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punk-in-docs · 2 years

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🕷 Don’t Need Telling Twice 🕷

Eddie Munson x Reader

10.4k words

Summary: Movie Night at Eddie’s place. All the little things that sneak into the cracks in between new love and affection. So I was intending to get a lot filthier with this but somehow it turned out sweet enough to rot your teeth- Eddie being insecure. Wayne being parental, Pencils being nervous. Let’s see how they iron it out man. (It’s really just me waffling about insight into these two lovebirds)

Saturday morning in your scruffy yet clean kitchen. Stereo cranked high. Melded into your happy place.

The bright slip and drip of the opening guitar licks to ‘Should I stay or should I go.’ Joe’s condescending spitting voice begins. You twirl around with the greased baking sheets in hand.

The kitchen is warm, it’s got this odd glow about it, from the slanted sun gushing in through the cream drapes that have yellow flowers on them. The shabby wood cupboards and the creamy tiles of the breakfast counter with its little peach-pink roses, which is now cluttered with baking trays.

Entirely rose tinted in your view. But you’re blasting the Clash. Loud enough to wake the neighbours.

You’re making cookies for your date tonight. Moms tattered pink apron hanging limp off your body from too many washes. Really it’s a scratchy old thing.

This morning did come around quick. Sunrise like a copper-red wound knifing slashes across the sky. Burning the whole horizon to that fantastic blood orange. You’re too squirmy to sleep. Too excited.

Seeings as you were up early, you put it to use and ran to the store. And now you were knee deep in cookie batter. Chocolate chip. Little starbursts of Cocoa powder and flour dusted everywhere. Head banging, head shaking and hair flicking along to Joe Strummer and his ridiculing tone.

You kick the walnut stained cupboard door closed. It’s wonky and juts out like a stubby tooth snapped off a jaw. It’s always been like that.

Every door in your kitchen creaks. Whines all aged. The appliances have their knacks and sticky tricks that come with years and years worn behind them. Temperamental.

Sure even your whole house is nothing fancy. You’ve never had that much money to scrape together, or give a shit that the whole place is dated. One thing wins favour over all that; your place is cosy.

It’s stuffed with life. Scored deep with it. Consumed. It’s not some ultra chic monotone black-red wasteland. It’s got posters and art on the walls, the crazy bohemian touches that come from your entirely whacky mother.

Sure this house wasn’t all that. But she made it great, and celebrated it in it’s own uniqueness.

Same goes for the best kind of people too. She’d say that to you with a wink.

Handfuls of pennies and some imagination went a long way. Clicking her tongue and shooting you her fierce brand of optimism that seeps out her every pore: eternally unflinching.

A lot of it, this house, echoed its funky warm pattern after the musical, magical, mental, woman who birthed you.

Forever hunting thrift stores for funky things. Weird shaped clocks. The Who posters. 60’s pop art. French Impressionism posters. Stupid cartoon lamps with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck on the shade. Broken and chipped from the Goodwill but she liked that it wasn’t perfect or level.

She bought prints of famous artworks. Degas. Van Gogh. Millet. Flower drawings, or pressed leaves and flowers behind a sheet of glass. Not one piece of furniture matches in your living room. Or any room. The rugs are old and squishy soft, worn to death. It’s whacky to say the least. But you’d take it over any home they’re always flashing from the interior pages of a magazine.

She has blue daisy pillows on the couches. Always buys godawful cheap lemon candles that are all sugar acidic when they burn. But it cements that scent of home to you now.

There’s no inch of wall space not covered by frames or colour. One day she got up and impulsively painted your kitchen a bright buttery yellow. Just because. Flowers stamped everywhere cause she saw the idea in some hippy book.

And she filled this house with second hand books, too many, spilling over with them. She crammed your home with laughter, and literature, arts, and so many idols of your taste in music came from her.

You wouldn’t trade her for the entire world.

Flighty and bonkers as she is. You hate her being away so often, and with Charlie gone off now with her serious boyfriend, it does chip at you on the sadder days. Being here alone. It gouges just that little bit more when she’s not around.

The days when Linda says something particularly cutting, or times when jocks insults jab just that little too deep. You do miss her then. You can’t hate her for it. her job is a real earner and it makes her so happy. She brings you back souvenirs from every little corner of the globe she’s seen. Postcards. Snow globes.

She trusts you. She always says you’re her favourite kid in the world. That she knows of.

She’s not like some of the other Hawkins Moms you’ve seen. Not at all. The ones who all go to the same lousy hairdresser for the ruler straight highlighted bob. Go to Jazzercise on Thursdays. Hate their ignorant husbands. Wear beige cardigans and chunky gold jewellery and are the queen of boring casseroles and insist their kids be in bed by nine.

Then there’s her. Jagged and wound down and much looser. Etched in coolness. Less controlled - more quirky. Crazy hair even on a good day. Cherry ice cream smile. Young by their standards. Berkeley dropout. Strolling around in her suede fringed jacket and a Patti Smith t-shirt and boot cut jeans.

You’ve always seen the way other moms raised their brows at her appearance. They think she’s trashy. A single mom who dresses and eats and acts the way she does.

Scoffing behind her back at the rhinestone jacket or her vintage cowboy boots. She’s punchy. She doesn’t give two shits. She loves both her kids passionately and would be the first to swing a punch, split her knuckles open for you. Always in your corner. No matter what.

She had you both so young and braved through your dad walking out. Good riddance. He never did have the balls to do the important shit.

She told you that once you were just on the cusp of being old enough to understand why he wasn’t around.

Told you as she wrapped her arms around you and engulfed you in a hug. Smelling like Yves Saint Laurent Paris and gold Newports. She kissed the top of your head.

He couldn’t hack responsibility babe. He had his chance. Too bad he blew it. Cause I happen to think you’re the coolest pair of kids in the world.

She bucked up and scraped money together and it stung a bit sure. Pinched the corners of life at times. But she turned the back of her Brooke Shields shiny hair to the stares she gets in this town. Flipped the bird to those Carol’s and Susan’s who dared to judge her.

Somehow they thought she was a deadbeat mom. But she’s now raised two honour roll kids. First Charlie. Now you.

You’re on track for Indie State. Charlie went to Purdue. She said she’d love you even if you wanted to flip burgers or fix greasy old clunker cars for a living.

The phone shrills out loud as you’re scooping sticky chocolate chip dough into the greased sheets. It clumped between your fingers.

“Hang on.” You call out with no patience to the ringing, as you lean over to pluck it from the wall. Cradle it between your shoulder and ear. Trying to locate a dish rag for your smeared messy hands.

“Yeah.” Figured it would be someone for Mom, or a telemarketer.

“How’s it hangin, Pencils.”

Immediately a grin bursts on your lips. It’s Pavlovian. He smiles. You echo it.

You hear his voice? Ok then. Your stomach flew to bits. All fluttery like confetti.

“Well well well. If it isn’t my favourite metal head.” You say as you balance your trays down. Bumping the counter with your hip.

He chuckles through the phone. You hear the crackle of his exhale. You can picture his smile and it’s doing something to your guts that is just, crazy.

“Hey, c’mon now. Play fair. You never told me you were seeing other metal heads? I bet it’s that lanky haired bastard from the pizza place on Beechwood Drive, in his Slayer tees.” He twirled the old green phone cord around his finger. It clacks around that chunky silver ring of his.

He’s so quick to step up and play around and you love it. You can hear the jokiness layered on his voice. Hear him moving around cause staying still is his worst nightmare. Typical Eddie.

God. Look at you. You’re both twirling the phone cords around your fingers like middle school girls. Crushes thick in your throats and smiles. Choking your hearts fully. Paper airplanes tossed with love notes folded inside. Initials crossed together in a pink love-heart.

“Yeah.” You tease. “But his hair isn’t as great as yours. And don’t you know by now that I’ve got guys lined up around the block. I’ve had to have a ticket booth installed.” You pick up your wooden spoon to mix.

“Oh I’m so sorry, Linda. I thought I rang my pencils.” You hear the soft scuff of his laugh.

“Hang on one second, my lipgloss needs refreshing.” You pout. “And I feel like I should be singing ‘If I only had a brain’.”

He beams and it’s so wide his cheeks hurt.

“That’s not the Wizard of Oz I’m hearing over there pencils, right?” He deciphers.

“Saint Joe of Strummer. Our lord and saviour.” You tell him proudly. Cursing when you splodge a little of the sticky dough on the countertop. Looking around for the dish rag.

“I’m of the Anti-Christ church myself. Ozzy is my devil and I’m bound to obey.” He leers. His voice drops and it slithers between your legs to hear it get deep.

“Mmm. Sounds kinky.” You flirt. Trying your hardest not to drop dough on your bare toes where you’re scooping it to the tray. He’s a great distraction to your focus.

“If you’re into blood play and satanic practices baby, I got some great news for ya.” He fiddles with the empty microwave packets on the kitchen counter.

Chicken pot pie from two nights ago. The Kraft mac n’ cheese that he shovels down like air. Usually scraping it out the pan, eating it with a too big wooden spoon. As he reads a rock magazine at the kitchen counter.

“Sadly no. Dungeon stuff only. Oh and leather. Face masks. Lots of whipping too. And biting.” You tease.

“Hang on. Lemme get a pen and some paper… I’ll make a note…” He rustles around like he’s actually searching for it. Wiry body with the twisted phone cord wrapped around his torso.

You smile at his eagerness to please you.

“I don’t think you need to take notes, Munson. Last time was pretty sensational.” You blush. Mixing your batter and flirt is creeping onto your lips.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Jesus. You’ve no idea. It’s been driving me crazy. I should be committed. Look, I couldn’t even wait til tonight to hear your voice. I-“ He sighs in wanting. His tongue was tripping away from him. He drew back. Worried he was being too much.

