[ Eventually, Eddie emerges from the bathroom with her hair wrapped up in a towel, her face pink and clean, dwarfed in her t-shirt with her legs almost completely bare. She's still wearing all her jewelry, and there's the tattoos, of course, but she looks far more approachable than she does when she's up on stage, much closer to her actual age and the fact that she's really just a small-town Midwesterner who managed to get lucky.
She clambers up onto the end of one of the beds, crossing her legs, so she can watch Tommy pack the pipe. ]
Yeah. Not how I expected they'd go, but. Here we are. [ When the three of them were all lying in their hospital beds, convalescing as best they could, clinging to each other to make it through the nightmares, she knows they weren't dreaming of a life like this. ] I'll introduce you to Chrissy, later. She's sweet as pie, you'll like her.
And he covers it up like shit, too, jerking his attention back to what he was doing and nearly spilling the whole thing. She liked his ink? Her goddamn legs. And honestly he'd have never in life would have said that he'd find a woman covered in tattoos attractive but here they are; here she is, looking both fresh and wild, and here he is, struck mute by it. Tommy finishes packing the weed and finally, feeling a little more composed, turns to offer it to Eddie across the gap between desk chair and bed. He sits back.] Really? I can't image anyone sweet lasting five minutes stuck between you and Stevie.
For a moment, just a half a second or so, the part of her that's convinced anyone who comes up to talk to her at a party is just angling for an introduction to Stevie rears its head and she wants to falter, but then she clocks how he fumbles the pipe in his hands, the intense focus on his face that even she can tell is forced, and she settles into pleased territory instead. ]
Oh, she's got us both wrapped around her little finger. [ Eddie accepts the pipe and then has to twist around and lean back to reach for her lighter, her legs unfolding to counterbalance for a moment before she's back upright again. She flicks it on and sets it to the bowl. ] She'll get you too, just you wait.
[ She takes a pull, flicking the lighter on again to make sure the embers take, and holds the smoke in her lungs for a long moment as she leans across the divide between them to pass the pipe back. ]
Uh-huh. [Tommy doesn't ogle Eddie's legs when they're stretched out as she reaches for a lighter, but it's a near thing. He sparks the lighter and takes a deep pull, muscles not recently used but more than remembering a half-lifetime of habit. His eyelids fall as he exhales long and clean around his brother's name:] Joel. [The pipe is passed back.] Joel Corbin Balmaceda Miller.
[Tommy grins and sinks into the back of his chair; he can feel the weed already. He rolls his head toward Eddie, belatedly aware that he said "Ho-elle".] Joel. [Like Joe. With an 'L'. Like the pronunciation that his brother insisted on ever since turning fifteen.]
[ Eddie hadn't been worried that a grown-ass man, and a musician nonetheless, wouldn't know how to handle a pipe, but watching Tommy assuages any niggling fears she may have had; he knows what he's doing, and he looks good doing it too, and she lets herself admire him in his too-tight merch shirt as he takes a deep pull, his ribs expanding and just drawing her attention to the shape of his chest muscles beneath the cotton. ]
Oh, wow. Full government name and everything. [ There's a softer lilt to his voice when he speaks in Spanish, even just the few syllables of his brother's name, and Eddie can count on one hand the number of Spanish words she knows, but she decides here and now that she'll get a fucking Pimsleur book on tape if she has to, because she wants to hear him say that again.
Well. Maybe not his brother's name, specifically, but Spanish stuff in general.
She leans forward to take the pipe from him, her fingertips brushing against his palm. ] What's your full name, then?
[He is. It's been awhile but despite that, with the drift he already has going he'd put bets on this being good shit. His palm lights up slowly in the wake of Eddie's fingertips. Tommy grins. Slowly. There's a lot of Spanish speakers in Texas but not A Lot and Tommy might be already a little high but he knows what it looks like when a chica likes his accent.
He leans in, in all ways.] Tomás Antonio Gabriel Miller.
He's right. Eddie does only carry the good shit now that she can afford to, now that she's not peddling cheap grass to clueless teenagers, but she self-medicates frequently enough that she forgets that someone else may not have the same tolerance to it that she does.
