Chapter Thirty-Three – Reconciliation

As the car bumped them on towards Maple Street, Mike and Eleven sat in the back, shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing out at the passing wilderness as it rushed by them in blurred pigments. It was dark, WAY past Mike's curfew and barely before Nancy's…they'd be lucky to get away with one day's internment. Since it was so late, the trees (along with the belly of the road) flashed by in mostly suppressed, dark colors…lazy browns and vivid blacks, all careening endlessly backwards into earlier times. Mike blinked out at them all, bracing his elbow against the tiny window while cupping his chin in his right palm. Against her fatigue, El watched him survey the dark, blinking thoughtfully at him. His hair seemed to mesh perfectly into that obscure color, so stark against his otherwise pale skin. Just then, a vapid rush of warmth billowed up from her stomach, cascading throughout her chest and fluttering to her cranium…and it made her cheeks warmer. El turned away and blinked, thinking she must be sick with something. In a single absentminded movement, she snuck her hand next to his, and to Mike's surprise, he felt it resting there beside him.

Oddly enough, it was icy cold to the touch, and he glanced down at this now familiar gesture, then back up to her. He beamed, as if this were their own, little secret. She smiled back, blinking slow against her exhaustion, and Mike gave that cold hand a tiny squeeze. Whenever they were like this, they fell deaf to the rest of the world as it collapsed upon itself into vague oblivion. Eleven figured it wasn't like the In-Between, no…it was so much more sacred to them. There was an air of belonging she felt in moments like these, and it was something she could never aspire to experience while trapped in the empty nothingness that was that dark, foreboding place between worlds…so far away…yet so close to Eleven's touch. No…the two even managed to blissfully ignore Nancy's avid questioning, even as she pressed her dire curiosities. "So…you're saying, we can't trust him?" Nancy demanded, trying to be as polite as possible with Jonathan's mother.

Joyce sighed, looking very frazzled as she adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. "…n-no. He..." They listened with hesitant ears as Ms. Byers broke off into a burdened sigh. "…he's on our side. We can trust him…he just, needs some…time. To sort things out on his own…" Mike knowingly pursed his lips, gripping her hand a tiny bit tighter. Joyce felt pretty comfortable saying she knew the kind of man Hop was: a loner, from the very first day she'd met him. That wasn't about to change anytime soon. His soul was so doggedly stubborn when it came to things like change. Some solidarity would be good for him, and until he came forth with the kind of decision they needed, some plan of action for them to follow…she would give him as much breathing room as he needed. He'd been pretty clear with her on the lawn. Joyce peered into the rear-view mirror just as Eleven lowered her eyes to the floor. Mike gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, hoping it would cheer her up some. She just scooched closer, resting her head on one of his bony shoulders, her frame expanding with each gentle inhale…the beginnings of a yawn pinching her eyes shut and creasing her brow

Nancy cut in, hoping to coax more information out of Joyce by feigning knowledge. "He was acting…really weird, wasn't he?" Fishing for support, Nancy turned back to eye the younger two, and as Mike fervently nodded, Eleven softly shook her head. Feeling this negative movement against his deltoid, he creased his brow and watched the girl. Likewise, she held her head up to do the same, realizing their dissension. Even Nancy seemed confused, staring at the two and nearly jumping when Mike's voice chanced the silence.

"…so you think what he did was okay?" Mike captured her gaze, closely scrutinizing her now, trying to figure it out. Nancy's brow jumped to her forehead, and El straightened up, blinking back her lassitude, feeling the sleep reluctantly leave her. She shook her head, earning an even more appalled look from Mike. Those dark irises squinted questioningly, almost accusingly at her, "…how?"

El blinked at him, taken aback by his anger. "…I did it," she stated, trying to voice her willingness to save the officer's life. It had been a decisive matter…hadn't Mike realized that already? Nancy's blue orbs were a mere distraction as the two children stared at one another, absent looks plastered almost painfully to both of their faces. The more she eyed him, the more uncomfortable he grew, slowly backtracking and rehashing his argument.

"…l-let's not worry about Hop right now…how about that?" Joyce suggested, breaking the thick-as-molasses-silence.

Nancy chimed in with a halfhearted sigh, "Sounds good to me." Eleven held her gaze, still very much perturbed with Mike's outrage when his glare faltered.

With a breathy exhale, he apologized, "…I'm sorry. It's just…"

"Mike," Eleven cut him off, never removing her eyes from his. Tentatively, he dared that resolute mien. "...he's a good man," she assured him, stressing the word, mindfully placing Mike's perception of Hop as far away from Brenner as she could manage. A swell of emotion struck Joyce just then, listening to this child vouch for the man she'd known for so long. Wordlessly, Mike's eyes dropped to the floor, feeling the emptiness of his left hand so acutely it stung his chest. Then, as if on cue, El reached over and took it again, clasping it in her own with gentle reassurance, "…promise." He pursed his lips, turning to peer out at the passing trees and foliage. El blinked in defeat, knowing he didn't believe her.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't convince him. He was already prescribed to this suspicion with a potent ferocity. Blinking against the flashing hues of nature, Eleven scooched closer to him, joining him by the window and gazing out into the darkness. With their hands still intertwined, there was a deep, subdued yawn, and Eleven resigned her cheek to his bony shoulder, watching the world fly by them, slowing down and speeding up again at Joyce's control. They stayed this way for a solid two minutes, but each second was a kind of ethereal, dreamlike bliss. It was obvious they didn't agree concerning Hopper's supposed allegiance, but it didn't hinder them in the least; not nearly as much as it tore at Nancy and Joyce's minds. They had bigger, better days planned ahead: Eleven knew they still needed to play catch together, not to mention the enormity of games Mike had to teach her. He could feel her eyelashes fluttering shut like the tired wings of a butterfly, and as their precious time ticked away, the car came to a slow stop. Mike realized Eleven had fallen asleep like that, her cheek pressed so harshly into his shoulder. Didn't that hurt her at all? "Hey…El," he softly rocked his shoulders and she immediately shrugged awake, gazing at him through misty, hazel eyes. "I uh…I have to go now. I'm home."

