The Bear Season 3 Ep 8 Spoiler Below The Cut

the bear season 3 ep 8 spoiler below the cut

sydney being the second person nat tried to call after pete is everything to me

sorry sorry sorry just thinking about how the argument is always something like “people see a man and woman on screen and automatically assume they should be together” like…… isn’t that exactly what happened in the case of claire too??? or does it only matter when it’s sydney

can we talk about this please… can this please be a thing we discuss…

Wait, so what was the best one? Best what? Best meal you ever had. Yeah, it was, it was Carmy's.

THE BEAR (3.01)

THE BEAR (3.01)

For the lovely @marvel-ous-m, who requested “don’t give me space, that’s the last thing I want” and “you are everything. Everything.” Tysm buddy 💗✨

For the third time in as many minutes Eddie sees, out of the corner of his eye, the curtain of the trailer window flutter.

He doesn’t look up. Sucks on his joint, instead, and watches the end smolder in the darkness. Watches it glow soft and red, the burning embers their own set of cosmos between his fingers.

It was almost a full gram. Almost a full gram, and Eddie’s mouth is dry. His eyelids heavy and his thoughts sluggish, his movements slow as he swings his feet off into the inky darkness past their front porch.

The screen door rattles.

“Ed?” Wayne’s voice is soft and hesitant. Sounds how he does when he talks to the stray cats that find their way under the trailer. “Your boy’s on the line.” Because Wayne never calls Steve, Steve. Only ever calls him Eddie’s boy. Calls him son.

Eddie watches the glowing red embers of the joint. The shower of sparks as he flicks it. “Tell ‘im I’m not home.”

The wood of the porch creaks as Wayne shifts his weight. “Eddie.” His tone has shifted, a disapproving note tingeing the edges and Eddie curls in around himself, brings his legs tight to his chest and wraps his arms around himself, resting his chin on his knees.

Wayne hovers. Stands in the doorway and watches as Eddie takes another drag, waits until he ashes it again, wordless, before stepping back inside.

The screen door rattles, and Eddie thinks about Steve. About his warm brown eyes and strong arms and his soft words that always make him feel like everything’s going to be alright.

Eddie’s still outside when headlights flash. When the familiar roar of the engine approaches and cuts, when the familiar shape, even in silhouette, ambles out.

Steve doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t mention the half-full ashtray or Eddie’s bloodshot eyes, his curled up position or the flutter of the curtain behind them. Just sits down beside him.

And Eddie’s never been good at this. At asking. At accepting, but Steve places his hand between them, and offers.

“Wayne said you’ve been out here all day.”

Eddie doesn’t look at him. Just watches Steve’s palm rest at the edge of the porch and flicks his gaze to the pile of ash from his long-dead joint.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

Eddie twists his fingers in the fabric of his sweats. Stares down at the snuffed-out embers of his joint, and tries to breathe.

It takes him too long. Minutes of nothing but the dry rustling of leaves and the faint noises of Wayne inside, minutes of Steve, unyielding, next to him, before Eddie manages, “dad’s getting out.”

The words are sand in his mouth. Oppressive and suffocating, they grate on his lungs and he swallows around nothing, his spit thick, his tongue heavy as he goes on, “Wayne said he’s not gonna let him through the door. But—” and he doesn’t know how to finish. Doesn’t know how to articulate that the mere thought of Al being out, the thought that Eddie could run into him, could bump into him on the street, at Melvald’s, at Family Video, the thought that Al could come to Hawkins and Eddie—Eddie—

His heart’s in his throat. His hands and feet feel like static and tears burn in his throat in his nose and he twists his fingers deeper into his pants because he still doesn’t know how to grab Steve’s hand.

“Sorry.” The word is gravel. Smothering and sharp, and he swallows before he manages, “I wanted to give you—” again he breaks off, the words leaving scars on his tongue— “space. To not have to deal with me.”

He still hasn’t looked Steve in the eye. Kept his gaze down at the ashes in the tray so he doesn’t have to see the moment Steve leaves, see the moment he understands Eddie was right.

The hand beside him moves. And Eddie closes his eyes.

It rests on his back. Steve’s large palm and curling fingers press into the curve of his spine, and, quietly, Steve whispers, “Eddie, baby, don’t give me space. That’s the last thing I want.”

Eddie bites down on his tongue. Clenches his jaw and tenses his shoulders, but still the tears come. Trickle out of his eyes and drip down his cheeks and fall into pools on the tops of his knees, because Eddie’s afraid. Afraid of his father and what he could do, afraid of him going back to prison and his staying out, but also because Steve is here. And because he’s holding Eddie the same as he always does.

“Baby,” Steve implores, even quieter, now, his voice low and soft and soothing, “let me take you inside.”

And so Eddie does. Lets Steve take him inside where he’s met with gentle hands and soft words and an uncle that doesn’t look up when they come inside. The hands help him into a warmer shirt and under heavy covers, the words promise Steve that isn’t going anywhere.

Until they’re curled around each other. Until Eddie is pressed firm to the cushion of Steve’s chest and Steve’s fingers are playing with strands of Eddie’s hair, until Steve is promising that it’ll be okay, that he’s here. That Steve won’t let Al near him.

And Eddie, for the first time since his dad’s call that morning, relaxes. Melts into the promised safety of Steve’s hold and presses his nose into his underarm, mashes his face into Steve’s shirt and skin and smell until he’s the only thing that Eddie can feel.

The tears keep coming. In relief, now, the presence of Steve creating a distance between Eddie and his father that feels untouchable, and Eddie keeps whispering his apologies into Steve’s skin, his shaking words spoken into the space his boyfriend makes for him, because he cannot find it within himself to accept that this is what Steve could possibly want.

“Eddie,” Steve murmurs, and Eddie can feel the breath of the words shift the strands of his hair, “no more apologies.” He says it so sure, with so much conviction and so much affection that Eddie presses deeper into his side, and wraps his arms tighter around his middle. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Eddie squirms. Feels the words like ants on his skin because after a lifetime of keeping others at arms length, after twenty years of lessons in people leaving when the going gets tough, that permanence is a thing of fiction, to trust in more is dangerous.

“Don’t give me space,” Steve goes on, and it sounds like a plea, like desperation, Steve’s lips brushing against Eddie’s forehead like a blessing and when Steve adds, “because Eddie, you are everything. Everything to me,” his hands are still in Eddie’s hair. His fingers are massaging his scalp and now there are more tears, different than the others because to be something, to be anything to Steve was enormous, all-encompassing, and to trust, to reach out and accept, still has his heart in his throat, but Steve is here, is offering, and he knows, knows the same way that monsters are real and magic exists, that he would do anything for Steve Harrington.

Eddie, silently, grabs Steve’s hand.

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