the first relapse being the most scariest thing you’ve seen. sarah’s even calling you about him like “dads trying to get his doctor on the line just in case he od’s”
added this to what i'd already summarized in this ask!! hope everyone enjoys the angst 😔🫂 it’s a little long (around 7.1k)
death by a thousand cuts - r.c
pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)
warnings: substance abuse.
Ward’s sitting at the dining table, barely glancing up from his phone when Rafe walks in. His jaw clenches. That look—so cold, so dismissive—always sets something off in him.
“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks, already knowing this isn’t just a normal night.
Ward doesn’t answer right away, just sighs like Rafe being here is another weight on his shoulders. “Your mother called today.”
Rafe freezes.
He doesn’t have to ask which mother. Ward’s new wife has nothing to do with this. His real mom. The one who left.
He tries to stay calm, but he can feel his blood pumping, “What’d she want?”
“She says she wants to see you. You and your sisters.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow, his heart pounding harder now. The audacity of it. She always did this—popped back in when it was convenient for her, like they were just part of her life she could pick up and drop whenever she felt like it.
When was the last time? A couple of years? Before that? It doesn’t matter.
“No. I’m not doing this again.”
“Rafe—”
“No, I said no.” The anger wells up fast, a familiar burn in his chest. He stands there, fists clenched. “She’s full of shit, dad. She doesn't give a fuck about us. So, no. I’m not seeing her.”
Ward looks up, calm as ever, but there's that edge in his eyes—the one that always makes Rafe feel like a little kid who’s stepped out of line. “You’re overreacting. She’s still your mother.”
“My mother?” He lets out a bitter laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fists tighten at his sides. “She left. She fucking left us. She’s not my mother. She’s just some lady who couldn’t handle shit.”
Ward stands up now. “Watch your mouth.”
“Watch my mouth?” Rafe barks back, stepping forward, his anger boiling over. “I watched her leave me every time she got bored or freaked out. And you—you didn’t do shit!.You just let it happen. Let her walk out over and over.”
“That’s enough, Rafe.”
But he's not done.
He’s too pissed to think straight. “What? You gonna defend her? You’re the one who let her fuck me up like this! You—”
“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems,” Ward snaps, his voice rising. "Grow up. She left. And you’re still standing here acting like a child over it.”
Something inside Rafe cracks. His chest tightens like someone’s squeezing the air out of him. "A child? You don't get it. You never got it. She fucked me up. She fucked all of us up, and you're still acting like it's nothing." His mind is spinning, flashing back to all those nights he was too high to breathe, too strung out to care if he woke up the next day. He feels like he’s suffocating, the anger burning too fast. “I’m not doing this again, dad. I’m not.”
Ward’s gaze turns cold. “She’s trying now. That has to count for something.”
“Trying? Trying?!” Rafe grits out, stepping forward. All those years, all those broken promises, all the times he was left wondering what the hell he did wrong to make her leave—and now Ward wants him to sit down like it’s a fucking family reunion.
“I don’t care what you think about it, Rafe. This isn’t up for discussion. You will see her, and that’s final.”
“No. No fucking way!” He shouts, his voice shaking as he steps closer to Ward, fists clenched. “You can’t make me do this. I’m not going to sit there and pretend like everything’s okay when she’s the reason I turned into the mess I was. And you—” His chest heaves as he fights to find the words, his throat tight. “You’re just as bad as she is.”
Ward’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he continues, “Every time she left, you didn’t do a goddamn thing. You let her walk all over us. You let her leave me, leave us, and you never said a word. You’re a shitty father, just as bad as her."
Ward’s face darkens, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”
“I’ll talk to you however the hell I want,” Rafe fires back, stepping even closer, eyes blazing. “You didn’t stop her. You never protected me. You sat there and watched her fuck me up and then turned around and blamed me for it. Like I was the problem.”
“You were the problem,” Ward snaps, “She didn’t know how to handle you, and neither did I. You were a fucking disaster, Rafe. And that’s on you.”
“No. You two were and are the fucking problem because you can’t let go of her.”
Ward takes a step forward, “This isn’t about you. It’s about your sisters. Sarah wants this. Weezie deserves a chance to know her mother. It’s not all about your issues, Rafe. Grow up.”
“Grow up?” He feels like he’s suffocating, “You think I’m the one who needs to grow up?
“Enough. You will meet her, or you can leave this house right now.”
All the work he's put in, all the shit he's tried to fix, feels like it’s slipping right through his fingers. He can’t be here. Not like this. He’s out the door before he even knows what he’s doing. That itch beneath his skin is back after years, that’s how much control his parents have over him.
Rafe’s hands are still shaking as he gets into his truck, slamming the door harder than he means to. It feels like he can’t get enough air in his lungs, and his thoughts are spinning, they’re all crashing into each other at once. The fight with his father keeps replaying in his head, louder and louder, until he can’t hear anything else.
He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. His dad’s voice, cold and cutting, telling him he’s the problem. That he’s always been the problem. His hands are shaking worse now, trembling like he’s about to snap, and there’s only one thought pounding through his mind: He can’t go to you like this.
The thought of walking through your door, this messed up, makes him feel sick. You’ve seen him at his worst before, but this… this feels different. He can’t let you see him like this—not the old Rafe. Not the one who almost lost everything.
You don’t need to see that. You don’t deserve it.
He knows where he can go instead. Somewhere he shouldn’t, somewhere he swore he’d never go again. But right now, it feels like the only place that makes sense. His head’s spinning, his body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and anger, and he just needs it to stop.
So, he turns the key in the ignition and drives. It doesn’t take long to get to Barry’s. He knows the back roads by heart, even though it’s been years. He pulls up to the small shack Barry calls home, the lights still on, music thumping faintly from inside. It’s like nothing’s changed. The same rundown place, the same shitty cars parked out front, the same smell of smoke and spilled liquor lingering in the air.
Rafe sits there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, breathing heavy. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that.
He climbs out of the truck, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking, and heads toward the door. The second he steps inside, the familiar smell of stale beer and weed hits him like a wave, bringing back memories he thought he’d buried.
Barry’s lounging on the couch, a joint hanging from his mouth, lazily flipping through channels on the TV.
“Country Club!”, Barry drawls when he notices him, smirking around the joint. “Now this is a surprise. Didn’t think I’d ever see you walk through that door again. Thought you were all clean now, with your pretty little girlfriend.”
He tenses at the mention of you. But he can’t walk out now. Not after what just happened with Ward. Not when everything inside him feels like it’s about to blow.
“I just need something,” Rafe mutters, avoiding Barry’s eyes, already regretting this but not enough to stop.
Barry raises an eyebrow, amused. “Something, huh? You know, you’ve got a real habit of showing up here when you’re all fucked up.” He laughs, low and mocking. “What’s the matter this time? Daddy issues again?”
His jaw tightens. “Just give me what I want.”
Barry leans back, flicking ash onto the floor. “You sure you wanna go down that road again, man? Thought you were past this shit.”
