"C'mon, I need someone to help me, and Robs is working tonight," Willow whines over the phone in her kitchen. Her mother sits on the couch, eyes peeking up over the book she was attempting to read to watch her daughter lean in the doorway.

"What about me screams hairdresser to you?" Eddie chuckles over the line.

"Nothing. But everything about you screams good friend to me," she counters, crossing her arms to the best of her ability and scowling at her mother who isn't even attempting to hide her eavesdropping, "And a good friend would help me redye my hair."

"What if I mess it up?"

"Been there, done that with Buckley. And look how that turned out!"

"You ended up with bright ass red hair."

" Yes , but bright red hair that grew on me! C'mon, Eddie, you can't do worse than we did, and I can't see the back of my head."

Willow is whining at this point, turning her back to her mother and trying to figure out just how to vocalize giving someone puppy dog eyes.

Eddie's sigh over the receiver is heavy and dramatic. She pictures him, shoulders sagging, a look of defeat he won't admit to yet. She knew he was going to cave, hopefully soon, because it was simply something she'd learned about Eddie; when it came to Willow, he had a hard time saying no.

"Okay. Fine ," Willow does a little cheer just to herself despite knowing he can't see her, "But if I fuck it up, you can't blame me. I'm serious."

"God, Munson, I won't. Now get your ass over here, I already have the dye and everything," she means it. Even if she ended up with a bald head, she wouldn't blame him, although the only motivating factor for her to continue on with the odd hair color is him. Call her sentimental, but the 'bright ass red hair' had only grown on her due to a certain metalhead's nickname.

"I'll be there in fifteen. Don't start without me," he warns, and she hears shuffling and what sounds like keys over the line.

She's grinning triumphantly, biting her lip before slyly replying, "Wouldn't dream of it. Drive safe, please."

Once they've said their rushed goodbyes and Willow has returned the phone to the wall, she finds her mom leaning back into the couch and her book abandoned on the coffee table, a knowing smile on her lips.

"What?" Willow asks as she walks to join her mother, crimson cheeks still fading from her conversation. Despite expecting his agreement, Eddie finally breaking and being willing to help her with this had her blushing. It was ridiculous - a tell-tale sign of her schoolgirl crush that she was happy he wasn't there to witness.

Anne removes her reading glasses, peering at her daughter curiously, "You know, you could have asked for my help."

"What?" Willow scrunches her nose and shakes her head quickly, "No, no. You're probably exhausted from work, you don't need to help me with my hair, mom."

"Mhm. Are you sure it's you looking out for your poor old mom, or just needing an excuse to see your boy?" Anne hums as Willow reaches for the remote to the television.

"Your boy". My boy. The boy that is mine. It has a nice ring to it.

Willow ignores her mom's insinuation. She chooses to pretend that the afternoon game show on the TV is far more interesting. And her mom lets her, not saying another word, only sharing a knowing look when their doorbell sounds fifteen or so minutes later as she heads off to her bedroom.

—

" Son of a bitch ," Eddie mutters as he fiddles with the plastic gloves that simply won't fit comfortably on his fingers. Willow wears a matching pair that hardly bothers her as she watches the boy struggle, endlessly entertained. "Seriously, who the hell invented these? I think I'd prefer to stain my hands."

"No, you wouldn't. Here," she motions for him to let her grab his hands, and he doesn't hesitate. She takes his left hand first, bringing the wrist up to her mouth and earning a strange look from him. But he trusts her, she knows he does, so he doesn't pull away as she lifts the end of the glove carefully and then blows a breath into it, immediately stretching the latex to be more comfortable. She rolls her eyes, ignoring his giggles, as she repeats the motion on his right hand.

He wears a shit-eating grin as she drops his hand, "If you wanted to blow me, all you had to do was ask-"

"Edward Theodore Munson," she cuts him off, reaching up to smack his chest. His head is thrown back in laughter, the most beautiful sound she could imagine.

She likes it best when it's like this; just the two of them, fucking off and being stupid. Even if she is terrified of her mother overhearing some of his crude jokes such as that one.

