On a list of things I want to see immediately after waking up on a Monday morning, scattered empty beer cans and an array of pills spread out on the coffee table don't even make the top ten. Add on to that the sight of my dad, topless, with a throw haphazardly sprawled across his legs, and his mouth open in a wall-rattling snore, and I appeared to already have quite the morning on my hands…

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it, and I was already running late for school.

He was my ride.

Were it not for the impending demise I feared from a highly likely pop quiz in chemistry, the sympathy that had always prompted me to take my Dad's side in almost any situation fading rather quickly as stress took its place in spades.

"Dad—DAD!" I holler; closing the distance between myself and the couch in a mere three steps, and shaking my father's shoulder a bit to assist in bringing him back to the land of the living. Glancing down at the sparse strip of carpeting that is visible between the edge of the couch, and the table just a few inches away, I can see more pills; and yet another beer can teetering on its edge, but propped rather precariously against one leg of the coffee table—and I cannot help but release yet another sigh while simultaneously stooping to scoop up the object before it can tip over and dump whatever contents it may yet hold onto the floor, the act coming just in time as my presence appears to have startled my Dad into consciousness.

"What the—oh. It's you."

"Good morning to you too, Dad" I quip; smiling in part out of resignation over his situation, and lifting a brow in open inquiry as he plies the beer can I had just picked up from my hand and downs the remnants in one swig "I thought you had to go to work today."

The look that he gives me in that moment suggests that he does, and he does not care about the intricacies of department policy and procedures…

"Okay then. I'm running late for school, so—"

"Gimme a sec, kid. I'll meet you at the car."

"Right. Just remember I have a test today" I caution; knowing full well that if he gets himself distracted, my Dad could take longer than even I could on a day where I decided to pay particular attention to my appearance, and hoping beyond hope that today would not be one of those days.

"You're gonna ace it, Becks."

"Yeah. One can hope."

Taking that remark as his leave to head off, albeit at a slightly haphazard pace, towards the bathroom, my Dad does whatever it is he considers as part of 'getting ready'; leaving me to tidy up some of the scattered debris from his previous evening as a means of passing the time. I make a mental note to take some of the cans back to the grocery store bottle-return after school; though what to do about the pill situation is a bit of a tougher issue. But of course I know all too well exactly why the pills are even in the house to begin with; and that thought, however brief, is still enough to clench at my heart and cause a frown to tug down at the corners of my mouth.

Even I couldn't pretend that I hadn't found a slightly less than appropriate way to deal with Sarah's death; although I was just a bit better at making it not so obvious…

Shaking myself back to the present, however, before my thoughts can bring me back to the reason behind my newfound camaraderie with my Dad, and the subsequent rift that bond had caused with my Mom, I move to deposit the beer cans I have gathered on top of the kitchen counter; my attention almost immediately taking to the task of searching for a bag to place them in for later as I did so. By the time I have that task completed, and am back at the couch, trying to clean up the pills, my Dad has reemerged from the bathroom; his uniform startlingly in order, given my own witness of his earlier disheveled appearance, and car keys in hand.

"You ready, kid?"

"As I'll ever be" I reply; returning the sidelong glance he gives me as he passes, and simultaneously gestures for me to leave the pills as they are, though I know that in doing so, I am only poking the metaphorically angry—or in this case, merely grumpy—bear. He knows damn well I don't like the drugs. He knows it; but he also knows that I am very much aware that stopping is harder than it seems.

Most of all, he knows I really don't have it in me to actually do anything about his little habits; even if I wanted to with every fiber of my being.

After all, I know exactly what it is to want to be—numb. To escape.

It's just too bad I haven't entirely figured out how to do that, yet…

…

"So—you think you passed?"

"Don't know. I hope so" I respond; shouldering past one of the countless students crowding the hallway, and leaning up on tiptoe to reach the dial of my locker so that I can enter the combination. It doesn't escape my notice that my companion has already taken up the act of leaning against the locker beside my own; amusement apparent in his expression as he watches my struggles—and, with a huff that is just a fraction short of sincere, I rock back on my heels once I have my algebra textbook placed securely in my arms, a roll of the eyes serving as the only precursor to my next retort.

"Shut it, Byers. We can't all be ridiculously tall, you know."

"Yeah, but usually most people are a little bit closer to the normal end of the curve than you are."

"Shut up!" I hiss; unable to resist the urge to laugh, even as I make a show of punching Jonathan lightly on the arm to preserve what little I can of my dignity in the wake of his teasing. I can't really blame him for it, of course; not when I know that aside from his brother Will, and his mother, I may just be the only person that's seen him for who he truly is—

Not a freak—not someone to mock; but a living, breathing human being with far more good in him than most people, myself included, would ever deserve.

"Shut up, or what?"

"Or I'll steal your car, and you can just see how well you like walking home."

Whatever amusement I can see as it lights Jonathan's eyes, and causes him to shake his head in apparent resignation over my childish retort fades away just as quickly, of course, as the sound of a familiar voice shouting from across the hall causes him to tense; and I find myself whirling on a heel to face the taunt hurled at us more directly.

"Would you look at that. It's the freak, and his freak girlfriend."

"Looking in mirrors again, Tommy?" I call back; aware of the way his formerly amused expression has now soured into something perhaps a bit threatening, and choosing not to care as I hold out one hand to waylay Jonathan's impending attempt to drag me away in favor of issuing yet another retort "Whatever you might think about yourself, it's really not nice to talk about Carol like that—"

"Becks, come on, let's just go."

"No way, Byers. I'm not scared of these assholes—"

"Yeah? Well what about you being scared of what your Dad will do when he finds out you've been picking fights?"

Aware, albeit reluctantly, that Jonathan is, in fact, correct, all the irrational bravado rushes out of me like air from a deflating balloon; my eyes still remaining locked with Tommy's from across the hall, and thus allowing me to note with some aggravation that he has started making what might best be described as kissy faces while his own attention seems to fix itself upon the way Jonathan's hand has latched onto my own. I am poignantly aware of what he is thinking; as though his thoughts were written clearly in bold type across his jeering face. But before I can really come to terms with that knowledge, and contemplate exactly what to do with it, I find that Jonathan is, in fact, successful in tugging me away from the impending conflict; only the briefest of moments being spared so that I can slam my locker shut, before he is towing me off towards our next class, and I am powerless to do anything else but follow.

Not for the first time, I am forced to come to terms with how easy it is for me to give into something that I cannot entirely explain—something that has been lurking close to the surface ever since my sister died; and my entire family fell apart in tatters all around me. I had almost given in just now; in response to something that, considering its source, was definitely ordinary. And, although I was very loathe to admit it, I was also very well aware that perhaps the only thing keeping me from that type of surrender, and the inevitable disaster that followed, was one person, and one person alone.

Jonathan Byers...

Damn it.

…

Well crud, you guys, I've gone and done it again! I've fallen into yet another fandom, and concocted yet another story to go along with it! I'd love to play the unwilling, burdened writer, with the unending muses that I really am not sure I have enough time for tending—but of course, that really isn't true. I love it! Does that make me insane? (Maybe you all shouldn't answer that…)

Anywho, this slightly unanticipated first installment aside, I want to, as always, thank each and every one of you for taking the time to read! It is my absolutely sincerest hope that everyone enjoys what they have found; particularly as I am really excited to get further into the story proper! But, that being said, I would hate to continue writing something that no one wanted to read…which leads to the inevitable point where I implore you all for some feedback! Did you love it? Hate it? Find yourself somewhere in between? Whatever the case, I welcome your thoughts and ideas; and I hope there is enough interest in this to see you all next time around!

MJR