he knows he got you, as well as a newer pair of pyjama pants.
You still haven't managed to stand when he finishes, but you've turned to see Junie, making kissy faces at her as you tickle the sole of her foot.
"My girl's all wet," you're saying, not a lick of tiredness in your voice. You hide it from her easily. "What trouble have you been up to while mommy slacked off, huh? You're soooo bad, I'm gonna have to lock you up."
Junie giggles thickly as she crawls toward you. You can't reach her foot when she turns but you aren't bothered, tickling her arms and sides instead. You and Junie stay like that for a second, eye to eye, Junie on her front and you hiding your mouth in the sheets like a cowboy shootout, waiting for someone to give in.
Junie shrieks with laughter and you sit up in time to stop her from headbutting you, gathering her up into your arms to kiss her forehead.
"Sorry," you say, to Eddie's displeasure. "Mommy's silly, huh, falling asleep when you're still awake?"
"She's human," he corrects lightly.
"Baby," you say, like you're going to say more. You don't, you just smile at him.
"Do you want me to have her? You can shower by yourself, have some 'me-time'?"
"No… she needs a bath. Don't you?" you ask her.
"Do you want me to–"
"Eddie," you say, struggling to stand with Junie in your arms, "I don't want anything. Except…"
He bounds the two steps it takes to get his arms around you both and plants a huge kiss on your cheek. You visibly relax, better when he presses a much softer one against the corner of your mouth.
"Except a kiss?" he asks into your skin.
You sound flustered, "Except a kiss. Another one. Please."
He pulls back enough for you to turn into his kiss and align your lips properly for a chaste peck.
"Hello," he says.
"Hi, baby," you say, shy even now.
"Hi." He steals another kiss. Junie makes a noise of offence and he dots one on her appled cheek. Her lips perk into a smile. "Girls. Let's get our movie night back on track. I brought presents."
You groan and Junie cheers. Finally getting to grips with certain words even if she hasn't said them aloud yet, Junie is well aware as to what presents are. She gets enough of them (to your chagrin).
"What did I say? Presents are for special occasions," you say mildly.
"Movie night is–"
"Not a special occasion."
"Kind of is. Especially if we make it a tradition. If you really don't want them then I'll take them back," he says. He really means it, no guilt trip involved.
You look down at Junie, back up at him, and puff out a theatrical breath.
"Sorry, I've made it hard to say no," he says.
"Don't be sorry. Thank you for the presents, really. We'll look after a shower, okay?" you ask, darting up to give him a quick kiss and then nudging him aside.
"I'll make dinner real quick while you shower and you can open your presents after that." He catches your sleeve. "Deal?"
"Deal."
Another round of kisses are exchanged. Kisses like a first love, excited and quick and wanting a little bit more each time.
You leave for the bathroom to set up Junie's fold out baby bath in the shower and fill it with water. He smiles on his way back down the slim hall to the kitchen at the sound of her laughter, hidden beneath the hurried rain of the shower head.
Eddie makes two cans of vegetable soup with pasta shapes in a saucepan on the stove, cooking it through and letting it simmer while he waits for you.
The bathroom door opens. He gives it a minute before pouring the soup into bowls, knowing it'll take you a while to powder and lotion you and your baby, especially when getting her into jammies lately has been like clothing an eel.
A few minutes later, Junie comes sprinting down the hall quick as a lightning bolt, barefoot to stop from crashing face first into a cabinet. You have no clue why, but lately she's extremely energetic. You've done some more baby-proofing around the house to avoid injury, moving tables completely out of her way and sticky taping your rug in the living room flat to the floor so she can't slip over it at speed, but nothing works as well as bare feet for good grip. Not even dragon themed grippy socks, Eddie laments. They looked so cool.
He pours soup into three bowls and adds a splash of cold water from the faucet to Junie's, giving it a good stir and dipping the tip of a clean pinky finger in it to check it's not hot.
"Hi, trouble," he greets, following her into the living room with her bowl. "You want some dinner?"
He doesn't give her much chance to answer, grabbing her up in his free arm with a heaving groan and carrying her like a curled weight to the sofa. She's giggly to a fault, happy to be shuttled from one place to another if there's a kiss or some food promised at the end.
He sets her down, puts the bowl on his thigh, and pulls out the bib he'd tucked into his pocket to secure it nice and loose around her neck. He's careful not to get any of her hair in the velcro.
"Tada!" he says. "Let's get eating."
Junie's amazing. Eddie lifts a spoon and her lips part expectantly. He could let her eat by herself, she's old enough and she's getting much better with a spoon, but he wants to avoid the mess and get her fed quickly. She's eaten every last morsel by the time you emerge. He's more pleased than he started, because you trust him to do this while you get dressed without rushing, and you'll allow yourself the luxury of ten minutes alone.
Your footsteps sound across the kitchen. You turn into the living room, your face tacky with something, and even from the middle of the room Eddie can smell your deodorant and moisturisers, maybe even the lingering scent of conditioner on your hands.
"My poor baby was so hungry," you say upon seeing Junie's empty bowl. You kiss the top of her head. "Sorry, Junie. Good thing Eddie's here to take such good care of you, hmm?" You kiss her cheek. You lean over her head and kiss Eddie's. He's about to start running a temperature, you're so affectionate tonight. "Thank you."
"Don't," he says gently.
You straighten up. Like you've been caught in a trap, you stop suddenly and peer down at him, hiding your smile with a pout. He's already seen it, but he lets you get away with it.
"Your bangs are growing long again," you say, brushing them away from his forehead.
You comb down the lengths of his curls with your fingers, partitioning the tangles with care.
"Maybe you can trim 'em for me tomorrow," he says.
Your eyes light up. "Yeah, for sure."
"Good. Our soup is getting cold."
"Oh, gotcha. I'll warm it up. You want more, junebug? More soup?"
Junie doesn't answer, distracted by the TV. She's stopped bothering to support herself, her weight splayed over Eddie's thigh, her soup-stained cheek dangerously close to his pants. He has to admit that since knowing you a lot of his clothes have been stained irredeemably. He doesn't worry about the sweatpants, though. It's only soup.
Eddie thumbs hair out of her face and smiles.
"She could probably eat more."
You know it already, but he says it because it feels nice to say. Plus, you like it. You'd told him so, a whispered admission sometime last week.
I like that someone else worries about her, you'd said, your lips soft on his naked bicep, your face hidden by the lack of light and a few of his rogue curls. I like that you take some of the load. I'm sorry if that's not fair.
Baby, he'd said, voice gritty with how much he meant it, it's not unfair. I'm happy to do it. And I know you're not expecting it from me.
No, you'd said quickly.
I know. He'd kissed the top of your head, laughed against your skin, his breath fanning every which way. Don't think about it like that, like it's costing me something.
I'm not saying it costs anything. I know it does, even if you don't feel it. And I'm not saying she isn't easy to love 'cos she is, but loving someone and taking care of them are different, and I know you want to do it–
Eddie had cut you off, sitting up enough that you'd been forced to take your weight off of his shoulder where you'd been laying down across the well-loved couch. He'd felt a familiar spring under his thigh as he shifted, the TV painting your face in a milky white that had your eyes shining like gemstone.
I do want to do it, he'd affirmed. You guys– you're my girls. Eddie could've told you he loved you right then and there. He's sure you already knew. Why are you worrying about this stuff?
Have to worry about something. These days my options are slim pickings, thanks to you.
He'd pulled you in for a hug, trying to squeeze the misplaced gratitude out of you uselessly. He's happy you're happy, happy you feel like he's draining your impossible levy, but he doesn't want you thinking you owe him anything. That's not why he's with you.
You trek back into the kitchen with Junie's empty bowl and spoon, your pyjama pants slightly too long for you and dragging across the floor. You hadn't been with him when he bought them —he eyeballed. They fit around your waist and thighs just fine, but both of the pairs he got that day are too long.
Eddie wipes Junie's face with the end of her bib and reluctantly hands her over when you return, reheated soup in hand. You swap him for his own bowl and feed Junie whatever she wants from yours, blowing on each spoonful as you go.
"How was work today, sugarpea?" he asks between bites of pasta.
"No," you say immediately.
"Not a sugarpea fan?"
"Not when you say it like that," you tease.
"What about sweetcheeks?" He grins at your grim expression. "It's not that different to sweetheart, 'n' you like that one."
You glance at him over Junie's head. "I think I'm used to sweetheart. You say it enough. Sweetcheeks is like a foreign object my brain is rejecting on the grounds that it is super duper weird." You smile as you talk and your voice takes shape through it, all smooth and silky and warm.
"Honeybuns?" he tries, nearly choking on a pasta shape when you laugh. He can't help himself; whenever you laugh he instinctively wants to join in.
"Work was fine," you say, stealing a big spoonful of soup. Junie huffs. "It was good, really, I got an amazing tip from Bernard, you know Bernard?"
"Bernard," he repeats menacingly.
"Your competition. He gave me twenty dollars 'n' told me to put it in the Junie jar, so that was awesome. Now my little lady's gonna get some new shoes."
You don't like handouts you haven't worked for. It's why his gifts can be hard to accept, as much as you appreciate them. Eddie insisted months ago that being friends was 'doing things for other people', and letting people do things for you —as in, letting him buy you small presents is actually a service to him and a credit to you.
You don't necessarily like it. You like presents, most people do, but you don't like his spending money on you because of some ill-conceived notion that you can't deserve them. It's why Eddie doesn't go out and spend his wages on the things that you want willy-nilly. It would embarrass you, put you out, and that's the last thing he wants. So while he's in a place where he's fortunate enough to have disposable income, and he doesn't think twice about spending it on the people he loves, he does think about how it makes you feel.
But boyfriend privileges are very real. The step up he took from a friend who's suspiciously affectionate to an actual proper boyfriend is large and luxurious —he gets away with doing a lot more than he could beforehand. Eddie can put gas in your car, pay for breakfast, bring by a gallon of laundry detergent when you're running low without a word of protest. It's little things, and they mean a lot to him.
He thinks they might mean a lot to you, too.
So he would buy Junie new shoes if she needed them, but she doesn't. If she did, you would've got them already. You want her to have new shoes, and you're saving up for a nice fancy pair that she'll grow out of within the year. You should take pride in that. There's nothing so sweet as treating your daughter.
"How come I can't contribute to the Junie jar?" he asks in a playful whine.
"Don't start with me, Munson. You tipped me ten dollars for a coffee yesterday, don't think I didn't notice. And the coffee was for me," you say, smiling still.
He grins down at his soup and kicks his socked foot against yours.
"That wasn't me," he lies. With no effort involved, the end result is lackluster.
"Yeah, well, it wasn't Davey," you say.
Davey's a grumpy regular. He never tips.
"It could've been. Maybe he had a change of heart. And, biassed as I may be, you are a very pretty waitress. I'd tip you if I was allowed," he flirts.
You turn the spoon in your hand so the well is toward your chest and pretend to load it at him like a trebuchet.
He wimps out, "June, mom's attacking me! Mommy's trying to get soup on me!"
"Am not!" you protest.
The damage is already done. Junie, her face a mirror of your own but smaller and with eyes a little bigger in their framing, glares at you and tries to take your spoon, babbling an outraged, "No no no!"
You make a funny squeaking sound and drop the spoon back in the bowl, your lips parted in mock shock.
"You don't really believe him, do you?" you ask, your bubbly talk saccharine. "Baby, I'm just playing."
She's your number one fan. The sound of your voice would win back her affections by itself, but your lovely smile, your hand behind her back, it's instantaneous. Junie forgets all about the imminent danger he's in and puts her hand on your chin. You close your eyes.
"Mommy, can we have kisses?" she asks.
"How many?" you ask, delighted. It's rhetorical. Eddie finishes his soup and you kiss her cheeks so many times he reckons you'll have dry lips, humming, "Mwah, mwah, mwah," as you go.
He'll make you something else tonight to make up for how little soup you've had. It's not a substantial meal either way, and he knows Benny feeds you well at work, but it's been a long time since lunch rush.
Junie wiggles out of your grip and drops to the floor, clearly having had enough kisses.
Eddie doesn't see what she's doing from the kitchenette where he's carried all the dirty dishes, but he listens intently to her babble talk, new words popping up in her chatter every day. She says, "Mr. Bear," and "pretty," and "let's go!" between gibberish.
"Oh, hey!" Eddie calls to be heard over the running water of the sink and the TV.
He can see your head through a gap between the counter and the cabinets attached to the ceiling. You turn at his voice, arms across the back of the sofa, chin resting on your hands. "Yeah?"
"She said, 'fast'!" he tells you. "When I grabbed her from the bathroom, she said the water was cold and fast. That's a new one."
"The bathroom. I need a lock. Do you have anything?"
"Do I have a lock? Maybe."
You nod hurriedly, eyebrows pinched in stress . "It's an accident waiting to happen. I had no idea she could reach that handle, I don't want her in there when I can't see her."
"Don't worry, we'll nab one of those child locks from the store tomorrow if it bothers you."
You're quiet for a moment. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep."
"You couldn't help it," He puts a dish down on the rack. "It's not a crime to nod off, I do it all the time. It was an accident."
"It doesn't matter. She can't be alone with water, it's dangerous."
"You said it yourself, you had no idea she could even get in there. Now you know, you'll make sure it doesn't happen again." He turns off the faucet, trying to snub your self-annoyance before it twists into something cruel. "Yeah?"
You hum.
He wipes his hands dry on a rag and slides around the kitchen counters, back into your living room. Your eyes flash wide as he approaches. You know what he's gonna do, tucking your arms away as he drops into your lap. "Woah," you groan.
"You're a good mom," he says seriously, shuffling back so his weight is on a couch cushion rather than your tired thighs. "I mean it, you're a good mom. You fell asleep. It happens, okay? Don't punish yourself for something that didn't happen. We can jam the door closed with a sock or something tonight, and I promise you she won't get in there again."
You bunch one of his legs in your lap to rest your mouth against his knee. He holds himself up with one arm, watching you relax with relief.
"She said 'fast'?" you ask, turning your face so your cheek is on his knee instead. Her building vocabulary excites you endlessly. You've been practicing descriptors.
"She said that the water was cold and fast," he says. She would know, she made your floor into a slip and slide.
"She's a genius." You rub your cheek against his pants. "I knew it."
He flops back into the couch cushions, arms behind his head. "Yeh. You can't help yourself, can you? Making that girl cooler every day."
You pinch his thigh. "Lay off."
He's serious and joking at the same time. It's a very cheesy thing to say and it isn't untrue. It's the juxtaposition of every parent, he supposes, the insurmountable task they perform on such a grand scale. It looks impossible, and yet people have been managing it for thousands of years anyways. At varying levels of success, sure.
He hasn't lied to you once. You're a good mom and you're raising a sweetheart, and while neither one of you could care less about Junie being an actual 'genius', singing her praises is a pass time you love.
He isn't tired enough to fall asleep sitting up, yet slouched down as he is with your hands on his legs stroking slow lines feels like a blanket has been thrown over him, fresh from the dryer. Speaking of…
"Can I give you the gifts now? I promise they're not too much," he says.
"Can I tell you something first?" He nods. You hug his knee to your chest and look him straight in the face, unabashed. "You have a really nice voice, Eddie. Listening to you talk, I don't know. You could read me the yellow pages and I think I'd like it."
"Wait, are you flirting with me?" he asks, making a show of sitting up slowly.
"It's nice and deep. Not too much, but it is. And you say things in such a particular way sometimes, it makes me want to smile even when I've had a garbage day." You stroke down his thigh with a fingertip. "Everything about you is nice, but I wanted to tell you."
"Thank you," he says warmly. "I'm glad you think so. 'Cos when I'm around you, all I want to do is talk. And I mean that in the best way." Eddie sits up, bending at the waist so he can kiss your cheek. He doesn't move away immediately, pressing the bridge of his nose flat to your skin as he continues, "I want to hug you really badly right now, like, a make-your-spine-click kind of hug. Think I can do that?"
"Yes, please, it's not even hurting. You can hug me as much as you want."
Eddie shuffles forward on the couch to be near you, his cheek smushed against your ear as he wraps his arms around you in a hug. He goes over your shoulders. Even if it isn't hurting today he doesn't want to inspire any backache, and you return his hugging eagerly.
You smell like your favourite lotion. He breathes it in.
"You're sniffing me," you murmur.
"You smell nice," he murmurs back.
"You smell nice, too."
"I smell like sweat."
"A little."
He encourages your face into the crook of his neck, beaming. "You're so weird," he dotes.
"Sorry," you say, rather shyly.
You're not shy because he said you're weird —he says that stuff all the time and when he means it, it's adoring— you're sorry because you're genuinely embarrassed that you like how he smells, sweat included. He wants to kiss you forever.
"Don't you dare be sorry. It's my irresistible musk."
"Ew," you say, "ew, ew, ew. Musk is a gross word."
"Yeah?" he asks, giving your cheek a quick stroke with the side of his knuckle.
"Yes. Definitely banned around my daughter."
He snorts. "Like it's a curse word."
You run your hands in sync up and down his side, his t-shirt hiking up with each swipe. Your eyes have softened and renewed you, your earlier fatigue a memory without evidence. The fine wrinkles at the corners of your eyes smooth away.
"I'm so happy," you whisper.
He takes your elbows into his hands, thumbs rubbing at the crooks fondly. "Me too."
Your hands fall to his waist. Eddie's never been more content; he's so grateful to feel as he does, whole at your side, affectionate and aflame and in love with your every attribute. Your timid admission, your knowing smile.
"Can I give you your present now?" he asks.
You lean back into the couch, mumbling, "Oh, if you must," with a pleased smile.
"I must, my lady. It's imperative that you and your charge receive the most splendiferous of gifts in haste."
"Then so be it, my liege."
He's morphing you into a nerd one corny joke at a time.
Eddie stands up. His movement grabs Junie's attention from her toys and make-believe, the small girl climbing to her feet. She hops toward him, hands out in expectancy to be picked up.
"Two seconds, June, let me get your present first."
His bags are exactly where he left them on the kitchen table. He rummages through them to make sure he's presenting the right gift to the right girl, before yanking the present from the bag it came in and putting it out of Junie's reach.
"Here," he says, sliding his hand under the gift's cardboard fastening and ripping it open.
The blanket he's bought for her, big, gorgeously soft and made up of pastel pinks and oranges, puffs out and reaches the floor. Junie strokes it.
"It's so soft!" he encourages. "Isn't it soft, sweetheart? This is going to keep you nice and cozy tonight for our movie. Do you want me to wrap you up?"
He drapes it around her shoulders. Little kids are temperamental even if they aren't bad-spirited, and chances are that she doesn't even want it on her, but she smiles as he wraps it around her and lets out a happy line of sounds.
"Do you like that?" he asks, beaming.
She drops her cheek to her shoulder and rubs it, her eyes slipping closed in happiness.
"Eddie," she says sweetly, "it's soft." She says 'soft' clumsily, with lots of weight on the 'oft'.
Her adorableness often sucker punches him. He kind of assumed he'd felt everything there was to feel, but there's a particular kind of awe that comes with watching her grow, and experiencing nice things. She's endearingly enticed by the material, putting her hand under the blanket so she can pull it to her face and feel it against her nose. He can't see more than the corner of her mouth, but he can tell from the way her cheek apples that she's smiling at hum.
"I'm glad you like it, junebug."
"Will you tell him thank you?" you ask, hand on the wall, looking down at her with a similar fondness as he is. "Say, 'thank you, Eddie'."
Junie has a different plan. She pulls as much of the blanket as she can to her chest and waddles toward him, where she leans her face into his legs. Eddie covers the short breadth of her shoulders with one hand.
"Thank you," Junie says.
"Of course, sweetheart. You're very welcome. I'm so happy, you look really comfy. Now we can watch movies in style."
He turns to his second bag and yanks out another blanket, this one a solid dark grey. He doesn't know if he should, but he does the same as he'd done for Junie, tearing the cardboard fastening off of the blanket and shaking it out, before beckoning you forward and wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile, and you look like you could cry, not that you will but you could, your lips pressed together and your eyebrows gently furrowed.
He takes your face into both hands.
"That's an acceptable present?" he asks.
You turn your head, your lips pressed to the base of his thumb. He strokes the top of your cheek, the skin there smooth and dewy, fresh from the shower.
"Do you want a kiss?" he asks knowingly.
You fluster at being read that easily, "No, I… yeah, I do, I do, don't be smug, please…"
"I'm not smug, I wanna kiss you just as bad as you want me to, I'd crawl into your skin if I could–"
Your laugh is a shock, your chest shaking where it touches his, and he can't take it anymore. He kisses your smile, his lips clumsy and too eager, a total mismatch as you giggle into his touch.
He gives your cheek a good rub with his thumb.
"Thank you," you say.
He shakes his head. "Don't mention it."
"This is nice. Did you get one for yourself?"
He did. "I'd love to say I got one for myself 'cos I thought you'd accept it easier, but I wanted one. They're so soft."
"So soft," Junie says, slipping on the ends of her blanket as she wobbles toward your embrace. "Up?"
—
While the blankets that Eddie's brought for you are, in fact, so soft, they're much too warm when the three of you are laying on top of one another. Eddie's like a superheater to your left, Junie's a hot water bottle on your chest, and your hair is damp with sweat.
You wipe your face with your sleeve and sit up on the couch, hand behind Junie's dozing back.
"You okay?" Eddie asks, pulling his attention from the movie.
"Too hot."
"Pass me the baby." He says 'baby' dramatically, like she's one of the rings from his books, or the prodigal child.
You hand her over. She mumbles something but settles, her nose jabbed into Eddie's clavicle. He pats her back.
You shrug off the blanket and pull the collar of your shirt away from your neck, fanning yourself lightly. When you're feeling less like you're cooking you stand up, squinting in the dark. Now you've moved the table to the side of the room you don't have to worry about catching your calf on a corner, but it's still a death trap in here when you haven't put away the toys.
"Do you want another drink?" you ask.
"Please. Coke if there's any left," Eddie says.
You walk to the kitchen on tired legs to make two drinks. You hadn't wanted to think about it but you're really hungry, your stomach hurting with it. You open the fridge for the bottle of coke and cast your eyes over the contents. There's more fresh food than you're used to having, but tired as you are, you can't think of anything to make. Something quiet and easy for the late hour would be nice.
You hear as Eddie follows you in. You look over your shoulder to see if he's brought Junie with him. He's alone.
"You didn't eat much," he says.
"I know, that's what I'm looking for."
"I," he says, melodic, his elbow up as he scratches behind his neck, "will make you whatever you want."
"Really?" you ask.
"Sure. Or I could go get you something?"
"I don't want you driving alone at night," you say.
"It's not dangerous."
"No, I know, but I don't want you to leave."
"Good. Me neither." He joins you in front of the fridge. "I could make you a huge sandwich," he says. "I got some of the fancy cheese at my place."
"I'm not eating Wayne's cheese."
"I paid for it," he insists. "No, look, you have cheddar, pepperjack, we don't need fancy cheese. Let me make you a sandwich."
You slip your hand behind his back and squeeze.
Eddie kind of grabs you, all jokes, and pushes you down into a chair like he thinks you're trying to run away. "Stay there, fiend," he demands.
He makes you a sandwich. It's a simple pleasure to watch. He washes his hands, grabs all the fillings, and makes it carefully. It's too much care to be put into a sandwich. It makes your chest ache.
He browns it in the frying pan and presents it to you with little fanfare. Odd, for him.
"What, no, ta-da? No kiss?" you ask.
"I was trying to keep it classy," he says, bending down to kiss the skin shy of the corner of your eye. "Now eat, please. I worry about you."
He doesn't need to ask. He likely couldn't stop you. You're glad he's already your boyfriend, otherwise the speed with which you take your first bite might have put him off.
"Do you want half?" you ask.
"No, you eat that whole thing."
He puts your glass right next to you on the table. There's something unsaid in his gaze, not judgement but close.
"I've been busy," you defend.
"How much did you even eat today? You had breakfast, right?"
You nod, taking a sip of your drink, and size him up. "Munson."
"Did you, sweetheart? Honestly?"
"I did! Eddie, please don't worry," you say, pushing him toward the open chair rather than let him crowd you. "You know I'm eating properly, you feed me ten times a week."
Eddie sits, propping his foot up on the chair by your thigh, and stretches his arms across the table toward you. He flicks your elbow.
"I don't like thinking about you going hungry," he says.
"Then it's a good thing I'm not." You take a showy bite of sandwich.
"Promise?" he asks.
"Yes!" You pat his shin. "Promise promise. It was a busy day, but I had oatmeal and Benny made me a fancy salad, and now this. I'm all fed, thanks to other people. I'm lucky like that."
"You're not lucky. People want to take care of you because you take such good care of them," he says. You like how he says it, like it's no big deal.
"I just wish you'd take good care of yourself," he finishes, digging his heel into your thigh.
You squirm away from his attack, ditching the last couple of bites of your sandwich in favour of the paper towel he'd brought with your plate to wipe your fingers and mouth.
Clean, you get up from your chair before you can stop yourself and sit on one of his thighs, careful not to rest your full weight there.
"You're being dramatic," you say as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, nose close to his and getting closer. "I love that you worry about me, but you don't need to. Think of all the energy you're wasting on me that could be spent on your music, or your games."
Eddie pulls you into his lap properly.
"It's one game," he says, hooking you against him so you can't slide off of his legs. "Fine. I won't worry about you so much if you finish your sandwich. Cool?"
"Don't let me fall," you mumble, stretching back in his arms to grab your plate.
You slide it across the table, pick up the last quarter of your sandwich, and eat it there in his arms. He looks ridiculously happy to watch.
The night passes like that. No matter where you go it's in his arms. He calls you his barnacle and you like him so much you let it slide. You only part to carry Junie to bed, sliding her into her toddler bed with all the precision of a professional.
Eddie gets his hands on you soon after, pressing your back to his front as you brush your teeth half-asleep in the mirror opposite, his minty kisses pressed generously to the side of your head.
You don't remember getting into bed. When you wake up, it's to the sounds and smells of French toast, or Eddie's approximate version, a spatula scraping against the sides of your frying pan and Eddie singing a children's song. You scrunch your eyes together and groan as you turn into the sheets, hiding your head under the pillow from the noise. You love them, you're tired —maybe in half an hour you'll want to join in.
You're not sure how much time passes when you wake a second time. Rings slide across the curtain pole, quiet footsteps smushed into the carpet. You turn onto your side and pry your eyes open, lashes barely parted. A bleary slice of Eddie's back takes centre stage.
He shakes out Junie's blankets and tucks them in. He plumps up her pillow. Gentle, he rights her fallen teddies and sits them up one by one like proper gentlemen. His expression is handsome but blank.
Squared, Eddie moves away from Junie's bed to your forgotten pile of laundry. You'd fallen asleep folding it, and the unfolded stuff will no doubt be full of creases. He gathers everything into your laundry basket and heads for the door, not having looked your way once. You smile to yourself and close your eyes again, totally at ease.
The door creaks. You haven't managed to open your eyes when a hand is on your shoulder and pressing you into the mattress gently. Eddie kisses your forehead, before dipping down to rest his own against it, sealing in the kiss. He laughs under his breath.
"This is nice," you say, lips like glue, voice an incoherent mumbling.
"I thought you were awake," he says.
"I'm not."
He rubs your shoulder, a long and loving sweep. "Stay in bed as long as you want to. Me and June are gonna go outside and try soccer."
You groan and throw your arms around him tiredly, "No," you say, "you better help me up so I can change her diaper."
Eddie helps you sit up. You blink blink blink, and rub your eyes, and when you can see again you stand up. He follows you into the hall. You don't question it when he starts to clean you up from behind, stroking your hair and pulling your pyjama pants back up the hip they'd been falling down.
"I feel like I've been run over," you tell him.
You feel heaps better when you see the main section of the trailer.
The kitchen is clean. Sparkling. The living room is the same when you peer around to find Junie. She's standing on the couch, Eddie clearly having brushed her hair, the mess of the night before nowhere to be seen. He's taken care of everything while you slept.
You about to turn around and collapse on him in a hug, but Junie sees you and starts talking, taking big bounding steps across the couch cushions until she's at the end of the one closest to you. You step forward to greet her.
"Hellooo, lovely girl," you say, dragging her up the length of your chest to meet her eyes. "Eddie says you're gonna play soccer outside. Do you think that sounds fun?"
"I want mommy," she murmurs.
"I'm right here," you say. She pouts. "What, you want me to come and play soccer?" you ask. "I'll play soccer, baby, just let me get you changed first."
She isn't happy, but she perks up when she's clean again, double when you squeeze her into a dress and tell her how nice she looks.
"Eddie did your hair already, so there's nothing left for me to do," you say sweetly, brushing your hands down the length of her skirt. "You're all ready!"
Junie is less ready for soccer than you thought. Eddie runs down to his home to get a ball and you, having changed and eaten, sit down outside in the growing grass surrounding your trailer on a towel. The sun shines, the sky is a beautiful ocean blue, and Junie does not want to get up from your lap.
You're content to let her sunbathe, applying sun cream to her face, neck, arms and legs just in case and which she abhors, wriggling and whining as you coo at her. She calms as you rub it in.
