𝚁𝙰 𝚁𝙰 𝚁𝙰𝚂𝙿𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙽

[Brett Gelman, cismale, he/him] who’s that? oh it’s [murray bauman]. i hear they’re [42] and are known as [the eccentric] around [hawkins]. they’re also a [self-employed investigative journalist] and [self-described genius]. they’re known to be [perceptive + animated] and [socially awkward + abrasive]. some people say they remind them of [crossing police tape, laughing in the face of danger, and ghost stories and ufo sightings]. [nikki, 25, she/her, n/a, central]

STATISTICS

FULL  NAME: murray john bauman GENDER/PRONOUNS: cis male; he/him AGE: forty-two FACECLAIM: brett gelman BIRTHDAY: january 22 STAR  SIGN: aquarius HOMETOWN: kohler, wisconsin HEIGHT:  6'1″ OCCUPATION: self-employed investigative journalist ORIENTATION: openly bisexual

HEADCANONS

* Murray grew up in Kohler, Wisconsin, a small town outside of Chicago. His dad left when he was three (and he was a piece of shit anyways, no love lost), so it was just Murray and his mom. Murray was always an unusual kid– could be the overbearing Midwest helicopter mom, could be the homeschool years, could be the ghost in his childhood home. Yes, Murray’s mom bought an incredibly old Victorian-style house with her alimony money, and it wasn’t long before Murray noticed something was … off. To this day, Murray swears that there was a ghost living with them.

* For thirteen years, Murray was the most sought-after journalist on the Chicago crime beat. He worked exclusively for the Chicago Sun-Times, and the very traits that made him a social pariah in high school made him a kickass investigative reporter. He was pushy, abrasive, unthreatening, and ultimately a nightmare to work with… but he broke the biggest stories. Though it’s been years, Murray still keeps all of his front-page stories (about forty total) pressed and framed in his living room (though they’re usually covered by tacked up notes/newspaper clippings/photos from whatever case he’s working on at the moment).

* Murray had always been the journalist who pursued every last tip, every far-fetched lead; and more often than not, it turned out to be true. So when a series of robberies and aggravated assaults began popping up in the Chicago area and witnesses reported hallucinations, Murray was all over it. His investigation led him to London, Hawkins, and Pittsburg as followed the life and crimes of Kali Prasad. But as soon as Murray began talking about a girl with psychic abilities, the paper wouldn’t allow him to publish. He continued pursuing the lead and eventually blew up on the Editor-in-Chief… which led to him being dragged away to a psych ward for six months and a court-mandated restraining order barring him from his wife and daughter. Disgraced and jaded, Murray has since decided to work for himself and himself only.

* Thanks to his very Catholic mother, Murray learned Latin at a young age. While he found it pointless at the time, it has since allowed him to easily pick up new languages. Murray is a polyglot: he speaks Russian, Spanish, Mandarin, and Arabic fluently.

* Murray is openly bisexual. While he still has a soft spot for his ex-wife, he has explored other romantic interests, including but not limited to the late, great Alexei Smirnoff.

PINTEREST | BIOGRAPHY | CONNECTIONS | PLAYLIST

where: the Bauman home

Murray had spent the better part of the last hour attempting to pick out a record he thought Dr. Gabe would like. He had a pretty expansive collection, and was always able to find a reason to second guess his choice. For some reason, this choice felt major-- like if he picked the wrong thing, Gabe would find an excuse to leave before dinner. Maybe it was the nerves talking. In the end, Murray settled on a Chet Baker compilation. Everybody liked jazz, right?

In preparation for the dinner, Murray had strongly suggested that Quinn find something else to do, which he felt marginally bad about. But, really, he didn’t need the added stress of his daughter listening from her room during his... not-date with the new trauma therapist in town. They hadn’t exactly broached the topic of Murray’s love life, and he couldn’t even be sure she knew he swung both ways. Of course, not much got past her, so hopefully that would be an easy conversation.

He was running only slightly behind schedule when his guest of honor knocked at the door. Murray’s heart leapt into his throat and he shut the oven, abandoning quilted oven mitts on kitchen counter as he made his way to the door. “You found me!” Murray exclaimed, bright smile in tow as he welcomed Gabe into his home, which he’d meticulously cleaned earlier in the day and even staged with some flowers from Melvald’s. His work notes and clippings were stashed in his closet, and it made the living room feel almost... homey. 