“I don’t care,” Rafe snaps, his voice low, shaking with frustration and something darker. “You know what I want. Go get it.”
There’s a pause, and for a second, Barry just looks at him, sizing him up. Then, with a shrug, he gets up, disappearing into the back room. Rafe waits, heart pounding in his ears, staring at the floor, trying not to think about what he’s doing. About what this means.
Barry comes back a minute later, a small bag of coke in his hand. He tosses it onto the table in front of Rafe, “Knock yourself out.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the bag, his fingers already moving on autopilot as he pulls out his wallet and shoves a roll of cash toward Barry. He knows this is stupid, reckless. He knows this is going to hurt you, more than anything else. But ll he wants is to forget. Just for a little while.
His hands stop shaking the second he takes that first line.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀
You’re already drained when you step through the front door of the house, kicking off your shoes and throwing your bag onto the couch. The sticky summer air is clinging to your skin, and all you want is a cold shower and to crash in bed.
The day’s been dragging—work was a shitshow, and all you’ve been thinking about is Rafe. You haven’t heard from him since this morning, which isn’t weird, but there’s been this nagging feeling in your chest, like something’s off.
“Hey,” Monica calls from the kitchen as you grab a glass of water and lean against the counter. She’s scrolling through her phone, half-distracted. Milo’s at kindergarten.
“Hey,” you mumble back. “Everything alright?”
She shrugs, not looking up. “Yeah, mostly.” She pauses, frowning slightly, like she’s trying to piece something together. “I think I saw Rafe’s truck earlier. Over by Barry’s place.”
You blink, trying to process what she just said. “Barry’s?”
“Yeah, you know. The guy who used to sell—Whatever.” Monica shrugs again, more casual than you feel. “I was driving back from work, and I swear it was Rafe’s truck parked outside Barry’s house.”
Your stomach drops. Instantly.
“You’re sure?”
“Looked like his truck,” your sister says, “Thought it was weird. Figured maybe he was helping someone out or something.”
But you know better.
A cold sweat breaks out over your skin. You’ve heard Rafe talk about Barry. Back when things were bad—really bad—he was the one who kept him hooked, who kept pulling him deeper. He told you everything about those years when he was drowning in addication and Barry’s name came up more than once.
And if his truck’s outside Barry’s, you know something’s wrong.
It’s like a pit in your stomach, this gnawing feeling that’s been sitting with you all day.
“What? Why’s that such a big deal?”
You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s impossible. “Rafe doesn’t… he doesn’t go there anymore. He hasn’t in years.”
Monica frowns, finally understanding. “Oh. Shit. You think something’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” you mutter, already pulling out your phone, fingers wobbly as you open your messages. You scroll through the last few texts from Rafe, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Except the silence. He’s usually better at checking in, especially when he knows you’ve had a long day. But today? Nothing.
You stare at your screen, debating if you should call him. But deep down, you already know something’s happened. He wouldn’t go to Barry’s unless things were really bad.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” your sister offers, but her voice is hesitant, like she’s not sure. “Maybe he was just stopping by. It doesn’t mean—”
But she doesn’t finish, and you don’t need her to. You know what it means. You feel it in your bones. He’s back in that dark place—And he didn’t come to you. He went to Barry instead.
Why didn’t he come to you?
“I need to go,” you say, your voice coming out more panicked than you’d like, but you can’t help it. Your heart’s racing, your mind is spinning, and the only thing you can focus on is Rafe. You’re grabbing your keys off the counter before your sister can even answer.
“Wait, what? Where are you going?” Monica asks, a bit alarmed now, but you don’t have time to explain.
“I need to find Rafe.”
Your sister steps forward, “Is it really that serious? I mean, maybe he’s just—”
“He’s not just anything,” you cut her off, shaking your head. “If he’s at Barry’s, it’s bad.”
Rafe had told you everything about his past—every ugly detail about the years he spent losing himself, the drugs, the fights, the constant mess of it all. He had opened up to you after your first time together. And for the past two years you’d seen him, the real Rafe, the one who tried so damn hard to be better.
And now? He’s slipping. And you weren’t there.
Your mind is racing as you drive. You think about how good things have been with him—how far he’s come. He’s not the guy he used to be. He doesn’t party like he used to, doesn’t need to numb everything with lines of coke or bottles of whiskey.
He told you about his time in rehab, how scared he was of becoming that version of himself again. But something must’ve happened.
Something big.
Why didn’t he tell you?
The thought is suffocating. You know him—he’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, but he’s been so careful with you, always making sure you never had to see the side of him that scared him the most. He’s opened up about his struggles with anxiety, about how he sometimes still smokes weed to take the edge off, but this… this is different.
This is worse.
It had to be Ward. He’s has always had this chokehold on him, making him feel like he’s never good enough. And whenever his mom gets brought up—whenever she’s even mentioned—it messes with him in ways you can barely understand. She’s the one person who could make him spiral, and Ward is the one person who could push him over that edge.
You slam your fist against the steering wheel, frustrated.
He’s dealing with this alone, and now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to his place, your stomach churning. You can see Rafe’s truck parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat. He’s here.
He’s here, and he didn’t come to you.
You sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel, trying to calm yourself down, trying to figure out what the hell you’re even going to say when you see him.
You get out of the car and practically run toward Barry’s door. You know this place, know the people who come here and what they’re looking for. You’re pretty sure your dad spent half his life here, when Barry’s dad still ran the business.
You don’t even knock. You push the door open. Barry’s on the couch, looking up lazily when you walk in, and you see Rafe—sitting in the corner, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.
He looks like a ghost.
Barry snickers from the couch, taking a drag from his joint. “Well, well, look who it is. Didn’t think I’d see the two of you here together.”
“Shut the fuck up, Barry,” you snap, glaring at him before turning your full attention to Rafe. “What are you doing here?”
“W-What?”
“Baby, look at you.”
He tries to stand, his movements slow, like his body isn’t responding the way he wants it to. His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, his pupils blown wide, and he’s swaying slightly, barely able to keep his balance.
“I just... I needed to clear my head,” he mumbles, the words slurring together. His hand goes to his hair, but it’s shaking, and he can’t even look at you. “It’s not—”
“It’s not what?” You feel your heart breaking with every word, the cracks widening as you take in the mess of him, his clothes disheveled, his face pale, his hands twitching.
He stumbles again, trying to step toward you, but he’s so high he can barely stand. “I didn’t want... I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he rasps out, finally meeting your eyes for just a second before looking away. “Didn’t want you to... think I was still... still that guy.”
“You’re not that guy anymore,” you say softly, even though right now, he looks too much like that guy. “But you’re acting like him.”
His head drops, and he looks down at the floor, his shoulders sagging, defeated. “Didn’t know...what else to do.”
“And you didn’t think to come to me?” Your voice breaks on the last word, “You went to Barry instead of me?”
“Hey now—"
“I told you to shut the fuck up,” You almost scream in Barry's face, your chest rising with each breath you take. Rafe can't stand to look you in the eyes right now. He can't see the disappointment.
