Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A cold wind blows, and the trees in a grove between life and death groan in a mournful cacophony. Somewhere beneath them, amongst them, a child is singing—in a voice barely above a whisper.

"So if you want me off your back, Well come on and let me know—Should I stay or should I go?”

Somewhere else beneath them, another child sings—in a voice more prayer than song.

“And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God, and I’d get Him to swap our places…”

Max Mayfield no longer remembers who she is.

She is cold, she is wet, and she is frightened beyond belief.

All she knows is that somewhere in these woods, He is watching.

Not the god she’s praying to. Not the god she barely believes in.

This one is real. This One is here.

And he is hunting her.

She hears whispers through the trees.

“If I go there will be trouble, And if I stay there will be double.”

They don’t sound like Him. They don’t sound like One.

The name rings in her ears—Vecna. She thinks she hears the sound of chimes.

But that whispered voice is terrified. And deep down, Max knows that if it were her trapped here—and it is her trapped here—she would not want to be alone.

He is lying, knees held to his chest, grime-soaked cheeks lined with tear tracks, in a shabby lean-to.

The wood is rotten. The cloth door has nearly fallen away with the damp. Spores coat the ground, and the child coughs, as he tries with all his might to keep on singing.

"So come on and let me know, Should I stay or should go.”

The sign, faded with time and corruption, reads Castle Byers.

Max thinks she knows this boy. But she doesn’t know how or why.

He hasn’t seen her. He’s staring at something she cannot see. He’s looking for something, for a monster she thinks she knows to expect by now.

“It’s not safe here,” says Max. She kneels down in front of him and holds out a hand. “We need to go.”

"Should I stay or should I go now,” sings a young Will Byers.

“Go,” insists Max. But she’s not sure he can hear her.

A branch breaks beneath her foot. A vine hisses. She has never been to the Upside Down, but if she had, if she could remember what El has told her… she would know what it means.

Will knows. His eyes snap to something behind them both. Something they cannot see. And then they land on Max.

"Who are you?” he asks her, frightened. “Are you… one of them?”

“No,” says Max, and it is the only thing she is sure of. “I am…” She tries to remember. “My name is Max. Come on, take my hand, I’ll help you. We can get out of here.”

She is desperate. Vecna cannot hurt anyone else. He won’t.

Max is not sure who Vecna has hurt before. But she’s certain he won’t get this boy. Not if she has anything to say about it.

Will is looking beyond her again. He eyes the woods, the view drenched in fog and fear.

“It’s going to find you,” says Will in a terrified whisper. “It’s going to find us. You need to hide.”

“What will?” says Max. “Vecna? The Demogorgon? I don’t think hiding works in this place. We need to run.”

“No,” says Will. He is close to tears. “Not them.”

Another branch cracks—behind Max this time. Another vine hisses. And then another. Another. Another.

“The Centipede,” Will whimpers, and in one swift movement, he pulls what is left of his cloth door across the entrance. Max can, just barely, see him bury his head in his arms, as if to make himself invisible.

"The Centipede?” says Max. “What do you mean—”

She reaches out to touch him.

And something else, something with far, far too many legs, reaches out to touch her.

She feels cold, and breaking, and death.

In a whirl of steam and smoke, she’s torn away, and the forest fades away to aching black nothingness.

An empty void.

“You cannot hide from me, Max,” says Vecna.

She doesn’t know how he found her.

“You don’t need to hide from me, not anymore. I can take that suffering away. You broke the world for me, Max. It’s only fitting that you help me fix it.”

Max cannot move. She cannot see. The blackness eats away at her, and she knows he is there, but she can’t see him. She would run, but she's forgotten again whether or not she has legs.

A long, hooked hand rests on what would be her shoulder, if she had one.

“Leave Will to his becoming,” says Vecna. “Right now, it’s time you gave me mine.”

Beneath her eyes that do not exist, Max feels blood well up, and the black void turns red. She opens her mouth that never was, and tries to sing. All that comes out is a croak, but she can hear the words in her mind—

“If I only could, I’d be runnin’ up that hill... with no problems…"

There is a phenomenon that all high schoolers know.

When you are looking forward to something—plans after school, the end of a class, or even Winter Break—the time that must pass to get there does so twice as slowly.

Right now, the Party want that to be the case. They’re waiting for the doctors to declare Max dead. They’re waiting for the government to swoop in and arrest El. They’re waiting for Vecna to explode out of the ruins of downtown Hawkins, riding the Mind Flayer and declaring his dominion over the earth.

For all those reasons and more, they hope as one that the time before the end will pass slowly. That they might hang onto the last vestiges of normalcy for as long as they can.

But it doesn’t.

And why?

Because there is another phenomenon that all high schoolers know.

When you don’t want the day to end—when the teacher wheels out the TV for an “educational” movie, when you are part of a fun conversation at lunch, when you have a class with your crush—time instead passes twice as quickly. A flash here, a flash there, a surge of endorphins, and it’s over.

It will not surprise anyone, then, that this is the phenomenon that the world chooses instead.

Like the clock in the old Creel House—tick, tock. Tick, tock—time goes by. The world crawls on.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

Spring comes to an end. The schools reluctantly open for finals (though the gym stays a shelter.) Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin graduate.

And Vecna does nothing.

Summer begins, then passes, not nearly as hot and sticky as the last. Spores fall, the clouds hang low, and darkness spreads.

And Vecna does nothing.

Fall comes. The Party is growing up, no matter how much they might wish they weren’t, and there’s no reason now for the schools not to reopen for good. So, they do, and sophomore year follows.

And Vecna does nothing.

Then it’s winter. Then Christmas. The Party buy each other gifts while watching snow and spores mix like sprinkles. The world freezes, ground coated in white. The bells ring, the ball drops—now it’s 1987. Happy New Year, Hawkins.

And Vecna does nothing.

It’s spring again; the one-year anniversary of the earthquake. The final death toll officially peaks at 285. Though everyone wishes to forget, the rifts remain—and so do the memories.

And Vecna does nothing.

Summer again. After more than a year, the military presence in Hawkins decreases—they’re just watchdogs now. The weather is still chillier than it should be, but, after the coldest winter on record, even the low seventies feel like heaven. When the rain falls, though, it burns.

And still, Vecna does nothing.

Suddenly, it’s the fall of 1987. The Party are juniors—almost done with high school, almost done with Hawkins. They are so close to escaping, and in that rush of hope, they have begun to dream that maybe they will.

That maybe El, Steve, and Nancy did kill Vecna.

That maybe he’s dead.

Maybe it’s over.

Waiting. Days, months, over a year of waiting. That’s the bitter gift time has given them. The good slipping away towards oblivion, faster than ever, bit by bit, as the teens watch nervously over their shoulders, waiting, waiting, waiting. And dreaming—

But dreams often lie.

So let’s hold on, just for a minute. Let’s stop time. Rewind, to the spring of 1986. Let’s let the tape play again and see what we might have missed.

1987, junior year, escape—that’s the future. It will come, of course, but it is a year and a half away. A lot can happen in a year and a half. A lot can change.

People can change.

So the time ticks by…

And the Party changes.

Chapter Text

Dear Steve,

I hope this letter makes it to you. Wherever you end up. If you do get this, I hope they don’t blame you for… God, I can’t even write it. That if you’re reading this, I’m dead.

Even if they do blame you, don’t blame yourself. Don’t let the Party blame you, either, okay? It’s not anyone’s fault. I know you probably did your best with what happened. Everyone always does, somehow, except me.

I don’t know how you got out, you know. I always wondered. Out of that dark place, the one people like us—like you, like me, like Billy—end up in. The one we shut everyone else out from, like it’ll somehow make us safe. You didn’t have to stop being… whatever it was they called you. Steve “The Hair” Harrington, right? It’s ridiculous, honestly, but I know it meant something to you.

You were one of those guys, Steve. You could’ve stayed one. But you didn’t. Instead, you chose to help us, a bunch of idiot kids. You chose to believe in us, believe in me, enough to save our lives, again and again, instead of keeping your fancy pedestal.

I guess you’re probably a little pissed about that, huh. Maybe you’re thinking that if you’d just played your cards different, looked the other way at the right time, your folks wouldn’t have sent you to the trailer park. You wouldn’t be hunted by everyone you’ve ever known. Let me tell you, I’ve been there, and you’d be wrong. They would have screwed you over anyway. This shitty town, shitty parents like ours—they make me think of him. You can’t always win when they come for you. And sometimes fighting back only makes it worse.

Sometimes you just have to run.

I’ll be running, Steve. I mean, I won’t go out without a fight—don’t worry about that. Hell, I really, really hope I don’t go out at all, and you never have to read this. But if you do… just know. Even if I don’t believe in Hawkins, even if I don’t believe in a broken family like mine, I’m glad there are guys like you who can put aside appearances to save some lost, asshole kids. I’m glad you didn’t turn out like Billy, or Jason. You’re not one of them now, if you ever were.

I’m also sorry, Steve. Because, if you’re reading this, I’ll be another problem on your plate. They’ll think you killed me just like all the others. They’ll ignore every bit of good you’ve done in favor of some bad you didn’t. And it’s so fucking unfair I want to scream.

So, yeah. I hope you never read this.

I’m just sorry.

Sincerely, the little dipshit you “babysit”,

Max

APRIL 1, 1986

Steve hates jail.

Probably a given, but it’s true.

The Roane County lockup is small, nasty, and dingy, all of which add up to either it being terribly underfunded, or the Hawkins police force really hating Steve Harrington.

Steve is honestly not sure which option is more realistic.

At the very least, he’s still in Hawkins. He doesn’t know how Max is, how Nancy is, what the brats are up to. He hasn’t even heard from his own parents, which stings. Every nerve in Steve’s body has been on edge for the past five days, and he wishes someone would just tell him something—but he’s here.

Officer Cray had not been talkative on the way back to the station. Steve had been manhandled out of the car, read his rights, photographed, the whole nine yards.

And then they threw him in a cell and seemingly forgot about him.

It’s not too hard to imagine why. The lockup is just off the station’s main drag, so Steve’s caught snippets of conversation and a sense of the chaos. Lots of yelling, hurrying, loud voices. The coroner came by a few times, which made his stomach flip uncomfortably. From the sounds of it, things weren’t going too well outside, but nobody said anything about monsters.

The lady who brings his meals is somewhat nice. She never makes conversation, exactly, but she did give up a few tidbits of information. Steve reflects that, while he may officially be a criminal, he hasn’t lost his touch completely.

Once again, it’s the little things.

They’re trying to arrange a trial, from the sounds of it. Something quick, throw the book at him, probably, lock him up and move on.

It drives him up the wall. The cops are supposed to be the good guys, he thinks irritably. Swoop in at the right moment, arrest the bad guy, save the day. He’s not the bad guy, so what gives?

I wish Hop were here, Steve realizes with a certain amount of reluctance. He’d listen to me. He was a good guy. Rude, sure, but definitely the best this town had to give.  

Either way, Steve hopes someone will remember eventually that he exists. The Wheelers are loaded, maybe Nance is trying to get them to do something. Or maybe Dustin is rallying the troops. The thought is comforting, until another image pops into his head of either of them seeing him here, like this…

Yeah. No.

Steve forces his mind back into the real world—or what little of it he’s now allowed to occupy. Best to focus on what he can control.

Which is nothing.

Steve decides to make a mental circuit of his cell.

He’s been here long enough by now to have the room completely memorized. The tiny table built into the wall. The cracked toilet that he’d avoided until he couldn’t anymore. The shitty, stinking cot he sits on now, that smells almost as bad as the Upside Down—not quite, but almost. The divot in the far corner of the floor where the cement has cracked. The calendar above the cot. The series of little graffiti scrawlings carved into the wall—Hawkins Sux, Fuck the Police, I<3Molly R., plus about 30 dicks.

Oh, and the bars in the entryway.

Kinda hard to forget about those.

But it’s all better than thinking about his situation. Than thinking about the people he failed by getting caught, than thinking about the real criminal out there, getting off scot free, than thinking about the fact that his hair probably looks terrible. (Steve refuses to touch it. Without his usual concoctions it’s fallen down in stringy ringlets around his face, and it feels like a solid metaphor for his life right now.)

Mrs. Atkins from junior year English would be proud of him for remembering the word, he thinks. Dustin would probably accuse him of secretly being a nerd.    

Great, he’s dwelling again.

“Awesome,” Steve mutters. “I can’t even focus right.”

Another week of this, he reflects dully, and he’s going to go insane.

He’s about to make another circuit of the cell when a new sound reaches his ears.

It’s the clacking of boots on stone, heading his direction. Steve starts, and tries to make himself presentable.

It’s probably nothing. But just in case…

To his intense displeasure, Chief Powell appears on the other side of the cell bars. For Steve, Powell is just another reminder of what Hop had been, and no longer is. Sure, Hop was a dick, but better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

Powell doesn’t look angry, though, which is a surprise. When Steve had been brought in, the look on the Chief’s face was dark and stormy.

“Harrington,” says Powell. “Come here.”

Steve’s eyes flicker across the graffiti again—Fuck the Police—and he stands up.

I am a good, upstanding American citizen, he thinks. This will be fine. The cops like me. Everyone likes me.

…well. They did.

“Got a few updates for you,” says Powell. “Good news, in fact.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “I’m going to be shot out back? That is good. Just make it painless, please.”

Powell snorts. “No. The opposite, as a matter of fact. We’re letting you go.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

“Okay, Chief. I’ll take the bait. Woo hoo, yay, excitement. What’s the actual news?”

Powell doesn’t flinch. “That is the news, Harrington. Your father posted your bail. You’re not off the hook yet, of course, but between the testimony of your friends and a current lack of resources at the station, you’ve been allowed out on probation until a jury trial can be convened.”

“My father?” Steve looks at the calendar. “An April Fool’s joke, from you or him, has got to have some kind of legal ramifications.”

“Harrington, I’m not joking. He did it reluctantly, I assure you, but your father doesn’t want his son in jail.”

Steve chews at the inside of his mouth. It’s raw by now, but he doesn’t care. “Is… is he here?”

Powell looks away. “No. Just gave us a call. Wired the money.”                 

Steve deflates. Just slightly. “Yeah, okay. Didn’t expect it, but I had to ask.”

“He did want us to tell you that he’ll accept the outcome of the trial, whatever it might be,” Powell adds, like that’s a good thing.

“Chief, with all due respect, he kicked me out the second Starcourt burned down and he learned my backup plan was a video store. I don’t think standing up for his failure of a son is really high on Mr. Harrington’s big priority list.”

“Maybe not,” says Powell. “But here we are. And the bail wasn’t small, so don’t blow him off, okay? For the record, Harrington,” he continues. “And off it. You have a chance of going free permanently here. Not because folks want that, but because the evidence for your guilt is, well. Spotty.”

“Gee. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“It’s true. Look, son,” says Powell. He rubs his forehead tiredly. “I’ll give it to you straight. Just because I have doubts about you killing those kids doesn’t mean this attitude of yours won’t land you in more trouble than you deserve, okay? Best to tone it down a notch.”

“I mean, it’s not like things can get much worse—” Steve trails off, then raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think I did it? Then why am I here?”

Powell sighs. “Because someone’s gotta be impartial about this mess, and nobody else seems to want to be. I may have opinions, but I also owe the people of this town a fair trial, you understand? Just tell the truth, and you’ll be fine. I want to believe you, and so will the judge.”

“You sure about that? Or is he just a friend of my father’s?”

“He’s a good man,” says Powell curtly. “You want fair, he’ll give it to you, and that’s what matters. For now, just sit tight, got it? Florence is filling out the paperwork for your release as we speak. Give her an hour, and you’ll be out of here.”

Steve nods slowly. It still feels like a joke. It should be a joke. But maybe Powell isn’t as terrible as he’d thought.

Unthinking, the boy runs a hand through his hair, and winces at the grease. He pulls his hand away as quickly as possible. “Okay... Okay, Chief. So I get out. What happens then?”

“Then you go home. You are accused of murder, so you can’t leave Hawkins. You’ll have to report back here weekly to check in, and, obviously, I’d suggest not continuing any possible crime spree while you’re at it. Either way, you will be notified of your trial date as soon as it is set. And then we go from there.”

“Chief… my home has a giant rift running through it, last I checked.”

For the first time, Powell hesitates. “I don’t suppose you had insurance?”

Steve laughs.

“We’ll send your trial notice to the family home, then,” Powell says, a touch more gently.

Steve doesn’t reply.

“Seriously, Harrington,” Powell insists. “I’d check in with your folks. Even if you all have a rough history, I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you.”

“Yeah. I bet.”

Powell rubs his forehead. “Alright, son. One more thing, if you don’t mind—"

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve says pleasantly.

Powell considers him, dryly. “I assume you’ve noticed some increased activity in the station lately.”

“Again, Chief. Rifts. Earthquake. Yada yada.”

“It’s more than that. The federal government sent in some folks with the National Guard. Some Colonel from the Army. The city’s under martial law—means the feds are running things right now. And there’s some kind of disease risk from the coal fire, so it’s not safe to be out and about without a mask. Point is—things aren’t going to be the same as when you got in here, even after a week. I’d advise you to simply go to your folks’ and stay there till you get more news.”

Steve nods, slowly. Taking it in. “So, like. We’ve been invaded.”

“It’s for our safety, son. Hawkins is a disaster area.”

“Gotcha.” Steve looks away. Tries not to think about what the feds are actually here for. God, he’s really gotta go find those kids. “Don’t make trouble. Be a good boy for my country. Anything else, Chief.”

Powell eyes him sadly.

“Fine, then. Guess I’ll see you in an hour.”

“I wasn’t done. I want you to have this.”

Steve looks up to see Powell holding an envelope. He kneels and slides it under the door. “You wrote me a letter? Chief, you shouldn’t have.”

Powell doesn’t crack. Instead, his face looks… pained?

“Not from me, son. From the Mayfield girl. It’s been kept as evidence up till now, but we’ve got a photocopy… Even if you are guilty, we couldn’t find a reason to keep it from you. Plus, Florence insisted.”

Steve had been reaching for the letter, but now he stops. “It’s… it’s from Max?”

Powell nods. “Wrote one to her boyfriend, too. The Sinclair kid. Looks like it was some kind of goodbye thing, out of an abundance of caution, all that.” His gaze darkens slightly. “Like I said, I want to believe you. But if I’m wrong, and you did hurt her… Then if you have a heart at all, son, I hope this letter makes you come clean.”

And he’s gone.

Steve stares at the envelope. He doesn’t want to open it. He’s been cursing the isolation ever since he arrived, sure, but he’d take it back in an instant if it meant he didn’t have to read this letter.

Max… wrote me something?

Right, yeah. She’d been writing stuff. He remembers her giving something to Sinclair and Henderson, and she might’ve mentioned something about one for him, too, but then they’d gone to see Billy’s grave, and she’d been possessed, and…

Well.

He’d forgotten.

The letter sits there. Accusingly.

A goodbye, Steve thinks. Just in case.

A lump rises in his throat.

Why me? He thinks. I’m just the babysitter with the great hair that her brother nearly beat to death. Several times. She didn’t need to write me a letter to apologize, if that’s her deal. There’s nothing to apologize for.

Wait—right. Max.

Steve jumps up from the cot and slams against the bars. “Hey, Chief! Chief, wait—she is alive, right? Max? Hey, Chief!”

His voice echoes down the corridor.

Silence.

“She is alive, right?” Steve whispers, now to himself. “God…”

Steve’s not a praying man. Not at all. But now, in this moment? He almost wishes he was.

Slowly, carefully, trepidation filling his every move, Steve walks back to his cot and picks up Max’s letter.

He slides his fingers through the top of the envelope. His hands are shaking—idiot, Harrington, he thinks. It’s just words.

He pulls it out.

Unfolds it.

That lump is a lot closer to his mouth, now. Steve hopes he isn’t about to throw up, because he does not want his face anywhere near the rim of that toilet.

Dear Steve, says Max.

He reads it all once, then again, and again, and again--

I hope they don’t blame you.

You chose to believe in us anyway—believe in me.

I’m glad there are guys like you who can put aside appearances to save some lost, asshole kids.

I’m glad you didn’t turn out like Billy, or Jason. You’re not one of them now, if you ever were.

Sometimes you just have to run.

I’ll be running, Steve.

I hope… you never have to read this.

I’m just sorry.  

Shit, thinks Steve. Come on man. Keep it together.

He chokes. The lump rises again, though, and this time he can’t hold it back. For the first time since he was ten, since he fell off his bike and broken his arm, since he’d had it beaten out of him… Steve Harrington begins to cry.

MARCH 29, 1986

There is a clock on the wall of the Hawk Theatre projection office. Its presence is something of a miracle, given the circumstances, but still it remains. El watches its hands tick slowly around the face and wishes the bad men would hurry up and get to the part where they fight, already.

She and Hop are alone in the office, sat at a plastic table, surrounded by boxes of film reels and the projector. The soldiers outside the door murmur in low voices, and El wonders about Nancy and Jonathan. They hadn’t been allowed in.

Just her and Hop.

“You hangin’ in there, kid?” he says gently. “I don’t know what these people want, exactly, but I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Okay?”

El nods slowly. “I will not let anything happen to you, either.”

Hop smiles. It’s forced.

They’re both aware they might be lying, though not by choice.

Jackson’s men had marched their little group into the Hawk the moment after the broadcast finished. As one of the few downtown structures left moderately intact, it seemed to have turned into a makeshift headquarters for the Army. There had been a brief moment before their two groups met, where El’s nose bled and every streetlight and spotlight and helicopter headlight glowed like the sun. Then Colonel Jackson spoke. Her voice had been calm, pointed, and entirely unbothered.

“We’re not here to fight you, Subject Eleven,” she’d said. “But if it comes down to it, you won’t win. Let’s not make this unpleasant and have ourselves a little chat instead.”

El had bristled. She’s known countless people who spoke like that, who called her Subject, and none of them were the kind of people you want to chat with.

She’d been set to ignore the threat completely, until Nancy gave a little shriek behind her, and El had turned to see the two older teens being cuffed.

“No,” hissed El, and the cuffs burst with a snap. Nancy and Jonathan stumbled towards her, and the soldiers moved in.

Gun barrels lowered in their direction. Sullivan reached for his pistol.

And then it was Dr. Owens who was speaking.

“El. Hey, kid. I understand you’re upset, you’re scared. But these folks aren’t, well, particularly understanding of that sort of thing.” He shrugged tiredly. “At least hear them out, okay? Take it from me: we’re on the same side.”

“You are alive,” she said, hesitant. “Why did they not kill you?”

Owens laughed and gestured at a bruise hidden by the shadow of his hair. “Apparently I’m ‘useful.’ Wasn’t for a lack of trying, though; Jack here is a crack shot with a metal pipe.”

Sullivan glowered in his direction, but didn’t move.

“We’re here for the same reason you are. I promise,” insisted Owens. “Let’s just get this over with. Alright?”

Colonel Jackson watched him speak, smiling slightly. “Listen to the doc, Eleven. We’re all friends here.”

Hop bristled. “Heard that one before. You’re not taking her back to any sort of lab, okay? Not under my watch.”

Jackson eyed him, his thin figure, his scars. “That won’t be a problem, dead man. However, we do have some questions for you.”

A moment of hesitation. Silence. Considering. A kind hand on El’s shoulder, an exchanged look. What do you want to do? Are you comfortable with this? I have your back.

El had thought about it. She figured she didn’t really have a choice.

And now they’re here.

She’s watching the clock again. It reads 4:48. She remembers watching a similar clock in the cabin, back when she hardly knew how to tell time. Back when she would wait up for Hop to come home, with the surety of the abandoned that he wouldn’t.

This moment feels unsettlingly similar.

Now it’s 5:00.

Then 5:10.

Then 5:18.

With a creak, the door swings open, and both girl and man pivot in their seats, muscles tensed and ready for a fight. Instead, it’s Owens, who nods in their direction with the same look of, hey, hang in there she’d gotten from Hop. Sullivan follows, refusing to acknowledge her presence in any way. Last, of course, is Colonel Jackson. What her presence might mean, though…

El bites her lip. This is not going to be fun.

Jackson shuts the door behind her and locks it with a flourish. The noise sets everyone on edge.

Her eyes flick back and forth across her captive audience. “Just making sure we aren’t interrupted,” she says evenly. Then she claps her hands together. The sound is loud in the enclosed space. “Do forgive us the location. We’re planning to set up our own headquarters, but, well. You know how bureaucracy is.” She looks pointedly at Hop.

“And you’re not it?” he growls. “What do you want, lady? In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war on. You’d better have left those kids out there unharmed.”

El realizes with a start that Hop doesn’t know Sullivan. Doesn’t know the dynamics at play. Might not even know about NINA. All he sees are soldiers, bad men, and while the interpretation almost certainly isn’t wrong, her stomach sinks slightly.

“You will address the Colonel by her rank,” Sullivan says stiffly.

“Give me one good reason,” says Hop.

“We’ll get to you,” says Jackson. “And ‘those kids’ are perfectly fine. Comfortable, even. Not classified enough for the conversation we’re about to have, that’s all. But enough about them—right now, I need to talk to Subject Eleven.”

“She’s not a subject. She’s a person, and no longer your property.”

“Yes,” Jackson says thoughtfully. “That’s true, to an extent. Isn’t it, Sam?”

Owens flinches. El wonders, again, who exactly this woman is. She doesn't feel like Papa. She's something new. The idea is unsettling.

Now the woman is addressing her.

“Jane Ives, now Hopper. Subject Eleven. One of Brenner’s pet projects, and the only useful one left alive.” Jackson’s icy eyes lock onto the girl, considering. “I’ve read a lot about you. About the reasons for your existence, and the miracles you’ve achieved. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

Hopper seethes. El adds her glare to his, and Jackson sighs.

“I understand your anger. You and your siblings were created by a program formed as a calculated risk; a program that has by and large failed and left a trail of dead and traumatized children in its wake. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not any happier about it than you are.”

It doesn’t.

Jackson gestures at the room around them. The ceiling tiles in one corner are cracked, and the wall sags slightly in a way that is clearly unnatural. “I’m sure we can all agree that the fallout of said program could have been handled… better.” She tilts her head. “I apologize for that, but Brenner always did love a good show of power. I’m not particularly surprised it turned out like this.”

El narrows her eyes. “You know Papa?”

“Know him? Subject Eleven, I was, for many years, his boss.”

A hiss of breath slips through Hop’s teeth. “You did this.”

It’s not a question.

Jackson’s face falls. Just a bit. “Like I said, I have regrets.”

“It is your fault Papa hurt so many people.” El has her answer, and it’s so simple and horrifying that she doesn’t know what to do with it. “It is your fault he tried to make us into monsters.”

“Subject Eleven,” Jackson says, clearly thinking. “Mr. Hopper. Do you understand how the government works?”

“Yes,” Hop spits.

“No,” says El.

Jackson pulls up a chair. “To clarify for you, and to refresh your guardian, here. The US Government has layers of control. At the top, of course, is the President. Congress. The Supreme Court. Etcetera. The government is made up of departments, like the Department of Defense, which oversees the Army, or the Department of Energy, which ran Hawkins Lab.” Jackson drums her fingers on the table. “That means that yes, Subject Eleven, I am in charge of other people—like your Papa. I tell them to do things, and they do them. Further up the chain, however, still others are in charge of me, and I have to do what they tell me. Think of it like a tree. I am one small branch of the whole; larger than others, certainly, but not the largest. Does that make sense?”

El nods cautiously. “A tree of bad men,” she says.

Jackson, to everyone’s surprise, laughs. “Yes, sadly. Very bad men and women. I hear you’re worried about being a monster, Subject Eleven—welcome to the club! Sometimes terrible things happen in the name of national security. No one likes it, but if they didn’t happen, we wouldn’t have a country, and that would be unacceptable." She shrugs. "I didn't order your creation, you know—that responsibility lies with my predecessor—but I was tapped to take over the project not long after. For better or worse, I agreed. I suppose am a bad woman, Subject Eleven. And I accept that.”

“So, your excuse is that you were just following orders?” Hop says, rubbing his forehead. “Sure. That worked great for the Germans. Did you bring us here for a high-school level lecture on governmental ethics, Colonel, or is there a point beyond deflecting blame?”

“Given one of us is a high schooler, Mr. Hopper,” Jackson says, “I thought it might be fair. No deflection intended.”

“I am not stupid,” El says quietly.

“No,” Jackson agrees. “But uneducated, because Dr. Martin Brenner was nothing if not a minimalist.” She leans in. “However, I do have a further point. I've told you all of this, classified as it may be, because it is important to me that we establish a bond of trust.”

Hop snorts.

“We stand on the brink of disaster, Mr. Hopper,” Jackson says. “You said it yourself. And we need each other. While it might be difficult, it is vital that everyone understands exactly what we’re dealing with. If I lie, or obfuscate the answers to important questions, that would become impossible.”

“You knowingly aided and abetted a crime against humanity,” Hop says coldly. “Why should we trust you after that?”

“To be frank,” says Jackson, “I couldn’t care less about your trust. But Subject Eleven seems to care for you, and, by all accounts, deserves better than she has gotten. I intend to make an attempt at complete honesty, for her sake. I hope you will honor that attempt.”

“If by complete honesty you mean threats, that’s not exactly ‘better than what she’s gotten.’”

“Threats are a last-minute option that I would prefer to avoid. For now, I’d much rather be clear.” She faces El, expression serious. “Here is the situation as I see it. You, Subject Eleven, were created to be a weapon. You, Subject Eleven, are under suspicion for causing this disaster. And you, Subject Eleven, may be the only one capable of undoing it. So, in that spirit, I will not lie to you no matter what you might ask—and I expect you to do the same for me.”

El bites her lip. “If you want that, stop calling me Subject.” There’s an edge to her voice.

“Of course,” Jackson says smoothly. “Names; tricky things, aren't they? Would you rather I call you Jane?”

El fidgets, unsure. Jackson waits, then continues, unworried.

“We’ll simply use Eleven for now, then, shall we?”

El looks at Hop, then at Jackson. She nods, slowly.

“Very well. Eleven it is. Then you promise to tell the truth when I ask it of you?”

“No promises,” Hop cuts in. “Not without conditions.  Using her name is a good first step, sure, but if you want trust, you have to earn it.”

“Yes,” says El, trying to keep her voice neutral. “Earn it.”

“Your wish is my command,” says Jackson. Her lips twitch, as if holding back a smile, and she leans back in her chair to take the two of them in. Thinking. Behind her, Owens and Sullivan shift uncomfortably. Jackson continues to ignore them, and after a minute seems to settle on a course of action.

“Here's a tidbit of information you might enjoy. Have either of you heard of the Philadelphia Commission?”

Two no’s.

“Good. You shouldn’t have,” she says. “Technically it doesn’t exist—but it’s why we're all here. The US Government has been interested in people like you, Eleven, for decades. The Philadelphia Commission exists to monitor and study those suspected of possessing your particular skillset, and duplicate those abilities for official use. For a long time, the organization was largely hokum. Tests with drugs. Hypnosis. Psychology. Trivial things, and completely ineffective. That was what we were expected to remain—until Dr. Brenner made you.”

Jackson leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Eighteen of you. Superhuman children, capable of wonderful and terrible things. His was the first success the Commission enjoyed, and while you are by no means the only anomalies we monitor, you are perhaps the greatest. Other than perhaps Dimension X.”

The name carries with it a hint of malice.

“Fine,” says Hop. “I’ll bite. What’s Dimension X?”

Jackson shifts, just slightly, and Owens jumps forward. “Jim. Yes. I believe it’s what you’ve been calling the Upside Down.”

A chill runs down El’s spine.

“A fitting title,” says Jackson. “But hardly scientific. Regardless, the timeline goes like this. In 1959, the CIA gave Brenner the go-ahead to begin Project Indigo—that is, to create you, Eleven, and your siblings. Not long after, he succeeded. Then, in 1983, Eleven accessed Dimension X, and, subsequently, a creature from said reality escaped and kidnapped William Byers. In 1984, another creature took control of his mind and also attempted to enter our reality. In 1985, that same creature killed a number of Hawkins citizens—among whose number, by the way, you are supposed to fall, Mr. Hopper—and attempted to kill Eleven. Finally, just this year four children were murdered, one critically injured, and said murders successfully reconnected our world’s link to Dimension X. Now, all that considered: why do you think I’m here, instead of some new run-of-the-mill Doctor?”

No answer.

“Escalation,” says Jackson, tapping her fingers on the tabletop. “Centered on the two of you. Wherever you appear, so too do the entities of Dimension X. I am here to figure out why.”

“They want to kill me,” says Eleven. “Like you said.”

“Do they? You brought them here,” Jackson says.

“That’s bullshit,” exclaims Hop. “And if you’re as high up as you claim you are, you know it. She saved Will Byers. She closed the gate—in your lab, by the way. She held off the monster at Starcourt. And she fought off the guy who did this. She’s as far from culpable as you can get.”

“And yet,” says Jackson.

“And yet?” presses Hop.

“She opened the gate.”

El looks down at her feet. She’s wearing an old pair of shoes that once belonged to Nancy, and she wishes she could see the other girl now. Know what’s happening outside this door. Be there herself.

“Yes,” says El. Hop grimaces in her direction in what seems to be an attempt at comfort.

Sullivan clears his throat.

Jackson doesn’t respond. “That’s the issue. You brought them here, whatever they are. And I’ve heard, from both of these fine gentlemen behind me, a number of different stories about who might be to blame for the subsequent tragedies. I brought you here, Eleven, because I want to hear yours.”

“And what if she gives an answer you don’t like?”

Jackson tilts her head. “That entirely depends, Mr. Hopper, on what that answer might be.”

“I thought you wanted to shoot straight and avoid threats.”

“I do. And I am. But if Eleven opened the gate intentionally and is working against us, that’s a problem. There would need to be a response, and you both deserve to know that.” Jackson tilts her head at Eleven, and nods gently. “Still, I want you to understand that I value your side of the story. Friends don’t lie—isn’t that right? The truths I have told you lesser men would and have died to learn. In return, I would appreciate hearing what you know. Prove to me you didn’t reopen these gates.”

El hesitates. There’s an easy answer, but one she isn’t sure Jackson will believe. Plus, if their safety potentially depends on her answer… She looks towards Hop, who simply grasps her shoulder reassuringly. He doesn’t look happy. She looks towards Owens, who doesn’t move, and his eyes say I’m sorry in a language all their own.

“Promise me you won’t hurt my friends,” El says slowly. “If I do not give the right answer. They are heroes. Better than me.”

“Done,” says Jackson. “You help us, we help you—it’s only fair.”

El nods and takes a deep breath. That’s the best she’s probably going to get.

Here goes nothing.

“It wasn’t me,” El says slowly. “Everyone always thinks it is me. But it was Papa who made me open the first gate. I could not fight back then, but once I could, I closed it. Hopper and—” she trails off. “Hopper closed the second gate. I wasn’t involved.”

Jackson doesn’t blink. “Jim Hopper and Joyce Byers, yes. Continue.”

El flinches.

“I’m a Field Commander for the Philadelphia Commission. I work under the CIA. I know everyone you know,” Jackson says pointedly. “I know you moved to California with Joyce Byers and her sons. I know you have been dating Michael Wheeler on and off for about a year. I know you are friends with Maxine Mayfield, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, and Steve Harrington. I know you sought shelter with the Wheelers after you returned to Hawkins. And, as I promised, they will face no charges for their involvement. Like I said, Eleven. Trust.”

Eleven thinks, with a tinge of fear, that so much knowledge coming from someone she doesn’t even know doesn’t really inspire trust. She fidgets in her chair.

“Yes. We moved to California,” says El. “The Mind Flayer took my powers. I could not have done anything at all when those people were killed. Papa and Dr. Owens helped me get my powers back, and I came back to Hawkins to protect my friends. That’s it.”

Sullivan snorts.

“Do you have something to say, Lt. Colonel?” Jackson says mildly.

“The victims were killed remotely, ma’am,” he responds. The resentment he feels towards his position is obvious. “Everyone in this room is aware of the scope and intent of Brenner’s experiments. The girl even admits that the doctor helped her reestablish her abilities. I saw that place, Colonel. It was built for this. Built to make her stronger.”

“With all due respect,” Jackson says, “the girl says she didn’t have those abilities during the time of the murders.”

“And you believe her?”

El takes a deep breath. “Even when I had my powers, I did not kill anyone who did not deserve it.”

Sullivan gestures pointedly.

“The only ones who deserved it were your bad men,” says El.

“And what am I supposed to think? That those high schoolers weren’t bad men, too?”

“I did not even know them. Why would I hurt them?”

“That’s what we’re here to figure out,” says Sullivan. “The vague excuses aren’t helping your position, Subject Eleven.”

Jackson shoots him a look. Above her head, the clock ticks on, and each beat seems as loud as a gunshot. Time to take the plunge, thinks El. I have to.

It either works or it doesn’t.

“It wasn’t me,” insists El. “Friends don’t lie. It was One who killed them. It was Henry Creel.”

The room goes silent once again.

Owens smiles, a tight, bitter grin.

Sullivan rolls his eyes and rubs his forehead.

Hop looks at El, eyes suddenly wide, expression bewildered.

And Jackson’s face lights up with a vicious glow of satisfaction.

“Henry Creel,” she says, letting each syllable fall off her tongue one by one, like rain off a leaf. “Fascinating. And who, my dear, is Henry Creel?”

The look on her face, El feels, does not fit the reaction. It’s unsettling.

“He was my brother,” she continues, hesitantly. “My first brother. Papa made him and tried to control him. He wanted me to help him destroy Papa, so I fought him. And now he is back and wants to kill me and everyone else and destroy the world, too.”

“And what did this Henry Creel do to those poor Hawkins teenagers?”

“He killed them.”

“Do you know how?”

The words hang in the air.

El is confused. “He… broke them? I saw what happened to Max. Kind of.”

“Colonel,” says Sullivan. “You expect us to believe that another subject survived, and is somehow perfectly in position to do the things this girl is blamed for? Not to mention wanting to destroy the world.” Disbelief drips from every word.

“Oh, yes,” says Jackson. “I do.” Everyone looks at her, startled. “Furthermore, I’m not surprised to hear it. I am, however, surprised that you are surprised, Jack, after what you unearthed at the NINA compound.”

Sullivan’s face shifts into an expression of utter bewilderment.

“Typical Army man,” mutters Jackson. “Clears a place out without taking a peek. No internal sense of curiosity at all.” She turns back to El. “So it was Henry,” she says, almost to herself. “I thought you killed him.”

El’s lip shakes. “I, I should have, but—how? I thought—”

“Those tapes…” Jackson clucks thoughtfully, ignoring the question. “You sent him to Dimension X, didn’t you? The first time you met.”

Quiet. Then El nods.

“On purpose?”

El shakes her head. “I didn’t even know what I was doing. Just that I wanted him gone. He tried to kill me first.”

“He did a lot more than try. He killed nearly everyone else in that facility, and you were top of the list. Again: do you remember how?”

El’s head pulses. She tries not to, but—

Blood.

So much blood.

On the walls.

On the floor.

In the Rainbow Room.

Eyes leaking blood.

Faces contorted in silent, shattered screams.

Bodies, collapsed in corners, folded in on themselves like the toys Papa used to have them play with. Jacob’s Ladders.

But these human ladders were too broken to fix.

Just like Max.

Just like—

“Like Max,” says El. “He… popped them. Their eyes. Their… faces. He broke their legs. And their arms. And—”

“That’s enough,” says Hop, surging forward. “She doesn’t need to remember this.”

Jackson nods. “Yes, she does. I was curious how many details she knew. Some, apparently, but not enough to replicate them. Plus, her fear speaks volumes. Mr. Hopper, gentlemen, this style of execution is typical for Henry. It’s how he killed those teens, the doctors and subjects in HNL, and his own family. Popped their eyes out so they could not see, shattered their jaws so they could not scream, broke their limbs so they could not flee, and stole their minds so they could not think. It’s something a of a pattern for him. He might be powerful, bless his heart, but I would never call Henry Creel a creative.”

“I’ve never even heard of this Creel fellow,” says Sullivan. “And I was briefed for this mission.”

“Who do you think briefed the one who briefed you?” Jackson says coolly. “Henry Creel, otherwise known as Subject One, is the most classified human being in the country, and quite possibly on this planet. He was the first person to enter Dimension X and return unharmed, and one of the most powerful telekinetics the world has ever seen. Officially, he died in 1959. So, yes. You weren’t briefed about him. You didn’t need to be.”

Sullivan bristles. “Of course you knew.”

“Of course,” echoes Jackson. “You know, I met the boy once. Creepy kid. Eyes too big for his head.”

“Not anymore,” El says reflexively.

“Hmm,” says Jackson. “Dimension X change him, did it?”

El shudders.

“I believe the description was, ‘big, white, and corpselike,’” says Hop, unhelpfully. “But why the hell would you bury the lede, here, if you knew it might be him?”

“Because, like I said, those at my clearance level believed Eleven had killed him in 1979. Still, after the second so-called copycat murder, I began to wonder about his involvement. Now that his name has been mentioned without any prompting, there’s no reason to hold anything back.”

“It was One,” says El. “It was always One. I came here to kill him, because I did not do it the first time. And I failed again. He hurt my friends. He won.”

“Always?”

“He took Will. He sent the other monsters. It was always him.”

“Interesting. And what does him winning mean to you?”

“When he k—hurt Max and the others, he opened the gates. So he could come back.”

“I see,” says Jackson. “And you’re sure it was him? I know, I know, but I have to ask.”

“I saw their bodies,” El says, lips trembling. “In his mind, when we were fighting. They were tied to the rocks. He was using them somehow.”

“Can you fix it?”

“What?”

“Can you fix what he did? Can you close the gates?”

El takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I think so. I did it before.”

Jackson nods. “I see. And where, exactly, is Henry Creel now?”

“I don’t know. In the Upside Down, I think, but he won’t let me find him.”

There’s a pause, before Jackson stands and claps her hands together. “Excellent. There you have it, gentlemen. In front of us lies the solution to one of our problems—Eleven will close the gates. The second problem is, of course, that the now-officially most powerful telekinetic on the planet is MIA in an alternate hell dimension that is inconveniently connected to Hawkins.”

“You just wanted confirmation?” says Owens. “This could have been a phone call, you know.”

“Yes, though I doubt you could have called from a jail cell in a Black Site,” Jackson says drily. “Sam, you’re here at my discretion. You worked with a known persona non-grata behind my back on an unethical and highly risky mission that could have risked further breaches of Dimension X. You’re lucky to be alive, and you know it.”

Owens mutters something under his breath.

“Exactly,” says Jackson.

“Wait,” Hop says. He looks at El and reads the question on her face like a book. “Wait, just—” He runs a hand through his hair. “If you knew this—if you suspected this, this, One, was behind the murders—why try to track my daughter down at all?”

El follows his lead. “Yes. Why did you send the bad men to attack my family if you knew what was happening?”

Hopper’s eyes widen slightly. Ah. Guess they didn’t have time to explain that yet.

“Because I didn’t know,” says Jackson, drawing her attention back across the table. There’s a sudden edge to her voice, slight and cold like the edge of a knife, and a chill runs down El’s spine. Jackson has tried to be nice to her so far, but there’s a hint of cruelty in the implication that makes her deeply uncomfortable.

“For all I knew,” Jackson said, “you were Henry Creel’s protégé. I was aware you had a connection. I was aware he’d been something of a mentor to you. And I was aware your friends had been bullied in the past by characters similar to the victims. Eleven, you could have been lying about losing your powers, about your moral compass, or about any number of things. Plus, Mr. Hopper, the one who raised her—who gave her these powers again—was, as I’m sure you know, a raving sociopath.” Jackson’s smile turns bitter. “Brenner could do terrible things to anyone without a care, because it was for their own good. Anyone under his supervision wasn’t exactly set up to become a, ah, superhero.” Her eyes flick over onto El. “The more likely option was an angry, dangerous weapon. I had no way to know for sure which one you were without checking myself.”

“Oh,” El says softly.

“Unfortunately,” Jackson says, “I had to cover all my bases first. And because I wasn’t sure, Jack here had the advantage, and he thought the Byers' were a danger. Like I’ve told you: a tree of bad men.”

Sullivan grimaces.

“Plus, your Papa hid Henry Creel’s survival from everyone, even dear Sam over there, until they started up their little project. Since you were on the record as his murderer, why should I genuinely suspect him over you?”

“Hmm,” says Hop. “Because she’s a child?”

“So was Henry,” says Jackson gravely. “My point, Mr. Hopper, is that there are a multitude of reasons why I suspected Eleven might be a danger to us. But her explanations make sense, and because I know about Henry Creel, and because we have very few options right now to restore Hawkins to its former self… I’m willing to risk her involvement.”

“So what now?” Hop says darkly. “You got the information you wanted, El closes the gates, and we walk away without an issue? Yeah, right. What’s the catch?”

“If you don’t mind,” says Jackson, unfazed, “where have you been this past year, Mr. Hopper?”

Her tone is suspiciously light.

“None of your business.”           

“We both know the Russians were behind Starcourt, Mr. Hopper. If you weren’t vaporized by their machine or weren’t hiding here in town—and you weren’t—there’s only one place you could have been.”

She smiles. It’s not friendly. “So yes. I think it is exactly my business.”

“I didn’t sell out my country, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Hop says, a little indignantly. “Not that they didn’t try to make me. But they failed. They sent me to the gulag, in Kamchatka. Joyce broke me out. End of story.”

“Hmm,” says Jackson.

“’Hmm,’ what.”

Jackson cracks her neck slightly, subtly enough that for a moment it seems like nothing. And then Sullivan is across the room, gun barrel to Hop’s head, arm around his neck. Immediately Owens is shouting something and El is on her feet, hands out, brain buzzing, and Sullivan is embedded an inch into the drywall. Sullivan pulls himself out, aims his gun, and Jackson steps casually in front of El to prevent further violence.

“Hmm, this,” she says, completely unfazed. “Everyone take a deep breath and listen to me. There are two ways this can go. What just happened is Option 1. I don’t think anybody wants Option 1.”

“No,” says El. “You do not want Option 1.”

Jackson grins at her conspiratorially. “No, Eleven, you don’t want Option 1.” And in one swift motion she pulls a pistol out of the holster at her side and shoots the wall directly behind Hop’s head. The bullet passes so close it could have parted a hair, if he had any, and Hop swears, loudly. Jackson waits for everyone’s ears to stop ringing before she continues. “If you couldn’t stop Henry, Eleven, you are absolutely not stopping an action from us that you don’t expect. Like that. You are just not strong enough—yet.”

The words land in the exact right place, and El suspects in the darkest part of her mind that Jackson knows it.

“Once again: cards on the table, options laid out. Trust.” The Colonel walks back behind the table. “Ultimately, I shouldn’t trust either of you, but I am inclined to trust Eleven as her story is verifiable. However, Mr. Hopper… I have no way of verifying your story. Joyce Byers will say anything to save the people she loves. Murray Bauman—oh yes, I know he was there—is a noted conspiracy theorist. You have been compromised by the KGB. By all means, you could be the strongest man alive; maybe they didn’t break you. But I have no way of knowing that. So we arrive at Option 2.”

“Doesn’t matter if they broke me or not,” Hop grunts, pulling himself to his feet. His eyes blaze. “They’re all dead. Fuckin’ idiots had the brilliant idea to keep a Demogorgon sitting around. Let’s just say they weren’t exactly experts at killing those things when it became necessary.”

“He means Specimen X-001,” Owens clarifies.

“This is exactly the problem,” says Jackson. “Does it follow that the Soviets managed to wrangle an X-001 instance and drag it back to the Russia? Perhaps. Does it follow that you, Mr. Hopper, a man also known for wrangling X-001, might be able to use your wits and said creature to your advantage? Also, perhaps. But if the KGB brought you to a prison of their own, alongside a monster you have previously dealt with, could you not have been the one to help them do it? It would take raising international tensions to a level I personally don’t care to risk to even begin to verify your presence and activities there.”

“He’s not lying,” El insists.

Jackson rubs her forehead in response. “Unfortunately, Eleven, I don’t have the luxury of believing that. I wish I could, but my priority is saving the world, and for that I need you. With you comes the compromised Mr. Hopper. I could try and confirm his story, but that would involve torture and would no doubt lose me your cooperation. Though it won’t be fun, we’re going to have to make a few adjustments to make sure we can all get along. Got it?”

She meets El’s eyes, and the steel from earlier glimmers again in their depths. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You, Eleven, are going to help us close the gates. You are going to help us find Henry Creel. And you are going to help us kill him. Mr. Hopper will, at the same time, lay out in detail every piece of information he received while in Soviet hands. If he does so to my liking, he will be reintegrated into civilian life, alibi and all. He may even continue his career in law enforcement, if he so chooses. And you will both be allowed free reign of Hawkins.”

“Sure, fine,” says Hop. “I’m no traitor. Let me ask you again: what’s the catch?”

Jackson lets out a large sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “The catch is what happens if you don’t. Let me be clear: I don’t want this to happen. But Henry Creel needs to die, and I can’t let more Russians interfere on US soil. So if you do anything, Mr. Hopper, that might prove suspicious; if, Eleven, you fail to close the gates and remove the threat presented by Dimension X—or even worse, if either of you refuse to comply...”

“Then what,” Hop says evenly.

“Well, I’m not telekinetic,” says Jackson. “And the government can hardly make more Elevens in time. So, if things go wrong, then we will have to resort to a more extreme Option 1 to solve the problem of an invasion from another world.”

Owens shuts his eyes tightly, as if in pain.

“Then. What.” Hop's voice is distinctly less even than it had been the first time.

“Eleven,” Jackson says pleasantly, as if she were simply talking about the weather. “Do you know what nuclear weapons are?”

Every hackle in Hop’s body rises at once.

“No,” he growls. “No, no, absolutely not. Are you shitting me?”

“What is nuclear?” El says, confused.

“It’s a bomb,” says Jackson, continuing to ignore Hop. “An explosive. The monsters of Dimension X don’t like heat, as I recall. Imagine a nuclear weapon like a miniature sun: it destroys and burns things down to their core, in a way that nothing else can. Henry might be powerful, but that should hurt him and his constructions in a way even he can’t recover from.”

“One can stop a bomb.”

“Not this one, kid,” Hop says grimly. “You don’t understand.” He looks ready to strangle Jackson with his bare hands.

“If he sees a bomb, he will stop it before it lands. Even I could do that.”

“We have ways to make sure he won’t see it,” says Jackson. “The inevitable problem is, of course, that no one else can know about it, because Henry can read minds. Since you would know, Eleven, you would be evacuated to the nearest Commission Lab beforehand. Any attempt to stop us on your behalf would by necessity lead to a permanent residency there. But that’s just you. Hawkins is a big place, and we couldn’t possibly evacuate everyone without Henry noticing.”

Hop, if possible, goes even paler than before. “You’re joking.”

“I am not,” says Jackson. She turns back to El. “Eleven. The truth is this. If you fail, or betray us... I will be forced to erase Hawkins. All of it. That includes your guardian here, your sweetheart Michael Wheeler, your friends, your family, everyone. Maybe we could save a person or two, but each mind that knows risks Henry figuring out the plan. And, well… like you said. If he knows, he can stop a bomb.”

“No. No. You wouldn’t.” El’s jaw tightens, and she feels herself begin to shake. “You promised.”

Jackson closes her eyes. She looks exhausted. “I promised that if you held up your end of the deal, I would hold up mine. That’s all, and I intend to keep my promise. If you keep yours, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Eleven is still vibrating with rage, and Jackson sighs.

“I meant what I said. I don't want this. But my responsibilities extend to more than just the population of Hawkins, Indiana. This is bigger than you. This is bigger than me. I would prefer a happy ending for you, your friends, and Mr. Hopper here; of course I would. But you know Henry Creel. You know what he’s capable of. So yes, if I need to obliterate Hawkins to save the world, I am going to do it. Do you understand?”

“No, I do not understand. I would stop you.”

“You could try.”

El feels a surge of hatred rise up inside her like a fountain.

“You are a monster.”

“Yes, Eleven. But I don’t have to be. If you keep your promises, then everyone wins.”

Dark brown eyes meet ice blue. El is furious to find her hands shaking in her lap, this time with fear—because those eyes aren't lying.

“You really would do it,” she whispers in disbelieving terror. “You really would. How could you?”

Jackson smiles sadly. “I wouldn't have a choice.”  

“And you called Brenner a sociopath,” growls Hop.

“Brenner was a madman,” says Jackson. “I am, unfortunately, deeply sane. If you can’t understand my motivations, Mr. Hopper, than you should never have joined law enforcement in the first place.”

El and Hop stare at her, shocked silent. She stares back, impassive. “Are you going to cooperate willingly, or do you want to provoke Option 1 and the big red button?”

No response.

“That’s what I thought.” Jackson spins her chair around to face the two men behind her. “Option 2 it is,” she says, like she hasn’t just threatened the murder of thousands of civilians. Then: “Sit down, please, Mr. Hopper. You’ll get plenty of exercise hunting monsters. For now, I’ve got some papers for the both of you to sign.”

APRIL 1, 1986

Officer Cray is, of course, the one who supervises Steve as he receives his car from the impound lot. Lady Luck might’ve gotten Steve out of jail, but she’s not going to be that nice.

“We’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Cray growls, tossing Steve his keys. An obvious aura of reluctance radiates from him in waves.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Cray snorts.

They don’t seem to have done anything egregious to the Beemer, Steve notes with some happiness as he approaches his car. The boot was cruel—she hadn’t done anything to deserve that sort of treatment—and the dent in the front bumper from Vecna’s mailbox remains. But she’s still his.

This car: the one thing in Steve’s life that remains somewhat whole and normal.

His gaze drifts back to the dent.

Ugh. He really has to figure out what’s happened since he’d been locked up. El, Robin… how are they holding up? Why hasn’t anyone come to visit? They can’t have really forgotten about him.

Steve shivers, because for some reason it’s fucking cold. He stares at his mess of a reflection in the driver’s side window, and it’s speckled with white. He shudders—are those zits? He rejects the idea immediately as ridiculous, and when he looks closer, Steve realizes the white isn’t just in his reflection.

“Wait,” says Steve. “Is it snowing?”

He looks up to see more little white flakes falling from the sky. He reaches out—they burn like ice, but the feeling’s weird. And they don’t look quite right for snowflakes.

Not to mention, it’s April. I mean, an April snow shower’s not out of the realm of possibility; this is Indiana. But…

“Yeah,” grumbles Cray. “It’s been doing that. Smoke’s pretty bad too. Might want to buy a scarf or something.”

“Smoke?”

“From the fires.”

“Ah. Yes. The fires.” Steve thinks he might actually be going insane. “I might have a scarf back home... Can I visit my trailer, pick up some of my stuff? Or did you impound that too?”

“Yes, you can,” says Cray. “Supervised. Next week.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Gee, thanks, officer.” Steve unlocks the driver-side door and collapses inside. “Any other happy advice besides ‘good luck being homeless?’”

“Yeah,” says Cray. “Keep that pretty face outta trouble.”

“Aww, officer,” says Steve. “You really care.”

“Fuck off, kid. Before the I change my mind and cite you with insubordination.”

Steve doesn’t figure that’s something he can do, but also figures it’s not worth the risk and shuts both the door and his mouth.

The moment the car door closes, Steve takes a deep and involuntary breath. For some reason, the air inside the car feels cleaner than the air outside—guess it’s that smoke, sure—and he almost lets himself relax. The wall between him and the cop is thin, but it’s there. As he goes to pull out of the impound lot (Cray watches him go, arms crossed), a little tension leaves his shoulders. He’s in control here. He’s okay. He’ll get out of this; he’s out of there, at least. He’s free, for now.

King Steve, back in action.

It’s ridiculous, but I know it meant something to you.

Well, shit, the lump in his throat is back.

Steve had cried for five minutes straight after reading Max’s letter. That was as long as he’d allowed himself to be weak, and it still feels like too much. I mean, god, he’s not a kid anymore. But even so…

Max.

She’d thought enough of him to write him a letter on her deathbed. Sinclair and the other kids, they make sense. They’ve got their little Party thing. But him? Sure, Steve thinks, he’s been an unfortunate constant in her life, but he was never important enough to warrant this.

He’s not important enough to warrant this.  

Steve grits his teeth. He needs to stop thinking. He also needs a shower, stat, and then he needs to call somebody and figure shit out. He’s all out of sorts and his mind is wandering in directions he does not enjoy, so distraction is warranted. And he doesn’t have his fascinating cell to ogle anymore.

With a burst of emotion that really should elicit an apology towards the car, Steve twists on the radio. Some shit by Wham! streams out, loud and energetic, and despite Steve’s general disinterest it’s better than nothing. He forces his attention outwards, onto the roads he knows well enough to zone out on. He likes driving. He’s in his car. He’s in control. That usually helps.

Except, all of a sudden, he’s crashing back to reality because now he sees Hawkins, and Hawkins is…

Hawkins is…

What the hell.

Steve had seen some of the destruction the night he’d brought Max to the hospital. Some fires, gates, stuff like that. But that’s nothing compared to what he sees as he leaves the police station.

Downtown is nearly leveled. Driving past the square, the Beemer passes building after building missing its walls, or roof, or, well. Missing entirely. The gates still spew black fumes—ah, thinks Steve, smoke—and glow like fire. The library looks like it’s on the verge of falling down, gates and reaching vines spiraling directly out of its eastern flank, and Steve finds himself less concerned about the loss of the business than he is about the loss of the smoke spot on the roof. That was a classic. Goddammit, Vecna.  

He bites his lip.

Further on, soldiers wave him this way and that, past others setting up tents and barricades and pouring what looks like cement into the Upside Down. More smoke, more destruction, more gates. Then he’s out of downtown and into the neighborhoods, passing more burned houses, more downed power lines, more crashed cars, and houses and fences and backyards eaten by another world. Above it all, the trees, grey and leafless, stretch out towards the darkening sky.

The sights jar a memory up out of the recesses of his brain, the memory of a lazy fall day at Family Video. Robin had insisted their afternoon movie be something called The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari; Steve remembers the name because it sounded weird as hell. It turned out to be some silent European drama from like seventy years ago, which as far as Steve could figure was the wrong way to bring in modern customers, but whatever. He hadn’t tried to fight her on it, largely because he was bored out of his skull and thought maybe he could sneak a nap.

He’d been wrong.

Steve doesn’t remember the story very well. It was something about, like. A zombie? Or a sleepwalker? Some guy, anyway, manipulated into committing a series of murders. Appropriate, honestly, given the situation, but the vaguely hokey plot wasn’t what drew the memory back. It was the visual design of the thing.

Because Steve hated the goddamn aesthetic of Caligari, whatever it was. For days, he couldn’t get the strange angles and haunting faces out of his mind. Characters snuck and prowled through claustrophobic scenes, leaning around corners that shouldn’t exist in stark makeup and bleak clothes that blended in with the shadows. Lights hung at odd angles, their beams painted onto the walls, and even from the distance of the checkout desk the silence of the film was stark. Everything about that movie felt wrong to him, and Steve had been decidedly unable to nap with that shit playing in the background.

Because, after all, some fragment of it, of its wrongness, felt like the tunnels of the Upside Down.

“It’s a classic, Steve,” Robin had said. “You’ve gotta learn to appreciate real cinema.”

