#prettycalla writes

Each one is the same. A wolf — dark in colour with streaks of grey by its ears — prowls your dreams. It stalks after you in a frenzy, snapping at your heels; no matter where you run, or how you hide. It will always end the same. It looms over your prone form, rivulets of spit dripping from its vicious maw as its growls rise ever higher from its throat. Head lowered, hackles raised. Dark eyes boring into your soul. And when it strikes, it is with such bloodlust and rage that each and every time, you wake with a shriek, thrashing against the thin bedding as if your very life depends upon it.

And every time, he is there. William. Your dear companion, and even dearer part of your heart as the months and years go by.

You speak not a word to him; allowing him to comfort. Soothe. And yet not even he can rid you of this.

Only your eyes — and those of God — see the shame that dwells within your heart. For the sudden, fearful awakening is always followed by something much, much worse.

A feeling of release. The likes of which you have never in your life experienced, but you know it. The sin of Adam and Eve. And to have this overwhelming feeling, whilst William holds you to his heart in comfort…

It is unholy.

You must find resolve. Cast out this demon. For surely it must be a test of faith. God has chosen you, and you must not fail.

William returns from his daily toil that evening much later than you. He is nothing if not determined, oft to his own detriment; as he is now, he is rather worse for wear. Autumn is approaching fast, and the shortening days are filled with collecting firewood and provisions for the Wintertime.

He stops by your side, a soft kiss pressed to your temple. “How fares my flower?” he murmurs.

You smile in turn, leaning into his touch, before he steps away. Making quick work, he strips himself down to his drawers, clothes tossed aside as he seats himself at the dressing table on the other side of the room. He twists himself to and fro, as if trying to better see himself in the mirror.

With a little sigh, you rise and approach him. “What has happened?”

His fingers trail along angry red welts that mark his shoulder.

“Thorns,” he replies. “I lost my balance and fell.”

William is no stranger to injury, and you have a small cabinet filled with remedies for such things. You fetch one of the ointment bottles, holding it out to him. He looks up at you with an apologetic expression.

“Would you mind?” he asks. “I can’t quite reach.”

Dutifully, you set to your task, carefully applying the tincture to his wounds. Your gaze wanders, however briefly, and you attempt to keep your focus where it is needed. It is difficult to ignore the long scars that run the length of William's back. Faded as they are, your heart aches at the sight of them.

He tries to hold himself still, for your benefit, but each little hiss and wince of pain that escapes him leaves you feeling as though a pit of snakes nests within your stomach, and you make haste to finish soon.

“I will fetch you a clean shirt,” you murmur, wiping your hands.

He reaches for you before you can leave his side, his hand encircling your wrist. His touch is soft; yet you feel as though you have been branded. It burns.

“Come,” he says, tugging lightly. “Sit.”

You press your lips together tightly, fighting the urge to protest. Reluctantly, you allow him to gather you up, until you are seated in his lap. His arm slips around your middle, holding you close. Never have you felt so safe, and so trapped.

Slowly, he presses your head to his uninjured shoulder, his fingers tangled in your hair.

“You are keeping things from me,” he says softly.

His heart beats so calm and steadfast against your ear. Yours, by contrast, is a war drum.

“What ails you, flower?”

Your hands clench into fists. Pain, as if from some invisible force, wracks through you. You wish nothing more than to scream, to cry, to throw yourself upon the mercy of the man who cradles you so gently, as if you truly were a delicate flower.

“Your sleep is disturbed, your appetite wanes. So little now do I hear your voice. I miss your birdsong.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. There is no one in the world who could ever doubt William’s utmost devotion to his sister, but what remains is poured into you. To feel such a deep, profound love — though a mere drop in the ocean compared to his love for Mother Ann — is truly overwhelming. You can hardly bear it.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Your burdens are mine to shoulder too.”

And oh, how he means every word. And how it tears at you — claws at you like the frantic, violent beast that comes to you in your dreams.

Weary, you raise your head. To look him in the eye is too much, so you focus your attention elsewhere. On the slope of his nose, the soft set of his mouth, the greying hairs that rest at his temples—

Nausea washes over you, like a tumultuous wave in a storm. Sudden realisation threatens to choke the air from you — how you wish that it would. But there is no escaping the truth.

The creature that stalks your dreams, that sets itself upon you night after night until you are wide-eyed and trembling in the dark. The terrifying feeling of sheer pleasure that erupts through you each and every time.

The wolf is William.

Or rather, it is your desire for him, manifesting itself in the strangest way. How it mocks you. Taunts you. It is cruel.

“Whatever is the matter?” he asks, with such kindness that another nauseous wave washes over you.

How are you to ever look him in the eye again? You are undeserving. You sit here, unable to confess, unable to repent. Hiding in plain sight; no more than a sinful blight in the presence of virtue.

You cannot allow him to suffer as he does now.

“There are things that I must tell you,” you at last reply in a choked whisper. “Things that I have seen.”

His brow knits in a slight frown as he takes in your words. “What kinds of things?”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue, “They…come to me. In dreams. These…visions.”

The air feels stifling; each breath an ashen burn upon your lungs. How fitting, that the gates of Hell should find you here, in the midst of your shame.

"What I am about to say…will surely cast me in a different light." Your voice softens. "Perhaps now you will see me for what I truly am."

There is an unbearable sadness in his eyes as he looks to you. Those eyes — as dark as storm clouds — study your every expression with great focus. Even now, his devotion is as plain as day.

You must make him see.

"I already do see you for what you are," he replies, low voice laced with quiet determination. "When I am lost at sea, you are my anchor, tethering me so that I may not find myself adrift in dangerous waters."

Each word is a sharp switch upon your upturned palms. When he smiles, you cast your gaze aside. You are undeserving of such a beautiful thing.

Carefully, his hand touches your chin, tilting your head up to him. "Do not spurn me, love. Speak."

Even when he commands you, it is done with affection. And yet, the nest of snakes seems to knot itself even tighter together. You feel ill.

"I find myself…yearning. In ways that I should not. Sinful, unholy ways." You force yourself to meet his gaze — the confounded look he levels you with is as sharp as a dagger to the heart. "For you, William."

Confusion gives way to realisation at last. His eyes widen, and you shrink under his scrutiny. Rarely is a silence between the two of you uncomfortable — in spite of his strength, there is a quiet gentleness to William that few others possess. When the world is chaos, he is shelter. A haven. Safety.

You do not feel safe anymore.

For the briefest moment, his hold on you tightens — blunt nails scratch at your scalp, fingertips twisting into the fabric at your hip. Then, as soon as that, he releases you. His grip relaxes, though you can still feel the phantom press of his touch, even in its absence.

How you wish for him to say something. Anything. You would beg, if you believed yourself deserving.

When he does again speak, he does not seem himself. "You were right to confess this to me."

There is a hollow look in his eyes, as though he is far away. He seems to look through you. His voice, too, is smaller.

"Permit me to take it from you."

Immediately, you shake your head. You will not allow him to carry this burden. Your burden.

You open your mouth to say as much, but he interrupts you before you even begin.

“You will not deny me this.”

He looks to you with such fervour in his eyes. He truly would move Heaven and Earth if it would mean that you would grace him with a smile. He holds your face, thumbs wiping your stray tears away with gentle reverence.

“Do not deny me.”

His forehead presses to yours; the warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips. You are falling apart at the seams, destined to unravel in his devoted hands.

A whisper, barely a beat of a breath. “Do not deny yourself.”

Spoken into the small space between you, yet it echoes in your ears as though it were screamed to the rafters.

He patiently awaits your answer, but words evade you entirely. You should fight. Run. Lock yourself away from him. You cannot let him rot too.

As if against your will, you finally nod. He wastes little time, fumbling at the fastenings of your clothes, careful hands pushing and tugging until at last, enough of you is bared to him that he may set to his task. It is not the first time that you have seen each other in such a state of undress, but this…

This is different. There is no innocence to this. There is purpose, a weight to what is about to unfold. How much does a man’s soul weigh?

When he touches you, all thought is lost. It is like lightning thrumming across your skin. You have never felt anything like it before in your life. You find yourself desperate to both squirm away and press yourself closer. It is dizzying.

Your pulse is a rolling thunder in your ears. Heat strikes you in flashes — it is only just that something such as this should be called a sin. This feeling, that threatens to drag you under and drown you, could leave you destitute in your addiction to it, and you would welcome it. If life were this, and only this — being brought to rapturous release again and again and again — you would gladly forfeit your seat in Heaven in exchange.

Even God does not possess enough mercy for such an unrepentant soul.  And yet, in this single, glorious moment, you cannot bring yourself to care.

Not once does William's hand stop; he moves with such practiced ease that you dare to wonder how he became so well-versed. His other hand is firm against the back of your neck, the warmth of him blooming across your skin. His breaths are almost as harsh as your own, and the thought that he, too, is unraveling as quickly as you — he without a touch — is almost enough to drag you asunder.

He presses harder, and a keening cry slips from your lips — you cannot stand this blissful torture for much longer.

He knows your mind too well. “Do not try,” he implores in a hushed breath. “Give in. Please.”

His pace quickens then, and the only thing you can do is obey. You allow yourself to give in, allow him to take this burden — this sin — from you and claim it as his own. Tremors rack through you as he holds you tight, only faltering when you beg it of him.

A beat, a shuddering breath. “Think no more of this.”

He draws back then. You have never seen him in such a state. Cheeks flushed and lips parted, strands of his dark locks swept across his forehead. His gaze is heady, pupils blown wide. He is truly beautiful.

“You are free of this sin.”

Tears spring to your eyes once more. He is but a man; he cannot absolve you of such atrocity, and yet you let yourself believe his words. That you are free.

A gentle kiss is shared between you. Slow, unhurried. A mutual understanding.

This shall remain here.

And here, in your sanctuary, time seems to have slipped away entirely. He holds you close to his heart, the steady thud of it lulling you into a doze. A faraway call of your name rouses you some; strong arms help you the short distance to bed. You reach for him in your sleep-addled haze as he turns to leave.

“Allow me to dress, love,” he says, a soft kiss pressed to your hand as he untangles himself from your weak grasp.

He returns to you shortly thereafter, climbing into bed and sliding his arms around you. His nose brushes against your neck, and a quiet sigh escapes him.

"Rest now," he whispers. "You are safe here."

And when you dream that night, the wolf is there to greet you once more. But it is different now. It follows after you with curiosity. You do not feel afraid. Tentatively, you reach out a hand, and it comes to you, pushing its head against your palm. Such power it holds, even in so small an action, and yet you are no longer wracked with fear. You feel safe — as if the wolf has at last been sated.

You do not wake until the first rays of sunlight begin to stream through the window in the morn. William is still by your side, hair tousled and cheeks rosy from sleep. He stirs as you move closer to him, and the guilt that suddenly threatens to engulf you seems to melt away as his hand finds yours.

There will be time later to dwell. Right now, your only care is these fleeting moments spent with your beloved, before the day begins anew.

And it’s not for lack of trying on your part. You’d waited for his usual grand announcement, and when it didn’t come, you’d asked. 

To which he’d just replied by tapping his nose with a barely concealed smile.

That’s not like him at all. When it comes to you, Eddie can’t keep anything to himself. Sometimes, it’s to the point where he’s telling you things you don’t want to know. Thankfully, he’s starting to get a better grasp of what is and isn’t appropriate - especially when you’re trying to eat. 

So for him to not want to tell you is…strange, to say the least. 

It doesn’t stop you from trying, though. When he won’t answer you outright, you start trying to be a little more sneaky about it. You point out characters in movies and TV shows, casually bringing the conversation around that way.

“That’d be such a good costume, don’t you think?” you ask, watching Eddie out of the corner of your eye to gauge his reaction.

“Yeah, I guess,” he replies distractedly, fiddling with his lighter. 

It’s starting to drive you mad. He hasn’t forgotten - he can’t have, you’ve bugged him enough times about it. And when you asked if he was still excited for Hallowe’en, he’d looked at you as if you’d said something blasphemous. 

About a week later, he comes home from his shift, with a big paper bag half-squashed under his arm. He drops a quick kiss to the top of your head, as is his usual routine, before he’s making a beeline for the bathroom. You don’t think much of it - he’s just home, maybe he’s gotta go. It’s not until the show you were in the middle of watching ends that you notice the time. 

“Eddie?” you call.

Maybe he’s in the kitchen. 

“Eddie?” you try again.

Nothing.

You’re not exactly worried, more curious in case he’s gone out again and you didn’t hear him leave. You take a quick look around the apartment, finding everything the way you left it. When you get to the bathroom, the door’s locked.

He’s not still in there, is he?

“Eddie?” you call, knocking the door. “You okay? You’ve been in there a while.”

Something heavy hits the ground with a thump, and Eddie mumbles something you can’t make out. He sounds frustrated. 

“Yeah, I’m fine!” he shouts back. His voice is a bit too high, exactly how he sounds when he’s pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. “I, uh- I ate something weird at lunch, it’s catching up with me now.”