Murray led Gabe into the kitchen, where he had an assortment of wine bottles-- red, white, and sparkling. “Dinner will be about ten more minutes, the asparagus is still roasting. Can I get you a glass of wine?” he asked, leaning an elbow on the counter and waiting for Gabe’s instruction. After he’d given the man a glass and topped off his own, Murray motioned for Gabe to follow him. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” Murray motioned to the back door, at the unending stretch of forest. “Huge back yard, it’ll really skyrocket the value in a few years, don’t you think?” he teased, before walking down to the main hallway. “Bathroom is the first door on the right, next to my daughter’s room. Mine is on the left,” he explained, pointing accordingly. “And then the living room and the kitchen.” Murray took him back into the living room, then returned to the kitchen. It wasn’t much by any means, but it was his. 

As the timer went off, he slipped the oven mitts back on and pulled the asparagus and focaccia bread out of the oven. It smelled heavenly, if he could say so himself. Closing the oven with his hip, Murray grabbed two plates to dish out the food: mushroom risotto, asparagus tossed in lemon, parmesan, and Italian herbs, and handmade focaccia. “Shall we?”

+++

a quick nod, jo scrambled to look anywhere but his eyes. “yup. we, uh, we know each other. sure do.” murray didn’t have to know everything, after all. the fact that jo seemingly forgot how to act like a normal, functioning, rational human being when she was around quinn was entirely and utterly irrelevant in this scenario. 

anyway. she cleared her throat, mirrored murray as she leaned forward, too. fingers nervously drumming agains her thoughts, toying with a loose thread hanging from her trousers. heavens, she was itching to tell someone about this - about all the clues and evidence she’d spent months, years collecting, pinning them up on her board, trying to piece them together. and her face lit up in astonishment as she saw him pull out pieces of paper, one after the other - maybe, just maybe this would bring clarity. maybe, with his help, the pieces would finally all fall into place.

because quite frankly, jo was beginning to feel sick of her life feeling like one big msytery that she was unable to figure out for the life of her. not the first time. too engrossed in the evidence in front of her she could only manage a weak scoff.i believe you. and her gaze shot up, a confused yet relieved expression on her face, it was what she’d been missing, that confirmation. she wasn’t going insane. or at least there was someone going insane with her. whatever it was - she wasn’t alone, and it was all she needed.

jo made quick work of grabbing the papers and spreading them out on the floor - it was a bit macabre, the sight of her kneeling in front of that jambled up mess of notes right next to quinn’s hospital bed - and then leaned over to pull her own folder from her bag. connecting the clues, seeing where they coincided - black goo, she’d heard that too. and someone had called in about homeland security, and ‘that little rascal tommy hagan’. 

once she was finished with that, she opened up another section of notes and clues that didn’t stick to the theme, laying them out in a row next to each other for murray to see. blood rushing in her ears, a hot flush on her face, jo felt like she was on fire. with every second passing more slowly, feeling more intense. it was what proper big shot journalists must feel like when the seemingly insane hunch they’d had started to pay out and make sense. it was addicting.

“i mean that he does. not. remember. that he died. we literally had a funeral for him, everything - and i didn’t remember, either! julie did, steve did, not me. he proper, proper died in that mall fire and - “ jo stopped, eyes narrowed. “was there even a mall fire? there wasn’t, right?” figures. she whipped around again, brows furrowed. “you said this wasn’t the first time. bauman, i’m gonna need you to tell me everything you know. in explicit detail.”

xx.

Curious about Jo’s nervous response to the question about his daughter, Murray quirked a brow in her direction. “Good. You two would get along,” he said, casually taking another sip of the coffee she’d brought. His eyes fixed on her face to try and read a reaction before Murray turned his attention back to the jumble of papers before them.

Murray could pinpoint the exact moment it sunk in that he believed her. He’d been there, before-- most notably with Jim Hopper. Some people had to see to believe, he understood that, but it was always nice to have an immediate ally. He nodded, offered a smile in response to the relief washing over Jo’s face. 

As the young journalist pulled out her own notes, matched them up with those that Murray had compiled, he leaned to the edge of his chair and scanned them. He was far too old to sit on the floor like she was-- he wouldn’t walk right for the next three to five days if he tried.  “Exciting, isn’t it?” Murray asked, sensing her energy. “In a macabre way, I mean,” he clarified. 

Murray’s face fell at this new information about Jo’s brother. As enthralling as it was, one step closer to the truth, it was... concerning. How could someone not know that they died? Eyes falling to his hands, Murray considered for a moment. “No. It was a cover-up. It was actually this thing... they called it the Mindflayer... that was controlling the people who died. There were Russians under the mall, they were opening a gate. Cold War, and all,” he tacked on at the end.

