( the touch hurts a little, the mark feels raw like it had been burned into his skin too. eddie's pretty sure that's all in his head, like the whirlwind of paranoia and panic each time someone steps out of his space or mentions going outside.
he finds himself leaning into jim's touch, chasing it when he pulls his hand away. he clears his throat to recover, pats the older man's chest as he nods. ) Right. I can do that.
Good thing we have some. ( billy brought it in from town so they could clean the wound, drink it eventually. he scurries out the door toward where the icebox is, comes back in quickly and shuts the door a little too hard like being outside has spooked him. back inside, he sets the vodka down and leans against the counter as he watches jim in the kitchen. ) Sorry I'm such a-- That I keep giving you headaches.
( that jim keeps having to break himself away from his own peace to piece eddie back together in some way; if it's after ianthe, the slender, or in this moment when he's got his own shit to deal with. )
[He says, abruptly: ] You’d know if you were giving me a headache. [He wouldn’t be here, he means.
He’d be anywhere else, doing anything else. He’s here. He gets to work with undressing Eddie’s wound, takes in the damage as he cleans it, re-bandages it. He doesn’t say a word about the knife shaped burn; doesn’t ask if it was Billy or Jem. Knowing won’t help. It won’t change anything.
When he’s done, he feels an old paternal protectiveness. Can’t help taking Eddie back in his arms, holding him to chest, and feeling so immensely sorry that he couldn’t shield him from any of this. He’s failing. He’s not trying hard enough. He’s letting himself become too distracted. ]
( it's personal growth that Eddie doesn't open his mouth to argue with Jim, instead keeps his mouth shut for once and just nods. maybe it's the certainty to Jim's voice, the abruptness with which he answers that tells Eddie that he doesn't even think about it.
it's nice, that certainty directed at him. not that he doesn't get it with Jem, but--- but it's nice to have it here too with Jim. Jim's much more complicated.
he's not a complete pussy about pain, he's not, but Eddie hisses as Jim pulls back the dressings. the wound's not doing great, it hurts. he tries to not make eye contact, eyes watering anyway. the tears don't spill until he's pulled into a broad chest, until he's encircled in Jim's arms. maybe he's shaking a little. ) Fu-- ck. Shit.
Hop.( there's a hint of desperation in his tone but even Eddie's not sure what it means, what it's for. ) It's-- I'm so fucked up. It's so fucked up. It was-- Fuck.
[He doesn't know the details. He doesn't understand the extent, the sheer depth and breadth of what Eddie's been through: what Eddie has done, or what has been done to him. He says: ] Tell me what happened.
[He squeezes him, gentler than he would usually, suddenly afraid of hurting Eddie. There's a hand in Eddie's hair, thumb soothing over the back of his head. It's a slow sway, and he doesn't push Eddie away to look at him. Will let him speak into his chest if he really wants to. ] I'm listening.
It got me in the forest -- He. It. It wasn't Murphy. ( he's sure of that, dead sure. he won't let anyone argue it, won't let anyone lay the blame for what happened on a set of shoulders that don't deserve it all.
he's not sure what else to say after that, where to start. but he sounds near hysterical when he lets a cry stumble from his mouth: ) I fucking burnt someone's house down, their farm. Hop. I-- I did that.
I carved a guy up. ( he feels sick, he feels sick, he feels sick. he lifts his hands up, shoving at the circle of Jim Hopper's arms. suddenly that hysteria is panic, is anger, is confused frustration because this isn't the first time Jim's seen him at a low, carrying scars someone else lead him toward. ) You shouldn't-- Why do you keep being here when I fall a-fucking-part?
Less simple, of course, is how he feels about all of this. He can’t imagine Eddie - Eddie Munson - carving up a man. He can’t imagine him capable of deliberate cruelty; he can’t imagine him doing any of this.
Except he did, and Jim doesn’t know what the right thing to say is. That it wasn’t him? That he didn’t have a choice? Stephen’s explanation had been less kind to himself. That the acts were all him.
He doesn’t want to think that any of this is what Eddie’s capable of without morality or inhibitions holding him back. He can’t. ] You need me, and I’m here. Tell me what else.
