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#smoke signals
sicknessinmotion · 6 months
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I RETURN TO MY FATHER LIKE A DOG: ON FATHERS AS UNLOVING GODS.
chuck palahniuk // @angelprotocol // gillian flynn // hélène cixious // halsey // ocean vuong // smoke signals.
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myfakeplasticlove13 · 5 months
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I wish I knew you when you were 11 :/
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avellino · 8 months
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Irene Bedard in Smoke Signals (1998)
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boyloser6526384 · 1 month
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— smoke signals, phoebe bridgers
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eddies-house · 3 months
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Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 |
Smoke Signals
Chapter Twelve - The Holiday Season Begins
W/C: 8.7K
Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader
"I've got my eye on you."
Say Yes To Heaven - L.D.R
A/N: Wow I think this is the longest I've gone without posting a chapter. I really hope you guys enjoy this one. I wrote it in bits and pieces and read it over several times. I would really really really love to know what you think, this one is so special and personal to me.
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Sugary apple goo.
You think back to Thanksgiving back home, a ruckus constant in the kitchen as dinner is prepared, more than enough food to feed an entire village.  Pots and pans clank together, trays create an echo as they are not-so-carefully placed atop the counter.  Dinner rolls are burned but still enjoyed with warm cinnamon butter.  The potatoes are a touch too lumpy but still desirable with notes of rosemary and an ungodly amount of garlic.  Various smells, both sweet and savory flood the house, your poor, stressed out mother churning out dish after dish, siblings all engaged in some kind of ball game out in the street just after watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.  
You tend to the green bean casserole, an easy dish that you couldn’t screw up even with your limited attention span.  Cream of Mushroom soup from a can seemed so repulsive in itself although it brought the whole dish together.  It didn’t matter that seconds prior it slumped against the green beans still in the shape of the can, nearly gelatinous.  Once stirred in and baked with crispy onions layered over the top, it was a masterpiece.  A five star dish in your book.
It would only be a matter of time before grandma showed up with her famously delicious apple pie, the crust coated in extra amounts of grainy sugar, the dish still piping hot.  And the “sugary apple goo” as you used to call it at the age of three already had your mouth watering just thinking about it, crispy apples so fresh and topped with syrupy caramelized sauce topped off with cinnamon and nutmeg, all wrapped up in a flaky, buttery crust.  
You sigh, piling the apple mixture on top of the homemade graham cracker crust.  It wasn’t clear to you just how lonely Thanksgiving morning would be without anyone around.  Sure, you had Donnie’s to look forward to this evening but until then, you were on your own, the parade quietly playing on the TV though you hadn’t been very impressed with the floats this year.  Holiday depression was kicking in, a kind you hadn’t experienced yet.  They were usually always a happy time, family surrounding you and distracting you from the lonesome thoughts you usually had.  This year it started feeling more like a ton of bricks was sitting on your chest, no one able to aid in providing you with some kind of task such as the honor of making the green bean casserole to ease the pressure.
It wasn’t like you couldn’t just make the controversially delicious dish, you had everything stashed in the pantry.  It just didn’t feel right.  It went unnoticed by you that tears were slowly sliding down your cheeks until a fat one landed on your wrist as you finished spooning the apple filling.  
Again?
In that moment you swear you looked the most pitiful you had ever looked in your entire life, tears trailing down your face silently, all alone, homesick.  You should be in your pajamas playing some kind of a board game on the coffee table in the living room, surrounded by your siblings.  Not throwing yourself a pity party while spreading apple goo.  To top it off, your hands had gotten completely covered, the sauce making your fingers undesirably sticky.  You hadn’t quite reached the point of sobs yet though you suppose if you let the goo linger on your hands any longer you would.
Some comforting folk music your grandpa used to play religiously rang through the house though you felt no such comfort.  Not as much as you’d hoped anyway.  It brought a familiar sense of his essence to you, his passing three years ago not settling right in your heart.  It only made you more homesick.
But you weren’t going to let yourself soak in salty tears and sticky apples.  No, you washed your hands in soothing warm water, the sludge sliding right off and into the metal of the sink, eyes puffy and red but void of tears for the time being.  You’d sucked them back and changed the music to something more upbeat, some Elvis that your grandpa had also engrained deeply into your brain though you hoped the faster tempo would brighten your spirits and ignite the happy memories.
Only, it landed you on the couch in a whole new sea of sobs this time as Unchained Melody lingered in the lonely room.  There was no getting a grip on the gut-wrenching, stomach-aching isolation you were feeling, sanity was long gone.  You were supposed to be trimming the dough that was meant to create the criss cross pattern for the pie, you were supposed to be enjoying your glass of wine as you sang under your breath to familiar tunes, you were supposed to be okay.  
It was you, after all, who had made the decision to move, right?  It was you who picked up your entire life and plopped it right in the middle of some unknown mountain town in search of yourself.  You feared that you were just losing yourself instead, forgetting just after a few months what it felt like to be surrounded by loved ones, forgetting how it felt to come home to a full house after a grueling shift at the local Denny’s.  You smelled of burnt coffee and dry eggs, your hair greasier than the literal grease trap, but none of that mattered the second you stepped into the coziness of the living room, all family dysfunction left at the door.
The tears wouldn’t stop though you still managed to force yourself off of the couch, wiping snot away with the back of your hand as you stared at the messy kitchen in despair.  Everything suddenly seemed so…impossible.  How were you meant to do anything while simultaneously questioning your entire existence, your entire meaning of life?
You had been in such disarray that cleaning up as you went didn’t even seem close to an option, nearly every pot and pan either set on top of the stove or thrown in the sink, whisks and spatulas scattered among the mess, and apple skins littering the floor.  Now you were taking in the aftermath, not even having the finished product to show as an excuse for the complete disaster, even the dough still rolled out on the cutting board.  You had hours left to prepare though it felt like seconds ticking by to inevitable disappointment.  
The end of the world felt like it weighed down on your shoulders yet you did what you did best each time.  You set it aside and pressed on.  It was never simple, weak hands grasping the dull knife, slicing through the dough to create uniform strips.  Motivation was running dry, the desire to grace everyone with the most delicious apple pie they’d ever tasted was out the window, you could only do what your body allowed.
And like every other time you had to pull yourself out of the gutter.  Life began to bleed back into your eyes as your creation came back to life.  Puffiness still remained throughout your face, eyes still droopy but slowly your drive kicked back into gear.  Sniffles from previous snotty tears continued but nothing felt better than laying down the last layer of dough over the apple filling, a quest conquered.  
Finishing off your cheap red wine, you reward yourself by licking off the spoon you’d used for the filling.  The kitchen still required a good scrub down but you could live with the mess a little while longer as you indulged in the sweetness.  Something well deserved.  You didn’t even want to think about the nightmare that Christmas was about to become, decorating your tree with only the company of your dreaded thoughts.  That was a scenario you were not willing to wander into, at least not until it would actually happen.  There was no sense in making yourself live through it twice, your brain longing to torture you with irrational possibilities.
Elvis’s voice continues to carry through the living room, a second glass of wine being poured in hopes of easing your homesickness, attempting to neglect thoughts of what you would usually be doing right now.  It was barely working, only leaving you feeling slightly lazy with a good layer of sadness still looming over you like a storm cloud.  There was no extinguishing the sorrows you felt for familiarity and the comfort the holidays were supposed to bring you.
Sudden knocking sends you into a brief panic, unexpected guests were not in the cards for your lonesome morning that had only served to encourage your crybaby tendencies.  At the very least you got a pie out of it.
The knocking persists as you scramble up from your depressing divot on the couch, a certain urgency waving over you at the speed of the knocks.  They were rapid, quick pecks at the wood, a worrisome speed that usually constituted an emergency in the end.  
Why today, why now?
With a heavy sigh, you swing the door open, glass of half-finished wine in one hand while the other runs down your drained face.  You expect some kind of eviction notice; god knows why since you own the place.  Maybe the check hadn’t reached the mortgage company, maybe it had been intercepted in transit.  The last thing you expect on your doorstep is a wide-eyed Eddie cradling a large bowl in one arm.  His gray sweatpants swallow his legs and hang low on his hips, a sliver of his tummy on display in between his t-shirt and pants.
It’s conflicting.  Do you act concerned and start begging the questions:  Did something happen?  Who’s injured?  Or do you exhale in relief as a tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth even in his somewhat distressed state?  It can’t be that bad if he still finds it in himself to smile, right?
“I, uh, I need help.”  He says sheepishly.
Ever since the night of the hoedown, he’d been a new kind of shy with you.  You couldn’t lie and say you didn’t adore it because truth be told, big bad Eddie Munson who previously chewed you out for being so bashful was now getting a taste of his own medicine.  Except you had been much kinder than he initially was, though it was fun to tease him and force his face to turn a vibrant tomato red.  
“Help?”  You smirk, swirling your wine as if you were some kind of connoisseur.  “My, my, how the tables have turned.”
“Bambi.”  He groans, still maintaining focused eye contact with the wood planks of your porch.
“Eddie.”  
It’s said so softly, in a way that reduces him to a puddle, his knees could give out at any moment if you so much as looked at him a certain way which had been why he refused to catch your gaze.  He internally curses himself for automatically counting under his breath, unable to stop himself: one, two, three, one, two, three.
In an instant your face falls, he only ever counted when he was stressed from what you could gather.  It was a learning curve, navigating Eddie’s quirks.
“Hey.”  You soothe, gingerly grabbing his wrist with your free hand.  “Hey, what’s wrong?”  
His curls bounce with a shake of his head, his eyes fluttering shut.  The counting stops but he still comes across as fuzzy.  Disoriented.  
“Come inside.”  You whisper, gently tugging him through the door, your wine abandoned at the entry table in the process.  “It’s freezing out.”
