twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)
in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?
→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn
→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni, excessive use of pet names (to annoy reader), excessive use of fuck (again, to annoy reader)
→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader
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1:00 ─ㅇ───────────────── 24:00
HOUR ONE - 4:00 PM (wc: 3.1k)
You had a lot of regrets. You were a college student – it was hardwired in your psyche to make an endless stream of stupid decisions you would come to rue.
There was that time you signed up for an 8 AM math class during your freshman year. There was the time your boss walked in on you spitefully gossiping specifically about him and his lack of leadership skills (you had been fired the next week, no surprise). There was that time Steve Harrington convinced you to get matching tattoos with him while drunk last summer, and now you had to explain to each new person you met why you had a ghost giving a thumbs down with a speech bubble stating ‘BOO’ on your ankle.
You had made plenty of dumb mistakes, enough to last you a lifetime.
But this? This had to take the trophy home for your worst impulsive decision yet.
“I’m not going in there,” you huff, crossing your arms as you lean miserably against the wall across from the open door of apartment 2C. An apartment you’d avoided ardently over the last year. To the point of even braving severe FOMO after turning down hanging out with your friends, solely because they’d be hanging out here.
“C’mon,” Steve stands in the threshold, waiting impatiently for your tantrum to end. You had to hand it to him – he had a way of being beautifully tolerant of your misbehavior over the years. All your sour moods, all your childish antics, all your moody mornings. Steve was there for them all the last three years, “Five hundred dollars, remember? You just have to survive a day, and then you’ll be rich.”
There it was – the only thing that could possibly motivate you to make such a catastrophic agreement with alcohol and drugs out of the equation. Money.
It had taken nearly an hour for everyone to agree on the terms the night before when the bet was first born, but in the end, it seemed fair enough to all involved parties. The wager was five hundred dollars for you and five hundred dollars for Eddie if you two managed, partially funded by your friends pooling their money and partially funded by the Harrington Inheritance. The two of you would set base in Eddie’s apartment, considering you were living in the dorms, and you were instructed to send hourly proof to the group chat. A group chat, that ironically, Eddie was not a part of.
You’re not sure why. You never cared to ask.
Regardless, five hundred dollars was a lot of money to a broke college student. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d managed to keep more than one hundred dollars in your account for more than a few hours. It was the kind of money that could pay for a few months’ worth of groceries, that would give you the freedom to properly go out rather than settle for another night in with movies your friend group had already seen ten times over. The kind of money you would probably flounder with once it was in your hand.
“And if I don’t survive?” you sigh dramatically, leaning further into the wall, your bag you’d packed for your time growing heavier in your grasp, “What if, he, like, murders me, Steve?”
“He’s not going to murder you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If he was going to, he already would have.”
“I’ve never been around him long enough to give him a chance! What if that’s the only reason he agreed? What if this was his plan all along? He gets me alone for twenty four hours, I mysteriously disappear, and next thing you know, they find my body in the local canal-”
“While I’m flattered you think so highly of me that I would be capable of planning something so extensively,” the devil himself appears behind Steve’s shoulder, looking to be just as irritated as you, “Harrington’s right. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.”
“Right. Cause that’s reassuring,” you snap in Eddie’s direction.
Steve takes a deep breath, no doubt mentally preparing himself for whatever bickering is about to ensue as he sidesteps so he’s not stuck in the middle of your line of fire.
“Listen, are we doing this or not? Because if not, I’ve got shit to do,” Eddie glowers at you, tapping his foot impatiently.
You hate him. You really, really hate him. In the most earnest sense of the word. He was impossible, he was cocky, he was obnoxious. And it never helped that he hated you just as much, always adding fuel to the fire. From the moment the two of you had met, it was instant friction. You said go, he said stop. You wanted pizza, he wanted Chinese. Every time a small, mundane decision had to be made as a group, he’d be sure to announce his opinion, always the opposite of yours.
You’re convinced he solely exists to be the bane of your existence. It’s probably the best part of his day.
“Five hundred dollars,” you mutter under your breath, finally lifting your bag and leaving your spot against the wall. It was now or never. If you didn’t get this over with now, you’d walk away and be army-crawling financially through life again. You needed the five hundred dollars more than you care to admit.
It had to be worth it. It had to be.
The moment you enter the apartment, you’re hit with the scent of him. Something musky, something of subtle spice. It’s all tobacco and pot, cheap cologne and boy. It’s easily overwhelming, and you almost turn around to make a cheap shot at Eddie regarding it before Steve shuts the front door and engages him into conversation.
Maybe you’d get used to it within the first few hours.
The rest of the apartment is decorated exactly how you’d expect from Eddie. There’s a certain messy quality to it all without being dirty. The couch looks worn, probably having not been brand new to begin with when Eddie found or bought it. There’s a coffee table covered in random papers, joined by two empty beer bottles and a couple of random dice. He has a TV, albeit small, and the entertainment center that it stands upon is littered by various nerdy collector’s items.