You hear him blow a hard raspberry for effect, and you roll your eyes. Clearly, he wants some privacy, and he doesn’t want to admit to whatever he’s really doing in there.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” you tell him. “Just yell, okay?”

“Thanks, baby, appreciate it!” you hear him call back, before something heavy clatters against the bathtub.

When he does finally reemerge, it’s as if nothing happened. He asks you about your day and helps with dinner, like he wasn’t hiding in there for a full hour. 

About halfway through the night, you start to make a little progress.

“I was wondering,” he starts, a little hesitantly. “Would you be cool with helping me out with some make-up stuff?”

So there is a costume. You knew it.

“Sure. What are we talking? Face paint, fake blood?” you ask, trying your best to sound casual.

If he wants your help, he has to tell you what it is he needs help with, right?

He shakes his head. “I was thinking something a little more glamorous,” he says cryptically. 

“So, not Gene Simmons, then,” you reply, eyebrows raised expectantly. 

He just laughs. “Keep trying, sweetheart.”

It’s a few days later when it’s brought up again. You’re lying on the couch, taking full advantage of a Saturday afternoon with nothing to do and nowhere to be, when Eddie’s wild mane of hair suddenly appears in your field of vision over your head. 

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says, bending down to press a kiss to your nose.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask. “What kind of surprise? Should I close my eyes?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and hold out your hand. Eddie laughs, tapping his hand against yours. 

“It’s not ready yet,” he tells you. “Gimme about…half an hour?”

You glare up at him, pretending to be suspicious. “What are you up to, Munson?”

Eddie gives you a wide smile, as if butter wouldn’t melt. “You’ll see,” is all the answer he gives you, as he makes his way down the hall.

You hear the bathroom door lock, and then it hits you. It’s his costume. It has to be. 

You spend about ten minutes trying to distract yourself before you can’t take it anymore. He’s been dragging this out for weeks now. The last of your patience has been worn out completely. Remembering what he’d said about needing help with make-up, you scramble off the couch to your bedroom. You can’t help but stop outside the bathroom for a second on the way. Eddie sounds like he’s fighting for his life in there. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be good, you know that much. He’s never let you down yet. 

The box you keep all the costume make-up in is already sitting at the end of the bed for you. You dig through it, tossing anything past its expiry date and organising the rest to pass the time. You’ve sorted the brushes three times by the time the bathroom door finally opens. Immediately, you sit bolt upright, all of your attention focused on the doorway. You can’t remember the last time you were this excited for anything.

Eddie raps the doorframe, just out of your sight. “Sweetheart? You in here?” he calls.

“Yes!” you reply, a little too eagerly.

Eddie huffs a laugh.  “Okay, I’m coming in. You better have your eyes closed.”

You do as he says, even covering your eyes to stop yourself from peeking. You can hear Eddie moving towards you, and whatever he’s wearing sounds as if it’s causing him trouble, like he’s struggling to walk properly.

Eventually, he stops. Your pulse is thudding in your ears.

“Ready?” he asks, and you can hear him smiling.

“Yes! Oh my God, you’ve dragged this out long enough,” you practically whine at him.

Eddie chuckles. “I just wanted to make sure it was worth the wait,” he replies. “Okay, you can look now.”

You take your hands away from your face, and your mouth immediately drops open. You aren’t entirely sure what you were expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. 

A few months back, Eddie had come home from the video store with a stack of tapes he’d rented. You flicked through them while he fought his usual losing battle with the TV antenna. The thing was on its last legs, but there was no telling him that. 

“The Rocky Horror Picture Show?” you’d asked, with a curious expression. “Didn’t think you’d be into that.”

“It’s a horror musical with Meat Loaf, what’s not to love?” he’d replied, blowing out a sigh as the antenna slipped right off the TV.

You couldn’t argue with him there. And sure, in hindsight, maybe you should have realised earlier than you did that the whole premise was right up Eddie’s alley, and yes, you’re very aware that he has a flair for the dramatic. And even if you had guessed it right, you would have thought it would make more sense for Eddie to dress as well…Eddie.

But all of that doesn’t change the fact that he’s currently standing in front of you, dressed as Frank-N-Furter. And it’s not the green surgical gown; no, Eddie's decided to go the whole nine yards - black corset, matching lacy garter belt and stockings; he’s even wearing a chunky pearl necklace.

And the heels. You were so distracted by his cinched-in waist and the length of his legs in all that sheer fabric that you hadn’t noticed his shoes - until he’d wobbled in them. They’re black and strappy, and put him away over 6ft. 

“Well?” he prompts, gesturing towards himself. “What do you think?”

You’re honestly surprised you’re not drooling. You can’t stop staring at him.

“What do I think?” you ask, finally managing to make your mouth work again. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

He fidgets with the pearls around his neck, not quite meeting your eye. And then you realise - he’s actually nervous about this. You reach out to take his hands, careful not to throw off his balance. 

“You wanna know what I really think?” you ask. “I think you, Eddie Munson, are the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

A wide smile breaks out across his face at that. He blows out an exaggerated breath, as if in relief.

“Okay, good,” he replies, a little breathless. “It’s not that I thought you’d be weird about this or anything, it’s just- I dunno, guess I kept getting into my own head about it.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “Do me a favour? Sit down, I don’t want you breaking your ankle.”

Eddie manages to sit down on the bed next to you without knocking himself over, which is quite an achievement, considering. You brush his hair back from his face. 

“You never have to worry about things like this with me, okay?” you say softly. “Honestly, I’m just mad that you’re so much taller than me now.”

Eddie laughs at that, his dimples on full display. Your heart feels full. 

“You still want me to do your make-up?” you ask. “I’m pretty sure I have all the right colours.”

He nods, and you get to work, laying everything out so you can reach it easily. It's not long before you hit your first hurdle. You’ve barely touched him when his nose twitches. Every time you make an attempt, he moves in some way - blinking, running his tongue over his teeth, scrunching his nose. You can’t get near him. It’s been about ten minutes, and all you’ve managed is a couple of dots of lipstick and half an eyelid of eyeshadow. 

“Eddie, honey,” you chide, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips. “I need you to stay still.”

“Am I not?” he asks.

You raise your eyebrows at him, as if to say ‘what do you think?’.

“Sure, no problem. I can stay still,” he tells you. “Like a statue. Still’s my middle name. You won’t even know I’m here.”

He keeps going like that, rambling on to try and get you to laugh. The more you hold it in, the faster he talks, until finally, you cave.

“Eddie, c’mon,” you insist, trying to be serious. “The sooner you sit still, the sooner we’re finished, okay?”

Eddie gives you an exaggerated nod in reply, shaking his hair everywhere. A few of his curls stick to the lipstick you weren’t able to finish.

Something has to be done about him. You stand up, and immediately, he stops messing around.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Come back,” he says, tugging gently at your wrist. “I’ll behave, I promise.”

“Yeah, you will,” you reply resolutely. 

Before he has the chance to say anything else, you press your hands to his shoulders, pushing him onto his back. He goes down all too easily, looking up at you with wide eyes as you climb into his lap. You stare down at him smugly, as if in challenge. For once, he’s speechless. You’ve somehow done the impossible - you’ve actually shut him up. 

“This is gonna kill my back, but if you can’t sit still for twenty minutes, sacrifices have to be made,” you say.

Eddie hasn’t moved a muscle, as if he’s still in shock. You’re not exactly having an easy time of it either. If you thought he was gorgeous before; having him beneath you like this, curls splayed out like a halo, full lips parted, big brown eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing that matters…

He really is something else.

But one of you has to try and be the adult here. Which is easier said than done when you keep finding yourself distracted by how his chest rises and falls in that damn corset.

“Eyes closed,” you tell him, and he actually does as he’s told.

You can’t let yourself get used to this, but God, you want to. You do your best to focus on what you’re supposed to be doing, choosing an eyeshadow colour. Eddie flinches slightly as the brush touches his skin, but other than that, he keeps himself still. Even as you gently run an eyeliner pencil along his lower lashes, and rouge his cheeks. 

You rummage through the pile next to you, searching for the lipstick you’d attempted to put on him earlier. You remove the lid absentmindedly as you admire your work so far. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you murmur.

“You think so?” he asks, and you can tell he’s trying to make light of it, but his dimples are on full display again. 

You tap his nose with your finger. “I do,” you reply sincerely. “Pretty boy.”

His eyes widen, and for a minute, he just stares up at you. Then he lets out a groan, his hands sliding up the length of your thighs, stopping at your hips.

“You can’t say things like that,” he mutters, his thumbs rubbing little patterns over your sweater. 

You tilt your head. “What’d I say?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Eddie huffs in frustration, wandering hands trailing up along your back. He presses his palms against you, trying to push you forward.

“Nuh-uh,” you grunt, planting your palms on his chest to hold yourself up. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He has the audacity to whine at you, and you lightly pat his cheek. 

“Come on, just a couple more minutes. You can do it,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

Eddie sighs dramatically, but he lets his hands drop back down to your hips. 

“There’s my good boy,” you murmur.

Once again, you seem to have stunned him into silence. It probably won’t last very long, so you can’t let it go to waste; you lean in, carefully running the lipstick along the outer lines of his mouth first, before filling in the rest. You can sense how much he’s struggling, but you can’t fault his effort. He’s really trying. 

“Almost done,” you mutter. You sit back, gently tilting his head from one side to the other to make sure everything’s even. “Go like this.” 

You press your lips tightly together. Eddie copies you, and you smile.

“Perfect,” you say proudly. “You wanna see?”

You pass him a compact mirror. He moves it around as he admires himself.

“You’re a genius, you know that?” he says at last, flashing you a lazy grin.

You chuckle softly. “You’ve got a little lipstick on your teeth, hang on.”

You move to wipe it away, when all of a sudden, Eddie’s grabbing your wrist and pulling you down all the way. You shriek, just about managing to stop yourself from accidentally headbutting him.

“I’m done waiting, sweetheart,” he says quietly, reaching up to cradle your face in his hands. 

You frown, pretending to be annoyed. “You’re gonna ruin all my hard work.”

He shakes his head. “You’re so good at it, you can fix it again,” he replies, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Besides, this is just the practice run, right?”

How are you supposed to argue with him when he’s as close as he is, saying all the right things in that low, infuriatingly convincing voice? Dressed like that? You might be stubborn, but you have your limits. You dip your head to kiss him, lightly at first, but then Eddie’s dragging you closer, his arms around your waist, and suddenly you don’t give a shit about your hard work anymore. 

All you care about is him. Your Eddie. 

When you’re finally able to untangle yourself from him, you can’t help but laugh. His lipstick’s smudged all across his mouth and chin, and you can only assume that you’re not much better. 

“Y’know, I was thinking…” he starts, his tone suspiciously coy.

“That’s dangerous,” you reply teasingly.

Eddie flicks your cheek playfully. “I’m serious,” he says. “We gotta come up with a costume for you now, yeah?”

That stops you in your tracks. In all the frustration of trying to figure out what the hell Eddie’s been up to, you haven’t really thought about yourself. And as things are, it’s not exactly high up on your list of priorities right now. 

You slowly walk your fingers down the lacy detailing on his corset. “How about we figure it out later?” you ask, giving him a pointed look. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you mean, and Eddie’s always been quick off the mark when it suits him.

“Sure, no problem, consider it a later problem,” he replies in a rush, reaching for you again.

You lean in to kiss him, not caring if the rest of his make-up ends up a total mess. 

Like he said, it’s just the practice run. 

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The lawn’s fairly quiet as he makes his way up to the house, with a few people dotted here and there, but inside, it’s chaos. Eddie can hardly move, let alone figure out where the guy who owns the place is. It doesn’t help that it’s a costume party, so he could be anyone. 

This was a stupid idea, he thinks to himself. He’s all set to turn around and figure out some other way of getting the money together for his amp, when he finds himself distracted. A group of girls make their way down the stairs, all in costume. One in particular leaves him staring for longer than he’d like to admit. He watches them make their way through the crowd towards the kitchen.

Maybe he can stay for a little longer.

It takes him about twenty minutes to track down the guy he’s supposed to be looking for, and then all of a sudden, he goes from just some guy to an absolute hit. At least, until his lunchbox has been cleared out.

Just like high school. Some things never change.

Still, now that he’s off-duty, maybe he can try and find that girl he saw earlier. He makes his way through the crowd gathered in the kitchen, craning his neck to help him see better. He’s so distracted that he’s not fully paying attention to who’s in front of him, until it’s too late.

“Oh- Shit, sorry,” he mutters, turning his head to see who he almost knocked flying.

His mouth drops open slightly. It’s you. The girl he’s been looking for. And of course, in true Eddie fashion, now that you’re right in front of him, he suddenly can’t bring himself to say anything.

You don’t seem to have noticed that he’s being weird, and judging by the almost empty cup in your hand, he’d have to be stupid not to have figured out why. Or maybe you’re just being polite. Either way, he’s grateful that you’re nice enough not to call him an idiot. To his face, at least.

“Oh, wow,” you say, as you look him up and down.