Instinctually he hands you the bowl he’d been cradling close to his body with a wooden spoon sticking out.  Upon further inspection, a mountain of mashed potatoes-or should you say lumps of potatoes are piled up within the bowl.  The skins are still intact, way too many if he intended to make smooth and creamy potatoes.  They’d be much less than enjoyable in the state they were currently in.
“I fucked them up.”  He whispers.
The sight you’re met with is that of a small child in a grown man’s body, his large eyes pleading.  You’re forced to realize that today may very well be much worse for him than it is for you.  He’d warned you that he didn’t do holidays and here he was, a nervous wreck turning up on your doorstep in a panic with lumpy potatoes.  And suddenly you felt so selfish.
“That’s okay.”  You assure him, tracing a tender thumb over his bicep.  He looked so lost.  “Eddie, it’s okay.”  You repeat with a nod.
“I just, I was gonna buy something from the store, and then, I just thought–I dunno maybe I’d at least try.”  He tugs on his curls, a bit too harshly for your liking.  “I don’t know why I even tried.”  He sighs in defeat.
It’s enough to break your heart.
“Eddie.”  
Turmoil flashes in his eyes, stress apparent in the way his brows furrow and his frown lines grow deeper.  His lips are red, most likely bitten, and he can’t stop twisting one of his rings around his finger.  He looks to be as much of a wreck as you felt although the symptoms seem to be much more apparent in his appearance than yours.  Your slightly swollen eyes were nothing compared to his tousled curls, anxieties littered across his face and trembling hands unable to be subtly hidden without the crutch of sleeves.
“I, uh, I-I shouldn’t have bothered.”  He mutters, reaching for the door.
You intercept him, your hand wrapping around his elbow while you attempt to meet his eyes.  He freezes in his escape, your touch rendering him paralyzed, your fingers suddenly too determined in digging into the meat of his arm.  Not meanly.  Never meanly.  More concerned.  Concerned for the way he cowers away the second he’s offered any fraction of help.  Perhaps it’s hypocritical of you to regard him with such worry when you yourself present the same behaviors under the same circumstances and expect no such treatment.
Your expression offers a certain softness that he’s come across one too many times since you’d barged into his life and taken his heart hostage.  You’d never know you committed such a crime.  And he’d never outright tell you of the ache that sat deep in his chest that he had no clue how to satiate.  All he knew was that he could not jeopardize this.  If he could get through the holidays, if he could get to January and you were still around, then, and only then would he be convinced that he had finally lifted whatever fucked up, out-of-this-world curse that had haunted him all his life.
“It’s okay.”  Barely above a whisper, you assure him.
Eddie doesn’t remember making his way into your kitchen, he can’t recall your delicate hand pulling him along until you let go to discard his potato concoction onto the counter and he realizes he’s taken the warmth for granted in a haze of existential dread.  Like a lost puppy, he stares at your fingertips as they linger on the counter while you lean over to reach for an empty casserole dish.  The entirety of your kitchen cabinets had thrown up all over the counters, a reflection of the way his brain felt.  Scattered.  
“Potatoes are actually super complicated.”  
His ears perk up, unsure of how to conjure up a response.  Instead, he raises his eyebrows, fearful of how dumb he could make himself look with just a few syllables.  It wasn’t like him to care so deeply what others thought of him.
“That’s why I avoid them.  Instead–”  You turn around only to pull out a can of green beans and a can of cream of mushroom.  “-work smarter, not harder.”
Eddie knows he should be hanging onto every word you say and usually he would be, he knows.  Except he can’t help but tune into the melody of Blue Christmas that had been echoing off the kitchen walls from your record player across the room.
The damn record player.  And the records.
He didn’t realize how much the records still affected him.  He had his own collection now, sure.  But anything that resembled the essence of his Mama, lived safely and soundly on its dedicated shelf in his room, untouched.  It took him years to rebuild Mama’s collection.
“Sorry can we-”  He makes his way toward the record player, his face contorted nearly painfully before lifting the needle.  “I just-I can’t think.”
Your motions were paused, can opener halfway through the can of beans as your eyes meet him with questions splayed across your face.  You don’t ask them.  An understanding smile works its way across your lips and god, he doesn’t know why you’re so patient with him after he stepped into your house and suddenly had the uncontrollable urge to shut off your music.  As he strides back into the kitchen, a series of apologies haven't even left his mouth and yet-
“So…Green Bean Casserole.”  You state, fingers tapping against the tin of each can.  “And Sugary Apple Goo.”  A vague gesture toward the uncooked pie.  “Kind of a…weird duo.  Or it will be if I actually get it in the oven-”
“Sorry, what?”  
“Apple pie.  The apple pie.  At home we just call it sugary apple goo, don’t ask why it’s just–it’s just a thing we do.”  You clarify, shoving the dessert into the comforting warmth of the oven, shivering at the sensation as goosebumps begin to prick your skin.
“Apple goo.”  He repeats.  A raised brow disappearing beyond his messy bangs.
Eddie almost forgets the reason why he’d been in such disarray, almost forgets why he even bothered knocking on your door in the first place, only remembers the fact that he was in a panicked state.
“Yeah.”  You sigh.
You busy yourself with slopping the now drained green beans into a nearby glass bowl.  Your blotchy skin and puffy eyes catch in the stream of sunlight, the kitchen window betraying you as it showcases your true state.  Avoiding those large brown eyes is the best you can do, the theory that if you can’t see him he can’t see you dumbly being put to use no matter how aware you are that it makes no sense.  Maybe if you act “okay enough”, he’ll chalk it up to the common cold, placing the responsibility for your rudolph-like nose on the yearly infection.
What you fail to realize is that by this point, he’s become too familiar with your teary eyes and sad worry lines that only seemed prominent in your times of distress.  Times that he had regretfully been the cause of previously.  Words can’t escape his practically sewn-shut-mouth, all sounds dying long before forming on his tongue.  It’s impossible to create comfort when he himself has trouble doing so for himself.  How could he possibly offer such comfort to someone who deserved kinder words from someone of a higher regard?
“Here, dump this in and mix.”  You instruct, forcing a can of cream of mushroom and a wooden spoon in his hands, yanking him out of his mind.
There’s no room for protest, not that he even intended to.  Not when you’re standing there with the ghost of tear tracks down your cheeks.  Not when you’re this kind.  Not when you’re you.  
“Okay.”  He mutters, a disgusting sound filling his ears from the lumpy soup falling into the bowl.
“After that, pour it in here.”  You place a ceramic casserole dish to his right, the dish nearly too large to fit on the cluttered counter though you’re too occupied with tidying up other parts of the kitchen to bother.
“Got it.”
Eddie Munson absolutely hates Thanksgiving.  But he doesn’t mind it so much when you’re rustling around behind him, a silent conversation hanging in the air that neither of you are alone in your holiday sorrows, whatever they may be.
You don’t ask why he continues counting under his breath behind you or why his hands are shaking.
And he doesn’t ask why tears linger in your eyes or why you pause to regain your composure after dropping a pan a bit too loudly for your liking, your lip wobbling.
Because the collective understanding is that neither of you is okay.  And maybe that’s okay.
“Careful, the bottom is–”
“Shit!”
“-hot.”
A ringed hand waves around in an effort to rid it of the burning sensation caused by the bottom of the piping hot casserole dish.  Eddie releases a series of curses, the side of the dish pushed against his chest as he balances it between his body and his single arm protected by one of your generously donated dish rags.  Your wide eyes caution him in his balancing act, a perfectly crafted green bean casserole at risk due to his negligence as he had taken the liberty of knocking on the door.
“What the fuck, how can fuckin’ beans be so goddamn hot?”  Brown eyes nearly roll into the back of his head, his fingertips more than likely singed an angry red.
It’s no laughing matter, not according to the scowl that makes its way across his handsome features but you can’t stop the pull of your lips from forming a large grin, giggles caught in the back of your throat.  His irritation disappears just as quickly as it came, harsh edges blurring into softness at the sight of your puffed out cheeks, inflated due to the humor just dying to crawl out of your mouth.
“Oh, shut up.”  A nudge of his shoulder against yours has you shaking your head, laughter finally escaping your perfectly glossed lips.
He could write paragraphs about them if it didn’t seem so creepy and stalkerish.  So he allowed himself the tiniest of glances, only hoping to paint the full picture in his head ever since you’d quickly puckered your lips in front of your mirror at home to complete your finishing touches while he viewed from the porch where he waited in his black button up and nicest pair of jeans.  He’d never been so jealous over a tube of lipgloss.  In fact, he’d never in his life been jealous of a tube of lipgloss and he never felt like more of a loser than in that moment.
“I told you.”  You mutter, an endearing side eye delivered right into his line of sight.  It was something almost child-like, something innocent and not at all like what he’d ever really been on the receiving end of.  Maybe because there was a certain flirtiness you were hinting at although he was no expert and had no right to assume.
“I told you.”  He mumbles back with a higher pitch, mocking you.
You turn toward him, a comeback on the tip of your tongue when his own tongue interrupts with a taunt, peeking out between his lips swiftly, his nose scrunching up meanly before his full attention is back on the door as it creaks open.  And then, a quick wink that only you yourself were a witness to, only creating a stir in your brain as you decipher that no one else would be able to confirm the action.
“Hey!”  Donnie greets, arms flung up in excitement as she ushers you into her welcoming home, smells infiltrating your nose, sweet and savory galore.
Before either you or Eddie can even get a simple “hello” in, she’s talking your ear off, something about who all is already in the living room, how far along the turkey is, where the bathroom is, all while guiding you into the spacious dining room.  She must have set out her fine china, the gorgeous dishes set all around the table lined with champagne colored silver on the edges of the plates.  Two tables had been pushed together, creating enough space for the large number of guests expected.  In the center sat an exquisite arrangement of various orange-hued flowers and some greenery.  
