hey there demons, it's me, ya boy

a special privilege for the resurrected by theopteryx E | 56k | recced by @pennyplainknits

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It’s to music. Soft crooning through the—now considered ancient—record player from 1988. Sometimes Jim Croce. Sometimes John Prine. Sometimes the goddess, Dolly Parton. Something familiar and nearly worn out from playing the records over and over and over. Tonight, it’s Jim. It’s coming back to the floating husking rasp of Eddie Munson’s fifty-five year old voice, not all that great but always sweet from by the stovetop.

To where Steve migrates, shoeless and briefcase free and his teacher’s badge hung up. Where soup simmers on the low heat—smelling of paprika and roasted carrots and chicken bouillon. The oven heating up a loaf of French bread, basted in garlic butter, sprinkled with shredded mozzarella cheese. Where Eddie stands, stirring and singing—his now silver hair pulled up into a bun, dressed down in a plain white t-shirt and black sweatpants, and his scruff not shaved—he must’ve had a lazy day. Steve wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist, his body warm and his tummy a little pudgier. Eddie hums, reaching down with a free hand to cover the back of Steve’s, squeezing. And Steve’ll never be used to their wedding rings clinking together.

“Long day?” Eddie murmurs low.

Steve grunts. Digs his chin into Eddie’s left shoulder. His glasses going crooked from the angle. Peers down at the bubbling pot of dinner. “Kids kept threatening to take their masks off. Nearly started a coughing fight,” he answers at the same volume. He sighs, long and genuine. “They’ve officially turned Covid-19 into classroom warfare. Whatever happened to spitballs and globs of food?”

Eddie chuckles deep in his chest. “Don’t give ‘em ideas, Stevie.” He smiles softly down at his cooking, dimples deep and smile lines deeper. Steve kisses under his left ear just because. Because he can. Because this is what the world is when it doesn’t end, thank god. The soup is stirred slowly for a few more beats. He scoops up a spoonful in their beat up ladle. It’s got a few char scars from when they first learned to cook meals for one another—Steve believes it’s from the time he forgot to turn off the stovetop when making macaroni and cheese. Lesson learned.

“Here, taste this for me, baby?” Eddie gently requests, holding the ladle to Steve’s face over his shoulder. Hand cupping the underside. Face turned slightly to try and make eye contact, he’ll give himself a knot if he does it too long. Steve knows, having given many massages over the last decade.

He leans forward slightly, accepting the soup as Eddie tilts the ladle. Makes an obnoxious slurp that Eddie snorts at. Smacks his lips and hums. “Ooo, that’s good,” Steve mutters close to Eddie’s ear. “Got a little kick to it. You put a little bit of that new chili oil?”

“Mm and chili flakes,” Eddie hums. “Thought it would pair nicely. Remember that chicken I began marinating last night?”

“The chicken you told me I couldn’t make for my lunch today?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, turning back to the soup pot, shutting the burner off. “I told you not to take it all,” he points out with pleasant tease. “Because you’ll do that if I don’t stop you. And then you come home and complain that your stomach hurts because you ate too much. And then I have to put you on bed rest for the night.”

“I’m not that bad—“

“Anyway,” Eddie cuts in. “I marinated it in this ginger, coconut sauce that I saw a few nights ago on uh…What’s that app that Robin’s always sending videos from?”

“The…The TickTick app?” Steve guesses.

Eddie snaps his fingers together. “Yeah! That app!” He exclaims softly. (They’ll learn later it’s definitely not that, but it doesn’t matter.) He shrugs Steve off to grab the bread from the oven. Steve just moves around to their bar countertop, not a complaint on his tongue. Eddie continues, “I also added a little bit of coconut milk to the base broth. So, hopefully, this’ll be good. With the leftovers, I was thinking you could make your cauliflower rice for lunch and put the soup on top? Only if it’s good, though. If this sucks, I’ll pay for pizza tonight.”

Steve laughs from his belly. “If you do, make sure to get the gluten free crust. Stupid stomach has been acting up again,” he says softly.

Standing up, Eddie hisses. “You’re lucky that the bakery section at the grocery store only had gluten free baguettes then,” he teases gently once more. He sets the finished bread on the countertop, grabs the bottle of chili oil from by the pot of soup, and drizzles it lightly overtop the cheesy, garlic goodness. When he finally dishes up their dinner, he settles next to Steve at the counter. Bowls and small plates of bread in front of them. Glasses of crappy Barefoot red wine, because this is what they can afford—and it doesn't really suck, not when it's served thoughtfully like it is tonight.

“Thank you, baby,” Steve murmurs. He leans in close to Eddie’s side, presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and then promptly digs in.

And it’s good. Everything’s so good. Jim Croce is singing about time in a bottle. The soup is warm and fresh and homemade. Every light is a careful amber. He’s tired and happy and…complete.

Eddie’s got soup in the scruff under his lip. But Steve doesn’t say anything. Just admires the fine wrinkles and lines to his face, where they’ve begun to really deepen. Admires how his eyes are just as big and soft and expressive as they were thirty-five years ago after Vecna. Where his body is soft. His endearingly white hair.

How he’s alive.

“Hey, Eds?”

Immediately, Eddie looks onto him. Eyes wide with trepidation. The corners of his mouth pinched downward. “Is it not good? I can go get my wallet if it’s—“

Steve lays his hand on the back of Eddie’s forearm. The right one, closest to him, where scars swamp the bats. And that says something, too, he’s sure. About how Eddie fought the bats and came out victorious anyway. His thumb runs soothingly over Eddie’s malleable, aged, warm skin. And his eyes prickle with tears—it would’ve been embarrassing if he were nineteen still, but what a wonderful thing to be alive and cry at all.

“I’m so fucking happy you’re here with me,” Steve breathes out all at once. He sighs through his mouth, a gentle sob escaping.

Eddie drops his spoon into his bowl of slowly cooling soup. And he reaches up, dislodging Steve’s hand on his arm completely, cupping his face between his hands instead. “Oh, baby,” he coos. “Baby, are you alright? Where’s this coming from?”

Steve shrugs because he doesn’t know. Not really. But it’s here. And he’s got a therapist in the aftermath of everything, and feelings deserved to be felt—so they’ve said. “I just—“ He wetly exhales, leaning into Eddie’s soft hands. “—I don’t know. It’s so fucking…I’m so happy to just be boring. To do the same mundane things every single day. To just come home.”

“Oh,” Eddie coos again. He tugs Steve closer, burying his face into his shoulder. Pets a hand through Steve’s own white hair. A hand between his shoulders. Letting him dissolve safely. “I am, too, Steve,” he states like a promise. “You have no idea how my heart just soars in the morning when I look over and you’re…God, you’re drooling all over your own forearm and snuffling deep into the pillow and your hair is all spiky and you’ve got creases all over your face from going to war with the top sheet.” Steve chuckles just as Eddie pulls him back. Hands back on his cheeks, thumbs soothing tear tracks. “You have no idea how relieved I am to look over and see you at peace, sweetheart. Every day—I don’t know how you do it—but every day you let me discover a new part of you to love.”

They smile at one another, softly, eyes shiny with tears. Their soup is going cold, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve got all the time in the world to reheat it.

“I love you,” Steve breathes, states. Just because he can.

“I love you, too,” Eddie says immediately. Because it’s that easy.

It’s easy when life is nothing more than this.