“Who would appreciate this?” Steve had replied. “It’s freaky.”

Except these days it’s freakier, because after sneaking through the shadows of Vecna’s world with Nancy, it turned out his comparison had been right. And now that sense of twisted inaccuracy is here, too, in the corners of the real Hawkins, and it’s horrible because it makes no sense. The perfect front lawns and manicured bushes, the looming trees and suburban gardens, are all grey and sagging. Lampposts lie fallen across the street. Smoke drifts aimlessly through the sky, and the shadows of burned houses and the heavy clouds shift in strange and uncanny ways. People move about below, trying their best to fix the wreckage of their lives as if this was still the Hawkins they knew, and Steve wants to scream that everything is wrong, why can’t you see?!

Instead, he keeps driving.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know where he should go, in all honesty. Steve is paralyzed by the sights in front of him, and by the knowledge that, in some weird way, he’s responsible for them.

It’s so dumb. It’s so horrifically, stupidly, insanely dumb. Why the hell hadn’t anybody government been doing anything to stop Vecna? Why was it always up to him and a bunch of kids to stop the world from turning into an arthouse film? Of course he was going to fuck up eventually and let something slip through, and now he has, and the kids and the town are paying for it.

Paying extra, if they’re anything like him. Paying through nightmares of writhing tentacles, of battles gone wrong, of Max broken on the ground, of Vecna screaming and on fire and so, so, furious. And of course, paying through the losses of a shattered town they have no way of fixing.

Or maybe it’s just him, and he’s finally lost it.

The radio switches to Hall and Oates. You’re out of touch, I’m out of time.

Shut the fuck up, thinks Steve, and he turns it off.

House after house. Dead lawn after dead lawn. Silence after silence.

Smoke, smoke, smoke, and snow.

No, Steve realizes. It has taken him an amount of time that even he thinks is embarrassing, but he’s figured it out. It’s not snow. Not ashes.

Spores.  

He cruises to a stop on a side street, behind a car lying underneath a fallen tree. That’s why this looks familiar. That’s why it’s so haunting.

It’s not just memories from a creepy film. It really is the fucking Upside Down.

I mean, it can’t be. This isn’t the Upside Down, it’s Hawkins, normal Hawkins; there’s a kid yelling at a neighbor from the sidewalk, right there.

There are no monsters. No vines. (Except by the gates, of course.) Something’s just leaked through, that’s all. He got out.

He got out.

He got out.

Steve tries to calm down his pounding heart and takes a closer look at the leafless tree lying across the car in front of him. Oh, wait. Shit. It’s not just leafless.

It’s dead. Dead long before it fell.

He remembers Hop complaining about something, way back when the tunnels had opened. Rotting pumpkin patches. Decaying forest. Something like this.

The tree’s bark isn’t dry, as it would be in the dead of winter. It isn’t even stained wet, like after a rainstorm. Instead, it’s dark and oozing—Steve can almost see the maggots from here. The trunk bends at a 45 degree angle, somehow still barely attached to the stump, and practically melts into the car it landed on. The grass that coils in and amongst the roots is equally grey, and the blades look unsettlingly sharp.

Steve shudders, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel in a monotonous, anxious rhythm. A thought has occurred to him.

Sure, Nance said the Upside Down was stuck in 1983, so that’s probably when it was created. But… what if she was wrong? What if, instead, another Vecna invaded that reality in the exact same way as this one tried to do theirs? What if this is what happened to whatever world it used to be, all life slowly eaten alive from the inside out and turned into crooked black decay?

What if, in a few months, it and Hawkins would really be the same?

Steve stops tapping on the wheel.

No, he thinks stubbornly. That’s stupid. That’s a moronic idea. It is.

Except his brain still whispers that his town is dying.

Steve lets himself collapse into the steering wheel in complete and total exhaustion. Carefully, of course, so he doesn’t set off the horn.

Where do I go? he thinks morosely. Where do you go when the world is ending?

He can’t go back to his trailer.

He’s not going to his parents.

Reefer Rick’s holds too many bad memories.

Hop’s cabin could be an option again, but it’s derelict and abandoned. Not exactly worth it now he’s been caught. Where else?

Dustin’s house is out; his mom would probably kill Steve if he showed up unannounced and dangerous. I mean, he’s not, not dangerous at least. But she’s so anxious about Dustin at the best of times…

Robin's place is also a bad plan. Trying to explain their relationship to her parents was confusing before, so imagine it now. Yeah, no.

Going to Max’s trailer is, if anything, a worse idea. Ms. Hargrove’s face swims in front of his eyes, and Steve’s pretty sure she actually would kill him. He probably can’t go to the hospital either, even though he desperately wants to know how Max is. After last time he’d likely be chased off on the wrong end of a syringe.

So… where, then?

Wait—Nance. He could go to her. Sure, he’d kind of been an embarrassing wreck last time he saw her, and sure, she hasn’t come to see him, but it’s Nance.

She never really abandoned him, even when she broke up with him.

Would she be home? Is she mad at him? Would Mrs. Wheeler throw him out on sight?

Steve runs through the options again—ah, right.

He doesn’t have any.

I hope she doesn’t think I abandoned her, Steve thinks. I hope Jonathan told her what happened. I hope Jonathan doesn’t hate me.

It’s a new thought—that he doesn’t want Byers to hate him. But the desperation in the other boy’s face as Steve was taken away haunts him. And he is possessed by a sudden bout of cowardice.

What if I just don’t go back? he thinks. I could just ignore the Chief. Peace out. They’d never catch me. What if I leave this shitty, cursed town behind, and drive, drive until I hit an ocean?

Sometimes you just have to run, a broken, dead Max whispers in his ears; a contradiction, a temptation.

Steve hates the thought the moment he has it. Shit, Harrington, this situation is your responsibility, he thinks dully. Max said she’d fight; so I have to fight, too. I’m her babysitter, dammit. I gotta set an example.

Max—the kids…

I was their babysitter.

I was their friend.

The thought echoes.

I can’t run, Steve thinks. I just can’t. Not until I know they’re still alive.

Not until Vecna is dead.

A long, heavy wave of fatigue sweeps over him. Feels like the weighted blanket his uncle had in his house in the Poconos.

Sometimes you just have to run.

I’m never gonna get that out of my head, am I, Steve thinks. Not any more than I’m getting out of Hawkins. Thanks, Max.

With some effort, he pushes his thoughts back, restarts the engine, and slowly pulls out towards Maple Street. He’s not thinking, so he doesn’t let himself process that the thanks he feels is real. He does, however, have to work twice as hard to keep himself composed, because a spore must’ve got into his eye and shit it’s wet.

Sometimes you just have to run.

Chapter Text

APRIL 1, 1986

Nancy is getting tired of having an entire second family living in her house.

It’s an uncharitable thing to think, and she knows it. It’s her boyfriend’s family. She likes Will. She loves Jonathan. And Joyce, her actual icon, is here now too, flitting between the Wheeler’s and the cabin to take care of El (and secretly, Hop’s trailer to check in with Hop.)

Because yeah, Hop’s alive. How, exactly, has not been explained.

It’s weird, that’s all. It’s truly, absurdly, bizarrely weird, and Nancy is happy that everyone is together again, but maybe her mom’s anxiety about the full house is rubbing off because all Nancy wants these days is just to be left the hell alone for half a second.

The past week has been filled with work. Nancy’s hours have been torn between volunteering at the shelters, trying to make Hop’s cabin livable, and sneaking out at night to snoop around and see if there’s any sign of Vecna. It’s all work she wants to do, and being busy makes her feel useful—and Nancy needs to feel useful, because she’s pretty sure if she doesn’t she’s going to have some kind of episode and that would be a problem—so no, it’s not been a bad week, in all.

It’s just that she’s never alone for any of it.  

Take right now, for instance. Her mom is at some meeting with a couple of ladies from her book club, talking about cooking for families in need or something. Her dad is… at work, probably; who knows, and Nancy doesn’t have the energy to care. Mike and Will are at the shelter with the others, volunteering and plotting. And Jonathan and Joyce are visiting every realty company in town to see if they can find a new house.

Miraculously, though, none of that requires Nancy. So, right now she should be able to finally take a break—except instead, of course, she’s babysitting her little sister.

They’re lying on the carpet in the den. Holly’s legs kick in the air as she arranges her toy tea set just so on a TV tray. Alongside the tea set are a few scattered crackers and a veritable crowd of stuffed animals. To Nancy’s relief, playing tea party with Holly requires relatively little energy. Still—

“Some tea for you, Mr. Rabbit. And for you, Hatter! The Queen insists that if you’re loyal, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

—Holly’s a bit of a character.

Her sister is nominally too old for tea parties and imaginary friends, but Nancy can’t bring herself to say anything about it. Holly has been left behind a lot, given she’s seven, so taking solace in make believe isn’t surprising. Sometimes it feels to Nancy as if half of her reality is imaginary too, so if Holly’s recently discovered Alice in Wonderland obsession makes her happy, Nancy can hardly judge.

Plus, she gets to watch her sister play mock-politics. It could be worse.

“Do I get any tea, Holly?” asks Nancy dutifully.

“Not yet,” Holly says. “Mr. Rabbit and the Hatter have to make sure it’s not poisoned, first. After all, someone did try to kill the King of Hearts.”

“Oh, of course. Silly me. Is the tea actually poisoned?”

Holly looks side to side surreptitiously. Whispers into thin air. Waits. Looks back at Nancy.

“The Hatter says it isn’t. But Mr. Rabbit drank first, and…”

Holly grabs her stuffed rabbit and makes a series of dramatic groaning noises, before tossing him across the room. “Turns out he was wrong.”

Nancy has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “The Queen’s not going to like that, is she?”

“No,” Holly says gravely. “She’s issued a new royal decree, saying anyone who grows the poison will be executed.”

“Oh my. What kind of poison was it?”

Holly grimaces. “Spinach.”

Nancy’s trying to think of an adequate response when the doorbell rings. For a moment everything freezes.

I mean, Nancy thinks, it’s probably nothing…

Except that no one’s supposed to be going anywhere.

And her parents and Mike have keys.

Holly perks up, of course. All she knows is that the earthquake made things scary. And she’s Holly. Brave as hell, not a concern in the world.

Nancy, though…

“Hey, Hol. Stay here, okay? If I say so, go call Mike on that radio thing of his.”

“Why Mike?”

Nancy has to resist a smirk. Oh, her brother is going to hate being outnumbered as the years go on.

“Because. Got it?”

Holly nods sagely, and Nancy makes her way to the door. If she grabs a kitchen knife surreptitiously on the way, making sure Holly can’t see it… who would blame her?

The doorbell rings again.

Nancy sets her jaw, pulls back the curtains cautiously… and immediately yanks the door open. “Holy shit, Steve?”

She’s not quiet about it. From the living room, Holly squeaks out, “Steve?!” like a little echo. Nancy’s almost impressed that she remembers him, probably from countless awkward meet-the-parents dinners.

“Hey, Nance.” Steve smiles weakly, leaning on the doorframe. “You, uh. Don’t happen to be taking house guests right now, do ya?”

Nancy looks him up and down, then does a double take. Then a triple take. She’s seen Steve in some pretty terrible situations, but this is the worst the guy has ever looked—and that’s saying something. He has giant bags under his eyes, violent bruises cover the left side of his face, and worst of all, his hair…

Well, Steve’s hair is obeying gravity.

“Shit, Steve,” Nancy says again, weaker this time. “What did they do to you in there?”

“Ignored me, mostly. Can I come in, or is your mom hiding in the shadows with the shotgun?”

A pattering of feet echoes through the kitchen, and Holly peeks around the corner.

“Why is Steve here? Didn’t you dump him?” She glowers. “Should I call the police?”

Steve grins. It’s shaky, but it’s so Steve that Nancy feels herself relax slightly. “If Holly is as crazy as the welcoming committee gets, I’ll take it.” He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. “Hi, Holly. Yes, she dumped me. No, don’t call the police. Nance, can I use your shower?”

Nancy rolls her eyes to high heaven. “That’s all you have to say? ‘Hi, I’m alive, can I use your shower, don’t call the cops?’”

“Yup. Can you lend me a can of hairspray, too?”

Holly snickers, the idea of a boy using hairspray still beyond her reach.

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up, kid. Seriously Nance, it’s shitting spores out there, and—”

Nancy has to bite her lip to keep from laughing herself, and drags him inside before he can finish the sentence. She gestures towards Holly pointedly and says, raising her voice, “Everything’s okay, Hol! Let me talk to Steve alone for a minute.”

Holly pouts for approximately half a second before vanishing once again.

The teens watch her go.

“How d’you think you rate as babysitter, Nance? On a scale of 1 to me.”

“Steve Harrington, you idiot. Someone could’ve seen you.”

“Glad to see you, too.”

Nancy sighs. The thought of the boy who was here, vs. the one who wasn’t flashes through her head, and she remembers why she wanted to be alone. “I am glad. Everyone else will be, too. I promise.”

Steve tilts his head. “Well, it’s not the hero’s welcome I expected, but good enough, I guess. Is that a yes about the shower?”

Nancy grimaces. “If you’re quick. I do not want to know what’ll happen if my dad finds you here.”

 The look on Steve’s face flickers, uncertain, before shifting into an easy smile. “Same old, same old, right Nance? I know how to dodge him, if you remember.” His voice softens, teasing. “Looks like everything went to shit without me, huh.”

“And it’s definitely because you weren’t there. For sure.”

“Oh, that goes without saying. I do expect a full update on all that bullshit, just so you know, but—” With some fervor, Steve kicks off his shoes and starts for the stairs. “—just let me burn this crap off my skin first.”

Nancy watches him leave, an uncomfortable swirl of feelings mixing in her chest.

“Does this mean I don’t have to call Mike?” Holly yells from the living room. “Come baaaaack, Nancy! The Hatter is getting impatient!”

The Wheeler’s shower feels like heaven. Sure, Steve had been given some basic replacement clothes in jail, but the water there had been out for days and he can still feel the grime from the Upside Down clinging to him.

Can still feel the imprints of Ms. Hargrove’s knuckles on his cheek.

Can still feel the strange, crumpled remnants of Max’s arms in his.

Steve lets the steaming water boil it all away, though, as best he can. As he scrubs at the invisible stain, Steve watches wisps of humid air weave their way up his arms and into the fan vent with a detached sense of weightlessness.

It’s strange to be back here. He remembers days he and Nancy would wait for her parents to be gone only to sneak into the shower, just the two of them. Water, laughter, happiness, with no jealousy or fear or existential dread. He can almost imagine her with him now; can close his eyes and forget the world that is for the one that was.

He knows it’s a silly dream, especially since he’d told Robin so fervently that he was over it. It had been crazy to believe that just because Jonathan was gone, that just because it was him and Nancy against the whole-freaking-Upside Down, that maybe, maybe, things could go back to the way they were.

That they could be happy again.

Vines creep around the edges of his vision, and an uncomfortable thing flips over in Steve’s stomach. By now he should be clean—but he starts scrubbing his body all over again.

The sheer relief in Nancy’s eyes when he’d shown up at the door… it had given him hope. Something about the living, breathing, brilliant shine of her contrasted so sharply with the fucked-up world outside, and—

And Steve slumps back against the shower tiles.

Jonathan is here now. Steve isn’t necessary, if he ever even was.

Those two will fix things up, if they need to. God knows they’ve done it before. Steve has no chance, and he knows it, and he’s pathetic as anything to be chasing a vision of six little nuggets like some randy freak. He’s better than that, now, and plus, he’s seen crazier shit at this point than Jonathan Byers forgetting how Real Life works and taking the wrong pictures. They’ve fought together, nearly died together, and they came out okay. They came out better people.

Steve has to stay a better person. Not for himself. Not for a town that won’t believe him. But for his friends, for the kids, for Nancy. He can’t act like a twelve-year-old and pine.

He promises himself he won’t.

But for now, for right now, he lets himself be just a little bit pathetic. “A man protects the woman he loves,” his dad whispers in his steam-wreathed ears, and in his shame Steve wants to melt away with it.  

Maybe, if he was feeling more charitable to himself, Steve would remember that he did protect her. That, as equals, they saved each other. But this is the same man who can’t wrap his head around the idea that she could never blame him, either.

So, Steve scrubs the darkness away as best as he can. He dries himself off, carefully sets his coif with some of Nancy’s old Farrah Fawcett spray, and does his best to rebuild the Steve Harrington that can pretend he’ll get a happy ending.

It might have worked, too—except now Nance is saying he can’t stay.

“But your mom likes me. Your dad used to call me an ‘upstanding young man!’”

“Yeah, well, that was… before all of this.”

“Are you kidding? I mean, I figured they’d be suspicious, but not totally against me. I’d expect this shit from, like, Tommy H’s folks. Not yours.”

Nancy wraps a lock of hair around her pointer finger, upset. They’re sitting in the Wheeler basement, Holly temporarily exiled upstairs. The two of them have spent some time here over the years, but there’s still something distantly formal about Nancy’s choice of location.

“Look, Steve. I know this has got to be hard. I… I wish I had a better answer to give you, alright? But we’ve already got the entire Byers family staying over, there’s a curfew, everyone’s on edge… Now’s just not a good time.”

“They really think I did it, then.”

“Mom doesn’t want to believe it. Dad ‘wants to be safe’—Steve, does it really matter? It’s my parents. They’re never going to change. You have the rest of us on your side; we will figure something out.”

Nancy reaches out, covers his hand lightly with her own.

They’re sitting side by side. On the couch. And the friendliness of the touch just makes Steve tired.

“Dammit, Nance.”

“I tried, okay? I couldn’t exactly say, ‘hey, it wasn’t Steve, it was an undead wizard from an alternate dimension.’” Nancy bites her lip. “Plus… we’re all kind of… in a bad place.”

Steve looks away. “You think? I was in jail, Nance. And then I got out and all this Upside Down crap has been giving me flashbacks to one of Robin’s stupid art films and…”

He trails off. One pair of dark eyes meets another. “Do you… wonder, sometimes,” he says dully, almost thinking out loud. “Like, if maybe Vecna did kill us? If we’re hallucinating our last moments, seeing what he wants us to see?”

For a minute Nancy stares at him. Then she laughs.

“Of course I’ve thought that; he got me once, remember? Do you-do you know how many times I’ve asked El to make sure? Do you know how many times we’ve all asked? No one believes any of this is real, not deep down. I keep… I keep seeing her, seeing Max; I keep waking up in the middle of the night with the blankets wrapped around my throat, completely sure they’re vines. God, yes, Steve. I do fucking wonder.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. It’s back to normal. It’s an anchor. “Yeah. No, yeah. That was a stupid question.”

“It wasn’t.”

A beat.

“Steve… I’m sorry we couldn’t get you out sooner.”

“Y’know, I was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten me.”

“Asshole, I’m trying to be nice! I promise, we were looking for options. Robin and I even showed up at the station once, but they basically strongarmed us out of there. ‘Dangerous times. No visitors.’” Nancy snorts. “And you know how persuasive Robin is, she got us into Pennhurst. I don’t know what that weird Army Colonel’s got on the cops, but it has to be something.”

“It’s fine. You tried, that’s what matters, right?” He tries to mean it and doesn’t quite succeed. “It was only a week.”

“A week too long.” Now there’s concern in Nancy’s eyes. “They didn’t hurt you, right? I know you wouldn’t say anything in front of Holly. But…”

There’s that look again, the one Steve loves. Fire.

“No. No, they didn’t. They didn’t do anything, which was honestly worse.”

Nancy snorts. “You would think that.”

For the first time Steve has to bite back a grin. “Look, Powell thinks I might get off. It’s not the end of the world.”

“And your dad helped?” Nancy says carefully.

Steve tenses. “Yeah. Yeah, he paid my bail. Real sweet of him, for sure.”

“They still don’t want you home.”

“No. I mean, I haven’t asked. But fuck that. I’m not crawling back to that condescending bullshit, Nance. Hell no.”

“It’s a place to stay.”

“Is it? Is it, really.”

Nancy doesn’t have a response to that.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Steve says, softer now. “Not really. They won’t let me go back to the trailer park. I can’t leave Hawkins. Everyone thinks I’m a murderer. And I have no fucking clue what’s going on. I’m beggin’ you, Nance—let me stay. Hell, I’d even sleep on this couch—and who knows what the brat pack have spread all over it—if it would be easier.”

“Ew, Steve.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, it won’t work. I’m thinking, okay?” Nancy rests her head in her hands.

“You could hide me. Like El.”

“You’re like six feet tall. I don’t think so.”

“I’m flattered about the extra inch.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m going to choose to ignore that.”

Nancy flops back against the cushions. “Okay, look. I have one option, and I have no idea if it’ll even work. It might not even be safe. But we’ve been fixing up Hop’s cabin so he and El can move back in; there might be enough room for you. Of course, we’d have to ask, but it’s really the best option I can think of—”

Steve frowns. “What, the Byers aren’t—” He trails off. “Wait, what do you mean, Hop?”

Nancy smiles wryly. “Yeah, there’s a lot to catch you up on. Funny you should get out when you did; we’re actually planning to meet up at the cabin on Friday. Catch everyone up. With everything going on, information flow has been… scattered.”

“You’re telling me Hop’s alive?” The concept is, quite frankly, unbelievable.

“That was my reaction. But I saw him. With my own eyes. Joyce found him in Russia or something—no, it makes exactly as much sense as it sounds. That’s why we’re going to talk.”

“Okay. Okay. Sure, Hop’s back from the dead. Why not. How’re the government assholes gonna cover that one up?”

“No clue. I think they’re planning something, though.”

“Dustin and Robin are coming, right? I…” Steve’s voice cracks slightly, and he coughs. He really should’ve asked for some water. “I want to make sure they’re okay.”

Nancy’s smile softens. “They’re doing the best they can. They miss you, you know? Dustin’s cussed me out every time he’s seen me show up without you.”

“Little dipshit. Classic Dustin.”

Nancy nudges him. “Classic Dustin. He always was my favorite.”

“Hey, now. Don’t go leaving Byers just because I managed to make your brother’s nerd friend into the town Casanova.”

“You’re an idiot, Steve.”

“How is Byers, anyway?”

It’s nonchalant. Too nonchalant.

“He’s good. He’s… he’s good.” Nancy’s eyes narrow. “What happened between you two, Steve?”

“Happened? Nothing happened. What do you mean, happened?”

No quarter.

“Look, he was at the hospital when they got me. Had to stop Max’s mom from committing homicide. It’s fine.”

“Shit, Steve—she attacked you?”

Steve winces. “I wouldn’t say attacked, exactly. I can’t really blame her, I mean, I brought her daughter’s…”

An avenue of distraction presents itself, and Steve realizes pretty quickly that it’s the question he really wants answered.

“Max,” he says simply.

Nancy seems to understand and goes with it. “She’s alive.”

It feels like every muscle in Steve’s body relaxes. He didn’t fail her. It’s okay. She’s okay.

“That’s great. Awesome. So she’ll be there tomorrow, too? I want—I gotta say thanks, for the letter and all. She—”

“Steve.”

The pain in Nancy’s voice stops him dead in his tracks.

“She is going to be there tomorrow?” Their eyes meet, and Steve recoils.

“She’s in a coma, or something like that. Has been ever since the earthquake. Hasn’t moved, barely breathing. They don’t… they don’t know if that’s going to change.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” The word drips with a kind of ache Steve barely recognizes.

“Oh.”

Neither of them have any idea what to say next. Nancy is remembering Max in traction, fiery passion and bravery reduced to bloodless grey. Steve is just imagining it—but sometimes the imagination is worse.

“I’ve gotta go see her,” Steve says quietly. “I’ve… I’ve gotta see it for myself.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Nancy says cautiously. “Ms. Hargrove—”

“Dammit, Nance!” Steve groans, and he’s not angry at her, he’s angry at the world, but right now she’s the only one there. “What am I supposed to do? Find some little corner, go rot at Reefer Rick’s again or something, and hide out for the rest of my life? Act like it isn’t at least a little my fault that Max is in that hospital, that things are going to shit outside? No, no fucking way, I—”

Sometimes you just have to run.

“No. Fucking. Way. I’m not running, Nance. I don’t care if it’s dangerous. It-it’s the least I can do, okay? To make it right.”

“You don’t have to make anything right. And you don’t have to hide forever, it’s just… maybe Hop can figure something out now that he’s back. Maybe you will go free and this’ll all be fine. Just, for now, maybe you should keep a low profile?”

“That’s a lotta maybes. There’s a monster out there somewhere who’s going to want revenge, and we’re the only ones who can stop him. I should be there for those brats, I should be with Max, to make sure this never happens again—”

“Steve!” Nancy shouts, and the sound is so unexpected it shuts him up quite effectively. To his surprise, Nancy’s hands are shaking. “Listen to me. I know. I-I know. All of that. I know how you’re feeling, and I’m sorry. But I—we need you. We can’t risk you getting in more trouble. If you’re going to protect people, it’ll be better to be with El and Hop, to, to stop anyone from messing with them. There are still things you can do. I just…” She takes a deep breath. “This past week sucked, okay? Whatever guy moment you and Jonathan had… we didn’t talk about it, but it was there, and we both agreed you needed to be around. We took way too big a risk last time. We need to be sure before we just jump into things, because we can’t lose anyone else.”

“Nance.”

“I mean it, Steve.”

He sighs.

“I know.”

Nancy tries and fails to smile. Instead, she sinks tiredly into his shoulder. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

“Like a normal friend would, of course.”

Nancy sighs as well. “Yes, like a normal friend, Steve. Trust me, okay? Just this once.”

Steve hesitates. He’s probably going to break this promise; he needs to see Max for himself. But there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

“If you insist.”

That seems to pacify her—if only slightly—though Steve doesn’t know if Nancy buys it.

“Did Max write you a letter, too?” he asks, desperately wanting to move on but regretting the question immediately.

“What do you mean, ‘too’? Did you get one?”

“Um. Yeah. …You didn’t?”

“Hah. No. I don’t think there’d be anything to say. ‘Why couldn’t you have figured out my brother was Flayed soon enough to save him?’ ‘Sorry your coworkers exploded all over you.’ It’s not like we were close for most of the time we knew each other.”

“I mean, I was just kinda there myself. I don’t know why she wrote to me. I guess the nerd squad filled out the ranks?”

“Yeah. She left a couple here. Mike found them the night of the earthquake, for him and Will and El. I think Dustin—and Lucas of course—got one too, but no one’s really talked about it.” There’s something in her voice that Steve isn’t sure about. He can take a guess, though.

“It really doesn’t make sense she’d write to me over you,” Steve says. “I mean, girls are supposed to have each other’s backs, right?”

“I’m not jealous, Steve.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not. I—just—” She thinks. “I don’t know what she wrote to you. But… I saw how the kids reacted to what she wrote to them. And I just… realized, I guess. The only person who’d probably write a letter like that for me would be Jonathan. And maybe not even him.”

Ah, thinks Steve. There it is.

“I don’t know what I am to any of the others, Steve. Journalism is great and all, but I just wonder if that spirit of journalistic distance isn’t, I don’t know, fucking me a little. I barely even know Mike’s friends anymore, and I grew up babysitting them. And Robin is Robin, and we’re too young to bond with the adults…” She shrugs helplessly. “It just feels like I’ve done something wrong.”

Well, Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, so he does the best he can. “You know, if I were about to die, I’d write you a letter.”

“You would, huh?” Nancy’s lips quirk upwards slightly.

“Totally.” And he means it.

“You know we never wrote to each other once while we were dating.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“You have terrible handwriting.”

“See, this is why no one writes you. You’d send the letter back with, like, the grammar and spelling errors marked.”

“I would not.”

“I’ll ask Byers. Bet I’m right.”

“You will not.”

A beat. Then, suddenly—

“She told me she was proud of me.”

It comes out so quickly that Steve doesn’t even realize he’s said it until he has.

“What?”

He desperately wants to take it back. They were talking about Nancy, not him, Jesus. “Oh. Nothing.”

“Steve.” Nancy has never suffered bullshit lightly, so he doesn’t have a choice.

“Max. She said she was… glad I didn’t turn out like Billy or Jason.”

“Oh,” Nancy says softly. Then: “I think I see why she wrote one for you now.”

“I’m glad I told you, then, because I fucking don’t.”

Nancy’s face shifts into a look that’s almost ashamed. “You did what I should’ve done from the beginning. You were there for everybody, all of them, all the time. You drove them places, you saved them from monsters, you gave them advice.” She massages her forehead. “You were right, Steve. You are a good babysitter. That’s why Max wrote you, that’s why Jonathan trusts you: you’re good at that stuff. And…” The last part is so soft Steve misses it, but it almost sounds like “you’d be a good dad, too.”

He isn’t sure how to parse it, but his parting words to Jonathan flicker in his mind. Guess I’m not cut out for babysitting. “I don’t know about that, Nance.”

“I do.”

Eleven has never lived with anyone other than Hop and the Byers. (She doesn’t count Papa, because that wasn’t really living.)

When Nancy called her on Mike’s walkie, then, with the suggestion that Steve move into the cabin, El had no idea what to think. Her impression of Steve has always been of a guy who’s strong, but also kind of silly, and not always very nice. He’s very protective of their friends, though—El’s usual measurement of human quality—so she’d been wary but optimistic.

Then she remembered that without Steve, Max wouldn’t have made it to the hospital, and her hesitation turned into a yes immediately.

Now that he’s here, though, slipping in out of the growing dusk, El is starting to wonder if she’s made a mistake. This is her house, after all, and she just got back. Weren’t there other options?

Regardless, she’s at least going to give him a tour. Between Hop dropping by daily and the other teens usually joining him, the cabin is feeling more like it used to, and she’s actually comfortable showing it off. It’s still a bit dirty, but the air isn’t freezing anymore, and Mrs. Wheeler gave them some new blankets, so it’s at least a little cozy. She leads him around the small space, trying to make it seem to him like what it is to her.

For his part, Steve never quite made it past the ‘wow this is weird, huh’ stage into uncertainty, and is just following her, eyeing each new location like he’s appraising it for sale.

El makes it through the living room, kitchen, and bathroom before she remembers, oh, right. Steve lived here before, for a week, and far more recently than she had. He’s very politely not said anything about it, but El’s tour monologue still sputters out uncertainly.

“You… probably know where the bedrooms are. They are a little nicer than when you were last here,” she finishes hesitantly, attempting to cover her mistake.

Steve shoots her a sideways grin, totally unbothered. “Thanks to you little shits, no doubt. Think a flesh monster’s gonna try to kill us this time?”

“I hope not,” El says sagely, attempting composure. “What do you think?”

Steve rests his hands on his hips and looks around. “El, at this point I wouldn’t care if there was still a hole in the roof.”

She tries to roll her eyes but instead finds herself wanting to smile. She resists it for the moment.

“Thank you, by the way,” Steve adds, a little awkward. “For, uh. This. Means a lot. I’ll try not to get in your way of your, like, routine or anything.”

“You are not in my way. You needed somewhere to stay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“And friends help each other.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Friends, huh?”

“Did you think we were not friends?”

To be fair to Steve, El hadn’t thought about it either.

Steve collapses into the old armchair, and sighs. “Honestly? I don’t think we’ve ever talked, just the two of us. So maybe allies is a better word.”

“Does that matter?” El asks. “You have saved my life. I have saved yours. That is what friends do. It’s a promise.”

Steve closes his eyes. The cabin is a little chilly, but the smell of mold is mostly overridden by pine and Hop’s aftershave. The echoes of fear from his last stay have all but faded away, and for a moment he’s able imagine that he’s on vacation somewhere. Maybe El is right, odd as she is, and he has a friend here. Maybe he can keep her safe. Safe than she would’ve been, at least.

Responsibility.

“Promise, huh, Supergirl?” Steve says. “Guess the Byers’ have been teaching you right. Helping out is what friends do.” He tilts his head. “But it’s not supposed to be, like. A burden. I’ll pull my weight, I promise. Do the dishes, dust, whatever. And I know you don’t really need it, but I’ll try to keep any creeps out, too.”

“Shouldn’t I be protecting you?”

“Eh, we both know how to deal with angry mobs,” Steve says. “You’ve got enough to deal with. I should probably make a new nail bat, though. Just in case.”

El considers this. “I could ask Joyce about bats—"

“Nah. Don’t stress her. I’m sure she has enough on her mind, Hop and all. I’ll find one.”

El reflects on her father and adopted mother’s new dynamic. “I am sure they can find time for you.”

“Didn’t Hop come back from the dead? I’m not that important; dude’s gotta have other priorities.”

In a rush, El hears the whirring clatter of a glass Coke bottle, the hiss of the radio, and a year of horrible emptiness. She bites her lip.

Steve sees it and winces.

“Ah, shit, sorry. He’s your, your guardian, dad, or something, now, right? I didn’t mean to bring up his—I mean, it’s gotta be nice to have him back…”

El nods slowly. She is entirely too tired to deal with those memories right now. “It is nice,” she adds noncommittally.

“Hey, I’m shocked about it, too,” says Steve. He knows he’s digging himself in deeper, but he can’t stop talking for some reason. The considering stare in the kid’s eyes is making him nervous. “But, yeah, he’s a good guy. I’m even looking forward to seeing him, can you imagine?” He fidgets, and his mind wanders towards his own father with a certain amount of resignation. “You could’ve done worse, dad wise. Hop’s great. Guess that’s all I’m thinking.”

El thinks about her Papa, too. Steve’s not wrong. “I have done worse.”

Steve just stares at her, and his lips quirk up, as if they can’t decide whether to smile or frown. El stares back, and the silence stretches on for way too long.

“Um,” El says finally, uncomfortable. “It is okay, Steve. We are both tired. Just don’t try to act like my babysitter and we will be fine.”

Steve shifts, cringing internally. He’s supposed to make her feel safe, not… whatever this is. “Honestly, I think you’re babysitting me.”

El rolls her eyes. “No sweets after dinner. Do not take my things. Bedtime is at 10 o’clock.

Steve can’t help it. He laughs. “Dammit, Supergirl, I didn’t mean literally.”

El glares at him, but she can’t summon any venom for it. Steve’s trying. He’s trying. He hadn’t meant to bring up Hop’s death, and he might have no idea what he’s doing, but he’s trying, and El reluctantly decides she knows what that’s like. “Nancy is going to bring some more supplies in a bit. Then bedtime at 10,” she insists.

“I’m a grown-ass man.”

“And I am your babysitter.”

“I don’t suppose I get one of the beds, at least?”

“We only have two.”

“So?”

“One is mine. One is Hop’s.”

Steve narrows his eyes dramatically. “So I what, sleep in the chair?” He pats it. “Hop’s not even staying here right now.”

El crosses her arms, lip twitching. “You talk a lot.”

“Hey,” Steve pouts, with a vaguely hurt tone that might be real or might be teasing. “That’s part of my charm.”

“I am uncharmable.”

“Clearly not. You’re dating mini-Wheeler, somehow.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, Supergirl.”

They glare at each other for a solid thirty seconds. It doesn’t last, though, and now they’re giggling like little kids from opposite sides of the room, the last shreds of tension sliding off their shaking shoulders and out into the night.

“10:30,” El says as their laughter subsides. A peace offering.

Steve shrugs, accepting, as if he’s won anything. “I can live with that.”

APRIL 4, 1986

The living room of Hop’s cabin is a flurry of activity. It’s the most people El has seen in one place in… an amount of time she was perfectly content with, actually. Even though it’s just her friends, the sheer mass of them is making her uneasy.

She’s going to have to tell everyone who doesn’t already know that she failed to stop One. She’s going to have to admit to the most important people in her life exactly how weak she was, and in very specific ways, because if she doesn’t they won’t be able to win a fight against One next time.

She doesn’t really believe they’ll be able to win a fight against One next time, anyway, but she doesn’t plan on saying that.

El is, therefore, tremendously grateful that Karen Wheeler sent cupcakes. The woman had no idea what the “party” was for, exactly, but she’d been so intent on prying out information from anyone in the house that no amount of flattery to win it was off the table. Affectionate manipulation aside, there are four hungry teenage boys plus Steve and Robin (who might as well count), so any kind of sweet treat appearing has so far distracted most of the group from the point entirely.

That doesn’t mean that the mood is happy. There’d been a certain amount of awkward, “oh, hi, wait you’re alives?”, aimed towards Hop, from Lucas, Dustin, and Steve, but otherwise the chatter has been distinctly subdued.

Mike, Lucas and Dustin are on the new couch, debating the quality of the former’s mom’s baking—or more specifically, the benefits of strawberry vs. chocolate. vs. vanilla. They each keep looking towards El, though, Mike especially, and El is doing her best not to glare back. We’ll get there, she thinks. Just… eat your cupcakes.

She’s over in the corner next to Will, who is still nibbling on his first cupcake morosely. It’s an odd kind of morose, El notices, where he savors each bite and very obviously avoids thinking about anything else. She notices this because it’s been consistent for the last week.

She wants to hug him, to say anything, but she also knows how little Will likes coddling. So they stand there in silence.

(El, however, is on her second cupcake.)

Joyce and Murray are in the kitchen, puttering around making cups of coffee. The older teens are directly opposite them, by the bathroom door, also talking amongst themselves. Robin has two cupcakes, one in each of her hands, and is attempting as best she can to keep them out of the way of Steve, who’s looking at the desserts like they’re some kind of miracle.

She’s only lived with him for a few days, but El thinks Steve’s been different since the earthquake, in ways she can’t quite put a finger on but feel familiar somehow. Nancy and Jonathan seem to be supporting him, offering a light shoulder to lean on, and El wants to ask if he’s been seeing things. Having headaches. She hopes he hasn’t.

She hopes he’d mention it if he was.

All in all, everyone is making El anxious. So she shuts her eyes, as she’s been doing a lot lately, and tries to let the chatter take her somewhere else.

No Max.

No One.

Terror in the darkness.

Yawning gates.

It’s over far too quickly.

El shudders as she comes back to herself. Same nothing as always, and she regrets even trying. She wipes the blood from her nose as discreetly as she can, only to find herself making eye contact with her father.

Hop has a donut instead of a cupcake; something about “saving the treats for the kids,” and he shoots her a look. She figures it means: “What superpower nonsense are you doing now, kiddo?” El ignores the look and instead flicks her fingers lightly. Sprinkles from the donut, previously clinging to Hop’s beard, fly off into the ether. She smiles cautiously, and he snorts.

Crisis averted.

Only when it comes to her, though. As he smiles back, his look turns vacant, and Hop swiftly returns to his latest preoccupation: staring at Joyce. His expression changes, turning stormy.

There is something there, El knows, and she wonders if they are boyfriend and girlfriend now. Mike has been wondering too; so has Steve. El doesn’t know. She’s never been good at reading that sort of thing. Even if they were, she isn’t sure how she’d feel about it, because when Mamas and Papas are near each other, from her experience, they tend to fight. El doesn’t want that.

But she loves the both of them. And it’s Hop and Joyce. If they were together, it couldn’t be all bad, right?

El is still dwelling on this concept when Hop and Joyce slip away, into Hop’s bedroom at the back of the house.

She briefly considers letting them go. It’s none of her business, after all, but there’s something in their steps, something in Hop’s distracted gaze from earlier, that makes her hesitate.

“I think I left something in my room,” El says, nudging Will’s shoulder. “I will be right back.”

He nods. She doesn’t think he heard her, not really, but that’s okay.

It’s not a lie, at least, so there shouldn’t be an issue. Her blindfold is in there, and she’s going to need it.

El hurries into her room, thankfully unnoticed, and closes the door behind her. Immediately she presses her ear up against the wall. Murmured voices echo through, but unfortunately they’re not loud enough to understand. El’s still not sure why she wants to snoop; honestly, she really shouldn’t, and normally, she wouldn’t. Especially if the two adults are now boyfriend and girlfriend.

But still, there’s that feeling in her gut. And the feeling says look.

El slips the makeshift blindfold over her eyes, and her mind filters through the wall.

Hop is pacing nervously. Joyce is sitting on the bed, watching him, uncertain.

“What’s the matter, Hop? Can’t this wait? The kids are out there, expecting us.”

Hop twiddles the donut in his fingers. Drops it on the bedside table. Leans against the wall and rests his head against his hands. “This… it’s not about them. Not necessarily. I need to talk to you, first.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

Hop fidgets. Pulls out a pack of cigarettes, then a lighter. “Smoke?”

“Hop. Indoors?”

“Trust me, Joyce. You’re going to want a smoke for this.”

“What’s going on.” It’s not a question, it’s a demand. “We need to be open about stuff now—”

“Dammit, I’m not trying to be obtuse. This isn’t easy to say.” Hop runs a hand through the stubble on his head, a practiced motion that does nothing now. “I don’t know what to say, Joyce, and certainly not how to do it. I don’t want to scare the kids. Especially El. You’re—you’re good with this sort of thing, this tactful bullshit. I need your help.”

A look flickers across Joyce’s face, half amusement, half concern. “Take your time. But not too long, someone will notice we’re missing.”

“Karen gave them cupcakes. They won’t notice shit.”

Joyce snorts.

There’s silence for a minute, and then Hop speaks.

“I know who this Vecna guy is.”

Joyce looks at him, confused now. “So do I. He was raised in the lab, with Eleven, right?”

“Not that. Before.”

“Before?”

Hop sighs. Turns to face the wall, then the door. As if he’s checking for observers. Then he turns back, and his eyes are haunted.

“Joyce. He’s… he’s Henry Creel.”

The water beneath El’s feet ripples in the quiet. She’s confused. Of course One is Henry. Why is this a surprise?

“Jim,” Joyce says slowly, and it’s clearly serious because she so rarely uses his first name, “Henry Creel is dead.”

Hop laughs. Short. Barking. “Yeah. Yeah, he sure is supposed to be, isn’t he? Not like we checked.”

“His father killed him, Hop. His whole family.” Joyce’s eyebrows furrow. “They found the bodies—”

She trails off. Hop nods. Once. Short.

“Oh,” says Joyce, realizing.

 She knows about the government and dead bodies.  

“I don’t know the details,” Hop says gruffly. “That Jackson creep was giving El the business, and then they both started dropping names. Like it was a foregone conclusion. They both knew Vecna was Henry, but I don’t think they knew, if that makes sense.”

“You’re sure it’s that Henry Creel?”

“Oh yes. Jackson made it damn clear, not that I let her know our part in it. And it always has been, apparently—Will, the Demogorgon, the Mind Flayer, everything. According to El—and I quote—it was ‘always One.’”

Joyce nods, very slowly. Then:

“…Hop. We provided half the information that got Victor Creel committed to Pennhurst.”

“To be fair, he was also supposedly found standing over his family’s dead bodies. And we were children.”

“Hop. You know what I mean.”

Hop sighs. “Yeah, Joyce. You’re absolutely right, and that’s why I’m here. Because weird, quiet little Henry Creel from high school, whose alibi we accidentally supported, murdered his entire family and has spent the rest of his life attempting to do the same to ours. And if we had just been more thorough… maybe he wouldn’t be.”

El freezes with a cold completely unrelated to the chill of the Void.

Joyce’s voice is quiet when she responds, and carries a hint of fear.  

“God, Hop. Do you think… do you think that’s why?” Her knee is bouncing up and down, and her hands are clasped, white-knuckled, in her lap. “Do you think that’s why he’s been coming after us? After my Will? Do you think it’s some, I don’t know. Petty attempt at revenge?”

“I don’t know,” Hop says. “I don’t have a clue. I don’t even think the idea makes sense; I mean he killed his family—wouldn’t he appreciate the cover?” He trails off. “But that’s why I came to you first. Regardless, this fucker knows us, Joyce, and we know him, even if we weren’t close. This guy’s in deep with our lives, always has been, and he’s probably been playing us the whole damn time. Hell, wasn’t he dating Bob’s sister or something? Maybe that’s why, at the lab… And he’s known El for longer than either of us. Jackson said something about her sending him to the Upside Down in the first place. There’s something else here. Something bigger that he’s plotting, and we’re in the middle of it, and dammit, Joyce. I don’t know how to tell the kids. I don’t even know if we should.”

He huffs. “Hell. It could still be nothing.”

Joyce is silent for a minute. Then she reaches out, and beckons tellingly. Hop hands her the lighter and a cig. She lights it. Puffs for a second. Lets a cloud of smoke swirl into the dark.

“It’s not nothing,” she says finally. “It makes a fucked-up kind of sense.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It does, though. I never thought he liked Hawkins, Hop. And what are we, but the living memory of what Hawkins did to his life?”

More smoke. More silence.

“I can’t believe it’s him,” Joyce says.

“Trust me. I didn’t either. But El was sure.”

“What I don’t understand is how it got this bad. Henry was a good kid. Odd, sure. But so was I. So is Will. So is everyone else in this cabin. We’re all odd, Hop, we’ve all suffered in this town, and none of us, none of us, lost our minds and decided to destroy it.”

“Quiet can mean a lot of things, Joyce,” Hop says gently. “Plus, who knows how long Brenner was grooming him to be a weapon? You know that man. You know what he can do.”

For a moment Joyce says nothing, and then she looks up at Hop, stricken. “Jesus, Hop. El. How… how must she be feeling? We’ve been moping about us, worrying about our past, and we know nothing about what he did to her. Fuck the town, Hop—our daughter is being hunted by our damn classmate. We need to tell her. We need to help her. This has to be—shit, it has to be terrifying.”

Hop stares at her. For a second, it doesn’t seem like Joyce understands why. Then:

“Our daughter?”

Joyce’s mouth hangs open. As soon as she notices she shuts it like a steel trap. “You-you know what I mean.”

“No, no. It’s, it’s fine. Nice, even.” Hop’s voice is gruff again, but it’s the kind of gruffness El recognizes from long nights of Eggos and TV, of goodnight hugs and reassuring glances. “You’re right. Our daughter needs to know. I just… she’s grieving, Joyce. You’ve seen her lately. She’s not okay. It doesn’t feel right to spring it on her now.”

“We can’t just hide it from her.”

“Of course not. And we won’t. We just… we need to know more. We need to be sure.”

“I thought you were sure.”

“I am, Joyce, it’s just… I just got her back. I can’t hurt her. Not again. Not this soon.”

El feels her stomach twist. She wants to be mad, she wants to rush in there and make them tell her everything… but there’s so much hurt in Hop’s voice that she can’t justify it.

Joyce takes a long drag on her cigarette. “If you think that’s the right thing to do, Hop, I’ll trust you. But we can’t wait too long, and we have to go to her first. We have to help her through it, like you're doing for me. It's the least she deserves.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Promise me, Hop.”

“Dammit, of course I promise, Joyce.”

“Good.” She sighs, before continuing carefully. “…I’m scared, you know. I’m scared that our failure ruined poor Victor Creel’s life, and somehow screwed up his son, too. And because of that, all of this? It’s our fault.”

“Joyce. No. It’s not. Don’t talk like that, ever.” Hop plops down on the bed beside her, voice stern. “We were stupid kids. We did our best. If that’s why he’s coming after us… well, Henry can make his own damn choices.”

“Our kids are the same age we were, and they’ve saved the world three times.”

“Yeah, well. Guess we make better parents than heroes.”

Joyce chuckles throatily. “That’s our curse, huh.”

Hop stiffens, then forces himself to relax. “If our only curse is raising some fucking amazing kids… I think it’s a win, Joyce.”

Joyce takes another long drag on her cigarette.

“Unless we also broke them.”

Hop winces. He goes in for a hug, gripping her tight—

And that’s her limit. El collapses down onto the hardwood floor.

She rips the blindfold off with a gasp. Her nose is pouring red, red like a siren, red like a warning light, and her head is pounding.

They knew Henry. Her… parents… They went to school with him. With One.

They knew him before he was her brother.

They did something that might have angered him, that got his dad in trouble. His real dad.

They thought he was dead.

But more importantly—

Henry knew them.

And a yawning pit opens up in El’s stomach. They shouldn’t be blaming themselves. It’s not their fault. She has to learn more, of course, but still—there’s no way.

Because she brought him here.

She brought him back to Hawkins.

Back to the place where he’d lived.

Back to the place where he’d killed his family. Where he’d been hurt by hers.

…She gave him a chance for revenge.

Suddenly dizzy, El lets her head fall into her hands.

They run through their stories as best they can once everyone reconvenes.

First, to the delight and horror of everyone present, the adults explain how they managed to escape the Soviet Union with the aid of a smuggler, a traitor, and a Demogorgon. Hop tries to make it sound exciting and adventurous, but when El meets his eyes they’re dark and sad.

The Hawkins gang clears up Steve’s ostracization, the murders, Jason and his gang. Nancy explains her discovery of the Creels, then the 3-stage plan to kill Vecna, and Lucas quietly follows her up with the ways it went wrong.

Then, Will, Jonathan, and Mike explain how Eddie joined them. How Sullivan’s men invaded the house. How they found NINA. (Mike leaves out El attacking Angela, which she’s grateful for.) When El talks about her experiences with her Papa—purposefully keeping vague the memories of murder and horror and trauma and death—and of watching the man who raised her bleeding out on the sand, Mike grips her hand tightly, and Hop, silent as the grave, marches straight through the crowd and wraps her in his arms. While El moves on to her piggyback plan, the reassurance of Hopper’s touch keeps her warm through the memories of cold, salty water and strangling hate.

Finally, Hop cuts back in—and screw the NDAs, though he minimizes some of the details—and informs everyone that the government is technically on their side now, unless they mess up. And they don’t want to mess up.

It’s a lot.

Some of it is exciting.

Most of it is awful, in a bunch of ways.

But even during her parts, El can’t focus on any of it—which is almost funny considering how worried she’d been before. It’s really not like anyone would judge her for being out of it, not right now. They look sad when she explains how Papa died, how she wasn’t strong enough. They look sad, and angry, and loving, and El loves them back so much she wants to explode. No, they don’t hate her yet, and that stubbornness is wonderful.

But she can’t focus on any of it.

All El can think about is One, is Henry Creel, and Hop’s words.

I have to find him, she thinks desperately. I have to destroy him. More than ever, now. Because soon everyone is going to know everything about him, and he’s going to know that, and he’s going to use it—

You let us in, she can still hear Billy/Henry growl. And now you’re going to have to let us stay.

She let him in, in more ways than one.

El leans into Mike’s shoulder, a gesture he accepts without question. He’s asking Joyce something about Russia, though El isn’t listening for details.

He’s going to come for Mike, she thinks. He’s going to come for Will. He’s going to come for all of them, just like he said, and El is no longer certain she knows why.

APRIL 21, 1986

The day Jim Hopper can finally go home is a day of jubilant celebration for several reasons.

The first and foremost is, of course, that he no longer has to live with Murray Bauman.

They’ve been sharing Hop’s old trailer. It’s secluded enough out by Lover’s Lake that no one would question its sudden habitation. Hop had cleared out the perishables before moving in with El permanently, so it’s in good enough shape, and it makes far more sense for Murray to stick around than for him to return to Illinois.

Goddamn if the two men don’t live completely different lives, though.  

Murray had to check the entire trailer for bugs, of course. Which naturally meant they had to spend the next few days putting everything they took apart back together again.

Then Murray insisted he sleep on the couch so Hop could keep his bed, which would’ve been almost kind if Hop didn’t keep waking up at four AM to Murray blasting music on the stereo, fucking with a map of Hawkins and any number of notes, and chugging vodka like it’s water.

Then there were the plans. Oh, the plans.

Plans to infiltrate the new government compound going up in the square (shot down—for now, at least).

Plans to sneak into the Upside Down and find Vecna (immediately vetoed).

Plans for Murray to leave for the night so Hop and Joyce can have the trailer to themselves (vetoed with extreme prejudice).

And, of course, the plan to bring Chief Hopper back to life.

This one, to his displeasure, Hop does actually have to tolerate, because as is infuriatingly typical, Murray does have some good ideas.

And because it’s also on Hop to come up with a usable one.

It helped, somewhat, that Jackson believed their story—or at least pretended to. She had, despite her initial perspective, interviewed all three of them about their sojourn in Russia, and what she learned apparently made enough sense that she was willing to help Hop reintegrate.

“Look, Mr. Hopper,” she’d said dryly, after he’d described in (excessive, in Hop’s opinion) detail how he chopped off a Demogorgon’s head with a sword, “Either the KGB drove you completely up the wall, or this story is too crazy to ignore.”

“I may be crazy in a lot of ways,” Hop said, “but none of them is ‘lie in a way that will get my family killed’ crazy.”

Jackson laughed. Hop still hates the noise. “True or not, it’s an entertaining story. And the timeline does, unfortunately for its comedic value, line up with Henry’s temporary defeat at the hands of your daughter. Damaging the hivemind of Dimension X is a proven distraction tactic.”

“You know she doesn’t believe she did defeat him.”

“Of course she doesn’t. She’s a child, and she’s not used to losing. But he hasn’t shown up, Mr. Hopper. Either he is plotting, or he is hurting, and since neither your daughter nor William Byers have made any noise about the former, I’m inclined to believe she inflicted at the very least some substantial damage.”

“You could tell her that.”

“She won’t believe me.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I hope that can change,” Jackson said smoothly. “Your cooperation has been appreciated and noted, and at least somewhat meshes with what we learned from the Starcourt base. You’re not off the hook yet, Mr. Hopper, but I am willing to oversee your, ah, resurrection.”

“Really, now.”

“Of course. Play along and be repaid; that was the deal.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Ah ah ah.” Jackson shakes her head, a wry smile flitting across her face. “I’m a very busy woman. I don’t have the time or people to delegate for that sort of thing, not with everything else going on. You bring your ideas to me, and I’ll let you know what I think.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Oh, please. I’ve never escaped a Russian work camp, Mr. Hopper. Whatever you come up with will blow me away, no doubt.”

Hop resisted the visceral urge to make a number of off-color jokes, and now he’s here.

To Murray’s credit, the man has come up with numerous options, each more extravagant than the last. Still, each one seems a little bit too much to Hop. He’s used to being the reliable guy in the background, respected and tolerated and not much else. Sure, he’s heard plenty from the others about his near-deification in Hawkins, but he certainly doesn’t think of himself as a hero. Being told he is one to the town he grew up in is strange, to say the least, and Hop doesn’t want to exploit it. He doesn’t want a parade, or a holiday, or even a dramatic re-entrance—

He just wants things to go back to normal.

Hop remembers the letter he wrote El, though. Change is scary, but it happens, yadda yadda yadda. She shyly showed him the other night how she keeps it tucked into her breast pocket. That girl is slowly melting the last of the Soviet ice, Hop thinks, but as usual, what he said to her rather than what he wants to do is probably the move here. He has to accept the change, and that there’s going to be some kind of fanfare.

When Murray finally lands on a subtle plan, though, Hop is still desperate enough that it sounds absolutely perfect.

Not that he wants to tell Murray that.

“You know, I think we’re going about this all wrong,” Murray is saying. He has, reluctantly, allowed Hop to request an order of beer instead of vodka, and he grimaces at the bottle in his hand with some distaste. “We’re putting entirely too much work into something that shouldn’t have been our problem to begin with.”

“It’s about me, Murray. Like it or not, that makes it my problem.”

They’re sitting in the small trailer living room. Pale light filters through the window, and spores drift outside in the breeze.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Jim,” Murray says. He leans back and taps the bottle of Corona lightly. “You didn’t ask to be the only non-corrupt official in this town. You didn’t ask to be kidnapped. And you certainly didn’t ask the government to write you off as dead.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I don’t have to pick up the pieces. We’ve been over this.”

“This,” Murray says, gesturing with the bottle, “pig swill is reminding me of something I told the older Byers kid and Wheeler once; what we did to get the lab shut down. Dilution. All we’ve been doing is searching for ways to justify what actually did happen. But who cares, Jim? The answer will always be that we can’t tell them.”

Hop sighs heavily. “Once again I ask: so what.”

“So we tell them a truth. Just a little diluted. A little simplified. A truth they can buy, a truth they can ascribe to their heroic Chief of Police.”

“Goddammit, Murray.”

“And a truth that takes any and all burden of proof directly out of our hands. Maybe something like—drumroll please—it wasn’t the Russians who took you. It was our guys.”

“I’m waiting for the applause. It’s not coming.”

Murray rolls his eyes. “It’s an excellent plan. This way, neither you nor I nor Colonel stick-in-the-mud have to come up with an answer. In this little fantasy, you were spirited away for some secret government program, competent enough in the mall fire that you were sent off to fight commies or something—and they faked your death. She could even shrug her shoulders and say details are ‘classified’. Then if anyone has problems, they go to the higher-ups… and leave us to the monster hunting.”

“Look, Murray. I know people seem to think I’m some kind of badass—”

“Jim. Demogorgon.”

“—but no one, but no one, would ever buy me as competent.”

“Don’t have to buy it to roll with it. Hero worship is a powerful drug, amigo.”

Hop is about to run a hand through his hair, remembers, then stops regretfully. He takes a sip of his now lukewarm beer. “Jackson’ll never go for it.”

“Can’t know unless you try.”

“How am I supposed to sell this if I don’t believe it?”

Murray’s grin vanishes. “Guess you’d better start practicing, then, Jimbo.”

“Interesting,” says Jackson. “I’m surprised you didn’t arrive at the idea sooner.”

“I’m not.”

“Using the conspiracy theorist as a planner didn’t work out well, I take it?”

Hop grunts. “It’s his plan.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “And what do you think of it?’

“It’s great. Just peachy. In no way shape or form overly simple, or prone to failure.”

“Any plan can fail,” Jackson says seriously. “The best laid plans of mice and men, and so on.”

“Trust me, lady. I’m aware. I’m just not sure if you idiots have forgotten the power of small-town gossip.”

“No one’s forgotten anything,” says Jackson. “It sounds more like Mr. Bauman simply thinks it doesn’t matter.”

“And why wouldn’t it?”

“For a reason you haven’t mentioned, and the reason I’m willing to consider your plan in the first place: distraction.” She gestures out the window. The National Guard has brought in some increasingly less-makeshift supplies, including Quonset huts and other transportable buildings, and one of them has become the office they’re sitting in now. The facades of downtown businesses sit dark against the unnatural storm, and Hop eyes the view nervously. “Nobody’s going to think too hard about you right now,” Jackson says.

“So you think it’ll work.”

“I’m willing to try.”

“A kid could’ve come up with it.”

“Knowing the kids you associate with, you’re probably right. At the very least, I’ve considered it before—but that doesn’t matter. It was important to me that you have agency in your return, Mr. Hopper. Forcing a position on an asset rarely works as intended. If you are willing to try this, I am willing to spread the information.”

“Fine.”

“Besides, it’s not as difficult to conceal as a lie. The information you’ve given your country is invaluable; if it’s even half true, you deserve some kind of title, period.”

Dilution, Hop thinks. “So how’re we gonna do this, Jackson?”

The woman rests her head on her hands. “Quickly, I should think. No time like the present. I’ll go order a car.”

“Seriously? Just like that? Don’t you have paperwork to do, or something?”

“Don’t underestimate the efficiency of my connections, Mr. Hopper.”

“I would never. And speaking of your connections—you owe Joyce Byers a house.”

Jackson, halfway to the door by now, stops. “I’m sorry?”

“Like you said. If I’ve helped, she’s done far more. She saved my ass. Her sons have been through hell. Least you could do is buy the poor folks a place nearer to the action.”

