Wayne gets home at 6:40am as per usual. What he finds is… Not so usual. Eddie is curled up asleep in his armchair, and the sofa is occupied by someone Wayne's pretty sure he's never met before. He looks young, maybe Eddie's age, but what's most glaringly obvious is that the kid's been put through the fuckin' ringer.
His left eye and the circle of skin around it is a stark purple-red, swollen enough that Wayne clicks his teeth in sympathy. There's a cut on his chin, just under his lip. It's been cleaned and butterfly bandaged (Eddie's work, he's sure) but it sure doesn't look comfortable. Nor does the way he's propped up almost vertical by the couch cushions. He remembers doing the same for Eddie when he showed up on his doorstep with a broken rib courtesy of one Al Munson almost a decade back.
So, yeah. The kid looks like he's been tossed in front of a bus. Or smacked around by an asshole without a conscience. And he's fast asleep in Wayne's living room with Eddie apparently playing both nurse and guardian.
A gentle beeping tears his eyes away from the couch and towards his nephew, who is currently scrambling to turn off the little alarm on his watch. He sees him do a full-body jerk when he spots Wayne's figure, jumpy as he's always been, before he smacks a hand to his chest in relief and flops his entire body backwards, dramatic as he's always been.
"Jesus Christ, Wayne," he whispers with a large dose of attitude, "are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Are you?" Wayne murmurs back, nodding in the direction of the occupied sofa. "Who's the kid and why's he look like roadkill?"
aka Eddie ends up babysitting a concussed and drugged-up post s3 Steve Harrington and Wayne comes home to a confusing sight
(p.s. Eddie's watch alarm went off bc he's waking Steve up every 2 hours to make sure his brain hasn't disintegrated into mush)
Steve, upon falling in love with Eddie, almost immediately becomes Wayne's emergency contact. It's not that Wayne doesn't trust Eddie. He does. He's a great kid, an excellent person. He just also has a tendency to...not be where you need him. And that's fine most of the time. Kid gets stuff done, always helps pay the rent, does his chores all that.
But. Wayne's not getting any younger and he's still working despite Steve's attempts to get him to hang up the old toolbelt. He's probably right but Wayne isn't ready. Can't imagine all that empty time.
And his Harrington boy? He's there every weekend, checking fixtures and changing lightbulbs. Cooking meals to store in Wayne's freezer even though he insists he's got enough food in there to last him through the apocalypse. He mother hen's over Eddie too, making sure he sleeps enough, eats a vegetable or two. So it feels like the right choice to just switch over the name on all his forms.
When he asks Steve, though, the boy's face goes ashen. He has to sit down. He tears up and won't look at Wayne. Eddie sees him, sighs, and comes to the rescue, standing between Steve's legs and pulling his head against his chest. Embracing him hard, making soothing noises.
Wayne waits silently for a moment then apologizes. He's screwed up somewhere and he feels pretty bad about it.
"Oh, no," Eddie laughs when he sees Wayne's face. "This is a happy freak out. Steve's not used to having family. Sometimes it takes him a moment when he remembers."
And suddenly, Wayne has to stand up and take a moment outside. Smoke half a cigarette with his boot kicked up against the side of the trailer. Wouldn't do to make the boys see him cry, too.
So. Yeah. Steve is his emergency contact. But both his sons always show up when anything happens.
Steve’s sleeping body pressed against his chest, his head tucked underneath Eddie’s chin. His hair slightly tickled Eddie’s nostrils that brings a sleepy smile to his face.
Heaven might as well be a full sized mattress in the trailer and Steve’s his angel. Thank god Eddie finally had the guts to kiss Steve last night or he’d never experience this.
Eddie gently ran his hand up and down Steve’s bare back, allowing himself to drift back to sleep. It’s too early —
“Ed!”
Eddie’s eyes shot open.
“Ed!” Wayne called again, a hard warning knock on his door. Steve stirred awake on his chest. “Wake up, boy!”
“Whutsgoin’on?” Steve murmured, rubbing his face against Eddie’s chest.
The door swung open, jolting both the boys awake.
Wayne leaned against the door frame annoyed.
“Boy we got the pancake feed,” Wayne said. “Told you ‘bout it yesterday. Get dressed we gotta go.”
He pulled the door shut, leaving the two boys in silence.
The door reopened.
“Bring your friend, too,” Wayne nodded towards Steve. “Need all the help we can get.”
“Hi,” Steve said sheepishly. “I’m Steve.”
“Wayne,” Wayne replied as a matter of fact. “Now hurry up, before we have to deal with a bunch of hungry vets ‘nd wives waitin’ for their sausage to cook.”
Wayne shut the door again, leaving the boys once more.
“So — uh — that’s my uncle,” Eddie said breaking the silence.
“Uh-huh.”
“We’re volunteering at the VFW this morning,” Eddie explained. “Pancake feed. The — uh — hungry vets thing isn’t a joke. They get pretty passionate about free breakfasts.”
“Yeah,” Steve nodded, his fingers curled tight around the comforter. “And you’re … okay?”
Eddie furrowed his brow. “Okay?”
“With him knowing,” Steve said. “About me?”
Eddie let out a soft laugh, kissing the top of Steve’s head. “Once he figures who you are, he’s gonna say ‘about damn time’ he’s been hearing me whine about you for weeks.”
Steve pushed himself up, looking down at Eddie with a mischievous grin. “Weeks?”
