fate, up against your will (unwillingly mine) | chapter 8
eddie munson x goth!reader.
based on the plot of 10 things i hate about you. in his desperation to go out with chrissy cunningham, jason carver makes the freak of hawkins an offer he can't refuse.
summary: carver lays out his least sensible demand yet. 4.8k words
warnings: no warnings for this one!
a/n: chapters from here on will be a little shorter—i've decided to cut the rest of the story into smaller parts, so we're looking at 12 chapters rather than 10 now! as always, lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8
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“…What the hell is wrong with you?”
Every face in Hellfire beams a different sentiment straight into Eddie’s tired eyes. Gareth, the first to react, is clearly outraged—he decides to take the question as rhetorical. Doug seems to be halfway immersed in his typical processing state of deep, philosophical perplexity, his soda can stalled on its way towards his mouth. Jeff is reservedly curious; expressive of a fuller understanding that probably reads as mild bemusement to the others. And Val, with one thin eyebrow quirked, looks somewhere in the realm of detached skepticism.
The version of Friday night's events that Eddie grudgingly recounted was, naturally, heavily abridged. Even if it wouldn't be a huge breach of trust and act of general assholishness to detail the extent of your suffering and the blushing, mind-altering closeness that came from it, every fiber in his body compels him to guard it like a new toy in the hand of a spoiled child. Tight-fisted, blindly possessive, not far from neurotic—for no one else to tarnish with their grubby hands or even fucking look at. He couldn't even bring himself to mention the kiss.
“You mean, she invited you upstairs—into her bedroom—and you said no?”
Lips sucked between his teeth, Eddie gives one decisive nod.
Gareth's entire face crumples—the horror of confirmation evidently too much to bear. “You’re out of your mind. She hates your guts every other day. What if that was your only chance?”
Eddie's entire face tightens. “My only chance to do what, man?”
That gets him an eye-roll. “To—”
“Don’t answer that,” Val advises sharply—or it might’ve been more of a threat.
“...I mean, he kinda has a point,” Doug chimes in, and goes pale as every pair of eyes lands on him.
Jeff's eyes narrow in a squint. “Does he?”
Dougie balks and throws a nervous glance towards Eddie as he finally sets his soda down. “Not— Well— It’s just, I thought you really liked her.”
Eddie can't admit to him that he really, really does; the roiling guilt in his stomach flares up again and blocks his throat.
“Why the hell do I even hang out with you dweebs?” Val groans. “She was drunk. Maybe he was trying not to be a total dickhead asshole.”
Eddie knew he was doing the right thing—which is why it sucked so incredibly bad to do it—but hearing Val corroborate the fact definitely helps him breathe a little deeper.
“He said she sobered up!”
“Sober and sobered-up are two different things."
"Yeah, but she invited him."
"Exactly," Val drones, gesturing broadly towards Eddie; speaking a little louder than he would prefer. "She only barely tolerates him for weeks on end, and suddenly, she wants him in her bedroom? She clearly wasn't thinking straight." And, with an apologetic glance: "No offense."
Only a little bit taken; Eddie has a hard time believing it himself.
"Maybe it was a test," Doug suggests.
“Well, how did she react?” Jeff interjects, addressing Eddie directly enough to catch him off guard.
"Huh?"
"When you declined."
I don't know is what first comes to mind, misleading though it may be. It's not like he saw your face as he said it. But the regrettable truth of your feelings on the matter is clear as day; if not from the way you hissed at him and slammed two doors as you went, then certainly from the treatment he received bright and early this morning. Waiting at your locker felt like a step too far, so he didn't—instead, he ran into you by accident, walking down the hall in opposite directions. He startled at the sight of you, peeping out your name on instinct, but the encounter didn't faze you in the slightest, nor did you spare him a glance. Far beyond the silent treatment, it was like he simply didn't exist, and his heart sinks a few inches in his chest at the memory.
Eddie sighs. “…She’s, uh— she’s pissed again.”
Gareth’s head falls mournfully into his hands. Across the table, Val's keen eyes press into a squint, like she's put together on her own that he isn't telling the full story. At least she seems to be the only one.