He couldn’t wait. He had to call you.

“Munson. You never have to be sorry for calling me.”

Cause, I fucking like you.

“You know, you can call me Eddie. Pencils.”

“First name basis? How brazen.” You rib.

“Yeah, later on I was planning to show you my ankles. Risqué or what?” He flirts. You chuckle.

He’s wandering over to the window and flicking the curtain aside with his fingertips to see the same old drab and murky Forest Hills staring back at him.

“What would the village elders say-“ You gasp. “My reputation will be in tatters.”

“Not possible. Your name isn’t Linda.”

“I may have to kiss you for that one.” You warn.

“I’m very open to that.” He says very quickly. Twirling a packet of reds around the shiny surface of the table. Considering lighting one up. The rush of your voice is his nicotine until he hangs up.

You close a cupboard door and Eddie’s ears perk at the sound. “Learning drums over there?” He seeks.

“I’m baking.” You offer up.

Phone at your shoulder and between your ear still as you mix the dough with your other hand to fold in the chocolate chips. Shaking the packet and watching the chips fall. Plinking into the thick batter. It’s very messy and clumsily done.

“Tell me you’re wearing a tiny pink Betty Crocker apron?” He all but purrs down the phone. Licking his lips.

“It’s pink and frilly.” You drawl.

“Mmm. More-“ He rasps down directly down the phone. Grinning. Holds it right to his mouth to talk louder into the receiver.

“Pretty heels too. Lacquered hair like Donna Reed. Whole shebang.”

“Fuck.” He twirls hair around his finger. Almost bites down on his skull ring.

“The images in my head are so unmatched right now. You’ve no idea.” He charms.

“Damn.” He moans again. It’s low and it strikes a direct chord with your pussy.

Shit. You’ve had delicious filthy dreams about those moans. Your hands on that hard dick of his.

“Yeah and don’t forget my strand of pearls.” You grin.

He splutters. Oh he could give you pearls if you wanted them. It’s what he’s been dreaming of.

Such a horny boy.

“You’re the perfect date you know. Kinky as fuck, into whipping and leather. But pearls and baking.”

“You don’t even know what I’m baking-“

“You say pot brownies pencils, I’m gonna go out right this second and buy a goddamned ring.”

“Remember the four C’s. Colour. Clarity. Carat. Cut.”

“Shit. You want a diamond? Hmm I was thinking more along the lines of a pop ring. More in my budget. Or maybe something out the claw machine in the arcade.” He bargains.

“I like a man who puts in the effort. And, hey I’m not picky. I’ll take it. Diamonds are way overrated anyhow.” You decide.

“And just to lay your mind at rest I’m making Extra Chocolate, chocolate chip cookies.”

He cradled his aching throbbing heart. Hand splayed over his chest. Made a groaning noise like he was mortally wounded. A crackle of the sigh rattled the phone.

“Alright. You’re officially too good for me. I’m gonna have to hang up.” He jokes. You laugh.

You really hope he doesn’t.

“Don’t do that.” You ask quietly. “I need to talk to someone sensate. I beg of you.” You urge. “I had to listen to Linda bitch all the way home on Friday about how low fat ice cream sucks, and how much she wants to bang James Spader in Pretty in Pink.”

“Wow that really says a lot about her taste in guys.” He commented. She really was Tiffany-twisted, that girl. Wrapped up in her own over groomed looks, bouncy blonde curls, and sex life. Lived by rules out of Cosmo magazine and fad diets.

“My ears wanted to commit suicide by the time I got home. Thank god cause as I got out the car she started to mention the words sleepover and boyfriend and I just about had the sanity to slam the car door, before anymore came out.”

“Wise move baby.” He beamed.

You preened at the nickname that did dirty things. Finally you now had the cookies ready for the oven.

“Alright...” You clunked the wooden mixing spoon down. “First wave of troops going in. I’ll you know their condition after battle. Hopefully they make a worthy addition to our night as I am trying to impress you with my passably mediocre baking skills.” You charm.

“Hey don’t practice too hard now. You know us guys like em stoopid.” He puts on a southern-belle twang.

“If you can navigate yawself round a tree girlie. Keep on walkin. Them slick city fellers can have ya.” He drawls.

Your laugh makes his whole mood hop into giddy.

“You’re such a goof.” You smile. He couldn’t wait to see that grin of yours in person again. In a mere handful of hours-

“I didn’t need another incentive to be impressed by you, pencils...” He smiles. Tone slipping back into genuine. “Already there.” He offers.

Before you can respond. Hurricane Munson struck elsewhere.

“And uh, Whatever condition those troops are in. I’ll take it. I’m not picky either. Charlie. Tango. Bravo.”

“Good.” You answer. Twiddling with the corner of the dish cloth. Fondness settled like warm oozy mush on your chest. Inescapable.

You could spend hours down the phone listening to Eddie crack his jokes. Twirl around. Get distracted. Put on stupid drama club voices like he was at Hellfire

“There aren’t trees in the way of your trailer are there? Cause I won’t be able to navigate round them all on my own.” You joke in reference to his earlier remark.

“You’re the perfect lady.” He sighs in a sweet hum.

“Oh and uh, I picked the movies for tonight.” He suddenly announced. Sounding cheeky. Brimming with it.

“Yeah?” You asked with inflection. “Yeah.” He answered. With none.

“You’re not gonna tell me are you?” You clued up.

“Leave me to have my wicked wicked fun.”

“VHS tease.” You complained all snarky.

“Scoot your pretty ass over here and come see for yourself you coward.” He dares. Tongue tipped out between his smiling teeth.

“Six still good?” You check. Up on your tiptoes and swirling around the tiled floor. Stomach swooping with anticipation.

“Golden.” He answers.

“Guess I’ll see you then. I’ll be the one in the skirt.”

He sucks air through his teeth. “Ah same here. I hope we don’t clash.”

“Bye, Edward.” You joke. He gasps.

“Mm. Definitely gonna have to let you see my ankles now.” Comes his voice. Smile traced on it. You could tell.

“I’m counting the minutes.” You dip your voice low.

“See ya.” He parts. Slinging the phone back into it’s cradle on the wall. Smile charged to megawatt from your conversation. He wants to twirl and flip his hair. Goddamnit. He couldn’t keep still.

Then he drags his eyes to his surroundings. The crushed beer cans crumpled up on the kitchen counter, and the coffee table. The overflowing ashtrays. Trash in the kitchen. The dishes. The laundry strewn sofa. The dust- he chews his lip.

It was like he was seeing this place through fresh eyes. And it needed rectifying. He rolled up his sleeves.

Shit. He needed to hustle.

It was fair to say Wayne and Eddie had to grow used to living with each other.

The veil of constancy was Eddie’s safety blanket when it came to the gruff and earnestly stoic man, that was Wayne Munson; he pretty much remained himself. Didn’t change much.

Liked his bacon crispy. Made a peach cobbler that would blow your socks off til next Tuesd ay, but couldn’t assemble a sandwich neatly at all. Used to drive big semi trucks across the states. Did the crossword in the Hawkins Gazette. Adored Billie Holiday. Collected comical mugs. Liked strong coffee with cinnamon and had a dislike for cilantro. Loved old spaghetti westerns and that twanging soft country music he always hums too, which had carved space out of his soft-soppy Tennessee heart.

He had hatred for people with nasty gossiping sniping souls. Ugliness born inside, he thinks people don’t ever shift it on or lose that. He worked his fingers to the bone for the modest home and the little money they raked by on. He was unfailingly honest and generous. He had few words to give. He was Eddie’s weather-beaten yet reliable rock.

Eddie can imagine that Wayne getting to know him was more of a challenge; tricky to navigate; herding cats, walking on-knives-and-eggshells kind of difficult. How do you get to know someone when their character is set on shifting sand?

Thing is. Eddie never really changed that much.

He’s still the starry-eyed kid leaping on the couch, shredding air guitar to Metallica in filthy sneakers cause the moment just ran away with him. He’s the one making a huge show of not stepping on cracks in the pavement cause he’s down enough as it is. Not breaking mirrors, ever, and picking up sidewalk spilt pennies. And apologising and stepping over weeds in the trailer lot. Not trampling them underfoot.

Eddie was still the boy inside that felt bad for struggling weeds. The one to feel sorry for a squashed little dandelion.

Wayne wrenched open this home to this kid as a stranger. Barbs and shame-wrapped guilt set in his heart that he didn’t know his brothers own kid better than he did. He kept to his lane. He stayed out the way of his brothers numerous convictions. Remained a stranger to trouble.

But then, when need came knocking; he offered up, no questions asked. The way a bird offered the gentle lift of their wing, to something foreign needing shelter, in a warm bramble nest, from the raging storm.

Eddie will never forget the first words he heard out of Wayne’s mouth. Around the corner of some bland police precinct. Warm. Firm. Dependable.

“He’s my family. He’s blood. That’s enough. Kindly let me see him.”

He didn’t regret stepping up to bat for one minute. Maybe he’s grouchy and he’d never fully ‘get’ or approve of everything his nephew did, or enjoyed. But he didn’t chew him out, or pick at him for it.

He learned what flavour pop tarts Eddie liked best for breakfast. When he needed sleep or help. When he needed space. When to warn him to watch his attitude, or his mouth, or manners, and when to back off. Parental things.