"You'll thank me one day," you say with a small laugh.
Junie goes quiet. It's not like her, she's a babbler, but you sit in it with her rather than talk for a moment.
She looks like you.
She's happy, and loved. So much has changed since you moved here. She was always loved unconditionally, and nearly always happy, but she's growing. You both are.
You thought moving here would be good for her, but you never stopped to think it might be good for you too. Eddie terrifies you, or rather the idea of losing him does. You have these moments where you think about him and plot the possibilities, that one day you'll be waiting for him to come calling and he won't, or one day Junie will ask you where he is and you'll have nothing good to say. It's a catastrophisation if you've ever had one —you trust Eddie, you've let him into almost every aspect of your life. It goes without saying that you trust him not to hurt you.
But trusting him doesn't mean you can stop yourself from worrying about the future. You told him already, maybe it's being a mom or something, that your brain chooses a new thing to needle at every day, and you roll with it the best that you can.
Junie smiles at you.
"Mom… so pretty," she says. You stop short.
She does this sometimes. You've taught her a lump sum of conversational tidbits from everyday life. Like, "Don't touch, baby," often referring to something hot, or, "Wow! Look at you!" when she's in new clothes. Every time she says one back to you it makes you laugh, but this one hits you like a freight train, right in the heart.
"You think I'm pretty?" you ask.
You don't know if Junie even knows what pretty is. You say it to her so often, it might feel like a strand of "I love you," or even, "Good morning." Maybe she doesn't get it.
She sits up in your lap and reaches up for your face with both hands. You bend to let her.
"Pretty," she says again. She squeezes your cheek.
Maybe she doesn't understand. Or maybe she does. Yeah, she does. Your baby thinks you're pretty. You pour love into her unfailingly and she's giving you some of her own.
"You really think that?" you ask, smiling in her little palms. "Gorgeous girl, I love you. I love you love you."
"I love you," she says back.
"You do?" you ask, delighted and selfish because of course she loves you. You wanna hear it again.
"Yes." She drags the 's' sound, her eyes crinkled up. "Mommy," she says.
"Yeah?"
Her hands fall back onto her chest, and she sags against your thigh. "Mom?"
"What, baby? You want something? You want some juice?" She doesn't respond. "You want something yummy to eat?"
She says a string of words you don't understand. Not a lick of sense start to end. You sigh, duck your lips to her neck, and blow the biggest raspberry that you can. At the same time, you press your fingers into her underarms, tickling down her sides. You laugh at her sudden shrieking and blow another raspberry, and another one, struggling to draw breath as her giggles infect you completely.
"I got you," you tease.
"No, mommy!" she squeals, sounding more pleased than her pleas might suggest.
"I do, I have you!"
"It tickles a lot!"
"I have to tickle you, it's part of my job."
"Mommy," she says, almost breathless. You ease up. You don't want to wear her out.
"Mwah," you say, giving her a sorry kiss.
She laughs again. You think she might attempt another sentence —you can practically see the cogs of her brain turning behind her eyes— but she's cut off by a familiar voice.
"Girls! Y/N!" Eddie hollers. "They're having way too much fun without me."
You look up at his call, frowning at his odd phrasing, and are immediately startled to see he isn't by himself.
At one side of him stands a pale girl with brown hair cropped to her chin, in a mock biker jacket despite the heat carrying the promised soccer ball Eddie left to retrieve. A half step behind her is a taller guy with dark blonde hair, a smile on his face. You meet his eyes accidentally, forcing yourself to smile despite your confusion so he doesn't get the wrong idea.
They must be Eddie's friends. You've met Gareth, from his old band, and Melanie, one of the cooks from The Hideout, but you haven't met these guys.
"Y/N, sweetheart," he says, rather proudly, if you do say so yourself, "these losers caught me at home. Robin," —he points at the girl, who smiles with all her teeth— "my very good friend, and Steve, her leech."
"Hi," Steve says first, surprising you again. "And that's Junie?"
"That's Junie," Eddie says, again so proudly.
"Hi Junie," Steve says. He's smiling at you, sure, but he's beaming at your baby. "Holy– she's bigger than I thought, I kind of pictured a baby baby, you know?"
"I showed you a picture, man," Eddie says.
"She didn't look this old in the picture," Steve says. He looks heistant for a second. "Can we sit down?"
"Yeah– yes, yeah, please. Can I get you guys something to drink?" you say, sitting up too quick and almost tipping Junie out of your lap. She says, "Woah!" in her little voice and Steve, Robin and Eddie all laugh.
"I'll get drinks, don't worry," Eddie says.
He walks around your towel to head up the trailer steps. Steve sits on the grass by your towel, and Robin kneels with the ball in her hands opposite. Neither is dressed for the sunny weather but they don't seem to mind.
"It's nice to meet you," Steve says, giving Robin a weighted look.
"We've been asking," Robin says.
"I didn't know," you say apologetically.
"No, we know, you're like Munson's best kept secret half the time. One minute he's showing us your picture all smug but when we ask about you he just rolls his eyes."
"'Wouldn't you like to know,'" Robin quotes with a smarmy smile.
"So he doesn't talk about me?" you ask.
"He doesn't shut up," Steve says. "Sorry, we're kind of kidding."
"Oh–" Junie wriggles in your arms. Her face is in your neck, but she keeps turning to sneak peeks at these friendly newcomers. For once, being a mom is gonna save you from awkwardness rather than subject you to it further. "June," you say softly, "you wanna say hello? These are Eddie's friends. You can say hi, baby."
Junie isn't shy around new people. After your reassurance and a couple more seconds looking at them with mild suspicion, Junie turns her face to Robin and says, "Hi."
"Hi," she says back. "She's a really pretty kid. Me and Steve have worked at the video store for like, almost three years, and we see some uggos."
"Rob," Steve says.
"What?" Robin asks.
"You can't say that."
"Mom," Junie says.
You look down as she looks up. "What?"
"Where's Eddie?" she asks.
You lean back and turn her encouragingly toward the open trailer door. "He's inside. He's coming back."
"He…" She looks between you and the doorway. Her voice is quiet. "Play soccer and me?"
"Yeah, he's gonna play soccer with you."
"With me," she says.
You grin. "Exactly."
You've only ever had Junie, so you don't know what counts as slow or advanced or normal, but you know kids all go at their own pace, and that most get there eventually without help.
Your girl's never been quiet. She speaks even when she doesn't have the words. Daycare and your dedicated encouragement have brought it on suddenly, leaps and bounds of words, but she's still slightly behind, you think, although you trust that she'll get there when she can. Her vocabulary grows every single day.
"How old is she?" Robin asks, pulling her knees to her chest, soccer ball held in front of her shoes.
"Uh, she'll be three really soon," you say.
"Oh, she's kind of small," Steve says.
"You just said she was big," Robin says belligerently.
"I already said, she looks different in the picture," Steve says, frowning at Robin forcefully. "Does she look three to you?"
"Yeah, doofus," Robin says.
"Her birthday's in June, so it's really coming," Eddie says, a tray in hand you barely remember owning and bedecked in drinks.
He has four big lemonades and June's sippy cup, the pink one that was supposed to help her transition from bottles to cups and has yet to be progressed from further. Like always, these things take time.
"Can you believe that?" you ask. "It's already summer."
"Ew, no. I need time to slow down. Summer at the video store is hell, and it's about to get worse because Steve's ditching me."
"How come?" you ask.
Eddie sits beside you with the tray. It impresses you that he doesn't tip a drop, until you remember that he's a bus boy, and at times when the Hideout gets super busy he acts as a regular waiter, just like you.
"Steve's gonna start working at Cork Kids," Eddie says.
"The daycare? No way, that's where Junie goes," you say excitedly.
"Really?" Steve asks, smiling again. "I just signed my contract with them. Looks like we might be seeing each other all the time, Junie."
"You'll have a friend before you start," you say.
"Oh, thanks," Steve says, looking down at his lap momentarily.
You side eye Eddie, who gives you a look that says he knows what you're thinking. At first glance, Steve looked like a normal, perhaps preppy guy, but it makes sense that there's some uncertainty there. Eddie seems to attract earnest people with self-esteem issues.
"Have you been around kids before?" you ask.
"I– yeah, I had to take a course, but this is my first go at it as a job. I can handle it though, I'm good with kids. I'm new to looking after the younger ones."
"It's hard work," Eddie says.
You shake your head. "No, it's easy, they're lovely. My June is a sweetheart, I promise."
"She makes it look easy," Eddie says, shaking his head vehemently.
Robin snickers at Eddie's fear mongering and drops the soccer ball in favour of one of the glasses of lemonade. Ice cubes clink against the side of the glass as she takes a sip.
Junie's interest is piqued by the ball. She sits up in your lap, looking tentatively between the adults surrounding her and the prize ahead. Robin nudges the ball toward her subtly with her foot. Junie's delighted as it rolls toward her, standing so she can grab it. It makes her look small to be holding something so big near her head.
"Do you wanna play?" Eddie asks her.
Junie shrugs. "With you?"
"Yeah, with me."
She looks at Robin. "Play?"
"Sure," Robin says.
"What about me?" Steve asks. "Can I play, too?"
Junie looks oddly hesitant. You rub one of her arms briefly. "Steve can play too, right, baby?"
She squints at him. "Okay. Steve too."
Eddie chokes on a laugh. "Exactly how I feel about him. Oh, come on, Harrington! You know I'm joking. Just get up already, Junie wants to play."
—
Eddie's lying down in the grass a couple of hours later when you sit at his hip. He's tuckered out from running, kicking, and throwing June around, and he's in desperate need of a shower. You clearly don't care, bending over his prone form, your arms around his stomach in a skewiff hug.
"Hi, handsome."
"Hi. She's sleeping?"
You'd dragged Junie inside and out of the sun to change and feed her, and Eddie had stayed outside to say a proper goodbye to his friends. Now they're gone, and the lack of her points to one obvious explanation.
"Missed her nap. She was asleep by her third mouthful."
"That's my bad."
"No, she had the most fun she's ever had today."
What's better than one person willing to dote on you? Four. Steve had been eager and honestly more than happy to meet Junie and get to know her, and Robin had been awkward at first but just as kind. Good thing: Junie declared Robin her new best friend. Eddie couldn't help feeling a little sorry for Steve, but she warmed up to him eventually.
You'd absolutely decimated your jeans with grass stains. Reluctant, you'd agreed to play soccer, or a mismatch game with way less players. You, Junie, and Robin against the boys. You were starting to enjoy yourself when you slid, and Eddie thought, Oh, fuck, she's gonna be embarrassed, ready to jump in and help you up, but you burst out laughing and Junie ran to your side, ecstatic at the sound.
"I'll get you new jeans."
"I'll get myself new jeans," you say, rubbing your nose against his chest. It tickles, butterflies erupting beneath your touch. "It'll wash out. Probably."
"I'll get you new jeans," he says firmly, searching for your hand.
He wraps his fingers around it and feels your skin without motive, the sky a calmed, darkening blue above him, orange and pink hints whispering at the horizon.
"Do you think they liked me?"
"They did. I know they did. Steve gave me that look guys give each other."
"That look," you croon, laying down in the grass beside him.
Eddie misses your hugging but lavishes in the feeling of you under his arm, your face turning into his chest. He lifts his head to see you've closed your eyes and pressed your mouth against his shirt.
"He's jealous."
"He's not jealous," you say fondly.
"He should be," Eddie says, curling his arm around you.
"Don't flirt with me."
"I can't stop."
You laugh. He doesn't hear it so much as feel it, the gentle shaking of your shoulders. Dropping his nose into your hair, Eddie closes his eyes as you have and breathes you in.
"Holy shit," he says, pretending to be alarmed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Tell me," you say.
"No, it's nothing."
You huff showfully and lift your head to look at him in question. The longer you look the weaker your resolve becomes, until you're cupping his face, total adoration in your eyes as you ask, "What?"
"Just can't believe we're together," he says. He lifts his chin. Your hand falls to his neck. "That's all."
You soften further. There's a hint of sadness to your tone, "Me neither."
"It shouldn't be feasible for someone to have as much luck as I do. Hey, d'you think you could kiss my dice before I leave tonight?"
You tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, your gaze on his lips and chin.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, I'll kiss your dice… m'just thinking."
The wind blows mildly, lapping the smell of grass and dry dirt your way. Eddie finds he kind of likes it, but that could be the smell of you overtop, domineering as it is. Jasmine, the lingering scent of talcum powder, honey and milk hand soap. The last remnants of your shampoo, if he really thinks about it. You smell like everything he's ever wanted.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks quietly.
"You and me."
"I'm always thinking about you and me," he says.
You hug him, hiding your face in his chest for a second time. "I'm the lucky one," you say.
Eddie stretches back in the soft grass and looks up into the sky. Sunset approaches without any concern for what Eddie wants; to stay here with you for a long, long while. It's too bad that he has to find a lock for your bathroom, and go see Gareth and the remaining Hellfire Club (or rather, the remaining members of his Hellfire generation) for another session of D&D.
"Maybe I'll call. Cancel."
"No, you have to go. You spend too much time with me as it is. You need your friends, and you'll have fun when you're there, you always do."
"I don't spend enough time with you," he says.
If he had it his way, he'd happily spend forever locked in time with you here, the warmth of your body sinking into his side and his hair trapped under your weight. It tugs every time you move. He likes you so much that he doesn't consider asking you to stay still.
It's quiet. Eddie can hear the wind over the grass, the ticking wheel spokes of bikes somewhere not far, and your breathing. Slow, deep breaths.
"I'm glad I could fall in love with you before I noticed it was happening," he says, his voice low and a tad rough.
Your breath catches.
It's a half truth. He was well aware of how much he liked you, but hadn't realised it was going to be such an intense sort of reverential affection until he was already knee deep in it.
"I barely felt it," he says. "No, that's wrong," —he smiles, his words warmed by affection— "I did feel it. I felt it and it was intense, but it was ridiculously easy. Like I'd already done it before. One day I'm stealing looks at you over Friday dessert and the next I wanted you so badly I couldn't make myself ask for it.
"And… even though I wanted you, I think I fell in love with being your friend first. I'm fucking grateful for that, for you. You're everything to me." A best friend and a great love.
"Oh," you mumble, your hand sliding up his chest to the space opposite his heart. "You might actually have to cancel seeing your friends, I don't think I can let you leave after that."
You lift your chin, steer his face to yours, and kiss him. It's soft, but Eddie can feel an exuberance underneath it. Like a vibration. A thrumming fondness for him in the way you pull away and dive right back in.
One kiss turns to two, and a third lends itself to something deeper, his lips parting under the light pressure of your weight above him.
He drapes his arm behind your neck, hooking you into the crook of it. The kisses after that are endless and too short, heavy and not heavy enough. He can't tell his own touch from yours, your hands or his hands, the tip of your nose as it slides into his; as you search downward for something more.
"Public indecency," he says when he can't breathe, nudging you away.
You draw in a big breath and sit up so you're kneeling beside him. He sits up too in an attempt to minimise the space between you, feeling flushed as though he's done a forbidden thing, rather than having just kissed his partner.
He grabs your hands. He isn't ready to part with them.
"I think I fell in love with you when I cut your hair," you say. The setting sun is like gold, your skin aglow in its wash.
"Yeah?"
"Or maybe the first time that you came to see me at work." Your eyes light up at the memory. "You didn't even try to pretend it was for food. You didn't care."
He shakes your hands around mindlessly. "The haircut was a big event for me, too," he says through another smile.
They're constant when he's with you.
"Do you still want me to cut your hair?" you ask, tilting your head to one side in appraisal.
"Maybe tomorrow. I think I'd lose my mind tonight."
"I think so, too," you say.
You lean down as you lift one of his hands to the underside of your chin, rubbing your skin with his knuckles. You draw a line with his hand, your chin to your jaw to your cheek.
His heart skips a beat at the sight. Your serene expression, your soft cheek, and the little smile that blooms as he opens his hand and strokes quarter circles into the desired space with his thumb.
"Are you gonna shower before you go?" you ask mildly, eyes half-lidded.
"Do I smell?"
"Kind of," you say.
"You never smell gross," he says, a tiny lie. Everybody smells bad sometimes, but the majority of the time you smell like heaven on earth.
You roll your eyes. "You're all talk."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
He leans in for a quick kiss, like a dotting of the lips. He does it another two times, to be sure you feel as loved as he feels. "Okay, I better go. I'll shower, and I'll see if there's a lock I can borrow for the bathroom 'til I have time to go to the store."
"You don't have to do that, I can take Junie and get one tonight."
He kisses you again. "It's okay," he says with a smile, his lips a hair's width from yours. He pulls away. "I don't mind. Saves you having to get her ready, I know she's a demon in the store lately."
"She used to be our little lady," you lament faux-tearfully.
"That she did, sweetheart. That she did."
Eddie pulls himself out of your arms reluctantly.
Wayne's eating a grilled cheese sandwich over the sink when Eddie gets home, and a second when he gets out of the shower, so he picks Wayne's brain and towel dries his hair.
"How do we stop June from getting into the bathroom?" he asks, hanging his head upside down and scrubbing at his stringy curls.
"Lock it."
"If we don't have a lock?" he asks, looking through his curtain of hair.
"Buy one." Wayne shrugs.
Eddie drops the towel onto the floor by his feet. "I'm going to. But for tonight?"
"Put a chair under the door of your room so she can't leave when you're asleep."
"Not my room," Eddie says. A flush colours his cheeks.
"Are you going to move in with her? You could get a new place, rent one of those houses by the elementary school. They're nice enough."
"Woah, woah, who says I'm moving out?" Eddie asks, laughing nervously.
Wayne takes a big bite of sandwich and Eddie suffers without an answer until he's done. "'We,'" Wayne says, "you keep saying 'we'. Sounds serious."
"I think it's a little soon to move in," Eddie says.
"Me too. But if you're thinking about it, it doesn't hurt to start saving. I'll help."
Eddie wants to say no, you definitely won't. "Yeah," he says instead, coughing to cover the tickle in his throat. "Alright. Thanks, Wayne."
"Moving is expensive, but she can't stay in that place forever. Junie'll outgrow it in a year."
"We live in almost the exact same trailer," Eddie says with a laugh.
"Exactly. And we're comfortable." Wayne swigs his coke. "But if I could've, we would've moved."
"You still could."
"Are you kidding me? This is my home. When you move out I think I'll stay in the front room, I like it in there. TV in bed, big windows."
"I bet you'll like it more when I'm not around keeping you up at night."
Wayne shrugs. "Most people live with their kids until they're eighteen, right? We had a late start. You're entitled to a couple more if you want them… but something tells me you'll be flying the coop soon enough."
"Not that soon."
Wayne sniffs like this is upsetting for him, "Well, whenever you're ready, kid."
—
Eddie comes back a little later to tell you to trap the baby in your room tonight and he'll get you a lock first thing in the morning, promise. You love him because he calls her 'the baby', and because he could've called rather than park up his van and tell you in person. He gives you another kiss, you can't count how many that makes it, saying he'll see you tomorrow, and that's that.
Junie wakes up from her nap not long after. She's startlingly grumpy considering, and she demonstrates the horror of motherhood concisely —she screams, she cries, she pushes your glass of juice off of the table. It smashes it into a hundred different pieces.
She screams louder when you pick her up to stop her from cutting her feet.
You love her, but it's been a long day. You're exhausted, your head hurts, and it's difficult to clean up smashed glass with a kid. You don't wanna leave her unattended when she's wound up in case she has a tantrum. She's given herself bruises before, and you don't want or need that to happen again.
If you put her down she might try to touch the glass. You clutch her to your chest and sweep the glass up one-handed. It takes a long time, and she only grows more irate as it passes, wiggling in your arms to be put down.
She squirms and pulls her arms from under yours, hitting you square in the face by mistake. You're lucky it hadn't happened earlier. They don't mean to, but babies in tantrums tend to flail around, and June's great at chinning you.
It's an accident, you know it is, but you flinch and almost drop her.
"Juniper," you say firmly, desperate for an intermission.
She quietens a touch. You take a very deep breath, abandon the almost full dustpan, and walk as quickly as you can to your room. You put Junie down on her toddler bed, put Mr. Bear in her lap, and crawl into bed with a pillow over your head.
You don't scream or anything, but you could. One sharp moment. You could really scream. You would if you thought it wouldn't scare her.
It's not Junie's fault. You have a shorter fuse than usual and it's incredibly frustrating when she gets in one of these moods, but she's your baby, you made her, and she's growing up. It must be frustrating for her, too.
She cries quietly in bed, the sound turning your heart. You try to stop your own tears and give yourself a minute in hiding. You nibble your lip. Why are you so stressed? You can't work it out.
You know she's hardwork sometimes, but it's not her fault. It's not your fault, either. You're both doing the best you can.
You take a breath, another, and peel the pillow from your head.
She has snot on her face, wide-eyed and hugging Mr. Bear to her cheek.
Your nose stings.
"You wanna come and lie in bed with me?" you ask, begging whoever it is that's watching over you to have her give in.
With Mr. Bear's ear in her fist, Junie slides off of the bed and crosses the small space of the room to yours. You pull her up onto your mattress and smile at her. Guilt is a leaden weight in your stomach. It aches, seeing her all covered in tears, worse because she looks properly scolded. You don't often tell her off.
"Your nose?" she says.
"It's okay." You clear your throat. "It's okay, lovely girl."
She blinks at you and raises her hand to your nose. You let her feel it, even though it hurts.
"Does it look like it's hurting?" you ask.
She doesn't usually connect her actions like this. A month ago she bit your index finger and couldn't figure out why you pulled your hand away. You're surprised that this is different.
"No…" She sniffles.
"I'm okay. Don't be worried, baby, mom's alright. It doesn't hurt. But you can give it a little kiss, if you want. That'll be good."
You bend down for her.
"Kiss?" you ask.
She leans up and kisses the tip of your nose. It's not a clean kiss. You don't mind.
"Thank you."
"You'w welcome," she mumbles.
You sigh, pulling your shirt sleeve over your hand so you can wipe her messy face. "Let me clean you up, you're all snotty. Make you feel better. There we go, there's my girl. I couldn't see you under all the tears." You stroke her cheek with your knuckle. "I'm sorry, baby. Everything was very overwhelming. Should we try again?"
She looks like she might grizzle.
"Let's have dinner, yeah? You can pick something from the freezer. Any dinner you want."
Dinner works for a time, but afterward she has more sulking to do. You keep her on her toes, playing games and watching TV. She's clean but you're pulling out all the stops, filling the baby bath for her and letting her play until the water's cold and you're soaked from her rubber ducks.
She still doesn't sleep. In a last ditch effort, you give her a bottle of warm milk, though she's aged out of formula now, and it works.
She falls asleep hours later than she should. It's nearly 11PM.
You look down at her asleep on your chest. Her eyes are swollen from crying buckets. Your own prickle, until tears swim and your vision blurs.
You press the back of your hand to your mouth, eyes scrunched closed, and try to make as little noise as possible. It's awful timing, you'll wake her before she's properly sleeping, but you've felt so tired today, and even when Eddie's friends came for a couple of hours you were already rubbed raw. You're tired all the time.
In compliance with the nature of being upset, the things that are upsetting you grow in size. They double, quadruple, until they're heavy enough to knock you down for the count, have you crying like a kid out of pure defeat. You cry so hard it pulls every bit of energy you have and kills it, so hard you couldn't make noise if you wanted to, about everything and nothing. You're at the end of your rope.
You rub Junie's back and wish someone was rubbing your own. It's an odd distress.
It's lucky you hear his footsteps on the steps outside.
If Eddie walked in on you like this, you'd never forgive yourself. You can't imagine it. He's seen you hungry, greasy. He's watched you put things back at the store, he knows you lived off of leftovers and saltiness for months. And you'd do it all again for your girl, but it still hurts thinking he's seen you that low.
You shudder, sucking in two big breaths that won't work.
You drag a rumpled sleeve over your cheeks and try not to move.
The knock is very gentle. You can picture him on the other side, stooped and waiting for you to let him in. If he thinks you're asleep he won't knock again, and it's late. If you can stay quiet for long enough, he'll go home.
He tries the handle.
"Oh, my god," he says when it opens, "I'm gonna fight her."
The her in question sniffs and wipes her eyes again. Eddie flinches at the sound, his head whipping to the side to find you where you're balled up on the couch.
"Holy shit, what's wrong?" he asks.
You shake your head. "N-nothing," you stammer quietly.
"What?" he asks, like this is preposterous, and you guess it is. Something seems very wrong.
He kicks his shoes off by the door as he closes it and doesn't waste any time, though he's quiet and careful as he crosses the room and sits down next to you.
His hand cups your cheek, feeling the tacky damp there for himself.
"What's wrong? Tell me… tell me,” he says.
"It's nothing," you say.
You'd wanted a hand to rub your back, but it's sudden. He's here, and he's seen you crying, and you have no control over it. You never really do.
"It looks like something," he whispers.
You cover Junie's head with your hand. Your smile is somehow more concerning than your frown, if Eddie's reaction is anything to go off of.
"I'm fine."
"How long has she been sleeping?" he asks.
"I don't know.” You sniffle.
For some reason, Eddie's question starts you off again, tears welling in your eyes like fat drops of dew and falling just as fast. One squeezes under his hand.
"Is something hurting?" he asks, his brow pinched now, nothing but patience in his tone.
"No."
"How about I put her to bed for you?" he asks.
"Yes, please."
His frown deepens as the tears build. You're horrified to notice his wince at your shuddering, but breath won't come right. His hands needle under Junie's front, tense as a taut string, and Eddie lifts her into his arms, not quite practised. He shushes her when she mumbles.
"I'll be right back," he mouths.
You nod at his promise. As soon as he's cleared the living room you curl forward, face in your hands, shoulders shaking hard as you wipe your cheeks, catching tears before they race the hill of your cheek.
Things must go well. Eddie's back thirty seconds later, and he's worried.
"Hey, hey. Tell me what happened," he murmurs, perching on the couch next to you.
You try. You're not sure what's upset you, and when you open your mouth nothing wants to come out. Eddie's never, ever seen you cry like this, and it's clear that it's freaking him out.
He curves his arm behind your shoulders and pulls you to his side, voice a pleading murmur as he says, "What's wrong? Please, sweetheart, tell me."
"I'm tired," you force out. The main issue.
"I know."
"Sorry, I don't– know why I'm crying so much," you say, words staggered.
Eddie encourages your head under his chin. There's nothing specific beyond that, no more talking from either of you. He hugs your shoulders tightly, likely tighter than he means to, as though he's worried you'll come apart if he doesn't. The strange feeling of helplessness abates slowly, like an ebbing tide guided away from the shore.
Your sobs turn to smaller, spluttering tears, until the panic fades completely, and the waterworks eventually stop.
"I'm sorry," you mumble, fighting the sore lump in your throat.
"It's okay." You can feel him swallow. "You scared me. You– Do you need something? Some water?"
"No…" You feel like a little kid and like you're too old at the same time. You haven't cried that hard in a long time, and you hadn't had Eddie there to sit with you through it. You're grateful for that, if nothing else. "Can you just–" You turn toward him. "Can I have a hug?"
He steel arms you into his chest, dropping a kiss against your hot forehead.
"Yes," he says, punctuating with more kisses. "No question about it. You can have anything you want from me. Would it make you feel better if I cried, too? I can do that, sweetheart, I could really go for it. In sixth grade, I made myself cry so hard I threw up 'cos I wanted to get out of gym."
You choke on a laugh.
He doubles down.
"I was dry heaving on the bleachers for an hour," he says, his hand behind your head and vying for your clammy neck, stroking a line when he finds it. "They wouldn't send me to the nurse."
"I don't need you to cry. It's… Junie's been wound up like a top all day, and she woke up and just screamed for hours, Eds, screamed. She couldn't have been asleep ten minutes when you got here."
"I'm sorry. That must have been overwhelming."
You peer up into his face to gauge his expression. Not that you think he's ingenuine, but you're worried he's humouring you.
"I got mad at her."
He hums. "Yeah?"
"I didn't mean to, but she hit me."
"What?"
"By accident."
"No, I figured. Where'd she get you?"
"My nose," you admit.
Eddie leans out of the circle of your arms to see your face, bringing a hand to your cheek. He assesses your nose. You want to tell him there's nothing to find, but it's nice to be checked over. His palm is warm.
"If you're crying because you got angry, I promise it's alright. Everybody has a breaking point."
"I know." You hadn't been cruel. You took what you could, and when it got too much you set her down and had a breather.
"Wayne got so mad at me one time he asked me to go get him rosemary toothpaste just so he could have an hour away from me."
"Rosemary toothpaste?"
He turns your head slightly to the side. "Doesn't exist."
"What did you do to make him mad?"
"Cut all the sleeves off of my t-shirts."
"All of them?"
"Every single shirt I owned. It was a cold winter."
He smiles, his pale cheeks appled, his big brown eyes reflecting your own.
"Did you get really mad?" he asks softly.
"No,” you say, cutting yourself some slack. “I didn’t.”