All three of them smoke up regularly, actually. Stevie, to cope with her migraines; Chrissy, to cope with her chronic pain; and Eddie, to cope with life in general. All three of them use it to cope with the nightmares. It takes more than a few puffs for her to start feeling it, but what she is feeling is hopelessly charmed as she watches Tommy relax.
She smiles at him, wide and bright, as he really draws out the accent when he replies. ]
Tomás, hm? [ To her credit, her imitation isn't bad. Eddie has an ear for music, after all. ] That's way better than mine.
Tease. [Tommy winks. At least he knows he's already half-way to stoned - he won't take another hit until he settles into the first. Tommy walks a fine edge of self-control; he's let it run long, pulled the tether short and tight... so now he knows how to tread right down the middle.] C'mon, then. ¿Cómo te llamas?
[ If possible, her grin just gets wider when he winks at her, and she wrinkles her nose to help combat the pink she knows is starting to stain her face.
What? He's hot, okay, and he's looking at her like that, and she still hasn't forgotten the condoms from earlier. ]
You don't think my parents named me Eddie for real?
[ She stalls for time by taking another hit off the pipe, sitting up straight so she can get a good lungful, all that singing talent being made even more obvious by how much she can expand her ribcage to get even more smoke and tar into her lungs.
After a long beat, she opens her mouth to let the smoke curl free. ] It's Edith, [ she says, shaking her head. ] Edith Dawn.
And then Eddie takes in a wide lungful and the shape of piercings stand out proud and obvious from small, perky tits and Tommy's fucked. He's so fucked.
His mouth is dry and he doesn't know if it's the weed or arousal but luckily he's high enough that his dick doesn't try to leap into action. Tommy finds himself staring at some nothing-hotel art on the wall. He blinks, tries not to remember the sight of Eddie's chest, and looks back at her. Keep to her face, Tomás.] Dida. [Tommy nods, because her name works, it makes sense.]
[ Eddie's starting to feel the edges of a buzz, the dull background throbbing of her headache melting away, and she winds up leaning back against one hand, cocking her head to one side until she remembers the heavy towel wrapped around her hair. She has to sit up a little straighter to pull the damn thing off, squeezing the ends for good measure before tossing the whole thing aside in the vague direction of the bathroom. It leaves her hair hanging loose in wet tendrils, but she just rakes them all out of her face with her fingers before turning her attention back to him. ]
What's that? [ she asks, picking up the pipe again and holding it out to him in a silent question. ]
[Tommy's attention is a waterfall, following her towel, the drape of her dark hair as it falls loose, the pull of her fingers. He blinks and then shakes his head at the offered pipe even though he wants to say yes. Next time.] Dida. Your name. Edith Dawn. Dida is what... [He inhales, and exhales.]
My family, or. Spanish. Kinda. Like, I probably shoulda been Tomi, but because my mother always called me Thomas Antonio, instead of Tomi she called me Toto. So Edith Dawn, you'd be Dida. Because Edith Dawn, it's too nice to not say the whole thing. So the nickname's from both. [Obvious. Obviously. Tommy grins, feels the stretch of his face and laughs.]
[ She's a little relieved when Tommy declines taking the pipe, especially when he starts talking.
Which isn't to say she doesn't think the explanation is incredibly cute, especially since it's apparently the same math his mom did to make his childhood nickname, but she's pretty sure he would never have told her that information if he'd been in his right mind, so maybe it's a good idea that he's pacing himself.
Not that he didn't know what he was getting into when he followed her up here. She had been pretty clear about her intentions. ]
That's really sweet. [ His eyes crinkle adorably when he grins at her that wide, little crow's feet streaking out across his temples. Eddie remembers his freckles, wishes she was a little closer so she could admire them properly. She takes a hit off the pipe mostly to keep her mouth occupied so she doesn't say something stupid, even though she knows Tommy's in no state to hold that against her right now. ] We're like bookends. We match. Toto and Dida.
Toto and Dida. [Jobi, Toto! That had been the call that wound through his childhood. But he likes this version. He likes her. Tommy leans over the back of his chair with a stretch, the hem of the too-small shirt riding up before he winces at the pressure against his back and laughs, tilting to the side, catching himself on the edge of the bed.] It's a good name, [he repeats.] A pretty name.
