#staticinmystereo Independent writing blog for the character Jonathan Byers, from the series Stranger Things. Caught up on the entire series, based mostly in the Season 5 V1 verse but will gladly time travel back to earlier seasons if requested.
Heâs not the guy the audience roots for because they barely remember his name.
WARNING: The upside down isn't gentle, themes may become dark, unsettling and occasionally gruesome. Proceed with caution. Very welcoming to OCâs, Cross fandoms, etc. Mun is 21+
â· Will also be taking questions and answering in character. Any questions you have, send them his way!
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Jonathan Byers witnessed both moments, the devastation that hollowed Nancy Wheeler out when she couldnât save Barb, and the breathless relief that followed when she arrived in time to save Holly.
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âBoys Donât Cry,â at least as The Cure tells it, was the first song that ever made sense to him as a kid. The first time he realized music had the power to him, for him, when he didnât yet have the words himself. Over the years it became more than a song; it was a refuge, a quiet salvation, his personal anthem. Now, the lyrics land differently, because theyâre no longer about trying to laugh about it, or covering up the tears, itâs about losing love. And after the events from today, all he wants to do is cry.
He canât retreat into his bedroom because their house isnât their house anymore, theyâre been crashing at the Wheelers, and ever since the attack and vanishing of Holly, no one has stepped foot inside the house. Instead theyâre at the SQUAQK and heâd like nothing more than to sneak off into supply closet or bathroom and let the walls finally give way. Just like back in â83, when Hopper showed up with news that shattered their world, confirming that Willâs body had been found. He had fled into his bedroom, and folded in on himself, clutching his own body as the grief tore through him.
The instinct is the same now. To disappear. To curl inward, arms wrapped tight around himself, holding on as if that might keep him together, and let everything heâs been carrying finally spill to the surface. Every time he thinks heâs found an opening to slip away, something yanks him right back in. Another weight added to the pile already crushing his chest. So he does what he always does forces himself to shoulder it, to stay locked in, to keep his focus on the mission. Theyâre just finishing loading the weapons and supplies into the truck, and for a brief moment heâs convinced this is it. This will be his chance to peel off, disappear into the background the way heâs learned to do best. But then Mike steps outside, rallying the troops and saying how Will needs to talk to them, all of them.
And just like that, heâs seated in the chair, watching his brother do something impossibly brave, and heâs never felt prouder in his life. His gaze stays locked on the scene unfolding in front of him as Will edges closer, preparing to take the leap but his movements are careful, unhurried like heâs not quite ready to land on the other side yet. Every so often, Willâs eyes flick toward him, searching and Jonathan holds his gaze each time, hoping that when his brother looks back, he can see it there, steadiness, encouragement, and love. Something solid to anchor himself to.
The rest of the group shifts and listens, trying to piece together what this moment means, but he already knows. Heâs always known. And it doesnât change a damn thing. Tears begin to well in his eyes, and he doesnât bother to fight them off, because heâs so proud of his brother and beneath those tears of pride are those of heartbreak, the one heâs been holding back since Steve broke Nancy and him out of that room back in the lab.
He listens as Will explains that he isnât different from his friends, that he likes the same things they do, his voice growing stronger, the truth rushing to the surface, until he finally says it, he doesnât like girls. He doesnât even realize heâs been holding his breath until he finally exhales.
The truth is finally out. His brother has come out. Will talks about his fears, about losing people, about being judged for who he is. His gaze flicks briefly toward the group gathered in the room, reading faces, searching for their reactions. Some of them he knows intimately, others barely at all. But if even one of them makes his little brother regret stepping out of that prison, he swears heâll beat the shit out of them, whether itâs by fists or fury.
Tears spill freely down his face, and the moment his mom reassures Will that heâll never lose her, he is already moving. Rising to his feet, he crosses the room and pulls his brother into his arms, holding on like his life depends on it. Like letting go might undo everything. Seconds pass, then more, and soon the rest of them fold in too, surrounding Will with warmth reassurance. He lets it sink in, really sink in that his little brother is no longer ashamed of who he is. That heâs accepted himself fully. And that heâs goddamn beautiful because of it. As the group slowly eases back, he doesnât miss the chance to press a gentle kiss to Willâs cheek. He wants to linger, to hold onto this closeness just a little longer because it feels like itâs been months since heâs had his brother like this but he forces himself to let go and he listen. Listens as Will tells them he needs to be there tonight. That heâs ready to face Vecna. That he isnât afraid anymore. Whatever tricks Vecna thinks he can use against him wonât work not now. Not when his truth is finally out in the open.
From the nods and quiet murmurs of agreement, the truth settles in his little brother will be joining them on the mission tonight. He knows Will isnât a kid anymore. He knows that. And still, every time he looks at him, he sees the boy. The one who looked up at him while they built Castle Byers together. The one whose eyes lit up every time he talked about a new D&D campaign. The one who asked if he was okay the night after waking up in the hospital and noticed the bandage wrapped around his palm. The one who convulsed in front of him as they tore the Mind Flayer out of his body. Thatâs who he keeps seeing. And thatâs who is going to face Vecna tonight, but heâs not that boy anymore, heâs stronger.
The realization makes something in his chest seize tight. He lingers at the edge of the room, silent, watching as the group falls back into planning. He watches his mom pull Will into her arms, and immediately he can see the difference how his brother looks calmer. Like the weight heâs been carrying has finally shifted, if only a little. Will is free now. Free from the chains heâs been dragging around for years and he canât help but wonder what that must feel like. Because for most of his life, heâs been bound to responsibility. When Lonnie walked out, he didnât just step up, he became the parent, the provider and the protector. Weekends werenât for rest or friends the way they were for Will. They were for extra shifts, for stocking shelves, for doing whatever it took to keep them afloat, even if he missed out on his own chance of normal.
His purpose has always been taking care of his family. And now heâs standing here, watching them both, the quiet observer who suddenly feels like heâs being edged out of the role heâs lived inside for years. Will isnât a kid anymore. Heâs growing into a man, growing into himself and, apparently, heâs a Sorcerer now, that little detail dropped into his lap like itâs nothing. And his mom, she can take care of herself. Sheâs stronger than sheâs ever been, and if she needs someone to lean on, she has Hopper. He has caught the way Hop looks at her more times than he can count, the kind of look that doesnât waver, that promises staying and is one hundred percent long term. They donât need him anymore. The realization hits hard, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Without that role, without that responsibility, he doesnât know who heâs supposed to be. When he stepped into those shoes, he quietly said goodbye to dreaming to NYU, to the life he mightâve had because they couldnât afford it, because someone had to stay grounded while everything else fell apart. His entire world has always revolved around his mom and Will. And now? Now he doesnât even know who or what heâs living for. Itâs never been about him. Not once.
If they make it through this, if they actually win this war what will he even have left? His gaze drifts to Nancy, deep in conversation with Steve, Robin, and Dustin. The sight of her still hits the same. He lost her. They let each other go in that room, hovering on the brink of death, finally saying the things theyâd been too afraid to voice before. Truths laid bare and when she accepted his un-proposal, he threw that ring into the goo without hesitation. In that moment, heâd been okay with dying because at least he wouldâve died beside the person he loves.
But they didnât die. They were freed. In more ways than one. Theyâd been suffocating inside their relationship, a painful realization but only because both of them had been holding themselves back. Afraid to admit what they wanted, afraid of what it would cost. Even so, deep down, thatâs not what he wanted at all. Letting her go hadnât been easy it had been an act of love. Loving her enough to choose her future over his wants. Now, though now heâs going to have to watch her move on. Watch her eventually fall into someone elseâs arms. Maybe even Steveâs. Sure, sheâd told him it had never been like that but one drawback of being the observer is that you see everything. And heâs seen the small things. The glances. The timing. The way history never really stays buried.
Heâll watch her pack up her life, get the hell out of dodge, and build the future sheâs always dreamed of. Over the years, heâll follow her career from a distance because he knows heâs always known sheâll make it. Sheâll become a journalist with a name people recognize, and heâll be there quietly, off to the side, cutting out every article she writes and tucking them away somewhere no one else will ever look. Eventually, sheâll end up back in Hawkins. Maybe for the holidays. A wedding. Or something darker and grim like a funeral. Their eyes will meet across a crowded room, nostalgia hitting him all at once, a thousand things he never said clawing at his throat, heâll almost tell her everything but then heâll see it, her hand in someone elseâs or worse, a ring on her finger. So heâll swallow it all down. Heâll put on the mask. Smile while she tells him about her life, tell her how proud he is, how happy he is for her, and mean it because heâs always wanted that for her, even if it never included him.
And because heâs a masochist, heâll linger. His eyes will follow her until she disappears from view, and only then will he retreat into some quiet room. Heâll look down at his palm, trace the faint scar still there, and for a fleeting moment he might even consider reopening it just to prove it was real. That they were tethered together and loved one another. That once, he was capable of loving someone that deeply because heâs already accepted that love isnât in the cards for him anymore. Because how could it be? How could he ever love anyone the way he loves Nancy Wheeler?
Heâll cry. Heâll grieve the life he lost, the person he lost, and then heâll hate himself for playing the what-if game because thatâs where the real damage lives. What if heâd just told her the truth about Emerson? That it wasnât about fear or lack of ambition or wanting to be with her, but about money. About not being able to leave his mom and brother behind. What if, just once, heâd chosen himself and told her that Emerson was never his dream school that it was NYU and they couldâve adjusted the plan, found a way to still leave together? What if he hadnât faded her out, hadnât let the distance grow quiet and heavy, but called her every day until she came to Lenora for spring break or he went back to Hawkins? What if he had made a god damn effort to show her he had left his heart in Hawkins and he wouldnât be whole again until she was back in his arms? And then heâll stop himself. Tell himself it doesnât matter because sheâs already gone.
He sees it all anyway, every version, every alternate ending playing out in his head like a film. So vivid, so painfully clear, that for a moment he wonders if Vecna has slipped into his mind. But he hasnât. This isnât a curse. It isnât a trick. It hits him all at once, without warning. His chest tightens first, breathing becomes work too shallow and way too fast. His heart starts pounding, each beat echoing in his ears until itâs all he can hear. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers tingling, numb and too aware all at once. The room feels wrong, too small, like the walls are closing in. A cold sweat breaks across his skin, his jaw clenches, teeth grinding as he fights the urge to curl inward, to fold in on himself the way he used to as a kid. He forces his feet to stay planted, forces his shoulders to stay squared, because he refuses to fall apart in front of everyone. God, that would be pathetic.
Vecna is going to move worlds tonight, and he just needs a minute one goddamn minute to himself. No one is looking at him. No ever really is. So he takes a step back, then another, easing toward the doorway and then slips out. Sometimes it pays to be invisible. Somehow he manages to let his feet guide him down the wall, careful as he takes the steps down into the bunker and straight into the armory. The second he realizes heâs alone, truly alone, his chest seizes that he has to gasp, hands flying to the edge of the table. Heâs freaking out because the air keeps catching in his throat, each breath feeling like itâs too big for his lungs. Heâs here alone, and yet everything feels so loud. His vision begins to blur, his fingers curl, nails digging into his palms, but even the sting doesnât anchor him the way it should.
Shit, shit he staggers back, shoulder hitting the wall hard enough to rattle the weapons mounted there. The clatter makes him grimace and he hopes the noise doesnât travel upstairs. He canât handle himself being found like this. Dizziness hits him hard, his skin growing clammy and he can feel sweat breaking across his neck and forehead. He presses his back flat to the wall, and slowly begins to slide down until heâs half-crouched, what happens next is instinct. Wrapping his arms around himself, the same way he did all those years ago, trying to survive emotions too big for his body. His breaths come are almost sobs, each one stealing the next. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead tipping forward as he fights the overwhelming urge to disappear entirely, to curl up, to vanish, to stop feeling anything at all.
Jonathan Byers doesnât hate the color pink, he hates what it represents
Jonathan Byers has never been a fan of the color pink because he doesnât like what itâs supposed to mean. It feels pre-decided, like man years ago picked it out and told girls this is what youâre supposed to wear if you want to look soft, pretty, feminine and acceptable. Itâs like the color comes with an instruction manual of who theyâre meant to be and not letting them decide for themselves.
When Nancy wears it, it kind of messes with him. Itâs soft, safe and predictable. But every time he sees Nancy wearing pink it disarms him, she can be all those things but thatâs not the whole truth about her. Thereâs other layers underneath, the ones that donât flinch, the parts that run towards danger when everyone else freezes, shes brave, relentless and kind of terrifying in the best way.
Men see women in pink, their assumptions come easily. The color does the talking for them soft, harmless, helpless, fragile and a damsel that needs saving. It paints them into a version of womanhood they understand and feel comfortable underestimating. So when they see Nancy in pink, they just assume sheâs a pretty young thing. Stick to their prejudices just like Tom and Bruce did at Hawkins Post, looking past her brilliance and seeing their own personal secretary meant to sit there, shut up and look pretty. They donât see the grit she has, standing her ground, facing something that most men would flee from. They arenât aware that sheâs a better marksman than all of them combined. They donât see the way she steadies a rifle like itâs an extension of her own body, or how her focus sharpens under pressure while others would completely falter. They donât know that sheâs braver and has more balls than most of the men in Hawkins.
All they see is someone in pretty in pink. And thatâs what unsettles him, not the color itself, but how easily the world mistakes it for weakness, never realizing the woman wearing it could outshoot, outthink, and outlast every assumption made about her.
I could disappear and they wouldnât even notice.
The thought settles heavy in his chest, sinking in deeper as he watches Will get out of the car, rush past him, barely a brush of air where his brother should have been. Will doesnât slow, doesnât hesitate just makes a beeline for Max like nothing else in the world exists. He understands. Of course he does. Two years in a coma, two years of waiting and wondering, and now sheâs awake. Of course Will would run to her. Of course thatâs where his joy would go.
Still, not even a look. He stays where he is, hands tucked uselessly into his pockets, watching the scene play out like heâs standing outside a window. Willâs face lights up in a way he hasnât seen in a long time itâs wide, unguarded and happy. Like really happy. For a brief, stupid moment, he wonders when the last time was that Will looked at him like that. Like he was important. Those smiles belong to Robin now. And thatâs fine. It really is. Heâs grateful Will has someone who makes space for him, Jonathan had wanted to be that person once, someone who sees him, all of him. Heâd hoped to be that person. Heâd hoped for a lot of things.
His gaze drifts, almost against his will, toward Nancy standing at the bd k of the WSQK van. The familiar ache tightens, thinking back to everything that just happened between them.
Hope, heâs learned, is a luxury he canât afford. Every time he lets himself have it, it leaves him emptier than before. Like now, standing in the open air, surrounded by people and feeling completely alone.
His gaze swings away from the reunion and he turns his head to watch his mom step out of her car. Preparing for her to spot him immediately, cross the space between them, pull him into a bone crushing hug, tell him she was worried but glad heâs okay. She does none of that. She closes the car door and heads the other way. Purpose in every step, moving toward the building without so much as a glance in his direction. Something hollow opens up inside him as he stands there.
Itâs ridiculous, really. Almost embarrassing, that a part of him thought today might count for something. That nearly dying might earn him a moment of concern. That the Upside Down, or wormhole, or whatever the hell it is, might finally tip the scale. His mom had seen Steveâs Beamer punch through reality itself. Even though she knew where they were, she had to have wondered if he was okay. She had to have been scared. He almost died today. That should mean something. But it doesnât.
He thinks back to earlier, after the rescue mission, when they had reunited with the others. The drive alone had been brutal, revelation after revelation, filling in the gaps of everything theyâd missed while they were gone. A crash course in a life that had kept moving without him. Including the fact that his brother is apparently sorcerer. It had caused something ugly to twist in his stomach, the way it had been dropped so casually. Like it was nothing more than a plot point from one of their D&D campaigns. Just another development, another damn roll of the dice.
Heâd tried to keep up as everything was dumped on him, forcing himself to nod, to listen, to stay present. But the moment he learned that Will had tapped into the hive mind, really tapped into it and that son of a bitch Vecna had retaliated, ripped him out and left him trapped in a vegetative state while his mind was under siege, something in him had nearly snapped. It wasnât just fear. It was the helplessness. The image of his little brother locked inside his own body, fighting something Jonathan couldnât see or stop or take the hit for. Heâd had to bite the inside of his cheek just to stay upright.
They had reassured him Will was awake, like that should fix it. Like the damage stopped the second his eyes opened. But the guilt still gnawed at him, because once again he hadnât been there. He hadnât held his hand. Hadnât watched over him. Hadnât done a damn thing. It didnât matter that he himself had been in a situation that couldâve killed him. That excuse felt thin. It didnât soothe the panic curling in his chest or slow his thoughts. The only thing that ever settled his nerves, the only thing that ever made it feel real and survivable, was seeing Will with his own eyes. Alive, breathing and here. Until then, every reassurance felt hollow.
So when he spotted his momâs Ford Pinto barreling toward them, tires kicking up dirt in its wake, something in his chest finally loosened. A breath he hadnât realized he was holding slipping free the moment he caught sight of Willâs silhouette in the passenger seat. Every instinct in him screamed to move, to close the distance, to get to his brother as fast as possible. But he forced himself to stay where he was, feet planted, knuckles tight at his sides. The second the car door swung open, he is ready with every intention there, arms already half-raised, heart hammering, prepared to pull Will into his chest and not let go, but instead he watched his brother throw his arms around someone else and his mom not even acknowledge him.
And just like that, he watches the two people he loves most walk into the station without looking his way, without pulling him along and without giving so much as a damn.
I could disappear and they wouldnât even notice.
When I tell people that I want to see tension and angst between Jonathan and Nancy, this is what I mean. When ideas pop into my head, I script them and if I like them enough or thereâs enough interest Iâll write them into a solo.
Really growing tired of how Jonathan is overlooked and sidelined not just by his mom but the Duffer Brothers in general. For a show meant to shine the spotlight on freaks, and dive deeper into the layers, theyâre really failing.
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Honestly, he isnât sure what possessed him to drag himself to Tinaâs party at all. He tells himself itâs because heâs trying to be a cool, understanding big brother. Thatâs the excuse, at least, the reason Will is currently out trick-or-treating with his friends, no chaperone hovering nearby. He gets it. Will feels suffocated. Their mom is overprotective, for good reason but between the doctor visits, therapy sessions, and emotional whiplash, he understands why his little brother is desperate for some kind of normalcy.
Maybe this is his attempt at that too. Because underneath the loner persona, beneath the camera and the quiet, he wants to feel normal. Just once. Thatâs the only reason he forces himself inside. Itâs hard to blend in when he sticks out this badly. Everyone else is in some kind of costume, and he hadnât even bothered. When some girl his age asks what heâs supposed to be, he deadpans, âA guy who hates parties.â Itâs a dry, half-hearted joke, but surprisingly it earns a laugh and a name, Samantha. For a moment, he thinks, maybe this wonât be so bad.
Then his eyes catch on a familiar figure across the room. Sheâs dancing. Spinning wildly, red cup clenched in her hand, movements loose and uncoordinated. Sloppy, even. He has to do a double take, just to be sure. When she completes a full spin, thereâs no mistaking her. Itâs Nancy Wheeler. Sheâs doing exactly what the flyer promised, completely sheet-faced and sheâs dancing with Steve Harrington.
He watches her, something tight twisting in his chest. Wonders if this is who she was before monster hunting, before the disappearance of Barb Holland cracked her world open. Heâs never seen her like this. Then again, heâs never been part of this world. Even before everything went to hell, he wasnât going to parties. Weekends meant extra shifts, restocking shelves, doing whatever it took to keep the lights on. Has she always been this carefree? He wonders briefly, if a girl like her wouldâve ever noticed him without shared trauma tying them together. Probably not because popular girls donât usually talk to freaks.
That thought is what finally makes him tear his eyes away. He turns back to Samantha, and to his surprise, conversation comes easily. They land on music which is a safe subject. One he knows inside and out. There are no awkward pauses, no scrambling for words. They talk about Echo & the Bunnymen, The Replacements, The Cure, The Smiths. Her eyes light up when she suddenly grabs his wrist, excitement spilling into her voice as she tells him she saw The Smiths live in Chicago. His brows lift, genuinely impressed, and heâs just about to ask her more when a sudden commotion erupts from the kitchen. The party quiets. Seconds later, Nancy storms down the hallway, blouse soaked in punch aka liquid fuel while Steve rushes after her, apologizing as he goes.
