Chapter Text
He’s dragged himself here to die.
There are worse tombs, he comforts himself. There are worse places to die than surrounded by the essence of those he loves most.
It’s not the Castle Byers that he loves, but it has the picture of the party, albeit blurry and murky. Even the rot and death cannot kill the spirit of the fortress. Castle Byers stands firm and tall, and it had embraced him when he’d dragged himself here, grasping handfuls of dirt and crawling like an animal. The branches had welcomed him with open arms, and it had almost felt like a Byers was there with him as he lay his head on the mattress.
Mike takes shallow, infrequent breaths and wonders which one will finally be his last.
He wonders if his family will find him after all, if they’ll search Castle Byers and find the grave he has made for himself here, or if he’ll be forever entombed and forgotten. He hopes they don’t. Let him die if it keeps them safe.
He thinks of Will sitting in the real Castle Byers, and his breath hitches as a jolt zaps his heart, painful and miserable.
Is that the only way they’ll be together again? In the same place, separated only by the thin fabric between their realms?
He pictures Will sitting where his corpse sinks into the earth and having no idea how close Mike is.
Mike can’t even shiver anymore. As he grows weaker, his mind starts to drift, and it’s almost like he is falling asleep. Mike sees himself and Will on the swings. He sees them both bubbly and beaming as they show Lucas his basement, with all his comic books, and the image feels complete when Dustin joins them at the table for their first campaign.
He sees himself glowing in the rays of his birthday candles at the Byers. Nancy looks so happy, in a way he hasn’t seen for a long time. When had they last spent time together?
Oh. He’ll regret that. Nancy won’t know how much he missed her while trapped in here.
Jonathan ruffles his hair, and Joyce kisses his head, and when he blows out the flames, everything goes dark.
Left with his hearing, his sense of feeling begins to slip away, mercifully taking the agony with it, leaving only a chasm of ice where his body should be. He hears the angry sky rumble and hiss; he hears the clashing wind, then the snap of a branch.
There’s a low growl, getting louder as it grows nearer, and Mike can only hope he dies soon.
***
“Where’s the girl?”
Nancy trashes uselessly in the cuffs that secure her to the chair. They have her in a white-tiled room, small enough that it feels like a cupboard, and the metal table and chair she’s shackled to cramp the space. She’s struggled so much that her wrists burn, and she’s sure she’s rubbed the skin raw against the metal.
If the man gets any closer, she’ll spit in his face. Doctor Brenner, he’s said his name is. Nancy writhes in her restraints and wishes she could choke him with his own tie.
“I don’t know.” Nancy growls.
Doctor Brenner sighs as if she’s a child being difficult and takes a seat opposite her, “Nancy, I don’t want to keep you here.” He says kindly, and Nancy weighs the pros and cons of kicking him beneath the table, “Eleven is dangerous. I am only looking out for you and your family.”
“Looking out for me?” Nancy scoffs. The claim shocks her enough that she slumps in the seat and stares at the man, baffled by the audacity, “The-the other world you opened a gate to has kidnapped my brother, and you don’t care, yet you’re… looking out for us?”
Brenner lowers his head, and as the shadows drape over his face, Nancy can’t tell if he looks guilty or irritable.
“He’ll die in there.” Nancy continues, her voice wavering but holding firm, “He’s been running for his life for days, and you’ve done nothing, and you’re looking out for him?”
Brenner rubs a hand down his face. His clothes are dishevelled, there’s stubble growing on his chin, and his hair is straw-like as if he hasn’t had the chance to wash it for days. He looks like a man buckling under pressure, and Nancy hopes it’s crushing him. She hopes he’s in fucking agony.
“Your brother was never meant to be a part of this.” Brenner says, and he stands, making his way to the door, “I’m sorry.”
He opens the metal door and walks out, and Nancy finally allows herself to break a little.
She pulls against her restraints and holds in her screams. Is this how it’ll end? She’ll fail her brother because she’s chained to a chair?
Just hold on, Mike. Just a little longer, please.
***
Smack!
Hopper spits blood onto the grey tiled floor. The red seeps into the grout, stains the white crimson, and covers the front of his shirt. His entire body aches like a giant bruise, and he drops back against the wall and tries to catch his breath.
“What do you know about the girl?” The man interrogating him asks. A glorified lackey, Hopper decides. He hits like it’s his first time torturing someone. ‘Torture’ feels like a reach.
“Well, she was pretty good in Alien.” Hopper chuckles and matches the man’s frown, furrowing his eyebrows mockingly, “We are talking about Sigourney Weaver, right? She was great in that movie-”
The man hits him again, this time so hard that his head bounces off the wall, and Hopper groans, blinking away stars.
The door opens, and in walks Doctor Brenner. He doesn’t look as put-together as when Hopper last saw him. The chief smirks a little, “Bad day?”