“You always know what to do. You call me. You come to me. Why would you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance at Barry, who’s watching the whole scene with a smirk on his face like he’s enjoying every second of your heartbreak. “You’re better than this. Get in the car. We can talk about this.”
But he shakes his head, his breath shaky. “Can’t… can’t be with you right now.”
“Why?”
“Just… too much. Hurts too much.” He looks down, guilt washing over him. “Didn’t want you to see... this.”
“Then get in the car. We can figure this out together.” Your voice cracks, the hurt pouring out.
He hesitates, shaking his head again. “I… can’t.”
It pushes something inside you.
Maybe you’ll regret it later but now it’s all you can think about. If he doesn’t want your help, he doesn’t want you. And if he doesn’t want you right now he doesn’t deserve to want you when he’s better.
“You can either get in this car and fight with me, or you can stay here. But if you stay—”
“Y-You’ll leave?” He’s looking at you despite the fog in his brain, not sure if he’s hearing you correctly, “Leave me?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“E-everyon leaves right?"
He’s never said anything like that to you before.
“I’m not leaving you, but if you stay here, with him,” you jerk your head in Barry’s direction, “I can’t help you. I can’t pull you out of this if you don’t want to get out.”
You know you can’t fix this for him. He has to make the choice. His eyes dart toward Barry for a second, and Barry just shrugs, clearly not giving a damn about anything but his next hit.
“I love you, but I can’t watch you destroy yourself.”
For a second, you think maybe you’ve gotten through to him, because his eyes soften behind all that darkness. But then he shakes his head again, looking at the floor like he’s already made his decision.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters, barely audible. “But I don’t know how to stop.”
Your heart breaks a little more at that. “Yes you do, baby. You do. You just need to believe it.”
If he doesn’t come with you, you’re not sure where this ends for him. He’s stuck, frozen in place, trapped by whatever’s going on in his head, and you realize that no matter how much you love him, no matter how much you want to save him, you can’t force him to choose you. You can’t make him get in the car.
“You have to decide,” you say quietly, voice breaking. “Me or this. You can’t have both.”
Rafe looks up at you, eyes glossy, and for a second, you think he might actually say something — something that will make this all okay, something that will bring him back to you. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, torn apart by his demons, his lips pressed into a line. You feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper.
“Okay,” you nod, barely holding back tears. “I guess that’s my answer.”
You turn and walk out the door, your heart shattering with every inch of distance you put between you and him. You don't look back, because if you do, you know you’ll drag him out yourself, and you can’t do that. Not now. But as you get into your car and grip the steering wheel with your entire strength, the sobs come anyway.
You don’t want to leave him. God, you don’t want to. But he didn’t choose you. Not this time.
Rafe doesn’t even register the sound of the door slamming behind you. It’s like he’s watching everything happen from somewhere far away, his body numb, his mind completely blank. You said something, you were upset—he knows that much—but the words never really hit him. They just floated around. He sinks back down into the chair, staring at the floor, heart racing but completely detached. The room is spinning a little, his chest tight, but he can’t feel anything. Can’t let himself feel anything. It’s better this way. Safer.
You left.
He knows that happened, but it doesn’t mean anything right now. He can’t process it. Not in this state. Not when the drugs are still in his system, making everything feel like it’s underwater. He blinks a few times, trying to get his brain to catch up, but it’s not working. It’s just static.
Barry’s voice is somewhere in the background, laughing about something, but he doesn’t hear him either. It’s like the world’s on mute. His body’s still buzzing from the high, fingers twitching, muscles tense, but inside? Inside he’s empty.
Hours pass, maybe. Time doesn’t exist here, not when he’s this far gone. The light changes through the window, but it could be minutes or days for all he knows. He drifts in and out, his head heavy, eyes closing, but sleep never comes. Just darkness. Maybe he did too many lines.
At some point, he wakes up—if you can call it that. His body feels like it weights two hundred pounds, his head is spinning, his mouth dry and sour. He blinks against the light, his vision blurry, trying to figure out where the hell he is.
It takes a second for everything to catch up. To realize he’s at Barry’s.
And then, it hits him all at once. You.
You were here. You were mad. And then you were gone.
His chest tightens, a sick, sinking feeling crawling up his throat. He sits up too fast, his head swimming. Fuck.He rubs his hands over his face, trying to calm his breathing. His thoughts are still sluggish. You left. You walked out, and he… he didn’t stop you. Didn’t even try.
Why didn’t he stop you?
Before he can think too much about it, Barry saunters in, a smug grin on his face, holding a beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He takes one look at Rafe, slouched and disoriented, and lets out a low, mocking laugh.
“Well, well, well,” Barry drawls, leaning against the doorframe, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Look who’s finally awake. You done fucked it up, Country Club.”
Rafe doesn’t say anything. Can’t.
Barry raises an eyebrow, taking a drag from the joint, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Thought you were smarter than that.”
Rafe just stares at the floor, his stomach twisting. He can’t remember exactly what he said to you. But the look on your face… he can’t forget that. The disappointment. The hurt.
Barry chuckles, settling down on the couch across from him. “What was it? You running your mouth again, or did she just get tired of you being a fuckup?”
The shame is settling in now, creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to hear this. Doesn’t want to hear anything. But Barry just keeps going, like he’s enjoying watching him fall apart.
“Should’ve seen it coming, man,” Barry continues, “Girl like that? She was bound to leave eventually.”
If he felt strong enough he would’ve punched that joint out of his mouth, his teeth following next. Who the fuck did he think he was to talk about you like he knew you.
He knows Barry’s just trying to get under his skin, but it’s working. He feels sick. He presses his hands against his eyes, trying to push it all away, but it’s no use.
“You done fucked it up, Country Club,” Barry repeats, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “And now you’re right back here. Same old Rafe.”
Same old Rafe. He told himself he’d never end up here again. He swore he was done with this. Done with Barry, done with the drugs, done with the guy he used to be.
But now? Now he’s right back where he started. And the worst part? He let you see it. He doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know if he even can fix this. But the one thing he does know? He should’ve crawled after you.
Rafe doesn’t say a word.
He doesn’t need to. His hands are already moving, reaching for the small bag of coke on the table. His fingers tremble as they close around it, the weight of the plastic barely registering in his hand.
Barry watches him, that same smug grin never leaving his face, taking another drag of his joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a low chuckle. He’s not surprised. Not at all.
"Of course," Barry mutters, shaking his head in amusement. “Of course, you're takin’ that shit with you.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight him. He can feel Barry’s eyes on him, feel the judgment radiating off him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not anymore.
Not after everything he’s already fucked up. He stuffs the bag in his jacket pocket, standing up on shaky legs, the room still spinning a little as he stumbles toward the door. His mind is on autopilot, moving without him, as if the drugs are the only thing holding him together.
"Attaboy, Country Club," Barry calls after him, voice dripping with condescension, laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Just keep runnin’. That’s what you’re good at, right?”
Rafe’s hand tightens on the doorknob, his teeth grinding together, but he doesn’t turn back. He can’t look at Barry—he can’t look at any of this—so he does what he always does.