The house was comforting; not too large and not too small, a two story dream that no doubt had acres of backyard.  The Christmas tree had already been set up and decorated, the branches and lights hinting at you from the other room where men roared with laughter, a football game blaring from the TV that contrasted with the familiar voice of Frank Sinatra coming from the stereo.  Combined turkey and Santa decorations adorned the interior everywhere you glanced, surfaces that would usually be empty year around were occupied with tacky little figurines that were more endearing than anything.  Plastic garland traced the rails of the stairs, littered in fake plastic cranberries, the front room being far more grand than your entire home as you inspected it through the archway of the dining room.
Suddenly your nerves were simmering down, a familiar feeling nestling into the bottom of your chest as your shoulders fell from their tensed position, your fingers letting up on their grip on the pie tin you clutched so desperately.  Women squealed from the kitchen, a series of “oh my god”s erupting into the rest of the house, some kind of juicy gossip initiating several gasps as well as some laughter.  Your homesickness began to lie dormant, warmth overtaking you as Donnie went on and on about her family members, which ones to avoid sitting next to at all costs and warning you of the aunties that would corner you and beg for details on your love life.
“Just pretend I’m calling you and run as fast as you can in the other direction.”  She advises.  “And if that doesn’t work, tell ‘em you had too much wine and that it’s making a reappearance.  They’ll scatter like flies.”
You laugh along, taking mental notes as she grabs the pie from you, complimenting the smell as she sets it among several other desserts, a whole table dedicated only to sweets.  When she goes to grab the green bean casserole from Eddie, you can’t help but pause and watch as his doe eyes trace his surroundings, a clearly unfamiliar environment to him.  There’s uncertainty dripping from his demeanor, his single finger tapping against the dish:  One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.
“Green bean casserole-Eddie, do you know how many green bean casserole we’ve got?  Like you all read each other’s mind, I swear.”  Donnie jokes.
“It’s-um, it’s hot.”  He cautions her.
Sauntering toward the main table, Donnie proudly sets it on top of a place mat to protect the wood from the heat.  Eddie doesn’t budge, seemingly glued to the carpet, his hands still lingering in the air like he had still been holding the dish.
“You okay?”  You mouth to him, looking up into his worried eyes, only hoping to soothe the crease in between his eyebrows.
He nods though you suspect he’s being a bit dishonest.  
“Oh, c’mon Eddie!  You know I’m just pullin’ your leg.”  Donnie reassures, a heavy hand falling against his shoulder.  “Shoot, I have to go check on the oven.  Yell for me if you need anything, both of you, okay?”  
“Sure.”  You mumble.  “Thank you.”
“There’s a fully stocked bar right over there, help yourselves.”  She calls as she backs herself up toward the kitchen.  “But don’t go too crazy.”  She sends a knowing glance, recalling both of your tendencies to take on more than you can handle.
“Why don’t we get some air?”  You suggest, unable to comprehend exactly just what was happening in Eddie’s mind although you knew enough to understand that he was miles outside of his comfort zone.
“No, no.  I’m good.”  A cleared throat doesn’t reassure you enough but you let it go for the time being.  Prying wasn’t going to help.  “”M gonna get a beer.”  He murmurs, chain jingling from his belt as he makes his way toward what you can only assume is the kitchen where Donnie had just disappeared to.
As pathetic as it seemed, you weren’t going to allow yourself to wander around alone, vulnerable to various conversations trapping you in small talk with strangers: an absolute nightmare.  Timidly, you follow behind Eddie at a safe distance, holding your breath as you take in the new room full of busy women and many glasses of wine.  The smell of gravy heavily lingers, a tinge of the sourly sweet alcohol peeking through as you release your breath and inhale finally.  
And then-they were all over him.  Sweet older women, ranging from around fifty plus years, all doting on him, cooing at him while complimenting how tall he is and his handsome features.  It only forces you to lean your hip against the counter and take in the most captivating scene you’d ever witnessed.  His cheeks redden, his entire face matching shortly after as he nods in response, small “thank you”s sneaking past his lips with a sheepish grin threatening to spread across his face, dimples prominent.  It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with the attention, has no recognition of the power he currently holds.
“Is this one yours?!”  One woman shrieks, taking your hands in her bony ones.
“Oh-”
“You’re so lucky, he’s such a looker!”  Another chimes in.
“We’re not-”
“You better hope he holds onto all that hair throughout the years.”  A third nods.
Eddie’s face has never been redder, crimson painting his usually pale skin, a beer pinched in between his fingers as he avoids every single eye in the room.  You can only imagine the look on your own face, maybe slightly mortified with a hint of pink pulling at your cheeks due to the unnecessary attention.
“Alright, alright.”  Donnie interjects.  “Enough, you’re gonna scare ‘em away before they’ve even had a bite to eat!”  She waves her hands around, dramatics on full display as she shoos them away like pigeons.
“Thank you.”  You whisper, eyes large and surprised.
“Run, run.”  Donnie displays wide eyes, gently shoving you both out of the kitchen.
Throughout the evening, you kept Eddie in your peripheral.  Sure, he was grown and fully capable of taking care of himself but it didn’t worry you any less when holidays weren’t necessarily his favorite thing.  Anxieties lurked in the back of your mind the second he started counting earlier, never once fading away no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself that he was fine, now bantering back and forth with Sam.
“That Steve kid really can’t dance.”  Nathan laughs, pulling you back into the initial conversation you were having, perched on the couch with a glass of wine set in front of you on the coffee table courtesy of Donnie’s excellent hosting skills.
“Well that’s why he excused himself off the dancefloor.”  You softly smile, earning another hearty laugh from the man.
“Hey, but Eddie’s no better.”  He jokes, taking a swig of his beer.  “Looked like a damn giraffe stumbling over his own legs.”
“I wasn’t very coordinated either!”  You defend.  “We were a hot mess.”  You bury your face in your hands.
“Yeah, I bet Eddie thought you were hot.”
The recliner adjacent to you creaks beneath Jett as he makes himself comfortable, slouching with a beer in his hand.
“Whoa.”  Nathan leans forward, ready to reprimand him.  “What-”
“That’s okay.”  You speak softly, your hand covering the older man’s as an act of keeping the peace, something you did best.  Several seconds of contemplation and a glance across the room toward Eddie change your mind.  
“Actually-it’s not.”  You turn your body toward Jett, a man–child before your eyes that refused to even look at you after his comment.  Your hands shake and your cheeks heat with embarrassment, chalking your sudden confidence up to the glass and a half of wine you indulged in.  
“What?”  Jett furrows his brows, examining his beer far too aggressively as a means to avoid you.
“It’s not okay.”  You whisper, a wimpy excuse of a defense.
“What’s gotten into you, boy?”  Nathan scolds through gritted teeth.
Jett’s nearly-black eyes resemble something opposite in comparison to the warmth in those across the room currently harboring a twinkle in an engaged conversation.  The boy is unable to get a word in as you quietly begin to address him.
“Look, I’m sorry if I did something wrong.”  You regret the tremble in your tone, confrontation was well out of your comfort zone, especially with someone who had been so hostile for no reason.  It wasn’t in your DNA to be the “bad guy” even when it would benefit your wellbeing.
Something in your words softens Jett’s eyes, pulls a piece of him back into reality.  You weren’t terrorizing him and he couldn’t seem to grasp that ever since that night you had argued with Eddie behind the bar.  And you hadn’t spoken a word out of line but you weren’t clueless.  Clearly he had an agenda against you and Eddie, it never left your mind since Eddie mentioned that Jett got all over-protective suddenly that night and took it out on him.  But what could you do when all he did was puff out his chest rather than have a decent conversation?  His frayed emotions were not your responsibility, you owed him nothing if he was going to insist on acting like a toddler in adult situations.  You suppose some of it could be due to his lack of years behind yourself and Eddie, Jett still a teenager, almost twenty whereas you had been in your twenties for a few years now.  It wasn’t an excuse, just your brain attempting to work out his logic.
“You didn’t–you didn’t do anything wrong.”  He sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
You don’t offer any words.  Only an expectant look.  Expecting of some kind of explanation as to why he’d been acting so cruel.  And as if the universe decided you didn’t live in enough anguish with your homesickness that morning paired with the current unwanted confrontation, Eddie’s eyes met yours for a brief moment before darting away, a deep sigh and suddenly slouching shoulders clearly indicating some kind of defeat before he quietly stepped out of the room.
“Can we get into this another time?”
You don’t wait for a response, excusing yourself to slip out of the room and follow the trail of cold out the front door, the chill seeping into your bones as your cradle your arms close to yourself.  The porch is spacious, something you hadn’t taken notice of earlier when arriving.  To your left, Eddie sits on a wooden bench with the family name “Scott” carved into it.  A cigarette takes its place between his fingers, his lighter flickering while he lets out a frustrated groan.  He places the stick between his lips and cups the flame to hide it from the wind, finally succeeding in lighting it, puffs of smoke escaping through the corners of his mouth.
“I’m not fragile, Bambi.  Stop following me around.”  He mutters, pulling the cigarette from his lips.  There’s no malice detected in his words, just something lacking hope as he stares straight ahead.
Carefully, you sit at the very edge of the bench, your skirt a tad too short to allow you to fully sit back due to the cold surface.  You catch a wave of his warmth as he rests his arm on his thigh.  It hurts, how far away he feels even being inches from you; his mind might as well be on Jupiter.  A momentary glance over at you causes him to sigh deeply, his head dipping down while he shakes it in disappointment.
