Mechanic!Eddie Munson x Dustin's Friend!Fem!Reader
A/N: A little something I had laying around. I miss Eddie a lot. Like a fool, I still believe he'll come back this season. At least, even if he doesn't, we'll have new fics soon. Enjoy!
Eddie kinda totally lost his spark. Life turned out to be nothing like he had hoped. He doesn't have time to daydream campaigns or play the guitar anymore. Wayne is getting older- he can't work as many shifts, and his right knee is giving him trouble. The trailer has seen better days- which is a way to say it's one strong gush of wind away from falling appart. All Eddie can think about now is debt, taxes and doctor appointments. Maybe extra shifts. If he's awake enough, he can afford to choose beetween two different flavors of microwave food.
His hair is always in a bun because it's just practical. His bangs are all grown out. He learned his lesson and stopped wearing rings to work- though it did take him a couple of scars to do so. He's rotting away in the corner of a greasy garage in the sad part of Hawkins.
Enter you.
Dustin forced him to use his one day off in a very long time for a quick warmup campaign. For old timesâ sake.
(Truth is the little trouble maker is worried- Eddie's dark circles are darker than his eyes, and he doesn't smile anymore.)
Turns out that Dustin's adult D&D group includes... You. Young- like him, but happier-, funny- scandalously so-, smart... Eddie almost trips over his frayed shoelaces when you smile up at him from your seat at the Henderson's table.
The whole thing is a disaster. Well, game-wise it's okay. Eddie is proud of how far his little sheepling has come, planning his own campaigns and all. It's nothing compared to his own embarassment, though. His voice is lower than it used to be in high school- not a trace of the loud teenager that stood on tables at lunch.
Instead, he's all pink cheeks and nervous hair tying. Eddie is- for the first time in months- self-conscious about the way he looks. Hell, he's used to being judged by his unique wardrobe choices, but this... He doesn't feel like himself. He's wearing a faded plain black shirt that doesn't have holes by miracle. His jeans are broken but not in the intentional, cool kind of way- they're simply old and worn, and a little stained. He forgot to put on any jewelry, and is feeling naked without the jingling of the metal around his limbs.
Every time his eyes stumble upon yours, he shrinks in his seat. Thank Ozzy he can play D&D even asleep, because this could have been an absolute humiliation otherwise.
When the damned campaign is finally over, he stands and helps tidy up in record time. Dustin is too distracted listening to everyone else's thoughts on his plot twists to realize Eddie is preparing to run away.
And he does.
Or so he thought. Because a week later you walk into the garage.
You're wearing a dress shorter than his self-confidence, with boots that could stomp on his pride with no effort at all and a shy smile that shatters any escape plans he may have come up with. You explain how your car started doing this weird noise, and how you got a little scared. Not that it was that serious- you drove it here, after all. But you bought it used, and if you're honest you haven't really been up to date for the check-ups... And sorry, are you rambling?
Eddie says it's okay. That he'll take a look. Inside, all he can think about is how dirty his hands are right now. Oh, hell, his shirt is covered in grease, too. He prays to the gods of metal he doesn't have dirt on his face, at least. His hair is a lost cause, at this point, and he resigns to sporting a sad, half unraveled bun.
As you pop open the hood of the car, he tucks a shapeless curl behind his ear. You chalk his red cheeks to the heat. Eddie avoids looking at you while explaining the problem with the engine.
The day you go get your car back; it's like a different person took over the garage- after many frustrated frowns and more mirror time than he can realistically afford. He has a curly mane, for starters. And a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, with shiny black Doc Martens. The childish little grin is the same, though. And the rosy cheeks.
A dozen rings shine in his fingers as he hands you the change.
And a little note with his number, you realize when you get home.
In case I'm a good enough mechanic to have your car break down again in time for the next D&D session... Call me when you need a ride.
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A/N: I can finally post this!! This fic was requested like 6 months ago (request here). I've had it in my drafts for literal ages. Ironically, I got sick while writing it, and then the pills the doctor gave me made me feel worse, so I ended up having chronic abdominal pain (would not recommend). I'm feeling better now, got a new doctor and found the will to finish and post this fic. I really hope you're still here, anon, because I'd love to know if you liked it!!!
TW: mentions of chronic illness, chronic pain, headaches, back pain, weight loss and vomiting.
Simon had a thing for playing dress-up. The mask hadnât come out of nowhere: it was his way of being someone else for a while. Not the lonely, broken boy heâd always been, but a strong, confident soldier. A monster the actual monsters'd be afraid of- instead of a victim.
So, when he came across the small machine, he thought itâd be the same. Spending a couple of hours being you- in a sense- was a no-brainer. What is there more intimate than living somebody elseâs pain?
The exhaustion, it turns out.
Simon had been prepared for pain, he always was. Being able to control it with a convenient little button was an improvement from his daily work life, actually. He wasnât scared as he placed the electrodes on his scarred skin. There wasnât any difference between his cold apartment and a dark battlefield: Simon was all self-restraint and set jaws.
He remembered things you had said and done, here and there. A hand gripping the restaurantâs armchair. A sigh; I just want to feel okay. Sad little eyes. Closed curtains. Unfinished meals. Late mornings and dark eyes. Dust on the windowsill. He remembered things you didnât say. The silence of bad nights. Furrowed brows. Nail marks on your thighs.
It was hard on Simon. Seeing as much as he did- the military need to catch every detail-, he thought he knew.
It was him who swept your apartment in silence when you managed to nap a measly twenty minutes, after all. Him who felt the sunshine of your smile when you finally felt okay. Simon who kept pouring glass of water after glass of water. His hands the ones to pet greasy hair. His eyes the ones to catch on the empty space around your jeanâs waist. It was him who drove to the pharmacy, the doctor, the therapistâŠ
Simon thought he knew.
Chronic pain was pain, after all. What could a machine do that a bullet couldnât?
Last. It could last.
He followed the instructions methodically. Simon often wondered how your daily life looked like. A random Wednesday. A list of chores. Getting dressed, cooking, waking up.
When he was creeping around a ghost town, jumping out of helicopters, shouting at recruits⊠What where you doing?
One click of the button for it to start. Another and another to prove himself that he could manage more than the basic level.
