Author's Note: Eddie shows off the fruit of his labors, Sara accidentally double-books her afternoon, and the tutor-pupil relationship boundaries get blurred. Enjoy! :)

" —So I'm pretty sure that the fact Rochester's bed was set on fire is supposed to connect to, like, his affair with— what was her name? Celine, or whatever. Since it's supposed to be seen as immoral."

Sara doesn't think she's ever seen Ms. O'Donnell look so shocked; her eyeglasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose, and even her normally bouncy blonde curls seem to be dragged down, weighted by the same anchor that's currently stretching her jaw to the floor. Don't catch flies, O'Donnell. Sara smirks, leaning her chin on her tented fingers smugly, her eyes half-lidded as she watches the stunned silence stretch on. Even her classmates are frozen, their eyes locked on the back left corner of the classroom, where Eddie Munson reclines casually in his seat, one arm thrown back against the chair, the other gesticulating in the air as he speaks.

O'Donnell's mouth works silently for a second; before any sound can come out, Eddie suddenly leans forward, his voice intent. "Oh yeah, and another thing— Rochester says that Grace Poole set his bed on fire? There's no way, man." He leans back again, crossing his arms, his eyes narrowed skeptically. "I don't buy that for a second."

O'Donnell is silent for so long that Sara starts to think she may have had an aneurysm. Eventually, she recovers, stammering, "Um, yes, Ed-Edward. You make some… excellent points." She clears her throat, closing her copy of Jane Eyre with a thump, leaving it on the podium as she clacks over to her seat. O'Donnell sinks into the chair, saying as primly as she can, "Let's continue this discussion on Monday, everyone— don't forget that you have a test tomorrow on elements of literature." She pauses, blinking for a second before the words rush out of her mouth: "Have a good day."

Sara glances up at the clock, noting that there are two minutes left in the class period. Slowly, as if confused, the students start gathering up their belongings, beginning to whisper as they get ready to leave class. Sara doesn't move; instead, she glances across the room at Eddie, where he's also still sitting without moving, his arms folded against his chest, his long legs extended out in front of him. Eddie's eyes catch hers, and their faces stretch with matching smug grins. Sara feels a plume of pride puff up in her chest at the pleased expression on his face, maintaining eye contact for another moment before she grabs her novel and notebook from her desk, bending over to stuff them into her messenger bag. She gets up, joining the flow of students trickling into the hallway, who still seem somewhat shell-shocked from the two unexpected events that have just occurred: first, that Eddie Munson had actually contributed an insightful point to their discussion of a class novel, and second, that Ms. O'Donnell had actually dismissed class before the bell.

Sara feels a warm presence behind her, and she doesn't have to turn around to know that it's Eddie. Once they've crossed a few steps over the threshold of the classroom into the hallway, she whips around, a giant grin on her face. She stops walking abruptly, impeding the flow of traffic and forcing Eddie to skid to a stop so he doesn't walk straight into her.

"That was probably one of the most satisfying things I've ever seen!" Sara beams, craning her face up towards him, their bodies so close that his open jacket almost brushes against her chest. Eddie leans a shoulder against the wall, smirking down at her, heedless of the way other students must now walk around them. They both ignore how some shoot them irritated glances at how they're taking up the hallway.

"There's more where that came from, Sunshine. English is about to become your favorite class."

His smirk widens to a grin as she laughs, saying warmly, "Despite O'Donnell this year, it already was— but this just makes it better." She smiles at him for another moment before it falters, and she leans against the wall, mirroring him, crossing her arms as her expression turns rueful.

Sara has been dreading having this next conversation. She's felt a sharp prickle of guilt ever since last night when she'd agreed, without thinking it through, to cover Simone's waitressing shift today. When Chris had asked her, her mind had been on the extra cash, so Sara had accepted quickly with an eager grin. It wasn't until later, when she'd gone to the back, that she'd realized it was Wednesday, October 16th, which would make the next day a Thursday— the day of her weekly tutoring session with Eddie.

Eddie's grin falls, too, as he sees her expression change; he shifts on his feet, his brow furrowing.

"What?" His tone is deepened with some foreboding, and Sara sighs, her voice clearly guilty as she twists her arms behind her back.

"Well… my manager Chris asked me to cover a shift today at the Hideaway, so… I'm gonna need to cancel our tutoring session this afternoon."