He walks away. He doesn’t think. He just keeps moving, out of the door, out into the night, the bag burning a hole in his pocket.
It’s been two weeks since you last saw Rafe.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀
Two weeks of silence, of unanswered calls and texts that sit there on your screen and make you cry every time you look at them. You told him you’d leave, but you didn’t mean it. You never meant it.
You just needed him to fight. For himself. But he didn’t.
And now, you can’t stop thinking about him. It physically hurts.
Every morning you wake up with this heavy impossible ache in your chest, and it only gets worse as the day goes on. You keep wondering where he is, if he’s okay, if he’s even thinking about you or if he’s too far gone to care.
You miss him. God, you miss him.
Now you don’t even know where he is. If he’s still spiraling or if he’s hit rock bottom.
You’ve barely been able to keep it together at work. Every time you try to focus, that image of Rafe in his absolute worst slips in, and you never get anything done. You’ve called in sick twice, just to stay in bed and cry, because you can barely breathe.
You’ve reached out to Sarah a few times, trying to understand what’s going on, but she doesn’t know much either. "He’s off the grid," she’d told you last time, "Doesn’t want to talk to anyone."
That was a week ago.
And now you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone, debating if you should try one more time. One more call. One more text.
Because this can’t possibly end this way.
He’s the love of your life.
Sarah’s name flashes on the screen, and you nearly drop the damn thing. “Sarah?”
“Hey,” You can hear it immediately—something’s wrong. “Are you home right now?”
Your stomach drops, “Yeah. Why? What’s going on?”
You can hear her take a shaky breath. “It’s Rafe. He’s, shit, it’s bad. Like, really bad.”
“What do you mean, bad? Sarah, what happened?”
“Dad’s trying to get his doctor on the line,” she says, her voice cracking. “Just in case he ODs.”
Your blood turns ice cold.
“He’s not picking up,” she continues, her words spilling out in a rush, like she’s trying to keep herself from breaking down. “Dad’s freaking out, and Rafe—he’s not making sense. He’s been on a bender for days, and now he’s just... he’s not there. I don’t know what to do. I thought maybe you could—”
“I’m coming,” you say, cutting her off, already standing, your body moving on autopilot.
You hang up before she can say anything else, grabbing your keys and rushing out the door. The drive to Tannyhill feels like it takes forever as your mind comes up with worst-case scenarios. You’ve seen Rafe struggle before—you’ve seen the dark places he’s been—but if Sarah’s calling you, if Ward’s getting a doctor involved….
You barely notice you’ve already parked the car, barely notice the front door swinging open as you run inside. The house is quiet, too quiet.
Sarah’s standing by the staircase, her eyes red and puffy. She doesn’t say anything, just nods toward the living room.
And that’s when you see him.
He’s slumped on the couch, his body limp, his eyes half-open but glazed over, like he’s not even seeing what’s in front of him. His skin is pale, clammy, his hands twitching every few seconds, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looks like half a version of himself, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Ward’s pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if he’s busy, get him here now. He’s going to fucking die.”
“Rafe?” you call, stepping toward him. But he doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. He just stares ahead, eyes unfocused, like he’s not even aware you’re there.
Sarah’s standing behind you now, her voice low, “He won’t talk to us. He’s too far gone.”
You sink down beside him, your heart breaking at the sight of him like this. You reach out, hesitating for a second before gently placing your hand on his arm.
“Rafe,” your voice wavers. “Baby, it’s me. Please… please talk to me.”
But there’s nothing. Just silence.
His head lolls to the side, and his eyes meet yours—but it’s like looking at a ghost. The person you know, the person you love, isn’t there. Not right now. Not in this moment. And it kills you.
You keep whispering his name, pleading for him to wake up, to do something, but nothing works.
Ward's still on the phone, pacing like a caged animal, his voice a angry hum in the background. His eyes flick over to you every few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything. Sarah’s standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes red and puffy from crying. You can see how scared she is, and you’re glad they got Weezie out of the house before she could see this.
After what feels like an eternity, the front door bursts open, and a doctor rushes in, followed by a paramedic with a bag of medical equipment. The doctor, some guy Ward must have on speed dial for situations like this, doesn’t waste any time. He kneels down beside Rafe, checking his pulse, his pupils, his breathing.
“This is bad,” the doctor mutters, shaking his head. “He’s lucky he’s still breathing.”
Lucky.
The paramedic moves in, setting up an oxygen mask, checking Rafe’s vitals, and it feels like the room is spinning. You try to stay calm, try to keep your hand on Rafe.
Ward finally hangs up the phone and stands there, watching as the doctor works. “Is he gonna be okay?” he asks, his voice strained because god forbid he shows more emotion.
The doctor glances up, his expression grim. “We need to take him in. I’m stabilizing him, but if this had gone on any longer, we’d be having a different conversation right now.”
You feel like you're going to be sick.
The paramedic starts prepping him for transport, and you stand there, helpless, watching as they move him onto a stretcher. His body looks so limp, so fragile. They’re talking about taking him to the hospital for observation, but all you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears.
Ward steps forward, he watches his son being carried away. For the first time, you see it—real fear in his eyes.
“I should’ve seen this coming,” Ward says, his voice shaking. “I should’ve stopped it. This is my fault.”
You feel something snap inside of you. “I’m sure it fucking is.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there like a fucking idiot. Sarah is beside you now, her hand on your arm, gently pulling you back. “Let’s go,” she mutters,“We should go with him.”
You nod, swallowing as you follow her out of the house, leaving Ward standing there alone.
You climb into your car, Sarah beside you, and you both sit there for a moment in silence, watching as the ambulance pulls away, taking Rafe with it.
“I’m scared,” Sarah admits.
You close your eyes, and nod. “So am I.”
You have to remind yourself to breathe. She sits beside you, staring straight ahead and neither of you says another word.
The hospital is quiet when you arrive, eerily so. You both rush in, Sarah at your side, searching for the emergency room and after a bunch of paperwork and hurried conversations, you’re finally led to the waiting room. The doctor said they’d keep you updated, and you sit down on those stiff, uncomfortable chairs, the waiting begins.
Minutes drag by like hours. You try to text or scroll through your phone, anything to distract yourself, but you can’t focus. Every time you close your eyes, all you can see is Rafe. It’s like your brain is stuck on replay, and you can’t shut it off. Sarah’s over there biting her lip until it’s bleeding. Every now and then, she looks at you, like she’s about to say something, but then she doesn’t. And you don’t either. You can’t. What the hell would you even say? It feels like you’re both waiting for the worst possible news and just pretending you’re not.
After what feels like forever, the doctor finally comes through the doors, and Sarah and you jump up at the same time.
The doctor sighs, and he looks tired, like this isn’t the first time he’s delivered news like this today.
“We stabilized him,” he says, “He was really close to an overdose, but we got to him in time. He’s still unconscious, but his vitals are stable for now. We’ll keep him under observation for at least 24 hours.”