"What are you gonna…?"
Dougie's question trails off, and it takes Eddie a moment to process that everyone's eyes have drifted pointedly over his shoulder with an array of baffled expressions. As soon as it does, a beam of wishful thinking his him right between the eyes, and he whips his head around to find—
Jason Carver. Looming murderously over him.
For what feels like a full minute, Eddie can only gape at him, heart pounding, projecting telepathically the burning question, What the fuck is fucking wrong with you, you demented asshole? on a never-ending loop. Thankfully, in the continued stubborn dormancy of his psionic powers, this remains a screeching inside thought until Carver deigns to break the menacing silence.
"We need to talk."
…He's going to beat his ass. This is the instinctual assumption, but Eddie brushes it away just as quick. Not here and now, with an entire cafeteria full of witnesses, in perfect view of all the lunch ladies. Now, he's going to escort him somewhere else to beat his ass—that's a much more rational thought, but his logical mind has a hard time believing that, either. There are plenty of opportunities throughout the school day to isolate and bludgeon him more discreetly and avoid the half-hearted reprimand that might come with being caught doing so, and right here and now might be the least ideal of them all.
Plus, technically speaking, he's outnumbered. Jason came alone (though his fellow sportsmen across the room aren't exactly out of reach), and Eddie's got every warrior of blazing spirit and questionable prowess in Hellfire right here beside him. So, no, Carver isn't here to hurt him. He's here—personally, unexplainably, and wildly incriminatingly—to piss him off and psych him out.
Eddie takes a deep, deep breath and stands up from his seat.
"Eddie?"
"What the—?"
"Can it," Eddie blurts out on instinct, loud enough to cut short the uproar. He attempts to show with his eyes that there's no cause for concern, but it's anyone's guess how it lands. His face isn't quite as good at lying as his mouth is. "…It's fine. Just…give me a minute."
Another little outcry begins as Eddie turns to follow, and the last thing he hears before the angry throbbing of his head drowns out all other noise is the firm deescalation of Jeff's steady voice.
"Hey, it's cool. Ed can handle himself."
It sort of works on Eddie, too. He can handle himself; whatever bullshit Carver's cooked up for him today is nothing he hasn't learned to deal with.
He leads him straight outside, along the brick-faced exterior to a lower-traffic end of the school, on the far side from the parking lot out front. Eddie can't keep his head from twitching around the same way it always does when he's keeping this unsavory company out in broad daylight. Your lunchtime whereabouts aren't nearly as consistent and predictable as his own—you could be fucking anywhere.
When the distance or location has satisfied Jason's incoherent needs, he stops in place, turns around, and stares. It isn't an angry look, or at least not any more so than the typical sneer that he wears in Eddie's presence. More than anything, it strikes him as analytical; combing through Eddie's intense yet fiercely suppressed discomfort in search of…something.
Eddie swallows thickly. He considers asking how things are going with Chrissy, just to pop the disturbing tension bubble building in pressure around them, but whether or not it serves the proper function probably depends on the answer to that question, and after the abrupt and careless parting that Eddie all but fostered on Friday night, he figures it's probably best not to risk it. Instead, he waits; chewing on his cheek, staring right back at him with the steadiest eyes he can manage.
"…I'm taking Chrissy to prom."
Eddie blinks. "…That's uh— That's great, man," he offers blandly, hoping to God this isn't leading where it almost certainly is.
Carver's eyes turn shifty. "…She doesn't know it yet," he goes on pointedly. "But I'm gonna ask her, and I already know what she's gonna say."
Eddie's head falls forward; he ducks his chin in a reluctant nod. Jesus fucking Christ. If he couldn’t even sell you on the party, how the hell is he going to make prom seem like a remotely attractive proposition? Let alone a convincing desire of his own in the first place. Evidently reading his mind, Carver lets out a harsh breath through his nose and takes a generous step forward that whips Eddie's head right back up in alarm.