“She can contact FEMA if she requires an insurance payout, you know.”

“Ah, yes. Insurance against alternate dimensions and government incompetence. Somehow, I don’t think those are covered.”

Jackson’s mouth quirks slightly. “I’ll consider your request, Mr. Hopper. For now, you’re the priority.”

“I’m flattered, but don’t brush this off.”

“I won’t, I promise. You drive a relatively easy bargain in the long run, anyway.” She tilts her head. “Now—are you ready to be a hero again?”

Hop lets out a very deep breath. A flurry of annoyed thoughts rushes through his head, as they usually do around this woman, but all that comes out is, “No.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go talk to my people. Give me a half hour, and you’ll be alive again.”

Exactly twenty-nine minutes later, Hop is ushered out of the compound and into a large black car. Jackson is waiting for him in the back seat.

“What, you don’t drive?” Hop says sardonically.

“You and me, we’re too important for that,” Jackson says. Her smile is almost friendly. “Are you ready, Secret Agent Hopper? It’s time to report your miraculous reappearance to your old department.”

The knot of anxiety that has been twisting around in Hop’s stomach tightens. He’s not entirely sure how much further it can go.

“The phrasing’ll take some getting used to.”

“Again—it will help to remember that it’s true, one way or another. What your little squad has handled is worse than what any number of my people combined have fought their entire lives.”

“You’re still fine with putting that onto kids?”

Jackson sighs and leans against the cold glass window. Downtown passes by outside—there’s not far to go, but they’re taking something of a circuitous route, for realism’s sake. “You were a policeman, Mr. Hopper. Were, and likely will be again. How many distasteful or outright illegal things have you been forced to do to protect others?”

“Nothing that involves kids.”

“Not even in New York?”

Hop tenses. “You mean gang crap? Other people forced those kids into that situation. Not me.”

“I could give you a lecture on police complicity, but I doubt it’s necessary,” Jackson says. She notices Hop bristling and continues quickly. “We can have this conversation a hundred times if you want, Mr. Hopper, but it’s not going to have a different outcome. You will hate me for what I’ve done, and I will remain disillusioned by your lack of understanding.”

“This conversation is about my daughter, Jackson. If I keep bringing it up, if I want some kind of accountability, do you blame me?”

Jackson turns and meets his gaze directly. “No, Mr. Hopper. I do not. But Brenner is dead. Project Indigo has long since been disbanded. The very fact that I’m in Hawkins means someone wants a change. What more do you need?”

There’s something in her look that makes Hop uncomfortable. It feels too similar to the one he’s no doubt wearing himself.

“Jail time? Fines? I don’t know. None of the normal rules seem to apply to you people. I can’t help being angry, and I don’t see why I should stop.”

“No,” Jackson says slowly. “And I don’t think you should stop. Men like you are men who change things, and no progress has ever been achieved by letting atrocities slip by. As little as I care for your anger, Mr. Hopper, I can respect it. Just don’t keep making me give you the same answers to the same easy questions.”

“Nothing damn easy about it,” says Hop.

Jackson says nothing, and they pull into the parking lot of the Hawkins Police Department.

They make Hop wait in the car for entirely too long—to set things up, apparently. He’s not used to waiting to enter a building he once ruled, and much less used to waiting in the back of the car. By the time the agent who drove them comes out to get him, the ball of nerves in his stomach has grown to the size of a basketball.

“This way, sir. They’re ready for you.”

Hop grabs the hat on the seat beside him, a beat-up baseball cap. He jams in on his head and slides out of the car as gracefully as he can. “About time.”

The agent doesn’t respond, just beckons, and he leads Hop inside. He opens the door. Walks down the hall. Opens another door—

And there they are:

Hop’s old coworkers.

There’s no confetti. It’s just Powell—Chief Powell, now, imagine that—and Florence. And Colonel Jackson, of course. The others, it appears, will be roped in later. Standing there watching them talk, Hop has a series of sudden flashbacks, work life flashing before his eyes. Late mornings of coffee and donuts, Florence chastising him for something or other, patrols with Powell, listening to the lot of them jabber outside his office.

Powell’s talking with Jackson, voice low and disbelieving. Florence is scribbling something in her ledger, clearly some kind of documentation. Neither notices Hop and the agent come in.

But they do hear when the door closes. One by one they turn, and Hop sees four eyes widen in shock.

For a moment no one says anything.

Naturally, Hop moves first.

“Well, damn, look at you, Powell. Replacing me. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Chi—Jim—Hopper. You really are—” Powell’s stuttering. Shocked. “You really are alive. We thought—we thought—”

Jackson smirks. “I was telling the truth, you know.”

It’s Florence that moves next. She leaps up from the desk and rushes towards Hop, grasping her former boss firmly by the shoulders. The chains on her glasses rattle and she looks him sharply up and down.

“Jim Hopper. My god, you’ve finally lost weight. Death suits you.”

Hop barks out a stunned laugh. “I come back from the edge of oblivion, Florence, and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“If faking one’s death is that effective, I really ought to take it into consideration,” the woman muses. “Imagine that. Jim Hopper, role model.”

Powell hurries forward himself, and clasps Hop’s hand in his. “Hopper. Good lord. It’s an honor to have you back; this is absolutely unbelievable. The Colonel here told us everything—well, everything she could—and it’s insane, or it would be, but it’s you, Jim. You’re nothing if not a bundle of surprises.” Powell catches himself rambling and takes a deep breath. “You know, you’re always welcome to have your job back,” he adds carefully. “I’d gladly step aside, and everyone on the force would agree—”

“Woah, slow down there, Chief,” Hop says, amused. He should’ve guessed it would go like this, and it’s almost a relief that, even if everything else has changed, the department hasn’t one bit. “I don’t want your job. I mean, sure, things have gone to shit, but Hawkins hasn’t totally burned down—so you must be doing something right.” There’s a twinkle in his eye.

“You don’t? Well, damn, Jim, why’d you come here first? You’ve got a good kid who’s back in town, you know. We hardly deserve the honor.”

“She knows. She was the first one I saw,” Hop says gently. “But you morons kept me together when things got bad all those years ago. It’s only fair to let you all know next.”

Powell’s eyes soften a little. “Well, it’s touching to know we mean that much to you, Jim. Ain’t that right, Florence?”

The woman nods, discreetly attempting to swipe away a few stray tears. Classic Florence: stoic till she drops. “Of course. Not that we missed your griping.”

“You old bat,” Hop laughs. “You always were a terrible liar.”

“And you always were a grump.”

Hop realizes to his pleasure that the nerves in his stomach have vanished completely. This should have been harder. It should have been painful. Instead, all he feels is a burgeoning sense of joy.

Powell interrupts their banter, tone serious. “Even if you don’t want to be Chief again, Jim, please come back to the force,” he insists. “Even as a detective. Hell, as a beat cop. You’ve seen the mess outside. The Colonel called you home for a reason, I know it, and the force could really use someone like you. Could really use you, specifically. The whole town could.”

“Without hesitation, Cal. I’m back for good this time; I won’t leave you all hanging again. Whatever I can do, however I can help—I’m here for Hawkins, and I’m here for you.”

Powell’s face splits open with a grin. “You know, Phil’s gonna lose his damn mind.”

Hop claps him on the back. “I’d expect no less. Is he still an idiot?”

“You still named Jim Hopper?”

Behind Powell, Jackson nods at Hop. Firm. Approving.

He nods back, subtle as he can. Thank you, he mouths, as Powell pulls him into a friendly hug. And Hop is surprised to find that, this time, he means it.

Chapter Text

When Max wakes up, she is surprised to find she has a body.

It’s only sort of there, though. The bits and pieces of her… flicker. If she pays any real attention to herself, she fades, left only with broken memories. Max hates it, and she thinks it’s funny that hate and fear are the first emotions she has learned to remember.

She doesn’t know why it’s funny. She just knows that it is.

Max isn’t free to use her newfound body, though. Her mouth is still gone, and the rest of her is bound, head facing the ground, hands behind her back, tied to something sharp and unyielding by writhing tentacles. Below her, instead of earth or even the usual dark water, the world is red, and Max finds herself kneeling in blood. There’s a high, keening wind, and the air smells of rot and iron.

She tries to lift where her face should be, but it’s so heavy. The blood beneath her ripples, and she tries to gauge what’s at her back. Rock? Iron? Bone? She feels, too, spots of memory burning in her shoulders, marks where the Centipede had grabbed her, had hauled her away, torn her to pieces, torn her back to—

Splash.

Splash.

Splash.

The blood ripples again with each footstep, and this time Max can feel the movement somewhere deeper.

“Hello, Max,” says Vecna.

Two twisted feet appear before her, submerged in red.

“Look at me.”

The vines shift, loosen, and Max realizes suddenly that one has been around her maybe-neck—she’d forgotten what a neck was—pulling it down, forcing her into a bow.

That tentacle slides away, and Max lifts her head warily. Her vision rises, scanning slowly up Vecna’s body, past his vein and tentacle-wrapped legs, past his sunken torso, to his face. A face like death.

He leans down towards her. “Finally awake, are you? You’ve put such effort into running; you must have been tired. No wonder you slept so long.”

As he comes closer, Max recoils, and it’s not just from the instinctual fear of prey confronted by a predator. Vecna in the darkness had seemed normal. Again, Max isn’t sure what normal is, but in that place nothing about him had registered as stranger than usual.

Here, though… here, something is wrong.

Max has the feeling that while Vecna has always looked desiccated, he still looked whole.

He doesn’t now.

The monster is hunched, bent over, and moves delicately like he’s in pain. His eyes, already pale and unnerving, are sunken deeper into his head. The flesh on his chest and face is blackened, peeling, and the vines that once seemed ingrained in his limbs and neck are looser now. Rotting. Dying. Worst of all, speckled across his chest are five glowing holes, voids that reach deep within him and blaze like fire. 

Max shudders.

Vecna notices the movement and chuckles. The sound is deep and gravelly, like rocks clattering down a canyon wall. “Do I scare you, Maxine?” he says. “Does my pain bother you?”

He leans in, his scorched face and fetid breath far too close for comfort. “Look at me.”

Max resists. She turns her head as best she can, catching a glimpse of jagged pillars reaching into a blood-red sky, and wants nothing more than to return to running in the darkness. To escape. But the vines are too tight, they pull her back, and she cannot find the strength to sing.

“Look,” Vecna insists, face twisting unpleasantly.

His neck jerks sideways with unnatural speed. Before she can react, Max is yanked up and out of the bloodied sea, up, up, up, then thrown backwards like a rag doll. She crashes into what she now realizes is the pillar behind her, except this time she’s nearly twenty feet off the ground. The vines tighten around things that might be arms; they reach for her feet and neck as well and hold her tight, restrained, facing outward, spread-eagled against rock.

Vecna is rising too, but there are no vines lifting him. Instead, he levitates, the air buzzing around him, bullet holes sparking, clawed hand twisted outward. “Look at me, Max,” he growls, voice so deep the words echo in her chest. “Look at what you’ve done.”

Max tries to find her voice. It had been so easy in the dark forest, so easy when she could sing, so easy with the boy—with Will. Here, though, it feels like something is strangling her, beyond the vines, and she chokes.

Why? she thinks. If I only could—

She can’t, though. And Vecna floats nearer.

As he does, Max, in her desperation to look at anything else, strains for another glimpse at the place in which she finds herself.

It’s not just the sky that’s red, she realizes, not just the blood. Everything is stained: the clouds, the stones, the earth. Other rocks like the one behind her spear upwards from the blood sea, growing in concentric circles, and still more claw down like stalactites from the ruddy sky and float there, suspended in the nothing. To her left, floating, is a much closer oddity: the remnants of a house. Wood, metal, stairs, banisters, floorboards—

And a door.

A door like a dream.

Max has been here before. She knows that now, though the knowing brings no comfort. She tries to reach for the door and the way out it represents, but Vecna pulls her back once again.

“Look!” shrieks the monster, and his arm snaps outwards towards her. The vines pull her back, but Vecna pulls her forward, and the body Max is still discovering feels ready to tear itself apart. “You’re no coward, girl. Look at me.”

It’s not like I have a choice, Max thinks.

The words rise in her throat, closer and closer to the dying air, and the bitter taste of them is somehow sweeter than candy.

“This is my body now, Max,” Vecna rumbles. “Thanks to you. I want you to see it. I want you to understand, because even though you lost, Max, I didn’t hardly win.”

He floats closer. “You will serve your penance for that. You shouldn’t be here, but you are, and like it or not, Max, you are the key to our final victory. You have doors to unlock, my key, oh yes—but you are not yet strong enough. Not while you cannot remember.” He grimaces; focused, dangerous. “So you are going to remember for me.”

He leans in, within an inch of her, expecting a response. Instead, she spits in his face. Vecna rears back, disgusted, a flash of fury sparking in his eyes, and Max is filled with a vicious sense of satisfaction.

As she does so, something else rises into the space where her mouth should be. It shapes the bitterness she feels, and as she searches for a way to explain the feeling, the word tongue springs to Max’s mind. With it comes memories: of laughter. Of yelling. Of joking. Of crying. Of speaking.

Something about attacking Vecna did make her remember something: how to use her voice.

And Max is pretty sure her voice is her weapon.

“No,” she hisses, tearing her forgotten lips apart, and a thrill of excitement runs through her at the sound. “Fuck you.” Her voice is raw and ragged, torn by screams and whispers—but it’s hers.

The anger in Vecna’s gaze fades to amusement, and his long, clawed hand gestures dismissively in her direction.

And Max falls.

It’s not a long fall, but it’s long enough to hurt. The vines drop her, and her flickering body scrapes along the stone far too many times before landing in the wetness below with a shriek and a crunch.

Vecna descends beside her with far more control.

“Look at you, Max,” he says. His face is impassive, but there’s an odd edge of pride in his words. “You’re speaking. Such progress, already.”

Max, fighting back the pain, pushes herself to her knees. “I won’t help you,” she forces out, and with each word she feels stronger. “Not now, not ever, no matter what you do."

“Oh, Max,” Vecna says, utterly unbothered. “You don’t even realize it, but you already have.”

“I’d never help a piece of shit who’d bring kids to a place like—” The words are pouring out of her like water now, and she’s planning, she’s preparing as she yells. She’ll attack him, she’ll kick his legs out from under him, she’ll jab him in those glowing wounds, she’ll rip out his…

Vecna seems to sense her intention, though, and rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Get up.”

A gesture, and Max is ripped off the bloody ground into silence. Like a bored sculptor, Vecna shifts her body as he pleases, until Max is forced into a bizarre facsimile of standing. Posed, toyed with, like a doll.

“You are strong,” Vecna continues, as if nothing has happened. “You are stubborn. I respect that, Max, believe me I do. But I am in charge here. And, as much as I would love to continue watching you struggle, I’m afraid we have a date to keep.”

He turns away and begins walking towards one of the other pillars in the stone circle. As he moves, Max’s body drags behind him, through the blood, still frozen in its bizarre pose. She tries to open her mouth, to curse him out once more, only to realize with devastation that for the second time she no longer has one.

“No more of that,” Vecna says casually, as if they’re on a walk in the park. “Plenty of time for talking once you’ve opened a few doors for me. For now, though, you’re going to be quiet. We mustn’t keep Chrissy waiting.”

Chapter Text

Dear Will,

I wish we’d gotten the chance to be better friends.

I don’t know, maybe I’m off base. But I always got the impression that the Party was never really about us. Sure, I got there later than you, but man, it was weird as hell to watch the way the guys treated you last summer. I yelled at Lucas a bunch about that, hoping he’d apologize (I know, I should’ve done it sooner. I’m bad at this.) But then you moved, El went with you, and yeah. Any hope things could change went out the window.

I hope California treats you well, at least. It was a mixed bag for me. No inhuman monsters there, which is a point in its favor. Just regular people ones. From the little the guys have told me about your past, you probably know enough about regular human pieces of shit to fill a dozen sketchbooks, so I figure you’ll be fine. I just hope moving means you don’t have to fill any more.

Mike showed us some of your old artwork after you left. Please don’t kill him (or maybe do, I don’t know. It’s Mike.) If I’m saying everything I need to say, then I have to say something about how talented you are. Everything about your work screams how much you love your friends; how much you see them. If I’m honest, I’m a little jealous you managed to stay like that even after the Upside Down. I mean, I haven’t even been there and it’s fucked me up. Coming out the other side with… god, it’s cheesy, but love, I guess… is really admirable.

I wonder if maybe that’s why the others can be such assholes sometimes. It’s not that they don’t care about you. They miss you so much, I know that. We all do. But they can be such kids, and you’ve been through so many things they can’t really relate to… 

God, we would’ve had so much to talk about. But then again I figure that’s what the letter’s for.

What I’m trying to say is that you’re a good person, Will Byers, even if no one else sees it. You accepted me into the Party right away, and you weren’t even in love with me like Lucas or Dustin were. You’re always willing to sacrifice your own happiness for the rest of us, even if you really should have more self-respect. And most of all, you treat El like she deserves the world. Every letter I get from her has something in it about her cool new brother, about how he makes her feel like she belongs. She’s my best friend, Byers, and she’s strong as hell, but when things get tough she deserves to have someone by her side. If I’m not around to give her that… it’s good to know you will.

I guess I’m sorry I never reached out more. I’m sorry El and I left you with those assholes all of last summer, I’m sorry I couldn’t have gone to California with you guys, and I’m sorry I couldn’t show you two everything I used to know to make it feel more like home.

Next time we’re all in the same state, I’m taking you out somewhere for milkshakes. El too. I’ll tell you this shit in person, and then the three of us are going to have fun. I want to see you smile, Byers, like things are okay for once. We’ve all been through enough, you more than anyone, so that’s the least we deserve, right?

If we ever see each other again, that is. If this undead douchebag really does get me, Will… I hope that’s the last of it. I hope the Party kills him, closes the Upside Down, and saves the world. I hope you and El actually got the chance to escape. I hope you can live your lives without having to constantly look over your shoulder for monsters, human or not.

I hope you can be happy.

Your mom seems great, at least. Trust me, that’s a win.

Stay cool, Byers.

Love,

 Max

Joyce Maldonado is late for class.

The halls of Hawkins High are cavernous to a new freshman. (Or is she a sophomore? A junior? A senior?) The building is confusing enough to traverse at the best of times, regardless, and running late doesn’t help.  

She’s got a paper to turn in. She’s unsure whether or not she did it, and if she did do it, it’s probably not very good, and that means she’s probably going to fail—

But there’s no point in worrying about it if she can’t find the classroom.

Even while running, Joyce can’t help but sneak glances into the rooms she passes. Some are full of students, doing what students do in a clamor of hands and voices. Some are empty but for teachers at their desks. Mrs. Harken grading papers. Mr. Argent writing some equation on the board. Others are full of lab equipment that certainly doesn’t belong there, covered in rot and surrounded by corpses.

None of them, not even the ones filled with bodies, phase her. A little strangeness is par for the course these days, she thinks, though what ‘these days’ means, she’s not sure.

Again, it doesn’t matter. No time for introspection.

She’s wandered too far, though. The thought hits her suddenly. Now she’s lost, and the halls twist and turn at nauseating angles. She follows the looping paths of tile and brick, confidence in her directional skills fading, until finally she stumbles, exhausted and desperate, into the AV Club room. At least there she can ask Bob for directions. Bob is good at directions.

“Hey, Bob,” she begins. She’s about to relax under his welcoming smile… until she takes in the rest of him.

Bob… he should be young, right? They’re in high school, so he shouldn’t have wrinkles around his eyes. He shouldn’t be balding. His teeth shouldn’t be stained red. And he shouldn’t have a giant, gaping wound in the center of his chest, insides leaking out onto the floor.

“Hiya Joyce,” Bob says cheerfully, unaware that he should be dead. “Lookin’ for something?”

Her blood runs cold. She wants to scream, but the moment she opens her mouth to do so something wraps around her ankles. Cold. Wet. Warning.

“Sorry, Bob. It’s nothing. Wrong turn. See you tomorrow.”

And she’s running through the halls again.

Now it’s a test she’s late for. Maybe chemistry—she never was any good at chemistry—or just science in general; concepts of something. Electromagnetic fields. Infection. Fleas on a tightrope.

Outside the snow is falling, thick and heavy. She can see it through the windows, clinging to the empty cars and fallen bodies in the streets. They’ll call a snow day soon, she figures glumly, no point in rushing anymore. The test is probably over by now, anyway. Resigned to her fate, Joyce slows down and stumbles towards the auditorium. If she’s going to miss the test, the least she can do is work on her show instead.

She slips inside and makes her way backstage through the dark, fumbling for her bearings. The ghost light beyond the curtain casts a harsh white pall across the floorboards, beams sliding coldly underneath the grand drape. It highlights the props and set, and their edges flicker unsettlingly.

Joyce whistles to herself, a familiar song, uncertain, reassuring, as she does inventory. She knows on some level that she can’t have heard the song before, but she whistles it anyway, running down her checklist as the notes echo off the walls and up into the dark.

It turns out a prop’s missing; the lead’s journal. She pushes through the heavy curtain, out onto the empty stage. Maybe an actor left it behind—that sort of thing happens all the time. To her surprise, though, the stage isn’t empty. Just outside the shadow cast by the ghost light is the form of another student. Bent over. Shaking.

Sobbing, Joyce thinks at first.

“Hello?” she calls hesitantly, tiptoeing closer. Her voice is muffled in the black.

As she approaches, she takes in more of the figure’s details. It’s a boy, with short, tightly combed dirty-blond hair and a plaid shirt. Plain. Normal. She starts to approach him, to say hello again, hi, are you okay, is everything alright? What can I do to help? Her mouth is already open to speak when she realizes the boy isn’t crying. He’s laughing.

It’s an unnatural noise. Choked, strangled, each heaving breath followed by a shuddering, glottal rattle. Joyce recoils slightly as the laughter turns into something less human, but it’s only when she notices he’s leaning over a corpse that she starts to back away.

The body on the floor is someone she knows. She shouldn’t know them, not yet. She hasn’t seen horror, and evil, and injustice beyond incomprehension; no, she hasn’t seen this girl before… but Joyce still knows her name.

Eleven Hopper.

She stumbles back from her daughter’s body, trips, falls. As she pulls herself back up, ready to run, the corpse ripples. Its face and skin twist in a rictus grin, and suddenly it changes. Taking on a new identity.

Michael Wheeler. Her son’s best friend.

Another ripple.

Now it’s Dustin Henderson.

Ripple.

Lucas Sinclair.

Ripple.

Jim Hopper—first a boy, then a man.

Each one is dead, each one bloody, rotting and empty. Joyce wants to run, wants to scream, wants to cry, but the shadows are full of writhing vines and if she moves, they’ll find her.

Not them, Joyce thinks frantically, not them, please, not my family—

The corpse ripples again:

Jonathan.

Bob.

Nancy.

Steve.  

Karen.

Eddie.

Everyone she’ll ever know, everyone she’ll ever care for, dead on the floor, one by one, and she can’t save them.

But that’s not right. It can’t be. She’s Joyce Maldonado, after all. No—she’s Joyce Byers, and she’s going to stop this, she will save the people she loves, because that’s what she does.

Gritting her teeth and tearing her gaze away from the body, Joyce steels herself and strides forward towards their killer. She’s going to pull him around to face her, she’s going to give him what for, she’s going to get his name. In the instant before she does, however, the answer runs through her like lightning, like cold fire:

Henry Creel.

Memories, of dead animals, of strange voices on the radio, of a falling girl.

Of Vecna.

He turns, and Joyce prepares herself for something terrible. She’s not prepared enough, it turns out, because it’s not Henry’s face the boy is wearing.

It’s Will’s.

Her little boy, her beautiful boy. Twelve years old, and dead.

Will’s eyes are covered in film, empty and searching. His skin is clammy and grey, and black veins shoot up from his throat and scatter across his face like lightning.

“Help me,” he chokes out, and though his voice is heavy with pain, his lips ripple open into a bloody smile. “Help me, mommy. Please.”

Joyce hesitates. Something is wrong…

Will’s grin widens, as if he can hear her, then splits. As she watches, frozen, her son’s face peels open all the way to his ears, then tears again at his nose, upwards now, into four petals and a yawning void of fangs and gore. The wound gapes wider, wider, wider, and as it does the thing that once was Will shrieks in the voice of a Demogorgon. Joyce screams, and the corpses scream with her, and the demo-Will lunges forward to tear his mother into pieces—

--and Joyce Byers wakes up, gasping for breath, alive and awake in a dying world.  

MAY 11, 1986

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Joyce stares at the coffee maker in idle wonder. A world where Henry Creel is alive and evil doesn’t feel like a world where something that monotonous should exist, but here it is.

Returning to Hawkins has been one upsetting moment after another—which is saying something, given it’s Hawkins—so she’s trying to forgive herself a moment of relaxation. Normally Joyce wouldn’t be caught dead resting at a time like this, but between her dreams, Hop telling her to take one day at a time, and the house being empty for the morning… yeah, she figures she’ll take what she can get.

Honestly, the coffee maker is stupidly reassuring. It reminds her of better times; after Lonnie left, but before the Demogorgon, times when running late for work or a fever or a missed assignment were the worst things the Byers had to deal with. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend they still are.

The rest of the kitchen shatters the illusion, though. It smells too different, too new and unfamiliar, like cold tile and warm plaster.

To her eternal surprise, Hop had persuaded the government into loaning the Byers’ a new house. It’s a rental, because anything more would be a genuine miracle, and it’s not their old one, but it’s closer to everyone else, on the south end of Cherry, so that’s nice. It’s in a neighborhood Joyce has never considered an option, with split-level floors, whitewashed walls, rooms for each of them, and a kitchen that doesn’t make her feel like she’s going to burn herself or the house down if she makes a wrong move. The house echoes memories of lunch with Karen while the boys played, of the upper-middle-class suburbia a part of Joyce has always wanted and always loathed.

It’s a mixed blessing.

She isn’t comfortable here, that’s for sure. Not least because she knows the house is a sword of Damocles hanging over her head: do as we say and you get a home. Jackson didn’t say that verbatim, to be fair, but Joyce still knows blackmail when she sees it. The neighbors aren’t comfortable with her either; Joyce is well-known in town, has been for a while, and everyone is very aware her family doesn’t belong in a place like this. The kids are happy-ish, though, which is enough to banish the discomfort from the front of her mind. At least Will doesn’t have to bike miles to see Mike; at least Jonathan doesn’t have to drive across town to see Nancy. And El…

Well, El’s not allowed to leave the cabin, so her opinion is on hold.

Joyce takes a sip of her coffee, considers a piece of toast and her adopted daughter’s situation, and decides she’s not hungry.  

It’s like her whole life is being played with, she thinks, stirring her coffee idly. Lose a child. Get him back again. Run away. Come back again. Lose another child. Etecetera. She’s handed some pieces of the puzzle for free: houses, money, escape, over and over again, while the corner pieces are kept just out of reach.

Joyce frowns.

She has Hop back. That’s something. They had a ceremony and everything; the town about lost its mind giving him a hero’s welcome. She can see the happiness in his face, the relief that he had a home to come back to, and it warms her heart. Still, it’s sometimes like the world never ended, and Hop’s so busy with work that Joyce barely gets more than a kiss goodbye on the days he stays over. Every time he leaves, she gets the strange desire to be back in that old church, no one watching, holding each other amongst the peanut butter. It’s an insane idea, yeah, but well. Joyce is used to those.

All the while, the spores are falling.

I’m remembering Russia fondly, Joyce thinks, annoyed. Suburbia is getting to me.

Screw this—she’s going out. Joyce grabs her purse and rushes through the front door, mind only on being somewhere else.

Someone whose name Joyce should probably remember is hauling her car from Lenora to Hawkins. In the meantime, she’s been given a shiny black thing that even further establishes her as an outsider, and she stomps towards it with as much indignation as she can muster. No one’s outside—the military’s got a watchful eye, and they’re not hesitating to cite people loitering outdoors—but Joyce can feel her new neighbors staring as she unlocks the car door. As she puts the automatic transmission into gear.

What must they be thinking?

What is Byers doing in our neighborhood?

She came back when things fell apart, working with the feds. Is this her fault?

Brought her freak kids with her, too.

Why’d she have to end up here?

Joyce grits her teeth and peels out with a screech. They want to think she’s a hick? Fine. It’s not her car, so not her money on the line if she ruins the tires. She’s got a ways to go, too, though she hasn’t processed where she’s going, so the faster the better.

There are two checkpoints between her and the goal slowly forming in her head. The Hawkins Exclusion Zone is separated into quarters, each marked by guard booths and fences or the rifts themselves, movement between them restricted based on need. Whether the need is valid, Joyce thinks ruefully, is entirely up to whoever is on duty.

Not for her, though. If Joyce Byers gets hurt, El stops working, and if El stops working, the whole operation falls apart; therefore, Joyce gets a gold star treatment that makes her stomach turn. She passes the town pool and approaches one of the west gate checkpoints, a ramshackle affair of barbed wire, tarp and plywood that hides the glowing abyss from civilians. She still has to wait in line, at least, and she’s almost relieved when a young man in camouflage excitedly tries to give her a hard time. Then his superior officer interrupts him—“Apologies, Mrs. Byers. Go on ahead”—and she’s on her way.

It’s the same at the southwest checkpoint. Bureaucracy, bullshit, and drama that is entirely unnecessary. What’re they afraid of? Joyce thinks, hand on her forehead, as the second checkpoint’s regiment checks her ID. If a Flayed or Demogorgon wants to get past them, there’s not a goddamn thing these puffed-up idiots are going to do with their machine guns and machismo. She’s not even sure they have flamethrowers. It’s all theater, meant to make Hawkins feel like their government has anything under control at all, and the idiocy of it makes Joyce want to scream.

Still, she eventually makes it through. Drives down the familiar streets, to Cornwallis, then the road her boys used to call Mirkwood. She knows where she’s going now, and parks a little ways away on the side of the road, just in case. There are guards along the roads out of town and roaming patrols, but she can’t imagine anyone bothering with some forgotten houses when the empty hulk of Hawkins Lab sits a half mile away. She sets off through the woods—

And then, suddenly, she’s there.

Her old house.

The shingles are falling off one by one, and vines and dead leaves pile against the walls. A For Sale sign sits forlornly in the driveway. The nice happy family she’d sold it to must have fled the minute the earthquake hit, and she’s a little bitter about it. Guilty, too. She’d left just as quickly, abandoned a place that had been home for over a decade, and now that she’s back, well.

“That place isn’t fit for your habitation, Mrs. Byers. Surely, you’ll be happier up here on Cherry.”

The memory sends an ache racketing through her heart, and the hurt still surprises her. It’s not like this house had been the happiest place ever, but she’d still expected it to be there waiting for her. No, though. She sold it. It slipped away.

She let go.

Not to mention that it would have been infinitely stupid to come back to the place Henry first found her… but here she is, anyway.

The new house leeches off her. The new normal is too much like a bad dream, and Joyce has had enough of those. As she picks up a rock from the driveway and, looking around furtively, launches it through the glass of the front door, Joyce feels like she’s finally waking up. She reaches through, carefully avoiding the shards of glass, unlocks the door, and slips inside. For a moment, one blissful moment, her worries evaporate, and she thinks that maybe things will be okay.

Then she notices the rot, and reality creeps back in. It knocks Joyce to the floor, overwhelmed by memories of an empty house that used to be hers.

Laughter down the hall. Mediocre cooking steaming on the counter. Jonathan’s records shaking the house. Even Chester’s happy bark, now long gone.

Bad things, too. An empty bed. Cops stalking the rooms. Claws ripping out of the walls, creatures slinking around the porch, black painted letters scattered on the wallpaper.

It’s only been a few weeks, but Joyce can see the mold growing in. The burgeoning spring has not been kind to the spores billowing from the Upside Down, but here, in the shade of the forest and without constant upkeep, they’ve found some solace. Black specks and creeping decay speckle the walls; the carpet smells wet and ugly, and the doorframe is starting to sag.

It shouldn’t be this quick, but neglect and Henry are clearly good bedfellows.

This was my house, my home, she thinks again. It’s not fair.

Joyce pulls out a cigarette but doesn’t light it. Putting it to her lips, she imagines ashes growing and then collapsing under their own weight.  

Drip, drip, drip.

For a mad moment she thinks it’s the coffee machine, but no. It’s only something wet and terrible dripping in the sink. The sound reminds Joyce vaguely of a heartbeat; of when the wall behind her was flesh and blood, and beyond its skein of gore was her son, thin, gaunt, freezing, half-dead, screaming for his mother. So close she could almost touch him.

Now he’s been back, to that place, and it’s taken someone else from them. First Will, then Bob, now Eddie.

Joyce lights the cigarette for real this time, needing it desperately, and it shakes in her hand as she laughs.

Sure, she’d had been skeptical of Eddie at first, what with his long hair and crazy clothes. But even if that had been the right take, Eddie had made Will smile. Who cares what he looked like; she hadn’t seen her son like that since they left Hawkins. Now, Joyce wishes idly that she could reach through this wall again and bring Eddie back; hell, bring back everyone they’ve lost. It didn’t work the first time, of course, but seeing Will’s face through that veil… it had been like a response from a wishing well. No harm in hoping for a miracle.

Drip, drip, drip.

Why can’t she be strong, like her kids? Joyce wonders. They’re not coming back here, mourning the past. Jonathan’s subdued, El is hurting, and Will’s heartbroken, sure, but even they are making plans, setting life aside to kill a monster. Joyce, though? She has no idea what to do.

Fight? Probably. Hold her family together? Certainly. She can do those things. She’s done them for years. But still, what can she actually do to stop Henry? She’s just Joyce Byers, along for the ride. She can solve a puzzle like no one else, but when the puzzle is your old classmate who’s become a supervillain…

It’s not fair, she thinks again. It’s not fair that this is all on my children, that they’re the ones who have to carry all this weight. The government makes mistakes, I go waltzing off to Russia to fix one of them, and the younger generation has to pick up the pieces for all of us. I’m their mother, she thinks stubbornly, it should be my job to save them. But what do I do? I yell, I scream, I make a fuss. But I can’t make the monsters disappear, and my kids can. They have. Someday soon, they’ll have to do it again. My children. My kids.

It’s just not fair.

Drip, drip, drip goes the faucet.

And then, with no warning, a familiar creak: footsteps on the porch, the sound of the front door. Joyce flings herself to her feet in a rush: she’s coming up with excuses, tossing aside the cigarette, trying not to look so much like a homeless bum breaking and entering. Wait, she thinks wildly, what if it’s Henry—

“Hey! This is private property,” a harsh voice calls out. “Trespassing is illegal under—”

The voice trails off. “Oh. Um. Joyce?”

Her shoulders slump in relief. It’s Hopper of all people, his strong arms still slightly raised as if for a fight. He looks bewildered, then amused, and as he visibly relaxes the excuses fade from her lips.

“Oh, hey, Hop. Thanks for dropping by. I just finished lunch.”

Hop scratches his stubbly beard, trying and failing to reshape his smile into something more reproaching. “You know, you really should be more subtle, Mrs. Byers. Parking down the road won’t hide you from the patrols’ all-seeing eyes.”

“Narc.”

Hop raises his hands. “Legally, I should cite you.”

“But you won’t.”

“The raccoons are getting pretty good at driving this time of year. I could be barking up the wrong tree.”

“Har har.”

“Still, care to explain?”

Joyce rolls her eyes, not exactly keen on airing her train of thought. “I was thinking.”

“You can think at the cabin too, you know. Or the new place. Less fees if you’re caught, at the very least. Your kids need you whole and un-arrested.”

“Don’t do that, Hop,” Joyce says reproachfully.

“Do what?”

“Go cop-mode. I’m not playing detective, and you’re not the chief of police anymore. Not your monkeys, not your circus.”

“Old habits die hard,” Hop says, shrugging. “Besides, it’s not cop mode. It’s… Partner mode. Boyfriend mode, if you insist.”

Joyce’s lips twitch. “It always surprises me how much of a sap you are. I’m mourning the past, that’s all.”

“Long live the past, the past is dead,” Hop says lightly, raising an invisible glass. “Bum a cigarette?”

Joyce sighs before passing one along wordlessly. Hop lights it in a swift and practiced motion, then joins her on the wall.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he says casually.

“Thanks. I redecorated.”

Both of them look around the empty room, suddenly a little uneasy.

“I kinda hoped it would be you here,” Hop says carefully. “Made the most sense. I didn’t want to have to see some vagrant or Demogorgon squatting in your old place.”

“I had to come back, Hop. This was my home. Cherry isn’t.”

A complicated look flickers across his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry we couldn’t find somewhere better, really.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nice enough. Not your fault, either way.” Joyce takes a long drag on the cigarette. “I’d still be mooching off Karen if it wasn’t for you, and Jackson’s playing us. That’s all.”

“She’s trying, you know. She’s not Brenner.”

Joyce fixes him with a piercing gaze. “You sure about that?”

“No, of course not. But Jackson cares about El, I think. Even if it’s for her own reasons… I believe in that. We want the same thing for once.”

“I don’t think we do. The town’s rotting, Hop, and what are they doing? Playing army?”

“And what should they be doing, may I ask? They’re keeping watch. They’re helping El. Not much the government can do to stop the weather, anyway; the amount of complaints we’ve got about collapsing walls and dead gardens, I swear. Makes that whole thing with Merrill’s pumpkins seem like Disneyland.”

“They can open gates to other worlds, and you’re telling me they don’t have a, a, an anti-spore gun, or something?”

“Apparently not.” Hop snatches and lights a new cigarette. “Trust me, I was shocked too.”

Joyce frowns as she watches the smoke rise. “Should… should we be breathing this stuff in? The spores, I mean. If it’s doing that much damage to the plants… I mean, we wore hazmat suits when we went into the Upside Down.”

Hop grunts. “You should be staying inside.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and tosses it her way. “I know you won’t, though, so here. The cops have been using these. Don’t know that the army’s bothering much, since the kids have been in and out and seem fine, but they’ve got their surgeon’s masks or whatever. Only seems to be plant life and empty places falling apart, anyway. Guess Henry figured it’s easier to destroy what’s already decaying.”

He goes quiet, and they pass the cigarette back and forth for a minute before Joyce breaks the silence.

“Has… has El told you anything? Progress-wise. She’s been… quiet. I’m worried about her.”

A snort. “You haven’t gotten used to that over the year you had her?” Hop’s tone grows a bit more somber. “I’m not allowed to be there when she’s working on the gates. Sure, I wait a block away anyway, but still. They’ve got her working downtown, mainly, and all I know is it’s not working. The portals’re ‘fighting back.’ I think that’s how she put it.” He frowns. “We had the damn Mind Flayer fighting us last time, and she did just fine. Doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“This is different,” Joyce says softly. “In a lot of ways.” She sighs. “I don’t know how to help her, Hop. And I want to. Desperately. I’ve supported my kids through some truly fucked up things, El included. And she’s coping the best she can, but the kind of guilt she’s dealing with… How are you supposed to get someone through that?”

The look in Hop’s eyes is dark and sad. “You don’t help. Nothing helps. You can’t undo the past, and you can’t keep blaming yourself for it, either. Before you say anything, yeah, do as I say, not as I do, I get it, but it’s still true. All we can do is prove to her that she is a hero, that she is loved. That she’s still allowed to be a kid. Give her extra dessert, watch movies with her, see if you can get Will to talk to her. That sort of thing. Just be there, in the background, you know? We can’t force El to feel any kind of way if she's not ready. I’m the tough parent. You’re the kind one, and she needs that support, even if she doesn’t believe it just yet.”

“Since when are you the wise one?” Joyce jokes tiredly. “And I do try. All of that. It still doesn’t feel like enough.”

Gently, Hop covers her hand with his. “I promise you, anything is better than nothing.” He hesitates. “Henry haunting you still?”

Joyce looks away.

“I don’t know if it’s him. But I’ve been having dreams, Hop. Bad ones. About… about everything. About him, and Bob, and Will, and... I haven’t thought about high school in years, you know, but it’s like returning to Hawkins brought everything back.”

Hop nods slowly. “Won’t argue with you there. No one’s been doing much sleeping in the cabin, either.”

Joyce has noticed the bags under his eyes. She wonders what he’s been seeing in his dreams, but can’t bring herself to ask.

“Can’t say I’ve been rested,” Hop continues, “but El has it worse. She keeps waking up screaming. Calms down pretty quick, but… Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to all of us.” His gaze shifts to the wall opposite them, lands on the spots of mold. For a minute he doesn’t speak, remembering.

“Look,” he says finally. “I’ll tell you this. Trauma never gets any easier. You go back to the places where things’ve been lost, and they want to keep you there. You got out before, Joyce. We all have. We all will. We’ll keep doing it, even if it means confronting those places again, but whatever answers we need... Sitting around in the past isn’t gonna magically make ‘em appear.”

“I don’t think that’s right,” Joyce says slowly. “Something in the past made Henry what he is, made us who we are. Something in El’s past gave her the burdens she carries. We all have shit that made us who we are, and we can’t just ignore that.”

“Sure. But you’re dwelling, here, Joyce. You’ve got to act.”

“Don’t judge me, Hop. What else am I going to do?”

Hop looks at her askance. “I’m not judging you, Joyce; lord, I can promise that.” He taps the cigarette butt out against the wall. “I can wave a gun around like any other old fool, shout, the works. You’re different. You say something, and people listen. If they don’t, you make ‘em. This town needs direction. We need direction.”

“I can’t mother my way out of the apocalypse, you know.”

“You ‘mothered’ both me and Will back from the dead, if that’s what you want to call it, so I’m gonna call BS on that one, Joyce.”

“Someday you’re going to catch a wet sponge to the face, and you’re going to nearly deserve it.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Almost as sure as I am that you’ve got a way to save this town.”

Joyce laughs, half amused, half bitter, and it echoes forlornly through the rotting halls. “There’s no plan, Hop. They’re letting the kids finish school here. Jackson eminent domain’ed the whole square, Melvald’s and all, so I’ve got to find a new job. Worst of all, everyone’s still mourning Eddie and Max. We’re all living one day at a time while Hawkins pretends it’s back to some stupid attempt at normal, and I can’t pretend. That’s all.”

“Sure you can. You’re pretending sitting in this dead house helps.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

She nudges him sharply, but not angrily.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Hop says, “Henry could rear his ugly head any day now, and we’ll be back in business.”

“I guarantee you it doesn’t.”

Hop shrugs. “Figures. You got any more cigarettes?”

“Gives you a thrill, huh, Mr. Policeman? Smoking like teenagers in an abandoned building?”

Hop reaches out and his hand hesitates over hers. “Something like that.”

Their eyes meet. “You really think we can do this?” Joyce says softly.

“Two of the strongest women I’ve ever met, fighting the devil with me? No two ways about it, we will. Just because you don’t have a plan yet doesn’t mean you won’t, and once you do, you’re unstoppable.”

“I wish I had your faith, Hop,” Joyce says, leaning into his shoulder slowly.

“Oh, I’ve given up on faith,” he says amiably. “But I have you and the kids. I don’t need to believe in anything else.”

APRIL 18, 1986

They buried Eddie on a Friday.

It came both too soon, and not soon enough: like most things these days.

Like a dream.

First came the cold room filled with bodies. The mortician and the smell of formaldehyde under fluorescent lights, then a sheet removed from a pallet. Will fainted, Jonathan ID’d the body, and El had refused to come.

Then came the bureaucratic nightmare. Eddie had no real family, only an estranged uncle with a different name that he’d never talked about, so there was one to call, no one to inform. No one to pay for the funeral. It had gotten done, of course, one way or another; a cheap headstone bought, a small plot chosen. The cemetery filled up quickly after the earthquake, but a little pushing here and there and everything worked out.

Didn’t mean it was easy. Those days slipped by in a blur. Will had never been so grateful to be a teenager, because it meant he didn’t have to do anything.

Then came the urn—no money for a coffin. Then the guests. One after another, quiet, uncertain.

And then the day itself.

It wasn’t raining—that would have been too appropriate, and it hadn’t rained since the earthquake. Instead there’s fog, air wet and heavy with spores that make Will’s throat feel like closing—

--and suddenly it hits him that it’s happening. He’s here. It’s goodbye. The fog lies heavy on Will’s back, and he fidgets as the Party gathers.

The atmosphere is too much like the Upside Down for comfort, so Will had borrowed one of Mike’s scarves and tied it tightly around his face. Lucas offered everyone his military surplus bandanas, but Will had turned them down, to his growing regret. Through the scarf, all Will can smell is Mike Mike Mike Mike Mike, and right now he’d really rather be thinking about Eddie.

Well, no. He doesn’t want to be thinking about anything. Instead, he pushes his mind outwards and lets his eyes wander.

They land on Karen Wheeler first. She’d driven half of them across town, while his mom drove the other half. Mrs. Wheeler looks like sticking around is the last thing she wants to do right now, but Will knows the woman’s sense of neighborly decency at least requires she drop them off in person. Her face saddens when it lands on Will, and she looks away quickly before hopping back into her car. He grimaces, the forced emotions she always wields grating against his mind like sandpaper.

Nearer by, El shifts to grab her brother’s hand. She has a Mike scarf of her own, and though she clearly wants to say something, her check-in is silent. A squeeze, an are-you-good-enough-to-go-on? Will hesitates before squeezing back. No. Not really, the gesture says, and El stares at him, eyes wet, for a minute too long. She glances away, and the moment is broken.

El has been stuck in the cabin these days, alongside Steve and Hop, in the moments she’s not working. Being let out for the funeral was something of a miracle, and one Will is deeply grateful for. When Dr. Owens had reassured his sister that Jackson was on their side, El had wanted to be at least a little hopeful that one of the bad men she could maybe, just maybe, trust. Then they locked the doors for good when she couldn’t find Vecna right away, when she couldn’t close the gates, and that hope began to collapse. Sure, they said the cabin was safer—fewer people watching—no chance of a surprise attack—better if you don’t leave—better with soldiers at the door. That sort of thing. Will wants to believe Owens about Jackson, he does. Still, that stuff doesn't scream 'safe' to him, and the idea of El’s first home being turned into a prison makes him want to scream.

She told him everything before she had to go back, in the quiet moments they could steal. How Vecna was hiding from her. How he was stronger, somehow, even while hurting; how the Mind Flayer and something almost worse hid in the darkness ready to consume her. How the gates fought back, and how every foot she stole back from the Upside Down would reopen the second she left. How each time, that opening would be just a little bigger.

It makes sense. Vecna isn’t dead. He’s still watching Will, after all. Still fighting. Why wouldn’t he go for El, too? Still, it’s the waiting that kills them, not the lurking fear, and El looks almost as hollow as Will does these days.

On the other side of her, as always, is Mike. He’s holding her left hand and looking somewhere into the middle distance, as if Eddie’s just on the other side of the dark tendrils waiting for them. The dark-haired boy has done his best to be there for both of them, and his infuriatingly sweet mediocrity helps, if just a little. Mike is too good to exist in this new world, so Will and El dance around him delicately, reveling in the feeling. Still, Will can feel his own orbit widening.

It’s okay, he reminds himself. It’s the right thing to do. He can do this, for El. For Mike.

He’s determined that he won’t let it break him.

Behind them, Dustin, Lucas, and Robin stand together, wielding an uncomfortable silence. Will’s glad they came. Even if they didn’t know Eddie, not really, they belong here. Eddie saved them all. It’s only right that the whole Party showed up.

Well, except for Max.

You’re a good person, Will Byers, even if no one else sees it. That’s what she’d said.

Am I, though? Will thinks, scanning the faces of his friends. A part of me is happy we’re all miserable. That I’m not alone. Isn’t that fucked up? Isn’t that bad?

It’s been hard to know which thoughts are his, these days, versus those of the crawling voices in his head.

He’s distracted by the sound of Jonathan and Nancy off to the side of the parking lot, talking about something. Probably Steve, or their slowly collapsing relationship. Maybe both. As he watches, his mom approaches them, whispers something, and gestures back towards the Party. Will’s stomach flips over.

His family’s love sometimes feels like both a curse and a blessing. They’ve been overprotective since they got back, even more than usual. The looks Jonathan shoots him, especially when Mike is around; his mom’s hugs and the smell of failed home cooking… some days, when everyone is watching you, it’s just too much to handle.

He knows his life isn’t the only one rocked by the earthquake. Melvald’s is closed, damaged by the gates then coopted by the army, so Joyce is submitting resumes all around town. Busy, busy, busy. Jonathan has holed up in the Wheeler’s guest room listening to cassettes and the radio, moping over Nancy or something. Despite his reassurance that they’d be closer now, he won’t tell Will a thing about it, and it hurts.

Will wants to shake them both and tell them it’s worse like this, pretending things are fine. That it’s okay to fall apart. How can they coddle him but not themselves?

In the end, though, he says nothing. Lets them fret over him, because one, that sentiment is nothing if not hypocritical, and two, if his family really fell apart, Will knows one or both of them would end up just like him. Quiet, shaking, in a corner, overwhelmed, overstimulated, terrified—and Will can’t take that. Couldn’t after he’d come back, and certainly not now.

So he puts up with the smothering. Just one more thing. Just one more thing.  

And even still, he’s glad they’re here.

“Hey. Kids.”

Will jumps, but it’s just Hopper. Tall, imposing, lean in the mist, a somber look on his face and his hat at his chest.

“Something wrong?” Mike asks worriedly.

“Always,” Hop sighs. “But no, nothing new. Joyce’s just wondering if you all are ready to start."

Ah, yeah. Hop’s here too. To Will’s vague consternation, he’s almost thankful for the man. He still can’t believe the… well, not chief anymore, technically… is alive and dating his mom, but surprisingly he doesn’t hate it.

Hop is no one special, just a tall, gruff, mediocre guy, but Will, who is very much aware that he is also in love with a tall, gruff, mediocre guy, thinks that if Hop can be for his mom anything like what Will wishes Mike could be for him… well, he’ll let it slide. Plus: Hop showed up when Lonnie was being an abusive piece of shit. Hop found Will in the Upside Down. Hop made the Byers feel safe when they were anything but. Hop knows, and that means more than words can say.

Will tries to respond, say yeah, it’s time. But the words stick in his throat.

A few days ago, Hop had pulled Will aside, looking more serious than usual. The cop rubbed his head, hemmed and hawed, then took the plunge.

“Look, I’m not good at this, so let’s pretend I’m doing a great job, yeah?” Hop’s tone was airy but his eyes were soft, his gaze honest. “I’m dating your mom. You know that.” He scratched his beard. “She’s the best damn woman I’ve ever met, I don’t mind saying, but you kids are her life. I know a situation like this can be strange to live through, and I care what you think, you and Jonathan. If you’re mad at me for dating her, for dragging her around on a wild cop chase in the USSR… Look, I won’t be upset, that’s all I’m saying. Say the word, I’ll step aside.”

Will had smiled as best he could. He hadn’t even needed to think about it.

“You make her happy,” he’d said. “I can tell. So it’s okay by me.”

Hop nodded, slowly, looking like he wanted to protest but knowing better.

“I’ll do right by her, kid,” he’d said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “By all of you. I promise.”

Now fog swirls around the man’s bald head, and Will feels a surge of fondness for him.

“Yeah, Hop,” Will says at last. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

El’s hand tightens in his, Jonathan carefully grabs Eddie’s urn from the car, and Will grips the neck of Steve’s old guitar tight enough to leave a mark. Slowly, the little parade follows Hop into the dark.

The moment itself is far too quick. Will lowers the urn into the ground—a solid black thing with gold trim, simple and sleek enough to suit Eddie’s style—and tosses the first clump of dirt with a heart wrenching sense of finality. He’s crying too hard by that point to do any more, so Mike and Jonathan take turns filling in the grave. Even El lends a hand, raising the last pile of earth into the air from a distance and settling it down softly like a blanket.

Then it’s over. Other than a gravestone, it’s like Eddie the Freak never was, and Will hates the feeling with all his might.

Everyone looks at him for a speech, but he can’t make his tongue move. It ends up being El, of all people, who saves him. No one else knew Eddie well enough, true, but it’s still a surprise.

The tightness of her fists betray her certainty, even if the look on her face doesn’t. Will’s sister faces the headstone instead of the crowd, brows furrowed, hesitating a moment as though waiting for something.

“You were a good friend, Eddie,” she says at last. “You deserve more than that, but I don’t know what else to say. You taught me a lot about what it meant to be… a freak. You took care of my brother. You did not see us as monsters. Without you, we would not have made it back to Hawkins in time to…”

She trails off.

“You were a good person too,” El says quietly, changing the subject. “You did not lie, not ever. You did not hurt anyone who did not earn it. You were afraid, but brave anyway. I am like that because I have to be, but you are like that because you are kind.” She bites her lip. “Thank you for letting me be your bard,” El whispers. “I will miss you.”

Then she turns away and walks into the mist. It’s so abrupt that it takes everyone a minute to process that she’s gone.

Hop and Mike exchange glances, slightly panicked, before Hop sighs and takes off after his daughter.

The silence lingers.

“You, uh.” Lucas clears his throat, and Will comes back to earth. “You said you had something you made, right, Will?”

And he did. Will had been prepared. Will had written a song, a shitty little thing of his own, something he’d practiced on Eddie’s guitar while he was out selling weed or something. Will had wanted to show him, before everything fell apart. Will had needed to show him. Even though Will was an artist, not a musician, he’d tried, he’d really tried… because Eddie believed in him.

Then the world ended, and Eddie died. So, Will has to do it now, or there will be no other chance.

He tries to muster up some courage. He knows Eddie would want that—he’d have been darting around, cracking jokes throughout the whole ceremony. “Why so quiet, everyone? This isn’t The Fog. Why’re you crying over me, come on, don’t be stupid, it’s just Eddie the Freak.”

You’re the stupid one, Will thinks morosely. He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes, and though he tries to bury his emotions, he just can’t.

“No,” he croaks. “I… I think I just need some time with him. With, uh. With Eddie. Please.”

He can feel his Party’s eyes on him. Kind. Worrying. Caring. He wants to scream.

“Alone,” he says. Then curses himself, because he doesn’t really want to be alone…

But, suddenly, he is.

And Will hates it. He hates the emptiness, the loneliness; and conversely how full of emotion his body is. He hates how much he cries, how often he’s sick; he hates that seeing his friend’s corpse made him pass out. He hates that his mind isn’t under his control, and that no matter how far he goes he can’t escape the haunting feeling that, had he just been a little weaker, he’d have been Demogorgon food and everyone else would be fine.

Barb would be fine.

Bob would be fine.

Max would be fine.

Eddie would be fine.

But that’s Will: sometimes too weak to die, sometimes not weak enough.

Figures.

It’s always there now, that creeping feeling at the back of his neck. Certain he is a failure, certain he is evil, certain he will fail. He can’t even escape it by sleeping, so the bags under his eyes have grown ever deeper, and the epithet Zombie Boy rings through the hollow fog like a reminder. He can feel them, his friends, his family, the soldiers, everyone, looking at him, wondering, afraid, hesitant. Vecna—Henry—laughs in his ears, even though he should be comatose, should be hurting, asking: Will you snap? Can you take this? Will you be next?

Nausea rises up in his throat, and darkness flickers at the edge of his vision. Will I snap? Will I snap? Will I snap? Will, Will, Will, Will…

Before he can stop himself, Will’s sitting down in the wet soil, facing Eddie’s grave. He rests his fingers awkwardly on the strings and begins to play.

It’s not metal, like Eddie usually preferred. It’s not rock either, or punk, or anything he can name. Jonathan could probably classify the genre if he were here. But he isn’t, and Will is, and to Will whatever he’s playing sounds like sadness.

Kind of like the Beatles: “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” Will’s fingers slide and stumble through the chords, and the mist pulls him close, tucked in against the void.

It’s soft, and short, and Will doesn’t think he did a very good job, but he’s crying by the end of it.

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” he sobs. “I’m sorry I can’t be who you want me to be. I can’t lead people. I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t inspire them the way you did, because I’m just not strong enough. I’m sorry.”

He buries Eddie’s minifigure of Will the Wise deep in the dirt.

And then he’s walking away.

And then he’s surrounded by his friends.

And then they’re driving home.

And then Eddie is really gone, and Will goes back to a quiet house and a quiet life of waiting and terror and emptiness, while the one person who saw all of him and stuck around after rots in ashes under the cold dark earth.

APRIL 25, 1986

It’s been a week since the funeral. Will’s still in Mike’s house, sitting on Mike’s bed, fully clothed, the sheets chilled by the unnatural cold seeping through the window.

He can’t help remembering. He can’t help the fog seeping into his bones, the jittering melody of his song echoing in his ears, hopefully reaching Eddie wherever he is now.

Things were awful at the cemetery, but they made sense. It was like being in the Upside Down. An endless moment of fear and pain, followed by the clarity that comes with ending.

Here, there are two letters on the edge of the bed, neither of which he knows if he deserves, and those letters are worse than any ending.

One is from Max. Dear Will—I wish we’d gotten the chance to be better friends.

That letter still makes him queasy.

The other is from the Hellfire Club. Dear Will—you’re joking, right? It’s not funny.

That letter, much newer, actually made him vomit.

He had responded regardless, of course. He couldn’t stop himself. The paper was tear stained as he explained that, yes, their DM and friend was dead. No, he wasn’t joking. Please, please believe me.

I’m so sorry.

Will included a lovingly taken picture of Eddie’s headstone, courtesy of Jonathan. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if or when he hears back from Hellfire, but the nightmares about it are almost as bad as those of Eddie’s death itself. Instead, he tries to focus on Max. Her letter was friendly. Nice.  

Too nice. He can rebut that sort of attitude all day, and plans to, because it’s easier than the alternatives.

“Max,” he says, as if she can hear him. He’s trying to look at the ceiling instead of the letters—he’s read them both a million times by now—but he can’t avoid them. “I don’t understand. You say I’m kind, but that’s because I’m too scared to be anything else. You haven’t seen me when I’m mean. And I am mean. I’m selfish. I’m angry. I’m not a good friend, Max; I’m jealous of my sister and I replaced my Party and I’m falling apart over stuff El has lived through every day of her life. You only think I’m kind because you barely even knew me.”

He bites his lip and drops his head into his hands. “It’s not fair. You had just gotten away from Billy. You had just gotten the chance to escape. And then I got away too, I did escape, and, and now you’re…” He chokes. “And now Eddie’s dead, and that hurts more than the fact that you’re gone, and I feel awful because you were there first and you clearly cared about me and you’re still alive. I’m not a good person, Max. I’m not.”

Will wants to crumple up the letter, he’s wanted to for days, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“At least Hellfire sees me for what I really am,” he mumbles, running his hand over their harsh and disbelieving message. “Figures. I thought I could be somebody besides Zombie Boy in California, but I guess I am who I am no matter where I live.”

He wants to scream, to cry, maybe; wants to scrape at the tears to stop them from falling, but there’s a knock on the door.

Oh. Right. Everyone was going to meet up today. Watch something in the basement. Commiserate. Try to think of more ways to help El. Will has responsibilities.

He’s the only one who still has that connection to Vecna, after all.

“Come in,” he mumbles, resigned to his fate.

The door creaks open, and, because Will can never catch a break, it’s Mike.

His hair is even longer by now. Mrs. Wheeler keeps complaining, but Mike’s shown no signs of complying with her orders for a haircut. He brushes his bangs out of his eyes, peeking around the door, and looks in uncertainly.