[ If he's going to put himself on display like that, of course she's going to look. Especially when the hem of his shirt rides up his belly a little. She kind of wants to bite him. In the medic's tent, she'd been too distracted by the whole "potential concussion, definite glass cuts" thing to really properly ogle him when he was shirtless, but now she's starting to feel good.
She'd feel better if she'd have also taken a hot shower, but hey, she's warm and dry now, so it's fine.
Poor Tommy is still in those wet jeans. She kind of wants to offer him her sweats again. (There's a part of her that wants to ask him to just take them off entirely and leave it at that, but she's pushing that part of her aside. For now. As much as possible, at least.)
It's so obviously a line, and it's so obnoxious that it's working on her. ] I bet you say that to all the girls, [ she counters, wrinkling her nose at him again as she holds out the pipe one more time. ]
[The pipe is taken, but held instead of pulling on. Tommy looks up at her with dark eyes, a little darker from the weed. He smiles, shakes his head.] Never met another Dida. And.
[He waves the insinuation away with his free hand before crossing his arms on the bed. The position pulls on the stitches but his nerves are pleasantly cosseted and for the moment he doesn't move.] Not a lot of girls. Got... [Control issues. He tongues the words in his mouth.] You know. Catholic upbringing. We're good boys. [Didn't hurt, anyway, having his role model end up in wedded not-bliss when he got his high school sweetheart knocked up. Without real thought, Tommy's eyes track to the box of condoms he'd thrown down on the dresser across the room.]
[ She's not surprised he's never met another girl like her. Eddie is, whether fortunate or not, a one-of-a-kind kind of woman, even she knows that.
She firmly tells the smug little demon in the back of her mind to shut the hell up and stop crowing over the fact that it kind of sounds like Tommy's not the type of man to go out and pick up girls at bars (or music festivals) to fuck and then immediately forget. That's irrelevant.
It gets a little bit harder not to think about it when he bends closer, propping up his elbows on the bed beside her crossed knees. Her hand automatically finds its way to his shoulders without any conscious direction from her brain, and she finds herself carefully tracing the edges of his bandages through his shirt. ]
You know, when I was in high school, my shitty hometown was all convinced I was the leader of some kind of demonic cult hell-bent on seducing their corn-fed Indiana babies away from the light of the Lord? [ She gives him a crooked smile, twirling the end of one curl from his ponytail around her fingertip. ] A good Catholic boy like you oughta keep his distance.
Think I read something like that. [An admission he wouldn't make, sober; giving up the fact that he's looked into her like some groupie, pulling up search results on the internet. He hadn't done a lot of poking, but the wide web of fans give up their thoughts pretty easily. He's still here. He still thinks she's beautiful.
Tommy's head rocks forward, hanging slightly in response to the touch of Eddie's fingers on him.] Some might think so but I've seen enough that I can't really believe in that anymore. But maybe I want to, because you sing like someone pulled you off a cloud. Like maybe it all really exists if you can sing like you do.
You did? [ He's got a favorite song and he's read at least her band's Wiki page; she'd be worried she was picking up a fan except he's more of a colleague now, and at this stage of their acquaintance, she's having a hard time thinking of him as anything other than what he is: a handsome man who looks at her like she's worth something, worth knowing. And Eddie's never had very good self-control.
He lets his head fall down a little, leaning in closer to her, and she lets her fingertips play along the back of his neck, slipping beneath the collar of his borrowed shirt to touch his warm skin. ]
Tommy. [ God, he's sweet. How the hell is an Army vet, a fucking sniper, so sweet? She can believe he was raised Catholic, a true believer, that he never let himself go out and have too much of a wild youth, when he says shit like that to her. How the hell is she supposed to resist that? ] I'm hardly an angel, papi. Kind of the opposite, really.
[His shoulders raise and fall in a soft approximation of a laugh at her using that damn word again but maybe she was right in the beginning: the shape of it sounds good in her mouth. Eddie's fingers feel as hot as brands against the air-conditioned skin of his back.] Way I count it, it's been... [He tilts his arm just enough to check his watch.] About four hours.