Eddie narrows his eyes, tilting his chin up and fixing Sara with a smirk as he says sarcastically, "Real funny, Campbell. Nice try; I know you wouldn't leave me high and dry when we have a test tomorrow—"

But Sara's expression doesn't change, and Eddie pauses, his eyes widening in panic as he realizes she's serious. He pushes off the wall, his hands darting out to clasp her upper arms, shaking her slightly; she lets him, merely wincing with remorse as he whines, "You can't do this to me— how am I supposed to learn literary elements in one night without you, Campbell?"

Sara sighs deeply, reaching up to rest her hands placatingly on his forearms as his hands still grip her tightly, her brow crinkled in regret. "Look, I'm really sorry, Munson. There's nothing I can do to get out of it. But," she pats his forearms a couple of times, looking into his wide dark eyes as she tilts her head, her tone wheedling, "I'll make you some flashcards at lunch, and you can use those to study. How's that?"

Eddie twists his lips, finally dropping her arms as he leans heavily against the wall again, threading his thumb in the pocket of his jeans. "A subpar substitution, but I'll take what I can get." He still looks somewhat upset, and Sara feels a sudden slight pang at the idea that he's angry with her; she pouts, batting her eyelashes.

"Will you ever forgive me, Munson?" She clasps her hands underneath her chin, giving him her best puppy dog eyes.

Eddie rolls his eyes exaggeratedly in reply, sighing as he pushes off the wall and moves past her, placing his hand on her shoulder to turn her as he does. He keeps the hand on her shoulder to push her along with him as he starts to navigate the hallway toward the cafeteria. His palm is hot even through her t-shirt, and Sara tries not to think about it as she waits for his reply while they walk to lunch. Finally, she glances up sideways into his face, and Eddie looks back at her askance, his eyes half-lidded— and even though he tries to maintain the wry expression, she can see that he's already started to soften. As they reach the cafeteria doors, she smiles sweetly at him, dancing out of his grasp as she pulls the door open, calling over her shoulder before she slips through the gap.

"I'll make it up to you!"

––

Sara tries to ignore Sam and Jenn's eyes on her as she writes carefully across the lined side of an index card, focused on explaining the difference between a metaphor and a simile. Her turkey sandwich sits forgotten next to her as she drops the finished card onto the top of a small stack to her right, where other written-on cards sit, ready to be delivered to their recipient. Sara pulls another from the blank pile at her left, setting it in front of her; she's about to start writing when a palm is abruptly slapped on top of the card, interrupting the path of her pencil. She glances up sharply to see Jenn fixing her with a pointed stare. Jenn's eyebrow tugs up challengingly as she says, with pretend lightness,

"Sara… why are you spending your entire lunch period making index cards about English concepts you already know instead of doing what you're supposed to be doing: eating your sandwich and gossiping with your dearest friends, Sam and Jenn?"

Sara huffs a quick sigh, dragging the index card out of Jenn's grasp with her fingertips as she says with restrained patience, "Because, Jenn, I told you: I have to work tonight, so I'm making Eddie flashcards to study from since we can't meet."

Jenn retracts her hand, leaning towards Sam as she muses with a knowing smile, loud enough for Sara to hear, "Now he's got her doing extra work for him— and yet she maintains that the relationship is 'strictly professional.'" She puts air quotes around the last two words, poking Sam in the arm with her elbow meaningfully. Sam leans away, her eyes flat as she stuffs another chip into her mouth from her sandwich plate.

Sara drops her pencil down onto the tabletop with a clatter, crossing her arms and pinning Jenn with a small glare, her nostrils flared with the effort of keeping her irritation in check. Though she knows that Jenn is just teasing like she always does, her ribbing makes some uncomfortable feelings well up in Sara's chest— a tangle of guilt and self-consciousness pulling tighter until Sara can't keep the bite out of her voice as she responds. "Look, it's my fault we can't meet— I wasn't thinking when I accepted the extra shift tonight. So it's my responsibility to make up for my mistake." She runs her tongue along her top teeth, averting her eyes as she looks back down at the card, snatching up and gripping her pencil tightly as she resumes writing. "Can we please talk about something else?"

Jenn must register the edge in Sara's tone, as her voice is much less pointed when she pivots the conversation, dropping the matter entirely. "So, have we officially determined what we're wearing for Halloween this year?"

"I think the only thing we know for sure is what Sam's going as," Sara says wryly, smiling as she glances at Sam, who rolls her eyes.

"To be fair, I was basically born to be Elvira," she defends.

"I mean," Jenn says, "all you have to do is dig in your closet and tease your hair a little higher, so you're set. I was thinking of Raggedy Ann."