“Um, hey, Will. Lucas just got here. I came up to let you know.”

Of course, Will thinks unfairly. You say you want to be best friends again, but the others have to force you to come and get me.

“You know, it’s your room,” he says instead. “You don’t have to knock.”

“Of course I do! What if you were changing, or something?” Mike says in exaggerated horror. As usual, he doesn’t notice the subsequent look on his friend’s face. “You ready to go?”

Will sighs, resigned. “Yeah. Sure. Let me just get my shit together.”

He goes to get his walkie by the desk. The few things he owns are still scattered in California-postmarked boxes, but this one he’s prioritized. You know, for emergencies.

Mike fidgets as Will collects stuff, intentionally taking his time.

“Are—are you doing okay?” he tries.

Will does not acknowledge him.

“About… about Eddie, I mean.”

Will’s back tenses up. This Mike sees, and he backpedals quickly. “I mean, don’t talk about it if you don’t want to. But the last time I saw El she was really torn up, and she was worrying about you anyway. She has me, I guess, and you’ve been kinda avoiding everyone lately, so I figured…”

Goddammit. “I’m fine, Mike. It sucks. That’s all.”

“Sure. He was awesome, he really was.” More fidgeting. “I heard the song you played at the funeral, by the way. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise, but the sound carried and I was last to leave, and… He taught you that, right? I didn’t know you played guitar.”

Will turns, supplies in hand, tired. “I don’t. Not really.”

“It sounded nice. Good, I mean.”

You don’t mean that, whisper the voices in Will’s head. He ignores them.

“Thanks. I wrote it.”

“Woah, really?”

Will spares a glance over his shoulder. The look on Mike’s face reminds him of when he first saw his gift. That painting. Like he can’t believe Will could ever make something so beautiful.

A beat, and Will has to bite back the feeling. He wants to be mad at Mike, because Will is a bad friend, but there is no condescension in Mike’s face to support that anger. “You think?” he asks, a note of hope slipping into his voice.

“I dunno,” Mike responds, a little flustered, “but I’ve got the musical skills of a deaf chipmunk, so. I think it was awesome.”

“Idiot.”

“Guilty.”

“You’re right,” Will admits. He can feel Mike softening his edges, wearing down the voice that wants him to fall apart. Like Mike always does. “Eddie taught me to play. Tried, anyway. He… taught me a lot of stuff. A lot of things about… life… that I hadn’t really figured out yet. About being different. That being different can be good.”

Like you did, Will thinks.

Pathetic, the darkness chips in.

Mike nods vigorously, in the way he does when he’s trying to follow along and failing. “That’s good. Like, how Steve is for Dustin, right?”

“Ugh, Mike,” groans Will. “No. You met him. He’s nothing like Steve.”

“I mean, Steve’s a moron, but his skills got Dustin Suzie, so he’s gotta know something.” Mike shrugs. “Eddie was a handsome guy; I bet he knew all about picking up girls. I really am glad you had him around.”

Will has to bite the inside of his mouth hard enough that it bleeds. That does not mean what you think it means, he reminds himself, and the voice this time is his own.

“I guess. Yeah. I’m glad I had him, too. Being around Eddie… it reminded me a bit of us when we were younger.”

Well, now he’s saying the stupid shit out loud. Will turns away hurriedly and grabs some more random crap off his desk to pretend he’s doing anything else.

Behind him, Mike opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I guess we should get going?” Will offers, turning around, trying to play it cool. “Don’t want to keep the guys waiting.”

“Yeah,” Mike says. Will hurries past him out the bedroom door, but before he can vanish downstairs into his inadequacy, Mike reaches out and grabs his arm.

“Hey. Will.”

Will feels the blood rising to his cheeks. “What?”

“I know it’s probably a bad time,” Mike starts, and his words come tumbling out in a harried jumble. “But I know you got to play D&D with Eddie, and his Party was cool, and the last time we talked about it I was kind of a dick… It’s been ages since, like, the original Party members were together, though, right? So I thought maybe we could do a campaign. Together. Like, you, me. Lucas. Dustin. In between hero stuff. You could show us some of the things Eddie taught you. Maybe one of his campaigns. Keep him alive. It could be, you know.”

Mike comes up for air. “Like when we were kids.”

Will stares. A part of him wants to scream, no. No. No. No. A part of him remembers what happened the last time he played D&D with Mike, remembers what that did to their friendship, and the idea of dealing with that while running one of the campaigns he wrote with Eddie… it makes Will sick.

Except… this time, Mike is asking. It’s not Will being immature.

It’s Mike who wants to play games in his basement.

And Mike did say that he wanted to be friends again.

I hope you can be happy, says Max. With Mike nearly holding his hand, Will wants to believe it could happen, even though it really shouldn’t.

Oh, well. It’s not like Will’s ever liked giving up around Mike.

“Alright,” he says slowly, lips betraying him and quirking up in a faint smile. “Yeah. If you want. For Eddie.”

Mike’s face splits open in a grin, beaming like he hasn’t since the earthquake. “Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like music. “For Eddie.”

Chapter Text

JUNE 21, 1986

When El first sees the painting, she thinks nothing of it; just another piece by Will littering her boyfriend’s bedroom. If anything, it's a sign they’re getting closer again, and that's a good thing. El's been worried about them.

Then Mike opens his mouth, and that feeling changes.

It’s nearly the Fourth of July. Almost a year since Hopper’s apparent death, and three months since the earthquake. The double anniversary is making everyone more nervous than usual—everyone but El. She should be worried, and she is a bit, but more than that she’s excited.

Today is her first day off.

There’s been no sign of One; no monsters, no possessions. Only the creeping growth of the gates. Thanks to the burgeoning summer heat, the sheer mass of spores has declined significantly, so Jackson deemed it safe enough for El to leave the cabin. She can visit her friends, breathe for a week or two, get ready: just in case Henry decides to pull something on the Fourth.

El was relieved beyond belief to hear it. She’s been so tired.

Of course, her first stop is Max.

A blank-faced chauffeur drives El to the hospital. They take the closest thing to a civilian vehicle the army owns, a sleek black Cadillac that isn’t fooling anyone. Even on her day off, Hop can’t drive her around, so it’s emotionless men and long black cars for El. Escorted everywhere like property. If she weren’t going to see her friends, she knows that would upset her more.

Nothing has changed at the hospital except an increase in patients. Same white halls that echo the lab, same softly beeping machines, same comatose friend. El holds Max’s hand and remembers, same as she always does. It’s uncomfortable, and fruitless, but at least Max is breathing. El tries to let that fact reassure her.

The next stop, and the most anticipated, is Mike’s.

This time the chauffeur drops her off without a word. El isn’t required to have a babysitter at the Wheelers’, if only because Jackson knows the rest of her schedule and expects it followed to the minute. Still, the moment the door flies open and the car drives away, El’s heart lights up for the first time in way too long. Finally, she can be alone with her boyfriend, if just for today—

And El is halfway-happy.

Mike greets her with a crushing hug and drags her inside. He’s over at the cabin as often as he’s allowed, but he still leads El around the house like they haven't seen each other for years. From the sink, Mrs. Wheeler watches them putter around with her usual detached amusement.  

“And, and, Mom got a new set of napkins—don’t laugh, El, it’s, like, a fashion statement, keeping up with appearances or whatever—but Holly spilled an entire bowl of soup across the table and ruined all of them.”

“Did not,” says Holly. She’s sitting on the basement stairs with a book.

“Did too,” Mike shoots back.

“Mike wouldn’t pass it so I had to reach.”

“I didn’t hear you ask.”

“The Hatter says you’re a liar, liar, pants on fire.”

Mike sticks out his tongue at his younger sister, then shoots a glance at El—like, can you believe her—and El has to bite back a smile. Though the all-too-familiar pang of guilt tries to sneak into her head, she pushes it away. Today she is determined to be happy.

Oblivious, Mike resumes his tour—

And then they’re in his room, on his bed; side by side, elbows touching. Mike is showing off his newest X-Men comic, dramatically reading each panel out loud. Ever since El mentioned her growing attachment to superhero fiction, Mike has made sure to nerd out about it as often as possible. Honestly, it's charming. El carefully intertwines her legs with his, and though her boyfriend doesn’t stop reading, that classic, blotchy red blush creeps up the back of his neck.

In the comic, Professor X is gathering the X-Men for a big fight. It reminds El of her own life. Comics are the only other place people like her exist, and the more she reads about them, the more she can imagine that she is Jean Gray, or Storm, or Wonder Woman, and not just the failure that is Eleven Hopper. When she’s with Mike, El can exist in that world without the burden of reality.

Plus, Mike is handsome when he’s focusing. There’s an intensity there that Eleven loves and so rarely sees, so if reading with him is a good excuse to watch it happen… well. Who’s to blame a girl for trying?

Mike tries to change positions, but El throws a leg over his back to stop him. He glares at her and pretends to struggle.

“Oof, ow, oh no, I’m dying,” he gripes. “How can I get the next issue if I’m trapped?”

“I like you where you are just fine.” She pokes him with her foot. Then, more sincerely, she adds: “I wanted to thank you for having me over, Mike. This is nice.”

Mike stops joking, his eyes shining as they meet hers. “Yeah, of course! I’ve missed seeing you around the house. Makes me feel like I’m hiding you again, like back in middle school.”

El grins and rolls off of him, landing face to face. “I like that feeling.”

Mike kisses her. It’s slow, soft, and sweet. Mike can be such a gentle kisser when he wants to be (not that, El reflects, she’s had any other experiences to compare it with), but gentle or not, he’s always kind, and it's a stark comparison to his usually uptight self. People are usually rough with El—but not Mike.

He pulls away slowly, grinning back. “Well, get used to it, because now that I’ve got you here, I’m never gonna let you leave.”

“Oh no,” smirks El. “I am shaking.”

Mike laughs and flips over onto his back. El cuddles into him, ready for more X-Men, but suddenly Mike’s eyes lock onto something. He sits up, softly pushing El’s leg off his chest. She mock-pouts, but he’s no longer paying attention.

“Oh, yeah, shit.” He gestures up above his bed, and there it is: that painting she’d noticed. A dragon, if she remembers the word correctly, and her friends in strange outfits. “This is the first time you’ve seen it up, right?” Mike asks.

El nods, unsure where this is going. “Will is very talented.”

Mike beams. “Right?! I never had a chance to thank you for commissioning it. God, El, it… and the way Will gave it to me… it means so much, you know? I keep thinking about what he said. That you think I’m the heart of the Party; that you both have my back, no matter what. So, yeah, I guess, here’s my super belated thank you.”

El loses him halfway through. “I am sorry, ‘commission?’” She has no idea what he’s talking about.

Mike hasn’t realized that yet. “Yeah, you know, art made to order,” he explains, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. He’s in desperate need of a haircut, El knows, but she thinks it suits him—and she vaguely wishes her hair was that long again. “I’m just really glad you asked Will to make it,” he finishes.

Something starts to click into place in El’s head.

“When did I… commission this, again?”

A flash of worry crosses her boyfriend’s face for the first time. “Uh, at some point before Spring Break, right? As a present? Will showed it to me on our way to find you at NINA, I hope that’s okay.”

El bites her lip. “Oh. Yes.” She can still taste Mike there, and the distraction doesn’t help. “Mike,” she says finally. “I…”

He watches her, suddenly uncertain.

The look on his face is… El isn’t sure what it is. She hears Mike’s voice in her head, emotional, scared. One day you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore.

She didn’t commission this. She’s never seen this painting before in her life. But the timing… Will had been painting something in the month or so before Mike came, something she never got to see. And Will shows her everything. The way he’d reacted when she’d asked… it reminded her of Dustin and Suzie. Of Max and Lucas.

Of Mike, trying to cover for buying her a present.

El remembers a conversation on Will’s bed, about boys who like boys. She remembers the promise she made to herself that day, and a little fire ignites inside her chest. She didn’t know that promise had anything to do with Mike.

El has to fight the urge to throw something.

She can’t tell Mike, though. She just can’t. Plus, what if she’s wrong? The way he’s looking at her—the fear she’s always felt from him—Mike needs her. Being around each other is like breathing for the two of them; it’s necessary for life. Not only that, but Mike needs Will, too. This painting clearly represents those bonds for him, and El has failed so many people lately, shattered their dreams and broken their certainties…

No. She can’t do that again.

Not like this.

Not to Mike.

“I’m glad it helped,” she says reluctantly. The words come easy, because she means them—even if it hurts. “You always told me how hard it was without us here in Hawkins. I figured it was the least I could do to remind you how important you are. Will was glad to make it for me, because I know he feels the same.”

Mike’s eyes well up with tears, and he blinks them away forcefully. “Shit, yeah. Ugh, El, you’re so cool. I don’t deserve you, you know that, right?”

El sighs.

“The whole point is that you do deserve me—deserve us. You are… the heart,” El says, and it’s not a statement she would have ever uttered on her own.

Mike blushes deeply. “Th-thanks, El.”

She tries not to cringe.

The whole point of the painting, apparently, is that Mike is Will’s heart.

That angry fire wells up again.

Mike changes topics, moves on, but El can tell he’s emotional. That he’s wanted to share this with her in person, that he’s been holding this anchor of a painting tight to his chest for a while. She is glad she can help, but in what seems to be a pattern, his thanks are totally unearned. El had nothing to do with this. Whatever feelings the painting bring up in him, whatever Will said it meant to her… even if he didn’t lie, those feelings are about Will.

And honestly? El can’t believe it. She can’t believe that her brother, her confidant, would use her name, to what? Flirt with her boyfriend?

El never cared that Will was gay; no matter how much he tried to make it seem like a bad thing, no matter how many times he lied to cover his tracks. She tried to make him feel wanted, because Will deserved that. Now El wonders if that connection meant anything to him. How could it, if he’d do something like this?

No, it doesn’t matter that Will likes boys. That’s not the problem.

It does matter that Will likes Mike.

El looks at the clock. It’s half past four. Way too early to go—she’s only due at the Byers’ for dinner at seven, according to Jackson’s schedule—but all of a sudden, El just needs to move.

“Mike, I am sorry. I have to leave. I just remembered that Joyce needed me to help her with. Dinner plans. Around the house.”

More lies. El hopes they’re not too obvious.

Mike is standing next to his bookcase, sorting excitedly through a pile of comics. He turns at her words, disappointment written blatantly across his face.

I really am sorry, El thinks. Don’t worry. You will have all of me you can get after I deal with this.

“Aw, come on, already? It’s only been a few hours.”

El can’t help but laugh. She got here at eleven thirty. “I will see you tonight,” she says, as reassuringly as she can. “Then I am all yours.”

Mike pouts. It’s practically his signature look. He flounces over to where she’s sitting and collapses around her shoulders. “It’s not fairrrr. It’s been so long since I’ve had you all to myself, without Hop or anyone watching over our shoulders.”

“The door is still open three inches,” El says, teasingly. Mike rolls his eyes, forcing down a grin.

“I wish I could just make you stay,” he groans, laughing.

“You would find that very difficult to do.”

“Aw, come on, traitor. Leaving me for family? Let me walk you to the door, at least.”

He kisses her, but for the first time in a long time, El does not feel reassured.

El paces through the neighborhoods between Mike’s house and the Byers’ new rental in a daze, ignoring the spores and the cracked sidewalks and the darkened sky. She ducks behind bushes and backyard fences if a patrol goes by, sure, but she’s on autopilot.

It’s probably nothing, she tells herself. It has to be nothing. I’m being too suspicious, that’s all. Right?

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say to Will when she sees him—though she’s sure it will inevitably hurt his feelings—but her sense of betrayal is stronger than her guilt.

In the end, El reaches the house far more quickly than she’d like. She’s through the front door and almost to the stairs when Joyce, who is sitting on the couch with the phone book and a journal open in front of her, speaks up.

“El! Honey, why’re you in so early? Weren’t you with Mike?” She frowns. “Is everything alright?”

Her adoptive mother’s concern would normally warm El’s heart. Not today.

“I am fine, Joyce, don’t worry,” El responds automatically. “Mike says hi, by the way. Is Will home?”

“Yes, he’s in his room. I think he’s working on a campaign—” Joyce begins, but El is already gone.

She does not knock on her brother’s door. Marching in, El catches a glimpse of a nest of half-unpacked belongings—art supplies, clothes, memories, all jumbled together—before focusing on Will. He’s sitting at his desk, a handful of dice and D&D handbooks scattered in front of him, and he flips back and forth between each book, deeply focused.

El’s eyes flick over to his easel, currently in the corner, and her jaw tightens.

Will jumps as she bursts in. “El, shit!” A pencil goes flying. “Wh-what’s going on, why didn’t you knock, I’m in the middle of something—"

El doesn’t beat around the bush. She slams the door shut without touching it. “I know that you are in love with Mike.”

Every muscle in Will’s body goes rigid.

Well, I was right about that, she thinks.

Still... she had expected him to be upset. Not whatever this is. El has never seen Will like this, never, and she’s seen him nearly dead in the Upside Down. He’s just sitting there, half turned in her direction; one hand on his knee, fingernails digging into his own skin, the other resting on a piece of notebook paper crumpled up beneath his palm. He’s white as a sheet, and El isn’t even sure he’s breathing.

He’s caught, El knows. He’s trying to escape. This isn’t fear. This isn’t even terror. This is something beyond that, and a curling voice in El’s heart whispers that this is probably how people feel right before she kills them. She has to suppress the sudden surge of both pain and disgust, because here she is, about to fail another of her best friends in the cruelest way possible.

But she has to do this.

“Will,” El says flatly. “He is my boyfriend. I think I deserve an explanation.”

Will makes a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

“Will,” El pushes. “I saw the painting. You told Mike that I asked you to make it. You know, the painting he keeps above his bed? The painting he keeps above his bed that he thinks is from me? I know you did not want me to, Will, but I have known who you are since Lenora. I do not care, and I have kept your secret anyway. Why… why would you do this? Friends don’t lie.”

“El, please. It’s not...” Will’s voice, now that he has found it, is so, so, so quiet. He’s shaking. But El can’t back down now.

“Not what? Not true? What am I supposed to think, Will? You know that Mike and I are together. That Mike loves me! And still, you… you, what? Tried to flirt with him, pretending to be me?”

Will jerks back, and now he’s crying, gross, heaving sobs that wrack his entire body. “Eleven, please, I didn’t mean, it’s not like that—Eleven, don’t be mad at me, don’t hate me, please, I know I’m… Please don’t hate me.”

The last words are a whisper.

El doesn’t move. She waits for him to finish crying.

“I told you,” Will says finally, voice husky from tears. He’s still shaking, but his words are even. Resigned. “Do you believe me now? That it’s wrong. That I’m wrong. I’m a freak.”

El grimaces. “I am not going to pity you, Will. Eddie was a freak. You are a freak. I am a freak. That has nothing to do with bad choices—”

Will flinches, and El backpedals a bit.

“I do not mean that liking boys is a bad choice,” she says hurriedly. “That is not what I am talking about.”

“Sure,” Will chokes out bitterly, and turns away from her. “If freak isn’t the right word, I’ll be the monster of the week. Whatever, I get it. I really do, okay? You can, you can, you can be as mad as you need—”

“Will, do not talk to me about monsters,” El says, irritation spiking. “I kill people for a living, I know monsters. I just want to understand why—”

“You’re not a monster!” Will interrupts loudly, and El jumps at the sudden outburst. Her brother is standing now, breath heaving. “You’re beautiful, and kind, and strong,” he spits out bitterly, “and I’m just a faggot too weak to not be in love with his best friend.”

The words hang in between them like bullets. El might not be familiar with the slur, but she knows enough to put the meaning together.

“Do not call yourself that,” she says grimly. “And do not compliment me to put yourself down. Yes, you told me that it is wrong to be gay, but that is not what is wrong right now, and you know it.” Will’s words are beginning to pull at worries she thought she had put aside. “This whole time,” she asks carefully, “did you only put up with me so Mike would still like you?”

“No!” Will sputters immediately, horrified. “I wouldn’t. I’d never. You’re my sister, El, and, and I… I’ve never fucking dreamed that Mike could love me. Not the way he loves you.”

The words hit El, hard. Even knowing that Will liked Mike, she hadn’t really processed what it meant. That Will saw Mike the same way El did. That he would do anything for Mike, like El would. And that maybe, she realizes suddenly, when she’d complained about how Mike never said I love you in his letters…

El wants to feel for Will. She really does. But if she’s right, that means he had wished Mike away from her. And anger roils in her stomach once again.

“You hoped he might choose you anyway,” she says tightly. “That is why you made the painting. That is why you hid it from me, because you knew I would be upset. That is why I am not in it, why it is all about your other Party. Mike cares about you, Will, even if he does not love you! He always has! Why is that not enough?”

Will stares at her, a cacophony of expressions flashing across his face. The air suddenly grows heavy, taking in breath, like pressure building before a thunderstorm. El waits, expecting tears, maybe. An explanation. An apology.

And then Will starts laughing. His eyes harden, his voice shifts into a tone so unusually cruel that the hair rises on the back of El’s neck, and when he speaks, his voice cuts like knives.

“’Oh, I’m so sorry I wanted him,’ is that what you want me to say?” Will says mockingly, eyes flashing. “Mike, the boy whose ‘life started the day he found you in the woods;’ you know, the day I fucking vanished? Yeah, I know he’d never love me, El, because he’s perfect, and I’m an afterthought, and you’re a goddamn superhero. You make his life into a game of D&D for real, so who needs a Party? Who needs a best friend? What chance would I ever have, when his girlfriend is the Chosen One and your romance is like something out of a movie? No,” Will snarls, “I have to sit back, like the nice little fairy I am, and watch everything I’ve ever loved disappear before my eyes just because you decided it might be fun to free the Demogorgon and Ruin. My. Life.”

El stumbles back, horrified. The sudden vitriol out of Will’s mouth scares her. It’s not cold and threatening like One. It’s not faux love, like Papa. It’s not even mockery, like Angela.

It’s just hatred.

This isn’t Will, she thinks.

But whoever it is, he isn’t done.

“So yeah,” Will says, fists clenched, “I’m sorry I made Mike a fucking painting.” He waves his hands sarcastically. “And I’m sorry I used it to tell him how much you love him, how much you need him; I’m sorry I gave up the boy I’ve loved since I was five because you’re my sister and he’s my best friend and you ‘deserve to be happy’, even if the day he found you in the woods was the day Will Byers fucking died! I’m sorry I spend every waking moment terrified that anyone and everyone I care for is going to figure this out, is going to figure out what I am, and that they’re going to leave me, hate me, just like you do right now—”

El flinches. “Will, I don’t hate you—something isn’t right—”

“It’s not? You sure? Sorry to ruin your idea of our perfect sibling relationship, but guess what? It’s never been perfect! Everything we’ve ever had hinges on this little secret; a secret I never told you, by the way, you’re just fucking psychic and there’s nothing I can do about it! I can’t lie to you. I’ve never even been able to be around you without the fucking fear that you’d pull it out of my head, and you did. Hell, I bet you and Mike spent the whole day laughing about poor, pathetic, queer Will Byers, didn’t you? So go ahead. Do it. Fucking do it. Go out that door and tell my mom, tell Jonathan, tell Hop and Dustin and Lucas and fucking Vecna that I—”

There’s a snap. It’s not a physical sound—El thinks she hears it in her mind—but it’s real. Will’s eyes widen, and now it’s fear, naked, guileless fear, and he slaps his hands over his mouth, shaking. Tears well up, and then Will is sobbing, bent over halfway at the waist from the intensity. He can’t speak, he can’t keep going, because that was it, all of it, rushing out, all at once, all of the hatred and fear and repression and lies he’s buried since his life fell apart at twelve.

He collapses onto his knees and buries his face in his hands.

“El,” Will whispers. “No, El, no, no, no, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it, El, you have to believe me—"

El doesn’t know what to say. Every word, every protest, dries up in her throat at the fountain of viciousness that just sputtered out in front of her. This isn’t the Will she knows. This isn’t the Will she’s lived with for a year. This isn’t her brother. The crying boy in front of her seems, suddenly, like a total stranger.

Except, maybe… maybe he’s not.

Maybe this has been him all along.

You have a wound, Eleven. A terrible wound. And it’s festering.

Kali told her that. Through Papa. Kali, her only other living sibling.

It will grow… spread… and eventually, it will kill you.

Is this what happens? El thinks. Is this what happens when it festers?

Is that what happened to One? Is this what will happen to her, one day?

A blur of feelings whirls around in El’s mind: hurt, sadness, anger, guilt.

She ruined Will’s life.

She summoned the Demogorgon.

She allowed the Mind Flayer to escape.

She let Will get taken, and she let herself fill the space he left behind. The space he’s always wanted, at Mike’s side, the magician, the wizard, the partner. She sat there and watched, oblivious, as Will broke again and again and again, every time she kissed Mike, every time they ran off together, laughing, giggling, holding hands, a violent reminder that she is everything Will can never be.

No wonder he hates her.

Eleven knows it’s not her fault. She knows Will is hurting. After all, she does remember what being gay means. She remembers going to the library after he laid it all out, reading up on just what, exactly, the world does to people like Will—something not unlike what they did to her.

But it’s all just another thing she’s broken. Every year she lives, every breath she breathes, is a curse against the people who risked their everything to let her into their lives. Tears and pressure well up behind her eyes, and El wants to cry, to scream—it’s not fair—

The minute she realizes what's happening she grits her teeth, trying to stop herself. It’s no use, though, and before she can reel herself back in, static sparks in a halo around her head, everything burns, and Eleven explodes.

A shock wave screams outward, sending everything in Will’s room—Will included—flying backwards with tremendous force. Will hits the wall behind him with a THUD and gasps, air knocked out of his lungs. Immediately El is flying towards him, yelling apologies.

“Will, Will, are you okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I—”

There’s that snap again, and Will’s eyes burn.

“You really are a monster.”

El recoils like she’s been slapped. All the worry drains out of her so quickly she almost chokes on it, and she stops dead in her tracks, disgusted.

“Fine,” she spits out. “You know what? Fine.” She closes the final distance between them in a stride, grabs the collar of his shirt, and pulls Will close. “Your pain is not my fault, Will Byers! I am sorry that the world is cruel, and I am sorry that I freed the Demogorgon, and I am sorry that I am at the center of so many ruined lives. But I am not sorry that Mike chose me, and I am not sorry that I deserve better than the way you are treating me, and I am not a monster. One killed every family member I have ever known; do you remember? It was One who ruined your life. It is One who wants to hurt you. It is all One, it has always been One, and you know this.” She drops him. “I don’t care that you’re gay, Will,” says El, coldly. “But I deserve an apology.”

It is quiet. Will doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t anything.

And El is struck again by the fact that, despite the burning anger and freezing disdain she now feels for this mouth breather she had once respected, he doesn't feel like Will at all. Something is wrong.

When he finally looks up at her, what El sees in Will's face is nothing more than complete and total exhaustion.

“That wasn’t me,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Excuse me?” says El, baffled and not a little disgusted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I… I mean… it wasn’t me,” insists Will, voice shaking. “You just… you, you stormed in here, you were mad, and I was, I was so scared because that’s… that’s my worst nightmare…”

El has no idea what is happening.

A sob forces its way out of Will’s mouth. “I know you only guessed a-about me; you didn’t pull it out of my mind. I-I know Mike loves you. I k-know you’re not a monster. I know. I just…” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “A-all at once I saw everything that’s ever happened to me, and everything… everything I’m terrified is going to happen once people know that… that I’m a-a fag, and…”

Unconsciously, Will spasms, and his hand comes to rest on the back of his neck.

For the second time today, the pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place, and El feels a chill run down her spine like water off an icicle.

“It was him,” she breathes, hoping she’s wrong. She wishes she could just hate Will for what he’s said to her. It would be so easy.

But she doesn’t live in the simple world of comic book superheroes.

Will meets her eyes, his own flecked brown and green and shimmering in the afternoon light. He nods, once, then looks away, shaking his head.

“It… it was, but it wasn’t,” he says, knee bouncing up and down. “T-that’s the thing. I don’t think Vecna m-made me say it. Not intentionally. It’s not… not like he’s here. Just… ever since the earthquake… I can feel him all the time, El. His power, his mind, holding on mine, and it’s like every part of me that I hate, all of me that is anger and shitty, pathetic grudges… it’s like he has a bomb back there, rigged to a big red button. And when those feelings rise up, when I’m afraid, when everything comes to a head…”

He mimes an explosion.

“Boom,” says El, dully.

“I do feel… all of that,” Will whispers. “It’s all there. I am a monster, El, I really am. A part of me does blame you for everything, a part of me hates you, a part of me wants to just… just give in, and he pushes on that, and his fucking presence all by itself makes everything awful inside of me s-surface.”

He rubs away the tears streaking down his cheek, furiously. “I’m so, so sorry. Vecna can make me say… a lot of shit I don’t ever mean to say. And I know you don’t deserve it. B-but... you need to understand… that painting.” He shudders. “I-I didn’t give Mike that painting to make him miraculously like me. I’d never do that to you, never, you have to believe me. Yeah, I made it for him out of vain, stupid hope. Of course I did. You know what Mike’s like, El, you’re the only one who gets how, when he’s around, he’s like the fucking sun… But-but when we were going to find you, in the desert, Mike n-needed something like that painting. He needed to hear how important he is. He just didn’t need to hear it from me.”

Will laughs, and it’s so different from the one before. So desperately sad. “So yeah, I told him you commissioned it. But everything I put into it, everything I told him… it was true, okay? As true for you as it is for me. I know you, El. I’d… I’d never use you. The painting became yours, because it had to be.”

El nods, slowly, trying to take this in. It’s… a lot.

Will is still infected. Angry, broken, but infected.

Will never wanted this. Will just exploded. El understands exploding.

Will… Will had been willing to give up Mike, so that he and El could be happy.

El has plenty of reasons to want to doubt all of it. But Will is right about her guesses; he’s right about the things she knows without even trying. And right now, she knows that this painting, at least? That, Will would not lie about.

“I don’t blame you if you hate me,” Will says dully. “Like I said. Vecna doesn’t make you confront things you don’t already feel. And if this is him when he’s not even trying… if this is an unconscious reflex… what will happen when he really comes back, when he’s really in my head? You don’t deserve that.”

“No,” says El immediately. “I don’t. But Will—” She massages her forehead. “I know what he’s like. I know how he gets inside of you, and—”

There is a knock on the door. Both kids whip around to stare at it.

“We… we’re busy.” Will’s tone is unconvincing.

Joyce opens the door without hesitation. She takes in the disaster of a room, like the path of a tornado. The tears on both of her children’s cheeks. Their shaking frames. She takes a deep breath.

“Eleven. Will. What is going on?”

“We are having a discussion,” El says evenly, unhappy about being interrupted. Will says nothing.

Joyce crosses her arms. “I know raised voices when I hear them, kids. I don’t know what happened, but I do know that yelling at each other isn’t going to fix anything.”

“It’s nothing, Mom,” Will says. He sounds exhausted. “Just go away.”

“Excuse me?” Joyce raises an eyebrow.

“He is… upset,” says El.

“Eleven, I’m not stupid, you did… something. You’re clearly not having a great time yourself,” Joyce says pointedly. “Now, what’s going to happen is this. We are going to go into the living room. I am going to make each of you a cup of hot chocolate. And then we are going to talk this through like civilized people. Alright?”

El and Will exchange glances. A lot is said with no words.

They are still, no matter how much it hurts, siblings.

“Not alright.” El takes a deep breath. “I think we will be okay back here.”

“No,” says Joyce. “Absolutely not. Not this time. I know tensions are running high, but One, Vecna, Henry, whoever he is, he feeds on anger. On negative emotions. Right? And us?” She gestures at the three of them. “We’re the ones that… that asshole likes best. So no, we’re not going to let whatever this is slide away and make him stronger. We’re a family. We’ll talk it out, and we’ll be stronger because of it.”

El grimaces. Joyce is more correct than she knows.

To El’s surprise, though, it’s Will who speaks up next. “Mom… this is between me and El. Vecna…”

He inhales as deeply as possible, and then explains, slowly, stumblingly, what he’d explained to El. The pressure. The hair-trigger button, holding back every terrible thing inside him that Vecna so prizes. That El activated it.

He does not say how.

Joyce sinks, heavily, into the doorframe.

“He’s back,” she says.

“No,” her kids say at once.

“He doesn’t need to be strong, or even awake, to do this,” Will says slowly. “I think… I think he’s had it set it up since last time.”

“Okay,” Joyce says, rubbing her forehead. “Okay.” She claps her hands twice, sharply. “This is what we’re going to do. I am going to make that hot chocolate. It’s going to take two minutes, tops. You two are going to stay civil, okay? If something happens, I’m going to trust that one of you will come get me. And when the kettle goes off, you are both going to come into the living room. Then we’ll figure out where to go from here. Questions? Objections?”

They shake their heads. No point in arguing now.

“Good,” says Joyce. She starts to close the door, then pauses.

“As long as it takes for the kettle to boil,” she reminds them, in a tone that brooks no argument. “And if I hear yelling, I don’t care how long it’s been. I’m coming in.”

She closes the door firmly behind her.

It takes maybe thirty seconds for the siblings to gather their thoughts, and it is Will who manages to speak first.

“Please,” he begs. “Please don’t tell her. I know I’ve really fucked this up, El, but she can’t know I’m… t-that I’m gay. I already feel like I’m losing it. That’d just make things worse.”

“Joyce would not hate you.” El doesn’t need to think about this. It’s true.

“Please.”

El bites her lip. “You have to tell her sometime.”

“I know that. Do you think I don’t?” Will chuckles, panicked. “I’ve known forever. Just… sometime can’t be now. It just can’t.”

El sighs.

“No,” she agrees, begrudgingly. “Not now.”

“Thank you.”

Another breath.

“Do you believe me?”

El sighs again. “Yes, Will. I believe you. He came for me first, remember? Back in the lab, years ago. I know how he poisons people. Just by being there. And he makes it feel like…” The word pops into her head; from where she’s not sure. “Like deliverance.”

Will nods wordlessly.

“But…” She hesitates, and Will freezes. “Everything is out here, now. For both of us to know. Even if they are feelings you wish you did not have… you have them. I’ve heard them all. I do not know what to do, or to feel. And on top of that, Mike…”

“I mean it, El!” Will exclaims. “I’m not trying to take him from you. Never. Never.”

El sighs. “I am not sure how long it will take me to process this. That’s all.”

“O-okay.” Will nods reluctantly. “Okay, you need space, I get that. I-I don’t blame you.”

“Will.”

He forces himself to meet her gaze.

“I don’t hate you, okay?”

Will braces himself against the tears.

“Not for loving Mike, not for being angry, not for One being… who he is. I am… hurt. And I need to think. A lot. About a lot of things. But I have made mistakes. And I do not blame you for them.”

“It’s not your fault, though,” Will insists. “It really isn’t. You were being tortured, El, when you opened the gate. Everyone told me that. And they wouldn’t have found me if you hadn’t helped! Plus, there’s everything you’ve done for me since, everything I really don’t deserve… You’re a good person. I don’t see a mistake when I look at you. If a shitty part of me does, I-I can’t do anything about that. But that’s not how I really feel.”

“There is a part of me that hates you too,” says El frankly. Will jerks back, shocked. “A whiny boy clinging onto my boyfriend and following us around? Yes. That feeling is there.”

Will gulps.

“But it is that same part of me. Same as you. It is wrong. You care about me, you care about Mike, and you do help us.” Now it’s her turn to look away. “Yes, Will. I understand. I promise. But I will need some time.”

Will smiles, shakily. “You’re my sister, El. I’d give you anything you wanted.”

Though El tries to smile, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The kettle whistles. Will stands up, uncertain, wincing at the bruises no doubt growing on his back. El looks at him sadly and holds out her hand.

“Come on,” she says. “We will help you deal with this. I have made things worse before. This time, I will try and make them better.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” says Will.

“I’m not,” says El. “Friends don’t lie.”

She grabs his hand, and together they walk, side by side, out to the living room, where Joyce waits with two steaming cups of hot chocolate.

Chapter Text

JULY 4, 1986

It wasn’t supposed to get this bad, this quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to get this bad at all.

Will had thought, when the earthquake hit, when the crawling feeling on his neck returned, that it would be like every other time. They’d burned the Mind Flayer out of him, after all; it was supposed to be warnings and goosebumps and Henry’s prickling hateful words whispering in the back of his head. Not his own.

It’s been two weeks since what he’s been thinking of as the Button incident. Since the whispers in his head came out of his mouth, since things had gone beyond bad right into disastrous. Since his worst nightmare came true, and since he almost deserved it.

Will hears Eddie in his head, of course, telling him things like ‘Be yourself’ and ‘Freaks are cool’ and ‘Keep saving those lost sheep for me.’

But he’s not Eddie. He’s just Will, and that’s all he can be. A year of Eddie showing him a better alternative, how to be a leader, a weirdo, an icon, a friend, and it didn’t even take a possession for him to tear everything apart.

It just took Will.

(The whispers in the back of his head, crawling, laughing, growing louder. Will. Will. Will. Will. WILL--)

“Will! Did you hear what I said?”

The whispers back off, just a bit. Like they’re curious. Will blinks the shadows out of his eyes.

“Oh. El, yeah. Yeah, I heard you.”

He hasn’t spoken to his sister since the Button was pressed. He’d said he’d give her space and meant it, but it’s still been two weeks of unrelenting anxiety. Two weeks of worrying she might rightfully tell everyone everything anyway. Two weeks of being terrified he might say something else horrible. Two weeks of doing his best to not reinforce El’s obvious disgust at having a monster for a brother.

Now they’re in Jonathan’s room, on the Fourth of July, sorting through piles of cassette tapes and adding them to one of Joyce’s nicer grocery bags. Just part of the newest plan—and Will can’t even focus on that.

“I don’t think you did. I was asking if we should bring some of these records?”

She pulls a 45 out of the milk crate at her side.

“Oh,” Will says again. “No. I don’t know if the Wheelers even have a record player.”

El frowns. “Hop does. Why wouldn’t Mike?”

“If he does, it’s probably his mom’s, for special occasions or something. Our plan is to be mobile, anyway. Which records aren’t.” He shakes a tape half-heartedly for emphasis.

“If you are sure.”

It’s awkward, Will thinks sadly. Of course it is. He is all too aware that El still hasn’t quite forgiven him, isn’t quite sure how to act around him. He can’t blame her. It’s his fault, after all; him and that stupid painting…

Which reminds him. It’s been two weeks. He needs to say something.

“El. About, um. Before. I’ve been thinking—”

“I know, Will,” El sighs, clearly expecting it. “I will not tell him, okay?”

Will grimaces. “No, that’s not—"

“You don’t need to say anything. I understand. Let’s just keep working.”

Will bites his lip. This isn’t easy. She isn’t making it easy, either, but he reckons he doesn’t deserve anything else.

“Look, I appreciate it. I really do. But I’ve been thinking, and even… even if I’m worried what he’ll say… I can’t ask you to lie to Mike.”

El’s inspecting a Cars album. She lowers it slightly, expression inscrutable. “That is not what you said last time.”

“I, I mean don’t just come out and tell him I’m gay,” Will says hurriedly, lowering his voice on the operative word. “I meant about the painting. That it wasn’t your idea, you know? You saw what happened in Lenora when Mike didn’t know about Angela and her crew. Plus, with how Mike feels about lying, I just… I don’t want to be the reason something comes between you two again.”

El leans back against the dresser, now visibly irritated. “This is not like Angela. And you were the one who lied, not me.”

“I mean, yeah,” Will says, fidgeting. “And I’m sorry, I really am, but you shouldn’t feel like you have to cover for me.”

“I don’t,” El says bluntly. “I am not covering for you. I just don’t want to hurt Mike.”

“Isn’t lying about the painting hurting him? Yeah, I know how he’s been… off, but we’ve all been off lately. This is something we could fix.”

“Will. Think about it.” El leans forward. “If I tell him the painting was not mine, that you made it all up, what would he think?”

“That I know my sister? That I was embarrassed about giving it to him, because I knew it meant more to me than it would to him? That I told him it was from you, because I thought he needed it? None of that is lying.”

El grits her teeth. “Mike isn’t stupid. Nothing you said sounded like me at all. And if it wasn’t me saying it...”

“Of course Mike’s not stupid! But he’d never… he just wouldn’t think that about me, okay?” Will says, a little bitter. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“I don’t want to, but I do.”

That hurts, but Will does his best to brush it off. “Has he asked any questions so far?” he asks, suddenly worried.

“No, but that’s not the point—"

“So tell him the truth. I… I love him, El. I want him to be happy. If you’re the one who can make that happen, that’s all that matters, okay?”

It’s the first time he’s said his feelings out loud so casually, but it feels right in a way that makes his stomach churn. “I know you might not want to believe it, but it’s true.”

El sighs. “You are being… hypocrite, Will.”

“I know,” Will says stubbornly. “But I’m not wrong.”

“Neither am I. Doesn’t Mike already think you like boys?”

Will flinches. “That was a year ago. He was angry. So was I. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Really?” El says sardonically. “Do you think he has a button, too?”

“I don’t know!” Will says tightly. “Maybe he’s just Mike. Why are you even dating him, anyway, if you think he’d care?”

“Why do you love him, if you think he would?”

They glare at each other for a moment.

“Mike is a good person,” El continues stubbornly. “He has changed since then. We all have. He might not care anymore, or maybe you are right and he did not guess. But he could guess now, and that would not be fair to you.”

“None of this fair, El.”

“Believe me. I know,” she says grimly. “But the point is that we already lied, Will. You started it. You brought me into it. If we have already lied, and the full lie is comforting for Mike while everything is bad… Why should I ruin it?”

Will says nothing, and El figures that’s about right. She’s just too tired for this. One will be back, no doubt sooner rather than later, and she wants all of her friends by her side when he gets here. She is mad at her brother, sure, but they are a Party. Everyone is hurting, and even though El hates hurting Mike more, how are they—how is she—supposed to save the world if everyone is fighting again?

Fighting with Will is hard enough.

“El,” Will says, carefully, as stupid as he knows it is. “Friends don’t lie—”

“Hypocrite,” El says again, less forgiving than before. And Will deflates.

“Look,” he says, a little desperate. “I know I’m a hypocrite, okay? I know I made a mistake. You don’t have to tell him, it’s your choice, but… if I can… I want to do the right thing this time.”

El’s about to respond, when suddenly Jonathan’s voice drifts up from the living room. Something about “the car” and “Mom” and “ready.” Both El and Will feel their shoulders sag. Whether it’s from relief at the reprieve or simply from exhaustion, neither is entirely sure.

“Look. We have our tapes, right?” El says, pointing to the pile between them. “Let’s just focus on the plan for now. I will not tell him you love him, don’t worry about that. The rest… if you think I should, Will, it’s your lie. I will see how things go, but that’s all I can promise.”

“El—”

Her gaze is piercing, and though not altogether angry, it still seems so far from the open and caring looks she used to give him that Will’s stomach sinks.

“It will be okay,” El insists, as they pack up to go. But neither sibling quite believes it.

The Wheeler’s kitchen is filled to the brim with activity. The Byers’ are the last partygoers to arrive, and Mrs. Wheeler dances around them as they scramble to add their potluck offerings to the rest on the counter.

“Joyce, kids, welcome!” she says cheerily, waving a pair of tongs. “Come on in! Can I get Michael to help you with some of that?”

Mike, who has been hiding in a corner trying to make himself as invisible as possible, flinches. He’d hoped to steal the rest of his friends away before being noticed. To his relief, Joyce either doesn’t need the help or notices his obvious reluctance.

“Oh, no thanks, Karen, we’re all good. Hello, Ted,” she adds, calling into the living room.

A grunt follows. Then:

“’Lo, Joyce. Kids.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “No need to get up,” he mutters under his breath, and his mom shoots him a dirty look.

“Go,” Karen says, a mixture of annoyance and amusement crossing her face. “Jane, Will, Jonathan, I really am glad you’re here. I told Michael he had to help until you arrived, but, well.” She shrugs. “I’ve been regretting it. Please, take him down to the basement with the others, will you? And don’t let him sneak any food before it’s ready.”

“Mom,” Mike groans. El snorts and ushers him out into the hall, past Will, who has been fidgeting anxiously in the doorway.

“Hey, Mike—” Will starts, but Mike grabs El by the hand and Will by the arm.

“Not now, quick. Before she changes her mind.”

As they rush past the den, the Byers’ snag a glimpse of the people inside. Mr. Sinclair is in a chair by Ted’s La-Z-Boy, and the two men watch the news intently (alongside a very bored Holly). Closer to the kitchen, Mrs. Sinclair and Ms. Henderson circle Hop like sharks. They seem to be interrogating him about something, probably his supposed exploits, and the cop looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Poor guy hasn’t had a break since he got here,” Mike explains, hurrying Will and El past. He almost manages to sound genuine.

“They really love him,” El says, pulling back. Her eye drift across the group of adults. Even Mr. Sinclair keeps looking in Hop’s direction. “I didn’t know other people thought of him like that.”

“He’s a good guy,” says Jonathan, smiling. “You’re really surprised?”

“Basement,” says Mike. “Or I’m leaving you here with them.”

“You would not,” El says reproachingly.

“Maybe, maybe not. See, Will’s already at the door. Be more like Will.”

El grimaces.

“You all know about it, then,” Will starts, leg bouncing. “About what happened.”

They’ve gathered in the basement: the five main Party members (sans Max, of course), Nancy, Jonathan, and Erica. Everyone is sprawled out in a crowded circle, surrounding a pile of cassettes and the Wheeler’s old tape deck. Will, specifically, has landed on an awkward perch on the floor next to El and Mike, who are leaning against each other with an utter lack of shame.  

 Concerned nods all around.

“It’s not a big deal, though,” he says, embarrassed both by the attention and how quickly information travels around his friend group. “Vecna just messed with my emotions a little bit, but that’s nothing special. We’re all going through it.”

“What do you mean?” Mike says sharply. “Of course it’s a big deal.”

“Sure,” Will mumbles awkwardly. “I guess I just meant, things are worse than we thought—for all of us. That’s why we’re here.”

“If Vecna can get you,” says Dustin, “he can get us. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“Try to complete his collection,” Lucas adds darkly.

Will nods slowly. “That’s the worry. So, me and El and Jonathan, we came up with a plan. We call it Operation Long Haul.”

“Nice,” says Dustin, grinning. “That’s almost me-worthy.”

Jonathan starts sorting the cassettes into neat piles. “You guys said that music was what helped save Max the first time, right?”

Lucas grimaces, and the others share a look. “Yeah.”

“It’s a psychological thing,” Nancy says from the arm of the couch. She looks a bit restless.

“The point is, it stops him,” Will continues. “We don’t know what Vecna is planning. We don’t know what he’s going to do next. But we do know what he’s done in the past, and that he’s messing with us right now.”

“Just to check. We’ve all been having weird dreams,” Jonathan says quietly. “Right?”

The Party exchanges a series of looks—are we? Why aren’t we talking about this? Shouldn’t we be talking about this? But they’re personal…

Slowly, everyone nods. Even Erica, though reluctantly.

“And we’re sure it’s not some sort of Hawkins-wide version of the curse you guys saw?”

“It’s not,” says Lucas. “At least, I don’t think so. I haven’t been having headaches, or bloody noses, or anything. Just sleeping like shit.”

The others murmur their agreement.

“It’s something else, for sure,” Will interrupts. “I… I don’t know how I know it, but I know it, right? Whatever these dreams are… they’re not intentional. I can feel him, thinking, living, planning, but there’s no direct connection like last time. This is like his mind is leaking.”

Dustin snaps his fingers. “Like a Fear Aura. Classic lich shit.”

“Sure, why not,” says Erica. “Do you just keep this stuff filed away in case a new monster shows up?”

“If this aura thing or whatever is real,” Nancy says thoughtfully, “maybe it’s like casting out a fishing net. Testing the waters, seeing who else might be a prime curse target for when he’s healed. Except—we know it only catches us if we’re unconscious. Which means he’s still weak.”

“Thus the music,” Jonathan finishes. “If it can stem a full-on attack, we think it should be able to lessen or completely cancel out the effects of this—”

“Fear Aura.”

“Thank you, Dustin,” Jonathan says dryly. “Yeah, it might stop this thing, and make it easier for us to stay on our guard.”

“So that’s why… all of this?” Erica says skeptically, gesturing at the tapes. “Gonna lock us in Wheeler’s basement with all the music ever?”

“I mean, no, no one’s being locked anywhere,” Jonathan says. “But yeah. I’m gonna make us a mixtape. Everyone’s songs, in everyone’s pockets. No matter where we are, no matter who we’re with, if something happens today—or any day—we’ll be ready.”

“I had to get rid of my Walkman when we moved,” Will says, a bit embarrassed. “How are we going to carry the mixtape with us, Jonathan?”

Mike reaches around El to nudge him. “You can borrow mine.”

“As much as I’m definitely going to regret saying this,” says Nancy, “yes. Mike and I will share mine. Will, you and Jonathan have your tape deck, and you can borrow Mike’s Walkman. Lucas, Dustin, you both have your own, right?”

Dustin nods. Lucas doesn’t.

“I have one,” says Erica. “You can’t use it.”

“This is a matter of life and death,” Nancy says pointedly.

“How am I supposed to trust that he washes his ears?”

Lucas, surprisingly, doesn’t fight back. “I have Max’s,” he says quietly. “I’ve been fixing it. I’ll use hers.”

There’s a moment of utter silence. Frantically Nancy gestures at Jonathan to break it.

“O-okay,” he says awkwardly. “El, uh. Do you have something to listen to music?”

She shrugs. “Hop has a large record player—”

“No problem,” says Jonathan, “we can try and scrounge up something.”

“No. I can use Hop’s records if I need to. I do not need a mixtape.”

“What?” Will’s been pretty content with listening so far, but this is different. “El, this was partially your idea. Hell, you’re probably the one who needs it most—"

“No,” El says. “I mean, I don’t need a Walk-Man. There are other ways to fight One’s control.”

“Wait, what?” says Lucas. “What do you know that we don’t?”

“Mike,” says El.

“What?”

“Mike can sing?” says Dustin.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Mike says indignantly.

“Mike definitely can’t sing,” El continues dryly. “That is not it. What freed me, when I was fighting One in Max’s memory, was hearing Mike say that he loved me.”

Mike, whose mouth had been open to protest that he can totally sing, thank you very much, goes a striking shade of red.

“It made me stronger,” says El. “His love. I do not think it’s just music that beats One, I think it is something we love. Something that anchors us. Since I have Mike, I do not need a song.”

Nancy is giving her brother a very peculiar look, but presses on nonetheless. “The warden at Pennhurst said music has ways of accessing parts of our minds that words can’t usually reach. You’re stronger than the rest of us, El, so maybe you specifically don’t need music to shake him off. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be part of this—just in case.”

“It’s not about words,” El says stubbornly. “Music is words too.”

“Still, what if Mike just happens to be somewhere else? What happens then?”

“Wait,” says Jonathan. “When the Mind Flayer—sorry, when Vecna was controlling you, Will. Me and Mike, and Mom, we managed to get through to you using our favorite memories of you, remember?”

“Yeah,” says Mike. “Like your birthday. And the day we met.”

Will very intentionally does not meet Mike’s eyes, so he fails to see the slightly hurt look on his friend’s face when he doesn’t.

“That makes sense,” Lucas says softly. “The way Max told it, Kate Bush reminded her of her family. Of the ways she failed, and the ways she wanted to be better. Maybe music is easier, but I guess, like, connections, and love and stuff. They could also do something.”

“Exactly,” says Jonathan. “Maybe El’s right, and maybe it’ll work for all of us. The more options we have, the better off we are.”

“Still,” says Nancy. “Even if my brother somehow managed to be sweet enough to help you, El—and I’m not saying I don’t believe it, I’m just saying, Jesus, Mike—you should still find a song you like. We can’t be too careful.”

“If you’re sure,” says El, fully unconvinced.

“I’m not, but it’s still smart,” says Nancy, at the same time as Will says, “I am.”

“Okay,” Jonathan says. “If we’re set, here’s the paper, Nancy. When we pass it around, why don’t we say what we’re going to pick? Just so we’re thinking about it.”

Several pairs of eyes meet. “Just, out loud?” Lucas says, voice a tad too high to be normal. “Can’t we just write them down?”

Jonathan looks at Will, who looks at El. Both look back at Jonathan and shake their heads. Jonathan sighs. “We should all know,” he says apologetically. “So there aren’t any surprises.”

“What if we don’t know what our, uh, anchor song, is?” Mike says, trying to look innocent. Since he keeps glancing at El, it doesn’t work.

Nancy gestures at the pile of cassettes in front of them. “We’ve got all afternoon.”

“Wait,” says Dustin, frowning. “What about Steve? And Robin? They’re part of this. We need to know their songs too.”

“Robin was invited, but her parents didn’t want her leaving the house,” Nancy says, arms crossed. “And my parents…” Nancy trails off. “Steve is probably safer at the cabin.”

“He has guards,” El says, in a tone that suggests he might’ve been better off without them.

“Regardless,” Jonathan says, “We have their input already. El asked Steve the other night, and Nancy went to see Robin.” He waves a couple of pieces of paper in the air.

Dustin groans. “We have got to get Steve out of there. Last time I went he asked me to smuggle him in a beer.”

“Of course,” mutters Nancy. Dustin grimaces in agreement.

“You’re totally right,” Jonathan sighs, “But that’s kind of a later problem, unfortunately. For now, let’s see what he picked…" Jonathan trails off, looking down at Steve’s paper. Then he frowns. “It, uh. It says, ‘Rebel Yell, or something cool off of Top 40 or whatever.’”

“Of course,” Nancy says again.

“He means Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell,’ I guess.” Jonathan frowns. “I mean, Idol’s fine, but god, Top 40? Has anyone ever introduced that man to actual music?”

“What about Robin?” Dustin prods.

“Bowie’s ‘Life on Mars,’” says Nancy. “She said something about it being some kind of dig.”

“Well,” Jonathan sighs. “At least someone here has taste.”

“Calm down, music boy. Dustin, you’re kind of already in the hot seat—you want to share yours?” She reaches out to hand him the paper and a pen.

Dustin’s hands recoil so fast his joints pop. “Oh. Um.”

For the first time today, Lucas’s expression shifts into something vaguely approximating amusement. “Don’t worry about him. We know his favorite song, remember?”

“’Turn around,’” Erica sings, distinctly out of tune.

“’Look at what you see,’” adds Lucas.

“Guys, it’s been over a year,” Dustin growls, “Grow up—”

Mike bites back a laugh. “Aw, but Dusty-bun, it’s the anniversary!”

“You’re all assholes. Clinically. It was one time.”

“Yeah, to save the world,” says Lucas. “We’re never letting you forget it.”

By all accounts, Jonathan figures, the teasing could go on for hours, so he cuts them off at the jump. “I’ll just put ‘Neverending Story’ by Limahl on there for you, then?” he says, completely deadpan.

Dusting reluctantly accepts it, albeit with a look that says say something else, I dare you.

“Okay,” says Nancy. “Lucas? How about you?”

“Oh.” His smile collapses. “‘Every Breath You Take,’” he says, voice lowering to an almost inaudible level. “You know. The Police one.”

“From the Snow Ball?” asks Nancy.

Momentary, utter silence.

“Do we have to write a two-page explanation of our choice, or am I good?” Lucas says.

“You get it,” says Dustin. “Happy, Nancy? How about you go.”

“Fine,” says Nancy, “Twist of Fate, Olivia Newton-John. Any jokes?”

“No, ma’am. I would never.”

Mike snorts. “Isn’t that a little too… exciting… for you?”

Nancy glares at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s just, like, almost rock, and you’re Nancy Wheeler. I’m impressed.”

“Michael.”

Jonathan goes a bit red. “I’ve been trying to show her the good stuff. It’s a slow process.”

Nancy whirls on him. “You, too?”

“Hey, I like Olivia,” says Erica. “A little basic, but not bad. She’s no Whitney, though.”

“You like Whitney Houston, and you think Olivia Newton-John is basic?” Lucas says doubtfully.

“Excuse you, Lucas, Whitney Houston is the best singer ever, and an icon. You take that back.”

“I didn’t say she was bad, I said she was basic.”

“You are unpatriotic and also a traitor.”

“Guys,” Nancy says, rubbing her forehead, “let’s focus. Safety first, then music debates, okay? I guess you’ve got a Whitney song in mind, Erica.”

“Nah. Control. Janet Jackson.”

“Seriously?” Lucas wrinkles his nose. “Isn’t she kind of… mature? Does Mom know you’re listening to that kind of stuff?”

Erica glowers at him. “Mature, bullshit. She’s barely older than you. You have something against strong Black women?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Of course not, but—"

“I don’t understand any of this,” El says. “Should I?”

Erica rubs her hands together. “Oh, you are going to be educated today.”

“In a minute,” insists Nancy.

“Hey, Will,” Jonathan cuts in, taking over. “What do you want me to put down for you?”

Will bites his lip. He’s been so engrossed in the banter that he’s not quite sure what to say. There’s something very intimate about this exercise, he thinks, and as much as everyone is trying to keep the mood light… it’s not really possible for some of them.

“Should I Stay or Should I Go, probably,” he says at last. “It worked when he tried to find me the first time.”

Recognition flashes across Jonathan’s face, and he shoots his brother an encouraging smile. “Perfect. You’ve fought him off before; I guess we should be asking you for tips.” He looks down suddenly. “It’s probably the same song for me, too. I mean, it got me my brother back, so...”

Will feels his cheeks going red. Somebody says “aww”, which is embarrassing, but still, something warm curls up tightly in his chest. For a minute he’s eleven again, in his brother’s room, listening to his parents yell over Jonathan’s music. For a minute, they are home.

“I can put something else if you want,” Jonathan continues hurriedly, noticing the look on his brother’s face, “but, well. You know.” He’s a little flustered himself.

“It’s fine,” says Will. His eyes land on Lucas, and the smile falls from his lips. The other boy is doing his best, but Will can tell this sort of connection strikes a very particular chord with him. No wonder he picked Every Breath You Take, Will thinks sadly, and he tries to send happy thoughts in Lucas’s direction.

Meanwhile, Jonathan is moving on to Mike and El.

“I do not have a favorite song,” El says immediately.

“Yeah,” Mike says, lying. “Me either.”

“It’s okay, El, that’s why we brought tapes,” says Jonathan. “Take your time. I know we’ve all got recommendations, plus, Steve’s not here to corrupt you. Maybe you’ll find something good enough to jog Mike’s memory, too,” he adds teasingly.

El frowns deeper. “How am I supposed to choose? You all seemed to know so quickly.”

Jonathan shrugs. “You just have to pick something that speaks to you.”

El wishes Max were here. But that’s not new. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Jonathan perks up at this. “Well, if you need suggestions—"

He immediately starts rooting around in the pile, making humming noises. “Let’s see. No, not that, I don’t think... You didn’t like Eddie’s stuff, did you? I guess we could try some of mom’s oldies, but… No… no…” He stops. “Oh, wait! Here! Let’s try this.”

He holds out a cassette, and El has to hold back a disbelieving giggle at the name. “Oingo… Boingo?”

“Nice going, dude,” says Mike. “Best choice possible.”