"I don't want the two of you there spreading your disease any more than you do. But I'm taking her to prom. …Stand in the corner all night for all I care, but you're gonna convince her cousin to go with you, and you're gonna stay the hell away from us."
He barely stifles a scoff—as if Eddie's the one prone to stalking and bothering him.
But there's something odd about this; about Carver. This doesn't feel like the same raging, superior asshole who waved his inexhaustible cash in his face and taunted him for trying to cling to some semblance of morality. He seems…strained. Too plainly desperate to entertain his usual power trip.
"…Prom is gonna be a hard sell," Eddie dares to nudge back.
"Obviously."
"And, I mean, you and Chrissy are juniors. …I'm just saying, there's always next year. Her cousin probably won't be much of an obstacle once she's graduated."
Jason squints his eyes at him like that's the dumbest shit he's heard all week. "We're going this year to plant the seeds for homecoming court in the fall, which'll give us a good shot at king and queen for next year's prom," he lays out irritably. "But I don't expect you to comprehend this sort of thing." He's right not to; he really fucking doesn't.
Eddie didn't realize that Carver's plot to date Chrissy was such a serious, multi-year endeavor. He figured he'd be off the hook come graduation—assuming he manages to graduate, a question he's been avoiding like the plague lately—but the thought of getting dragged around by the nose by this maniac indefinitely spills a cold, concentrated drop of panic into his guts. If it didn't end when he started dating Chrissy, nor will it when he takes her to prom, and maybe not even when you and him cease to attend the goddamn school, then when the hell will it?
He's so caught up in pondering this dark, depressing spiral, that he doesn't even notice Jason taking out his wallet until he's waving a sickly green wad of cash in his face.
"Take it."
Eddie's stomach, churning and quivering, finds room to drop even lower. He glances around and over his shoulder on instinct and rapidly shakes his head. "No, man, I don't— I still have—"
"It'll cover the cost of tickets," he speaks over him. "More than that. A…tux rental, corsage—"
"Seriously, Carver, I don't need it, I don't—"
He just speaks louder, drowning him out. "You're not gonna try and tell me that you can't afford it, or that you—"
"I can afford it," Eddie insists with building stress, "and I don't—"
"I don't care!" Jason shouts—the sound of it seems to echo off the wall, and Eddie hopes it wasn't audible from the inside. "I'm sure you have more than enough drug money stuffed under your filthy goddamn mattress to take that basket case to prom. I don't care. I'm not giving this to you out of the kindness of my heart. This is a contract, Munson. You accept it, and you do what I say."
For a moment, Eddie can only focus on his breathing, in and out and in and out, doing everything in his power not to blow a gasket of his own in retaliation. He can barely open his mouth before Jason cuts back in—seeing right through him.
"There's no backing out of it," he mocks. "…You're in too deep, and you know it. You think I don't know how you feel about her?"
And then Carver reaches out, grabs a fistful of his shirt collar to yank him in closer, and spits the words right in his face.
"You're taking her to prom. So take. The goddamn. Money."
Pulse pounding at his temples, Eddie snatches up the hateful cash and crushes it in his fist. As soon as Jason lets go of him, he scuttles back a few steps to regain some breathing room and stuffs the contract into his right pocket.
"You've got…serious fucking issues, man," he mutters through is teeth, and it's a verifiable miracle that that's all he says.
Carver's scoff almost sounds like a laugh. "Coming from you, that's goddamn hilarious."
Then, Eddie makes the silly mistake of taking that as the natural conclusion of this hellish interaction and tries to swiftly escape. He should know by now that he isn't free to go until he's been dismissed.
"I'm not done," Jason snaps. Eddie stops in place; tips his head back in disbelief and turns back halfway. "…I want you to stay the hell away from Chrissy."
He squints his eyes shut to mask the way they roll—like he hasn't heard this one before.
"Don't look at her. Don't speak to her. I know you aren't stupid enough to touch her. If she steps into a room, you leave that room. You understand?"
His teeth grit so hard that they slip, and his mouth drops idiotically open. "Might be kinda fuckin' hard, y'know, dating her cousin."