“You know you're allowed though?”
“I don't want to get mad at her. She can't help it.”
“Neither can you. I'm not saying you should yell at her, but don't beat yourself up for not enjoying a sucker punch.”
“It wasn’t that. I’m not upset about it, I mean, I’m not very happy but it’s not the first time I felt overwhelmed by her. I don’t care if she drives me up the wall sometimes, I don’t even care about the impromptu nose job,” —Eddie whoops, before covering his mouth apologetically— “or that she took awhile to go down. I really don't know why…”
“I'm going to say something.”
“Oh no.”
“Not trying to be a freak here, but maybe you're visiting with the devil.”
You sit back. His hands fall to your hips.
“Sorry?” you ask.
Eddie smiles ruefully. “You know. Riding the crimson wave.” He grimaces at your continued confusion. “Time of month?”
You’re embarrassed thinking he’s embarrassed by it, but luckily he furthers, “Sorry if that’s weird to say, I don’t know if that’s weird. I’d, like, crawl across hot coals for you, I really don’t care if that’s what it is, just girls get kind of intense. Emotionally. At that time.”
“Oh really?” you ask.
His skin turns ashen. “Um–”
“I'm kidding,” you say.
Your hand drifts to your stomach. It would make sense as to why you’re feeling very tired and confused about your emotions, and it might be nearing that time. You’re so busy you haven't been keeping track. “Maybe it is,” you say, mumbling still.
“I’m not saying you can't have a breakdown if you need one,” he says.
“No, I know. Maybe you’re right. I kind of hope you're right.”
“Is this awkward?”
“You sleep in my bed nearly every night, Eds. I dont think it's awkward unless you do.”
“Again, I’d crawl across hot coals for you, so… this is the most minor thing ever. Not for you, for me. For you, it sucks. For me?” He pinches your cheek gently. “I worship the ground you walk on, you loser, I don't care if it’s shark week. We’re not in middle school.
“But if it isn’t hormones making you unhappy, if you really feel this awful, you can tell me.”
“I don't know what it is," you say, embarrassed, a headache pounding in your temple.
“That’s okay though, right? Or is it too much?”
“I feel better,” you say. It's true and not true.
Fuck, he’s sweet. His lips pout ever so slightly in concern for you, his brows pinching down. His hands remain steadfast on your hips.
“Well, if it gets too much you gotta let me know. Legally. That’s the whole point of having a boyfriend, I think. You gotta let me take care of you… You're sure you feel better?”
“Yeah. I really am sorry.”
“For what?”
“Being a loser.” You laugh wetly.
“Ah, but you're my loser,” he says, arms curling behind your back again. “I don't want you to cry, but if you are going to then I’m glad it’s when you’re with me, yeah? I don’t like that you were crying alone. Think of all the amazing support you missed out on. I could’ve been rubbing your back that whole time.” He rubs your back in emphasis.
“That feels nice.”
“Do you have any aches?”
“I always have aches, I’m a waitress.”
“Me too.” He presses his lips to your skin. “Let me make you something to drink, and I’ll stay the night, if that’s cool? I can rub your back for hours without getting tired.”
“‘Cos you have such big muscles,” you agree indulgently. He has amazingly shaped biceps, but that’s besides the point.
“That is exactly why.”
He blows a breath out against your cheek and sits back into the couch. “Do me a favour? Next time I ask you what’s wrong, don't say nothing. Don’t hide when you’re feeling like shit, I need to know.”
"Okay. Yeah, I will. Just… you always see me at my worst."
Eddie chucks under your chin and begins to stand. "I get to see you at your best, too. It's a good deal."
It’s a good deal, you mouth to yourself.
“Get up,” he says from the front door, mock-cross when you don't immediately follow, “I can't go to bed by myself.” He locks the front door, sliding the deadbolt home. “You didn’t kiss my dice, you know? That’s why I came tonight, to harp at you.”
“And that couldn't wait until tomorrow?”
Eddie glares at you, “No?”
You hold your hands up, your voice still thick from tears but inarguably in love. “Alright. Harp at me. But carry me to bed first.”
It’s not long before he’s pushing his head against your side, arms at your waist in an attempt to lift you over his shoulder like a fireman, whisper-yelling, “What are you saying? You asked me to carry you! I can’t hear you, babe, just brace yourself.”
—
Junie has the sense that you're being weird. She’s three, or one day away from it, and she won’t remember anything you’re saying right now but she’ll remember how she felt, the warmth of your loving hand in her hair, stroking it from her face as you and Eddie titter at one another. Eddie’s like you, in a way, a mom but not around as much. Almost as much recently, though, which is great news.
“I saw one in the department store by the bus station,” Eddie says, strumming his guitar. It plinks.
Junie sniffs, her nose a little runny, and dips her head back against your chest. You smell like home, the sweet and soft swirl of lavender and jasmine laundry powder, a burning smell she doesn’t really care for that comes after you sit on the floor and press the clothes —hot hot hot, junebug— every other night, and the treats you’re sharing.
“Sounds expensive,” you say gently.
“So?”
“So,” you say, and Junie bristles at the mild annoyance in your tone, because you are incredibly soft-handed and have been since she was born, “I won’t be able to afford it, Eds.” Your annoyance fades as soon as it comes, and you say ‘Eds’ so nicely that Junie turns her face and rubs her cheek into your t-shirt.
“You okay, baby?” you ask her.
Junie huffs, pleased. She is very okay. Even better when you offer her another chocolatey cookie.
“It’s her birthday, she only gets one a year. And I’d be happy to pay for it, anyways.”
“Yeah, you’re always happy to pay for things, you have a screw loose.”
Eddie laughs. Junie laughs at his laughing; whenever he’s laughing there’s happiness afoot. He loves to swing her around in his arms, tickle her, play with her small army of teddies and make them speak. He beams at her from his seat on the floor in front of the TV, the guitar that she’s grown to revere twanging as he puts it down on the floor.
“Hearing that, bug? Your mommy can’t leave me alone today.”
Junie, for all her brilliant smarts, her growing mind, doesn’t really get what he means. She knows that she’s the bug he’s talking to, and that he’s doing something fun from the lilting cadence of his teasing, but beyond that it’s nonsense.
She loses interest quickly and returns to her melting cookie, unperturbed by the mess that it makes of her small hands and once-pristine sleeves. You never shout about stains, so Junie doesn’t see a problem, not until you laugh, the breath of it warm against her ear, and push the sleeves of her shirt up the lengths of her arms. She’s wearing her very favourite strawberry pyjamas today, though they make her agitated every now and then because they don’t feel quite right. She doesn’t see why. They’ve always been the best.
“Don’t listen to stinky,” you say.
Junie nods. Mom always knows best, she knows, in an abstract way. Except for when you say that the one-eyed stray that slinks around doesn’t like pets. He loves them when you’re not looking.
“We have a chance to make it a really special day, so why don’t we? It’ll pay for itself. The sun’ll be out morning, noon, and night soon, and she can use it every day.”
“Morning, noon, and night,” you repeat. “Very Tolkien of you.”
Eddie makes a pleased sound as he stands up. Junie thinks he is the tallest person in the world. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.
He squeezes Junie’s toes as he passes, and despite how weird it feels she kind of likes it. She loves Eddie, astronomically, gargantuanly, though these are big words to her.
Love can't be described in the words that she knows, but it can be acted out. She drops her cookie like it’s aflame and slips out of your comfortable lap: you are the very best seat, even better than being in bed. Still, she abandons you and your cookies and follows Eddie in a run to the kitchen where he’s opening the fridge.
“Drink, pretty girl?” he asks her, voice saccharine sweet.
She makes a sound of delight. “Up!”
“Say please,” he directs, already squatting down to grab her.
“Please up!” she demands, walking into his waiting arms.
Again, Eddie’s like you. As mom, you feel not too different from Junie herself. She doesn’t know that she misses you, but she does miss you heartily when you leave her at the daycare for the day, or sometimes when she wakes up first in the mornings and can’t climb into bed with you. She doesn’t understand missing you, only wanting you, and she wants Eddie in the same capacity. When he picks her up she feels better, and happy, and loved when his hand stretches palm-flat over her back and pats a turbulent rhythm.
He sings too fast to understand, one of his loud songs. Your music is quieter, because you’re a quiet mom. You whisper when she falls asleep on your chest, singing love songs under your breath as the night creeps in, and your footfall is carefully measured. But you laugh loudly, one of Junie’s favourite sounds in the whole world —up there with the Muppet Babies’ theme song and the squeak your tennis shoes make when you half-run to the baby gate at pick up.
Eddie laughs much, much louder, usually in tandem with you, or if not then only a few seconds before. He also growls, raspberries, and chortles. He does the best Animal impression ever, like the muppet himself is hiding around the corner.
“Here, June, you have your sippy cup, there's a good girl. You’re not drinking much today, what’s the matter? Is your juice not yummy enough?”
Junie takes the offered sippy cup and tries to formulate a response. It’s hard, because Eddie said lot’s of things all at once, and there were two different questions in the mix. She catches onto the very last, giving her sippy cup a good shake as she answers, “It’s yummy.”
You and Eddie love when Junie speaks. Your faces glow. It’s the best.
“Yeah?” Eddie asks.
“Yes,” she tries. “Juice.” She changes her mind. “Cookies?”
“One track mind,” Eddie says.
Junie takes it for an I love you, of sorts. The way he says it suggests affection, she can’t pinpoint exactly what, but it’s how you sound when you tell her every day. She pushes her hands into his hair and then around his neck to give him a deliberate hug. He does the humming thing he tends to do when he’s picked her up, pat-pat-patting her back even as she pulls away.
“Is the cuddle over?” he asks, pouting at her, his eyes widening. “Mom wasn’t even jealous yet.”
“Shut up,” you say happily.
“Have a drink,” Eddie insists to Junie, encouraging the mouth of her sippy cup to her chin. “It’s a warm day today, me and you and mommy have to drink lots and lots to stay healthy. Did you want another drink?”
Junie has a drink, but she doesn't bother correcting him.
“Please, handsome, if you don’t mind," you say.
Handsome is kind of like junebug, only you never call Junie handsome, so it must be Eddie’s alone. Junie doesn’t mind: she gets called baby and babe and bub and sweetheart and even little lady when she’s being really good.
It goes without saying that she feels very, very loved. Even her name feels like a pet name when you say it most the time.
"Junie doesn't need a super big one, she's just one girl. She'd be happy with a kiddie–" You cough. "Whatever size."
"I know she'd be happy," Eddie says, Junie still in his arms and confused.
He's multi-tasking, filling up your prettiest cup until the enamel flowers are starkly backgrounded by juice and ice. Eddie pulls Junie up higher on his side and kisses her forehead. "You've been a happy gal lately. Which is good, good for mom, and good for you." He smiles until she smiles back.
"What I'm saying," Eddie starts over Junie's head, carrying her and your cup back to the living room, "is that I want to get it for her, please. I'll go now while it's still open, and I'll have to get a hose and an air pump or something from somewhere so that'll take time, and filling it up might take an hour or two. 'Cos, listen, I'll pay for it and if the water bill is ridiculous I'll pay for that, too–"
"I don't want you to pay for it, Eds, you don't work ten hour shifts six days a week to spend it all on us."
"No," he says agreeably, sitting down beside you, Junie in his lap. She spots the cookies she'd been missing and reaches across to your lap. You take her on instinct, and boom, cookies achieved. "I barely ever work six days a week anymore, and you're right that I don't work to spend it all on you guys. I spend too much of on nerd crap, another too much on groceries, and some of it goes into savings–"
"What savings?" you say, laughing like this is a funny joke.
"–but really, I don't think of it as spending money on you, babe, and I bet you don't think of it like that either. We're not keeping a tally chart."
"Of course not," you say softly, putting your hand on Eddie's shoulder, "I didn't mean to imply that."
"You didn't," Eddie says, just as soft. "I'm just saying, it's not about money. You know it yourself, the less you have the more you want to give, and I have enough to blow her mind, so I think we should do it. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable or uneasy," —he says uneasy like it's a slimy word, making Junie giggle— "so if you don't want me to, I won't. We'll find something else, it really doesn't matter. Don't get stressed."
"I think I'm always stressed," you murmur, sinking down into your seat. Junie twists to look at you, startled at your sudden change in attitude. You've moved from happy to sad. It's odd. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be a nag."
Eddie laughs, the sound as startled as Junie's feeling. "You're not a nag! Do I make you feel like a nag?"
"No, I just know I am…"
"You are not a nag. You have a lot on your plate all the time, and you worry about money because you need to. I'm not blaming you for something that's not your fault," Eddie says.
Junie likes this part. Eddie slides an arm behind your shoulders, kisses your cheek, and speaks in murmurs as you relax under his touch, "You're allowed to be stressed, don't feel guilty. Just let me have some of the stress too, alright? Don't be greedy."
"This sucks."
"It doesn't suck." Eddie lowers his voice to a whisper, Junie can't hear what he says next. "Let me buy the pool, babe. She'll love it. It has a built-in slide."
"I know what one you're talking about, and it was one hundred and fifty dollars."
"I have it. If she uses it every day for the summer, that's like two dollars a day."
"She won't, though."
"Well, we waste money all the time. We bought that box of apples from that guy on the side of the road the other day for ten dollars and we didn't eat a single one."
"That's different, we forgot they were in the trunk. We probably would've died if we ate one, they got all squishy."
"If we all use the pool it's worth it. Me, you and June use it every day, it works out cheaper than a movie ticket."
"I'm gonna make you go in the pool every single day," you threaten without malice.
You obviously won't be doing that, you aren't that bitter, and Eddie says, "Yes," under his breath because it's practically permission.
"I will happily go in the pool every single day," he says.
"Pool?" Junie asks.
Junie already has a pool, and she loves it, and now she's heard the word, she wants it bad.
"Oh…" You kiss Eddie's jaw chastely. "Your fault."
"Shit," he says.
Junie takes a breath and repeats it, puzzled at your horror. You usually love it when she says new words.
—
The trailer is something out of a movie today. It's a warm and sunny day with enough cloud cover to defeat the brutal summer glare that sometimes smothers Hawkins. The breeze cools the sweat on the back of Eddie's neck, a blessed reprieve.
He couldn't ditch you yesterday after his 'pool' related slip up —you are, in fact, 'visiting with the devil', and it's making you miserable and stressed despite all your best intentions, so leaving you alone to get out and fill the pool, a sometimes stressful situation, was not on his agenda— resulting in a very early morning for him. He woke up at 6AM to drive to the department store by the Indianapolis bus station, had to hang around for half an hour before it even opened because he didn't time it right, and then had to drive back with the new pool hoping he could get it done before Junie was awake.
Juniper was, in fact, already awake and bounding around the trailer like a girl on fire, the decorations, banners and balloons and tablecloths, working her into a frenzy. Apparently she took a while to understand that the day was about her, but once she did she couldn't stop smiling.
"You should've seen it," you'd said, stretching the elastic string of a cardboard party hat over the head of Mr. Bear. "She went ballistic, Munson, absolutely crazy when she saw the cake, I don't think I've ever felt that happy in my life."
"Sorry I missed it," he'd said, in agony.
Eddie’s hoping the pool will get her to a similar level of excitement. He looks out over the grass behind your home and feels very, very smug. The pool has been successfully blown up with air and filled, and it looks like it was worth every penny with the hose running down the slide, the attached palm trees standing tall. Your favourite The Beat record is playing from the open window, and he can hear you and June singing along to Save It For Later, aceing the long na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na's. It makes him ridiculously happy.
"Looking good," Wayne says.
Eddie turns to his uncle where he's approaching from the left, a Teddy bear wrapped in purple-pink cellophane in hand.
"You think so?"
"Tyke's gonna love it. When's the grand reveal?"
"I'm all done, so right now," Eddie says. "Holy shit, this is sick, right?"
Wayne, in his most deluxe outfit, a light brown button down and a pair of unripped, unsullied jeans, gives Eddie what can only be described as his fond dad look. "It looks good, Eddie."
It should. There's the pool, the picnic blanket covered in cupcakes and finger sandwiches shielded by a big beach umbrella, and a sheet of green grass behind it.
"How are you gonna stop the strays getting at it?" Wayne asks.
"Who knows. I got a tarp in the van, that'll have to do it."
"You could, you know, pack it away."
"That is not how we do things," Eddie jokes.
"Didn't we just have a conversation about saving money?" Wayne asks.
"We did, yeah…" Eddie crosses his arms across his chest. "This honest living thing is tough."
"You love it," Wayne says. "You're a good kid."
Eddie sits on the foldout picnic bench he'd borrowed from Gareth and Wayne sits next to him, the two of them looking out at the pool, the sound of the hose and the crickets in the tall grass bordering the park a steadying company.
"Y/N invited the daycare kids. She didn't want me to get the pool, even though she kind of did, 'cos it wasn't cheap, but as soon as I brought it home she just–" Sparkled, Eddie wants to say, but he certainly won't be saying that to Wayne's face. Wayne would never let him live it down. "She called every mom she had the number for and invited the rest of the kids from daycare to come over. I don't even think she wants to brag, and shit, I want to. She just wants the kids to have a good time."
"Well, you picked a good one," Wayne says easily.
"I know you weren't sure. At first."
"That didn't have anything to do with her." Wayne rubs a hand over his chin. "It's hard, having kids. I feel for her doing it all by herself like that. I'm glad she has you now, but dating a woman with a kid isn't easy, and it isn't something you can do and move on from like nothing happened. I'm not saying you're that little girl's dad now, but you're doing the things a dad does, understand? You're not just a boyfriend."
Boyfriend is funny from Wayne's mouth. Juvenile. He doesn't think Eddie should call you his 'old lady' but he always laughs at 'girlfriend'. Wayne's a complicated dude. A little rough around the edges, and absolutely brimming to the neck with love.
"I get it," Eddie says, and he does.
He isn't Junie's dad, but he loves her like his own, he's sure of it. He's never had his own so he doesn't have a comparison, but still. And he gets that this is a layer to the relationship he shares with you. How it might complicate things. How it could go wrong.
"But you'd do anything for those girls, and I know that," Wayne says.
Eddie wishes Wayne would say a little more, explain it to him, because Eddie feels out of his element sometimes and needs a hand. He doesn't question if what he's doing is the right thing because it hasn't ever felt wrong. He doesn't worry about the future because the only thing he can see ahead are good times. But there's still an underlying anxiety, and he wishes his uncle would give him some relief. He also understands why Wayne doesn't.
"I would do anything for them," he agrees. "Which, I've been meaning to ask you something, a favour."
Wayne raises his eyebrows, looking tired. Eddie knows it's half charade.
"How do you feel about babysitting?"
"Now that's why I didn't want you hanging around her," Wayne says, deadpan.
Eddie laughs sharply, so suddenly he can't breathe and ends up hacking coughing into his hands.
Wayne laughs and pats Eddie on the back. "I can babysit. For an hour."
"Two? I'm trying to take her to dinner, you know. A real date, like a gentleman."
"We'll see. What's she think about it?"
"She's extremely protective, and you know she doesn't think you're a bad guy, or anything, but she's apprehensive."
"She'd be silly not to be. Some people are evil."
Eddie grimaces. "Exactly. But she trusts me and I trust you, so."
"I'd think you do. Only broke my back–"
"For the last ten years," Eddie finishes.
Wayne throws his arm around Eddie's shoulders. "Looking after you, son. God knows I'd do it again… As long as it's alright with Y/N, I'll babysit. But you know there's a ton of kids trying to make a buck around here who'd just love to help out," Wayne says. Eddie must have rubbed off on him or maybe Wayne's the source of all his theatrics; he puts on a hopeful, almost wistful sort of voice as he says it that has Eddie laughing all over again.
"We'll see. There's no hurry. Just wanna take her out sometimes, she deserves it."
"She sounds like she's having plenty of fun to me," Wayne says reassuringly.
You're singing and laughing through the words from the kitchen. You'd told Eddie you're going to give Junie a very intricate hairstyle so she can swim without worrying about washing it, and it's taken you the better part of the hour, yet neither your good mood nor June's has faded. He can see it, you feeding Junie cold cut-up fruit dipped in condensed milk, kissing her cheeks and massaging her scalp as you go. Junie on the counter, as happy as she's ever been.
"You almost done?" Eddie calls.
You turn down the music.
"What?" you ask, pushing the kitchen window open a little further, careful to push aside the shutters just enough to see him, but not let Junie see the backyard. "Oh, hi Mr. Munson, how are you? Can I get you something to drink?"
"Just here to give some birthday wishes," Wayne says, lifting the bear up. "How are you doing?"
"I'm awesome," you say brightly.
"You look good."
Wayne had pulled Eddie aside once, when you'd been dating for two weeks and bumped into him outside of Bradley's, as the fates should have it. He'd looked stern, hand on Eddie's shoulder, and said, "I'm not blaming you, son, but you gotta help her get some rest. Poor girl looks ready to fall over."
Eddie thinks you're pretty even when you're exhausted. In the fullest sense of the word, you meet every definition in his dictionary. You have these eyes that might not pull everyone in but more than hook him, and when you look at him sometimes it's with so much love you're basically an angel. Your smile is beautiful because it's yours. Your voice is lovely because of the words you choose to say, that endless sweetness and softness. He knows you well enough now to realise that there is an end to it in reality. When you're tired or fed up, you can be snappy and blunt and occasionally argumentative, but he likes that. He doesn't want you any other way, 'cos perfect doesn't exist and if it did he'd still end up on your doorstep with a plastic bag in the crook of his elbow, begging for one of those shitty mini pizzas you make and a place at your table.
You do look well, admittedly and despite your recent bout of restless upset. You had a good night's sleep, and Junie being happy makes you happier. You beam down at them from the window, your eyes sliding to the blown up pool and the mini picnic Eddie's set up.
"Thanks, Mr. Munson. Can I bring her down?" you ask.
"Absolutely," Eddie says, hand in the air and pulling toward his face, ushering you down, "right now."
The back door opens and you guide Junie out first. Eddie popped in to give a birthday cuddle and the card he'd picked out, but he hasn't seen Junie since you did her hair, and it looks so nice it melts his heart. She stands in the doorway in her swimming costume, pink and purple and green ombre with frills everywhere, her face slack.
"Happy birthday!" Eddie says, standing so he can hold out his hand and help her down the stairs. She takes it but doesn't move. "Me and mom know you like your pool so much we wanted to get you another one, do you like it?"
She starts wiggling, jumping without her feet leaving the floor. She looks at Eddie, at Wayne, at you, at the pool, and a noise starts to brew like the whistle of a saucepan boiling water, the lid skewiff. Eddie grins and waves her hand.
"It's for you, babe, do you want to get in?" he encourages.
"With you?" she asks, still wiggling.
"Maybe later. Do you need help?"
Junie runs to the edge of the pool, looking over the side that's almost as tall as her and into the water. You already gave him a strict talk about water safety as though for a moment you might not be supervising, loving but resolute that she can't for one single second be unattended or without eyes on her.
He hadn't been offended, though he did kiss the top of your head and say sarcastically, "Thanks, major, I didn't know that."
"Jerk," you'd said, earning another kiss.
Eddie puts his hands under her arms and lifts her up carefully. Her legs curl in toward her stomach like a pill bug. "It might be cold, June, but it's in the sun, so it won't stay cold. Ready?"
"Yes!" she says.
Eddie eases her down into the water. She shrieks happily as water covers her toes, her legs, up past her belly button.
Eddie lets her go and she sits in the water rather than stands. The water reaches her shoulders. She lifts her hands and does a little splash. "It's so big!" she cheers.
You ease down into a kneel poolside and reach your hand into the water. "And so cold!" you say, looking up at the sky for a moment. "It'll be warmer in no time. Oh, wow, June, there's so much water, you're up to your chin!"
Junie stands up and runs to the palm tree, giggling. Her attention snags on the slide, and Eddie knows everyone present smiles when she gasps and spins on her heel to you, almost slipping onto her butt. She scrambles up again. "Mommy, it's a slide!"
"I know! Are you gonna go down? Come here, you have to let me help you up over the side and you can climb up the slide."
Just when Eddie's starting to think he couldn't like you more, you pull her up against your chest and out of the pool. You don't care that she's soaked.
"Let's go down the slide!" you say, sounding genuinely excited.
"Starting to think you should've got a bigger one, kid," Wayne says.
Eddie snorts and peels off his shirt. "Maybe," he says, shooting Wayne a secret, pleased smile, before rounding the pool. "Babe, you're getting wet, let me have her," he says to you. The daycare kids and their parents should be coming soon. He knows you'll want to look your best.
"Woah, put your shirt on, Munson, what do you think this is? A GQ shoot?"
"Like I'm some piece of meat," he murmurs with a smile, failing to help Junie navigate the inflatable steps of the slide.
You whistle playfully. Wayne howls with laughter. Eddie turns three shades of pink. He blames the sun.
Your teasing ends as soon as it's started. When Junie gets the hang of the slide he dries off and puts his shirt back on, and soon the daycare parents arrive with their tiny charges. They're quick to climb into the pool. Junie is ecstatic beyond words, laughing and giving out dripping hugs to her very favourite friends Adrien and Lucy. Adrien is a sweet, smart toddler. He manages to say, "Happy birthday, Junie!" with a small reminder.
Junie smiles until her eyes close. "Thanks," she says gleefully.
You shuffle over to Eddie. "Can you please watch all the babies so I can go get the drinks, please? And say thanks for the gifts?"
"Please please," he says, squeezing your wrist. "I think there's about seven pairs of eyes on them, but yeah, absolutely. They don't call me Eddie Water Safety Munson for nothing."
You elbow him mildly.
The only danger Eddie can see is that the kids look like they might have a fight over who gets to use the slide first. There's an impatient four year old called John who feels desperately that he should get to go first, and Lucy, Junie's favourite, does not agree. The birthday girl doesn't seem super interested in the conflict and instead plays with Adrien and a little girl named Matildhe with her rubber duckies, away from the slide.
"You don't have to stay," Eddie says to Wayne, eyes on Junie's excited chattering.
"And leave you to entertain the parents? I'm not that cruel."
Eddie doesn't know most of the parents, having only met Adrien's mom when Junie was having her hugging phase and Eddie went in for emotional support, and John's dad outside of the mechanic where Wayne works, you in the car, Junie on his hip as he dipped in to bring Wayne his forgotten lunch for a late night doing overtime. Junie had recognised John, and so Eddie had been forced to introduce himself. It had been fine, but Eddie would prefer you with him for any future clumsy introductions.
You come back down with drinks and make parental rounds, thanking each one for the small gifts they've brought. You ask about allergies and nod seriously when one parent says their boy is sensitive to aspartame, before sneaking back to Eddie's side.
"What's aspartame, handsome? Do you know? I might poison that poor baby from stupidity."
"It's a sweetener,” he says, "they put it in Jolt Cola. I think they're saying he's hyperactive."
"Oh, right… is there aspartame in the strawberry juice?"
"I'd have to check. Want me to take a look?"
"No, it's okay… I'll just… hold off on it for a minute," you say. You let your weight rest against his side. "This looks amazing. It's amazing. Thank you, Eddie."
He turns to you and pouts for a kiss. You lean up and give it to him immediately. Eddie doesn't care that there's a crowd of people to watch, he can't not give you a hug. His head locks over your shoulder, and he squeezes you tightly.
"Don't worry, I'm still watching her," he says before you can wriggle out of his arms.
"Okay," you say, your face flopped into the juncture of his neck. "Thank you double. I don't deserve you."
"Yes you do. You deserve a whole lot more," Eddie says, thinking about the houses by the elementary school, and how lonely you can get, and the feeling of your hands as you wash soap suds out of his hair. He hugs you hard and pulls you toward him, your heels lifting off of the ground just slightly. "But this is a start, right?"
"I wouldn't call this a start," you say, pulling away from him. Your face is lined with affection. “This is better.”
You turn around, sliding firmly under his arm, and scan the pool for your girl. Junie's standing now, offering handfuls of water to Lucy, who takes them and tips them over her head. Every time water runs down her face she laughs, and Junie hurries to get her another handful.
"I think Steve said he was gonna come by," Eddie says. "That cool?"
"Sure, the more the merrier. What about Robin?"
"She can't, she's training the new video store recruit. She said Steve has her gift, though."
You shake your head and click your tongue, "Tsk, they didn't have to get her anything."
"They wanted to. Steve actually enjoyed it, I think. He's kind of desperate to be a dad, you know? He's dating this girl from Anderson but she's in college and they're not settling down yet. You know, I never thought that I'd– that I would end up settling down before him."
"Are you?" you ask softly.
He's quiet for longer than he means to be, watching as Junie gets her go on the slide. She barrels down into the water and screeches, overjoyed.
"I'm not asking you to," you say, "I wouldn't ever ask you to, I mean, you don't–"
"Hey, hey, wait. Wait a second." He tears his gaze from the pool to meet your eyes. "I'm settling down. I am. I want to. I want to be with you, and I want to look after you. I love doing it. This," —he gestures around your backyard— "is what I want. I want a ton of other things and I'm not giving up on them, I wanna make music, and get a job that pays better, but I want to do those things with you. You and Juniper."