“They’re good,” insists Jonathan, “just because you’re willing to judge a book by its cover—"

Dustin snorts and hops off the couch. “I’m gonna go get us some snacks,” he says, chuckling. “I want some popcorn for this.”

Mike hates his parents’ parties for the same reason his mom likes them: They’re an excuse to make him do manual labor.

Right now that labor consists of finding an extra chair in the garage, so Mike is sorting through piles of his father’s junk with prejudice. Everyone else is gathered on the driveway, under the spores and gathering dusk, waiting for the fireworks to start. Mike could be there too, but no, he gets to be a ‘helpful young man.’

Ugh.

It’s something to do, at least. He’s been wound up over the anniversary of Starcourt all day, half-waiting for one of his friends to dissolve into a pile of goo and try to eat them. When he stops moving, those thoughts creep back in—so thanks for the distraction, Mom. Sort of.

Still, disaster keeps refusing to occur. Mike should be happy about this fact, but until the day is over, he knows he won’t be.

At least he got to find El a song she likes. “Love is a Battlefield,” as it turns out. He’s not entirely sure how to read the implications there, but he can begrudgingly accept that it’s not been, well, inaccurate. Plus, if she could choose a dramatic love song, him picking the Cars’ “Magic” for his own feels a little less sappy.

His love “made me stronger.” That’s what she’d said. Mike feels himself going red again.

That’s El for you, he thinks, pushing aside a bag of croquet equipment. Straightforward and to the point. It’s not music, it’s love that saves you—jeez. How is he supposed to live up to that kind of declaration? At least it means that she does need him, he figures. She needs him. He can relax. They need each other. They need each other. They do.

He finds the chair, finally, but when his hands land on it, Mike notices they’re shaking.

The door into the house swings open with a creak.

“Hey, Mike?”

It’s El. Of course.

“Oh, hey. Mom send you in for something, too?”

“No, I was just using the bathroom.” She fidgets. “Mike… can we talk?”

She needs him. She said it. So why does his heart still freeze up when he hears those words?

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, what’s up?”

“Inside.”

His stomach drops. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s—” She seems to realize how she sounds, and rephrases. “It is not about us, Mike. We’re fine.” She flashes him a smile, one of those smiles that lights up the dark.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she says. Mike takes a deep breath.

“’Kay, then. Let me haul this out before mom kills me, and I’ll be right there.”

The Wheelers’ kitchen is dark, all lights turned off so as not to distract from the show. El leans against the island, arms crossed, deep in thought, and Mike thinks idly that the scene looks like something out of one of those Renaissance paintings from art class.

“So, um. What’s up?” he says awkwardly. He’s trying for lighthearted, but it doesn’t quite work.  

El’s expression twists, like she’s talking herself into something. Mike expects devastation, but instead she says:

“You know that painting in your room?”

“Yeah? What about it? Did something happen, did someone fuck it up, or—"

El takes a deep breath, and Mike catches the faintest hint of ozone in the air.

“I did not ask Will to make it, Mike.”

Mike does a double take. That was not what he’d expected. “What? What do you mean?”

“I did not know it existed until you showed me.”

Mike laughs, a little panicky. Sure, this could have been worse, but… “El, you said—”

“I know what I said.” Her voice is tight. “And I meant it, you are very important to me, but I had nothing to do with that painting.”

“But… why did you say you did?” Mike’s voice sounds, all of a sudden, far too high. “Why did Will?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” El says. “And I needed a minute to think, you caught me off guard. Since you clearly cared about it very much, even if Will did not tell me about it, I did not want to…”

“You’re telling me Will lied.”

El stops. Says nothing. And that’s all Mike needs to hear, though he can’t believe it.

Will lied to him. Will, of all people.

Will has never lied to him.

…Mike wants to throw up.

“But why? That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, bewildered. “Like, I know he made it, so… what? I… I thought it meant something that it doesn’t, and…” He runs a hand violently through his hair. “What does any of this mean?”

“It means he knew you were upset,” El says. “It means he knew you missed me. It means he found a way to help, and he made a bad decision. That is all.”

Mike is getting more and more confused by the minute. “But… the heart on my shield. He said that I was the heart. That’s… He told me that was from you. Specifically.”

“Mike, of course he would. He’s your best friend. Didn’t it feel weird that the painting was about D&D, something you two share? He knew you didn’t need a casual gift while I was missing, so he changed what it meant.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yes,” El says tiredly. “I know.”

“Aren’t… aren’t you mad? I don’t get it. Will’s never lied to me, El,” Mike says. He’s pacing now. “And… and, about something so important? About you?”

El bites her lip. “Yes. I was… I was very mad, Mike. I am still upset. I hate it when I am lied to, you know that.” She sighs. “But he explained it. And it wasn’t all a lie; a little bit yes, but all of the things he said I felt… I do feel them. They came from him, but the meaning was real.”

“No, but—it still doesn’t make sense,” says Mike. “He was crying. He was trying to hide it, but he’s Will. I know when he’s upset. That doesn’t make any sense if he’s just, I don’t know. Conveying a message?” He stops suddenly. “You talked to him. That’s why you left so quickly the other day. He told you this, right? Then you have to know this doesn’t make sense!”

He’s talking in circles, but he can’t help it.

“Mike.” El tries to meet his eyes, though she can’t completely do so. “Think about it. He had been working on that painting, for, what, months? He was going to give it to you at the airport. You barely said hello, and then we spent all our time together without him. Then he thinks he has to use that painting to help me? He missed you, Mike. He had just as bad a time as I did in California. If it wasn’t for Eddie…” She trails off.

Mike’s heart aches. He hadn’t wanted to confront the reasoning behind his bro-hug at the airport again tonight, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to think about Eddie. “I’m allowed to spend time with my girlfriend. That’s not a crime. Plus, he and I talked about that, like, months ago. We’re over it.”

“Now we are, but then? I’m not saying he was right to lie, Mike. I am just telling you what he told me.”

“That’s the other thing! He came to you first, instead of me?”

“He was scared! He… he knows he made a mistake, Mike. He feels awful. But we both agreed you needed to know, and… I guess it made more sense to tell you myself.”

Mike stops pacing. Something's clicked.

“That’s what happened,” he says, snapping his fingers. “The whole, the button thing. Right? Something happened, he wouldn’t tell any of us about it, and… He must’ve been feeling guilty, or something, and, and, you confronted him, and Vecna, and that’s why, why you’ve been avoiding him—”

“Pretty much,” El says shortly.

Mike looks at his hands like he’s never seen them before. “What did he do, El?” he says softly. “What did he say to you?”

El turns and walks to the kitchen window. Outside, the fireworks are starting, and the first explosion lights her face red and white and blue. “Bad things. I don’t know how much was true, and how much was One, but it was bad.”

Mike tenses, but she keeps going. “Please don’t be mad at him, okay, Mike? I mean it. Not about this. Leave being angry to me, because… I have never…” Her lips shake. “I have never seen him like that. It wasn’t him, Mike, he never would have said those things himself, and he was so, so, scared. We all have secrets, and… I have avoided him because I have been hurting. That’s all. I…” She takes a deep breath. “He did what he thought was right. It was not. He made me a part of his lie, so his problem was with me. Not you. That’s all.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“What would you do, then?” El says sharply. “Yell at him? Ask him why he lied? Be angry? I have done all of that. What would it help if you did it too?”

“I… I have a right to be angry,” Mike stutters.

“You do,” El says sadly. “But you know both of us hate when you’re angry.”

“Then Will shouldn’t have lied.”

“Of course not.”

“So I’m angry.”

“Don’t hate him, Mike.”

“Hate him? I could never hate him. I just need, I just need him to—"

“What more is there to say?”

“I don’t know, El. I’m sorry?”

A breath.

Then El looks away again, and the movement is a tacit agreement.

“I’m gonna go talk to him.”

“Mike—”

“I need to.”

“He didn’t mean to hurt us.”

“So what?” Mike’s chest tightens, and thoughts whirl through his head like storm clouds.

Will lied to me.

Will made me a painting, and gave it up for El.

Will made El a part of that lie.

Will wanted me to choose El.

Will was scared.

Will didn’t want to hurt me.

Will hurt me.

Will hurt El.

…Will is out there, under the fireworks, alone, wondering what we’re talking about. Afraid.

Afraid of what I’m going to say when I find out.

The tension leaves his shoulders all at once, and he collapses into the wall.

“I just need to talk to him, El. I need to hear him say it.”

El nods slowly, and Mike hopes she can’t tell everything that just went through his head.

“Thank you,” he adds, heart aching. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course, Mike.”

He turns to go, but a sudden pang of doubt stops him in his tracks.

“You… you do need me, though, right?” It’s in the quietest voice he can muster. “He wasn’t lying about that.”

“Always,” she says, and there is no doubt in the words. “No matter what happens. No matter where I am. No matter what anyone says. I will always need you.”

Mike smiles that lopsided smile of his, and he stares deep into El, her irises twinkling in the dark. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah. Me too.”

Will knows where they are, Mike and his sister; knows what they’re doing, at least. Logically, it does make sense for El to do it now. As the fireworks begin to fly above him, though, and everyone who knows anything tenses up and listens through the explosions for a monster, Will wishes she could have waited. Wishes he had more time to prepare.

Sure, Will had told her to tell Mike, but still. If he’s going to be a hypocrite, he figures he might as well go all the way about it.

They’re arrayed in a vague rainbow; parents, Party, Nancy, Jonathan, and Erica in lawn chairs and golf chairs and on the concrete, scattered around the driveway. Will’s leaning back against the garage, away from everyone, trying to avoid both his mother’s worried looks and the sight of Mike vanishing into the kitchen with El. Neither quite succeeds.

Green. Gold. Red, white, blue. The sky lights up, but instead of a celebration, Will sees scattered fire dancing around Starcourt. Glimmering lights in the Upside Down. Stars above the desert. Some things beautiful, some things terrible; all echoed in lights, and all better than this infinite crawl towards the inevitable. He could drown in it, if he chose. He almost wants to. When he does, the whispers soften.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been watching, but, suddenly, Mike is there. He’s walking up to him, materializing out of the shadows in bursts of red and orange, and Will hopes that, after this, it won’t be the last memory they have of each other.

Either way—no putting it off anymore.

Mike opens his mouth, but Will’s already talking. He has to, otherwise he’s sure Mike will be off before he can get a word in edgewise. Quickly, quickly.

“She told you,” he starts, softly, so no one else can hear.

Mike gulps, and Will watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down, like he always does. He’s anxious too, Will thinks. That’s something—

“Yeah,” Mike says, equally softly. Will expects more; yelling, maybe. But no. That’s it. A terrible silence, and the roar of fire.

“I’m sorry,” Will says at last. “I’m so sorry, Mike, I promise. I… I really believed El’s version of the painting would help you more than the real one.”

Mike frowns. “It did, Will, but only because it was from both of you. I told you. Now, though—”

“Mike—”

“Do I have to say it?” Mike whispers desperately. “You’ve never lied to me.”

“But you didn’t need me in the van. You needed her.”

“That’s not true,” Mike says firmly. “You’re lying. Again. I’ve already told you what I needed, Will, why can’t you get that?”

“Because,” Will says, defeated. “It hasn’t felt like you’ve needed me in years.”

He turns, dragging his eyes away from the fireworks, only to find himself face to face with Mike. His best friend’s eyes wait, inches from his own, desperate and clearly upset.

“That’s so not true,” Mike says, a hitch in his voice. “You and El aren’t, I don’t know, interchangeable. You never were, and I hate that you don’t believe that.”

“But you love her,” Will says. “Supporting that, putting her first… that’s what friends do, right?”

“Maybe, but lying to me, and bringing El into it? That’s messed up, Will.”

Will looks away again. “I know, Mike. I get it, I do, I just need you—” He takes a breath. “I need you to understand, that the only lie I told you was that El commissioned the painting. Everything else I said was true.”

“Even what Vecna made you say to her?”

Will freezes. “What… what did El say about that?”

“Just that it was bad. If she wouldn’t even tell me what you said… fuck, Will.”

“It’s not what you think,” Will chokes out. “It… you know how you feel, in your worst moments? When you feel like shit, and you think shitty things, and you never say them, ever, because they’re awful? That’s what he made me say, Mike. I didn’t mean it. I never would have said it, not any of it, and never to El. She’s my sister! I was just hurting and he knew it, and—"

“What am I supposed to say?” Mike says sharply. “That it’s okay?”

“No,” Will whispers. “Of course not. I just… I thought...” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I was wrong, Mike. I was awful to her, and I lied to you, and… That’s all.”

“No,” Mike says. “That’s not all. When I said I wanted to find some way we can still be best friends… I still want that, Will. But I’m upset, okay? I’m just… I’m so bad at this. At talking. El talked me down from being really angry, but you still hurt her, and I don’t know how to feel about it.” He trails off. “Trust me. I know what you meant. I know about the things we think we shouldn’t say. I just hate that you felt like you had to lie because of them, and I hate what Vecna made you do.”

Will’s breath hitches at that. “I won’t lie to you again, Mike. Never.”

“And you won’t hurt El.”

Will’s lip shudders, and he can feel tears welling up. Damn, he thinks, I’m so fucking weak— “No,” he says, keeping his voice as level as possible. “Of course not! I’ll do everything to make sure Vecna doesn’t get to me. Doesn’t get to her.”

He takes another shaky breath. “I hate this too, Mike. I never want to hurt anyone, especially you and El. I wish I wasn't... what Vecna made me into. I promise, if I knew the painting would end up such a mess I never would have said anything in the first place.”

“That’s not a good alternative,” Mike says, raising an eyebrow. “I liked what you said. It sounded more like you than El, but, like. You really captured what she feels. That’s the one good thing you did do. I don’t want to live in a world without the way that made me feel—even if I’m a little mad at you.”

Will blushes deeply, suddenly very glad for the darkness. As he meets Mike’s eyes, something seems to snap back into place between the two of them.

“Here,” Will says suddenly, and holds out his hand.

Mike cocks his head to one side, baffled. “What?”

Will refuses to look away. “Mike. I drew first blood.”

The light of the fireworks colors Mike’s cheeks just red enough that Will can dream, and Mike laughs, beautiful and sharp.

“Oh, god, Will. We haven’t done that shit in forever.”

“Party rules,” Will insists. “Those don’t go away.”

“Guess not,” says Mike, trying and failing to hide a smile. “What’ll we be doing this about when we’re adults? Bringing the wrong thing to a potluck?”

“Shit, no,” Will groans, “if I ever get like your mom about dinner parties, I hope you and El abandon me.”

“Nah,” says Mike. “Nothing could make me do that.”

Will bites his lip.

“Just… promise you won’t lie to me again, okay?” Mike adds. “Even if that Button thing wants it.”

“I promise,” says Will. “I want to be better, Mike. I do.”

Mike takes a deep breath, says, “me too” so quietly that Will almost doesn’t catch it, and then reaches out and shakes Will’s hand.

Even though the contact was his idea, Will is still overwhelmed by the feeling of Mike’s hand in his own. It’s been so long, after all, and Mike’s rough, long fingers just seem to fit there. He goes to pull away, feeling guilty, but Mike clings to him just a little longer. Will doesn’t understand why—it doesn’t make any sense—but he doesn’t figure anyone can blame him for leaning into it. Just a little. Just enough to soak in that touch.

“Thank you,” Mike says softly. Will wants to respond, wants to say something else, wants to make the moment last—

But they’re no longer alone. El is walking up to Mike’s side, looking between them, her eyes asking, Well? Did it go alright? And Mike is nodding, and Will sees a smile bloom on El’s face, a smile like he hasn’t seen in half a month. So what if it’s not aimed at him? he thinks, she’s happy. That’s all that matters, Will tells himself. And as Dustin stomps over to drag them all back to the rest of the Party, Will dares to think that, maybe, El was right. Maybe they will be okay.

Chapter Text

JULY 13, 1986

Will’s staring at the clock on the wall.

He’s sitting on an exam table. Behind him is a sterilized counter covered in medical implements, hanging over a tiled floor. It would almost feel like a normal doctor’s office—if it wasn’t located under Hawkins Lab.

And Will could maybe deal with that if he wasn’t high.

He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two the night before. Every time Will closed his eyes, vines grew out of the pillows and bedclothes and forced their way down his throat, a surge of hatred bloomed through him, stemming from someone else, and his brain replayed every awful moment he’s ever experienced with everyone he cares about. The Button’s always bad at night, but this time had been so much worse that he’d been desperate for something, anything, to make it go away.

So, before anyone else woke up, Will snuck into Jonathan’s room and snatched some of the rolling paper and weed Eddie had brought back from California. Sure, the two of them had smoked together only once or twice, and that stuff was pretty weak, but Will still remembered the pervasive sense of relaxation—and, more pointedly, Eddie calling Purple Palm Tree Delight ‘a ward against evil.’ If Henry had let him feel even halfway sane these days, Will might’ve remembered how much he hated Jonathan while he was high. But the Button wasn’t letting up.

Even more unfortunately, Will had never measured out the appropriate dose himself.

By the time he came even close to earth it was two hours later, the doorbell was ringing, and Colonel Jackson was there, humbly requesting his presence at Hawkins Lab, thank you very much.

So now Will’s sitting in the basement of the second worst place he’s ever been, waiting to be poked and prodded or something, and also high as a kite.

Wonderful.

He’s shaken out of his reverie by the door sliding open—wait, it’s been how long?—with a soft squawk of protest. Behind it, to Will’s surprise, is Dr. Owens, looking greyer, but otherwise much as he had the last time Will saw him. Will desperately attempts to make himself look less like he’s about to melt into a puddle.

To his relief, Owens doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual. “Well, well, well,” the doctor says jovially, “Howdy, kid. We never seem to run into each other under happy circumstances, now do we?”

Will grimaces.

Owens shrugs, unperturbed, and goes about his way, setting down and rearranging various items on the counter. “So, how’re you doing?” he asks. “Been hanging in there, what with—” He makes a vague gesture. “You know. Everything?”

A spike of paranoia hits him, and Will thinks, Ah. He’s pretty sure Eddie or Argyle or somebody mentioned that could happen.

“How are you here?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even as possible. “El said that army guy’s people got you, for, like. Illegal stuff. Even she didn’t know how you made it out of NINA.”

Owens snorts. “This is all illegal, kid. You think the Constitution has some kind of exception for making and hunting evil wizards?”

Will makes a noise that conveys something between annoyance and uncertainty. At least, he thinks he does.

“You know,” Owens continues, chuckling, “I still remember when you were about yay tall, sick, and quiet as a mouse. It’s good to see you’ve grown up into such a healthy, opinionated young man.”

“I don’t know about healthy.”

“Well,” says Owens, “that’s why I’m here. Nothing crazy or esoteric, I promise; Jackson just wants me to give you a checkup.”

“I’m fine,” Will says. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead—speaking of illegal, he does not want to know if Owens’ version of a checkup includes a drug test. “I’m not doing anything till I know what’s going on,” he says stubbornly, half curious, half attempting distraction. “Your guys said they brought El here, too. What’re they doing to her? Why bring us here? It’s not just for a checkup, I know that.”

Owens meets his eyes, considering. Looks him up and down. Will expects an accusation, but instead the doctor sighs. “You know what? Sure.”

“What? Really?”

“You’re hesitant, I get it. Can’t say I blame you. How ‘bout this: I answer your questions, and you decide how much you want to say. Doesn’t have to be much, or anything at all; not yet. Today’s just a trial run, and I really do need to give you a checkup. That sound okay to you?”

Will bites his lip. “I guess. El said you were on our side. I want to believe that, but… I don’t know.”

“Again, I certainly won’t begrudge you that worry. Where to start, then?” Owens drops off his stethoscope, and, walking over, plops himself down on the exam table next to Will. He pats the paper beneath them. “I suppose NINA is a good enough place. As I’m sure you’ve been told, the head honchos in Philly didn’t want Brenner and I to help you and your sister. They really didn’t like that we did it anyway.”

“They killed everyone,” Will says dully. “Yeah, we saw. And El blew up a helicopter.”

“She sure has a grudge against vehicles, huh?” Owens chuckles. “I remember the briefing about that van she flipped in ‘83. If only Henry Creel was a station wagon, right?”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Either way,” Owens continues, “Lt. Colonel Sullivan was sent to get Brenner, not me, but that didn’t exactly work out as intended.” Owens tone is still light, but there’s a shadow across his face. “Bastard went out the way he’s always wanted, and I got to pick up the pieces.”

“So, you’re here because you worked with him?”

“Pretty much. I had a year to pick Brenner’s brain at NINA, you see. Then full access to Eleven, her mind, her past, her psyche. Hell, if we go way back, I was the one who treated you during all that Mind Flayer nonsense.” He sighs. “That’s the problem with coming in swinging, Army-style—Brenner burned almost everything to stop Jackson getting her hands on it. That means, in terms of resources and information, I’m nearly all they’ve got. A few security tapes, and an old geezer who’s seen far too much.”

“Why not just get the information, then kill you?”

Owens barks out a laugh. “What’d subtlety ever do to you, kid?”

“I’m serious,” Will says. “They could do that. I know they could.”

Owens’ face falls. “Yes,” he says sadly. “They could have El pull it out of my head, then toss me to the wayside. But memories can be fallible, and besides—I’ve got other useful skills.”

“Like what?” Will says worriedly. It’s not the weed speaking now—at least, it’s not just the weed.

Owens smiles bitterly. “I’m your ally. Helped you despite the cost, helped your sister despite it being forbidden. You said it yourself—you want to trust me. Jackson, she doesn’t have that privilege. So here I am.”

“And you’re just… letting it happen?” Will says. “That doesn’t sound like something an ally would do.”

“Well, the alternative was making you two cooperate by force.” Owens shakes his head. “Not only would that have failed miserably—I know you kids—but I couldn’t bear to put you through more of that kind of pressure. I figured, sacrifice my morality a little bit, give you two something more palatable. It’s not a win/win, exactly. But it’s something.”

“It’s blackmail.”

Owens sighs. “Let me clear something up for you.” He gestures up towards a corner of the room. Will follows his hand up towards a small camera, nearly invisible behind a row of cabinets.

“Jackson’s big on trust,” Owens says softly. “Nothing’s secret here. No blackmail if everyone knows everything.”

“But—then—why would I say—”

“Because there’s nothing to hide,” Owens says heavily. “Not anymore. You, me, Eleven, Jackson—we’ve been on opposite sides in the past, but right now? We’ve got a common goal. Yes, I’m their prisoner, and yes, we’re both being used. But we all want the same thing.” He frowns, a dark expression flashing across his face. “I don’t love this, kid, trust me, but I do believe it’s safe to talk to me. Even if that means telling the government, too.”

“That’s bullshit,” says Will, and, okay, yeah, that one is kind of on the weed.

“I know,” says Owens. Then, in a much lighter tone of voice: “Trust me yet?”

Will glowers. “I don’t think I have any options.”

Owens claps him on the back. “You could go help Henry.” Will shudders, and Owens laughs. “Joking, of course. Look; we’ll make this work, okay? I may not have as much power as I did before, but I have no intention of letting anyone hurt you two again.”

He hauls himself up from the exam table with a groan, then cracks his knuckles. “Now—how about that checkup?”

It goes by in something of a blur. Part of that is letting the weed do its thing, but the rest is Will doing his best to send his mind anywhere else.  As much as he tries, though, certain moments refuse to fade into green, and, to his chagrin, his body is at the center of all of them.

First, Owens leads him to a scale—Will’s always hated scales—and clicks the weights around thoughtfully. Then Will’s back on the table, wrapped in a blood pressure cuff. As he zones out, Owens does in fact poke and prod at him with tongue depressors and thermometers, inspect his nose, eyes, and ears, and, finally, listen to his lungs, one shuddering breath at a time.

It’s torturous. Doctors always seem to point out the things you’re least comfortable about, and in a place like this, intoxicated, it’s a dozen times worse. To his credit, though, Owens clearly notices Will’s discomfort and attempts to hurry.

“Well, no 70-degree body temperature this time,” Owens says at last. He removes his stethoscope, and Will heaves a sigh of relief. “Keep eating your Wheaties, though,” he continues. “We gotta keep you strong for the monster fighting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Blood pressure’s a bit high, weight’s a bit low. We want to swap those. Though of course it’s understandable,” Owens reassures him hurriedly. “I doubt any of us has been particularly hungry while we wait for the end, right? Not to mention unstressed.”

Will tries to meet his smile, but it feels more like a grimace.    

“Now,” Owens continues, “about what’s going on in that brain of yours. I had planned to take your MRI as well, but Jackson wanted to get her hands dirty.”

Will fidgets. “That’s what I don’t get. Why does she want me? El’s the one with powers, and Henry hasn’t controlled my mind in years. Like, I’m thankful for the checkup, but I’m fine.”

“Kiddo,” Owens says, “With all due respect. You’re not sick, sure, but you’re certainly not fine. You’re thin as a rail, you have these terrible bags under your eyes, and, to be frank, you reek of marijuana.”

Will winces.

“Don’t worry,” Owens chuckles, “I won’t tell. Like I said, we’re all criminals here, right?”

He claps his hands together. “Still—you’re an anomaly, Will. That’s why Jackson wants you around. No one else has experienced what you have, except maybe Henry. Even if you’re okay right now, it’s very important to know what’s going on in that little noggin of yours.” He taps Will lightly on the head. “We’re in uncharted territory, all of us. Any clues we can get, anything he might’ve left behind in there, we have to find, right?”

Uh oh, Will thinks.

“Look, kiddo,” Owens says gently. “I know you’re nervous. I know none of this is reassuring. But I’m still your doctor, and I took an oath to do everything I can to protect you and your sister. Understand?”

The look on Owens’ face is deeply earnest, and somewhere deep inside, Will wants to believe he means it. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

“Good man.” Owens claps him on the shoulder. He grins, and Will, despite himself, has to resist grinning back.

“Okay, kid,” Owens continues, “Jackson’s up next. She won’t bite your head off, I promise, but best to listen when she speaks, yeah? Try to remember: same side.”

Will bites his lip. “Thank you, doc. I’ll try.”

Fondness and pain glimmer in Owens’ eyes, and he looks like he might say something else—

There’s a knock on the door.

“Speak of the devil, and she will come,” Owens says, a little too jovially. “You ready?”

Will doesn’t have time to respond before the door opens, and in sweeps Jackson in glasses and a long white coat. She’d look almost normal if it wasn’t for the sharpness of her hair and eyes.

“Everyone decent?” she asks, looking around. “Owens. Will.”

Owens sighs. “Yes. All’s well. He’s doing fine, just tired.”

“Like the rest of us, I imagine,” Jackson says. “We met briefly earlier, Will, but it’s nice to do so properly.”

She extends her hand, and Will takes it warily.

“Thank you, Dr. Owens,” Jackson says, clearly dismissing him. “I’ll take over from here.”

The doctor nods. “See you around, kid,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

And then he’s gone.

“So,” says Jackson, pulling up a chair in the corner and sitting. She lowers her glasses and pulls out the papers Owens left behind. “I see you’ve grown up since we last had you.”

“…yeah.”

Jackson inspects him in a way that makes Will feel unsettlingly like he’s sitting there naked to the world. “Owens told you we’re on the same side, correct?”

“I trust him. I don’t trust you. What are you doing to El?”

“I take it she’s given me a less than stellar review.”

“You could say that.”

She sighs. “Understandable, if unfortunate. I’ll repeat to you what I told her, then: the worst outcome here is patently avoidable. Your adoptive sister is doing good work. Even if she’s been struggling, everything we’ve done, we’ve done to help.”

“You’ve kept her stuck in her own home, all day, every day. You shot at Hopper the day you met! Plus, you’re in the Army. Your people tried to kill us.”

“To be clear,” says Jackson, “my rank is just for civilian and military purposes. In here, between us, I’m as much a doctor as Owens. PHD and everything.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“Unfortunately, if you’re determined to hate me, not much will.” Jackson tilts her head, considering. “You’ve been through a lot,” she says, looking Will over with a piercing gaze. “A lot more than any of us could understand. Truthfully, the only one who might come close is Henry Creel—and nothing about you screams ‘mass murderer.’”

“Thank you?” Will says warily. “That’s what Owens said, too, but…”

“Your backgrounds are similar,” Jackson explains. “Isolated, intellectual outcasts with a history of being targeted by bullies, both of whom stumbled into alternate worlds and returned with unnatural abilities.”

Will wrinkles his nose. “Your information sucks. I don’t have any abilities.”

“Maybe not now,” Jackson says. “But you did. You called it True Sight, if I recall correctly.” She sorts through the papers again. “But that hasn’t returned after Henry’s incursion, right?”

“No. Not since my mom burned the Mind Flayer out of me.”

“What an interesting name,” Jackson says, a faint smile on her face. “Accurate, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

She leans forward. “Look, Will. I know you’re hesitant to share your experiences with us, and believe me, I understand. Nevertheless, you’re here because somewhere inside that head of yours is information that may very well help your sister succeed. I want that to happen just as much as you do, so I’ll ask you this: what can I do to make you trust me?”

Will looks down. “You brought us back here. You brought El back here. How can I trust you after that? After what this place did to her?”

“I know,” Jackson says sympathetically. “It’s not ideal. But many of the basic facilities here at Hawkins Lab remained after its closure, and working with Eleven at the epicenter of Henry’s attack didn’t strike any of us as wise. This was the next best option.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

“You’re a protective sibling,” Jackson says thoughtfully. “Your file says a lot about your thoughtfulness, and your care for your friends. That appears to be accurate.”

Between you and Max, Will thinks dryly, I’m gonna be crushed by false kindness.

“They’re good qualities,” Jackson continues. “I respect them. They’re not well-prized in governmental work, but they’ll serve you well." She stands up. “For now, though—I think I know something that might help you understand what we’re trying to do here.”

“What?”

“I’m going to take you to your sister.”

Jackson—Doctor Jackson, apparently—leads him down the hall, through security door after security door, turn after turn. Will doesn’t remember much about this place—the last time he’d been in the lab, he’d been upstairs, and not exactly himself—but the sterile white passages still bring back memories he’d rather forget.

“Where are we going?” he asks, after the fifth turn.

“To the testing chamber,” says Jackson. “Just ahead.” She reaches the end of the hallway and pushes open a large pair of doors. “Go on. You can leave at any time, I promise.”

Cautiously, Will steps forward. Inside is a makeshift control room, filled with complicated computers, technical instruments, and men in white coats. A series of windows open onto a further, bigger room, easily fifty feet in height, surrounded by television screens. In the center is a large steel tank.

And on the far wall is a massive, looming brick of cement.

“Wait,” Will says. “Is this—”

“Where Eleven originally opened her rift?” Jackson's tone is grim. “Yes. All of the equipment is new, though, and the former gate is firmly sealed. I guarantee you, there’s no danger.”

Will bites his lip and forces himself over to the window. A man shifts aside to let him look.

Nearby, beneath a number of beeping screens, is Eleven. A strange cap of electrodes rests on her head, and she’s talking animatedly to a technician beside her.

“You see?” says Jackson. “Hard at work. They’re inventorying the information we managed to recover from the NINA lab. We’ve recreated Brenner’s isolation tank to the best of our ability, but Eleven is helping us with some of the particulars.”

“I thought your people destroyed that stuff on purpose,” says Will.

“You keep saying ‘my people,’” Jackson says wryly. “The ones who targeted NINA were Army thugs. Though illicit, Brenner’s program successfully restored Eleven’s capabilities, so my people figured the best way to support her would be to recreate it here.”

“What’s the point?”

“To make her stronger. More capable. And to ensure she has everything she needs to locate and destroy Henry Creel.”

“How am I supposed to trust she’s here willingly?”

“Ask her.” Jackson gestures towards the zippered door.

Will balks. “Really?”

She nods, and gestures towards one of the technicians, who unzips the protective screen and beckons Will through. “Go ahead. No tricks.”

He still half-expects someone to grab him as soon as he pushes the screen aside, but no one does. Then he’s on the floor, running, and it hits him that this place is his sister’s worst nightmare. Sure, the weed is making him more anxious than usual, but Will is certain the pang of guilt that hits him would have found his heart no matter what his condition. He hadn't been there when they came for her. And he should've been.

“Will?” El says, surprised, as he runs up.

“El,” he bursts out, breathless. “They—they told me you were here too—I wasn’t—I didn’t know—no one’s done anything to you, right? You’re okay?”

“Did Jackson not tell you?” she says, a little confused. “I chose to come.”

The technician beside her, clearly in the middle of running some test, sighs and steps aside so Will can close in.

“I—I didn’t know. It’s here. I didn’t know you were here.”

He looks so distressed that El takes pity on him. “I promise. They didn’t do anything to me. They are helping—more than they have been.” She frowns. “You smell funny. Did they do something to you?”

All of this had to be today, Will groans inwardly. “No. It was just, like. A checkup.”

“And are you—checked up?”

Will smiles, a little relief seeping into his bones. “Yeah. Yeah, Owens said I’m okay.”

“Good.” El quirks her head to one side. “Did you need something?”

“She—Jackson—she’s been talking to me—she’s trying to get me to tell her stuff. Owens too. I don’t know if I should, and you’re supposed to persuade me.”

El looks down, uncertain. “I don’t know, Will. I don’t know any more than I told you before. It’s not like I…” Her eyes drift to the covered gate, and the machine beside her beeps again. “I do not want to be here, Will. But at least no one has been mean to me? They may be bad men, and this place may be terrible… but it is kind of like NINA. And I can leave if I want to.” She shrugs. “I just don’t know.”

“You’re working with them.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You said you don’t want to be here, so why—”

“I don’t,” she says, a little desperate, “but if I leave, what happens then? What can they do without me? What will they do? I need to do this, Will. I need to keep you, everyone, the whole Party, the whole town safe. I’m the only one who can.”

“That’s not true,” Will says, even if he’s not sure he believes it. “Owens agrees. Bringing us back here was wrong; we don’t need them to fight Vecna.”

“No,” says El. “But they help. This place… It is just the best bad choice.”

Will’s mind had started to clear on the walk over, and while his neck is prickling again, he feels the most clear-headed he has in hours.

“You’re sure?” he says carefully. “I… I trust you, El. Over any of them. If you say so—”

“I have to try,” El says again. “I have to try. If you need to talk to the doctor, Will—just be smart about it, alright?”

He nods, slowly. “You mean Owens?”

“No. Jackson. Did she tell you she is also a doctor?”

“Yeah,” Will says slowly. “Just, if something’s wrong, tell me, or-or Mike, or someone else once we get home, okay? If they’re hurting you and you can’t say so now.”

El reaches out and grabs Will’s hands. “It is okay. I am okay. I promise.”

Will smiles weakly. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, then?”

“I’ll find him,” says El. “Go do what you need to do.”

“Convinced?” says Jackson.

They’re back in the labyrinthine halls.

“Kind of,” says Will.

“She made you feel better, though.”

“Yeah,” Will says carefully. “But I swear, if you hurt her—”

“We won’t,” Jackson says smoothly. “She’s our best hope of survival. Plus, that’s at least partially why we brought you. To ensure she’s safe.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re here,” says Jackson. “And sometimes that’s enough. Now—if you don’t mind, we need to run a few tests. Peek into your brain, and the like. I understand you have a certain amount of sensitivity to Henry’s presence left over from your, ah, possession?”

Will hesitates. El had said he could, he reminds himself. It’s okay. “Yes. It’s like a link to his emotions.”

“Interesting,” Jackson says, and she sounds like she means it. “How is he feeling now?”

Will tries to focus through the noise and shadows and weed that surround the Button for the one voice that is Henry. “He’s… angry. He’s always angry. But he’s planning. It’s been like that for months.”

“Do you know what he’s planning?”

“No,” Will says regretfully.

“Unfortunate. But that’s what we intend to test.” She turns suddenly and pushes aside another door. Past it is a large room with a massive cylindrical machine. “To that point, Will: I know you were confused when I mentioned your ‘abilities.’”

“Yeah?”

Jackson leans against the doorway. “Are you aware of the circumstances that gave Henry Creel his powers?”

Will’s eyes widen. “He was born with them, right?”

“No,” Jackson says. “Here—lie down on this table. It was a mistake, you see. You know Brenner was working on various psychokinetic experiments, far before Eleven’s creation. Well, one of them went wrong. A physicist went rogue, stole some machinery, abandoned it in a cave in Nevada. Young Henry just so happened to stumble into his work, and, well…”

Jackson adjusts something under the table. “He vanished. For twelve hours.”

“To where?”

“I think you know,” Jackson says calmly. “And when he came back…”

Will feels a chill run down his spine. “He had powers.”

“Yes,” says Jackson. “We don’t know why. He never told anyone what happened in those twelve hours, not even Brenner. Said he ‘couldn’t remember.’ Nonsense, probably, but it doesn’t matter.”

Jackson’s expression turns serious.

“It’s very unlikely you suffered the same fate, Will, given the unfortunate incident with the X-001 instance that kidnapped you.” She trails off. “But if we’re wrong… if you did experience what Henry did... Well. We could always use another superhero.”

By the time Jackson and some nurses lead Will and El back upstairs, Hop, who’d been El’s ride—and, strangely, Jonathan, who hadn’t been anyone’s—are waiting for them in the lobby.

“About time,” Hop says gruffly. He’s pacing, snaking in between rubble and fallen insulation, and carrying a large packet of papers.

Aboveground, Hawkins Lab looks just as abandoned as it has been since its destruction. It’s uncanny, and Will tries not to look too hard for the spot where Bob died.

“Have you been waiting long?” Jackson says mildly, dismissing the nurses with a wave. “We stayed on schedule.”

“No,” Hop grunts, “but your ‘Egress Requests’ are piling up, and I think Powell’s about to have a conniption. In the last few hours alone, Mrs. Kildair came in complaining that she can’t go get a mani-pedi in Indianapolis, the Carters apparently scheduled a vacation, and Pastor Tom just needs to attend a convention the county over.”

Jackson grits her teeth. “Will the tribulations of civilians never end.” She reaches out and snatches the papers from Hop’s hands, giving them a cursory once-over. “We’ll look through it, Mr. Hopper. Please tell Chief Powell to relax, and that his conniption would probably run counter to our goals.”

“What are they looking for?” El asks Hop quietly.

“Any sign of infection,” he explains. “Flaying, possession, whatever’s going on with the plants—the works.”

“How are we explaining that kind of investigation away?” Will says.

“Don’t have to,” Jackson murmurs, deep in the request slips. “Not yet. ‘The government has concerns about the possibility of hazardous waste from the earthquake accidentally leaving Hawkins.’ True enough, really. No good reason to keep anyone fully trapped, so long as we take reasonable precautions.”

“Does that mean my kiddo here can leave the house every once and awhile?” Hop says pointedly.      

“If we discuss it beforehand, yes. Same as always. We need you safe, Eleven.”

El grimaces.

“No concerns about the children, by the way,” Jackson adds, flipping to another page. “Nothing out of the ordinary, at least. We thought Will here might have retained some abilities from his stay in Dimension X, but at least so far, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“I’m sorry, what?” says Jonathan.

She sighs. “Good day to you, Mr. Hopper, Will, Eleven. Mr. Byers. Thank you for cooperating, and I look forward to killing a monster with you all. Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve clearly got some business to attend to.”

She tucks the papers under her arm and vanishes into the recesses of the building.

Hop immediately heaves a sigh of relief.

Jonathan, however, pivots to his brother. “They think you have abilities? Like, powers?”

Will fidgets with his sleeve. “Going to the Upside Down was how Vecna got his powers, apparently. Since I’ve also… been there… they took some pictures of my brain just to check. Didn’t find anything, though.”

El is looking at him with an expression somewhere between fascination and discomfort. “That was how he… Are-are you sure?”

“Yeah, apparently. Still, all they found in my head was, like, brain activity that matches the Button stuff we’ve talked about. It was a bad guess, that’s all.”

El’s frowning, and mutters something about ‘Papa’ under her breath.

Hop massages his forehead. “Well, you let us know if you start levitating bikes or whatever, got it?”

“I will,” Will says. “But I swear, everything I could do before was because I was attached to the Mind Flayer. Vecna. Whoever it was.”

El’s still eyeing him with that same look. Jonathan just looks baffled.

“Well,” Hop says, “Besides that whammy. They didn’t torture you all, did they?”

El and Will exchange a glance, then shake their heads.

“No,” says El. “They say that NINA 2-point-Oh will be ready in about a week.”

“And you’re okay with this?” Hop asks carefully.

“That’s what I said—” Will starts, but El just rolls her eyes.

“It is fine. Do I need to tell either of you again?”

“Nope,” Hop grunts. “How ‘bout you, kid? Other than being diagnosed with mortal, things go alright?”

Will is silent for a little too long, before saying, “They said I should eat more. That’s all.”

Hop actually guffaws. “Well, thank god we’re not payin’ ‘em to do this.” He nudges Will lightly. “What say we get the hell out of here?”

“Are you ready to go?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah—but, what’re you doing here, Jonathan?” Will says. “I thought you were going to check in with the Post today.”

“They’re still closed. I figured maybe you and me, we could go on a drive. Like old times.” He grins wryly. “I want to know everything about this power stuff, at least.”

Will rolls his eyes and looks at El. Tonight was supposed to be for the two of them, their latest attempt at getting things back to normal. Still, this is Jonathan…

“Um, me and El were going to watch something...”  

“Go,” El says. “Steve taped Miami Vice, and we need to catch up, anyway.”

“Really?”

“He is your brother,” she says gently.

“Yeah, but you’re my sister—"

“Go.”

“Hey,” says Hop. “If you’re going out, take these with you.”

He tosses a small packet to Jonathan, who catches it with some surprise.

“What’s this?”

“Christmas present,” Hop grunts. “They’re masks, kid.”

Jonathan groans.

“Take it from me,” Hop says. “The less of that shit out there we breathe in, the better. Right, Will?”

It’s been a constant refrain of his. Will hadn’t minded at first, but the surgical masks really are uncomfortable, and it’s been months.

Still—

Heavy weight in his lungs-the taste of vegetables gone bad-coughing-scattered breaths-oozing phlegm—

“Yeah,” Will says reluctantly. “Better take them, Jonathan.”

Suddenly, with zero fanfare, Will finds himself in a position he hasn’t been in since Lenora: riding shotgun in his brother’s car. He stays quiet as Jonathan makes his way out of the parking lot, past the guards, and onto the main road.

They haven’t really talk-talked since the earthquake. Since, well, Will’s confession. Casual dinner table stuff mostly, the usual since California, but it’s still lonely.  

He knows Jonathan is just awkward about important things. It’s a reality Will knows well, and it’s how Jonathan’s always been, but somehow him being high all the time made things worse. If anything, that fact makes Will feel even shittier for smoking himself. Drugs and anxiety came between them once, he thinks sourly. It’s not going to happen again.

While Will broods, Jonathan takes his brother in out of the corner of his eyes. He does a cursory once over. Sniffs. Well, Will thinks, that’s it. Time to talk about either drugs or my nonexistent powers.           

Instead, Jonathan pulls something out of his pocket and slips it into the car’s tape deck.

Click.

Guitar.

Darling, you’ve got to let me know—

Will’s eyes widen. “Jonathan—"

A very slight smile crosses his brother’s face, but he just raises a finger to his lips. “Shh. Just go with it.”

“Is that—”

Jonathan’s head bobs in time with the beat. “You’ve got three minutes and nine seconds of bliss. Better make ‘em count.”

Will bites his lip to hide a smile and closes his eyes. Okay, he thinks. Yeah, I can do that.

The song goes by far too quickly, and almost as soon as it comes to an end Jonathan hits the brakes. The sudden silence strikes Will, and it takes him a second to realize that the entire time ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go” had been playing, the back of his neck hadn’t buzzed once.

He thinks he might cry. It works, he thinks, ecstatic. It works. It works. Everyone was right, it works, and I don’t have to keep pretending…

He doesn’t want to cry, though, so he forces himself out of the car—only to stop in sudden confusion.

“Jonathan…” His eyes slowly track a very familiar driveway up the hill. “This is our old house. What’re we doing here?”

“Close,” Jonathan says, “but not quite.” He pulls open the rear door and removes a tarp that had been covering something Will had also missed. “Give me a hand here?”

Will frowns. “Is this a good idea? Mom said going back would be depressing.”

“We’re not going to the house, silly.” Jonathan roots around in the backseat for a minute, looking for something. Then he straightens back up and slaps a thin piece of plywood down on top of the car, grinning like a maniac.

Painted across the wood, in lovingly hand-detailed letters, are the words CASTLE BYERS.

And below that:

ALL FRIENDS WELCOME.

A swell of emotion rises inside of Will, like a whirlwind of sparks building slowly upwards.

“Heard a storm blew it down the summer we left,” Jonathan says, a little embarrassed by the intensity of his brother’s gaze. “Figured, well, sure, last time we made a fort it was about dad, but since the world is ending and everything is awful, maybe the least I could do is buy some wood, maybe get some permission from Jackson, and—"

The rest of the sentence is driven out of him by the force of Will’s hug.

“Thank you,” he says simply.

Jonathan says nothing. He just hugs back harder.

“Here,” Jonathan says, panting, after they’ve hiked through the woods for a little while. The tarp full of wood was heavier than either one of them had expected, and they’re both hot and sticky by now. “We’re a bit further from the house than the first Castle Byers was, but it’s closer to Hop’s place. I figured, maybe if you have a bad day at the lab, or something, well.” He drops a small, portable cassette player into Will’s hands, and then a brand-spanking-new walkie talkie. “Maybe having someplace closer to go might come in handy.”

“Shit,” Will says, unsure what to say. “How much did this stuff cost?”

“Cal’s had the tape player,” Jonathan says, a bit flustered. “But, uh. Mom and I have been saving up for the walkie. We thought it would be helpful to have another one, and I guess the army agreed to let the order through. As for the wood, well, there’s a lot of debris people are willing to get rid of for cheap…”

“Jonathan,” Will says, speechless. “I… I had no idea. This is so much.”

“Come on, bud. You’ve been back there. The lab, the Upside Down—hell, we’re back in Hawkins, isn’t that enough?” Jonathan looks him in the eyes. “You deserve something,” he says. “No arguments.”

Will grins and shakes his head viciously. “Never.”

“Good.” Jonathan pops his back, then stretches. “This’ll be light work with a soundtrack, anyway.”

And he drops the cassette from the car into Will’s hands.

He’d almost expected it, but pure pessimism had had him ready for Combat Rock. This, though, is clearly a mixtape. Will flips it over. On one side is a setlist, neatly handwritten, and the other the title:

OPERATION LONG HAUL

COMPILED JONATHAN B., 1986

“You like it?” Jonathan says nervously. “I’ve been glued to the tape deck for, like, weeks.”

“It’s the mixtape?” Will says, excitement bubbling up as he flips back to the set list. “Holy shit, this is amazing.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says, still nervous, but getting into his groove. “Side A is all you kids, then Side B is, like, Nancy, Steve, Robin and me. Plus Erica, because I didn’t know where to put her.”

“’Light of a Clear Blue Morning?’ ‘You Don’t Mess Around With Jim?’ Those aren’t ours.”

“I asked Mom and Hop,” Jonathan says proudly. “They’re always mixed up in this one way or another, so… I tried for Murray, too, but he said something about classical music and slammed the door in my face.”

“It’s perfect,” Will says.

“There’s one more song at the very end,” Jonathan points out, tapping it carefully.

Will looks, and nearly chokes.

“‘Master of Puppets,’” Jonathan says, a little uncertainly. “I thought it made sense…”

Will punches him lightly in the shoulder, blinking back tears. “I’m going to hug you again if you aren’t careful.”

“You don’t hug me that much anymore. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Ugh, Jonathan!” Will rolls his eyes. “The others are going to love this, you know.”

Jonathan smiles awkwardly. “I really hope so.”

“They will!”

Embarrassed by the praise, Jonathan turns and tries to busy himself fishing around in his bag for a hammer and some nails. “So, uh. Which side do you want to play first?”

Will eyes the very first song. “Side A works.”

Jonathan beams. “Got it.”

He pops the tape in and tosses Will a long 2x4 for the base. Will hits play, and as they begin to work, the woods fill with the head-banging sounds of The Clash.

The rest of the afternoon flies by as they rebuild Castle Byers. It’s the hottest day of the summer so far, they have to wear Hop’s masks, and it’s just as much of an amateur job as the last one—sure. But they’re older now (heck, Will can actually use adult-size tools) so by the time the sun begins to set, they’re adding the final touches.  

“What do you think?” Jonathan says, tumbling dramatically to his knees as the last notes of ‘Master of Puppets’ drift off into the evening,

Will takes it all in. They’re drenched in sweat, they must’ve listened to the mixtape at least a dozen times over, and he thinks he might sleep for a week: but before them stands a new Castle Byers. It’s leaning to one side, there are gaps in the walls, and the tarp on the roof is only mostly secured—

But Will plops down next to his brother, grinning, and says again:

“It’s perfect.”

Looking at this little sanctum he had once made, then destroyed, and has now remade, Will thinks it feels like a new beginning. Life has been bad lately, real bad, but working on this place was like the vacation Spring Break was supposed to be.

Like a dose of hope.

They take in the crooked walls proudly for a good five minutes, before Jonathan forces himself up, groaning.

“Ugh, it’s getting late. I only got us freedom of movement till sundown, so we should probably be getting home.”

Will stretches too but doesn’t move. “I mean, it’s not totally dark yet.”

“What else do you wanna do?” Jonathan asks, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want the power interrogation today.”

Will laughs, feeling more comfortable with his brother than he has in years. “We can talk about literally anything else, you know. It’s been forever.”

Will can’t quite tell from behind the mask, but he’d thought Jonathan had been smiling. Suddenly, though, the smile drops, and the little of his face Will can see grows serious.

“Yeah, we really haven’t talked about much lately.”

Will tilts his head to one side, trying to keep the mood light. “Anything specifically cross your mind?”

“I mean, shit. Everything?”

Will looks down at his sneakers. They’re scuffed with mud and leaves, and he is suddenly overcome with a profound sense of emotional exhaustion. “’Everything’ is a lot, Jonathan. For all I know that includes powers; and seriously, I don’t have any—”

“Come on, Will,” Jonathan says, and a hint of desperation slides into his voice. “Not that. Eddie. The Upside Down. The Button—you know I got home right at the end of whatever you told Mom and El so I never heard the full story. Hell, Will,” Jonathan says, clearly working up to it, “we haven’t talked about Mike.”

Will freezes. “I guess I kind of meant, like. Something a little less—”

Less terrifying, he thinks.

Jonathan reaches out and lays a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“We used to talk all the time,” he says sadly. “You're right about that. You used to tell me everything, even the hard stuff. I know I’ve been a shitty brother lately, too wrapped up in Nancy and life to be there for you, but I miss it too.”

“Don’t forget the weed.”

It’s Jonathan’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “Yeah. That’s the other thing we haven’t talked about. You know, I thought I was the only stoner in the Byers family.”

“It was just today,” Will says, and it sounds more petulant than he’d hoped. “And it helps.”

“Uh, yeah, I know,” Jonathan says gravely. “Well, no, I don’t know, not totally, but… that’s why I got into it. To help with the bad stuff. Weed’s not like what everyone says, you know.”

“It makes you weird,” Will says.

“That’s kind of the point. You’re not supposed to be normal, you’re supposed to be more, I don’t know, at one with the world.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“You did take way more than you should’ve, buddy,” Jonathan says dryly, running a hand through his hair. “Next time just ask me, okay? I’m not gonna say no.”

Will snorts.

“Yeah, yeah, har har,” Jonathan says. “I guess I’m just trying to say that I get it, okay? And that I want to be here for you, no matter what. Like I told you in Steve’s trailer. Even if it takes some time for you to trust me again, I am here.”

“I know,” Will says softly. “But it doesn’t matter, Jonathan. I’m fine. We're together. We’re moving forward. That’s it.”

Jonathan fiddles with a leaf. Will knows his brother, he can tell he wants to pester him desperately, but Will also knows he won’t. They’ve always had a strong sense of what to ask and when, even lately.

That’s why it surprises him when Jonathan says, “So—Mike, huh?”

Will goes so red he figures he probably matches the sunset. He’s two for two for embarrassing conversations at twilight though, so he figures he’s got a positive record in terms of ‘not showing people that you’re blushing.’

Jonathan didn’t care, he reminds himself. Jonathan doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” he grumbles finally. “Mike.”

“He grew up pretty handsome, but, like. I always figured you’d have better taste than to go for a Wheeler.”

Will groans. “You’re one to talk.”

Jonathan snorts. “Sure, they’re attractive, but they’re so much trouble.” He’s clearly teasing.

“That’s why you and Nancy have been fighting?”

It’s a dirty distraction, but hey. It’s a reflex.

Jonathan sobers up quickly. “It’s—we’re not fighting. It’s complicated.”

“I saw your acceptance letter. You’re definitely fighting.”

“No—she, Will, she doesn’t know.”

“Oh,” Will says slowly.

Then: “Guess we’ve both got stuff we’re not gonna tell the Wheelers.”

Jonathan stares at his brother for a moment.  

“No,” he says eventually. “I am going to tell her. I… I don’t know when, yet. But I have to. That’s how relationships are supposed to work. You tell people things, even if they hurt. When you care about someone, you don’t lie.”

A sour feeling pools in Will’s stomach, and it spills out before he can stop it. “Easy for you to say. People don’t get killed because they lied about where they’re going to college.”

Jonathan’s head shoots up fast as a bullet. “Hey. Hey, Will, stop.”

“What?” he says, and to his disgust tears begin to well behind his eyes. “It’s true.”

Jonathan pulls his mask down sharply, scoots over, and grabs his brother’s shoulders. “No, Will! No one is going to try and kill you for… for being you.”

Will raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, so that’s a hard thing to promise with Vecna around, but you know what I mean.”

“No. I don’t.”

“I mean, our friends, our family… Mike… they’re good people, Will. They’d be on your side about this, I know it. And besides, if anybody tries anything, I’ll kick their asses.”

“Really?” Will says softly. “About what? You can’t even say it, Jonathan.”

Jonathan meets his eyes. “Gay,” he says. “You’re gay. Is that better?”

“I feel like shit, so maybe?”

“I don’t care who you like, Will,” Jonathan says seriously. “I mean it. You’re my brother. I loved you when you were possessed; did you really think I’d care if you thought guys were hot?”

“Yeah,” Will says weakly. “I did.”

“Well, I don’t,” Jonathan says. “And sure, maybe it’d take some of the guys a minute to come around, but… You and me, I mean, you think I haven’t been called that? We’re the Byers. We’re freaks. That’s just kind of the way things roll. And everybody stuck with us anyway.”

“What about Mom? What about Hop?”

“Hop… I don’t know, he’s a good guy, but Mom, Will? She won’t care. Is that why you’ve been worried? She loves you. She loves you more than anything. I swear.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“You should tell them,” Jonathan says. “Maybe… maybe not now. Maybe not for a while. I don’t know how this works; obviously, I’ve never, but…” He trails off. “I don’t know what I’m saying, I guess. Just, with what’s going on… what you’re going through, what you must be feeling… you shouldn’t have to carry that alone, okay?”

“No, Jonathan.”

Jonathan rubs his forehead. “Sure, but it’s eating you up, right? If it’s anything like… like my thing…. God, it’s gotta be worse. Won’t it be better once it’s water under the bridge?”

“You and El keep saying that,” Will says, irritation spiking, “and I don’t know why! People hate fags, Jonathan. Everybody who’s not a freak, at least. It’s not water under the bridge.”

“Wait—” Jonathan holds up a hand. “El knows? Like, you told her first?” He looks hurt, then, suddenly, concerned. “Wait—she knows you’re—you’re gay—or she knows about Mike?”

Will stubbornly says nothing, and that’s enough.

“Oh,” Jonathan says softly. “Okay, I get it now.”

“I didn’t tell her on purpose,” Will mumbles. “But… you know that painting I was working on this spring? She, uh. Found it. In Mike’s bedroom.”

Jonathan looks up sharply. “It was for—but you haven’t told Mike, though.”

“Of course not.”

Jonathan takes a deep breath. Releases it. Thinks for a minute. “But that painting—”

“Yeah. El reamed me for it already. Don’t join her.”

Jonathan rubs a hand over his face. “Will, you’re not trying to date Mike, right?”

“What?” Will yelps. “No! I mean,” and it’s stumbling, and it’s awkward, “I would, if, if Mike… but he’s not,” he finishes hurriedly, “and all I want is for him and El to be happy. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Jonathan says slowly.

“I’m not an asshole.”

“I know you’re not, bud. This is just—new—”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

It’s not supposed to be mean, but it does sound a little like it. Jonathan, to his credit, ignores him.

“So, El knows, I know… Does anyone else? Just… summing up.”

“No. Just all the wrong people. Can we go home now?”

“I’m the wrong people?”

“Shit, Jonathan, no—I mean—I mean… I hoped no one would ever know.”

They sit there silently for a minute. Finally, Will opens his mouth.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he says softly. “Especially not Mike. He can’t know. It’s like, the one thing that could ruin everything we have. I just got him back, Jonathan, I can’t lose him again.”

“I know.”

“I just wish…” And it’s a desire he’s never voiced, but that he’s always had. “I just wish there was a road map for someone like me. I wish I was normal. I wish I could’ve liked Jennifer Hayes back in seventh grade, dated her or some other girl in high school, then gotten married and moved in down the cul de sac and just had this perfect suburban life… but I can’t.” Will buries his head in his hands. “I can’t, and I can’t tell anyone about anything. Not if I don’t want to get hurt more than I already am. So I just keep pretending. Around Eddie, I could… But he’s dead. It’s just… it’s easier to keep pretending than it would be to stop.”

Jonathan’s thinking. When he responds, it’s very quiet. “You know… Mom could help.”

“NO—”

“She could.” He looks out into the growing dark. “You think she doesn’t know about being a weirdo? Everyone’s thought she was crazy for years, but she’s not.”

“That’s not the same.”

Jonathan looks sideways, and his eyes glimmer. “Will… Do you know why she divorced Dad?”

Will tilts his head. “Yeah. He hit her.”

“Yeah.” It’s a little shaky. “But… do you know why he hit her?”

“Does it matter?” Will says softly, but Jonathan is already talking.

“Because the rumor was going around again that one or both of us was queer. Dad was, he was mad, he wanted to go fight one of the guys down at Benny’s who was spreading it, and Mom asked him… she asked him why he cared.”

Silence, and falling spores.

“That was the wrong answer,” Jonathan says dully. “He yelled. Said he wasn’t going to raise queers for kids, said he’d always done everything to raise us the right way. The usual bullshit. And mom said… I can still remember. She said:

Fuck it, Lonnie. What if one of them is queer? What then? You gonna kick him out? Beat him up and sell him to Pennhurst?

I won’t have a faggot under my roof, Joyce. You might be too weak of a bitch to deal with it, givin’ ‘em music and crayons and shit. But dammit, come on. We did this together. We have to be a team. Did we really go through all the trouble of having kids only to have them turn out defective?

None of my boys are defective, Lonnie. And guess what? If they are queer? If they’re anything one of us doesn’t like? They’re still my fucking boys. If you can’t handle that, maybe you’re the one who should leave.

“That’s what she said,” Jonathan finishes quietly. “And then he hit her.”

