Bad Habit - {Eddie Munson x y/n}

Songbird

The smell of sweat, beer and cigarette smoke lingers on your skin from The Hideout last night and invades your nostrils before you've even managed to force your eyes open to survey your surroundings. You know you're in your own bed at least, that's a positive. Your mouth feels as dry as the Sahara, memories of the night before lay thick on your tongue in the unpleasant flavour of tequila. A rude reminder that you probably consumed way too many of those damn little shots last night; they may be small but they sure are mighty and you're paying the price with a piercing headache this morning.

As well as the worlds worst pounding behind your eyes, the side of your body also feels tender where it rests against the mattress you're laid on, which must be another story that your liquor fogged brain can't quite piece together just yet. Why the hell do my ribs feel like I've been hit by a baseball bat? You wonder to yourself as you pat down your torso, feeling the soft and worn material of one of Eddie tees wrap around your body. Slowly, you begin to remember some more fractions of your night.

You scrunch the fabric in your grip, pulling it up to your nose for that satisfactory sniff of your boyfriends unique scent. Your boyfriend, who you know for a fact was in this very same bed last night, unless you were that drunk you imagined it, wait, had I only imagined it? Your eyes ping open, reluctantly, and you roll over on the bed to find the other spot unoccupied but ruffled up as if a body had once been laid there. You grab the flattened pillow next to your head and pull it to your nose, it smells strongly of Eddie's shampoo.

Okay, so Eddie definitely had been here last night and I didn't just dream it, as it wouldn't be the first time he'd realistically appeared to you in your dreams. So where is he now, you wonder as you prick your ears to try and listen out for any signs of life throughout your apartment. Nothing, silence. Which makes you worry he's ducked out already, not even staying til morning so he has to face you. Now you're the one pissed at him for avoiding you even if it's exactly what you've been doing to him of recent.

You sit up against the headboard, legs outstretched in front of yourself under the sheets as you reach for the ceiling with your arms and your circle your neck which gives a satisfying 'crack' as you yawn. Your eyes then flicker down to the side and spot a huge glass of water along with some painkillers on your bedside table, Eddie the hangover nurse, you think to yourself, you make quick work of tossing those back to cure the aches and pains of your hungover body.

Pills swallowed, water chugged, (although you're not sure if this was such a great idea as your stomach begins to churn with nothing but liquid sloshing around), you rub your tired eyes with your fingers delicately and are surprised when you pull your hands away and see they're not, in fact, tainted by leftover mascara from last nights makeup. You already know without even questioning it that you'll have Eddie to thank for that thoughtful gesture, there was no way you were capable of makeup removal last night, you can admit yourself that you were totally wasted.

Which only brings you back to even more memories of last night and it makes you internally cringe at yourself. You can recall sobbing down the phone to Eddie, begging and begging him to come see you even after you'd told him you didn't want to see him and you weren't going to change your mind. You seriously hadn't planned on changing your mind or calling him, but the liquor took over in the moment and you wanted, no, needed him desperately.

You're actually grateful for the liquid courage the way too many shots of tequila gave you, you needed something to make you abandon your idiotic plan of ignoring him forever. So you're happy you called him, albeit drunk as hell and probably making no sense whatsoever, you're also glad he accepted the drunken invitation and drove home to you, even at the late hour.

You're not so happy however, that he seems to have disappeared on you this morning. You worry you maybe said something wrong or did something to offend him. Although, if you remember correctly, and bare with me 'cause that tequila really did a number on your memory, you do recall him actually rejecting you when you'd practically thrown yourself at his crotch.
"Fuck sake Y/N," you mutter to yourself as you massage your temples, remembering clearly now that Eddie had to practically scramble out of your grip before you jumped his bones.