Four hours since I met you and you've gone out and done a set you could have begged off to for a field full of wet fans, helped break down a stage you didn't have to when your crew was short-staffed, offered comfort to some random stranger when he was in pain, and. [Tommy chuckles, moving just enough to tap the bottom of the pipe lightly against Eddie's shin as he looks up at her.] Shared your very good stash with that same pendejo. Don't sound to me like you got the devil in you, chica.
Sure wish you'd been around in Hawkins when everyone was convinced I was a Satanist and-or possessed. Coulda saved me a lot of trouble and heartache.
[ She's joking, obviously, to cover the squirmy feelings she's battling under her skin. Of course she did all that shit. How could she not? Those kids out there, the fans, they scrimped and saved to get tickets (or found a way to sneak in) specifically to see their favorite bands play. The crew work their asses off to make sure that the show's a success. Tommy's hardly a random stranger to her, not now. And she always shares her weed.
He tilts his head to look up at her, tapping the warm pipe against her leg, and Eddie watches her free hand lift from her lap so she can trail the tip of her finger down the bridge of his nose. ]
[Tommy blinks up at Eddie as her finger slides down his nose and he's not it's not the weed telling his brain to kiss her.] I don't have freckles. [He does, he knows he does. He doesn't hate them but sure doesn't love them either.] Yours look like constellations on a cloudy night.
[ She laughs at him, the weed in her system making everything just that little bit funnier than it really is, and cups his face in her palm. ]
Yes you do!
[ His are much more pronounced than hers, dark and obvious and painfully charming. Eddie's are really only obvious when she's blushing, or when she's taken her makeup off like she has this evening, when her skin is bare and she's allowing herself to feel flattered by an attractive man making eyes at her.
No, I'm saying there's an impression of a fuller picture. [His voice is softer than it might have been otherwise, now that Eddie's hand is on his face. Tommy's heart is doing a very slow, very heavy, tapdance against his ribs.]
Can I kiss you? [It's out of his mouth, no attempt made to snatch it back.]
[ Eddie's never met Tommy's brother, knows nothing about him besides his full legal name, but she feels fairly confident she can guess which one of them is the song-writer in that duo, if the things Tommy says to her are any indication.
She's feeling a little soft and hazy around the edges, her sharpness blurred by the weed and the fact that they've spent so much time together tonight and Tommy literally put himself between her and at least a very painful injury if not something more serious.
It means when he asks to kiss her, she doesn't turn it into some kind of joke, doesn't say something snarky or quippy in return, just brushes her thumb over his cheek and nods, a pleased little smile curling her lips. ]
Yeah. [ She'd like that a lot, actually. But then she adds: ] Give me the pipe, though, I don't want to accidentally set the bed on fire.
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She clambers up onto the end of one of the beds, crossing her legs, so she can watch Tommy pack the pipe. ]
Yeah. Not how I expected they'd go, but. Here we are. [ When the three of them were all lying in their hospital beds, convalescing as best they could, clinging to each other to make it through the nightmares, she knows they weren't dreaming of a life like this. ] I'll introduce you to Chrissy, later. She's sweet as pie, you'll like her.
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He does.
And he covers it up like shit, too, jerking his attention back to what he was doing and nearly spilling the whole thing. She liked his ink? Her goddamn legs. And honestly he'd have never in life would have said that he'd find a woman covered in tattoos attractive but here they are; here she is, looking both fresh and wild, and here he is, struck mute by it. Tommy finishes packing the weed and finally, feeling a little more composed, turns to offer it to Eddie across the gap between desk chair and bed. He sits back.] Really? I can't image anyone sweet lasting five minutes stuck between you and Stevie.
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For a moment, just a half a second or so, the part of her that's convinced anyone who comes up to talk to her at a party is just angling for an introduction to Stevie rears its head and she wants to falter, but then she clocks how he fumbles the pipe in his hands, the intense focus on his face that even she can tell is forced, and she settles into pleased territory instead. ]
Oh, she's got us both wrapped around her little finger. [ Eddie accepts the pipe and then has to twist around and lean back to reach for her lighter, her legs unfolding to counterbalance for a moment before she's back upright again. She flicks it on and sets it to the bowl. ] She'll get you too, just you wait.
[ She takes a pull, flicking the lighter on again to make sure the embers take, and holds the smoke in her lungs for a long moment as she leans across the divide between them to pass the pipe back. ]
What's your brother's name?
