Chapter Text
Working in a thrift store at the edge of town usually meant long, boring days. You’d get the occasional antique hunter, a few moms shopping for their families on the weekends, a handful of regulars, and every so often some bored teens would stroll through but for the most part it was quiet. You liked it that way. All the more time to get some studying done all while getting paid, right? At least that excuse worked during the school year. Now, mid-July of the summer after your senior year, the days passed like molasses through an hourglass. Shadows stretch along the walls as the sun moves across the sky and not a soul passes through the door.
You spend your shifts processing donations, sorting clothing into piles such as Menswear or Children’s or Dear God Why Would You Donate This There Is Literal Shit On It , and testing electronics and toys for functionality. It’s a little dull sorting diamonds from rust, but it’s a living.
Like clockwork around 2 PM, the bell above the door signals the entry of your favorite regular. He’s missing his signature leather jacket and battle vest combo, and his mop of hair is tied into a knot at the base of his neck, but he still has that signature Eddie Munson smile plastered on his face. He beelines for the counter you’re sitting behind and taps out an enthusiastic beat on the glass top, the silver of his chunky rings clicking against it louder than he anticipated.
“Anything new for me today, Sweetheart?” He asks, drawing out the pet name a little too slowly.
Reaching under the counter for the milk crate you and your coworkers stashed the particularly good donations, you shrug. “Not much more than yesterday, Munson. Most people don’t drop off donations in the middle of the week.”
As you set the crate on the counter, his eyes shine with excitement. He’s practically bouncing on his toes, watching as you dig in the bin for the box you’d stashed there earlier today.
“Maybe not,” he muses, “but I know you don’t always go through everything as soon as you get it… and you wouldn’t have reached for your little treasure chest down there if you didn’t have to so, again I say,” he actually does bounce this time, his hands coming to a teepee in front of his wicked grin, “what’cha got?”
You can’t bluff any longer, and roll your eyes when you toss the velvet jewelry box onto the counter. “Dunno if it’s your size,” you say, “but it’s got your name written all over it.”
Eddie opens the box quicker than you thought humanly possible, and the noise he makes can only be described as a roar of excitement, followed by a hearty laugh. He pulls the thick silver ring from its place in the box and inspects it. A heavy skull sits on the top, much like the one he already wears daily, but this one has a set of dark, tarnished metal horns curling from its forehead and small red stones set in the eye sockets. He immediately slips it onto all of his fingers to test the fit. It doesn’t look hopeful until he switches hands, slipping it onto the second finger where his other skull ring sits.
Chuckling, he switches them, tossing the old ring up in the air and catching it before stuffing it in his back pocket. “Would ya look at that? Guess there’s only room for one,” he chuckles, flexing his fingers and admiring the new piece. “How much?”
“As you can guess, we probably wouldn’t make much on that from anyone but you,” you tease, looking over all the other jewelry prices in the case before you. You throw out a random number, “Two-fifty?”
“Oh,” the man before you feigns offense. His hand flies to his chest, pressing softly against the Hellfire logo, and he throws his head back. “You wound me, sweetheart. You really think that little of my style that something I love is worth a mere two dollars and fifty cents ?”
Laughing, you raise an eyebrow, your hands resting mockingly on your hips. “You wanna pay more for it?”
“No, no,” he holds out a hand, stopping the bit before it can go any further, and rummages in his wallet for a few crumpled dollar bills. “But keep the change,” he says as he hands them over, “I don’t like…jingling.”
Your eyes narrow at him while you pluck two quarters out of the register and deposit them into the penny pool next to it.
“I dunno,” you murmur, “you seem to me like exactly the kind of person who wouldn’t mind jingling, what with all the chains and buttons you wear.”
“Touche, my dear, touche.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives an exaggerated shrug. Turning on his heel toward the door, he calls over his shoulder, “guess I just don’t like change. Pocket or otherwise!”
When Eddie is around, you fear you’ll never stop rolling your eyes. Which you do, affectionately, and bid him adieu until tomorrow, when he’ll inevitably show up once again asking if anything new has come in.
You'll definitely look. You always do. It’s a habit now, to keep an eye out for things that your regulars may like while you sort and process donations. Charles, the old man who looks for cat trinkets for his wife, always stops in on Saturday mornings while she’s at her hair appointment. You set things he may like aside so that you can show him and save him the time of browsing. Anything remotely trendy or something that may seem like a cool find, you tend to hide amongst the racks to make it more of a challenge for the teens that come in and love the hunt of it all. Likewise, the items that scream Eddie Munson at you, you can’t help but stash away with your own findings, because he can spend all day browsing the racks – and he will – but seeing his face light up when you produce your wares from under the counter is one of the highlights of your day.