Home. As far as she was concerned, Mike's home was as much hers as Joyce's was. "…okay," she nodded, smiling at him and rubbing the sleep from one eye.

A little awkwardly, (because Nancy was already standing outside, rubbing her hands together and waiting) Mike copied her action. "…okay! Goodnight El."

"Night Mike," she replied in earnest, relieved he hadn't said "goodbye." She'd grown to hate that word, with a burning passion…especially after today's events. Reluctantly, they disengaged their hands (Mike's were especially clammy for some odd reason) and the Dungeon Master crawled over the folded seat. After he practically fell out of the car, Joyce reached over and righted the cushion, smiling at them through the open door. El peeked between the two headrests, out at the siblings she'd grown to love.

Nancy gave her a little wave and a tired smile, "See you later El."

"…s-see you," El smiled back, though her eyes were blinking slow and sleepily. Then, the door was closed, and El took a second before lounging back into the seats, yawning even deeper. Mike and her watched each other shrink out of view as Joyce knowingly drove off, puffs of carbonated emission blurring their vision. The woman instinctively tensed her jaw as something fierce gnawed at her curiosity. She was certain El wouldn't mind – much less realize – if they took the "scenic" route…Joyce just had a strange feeling about something from earlier that night. So, almost on impulse, she started making light conversation with the sleepy child in hopes of curbing her own tumbling thoughts. "So…how was giving blood?"

El blinked, pushing against the seat to sit up properly. She'd nearly dozed off, had it not been for Joyce's question. "…scary," was her honest, one-word reply.

There was a hiatus in the conversation as the woman carefully selected her words. "Well you know…most kids don't donate until they're at least sixteen," Joyce shared.

The girl's eyes widened at this. "…sixteen?" El repeated the number, feeling as if it lay eons ahead of her measly twelve years.

"Yep! That's…normally the age people start giving blood," Joyce turned a bit in her seat to glance El's way.

It was strange to El. Joyce spoke of the action as if it was normal, and El was pretty sure her side-effects were anything but. Then again...normal was a relative term. What was normal to Joyce was alien to Eleven. "…do you?" she asked, a bit unsettled with her tangling thoughts.

Joyce scoffed in an amiable manner, waving a hand and reporting, "Oh no! I hate needles." Upon hearing this news, an unexpected wave of relief washed through the girl's veins, like some kind of human anti-freeze. Joyce had (up to his point) appeared effortlessly brave and courageous. Eleven was undeniably soothed to know she and this strong woman shared this tiny phobia, perceiving the slim but strong connection they now shared. It was easy for her and Hop to connect, despite her first doubts; he was broken in a way Joyce had never experienced. Eleven knew what it felt to be that shattered.

"...m-me too," Eleven chirped, watching her from her spot in the back.

"…you were very brave to do that, El," the woman reminded her. Joyce wished she could stare right into those sorrowful eyes, even if they lowered to the floor out of remorse or some kind of chagrin. She yearned to drive the message home…but someone had to drive the car. Peering into the rear-view mirror, she watched El do exactly as she expected. She peered down and away, towards the seat, and the heat rushed to her face and neck. Even after her time spent with the Byers and the Wheelers…and Hopper of course, she still wasn't accustomed to this kind of praise. It felt…forced, despite its natural flow from Joyce's mouth. El didn't think she deserved such adoration. Her next question surprised the child, who figured he was the last person Joyce would want to be talking about right now, "…did Hop help you through it?"

"Yes," El affirmed in a small voice, watching her through the tiny mirror from the corner of her eyes.

Then, she saw the woman smile, nodding knowingly to herself as if she were remembering some long-lost friend or deceased relative in a brighter light. "…he's really good at helping people…" Joyce spoke with a note of sincerity Eleven easily detected. It comforted her to know Joyce still cared…that her love for him had not been pulverized. Just altered. They turned onto Randolph Lane, and Eleven immediately recognized the trees and bushes lining the infamous Mirkwood. Discreetly watching the bits of brown and black rush by, El tried to peek into the trees, as if she'd be able to find the box she'd depended on so long ago. Was it that long ago? Eleven sighed to herself. Here she was again, juggling those relative terms she'd come to despise. Joyce went on to say, "…when he and I went to save Will, we went there…into that place..." The woman sighed deeply, shaking her head in frustration. She could never remember the damn name…

"…Upside Down," El reminded her.

"Yes…t-that place …" Joyce chuckled, grasping an imaginary fruit from her branch of thought. It still boggled her how much this child potentially knew…especially when it came to places Joyce didn't think existed. Until now anyways. "…Hop went with me, and, he helped me get through it. He saved Will…we both did. But...if he wasn't there..." El leaned forwards in her seat a bit, rapt with Joyce's sincere countenance. "…h-he truly is a good man. I knew he would help you…I knew it…" she trailed off, some twinge of uncertainty still lingering along her words. But on the whole, she sounded overwhelmingly relieved. Eleven didn't understand Joyce's confusion. The child had known Hop was trustworthy all along! It wasn't a question for El. Why would his trust be questioned in the first place?

"…he is," El agreed in a soft murmur, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Joyce smiled, sorrow still dwelling in those dark brown orbs. Just as she was contemplating their earlier departure, mulling over how sudden it'd been…those flashing lights reached them through the dark, steadily growing in proximity and brightness, like warning signs. El shifted to the right side of the car, peering out through the tiny, backseat window at the abandoned vehicle. Joyce drove on past it, creasing her brow and feeling a troublesome pit lodge itself in her gut…knowing she should stop and check on whoever owned that car. Eventually, she slowed to a reluctant stop, thirty yards ahead of the car behind them, her tires resting on the shoulder. Twisting in her seat to leer through the back window, she watched the short-haired girl gaze through it, her hands clutching the seat cushions, silent and curious, her head and shoulders silhouetted in the flashing lights. Worriedly, Eleven peered back to Joyce, wide eyes full of silent questions. She'd spent enough nights in the forest to accrue quite an appreciation for the little things…like Joyce's house. She didn't want to spend any unnecessary time out here in the dark…it brought all of those images back to her in horrifically acute detail. Meanwhile, Joyce was struggling with questions of her own. Why the hell did you stop? Why didn't you just keep driving? Anyone else would!