He manages to keep half his attention on Samantha, but at some point his body has angled toward the hallway, eyes flicking back again and again, waiting to catch a glimpse of Nancy. They keep talking, overrated artists now and Samantha is animated, passionate, easy to listen to. Slowly, he finds it easier to focus on her instead of the hall. Then he sees Harrington again. Steve makes a beeline for the front door and heâs alone. He has always been an observer. One look at Steveâs expression tells him whatever just happened wasnât good. She made her choice, he reminds himself. She chose Steve. Checking on her shouldnât be his concern. But thatâs his problem, he cares. Too much, especially when it comes to Nancy.
His gaze sweeps the room. Half the people are drunk. Most of them are guys. Something tightens in his chest at the thought of Nancy being left alone like that. He politely excuses himself from Samantha. A voice in his head tells him heâs an idiot, that maybe something couldâve come from this but he shuts it down. He weaves through the crowd, slipping into the darkened hallway. Doors line the walls. He opens them one by one, earning groans, curses, a few slurred âoccupieds.â Each empty room brings a strange sense of relief because sheâs not there. Finally, he reaches the last door, itâs likely the bathroom.
He knocks gently. A muffled sound answers from inside. Even slurred, he recognizes the voice instantly. âNancy,â he says softly. âItâs Jonathan. I justâwanted to see if youâre okay in there?â He hears the sink running. Her muttered cursing follows. He tests the knob and sure enough itâs unlocked. âHey, Iâm gonna come in, okay?â
No protest and then he eases the door open and finds her at the sink, furiously scrubbing at her blouse, only spreading the stain further. He pauses, watching her for a second, searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he opts for something lighter.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI know the flyer said come get sheet-faced, but I didnât realize it was mandatory. Between that and my lack of a costume, I think Iâm really failing this whole Halloween thing.â
Nancy doesnât spare him a glance. Too focused on scrubbing the pink stain spreading across her blouse, like if she works it hard enough she can erase the whole night. His joke registers a second too late. When it does, she lets out a short, humorless laugh. âYeah,â she says, voice thin and slurred just enough to give her away. âItâs all bullshit anyway.â
She finally glances up at him through the mirror. Her eyes are shiny and red around the edges. Glossy in a way that means sheâs gone way past her limit.
She gives her blouse a small shake, uncomfortable with the wet fabric sticking to her skin. âI really tried to do it right. Show up, drink the stupid punch, dance to the stupid musicâŠâ She stops. âNot stupid. Itâs fine. Whatever.â
She turns the water off, then immediately turns it back on, forgetting why she stopped in the first place. âGod, this thing-â She gestures vaguely at the blouse, at herself, at the entire situation. âDo you know how expensive this was? My mom is gonna kill me.â
She laughs again, this one louder, sharper. She wipes her hands on the stained washcloth she's been using to scrub her blouse, then drops it on the counter, abandoning it halfway through the job.
âHe left,â she says suddenly, like itâs an accusation Jonathan needs to hear. âDid you see that? He justâŠâ She makes a sharp motion with her hand toward the door. âLeft. Like Iâm some kind of⊠I donât know⊠Problem. He didnât feel like dealing with.â
She scoffs, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them when she realizes sheâs still wet. âAnd I know. I said some- some stupid stuff. But I wasnât wrong.â Her voice lifts, steadier now, fueled by indignation. âNone of itâs real. Itâs all bullshit. And he knows it.â
She finally turns fully toward him, leaning back against the counter for balance. âIâm so tired of pretending everythingâs fine. Of acting like nothing happened and like- like Barbâs death wasnât-â She abruptly cuts herself off, jaw tight. The name hangs in the air, heavy as ever.
âEveryone here is drunk and laughing and acting like itâs all some big joke,â she goes on, words tumbling over each other now. âLike nothing matters. And SteveâŠâ She stops herself, swallowing thickly. âSteve wants things to go back to normal. I donât even know what that means anymore.â
She exhales, sharp, rubbing a hand over her face. When she looks at Jonathan again, her anger has softened just a fraction, not gone, but redirected towards herself. âSo,â she finishes, gesturing weakly around the bathroom. âMandatory sheet-faced. Iâm just doing my part.â
She lets out a breath that sounds like itâs been sitting in her chest all night. Her eyes donât leave him this time. Glassy and unfocused.
âAnd you donât get to look at me like that,â she adds suddenly, words spilling before she can stop them. âAll quiet and focused.. Like itâs your job to fix this. Itâs not.â
She scoffs, pushing off the counter and immediately having to steady herself again. âYou shouldnât be here. You should be with Will⊠with your family. Not standing around, making eyes at some girl in the doorway.â She squints at him, forgetting that sheâs the one who invited him in the first place.
She shakes her head a little, like sheâs trying to clear it. âI mean⊠You didnât even want to come tonight. I know you didnât.â Her voice drops, almost accusing. âSo why are you here?â
Itâs the first real look heâs had at her since walking into the party. Now that he can see her clearly, really see her through the bathroom mirror, he notices her eyes. Glossy and red-rimmed which causes a drop in his stomach. Whatever he witnessed earlier on the dance floor wasnât her true self. That had been someone pretending. Well, performing seems to be the better world but this, this is someone unraveling after the performance.
She turns the faucet off, then hesitates and turns it back on. His gaze drifts to the ruined blouse as she mutters that her mom is going to kill her. âIâm sure sheâll understand,â he says gently. âItâs not like you did it on purpose.â
Then he catches the unmistakable scent of alcohol. He exhales through his nose. âThough if your mom gets a whiff of that, she might blow a gasket.â
The washcloth lands on the counter in defeat. His eyes follow the motion, then drift to the rest of the sink lined with empty cups, sticky spills, crumbs and stains scattered everywhere. He grimaces. The casual disrespect of it all. Someoneâs going to have a hell of a time cleaning this up. At least it wonât be him.
âOhâyeah. Um⊠I think I saw him head out the front,â he murmurs when she asks about Steve.
He doesnât miss the edge in her voice when she talks about being a problem, something Steve didnât want to deal with. He hesitates, then adds, âhe seemed pretty upset. Maybe he just⊠wasnât thinking clearly.â
Not that heâs defending Steve Harrington but one glimpse alone had given him a pretty good idea that whatever Nancy had said, had wrecked him enough to get him to leave.
Bullshit, she seems to be fond of that word. He stays quiet, listening as she slurs her way through. His body tenses the moment Barbâs name slips from her mouth and there it is.
Guilt, he knows it intimately, knows how it burrows under your skin and refuses to let go. His guilt comes from not being there the night Will disappeared, from every moment after where he wonders what he couldâve done differently. Nancyâs comes leaving Barb behind and ultimately failing her, at least, thatâs how she sees it.
âNancyâ he starts, but she barrels right over him, words spilling faster than he can interrupt. She talks about how everyone here just wants to party. How Steve wants to be part of that party. He hadnât realized how out of place she felt. At school, sheâd seemed fine. Just yesterday when she had been trying to convince him to come to the party, Steve had hoisted her in the air and they had sucked faces against the locker. She had been so wrapped up in him that by the time she came up for air he had slipped away.
When she jokes that getting sheet-faced is apparently mandatory, he hears the humor but he hears the disappointment too. She doesnât want to be here. She doesnât want to pretend everythingâs fine. Because it isnât. She saw something no one should have to see. Fought something that shouldnât exist. Did everything she could to save her friend only to learn it was already too late. Of course she canât just flip a switch and be okay.
His brows knit together when she snaps at him, telling him not to look at her like that. Like what?
Like he understands what itâs like to pretend youâre okay when youâre barely holding it together? Like you beat the monster but still flinch in the dark? Like you shared something profound with someone only to fade back into the background afterward?
âIââ His mouth opens, then closes.
Sheâs not wrong. He does want to fix it. Not her, never her, but this. The way sheâs hurting. The way sheâs been left alone with it. He wants to make it easier somehow. Wants her to breathe again without hiding in a bathroom, without drowning it in alcohol. She pushes herself off the counter, unsteady, and his instinct is to step forward but he stops himself. Feet planted in the doorway.
When she tells him he shouldnât be here, that he should be with his family, frustration flickers through him. Not at her, at everything.
âHonestly?â he admits quietly, arms folding across his chest like some familiar shield. âI donât really know where Iâm supposed to be.â
He exhales, words tumbling out slower now. âWhen Will disappeared, the guilt ate me alive because I wasnât there. And when he came back⊠I promised myself Iâd stay by his side. Be there for him. For my mom.â
Itâs why he missed weeks of school. Why nothing else mattered. School could wait. Family couldnât.
âTonight he told me I was cramping his style,â he continues, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. âSaid none of his friends had their parents or siblings tagging along. Iâm trying to be a good brother, and somehow Iâm still getting it wrong.â
He looks at her then. âHe lost something, Nancy. A big piece of his innocence. Heâs poked and prodded at doctor appointments, treated like heâs fragile. All he wanted was one night to trick-or-treat with his friends and feel normal again. How was I supposed to say no to that?â
Her question comes blunt and unfiltered. Why did you come tonight? The real answer sits heavy on his tongue you. Because he misses her. Because she saw him in a way no one else ever has. Because being near her made him feel like he wasnât invisible. But he doesnât say that.
âThought Iâd take a page out of my brotherâs book,â he says instead. âTry my hand at being normal.â A beat. âI almost pulled it off.â
His mind flickers briefly to Samantha. The conversation. The almost. He exhales. âProbably shouldâve just stayed home. Put on Talking Heads. Read Vonnegut.â
A faint, crooked smile as he studies her and realizes maybe he was meant to be here after all.
âGuess Iâm glad I made the exception and came, now you have someone to drive you home.â
She doesnât interrupt him. That alone feels like an improvement. Instead, she leans back against the counter, hip pressing into the cold laminate, listening with her head tipped slightly to one side, like the room is tilted and sheâs trying to adjust to it. His words come slowly, carefully chosen, and she can tell he means every one of them. When he talks about Will, her gaze drifts away, landing on a corner of the ceiling. She blinks a few times, like sheâs trying to clear her head.
She hears the part about guilt eating him alive and something in her chest tightens, familiar and violent. She knows that feeling too well. The what-ifs that replay in your head no matter how many times someone tells you to let go. The way it sits heavy on your chest even when everything else is supposed to be normal again.
His voice goes quieter when he gets to the part about trying to be a good brother and still getting it wrong. She looks back at him then. The way his arms are folded like heâs holding himself in place. The tired expression on his face. It hits her how much he carries too, how heâs been carrying it alone in his own way.
âOkay, see-â she says, too quick, too loud for the bathroom. She huffs and shakes her head. âYou always do this thing where you say something reasonable and suddenly I feel like Iâm wrong.â
âYou donât have to explain anything to me,â she says, a little defensive, then shakes her head. âI mean, you can, I justâŠâ She exhales. âI get it. Wanting one normal night. Wanting it so bad you pretend itâs possible.â
She rubs at her forehead, fingers pressing hard like she can push the spinning back into place. Her shoulder bumps the mirror as she turns, the glass rattling slightly. She winces. âSorry,â she murmurs to it, then laughs at herself.
When he admits he doesnât know where heâs supposed to be, that hits her. She goes still, finally, both hands braced on the counter. âYeahâŠâ she says, slower now. âThat makes two of us.â
She stares at the sink like it might give her an answer. âEveryone keeps acting like thereâs a right place to stand after something⊠bad happens,â she continues. âIf you pick the wrong one, it says something about you.â Her lips twist. âAnd if you pick the right one, youâre fixed.â
She looks at him again. âI donât think thatâs real,â she adds quietly. âI think you just end up⊠somewhere. And hope it doesnât hurt as much as the last place.â
The mention of being normal makes her scoff, but thereâs no bite in it this time. âNormalâs bullshit,â she says. âNormal didnât save anyone.â
The bathroom feels smaller now. The music playing is just a dull thump behind the door. All the noise from the party seems so far away. She thinks about what he said, about Talking Heads and Vonnegut waiting at home. It makes her feel a little guilty for inviting him in the first place, even if sheâs glad he came.
She straightens a little, then sways again, catching herself before it turns into something worse. âI shouldnât have said you didnât belong here,â she adds, words tangling together.
Her eyes lift to his face and linger there longer than she seems to intend. âYou werenât doing anything wrong,â she says more quietly. âYou were just⊠there.â
The idea of him driving her home seems to take a second to register. She frowns, still processing. âHome,â she repeats, testing the word. âYeah. Home sounds⊠good.â
It feels strange, unloading everything heâs been carrying onto Nancy, especially when sheâs drunk. Then again, who else does he really have? His momâs world still revolves around Will, and he understands that completely. Sheâs never blamed him for what happened. She told him as much, told him he couldnât keep punishing himself, that he wasnât alone, that he didnât have to carry everything on his own. So why the hell is he still doing it?
When Nancy speaks again, her voice echoes slightly, bouncing off the walls. He canât help the quiet chuckle that slips out when she points out his habit of saying things that sound reasonable enough to make her feel like sheâs suddenly in the wrong.
âItâs not like that,â he says, shaking his head. âHalf the time I donât even know what Iâm doing.â
He shrugs, searching for the right words. âI just⊠try to look at things from another angle. Like a camera. Adjust the focus. See what else shows up.â
If heâs honest, he doesnât like this version of things, this careful back-and-forth. When they were monster hunters, talking to her came easily. Now, it feels like theyâre both tiptoeing around invisible lines. He gestures to the cramped bathroom, then toward the muffled noise beyond the walls. âDoes this really scream Jonathan Byersâ idea of fun?â
He shakes his head.
âHonestly, I wouldâve rather stayed home,â he admits. âBut my mom and her boyfriendâBob.â He pauses, rolling the name around like it still doesnât quite belong. âTheyâre handing out Halloween candy, watching some movie and yeah, donât even want to think about the rest.â He shakes his head. âHow messed up is that? My mom has more of a social life than I do.â
Thereâs something bittersweet in the realization. Somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, she managed to connect with someone and build something real. He wishes, not for the first time, that he knew how to do that too. Thought maybe, maybe he had, once. His gaze drifts from Nancy, but itâs brief. It never stays away for long. As a photographer, sheâs impossible not to studyâbrilliant, strong, selfless, brave. Beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you and knocks the breath out of your lungs. Especially now, as she launches into a half-slurred rant about choosing the right place to stand, about how normal is bullshit.
âThere is a right place,â he says gently. âItâs wherever you choose to be. No one else gets a say in that.â His voice steadies. âMaybe it bites you in the ass later but itâs still your choice. No one gets to push you anywhere.â
Itâs strange how, in this cramped bathroom, the rest of the party fades away. Everyone out there gets to stay blissfully ignorant of what really lurks in Hawkins. Their biggest problems revolve around hookups, jealousy, and popularity. Compared to the weight he and Nancy carry, it all feels painfully trivial.
âItâs okay,â he adds quietly. âYou werenât wrong. I donât really belong here.â He hesitates, eyes lingering on her. âMy idea of a good night probably wouldâve beenâŠâ
He stops himself, then exhales.
âSome cheesy slasher flick from the seventies,â he continues anyway. âThe kind where the bloodâs obviously fake, the plotâs predictable, and the actingâs terribleâbut you watch it anyway because youâre not missing much if you talk over it.â A faint smile tugs at his lips. âPopcorn. Candy. Andââ
For a moment he paused, appraising her once again and by the looks of it, she likely wonât remember this conversation.
âYou.â
The word comes out soft, almost swallowed by the room. He shrugs, smaller this time, like it doesnât mean much. Like she might not even hear it.
Home, the word hits her harder than he expects. He hears it in the way she repeats it, turning it over like sheâs trying to figure out whether it still applies. After a moment, he steps forward, placing a steadying hand at the small of her back. âCome on,â he murmurs. âI donât think this partyâs gonna miss us.â
He guides her down the hallway, weaving through bodies and noise. Someone laughs, someone stumbles. Somewhere behind them, he hears a voice mutter about Creep Byers stealing Nancy Wheeler away and how Harrington wonât like it. He grimaces but keeps moving. None of that matters right now. Theyâre almost out when someone calls his name. His real name.
âJonathan?â
He turns to see Samantha approaching, looking surprised. âYou kinda disappeared,â she says. âAre you leaving?â
A faint flush creeps up his neck. âYeah, sorry. Just, uh⊠my friend here. Iâm taking her home. Her ride bailed.â
âOh.â She hesitates. âAre you coming back?â
He scans the room, eyes on him now, curiosity buzzing as he stands between Nancy Wheeler and another girl. Then he looks back at Samantha. âThis partyâs not really my scene.â
Before he can finish, she grabs his wrist. He startles slightly as she pulls out a pen and writes quickly on his palm. It takes him a second to realize what sheâs done, itâs her number.
âIn case you wanna talk more about The Cure,â she says with a coy smile. âTalking Heads. And other stuff.â
âUh yeah,â he manages. âSure.â
She disappears back into the crowd. He glances down at his palm once more, then back at Nancy before pushing open the front door. Cool night air washes over them both. Out in the bushes, a guy in a toga is violently throwing up. Jonathan snorts under his breath.
âGuess Pure Fuel isnât agreeing with him anymore,â he says, opening the passenger door for her.
As soon as they enter the hallway, Nancy can feel a shift in the air around them. Sheâs leaning slightly toward Jonathan, more out of necessity than intention. The hallway is still swimming, the noise pressing in from all sides, when someone steps into his space. Nancy blinks, her eyes dragging from the floor up to the girl standing in front of him. Confident and comfortable. Someone who looks like she knows exactly where she belongs.
She remembers her vaguely, from earlier, seeing them talk in the doorway while she was dancing with Steve. Jonathan looked at ease with her⊠Almost Happy.
Nancyâs gaze drops to his wrist just as the girl takes it. The contact is casual. The kind of thing people do at parties when everything is easy and no one is thinking too hard about consequences. The pen appears, clicks, and suddenly thereâs ink moving across his skin. It bothers her more than it should⊠Thereâs a tight, sour twist low in her stomach, sharp enough to cut through her drunken haze, and before she can stop herself, before she can run the thought through whatever filter she usually uses, the sound slips out of her.
âOh.â
She hears it echo faintly in the hallway and immediately regrets it, but that doesnât stop her from squinting at his hand, like if she concentrates hard enough the writing will disappear and Jonathan wonât be able to call her.
Her balance shifts as she leans closer, trying to read the number, the movement uncoordinated enough that she has to press her palm briefly to Jonathanâs chest to steady herself. The contact surprises her, solid, warm, and grounding. She leaves her hand there a second too long.
âSorry,â she mumbles, pulling back and folding her arms like that might help her stay upright.
When Samantha mentions talking more, Nancy feels something spike in her chest, not anger, exactly, but a possessive instinct that catches her off guard by how fast it shows up. She doesnât like it. She doesnât know what to do with it.
Nancyâs almost relieved when the girl disappears back into the crowd. The hallway is loud, chaotic, and⊠suffocating. She stares at Jonathanâs hand, the ink stark against his skin, and guilt flickers briefly, quick and fleeting, before it gets drowned out by the sheer effort of staying on her feet.
The front door opens and cold air slices through the warmth and noise, harsh enough to make her suck in a breath. It helps. A little. The porch light is too bright, washing everything out, and she squints as they step outside. She misjudges a step and stumbles, fingers curling into Jonathanâs jacket instinctively, heart dropping before she steadies herself again.
âWow,â she breathes, half-laughing, half-mortified at her lack of coordination. âItâs really⊠not my night.â
At the car, she pauses, one hand on the open door, eyes drifting back to his palm. Swallowing thickly when they land on the ink again.
âSheâs probably nice. She seems⊠normal. Which isâgood.â she says after a moment, quieter now. âAnd you should⊠Call her, I mean. Or donât. Thatâs not-â She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. âThatâs not my business.â
She slides into the passenger seat carefully, exhaustion finally settling in. When the door closes, she rests her forehead against the cool window, letting the silence stretch between them.
âIâm glad it was you,â she says, then shakes her head again like sheâs trying to keep words from spilling out. âI donât think I wouldâve handled this well with anyone else.â
His gaze follows hers as they both look down at his palm. When she starts talking, his eyes lift back to her face. Sheâs giving her seal of approval. Samantha seems nice, normal and Nancy is encouraging him to call her. A pretty girl gave him her number tonight. He should be thrilled. nstead, he feels hollow.
Because itâs Nancy nudging him toward it. Nancy, reminding him that this is how things are supposed to go. You might meet someone, sheâd said when she had first given him the flyer. That had been the reason she had focused on most to get him to come, nothing about her wanting to spend time with him. Shockingly enough he did meet someone. They had connected, shared interests, and it had been easy.