"I'll look after you, too," you say.
He kisses the skin before your ear. "You already do," he says quietly.
There's a small gap in your conversation. Eddie takes a sweep of the yard. Wayne looks content if a little bored in the sun, arms crossed across his chest and Teddy bear sat beside him. Junie's talking animatedly from inside of the pool to one of the parents as they rub sun cream into their own child's arms. The stray cat who sometimes sleeps under the porch noses at a half sandwich on the picnic blanket. Eddie's sweating in the heat, and it is so, so loud, but he reckons it's a damn good party.
You stroke a big wad of curls behind his shoulder, a smaller strand behind his ear.
"I love you," you say tentatively.
Eddie laughs but closes his mouth, the sound more of a hum, and leans back so you can cup his cheek. "I love you, too," he says, "you know that." He confessed it plainly enough only a week ago, lying in the grass with you, your cheek over his heart.
"Good," you say, looking like you might keel over. "I was really scared to tell you."
"I was scared to tell you too. That's the fun part, for sure. This is terrifying."
"Terrifying," you second.
"And awesome."
"So awesome," you murmur.
Eddie peels your hand from his cheek and spins you around. You move slowly but let him do as he pleases. Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile, as you pause in your spin to squeeze his fingers tenderly.
"Munson!" Steve calls, though he blinks when he sees the crowd of people he technically works for amassed poolside. He's only been with Cork Kids for a few days. "Oh, hello."
"Steve!" Junie cries, throwing herself at the wall of the pool. "Hello! Good morning!"
"Hiya, Junie," he says.
"Good to see you, son," Wayne says, extremely amused.
"Come swim, Mr. Steve!" one of the kids calls.
"Gonna save him?" you ask Eddie.
"Not a chance."
"Steve!" Junie yells again, "Hello!"
Steve understands that he's not going to get out of it, clearly, because he crosses the yard and kneels down in the wet grass by the pool. "Hi guys. Are you having fun?"
The kids all cheer. Steve gets splashed in the process.
—
Children's birthday parties are much shorter than you thought they'd be. The children, in different states of tiredness, are wrangled into towel ponchos and shepherded into cars, each with a slice of cake wrapped in a paper towel and a heartfelt, "Thank you so much for coming."
Steve, exhausted, is slumped on the couch in your trailer with a cold can of coke pressed to his forehead and a borrowed pair of Eddie's sweatpants as well as a black and red Metallica shirt that wildy changes the young man's appearance. Junie giggles, sitting with Mr. Munson —call me Wayne, kid, I'm begging you— at the kitchen table.
"Not like that, Way!" Junie says, trying to coach him through eating a powdered sugar donut.
"I don't know how else I'm supposed to be eating it." He sounds as adoring of her as you often feel, forgiving her mispronunciation.
"Babe, where do you want these?"
You finish the cup you'd been washing and sidle to the back door. Eddie's holding the towels you'd brought out for the parents to sit on. Most are wet from the kids climbing in and out of the pool, and all of them are plastered in grass.
"Leave them there, I'll put them straight in the washing machine."
Eddie climbs up the steps, arms full to bursting. "Open the door for me."
You open the washing machine and Eddie tucks them all inside. Every clean towel you had has been muddied and you wouldn't care, but Eddie looks like he needs a shower, and you probably look similar. You stop him before he can go back outside.
"What?" he asks.
You twist your hand into his shirt and pull him in. "Two seconds, you have–" You tilt his head to the side and rub at a funny splotch on his cheek. It spreads but doesn't budge.
"If you lick your thumb, we're breaking up."
You go on tiptoes. "We can't break up, 'cos you love me," you whisper, not even smug. "And I love you."
"That's pretty good logic," he says, smirking, "but it won't stop me."
"Ew," Steve sing-songs, pulling out a chair next to Junie as he cracks open his coke. "That's super gross. And in front of your family. Yuck."
"We didn't so much as kiss," Eddie says.
"No, you're just in love. Much worse."
Eddie rolls his eyes and pulls out the last chair. You assume he'll sit, but he backtracks, grabbing you by the shoulders and sitting you down. "Sit," he commands.
"I don't think I have much choice."
Junie smiles at you from across the table, changed into dry fleece pyjamas to fight any possible chill. You smile back, propping your chin on your hand.
Powdered sugar coats her cheeks. "Donut, mommy?"
"Oh, yes please," you say, holding out your hand.
She gives you a donut like she's worried you're about to collapse from hunger, nearly catapulting it across the table. You pick it up and take an indulgent bite.
"Did you want one?" you ask Steve, hand in front of your mouth.
"I think I've had enough," he says, queasy.
Junie must have force fed him half the cupcake platter. Her viewing him as a nemesis was short-lived.
"Eddie?" Junie asks. "Donuts." She babbles something indistinguishable.
"No thanks, junebug."
Junie hugs the bag of donuts close to her chest, then, seemingly glad that everyone is done sharing.
"Did you cover the pool?" Wayne asks.
"Yes sir, no cat claws will be getting at that one."
"You'd be surprised what you can fix with duct tape," Steve says.
"Does that really work?" Eddie asks.
It's sweet seeing Eddie around his friend. You resolve to ask if it can happen more often —even if you're not there to see it, knowing he's having a good time would make you happy. You've been selfish with him since you met him, and you can't say you're too sorry because of how it ended up, but you can try to make up for it now.
He and Steve get along in a very specific way, wherein Eddie says suggestive things and Steve pretends to hate his guts, and then one or both of them forgets the facade and they talk like normal friends.
"I got from St. Louis to Evansville with duct tape over a puncture."
"That sounds amazingly dangerous."
"I survived, didn't I?" Steve asks.
"By the skin of your teeth."
"You weren't even there!"
You finish your sugary donut and try to earn Junie's attention. She's pulling apart a donut of her own in her hands and licking the jelly off of her fingers, looking confused and delighted at once. She's going to be thrilled when she realises there are chocolate filled ones after that.
"Is that nice, my love?" you ask.
"Mom, it's strawby jelly," she says. "Strawby strawby strawby."
She's been chatty today. "Strawberry, huh? Do you like that? It looks yummy."
Junie offers you a squashed square. Some people would be disgusted at the mauled goods. You take it and eat it, 'cos her hands should be clean, you washed them yourself a half hour ago before she started on the treats. The strawberry jam is as fake as they can make it, which is probably great for Junie but sucks for you.
You're starting to stand when a big cup of water gets placed in front of you, held by a familiar hand. You love his stupid hands, his knuckles and his short nails and the tiny white hairs, everything about them. More now as they deliver your saving grace.
"How'd you know?" you ask Eddie, turning in your seat as you pick up the glass.
"I tried one earlier, I knew you wouldn't like it."
"How could you possibly know that?"
He taps the tip of his nose.
"I should be heading home," Wayne says.
"You don't want to stay for dinner?" you ask, sitting up properly.
"No, kid, I'm alright."
"He's meeting his friends at the bar," Eddie says, "don't let him fool you."
"We haven't kept you, have we? I'm sorry," you say.
"No, you didn't keep me. I had a great time, best kids party ever," Wayne says, standing up. He leans down to meet Junie's eyes. "Happy birthday, little miss. Make sure you plant one on your mom, huh? It's been a long day."
You don't think she gets his drift but she nods at his solid eye contact, and that's good enough for him. Wayne claps Eddie on the shoulder and they walk off to the front door. Eddie follows him down the steps as they trade goodbyes.
"I should get going too," Steve says.
"Are you sure?" you ask, frowning. "If you want to stay for dinner, that's no problem. I don't know what Eddie's told you but I'm a good cook, I promise. We're gonna have Junie's favourite, it's fresh chicken noodle with stelline, the little stars."
Steve wavers, "I-"
"If you don't have anywhere to be tonight, it's really no trouble. I'd love to have you, I'm sure Eddie would too."
"Yeah, okay. If you're sure," he says, scratching a hand through his hair.
Junie jumps down off of her chair with impressive gusto and crawls under the table to your thighs. She leaves sugary fingerprints behind as she emerges, patting your legs until you're forced to help her up. She's mumbling something. Junie talks all the time, but what counts for actual words is another story.
"What are you saying?" you ask, pulling her legs out from under her so she doesn't hurt her knees.
She babbles. Her face has all the intent of someone speaking understandable language, to the point where you feel bad for not getting it.
"Baby talk doesn't get easier?" Steve asks.
"I mean… she's mine. I understand her a lot more than Eddie does, but half the time she might as well be speaking Sindarin."
You pause, mouth open. Steve licks his lips.
"Is that–"
"From Lord of the Rings, yeah. We've been reading it together."
"It's worse than I thought. You should really come out with us sometime, have conversations with people who aren't trying to brainwash you," Steve jokes.
Junie hums, pleased at something invisible, and starts pulling your sleeve down over your hand. You nod toward her. "I can't, really. I always have her."
"You could bring her with you. I wouldn't care, and Robin wouldn't either. We have a couple other friends who'd love you; Jonathan, he's a photograph developer for the post, and he's kind of quiet but he's one of those undercover nerds, like you."
"Stop flirting with my girl," Eddie says, closing the door behind him.
"She's actually talking like you and the idiots." Steve looks at you from the corner of his eyes. "No offence."
"Full offence," you say sweetly, leaning down to give Junie a kiss. "We're offended, aren't we? Mister Steve's name-calling."
Junie looks up, smiles at Steve like a traitor, and then spots Eddie's return. "Up," she says, "up, please."
Eddie takes her. She gives him a gross sticky kiss on the cheek and he eats it up. "What do you want, then, birthday girl?"
She pops her lips but doesn't say. Eddie carries her to the fridge and opens the freezer, sorting through the amassed collection of frozen treats. There's a range of popsicles and ice cream sandwiches hiding between mini pizzas and a bunch of ready-made pasta you got on sale.
She accepts a popsicle and then insists on a second. Eddie glances at you.
"It's her birthday," you say.
"What happens tomorrow? When she expects another round of treats?" Steve asks.
"I pop a double dose of Tylenol–"
"She won't be doing that," Eddie says.
"I take two Tylenol," you amend, "and we try to explain. It's worth it even if she is a demon tomorrow. You've had a good day, right?" You smile at June and her two popsicles, one fist cherry pink and the other lime green.
"She's had the best day ever," Eddie says, and then, a reflection of yourself if you've ever seen it, he kisses her forehead five times in a row.
"Oh, god save her," Steve says.
You stand up to make dinner. Steve helps, and Eddie promises to join you in a moment but never gets around to it, preoccupied by Junie's turbulent popsicle eating and the subsequent rainbow stains on your couch cushions. He scrubs at them with a washcloth and Steve, helpful but unnecessary, stands at your side having chopped all there was to be chopped.
"You can come around whenever," you say, wondering if that's too far.
"That's generous. You don't really want me here that often," he says, chuckling.
You dip your pinky finger in the saucepan to gauge the heat. It's not hot enough to add the pasta stars yet
"Steve, this might shock you, but I actually like having company. It was just me and Junie for so, so long, and I love her, but–" You stir the soup with a wooden spoon rather than continue whatever embarrassing thing your heart had compelled you to verbalise. "I missed having real conversations." You laugh. "I've never been as lucky as when Eddie decided he didn't mind being around me."
"It's worse than that. He minds not being around you. We had him over for dinner, yeah? Two weeks ago? He started rubbing it in my face that he met you first." Steve crosses his arms. "You're pretty, but I have a girlfriend, and he knows that."
"What's she like?" you ask.
"She's amazing. I keep worrying she'll realise that I'm a total loser." He clears his throat. "I mean, I'm a catch, obviously. But no, you'd like her. She'd like you."
"Think so?"
"One hundred percent."
"Maybe we should go on a double date like in the movies."
"Stevie'd like that," Eddie calls. "He's been trying to get me on a date with him for years."
"You wish, Munson."
"Yes I do," he sing-songs.
Junie throws a teddy at him and he drops to the floor like he's passed out. She giggles and climbs on top of him. He oofs but doesn't throw her off, maintaining his act until she sits on top of his chest and starts poking his cheeks. His tongue lolls out of his mouth.
"Well, you can't have my boyfriend, but you can have the best chicken soup ever if you pass me the stelline from the cabinet."
You think Steve might be a great friend. He's funny, he's quick-witted, and he's bitchy but not mean. He and Eddie get physically aggressive with each other when he asks for a second serving, because She's not your servant, Harrington and I was asking permission, you idiot, but it's definitely more friendly than nasty.
When Steve does get going it's later than any of you realised. He says goodbye with varying levels of niceness. You get a heartfelt thank you for the meal and compliments on the party, Eddie gets a hug with a shoulder pat and then an insult that actually worries you until you hear him laughing, and Junie gets a hesitant hug. Junie wants the hug desperately, and Steve isn't used to her yet, but when she gets her arms around his neck he rubs her little shoulders like a pro.
"How did you ever land him?" you ask after his car has pulled away.
Eddie giggles like a kid, "That's so offensive."
"He's a sweetheart…" You turn to him. "You're a sweetheart, what am I saying?"
"What are you saying?"
You lean against his chest. Eddie looks at you warmly enough that it makes you feel you're gorgeous —something in his smile, maybe, that says he's thinking a nice thought. When you lean on him it grows more obvious. His lips part, his eyes on yours.
"You're so fucking pretty.” Your smile is too much like a smirk and yet it doesn't put him off. "I'm serious," he says, hands clasped at the small of your back.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." He steals a soft kiss. "Very welcome." He steals another.
You're putty, melting, and you'd care but his hands are loving. He slides one hand under the hem of your shirt and presses his rough palm to your back. You rub your cheek against his chest and feel it like a siren in your head: I'm lucky. How'd I get so lucky?
"Yeah!" Junie shouts, jumping on the couch and almost falling flat on her face. "Kiss kiss," she says, "Mommy!"
"Demanding, insatiable pest," Eddie says.
"Don't you dare talk about my love like that," you scold.
"I meant you," he says, grinning at a well-landed joke. "C'mere, let's have a good birthday cuddle before mommy's shower."
"You're showering first," you say.
"I thought you liked it when I smell gross?"
"You smell like wet grass, but that's not why. You should go first 'cos the water won't be hot by the second one."
Eddie gets gooey. "I'm weird about you. Keep being like this and I'll get weirder. You couldn't cope with that and neither could I."
"Not even," you say.
"Kiss please," Junie insists, still jumping.
You and Eddie turn to her at the same time. Her eyes widen as though she knows what's about to happen, but she doesn't care. She's had the best day ever. Woke up with tickles, praised and petted and cuddled, she's bounced from a birthday breakfast of waffles and more syrup than her baby teeth should be able to withstand to TV with stovetop popcorn and her favourite movie. She sang, she preened under your fingers in her hair, and played in the pool until her legs turned to jelly. She blew out all her candles in one breath (aided, secretly, by Eddie behind her as you held the cake). She ate enough donuts to down a horse. And now, to end it all, she's gonna get the world's best hug.
"Ready?" Eddie asks dramatically. "Three, two…"
You reach for her at the same time, laughing before you've so much as set a hand on her fleece-covered shoulders.
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Thank you soooo much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed. Writing is a labour of love but sharing it is terrifying so if you enjoyed this, please let me know, or consider reblogging. It makes a big difference! ♡ I really missed writing for them! Please forgive sometimes the formatting of my paragraphs being odd, I had to cut this down to fit it all into one post!
summary you’re a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue sleepy kisses, baby kisses, cheesecake and cherry ice pops, and dinner with uncle wayne. [8k]
warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie’s birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie being a girl dad (<3), tw for mentions of not having much money, new established relationship! idiots in love!! and junie being the sweetest baby ever
𓆩❤︎𓆪
You don't think you've ever seen Eddie asleep before. You rack your brain for a memory, even the suggestion of one, and come up blank. Maybe I dreamt it, you think to yourself, hesitating with your hand held aloft above his peaceful face.
He looks like a dream.
What he'd said last night — before the kiss, and after — echoes. You can feel his hands on your face if you close your eyes, the heat of each gentle palm, the scratch of a silver ring. He's missing his jewellery now, because he takes it off before bed. You can't believe you hadn't known that. All these details. His lashes kissing the delicate skin of his under eye, the way his lips thin in sleep from being pressed together. You reach toward him with a shy hand and brush a bundle of curls from his cheek, exposing the ridge of his cheekbone, begging to be kissed.
You'd been tired, so tired, and then he'd come back, and he'd crashed hard. You understand it. It'd been the most exciting moment of your life, and on top of that, he'd taken care of Junie for most of the day beforehand.
You've slept sparingly. The sun leeches in through the window one small ray at a time. Junie makes a small sound behind you, stirring in her toddler bed. You nibble your lip guiltily, wanting one more minute, just one, to look at Eddie uninterrupted.
You turn around and your reluctance melts, Junie a picture of a good long sleep. Her hair is a mess, her lips still pouting, and her eyes are partly open. She sees you're awake too and smiles, and the guilt of wishing she'd sleep in intensifies. She climbs down from her bed and rushes up to yours.
"Hey, baby," you say softly, holding out your arm.
She grabs the sheets and you help her up, folding her into your chest with a contented sigh.
She's tired, and she lets you move her around with little protest. Which isn't to say she's despondent: her hands latch onto your t-shirt, and her tiny chin rises as she stares you straight in the eye.
"How did you sleep, bubby?" you whisper-coo, hand spread over the breadth of her shoulders, the other crushed under your own weight. "My hand's going numb."
You pull you arm out and hold her face. "That's better. Good sleep? Do you feel happy?"
"Good," she says. "Feel good?"
You huff out a delighted sound and drop your nose to hers. "I feel super good, Junie baby. I'm so happy, because you're happy, and you're so smart."
She smiles more.
"Can you say that, baby? Say, 'I'm so smart."
Junie wiggles against your torso, hands at the neckline of your sleep shirt. "Smart," she says.
"Yeah! Yes. 'I'm so smart.'"
"I'm so 'mart."
"Yay!" you cheer again, your inflection celebratory even though you're still speaking in hushed tones. You don't want to wake Eddie, but maybe you do — is this the kind of thing he's interested in being a part of? "You're so smart. So so smart, and pretty and kind and soft."
You stroke her cheek with the back of your index finger, hoping to tickle her into giggles. "So soft," you murmur, "my lovely soft girl. You know why you're so soft? It's 'cause you're such a good girl, and you let me wipe your cheeks after dinner even though you hate it." You're speaking quietly enough that some of the words sound worn, syllables lost.
Junie doesn't need to hear them to know they're dripping in love. She rests her cheek against your upper arm, chub against chub, and you sink down with her, closing her in for a cuddle.
Your fingertips brush over the nape of her neck.
"Love you," you say, kissing her head absentmindedly.
"Love you," she says back.
She'd been a slow-learner, and she's still behind the majority of her age group, but none of it matters. Hearing her say anything at all is a gift. Hearing her says she loves you?
You laugh. There's nowhere else for all the happy to go.
Your hopes of sleeping again are dashed when she sits up and sees the lump of a body behind you. If she's confused she doesn't show it, hands pressed to your tender side as she climbs over you and onto Eddie's stomach.
He doesn't rouse at first. He sighs, his arm lifting where it's trapped under the sheets, your faded cornflower blue quilt that he'd praised unnecessarily. It's pretty, he'd said, back flat to your mattress as you'd imagined him a hundred times before.
You're pretty, you'd said. He'd opened his arms to draw you in for another hug. They'd felt endless all night.
Junie gets to his chest and her face fills with recognition.
"Eddie," she says happily.
He hums but still doesn't wake. Junie pulls down the blankets, and he raises his arm. Eyes closed, he wraps it around her, pulling her to his chest with a contented sound. She giggles, tiny baby giggles, and starts to play with his hair.
“June,” he mumbles.
“Eddie,” you say, apprehensive, forcing a lightness, “we have company.”
“I can feel that,” he says.
To your — your pleasure, your elation, he turns onto his back and his free hand finds you. His fingers curl around yours and he holds them, thumb pressed to the knuckle of your index finger.
His eyes open slowly, his lashes parting, his face dipped down to take Junie in.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he repeats with a laugh. “Aw, Junie, your hair! I’ve never seen you before mommy gets you dressed. Uncle Wayne would say you look like me when I wake up, when I was a kid he,” —Eddie talks through a yawn, smoothing the baby hairs out of Junie’s eyes— “used to say I looked like Linus from the Peanuts strip.”
“That’s so mean,” you say. You're relieved. You should've known Eddie wouldn't care. He loves her.
"You know who you look like?" he asks her.
She shakes her head. His face lights up.
"Animal! Grown up Animal, not the baby."
Your stomach rumbles. Eddie looks at you with concern, though that concern is a mild, soft thing. He sees you properly for the first time since he woke up, Junie held to his chest, hair as messy as hers, as yours probably is, his t-shirt neckline rolled from wear, and he visibly melts.
"D'you wanna go out for breakfast?" you ask.
He shakes his head. "Come here."
"What?"
"Just come here. Lie down."
You ease off of your elbow and slide toward him. You rest your head very carefully beside his, and are immediately delighted when he kisses your cheek.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, pulling his arm out of hiding to steer the side of your face to his. Your noses smush together, eyes closing on instinct. "Hey, how are you?"
"How are you?" you ask back. He sounds super tired.
"Y'always do that. You can't just answer me? You're–" He kisses you, then, softly but with a sluggish imprecision. "Impossible."
"I'm impossible?"
"You're impossible," he promises.
You try not to squish Junie as you wrap your arm around her and bring a hand to his cheek. The tiniest rebirth of stubble scratches your fingertips as they rove up his cheek to the smoothest plane under his eye. You turn your finger until the nail is flat to his skin, stroking a fascinated back and forth.
"I can't believe you're real."
Can't believe you're real, and you chose me, and you're here now letting my baby pull at the sweat curls tight at your neck.
"Do I look bad?" he asks.
You roll your head back enough to see his smile. It makes your heart skip in the best way, how handsome he is, and you have to dive in again to kiss the line between his lips and his cheek. He's really warm. Before him, you'd forgotten how this could feel, the heat that another person can give you and how protected it leaves you.
"You look really nice," you say, your finger rubbing up and down his cheek. A teardrop to his chin that falls and climb over and over.
"Eddie," Junie says, weaselling under your arm.
"What, baby?" he asks.
She tucks herself up under his chin and lifts her head. It's awkward, but babies are like that. Always wanting to be where they aren't.
"Junie?" he asks.
She looks up, dishevelled hair especially fierce.
"You said my name, remember? Did you have something to ask me?"
She giggles at his tone but doesn't answer. Your stomach makes some more aggressive sounds and Eddie shoots up like bamboo, baby held to his chest and hand behind your head.
"Mom's dying."
"Eddie."
"Mom's super duper hungry," he says, stroking your forehead apologetically. "Now move, mom, so we may enter your kitchen and make super duper breakfast."
"Oh, no, let me change her first," you say. "Poor girl, I slept through the entire night."
He passes her over to you and you stand so he can slide out of bed. His smile grows. "Hair fairy got you both," he says.
You glare. "You are not exempt."
"Can I use the bathroom?"
"Don't ask! Since when do you ask?"
"Do you want to go first?"
His caring is sweet but unnecessary. "No. Please go, and spend like ten minutes in there? I promise we'll be much prettier when you get back."
"You're beautiful now," he says, though he obeys your ask and treks out of the bedroom with a wanton groan and a stretch that shows a lot of back. It's more than likely on purpose.
"I'm with my baby!" you yell, laughing.
"Don't know what you mean."
You strip Junie down to her smalls, change her diaper, and rub a nice lotion all over. She loves the skin to skin and stays still until you offer her today's options, two dresses, one blue and one a lighter green. She chooses the green, so you put green butterfly clips in her hair to match, and white socks with lace in black shoes. She looks awesome.
"Girls?" Eddie shouts. "Can I come out now?"
"I was kidding," you murmur to yourself, laughing.
You comb your fingers through your hair and meet him in the bathroom doorway with Junie's hand held in your own, glancing at each other through the gap.
"I wasn't serious."
"Sweetheart," he says, bending at the waist like he's been punched, "look at you. Juniper the Beautiful, holy sugar."
She only smiles.
"I can take her, yeah? I'll make breakfast. Do you want to get dressed?" he asks you, concern again softening the lines of his face.
"Sorry," you say.
"For what?"
He takes your face into his hand, cupping your cheek. You meld into it like you're one and the same, two pieces of the same puzzle clicked back into place. Junie’s hand in yours makes three.
"Alright, Junie, breakfast," he says, pulling apart and away with a humorous brevity, stealing her little hand from yours.
They walk together down the hallway, hands swinging.
"We'll go get breakfast!" you call. That's why you'd put her shoes on.
"I can make it," Eddie says, voice carrying in the quiet. He shoots a smug look over his shoulder. "I can make it, seriously. Just have a minute for yourself, why don't you?"
You wonder if that's code words for you look like shit right now, but you firmly believe Eddie wouldn't tell you that even if you did. You wash up in the bathroom and then get changed into a new-old skirt that you sometimes wear to work though you're not supposed to and a nice shirt that doesn't go. You take it all off and try again. And again.
You pull on a pair of tight sweatpants and the band t-shirt he'd bought you all those weeks ago. For a moment you stand there, face in your hands, and then a big hand presses to your shoulder blade and scares you into flinching.
"Oh, shit," you say.
Eddie laughs a storm and gets his hand under your armpit. That's worse, and you squirm, but he doesn't budge, pulling you toward him for a tight-boned hug.
"You're taking for ages," he says, parroting one of Junie’s newer phrases.
"Well." You shove your face into the top of his shoulder. "I think I'm nervous. Do I look stupid? Nothing fits me."
He hears your embarrassment and your panic and hoists you backward, hands curled around the tops of your arms as he gets a good look.
"You look pretty, and like you need something to eat." He presses his lips together, a funny picture of nervousness to mirror your own. "I know we should probably talk about it, but I don't really know how to do that. Just. Are you still– You don't regret it?"
It sounds clunky in his mouth.
"I don't regret any of it," you say sincerely.
"Good," he says, recovering quickly from this show of vulnerability with a good heaping of bravado, "'cause I was really hoping to get to do this again."
His hands climb your shoulders, settle neatly in the curves of your neck. He holds your face. You wait for him to kiss you.
"What? I brushed my teeth."
He presses his lips to yours all wonky with laughter. It's fleeting, not nearly as long as you want it to be, but Junie shouts something from the kitchen and draws both of your attention.
"It wasn't about you brushing your teeth," he says, back of his hand rubbing yours as he overtakes.
Junie stands in the kitchen with a spatula, a whisk, and the rolling pin, an array of items from the bottom drawer she's in the middle of relocating.
"Sorry I left her, I just wanted to make sure you weren't, like, trying to think of ways to let me down easy. I put the TV on. Not that you can't let me down easy," he says, bending to face Junie.
You shake your head as he starts to help her take things out of the drawer. You don't keep anything sharp in it for this exact reason, Junie's enthusiastic upheaval.
He catches your look. "I'll put them back! Promise."
"It's fine, you know she does it all day anyways."
And really, he should know you won't mind because whenever he's here he helps. Cleans, cooks, soothes her small tantrums and her bigger distresses, like when you won't let her eat laundry powder with the tiny shovel that comes in the box.
He's even started playing the bad guy sometimes. It sounds crazy, but having someone who's willing to say no for you is a sharp relief. To get to be the comforter rather than the nag, and to share a smile over Junie’s distraught head.
"This is positive reinforcement."
"I know both of those words, and yet," Eddie says, closing the now emptied drawer with his foot.
"You helping her take stuff out teaches her that those things should be taken out." You pull open the fridge. "But it doesn't really matter, I'm just saying. Do you want orange or apple juice? June?"
You hold out the carton of apple juice and the gallon of orange. The orange juice is awful, a concentrate with too much sugar, and it's delicious, so Junie picks that one without hesitating. You give her half juice half water in a sippy cup.
"Is mine watered down too?" Eddie asks, accepting the glass you press into his hand.
"I even mixed in some pedialyte. You're welcome."
He nods with more genuineness. "Thank you. Now sit down! I'm making breakfast. I'm gonna make it. What do you want?"
You look at him, fresh but still sleep rumpled, and you think about how hungry you are, and you really like him so much and you get why he wants to do this, but.
"Listen, let's go out. Let's get waffles and syrup and strawberries and nobody will have to do the dishes."
He buckles way too fast. It feels like a big compliment, how quickly you can erode his resistance.
"Alright. Fine, but not because I couldn't have made all of those things."
"Of course not."
"You look crazy pretty when you ask for things, you know? All this time I've been begging you to ask for things and now I'm a little worried. D'you always smile like that? I could be in trouble."
You boo at him and he smiles all the way to the car. He's still smiling as he drops his hand onto your thigh, pulls out of the driveway, and starts down the street leading out of the trailer park. It takes you a minute, but eventually you realise you can touch him back, laying your hand on top of his experimentally.
"Do I look stupid?" he asks.
He's stolen one of your hoodies to hide his slept on shirt. His jeans look messed up from sleeping in, but they're baggy.
"You don't… You could start leaving clothes at my house, you know? If you wanted to– stay again." You swallow a nervous giggle. "I mean."
