depressed sewer rat 🐀

Now, the salt still clinging to your skin, sand somehow still hiding in places it has no business being, and Eddie is standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom like he’s about to receive a medical diagnosis.

He twists his shoulders toward the glass, then the other way.

He leans in a little closer.

“…Oh no,” he says.

You press against the doorframe, arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “That sounds promising.”

He ignores you completely, lifting the edge of his shirt just enough to get a better look at the bright red spread across his shoulders and upper back. It’s an impressive gradient, honestly, pink turning into deep sunburned crimson like he tried to roast himself evenly and failed spectacularly.

Eddie squints at his reflection like it might lie to him.

“Does it look bad?” he asks finally.

There’s a beat where you consider being kind.

You look at him again, at the very obvious sunburn, the slightly panicked expression, the damp curls still clinging to his forehead, and the kindness comes out in the form of a grin you don’t even try to hide.

“It looks like you tried to become toast,” you hum.

Eddie gasps like you’ve betrayed him on a spiritual level. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.”

He turns fully now, abandoning the mirror as if it personally offended him, and points at his own shoulder. “Okay, but in my defense, I applied sunscreen.”

“You applied it once,” you correct.

“I re-applied emotionally,” he says, because that should count for something.

You laugh, stepping into the bathroom now. The tiles are cool under your feet, a welcome contrast to the lingering heat from outside. Eddie watches you in the mirror, waiting for a verdict from a higher authority.

You come up behind him instead, peering at his shoulders.

It really is just sunburn. Not bad-bad, just enough to be very obvious and very uncomfortable tomorrow.

“Alright,” you say after a moment. “Diagnosis: mildly roasted.”

Eddie groans. “I knew it.”

“But,” you add, reaching up to poke his shoulder lightly, “not fatal.”

He winces dramatically at the touch. “That hurt my feelings.”

“Your feelings are also sunburned.”

“That’s not even medically possible.”

“It is in your case.”

He lets out a long, suffering sigh and leans his hands on the sink, accepting his fate. “I am never going outside again.”

“You say that every summer.”

“This time I mean it.”

You bump your shoulder gently against his. “You had fun though.”

He pauses, his brows raising as his eyes find yours in the mirror. His voice drops a little softer. “Only because of you.”

The sentence changes the whole shape of him. The theatrics ease off just slightly, and panic fades into something more manageable.

You reach into the cabinet and pull out aloe gel, holding it up like a trophy. “Come here, disaster boy.”

Eddie perks up instantly. “Oh. You’re gonna fix me?”

“I’m going to attempt damage control.”

“That’s basically the same thing,” he says, already turning obediently back toward the mirror.

As you start smoothing the cool gel over his shoulders, he hisses once dramatically, then immediately relaxes, his entire body remembering what relief feels like.

“…Okay,” he mumbles after a moment. “This part I like.”

“You’re welcome.”

He glances at you in the mirror, expression softening in that quiet way he gets when he thinks you’re not looking. “Next time,” he says, “you’re in charge of sunscreen duty.”

“I was already in charge of sunscreen duty, you just didn’t listen.”

“Then you’re promoted,” he decides solemnly. “Head of not letting me turn into a lobster.”

You snort. “Big responsibility.”

“Very serious position,” he agrees, leaning back slightly into your touch like he’s settling in. “Requires dedication. Commitment. Emotional support.”

“Anything else?”

“Beach snacks,” he adds quickly.

You shake your head, smiling as you keep working the aloe into his sunburn. “Deal.”

And Eddie, still standing half-covered in aloe gel, looking at himself like he survived something important, says very quietly “…Worth it though.”

Your lips quirk and you kiss the tip of his nose, because that part doesn’t sound like a joke at all.

x

Divider @saradika-graphics

Eddie Munson blurbs

You checked your surroundings like a deer in the middle of hunting season. To the outside eye, you probably looked like one, too. Alone in the woods, paranoid, unarmed... you weren't exactly screaming "don't mess with me." No; if anything, you were a welcoming target. Alone in the woods, paranoid, unarmed... not a good look for you.

"Well, shit," a smooth voice hummed, seemingly appearing from thin air. A twig snapped under his foot as he drew nearer. "Of all the people at school, I never thought I'd be selling to you."

You looked up at him, eyes wide and alert. Eddie always scared you from afar. The individual parts to him weren't that frightening. You could never tell him, but you thought his battle jacket was sick as hell, and so was the rest of his getup. His hair seemed fun, so to speak, and his big smile-- always like a kid on Christmas-- told you that he came in peace. But all together? He was sort of intimidating. Not so much that you'd burst into tears if he spoke to you, but enough to keep you from ever approaching him. That's why you dropped the note in his locker instead of making a phone call or having a conversation. That note let you cower away.