"That's cute!" Sara replies brightly, and Sam nods, asking Sara, "What are you gonna do?"

"Well, I've been reading this really good book called The Handmaid's Tale, which is about this dystopian society where women are subservient to men—"

"Dystopian?" Sam interrupts ironically, and Sara smirks, clarifying,

"I mean, the society in the book is pretty extreme. But it's super compelling, so I'm probably gonna pay homage to that." She places her last index card on top of the finalized stack as Jenn points out,

"You know no one's gonna know what you are."

Sara shrugs carelessly as the bell to signal the end of lunch chimes; she takes a quick bite of the sandwich before hastily pulling her messenger bag over her shoulder, scooping the cards and tray into her hands as she rises from the table.

"I'll know," she replies simply, and Jenn shrugs in acquiescence, waiting for Sam to join them as they stand near the end of the table while she gathers her belongings. Sara looks across the cafeteria, registering that the members of Hellfire Club are starting to rise from their seats too. She glances back at Jenn, already taking a step forward as she says hastily, "I'll catch you guys later."

"'Kay," Jenn replies, and Sara heads off, shaking her tray off over the garbage can and sliding it quickly onto the shelf above as she cranes her neck, trying to keep an eye on Eddie's dark curly mass of hair while she weaves around her classmates towards his table. She shuffles between two cafeteria benches, dodging classmates trying to get up. Finally, she squeezes through a small opening between the bench and a shorter guy in that matching Hellfire shirt, popping next to Eddie as he's smiling at his tall, dark companion to the other side of him. Sara registers that it's the same friend he'd been goofing off with during gym class on the first day of school.

"Hey," she says quickly, and he turns towards the sound of her voice, his smile widening as he catches sight of her.

"Hey yourself, Campbell," he replies, and she holds out the index cards, thrusting them towards him.

"I have to run, but here are your cards, as promised."

She vaguely notes the confused looks from his companions as they glance between the two of them, but she doesn't bother to explain as Eddie's long fingers pluck the stack from her grasp; his manic grin calms a bit, and he nods, stuffing the cards into his jacket pocket. Her task completed, Sara flashes him a quick smile, throwing a wave and a "See ya!" over her shoulder as she's already striding away, not wanting to be late for biology class.

––

Tutoring twenty Munson clones would have been better than this, Sara thinks bitterly as she squeezes between the bodies of patrons at the table. She grits her teeth as she holds a tray behind her, her right arm straining to keep it balanced as she lowers the glasses of water onto the table, trying not to spill them. She's made it halfway around the table when one of the men throws his head back, laughing raucously as he gestures widely with his arm. Sara is forced to dodge out of his way, the water sloshing onto her hand as she does; she fixes a polite smile on her face as she tries again to put the cup on the table, sliding it successfully in front of him this time.

About an hour before the end of her shift, a large group of boisterous men had tumbled through the door of the Hideaway Pub, loudly requesting a table. Sara had helped Chris push a few tables together quickly as the hostess gathered menus from the stand, trying not to let a stab of panic overwhelm her as she counted the heads. Twelve, she'd noted, biting her lip. Since she was covering for Simone, who typically closes on Thursday nights, she knew that Greg, the other waiter, was set to take off soon, thus making this table her responsibility. At least the tips will be good, she'd thought, trying to be positive as she stepped to the side and fixed a bright smile on her face as the group approached.

She was beginning to doubt that now as a loud, gruff voice bleats at her from her left: "Where are the real drinks, sweetheart?"

Sara stifles a sigh in her throat, addressing him with her best customer service voice as she continues moving around the table. "I'm not able to serve alcohol, sir, as I told you when I took your drink order; the bartender will be by soon to deliver them."

"Well, tell him to hurry his ass up," someone else interjects. Sara tugs her mouth into a tight smile as she slides the final drink onto the table, sticking the tray under her aching arm and pulling her pad from her apron.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Been ready, honey," A gravelly voice says across the table.

As the group laughs, she replies quickly, "What can I get you?"

As she writes their orders, Sara focuses on deep, even breaths, trying not to let the pressure in her chest burst to the surface.

A while later, when she emerges from the kitchen, sighing as she pulls her sticky shirt from her chest and flaps it a bit to cool herself off, Sara is stopped by a quick nudge to her shoulder. She turns to see Chris, who, she notes with some level of resentment, looks rather composed and decidedly un-sweaty compared to her. "Hey, Sar— got another one for you. Just a one-top."