That's fucking bullshit. It's never that simple. No one just fucking stays because you need them. ( Eddie shoves at him again, rougher this time but he feels so kitten-weak after the week he's had -- kept in the bed, lost between madness and pain and pleasure. he feels weighed down by it still, like he's moving with a speed nerf or like he's got a -15 modifier and fucked no matter what he rolls.
he doesn't want to tell Jim anything else, doesn't want to and all the same he needs the man to stay and listen. the hands threatening to shove again grip the front of his shirt and Eddie lets out a frustrated laugh, a huff -- a sob.
he hasn't admitted this to Jem or Billy yet, wasn't ever going to say this out loud but thinks maybe he should. ) I goaded them to do this-- the burn, the marks. I knew it would fuck them both up but that was the whole point. To fuck you all up.
That part's me. I know how to do that, what to say. That part was all me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he finds himself leaning into jim's touch, chasing it when he pulls his hand away. he clears his throat to recover, pats the older man's chest as he nods. ) Right. I can do that.
Good thing we have some. ( billy brought it in from town so they could clean the wound, drink it eventually. he scurries out the door toward where the icebox is, comes back in quickly and shuts the door a little too hard like being outside has spooked him. back inside, he sets the vodka down and leans against the counter as he watches jim in the kitchen. ) Sorry I'm such a-- That I keep giving you headaches.
( that jim keeps having to break himself away from his own peace to piece eddie back together in some way; if it's after ianthe, the slender, or in this moment when he's got his own shit to deal with. )
no subject
He’d be anywhere else, doing anything else. He’s here. He gets to work with undressing Eddie’s wound, takes in the damage as he cleans it, re-bandages it. He doesn’t say a word about the knife shaped burn; doesn’t ask if it was Billy or Jem. Knowing won’t help. It won’t change anything.
When he’s done, he feels an old paternal protectiveness. Can’t help taking Eddie back in his arms, holding him to chest, and feeling so immensely sorry that he couldn’t shield him from any of this. He’s failing. He’s not trying hard enough. He’s letting himself become too distracted. ]
cw: misogynistic language
it's nice, that certainty directed at him. not that he doesn't get it with Jem, but--- but it's nice to have it here too with Jim. Jim's much more complicated.
he's not a complete pussy about pain, he's not, but Eddie hisses as Jim pulls back the dressings. the wound's not doing great, it hurts. he tries to not make eye contact, eyes watering anyway. the tears don't spill until he's pulled into a broad chest, until he's encircled in Jim's arms. maybe he's shaking a little. ) Fu-- ck. Shit.
Hop. ( there's a hint of desperation in his tone but even Eddie's not sure what it means, what it's for. ) It's-- I'm so fucked up. It's so fucked up. It was-- Fuck.
no subject
[He squeezes him, gentler than he would usually, suddenly afraid of hurting Eddie. There's a hand in Eddie's hair, thumb soothing over the back of his head. It's a slow sway, and he doesn't push Eddie away to look at him. Will let him speak into his chest if he really wants to. ] I'm listening.
cw: gore, violence, murder
he's not sure what else to say after that, where to start. but he sounds near hysterical when he lets a cry stumble from his mouth: ) I fucking burnt someone's house down, their farm. Hop. I-- I did that.
I carved a guy up. ( he feels sick, he feels sick, he feels sick. he lifts his hands up, shoving at the circle of Jim Hopper's arms. suddenly that hysteria is panic, is anger, is confused frustration because this isn't the first time Jim's seen him at a low, carrying scars someone else lead him toward. ) You shouldn't-- Why do you keep being here when I fall a-fucking-part?
no subject
Less simple, of course, is how he feels about all of this. He can’t imagine Eddie - Eddie Munson - carving up a man. He can’t imagine him capable of deliberate cruelty; he can’t imagine him doing any of this.
Except he did, and Jim doesn’t know what the right thing to say is. That it wasn’t him? That he didn’t have a choice? Stephen’s explanation had been less kind to himself. That the acts were all him.
He doesn’t want to think that any of this is what Eddie’s capable of without morality or inhibitions holding him back. He can’t. ] You need me, and I’m here. Tell me what else.
no subject
he doesn't want to tell Jim anything else, doesn't want to and all the same he needs the man to stay and listen. the hands threatening to shove again grip the front of his shirt and Eddie lets out a frustrated laugh, a huff -- a sob.
he hasn't admitted this to Jem or Billy yet, wasn't ever going to say this out loud but thinks maybe he should. ) I goaded them to do this-- the burn, the marks. I knew it would fuck them both up but that was the whole point. To fuck you all up.
That part's me. I know how to do that, what to say. That part was all me.