And so, Murray told her everything. Starting with the case that brought him to Hawkins originally: the disappearance of Barbara Holland. Murray pointed to the relevant news clippings about crop circles in town and a few artifacts from his Russian expedition. After he finished, Murray sat back, watching Jo’s face carefully. It was a lot to process, but... important if they were going to get anywhere. “I have proof. Evidence. Whatever you need,” he offered, though he figured she wouldn’t question him now. 

  she  could  never  be  mad  at  him,  he  was  the  last  person  she  could  ever  hold  a  grudge  with.  especially  considering  his  child  was  in  the  hospital,  just  as  her  own  was.  it  all  makes  sense  as  murray  keeps  talking,  hand  reaching  out  to  swat  his  hand  away  from  the  spot  she  hit  to  rub  at  it  herself.  an  apology  without  saying  much  at  all.  naturally  she  follows  without  hesitation,  arms  crossing  over  her  body  as  she  listens.  “you  worry  too  much.”  parenting  was  hard  but  it  also  came  naturally  in  an  odd  way  for  joyce..  like  she  was  meant  to  be  a  mother.  even  with  her  nights  alone,  when  she  was  frustrated,  tired  and  lonely  thanks  to  her  lovely  husband  -  her  boys  were  the  only  thing  keeping  her  going.  she  knew  it  wasn’t  that  easy  for  everyone.  that  some  people  struggled  ..  she  didn’t  think  murray  would  have  that  problem  at  all.  “it’s  different  with  your  children  as  adults..  they  live  in  a  different  world  than  they  lived  in  as  kids  -  they’ve  got  jobs,  they  stress  over  a  lot  and  don’t  tell  you.“  they  were  experiencing  adulthood.  it  was  only  right  to  treat  them  as  the  age  they  were  …  not  as  the  child  they  once  were.  "you’re  still  her  dad.  she  does  need  you.”  hand  moves  to  his  shoulder,  lips  curled  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  sympathetic  as  always.  “it  doesn’t  matter  what  age  she  is,  she’ll  always  need  you.”

“i’ve heard stranger things about hawkins,” bob replied with a little shrug. he tried shoving hsi shoulder against the invisible wall one more time, as if it might give away if he used his full weight against it. that, of course, didn’t work, so bob was left leaning against an invisible barrier, looking like he was being held up by nothing but air for a few seconds before he straightened up once more. he laughed when murray did, almost out of habit. he often took his social cues from other people. had since he was young. 

he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he looked at the man. he wasn’t someone bob recognized, not even as an aged-up version of a yearbook photo. he’d seen lots of classmates in town for the occasion, but he didn’t recognize this guy. clearing his throat, he stuck his hand out for murray to shake. “sorry. that was rude of me. i’m bob. bob newby.” he hitched his face into a hopeful smile. “it’s nice to meet you…?” he waited for the other to give him a name so that he could finish his sentence. there would be time to ask questions later. for now, he was focused on being polite, just like his parents taught him.

xx.

When the man didn’t freak out, yell at Murray, call him insane, Murray paused. The other tested out the border wall once more, causing Murray’s eyebrows to shoot up. Now, here was someone with the right idea! “Have you? Like what?” he asked, unable to stifle his curiosity. Murray took another puff from the joint and held it out to the other. “Mother always said it was rude not to share.” 

As the other man studied him, Murray did the same. No recognition bells went off, not even from the countless files Murray had studied in his attempt to acclimate to Hawkins. “I’m not big on manners,” Murray said, waving away Bob’s apology. Then it clicked. Bob Newby. “Joyce’s Bob Newby?” he exclaimed, eyes widening as Murray took a step closer to Bob Newby to study his face up close. “I’ll be damned.” Mr. Disappearing Act in the flesh. “I’m Murray Bauman, friend of Joyce. Investigative journalist,” he said, finally taking the man’s hand in a handshake. “You’re in town for the funeral, I gather?” 

spencer looked over at murray once he mentioned eddie munson, making him purse his lips at the other. in the confusion of things, spencer might have been the one to get edward munson arrested. “that whole arrest was a misunderstanding, and the kid has been released, has he not? you can’t blame… well, whoever put him in there. everyone knows what he did two years ago. it’s no lie that there was more than enough reason to get him arrested.” spencer said, crossing his arms over his chest. had any of that been proved? not really, but spencer believed in it. and he was still trying to stop the hellfire club.

he narrowed his eyes as he looked over at murray as he repeated what he had to say. spencer had been using the same speech over and over again, and while people hadn’t been exactly catching up that he was doing that, he should have known better that murray would have. “it’s no story, mr. bauman, it is the truth. you know that whatever i did, was for the people’s safety and nothing else. there’s not much i can say about it right now.” he said.