“And dammit!”  Eddie snaps, face twitching in aggravation.  “I don’t have a jacket for you this time.  Learn how to dress for the cold.”  He gestures to your posture, your arms wrapped around your middle in an attempt to savor any warmth, and your jaw clenched shut as a means to keep your teeth from chattering though you can’t seem to contain the shivers nearly rattling your bones.
“I don’t need one.”
He scoffs, disbelief evident in his movements, a fidgeting hand reaching up to scratch the barely-there stubble at his jaw.  
“I don’t!”  You lie.
You were never one to willingly be dishonest but a little white lie in this case didn’t seem like the end of the world.  Not when Eddie’s fragile state of mind seemed to gnaw away at him.  You wouldn’t leave him out for the wolves to feed on him; wolves being his never ending thoughts that always without fail, won him over and forced him to crawl back into his comfort zone of isolation.  You suppose you weren’t so innocent either, always succumbing to the very same habits.
“Go back inside.”  A flick of his cigarette ash towards the ground ignites in the thin layer of snow barely coating the porch before extinguishing.
You can’t help the furrow in your brows, staring at him as if to figure him out, attempting to glance into his large coffee colored irises, to no avail.  His shiny eyes dodge your attempts, the windows of his soul closed off, even from you.  Not that you were immediately entitled, though you figure with each trauma he had shared with you, he’d at least be able to look you in the eye.
“Come with me.”  You chirp.  “We’ll taste all the wines.  C’mon, and then we’ll be nice and hungry.  Drunk eating is the best.”  You extend a hand out toward him, your freshly painted nails perfectly imperfect in his peripheral.
“I’m not in the mood, Bambi.”
His gravelly voice has a certain effect on you, one you find not appropriate to dissect right now.  He lifts the cigarette back up to his lips, the chance to take one more drag stolen from him as you pluck it from his fingers, tossing it into the snow without regret, stomping your foot on it for good measure.
“Well, get in the mood.  Let’s go.”  
Boldly, you tug at his arm, unable to move him by yourself, you know.  But he willingly melts into your touch, allowing you to pull him up despite his protesting frown.  Though he follows you to stand, he doesn’t budge much further than that as you try to drag him back into the cozy warmth of the house.  The rounded tip of his nose glows red, the threat of a cold only pushing you to tug on his sleeve with no success in ushering him inside.
“I think ‘m just gonna head home.  You think someone else could give you a ride back?”  The question is hesitant, no longer wanting to participate in the festivities but still concerned for your well-being, especially if you were going to continue to drink.  
Your track record with alcohol wasn’t exactly great and he’d never forgive himself if something happened and he wasn’t there just because the sight of you talking to Jett had left a bad taste in his mouth.  But he couldn’t stand it any longer, watching you act so graceful all the time, especially to someone you didn’t particularly like, and then having to pretend that a simple kiss on the cheek didn’t absolutely wreck him.  A kiss that you hadn’t since mentioned, and he wasn’t going to humiliate himself by insinuating that you wanted him in that way.  No one wanted him in that way.
“What?”  You breathe, face shifting into a sadness Eddie wanted to kick himself for.  “No, you can’t go–”
“I’m sure Jett is ready and willing to entertain you.”
Low blow.  He could always count on himself to deliver a low blow at the worst of times.
Eddie knew now that you had a distaste for Jett, he knew that.  And yet he was stupid enough to continue using Jett as ammo against you for no reason other than his own insecurity.  If he continued to push you away then it wouldn’t hurt so bad when you realized he was scum of the earth.  Trailer trash.  A nobody.  That’s what he kept telling himself.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  You fume, crossing your arms.
“I don’t know, Bambi.  You tell me cause I can’t figure you out.”
The use of his nickname for you stitched together with words of anguish only further confused you.  You couldn’t seem to win.
“Can’t–can’t figure me out?!”  You widen your eyes at him, only hoping to convey how ridiculous of a statement it is.  “Can’t figure me out.  What about you?!  You’re the one no one can figure out!”  
You’re on the verge of whining, begging in a sense.  Pleading with the most stubborn man in the world and god only knows what you’ll do if he doesn’t stand down.
“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”  He states simply, monotone.  It makes you want to yank your hair out by the roots and offer it to him, asking him if it’s enough.  If it’s enough to shut up the voices in his head.
“Yeah?  Because you don’t wanna let people in?!”  Uncharacteristically, you jab a finger into his chest, frustration making itself known across your face and you only know because his eyes ever so slightly soften.  “Eddie, all you do is give me mixed signals!  How many times do I have to tell you I want nothing to do with Jett?!  What do I have to do to get that through your thick fucking head?!”  He tries to get a word in but you don’t give him an opportunity.  “No, seriously!  I need an instruction manual or something because I’m trying!  I have been trying-”
“-I didn’t ask you to!”  He finally interrupts, sorrow filling his eyes.
With a deep breath, you calm your heaving chest.  It’s apparent you’re no longer cold, your skin hot from working yourself up.  Steam may as well be coming from your ears though it wasn’t your intention to get so irritated with him.  
“I wanted to.  I want to.”  Your voice comes out softer, a gentler approach to his sudden internal conflict.
“No.”
Turning away, he doesn’t quite move to leave but there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s trying to shut you out.  He’s trying to escape like some kind of feral animal but you refuse to give in.  You refuse to let him.  
“Yes.  Eddie–look at me!”  You demand with a small pull of his arm.
“No.”
He goes to turn his body even further away from you but the firm hold you have on his bicep stops him.  He keeps his gaze on the floorboards below, his nose twitching and eyes burning with the threat of tears.  You only know because you’re all too familiar with the mandatory frown that comes with holding them back.
“Stop doing that.  Please.”  You beg.
“I can’t be here right now–”
“What makes you think I can?”
He’s silent.  The world instantly feels so quiet, tiny snow flurries fluttering around you, making you feel as if you’re the only two people on Earth.  Echoes of the celebrating and hollering inside are faint although they don’t do much to pop the bubble you find yourselves in.  Then he breaks the silence, daring to plead with you this time.
“Bambi, please.”  He croaks.
Your initial thought is, please what?  You’d been pleading with him back and forth for god knows how many minutes straight and here he was doing it right back to you.  And for what?  It wasn’t a good enough plea, not for you.  You weren’t ready to let it go, if you even knew what “it” was.
“No, you’re coming inside and you don’t have to associate with me if you don’t want to but you’re coming inside.”
Your demand only seems to irritate him, his brows knitting together while he pinches the bridge of his nose in between his fingers.  If he was agitated then you were about to become enraged.  And that is not something you wanted.  You never wanted to display that kind of emotion toward him but he was practically pulling it out of you and you had to fight against it.  No one had ever been able to pull such a reaction out of you, not ever.  Even if you had gotten pretty close, you swallowed it down and hid it.
“Why?!”  Eddie seethes.
His outburst takes you back, though with the aggravation boiling within you, you were able to contain any reaction he was seeking, if any.  That wasn’t the case for long though as you then launch yourself into another tantrum after staring for a second too long at his snarled lip.
“Because believe it or not, I care, Eddie!”  You practically wail, your voice becoming hoarse.  “If you leave I’m coming with you because I’m not leaving you alone.  Not on Thanksgiving.”  Your head shakes in denial.
Against your own will, a single tear trails down your cheek and the moment you feel it, you’re rapidly wiping it away, hoping he never even saw it when you knew damn well his umber eyes followed it all the way down your face.  He only pulls his gaze away.
“I’m leaving.  You’re staying here.”  He decides, regret etched into his features.
In a final attempt to escape your grasp, he succeeds, feeling your fingertips linger for one last second before drifting away as he turns and makes his way down the porch steps, wood protesting beneath him.  The noise is the only proof you have that he’s actually leaving, that he actually feels he’s not worthy enough to stay.  
You refuse to give up so easily.
Your feet are already on a mission, nearly sprinting down the stairs even with the threat of slipping on the minimal amount of ice beginning to freeze over.  Eddie pays no mind to the fast paced footsteps crunching against the gravel behind him, making his way over to Sugar with his head hung low.  Your heart is racing, not just because you suddenly decided to sprint a few yards but because a healthy dose of dopamine has started coursing throughout your body, a good amount of anxiety accompanying it but not deferring you any longer.
Eddie makes it to Sugar, his hand reaching for the door only for it to be forced shut with a self-manicured hand.  If he didn’t know who the hand belonged to he’d be chewing the owner out for daring to touch his beloved truck.  Instead he rolls his eyes and turns as he prepares to reprimand you in a much more gentle manner than he would anyone else.
Except he doesn’t even have the chance when your lips are suddenly pressed to the corner of his mouth, your body pushing him against Sugar.  His hands freeze mid air, his eyes wide open.  Your hands are resting on his chest and–he can’t breathe.  You pull away, inches from him and he can’t breathe, he can’t speak, he can’t move.  As far as he’s concerned he isn’t even human anymore.  
“Stay.”  You whisper, your breath fanning over slightly chapped lips.
His lips won’t stop tingling, he can’t grasp the concept of what just occurred.  He refuses to even touch you for fear that you might disappear right before him.  Hell, he’s not even sure he’s allowed to.
It’s difficult to gauge his reaction, his heavy breath lingering with the smell of his cigarette that would probably gross you out had it been anyone else but for some reason, because it’s him, you don’t mind very much.  You must smell strongly of wine which isn’t always pleasant so you figure you’re even.
“Please stay.”   You repeat, nudging your nose into his.
It’s like he’s in a trance, his eyelids becoming lazy and his body relaxing when you reach up to trace your thumb ever so slightly over his jaw.  His forehead rests against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and you can hear a gulp in his throat.  With his eyes still shut, he nods and before you can process it, he launches himself into your arms in a tight embrace, wrapping himself around you, his face buried in your neck.  A wetness catches against your skin catches your attention, Eddie’s body heaving slightly and you just know.