Eddie was a stale eyed kid when he first met Wayne. Perhaps innocent and maybe just jaded enough to see beyond the rose-tinted prism of childhood. He was jaggedy-rough round the edges and not worn into himself yet. Caught up in the hard knocks of social care and down-and-out on his luck, as a mostly unwanted eight year old. That stuck some nasty pins in his ego pretty early on.

Wayne could see how Eddie kept expecting to be shuffled on elsewhere. Big shining eyes that a puppy would envy under a scruff mop of hair. Clutching all he had for dear life. His scruffy collection of tattered comics and stubby pencils and half broken toys.

Kept looking around the trailer like he shouldn’t get too attached. Sat gingerly on the edge of the sagging bed. Shouldn’t make mess or get comfy. Cause soon, he’ll have to pack his scrappy things into that sad cardboard box and eek out a wobbling lipped goodbye. Sad that home hadn’t stuck, again.

Eddie kept that empty scruffy little box sat in the bottom of his closet for six months. Just in case.

Wayne threw that box right in the trash.

Bought him a beat up old turntable. Put a shelf up in his room and a stood a few second hand fantasy paperback books on it. Bought him a few new things that didn’t belong to someone else first.

Wayne watched Eddie fall into stability. To learn how to put roots down. Grow steady and then in quick spurts, into who he was. In that way kids do. The way they grow into clothes that were too big. Shoes that would eventually fill out to fit their steps.

He watched the love of music come blasting in. Middle school. Rolling Stones magazines. Catching Black Sabbath on the radio one day. The appreciation for that loud thrashing dirty-steel rock he now loves. The one that ran vein deep. His idols with the crazy scruffy long hair. He discovered Ozzy and Axl, Judas Priest and Lemmy.

Watched him sew on badges that he bought for pennies at dime stores, and get bloody fingertips cause he really was useless at needlework. Found his signature rings at a cool vintage place outta state. Watched him saw off the arms of his denim jacket and come home with a swing in his step and a DIO shirt from the goodwill - a twinkle in his eye. Determination threaded in this burgeoning passion. Tip of the iceberg.

A plan Wayne. I have a well executed, thorough plan. Foolproof.

Mmmhmm. Is this gonna end up exactly like the last plan you had, kid?

Let’s find out.

Gone from the sweet boy who was too scared of everything, and everyone boring, and being judged, and now he’s turned inside out, full circle, to become this genuinely sweet young man, who turned against that boring tide of beige normalcy.

Eccentric and whirly with the unfocused energy that never burned out. Dynamite blaze kid. Even when he tried to hide scrapes on his knees, and raw knuckles. A shiner that he let his shaggy fringe cover, from an attempt to fight and claw back.

He still gave Wayne that shocking toothy grin with a fat lip and a busted nose, cause he was actually stupid proud of himself - and the way he stuck up for some freshman. The tiny nerdy one who had a carton of milk poured over his head by the meat head jocks. Having pages ripped out his science textbooks by them and spread to the wind like leaves.

Eddie sat beside the newbie with bleeding raw knuckles, cracked jokes, sellotaped those torn pages back together - wonky. Just to show that someone out there, cared.

The smiles became armour, devil horns and Gene Simmons tongue. The hair started to grow out into rioting curls. Doe eyes glinted promiscuity; to those who didn’t know him well enough to know there was no shred of malice anywhere in him.

Eddie collected parts of himself, the way someone would laundry plucked off the line- like the badges and pins he secured on his chest and flashed around for fun.

He found his first DND board and his dice at a yard sale. And then came that sweet head-muzzy strain of Colombia gold, and Reefer Rick and light frothy cans of beer on an empty stomach. He found acceptance. Ripped jeans and scuffed knees. The exquisite pin pricks of a scratchy tattoo the day he turned 18. Asked if he could wear the old sagging leather jacket he found hung in the back of the closet, from Wayne’s younger and more hip days.

The way he went full bonkers-gaga over seeing his 24 fret NJ warlock in the window of a music store in town. Bursting big heart eyes over it and saving up for months. Awfully tempted by the idea of some piercing, somewhere, but nearly fainted when he got in the shop. So that was the end of that. He founded Hellfire and he protected his fellow freaks. Scraped together his high school band.

Collected the little lost sheepies in armfuls, in bunches, so that no one within his reaches would ever have to sit and console that festering hungry chasm of being an unwanted kid, with nowhere to turn.

Cause Eddie knew well enough, it was a bottomless gremlin pit with gnashing teeth, and it would take take take as long as you bothered to feed it.

And all that learning and comfiness, and living, now it currently tapered down to Wayne not being at all surprised, by watching his nephew shaking frail little spindly spiders out into the doormat, talking soothingly to them.

Shooing them out off the glossy pages of his rock music magazine. Telling them to get used to the brave new world of Forest Hills outside these four walls.

“-And kudos by the way for eating the flies. Appreciate you for that. Sorry I’ll have to take down those cobwebs. Consider this your eviction notice.” As he jimmied the last one off the paper and it crinkled noisily. Bracelet on his wrist jingling.

Wayne is peering over the shield of his paper. Coffee steaming away in a chipped Snoopy mug by his side. Cigarette dangling from his fingers. Watching Eddie crouch right at the mouth of the trailer door. Holding it open and watching the insects lope away in new brave directions.

Pieces of clarity started to to swim together when he takes a look at Eddie’s clothes.

Different to his normal threads on a Saturday night; Either he’s kicking his feet into reeboks, shouldering on his leathers and vest to go out a party at some place, and come back reeking of grass and beer breath. Or; he’s shuffling around in his thread bare plaid pyjama pants and a ratty AC/DC tee, asking what’s for dinner through a smeary eyed yawn.

This is neither; he straightened up to go and neatly return the magazine to his room, as opposed to throwing it down to rest in any old place. Odd.

Wayne took notice of his clothes. Black jeans that were suspiciously clean of ash stains or frayed knee holes. His long sleeved black skull tee rolled up to his elbows, ink on display. Chest blazoned with a band name he’s never heard of, and down the sleeve too in gothic red. His hair was all fluffed up - like he’d finally discovered what a comb was.

Eddie saunters back into the room. Flitting from place to place. Shoving beer cans in a bulging garbage bag. Along with empty crushed food packets that he left out. Sweeping crumbs off the counter with his bare hands. Probably over the floor but the effort was there- picking cigarette butts off the floor that he was careless enough to drop.

And Wayne didn’t even have to shoot his usual look, clearing his throat at him, about that nasty habit. He was clearing up entirely on his own. Without prompt.

He was rushing. Rushing was the antithesis of Eddie’s speed. A thin film of sweat on his brow under that choppy lollop of a fringe. He’s crammed garbage bags full. Shoving stuff inside.

Says something under his breath that sounds like “shit” as he darts back into his room. Wallet chain jangling behind him. Socked feet thudding softly on the carpets.

He keeps an ear open for what sounds like commotion. Frantic tidying. The shuffling of clothes by the armful. Closet doors shutting with a thwack. He talks to his guitar as he hums and tidied.

“I know I know. Sweetheart. I should have done this earlier. Don’t look at me like that…”

He rounds up his dirty clothes and does a sniff test - again. That was the third time tonight.

Movement clattering along the hall. Socked feet storm back to the washer. He’s stuffing an armful of mostly all black clothing into it like he’s trying to dispose of body parts in there. Ramming in so much he has to shut the door quick.

“Rat bastard.” He hissed after he shook the dream fresh laundry powder in and slams it shut. Punches it for good measure. His rings clack on the metal-metal contact. Shook his fist out I n the air cause that hurt more than he thought it would.

Now he’s back to the trash bags in the kitchen. Looping them up and walking across the door to dump them outside in the garbage cans. Hopping across the sharp gravel in socked feet like a jumping hare.

Wayne sees that determined set in his brow as the door snaps open and back in slams Eddie at a million miles a second. Frowning at everything he sees. Sloped brows. Mouth curled into a grimace.

He comes to empty the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table near Wayne. Well, it was an old soup can that somehow turned into an ashtray. Annoyed that he missed it. Muttering to himself. Scooping away dust. It was like watching a one man ant farm.

This led to him now being stood on the couch, suddenly reorganising the shelf behind it. Batting cobwebs away from mugs and wiping a hand on his jeans.

“Jesus. I mean how dusty is this place?” Eddie asks to no one in particular. Not expecting an answer.

Silence. Rustling.

Wayne folds up his paper and nicely slaps it down on the arm beside him. Folds his hands in his lap. “Eddie.”

Eddie turns around like a doe eyed deer caught in semi headlights. Twisted at the waist. Back of his shirt riding up over his lithe waist. Peek of his back and his plaid red boxer band showing over the back of his jeans.

The bony notches of his spine poke through skin where he’s leaning over. He blinks owlishly at his uncle. One foot braced on the back of their elderly moth-eaten couch.

“What the hell you doin?” Wayne asks with kind bewilderment. Shaking his head at his kid.

“Spring cleaning?”

Wayne’s eyes narrow as he lifts his hand up and sucks on his cigarette. “Sure?” He checks.

“No?” Comes the answer. Carefully. Wincing. Wayne takes a breather.

“There’s cobwebs. And, dust.” He explained. Pointing to the wall before him. “Look see, dust.”

“Why the sudden aptitude for household chores there, huh?” Wayne asks as he nurses his cooling coffee.

To his shame they don’t exactly keep the place pristine. He tries his best, but on some days work takes it clean outta him. Eddie’s room resembled a garbage tip bomb-site most likely.

Eddie swallows. “You know. Just- some light maintenance.” He shrugs. That was the most plausible answer his brain spat out upfront.

“On a Saturday night?”

“I’m um, totally slammed on Sunday.” He admits. Clapping off his hands.