You weren’t sure how to feel when the town outcast seemed to pick your shop as his new hangout. To give yourself credit, you never really were one to buy into all the rumors spread around high school, especially in Hawkins. If you did, you wouldn’t trust anyone. No, you didn’t think he could be nearly as bad as everyone made him out to be, but his personality and style still didn’t paint him in an overly-inviting light, and you didn’t want anyone stirring up trouble in your (for the most part) peaceful place of work. At his first visit, you figured he just needed a thing or two and that he would be in and out. Then he hit you with that damn smile, and he kept coming back . Soon enough his “freak” persona melted away before your very eyes, and with every visit, over casual conversation and the occasional Icee he would bring you from the gas station across the street, you got to know the true Eddie Munson. Sure, he was still a metalhead with quite the eccentric fashion sense and devil-may-care attitude, but he was also an excitable and inviting nerd who loved a good opportunity to talk about his interests and even your own.
So now you find yourself tucking tee shirts and patches and tapes into that milk crate and looking forward to the next time you see him. Really, you always looked forward to his next visit, but your little treasures were a better excuse for that excitement.
The day after you presented him with his new favorite ring, the store received a donation that you’re more excited than ever to sort through.
The record store in town has had “CLOSING SOON! EVERYTHING MUST GO!” signs in its windows for months, and you had assumed they were just waiting to sell the last of their inventory before finally closing their doors, but according to the former owner the rent on the building had become too much to make keeping the doors open worth it. So, he brought the last of the inventory (about 9 crates full of records, and a few boxes of resale tour merch) to you, hoping that they might have better luck on your shelves.
You can barely contain your glee and have to stop yourself from ripping into the boxes before he’s even left the store. By the time two o’clock rolls around you’ve managed to sift through about half the boxes, and have a short stack of records on the counter waiting to show off.
“Well, well, well,” Eddie’s voice startles you from your concentration on the task at hand, you’ve been so engrossed in sorting through the items that you didn’t even hear the bell above the door. “What do we have here?” He gestures to the overflowing counter with both hands, excitement dancing in his eyes.
“Christ, Eddie,” you scold, hand to your heart and a soft glare on your features. “You scared the pants off me.”
Raising his eyebrows, he leans heavily on the counter, leaning in close to peek over the edge at your legs, “aw, man,” glancing back up to your exasperated face, he chuckles. “I was hoping you meant literally.”
“Shut up, Munson.” You breathe.
“Alright,” he reaches for the box closest to him and digs in, “but only ‘cause I’m itchin' to see what this is all about.”
So you dive into the story, explaining everything the shop owner told you when he dropped it all off and you both sort through the records. Although, while you organize them alphabetically, Eddie is sorting them into two distinct piles: “Worth Listening To” and “Utter Trash.” You won’t tell him you saw, but he definitely slipped an extra ABBA album underneath Bat Out of Hell in the 'good' pile .
“Oh!” You exclaim after setting the last of the boxes behind the counter to get priced and shelved, “I almost forgot the best part!”
“Oh yeah?” He probes, his dimples on full display when he gives you a cheeky grin, “What’s that?” He leans his elbows heavily on the counter, leaning into you with interest.
You grab the stack of hand picked items from under the counter and push it toward him, your expression full of pride. It’s not much, a couple of pins, a shirt, and three records, but they’re the ones that stood out to you most before Eddie showed up.
“Take ‘em,” you say, barely above a whisper despite there being nobody else in the store, “they haven’t been logged yet so they technically haven’t been donated.”
He holds the shirt, a Black Sabbath Tour ‘78 design, up to his chest and bites back a grin. “Now something tells me you shouldn’t be doin’ that.” Then, pulling the shirt away from himself, he holds it in front of you, making a show out of closing one eye and lining it up perfectly so that he can picture it on you. Your cheeks heat – whether it’s under his stare or at the comment you aren’t sure. He holds the shirt out to you and winks, “You should keep this one for yourself though. I’ve already got one like it and I’m sure you’ll rock it better than me, anyway.”
You snatch it from his grasp and busy yourself with another box of donations to hide the fact that your blush is only getting deeper.
“We aren’t technically supposed to hold shit for anyone after it’s been processed either, but you don’t seem to complain when I do that.”
When you look back up, he’s holding his hands up in surrender, “hey, no complaints over here, I just wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with the law or anything. That’s kind of my schtick.”
“Eh,” you shrug, “what the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and with a donation as massive as this, they won't be missed.”
He worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he scoops the pins into his pocket and shuffles the three records between his hands. His gaze flicks between the titles (Judas Priest Stained Class , Rush 2112 , and Motörhead Overkill ) and your face, his smile widening as he does, “these are some good picks.”
“I know , ” you press, “now get outta here so I can do my job.”
He bows, actually bows, with his hands outstretched and turns toward the door. “Till next time, milady!”