Archive of Our Own ^beta

A vision, unbidden, tugs at his mind. He tries to fight it as best he can  - wishes momentarily that his own magic knew when it was appropriate to drown him in it, he was driving for God’s sake - but loses quickly.

It comes in flashes, more violently than he’s used to.

A rip in the fabric of reality - greedy and wailing. Burning in his lungs, his sides. Cool hands on his face; a whisper in his ear so gentle it might as well be the wind itself. A scream, a wish, a plea. Mud beneath his fingers; something heavy on his chest. Wide eyes staring down at him.

A voice, not his, so jumbled with to be’s and has been’s and is currently’s that he can’t truly know it, “Hello.” It sounds like speaking through the wind; sound muffled through water and fabric and mud so much mud. Dirt and moss and - “I’m home.”

And then he’s blinking rapidly; heart pounding and fingers so tight against the wheel they shake. He, thankfully, had not veered too far toward the side of the road. With a shuddering breath, he eases the car back into the center of the lane. His face feels wet. His fingers find tears, already drying, on his cheeks.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He had expected… something. He’s not sure what, but it certainly wasn’t that. “Fuck,” he says again, in attempt to get the anxious fluttering out of his chest. It doesn’t work.

By the time he pulls his beat up old van into the yard of his new home, he’s stopped shaking. The house is small, and quiet.  A one bedroom wood cabin on the outskirts of town. It’s nestled a little ways in to the woods, which is perfectly fine for him. It’s easy to hide all of his things that would give humans a pause with no neighbors. The front porch steps whine with his presence, but they’re sturdy.

Eddie opens his front door, and the house yawns back at him. Dust and the musty scent of stagnant air filters out toward him. He allows himself just a moment of staring at it all before getting to work. He pulls his hair up in a high ponytail (breaks one hair tie but the second holds) and starts to lug his boxes inside.

(He stops right before he enters, and remembers just barely to introduce himself. To thank It for allowing him in to this space. To leave a penny and a bottle of whiskey at the front door as a welcome gift. It is appeased, and the door opens up wider for him as he slips inside.)

He’s in the middle of cursing himself for owning so many god damned books - why are they so heavy - when his phone rings.

Eddie blinks at it. He hadn’t set it up yet. It’s not even plugged in.

Eddie puts the books down, and stumbles over his rolled up rug before making it into the small kitchen. “Y’hello?” Eddie asks, out of breath.

“I told you to call me as soon as you got in.”

Ah, of course. How could he mistake that tone anywhere? “Oh, please forgive me, Your Holiness. This lowly peasant begs for your forgiveness. You see, he has boxes to move that won’t move themselves - which they could, mind you, if you had deigned to visit the common folk and help them move.”

Nancy scoffs. “Some of us have jobs, Eddie.”

“Yes, yes. We’re all slaves to capitalism, blah, blah.” Eddie waves his hand dismissively, as if she could see him saying it. “Now, anyway, tell me what spell you’re using to call me on a phone that shouldn’t work. It’s very fascinating and dramatic.”

“Nothing too complicated,” she says, which doesn’t help at all. Nancy Wheeler’s complicated, and the rest of civilization’s complicated were two completely different things. “Mike uses these god awful walkie talkies to talk to his friends, and I thought there had to be something similar spell-wise. It didn’t take too long to figure it out.”

“You’re ridiculously talented, and it infuriates me to no end,” Eddie lies. He’s very proud of her all the time. She kicks ass.

“I know,” Nancy says, pleased. “Now get unpacked. I’m coming over in five hours with dinner.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.” Eddie salutes to her, and she laughs like she can see him. She probably can.

They hang up, and Eddie is left in his quiet house once again.

“I can do this,” he says, to himself. To the house.

The house shifts quietly. The walls creak and the tree branches outside the kitchen brushes against the window in quiet affirmation.

“I can do this,” he says again, but believes it a little more this time.

Nancy shows up, much like she has always and will always, in a whirlwind. She’s simultaneously hugging Eddie tightly and dumping a warm casserole dish into his arms and tossing her bag down and slamming shut his front door. It’s a lot, but Eddie has gotten used to this by now. It was easiest to let it happen to you, much like being stuck in a current.