“Welcome to my palace,” he calls out from behind you, no longer distracted by Steve, “Sorry if it’s not up to your standards.”
“It’s fine,” you gruffly reply, turning back around to look at him, “Where, uh, can I put my things?”
The wicked grin that slowly spreads over his face can only spell out bad news, “Wherever. You’ll be sleeping on the couch.”
“Dude,” Steve sighs.
“What? It’s a one bedroom apartment, and I’m not giving her my bed,” Eddie explains as he brushes past the two of you and heads for his kitchen.
If it were anyone else, you’d insist that it’s fine. Practicality tells you that he shouldn’t have to give up his bed. It’s his apartment, his room, his bed – in short, his rules. But it’s Eddie, so the fact that he’s made this decision without you only stokes the burning coals of disdain. Plus, the couch looked like the farthest thing from comfortable.
“Whatever,” you scoff. You weren’t going to let him know he was already creeping beneath your skin. You were playing the long game here; you were going to start off civil, keep track of just how many offenses he committed against you, and then strike back. “It’s just one night. I’ll live.”
“Unless I murder you!” his voice calls out to you and Steve from the kitchen.
“Unless he murders me,” you agree with a scowl.
Steve puts a caring hand on your shoulder, forcing a frown that’s completely insincere before he says, “What do you want on your gravestone? Also, what’s your preference for flowers at your funeral?” He breaks into laughter as you smack him roughly on his shoulder, “Sorry! Sorry, geez. Just want to have all my ducks in the row. I’ll be sure to ask him the same thing.”
Part of you is absolutely convinced this can only end in bloodshed. You can’t recall a single time you and Eddie have lasted more than ten minutes in a room together without escalating into a full blown screaming match. There was even a time you’d thrown a glass at him at one of Steve’s parties, narrowly missing his head as he’d ducked and let the glass shatter against the wall of the shared apartment with Robin. You’d felt awful remorse towards Steve in the end. As for Eddie? You’d only wished your aim had been better.
Steve disappears into the kitchen and you’re left alone once more, wandering as you inspect some of the collectibles more closely by the TV. Most items were from the Lord of the Rings franchise, a few Star Wars items, and an abundance of D&D figurines. All things that you went through phases of piqued interest for, but nothing terribly exciting. They had been just that – phases. Apparently, when it came to Eddie, such things didn’t exist. The apartment really just looked as if someone had taken a teenage boy’s room, and let it explode over more extensive square footage. As if he entered the typical phases for boys his age in high school, and never grew up.
Just as you reach out to grab one of the D&D figurines, a three-headed dragon, Eddie enters the living room with Steve at his side.
“Hey! Don’t fucking touch that!” Eddie shouts, making you jump back, finger no longer hovering over his glorified action figure.
“Jesus Christ!” you shout back just as loudly, glaring up at him, “Ever heard of an inside voice?”
He completely ignores the comment as his nostrils flare and he stands between you and the entertainment center, “We need to set some ground rules. Rule one, do not touch my shit, especially this stuff. They’re collectibles, fucking rare and crazy expensive. Keep your hands to yourself, princess.”
The nickname is a match, striking against the roughness of your hatred, ready to burst into the flames of one of the classic screaming matches between the two of you. Steve can see it clear as day.
He clears his throat immediately, “Alright, alright. Calm down, children,” you open your mouth to argue against that nickname, but he doesn't leave pause for you to interject, “I’m leaving now. I know we joked about you two killing each other but…. Just, please don’t? It’s not worth it. Think of the money.”
Eddie’s jaw clenches, his eyes unmoving from you as you muster up just as hateful of a glare.
“Hey! Are you two listening to me?” he claps his hands, and the staring contest ends as you both reluctantly offer him your attention, “I’m serious. Who knows? Maybe you two can come out of this friends.”
Friends. The mere idea makes you cackle cruelly, Eddie balking immediately.
“As if,” you sneer as Eddie spits, “Over my dead body.”
Steve simply shrugs, “You say that now. We’ll see what changes over the next twenty four hours.”
Nothing, you want to say. Nothing is going to change over the next twenty four hours, except I’ll be five hundred dollars richer.
You join Eddie in walking Steve back to the door, even though you technically don’t have to because, technically, it’s not your apartment. But it’s still the polite thing to do, and Steve is still your friend, so you do.
Eddie opens the door, and you stand a few steps away from them, shifting back and forth on your feet awkwardly. Steve pauses to check the watch on his wrist before turning and facing the two of you a final time.
“Alright, so, it’s currently four-fifteen. That means you-” he pauses and points directly to you, “-need to send proof of you both being alive, well, and still together at five-fifteen. You guys can leave the apartment, but you have to go with each other, and you can’t ditch each other wherever you might end up going. Capiche?”
“Capiche,” you answer in monotone, Eddie not saying a word.
“Good. Oh, by the way,” Steve already has one foot out the door, and you know it’s deliberate. Whatever he’s about to say, you’re not going to be happy about, “Expect randomized calls from all of us throughout it all. Including through the night. Cool? Cool! See you guys tomorrow, and keep your phones charged!”
