Chapter Text
She was dead.
The girl, who had once only been known as a number, as Eleven, an experiment, a little girl raised in a cage, in four walls that masqueraded as a laboratory but was truly a prison, who has been seen, not as a little girl but as a weapon, to be used and then shut away until she was of use again. A number, and nothing more. Until she had run away and became El, given the name by a boy who had found her in the woods, scared and alone, and had shown her the first bit of kindness she had never known, a boy who had changed her entire life, and who had ended up being her entire world. And then, she became Jane Hopper, the adopted daughter of Jim Hopper, the friend of Lucas and Dustin and Max and Will, and the love of Mike Wheeler.
Every version of her she had been, who she had become, who she never would have had the chance to be if it hadn't been for them, was gone. She was dead. Or at least, that is what she needed them to believe.
She had died, right in front of them. Or so they thought. What she had to let them believe. She had known, perhaps for longer than she'd been able to accept, to admit to even herself, that there never was going to be a future in which she would be allowed to stay with them. Kali, 008 and her sister, another experiment who had escaped Dr. Brenner and his lab, had been right. It was a cycle, and it would never end. They would never let her go. They would have always been hunting her, hunting them, and she knew they would do whatever it took, even hurting and killing her family, to get to her. And she couldn't let them. She had been ready to die for them, to allow them the chance to live, to have a normal life without her. She had been ready to step into the Upside Down once last time, and let herself be swallowed whole by the wormhole, but her sister, Kali, having heard her Dad's pleas, having seen the way they all loved her, had changed her mind, and they had come up with a different plan. Even as she lay bleeding, slowly dying, Kali had used the last of powers before the Upside Down sucked her away, to create a vision, for them all to see, of El sacrificing herself for them, just long enough for El to make her way down into the tunnels. Enough for her to escape. A vision that they, that He, that Mike, could not deny.
It had broken her, killed a part of her, to say goodbye to him. To not even be able to truly hold him, to feel more than the phantom press of his lips to hers, to hear his voice breaking, begging her not to leave him. To fight. To stay. To hold him just one last time. But she had done it for him. For the boy she had met in the woods on a rainy fall night, who had given her his jacket to keep her warm. The tall, lanky boy with floppy black hair, and eyes darker than the night sky, with his crooked smile and constellation of freckles across his white skin. The brave, stubborn, selfless boy who would do anything for those he loved, for his friends, risking his life without thought, even jumping off a cliff, and who had always seen her, from the very start, and had loved her so completely, every bit of her, unconditionally. Who was her first friend, her first kiss, her first boyfriend, and her first, and only, love. But she couldn't be with him. It was too dangerous. They would never stop, would never stop hunting her, never stop looking, they would never give up, and she knew, if they had the chance, they would use Mike against her, hurt him to get to her. And she couldn't let that happen. She knew he would fight. Would fight every second of his life, until his very last breath, for her…because he loved her. But she couldn't let him. She couldn't let him lose everything, to give up his entire future for her. He deserved so much better than that, than a life of fighting, of violence and running.
He deserved the chance to be free. He deserved the chance to have a normal life, and he would never be safe, never have that, as long as she existed. She had to leave. She had to die so he could live. Even if the leaving killed her.
After she had said her final goodbye, begging Mike to make the others understand, hoping that he would figure it out, that even if she was gone, he knew she had not truly left him, she ran through the tunnels, tears and blood running down her face, blinding her. She knew she only had a few hours, a few hours before Dr. Kay sorted through the chaos and started to look for her, knowing she would not truly believe she was dead until she had searched the entirety of Hawkins, until she had ripped it apart and not found her, she popped up out of the hatch they had created, and ran further still, her lungs burning and hiccuping on sobs that she couldn't seem to stop no matter how hard she tried, further into the woods until she reached a clearing where she and Hopper had hidden one of the dozen packs they had put together, had hidden all over Hawkins'. Just in case. Because they had both known that there might come a day when she would need them, that she would need to run. She lifted the boulder they had hidden it behind, one that could only be moved using her powers, grabbing the backpack before dropping the boulder back down. She had chosen this spot because she knew that even if Hopper came looking, even if he suspected, there was no possible way he would ever be able to confirm them.
She opened it, checking that everything was still there, and sagged when she found the pack intact. A change of clothes, emergency toiletries, a passport, a birth certificate with the name Eleanor Richards, a small stash of money, everything she would need to get away, to be able start a new life far away, as well as gloves, a beanie, a jacket and food enough to last a few days.
She changed quickly, stripping out of the wet suit and into a pair of jeans, a dark blue long-sleeved shirt, tying on the boots and shrugging into her jacket, before shoving all of it back into her bag, not wanting to leave a single sign that she had been there behind.
She moves quickly, jumping over the fence surrounding Hawkin's and walks through the woods to the next town over, and catches the first bus out to New York, wanting to get as far away as possible, as quickly as she could. She cries, her face pressed to the cold window, as they pass by Hawkin's, the Welcome to Hawkin's sign, burning behind her eyes even as she squeezed them shut, feeling like someone had reached in and tore her heart from her chest, shredding it, leaving nothing but an empty space inside of her. Where they, where He, used to be.