“Swim parallel, understand?” Wayne had told him very seriously. Eddie had nodded, but thankfully had not had to use that knowledge just yet.

“Miss Byers’ heard that you were in town and demanded that I bring you some food she’s made. She said she would bring everyone by sometime soon.” Nancy is saying as they both step past the boxes Eddie had shoved aside two minutes before Nancy had rolled up. “Apparently, Will hasn’t stopped talking about you since he heard you were moving here.”

Eddie chuckles. “They’re sweet. Thank god for her, too. I was just gonna gnaw on some cardboard.”

Nancy rolls her eyes at him. “Dramatic.” With a flick of her wrist, Eddie’s kitchen boxes are torn open, and plates begin to lift themselves out. Nancy turns back to him, and eyes him with a scrutiny so sharp that he feels like his skin is burning. It’s been so long since he’s been face to face with her that he forgets to not be surprised. “Hm. You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks, Nance,” Eddie grumbles.

“Have you been sleeping?” Nancy asks; ignoring his complaining.

Eddie grimaces at this, and focuses on setting the casserole on the stovetop. His cutlery float carefully around them, and begin filing themselves in drawers. A cabinet opens up right beside his head, and he leans out of the way as a stack of bowls begin to drift towards it. “Define sleep.” Nancy opens her mouth - and he knows she’s petty enough to actually do it too, so he hurries to continue, “no, not really. But hopefully moving will tire me out enough to get some decent sleep for once.”

Nancy stares at him silently for a little while longer until Eddie grabs two glasses out of the air and begins filling them with water. “Is it still the same?”

“The nightmares? Yeah.” It’s easier not to talk facing her, so he doesn’t. He stares out the window above the kitchen sink. “Feels like it gets worse the closer I am to here. Doesn’t help that I had a vision just as I reached town.”

“That’s… concerning.” The frown in her words is easy to hear. The dishes still continue their organized march to their assigned positions. “What about?”

“It was hard to tell. It was a lot. More sensations than coherent thoughts. A… portal. Cold hands. Someone saying hello? Mud under my nails.” Eddie looks down at his nails. The black paint is chipping, as always.

“Well, we’ve known a while there’s some sort of veil thinning here,” Nancy says. “A portal is just the next step to that. I’ll check in to it, and let you know what I find.”

“Yeah, thanks. Preciate it, Miss Journalist. It’s all very loud here. I can feel a headache coming on.” Eddie isn’t sure if it’s a good loud, or a bad loud. Perhaps it can only be both. Nancy is quiet for a long moment.

“…Not that I don’t want you here,” Nancy begins in her Careful Voice, which means that she’s trying to say something that she thinks may come off as mean. Eddie appreciates the effort. “But are you sure getting closer to the thing that’s making you uncomfortable is safe? Or the best decision?”

Eddie barks out a laugh, and finally turns around to set the glasses on the table. Nancy is already armed with a wooden spoon and a plate, and is fighting to get the food on the plate without dropping any. “No. Of course not. When have I ever tried to make the best or safest decision? But it’s getting too loud to ignore. Something’s going on, and it seems to want to torment me. So I may as well get a chance to torment back. It’s only fair. Gotta balance it all out, ya know.”

Nancy rolls her eyes fondly. “You witches and your balance.”

“It’s the very foundation of reality!”

Nancy knows this, but she likes picking fun at Eddie. “Sure,” she says, because she’s a brat.

“You’re a brat,” he says.

Nancy’s voice is laden with exaggerated sweetness, “Shut up and eat your casserole, dear.”

He shuts up, and eats his casserole.

The next time someone calls, his phone is actually hooked up. He can feel the familiar energy from across the room, and is so excited he smacks his knee into the coffee table.

He’s still cursing as he answers it. “Shit fuck balls - hey, Uncle Wayne!”

Wayne laughs softly. “You alright there, son?”

“The furniture is out to get me.”

“Did ya introduce yourself?”