El picked up on the woman's indecision, recognizing that look because she knew the feel of it on her face. She waited, hoping Joyce would decide soon, because Eleven was exhausted. When the girl yawned, it was all the reason Joyce needed to tighten her lips, turn around and continue on down the road. El glanced back at the lonely car as it shrunk in size, the darkness of the forest swallowing up those lights like thick fog. They were both puzzled, but at least Eleven could push it from her mind, thinking nothing of it. Joyce stared, dull-eyed down the road, turning on towards her own street, feeling that sweat on her skin seep with every dangerous thought. They parked, much to Eleven's contentment. "We're home," Joyce announced, folding the seat for El to climb out. Her socked feet nestled themselves into that thick, green grass, breathing in the night air in a yawn. "Let's get you to bed…" Joyce chuckled, the end of her statement spiraling upwards in another yawn.

"Is it true?" El asked out of nowhere, walking with her to the porch as Joyce fumbled her keys.

"…what?"

"That thing…being…con-tag-ious?" she did her best to sound out the word, referring to the yawns Joyce and her had just shared. Dustin had told her about it in passing, and at the time it'd seemed like a ludicrous assumption. A yawn wasn't the same as being sick…at least she hoped it wasn't. So how could it be contagious?

"Oh YES! They're very contagious…" Joyce affirmed with a broadening of her eyes, her voice light and playful. El's face brightened and a smile graced her lips. Joyce continued her childish antics, "Sometimes you can even catch it from dogs and cats. I bet, that if we tried hard enough…we could get Huxley to yawn." El giggled, the uncultured sound hiccuping about in her throat and making her drop her smile, eyes wide with shock. Rather than ask if she was alright, Joyce laughed along with her, encouraging that silly warmth to find a home in El's mind. Within seconds, the girl was beaming again, as if nothing wrong had happened, as if everything that was new and beautiful to her was alright, which it was. They walked inside and watched Huxley round a corner, his tail wagging happily. The instant he recognized the strange girl, he froze in his tracks, his tail drooping to hang behind him. "…have you met Huxley? He's an outside dog so…maybe you didn't see him…"

"…yes…" El watched him, her brow bent with grief. There was still that look of half-baked fear in those animalistic eyes of his, and Joyce recognized it too.

"Oh…he's just being weird then," she remarked with a close of the door. Joyce stepped further into her home, calling for her sons, "Jonathan? Will?" Eleven remained standing by the door, watching Huxley watch her with wary contempt. Joyce reappeared, sighing to herself, "…they must still be at the concert…" She rubbed her forehead with a tired hand, knowing there were still things she had to talk to Will about. Huxley barked, shaking them both from their thoughts quite joltingly. Joyce eyed him glaringly, "What is wrong with…?" She noticed his food bowl sat empty, and Joyce peered over at El, who hadn't yet left the door. The look of regret mixed with a little fear Joyce saw on her face made her chest sting, and she knew it couldn't go on like this. It had to be remedied. "…here, come in. I have an idea," Joyce waved her over. As El reluctantly stepped closer, the dog promptly retreated into the kitchen, cornering himself by the back door and whining fretfully. That sound grated El's nerves and her brow pinched. "It's okay…here," Joyce knelt down to his food box, pulling it open and scooping some out with a tiny pail. "Hold out your hands. Like a cup," Joyce instructed, and El cupped her hands before her. Those tiny, brown pellets were poured into her palms, dry and gritty…and smelling quite distasteful. The girl grimaced in a tiny contortion, and she eyed Joyce worriedly, afraid she was going to be asked to try some. Thankfully, Joyce whistled, beckoning the dog over with kind, soothing words, "Come here buddy! It's alright…come on! She's a friend."

As Huxley approached, his tail folded between his legs, El held the food out to him, crouching before Joyce. A cold sweat suddenly worked it's way out of El's skin, but Joyce's motherly hand rested on the girl's small shoulder, and she murmured, "Don't be scared. He's a good dog…he's never bitten anyone before." El blinked, remembering very clearly how Huxley latched onto Lonnie's ankle the instant she hit the ground. As the dog's wet nose touched her fingers, his tail swooped side to side in a slow motion, and before El could prepare to be bitten, he eagerly began eating from her hands. The whiskers and fur tickled her palms, and she couldn't help but let out a tiny chortle, gazing up at Joyce in relief. "See?" El turned back to Huxley and her eyes snapped open. Her hands were now empty and the dog was getting closer and closer…to her face. That pink tongue slid across El's cheek and she shuddered backwards into Joyce's arms, giggling and pushing Huxley off of her. Both humans burst into chuckles as the dog made a fervent effort to smother the child in wet, slobbery kisses.

Jonathan burst into the house, stopping at the threshold to blink at the scene before him. El and his mother peered over as Huxley rushed to greet them, barking with excitement. He blinked again, soft eyes gathering that everything had in fact worked itself out. She looks well, he thought. A part of him wondered if Nancy knew yet, and how involved Hop was in returning her to them…because he was starting to get the feeling that this really was her home. Joyce had been right.

Maybe she really did belong here...

As the girls stood up, Jonathan found it in him to chuckle, "…so you finally met Huxley, huh?" El nodded, watching as Will walked through the door, tossing it shut behind him. There was no smile on his face, even as he saw her. In fact, upon his arrival…the room drastically lowered in volume, practically falling silent. He reached down to pet Huxley and Eleven noticed an immediate connection between the two, recognizing that special affinity they shared. She counted herself lucky if Huxley didn't decide to eat her. She could tell they loved each other upon first glance; whether or not it had to do with Will's disappearance mattered nothing to her. Jonathan glanced from Joyce, then back to Will, eventually breaking the silence with, "…we grabbed dinner on our way back. Did you know Clarksville had a diner on the highway?"

Joyce scoffed, her voice one of feigned incredulousness, "Uh…yeah! I took you there when you were three!"

Jonathan smirked, "Oh…sorry. Can't remember." There seemed to be like they had to say more, but didn't have the words for it. Either that, or they needed privacy. "…Mom, can I talk to you about something?" As these words fell from his mouth, Will eyed him alarmingly. Jonathan avoided his gaze, focusing in on their mother.

