Title: Baby It's Cold Outside
Paring: Eddie "The Eagle" Edwards X Reader
Warnings: some drug mentions, home abuse and other serious issues. If any of you Readers are in these circumstances, please speak up and go to people who can help you through it. You're all precious snowflakes and I love you all!
Spoilers: some, for the movie Eddie The Eagle
Author's Note: I'm not a fan of RPF but I was requested by a fellow Taron Egerton (@CustardCreamies on AO3) fan to write an Eddie The Eagle fanfic and well, I took one look at Taron and all thought processes collapsed because he's that cute. Anyways. I hope you like it!
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By the time you realise there's a new guy in the tavern, it's well into the night and you can't help but think that every time he pushes his glasses up his noses and stumbles over his German that you die a little inside. Whether or not it's a good dying, you're not sure, but he's taking most of your regulars, who you can win over with a large tip and a great smile along with the service. But, it's too late, and by the end of the night, this blonde Englishman that bumbles around seems to be quite good at bussing tables. He might even have it in his blood.
But that's when it's lock up time, and you've counted your pennies, or really, they're pfennig, but who's to argue when you're not a local person yourself, and donned the snow coat ready to hitch a ride home.
"Where's he going?" you jerk a thumb toward the man, who, after all the work he's done, looks around the same age as you. "Is he travelling my way?"
Petra shakes her head. "He sleeps in the back room."
Your eyes widen, albeit, in your mind, and without another word, you nod, and wave them all good night until the next day, when you will be back to wait on more tables and wean tips from the cold-hearted local men and the foreign athletes.
It's a Tuesday when he tells you his name. It's also the slowest night you'd ever seen since your second day on the job as Petra's waitress, and without anyone to really go over to and charm, you are left waiting at the bar, sitting beside the skier who drinks his milk diligently.
"I'm _________," you offer him your hand.
It's strange that you're doing this, the chummy thing; it was that reason you uprooted yourself from your old home and came to Germany in the first place. It was here where there was history, and good people stuck in shitty places, and maybe that resonated with you, but here you were, and you were offering your fellow busboy a hand to shake.
He takes your hand in his. "I'm Eddie. Nice to meet you, ________." Even though you'd known each other a week by now, it sounded so sweet, so endearing from his lips. Even if those lips were surrounded by scruffy facial hair (which you weren't that much of a fan of) but it was so Eddie. It was charming.
Christmas was roaring by the time you got to speak to him next. It wasn't until a few days ago you found out he was a skier, like the men and women who came in to practice their jumps on the slopes, and even then, it was barely brought up that he had a dream to appear and compete in the Winter Olympics. But it was busy on Christmas, and even if most of the people you served didn't celebrate the holiday, they still wanted a nice lunch or dinner, and nice service too. So you did your best, and that is what everyone got.
"Order up!" Petra shouted, motioning for you to serve. It was for the table of skiers who were slightly younger, preparing for when they were older, and for their own Olympic dreams. You made way to her, and stacking the plates over your arms, made time and dished it to the youngsters, who gave their thanks for their servings of schnitzel with noodles.
You glanced over to the table Eddie was on, and couldn't help but notice that he had the professional skiers; the guys who were always making fun and picking on him. You knew it wasn't your business, and perhaps that there was no reason you had to go over and straighten things out, but there was no perhaps in that equation, you were already marching over to defend Eddie until the grave.
"Oi," you shout, quietening their table. It had been a while since you broke out your Scottish-born temper, and it showed on the young athletes who seemed taken aback by the display. "Quit harassing the staff." you stand to your full height, slighting in front of Eddie.
"You are right, that is just what he is. Staff. Not a skier." A Swiss athlete chuckled. His friends joined in along with him.
You cross your arms, and narrow your eyes. "If that's what you believe, so be it, but keep the beef for the slopes, Pingu." you glance to Petra behind the bar, as she serves beer in decorative beer stein mugs for the regular men on the stools. "Or I'll have you banned from in here. Clear?"
A Norwegian young man nods, "Crystal."
It's getting dark out when you make it to the top of the hill. Dark means cold, in the wintertime here, and that's why you're kitted out in all your gear to keep warm for the trek to the top. Most people retreat to the indoors in winter, but you like the brisk chill, you like feeling that the whole world is still and frozen, and you are breathing icicles. But as you make it to the top of the hill you often inhabit, there is another figure.
It is Eddie.
He looks to you, and underneath his knitted hat, his eyes are sad; they are red, and teary, lips quivering as he holds a piece of paper between his gloves. How he managed to open the letter without freezing his fingers from his palms, you are not sure, but at this moment, your cold heart softens at the sad appearance of the quirky, dream-driven skier before you.
"Oh gosh, sorry," you stammer, "I didn't mean to - I mean this is where I come -," you pause, reaching a hand toward him. "Do you need, uh, a hug or something?" He nods, and at that, you trudge toward him, the heavy steps the snow boots give you seeming full of purpose for once. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Eddie nods, then shakes his head. "It's just family stuff, ________. I just miss 'em."
You snort, looking into the abyss of the winter sky. It was as black a night as ever, the stars beaming down as much as they could through the oncoming snow clouds. "What's it like?" you wonder, glancing to Eddie. "Missing your family."
He frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I miss my Mum, and how she always told me I could do whatever I wanted, as long as I really wanted to. She's the reason I'm here, right now, _______." his smile is wan, as he adds, "and I miss Dad, even if he's never really thought of me as anything more than a plasterer, and a waste of time with all the sports." he sighs, folding the letter up, and tucking it in his jacket. "Wait, don't you miss your family?" He wonders.
You don't respond right away. Instead, you take a deep breath, and do your best not to run away from the topic. "I ran away from home three years ago. I'm probably listed as missing back in Scotland, but my Ma wouldn't care." you shrug. "She was hooked onto bad things when I was little, and took so many men in her home she didn't know which one sired me, and let them...abuse me. Anyways. I grew some balls and ran to Germany." you smile at Eddie. "And now I wait on tables and wish my life away."
Eddie frowns. "That can't be your story, though, ________," he sighs, "You're not wishing your life away. What're...what're you working for?"
You lean against his shoulder, head fitting perfectly against his side. "Do you mean, like, a goal for what to do after I finish working for Petra?" you wonder, and hearing his hum of affirmation, you add, in a sheepish voice, "I've always wanted to open a little cafe in a small town. It doesn't matter where, it doesn't matter when, but it'll have two tables out the front, and my latte art will win awards," you mumble. "I can cook pastries and pretty things, you know."
He beams. "Maybe I'll have to visit this cafe of yours," he suggests, glancing to you. There's frost on the rims of his glasses, and some snowflakes have nestled in his facial scruff, but at that moment, the imperfect Eddie Edwards was as perfect as he could be. "You know, in the future."
"And I'll come watch your Olympics," you add, glancing up.
"Deal."