Honey I'm Home / Eddie Munson x you (female reader)

VOLUME: 3

*+/A-N— 6.4k  words, I hope those reading are enjoying the story so far❤️
—

You wake to the buzzing of your alarm, your hand reaching through the dark across your night stand, slamming down hard on the smooth cold snooze button, but it doesn't stop.

You hit it again.

Nothing.

The beeps get louder. Your eyelids open a sliver to reveal the numbers 3:42 in red on your alarm clock.

Your alarm usually doesn't go off until 6, and it's Sunday so it was never set.

Fuck.

You fly out of bed, disregarding the fact that you weren't wearing a bra, and open the door. A light haze of smoke fills the hallway, white and dreamy, almost pretty like smoke on the water after it rains.

The smoke detector in the kitchen is alarming, letting you know that the potential of a fire is a great possibility with its ominous beeping. You spring into action, throwing open the kitchen window above the sink.

Where is it coming from?

At first you think it's from the oven, maybe Eddie left a frozen pizza in too long. The older oven was fussy anyway, burning things one day and the next taking forever to heat up to 375° to make a batch of cookies. But the oven was cold, the smoke seemed to be coming from the living room, a quick glance shows you exactly what was going on.

The couch was on fire.

-

The hum of the vacuum and the clinking swirl of jagged edges of chips and popcorn kernels sucking up through the cylinders into the bag invade the small living room. It took Eddie almost an hour to find where you kept the cleaning supplies. Turns out the smaller door across from the basement was a closet, housed with everything you'd need to clean a home.

Each item was stacked neatly, brooms and a floppy white mop hung on hooks, the vacuum tucked into the corner. The top shelf had bleach, and a green can labeled 'comet' that looked like it could be mistaken for Parmesan cheese. Judging by the bottle with blue liquid and a window on it, called Windex, Eddie figured that probably wasn't for spills on counters. He settled for a bottle of 409 and a roll of paper towels. Grabbing the vacuum with him.

After vacuuming the living room and wiping up the spills in the kitchen, he sits down. A lit joint between his lips, contemplating on what the actual fuck happened tonight. He couldn't believe your bitchy attitude or the way your lip trembled after he called you out.

You weren't the girl he used to know. You had changed, grown into a bitter woman, hating everyone and everything.

He falls into a dreamless sleep. Waking later to stumble into the bathroom to take a poorly aimed piss in the dark and falling face first into his mattress.

-

You grab the first thing you can think of to extinguish the flames ablaze on the couch. Where the hell is Eddie? What the fuck happened!? Filling a popcorn bowl with water that doubled as a puke bucket when you were sick with the flu back in March, you run back to the couch throwing the water on the flames. For good measure you refill the bucket and douse the couch again— putting the flames out, leaving a soaked charred couch that once was a staple in the Wheeler basement for the better half of a decade.