“Kid. How stupid do you think I am. Because frankly, all I’ve seen, is all I need to see. If you get my drift.”

Eddie turns away and continues his frantic cleaning. Polishing a mug with his shirt sleeve.

“I have… guests… coming over tonight.” If he makes it plural maybe he can get away with it.

“Your DND club.” Wayne guesses. This earns a snort from the metalhead.

“I once saw Gareth eat pizza off the canteen floor. Like I’d bother dusting here for those doofuses.” He grins.

“Then question remains; who are you dusting, and laundry-doing and taking out the spiders for?” Wayne leans forward and asks. Scratching the stubble at the side of his grizzled jaw.

Eddie clings to silence. Which he never does. Never ever does this boy exist without noise bursting out his mouth. Looks like a sheepish kid again.

Wayne’s gaze meets his. ‘Well?’

Cause he would support whomever Eddie chose to bring home. Girl or boy, or undecided. He’s no dummy. He’s got eyes in his head. He’s seen things. The little quirky tics in Eddie’s character when he likes someone. He knows his kid pretty darn well enough by now.

“A girl.” Eddie concludes turning away, like it was casual, cool, and nothing to get worked up over. No biggie. Just… the girl of my dreams. So what? I can be casual about this. It’s totally fine. And normal. Normally fine.

“A girl.” Wayne nods.

“Change this record. It’s skipping.” Eddie leers. Pointing a funny wagging finger at his relative.

“This girl. She royalty or something.”

Eddie cuts a look. It’s just bordering on grumpy and peeved.

“Listen, she ain’t coming to inspect the place or audit us. A little dust and clutter isn’t gonna put her off spending time with you, now is it.”

Eddie sighs. Itched the back of his head. Screwed his eyes shut.

“No. See man. I wanted to be presentable. Cause when she walks in this trailer, she’s gonna be expecting me to look and act like sleazy, greasy trailer trash. And I just. Wanna-“ he clenched his fists.

“Just wanna be….presentable.” He mumbled. Repeating. As he softly scuffed the couch arm with his foot. He sighed. Rubbed a dusty knuckle in his eye until stars scrawled black and bursting.

“Goddd. Look at me. I’ve showered twice. And I untangled the knots out my hair. I used that fancy bar soap I got for xmas that smells like lemons. I brushed my teeth for a whole two minutes. May have used a splash of your cologne. That stung like hell by the way.” He added naughtily. Pinching the collar of his shirt in two fingers and flapping it up and down to cool himself off.

“I’m sweaty. My hair feels itchy. I don’t know what I’m gonna say. She’s gonna be stunning, and awesome and I feel like I’m having a heart seizure or probably a stroke over here. I don’t know man. Fuck-“

Wayne let’s him get it out. As he’s learned with Eddie sometimes it’s best. He often just needed a ramble. To let his tongue lash til he ran dry.

He kicked the couch again. Harder. Still standing up tall on it.

“What’s she like, this girl. She into the same kinda stuff as you?” Wayne enquired.

It dipped muzzily into his big soft heart seeing Eddies mouth hooked right up into a petite smile when he asked about you. One side curls.

“No she’s, uh, she likes Punk music and Bowie, Talking Heads, Billy Idol, and like, you should hear her, she talks about all these artists and shit I’ve never heard of. It’s amazing-“

She’s entirely too good for the likes of me.

“She’s so cool. Effortlessly cool y’know?- And creative?! She likes scary movies and she works in the record store. She hates jocks. I cannot believe she’s actually bothering to look twice at a moron like me. Super senior, King of the freaks.” He jabs his fingers into his bony skull clad chest.

Because Eddie didn’t think it was exactly a secret that flunk out’s like him, were never exactly crawling in babes, or cramming in dates on the weekends.

“I really like her.” He mumbled openly. Wiping palms on his jeans. That’s what this effort all whittled down too.

He couldn’t meet Wayne’s eyes as he said it. It seemed to good to be true. His hopes were so little. Floundering seeds.

He wanted this to go well. He whirled his eyes elsewhere and fidgeted through his words. Typical Eddie.

“I gathered as much from your general-“ Wayne waved his hand around in the air of the living room and towards the kitchen “…Running round. Giving me whiplash just watching you, kid.” He stubs out his cigarette.

Eddie stays where he is. Stood couch top. Absorbing the information Wayne fed him.

“Why don’t you get down from there. Leave the dusting the hell alone. And just relax.” He soothes. Always a balm to the frizzy fraying nerves.

Eddie looks like it could be a trap if he dares to let himself chill out. You say it like it’s easy.

“She must like you to come all the way out here to spend time with you. Just be yourself. I guarantee you, that’s what she’s interested in. Not the state of this place.” He shifts in his chair and groans a little. Adjusts his legs.

Eddie let’s out a huff. Slumps down the sofa and throws his body onto it. Crazy hair flicking after he moved. It’s fluffier too. Some lame attempt at his own hands to pretty it up from its usual insanity.

“What you guys planning on doing?” He seeks. Sips his coffee. Distraction worked well, too. He often found.

“Ordering pizza and watching a couple movies.” Eddie says up to the ceiling. Scanning for cobwebs. Fiddling with the rings on one hand. One knee twitching up and down.

He had the stack of videos ready on top of the TV. Night of the Living Dead. Nightmare on Elm Street. And then Ghostbusters for something undeniably cheesy. The microwave popcorn in the kitchen. A number for the pizza place hemmed in on the fridge with magnets, as per usual.

Wayne makes a soft noise at the back of his throat at hearing that. A smile creeps on his lips. He idly reads the folded back of his paper.

“What?” Eddie quizzes.

Wayne’s smile grows if anything.

“I may be an old man. But I was young once. I do happen to know what that means.” He stared Eddie down in that parental way.

“You’re gonna be careful with this girl, right. Safe sex ain’t no joke.”

That did it.

“Aww man, c’mon.” Eddie choked, cringing, as he launched himself up out the sofa and quickly scurried away like a jangly pillar of goth black missile. Aimed sharpish in another direction.

“It’s a first date, by the way. I’m not gonna be breaking out the condoms and whistles and bells here.” He lets out.

He’s shaking his head and losing himself in the confines of his room. Music is softly shredding out the low stereo. Alice Coopers ‘Welcome to my Nightmare’ sneers softly into his room. He cranks it up.

Wayne stood up. Smiling and shaking his head in making his kid cringe. Gathering his things for work. Walking to the kitchen slowly to empty the dregs of his cup. Leave it in the sink for later. He grabs his things as he walks on past the front door. Heavy work boots crushing soft on the carpets and then the lino.

He walks right up to Eddie’s door, peers into the clustered metal gilded mess of his room.

Shocked to notice he could actually see the floor. And the raunchy pin ups were safely shepherded away inside the closet. The playboy magazines he pretends he doesn’t know about shoved under the bed. The dresser and side tables were still messy as. There’s been an attempt at making the bed. The sheets are straightened and tucked in.

“Listen now, you’re 20 year old man, and you have a zipper. I won’t say any more than that. But you best play it safe. Y’hear?”

“NO.” Eddie fairly shrieks.

“Not listening anymore.” Comes the answer as he faffs around and pretends to be busy with some things in his closet.

“Eddie.” Wayne smiles.

He turns back around and stands up. Expression of limited enthusiasm.

“Wayne. I am the town fuck up in a lot of ways. But not in this way.” He marched back to his bedside. Throws the blue Trojan condom packet up in the air and catches it. A silent ‘see?’

His uncles brow crooks up. Shuffling his wallet into his jeans. Pulling on his heavy fleece lined denim jacket. “Jeez. Those things still in date?”

Eddies face falls.

“They expire?” He flips the packet and looks at the back.

“Lord. I am gettin out of here. Save me some pizza would ya.” Wayne dismisses with a shake of his old head.

This high school romance thing was better left a young man’s game.

Eddie thinks he forgets how to breathe, when the buttery headlights of your car slant into the big window of the trailer.

He poked his head out the door earlier. The air is cool out tonight. Hung with moisture, so thick you could sip at it. Icy cold like a dirty clear martini. The kind of night that bloats up and leaves the taste of wet grass on your tongue.

The headlights are a sobering neon yellow under the cushy spring night that was churning slowly in dregs and streaks, to a violet. Lilac bathed air punched with cold. One of those night slow nights that gets slipped into dark majesty, and the stars cluster bright like winking pearls.

Eddie’s eyes have been on the windows for an hour. He’s paced groves in this thick matted carpet, he’s sure of it. Eyes set on the windows like he’s on a mission. Trying not to chew his nails. Got him acting like a pound mongrel waiting for their owner to come home.

The car lights flick off. Engine cuts dead.

And now he can hear the slam of your car door. His heart rockets into overdrive with scary amounts of adrenaline and stabbing excitement that will, he’s sure, undeniably make a moron out of him before then night is out.

You’re stepping up the creaky porch. He knows those snaps and shifts of the old steps. You’re knocking on his door.

He takes a deep breath. Fills his crappy sentimental lungs, that he placated with a cigarette, twenty ache filled minutes ago.

He cannot open the door fast enough, and the sight of you the other side, roundhouse whirls into his chest. Smacks right between the ribs. Fists him by the front of his t-shirt and yanks-

You’re like that song Wayne hums and taps his feet too, when he makes eggs on a Sunday mo rning. ‘Like being hit by a falling tree, woman, woman what you do to me.’

“Ah woman bearing beer. You’re definitely welcome inside.” He grins. Leaning against his door.

He thinks he keeps on imagining how pretty you are. But here you stand with the cheap orange light of the trailer washing back over you, haloing your body like a wash of heaven, and he’s gotta remember not to stare.