You finally take a deep breath, but it’s shaky, and it doesn’t feel real.
Sarah doesn’t even hesitate. The second the doctor says Rafe’s stable, she’s heading towards his room, like she needs to see him, to make sure for herself that he’s really still here. You don’t follow her, though. Your legs feel like they’re made of concrete, if you move, you’ll just collapse right there in the hallway.
As much as you want to be with him, to hold his hand or just… see him breathing, you know you can’t handle it. Not right now. You’ve spent the last two weeks trying to hold it together, and this is the first time you feel like you can finally breathe. Like you’re not suffocating with worry.
What you need more than anything is to get out of here. To just breathe, to close your eyes for more than a minute without the image of him passed out, strung out, burned into your brain. You need sleep. You need to feel something other than panic. He’s gonna be okay. Maybe not perfect, maybe not healed, but for now, he’s alive.
The next day, you finally gather the courage to see him. You feel like you might throw up at any second. You stop outside his room, staring at the door for what feels like forever, trying to convince yourself to go inside.
He’s lying in bed, looking like he barely walked out of this one alive, but he’s awake. His eyes meet yours the second you step inside, and you feel like you’re going to start crying at any given second.
“Hey,” You manage to say, You don’t trust your voice to be strong enough to say something more.
Rafe blinks, like he’s surprised to see you. His voice is rough when he speaks, cracked from everything his body’s been through. “You came.”
“Of course I did,” He’s genuinely shocked. As if he thought you’d just walk away from all of this. From him. You swallow hard, taking a step closer to the bed. “Of course I came, Rafe.” Your voice is soft, barely holding together. “Where else would I be?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes flicker away from yours, settling on the IV in his arm, like he can’t stand to look at you.
“Sarah called me. She was scared. She didn’t know what to do.”
Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he still won’t meet your eyes. “She shouldn’t have,” he mutters, his voice hoarse, barely there.
“She shouldn’t have had to, Rafe. You scared the shit out of her—out of everyone. And I’ve been sitting here for two weeks, waiting for you to say something, anything, and you just—” You stop yourself, your throat closing up, and you bite your lip to keep from crying. “You almost died.”
You can see his chest rising and falling slowly, and for a split second, you think he’s not going to answer at all. That he’s just going to keep shutting you out.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want you to see how fucked up I am.”
Your heart breaks all over again because you’ve already seen it. You’ve seen every part of him—the good, the bad, the absolute worst. And you’re still here. You’re still standing in this stupid hospital room because you love him. He shakes his head, his hands gripping the edge of the blanket like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I don’t deserve you.”
You step closer to the bed, sitting down carefully on the edge, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe. Just a little bit.
“Don’t say that,” you reach for his hand. He flinches at first but doesn’t pull away when you lace your fingers with his. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this. But you can’t keep pushing me away. I need you to let me help you.”
He closes his eyes, his face twisting in pain, “Ward wanted us to meet mom and I just—”
You’ve never fully understood what his mom meant to him, or maybe what losing her did to him, now you do. That deep-rooted pain that always seems to haunt him when he talks about her is stronger than you’ve ever seen before.
“I didn’t want you to see this mess. I don’t want anyone to. I’m a fucking disaster. Every time I try to fix something, I just make it worse. I just—” He breaks off, his jaw clenching like he’s trying to swallow down the rest of his words, the ones he can’t say out loud.
“You spent years sober, that’s not easy,” You scoot closer, wrapping your arms around him carefully, not caring if he feels like a mess or if you’re being too much. You just want him to feel like he’s not alone. “Baby, I know you’re hurting,” you murmur into his shoulder, “But I’m not going anywhere.”
“You should,” He confesses, “I hurt you.”
“You have,” you admit, “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I’m not gonna give up on you.”
He looks away, like he doesn’t believe you, like he’s waiting for you to just walk out of that hospital room and never look back. But you don’t.
You tighten your grip on his hand, "You don’t get to decide that for me. I’m still here because I love you. Even when you push me away.”
“You shouldn’t love me,” he whispers, like it’s some kind of fact, like it’s already been decided.
You shake your head, leaning in closer, your hand resting on his cheek. “But I do, Rafe. I always will. Even when you don’t think you deserve it, we’ll figure it out, together, okay? One step at a time.”
He nods, barely, but it's something. It’s a start.
185 notes
·
View notes
A House That Has Everything: Chapter 2
A/N: Chapter 2 of my new series! This one came to me when I saw these amazing AI photos on Instagram made by @blackvelvetep and @_chiara975ep. (Be sure to check out their pages on Instagram!) My fic brain went crazy and this storyline was born.
Set in Regency England, Mr. Presley is the gentleman who owns and resides in Graceland Manor. Annabelle Martin is his newest maid after her parents have died and left her an orphan. Can he resist his affection for her, despite the difference in their social class?
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, masturbation (male), imagining some sexy things
Word count: ~2.4k
Need to catch up? Masterlist HERE.
Mr. Presley sighs and turns from the window. Will the responsibility of this new life never end?
******
After two weeks in her new position, Annabelle has settled into a new normal at Graceland Manor. It's not one she particularly likes or enjoys, but it's a routine at least. She's finally learned what her responsibilities are and how to do all of them. She's also met everyone in the house and learned who is worth talking to and who isn't. The other maids are not. They're both young and experienced and spend most of their time making snide comments and whispering about her. The cook, Mrs. Hall, is her favorite person, so far. She has a warm, welcoming air about her that makes Annabelle feel at home even in the big house that has no other home-like feeling. She hasn't talked to her much, but she likes her best of all anyway. And the handsome footman that answered the door when she first arrived is the cook’s son. His name is Jimmy and he's been nothing but cordial, albeit maybe a little too friendly. Most everyone else is nice enough, but she doesn't have a real companion among the group.
One of Annabelle's jobs is tending the fires in every room each morning. This means she's up before dawn every day. She doesn't enjoy that part, but it's actually quite nice to move about the house while everyone else is still asleep. Her favorite room is the library, which doubles as Mr. Presley’s private study. She never has much time to spend in there, but she does take a few minutes occasionally to look around at the books, even glancing at his desk a couple of times. He's a mess. There are papers stacked and sticking out of piles everywhere. She's not sure why, but she finds this a little endearing, even if she has sworn to hate him.
About 3 weeks after her first day, Annabelle walks into the library purposefully, ready to light the fire and try to look at the books a little. She's startled when she realizes there is a candle burning and someone sitting at the desk. There's only one person it could possibly be, so she tries to back out of the room as quickly as she can, but she hits the doorframe and it makes a loud thud. He immediately turns and stands up and she gasps.
Mr. Presley has an imposing presence even when he's not angry, so he feels almost terrifying when he is. He glares at her and Annabelle is overwhelmed with the desire to melt into the carpet.
“Where have you been?! It's freezing in here.” She shakes her head and stumbles over her words.
“I-I I'm sorry-”
“There's no excuse.” His eyes are wild and red-rimmed like he's either been crying or hasn't slept or both and his hair looks like he's run his hand through it about a thousand times. Annabelle recognizes the look of distress and her fear turns to compassion.