"Well, let's get down to business." Eddie let his lunch pail clatter onto the picnic table. He gestured across from him. "Have a seat. Can't do business if you're six feet away."

You stepped away from the tree you'd been leaning against and over to the table, sitting silently on the very edge of the bench. He shot you a weird look but didn't say anything on the matter.

"So, Four-Point, what brings you to me?" He inquired, propping his elbows up on the table and joining his hands together. His chin came to rest atop his fists.

"Four-Point?" You squeaked. Damn. Wait to be cool.

"Yeah. Four-Point. How have you not heard that before? Half the school calls you that."

Oh, God. Half the school?

Eddie immediately backtracked, seeing the nervous look on your face. "It's not a bad thing," he assured you. "It's just because you're so smart. Four-Point, as in a 4.0 GPA. It's not because you're, like, a square or anything."

"A square?" You glanced up at him, daring to make eye contact only for a few seconds before you returned to the pile of pine needles on the table. "People think I'm a square?"

"God, I'm making it worse, aren't I?" He held his hands up in a peaceful gesture. "You're not a square. That was just the only other reason I could think of that somebody might be called Four-Point. Everybody calls you that because you're smart. As in, the GPA. Okay?"

You swallowed and nodded. You weren't so sure he was telling the truth, but anything to get what you needed and get out of here. "Okay."

"Okay, then." Eddie smiled softly. "Good. Now, business. Based on your whole deer-in-headlights look right now, I'm going to assume this is your first time buying?"

You nodded shyly.

"Hey, nothing wrong with that. We all start somewhere." He began rifling through his pail, setting a bag of pretzels down on the table, then a tin, rattling with something small inside, and finally, a dime bag stuffed with a mossy green substance. "So, considering this is your first time, this little baggie here will probably be enough. But... it would help if I knew what the problem was."

You paused for a moment, on edge. How did he know about your problems? Had somebody heard you talking to your guidance counselor? Damn it; you knew this would happen. You found the courage to make eye contact again, then spoke in a tiny voice. "P-problem?"

"Yeah," Eddie affirmed. "Problem. I don't know you well, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem like the type to smoke recreationally. So, what is it? Joints giving you problems? Trouble sleeping? Home sucks?"

Home sucks.

God, he couldn't have summed it up better. Home sucked butt right now. School sucked, too. And so did work. And your head. You couldn't even retreat to your room and hide from your problems anymore, because they followed you into your dreams like some sort of reverse Freddy Krueger. You'd been having the stereotypical, stupid dreams about losing teeth for three days straight. Next, you'd be chased off a building and fall for a million years, only for your teeth to fall out once you hit the pavement.

"I--" The words caught before you could even get halfway through the sentence. You swallowed, but it didn't do anything for the dryness in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes.

"Oh. Oh, shit." Eddie straightened up, pretty brows furrowing in concern. "Hey, I didn't mean-- what happened?"

You moved your mouth wordlessly, begging syllables to work with you. "E-everything..." you managed. A sob forced its way out before you could stop it. The first of many.

"Jesus, um..." He looked around, as if there would be a trusted adult to wave over. When he found no one, he reached across the peeling table and patted your hand uncertainly. "It-- it's okay. Do you want to give me some specifics? You don't have to, but it might help if you got it off your chest..."

"I-- I got kicked off the tennis team because I hurt my wrist, and my mom got mad and isn't talking to me, but she keeps talking to my dad about it, and their room is right next to mine, so I can hear them talking at night, and I don't even understand what's so bad! I got hurt! It-- it's not like I got suspended or anything!" That was all you intended to tell him. You posted up the 'stop' sign in your head, but traffic laws don't apply to things that don't drive. "She's stressing me out because there's no way the tennis thing is the only reason she's not talking to me, but it's affecting my sleep, and that's affecting my grades, and my dad's not happy about that, and I don't know what to do!"

Eddie's thumb moved over your knuckles rapidly, like he couldn't comfort you fast enough. "Take a breath, okay? Just... just breathe a moment."

You didn't even try. You just pulled your hands away from his and cupped your face, wanting to hide. You hated crying in front of people. You hated being vulnerable. And here you were, all but wailing about your miseries with some guy who you'd never spoken to before. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks, but who could tell under the flush from your tears?

"Hey... hey, come on..." He stood up from his side of the bench, drugs totally forgotten. He rounded the corner and came over to your side, hesitating before placing his hand on your shoulder. "It's all right."