And yet, instead of wanting to raise his fist in some triumphant Breakfast Club moment, he feels quietly defeated. Sheâs pushing him to date. Whatever last remaining hope heâd been clinging to, that maybe she felt something too had crumbled. Popular girls donât date freaks. Heâs learned that lesson more than once. She might be sour at Steve tonight but sheâll be back to swooning in his arms tomorrow.
âYeah,â he says after a beat. âMaybe.â A weak smile tugs at his lips. âSheâs pretty cool. First girl Iâve met who actually likes the same indie bands I do.â
He steps back, holding the passenger door open as Nancy slides into the car. Once sheâs settled, he lingers. He opens his palm again and it hits him. The scar, the same one he sliced open to summon the Demogorgon. The one he and Nancy shared in blood and fear and desperation. Itâs still there, though itâs faded now, no longer raw, no longer new. A symbol of something they survived together. Something that once bound them tightly.
Now, the phone number stands out more than the scar. He wonders if thatâs the universeâs way of telling him something like the past is the past, look forward. Let go. He doesnât dwell on it. He closes his hand and opens the driverâs side door, sliding in behind the wheel.
Nancyâs resting her head against the window, eyes closed, letting the cold glass soothe her forehead. He turns the key, the engine coughing to life. When she speaks again, his attention drifts back to her automatically.
âItâs no problem, youâre allowed to blow off steam, Nancy. I think weâve earned that much.â
His eyes flick to his palm once more. Maybe thatâs what the number represents, the chance to move on. To stop pining after someone whoâs already chosen a different path. If only it were that easy.
Samantha had taken his hand, written her number there, and yeah it had been nice. Exciting, even. But earlier tonight, Nancy had pressed her hand to his chest to steady herself. Only one of those moments made his heart race.
And it wasnât Samantha.
Itâs the girl beside him now, cheek pressed to the glass, lost in thought, thinking about how life is bullshit. He exhales, shifts the car into drive, and pulls away from the curb.
The car pulls away from the curb and Nancy doesnât realize how tense sheâs been until the motion smooths out, until the house disappears in the rearview and the noise of the party finally gets left behind. She keeps her head tipped against the window, cheek pressed to the cold glass, eyes half-lidded as streetlights slide past in long streaks of orange and white.
She exhales slowly, shoulders dropping like theyâve been waiting all night for permission to relax. Her fingers fumble with the hem of her stained shirt, twisting the fabric until it wrinkles, then smoothing it out again.
âI forgot how quiet Hawkins gets at night,â She pauses, considering her next words carefully. âItâs like the town just⊠shuts itself off.â
Her gaze drifts downward, catching on his hand resting near the wheel. She doesnât mean to look, but she does anyway. The ink is still dark against his skin. Too clear, too real. Her throat tightens, and she looks back out the window quickly, like the sight startled her. Her expression sours, just slightly.
âShe looked sure of herself,â Nancy says after a moment. âThat girl. The one with the pen.â She pauses, the word pen seeming to trip her up. âItâs weird how you can tellâŠWhen someone knows what theyâre doing.â
She shifts in her seat, the movement slightly off, shoulder bumping the door harder than she meant to. âIâm notââ She stops and sighs. âIâm not mad. Not that I have a reason to be. Iâm just⊠surprised.â
She drags a hand down her face, pressing her palm briefly to her cheek like it might calm her thoughts. âI keep telling myself Iâm not allowed to feel this way. Like I forfeited somethingâŠâ Her sentence trails off. She doesnât feel like she can finish it. Her fingers lift, hovering near her collarbone, then drop back in her lap.
âYou know whatâs stupid?â she asks abruptly, turning her head just enough that heâs in her peripheral vision. âI keep thinking about things that donât matter. Like⊠little things.â
âI cut my hair, and everyone noticed,â she continues, words spilling out fast. âTeachers. Girls at school. Steve. He said it made me look older, whichâŠâ She scoffs. âWasnât what I was going for.â
She pauses, breath catching slightly. âYou didnât say anythingâŠâ
âI told myself you didnât care about that stuff. Or that you were busy. Or that it wasnât important enough to mention.â Her mouth twists. âBut, I wanted you to.â
The admission feels heavier than she expected. She presses her lips together, staring hard out the window. The car hums beneath them, the road is smooth, unbothered by the way her thoughts keep tripping over themselves. She glances over again, quick, like she canât help it. Studying the ink and the scar beneath it.
âI donât want to be the person who stands in the way of things that make sense,â she says quietly, letting the words come without worrying if they make sense. âI donât want to be the reason someone stays stuck.â
Her lips part, hesitation flickering across her face. âBut I also donât want to pretend I didnât feel something⊠Watching it happen.â
She shifts, finally sitting up straighter, the alcohol loosening its grip just enough to leave her tired instead of relaxed. âI wouldnât be talking like this if I were clearheaded,â she admits. Her breathing is slow and controlled, like sheâs bracing herself for something.
Nancy looks away, suddenly very interested in the dark stretch of road ahead, the way the pavement gleams faintly under the headlights. âSorry,â she says after a moment, steadier this time. âThat was⊠too much.â
Her shoulders draw in slightly, posture tensing again. âYouâre doing me a favor. Thatâs all this is. You didnât sign up to hear me spiral about things that donât matter.â
She swallows, throat tight, and forces a small, controlled breath through her nose. âAnd I donât want you thinking Iââ She stops again, shakes her head once. âNever mind.â
Her gaze drifts back to the window, reflection faint and distorted in the glass. She presses her forehead there again, letting the cool seep in.
Hearing how she mentions how quiet Hawkins gets at night, he shifts slightly in his seat. âI used to like the quiet,â he says after a moment. âWhen Lonnie still lived with us, Byers family dinners were⊠explosive.â The memories surface whether he wants them to or not, his dad already drunk by the time he sat down, one wrong word enough to set him off. Plates shoved aside, cups knocked over and food scattering across the table as his temper went nuclear.
âWhen things were quiet, it meant he wasnât being an asshole,â he continues, voice steady despite the weight behind it. âI didnât have to crank my stereo just to drown out the yelling.â He also didnât have to steer his brother into his bedroom to shield him from Lonnieâs heartless comments regarding his boy.
He exhales slowly. That perspective has changed. âNow the silence just puts me on edge. Like Iâm waiting for something awful to happen.â
Will is back, but nothing is normal. Some nights he hears the bathroom door creak shut, followed by coughing, itâs sharp, violent, like his brotherâs choking on something that wonât come up. Then it stops and every time he asks, Will insists heâs fine. The Demogorgon is gone. Eleven made sure of that by paying the ultimate price. Itâs been over a year, no sci-fi related activity that points to Upside Down, that should reassure him. Instead, it makes him feel like heâs waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For a second, he forgets Nancy is even in the passenger seat until she speaks, pulling him back. âHuh?â His brows knit together. Then it clicks. âOh. You mean Samantha.â
He glances at the road. âYeah. She was⊠pretty cool.â Itâs easier to be certain about things, he thinks, when youâre not constantly bracing for disaster. His confusion deepens when Nancy says she isnât mad.
âSurprised?â he repeats, trying to follow. Then, âForfeited something?â He trails off, frustration flickering. âYouâre not exactly making this easyâ he says under his breath because everything from her sounds so cryptic.
None of it adds up. Samantha had been confident, bold, sure of herself when she wrote her number on his palm. Nancy claims sheâs not angry about it. She doesnât think sheâs allowed to feel whatever it is sheâs feeling yet somehow it still feels like she gave something up. If he tries to piece it together, the only conclusion that makes sense is one he refuses to believe.
Disappointment, but that would mean she cares. Which she doesnât. Because if you like someone, you donât choose someone else. You donât push them to go to a party and meet someone new. His grip tightens on the steering wheel when she brings up her hair, how she cut it, how she was disappointed he didnât say anything.
Of course he noticed, but why would his opinion matter? The car suddenly feels too small. Like itâs caving in around them. He considers cracking a window, then stops because he doesnât want to give away how suffocating this is starting to feel. Sheâs said a lot. Too much. Words that are still echoing in his head.
I also didnât want to pretend I didnât feel something, watching it happen.
That line sticks. Had she just admitted that seeing him with Samantha made something drop in her stomach? A feeling he knows all too well, the same one that hits every time he sees her with Steve.
As expected after her ranting session she starts to make a hasty retreat. Blames the alcohol. Tomorrow she wonât remember any of this, but he will. Tonight will cling to him long after she forgets it ever happened, and that feels unfair. Still, maybe it was freeing for her, to let some of that weight slip, even briefly. Maybe this is his chance, because she wont remember.
âI noticed when you cut your hair,â he says quietly.
He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking toward her before returning to the road. âProbably more than most people did. Because it wasnât some fresh change. It wasnât about getting a reaction or making a statement for anyone else. It felt intentional. Like you needed an outlet. Like everything you went through, everything you never got to say out loud, had to go somewhere.â
He swallows.
âI think it was you shedding the version of yourself everyone keeps trying to freeze in place. The perfect one. The prim, proper, untouchable Nancy Wheeler.â
A soft sigh escapes him. He glances at her again, then looks forward. âWhen you cut it, it felt like you were finally letting the other parts of you breathe.â
He hesitates. Counts silently from five to zero. His cheeks warm instantly at the next admission.
âThe first time I saw it⊠I liked it. I still do. Not just because it looks good, obviously it does, everything on you does.â He clears his throat, trying to recover.
âBut because it feels real. Like youâre not hiding anymore. The first time I saw it, I was at my locker, you were walking with Steve, he said something like the look was growing on him, that it was hot. I think he took it as new look, new you, fresh start, and putting everything you endured behind you, but I knew the real reason for it and I couldnât tear my eyes away from you.â
Honestly, he isnât sure what possessed him to drag himself to Tinaâs party at all. He tells himself itâs because heâs trying to be a cool, understanding big brother. Thatâs the excuse, at least, the reason Will is currently out trick-or-treating with his friends, no chaperone hovering nearby. He gets it. Will feels suffocated. Their mom is overprotective, for good reason but between the doctor visits, therapy sessions, and emotional whiplash, he understands why his little brother is desperate for some kind of normalcy.
Maybe this is his attempt at that too. Because underneath the loner persona, beneath the camera and the quiet, he wants to feel normal. Just once. Thatâs the only reason he forces himself inside. Itâs hard to blend in when he sticks out this badly. Everyone else is in some kind of costume, and he hadnât even bothered. When some girl his age asks what heâs supposed to be, he deadpans, âA guy who hates parties.â Itâs a dry, half-hearted joke, but surprisingly it earns a laugh and a name, Samantha. For a moment, he thinks, maybe this wonât be so bad.
Then his eyes catch on a familiar figure across the room. Sheâs dancing. Spinning wildly, red cup clenched in her hand, movements loose and uncoordinated. Sloppy, even. He has to do a double take, just to be sure. When she completes a full spin, thereâs no mistaking her. Itâs Nancy Wheeler. Sheâs doing exactly what the flyer promised, completely sheet-faced and sheâs dancing with Steve Harrington.
He watches her, something tight twisting in his chest. Wonders if this is who she was before monster hunting, before the disappearance of Barb Holland cracked her world open. Heâs never seen her like this. Then again, heâs never been part of this world. Even before everything went to hell, he wasnât going to parties. Weekends meant extra shifts, restocking shelves, doing whatever it took to keep the lights on. Has she always been this carefree? He wonders briefly, if a girl like her wouldâve ever noticed him without shared trauma tying them together. Probably not because popular girls donât usually talk to freaks.
That thought is what finally makes him tear his eyes away. He turns back to Samantha, and to his surprise, conversation comes easily. They land on music which is a safe subject. One he knows inside and out. There are no awkward pauses, no scrambling for words. They talk about Echo & the Bunnymen, The Replacements, The Cure, The Smiths. Her eyes light up when she suddenly grabs his wrist, excitement spilling into her voice as she tells him she saw The Smiths live in Chicago. His brows lift, genuinely impressed, and heâs just about to ask her more when a sudden commotion erupts from the kitchen. The party quiets. Seconds later, Nancy storms down the hallway, blouse soaked in punch aka liquid fuel while Steve rushes after her, apologizing as he goes.
He manages to keep half his attention on Samantha, but at some point his body has angled toward the hallway, eyes flicking back again and again, waiting to catch a glimpse of Nancy. They keep talking, overrated artists now and Samantha is animated, passionate, easy to listen to. Slowly, he finds it easier to focus on her instead of the hall. Then he sees Harrington again. Steve makes a beeline for the front door and heâs alone. He has always been an observer. One look at Steveâs expression tells him whatever just happened wasnât good. She made her choice, he reminds himself. She chose Steve. Checking on her shouldnât be his concern. But thatâs his problem, he cares. Too much, especially when it comes to Nancy.
His gaze sweeps the room. Half the people are drunk. Most of them are guys. Something tightens in his chest at the thought of Nancy being left alone like that. He politely excuses himself from Samantha. A voice in his head tells him heâs an idiot, that maybe something couldâve come from this but he shuts it down. He weaves through the crowd, slipping into the darkened hallway. Doors line the walls. He opens them one by one, earning groans, curses, a few slurred âoccupieds.â Each empty room brings a strange sense of relief because sheâs not there. Finally, he reaches the last door, itâs likely the bathroom.
He knocks gently. A muffled sound answers from inside. Even slurred, he recognizes the voice instantly. âNancy,â he says softly. âItâs Jonathan. I justâwanted to see if youâre okay in there?â He hears the sink running. Her muttered cursing follows. He tests the knob and sure enough itâs unlocked. âHey, Iâm gonna come in, okay?â
No protest and then he eases the door open and finds her at the sink, furiously scrubbing at her blouse, only spreading the stain further. He pauses, watching her for a second, searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he opts for something lighter.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI know the flyer said come get sheet-faced, but I didnât realize it was mandatory. Between that and my lack of a costume, I think Iâm really failing this whole Halloween thing.â
Nancy doesnât spare him a glance. Too focused on scrubbing the pink stain spreading across her blouse, like if she works it hard enough she can erase the whole night. His joke registers a second too late. When it does, she lets out a short, humorless laugh. âYeah,â she says, voice thin and slurred just enough to give her away. âItâs all bullshit anyway.â
She finally glances up at him through the mirror. Her eyes are shiny and red around the edges. Glossy in a way that means sheâs gone way past her limit.
She gives her blouse a small shake, uncomfortable with the wet fabric sticking to her skin. âI really tried to do it right. Show up, drink the stupid punch, dance to the stupid musicâŠâ She stops. âNot stupid. Itâs fine. Whatever.â
She turns the water off, then immediately turns it back on, forgetting why she stopped in the first place. âGod, this thing-â She gestures vaguely at the blouse, at herself, at the entire situation. âDo you know how expensive this was? My mom is gonna kill me.â
She laughs again, this one louder, sharper. She wipes her hands on the stained washcloth she's been using to scrub her blouse, then drops it on the counter, abandoning it halfway through the job.
âHe left,â she says suddenly, like itâs an accusation Jonathan needs to hear. âDid you see that? He justâŠâ She makes a sharp motion with her hand toward the door. âLeft. Like Iâm some kind of⊠I donât know⊠Problem. He didnât feel like dealing with.â
She scoffs, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them when she realizes sheâs still wet. âAnd I know. I said some- some stupid stuff. But I wasnât wrong.â Her voice lifts, steadier now, fueled by indignation. âNone of itâs real. Itâs all bullshit. And he knows it.â
She finally turns fully toward him, leaning back against the counter for balance. âIâm so tired of pretending everythingâs fine. Of acting like nothing happened and like- like Barbâs death wasnât-â She abruptly cuts herself off, jaw tight. The name hangs in the air, heavy as ever.
âEveryone here is drunk and laughing and acting like itâs all some big joke,â she goes on, words tumbling over each other now. âLike nothing matters. And SteveâŠâ She stops herself, swallowing thickly. âSteve wants things to go back to normal. I donât even know what that means anymore.â
She exhales, sharp, rubbing a hand over her face. When she looks at Jonathan again, her anger has softened just a fraction, not gone, but redirected towards herself. âSo,â she finishes, gesturing weakly around the bathroom. âMandatory sheet-faced. Iâm just doing my part.â
She lets out a breath that sounds like itâs been sitting in her chest all night. Her eyes donât leave him this time. Glassy and unfocused.
âAnd you donât get to look at me like that,â she adds suddenly, words spilling before she can stop them. âAll quiet and focused.. Like itâs your job to fix this. Itâs not.â
She scoffs, pushing off the counter and immediately having to steady herself again. âYou shouldnât be here. You should be with Will⊠with your family. Not standing around, making eyes at some girl in the doorway.â She squints at him, forgetting that sheâs the one who invited him in the first place.
She shakes her head a little, like sheâs trying to clear it. âI mean⊠You didnât even want to come tonight. I know you didnât.â Her voice drops, almost accusing. âSo why are you here?â
Itâs the first real look heâs had at her since walking into the party. Now that he can see her clearly, really see her through the bathroom mirror, he notices her eyes. Glossy and red-rimmed which causes a drop in his stomach. Whatever he witnessed earlier on the dance floor wasnât her true self. That had been someone pretending. Well, performing seems to be the better world but this, this is someone unraveling after the performance.
She turns the faucet off, then hesitates and turns it back on. His gaze drifts to the ruined blouse as she mutters that her mom is going to kill her. âIâm sure sheâll understand,â he says gently. âItâs not like you did it on purpose.â
Then he catches the unmistakable scent of alcohol. He exhales through his nose. âThough if your mom gets a whiff of that, she might blow a gasket.â
The washcloth lands on the counter in defeat. His eyes follow the motion, then drift to the rest of the sink lined with empty cups, sticky spills, crumbs and stains scattered everywhere. He grimaces. The casual disrespect of it all. Someoneâs going to have a hell of a time cleaning this up. At least it wonât be him.
âOhâyeah. Um⊠I think I saw him head out the front,â he murmurs when she asks about Steve.
He doesnât miss the edge in her voice when she talks about being a problem, something Steve didnât want to deal with. He hesitates, then adds, âhe seemed pretty upset. Maybe he just⊠wasnât thinking clearly.â
Not that heâs defending Steve Harrington but one glimpse alone had given him a pretty good idea that whatever Nancy had said, had wrecked him enough to get him to leave.
Bullshit, she seems to be fond of that word. He stays quiet, listening as she slurs her way through. His body tenses the moment Barbâs name slips from her mouth and there it is.
Guilt, he knows it intimately, knows how it burrows under your skin and refuses to let go. His guilt comes from not being there the night Will disappeared, from every moment after where he wonders what he couldâve done differently. Nancyâs comes leaving Barb behind and ultimately failing her, at least, thatâs how she sees it.
âNancyâ he starts, but she barrels right over him, words spilling faster than he can interrupt. She talks about how everyone here just wants to party. How Steve wants to be part of that party. He hadnât realized how out of place she felt. At school, sheâd seemed fine. Just yesterday when she had been trying to convince him to come to the party, Steve had hoisted her in the air and they had sucked faces against the locker. She had been so wrapped up in him that by the time she came up for air he had slipped away.
When she jokes that getting sheet-faced is apparently mandatory, he hears the humor but he hears the disappointment too. She doesnât want to be here. She doesnât want to pretend everythingâs fine. Because it isnât. She saw something no one should have to see. Fought something that shouldnât exist. Did everything she could to save her friend only to learn it was already too late. Of course she canât just flip a switch and be okay.
His brows knit together when she snaps at him, telling him not to look at her like that. Like what?
Like he understands what itâs like to pretend youâre okay when youâre barely holding it together? Like you beat the monster but still flinch in the dark? Like you shared something profound with someone only to fade back into the background afterward?
âIââ His mouth opens, then closes.
Sheâs not wrong. He does want to fix it. Not her, never her, but this. The way sheâs hurting. The way sheâs been left alone with it. He wants to make it easier somehow. Wants her to breathe again without hiding in a bathroom, without drowning it in alcohol. She pushes herself off the counter, unsteady, and his instinct is to step forward but he stops himself. Feet planted in the doorway.
When she tells him he shouldnât be here, that he should be with his family, frustration flickers through him. Not at her, at everything.
âHonestly?â he admits quietly, arms folding across his chest like some familiar shield. âI donât really know where Iâm supposed to be.â
He exhales, words tumbling out slower now. âWhen Will disappeared, the guilt ate me alive because I wasnât there. And when he came back⊠I promised myself Iâd stay by his side. Be there for him. For my mom.â
Itâs why he missed weeks of school. Why nothing else mattered. School could wait. Family couldnât.
