Eddie Munson Oneshots

Not a Chance in Hell

"Eddie! What the hell happened to you?"

You had stepped up to the door as you heard the knock that sounded from it. As you pulled the door open, you saw Eddie leaning against the frame with a kind of nervous smile on his face. He was struggling to look through one of his eyes, which was slightly squinted because the eye was surrounded in a dark purple splotch.

The giant bruise is not the only thing decorated on his face. His lip is split and he has a cut where the bruise around his eye is placed. He looks like shit.

Eddie smiles, though. It's not his wide smile that stretches across his face and wrinkles the area around his eyes. It's a small one that squints at you, almost nervous to see your reaction.

He tries to joke as his hand reaches across his stomach and holds his side. "You should see the other guys. They look much better than I do." He shakes his head at his pathetic joke, "There were three of 'em."

You mutter a curse under your breath, stepping forward and taking his face in your hands as you move it gently around to examine his bruises. He does not look away from your face as you do it, his eyes stare intently into you as your cool hands cup his warm face. It's a lovely feeling, one that almost has him sighing and melting into your hold. You feel like heaven right now.

You always do.

"Who did this to you?" you ask as you gently turn his head to the side to look at his nasty cut. There is concern drenching every feature on your face: the crease between your brows, the hard line of your lips, the worry in your eyes. Your knuckles brush softly against his cheek where he isn't bruised. Again, he nearly melts into you. You notice but don't say anything.

He shrugged, "Just some assholes who couldn't handle all this excellen– Ow!" His joke is cut off as you come to his side, wrapping your arm around him to hoist him up a little too tightly. You apologize quickly and quietly as you loosen your grip.

"God– Let me get you inside," you tell him, ushering him into the house. He sets his arm over your shoulders and lets you help him inside, limping slightly. You bring him up to your room, sitting him down on your chair and shoving the stacks of homework off your desk with little to no regard for any of its decency. It falls to the ground uselessly and you pay it no mind. It almost makes Eddie laugh.

But his ribs hurt.

You disappear into your closet and come back out with the first aid. You sink to your knees in front of him after setting down the kit, propping yourself up with a hand on his lap. Your hands lift up and wrap gently around his head, pulling him down so he's looking at you after you flick on the light from the lamp on your desk to see him a little clearer.

Under better light, the bruises look worse than they are. You shake your head and sigh as you take in what you will be working with.

It isn't new. This is the second time in the past week that he's appeared at your door all bloodied up. You had assumed someone is taking his "freak" status and using it as a defense to beat him up, but a second occurrence makes you think otherwise.

You bring a warm, damp cloth up to his face, gently dabbing at the cuts and scrapes as his blood stains the cloth. You watch him closely as you work, making sure you get all of the bad cuts. Eddie's eyes are on you, close and warm.

It isn't a stare that makes you want to shrink away — it never is with Eddie — his gaze is soft and it puts you at ease, even as you worry over his well-being while you're cleaning his wounds.

It is silent as you work. You can hear the slightly uneven breath of Eddie across from you, you can hear your own breath in your ears. Your eyes find his gaze as you dab at the cut next to them, giving a reassuring smile and a gentle squeeze of the side of his thigh when he winces slightly.