An answer: you were surviving.
It was devastating.
At the beginning, he questioned himself. Was it really working? Was that even pain? Discomfort? Simon spent a couple of minutes frowning, trying to decide whether the silly machine was really doing what it promised. Until he looked up and the headache became real.
Again, a headache he could manage. But then it came the back pain. Getting up to turn off the lights was an effort. Each step required being careful. Having a plan. The way to his bed was at least twice as long as usual. Laying down meant suffering the dizziness of movement.
Once in bed, he closed his eyes. Not too tightly, because the headache was getting worse. Just enough to try to think. Was the pain accumulating behind his right eye? It was just pain. He could handle this, if you could.
Only out of the need to prove himself his own endurance is that he survived the next few days.
Simon convinced himself to keep the machine on. It was either his will or the life of a battery. Of course heâd win. Hunched over and sweating, hiding in the dark and barely eating, but heâd win.
He lost. Not to the battery of the machine. He did lose his mind, though. Every little thing was hard. The pain made everything slower. Even when he wasnât hurting, he was tired. Simon didnât have a lot of fat to begin with- the military rations and constant exercise having taken care of that. But he lost weight anyway. He lost his appetite. He lost sleep. He lost energy.
He lost precious time with you.
The first day, Simon had to leave your place early, the headache too bad to focus on the movie. The next, he had to cancel your date. He didnât want you taking care of him. What an embarrassing, demeaning thought. Simon had to choose between losing his dignity or your laugh, and made a choice. And he lost then, too.
How many times had you allowed him to go see you when you were feeling this awful? How many times had he caressed your back as you threw up because of the pain? How many times had he stayed quiet in your livingroom as you hid in your bed, waiting for your call? What about the times he went into your doctorâs office? When he had to carry most of your weight up the stairs, down to the parking lot, into your clothes? What about the time he had to call your friends to cancel your birthday party because you couldnât keep the pain at bay, not even on a day that was supposed to be yours?
And he couldnât stand the idea of being so vulnerable with you. Of being weak, of needing someone, of his body and mind both hurting at the same time.
The battery died, and so did he.
As soon as the pain washed away, leaving behind careful breaths and empty silence, Simon went looking for you. You had the gall to worry about him, asking if something had happened at work, and was he eating enough? He caught you on your way to the kitchen. The desperate hug made you forget about the tea you had just offered. Was he crying?
Of course, he wasnât. He was just happy to see you, y'know? Simon missed his little love. No, he wasnât looking at you weird, not at all. What did you mean? Nothing. Another hug. What about ordering some pastries? Did you feel like eating at all? He was happy to give you a massage otherwise. Or did you prefer a bath?
It took you some time to place the new look in his eyes. Up until Christmas, you were sure he was hiding something. Whatever had happened to him didnât change the way he acted with you, always with love and care. Still, it made you curious. You tried to place the look.
You managed to do so at his Captainâs Christmas party. When Johnny opened the door, Simon looked at him with those eyes. He wasnât staring at the scar on the side of Soapâs shaved head, but at his sharp smile. At his shinning eyes.
It was obvious then. Simon looked at you like a survivor. As if you were the veteran of a war he knew from within. He had seen you fall, bleed and claw your way back to life. Heâd been there, terrified heâd lose you, desperate to keep you alive and comfortable. And he knew, even if he did his best, that you were here only due to your own volition.
Simon looked at you. He didnât see broken limbs, dead eyes or missing parts. He saw healing scars, determined steps and gripping hands. He saw exfil hope, hospital smiles, daily fight. When Simon looked at you, he saw the choice to live, made willingly, against all odds.
The look in Simonâs eyes wasnât just love: it was admiration. Respect. And, above anything else, gratitude. Simon was thankful for every time you made the decision to survive.
When it was time to open the presents, he barely looked at the bag with his name on it. He was too busy opening the little velvet box with yours and getting down on one knee, instead. Simon looked at you with hopeful eyes. He was ready for you to make him the happiest heâd ever been by choosing, yet again.
Simon has a roommate. His roommate has a secret. Johnny has a knack for meddling in other people's business.
A/N: Hi! This ended up being way longer than I expected (3.800+ words), but it's okay because I had fun writing it. I'm not sure it went in the direction I had in mind at the beggining, but I'm not about to start all over again. If I ever feel like it, I might rewrite it, though. But it won't be soon. Also, as I was copypasting it from word, it occured to me I might need to start using dividers. If you know where I can find cute ones, please let me know. Hope you like it! <3
When he opens the door and finds the apartment silent and dark, Simon is both relieved and disappointed. On one hand, he gets to take a deep breath and let the rests of Ghost dissolve in the empty space. He doesnât have to see you yet- you donât have to see him yet. He still has time before you worry about all the new bruises, before he has to insist he really doesnât want you cleaning and patching them up, before he has to suppress the shivers that always respond to your fingers on his arm.
On the other hand, Simon spent all the way from the airport picturing your eyes and your welcoming smile. Itâs hard not to be a little heartbroken over the fact that youâre not home in your pajama, willing to hug him hello and make all the gunpowder disappear. He even left Soap at a bar to drink by himself, hoping to have some time alone with you. Of course, his excuse was that he was tired. Never in a million years would Simon admit out loud that seeing his roommate is the only rest he needs after months of deployment. Â
As he makes his way to his room, wondering if he has time to cook something before you get home, Simon realizes his mistake. Itâs Friday. Not only that, it is also dark outside: itâs Friday, and itâs late. That only means one thing: danger.
All the fatigue and relief are gone instantly. He knows the time you get off work, and it was ages ago. Even if you had stayed late, youâd be home by now. Also, your work badge is in the bowl next to the door, he checks. You definitely came back home. And then -Simon confirms with one look at the wet shower- you got ready to go out.
Now, this is not a bad thing per se. Heâs glad youâre having fun, spending time with your friends and dancing. You deserve to have a good time. Simon knows your girlfriends take care of you if they need to; youâre safe.
But heâs not.