Her bathroom isn't the most spacious, so as Eddie reaches for the box of dye on the counter in front of her, his chest brushes the back of her shoulder. For a moment, her breath hitches, the contact unexpected but welcome all the same. It's the same old scent of him as always, cigarettes and cinnamon, but it still makes her weak in the knees all the same.

"I feel like this red is a lot darker than what you had," he muses, reading over the back of the box after staring down the photo on the front for a moment.

"Yeah, well, they don't exactly sell firetruck red in stores," she explains with a shrug. He was right, the red displayed on the box was darker, more cool undertones of a burgundy than the bright red she'd grown accustomed to. But it was a welcome change, something exciting.

He puts the box back down, face scrunched up, "How did you even get the color to begin with then?"

"I told you - me and Robin fucked up."

"Just how badly did you have to fuck up, though? Is it really that easy to mess up hair dye?"

She's quiet as she crosses her arms, forcing a glare his way. He throws up his hands defensively, a look crossing his face that says ' hey, don't blame me for asking' .

He's back to fiddling with the gloves once more, despite them now fitting his hands properly thanks to Willow, and grimaces when he tears some of the elastic at the wrist. He's clearly hoping she doesn't notice when he continues on, "Okay, so, I just... I just put this shit all over your head?"

"Pretty much."

"And then we just wait?"

"For thirty minutes."

His eyes widen as she informs him of the wait time, muttering, "Jesus Christ. Okay. Alright. Well, then, I suppose... let's get to it, Red. Time to live up to your namesake."

They drag a dining room chair into the bathroom that Willow situates herself on, Eddie standing behind her, still looking dreadfully frightened. When he doesn't make the first move to open the box of dye, Willow does. She struggles with it momentarily before giving up and tearing the cardboard, absolutely destroying the box in order to get the dye out. Once she's combined all necessary components, she takes the first swipe of dye to her roots.

From there, Eddie has no choice but to help.

It's quiet as they work through her thick head of hair, her boombox radio currently playing her Rumours cassette. The sweet voice of Stevie Nicks serves as background noise that each of them occasionally hum along to. Eddie occasionally pulls a bit hard on a strand of hair, or comes across a knot, but each time he watches Willow wince in pain he's quick to apologize before he continues on with a gentle hand. At a certain point, Willow has helped all that she's capable of, aiding him in covering most of her grown-out, light brown roots. Once the front strands in her sights are saturated, it's completely up to him. It's soothing, almost lulling her to sleep as Songbird plays and Eddie's fingers continue to work through her hair. Her head is fully pliant, neck rolling to accommodate whatever angles he needs to guarantee he doesn't miss a single strand.

"This shit stinks," Eddie mumbles when they're nearly done. Willow hums in agreement, nodding as much as she can manage. The smell of ammonia and chemicals in the air was starting to give her a headache.

She opens her eyes that had been closed for several minutes now, and finds Eddie staring at her in the mirror, "Take a picture, Munson. It'll last longer."

Eddie pauses with a smirk, lifting his maroon stained hands to mime taking a photo as she had said. One of his eyes wink shut and he makes a clicking noise with his tongue, causing her to giggle.

They both open their mouths, clearly about to say something at the same time, when the sound of a kick drum and twinging guitar sounds from her radio.

" God ," she sighs, "I love this song."

"So you've mentioned," he smiles, tongue poking out and tapping against his upper lip ever so slightly as he finishes coating the final dry strand of her hair. Once he's satisfied with the coverage, he immediately moves to her side, shucking off the stained gloves into the trash can, "What's it called again? Chain?"

" The Chain," she quickly corrects, removing her own gloves. Her palms are dreadfully sweaty, and there's a couple licks of red on her forearms that match Eddie's, but it's a far better situation than had they been gloveless, "I think it's my favorite song of all time, if I'm being honest."

He nods, smiling down at the boombox as the guitar solo hits, "Yeah. The guitar in this one is pretty sick."