You’ve brushed this smoky-sparkly purple eyeshadow on. Nightshade purple like the sky out tonight. Big lashes all dark too. Your lips are pink shiny and glossy. (You so totally stole a tube from Linda, naughty pencils)

You’re wearing a brown corduroy skirt and a black polo neck. Long brown leather boots up to your calves. Your hair is so silky. Eyes shimmering this angel honey warmth at him.

You’re holding an eggshell coloured plate of Saran-wrapped cookies. Piled high and dark chocolate. In your other hand you have a six pack of coors and something else-

“Best part?” You begin.

You hold something up, tilt your head and there’s that smile.

The thing you hold, it’s all canine teeth and fake tufts of hair. Two triangle ears. Tacky acetic smell of plastic. “For the Heist.”

A wolf man mask. A smile leaps onto his lips.

“You think of everything.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Got yours I hope Pencils?” He asks with a levelled look as he widens the door for you to step in.

“It’s in the car. Messes up my hair.” You shrug. You climb up the last uneven wedge of a step and move to come inside.

“Hey.” You smile. He liked that you goofed around first. Went traditional greeting second.

“Hey back.” He said softly. Pretty smile all wide. Espresso dark eyes fixed unendingly on your face.

You nervously chew your lip and gaze down. You want to lean over and kiss his cheek but didn’t want to overstep or be weird about it.

You clunkily flounder on the doormat. Self doubt lingers on your fingertips. You wish you could just escape into the confidence to lean over and kiss him like you did the other night. But then you had a belly of vodka and Dutch courage backing you up.

Decide hand him over the plate of cookies. He can smell the cocoa and sugar sneaking out when he takes the thing off you. “For you-“ you gift.

“Troops made it. Well done boys.” It makes you chuckle. Wiggles the plate in one hand and talks to the cookies.

“Hope you got a sweet tooth. I made so many.”

“Always.” He answers to your enquiry. “My diet is 98% Oreos and mini powdered donuts.” He beams.

You nudge the beers in your hand too. “Fridge?”

He takes them off you gently. “Yeah, here, gimme.” He bundled them up and stepped past you. The door snapped shut behind him and you took in the space as Eddie padded to the fridge.

You smile as you gaze around the walls. The scratchy orange curtains. The warmness of the lamps splashing up light. A very well beloved couch and all the mug keepsakes and hats on the walls. It’s cosy. It’s a home. Capital H. Just like yours. You can see that from one glance.

The Campbell’s soup can used as an ashtray cause the actual red glass ashtray next to it was overflowing with pocket junk. The plaid shirts yet to be ironed, crumpled somewhat clumsily in a laundry basket. Some sepia family pictures tacked to the space above the counter where the sun won’t bleach them. The red pansy pattern on the sofa that clashes with the lone saggy yellow throw pillow. The marbled malty brown carpet.

A place that sure wasn’t fancy, but had character and warmth in swathes more than anything designer and clinical green money could buy. It’s a sagging trailer sure, no hiding that. But you imagine with a cold shower of outside patting at the roof, these friendly yellow walls would swallow you up in their charming blanket of old cigarettes, male cologne and powder dreamy detergent. Some scratchy record playing blues and a snuggly throw on that couch, it would be a sort of enclosing haven.

“It’s uh- not much. But… a place to crash or to hang your hat, as Wayne says.” Eddie trails off. Setting the cookies on the counter. Nodding in jest towards the numerous baseball caps.

“I like it. Honestly. You should see my house. Moms hippy-bohemian posters and pretty strange sense of interior decor reigns strong.” You tell him.

“I’d like to see that.” He says as he clunks beers in the ancient whirring fridge. You smile over at him. You nod and share eye contact.

“Come through the front door this time though, perhaps. Save your ass from that thorny rose bush.” You encourage warmly.

“Awh. You’re worried about the state of my ass.” He preens. Leans against the counter and gives you moony eyes.

“Damn right. Someone’s got to be.” You answer back.

“Thank heaven it’s you.” He simpers. Smile

Slowly crawls up and your stomach warms all dizzy. You bite your lip.

“Drink?” He offers. Hands splayed over the counter. “We got Pepsi, ginger ale.”

“Actually, a beer would be great.” You nod. Cold buzz light give you some courage to finally bump your mouth to those soft sweet lips you adore. And had missed.

You should have done it tonight the second he opened the door. Damn politeness. You should’ve sprung on him.

“Two beers. Coming up.” He grins. Drums the counter with open slaps of his hands. Dives for the fridge.

You unzip your boots. Worried about getting wet marks on the floor.

“Princess. Your shoes are probably cleaner than this carpet.” Eddie explains wryly from behind the fridge.

Coming back to see you standing into the mushy carpet in your bare feet. Painted toes mulberry purple. Sparkles glitter gritty over the deep paint.

“It’s the principle of the thing now, Munson.” You say as you toe them off. Stuff your socks inside. You place them by the door and wander over to the jut of the counter. Standing the other side looking at him. His skin itches and leaps with the realisation of your smiling at him. He more than likes it.

He’s got the beers before him. Cracking them open. The fizz and the hoppy mist. He slides yours on over for you to catch like a saloon bar in a western.

“Mi’lady” He says as he raises his can up for you to crash them together in a toast. A tinny clank where you toast. His rings clack on the side of the can.

“Thank you, gallant Knight.” You flatter. After taking back a cold hop filled sip.

It makes you think of that slanted drunken time in Kyle’s garden. Sharing polite sips of a warm beer. Stealing glances under fringes and sparing longing looks.

You watch his brows raise with surprise at your choice of title. “And here, I thought I was the jangly belled jester dude. Or the scrawny but lovable bard.” He grins all toothy.

“Fraid not. You’re my Knight in shining DIO vest.” You tell him.

If you had to, you’d rearrange the entire solar system by hand to see the sight of Eddie Munson blush again the way he is now. His cheeks full with it.

He scratches the back of his neck and looks like he wants to twirl away and hide in his hair all bashful.

“You rescued me from the pack of Ogres and brought me healing Campbells aid. Not to mention some very seriously delicious behaviour in a closet.” You played along. Fiddling your fingertips along the edge of the counter. “That’s Knightly behaviour, my guy.” You nod.

“You’d be ok with being my maiden then, huh?” He can’t ignore the very bloated intent behind those words. Chews the inside of his lower lip. He can taste beer and he’s so aching to kiss you again.

“More than ok.” You met his longing brown gaze. Those melty eyes standing stark under that chippy fringe. “Hey, as long as you don’t think I’m the Dragon. I’m fine with whatever.” You hold your hands up.

His smile brightens. “I think we all know who the dragon is, pencils.”

You laugh.

His heart swoons.

And then it twirls somewhere different. He looks intent. Like he wants to grab something but can’t. Pent up. Like he’s digging fingers into the counter to keep from something else.

“Ok, excuse the shit outta me but, fuck it, I should have done this the second I saw you tonight.”

He suddenly bursts into movement around the counter. You follow where he rounds it in record time. Chain jangling. Socked feet padding the floor.

Emotions are chunky jagged things that can’t contain him. Slip off his body like oil slick. Beat off him like rain bouncing off concrete. It can’t contain him or maybe it’s the other way around.

He comes your side and you can barely have a breath before he’s cupped your neck either side, so gentle, and pushed his lips onto yours in a kiss so sweet it made your brain wipe blank.

His body cages you back into the counter. Tile top digging the back of your waist. Your hands flounder for a second. You smile to his lips before your hands come to his back. His belt buckle jams to your skirt and it makes your stomach flutter with want.

He tastes the same and it’s a flavour you’re oddly fascinated by. Smoky brush and hoppy beer. Maybe a little acrid but you don’t mind it. So traditionally Eddie it makes your knees wobble.

His thumb is soft on the line of your jaw. Savours the way He languidly kisses you out of breath. He swallows a sugary clasp of a little gasping noise you made. Wants more- more more more of them. He’s caught in your orbit and never wants to fall out of this clutch of your gravity.

Tastes the gloss off your mouth and he prays you don’t think him a massive perverted creep for this.

When you break for air, his lips don’t wander far. Spit wet and near yours and now he’s wearing sugar high pink gloss too. His nose lays along the line of yours.

“Sorry-“ He gasps.

He may have short circuited your brain with that kiss. Glitched something out for sure.

“I don’t see what sorry has to do with that.” You murmur softly. Leaning up to brush your nose into his. Try to contain this harsh vein buzz he’s got going in you.

“Inviting you over to my trailer and mauling you.” He gasps as he rakes a soft brush of hair off your cheek. Back tenderly behind your soft ear.

You push on your tiptoes. Capture his mouth in a slowly melting peck. Hand sliding across his cheek. Palming a cheekbone. Fingertips nesting in that dry wild mane.

“I don’t mind a little mauling.” You explain. He rests his hands on your hips with a self satisfied chuckle. Thumbs stroking the waistband of your skirt.

“Not very Knightly.” He quipped. Going dumb the way you plucked kisses at his mouth in-between his attempts to speak.

“Chastity is overrated. I’m not waiting in a fucking tower to protect my virtue.” You tell him.

You’ve got his fucking chest skipping and his heart is on the roof of his mouth. Cheeks ache from smiling.

He holds your waist like he’s afraid you’ll move or drift away. Ridiculous. You’ve patiently waited to get here. You’re not budging. Eyes set on yours. The wet gloss glimmer of your lips and those eyes he pathetically wants to stare into like he’s discovered a new form of Eden.

“I can’t believe I didn’t work up the courage to talk to you sooner.” Bursts out his mouth before he can stop it. A shy little confession that he feels very nerdy to have given a voice too.