"I'm not joking with you, Munson. You don't get it."
Whatever that means. "Maybe you don't get it."
Abruptly as a trigger pull, Jason snaps. He lunges at him, grabs two violent handfuls of his vest collar, and, as Eddie cries out in shock, he shoves him up against the brick wall hard enough to bounce his head off of it; sharp knuckles digging in beneath his collarbones, keeping him pinned down.
"Fuck!" Eddie's hands fly up as if to cradle his head, but he can't. They wrap tight around Carver's wrists instead, his rings clinking against the face of his watch, but as hard as he pulls, they won't budge.
"Listen to me," Jason snarls, wide-eyed. "…Chrissy isn't like you. Chrissy isn't even like her. I don't care what…perverted, satanistic bullshit you and your girlfriend do behind closed doors, but if either of you…taint a single goddamn hair on her innocent head, it'll be the last thing you ever do."
Eddie's eyes blow wide open. He's made sense of the ridiculous situation he's found himself in largely by referring to its perpetrator as a lunatic, a madman, a psychopath, and a nutjob, among other colorful names, but the truth is, Eddie never really thought he was anything more than an entitled, thick-headed, power-hungry asshole—the kind that this school (and Hawkins at large) is absolutely swimming in. But right now, in this moment, lightly concussed or not, he starts to wonder for the first time if Jason Carver really is every bit as deranged as he seems.
"I got it, man," Eddie hisses through the pounding of his head. "Fucking—Christ, I got it!"
Frigid eyes sweeping over his face, Jason rips his hands away from him and, once again, stares. With pure, sick disdain, he stares and stares until Eddie knows he won't be able to fend off the urge to shout at him for much longer, and finally, with both hands stuffed into his letterman's pockets, Carver turns and leaves like he was never there at all.
What Eddie should probably do is go back to the cafeteria to make sure his friends can see definitively that he's made it out of his abduction alive and well, but as wound up and nauseated as he already is, with this stabbing pain in his (thankfully not split-open) head, nothing in the world sounds more aggravating than trying to explain why Jason Carver felt so comfortable ominously demanding his presence in the first place.
Instead, he heads back to his van; fishes Piece of Mind out of the glove box and sets the stereo as loud as he can without risk of some meddling staff or faculty member banging on the door and shouting at him to turn it down; spreads himself out in the back of his van with his face stuffed in a scratchy old blanket, and waits for the buzzing and pulsating and the piercing goddamn bomb sirens in his brain to calm down. Or, for the lunch bell to ring. Whichever comes first.
…
Eddie spends the entire last ten minutes of sixth period halfway out of his chair, primed and poised to eject himself out of it as soon as the last bells cuts through Mrs. Howell's sleepy monotone. Restless as he is, he manages to anticipate it—he's already standing when the bell rings, and he makes it most of the way to your desk before anyone else has even left their seat.
You know he's there, obviously—there's no subtle way to throw your entire body across the room with the speed and urgency that he just did—but as he stands before your front-row desk, you don't even look up from it, taking your sweet time to pack your things back into your bag. When he says your name, you don't even twitch.
"…I'm sorry," he tries. "For treating you like that, being an asshole, but…I guess you know that already."
You ignore him entirely. Eddie nods to himself.
"Yeah, I kinda figured you'd, um…not wanna talk to me. Deserved, totally, I get it. It's, um… I mean, fuck me, right? You don't have to talk to me. But I can…explain myself, when you're ready. If you actually wanna…hear it. Or, y'know, I could just…skip ahead to the groveling, if that would— If you'd— If you want that. Sorry, my head's a little…" He gestures vaguely at himself, and doesn't bother to explain beyond that.
Still nothing whatsoever, but you are waiting for him to finish, he notes. Eddie purses his lips and sighs and sets a piece of ripped paper, folded in half, onto the desk in front of you. Your downcast eyes drag towards it without enthusiasm.