“Of course I did!” He does not mention that he almost forgot.  Almost forgot wasn’t forgotten. It was just-very-nearly. There was still there, even if it was just there just barely. His indignation stood tall. “This was normal furniture harassment, not sentient passive aggressiveness.”

This got Wayne to laugh a bit louder. “Somehow, son, that’s even worse.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Eddie mutters. He stares at the kitchen walls. They’re a soft pink, and he likes it, but suddenly he thinks that maybe the whole house should be lilac instead. He’s never really thought about lilac, color wise, but it feels right. “What do you think about lilac?”

Wayne makes a contemplative sound. “Powerful,” he says. Thinks about it more until he continues, “Steady, old magic. It would help. With your spell work. Get some silk of it, at least, if you don’t wanna paint your whole house just yet.”

“No, I think I will,” Eddie says; frowning deeper in thought as he turns slowly to survey the house. The more he looks, the more right it feels - it should be purple. It wants the color in its walls. “It feels…”

“A fresh start,” Wayne continues for him. He’s always been great at finishing sentences and connecting threads and tying loose ends. “I think the house is telling you to get to work.”

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Mrs. Henderson thrusts a pot in Steve’s arms. “Here,” she says brightly. Mews weaves around her ankles aimlessly. “For your garden.”

Steve isn’t sure how she got this, because she’s never been one to go out of her way to garden. But she knows Steve takes pride in his, and that makes him smile brightly. “Oh, you didn’t have to - “

“Now, now,” Mrs. Henderson begins immediately; finger already wagging at him. “You know what I’m going to say each time. You do so much for my Dusty.”

“Okay, yes ma’am,” Steve laughs, and hugs the pot closer to his chest. The lilac smells soft and gentle beneath his nose. It will bloom well, he can tell already. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says happily. She gives him a pat on the head - never mentions or minds that she has to reach up so high - and waves him goodbye as he trudges back to his car.

Steve pauses after putting the plant in his passenger seat, and glances back at the house. Sure enough, Dustin peers out from his window with a grin. His wave is much more wild than his mother’s, and Steve responds easily. He only turns away to cover up a cough before climbing in to his car.

It was a long day of driving Dustin and his friends around, but Steve likes the constant hum of voices so he doesn’t mind much. Never really has, and probably never will. But the quiet is nice, too. A different sort of hum-and-rumble from the car itself as he takes the familiar route to his house.

It’s a little bit of a hassle to juggle both his keys and a large pot, but he makes do. His entrance is loud, however, and soon he hears Robin bounding down the stairs. “Dingus!” She chirps as he rounds the corner. “And a plant? Where did you even get that?”

“Mrs. Henderson,” Steve replies as he continues deeper in to the house toward the back door. He nearly trips over Robin’s newest art hobby (watercolor, this time) in the living room but manages to make it there without much issue. Robin skips over to hold the door open for him. “Thanks. I’m not sure how she knew, but I’ve been wanting lilac for a while now. Haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Moms,” Robin says, like that answers the how.

“Moms,” Steve agrees, because it does. Steve wanders through their small fenced in backyard, circling cabbages and hyacinths and sleepy tomato plants. Finally, he decides to plant the budding flower right under the kitchen window. It looks nice there beside the bundle of herbs and edible flowers (older Robin hobbies that Steve took on). Steve makes an appreciative noise at the scene before him. Robin, from his shoulder, echoes it.

“It’ll be nice when it blooms, why hasn’t it yet?” Robin asks.

“Does better in the fall. Spring’s not bad, but it’s more a creature for fall,” Steve answers easily. He decides he’ll put it in the ground later, after dinner perhaps. He’s starving. “I’m starving.”

“Aren’t we all?” Robin quips, and could mean either or. Actually, she probably means both. “Pizza?”

“Obviously.” Steve follows her inside.

It’s over pizza that Robin first mentions it. “You’ve heard about the new guy?”

Steve nods, and readjusts her feet in his lap. “In a weird, roundabout way, yeah. Came in today.”

Robin hums thoughtfully. “Wonder what he’s like?”

“Nice, I hope,” Steve replies genuinely. That’s all he ever hopes from anyone, these days.