“Did you… have you been in here all night?” She asks in a small voice. He's obviously disarmed by the fact that she hasn't just run away from him.
“What?”
“You look like… have you slept?” She chances a step towards him and his imposing presence seems to shrink a little.
“That is none of your business! Just light the fire and get out!” He spits at her and turns away. She walks over to the fire and tends to it quickly.
As she works at the fireplace, he turns back and watches her. There was a hint of something in her voice that he hasn't experienced from anyone other than the Mrs. Hall in a very long time. Could it have been kindness?
He softens a bit as he watches her at the fireplace. Her shoulders are delicate and graceful as she works and he has the thought again that she wasn't built for this kind of hard labor. He feels an insane desire to help her, to take the task of making the fire and do it for her, but that would be inappropriate on every level. Still, something about her makes him want to throw propriety out the window and care for her the way men do in stories about knights and ladies. He's lost in this reverie when she finishes and stands up, turning back to him.
Annabelle is shocked to find him watching her when she turns away from the fire. He moves quickly to look somewhere else, but for half a second she could've sworn his expression was gentle.
“Are you finished?” He hisses, not looking at her.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get out. Be earlier tomorrow.” His attempt to put her in the right place in his mind comes out as unnecessary coldness.
“Yes, sir.” Annabelle whispers and goes to walk from the room. But at the door, she pauses and turns back.
“You could tell me… why you haven't slept… if you wanted. No one would listen even if I tried to tell them your secrets.” For a second, he meets her eyes and the warmth he finds there soothes an ache he didn't even know he had. And then he remembers himself.
“OUT.” He tries to yell, but falters the tiniest bit. She nods and leaves the room.
Falling into the nearest chair, Mr. Presley sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose. She's right that he hasn't slept. He's been holed up in the study trying to make sense of some documents since last night. Somewhere around 3am, the frustration had turned to grief and he cried for an hour or so. He was making his way back to frustration when she came in.
Why had he responded to her kindness with such cruelty? He knows the answer but isn't ready to face the reality of it.
******
In the next room, Annabelle sits in front of the fireplace crying quietly into her apron. She's so lonely and tired of the harshness with which she's treated here. There's not even anyone she could tell about her struggles. She's alone.
And why had she tried to connect with him? Not only is he a gentleman, he's her master, and not a very nice one at that. But something about him and his emotional state touched her and she felt compelled to offer herself in some way. And for no discernible reason whatsoever, his rejection hurts worst of all.
She starts to cry big, heaving sobs, knowing they're audible but no longer caring. Let them get rid of her. Maybe she could leave this miserable place and let Mr. Presley light his own fires.
******
On his way to bed, Mr. Presley hears the unmistakable sound of a woman crying coming from the drawing room. He walks quietly to the door and peeks through the crack.
The new maid.
His heart shatters when he hears the depth of her despair as she sobs. She's probably crying because he was so hateful. He lightly puts his fingertips on the door to push it open and go to her. Then he stops. It takes everything inside him to turn from the door and leave her there crying.
******
When Annabelle gets back downstairs, the kitchen is bustling with activity. Mr. Presley is entertaining later that evening, so Mrs. Hall is in a tizzy getting everything ready. Most days she does just fine by herself since she's only cooking for one man upstairs and the help downstairs, but when he entertains, she wishes she had some help. Annabelle wanders through despondently and perches on a bench.
“Love, don't you have something else to do?” Mrs. Hall asks, sweat running down the side of her face.
“Not really. I've done all my morning work already.” Annabelle kicks the floor with the toe of her shoe. She's still having to work to keep from crying.
“Get over here and help me, then. I'm assuming you know how to peel and chop.”
“Yes ma'am. I did all the cooking when I lived with my… my parents.” Her voice catches in her throat and Mrs. Hall stops and actually looks at her with her red little nose and tear-stained face.
“Love, what's got you upset?” Mrs. Hall asks as Annabelle washes her hands and takes some potatoes to peel.
“Nothing, ma'am.”
“Call me Gladys, dear.” Annabelle shakes her head.
“Oh, I could never.” Mrs. Hall laughs.
“Even Mr. Presley calls me Gladys sometimes.” Annabelle looks up at her in shock. That's far more interesting than her troubles.
“May I ask why?”
“Sure you can. I practically raised that boy. His mother passed trying to birth his twin and I had Daniel who was nearly the same age. Colonel Presley was lost for a good while after the mistress died and he paid very little attention to his son. The nanny they'd hired wasn't a very nice woman and Elvis- I mean Mr. Presley- used to spend most of his time hiding from her down here with me. He played with my boys and I taught him to cook and play the pianoforte. He's almost like a son to me, despite the difference in station.” Annabelle’s eyes widen with Mrs. Hall’s words. She tries to imagine a young Mr. Presley running through the kitchen, learning to cook and playing with servant boys. But more than the image of him as a child, it's the look that Mrs. Hall has when she talks about him that surprises her. It's a look of deep respect and love. She wonders how long it's been since Mrs. Hall has spoken with him. Maybe he has changed. “Now why don't you tell me what's got you so troubled.”
Annabelle looks down at the potato she's peeling and decides that she needs someone more than she needs to keep her own secrets.
“It's funny you mention Mr. Presley.”
“Why, love?” Annabelle sighs.
“He's the reason I was upset. Well, not the whole reason, but kind of the last thing I could handle. No one here has been very kind to me, him least of all.” Mrs. Hall nods and smiles.
“Hm. He likes you.” Annabelle looks at her with her face scrunched in shock.
“No, he does not. I assure you.”
“He likes you and he knows he shouldn't. He's trying to keep you at arm’s length.” Annabelle shakes her head.
“How do you know? Maybe he hates me?”
“If he hated you he wouldn't speak to you at all. I know my boy. He likes you.”
“No, I'm sure that's not it.” Annabelle continues peeling potatoes in silence, but her heart is pounding. Why does the prospect of Mr. Presley liking her make her knees weak?
******
That evening, Mr. Presley has several friends over for dinner. They eat and play cards and have cigars and brandy and recount their most recent adventures in London. His closest friend, Mr. Jasper Davies, asks what everyone else is wondering.
“When will you be married, then?” They're not eager to lose the company of their bachelor friend, but they know the expectation now that he's the master of a great house.
“I have no designs on marriage anytime soon.” Mr. Presley answers, knowing this won't be realistic for very long. He'll have to marry sooner rather than later. Still, he's never found any particular young lady of his station that he liked well enough to marry. There had been one girl, an actress, that he had loved quite a bit before he joined the army, but she was not a viable partner for him. None of the ladies of the county interested him and he found most of them to be rather one-dimensional and boring.
The conversation about marriage continues, but Mr. Presley has a hard time focusing. For some reason, the new maid enters his mind. He thinks about her slender white hands, too delicate for the work she does. And the way her uniform follows her curves down to her waist and then hides the rest. What he wouldn't give to be able to see her legs and feet unobstructed. He lets his imagination go even further and suddenly a picture of her naked and sprawled on his bed appears. His cock twitches in his pants and he has to adjust and clear his throat to bring himself back to reality. That's a thought he cannot have, especially not in present company.