âTonight he told me I was cramping his style,â he continues, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. âSaid none of his friends had their parents or siblings tagging along. Iâm trying to be a good brother, and somehow Iâm still getting it wrong.â
He looks at her then. âHe lost something, Nancy. A big piece of his innocence. Heâs poked and prodded at doctor appointments, treated like heâs fragile. All he wanted was one night to trick-or-treat with his friends and feel normal again. How was I supposed to say no to that?â
Her question comes blunt and unfiltered. Why did you come tonight? The real answer sits heavy on his tongue you. Because he misses her. Because she saw him in a way no one else ever has. Because being near her made him feel like he wasnât invisible. But he doesnât say that.
âThought Iâd take a page out of my brotherâs book,â he says instead. âTry my hand at being normal.â A beat. âI almost pulled it off.â
His mind flickers briefly to Samantha. The conversation. The almost. He exhales. âProbably shouldâve just stayed home. Put on Talking Heads. Read Vonnegut.â
A faint, crooked smile as he studies her and realizes maybe he was meant to be here after all.
âGuess Iâm glad I made the exception and came, now you have someone to drive you home.â
She doesnât interrupt him. That alone feels like an improvement. Instead, she leans back against the counter, hip pressing into the cold laminate, listening with her head tipped slightly to one side, like the room is tilted and sheâs trying to adjust to it. His words come slowly, carefully chosen, and she can tell he means every one of them. When he talks about Will, her gaze drifts away, landing on a corner of the ceiling. She blinks a few times, like sheâs trying to clear her head.
She hears the part about guilt eating him alive and something in her chest tightens, familiar and violent. She knows that feeling too well. The what-ifs that replay in your head no matter how many times someone tells you to let go. The way it sits heavy on your chest even when everything else is supposed to be normal again.
His voice goes quieter when he gets to the part about trying to be a good brother and still getting it wrong. She looks back at him then. The way his arms are folded like heâs holding himself in place. The tired expression on his face. It hits her how much he carries too, how heâs been carrying it alone in his own way.
âOkay, see-â she says, too quick, too loud for the bathroom. She huffs and shakes her head. âYou always do this thing where you say something reasonable and suddenly I feel like Iâm wrong.â
âYou donât have to explain anything to me,â she says, a little defensive, then shakes her head. âI mean, you can, I justâŠâ She exhales. âI get it. Wanting one normal night. Wanting it so bad you pretend itâs possible.â
She rubs at her forehead, fingers pressing hard like she can push the spinning back into place. Her shoulder bumps the mirror as she turns, the glass rattling slightly. She winces. âSorry,â she murmurs to it, then laughs at herself.
When he admits he doesnât know where heâs supposed to be, that hits her. She goes still, finally, both hands braced on the counter. âYeahâŠâ she says, slower now. âThat makes two of us.â
She stares at the sink like it might give her an answer. âEveryone keeps acting like thereâs a right place to stand after something⊠bad happens,â she continues. âIf you pick the wrong one, it says something about you.â Her lips twist. âAnd if you pick the right one, youâre fixed.â
She looks at him again. âI donât think thatâs real,â she adds quietly. âI think you just end up⊠somewhere. And hope it doesnât hurt as much as the last place.â
The mention of being normal makes her scoff, but thereâs no bite in it this time. âNormalâs bullshit,â she says. âNormal didnât save anyone.â
The bathroom feels smaller now. The music playing is just a dull thump behind the door. All the noise from the party seems so far away. She thinks about what he said, about Talking Heads and Vonnegut waiting at home. It makes her feel a little guilty for inviting him in the first place, even if sheâs glad he came.
She straightens a little, then sways again, catching herself before it turns into something worse. âI shouldnât have said you didnât belong here,â she adds, words tangling together.
Her eyes lift to his face and linger there longer than she seems to intend. âYou werenât doing anything wrong,â she says more quietly. âYou were just⊠there.â
The idea of him driving her home seems to take a second to register. She frowns, still processing. âHome,â she repeats, testing the word. âYeah. Home sounds⊠good.â
It feels strange, unloading everything heâs been carrying onto Nancy, especially when sheâs drunk. Then again, who else does he really have? His momâs world still revolves around Will, and he understands that completely. Sheâs never blamed him for what happened. She told him as much, told him he couldnât keep punishing himself, that he wasnât alone, that he didnât have to carry everything on his own. So why the hell is he still doing it?
When Nancy speaks again, her voice echoes slightly, bouncing off the walls. He canât help the quiet chuckle that slips out when she points out his habit of saying things that sound reasonable enough to make her feel like sheâs suddenly in the wrong.
âItâs not like that,â he says, shaking his head. âHalf the time I donât even know what Iâm doing.â
He shrugs, searching for the right words. âI just⊠try to look at things from another angle. Like a camera. Adjust the focus. See what else shows up.â
If heâs honest, he doesnât like this version of things, this careful back-and-forth. When they were monster hunters, talking to her came easily. Now, it feels like theyâre both tiptoeing around invisible lines. He gestures to the cramped bathroom, then toward the muffled noise beyond the walls. âDoes this really scream Jonathan Byersâ idea of fun?â
He shakes his head.
âHonestly, I wouldâve rather stayed home,â he admits. âBut my mom and her boyfriendâBob.â He pauses, rolling the name around like it still doesnât quite belong. âTheyâre handing out Halloween candy, watching some movie and yeah, donât even want to think about the rest.â He shakes his head. âHow messed up is that? My mom has more of a social life than I do.â
Thereâs something bittersweet in the realization. Somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, she managed to connect with someone and build something real. He wishes, not for the first time, that he knew how to do that too. Thought maybe, maybe he had, once. His gaze drifts from Nancy, but itâs brief. It never stays away for long. As a photographer, sheâs impossible not to studyâbrilliant, strong, selfless, brave. Beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you and knocks the breath out of your lungs. Especially now, as she launches into a half-slurred rant about choosing the right place to stand, about how normal is bullshit.
âThere is a right place,â he says gently. âItâs wherever you choose to be. No one else gets a say in that.â His voice steadies. âMaybe it bites you in the ass later but itâs still your choice. No one gets to push you anywhere.â
Itâs strange how, in this cramped bathroom, the rest of the party fades away. Everyone out there gets to stay blissfully ignorant of what really lurks in Hawkins. Their biggest problems revolve around hookups, jealousy, and popularity. Compared to the weight he and Nancy carry, it all feels painfully trivial.
âItâs okay,â he adds quietly. âYou werenât wrong. I donât really belong here.â He hesitates, eyes lingering on her. âMy idea of a good night probably wouldâve beenâŠâ
He stops himself, then exhales.
âSome cheesy slasher flick from the seventies,â he continues anyway. âThe kind where the bloodâs obviously fake, the plotâs predictable, and the actingâs terribleâbut you watch it anyway because youâre not missing much if you talk over it.â A faint smile tugs at his lips. âPopcorn. Candy. Andââ
For a moment he paused, appraising her once again and by the looks of it, she likely wonât remember this conversation.
âYou.â
The word comes out soft, almost swallowed by the room. He shrugs, smaller this time, like it doesnât mean much. Like she might not even hear it.
Home, the word hits her harder than he expects. He hears it in the way she repeats it, turning it over like sheâs trying to figure out whether it still applies. After a moment, he steps forward, placing a steadying hand at the small of her back. âCome on,â he murmurs. âI donât think this partyâs gonna miss us.â
He guides her down the hallway, weaving through bodies and noise. Someone laughs, someone stumbles. Somewhere behind them, he hears a voice mutter about Creep Byers stealing Nancy Wheeler away and how Harrington wonât like it. He grimaces but keeps moving. None of that matters right now. Theyâre almost out when someone calls his name. His real name.
âJonathan?â
He turns to see Samantha approaching, looking surprised. âYou kinda disappeared,â she says. âAre you leaving?â
A faint flush creeps up his neck. âYeah, sorry. Just, uh⊠my friend here. Iâm taking her home. Her ride bailed.â
âOh.â She hesitates. âAre you coming back?â
He scans the room, eyes on him now, curiosity buzzing as he stands between Nancy Wheeler and another girl. Then he looks back at Samantha. âThis partyâs not really my scene.â
Before he can finish, she grabs his wrist. He startles slightly as she pulls out a pen and writes quickly on his palm. It takes him a second to realize what sheâs done, itâs her number.
âIn case you wanna talk more about The Cure,â she says with a coy smile. âTalking Heads. And other stuff.â
âUh yeah,â he manages. âSure.â
She disappears back into the crowd. He glances down at his palm once more, then back at Nancy before pushing open the front door. Cool night air washes over them both. Out in the bushes, a guy in a toga is violently throwing up. Jonathan snorts under his breath.
âGuess Pure Fuel isnât agreeing with him anymore,â he says, opening the passenger door for her.
As soon as they enter the hallway, Nancy can feel a shift in the air around them. Sheâs leaning slightly toward Jonathan, more out of necessity than intention. The hallway is still swimming, the noise pressing in from all sides, when someone steps into his space. Nancy blinks, her eyes dragging from the floor up to the girl standing in front of him. Confident and comfortable. Someone who looks like she knows exactly where she belongs.
She remembers her vaguely, from earlier, seeing them talk in the doorway while she was dancing with Steve. Jonathan looked at ease with her⊠Almost Happy.
Nancyâs gaze drops to his wrist just as the girl takes it. The contact is casual. The kind of thing people do at parties when everything is easy and no one is thinking too hard about consequences. The pen appears, clicks, and suddenly thereâs ink moving across his skin. It bothers her more than it should⊠Thereâs a tight, sour twist low in her stomach, sharp enough to cut through her drunken haze, and before she can stop herself, before she can run the thought through whatever filter she usually uses, the sound slips out of her.
âOh.â
She hears it echo faintly in the hallway and immediately regrets it, but that doesnât stop her from squinting at his hand, like if she concentrates hard enough the writing will disappear and Jonathan wonât be able to call her.
Her balance shifts as she leans closer, trying to read the number, the movement uncoordinated enough that she has to press her palm briefly to Jonathanâs chest to steady herself. The contact surprises her, solid, warm, and grounding. She leaves her hand there a second too long.
âSorry,â she mumbles, pulling back and folding her arms like that might help her stay upright.
When Samantha mentions talking more, Nancy feels something spike in her chest, not anger, exactly, but a possessive instinct that catches her off guard by how fast it shows up. She doesnât like it. She doesnât know what to do with it.
Nancyâs almost relieved when the girl disappears back into the crowd. The hallway is loud, chaotic, and⊠suffocating. She stares at Jonathanâs hand, the ink stark against his skin, and guilt flickers briefly, quick and fleeting, before it gets drowned out by the sheer effort of staying on her feet.
The front door opens and cold air slices through the warmth and noise, harsh enough to make her suck in a breath. It helps. A little. The porch light is too bright, washing everything out, and she squints as they step outside. She misjudges a step and stumbles, fingers curling into Jonathanâs jacket instinctively, heart dropping before she steadies herself again.
âWow,â she breathes, half-laughing, half-mortified at her lack of coordination. âItâs really⊠not my night.â
At the car, she pauses, one hand on the open door, eyes drifting back to his palm. Swallowing thickly when they land on the ink again.
âSheâs probably nice. She seems⊠normal. Which isâgood.â she says after a moment, quieter now. âAnd you should⊠Call her, I mean. Or donât. Thatâs not-â She shakes her head, frustrated with herself. âThatâs not my business.â
She slides into the passenger seat carefully, exhaustion finally settling in. When the door closes, she rests her forehead against the cool window, letting the silence stretch between them.
âIâm glad it was you,â she says, then shakes her head again like sheâs trying to keep words from spilling out. âI donât think I wouldâve handled this well with anyone else.â
His gaze follows hers as they both look down at his palm. When she starts talking, his eyes lift back to her face. Sheâs giving her seal of approval. Samantha seems nice, normal and Nancy is encouraging him to call her. A pretty girl gave him her number tonight. He should be thrilled. nstead, he feels hollow.
Because itâs Nancy nudging him toward it. Nancy, reminding him that this is how things are supposed to go. You might meet someone, sheâd said when she had first given him the flyer. That had been the reason she had focused on most to get him to come, nothing about her wanting to spend time with him. Shockingly enough he did meet someone. They had connected, shared interests, and it had been easy.
And yet, instead of wanting to raise his fist in some triumphant Breakfast Club moment, he feels quietly defeated. Sheâs pushing him to date. Whatever last remaining hope heâd been clinging to, that maybe she felt something too had crumbled. Popular girls donât date freaks. Heâs learned that lesson more than once. She might be sour at Steve tonight but sheâll be back to swooning in his arms tomorrow.
âYeah,â he says after a beat. âMaybe.â A weak smile tugs at his lips. âSheâs pretty cool. First girl Iâve met who actually likes the same indie bands I do.â
He steps back, holding the passenger door open as Nancy slides into the car. Once sheâs settled, he lingers. He opens his palm again and it hits him. The scar, the same one he sliced open to summon the Demogorgon. The one he and Nancy shared in blood and fear and desperation. Itâs still there, though itâs faded now, no longer raw, no longer new. A symbol of something they survived together. Something that once bound them tightly.
Now, the phone number stands out more than the scar. He wonders if thatâs the universeâs way of telling him something like the past is the past, look forward. Let go. He doesnât dwell on it. He closes his hand and opens the driverâs side door, sliding in behind the wheel.
Nancyâs resting her head against the window, eyes closed, letting the cold glass soothe her forehead. He turns the key, the engine coughing to life. When she speaks again, his attention drifts back to her automatically.
âItâs no problem, youâre allowed to blow off steam, Nancy. I think weâve earned that much.â
His eyes flick to his palm once more. Maybe thatâs what the number represents, the chance to move on. To stop pining after someone whoâs already chosen a different path. If only it were that easy.
Samantha had taken his hand, written her number there, and yeah it had been nice. Exciting, even. But earlier tonight, Nancy had pressed her hand to his chest to steady herself. Only one of those moments made his heart race.
And it wasnât Samantha.
Itâs the girl beside him now, cheek pressed to the glass, lost in thought, thinking about how life is bullshit. He exhales, shifts the car into drive, and pulls away from the curb.
Honestly, he isnât sure what possessed him to drag himself to Tinaâs party at all. He tells himself itâs because heâs trying to be a cool, understanding big brother. Thatâs the excuse, at least, the reason Will is currently out trick-or-treating with his friends, no chaperone hovering nearby. He gets it. Will feels suffocated. Their mom is overprotective, for good reason but between the doctor visits, therapy sessions, and emotional whiplash, he understands why his little brother is desperate for some kind of normalcy.
Maybe this is his attempt at that too. Because underneath the loner persona, beneath the camera and the quiet, he wants to feel normal. Just once. Thatâs the only reason he forces himself inside. Itâs hard to blend in when he sticks out this badly. Everyone else is in some kind of costume, and he hadnât even bothered. When some girl his age asks what heâs supposed to be, he deadpans, âA guy who hates parties.â Itâs a dry, half-hearted joke, but surprisingly it earns a laugh and a name, Samantha. For a moment, he thinks, maybe this wonât be so bad.
Then his eyes catch on a familiar figure across the room. Sheâs dancing. Spinning wildly, red cup clenched in her hand, movements loose and uncoordinated. Sloppy, even. He has to do a double take, just to be sure. When she completes a full spin, thereâs no mistaking her. Itâs Nancy Wheeler. Sheâs doing exactly what the flyer promised, completely sheet-faced and sheâs dancing with Steve Harrington.
He watches her, something tight twisting in his chest. Wonders if this is who she was before monster hunting, before the disappearance of Barb Holland cracked her world open. Heâs never seen her like this. Then again, heâs never been part of this world. Even before everything went to hell, he wasnât going to parties. Weekends meant extra shifts, restocking shelves, doing whatever it took to keep the lights on. Has she always been this carefree? He wonders briefly, if a girl like her wouldâve ever noticed him without shared trauma tying them together. Probably not because popular girls donât usually talk to freaks.
That thought is what finally makes him tear his eyes away. He turns back to Samantha, and to his surprise, conversation comes easily. They land on music which is a safe subject. One he knows inside and out. There are no awkward pauses, no scrambling for words. They talk about Echo & the Bunnymen, The Replacements, The Cure, The Smiths. Her eyes light up when she suddenly grabs his wrist, excitement spilling into her voice as she tells him she saw The Smiths live in Chicago. His brows lift, genuinely impressed, and heâs just about to ask her more when a sudden commotion erupts from the kitchen. The party quiets. Seconds later, Nancy storms down the hallway, blouse soaked in punch aka liquid fuel while Steve rushes after her, apologizing as he goes.
He manages to keep half his attention on Samantha, but at some point his body has angled toward the hallway, eyes flicking back again and again, waiting to catch a glimpse of Nancy. They keep talking, overrated artists now and Samantha is animated, passionate, easy to listen to. Slowly, he finds it easier to focus on her instead of the hall. Then he sees Harrington again. Steve makes a beeline for the front door and heâs alone. He has always been an observer. One look at Steveâs expression tells him whatever just happened wasnât good. She made her choice, he reminds himself. She chose Steve. Checking on her shouldnât be his concern. But thatâs his problem, he cares. Too much, especially when it comes to Nancy.
His gaze sweeps the room. Half the people are drunk. Most of them are guys. Something tightens in his chest at the thought of Nancy being left alone like that. He politely excuses himself from Samantha. A voice in his head tells him heâs an idiot, that maybe something couldâve come from this but he shuts it down. He weaves through the crowd, slipping into the darkened hallway. Doors line the walls. He opens them one by one, earning groans, curses, a few slurred âoccupieds.â Each empty room brings a strange sense of relief because sheâs not there. Finally, he reaches the last door, itâs likely the bathroom.
He knocks gently. A muffled sound answers from inside. Even slurred, he recognizes the voice instantly. âNancy,â he says softly. âItâs Jonathan. I justâwanted to see if youâre okay in there?â He hears the sink running. Her muttered cursing follows. He tests the knob and sure enough itâs unlocked. âHey, Iâm gonna come in, okay?â
No protest and then he eases the door open and finds her at the sink, furiously scrubbing at her blouse, only spreading the stain further. He pauses, watching her for a second, searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he opts for something lighter.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI know the flyer said come get sheet-faced, but I didnât realize it was mandatory. Between that and my lack of a costume, I think Iâm really failing this whole Halloween thing.â
Nancy doesnât spare him a glance. Too focused on scrubbing the pink stain spreading across her blouse, like if she works it hard enough she can erase the whole night. His joke registers a second too late. When it does, she lets out a short, humorless laugh. âYeah,â she says, voice thin and slurred just enough to give her away. âItâs all bullshit anyway.â
She finally glances up at him through the mirror. Her eyes are shiny and red around the edges. Glossy in a way that means sheâs gone way past her limit.
She gives her blouse a small shake, uncomfortable with the wet fabric sticking to her skin. âI really tried to do it right. Show up, drink the stupid punch, dance to the stupid musicâŠâ She stops. âNot stupid. Itâs fine. Whatever.â
She turns the water off, then immediately turns it back on, forgetting why she stopped in the first place. âGod, this thing-â She gestures vaguely at the blouse, at herself, at the entire situation. âDo you know how expensive this was? My mom is gonna kill me.â
She laughs again, this one louder, sharper. She wipes her hands on the stained washcloth she's been using to scrub her blouse, then drops it on the counter, abandoning it halfway through the job.
âHe left,â she says suddenly, like itâs an accusation Jonathan needs to hear. âDid you see that? He justâŠâ She makes a sharp motion with her hand toward the door. âLeft. Like Iâm some kind of⊠I donât know⊠Problem. He didnât feel like dealing with.â
She scoffs, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them when she realizes sheâs still wet. âAnd I know. I said some- some stupid stuff. But I wasnât wrong.â Her voice lifts, steadier now, fueled by indignation. âNone of itâs real. Itâs all bullshit. And he knows it.â
She finally turns fully toward him, leaning back against the counter for balance. âIâm so tired of pretending everythingâs fine. Of acting like nothing happened and like- like Barbâs death wasnât-â She abruptly cuts herself off, jaw tight. The name hangs in the air, heavy as ever.
âEveryone here is drunk and laughing and acting like itâs all some big joke,â she goes on, words tumbling over each other now. âLike nothing matters. And SteveâŠâ She stops herself, swallowing thickly. âSteve wants things to go back to normal. I donât even know what that means anymore.â
She exhales, sharp, rubbing a hand over her face. When she looks at Jonathan again, her anger has softened just a fraction, not gone, but redirected towards herself. âSo,â she finishes, gesturing weakly around the bathroom. âMandatory sheet-faced. Iâm just doing my part.â
She lets out a breath that sounds like itâs been sitting in her chest all night. Her eyes donât leave him this time. Glassy and unfocused.