She barely sleeps the entire ride there, on edge, sure someone would figure it out, that they would come and they would find her and they would drag her back, and she would end up strapped to that table as Kali had been, while her blood was used on the pregnant women, to try and create children like her, children with powers, who would be nothing but weapons, to be used over and over until their usefulness wore off. Who would suffer the same fate that had been forced onto all of the experiments. Stolen from their Mother's, growing up trapped in a lab, terrified and alone, only to be abused and controlled, erased before they are even given the chance to begin.
She forces herself to stay awake, curling up into a ball, her arms clutching her knees, trying to make herself as small and insignificant and invisible as possible, too terrified to give in to the exhaustion, stiffening and freezing with fear every time the bus stopped and someone new got on. But no-one comes and she makes it to New York just as the sun is rising over the Hudson River. It was so cold she could barely feel her fingers as she stepped off the bus and onto the early morning streets, even through her gloves.
She stood there as the bus pulled away, frozen, with no idea what to do, or where to go. But she knew one thing for certain- she couldn't stay. Hopper's voice echoed over and over in her head. You can't get complacent, you can't get comfortable. New York wasn't far enough. No-where will be safe. You have to keep moving. No-where in America would be. She had to leave the country.
With that decision made, she walks, looking for a travel agent, and finds one two hours later, determined to book the first flight out of there, to anywhere, she didn't care where. But then, as she was standing in front of the door, sagging, tears of exhaustion pricking her eyes as she saw that the agency didn't open for another hour, something caught her eye, tucked into the display window. Her breath caught, sure she was imagining it. But there it was…an advertisement for a holiday to a small little village on the front of a pamphlet, a moss-covered cliff edge with….three waterfalls. Just like Mike had said. Like he had envisioned. As if he had dreamed it into existence. Just for her.
It was everything they had talked about, everything she had never allowed herself to believe in. But there it was. It was real.
She stepped forward, her breath fogging up the glass, her throat thick and tight as she tried to fight back tears, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but they fell anyway, and she cried as she looked at the future MIke had dreamed for them. And that they would now never have. That they couldn't. That had been stolen from them.
She had loved him since she was twelve years old. Since the day he had found her in the woods while looking for his missing friend and brought her to his home. He was the first to offer her gentleness, kindness, and warmth. The first to protect her, even if it was only from his suspicious and silly friends. The first to touch her gently, to defend her, to see her for who she was and not for her powers and what she could do for him. He had made her want to live, to truly live, and not just survive. He always saw her. Not Eleven, the experiment, not Jane, the girl she should have had the chance to be. Not the superhero, but her. El. The girl who was curious and quiet, shy and stubborn, and strong and selfless and brave, who could be petty and childish and sometimes naive. He saw all of her. The girl who didn't even have a name. Not until he gave her one.
He had given her everything.
They should have had years together. They should have had a lifetime. If the world was kinder… But it wasn't, as much as they'd both wanted to believe otherwise. And she had known, had realised long ago, though she had tried to deny it, to deny the inevitability of it all, that their story would always end this way. That they would always be torn apart, whether it be by being forced apart or by death. That he was never meant to be hers for more than a moment.
And leaving him…leaving them all…it felt like something inside her, a part she was sure would never truly heal, would remain shattered and bleeding and broken, that would scream for them for the rest of her life, had died. Her chest now held nothing but a hollow, bruised emptiness. Because she had left her heart behind in Hawkin's. With them. Behind with Him. Where it belonged and always would. Because she knew, even now, even at only sixteen, that it would never again beat for another. It would always be his. She would love Mike Wheeler until the day she died.
She pressed her forehead to the glass, letting sobs shake her shoulders, blinking between blurry eyes as she read the name on the advertisement.
Haifoss Waterfalls. Iceland.
She lifts her chin, and goes in search for food while she waits the hour for the agency to open, swinging her bag around until it hung off her chest, not willing to risk losing it if someone tried to steal it from her, and bought herself a hot chocolate from a stand, and a cream cheese bagel from a bodega, remembering how Hopper had once told her that if she ever visited New York she had to try one, and both eased the ached and hollowness of her empty stomach.
She stood in front of the agency, shifting from foot to foot impatiently for the last twenty minutes, and pushed through the door seconds after the sign on the door was turned to open, making the agent jump in fright. And half an hour later, she had a one-way ticket to Keflavik, leaving that night.
She went and bought herself some essentials, a few things she knew she would need, wincing at the thought of using more of the little money she had remaining, but she knew she couldn't go to Iceland in almost winter without it, knowing she would freeze. So she bought long johns, and good boots, overalls, two pairs of pants, thick jumpers and long sleeve shirts and a snow jacket, toiletries and a bigger backpack to carry it all in. And then she went to the airport and just sat waiting until her flight was called and she stepped inside, holding her breath as the flight attendant accepted her passport and her ticket, and then she was in her seat, flying through the air for the first time in her life. Leaving behind her entire world.
