summary: sometimes home is made of little things. a borrowed sweatshirt, a cup of hot chocolate, wayne’s blanket, and the strange comfort of eddie munson’s beautiful mess of a world. ☕🖤
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
tags: soft!eddie x you, no y/n, slow burn, friends to lovers, oblivious!eddie, mutual pining, the munson way of caring, protective!eddie, caring!eddie, teasing!eddie, dramatic!eddie, sweet!eddie, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, comfort after a bad day, sharing clothes, wearing eddie’s clothes, rainy night, cozy vibes, found family, wayne munson being wayne, eddie munson being eddie munson, acts of service, playful banter, soft moments, fluff, romantic tension, critical frost damage avoided ♡
warning: excessive fluff, dangerously high levels of domestic comfort, may cause sudden cravings for hot chocolate and a place on wayne’s couch
notes: damn, i'm a curl girl ☆ next chapter not that long ☆ no promise ☆
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By the time Eddie finally admitted defeat, the two of you were long past the point of pretending you weren't freezing.
The rain showed no mercy. In cold, heavy sheets it had soaked clean through your jacket, your shirt, your jeans, until every step sent water sloshing inside your shoes.
"That," Eddie announced solemnly, lifting one foot for emphasis, "is the sound of my dignity leaving my body." The demonstration came with a squelch so horrific it deserved its own eulogy.
Water trickled down the back of your neck no matter how tightly you hunched your shoulders against the wind.
"I swear," Eddie muttered, shoving a handful of dripping curls out of his face. They flopped immediately back into place, as if the gesture had never happened. "That van picked the absolute worst possible moment to die on us."
"Honestly," you said, glancing out at the downpour surrounding you, "it really committed to the bit."
Eddie barked out a laugh.
"Yeah. Couldn't just break down Tuesday morning. Saving me from Mr. Kaminski."
Thunder rolled across the sky, low and rumbling, followed by another gust of wind that drove the rain sideways. Instinct made you turn your face away, though it barely made a difference anymore — there wasn't a single dry inch left on you to protect.
"This doesn't even count as rain anymore," you called out over the wind.
Eddie tipped his head back, blinking up at the vast, churning sky.
"This is personal. Whoever's in charge today clearly has a grudge."
The trailer finally emerged through the curtain of rain, its porch light glowing, a tiny beacon against the dark evening.
"Welcome to paradise," Eddie joked, relief bleeding through, plain and impossible to miss.
He took the steps two at a time and fished his keys from his pocket. You followed him up the creaking wooden steps, your soaked sneakers slipping slightly against the damp wood. Eddie's fingers were numb from the cold, and it took him two tries before he managed to get the key into the lock.
"Come on," he muttered under his breath. "Work with me."
Warmth hit you the moment Eddie opened the door. Soft carpet replaced splintered porch boards beneath your feet. The old couch sat exactly where it always had, its faded fabric still carrying the faint smell of cigarette smoke. A stack of cassette cases leaned beside it, old newspaper forgotten on the coffee table, Eddie's clothes thrown over the backrest. After the cold and the rain, seeing the familiar mess of the trailer felt strangely comforting.
Eddie pushed the door open and stepped aside with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.
"Wow," you laughed, brushing past him into the warmth, grateful for the sudden absence of wind and rain, "an actual gentleman."
"Don't get used to it," he called after you, already following close behind, the door swinging shut against the storm at his back.
"Figured I'd let the prettier one go first."
Looking down at yourself, soaked through, hair plastered to your face, you glanced back at him, equally drenched, a stray drop of rain still clinging to the tip of his nose.
"Pretty sure," you countered, fighting a grin, "neither of us is winning that title right now."
Wayne looked up from the kitchen sink, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, and let out a low chuckle at the sight of you.
"Well, don't you two look like a couple of drowned raccoons."
"Hi, Mr. Munson," you greeted, brushing damp strands of hair away from your face.
"Evening." Wayne's gaze swept over the two of you, amusement written plainly across his face.
"We definitely feel like it," you admitted, and that only seemed to deepen it.
Eddie looked at you, smiling slightly, before glancing down at himself. Apparently deciding the situation was still salvageable, he ran a hand through his hair, giving the curls one final adjustment before looking back at you.
"I think we pulled it off."
Wayne's mouth twitched, clearly unconvinced.
"Sure you did." Wayne returned his attention to the dishes.
"Van died at the corner of Birch," Eddie grunted, wrestling himself out of his leather jacket, which protested with an unmistakable squeak.
"Real dramatic exit." Eddie threw his hands up, miming an explosion. "Smoke and everything."