Eddie feels his face warm with embarrassment, and he braces himself for whatever shit-talk is coming his way.

“I love your Kirk Hammett costume,” you tell him, your expression almost awestruck as you smile at him. “How long did it take you to get your hair like that?”

Eddie just stares at you. Surely he didn’t hear you right. It’s noisy as hell in here, and he’s hearing what he wants to hear, obviously. That, or he fell asleep in his van, and this is all just a wonderful dream. Because there’s no way you’re saying any of this to him right now. 

“Uh, what?” he asks intelligently.

Your smile fades slightly. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I just figured, y’know, with the way you’re dressed and all- Did I get it wrong?”

He shakes his head, as if that’ll knock some sense into him and get him to actually talk to you. “You know Metallica?” he asks.

“I mean, sure, they’re big right now,” you reply. “I’ve got a few of their tapes.”

The way you say it, so casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, leaves him reeling. For someone who normally has no trouble talking the ear off anyone and everyone, he’s really struggling to string a sentence together right now, and it’s driving him crazy. He wants to talk to you so badly, and he knows the longer he stands here gawking like a moron, the faster you’re going to realise that he’s not worth your time and leave.

“No kidding,” he forces himself to say. 

God, he’s so bad at this. You seem none the wiser, though, and he’s grateful for that. 

He gestures awkwardly towards you. “I love your costume too. It’s, uh…No, wait, don’t tell me, I know it.”

He looks you over, doing his utmost not to be a creep about it. Your head tilts slightly as you wait with an almost expectant expression on your face. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, clicking his fingers as if to help jog his memory. 

“Kate Bush?” he guesses, squinting as he waits for you to shoot him down.

Your face lights up then, and you almost knock the rest of your drink over yourself in your excitement. “Yes!” you exclaim giddily.

Eddie feels his face burning again - but for a whole different reason this time. He can’t help but find himself smiling at you. There’s something about your energy - it’s contagious.

“God, I’m so glad someone finally got it!” you tell him excitedly, holding your arms out to show off the bat wing-like lace sewn into the sleeves of your black dress. “Everyone’s been calling me Elvira all night, can you believe that? I look nothing like her.”

Eddie tries his best to focus on what you’re saying. Because if he starts thinking about you dressed as Elvira - the woman he has more posters of than he’d like to admit - he’s gonna embarrass himself for sure.

“I mean, it’s definitely a compliment, she’s gorgeous,” he replies, hoping it sounds light-hearted.

“Obviously,” you say with a smile, taking a sip of your drink. “But I spent ages putting this together, you know? And you don’t even want to know how much hairspray I had to use. My hair’s practically a helmet.”

You pretend to knock at your hair, and Eddie laughs. You’re a little weird, he’ll admit, but he likes it. Besides, he’d be a hypocrite if he judged you for it. ‘King of the Freaks’ isn’t exactly a title that you can just walk away from easily. 

You hold up your cup, giving it a little shake. “I’m gonna get a refill. You wanna come with?”

Eddie’s nodding before you’ve even finished asking.

What was supposed to be an hour of work at most turns into the rest of the evening, but Eddie’s certainly not complaining. The two of you end up talking about anything and everything, finding a quiet spot at the top of the stairs to hole up together. Usually, people find Eddie a bit off-putting - which is fine by him, because he usually finds people too normal and boring anyway - but you’re able to keep pace with him easily. He could happily stay here all night.

A voice calls your name from the bottom of the stairs - your friends from earlier, he realises.

“Our ride’s here!” one of the girls shouts, her eyes darting between you and Eddie with a barely hidden smile.

“Oh, shit,” you mutter to yourself, before raising your voice. “Just a sec!”

You rummage through your bag, fishing out an old receipt and a pen. You scribble something down and hand it to him.

“Here,” you say shyly.

Eddie looks down at the crumpled piece of paper. It’s your number.

“Just, y’know, if you wanna hang out sometime,” you tell him, a little nervously.

Eddie just nods, his brain slow to process what’s going on. This never happens to him. Maybe he really did fall asleep in his van.

“Yeah,” he says, dazed. He looks up at you with a smile. “Yeah, I’d- I’d like that.”

Your face lights up in relief. “Great!” you reply. “I gotta go. It was really nice meeting you.”

Eddie’s smile widens. “Yeah. You too.”

He watches as you make your way down the stairs. You’ve barely reached the bottom step when your friends are immediately all over you, talking excitedly and sneaking glances up at Eddie. You turn to wave at him before you leave, with a bright laugh as one of your friends says something he can’t make out.

He waves back, before looking at the paper in his hand again, as if to make sure he didn’t imagine it. He carefully folds it up and tucks it into his pocket. His face is starting to hurt from smiling so much, and there’s an honest to God spring in his step as he makes his way out the door and back to his van. 

Maybe parties aren't just as bad as he remembered.

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It's late, sometime past 1am. The light of your alarm clock casts a dim red glow, spilling across the bedside table.

You're laid out on your bed, half-dressed and lying against Johnny, who sits behind you. His legs are spread out on either side of yours, strong thighs pressing tight against you. He's been toying with you for what feels like forever at this point, his hands tracing feather-light patterns across your bare skin. You refuse to make his ego any worse by begging, or asking, or even telling him what you want, so now you're trapped in your own self-made hell, as Johnny amuses himself by slowly driving you mad.

Why break the habit of a lifetime, right?

"Y'know, it's funny," he says, as he trails his fingers along your sides. "You spend all day acting like you can't stand me, and yet you just can't seem to stay away from me, can you?"

"Last I checked, this is my bed, Johnny," you retort with an indignant little huff.

You feel him move behind you, as if he's shrugging.

"Semantics," he says dismissively.

Before you can continue arguing - and boy is there nothing you would love more right now than to put him in his place - his hands travel up along your torso, pressing you back tight against his chest. Despite his air of confidence, there's no ignoring just how hard he is against you, and you can't help but squirm in his hold.

"Easy there, doll," he murmurs in a low voice. His breath ghosts along the shell of your ear, making you shiver. "I've hardly even touched you, and you're already falling to pieces on me."

He tilts your head back, fingertips pressed beneath your chin to gently hold you in place. His lips brush against the line of your jaw. You push yourself back further against him, hoping he’ll take the hint. Because there's no way you're about to admit how much you want this. To him, of all people.

You feel his mouth curl into a smile against your skin. “Are you really that desperate for it?” he asks, persistent.

You know the more you refuse to tell him what he wants to hear, the more he’s going to keep pushing. He’s so fucking stubborn.

But you aren’t much better, and you press your lips together instead. He slides a finger beneath the strap of your bra, lifting it up to let it snap against your skin.

“Johnny,” you gripe, your voice far too breathy for your liking.

He chuckles to himself. “Oh, you can talk?” he asks in a patronising tone. “So you just don’t want to, is that it?”

You grit your teeth.

“Come on, use your words,” he persists, as his hands move to your chest. “You’re always so good at telling me what’s on your mind. What’s stopping you now, huh?”

He squeezes you then, just hard enough that you jolt forward. It takes every ounce of your willpower to stifle the moan that he was so close to pulling out of you. 

“Oh…I see.”

He does it again, and this time you can’t stop the tiny, broken sound that slips past your lips. Johnny laughs again, clearly very much enjoying making you suffer.

“You don’t wanna admit to yourself how good this feels, right?”

You shake your head in frustration. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s right. Because that’s the worst part about this, it does feel good, and you need more from him, but you can’t tell him that. You just can’t. Your pride won’t let you, because you know you’ll never hear the end of it. 

Instead, you push yourself back against him again, a little more insistent this time, hoping to God he’ll shut up and just give you what you want already. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I get it. I do,” he says, and you hate how he does that. How he always seems to know what you’re thinking. “But I wanna hear you say it. You can do that for me, can’t you, doll?”

You hate the pet names. Johnny’s always calling you something - doll, baby, sweetheart - anything but your actual name. It drives you mad. He thinks it’s hilarious.

“Just tell me to stop,” he’s always saying.

Why should you have to? He should just know.

But it’s not just that. You won’t admit it to yourself, but deep down, you don’t want him to stop. Because you like it. 

“Here, let me make it easier for you, since you’re so stubborn,” he says. “I’ll ask you questions, and all you have to do is give me a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer. How’s that? Sound good?”

You’ve got half a mind to turn around and slap him right across his pretty face, when he squeezes your chest again, hard this time, and all coherent thought goes right out the window. Your face burns with embarrassment as you hear the whimper that escapes you. 

“Sound good?” he asks again.

You force yourself to nod, with the quietest “yes” you can manage. He might be winning, but you’re sure as hell not gonna make it easy for him. 

“Good girl. See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

You refuse to dignify that with an answer. Not after the way your stomach just clenched.

His fingers slide beneath your bra straps, slipping them off your shoulders. 

“You’re so pretty like this, you know that?”

He presses a light kiss to your left shoulder, along the indents the fabric’s left on your skin.

“Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re very sexy when you’re telling me off.  But this…?”

He moves to your other shoulder, pressing another kiss to the fading red marks.

“I like you like this the most.”

His tone catches you off-guard. The way he says it…It sounds almost soft. Vulnerable, even. 

The moment’s gone as quickly as that. No sooner has he said it than he’s pulling his hands away from you.

“Do me a favour?”

He taps at your bra.

“Take this off for me.”

You’re about to ask him why he can’t just do it himself if he wants it that badly, when you feel another tap against the fabric of your underwear.

“And those.”

You let out a huff, reaching back to unhook your bra. His hands close over yours.

“Not like that. Up.”

He gently pushes you forward, and you get the hint. You climb off the bed, turning to face him.

“What’s the point in me doing it like this? It’s not like you can see-”

The words are barely out of your mouth when a small, bright flame bursts to life in the palm of Johnny’s hand.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I interrupted you,” he says with a smug smile. “What were you saying?”

You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep, even breath to calm yourself. You’re not going to kill him. You’re not. Instead, you give him a big smile in response. It doesn’t reach your eyes. 

Johnny watches you as you undo your bra, sliding the straps off your arms and letting it drop to the floor. You hook your thumbs under your underwear, pulling them down and off with as little finesse as possible, before your brain catches up to what the hell you’re doing right now.

“Happy now?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, very,” Johnny replies, very self-satisfied.

He holds out the hand that’s not currently on fire, and you take it, letting him pull you back up onto the bed. He leans back against the headboard, beckoning you closer to him. He’s still fully dressed, and you really need to do something about that. It hardly seems fair, considering your state of undress. You move to unbutton his shirt, and he tilts his head.

“How long have you been wanting to do that, huh?”

You roll your eyes, not letting him deter you. “What, you’re just gonna sit there fully clothed all night?”

Johnny shrugs. “I dunno. You into that?”

You pull a little harder than you mean to, and one of his buttons now dangles by a loose thread.

“Oops,” you mutter, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

Johnny gives you a wry smile, and the room is suddenly plunged into darkness again. He grabs your shoulders, yanking you close to him. You can’t even bring yourself to stop him, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself as his mouth meets yours. 

This game’s gone on long enough, you think.

You might not be willing to admit defeat entirely, but you both know why you’re here. What’s the point in delaying the inevitable for the sake of winning an argument?

You climb into his lap, pressing your chest against his. His hands wander the length of your back, his touch warm against your skin. He stops just below your ass, at the very tops of your thighs, dragging you closer until you’re straddling his hips. You let out a shaky breath, and he slips his tongue into your mouth. For all his cockiness, you can feel how quickly he’s losing his own self-control right now in the way he kisses you. It’s messy and desperate and dirty, and it’s fucking perfect. 

Without warning, Johnny moves, letting you slip right out of his lap and onto your back. You’re about to protest when he’s pulling the rest of his clothes off and throwing them unceremoniously to the floor. 

“Now who’s desperate?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice.

“Thought I’d catch up to you,” he retorts, grabbing you behind the knees and pulling you down to him.

You let out a yelp, and he laughs, leaning back just out of your reach as you attempt to swat at him. Damn his quick reflexes. 

“So, are you gonna keep arguing with me all night, or are you gonna admit you want this?” he asks.

“God, you are just so full of yours- Oh.”

Whatever you were about to say is completely forgotten, as Johnny drags the pads of his fingers against you. His thumb brushes lightly against your clit, and your hips involuntarily jerk up.

“Damn, I interrupted you again, didn’t I?” he says, feigning innocence. As if he isn’t fully aware of what he’s doing. “Sorry, sweetheart, that was so rude of me. What were you saying?”

You know you shouldn’t fall for it - it’s bait and you know it - but it’s so hard to resist temptation. You’re about to repeat yourself, when he does it again; only this time, his thumb stays in the same spot, rubbing little circles against your clit over and over.

“I’m all ears this time, I promise,” he murmurs, and you can hear him smirking at you.

“F-Fuck you,” you manage to shoot back, furious at yourself for how your voice is trembling.

Johnny leans in a little closer, his hand not letting up for a second. 

“Did I hear that right? Are you finally telling me what you want?”

Your jaw clenches. How is it possible for one man to be this fucking infuriating? You reach up, curling your hand around the back of his neck and dragging him down to you.