“Gonna go introduce yourself, Mr. Welcoming Committee?” Robin asks with a snort.  She has ever since Max spat the title at him in confusion the first time they met. It had been much more defensive and accusatory back then, but now Max uses it in such a soft teasing manner that Steve doesn’t mind it anymore.

“Maybe,” Steve replies. “If I run in to him, sure.”

“If. Yeah, sure. Mother Bear has to make sure her cubs are safe from scary outsiders, right?” Robin looks much too smug for someone with pizza sauce on their chin. She allows Steve to wipe it off with his thumb, and somehow looks even more smug after.

“Har har har. You’re hilarious. Never heard that joke before.” Steve wipes his hands off on a napkin before tossing his empty plate on to the coffee table and settling back. He taps an inconsistent beat on Robin’s legs. “Like I said. If I run in to him.”

“This rhythm is all over the god damned place,” Eddie mutters, and tosses his notebook back on to his bed. He glares at it, accusatory, before huffing and getting up. He’d had the cadence of a song stuck in his head for the better part of a day, now, and it was driving him crazy. It didn’t even work, but it continued to insist on pushing and pulling at his mind in some stilted tempo. It was incomplete. Not whole in some fundamental way that he didn’t have the energy to sparse through just yet. Especially not on three hours of sleep.

Eddie rubs his hands down his face, and heaves a great sigh. He needs to unpack more. The Byers were coming over in just a few hours. He hadn’t seen them in three years, so he was excited by the prospect. He wonders if Will has gotten much taller. He was so small when he last saw him.

So weak, he thinks; brows furrowing. Too pale. I hope he’s been eating well.

Eddie unpacks, and tidies, and putters around his house nervously. Something about Moms showing up to his house always made him nervous. He wanted to look put together. Sure, he’s been alive and a functioning adult probably for longer than most of the moms he’s ever known, but even he found it hard to not shuffle under a maternal gaze. For all the monsters and creatures and curses he’s fought, Eddie still finds a mom the scariest thing out there.

With one exception. That exception was currently in front of his front door, judging by the knocking.

Sure enough, the Byers family stood on his front porch when he opened the door. “Eddie!” Will chirps.

Eddie had a moment to think, Oh, good. He’s been eating well. Before he’s got an armful of preteen. “Hey, man,” Eddie laughs as he returns the hug. Tries not to think about how small he’d look the last time they’d hugged. The blood drying on both of their shirts. Hugs him tighter just to fight off the memories. “Good to see you. Thanks for coming by.”

Once Will lets Eddie go, Joyce gives him a softer hug. This one makes Eddie want to tear up a little. He can’t remember the last time he got such a gentle hug. Jonathan simply nods, arms full of Tupperware, but his smile is just as genuine as the rest of his family.

Eddie ushers them all in, and tries not to be nervous about the boxes still shoved up against the wall. Joyce immediately coos about how lovely the house is. Eddie doesn’t mind either way - a house will be a house regardless - but does agree with her. The exposed beams are nice. “And you’ve got a fireplace when it gets cold. Oh, good. You let me know if you need help with it come winter, okay?”

Joyce often forgets that Eddie is very old. Eddie appreciates this deeply, so he smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, good. Now, let’s get dinner going.” Joyce gives his cheek a small pinch - nowhere near enough to hurt - before disappearing in to the kitchen.

“Sorry about her,” Jonathan says, but he’s got a smile on his face just like Eddie. “She’s been worrying about you even more than usual when you told us about your dreams.”

Eddie laughs. “Nothing to apologize for. It’s nice.”

“Have they been getting any better?” Will asks as they follow her in to the kitchen.

Eddie’s never quite sure of how much to divulge to humans, so he settles on a vague, “Eh. Some nights are better than others.”

Will frowns. Joyce also frowns. “Well,” Joyce says as she takes the Tupperware from Jonathan and sets them up on the counter. “I know it’ll take you time to get yourself situated, so I brought you some things I think that will help. Maybe you’ll sleep a little better with less to worry about.”