Slipping out of your soaked sneakers, you lined them up neatly beside the door. Even so, droplets of rain escaped your clothes, gathering in tiny puddles across the floor.
"Sorry," you apologized, looking down at your feet. "We're making such a mess."
Wayne glanced at the puddle for all of half a second before looking back at you.
"I'd rather have wet floors than you two still out there." He nodded toward the stools at the kitchen counter and grabbed another towel from the rack.
The moment it touched your hands, you let out an embarrassingly happy sigh.
"Oh my god, this is so good. Thank you!"
The towel had officially become the only thing standing between you and looking completely miserable, so you claimed a spot at the counter and pressed it over your face for a moment, breathing in the faint scent of laundry soap.
Eddie caught himself looking at you again. When you noticed, he didn't flinch. He just smiled to himself.
"You got the van off the road?" The mug was the next victim of the soapy water, disappearing beneath the bubbles as Wayne continued the cleanup.
"Yeah!" Eddie held his arms out, presenting the full disaster of his outfit, a fresh black smear now added to the wreckage.
"Such a drama queen till the very end."
"Locked it?" The mug received its final rinse, earned its place on the drying rack, and joined the others in pretending the cleanup was almost over.
"Mm-hm," Eddie hummed, wringing out the hem of his shirt with a grimace. "Though I'm not entirely convinced the thing is alive enough to care."
Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky again, deep enough to make the windows tremble, followed almost immediately by rain hammering even harder against the roof.
"Callin' Wade in the morning, see if he can tow it. No sense sending anyone out in this."
A last few crumbs met their inevitable end as Wayne cleared the plate, his gaze drifting toward the rain outside.
Eddie followed his gaze to the window and rubbed a hand through his still-dripping curls. A few drops of water fell onto the floor between his feet.
Judging by the amount of water Eddie was still shedding, Wayne clearly decided reinforcements were necessary. He grabbed another towel and tossed it toward him.
Catching it with a small nod of thanks, Eddie immediately started rubbing it through his hair, trying to get some of the water out. It didn't do much. His curls only seemed to grow more unruly, sticking up in every direction as he dragged the towel through them.
"...Fixed it," he grinned.
Looking at him for a beat, you smiled.
"Your curls beg to differ."
One look at the two of you was enough to notice something was off. Wayne's attention stayed on you a moment longer, quietly assessing.
"Doesn't look like you're warming up much. You're turning blue."
Glancing down, you found your hands trembling, a tremor you hadn't noticed until now.
"I'm fine," you said, the words coming out before you'd even thought them through.
Wayne's expression eased. "I know. Still, those wet clothes aren't helping." He tilted his head toward the hallway. "There's something dry in there. You two should get out of those."
The towel found its new home around Eddie's neck.
"Yeah, let's not turn into human icicles today."
The matter was apparently settled. The mugs waiting on the drying rack had already claimed Wayne's attention.
Eddie shook his head, a fond smile crossing his face at how quickly Wayne had moved on.
"Come on," he said, already heading toward his room and flicking on the light as he stepped inside.
The familiar chaos greeted you — band posters curling at the edges, cassette tapes scattered across every surface, the faint smell of candle wax and old paper.
Idle curiosity led your eyes over the room, taking in what Eddie would generously call "organized," until something on his desk caught your attention.
It had quite obviously made itself at home beside his paints. Rolling it once between your fingers, you decided it had apparently chosen its new owner.
Honestly, you couldn't blame it.
"Alright..." Eddie announced, giving the drawer a good yank and a rattle until it finally gave in with a squeak. "You've got quite the selection here. Black, black, or..." He paused, his fingers moving through the pile with an almost adorable amount of concentration. "...premium black."
Suddenly you were all ears. Your whole body ached for something warm and dry.
"Ooh, premium is in stock?"
Glancing over his shoulder, Eddie flashed a wide, almost boyish grin.
The clothes rustled beneath his hands, the soft clink of his rings filling the quiet room before he suddenly stopped.
"Actually... scratch that," he said, pulling out a faded black sweatshirt with a soft, stretched-out collar that had clearly seen better days. He held it up with exaggerated care, giving it an approving nod before presenting it to you.
"This is premium cozy black."
"...oh wow," you breathed, running your fingers over the worn fabric.
"Pretty sure this one comes with a comfort bonus," you hummed, giving the sleeve another squeeze.
Honestly, you understood the temptation of keeping someone else's stuff now — and you weren't sure you'd give this back either.
Eddie caught your reaction, and the look on his face made it painfully obvious he considered this a personal victory.
The clothes were arranged with the seriousness of a royal offering, the sweater and sweatpants presented like priceless family heirlooms before an unnecessarily elegant bow completed the performance.