“yes, they were negligent. and they’re incompetent. and we would all be better off if jim hopper actually did anything for this town other than disappearing occasionally or look for kids who got lost in the woods and forget their way back home.” spencer said quietly, as he looked over at murray. he knew that he wouldn’t get his vote even if he tried his hardest, so now he felt like he could say anything that he was feeling. but he would hold his tongue, as there were people clearly watching. “get your head out of the gutter, murray. those kids that were gone for some commune have been terrorrizing the town ever since they returned. don’t try and tell me that some supernatural shit is going on. be real for once.” spencer said, shaking his head.

xx.

“Misunderstanding,” Murray scoffed, blatantly rolling his eyes at Mr. Mayor. Today was not the day for niceties. “Do you have any idea what that does to a person? Arresting them in front of the whole town? Running a smear campaign that he’s some dangerous murderer based on... what evidence exactly?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You ruined his life. Made it so he had to leave Hawkins, all because of some stupid rumor. Because he was a little different. That’s despicable,” Murray’s judgement may have come from a more personal place than he’d like to admit, but he couldn’t help that he saw so much of himself in Eddie Munson. 

The space between Murray’s eyebrows pinched, like he could feel a headache coming on. He winced, pressing shaking hands together and squeezing, an attempt to regulate his breathing. “For the people’s safety,” he repeated, injecting his tone with as much sarcasm he could muster. “Right.” Of course, it wasn’t Spencer’s fault that people had died, really. But the response? The lack of transparency? Murray held him responsible for that. People deserved to know the truth. 

Spencer dragging Jim into all of this was what really sent Murray over the edge. As far as cops go, Murray wasn’t deluded that there were good ones. But Jim Hopper was a stand-up guy and had done more for this town than Mr. Mayor could even imagine. “Keep Jim Hopper out of this,” his eyes flashed at Spencer. “He’s a goddamned American hero.” At the mayor’s staunch denial of anything more going on, Murray crossed his arms in front of his chest. He knew Spencer St. James would never believe him, so this conversation was really moot. “You know as well as I do that’s not true. When you’re ready to do something about it, you know where to find me.” He gave one last disappointed shake of his head and walked down the stairs, all the more amped up to continue his investigation. 

+++

she looked around awkwardly before deciding to pull a chair up to the bed, cursing softly under her breath as she spilled some of her coffee in the process. oh well, jo shrugged to herself as she slumped down, smoothing over the puddle of coffee with her shoe - which arguably did nothing except spread the stain - what was it to her, anyway. “yeah, don’t thank me too soon, bauman. this is from the post’s staff kitchen, i fear it’s the same dirt water but , like, a little stronger” she scrunched up her nose at him, gave him as much a grin as she could muster up. coffee was coffee, anyway, and murray looked like he needed it.

stable. sleeping. okay. jo faintly registered his words, nodded along to them, a sense of relief washing over her, too. so far it seemed like everyone was okay, considering. that wave of relief soon replaced by a gnawing feeling of dread in her stomach, her grip on the mug tightened. “i … heard that quinn was here and i wanted to check in on her. and you.” lifting the coffee to her lips, she gave murray a small yet genuine smile over the brim of her cup, before her expression sobered again. “but … i did have ulterior motives. i need to talk to you.”

fingertips nervously drumming against the cermaic, god, where to begin? what to say? how to phrase it so she didn’t sound completely insane? so some nurse walking past wouldn’t go ahead and go ahead and sedate them ? “i don’t know if you were at the carnival. i was, and whatever happened…” she bit her lip, eyes darting around as she struggled to find the right words. “it wasn’t - i don’t know. it wasn’t - normal? i guess?” then again, when was the last time hawkins had had an entirely ‘normal’ year? month, even? it was crazy after crazy after crazy. a never ending circuit, a curse. “you know how people…how they say that hawkins is cursed?”

she looked up from where her gaze had been fixed on her lap, unsure eyes searching his. fuck, was this even the appropriate place to talk about this? the sudden guilt joined the gnawing feeling of dread. “whatever….whatever happened, it wasn’t just people, like, goofing around with the explosives. i was there the entire time, i - it’s the commune. the people from the commune.” jo reached up to rub at her eyes, as if she could get rid of the absurdity around them this way and finally see clear again. so many clues yet nothing seemed to magically fall into place just yet, it was exhausting. 

had there ever been a commune? this was too much to think about, too early in the day. “there’s something .. wrong with them. they all went - they went, like, crazy. and jack - my brother, he… “ a long, drawn out exhale, she looked up at him again. “he died, murray. he didn’t - he didn’t just go away without telling anyone. he died. and he can’t even remember.” a short pause. “do you think i’m losing it?”

xx.