**
When El stepped off the bus in the little town behind Haifoss, she had no idea what to do. It was the middle of the day, the streets bustling with those who called it home going about their day, a few of them sending curious looks at the young girl in the two big overalls and snow jacket, carrying nothing but a backpack and an exhausted look on her pale face, almost swaying on the spot with exhaustion, but none approached, sensing from the way she stiffened when people got too close, that she would not welcome it.
She had nowhere to go. She knew no-one. She wanted to lay down where she was to cry, to give up, to just let the cold take her, to finally find some peace. But she knew she couldn't. Because she had made a promise to Mike, even if only silently, to live. To try. She couldn't give up. She had to keep going.
So she walked, and walked, barely seeing anything, not taking in the cheery windows, some already decorated for Christmas with bright flashing lights and fir branches and pinecones and paper stars, feeling completely empty, carved open and bleeding. She didn't know how the people around her couldn't see it, her heart's blood bleeding out of her. It was hours before she realised she was starving, her stomach growling so loudly, so pitifully, a woman walking by sent her a concerned, motherly look that was so gentle and kind it had El wrapping her arms around herself to keep from breaking completely.
She ducked into the first door she sees, if only to escape the eyes that were beginning to follow her, and the snow that was falling heavier by the moment and she blinked in the bright lights, distantly surprised through the numbness to find herself inside a bakery, the display filled with pastries dusted with icing sugar and shiny glazes, the air fragrant with fried dough and cinnamon.
As El stood in the warm air, her mouth watering at the smells and sights, a woman stepped out through a curtain that blocked off what El assumed was a kitchen, a woman with dark brown hair streaked with grey and pulled back into a braid, her face lined, stern but kind, dusting her hands on an apron. They just looked at each other for a moment, before she spoke, in a language that El didn't understand, her voice guttural but melodic.
'Þú lítur út fyrir að vera rifin í sundur. Hvaðan hefur þú flúið, unga dama?'
El shook her head, her voice small and croaky, and she realised she couldn't remember the last time she had spoken.
'I don't….I don't understand…'
The woman looked at her, giving her a searching look, before she nodded, as if whatever she had been looking for her, she had found. 'You look hungry'. She reached into the display case and pulled out a rich chocolate-covered pastry and handed it to El. 'Here. It's a Snúður, I think you'll like it.'
El hesitated before taking it, biting into it and almost crying as the taste of it burst onto her tongue, cinnamon and cardamom and the bitterness of chocolate, and she ate it in three bites, starving. The woman watched her, her head tilted, considering.
'You look a little worse for wear.'
El shrugged without answering, averting her eyes, tugging on the sleeve of her jacket, her cheeks flushing at how quickly she had eaten it, like an animal. And she didn't know what to say even if she did speak. She had given no thought to what she would tell people if they asked why she had come. And people were bound to, weren't they, when a stranger comes into their town out of the blue, with nothing but a backpack and nothing more?
And so she braced for the questions, her shoulders rising to near her ears, getting ready to run, when to her surprise, the woman, her blue eyes somehow both kind and shrewd, and it felt to El like she could somehow read everything inside her, see everything she was trying so desperately to hide, didn't ask any questions. None except:
'Are you here about the job? You should know, I own both the bakery and the bookstore next door, and you would need to do shifts in both. However, it does include meals and a room to board in my apartment above.'
In a way, the woman, Margrét Sigurðsson,, saved her life. If it hadn't been for her, El wasn't sure where she would have ended up. But due to her kindness, within a day of arriving in the small town she had a place to stay, warm meals and a job that meant she would not starve, that she would be able to survive. She was almost certain that before she'd walked through the door that day, that there hadn't been a job. That it hadn't even existed. Margrét had seen a girl with nowhere to go and she'd given her a place to call…not home. But sanctuary. A place to heal. A safe haven. Margrét was a non-nonsense sort of woman, frank and often blunt, but she was kind, and she made El feel completely welcome.
And perhaps, best of all, she never asked any questions. El knew that Margrét wasn't stupid, that she had suspected as soon as El had walked into her bakery that El was running from something or someone, but she never asked her who or what and El knew that, above everything else, she would always be the most grateful for. And she had much to be grateful to her for. For the roof over her head, her job, the care and kindness she had shown her, and how she had taken her on as her apprentice, teaching her how to bake all the delicacies that had the locals and the tourists flocking to her little bakery year-round. She never pried, never asked questions about how she had come to be in their little village on the other side of the world from home, or the nights where El woke screaming from nightmares or sobbing from dreams of Mike and her friends and her family. She let her be, giving her space on the days when the sadness and grief was so heavy she could barely speak a word, couldn't drag herself out of bed, or her days off where she would disappear for hours, sitting by those waterfalls, waiting for someone she knew would never come. Who didn't know to. Only to return to the apartment-she could never bring herself to call it home- more broken every time. Margrét wouldn't ask. Would only press a steaming cup of tea into her frozen hands, giving her a soft squeeze of her hand, and send off to bed, where every time a bowl of soup or stew would be waiting on the bedside table, and a hot water bottle was already waiting between the sheets. And El would climb between those warmed sheets, cry with the gratitude of being seen, of being cared for when she had thought she would be entirely alone forever, eat her soup or stew and fall into a deep sleep.