Before she can help it, her lips twist; the overwhelm in her chest ratchets up another notch, and she can feel it prickle suddenly at the corner of her eyes. Sara is tired, achy, hot, and sweaty; she's been enduring the brusque demands of her large table with a smile as she's taken their food order, brought them appetizers, flitted quickly back and forth across the pub to retrieve a variety of condiments and request drink refills from the bartender, listened to their complaints as they asked her to take back and replace two entrees which had been deemed unsatisfactory— and now, finally, when they seem to be satisfied, and she's expecting a quick break from the demand, Sara gets another table.

Sara blinks rapidly, and Chris furrows his eyebrows in concern. "You doing okay?"

The overwhelm is quickly replaced by a spike of panic at the idea that Chris may think that she's not capable, anticipating what consequence that would have in her goal of transitioning to Fridays and Saturdays. And in desperation to dispel that impression, she stamps down on her emotions, fixing a smile quickly on her face, saying lightly, "Yeah, I'm good! No problem. Where's the one-top?"

"Good, good," he replies, nodding toward the front of the pub. "Number fourteen."

"Got it," she says, trying to project confidence as she starts to stride in that direction, only letting her shoulders slump slightly once she's sure Chris is out of eyeshot. As her footsteps stop automatically in front of table fourteen, Sara pushes brightness into her voice as she digs for the pad and pen in her apron, saying warmly, "Hi, what can I get you—"

The words die in her throat as she takes in the wild, dark hair that tumbles over the patron's shoulders, the plaid flannel unbuttoned over his Motorhead t-shirt, and the long, ringed fingers that tap a stack of notecards against the shiny wooden tabletop.

"Hey, Sunshine," Eddie looks up, meeting her eyes with a tilt of his lips. "I had a question about this one thing you wrote—" He trails off, his eyes flicking her up and down as he pauses, his eyebrows tightening as he takes her in. "Y'ok?" he asks, his voice now tinged with some hesitance.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Sara replies once her surprise subsides, her fingers tapping against her hip as she darts a glance at the twelve-top a few tables away, her eyes dancing around the table, trying to assess whether they seem to need anything.

Eddie tracks her gaze, turning in the booth to glance over the high back behind him; as he sees the table, his gaze darts back to her. "That your table?"

Sara chuckles mirthlessly, saying shortly, "Yeah." She crosses her arms, continuing quickly, "Look, I can try to help you, but Chris isn't gonna let you stay here without ordering something…"

He shakes his head sharply, pushing the card stack to the side as he folds his arms against the table, leaning forward as a corner of his lips tugs up into a crooked grin. "Don't worry about it, Campbell; I'll just take a coffee. Black."

Sara blinks, her gaze darting between each of his dark eyes as she hesitates. "Are you sure?" She asks, shifting a bit on her feet. "I do have a few minutes since they're occupied with their entrees; I can just help you real quick now—"

"Nah, I've got it," Eddie interrupts, pulling the first card from the stack and resting his elbows against the table, holding it up close to his face. But she doesn't move, so he glances sideways at her, saying faux-snarkily, "Coffee, Sunshine. C'mon, chop-chop— I'm never gonna get through these ridiculously-detailed note cards without a caffeine injection."

She sighs, rolling her eyes as she scrawls the order across her green pad, though a teensy bit of pressure releases in her chest as she does. "Anything else?" She asks dryly, her eyebrow tugging up as he looks towards the ceiling, his eyes squinting in thought.

"Yeah," he says finally, "throw in some mozzarella sticks, too." She jots that down, nodding at him as she pockets the pad, but Eddie has already turned back to the notecard, his thumb tugging at his lower lip as his brow furrows in concentration while he reads it.

Sara feels the pressure release a little farther as she walks away, pulling out a white mug from under the far right side of the bar, her lips quirking in a small smile as she watches Eddie study for a few moments while the coffee brews.

Sara sighs in relief as the last man sways through the doorway of the pub, the door falling shut behind him with a decisive snap. She stretches her arms above her head, reaching back to rub at a shoulder as she shuffles over to their table, beginning to stack the myriad of dishes, cutlery, mugs, and glasses into neat piles. As she moves around the table, her eyes catch on a smattering of green bills and loose change tucked half-underneath one of the mugs at the center. She sucks her upper lip into her mouth as she drags the pile closer, dropping the change into her cupped hand and pocketing it before glancing through the bills quickly, her stomach souring as she tries not to think about the tip-to-bill ratio.