“Wanna know something?” You tell him all softly. Stroking over the wavy tips of those choppy bangs.

“If not guess I’ll just kiss it outta you…” He decides. Eyes dizzily on your lips. His hips sway into you and he tilts his head to plant a sweet kiss at the corner of your mouth.

“I think I had a crush on you from the very second you got sat behind me in history class.” You explain.

You couldn’t help it. There you were all wrapped and stirred up in your love of punk and anarchy. And then in walks this crazy, messy leather clad and metal dipped kid with doe eyes and trouble stroked deep into his smile. The frenzy and the non-conformity. Clutched you good.

“Why do you think I always tapped on your shoulder asking for a pencil, pencils?” He teased. But he wasn’t done;

Sense slotted into place.

“Do you know why I call you that by the way?” He checks. Voice such a soft chasm of purity.

“I assumed the way I’m always covered in graphite and ink, and paint splatters.” You shrugged.

“No.” He raises your hand up and marks a kiss the back of it. “But I do really dig that look on you.”

“Alas-“ He continued. “Its because you never snapped at me. Never once rolled your eyes or ignored me when I tapped on your shoulder. You didn’t dismiss me the way everyone else did.”

You’re floored. Stood pinned to this counter and you’re so touched.

“You always gave me a pencil. Always. And you smiled at me as you did it. Didn’t tell me to keep it with disgust or bark that you wanted it back right after. Look at it like you’d contract rabies from being touching something I’d used.”

You indeed smiled at him. You asked about the patches on his vest. About the bands you’d not heard of. Told him the answer to a random question of the pop quiz if you saw him struggling. Twisted around and caught sight of the horned devil skull he was doodling and thought it was cool.

You lit up when he came into class or when he said something funny. And sure, he did show off in the hopes it would earn that beam of yours. He always felt like opportunity slipped out his hands when you scurried away after class finished.

He tried every day, to stay and catch your eye- make you laugh again. Just something to rouse that little kernel of connection he had to you. And when he saw you around you were always alongside the blonde one he assumed was too cool to approach.

“Wow, we’re morons. It’s only taken us this long to get things going.” You supplied casually.

“Pencils. Trust me. I noticed you beside that blonde poodle friend of yours a lot. I thought how pretty and awesome you seemed. Would’ve tried to talk to you, but I kinda thought you hated me.” He admits with a wince.

“Why?” You ask almost sadly. Ready to crunch up your own conscience in guilt.

“That’s what people usually do. They don’t even get to know me they just decide to skip right to the ‘hating my guts’ part.”

You shake your head. Boldly.

“Not this people.” You say. Cupping his cheek. “And I’d like to spend a lot of time proving that tonight.”

Your free hand slunk to his waist. Holding him with a perfectly lovely touch that has his knees swooning. Fuck it, yes. He could swoon too.

He smiles at that. And it’s so stunningly honest it makes the slippy walls of your heart ache. Lays his lips onto yours again.

“What’s say we order this pizza, get buzzed and uh, do some very dirty hand stuff on the couch whilst we pretend to be interested in it?” He grins.

“Perfect.” You slip up and kiss him again. Arms crossed over his shoulders. Body entirely pasted to his.

“Does this mean we’re officially dating now?” You ask him sweetly when you pull back. Not having moved one inch away. Engrossed, entangled and entwined.

“It better.” He nudged his nose to yours. And it really was as simple as that.

“Fuck. I wanna kiss you again. Can I-“ He started, and before you can even answer. Before your tongue can shape and push words out your teeth. He’s on you again.

“Baby. We’re way past asking permission.” You break away and breathily tell him as the kissing gets heavier, more intense. Arms squeeze harder. Getting closer when there’s no room to spare already. Crushed. No breath. It’s glorious.

“Don’t tell me that.” He flirts. If you give him free-reign, you’ll never be able to reel him back again. You just won’t. He’s far too, far gone.

“Believe I just did.” You tell him. Ballsy.

He leads you stumbling by the waist over to the couch. Smiling. Nibbling your lower lip. Sucking and his tongue sweeping yours. Knocking and kissing, knees touching. Falling and falling into each other again. You gasp where you awkwardly clash together on the lumpy couch cushions.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that one Pencils.” He teases. Face all blushy and definitely love-drunk. Kiss dazed. Funny how you’d quite forgotten about those beers all of a sudden.

“Bring it on, Munson.” You urged.

🕷️This here? Oh no biggie. Just the next part of Eddie x Pencils 🕷️

My taglist for the JQ babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver @seven-glass-kids @forever-is-not-for-everyone @creme-bruhlee @bkish @wayward-rose @wyverntatty @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @churchmuffins @chickpeadumpsterfire @choke-me-levi @prozacandnicotine @xeddiesbattattsx

#eddie munson #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #Eddie Munson fluff #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson x original character #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #super freak series #stranger things s4 #stranger things #i would die for this man #punkwrites

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little-peril-stories · 4 months

Text

The Queen of Lies: Hope and Healing

Story Intro | Contents [Warnings] | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contents: injury, guy whump (all still leftover stuff), angst, nonsexual nudity, reference to abusive relationship

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Word count: 4900 || Approx reading time: 20 mins

Hope and Healing

Teaser: He fixed her with that stare again, beseeching her with such preposterous earnestness that she had to turn away for fear she would crumble. “Weren’t you lecturing me the other day about taking care of myself? You need to do the same.”

The fever faded quickly, and although the cough took longer to dissipate, Bree allowed herself to hope that perhaps Fox was on the mend. In the days that followed their early-morning flight from “Lucy Cooper’s” trail, Bree settled into an almost-comfortable routine: slipping out to peek at the headlines hawked by yowling newsboys, scanning the posters put up around the city for any familiar faces, working on a variety of sewing and mending projects to keep her mind and fingers busy, and ensuring the boy she’d taken under her wing was still alive.

Fox rested for most of the first day, waking when she roused him to eat or drink. To her surprise, he was quiet—pensive, perhaps, or, Bree thought nervously, still wary of her. She feared to pull him into conversation, lest she ask a question he could not answer, or lest she say something foolish that would break what little trust she was trying so hard to gain.

Every so often, she caught him staring at her, but especially at first, he said little.

In the light of day, Bree beheld his bright, wicked bruises and scrapes—at times, she could not take her eyes off them. How garish and hideous were the colours that painted his skin—purple and black, yellow and green, grey and red and pink.

While he was awake, he hardly seemed to notice that he was covered in injuries. It was only at the end of the second day in the inn he’d chosen that she caught him fussing with the sling Mrs. Bristow had so kindly and so deftly made for him.

“What are you doing?” Bree demanded, all caution forgotten. “You’re supposed to leave that alone.”

“It’s annoying,” he said, paying no heed to her disapproving glare as he struggled to reach the knot.

“You’re being childish,” she said sternly. “She gave it to you to help your arm heal.”

“Well, my arm’s fine.”

She crossed hers. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

The look he gave her was a most extraordinary blend of plea and annoyance—and the slightest whisper of mischief. “Yes?”

Pursing her lips, Bree told him, “I don’t.”

“Will you help me take it off?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Of course not!”

“Please?”

He fixed her with that stare again, beseeching her with such preposterous earnestness that she had to turn away for fear she would crumble. “Weren’t you lecturing me the other day about taking care of myself? You need to do the same.”

But when she looked back, he had wriggled out of the sling on his own, and when he caught her eye, he grinned in celebration of his honestly won but entirely foolhardy triumph.

“You’ll likely regret that,” she told him with a sigh.

Fox shrugged. “Maybe. Oh, well.”

It was mere days later when her prophecy came true.

On the edge of the bed, he was wide awake and sitting still, clutching a cup of water, his gaze faraway. As Bree watched him out of the corner of her eye, slowly stitching the seams of a shirt she’d begun to make the moment she got her hands on some material, he reached up as if to touch his head, only to grimace and bring his arm back down.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed at the pain evident in his face.

“Nothing.”

She laid aside her sewing and stood, drawing closer. “Are you just trying to save face because you realize you should have let your arm heal longer?”

“No.”

“Fox,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

Coughing, he looked away, and bright spots appeared on his cheeks. “Okay. Fine. You’re right. It’s my arm,” he said finally. “I still… I still can’t lift it. Much. Not real high.”

Bree was quite prepared to say, Well, maybe you should have done as Mrs. Bristow said, but at the last moment, she decided upon, “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” he repeated.

“All right,” she said, turning away but not moving her feet just yet.

Waiting.

And after an endless moment, just when she was about to give up and walk away, Fox spoke again. “My head. It’s fucking itchy.”

Biting her lip, tempted to laugh yet knowing she absolutely shouldn’t, Bree asked, “You want me to scratch your head for you?”

“No,” he said, setting his jaw and not meeting her eyes, “I really don’t.”

Her mind spun as she realized what the solution was—a solution that either had not occurred to him, or he was too embarrassed to say. “I can wash your hair.”

As her face flooded fully scarlet, his did, too. “You don’t have to do that. You—we—” He swallowed. “We don’t know each other that well. I won’t ask you to…”

“You didn’t ask me,” Bree said. Part of her felt as if she were outside of her own body, watching herself make her proposition. “I’m offering.”

His clenched fists seemed to tighten, the knuckles turning white.

And then they relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

These were not the words Bree was expecting to hear. Surprise forced a soft gasp from her lips, and without meaning to, she took a step back. “For what?”

“That you feel like you have to take care of me.”

“You can’t lift your arm,” she pointed out. “Though I might argue that part of it is your own fault. Perhaps you should have let it heal properly?”