"I-I'm so t-tired!" You cried under your palms.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can see that," he agreed. "Come on; put your hands down." Eddie crouched down beside you and took you by the elbows, turning your upper body to face him. He slid up to your wrists and gave them each a gentle tug. He bit his lip to keep down a smile when you resisted. "It's okay. Just look at me."

You let him pull twice more before allowing him to uncover your face. No amount of biting would keep down the smile now. Your cheeks were all wet and red and puffy, your nose a similar color. Your lower lip trembled between sobs, your lashes stuck together with tears... all things considered, you were a pretty crier. Or pretty in general.

"There... hi..." He nodded approvingly, still holding your wrists in his calloused, warm hands. "Good to see you. Can you breathe?"

You nodded. Now, how well you could breathe was up for interpretation, but oxygen went in and carbon dioxide came out. That was breathing in your book.

"Okay. Take a big breath and hold it for me. As long as you can," he instructed gently.

You tried, counting the seconds in your head. One... two... three... four... Just before you could think of 'five,' your body forced the air out, and the sobs started up again.

"Good. Again."

Again, and again, and again. Somehow, it worked. Before long, you were reduced to sniffles and hiccups. Eddies thumbs remained on your radials and his eyes stayed on yours the whole time. He gave you a moment of silence before breaking his news to you.

"I'm not going to sell you anything today."

Your stomach plummeted. Really? After pouring your heart out to him, laying out all the reasons why you needed the weed, and giving him a front row seat to the emotions you desperately needed to turn off, he wasn't going to give you anything?

"No, no. Eddie, I need this--"

"Shh..." He gave your wrists a little squeeze and shook his head firmly. "Bars won't serve you beer if you come in shitfaced. I, as a dealer, can't sell to you if you're already spiraling. I won't go to bed feeling good about that. I'm sorry about your wrist, and your mom-- that's really petty of her, by the way-- and about your grades and your wellness, but Y/N, I can't give this to you and feel okay about it."

A whine clawed its way up your throat. "What-- what am I supposed to do, then? If you won't help me, what am I supposed to do?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't help you," Eddie corrected. "I just said I wouldn't sell to you. Come on; stand up."

He didn't give you a chance to act on your own. He straightened his knees, hauling you up with him. He released your wrists, only to smooth the hair out of your face. He just looked at you for a second, as if confirming in his head that this was what he wanted to do, before wrapping his arms around you.

The first thing to hit you was the smell. You could smell the pot on his jacket; faint, like he'd smoked while wearing it and hadn't washed it since. The cologne masked it slightly, but not well. You couldn't describe it other than being akin to the holiday season. In that little gap between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Like sitting in front of a fire after eating a crazy amount of pie. The second thing you noticed was just how warm he was. Your breath bouncing between the crook of his neck, the cover of his curls, the heat in his palms against your back.

The last thing was the safety. Never in a million years would you have thought you'd buy from Eddie Munson or seek refuge in Eddie Munson. Hell, that you'd even talk to Eddie Munson. But he held you so close, with no expectation to talk or apologize. Just to be still.

"Weed won't fix this." His chest vibrated against your cheek. "I think a conversation would do more. Just, 'hey, mom, this is bullshit, let's talk.' Actually, you should see a doctor. You could get your wrist checked out, and then maybe get something proper for all this stress."

"It's just a sprain," you sniffled. "And she won't talk to me."

"Then write her a note. Leave it on her pillow or slip it in her bag. If she won't read it, write more. Keep writing until she caves or gets over herself and talks to you again."

"...you really think that'll work?"

Eddie pulled back slightly with a little sigh. His hands framed your shoulder blades. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know this lady. But the silent treatment? Over getting kicked off a team because of an injury? Even a five-year-old could see how stupid that is. At this point, I'm willing to bet she's only keeping it up because she's too proud to admit how stupid this is. If not..." He winced. "Mama might have some problems."

"What do I do if it doesn't work? The-- the letters, or the conversation."

"Call me," he said simply. "Then we'll talk about getting high, because that's a whole other demon. But for now, I'm prescribing you with hugs and deep breaths. You're in luck, too. Insurance covers everything."

You chuckled. Eddie's shoulders visibly relaxed at the sound, like he'd been freestyling this whole thing and just praying that something stuck. "Do I get free refills on the hugs?"

He pulled you back into him, smile widening. "Definitely."

Ask to join my taglist! Message me with the character(s) you want to be notified of (or just all posts in general), and I'll add you. Requests are welcome!