âAnd you donât get to look at me like that,â she adds suddenly, words spilling before she can stop them. âAll quiet and focused.. Like itâs your job to fix this. Itâs not.â
She scoffs, pushing off the counter and immediately having to steady herself again. âYou shouldnât be here. You should be with Will⊠with your family. Not standing around, making eyes at some girl in the doorway.â She squints at him, forgetting that sheâs the one who invited him in the first place.
She shakes her head a little, like sheâs trying to clear it. âI mean⊠You didnât even want to come tonight. I know you didnât.â Her voice drops, almost accusing. âSo why are you here?â
Itâs the first real look heâs had at her since walking into the party. Now that he can see her clearly, really see her through the bathroom mirror, he notices her eyes. Glossy and red-rimmed which causes a drop in his stomach. Whatever he witnessed earlier on the dance floor wasnât her true self. That had been someone pretending. Well, performing seems to be the better world but this, this is someone unraveling after the performance.
She turns the faucet off, then hesitates and turns it back on. His gaze drifts to the ruined blouse as she mutters that her mom is going to kill her. âIâm sure sheâll understand,â he says gently. âItâs not like you did it on purpose.â
Then he catches the unmistakable scent of alcohol. He exhales through his nose. âThough if your mom gets a whiff of that, she might blow a gasket.â
The washcloth lands on the counter in defeat. His eyes follow the motion, then drift to the rest of the sink lined with empty cups, sticky spills, crumbs and stains scattered everywhere. He grimaces. The casual disrespect of it all. Someoneâs going to have a hell of a time cleaning this up. At least it wonât be him.
âOhâyeah. Um⊠I think I saw him head out the front,â he murmurs when she asks about Steve.
He doesnât miss the edge in her voice when she talks about being a problem, something Steve didnât want to deal with. He hesitates, then adds, âhe seemed pretty upset. Maybe he just⊠wasnât thinking clearly.â
Not that heâs defending Steve Harrington but one glimpse alone had given him a pretty good idea that whatever Nancy had said, had wrecked him enough to get him to leave.
Bullshit, she seems to be fond of that word. He stays quiet, listening as she slurs her way through. His body tenses the moment Barbâs name slips from her mouth and there it is.
Guilt, he knows it intimately, knows how it burrows under your skin and refuses to let go. His guilt comes from not being there the night Will disappeared, from every moment after where he wonders what he couldâve done differently. Nancyâs comes leaving Barb behind and ultimately failing her, at least, thatâs how she sees it.
âNancyâ he starts, but she barrels right over him, words spilling faster than he can interrupt. She talks about how everyone here just wants to party. How Steve wants to be part of that party. He hadnât realized how out of place she felt. At school, sheâd seemed fine. Just yesterday when she had been trying to convince him to come to the party, Steve had hoisted her in the air and they had sucked faces against the locker. She had been so wrapped up in him that by the time she came up for air he had slipped away.
When she jokes that getting sheet-faced is apparently mandatory, he hears the humor but he hears the disappointment too. She doesnât want to be here. She doesnât want to pretend everythingâs fine. Because it isnât. She saw something no one should have to see. Fought something that shouldnât exist. Did everything she could to save her friend only to learn it was already too late. Of course she canât just flip a switch and be okay.
His brows knit together when she snaps at him, telling him not to look at her like that. Like what?
Like he understands what itâs like to pretend youâre okay when youâre barely holding it together? Like you beat the monster but still flinch in the dark? Like you shared something profound with someone only to fade back into the background afterward?
âIââ His mouth opens, then closes.
Sheâs not wrong. He does want to fix it. Not her, never her, but this. The way sheâs hurting. The way sheâs been left alone with it. He wants to make it easier somehow. Wants her to breathe again without hiding in a bathroom, without drowning it in alcohol. She pushes herself off the counter, unsteady, and his instinct is to step forward but he stops himself. Feet planted in the doorway.
When she tells him he shouldnât be here, that he should be with his family, frustration flickers through him. Not at her, at everything.
âHonestly?â he admits quietly, arms folding across his chest like some familiar shield. âI donât really know where Iâm supposed to be.â
He exhales, words tumbling out slower now. âWhen Will disappeared, the guilt ate me alive because I wasnât there. And when he came back⊠I promised myself Iâd stay by his side. Be there for him. For my mom.â
Itâs why he missed weeks of school. Why nothing else mattered. School could wait. Family couldnât.
âTonight he told me I was cramping his style,â he continues, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. âSaid none of his friends had their parents or siblings tagging along. Iâm trying to be a good brother, and somehow Iâm still getting it wrong.â
He looks at her then. âHe lost something, Nancy. A big piece of his innocence. Heâs poked and prodded at doctor appointments, treated like heâs fragile. All he wanted was one night to trick-or-treat with his friends and feel normal again. How was I supposed to say no to that?â
Her question comes blunt and unfiltered. Why did you come tonight? The real answer sits heavy on his tongue you. Because he misses her. Because she saw him in a way no one else ever has. Because being near her made him feel like he wasnât invisible. But he doesnât say that.
âThought Iâd take a page out of my brotherâs book,â he says instead. âTry my hand at being normal.â A beat. âI almost pulled it off.â
His mind flickers briefly to Samantha. The conversation. The almost. He exhales. âProbably shouldâve just stayed home. Put on Talking Heads. Read Vonnegut.â
A faint, crooked smile as he studies her and realizes maybe he was meant to be here after all.
âGuess Iâm glad I made the exception and came, now you have someone to drive you home.â
She doesnât interrupt him. That alone feels like an improvement. Instead, she leans back against the counter, hip pressing into the cold laminate, listening with her head tipped slightly to one side, like the room is tilted and sheâs trying to adjust to it. His words come slowly, carefully chosen, and she can tell he means every one of them. When he talks about Will, her gaze drifts away, landing on a corner of the ceiling. She blinks a few times, like sheâs trying to clear her head.
She hears the part about guilt eating him alive and something in her chest tightens, familiar and violent. She knows that feeling too well. The what-ifs that replay in your head no matter how many times someone tells you to let go. The way it sits heavy on your chest even when everything else is supposed to be normal again.
His voice goes quieter when he gets to the part about trying to be a good brother and still getting it wrong. She looks back at him then. The way his arms are folded like heâs holding himself in place. The tired expression on his face. It hits her how much he carries too, how heâs been carrying it alone in his own way.
âOkay, see-â she says, too quick, too loud for the bathroom. She huffs and shakes her head. âYou always do this thing where you say something reasonable and suddenly I feel like Iâm wrong.â
âYou donât have to explain anything to me,â she says, a little defensive, then shakes her head. âI mean, you can, I justâŠâ She exhales. âI get it. Wanting one normal night. Wanting it so bad you pretend itâs possible.â
She rubs at her forehead, fingers pressing hard like she can push the spinning back into place. Her shoulder bumps the mirror as she turns, the glass rattling slightly. She winces. âSorry,â she murmurs to it, then laughs at herself.
When he admits he doesnât know where heâs supposed to be, that hits her. She goes still, finally, both hands braced on the counter. âYeahâŠâ she says, slower now. âThat makes two of us.â
She stares at the sink like it might give her an answer. âEveryone keeps acting like thereâs a right place to stand after something⊠bad happens,â she continues. âIf you pick the wrong one, it says something about you.â Her lips twist. âAnd if you pick the right one, youâre fixed.â
She looks at him again. âI donât think thatâs real,â she adds quietly. âI think you just end up⊠somewhere. And hope it doesnât hurt as much as the last place.â
The mention of being normal makes her scoff, but thereâs no bite in it this time. âNormalâs bullshit,â she says. âNormal didnât save anyone.â
The bathroom feels smaller now. The music playing is just a dull thump behind the door. All the noise from the party seems so far away. She thinks about what he said, about Talking Heads and Vonnegut waiting at home. It makes her feel a little guilty for inviting him in the first place, even if sheâs glad he came.
She straightens a little, then sways again, catching herself before it turns into something worse. âI shouldnât have said you didnât belong here,â she adds, words tangling together.
Her eyes lift to his face and linger there longer than she seems to intend. âYou werenât doing anything wrong,â she says more quietly. âYou were just⊠there.â
The idea of him driving her home seems to take a second to register. She frowns, still processing. âHome,â she repeats, testing the word. âYeah. Home sounds⊠good.â
It feels strange, unloading everything heâs been carrying onto Nancy, especially when sheâs drunk. Then again, who else does he really have? His momâs world still revolves around Will, and he understands that completely. Sheâs never blamed him for what happened. She told him as much, told him he couldnât keep punishing himself, that he wasnât alone, that he didnât have to carry everything on his own. So why the hell is he still doing it?
When Nancy speaks again, her voice echoes slightly, bouncing off the walls. He canât help the quiet chuckle that slips out when she points out his habit of saying things that sound reasonable enough to make her feel like sheâs suddenly in the wrong.
âItâs not like that,â he says, shaking his head. âHalf the time I donât even know what Iâm doing.â
He shrugs, searching for the right words. âI just⊠try to look at things from another angle. Like a camera. Adjust the focus. See what else shows up.â
If heâs honest, he doesnât like this version of things, this careful back-and-forth. When they were monster hunters, talking to her came easily. Now, it feels like theyâre both tiptoeing around invisible lines. He gestures to the cramped bathroom, then toward the muffled noise beyond the walls. âDoes this really scream Jonathan Byersâ idea of fun?â
He shakes his head.
âHonestly, I wouldâve rather stayed home,â he admits. âBut my mom and her boyfriendâBob.â He pauses, rolling the name around like it still doesnât quite belong. âTheyâre handing out Halloween candy, watching some movie and yeah, donât even want to think about the rest.â He shakes his head. âHow messed up is that? My mom has more of a social life than I do.â
Thereâs something bittersweet in the realization. Somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, she managed to connect with someone and build something real. He wishes, not for the first time, that he knew how to do that too. Thought maybe, maybe he had, once. His gaze drifts from Nancy, but itâs brief. It never stays away for long. As a photographer, sheâs impossible not to studyâbrilliant, strong, selfless, brave. Beautiful in a way that sneaks up on you and knocks the breath out of your lungs. Especially now, as she launches into a half-slurred rant about choosing the right place to stand, about how normal is bullshit.
âThere is a right place,â he says gently. âItâs wherever you choose to be. No one else gets a say in that.â His voice steadies. âMaybe it bites you in the ass later but itâs still your choice. No one gets to push you anywhere.â
Itâs strange how, in this cramped bathroom, the rest of the party fades away. Everyone out there gets to stay blissfully ignorant of what really lurks in Hawkins. Their biggest problems revolve around hookups, jealousy, and popularity. Compared to the weight he and Nancy carry, it all feels painfully trivial.
âItâs okay,â he adds quietly. âYou werenât wrong. I donât really belong here.â He hesitates, eyes lingering on her. âMy idea of a good night probably wouldâve beenâŠâ
He stops himself, then exhales.
âSome cheesy slasher flick from the seventies,â he continues anyway. âThe kind where the bloodâs obviously fake, the plotâs predictable, and the actingâs terribleâbut you watch it anyway because youâre not missing much if you talk over it.â A faint smile tugs at his lips. âPopcorn. Candy. Andââ
For a moment he paused, appraising her once again and by the looks of it, she likely wonât remember this conversation.
âYou.â
The word comes out soft, almost swallowed by the room. He shrugs, smaller this time, like it doesnât mean much. Like she might not even hear it.
Home, the word hits her harder than he expects. He hears it in the way she repeats it, turning it over like sheâs trying to figure out whether it still applies. After a moment, he steps forward, placing a steadying hand at the small of her back. âCome on,â he murmurs. âI donât think this partyâs gonna miss us.â
He guides her down the hallway, weaving through bodies and noise. Someone laughs, someone stumbles. Somewhere behind them, he hears a voice mutter about Creep Byers stealing Nancy Wheeler away and how Harrington wonât like it. He grimaces but keeps moving. None of that matters right now. Theyâre almost out when someone calls his name. His real name.
âJonathan?â
He turns to see Samantha approaching, looking surprised. âYou kinda disappeared,â she says. âAre you leaving?â
A faint flush creeps up his neck. âYeah, sorry. Just, uh⊠my friend here. Iâm taking her home. Her ride bailed.â
âOh.â She hesitates. âAre you coming back?â
He scans the room, eyes on him now, curiosity buzzing as he stands between Nancy Wheeler and another girl. Then he looks back at Samantha. âThis partyâs not really my scene.â
Before he can finish, she grabs his wrist. He startles slightly as she pulls out a pen and writes quickly on his palm. It takes him a second to realize what sheâs done, itâs her number.
âIn case you wanna talk more about The Cure,â she says with a coy smile. âTalking Heads. And other stuff.â
âUh yeah,â he manages. âSure.â
She disappears back into the crowd. He glances down at his palm once more, then back at Nancy before pushing open the front door. Cool night air washes over them both. Out in the bushes, a guy in a toga is violently throwing up. Jonathan snorts under his breath.
âGuess Pure Fuel isnât agreeing with him anymore,â he says, opening the passenger door for her.
Honestly, he isnât sure what possessed him to drag himself to Tinaâs party at all. He tells himself itâs because heâs trying to be a cool, understanding big brother. Thatâs the excuse, at least, the reason Will is currently out trick-or-treating with his friends, no chaperone hovering nearby. He gets it. Will feels suffocated. Their mom is overprotective, for good reason but between the doctor visits, therapy sessions, and emotional whiplash, he understands why his little brother is desperate for some kind of normalcy.
Maybe this is his attempt at that too. Because underneath the loner persona, beneath the camera and the quiet, he wants to feel normal. Just once. Thatâs the only reason he forces himself inside. Itâs hard to blend in when he sticks out this badly. Everyone else is in some kind of costume, and he hadnât even bothered. When some girl his age asks what heâs supposed to be, he deadpans, âA guy who hates parties.â Itâs a dry, half-hearted joke, but surprisingly it earns a laugh and a name, Samantha. For a moment, he thinks, maybe this wonât be so bad.
Then his eyes catch on a familiar figure across the room. Sheâs dancing. Spinning wildly, red cup clenched in her hand, movements loose and uncoordinated. Sloppy, even. He has to do a double take, just to be sure. When she completes a full spin, thereâs no mistaking her. Itâs Nancy Wheeler. Sheâs doing exactly what the flyer promised, completely sheet-faced and sheâs dancing with Steve Harrington.
He watches her, something tight twisting in his chest. Wonders if this is who she was before monster hunting, before the disappearance of Barb Holland cracked her world open. Heâs never seen her like this. Then again, heâs never been part of this world. Even before everything went to hell, he wasnât going to parties. Weekends meant extra shifts, restocking shelves, doing whatever it took to keep the lights on. Has she always been this carefree? He wonders briefly, if a girl like her wouldâve ever noticed him without shared trauma tying them together. Probably not because popular girls donât usually talk to freaks.
That thought is what finally makes him tear his eyes away. He turns back to Samantha, and to his surprise, conversation comes easily. They land on music which is a safe subject. One he knows inside and out. There are no awkward pauses, no scrambling for words. They talk about Echo & the Bunnymen, The Replacements, The Cure, The Smiths. Her eyes light up when she suddenly grabs his wrist, excitement spilling into her voice as she tells him she saw The Smiths live in Chicago. His brows lift, genuinely impressed, and heâs just about to ask her more when a sudden commotion erupts from the kitchen. The party quiets. Seconds later, Nancy storms down the hallway, blouse soaked in punch aka liquid fuel while Steve rushes after her, apologizing as he goes.
He manages to keep half his attention on Samantha, but at some point his body has angled toward the hallway, eyes flicking back again and again, waiting to catch a glimpse of Nancy. They keep talking, overrated artists now and Samantha is animated, passionate, easy to listen to. Slowly, he finds it easier to focus on her instead of the hall. Then he sees Harrington again. Steve makes a beeline for the front door and heâs alone. He has always been an observer. One look at Steveâs expression tells him whatever just happened wasnât good. She made her choice, he reminds himself. She chose Steve. Checking on her shouldnât be his concern. But thatâs his problem, he cares. Too much, especially when it comes to Nancy.
His gaze sweeps the room. Half the people are drunk. Most of them are guys. Something tightens in his chest at the thought of Nancy being left alone like that. He politely excuses himself from Samantha. A voice in his head tells him heâs an idiot, that maybe something couldâve come from this but he shuts it down. He weaves through the crowd, slipping into the darkened hallway. Doors line the walls. He opens them one by one, earning groans, curses, a few slurred âoccupieds.â Each empty room brings a strange sense of relief because sheâs not there. Finally, he reaches the last door, itâs likely the bathroom.
He knocks gently. A muffled sound answers from inside. Even slurred, he recognizes the voice instantly. âNancy,â he says softly. âItâs Jonathan. I justâwanted to see if youâre okay in there?â He hears the sink running. Her muttered cursing follows. He tests the knob and sure enough itâs unlocked. âHey, Iâm gonna come in, okay?â
No protest and then he eases the door open and finds her at the sink, furiously scrubbing at her blouse, only spreading the stain further. He pauses, watching her for a second, searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he opts for something lighter.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI know the flyer said come get sheet-faced, but I didnât realize it was mandatory. Between that and my lack of a costume, I think Iâm really failing this whole Halloween thing.â
Nancy doesnât spare him a glance. Too focused on scrubbing the pink stain spreading across her blouse, like if she works it hard enough she can erase the whole night. His joke registers a second too late. When it does, she lets out a short, humorless laugh. âYeah,â she says, voice thin and slurred just enough to give her away. âItâs all bullshit anyway.â
She finally glances up at him through the mirror. Her eyes are shiny and red around the edges. Glossy in a way that means sheâs gone way past her limit.
She gives her blouse a small shake, uncomfortable with the wet fabric sticking to her skin. âI really tried to do it right. Show up, drink the stupid punch, dance to the stupid musicâŠâ She stops. âNot stupid. Itâs fine. Whatever.â
She turns the water off, then immediately turns it back on, forgetting why she stopped in the first place. âGod, this thing-â She gestures vaguely at the blouse, at herself, at the entire situation. âDo you know how expensive this was? My mom is gonna kill me.â
She laughs again, this one louder, sharper. She wipes her hands on the stained washcloth she's been using to scrub her blouse, then drops it on the counter, abandoning it halfway through the job.
âHe left,â she says suddenly, like itâs an accusation Jonathan needs to hear. âDid you see that? He justâŠâ She makes a sharp motion with her hand toward the door. âLeft. Like Iâm some kind of⊠I donât know⊠Problem. He didnât feel like dealing with.â
She scoffs, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them when she realizes sheâs still wet. âAnd I know. I said some- some stupid stuff. But I wasnât wrong.â Her voice lifts, steadier now, fueled by indignation. âNone of itâs real. Itâs all bullshit. And he knows it.â
She finally turns fully toward him, leaning back against the counter for balance. âIâm so tired of pretending everythingâs fine. Of acting like nothing happened and like- like Barbâs death wasnât-â She abruptly cuts herself off, jaw tight. The name hangs in the air, heavy as ever.
âEveryone here is drunk and laughing and acting like itâs all some big joke,â she goes on, words tumbling over each other now. âLike nothing matters. And SteveâŠâ She stops herself, swallowing thickly. âSteve wants things to go back to normal. I donât even know what that means anymore.â
She exhales, sharp, rubbing a hand over her face. When she looks at Jonathan again, her anger has softened just a fraction, not gone, but redirected towards herself. âSo,â she finishes, gesturing weakly around the bathroom. âMandatory sheet-faced. Iâm just doing my part.â
She lets out a breath that sounds like itâs been sitting in her chest all night. Her eyes donât leave him this time. Glassy and unfocused.
âAnd you donât get to look at me like that,â she adds suddenly, words spilling before she can stop them. âAll quiet and focused.. Like itâs your job to fix this. Itâs not.â
She scoffs, pushing off the counter and immediately having to steady herself again. âYou shouldnât be here. You should be with Will⊠with your family. Not standing around, making eyes at some girl in the doorway.â She squints at him, forgetting that sheâs the one who invited him in the first place.
She shakes her head a little, like sheâs trying to clear it. âI mean⊠You didnât even want to come tonight. I know you didnât.â Her voice drops, almost accusing. âSo why are you here?â
Itâs the first real look heâs had at her since walking into the party. Now that he can see her clearly, really see her through the bathroom mirror, he notices her eyes. Glossy and red-rimmed which causes a drop in his stomach. Whatever he witnessed earlier on the dance floor wasnât her true self. That had been someone pretending. Well, performing seems to be the better world but this, this is someone unraveling after the performance.