“Oh, you didn’t - “

“I did,” Joyce says immediately, with a smile daring him to protest. Eddie snaps his mouth shut. “Now, I wasn’t sure what would help with what you need, so I got a little bit of everything. I know you run out of things fast, so I had a friend help me pick some things out. He’s got this cute little herb garden I think you’d really enjoy. This is most of them, but I have some more in the car.” She’s steadily pulling out ziplock bag after ziplock bag out of her large purse filled very obviously with herbs and dried flowers.

“That’s… perfect, thank you.” Eddie isn’t sure how to function with the brunt of it all - the heavy kindness. The people milling about his kitchen. It had been so long since… “thank you,” he says again, because he feels like he must.

Joyce’s smile is bright. “You’re quite welcome. Now! This chicken won’t cook itself. Help me find your pans?”

Unpacking is slow and tedious, but Eddie has always found comfort in the monotonous things in life. The “normal” things came first and easiest - clothes in drawers, posters on his bedroom wall, thrifted plush armchairs in front of the fireplace. The thing that took fucking forever was always the magic shit. The scrying equipment, the jars and jars of spell components, the heavy ass cauldron that he really wished Nancy was there to help him move. Everything had such a specific place and purpose that one thing even slightly off could make his routine more trouble than it was worth.

Despite his inward grumbling, he did find most soothing the careful and exact work that came with aligning his spell components in just the right order.

He’s moving the bay leaves beside the basil when he hears his bell chime.

“I told them I wouldn’t be available for at least two weeks,” Eddie mutters as he hurries in to his living room. “Do they ever listen? No. Of course not. Who wants to listen to Eddie fucking Munson?”

Guess I’m lucky they gave me nearly a week before they bothered me, he thinks as he plops himself down on the vanity seat. His vanity set is made of deep red wood, and the mirror curves in an oval tall above the desk. He traces his fingers over the gold filigree around the mirror itself; letting his magic trickle into the metal there.

“This is Munson,” Eddie says in a tired, bored voice. He stares at his unimpressed expression when it begins to disappear as the mirror inside starts to fog over.

Are you settled? The writing appears in the fog in messy, slanted handwriting. Condensation pools and drips slowly beneath the words.

“Not yet. I told you, two weeks.”

Time does not mean the same for you as it does for we.

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, yeah. I hear the same shit all the time. Get a human calendar and watch like the rest of us. Two weeks.” The fog is stubbornly silent. Eddie rolls his eyes. “I gave you more than enough to hold you over until then. Two weeks. That’s that.”

Fine. Two weeks.

The fog dissipates, and he’s left with his still unamused expression staring back at him. “Ridiculous,” he mutters, before standing up and going back to his work.

A witch should be careful with how they speak with their customers - it’s all customer service, after all - but then again, there aren’t many witches as good at their jobs as Eddie. They wouldn’t dare to try and lash out at him.

Eddie learned long ago that if you gave anyone an inch, they’d take a mile. Or in his specific case, you give someone a spell two days earlier by pushy request, and you get an accidental possession and a pissed off customer. That had been Eddie’s least favorite Tuesday by far.

Steve’s body aches beneath the too-warm water bearing down on his back. He heaves a heavy sigh, and watches the soap escape down the drain beneath him. He’s tired. A bone deep sort of tired, one he hasn’t shaken for many years.

He wonders, vaguely, if he’ll be able to sleep tonight.

It’s not until the water begins to turn frigid that he turns the shower off; movements slow and sluggish. He steps out, towels himself dry, and stares into the foggy mirror. There’s only the suggestion of his form to stare back at him, so he reaches up to the center of the mirror and draws a small smiley face there. The mouth is lopsided.

Steve waits, as if he’d get some sort of answer. As if the little smile would turn or curl or frown. But nothing happens, and he yawns loudly before going about the gargantuan task that is dressing himself.

Robin is lingering at her bedroom door when he exists the bathroom. “Dingus,” she greets, but her voice is softer than it had been all day. She’s got that look on her face - the one with the tense brows and the slight pout on her lips. She’s been wearing that expression a lot lately - she’s been worried. Which means he’s been worrying her more than usual lately.