“Johnny, I swear to God, I’m done playing games with you. If you don’t fuck me right now-”

Thankfully, his patience seems to be at its end too, and he doesn’t even bother trying to make you finish that sentence. He lines himself up, leaving you breathless as he pushes his cock into you. 

Fucking finally.

His hands grip your hips, letting himself get used to you as he finds his rhythm. He’s slow at first, and you didn’t think he could possibly make himself any more frustrating, but it’s Johnny - he’s always so full of surprises. He’s dragging it out, digging his fingers into your skin hard enough to leave marks. Slow, in, slow, out.

Your patience snaps, and you push yourself down to meet him halfway. A sudden groan escapes him then, and you smile to yourself.

“Didn’t take you as the type to fight dirty, but if that’s what you want…” 

He pulls out of you, ignoring your protests as he turns you over onto your stomach.

“Up. Come on. Don’t make me do all the work here, doll.”

You take your time, pushing yourself up onto your hands and knees.

“‘Please’ is the word you’re looking for,” you mutter.

“You begging already?” he asks, with a low chuckle to himself.

You reach behind you to swat at him again, and he catches your wrist, pressing it to the small of your back. The sudden movement throws off your balance and you collapse, your cheek pushed against the sheets.

“I’d be careful if I were you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re starting to give me the impression that you don’t want this.”

He gives your wrist a quick squeeze, and you gasp, weakly trying to wrench it from his grasp. You’re not trying very hard, and you both know it. 

“If you’re gonna keep being so stubborn, let’s try something else.”

He lets go of your wrist, and your arm drops to the mattress with a soft thump.

“I think you’ve made me do enough work already, don’t you? If you want it so bad…show me.”

God, he’s not serious, is he?

He taps his fingers against your hip, over and over in a slow rhythm, as if he’s waiting for you to move. 

Oh, he is.

You bite the inside of your cheek, determined to hold in the insults threatening to burst out of you. Awkwardly, you lean back, trying to figure out how you’re supposed to do this when you can’t see. Johnny lets you struggle for a bit, before eventually feeling sorry for you.

“Okay, okay. You made a good effort, even if it was a little pathetic,” he says, with a patronising little pat to your thigh. 

You swear under your breath as you feel him press against you again. It feels so much dirtier from this angle, and he’s barely done anything yet.

“Is that better?” he asks, a slight strain to his voice. 

He thrusts into you, hard and slow. Taking his time. Like he has nowhere to be but right here.

“Normally, I can’t get you to shut up, but look at you. Haven’t said a word.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back as his arms bracket yours. His mouth is so close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, and a shiver runs through you. He laughs, a low sound. He sounds so pleased with himself.

“God, you feel good,” he murmurs. “I could keep you like this for hours. And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

Your head drops down as he pushes into you again and again. He feels so fucking good.

“How many do you think I could drag out of you before you tell me to stop, huh? Three, four? Would you even tell me to stop?”

No is what you would scream at him if he were anyone else. But you can’t. You can’t.

“Do you ever shut up?” you snap at him instead, teeth clenched. 

“I’m clearly not doing a good enough job if you’re still able to bitch at me like that.”

His touch is practically scorching against your already overheated skin as he keeps fucking you, and there’s little else you can do but let him. Your head feels like it’s swimming; that warm, tight feeling in your stomach growing bigger and bigger. A broken sound close to a sob is ripped from you, and he slows down, his hand gentle as it touches your arm.

“You okay?” he asks gently. “Need me to stop?”

You quickly shake your head, and the laugh that escapes him makes your stomach clench again.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he grits out, and suddenly that softness is gone.

He picks up the pace again, fucking into you harder, deeper, exactly how you need him. Your mouth drops open, little moans pushing past your lips. You can’t think straight. All you care about right now is this. This and nothing else.

His name falls from your lips in a sharp intake of breath.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

It drives you mad that he can still find the capacity to patronise you right now, even if his heavy sighs give away how desperate he is too.

“You gettin’ close?”

You manage a nod, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you say it.

Johnny, bastard that he is, slows right down.

“Yeah? Tell me how close.”

You shake your head, clutching at him frantically, trying desperately to urge him on.

He stops entirely.

“Tell me how close, and I’ll give you what you want. You can do that for me, right? Just this one. Little. Thing.”

He punctuates the last three words with hard thrusts into you, before he stops again, holding your hips still so you can’t move either.

You could kill him. No, scratch that, you’re going to kill him.

But God, he feels so fucking good.

“Not asking too much from such a smart girl, am I?” he asks, his tone so self-satisfied.

You try to collect yourself as best you can.

“Johnny,” you manage to say, your voice little more than a whisper.

“Yeah? I’m listening.” 

“I’m- I’m close.”

“I gathered that. But that’s not what I asked, is it? I asked how close.”

He pulls back slowly, before slamming back in, hard.

“Fuck- I’m close, very close, okay? Johnny, come on-”

He does it again, and the moan that falls from your mouth then is nothing short of filthy. 

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Ask me. Nicely.”

God, he’s the fucking worst, but you don’t have the energy, the willpower, to argue anymore. You’re close, too close, and it’s not worth it anymore, the fighting, the power balance, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore-

You rest your forehead against your hands on the mattress, fingers gripping the sheets.

“Johnny, please, I’m close. I’m so close, and I need to come. I need it, Johnny, please. Please.”

You’re not even paying attention to what you’re saying, letting yourself babble whatever you think he wants to hear. Whatever it is that will get him to give you what you want. 

Whether it works, or he’s just run out of patience, you have no idea, and honestly, you don’t care, because he finally, finally moves again, and it’s somehow too much and not enough all at once. 

“Johnny-”

No sooner have you said his name when he’s picking up the pace, rutting into you like a fucking animal. One hand rests firmly against the small of your back, the other sliding down between your legs to rub your clit again. You jolt against him, you’re pushing the point of over-sensitive already, it’s too much, it’s too fucking much-

“That’s it, doll. Come on. Come for me,” he grits out, low and hot against your ear, and that’s it, that’s what pushes you right over the edge.

You’ve never felt anything as intense as this, it’s so overwhelming, it's incredible. You feel hot all over, like-

You wake with a start, trembling and completely winded. You manage to peel the blanket away with unsteady hands, desperate to cool yourself down.

You’ve never had a dream that…vivid before.

And it just had to be him, didn’t it?

You rub a hand over your face, glancing over at your alarm clock. Big mistake.

06:55.

The glowing red numbers mock you in the dark. You let yourself flop back down with a long groan.

Oh, today is gonna be rough.

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You shift in your sleep, your ass pressing against Eddie’s dick, which decides that it needs to wake up now too.

Great. Just fucking perfect.

He tries to move himself back a bit, so he doesn’t wake you, and just his luck, you follow him, pushing yourself right back into the position you were in before. A little sigh escapes you, as if you’re finally content.

That makes one of you.

Eddie tries again, carefully pulling himself back, and again, you follow him.

"Eddie..." you mumble, with another little sigh.

He winces.

"Sorry, baby, didn't mean to wake you," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

You don't respond, instead nuzzling your head sleepily into your pillow. Eddie breathes a tiny sigh of relief. He's about to put his head down again when-

"Eddie..." you say again, and his eyes widen.

You're not awake, he realises that now.

You're dreaming. About him.

And judging by the way your ass is still pressing against him, it's a good dream. Not only that, but he can feel it, emanating from you in waves.

And suddenly, he's starving.

He's still getting used to how all of this works. Different emotions have different tastes to them, he's realised, and how intense they are can affect that. Anger, rage especially, tastes like charred meat, like it's been cooked to the point of ruining it. Sadness tastes...soupy. Like it's been watered-down. Bland. Tasteless.

Happiness is a whole other thing, because it comes in so many different forms. It's like pasta, he thinks - no matter what shape it is, you can't go wrong with it.

But this? What you're feeling right now? It's like the most indulgent kind of dessert, the kind that could sicken even the sweetest tooth.

It's definitely not helping his current situation, he can say that much, at least. Sometimes he thinks drinking blood would be easier.

God, he needs you to wake up, and soon.

He gently shakes your shoulder, and you mumble something incoherent, before drifting off again.

"Baby, c'mon, you're killing me here," he grumbles, giving you another little shake.

With a snort, you wake up, lifting your head in a daze.

"'S'wrong?" you whisper hoarsely. "Eddie?"

Eddie rolls you onto your back, softly stroking your cheek.

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart," he tells you. "It's just, uh, you were talking. In your sleep."

You rub your hand across your face, trying to rouse yourself. "Was I?"

Eddie chuckles, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes. "Oh, yeah, you were talkin' up a storm."

"What did I say?" you ask.

He pretends to think about it for a minute, tapping his lip with his index finger.

"I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that it was something to the effect of-"

He raises his voice, making it ridiculously high and breathy.

"Oh, Eddie."

Your eyes widen as you glare at him, slapping him on the shoulder. "I did not."

"Oh, but you did. I'm not lying, heard it with my own two ears." Eddie makes a X across his chest with his finger. "Cross my heart and hope to...Well, you know what I mean."

"You know what? I don't have to listen to this right now," you tell him, clearly embarrassed. "And it's still very early, so goodnight."

You roll over onto your side with a huff. Not knowing when to call it quits, Eddie sidles back up to you, sliding his arms around your waist again.

"Baby, c'mon, don't be like that," he murmurs, pretending to sound as pathetic as possible in the hopes that you'll give in and let him win this one. "It's not a bad thing. If anything, I thought it was flattering, that a pretty thing like you is dreaming about little ol' me."

You don't reply, but Eddie is nothing if not persistent. His hand dips lower, tracing faint lines across your stomach.

"In fact, I'm, uh...Well, I'm kinda in the same boat. If you catch my drift."

He feels you shiver under his touch, and that only urges him on.

"I was thinking, maybe, we could help each other out. What do you say?"

Still no answer. Fortunately, Eddie has one last play. He sighs, long and dramatic.

"Y'know, maybe I got the wrong end of the stick. And like you said, it is still early, so I should let you get some sleep."

He moves to pull away from you, when your hand suddenly catches his wrist.

"Wait," you mumble.

"What's wrong, baby?" Eddie asks, his tone the very definition of innocence, in spite of the shit-eating grin on his face.

You let out a breath, as if you're nervous.

"Look, I...Maybe I did have some kind of dream about you, okay?" you mumble in a rush.

Eddie's smile only widens. "That's not a bad thing, sweetheart. Like I said, I'm flattered."

He gently pulls at your arm, and you let him roll you onto your back again. He reaches for your wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it.

"Honoured, even," he says, and even though he's teasing, he means it.

How he managed to land someone like you, he'll never know. But he'd never take it for granted. Not before, and certainly not now. Not after everything that's happened to him.

"You want me to help you out?" he asks, dark eyes watching you carefully.

You stare up at him for a moment, before you finally nod. Eddie's on you in a heartbeat. His hands drag the length of your stomach, across your ribs, calloused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. A breathy gasp escapes you, and that only encourages him further, greedy hands sliding up over your chest. Your back arches into his touch, and he squeezes you, desperate to hear more of those pretty noises that always drive him wild.

You reach for him, and he's quick to catch your wrists.

"Nice try, but you're not gonna distract me, okay?" he asks, his tone just leaning into patronising.

He waits until you nod in answer, before moving your hands up over your head.

"Keep those right there. I mean it."

He knows you well enough by now that if he was taking it too far, you'd tell him. You're stubborn, probably even more than he is - which is really saying something. If anything, judging by the look you're currently giving him, he's not doing enough, and he sets to work to correct that as quickly as he can.

His hand slips down to your thigh, his touch teasingly light as his fingers play with the hem of your pyjama shorts. He traces small circles across your skin until you huff impatiently at him, urging him on. He pushes past the hem, dragging the tips of his fingers across your underwear. He can feel a little wet patch on the fabric, and his mouth pulls into a sly smile against your ribcage.

"Baby," he groans, still dragging against you. "Is that because of me?"

He loves playing the fool with you sometimes, knows how it drives you crazy. But it's so hard not to. He wants to hear you say it. Needs to hear you say it.

You make a non-committal hum in response, and that just won't do. He presses harder, finally drawing a moan from you.

"Well?" he persists. "Is it?"

You mumble a flustered "yes", and that's enough to satisfy him. For now.

"Musta been some dream you were having," he continues, between little kisses across your stomach and chest. "Why don't you tell me about it, huh? Give me some ideas."

He keeps teasing as he talks, his fingers pressing not quite where you knows you want them. He can't help himself. He loves you like this. All spread out and pliant. Letting him take care of you.

You open your mouth to speak, barely getting a single word out before Eddie drags his fingers against you, hard. You slap at his shoulder.

"That's not fair," you practically whine at him.

Eddie stops, levelling you with a feigned look of disappointment. He takes your hand, pressing it back up above your head.

"Try that again, see what happens," he replies, the warning clear in his tone.

You're still pouting, but you say nothing.

"If you want me to stop, all you gotta do is say and I'll just-"

Eddie lies still.