Eyeing the... unique way Jo wiped up the spilled coffee brought an amused smile to the corners of Murray’s lips. He took a sip just as she clarified where she’d gotten the coffee. He could definitely tell, but swallowed it without any indication. It was better than hospital coffee, by a slim margin. “Stronger is good. I won’t be sleeping anytime soon, anyways,” he admitted after taking another sip.

Murray’s brow furrowed at her concern. He supposed Quinn had made some friends in town, but he hadn’t known that she and Jo had crossed paths in any significant way. “You know Quinn?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Thanks for checking on her-- on us-- either way.” Murray’s eyes gleamed at her confession, and he instinctively leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

That pesky pang of guilt from before reared its ugly head when Jo asked if he’d been at the carnival. He should have been there. Though he had no way of knowing something would happen, he should’ve known something would happen. With his free hand, Murray rubbed sleep out of his eyes and re-focused on Jo’s words, nodding to encourage her to keep going. 

Without comment, Murray set the mug on the ground and reached for his briefcase. He pulled out the tips he’d furiously scrawled earlier, the few hours he was home, and laid them out for Jo to inspect. Stories of black goo, of a Department of Homeland Security van on the scene, of alleged friends fighting each other, Tommy H being thrown through the air. “You’re not the only one thinking that, kid. And... it wouldn’t be the first time. In Hawkins, at least.”

Turning to her with an intensity in his eyes, Murray gestured to the papers strewn across his briefcase. “Tell me what you saw. I promise I won’t have you committed... I believe you.” He assured her, a hint of a smile breaking the otherwise stoic rigidity of his expression. 

He’d heard whispers about the ‘commune kids’, to be sure, even reports that they’d been written off as dead. But what Jo was saying was a different angle. His expression softened and he exhaled a long breath. “Jesus,” he sat with that for a moment, giving her apparent grief its space. “What do you mean he doesn’t remember?”

   exhaustion  wasn’t  even  the  perfect  word  to  describe  how  joyce  was  feeling.  it  had  been  days  of  being  at  the  hospital,  going  from  room  to  room  to  check  on  her  son  and  what  she  considered  her  other  children,  bringing  them  whatever  they  needed  -  and  didn’t  need  for  that  matter.  she  couldn’t  help  but  do  the  most  for  them  all,  they  didn’t  deserve  to  be  stuck  in  their  hospital  rooms.  in  pain,  bored  out  of  their  minds  she  was  sure.

     she  had  taken  a  step  out  from  jonathan’s  room  to  have  a  smoke  outside      —    turns  out  chain-smoking  when  you’re  stressed  was  a  pretty  normal  habit  for  joyce.  the  only  thing  that  gave  her  any  sense  of  relaxation  after  everything  that  happened.  it  helped  that  it  put  a  total  slump  in  her  appetite  too  so  she  didn’t  have  to  think  about  that.  all  thoughts  disappeared  from  her  mind  upon  hearing  murray’s  voice,  eyes  widening  as  she  approached  him  with  speed.  “murray.”  she  whispered,  not  hesitating  to  wrap  her  arms  around  his  figure,  face  hiding  against  his  arm.  if  she  could  consider  anyone  her  safe  place  who  wasn’t  her  little  family,  it  was  murray  bauman.  her  ride  or  die.  well..  that  was  her  thinking.  right  up  until  she  heard  the  news  that  murray’s  daughter  was  in  town    —    in  the  hospital  too.  face  moves  away  from  his  figure,  reaching  out  to  smack  at  his  arm.  “quinn  is  in  hawkins?  and  you  didn’t  tell  me?  MURRAY.”  jaw  dropped  open,  offense  more  than  obvious  as  she  looks  up  at  the  man.  “where?  what  room?”

Murray had been with Joyce through multiple of what she’d said were her hardest days as a mother; days when she was unable to help her boys, unable to fix their injuries with a band-aid or an ice pack. And he hated that the carnival had been another one of those moments. Murray wrapped his arm around her and rubbed her back, wishing he could fix it for her. But being here was the best he could do at the moment.