He kicks a rock down the hill, and goes quiet.

Somewhere off in the distance, a single police siren starts, then fades. A cricket chirps.

“Oh,” says Will. It’s all he can think of. “Why… why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You were at Mike’s that day, remember? I think that was what started it. Something about two boys being friends like that, it was unnatural, something stupid.” Jonathan kicks another rock. “Mom didn’t want you to think it was your fault—because it wasn't. She didn’t want to plant that idea in your head, you know? Figured, ‘we had a fight, daddy left’, blah blah, was enough. Not for me, though. I was in my room, so no fun escape for Jonathan. You remember those walls. Thin.”

Thin enough for a Demogorgon to rip through like plastic wrap, Will thinks tiredly. Or a twelve-year-old kid.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Jonathan adds. “I really am. Someone should’ve.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is, though. There are so many things I should’ve said.” Jonathan’s gaze is piercing. “I hate that you thought that maybe either of us wouldn’t still love you, Will, no matter who you are. Maybe dad was right, and we are weak for not saying that enough. I don’t know. It’s not easy, it’s not simple, but… I know I didn’t say it. So I want to say it now.”

Will nods. He’s too choked up to say anything.

“You’ll always be my brother,” Jonathan says. “Even if, someday, you marry a guy named Dale and change your name to something stupid like Longfellow.”

Will snorts. “I don’t think any cute guys are named Dale.”

“Bigot,” Jonathan says, grinning. “And who cares, anyway. You’re my little brother, and we’re mom’s kids. That’s… that’s why she fought so hard to save you from the Upside Down, from the Mind Flayer; that’s why she got us out of Hawkins. She wants us to be safe and happy. Even if we’re all a little messed up.”

“Freaks,” Will says.

“Yeah.”

“She won’t hate you.”

The words hit Will with the weight of anvils. As much as the self-hatred inside him wants to bubble up and push them away, it can’t. Not totally. If El said it, he thinks, and Jonathan too, then maybe…

“If… if that’s all true,” Will says shakily. “Then, someday. I don’t know when. Someday I might tell her.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Jonathan says. “Like I said, I don’t know much. But I don’t think there’s, like. A timeline for talking about it.”

Will nods slowly.

“And if you do—with Mom, or your friends, or anybody else—I’ll be there for you, okay? I’ve got your back. Just like always.”

“Yeah?” Will says, tears in his eyes and a smile on his face. Jonathan smiles back, and for that one moment, the two brothers look like nothing more or less than a mirror of each other.

“Yeah,” Jonathan says confidently. “Now, shit, let’s get out of here. I think the mosquitoes are somehow surviving the end of the world and coming after me anyway.”

AUGUST 7, 1986

The day Will finally decides he’s ready is nothing special. It’s not like he’s prepared, or anything: it just feels right.

It’s the end of a rare, blazing August day, just before the start of the school year. Will’s been knee-deep in his monster manual, trying to find the right entity to use for a specific encounter, when it hits him.

In just over a week he’s going to be a sophomore in high school. In just over a week, it’ll be almost a half a year since the earthquake, half a year since anything extradimensional has occurred.

In just over a week, things will go (nearly) back to normal.

And Will is sitting there, staring at a picture of a Beholder (probably too powerful for this encounter, he thinks), with ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ playing tinnily in his ears, when he realizes he doesn’t want things to go back to normal.

Not entirely, at least.

Having El on his side, even after everything with Mike, was a relief.

Having Jonathan on his side? That was the best relief of his life, only second maybe to being rescued from the Upside Down.

What would normal even be? Pretending, again, that nothing was wrong? Going back to Hawkins High like everything was fine, like Vecna hadn’t killed over a dozen people in their class, like he hadn’t been gone for a year, like he hadn’t changed.

And Will wants, all of a sudden, to tell his mother the truth. Maybe it’s stupid, a little part of him says, maybe you’re going too quickly, you’re going to regret this—

He can’t tell if it’s him, or the Button, but his song is playing, and he can push that thought away.

Before I stop myself, he thinks. I have to.

Joyce Byers is sitting in a plastic lawn chair, propped up against the back wall of the house, smoking a cigarette. She really should quit, she thinks for the millionth time, but even with Hop’s masks it’s not like anyone’s breathing clean air right now, so whatever.

She squints up at the sun, half-blocked as usual by shifting, unnatural clouds. A faint flash of red lightning flickers across the sky, but no thunder follows.

“Fuck you,” she says amiably. “I’m off work. You’re not pulling shit right now.”

She did find a job, finally. Donald, with an air of heavy regret, told her over the phone that Melvald’s would likely be closed for the duration. He could, however, provide a stellar recommendation to the folks over at Bradley’s Big Buy, should she desire one.

Yes, she told him, she would in fact desire one, and quite frankly, she’s not sure why she hadn’t thought of the idea first. Just a couple more phone calls, though, and boom. Joyce Byers, employed, once again. Just like that.

It might not be the highest paying job, sure, but it exists and Joyce is grateful.

She’s about to consider drifting into memories of Melvald’s and happier days, when suddenly the back door creaks open.

It’s her youngest son, peeking through the screen and looking very much like a deer in headlights.

“Hey, mom.”

Now that he’s out here, Will’s not sure. No, he’s terrified. But it’s too late, it would be weird to turn back. He can’t turn back now.

Joyce cracks her neck, and beckons casually with the cigarette. “Come on out, honey. Everything going okay in there?”

He nods, pushing aside the screen door, but doesn’t make to move any further.

“Oh—I’m sorry—let me get you a chair.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I like standing.”

Slowly, uncertainly, Will traipses over to his mother’s spot in the shade, and joins her in staring at the little copse of trees behind the fence.

It’s almost cool here. If he closes his eyes, he can forget the spores and pretend he’s back by their old house. He can almost smell the pines.

Joyce takes a long drag on the cigarette, then takes in her son. His hair’s so long now, she thinks idly, long enough to actually blow in the breeze. He won’t let her use a bowl to cut it again, which is probably for the best, but she wants to anyway. Probably a universal mom instinct.

Still, in his button-down and nice jeans, the long hair looks good on him. He looks older. Grown up. And Joyce’s heart aches. How could her boy be turning into such a handsome man so quickly?

Thank goodness I’m keeping my mouth shut, she thinks. That would be one way to ruin the mood.

“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” she says instead.

Will shifts his weight over to his left foot. Takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s just kind of a nice day, and you were out here all alone…” He doesn’t add that he can’t bear it, that she’s being so nice, just waiting, unknowing, and he’s going to break her heart.

“Aw, sweetie.” Joyce nudges him softly. “I think your poor old mom will be fine with a little conversation.”

“Yeah?” Will smiles at her, and it’s so gentle and sweet and sad she wants to shake whatever’s going on inside his head out of him. Instead, she just smiles, gets up, and grabs the other lawn chair from its cobwebby home beside the shed.

“Here,” she says. “I know you want to be all cool and everything, but just in case your legs get tired.”

She taps out the cigarette, half-expecting another excuse. Instead, to her surprise, Will sits. He stares out towards the trees before speaking.

“Do you ever think about it? About that fall?”  

Joyce nods. Elaboration is unnecessary—they both know which one he’s talking about.

“Of course,” she says slowly. “All the time. That fall, that night.” She pulls out another cigarette and spins it between her fingers. “The night it came for you. The night all of this started. The night everything went wrong.” She smiles vaguely. “How could I not?”

“Do you ever wish it didn’t happen?”

This catches her by surprise. “Will, honey. Is that even a question?” She reaches out and cups his face gently with one hand. “I wish, every day, that you could have grown up, lived a normal life, without that hanging over you.”

“No,” Will says, “I mean… do you ever wish I could’ve stayed who I was before?”

“Well,” Joyce says slowly, “That’s a hard one. I suppose everyone wants their kids to stay young and innocent. But people grow up.” She meets his eyes. “People change. If you’re asking if I wish I had that boy instead… I do have him, Will. He never left. The Upside Down didn’t make you a different person.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Well, I do.” Joyce tosses him the cigarette. “Want one?”

“What?” Will says with a disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, come on. I know you used to smoke with Eddie.”

Will flushes and hands it back. “Just a couple times. And it, uh…”

Joyce laughs. “Okay, okay, don’t worry about it. You’re just so big now.” She smiles fondly. “Still my little boy, of course. But look at you, all grown up, thinking you’re not worth it. That’s adult anxiety, Will. A lot of pain comes with being an adult, but, I suppose—” she wiggles the cig knowingly, “—it has some benefits.”

Will laughs half-heartedly, because they both know pain isn’t an age-exclusive feeling. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“If you insist.” She lights it herself, and, taking a drag, looks her son up and down again. “What’s this really about?” she asks. “Campaign planning getting a little too real again?”

“It’s not that.” Will taps his foot against the grass. “It’s just… I know that I’m-I’m different.

He’s gearing up for something, Joyce knows he is. So she lets that one go.

“And I know how much shit you and Jonathan have gone through because of me. If-if it gets worse, if, if I get worse, I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep cleaning up my mistakes.”

Okay, Joyce is definitely worried now. “Will, honey. You haven’t made any mistakes. I know I’ve said it before, but there’s nothing wrong with different. I’m sure there’s something you’re dealing with right now; god knows high school is hard, and scary, let alone with monsters in the background. But, Will? Whatever it is, I’m here. Okay?”

“Mom—”

“If loving you means cleaning up shit, sweetie, I’ll clean up all the shit in the world.”

“Mom,” Will laughs desperately, “that’s so stupid, oh my god.”

Slowly, though, the smile falls from his face.

“I-I want to tell you. I just… I just don’t know how.”

Joyce looks at Will again, really looks at him, and wonders. She could guess, maybe, if she wanted to, what he wants to say. Maybe she’s wondered for a while, now. But she has a choice to make, and she knows it. It’s the eternal choice with Will. Do you push? Or do you give him space and time?

What is it that he needs? What is he telling me?

He came out here.

He talked with me.

He laughed with me.

He’s afraid.

He’s hurting…

But he came to me.

There’s a shift in the air.

Will looks down at his mother’s hand as she decisively squashes out the cigarette. His lip is trembling, but he’s holding it together, and Joyce knows he’s made a decision, too. He’s going to say whatever’s on his mind, he’s going to say it, even though he’s scared, and Joyce is so fucking proud of him—

“Mom,” Will says, and it starts as a whisper, but he forces it to be stronger, to be louder, to be more. “I-I have to tell you.”

Her face is so open, so concerned. So certain. He takes a deep breath—because he has to do this.

“I’m gay,” Will says.

And it’s done.

For a moment, nothing happens.

The world goes quiet.

Joyce tries to catch Will’s eyes, but he can’t seem to meet hers. Even after everything she’s said, after everything she’s done, he’s terrified, and his eyes sparkle with withheld tears. His lips are trembling, and his chest rises in a heaving breath. He calls for her—“Mom?”—but his gaze is glued to the earth and his voice cracks.

He’s waiting for the shock, Joyce knows. The slap. The yelling. The get-out-of-my-house.

But it’s never going to come.

“Will,” Joyce says simply. And she pulls him toward her, sharp, fast, strong.

Will feels warmth. Soft arms, familiar arms, wrap around him as best they can, holding him tight like when he was a kid, and his mom’s lips press into his hair, oh so gently. He can feel her smiling, and then he’s sobbing, and then Joyce is holding back tears herself, and she’s rubbing his back, and she’s whispering words into his ears that she’s sure could have been better, should have been perfect, but that he’s never going to forget.

“Will, sweetie. Oh, honey. Will, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay. I love you, Will, I love you so, so much. You’re my boy, okay? I told you. I told you. Nothing is ever going to take me away from you. Nothing.”

 Then he’s laughing, wild, crazy laughter made of pure joy, and then she’s laughing, too, and she’s pressing her forehead to his, and Will’s heart feels like it’s going to explode because she understands, she understands, and oh god, she doesn’t hate him.

She doesn’t hate him.

After what feels like a million years, they pull apart, and, in the late afternoon light, Joyce sees her youngest son’s eyes glisten with genuine happiness.

“I… I thought…” he starts, voice weak from tears.

“I know,” Joyce says. “No. I should have known. I should have made it clear, so clear.”

And she grabs his hands in hers.

“I’m your mother, Will Byers,” she says, as firmly and earnestly as she can. “And no matter who you are, no matter what you do, no matter who you love, that’s one thing that’s never going to change.”    

Chapter Text

Complete, utter madness.

Twisting, whirling, spinning thoughts dreams fears nightmares spiraling out in billions of fractals, indescribable and eldritch and constantly collapsing then growing again, dragged up into tentpoles of a dying consciousness over and over and over and

Dying.

Living.

Dying.

Living.

Dying—

But never fully dead.

Somewhere in the maelstrom is Max. She clings onto her name like a post in stormy waters, desperately trying not to be swept away. She remembers flickers of things: dead hands, stone pillars, strung up corpses, unhinged jaws, burning rifts, and swallowing swallowing swallowing darkness.

Somewhere, someone is screaming. Max tries to focus. What is she doing here? What is she supposed to do?

Right. She’s supposed to fall. She’s supposed to follow. And beyond that—she wants to help. Someone is in pain.

So she lets the concept of ‘down’, of something with an ending, fill her, overwhelm her, and she lets go of her anchor.

She falls, White Rabbit-style, into utter insanity.

White Rabbit. Max’s mind locks onto that. It’s like another outcropping, another grip in the storm. How does she know that name? That reference? What does it mean—

‘Falling down the rabbit hole?’

Before she can find an answer, Max crashes into another world.

This place, whatever it is, is built like a fisheye lens. The center is focused, stable, but the further from it Max looks, the less sense anything makes; whispers and shadows and death rippling violently at the edges. She has to completely reorient how she sees in order to even so much as think.

The process is like absorbing a living headache.

When her head finally stops spinning, Max opens her eyes cautiously. Reality shifts and solidifies in the center of her gaze, and she’s standing in a bedroom. White walls. Lacy curtains. It looks like a child’s room, overly safe and dainty.

In front of her kneels something that must’ve once been a girl. 

She’s thin. Painfully thin. Dressed in green and white—a cheerleader’s outfit, Max’s brain says—scarlet hair messy and knotted as it falls down her back. She’s on all fours, her entire body shuddering, and Max realizes that the storm of madness is coming from her. So is the death. Everything in this place is focused on this almost-girl, and Max knows now that she’s in the eye of the storm.

Max leans forward. She should help. The girl’s obviously distraught. Suddenly, though, the body before her looks up, and its face is shattered. Her jaw is broken, hanging loosely, muscles utterly disconnected; blood streams from her empty eye sockets, and her limbs bend at uncanny angles. As the girl tries to stand, Max flinches back, horrified, ready to be attacked. Instead, the girl turns away, reaching for something invisible, and Max remembers she’s a stranger here. To this dead girl, Max might as well not exist.

And as Max realizes this, the world pivots to focus on a door.

“Chrissy,” an older voice says from somewhere beyond; feminine, foreboding, curdled. “The pageant’s coming up. It’s time for your fitting.”

Max looks for the voice, but it seems to come from everywhere. She glances back, half-expecting the world to change, but it hasn’t. Instead, the dead girl, still in pieces, is now years younger. Maybe seven at most. Something about the voice has changed her instead.

“Yes, mother,” the girl says, jaw distending wildly. She leaves, moving towards the voice, and Max wants to pull back, wants to run away—

Follow her.

The instruction is merciless, all-encompassing. Max has no choice but to do so, and as she follows, the room between them and the door melts once more into the storm.

She braces herself against the wind, but it’s unexpectedly calmer than before. Sure, up is still down and down is still up, but as long as she stays behind the other girl—Chrissy—Max finds that she can avoid the worst of it.

Of course, she thinks. It’s only logical. Chrissy is the storm.

And Chrissy’s storm has a pattern. With each step she takes, the whirling darkness around them solidifies for a split second into an image.        

It makes Max think of a camera—snapshots.

Chrissy, seven years old, her hair done up, her dress perfectly tight, posing on a stage.

Chrissy, now with a loose ponytail and a fancy blue outfit, maybe in middle school, cheering in sync with a dozen other girls.

Chrissy in green, posing in front of a mural of a tiger, pom-pom in the air. Now she’s maybe Max’s age—what is Max’s age?—and she looks happy.

Almost happy. There’s something in her eyes.

Then Chrissy’s shattered hand lands on the doorknob—a clock chimes—the world spins—and, suddenly, the maelstrom solidifies.

They’re standing in a small living room.

It’s almost familiar. It feels like—like home, Max thinks. Not home. A place like it. Small—tight—poor—

“Steve, did you find it?”

It’s Chrissy talking, if you could call the mumbled, broken noises she makes talking. Somehow, the name she says is one that Max recognizes.

“Steve? Steve!”

Chrissy is moving through the room, then down the hall. Vecna’s voice echoes (Follow), and Max does. Reluctantly.

The minute she steps forward, the walls flicker. For an instant, they’re not the walls of this… trailer… (the word pops into her mind). Instead, they’re wood and wallpaper and stained glass and wrong.

Then the trailer is back, and Chrissy is yelling again.

“Steve!” She grabs the sleeves of her sweater and peers hesitantly into the back room.

Max looks, with equal hesitation, over the other girl’s shoulder. She expects to see someone, this Steve, maybe, but instead, in the center of the room is a black hole.

Max remembers someone talking about black holes once. Someone she cared about. Apparently, they’re massive voids out in space that even light can’t escape. They draw everything in.

It makes no sense that one would be here in this trailer, but then again, nothing here makes any sense. Slowly, inexorably, Chrissy and Max are drawn towards the darkness, and that darkness strikes a pang of fear into Max’s heart.

For some reason, Chrissy leans forward to touch it. She says “Mom?”, like she’s seeing something else, but the instant she makes contact the void splits into a dozen smaller ones. Out of each of them come warbling voices, indistinct at first, then clearer: and Chrissy screams.

She tries to run, but her broken limbs won’t carry her. Max wants to help, desperately; she reaches out to grab Chrissy’s hand, to flee the way they came, but her arm goes right through the other girl and comes away covered in spiders. Max screams too, and the hallway shatters. Now it’s open once again to the storm, and the black holes are growing, merging into two, and search as they might the girls find no exits.

They’re trapped. 

The voices are comprehensible now. They ripple into each other and out again like water, and with each sentence, a different black hole pulses. A different scene. A different moment.

The first voice is the same as before. Denigrating. Ruthless. Loving.

Chrissy’s mom.

“Chrissy, if you keep eating like that, you won’t fit into your cheer outfit.”

“Chrissy, you’ve grown so much. You hardly look like yourself anymore.”

“Chrissy, that boy isn’t good enough for you—I’ll make sure he doesn’t show his face here again.”

“Chrissy, just loosening this up for you, sweetheart.”

“Chrissy, you’re better than this.”

With each word, Chrissy flinches, and her broken face crumples into itself. The words, the familiarity—family is supposed to be kind, right? Max thinks.

She can’t quite make herself believe it, though.

A male voice slides in to join the first, seeping through the second black hole, growing louder, louder, louder.

 “Chrissy, what’s the answer to number 12?”

“Chrissy, want to walk me to practice?”

“Chrissy, you’re amazing.”

“Chrissy, will you go out with me?”

“Chrissy, I’d love to see that stunt again. Maybe you can show me in private.”

“Chrissy, can I touch you?”

“Chrissy, aren’t you happy to be with someone like me?”

“Chrissy, why would you hang out with a guy like him?”

 “Chrissy, aren’t I enough?”

He’s different from the first voice. His at least starts kinder. But there’s an undertone there, of desire, of lust—to possess, to control—and of a lack of humanity that sends a chill down Max’s nonexistent spine.

Now the black holes are starting to glow, twisting, warping, reaching out towards the girls in hands made of images. Of a woman, hunched, once-beautiful, with eyes like coal. Of a boy, tow-headed, tall, classically handsome. Each slinking in and out and around Chrissy’s life, grabbing, reaching, wanting. They say they mean well—“We only want what’s best for you, Chrissy”—but even if Max wanted to feel relieved, the words they’re actually saying come out anything but loving.

That boy in particular—is he that Steve guy Chrissy was calling for?

No.

He’s someone else.

His eyes flick over to Max. Just for a moment, just quickly enough that Max could mistake it for a trick of the light.

But there isn’t any light. Not in those eyes. Not now.

It’s almost like looking at Vecna.

He’s just a boy, Max thinks. He’s someone important to Chrissy. He shouldn’t be able to see me. He shouldn’t know who I am. So why am I so scared of him?

The void-people keep dancing. More of a mother’s denigration. More of a boy’s love.

Chrissy’s gone from devastated to terrified, and she’s pushing, shoving, trying to find a way away from them, a way out. Flickers of other faces jump in between the two black holes as Chrissy looks past them—girls in cheer outfits (sycophants), a boy in a jumper (always the favorite), a man in a sweater (silent, nonconfrontational)—their eyes and mouths all sewn shut. They’re dolls, puppets, there for no other reason than to distract and to trap, but they clearly hit Chrissy just as hard as the two main voids. Again and again, these shadow-people lunge in, grabbing at the broken girl, and each time they pull away, a little bit of her goes with them.

Flashes of dances and cheer routines and sparse, depressing meals; dates at the soda fountain and drinks Chrissy can’t share; basketball games, speeches, warm arms and cold hands; brilliant smiles and white teeth shining shining shining and telling her that she’s amazing, she could be amazing, she should be amazing, so why is she throwing up in the bathroom—

Suddenly Chrissy seems to see something Max doesn’t. An escape. A way out. She leaps forward, into an invisible crack between her boyfriend and her mother, reaching for another door—

Instead, she crashes into Vecna.

“Chrissy,” he says, voice rattling in the darkness. The storm swirls aside, parting for the monster, and now the people in the wind are grabbing for Max. She wrenches herself out of one shadow’s grasp, then another’s, but there’s always someone else there, and eventually they have her, pulling her closer and closer to Vecna, pushing her into same space as Chrissy.

Instinctively, Max knows that this is both the Vecna of Now and the Vecna of Then, not that it matters. One of them is here for her, and one of them is here for Chrissy. Now he can take them both at once.

As she makes that realization, something in Max breaks open. Open to him. And Chrissy fills the void.

Suddenly Max can feel every shattered bone in Chrissy’s body, because they’re her bones. She can feel every hitching breath in Chrissy’s throat, because it’s her throat. She can hear every scream in the air, because they’re her screams.

And Vecna’s rotted lips twist into a grin.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. (Whether he says the name Chrissy or Max afterwards, neither girl can tell.) “It’s time for your suffering to end.”

Then Vecna reaches out with his hooked left hand. It lands on Chrissy’s face (on Max’s face), then tears through her body (through Max’s body), and Chrissy screams (and Max screams), and the black holes around her scream—

And then they’re back in the lace-covered bedroom, Chrissy once again shaking on the floor.

This time, Max joins her.

Again, and again, and again, the cycle continues. Each time, Chrissy’s mother calls her away; each time, Vecna orders Max to follow; each time, black holes spawn memories and fears and suffering anew; and each time, Vecna breaks them.

There’s no time to be tired. There’s no time to be afraid. There is only time for pain.

Max tries to find a way out. Tries to sing, tries to remember what it feels like to be her and not Chrissy, tries to remember what ‘her’ even means. Everything fails.

This is Chrissy’s personal hell, Max realizes, in the half-seconds she has to think. Vecna built it. I can’t leave, because Chrissy can’t leave, and there’s something he wants me to find. She’s dead, and I should be dead; she’s dead, and he’s keeping her here.

Max laughs hysterically, and Chrissy laughs with her. What chance do they have against a man who can control even life after death?

One by one, the black holes start to change.

Max doesn’t know exactly when it happens, only that it does. One moment it’s mother dear and boyfriend dearest, whispering words of love and venom. Then it’s a man, older, worn, rage-filled; then another woman, different, sad, broken; then another boy, tall, handsome, terrifying; then, finally, another woman in a comfortable-looking cardigan.

It takes a dozen cycles for Max to lock on to them, to push forward into their parts of the storm. She’s so consumed by Chrissy, so consumed by her hell, that she doesn’t expect anything in it to change.

Still, though. A dozen more cycles, and Chrissy’s memories have all but faded away. These four are all that are left, and Max realizes that this hell, instead, is hers.

They have no names, though. Just faces. And the first three speak.

“Idiot,” they say.

“Careless.”

“Bitch.”

“Freak.”

“Useless.”

“Dyke.”

“Mistake.”

“Failure.”

“Coward.”

“You couldn’t save him.”

“You couldn’t save your family.”

“You weren’t strong enough.”

“You weren’t brave enough.”

“You just weren’t enough at all.”

The last woman sneaks forward, then; the one in the cardigan, and her voice slowly drowns them out, growing deeper, deeper, deeper—

“Don’t listen to those voices.”

“You can be strong.”

“You just have to let me in.”

“We can come to an understanding, you and I.”

“It just takes some trust.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Even if it is your fault, it’s not your burden to bear.”

“Even if it is your burden, it shouldn’t be.”

“Even if it shouldn’t be, it is.”

The crack. The door. Vecna. Breaking. The lacy bedroom. Chrissy’s nightmares. The trailer. The black holes. Max’s black holes, now. Again. Again. Again. Again, until Max can barely even remember her name.

Again. Again. Again.

The pattern has become so ingrained that Max barely realizes when it ends. When, with a shriek, Chrissy’s broken body tears open, spilling Max from her corpse on the pillar down to the bloody ground below.

In an instant, unexpected, unceremonious, she’s free.

She has her own body again. Kind of.

Who is she?

Why does she have a body?

Why does she deserve a body?

…Max.

Her name is Max.

She’s back in Vecna’s mind space. His lair, his world of blood and stone.

Somewhere, a clock chimes. Just once.

Max comes back to herself bit by bit, hacking, coughing, spitting up smoke and shadow and storm.

“Well, well,” says Vecna. He wasn’t there a moment ago, but he is now. “How was it?”

Max tries to sputter out a threat, but all that comes out is a fluid, dark and terrible and squirming.

“Not so good? Well, it is her hell, I suppose,” Vecna says dryly. “Like you thought. A very pagan belief, I promise you, but a fascinating comparison nonetheless.”

Max takes a shuddering breath and dares to look behind her.

Chrissy is still splayed against the stone, vines binding her to Vecna’s mind, same as ever. Her broken mouth is open in a never-ending scream, and the rift in her body into which Max had been shoved is slowly knitting itself back together.

“You said…” Max coughs up bile again. “You told her you were going to stop her suffering.”

“Did I?”

“You promised her it would end.”

Vecna tilts his head sideways, almost amused, and the wounds in his chest glow like fire. “All life is suffering, Max. Chrissy’s life is over. What more could you ask for?”

“You’re torturing her.”

“That isn’t Chrissy.” Vecna waves his hooked claws dismissively in the pillar’s direction. “The thing that was Chrissy is rotting in Roane Hill Cemetery. That is an echo. A memory.”

“She’s still in there,” Max croaks, stubbornly.

A vine on Vecna’s neck twitches, and he leans down towards Max with the grace of practiced disdain.  

“When you die, and you will,” Vecna says softly, “everything that is you will end. That is how it has always been. That is how it will always be. There is no Heaven, no Hell, no Paradise. All that awaits the human race after death is the long dark night of decay. You should know this. You were supposed to be freed of your own suffering, Max. You were supposed to be rotting alongside poor Chrissy. Somehow, you managed to refuse.”

Vecna’s neck cracks. “You can feel it, can’t you? The truth in my words. The void calling you home.”

A chill runs down the ghost of Max’s spine. “You’re wrong,” she says faintly.

Vecna chuckles, his laughter like gravel after a bad fall down the driveway. “Oh, Maxine. You pick now to believe in an afterlife? I never took you for a fool.”

“Screw you,” Max spits. “Maybe there isn’t any life after death. I don’t know, and I don’t care. That’s not what I meant, anyway. What I do know is that Chrissy is still in that place, and it’s because of you. That’s something after death, and it’s wrong.”

“Yes, yes, I’m an abomination against life and nature,” Vecna says. “So I’ve been told.”

“That’s the first true thing you’ve said all day,” Max says, grimacing. “Let her go.”

“No,” Vecna says mildly. “Now, let’s review. What have you learned?”

“What?”

“What did Chrissy teach you? Come now. She took valuable time out of her death to help us, Max. The least you can do is honor that.”

Max is so angry she can barely speak. “What I’ve learned?” She struggles to her feet, shaking. “You want to make me like her. I know it. You want to make that boy in the woods like her. You want to make everyone like her. Life isn’t suffering, you asshole; life is better than that, and it’s not your job to decide—”

“Max,” Vecna says calmly. “All this yelling, when I thought you wanted to ‘make a deal’ with me.”

Max blinks. Takes a second to process the words.

“That’s a song lyric, and you’re not a god.”

“Really?” says Vecna. “For all intents and purposes, the only world in which you exist is mine and mine alone. Does that not make me your god? In my world, Max, life is suffering. I really would have thought you of all people could understand that. You did before. Maybe you will again, one day.”

He sighs. “It’s such a funny thing, the human spirit. It defies itself, its reality, and its god again and again, right until the bitter end. But the moment it is forced to face that reality on its own terms, the moment it can no longer flinch away—” His hand flies out and grabs her face. “The human spirit breaks.”

Max struggles, but Vecna doesn’t let up.

“Now, Maxine,” he says. “What. Did. You. Learn?”

She tries to kick him, but suddenly the storm is back, and Vecna is every way she turns, and his strength is harsh and unyielding. The cold seeps into her bones, and the storm whispers that fighting barely matters in the end. After all, it says, you’re stuck here. All you learned from Chrissy was an eternity of pain, and Vecna’s proven he already knows how to use that. What harm is there in telling?

Max can’t find it in herself to argue.

“Whoever they are…” she says finally. “Those people. My people. My black holes. They think I’m a failure. They think I’m not good enough for them. They think… they think I deserve what I got. That the pain I’m in is my own burden to bear.”

Vecna lets go, and Max feels something subtly wriggle into her mind. Immediately, the storm abates.

“And?” Vecna says.

“And what?”

“Is that true? Do they think that?” His pale, dead eyes stare into hers. “Or do you?”

Max tries to open her mouth, but she can’t think of anything to say.

“No matter,” says Vecna. “I'll figure it out in the end. You did well, you know.”

“Thanks,” Max says bitterly. Her head is starting to hurt.

 “For now, though, I do believe Fred has been asking for you. For, well, anyone, really. He is quite lonely.” Vecna’s sunken eyes glow with malice. “I think it’s about time we answered his prayers, don’t you?”

Chapter Text

Dear Mike,

Yeah, I wrote you a goodbye letter. Don’t get your panties in a twist. I know we’ve had our fights, but we’re still a Party, you know?

I think you’re more than that stuff we fight about, anyway. More than the bitchiness and anxiety and… I don’t know what. Whatever it is, Wheeler, I think I get it. And I think that, maybe, you get me too. We both know what it’s like to lose someone in a way that’s stupid complicated. We both know what it’s like when people don’t care about a person the way we do. And because we’re both assholes, we fight everyone about it.

Mock me all you want, but those people you’re scared of losing? I’m scared too. Every time I close my eyes, if I don’t see Billy, I see El or you or Will or Dustin or Lucas, stabbed through the chest and broken on the ground with that spider thing looming above you, ready to pounce. If it happens once, right?

So, yeah, I get it. I know what it’s like to want to run away from that fear. Still, I know you love El, you love Will, you love Dustin and Lucas. You even tolerate me occasionally, and I tolerate you, also occasionally. We’ve changed since eighth grade, Wheeler. We’ve fought a bunch of shit together. We’ve gone through way more than anyone should, lost more than anyone should, but despite it all, we’re still a Party. That has to mean something.

I guess I’m saying that our friends rely on you, Mike. El relies on you. Whatever you’re doing out there in California… when you come back, things are going to be bad. Real bad. The Party’s gonna be in crisis. They’re gonna need someone to hold them together. It’ll probably be overwhelming, and you’ll probably feel lost about it (I assume, anyway, because I feel lost as hell right about now). But they’re going to need a leader.

I know that’s what they call you, or did, at least. If I’m gonna be honest (and if you’re reading this, I just bit it, so I might as well be honest, right?), I don’t totally disagree. You’ve got a brain on those bony shoulders, when you decide to use it. I mean, El’s head over heels for you, so you must be doing something right.

Just… whatever you do, don’t let them down, okay? For El at the very least, if not for me. Take care of our friends. Treat them right. Treat El right. Trust her. Love her. For god’s sake, Mike, be honest with her. And, if you ever do have to be an asshole, just imagine me punching you after.

You are my friend, dumbass. Against all odds.

And I’m going to miss your stupid grin.

From,

Love,

Sincerely, your number one Zoomer,

Max

PS: I’m trusting you with El and Will’s letters, Wheeler. If you don’t mail them, I will come back from the grave and kill you myself. That’s a promise.

Michael Wheeler and Eleven Hopper get married on first day of summer.

It’s 1994, and they’ve been engaged since freshman year. El wanted to wait until they graduated, though, so now, as the spring petals fall, the two star-crossed lovers finally tie the knot.

Everyone’s there: Hopper, Joyce, and Mike’s parents, Dustin and Lucas as Mike’s best men, and Max, fully healed, as El’s maid of honor. 

It’s perfect. It’s all perfect.

No one is missing.

Mike’s suit is tight and suffocating, but he’s sure it’s worth it as he watches Eleven, face covered by a beautiful bridal veil, walk down the aisle, Hop at her side.

They exchange vows. Sweet nothings, really. Easy memories. It’s an official ceremony, with a priest and everything, so they can’t talk about the real stuff.

Then it’s time.

Mike lifts her veil, and it’s her, it’s El, and she’s totally perfect, and everything is exactly how he always expected it to be—

“Do you, Michael Wheeler—”

“Do you, Jane Hopper—"

“I do.”

“I do.”

And wedding bells ring out over Hawkins, Indiana.

Now it’s five years later, and El’s pregnant with their first child. Mike pulls into the driveway in the evening, home late from work. He’s joined his dad’s company, so they decided to stay in Hawkins. It’s not exactly what they’d planned, but it’s home, right?

El has dinner ready when he walks in the door; she’s using her powers to finish off the asparagus. He kisses her on the lips then collapses on the couch, too exhausted to talk.

It’s been like this forever. Vecna’s dead and gone. The Upside Down is destroyed. And Mike wonders what else is left to do.

Surely nothing. They’ve made it this far, after all. They can relax. They can be happy.

And Mike is happy. Right?

Ten years later, little Terry is starting to talk, and it’s driving Ben insane.

Mike and El’s son is almost as old as they were, back when the Upside Down first opened, and Terry is almost three. Watching them, Mike feels a pang of loss. Life keeps moving on, sliding by, unstoppable. He’s done his best to give his kids the kind of family he never had, though, and that’s something, right?

Still, it never feels like enough. He keeps finding himself on the couch, in front of the TV, watching some soap opera or other and dreaming of when they were kids.

I can’t be missing the monsters, he thinks, as Terry falls asleep on his lap. Why would I?

I mean, I’m a good dad. El says so.

But there’s always something in her eyes when he and Dustin and Lucas go into Indianapolis for a weekend. When she’s stuck at home with the kids. Her only job is cleaning, and her powers make that a breeze, and she said she wanted it—wanted the normality…

But Mike can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

More years go by.

Each night, they fall asleep in their bed, El curled away towards the window, Mike towards the nightstand. Each night, Mike wonders what went wrong. El’s seemed tired lately, Terry’s a handful, and Ben even called Mike boring the other day. Said he was out of touch, said he was stuck in the past. Said the world’s moved on without him.

“Mom says you were cool when you were a kid. I can’t see it. You’re just some fat old businessman now.”

Mike thinks that’s a little out of line. He’s still hip. He’s not old, or boring. Or fat.

Still… it sticks with him.

“You’re happy, right?” he asks El, as the orange glow of the streetlights stretches long over their bedspread.

“Mmm?” she murmurs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We were heroes,” Mike says softly. “Now we’re nobody.”

“I thought you wanted to be normal,” El says.

“I did. I thought you did, too.”

“This is normal,” El says. “This is what you taught me. A dead-end job, a dead-end life at the end of a dead-end road.”

“But—do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Being somebody.”

“Why would I? We finally got everything we always wanted.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t we call Max and Lucas this weekend?” El says, as if nothing is wrong. “They can come over for dinner. I’ll make casserole.”

There’s a deep pang of longing in Mike’s chest.

“Why don’t we call Will and his wife? We can invite them, too.”

El looks at him, eyes bleary and perplexed. “Will?”

Mike’s chest goes cold. “Yeah. You remember. My best friend, when we were kids?”

“Mike, we were best friends.”

“I know, but—you didn’t forget him, right? The boy you saved from the Upside Down.”

“Oh,” says El. “Him. Mike, you really need to get some sleep. We haven’t talked to Will since high school, remember?”

“What?”

El sighs. “You two decided you were too different to stay friends. We wanted to move on. He didn’t.”

Something uncomfortable flips over in Mike’s stomach. “Oh,” he says. “Right. Can’t believe it slipped my mind. Maybe I’m just, like. Having a mid-life crisis or something.”

“How very normal of you.” El’s eyes meet his with the strength of steel. “Are you happy, Mike?”

He opens his mouth to say, of course. We have our kids. We have our house. We have a family, we have us, we have everything we ever wanted.

We won. 

His eyes fall on the mirror by the door, though, and for a moment he doesn’t recognize himself. He does look old. He does look boring.

He looks like his dad.

But I’m with El, Mike thinks desperately. She’s still beautiful. Still brilliant. Like she hasn’t aged a day. She’s El, she’s perfect, and we can be happy as long as we’re together. We have to be.

“I don’t know,” Mike says, honest at last. “I just don’t know.”

El’s face falls, but she doesn’t look surprised.

“Of course you’re not happy, Mike,” she says, voice low. “You grew up and left a part of yourself behind.”

JULY 19, 1986

Mike’s getting really tired of the nightmares.

He’s been using the Long Haul mixtape, sure, but there’s only so many times you can listen to a song while gaming, while hanging out with friends, while going to sleep—even if it’s your favorite—before Mike figures you start to build up a tolerance.

He really doesn’t want that to happen, so he’s been, well. Spacing the music out. Microdosing, if you ask Jonathan.

It’s not that the mixtape works perfectly or anything. Will’s told him that stuff slipping through is normal, and that he shouldn’t give Vecna an even bigger opening, but still, Mike is terrified of being right. He’s willing to risk some bad nights, if it means the music won’t eventually fail completely.

So, every once and awhile (or maybe more often than that), Mike sacrifices a good night’s sleep in the name of safety, and gives himself over to Vecna’s nightmares.

They’re usually pretty simple, filled with things that should make him feel good. A happy future. A happy marriage. A happy El. Instead, every time he wakes up, Mike feels worse, like the life he’s always wanted is less of a reward and more of a trap.

What’s more, he doesn’t understand why he’s letting it get to him.

He knows that the Fear Aura preys on, well, his fears. He knows it’s targeting his irrational worry that choosing El over Will, even if that was the right choice, even if it was what he wanted, was somehow wrong after all. He knows that it’s supposed to drive him and El apart. He knows.

He won’t let it, of course. He’s not stupid. That’s not the problem at all.

Mike grips the steering wheel tightly.

It’s that, even without Vecna’s influence, he’d be worrying about it anyway.

“FUCK, Mike, the stop sign!”

Oh. Right. He’s driving.

Mike slams on the breaks, which would be a great idea, if he wasn’t also in second and had actually remembered to use the clutch.

Instead, Nancy’s car stalls, jerking them both backwards and shuddering to a halt just beyond the stop sign. The sedan coming the other way honks passionately and moves on.

Mike tries for a grin. His sister swears passionately in return.

She’s been teaching Mike to drive, albeit with a certain amount of reluctance. He’d harassed her constantly once he learned Lucas was going to get his permit, and finally, and very hesitantly, Nancy gave in.

Mike’s rationale was, if he’s going to try and fight for the future he’s always wanted, if he’s going to prove Vecna wrong… he’s going to need to keep moving forward. Can’t let himself fall behind. Still, as much as Mike wants to believe his stubbornness is winning, his daydreaming-while-driving record is proving otherwise.

From the passenger seat, Nancy rubs her forehead, attempting to summon her mother’s gift of extreme patience.

“Mike. What did we talk about?”

“Well, I mean, I did technically stop.”

Nancy’s expression is withering.

“…Yeah. The clutch. I remember.”

“And you can’t just stop the car from second gear.”

“There’s just so much stuff to keep track of!” Mike complains, as he turns back towards Maple Street. “Breaks, gear shift, clutch, steering, mirrors—”

“The other cars on the road.”

“Yes. Those too.”

“This was your idea,” Nancy reminds him dryly.

“Yeah, but, like. You act like it’s so easy, and it’s not!” Mike says. “Why can’t driving be like riding a bike? One gear shift. You pump your feet. The thing moves.”

“It can’t, because of the fact that it is a car.”

Mike mutters something uncharitable under his breath, and Nancy sighs.

“You’ll figure it out, Mike. I got mom’s car stuck on the parking blocks at school once when I was learning, remember? It just takes focus.”

Mike groans.

“And a desire to avoid killing us in the meantime.”

“I’ve fought monsters, Nancy. Why is driving with you worse?”

“Can’t be that bad. I should know. I have to teach you.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“Love you too, asshole.”

In a huff, Mike downshifts—“There, happy, Nancy?”— pulls into the driveway, parks, and turns off the engine with an annoyed flourish. Sure, the car’s at about a forty-five-degree angle to their parents’, but he figures it’s close enough. Nancy narrows her eyes, but to Mike’s relief clearly decides it’s not worth mentioning.

Mike watches as his sister hops out of the car and heads inside. No doubt Jonathan and Will are waiting for them both, but Mike’s not ready for that.

Not yet.

Slowly, carefully, he lets the façade drop, and his face falls, exhausted. Despite the bickering, he’d been glad to have his sister around, even if he’d never admit it out loud. She’s so refreshingly normal, he thinks, despite being the badass who shot Vecna in the chest. He doesn’t understand it, but if she can make it through and stay sane…

Mike takes a deep, heaving breath.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll find a way to stay sane, too.

Whenever Nancy imagined her high school graduation (something she’d done ever since elementary school), she’d imagined something fancy. Long gowns, a makeover in Indy, one of her mom’s massive dinners, and every friend and family member in attendance that she could possibly hope for.

What really happened on June first was a little less glamorous.

There were no new graduation gowns. Deliveries to Hawkins were sporadic at best these days, and pomp and circumstance was hardly the main focus. Instead, everyone wore hand-me-downs, makeshift home-sewed outfits, or wheedled their way into borrowing the few extras the school kept lying around.

Nancy wore her mom’s old gown. Joyce sewed one for Jonathan. In the pictures they took beforehand, Nancy thought they looked like something out of an old photo album. Like a foregone conclusion, built on the dust of ages.

It excited a part of her and exhausted another.

The ceremony was still held in the gym, at least, despite its lingering use as a shelter. The place was packed; refugees, students, and their families shoved together with exactly zero space or air-conditioning. Nancy had sweat through her dress before the ceremony even started, but she barely cared. As anticipated as this event was, as much as she’d worked for it, Nancy was surprised to find that, now it was here, she just wanted everything to be over.

Unfortunately, it was still a graduation, so the hot, suffocating performance dragged on for over two hours. The school band played a melancholy tune as one by one the seniors of Hawkins High hauled themselves across the stage. It felt like a parody of itself, and not least because the class was several dozen members short.

Chrissy. Jason. Patrick. Fred. Nancy had known it was coming, and she still wasn’t ready. As Principal Higgins called out their names in memoriam, Nancy squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed, and tried not to remember them. Tried not to remember the broken bodies, the dangerous lies, and her own failures.

“Nancy Wheeler,” said Principal Higgins.

She really tried. And it wasn’t enough.

If we’d just done a little better, Nancy thought despairingly. If we’d just been more prepared. If I’d done better. If I hadn’t left Fred alone. If I hadn’t left Max and Lucas alone. If I hadn’t—

Nancy barely noticed herself shaking the principal’s hand; barely glanced at his drawn, tired face; barely remembered walking back to her row. Barely remembered it all being over.

All of it. Twelve years of waiting. Over in an instant.

Nancy Wheeler, high school graduate.

Nancy Wheeler, Class of 1986.

Flashes of Robin and Vickie and Jonathan rushing her, congratulating each other; all of them spouting vague platitudes and hopes for the future. Hopes Nancy doesn’t share.

A celebratory dinner for both Jonathan and Nancy at the Wheeler’s. More congratulations. More talk about the future. More shoulds, more what-could-have-beens. Toasts, champagne, steak, and happiness.

A whirlwind of words and dreams and laughter.

Now, months later, Nancy is pushing open the door to her dark bedroom, the only life she’d ever dreamed of just ahead of her—and she can’t find it in herself to want it anymore.

She must’ve been standing there staring into the dark for longer than she’d thought, because Jonathan slips past her, flicks on the lights and taps her on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey?” Nancy shakes her head, trying to regain her composure. “Sorry. Got lost in the memories.”

“I get it. Something on your mind?”

“No. But thanks.”

An awkward silence.

“You wanted to talk about something?” Nancy asks. “I know you’re not here to watch me mope.”

She hopes it’s nothing. She hopes it’s something silly. But Jonathan had asked to join Will when he came over, something he hasn’t done in ages, and, well… Nancy knows they haven’t felt much like a couple recently. So much tension. So many other things to think about.

So, yeah. Somewhere not-so-deep-down, she thinks she knows what’s coming. She thinks she’s known for a while, now. And she feels a momentary—very momentary—surge of appreciation for her brother. He might be slow learner in the car, but at least he’d been a fairly good distraction.

Jonathan takes a deep breath. Rolls the words around in his mouth. Hesitating, as long as he can. “I wanted to talk about us. I guess.”

Nancy bites her lip.

“Oh. Okay,” she says, as nonchalantly as she can, sitting down on the bed and patting the mattress beside her. “Your mom isn’t expecting you back home soon, right?”

Cool. Calm. Collected. Nancy hopes she’s handling this well on the outside, because on the inside, her thoughts are whirling like a dervish.

Do I want this? she thinks seriously. Do I really want to lose him? Have I lost him already?

I could leave. I could be perfect. I could be normal. I could go backwards; do what everyone expects me to, again and again and again. I could blame Jonathan for whatever’s on his mind and for being distant and for not being here and for everything—

Except, a little part of her whispers, when we were all in danger, he came back. And I was the one who was tempted to leave.

“Nah,” Jonathan is saying, “your house is basically our second home these days. Was literally for a while there.” He sits lowers himself carefully onto the bed. “Plus, we’re legally adults now. Graduated and everything. Not like anyone can stop us from talking.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

For a minute they just sit there, taking each other in.

“Nancy,” Jonathan says at last. “I know things have been… rough… between us lately.”

“Oh, no,” Nancy says automatically. “We’re fine—”

“Stop,” he says. “Just… stop. You know we’re not fine. Yeah, it didn’t feel right to talk about it right after Vecna, and then we had school, and graduation, and volunteering, but… well…” He sighs. “We’ve been dancing around this for ages, Nancy. And I’m afraid if I don’t say something now, I never will.”

Nancy’s heart skips a beat.

“I just feel like we’re drifting apart,” Jonathan says softly. “Like the summer before we left Hawkins was some kind of wedge, and being gone so long… we only saw each other once in the last year, and…” He peters off again.

“Jonathan—”

“And we’ve never dealt with it,” Jonathan says, pushing forward desperately. “And that’s wrong, and it’s my fault, and I know I should’ve said something sooner. But once you take all that time… once you put it off for so long… it’s hard.”

Nancy nods slowly.

“That’s not an excuse,” Jonathan mumbles.

“No,” she says earnestly. “But, Jonathan—it’s not your fault.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “It’s absolutely my fault.”

Nancy breathes in. Squeezes her eyes shut.

One the one hand, a normal life, six little nuggets, at the end of a cul-de-sac.

On the other…

What good has normal ever done her?

“No,” she insists. “It’s mine, too. We’re partners, Jonathan. That means we’re both responsible for us. I could’ve said something. I should’ve said something. You’ve been distant, yeah. High, from what Mike says—”

“Ugh, Mike, really—”

“Shit, Jonathan, I don’t care,” Nancy says impatiently. “I mean, I do, but I don’t blame you. College applications are terrifying, and you were in a new place, with new people. Of course it was hard to stay in touch. And sober, I guess.”

Jonathan bites his lip.

“But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have, I don’t know, reached out more. I should’ve been the one to come out this Spring Break. I shouldn’t have hesitated. Distance doesn’t mean it was right of me to—” She hesitates. She’s not going to bring up Steve. Not going to bring up being tempted back into the past. “To let myself go back to before us,” she says finally. “I got complacent, Jonathan.”

“You don’t understand,” Jonathan whispers. “You—you’re fine. You’re perfect, as always. I’m the one who made the mistake, the one who pushed you away. I—I lied, Nancy.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Sorry?”

Jonathan stands up and starts pacing. “It—it wasn’t intentional, not exactly, it was just timing again, and—and—” He stops and faces her. “I haven’t been waiting on my acceptance letter. I’m not going to Emerson. I… I didn’t even apply. I’m going to Lenora Community.” He turns away again before he continues. “I got the letter before we even knew Vecna existed.”

A heavy silence.

“I know I should’ve told you,” Jonathan says heavily. “But, Nance—Will. El. They needed me. They were being bullied relentlessly, and Mom was run ragged from work, and, just, it wasn’t right. It wouldn’t have been right, okay? I couldn’t leave them behind. Emerson—it wasn’t my dream. It was yours, and it’s a great dream, it’s a perfect dream, but it’s yours, Nancy. Me—I’m just a small-time photographer, and I have a family to take care of. To protect.”

He runs a hand through his hair, helpless. “Please. I know you’re probably mad. I know I fucked up, I know I waited too long. I know. Just—if that’s it, if that’s a deal breaker—I needed to tell you. Before he comes back, before things get worse. I’m sorry, Nancy. I’m just… I’m sorry.”

“And?” says Nancy.

Jonathan frowns. “And what?”

“And nothing.” She frowns back. “I mean, yeah, four months ago, I would’ve probably been pissed. But Jonathan? Seriously? Now? Who cares?”

Jonathan’s eyes go wide.

“Of course you have to stay with your family,” Nancy says, and all of a sudden she’s laughing, and she feels like an ass but it’s just so funny that he thought she’d care about this, while, while— “The world is ending, Jonathan Byers, and you’ve been freaking out the entire time because you lied about your college acceptance letter?”

Her boyfriend simply stares at her, bewildered. “Um. Yes?”

She stands up and nails him with a stare that’s both kind and penetrating. “Sure, going to Emerson together would’ve been fun. But I know we’re different people, Jonathan. I’m certainly not perfect, and I know things aren’t always going to go the way we plan them. You’ve told me. Every letter, every phone call, even every fight we’ve had, you’ve explained the ways our lives are different. You’re my boyfriend, idiot. We’ve made it through all of… this. Did you really think going to different colleges could break us apart?”

Jonathan looks away. “Nancy, come on. Don’t… don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you!” she insists. “It’s just that… I thought you’d, like, murdered somebody, or Vecna was back, or, hell,” and this is the truth, now, “that you were going to break up with me. The fact that you were just worrying about being a good person is such a you thing it’s honestly reassuring.”

“Oh.” He has zero idea what to say to that.

“Plus,” Nancy adds, and it’s something she’s thought about over and over and over, “Right now, Jonathan? Forget about your plans. I’m not going to fucking Emerson, either.”

Jonathan’s jaw drops. “What do you mean?”

“There’s an apocalypse going on, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Nancy—Nancy, no, you’ve got so much more riding on this than I do, you can’t!”

“Come on, I’ve got more riding on this? And did you really think I’d leave Mike and Holly? That I’d leave you, and Will, and El, and Steve and Dustin and Lucas and everyone else here, waiting for Vecna, just so I could waltz off to be a college student? Hell, no! I’m not leaving Hawkins until all of this is over,” Nancy says, probably louder than she needs to. “Like I told you, I understand. I have a family to protect, too.”

“I mean—okay—that’s just—”

He’s clearly trying to reconcile two very different realities, and Nancy is overwhelmingly struck by a sense of fondness that she’s missed for way too long.

“Are you going to give me a hard time now?”

Jonathan sighs. “No. Of course not.”

“Thank god,” Nancy says wryly. “If you did, that might’ve been a deal breaker.”

He’s looking at her like she’s a whole new person. “Seriously, Nancy—you’re not mad at me?”

“I mean, a little bit,” Nancy says, pushing him lightly. She pinches her fingers together to demonstrate. “But you told me the truth, right? Eventually. And I made plenty of mistakes myself.”

“I’m still not sure about that.”

“Well, I am.” Nancy frowns. “I don’t know, Jonathan. I appreciate you telling me, but it’s just that, it’s like… whatever life was like before… it doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“It matters to me, though,” Jonathan says softly. “I hated lying to you. I hated feeling like… like this conversation could be the end. The end of us.”

Nancy looks at him. His bangs fall down across his face, and the light from the lamp on her bedside table casts his features into sharp relief.

“Then it matters for me, too,” she says decisively. “I guess we can’t lose track of who we are, right?”

Jonathan nods, barely managing a smile. “I—” he runs a hand through his hair, uncertain. “I’m gonna be honest, Nancy. I did not expect this conversation to go this way.”

That gets a smile out of her. “You and me both.”

“But, you know… I’m glad it did. I hoped.”

“Like I said,” Nancy reiterates, meeting his gaze. “You and me both.”

Jonathan gulps. “So… we’re okay?”

For a moment, Nancy flashes back to right after the earthquake, to a growing distance and a collapsing cabin and little white lies.

Vigorously, she blinks the image away. This time, she’s not going to pretend.

“Yes,” Nancy says. “I promise.”

And as she does, the world where she chooses Steve, where she’s normal, where everything is easy and perfect and simple, collapses into one that’s scary, and uncertain, and imperfect. A world that’s anything but the one that Nancy has always imagined.

This new world means that she can be here, though, with Jonathan. It means she can watch his face break into a grin, it means he can pull her into a hug, and it means that they can be happy again.

And if that means dealing with some uncertainty? Well. The one thing Nancy Wheeler is certain of now—and she’s certain that she should’ve realized it sooner—is that she’d choose him every single time.

Mike hurries down to the basement, narrowly dodging Jonathan and his sister as they head upstairs (“Hi Jonathan bye Nancy don’t bother us until it’s dinner and maybe not even then see you”). He’s ready to escape reality for a little bit, and that escape can’t come soon enough.

School will be starting in a month, bar any Upside Down developments, and Mike had promised Will a campaign. Will took the idea further, deciding to start up his own version of the Hellfire Club in Hawkins—something about Eddie’s dying words, apparently—and, well, if that’s what Will needs... Mike liked Eddie. Mike… really likes Will.

Plus, he owes him; like, astronomical levels of debt. So, a campaign Will is going to get.

They’ve spent the last month planning it, and there are just a few last details to prepare before they reveal things to the rest of the Party. Before they make their pitch. Mike allows his head to fill with images of monsters (fake ones), heroes, and high romance as he starts down the stairs.

“—the Dungeon Master; I run the game, remember? I tell the story and do all the calculations behind the scenes.”

Mike stumbles to a stop. Will’s talking to someone. Weird.

“So you don’t really play, and you have to do math? That’s boring. I thought D&D was about magic and stuff.”

“The DM’s still a player, Holly. I just play all the bad guys, instead of the heroes. See, it is magic and stuff—the math is secondary.”

Holly? Mike wrinkles his nose. What’s she doing talking with Will? About D&D? He peeks around the corner.

Will’s seated at the coffee table in the center of the basement, Mike’s DM guide and supplies scattered around him, a pair of headphones around his neck. Next to him is Holly, sitting as close as she can, eyes wide.

She picks up a D20. “This is numbers. How does a number ball make a story?”

Will laughs. “You know how when you run into other people, you don’t know what they’re going to do? In D&D, we call them NPCs. Non-Player Characters. In the game, when you want to talk to or fight them, you roll a die, like this. What number you get tells you what happens when you interact.”

Holly still looks skeptical.

“It’s exciting?” Will tries.

“I’m telling you. That still sounds like math.” Holly eyes the D20 suspiciously. “If you have to be smart to play, how can Mike do it? He’s stupid.”

Will snorts. “Oh, come on, he’s not that bad.”

Mike pouts silently from his post on the stairs. Not that bad?

“Suuuuuure,” says Holly. “I bet when he plays, his character doesn’t do any math.”

Will’s smile slips a little. “Well, that’s the thing,” he says. “He’s only just started playing again. But, back when he did before… Mike was our Dungeon Master. That takes a lot of math, and… he was amazing.”

The tips of Mike’s ears heat up a little. Okay, well, that’s fine then, he thinks.

“And when he played a character,” –Will’s still going— “He was always a Paladin.”

Holly sounds it out. “Pal-a-din. What’s that?”

“It can be a lot of things, really. Basically, it’s a hero who swears an oath—a promise—on something they hold dear. It’s a promise they can never break, and keeping it gives them power.”

Holly wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t sound like Mike.”

Will hesitates again, and Mike risks another peek around the corner. He really shouldn’t be eavesdropping at all, he knows, but the part of him he hates needs to know. Needs to know what Will is thinking, what Will thinks about him. And what he says when he thinks Mike isn’t listening.

“I mean, the game is just playing a character,” Will says softly. “But that character… it always has a little bit of yourself, right? It’s like playing with your toys—you put some of yourself into them. Maybe a part that you want to show, but can’t anywhere else?”

Holly pushes back. “Uh-uh. They’re their own people.”

“Sure, of course,” Will says automatically. “But you choose what they do, right? For Mike… his Paladin is a knight in shining armor. His job is to protect the Party, and he takes his job seriously. I always figured the part of himself he was shy about was the part that wanted to be a hero.”

Will’s eyes glaze over, and he stares off somewhere into the middle distance. Mike knows he’s lost in another world now. Lost in memories.

“Mike?” Holly says, disbelieving. “A hero?”

“Yeah,” Will says, voice softening. “When things get bad, he keeps the Party good and kind. Even if doing something evil would be the easy way out, he never betrays his oath. He’ll risk everything for the people he loves, if thinks he needs to. He’s the heart of the Party, Hols. Without him, I’d… we’d lose ourselves.”

Mike whips his head back around the corner and presses himself against the wall.

He has to have heard that wrong, because if he didn’t, Will almost said “I” instead of “we.”

Mike’s heart is pounding, his cheeks are red, and he has to force himself to calm down. It doesn’t mean anything, Mike reminds himself. It doesn’t. It’s about a game. Like, the whole heart thing, it’s just that Mike was the first Party member, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything else.

It doesn’t mean anything that Will keeps saying it like it does. Even when he doesn’t have to pretend.

Like it means something to him, too.

Mike takes a deep, shuddering breath. It’s stupid. He’s stupid, just like Holly said. Will’s talking about D&D, he has to remember that. Mike’s characters are usually lawful, while Dustin and Lucas usually go for some flavor of chaotic. Mike doesn’t want to hurt people in real life, so that’s what he fantasizes about. Saving them. That’s all. That’s all it is.