She returned a suspicious but understanding expression, "…yeah. Sure." Only then did they both look to Will, who now had to fight hard to hide his all-consuming urge to plead with his brother. He's going to tell her about the slugs. She's going to lose it! Will and Jonathan stared each other down, and for once, Will misread his brother's soft gaze, knowing he was about to betray him.

After a long moment of this silent exchange, the boy rolled his eyes and muttered, "…I'll be in my room."

"Oh and…take El with you," Joyce nodded, gesturing for the girl to follow. As the older of the Byers' clan conversed about their most recent events, Will and El stood in his bedroom. El watched as he kicked the door shut on his way, tensing his jaw and clenching his fists.

Will sighed as if he were bearing the weight of a thousand cumbersome books, "...they're probably talking about what to do with me…"

Eleven eyed him absently, "…why?" If they had to decide what to do with anyone, it was most definitely her.

"…because of what happened..." he trailed off with another heated exhale, shaking his head like a pendulum. It was still such a shock to Will; Lonnie being gone. He wasn't sure he even believed it.

"…what…happened?" she gently pressed, eyeing the carpet.

"…it doesn't matter…I-I don't wanna talk about it. Not right now…" he managed in an even tone, gazing out through his window. Gingerly, El joined him by the glass, peering out sleepily. He noticed how her coffee-brown eyes kept drifting shut against the moonlight, her chin in her hand, holding the rest of her head up. At least El is safe. He hardly knew her, compared to Mike and the others…but he knew she had a great deal to do with his rescue. "…you look swamped," he observed in a funny tone. She nodded, eyes still closed against the soft light. Against the current of everything else swirling about in his brain, something wracked the back of his mind, and he figured now was a good time to ask. Now was perfect, in fact. To him, El was suddenly so much more than a pleasant distraction form the rest of his problems. She was the key. "Hey…can I ask you something?"

"Mm-hm…" the sleepy girl nodded, fluttering her eyelids open to look at him. The way his eyes changed…the apprehension they held in those caramel orbs of his; it sat her up straight to eye him, trying hard to shake the sleep from her brain, like cobwebs from a downy pillow.

"…do you ever dream? A-About that place?" There was a long moment where El simply stared at him, trying to read his thoughts.

"…yes," she admitted, blinking slow and deliberate. "…all the time."

"…all the time?" Will repeated, as if this was an impossibility for him. El nodded, blinking at his sudden epiphany, perplexed at what had him so excited. "…d-do you ever feel like, you're…there when you dream about it? Like…you can smell the air and feel the ground? And the webs?" Yes. They both knew those webs far too well. They absolutely smothered the Upside Down, like icing on a cake, clinging to nearly everything in earnest.

El widened her eyes at this, shaking her head in confusion. "…nothing."

Will blinked in confusion, "…nothing?"

"Nothing…the In-Between," she explained, watching him closely as an imperception rooted itself between them. "…there's nothing…"

They stared at each other for a long moment, breathing the silence until Will said, "…I was talking about…the Upside Down."

El straightened up, her fatigue deserting her entirely. Her heart sped up at the very thought of that place. "…no. You can't…" she shook her head. That was impossible. There was no gate. El began peering around his room, half-expecting to see some kind of inter-dimensional crack in time and space just lying around somewhere, maybe hiding behind a stuffed animal or a pillow. Nothing.

"I know…m-maybe they're just dreams…" Will shrugged. "…I guess, maybe it's all in my head," he surmised, peering off to gaze outside. Eleven could not look away, demanding his attention back to her with those eyes. She sometimes wished she could believe it was all in her head…

When Will slowly peered back to face her, that look of content fell. She did not appear convinced. "…Will?"

"…y-yeah?" he stammered.

"…when?" He blinked, so she clarified. "…Upside Down…when?"

"…oh…only sometimes…like when I'm sleeping, or…" Will sucked in a breath then, glancing towards the door to ensure his mother hadn't suddenly appeared in the passage. "…when I puke up the slugs…"

El creased her brow, worry pricking her every nerve and thought. She had to collect her jargon if she was going to ask him this correctly. It was so much harder for Eleven than it looked, finding the right words. Will watched her inhale deeply, as if preparing to belt out a high-pitched note for a choir. Instead, she focused sharply, salvaging all of her mental clarity to ask Will this dire question, because she needed to know. They needed to know…and suddenly she wished Dustin or Nancy was here, with their beautiful minds and courageous hearts. And brilliant voices. "Will, when you-"

The door swung open, and both kids jumped quite viciously, turning to glare at their mother. "Alright, time for bed!" she announced. With a deep sigh, El turned to Will, pursing her lips.

"It's alright. We can talk more tomorrow," he offered. El smiled tiredly, nodding in agreement. Silently, she left, and Joyce stepped in, leaving El in the hall for a moment. She remained there, figuring they might need some time to talk, by themselves. Something bumped her foot and she looked down to notice a half-shredded cord of ropes. Curiosity driving her like a cat, Eleven reached down to pick up Huxley's toy. With a knowing grin, she stepped into the living room, gripping the toy in her hand.

As Joyce approached the bed, eventually sitting down on it, his smile faded. She smoothed a spot beside her, "Here. Sit by me for a second…" Will knew what this was about, and he reluctantly drew himself from the window, plopping down beside her with a bounce of the mattress. On instinct, she wrapped both arms around him, bringing him close to her chest, nuzzling his hair with her chin. "…Jonathan told me about what happened at the diner…" she began, holding him close, both of them gazing through the window. They could see the cat's eye of a moon, winking at them through the trees. She didn't even know what time it was…things had been so hectic that Joyce nearly lost all sense of it. If it weren't for the sun and moon…she would've gone mad by now.

Will swallowed a breath. He had to be strong, and brave. Like Eleven and Jonathan. "I didn't mean to do that to Jonathan…I was just..." Will trailed off hopelessly, remembering how terribly lost he'd felt upon pushing through the diner's doors.