Ungenerous pricks, she thinks bitterly, folding the meager bills and stuffing them into her apron as she finishes stacking the dirty dishes, flashing a glance up at the bartender as he comes around the side of the bar with a white towel slung over his shoulder. "Hey, I got this."

"Are you sure?" Sara asks, and he nods decisively, gesturing over toward the front end of the pub.

"Yeah, go handle your last table." She smiles at him, squeezing his arm in a quick gesture of gratitude as she moves away, her eyes on Eddie's wild, dark hair as she approaches his table. When she gets there, he's writing with that tiny nub of pencil on one of her notecards. Eddie looks up as he notices her, smiling as he pushes the plate of mozzarella sticks closer with one long finger, offering them to her with a pointed glance and a quirk of his eyebrows.

He widens his grin invitingly as she hesitates; she's definitely not supposed to eat from patrons' plates, and Chris would kill her— or, more likely, fire her— if he saw. But Sara glances around, seeing that the floor is empty except for her and Eddie. Chris must be in the back, and she'd seen the bartender carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen. So she nabs one quickly, stuffing it in her mouth before anyone can see. She meets Eddie's gaze as his dark eyes dance in amusement at her bulged cheeks, and she chews quickly, swallowing it before she says, "We're closing, so…"

She trails off, pulling the green pad from her apron, ripping off the top sheet, and sliding it towards Eddie across the tabletop. He puts the stack of cards to the side and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, sliding the bill back with a ten now on top. Sara grabs it, beginning to turn away as she says, "I'll get you change—"

"No change, Campbell. The rest's your tip." Her footsteps halt, and she whips back around, her eyebrows furrowed incredulously.

Sara scoffs in disbelief, immediately and vehemently protesting. "Munson, that's way too much for a damn cup of coffee and a plate of mozzarella sticks. I barely did anything." She hardens her stare as he clearly wants to argue; she crosses her arms and cocks her head in challenge, adding decisively, "I'm not taking it."

Eddie holds her gaze for one more moment before looking away and sighing deeply. "Fine. Just bring me back the change, then." Crossing his arms, he leans back as she tromps away, popping the till and gathering the change quickly. She's not sure why, but the thought of Eddie tipping her sits like a stone in her belly, heavy and uncomfortable; she doesn't probe at the feeling, though, feeling too drained by the day she's had to examine why.

Sara returns to the table, dropping the change into his waiting hand; before she can leave, he purses his lips, saying slowly, "Alright, well, if you won't take my money, I have something else I can offer you." He pats his flannel pocket significantly. "You seem like you could stand to take the edge off. We could move my van to the back of the empty parking lot next door; I've got some chairs in the back if you wanna…" The implication is obvious as he trails off.

Sara cocks her head, her eyes on his long, ringed fingers resting against his pocket. She doesn't respond right away, torn with indecision: on the one hand, she could stand to burn away some of the stress of the day. But on the other… She runs through the scenario in her head: pedaling home, sneaking slowly in through the front door, her silence futile as she finds her mom sitting at the kitchen table, fixing her with a tight glare as she questions sharply, 'And where the hell have you been?' Sara's stomach tightens at the idea, and she shifts on her feet, biting her lip at the image of her mother's severe, demanding face in her mind.

She startles a bit as Eddie's hand slides heavily from his pocket to the table; she catches his eyes, which are a bit clouded now as he says flatly, "You can just say no, Campbell; don't worry, I get it. It's one thing to buy from your drug dealer, another to smoke with him. You wouldn't wanna be seen getting into the local freak's creepy van."

Sara blinks, startled into inaction by his bitter words; he laughs mirthlessly to himself, looking away as he swings his legs over on the bench, reaching behind him to grab the notecards and stuff them into his flannel pocket as he mutters, "Look, it was just an idea—"

He starts to move past her, and Sara finally shakes herself, a flame of indignation igniting in her chest as she frowns deeply. Her arm shoots out, and she grabs Eddie's flanneled arm, jerking him around so he's facing her. Sara steps closer, her chin pointed up defiantly as her face twists in affront. "What the fuck, Munson?" she spits, her other arm gesturing widely, smacking against the outside of her thigh as she drops it. "When have I ever given the impression that I'd care about something like that?" She stares at Eddie until he glances away, the clouds in his eyes subsiding as his expression falls a bit. When he looks back, his brow is smooth, his brown eyes wide and unguarded as she pulls her hand back, dropping her gaze to untie the strings of her burgundy apron. Her mother is the furthest thing from her mind as she pulls the apron from her waist, digging through the pockets to remove her tips and writing pad before thrusting it into his arms; he scrabbles not to drop it as she says sharply, "I'll be out in fifteen minutes. Wait for me."