"Of course I want to stay again. I'd love to. I love being with you."
He squeezes your thigh. If it weren't for his pinking ears, you'd assume him unaffected.
"Okay. Good. You can stay the night whenever you like, handsome, 'cause I love being with you too."
You wonder and worry if your declaration is too close to an I love you he doesn't want. You do love him, have loved him for a while, but you have no clue what you even are. Last night, you'd said best friend. He's more than that, he has to be.
You're in sync, or he can read your mind. He says, "We'll talk about it. After you get some breakfast in you. Your stomach's so loud they just put a weather warning on the radio."
"They did not."
—
Wayne puts a beer down in front of his nephew and doesn't pull any punches.
"If you get that poor girl pregnant, I will disown you. Not her, mind you. Just you."
Eddie thinks this is a very weird thing to say, but he also knows that Wayne is mostly kidding.
"I'm not going to get her pregnant."
Satisfied, Wayne sits down next to Eddie on the couch, the two of them tired from a long day at work, the TV on quietly in the background. It's the same thing they do everyday, or everyday before Eddie met you and your baby.
"I get to meet her, or we just gonna meet at the wedding?"
"Funny," Eddie says. "You can meet her whenever you want to. I kind of didn't think you'd be interested."
Wayne sighs, scrubs his jaw.
"Son, I want to meet her. Her and the baby. I didn't know if it was gonna work, but…" He smiles at Eddie. Eddie thinks that it's a mix of pride and love, and it has a lump forming in his throat near instantly. "I should've known, huh?"
Eddie makes himself scoff.
"Yeah, you should've."
"Only thing you ever half-assed was high school."
"You had to get that one in there."
Quick wit and nipping comments aside, Eddie knows Wayne truly does want to meet you and Junie, and that he should've a long time ago. It had been a cop out to say he didn't think Wayne wanted to meet you, because he knew his uncle had been curious and — he's family. Wayne is Eddie's family, and you and June have become the same.
When he brings it up to you, he does it carefully. With flowers.
You open the door and throw your arms around him, smashing the flowers unapologetically. He chuckles into your neck, pulls you tight to his chest. You smell like the diner.
"How come you never used to do this before?" he asks.
"You never did either."
You take his face into your hands and kiss him, before your usual shyness takes over and you pull away. He's having none of it, grabbing your wrist before you can escape to offer your flowers.
"Here. You'll have to give me one back for Junie, though."
You give him the biggest flower of the bunch, a huge pink carnation with perfect petals and a thick stalk. Your fingertips brush his as you do, and his eyes are drawn to them, your hands, the bump and bone of your knuckles. You still have a scratch from work down the length of your pinky, and they're scrubbed raw as usual from cleaning. He worries you're a little compulsive about cleaning, but he supposes you'd had to have been, all by yourself. He resolves to treat them kindly at the next possible opening.
"Thank you."
You don't blink at his bag from Bradley's. You try not to look at it; Eddie won't accept a thank you and you're trying to let him give you things, as per the arrangement.
As in, you, with Junie in your lap and fresh cream on your cheek, had agreed to be his girlfriend three days ago in the booth of a diner that wasn't Benny's. He hadn't been as brave as he could've been. It felt unreal to him to be with you, to have kissed you more times than he could remember, and to have you smiling back.
"Listen, I know you said we're best friends, and we are, you're my best friend, but I– we're more. I want to be your boyfriend." He rolled the word around so you'd know how strange he though it was. "But if you've… changed your mind–"
You'd reached across the table, pads of your fingers stroking the back of his wrist. "Why would I change my mind?"
"You realise, if we're together, you have to let me take care of you all the time?" he'd asked, full of nervous energy and really, really pleased. Proud to have you.
"I think I can deal with it."
He'd rubbed the toe of his shoe against your ankle and finally told you about the cream on your face.
"Junie?" he says now, eyes searching for your lovely daughter.
"She's in the bedroom."
"What for?"
You squeeze your hand through the crook of his arm, press your cheek to the top of his shoulder, and laugh. "She's making Eddie's bed, apparently. I tried to explain that you won't be sleeping here all the time but I might have made it worse."
Did you make it worse, or had your toddler misunderstood? He hates how even in the small things you'll blame yourself. This feels like a completely blameless situation, and, if anything, it's his fault, he's the one who stayed the night, and then another night, and another. He'd gone home between those days, had even gone to work, and really didn't mean to spend the night each time. It's addictive to get to sleep with you so close by. Getting to kiss you with your arm slung over his chest, your tired eyes staring up at him lovingly — he's a good person but he's weak, too.
He knows it's a little improper to stay this close so soon. If he thought for a second you weren't okay with it he'd be out the door.
"Eddie?" you ask.
"What?"
"You're staring straight through me," you say, sounding both amused and concerned. "What are you thinking about?"
"You, mostly. You and June. You know, Wayne wants to meet you."
You shake the bouquet at him, brows furrowed accusingly. "Is this a bribe?"
"'Course not… Are they working?"
"I don't need flowers. I want to meet him too. It's weird we haven't met before. You keeping us apart?"
"I absolutely am. I was a gross kid, I don't need him to tell you all of that now I actually got you."
Eddie draws away from you reluctantly to put his bag on the table, as well as June's flower. He pulls out the dinner he's brought for tonight and his most important purchase, a vase big enough for your flowers. It's simple clear glass with dainty enamel flowers around the circumference.
"For you, my sweetheart, a vase for the flowers. You want me to cut the stems?"
You beam at him, a shining smile that makes his chest feel fizzy, a can of soda on a rollercoaster as the sound of thumping comes from the bedroom, small footsteps racing to the door.
"Think she heard you," you say. You smile, take the vase, and kiss his cheek in a silent thank you.
Sure enough, Junie appears down the hall and Eddie's barely taken three steps when she's laughing and pawing at his legs, having raced all the way.
"Eddie," she cheers, arms up in the universal sign for 'grab me before I start screaming'.
He's more than happy to get his hands under her arms and pull her to his chest, your mini me breathing hard as she settles. Her hand presses into his collarbone, her lips puckered up for a kiss. He doesn't usually kiss her, doesn't really know where the line is, but denying her feels cruel. He kisses her cheek and feels her lips press to his cheek at the same time.
"Thank you," he coos, "thank you for the kiss, baby, I'm happy to see you too."
"See you," she says, patting his neck.
"How do I look? Handsome?"
She tangles her fingers in his hair.
"So, Uncle Wayne, does he like me?"
Eddie leans against the countertop you're facing so he can see your face. "He's never met you."
"Duh, but does he like me?"
"Probably. He has a bunch of reasons to like you and none not to like you."
"Doesn't hate me for stealing his baby boy?"
Eddie wonders if he's going red. "No, god, he'd thank you for it. Man hasn't had a quiet night in a decade and a half." You laugh softly, fingers weaving through flowers to arrange their leaves and stalks, and he catches a flash of uncertainty as it twists your mouth. "Seriously, he'll like you. I know everybody says it 'bout everyone, but Wayne's a good man."
"I know he's a good man, just…" You frame the flowers with your hands and step back. You smile at him to unsuccessfully hide an insecurity he can spot a mile away. "I'm not the girl people would pick for their son, you know?"
He raises his eyebrows, feels bad and drops them. Eddie lives in a trailer park, and has done for most of his life, it's not like the people around here are prudent about love and partners: Eddie's obviously not the first guy to ever date somebody who already has a kid. He doesn't wanna brush it under the rug, though. Your worrying worries him.
"I think you're exactly who he'd pick." He smiles at you in warning. You asked for this, sweetheart, buckle in. "Gorgeous girl with a perfect body," —you snort— "'n' a heart of gold." He pats between Junie's shoulders where she's oh so quiet in his arms, an affectionate slump over his heart. "And her pretty baby, too. I'd choose you for my kid. You know, if I was old. And I had one."
You wrap Junie up with one hand, the other placed sweetly over his shoulder. Your thumb strokes into his skin. "Thanks, Shakespeare," you say, letting your head dip down until your lips are flat to his shirt.
He drops his head into yours.
"Do you think he should come over for dinner?" you ask quietly.
"What, today?"
"It's gonna make me nervous thinking about it otherwise. What did you bring? Or maybe I can get pizza?"
He encourages your head back, palm to the side of your head. He strokes down until his hand covers your ear and curls around the curve of your neck. Insanely, he thinks it is a privilege to get to see you upset and to get to try and fix it.
"I can ask him, and he's not fussy. You're sure you want to do this today? I could host, you know, or we could go out."
You shake your head, looking grim. Dread clear in your eyes, you say, "I'll obsess over it. Can you call him before I lose my nerve, please? Do you think that would be alright?"
You ask like he genuinely might say no. He hasn't had the power to say no to you for months.
"Yeah, sweetheart, I can call 'im."
You offer to take Junie and it's funny because she doesn't need to be held right now and yet neither of you want to put her down. She's relaxed and Eddie doesn't see why she should have to be anywhere else but in his arms, hiking her up his chest in one arm to use the phone. He slots the receiver between his shoulder and his head and types in Wayne's number without having to look. He's typed it hundreds of times, at friend's houses, at the school nurse when his Mom's didn't work anymore, at the Hideout. Just to say, I'll be home late, but don't worry.
He extends the invitation with a teasing tone. "You wanna come around for dinner? Old lady's asking."
"You can't call her your old lady, son, not yet. That's a privilege you gotta earn."
Eddie laughs down the line. "What's wrong with old lady? I'm keeping it respectful, classy, aren't I? She's making burgers."
"You better be helping her."
"How can I help her? I'm on the phone to you."
"What time am I expected?"
"Let me ask." He pulls June back up where she's slipping, mouth lifted from the phone to grab your attention. "What time are you thinking, sweetheart?"
"It can be done whenever he wants it," you say, elbow deep in ground beef.
"Give us an hour, okay? Don't fill up on shit."
"Yeah, boy, I won't. Better leave me alone to wash up, or I can come in my overalls–"
"Alright, Wayne." He hopes it sounds like 'love you'. "See you in an hour. Don't forget."
"Yeah, 'cause I'm that old," Wayne says, followed by the sound of the phone on the hook.
Eddie passes it to Junie where she'd been dying to have a turn. He can't let her play too long, guilty already watching you chopping and dicing and washing. He sets her up on your couch with her army of teddies and a peach juice box from Bradley's. He'd picked them up thinking they were weird, and that he'd wanted Junie to try them if she hadn't before. She seems pleased with it, back and legs straight across the pillow, head bent in a way that would give a grown up a sore neck for the foreseeable future, socked feet wiggling along to the music playing on her show.
He returns to find you washing your hands. Eddie wants to kiss your neck but doesn't have a clue in the world if he's allowed to do that now or ever, so he folds his arms over yours like a hug.
"Can I get some of that?"
You squirt dish soap into his palm. He's expecting grumbling and complaining at his weird position, but you say nothing, only laugh. You wash his hands for him, thumb rubbing down the small hills of his fingers until he has to wash off the suds, squishing you to the countertop edge with a feigned apology.
You squeal with laughter. "Get off," you plead.
"I'm so tired, suddenly, I don't know what it is."
"Eddie," you moan, well and truly sandwiched under his weight.
He pecks your neck and stands properly in search of a hand towel to dry off your dripping hands. He towels his, passes it to you, and uses his dry hands to cradle your face. He thinks you look beautiful but admittedly very tired, and lowers his voice to an adoring murmur.
"You can go sit down, if you want to."
"Oh, no, there's too much to do," you say, and though you're denying him, your face lists heavily into one of his hands. You close your eyes for a moment before looking up at him through your lashes. "I can do it."
"I know you can do it, I just don't want you to have to."
He pulls you closer, his elbows pushed into your shoulders.
"I'm really good at making burgers. S'like, my signature dish. That's why I got stuff for burgers, 'cause I wanted to cook tonight."
You still don't budge.
"Go on," he murmurs, "go get your cuddles."
Junie, upon realising Eddie would be sleeping in your bed, has taken to climbing on top of him and insisting she get to stay in the big bed. She's hogging him, and it's clear you're not unaffected. Not jealous, not bitter, but missing your baby.
You're in mild withdrawals, and it makes sense. After all, she gets her extreme need for affection from you.
"You're sure?" you ask, frowning softly.
"Yes," he says, laughing and pushing you away gently, "trust me, sweetheart, I can make dinner. You gotta take my flower for June, though." He picks it up off of the counter and twirls it under your chin. "I forgot all about it, you distracted me."
You take the flower but hesitate in front of him.
"Kiss?" you ask, eyebrows popped up.
He bends backward, hand coming up to cover his mouth. "You have it bad, huh?"
"Forget I asked," you faux-threaten, spinning on your heel to leave.
Eddie follows, spins you right back around with a hushed, "Where do you think you're going?" and kisses you, hand sliding up your cheek.
One kiss turns to two, your lips parting slightly under the pressure. He grins and goes in for a third.
—
You don't sit down for long. You steal a Junebug cuddle, in which she insists on sharing her juice box with you and kisses you upwards of twenty times. You giggle giddily, the petals of the flower you've tucked behind her ear almost blinding you with each one. They're drooly and gross and lovely to begin with, less wet when you leave to find something for her to wear.
The dress she wears now is dirty from daycare, and the applesauce, crackers, and peanut butter you'd given her earlier stain the neck. You pick out a simple matching set of not-quite pyjamas. You want Wayne to know you dress her well, but you'd feel bad if she had to suffer any longer in clothes with buttons and zips.
Once she's changed, she's somehow even happier than she was. Now she's settled into daycare and your routine, she's over the moon all the time. She's finally settled in, and you have Eddie to thank for a good chunk of it. He's a great part of her routine, another person who wants to love and dote on her. While you know you'd been doing a great job by yourself, any extra love at all is welcome. You could love him for how he loves her and nothing else, only there's a thousand other things about him to love.
Like his singing. You can hear him humming, then riffing, spatula scratching the frying pan as he rocks out to a song you can't hear. You're playing with Junie's toes, as strange as it sounds, wiggling and tickling the sole of her feet.
"Mommy?" she says breezily.
"What?" you ask, leaning to her eye level, fluffy bed socks in hand.
"Special treats for dinner?"
You can't believe the improvements in her speech, though it's natural, and it would've happened eventually. And it blows your mind because you'd known she was in there, she's a great listener and she's so patient for a toddler, but knowing she's having these thoughts and then having her voicing them now is something else completely. It's amazing.
You tuck the sock under her pant leg and beam at her. "Yeah, baby, we're having special treats after dinner. Eddie's making burgers with the cheese," you hum, offering your open hand for her to hold. "And… his Uncle Wayne is coming by for dinner. So we're gonna meet him and say hi to him and be super nice, okay?"
"Okay. What's for treats?"
"I don't know, you'll have to ask Eddie. Should we go ask him?"
She nods enthusiastically and slides off of the sofa, gand in yours. She walks with a wobbly confidence into the kitchen, where the smell of searing hamburgers and black pepper is cloying.
Eddie turns with the spatula, slouched with one elbow on the counter. He perks up when he sees Junie in her fresh clothes.
"Hey, bub, look at you!"
"She has something to ask you."
Eddie crouches down. "Anything. What do you want to ask me, Junie?"
"What's for," —her voice is small, high-pitched and clumsy but sweet— "... have for…"
"Dessert," you whisper. "For treats."
"What's for treats?" she asks, smiling.
You sigh with pride and Eddie mirrors your expression. "Well," he says, reaching out to readjust the flower peaking in front of her hair, "I brought two things, cherry ice pops and cheesecake."
"Oh," Junie says, "my gosh."
You leave them in their love bubble and change into your nice (bleach stained, agonisingly bleach stained) jeans, rather than meet Wayne in your waitressing skirt and blouse. Eddie wolf whistles as soon as you emerge, Junie now happily perched on his hip as he moves the burgers onto a plate to wait in the oven. Junie turns and drops the slice of cheese she was holding, startled at the noise.
"Is this awful?" you ask, pointing to the thin line of bleach across your thigh.
"'This' is killer," Eddie says.
"No, but can you see the bleach?"
"Not really. If you need new jeans, we can go get some."
The I can't afford it begs to be said, though you know exactly what he'll say in response.
"Not right now," he amends. "They look fine, okay? He won't notice. I had my first tattoo for three weeks before he saw it."
You lean over the sink to open the window and let some clean air in. Eddie goes back to the plate, and Junie drops another slice of cheese.
The knock at the door startles you. You're unprepared, terrified, and you haven't wiped down the dinner table yet. Eddie sees your panic and shakes his head at you.
"It's fine. You want me to answer?"
"We should both answer," you say, with a confidence you are not feeling.
You hold your hands out for Junie. She's a safety blanket.
Please like me, you think, letting Eddie pull you to the door.
—
You have nice shoulders. Eddie feels like he's had this thought before. Often, he looks at you, and he finds something new to catch onto and to obsess about. This hasn't changed in the few days you've been together. It's gotten worse.
He can see the top of Junie's head against your shoulder but not her sleeping face. You sway her from side to side and he can see you arms shaking with the effort it takes to have been holding her for this long, your quiet humming now a whisper of sounds. The gentle thudding of your hand against the bottom of her spine stops, and you turn to look at him, a question in your eyes.
He nods. Looking good.
You ease her down into her toddler bed and spend some time pulling the blankets over her legs, tucking her small army of teddies in beside her.
Finger to your lips, you and Eddie creep out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen. There's nothing to clean. His Uncle Wayne is a stickler who couldn't not help clean up.
Wayne had definitely liked you. You're still glowing with it. It had been a great time, not nearly as awkward as you'd feared, and Eddie's feeling pretty content right now. You waste no time collapsing on the couch. A sippy cup under your hip, cushions in disarray at your head. Eddie grabs the half of the cheesecake that's left and two spoons and sits right next to you, thigh to thigh, no need for friendly space anymore. He forces the spoon into your hand, slides the cheesecake onto your thigh, and moves the sippy cup out of the way.
"My arms are too tired," you mumble, dropping back into the cushions. Junie had piled them all up behind Wayne's head. She was extra, extra nice.
"Want me to feed you? I can baby bird you."
"Ew. That image never gets any less disgusting, Eddie."
It's been Eddie all day. What's a guy gotta do to get a 'handsome'? A 'baby'?
He laughs around a spoonful of cheesecake and twists his foot behind your calf, linking your legs. You've managed to finally get cable, and an episode of Jeopardy plays on mute across the room. There are toys everywhere, the kind of mess that you'll spend three hours putting right, sorting and spritzing and wiping with Junie behind you pulling things back out.
Eddie's already got the clothes here to stay, and Wayne had said, "See you tomorrow," when he left, but Eddie asks anyway.
"Can I stay over?"
You sit up to drop your face heavily into his shoulder.
"Please, handsome. Don't want you to go home."
There's the pet name he'd been searching for. A warmth climbs all over, a twinge in his stomach. He heaps cheesecake onto your spoon and presses the handle into your fingers. You eat it slowly, tip of your tongue making an unexpected appearance when a crumb sticks to your lip.
You make a sound that should probably be illegal and drop the spoon into the cheesecake casing, freeing your arm to wrap it around his chest. You nuzzle your nose into his skin, sniffing.
He laughs from happiness and nothing else, making good work of the cheesecake while you doze. He's not an animal, leaving some for you and June if you want more tomorrow, but he isn't temperate, either. He's thinking this might be the perfect life, you and your baby, Uncle Wayne laughing at your kitchen table, Junie in the high chair beside him trying to make a babbling conversation. She'd managed a couple of proper words and an impressive sentence, much better at answering than asking but trying either way.
"You're a ringer for your mom, kid, you look like twins," he'd said softly.
"Ring-ring," she'd said happily, excited to have understood. She'd offered her hand to him, pinky and thumb stuck out.
Wayne, grinning, had answered the phone.
"June loved Wayne," Eddie says conversationally.
"Junie loves everybody," you say through a yawn, hand soothing up and down his side greedily. "Not like she loves me and you, but she does. She keeps hugging all the other babies at daycare and they don't know how to stop her."
"What? You've never told me that."
"I didn't know 'till this morning." Your fingers find and breach the hem of his shirt, pads tracing to the small of his back.
"God, you're cuddly tonight. Here, let me–" He moves the cheesecake. "Come here."
You groan, "No, this is fine."
"Sit on my lap, loser."
"I'm heavy."
True or not, Eddie wants you in his lap, and he's selfish, pulling at you like a kid not getting his way. You end up flopping over his lap to stop him, curled into an uncomfortable but darling position. He gets his hand behind your ear and turns your face, wanting to see your eyes and your nose and your lips.
Your eyes are bright in the lighting.
"Wayne liked you," he says, stroking down the shell of your ear with his thumb.
"I can see why you're so kind," you say.
You smile at each other.
"I don't know what I did."
Eddie leans down, tilts his head to line up with yours, his eyes flicking between the lightness softening your gaze or the curve of your top lip, calling him in like a siren. "What did you do?" he murmurs.
"To get so lucky," you say. "I don't know. I must have been a saint, in a past life."
"A past life," he repeats.
Your eyes find his and narrow. He knows where you're looking, that little dot of dark hiding beneath his eyelashes. You move over his lap carefully, hands behind his neck to anchor yourself. Your thighs against his thighs, ankles locking him in, your hands always so gentle where they play in his hair.
He thinks there's a kind of melancholy to moments like this. He panics, in his way, in his head, because there are no guarantees. This perfect night with a perfect girl could be it. There are many bad things that could happen, unspeakable, and he gets this trip in his chest like a fuse shorting out.
He should slow down and tell you what he feels. How you're his and he's the lucky one, goddamn, he's never had luck like this in his life.
He smooths his thumb across your lips and stops at the corner, momentarily ashamed of his big, clumsy hand, and permanently in awe of your softness, your goodness, how it lines every feature on your brilliant face.
You lean in for a kiss.
Your lips are parted, and he thinks you might've read his mind, the hunger and the fear he'd felt, the heart-pounding reverence, that split second of wanting to say something he shouldn't yet. It feels like you read his mind; your lips kiss and kiss and your hands tremble minutely behind his head. The heat of your tongue shocks him like the first drag, has his hand bawling in the fabric of your shirt, a low sigh smothered by your attention.
Your nose touches his. In the days since his confession you've endured a frankly overzealous amount of his kissing. He's had you in bed, in the kitchen, just outside the front door. Some heavy handed, some sweeter than sugar, none ever for anything but kisses. Your ardency surprises and excites him — his pulse is a freight train, pounding in his veins as you yield. Your head tips back slow, your gasping breaths a golden sound he endeavours to keep forever.
When you lay back, it's quietly, hand at his front and encouraging you to lay with him. He props himself up on his side, one hand feeling for your upper arm, wishing you'd worn something with shorter sleeves so he could feel your skin. The other covers the column of your throat. He can feel your too-fast breathing in his palm, your shallow gasps.
Your eyes close again as he ducks in. He rubs a line with the tip of his nose next to yours, the heat emanating off of your skin thickening the air. Or, that's what it feels like.
"Kiss me," you say under your breath. This close, you might as well have shouted it.
He kisses you until not one of you can breathe properly, and a little after that, too. His thumb ghosts under the curve of your breast and he can feel the tightness of the question between you, a string pulled taut by your hand and his.
"Sweetheart," he says, trying to pour all of his affection and something deeper into the word, "do you want to…"
"What?" you ask.
He lifts his head off of yours and waits. You open your eyes in confusion, though that confusion quickly turns when you hear what he's hearing.
Movement. Little feet.
He pulls his weight off of you and helps you up, brushing down your hair, your hot cheeks. You move away from his hand without malice, and when he turns he's not at all surprised to see baby Junie in her pyjamas, the ear of a teddy clasped in a small fist.
You press your arm to his.
"Sorry," you whisper.
He turns to you, blinks three times quick. "Baby, it doesn't matter." It's unfortunate, but not as unfortunate as your mortified expression. He holds his hand out to Junie where she's meandering toward you, exhausted steps unsafe but determined.
She reaches his knees, and Eddie helps her up to sit between you both, his arm behind her head.
You stroke her hair. The look you give him is pensive and loving at once. You lift your chin, and he presses a saccharine, chaste kiss against your kiss bitten lips.
Junie falls asleep again near immediately. Eddie finds your hand in the mess of limbs and gives it a good squeeze.
"Bed?" he asks.
You slouch down. "In a minute?"
He slouches down with you, letting his temple drop against yours over Junie's sleeping figure.
"Whatever you want."
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thank you for reading! im so happy they’re together this is my fave part of every fic, aimless adoration <3 im not sure what to write for part sis so I’d love to hear what you want to see there, thanks so much
summary you’re a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue the movies, nachos, cherry cough syrup, and a couple of moments of clarity. [10k]
warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie’s birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, idiots in love!!! tw sick fic
𓆩❤︎𓆪
Eddie has the most peculiar curl tucked up by his neck. Where most are frizzy and loose, this one falls in a perfect shiny ringlet below his ear. He shifts and it's out of view, a curtain of dark hair falling forward and hiding his face as he puts your car in park.
"Remind me why you had to drive?" you ask, ducking down to look at the glaring white lights of the movie theatre across the street.
"You were gonna fall asleep behind the wheel."
For once, Eddie might not be exaggerating. He grins at your lack of rebuttal and throws an arm behind your shoulders, twisting in the driver's seat to set his sights on Junie.
"Are you ready?" he asks her.
She wiggles. It's an ecstatic movement. Her clothes are prim and sweet if you do say so yourself, a long sleeved shirt under a pair of the world's cutest dungarees. They crinkle as she moves, pressed to perfection.
You and Eddie open opposite doors in tandem and step out into the brisk, early night. The sidewalk shines with rain, a black slickness stretching in every direction. You shiver and pull your thin jacket tighter to your torso as you turn back to the car, intending to retrieve Junie and rush into the theatre before you can freeze on the spot.
Eddie's already swung open the door and rescued your daughter from the confines of her car seat, neatening up the hem of one of her socks with her face pushed over his shoulder.
She giggles about something and Eddie says, "Sorry, June. 'M tickling you, am I?" so fondly you have to avert your eyes.
He locks the car and hands over your keys with a smile. You smile back, heart flipping like a spinning coin. Head over tails, over and over.
The big, ring-heavy hand he holds to Junie's back reaches for you suddenly enough that you flinch.
"I'm sorry," he apologises, suppressing a laugh, "your necklace is twisted."
He moves in a second time and you raise your chin, chest aflame as his fingers glance off of your bare skin. He slips the chain over his index and pulls, encouraging the links around until the clasp is hidden again.
"Thank you." You huff an awkward, sheepish laugh.
"You owe me," he says, mock-severe.
Your laugh is much more genuine as you follow him across the road.
You're squinting as you approach The Hawk movie theatre. The title cards are hard to look at, aggressively white with black capital letters that read, 'The Great Mouse Detective 7'.
There's a small line of families waiting by the front. You realise it like a shock, that the three of you must look like a family too.
Eddie carries Junie with the surety of a dad that's carried his child a hundred times before; he strokes the back of her head with the affection of one, soothing the mess of flyaways she'd acquired by squirming in her car seat. Junie responds with familiarity, hands tucked into his hair and tugging. She's trying to be nice but his hair won't allow it, all his long curls tangled at the ends from a day at work.
Still, he says, "Thanks, baby. Make sure you get the back, okay?"
"Okay," she echoes.
You look down at your wringing hands. There's ink smudged up the side of your writing hand. You scratch at it half-heartedly, blinking against your fatigue.
You're exhausted tonight and it's only Wednesday. You can't imagine how you'll fare tomorrow considering how little sleep you're expecting tonight — there are a thousand things to do when you get home. Laundry to wash and press, cleaning to do, dinner to make.
You'd been writing cheques for due bills when Eddie had come knocking, well-dressed, stupid-handsome, and announced that tonight you would be accompanying him to the movies. He'd actually said 'accompanying'.
Despite a full agenda, you'd said yes. You're not very good at saying no. At least, not to him.
It takes you a moment to realise you're at the front of the line. You pay for the tickets before Eddie can try it, and with his hands full he can't really stop you. He whines about it all the way to the concession stand.
"You can buy the snacks," you say. His face lights up, and you amend, "If you're reasonable."
"I'm always reasonable…ly over the top," he says, chided by your hard stare.
"Yes, you are."
He follows you down the two steps to the concession and cuts in front of you. "How did you do that? What face was that? I felt my soul leave my body."
"That's my disapproving mom look. I'm disapproving."
"Ah." He pats Junie's side sympathetically.
She pulls her head from over his shoulder and smiles at you. Her arms vy for your hold. You steal her from Eddie and kiss her all over her tiny face, uplifted by how much she loves you, how happy she is to be in your arms.
"What snacks do you want? Do you eat popcorn with butter? Without?" Eddie asks, his newly emptied arms already posed thoughtfully, a hand under his chin as he thinks over his options.
The theatre has a huge array of jellies, an even bigger array of candy bars. There are more brands of soda than there are glasses in your kitchen cabinet.
You're daunted.
"Whatever you want," you say.
Eddie groans and tips his head back. "Don't play with me like this. Butter or no butter? It's an easy question."