"…what do you mean?" she checked, peeking down at him questioningly. Will peered up at her. She didn't know! Of course! If Joyce had known Will was regularly vomiting living slugs, she would've driven him right to a hospital to get his stomach pumped…or worse! Jonathan hadn't told her! Against all odds, Will suddenly regained all faith in his brother, realizing he truly was on his side, for better or worse. He suddenly realized his mother was still eyeing him, oh crap! He had to come up with something! Quick, anything!

"…when I…called him a liar. I…I didn't believe him…" He figured Jonathan would've talked to her about that.

Joyce scoffed, hugging him closer, "…he can take worse. Don't worry about that." A draw in their conversation, accompanied by the sounds of Huxley romping about in the living room. "…at first…I didn't believe Hop either, when he told us…" There was a HUGE flaw in the delicacy of how Joyce had planned on delivering this news to her youngest son. Joyce had been at work brainstorming other means of death for her ex – as gruesome at it was, thinking about that – because she didn't want Will to be worried sick…like she and Hop currently were. The scariest part of it all was that they weren't done running yet, and what those scientists wanted would be living here, beneath this very same roof.

"…are we gonna have a funeral?" Will asked, peering up at his mother.

Funeral? What funeral? Joyce was so lost in her thoughts that she had to scramble to answer. "Well, yes. I think so. I'll have to get in touch with Cynthia, though…"

Will chuckled, "That should be fun…" Joyce blinked, pursing her lips. You have NO idea…she wanted to say.

She peered down at him, giving his shoulder a shake with the crook of her elbow, "…I just wanna make sure you're okay."

Will smiled up at her, taking an almost unnoticeable moment before replying with a convincing, "…I'm okay."

"You sure?" she checked, her brow rising.

"…yeah. I'll be okay," he nodded reassuringly at her, leaning into her chest and returning his gaze to the window.

She smiled down at him, "That's my strong man…" They both chuckled as Joyce gazed out at the blue moonlight. "If you ever wanna talk about it or…anything, just let me know…okay?"

"I will," he swore, leaning his head beneath her chin. Peeking from the corner of his eye to check the door, he felt he could say this with his manliness intact, "…I love you Mom."

"I love you too Will…" Joyce held him a bit closer, cradling his head with hers. After a long, warm moment, Joyce held him out before her, running a teasing hand through his chestnut locks. "And BOY…do you need a haircut! I mean, look at this mess!"

"Oh…Mom! It's fine…" he chuckled, brushing her hand away and smiling.

"I know…I know. I'll have to find out where I put the clippers…" she chuckled to herself, kissing him on the forehead. She rose to her feet, stopping just before she closed his door to lean back in. "Sleep well, my wizard…" she cooed in a very childish tone.

Will leered at her, his cheeks shading a dark red. El turned back to make sure she'd heard Joyce correctly, jumping as Will droned, "Mom..." The boy rolled his eyes, burying his head in his pillow.

She snickered uncontrollably, "Goodnight Will."

He groaned, "Night Mom…" With a throaty chortle, she gingerly shut his door, turning to see El watching her, that soft brow considerably raised.

"You ready for bed?" she asked, eyeing the line of saliva dangling from Eleven's hand. Joyce grimaced just as the girl nodded and Huxley returned, mouthing the toy and holding it out for El again, practically pushing it into her hand. Wiping her palm on her pants, El pet Huxley on the head before following Joyce into her room. Slowly but surely, that tail stopped, and the toy dropped like a stone from the dog's mouth. He trotted to Jonathan, who was cleaning up the dishes for tomorrow morning. Huxley's bark nearly sent a slippery plate crashing to the floor.

He gasped throatily, turning to glare at the animal. "…w-would you cut that out?!" he barked back, sighing through his teeth. It hadn't been easy for him to keep Will's secret from Joyce. He'd wanted to…he really had. His only consolation was that – and this fact haunted him to no end – there was a chance these slugs would keep coming…that they would never end, and Joyce would eventually find out the hard way.

He preferred to look on the bright side. To him, each slug Will puked up meant one less in his stomach. It could always potentially be the last one. There was no telling, but as Will lay down to sleep, flattening out on the bed, something moved inside his stomach. The boy immediately sat upright, pushing himself from the bed and stifling a gasp. He placed a hand flat against his belly…waiting for that same writhing feeling. Aside from the occasional digestive rumble, all was still in there…maybe I dreamt it. That was the first thing he thought of. Maybe I imagined the feeling…like how I imagined myself in the Upside Down last time. It was something to go on, and it certainly helped him find some semblance of sleep. As Eleven snuggled against Joyce's frame, comfortably beneath the covers for the first time in a while, Will drifted off to dream, lounging back into that subconscious realm only he could access…only he could venture to. It was Will's favorite part about sleeping…but this was different.

As he was catapulted into an already moving scene, Will realized with much shock that he was still in his room. Nothing had changed…it was all the same, except…it was morning. An orange glow was hanging around the settling dust, illuminating each tiny particle like glimmering snowflakes. He turned to his right and nearly screamed. Thankfully, the noise caught in his throat, or else his father would've been quite confused. "…you payin' attention?" Astounded, Will wordlessly nodded, still watching him with those wide, hazel eyes. "Good…" Hints of this encounter became familiar to him. "…you're six now…it's about time you learned how to tie your shoes properly. That way your poor mother and I won't have to do it ourselves…you got it?" Will (trapped inside his six-year-old body) nodded, shamelessly self-aware of how troublesome it must've been for his "poor parents." Lonnie grinned, sitting him on the bed and kneeling before his tiny feet. "Alright, now…what you wanna do first is tighten the laces," he pulled them tight in their crossings.

"Ow…" Will squeaked, giggling in a carefree, lighthearted manner. "That's too tight!" The words came out on their own, like scripted lines, proving to Will that he had little to no control over this dream. It was akin to some kind of estranged memory.