" Pretty sick? Please, it's killer ," she leans back in the chair, craning her neck to look up at a slyly grinning Eddie. Something she's proud of during their time together has been her boost in confidence about her music taste; she didn't like the same things as Eddie necessarily, but it didn't mean she was at a complete loss when it came to music. And he clearly didn't mind it based on just how much of Dreams he'd sang along to under his breath.

"Maybe I'll convince the boys to do a metal cover for our next show," he's referring to Corroded Coffin, and just the thought makes her bite back laughter. Fleetwood Mac gone metal. It may not have been what Stevie Nicks or Lindsey Buckingham had in mind when releasing the album, but it's still a fun thing to picture.

"You know which song would actually make a cool cover?" she asks, and he crosses his arms as he leans against the counter in front of her, motioning for her to continue on, " I Loved Another Woman . I know it's not really your style or anything, but I think your voice would sound really nice singing it."

"What about that one with the really angsty lyrics you kept playing the other day?"

Willow thinks for a moment, squinting her eyes as she racks her brain before remembering, "Oh! Do you mean I'm So Afraid ?"

"Yeah, that one. With all the sad and moody lyrics about being alone."

Willow rolls her eyes, "It's not that moody," It definitely was. She was fighting for the sake of it at this point, "But yeah, that one would be good, too. It might translate into metal pretty easily. While you're at it, might as well add Rhiannon to the list."

"Careful, sweetheart. You convince me to add too much Mac to the set and the babes might come flocking. Our crowd of five drunks will magically become six ," he teases her, towering over her slightly as he grins at her.

"It already is six, if you count me , idiot," she says as she leans forward and flicks him gently on his knee, skin barely exposed between the rips in his jeans.

"Oh! How could I ever forget!" he dramatically leans his head back, hand clutched to his chest, "The babest of all the babes. The most babe-ing of them all. Corroded Coffin's number one groupie!"

She's once again rolling her eyes, pretending to be unaffected by his theatrics as she pulls up one of her legs into the chair, resting her chin on the knee. Eddie moves to the toilet, putting down the lid and sitting on it with his knees far spread, resting his chin on the palms of his hands as his elbows dig into his thighs. He's staring at her expectantly.

He had a point. She's pretty sure the usual bartender at the Hideout had become convinced that she was a groupie considering her sudden appearance at all of their shows. She'd gone to every single one in the last month, even attending band practice once. It had been fun - they definitely didn't get a lot of practice done between Eddie showing off and stealing kisses, and the rest of the boys teaming up with Willow against him in mockery.

But it had felt right. Everything about the way their lives intertwined recently had felt that way.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she questions, suspicious as his eyes continue to shine in her direction. The look on his face could almost be confused with something such as lovesick .

"Like what?"

"Like an idiot."

"Wow. You really do wonders to stroke my ego."

"I try."

Something crosses his face despite their banter, and she recognizes the unfamiliar look; he had been wearing it around her frequently these days. Ever since she told him about Parker. It wasn't quite pity, but something else, something brewing beneath the surface of her skin. Any time she brought it up, he brushed it off.

"Seriously, Munson. Screw a penny for your thoughts, I'll give you twenty bucks."

"Really? Do you really have twenty dollars for me right now? Because if so, sweetheart, I'll absolutely tell you every single thought running through my head for the rest of the week ," he widens his eyes just a bit as he says this, grinning wildly, clearly avoiding the subject as she expected at this point.

As much as she wants to indulge his antics, she forces herself to grow more serious, "No, not really. But lately, you've been giving me this look and... and, I don't know. It's kind of worrying me."

What about it that worries her is unknown. Maybe she's afraid that it's a look of boredom, or of regret. Maybe she fears that it's the look of someone who saw her at her most vulnerable and decided she was too much, and he was simply trying to figure out the right way to let her down easy.

At the expression of her anxieties, he drops his act. Immediately, he matches her earnestness, "Worrying you? Why are you worried?"

"I dunno," she mumbles, pressing her chin deeper into her knee, "Like I said, you've been looking at me all weird lately. Ever since... the.... T-the night I told you about..."