Steve feels guilty, like always. “Rob,” he answers.

She jerks her head toward her open door. “Sleepover?”

Steve’s sigh this time is full of relief. He is often reminded of just how much he loves her, and this time is no different. “It’s not a sleepover if we live together,” he says to hide how thankful he is. The idea of sleeping alone is daunting. He slips into her room easily, and she closes the door.

Robin’s room is much like herself - filled to the brim with trinkets and books and music sheets. So much life packed into only so many square feet should feel suffocating, but all Steve feels is comfort. Like a heavy blanket over his shoulders. “Sure it is,” Robin tells him as she tugs him over to the bed.

It’s easy to crawl under the covers with her. They know exactly which way to best position themselves so elbows don’t go flying everywhere. Soon, they’re curled up towards each other - elbows safely put away - and Robin smiles at him. “You had a long day today.”

“I know,” Steve says. The guilt weighs down his words. “Sorry. I know you worry.”

Robin hums, and gives his nose a soft poke. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.” It’s what Robin tells him every time, but it doesn’t make him feel any less shameful. “Hey. I’m serious. It’s not like you have a choice, Steve.”

“I do, though,” he whispers before he realizes.

Robin is quiet for a long moment before she scoots closer to him. Her knees knock into his, and she weaves her ankles between his. “You don’t. You know that. I know that. The kids know that, Dingus. You’re doing what you have to, and if I had a choice I would be right there with you.” Steve frowns. Robin laughs quietly. “Oh, stop it. I know what my job is. Just. You know. If you ever need backup.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’m fine every time.” At Robin’s pointed; raised eyebrow, Steve deflates a little. “Okay, well. Mostly fine.”

“Just be careful, okay?” Robin asks. Steve can’t count how many times she’s asked him that. How many times all of his friends have. It should make him feel warm; content that they care for him so much. But mostly he just feels bad for stressing them out. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Steve holds up his pinky. Robin laughs, but links her finger around his just the same.

“You’ll tell me if it gets bad?” Robin asks.

Steve doesn’t like lying to his friends. Hates it. But he hates even more the idea of them in danger. So he lies, but it’s not easy to do so. “Of course.”

He’s not sure if Robin believes him. He thinks she’d still have that sad smile on her face either way. She says nothing, and instead slides their hands together so all of their fingers intertwine. Shuffling closer, she rests her forehead against his chest and settles down.

This close, Steve feels whole for just a little while. He wants to do good by them all. He wants to be able to speak only the truth to them. But it can’t happen. Not yet. Not now.

Soon, I hope, he thinks as he closes his eyes and curls tighter around Robin. Maybe soon I can rest.

When Eddie stumbles into the bathroom in the middle of the night, he barely gets two steps in to the room when he notices the glass fogged up. Frowning, he flicks on the light.

A smiley face, mouth crooked, sits lopsided in the center of his mirror.

“Odd,” Eddie says.

Eddie’s odd, and the rest of civilization’s odd were two vastly different things. He raises a hand, and gently touches the mirror. It’s cold.

It is 2:02 AM.

Will Byers gasps awake and coughs so violently his whole body shakes with the force of it. Mike Wheeler is quick to stir on the floor beside the couch.

“Will?” He asks; eyes squinted through the dark of his basement.

Will doesn’t answer and focuses on steadying his breathing. He coughs again so harshly he wonders for a moment if blood will come up.

“Will? You okay?” Mike sits up; hand already finding Will’s arm before he realizes. “Will?”

“Eddie,” Will gasps through the tears running down his face from exertion. “I need Eddie.”

Will coughs again. This time, he feels the old familiar sensation of sticky blood drop into his palm.

Steve barely has time to glance at the alarm clock - 2:02 am - before he’s rolling out of bed.

Something was wrong.

Steve got halfway down the hall to his room before he begins to cough.

“Fuck,” he whispers through his heaving breaths. Another sharper cough hits him, and suddenly he’s coughing up something wet. Red stares back up at him as he takes his shaking hand away from his mouth. “Fuck,” he says again, with feeling. He licks his lips, and tastes iron. “Fuck.”