You going out means one of two outcomes: you either come back home, or you donât. He isnât sure which is the worst one. If you find someone and leave with them, heâll spend the night convincing himself youâre okay and forcing his eyes closed. Heâll have to pretend his stomach doesnât hurt, his eyes arenât a little too red and that the sleep doesnât come because of the jet lag.
If you do come back to sleep in the apartment, itâs worse.
See, Simon is terrified of you when youâre drunk.
As if you could smell his fear, he hears your keys jingling in the hallway. Simon must be a masochist, because he doesnât find cover. Instead, he watches as the door opens and you appear, almost tripping over your heels. When you look up and find him staring at you, your smile shakes him to his bones.
Simon sees in slow-motion how you let your keys fall to the floor and you stagger up to him- heâs two shades of scared now, because your balance while drunk is notoriously inexistant. He gives a few hesitant steps in your direction, cautious arms extended in case you fall. Which you do. Right on his chest.
Suddenly, thereâs a shortage of air. You are soft and warm. Heâs big and close to having a panic attack. Your perfume has so many layers- and he can smell them all. Your hair is touching his neck, involuntary caress, and your hand is holding his bicep. Thatâs great: the next hundred times heâs at the gym training his ass off, heâll be thinking of you. Exactly what he needed. As if it wasnât enough having you haunt his dreams.
Your giggle heâs used to, but it still feels different when it vibrates so close to his ribs. Oh, and what he feels there is your chest, isnât it? When you smile up at him, he thanks the god he doesnât believe in that he was too frozen to hug you: it would have destroyed him.
Luckily, he manages to get a hold of himself and slowly push you away. Itâs useless, though, because you take advantage of the small distance to grab his chin.
âSi! Youâre home early! I missed your pretty eyesâŠâ
He tries to force some sarcasm into his smile.
âYouâre drunk.â
You laugh again, taking a step back.
âI just went to get some drinks with the girls, Mary got a promotion andâŠâ
Still talking, you bend over to start unclasping your heels. All Simon can do is swallow, forcing his eyes to stay focused in your clumsy fingers and not in the hem of your dress- that was short to begin with, but now is probably by the middle of your ass. Definitely showing the full length of your legs. And at least, a sliver of your underwearâŠ
No.
No, he reminds himself. Simon forces his face to stop blushing and kneels to help you take off the godforsaken heels. A quick escape from the view that will follow him to bed tonight- and the next couple thousand nights-, but a stupid move overall. Because now youâre smirking at him from above.
Itâs fun, seeing his desperation. Heâs such a big man, always in control of himself⊠Making Simon lose his cool always feels like an accomplishment. You mutter a giddy thanks, but still try to untie the ribbon around your ankle, forcing him to grab your hand to take it out of the way.
°°°
âLet me do it, okay? Or weâll be here all night.â
You pout playfully, but let him do it. When youâre finally on your feet, you sigh and pat his shoulder. So much better. Heâs now a couple feet taller than you- itâs always nice to feel comfortably small.
Without looking back, you wobble towards the bathroom. Over your humming, you can hear his steps. Usually, heâs quiet. Sometimes, though, he makes noise on purpose, to make sure you know heâs there. Based on experience, youâd say he hates to scare you.
You donât close the door behind you. Why bother? You simply kneel to open the last drawer to grab the make up remover. Yeah, maybe the floor is a little cold and leaves your knees slightly red. Itâs okay, the counter is cold too when you sit on it. Feels good, your skin is warm and youâre feeling fuzzy.
The mirror shows him looking at you from the door. His arms are crossed, tattoos at full view. Hands clenched.
Wiping your right eye, you try to soothe him.
âYouâre home now. Safe. See? Just me. Relax, Simon.â
He chuckles. Sometimes he does that, too. You probably said something he finds almost funny. He relaxes against the door frame, but it still looks forced.
âMrs. Byrne brought me cookies yesterday. Theyâre in the blue jar, if you want any. She got a new puppy. Sheâs grey, some small breed with a lot of hair. Her name is Princess. Sometimes she cries at night. I told Mrs. Byrne itâs okay, I just hope the poor puppy gets used to her new home soon, but she insisted on baking cookies for everyone in the building. I donât think it bothers anyone, reallyâŠâ
You keep yapping and Simon slowly starts to look calmer. More like heâs at home, and less like he wants to run away. You finish wiping your make-up off by carefully erasing any traces of red lipstick. Itâs a shame, really, because it looks so nice. Simon seems to think so too, judging by the way his gaze caresses your reflection in the mirror.
Instead of just jumping off the counter and going to bed, you start taking your jewelry off.
Okay, maybe you didnât need to moan. In your defense, they are really that good. And youâre drunk, youâre allowed to have less inhibitions. Simon shifts against the doorframe.
âYou need to try them. We could go tomorrow⊠Or, maybe youâll want to sleep in. I bet you missed having an actual bed, huh? All warm and soft. By the way, I washed your sheets. They didnât have our usual laundry detergent, but I got one that smells quite nice. Nothing too strongâŠâ
Simon suppresses a groan. His sheets?
°°°
â⊠So you can have your beauty sleep. Not that you arenât beautiful now, you just look tired. But dark circles never hide eyes like yours. Still, itâll do you good toâŠâ
Beautiful? Him? Is it too late to go back to base? Maybe if heâs a couple hundred kilometers away you wonât be able to see the way his blush makes a return, this time all the way down to his neck. It makes it even harder to not stare at your legs, that swing smoothly, skin reflecting the ceiling light.
Instead, he focuses on your hands, and the way you slide your rings off. You do it slowly, probably because itâs a task that requires a non-alcoholic level of coordination. Somehow, you can keep talking, though.
â⊠I mean, you are looking good. More muscles. Youâre always so fit, I bet your abs are like a table⊠Like, all firmâŠâ
You interrupt your yapping for a second, just to untangle one of your bracelets from the other. He pictures you eating at his table. Simon stops himself from closing the bathroom door- he isnât sure which side he would like to stay in.
âAnd that hair! How come itâs so softâŠ? I mean, it looks soft. Can I touch it?â
One thing about you in this state is that you just do things. Invading his personal space is one of them. Usually, you just leave his body alone. You cross other lines, teasing and sarcasm being an everyday occurrence. But touching him? Not more than necessary.
