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munson-blurbs · 1 year

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: Eddie's guard is back up after overhearing people gossiping about a secret that only you would know about. When he lets his animosity take over, the damage may be too great to repair.

Warnings: angst, Eddie is really mean to Reader, mentions of CPS, Reader's grandma has Alzheimer's, slowburn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, Eddie is 30, Reader is 28, no use of y/n

WC: 3.7k

Chapter 4/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

Eddie is still fuming when he pulls into the music store’s parking lot. He’s opening today, and his hands tremble as he fumbles with the keys. All of those parents are going to know that he’s a failure of a father. The Munson reputation clung to him like a bloodsucking leech, regardless of his numerous attempts to shed it. He’s destined to be an outcast at best and a monster at worst.

Finally managing to unlock the door, Eddie flicks on the lights, blanketing the shop in a hazy glow. The silence is deafening, and he swears that his brain will implode if he doesn’t get some background noise. He walks to the section labeled ‘METAL’ as if on autopilot, grabbing Metallica’s Master of Puppets and shoving the cassette into the player. Ash insists that they play classic rock over the crummy little sound system; something about it being ‘palatable’ for the customers, but she’s not here to scold him.

He thinks back to when this album was released, towards the end of his third senior year. The good ol’ days, when I only worried about passing O’Donnell’s class and planning Hellfire campaigns, he thinks wryly. But, no; that isn’t quite true. He’d had to worry about the trailer getting repo’d, or whether he and Wayne could stretch their food stamp budget enough to feed two grown men. Concerns that his uncle had tried to hide from him until he no longer could.

“Ed, you’re eighteen now,” Wayne had said, just one month after Eddie’s birthday, “and I’m gonna need you to start payin’ some bills around here.”

At the time, Eddie thought he was just being a bastard. It wasn’t until a few days later when he’d spotted the envelope marked PAST DUE in bold, red letters that he realized it wasn’t a punishment, but a necessity.

He’d been selling for Rick ever since. Well, until now.

“Battery” fades out to “Master of Puppets,” and Eddie flips the CLOSED sign to read OPEN. He glances at the calluses on his hands and smiles sadly, thinking of all the hours he spent learning the chords in his room. After weeks of non-stop practicing—Hetfield’s solo was a bitch—he’d raced down to Gareth’s garage and played all eight minutes straight through. Watched as his friends’ jaws dropped in awe. Gave him a standing ovation. Told him he was a fucking rockstar.

“You’re a rockstar, all right,” Eddie sarcastically grumbles now, clanging a roll of pennies against the counter before dumping them into the till. “Getting ready to drop your new hit single: Do you want a receipt with that?”

His morning has been nothing short of monotonous: help the customer find what they want, ring them up and make small talk, and then organize (or, in his case, pretend to organize) the store when it’s not busy.

There’s too much down time for him to be left alone with his thoughts. As soon as he has a moment to himself, he’s ruminating on his regrets of the past. He turns up the music volume in a half-hearted attempt to drown them out, but they manage to worm their way into every nook and cranny of his brain.

Eight years ago, a twenty-two year old Eddie Munson left his podunk town of Hawkins, Indiana to pursue rock stardom. He’d driven to Chicago with only the pocket change he’d saved up and his guitar on his back. A big city for a man with even bigger dreams.

It didn’t take him long to realize that being Eddie Munson meant next to nothing in a place that was bursting with musicians desperate for the chance to become famous. He appreciated the anonymity at first; he could blend in without being chased by taunts of Freak or Loser. But after nearly a full year of auditions where he was just another guitarist who could carry a tune, he’d started to lose hope. Prepared to return to Hawkins with his tail between his legs, he’d stopped at the nearby bar for one last drink.

“We can’t go on without a lead singer and guitarist!”

A frantic voice captured his attention, drawing his gaze from the pint of beer in front of him.

“Well, Sam bailed. Again,” another man points out, tone heavy with irritation. “So either we go on without him, or we don’t go on at all.”

Eddie finds himself standing up and walking into a conversation where he was never invited. “I, um, play guitar. And sing?” He winces as it comes out like a question. “I can show you, if you want.” What was he doing? He couldn’t line up a gig to save his life, and now he’s offering to play for some band he doesn’t even know?