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[Tommy grins and sinks into the back of his chair; he can feel the weed already. He rolls his head toward Eddie, belatedly aware that he said "Ho-elle".] Joel. [Like Joe. With an 'L'. Like the pronunciation that his brother insisted on ever since turning fifteen.]
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Oh, wow. Full government name and everything. [ There's a softer lilt to his voice when he speaks in Spanish, even just the few syllables of his brother's name, and Eddie can count on one hand the number of Spanish words she knows, but she decides here and now that she'll get a fucking Pimsleur book on tape if she has to, because she wants to hear him say that again.
Well. Maybe not his brother's name, specifically, but Spanish stuff in general.
She leans forward to take the pipe from him, her fingertips brushing against his palm. ] What's your full name, then?
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He leans in, in all ways.] Tomás Antonio Gabriel Miller.
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He's right. Eddie does only carry the good shit now that she can afford to, now that she's not peddling cheap grass to clueless teenagers, but she self-medicates frequently enough that she forgets that someone else may not have the same tolerance to it that she does.
All three of them smoke up regularly, actually. Stevie, to cope with her migraines; Chrissy, to cope with her chronic pain; and Eddie, to cope with life in general. All three of them use it to cope with the nightmares. It takes more than a few puffs for her to start feeling it, but what she is feeling is hopelessly charmed as she watches Tommy relax.
She smiles at him, wide and bright, as he really draws out the accent when he replies. ]
Tomás, hm? [ To her credit, her imitation isn't bad. Eddie has an ear for music, after all. ] That's way better than mine.
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What? He's hot, okay, and he's looking at her like that, and she still hasn't forgotten the condoms from earlier. ]
You don't think my parents named me Eddie for real?
[ She stalls for time by taking another hit off the pipe, sitting up straight so she can get a good lungful, all that singing talent being made even more obvious by how much she can expand her ribcage to get even more smoke and tar into her lungs.
After a long beat, she opens her mouth to let the smoke curl free. ] It's Edith, [ she says, shaking her head. ] Edith Dawn.
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And then Eddie takes in a wide lungful and the shape of piercings stand out proud and obvious from small, perky tits and Tommy's fucked. He's so fucked.
His mouth is dry and he doesn't know if it's the weed or arousal but luckily he's high enough that his dick doesn't try to leap into action. Tommy finds himself staring at some nothing-hotel art on the wall. He blinks, tries not to remember the sight of Eddie's chest, and looks back at her. Keep to her face, Tomás.] Dida. [Tommy nods, because her name works, it makes sense.]
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What's that? [ she asks, picking up the pipe again and holding it out to him in a silent question. ]
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My family, or. Spanish. Kinda. Like, I probably shoulda been Tomi, but because my mother always called me Thomas Antonio, instead of Tomi she called me Toto. So Edith Dawn, you'd be Dida. Because Edith Dawn, it's too nice to not say the whole thing. So the nickname's from both. [Obvious. Obviously. Tommy grins, feels the stretch of his face and laughs.]
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Which isn't to say she doesn't think the explanation is incredibly cute, especially since it's apparently the same math his mom did to make his childhood nickname, but she's pretty sure he would never have told her that information if he'd been in his right mind, so maybe it's a good idea that he's pacing himself.
Not that he didn't know what he was getting into when he followed her up here. She had been pretty clear about her intentions. ]
That's really sweet. [ His eyes crinkle adorably when he grins at her that wide, little crow's feet streaking out across his temples. Eddie remembers his freckles, wishes she was a little closer so she could admire them properly. She takes a hit off the pipe mostly to keep her mouth occupied so she doesn't say something stupid, even though she knows Tommy's in no state to hold that against her right now. ] We're like bookends. We match. Toto and Dida.
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Fits you.
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She'd feel better if she'd have also taken a hot shower, but hey, she's warm and dry now, so it's fine.
Poor Tommy is still in those wet jeans. She kind of wants to offer him her sweats again. (There's a part of her that wants to ask him to just take them off entirely and leave it at that, but she's pushing that part of her aside. For now. As much as possible, at least.)