Now, however, your hand is on his head. Your tiny fingers- everything is tiny next to him- are caressing his hair. He can feel your nails lightly stroking his scalp, going in gentle circles. Simon realizes he canât move. The bathroom is not wide enough for him to step away. Youâre sitting on the counter, barely leaning in his direction, but youâre everywhere.
Your perfume is in his chest, for the second time in a couple of minutes. Itâs burning like his cheeks, and all he can do is stand there. Your eyes are so big and bright, how come theyâre in his apartment and not up in the sky with the other stars? And your smile, itâs too round and pink for his sanity.
Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen. How would he live if he gave up and kissed you. If he was just a little brave. Not even brave enough to go for your lips, but for your cheek or your wrist. Maybe your shoulder.
But heâs not that kind of brave. Heâs suicidal brave, instead. Heroic brave. The kind of brave that makes him a good soldier and a bad person. Simon is a coward, who can barely swallow a whine when you pull his hair playfully. He hides it by clearing his throat.
âIâll tell you my beauty secrets when youâre sober enough to appreciate them. Câmon, you need to go to bed.â
Grabbing your wrist is easy. Pulling your hand away from him is the hardest thing heâs ever done. Holding your waist to help you get off the counter, easy. Taking a step away, new world record of hard.
Taking another step back, because you stepped close again; alarmingly harder.
And you step closer again. He doesnât have the heart to step back this time. All Simon can do is hold his breath while you lean in. You stand on your toes and his hands start shaking. There it is again, your perfume. Your lips. Your smile. Oh, youâre smiling up at him. So, so close. Simon can see the look of want in his own face thatâs reflected on your pupils.
âSimon?â
He means to reply, he really does. At the very least a âYes, love?â- something gallant; something thatâll make you put your hands on his chest. Something thatâll open the door for him to grab your waist again, this time like heâs not hiding. Something thatâll bring you even closer.
Instead, he just exhales. A pathetic, pained, whiny breath. It seems to be enough of an answer for you, though.
âSiâŠâ
He stops himself from nodding.
âYouâre blocking the door.â
It takes Simon a second to process. Youâre still looking at him with dreamy eyes, hair like a halo in front of the mirror light, cheeks rosy and fresh. When his stupid brain finally comes to terms with what you just said, Simon crumbles.
He throws himself to the other side of the hallway, tongue heavy with shame. Itâs like his shoulders are glued to the wall, and his stomach to the floor. You donât seem to notice, shuffling over to your room while humming the same pop song from earlier.
Sometimes, Simon is sure he must be in hell. He sure deserves it. He sees you walk away- bare feet, naked legs, messy hair- and heâs certain.
Some other times, though, he knows heâs in heaven. Shocking, because Simon doesnât believe in heaven- and he doesnât think heâs earned it, either way. But when things like this happen, when you pop your head out of your bedroom door to look back at him, itâs easy to pretend. Itâs easy to laugh when you ask him why heâs not putting you to bed.
Simon stills himself and walks into your room. Itâs tidy and warm, smells like you, and he makes a mental note to let you decorate the rest of the apartment. If he uses that as scenography for his fantasies- where he lives in your room, where you share it, where he can fall asleep in your space-, then itâs nobodyâs business.
Luring Simon into your room is quite easy. Most things you do with him are easy. It makes you giggle again. Itâs easy being like this, too. Open and bubbly, no mental barriers to stop you from touching him or saying whatever you happen to think. No inhibitions to forbid you from taking off your dress once youâre facing your open wardrobe.
°°°
You could swear you hear him choke. He coughs, and you ask him if heâs okay. Thereâs some water on your bedside table, if he wants a sip. You hear his steps. He does, great. You put on an oversized t-shirt and turn around.
His eyes are a little too wide. Itâs not easy to catch him off guard: tonight is a lucky one. Simon is not the only one surprised, though- you could swear youâd left your purple vibrator on top of the bedside table, and not on the floor. Oh, well, a problem for tomorrow-you.
As you shuffle towards your bed, he steps back, putting distance between you.
âThatâs my shirt.â
Sounds a bit like a question. You climb into bed.
âNah. Itâs my pajama. See?â
You look up at him from under the covers. You curl up, the sheets are cold. Luckily, his stare is hot against your face.
ââŠsure. Sure, it is.â
Simon doesnât move. You blink a couple of times, before a yawn takes over.
âYouâre not gonna turn the lights off?â
He hesitates. His eyes look at your bed, more than half empty. Then steps forward.
âGoodnight, then.â
Simon bends down and kisses your forehead. Youâll blame the sigh you let out on the alcohol. When he turns the lights off, becoming just a silhouette at the door, you wave your fingers at him.
âSweet dreams, Si.â
Simon barely sleeps that night. He dreams with your forgotten heels on the bathroom floor, and your smile that looks like sunrise decided to light up his midnight.
°°°
He gives up before the actual sun comes out. His voice is so desperate when he calls Johnny, that his friend barely complains about the time. Simon warns him not to ring the doorbell- and maybe includes a little threat that Soap laughs off.
They are still chatting in the kitchen when you wake up. Luckily, youâre wearing pants now. But, by the look in your tired face, you werenât ready to find a stranger in your house. Frowning, you mutter something like âgood morningâ- even though itâs closer to noon.
Johnny smiles, charming as always, and Simon squints. Before it can get too uncomfortable- for you, Soap can be uncomfortable all he wants-, he speaks. He keeps his voice low, anticipating your hungover.
âThis is Johnny. Soap, this is my roommate.â
You wave at him and grab a cup. As youâre preparing your late breakfast, you start humming quietly the song from last night. It grabs Soapâs attention.
âAye, I ken that song. Yer the lassie from last night, aren't ye?â
You freeze.
The music is loud. You yell along, grabbing one of your friendâs hands and making her do a spin. She does the same with you.
°°°
Itâs a nice night. The bar started to empty some time ago- no more touchy men to bother you and your friends. It is a little hot, though, so you ask if anyone wants something to drink.
You slide up to the bar, not far from where you friends are still dancing. You need to gesture for the bartender to understand your order over the music, but he eventually nods and walks away. While youâre waiting, you feel someone stand next to you, back resting on the bar. You glance sideways- itâs a handsome man, with electric blue eyes that look at you like heâs found a pot of gold.