She turns the faucet off, then hesitates and turns it back on. His gaze drifts to the ruined blouse as she mutters that her mom is going to kill her. âIâm sure sheâll understand,â he says gently. âItâs not like you did it on purpose.â
Then he catches the unmistakable scent of alcohol. He exhales through his nose. âThough if your mom gets a whiff of that, she might blow a gasket.â
The washcloth lands on the counter in defeat. His eyes follow the motion, then drift to the rest of the sink lined with empty cups, sticky spills, crumbs and stains scattered everywhere. He grimaces. The casual disrespect of it all. Someoneâs going to have a hell of a time cleaning this up. At least it wonât be him.
âOhâyeah. Um⊠I think I saw him head out the front,â he murmurs when she asks about Steve.
He doesnât miss the edge in her voice when she talks about being a problem, something Steve didnât want to deal with. He hesitates, then adds, âhe seemed pretty upset. Maybe he just⊠wasnât thinking clearly.â
Not that heâs defending Steve Harrington but one glimpse alone had given him a pretty good idea that whatever Nancy had said, had wrecked him enough to get him to leave.
Bullshit, she seems to be fond of that word. He stays quiet, listening as she slurs her way through. His body tenses the moment Barbâs name slips from her mouth and there it is.
Guilt, he knows it intimately, knows how it burrows under your skin and refuses to let go. His guilt comes from not being there the night Will disappeared, from every moment after where he wonders what he couldâve done differently. Nancyâs comes leaving Barb behind and ultimately failing her, at least, thatâs how she sees it.
âNancyâ he starts, but she barrels right over him, words spilling faster than he can interrupt. She talks about how everyone here just wants to party. How Steve wants to be part of that party. He hadnât realized how out of place she felt. At school, sheâd seemed fine. Just yesterday when she had been trying to convince him to come to the party, Steve had hoisted her in the air and they had sucked faces against the locker. She had been so wrapped up in him that by the time she came up for air he had slipped away.
When she jokes that getting sheet-faced is apparently mandatory, he hears the humor but he hears the disappointment too. She doesnât want to be here. She doesnât want to pretend everythingâs fine. Because it isnât. She saw something no one should have to see. Fought something that shouldnât exist. Did everything she could to save her friend only to learn it was already too late. Of course she canât just flip a switch and be okay.
His brows knit together when she snaps at him, telling him not to look at her like that. Like what?
Like he understands what itâs like to pretend youâre okay when youâre barely holding it together? Like you beat the monster but still flinch in the dark? Like you shared something profound with someone only to fade back into the background afterward?
âIââ His mouth opens, then closes.
Sheâs not wrong. He does want to fix it. Not her, never her, but this. The way sheâs hurting. The way sheâs been left alone with it. He wants to make it easier somehow. Wants her to breathe again without hiding in a bathroom, without drowning it in alcohol. She pushes herself off the counter, unsteady, and his instinct is to step forward but he stops himself. Feet planted in the doorway.
When she tells him he shouldnât be here, that he should be with his family, frustration flickers through him. Not at her, at everything.
âHonestly?â he admits quietly, arms folding across his chest like some familiar shield. âI donât really know where Iâm supposed to be.â
He exhales, words tumbling out slower now. âWhen Will disappeared, the guilt ate me alive because I wasnât there. And when he came back⊠I promised myself Iâd stay by his side. Be there for him. For my mom.â
Itâs why he missed weeks of school. Why nothing else mattered. School could wait. Family couldnât.
âTonight he told me I was cramping his style,â he continues, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. âSaid none of his friends had their parents or siblings tagging along. Iâm trying to be a good brother, and somehow Iâm still getting it wrong.â
He looks at her then. âHe lost something, Nancy. A big piece of his innocence. Heâs poked and prodded at doctor appointments, treated like heâs fragile. All he wanted was one night to trick-or-treat with his friends and feel normal again. How was I supposed to say no to that?â
Her question comes blunt and unfiltered. Why did you come tonight? The real answer sits heavy on his tongue you. Because he misses her. Because she saw him in a way no one else ever has. Because being near her made him feel like he wasnât invisible. But he doesnât say that.
âThought Iâd take a page out of my brotherâs book,â he says instead. âTry my hand at being normal.â A beat. âI almost pulled it off.â
His mind flickers briefly to Samantha. The conversation. The almost. He exhales. âProbably shouldâve just stayed home. Put on Talking Heads. Read Vonnegut.â
A faint, crooked smile as he studies her and realizes maybe he was meant to be here after all.
âGuess Iâm glad I made the exception and came, now you have someone to drive you home.â
Listen Harrington, we need to talk. Iâve been noticing things, trying to stay quiet about it but itâs kind of making me go crazy. The kind of crazy that results in me climbing a tower for no specific reason only to impress a girl. Thatâs out of character.
In no way do I have the right to tell you who youâre allowed to have feelings for. I donât control that but can you try and not make it so obvious you want to play house with Nancy?
*   001.   đđđđđđđđ   !    Ⱡ   staticinmystereo
â â play  house  ???   â
 he holds for a moment â to gauge  just how serious  the byers boy could possibly be.
        â   you  can't  possibly be serious... â â  he  bites  his  tongue ,  because  why  would  he  need  to  explain  more  ???.   the competition between jonathan and steve had very clearly already been lost â   was  it  not  obvious ?  steve  feels  on  the defense  constantly , despite the vulnerability he's feeling from jonathan's end now ...     he'll wait to add more self-depricating comments , because wasn't  it  obvious ?
â   i hear youâ  but she picked you... â â he'd be lying if he didn't feel his chest tighten with the admission . â   there's no question her loyalty ,  at  this  point  i'm just ...   old  news. â  it's  humbling ,  for  sure.  but  if  jonathan  is  open to call him out like he is  ,  steve will  bite  back .
â no  reason  to feel threatened  by old news when you're living in paradise ... â it's clear. he's introduced tone of mockery . at this point â you pick your battles . and steve's decided what he's going to shoot at .
This is actually a big deal for him. For months heâs been stewing in silence because of this. Ever since returning from Lenora, Steveâs feelings for Nancy were, well, loud. It wasnât like he was yearning quietly, and thatâs what irritated Jonathan the most. Witnessing the way Steve would volunteer for any task that might make him look like the better alpha male. Anything to subtly show Nancy that she might need to reconsider her choice.
He lets Steveâs words for a moment hang in the air between the two of them. Any other guy might berate Steve for how heâs behaving. They might even savor in his misery, but not him, he doesnât have that kind of cruelness in him. âLook, youâre not old news. You really stepped up when I was in Lenora, you became someone that she could not only rely on butââfeel safe with I guess. You uh, steadied her and thatâs not something she takes lightly.â
A flicker of irritation passes through him because he doesnât appreciate Steveâs perspective on the situation. This isnât a competition, and Nancy is not the prize. Jaw ticking as he repeats Steveâs words when youâre living in paradise maybe before he was forced to start a fresh life in Lenora, heâd consider what they shared together as paradise, but distance and lies had caused cracks in the foundation. Hiding from her that he had no interest in attending Emerson, that he never even applied and instead had been accepted to a community college in Lenora, all things he should have been upfront with her with, right from the start. But he didnât and now theyâre walking on unsolid ground with one another and he hates it.
Exhaling through his nose. Shit, heâs not going to unload that stuff to Harrington of all people. Itâs none of his business anyways. âNancy, she, yeah weâre together but that doesnât erase what you were to her, and it definitely doesnât make you irrelevant but it also doesnât give you the right to make this a competition, because thatâs what this feels like, every day. Iâm still surprised you havenât pounded on your chest like some ape.â
Sarcasm drips in his tone, but then he gets quieter, not soft, just honest.
âIâm not here to take anything away from you. You two have a history, I get that. Iâm just asking for you to not make it so damn obvious that youâre still waiting for her to come back to you.â
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Honestly, he isnât sure what possessed him to drag himself to Tinaâs party at all. He tells himself itâs because heâs trying to be a cool, understanding big brother. Thatâs the excuse, at least, the reason Will is currently out trick-or-treating with his friends, no chaperone hovering nearby. He gets it. Will feels suffocated. Their mom is overprotective, for good reason but between the doctor visits, therapy sessions, and emotional whiplash, he understands why his little brother is desperate for some kind of normalcy.
Maybe this is his attempt at that too. Because underneath the loner persona, beneath the camera and the quiet, he wants to feel normal. Just once. Thatâs the only reason he forces himself inside. Itâs hard to blend in when he sticks out this badly. Everyone else is in some kind of costume, and he hadnât even bothered. When some girl his age asks what heâs supposed to be, he deadpans, âA guy who hates parties.â Itâs a dry, half-hearted joke, but surprisingly it earns a laugh and a name, Samantha. For a moment, he thinks, maybe this wonât be so bad.
Then his eyes catch on a familiar figure across the room. Sheâs dancing. Spinning wildly, red cup clenched in her hand, movements loose and uncoordinated. Sloppy, even. He has to do a double take, just to be sure. When she completes a full spin, thereâs no mistaking her. Itâs Nancy Wheeler. Sheâs doing exactly what the flyer promised, completely sheet-faced and sheâs dancing with Steve Harrington.
He watches her, something tight twisting in his chest. Wonders if this is who she was before monster hunting, before the disappearance of Barb Holland cracked her world open. Heâs never seen her like this. Then again, heâs never been part of this world. Even before everything went to hell, he wasnât going to parties. Weekends meant extra shifts, restocking shelves, doing whatever it took to keep the lights on. Has she always been this carefree? He wonders briefly, if a girl like her wouldâve ever noticed him without shared trauma tying them together. Probably not because popular girls donât usually talk to freaks.
That thought is what finally makes him tear his eyes away. He turns back to Samantha, and to his surprise, conversation comes easily. They land on music which is a safe subject. One he knows inside and out. There are no awkward pauses, no scrambling for words. They talk about Echo & the Bunnymen, The Replacements, The Cure, The Smiths. Her eyes light up when she suddenly grabs his wrist, excitement spilling into her voice as she tells him she saw The Smiths live in Chicago. His brows lift, genuinely impressed, and heâs just about to ask her more when a sudden commotion erupts from the kitchen. The party quiets. Seconds later, Nancy storms down the hallway, blouse soaked in punch aka liquid fuel while Steve rushes after her, apologizing as he goes.
He manages to keep half his attention on Samantha, but at some point his body has angled toward the hallway, eyes flicking back again and again, waiting to catch a glimpse of Nancy. They keep talking, overrated artists now and Samantha is animated, passionate, easy to listen to. Slowly, he finds it easier to focus on her instead of the hall. Then he sees Harrington again. Steve makes a beeline for the front door and heâs alone. He has always been an observer. One look at Steveâs expression tells him whatever just happened wasnât good. She made her choice, he reminds himself. She chose Steve. Checking on her shouldnât be his concern. But thatâs his problem, he cares. Too much, especially when it comes to Nancy.
His gaze sweeps the room. Half the people are drunk. Most of them are guys. Something tightens in his chest at the thought of Nancy being left alone like that. He politely excuses himself from Samantha. A voice in his head tells him heâs an idiot, that maybe something couldâve come from this but he shuts it down. He weaves through the crowd, slipping into the darkened hallway. Doors line the walls. He opens them one by one, earning groans, curses, a few slurred âoccupieds.â Each empty room brings a strange sense of relief because sheâs not there. Finally, he reaches the last door, itâs likely the bathroom.
He knocks gently. A muffled sound answers from inside. Even slurred, he recognizes the voice instantly. âNancy,â he says softly. âItâs Jonathan. I justâwanted to see if youâre okay in there?â He hears the sink running. Her muttered cursing follows. He tests the knob and sure enough itâs unlocked. âHey, Iâm gonna come in, okay?â
No protest and then he eases the door open and finds her at the sink, furiously scrubbing at her blouse, only spreading the stain further. He pauses, watching her for a second, searching for the right thing to say. In the end, he opts for something lighter.
âYou know,â he says quietly, âI know the flyer said come get sheet-faced, but I didnât realize it was mandatory. Between that and my lack of a costume, I think Iâm really failing this whole Halloween thing.â
An observer, thatâs what heâs always been. Even without a camera in his hands, he notices things. Details slip through everyone elseâs vision but he sees it. And right now, the only detail he canât shake is the one where Nancy still hasnât come back. The group had split off not long ago, settling on a plan only people whoâve survived Hawkins could say with a straight face: knock out the Turnbow family, kidnap Derek, trap a Demogorgon, burn it, tag it with a tracker, then follow it into the Upside Down to find Holly. Every person had a job. Every person knew their role. And when it came to pulling the trigger, to precision under pressure, everyone looked to Nancy. Of course they did. Sheâs the best shot they have. The only shot. But sheâs also carrying grief, fear and guilt, more than anyone should. Thatâs why he chose to stay with her, not to hover, not to coddle her, but to be the quiet steadiness sheâll never ask for but might need.
Murray is supposed to show up any minute with supplies. Theyâll go outside, unload the truck, and then get to work. Nancy had mumbled something about going to the bathroom, quick, sheâd be right back. Ten minutes and still nothing. She probably needed space. A moment without eyes on her. He understands that better than anyone. But unease tightens low in his stomach. He keeps checking the hallway she disappeared down, waiting to see her familiar silhouette reappear, and again itâs nothing.
He turns to the window, peeking through the blinds. No Murray yet. No sound of the truck in the distance coming up the path. Another minute ticks on the clock and the twisting feeling sharpens.
âScrew it.â
He moves. His footsteps are determined but quiet as he follows the hallway to the bathroom door. He hesitates for only a second and then knocks.
âNance?â
The instinctive question to ask if sheâs okay nearly slips out, but he swallows it. Asking if sheâs okay is pointless. Of course sheâs not. Her little sister is missing. Her parents are clinging to life by threads. She found them covered in blood. And Nancy, being Nancy, has forced herself to keep moving because saving Holly is her only priority. So he offers something practical. Something grounding.
âMurray should be here soon. Once he is, we can work on loading the tracker into the shotgun shell.â
He waits. The door doesnât open.
âNance?â
He steps closer, leaning in until his ear brushes the door. He picks up on the sound of running water but thatâs not what makes his stomach drop. Itâs the sound of sniffling from the other end. She doesnât let people see her like that. Not when she can help it. Not when she can hide behind that armor everyone mistakes for invincibility. But heâs not everyone. And even with the fractures between them, even with the unresolved words and uneasy tension, he cannot, will not, stand here while she falls apart alone. Slowly he turns the knob and pushes the door open.
The sight heâs met with knocks the breath out of him. Sheâs hunched over the sink, sleeves shoved up her arms, scrubbing at her skin like sheâs trying to peel it off. Her knuckles are raw, and a fresh shade of red. Her chest rises and falls. Water runs over her hands, but she doesnât look at it, she stares straight through it.
He steps inside slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle her. But as he moves behind her, he finally sees her reflection, tears streaking her cheeks, her face crumpled with silent panic sheâs been holding back for far too long.
She hears him say her name, but it reaches her the same way sound does underwater, warped and distant, like it has to swim through everything going through her mind just to get to her. Her hands donât stop. They keep moving in that same tight, frantic rhythm, nails scraping over already clean skin. Thereâs no blood left. No reason to keep scrubbing. Just steady movement, a punishment for herself. For not being there. For not being strong enough to hold it together when everyone is depending on her.
The faucet is still running when she speaks, and her voice is barely there, weak but firm.
âIâm fine.â Itâs not even a lie, not really. Itâs more like a placeholder, a stand-in for all the words she doesnât have the energy to say. She twists the faucet off with too much force, the squeak of metal is sharp enough to cut through the silence she refuses to acknowledge. Droplets cling to her wrists, her knuckles, falling slowly.
She keeps her eyes glued to the porcelain. To the distorted sight of her hands. If she looks at Jonathan, she wonât be able to hold the last pieces of herself together.
âI just needed a second,â she murmurs, dragging her thumb over that same patch of skin, the one sheâs already rubbed raw. The redness stands out, angry and bright, but itâs nothing compared to the hollow ache sitting heavy in her stomach.
A breath trembles out of her, barely controlled. âWe donât have time for this. Murray could pull up any minute, and we need to get the tracker, and the supplies⊠We could lose the only lead we haveâŠâ
The sentence hangs in the air, like sheâs run out of road. She swallows down the rest, jaw working, throat tightening around a breath that doesnât want to stay steady.
She rubs her palms against the front of her pants, trying to dry them. The pink fabric stiff where her motherâs blood has dried into it. She can see the stains in her peripheral vision, and each one feels like a hand closing around her throat.
âItâs not⊠thereâs nothing wrong.â She pushes her sleeves down, hiding the raw skin. âI couldnât look at it anymore⊠The blood. Thatâs all.â
Her eyes flick up finally, just a glance in the mirror, but enough to give her away. Her reflection looks unfamiliar. Pale and red. Cheeks still wet with tears, sheâd rather him not see. She looks like someone she wouldâve felt sorry for before all of this happened.
She sees him standing there behind her, steady and quiet and staring right at her.
âDonât look at me like that,â she says, soft but with an edge. âLike.. iâm not holding it together.â
She slips her arms across her middle, not quite hugging herself, just holding on to something as her breathing wavers.
âIâm holding it.â She snaps, not meaning to. Thereâs immediate regret in her features, but she canât bring herself to apologize to him right now.
Her shoulders tense, rising on a shaky inhale. âWe need to follow on the plan. Itâs the only thing that makes sense right now. So please⊠just let me do that. Let me focus.â
She forces her gaze away from the mirror, down to the tile floor, grounding herself in nothing but the lines running between each one.
He wonders how many times a phrase like that has been used by someone as armor. Two words that almost always mean the opposite. He thinks back to all the times heâs uttered them himself.
Iâm fine, Mom, heâd said after Lonnie called him a pussy for crying an entire week because heâd accidentally killed a rabbit. He wasnât fineâhe had been grieving. Iâm fine, bud, heâd told Will after Lonnie slammed him against a wall for defending his little brotherâs drawing. Another lie. Iâm fine, just tired, he told his mother after working a double shift, dragging himself home at dawn because someone had to keep the lights on after their father walked out. Iâm fine, heâd muttered while planning Willâs funeral, because Joyce had been too busy talking to lights, believing her son was still alive. Iâm fine, heâd whisper alone in his room after waking from night terrors of a faceless monster inches from tearing him apart. Iâm fine, Mom, heâd brushed her off when she asked why Nancy stopped coming around because Nancy had been returning to normal, returning to Steve, and he didnât want to dissect the ache of that.
The point is, of all those times heâs said those two words, never once had he meant them. But what was the point? Saying he wasnât wouldnât have solved anything, it still would have been there. All he could do was soldier on, which is exactly what Nancy is doing. In the space of one night, her entire world had come apart. Vecna vowed he would come for them, and the attack on her family had proven he had made good on that promise. Parents fighting for their life and Holly taken. No one should have to endure this kind of pain but sheâs forced to carry to it.
âYeah, yeah, of courseâ if it were up to him, heâd let her have more than a second, because sheâs in desperate need of it. He sees the bags underneath her eyes and the exhaustion that mirrors in them, no way will she allow herself to sleep, not until Holly is safe. He gets that, of course he gets that but that doesnât stop him from worrying about the state sheâs currently in.
His gaze keeps catching on the raw redness along her arms. She scrubbed so violently her skin is practically glowing, faint indents where her nails dug in. Sheâs rambling something about Murray now, how they need to be ready when he arrives, how they canât afford to miss this opportunity.
âHeâll be here soon,â he assures, because Murray hasnât let them down yet. Any minute now, theyâll hear the Big Buy truck rumbling up the gravel with their smuggled goods. âEveryone knows how important this is,â he says lightly. âMike pretty much graduated from planning D&D campaigns to plotting kidnappings and trapping Demogorgons.â
The comment is meant to add some light within her darkened corner but he knows itâs next to near impossible. No lights will slip through the cracks until her sister is back in her arms.
âIââ He stops when she yanks her sleeves down, covering the inflamed skin. It doesnât help. He can still see it. Itâs seared into him now.
When she finally meets his eyes through the mirror, he almost reaches for her because what he sees is someone broken but refusing to break. Someone who believes breaking is weakness. Someone who thinks she doesnât have the luxury of being human.
She snaps at him, demanding he stop looking at her like sheâs not holding it together. But how can he not? She isnât okay. What she endured would shatter anyone else. Whatâs worse is when they had learned where the Demo was heading, she had been determined. A force to be reckoned with as she left with El, ready to face the monster head on, but instead of walking into the war zone, she had walked into the wreckage. She had been too late, itâs a wonder sheâs even standing. Anyone else wouldnât be, but then again, they arenât Nancy. Sheâll refuse to eat and fight off sleep, and yeah, he knows sheâs focused but even she canât fight her body. If it suddenly shuts down on her, sheâll be powerless to fight it.
