Eddie Munson X Reader

Warmth | S. R. | oneshot

Mature | Steve Rogers x Chronically Ill Reader

I’ll take care of you, he had said then. I love you. I always will. On the bad days and the good ones.

AUTHOR MASTERLIST | AUTHOR AO3

Established relationship, married couple, romance, fluff & hurt/comfort, angst with a happy/hopeful ending. Reader is good friends with Bucky and Nat.

Word Count: 1,771 words.

Reader Specifics: She/her. Mid-to-late twenties. Has a chronical illness that causes pain and fatigue, no specific diagnosis mentioned. Married to Steve. No description of appearance (other than clothes and such), no use of Y/N.

Warnings: Themes of chronic pain & illness, and the feelings that such conditions may cause, including self-worth and self-esteem issues.

I do not own anything Marvel related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

You get close.

The base of the batter is done, butter and chocolate melted, instant coffee and sugars mixed into it, milk and eggs and vanilla extract poured into the bowl. The kitchen of the Tower floor you and Steve share is downright indulgent, spacious enough that you can spread everything out and you try to work fast enough before being up becomes too much to bear. You manage to ignore the nagging tingling of your body, the slow burning that goes in waves from knees all the way to your chest.

You grind your teeth, focus on the task at hand.

Just as you’re about to start sifting in the flour-cocoa mixture, the first red-hot knife sinks into your stomach. You yelp, even as you knew it was coming, and with the second strike of the blade, you drop down to crouch next to the kitchen counter, squeezing the edge of the counter with both hands, fingers cramping from the grip.

Eyes closed, you wait as the pain drums through your body with every heartbeat, nerves aflame with lightning, muscles contracting and releasing. You try to breathe through it, squeeze your eyelids together to keep the tears at bay.

That’s where Steve finds you.

It doesn’t alarm him like it used to; he no longer drops a bag of groceries down when he sees you like this. Instead, he sets it gently down next to the fridge and steps closer, kneeling down on the floor next to you. His warm palm slides over the back of your dress.

“You were supposed to rest, darling,” he scolds gently.

You glare at him with tear-filled eyes, but the anger melts away when you see the worry on his face. That has stayed, even as he has learned that anything like this is not inherently dangerous.  

“I wanted to bake. I was craving mud cake and the store-bought just never hits the right spot.”

“I would’ve baked for you,” he sighs.

“I don’t want you to bake for me! I want to be able to do things myself. I want this stupid goddamn body to fucking function like it should be,” you snap, regretting the bite in your voice the second the words have left your mouth.

“I know,” he says. “I know how it is. I know how much it sucks.”

And he does. It is almost impossible to remember that sometimes, after watching footage of him yanking helicopters out of the sky, but once, this was his life  too.

“Yeah, the difference being that you’re no longer pathetic,” you mumble.

“You are not pathetic. It’s just a rough patch,” he says.

He knows where it’s coming from.

You still remember the time you got your diagnosis, how you told Steve that you should break off the engagement, that you didn’t expect him to hitch his wagon to this. You went as far as sleeping on Nat’s sofa for a week, and then Bucky forced himself through the door and sat you down and looked at you with eyes full of Winter Soldier steel.

You really think he can’t take this, huh? If there’s one person who understands how it feels to be in pain and helpless, one person that will know why you’re full of frustration and anger at times, it’s Steve Rogers, he had said.

It’s not about what he can take. It’s about what he deserves, and what I don’t, you had grumbled in response, desperately not trying to show how much you missed sleeping in Steve’s warm arms at night.

So he wasn’t worthy of being loved and taken care of when he was sick and incapacitated and chronically ill? Would you love him any less if the serum fell out of him and he went back to that state?

Of course not. But that’s different.

How’s that different?

Because you are a fucking asshole, Bucky Barnes, you had spat, knowing that to resort to ad hominem was to admit defeat.

Oh, I am, he had grinned. But right now, I am the fucking asshole who is right.

And he had been precisely that. Steve had welcomed you back with open arms, and you had cried against his chest until you had felt like you could breathe again, until the words ‘chronic’ and ‘illness’ didn’t feel like they were sucking all the air out of your lungs.

I’ll take care of you, he had said then. I love you. I always will. On the bad days and the good ones.