"My lady," he announced with all the drama of a royal decree.
Not one to be outdone, you pressed a hand to your chest and inclined your head in return, accepting the bundle with matching gravity.
"A most generous offering," you declared, voice as regal as you could manage.
Clearly delighted that you were playing along, Eddie's grin stretched wider.
Tightening your grip on the pile, you felt the sweater's warmth seeping into your cold hands, a small, unexpected act of mercy. You'd barely taken a step when Eddie froze.
"Hold on..." He turned around so fast his wet curls sent droplets flying. "The ceremony isn't complete."
The drawer was immediately searched for the next essential item, and after a moment of dramatic rummaging, another treasure emerged with the same theatrical care as before.
"This is of great importance!" The final piece of the ensemble made its appearance, completing the royal collection before he gave you a quick wink. "Protection against frostbite... a devastating weakness of your toes."
"Socks!" you gasped, your eyes widening with perfectly feigned astonishment. "A rare item. I thought these were only a legend."
Eddie just stared at you. A crooked, pleased look crossed his face, warm and immediate.
"Okay," he said, his nose scrunching the way it did when he was trying not to smile too hard. "See, this is why you're dangerous."
You laughed. "Oh! Dangerous?"
"Yeah." He nodded seriously. "Encouraging me."
His expression shifted as your fingers brushed against his while you adjusted the stack of clothes between you, and just like that, the teasing dropped from his face.
Neither of you moved at first.
Then Eddie seemed to remember he was still holding onto the socks, and his fingers loosened with a small, almost embarrassed laugh.
"Uh... I'll let you get changed."
He lingered for just a second longer before backing toward the door.
He paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Thanks," you said, lifting the stack of clothes slightly between you.
Another grin, smaller this time but no less genuine, and then he slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door gently shut behind him.
His footsteps continued on to the bathroom, followed by the soft click of that door too, and the faint rustle of him getting out of his own wet clothes.
The trailer creaked softly around you, settling beneath the weight of the storm. Rain battered the roof like it was trying to break in, but inside, everything felt strangely safe. Warm. The world outside could do whatever it wanted, and it didn't matter quite as much in here.
The sweatshirt was a little too big, the sleeves falling over your hands no matter how many times you pushed them back. The sweatpants sat loose around your ankles, soft and warm, swallowing up the last bit of cold the rain had left behind.
Surprised by how quickly something unfamiliar had started to feel comfortable, you padded out of Eddie's room sock-footed. The overly dramatic sock ceremony had, unfortunately, been justified. They were really good socks.
Wayne was still waging war on the last of the dishes while Eddie gathered up mugs and plates, dressed and looking suspiciously put-together for someone who'd needed a small eternity just to find matching socks. The second Eddie turned and caught sight of you, a grin spread across his face.
Since a proper reveal lost some of its impact while still holding a bundle of soggy clothes, you draped them over the back of one of the kitchen stools.
"Well?" you asked, turning around with amused patience, arms held out as if giving him time to properly assess the situation.
Eddie set the dishes down and gave you a slow once-over, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin as though he were considering a life-altering decision.
"Until what, exactly?" you asked, eyes widening in exaggerated concern.
"Until you're quoting Sabbath, arguing about guitar solos, and informing innocent strangers their taste in music is objectively wrong."
Your straight face didn't survive that. Eddie's dramatic prediction was ridiculous enough to make you laugh, mostly because there was a little too much truth in it.
Eddie blinked, like he'd expected to tease you, not actually catch you off guard.
"Oh," you said, drawing yourself up, chin lifting as you slipped into the performance, "I think I'm already there. Just missing the curls, though."
Reaching up, you gave your hair a dramatic, tousled fluff in a poor imitation of his curls.
The accusation clearly required a response. His eyebrows lifted, and whatever amusement had been there was quickly replaced by the need to defend his reputation.
"My lady," you intoned in your best imitation of Eddie's voice — low, gravelly and just a touch too dramatic.
"Okay, that's slander," Eddie scoffed, stepping toward you with a look of mock offense, one finger already raised in protest. "I don't sound like that!"
"You absolutely do," you teased, tugging one sleeve back without really looking, already so used to the oversized sweatshirt it barely seemed to register anymore. "All the time!"
Still shaking his head, Eddie caught the end of one sleeve between his fingers, lifting it like an exhibit in a courtroom.
"The sweatshirt?" he declared. "Convincing."
"The impression? Criminal."
"You hear yourself, right?" you mocked, trying to pull your arm free.