Abruptly, she turns away, heading towards the back to close things out with Chris. She doesn't look back to see Eddie pause by the front door, glancing back in her direction, a small smile lighting his face.

––

As Eddie cuts the engine, Sara pops open the passenger side door, hopping down and shutting it behind her with a smack. The sound is sharp in the still silent parking lot across the way from the Hideaway Pub; he's parked the van close to the trees, out of sight from the single cracked light pole in the center of the lot so that they won't be seen. The crisp air hits her as soon as her feet contact the pavement, and she crosses her arms under her breasts, walking quickly towards the back of the van where Eddie is pulling open the double doors. Sara uses a handle mounted just inside on the right to pull herself in, pausing a moment as she looks around the space. The worn gray fabric covering the floor is threadbare in spots, and a large dark gray guitar amp is nestled into the left corner closest to the door. Some food wrappers and miscellaneous items, such as cassette cases and loose papers, are wedged in the corners and spaces between two faded bean bag chairs. The bean bags are caddy-cornered up against the driver's and passenger's seats, where usually another row of seats would be.

The air is warm and slightly stale as Eddie climbs in after her, closing the van doors as Sara moves over to the leftmost bean bag chair, flopping down onto it. Immediately, she sinks in too far, her legs pushing up awkwardly. She pushes down against it with her arms, trying to arrange herself into a more comfortable position as Eddie cracks the tinted window across from her then crosses to do the same thing on her side. He looks down at Sara with a raised eyebrow as she attempts to arrange herself.

"Need some help, Sunshine?" He grins as she huffs, shifting her hips and pushing her legs down to make a better indent. She feels her face flush under his gaze, the urge to squirm rising in her, the wriggling sensation churning in her gut. It's made more acute by the fact that she feels uncomfortable in this situation when there really is no reason to. It's just Munson; we spend every Thursday together. Get over yourself. Sara settles her arms decisively in her lap, finally happy with her positioning. But she still senses that discomfort in her belly, that low squeamish fluttering that makes her self-conscious.

So Sara tries to squash it, crossing her arms as she says brusquely, "Put on some music, Munson. It's weirdly quiet in here."

Eddie huffs, shooting her a look as he passes by her, but he doesn't object; he steps over her left leg to squeeze himself between the driver and passenger's seats, leaning over the center console to switch on the cassette player. Abruptly, the van blasts with harsh, aggressive sound, and Sara jerks at first, then snorts as Eddie's fingers scrabble on the volume knob, flicking it to the left to cut the sound. He turns it back to the right, more slowly, settling on a comfortable volume.

Once the music is no longer ear-splitting, Eddie's hair falls over his shoulder as he looks at her sheepishly. "Ah… Sorry—" He lifts himself awkwardly back over the console and falls heavily into the other bean bag chair.

Sara watches him as he pulls out a small baggie from the pocket on the breast of his flannel, dropping it onto his lap and leaning haphazardly to the side to dig in his jeans pocket. His awkwardness makes her feel more settled and helps dispel some of that squirminess; she shrugs one shoulder, saying casually, "S'ok. This music's not bad, Munson. Pretty appropriate, considering what you're wearing." Eddie glances down at himself, grinning crookedly as he realizes she recognizes the band on his shirt is the same one playing through the car speakers.

"You like Motorhead?" His voice is eager as he asks before licking his thumb to help pull out one of the papers from the small cardboard packet in his hand. Sara shrugs again, looking towards the tape player.

"Yeah, they're alright. Not my favorite, but not bad." Before she turns back, her gaze catches on the underside of a thin book wedged between the center console and the driver's seat. What is that? Her brow crinkles in puzzlement as she leans over, pulling the book out and placing it in her lap. On the cover is a large orange creature, its shadowed hands clutching a bowl while two torches and an arch surround it; in the foreground are several smaller human figures, and the yellow text at the top reads "Player's Handbook." Sara glances quickly at Eddie, who's just finished rolling the blunt and is pulling an orange lighter from half-underneath the beanbag he's sitting on. "What is this?" She exclaims with astonishment, holding the book up and waving it at him. "You're actually reading a book voluntarily?!"

Eddie smirks as he places the blunt in his mouth, cupping his ringed fingers around the end and lighting the tip smoothly. He takes a drag before answering, holding it, then letting the smoke leak out with each word. "It's for Hellfire Club — I'm their Dungeon Master."