"I don't know. Without?"
"You are so weird," he says happily.
You pout and pull Junie closer.
Standing at the side while he gathers concessions, too many things, you watch in awe as Eddie stacks it all against his chest with the sure confidence of someone who's done it before.
He grins at you from between two huge cups. "Are we ready?"
If you could, you'd leave him here in the foyer with his jumbo deluxe popcorn. As it stands, you like him too much to leave him behind. You juggle Junie and your bag to push open the doors for him outside of screen two.
"Thanks, babe," he says outside of screen two. You bite your lip, surprised by his easy tone.
You climb up the stairs and into your seats. You're high enough for Junie to sit in her own chair between you and Eddie and see the screen comfortably but she adamantly refuses, stretching out in your lap like an alley cat hungry for affection.
Eddie moves into the ragtag velvet seat beside you, a million things in his lap and at your feet. He's pretty enough under the theatre lights to dull the panging ache at the back of your head. "If she won't sit here, I will. I got you a lemonade, is that cool?"
If it weren't you'd hardly tell him.
"She's being extremely well-behaved," Eddie notes, an inkling of pride in his tone.
You could sucker punch him. Why does he do this to you?
"I know," you say with a shy smile, "it's suspicious, isn't it?"
"I don't know. If I were in your lap I might be well-behaved too." He raises his eyebrows, an over-exaggerated show of flirtatiousness.
You reach over the arm to take a handful of popcorn. Eyes on Junie, you offer her your stolen goods and say, "I've got two thighs."
"Don't tempt me."
Junie all but snatches the popcorn and tilts her head back. A kernel falls from her hand and disappears between the seats. You make a mental note to pick it up afterward, ears full of her chomping.
You'd worried she might be a little loud for the movies but there's a bunch of kids and none seem keen on keeping quiet, a cacophony of childish complaints to hide your conversation.
"Are babies supposed to eat popcorn?"
You freeze up. "Oh- I don't know," you say, turning Junie toward you so you can watch her swallow.
"I thought I read that somewhere, but-"
"No, I think you're right. Um…" Junie looks at you with obvious confusion. "Was that yummy?" you ask. You hide your concern with a strained bubbly attentiveness.
"I guess she's old enough."
Eddie's being very casual – it is casual. He's just thinking out loud. You know he's not criticising you. He never has, though sometimes you think he should.
It must show on your face anyhow that you're having a 'I'm a bad mom' crisis. A mean stroke of insecurity.
"Sweetheart," Eddie says suddenly, brows pinched, "it's alright. It was just a thought. And she had no problem eating it, I'm sure she's gonna be aces. Better than aces."
Junie climbs out of your lap and into his. He sets the popcorn on the floor to take her, and when her hands reach for his drink he holds the straw to her mouth. All the while his eyes move between her and you.
"Okay," you say, because you're being silly.
Junie is fine. Eddie was only saying something that's very well true. Babies aren't supposed to have popcorn, but June's not a baby, really. She knows how to chew properly. It's unlikely she'll choke.
Eddie has to keep his focus on her to avoid getting soaked – she barely knows how to use a straw and keeps trying to turn the cup upside down.
"Not like that, trouble. Right way up. You got it."
You pick at the loose stitching at the end of your shirt and have to change the subject before the embarrassment of it all swallows you. Such a small thing.
"Can I try one of these?" you ask, grabbing the first bag of candy you can find. They're a bag of Super Sour Suckers.
He looks at you over Junie's head, startled and hiding it poorly. Then, a smile so bright it increases the embarrassment you're feeling tenfold.
"You have to! Robin said they're even worse than the normal ones, I don't wanna go through that alone," he says urgently.
Robin is one of his friends. You're not jealous that he has friends (though you are, because you want your own, but not jealous that he has friends that aren't you). He's mentioned her in passing before. When you'd asked as bravely as you dared if they were anything more than friends he'd laughed maniacally.
"We're definitely just friends," he'd said.
You fight to stay smiling and pull open the bag of candies. Ironically, the jellies inside are shaped like pacifiers. Covered in sugar packed densely and looking almost wet with what you suspect to be citric acid, you shake the packet wearily and search for a candy that won't ruin your tongue.
Eddie holds out his hand. You drop a green one into his palm. Your fingertips ride up the curve of his thumb.
He's unflinching as he eats it. After a few seconds his eyes screw up and he clutches June tight to his chest, raising an unhelpful hand to his jaw.
"Holy sugar," he says, wincing.
You bite into a pink pacifier unfortunately layered in sugar and wait nervously for the sourness to kick in. Sure enough, it comes quick and torturous. It's a knife cutting through fog.
It's hard to feel tired when there's something this sour in your mouth.
"You can't spit it out!" Eddie says.
You stop with your hand halfway to your mouth. "What?" you ask incredulously, trying not to dribble.
"You gotta eat it! Chew and swallow!"
You chew miserably. He laughs at your expression – a warm and hyper sound, practically giggling. Junie joins in as she always does. His joy can't be overstated.
The lights go down while you're still fighting for your life. Your eyes water and you have to smother the taste with a quick drink and a gasping breath.
"You're sick. I can't believe you let me eat that," you whisper.
"You saw me eat mine! You knew what you were getting into… Think June wants one?"
Your outrage has him laughing again. It's a magnetic sound. Every time he does it you want to touch him, his arm one pole and your hand another.
Junie gets comfortable on his right leg, head tipped expectantly against his chest and eyes drawn to the screen as the trailers begin. You don't bother with jealousy; in ten minutes she'll be climbing over the arm to sit with you again, or want to sit in her own seat. She may even try to walk around. Toddlers are indecisive and easily distracted.
Even if she weren't. Even if she sat there in his lap for the next hour and a half and didn't look your way, you're not sure you could harbour any envy against him. His hand spreads over the front of her torso with fingers splayed against her ribs, stroking thoughtlessly through the fabric of her thick clothes.
He tips his head toward your chair. "There's nachos."
"I saw."
"Wanna eat some before they get cold?"
"Subtle."
He snorts. "Yep. That's what they call me. Eddie Subtle Munson."
You reach over the dark floor for the tray of nachos and balance them carefully on the armrest between your two seats. Eddie digs in without fuss, you fret over which ones have jalapeños on them, and Junie gets mad that nobody's sharing with her. She puts her hands straight in a mound of orange cheese. Her face is a picture when she brings it to her mouth. She's discovered molten gold.
"Junie," Eddie says lightly, carding hair away from her ear so she can hear him properly. "Don't get cheese on your pretty clothes. It took your mom a week to get the rocky road out of your strawberry jammies, you know?"
He doesn't care that she's mauled the food. He's worried she might stain her dungarees. Your heart goes crazy, another sudden surge of clarity.
Junie climbs back into your own lap as the movie begins. You whisper to her about proper theatre etiquette in your mommy voice and she doesn't do too bad a job at listening. She finds the appearance of the Great Mouse Detective himself quite funny, and laughs at his grave features and expressions every now and then. It's a golden sound.
Try as you might, you can't keep your eyes open. Junie's having such a good time and Eddie whispers funny commentary beside you, but eventually your eyelids creep shut and Eddie squeezes your arm, skin braceleted by his thick, warm fingers.
-
"C'mere," Eddie prompts, hands vying for your daughter where she's perched in your lap.
"Why?" Junie asks.
He's surprised at her inquisition. "You don't want a hug?"
She nods voraciously. Eddie lifts her off of your lap before she can use you as a climbing frame and into his own.
"I think mommy's sleeping," he tells her.
Junie looks at you curiously. You've got a wet wipe in your limp hand, which he takes and discards, and your head's fallen to one side. You'll have an awesome crick in your neck when you wake up.
Junie gives him a hug. He loves her hugs. They're so small and sweet, she's genuinely an extremely loving little girl. Her smile when she hugs people is beautiful as yours is, though her affection is less hesitant.
Everything's going well until she catches a look at the huge, scary bad guy Professor Ratigan somewhere in the middle.
Eddie's crunching through a greedy mouthful of popcorn and almost chokes as she turns around and hides in his chest. He brings a hand up to her back protectively though he doesn't know what happened, eyes moving between her and the screen at lightning speed.
"Aw, June," he murmurs sympathetically. He really is a scary looking guy.
"Eddie," she says, dangerously close to tears.
"Sweetheart, it's okay! He's only on TV."
She says something that might be, "Don't want." It's not quite there but Eddie thinks she's doing a great job lately with her talking, patting her back in a silent well done as he attempts to reassure her. "Basil's gonna outsmart him, Junie. The Great Mouse Detective is gonna save the day, scout's honour."
"No," she whines softly.
He covers her unhappy face with his hand.
"It's okay," he murmurs, melted and bemused. "It's okay, junebug. I swear."
Despite his best efforts, she starts to cry. Eddie freezes up because she doesn't cry often, not with him. When she does you're always there to find a solution. He supposes the novelty of being a new person has long worn off, and that he's going to have to make more of an effort than just tickling her or petting her hair to make it better.
Her volume increases. He shushes her, clumsy and awkward but earnest, trying the best that he can to make it up. He offers candies and drinks, he rummages through your baby bag for Mr. Bear. She takes it all but none of it lasts.
Someone in the chair behind him coughs pointedly.
Eddie turns to wake you up. He gets one good look at your face and can't follow through.
You're sleeping deeply, at the movie theatre of all places. How tired are you, and why hadn't you said? He'd known to some extent — it's why he'd offered to drive — but with the movie blaring and all the kids and noise and now Junie's crying, he realises you must be exhausted to sleep through it. Why hadn't he noticed? He kicks himself.
He lifts her up with his head angled down, giving your shoulder a swift squeeze and then bumping down the steps with Junie until he's out into the lights of the hallway. The door swings closed.
It's oddly quiet and extremely bright. Junie stops crying to blink, and starts to cry again once she's adjusted.
Eddie does not know what to do. It's a kick to his ego that he quickly accepts, though he does murmur a rueful, "Babe, I thought you liked me."
Lost on deaf ears, his comment hangs in the air.
He pats her back some more, wracking his brain for how you take care of her when she gets like this. Mostly, you're patient. You hum and you wait. Eddie tries to emulate you and your kind heart, walking her up and down the hall as he taps the bottom of her spine.
"It's okay," he repeats. The more he says it the easier it feels. It is okay. He has to find a way to help June understand that, is all.
She grizzles. It's a long process. A couple of times he wonders if he's in over his head, if it's even his place, if he should wake you up and admit defeat.
But Eddie Munson is trying to prove something.
He works Mr. Bear out of Junie's iron grip and pinches his back taut so that his face and arms wiggle when he wants them to.
"Baby June," he begins, in as gruff a voice as he can manage. He tries to channel his uncle's sternness, and his fondness. "Won't you quit crying? You're getting tears on the neck of your t-shirt and all over your cheeks."
Junie quietens. She still cries, but the severity of the situation noticeably shifts.
Eddie keeps on. "I got just the thing," he says, pushing Mr. Bear forward and making smacking sounds as he kisses both of her cheeks. "Gotta kiss these tears right off a'you."
She laughs as Mr. Bear kisses her face dry and laughs some more when Eddie kisses the top of her head.
Eddie loves Junie.
He knows it for a fact.
She's very easy to love. She's beautiful as you are, she's loving, she's sweet. Her laugh is adorable and her smile is more. When she cries, Eddie finds he's never annoyed. Grated by the repetitive sound, maybe, but he can't find it in himself to be mad with her ever. He wants to help her work through it. To get you both through it. Eddie wants to be good at this.
He has Mr. Bear kiss Junie all over her face.
"See?" Mr. Bear asks. "Isn't that better? No more tears, little girl, or we'll never see the end of the movie!"
As Eddie says it, he wonders if taking her back into the theatre is a good idea.
"Hey, junebug?" he says, all drama set aside.
Junie lifts her flushed face.
He smiles gratefully. "Do you wanna go back inside? Go check on mommy?" Leaving you by yourself doesn't exactly sit right with him.
Ah, there's the face he was expecting. Puzzlement, surprise. Junie frowns at him and looks over his shoulder, her own, searching the empty hallway for you and finding only reflective floor lights and patterned carpet.
Eddie starts back into the screen room before she can cry over your being missing, chatting quietly but in a way that commands her attention. He's effective in the art of distraction if nothing else.
The mouse detective and his friends have defeated Professor Ratigan, though Eddie shields Junie's head from the screen in case he's thinking about making a comeback, finding his way back to you in the dark. He picks over other people's snacks and then the abundance of your own, finding you still sound asleep. The sight doesn't spell good tidings.
"Here she is," Eddie tells Junie, "here's mom. You wanna give her a kiss?"
He sits down in his seat and squishes a bag of gummy worms under his boot. Junie immediately bends over the armrest and grabs at your front. You'd worried to him once that she had separation anxiety, and Eddie didn't know anything about it to agree or not. This display makes him think she might. She's clinging to you, desperately wanting your attention.
Eddie winces as she grabs your face. She's obviously not trying to be cruel, hand stroking over your cheek as you'd stroke hers.
"Mom," she whispers, the action itself enough to get Eddie laughing. Her version of whispering is almost like a character in a pantomime.
He doesn't laugh for very long. You're not easy to wake up. Junie squishes your cheek and tries again. "Mommy," she says.
You groan in your sleep and your eyes scrunch together. "What?" you murmur finally, voice scratchy.
"You're missing the movie," Eddie says, patting your thigh.
Your arms come to life before you do. You wrap them around Junie's short torso and encourage her up your chest until you can nose at the top of her head. You rub slow lines, a steady back and forth. Eddie would bet money you don't have a clue in the world where you are.
"S'loud," you complain. Your voice is weak with sleep.
Junie looks at Eddie weirdly. He suspects it's her way of asking him to help out without asking.
He tenses his hand where it rests at your thigh. "Do you wanna go home?"
You don't answer. You go limp under his touch and Junie's weight, nose and lips set in a frown but otherwise near languid.
Eddie's small (and alarmingly ever-present) worry for you multiplies by a hundred.
He grabs up a bag of chips and entices your daughter back onto his thigh. She digs through half the bag as the movie draws to a finish, distracted if not happy, her face and fingers swiftly flaked in corn dust. The lights are thrown up and the noise is immense, a hundred pairs of shoes over tipped popcorn, babies and young kids unsettled, their parents eager to head home and watch their own movies no doubt.
Eddie can't say he'd really watched the film besides precursory glances, his focus on you and your fidgety offspring. He'd been excited to tell you about his Junie success, but now he just wants to get you home.
He says your name as clearly as he can, his hand finding its way to your thigh for the third time. He rubs down toward your knee and gives your leg a shake.
Junie climbs off of his own. Now the lights are on she can see the grand assortment of snacks laid out before her, and she seems eager to try them all.
You eventually, thankfully rouse, you drag a palm over your eyes and cross your legs, squishing his hand in the process. He steals it back.
"Babe, you gotta get up. The attendants are looking at us funny. I think they think I've run you ragged, and while the dad tag doesn't bother me, 'cruel husband' doesn't suit me."
"What?" you ask.
He shrugs. "Junie pissed her pants."
Your eyes open, lashes parting clumsily. You move like the air around you has turned to glue and moan in a quiet display of agony as your neck clicks. "She leaked through?"
"Nah, I'm messing with you. Movie's done. Getting some weird stares."
You're quiet, but you shrug on your jacket and Eddie packs what he can of the leftover candy into your bag. He swings it over his shoulder.
"You wanna come up?" he asks Junie.
She raises both arms.
You stand on shaky legs. Eddie stations Junie on one hip with one arm wrapped around her and holds out the other. You let him fold you up into his side.
"You okay?" he asks.
Your face drops into his shoulder. "I'm so tired."
"You're alright to walk out to the car?"
His worry is like a rubber band. You snap to attention, disengage from his hold. It's a foreign and really uncomfortable feeling to see you out of sorts.
Eddie walks behind you with a hand nearly but not touching your back. If you topple, he's not sure how he's gonna save you. Determined anyways, he guards you down the hollow stairs and through the hallway, one step behind you.
It's a cool, crisp night outside.
The smell of rain sticks around. You lift your chin. It's much colder now that night's fallen. The breeze kisses your damp skin. When did you start sweating?
He presses his hand to your shoulders and guides you across the road.
Junie starts her lovely babbling in his ear. "Mouse 'tective," she says at one point. You don't react, affirming his theory: you're more than tired. You're sick.
"Mouse detective," he agrees, arm around your shoulder to assuage his own worries as he gives Junie the best of his attention. "You liked that one, huh?" Besides the evil Professor. "Better than the Muppets in New York? Junebug, you little traitor. How easily your favour changes."
"Are you surprised? She took to you like," — you yawn wide enough that Eddie feels it under his arm, a full body thing — "a duck to water."
He beams, relieved to hear your voice. "Yeah, well, I'm special."
"That's true."
Eddie walks you around to the passenger side and opens your door.
"Flirting! Awesome. You're not too sick to forget how much of a catch I am. Watch your head."
"I gotta do Junie's straps," you say.
"I think I can do it by now."
He's only sort of bluffing. It takes him much longer than it would've taken you. He celebrates his win by pinching her cheek lightly and then whacking his head hard on the roof of your car.
"Fuck," he mutters as he jogs around the hood, scrubbing at the back of his head.
You're staring at him as he opens the door.
He puts the baby bag in your lap and shoves the key in the ignition, trying not to buckle under the weight of your gaze. He cracks quicker than he should, hand paused in its action.
"What?"
"You tryna give yourself a concussion?"
"Kiss it better?"
You kiss the tip of your finger and touch it to his head. It's an instant healing potion.
Getting you both home is easy enough, it's the trying to leave that's hard. You collapse heavily into the couch, Junie drapes herself over your lap and begs for her clothes to be taken off. Your second wind has worn away to nothing, leaving you plainly exhausted.
Eddie can't go home, not until he knows you're alright.
He slinks into your bedroom and tries not to look around too much. It feels like an invasion of privacy despite having made it in here a couple of times, always with his hip to the door as you search for something. He fails spectacularly and straight away, always hungry to know more about you. These days especially.
Your bed looks like you shook out the duvet but never tucked the corners. Your pillow's on the floor, your thin throw blanket is screwed up in a ball. There's a bunch of Junie's stuffies against the headboard. He grins at their straight backs.
He makes for your wardrobe, a cheap bit of cherry wood with one sagging door. As much as he wants to outfit Junie in her goodwill band t-shirt, he pulls a soft pair of cotton pyjamas out from a neatly folded stack, thumbing the blue fabric fondly. There's a noticeable disparity between her clothes and yours. One work skirt and one work shirt hang from two lonely hangers, accompanied only by your infamous 'best jeans'. He frowns at a small stain at the knee and scratches it fruitlessly. Not her best jeans, he thinks in horror, picturing your unhappy face. He can see it so clearly, the pinching of your brows.
Junie squeals happily from the living room. Eddie remembers himself and follows the sound, finding you both on the ground. You're kneeling, blowing raspberries into Junie's naked stomach where she lays on her changing mat, a discarded diaper and her dirty clothes to the side.
There's a big break between raspberries where your eyes drift shut sluggishly. Junie whines for another.
Eddie sits next to you. Stupidly close, his crossed leg kisses your thigh. He could wrap you up in a hug easily right here, and he wants to. Your tired face has his stomach aching with guilt.
"Sweetheart," he says to you firmly, "get back on the couch. You look like you're gonna fall asleep right here."
You don't argue, leaving Eddie the impossible duty of dressing your baby. Junie hates the shirt more than he can describe, loathes the fabric as it covers her face. He has to pick her up to get her into her pants, another fury. She forgives him easily once he's done, lingering by his side with Mr. Bear in hand. She pinches his back and imitates Eddie's low growl, laughing at herself as she does. She finds it very funny. Eddie can't help giggling with her.
"Eddie?" you ask.
He turns. You look miserable.
"What?" he asks softly, startled by your intense expression.
"Thank you."
"Oh, baby," he says, loud and brash as he twists where he is to grab both of your knees. He practically throws himself at you, at your feet, ducking his cheek to your leg. "You really are sick as a dog."
You look visibly embarrassed.
"Listen," he says, insistent, "If we start saying thank you to each other, we won't stop. We'll be a loop of thank yous."
"I think I have more to say than you do," you murmur.
He shakes his head, exasperated at your inability to see him for what he is even now. It's funny. Eddie thinks you've a better view of him than anybody else, that you see him more generously than anyone has ever seen him, and you still haven't noticed he's a boy in love.
You must feel his grin as he kisses your knee, his thumb stroking over the ridge of the cap.
"If I started to say thanks for all the things you've given me I wouldn't stop. I'd talk myself hoarse," Eddie argues.
You laugh at his dungeon master dramatics, but reaffirm, "I haven't given you anything."
"You don't know what you've given me," he says into your leg.
Eddie lifts his head, weary of his chin digging into your leg.
Now isn't the best time to declare devotion, or drop kisses into you when you can't offer any in return. Not that he's expecting you to. Not that he wouldn't receive them gratefully.
"I should go home."
You reach for him. Your hand moves slowly like you've a weight around your wrist, but your fingertips curve over his cheek; you move from the corner of his lip, under his eye, and then finish your circle at the skin beneath his ear.
"Can you hug me?" you ask.
"Yeah," Eddie says. He doesn't waste any time.
He gets up, slides a knee between your knees and rests his full weight on the couch between them as his arms curve around you and his hands feel for the dip of your lower back. He clutches without any hesitation.
"Can I? Did you mean it like that? My arms work fine."
You curl your arms around him and groan. "You're gonna crush me."
"Really?" He pulls you closer. "How 'bout now?"
"Ow," you whine.
He laughs and pushes his face toward your ear. "Liar," he whispers. "No way that hurts."
"Why's everybody always on top of me?"
"That's your issue?" He pulls back. "You want to sit in my lap?"
"No!"
"Aw, my poor girl. You totally wanna sit in my lap. Alright, get in it."
He sits down beside you and waits, one arm still behind your back. He gives you an encouraging tug.
"I'm not sitting in your lap."
"I didn't think you would, just- Just c'mere," he prompts, pulling your face into his chest.
Your arms slide around his waist. He can feel the scratchy skin on your left index finger, a scar of a recent kitchen accident, against his hip where his shirt has ridden.
"You're really handsy. Has anyone told you that before?" Eddie asks, trying to cover the entirety of your back with his arms alone.
You push your face as far as it'll go into his chest. Eddie keeps you there, and soon a little body has found its way onto the couch next to you both, demanding to be included. Eddie quickly drags her in.
Long minutes of quiet hugs.
"Wish we could stay like this forever," you murmur.
"Well, I'm not going anywhere. If you were worried."
He massages over the slope of your shoulder, a tight looking muscle. You sigh inaudibly, a hot patch over his heart.
"I wasn't," you say.
Eddie thinks you might finally be on the same page.
-
You get really, really sick.
"On my days off!" you croak, the injustice too much to handle.
Eddie laughs from the end of your bed, a bandana tied around his face like a doctor from one of his awful horror movies, though the bandana is far from a clinical white. "That's exactly why you're still sick. Your body sensed the weekend."
Hadn't it? You'd been achy and awful on Friday and Benny had sent you home at lunch, citing a need to keep his patrons from infection. Which sucked, because you'd really wanted to stick around for the very beginning of the Friday night rush and get some payday tips. People are generous when they're high on the buzz of a forthcoming weekend, especially to over obsequious waitresses.
It had sucked worse when Junie came out of daycare in the best mood ever and demanded kisses. You'd had a headache the size of a tennis ball behind your eyes and didn't want to pass anything over, and the crushed look on her face had made you cry in the car on the way home.
Eddie dropped in particularly early that night with soup. "I had a feeling," he'd said.
And now here he is again the day after.
"At least one of us is enjoying this," you say.
"You think I'm enjoying this?" Eddie asks.
You give his precautionary outfit a once over. "Yes."
"This is just something I had lying around."
"Shut up! Shut up, no it wasn't!" You're voice cracks, giggly and giddy even with the spikes of pain to your tender head.
"It was. We did a campaign, I was a plague doctor-"
"That is in terrible taste."
"It was perfectly appropriate, thank you very much. You're determined to vilify me. Need to slow down with the cold medicine, I think."
You shriek as he tries to take the bottle. "No! No, please, my throat hurts."
He takes the bottle. It is a hurtful defeat. You curl your fingers around nothing and sulk, slouching down into a sanctuary of pillows and blankets to hide from him. Extra pillows provided by Eddie. With fresh covers, duh. They smell like him anyway. You turn your nose into it indulgently.
"You've had too much to safely be responsible for any further consumption."
"Further consumption," you echo, eyes closing in defeat as he leaves.
"You okay, June?" you hear him ask, voice occluded partially by the sound of the TV.
"Okay, Eddie?" she asks.
You grin to yourself.
"I'm great. This looks very fun. I'm gonna make mom a cold pack for her head and then you can help me make dinner, okay? Does that sound fun? Tell me, June."
The 'Tell me, June,' isn't a command so much as a gentle reminder that she can answer the question if she wants to.
"Fun," she says.
"Hey, great. Oh, thank you. Thank you."
They better not be cuddling without me, you think bitterly, grin swiftly replaced by a self-pitying frown.
You cough into your hand, roil in your own misery for a second and then grab the big glass of water Eddie had insisted on from the night stand. You tip it down yourself in your hurry.
"Missed your mouth," Eddie says, appearing at exactly the wrong moment.
"Don't baby me."
He pads into the room with a cold pack wrapped in a hand towel. "For your head."
"This is silly. I don't need to be in bed."
"Obviously you do. You're sick, did you notice? Stupid question," he adds regretfully, gesturing for you to lie back. He sets the pack to your forehead. "You wouldn't notice a hole in your stomach. You'd be dripping entrails in the freezer aisle wondering if Junie wants corn on the cob or mashed potato with dinner tonight."
"What does she want for dinner tonight?"
"Boo! Exactly my point."
"I'm gonna go ask her-"
Eddie puts an unapologetic hand in the middle of your chest and pushes down. "You will do no such thing." He lowers his face to yours. "I'm willing to get physical. So behave."
You flush with heat because you're sick and not because he says it a certain way, dropping back down into your fluffed pillows without another word.
Eddie's hand climbs up to your collar, your neck. His fingers slide one after another behind it. It's a blessed cold. You can't find a comfortable temperature today, moving between chills and hot flashes at the drop of a hat.
Or a bandana. Eddie unties the dark fabric from his neck and leaves it where it lands, staring at you without saying anything.
His thumb presses into your sore throat carefully, the barest hint of pressure, and his lips part. He doesn't say anything for a while. It looks like he wants to.
"Do me a favour?" he asks finally.
"Of course." Anything to feel useful right now.
"Take it easy." He again lowers his head, talking to you with a private smile. "The sooner you chill out, the sooner you'll beat this thing."
"Don't say that. Like I have something serious."
"The sooner you'll beat this moderate-"
"Mild-"
"-affliction." He strokes quarter-circles into your neck.
"I don't need to lie down. There's things I have to do."
"On a Saturday?"
"Yes. There's things I need to do everyday." You clear your throat. It's useless, the lump remains and your voice stays scratchy. "I have- I always have laundry. So that first. Gotta wash it and put it out and bring it in and press it. I gotta make sure Junie has lunch for daycare this week 'n if she doesn't I have to go get it, I gotta," — you cover his hand with your own thoughtlessly — "make sure her rash is getting better. And I promised we'd do a tea party tomorrow, I have to make sandwiches!"
"We both know she doesn't remember the tea party."
"I promised."
"And if I… If I tried to get all those things done, would you stay in bed?"
"You can't."
"But if I tried it? I can do laundry. I'm good at it. Get oil stains out of Wayne's coveralls every Sunday."
You slump into a lump of sadness and achy arms. "Don't do my laundry. Don't do any of that stuff. I'll punch you if you do."
Eddie bursts into laughter. "You'll punch me? You horrible woman."
"I will," you promise, fingers curling around his arm to hold him in place.
"Why don't I believe you?"
"I don't know. 'Cos you're a know-it-all who dislikes me."
"I far from dislike you." He grins at you, all dimpled and pretty. "I don't believe you'd hit me because I know you, idiot."
"Name-calling."
"Uh-huh. Are you sleeping or am I helping you out onto the couch?"
While you're happy for the compromise, you have one problem. "I don't think I can move."
Eddie lets his face fall amicably to your collar. "No, I bet you can't. More reason for me to get you on the couch. I think you've genuinely had too much cough syrup," he worries, warm breath fanning over your skin.
You bring your spare hand to his head. He has so many curls.
He lifts his head and you're close enough to kiss. There's no other reason anyone has ever been this close.
"I can see your beauty mark," you say, hushed. You don't wanna breathe on him too much.
"Freckle."
"Your freckle." You lift and drop his curls, fingers toying through the softness towards his roots, the frizz at the ends.
"You- You smell like fucking cherry syrup."
You abandon his hair to clap a hand over your mouth. "I'm sorry."
He covers his own mouth. "It's okay," he says, similarly muffled. "I like the sweet stuff."
What the fuck does that mean? Your stomach doesn't flip — it leaps right up into your throat. "You're an idiot," you breathe, caught off guard.