A playful nudge of your shoulder was your next attempt to escape, but Eddie only tightened his hold, clearly far too entertained to let you go. Instead, he only laughed, reached around you, and caught you in an easy hug from behind, his chin nearly brushing your shoulder.
"Eddieee—" you protested playfully, trying to pry one of his arms loose.
It accomplished absolutely nothing except making him laugh harder.
Eddie had seen you soaked through, freezing, trying not to make a fuss about it. Now you were standing there wearing his clothes, arguing with him over a fake accent. Somehow, that got to him more than it should have.
The microwave beeped, apparently confident it had done its job. A quick stir proved otherwise. After a moment of silent judgment, Wayne sent the pot back in for another minute.
"You two planning on eating tonight, or should I just leave you to the fashion show?"
Eddie's arms stayed exactly where they were, making it perfectly clear he had no intention of letting go. Defeat, apparently, came with remarkably comfortable conditions. Settling back against him, you decided fighting it was wildly overrated.
"We're conducting a highly scientific evaluation," Eddie declared.
"Of?" Wayne asked, already setting slices of toast onto waiting plates.
You pretended to give the question careful consideration. "My commitment to premium cozy."
Wayne looked over then. His eyes moved from the sweatshirt to the easy way Eddie still had you tucked against him before settling on your face. The sight seemed to please him.
Catching your smile, Wayne gave the toast another look before deciding a little extra butter couldn't hurt.
Tipping your head back against Eddie, you couldn't resist the quiet triumph in your grin.
With a small click of his tongue, Eddie leaned closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"You're clearly working together."
Apparently deciding the toast hadn't suffered enough, Wayne added another generous helping of butter before his attention shifted to the stool.
"Probably oughta hang 'em up before we forget."
Only then did Eddie seem to notice he was still holding onto you. He blinked, almost surprised by the fact that he hadn't wanted to let go, before easing his arms away.
For a second, you missed the easy comfort of his arms before reminding yourself that he had only been messing around.
"Got it." Before you could even move, the bundle was already being taken. Eddie shifted it into both hands, then paused, looking down at the pile.
"Oh." His brows lifted. "That's... all..."
Heat crept up your neck. "...Maybe."
"Even—" He stopped himself, catching the word before it could fully leave him. "Never mind."
"What?" You laughed. "You know rain doesn't magically stop at your jeans, right?"
A small shake of his head followed, apparently realizing the flaw in his own logic.
"Yeah. Just... Didn't really think that through."
The microwave beeped again, clearly done negotiating. Wayne rescued the pot from the microwave, gave the stew one last stir like he was personally responsible for its survival, and glanced toward the bathroom.
"Ed. The rack in the bathroom folds out."
"Last time you said that, you put a wet towel over the shower curtain."
Looking offended, Eddie adjusted the bundle in his arms.
"That was one time," he said, already heading to the bathroom.
The cupboard opened with a quiet creak. Wayne paused for a moment, then took down the bowls stacked inside.
"Need a hand?" you asked, drumming your fingertips lightly against the edge of the counter.
He glanced back at you, a little surprised by the offer.
"That's kind of you. Think I can manage," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
A mug of hot chocolate appeared in front of you a moment later, courtesy of Wayne, who had clearly decided you needed warming up more than you needed another argument.
"Careful, though. Made it the way Ed likes it. Might rot your teeth."
Steam curled up carrying the rich scent of melted chocolate and something faintly like cinnamon. A few marshmallows floated on top, their edges softened into pale, gooey ribbons.
Warmth sank into your fingers the moment you wrapped both hands around the mug. The first sip was almost too hot, way too sweet, and somehow exactly right.
"Okay," you said, "this explains so much about him."
Wayne huffed, already reaching for the ladle. "Told you. Kid's got a sweet tooth. Always has."
"I would've guessed coffee." The second sip was just as reckless as the first, sugar be damned, and the warmth kept spreading from the inside out.
"Oh, that too. Mostly when he's got a paper due at two in the morning." Wayne tapped the ladle against the pot rim, stew flicking across the counter. "But given the choice? Hot chocolate wins every time."
"So that's his secret weakness." Clearly enjoying this far too much, you cradled the mug a little closer, already plotting a marshmallow stockpile. "Good to know. I'll keep a bag of marshmallows around for emergencies."
That actually got a proper laugh out of Wayne, low and warm. "Don't you give him ideas. He'll start negotiating a marshmallow allowance."
As Wayne cleared some space on the counter, something underneath the magazines caught your attention. Clint Eastwood stared back at you, looking deeply offended by his temporary imprisonment. You pulled the VHS case free.
"Pale Rider," you read off the cover. "Huh."
"Been sitting there since last week." The last bowl joined the others on the counter, and Wayne gave the VHS case a quick look.