And before long, days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and before she even knew how, a full year had passed since she had arrived in the small little village. She kept busy, her days filled to the brim, rising early in the mornings to open the bakery, yawning and barely awake most days, but eager to learn, rolling and kneading and piping, perfecting the twists of the Kleinur, and the perfect temperature to steam rúgbrauð, and it seemed her fingers were forever stained with chocolate or rhubarb jam, her hair smelling of almonds and cinnamon and coconut frosting, her clothes always carrying a fine white dusting of flour. When she wasn't working in the bakery, she would spend afternoons in the bookstore, dusting, taking inventory, stocking and greeting customers, and reading when it was slow. It was tiring work, but it was rewarding and she was content.
She spent the nights of the second half of that first year in her room or sprawled on the living room floor, reading Icelandic language books, mouthing the words and pronunciation silently, determined to learn, to speak it as well as everyone else. And it had only taken a few months before she was speaking in stilted, questioning phrases, before the first year ended and she was impressing all the locals who visited the bakery and the bookstore at how quickly she had picked it up, making her smile shyly, secretly pleased by their praise, and soon it was all she spoke, only reverting to English when the rare tourist came through the doors, her American accent fading away.
Margrét was always encouraging her to get out more, her hands on her hips as she watched her spend another Saturday night curled up on her bed, reading, to make friends, to go out to the local krá and meet people her own age, sure she must be bored of spending time with an old lady, but El would always shake her head, insisting she was happy with her own company. She wasn't ready, wasn't sure if she ever would be, to let anyone in. She had had friends, true friends, the kind that only came once in a lifetime, and she knew no-one could ever replace, and she didn't want to.
She spent her days off, ones that Margrét forced on her, otherwise she would have happily worked every day, even if just to avoid being left alone with her thoughts, with her memories, hiking, catching the bus or borrowing Margrét's truck to travel around, and chasing waterfalls. Gjain and Hjálparfoss, spending hours sitting at their banks or swimming in their frigid, icy waters. Staring in wonder at the Jökulsárlón glacier lagoon, with its towering icebergs of the purest blue and white, glowing in the sunlight, watching seals spinning through its waters. Walking through the Landmannalaugar's mountains, walking its many trails, marvelling at its towering rocks in shades of pink and orange and blue that didn't feel real, staying in one of its mountain huts and laying under the dark night sky, looking up at the millions of stars and the shimmering ribbons of fire of the northern lights above her.
She explored everything she could, often left exhausted and aching when she returned, her muscles trembling and sore, but her smile wide, her mind full of memories and unbelievable sights she never could have imagined, and her backpack heavy with so many camera cartridges full of snapshots that she lost count, her boots worn and needing to be replaced every few months. But despite the joy and the wonder that never seemed to fade, there was always an ache in her chest that she could never forget, and she would find herself always looking to her right for someone who should be there with her. Who was missing. Who she missed more than she had thought it was possible to miss another person.
By the end of the second year, El had begun to feel guilty for always borrowing Margrét's truck so she went to the local mechanic and bought herself an old but reliable red truck for a good deal- a deal that El had no doubt was helped along by Margrét standing behind her through the whole negotiation, glaring at the young mechanic, reminding him that she knew his mother and she would tell her if he tried to rip El off.
Within three years, she had built herself a nice little nest egg, and decided it was time, time to stop hiding from life, from moving forward, and she went looking for her own little home. A place to call her own. She looked at three apartments before she settled on one. It was small, with only one bedroom, a tiny living area, and an even tinier kitchen, but it had pale blue walls and bright wooden floors, and even better, it was all hers. It was inside a building on the outskirts of town, but only a ten minute walk from both the bakery and bookstore, on the side closest to the waterfalls, and she could always hear them in the distance at night, through her bedroom windows whose buttery-yellow curtains always remained open day or night, the constancy of it soothing, like a far-off friend, reminding her she wasn't alone. Reminding her she was safe and in the place, the safe haven, Mike had always wished for her.
She took two days off in a row for the first time in the three years since she'd arrived, and started working for Margrét, time off that she was more than happy to grant, almost pushing her out the door, and she drove to the nearby towns, scouring the second-hand stores for furniture, strapping it onto the bed of her truck to bring it back home. Margrét's grandsons were more than happy to help her move it all up into her apartment for a little money each, and by the end of the two days, she sat down on her bright pink couch- she had squealed aloud when she had found it tucked away in the corner of one of the last stores she'd visited, and had almost thrown her money at the bored looking clerk behind the counter in her eagerness to her make it her own- and took it all in. Her small square television on its stand in the corner, her scratched up but gleaming coffee table, piled high with all the books she had bought and loved over the years, their home until she found a bookcase she liked, and a second-hand record player, and through the open doorway into her bedroom where the queen-sized bed which had been hers at Margrét's which she had insisted she take with her, despite El's many protests, was made up with new sheets and a duvet in her favourite shade of lilac, and the wooden chest of drawers she had splurged on, where her small collection of clothes was neatly folded away.