You know that. You know Steve Rogers makes no such promises if he doesn’t mean them, but sometimes it isn’t the same to know something on a rational level and accept it emotionally. On some days, you are full of pain-sharpened thorns and god, you just want to prick something that is beautiful, want to wallow in the self-pity and despise any light that tries to reach your darkness.

“Help you to bed?” he asks, and you don’t want to, but you nod nevertheless.

He lifts you up. It’s spring; he’s been out in simply a button-down and slacks, and you can feel his warmth through the cotton as he holds you against his chest. At least this part was easy. At least you knew that taking care of you wasn’t straining his body.

You’ve done what you can to make the apartment into an oasis of peace, and the bedroom is no exception. The bed is huge, filled with soft sheets and a pile of pillows that can be moved to allow you to rest as comfortably as possible. Steve sets you down on your side and sheds the clothes he’s been outside in before getting into bed next to you. You groan at the feeling of his body, covered only by the boxer briefs, pressing against your back, warm and relaxing like a furnace.

“You’re the best heating pad in the world,” you manage to smile, snuggling deeper into his embrace as your muscles start to relax.

He chuckles against your neck and presses a kiss to the back of your neck. Lying down, as much as you hate to admit, always seems to make a wave of relief flow through your body, muscles relaxing. Steve’s palm smooths over your side, stroking again and again, and the relaxation deepens, seeps into every muscle.

“The oven’s on,” you mumble, as he makes no attempt to move. “The groceries you brought are still in the kitchen.”

In response, he rucks up your dress and places his palm over your stomach, and you can’t help but groan at the relief of the warmth.

“I’m on heating pad duty,” he says. “Those can wait.”

You sigh, despite the smile on your face.

“I really thought I had enough spoons. It was better today, until it wasn’t.”

“It’s okay. It’s not always predictable.”

It’s not. And he knows that’s the worst part of it.

“I wanted you to come home to something nice.”

“I come home to you every day.”

“Flatterer,” you say, but despite the words, you entwine your fingers into his on top of your stomach.

Your wedding rings make a small clink when they touch his. It had been a longer engagement than you had initially planned; you had wanted to make sure he wasn’t marrying you just because of duty, just because he felt like he should, now that he knew you were going to battle with this for the rest of your life. He had countered that with the argument that he had proposed to you even before he had known anything about this, when your illness had still masked itself into bouts of tiredness.

He had convinced you. Your wedding portrait, Steve lifting you up and spinning you around, hangs above your bed, and even on the worst of days, looking at it brings a smile to your face.

Bucky had cried through the entire ceremony.

“Do you want me to get your meds?” Steve asks.

“I already took them; can’t take more right now. Lot of good that did.”

“Hey,” comes the whisper against your neck.

The tears that have barely dried escape your eyes again. Steve feels you tense and kisses the back of your neck again, the hand on you pulling you closer against him.

“I feel so useless,” you say. “Everyone’s so nice to me; I’m everyone’s stupid charity project.”

He has heard all of this before; this conversation comes every time you are going through a rough patch, and every time, his answers are full of patience and love.

God, what have you done to deserve him?

“Or they’re your friends – our friends. They like you. You are more than this, even though it doesn’t feel like that right now. You are plenty of things outside this illness. And I love you, for reasons that have nothing to do with whether or not you’re useful.”

“And you’re the stubborn dumbass who married himself into this mess.”

“I’m definitely both,” he says. “But neither of those have anything to do with the fact that I married you. And the doctor told you to rest, so who’s the stubborn one here?”

“Hypocrite,” you say. “Bucky has certainly told me how good you were at resting up, huh?”

You hear the chagrinned laugh and know the expression on his face. He mumbles something about how he really needs to get Bucky to stop telling stories about his youth to you, if they are just going to be used against him.

“Too late,” you say.

The tiredness is creeping over you again; being up in the middle of a bad flare-up has taken more out of you than you care to admit, and Steve’s closeness has taken all the bitter fight that had remained after the energy had drained out.

“I know it’s hard to rest when it doesn’t feel like rest is making any difference,” he says. “But you still should.”

You want to fight him, but your eyelids are falling closed as his warmth has filled your every crampy muscle and tight tendon.

“I love you,” he whispers into your ear. “Sleep well, beautiful.”

“Loveyatoo,” you mumble in response, the safety of his presence nudging you over the edge of consciousness and into sleep.

