Chapter Text
It was the third time they'd almost scared him to death.
The first was when they found him, hiding at Reefer Rick’s boathouse, clinging to a piece of broken glass to dear life, like a cornered paladin clung to their sword - but with none of the honor, righteousness and lawful good bullshit, only a wanted man trying to make it through the night. The second was when they brought him supplies, and he was still too on edge to not be suspicious of anything that got too close.
This time, Eddie wasn’t expecting anybody, which made him even more worried. They were not supposed to be there that day.
He sat back as he watched Dustin make his way into the living room, followed by a distraught looking Robin Buckley and an equally upset Steve Harrington. They were all quiet, too quiet, and that could only mean bad news. More bad news.
“Please, don’t tell me I’m being charged for another uncanny murder case.” Making light of a bad situation had always been one of his strong points, but none of his jokes seemed to land right now that his life has turned upside down.
"No, no! There haven't been any other uncanny murders, but, uh…" Dustin started, "we kind of need your help now."
"You're friends with Y/N, aren't you?" This time, Robin was the one to speak. "Senior, works at the record store downtown… Your friends told us you're kind of close."
Kind of close. He thought. That's one way to put it.
The mention of your name made his heart beat faster. He had grown used to the uneasiness in his chest, an anxious feeling that never really went away, but when it came to you, a new wave of almost overwhelming restlessness crashed through him.
There hasn't been a minute where Eddie hasn't thought about you. Alone and scared, hiding under a tarp while the silence of the woods and the soft waves of the lake below him lulled him to sleep, he thought about what you were doing, where you were, if you were safe. Whether or not the police had gotten to you, to interrogate you about him, just as they've probably done to his uncle, and if so, did you think he was capable of doing what he was being accused of?
He tried not to think much about that, though. Mostly, Eddie thought about your kind eyes and your warm laughter, smiling at him from behind the counter, the smell of your hair as he sat beside you, sharing a set of headphones as you tried to convince him to listen to something new. He'd give anything to see you again.
Nodding frantically, he stood up. "Is she alright? Where is she?"
"She's fine, she's at her house," Harrington intervened, raising one hand forward, "we just need to know… if you know… what her favorite song is?"
Eddie watched Steve wince uncomfortably as he tried to sound casual, and tilted his head at him, squinting. "What does that have to do anything?"
"It's a long story, but basically, um… me and Nancy came up with this theory that music can…"
Robin started fumbling with her words, but was promptly stopped by Dustin. "We just need to know what her favorite song is. She won't talk to anyone and we're worried, we can explain it on the way."
He didn't need to be a genius to understand what was going on there. Suddenly, images of Chrissy Cunningham's floating body flashed behind his eyes, her lifeless form dropping to the floor of his trailer, torn from the inside out — but, then, instead of her, it was you, your body, in her place.
The image alone almost paralyzed him.
"Of course I know what her favorite song is. I know all of her favorite songs."
His voice trembled, just as his hands did slightly as he gathered his jacket from where it lied scattered on the couch, but still, he followed the trio as they rushed through the door.
1.
“No fucking way!”
“Shhh!” You snatched the record from his hands, but Eddie could see you were holding back a smile, “You’re scaring the customers.”
“He’s always scaring the customers.” Claire, the girl who worked the afternoon shifts with you, and who wasn't too fond of his behavior, rolled her eyes from where she stood, checking through a couple of boxes of new releases.
“He’s always scaring the customers.” He repeated her words mockingly, his face twisting in a sneer. Eddie knew he sounded childish, but it was worth it to see you biting your lip to hold back on laughing again, asking Claire to take those boxes to the back of the store and sort them out by artist, saying you would organize them later. He, on the other hand, didn’t hide his own grin as he watched the redhead leave through the staff door.
"You," pointing at him, you faked a glare, and Eddie would be lying if he said it wasn’t adorable, "are the most embarrassing human I've ever met."
Part of the fun of driving all the way downtown to buy new records and tapes wasn't just in getting to get his hands on new music, it had also a lot to do with you. The shy girl who mostly kept busy with stacking vinyl in alphabetical order and, for some reason, always seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Eddie couldn’t seem to remember a time where you weren’t there, though he knew you must have started working at the record store only recently, but you fit in there in a way that felt like you belonged. Not in the physical space between the rows and rows of records, and the colorful walls filled with cassette tapes, but in Eddie’s life.
He could spend hours there, and sometimes that happened quite literally, talking to you about music, though your opinions diverged quite a lot. On other days, when he just wanted an escape, he’d keep you silent company - as silent as he could manage - browsing through the sections and wandering behind the counter, controlling the record player only the staff had access to. You were easy to talk to, and that was something it was hard to find for him.
Maybe it was also because he liked the way you looked at him when he pushed your buttons.
"Are you listening to yourself? You're the embarrassing one!" He crossed his arms, leaning back at one of the shelves behind him. "Who doesn't like KISS?”
"They're just a bunch of clowns in high heels trying to make music. Also, who the hell names their band "kiss"? That's, like, the cheesiest shit ever."
“Unbelievable.” He shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. “What do you like, then, Your Highness?”
“I dunno…” You trailed off. As you did, Eddie watched you work, your delicate fingers counting through the new tapes scattered around the counter, silver rings glinting under the sunlight that filtered through the glass storefront, the way your mouth contorted as you seemed deep in thought, “I’ve been listening to a lot of Bob Dylan lately, some Joni Mitchell, she’s true magic, you know…”
“God, you’re so boring!” Your shocked face made him laugh openly, “didn’t anybody tell you this isn’t the Summer of Love anymore?”
“This isn’t the Summer of ten minute guitar solos, either, Munson. No matter how much you try to make it happen.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen me play yet. You’ll ask for ten more minutes when I’m through with it.”
Accidentally, that sounded a little more suggestive than he intended, and he knew that. He was almost apologizing, laughing it off with another joke, but he noticed the way you stopped on your tracks, slowly looking up at him, clearly trying to mask the way your breath hitched as you felt yourself fluster under his gaze.
Eddie noticed, then, that he liked that a lot more than he liked pissing you off.
“You wish.”