"No, wait," you say, a little too quickly. "I don't want you to stop."

"You gonna behave?"

You nod.

Eddie tilts his head. "You promise?" he asks, his tone definitely patronising now.

You nod again, more urgently.

Eddie smiles. "Good girl. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Right, I believe I was..."

He slips his fingers beneath your underwear, sliding two of them up and down the length of you.

"...right here."

You gasp sharply, and that only urges him on.

"Now, since you're so insistent on talking, you can tell me all about that dream you were having. I feel like I have a right to know, since I was in it."

"Eddie, come on, it's embarrassing," you protest.

"It's not embarrassing at all. But look, if you don't wanna tell me, that's fine. I can't make you. I'm just saying, think about how much nicer this would all be if you were getting exactly what you want."

He keeps going, his fingers sliding back and forth in a way that he knows isn't enough, and he says as much.

"You want more, don't you?" he asks, in a sickly sweet tone.

You let out a little whine in response.

"You don't?" he asks, pretending he doesn't understand.

You huff then, and it takes everything in him to hold back the laughter threatening to burst out of him. You're so cute like this.

He can be a bit mean sometimes, he knows he can, but he also knows you like it, even if you won’t always admit it. He presses just a little harder then, and another moan pushes past your lips, small and broken.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks, as if he’s not at all aware. “Use your words.”

He picks up the pace, knowing it's only going to make things harder for you.

“If you don’t tell me, I can’t do anything about it,” he says with a theatrical little sigh.

You push yourself closer to him, and he pulls back. He can't have you finishing before he's even gotten started. He's having far too much fun with you right now.

"O-Okay, fine, I'll tell you," you say in a rushed breath.

“Come on, sweetheart, you can do it," he murmurs. "You’re always so good at telling stories, and you have no idea how much I wanna hear this one.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to concentrate. Eddie's not helping. But to be fair, he's not trying to.

"I-I was…I was on top of you, and your hands were on my hips, and you were…you were telling me how good I was, and…and how well I was taking you and- Oh, God, Eddie-"

Eddie picks that exact moment to slide a finger inside you, completely cutting off whatever else you were about to say.

"I could do that for you, if you want," he says nonchalantly.

He's surprised at how well he's holding himself together right now, especially considering how impatient a certain something is getting.

"You want that, baby?" he asks.

"Please, Eddie," you manage to stammer out, and that's about all he can take.

Undead or not, he still has needs, and God, you're driving him crazy right now. He pulls away from you, letting himself get comfortable as he lies down.

"C'mon," he says, lightly slapping his thighs. "Up you get."

Eddie takes your hand, gently tugging at you until you take the hint. Ever the gentleman, he's already wriggled himself free of his shorts and flung them halfway across the room. You swing a leg over Eddie's hips, straddling him.

"Y'know, as pretty as the view is, sweetheart," he says, his hands running back and forth across your thighs, "I don't think this is exactly what we were doing in your dream, was it?"

You shake your head as you sit forward, taking him in hand and slowly sliding down onto him. Eddie's sure he's gone to Heaven. How do you always feel so good? Every goddamn time.

"You okay, baby? Not too much?" he asks.

"No, it's- God, you feel good," you tell him.

He slides his hands up to your hips, easing you down closer to him. He doesn't know what's better right now, how you feel or how you taste, because Christ, he's completely overwhelmed by the waves of pure lust pouring from you. It's not like he hasn't felt it from you before, but never this intense. It's perfect.

You're perfect.

He thrusts up into you, and he laughs at your little surprised yelp.

"Wakey wakey, sleepyhead," he says with a smile. "You want me to do the work?"

He will, gladly, but he knows you'll take it as a challenge. True to form, you shake your head, pressing your palms against his hips as leverage, before raising yourself up slightly and sinking back down. It takes you a couple of tries, but eventually you find your rhythm, and Eddie doesn't even have to do anything. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from him, and God, if you aren't the most perfect thing he's ever seen, especially like this. Lost in your own pleasure, panted breaths falling from your parted lips.

You're a vision like this. A dream.

"That's it, sweetheart, you're doing so good for me. So fucking good," he manages to grit out.

His head's fuzzy, like he's been drinking the hard stuff. It's not just how he feels, but how you feel as well. It's too much, and not enough at the same time. If he could keep you like this forever, he would. But unfortunately, he's still the same as when he was alive in that regard. He knows he's not gonna last long.

He slides a hand between your legs, rubbing against your clit as you ride him. A broken moan leaves your throat, and you push his hand closer to you, breaths growing heavier and more ragged the closer you get.

"That's it, sweetheart, so good for me, you're perfect-"

The words are barely out of his mouth when he feels you squeeze him tight, your back arching as you ride it out. He doesn't let up until you push him away, over-sensitive. He tries to give you a minute to recover, but you're having none of it, doubling down on making sure he gets off too. The way you sink back down onto him pushes the air from his lungs, and he doesn't hold back, gripping your hips and fucking up into you like he's possessed. It doesn't take him long at all to follow you, fingers digging little grooves into your skin.

You lean in close to him, resting your forehead against his as you both struggle to catch your breath. He stretches his wings out, letting them close around you like a cocoon. He's never felt more sated, and he tells you as much.

"Probably why I feel so tired, then," you mumble. "You're a glutton, Eddie Munson."

Eddie just laughs, pulling you in for a kiss.

"Can you blame me? You taste so fucking good," he says sincerely. "I can't help myself."

A breathless little laugh escapes you at that, and Eddie thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. You slowly sit upright, and he stretches himself out, letting out a long, satisfied groan.

"We should get you fed now, yeah?" he asks. "Since you were so good to me."

"No, I'm gonna feed me," you tell him. "I couldn't trust you in the kitchen before, and I'm sure as shit not gonna trust you in there now."

Eddie holds a hand up to his mouth with a dramatic gasp.

"Are you saying I'm a bad cook?" he asks, pretending to be offended.

"I'm saying you're a terrible cook," you shoot back cheekily.

Eddie clutches at his chest theatrically. "Oh, you wound me, you awful woman."

You roll your eyes, moving to climb off him when he grabs you, holding you still.

"What?" you ask.

Eddie shakes his head. "Nothing, I just...God, you're so pretty, you know that?"

You scoff at him, and he reaches up then, cradling your face in his hands, firm enough to lightly squish your cheeks.

"I'm serious," he says. "Prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"And you're a big sap," you tease, placing your hands over his.

"For you? How could I not be?" he murmurs.

You puff out your cheeks against his palms, and he smiles up at you.

"Alright, c'mon, let me up," you insist. "I'm starving."

He reluctantly lets you go, and you awkwardly climb off the bed, lifting the shirt Eddie threw on the floor last night and putting it on. Eddie wolf-whistles at you as you leave, laughing when you pull a face at him. He indulges himself in another long stretch, resting his arms behind his head.

Death, afterlife - whatever he's supposed to call this, it's pretty damn good right now.

Taglist: @punkrockmlchael @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair @rainybloo28 @alexxavicry @e-c-a-r-l-a-t-e @writergiih @deadwizzardlover @paintballkid711 @avilou

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"You know anyone who's giving one away?" you joke, desperately trying to sound casual.

Johnny looks up at you then, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'm serious," he replies.

His voice is quiet, sincere. You narrow your eyes, hoping to spot even the faintest hint of a smirk. A tell-tale sign that this is one of his jokes.

Nothing.

Oh God, he is serious.

You push yourself upright.

"Johnny," you say carefully, trying to find the right words as quickly as possible.

When Johnny gets an idea into his head, Hell freezing over is a more likely possibility than him dropping it. He's persistent. Stubborn. You love him for it.

But this is a different matter entirely.

“You know it’s not all fun and cute little outfits, right? Babies are a lot of work. A lot of work.”

Johnny hasn't said a word. He's really worrying you now.

“It’s sleepless nights and teething and dirty diapers, so many dirty diapers, and-“

You trail off, distracted, as Franklin's happy laughter carries across the room. You and Johnny sit there, unmoving, quiet. Transfixed.

Reed lifts Franklin up, blowing raspberries onto his belly. The sound of his delighted shrieks tugs at something in you.

Something you didn't even know was there before.

You feel Johnny reach for your hand, giving it a squeeze. You don't pull away.

“Tell me you don’t want that,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

Before this, you would have. Told him no, and that would have been it. End of discussion. You've never really seen yourself as maternal. If anything, the thought of having children has always scared you.

It still does. But now...

"I can't," you reply softly. "I can't tell you that."

The couch shifts underneath you suddenly as Johnny sits up. You can already feel the excitement coming off him in waves, and you know you have to rein him in, and fast.

"Before you say anything else, we need to talk about this," you tell him.

He opens his mouth, and you shake your head, holding a finger up for him to let you finish.

"I'm serious. This isn't just something we can rush into."

Johnny gently takes your hand in his, holding it tight.

"I know," he replies.

He still sounds serious, which is reassuring, at least.

You nod, taking a breath to calm yourself. Your gaze wanders back to Franklin.

"Let's start small," you say. "And we'll take things from there."

Small, you both decide, is babysitting Franklin for an evening.

You pick a night when Ben will be out visiting friends. You need to know if you can do this together, without any help from anyone else.

After that, you need to suggest the idea to Sue and Reed.

Sue is more than happy to let you look after Franklin. She trusts the both of you, and you know that as much as she adores her son, she's been wanting to spend some time with her husband - just the two of them.

Reed, on the other hand, takes a little more convincing. Even on the night itself, he's still making a fuss.

"I've left the number for Franklin's doctor, and three of the closest pharmacies nearby," he tells you.

You catch Johnny pulling a face out of the corner of your eye, and do your best not to laugh. Reed's too busy worrying to notice.

"Actually, you should just contact me directly, I have all of Franklin's records to hand. Let me just-"

Sue tugs on his arm before he has the chance to go looking for a pen.

"They have the restaurant's number, they can call us there if they need to."

She places her hands on the lapels of Reed's suit jacket, her eyes soft as she speaks.

"But they won't need to, okay? They're adults, we trust them, and Franklin will be fine," she says, her tone calm and reassuring.

It takes Reed a moment before he nods, finally admitting defeat. He fishes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to you.

"My pager number, just in case," he mutters, as Sue takes his arm and drags him towards the door, blowing kisses to Franklin as they go.

Johnny takes Franklin's wrist in his hand, making him wave to his parents.

"Don't worry, Reed, he'll be fine," he says.

He looks at Franklin, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"We're not gonna party too hard, are we, buddy?" he asks. "Just a couple of beers, right?"

Reed's about to open his mouth to argue when Sue pushes him towards the door. She shoots Johnny a glare, but she's clearly trying not to laugh.

"Bye, sweetheart," she calls, "Be good while we're gone."

The door closes behind them, and then that's when it hits you. You're doing this. You exhale a tiny, nervous sigh.

It's not like you haven't been left with Franklin before. But this is different, and it's not because there isn't anyone else here. You know Johnny is more than capable of looking after his nephew.

It's the implication. It's what all of this could maybe lead to someday, and that's the part that scares you.

Johnny's clearly none the wiser, his hands under Franklin's arms as he gently swings him around. Franklin shrieks happily, kicking his legs as Johnny makes faces at him.

There it is again, that little tug. Slowly, the fear starts to settle back down.

"Let's see what boring night your dad has planned for you," Johnny says.

He holds Franklin out to you.

"You're in charge of taking care of your auntie for me while I'm gone, okay?" he says, with a wink aimed at you.

He heads to the kitchen, finding the pad of paper Reed had been meticulously writing on earlier. He blows out a breath as he holds it up to show you.

"Have you seen this?" he asks incredulously. "How does she put up with him?"

The page is a mess, of both Reed's instructions and Sue's little notes.

Have fun! : ) is written at the bottom in Sue's writing, under a list of emergency contact numbers in Reed's.

Johnny holds the page closer to his face, muttering to himself as he tries to decipher what he's looking at.

"First up is...dinnertime," he says. "Great, off to an easy start."

He gestures towards the dining table with the pad of paper.

"You guys get yourselves comfortable, I'm all over this."

You raise your eyebrows, but say nothing as you make your way across the room. It's not that you don't trust Johnny, but there's a reason why Ben is usually shooing him out of the kitchen when he's cooking. And it's not just because he's always getting in the way and stealing bites before anything's done.

"Don't worry," he calls, as if he can hear you thinking. "Sue left food for Franklin, and Ben left food for us. I'm not gonna burn the house down, I swear."

You set Franklin in his high chair, sitting down next to him.

"We'll believe it when we see it," you reply, talking to Franklin. "Won't we, honey?"

Franklin's too busy trying to pull your necklace into his mouth, and you gently pry his fingers from the chain.

"Can't hear you, baby, you'll have to speak up!" Johnny says, far too loudly, as he deliberately makes as much noise as possible.

He's an idiot, you think to yourself. It's been a long time since you've thought that about him and meant it with anything other than love.

You concede defeat just this once, letting Johnny make a mess of the kitchen, while Franklin coos and babbles at you. You nod along intently, pretending to agree, as if you have any idea what he's saying.