You know that the tear stains on your skin mean more to him than you could ever imagine.
Slowly, your fingers tangle in his hair, threading into the curls at the nape of his neck to lightly scratch his scalp soothingly.  The way he grips onto you tighter, his body shaking, only confirms that physical touch and affection was not a luxury he was allowed in his lifetime.  If he let you, you’d spend thousands of hours holding him, even in the cold.  Whatever he needed.
But the snow flurries began to grow larger and the wind started to pick up.  And you’d be damned if you allowed yourself and Eddie to catch a nasty cold when you could be doing the same thing inside next to the fire.  Though, as you thought about it, Eddie would probably shy away from your touch in front of everyone.  And that didn’t anger you in the way it normally would.  Because you couldn’t blame him, someone so touch starved that he began to sob the second he was willingly kissed and told he was wanted, for shying away from showers of physical affection in front of peers that only know him to be big, bad, Eddie Munson.  It would be too much of a change and you weren’t willing to force that upon him.
So as the cold grew more unforgiving, you continued to hold him.  He would be the one to decide when he felt he wanted to part from you.  And if you both got sick, so be it.  A stupid cold would be worth the price if you were able to provide him the touch he went so long without and so badly craved, even if he didn’t quite know it at first.
Eddie parted from you far sooner than anticipated.  His cheeks were rosy, his rounded nose matching, endearingly so.  His eyelashes were dotted with a few lingering tears, his eyes rimmed with red but sadness was absent from his features.  Instead there was a fondness dripping from his expression and though he parted from the embrace to gaze down at you, he still clung to you like his life depended on it. 
“Can I–can I kiss you?”  He whispers shakily.
You want to laugh, only because he’s acting as if you didn’t kiss him in the first place.  But you bury it deep down and only let a smile blossom.  
“Please.”  You whisper back.
This time, you’re more than happy to beg.  
Hesitantly, his shaky hand cups your jaw, the warmth from his skin more than welcome as he gently slots his lips against yours.  He’s slow with it, taking his time.  As you move in rhythm with him, you encourage him, moving his arms to circle your waist, pressing yourself closer and letting your hands travel up his chest to lock behind his neck.  
“I can’t stop.”  He laughs quietly, continuously pecking your lips like he can’t get enough.
“Don’t.”  You giggle into his mouth.
Teeth clash against teeth and though he hasn’t quite graduated to using tongue yet, you have the urge to introduce him.  Before you can pass your tongue along his plump bottom lip, he curses under his breath as he pulls away, only causing worry to spread across your face.
“You’re freezing.”  His hands rub up and down your arms to somewhat heat you up and only then do you realize your face feels completely numb.
“No, I’m fine.”  You protest against your better judgment.  It wasn’t exactly fitting to be in tights while one of the first snow falls of the year ensued.
“You’ll be a popsicle in like three seconds.”
Eddie softly smiles, reaching for your hand and tugging you with him toward the house.  A whine escapes you, a pathetic whimper but you manage to shuffle yourself along with him.  Before entering the realm of reality beyond the front door, Eddie turns to you, stars in his eyes, something glimmering.
“How’s my nose?  Snotty?”  He grins, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
~end~
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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiesxangel @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels @aysheashea @dashingdeb16
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Smoke Signals (1998)
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shuttered-eyes · 2 years
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how do we forgive our fathers?
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p-trichor · 1 year
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dear dad.
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Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan, Ilya Repin // And My Father's Love Was Nothing Next To God's Will, Amatullah Bourdon // IT (2017) // Smoke Signals (1998) // Avatar: The Last Airbender (2005) // Family Lines, Conan Gray // Ted Lasso (2020) // Happier Than Ever, Billie Eilish // Stranger Things (2016) // Woodtangle, Mary Ruefle // Sacrifice of Isaac, Caravaggio
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artandchocolate · 2 years
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Phoebe Bridgers - I Know the End
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cheerfull-oblivion · 5 months
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Delusion//Illusion//Unknown
Back in town by Florence and the machine
Why didn't you stop me by Mitski
Sky full of song by Florence and the machine
Smoke signals by Phoebe Bridgers
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jakeromanoart · 2 years
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the future's unwritten the past is a corridor
⚡find my art on instagram, twitter, twitch, inprnt: @jakeromanoart)  
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weltonboys · 1 year
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smoke signals - phoebe bridgers / the lovers - rené magritte / blue lily, lily blue - maggie stiefvater / the lovers II - rené magritte / portrait of fryderyk in shifting light - richard siken
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fredbydawn · 8 months
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Once again I am making the fan content for a relatively obscure movie that I want to see in the world
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ive been curious for a while, who is your icon?
Velma from Smoke Signals~
youtube
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waywardwindee · 8 months
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i accidentally started writing a modern au where the marauders stopped talking after school, and haven't spoken in years, but they reunite for the first time at james and lily's wedding
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eddies-house · 6 months
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Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 |
Smoke Signals
Chapter Eight - Sweet as Apple Pie
W/C: 6.9K
Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader
Honesty ensues well into the quiet hours of Halloween.
A/N: this chapter is so full of dialogue....do y'all prefer a lot of dialogue throughout chapters or more scenery descriptions? Or a good amount of both?
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The living room was only illuminated by the flashing, gory scenes from the TV playing A Nightmare on Elm Street.  It wasn’t your first choice and you had made that clear as you talked your way through the intense parts, keeping your focus on the popcorn bowl in your lap as you scavenged for a melty M&M.  You preferred something more lighthearted but your unintentional guest insisted that with it being Halloween and all, it was ‘like the law’ to watch a horror movie.  Perhaps you were somewhat okay with it, at least you didn’t have to pretend to have fun at a party and you were in fact cozied up on the couch watching a movie while eating your Halloween candy like you’d longed for in the first place.  The only difference was the blood and violence playing out on the screen that you hadn’t planned to endure.
“You’re not even paying attention.”  Eddie tosses a pillow your way, sending popcorn and M&Ms tumbling all over your lap.  
“Eddie!”  You scold.
When you glare at him, you’re met with an expression that can only be recognized as the kind someone exhibits when doing all they can to contain their laughter.  Crinkled eyes and pursed lips ready to explode in a fit of boyish giggles.  He wasn’t drunk anymore, no longer able to escape your incessant teasing should you choose to hold it over him.
A handful of popcorn mixed with candy is flung at him, a piece successfully clinging to his hair and several M&Ms rolling down his chest into the crevices of the couch that would never see the light of day again.  There’s no ignoring the adorable pout on your lips and the way you’d become such a stubborn thing from the smallest inconvenience.  
“Haven’t I been through enough tonight?”  He frowns, dramatically picking the snack out of his hair to toss it toward you, landing somewhere on the rug below for you to some day clog your vacuum with.
Ignoring his question, the bowl is abandoned on the coffee table, movie long forgotten about as you bring your legs up to your chest and shift your eyes directly to him.  Beneath his remaining eyeliner, you can make out the exhaustion forming under his eyes, bags growing more intense with every waking hour, his chapped lips parted ever so slightly as the light from the TV flashes over his features. 
You begin to feel selfish for changing into your fluffy pajamas earlier, your pants a checkered orange and black pattern while you opted to wear a well loved gray t-shirt with faded letters that could barely be made out anymore.  Eddie remained in his black jeans and tattered cut off, his jacket that previously adorned your shoulders hung snugly on the hook near the door.  
There was no way you had anything that would accommodate his long legs although you could probably get by with offering him one of your larger shirts.  You wonder if his skin is covered in goosebumps or if he tends to run hot and remain unbothered by the chilliness of your home.  Embarrassingly so, you hadn’t learned how to use the fireplace yet.  Blankets were a necessity and you found yourself cuddling up with nearly five at a time as the weather grew more frigid.
“I meant to ask, what is your costume?  Yourself?”  You question.  An attempt to ease into offering him something warmer to wear as well as genuine curiosity.
“No?”  He leans forward laughing, his attention bouncing between you and the movie.  “Ozzy.  Ozzy Osbourn.”  He states proudly.
His tattoos draw you in as he brings his arms up to cross over his chest, his posture uncharacteristically comfortable on the opposite end of your couch.  You were sure he was almost sober so it must have been sleep deprivation allowing him such luxury.  A laugh bubbles in the back of your throat as you process his costume, something so convenient as it was practically his actual wardrobe, only a tad more revealing than what you were used to him wearing.
“What, so you just smudge some eyeliner on and you're Ozzy?”  You giggle.
“Oh.”  He scoffs.  “And you put your hair in pigtails and you’re Dorothy?”
“Um, no?”  You cock a brow.  “A lot of work went into my costume.  It just looks like you shredded up your poor shirt and smudged black all over your eyes.” 
A giggle vibrates through his body, an actual giggle, almost a squeal as he buries his head in his hands.  Another postcard for the space in your brain that was becoming larger with each interaction.
“Also, aren’t you cold?  I’m fucking freezing and I’m covered in layers–”
Eddie continues to laugh, the image of a slap happy boy becoming clearer and clearer.  His heavy hand makes contact with his thigh, deep chuckles following as you study the crows feet forming at the corner of his eye.  Extra prominent tonight.
“I am–I’m fucking cold.”  He throws his head back.
It’s contagious, the energy lingering in the air as you join in.  You’re unaware of what’s so funny; it seems the mundane act of being alive is hilarious.
Tears threaten to spill, the kind that don’t come around very often; the kind that hold pools of joy, seas of dopamine longing to spill down your cheeks.  A salty mess that would paint the prettiest memory, glossy eyelids and parted lashes more immaculate than any piece of art Eddie could imagine.  Before you can allow him to indulge in such a sight, fat tears of euphoria are sucked back in, any excess wiped on the pads of your fingers.  