Sara's head jerks back at the term; she drops the book in her lap, looking at the cover with some vague disturbance. When she looks back up, her tone is both suspicious and hesitant as she asks, like she doesn't really want to know, "Um, is that some weird, like… sex thing—?"

Eddie's reply is immediate, his tone wry. "Uh, no, Campbell, get your mind out of the gutter. Hellfire is a Dungeons and Dragons club; it's a role-playing fantasy game. You know, like elves and wizards and shit." He leans forward, holding the blunt invitingly towards her in two long fingers. She leans forward to take it from him, settling back and staring at the smoldering end.

There's a tiny moment of hesitation before Sara moves her hand to place the roach between her lips, hyperaware that it's the same place Eddie's lips have just been. She shares joints with Sam all the time, but for some reason, this feels different. Oddly… intimate.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of cooties, Campbell." The sound of his teasing voice breaks her out of it; Sara narrows her eyes, decisively bringing the joint to her lips and maintaining eye contact as she inhales, holds it, then blows it straight up before passing the joint back into Eddie's waiting fingers.

"Dungeons and Dragons," she muses, cocking her head as she settles back against the beanbag chair. "I've heard of it, but I don't actually know what it is."

Eddie's answering smile is wide and toothy, his voice deep and sonorous as he replies, "Oh, Sunshine. You're in for it now."

The roach is nearly gone by the time Eddie finishes explaining more than Sara may have ever wanted to know about Dungeons and Dragons. She smiles languidly as he reaches over, pressing the smoldering end into an ashtray underneath the window. Even though Eddie had basically talked her ear off the entire time they'd smoked the blunt together, Sara hadn't minded. She'd enjoyed watching how his brown eyes lit up and turned even more expressive than usual, how his arms gesticulated widely as he talked, how his voice grew passionate and enthusiastic. There was almost a childlike exuberance about him as he discussed Hellfire Club, one that made Sara's chest warm with fondness. Now, as Eddie's ranting subsides, Sara glances at the ceiling, crooking her arm towards her and leaning her head on her hand. She levels Eddie with an appraising glance. "So, let me get this straight: you create these elaborate scenarios that you guide your club through, but you couldn't be bothered to memorize what figurative language is before this year?"

Eddie leans sharply forward as he scoffs, his voice a bit cutting. "That's because that stuff is stupid. If O'Donnell had us read actually good book— well, you were kinda right about the one we're reading together, Campbell, but otherwise— It's all this shit written hundreds of years ago, and it's all dull as fuck. There's no creative freedom or individuality in that class. And O'Donnell takes herself too seriously. She once went on a ten-minute rant about grammar trees, complete with 'delightful' examples on the board that we could 'try out.' That shit is gibberish, ultimately meaningless. They only teach us that stuff to keep us busy, occupied, in line, not because it's actually useful. You can't tell me that you find it meaningful."

Sara shrugs in acquiescence, saying lightly, "No, I don't find that stuff meaningful, but it's a means to an end. If I can work hard now, get a scholarship… that opens up a lot of opportunities for me in the future. Not that I really know what I wanna do with it, besides get the fuck out of this town at the soonest opportunity." She runs her hand into her hair, repetitively pulling the strands through her fingers as she smirks. "Plus, it's so sweet to see the looks on their faces the first moment I show them that I actually know what I'm talking about, and they realize they've misjudged me."

Eddie barks a laugh, smiling widely at her as he stretches his legs more comfortably, his gaze half-lidded. "Alright, Campbell, I hear that. Defying expectations, making them eat their words. That's pretty hardcore."

But at the phrase 'eat their words,' Sara feels a sharp prickle of guilt, remembering her own words to herself those many weeks ago when she'd expected Eddie to be late to his first tutoring session. He really hasn't been what I expected, she thinks, frowning lightly and pursing her lips as she lowers her arm, shifting on the beanbag, so she's angled more toward him. "I'm not gonna lie. When you first asked me to tutor you, I really thought that you were going to give up after a couple weeks. It didn't seem like you really cared that much." She taps her finger against her temple, her lips crooking with a teasing smile. "But I got you figured out now, Munson."

Sara notes that Eddie's face had remained blank, his half-lidded eyes somewhat guarded, but at her final words, he cocks his head, tugging up his eyebrow as he drawls, "Oh yeah? And what have you figured out?"

There's a certain sarcastic defiance to Eddie's question that makes the teasing smile slide from Sara's face as she regards him for a moment. She looks directly into his dark eyes, her tone sincere. "Simple. You're a smart guy who hates being told what to do. I thought you lacked passion and drive." She shakes her head, shrugging as she continues, her voice clear and soft, "But I was wrong. You do have passion; it's just different from mine."

