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wheels-of-despair · 9 months

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Clown Around and Find Out Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie decides to play a prank on Evil Woman, and quickly finds out just how dangerous that is. Contains: A quiet night alone, a bad idea, an Evil Woman secret, excessive cursing, panic, rage, attempted murder, happy ending. Words: 1.8k Note: This takes place in the fall of 1990.

"She's gonna murder you."

"No, she's not," Eddie grins, admiring his outfit in the mirror.

"Don't you think it's kinda mean?" Jeff asks.

"That's what makes it funny!" Grant insists.

"She is literally going to murder you," Gareth reiterates.

"She is not! It's just a jump-scare, she's gonna know it's me in like a second!"

"You're gonna give the poor girl a heart attack!" Jeff tries again.

"You guys are no fucking fun anymore," Eddie grumbles, picking up the mask he'd found in a clearance bin after Halloween and modified for this very occasion. "I'm outta here."

"It's your funeral, man," Gareth shrugs.

After a few years of living with Eddie, you learned to appreciate your alone time. You loved him with everything you had, but even (mostly) domesticated, your beloved trash panda was still a lot to handle. So somewhere along the way, a night of band practice for Eddie started to mean a quiet night alone with a book or a "chick movie" for you. You'd never admit it to him, but you enjoyed these peaceful nights.

However, about a week ago, you and Eddie sat down with a bowl of popcorn to watch the new Stephen King miniseries.

IT.

You'd both read the book when it first came out and thought it was awesome.

Seeing it in your living room, on the other hand, was not so awesome.

You hated that fucking clown.

The mile-high forehead. The nose that looked like a blood blister about to pop. The fucking fangs. The whole luring-children-into-the-sewer-and-eating-them thing. Nope, nope, nope.

Eddie had watched the whole thing with fascination. You'd focused your eyes on the dusty little houseplant that lived below the TV whenever that thing was on screen.

And still, it invaded your nightmares.

So tonight, your quiet night alone was something of a nightmare as well. It was so quiet, every little creak echoed through the house.

You put on a movie - an old favorite that calmed your nerves for its duration - but as soon as the soothing whir of the tape rewinding ended with a clunk, the house resumed its creaking. You decided to do some laundry, hoping the washing machine would drown out the little noises that kept making you jump.

You gathered the basket of dirty clothes, hauled it to the laundry room, and began sorting. Still too quiet. You started singing the first song that came to mind to combat the silence as you loaded the washer and poured in the detergent.

When you turned to reach for the cap, you gasped.

There was a fucking clown standing in the doorway. Big forehead. Round nose. Frizzy hair. Ruffled shirt with ridiculously large pom-poms down the front. White gloves.

It's not real. Remember when a cardinal flew past you the other day, and you freaked out because all you saw was a flash of red, and you thought of that fucking clown? It's not real.

And then it fucking moved.

You shrieked and jumped backward, colliding with the wall of your tiny laundry room. There's no fucking way out of here. There are no weapons. If you survive this, you're going everywhere with a machete strapped to you for the rest of your life.

It crosses its arms.

Just like you've seen someone else do on occasion.

"Edward Munson, if you don't have that fucking mask off in 3 seconds, you are in for a WORLD of fucking hurt."

The clown throws up both hands in an exaggerated shrug.

It's just Eddie, right? Fucking with his poor little chicken? He'd laughed after you told him about the first clown nightmare, giving you an "awww" and a patronizing kiss on the forehead. It's just Eddie thinking he's funny. Which he's not. He's really not.

"Eddie, I'm fucking warning you."

But what if it's not him?

It takes a leap toward you.

You grab the handle of the laundry detergent - the big value-sized kind in a jug - and hurl it at the clown with everything you've got.

As if it were traveling in slow motion, you see the blue liquid begin to spill from the spout, somehow spreading in every direction; if you lived through this, you'd probably spend the next week scrubbing laundry detergent from every square inch of this room.

The clown ducks and misses the heavy jug, which hits the wall in the hallway and falls to the floor, but still gets doused in blue. It looks down at the liquid seeping into its stupid ruffly shirt, and you reach for the jug of bleach on the floor.

"You think this is funny, motherfucker?"

The clown holds out one of its gloved hands and takes a step closer, and it fills you with rage. If this is Eddie, you're gonna kill him and bury him in the back yard. If it's NOT Eddie, you're gonna kill it and call the cops. You fling the bleach at it, and this time, it's not quick enough. The clown tries to duck out of the way again, but the bottle makes contact with its side before falling to the ground.

The clown bends over with a grunt, clutching the spot where you hit it. Its massive forehead slowly rises to look at you. All you can see are dark holes where eyes should be. You grab the bottle of fabric softener and send it flying toward the clown's face. Direct hit, and a muffled cry from the clown.