“Do you…want a shirt?  I-I dunno if I have any that’ll fit comfortably but…if you’re cold?  Or I might have a sweatshirt!”  You hop up, recovering from your fit of laughter in your moment of realization.
You don’t give him time to answer, immediately retreating to your room.  His heart feels as if it's gnawing through his chest at the way you worry about him; the fact that you would even be concerned for his well being is still something he would never get used to.  Not many people have offered him that courtesy throughout his life, always equating his family name to something undeserving of any friendly gesture.
When you return, an oversized navy blue sweatshirt in hand with a grin on your face, he swears his heart convulses on the spot.  And when your fingers brush against his as you offer it to him, his lungs are rendered breathless, the desire to linger a little longer pulling him in like gravity.  Your soft skin against his rough fingertips is enough to mess with his brain chemistry, reducing him to a useless man at your mercy, though he’d never admit it.  Not because he didn’t want to but because he was him, and why would someone as delicate and kind hearted as you ever settle for someone as damaged and twisted as him?
Someone so dainty, so lovely, would never in a million years look at him and find him desirable.
When he thanks you, it comes out as an ungrateful mumble, his eyes suddenly glued to his lap in insecurity.  That look on his face that you’d come to recognize, a look of absence.  His mind fed on him and sucked him dry of emotion, eyes blank and devoid of the life that just seconds ago they were so full of.
“You okay?”  You ask, a gentle approach, voice velvety soft with hints of concern.
He doesn’t give you a verbal answer, only nodding while his gaze stays on his lap, the sweatshirt held weakly between his ringed fingers.  His silence is reason enough to believe that it was a lie.  You just couldn’t put your finger on what exactly had happened in the time you’d left the room to you handing him an article of clothing.
“Do you want…to go to sleep?”
The question pierces his doughy brain, stuffed with self depreciation and alienation, only a smidge of room available to process your words.  But even as the words puncture his thoughts, the self hatred won’t deflate fast enough.  So he stares.  He stares at you, those big chocolatey eyes dipped in sadness and self loathing, the ambience now melancholy.  An ache seeps into your chest, traveling up your throat and stinging your eyes at the sight of such a sorrowful man who had just moments ago blessed your ears with his deep laughter and looked at you with such glee.  Suddenly he was gone and once again, he was chasing his inner monologue, you could tell by the way he stared off into the distance, how he had removed himself from the room momentarily.
“Hey, what’s going on?”  You crouch in front of him, the blue light from the TV the only thing allowing you to map out his features.
“Nothing.”  He whispers, snapping out of his trance.
His irises warm up, only slightly, but you can still make out the muted glaze cast over them leftover from his moment of despair.  He isn’t out of the woods yet.
“I-I’m fine.  Sorry, was just…thinking.”  He mutters, slipping the sweatshirt over his head, the material fitting comfortably over his torso, hair now frizzier than before.
“What are you thinking about?”  
You almost lose him again, thoughts swallowing him and nearly drowning him right before you.  But the touch of your hand over his pulls him out, a token of your kindness.  A wordless reassurance that reels him back in.  
“Everything.”  He sniffles, head shaking as if to ward off the waterworks.
Eddie doesn’t let any tears fall, withholds them.  Forces them back into his tear duct, regretting the vulnerability he was further pushing onto you.
“Like what?”  You gently push, thumb stroking over the back of his hard working hand.
Moments follow your question, contemplation behind his gaze while he hesitates.  The world seemed to never be patient enough for him.  So you would.  
For him, you would.
As the gap of silence grows larger, you only give him more encouragement in the form of your thumb continuing to stroke his knuckles, your stare soft on his profile.  There was no rush, not when he’d just hours ago welcomed you into his tortured past.  Not when his nose crinkled as his eyes grew wet again, lashes coated and lip bitten between his teeth anxiously.
“Um–”  He chokes out, not a single tear allowed past his waterline.
You offer a squeeze of your hand, sympathy pouring from your touch into him.  He only tenses up at the sentiment, its effect foreign to him.
“I should go.”  Dragging his hands down his face, he’s puzzled when you stop him from standing.
“Eddie.”  You maintain eye contact with him, even as his eyes dart around the room, you attempt to keep him focused on you.  “I don’t know what’s bugging you but…it can’t be anything crazier than what you’ve told me tonight.”  
Uncertainty pools in his dark irises, honey hues nearly gone in the almost-dark room.  The TV lighting only offers you the tiniest crumb of espresso and swirling caramel that usually brought him to life.  Though, you aren’t entirely sure they’d even be there had you turned the lights on, his grim demeanor clearly yanking away any happiness he had experienced moments prior.
“I-I–why…why are you trying to help me?”  He struggles to get the question out, appearing to be engaged in an internal battle, almost as if he was blindly attempting to make his way back to you, his mind holding him hostage.
You can’t hide the surprise taking over your face, the utter horror at the fact that he would ask such a thing.  Maybe he regretted sharing everything now that he was allegedly sober again?  But that didn’t change your feelings on the topic, you cared.  Whether he word-vomited due to his scattered brain thriving off the alcohol or whether he was stone sober, his feelings mattered to you and you wanted him to know it.
“Because you’re a person, Eddie.”  You begin, once again taking his reluctant, clammy hand and draping your touch over his knuckles.  “Any person deserves compassion.  So what’s bugging you?  I won’t judge.  Promise.”
Holding your pinky out, an empathetic smile paints your lips.
“Pinky promise.”
Within seconds his eyes go from dark discs of despair to those famous honey pools of fondness.  You take note the way he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his pinky around yours, warmth blossoming in your chest and spreading all throughout your body.  And if he needs another moment of quiet after that, he doesn’t communicate it but you gladly welcome it.  
My feelings.  My feelings are bugging me.  Taking me hostage.
It’s what he wants to say but realistically he shoves the dreadful words into the back of his throat as he comes up with something else, another way to convey his thoughts without simply outing himself, making a fool out of himself that you would surely laugh at.  
“I-uh, I’m not very good at this.”  Eddie tries to escape the conversation.
To be fair, he did the same thing with his therapist, it wasn’t anything personal.  It was his own flaw.  But you may have better luck than his therapist, he regrets.  Simply because he would become something he didn’t want you to see him as: an emotionally stunted boy with too many complicated feelings, love drunk on the first girl who had given him more than the time of day.  Just because you were nice to him, didn’t entitle him to reciprocated feelings.
“That’s okay.  I don’t think anyone is.”  You whisper.
Eddie’s eyes shut tightly, his thoughts too painful to voice yet he forces them out–or rather they claw their way out of his throat the second he looks into your begging eyes.  Wordless pleas reach out to him as his brain threatens to shut down any and all communications.
“I just–I don’t…I shouldn’t even be here.”  He sighs deeply.  “I-I don’t deserve to be here.”
At his admission, you find it difficult to voice anything comforting.  Any words you had waiting for him were swallowed at the raw emotion he was displaying.  The look on your face forces him to continue, he needs to fix the situation but he fears he may just make it worse and chase you further away.  He had been digging his own grave for some time now, never learning when to just stop and lay in it.
“Chrissy–um, Chrissy.”  He whispers, eyes fluttering shut.
None of it made sense and he was trying his hardest to wrap things back around and allow you to make the connection in your head.
“You–you remind me of…C-Chrissy.”  A tear trails down his cheek, his hand rapidly wiping it away as he pathetically attempts to repair the conversation.
Instead of offering another squeeze to his hand, you make your way onto the couch next to him, thigh dangerously close to his as you run a hand up and down his back.  You expect the discussion to end there but he only continues.
“And–and that scares me.  Cause, it-it should’ve been me, I should’ve been dead–I should be dead!”  Eddie’s face grows more red, the topic clearly weighing heavy on his heart.  “I can’t–I can’t do it again.”  More tears flow down his tinted cheeks, uncontrollable at this point.
“It feels–it feels l-like it’s going to–to happen again.”  He becomes more and more worked up, barely breathing while he rushes the words out in one breath.  “Like–like the universe or some shit i-is gonna punish me.”  
Your eyes sting, that uncomfortable frown beginning to pull at the corners of your mouth as you watch him self destruct before you.  Something you’d never ask of him though he was voluntarily spilling the contents of his bleeding heart into your hands.
“Okay, okay.”  You begin to soothe.
“I d-don’t get good things.”  “G-good things don’t–don’t happen to me.”  He hiccups.
“Shhh, you don’t need to get upset with yourself.”
Bravely, you go to use the corner of a nearby blanket to blot at the tears trailing down his face to which he flinches away, shaking his head.  That alone would normally be enough to send you to the other side of the couch, bashfully avoiding eye contact until he took the initiative.  But something within you realized that he shouldn’t be left to take the initiative.  Not when he was displaying such pain, such vulnerability that you were convinced not many people had ever seen.  
“God, so pathetic.”  He utters under his shaky breath.
“Hey.”  You softly scold, hand wrapping around his forearm.  He doesn’t flinch at your advances this time.  “You are not pathetic.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Eddie.”
“Don’t throw me a pity party.”  He grits.
“I am not throwing you a pity party.  Stop that.”
It’s out of character, the way you stand up to him.  If it were anyone else you probably wouldn’t have made it this far into the conversation but you can feel your blood boiling as he dismisses his emotions.  You can’t sit by and allow him to continue throwing punches at himself.  Your sudden anger appears to silence him, his glassy eyes glancing at you in disbelief but still obeying your demand.
“I’m being a hypocrite but I-I just…stop.”  You whisper, the devastated look on your face enough to bring him to his knees if he were standing.  Instead he remains seated with his focus solely on you.
“I know…”  You search for the right words.  “I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t deserve good things.”
Eddie doesn’t interject your speech, only listens intently with sad eyes and wet cheeks.  He doesn’t deserve the time day let alone your dedication to his sorrows and worries.  