Still, the little voice in the back of his head whispers, what else do you hide in your characters, Michael? If that slips through into D&D… if your heart slips through… What part of Will is Will the Wise hiding, do you think?

Mike shakes his head vigorously and imagines El there, next to him. If he focuses, he can almost smell her perfume.

Remember what’s important, he thinks. Remember who you promised you'd be. Who you chose to be. That’s all that matters. That’s the only real thing.

“Maybe Mike is a hero in the game,” Holly is saying, from very far away. “But in real life, he’s an asshole.”

Will lets out a sharp laugh, unexpected and bright, and it brings Mike back down to Earth. “He’s not an asshole, Holly! You might not believe it, but he can be a Paladin in real life, too.”

Mike’s stomach jolts uncomfortably.

“No,” Holly says, matter-of-fact. “Mike’s mean, actually.”

“Oh, come on!” Will says again, but he’s giggling.

Holly tries to glower back, but she can’t stop herself from laughing too.

They’re happy together, Mike thinks. They’re having fun. Will tries to be a good brother. Will protects people. Will guides people. Will cares about people. But Mike… he’s not the hero Will thinks he is.

Even if Mike wants to be.

Mike’s stomach flips over again. Yeah, he thinks sourly, that’s enough of that. And he shoves himself to his feet.

“Okay okay okay.” The words clatter down the stairs in Mike’s wake, and he bursts into the basement in a rush. “I have no idea what you idiots are talking about, but I heard that! I’m not an asshole. I’m a model citizen, actually. Ask anybody. Right, Will?”

An odd look flashes across Will’s face. It almost looks like worry. “Oh, hey, Mike,” he says, as lightly as he can. “You made it! Yeah, eavesdropper, you’re a model citizen. Definitely.”

Mike narrows his eyes. “I just got here. Are you sassing me, William?”

Holly is equally unrepentant.

“Mommy says asshole’s a bad word,” she says. “And I learned it from you. That makes you an asshole.”

“That is not how that works,” Mike sputters. “And Nancy swears like a sailor, you definitely got it from her.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“What are you even doing here?” Mike continues valiantly, despite being painfully aware he can’t win this one. “Me and Will have stuff to do. Buzz off.”

“She’s fine!” Will cuts in. “She was just curious about what I was up to. I figured there was nothing wrong with telling her.”

“Ugh, she’s like a baby, Will! You know she’s too young for D&D.”

“Nuh-uh,” Holly says again, scathingly. “I haven’t been a baby for years.”

“Come on, Hols. You still like kiddie books.”

Holly glares at her brother. “Alice is not a kiddie book.”

“Sure,” Mike says, plopping himself down between Holly and Will and pushing them apart. He tells himself it’s for totally normal reasons. “It’s not like there’s a whole Disney movie and everything.”

“Everyone likes Disney! And, and, the caterpillar smokes, and the Queen of Hearts cuts people’s heads off, and it has all those old weird illustrations.”

“She’s got you there, Mike,” says Will. “Tenniel’s stuff can be pretty creepy.”

“You think the Hatter is your imaginary friend!” Mike says triumphantly, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s mostly teasing at this point, but, well, he’s a sore loser too and that’s okay. “That proves it.”

“He’s not imaginary!” Holly pouts. “He’s real. You’re so dumb. Will said you were younger than me when you started playing Dungeons and Dragons, anyway. I like Will. He’s cool. And you’re an asshole.”

Mike looks at his best friend, affronted. “Are you trying to steal my baby sister?”

Will shrugs. If Mike were dumb—and he’s not—he’d almost think it was flirtatious.

“I said, I’m not a baby!” Holly yells.

“Yeah, but like you said,” Mike says, reluctantly turning back to his sister, “Will is cool. And only cool kids play D&D with Will. I play D&D with Will, therefore I’m cool and you’re not.”

“You’re not cool,” Holly says flatly, and Mike recoils as if struck, collapsing against Will.

“Oh! Oh! Lady Holly, you’re killing me! Will the Wise, mighty magician, revive me?”

Mike sticks out his bottom lip and tries his best to look pitiful. Will rolls his eyes dramatically and shoves Mike off onto the carpet.

Holly stares down at her brother with no little amount of disdain. “Actually, if this is what it’s like, I don’t want to play after all. First it was math, now it’s Mike being dumb. I thought D&D was about killing things! This is boring.”

Mike snorts.

“It is!” Will reassures her gently. “No lie. Fighting monsters, solving puzzles, saving the world with your best friends. Mike’s just being silly.”

Holly crosses her arms. “Then prove it.”

“What?” says Mike, from down on the carpet.

“Prove it’s cool. Show me how to play.”

Propping himself up on his elbows, Mike scoots back to the coffee table. “Yeah, yeah, maybe later,” he says, lightly shoving his sister towards the stairs. “Leave us alone and maybe someday I’ll let you have a die or something.”

Holly shoves back, affronted, and locks eyes with him. “Do it or I’ll tell mommy you pushed me.”

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t.”

She glares. She would.

Mike looks towards Will, helpless. Will just sits there, arms crossed, grinning.

“Well, fuck you, you’re no help at all,” Mike mutters. Holly mouths fuck you, wonderingly, and Mike swears again. “Don’t tell mom I said that, either.”

Holly raises her eyebrows.

 “Fine,” Mike snaps. “But we’re working on a big kid campaign, okay? I’ll teach you later.”

Holly rests a finger on her chin, considering, and then nods. “Now.”

“What? No!”

Holly looks towards the stairs.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Mike groans. “I’ll make you a character or something. Just don’t tell mom.”

“Smooth,” says Will. He’s still grinning, and this time, Mike shoves him.

Two hours later, Holly is now Lady Hollyhock, Cleric of Wonder Mountain. She has a talking horse. She can cast Plane Shift and Turn Undead. She can heal her friends and smite her enemies. She’s cool like Will, and much smarter than some boring boy knight like Mike. Holly loves her.

And Mike’s actually enjoying himself.

It’s kind of like he’s gone back in time. Back to being eight and nine and ten and eleven and twelve, making characters and learning about spell slots and Armor Classes and which dice does what and all the different kinds of monsters. He can see in Holly’s eyes the glow of a kid who’s found a new addiction, and Mike wants to indulge it. For the first time in, well, ever, it’s a part of his younger sister that he can really understand.

Of course, they’re also nerding out with Will, which makes things ten times better. Will, holding open the Monster Manual, talking about kobolds and dragons and wraiths and plus-two great swords. Will, eyes lit up just like Holly’s—like the happy kid he used to be. Will, his newly-long hair falling across his face, his soft hands brushing it out of his eyes. Those same hands caressing the pages of Mike’s books, the way his mouth moves when he speaks, the way his lips—

Yeah, Mike had fun. Even if he had to try really fucking hard to stay focused on D&D.

(There was just a lot of emotional and sensory input, he told himself. That’s all. That’s all.)

A call echoes down the stairs, breaking Mike out of his reverie.

“Holly! Time to set the table!”

Holly looks over her shoulder and towards the stairs with great reluctance. Will nudges her.

“Guess our time is over, Lady Hollyhock.”

“Boo.”

Mike nails her with a glance. “Remember. You promised.”

She tilts her head, and mimes zipping her mouth shut. “Uh huh. Lady Hollyhock doesn’t tell.”

He tilts his head back. “That’s a ‘yes, Sir Mike.’”

“No way!”

Mike smirks. Holly sticks out her tongue and turns to leave, but looks back over her shoulder as she goes. “Keep being just a little bit cool, and I’ll consider it. Sir Mike.”

And she flounces off.

As soon as the door closes, Will leans in for a high-five. Reveling in the moment of contact, Mike realizes he managed to get his escape from reality after all. What with the banter and the D&D and Will, he’d managed to completely forget the nightmares of the morning.

He grins, and in it is a spark of relief. “You know, I’m shocked, but somehow I didn’t hate that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Will says, teasing. “You pretend to be such a brat, but deep down, you’re just a big softie.”

Mike jerks his hand back, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “What are you talking about?”

“You bitched and moaned so much at the concept of teaching Holly, only to immediately give up the second she threatened you,” Will laughs. He nudges Mike’s shoulder. “Almost makes me believe you care about her.”

“Shut up,” Mike groans. “You’re awful.”

“I think she’ll be a great gamer,” Will adds. “You remember what Eddie said; ‘lost sheep,’ right? Holly’s always been too young to do anything with us, and, well, I know what that’s like. Maybe we can actually include her now.”

“She’s—she’s Holly, though. Yeah, she’s brilliant for a seven-year-old, but she still plays tea party, Will.”

“We’ve been over this! Remember that whole murder-mystery dinner party we had in the Dark Forest with the Elf King? That was a tea party too!”

“Yeah, but it’s different.”

Will smirks. “Oh, I don’t know. Not as much as you think. She kind of reminds me of you, anyway.”

Mike collapses backwards onto the carpet, covering his face with his hands. “Ugh, Will, don’t say that! I was never this annoying!”

“Uh yeah, you were,” Will snorts. “She’s your sister, silly. Give her a chance.”

Mike peeks through his fingers. “Ugh,” he says again, not really wanting to resist. “Fine. But only because you want me to.”

Will leans back onto his hands. “I’m just that persuasive, huh?”

“You cast Friends on me, that’s all.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Mike can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, Will. I guess it did.” He leans back himself. “I never wanted to leave her out, you know,” he adds, figuring, well, it’s Will. He can be honest. “Not really. It just… it feels weird to share D&D with Holly, you know? It’s always been an us thing.”

“I get it,” Will says gently. “But I think it means a lot to her that you did anyway.”

“That’s not what—it’s just, it’s all fantasy for her, Will.”

“What do you mean?”

Mike’s expression turns serious. “I mean, D&D hasn’t been a game for us for four years. What’re we gonna do when Vecna comes back? He’s gonna be here, Will. In Hawkins. What happens when Holly finds out it’s all for real?”

Will’s smile drops, too. “We’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” he says, and his gaze softens. Hesitantly, he moves a hand to rest on his friend’s shoulder. “She’s your sister, Mike. And Nancy’s. We’ll try to keep it a game for her, but… just in case we can’t… You two are great at getting people through this stuff. No matter what happens, Holly’s going to be okay.”

“You’re the strong one, idiot.” Mike tries to smile, and it almost works. “But, who knows, maybe you’re right.”

“I am.”

“It just… it makes it hard. Knowing what we know.”

“Trust me,” Will says. “I understand.”

For a moment their eyes meet, and Mike feels again that, for that one instant, they’re twelve again and nothing has changed.

“Anyway,” Will says hurriedly, looking away. “Back to the game, right? You were figuring out how we were gonna do the pit trap in the Throne Room.”

Mike rubs his hands down his arms and tries to center himself. “Totally. Totally. Like, it has to have spikes, right?”

“Poisoned?”

“I was thinking fireball glyphs.”

“You’re evil.”

“No, see, I can’t be.” Mike smirks, and does his best to get his head back out of the Upside Down. “I’m the heart.”

JULY 25, 1986

Nancy’s shoving meatloaf around her plate, appetite completely shot. At the far end of the table, Mike commits culinary war crimes with his own food, and Will sits next to him, patiently listening to Holly jabber incessantly about some new story or other. At the head of the table, Nancy’s parents chat with Joyce about work or the military occupation or something else completely inane.

It’s all perfectly normal, and, normally, would be perfectly boring. Right now, though, Nancy is preparing herself to drop the bomb and ruin it.

It’s late July already. Her mom’s been riding her ass about college supplies and planning for weeks, and eventually they’ll have to actually pay. If she lets that happen, there will be no escape. It’s now or never.

Jonathan is here, at least. They’d planned to have the whole Byers family there as backup, and his mom and brother had readily agreed. Honestly, it’s one hell of a relief, given Nancy is certain her announcement will cause absolute havoc. Jonathan looks ridiculous and handsome and ridiculously handsome in a button down and blazer, but his very presence quells some of her nerves.

When he notices his girlfriend staring, he shoots her an encouraging grin.

Things between them feel almost like they used to. Not quite, but enough. And it’s Jonathan’s smile that gives Nancy the final boost needed to open her mouth.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey,” she says, the words coming out before she can stop them. “Mom. Dad. We have something to tell you.”

All conversation stops, and seven pairs of eyes look her way. Jonathan grabs her hand under the table.

Nancy notices, rather uncomfortably, that her parents both look terrified.

“I’ve decided that I can’t go to Emerson this year,” she says, and everyone palpably relaxes.

“Woo!” says Mike. “You can keep teaching me to drive!”

“You’re staying?” Holly exclaims, equally excited.

Will and Joyce, for their part, nod encouragingly in her direction.

Nancy’s looking towards her parents, though. It’s their reaction she’s waiting for.

Ted, to Nancy’s utter lack of surprise, is unfazed. He nods slowly before returning to his meatloaf. “Sounds like a good decision. There’s no shame in being a housewife, you know, and to be honest, it’s a bit of a relief. I was expecting you two to tell me you were pregnant.”

He gestures at her and Jonathan with his fork.

Nancy chokes. Mike, meanwhile, does one of the most exaggerated spit-takes she’s ever seen from him, bursts out laughing, and immediately chokes too. Holly, concerned about how hard he’s coughing, tries to hit his back the way she’s seen on TV, which promptly leads to a stupid little cat fight between them that Will does his best to break up. Joyce covers her mouth with her hand, clearly trying not to laugh.

Jonathan just looks like he wants to die.

“I’m eighteen, dad,” she says flatly. “I don’t think so.”

“See, honey?” Ted says to his wife. “I told you she was smart.”

All eyes shift to Karen, something Nancy desperately does not want to do.

It had always been her mom who’d encouraged her, ever since she was young, to get an education. To be more than she had been, to find success, to achieve something. Karen had supported her daughter through school, through the misogynistic assholes at the Hawkins Post, and now through the earthquake. Sure, it was usually in her kind, distant way, but Nancy hasn’t forgotten the few times her mom let that façade drop.

Nancy’s not throwing her future away, of course. Just postponing it. After all, she still wants to be somebody.

But her mom doesn’t know that. And her dad’s insinuation definitely isn’t going to help.

Nancy takes a deep breath and forces herself to gauge her mother’s reaction. Karen’s face is filled with a mixture of emotions that make it difficult to read. There’s disgust (aimed towards Ted), vague disapproval (aimed towards Mike, who is slowly recovering from his coughing fit), and…

Ah. There it is.

Disappointment.

Nancy’s stomach drops.

I’m an adult, Nancy reminds herself. I can do this. She can’t fight me, not anymore, and if she does, I can just leave.

The thought makes her stomach sink even further.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, honey,” Karen says carefully.

Nancy grits her teeth.

“I’m going to go eventually,” she insists. “Just—Hawkins is a mess right now, you know? The government’s imposed martial law, for heaven’s sake. Who even knows if they’ll lift it by September, and I just…”

Under the table, Jonathan squeezes her hand again.

“I can’t leave you guys behind. I can’t leave Hawkins behind, not when I can do something to help. Focusing on myself right now just feels… wrong.”

Karen frowns. “You know it’s harder to start college later than everyone else.”

“Yeah.”

“And you mean it,” she continues. “No matter what happens, when this is over, you will go?”

“If she doesn’t, I’ll drag her there myself,” Jonathan says, doing his best to smile.

“I’ll go, mom,” says Nancy. “It’s what I’ve always wanted. And I still do. I promise.”

Karen nods again, then reaches across the table and takes her daughter’s hands in hers. “So long as you’re sure. You’re more than a housewife, Nancy.” She gives her husband a withering side-eye. “You’re the best of us. You’ve got so much potential, and you don’t deserve for it to go to waste.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike splutters, “The best of us? What am I, chopped liver?”

“Yes,” says Holly.

“I’m not going to,” Nancy says, ignoring them. “I’m just needed here first.”

Her mom nods again, slowly. “Then we’ll try to make this work. I’ll have to call the school tomorrow, of course; see if we can defer and still keep your place. It might take some paperwork, but we should be alright…”

That’s Karen Wheeler, Nancy thinks. Straight to the practical, as always.

“You’re really okay with this?” she asks, dreading the answer.

Her dad shrugs and keeps eating. Her mom, though, meets her eyes. Her expression is sad, but also deeply earnest. “I trust you, sweetheart. If you think it’s the right thing to do, I’m behind you all the way.”

A little bit of fear melts away.

“Your mother is right,” Ted chips in, as if realizing he probably should. “But if you’re not going, Nancy,” he adds, chewing on a bite of meatloaf, “You should get a job instead. Life experience.”

Nancy sighs heavily. “Yes, I thought about that too. That’s what ‘doing something to help’ means.” She shoots a look at her father. “I’m going to volunteer at the hospital.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Karen.

“It won’t make money,” says Ted.

“It’s helping people, though,” Jonathan says, awkward. “That’s gotta be worth something.”

Karen gives him an approving look.

“That’s my boy,” Joyce says under her breath.

“You know, Michael,” Ted says, thinking again. “It really is about time you got a job yourself.”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “You know, I almost thought we were going to have a nice family dinner for once. I really did.”

“Watch it, young man.”

“I have school!”

“And you’ll have the whole afternoon and evening available to you.”

“Mr. Wheeler,” Will says uncomfortably, “we were planning a club…”

“And?” Ted says. “Lots of time after that for real activities.”

“D&D is a real activity!” protests Mike.

And just like that, everyone moves on, dinner quickly devolving into a far more Mike-focused conversation. At least for the moment, Emerson seems to be forgotten.

Nancy slumps back in her chair a little, letting the others go at it. She’d been expecting her parents to blow up at her; well, her mom, anyway. To have them accept her choice so quickly… It feels weird. All that preparation, and nothing? She almost wishes they had fought her.

Even so, the guilt eating at her subsides just a bit.

“You okay?” Jonathan whispers, squeezing her hand.

“Yeah,” Nancy whispers back weakly. “That went about as well as I could’ve expected, I guess.”

“Honestly, it went better than I expected.”

“If you say so.” Unthinking, she adds, “I just… I hope she’s still proud of me.”

It comes out before she can stop it, and she says it quietly enough that Jonathan can barely hear it. Still, she flushes with shame. “Never mind. Ignore that. I’m being silly.”

“You’re not!” Jonathan insists. “And she is, Nancy. I can tell. Even if she wasn’t…” He blushes. “Well, I’m proud of you.”

Nancy’s mouth makes a little o in shock, and Jonathan looks away, embarrassed. “That’s not what you’re looking for, though. I know,” he adds.

“No,” Nancy says softly, and she reaches out to take Jonathan’s hand. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t need it.”

The words swirl around her head for the rest of dinner: I’m proud. I’m proud. I’m proud. By the time dinner is over, by the time she kisses Jonathan goodbye, by the time he drives his family off into the night, Nancy can feel the last dregs of college guilt draining from her system.

I don’t deserve you, Jonathan Byers, she thinks as she watches them go. I really don’t. But thank god you’re here anyway.

Chapter Text

AUGUST 18, 1986

“I’m gonna jump in a Rift,” Mike says stubbornly. “I’m gonna do it.”

“Mike. You are not.”

“I will.”

“At least get out of my car first?”

Mike narrows his eyes.

Nancy lets a knowing grin slide onto her face. “You got us here in one piece, at least.” She gestures at the school parking lot. “You’re getting better.”

Mike attempts a sarcastic bow and instead smacks his head on the steering wheel. The resulting honk echoes noisily through the parking lot.

“Ow.” He goes to rub his forehead, only to be unpleasantly reminded of his current problem. “Shit, Nancy. I can’t go out there like this.”

She checks her watch. “Fifteen ‘till first bell.”

“I’m gonna be the school laughingstock! They’re gonna run roughshod over me!”

“Mike. Mom didn’t do that bad of a job.”

Mike grips his newly cut hair in bunches and groans as dramatically as possible. “I knew it was a bad idea! You didn’t let her cut yours.”

Nancy smirks. “I save my money for things like haircuts.”

Mike buries his face in his hands. “You don’t understand. I look like a mushroom.”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

He moans. “What’re the guys gonna say?”

“They’ll be lovely young gentlemen, I’m sure.” Nancy laughs. “Now move it, mushroom-head. I’m gonna be late for my shift at the hospital, thanks to you.”

“It’s the first day of school! Let me be miserable for half a second!”

“Mike,” Nancy says firmly, “Your hair isn’t going to grow in the next twelve minutes. And I am not mom. So I am going to count to three, and if you’re not out of the driver’s seat by the time I’m done I am going to drag you screaming into your sophomore year of high school.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

They take a moment to glare at each other, before Mike begrudgingly bundles himself out of the car in a huff.

“Have a nice day!” Nancy says cheerily.

He flips her off, rather less cheerily, and yanks the hood of his jacket over his head.

Will waves him over to their spot by the bike racks. “Mike! You made it!”

“Against all odds,” laughs Dustin.

Shit, thinks Mike as he takes in his friends. Between Lucas’s letterman jacket (and sharp new flat top), Dustin’s trench coat, and Will’s bomber jacket, they actually kinda look cool together.

 At least they will, Mike figures, until he joins them.

Oh boy, he thinks morosely. Here we go.

“Shit, guys,” Mike says aloud, jogging the rest of the way as casually as he can. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Fuck that, you didn’t offer any of us a ride,” Lucas says, leaning against the bike rack. “I thought we were friends, Wheeler.”

“…passengers,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“Nancy won’t let me have passengers!”

“What did you do, hit somebody?” Dustin says drily. “Come on, let’s go. You wanna be late for our first day?”

“She said some shit about proving myself, or something,” Mike grumbles. “Look, let’s just get this over with. We’re still meeting after school, right?”

Dustin shakes his backpack meaningfully. “You bet. Woods by the football field. Plans to be revealed, actions to be taken.”

“And—” Will looks at Mike meaningfully. “We have something to talk about, too, right?”

Mike’s heart skips a beat, he stops thinking, and has to vividly imagine restarting his brain like a lawnmower.

Not that, you idiot.

“Yeah. Yeah, for sure. Right. The thing.”

“You didn’t forget, did you?” Will says, worried.

“No! Of course not!”

“You know,” Lucas says. “Speaking of revelations. Why are you wearing a hood?”

The others stop and stare.

“It really isn’t that chilly,” Dustin says.

“Is it a new look?” Will asks.

“Just felt like it,” Mike says nonchalantly. He pulls the drawstrings tighter. “Come on, I need to drop some stuff off in my locker—”

Slowly, slowly, a smirk crosses Dustin’s face. “Michael…”

“Come on!” Mike says, fidgeting. “You were the one worried about being late.”

“Michael Wheeler, worrying about timing? I’ll be,” Lucas drawls.

Dustin nudges his shoulder. “Sounds like somebody finally got forced into that haircut.”

“Oh my god,” says Will, “You have to show us—”

“I didn’t, I’m fine, it’s just a bad hair day—” Mike tries, but Lucas simply steps in front of him and brushes the hood off his head. Mike makes a squeaking noise that’s definitely very manly and tries to throw his hands up to block their view.

“Oh,” says Dustin.

“Oh,” snorts Lucas.

“It’s not that bad, Mike,” Will says weakly.

Lucas cackles. “Oh, buddy. You’re too nice.”

“It’ll grow out?” Dustin suggests.

“I’m in hell,” Mike moans, “I’m in hell and my friends are mocking me.”

“We’re not!” says Lucas. “I’m just devastated my that friend was the fifth Beatle this whole time, and he never deigned to introduce us to the other four.”

Mike buries his face in his hands. “Oh my god. Shut up.”

Will’s really trying to keep a straight face, because yeah, it’s not that bad, but it’s still pretty obvious that this is a Karen Wheeler, ah, masterpiece. The only thing that keeps him in line compared to the others is the memory of his last bowl cut.

Mike’s hair is no longer a mullet. It’s no longer even long. Now, it barely crests his ears and falls nearly evenly around his head in a truly unfortunate mop top.

“It really could be worse,” Will tries, in vain. “It’s kind of distinguished?”

Mike groans loudly.

“Maybe, but in the way a sad puppy is distinguished,” Dustin says thoughtfully. “But that’s more about attitude. Is your mom trying to be a hairdresser, or something?”

“Yes,” Mike says miserably. “All that talk about Nancy and jobs and helping people must’ve got into her head or something. At least Holly got to keep her hair long.”

“Now Will’s gotta teach you guitar,” Lucas says, still on the Beatle thing. “So you can gently weep with it, or whatever. You know that song, right, Will?”

“Fuck all the way off,” Mike grumbles. He reaches out and snatches Dustin’s baseball cap. “I’m stealing this. Party tax.”

Dustin yelps. “No, that’s my look!”

“You’ll live.” Mike jams it down over his hair. It… doesn’t really work.

“Cool,” Lucas says sarcastically. He’s still laughing, but when Mike genuinely starts to look a little upset, he shuts up.

“Look, it’ll be okay,” Dustin says as kindly as he can. “We’ve all had awful haircuts before.”

“I don’t think you could ever really classify mine as good,” Will says, embarrassed. “Even now.”

“You be quiet,” Dustin snaps back, “You were an adorable bowl cut kid.”

“When I was eleven, sure, but not at fifteen—”

“Well, it grows out into a fantastic mullet, at least. Even El agrees.”

“And El’s never wrong about hair,” adds Lucas.

Dustin stops suddenly. “Wait, Mike. Has El seen your haircut?”

Mike gulps. Dustin starts to cackle.

And that is, to Mike’s chagrin, when the bell finally rings.

It is a very long first day.

Not that it’s bad, exactly, but Mike is told to remove Dustin’s hat in his very first class, and he subsequently spends the rest of every period desperately attempting to blend in with the walls.

Suffice it to say, the final bell is a blessed toll of relief.

He flees Chemistry as soon as possible and hurries outside. As he trudges through the dead grass towards the edge of the forest, Mike shoves the hat back on and tries to mentally prepare himself.

He’d come here once or twice last year with the others to mock Steve’s weed sales from a distance. Now, though, the table in the clearing is empty, and even this early in the fall, none of the trees have leaves. And the reason for meeting is significantly less fun.

As usual, everyone else is already waiting for him.

“Aaaand Wheeler arrives,” Dustin says, hands splayed out on the cold wood of the table. “Welcome to our lair.”

“We really couldn’t have done this in my basement?” Mike complains. “It’s awful out.”

“I figure the further we are from anyone who might notice, the better off we’ll be.” Dustin ruefully brushes spores out of his hair. “Anyway, you’re one to talk. You still have my hat.”

Mike begrudgingly tosses the cap back, only for Lucas to intercept it. He sets the hat on his own head instead, careful not to mess up his hair. “Mine now.”

“Okay, that settles it, we’re going to Cal’s and getting you guys hats,” Dustin says flatly. “This is unacceptable.”

“We have hats,” says Mike.

“We just didn’t bring them,” says Lucas.

“You’re all idiots,” Dustin says, snatching his cap back.

“No one made fun of it, you know,” Will says encouragingly. He’s leaning against one of the nearby trees, staring off into the woods. Mike wonders what he’s looking at. “Your hair. Give it a little time and it’ll be back to normal.”

“Maybe, but my dad expects me to get a job. How am I supposed to do that looking like a Muppet?”

“Oh no, poor Mike,” Lucas says drily, “can’t coast on his massive allowance anymore, what will he do.”

“I barely make more than you do, Lucas, shut up.”

“Two bucks isn’t barely, Michael.”

Dustin decides none of this is worth his time, reaches into his backpack, and pulls out a portable tape deck. He presses play, and the sounds of the Long Haul mixtape waft out into the clearing.

“Ah, the sound of bickering in the fall,” Dustin says conspiratorially, dragging his backpack over to Will’s side of the table. “It lowers the IQ of everyone in the area.”

 “They always do this,” Will says softly. “Sometimes it feels like nothing’s changed.”

“Right? You’d think they’d be different at fifteen, but, well.” Dustin joins Will against the tree. “We missed you, Byers, you know that?”

Will nods. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. At school, and in general.” Dustin kicks a stick out of the way. “Sure, we don’t have all the same classes anymore, and sure, we’ve been busy. But I’ve been having to rely on Erica to help me deal with these two morons, so it’s nice to have you around for a change.”

“Thanks, Dustin.” Will smiles softly. “It’s good to be back.”

“If only it was under happier circumstances.”

Will hums in agreement. “Hawkins really isn’t anything like California, you know.”

“In a good way?” Dustin tilts his head anxiously. “In a good way, right?”

Will laughs, casting his gaze up towards the cloudy sky. “Well, only the people there were toxic—”

“And these idiots aren’t?” Dustin snickers. “Complaining about allowance, really. Like they’re not the best off out of all of us.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say it.”

From over by the table, Mike audibly sighs. “We can hear you, you know.”

“Oops,” says Dustin, unapologetic. “He was listening.”

“I’m not deaf!”

“I have to volunteer every afternoon at the shelter,” Dustin says drily. “El’s doing superhero shit. Come on, Mike, join the club.” He begins chanting. “Get a job. Get a job.”

Lucas joins in mockingly.

“You could join Mom at Bradley’s Big Buy,” Will interrupts them, trying to be helpful.

“You could join your mom and be a hairdresser!” Lucas says, less helpfully.

“You don’t have a job, Lucas,” Mike whines, “You don’t get to talk.”

”Excuse you,” Lucas says. “I’m at the hospital every day! With your sister, if I recall. My work is supporting Max. Which,” he adds, looking around, “is anyone else helping with? Anyone?”

“We’re helping,” Dustin says. “I was there last night! I just don’t have a medical degree, that’s all. I’d be calling Suzie for advice, but—”

“The government stole Cerebro,” everyone says at once. “We remember.”

“They came to my house!” Dustin squeaks. “That’s un-Constitutional!”

“The point is,” Will cuts in softly, “We’re trying, Lucas. You’ve been playing Long Haul for her?”

“Of course. It’s just not enough.” Lucas rubs the back of his head, irritable. “You know we have to kill him.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Well,” Dustin says, clapping his hands together, “Real fucking lucky we’re here to plan, huh? Behold.”

He whips a massive roll of construction paper out of his backpack. It’s nearly as tall as he is, and he has a certain amount of difficulty laying it out flat on the table.

“Our canvas,” he says at last. “Like it?”

At the top of the page, written in bright red Sharpie, are the words:

KILL VECNA

The phrase is underlined and circled several times. Next to it is a drawing that no one can entirely make out.

“We’re making a flow chart about killing an evil wizard from the Upside Down?” Lucas says, bemused.

“Is that the Ghostbusters logo?” Mike squints in its direction, turns his head, and squints again, trying to make it out.

“It’s Vecna in the Ghostbusters logo,” Dustin says proudly.

“That’s what Vecna looks like?”

“I mean, it’s my interpretation.”

“You really should let Will do the drawing.”

“It’s fine,” Will says dryly. “You said you’d been doing some thinking, Dustin?”

Brandishing the Sharpie, Dustin leaps right into exposition mode. “I figured, given school was starting and everyone else is starting to calm down, Vecna’s probably gonna start ramping up. So, we need to do some ramping up of our own, you know?”

He points at Lucas with the Sharpie. “And, like you said, killing Vecna is our number one priority. It fixes all our other problems. Once he’s gone, we can help Max—”

Underneath the title, slightly smaller, he writes the words Save Max and circles them.

“—El won’t have to fight to close the gates—”

A new bubble. Close Gates.

“—Hawkins won’t be, well, you know.”

Protect Hawkins.

“And, well, he’ll be dead, so we’ll be safe.”

The final bubble says Kill Vecna again, this time with the addendum: How?

The rest of the Party stares at the poster for a minute.

“Well,” Will says slowly. “We have to find him first. Which El can’t seem to do.”

Mike snatches the Sharpie from Dustin (Dustin squeaks in reproach) and adds another bubble.

Find Vecna.

“There’s gotta be some way we can help El out, right?” he says. “Like, it shouldn’t just be on her to do all the hard stuff.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Lucas says darkly. “But realistically, what’s our angle? It’s not like Vecna’s hiding out here. And we can’t go into the Upside Down to look around.”

“I have an in with Owens,” offers Will. “Maybe we could use that.”

“Even if you do,” Lucas says, plowing forward, “it’s not like the Army’s going to let a bunch of teenagers do shit. And they’d be right, too. Just think about it: what have we really been able to accomplish? As in us. Without El. We need to find a new way to be useful.”

“That’s not true,” Mike says. “We found El and NINA all by ourselves.”

“With Eddie’s help,” Dustin says. “And since he’s not here—sorry, Will, I really am—I have to ask how much of that was you two specifically?”

“I found the coordinates in the pen!” Mike says. “And Will’s great at reading maps. Beyond that, the rest of us, we’ve done things. We protected El from Brenner. We saved Will from the Mind Flayer. And we held off that giant meat puppet! What do you want us to do?” He bristles a little. “Give up?”

“Fuck, no!” Lucas rubs his forehead. “I mean, we’re just limited, that’s all. That stuff—it’s not what we’re dealing with now. If we can’t look for Vecna in the Upside Down, where he is, if we can’t stop the spores, and we can’t close the gates, then what are we supposed to do?”

“Who says we can’t get into the Upside Down?” Mike says pointedly.

“Really?” Dustin says incredulously. “Mike, you haven’t been there. It’s bad. We wouldn’t even know where to look!”

Will, though, stares at Mike, considering. He’s gone a bit white, but he looks determined. “I mean… your sister did it. Steve did it. If we can get our weapons set, we could too.”

“Uh, Will, again I really hate to remind you but Eddie—”

Will winces, but before he can respond Mike bites back.

“Yeah, Eddie, and he saved all of us, Dustin. Vecna’s injured, guys. Nothing’s happening. We could bring El, do some recon. Just looking can’t hurt, right?”

“Again, Mike, yes it really could.”

“There’s also the whole fact,” Lucas says, annoyed, “that we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The gates are guarded. The Army has machine guns. We don’t.”

“So? We get El to do, like, a Jedi Mind Trick or something.”

“With what free, unsupervised time?”

“That’s not our only option,” Will says thoughtfully. “Look… I don’t like the idea. Any of this. It’s not like… I don’t want to go back there. But it might be our only option, and if we can’t get into the current gates…”

Everyone turns to look at him. He quails slightly.

“I mean…” Will starts, “El can make gates, remember? We could open our own.”

The others simply stare.

“Will. You’re talking about making more gates?” says Lucas.

“Why not?” he pushes.

“Look, I know you’re friendly with Doctor Colonel Jackalope or whatever her name is, but I don’t think the heavily armed military would be super happy with us opening our own gate.”

“That’s why we’d have to do it somewhere they can’t reach,” Will says.

“And where’s that gonna be?” says Lucas.

“They can come into our houses,” Dustin adds mournfully.

Will opens his mouth. Closes it again. “I’m… not sure. We’d have to hide it somehow.”

“And how do we hide a massive electromagnetic pulse?”

Silence.

“Exactly.”

“I mean, it could work,” Lucas says carefully. “If we’re lucky. It’ll just take some doing.”

“See?” Mike exclaims. “You guys shit on me too much. I have good ideas.”

“And Will thinks them through,” says Dustin.

“If we do open a gate, what do we do about the monsters?” Lucas muses. “I don’t think the Wrist Rocket is going to cut it anymore.”

“Didn’t you guys go to War Zone and buy, like, a bunch of guns?” says Will.

Lucas raises his eyebrows. “Sure, but Will, everything down there is bulletproof. You of all people know that.”

“Vecna wasn’t,” Dustin says thoughtfully. “Like, yeah, he walked away. But Nancy said she got him good.”

“And the Demogorgons aren’t either,” Will pushes. “Everyone acts like they are, but Hop decapitated one with a sword once it was burned, right? So their armor can be softened up. And their mouths—they’re weak spots. It’s not like they like being shot, anyway, and we haven’t tried a gun on those bat things at all.”

The others stare at him frankly.

“I just think it’s worth a try,” Will says lamely.

“Our very own Will Byers,” Dustin says, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Growing up and becoming a military tactician.”

 “I’m not just talking out of my ass,” Will says dryly. “You all do know I’m the only one of us who’s actually shot a Demogorgon, right?”

Silence.

“Uh—no,” says Dustin. “No, we didn’t, actually.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously? That hasn’t come up at all? How do you think I got away from the one that snatched me the first time?”

“You shot it?” Mike exclaims, incredulous.

“You know my dad taught me how to use a rifle.”

“Yeah, when you were ten, and you hated it.”

“Y-yeah, sure, but when you’re in a pinch... And obviously, um. The Demogorgon did get me, eventually. But I know the basics, okay? More than you guys do. I could teach you, that’s all I’m saying.”

Dustin nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a plan.”

“Um, no,” says Lucas. “I mean yes, it’s a good idea, let’s absolutely do it, but like Mike said, Will hasn’t used a gun in years. Maybe we get Nancy for the refresher course?”

“Oh, come on,” says Mike, “I already have to deal with her in the car.”

“You’ve seen her, Mike. She shot Vecna. She’s a badass.”

“But—”

“She is definitely a better shot than me,” Will admits.

With an air of finality, Dustin snatches the Sharpie back from Mike and writes Nancy—Guns!! on the paper.

“Also,” Lucas says, scooting onto the table and staring down at the plans. “Guns aren’t the only option. We didn’t get, like, endless amounts of weaponry at War Zone, and I think the patrols would get a little suspicious if we went back for more.”  He taps the paper thoughtfully. “Will, if you think bullets could still work—I’ve been trying to find other stuff that could hurt Demogorgons, too.”

“Like Molotovs? We should definitely stock up on those,” says Dustin.

“No. I mean, yes, but—you know the story of David and Goliath?”

“From the Bible?”

“Yeah. Yeah. You know how it really went?”

“Underdog story. Slingshot.” Dustin mimes it out. “Boom. Giant down. Pretty cool, actually.”

“No,” says Lucas. “He wasn’t an underdog at all. Have you ever actually seen someone use a sling? A real one? Like, I looked it up. It’s like a gun, guys. It’s like a gun with a fucking rock that instead of piercing the skin just breaks all your bones. The Demogorgons might be bulletproof, but if the Wrist Rocket can annoy them… Well, it’s a skill I already have a head start on. Less of us for Nancy to teach. And they’re not hard to make, either.”

“Where exactly did you look that up?” Mike says skeptically. “Wouldn’t it be better to just shoot them?”

“The library, dingus. They dragged a bunch of shit out of it to that tent down on Mulberry? It’s been open all summer.”

“Dingus?” Will laughs. “You’re letting Robin rub off on you.”

“Sure,” Dustin says slowly, “That might work. It’s simple physics. If you can’t break the skin, maybe you can displace what’s under it. Plus, the demodogs—like Dart—they’re—” He trails off for a minute. “Well, they’re squishy. Yeah, we haven’t had a chance to dissect any; that thing in Mrs. Byers’ fridge just, like, dissolved—but they’re all tall, and thin, and, like, built for speed. Blunt force trauma just might work.”

“Are we just separating into our D&D classes?” Mike says dryly. “Should I find a sword?”

“Guns are just modern swords, idiot,” Dustin says. “You can fulfill your little knight fantasies with a gun just fine.”

“Then we clearly need to find Will a flamethrower.”

“Clerics can use swords too,” Will protests.

“Are you kidding?” says Mike, raising an eyebrow. “You’d look so fucking cool with a flamethrower.”

“None of this fixes our main problem, anyway,” Lucas insists. “We have to find Vecna before we mosey on into the Upside Down, guns blazing. And we have no idea how.”

“That’s not the main problem,” Mike says. “The main problem is that El can’t find him.”

“This isn’t just about El, Mike.”

“It really kind of is. No matter how many weapons we have, we’re always going to be the backup, okay?” Mike rubs his forehead irritably. “Something’s blocking her. She doesn’t know what. But it scares her. She thinks it’s dangerous.”

“So?” Dustin says. “All of this is dangerous.”

“She won’t tell me anything else. Just that if she pushes past it, something bad will happen. Maybe there’s something else out there stopping her. Something we could find.”

“No offense, but that’s kind of bullshit,” Lucas says. “Vecna’s dangerous enough. If there is something worse than him, shouldn’t she take that risk, so we know? Especially if it has Max?”

“Uh, no, we shouldn’t, because if something bad happens to El, we’re fucked, Lucas.”

Lucas turns to Will. “Look, man. I don’t want to ask this of you. I really don’t. But… if we can’t open a gate, and El can’t find Vecna, do you think…” He gulps. “With the Fear Aura and everything… could you somehow access your Now Memories again?”

Mike starts angrily. “Oh, come on!”

Will bites his lip. “Mike. Stop. I’ve… I’ve already tried.”

“What?”

“Okay,” Lucas says, “And?”

“They’re still gone. Vecna’s not a part of me anymore. If I let anything of him in… it’s like a storm. Not of him, but of, like, emotion. And I drown in it, and it hurts. Hurts me. And… hurts other people.”

Lucas bites his lip. “Will, man—”

“It’s okay,” Will says. “But it’s not him. It’s just me. It’s… just me. I can’t help.” His shoulders sag. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” everyone says at once.

“You absolutely can help,” Mike insists. “Even if it’s not like that.”

“You’re our in on the way Henry thinks,” Dustin adds. “You’re still our spy. And now, he can’t spy back.”

“We… we don’t know that.”

“We do! He hasn’t used you at all!” Mike insists. “And if he tries again, we won’t let him.”

Will’s about to say something upsetting like ‘are you sure you could?’, but Lucas interrupts him.

“Guys…” He takes a deep breath. “There’s one more issue we haven’t talked about. Once we kill Vecna, what happens?”

“Um. No more psychic connection, right?” says Mike. “We close the Gates. Mind Flayer leaves. Everybody’s free.”

“Almost everybody,” Lucas says grimly. “What about Max?”

“What about her?”

“When Vecna was in Will… they were connected. When we closed the gates, cut off their power…”

“Everything that was part of the hive died,” Will whispers with growing horror.

“We don’t know where Max is,” Lucas says. “But we know Vecna traps his victims, right? What if he, or whatever’s stopping El, what if it has her somewhere past the Gates? Somewhere tied to Vecna? What if killing him… what if—” He chokes.

The Party is silent.

“So we’re back to square one,” Dustin says.

It settles on them like a physical weight. They’ve figured this out before. They’ve done things. They’ve made moves. Why is it so hard this time?

“Look,” Dustin tries, “we’re burnt out, right? But we’ve made progress.” He shakes the poster meaningfully. “We have some kind of starter plan. Maybe it’s not the final answer. But it’s something.”

“What’s the plan of attack, then?” Lucas says dully. “If we’re just jumping into things regardless.”

“Starting is the easy part,” Dustin says, trying his best to sound reassuring. “Mike—you’ll be the good boyfriend, right? Ask El what she needs. See if you can’t run down the list of her powers. Help her practice, away from the feds, and see if the gate idea is feasible. And ask Nancy about the guns.”

“Right,” Mike says uncertainly.

“Lucas, you keep watching Max. See if anything changes. Try out your sling idea, if you want. Keep tabs on who’s coming into the hospital—maybe that’ll help keep a finger on the town’s pulse, y’know?”

Lucas nods.

“I’ll try and see if one of our smaller radios can tap into police or Army scanners.” Dustin frowns. “Get an idea of their movements. If we can figure that out, we might be able to get around more freely. And Will—you deal with this Jackson lady. Work with El, see what else she lets slip about their plans. We know there’s always something they’re hiding. And maybe, if it feels safe, keep tabs on Vecna’s emotions? Through that Button thing.”

Will nods uncertainly. “I can try, Dustin. But no guarantees. It’s not a radio, and if it was, like I said, it’s mostly me.”

Dustin nods understandingly. He’s going to roll up the poster, when suddenly he freezes.

 “Wait,” he says sharply. “That’s it.”

“What?” says Mike.

“Radio.” Dustin snaps his fingers.  “When Will went missing. When El tried out the Heathkit. It broadcast Will’s voice, remember?”

Will nods. “Didn’t it explode?”

“Yeah,” says Dustin, “but it was the Heathkit. Cool as hell, but still a ham radio. If radio can pick up signals from the Upside Down… what if we had a bigger one? What if something Cerebro’s strength could find whatever frequency Vecna is on?”

“El’s powers… they’re electromagnetism,” Will says, a hint of excitement slipping into his voice. “My mom looked into it with Mr. Clarke. It makes sense. Maybe me and El, we’re antennas. Different strengths, but still antennas. Maybe Vecna’s broadcasting through us, and he doesn’t even know.”

“Except…” Mike says slowly. “Except he does know. And so do we.” He jogs around the table and slaps the tape player. “The Fear Aura. It’s broadcasting to everyone. What if it’s on the EM spectrum, too? What if it’s traceable?”

The others exchange glances.

“That… could work,” says Lucas. “We’d just have to find a receiver strong enough. Which… well, I’m not sure if we can.”

“We should try, though,” Will says. “If he’s going to get into our heads, we have to get into his.”

“Then that’s what we do,” Dustin says. “We go to the junkyard, and look for parts to make a new, bigger Cerebro! Or… or something,” he adds lamely. “I’ll throw it on my list, at least.”

The boys stare down at the poster. It’s the first real bit of hope they’ve found, and each one wants to cling to it as long as they can.

“Alright, boys,” Dustin says. “If we’re set, get those hands in.”

One by one, the others stack their hands on top of his. “On three,” he says. “One—”

“Two—” says Will.

“Three,” says Lucas.

“Kill Vecna!”

Their voices echo through the rotting woods, hollow in its emptiness. It’s a stark sound, and it makes their celebration feel worryingly small.

For a moment, the Party’s confidence slips again.

“We’ll make it work,” Dustin says, as reassuringly as possible. “We’re heroes, right? We will.”

The silence seems to press in, and no one is entirely sure.

“Okay,” Lucas says tiredly, “well, if we’re done, I’m headed back to the hospital—”

“Wait,” Mike says, “Before you go—Will, we wanted to tell everybody something, right?”

“Um.” Will feels very small all of a sudden, but Mike nods at him encouragingly.

“Oh, right,” says Dustin. “What’s up?”

Will takes a deep breath. “Oh. Well, it’s not that important, compared to planning and stuff. But you know how Eddie ran a D&D club?”

“Hellfire,” Dustin says. “Sounded cool. Still sad I couldn’t join.”

“Well,” Will says awkwardly. “Now you can. I’m starting a chapter in Hawkins. At school.”

Lucas raises his eyebrows. “Really? At a time like this?”

“It was my idea,” Mike says sheepishly. “Things have been so rough, and, well, we haven’t played together in ages… I figured we could all join. Recruit other people, too, maybe. Have some fun. And Will’s learned so many new tricks; you should see the stuff he’s cooked up.”

Dustin smirks. “You know, I seem to remember someone saying we were too old for D&D.”

Mike laughs uncomfortably. “Look, that was a while ago, okay?”

“And didn’t you guys have a huge fight last time you played?”

“It’s fine,” Will insists. “Like he said. This was his idea. A make-up game, you know? And god knows we all kind of need a distraction now.”

“A distraction?” says Lucas. He pushes himself off of the bench with a frown. “Guys. We just made a plan, remember? Like—” he gestures at the table “—just now. We have things to do. Things that aren’t games. Real people’s lives are on the line. Max’s life is on the line. We can’t just sit around.”

Will’s stomach flips over, and the Button sparks. What, says the ghost of Mike, did you think we were just going to sit around in my basement and play games for the rest of our lives?

The memory shouldn’t still be so vivid. But it is. And he wishes it wouldn’t keep coming back to haunt him.

“Okay, look,” the real Mike starts, but Lucas isn’t done.

“Honestly, Will,” Lucas says. “You should know better than to let him talk you into this.”

“No one talked me into anything,” Will says, irritation overriding his discomfort. “It’s what Eddie wanted. It was the last thing he and I had, and the last thing all four of us had, as a Party. I thought maybe it would be fun.”

“Maybe, but it’s a thought I just don’t get,” Lucas says. “Dustin’s right, Mike was completely against D&D for all of last year. We did our own stuff, new stuff, like the Nerd Hour, and basketball, and whatever. Not D&D. And that was without Vecna looming over us! I know you weren’t around, and I’m not against it, really. But can we deal with this after Vecna’s dead and gone?”

“Hey!” Mike snaps. “Yeah, I was a dick about gaming last summer, but Will wasn’t. And he wants to play. We’re allowed to take breaks, Lucas. We’re allowed to have fun. It’s, it’s a coping mechanism, right? If we don’t, we’re just letting Vecna get us down.”

“And if we spend our valuable time on a massive campaign, we’re letting Vecna win!” Lucas says, exasperated. “Why can’t you see that? We have to prioritize!”

“Well, hold on—” Dustin tries, but Mike cuts him off.

“We are prioritizing! We’re out here, in the cold, putting together a plan that might not even work. You’re not in charge of what the rest of us do when you’re not around.”

“Yeah? Well, neither are you, dude,” Lucas snaps. “Maybe we had a Party hierarchy when we were younger, but you’ve made it real clear over the years you’re not interested in leading anymore. If we’re a full democracy now, then we vote on it. And I vote we stay focused.”

Mike flinches. The words bury deep in his chest and root there, reminding him of Max’s letter, and her unearned confidence in him. She thought he was supposed to be a leader, despite everything, and even though Mike hates to think it, he’s pretty sure Lucas is right.

He isn’t one. Not anymore.

Something inside of him, something he’s been trying hard to keep propped up, starts to fall apart.

“I’ve been focused,” Mike blusters, trying to retake some lost ground. “I’ve been helping Will and El. They need a distraction more than any of us, remember? I’m plenty focused!”

“And when was the last time you went to one of the shelters? Or, hell, the hospital? Oh, right. It’s been weeks.”

“Excuse you, I’ve been getting ready for classes—”

“Lucas, he really was supporting me,” Will starts.

“Guys,” says Dustin, “Fighting really isn’t going to help.”

But Lucas and Mike ignore both of them.

“I’m saying you don’t need any more distractions, Michael,” Lucas snaps. “You say you’re helping El, but the few times you’ve been alone, you haven’t been training, have you? What’ve you guys been doing when she’s over instead? Reading comic books? Making out?”

“Wh—I’m allowed to relax with my girlfriend!”

“Oh, sure, and I would be too, if mine wasn’t currently in a coma!” Lucas says loudly. “Not to mention yours is putting her life on the line. Sorry if I’m being too serious, but you can’t keep pretending like nothing’s wrong while the rest of us do all the work.”

“Are you shitting me? I’m not pretending anything!” Mike exclaims, baffled. “It’s not pretending to, to, to look after my mental health or whatever—”

“Maybe your mental health would be better if you actually joined in more—”

“Guys!”

This time they shut up, because now it’s Will who’s shouting, and that never happens.

“This is fucking stupid,” he says, lowering his voice. “Eddie told me to continue Hellfire, not the rest of you. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, okay, Lucas? And no one is abandoning Max, or El or anybody else. The campaign was just supposed to be a side thing that Mike helped me with. That’s it.”

“Thank you,” says Lucas.

“But,” Mike tries, “I thought sharing it was the whole point—”

“Maybe, Mike! But not like this! Look at this list. Just… look at it.” Will snatches the poster from Dustin’s hands. “Look at all the stuff we have to do. Maybe D&D won’t be a distraction for us, but if Lucas feels like it would be for him, that’s okay! We’ll, we’ll work around it. I’m still doing Hellfire, but maybe I can make the campaign shorter. Do one-shots, even. We just can’t fight about this; not now. That’s what Vecna wants.”

“Exactly,” Dustin chimes in, crossing his arms. “Is D&D fun? Yes. Am I glad that Mike is coming to his senses and remembering that? Yes. Would I play it with you guys, anytime? Also yes. But is it worth going at each other’s throats? Fuck no.”

“Sure, fine, whatever.” Mike shakes his head. “But I just don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” Lucas says acidly.

“I don’t get how you can act like fighting Vecna is the only thing worth doing!”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dustin groans.

Mike’s still going. “We’re sophomores in high school, in case you’d forgotten,” he says, gesturing wildly. “We can’t, we can’t let this lich fuck take the rest of our lives from us. Sure, we can get guns from Nancy, or whatever, but that doesn’t have to take up every hour of our time!”

“Easy for you to say,” Lucas snaps back. “Your girlfriend is alive, and happy, and our only hope! You get to say ‘I love you’ and be totally chill, while my girlfriend is on death’s door because it turns out your little love speech wasn’t strong enough. The only thing you’ve contributed since then is a few ideas, and telling us we should just ‘chill out, bro.’ So, no, sorry if I don’t buy your pitch Mike.”

“Lucas,” Dustin says warningly.

Mike wrinkles his nose. “What the hell? I did my best, okay? It’s not my fault Vecna got Max!”

“You could be doing more about it!”

“Like what? I don’t have powers, Lucas. Talking was the only thing I could do!”

“It’s not that, it’s that you, you just show a consistent lack of effort—"

“Lack of effort?! All you’re doing is sitting around all day moping! If El can’t find Max, neither can you.” Mike’s heart is pounding, and he’s mad, and he’s confused, and he keeps going. “Plus, girlfriend? It’s a little presumptuous of you to claim Max like that, when last thing I remember she’d pretty clearly dumped your ass.”

Now it’s Lucas’s turn to flinch back, and his gaze hardens. Mike realizes immediately that he’s taken a step too far.

“Okay, look,” he says quickly, running a hand through his hair, “that’s not, I didn’t mean—"

“Sure you didn’t.”

Lucas’ voice is cold as ice.

“Seriously, dude,” Mike tries, but he’s immediately cut off.

“Don’t ‘dude’ me,” Lucas spits. “Fuck you, Mike. You want to play a stupid game while the world ends? Fine. You want to pretend everything is awesome because of the power of love? Fine. Meanwhile, here in the real world, I’m going to go and try to actually save our town.”

“Lucas, wait—”

But before Mike can say anything else, Lucas is gone.

For a moment the rest of them just stand there, frozen.

“Well, shit,” Dustin says at last. “Mike, did you really have to keep pushing?”

“Oh, come on,” Mike protests. “You heard him!”

“Uh, yeah, and we gave you guys a chance to stop. You kept going.”

“Because he was being an asshole!”

“Charitably,” Dustin says heavily, “you were both being assholes.”

“He didn’t deserve that last bit, Mike,” Will says slowly. “He and Max—she was going through stuff. You know that. That’s their business, not ours.”

Dustin gestures towards the general path Lucas took. “Listen to your Cleric. Say sorry.”

Mike stares, mouth gaping. “Seriously? Yeah, I’ll apologize or something later, sure, but I’m not going after him! He thinks I’m not even trying to help!”

“Again, both assholes,” Dustin says tiredly. “But you’re the one still here. We really can’t afford a fight right now, Mike.”

“We? Who exactly is we? You mean I’m just supposed to take it?”

“I mean Hawkins, Mike.” Dustin sighs, annoyed. “Honestly, I just used all my energy on the big plan speech, and I really don’t want to do this right now. I’ll go get him. Maybe stop him from using you for target practice.”

“Dustin—"

“But you’d better apologize, okay?” Dustin’s dead serious. “I’ll make sure he does. Extensively. But it’s your responsibility, too.”

And then there were two.

Mike collapses backward onto the bench as soon as Dustin disappears.

“I don’t understand, Will,” he moans. “Lucas was shitting on me. And El. And you. He was—I don’t know, he was being a prick; I can’t be the only one who sees it!”

Carefully, Will joins him on the cold wood. “I get it, Mike,” he says softly. “But you can’t… I don’t know. You can’t keep biting back the way you do.”

Mike tries to meet his eyes, but he can’t take Will’s knowing stare. He’s never been able to.

“What is it about El?” Will says softly. “Every time your relationship gets questioned. Even when I was being a dick—it’s like…”

It’s like a button, he wants to say.

“It’s nothing,” Mike mutters. “It’s stupid. It’s all stupid.”

“Go after him, Mike,” Will urges. “Please. It is stupid. You can both fix this. We have to stick together.”

“I don’t think he wants to.”

Will bites his lip. “I’m not talking about Lucas, Mike. You said you wanted to be better, right?”

“Better?” When Mike looks up, he just looks lost. “How am I supposed to be better if we’re all worse?”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I know I can be awful,” Mike murmurs, voice dropping. “I know. And I hate it, I hate… Sometimes I’ll think I’m past that, but then—it’s like—it’s like everything just comes pouring out in one breath and I can’t stop it.” He buries his head in his hands. “I feel like I’m going crazy, Will. I really do.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“And you know what’s the worst part? I want to be mad at Lucas, but I can’t even argue with him. He’s right. Me and El, we’re not training, and it is a stupid time for D&D, and I was supposed to be the leader! But I’m not, Will, and I’m scared, and I know it’s selfish but I just want everything to go back the way it was. I want to not be terrified for a change. And… and I don’t know what to do about it.”

He looks so defeated. Will wants to hug him, to tell him they’ll go crazy together, but he can’t. Not at sixteen.

Plus… that’s not what Mike needs.

“No one has to be the leader,” Will says firmly. “But you’re the Party’s heart. Right? Sure, sometimes you make things worse, but so do I. Obviously. And you’re always the one who fixes the things you break. No matter what.”

He decides to split the difference, and rests a hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“I know it sucks. And we’re all on edge. But if you reach out first… maybe it’ll mean something to him. Show him you are trying.”

Mike makes a noise that Will can’t decipher. It might be a laugh. “Come on. I’m not the heart. You just came up with that to make me feel better.” He pushes himself to his feet, but he won’t meet Will’s eyes. “Maybe I could still be a paladin, if I haven’t broken my oath by now. But… I’m pretty sure hearts aren’t supposed to break stuff, and since I did… I don’t think Lucas would believe me, anyway.”

Now he looks back, and Will swears he can see tears in Mike’s eyes. “I’m tired, Will,” he says dully. “I’m gonna go home. If Lucas wants to apologize, he knows where to find me.”

And then it’s just Will, alone in the dead grey woods.

He looks around. Stares at the trees. At the solitary bird sitting on an empty branch, tilting its head before flying away.

Into the ashy sky.

“I don’t know,” Will murmurs to himself, suddenly exhausted. “I’m pretty sure breaking is what hearts do.”

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 6, 1986

His bike skids to a stop in the driveway of Hop’s cabin, and Mike takes a minute to catch his breath—and to make sure his cargo is still secure.

The picnic basket has not fallen. Mike heaves a sigh of relief.

The cabin looks more like a home these days, more like it used to. Here, this far away from the Rifts, Vecna’s touch isn’t as strong, and the trees still have some vestiges of life. Sure, it’s fall, but seeing leaves and bark that aren’t totally stone-grey is reassuring.

Mike centers himself, props his bike up against a tree, and marches towards the porch carrying the basket. Better now than never.

As he approaches, a soldier materializes out of the trees. Mike recognizes him, though he can’t pretend to know the man’s name. Jackson’s got a rotation going, and though Mike isn’t up here as often as he’d like to be, he’s gotten to recognize every soldier in it.

“Afternoon, Romeo,” the man says. He looks casual, but he’s wearing full body armor, and a machine gun hangs ready at his side. “You got permission to be here?”

Mike groans. “Do I ever not?”

Soldier shrugs. “Protocol. You know the drill.”

“I’m fine, man.”

The soldier raises his eyebrows, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a small pouch, from which he removes a long, thin thermometer.

“Say ahh,” the solider says. Mike rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told.

“’ee?” he says after a minute, thermometer still in his mouth. “’otally ‘ormal.”