"…That's my number," he explains. "In case you ever…wanna talk, outside of school, or if you…need anything. Seriously. I work on Tuesday, Thursday, and…Saturday nights, and, uh— Hellfire meets on Fridays. But if you call after, like…ten-thirty, eleven on any night, I'll be there."
Your moody stare flits a little higher; nowhere near his face, but maybe enough to meet eyes with the undead Eddie on his Iron Maiden tee. Then, without a word, you slap your palm down onto the desk, crumple the piece of paper in your fist, and slip out of your chair to join all the other students filtering out of the room. The closest thing he gets to a goodbye is the swift brush of your arm against his as you go.
And despite it all, Eddie smiles. He really wasn't sure you'd actually take it.
This time, when Eddie spots Jeff leaning against his van from across the parking lot, it’s a sight for sore eyes—his entire body sags in relief. Keeping all of this bullshit swirling around in his mind alone has had it on the verge of caving in.
He doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
“I’m fucked, Jeff,” he announces as he unlocks the van.
Jeff cocks his head aside with a thin smile. “Yeah, I…kinda figured.”
Inside, Eddie turns the music off for once. His tired eyes flicker compulsively around, catching on any flashes of green that streak through his line of sight; watching out, probably needlessly, for anyone approaching, sneaking up on him. Just in case Jason decides to teach him even more of a lesson than he already did—to make sure this week's "request" really hits home. He even watches for you, in the near-impossible event that you've changed your mind on your vow of silence and decided to roll in like a storm cloud and verbally (maybe physically?) rip him a new one, but that's probably more in the realm of romantic fantasy than vigilant self-preservation.
"What'd Jason want?"
Eddie forces a tense exhale through his nose. "…Prom."
"Shit," Jeff breathes.
"Yeah."
“What you said at lunch,” he goes on. “About the party, and everything. ...Is that really what happened, or…?”
“Mostly,” Eddie sighs. “I mean, she was— It isn’t— Christ, it doesn’t matter. But this shit is getting…serious, Jeff. Like really fucking serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“She likes me," he drops, one finger tapping against the wheel like a woodpecker's beak. "A lot, I think, for some fucking reason, and I like her—a lot. I’m not pretending with her, not in the slightest. And I…don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”
He doesn't seem overly concerned. “Well, this isn’t the first time you’ve pissed her off. And if she really likes you so much—”
“No, it’s not that.” Eddie feels awful for treating you like that, sure, and yeah, you're pretty mad at him, but after everything else that happened that night, he isn’t especially worried he’ll lose you entirely over it. “It’s…Carver.”
“What about him? Is he still paying you?”
Eddie winces at the reminder—the cash in his pocket is singeing his thigh. “…He got what he wanted, y’know? What this was supposed to be about. He’s dating Chrissy Cunningham. But it’s…not enough for him, I guess, and he's out of his fucking mind, and he won’t— He’s not gonna cut me loose until he’s satisfied, but I don’t even know if that’s possible, and I just want it to end. More than…fucking anything, I want it to be over. I mean, fuck, Jeff, if I…piss him off badly enough, and he says 'fuck it all' and decides to tell her…”
Jeff's face drops into a deep frown. “You haven’t told her yet?”
A pang of startled irritation whips Eddie right in the side of his battered head. “...No, I haven’t told her," he spits, shoulders tensing up. "Jesus, how the fuck would I even—?”
“If you’re worried about Carver telling her your business, you already know what you gotta do, man,” Jeff reasons—he makes it sound so simple. “He can’t hold that over you if you tell her yourself."
On a few separate occasions now, Eddie has wanted desperately and tried and failed to tell Wayne about the situation and solicit some older and wiser advice to put it all into perspective. What always trips him up is the deep, stomach-churning terror of sparking one simple thought in his uncle's head: he really is his father's son. He wouldn't say it aloud; it wouldn't even show on his face, but Eddie would know that it's there, and once it's taken root, there's no pruning it. Jeff's ear is helpful and does a lot in maintaining his sanity, but he isn't living through it all the way that Eddie is—he doesn't know you the way that Eddie is growing to. And because of that, because no one but him can see every piece of this nightmarish puzzle, he's pretty much resigned himself to figuring it out on his own.