An hour later, you wake up to the scent of freshly-baked mud cake floating through the apartment and smile into the room, feeling like you could go for a big slice and a nice cup of coffee, sitting across from Steve and listening to him talk about his day.

Even in a rough patch, it’s not all bad.

omg. y/n doing an interview and they ask who their celebrity crush is and y/n’s like.

‘Joseph Quinn.’

Leaning against chair, ‘I mean have you seen him in Make Up? Or Les Miserables? everytime I see a picture of him I get butterflies in my stomach.’

‘Really?’

‘What if we said Joseph Quinn was here today?’

*Y/n.exe has stopped working*

‘What?’

‘Everybody Joseph Quinn’

*joseph Quinn walks out*

*y/n trying to keep themselves from fainting*

Eddie in his tux, that wild hair and eyes a-glowing while he slow dances to your first song at your wedding. He sings the lyrics to you in a whisper and never let's his eyes leave yours. He did it. He graduated, found the love of his life and married you. He is on cloud nine as he dips you, bringing you back up for a sweet, slow kiss.

It doesn't matter that it's a small wedding, all that matters if Eddie has you and only you. Forever.

robin: you need a hobby.

eddie: i have a hobby.

dustin: staring at steve’s face isn’t a hobby.

eddie: you’re right. it’s a profession and i excel at my job.

That episode of Friends, where they try on the wedding dresses. Well, Robin and Steve decide to make themselves feel better as they have yet to ask out their perspective crushes, so they decided to rent wedding dresses. Well, a suit for Robin. Steve and Robin are playing toss the bouquet when someone knocks on the door. Steve grabs the bouquet and answers the door.

"I do!" Steve exclaimed.

Eddie stood there, stunned for a moment, and then he grinned.

"No one told me I would be marrying Steve Harrington today!" Eddie exclaimed. "I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion."

"It's okay, I shouldn't really be wearing white. I'm not a virgin, and you totally knocked me up outside of wedlock," Steve told him.

"Well, I can't let my baby become a bastard, now can I?" Eddie grinned and flounced up the stairs. "I'm going to change!"

A moment later, Eddie came down in one of his mother's slightly poofy red dresses and holy shit. He looked good in it, especially with his hair pulled into a messy bun.

"Well, come on, let's get this wedding started," Robin said. "I'm officiating."

Eddie and Steve stood in front of her, holding hands.

"Alright, Buckley, let's get this wedding started," Eddie said.

"Mwawiage -," Robin started.

Just then, the front door opened, and the kids came stumbling into the living room, rambling about wanting Steve to take them to the big arcade out of town that just opened up. They stopped and stared at the scene before them.

"I can explain!" Steve said.

"Are you eloping without telling us?!" Dustin exclaimed.

"Well, it's more of a shotgun wedding," Eddie explained.

"What?"

"Apparently, I got your babysitter pregnant," Eddie said.

"Mike! You told me that guys cannot get pregnant!" El hissed. "Friends don't lie!"

Oh, boy.

Joseph Quinn for Wonderland Magazine

He Needs the Calories

It's just silly Steve Rogers fluff based on my favorite joke this holiday...

Summary: Steve has his own tradition the night before the Fourth.

Entirely, utterly stupid, and I don't care because it made me smile. Enjoy! WC ~1k

"What the hell is all this?" you screech at Steve, finding an eleventh gallon bag of cookies tucked in a basket at the bottom of the pantry. "Why do you have a metric ton of...what? Sugar cookies? Cutouts, snickerdoodles, thumbprints? My god, what are you doing? Running your own bake sale?"

Steve's eyes shift guiltily from where you stand to the fridge and back.

You drop the bag of peanut butter chocolate chip treats and step backward to open the french doors.

"What's in here, Steve?"

"Nothing," he rushes.

"What's in the fridge, Steve?!"

He jumps to push the door shut before you can peak in. "It's not a big deal, ok? You don't wanna see."

This is starting to feel like the end of the movie Seven. What's in the cold box?! What's in the box, man?

Steve might be clearly ashamed and hoping you give up, but he uses no force to stop you. His bright blue eyes simply plead for your understanding.

Crammed into the tallest shelf are five--count 'em, five giant pitchers of...milk.

It's not store containers though; they're the type you make your own drinks in.

"Wha...."

You look at Steve, confused.

"It's a joke," he starts to explain.

"Are you taking a milk bath for your supple skin?" you snip.