Lonnie paused a minute, which would've confused a younger Will, and then, as if he had to think hard about what to say, he chuckled, "…w-whoops! Sorry 'bout that little guy." Lonnie grinned and Will laughed with him…and the older, restrained Will knew what his father had just done. He'd forced himself to be more like Joyce…and it'd taken some effort on his part, but at the very least, he'd done it! It was one of those shining moments that made Will think Lonnie would somehow come around; that he'd stop fighting with Joyce and drinking so much. That he wouldn't yell at Jonathan so loudly over the tiniest of things. "Okay…now, you pull this one over the other…and then you make bunny ears…" Lonnie continued teaching him this small yet vital skill, smiling all the while and simultaneously managing to make it an enjoyable process for his son. Will gazed down at the bunny ears, grinning to himself from ear-to-ear. On the inside, Will seethed. He had so many questions he obviously wouldn't be able to ask in this setting. Why'd you do it, Dad? Why'd you fight her? What did she ever do to you?! All words he couldn't equivocate…

Instead, a younger Will exclaimed, "Wow! Thanks Dad!" He took a bit of time to study the tied laces, two bunny ears draping comically over each other. He peered up at the empty space before him and blinked. His father was gone, like a cloud of dust. Poof!

Forever.

Will's eyes shot open, absorbing the dark while simultaneously leaking bitter sadness. He gripped the pillow, curling in on himself and trying not to think about it, failing to ignore it, eventually thinking about it and crying even more. They killed him. Jonathan's words came back to him and Will held his breath, swallowing a sob back down to his heart. What stung the most was how Will had thought he wouldn't care this much. Did Jonathan care? He didn't seem upset when he told me. Will had to gulp down another cry, pressing his face into the mattress and coiling onto himself like an armadillo. The more he tried to forget, the more it pestered his mind. So with great reluctance, Will exhaled, his breath shaky and his fists clenched. Tears rolled down and across his nose, falling through the space between that bridge and the plush of his pillow. He fought hard to find sleep again, clenching a hand against his stomach in an almost warning gesture.

He didn't have time for any more visits right now.

As the moon trailed along the sky, a man slowly picked his way along the hard-packed dirt, the beam of his flashlight a solid ray of clean, white light. The light from above painted the grass bordering his driveway an almost blue color, along with everything else…everything besides the lake. He could swear that water was just a mirror for the moon to pick its teeth into, and after taking a momentary glance out at the breathtaking spectacle, he continued combing the length of his yard. Discerning that the wind must've blown it somewhere else, he was about to abandon his search when the unthinkable occurred. A tiny, yellow ball peeked at him from the arms of a bush, and even now, the wind threatened to throw it away. That invisible hand was going to pick it up and drown it in the lake. He needed that number. Without thinking, he thrust his hand into the bush, painfully retrieving the balled-up note, extricating it from those tight-wound thorns. He merely sighed at the pain, gritting his teeth so the air hissed through his lips. Bracing the flashlight below his chin, he unfolded the slip of paper, holding it out before him in the failing light. Eleven digits stood before him, all written in thin, black ink…and he gritted his teeth against his fury, somehow managing to hate himself even more for being able to find the note in the first place. Thrusting the note into his pocket, Hopper exhaled steam into the dark, pacing about for a bit, then eventually turning in for what little night he had left. As much as he liked to think otherwise, he needed his sleep. There was much to do.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, squinting at humanity from between the clouds, Dustin was dragging himself out of bed. It was just another lazy Sunday for the Hendersons…but Dustin knew he had a loaded day ahead of him. Plodding into his kitchen, he instinctively reached for a box of cereal, then paused, eyeing the stove-top. He stayed like that for a few more seconds, talking something over with himself in his head. Finally, he abandoned the cereal on top of the fridge, pulling open one of the doors and grabbing six eggs. Trying hard to hold them all at once, one of the smooth white ovals tumbled to the floor, splintering it's yellow innards right next to his toe. "Son of a bitch…" he muttered, placing the remaining eggs safely on the counter.

After cleaning the mess, Dustin set about cooking the remaining five, scrambling them as best he could. With a touch of milk, some salt and pepper…they were looking as good as whenever his mother made them. There's something missing…he puzzled, squinting at the fridge searchingly, as if it would lend him the answer. "…oh yeah…" he mused, retrieving a block of cheddar from one of the chilled drawers. Grating it right over the scrambled eggs, Dustin set the block down next to the stove-top, stirring the gooey, melting goodness in, mixing the ingredients. Now that he was fully awake, early morning thoughts slowly made their way into his mind…I wonder if El's ever had eggs. He pursed his lips, scooping the spongy yellow globs into two bowls and turning off the burner. Pouring two glasses of milk, Dustin somehow balanced both meals in his arms, heading towards his basement.

Edward sat amongst the cluttered, dusty items, poring over the numerous, interchangeable gears of a broken clock. He sat at the entrance-way to a maze only he knew the way through. The walls were towering piles of old books, tools, discarded toys, and other miscellaneous items…stacked nearly to the ceiling. Pressing a magnifying glass nearly against his eyeball, he determinedly wet his lips, set the glass down and grabbed a miniature screwdriver. He leaned back in to squint at the tiny mechanisms, screwdriver poised at the ready, resting comfortably between his knobby, old knuckles. The rest of that cluttered space lay, shrouded in the dark, the only light pouring down from a single lamp, towering over his head like a palm tree. As he steadied his breathing, he gingerly lodged the screwdriver in place, twisting it with slow, methodical turns of his fingers.

Mr. and Mrs. Henderson couldn't fathom sending him to some kind of home to live out the rest of his days…old and forgotten. What with the rumors of elder abuse steadily circulating throughout Mrs. Henderson's social circle…she just couldn't go through with it. What sickened them even more was how this rumor seemed to perpetuate all walks of life…yet no one lifted a finger to put an end to such practices. It was that elephant in the room no one spoke about…yet everyone could sense it's foul, malignant presence like the worst kinds of cancer. So, they gave him the basement, of which Edward was quite grateful.

He was a seasoned, self-trained tinkerer, eager and able to take things apart, spread the pieces out before him and learn everything there was to know about anything he dismantled. These procedures – as his family rapidly came to realize – took some time. Occasionally he'd spend hours planted before that table, puzzling over the parts of a flashlight…but the results were definitely worth the wait. Not only was Edward able to repair these broken things, he remembered how to multiply his efforts from then on forward. If there was a manual for the object he was repairing, he outright refused to use it.