âHi, bonnie. Are ye having fun?â
You smile politely and say yes. He doesnât seem to hear it, but he understands nonetheless.
âWhatâs yer name? Ahâm John.â
Again, you reply. He seems nice enough- Johnâs not looking at your boobs or ass, so it counts as a win.
âKin ah buy ye a drink?â
Now, heâs forcing you to decide. First option is saying yes, you can let him dance with you the next song and see where it goes. His eyes get more beautiful every second you spend looking at them, and his smile promises fun⊠Which leads you to option number two: saying no. Heâs handsome, yes, but you donât know him. You think about Simon. Heâd scold you for considering going home with a stranger. Besides, heâd kill you if you brought him to the apartment.
Well, itâs not like heâll find out, will he? Simon will be away for God knows how long.
You offer John your most sincere smile and a cheeky wink.
âSorry, I donât drink.â
Just on time, the bartender hands your bottle of water over the counter and you thank him. Without looking back, you join your girlfriends again.
It doesnât take long for you to decide to head back home. The idea of an empty apartment is weighing on you. At least you can be sad in pajamas when you get home. As you hug your friend goodbye, you see John laughing next to a blonde at the back. Well, at least someone will have a happy night.
âSorry, I donât think I remember you.â
°°°
Johnny looks taken aback.
âAh offered ye a drink, bit ye said...â
You cut him off, still not looking at them.
âYeah, drinks. I had quite a few of those last night. I donât remember much, sorry.â
Simon doesnât like the way you close the cabinets, with a little too much force. Nor does your quick talking calm his nerves. Now heâs fully frowning at Johnny, who looks confused out of his mind.
Before he can keep bothering you, you grab your cup and turn around.
âTylenolâs in the bathroom.â
His careful voice stops you in your tracks. You look guilty, almost sorry, when you offer a shy smile.
ââŠthanks, Si. Nice to meet you, Johnny. Sorry about last night. I shouldnât have had that many drinks.â
Simon can barely hear your steps as you flee directly to your room. Your embarrassment, pink on your cheeks and nose, are added to the collection of things heâll dream of every time he closes his eyes.
Next to him, Soap has a weird expression.
âAh met her last night, she ainlie drank water. Ah swear⊠I watchedâer all ni-â
âShut up, Johnny.â
He doesnât want to hear it. Doesnât need to.
Heâs worried youâll hear Johnnyâs annoyingly loud voice from your room. Youâre innocent enough to think you can fool him. And Simon doesnât have the guts to let you know that he knows just yet. Thereâs a reason he doesnât say anything about the way you smell whenever you come home from the bar- all nice perfume and zero alcohol-, or how he knows you didnât take any Tylenol. A reason why Simon lets you pretend to be drunk, grab his hair and smile at him. A reason why he himself pretends to believe you.
And heâs not going to let Johnny spoil figure that one out just yet.
You call him to arrange the time for the kids/dog pick up and he yells I love you! before hanging up. And why does he spend more time at home now that when you were married? He doesn't even live here. And don't get me started with the bribes. Every time he leaves, you end up finding your favorite chocolate under your pillow.
Of course he never took off his wedding band. And when you take the kids to a Corroded Coffin concert- they were begging to see daddy on stage-, he dedicates every song to you- saying something like this is for the most special woman in the world or for the angel who gave me happiness all this time. Which is absolute bullshit- it makes your frown remembering all the times you fought and he said the opposite of those things-; but he acts like it's a joke- it isn't, he means it-, and the press like it's the news of the year- at least until the sexth time, when even the journalists give up.
He's a menace. Whenever your kids want to do something "as a family", he ends up taking it as a chance to spoil you. Opens doors, takes care of the check, overall acts as if it was your first date. Your first date was nothing like that, by the way, except for the opening doors... But he offered his jacket to you too, back then. You don't take it now, though, you brought your own jacket, it's in the car. He says he'll get it for you, but comes back empty-handed, you must have forgotten it. Don't worry, here, wear his.
And then you get a date. He acts all happy and like the fun parent with the kids, but when they leave he looks... Wrong. Even his hair is depressed, all flat and without volume. He has dark circles under his empty eyes, and keeps rubbing his wedding ring. You pay him no mind, though- or that's what it looks like.
Then you come back- late- and find the house clean and tidy. The kids went to bed long ago, and the dog is snoring in his corner. Eddie is sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV- he's watching one of those half-hour infomercials. He gets up and greets you, did you have fun? all sarcasm and confidence... But you know Eddie Munson and that right there looks like false confidence. And though it's hard to tell under the TV light, you'd swear his eyes are a little red.
It's usually on Sundays. Wayne comes home exhausted after the Saturday night shift and passes out. Eddie lets him sleep all day, God knows the old man doesn't get enough rest.
It's quiet in the trailer. Eddie avoids playing music and stepping into empty soda cans. Boring days, Sundays. Except for one minor miracle: you.
Eddie never learned how to cook. Somewhere beetween the fleeting homes, an unreliable eating schedule and disgusting cafeteria food, he learned to snack to survive.
He had tried his hand in the kitchen, of course, but it had been a short and painful attempt. He has a small but loud scar on one of his thumbs to attest to it.
His father had left him alone- as usual- and he was desperately hungry. He couldn't have been more than six. Eddie remembers seeing the spaghetti can on top of the counter. He remembers liking fire, remembers the small black lighter his dad usually left by the stove. He remembers fighting the can open, clicking the lighter and waiting. Eddie remembers the bubbles, the mess and the pain, both in his empty belly and his hand.
Later, life taught him to be practical. To eat cheap. No five star meals in this squeaky trailer. No feast at school, either.
Except that one time.
It was a special day- maybe Thanksgiving was close, he's not sure. Everyone in his class had to bring something to share. He had waited for everyone to bring out theirs before making quick work of opening his own backpack. He had thrown the off-brand bag of chips on top the table before quickly stepping back.
He had almost crashed into you.
It must have been the last year you shared a classroom. Eddie had gone through his first growth spurt- he was a head taller than you already. It was a moving thing, to have you so close. To realize that his arms were at the right height to drape around your shoulders, his lips right over the top of your head.