"No. In the compound," Steve tsks back. "You know, like Santa. Ha-ha, leave out milk and cookies for the patron saint of Independence Day, ha-ha...or whatever."

He looks at his feet.

"So they give you the milk and cookies on the Third."

"I--uh--I wait until the compound closes and people go home, and then I collect the stuff from all the little break rooms and waiting areas. Employees' children come in to specifically to set up the plates."

He rolls his hands around as if that settles things.

"It's cute."

"So you bag up hundreds of cookies from fifty rooms in the building, pour glass after glass of milk into pitchers, and then hoard them like the freaking Cookie Monster in the apartment...You know you don't have to consume all of this, right?"

Steve balks at the mere suggestion. He's appalled.

How. Dare.

"What? I'm not gonna throw them away. That's such a waste! The kids would be so disappointed."

"Then you share them, Steve. You put them somewhere the adults can help you finish them off. You do not eat twenty-five pounds of butter and sugar and flour in one single day."

He shrugs, defiant in his plucking of one full gallon bag back from the pantry and reaching past you for a pitcher.

"I'll run a little extra," he mutters with a pouting lip. "I need the calories."

That's the last, laughable thing the big guy says before shutting himself in a room, snacks in hand.

Well, you think, it's oddly fitting that the patron saint of America is a glutton.

A/N: Look. I warned you it was stupid. I also warned you that I did not care BWAHAHAHA

Happy Birthday, Steebie 😘

🍪🥛🍪

Steve walks into the Munson trailer like he does every Saturday morning; it’s apart of his and Eddie’s new routine after the Upside Down. They meet up there and have breakfast (or more likely lunch) and just chill together. 

Music was blasting from Eddie’s room, which is pretty normal, but what wasn’t normal was that Steve recognized what was playing. Elton John. Ok, what?

Steve brows furrow as he walks down the short hallway to the source, and pokes his head through Eddie’s open doorway. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

Sat on the floor with his legs criss-crossed, was Eddie. 

Only that wasn’t the weird part. 

Eddie was wearing a feather boa and those joke glasses with the fake nose and mustache, and he was rummaging through a shoebox. The chorus of the song starts to play, and Eddie is singing along with enthusiasm. “BENNY! Benny! BENNY! Benny! B-b-b-b-b-b-Benny and the JETS!” He was headbanging along now, and Steve’s jaw drops. 

Steve tears his eyes away long enough to look around the room. There were piles of stuff everywhere, more than usual, and the closet looked like it had been ripped apart. 

Eddie is completely absorbed in what he’s doing, so Steve decides to lean on the door frame and see how long it takes for Eddie to notice him. 30 minutes later, Eddie finally looks up, sees Steve, and screams, “What the fuck?!" 

"Me? What the hell happened in here, Eddie?” Steve says in between cackles. Eddie’s face of pure horror is diluted by the Groucho Marx glasses. Oh, Steve is never going to let Eddie live this down. 

Eddie regains his composure and crosses his arms. “I’m… cleaning." 

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up and he takes a very pointed look around the room. Eddie realizes he’s still wearing the stupid glasses and tears them off, throwing them into a seemingly random pile. "it’s a process, Steve." 

"Does this process include gasoline and a lighter?” Eddie levels him with a bored look. The feather boa still around his shoulders isn’t helping at all.

“Hardy har har, you’re hilarious, Steve. I just got a little distracted." 

"When did you start cleaning, Eddie?”  Eddie squints his eyes and looks like he’s thinking, then looks at the light coming through the window. “Sometime around 2am." 

Steve’s eyes widen and he puts his hands on his hips. "2am?! Why would you start cleaning at 2am?" 

Eddie stands up then, feather boa still around his shoulders, and mimics Steve’s stance, squaring his shoulders across from Steve. 

"Because I noticed the shower was dirty." 

Steve runs a hand over his face. "How does the shower being dirty turn into a tornado coming through your bedroom?" 

"Shower was dirty, so I needed to clean it. I needed some gloves and goggles because, let’s be honest, a hazmat suit would’ve been the best choice. So, I went to my room to look for something to use, and I found those glasses,” Eddie says gesturing in the vague direction he threw them, “but then I also found a notebook I lost two years ago. After that it all gets a little fuzzy." 

Steve just stares at him, jaw hanging again. He looks at Eddie for a moment before asking him, "So, is the shower clean?" 

"It is not." 

"Jesus Christ.”