Eventually, everyone retires to one of the many bedrooms in the house. Mr. Presley stops briefly in the library with the vague hope that the maid might be there. Of course she's not, but the brandy he's had makes his logic a little faulty. He makes it back to his bedroom where his valet undresses him and puts him in bed.
It's not long before he realizes he's staring at his fireplace, imagining the maid on her knees in front of it. This image is quickly replaced by an image of her on her knees in front of him. He curses himself for the inappropriate images in his head and the way his dick hardens at the thought of her, but he can't stop his hand from finding himself under his nightshirt. She's so pretty and kind and graceful and oh, God, he'd give anything to see her and feel her pressed up against him as they tumble naked together in the bedclothes.
He moans softly as his hand pumps his cock, sliding his foreskin back and forth, his thumb sweeping over the tip to collect the beads of precum as they gather. His hips buck into his palm and he strokes himself harder and faster. He tries to focus again on the actress that he normally thought of when he did this, but he can't. There is only the maid. The maid with her hands on him, with her mouth on him, with her thighs on either side of his hips as she sinks down onto him, with her lips parted and eyes closed as she reaches the peak of ecstasy and cries out his name. With that, he whimpers as he cums all over his hand, his cock throbbing and pulsing and leaking until his release has fully washed over him. He lays in his bed sweating and trying to catch his breath. The picture of her in his mind is so clear. He opens his mouth to whisper, but nothing comes out.
He doesn't even know her name.
******
Until next time...
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Taglist:
@ccab @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @atleastpleasetelephone @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity
31 notes
·
View notes
The boy is mine (Jade's edition)
Eddie Munson x Reader
Summary: Eddie has a plan for a romantic night, but things go awry (2k words)
Contents: Anxiety, Eddie is self deprecating, hurt/comfort (kinda), no gendered terms for reader except mention that their hand is smaller then Eddie's and reader is called beautiful, a literal fire (please look up fire safety), fluff
A/N: So I saw this the first day it was posted and I thought it was a fun idea and saved the prompt by @carolmunson. I've been writing this for a bit,, but like I have had such bad mental fog and generalized pain recently I have been having a hard time focusing...I think I kind of misinterpreted the rules a bit...so here is sad lump of a contribution. Call me Stitch the way I am telling myself "it may be little and broken but still good".
18+ only
The night had started well, at least Eddie thought it had. He promised you a romantic night in. He even prepped for it.
Eddie rented sappy love movies, getting advice by Harrington and Buckley surprisingly. Harrington stated flowers were the way to go, but then started arguing with Buckley. While entertaining, Eddie learned more about the languages of romance from Buckley then he did about romantic gifts. But he wrote down to get flowers.
So he watched the movies. And Eddie was high paid a lot of attention and basically learned to make a grand speech. Big pour out your heart moment. Which, he felt he always talked your ear off, so he could totally do.
Eddie then read those magazines all the cheerleaders gossiped and giggled over. He didn't learn much except some tips for the best kiss. Cup the person's cheek and lean in slowly. Build the suspense. Eddie could do that.
Give you flowers. Make a speech. Cup your cheek as he kisses you. Eddie had this in the bag! Each point written in his little notebook.
And then the reality of you coming to his trailer hit him when you called to confirm the date was still on that morning. He hung up the phone after flirting a bit and looked around his house. Nerves flooded his system as he looked at it with the perspective of an outsider. He didn't want it to look bad. And it was, well, it wasn't bad but definitely could be cleaner.
So Eddie had vacuumed and dusted the entire trailer. Tossed empty pizza boxes in the trash. Sprayed some cologne around the trailer to cover the scent of weed, then cursed himself for using the expensive cologne when there was a bottle of air freshener in the bathroom.
Had picked up his clothes scattered across his room and shoved them all, clean and dirty, into the closet. Had made sure his bed had more then one pillow, grabbing spare throw pillows and tossing them towards the headboard. Even if he didn't think there was a chance you would enter his bedroom tonight, he wanted to be prepared.
Eddie had even started dinner before you arrived. An easy roast that Wayne had made hundreds of times. Thrown meat, potatoes, onions, and carrots into the pot, seasoned it and thrown it all in the oven.
It was newer, this thing between you, and he wanted to get it all right. You'd been friends for years, just recently evolved into dating. It was easy to hold your hand and throw an arm around your shoulder before, stealing those small intimate moments and pretending it meant something more. But now it does mean more. Truly, it always had, but neither of you had said anything. Because like usual, Eddie was the coward and ran.
He spent what felt like minutes (it had been hours) looking back at the notes, the plan. He had even sketched some pictures of you and him as he studied. Gave himself some sweet new tattoos and piercings and muscles while you had hearts around your head. By the time he stopped rereading the same points over and over again, he realized you would be there within the hour.
And he already failed the first point, flowers. It had completely spaced him what with the studying, but he had other things he had been wanting to give you so he figured he could wing it. He rehearsed everything in his mind, having various conversations with you. He would take your coat, be charming as ever, and you would fall for him even more then you already had.
But the plan immediately left his mind when you had arrived. Eddie could feel his face flush as his eyes trailed up and down your figure. All the rushing thoughts in his head suddenly stopped. All he could think was Damn, how'd I get so lucky?
"You're beautiful." Eddie mumbled in awe as you had shrugged off your coat. And then you smiled and Eddie realized he had messed up the plan. He thought he had went through every variable but he hadn't. It wasn't you that was going to fall more in love with him tonight, but Eddie was going to fall more in love with you.
Eddie twirled a piece of hair around his finger, unable to meet your eyes. His heart was beating wildly in his chest and his palms were begin to sweat. He couldn't help but shift from foot to foot. "Oh I uh....got you something," Eddie smiled and turned to leave before hesitating and motioning to the couch," You can uh sit...or stand, standing is good too! I'll be right back."
Eddie cursed himself the whole time he walked away because of how stupid he was. He could stage elaborate campaigns but couldn't seem to form a single sentence in your presence. Eddie grabbed the gift off his dresser and inhaled slowly, mentally yelling at himself to be cool for once in his life.
And faltered in his steps.
Because you were sat on the couch. Not just on the edge of the cushion like those who he dealt to who couldn't wait to get out of his presence. No, you were fully relaxed into the cushion. You looked comfortable. You looked like you belonged.
And Eddie couldn't squash the butterflies that took flight in his stomach. And he sat on the cushion next to you, fighting the urge to wrap you in his arms and hold you close.
"I got you this," Eddie declared as he handed you a rock. A small, smooth stone that fit in the palm of your hand. Your mouth parted but no words came out. Eddie bit his lip as you slowly turned the stone over in your hands, staring at it.
"I saw it and I thought, well, I thought of you and it matches your eyes and-" Eddie huffed out a laugh and shook his head," Sorry, it's stupid just give it back."