He doesnât get a say in any of it. Sheâs already retreating into soldier mode, telling him they need to stick to the plan, that he needs to let her focus. Translation: no Jonathan Byers pep talks. Something in his chest twists but he nods his head because what else can he do?
âAlright, weâll do this your wayâ even saying it leaves a terrible taste in his mouth. Itâs taking every ounce of restraint not to hold her or take her hand but she asked him to let her focus. If he does any of that, itâll remove the focus. So, instead of moving forward he takes a step back, giving her space again.
Then the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel filters through the hallway, Murray just arrived. Jonathan steps back, giving her space. He turns toward the door, hand braced against the frame but he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder.
âWhen this is over, when Holly is safe and Vecna is defeated, everything youâre holding in right now is going to hit you. You wonât be immune to it. Itâll crash through you in waves. Youâll have to ride it out.â
He hesitates for a moment because as rough as things are between them, he wonât let her be alone with this. He had gone through it before, when Will had come home. He had tried to put on a brave face, but the knowledge of his brother being back had caused every dark thing they had faced to rush forward and all he could do was surrender.
Something inside her ribs seems to seize when he says those words⊠about everything crashing through her, about waves sheâll have to ride, about him being there when they hit. Something tightens so sharply in her chest that she has to grip the sink again, fingertips pressing against the cold porcelain like she can anchor herself physically against the emotional weight pulling her down.
She knows what heâs saying is true. She can already feel it, the way the pain builds up the longer she refuses to acknowledge it. Like pressure behind a dam.
She lifts her eyes to the mirror again slowly, almost reluctant, and she sees the evidence all over her. Her clothes stiff with dried blood that used to pulse through her motherâs veins, her hair sticking to the wet edges of her cheeks, the rawness of her skin where she scrubbed long after the blood was gone. She sees someone who canât afford to stop.
But, god. She needs a break. Every time she shuts her eyes, even for a second, all she can see is Holly. All she can think about is how scared her sister must feel right now.
She canât stop now. Not when Holly is still missing. Not while her parents are fighting for their lives. Not when the clock is ticking and everyone is depending on her. She glances at Jonathan for a long moment. She wishes heâd stop talking. Not because she doesnât appreciate his attempt at consoling her, but because she knows with bone-deep certainty, that the moment she lets someone in, lets someone treat her with even a fraction of gentleness, sheâll break again.
Her breath shakes as she drags it in, just enough to keep her voice steady.
âJonathanâŠâ Her voice cracks, soft and small before she sharpens it. âYou canâtââ She swallows, eyes flicking away from his reflection because looking at him makes the ache worse, makes it harder to keep her spine straight and her head up. âYou canât say things like that right now.â
She wipes at her cheeks with the heel of her hand, but more tears have collected, hot and stubborn, slipping down before she can stop them. The dirty sweater sleeve drags across her face, snagging slightly over her skin, smelling faintly of blood and hospital disinfectant. She clenches her jaw and pushes the emotion down with the same fierceness she uses to hold a shotgun.
âI know all of this is⊠I know itâs going to hit me.â She shakes her head, a tremor running all the way through her shoulders. âBut I canât let it happen yet.â Her breath shudders.
She looks at him then, not in the mirror but actually turns her head, eyes meeting his directly. Theyâre glassy and exhausted in a way sheâs been trying desperately to keep hidden.
âI need to move. I need to focus.â She hesitates, eyes dropping, voice lowering.. âFinding Holly comes first.â
Her fingers curl tight around the fabric of her sweater, Karenâs blood stiff under her grip, a reminder of why she canât stop, why she canât let herself want softness or safety or the steadiness Jonathanâs presence provides.
âEverything else after.â she whispers.
Then she hears the faint crunch of tires on gravel. A call to arms. She steadies her shaking hands, wipes her face in one long, practiced sweep, and turns away from the sink.
She moves toward the door, reaches for the knob, then stops just long enough to say one last thing, voice so raw it hardly even sounds like her.
âYou being here⊠It matters more to me than you think.â
And then she opens the door. She has to. She canât afford to want anything else, canât afford a break. Because saving Holly is the only thing that matters.
He canât say things like that. She doesnât want him to say things like that. But he needs her to know whatâs coming, what the aftermath of all this will feel like once the dust settles. Hope is all they have left, and even that feels like a fragile currency. Itâs why he refuses to think about worst-case scenarios. Failure isnât an option.
Failure cannot be part of the timeline. Everything needs to go perfectly, airtight. Trap the Demo. Track it. Kill Vecna, kill him for good this time. Get Holly back. Thatâs it. Thatâs the only endgame.
Because there are people in this group who cannot take another ounce of pain. And Nancy⊠Nancy deserves peace more than anyone. Hell, they all do, but if suffering had ever kept a scoreboard, sheâd be damn near the top. Sheâs always been an overachiever, someone who has to win at everything, but this isnât something she wishes to claim.
It amazes him and terrifies him seeing the shift in her now. Seconds ago she was unraveling, shaking, panicked, broken down to her core. But the moment Murrayâs truck rumbles into earshot, itâs like watching armor snap back into place. Her spine straightens and eyes sharpen. Her expression wipes clean. She rebuilds her walls in record time and goes back to war mode.
He has seen a lot in his life, too much but he has no idea how someone can be so unstoppable and so fragile all at once. Itâs maddening, inspiring but heartbreaking. Feels like a lifetime ago that they stood in an open field shooting at cans, her with a revolver, and now she carries a riffle.
Choosing not to say anything else, he steps aside and lets her lead. He expects her to turn the knob, walk out, and close the moment behind her. But she turns to him instead.
You being here⊠it matters more to me than you think.
It hits him hard. He freezes, breath caught halfway in his throat, stunned by the vulnerability tucked inside those words.And then sheâs gone, slipping through the door, the walls back up, the soldier restored. He stands there for a beat longer than he should, letting the confession settle somewhere deep in him. But Murrayâs voice carries in from outside. He squares his shoulders, pushes down the exhaustion clawing at him, and follows her.
Outside, the truck is already surrounded by the group, everyone assembling, everyone ready. Nancy is at the front, of course. Always the first one there, always the one already thinking five steps ahead. He jogs over just as Murray throws open the back of the truck. The boxes of smuggled supplies sit inside like strange little presents from hell. One by one, Murray hands each piece off: the gallon of acetone, the spools of snare wire, the odd gages, the CPR dummy, which Jonathan steps forward to accept without hesitation. He glances at Nancy just in time to catch Murray passing her the shotgun shells. She barely waits a second before heading straight for the barn, purpose in her stride, mission on her shoulders.
Naturally, he trails her. Of course he does. When she sits, he joins her, close enough to support her, far enough not to crowd her, because he knows the difference. Heâs learned it through years of watching her, knowing her, loving her quietly even when he wasnât allowed to.
She settles into the work with a focus so sharp it borders on aggressive. Every movement is exact and deliberate. Fix, clean, stack, load, and align. Itâs muscle memory at this point. Sheâs done it in basements, barns, backyards, anywhere Hawkins demanded she become something harder than just a girl with a gun. But tonight her hands feel different. Too tight, too cold. Like they belong to someone else entirely.
Karenâs blood is already dry in the knit of her sweater, making the pink wool stiff and heavy at the sleeves. It clings to her skin when she moves her arms. The weight of it would be enough to pull anyone under, but she refuses to acknowledge it. Refuses to give the universe the satisfaction of watching her falter.
Jonathan sits beside her, his silence isnât oppressive. Itâs familiar and comforting in a way she tells herself she doesnât need right now. The kind that makes something in her want to lean on him for the briefest moment. But that isnât an option. Not until Holly is back and Vecna is gone for good. Not until sheâs allowed to be human again. Whenever that means.
She aligns the next shell, her movements so controlled she almost convinces herself she feels nothing at all. And finally, she speaks, not looking at him, not giving him anything more than the outer edges of her voice.
âWhat you said earlier,â she begins, tone level enough to pass as indifference to anyone else, âIâm not thinking about what comes after.â
She checks the rim of the casing and clicks it cleanly into place. âThinking about how any of this is going to feel later? Thatâs a waste of time.â
Thereâs no softness in her delivery. Just blunt and tactical honesty, the kind that comes out only when sheâs too tired to lie but too disciplined to fall apart again.
She wipes her hands on her thighs, smearing a faint shadow of dirt across the fabric. âWhatever happens when this is overâŠâ she says calmly, âIâll deal with it.â
She aligns another shell with practiced efficiency. âBut right now? My head stays here. On the plan. On finding Holly.â
Finally, she glances sideways at him, but itâs not soft. Itâs sharp and decisive. She wants to talk, tell him what sheâs thinking. âIâve lived it more times than I can count and I donât know if I can survive it again.â But she canât. Talking is wasting valuable time.
So instead she offers him a gun, her movements stiff with discipline, breath held tight. âAnd now.. I need you focused.â
Throughout the years heâs seen every shape that makes up Nancy Wheeler. Heâs witnessed her determined, stubborn, angry and fierce but this, this is something else entirely. Usually her movements are that of skill but watching her now, theyâre desperate. He notices the way her fingers move: fast, practiced, but stiff, really stiff.
He wants to say something. Wants to reach out, to steady her hands, to remind her she doesnât have to bear the whole world alone. But he doesnât because he knows better, he knows her.
Instead he watches, silent, feeling that quiet ache settle deeper under his ribs. So he stays close but not too close. Minutes pass, and she speaks, of course she speaks because he decided he wouldnât utter a word. He stays silent as she makes it incredibly clear that sheâs not focusing on the future, all she cares about is the present.
He takes the gun from her, but itâs her hand he feels first steady. It shouldnât surprise him, but he flinches from the discipline in her touch. Moments ago he stumbled upon her, she was hunched over a sink, scrubbing herself raw, falling apart in a way heâs never seen. He wonders if he hadnât walked in, if it would have continued, would she have scrubbed so violently that sheâd draw blood? Now, now the armor is back up. But he saw it. He heard it. And now heâs expected to pretend he didnât.
And now⊠I need you focused. They hit harder than the gun she presses into his hands. Itâs not her suggesting, itâs not even her asking it, sheâs demanding it. He swallows, throat tight. Focus, yeah, he has to do that. For Will. For Holly. For his mom. For the party, and for Nancy. But thereâs a selfish part of him, that wants to reach for her wrist, but he knows the second he did that sheâd likely snap it. Because sheâs not asking for his comfort, sheâs asking for his compliance.
He watches her align another shell, fingers moving with the kind of confidence most people donât have.Thereâs a twisting in his chest he canât name. Itâs not admiration, though thatâs most definitely there. Itâs not fear, though God, heâs scared shitless, not of her, but of what this is turning her into. What itâs turned all of them into. Like theyâre hollowed. He thinks about the lucky bastards in Hawkins, still blissfully unaware that the world might end. They go about their normal day, having diner with loved ones, going on dates and not feeling a flicker of fear that today might be their last. If only they could be that lucky.
Gaze focused, studying her profile. The faint tension at the corner of her jaw. The redness around her eyes she thinks is gone . The way she wonât look at him now because if she does, her walls might crack again and she cannot afford that. Not today. He wants to say her name, soft and earnest but he wouldnât even know what to say. The sentence wouldnât even come out because sheâd give him a look sharp enough to slice the sentence.
Sheâs always been strong, but this strength? This is something born from responsibility, loss and guilt no one her age should carry. He seems it, watched her hold herself together with nothing but willpower and pure determination. She thinks sheâs not allowed to be human until Holly is safe. But heâs looking at her now and all he sees is someone whoâs been human this entire time, hurting, breaking, clawing her way back up again because if she stops, if she stops she might crumble and she wonât allow herself that.
He takes a slow breath, because sheâs right. Talking wonât help. Drowning in it all wonât do shit. Offering her comfort wonât provide any sense of comfort. What she needs from him right now is exactly what she asked for, focus.
So he nods once, complying. Heâll follow her lead. Heâll match her resolve. Heâll give her every ounce of strength he has left.
âAll right,â he murmurs, voice steady even if he isnât. âIâll do whatever you tell me to do.â
From outside he hears commotion, it sounds like Steve, heâs yelling, not the kind of yelling thatâs because of danger. It gets overpowered by the sound of drilling, maybe, but he tunes it all out and focuses on the task at hand.
Nancy forces the final latch closed with a decisive snap. Sheâs been running on momentum alone since they regrouped, every breath measured, every thought trimmed down to its simplest form. She refuses to slow down long enough for her mind to drift back to anything that might weaken her. If she stops, sheâll feel it all again, and there just isnât room for that anymore.
She can feel the weight of Jonathanâs stare, quiet, attentive, and too perceptive for her own comfort. But he doesnât hover, doesnât interrupt, doesnât try to push gentleness onto her. Itâs infuriatingly thoughtful. Itâs exactly what she needs. And itâs the very thing she cannot let herself lean into, not right now. Sheâs barely keeping her head above the water.
When his fingers graze hers, she feels the way he has to ground himself before he can take the gun. He understands her. Heâs mirroring her steadiness, matching her pace. And the part of her thatâs still soft for him, the part she keeps pushing down, flares for an instant at the way he accepts her tone without argument. Without asking for more or trying to soften her edges when she canât afford it.
Jonathan hasnât said a word, and she knows heâs choosing that silence deliberately. Heâs not pressing her, or pulling at the fraying edges sheâs desperately trying to keep sewn together. Sheâs grateful for it in a way sheâll never express, not until this is over, anyway. If it ends at all⊠Sheâs not ready to be held. Not ready to talk. Sheâs barely able to breathe. But she is ready to fight, so she clings to that instead.
âWe stick to the plan,â she says finally, the words crisp and evenly measured. Itâs not harsh, just firm. Right now, itâs easier to treat him like a fellow soldier rather than a boyfriend.
âGrab Derek and tag the Demogorgon. We canât afford to screw this up.â She doesnât look at him when she says it, she canât, not without risking a crack splitting straight through her composure.
A sudden metallic cranking sound shudders through the walls of the barn, followed by Dustinâs muffled triumph and Steveâs adamant protest. Something mechanical grinds against metal again, high-pitched and definitely not the kind of sound she wants to hear before a mission. Nancy closes her eyes for half a second, not in frustration, but recalibration. The world, apparently, has decided she canât have even sixty seconds of uninterrupted preparation.
She sets down her weapon, placing it beside Jonathan. The tension in her body settles into something more resolved than strained.
âCome on,â she says quietly, not quite an order but not gentle either. She stands and offers him a hand. Not in a moment of weakness. But as a reminder. A wordless admission. âI canât make it through this without you.â
Theyâre hanging on by threads, everyone of them stretched past their breaking point. Of course sheâs right when she says they canât afford to screw any of this up. All of this is leading to the final showdown, itâs been building up, theyâve been preparing. Day in and day out, and they canât afford to screw any of this up, because if they do? Itâs the end. Heâs pretty convinced itâs not just the end of them, it will be the end of everything. Vecna will get his way, like he showed her in the vision. The Upside Down will bleed into the world and everyone will be dead. Humanity will be gone, ruled by an evil dictator. He canât even imagine being one of the lone survivors, who would want to live in a world of ruin, where hope is gone and filled only with despair? Jesus, he needs to take a few steps back, shoving away the vision that Vecna had painted for them.
Attention moving back to Nancy, noting how the distance makes her sharper. Sheâs not afraid of Demos, or Vecna. She doesnât flinch at them, her fear is failure. Sheâs not being vocal about it but he can feel the weight of that terror pouring off her. His chest tightens, that familiar guilt of the night Will went missing, that guilt has never left him. He knows what she is feeling all too well. The desperation to never let someone she loves slip through her fingers again. When she breaks down the plan again, he doesnât miss the slight tremor but he doesnât call her on it. Just listens, nodding his head along, like this is the first time heâs hearing it. And thats when something inside of him shifts, locking into place. Heâs not going to let her shoulder any of this alone. He wonât let her burn herself alive to keep the rest of the party warm. No, heâs not going to let this mission turn into something breakable. He leans in, not touching her, but close enough that she can feel the steadiness. Close enough for her to see heâs listening to her, heâs focusing.
âWe wonât weâre going to tag the Demo, follow him to Vecnaâs lair and put an end to the son of a bitch.â Surprised because his voice isnât soft spoken, thereâs this fierceness in it. Itâs a promise more than a reassurance. There will not be a fallout, theyâre going to win. If this mission is life or death, then heâs choosing her life every time, and God help anything or anyone that stands in their way.
By the time her hand is offered to him, heâs already shifted. The moment her tone hardened so did his mindset. Whatever hesitation he had earlier is gone now, and heâs not going to let it return unless he gives it permission.
Mission first, emotions later, if there is a later, he thinks grimly to himself. He takes her hand, grip firm and determined. No lingering, no thumb passing along her knuckles, nothing that she might consider soft and recoil from. Once his hand is in hers she pulls him up and he rises fast, like a soldier whoâs just been ordered to stand to attention. Itâs instinct at this point, just following her orders.
When she lets go of his hand, he doesnât reach out, doesnât even think about reaching out. Makes no effort to try and catch her gaze that might be filled with comfort because comfort is not what she needs. Comfort is a luxury neither of them can afford. Instead he steps in beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough to cover. His presence shifts from boyfriend to backup, from peaceful presence to tactical partner.
No wasted motion, no second guessing. The commotion starts again, this time he makes out Dustin yelling at Steve but his brow never lifts and he doesnât flinch. All of his attention is devoted to the woman in front of him, the commander of this operation, the one who sets the tempo. She steps towards the door and he falls in line with her. A soldier moving with her, trusting her, going through with the mission as fiercely as she does.
When the open air hits him his eyes do a quick survey. Steve and Dustin have moved away from the WSQK van now standing by his car. And now he understands why Steve had been up in arms, Dustin had updated it. The top of it now sporting a satellite dish, looking like something straight outta a SCI-fi movie. Finally his eyes cut back to Nancy.
âYou should try out the shotgun. Since youâve got the telemetry tracker loaded inside the shell, you might wanna test it. See if the tracker can withstand the heat from the gunpowder once you take the shot. Like you said, we canât afford to screw this upâand if the tracer wonât work when you take the shot, then everything thatâll go down tonight will be for nothing.â
He doesnât wait for reassurance or agreement. He moves past her with purpose, muscles coiling as he crouches beside a stack of supplies. His fingers hook under the rough weave of a fifty-pound grain sack. He hoists it over his shoulder in one smooth, motion, the weight settling against him like a reminder of whatâs at stake. He starts toward the makeshift target practice area, long strides, eyes narrowed, posture disciplined. Every step is him committing fully to the plan. Matching her determination. Becoming exactly what she needs at her flank.
Nancy follows him out into the open air, the shift from cramped walls to wide space does nothing to ease the pressure building in her head. The field feels too bright, too exposed, every noise louder than it should be. She eyes the ridiculous satellite dish on Steveâs car in a single glance, mentally filing it under things to deal with later, after they survive. Right now, all that matters is the trajectory of the plan, they cannot fail.
Jonathan is already moving, efficient and focused, the way she asked him to be. The old version of her, the one before visions and blood and bodies, mightâve paused at that. Mightâve let herself feel something about the way he adjusts so seamlessly to whatever she needs him to be, like the two of them share some unspoken frequency only they can hear. But she doesnât have room for that version of herself today.
He tells her to test the shotgun, and she doesnât question it. Heâs right. She knows heâs right. But thereâs a flare of something in her chest, quick, almost imperceptible, when she sees him haul the grain sack over his shoulder like itâs nothing, stepping fully into whatever role she asks of him without complaint. Something in her settles and tightens all at once. Because she asked for focus and he gave her that, without hesitation or pushback, and that⊠God. She can use that. She needs that.
She walks toward him, boots crunching against the dirt, feeling the weight of the shotgun balanced in her hands. From the outside, she looks steady, composed, and methodical. Inside itâs a different story entirely, all jagged edges and fear. She doesnât let a shred of it reach the surface. She canât.
âYouâre right,â she says, crisp and even, eyes scanning the makeshift target heâs setting up. âWe need to make sure it survives combustion. If it doesnât hold up under heat, weâll have to rethink our entire plan.â
She doesnât thank him, not with words, anyway. She just steps into position beside him, close enough that their shoulders line up, close enough that she can sense the warmth radiating off him like a generator. It soothes her, subtle but unmistakable. Not truly comfort, but calibration, like if she tries hard enough she can borrow strength from him.