His mouth twitched. Bree thought of every moment she’d seen it do that before, when he was about to grace her with some kind of wicked or vulgar comment, or a sardonic laugh, or perhaps both.

“Ha. Hilarious.” He looked away for a moment. “It’s not just that.”

Apparently not this time, though.

Bree raised her eyebrows. “What else, then?”

Fox’s gaze swept over her, collecting, she knew, every fading, yellowed bruise. Unable to stop herself, she adjusted the collar of her shirt, making sure it was in place and buttoned fully. “I…” But whatever he’d thought he wanted to say, he had evidently changed his mind. “Nothing.”

Unsure why her stomach was sinking, Bree said, “I’ll get some water heated.”

“It’s fucking stupid you have to keep going downstairs for that,” he muttered.

“I don’t mind,” she said. In truth, it was exhausting. But it was a very affordable establishment, one Baden had likely never even heard of, and that meant there was no fireplace in their tiny room, and so traipsing up and down the stairs for heated water was their only option.

He was out of the bed when she returned, standing by the tiny window, clinging tightly to the sill. “You’re up,” Bree said, surprised.

He threw her a look of mock astonishment. “Am I?”

She made a face back at him, directing him to sit with his back to the writing desk. “Come on, then. Sit here. This way you won’t have to lean too far backwards.”

Although he did as she asked, taking a seat and pulling off his shirt, he was still and stiff at first—barely moving, holding his head and his back perfectly straight.

“You can relax, you know,” she said, watching greyish water trickle from his wet strands down the web of lash-wounds on his back. As more droplets slid down his skin, he shivered.

“You try relaxing,” he said, “when there isn’t a part of you that hurts like hell.”

Bree wilted at the palpable sadness in his voice. “Oh.” Of course. Who knew how long he’d be languishing in the pain of his injuries? “I’m sorry—”

“But,” he said, shifting and rolling his good shoulder with a wince, glancing back at her, “I’ll try. For you.”

Perhaps that was the best she could hope for; perhaps it was the best he could do. And that counted for something, didn’t it?

The soap was slick and fragrant against her fingers. The inn had provided hard lumps of ordinary yellow soap, but on one of her excursions outside, Bree hadn’t been able to resist purchasing a scented white bar. Fox had gaped when she produced it, like he’d never seen such a thing before, and it had taken her several minutes to realize that he hadn’t.

“Damn,” he mumbled now. “Smells so good.” Bree smiled to herself as his tight muscles relaxed for real, and his head tipped back just a little more.

How strange it was, how astonishingly intimate, to have her fingers tangled in the thick, red-brown locks of someone else. She’d never washed Baden’s hair. Had never even felt much of an urge to touch it, to run her hands through it and feel each strand against her skin. But this, even with the dirt that washed away with each rinse—this was different: lovely, potent, thrilling. Like silken threads woven with bronze, like some entity of creation had crafted this man from warm earth and molten metal. The colours in his hair glinted, even in a room lit only by a lamp and the light of day sneaking in through the meagre window.

“How does that feel?” she asked when she’d rinsed away the lather, perturbed by how sorry she was to be finished.

He shook his head wildly, and Bree couldn’t suppress a squeal and then a laugh at the spray of droplets that pelted her with cool, damp kisses.

“God,” he said, “so much better.” Her heart swelled in her chest as he twisted around to look her in the eye. “Thank you.”

Was she blushing? No. It was just warm in the room. Somehow—despite the autumn air leaking in from outside. Despite the lack of a fireplace. Somehow.

Just warm.

***

“All right,” said Fox. He spun slowly, arms spread wide. “How’s it look?”

Bree tilted her head to one side, forcing herself to focus on judging her handiwork and to disregard how striking the pale fabric was when accompanied by red-brown hair and bright eyes. “Well. I can’t say it’s the best thing I’ve ever made.”

“What?” He looked down at himself, then threw a petulant look toward her, insulted. “What’s wrong with it? Don’t I look good?”

“You look fine,” she said, laughing. “My seams are a little crooked.”

The shirt was finally done, and her assessment was self-deprecating, she thought, but fair. With limited time and supplies, she’d rushed the job a little, and the places where her stitches had gone sloppy and her lines had veered off course stuck out to her as if the thread was the wrong colour. But it could not be denied that the white cotton suited him well, and not just because it hid his bruises.

“Fine? That’s it?” Fox rolled his eyes. “Who cares about…seams?”

“I do.” Baden had stopped letting her make clothes for him, preferring to spend more at the seamstress, because hers were never to his satisfaction. “But it’ll have to do, I suppose.”

He blew out a mock-irritated breath. “You sure know how to make a man feel good about himself.”

“Goodness, you’re vain,” she said. “You look incredibly handsome. Stunning, in fact. Crooked seams will be all the rage by next year. That’s how wonderful you look.”

Grinning and puffing out his chest most dramatically, he said, “Now, that’s what I wanted to hear.”

“You,” she said, “are impossible.”

“Impossibly handsome.”

Bree turned away as if that could possibly hide how she was giggling.

When she looked back at him, he was smiling, too. A proper smile, not the spectre of happiness that had become his signature expression when it seemed like he wanted to express anything other than misery. No, this was real—bright and lovely and, well, yes, handsome. And then his smile became a laugh, and it warmed her even though their hearthless room was cold, curling around her like a blanket, like warm arms in an embrace, like—

Slamming the door on that thought, Bree went to gaze out the tiny window, leaving him to revel in his vanity in front of the room’s cracked mirror. “Oh…”

“Hmm?”

“It’s…” Surely he would think she was being silly. “Nothing. It’s just…the sky.”

“What about it?”

She gazed up at the clear autumn night, appreciating the expanse of stars that shone above them. “Well, the stars just look beautiful. It’s clear tonight.”

He paused whatever he was doing, fussing with his buttons or preening or making some other show of the swagger that was beginning to rear its head as he recuperated. “You never seen stars before?”

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “I just thought they looked pretty.”

One of his eyebrows darted upwards. “It’s a real question.”

“Of course I’ve seen stars before!” Bree said. “Who hasn’t?”

“Well, I don’t know.” He crossed the room to stand beside her. “Hatchett sucks the fucking joy out of everything else he touches. Why not the night sky, too? Did he even let you out of the house after dark?”

She never, never should have told him about being locked in her room. “Mind your own…” She couldn’t finish. “Let’s not talk about him. Just enjoy the view.”

He didn’t argue, but stilled and looked out at the sky, the fabric of the shirt she’d made him brushing against the sleeve of her own.

“You’re right,” he said. “Beautiful.”

Bree nodded, keeping her attention on the sky.

They stood in silence, peering up at the stars through the warped glass. Bree didn’t mind the distorted view. In fact, she rather liked how the stars shifted and morphed every time she moved her head—rather liked how they were quite perfectly imperfect.

“We should sleep,” she said at long last, stepping away from the window and glancing up. It was startling to find that Fox’s gaze was no longer on the sky.

“You gonna keep sleeping on the floor?”

Taking another step away, her pulse racing, Bree said firmly, “Yes.”

“All right,” he said, then paused. “Wait. Actually. No.”

“No, what?”

“No, you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“Yes, I am,” she said, her voice squeaking in a most humiliating fashion. “Of c-course I—”

“I’ll sleep down there tonight,” he said, and seeing her aghast expression, he added tiredly, “and if you really want to make a big fuss about it, we can take turns from now on. Okay?”

“But you—”

“But I’m fine, Bree. Lots better.” He gestured dramatically at the bed. “Come on. Or I’ll have to throw you into it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, you’re allowed to make those threats, but I’m not?”

She was laughing—laughing—at this utter ridiculousness. The theatrical wave of his arm as he ushered her, the earnestness in his face, the teasing touch to his words that said he wouldn’t actually pick her up and toss her onto the bed and yet still left the idea turning over in her mind—

“Fine!” she said quickly. “We—we’ll take turns.”

“Jeez,” he said, visibly relieved. “Finally.”

She glanced up at him. “I can’t believe you remember me saying that.” In her memory, he’d been more dead than alive when she ordered him into bed on that first night of freedom—a far cry from the smirking, very-much-alive man in front of her now.

“How could I forget? You were threatening me and bossing me around like some kind of general. While I was dying.”

She choked at this uncomfortably accurate accusation. “That is not…true!” She folded her arms. “Or, at the very least, some egregious embellishment of what actually happened.”

“Egregious? Whatever that means,” he said with a snort. Seeing her still standing with her arms crossed, he imitated her posture. “‘Egregious embellishment,’” he half-sang, putting on a voice that was clearly meant to mimic hers. “‘Get in that bed or I’ll throw you in!’ ‘You look fine!’”

Oh, how she was already regretting that comment.

Bree picked up her shawl and threw it at him. “Vain and petty. Who knew?”

He caught it easily, even with only one full-strength arm, and laughed. “Good night, Bree.”

“Good n—” she echoed, only to wind up with the shawl flying right towards her face, so the word ended in a sputter as she tried unsuccessfully to catch it.

At the peal of laughter she could not suppress, he grinned, stripping off his shirt to prepare for sleep, and swiped a pillow off the bed so he could settle on the floor. As her giggles died down and she, too, got ready for sleep, Bree pretended not to notice the glistening stripes on his skin that no amount of hard work, neat stitching, or helpless laughter could ever repair.

***

“Close your eyes,” Bree said. “And turn around.”

“Ah,” Fox said, eyeing the steaming water she’d brought into the room. “This again.”

“What do you mean, this again?” she demanded. “It’s not unreasonable to want a bit of privacy.”