It was hers. It was all hers. She had her own home, she thought, letting out a quiet, stunned laugh, pressing her hands to her face, still not quite able to believe it.
Unbeknownst to her, while she had been away, many of the villagers who also called it home and she usually saw in the bakery at least a few times a week, if not daily, for their coffees and a treat before or after work, had asked Margrét how they could help her when they heard she was moving, knowing quiet, guarded little Eleanor would politely decline if they were to offer, not wishing to be beholden to anyone. So when El walked into the bakery on her first day back, she was startled, staring in disbelief, to find the backroom was stacked almost to the roof with piles of blankets and sheets and cushions, pots and pans and cooking utensils for the kitchen, brand new towels and bathmats, and so many other things that she hadn't had the chance to buy yet, her mouth hanging open.
Margrét had laughed, patting her gently on the back, El having stopped flinching every time she touched her years ago. 'There is also at least a month's worth of meals taking up my fridge upstairs. Guess you have more friends here than you knew, missy.'
El remained stunned speechless for the rest of her shift, and when she was on her lunch break, after interrogating Margrét about who had helped her, she went and found them and thanked every single one, her cheeks flushed, shifting awkwardly, not meeting their eyes but almost bursting with gratitude. And as they waved her off, insisting it was nothing, and she made her way back to the bakery, she knew, she needed to start trying, to allow people in, to let down those walls she had clung to for so long, scared to open her heart again.
And so she did, speaking more to those who came into the stores, letting them get to know her. At least…the parts of her that were Eleanor. The parts of her that were…had been Jane…had been El…they belonged to others. To the people, to the family, she had left behind. And though the people in the village might have sensed there was things she was hiding, many secrets held inside her heart, like Margrét none of them asked, knowing from the sadness she sometimes carried like a shroud, that she could never quite hide in her eyes or in the way she flinched when a visitor would hear her accent and ask where she was from, the way she would fade away for days afterwards, a part of her no longer there, but somewhere else, that some things weren't meant to be asked.
And though she did not find any friends like the ones she had when she was a kid, friendships that had been rare and life-altering, forged in magic and trauma and battles that should have never been theirs to carry, in blood and loss, in love and and trust and honesty, a bond that went so much deeper than blood, a loyalty that made them ready to fight and sacrifice anything for one another. As she had for them. And she knew they had all been willing to do for her. But she did find a close friend, Katya, who had grown up in the village, and was a few years older than El, and reminded her so much of Max, fiercely independent, brutally honest, and straight-forward, and full of such spirit it made a part of feel like Max was with her, always making El laugh with her stories of fighting with the art director at the gallery she worked at, bemoaning his terrible taste. 'Honestly, Eleanor, I have no idea how he got hired!'. They would meet for lunch at least once a week when their lunch breaks matched up, going to the cinema and hiking together when they both had the time off. It was nice….to have a friend again.
And through it all, all the years, all the changes, all the growing, and the grieving, El only has one rule. One rule she never breaks, never allows herself to. She never visits them, never visits Mike in the void. At first, it had been self-preservation, a lifeboat in the storm, a way to keep going, to keep surviving, because she had known if she visited him, if she saw his face and got to hear his voice, she would never return to her body, would never come back from the void. She knew she would sit there, that she would stay, would let her body starve, until she faded away, if it meant just getting to be with him. Even as only a shadow, a phantom, a ghost he couldn't see or hear.
And then, the more time passed, as guilt grew like a tumour inside her, spreading through her until it was all she knew, all she felt, so thick she could almost taste it on her tongue, it didn't feel fair to visit him. To go and see him. Not when she had left him, when she had let him spend the last four years believing she was dead. And there was also a part of her, a huge part, that was scared. So scared of what she would find. Scared that he was still in pain, scared that he was still grieving her, that she had inflicted a wound so deep, so irreversible, so unhealable, that it had broken something inside the boy she loved more than life itself.
Or the worst fear, the one that kept her up at night, that made her feel like her entire world was ending all over again, was…what if he had moved on? What if he had found a new person to love? What if he had forgotten all about her?
She was a coward. She knew it. But if cowardice kept her safe, kept that fear at bay, held it back, even while it snapped its teeth at her neck, straining at its leash at all hours of the day and night, then a coward she would be.
So instead, after four years in Iceland, four years after she had run, after she had lost and sacrificed everything, she would sit on the floor in her living room, an old t-shirt tied around her eyes, and her television playing static, as she fell into the void, and she would watch those who had been the reason for both of their loss, the Bad Men, a title she had never outgrown, that still seemed fitting, even after eight years, even now she was an adult.