“I, um, I grew up practically raising my siblings.”  You begin to explain.  “And, um, that responsibility really makes it feel like your needs come last.  And it just gets worse and worse as the years go on because…it’s hard.  Feeling emotionally neglected while tending to everyone else’s emotions.”
His gaze doesn’t once wander, completely devoted to you, to your story.  There’s not an ounce of judgment seeping out of him.  The familiar feeling you were so used to when you opened up every once in a blue moon where you felt deeply misunderstood and silently criticized was nowhere to be found.  All you could make out was pure empathy.  Compassion.  Curious brown eyes searched into your soul, not just scraping the surface but fully diving into the depths you so willingly lead him to.
“I-I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that–like you did Chrissy.”  You tread carefully, as if you were afraid to even mention her name.  “I mean–I lost my dad recently but…I didn’t witness anything and it was because of health issues.  We weren’t close and I actually…really hated him.”  You nod, staring meanly into the carpet.
“But, I, um, I know what it’s like to keep people out.  It’s not fun but it’s all we know isn’t it?”  You chance a laugh, earning you the tiniest upturn of his lips.  “And I mean, things are fine with my siblings and my mom, I guess.  But it still feels like I need to shut them out.  To protect their emotions.  And for some reason it just…makes sense to leave them out of it?  I dunno.”  Your voice trails off, confidence wavering.
“It does make sense.”  Eddie speaks up, voice scratchy.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”  He bites his lip, canine digging into his own flesh before releasing it to speak again.  “Feels like they wouldn’t get it.  Or they shouldn’t have to.  At least that’s how it feels with Wayne.  I know I can tell him anything but…why bother him with all the shit going on in my life when the man has already gone through hell because of me?”  
He takes in a deep breath before sighing and continuing.  “Fuckin’ had to raise a kid that wasn’t even his.”
There’s a certain disappointment to Eddie’s tone, a condescending scowl splayed across his face, only directed at himself as he twists his rings around his fingers.  
“Um.”  He pipes up again, seeming to snap himself out of a trance he’d lured himself into.  “‘Nough about me.”  A smile spreads over his pretty lips, not a genuine one.
“Eddie.”  Like silk, your tone is soft.
“Stop doing that.  You don’t have to do that.  Not around me.”
His chest deflates with an exhale, his pretty eyes still wet and wandering around the room.  There’s a lost child hidden within them, someone desperately trying to cling to the current adult reality but appearing to get lost in the process.  That look was too familiar and there was a sliver of relief in knowing you weren’t the only one who wore it but it yanked on the most tender parts of your heart to know Eddie was suffering just the same as you, if not more.
“T-tell me about Chrissy.”  You whisper.  “Only if you want to.”  
When Eddie’s roaming gaze finally lands on you, he never would have expected to be met with such sincerity.  Not a drop of malice in your voice, not one trace of aggression.  The kind that he was buried in when forced to confront a whole town who suspected he was responsible for her death.  Every mention of her name was always followed by an accusatory finger and seething anger, pitchforks practically aiming for him.  The worst part was he didn’t blame them.  Now, he didn’t mention the hellish underworld beneath Hawkins to you and had explained that the earthquake took Chrissy with a vengeful force right in front of him.  You had no reason to believe him, but you did.  You could’ve believed he was a murderer as everyone else.  You didn’t.  A piece of him wishes he could go into detail about the horrors that once lurked under Hawkins but he’d already breached his contract enough telling you that he was attacked by “creatures”, never going into full detail and telling you that they were gigantic bats.  And you didn’t seem to mind, never pushing for further explanation, only taking what he was willingly giving to you.
“I…”  He begins.  “I…she…she was…”
“I’m sorry, you don’t have to–”
“No.”  He whispers.  His fingertips swipe underneath his eyes, collecting a fair amount of running eyeliner.  “I-I uh, I want to.”  He nods to himself.
“Chrissy was uh, was one of the good ones.  Not a mean bone in her fuckin’ body.”  Eddie starts.  “Even if she was in the ‘popular crowd’ she never bullied anyone.  She thought I was mean and scary at first but…she never…she never showed it.  She’d wave to me every now and then.”  He laughs at the memory, only making your soul ache.
“Now that I think about it, maybe she only waved because she was scared of me.”  He chuckles in self deprecation.  “Can’t blame her.  Everyone’s scared of me.  Always have been.”
“I’m not.”  
Your sudden interruption has his brows knitting together, a softness overcoming his eyes.  He was a mess of a man and you continued to tend to him as if he was deserving of any of your attention.  He wasn’t, and he truly believed that.
“What?”  Eddie attempts to buy some time, stupidly racking his brain for something of some kind of intelligence.
“I’m not scared of you.”
“I–thought you were.  I mean, I wasn’t exactly…nice to you when you first moved in.  I yelled at you all the time–you don’t have to lie to me.”  
“I used to be, yeah.  I’m scared of practically everyone before I get to know them so it wasn’t just you.  But I’m not anymore.”  You explain honestly.  “Keep telling me about her.  If it’s not too much.  She sounded like she was a lovely person.”  
“Yeah.  Yeah, she was.  Had a crush on her for like forever.  Like since middle school when we kinda hung out at the talent show.”  Suddenly, he’s shaking his head again, as if to erase his previous thought.  “It’s stupid.  ‘M twenty four and I’m whining about–”
“Stop.”  You whisper, a bold hand squeezing at his knee.  The action sends his nerves into a frenzy.
“Nothing you say is stupid.”
No one has ever been so patient, so accommodating over his feelings and deepest tragedies showcasing themselves in his darkest hours.  It’s strange enough that he begins to wonder if someone is pulling a prank on him.  If he’s being played like a violin only to be laughed at when the curtain is pulled back.  He couldn’t help it, it was all he had come to learn after all.  Eddie knew you didn’t have it in you to commit such a heinous act against another individual but his mind had been poisoned time and time again, only sending him into a spiral of ‘what-ifs’ any time positivity lingered just out of his reach to grasp if he was brave enough.
“I barely even knew her.”  He seemingly gives up, hand lightly smacking down on his thigh.  Your touch remains on his knee, burning a hole into his bones as he stares at it.
“That’s okay.  You clearly care about her.” 
It makes him want to scream, the way you validate every sentence he utters out.  It’s not what he’s used to, his therapist never even gives him this amount of attention.  And it’s not fair that a soul like yours had been damned to hear his problems and witness everything that made him ugly.  Eddie was convinced that his soul was tainted and if he imagined what it looked like, it was an inky black stain on reality with hardly any signs of life.  If he only knew that in the two months you had known him, he was the most vibrant and adoring soul you had ever come across.
“I–we just–we really connected.  Right before she died.”  He manages to struggle through his mind demanding that he internalizes his thoughts.  “It felt–good.  She saw me…for me.  Instead of some–some motherfucker that poisoned the town’s precious ecosystem and she didn’t see me as…a freak.”
You offer a nod, an encouragement for him to keep going.  His heart that he kept locked up tight in his chest had been slowly oozing out of him, trickling into your living room.  
“She, um, she had a boyfriend.  Jason.”  He clears his throat, staring at the ceiling.  “He was an asshole.  Not to her, he treated her real nice.  But when Chrissy wasn’t around he was a douchebag.  Started a manhunt for me when shit went down.  He thought I—he–he thought I killed her and—and sacrificed her?”  Eddie almost questions, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.
“All because…I was the leader of a Dungeons and Dragons club.”  He admits bashfully.  You only let your thumb glide over the rip in his jeans, a comforting gesture.  “Everyone, uh, thought it was a cult.  Satanic panic and all that shit.”
“That’s fucked.”
“I agree.  Super fucked.  Especially because it dragged everyone down with me.  Dustin basically put his life on the line for me, I’ll never be able to make it up to him.”
As he expresses his gratitude, Eddie pulls his right arm out of the hoodie sleeve, pulling the material up to display his bicep to you.  The one with the very badly doodled character, somewhat resembling a gnome.  
“But…”  He drags out, slapping the ink proudly.  “This did really excite him at least.”
You examine the drawing, taking his bicep in your hand without a second though as you try to determine exactly what you were looking at.  You didn’t want to offend him but you genuinely couldn’t make out the picture.  It was messy and scribbly and could have been created by a five year old.  “Eddie, I’m sorry but–what is it?”  
“Dustin drew it.  It’s his D&D character.”  
“Oh!”  You smile brightly.
“You don’t have to pretend it's good, he’s a shit artist.”
“Not shit.  Just…inexperienced…maybe?”  You joke, wincing at your own words.
“Very.”  Eddie confirms.  “Dustin’s more of a brains kinda guy.  Gareth and I took care of all the artwork, y’know like logos for the club and our band–”
“You had a band?”  A grin sneaks past your lips.
“I–uh–yeah.”  He admits with defeat, his shoulders slumping.
It’s only then that you realized you still had been tracing your fingers over the inked drawing, not one protest stopping you from doing so.  In fact, Eddie only glanced down briefly and smiled, his cheeks tinting pink.  It wasn’t clear whether it was because of your touch or because of embarrassment.
“Hang on, when did this all end up being about me?”  He glares at you with mock anger.
“No, no, no.  Don’t turn this around.  What was your band’s name?”
“Jesus Christ.”  He whispers, distress evident in his tone though his face only conveys amusement.
Eddie didn’t have to entertain the playful conversation that had suddenly engulfed the two of you.  He didn’t have to banter back or let you touch his arm.  He didn’t have to talk about Chrissy even though his mind was plaguing him and he was the one who brought her up.  Nothing was required of him and you made sure he was aware of that.
But oh, how you reveled in his endearing blanket of an aura as he allowed you to peek behind the oh so heavy curtain that hid his deepest and most tragic thoughts.
