Eddie Munson Oneshots

Not a Chance in Hell

When you feel like his cuts are clean, you put down the cloth and grab the anti infection cream. "You know, you didn't have to do this, Blue," he trails off as you look back at his brown eyes again. The way he says your name is almost sentimental, like he's reminiscing something.

It's a nickname he had given to you when you first met. You walked into the theater room in the sixth grade and tripped over a bucket of blue paint, which spilled all over the floor in a huge, horrible mess. You fell forward into it and ruined your clothes. Paint stuck to your skin and your hair, your front was practically soaked in it.

Eddie was in the room with a couple of friends, introducing them to D&D when it was still new. They had seen the whole ordeal. One of his friends snickered at you, called you Crybaby as you had begun to sob. The other nearly joined in, but was quickly silenced by Eddie, who threatened to punch them both.

He helped you to your feet and offered a smile, even as you almost began crying again from getting some paint smudged on his hands and eventually his shirt. "That's alright," he'd told you. "I think it's cooler this way."

He smeared some of the paint on your hands into his own and wiped it down his shirt. He even swiped some paint from your cheeks and splotched it over his own. His hair was buzzed back then, but you are certain that if it had been longer, he would have painted it too. He had offered you that huge grin of his. "Now we're matching."

You laughed. Your voice was higher at the time, so it came out as a giggle. He laughed too, glad he was able to get you to smile. You introduced yourself right after, still grinning even as your cheeks began to hurt. He repeated the name back to you, just making sure he was saying it right before nodding decidedly. "I think I'm gonna call you Blue. It looks good on you."

"Blue?" you asked, testing out the name. You smiled and nodded, "I like it." You looked down at your clothes, and your frown returned as you felt the paint beginning to dry uncomfortably against your skin. He saw your lip begin to quiver and grabbed your hand, making you look at him again.

"Hey, don't cry," he'd told you. "You're gonna be fine, 'kay?" His reassurance was enough to make you smile again. Even with everything going on in his life, he had been so kind to you. He called you Blue. His best friend, Blue.

You shake your head at him as you gently apply some of the cream to his cuts. "Hush," you tell him simply. He breathes a laugh and instantly regrets it, a hand reaching up for his side where his ribs had likely been injured. The movement is not lost on you.

You lift his shirt up over his side to examine his chest as you speak. "Did you know the guys?" you glance up at him with your question, but quickly return your eyes to his chest, looking for any bruises. There are a few, but they aren't severe.

You poke around the expanse of his torso as he shakes his head. "No," he tells you as he licks his lips. "Like I said, just some assholes– Ow!" You had pressed your fingers into one of his ribs, and he arched his back away from you.

"Nothing broken. Just bruised," you tell him as you lower his shirt again. The look he gives you fakes annoyance, but you are not fooled, and he knows it.

You go back to applying the ointment over his cuts. You look back at him as you work, "You didn't taunt them, did you?"

He smirks, "What? Me? Never!"

You risk a laugh at his words, his sarcasm making you smile and putting you a little more at ease. "You're terrible," you say through a laugh. But the more you think about it, how he got hurt and how it could have been so much worse, the more your smile is wiped from your face and you frown again.