You reach for the iron and grip the handle hard. If you die tonight, at least you're gonna take that ugly-ass motherfucker down with you.

The clown grumbles something from behind the mask, but you can't understand it. It stumbles backward. You raise the iron, wishing it were hot so you could melt this motherfucker's face off.

The white glove starts fumbling with the frizzy red wig, then pulls it off. A familiar mop of brown hair comes into view.

You're relieved for half a second, and then you're back to irate.

"You fucking ASSHOLE! What is WRONG with you?!"

"I thought it would be funny," he winces, standing and rubbing the spot on his side where you'd hit him with the bleach. "When did you get so violent?"

When did you get so violent?? You can feel the rage bubbling over again, and Eddie can see that he's still in danger. You slam the iron down on top of the washer, and he jumps at the sound.

"Okay, woah, I'm sorry," he says, backing toward the door. "I didn't think you'd freak out this bad."

You slowly advance on him, filling with fury.

"Stop. Stop." He holds his still-gloved hands up in surrender. You clench your fists and prepare to strike.

He makes his move a split second before you do.

You pounce, and he escapes. The door slams in your face.

"YOU'RE A DEAD MAN, MUNSON!"

"I said I was sorry!"

You try the doorknob, but it won't turn. This door locks from the inside. He's holding onto it.

"You really think locking me in here is a good idea?" you seethe.

"You're not locked in."

You smack your hand on the door where you suspect his face is on the other side.

"Hey!" Damn, you're good.

"Let me out."

"Not until you calm down."

"Is it ever a good idea to tell a girl to calm down, Edward?"

A thump comes from the door, as if he's just banged his head against the other side.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know it would freak you out that bad. You said you had a dream about the clown, and I thought it was cute, then I saw the mask and decided to fix it up and mess with you."

You feel the adrenaline draining from your body at the sound of his stupid voice. You both love and hate this power he has over you.

You sigh and lean your head against the door. "I've been dreaming about it every night," you admit, removing your hand from the knob.

"Every night?"

"Every night."

"Fuck."

You step away from the door and shimmy yourself up onto the dryer, sitting on top with your legs crossed.

"If I open the door, are you gonna murder me?"

"Only time will tell," you deadpan.

The door opens a sliver, and you see puffy red eye staring at you through the crack. He eases it open the rest of the way, but remains in the hallway.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Your life-or-death rush has faded; you're too tired to shoot him the withering glare he deserves.

He approaches you cautiously, still not entirely convinced that he'll live to see tomorrow.

"Take that stupid shirt off."

He whips it off and throws it over his shoulder. The gloves follow.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

You sigh, close your eyes, and lean forward. He closes the distance and wraps his arms around you.

"I really am sorry," he whispers into your hair.

"I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me."

He hums in acknowledgement and holds you tighter. You rest your cheek against his warm chest for a few minutes, replaying the events of tonight. You'd probably be laughing about this in a few years, and telling this story at parties. But for now, you were just glad you hadn't really killed him. You quite liked this idiot. Most of the time.

"Are you okay?" you ask. "Aside from your slow reflexes?"

"Couldn't see shit in that mask."

"Excuses, excuses. Answer the question."

"I'll be fine," he chuckles. "Just like being back in high school and fucking with the jocks. 'Cept your aim's better. And they never cuddled me after they threw shit at me."

Both of your shoulders shake in silent laughter.

When you pulled away and opened your eyes again, you were greeted by the sight of blue splatters everywhere. Everywhere. How did one jug even hold that much? How the hell did it get on the ceiling?

"Looks like somebody jerked off a Smurf in here," you observe.

Eddie snorts, which makes you snort, and then you both start laughing. And just like that… everything was okay again.

Two Days Later

The Corroded Coffin boys put down their instruments and stood together when Eddie's van roared up the driveway, waiting to hear about The Pennywise Incident. He took his time getting his guitar and approaching the garage, then walked right by them without a word. He turned his back and ignored them while he set up his gear.

The trio closed in on him.

"How'd it go, man?" Grant prompted. "Did she freak?"

"Did she make you sleep in the van?" Jeff laughed.

Eddie turned around and took off his sunglasses with an unamused huff, revealing the black eye the fabric softener had given him.

"Told you so," Gareth smirked.

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #for the record? she'd never really hurt him out of anger.#he's flight. she's fight. neither of them would know what to do if she actually caught him. good thing he's good at running.#congrats to me who has grown so desensitized to the curry clown while researching this that i wish i'd found a way to use chucky instead #skarsgard? fine. curry? nope.#in anything #do not like that guy's face

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