Brenner laughs humorously and drags a chair to the centre of the room. He takes a seat and gestures to the lackey to leave. Once they’re left alone, Brenner sweeps a hand through his hair and leans to rest his elbows on his knees.
“This isn’t going to end well for anyone, chief.” He says, and Hopper’s fists clench, his knuckles hungry for the man’s blood. He wants to claw the man apart until he sees blood and bone, until he feels a speck of what he’s put kids through.
Hopper thinks of the little girl with the shaved head and big chocolate eyes. He thinks of the little boy ripped from his home and chewed up by the mouth of hell, and wonders how the world can be so unjust. Why do children suffer the karma that the devil should?
“Won’t end well for you either.” Hopper sneers.
Brenner sits up. He takes a long, calculating look at the chief, and whatever he sees has a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“What do you know?” Brenner asks.
Hopper shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “I know you experiment on kidnapped kids.” He says as if he’s discussing the weather, “Told my buddy at the New York Times all about it.”
Brenner’s breath hitches, and he stares, wide-eyed and hard at the chief, searching for any signs that he’s bluffing. Hopper steels his face and puts on his best act.
“No, you haven’t.” Brenner huffs.
Hopper shrugs again, “Maybe I haven’t.” He agrees, “But it would be very silly of me not to have some kind of bargaining chip.”
Brenner tries to hide it, but the sweat running down his temple tells Hopper everything. It’s the man’s weak point, the chink in the armour, and if Hopper plays his cards right, he can use it.
“Keep an eye on the papers.” Hopper huffs amusedly, “Might be something interesting in next week’s column."
Brenner wrings his hands together and sighs heavily and long. His shoulders slump, and he closes his eyes in defeat.
“What do you want?” He asks tiredly.
Hopper smirks. “You’re gonna give us anything we need, and we’re going to get the girl’s brother.” He tells him. “And then we’ll forget this whole thing.”
Brenner sweeps a hand through his hair. One arm sits across his chest, and the other rests on it so he can rub his chin. He’s staring at the blood seeping between the cracks of the tiles, and after a long minute, he drops his arms and closes his eyes.
“Fine.” He agrees, “And Eleven?”
Hopper clenches his jaw despite the pulsing ache. His teeth squeak like old hinges as they grind together, and he scoffs, “I don’t know where she is.” He says honestly, “And I won’t help you kidnap her again. That shit is on you.”
Brenner seems eager to take a swing at Hopper himself. His glare is fiery and hot, and Hopper matches it with equal intensity. The stalemate lasts until Brenner stands, rocking the chair with the force of it.
“You and the Wheeler girl will go by yourselves.” He decides, and his next words almost sound sincere.
“Good luck.”
***
It’s a little funny, the image of four small children helping to carry beartraps, nails, baseball bats, and other weapons. It’s almost amusing enough to distract Joyce from the impending danger. Almost.
She and Jonathan carry the more dangerous weapons. The kids are responsible, but so is she, and she’s not going to hand them guns and knives.
Setting the supplies down on the kitchen counter, Joyce takes a moment to shake out her arms, tired from carrying the heavy weight. “Let’s get to work.” She says, and they begin to lay the trap they’ll use later.
Lucas and Dustin move furniture. They push the table up to the wall and clear the space while Jonathan hammers nails into the baseball bat, Joyce sets up the bear trap, and Will and El pour a trail of gasoline into the hallway.
She tries not to fret about the safety of her house once this is all done. As much as it would suck, she’d burn the thing to the ground if it meant bringing Mike Wheeler home. This is where he belongs, where he’s most happy.
Joyce hates to think ill of Karen, especially at a time like this, but she thinks of the woman, and her blood boils. Where is she while her son fights for his life, trapped in hell and hunted by monsters? Where is she while her daughter falls apart, running herself ragged to save her brother.
She’s always felt iffy towards Karen, ever since she was the popular cheerleader and would look at Joyce like she was less than. It never felt completely intentional; it was the viewpoint of privilege and social status, the rose-tinted lenses those who are lucky enough to have it all seem to wear.
She’d put up with it in school, and she continued to do so when their boys became friends. Joyce could stomach that—Karen is hardly the only person in town to look at her that way. What she could never stomach was that judging stare directed at Mike.
Joyce would never doubt Karen’s love for Mike. She knows Karen loves him, but Joyce also knows that love can lack.
Her father loved her, just not enough to put the drinks down and stick around. Lonnie might’ve loved her once, but well, that didn’t end well either.
Karen loves Mike. Joyce knows she does, and she wants to be sympathetic. Her child is missing. If it were Will, Joyce would be unravelling at the seams, but she’d also never rest until she brought him home. She’d never drink herself into a stupor and let Jonathan run around town looking for him, let Jonathan handle the police, not even notice until days later.
Her blood boils.
Joyce has tried never to overstep, even when Karen would do something in front of her and she’d itch to snap at her, to tell her to treat Mike better.