.

spencer should have known better than to stop and talk to murray bauman, especially after everything that had happened at the carnival. it was bad faith on his part and he should have thought through it, but it was too late now. he stared at the man, a little frozen in his place but he didn’t show it. he still stood, his posture straight and a briefcase in his hand as he watched him. the whole thing had been a fiasco, the carnival and everything surrounding it, and he knew that now more than ever, people were angry at him. but he promised himself that he was going to fix this, no matter what. for a safer hawkins, of course. that had been his campaign slogan and he intended to keep it that way. and fullfill it.

when murray mentioned that he was lucky he wasn’t burning down city hall, he raised an eyebrow as he looked at him. “now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, mr. bauman. i’m not planning on arresting anyone other than those who were responsible for what had happened at the carnival.” he said, gripping his briefcase as he looked at murray. the confrontation right in front of city hall had been something he hadn’t expected, he just hoped that no one would walk by and ask if everything was okay. that was the last thing he needed was that right now. “everything that happened at the carnival was for everyone’s safety. it would have been fine if some… kids hadn’t gone meddling around and had minded their business. the fireworks…” he said, as he cleared his throat and looked murray straight in the eye for a couple of moments, interrupted as murray revealed that his daughter had been hospitalized. now, spencer wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

“the fireworks were… i don’t know what happened, but city hall had nothing to do with the fireworks. if anything, it just shows how incompetent our police department is. and i’m really sorry for your kid, i am, but i had nothing to do with that explosion. but i’m working on figuring out what happened to the fireworks.” spencer finished off, as he cleared his throat once again. “you think i like seeing people of hawkins get hurt? i don’t. so get that off your head, murray.” he finished off.

xx.

“Really?!” Murray roared at the mention of arresting whoever was responsible for the explosion. “Care to explain, then, why you arrested Eddie Munson? That was nothing but prejudice and witch-hunting, and you know it. That kid isn’t capable of hurting anyone!” Murray’s hands were shaking with rage, and he pressed them to his sides in an attempt to ‘center himself’, or whatever yuppie bullshit the yoga moms chastised him about. 

But the P.R. spiel put Murray on edge all over again; he hated the way officials acted like they weren’t human, gave the perfectly polished response at every turn. Just once, Murray would love to see a politician give a damn! “For everyone’s safety, trying to figure out what happened, stupid kids. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I listened to your little town hall address. I’ve heard the story,” he grumbled, his tone making it clear that he didn’t believe the ‘story’ whatsoever. 

Murray’s heart rate plummeted at a sign of life behind Spencer St. James’ eyes. He laughed humorlessly, “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s one thing we agree on-- the boys in blue were negligent out there, St. James. Negligent. But you and I both know,” he moved in closer, intensity flashing in his eyes, “That it wasn’t some kids that did this. You’re not an idiot.” It hurt him to admit out loud. “Don’t rationalize this with stereotypes and stories. Actually investigate, for once.” He backed away, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know you don’t like it. Bad for the campaign, right?” he deadpanned. 

.

gabe held his hands up in the surrender, then gently tucked the cash back in his pocket, “i think that would make a reasonable neighbor?” he answered with a low chuckle, “nobody likes moving, and i’d pay for movers.” he added, then concluded with a simple, “i don’t believe in free labor.” yes, people could do things to be nice, but at their age, exerting oneself physically usually started with weeks of soreness and ended with internal quips about how that didn’t happen when i was twenty-five. wanting to keep the offer in the air, he patted his pocket, “let me know if you change your mind when we’re done.” 

he took a break on his porch, plopping down on one the sturdier boxes to chat with murray. they only had a couple left, he could waste time. selfishly, he enjoyed the other’s company, and he wasn’t above slowing down the process if it meant keeping him around a little longer. “i’m a trauma therapist, opened shop downtown if you ever need some place to…talk. or you could just come here.” gabe, in all senses of the word, had an open door policy. “but i’ll be holding some group sessions, too, if that’s more your speed.” he wasn’t expecting murray to come at all. for some reason, most men their age, didn’t see the appeal of getting in touch with their feelings. it was utterly ridiculous, and he was firm believer of the fact that the world would be infinitely better if people stopped carrying around so much anger and pain. nobody deserved that. 

they got up and moving again and murray’s grin brought a smile to gabe’s own face as he roared with laughter and shook out his hair, “good genes?” he said, innocently, then wrapped his arm behind murray’s head to plant his hand on the bald spot. maybe that was a little forward, but he was getting too old to be subtle. “do you put sunscreen on this thing?” he asked, still smiling gently, “might be a good idea if you don’t.” he removed his hand from murray’s head and nodded at the idea of being led to yoga by murray, “it’s a date? with you and your baldspot?” he joked warmly, then carried on back into the house, calling behind him, “which i like by the way!” 