"Hey, buddy, if you're gonna tell the lady all your problems, at least buy her a drink, huh?" Johnny says, as he goes back and forth with cutlery and glasses.

"You need some help?" you ask.

"Nope, I got this."

And in his defence, he actually does. Dinner isn't undercooked or burnt right through, and the fire alarm is mercifully quiet. He did somehow manage to turn the kitchen into an absolute disaster zone, but you'll worry about that later.

"Why do you look so surprised?" Johnny asks, as he sets the dinner plates down on the table.

"Surprised? Why would I be surprised?" you reply in mock-offence. "That you didn't destroy dinner because you think you can do a better job than the oven?"

Johnny points an accusing finger at you, as he goes back for Franklin's dinner. This is not the first time you've had this conversation.

"Hey, I can do a better job than the oven," he insists. "I just...didn't feel like it tonight."

You roll your eyes, saying nothing as you take a bite of casserole.

It's perfect. As if you would expect anything less from Ben.

Johnny returns with a plastic bowl and spoon in hand. A tea towel is neatly folded over his arm. He stands perfectly straight next to Franklin, setting the bowl down in front of him with a dramatic flourish.

“Good evening, sir,” he says, putting on an approximation of a posh English accent. “Our special tonight is some sort of green slop with carrots.”

You hold your hand over your mouth, trying to hold back a snort of laughter.

“Would you prefer it airplaned into your mouth or would you like to throw it all over the floor instead?”

Franklin reaches for the spoon in Johnny's hand, babbling at him.

“Excellent choice, sir,” Johnny says, as he sits down.

He spoons a small mouthful out of the bowl, and makes a big show of flying it around the air - with all the noises included, of course. As soon as it goes into Franklin's mouth, it comes straight back out, landing all over his bib.

"Come on, buddy, this is the good stuff," Johnny mutters, carefully wiping Franklin's mouth.

He tries again, and the next mouthful goes in easily - before coming straight back out again.

He lets out a huff, giving his nephew an offended look.

"I spent ten whole minutes preparing this for you, and this is the thanks I get?"

He dips the tip of his finger into the bowl, trying it himself. He grimaces slightly.

"You know what? Can't blame you, kid. That's, uh...Yeah, that sure is something."

He turns to you then, holding the spoon out.

"You wanna give it a shot?" he asks.

“What, eating it or feeding him?” you reply with a laugh.

Johnny just waves the spoon back and forth. You take it from him, moving your chair a little more to face Franklin.

“Maybe you’re not a fan of airplanes, huh?” you ask.

You move the spoon through the air, making train engine noises. Franklin watches you, fascinated. He opens his mouth, and the food stays in this time.

You look at Johnny smugly. He rolls his eyes, folding his arms with an exaggerated sigh.

"First point goes to Mom," he says, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

That stops you in your tracks. Whatever joke you were about to make is gone, and you just stare at him.

“What?” he asks with a quiet chuckle.

You shake your head, turning your attention back to Franklin.

“Nothing,” you reply, trying to sound light.

But it's not nothing, and you know it.

Dinner is a success - no crying, no tantrums, and most of it is actually eaten. Johnny makes a big deal out of checking it off the list, putting a massive tick next to it.

"Step one of 'We can keep a baby alive', done," he says, with a look that's bordering on triumphant.

You shake your head at him.

"What?" he asks, oblivious.

"Don't call it that," you scold. "I need you to take this seriously."

"I am taking it seriously," he replies, right as he sticks his tongue out at Franklin. "When have you ever known me to not be serious?"

It's bait and you know it, but it doesn't stop you from opening your mouth to argue anyway.

"Okay, point taken," he says, before you even say anything. "But I am serious about this."

He looks at you, and God help you, you know he's telling you the truth.

"I promise," he murmurs. "And to prove to you that I'm serious..."

He lifts Franklin into his arms, blowing a raspberry onto his rosy cheek. Franklin squeals, his little hands slapping at Johnny's arms.

"...I am going to take diaper duty. Because someone in this room - not naming names - is getting a little stinky."

Johnny tilts his head, giving Franklin a serious look.

"Can't have your auntie thinking I'm only onboard for all the "cute little outfits", can we?" he says.

He gives you a smirk, leaving before you can say anything. For a moment, all you can do is watch them go, and that feeling from before starts gnawing at you again. You place your hand over your heart, trying to soothe yourself, as you sit down on the couch.

You feel so overwhelmed, and the fear is still there, but it's not just that. You can't explain it, but underneath that layer of anxiety, something else is blooming. Something...nice. It's the only word you can think of to describe it, whatever it is.

Johnny's far less smug when he returns. In a different shirt, you notice. Franklin, on the other hand, looks very pleased with himself. He's now dressed in his pyjamas. You can't help but wonder why.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Johnny mutters.

It takes every ounce of your willpower to stop yourself from laughing. You bite your lip, focusing your attention on Franklin, who's insistently trying to wriggle out of Johnny's hold to sit with you.

"What's next on the itinerary?" you ask.

Johnny checks the notepad again, trying to figure out what he's even looking at.

"Uh...Story time," he reads, with some difficulty.

He scans through Franklin's shelf on the bookcase, tracing a finger along the spines of the books. They vary wildly, from children's bedtime stories to medical journals and encyclopaedias.

Part of you wants to believe that some of them were put there by accident, but knowing Reed, it's intentional.

"I'm all for giving the kid a head start in life, but come on, Reed," Johnny gripes, pulling one of the books out and flipping through it. "Some of these encyclopaedias don't even have pictures in them."

Franklin looks up at you intently, making little noises as if he's trying to tell you something important.

"You're right, honey," you say in a stage-whisper, glancing slyly at Johnny. "We should pick something a bit more your uncle's speed, shouldn't we?"

Johnny glares at you. "Wow, you're ganging up on me now, is that it? Not cool."

He chooses a book - a very colourful, very unacademic-looking one - and plops himself down next to you.

"Is this what's gonna happen when we have our own kid?" he asks, pretending to sulk.

"If, Johnny," you correct.

"Right. If," he replies, with the faintest smile on his face.

He pulls Franklin into his lap, making sure he's comfortable before opening the book.

You prop your head up with your hand, leaning your elbow against the back of the couch, watching him as he begins reading.

You've never really pictured Johnny as a father. It's not so much that you don't think he's cut out for it, it's more that so much of who he is has never quite fit the role, in your eyes. He's impulsive, and downright reckless at times. You can't count how many nights you've stayed up into the early hours, glued to the news with your stomach in anxious knots. He cares, of course he does, but sometimes you think he cares too much. You know how quickly he'd throw his own life away to save someone else's.

You know who he is, you know what you signed up for when the two of you got together, but it still scares you. It's one thing if he doesn't come back to you, but what about your child? How is that fair on them?

You can't change who Johnny is, you know that. You would never try to. Okay, maybe the little things, like his annoying habit of leaving his shoes at the top of the stairs.

But this? This is who he is.

Even if the accident had never happened, you know Johnny would still be out there, risking his life to help other people. It's the kind of man he is. It's what makes you love and admire him as much as you do.

You feel a hand on yours, and you jolt, as if you've just been woken out of a sleep.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Johnny asks softly, with a concerned expression.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, of course," you reply hastily. "I'm just listening to you read, that's all."

You both heard it - the tremor in your voice. Johnny looks at you for a moment longer, before he lets it go, turning back to the book.

That's one thing you've always loved about him - he never pushes you. He knows you'll always tell him what's wrong when you're ready.

"I've never liked when people push me like that," he'd told you once. "I'm not always ready to talk when other people are. So, if you need that space...it's there."

It's hard not to worry. Sometimes it feels like that's all you do. But watching Johnny as he is now, with Franklin in his lap, shifts your perspective a little more.

It's too soon to tell. Far too soon. But maybe...

Maybe things will be okay.

"I think someone's getting a little sleepy," Johnny whispers to you, doing his best not to move.

You look down. Franklin's chin is pressed into his chest, his eyelids fluttering as he tries to stay awake. Both of you sit completely still, watching him as he slowly nods off.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh at how cute he looks right now. Johnny carefully passes the book to you, as he gently lifts Franklin into his arms and stands up. You follow after him, neither of you saying a word.

Johnny carefully lays him down in his crib, giving you space to pull his blanket around him. He's the very picture of innocence, his hands clenched loosely into fists as his chest rises and falls. Johnny wraps an arm around your shoulders, giving you a little squeeze, and you stand there for a while, basking in the peace and quiet.

It feels like a perfect end to a lovely evening.

And then Franklin's eyes open again.

The two of you look at each other, unsure as to what to do. Maybe if you just stay quiet, he'll settle down again. After a few minutes, Johnny points to the door. He moves no more than an inch before Franklin's face starts to screw up.

Johnny's over by the crib again like a shot, gently shushing him.

"Hey, buddy, it's okay. It's okay. I'm right here," he murmurs softly.

That seems to work, but only so far as to stop him from crying.

"I know you're tired," Johnny says, as Franklin stares up at him with wide eyes. "Your mom and dad will be back soon, and it'd make me look real good if you were fast asleep before then."

He turns to you sheepishly.

"Sorry, it would make us look good," he corrects.

He leans his arms on the side of the crib.

"Come on, little man, you gotta close those big eyes for me. Please? It's so easy, you just gotta..."

Johnny lets his eyelids slowly drop, before closing them completely. He waits for a few seconds. Franklin's still staring at him.

"Man, I'm so tired," Johnny says, through a loud, exaggerated yawn. "Sure would be nice to just...drift off right now..."

He closes his eyes again, placing his hands under his cheek as he pretends to snore, like something out of a cartoon.

He peeks an eye open. Nothing.

Franklin blows a big raspberry, clapping his hands together. He kicks his legs, and his blanket falls away from him.

"Now he's mocking me," Johnny mutters. "Did your dad teach you that?"

He leans over the railing to tuck him back in.

Big mistake.

Franklin's face starts to screw up again. Neither of you are quick enough to stop the tears this time.

"Oh, no, no, c'mon, buddy," Johnny says, scooping Franklin up. "You win, okay? You can stay up as long as you like."

He holds him close, slowly rocking from one foot to the other. His hand gently runs up and down Franklin's back, as he softly shushes him with little murmurs of "it's okay". Eventually, Franklin starts to settle, his fingers digging in the fabric of Johnny's shirt as he sniffles. His red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and you wave and coo at him until you finally manage to coax a smile onto his face.

"There we go," Johnny says quietly.

He turns to you with a wry smile. "Guess someone wants to keep partying, huh?"

You nod. "Guess so."

You head back to the living room, getting yourselves comfortable on the couch again. Franklin sits safely between the two of you, now as alert and happy as ever. Johnny, on the other hand, is starting to look as though he could doze off any minute now.

You lightly poke him in the arm.

"When you said someone was getting sleepy earlier, I think you meant you," you tease.

Johnny clutches at his arm like he's been badly injured. "Watch yourself, Franklin. You don't wanna get on your auntie's bad side. She's vicious."

You glare at him. He sticks his tongue out at you.

"For your information, I am not falling asleep. I'm just...conserving energy, that's all," he insists.

You snort. "I never said you were falling asleep. But thank you for admitting it."

The two of you fall silent, and those thoughts that have been following you around for the better part of the evening start to creep in again. You don't want to talk, if you're honest with yourself, but you know that you need to.

Because this isn't just some throwaway thing.

Having a baby will change everything. You need to be honest with each other.

"How long have you been thinking about it?" you ask.

"Having a baby?" Johnny prompts, running a hand through his hair. "Um...A while now, if I'm honest."

He looks down, to where Franklin's amusing himself by pulling at the feet of his pyjamas.

"I hadn't really considered it before, you know? It didn't really feel like something I was meant for. But then I never thought I was meant for saving the world, and look how that turned out."

He laughs to himself.

"And then I met you. And this little guy came along, and I...God, I dunno. It wasn't until I told you that it clicked. Before that, I hadn't been able to put it into words, how I was feeling. But it's been there."

Johnny's gaze meets yours.

"I wasn't trying to keep it a secret from you. I didn't even know what it was."

"I know," you tell him. "And it's okay, I'm not worried about that. I'm just..."

You pluck at the sleeve of your sweater worriedly.

"I'm scared," you admit.

There. You've finally said it. There's no taking it back now.

"Things will change. A lot of things. And it's not just how my body's gonna change, it's..."

"You're worried something's gonna happen to me," Johnny murmurs.

You nod, blinking hard to stop the tears that are suddenly welling in your eyes. Johnny rests his hand on your knee.

"I wanna be able to promise you that nothing bad will ever happen. I wanna be able to promise you that I'll stop, hang up my suit and call it quits. But I can't."

"I don't expect you to," you reply in a trembling voice. "I just need you to promise me that you'll be more careful. Because if we make this decision, there's no going back on it. It's not just you and me we have to think about anymore."

"I know. Believe me, I know. I've been thinking about it a lot lately. All the bad things that could happen. But I also keep thinking about all the good things too. Deciding on names, putting together the nursery - and yes, I will build the crib myself, unlike some people I could name."