The two guys, both about his age, exchange a dubious look. “All right,” says one with shaggy dark hair. “Let’s hear what you got, Guitar Boy.” He hands him his own guitar, and Eddie adjusts the strap before diving headfirst into the chorus of the first song that comes to mind:

If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by You're thinkin' like a fool 'cause it's a case of do or die Out there is a fortune waitin' to be had You think I'll let it go you're mad You've got another thing comin'

The other guy cocks his head, a delighted smirk spreading across his face. “Judas Priest. Solid choice.” He paces a bit, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. You got a name, Guitar Boy?” he asks.

Eddie nods. “Eddie Munson.” He sticks out his hand, silently willing it to stop trembling, and shakes theirs.

“I’m Marcus,” the shaggy-haired man says. “This is Bryan. I play backup guitar; he’s on drums. Our bassist should be here soon; his name’s Pete.”

“And Sam was our lead guitarist and singer, but he’s a fucking asshole,” Bryan quips, and Eddie chortles at his brazen attitude. “Anyway, we mostly do covers…check out the setlist and see what you know.” He hands Eddie a crumpled piece of paper, filled with familiar songs and artists.

“I can do any of these,” Eddie says, a satisfied warmth filling his chest as he watches the guys grin even wider.

“Tell ya what,” Bryan says, plopping behind a drum set plastered with a logo reading Hard Knox. “If you don’t suck tonight, you can play with us permanently.”

“Yeah,” Marcus agrees. “We’re gonna be big, man. We just need someone to help us get there.”

“Let me run back to my place and grab my ax,” Eddie tells them, adrenaline propelling him to his apartment. This was it. This was the break he needed. Just as he was about to give up, God or fate or destiny or whoever was finally giving him a chance to prove himself.

The show went off without a hitch; Eddie’s guitar skills bringing a normally quiet audience to their feet. Bryan clapped him on the back as he looked at Pete and Marcus; the three nodding at each other. “Welcome to Hard Knox!” he announced.

“Sam leaving was the best thing to happen to us,” Pete laughs in agreement. A bartender in a tight skirt and fishnet stockings brings over a round of shots, and the four men clink glasses.

“Fuck Sam!” Eddie shouts before taking the drink. The tequila burns as it coats his throat, but he doesn’t dare reach for the lime. No, he has something to prove.

“Fuck Sam!” the rest of the band echoes enthusiastically. Their choral response reminds Eddie of the way Corroded Coffin used to be before he’d left: when he’d say something, Jeff, Gareth, and Danny would listen. He was born to be a leader.

Things started to fall into place. His one night endeavor with Hard Knox turned into a biweekly gig at the bar, which eventually turned into shows almost every night at various venues across the city. He’d even convinced the guys to play some original work of his, reminding them that cover bands don’t get record deals.

He had a steady income. A group of friends who appreciated him and his music. Beautiful women who eagerly threw themselves at him at the end of the show. And then it would repeat the following night in a new place. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Last night’s chaos has you all disheveled; it wasn’t until you got to work this morning that you realized you hadn’t even packed your lunch. You try to convince yourself that you can wait until you get home to eat, but about fifteen minutes before your break, your stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl.

“I’m gonna run to the deli and grab something,” you tell Will, throwing your jacket over your shoulders and digging out your car keys. “Want me to pick up anything for you?”

“Uh, Tylenol?” he grimaces, rubbing his temples. The kids had music class today, and the sounds of ten preschoolers singing off-key combined with their clashing tambourines served as a recipe for a pounding headache. “And maybe a bag of sour cream and onion chips?”

“You got it.” You shoot him a thumbs-up as you make your way to the parking lot as quickly as possible, determined to get your food before the lunch rush starts.

You manage to just beat out the crowd of hungry nine-to-fivers, grabbing a veggie wrap to-go. Crunching on a cucumber slice as you take a big bite, you start back towards your car, but the music store next door catches your eye.

A check of your watch confirms that you have a few minutes to peruse, maybe grab a copy of the new Toni Braxton cassette you’d been wanting. If there was ever a day to treat yourself to a little gift, it’s today. Your mind is foggy and your body feels like it’s dragging sandbags as you make your way over. You knew that taking care of an ailing relative would be physically demanding, but you weren’t prepared for the emotional toll it would take. Seeing your grandma helplessly laying on the bathroom floor scared drew all of the oxygen from your lungs, filling your body with worry. And just a few hours later, she was furiously swearing at you, claiming to hate you. She’s an ever-swinging pendulum, and you’re downright exhausted.

A small glob of hummus lands on your lower lip, and your tongue licks it off haphazardly as you push open the door to the music store. The jingle of the bell is meant to alert the employees that a customer has entered, but when you look around, there’s no one there to help you.