And it seemed, in the years since she'd left, since she'd run for her life, for all of their lives, across the world, she had missed quite a lot. Dr. Kay, the woman who had hunted her like an animal, who refused to let her go, refused to let her live, determined to get her hands on her blood, it seemed, hadn't been very forthcoming or honest with her superiors about what she had been doing in the Upside Down. After all that had happened in Hawkins's, the death of the experiment known as 011, or Jane Hopper, under her watch, an investigation had taken place and it had only taken a few of her lieutenants breaking under interrogation for the horrifying truth to come out. It turned out her bosses had never approved the mission that Dr. Kay was determined to bring to fruition, had been unaware the extent of her tyranny, that she had been kidnapping unwilling women to be participants in her experiments, pregnant women who had been transfused with blood from another experiment, 008, women who had all been killed, along with their babies when the parallel dimension had imploded. Dr. Kay had become a liability, a liability they had wanted nothing to do with, and had no intention of being dragged down with her. And so Dr. Kay was stripped of her rank of Major General and sentenced, the evidence and the testimonies of her soldiers and lieutenants enough to have her sentenced to a life in an army prison where she was placed in solitary confinement, where no-one would be around to listen to her screams, her rantings about girls with powers and how she was still out there, that they had to keep looking, they had to start again.
Her entire unit was dismantled, along with the department that headed them, and with it all evidence that they had ever existed. Their crimes, the list of participants, hostages and prisoners that had been killed and tortured and experimented on, it was all erased from existence. Including the existence of the experiments. Which meant, Eleven, also known as Jane Hopper, technically, had now never existed.
And no-one was looking for her.
As she had pulled the make-shift blindfold off her face, blood drying under her nose, she sat there, unsure what to do, how to feel, how to even breathe. All her life, ever since she had first drawn breath, she had been property, branded so at not even ten years old, a number and nothing more. A weapon, not a little girl, not a human being, someone not allowed to have hopes or dreams or wants of her own. Even when she had escaped, even during those too-short years spent growing up, spent with her friends, there had always been something chasing her, Papa, or the demogorgons, Vecna or Dr. Kay. She was never safe. But now…now she was something new. Something reborn. She was a blank slate. She could be anyone, go anywhere. She was free. To simply exist. To be. To be with… Mike. She could go home.
El's entire body recoiled at the thought, that fear wrapping its icy fingers through every part of her, freezing in place and she shook so badly her teeth chattered. No…she couldn't go home. She couldn't face it. She knew she would never feel safe there, in Hawkin's, in America. She would always be looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to come looking, for someone to snatch her away from all and everyone she loved. And she knew… she couldn't face him. She couldn't face Mike. Not knowing how badly she'd hurt him.
No, she couldn't do it. She just couldn't. So she pretended. She went on as if nothing had changed, guilt and fear her companions every day, whispering in her ear, reminding her over and over of her cowardice, her cruelty. Some days the voices became quieter, and others she wanted to slap her hands over her ears and scream to drown them out. But she survived. She continued to live. She continued to pretend. Because it was the only way she knew how to survive any longer.
PRESENT DAY- 19th September 1992
The bell above the door gave a happy jingle, making El glance up from where she was rising on her toes, trying to push a large encyclopedia back onto the top shelf, mumbling curses under her breath, reminding herself to try and convince Margrét once more to stock them on a bottom shelf so she didn't end up with a concussion the next time one of them decided to inevitably drop off the top shelf out of nowhere, and gave a quiet smile to the old delivery driver, Jón, who was wheeling in some boxes from his truck.
Jón was an older man who El was almost certain was dating Margrét but couldn't ever get either of them to admit it, having caught him sneaking down the backstairs more times than she could count when coming into the bakery of a morning, with a red-face and wide, friendly smile which was almost swallowed by his salt and pepper beard that sometimes reminded her of Hopper, sending a pang through her.
'Síðdegis, Eleanor.'
No-one called El anything but Eleanor, not even Margrét or Katya, as the one time someone had, she'd had a panic attack that had ended with her almost catatonic in her bed for three days. The girl, one of the workers who came in to help with the morning rush some days, Anna, had felt so guilty she hadn't been able to address El by anything for weeks afterwards.
'Halló, Jón.'
'Got a delivery for you. Where do you want it?'
'Just by the counter is fine', El said, dusting off her hands, and coming to stand beside him, almost giddy as she watched the boxes be unloaded, almost five this time. They so rarely got new stock of books delivered, being so remote, sometimes only once every three months, and it was always El's favourite day, rivalling Christmas and her birthday, at least the one she now celebrated, the false one on her passport and birth certificate, because it meant she got to close up an hour early for stocktake and browse through the new books to her heart's content, getting first claim on anything she liked the sound of. It was her favourite perk of the job.
When Jón left, El quickly locked the door behind him and turned the sign to closed, excitedly opening them up, setting aside a few romances and a mystery she had put an order in for herself months ago. She scanned the rest through, adding them to the system, and setting them aside to put on the shelves in the morning. She turned up the radio that was always playing in the background, to drown out the silence, humming under her breath, as she glanced out the window at where the sun was beginning to set, thinking of the sad little sandwich for dinner that was awaiting her at her apartment, and grimacing. Maybe she should really splurge and see if Katya wanted to meet her for a burger.
Her mouth watering at the thought, she reached for the very last box, eager to get it unpacked and rush over to the gallery and see if Kaya wanted to tag along. She grabbed her box cutter, slicing open the tape holding the box closed, sliding it open and reaching blindly inside, pulling out the first book on the top. It was heavy and thick, with a dark purple background and its description in pretty gold calligraphy, a novel she didn't remember ordering.