“Months,” Eddie corrected. “And I hate to leave you, but I really got to go help Wayne.”
Steve’s grin softened into a pout. “You don’t want me to come?”
“You want to come with?” Eddie asked. “We’re just cooking breakfast.”
“I’d love to,” Steve said. “I enjoy spending time with you.”
Eddie grinned, leaning forward to kiss the pout off Steve’s lips. “Then let’s go flip some pancakes.”
A few minutes later, they left the trailer to hop in Wayne’s car. Steve’s wearing yesterday’s clothes and Eddie’s in his least offensive t-shirt and jeans.
Wayne leaned over Eddie in the bench seat to look at Steve. “You the Harrington boy? The one from spring break?”
“Yes sir,” Steve agreed cautiously. He knows his last name carried some weight, but it was a burden to carry. Steve was afraid of what Wayne might associate with his name.
Wayne broke out into a grin, leaning back into his seat. “‘Bout damn time, Eds.”
Eddie and Steve have been dating for three months when Eddie introduces Steve to Wayne. Afterwards, Steve is just like, "Oh, wow. Wow. Oh god, he hates me. He hates me, doesn't he?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Eddie asks. "He shook your hand and invited you to stay for dinner."
"Yeah, god. It's so obvious. He hates me," Steve stresses. "Do you think he's going to make you break up with me? He hated me so much. Geez."
"Steve, he doesn't-"
"I've dated a lot of girls, Eddie. That's how dads act when they hate you," He swears. "Fuck, I gotta get out of here. Eddie, I have to go."
"Steve, calm down," Eddie starts. "He doesn't - don't go out the - yep, out the window. There you go. Okay...Bye. Love you!"
Eddie waits two full minutes before he walks out of his bedroom back into the rest of the house and asks, "What the hell, Wayne? You hate my boyfriend?"
"I never said that," Wayne scoffs. "I like the kid. Said he was good for ya. Does that sound like I hate 'em?"
"No," Eddie breaths out. "No, I knew he was making no sense. God, Steve is so weird. I love him, you know?"
"Told him that I loved him," He continues, grinning from behind his hair. "Told him when he was climbing out the window."
"He say it back?"
"No, I don't think he's realized what I said yet. When do you think-"
There's an insistent knock at the door.
Wayne grabs his keys to leave, "Probably about now, I bet."
I need a steddie fic that revolves around Wayne Munson giving Steve a shovel talk only to in the process (or over time) realize Steve’s a hurt soul who never had parent figures that gave a damn about him. I need Steve who uses excessive manners and is trying so hard to prove himself. I need Steve who is scared shitless that Wayne will hurt him. I need Steve who finally breaks and Wayne who realizes this poor kid needs love and proceeds to bring him in.
Bonus points if Wayne absolutely hates Steve at first because he remembers Steve bullied Eddie for years when they were younger.
Bonus points if Wayne absolutely accuses Steve of using Eddie for drugs.
Bonus points if Wayne comes home to Steve and Eddie hanging out and immediately interrogates Steve.
“What’re you doing slummin’ it up trailer trash,?Harrington? I thought you and your family was too damn good for people like us?” Because Steve used to call Eddie trailer trash and Wayne remembers his boy crying over it.
Ughhh bonus points if Steve eventually moves in with the Munson’s because his parents are awful but Steve genuinely begs to pay rent because he doesn’t want to put any more strain on them.
pairing: eddie munson x reader
summary: your car breaks down in a storm -- conveniently (not so conveniently) right down the road from your ex boyfriend's trailer. you're forced to wait the night out with him. a series!!themes & warnings: TENSION, ANGST, arguing, eddie being eddie, youre obv still in love w each other so its yearny
part 2: the storm (2)
You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.
You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.
Obviously, that hadn't worked.
"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.
Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.
The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.
You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.
Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.
The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.
You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.
Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.
“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.
You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.
You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.
Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.
You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.
You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.
The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.
This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.
You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.
The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.
You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.
This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.
But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.
You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--
A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.
No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.
Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.
It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.
You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.
The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.
“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”
The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.
Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.
“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”
“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”
The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.
“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.
He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”
“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.
“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”
The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.
Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.
With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”
You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.
“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”
“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.
He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.
"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"
The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.
“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”
He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”
“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”
The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.
“I’m cold.”
“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”
It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.
You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.
The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.
You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.
“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.
The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.
“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."
The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.
“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.
The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.
Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.
A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.
You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.
You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.
When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.
“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”
You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”
“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”
The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”
He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”
“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”
He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”
“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.
“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”
You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.
"Don't talk shit about Daphne."
He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.
"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."
The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.
“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.
Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.
“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”
Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.
You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”
“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”
The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.
“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”
“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”
You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.
“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.
“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”
The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.
From me.
In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.
The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.
“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”
He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.
You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.
You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.
The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.
You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.
"You cut your hair."
The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.
Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."
He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."
Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.
A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.
"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."
He hummed.
"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"
You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.
"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."
He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.
"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.
"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.
He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.
He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.
"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"
He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.
You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.
"What are you doing?" He snapped.
"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."
He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.
"You're not."
His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.
You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.
"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.
The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.
A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."
The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.
"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."
The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.
Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."
It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.
Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.
A/N: there IS a part 2 to this if you guys liked it. PLEASE lmk :)) i wanted some heartbreaking eddie angst bc i love hurting myself