She doesn't have to finish her sentence. Recognition lights up across his features, immediately replaced with a sort of regret she hadn't expected.

"It's not that," he immediately reassures her, "Christ, no. It's... Well, okay, it sort of is that."

Her heart drops. "It is because of that night?"

"Sort of. Again, it's... Red, it's not the worst case scenario your mind is going to. I swear."

It's hard to imagine that it's not . She can't imagine why he'd be giving her funny looks if it wasn't what her anxieties had made it out to be, a look of contemplation before a disappearing act.

"Then what is it?" her voice has dropped to a whisper, suddenly feeling naked. Ever since providing him with the full story of her brother's demise, Willow has found herself frequently feeling this way. A sort of safety sheet had been ripped away from her, no longer shielding her from Eddie. A line had been crossed that night that she knew she couldn't go back from - there had been a sense of finality in baring her past to Eddie. No matter what happened now, she knew she was keeping him in her life for good, whether it be as a fake boyfriend, a friend, or a ghost. And she really didn't want the last option. She didn't want Eddie to turn into another skeleton in the closet, another shadow lurking in the corner of her bedroom when she tried to sleep at night.

She didn't want Eddie Munson to end up haunting her and the empty spaces he would leave behind if he chose to go.

"I don't really know how to ask without the risk of sounding like an asshole," he finally admits to her after not responding for a few seconds. His eyes are no longer on her, instead lingering about the wall behind her head.

She bites her inner cheek, worry blossoming in her chest, "It's just me, Eds. Sound like an asshole, I don't care, just... just be honest with me, yeah?"

He nods, and she can see him physically preparing himself. He shifts in his seat under her gaze, hands clasping together and writhing. It takes him a couple deep breaths before he just comes out with it.

"Do you hate me because I deal drugs?"

Out of all the questions she could have been waiting on, this one was not on her list.

"What?"

One is his knees start to bounce, and he finally looks at her again, "I just - I know that you know I deal. And after you told me what happened with your brother, I'm worried that you might hate me for it. Or at least, hate that I do it. I don't necessarily think you hate me. But after what you went through, after what that asshole did, I guess I just figured it would make sense-"

"You're right," she interrupts, furrowing her brows. He focuses in on her as he holds her breath, "I don't hate you. We've been over this, Eddie. I don't think I'm capable of hating you."

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean you can't hate certain things I do."

He has a point.

"It's not like I'm in love with the fact that you deal," she carries on, mindful of her volume and her mother in the next room. This was not a conversation for her to overhear, "But I also like to think I know who you are at the end of the day, all things considered. And you... you're nothing like that guy. I- It's hard to explain, but I just know you would never do that. Ever."

He nods along softly, but she can tell he's not convinced, so she continues on.

"I heard about that time you turned down a freshmen - you didn't even entertain the idea. I'm pretty sure I've never heard of you selling to lower classmen. And then I've also heard some of the preps complaining about how you wouldn't sell them 'enough K'. That you had a limit, and wouldn't budge. You... You had morals, even if it's not a very moral thing to begin with."

"I do," he pipes up, the tension easing out of him ever so slightly, "I promise I do. I just - I need the money, you know? Wayne needs the money."

Her heart breaks at the mention of his uncle. She'd seen him again since the party, and while he still hadn't fully warmed up to her, he was no longer cold towards her. She had even caught him almost smiling at her one day, when Eddie had dragged her through their living room and barely called out over his shoulder that they were going to 'just study'. He hadn't been lying, of course - they did study some that day. But they also wasted a few hours pilfering through his music collection, debating the best horror movies of their time, and how often was too often to wash one's sheets (Willow insisted twice a month, at least , but Eddie had said that it was a waste of water. There had been no clear winner to that argument).

"I know you do," she says softly, lowering her leg and leaning in closer to Eddie, "I'm not stupid. I know it pays good. I just..."

"You don't like it."

"I don't. But I would never ask you to stop."

"No?"

She shakes her head, hard and sturdy in her own morality, "No. I couldn't ask that of you. It's your choice."