Huh, Margrét must have, she thought with a shrug, her curiosity piqued by seeing the familiar 'New York Times Best-seller' typed on the back, and she turned it over to see who the author was, wondering if she would recognise the na….
El's fingers went numb, nerveless, shaking so badly she almost dropped the book. Her fingers tightened on it at the last moment, her lungs seizing as she stared at the name of the author, a name that had lived in her heart since the last time she had spoken it, five years ago in the void.
Michael Wheeler.
'Mike', she said, her voice strangled, her throat tight, tears filling her eyes.
It…no, it couldn't be. It couldn't be possible. How could it be? How could a book that he had written have possibly found her here, across the world? It had to be a coincidence, there had to be another Michael Wheeler in the world.
Her hands frantically flicked through the book, through its pages, to the very back where she knew the author bio would be, and as she found it, as she turned to the very last page…she gasped, her heart slamming hard against her ribs, as if reaching for him. Because the photo…it was him. It was really him.
Her legs gave out beneath her and she slid to the floor, but she didn't look away from the photo, didn't look away from him, drinking him in, desperate for that long-lost face, for the one she saw in her dreams but had been fading, that she had been losing, unable to remember the little details, like the pattern his freckles made under his eye, or the way his hair fell across his forehead, the little dip in collarbone. She gulped him in like she had been drowning for years, choking and airless, and in seeing him, she was finally able to breathe again.
He was…he'd been barely changed, so much still the boy she had met that night in the rain, the one she had danced with at the Snow Ball, the one who had held her as she had cried, who had bandaged her wounds, her hurts, inside and out, and kissed them better, who had held her with shaking hands in the void as he'd begged her not to leave him.
'Mike'. She whispered it as she pressed her face to the photo, her tears dropping down onto the page, and she quickly, frantically, wiped them away, terrified it would smudge.
She sat and looked at him for hours, until the sun had long set, the sound of her stomach grumbling and her legs tingling painfully beneath her, gone numb from hours of her sitting on them, but she didn't care. All that mattered was him.
She rang her fingers over the photo, over the smile that could tell was false, not the crooked one that she adored, the one that had never failed to make her heart race and butterflies flutter in her stomach, but stiff, tight, one that didn't reach his eyes, eyes that were so sad, so full of pain, pain she knew she'd put there…and it broke her.
She pushed herself to her feet, groaning at the painful tingles in her feet as blood flowed back into them. She grabbed hurriedly for her bag, placing the book carefully inside it, leaving the box where it sat on the counter. She'd come in early tomorrow. She was off from the bakery and didn't have to open until ten. This…this was more important. She quickly turned the lights off and locked up, before practically running the three blocks to her apartment, not even taking her shoes or coat off, barely closing the door behind her, before she dug his book out of her bag and began to read.
When she next looked up, his final words ringing through her mind, her eyes were sore and her body ached from not moving, and she blinked, confused, at the sun already beginning to shine through her kitchen windows, night having come and gone while she was reading. She sniffled, her cheeks soaked with tears, and she hugged the book to her chest, almost bursting with pride and grief and love.
'Oh, Mike.'
It was about them. He'd written about them. About their friendships, their adventures, their love. About their beginning. About the night they'd met. About how they'd found and lost one another that first week in Hawkin's. About a Paladin and a Mage. About fighting the enemy, about the world trying to keep them apart, and about the Paladin losing the Mage. And about his hope of finding her. Of never giving up.
And on the final page, instead of an author's note, there was a dedication, one that had her heart racing, and hope, a hope that she hadn't allowed herself to feel in a very long time, rising, hope that smothered the fear.
For El. It's been 1188 days. I'm here. I'm still counting.
He'd never forgotten. He hadn't given up on her. He was still waiting for her. He still loved her.
She went to work in a sleep-deprived daze, moving through it like a fog, and by the end of the day she couldn't remember a single thing that had happened. But that night…for the first time in five years…she broke her rule.
**
El opened her eyes in the void, her heart pounding and her hands sweaty, as she stepped into a room that she didn't recognise, nothing familiar. Her brow furrowed, taking in the single bed in the corner, its sheets rumpled and unmade, at the bedside table piled high with notepads and piles of pens, all sorts of scribbled words written all over it.
A rhythmic clacking, echoing over and over, made her head turn and El's eyes widened, her breath catching in her chest, as her eyes found...Mike.
She walked closer, standing next to him where he sat at a desk typing on a typewriter. He looked…different to his photo, and yet so much the same her heart ached. Her fingers twitched by her side, itching to reach out, to touch him, to brush her fingers over his hair that was long and fell in messy curls around his face, but she resisted, knowing if she tried he would disappear, would fade away. And now she was here, looking at him, she knew she would never do anything that would make him fade, that this one look would never be enough. Now she had seen him, she knew she would never be able to look away again.
His face had lost the fullness of youth, his cheekbones and chin now sharper, and he had more freckles. She wanted to trace them, to discover the new ones, press her lips to them, to anoint and christen them with her lips. She hoped they'd come from days spent in the sun, having fun with their friends, though a part of her doubted it. He wears glasses now, round ones that somehow made him look more serious and more handsome. They suited him.