Eddie moved to grab it out of your hand but you slapped at his arm and clenched the stone in your hand. "No, it's mine!" You held your hand to your chest and glared at him. "It's stupid," Eddie looked down. "It is not." "It is!"
"Are you serious? If you don't stop we're gonna have a problem. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me." You beamed at him. Joy and adoration written clearly across your face. Eddie slowly grinned back as you dared to open your palm and look at the stone again. "My precious," you wiggled your eyebrows at him, making him bark out a laugh as he relaxed.
"Let's save a ring for a later date." He joked, even as his mind raced. You quoted Lord of the Rings! You were sitting on his couch holding a rock he thought was the same shade as your eyes and you liked it!! He was done for. Completely head over heels fallen for you. Said he would never marry yet here he was planning his vows and everything.
"Seriously, Eddie, this is so sweet." Your hand grasped his. Your hand was smaller then his, fitting perfectly. Fingers interlocked hesitantly and then more surely. Eddie's eyes fell to your lips. Your tongue darted out slightly and wet them. And he started to lean in.
The air was thick, and not just with the tension, the anticipation. Your lips were milliseconds to coming in contact with his when Eddie's nose twitched as he caught a familiar scent. Your lips landed on Eddie's cheek as he turned so quickly to face the kitchen he gave himself whiplash.
Thick smoke started to waft out of the room. "Oh fuck!" He jumped up as the smoke detector finally started doing its job and screeched out an annoying beep. Eddie ran into the kitchen with you hot on his heels.
Eddie opened the oven door, smoke billowing out," SHITshitshit-" Eddie cursed as he slammed the door shut, coughing slightly. Your hand reached past him to shut off the oven before darting over to the window and throwing it open.
Eddie's eyes darted to the sink below the window. Stop, drop, and roll- wait no that was if you were on fire. But water beats fire in almost every scenario, right? Except oil, shit did he add oil? No, he didn't add anything except the food and the seasoning so it should all be good right?
"Stand back!" Eddie yells over the screeching alarm. Grabbing the pot holders, he throws the oven door open. Smoke billows past him as he makes a mad dash for the pot, grasping the handles and throwing it in the sink. He throws the faucet on, water pouring over the burnt food and pot.
Steam billows up with smoke, mingling in the air before flowing out the window. A hissing sound from the cool water hitting the hot pot fills the air. You fan the flames towards the open window. "Oh fuck." You cough as your eyes fill with tears from the smoke. Eddie winces as flurried apologies fall from his lips.
The pot, not on fire at least, starts to lessen up on producing smoke. Eddie deems it safe to leave and grabs your hand, dragging you outside. His hands on your shoulders guide you to sit on the steps as you continue to intermittently cough. Eddie rushes back into the kitchen, double checking that the oven was off, and quickly grabs a mug holding it under the still running faucet.
Eddie rushes back outside to you, almost missing the step and face planting. And wouldn't that have been the icing on the cake. Would that make Eddie or the embarrassment of faceplanting be the vanilla frosting? Who even created that saying? Cake was good and this was not good. Eddie shook his head of these thoughts as he sank down on the step next to you.
Eddie hands you the mug of water. You drink it in big gulps, a small dribble of water falling out of the side of your mouth towards your chin. Eddie wipes it away with his thumb as he apologizes," I am so sorry, I don't even know what happened."
"Is this Garfield?" You peer at the mug, as if Eddie almost didn't kill you. "Uh yeah, was in a rush, sorry I didn't grab like a nicer cup. I just ran out...to you..." "Don't apologize, I like Garfield," you mumble taking another drink of the water.
"Are you okay?" Eddie asks, hands running up and down your shoulders, eyes checking you over. "Think I hacked up a lung from all the smoke...," you rub your sternum," Man, my lungs do not like smoke...and you like that?" Eddie let out a nervous laugh," Yeah no sorry, only when its weed. Never really inhaled a straight fire before."
You look up into Eddie's eyes that are full of concern. "Well, I'd recommend like not doing that. But I'm okay, it startled me more then anything," You give a soft smile. "You sure?" "Positive." You knock his shoulder with yours.
Eddie's eyes search your figure, ensuring you aren't lying to him. You ignore him, opting to set the mug down on the ground. Fingers brushing against a dandelion, yellow and bright. You pluck it from the ground and twirl it between your fingers.
You're okay. You're holding a dandelion and you're okay. You aren't acting like you hate him. You aren't making excuses and leaving. You aren't leaving like everyone else-
Eddie's shoulders relax as the tension leaves his body. You're okay. Your relationship is okay. He didn't ruin everything. You're smiling at a fucking dandelion while his heart feels like it has run a marathon.
You're oblivious to his plight as you lean over and tuck the dandelion behind his ear," Maybe don't smoke that. Looks pretty on you." "Not that kind of weed." "Yeah dumb joke sorry."
A slow exhale escapes him as he shakes his head,"No it's good I'm just," Eddie waves his hand in front of him," like what the fuck just happened? I am never cooking again. I'll just take you to Enzo's. I fucked up. Sorry for ruining the date."
Your hand cupped his cheek as you ducked down to meet his eyes," Hey, no. You didn't ruin the date." Eddie rolls his eyes slightly," Almost killing you? Yeah, pretty sure i ruined it." You bump your knee against Eddie's, "it's not ruined and you didn't almost kill me. Small food fire, happens to everyone. I lit popcorn on fire once. Besides, if you did happen to kill me, at least I would have died happy and in love. And you'd be stuck with me cause ghost me is absolutely haunting you."
Eddie can't help but laugh slightly," Oh? You think you'd be a ghost and not get another chance at life? Be reincarnated or whatever?" "Well, even if I was reincarnated, I'd find you again."
Eddie scoffs, "C'mon, don't say that.. That's not even true, you'd totally be able to move on. You wouldn't need little old me." You grab his face and peer into his eyes," Eddie Munson, I will always need you. In this life and whatever happens after. You and me? We're it. Maybe it should be too soon to say, but I feel it in my bones. You're it for me Eddie. Together now, forever, and when everything ceases to exist we'll be in nothing together. I will always be with you because I will always love you."
You lean in and Eddie thinks his heart stops. Your hand holding his cheek in place, thumb lightly brushing back and forth. His eyes flutter shut as your lips finally touch his. It was soft and sweet, lips slowly parting and melding together in a dance that sent shivers down Eddie's spine. He sighed into the kiss as you leaned closer into each other. Your hands threading through his hair, his wrapping around your waist. Lips moving in tandem, tongues darting out tentatively.
You only part when you both are gasping for air. Soft smiles and longing glances shared as the sun sets. "I love you too." Eddie traces your cheekbone with his finger. "You better." You joke. Your combined giggles fill the air as you continue to steal kisses from each other.
The night may not have been the most romantic. Or gone to plan, like, at all. But it was one Eddie already knew that when he thought about he would be able to feel his heart swell with love. And as he kissed you Eddie thought, yeah you were it for him.
44 notes
·
View notes