She’d keep her mouth shut, and she’d look after Mike herself. She never minded it; it’s not a tall order. Mike is wonderful. He’s been there so long, it’s hard to remember a time without him, just as much of her boy as Will is, and Jonathan is.
After this, though? Mike is hers.
She’ll bring him home.
Joyce sighs and wipes her hands together as if dusting them off. The house has been flipped upside down. Where there was warmth and signs of life, there are now bear traps and guns and prickly baseball bats. The reality sinks in, and ice crackles in their chests. They’re standing in the middle of a battlefield, one they might not walk out of.
“Jonathan,” Joyce curls her hands around his arms, turning her boy to face her. He’s so tall now, taller than her. When did he grow past her?
“Mom.” Jonathan frowns at the look on her face and moves out of her grasp, his hands finding hers, “What is it?”
Joyce’s throat constricts, and she squeezes him, her thumb swiping side to side, “I want you to take Will and the others and find somewhere safe to hide till this is over.” She says, and the rebuttals come immediately.
“What?!” Jonathan shakes his head, “No! Mom, I’m not leaving you!”
Joyce sighs. Did Jonathan get the stubbornness from her? “I’m not letting you face this thing!” She says, “It’s too dangerous. I am your mother, Jonathan. It’s my job to take care of you.”
Jonathan shakes his head, his mouth opening, and she speaks again before he can, “Karen didn’t even notice her child was missing until we did,” She whispers, “I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want to force my kids into being parents.”
“You don’t.” Jonathan’s voice cracks, and he blinks rapidly as his eyes threaten to dampen, “Y-You don’t-”
“But I do.” Joyce rasps, “You take on so much responsibility because of me, and I’m so sorry.”
She wraps her arms around him, feeling him shudder in her embrace, “You act like you’re all alone in the world, but you’re not, okay?” She sniffles, “You’re not. I promise, you’re not.”
“Mom.” Jonathan’s voice wobbles, and his arms come to hug her back, “I know.”
She pulls away, keeping her hands on his arms, “You need to take the kids-”
“No.” Jonathan says again, the skin beneath his eyes suspiciously damp, “I’m not leaving.”
She sighs at his stubbornness, her shoulders slumping. What can she say to convince him to leave? To make sure he’s safe?
The phone rings before she gets a chance to say anything more. Jonathan’s eyes light up, “It might be Mike!” He says, then jogs to it and rips it off the hook.
Whoever it is, it isn’t Mike. Jonathan’s eyebrows furrow, and he hands the phone to Joyce.
“Hello?” Joyce frowns.
“Joyce?”
“Hopper?” Joyce gasps.
“Joyce, you’re okay.” Hopper sighs into the phone.
“Hopper!” Joyce cries happily, “Thank god. Are you okay—is Nancy alright?”
Hopper doesn’t answer her. Instead, he says: “They’re letting us go in to get Mike.”
Joyce gapes in disbelief, “They are?”
“Yes.” Hopper says, “We’re going in in a few minutes. Listen, you need to get Eleven to safety. I think they’re going to come looking for her.”
Joyce looks at the small circle of little kids. El’s still leaning on Dustin, exhausted after the long day, and she’s listening to him and Lucas bicker. There’s a small, amused smile on her face while Will sits staring at the floor, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched as if he’s trying to stop his chin from quivering.
Joyce’s heart wrenches painfully in her chest. Mike would adore El, she thinks. They’d get along well. He’s always been good at that, at making someone feel loved. Whether it be her when she peeks her head into Will’s room and he smiles and waves at her, or Will when he’s feeling down, and Mike treats him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread.
They’ll be friends, she thinks.
“What about the demo- the monster?” She asks.
“They’re giving me a rifle,” Hopper says.
Joyce shakes her head, “We’re going to lure the monster out.”
Immediately, Hopper tries to dissuade her, “It’s too dangerous.”
Joyce huffs, “No. It’s too dangerous for you and Nancy to go in there with it.”
Hopper grumbles on the other end of the line, and it sends her right back to hiding under the bleachers with him, sneaking cigarettes and judging him for his choice in brands. He always liked the bitter ones; Joyce never did.
She shakes the feeling away, “Just keep Nancy safe.” She says, “And bring Mike home.”
“I will, Joyce.” Hopper murmurs, his voice softer, “My time is nearly up. Joyce-”
The line doesn’t cut, but his voice trails off. She can hear the static sounds of him rubbing his moustache, the thing he tried so hard to grow in high school, and then returned to town one day sporting one.
“Just. Stay alive.” Is what he says, and Joyce ignores the butterflies in her tummy.
“You too, Hopper.” She replies, “I’ll see you soon?”
“I’ll see you soon.”
She holds the phone to her ear until he hangs up and the dull tune drones on, her heart feeling heavy.
No turning back now.