So Eddie doesn't have to think about it; he drives himself crazy trying and failing to talk himself out of it every night, and not even Jason's unhinged extortion can do much to change his mind—it only digs his grave all the deeper. What's really hard is psyching himself up to expose this private shame of his to the light of day.
“...I don’t think I can.”
“What do you mean?”
“...It’s too late. If I was ever going to tell her, I should’ve done it— I should’ve done it fucking weeks ago, man.”
Jeff only stares at him, puzzled. Eddie braves a quick glance before staring firmly out the window.
“I mean, Chrissy is her cousin, and— and she cares about her,” he goes on; eyes glazing over, head spinning as words fly off his tongue like tape reel. “A lot. Enough to suffer that…miserable fucking party just so she could go. If I had told her upfront about Jason’s batshit fucking plan, maybe she would’ve gone along with it—for Chrissy’s sake—and we would’ve laughed about how fucking stupid it all was and split the fucking money and maybe we still could’ve hung out and shit, but instead I was a stupid, selfish fucking dirtbag, and I—”
“Eddie, man,” Jeff interrupts. “I get it. Shit could’ve gone way differently, but it is what it is. The best thing you can do now is just tell her the truth. …The deal, the way you feel about her, everything. Cause if you don’t come clean and she finds out on her own, it’s gonna look a hell of a lot worse for you.”
It's not what he wants to hear, not at all. He just doesn't get it.
“...She trusts me,” Eddie gasps. “Do you realize how…fucking insane it is that she trusts me? If I tell her, that’s it. It’s not— She’s never gonna— I’m fucked, Jeff. If I tell her, it’ll be over, and I can’t…do that.”
Jeff just gives him a look. Sympathetic, skin-crawling.
“I mean, I wouldn’t fucking forgive me, man." It rings out low and thick, caught halfway in his throat; he tries to subtly clear it out, worried Jeff would mistake him for choked up. "…How the hell could I expect her to?”
“You can’t. But you can give her the chance to.”
"…And even if Carver did try to tell her, why the hell would she believe him?" Eddie goes on. "It's not like we signed an actual goddamn contract. He doesn't have any more proof than I do."
Unless Chrissy is in on it, it occurs to him, and his blood runs instantly cold. But she couldn't be, right? There's no way that sweet Chrissy could be involved in deceiving you like this, not just to date Jason fucking Carver, and why the hell would he take such a risk by telling her? But Eddie doesn't know her, and if there's one person who's testimony you'd implicitly trust, it has to be hers. If you really are the only one that doesn't know, then Eddie has…utterly no leg to stand on. No insurance, no leverage. He's well and truly fucked.
"…Sure," Jeff grants. "Fine. Maybe she doesn't believe him. Maybe he never even tells her.
“But, I mean…are you really gonna be able to just…hide that from her, forever? You’re gonna look at her face every day, remember how the hell it all started, and wish to God you had just told her, man.”
Eddie's hands wrap tight around the steering wheel. He bites down hard on his lip; the only thing restraining him from asking his dear friend to please get the fuck out of his van right now. Jeff goes mercilessly on.
“You don’t think she’ll realize at some point that you’re keeping something from her? Sorry to say, but…it’s pretty goddamn obvious when you’re brooding over something, Ed.”
Eddie rolls the fuck out of his eyes. He gets the sense that Jeff has to fight back a snicker.
“...I mean, subtlety just isn't your thing.”
“Got it, Jeff," he grits out. "I got it.”
"I'm just saying, man," punctuates his irritating case.
"…Whatever," Eddie decides. His brain is in no state to reassess right now either way. All he can think about is laying face-down on his bed, passing out for a few hours, and then waiting like a sucker for a phone call that isn't coming. "…Maybe. But I can't tell her shit until I convince her to speak to me again, anyway."
"Alright," Jeff relents with a laugh. "And how are you gonna do that?"
Eddie heaves out a sigh and rubs the heel of his palm against his pounding temple. "…I've got a few ideas."
-
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