It would have been nice to feel comfortable using one of the bathing rooms downstairs—to let go of the worry that someone might recognize her face, or his. It certainly would have taken care of the issue, thorny at the best of times, of needing to undress while Fox remained in the room.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He laid down on the bed, eyes closed. “This good enough for you, princess?”

Bree glared at him even though he couldn’t see it. “And don’t start that up again.”

One hazel eye popped open. “Don’t start what up again?”

“You know what. The princess thing.” Bree frowned. “Close it. And turn around!”

Already, he was laughing. “All right. You got it.” Bree waited, and he didn’t let her down. “…Princess.”

“You’re awfully annoying,” she said, but the insult was half-hearted, and his smirk didn’t waver as he turned away.

For the first time in days, Bree imagined what Baden would think if he were there, watching her tug away each layer of clothing and strip down to her whites, then lose those, too, until she was stark naked in a room with a man whose real name she still did not know.

Oh, the things he would say if—

She shoved the thought from her mind. Baden was not here. Baden did not know. Baden would never know.

As she enjoyed the feeling of hot water over her skin and the lather of soap against her scalp, it was Fox’s voice, far more welcome and infinitely more pleasant, that floated over to her. “Do you think…”

Wetting her hair until it was heavy and sopping, she prompted, “Do I think what?” when he fell silent, his thought unfinished.

“I just…” Fox heaved a sigh, heavier than it had been in some time. Laden, it seemed, with a burden Bree could not understand, whooshing through the room like a gale in a storm. “You know. Been inside too long.”

Bree blinked. “Um. You want to go out there? Aren’t you…wanted?”

“Aren’t you?” he shot back.

It hadn’t taken long for the posters to appear. She’d returned from a jaunt to the marketplace, not long after their arrival at the second inn, clutching two very distressing pieces of paper. “I have…bad news.”

He’d looked up from where he sat by the window, alarmed, paling a little when Bree showed him the two posters she’d pulled from the square: one featuring a drawing of him, proclaiming him to be a violent and volatile criminal, and a second featuring her—proclaiming her to be the innocent victim of a kidnapping.

“Fucking fuck,” he’d grumbled, glaring down at the illustration. “I mean. Guess it’s not surprising. But for fuck’s sake.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Hell. You kidnapped me.”

“Fox!” she’d gasped. “I did not.”

Now, as she rinsed her hair, letting the thick, brown strands fall in sodden ropes over her shoulders, she thought of the posters again. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to let other people see your face.”

“Not any different for you,” he said. “Someone could recognize your face, too.”

She knew that. Of course she did. But someone had to be the one to go out. “Mine doesn’t say I’m a criminal.”

How mad it was to be sitting so calmly, naked, dripping wet, in the same room as a man who was still in so many ways a stranger, discussing their respective wanted posters.

“It’s hard to be inside all the time,” he mumbled, but he fell quiet.

When she slipped back into her underclothes, her face grew warm. She’d known she was going to wash her clothes, including her new dress, and yet now that she was dressed only in her whites, fresh embarrassment swept through her.

Suddenly, the prospect of telling him he could open his eyes was terrifying.

“Bree,” he said, impatient, as if he could tell that she was finished but hesitating.

“All right.” She snatched up her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “It’s f-fine now.”

Fox sat up and turned toward her, eyes already open wide. She should have known he’d struggle with lying still and with his eyes closed for so long. He complained no further, however. He merely said, “You’re cold.”

“It’s cold in here,” said, drawing the shawl a little tighter around her. “So. Yes. I suppose I am.”

With a sigh, he waved at the bed. “Just come under the blanket for a bit.”

Bree almost refused—thought of sitting next to him when she was so scandalously underdressed, imagined how his arm might brush up against the bare skin of hers. The thought of it sent a peculiar feeling bolting through her, like liquid lightning in her veins, like a flower unfurling in first bloom beneath the spring sun. Suddenly, the idea seemed less frightening and more…intriguing.

What a thought! She was just cold, and joining him under the blanket was just good sense. She was shivering, after all. It was the sensible thing to do.

But as she headed toward him, Fox shifted toward the edge, evidently planning to stand up.

“It’s all right,” she said.

Fox froze, half-risen from the bed. “What?”

“You can stay here,” she said, and there was no point in pretending her cheeks weren’t flushing violently. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

He gave her a doubtful look; she supposed she couldn’t blame him, especially not after the fuss she’d made about him keeping his eyes closed while she bathed.

“I mean it,” she said. What point was there, she asked herself, in fabricating any measure of modesty between the two of them any longer? She’d washed his bare back. She’d washed his hair. She was standing next to him in her whites, for heaven’s sake.

Slowly, he relaxed again, leaning back against the wall. “If…if you say so.”

With her damp tresses resting upon the woollen shawl, with gooseflesh rising on her arms, with her heart veritably flying around her chest, Bree hardly breathed when she slid onto the bed, keenly aware—painfully aware—dizzily aware—of the warm body pressed against hers.

“I gotta ask again,” he said suddenly. Loudly. Forcefully enough to make her jump.

“Ask what?” Somehow, she knew he didn’t mean to ask whether she was cold.

“Why’d you help me?”

Bree blinked, biting back her question of why he had picked this moment, exactly—when she was half-naked and cold and wet—to resurrect his query. “I told you.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said. She quivered when he turned toward her, his elbow brushing hers. “Not really.”

“I was telling the truth,” she said. “You didn’t deserve all that. The flogging. That—the way they—he—he—”

She had done a remarkable job, she thought, of keeping those memories at bay. The silly girl who’d fainted away before the whipping post seemed like a different person; the events that followed might have happened to someone else. Now, however, with naught between them but cold air that felt warm, with proximity that should have been distance, and friendship that in another life might have been apathy, disdain, or disgust, they came flooding back. The cat-o’-nine-tails. The cell. The locked room. The fires. The flight through the city.

The flutter in her chest, and the inexplicable, resolute acceptance that no, he had not deserved any of it.

The haunting suspicion that, actually, no, there was not another life where she looked upon him with indifference or with scorn.

But Fox shook his head. “You don’t know that I didn’t deserve it. You never did. For sure not then.”

“Of course I—”

“Really?” He frowned. “What do you actually know about me?”

And before she could stop herself, before she could rein in the quiet bitterness she harboured about how he still kept his name from her, Bree said, “Well, nothing.”

“You gave up your whole fucking life,” Fox said softly. If he heard the pointed resentment in her voice, he did not mention it—but neither did he meet her gaze. “Everything. You set the fucking place on fire, and you dragged me out of there when you could have left me to rot. You left your—”

“Fox.”

His words faded, and he took a deep breath, bunching the blanket in his hands. “What?”

“I didn’t have to know you to know he was being cruel,” she said. “But I saw—I was there the day at the whipping post.” She swallowed. “I tried to forget you.”

At this, his head jerked to look away, and Bree wished she hadn’t confessed that she’d tried to put him out of her mind.

“I couldn’t, though.” Nor, she knew, would she ever. As she went on, her words babbled out faster, the pitch of her voice going erratic. “I didn’t need to know what you’d done because I know what he’s like, and I couldn’t forget you because for the first time ever, there was someone else who knew, too, and even though you didn’t know me, we had this awful thing in common and you—you knew what it felt like to have him—to have him—well, everyone loves him, you know—they see the uniform and not what’s underneath it, but not me, I know, and I saw you that day and even though you didn’t see me, not truly, not really, I still felt…”

Bree stared at the mountains of her knees rising from the paper-thin blanket—watched how they shook. Her heart was pounding enough, it seemed, to cause an earthquake, to shift the very segments of the earth, to crumble cities to ash and rubble. Why in heaven’s name had she told him any of that?

She couldn’t look at him. Not now, maybe never again.

But her treacherous lips kept moving. “That day,” she said, “it was like we were the only two people in the world who knew the secret of what he’s really like on the inside.”

The thought was ludicrous, of course. Neither of them was special. It wasn’t just him. How many other prisoners had been treated much the same as Fox had? And her—why, if she hadn’t married Baden Hatchett, some other poor girl would have suffered in her place.

A poem she had once read in a magazine came to her now, and she was murmuring before she realized what she was doing: “‘I sold myself to a loveless thing.’” She regretted speaking the moment she was done, but she couldn’t stop herself from reciting the next line in her head: And I walk’d to the altar and there I lied.

Some magic spell, some otherworldly compulsion, had her looking back to him, seeking his gaze even though she dreaded what she might find here. His eyes, too, were back on her now, welling with something that sent cracks and splinters through her chest. “I did see you that day. Sort of.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t break his stare. “I thought I made you up. Like a dream or something.”

His gaze burned—not like Baden’s, not like the fire-and-ice glare she’d come to fear. This gaze burned like sunshine—like spring, like warmth on meadow grasses, like the glint of golden light off a pond. It burned, and it didn’t waver, and she knew where he was looking when he shifted a strand of damp hair away from her neck. Away from the last yellowing bruise that in a few days would be gone.

His fingers were so warm. So gentle. The heat of him crackled against her skin, pulling at her, magnetizing and intoxicating.

But—

“No,” she whispered.

Not now. Not like this. Not when he was still healing, not when her skin was still stained with the mark of Baden’s twisted version of love.

Not while she still didn’t know his name.

Fox let go, and she didn’t look as he shifted into some new motion, the soft intake of breath and the rising of his arms the only hint at what he was doing.

“Here,” he said. “Just wear it until yours dries.”

The shirt she’d made for him, held out in offering.

When she glanced over in surprise, he smirked and shook his head, dropping the shirt into her hands, still warm from the heat of his skin. As she opened her mouth, hardly knowing what to say beyond Thank you, he turned his head away and rested his hand mere inches from her leg, empty and still, but radiating heat and invisible flame.

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