You walk towards the aisle labeled R&B, starting by thumbing through the “B” section–nothing. Perplexed, you make your way to the “T” section, still with no luck. Was Toni Braxton so popular amongst Hawkins residents that they’d bought out every copy of Secrets?

“You can’t eat in here,” a terse voice calls out. You’re so startled, you nearly drop your sandwich. A piece of tomato flies out of the tortilla when you jump, hitting the linoleum flooring, and the irritated person sighs. “Aaand this is why.”

You pick up the fallen vegetable and turn around to see Eddie Munson standing before you. “You scared me!” you say, but your body visibly relaxes. Twenty-four hours ago, you never would have guessed that he would have a calming effect on you. How quickly things can change, you muse silently. “Can you help me find the new Toni Braxton? The Secrets cassette?”

Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can you follow simple instructions? No. Eating. In. The. Store.” He rolls his eyes. “Just because you teach preschoolers doesn’t mean you get to act like one.”

The smile that briefly danced across your lips slips into a frown. What the hell happened in the few hours since he’d dropped Harris off at school? Did you imagine that you two had gotten along?

“Are you okay?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “I-I can put the wrap in my car, just give me a sec…”

He shakes his head. “No, actually, I’m not okay,” he sneers. “But I bet you knew that already.” He shifts his posture so he’s standing a bit taller. “Y’know, you have some fuckin’ nerve, coming in here after what you did.”

“Did I miss something?” Your voice gets smaller with the gnawing feeling of brewing confrontation acting as a brick on your chest. “I thought–”

“Tell me what you thought,” he interrupts, leaning on a box of tapes. “Wait, no; let me guess. You thought that because I rejected you, you could go around blabbing my personal business around the school.” He scrunches up his face, biting his lip as he looks at you. “Did I get it right?”

“Your personal business?”

“Mhm,” he answers pointedly, spinning a skull ring around his finger. “Is that not it? Was it because you were embarrassed that I heard your grandma say that she hates you? I don’t blame her, by the way.”

Your force your gaze to remain trained on him, staring into his brown eyes that have hardened with fury. “She doesn’t hate me,” you breathe out, “she just can’t remember me anymore. When she knew who I was, she loved me. A lot.”

“Yeah, whatever you say,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t take away from the fact that everyone and their goddamn dog knows about the CPS report.”

“What CPS report?” you ask, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach. “Is Harris okay?”

He takes one look at your puzzled expression and barks out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? You can drop the innocent act.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about!” you snap, frustrated at his unwillingness to hear you out and your own lack of understanding. “All I know is that this morning, you didn’t hate me–or maybe just hated me a little less–and now you’re back to being the worst human being I’ve ever met.”

Eddie scratches at the shadow of a beard that’s formed on his jawline; an itchy reminder that he didn’t get to shave last night. “You should consider yourself lucky if I’m the worst person you’ve ever met. Tell me, what have I done? Thrown some insults your way?” He claps his palm to his chest exaggeratedly. “How ever did you survive?”

“Mock me and my teaching skills, pretend like you’re going to call when you knew damn well that you weren’t, call me a bitch, and your latest and greatest,” you counter, ticking off the instances on your fingers, “accuse me of something I didn’t do.”

He considers this for a moment, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “So you’re trying to tell me,” he starts, gritting his teeth, “that we were in the same wing of the same hospital at the same time, but you weren’t the one who told people about the CPS case they opened on me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you hiss.

“Then how the fuck did Carol Perkins find out about it?!” His volume raises to a roar, and you wince at the sting it leaves echoing in your eardrums. “Because I fucking heard her talking about it with Steve Harrington! So if you, the person who was there, didn’t open your mouth and tell her, who did? The CPS fairy?”

“I don’t fucking know!” you shout, swallowing thickly in a meager attempt to bide time before the tears inevitably leak from your eyes. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.”

Eddie rakes a hand through his frizzy curls, smacking the other on top of the nearby box. “Just…just get out,” he mutters. “I can’t listen to any more of your bullshit.” He starts back towards a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY before turning back around, eyes narrowed.

“Y’know, I wouldn’t have hooked up with you that night if I knew that this is how you handle a one-night stand,” he says, pursing his lips as he steps closer to you. “And I never should’ve let Harris step foot in your classroom. I would drive him to a school in goddamn Timbuktu if it meant having you out of my life.” He pauses, scraping his teeth across his lower lip and exhaling a terse laugh. “It’s too bad I can’t forget about you like your grandma did.”