It's so obviously a line, and it's so obnoxious that it's working on her. ] I bet you say that to all the girls, [ she counters, wrinkling her nose at him again as she holds out the pipe one more time. ]
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[He waves the insinuation away with his free hand before crossing his arms on the bed. The position pulls on the stitches but his nerves are pleasantly cosseted and for the moment he doesn't move.] Not a lot of girls. Got... [Control issues. He tongues the words in his mouth.] You know. Catholic upbringing. We're good boys. [Didn't hurt, anyway, having his role model end up in wedded not-bliss when he got his high school sweetheart knocked up. Without real thought, Tommy's eyes track to the box of condoms he'd thrown down on the dresser across the room.]
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She firmly tells the smug little demon in the back of her mind to shut the hell up and stop crowing over the fact that it kind of sounds like Tommy's not the type of man to go out and pick up girls at bars (or music festivals) to fuck and then immediately forget. That's irrelevant.
It gets a little bit harder not to think about it when he bends closer, propping up his elbows on the bed beside her crossed knees. Her hand automatically finds its way to his shoulders without any conscious direction from her brain, and she finds herself carefully tracing the edges of his bandages through his shirt. ]
You know, when I was in high school, my shitty hometown was all convinced I was the leader of some kind of demonic cult hell-bent on seducing their corn-fed Indiana babies away from the light of the Lord? [ She gives him a crooked smile, twirling the end of one curl from his ponytail around her fingertip. ] A good Catholic boy like you oughta keep his distance.
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Tommy's head rocks forward, hanging slightly in response to the touch of Eddie's fingers on him.] Some might think so but I've seen enough that I can't really believe in that anymore. But maybe I want to, because you sing like someone pulled you off a cloud. Like maybe it all really exists if you can sing like you do.
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He lets his head fall down a little, leaning in closer to her, and she lets her fingertips play along the back of his neck, slipping beneath the collar of his borrowed shirt to touch his warm skin. ]
Tommy. [ God, he's sweet. How the hell is an Army vet, a fucking sniper, so sweet? She can believe he was raised Catholic, a true believer, that he never let himself go out and have too much of a wild youth, when he says shit like that to her. How the hell is she supposed to resist that? ] I'm hardly an angel, papi. Kind of the opposite, really.
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Four hours since I met you and you've gone out and done a set you could have begged off to for a field full of wet fans, helped break down a stage you didn't have to when your crew was short-staffed, offered comfort to some random stranger when he was in pain, and. [Tommy chuckles, moving just enough to tap the bottom of the pipe lightly against Eddie's shin as he looks up at her.] Shared your very good stash with that same pendejo. Don't sound to me like you got the devil in you, chica.
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Sure wish you'd been around in Hawkins when everyone was convinced I was a Satanist and-or possessed. Coulda saved me a lot of trouble and heartache.
[ She's joking, obviously, to cover the squirmy feelings she's battling under her skin. Of course she did all that shit. How could she not? Those kids out there, the fans, they scrimped and saved to get tickets (or found a way to sneak in) specifically to see their favorite bands play. The crew work their asses off to make sure that the show's a success. Tommy's hardly a random stranger to her, not now. And she always shares her weed.
He tilts his head to look up at her, tapping the warm pipe against her leg, and Eddie watches her free hand lift from her lap so she can trail the tip of her finger down the bridge of his nose. ]
I love your freckles.
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[He laughs at himself. It's funny, but true.]
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Yes you do!
[ His are much more pronounced than hers, dark and obvious and painfully charming. Eddie's are really only obvious when she's blushing, or when she's taken her makeup off like she has this evening, when her skin is bare and she's allowing herself to feel flattered by an attractive man making eyes at her.
It's fucking working. ]
So they're invisible, is that what you're saying?
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Can I kiss you? [It's out of his mouth, no attempt made to snatch it back.]
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She's feeling a little soft and hazy around the edges, her sharpness blurred by the weed and the fact that they've spent so much time together tonight and Tommy literally put himself between her and at least a very painful injury if not something more serious.
It means when he asks to kiss her, she doesn't turn it into some kind of joke, doesn't say something snarky or quippy in return, just brushes her thumb over his cheek and nods, a pleased little smile curling her lips. ]
Yeah. [ She'd like that a lot, actually. But then she adds: ] Give me the pipe, though, I don't want to accidentally set the bed on fire.
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