Both you and Eddie are already attempting to argue, immediately upset by this detail that was kept from both of you, but Steve is already jogging down the hallway, away from the chaotic outburst.
“What the fuck?” Eddie says in annoyance, his face twisted terribly, “I didn’t agree to be babysat during this. I just want my fucking money.”
Even though you were also seething at the additional rule, you opt instead to make a comment to get under Eddie’s skin rather than complain in agreement. “I think you forgot an F-bomb somewhere in there.”
“Oh?” he turns to you, letting the door slam shut as he swings his arm, “My fucking bad. I fucking guess I should fucking watch my fucking language, yeah? Fucking oops.”
“Has anyone told you you’re fucking annoying?” you ask in contempt.
“Yeah. You.”
He stalks away from his entry way at that, clearly pleased at getting the last word in this argument. And it nearly kills you, because you have no choice but to follow him back into his living room.
It’s going to be a long twenty four hours.
He’s clearly heading towards the couch to sit down, and you can’t fathom staying in close proximity for another moment, so you begin to veer towards the kitchen.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks suddenly once your back is turned to him.
“The kitchen?” you glance over your shoulder, lifting an eyebrow, “Or is that not allowed?”
“Why are you going to the kitchen?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because it’s my fucking apartment.”
Right. He has a point. You won’t tell him that, but he has a point.
He’s rerouted himself from the couch towards the hallway you’re about to enter, towering over you as his lips settle into a predictable frown.
“Can you go more than ten seconds without dropping an F-bomb? Seriously,” you question, crossing your arms, “I just want water or something. Is that a crime?”
“To answer your first question,” he shifts around your body in the tight space, his hand brushing your hip. Both of you jump back at the contact as if even touching each other burns, “No. I fucking can’t. Not when I know it bothers you so much, sweetheart,” he’s once again using a nickname he knows will irritate you on purpose as he walks into what you assume the kitchen is. And once again, you’re following behind him like a lost puppy, having to swallow your pride like a jagged pill, “Secondly, one of my rules is to not touch my shit, so… Yeah. It is a crime by the law of the land.”
“Law of the land?” you snort, rolling your eyes, “My God. What are you going to do? Call the police? ‘Hello, yes, 911? I’d like to report a crime. A girl I voluntarily let into my home got herself a glass of water.’”
You choose to purposefully pitch your voice higher rather than lower as you clearly mock him. It gets the reaction you were seeking out - his entire body stiffens as he stops in front of a cabinet.
“Congratulations,” he says slowly, turning at an agonizing pace to face you, “It’s a new record. It’s been less than five minutes alone, and you’ve already gotten on my fucking nerves.”
“Good,” is all you can reply.
He huffs in response before he goes back to whatever he was doing before, opening the cabinet to expose a small assortment of glasses and mugs alike. None of them match – all of them were clearly either bought at different times, or gifts, in the mugs case. They’re the type you might find at Spencer’s, all pop culture references or character faces. He grabs one of the smaller, plain clear cups, turning around to hand it to you.
Before your hand can wrap around it, he yanks it back momentarily, “Now, if you decide to throw this cup at my head like a raging bitch, it’s plastic. Minimal damage. Keep that in mind, yeah?”
Once he’s gotten in his smart-ass remark, he lets you take the cup from him.
So he’s also thinking of Steve’s party. Good to know.
“That’s fine. I’ve practiced my throws since then. I’m aiming for your crotch next time.”
If you two were friends, it might be funny. You would have said it in light-hearted cadence, he would have thrown his head back in laughter, and it could be passed off as a simple inside joke between two acquaintances. But you aren’t friends, and you say it in a convincingly serious tone, and he doesn’t even smile.
“You can get water from the fridge,” he informs you flatly, “Try not to break it.”
“It’s a fridge that dispenses water. I know how it works, asshole. I’ve used one before.”
“You never know,” he shrugs. You expect him to walk away, to leave you to it, but instead he leans against his counter and watches you.
And he thought he was the one being babysat over simple phone calls?
You choose to bite your tongue for once as you fill the cup half full of water, taking your time as you sip some down, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.
It’s only been a few seconds of silence. Blissful, wonderful, divine silence. But of course, it’s Eddie, and the moment he notices you begin to relax, he has to speak up and ruin it.
“If I knew all it takes to shut you up is to keep your mouth occupied, sweetheart, I would have done it sooner,” he comments, and it takes practiced patience to slowly lower the cup and swallow what water is in your mouth without bursting with rage. But he has to comment on even that, “Aw, and you swallow? Just full of surprises, aren’t ya?”
You turn to him, face flooding a brilliant shade of red as your eyes narrow. In the most virulent tone you can muster, you only respond with, “I hate your guts.”
He grins. It’s not friendly – it’s downright bellicose. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Yeah. It’s going to be a very long twenty four hours.