The soldier waits another thirty seconds before removing the thermometer and wiping it down with a disinfectant wipe.

“Am I good or not?” Mike says, irritated.

“A-ok. You know we’ve gotta check.”

Mike juts his head forward and gestures pointedly at his face. “Did I look like a Flayed, sweaty mess? Seriously.”

“Kind of.”

“I biked here!” Mike protests.

The soldier relaxes slightly and chuckles. “I know, kid.” He reaches out and lightly taps Mike’s forehead. “I diagnose you with normal teenager. Go on.”

Mike grumbles a few rude things under his breath and hurries up the porch steps. These guards are going to be the death of him, he thinks. He can’t imagine how annoying it’s gotta be for El.

He raises his hand to knock, then hesitates.

Today is going to be their first date.

Well, not their first-first, of course. But one year El hadn’t been allowed to leave the cabin, and the other she’d been in California. They’ve never had the luxury of going anywhere together, just the two them. Never been able to do any proper date stuff.

Granted, they still can’t. Jackson doesn’t want El going into town alone, not that there’s much to do there anymore. But she’d relented on the idea of a picnic.

Mike lifts the basket to his chest, and sighs. Behind him, the guard hums some random tune to himself quietly.

He shouldn’t be nervous. He really shouldn’t. It’s just El. But he feels like he’s gotta make this perfect, given right now nothing else is.

Lucas is still mad at him. Dustin forced them to apologize to each other, but it was clearly begrudged on both sides, and Lucas has spent, if anything, more time alone since. Mike still stubbornly thinks he wasn’t totally in the wrong, but he knows the idea of having a picnic during the end of the world would probably piss Lucas off even more. Which pisses him off. And so on and so on.

He hates it.

Mike doesn’t think Will and Dustin are quite as ticked, which is something. Still, things have definitely been tense, and Mike can’t shake the feeling that Lucas was right. With D&D, setting up Hellfire, Will is the leader. And he’s a good one, too. When they’re plotting, when he and Will and Dustin and El are huddled in his basement talking about progress, Dustin’s the one in the lead.

Always someone else.

Never Mike.

Mike wonders what happened to him. Wonders how he missed the connection to his Party slipping away. He’d thought that, after Starcourt, he’d fixed things. That he’d been better. Hell, freshman year had seemed almost normal.

But maybe that normal had just been a coverup.

It doesn’t help that Max expected something of him, too—even as much as he wishes he could ignore it. Her letter sits in his desk drawer, as judgmental as the painting, and the two papers scream, you’re the heart, your friends rely on you.

Do they? Mike thinks miserably. Do they really?

Did they ever?

At least he has El, his brain says.

At least she’s here.

He takes another breath.

El needs him. That’s the one thing he can rely on.

He shoves Dustin, and Lucas, and especially Will out of his head.

El needs him, even if no one else does.

Treat El right, says Max.

I will, Mike thinks, heart clenching. I don’t know why you believed in me so much, Max. But I’ll try. I really will.

And he knocks on the door.

No response.

For a moment, he’s worried he got the time wrong. His watch says noon, though, noon exactly, and that’s the time they agreed on.

He knocks again.

This time, the door opens. But it’s not El.

It’s Hopper.

“Oh,” Hop grunts, scratching at his chin. He’s been growing his beard out, Mike notices, and it’s starting to look pretty impressive. “Heya, kid. Here for El, I take it?”

He nods wordlessly. Hop had been happy to see him, almost, when he’d come back. Doesn’t make dealing with the gruff cop any easier, though: Mike still remembers being locked in his car.

Hop opens the door the rest of the way, and leans against the frame to let the teenager pass. “Sorry to tell ya this, but you’re early. El won’t be off till one.”

“What?” Mike says, bemused. “She told me noon. Sharp.”

Hop shrugs. “Don’t know what to tell you. She’s not here.”

“Come on, Hop!” Mike sighs, “I’m not fourteen anymore, you’re not gonna trick me—”

Hop snorts. “You can come in and wait, I’m not hiding anything. She really isn’t here.” He holds his hands up jokingly. “Honest.”

“Ugh.” Mike pushes past him and into the cabin. “El, I’m here—”

“I’m flattered,” Steve says from the couch, “but you’re a little young and male for me.”

“Oh,” says Mike. “Hi, Steve.”

He doesn’t look great. His hair’s coiffed, but the older teen has deep bags under his eyes, and his clothes are wrinkled.

Hop closes the door behind him, walks over to the recliner and collapses in it. Steve leans over and turns on the TV, which immediately starts playing staticky commercials.

Mike just stands there in the doorway, feeling a little lost.

“Is this just what you do all day?” he says, befuddled. “Sit around watching TV?”

“Well, we play Yahtzee sometimes,” says Steve. “Me myself and I.”

“Because when we play,” says Hop, “I win.”

Mike figures he can’t possibly roll his eyes hard enough, and reckons he’ll never understand adults. “Well, I’ll be in El’s room, since apparently I’m early. Doesn’t make sense that she’d tell me noon, but whatever.”

“Three inches,” Hop says.

“She’s not even here!”

“I don’t know what kind of things you have planned.”

“Gross,” says Mike. He shuts the door behind him, three inches be damned, and collapses onto the comforter.

It still smells like her.

Mike flips over lazily, half-considering a nap, only to notice a small slip of paper on the covers beside him. He sits up sharply, plucking it from its resting place, and scans it.

Sorry, Mike. I thought maybe you and Hop should spend some time together. I look forward to seeing you.

Beneath that is a little heart, and the words Love, El.

Mike scoffs, raises his eyebrows, and scoffs again. “I’m sorry? What? Spend time with Hop? No way. No way in hell. I’ll just sit here.”

He plops down again on El’s bed. Most of El’s things had been ruined by the weather over the last year, but the room itself is at least the same. Mike figures that’s enough to bring back memories for an hour. He can do it. For sure.

He lasts about ten minutes.

“El says we’re supposed to hang out,” he grumbles, stalking through the door and over to the couch.

Hop laughs out loud. “Really, now?”

Mike tosses him the note, disgruntled, but Steve snatches it before he can take it.

“Well, well, well,” Steve says, grinning devilishly. “Looks like you got played, Wheeler.”

“We,” Mike grumbles. “We got played. All of us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hop says placidly, “I couldn’t be happier.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

Hop snorts.

“It’s not fair,” Mike complains. “What’re we supposed to do together?”

“Well,” says Steve, “Punky Brewster’s on.”

Three pairs of eyes stare at the screen as the theme song plays.

Steve turns the TV off decisively.

“Do you guys have Star Wars or something?” Mike asks, not expecting it in the least.

“More of a Trek guy myself,” says Hop, clearly joking. Mike briefly considers bashing his own head in against the side of the coffee table.  

Steve looks between the two of them and twiddles his fingers. “So. Hmm. Any news from town?”

Mike shoots him a withering glance. “El never mentioned talking to you. Just Hop.”

“Excuse you, shithead, I live here too,” Steve says, affronted.

“Language,” says Hop.

“Let me suffer in silence,” says Mike.

Hop sighs, and turns back to Steve. “People are getting tense,” he says. “No one expected the army to stay here this long. Some folks’re are still trying to leave, but by now I think the most people still here are staying.”

“Is the Army still holding people up?”

“When are they not,” Hop says.

Mike sighs dramatically. This won’t do. These two are boring as hell, and clearly aren’t planning on talking about anything important. If he’s stuck here, Mike figures he might as well use this to gather some information. Prove he can do something.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any sign of Vecna, then,” he says reluctantly.

Hop shakes his head, unfazed by Mike’s entry into the conversation. “Nope. Henry’s still in hiding, for whatever reason. Had to stem off seven different rumors that someone’s drugging the water supply, though, so your Fear-whatchamajigger seems to be getting to everyone else.”

“Fear Aura.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does—”

“Look,” Hop says, cutting Mike off pointedly. “We have been looking. I promise.”

“You mean Jackson’s been looking.”

“She’s got us all on the ropes,” Hop says. “But—and I’ve told El this—if any new, important information comes to light, we’ll tell you kids. I know you want to be involved. And I know there’s not much choice these days.”

“You really trust Jackson?” Mike presses. “She’s government.”

Hop rubs his beard. “Somewhat. You can talk to her, unlike Brenner. That’s something.”

“You’re acting like everything’s fine, but the Army is treating El like a prisoner.”

“Not as much as you think, kid.”

“That’s true,” says Steve. “The fact that you’re here proves that.”

“There are guards outside.”

“And why shouldn’t there be?” Hop says. “El needs backup. This shouldn’t all be on her shoulders.”

Mike stares at him, considering. “That’s the first reasonable thing you’ve said today.”

Hop raises an eyebrow. “I am capable of reason.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Okay, look,” Steve says hurriedly. “El clearly had some reason for making you guys talk, right?”

“Mischievousness?” Hop says lightly.

“Because you don’t like me?” says Mike.

“Hey, now,” says Hop, “That’s not true, kid.”

“Sure it is.”

“Look, Mike,” Hop starts tiredly. “Sure, you can be a bit of a brat sometimes.”

“Hey!”

“But,” Hop says, “It’s been a year. Things have changed. You’ve changed—I can tell—and, if we’re being honest, so have I. And I know I’ve been unfair to you.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. This is new.

“I want you to know,” Hop continues, “I don’t have a problem with you dating my daughter.”

Mike snorts in disbelief.

“I don’t, kid. Not anymore. I know we’ve had our issues--"

“That’s one way to put it.”

“—but I know you care about her.” Hop rubs his beard pensively. “Just as much as I do, even if it’s hard to admit. And I want you to know, that, well, I appreciate you trying to be there for her.”

“I don’t do it for you,” Mike says dryly.

“I’m well aware,” says Hop.

There’s a momentary lull.

Oh, fine, thinks Mike.

“Thanks, Hop,” he mutters. It comes easier than he’d expected.

“’Course, kid.”

The tension in the air lessens, just a little bit.

Mike takes a deep breath. For El, he thinks. If she really wants us to be friendly, or whatever.

“How’s…” He clears his throat. “What’s it like being back in Hawkins, then?”

Hop looks askance at him. “What?”

“After being, like, in the gulag or whatever.”

Hop sucks his top lip for a moment, thinking, clearly surprised at the question. “Strange. It’s strange.”

“What’s strange about it?” Mike makes himself say.

“The hero worship, probably,” says Hop.

“Real humble.”

Hop barks out a laugh. “Oh, trust me, I know it’s bullshit. If anyone understands that, it’d be you, right?”

Mike shrugs, grimacing. “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“That’s not the best part, though,” Hop adds. “That’d be seeing everyone again.” He gesturing at the two boys. “That does, somehow, include you two. I’ll be damned if a little teenage idiocy isn’t exactly what the doctor ordered.”

“That, and Joyce,” Steve says slyly.

Mike’s not sure, but he thinks Hop flushes a little under his beard.

“That’s outta line, Harrington.”

“You’re not the only one who visits,” Steve says to Mike, conspiratorially. “And she’s here even more than you.”

“You’re really dating Will’s mom?” Mike asks. “I can’t see it.”

“You do make every conversation harder than it needs to be, don’t you?” Hop says dryly. “Look, we can be a little buddy-buddy now, for El, but I am not giving you any details of my personal life.”

A grin spreads slowly across Mike’s face. “So it is true. I mean, like, I knew; Will told me ages ago. But man, some things you just have to see to believe.”

Hop rolls his eyes. “Well, believe it.”

“Hey, that’s something we can all bond over,” Steve says brightly, “dating women way out of our league!”

“Hey,” says Hop.

“You’re not even dating anyone, Steve,” Mike says pointedly. “But then again, I guess Robin is too cool to say yes, huh.”

“Woah, woah,” Steve says, “Why bring out the big guns? We’re having fun. Fun, I say.”

“You know,” Hop says, “Wheeler has a point. Buckley is here to visit you nearly as often as that Dustin kid. If you haven’t asked her out yet, you’d better get a move on.”

“That’s—it’s not—” Steve stutters. “It’s not like that. Really. Jeez, how many times do I have to say it?”

“When it stops being obvious,” says Mike.

“She’s got her eye on someone else,” Steve says. “That’s what’s obvious.”

“It’s really not obvious at all,” Hop says.

“And you’re not winning back my sister, so you might as well move on,” Mike adds. “Jonathan comes over every time Mom’s out. And they leave the door closed.” He sticks out his tongue in disgust.

“You’re one to talk,” Steve groans. “I bet you and El do the same damn thing.”

“Hey,” Hop says again. “They absolutely do not.”

Mike chokes on his own spit. “What the hell, Steve!”

He can feel his cheeks going red, and, more than that, he can feel Hop’s stare burning into the back of his head. Mike desperately does not want to think about the implications of this line of questioning. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before, but, like, not around Hop.  

“Oh, you’re just a pinnacle of male purity, aren’t you?” Steve says. “Really, I’d never have expected it of you.”

“You’re staying in my house, under my protection,” Hop growls dangerously.

“Yeah, and this is what boys talk about.”

“Not around her dad,” Mike squeaks.

“You might be getting entirely too comfortable,” agrees Hop.

Steve puts his hands up. “Okay, okay, okay.”

There is another awkward silence.

“You know,” Steve says thoughtfully, “I think today is the first time I’ve ever heard you two agree on anything.”

“It should be,” Hop says pointedly. “Especially this specific conversation.”

“You’re making progress! You should be happy!”

“With Mike? Maybe. With you? No.”

“Buncha Puritans,” Steve says cheerfully.

“New subject,” Hop growls. “How’s school, Mike?”

“It couldn’t have been any other subject?”

“If you are dating my daughter, I want to make sure you’re getting good grades.”

“It’s only been, like, a month,” says Mike. “But yeah. I’m doing fine.”

He’s not. It’s early days, but he knows he’s going to fail Spanish again. And he’s barely making high C’s in the rest of his classes.

He knows why. He knows what’s haunting him. What’s haunting everyone.

But he would still rather pretend.

“Must be odd,” Hop says begrudgingly. “Dealing with all of this, plus school. You know,” he adds—clearly struggling— “you can come to me if you ever need help with classes...”

Mike raises his eyebrows. “Did you even graduate high school?”

Hop narrows his eyes.

“But. Um. Thanks, I guess.”

“Least I can do.”

“I can too,” Steve adds. “I’ve still got Mrs. Click’s exam answers in the trailer. She reuses the same test every year. Want to see?”

“Oh, cool, really?” says Mike, at the same time as Hop very loudly says “No.”

Suffice it to say, Mike is deeply relieved when El finally pushes open the door twenty minutes later.

He’s a little less relieved to see the smug look on her face.

“I am sorry I was late,” she says, fooling no one. “Did you three have fun?”

“Of course,” Steve says with a wink. “As planned.”

“You were in on this?” Mike exclaims. “What am I saying, of course you were. You’re evil. You’re both evil.”

El snorts. “Mike, I would like my boyfriend to be friends with my father.”

“Look, I know he’s kind of a badass, and yeah, it wasn’t that bad. But come on.”

“I’m honored,” Hop says wryly.

“You had fun,” El says reproachfully. “I know it.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “You know what? I take it back, it was awful.”

El cackles. “It was not.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, enough small talk. You ready to go?”

El shrugs, and he takes a closer look. She has bags under her eyes, and her lip is stained with blood despite clear attempts to wipe it off. “Let me use the restroom. Then I will be.”

Mike’s shoulders tense.

She’s okay, he reminds himself. She plotted against him. She’s laughing.

She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay.

The mantra echoes in his head, alongside another word.

…Right?

They’d planned to picnic at Weathertop.

Sure, it was a bit of a hike, and sure, Mike realizes in retrospect, a picnic under the spores isn’t super romantic. But dammit, it’s the thought that counts.

It’s therefore extremely annoying when one of the guards (a different one from earlier, Mike notes) starts to follow them.

“I was hoping it’d be just us this time,” he mutters.

El glances his way, and then shoots the guard a glare. It’s so intense that Mike thinks if it’d been him, he might’ve peed his pants a little.

“I’m not here to interfere,” the guard says, disgruntled. “But I have to be around, you hear? To protect you.”

“At the bottom of the hill,” El says. “We will be at the top.” Then more quietly: “Mouth-breather.”

“Jackson says—”

“It is a hill. I will be fine.”

The air fills with static.

The guard bites his lip, clearly uncertain, but backs off.

And if Mike finds the assertiveness a little hot, who’s to blame him?

With some extra space, the walk is a little more relaxing. Not perfectly, of course; no birds call out from the trees, and dead and rotting leaves crunch underneath their feet.

Still, when they finally crest Weathertop, the view feels worth it. The wind tousles their hair, and the dead grass around them ripples in the breeze. Hawkins spreads out below, an echo of six months before. No smoke billows out from the rifts now, though, scars covered up and hidden, and other than the leafless trees, it could almost pass for the Hawkins they used to know.

“Damn,” Mike says. “I’d hoped there would still be some flowers here.” He kneels down next to a clump of plant matter. It’s dark, and spiky, and might’ve once been a flower. “But, nope. Everything’s dead.”

“It’s okay, Mike.”

“Hold on.” He sets the picnic basket down and jogs back to the tree line, searching. “I’ll find some.”

“It’s really fine,” El laughs.

“Nope. Nope, I’ll find—no—wait here.”

After a minute or two he reappears, a single, wilting purple flower in his hands. He presents it to her as officiously as possible.

“A flower for you, my lady.”

“You’re being weird,” El says drily.

“I’m not supposed to spoil you? Come on.” He sticks his tongue out at her. “It’s the first time we’ve gotten to date like normal people, so…”

“So a picnic?”

Mike grins. “Exactly.”

He pulls out the blanket covering the basket and flops it down over the dead grass. “I’m sorry, I really hope it’s not too pokey? Or wet, or slimy… I don’t know, stupid Upside Down bullshit.” He stomps on a bump in the blanket, crunching it flat.  

“I can help, you know,” El says. She’s still amused by his attempts at chivalry.

“No, no!” Mike insists, despite struggling a bit with one of the corners. “You’re supposed to relax, okay? You’ve been working so hard. Making a day of it is the least I can do, right?”

El figures privately she doesn’t think there’s much of a difference between eating here or at the cabin or at a restaurant, but it’s Mike, so she’ll put up with it.

At long last, Mike deems the blanket usable, and flops down in the center of it.

“Come on in!” he says, patting the space next to him. “Water’s warm.”

“You are an idiot, Mike.”

“Could an idiot make this?”

He whips out a sandwich. It’s kind of sad, leaking a little, and messily wrapped in a napkin.

El does her best not to giggle as she sits down to join him. “You made us sandwiches?”

He gestures gamely with the sandwich. “It’s peanut butter and honey, the way you like it. It’s not that hard.”

He sounds pleased, and pulls out his own PB&J happily.

El pulls down her mask to take a bite, and, yeah, it’s okay. The ratio of honey to peanut butter is a bit different from what she’s used to, but she always suspected Hop put way more honey on than he should, anyway.

Plus, Mike made it, and Mike is usually terrible with food. And this isn’t terrible. So that’s something.

For a few minutes they sit there, eating their sandwiches in silence, pausing only when Mike passes out cans of Coke.

“So,” El asks eventually. “I have to ask. What makes this different from when we are at our houses?”

“Well, um. It’s a date.”

“Yes. We are dating.”

“No, like. A date is when a couple, we go out and talk and hang out and do stuff together. It’s, like… It’s different.”

“I know. Like Rink-O-Mania?”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “No. I mean, yes, kind of, that was the idea… but Will was there too. And, uh, I think that day was kind of a write-off all around.”

“That still does not answer my question.”

“It’s... it's supposed to just be us. That’s it, I guess.”

El nods slowly, and reaches into the picnic basket for a fairly squished bag of Doritos. “You are not still mad about that, are you? About Angela?”

Mike tilts his head. “What? No, El, of course not. Sometimes you have to fight back. That’s what you do, and you do it better than any of us. It’s just, I was caught off guard, right? You don’t expect all that when you’re roller-skating. That’s all.”

El nods again.

‘You do it better than any of us.’

The lingering taste of honey sours a little in her mouth.

Mike doesn’t notice the shift in her expression. “Honestly, El. That’s… that’s why I wanted to come up here. It feels like whenever we do stuff, somebody else is right there, ruining things. Door open three inches, right?” He tries for a smile.

El looks down the hill behind them. She can vaguely make out the guard amongst the trees. He looks like he’s reading a newspaper.

“I know it’s not perfect,” Mike continues. “But you’ve been so busy, and I know things have been… hard… so I wanted to try, at least.”

“I understand,” El says softly. “I’m glad you’re not angry, Mike.” She licks Dorito dust off her fingers, trying to replace the sourness with the taste of plasticky cheese.

“Of course not. I never want to be angry at you.”

“That seems unreasonable.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Even Hop is angry at me sometimes. I can be stupid, as much as he tells me I’m not.”

“Hop gets angry at everyone. That doesn’t mean you’re stupid.”

El laughs, high and loud, and the sound warms Mike’s heart. Reaching out, he takes her hand and squeezes.

“Seriously. I know this isn’t much, but it’s the least you deserve.”

She squeezes back. Then her eyes glaze over slightly, and her hand slips away.

“Mike,” El says hesitantly. “Since we’re alone. Can I ask you a strange question?”

Mike’s heart skips a beat. “Um. Yeah. Shoot.”

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” she says, and the sourness crawls back into her throat. “Something I didn’t know how to ask, and it’s been so long, and…” She bends over, fiddling with her laces absently.

“What’s up?” Mike leans back on his elbows and tries to keep his cool.

“In Steve’s trailer. When I was piggybacking. What you said.”

Mike bites his lip hard enough that he tastes iron. “Yeah?”

“It was… sweet.” El frowns. “But the way you said it… I didn’t… I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand? I can’t live without you, El. What else is there to say?”

Now El looks up. “Why not?”

That catches Mike off guard. “Um. What?”

“We are a Party, right? All of us, living together, supporting each other. Not just you and me.” She takes a deep breath. “You said… you said it was like your life started when we ran into each other in the woods. But it wasn’t. You had a life. You were searching for Will. You had him, and Lucas, and Dustin. That was a life. That was living. I was… an accident.”

“Uh, El,” Mike says, baffled. “That’s not what I meant at all. Maybe finding you was an accident, but it was the best accident that ever happened to me. Losing Will… it was like my life had ended. Finding you started it all over again.”

El looks up at him sharply. “That’s exactly what I mean, Mike. Yes, that is sweet to say. But I don’t know if it’s true.”

“Of course it is!” Mike has no idea why things are going downhill so quickly, but he hates it. He’d been sure he’d done it right this time.

“I believe you love me,” El says. “I do. But saying you’ve never been scared of me? That your life started with me? That you were just afraid of losing me?” She crosses her arms, intensely focused. “The first two things… they’re not true. You were scared of me at first, sometimes. You were scared of me at Rink-O-Mania. And your life didn’t start with me.”

“El, seriously,” Mike tries, but she cuts him off.

“Seriously, Mike!” El exclaims. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to pretend for me. For any of it! Even today, all of this, you’re pretending. You’re… you’re trying too hard. And I don’t know why.”

“I’m not pretending!”

“You are.” El picks up the purple flower and gestures with it, pointedly. “Because you think I need it—not because it’s you. All this time, you never said you loved me, because you were afraid of losing me, right?”

Mike nods wordlessly.

“If you were afraid, if you thought, someday, I wouldn’t need you anymore… Why didn’t you fight for me, Mike? Why didn’t you say anything until I was dying?”

Mike is very lost. “I—I don’t know what you mean—”

“When I told you I loved you before I moved. Every letter while I was gone. When you came to visit, when we fought... You didn’t say anything, not until Vecna, and now you are acting like... No.” She pauses. “Just acting. Why were you fine with letting me slip away? Why did you make it easy?”

Mike’s heart catches in his throat, and it feels like ice.

He knows the answer to that. He knows why she’s asking, because she’s right, she’s always right, and it terrifies him.

It’s not about El. It’s never been about El. It’s always been about Mike, it’s about his fear, his… his brokenness, his flaws, the ways that he’s just not good enough.

But how do you tell someone that? How do you explain when your heart wanders, when you’re thinking things you shouldn’t, when you’re not cool enough and strong enough and good enough for someone you love?

El reaches over and takes his hands in hers again, flower pressed between their palms. “Mike. I know whatever it is, it is hard. I am not mad, I promise. But it’s just me. It’s just us. You don’t have to hide.”

Mike wants to pull her toward him, wants to reassure her, wants to say a million sweet nothings like he always does. Instead, his voice catches.

“El… I…” He clears his throat, trying to make the words come. He can’t meet her eyes, though. He’s terrified of what she’ll see in them. “You don’t understand. You can’t.”

“Try me,” says El, and Mike knows that she will grant no quarter.

“I didn’t mean to,” Mike says, after a minute. “I didn’t mean to… to make leaving easy. Never. But, like, for you, saying… saying ‘I love you’… it’s straightforward.” He gulps. “It’s not like that for me. It means so much to say it, El—I guess I never got that across—and my family? We don’t say that sort of stuff. It’s sappy. It’s special. So… When I did it… When I said it... It needed to be right.”

He forces himself to look up. El’s eyes are wide, and searching, and desperate, and Mike so badly wants to open himself up like a book and let her pull everything out of him, everything terrible and petty and small.

But some things…

Well. Baring yourself fully is scary.

And Mike’s stomach swirls, because in matters of the heart, at least, he knows he’s nothing but a coward.

“And it never felt right,” he says finally. “I didn’t feel right. I’m not… you’re perfect, El. In so many ways. You’re my superhero.”

El does all she can not to wince.

“Me, though?” Mike says, softer now. “I’m just some random kid. I suck, El; I really suck, and I know I’ve been shitty to you because of it. Because I’m scared, okay? You’re right. I was… I’m always hiding. I was scared that I’d say it, and I wouldn’t be ready, and you couldn’t have all of me, and… and, if I wasn’t hiding, you’d find parts of me you didn’t like. Parts that scared you.” He fidgets nervously. “I don’t know. I should’ve said it sooner. I know that. I know… But it’s always easier to talk when things are bad, okay? When we’re fighting, when there’s trouble, when we’re in danger. Stuff just comes to me. I can be honest. But up until then… I just… I’m not… I wasn’t strong enough.”

El sighs. “Bullshit.”

“What?”

“Bullshit, Mike. You have always been strong enough, when you wanted to be.” She reaches out and runs her hand softly down his cheek. “Plus, I am not perfect. And I don’t want to be your superhero. I just want to be El.”

Mike gulps.

“I love you,” El continues, “because neither of us are perfect. You give me a place to feel normal anyway, even if I am not.” She drops her hand onto his shoulder. “And I love the things about you that are not normal, too. I am sorry you ever worried that I might not. But I don’t want perfect Mike. I don’t want pretending Mike, who says things because he thinks he is supposed to. I just want Mike Mike, even if sometimes he is very, very stupid.”

Mike makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I just want you around,” El says softly. “Not because I can’t live without you, but because I can choose. And I chose you.”

Those words hang in the bitter September air like knives.

“I guess I really fucked all this up, huh?” Mike says, rubbing his eyes violently. “So much for a cool big emotional I love you. Or a normal date.”

She punches him lightly. “What did I just say about normal?”

“I thought you wanted to be normal.”

“I do.” She meets his gaze. “But I don’t need to be when I’m with you.”

Mike nods wordlessly. What do you even say to something like that?

“Just promise me.” El sets the flower aside and pushes herself to her feet. “Promise me you will tell me when you are afraid, instead of pretending. I am always afraid, Mike, of losing you, of losing everyone else, because I am not strong enough.” She reaches down and pulls him up after her. “But I won’t let that happen. So don’t make it easy for you, either, okay? Don’t slip away because you do not think you’re enough. Promise me.”

Mike’s lower lip shudders involuntarily. He knows it’s going to haunt him—that he’d made it easy. Easy to leave. Easy to not need him.

And he knows he won’t be able to shake the whisper that asks him if he did it on purpose.

“I promise,” says Mike.

El hugs him. Tight, soft, intentional. “Thank you, Mike,” she says. “And thank you for bringing me here. This was a good date.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I am not as worried anymore.” She nudges him in the chest with her head. “So I think it counts.”

Chapter Text

SEPTEMBER 12, 1986

“I mean,” Dustin says. “We could always just go back to your place.”

It’s the first meeting of the Hawkins Hellfire Club. Will’s put in a crazy amount of work—he’s hand-drawn posters, painted minis, bought extra dice, booked the science classroom, and dressed up in a makeshift cloak. He’d even tabled at the club fair.

Honestly, Mike had expected somebody to be persuaded to come. And yet, somehow, he, Will, and Dustin are the only ones there.

“Maybe everyone’s running late?” Mike tries.

Will stares at the game map, forlorn. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. No one really wanted to play D&D in Lenora; it’s no shocker high school in Indiana’s worse.”

“Patently untrue,” says Dustin. “We’re here. We’re not that unusual.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Will says dryly. “Ugh, and it was going to be the perfect intro one-shot, too.”

“Oh?”

“A dungeon crawl! Nice, simple, lots of monsters and traps, plus excuses to show off everyone’s class proficiencies.” He shoves a set of pre-made character sheets in Dustin’s direction. “’Make it through the Forbidden Dungeon, and confront the evil wizard who stole the staff of Kalamanth!’ You know! Classic.”

“Perfect,” sighs Dustin.

“I was sure that one freshman was interested,” Mike says. “He seemed super into your pitch, Will.”

“People pretend,” Will says.

“Yeah, well, they shouldn’t.”

“Friends don’t lie,” Dustin quotes automatically.

“No matter what,” Will sighs, “thanks for being here, you guys.”

“Of course,” Mike says. “We’re your Party. There’s no way we’d leave you hanging.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” adds Dustin. He fidgets, uncertain. “You know, I can try calling Lucas again...”

“No,” Mike says instantly.

“I don’t want to force him,” Will says hurriedly. “He’s… he’s going through enough.”

“It’s stupid,” says Mike.

“It’s really not.”

“We could call the cabin,” Dustin suggests. “Maybe El would be interested. She played before, right? We could relocate there. Maybe even rope in Steve.”

“I think that would be worse,” says Mike. “Also, wait, El played D&D?”

“Uh, yeah. In California, remember? Right, Will?”

“Oh. Right.” Mike rubs his forehead. With everything going on… he hates to admit it, but he’d forgotten. She did say something about being Eddie’s bard at his funeral, now he thinks about it.

“You guys have really never talked about it? I honestly thought it would’ve been, like, first on her list,” Will says, bemused, but glad for the distraction. “It wasn’t her favorite activity, I guess, so it kind of makes sense. I don’t think she liked roleplaying. But she joined a couple of times, anyway, including for Eddie’s big final fight. Her character was ‘Jane the Bard.’”

Dustin laughs. “And you didn’t help her pick something better?”

“She liked it,” Will chides.

“Why a bard?” Mike says, confused. “She’s already a mage. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“Because, she knows what the best class is, Mike,” Dustin says, leaning back in his chair until the front legs lift off the ground. “Obviously.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Will adds, ignoring him. “She said she was tired of always being a mage. I think, if you ask me…” He hesitates. “You know. Bards are a Charisma-based class. I think she wanted to pretend to be someone everyone likes.”

The three boys fall silent. Like an echo, Mike hears El’s words from the other day in his head:

I don’t want to be your superhero.

The Party always played characters that fit their real-life personalities. He knew some parties didn’t, but, well, they did, and El always fit in with the rest of them. He’d really expected her to do the same in this case.

Then again, it is a fantasy game, Mike thinks grimly. And he’s not much of a paladin in real life, himself.

“El never told me anything about this,” he mutters. “Nothing about D&D, and barely anything about Eddie. I mean, seriously? I don’t get it.”

“Probably remembered all that shit you said last year about not playing games anymore,” Dustin says.

“I just wish she’d mentioned it,” Mike continues. “Told me in a letter, or something. I could’ve given her tips. D&D is, like, the one thing I know how to talk about.” He trails off. “If she was gonna do nerd stuff, I really thought she’d make me a part of it.”

Will glances his direction, then looks away. “You didn’t make it easy back then, Mike. No offense.”

That dark feeling settles once again in Mike’s stomach. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s… it’s really not.” Will looks away. “I mean, I get it. I do. But… we all just thought you weren’t interested anymore.”

“Anyway,” Dustin says pointedly, “all the more reason to ask her to join us now! Toss me the Chips Ahoy, Will.”

“Jackson won’t let her come,” Will warns.

“Fuck Jackson,” Dustin says in an amicable tone.

“Thank you,” says Mike.

“I mean, sure,” Will agrees hesitantly. “But she doesn’t think it’s worth it for El go to school. I don’t really know what she’d say about a social life.”

“Since when have we let that stop us?” Mike protests. “We could figure something out.”

“You know,” Dustin muses, “El’s honestly kind of lucky to be stuck in there.”

“Lucky?” Mike says, bewildered. “It’s the feds.”

“And Dustin, you love school,” Will adds. “Why would you rather be locked up in a lab all day?”

“Sure I do, but I love doing my own research more. And that’s all El is doing.” His eyes light up. “She gets to figure out all of this incredibly sweet sci-fi bullshit, with the help of a secret government agency. I’d kill to do that kind of thing! Imagine all the stuff they’ve got locked away in there that no one’s ever seen.”

“Yeah, that’s what we thought the first couple times, and see how well that worked out,” Mike says dryly.

“I mean,” Will says, “continuing Hellfire was Eddie’s last wish, and we couldn’t even make that happen.” He sighs heavily. “Just how our luck goes, I guess.”

The mood dips as the boys come back to their current problem.

This defeated feeling isn’t new for any of them, Mike knows. Long Haul has helped them all, a lot. But it’s not perfect. And the Fear Aura is a hundred times worse for Will.

Mike remembers coming by the Byers’ house early one day after school, a couple weeks earlier. He’d figured he’d surprise Will, but instead, quiet sobbing greeted him from behind the bedroom door.

Mike had peeked through the crack. (Of course he did. He knows he’s nosy.) And there was Will, sitting on his bed, holding Eddie’s vest, crying hopelessly.

Mike hadn’t known what to do. He’d never seen Will cry like that for someone else. It wouldn’t have been right to interrupt; that’s something a boyfriend would do. Not a friend. That would be weird.

And Mike… well.

Mike went downstairs to wait.

Sure enough, right at the time they agreed upon, Will had come down, eyes slightly red but voice cheery, ready to work on homework.

Right now, Will’s doing his best to hide it, but he has that same sad look behind his eyes. For all of the help Mike gave him with the planning, he knows Will put more into Hellfire than he ever could. So much more. Will had never tried to do anything social at school. His only "club" was the Party. Hellfire, all of this preparation… It feels like a new person. A new Will—courtesy of Eddie Munson.

Mike wonders sometimes if he’d inspire the same kind of reaction in Will if he died. The thought makes him feel sick, though. It’s not his job to be jealous; it’s his job to help. It’s his job to care. If he couldn’t be part of El’s D&D Party, the least he could do for Will is show up for his.

That’s what a best friend does.

“If we keep on meeting every week,” Mike says at last, “people will see it’s, like, a whole thing. They’ll come eventually.” He reaches out and nudges Will gently. “I bet Eddie took years to set up the original Hellfire, anyway.”

“He had a band,” Will says. “It was mostly just them.”

“See?” says Dustin. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But the whole point was showing more people that there’s nothing wrong with being a—”

Will trails off suddenly, focus shifting past his friends and towards the door. Mike and Dustin turn on a dime and follow his gaze.

Two anxious freshmen are peeking through the glass, looking deeply lost.

Will immediately springs to his feet and rushes over, anxiety abandoned. Throwing the door open, he cries, “Hello, fellow travelers! Have you come seeking adventure, fame and fortune?”

The freshmen quail in terror.

“Ugh,” a familiar voice says from behind them. “No need to be so damn melodramatic about it.”

To everyone’s utter surprise, Erica Sinclair pushes past the other two kids and glides into the room. She stalks over to the counter and, leaning back aggressively, raises an eyebrow in the Party’s direction. “I saw these two dorks waiting outside. I dare to ask why, and what do I learn? Apparently you nerds started a D&D club and didn’t invite me.”

“Erica,” Dustin says, trying his best not to burst out laughing. “I could’ve sworn you told me you weren’t a nerd.”

“And, like, we’re high-school-only,” Mike points out unhelpfully. “Why were you even in the building?”

“Because I can be,” says Erica. “I’m plenty old enough to fight monsters, Wheeler. And, besides, you idiots clearly need somebody cool to bring the lambs to slaughter.”  She beckons the freshmen in. “Go on,” she pushes. “Introduce yourselves.”

“U-um, hi,” says the boy on the left. “I’m Carter. This is Stan. This is the, uh, Hellfire Club? Dungeons and… uh… Dungeons? You do the satanic stuff, right?”

“Dragons,” Will corrects distractedly, caught entirely off-guard by this sequence of events. “And, um. No. It’s a game. Like, roleplaying and stuff.”

The freshmen hesitate. Erica rolls her eyes.

“You can come in,” Will urges. “Really, no Satan here. I’m, I’m Will. I’m the club leader and Dungeon Master. This is Mike, and this is Dustin. You’re interested in joining?”

The boys exchange another glance, looking distinctly like they’re regretting every choice they’ve ever made. “Um,” says Stan. “Maybe.”

Erica sighs heavily from behind them. “You were out there for like, fifteen minutes, hemming and hawing.”

“You’re not even in high school!” Carter snaps.

“Yeah, but this idiot,”--she points at Will—“gave me his old guides and shit when he moved. So I’m at least as good as him.”

“I very much doubt that,” says Mike.

“Dumbass.”

“Fuck you.”

“Plenty of room,” Dustin says, amused.

“Yeah,” Will chips in. He’s still flustered by his sudden success, but he’s slowly falling into gear. “Come on, take a seat. There’s no commitment, or whatever; if you don’t have fun today, you don’t have to come back.”

“Plus,” Dustin adds, waving the Chips Ahoy box in the air. “We have snacks.”

Very cautiously, the boys take their seats. Wringing his hands together, Will asks, “Um, have either of you played before? I’ve got character sheets if you don’t have your own—”

Erica plops down next to Dustin, “high-schoolers-only” be damned, and crosses her arms, daring him to challenge her. Instead, Dustin scoots over obligingly, before nodding in Will’s direction. He’s already got the freshmen engrossed in character creation.

 “Go get ‘em, Will the Wise,” Dustin murmurs. “You got this.”

Erica snorts in response. “Nerds.”

Mike, however, is lost in thought.

First El. Now Will. They’re so strong. Leadership seems to come naturally to them these days. When did that happen?

It’s really no wonder Eddie wanted Will to follow in his footsteps.

A part of Mike wants to believe it’s something Will learned in California; something that separates them. Still, in his heart, he knows it isn’t. The people he loves—of course they’re capable of leading their own Parties. They always were. Why did he ever think they needed him as leader in the first place?

Mike shrinks back into his seat. He’d thought pulling back from nerdy things was the right idea, all those months ago. He’d thought Will was too stuck in the past, that they should all just grow up. He’d really believed it at the time. He had. Even so, every moment since has seemed to say, everyone else is moving on, Mike. Growing. Changing. And you’re the one who’s stuck.

Without warning, Will breaks through his reverie. “How about you, Paladin? Are you ready to dive into the depths of hell? Are you ready to guide these brave adventurers down into the dark?”

And Mike comes crashing back down to Earth.

“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking, forcing himself to slip back into character. “Onward. For sure.”

Onward, he thinks. He can’t let himself fall behind. Not this time.

OCTOBER 4, 1986

“Hey, Mrs. Byers.”

Mike drops his chocolate bar onto the conveyor belt of Checkout Lane Number 5. It’s the only thing in Bradley’s Big Buy he can afford, without feeling like he’s splurging—but what he’s buying doesn’t really matter.

He’s here on a different mission.

“Good to see you, Mike,” Joyce says kindly, scanning the bar and dropping it in his hands in the same swift motion. “30 cents, you know the drill.”

He tosses her two quarters.

As she’s getting his change, Mike can tell Will’s mom is studying him out of the corner of her eye. He knows he probably looks kind of shitty these days. Just like everyone else.

“You know, I feel like we’re way past the point where you can call me Joyce,” Mrs. Byers says from behind the cash register.

“Oh, um.” Mike hesitates. Will’s mom has always been so nice to him; motherly in a way his mom never was. “I couldn’t. Really.”

“You really could.” She raises an eyebrow, and hands him two dimes. “But it doesn’t matter, I suppose. How’ve you been holding up, sweetie?”

“Uh. Fine. You know, same old, same old.” Mike pockets the change, and leans against the back of the register as casually as he can. Time to arrive at the point. He clears his throat. “You know, though, my dad? He’s been riding my butt. Trying to get me to find a job.” His eyes flick over to Joyce pointedly. “You, uh. You guys don’t happen to be—“’

Her face falls slightly, realizing. “Oh, Mike. I’m sorry. I could check with Robert, but I don’t think we have any openings right now.”

She gestures deeper into the store. Every checkout lane is full, a woman behind each counter, while a couple of teenagers scurry up and down the aisles restocking.

“With the lockdown, and Melvald’s, and everything... people snapped up any open jobs pretty quick.”

“Oh. Okay. Gotcha.” He tries to keep his disappointment from showing. “No worries.”

“I’m sorry, Mike. I really am.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He grins conspiratorially. “Means I get out of working for another… however long I can get away with it.”

Joyce laughs gently. “You’ll figure something out, I know it. Now get out of here. You’re holding up the line.”

Mike slides his purchase into his pocket like a prize. “If you insist.”

He’s halfway to the doors before Joyce calls him back.

“Actually,” she says. “I just remembered. Murray’s been doing supply runs for the store; guess the government figures if he’s with us, he’s…” She trails off, suddenly very aware of the busy supermarket. “He should be getting back sometime this afternoon. If you wait outside, maybe you can catch him, see if he needs any help.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. He’s heard of Murray, but never really had any one-on-one time with the guy. According to Nancy, that’s probably a good thing.

“Uh. Sure. Yeah. I’ll see,” he says, fully planning on biking home immediately.

“And Mike?” Joyce calls after him.

“Yeah?”

“Be safe, okay?”

There’s a deep worry in her eyes. Insistence, born of loss.

“You bet, Mrs. Byers.”

She sighs heavily, but not unhappily, and turns to the next customer. 

As he leaves the chilly, air-conditioned confines of the supermarket, Mike notices a large red delivery van parked outside—directly next to his bike.

Next to the van, unloading, is Murray.

Great, thinks Mike. He’s early.

He makes for his bike, fully intending on ignoring the man, but it’s hard to be discreet when you’re walking directly towards someone. Murray notices him immediately.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” Murray calls out. He lifts the brim of his hat, three bright-red letter B’s emblazoned on the top. “Nancy Drew’s little brother.”

His name tag, Mike notices, says Austin.

“That’s not your name,” he says.

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” Murray says cheerily. “Murray Austin, at your service.”

“You know the government knows who we all are, right?”

“They know some things,” Murray says mysteriously. “Not everything.”

“Sure,” Mike says automatically, swinging one leg over his bike. “Well, nice catching up. I’m off.”

“Not so fast!” Murray’s got his hands on his hips. He scans the parking lot carefully. Two soldiers stand at the entrance, smoking, but are too far away to listen in. “You know, I don’t believe we’ve ever been properly introduced, at least outside of battle.”

Here we go, thinks Mike.

“You’re, ah, Jane’s boyfriend, aren’t you?” Murray continues.

Mike narrows his eyes. “Yes?”

Murray squints back. “Fascinating. How’d that happen?”

“How is that any of your business?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Murray shrugs. “You just seem like an odd couple, that’s all.”

“I don’t need this,” Mike huffs.

“Or do you take after your sister?”

“What is wrong with you?” Mike says. “Mrs. Byers said I should ask you for a job. I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

“Because, my dear Michael, I am a man of great and unrelenting resource.”

“Sure, Austin.”

“I probably could set you up with something, if you’re interested,” Murray adds. “These long trips; they’re quite boring all alone. I could use an assistant.”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “I see why Nancy says you’re weird.”

“Nancy,” Murray says, “is one to talk. Is she still torn between those two young men? You know, when I met her, that was the only thing she’d talk about. Young love.”

“Yeah.” Mike fidgets. “She’s like that.”

“You want to be a reporter, too?”

“Hell no.”

“Hmm,” says Murray. “Well, the offer stands. Don’t know that there’s much in the way of money, but I’m sure we could figure something out.”

“I’m sure I’d rather die.”

Murray cackles. “I can see you have your sister's pleasant attitude.”

“I can’t see how you survived in Russia.”

Murray’s eyes dart to the pair of soldiers. “Ssssh! You want to give the game away?”

Mike tries desperately to stop himself from laughing. “See you around, Austin. Will’s waiting on me for club prep.”

“Will, huh? Joyce’s poor boy, always at the center of things. You really do drag yourself into some messes, don’t you, Wheeler?”

“Don’t call Will a mess,” Mike snaps, already mentally five blocks away.

Murray raises a single eyebrow. “My apologies. Didn’t mean to cast aspersions.”

“Uh huh,” Mike says suspiciously.

“You know,” Murray says, clearing his throat awkwardly. But before he can say anything else, Mike slams pedal to the metal, shooting out of the parking lot at top speed.

He tries very hard not to think about what that single raised eyebrow might’ve meant.

SEPTEMBER—NOVEMBER 1986

Working at Hawkins Memorial is not the adventure Nancy had expected it to be.

Granted, she’s not sure what she expected. Maybe a nurse’s scrubs. Maybe comforting some patients or something.

She did not expect a candy cane apron and a mop.

“I can do more than clean,” she’d said indignantly.

“Sure,” her matronly manager had said back, tossing her a bag and a pager. “Nurses’ll call if they need someone to empty the sharps. Have fun.”

Nancy had to violently suppress the urge to leave immediately. She was here to help, to keep an eye on things, and that’s all that mattered—but still, she hated being dismissed out of hand. She’d expected a job with a higher number of women might be a little less awful than the Post. She really had.

Since then, out of pure spite and despite her mission, Nancy has steadfastly focused her intentions on persuading anybody she sees that she’s actually capable, thank you very much. So, for half of the summer and now, half of the fall, too, she’s been working her way up. She mopped those fucking floors like no one else. She emptied trash, sanitized counters, nodded, smiled, complimented the right people. All in all, the perfect little lady.

It killed her inside, but it worked. By the time Halloween rolled around, her boss was approaching her with an offer.

“Couple of ladies in the sterilization lab’ve heard good things about you,” she said. “Told me they could use an extra pair of hands with the medical supplies.”

And just like that, Nancy was no longer cleaning floors. Instead, she was cleaning medical implements.

Baby steps, she thinks gamely.

It’s here, under the cold fluorescent lights and stinking of antiseptic, that she meets Vickie.

Vickie is short, thin, and violently ginger. Vickie is incessantly talkative, incessantly positive, and, although absentminded, incredibly good at her job. By the time she’s settled into her new routine, Nancy’s not entirely sure she knows Vickie’s last name, or what grade she’s in, but goddamn if the scalpels aren’t clean and she doesn’t know every last bit of gossip from Hawkins High. Normally Nancy isn’t the biggest fan of that sort of thing, but, after all, wasn’t the point of her feigned subservience to gather information? And, boy, does Vickie have information.

The problem, Nancy discovers, lies in figuring out which parts of said information are even remotely important.

“You’re never going to believe it, Nancy—I know you were popular and everything—but us band kids, we kind of go unnoticed? And we hear so much. I swear to god somebody called me about the possibility of an earthquake before it even hit. And you know, I heard from Jenna—saxophone—that it was Carter Patterson who set off that firework in the English hall? And Robin, Robin Buckley—trumpet—she’s been telling me all this crazy stuff about Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove, how, like, they were rivals before the whole mall fire thing, and—”

Nancy has, albeit begrudgingly, gotten used to the rambling. It’s somehow easier than working in silence, but she suspects that it’s probably also because she’s also gotten used to Robin. And speaking of Robin…

“You know Robin Buckley?”

Vickie looks up from the counter, seemingly shocked to hear Nancy’s voice. “Oh! Um, yes. Yeah, like I said, we were in band together, and, well, we’ve gotten to know each other more after graduation…”

Nancy notices that Vickie’s gone rather oddly red.

“Are you friends, too?” Vickie asks awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Nancy says, temporarily stricken by the memory of Robin’s back pressed up against hers, in the Upside Down, as they attempted to stop a pack Demobats from murdering Steve. “You could say that.”

“Oh, that’s so cool!” Vickie gushes immediately. “Robin and I, we really only just started, ah, hanging out, this summer, so I haven’t gotten to meet any of her friends! You have to tell me more, come on! How did you two meet?”

“Well,” Nancy starts, uncertain. “She and Steve worked together at Scoops Ahoy, you know. In Starcourt.”

“Right! And you and Steve, you were together, yeah?”

“…yeah,” says Nancy. “Were. But we’re just friends now. I guess that’s how Robin and I ran into each other. Scoops Ahoy.”

It’s not totally a lie.

“That’s so cool! I had no idea we had that much in common,” Vickie gushes. “We’ll have to go get milkshakes sometime, you and me and Robin and Steve, and you guys can tell me all about what kind of adventures you get up to! I know Robin is such a firecracker—”

You’re one to talk, Nancy thinks, amused.

They fall into a pattern quickly, and to her surprise (and despite the rough start), Nancy actually starts to enjoy herself. She knows she’s here to keep an eye out for anything suspiciously Vecna related—and to fight for institutional respect, of course—but the distraction from the world outside turns out to be immensely valuable. Plus, getting to work with Vickie is just the starting point. Bit by bit, the nurses and other candy stripers start to treat her as one of their own. She even gets to engage with patients, at least on a limited basis.

Sure, Nancy’s a journalist and investigator at heart. But, to her surprise, undervalued as she is, she doesn’t hate this. She imagines it’s rather like going undercover. It definitely isn’t what she wants for the rest of her life, of course, but for now, she figures, it could be worse.

She’s leaving the staff changing room one evening, relishing in the momentary solitude, when she runs smack dab into her younger brother in the hallway. Colored almost green by the fluorescent lights, Mike looks like he’d rather be just about anywhere else.

“Mike,” Nancy says, startled. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” Mike says weakly. “This and that.”

Nancy narrows her eyes.

“Honestly, I was just hoping… your bosses, they aren’t looking for more workers, are they?”

Well, that’s a surprise. Nancy has to stop herself from laughing.

“I don’t know, Mike. Mom and Dad said a paying job. And I don’t think you’d look great in candy stripes.”

“Bite me,” snaps Mike. “I’ve tried everywhere else, come on.”

“Where exactly is ‘everywhere?’”

“Um. Bradley’s Big Buy, first. I talked to Murray, too, but no dice, and he sucks. Then I went downtown, to the laundromat and the hardware store and everywhere, and they all just kind of wrinkled their noses at me. Which is, like, super unfair, by the way! I’ve gone out every weekend, Nancy, you know that, and nothing.”

“Did you try the Hawkins Diner? Or, hell, that McDonalds on the edge of town?”

“Oh, please,” Mike says flatly. “I might be stupid, but I’m not that stupid. Forget Vecna, if I’m in charge of cooking food I’ll have half of Hawkins dead in a week.”

Nancy rolls her eyes. “I don’t know if Mom and Dad would call that a valid excuse for not trying.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not telling them, I’m telling you.”

“And, to be fair, I think you’re right.”

“You couldn’t just, like, write me a letter of recommendation and give it to the head doctor or whatever? Everybody knows you, Nancy. Everybody likes you. You could do it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Nancy says dryly.

“They do!”

“Once again, Mike, I’m not Mom. And you are not a nurse. I know you’ll find something, but it won’t be here.”

“You’re a terrible sister, you know.”

“I have literally saved your life. Multiple times. I know your skillset.”

There’s a burst of noise down the hall, and Nancy turns to see Vickie leaving the dressing room.

“Oh, hi!” she says brightly. “Who is this, Nancy? Your brother?”

Mike risks a glance in her direction, still disgruntled. “Unfortunately.”

“Vickie, this is my asshole younger brother, Mike,” Nancy says calmly. “Asshole younger brother Mike, this is Vickie. My fellow volunteer.”

“Oh,” Mike says, uninterested. “Nice.”

“Mike is trying to find a job,” says Nancy.

“Here?”

“Anywhere,” she says.

“Why are we telling people about my business, again, Nancy?”

“It’s called networking,” Nancy says placidly. “You should try it sometime, instead of being a walking, talking cloud of mood-killer.”

Mike flips her off. “Love you too.”

Vickie chuckles. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mike. Good luck with the job hunt. Sorry to run, but I’ve got some errands to finish before I’m supposed to pick Robin up at Family Video. See you, Nance!”

She vanishes down the hall in a blur of ginger.

“You really have to work on your introductions,” says Mike. “She knows Robin?”

“You really have to work on your bedside manner,” says Nancy. “We’re in a hospital. Put a smile on. And yes, she does. Small world.”

“Bite me,” Mike says again. “This is nuts. I’m having better luck with a total stranger like her than my own sister.” He looks away. “Seriously, though. There’s nothing I can do? Even if it’s just, I don’t know, taking out the trash or some shit. Please, Nance.”

He looks back, and there is a deep exhaustion in his eyes. For the first time, Nancy hesitates. Her brother has always been confident to a fault, she knows. It’s a coverup, of course, because what isn’t with Mike, but this time she can tell that he’s actually being honest.

Damn, she thinks. The constant rejections must be getting to him.

She must’ve waited too long to respond, because Mike sighs and turns away. “Okay, fine,” he’s saying, “I’ve biked all over town today, and zilch. Guess I’ll just give up and take whatever punishment I get.”

Nancy is overwhelmed by a surge of pity. After all, she does love her brother, as much as she tries to hide it.

“You’ll find something, Mike. I believe in you. And I’m sorry I can’t help. Honestly, if I could talk dad out of this part time job thing, I would. Saving the world is more important than some stupid job.”

Mike’s shoulders slump. “Yeah. I guess.”

He turns to leave again, looking once again deeply tired, and far too old for his age.

Nancy’s smile slips a little as he leaves. He’s always obtuse, her brother. He doesn’t talk to her about things. Not really. Not like Jonathan and Will.

Nancy knows her family isn’t like that. She knows. And she’s always been okay with it.

Still, she recalls the kinds of dreams that have slipped in around Long Haul, when she’s alone and the house is dark. A part of her wishes she were better at this, better at being open, being nice, being a sister, because whatever she’s seeing… She knows what Mike’s been through.

And, because of that, she knows that whatever Vecna is making him see, it’s no doubt far, far worse than it is for her.

NOVEMBER 14, 1986

Exhausted, Mike slaps The Terminator down on the counter of Family Video. It’s been a long week, he’s due for a rewatch, and he figures he might as well waste his last four bucks now. After all, his dad had pretty damn clear that, until he got a job, he wasn’t getting more. With each day that passes, Mike’s broke status seems less and less likely to change, so why not?

“I don’t suppose you’re hiring,” he grumbles, almost as an afterthought.

Robin peeks out from around the computer and tilts her head questioningly. “What’s it to you, pipsqueak? If you’re fishing for a discount, I will, as always, direct you to our membership cards.”

She waggles her fingers in the direction of the display. Mike ignores her.

“I have genuinely asked the entire town,” he groans. “Twice. Apparently, nobody wants an untrained teenager. Big surprise.”

Robin nods sympathetically.

“So come on,” Mike presses. “We’re, like, friends, right? Allies, maybe.” He nails her with his best puppy-dog eyes. “My parents are going to be pissed if I don’t find something, and I don’t know who else to ask.”

Robin rolls her eyes, sympathy dropping sharply. “That sort of look isn’t going to work with me, I hope you know.”

Mike stops immediately and shrugs. “Eh, worth a try.”

“Pretty small hiring pool in a town stuck in quarantine, huh?” Robin continues, leaning forward onto her hands.

Mike slumps against the counter. “You’re telling me. You’re really not looking for help?”

“Look,” says Robin, “I know you’re one of Dustin’s buddies. But you’re what, fourteen?”

“Fifteen,” snaps Mike. “Which you knew.”

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” says Robin. “A little young to be looking for a job, though, aren’t you?”

“Take it up with my dad.”

Robin pretends to inspect her fingernails. “I’d have to ask my manager...”

“Robin, you are the manager. I’m not stupid. Keith left the second the army let him.”

“Wise boy.” She grins. “What are your qualifications?”

“I mean, none, if you count jobs. Plenty, if you count being able to quote Return of the Jedi to you from start to finish.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit, yourself! ‘A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Luke Skywalker has returned to his home planet of Tatooine in an attempt to rescue his friend Han Solo—"

“So you memorized the opening crawl, big whoop.”

“Want me to keep going?”

Robin snorts. “No, for the love of god.” She taps the cover of The Terminator thoughtfully. “So, you know the basics—no surprise there. What about the classics? John Wayne. Gone with the Wind. Wizard of Oz. That sort of thing.”

“Uh. In order? Good for a basic movie night, way too long, and my kid sister loves it.”

“Fair enough. I tell you what, though, you put Wind on the shop TV, you don’t have to change it for the rest of the day…” Robin drums her fingers on the counter. “How about newer, non-nerd things? Stand By Me, for example, or, oh, The Breakfast Club is good—”

“If you tell me what’s good, how’re you gonna get a real opinion?”

“Point taken.” Robin shrugs. “Still—"

“Stand By Me is solid. Kind of depressing. Max made us watch The Breakfast Club, and that’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

“Disney?”

“Basic. But I could sell it if you forced me to.”

“Indiana Jones?”

“It’s Harrison Ford, Robin, what do you want me to say?”

“Revenge of the Nerds or Fast Times?”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “Are you kidding? My mom would crucify me if I saw either one of them.”

“You poor, uneducated soul.”

“I clearly know movies, come on,” Mike complains. “If you’re just gonna say no, don’t keep dragging it out.”

“Who said anything about no?” Robin tilts her head, considering. “We’re pretty busy, given folks don’t have much to do other than watch the idiot box. I could use some help around here.”

Mike’s heart leaps. “Wait, really?”

“Sure.” She shrugs. “You seem to know your stuff—better than Steve did, at least. Plus, Dustin’s truly a spectacular movie geek, and he’s very discerning with his friends.”

“Holy shit, thank you—"

Robin eyes him pointedly before continuing. “You want the job, you’ve got a week to prove yourself. You fail, you’re out. And no free rentals for the Brat Pack, period, by the way. I’ve gotta break even somehow.”

Mike ponders. He doesn’t know the older girl particularly well, honestly—since she’s always hung around Steve, Mike has always been a bit biased against her. But Dustin does enjoy Robin’s company, and, well, she did help them fight Vecna. Twice.

Mike supposes he can live with no free rentals.

“You’ve got a deal.”

“Then you’re hired.” Robin jumps up and slides herself over the counter, landing next to him. “Congratulations! Your first shift starts now.”

“Wait, what? I have dinner in an hour!”

“No better time than the present.” Robin picks up The Terminator and wags it in his direction. “How about this. You sort the sci-fi section while I fill out the paperwork, and you get this one movie for free tonight. Then you start for real tomorrow.”

“Hell yes!” Mike grabs for the tape, but Robin deftly slides it under the counter.

“When you’re done, dingus. Now, come on. Let me show you the system.”