You can't help the laugh that escapes you at that. Franklin laughs too, none the wiser.

"Can I tell you something?" Johnny asks.

"Sure," you reply.

Franklin tries to lean forward to start crawling, and Johnny grabs him, pulling him into his lap and pretending to eat him. Franklin slaps at him, his chubby cheeks turning red with his giggles.

Whatever it is must be serious. You know from experience that Johnny's usually at his most disruptive when he has something important on his mind.

He huffs out a breath, as if psyching himself up. "You know my story. I think everyone does at this point. But you've never really heard it from me, have you? Properly, I mean."

You shake your head. Johnny's not really one for hiding things, but when he gets upset, he tends to distract from it. He's told you things, but he always stops at a point.

"You know what happened to my mom. My dad, he...he did his best, but even though I was only a kid, I could see he was struggling. So Sue stepped up. Y'know, it's funny, there's not that much of an age difference between us, but she practically raised me. And yes, I'm still kind of a big kid, you don't have to remind me, but..."

He falters, pressing a kiss to the top of Franklin's head. You stay quiet, giving him the time he needs. It's hard for him to be this vulnerable.

"I know in my heart that this is what I want. Am I ready for it? Honestly? I don't know. And I don't know if I'll ever know. But I'm willing to try. I'm willing to learn, and make mistakes, and put the work in. Because I know it's not gonna be easy. But when I think about it, I mean really think about it, God, it...It makes me so happy. You know why?"

He reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. His eyes are watering. You aren't faring much better.

"Because I know I'm not alone in this. I've got you. There's no one on this planet that grounds me like you do. And at my worst? You keep me together. You keep me sane. And I...I don't know what I'd do without you."

You can't trust yourself to speak right now. You pull at your sleeve, wiping around your waterline.

"I upset you," Johnny says. "Sorry, wasn't my intention."

"No, it's not that, it's just..."

Franklin's starting to doze off again, his head resting against Johnny's chest. You smile, in spite of the tears still threatening to fall.

"It's like you knew exactly what I needed to hear," you tell him.

"I've never been the best at this sort of thing," he admits. "But I think I know my girl pretty well."

You laugh then, shaking your head. He's impossible, but you wouldn't have him any other way.

By the time Sue and Reed get home, you’re both exhausted. Franklin, on the other hand, is having the time of his life, after his nap of fifteen whole minutes. He’s lying on Johnny’s stomach, pulling at his poor uncle’s worn-out face.

“Hey,” Sue calls softly.

She reaches for Franklin, who’s more than happy to be back in her arms.

“What are you still doing awake, hm?” she coos.

“He won’t let me sleep,” Johnny mumbles, half-sunk into his chin. “Is this punishment for all the nights I woke you up? Because if it is, I’m sorry.”

Sue laughs, balancing Franklin on her hip.

“That’s babies for you, Johnny,” she says. “They’re hard work.”

She leaves to put Franklin to bed, Reed following close behind her. They look so lovely together like that, you think to yourself. A little family.

Johnny tucks himself closer to you, letting out a self-pitying groan. You smile to yourself, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You still want one?” you ask, your tone teasing.

He looks up at you, eyes bright with sincerity. Just like that Sunday evening that started all of this in the first place.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his hand tracing tiny patterns along your knee. "I do."

You let out a little breath, to steady yourself for what you're about to say.

"But maybe...Maybe not right now," Johnny says quietly. "We've still got a lot of talking to do, and I wanna make sure this is right. For both of us."

How does he always know?

He moves his hand to rest on your stomach, and you can’t help but smile as you place yours over his.

“But someday, right?”

You nod, looking down at your hands, fingers entwined against your stomach.

Someday.

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You must be new, because Ben's sure he would recognise you otherwise. He's on first name basis with everyone here. They even have a framed photo of him with the staff on the wall. He was embarrassed when they first showed it to him, but now, he finds it endearing.

"Morning! What can I get for you?" you say, as he steps up to the counter.

Your voice is a little too loud, the cheerful expression on your face just a touch manic. He smiles to himself. First day nerves.

"Morning. Can I get three half-moon cookies?"

He points to the display's middle shelf.

"And uh, throw in one of those little lemon things."

He watches you rush around, trying to find everything. The glass door on the display jams when you try to open it, one of the cookies falls apart the second you try to lift it with the tongs, and the paper bags are all stuck together and end up scattered all over the floor when you try to pry them apart.

"God, I'm so sorry-" you start, but Ben just shakes his head.

He bends down to gather up the bags that have fallen at his feet, placing them back on the counter.

"Don't worry about it," he says gently. "First day?"

You let out a shaky breath.

"Yeah, and I'm so nervous," you admit in a whisper. "There's just so much to remember."

Ben nods knowingly. He gives you a smile, hoping that he looks reassuring.

"Don't beat yourself up, alright? You're doing a great job," he says. "We all make mistakes. You should see me before I've had my coffee in the morning. Trust me, it ain't pretty."

You laugh, wiping your hands on your apron.

"Okay, let's try this again," you say resolutely.

You lift another cookie from the tray, sliding it into the bag with the others. You take your time with the lemon slice, careful not to disturb the swirl of icing at the top as you box it up.

Ben can't help but think how sweet it is that you're trying so hard, even if it is your job.

"Can I tell you something?" you ask. "You're gonna think it's so silly."

You press the paper bag closed, running your thumb along the fold to flatten it.

"All the guys have been telling me about you. You're like a celebrity here," you tell him, gesturing to the picture on the wall.

"Nah, I'm just a guy with a sweet tooth who doesn't know when to call it quits," Ben replies with a chuckle.

He hands you a couple of bills, lifting the box and bag from the counter. He shakes his head when you try to give him his change.

"Don't worry about it," he says, gesturing towards the tip jar. "I just realised I never asked you your name."

You look a little surprised at that, but give him your name anyway.

"It's nice to put a name to a face," he says. "I'm Ben."

He knows he doesn't have to say it - of course you already know who he is. But sometimes he likes to pretend that there are some people left in the world who don't know him. That you only know him from the picture.

"It's nice to meet you too," you say with a warm smile.

He stops for a moment, finding himself a little taken aback. He can't for the life of him figure out why.

"Okay. Well, uh, I should get going," he says, wincing at how awkward he sounds. "Thanks again. And good luck for the rest of your first day."

"Thank you, I think I'm gonna need it," you reply, fussing with the mess of paper bags in front of you. "Hopefully I'll see you again?"

"Yeah, 'course. You too," Ben says, with a stiff little wave as he heads for the door.

He could kick himself. Really, he could.

Get it together. What's the matter with you?

It bothers him all day. Granted, he's never exactly been a socialite. Thankfully, he has Sue and Johnny to help with fielding most of the talking.

But he can handle a bit of small talk. He might not like it - who does, really? - but he can get through it, at least.

He tries to push it to the back of his mind. Really, he does. But it keeps coming back.

Or rather, you keep coming back.

It's when he's getting ready for bed that night that it finally hits him. The toothbrush drops out of his hand, hitting the sink with a loud clatter.

He stares at himself in the mirror.

"Oh, no," he whispers, letting out a long groan.

It's been about a month since you started working at Maisie's, and almost every morning, Ben stops by.

At first, it was for his usual order - the cookies that put the shop on the map. Then he started asking for your recommendations.

And now, more often than not, the two of you get to chatting for so long that he ends up causing a line right out the door.

He can't really explain what it is, you're just so easy to talk to. Despite what you said the first day you met, you don't treat him like a celebrity, you don't ask him questions about what happened or "what it's like". You're just...you.

And the scary thing is, he could kid himself into thinking you actually like him. That you're not just being kind, or worried about keeping your job. That you actually care.

He knows how dangerous that thought could become if he's not careful, and so he keeps trying to squash it down as best he can. But it's persistent, and he's finding himself struggling with it more and more as time goes on.

It's not long before it starts to become obvious.

"Ben, you okay?" Sue asks him one evening, while they're preparing dinner.

He flinches, almost sending the chopping board flying off the kitchen counter.

"God, Suze, you scared the hell outta me," he says with a wheeze.

Sue gently pats his arm in apology.

"You've been chopping that same piece of potato for about five minutes now," she says softly. "I think it's about as small as it's going to get."

Ben looks down. The potato is practically mush now. He sets the knife down with a sigh.

"Sorry, just...had something on my mind," he admits quietly.

"You wanna talk about it?" Sue asks, taking the board from him and tipping the potatoes into a pot of water on the stove.

Ben turns around to face her, leaning his elbows against the counter. He knows better than to tell her that he doesn't want to bother her.

Because he's never a bother to Sue. And he knows by now that she's not just being kind. She means it.

"It's just..."

Where does he even start?

"You and Reed. You've known him for about as long as I have. How did you know that...?"

He falters, unsure as to how to word it.

"That he was the one?" Sue offers.

Ben nods. Even when he can't say it, she always knows. He's always admired that about her.

"Honestly? I didn't," she says. "Not right away. It took some time, and then it was like..."

She pauses for a second, giving the potatoes a stir.

"I had this moment. We were talking, I can't even remember the conversation now, but I looked at him and I thought..."yeah". That was it. But that's when I knew."

She smiles to herself, before turning her attention to Ben.

"I wish I had a better way of describing it. But sometimes it's not always as romantic-sounding as the movies make it out to be."

"I dunno, sounds pretty romantic to me," he says with a shrug.

"So, what's got you thinking about me and Reed, hm?" she asks.

Suddenly the floor has never seemed more interesting.

"Oh, y'know, I was just wondering..."

Sue tilts her head, levelling him with that look - the one that says "don't even bother". He sighs.

"There's no point in me lying to you, is there? Okay, look, I, um..."

He lowers his voice.

"I might have met someone. There's a new girl at Maisie's, and...well, she's really nice."

"Oh my God, is it my birthday?" comes a voice from behind him, and Ben's elbows slip right off the counter, almost sending him crashing to the ground.

He turns around, gripping the counter with a glare in his eyes that would send a man twice his size running in the opposite direction.

Johnny just gives him a big smile.

"We need to put a damn bell on you," Ben grumbles to himself as he straightens up.

"So, what's this I hear about you having met someone?" Johnny asks, undeterred.

"It's none of your business," Ben retorts. "Your sister and I were in the middle of a private conversation."

"In an open-plan kitchen. In the house I live in," Johnny says, pulling a face. "Yeah, real private."

Sue rolls her eyes with a sigh. "Johnny, do you think you could give us five minutes? Alone?"

Johnny slides his hand along the counter nonchalantly as he walks past.

"Oh, sure, sure, no problem," he says airily.

He looks directly at Ben.

"But you're gonna tell me everything afterwards, right?" he mutters to Sue.

"No, I am not."

Johnny shrugs, arms raised theatrically as he backs out of the kitchen.

"That's fine, I'm going," he says, too loudly. "I know where I'm not wanted."

"Do you?" Ben asks. "Coulda fooled me."

He doesn't move, watching until he's satisfied that Johnny's completely out of earshot.

"Ignore him," Sue says.

She takes the pot off the stove, setting it to one side.

"Tell me about this girl."

Ben lifts a tea towel, worrying one of the corners between his fingers.

"I don't meet many people who seem to see me for me, y'know? But it's like...I'm just a guy to her. I'm not a superhero. I'm not..."

He makes a vague gesture towards himself.

"It's been a while since I've felt like this. To be honest, I've missed it."

"And that's got you worried," Sue prompts gently.

Honestly, her ability to do that is a superpower in and of itself.

"Yeah. Yeah, it does," he admits quietly.

Sue crosses over to him, placing her hands on his arms.

"You, Ben Grimm, are one of the most amazing people I've ever met," she says earnestly. "And I've met a lot of people. So trust me when I tell you that anyone would be lucky to have you."

She looks at him with such kindness in her eyes, and Ben forces himself to nod.

He knows she means it. But it's not as easy as she makes it sound. They all came back from that mission different, but at least they can hide it, pretend that they're "normal" for a while.

Ben doesn't have that luxury. He tries not to dwell on it, he's been getting so much better at it, but now? He can't let it go.

He likes you, he's finally said it out loud. But to say it to you? And for you to reject him? It'd break his heart.

But he can't stop thinking about you. About what could happen.

What if it goes wrong?

But what if it goes right?

Despite everything, he can't stop himself from going to see you. He makes sure to go at a time when the shop's not as busy, so at least he knows he's not getting in the way of other customers. The last thing he wants is to get you in trouble.

You always seem so happy when he stops by, and it's getting harder and harder to convince himself that you're not just being nice to him.

He's tormenting himself, he knows he is, but somehow it feels even worse when he's not with you. Either way, he can't win, can he?

"There he is, my favourite customer," you call, as he steps through the door. "How've you been?"

Is it any wonder Ben's heart feels like it does, when he hears you saying things like that?

"About the same as I was yesterday," he jokes, with a little wince the second he says it.

Way to ram it home that you're never out of here, huh.

You laugh, none the wiser.