The words knock the wind out of your lungs. Your knees buckle slightly, and you have to steady yourself on the closest shelf. Tears blur your vision as your legs carry you out of the store; you feel yourself walking, but it’s like an external force has control of your body. The words fuck you sit on the tip of your tongue, or maybe you say them—it’s too hazy to tell. The world is covered in a shiny layer of cellophane; you can see everything, but you can’t touch.

You’re crying too hard to drive, so you sit behind the wheel, seatbelt clicked in place, letting out sobs that leave your whole body shuddering. It’s all too much, and though you logically know that Grandma didn’t want to forget you, his comment hit a raw nerve.

It wasn’t a straight path; Alzheimer’s never is. A few months ago, she could remember you in the morning but forgot you by the afternoon. She would call you by name at 9 AM but ask who you were at 2 PM. One day you were her granddaughter; the next, you were a total stranger. You thought it couldn’t hurt more than it already did, but the repeated reminders that she no longer recognizes you at all is a constant knife through the heart.

You’ll be late if you don’t start driving back to work now, so you turn the key in the ignition and adjust the gear shift to reverse. As you look up to glance in the rearview mirror, you catch sight of him. He’s dumbfounded, and you could laugh at how ridiculous it is that it took him seeing you bawling in your car to realize that he went too far this time.

Unable to stomach the thought of further confrontation, you take a deep breath and drive away, leaving him to mull over what just happened.

He’d assumed you’d left already when he’d walked outside for a smoke break, placing a cigarette between trembling fingers before he’d even left the store. He almost drops the lighter on his scuffed sneaker when he sees you hunched over, resting your arms on the wheel as your body heaves. He’s not sure how long he’s been staring when you lift your head, exposing tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Your gazes lock for just a millisecond, but it tells him everything he needs to know.

It wasn’t you.

When Eddie arrives at the school for pick-up, he scours the crowd of impatient parents for Carol. He finds her talking with another mom; no doubt spreading more gossip about him. Maybe he shouldn’t have pretended that their Satanic cult rumors didn’t bother him when they were back in high school. Maybe if they knew, they would understand that he’s just a goddamn person trying his best, just like everyone else.

“Hey,” he starts, pushing the fear from his voice and willing his strength to remain unwavering. “Who told you about the CPS stuff?”

Carol plasters an obviously fake smile on her face as she responds. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says simply. Her carefree tone pushes Eddie to his limit.

“Cut the bullshit,” Eddie growls, quickly losing his temper. “I heard you talking to Steve Harrington about it. So either you tell me now, or I’ll make sure your husband knows about that guy I saw you with at the Hideout a couple of months ago.”

Her face blanches, color draining from her cheeks. “It was Jason Carver,” she mumbles, biting her thumbnail. “His wife, Chrissy, is a nurse at the hospital and saw the report. She told him, and he’s been telling, well, everyone else.”

Eddie swears that steam is billowing out of his ears. Everything is coated in a red haze, and he finds himself unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fists. “Where is that sonofabitch? I’m gonna punch him in his smug little–”

“Mr. Munson?” you cut through his rant. His head snaps in your direction. You’ve fixed your makeup; if Eddie hadn’t seen you crying earlier, he would’ve been none the wiser. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “Actually, I needed to tell you someth–”

“I think you’ve said enough today,” you say, voice calm but firm. “I just wanted to give this to you before Harris comes out.” You hand him a pink piece of paper. “It’s a transfer slip. Starting next week, Harris will be in Ms. Marion’s class. I didn’t tell him anything about it, so you can say whatever you want. I don’t care anymore.” That’s not quite true; the idea of Eddie feeding Harris lies about you makes your stomach curdle, but there’s only so much you can control.

Eddie’s, usually quick with a retort, is uncharacteristically quiet. “I, um, I thought…the secretary told me that all of the classes were full.” It’s a cop-out, but he can’t push himself to tell you what he knows now. Not when you’re already bruised.

“They made an exception because I was the one who requested it this time,” you explain, clenching your jaw. “Looks like you got your wish. You can forget about me now.”

He takes the paper and shoves it in his back pocket. The confession is on the tip of his tongue, an apology not far behind. Say it, he berates himself. Just fucking say it. You might be able to fix this if you just—

“I’ll go get Harris,” you tell him, breaking into his thoughts. “Good-bye, Mr. Munson.”

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