"What was that?" he asks, taking away his hand. "Didn't catch it."
"I said, 'You're an-"
"Amazing friend and confidante?"
You try to talk and he says, "A real stand-up guy?"
You try again and he says, "A total rockstar? Baby, if you really think all this you should've said."
You flop completely onto your back, away from his hands, his jokes and his lovely brown eyes where they bore into your own. Eddie hums and rubs brashly over the top of your arm until the skin glows with heat.
"Please stay in bed," Eddie says as he stands.
Medicine or his touch, you're feeling pretty tired. You pull up your blankets and sink like a stone, head disappearing into a mess of pillows and throws.
-
It's much later when you wake. You move into the land of the living abrupt as whiplash.
Eddie seems very sorry. "Sweetheart, June's past due for a new diaper, and I-"
"Oh, right," you say, sounding much more alert than you feel. You're a girl made of sandpaper.
"I would've, I mean. If it wouldn't make you uncomfortable, I would've tried. But I've never changed a diaper in my life."
You scratch your flaky eyes, disorientated and head like a boiling saucepan with the lid glued on.
"That's okay," you say. Your voice refuses to cooperate with you, gruff and too quiet. "It wouldn't bother me, but it's also not your job, so… Um." You yawn wide and cover your entire face.
You spend a minute rubbing your eyes.
"Fuck, what time's it?" you ask, squinting at him and bringing your hands to either side of your face.
"Like, seven. Ish."
"Eddie…"
"I know. I thought you could use the rest. I knew you could. And it's not urgent, you know? Come around, first. Everything's stellar."
You peel back the sheets. You're a clammy, too-hot mess with weak legs.
Eddie sees you wobble and rushes to wrap an arm around your waist. Completely unnecessarily, heart-achingly kind. You wince at the dampness of your shirt under his touch.
Junie sits on the couch in her jammies with a yellow-green soup stain down the front. She's propped up like a princess, a pillow behind her head between the armrest and her blanket covering her legs, cheek pressed to the cushions. Eyes trained on the TV and her bottle propped in a slackening grip, your baby is peaceful, near luxurious.
Only a little wiggle might suggest she's uncomfortable.
You part from Eddie's side and sit down beside her, the seat warm. She doesn't even look up.
"What, no hi for mom?" you ask tenderly, hand falling to the top of her head. She's lovely.
She gasps, little lungs fit to burst. It's pure excitement, her bottle dislodged and the blanket pushed away immediately. She doesn't bother getting to her feet, throwing herself into your lap and assuming you'll do the rest. Of course you will. You pull her up and kiss the top of her head, though you quickly hold her at arm's length.
"Sorry, mommy's still sick," you tell her, sympathetic at her crushed expression.
"Mis'd," she says.
"Yeah? You missed me?" you ask hopefully.
Her lips part in comprehension. "Missed you," she confirms.
You throw your gaze over your shoulder to Eddie. He stands by Junie's changing station with a smug smile. "What?"
"You're not very convincing."
"I'm not trying to convince you, thanks," he says, holding up two hands in surrender.
"She didn't learn that herself," you argue.
"She might've. You tell her enough."
You go back to your girl, pleased at her own smug smile. "I missed you, too, I missed you so much. Missed you millions. Sorry I've been sleeping all day, you've been such a good girl. She has, hasn't she?"
Eddie sorts through a nearly empty bag of diapers and brandishes one with fish printed on the back. "Oh, yeah. Junebug's been amazing. She came in with me to see you earlier, took your temperature." You frown. "From a distance. Kind of. I held her above you. It was… acrobatic."
You close your eyes at his absurdity, your laugh prompting another spike of pain.
Junie forces herself closer and gets both arms around your neck.
You sag into the contact, defeated. "Aw, June," you mumble ruefully. "M'trying to make sure you don't get sick too. Wasting my time."
"Mommy," she says into your neck.
"That's me."
You know she has something she wants to say. You can't wait for the days where she can. Exciting, to think that one day she'll be able to share all of her thoughts.
Right now, she's probably thinking, Woah, mom, you smell weird. And you look weirder.
You feel her back with your hand and cringe. Definitely time to get her changed.
Afterward, you sit with your back to the open front door on one of the porch steps. Physical exertion of any kind seems to be inadvisable; you're sweating up a storm. Junie sits beside you at her own insistence, her hand clasped in your hand and her head on your arm. You look down at her thighs next to your own and marvel at their small size. The evening breeze is a blessing.
Eddie stands in front of you with his backpack slung over his shoulder and a checklist.
"Tea party sandwiches are badly made and saran wrapped in the fridge. Junie doesn't have lunch for Monday but I can go tomorrow if you want me to. Her clothes are folded in the hamper. Uh, some stuff got left out, you might need to press them. Not tonight though, please."
"Thank you."
He talks around a smile. "Soup's on the stove. I'll come back later, if-"
"You don't have to."
"I want to. I wouldn't actually leave, but-"
"Eddie-" You cough into your shoulder. He waits for you to finish. "You- You didn't have to take care of me."
"What does that mean? Of course I did."
He hikes his backpack higher up his shoulder and pads back up the steps, not all of them but enough for him to lean down and stare at Junie.
"Thanks for the best day ever," he says seriously, looking out of the corner of his eye at you. "Almost. See you later?"
Junie nods voraciously and reaches up with her empty hand. Eddie takes it and kisses her temple. He does the same to you, lips brushing soft as downy-feather over your skin.
"I'll come back around ten? Is that cool?"
"Don't knock too loudly," you mumble, very aware of his proximity.
He backs up and bows like an idiot, hand moving in circles.
You and Junie wave him off.
"To work?" Junie asks.
Your eyebrows jump as you pull your gaze from his retreating figure. "Huh?"
"To work?"
You play with her fingers. "No, he's not going to work. He's going to take care of someone else, now."
Wayne, Eddie said, in a fondly exasperated tone that explained everything you needed to know. His uncle's self-preservation must come in similar disinterest to himself as yours does to you.
"We'll see him tomorrow," you say. It's not even a lie, you will both see him tomorrow.
But apparently he's coming back tonight.
-
True to his word, Eddie Munson knocks your door carefully at nearing ten o'clock.
Wayne's dismissal chases his heels. He'd spent an hour worrying about you at the dinner table with his uncle, fingers curling anxiously in his hair.
Wayne had been talking about some gab the boys in the shop had heard about killer mice or killer lice or something when he'd suddenly cleared his throat and snapped Eddie to attention.
"You're a good kid. Notice how I said good, and not smart," Wayne had said.
"Gee, thanks. You always did know how to make a guy feel loved, Wayne."
"You don't wanna be here."
Eddie had frowned. "Obviously I do."
"Kid, what I mean is, you gotta," — he'd nodded his head hard to one side and raised his eyebrows — "you know."
"Haven't brushed up on my mysterious gestures lately. Translate that one for me?"
Wayne had flicked up his newspaper and sighed. "Don't be dumb."
"You keep saying that."
"You keep being dumb, boy."
"I don't know what you want me to do."
"Think you better go look after your girl, don't you?" Wayne had asked finally, clearing his throat.
So here he is to look after you. A tad early, worried you'll be sleeping on the couch with a misbehaving baby in your lap or passed out in the bathroom after an impromptu cleaning.
Thankfully, you open the door in different clothes than he'd left you in, the neckline dark with run-off and face damp under your eyes and by your ears. You dab at your tacky skin with your index knuckle.
"You look better," he says. He wishes he could take it back instantly, though you don't take any offence.
"Hot shower," you explain.
You step back to let him in. Eddie closes the door behind him without turning, eyes glued to your fresh face. He's depressed by the lingering fatigue he finds lining your darling features.
"You okay?" you ask him, perturbed by his silence.
Eddie's better than okay.
He steps close. You look like you might step back, make room for him he doesn't want, so he reaches out for your face and holds it in one hand, the other landing in tandem on your arm.
Your cheek lists into his hand as he wipes away what's left of the dampness on your face. He's not sure you know you're doing it.
"Did you take any more medicine?" he asks quietly, rubbing under your eye carefully with the tip of his thumb.
"No, I- I think you fixed me, Munson. Me and Junie had your soup, and after a shower I felt way better. It was really nice. She slept easy."
He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. "You don't feel too hot."
"Like I said. Fixed me. My hero."
He looks over your shoulder at your life — at his life, or at least where a majority of it seems to take place. All his favourite parts these days happen right there on your couch, or at that table, or knee to knee with a baby that isn't his but- but-
"You said that to me the first time we met," Eddie recalls, shaking his head. It's like there's water in his ears. A few strands of hair drift into his eyes.
You catch his elbows in both hands. "It feels like a really long time ago now."
Months. Only months. "I feel like I've known you for years."
He strokes over your face, chin to cheek, the tip of his thumb pressed to the corner of your mouth.
"That's how I feel, too," you whisper. Utter. Hushed, your words ring loud anyway. "You're my best friend."
Eddie doesn't take it for a door closing because it isn't. It's a door kicked wide open. Split on its hinges. You and Eddie stand on equal ground, and, for once, the same page.
"You know I don't mind taking care of you?" he asks, hand passing over your ear to hide behind it. He wants to see all of your face.
Predictably, you drop your eyes to his neck, pupils wobbling as you search for somewhere to plant yourself. "I know. I'm not sure I deserve it."
"Why wouldn't you deserve it? Everyone deserves taking care of."
"Even murderers?"
"Maybe not murderers-"
"The evil guys from your game? Necromancers?"
"They're not all evil." His left palm skirts up the curve of your neck, encouraging your face back to his. "Don't change the subject."
You press your lips together, caught.
"I actually…" — he gathers as much bravery as he has — "want to take care of you."
"You do."
He holds your face in both hands. "You know you- You know you started it, right? You know it's- that without your-" He cringes internally at his stammering, but he has to get this part right. "You have gold where your heart should be."
"Y/N The Golden Hearted. Doesn't have the best ring to it," you muse, hands clinging to the crooks of his elbows like twin pooled teardrops waiting to fall.
Eddie stares at you, floored.
"What about you?"
"What about me?" he asks.
"What's your name?" you demand, grinning.
"Eddie the Subtle. Munson the Mad."
You huff a laugh. "That's a cop-out."
"Maybe."
"How about…" The air feels thick as jelly. Light from under the bedroom door stops short of your legs, your toes almost touching. His rubber soles, your socks. "Eddie the Indomitable?"
He crinkles his nose. "I'd almost think you were trying to flirt with me, that's how bad that is."
Your blinks are slow. Your eyes soften.
"What if I was?" you ask.
A stock-still silence pervades, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the droning of the bathroom light, left on. He could tell you the contents of this room by its sounds alone.
His hand moves of its own accord, up and down the slope of your neck. "I'd say you needed a better pick up line."
"Like what?" you ask, chest rising too fast.
Eddie takes a step and feels his jacket zipper cut into the cotton of your shirt. It's your matching band t-shirt.
Eddie drags his gaze slowly to your widened eyes, your lashes as they move almost imperceptibly upward. Taking him in as he inches closer.
"You're so fucking pretty," he says.
He leans in. He closes the gap. Eddie Munson takes the leap.
Your hand comes quickly to his upper arm and you turn your face just enough to force his lips, his kiss landing a centimetre shy of your nose.
He struggles to keep his eyes closed. His heart thrums like a blown amp.
"You can't kiss me," you say. Eddie struggles to discern your tone.
His nose presses to yours. Not desperately, but almost. "I can't?" he asks, throat thick with emotion, a stickying, cloying taffy.
"I'll make you sick."
He turns your face with his palm, lips hovering above yours, a hair's width. Close enough to feel their heat.
"Can I trust you'll nurse me back to health, in the event that that happens?" Would you take care of me? His hands tremble where they're touching you. He's too scared to open his eyes.
You don't answer.
You cover his hands and the seconds stretch endlessly, a thousand moments of terror and pining and want suddenly flattened into one as you kiss him.
He exhales against you. His relief is a palpable, viscous thing as he pulls you in and his nose digs into yours. Lips soft as he'd imagined, as he'd known they'd be, you kiss back tentatively. Sweetly.
You're kissing him like he's something that needs a careful touch.
Eddie screws his eyes shut tight enough to see stars, firecrackers, a shattering bouquet of colours as you move beneath him. He can't believe he's kissing you. He can't believe there was a time where he wasn't.
He yields, leaning back just enough to see your face. You keep your eyes shut, your eyelashes kissing the delicate skin beneath. They move like blades of grass in the breeze as Eddie tries to catch his breath, regaining some of his composure. It's hard while he's here, this close.
You make a small sound, a breath like a barb. The shaky demarcation of tears.
"Okay?" he asks, more movement than sound. His lips skip over your own.
You have to feel it.
A laugh bubbles up through your parted lips like a hiccup. "I'm definitely gonna make you sick," you mumble regretfully.
"Make me sick, sweetheart," he says, begs. Whatever.
Whatever word you want to use. He doesn't care if he pays for it afterwards, he wants to be close to you now, unapologetically close. And kissing you — kissing you like this, your reciprocation, it's everything because it means you feel the same as he does.
Or a fraction the same. He's reassured either way. If you felt a fraction of what he felt, that's enough.
It's a lot. To be touching you, finally. He grabs at the nape of your neck and kisses, kisses, kisses. He goes slowly, not quite sweetly. He's never been as sweet as you have, never as soft or patient.
It doesn't feel like it matters.
You pull his hands from your face, press his and your own, all four hands to the collar of your shirt.
"It wasn't just a, uh, pick up line, was it?" you ask breathlessly.
"Wh- No." Eddie massages the back of your hands. "No, you're the fucking prettiest girl ever. I think you're aces. Killer. Everything."
"Everything," you say, an almost indecipherable glassiness to your eyes.
"Everything," he says. He spreads his hand over your heart.
You don't throw yourself at him, but you move alarmingly quickly. Arms over his shoulders, hands crossed and buried in his hair. Your laugh is magic, a bright and exuberant sound loud in his ear and then the skin underneath. He's barely got an arm around the small of your back when you start to kiss him, repetitive, chaste pecks over his pulse. It capers under your lips.
"I don't know what kind of girl you think I am-" He begins deadpan and breaks abruptly, your second wave of laughter impossible to ignore.
Your arms tighten at his laughing, palm cupping the back of his head.
"You're my best friend, too," he says. "But you knew that."
"Maybe," you murmur, your smile wide against his skin. You're uncharacteristically mischievous.
He lets his back bend under your weight until your heels lift and you're scrabbling to stay on your own two feet and is rewarded by your shrieking laughter.
Oh, god, he thinks, ecstatic.
"Wait," you say, bargaining for freedom as he squeezes you hard enough to make you laugh again, and again, "wait, wait! Wait, let go. I have something to tell you."
Eddie sets you down. He's reluctant to let you go, almost desperate to hug you now that he knows he can, but his curiosity gets the better of him. What could you have to tell him now that isn't confessional? It's like being promised something good.
You stand sure and sweet in front of him.
"It's…" You look shyly at his lips.
"What?"
"I…"
He shakes his head gently from side to side. "What? Tell me."
"Nothing," you say, beaming. Act dropped, you take his face into both hands and kiss him soundly.
Eddie's barely got his hands on you before you're pulling back.
"Just wanted to do that," you say.
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thank you for reading! | my masterlist | this fic is multi-chapter
if you enjoyed (i I really hope you did), please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡
summary you’re a single mom living three trailers down. eddie thinks you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. queue lunch break visits, rocky road ice cream, a too-big bouquet, and the rainbow connection.
warnings teen mom!reader, fem!reader, r is junie’s birth mother, fluff, hurt/comfort, eddie being a total girl dad (<3), mutual pining, yearning etc, tw for not having much money, general mom struggles :(, slowburn friends to lovers, tw talk of dying (and past lives)
𓆩❤︎𓆪
You're dozing against the back wall in the kitchen when Benny clears his throat. The grease back here while he's cooking tends to get pretty thick and you're tired to begin with. It's a recipe for nodding off.
Flinching into a proper standing position, you give your boss an apologetic smile. "What?" you ask, blinking hard.
"Your boy's here."
"My boy?"
"Curly hair, tattoos. Looks like he hasn't showered this week. Or any week, actually." Benny laughs, a chesty, self-satisfied chuckle.
You rush to his side, careful of the spitting hot grill, and follow his gaze out of the kitchen window. Eddie's about two seconds away from opening the glass door, clad in his smart work uniform.
"He's not my boy," you say.
Benny scrapes his spatula across the grill's bubbling surface and flips a burger. "If he's the reason you're tired today, you can consider him banned. He's ruining my best waitress."
"I'm your only waitress." The door opens. Eddie stops in the doorway and casts his gaze around the room. You hide behind the wall and fuss with your hair. "And no, he's not keeping me up. It's Junie." Isn't it always Junie? She's your baby and you adore her, but that doesn't mean she's getting any easier to handle. The terrible twos are persevering with a ferocity you can't quite withstand, or at the very least sleep through.
"He eating?" Benny asks.
"I'll go find out."
You wipe the oil from your nose and grimace as you walk out into the actual seating area of the diner. It's empty but for one person and Eddie, who grins when he sees you.
"Hey, sweet thing."
You try not to show how much you like being called 'sweet thing'. Your face must betray you somehow because Eddie's grin turns smug and he approaches until he's basically stepping on your toes.
"How's it hanging?"
You snort. "Benny asked if you're eating."
"What's today's special?"
"Cheeseburger."
He fixes your shirt collar. You can feel the warmth of his fingers and the cooler metal of a ring grace your throat. "Yeah, I'm eating."
You report back to Benny with his order and find the cook's already added two burgers to the grill. He points his spatula at the now grilled and constructed burger for Darren. If you hadn't taken it you'd still know who's it was; Benny's regulars are loyal to a fault. The same old guys come in here day in and day out, and they all want the same thing.
Quarter pounders.
You take it, twist around a childish Eddie trying to trip you up and deliver it to Darren, a frowny-faced farm-hand that Benny swears is a nice guy deep down. You've yet to dig far enough.
Eddie tries to trip you up again when you come back. You glare at him, stepping on his toes gently – more a threat than a real show of aggression – and disappear again through the kitchen door.
"So." Benny throws down a basket of fries before moving to the chopping board with a fresh tomato in hand. "He's your boyfriend?"
"Do we have to do this?" you ask, joining him at the chopping board. You try to snag a slice of tomato and are quickly tutted away.
"Is he?"
"No," you say, trying again for some tomato.
"Kid, if you don't wait."
You pout and set back on your heels.
The burgers sizzle. Benny throws a slice of cheese over Eddie's and lets it melt. Quicker than you can believe, Benny constructs two burgers and fills a red plastic basket with fries.
He offers them to you. "Lunch break."
Free food. You smile at him sheepishly and try to take them. He pulls his arms back.
"Wha-"
"If he's your boyfriend, you better tell me now."
"Benny, I don't know if you know this, but I'm an adult. Already got knocked up once."
"And where is he now?"
Chastised, you mumble, "He's not my boyfriend," and Benny finally hands over the food. He looks like he might try to ruffle your hair if you stick around, so you knock open the kitchen door with your hip and make a speedy exit.
"What's with the face?" Eddie asks as you sit, reaching for the hot plate balancing across your forearm.
"I think Benny just tried to give me a dad talk."
He laughs like this is the funniest thing he's ever heard. "Really? What did he say?"
You shake your head. That's not a bag of worms you're interested in delving into right now. Your brains too fried, and the food smells great. Your stomach aches with hunger.
"You want a coke?" you ask.
Eddie stands up. "I'll get them. Sit down, okay?"
You sit down and shove a greedy handful of fries into your mouth, turning in your seat to watch Eddie talk.
He leans over the metal ledge of the kitchen window. It's quiet enough to hear him laugh, hear him say, "No, sir," in a tone that borders sarcastic.
He wields a five dollar bill at Benny, who shoots him down.
"Put it in the Junie jar," Benny says.
"Junie jar?" Eddie questions, though he's smiling.
Your eyebrows furrow at the expression. You've never heard it either.
"I don't bother pretending she spends it on anything else."
"You got that right."
You flush with heat all the way to to the tips of your ears and turn back to the table before Eddie can catch you watching.
He throws himself into his seat like he's collapsed. The twin cokes in his hands upheave and then splash back into themselves, an impressive and ridiculous show of skill that makes you gasp.
"For you." He shoves a glass down next to you. The ice cubes clink.
"Thank you," you say, and don't waste any time digging into your food.
He squints at your eager eating, though he waits until you've taken the worlds biggest bite of your burger before he asks, "Hungry?"
You swallow before you mean to and have to take a big sip of your drink to avoid choking to death. "I didn't eat breakfast."
"How come?"
You can't take his concern. Your eyes drop this hand where it picks through fries, no rings in sight. He’d told you once he can’t wear them at work, because he gets really warm and the rings are costume jewellery. His hands look bare without them, but they’re very nice hands. You follow the stark line of a bone down from his knuckles and focus in on his simple wrist watch as you explain.
"It took me an hour to get her to finish a slice of toast this morning. I usually wouldn’t make her finish, but she's not eating well."
You don't have to say who. Eddie tips his head back to eat a handful of fries like a courtesan eating grapes, all grandness.
"Teething?"
"She has all her teeth already," you say. A laugh bubbles up, delighted at his suggestion.
"What do you think it is?"
You wipe the corner of your mouth with a napkin and shrug. Eddie sees straight through your forced nonchalance.
"No, seriously. What do you think?"
"I don't know. Maybe she's gonna come down with the flu. She didn't sleep all night either, and…" You rub your tired eyes with the backs of your hands. "I don't know. I hope she's feeling better at pick up, but I doubt it."
"How are you feeling?" He says 'you' softly, almost crooning.
"Tired, Eds."
"I can see that."
The door opens and a breeze whips your ankles. You hide them further under the table and cringe when you kick Eddie straight in the foot. He only raises his eyebrow at you and kicks you back. "What's your problem?" he mumbles under his breath, smiling.
When the burgers are gone and there's only a couple of cold fries left, you and Eddie fall into conversation about tonight. He's finally playing a gig after months without one, and you're riddled with guilt.
"I wish I could come," you tell him, feeling gutted that you won't see him in action.
You wonder what he looks like on stage. Sometimes it's hard to coalesce the Eddie you know and the other Eddie, rocker Eddie. He's so sweet. The image of him on stage and sweating, rocking out, you can't summon it.
You clear your throat. "I'm sorry we can't."
Eddie shakes his head quickly, fingers playing with the chain around his left wrist. "Don't worry about it. Junebugs's gotta sleep. You gotta sleep."
You pick at your nails, shame-faced. If you were a good friend you'd go and see him perform, but you're a good mom so you can't. Maybe you could get a sitter… only you don't trust anybody to look after her. Not the way you would. And people can be evil.
Maybe I could take her to the Hideout, you think tentatively.
You couldn't. It's too loud, it's too rowdy. You're not sure they'd even let you in with a baby.
"Sorry," you say again, dropping your cheek into your palm.
Eddie doesn't smile. He turns his wrist, the back of his hand to the table and his palm open between you.
"Don't be sorry," he says. He watches your face and slowly, slowly, mischief creeps into his expression. "How about I give you a private show?"
Your breath catches in your throat.
"You and June've never heard me play. I could bring an amp. June can play drums. You'll sing."
His allocation shocks you out of your thoughts. "Why can't you sing?"
"What will you do, then? If I sing?"
You flounder.
He lifts his coke to his lips and smirks at your silence. "Exactly."
"Eddie, I can't sing."
He waves his hand at you rather than answer.
"I won't sing."
"Oh, you won't?" he asks, tone enough to make you cross your legs under the table. He rolls his eyes.
"No. Let Junie do it. She's always singing."
"And you'll-? What?"
You shrug. He imitates you, over-exaggerated enough to make you gasp a laugh.
“Is that supposed to be me?"
He ignores your question in favour of his own. "You'll do nothing. Typical."
"You're getting too big for your boots, Munson," you warn, sliding his plate on top of yours.
He stacks your empty glasses. The two of you stand and linger. He should go back to work. You should too.
"I'll come over tomorrow?" he asks finally.
"Okay." You look over him in his clean clothes and neater than usual hair and can't help smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow," you say quietly, opening your arms just slightly.
Eddie takes the hint and wraps his arms quickly around your shoulders, careful of the plates in your hand. He rubs them once, a good, grounding pressure across the breadth of your back. Your nose presses against his neck. He smells like aftershave and cigarette smoke and skin.
Before you know it he's pulling away, the end to an amicable embrace between friends. Almost disappointing, not quite what you want anymore, but a relief and a comfort all the same.
He chucks your chin. "Tell Junie I miss her."
"I will."
"Okay." He turns to walk away. "Bye, sweetheart," he shoots over his shoulder.
"Bye!" you call.
The door shudders in his wake. You stand there watching until Benny clears his throat pointedly and asks you to come and make some more coffee.
You rush through the rest of the day. You finish earlier than you should because Benny's in a gracious mood, thrusting your tip jar into your arms with a command to get some sleep. You promise you'll try your best and head out for the daycare.
Junie's asleep in a bean bag by the baby gate when you get there. You stop dead in your tracks. She has her shoes and coat on already, her backpack in her lap. You look up at the childcare worker in charge today, a nice lady called Deborah, quizzically.
"She's been like that for an hour. I'm sorry we couldn't keep her awake."
You pout at Junie. "Why she got her coat on?"
"She insisted. Screamed bloody murder. Think she was excited to see you," she says, smiling softly.
You smile in return. "Thank you, Deborah. Have a nice weekend.”
Deborah nods and disappears back into the play room. You open the baby gate with likely less dexterity than you should have as a mom and drop to your knees in front of the beanbag, careful not to make too much noise. You're wondering if you can carry her to the car without waking her up when her foot moves, then her arms. They fall to her side as her eyes open.
"Hey, baby," you say, feeling weirdly emotional. She looks so lovely and pretty, and if she's sick that's gonna pluck your heart strings (and cause a boat load of problems).
"Mommy," she mumbles, eyes bleary.
"That's me." You reach out to squeeze her little thigh. "My poor girl, what's the matter? Does your tummy hurt?" you ask carefully.
She blinks.
"Why're you sitting here all by yourself? You didn't want to play with Adrien? Or Lucy?"
When she doesn't reply you take her backpack and thread your hand through the strap, offering your open arms to her. She can barely sit up, her movements slow and sluggish.
"Here," you murmur, sliding your hands under her armpits and pulling her into your chest.
She finally smiles, hands bunched up at the collar of your shirt. You leave some room to look at her and she looks at you. You're surprised she's not whining or crying.
"Hey," you say again, amazed at her droopy smile. "You look like you've had a good day."
Her head drops forward. You think she's nodding, though that might be wishful thinking. You don't even know if toddlers can nod.
Of course they can nod, you think to yourself scathingly. I mean… can they?
And Junie isn't like most toddlers. She hasn't really done anything by the book. She meets milestones when she wants to, sometimes early, sometimes really, really late.
You pat her back, her nylon coat crinkly under your hand. "Ready to go home?"
You stand up with her clutched to your chest. Usually you'd have her say goodbye to Deborah or the other daycare workers but Junie doesn't look like she knows her own name right now. You frown at her and encourage her forehead against your chin, trying to gauge if she's a little warmer than usual.
"I missed you," you tell her honestly. You miss her every single day. "I want to know everything you did today. Do you remember what you did?"
Junie pushes against your chest with her hand as you walk out of the daycare centre and into the parking lot.
"Did you do… colouring? Or… building blocks? Did you sing?" you ask, grinning.
You cross the road, and when you look back she's staring at you, straight into your eyes.
"Hi," you say with a laugh.
Her hands rise to your face, fingers thankfully clean and warm against your wind-bitten cheeks. You slow, gazing down at her expectantly. She raises her chin as high as she can and smiles big.
"You want a kiss. I can tell," you croon smugly.
She kisses you. It's a little drooly as baby kisses always are, but it's the best thing that's happened to you all day. It's always so surprising when she initiates affection. That she loves you just as much as you love her.
You steal another kiss.
"Guess what?" you ask, reaching a hand to stroke a little baby hair back.
She says a word that isn't real. It sounds like 'mod'.
"It's payday today, which means…" You beam at her. "Ice cream!"
That grabs her attention.
-
Eddie can't believe it. "You had what without me?" he asks over the phone.
Junie herds your knees, arms around your legs and face turned to the TV. You stand slumped against the wall where your phone is plugged, curling the landline's coiled cord around your finger so Junie can't grab it.
"Ice cream," you supply helpfully.
His voice isn't easy to understand. The Hideout is a very loud place. Eddie's practically shouting down the line. "I can't believe it."
"It couldn't be helped. She needed to be tempted."
"Tempted! Has she eaten anything else?"
You look down at the girl in question and reach down to rub her back. "Oh yeah. She ate like, an entire bag of lays, one of the big ones. She still smells like honey barbecue."
"Nothing else?"
You sigh, that creeping, ringing thought edging in. You're a bad mom.
"I made her cereal, and celery sticks and sandwiches and little cut up peaches and- and she won't touch any of it," you say, like you're promising. Your tone begs to be believed.