finally, they were done and in the safety of his air conditioned home. gabe pulled a pen from the pocket on his shirt and a small notepad, scribbling down all the information murray had given him while both of their heads hung low in the fridge. turning to murray, he narrowed his eyes and grinned widely, “pardon?” a what. “c’mon now, i can’t let you cook for me after you just helped me move in.” he stood up and waited for murray to do the same so he could close the fridge, then carelessly moved around the kitchen for a bowl and some box mix, “let me cover this.” 

xx.

“Well, I’ve never been accused of being particularly reasonable, so I think you’re safe,” Murray admitted, a teasing gleam in his eye. “Besides, you’re not bad company. If you turn into a monster after a few boxes, I’ll reconsider.” He wanted to retort that he doesn’t believe in labor at all, but Murray knew there were some beliefs he held that others needed to be eased into, and he couldn’t yet tell what side of the divide Gabe Diaz fell on. 

When Gabe revealed the job he’d moved to Hawkins for, Murray felt his shoulders tense. “Oh,” he managed, turning away from the other to set down a box. He pasted on a nervous smile and nodded as Gabe invited him to a session. Gabe seemed great, kind, open-minded-- vastly different than any of the psychiatrists who had pumped Murray full of anti-psychotics four years ago-- but the distrust was an involuntary response of sorts. Probably something Gabe could help him unpack. “That’s great. You’ll have your hands full here, for sure,” he said, finally, hoping to smooth over his lackluster initial response. “Me, I’ve had my fair share of therapy. I’m peachy,” he explained, wincing internally at his use of the word ‘peachy.’ 

Moving again, lifting boxes, helped wash the therapy conversation from Murray’s mind. And whatever distrust he’d felt for Gabe didn’t stop Murray from staring as the man shook out his dark waves. When the other grabbed the top of Murray’s head, he felt the heat rise in his body. This guy was something else, and Murray was loving it. “Are you insinuating that I have bad genes, Gabe Diaz?” he retorted with a mock-offended look. Murray felt like a teenager, like he would do anything in this moment to get Gabe to look at him for a second longer. “I do, actually. I’m quite serious about my skincare. It’s the key to looking and feeling youthful,” he stated, matter-of-factly. 

The image of Gabe coming with him to yoga made Murray feel lightheaded, but he played it off as they walked inside. “It’s a date. The bald spot will cost you extra, though,” he egged his new friend on and nudged Gabe’s shoulder in response to his compliment. Smile on his lips, Murray explained: “It’s a French breakfast sandwich. But... fine.” He stepped back from the fridge, admitting defeat rather easily. “Second date, I’ll cook for you. I’m pretty good,” he reprised their joke from earlier, only it wasn’t a joke. Not really. Murray took a seat at the kitchen table and watched Gabe rummage around for his tools. “Where are you from, anyway? Indiana native?”   

🗞

quinn hadn’t known what to do in the midst of all the chaos at the carnival. she barely knew anyone in attendance and as far as dealing with anything supernatural went, she was a total rookie. this meant she’d stayed mostly silent and observant while the people around her problem-solved. she found it odd that most of them seemed to have some level of experience with this kind of thing, but given who her father was and the town he ran away to, she should’ve known. quinn somewhat quickly picked up on what was happening. all it took was jonathan pointing out that half the people on the tunnel of love boat ride didn’t look so good and all of a sudden they were like possessed zombies with one goal: blow this place up. 

at least that was what quinn figured…given the bomb. but some genius girl had disarmed that. quinn’s mistake had been thinking they were somewhat in the clear. but then she saw it. the guy with the mullet and the piercing blue eyes beelining for the fireworks when everyone was occupied with something else. quinn had wanted to say something like, hey, that guy has a lighter or hey, maybe we should call the cops. but instead, she said nothing. the words were lodged in her throat like a bone and her tongue felt too big for her mouth and even though she had wanted to be brave, she was immobile. she was stuck. 

quinn wasn’t sure if she’d actually screamed, “NO!” when billy lit up the fireworks or if she’d only imagined it, but it made no difference. he got to the fireworks. he set off the explosives. and within seconds, quinn was out like a light. 