Eddie stares at her for a moment, his half-lidded eyes widening slightly as he does; he doesn't reply, but Sara watches as a corner of his mouth tilts up into a soft smile. She smiles softly back, tilting her head against the beanbag chair as they both fall quiet, content to listen to the music.

Which Sara does— for a while. But as she is no longer speaking herself or actively listening to Eddie speak, she realizes that the temperature in the van has dropped significantly since the hour has gotten late and the vented windows have let the cold air in. Sara shifts, wrapping her arms around herself as a shiver wracks her. She's about to dig herself further into the beanbag chair when suddenly something hits her in the face, the fabric soft and warm.

"Don't just sit there shivering, Sunshine." Eddie smirks at her as she pulls his flannel from her face, noting that he's dressed in just his Motorhead t-shirt now, and she shoots him a small glare, though there's no real bite in it.

Sara pulls the flannel on, wrapping herself in it; the sleeves dwarf her, falling almost halfway down her hands. Immediately, she feels warmer, the material already heated from Eddie's body. The flannel is made to feel even softer by her buzz, the warmth from his body even sweeter; it smells sweet and woodsy, like leather and tobacco, and Sara's eyes start to grow heavy as she feels small and safe in it. With a contented sigh, Sara settles further into the beanbag chair, nestling her head down so that the collar comfortably covers the bottom half of her face. She shifts onto her left hip, curling her knees a bit, her arm resting straight in what might usually be a slightly awkward position but now feels just right to her languid muscles. She examines the checkered pattern of the flannel, running her eyes down the length of her left arm where her fingers poke from the long sleeve. And Sara realizes that Eddie's hand is also stretched out only a short distance away, his elbow nestled comfortably in the beanbag, his forearm facing out.

It's then that Sara has an impulsive thought. A thought that, in light of her buzz, beckons a question that she feels must be answered. She considers how close Eddie's hand is to hers— how, if she wanted to, she could reach out a finger and run it along his. And the question that Sara Campbell wants to answer is this: I wonder if Eddie Munson has calluses from playing guitar so much.

And so, quite simply, Sara answers the question for herself.

She stretches out her index finger, running it lightly against his, feeling his warm, rough skin against her fingertip. She smiles a tiny happy smile at the feeling, mumbling, "You do have calluses." She brushes her fingertip against his again, relishing the texture of his skin. She watches the movement of her hand as she shifts her finger from the pad to run over his fingernail, marveling at its smoothness compared to the rasp of his fingertip. Eddie's hand moves, then, and she pulls her hand back, letting it hover nearby, but he doesn't move away. Instead, slowly, Eddie turns his hand over so that his large palm is facing up. And Sara takes this as an invitation, running her index finger over the length of his, then over his middle finger, ring finger, and pinkie, until she's traced all his fingers. She then lets her other fingers join in— sliding all of them at once against his, then tracing the lines on his palm, the warmth and tickle of his skin against hers utterly intoxicating.

Her breath catches when, after some time, she feels Eddie's long fingers touch feather-light against her palm, tentatively exploring her skin as she touches his. His touch grows more firm over time as she doesn't pull away, as they both now explore each other's hands. And then Eddie's fingertips slip underneath her sleeve, dragging against the delicate skin of her wrist. As he does, she becomes distinctly aware of how much bigger his hand is than hers, of the restrained strength of his grip. It's striking, the utter contrast of it— Sara thinks of Eddie's typical intensity, his brashness, how that's suddenly defied by the way his fingers are now so gentle, so careful as the trail up her wrist, leaving warm sparks against her veins and the thin skin of her forearm…

She sighs as warmth swoops in her belly, as a blooming of some foreign feeling, small and tenuous, takes root within her.

Eventually, Sara's fingers stall in their movements, resting lightly against Eddie's palm, against his warm, calloused skin. The distant ache in her muscles, the fatigue of the long day, the buzz from her high— they all mix with the softness and heat from his flannel around her, his woodsy, masculine scent in her nose, his large fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist, gently holding her up, supporting her.

And in a rare stroke of circumstance, Sara Campbell feels so safe that she doesn't even realize that she's falling asleep until her eyelids slip shut. Until she's already cradled in the sweet embrace of her dreams.

Author's Note: Aw, babies make a connection and hold hands! Well, kind of. What will the ramifications be? We'll see next time! :)