The photo wasn't wrong. He looked sad. Lonely, even as his brows furrowed in concentration, and her lips trembled to see it, knowing she was the reason for it.
She reluctantly tore her eyes away, looking around the room again, drinking in everything she could see, find, every bit of his life she had missed in the last five years. She smiled at the award on his book shelf, the ones with his name carved into, his books lined up beside them, more than she had known existed, and she already wanted to run back to the store, to do a personal order, desperate for more of his words, of their stories, of him. But she also saw what wasn't there. There were no photos of anyone new, only ones of their childhood, of his family from what she assumed was his last Christmas in Hawkins's, photos of Will and Lucas and Dustin and him as kids, and…she glanced down at his desk and let out a quiet sob when she saw her own smiling face looking back at her, a photo of her on his desk. After all these years.
But there were no new faces. No new friends. No sign of any living there but him.
Part of her had hoped he'd moved on, that he was happy, if only to relieve her own guilt. But there was another part, a part of herself she was ashamed of, that felt nothing but selfish relief that there wasn't. That he still thought of her, still kept her photo on his desk, something she had regretted, something she had wished she'd thought to take, photos of them, of him. Instead she had been left with nothing but her fading memories.
And, by seeing him, she realised just how much she'd forgotten. The way his shoulders curled inwards, the way he bit his lip when he was lost in thought. How he was always shifting restlessly, tapping his fingers or bouncing his leg. How dark his eyes were. How soft. The scar on his chin from where Troy had pushed him onto a rock when they were kids.
She wished she could touch him, wished she could smell anything but the airless metal of the void, that she could know if he still smelled the same.
'Mike', she whispered, slapping a hand to her mouth, his name escaping without thought, trying to snatch it back. But it was too late.
Mike's head snapped up, his dark eyes going wide behind his glasses as he jerked to his feet, looking around frantically.
'El!' he cried, a light that had come into his eyes slowly extinguishing as she watched him find nothing but the empty room, and tears began to run down her cheeks as she watched him drop back into his chair, tears in his own, as he ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. He ran a hand down his face, leaning his head back to glare at the ceiling.
'Fuck!'
He wiped at his eyes, squeezing them shut for a moment, before he reached blindly for the frame on his desk, for the photo of her.
'I miss you, El. So much. I thought I heard…I don't know. Maybe Lucas is right…maybe I am losing my mind. It's been nineteen hundred and forty two days. I don't know why I'm still counting. I think some days it's the only thing that keeps me from actually going mad. I'm not giving up, El. No matter what any of them say, I'm going to keep counting, as long as it takes. Until your home.'
He kissed her photo and she sobbed, collapsing forward, hugging herself and her concentration broke and he faded away, disappearing in a puff of grey smoke. She gasped as she came back to the room, falling back into her body, tasting the salt of blood and tears on her lips, and pulled the blindfold off.
Mike. His face flashed through her mind, his eyes bright with tears and shattered with pain, and it felt like a knife being slid between her ribs, sharp and cutting, slicing deep, and she had never hated herself more. She just kept hurting him.
It was enough. Enough pain. Enough hurting. Enough suffering. Enough of them being apart. It was enough.
And El thought of all she learned the year before, what'd seen in the void. She was safe. No-one was looking for her anymore. Her entire existence had been erased. She was free….free to choose him, to choose the future that should have theirs years ago. They'd both be safe, there was nothing to be afraid of, no-one to hide from.
If she was just brave enough to try.
She was scrambling to her feet, tripping over her rug, dragging her coat off the rung and tugging it on before she'd even realised she'd made a decision, impatience and excitement, a feeling she hadn't felt in such a long time, racing through her veins as she ran out the door, down the stairs and into the cold night air. She ran, her heart pounding, her lungs singing, down the street to the gallery, screaming for Katya as she saw her standing at the door, getting ready to close up.
'Katya!' she came to a stop in front of her gasping, shocked by how out of shape she had actually gotten, leaning on her knees, holding up a hand as she tried to catch her breath, Katya looking down at her, bemused. 'I….please….I just need…one thing…'
Katya groaned. 'Eleanor, come on! I've worked all day…'
"I'll give you a free cinnamon scroll and coffee tomorrow. Tomorrow and Wednesday.'
Katya raised her eyebrows and grinned. 'Deal.'
El purchased what she needed, borrowing a pen to scribble down the address she would never forget, as well as her one word message, thanking Katya, before racing to the letterbox on the corner. She stood in front of it, looking down at the postcard in her hand, and lifted it to her lips, kissing it.
'Please find him. Please find me.'
She slipped it inside and closed it quickly, letting out a shuddering breath, her heart racing, a hysterical giggle escaping her, as she let the giddiness, the hope, rush over her, before she breathed in, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat, and began the walk home. Where she would wake tomorrow morning and go to work and go about her days and…she would wait.
She would wait, forever if that is how long it took. She would wait for Mike. Because she loved him and she was done being afraid. If he came to her, if he forgave, she would never let him go again, would never let anything or anyone, even herself, tear them apart again.