…

was she dreaming or was she dead? where was she? for a while there was only nothingness. everything was black. but now she was somewhere else. somewhere bright. she felt like she had a body even though she couldn’t see it. quinn saw flashes of her mom in the rearview mirror when she started her drive to hawkins. she saw the welcome to hawkins sign over and over and over and over again. she saw murray setting up her bed in the guest room. she heard him too. he’d said, “you keep sleeping, kid, you’re looking great.”

wait—he hadn’t said that, had he? he’d said something else…but then everything went dark again. shit. she was probably dead. she had died like a stupid coward in the midst of some freak attack and now her life would amount to nothing and—

suddenly she could feel her ears and eyes again as her father’s voice echoed in her head. she wasn’t sure how, but she was reaching for the sound. trying to muster up the strength of a thousand steve harrington’s, quinn cracked open her eye lids and blinked away the blurriness until finally, there was her dad, lecturing a nurse. something about her mother. something about her iv. the window. relief washed over quinn like waves over rocks.

waves. water. she needed water. water. water. “water,” she finally managed to say, voice hoarse as she turned her head slightly to face her dad. “water?” she asked this time and made the mistake of lifting her arm to grab some herself. the second she did, she felt a sharp pain in her chest which caused her yelp before curling back into herself. so she wasn’t dead, but she was hurt. she glanced down at herself and saw her arm in a cast and sling, and she assumed something was also wrong with her rib cage because ow, it hurt to breathe.

moving slowly, quinn adjusted herself so that she could take the glass of water that was being offered to her. she sipped it with her eyes shut, still tired from the meds and the trauma, but after a few gulps, she felt strong enough to speak and really open her eyes. she was in a hospital room. her body hurt like hell. her dad was here and he’d apparently brought some of her things. “kicking me out of your house already?” she joked, turning to face him with an sheepish grin, “kind of fucked up, if you ask me.” there was no getting comfortable, so quinn succumbed to the pain and just laid there, staring at her dad beside her. “is everyone else okay?” she asked, brows furrowed, “did they catch who did it?” and then, hesitantly, she inquired, “how bad was it?”

xx.

When Quinn asked for water, Murray burst into action. “Let me,” he instructed, wincing at her pained yelp. He leapt from the chair and picked up the plastic cup from the tray table, angled the straw to where she could close her lips around it. He held it for her, not sure how much strength she had at the moment, and set it to the side when she seemed satisfied. Tears pricked at his eyes and, despite his best efforts to blink them away, spilled onto his cheeks. She was alive, she really was going to be okay. 

It soothed the guilt that had taken up residence in his chest a little. While Quinn was asleep, Murray had been plagued with self-inflicted accusations. If he hadn’t come here, maybe she wouldn’t have followed him. If he had been more clear in his letters instead of using that stupid code, maybe she would’ve been more prepared. If he had just let go of that lead about goddamn Kali Prasad all those years ago, maybe he wouldn’t have missed out on his daughter’s life. 

But now, she was awake and alert, so he shelved the guilt for later, swiped the tears off his face, and gave his daughter his full attention. Half of him expected her to yell at him, curse him for leading her here-- no matter how inadvertent it was. Instead, she made a fucking joke, and he immediately felt like he was staring at himself. With an amused chuckle, he shook his head. “Thought about it, after all the hair I pulled out of the drain last week.” If joking would make her feel better, joke he would, but his tone remained soft-- almost like he was afraid to break her. In this room, she was young and fragile again and Murray’s paternal urge to protect her was tearing through his body. 

Of course, he’d failed at protecting her once. Hawkins itself would crumble if he failed to protect her twice. And then she shocked him again, asking about everyone else, and the culprit, and the damage. It hit him between the eyes. She didn’t need protecting at all, not really. That was a scary thought. “A few others got hit like you-- Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, Cole Montgomery,” he grimaced at the thought. He should’ve been there. “They’re awake, though. Doing good.” 

At her final two questions, Murray heaved a sigh and sat back down in the chair. Close by enough in case she wanted water again, but not standing over her and inspecting her injuries, no matter how much he wanted to. “You need to worry about healing, resting... not this,” he said, a valiant attempt at what he thought a normal father would say. But, Murray Bauman wasn’t a normal father, and Quinn Bauman certainly wasn’t a normal girl. “It was bad, Quinn. Five dead-- one of the teachers, a few young girls, a rent-a-cop and the grocery store owner.” He paused for a beat, letting the heaviness of his statement hang in the air.

“They haven’t caught anybody. Made a few arrests for show, but...,” he leaned closer to her, dropping his voice in case any of the nurses had wandering ears. “I don’t think it’s a who. I think it’s a what.”