…he was old fashioned like that.

A man who favored peace and quiet as he worked, Edward was a bit of a hermit. If someone interrupted him, his first response was usually a heavy sigh. He'd swallow his frustration though, and talk to them as politely as he could. Once the exchange was done (or at least when he deemed it expired) he'd promptly return to his task at hand, shutting the rest of the world out as he tinkered away. It was quite taxing to hinder him in any manner, for Edward possessed a one-track mind, inflexible and sharply focused on completing one goal, then shifting gears and moving onto the next.

Currently, the tinkerer had three projects to complete, the most consuming of them being his daughter's cuckoo clock. He'd never fixed clocks before, and this was easily the most difficult thing he'd worked on to date. So, one could imagine Dustin's trepidation as he knocked on the basement door, beads of sweat forming around his temple. Letting his arms drop to the table like lifeless tentacles, Edward sighed, "Oh…come in!"

Dustin pursed his lips, pushing the door open and gingerly stepping down the stairs. "Morning Granddad…" he greeted, his voice slightly trembling.

Edward picked up on this rather quickly, turning to watch as the boy balanced two bowls on top of two cups, each dish filled with food or drink. His eyes widened, but he said nothing. Edward knew the importance of focus, and how much interruption could potentially ruin a person's inner clarity. The mere fact that Dustin hadn't yet suffered a catastrophe was unbelievable, and as he tight-rope-walked to Ed's table, the old man blinked for a second, then cleared a space on his workbench. Like a plane setting down, Dustin placed the dishes down on the flat surface, exhaling with utter relief. "Phew…I didn't think I'd make it this far…"

Edward hummed, looking his grandson up and down, "…neither did I!" They both chuckled for a moment, then Edward turned to the food. "…this for me?"

"Yeah! I made it. Scrambled eggs and milk," Dustin beamed, taking a seat on the bench beside him.

"Oh..." the old man droned. "Thank you!" he nodded to the boy, taking a bowl and scooping some egg into his mouth. Then, to Dustin's horror, Edward scrunched his face, as if he was tasting something horribly bitter.

Dustin froze mid bite, "…oh! Did I add too much pepper?"

Edward shook his head, "No no…you forgot the ketchup!" Silence for a moment, then Dustin broke into a grin.

"I didn't know you liked ketchup on your eggs!" Dustin giggled, rising to his feet.

"…who doesn't?!" Ed prompted, shrugging his shoulders comically. With a chuckle, Dustin rushed upstairs, returning within moments, carrying the red bottle of Heinz. He squeezed a generous lathering onto Edward's eggs, then his. "That's better," Edward chortled, mixing it in with his fork. Dustin copied his action, and for a moment, their arms moved in sync, like two cogs on a moving machine, occasionally bumping elbows as they mashed yellow into red. Then, out of the blue, Edward asked, "So what do you want?"

Oh crap. Edward had thrown a decisive cog into his machine, and Dustin sat, frozen in place. "…w-what do you mean?"

"Oh come on Dustin…I can tell you want me to fix something of yours. What is it?" his grandfather droned in a knowing tenor, rolling his eyes affectionately. "…you don't hafta' make me eggs whenever you want something." Dustin blinked, those blue eyes wide with shock. Had he really made him eggs whenever he'd asked for help? He dug back in his memory, and to his own horror…Ed was right! "I mean…you could make me eggs every mornin', if you wanted!" Ed shrugged, chuckling warmly and nudging Dustin's side.

Dustin sighed, "…well…it's just…some assholes sliced our tires..."

Edward straightened up, his brow pinched with fury. Those old eyes opened up with anger, "…on the car?!"

"…no! On…my bike. And all my friends' bikes…" he trailed off, bringing a glass to his lips. Almost like a mirror, and without thinking, Ed reached for his milk at the same time, sipping from it loudly, then setting it back down with a sigh.

"Okay, good…you had me worried for a second," he gazed off at the wall, strewn over with pictures of the family who lived just above him, finding that picture of a three-year-old Dustin easily amidst the others. His hair was shorter back then, but still just as hectically curly. "So...you're saying some punks sliced your tires?" Dustin nodded, pursing his lips a tad shamefully. "…you know who?"

"No…but we have a pretty good idea," Dustin sighed, crossing his arms in front of him, resting them on the desk. "I would fix them myself…I just don't know how…" Dustin sighed, as if this was a major shortcoming for twelve-year-olds across America.

Edward blinked, "…well…how's about I teach you?"

Dustin peered up at him, eyes wide and blue with unrestrained wonder, "…really?"

His grandfather nodded calmly, shrugging his shoulders as if it was no big deal, "Sure! We might need to go to the store for some parts…but we should be able to fix it. No problem at all!"

Then there was that smile, crossing nearly his entire face and dimpling his cheeks, making his eyes twinkle. "Thanks Granddad," he said, blinking at him with gratitude.

"Eh…don't worry about it kiddo…" he sighed, nudging his shoulder. "You still gotta teach those delinquents a lesson they'll never forget!"

Dustin chuckled, "Alright Granddad, I will!" Here was the inspiration for all of his courage, all of his fire, sitting downstairs amidst the clutter of his basement. The boy didn't know this, but in his day, Edward had been a bit of a part-time hero. His favorite hobby (back then) was putting those playground bullies in their place, defending the weak and innocent…but mostly making those meaner kids eat the dirt. It was no wonder he went to fight in the war…and came back, alive and well. Dustin finished his meal, scrutinizing his mother's dismantled clock, focusing in on the beak of the bird, wide open in a silent, wooden cry. Once they were both done, Ed rose to his feet, stretching his back. A symphony of cracks shot up and down his spine and he gasped almost pleasurably.

Dustin chortled at the clicking joints, as did his grandfather, shaking out the kinks in his wrists and elbows. "Let's go see that bike then…" Ed proposed, prudently adjusting the tiny pieces of the clock in such a manner that he'd be able to remember where he'd left off in his work.

"Okay!" Dustin nodded eagerly, grabbing the dishes and rushing back upstairs.

