Rook Osom Draws

Eddie’s waiting for him on the porch when he parks Posty on the curb in front of the dragon mailbox. He’s dressed down again. A pair of sweatpants and a worn band shirt of sorts that the sleeves have been cut off of. His tattoos are on full display, and Steve can’t help but ogle them as he climbs up the steps. 

“Hope you’re hungry.” 

“I work up a big appetite delivering mail.” 

Eddie snorts, ushering Steve inside and towards the kitchen. 

It’s the second time Eddie’s snickered at Steve’s career choices, and he can’t help but bristle at the reaction. He doesn’t think Eddie is a condescending ass like his own father is, but Steve can never be too sure. There’s always at least one person who has a problem with his job, even though it’s an essential career choice. 

“How did you end up working for the post office, anyway?” Eddie asks, turning his back towards Steve as he scoops something into a giant bowl. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It seems like a great job, but you seem too pretty for blue-collar labor.” 

Steve’s the one chuckling this time. Cheeks blushing upon hearing Eddie call him pretty again. That has to be a good sign, right? Maybe the Pride flag is his after all. 

“It started with a paper route, actually. My uh, dad told me to get a job, and the local paper was the only place that would hire me at thirteen. It sucked at first, but I started to love being outdoors and delivering things to people. It’s still one of the best jobs I’ve ever had, and when I moved out here, my best friend told me to apply at the post office,” Steve says, smiling fondly at the memories. “It’s not the same as being a paper boy, but it, uh, scratches that itch.” 

“That’s sweet,” Eddie says, spooning a bite of soup into his mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone talk so fondly about their job before. And I work with artists all day.” 

“So you are an artist!” 

“I mean, I think so, but not everyone agrees.” 

Steve’s brows pinch in confusion. He’s about to ask Eddie to elaborate, but he doesn’t have to. Eddie seems to pick up on the visible confusion on his face. A surprising feat, considering Robin’s the only one who's ever been able to decipher Steve’s facial expressions. 

“M’tattoo artist.” 

“Must be some tattoo artist if you can afford a place like this on your own.”  

Eddie’s cheeks start to turn a familiar rosy color; thankfully, hives don’t follow. Instead, he reaches for a loose tendril of his hair and pulls it across his face. Hiding his blush from Steve’s line of sight. 

“I mean, I’m decent,” Eddie shrugs. “But uh, I also came into some money after a wrongful arrest when I was 18. Thought it was time to use the money for good instead of letting it collect dust under my bed.”