He had stepped back, red cheeks and dirty sneakers. You had just smiled- not actually a smile, more like an apology. In his opinion, it should have been a You're welcome, at the very least, but his tongue was nowhere to be found, so he couldn't say thank you.
As he fled back to his seat, he saw what you were holding: an amazingly big tray of chocolate cookies.
After the spaghetti can incident, he had eaten many times. Still, there had always been this sort of hunger inside him, a burning emptiness. Maybe that's why he ran as soon as the teacher gave the okay to start eating. Maybe that's why he elbowed- proudly- half of the class on his way to your cookie tray.
If a warm bed after a nice shower at the end of a perfect day could be eaten, it would taste like that first cookie. The second one tasted like a working oven and clothes his size; the third like a calm afternoon making plans for next week.
Eddie prays you didn't notice the way he devoured them. He hopes you didn't look at him, so you couldn't see the dark crumbs all over him, his brown teeth and sticky desperate fingers.
To be honest, he hasn't been able to shake all the crumbs since that morning. He has, however, learned his way around a kitchen.
Kind of.
Eddie knows how to boil water, now. How long to leave things in the microwave before they become too soggy. Exactly how much salt or pepper to sprinkle on top of freezer food before it makes worse instead of better.
So that's what he does, on boring Sundays: cook. Or whatever you can call matching cans of food in plates and avoiding to burn the mix.
He opens a packet and pictures you next to him, hips against the counter. You're way shorter than Eddie, now. Your hair tingles next to his arm. He opens the drawer to get a spoon and you turn on the fire, careful not to burn your fingers.
Eddie washes a couple of glasses and pours cold water for the both of you. You bring out the plates.
Eddie has lunch listening to your laugh. You tell him he's a great chef; his recipes are your favorite. Suddenly, the food tastes good. He manages to finish a serving and a half. Eddie offers you a second plate, but you say you're full with a big simile. The little burnt kid inside him is not hungry anymore.
After lunch, he washes the dishes while you tell him about all the things you want to do with him this week. Eddie dries his hands and you fold the towel, as if his trailer was a place for tidy kitchen towels.
You sit at the tiny table, not in front of but next to him. You head drops to his shoulder, and you point to the Tupper you brought: sweet, recently baked cookies. Eddie remembers the taste just fine, he can close his eyes and pretend he eats them, pretend his trailer is the kind of place where kids have dessert.
When Wayne wakes up, Eddie is still sitting at the table. His uncle grabs the glass of lukewarm water on the counter next to him and downs it in one swing. He asks what was Eddie up to, did he enjoy the weekend?
Eddie says yes. Since he's smiling with that childlike kind of grin, Wayne believes him.
Pure Imagination Masterlist
Masterlist
A/N: Hiii it's me again. I missed writing for my boy SO bad. I had to bring back this series. I hope you guys like this one, I think it's a bit longer than the previous parts, but I kinda like that. If you'd like to be added to the taglist, just let me know in the comments or send an ask!
Btw I still hope he'll come back this season. But even if he doesn't, he's haunting the narrative and I love that for him. I just finished the second chapter, and I feel like half of the characters have something of his (obviously Dustin, but also Nancy, Robin and Steve, at least).
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I'm so tired. So here, have Ex-husband!Eddie pt. 2
Despite what one may think, you don't treat Eddie that badly.
When he comes to pick up the kids, you have a tupper with a portion or two of last night's dinner. You say it's because you've gotten used to cooking bigger portions, and that the kids wanted him to try it. A lot of excuses to hide the fact that you're worried he's not taking care of himself. Sometimes you forget he's not a boy living in the trailer park, eating chips and canned soup everyday anymore. And it won't be Eddie the one to remind you that he can cook more than pasta and frozen pizza now.
It's one of the kid's birthay and the whole family reunites in your house. When Robin gets there and sees you- for the first time after the divorce-, she's dissapointed. Not because you're not doing as good as Eddie told her, but because you are, in fact, doing great. She's so dissapointed on Eddie for letting you go. And you're even still kind to him.
You're a good team. Especially in front of the kids. It's like, after the divorce, Eddie finally understood what you meant by "not wanting to be the boring parent all the time". Limits have allways been a concept hard for him to grasp, with a father always too busy running from the cops and Uncle Wayne spending so much time working to keep them both afloat. But he's proud to say he's learned- more like had to. Now, when it's his turn with the children, he thinks about what would you do. It's not quite the same as having a conscience, but it's worked so far. And it makes him warm inside to see you finally having fun with your kids. Since he started playing the bad cop too, you can get a taste of the other side of the coin. And he gets to hear you laugh- a sound that he hasn't been able to reproduce in his music so far; he's afraid he'll never find a way to capture it. But, well, as far as he does a good job as a dad, he'll get to listen to it.
He can't escape the limits, though. Even if your kids insist in having a sleepover with daddy after the birthday party, he'll be sleeping on the couch.
It's okay, it smells like home and he can pretend the cushion he's hugging is your waist.
Simon Ghost Riley x fem!Reader, (not) Johnny Soap MacTavish x fem!Reader
A/N: I'm terrible at writing accents.
In your defense, you saw it coming years ago.
That didnât stop you, of course, but you saw it coming. Johnny is charming: funny, warm and beautiful. His accent is cute, and his eyes sparkle like hope. Now, that is not why youâre in this situation. The actual reason for your downfall is less superficial and far simpler: Johnny gives. Heâs always giving, never asking for anything in return. Take that and add your emotionally constipated ass; your awkwardness combined with your touch deprivation, and there you have it: unrequited love in its purest form.
It isnât your fault. When you met the team, youâd been alone for years. You knew youâd be alone for many more. That is why having the prettiest man on earth giving you the minimum of attention was so deadly. You honestly never expected it to mean anything. You still donât. You know better. He knows better. Soap is way too friendly for your own good, and youâre too closed off also for your own good. He hugs you, saves you in battle and jokes with you. He taught you his favorite Scottish words. He dances with you in pubs after missions and⊠And he does that with all his friends. Itâs easy to see how much love he has to give, how much he enjoys having fun with the people around him.