Before he mounted that first step, Edward turned to glare at the table, his silver eyes honing in on that damn clock. "I'll deal with you later…" he growled under his breath, only angry with himself that he hadn't been able to figure out how to fix it yet. Then, gripping the railing, he started up those steps, flushing out the light with a flick of a switch. Thoughtfully, he closed the old, wooden door, and he imagined it stood white and jeering, separating him from his greatest challenge yet.

Far away, in the city of Indianapolis, a young, floozy of a woman clomped towards her house. The rain came down in decisive bullets of water, thoroughly tempering her normally frazzled hair into a drenched, muddled mess. The first day he went missing, she'd thought nothing of it. It wasn't uncommon for Lonnie to get drunk and lose himself somewhere…but on day two, she'd started calling his relatives, avoiding Joyce Byers' number purely out of spite. She'd been starting to grow a little worried. On the third day, she'd grown sick of the feeling, eating at her very bones. So, she marched into Hawkins Police Station, and they told her everything they knew. She'd been living on her own for four days now, without her fiancé…and his car. Cynthia held a binder up over her head, hoping the water wouldn't smear her makeup, forgetting the fact that the binder was stuffed to the brims with important documents her lawyer specifically asked her to keep safe. No, that request was whisked so carelessly from her mind.

Because her makeup was definitely more important.

Cynthia had been working on the beginnings of a lawsuit against Hawkins Police Department, filing for the disappearance of her fiancé. Hop surely had something to do with it…that smug bastard. Almost intentionally, the rain pattered even harsher against that horizontal side, rushing off in tiny currents and trickling down her neck, invading her treasured privacy. The girl shivered, wrenching an arm back to press those rivulets against her shirt in a feverish attempt to cure that icy feeling. She huffed deeply into her exasperation, stepping lighter and quicker on towards her home, seething with anger.

As she walked, those vital documents slowly becoming more and more soaked, a car sidled up beside her, it's muffler purring loudly. "Hey baby…what you doin' tonight?"

She turned to glare at the man inside. His smile was all teeth, wide and yellow…and to be quite honest with herself, his car was more attractive than he could ever hope to be. She'd procured quite the weakness for men with swell rides…and his was a decked out, '84 Toyota Celica Supra. He'd painted it a royal shade of purple, black lightning bolts standing out against the hood like awesome scars, stretching all the way back to the bumper. He must be sitting on a gold mine, she thought. Still, that earlier anger swelled within her, and it was simply too much to ignore. She couldn't feign interest in this guy, no matter how nice his ride was. So, she replied quite tersely with, "…nothing with you, that's for sure."

His smile dropped, and the car decelerated, almost to a stop behind her. She kept walking, ignoring his very presence, abandoning the purple Supra like a wad of trash. Still, as she walked on she could feel his glare burning through back of her head. It was all over her, like the rain, which was currently pooling everywhere, collecting in large puddles at the edges of the roads like water basins. Just when Cynthia imagined he was finished staring daggers at her, she heard that engine roar to life. She whirled around just in time to spot him speeding towards her, and for a heart stopping moment, she considered his sanity. Helplessly, she thought, he's going to flatten me! Instead, he drove on past her, and as one of his tires slammed into a particularly deep puddle, it kicked a tidal wave of filthy, street water onto the poor girl, effectively dousing her with the streets of her town.

If she thought she was wet before, she was kidding herself. She was thoroughly drenched, the deluge working its way into places water shouldn't be unless you were fully submerged. She stood, gasping as the cold seized her lungs, gaping dumbly at the purple vehicle. The driver hooted and hollered like a cowboy, raising hell as he sped down the road, snickering to himself as Cynthia tried not to cry. Once she registered what had just happened, she screamed after him, "YOU FUCKING PRICK!" Her raised arms and prominent social finger were just a blur to him as he rounded a corner, making her eat his proverbial dust. "…UGH!" she screeched, slamming her hands to her sides and stomping on down the road. Luckily, her house lay just ahead. Cynthia drew comfort from the rapidly oncoming thoughts of what Lonnie would do to that asshole if he saw the splash hit her…the nerve of that guy! She was certain he would chase after him in his Oldsmobile, maybe even run him into a ditch, if he was lucky. Then he would learn his lesson, she was sure of it. As she fantasized different methods of exacting her revenge on the man in the purple Supra, she turned onto the sloping stone path leading to her home. It forked in two directions, and she took the left, stomping up each stone step, then turning onto her porch. The overhang offered her a slight reprieve from the rain, but Indianapolis' pollution and runoff still clung to her so fiercely it didn't even matter.

She fumbled with the keys, slippery wet from the rain. "Come on…" she hissed through gritted teeth, eventually grappling the correct one out from the others and sliding it into the slot. With a twist, the blue door opened up, and Cynthia stopped at the threshold, a tiny pool of astonished water collecting at her motionless feet.

Her scream tore through the neighborhood, echoing against the slapping rain and the growling car engines. That binder was the first to drop, the papers whisking everywhere, sticking to the floor in inebriated bunches, the ink seeping from the words like midnight blood. Then it was her turn, and she collapsed quite miraculously to her knees, weeping into her hand and wiping the water from her face, trying to discern how much of it was her tears and how much was rainwater.

She'd finally found her fiancé.

To be continued…

Authors Note: Wow…my chapters are getting kind of dark. Sheesh…sorry to leave you guys on THAT note, but I couldn't think of any other way to end it. Anyway, I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this! I think I'm getting back into the groove of things. Again, I've been very busy this week. Today has been the only day I actually had time to sit down and write in one long stretch. Hopefully it's okay and doesn't feel too rushed. I really enjoy doing this, so I hope you guys are liking it too!

A couple of you amazing people have told me you like how I portray Eleven. First of all, thank you SO MUCH! It's…difficult to write El sometimes, because she's such a silent force. Mostly everything she thinks about remains in her head; either that or it's expressed in her face. She's one of my favorites and I'm glad you guys like how she is in this story. I deeply appreciate the support, and wanted to personally thank all of you who have commented on this. I wanted to spend some time with the other characters as well, so I hope that doesn't detract from the story at all.

Follow for more and leave a review if you wish. Thank you all for the continued support! Love you guys! Keep on writing! -Nightlock