There's a loud racket. Eddie shouts, "What did you say? I can't hear you!"
You repeat yourself. You miss the start of what he's saying, but you catch, "-not your fault! She's probably just having a moment. You remember when she kept throwing her bottle? She doesn't do that anymore."
You nod. "Yeah, maybe it's like that. She's figuring she has choices." Not the best timing for your kid to decide she's gonna get picky.
"Exactly! Or maybe she is sick. Does she look sick?"
You look back down at Junie and feel across her smooth forehead for the twentieth time today. "She doesn't feel warm."
"Good. I'm sure she-" You miss the rest.
"I can't hear you," you say with a small laugh. "I can hear the drum kit though. Are you going on soon?"
"I said, 'I'm sure she's fine.' And yeah, couple of minutes."
"Okay. Um. I'll let you go, then."
"Okay." A small gap where you think he's hung up, but then, "Can I talk to her?"
You bite back a smile. "Sure."
You kneel down. Junie looks a short fall from suspicion, though her arms quickly reach out for a hug.
"June, d'you wanna talk to Eddie?"
"Eddie?" she asks, turning to the door.
You catch her hand before she can walk away. "No, babe, on the phone."
You sit down flat with your legs crossed and encourage her to do the same. She doesn't not want to be encouraged, eyes still trained on the door.
"Baby," you say, though you're bringing the phone to your mouth as you do. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"Okay, I'm gonna pass her the phone and you're gonna have to talk straight away, because she doesn't know how it works. Alright?"
"Yeah, alright. Bring on the junebug."
You press the phone to Junie's ear. She looks startled and then annoyed, shoulder hiking and head moving in like she might push it away. You can see the moment she realises Eddie is on the other side, her lips part and her eyes widen in wonder.
She listens for a while, flabbergasted. You think you might be able to hear his voice. Not what he's saying, but his bubbly baby tone.
"Eddie," she says suddenly. She looks at you, says a bunch of nonsense words and babbling punctuated by Eddie Eddie Eddie.
"Are you listening to him?" you ask, excited at her recognition.
She grabs the phone out of your hand and stares at it. You try to wrangle it back and put it back to her ear. She is not happy.
Hardly news that your toddler's mood may swing, you shove the phone between your head and your shoulder and wrap her up in your arms with a placating shush. She starts to cry regardless. You think they might be crocodile tears.
"Eddie?"
"Sweetheart, I gotta go, okay? I'm sorry if I upset June–"
"You didn't, you didn't, she–"
"– I'll make it up to you, I swear."
"– misses you, I think–"
"See you tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay. Good luck!" you say. The line's already dead. The dial tone makes your ear prickle.
You feel upset for a second. It's a mess of feelings. You're too tired to deal with any of them.
"Eddie?" Junie asks, hands pulling at the hem of her nightie.
"Just mommy," you say with a smile. The longer she looks at you the easier it gets. "You wanna go to bed and cuddle?"
She laughs and runs away from you.
"I'll take that as a no."
-
Eddie knocks the door and doesn't get an answer.
He pauses, a bouquet behind his back and his acoustic guitar heavy around his neck, a grocery bag hanging from the crook of his elbow. It's a very heavy grocery bag. He'd figured he has a lot of apologising to do this afternoon.
It seems like there's no one home to apologise to.
"Girls? It's me."
Still no answer.
"Eddie," he adds, like a loser.
He thinks he can hear small footsteps.
"Eddie!"
He laughs to himself. "Junebug? Where's mommy?"
"Hello?" you call finally.
"Hey, can you let me in?"
He keeps the flowers hidden firmly behind his back as you open the door. He hears the deadbolt, the chain slide free and then the regular old lock unlocking, and you pull the door open and suddenly he can't breathe. You look that pretty.
"Eddie!" Junie shouts, to his pleasure.
You grin brilliantly as he steps over the threshold.
Junie's arms are quickly around his legs. She's in a sweet blue dress and frilly socks looking almost as pretty as her mom does, hair neat and tidy, face pristine.
You're nearly matching her. You've a soft white shirt on, tucked into a simple blue skirt and a cardigan to match.
You barely stop to look at him, flitting back to the kitchen where you’ve brown paper bags upended, the fridge and freezer doors both wide open. "Sorry, I'm just putting the groceries away. How did the gig go? Did you rock the house?" You giggle to yourself.
Eddie wants to scream, you’re that endearing. “It went great. Awesome. Not sure I rocked the house, but it was metal.”
"Amazing! I- I'm sorry I didn't hear you, I was in my own head," you say as you go, stepping over toys and frozen peas and Junie's Muppet Babies backpack like a natural. He notices your small white socks and feels himself slipping that little bit further into a terrifying feeling.
He doesn't have time to tell you it's okay, or that he wishes you’d been at the gig, or to watch your step. Junies's babbling for his attention and he'd rather die than not give it to her, moving the grocery bag he has hanging from his hand over her head and tossing it toward the couch, where it lands and spills.
"Okay, June, I'm gonna pick you up," he says quickly, pulling the guitar over his head. He props it up by the open doorway, Junie tugging at his jeans the whole while.
"So demanding!" he teases, scooping her up to prop on his hip and unveiling the flowers at the same time.
You aren't looking. He nudges them towards her face and shakes them gently.
Junie can't decide what's more fun, the flowers or Eddie. She wraps her arms around his neck as best as she can but stares at the flowers with a dawning comprehension.
"What are these, baby?" he asks, holding them lower so she can see them all in view. They're mostly red. There's some whites too, big round roses among other flowers he can't name.
"Red," she says quickly. "White. Yellow, blue, green."
She's not right, there aren't any yellows or blues, but he can only blame himself for drilling them into her the way he had. She's showing off that she knows them all, and she deserves some praise.
"Good job! Red, white," he shakes the bouquet enough to reveal a few small pink ones, "pink flowers. They're pretty, don't you think? Pretty as you and mommy?" He hums to himself, patting her back thoughtfully. “Maybe not that pretty."
You're not listening. If you were he's not sure he could say it, not while you're looking like you do. You're always pretty, always, but right now he feels like he did the first time he saw you. Just gone.
Junie tells him something, a more factual tone and air about her. He rubs the top of her upper arm encouragingly, asking, "Is that right?"
"Do you want food?" you call.
He sets June down on her feet and she hates it until he wraps her hands around the bouquet's neck. "Can you give these to your mom for me? Please?" Junie stares at them. "For mommy," he adds, pointing at you where you're closing the cabinet door.
Junie, the tiny smarty-pants that she is, runs to you. Eddie's a coward for it, but he doesn't think he can give them to you himself under honest pretenses, doesn't think he could admit that he'd been thinking about getting you flowers for a while now. Much easier to have her give them to you.
You make a sound like you've swallowed a gasp and stare at them.
"They're nice, right? I saw them and I thought they'd make a good apology for last night."
You don't take them. You can't contain a smile, but you don't take them.
"I'm sorry if I made any trouble for you," he says tentatively.
You drop your hand on top of Junie's head. Your tone is warm, each word reassuring. "No, you didn't. She just… you know, she has a routine, and she loves when you come around. She missed you. That's not your fault."
"Okay, good. I missed her too. Nobody can jam out like she can.”
Junie whacks you in the thigh. Eddie's starting to think he did something wrong because you still haven't taken them from her, your eyes as unreadable as the way your hands move, rigid and curling.
You shake them out and finally take the flowers.
"Thanks, baby," you say. Then, looking at him. "Thank you."
"You can get me back," he says.
Shell shock turns to eagerness. "Yeah, anything."
He picks up the spilled groceries and brandishes them at you. In one hand is this week's dessert, a huge carton of rocky road ice cream, the fancy kind with big chocolate chips and fluffy marshmallows on top. In the other, a plastic jug of your favourite drink.
"Find room for these in the fridge?"
Since accepting them, you've yet to put down the flowers, holding them protectively to your chest as you take what he’s offering and carry them into the kitchen.
June runs full pelt at his legs and he doesn't hesitate to pick her up.
"You're so happy today!" he cheers, saccharine sweet as she burrows her little face into his collar. "Have you been having a good day with mom? I love your matching outfits."
You try to hide how the compliment affects you, face buried in the freezer. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that your freezer has ample room, you don’t need to look for space. and he can see the way your hand tightens around the bouquet. He loves how shy you've become lately over his compliments, no matter how small. It's worth the possibility of making a fool of himself to see you flustered.
Junie reports back on the day. Eddie listens intently for words he might understand but finds none.
He doesn't let this bother him, leaning against the counter behind so he can hold Junie low on his stomach to watch her expressions flicker, hands encapsulating her back. She looks happy, obviously, but she also looks very intent on something.
"Yeah?" he asks, tilting his head toward her knowingly. "Was the grocery store exciting? Did you do anything else?"
"Duckies!" she says.
"Duckies? You saw ducks?" he asks curiously, looking to you for confirmation.
You're still holding your flowers to your chest.
Junie chatters. "Duck, duck, duck."
"What's she talking about?" he asks, pulling her up enough for her head to rub against his chin.
"Oh, we went to the duck pond. She was obsessed," you say.
"Right, right. Can't say I blame her.”
"Trying to explain why they weren't yellow took some dedication."
Eddie smiles at you softly. "You can put them down, you know."
Your eyes flicker between him and the flowers. "I- nobody's ever got me flowers before. I don't know what I'm s'posed to do with them. I don't… have a vase."
He hadn't realised he'd be the first guy to get you flowers. It makes him wanna wrap you up and hug you, because how is it fair that a girl like you never got flowers? Not once?
"Shit," he says instead.
He flinches hard and looks at Junie. She's too busy with her hands in his hair to notice what he's said. He apologises anyways.
You roll your eyes. Eddie's relieved to see it's with obvious fondness, a funny lopsided smile to your lips.
"If she starts dropping s-bombs, you're the one who has to deal with it," you warn.
"I will.”
He takes a step toward you and you take a step toward him.
You hum and hold the flowers up to Junie as he had before. "Aren't these just something else? Look how pretty they are! Why don't you pick one, baby?"
Eddie shifts her onto the right side and you both watch her touch them, hands adorably careful as she feels the leaves between her fingers and pokes the fuzzy yellow centre of a flower with white, round petals.
"That one?" you murmur, pulling it out from the rest with the same adorable carefulness.
Junie accepts the flower and immediately shows it to Eddie, ecstatic.
“Yellow," she proclaims.
"And white," he says, ruffling the petals with his index finger.
She smells like talc and you, that soft jasmine perfume, and her hair is fragrant where it tickles his face. He indulges and hugs her that little bit tighter. She indulges him in turn and hugs him back, the flower petals cold and silky against his neck.
"How do you…" You scratch the base of your neck. "Do you think I could squeeze all the stalks into one glass?"
It's only a bunch from the grocery store but he thinks a glass might be a little too small. "Maybe you can split it? Have one in your room, one in here."
You set about following his suggestion, snipping away the cellophane with a pair of scissors and acquiring two tall glasses. The stalks are tall. You trim them down and begin arranging them. Eddie has no clue why you're being as particular as you are but he's happy for you to do as you please, traipsing into the living room where Junie seems to have been running rampant before his arrival with intentions of cleaning up.
He closes the front door and bends at the waist to let Junie back on her feet.
She goes down easy enough. Eddie turns on the TV to keep her occupied while he whips around the room. He wants to clean (as best as he can) before you see him and tell him to stop. He puts your small handbag and Junie's backpack at the sideboard by the door. He sweeps up all of her toys and tucks them under the television as you would, then moves onto the rogue dirtied pajamas on the floor. They're Junie's favourites, the ones with tiny strawberries that she always chooses when given the option.
Your laundry basket isn't anywhere in the living room or kitchen. He attempts to sneak past you where you're still arranging flowers intently. The sight of you stops him in his tracks.
I need to get her a vase, he thinks. And another bouquet.
You turn to him, a pleased expression turning your features from pretty to chest-achingly lovely.
He holds up the pajamas and then keeps on down the hall to the bathroom, even as you chasten, "Eddie," with a fond exasperation.
You showcase your first bouquet upon his return, sheepish, awaiting judgement. You're conflicted tonight, a handful of emotions shaken and stirred.
"Tada," you sing.
"Looks sick, sweetheart. If this whole waitressing thing doesn't work out for you, you could definitely be a florist."
You huff a laugh. "Oh, for sure."
"I'm serious. It looks really nice."
He thinks maybe he can see the way you might've been before, in that moment. There's something so young – and you are young, as he is, as he keeps forgetting – about your face and how you take praise. You look like you want desperately to brush it away, and you look like you want him to give you more.
He stands close enough that you're forced to turn back to the counter where the second bouquet is taking form. "This one looks nice too."
"I thought I'd put the prettiest one out here." You lean back and your shoulder presses to his chest. "And then the reject in my room," you say, chin lifted to look him dead in the eye.
He feels heat crawling up his neck and decides to fight fire with fire, even if the fire is entirely imagined. "Do you often have rejects in your bedroom?" he questions with a smarmy smile.
You laugh. Far from the polite and prim giggling you'd used when you first met, though that was cute, too, this laugh is something else. He wishes he had a tape deck with him to record it, play it back.
"Only if they're very pretty," you say. You place the last of the flowers into the second bouquet. "And these ones are beautiful. Thank you, Eddie. You didn't have to get me flowers."
"I wanted to."
Your head falls gently against the top of his shoulder. He stands very still.
The faucet drips. The TV plays. If he listens, Eddie can hear the sound of kids outside on their bikes, shouting and jeering.
Like this, he can see the curve of your neck, the hill of your chin. He can see the pillows of your lips and the slopes of your cheek. The darling shape of your nose. He knows a kiss would fit there well, fit there perfectly, if he would only raise his hand to your shoulder. Turn you ever so slightly.
Even the flat of your forehead begs for affection. He can almost feel it from looking at you – the warmth of your skin under his lips. He can't decide whether he'd kiss you from temple to temple, or smack dab on your crown. Between your brows, at the tail of them. The corner of your eye might work.
Anything would work.
Eddie lifts his hand. Careful not to startle you, he cups the side of your waist like he had before a hundred moons ago when you'd cut his hair in this same kitchen. He spreads his fingers wide and inches over your soft abdomen, feeling for the shape of you.
You turn your cheek into his shoulder. He lets his lips touch the back of your head.
Plinking echoes from the living room sudden enough to startle you in tandem. Kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar, you and Eddie both turn to the living room and come away from one another. You're more confused than Eddie at the sound; a split-second and you're out of reach.
He closes his hand and follows you. Now past the obscurification of the cabinets, he can see that Junie's finally noticed his guitar and has pulled it down flat on the floor.
She plays with the strings enthusiastically. Eddie can't bring himself to care at her roughness when she looks the way she does, curious and entertained, giggling her contagious baby laugh.
"I forgot you brought that," you say, looking to him, he suspects, for a cue. A silent, Is she allowed?
Of course she is. “I told you I'd give you a private show."
"What happened to the amp?"
"My hands were full." Eddie sits on the floor to Junie's left. "Whatcha doing, trouble?"
She hits the neck.
He takes her hand in a gentle grip and encourages the side of her finger across the strings.
She laughs thick and sweet as honey. "Brmm," she imitates, lips pinching between giggles as he helps her do it again.
"You're a total rockstar," he says.
You kneel opposite. "She's gonna lose her mind when you play something."
Eddie feels very smug at what's to come.
You let Junie play for a time, and then you open your arms and she walks around to your side, sitting on your thighs. She continues to reach for the guitar, seems sulky when Eddie picks it up, and quietens when he plays an experimental note.
"Are you gonna sing? I've heard you sing before, you know? You're not bad."
You wrinkle your nose.
First, he plays the Muppet Babies theme tune for June. She gets excited and starts to hum. You have to hold her in your lap to stop her from messing him up. He wouldn't mind if she did. He's hoping, maybe one day when she's old enough to understand, he could get her behind her own guitar. He's not kidding about starting a band.
He drops his eyes to his fingers, shaking his head on instinct to try and shake away the thought.
June sings and sings and eventually, quietly, you start to sing too. You’re purposefully not trying but any flatness is easily made up for by the familiarity of your voice alone. The way you talk, so charming and careful, the sweetness of your newfound shyness and the rough hint of ever-present tiredness you carry, it all seeps into your singing. Eddie adores it.
Junie almost gets some of the words right. It's very exciting for you, Eddie can see it in the tilt of your head. You enunciate precisely and he slows the tempo to give you time.
"It really sounds like she's almost there. She definitely said 'dreams come true,’” he says as the song ends.
"You think?"
"Definitely. Do you want to sing it again?" he asks, words falling into a high-pitched sugar, eyes on Junie.
"More?" you add, a slight correction. Junie doesn't know what 'again' means yet, but she understands 'more'.
"More," she says seriously.
You go through it one more time. If he plays slow to drag out your reluctant singing, that's his business.
He unveils his next song with a dash of edgy stage presence. "For my next song, I'll be playing what can only be described as the absolute pinnacle of music."
He sounds legitimate.
Your eyebrows pinch together at his sombre attitude. "Sure."
"I'm gonna play it as true to form as I can, but… I don't have a banjo. So…"
He plays the first few seconds of Kermit The Frog's The Rainbow Connection.
When he sings, he does it after an internal pep talk consisting of a scathing, Be brave, idiot.
"Why are there so many, songs about rainbows. And what's on the other side?" he sings, trying and failing to sound like Kermit. He abandoned that pursuit immediately in favour of his regular voice. Thankfully it's a slow song. Simple. It doesn't take much to play, either. The real challenge are the lyrics, which he doesn't really know. "Rainbows are visions, but only… illusions?"
You bob your head appraisingly, hands crossed over Junies front, cheek pressed to the top of her head.
"And rainbows have nothing to hide."
You’re making it impossible to concentrate, looking as earnest, homespun, and ridiculously pretty as you do. Pretty in more than just your looks. The way that you watch him, the way you rub a pattern over Junie's ribs, it’s all so indicative of your heart.
He fucks up the rest. Bad timing, amateurish fingering over the struts, lyrics that escape him. You'd never know he could play Master of Puppets a month after it's debut from the way he performs now.
You cheer, gathering Junie's hands into yours to help her clap.
He blushes like a fool.
—
Dinner tonight – take out.
You're prouder than you should be when Eddie asks, "Can I help you cook tonight?" and you get to say, "No, you can't. I'm not cooking."
You'd never shake your head at a frozen pizza but there's an irreplaceable satisfaction that comes from getting hot food delivered. Maybe it's the convenience, maybe it's that you don't have to cook it yourself. It might even be the grease. Whatever it is, it tastes better than any freezer food ever could.
You've trapped Junie in her high chair. Diaper changed, pajamas on, bib in place. You rolled her sleeves all the way up and gave her two slices of cheese pizza cut into small pieces that have been blown on for a more than generous amount of time and tell her to go ham. She doesn't bother with her plastic fork and you don't blame her, eating your own pizza in a similar fashion.
Rather than sit opposite you or next to Junie, Eddie has opted for the chair on your left. Junie on your right, your daughter eats with an animated little grin that apples her cheeks, giving her that chubby baby-like smile.
"You see her smile?" you ask, taking a big bite of perfect crust. You have to stop yourself from sighing happily, fingers covered in crumbs.
"Yeah?" Eddie asks, pizza sauce or his face like a little kid.
You sit back in your chair so he can really see her. "She's always been a smiley baby, and when she was much smaller all her smiles were so chubby cheeked. She was chubby cheeked. Now when she smiles like that she makes me remember her when she was a baby."
"I'm not surprised she was a smiley baby if she had you… D'you miss having a baby?"
"Watch yourself," you say, and then giggle as all the blood drains from his face. "Kidding. I don't know if I miss having a baby baby. I mean, she's so little, she's practically still a baby. But I do kinda wish I could go back and hold her as a newborn."
Eddie wipes his cheek and stands up to get some paper towels. He wipes his face and hands and grabs the juice from the fridge to fill his glass (that's basically still full) and then yours (the real reason he'd stood, you reckon).
"Was she heavy?" he asks.
You worry for a moment he's humouring you. It's clear how much you love Junie, you know it is, and that shows in how much you want to talk about her. You'd never expected that part, though of course it makes sense – sometimes she smiles and you wanna call the newspapers – and you don't think Eddie's insincere. He seems like he genuinely wants to know and that's enough for you to want to round the table and throw your arms over his shoulders.
"I think…" You pick up your glass and hesitate with the rim to your lip. "I think if you'd held her back then, you wouldn't think she was heavy."
He practically smolders, bringing an arm up to tense his bicep. "Thank you."
You laugh at him. "Shut up! I just think, you've been good with her ever since you met her. When I held her for the first time it's a good thing I was laying down. I probably would've dropped her."
Eddie takes Junie's sippy cup to fill. You'd say it was a waste if he hadn't bought it himself, she's too busy eating her weight in cheese to care about something as rudimentary as juice.
"You would not have dropped her."
"I would've."
"You wouldn't have! And if you did, it would've been an accident. Next point, they don't have skulls, right? No harm, no foul."
"Who told you babies don't have skulls?"
"...I'm not at liberty to say."
You eat the rest of your crust and shake your head at his misguided education. "They have skulls, Eddie. The scalp is super soft and fragile for ages, but they definitely have skulls. You know what they don't have?"
Eddie squeezes Junie's shoulder as he walks behind her. "What?" he asks in alarm, passing you to sit down again. His knees touch the side of your thigh.
"Kneecaps."
His hand stops on the way to the pizza box, body frozen.
"What?" he asks, his alarm doubled.
"Swear down. No knee caps."
"Don't they need them? For crawling? I feel like knee caps are more important than skulls."
"If you didn't have a skull you wouldn't be able to breathe," you say, though you're guessing.
"What use is breathing if you can't move?"
You turn to him to take him in properly. You beam, because this is an outlandish conversation and you're enjoying every second of it and he looks just as happy as you feel.
"Do babies need to move? June could never move again and I'd still look after her,” you counter.
"Sweetheart, you're cheating."
"I can't exactly breathe for her-"
"What are you talking about? Of course you could. I don't know how but you'd find a way, Y/N, I know what you're like."
Your teeth click together, a funny retort squashed down by his unexpected admittance of faith. He always does this; Eddie loves to tell you the kindest things anyone has ever told you like they don't cost him a thing.
"I would," you agree, blinded by love rather than supported by any logic.
"Mommy," Junie says, like she knows she's the topic of your hypothetical devotion and she wants in. "More pizza"
"Please?" you tack on, though her small sentence had impressed you to the point of elation. You turn to her already with your hand in the pizza box.
"Pizza," she says. You love the way she says it, like the 'zuh' sound at the end is a complete surprise.
The pizza's cold enough by now to give it to her intact. She's amazed at the big slice you put on her plate, picking it up with a coordination you know is taking a lot of effort for her.
"Good job, baby," you praise, using her distraction to pull a little string of cheese off of her messy cheek.
She takes a huge bite. You watch her worried she's gonna choke, and feel Eddie's knees press deeper into your thigh as he moves forward to join in.
"Is it weird that she's impressing me right now?" he asks.
You giggle and roll your shoulders back until you can feel the brush of his hair against your shirt. "No, she's awesome."
For dessert, you insist on plating up. Or bowling up. You scoop a more generous than she should really have portion for Junie, something similar for Eddie, and a normal portion for yourself.
"On the couch?" Eddie asks.
You can see him cleaning up Junie out of the corner of your eye. You wish he wouldn't but you're grateful that he does. His attentiveness makes your hands feel heavy in that you remember you have them, and you remember what it's like to want to hold someone else's.
"Yeah," you say, though eating on the couch makes you nervous. You don't want to ruin it. You're lucky you even have one.
Eddie scoops Junie up easy and pats her back.
“You put away a lot of cheese, kid. A lot. Was that yummy or what?"
She burps. His laughter is roaring and boyish as he applauds her.
"You're patting her back, she's gonna keep burping.”
"That's what you're supposed to do for babies, isn't it?"
He stands under the harsh kitchen light with his face turned away and down toward Junie, hair a mess of flyaways, t-shirt covered in shiny toddler fingerprints over one shoulder and jeans slipping down low on his hips. Your explanation comes breathlessly. "When you give a baby a bottle they suck in too much air and it gives them trapped wind. You burp that kind of baby. Not greedy almost three year olds."
"She is not almost three."
"I think I'd know, Munson."
"She's like, two and a half at most."
"I'm rounding up for emphasis," you say, and glare at his eyebrows rising.
He pats her back some more anyways. She burps again and he laughs even more. "Juniper The Burpiest," he says to himself as he walks away, voice fading as he settles down across the way on the couch.
Junie has crashed and burned, warm thick cheese and dough putting her quickly into a close to listless state in his lap. He faces her out toward the TV and she leans heavily against his chest with his hands around her torso, propping her up. You shepherd in the desserts.
"Gimme Junie's," Eddie says.
"She's gonna fall asleep," you say, but pass it over anyhow.
Eddie places the bowl of rocky road in her lap with a hand between to stop from making her legs cold and starts to spoon ice cream into her mouth. She accepts. It's adorable to watch. His face over her shoulder, Junie's face slowly deflating, eyes bleary and blinking as her lips close lazily around the spoon. She barely flinches at the cold.
You eat your own ice cream in the seat next to them and wonder if this is forever.
Eddie wipes her chin with the side of his hand and watches her head fall. He wears a loving smile. It makes you want to cry, to know someone else loves her.
You let all your weight fall against his shoulder and eat your ice cream casually. This is the least casual thing you've ever done. Spoon in your mouth, you press your cheek to the top of his arm and glue your gaze to the TV.
You swear you can feel his eyes on you, but when you chance a look he's watching the TV, head inclined to yours ever so slightly, a hand brushing Junie's hair from her dozing face. You're weak. You give yourself over to what you want and turn your nose to his arm. He smells lIke he always does, warm in the truest definition of the word.
You close your eyes. After a few minutes, you feel Eddie take the bowl from your hands and set it next to Junie's. You want to open your eyes and say sorry but they’re heavier than you'd thought, and you can only manage a murmur of sound.
His hand sliders under your elbow and curls around your arm. His head drops on top of yours so softly you almost don't feel it.
You doze, digging your face further into his arm, feel the curve of it under your cheek and the cut off of his sleeve rising.
A frayed thread tickles your cheek and you complain without thinking, sighing your annoyance.
"What?" Eddie asks.
You raise a hand to rub at your face and eyes. "Tickled me."
"Did I? M'sorry."
"T-shirt. Did you cut them yourself?"
"You know it. Was going through a phase."
"Going through."
"Say it to my face," he says. Soft, teasing.
You lift your head and find him smiling at you.
He has a beauty mark under his eye, occluded near completely by his eyelashes. You can't believe you've never noticed it before.
"You have a freckle," you whisper.
"Where?" He nods. "Under my eye?"
"Yeah."
You sit up and stare at him. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "I've never seen it before," you continue, still whispering. "It blends in with your eyelashes."
"I think you're the first person to see it who isn't my mom. No one ever looks at me this long,” he says quietly.
If his eyes weren't closed you'd never have had the courage to do what you do next. You raise your hand with his cheek, thumb pressed to the skin beside his nose and fingers slipped under his ear. You turn his face toward the light. Eddie lets you without complaint, his breath warm where it fans over your thumb. You push your fingers further until they've threaded into his soft hair, your thumb brushing up under his eye. You part his mess of dainty lashes with your thumbnail until the beauty mark is clear in view.
"That's so sweet," you whisper, awed.
Eddie readjusts Junie in his lap with an overabundance of caution and doesn't speak. He's lax under your touch.
"It's really pretty. You had it since you were a baby?"
"I think so."
You laugh under your breath.
"What?" he asks.
"It suits you." Something pretty hiding in plain view.
"I heard," he says hedgingly, "that freckles are a sign of how you died in a past life."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Bet it was something really gross, like a parasitic worm-"
"Ew."
"Or someone stabbed me. Or shot me. With an arrow."
"You're only twenty. Your past life would have still been in this century."
Eddie opens his eyes just to glare at you. "Don't deprive me of a badass past life. How would you have had me die?"
You push his hair from his face. "You know what I heard about them?"
"What?"
Fun to whisper with him like this. Like you’re younger than you are, trading secrets in the dim light.
"I heard they're kisses from a past life."
You raise your second hand to his cheek and cradle his face.
Eddie leans into it. “You wanna give me one for the next?” he asks, a short fall from salacious.
Your breath doesn’t catch. Your hands don’t shake. “Is that what you want?”
He falters. Bravado slips. Your heart skips a beat, worried maybe he doesn’t like you the way you’re thinking after all.
“Y/N,” he says.
You can’t hear his rejection. You won’t.
You close your eyes and kiss his cheek. Your nose slides over his skin, the heat of his blood under the surface warming your palms, and you steal a second there, two, breathing in his smell. If this is all you get, you can be okay with it. Eventually.
You pull away.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says. You can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
𓆩❤︎𓆪
thank you for reading! | my masterlist | this fic is multi-chapter
if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡
please forgive any mistakes and how long it took, i have been a bit unwell! hopefully it won’t be too long before part four :3