Of course he doesnât know. And, of course, he doesnât feel like you do. In his eyes- youâre sure- you are just his fourth teammate. One of the people who endure his outbursts of energy, the one that shares her food with him. Someone who doesnât turn down his hugs, who doesnât move away when his leg touches theirs in the helo, but who doesnât seek his touch either. Just a nice person, someone nice to pass the time with.
Nothing more.
And it shouldnât hurt. Itâs usually okay; youâve always lived with emotional pain, whatâs a little more? Nothing you canât handle. Who cares?
Well⊠you do now, apparently. Because Johnny has just walked into the pub with a very pretty woman holding his arm. His eyes are shining even more than usual. And they look so good together. She isnât that much shorter than him, and has a cute blush on her cheeks. Her lips are full, and her hair is in the most effortless-looking intricate updo youâve ever seen. She looks comfortable, happy, and her smile is sincere.
He told the team he wanted all of you to meet someone. The thing is, Johnny had said that before. The first time, your heart had trouble keeping up. It turned out he had met a Moroccan circus artist in the Russian border. The sixty-year-old man didnât speak a word of English, let alone Scottish or Spanish- you had tried. Still, somehow, he and Soap had become friends, and he had convinced the man to perform for the team. Strangest night of your life.
Similar things had happened after that. The idea of Johnny introducing someone to the team ended up being more of an adventure than a reason to brace yourself. Until now, that is.
Lilith is kind and interesting. She has an easy laugh- just like you, except hers is way more musical. Her hand is on Johnnyâs knee all the time, and his arm is around her shoulders. He canât stop looking at her.
Again, in your defense, you knew this would happen. In retrospect, it surprises you it took him so long to find someone to love this way. Someone who basks in his attention, who gives it back. Together, they are like a golden sun in the midnight of the pub.
Youâre used to crying at night, though, so you donât really appreciate the light. Luckily, everyone is so focused on Johnny and his âprecious bonniest lassâ that no one pays any attention at the way you down your drink in one swing. You make sure to stay as long as it is socially required to not look rude in front of Lilith, and then let your eyelids drop and fake a couple of yawns, just to gain credibility. Then, with the biggest, most naturally rehearsed smile you can force, you tell Lilith it was a pleasure to meet her. You even go as far as to offer Soap a knowing smile, and he winks at you. It usually warms you on the inside, having his eyes on you, with that look that means complicity.
This time, it makes your stomach hurt.
You wave your goodbyes to the rest of the team and just leave. Itâs one of your best performances yet, and thatâs a lot speaking of someone who hides her feelings on a daily basis. You feel oddly proud of yourself, in the middle of the hurt.
Hey, look at how good I am at fooling people! Even at an all-time-low I can appear happy. Iâm so good at this.
Maybe you shouldnât feel so good about it.
Outside of the pub itâs cold. You can still hear Johnnyâs laugh, loud and happy. Youâve managed to make him laugh, every once in a while. Itâs easier when heâs halfway down a bottle. Or when heâs tired. His eyes get all shiny, his love too easy, and he asks for hugs more often. Not just from you, of course. Even Price has been caught by Tired Mactavishâą. You guess it wonât be happening that often now, though.
And just like that, as you try to run away from the bar without looking too desperate, it downs on you. All the things you shouldnât be doing with Johnny now that heâs taken. No more looking at him like the sky borrowed its color from his eyes. No more explosive laughter, holding onto his arm to stay on your feet. No more using him as a pillow to watch movies on base, no more accepting his invitations to dance.
Though maybe he wonât ask anymore. He has someone to do all that with, now that Lilith is in his life. Of course Johnny will want to do that with her, instead of anyone else. Which includes you, sadly.
Youâre so caught up running away from your broken heart that you donât notice the shadow until itâs next to you. You fail to get scared, though, because the rough voice coming from the dark is a familiar one.
âSânot the first time he finds a bird.â
A cold, dark alley isnât the place you expect your Lieutenant to start a conversation, but heâs never been easy to predict. You scramble to pull the mask up again and give him a confused smile.
âWho?â
As soon as you see his unamused glare you know it was a bad attempt. He pretends you didnât say anything and starts walking, so you follow him.
âHe gets one, every now and then. The first one I met was Amelia. Blonde, long legs, shy. Looked atâim like he hung the bloody stars.â
You try to picture it. Itâs awfully easy.
âTâwas a couple years back. Johnny kept talkinâ âbout âer. Heâll do thaâ a lot. Only thing heâll want to talk âbout. And heâll show pictures.â
Youâre actually confused now. But, in your experience, Ghost doesnât talk just for the sake of talking. Eventually, heâll get somewhere. Youâre just not sure you want to get there with him. It tends to be either a dark observation or a bad joke. Itâs not a good time for either of those, you think.
âHeâll come tired from leave. Doesnât sleep tâspend time with âer. Gets a dreamy look, the sucker. Shiny eyesân all.â
Simon takes glances at you.
âLasts a while. More than it should. Always does. Heâll be happy, for some time. Will look happy. Then itâll go south.â
Ghost shakes his head softly. His broad silhouette absorbs the street lights like a black hole.
âWith Amelia tâwas too much. With tânext one, tâwas the schedule. The other one didnât like the killinâ. Thereâs always something.â
Your breath comes out a little shaky.
âWhy are you telling me this? Iâm sorry it hasnât worked for him so far, butâŠâ
âThe bloke doesnât see it. What he does to the people âround âim.â Thereâs something in his voice, though itâs hard to say if heâs frustrated at your attempts to save face or at someone else. âJohnnyâs own light blinds âim.â
You wouldâve never put it that way, but thatâs exactly how it feels. Heâs too busy giving love like itâs free to think about the people around him. You have a hard time seeing that as selfish, though.
âIt blinds âem, too. âS never enough, youâll see. Heâll be back to us in a couple of months. First itâs gonna look like heâs gettinâ marriedâ, Ghost pushes his shoulder against yours, and if his voice wasnât so serious, itâd be playful, âfelt like thaâ with Amelia.â
He takes a turn and suddenly youâre on base. Youâve been so focused on his words that you forgot about your feet and where they were taking you. Ghost doesnât stop- either walking nor talking- so you have to rush to keep up.