"I like that you're here so much," you tell him.

The way you say it, it's so casual, and yet it makes Ben's chest feel tight.

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?" he dares to ask.

"Because you're a regular. And if you haven't been put off by me, then I can't be doing too bad a job, right?"

Ben stops for a moment. You're joking, he knows you are. About how nervous you were on your first day.

And yet-

"How could I be put off by someone as nice as you?" he says, before he can stop himself.

His eyes widen. It's too late, he's already said it. He can feel himself starting to panic, and you're just staring at him now. Your lips part, and Ben cuts you off before you even get the chance, desperate to change the subject.

"What, uh, what are you working on?" he asks quickly, gesturing towards the notepad sitting on the counter.

You frown slightly, as if thinking, a look of confusion on your face.

"'Working on?' Oh, right, this. Well, I've been listing some ideas for new specials," you say, tapping your finger against the page. "It's good timing that you came by, actually. I could do with some suggestions."

Ben nods. Anything to get as far away from what he just said.

"Of course. What have you got so far?" he asks.

You lift your pen, absentmindedly fidgeting with it, as you read down the list.

"We've got sandwiches covered, cakes, some new pastry ideas...But I'm wondering if there's something else we're missing. Any thoughts?"

Ben thinks to himself for a moment.

"Y'know, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for those chocolate slices, the ones with the biscuit and marshmallow inside them. Y'know the ones I'm talking about?"

"Rocky Road?" you offer.

Ben clasps his hands together.

"That's it! That's the ones."

He chuckles to himself.

"I know, I know. The big guy made of rocks likes Rocky Road. I heard it."

"No, no, it's good," you say, as you scribble it down. "It's a pretty easy one to make too."

Ben does his best to scan down the list, in spite of it being upside-down.

"What about you?" he asks. "You put down anything you like?"

"Yeah, I wanted to," you reply. "You know those little sponge cakes, with the jam and cream in the middle? The mini ones, about the size of cupcakes. But we already sell slices of the regular cake, so it seemed a bit pointless to write it down."

"What's wrong with the regular cake?"

"Nothing! It's so good, it's just..."

You trail off.

"It's a me thing, but sometimes a full slice is a bit much, you know? The cream gets a bit sickening after a while."

You glance at him then.

"I'm rambling on, aren't I?" you ask nervously.

"Hardly," Ben replies gently. "I asked, didn't I?"

You cast your gaze down, wiping your hands on the end of your apron. Ben could swear you looked a little flustered. Wishful thinking, maybe.

"Okay, well, I think I've kept you waiting long enough," you say, a bit too loudly. "What can I get for you?"

Ben frowns, then he realises.

"Oh...just my usual," he replies weakly.

He can't bring himself to tell you the truth, and he feels like a coward.

But as he's leaving, a little idea starts forming in his head.

The next few days, Ben puts himself to work, trying to figure out how to make mini sponge cakes. The regular-sized cake he can handle no problem, but the little ones are a bit tougher to figure out, in terms of adjusting the ingredients.

And a certain someone is not helping matters at all.

Ben made the mistake of stumbling over his answer when Johnny asked who the cakes were for. And true to form, he will not drop it. He's spent the better part of the day making a nuisance of himself.

"Haven't you got something better to do?" Ben grumbles, as he spoons jam out of the pot in his hand.

"Nope," Johnny immediately replies, dragging out the 'P' sound to make himself as irritating as possible.

Even when Ben does finally get rid of him, he just can't resist poking the bear cage one last time.

“I’m headin’ out,” Johnny says, swiping his finger through a bowl of cream as he passes.

Ben glares at him, but says nothing. He's better than that.

“Might stop by Maisie’s while I'm out,” he adds, turning to give Ben a big, shit-eating grin. “See how your friend’s doing.”

Ben just waves a hand at him, trying not to take the bait.

But Johnny being Johnny, he makes it so damn difficult.

“You think she’s free?” he asks, making an annoying show of sucking the cream off his finger. “‘Cause I got nothing on for Saturday night. And she’s cute. Don’t you think she’s cute, Ben?”

Johnny just manages to slip out the door as a whisk goes flying across the room.

Sue gives him a sympathetic look from where she sits at the dining table, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Try not to let him get to you,” she says. “Johnny’s harmless, you know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Ben sighs tiredly.

“I know, he’s just…He’s infuriating, Suze.”

Sue shakes her head with a smile.

“You're preaching to the choir there.”

Ben manages to get a full two hours of peace and quiet, completely Johnny-free. The latest batch of sponge cake experiments were a success, and he was able to add the finishing touches and box them up neatly.

Now all he has to do is gather the courage to go and actually give them to you.

Which he can definitely do. Absolutely. No problem at all.

He's leafing through a book, trying to keep his mind occupied, when he hears the door open. He glances up, before lifting the book closer to his face with a sigh.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

"Stopped by Maisie's, like I said," Johnny says, as he shrugs off his jacket and sits down.

He just can't read a room, can he?

"That's nice," Ben says, with an air of total disinterest.

He hears what sounds like a paper bag rustling, as Johnny sets something on the table.

"And I got you a little something."

Ben hums noncommittally, turning the page. Being ignored never deters Johnny. He should know this by now. Doesn't stop him from wishing.

"Or rather, I, um, was given something. For you."

That gets Ben's attention. He peers over his book, spotting the paper bag.

He'd know that paper anywhere.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks airily. "What is it?"

Johnny pushes the bag across the table.

"Open it."

Ben tries to keep up the façade, but he's struggling. He forces himself to take his time, pretending to mark his page before setting the book aside.

When he opens the bag, he can't help the smile that spreads across his face.

Inside are four big squares of Rocky Road. You remembered.

Johnny leans in to take a look too. The colour immediately drains from his face.

"Okay, I know what you're probably thinking, and yes, this definitely looks like one of my jokes. But for once, I swear to you, it's not-"

Ben holds up a hand, to stop him before he winds himself up any further.

"I know," he says softly.

He's still smiling.

Johnny waves a hand in front of Ben's face.

"Hello?" he calls impatiently. "Earth to big guy. You okay in there? I don't think I've ever seen you look this happy before. It's weird, if I'm being honest."

Ben hasn't moved, hasn't said anything. Johnny sighs, letting his hand drop down onto the table.

"Listen, I know I've been giving you a lot of crap about this...whole thing. And I'm not gonna apologise for it, by the way, because it would be against everything I stand for. But..."

He stops for a moment, as if to figure out what to say next.

"You really like this girl, don't you?" he asks.

Ben gently drums his fingers across the table top, before he finally nods.

"I do," he murmurs. "God help me, I do."

Johnny slings an arm over the back of his chair.

"Have you considered the possibility that she might like you back?"

Ben grits his teeth. "No, actually, I haven't," he snaps.

"Why not?" Johnny asks, and Ben wonders if he's being stupid on purpose.

He gestures to himself in frustration.

"Because look at me, Johnny!" he says, exasperated. "I don't exactly have people lining up 'round the block to date me. I'm not her type. I'm..."

He sighs. God, he's tired.

"I'm not anyone's type."

Johnny bangs his fist down on the table suddenly, and Ben almost falls out of his chair.

"You cut that out right now," he says lowly.

His eyes are so intense, even more than usual. Ben doesn't think he's ever seen him so serious.

"Look, you know how much I love annoying you. If it was a paying job, I'd be CEO. But I can't listen to you talk about yourself like this. You're "not anyone's type"? Seriously? You're..."

Johnny blows out a long breath, as if he's gearing himself up for something difficult.

"I'm never gonna forgive myself for anything I'm about to say, just FYI, but you...You're like the perfect guy, Ben. Stop looking at me like that, I mean it. You cook, you don't leave your shit everywhere, your dress sense is...Well, you try."

Ben doesn't know whether to kiss him or kick him. He decides he'll let him finish first.

"That girl likes you, Ben. And I'm not messing with you on this. That's too far, even for me. You know the first thing she did when I went down there? She asked me how you were. She was so excited to give me those too."

He taps the paper lightly.

"I could have been anyone, it wouldn't have mattered to her. Because all she cared about was you."

Ben runs a hand over his face. He doesn't know what to say.

"The way I see it, you've got two choices here," Johnny says. "One, you can just sit there and be miserable for the rest of your life. Or two, you can take a chance. Go down there and talk to her. It might be the best thing you've ever done."

Ben sits quietly for a moment, letting it all sink in. Finally, he nods.

"Yeah. You're right," he murmurs. "Thanks for that. Seriously."

Believe it or not, sometimes Johnny's not so bad.

Johnny gives him a warm smile. "Anytime, big guy."

He stands up, swiping a Rocky Road slice before he leaves.

"Thanks for this, by the way," he says with a mock-salute.

Ben glares at him as he goes.

Sometimes.

It takes a little - okay, a lot - of coaxing to push Ben into going to see you the next day. He spends most of the day pacing about the house, grumbling to himself and getting on Johnny's nerves.

"Not so fun when the shoe's on the other foot, is it?" Ben gripes, after Johnny tells him to knock it off for the third time.

He finally decides on going down just before closing time. That way he won't be bothering you too much, he thinks.

He hopes.

It's been threatening to rain all day, and as luck would have it, not five minutes after Ben's set foot outside, the skies open up. He picks up the pace, tucking the box in his hand safely under his coat.

He sees you standing under in the doorway of Maisie's, holding a newspaper over your head. You look as though you're contemplating making a run for it in the rain. He's halfway across the street when you spot him, and he'd have to be completely oblivious not to see how your face lights up.

"Forgot my umbrella this morning," you say with an awkward laugh. "The one day I leave it at home-"

You gesture to the rain that's still coming down in sheets.

"-and this happens. Just my luck."

You glance up at him.

"Glad I got to see you, though," you say.

Ben can’t help but smile at that. He holds his umbrella out over you.

“Where do you need to go?" he asks. "I can walk with you.”

You shake your head.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that-“

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” he insists gently.

You adjust the strap of your shoulder bag, tapping the wilted newspaper against your leg before you make up your mind.

“My car’s just down the street, if you could walk me there.”

Ben gestures in front of him.

“Lead the way.”

It’s a little awkward, with the height difference between you, but he manages to get you to your car at least somewhat dry.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it," you say, rummaging in your bag for your keys. “I’d, um, I’d offer you a ride home, but…”

You trail off with an apologetic look. Ben waves a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t fit in that tiny thing anyway.”

He saves you the trouble of saying it.

“Listen, before you go…I wanted to say thank you. For the Rocky Road."

Your face lights up at that.

“Oh, yeah? How were they?”

“I think I need to ask you for the recipe, because otherwise I'm gonna have you hounded for more," Ben replies with a chuckle. "Best I’ve ever had.”

The smile on your face right now is going to be the end of him.

"Actually, I, uh, I wanted to repay the favour," he says.

He manages to take the box out from underneath his jacket without dropping it. It's a bit dented, but otherwise fine. He holds it out to you.

"You were saying about those little sponge cakes, and I thought since I had some free time and all…"

He's trying to make it all sound so casual, like it's not that big a deal, but he can feel his heart hammering against his chest.

Because it is a big deal. At least, to him.

You carefully take the box from him, staring down at it. The rain's still pouring down around you.

"I...Oh my God, I don't know what to say."

Worry starts to creep in then. Was he too forward? Was this a weird thing to do? Realistically, he doesn't even know you all that well.

What if he's ruined everything? What if-

"Do you wanna go for coffee sometime?" you blurt out, peering up at him.

Rarely is Ben ever really taken aback, considering everything he's been through in his life, but this...

This leaves him struggling for words.

Eventually, he manages to make himself nod.

"Yeah, I'd...I'd love that," he replies.

He can't help himself from thinking it, but you're so cute when you smile like that, the way it reaches your eyes.

"Great! Stop by when I'm working, and we'll figure out a time and place, okay?"

"It's a date," Ben says, before he can stop himself.

His eyes widen. Probably about as wide as yours are right now.

"Sorry, I meant like- It was just-"

"It's a date," you echo.

You both stand there for a moment. Ben's about to tell you to go, so you don’t catch your death of cold, but you beat him to it.

You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, before turning to unlock your car.

"See you later," you say, completely flustered. "And thanks again for these!"

Ben just waves, closing the car door for you as you get in. He stands there for a while, not caring that his shoes and the bottoms of his pants are soaked through now, before he heads home.

His hand is pressed to his cheek the entire time.

There's a flower shop on the route Ben takes to Maisie's. He can't remember how many times he's passed by it and barely taken notice of it, but this time, he finds himself slowing down.

He buys a bouquet of sunflowers before he can talk himself out of it, practically marching himself down the street out of sheer nerves.

But when he sees you through the window, it all just melts away. You're laughing, and it warms his heart like nothing else ever has. He's never seen anyone as pretty as you.

Your gaze meets his when you turn, and you look so happy, giving him a smile and a big wave.

Ben waves back, with a small smile of his own.

He'll never admit it. But Johnny was right.

Clutching the sunflowers a little tighter in his hand, he lets out a small, contented breath, and opens the door.