Marvin’s Grocery had become more and more familiar with your frequent trips over the weeks.  You were determined to perfect an apple pie recipe that would make anyone melt at the taste.  Donnie had extended an invite to her famous Thanksgiving dinner and though it was weeks away, preparations were still under way, your oven enduring more use than it ever had in its short lifetime.  
Guilt ate away at you as you placed the freshly baked pie on the counter to cool.  You didn’t want to be an intruder but Donnie was so insistent when gracing you with the plans back at the supermarket.  It would be your first Thanksgiving away from home and you were set on spending it alone, preparing to create a one person feast and pig out all by your lonesome.  Now, you were going to be faced with at least 30 other guests according to Donnie.  That was intimidating enough and when you tried to reject her invitation to save yourself some embarrassment, she only interrupted you, stating that everyone is going to love you and that even your short time in the spotlight at the Halloween bash left a great impression.  That everyone wanted to get to know you.
Then she bestowed the responsibility of one dessert upon you.  Everyone was required to bring at least one dish, store bought or homemade…it didn’t matter as long as you contributed.  You had weeks to perfect it and though you didn’t need to go through the trouble, the people pleaser in you raged on.
Cinnamon and nutmeg graced your nose, a comforting scent that had you salivating and yearning for a piece of warm, gooey apple pie.  The kitchen was a mess, bowls scattered along the counter top and a bag of flour leaking onto the floor.  You were usually consistent in keeping clean as you worked but the daunting task of perfecting your pie held your complete and undivided attention.  
Buttery, flaky crust called your name as you finished folding your laundry.  The TV blared some popular sitcom that had to have been new as you didn’t recognize it.  Regardless, the pie had interested you more.
It came out beautifully, nearly commercial ready with the criss cross crust and everything.  This was your best outcome yet and you only hope it tasted just as delicious as it looked.  You’d finally perfected the design and it didn’t completely deflate on itself this time, a win in your book.
Regretfully, you cut into the perfect dessert, forming the perfect triangle and plating it as delicately as possible.  This was your baby as far as you were concerned and the passion that had gone into it was going to be recognized, even if only by you.  A quick dollop of whipped cream is placed on top, the only thing missing was ice cream although you weren’t the biggest fan of pairing the two treats, satisfied with just the baked slice of heaven.
It was too flawless, the slice had been perfectly cut and presented like a five star restaurant had prepared it.  Such perfection could not be recreated and you simply needed at least one witness to applaud your work or at the very least acknowledge your newly discovered baking skills.  
Two knocks and no movement.  Yet…
The breeze nips at your cheeks, leaving you to regret not throwing a sweater on even if only for a few seconds.  Your hand shields the fresh slice of pie, a desperate attempt to conceal its warmth.  Your masterpiece would not be spoiled at the hands of the inevitably changing weather.  
Another two knocks.  A bit more urgent this time.
You can hear shuffling just beyond the door, an eager shiver running down your spine.  Irritation begins to build within you at the stinging sensation at the tip of your ears, the temperature being especially unforgiving.
Two more knocks.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.”  
You hear the grumble and can’t help but feel your spirits lift.
“Wha–Bambi?”  Eddie reveals you, a shivering mess on the porch with your hair in disarray and a plate of pie in your trembling hands.
Without hesitation, he steps to the side and waves you in.  There’s a certain coziness to him, his hair extra frizzy as if he had been laying on it and his eyes a tad puffy.  Almost like a large teddy bear.  His black sweatshirt swallows his torso although he’s wearing shorts, a psychotic move in this kind of weather.  
“Try this.”  You demand, holding the plate out in front of him.
His eyes only stare widely at the treat, grogginess obvious in the way he rubs his eyes and yawns.  Another postcard moment.
“What is it?”  He asks gravelly.  It just about melts you into a puddle on his floor.
“Apple pie!”  
Your enthusiasm takes him back, a surprised expression pulling at his features as he hesitantly takes it.  It crosses his mind that you mentioned taking on baking recently, a slow shift at The Bourbon pulling you both into mindless talk as you cleaned.  He gathers that you were at the peak of your sugar rush, no doubt stealing licks of batter and tastes of sugar as you baked.   If this was the result of you baking all day, he needed a minute to wake up.
“Okay, okay.”  He sighs, brushing past you to set the plate on his kitchen counter, snatching a fork from one of the drawers.
“Why do you need me of all people to taste test?”  He asks a bit unkindly.  He doesn’t mean it but you did wake him from a deep slumber, one of the best naps he had in a while.  Probably the only nap he’d taken in a while as he recalls.
You don’t seem to recognize his irritation, thankfully too caught up in the bubbling excitement around your homemade treat.  “Cause it’s for Thanksgiving and I really want it to be good.”  You explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet impatiently.
An eye roll has you blushing–it shouldn’t–but it does.  All of Eddie’s little quirks whether they were forming out of grumpiness or not, only made him all the more endearing.  The fork finally meets his mouth, heaven about to bless his taste buds–or at least you hope.  
As he chews, he makes it a point to keep a straight face, watching you squirm with anticipation being far too fun for him.  
“How is it?”  
Eddie shrugs.  Okay, maybe not all of his quirks were endearing.
“Eddie!”  You wail, hands gripping the edge of the counter.
“Alright, alright.”  He mumbles, taking a step back as he swallows.  The crust crumbles just right on his tongue, warm gooey apple goodness filling his taste buds and sending him right back to his childhood.  The happy parts.  “Really fuckin’ good.  You have any more?”  He asks, going in for another bite, a smug grin displaying across your face.
“No, you were being rude.”
“Wh–c’mon.”  He just about whines as you steal the plate from his reach, tucking it behind your back.
“Say sorry.”
“I’m not sorry, now give it back.”  An adorable frown pulls at his mouth.
“Eddie.”
“Bambi.”
Big brown eyes stare into yours, stubborn intent evident behind them.  It instantly fades when you give him your best pout, your eyes shining with a silent plea.  With a deep sigh and another eye roll, he gives in.  It was like stealing candy from a baby except even easier as he fumbled his stoic expression and contorted his face into something more apologetic.
“‘M sorry.”  He mumbles.
“You’re what?”  You smile, acting oblivious.  
“I’m sorry!”  Eddie throws his hands up in surrender.  “Happy?”  
“I guess.”  You sigh, placing the beloved dessert back on the counter for him to devour.
“Why you baking so much?”  
His mouth is crammed with pie after he asks, crumbs resting at the corners of his mouth and whipped cream decorating his upper lip.  You determine that he’s a messy eater, sloppily shoveling pie into his mouth until it physically can’t hold anymore.
“Thanksgiving.  I’m in charge of a dessert.  What are you bringing?”
“Nuffin’.”  He mumbles through a mouthful.
“Why not?”  You practically whine.
With a rough swallow, Eddie licks his lips, leaving no trace of the coarse sugar that was previously sprinkled on the crust.  When you glance down, the plate is empty, the pie had vanished into Eddie’s stomach.
“I’m not going.”  He says simply.
Not going?  If he couldn’t go back to Indiana for Thanksgiving, where was he going to go?
“I don’t uh, I don’t do holidays.”  He elaborates.
“Don’t do holidays.”  You scoff.  “You did Halloween just fine.”  
It should gross you out when he retrieves a carton of milk from the fridge and starts chugging it straight from the container.  It doesn’t.  Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he sets the milk on the counter, eyes meeting yours as his elbows come to rest on the counter, his head propped up in his hands.
“Then that’s the only holiday I do.” 
“You have to go.”  You whine like a child, stomping your foot.
“I don’t have to do anything.”  There’s a certain kind of attitude in his tone, a playful attitude that wasn’t actually meant to offend you, only to spur you on.
“You have to go or else you can’t have any more pie!”  You complain.  “Please Eddie!  You’re like one of the only people I’ll know, you can’t not go.”
Your worried eyes and pouty lips are convincing enough though he might as well have a little fun.  Get under your skin.
“Now you’re being mean.”  He juts out his lip.
The look on your face is priceless, eyes widening and mouth hung open in shock.  “Am not!  You’re going to Thanksgiving because if you don’t then I’m gonna feel guilty the whole time I’m trying to pig out.”
“Guilty?”  An amused grin plasters itself to his face, his figure returning to tower over you as he ceases leaning over the counter.
“Yeah, you can’t spend Thanksgiving alone.”  
He swears there are tears in your eyes, making it unexplainably hard for him to tell you no.  Then again, he always found it hard to tell you no.  Just last week you and Jett begged to decorate the bar with pumpkins and other Fall objects.  The only reason he said yes was because you looked up at him with those perfectly pleading puppy dog eyes, your hands behind your back as you swayed back and forth.  And because you offered to use the pumpkins from your porch, the bar’s dwindling budget sure to be untouched.
“Tell you what…”  Eddie begins his proposition, you listening eagerly as you lean over the counter with your head propped in your hands as he had done seconds ago.  “If you make me my own personal pie—“
“Done.”  You chirp.
“I will consider it.”  He finishes, glaring at you.
“How about…I give you the rest of the pie I have sitting at home right now and you promise you’ll go?”  You light up at your own idea.
“I will consider it.”  He repeats.
“No deal.” 
You cross your arms stubbornly, eyes closing as you tilt your head up in a snobbish manner.  A groan escapes him, you peeking an eye open only to see his nose scrunched in defeat, his tongue licking the back of his teeth and clicking.
He lost the battle.
“Fine.”  He sighs, exhaling through his nostrils in annoyance.  
You don’t miss the tiny smile tugging on his lips as he collects the remaining whipped cream from the plate and licks it from his fingers.  His front was faltering, the big scary dog ready and willing to fall at your feet if you just said the word. 
~end~
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