âAll thaâ attention on a pretty civvie bird. Sânot made for thaâ. Sâgoing to burn through her. And when heâs done, heâs gonna come back even more⊠Johnny.â
He stops talking and itâs like the night just got colder. The image of Johnny looking at her like heâs won the lottery sits heavy on your heart. You find yourself desperate to keep listening to Simon.
âSo⊠Amelia? How did that go?â
Ghost is a big man. Even when heâs hiding, or dodging bullets in the battlefield, youâve never seen him appear so small. Despite the muscles and the mask, he looks rather unstable. A crumbling mountain.
âTâwas a nightmare.â
You stay silent, because if youâve learned anything from him after all this time, is that being quiet is the best way to keep someone talking.
âJohnny started acting weird. Came back from leave with dark circles. Spent all the time awake wiâer. Had a glow. He likes the dangerous bombs the most, you know. Nuclear weapons are his weakness. I think they match his energy.â
Itâs hard to know if Simon is saying it as an insult. You end up deciding he isnât. Johnny does have a feverish energy: it expands and infiltrates everything- everyone- in a ten miles radio, and lasts way longer than his actual presence.
âAmelia took over everyhtinâ. All his notebooks.â
There is something in his voice. Wetness? For the sake of his privacy, and because picturing Lilithâs features bleeding out of Soapâs pencil onto his paper is making you sick, you just ignore it.
âHe talked âbout her asleep. When he wasnât wiâer on the phone. Carried a pictureâŠâ The scoff he lets out this time is definitely dark. Whether itâs irony, frustration, mockery or indignation is unclear, though. âNo ofâer face, Iâll tell you that. He made a ring. Out of a bulletâs shell.â
If it wasnât so dark, youâd say Simon is frowning. And is that bulge in his hoodieâs pocket his fists?
âWe metâer, before he got down on his knee. A blonde bird, Amelia. Eyes the color of nothing. Might as well âave been one of those bloody Scottish spirits of his. Laughed an awful lot, too. Hadâim wrapped âround her finger.â
Suddenly, this girl and the new one donât sound so different. Now that you think about it, youâre not sure what color were Lilithâs hair or eyes. Could have easily been blonde and empty.
âHe didnât look away fromâer once. Never looked around. Could have shotâim a dozen times.â It sounds like a threat. âShe was just there, lookinâ pretty. Johnny was all over her. Arms, hands, legs⊠Always touching her. She didnât reciprocate once. Was too busy talking aboutâer little soldier boy.â
You know how that is. People who fall for the uniform. Well, usually women. Men fetishize the uniform, when theyâre not threatened by it. It makes you shudder. Ghost gives you a side glance.
âAre you cold?â You are about to lie reply with a very weak no, but he takes his hoodie off before you have time to. Itâs embarrassing how easily he pulls it over your head. In less than two seconds youâre inside a very warm, very large extension of black that smells⊠This is not the direction you were expecting tonight to go.
âThanks.â
Itâs quiet, weak. Simon blinks, the streetlights reflecting on his ghostly eyelashes.
âDonâ worry âbout it. People like us- we gotta stick together.â
Thereâs that sound in his voice, again. Youâre not sure heâs talking about the cold. Or your job.
âCome âere. Iâve my own scotch in the barracks. This one wonâ make you cry.â
It clicks. As you follow your Lieutenant, it dawns on you. He meant âus, Jhonnyâs victimsâ. He gave you the hoodie because heâs known the cold way longer than you.
Itâs hard not to stare at him as you follow. The broad shoulders, the pale skin of his wrists, the phantom eyes. Makes you wonder how long until you become like him. You picture yourself a couple years from now: hardened, experienced in pain, distant⊠Just as in love with Johnny.
Stupid.
You shouldnât be angry at him. It isnât his fault. He can fall for whoever he wants. Johnny doesnât owe you or anyone else any kind of love. Still, it feels like betrayal. How dare he? How dare he show light to people like you and Simon and then, just as easily, take it away?
People like you, starved, alone, cold. People who donât dare wish for anything, fully aware of your own undeserving nature. People like you, whose only way of loving is to endure.
Itâs easy to enter the room. To drink and drink. To sit on Simonâs bed, to welcome the warmth. So easy to laugh, even if his jokes are the worst youâve ever heard. Easy to see the shine in his eyes.
They arenât Johnnyâs. But who cares? Simonâs eyes are the ones who worry when you start to cry. His are the arms that hold you against his chest. His the heart that calms you down. His the bed you fall asleep on.
And itâs his hand the one that brushes against your knuckles the next morning when you enter the mess hall together. His the reassuring nod that helps you breathe deeply. Itâs Simonâs eyes you find safety in.
Maybe if they werenât, youâd see Johnnyâs sour face. Maybe you would have noticed his jealousy when he saw you come out his Lieutenantâs room. Maybe, if they werenât, you would have cared. But itâs Simon the one youâre looking at. And heâs looking right back at you.
He's famous. He should be able to find a model for the job. But whenever Corroded Coffin launches merch, he's calling you for the pictures. It's more natural that way, he says. They won't be able to find a model more beautiful than you anyway- he keeps this part to himself. Plus, you haven't gotten a couples photo session since the divorce. And he likes seeing your face.
So there you are, once again with Eddie putting a ring on your left hand. He didn't have to ask about your size previous to the shot, but you stop yourself from wondering why does he still remember it. Eddie is blushing and smirking, and suddenly he looks like the troubled boy from Hawkins you fell in love with. It's a thought you hide as soon as it comes... But the photographer is faster.
The fans all over the world lose their minds when the campaign is launched- apparently you have "stars in your eyes" and you're "the living proof soulmates exist", not to mention how you're also starring in the thousands of new edits . At least everybody wants to buy Corroded Coffin's jewelry now.
Eddie asks for a special print of the picture- poster size. It goes up on his wall, higher than Metallica and Juda's Priest. It takes Ozzy's place. It's not like anyone else will see his little sanctuary- you don't come to his place.
He seems to have forgotten one little detail, though. The next time your kids spend the night at Eddie's, they come back with lots of brives for their silence gifts.