"Was gonna watch it myself one of these nights, but—" he gestured vaguely at the general chaos of the trailer, of life, "—never got around to it."
The sun-bleached cover art was doing a surprisingly good job of selling the idea of a quiet movie night, right in the middle of the storm.
"I've heard of it. Never actually watched it, though."
"It's a good one. Saw it last year when it came out. Wasn't expecting much, but it surprised me," Wayne recalled, setting down another plate with a clink, already reaching for the cutlery.
"Ed'll tell you westerns ain't his thing." Wayne snorted, clearly more amused than he was willing to admit, and collected the last of the spoons.
"Still sits through every one of 'em, though."
Leaning an elbow on the counter, you said, "Yeah... He has a habit of accidentally getting invested."
Next to the slices of toast, the bowls of stew found their place, a knowing look crossing Wayne's face.
A small detail caught your attention, three plates instead of two. The extra plate sat there like it had always belonged — Wayne had just included you.
Right on cue, Eddie wandered back into the kitchen, drying his damp hands against the sides of his sweatpants. One curl had escaped whatever battle he'd fought within the bathroom and now hung stubbornly across his forehead.
"Mission accomplished. Your clothes are officially hanging in a way that suggests I know what I'm doing."
Dropping onto the stool beside you, Eddie immediately leaned over and stole a marshmallow straight from your mug before you could react.
The stolen marshmallow disappeared into his mouth, completely unapologetic as he ignored your look of betrayal. The second mug on the counter offered the perfect opportunity for revenge. You plucked one of his marshmallows, popped it into your own mouth, then handed it over with your sweetest smile.
Eddie chewed for a second before flashing you a thoroughly unrepentant grin.
With the mug now in hand, the entire exchange seemed to have gone exactly according to Eddie's plan, followed by a long, satisfied sip.
"So, what did I miss?" He asked, completely unaware of the chocolate mustache he was sporting.
"Since Zeus had other plans for us, we figured we'd let Clint Eastwood save the day."
You held up the cover, the grim-faced gunslinger staring back like he'd personally taken offense at the weather.
Without missing a beat, Eddie lifted his spoon toward you and Wayne.
"I knew it! I leave for one minute and you two start plotting."
"Sorry," you managed between laughs, "can't take you seriously with that mustache."
Noticing where you were looking, Eddie dragged his tongue deliberately slowly across his upper lip without breaking eye contact, taking the chocolate with it.
With hunger clearly winning the argument, Wayne made his way back toward the living room, the movie secured under one arm and his plate in the other hand.
"Movie's starting either way," he said. "You can hide out in Ed's room if you want, or come keep an old man company."
Apparently, everything had been successfully handled: dinner was ready, the movie was saved, and Eddie hadn't managed to ruin either one.
Three feet of carpet became an obstacle course the moment you and Eddie decided to cross it, arms full of plates, bowls, and mugs, exaggerated concentration written all over both your faces like you were crossing a tightrope instead.
"Corner or middle?" Eddie asked, tilting his head toward the couch while Wayne crouched by the TV, the worn VHS case already in hand.
You didn't even have to think about it.
"Middle," you decided. "Better view."
With the kind of clunk that meant the VCR was either working or pretending to, the old machine accepted the tape, and a second later the television dissolved into a brief shimmer of static.
"Careful," Eddie warned as he eased himself down beside you, balancing the bowl carefully on one thigh. "This couch was not built for personal space."
Fair warning, apparently. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging him effortlessly against you until his knee bumped yours.
"Noted." You shifted just enough to make room, though it hardly made a difference. "Too late now."
Something about your answer clearly pleased him.
A blanket settled over your lap, soft and worn thin in places from years of use. You blinked down at it, then up at Wayne, who was already halfway back to his armchair like he hadn't just quietly made sure you were both comfortable.
"Wayne." Eddie eyed the blanket with exaggerated offense. "It's not cold anymore."
"Didn't say it was for the cold."
Already lowering himself into the armchair, Wayne didn't so much as glance in your direction.
For a moment, it looked like Eddie was searching for a comeback worthy of the occasion. Whatever he'd come up with apparently wasn't convincing enough. A quiet huff escaped him instead as he tugged one side of the blanket a little farther over both of you.
Static melted into the opening notes of Pale Rider, crackling softly through the old speakers while the storm outside continued throwing itself against the trailer roof like it still had something left to prove.
With a warm bowl in your hands and Eddie's shoulder resting comfortably against yours, you couldn't help thinking the van really could've chosen far worse places to give up.
"This is dangerously close to a family movie night, Wayne."
Wayne didn't even look away from the television.
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