Her gaze locks forward, zeroed in on the grain sack. She squares her stance, checking the weight distribution, measuring the recoil in her mind. Sheâs done this a thousand times. Itâs muscle memory at this point. But this shot isnât just routine practice. This is the rope the whole night is balancing on.
She chambers the shell with a clean, definitive motion. It slides into place with a quiet click.
âStay behind me,â she mutters, not tender, just tactical and necessary. But thereâs something protective buried under it. She doesnât want him in the line of fire if something goes wrong.
She lifts the shotgun, exhaling sharply through her nose, expression set in stone. For a second her eyes flick to him. A glance sharp enough to cut through stone. She nods once, then she steps forward, taking on her assigned role. Soldier, hunter, commander.
âReady.â She tightens her grip, inhales, and fires.
Every step he takes he notices is steady and more measured than the last. Heâs really taking his promise to her seriously. The weight of the grain sack riding his shoulders without slowing him down. When he reaches the stacks of hay he lowers the bag down and lets it land with a thud. Not wasting a second he begins to adjust it. Rotating the sack until the broadest part of it faces her. He inches a step back, appraising the angle and then nudges it a few inches higher so the impact will be right on point for her. Patting the top of the bag once, checking the stability of it and then heâs bracing the sides with some loose hay, packing it down until heâs certain the bag wonât shift upon impact. The goal in this isnât about spectacle, he can already hear Nancyâs voice in his head. This is about function, about making that the tracer will survive the impact.
He doesnât hesitate when she steps into position beside him. When she tells him to stay behind her, he complies without comment. Heâs still trying to wrap his head around how quickly he had morphed into this role. Is this what itâs like for her? As good as he is at this, he knows if something shifted, if she no longer required the soldier but instead a steady presence, that offered her comfort, heâd slip right back into that role. Itâs not what she needs, at least, not yet. His eyes cut towards her, watching the way she squares her shoulders, the way she tightens her grip but not too tight. Heâs witnessed Nancy with her target practice, more times than he can count, but he never tires of watching her, because in some twisted way, thereâs an art to all of this, and he loves watching her work. Seeing the way she gets her breathing to slow, deliberate and measured. They linger for another second but then his eyes track the barrel and then the target. Heâs already bracing himself for the recoil, already preparing himself to move the second that the shot lands.
On the outside he looks completely calm but inside heâs freaking out and maybe casting some silent prayers. The kind that have to do with the tracer not failing, because if it doesnât hold up under the heat, then theyâre in deep shit. Heâs so focused on the target that he almost misses her addressing him.
âReadyâ and seconds later sheâs firing. The blast rips through the air, violent and deafening. Heâs heard gun fire, more times than heâd like but it still makes him jump. Miraculously though, this time he doesnât, his boots stay planted to the ground and his eyes stay locked on the way that the grain sack jerks hard against the way. It bursts upon impact, pellets tearing into it and smoke exploding outward. Even from where he stands heâs already eyeing the impact point. Checking for burn marks, shrapnel, anything that tells him this didnât work. The second things still again he doesnât waste a second, jogging forward to inspect.
Reaching the target his fingers dig into the torn fabric, searching, heart pounding, but his hands keep steady and then after feeling around he finds what heâs being looking for. With his back towards her, sucking in a breath as he pulls it out. That breath heâd been holding finally released because the tracker is completely intact. Thereâs no signs of cracking, no warping and no burn through. Holy shit, it actually worked. Feeling this sense of relief he straightens, turns back to her and lifts the tracer just enough for her to see.
âIt held, the tracker survived the combustionâ vocally confirming it for her. His eyes shoot back towards the tracer that heâs holding in his hands, for such a little thing itâs providing them with proof that this plan might actually work. That everything that goes down tonight will go smoothly. Theyâll get Derek and his family out of the house and start setting the traps. Once those traps are set, theyâll wait and then Nancy will shoot the son of a bitch. Sheâll take that shot tonight and it wonât be for nothing, itâll be for everything.
For Holly, Will, and everyone who is connected to this darkness that has been hanging over them for too dam long. It ends tonight. Thatâs what he keeps reciting to himself. Fingers curling around the tracer, like itâs something precious. Running back over towards her he stops just short of her space, close enough so that he can show her and let her appraise it.
âHereâ the casing resting in his palm. Itâs darkened slightly, from heat, edges scuffed but intact, something to be expected when itâs fired from a shot gun. He angles it, so she can see everything, no cracks, no warping, nothing that will cause them to abandon all hope. His thumb traces along the rim once, if there had been stress to the tracer this is where it would show the most.
âMinimal burnâ he shifts his stance to shield her slightly from the open field. His body instinctively positioning itself to cover while she does her own examination. After a second, he speaks up again, itâs not hopeful, itâs stating a fact. Something he hopes might cause the weight sheâs carrying to lessen, even just a little.
âIf it survived that, then itâll survive the real shot.â
The vibration from the shot still buzzes through her bones, a familiar feeling that comforts rather than rattles her. She keeps the barrel angled down, eyes fixed on the target even after Jonathan starts moving, already closing the distance to confirm what she needs to know. She watches him work with the same amount of scrutiny she gives to everything else tonight, not because she doubts him, but because in situations this volatile, assumptions get people killed.
When he pulls the tracer free, she catches the subtle change in his posture. Something in her eases just a fraction. Relief. The contingency sheâs been holding onto, what to do if the tracer failed, starts to dissolve. But she doesnât dwell on the absence of it. Thereâs still work to do.
She steps forward only once he turns back, her movements controlled against the ground, no wasted steps. The space between them gradually closes, and she stops just shy of him, gaze dropping immediately to the tracer in his palm. Her focus narrows completely, everything else fading into the background. The noise, the cold, the weight of whatâs coming. Right now, thereâs only the small, darkened piece of metal resting in his hand.
She takes it from him without hesitation. Her fingers turn it slowly, methodically, inspecting every edge, every surface. She angles it toward the light, checks the casing, runs her thumb along the rim the same way he did, then once more for herself. Her expression doesnât change, but her breathing evens out, settles into something stable. The evidence is undeniable. It survived the force. The heat of the shot. It worked.
âGood,â she says finally. One word, short and firm, but it carries a heavy weight. âThat means the margin for error just got a lot smaller.â
She hands the tracer back to him, trusting him to keep it safe, to treat it with the same care heâs shown her every step of the way. Her eyes lift then, sweeping the field beyond him, already recalculating. The next phase of the plan assembling itself piece by piece in her head.
âIf it holds under that kind of pressure,â she continues, voice steady, grounded in fact rather than hope, âthen itâll hold when it counts.â
For a moment, she reaches for him on instinct, hand lifting before she can stop it. Then reality kicks in and it falters, drops back by her side. She resets her stance, shoulders squaring, jaw firming. The soldier in her stepping fully back into place. Whatever almost slipped through is now sealed away. Postponed.
âWe move fast after this. Once the Turnbows are secured and the traps are set, thereâs no room for hesitation. We only get one chance.â
When she hands the tracer back, he closes his fingers around it, the weight familiar now. Not just metal and circuitry but responsibility. She doesnât say anything about it, but the look alone tells him she expects him to protect it the same way heâs been protecting her. He nods once when she talks about pressure, about it holding when it counts. He doesnât argue because he knows facts are her lifeline, not hope.
Her hand lifts toward him and for a split second, his body almost reacts before his mind does. However, he knows her well enough to know sheâs going to pull back, and she does. Whatever rare moment it was suddenly closed like it never existed. When she lays out the next steps, the lack of wiggle room, that this is their only chance he understands the weight of it all. His gaze drifts briefly to the rifle, then back to her face. To the woman who keeps standing even when the ground has been ripped out from under her. The woman who turns panic into plans and grief into forward motion. His eyes flick briefly over her outfit, though hers doesnât feel like the right word. Candy stripes. She hadnât explained it, but he doesnât need her to. Family hadnât been allowed anywhere near her mom, so Nancy Wheeler had done what she always does: adapted by masquerading as a nurse.
Still, sheâs not in her own clothes. Not in her armor. âListen,â he says evenly, âsince weâve still got a couple hours before the planâs in motionâbefore Guess Whoâs Coming to Dinner at the Turnbowsâ with Erica bringing pie and a side of benzos, thereâs something Iâve gotta do for my mom.â
Like Nancy, he keeps his face carefully schooled. No flicker of hesitation. No tells. Nothing to make her question him. Nothing to suggest heâs stretching the truth. He doesnât need to do anything for his mom. But Nancy doesnât need to know that. He grimaces inwardly at how mechanical he sounds, but sincerity would crack him open, and he canât afford that right now. After a beat, he reaches into his denim pocket and pulls out Joyceâs keys, the ones he swiped earlier. She wonât notice theyâre gone. And even if she does, she wonât need until tonight.
âIâll be back soon.â
He doesnât wait for a response. He turns and jogs for the station wagon, putting distance between them before the lie has time to settle. The second he slides into the driverâs seat, the mask slips. A heavy breath drags out of him as he shoves the key into the ignition. The engine coughs, sputters, then rattles to life. Guilt gnaws at him, sharp and insistent but his reasoning is steady becahse he wonât take her back there. He shifts into drive and pulls out fast, kicking up a trail of dirt as he speeds down the path, desperate to put space between himself and the weight of everything waiting back there. Once he hits the main road, he slows. The drive to the Wheeler house is muscle memory now, every turn etched into him. When he arrives, the ROAD CLOSED sign blocking the property doesnât surprise him. He cuts the engine and pockets the keys.
The road is empty. Police, military, government, theyâre cleared out by now. Still, he doesnât linger. The moment heâs out of the car, he sprints, cutting around back. The door is unlocked and he slips inside without a sound.
âIn and out,â he mutters, already bounding up the stairs. Nancyâs room is untouched. The Demogorgon never made it in here. The realization hits harder than he expects.
He goes straight to her dresser, yanking out a pair of jeans and slinging them over his shoulder. Another drawer he grabs the first sweater he finds, thick enough to keep her warm. Then her closet. He reaches in and rips a red denim jacket from its hanger. That should be enough. Satisfied, he heads back downstairs, thinking maybe heâll grab a bag. Cutting through the living room toward the kitchen, a cold sensation crawls up his spine. Dread settles heavy in his gut. When he flips on the light and nearly vomits. The kitchen is a war zone. Everything is torn apart. Cabinets cracked. Furniture shifted. This is where it happened. Dried blood is splattered across the fridge and smeared along the walls. Dark pools stain the floor. He blinks hard, trying to banish the image of Mrs. Wheeler under attack but it wonât leave. Nancy saw this, he realizes. When it was fresh. When it was still warm. His stomach knots, tears burning hot behind his eyes, but he forces them back.
âDid you get what you were looking for, you bastards?â he mutters, anger threading through his voice. Military, government, whatever label they wear, they tore the house apart for answers and left the carnage behind like it meant nothing. He canât leave yet. If they all survive this, when they do, he refuses to let her family walk back into this and relive the worst night of their lives.
He returns to the living room and carefully lays Nancyâs clothes across an armchair. Then he shrugs off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and heads back into the kitchen. Cabinet by cabinet, he starts searching for cleaning supplies.
She doesnât watch him leave. Itâs not avoidance, itâs discipline. If you keep trying to track every little move around you, you lose focus on what matters. You lose time. And time is the one thing they do not have tonight.
Jonathan said heâd be back soon. She trusts him. She holds onto that. Lets it guide her. She turns to the gear spread out in front of her. Tightens a strap thatâs already tight. Double checks the chamber of a gun she knows is already loaded. Her hands keep busy, steady from years of doing this exact thing and refusing to look too far down the road.
Still, the space he leaves behind is noticeable. Not empty. Just off balance. Like a weight shifting on a scale. She compensates automatically, re-centering herself without a second thought. There is too much going on to let one variable spiral into distraction.
She reruns the plan, not out loud this time, but internally. Entry points. Timing. Escape routes. The sequence is clean. Brutal. Effective. It has to be.
The others move around her. Voices rise, then drop. Shoes crunch against the ground. She only catches the things that matter. Someone sounding too tense. Steps that donât match the rest.
Time drags, but she does not check the road. She doesnât ask if anyone else knows where Jonathan went. Asking invites doubt, and doubt spreads fast.
So she keeps her focus. Fixes a small mistake here. Gives an order there. Keeps everyone looking towards the next step instead of an empty space. Sheâs learned that if one person hesitates, the rest follow.
Still, part of her stays tuned to the road. Waiting for the low rumble of the station wagon. His flat, calm voice cutting through with some practical update. But.. thereâs nothing yet.
She tells herself that means nothing.
Jonathan Byers doesnât disappear without a reason. And she knows he wouldnât lie to her, not now. Putting her trust in him is a decision sheâs made and remade enough times that itâs second nature.
As promised, once the errand is done, he climbs back into the station wagon and heads back. The tires kick up dust as he pulls onto the path, the cloud swirling around the vehicle but even through it, he can make out Nancyâs silhouette in the distance. Sheâs in almost the exact same spot he left her. Heâs a little surprised Steve isnât hovering nearby, but maybe Steve understands her better than that, knows when she needs space instead of someone crowding her. He files the thought away and slows the car as he pulls in. He doesnât get out right away.
Instead, he leans back in the driverâs seat, head tilting against the worn upholstery as he draws in a few steady breaths. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. Grounding himself because earlier had been a lot on him. Had taken a real toll. The house. The blood. The way it clung to everything, refusing to let go. It drained him in a way he doesnât quite have words for, but heâd done it.
The stains donât disappear all at once. They faded in layers, ghosts of what was left behind. He had to switch rags each time they became too soaked. He had worked as fast as he could but definitely hadnât half assed it. He had cleaned the fridge off too, scrubbed off the dried streaks that trailed down the surface. His knees start had throbbed. His back screamed every time he bent again, but he had ignored it.
The floor had been last. He had scrubbed until his arms had trembled. The blood stains fighting against him, clinging stubbornly to the floor but he hadnât let it win. Minutes stretching into something much longer, but he never gave himself the chance to rest, just kept cleaning. When he finally leaned back on his heels, chest heaving, the kitchen had looked different. Not clean. Not untouched. But quieter. Less violent. No longer like some war zone. The blood gone, only faint discolorations remain. Enough for the time being, if he has it his way, heâll be back.
âAlright,â he mutters under his breath, âeverything you felt earlierâreel it back in. Time to be a soldier again.â
He needs to hear it out loud. He wipes his hands on his jeans, the stubborn smears of red and brown staining the fabric where the blood refused to fully come out. His palms are raw, skin tight and burning and his knees ache from what feels like hours spent on tile. He ignores it. Pushes the driverâs side door open anyway. Before stepping out, he leans across the console and grabs the shopping bag from the passenger seat.
Once outside, he shuts the door and immediately notices the way Nancy pauses, whatever sheâd been working on forgotten as her attention shifts to him. Thatâs enough to make him head her way instead of lingering.
âFigured you werenât exactly in the right gear for tonightâs operation,â he says evenly, slipping back into soldier mode without effort now. No cracks. No softness. âThought this might work better.â
He holds the bag out to her, steady hand, neutral expression, like this is just another necessary step in the plan. But the look in his eyes says something else entirely, something along the lines of, Iâll be your soldier but Iâm still going to be here for you.
Nancy doesnât take the bag right away. Her eyes lift to his face and stay there, steady and intent, like sheâs lining up a shot and doesnât wanna pull the trigger too soon. He looks the same as when he left, calm and composed, but she knows better than to trust that. Jonathan has always been good at carrying heavy things quietly, always absorbing damage without making it obvious.
He says something about her not being in the right gear, about this working better, and she hears the words for what they are: an offering disguised as logistics. Comfort framed as a necessity. He learned that language from her.
âYou didnât have to do thatâŠâ she says.
Itâs not sharp, but itâs not soft. Just the truth, spoken without expectation that it will undo anything. The decision was already made. Heâd gone back. Heâd seen everything. And instead of letting it get to him, heâd brought her something substantial. Useful and familiar.
Her gaze drops to the bag, then lifts again, like she needs to confirm that heâs really standing here in front of her, that he didnât leave some part of himself behind in that house. Her jaw tightens, just briefly, before she steps forward.
Before she can second-guess herself, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him in one clean motion. Firm but contained, her forehead resting against his shoulder for half a second longer than necessary. She doesnât cling. She doesnât soften all the way. Just she lets herself lean on him, enough to borrow steadiness from someone who understands exactly what it costs.
Then she pulls back. No apologies or explanation. She takes the bag from him this time, grip careful and deliberate, like itâs something fragile, that could break if mishandled. Her fingers brush his, barely, and she lets that contact exist for a moment before withdrawing, control sliding neatly back into place.
ââŠThanks,â she says.
Itâs quiet. Flat, almost. But it carries weight because she doesnât hand that word out easily. Because when Nancy Wheeler says thank you like that, itâs her way of telling him she knows what he did for her.
She opens the bag just enough to see whatâs inside⊠Her clothes. Jeans worn soft at the seams. A sweater her mother gifted to her last Christmas. A jacket sheâs worn a million times before. It hits her harder than she expects, the sudden reminder of herself outside of crisis, outside of stained clothes and improvised disguises. Something that really belongs to her, untainted by the last twenty-four hours.
Her shoulders ease up a fraction. The tension doesnât disappear, but it redistributes. It starts to become manageable.
âIâll change before we move,â she says, already restoring the version of herself the party needs, going over the next steps in her head. âI donât want distractions when this starts.â
She pauses, then looks back at him. âAnd I know what you went into to get these.â
She doesnât give specifics. Jonathan doesnât need to hear them. They wonât make him carry the weight of what he saw any less.
âI wonât forget it.â she adds. Not emotional or gentle. Precise. She straightens fully now, the bag tucked against her side, posture snapping back into something place. The soldier returns. The one who keeps everyone moving forward because stopping means falling apart.
She's studying him the way she does when she studies a target or when a set of blue prints are in front of her. Measured, focused and searching for variables. He holds still though. The person standing in front of her now, the soldier, he's been shaped by her so he keeps things centered. Instead of explaining he went back to her house because he thought it might bring her comfort to get out of the outfit she had swiped from the hospital, he chooses to mention gear, making it sound more efficient. Preparation, logistics, that's the language she's speaking right now and he's choosing to respect it.
You didn't have to do that and she's right he didn't have to. But he did it anyway. He stays silent for a moment, considering his next choice of words. "It made sense" facts, it's all about facts "you'll be able to move better."
Her eyes drift to the bag, then back to his, and he meets her gaze head on. Then she steps forward, he reacts on instinct, arms coming up just enough to catch her when she wraps herself around him. God, he'd love to hold her, really hold her, but for now, this will have to be enough. He doesn't pull her closer, and he doesn't tighten his hold, he just gives her something solid to lean against. Lets her forehead rest against his shoulder, mentally counting down how long she'll stay.
One, two...
And when she pulls back, his hold slips from her immediately. No questions, no attempt to reel her back in. Two selfish seconds is what she had given herself before her control snaps back into place.
Dark eyes stay trained on the way she's opening the bag. Her movements alone show that she's being careful. It's almost like she's bracing for impact because she knows now whatever his errand was, it had been for her. When she sees what is hidden inside the bag, he catches the way that her breath shifts almost immediately. He stays completely quiet, continuing to observe and then he hears her just above a whisper thanks and he nods once.
There's no reason for him to respond to that. Going back to her house, he hadn't done it for gratitude. Her clothes aren't just her clothes. He knows that. They're proof that she still exists somewhere outside of this nightmare. He sees the way that her shoulders ease, at least, just a little but at least know, she has the option to be Nancy Wheeler and ditch the candy stripes look.
When she mentions she'll change before they move out "copy" tone neutral, acknowledging the plan. Then she looks back at him I know what you went into to get these something tightens behind his ribs at the comment. He doesn't deny it, doesn't even try to explain, because she's not asking for reassurance, she's acknowledging that he had gone back to her house, back to that warzone.
I won't forget it and for a second he does falter, there's a slight hitch in his breath but he pushes it back and re-centers himself back to solider mode. He watches as she tucks the bag back into place. He squares his shoulders, checks the perimeter again, briefly wondering what his mom and Will are up to.
The rest of the group has cleared out, likely in the bunker or something. His eyes focus over on the updated BMW as he appraises the satellite thatâs now been attached to the roof of the car. All of this is some sci-fi level shit, sometimes the way Dustin Hendersonâs mind work, blows his own mind. His eyes shift towards the keys heâs still holding in his hand.
âShould probably return these to my mom, check on her and Will.â
He hates it, how he feels so out of the loop with his own family. Given how his mom isnât storming out and asking where he was, he wonders if she even noticed he was gone in the first place.
