Welcome back to the Not So Little Moments Series!

I'm so humbled from the positive feedback I received in Part 1. Hopefully I can keep up the momentum with this part and the ones that follow. This one was a bit difficult to write, seeing as though Eleven and Will really haven't interacted at all in the show. And it was hard to build most of it from scratch. But I wanted to stick with it, and I'm glad I did.

Like this one, the next handful of parts will be set in the past so I can start describing those "not so little moments".

*smirks*

Judging from the response I get, I might add in some stuff I predict will happen in S4. However, that won't be the heart of this series, and I would be keeping them at a minimum.

Enjoy! Though, as you read, I highly suggest having a glass of chocolate milk by your side.

One-shot Title:

A Sketch In The Right Direction

Character/Ship:

Eleven Hopper, Will & Joyce Byers/NO SHIP

AlternateSummary:

Eleven finds an unlikely ally in fighting her nightmares.

Toledo, Ohio

November 15, 1985

Eleven breathed deeply, loosening the iron tight grip around her knees as she leaned back, surrendering the job of keeping her upright to the wooden panel of her headboard.

She dreamt of Hopper again. Of his deep yet comforting voice, and that stretched, closed mouth smile he had always used around her. Ever since he died, she saw him every time she closed her eyes. That first week she had settled in with her and the boys, Joyce had told her it was a part of this process called grieving. It made sense once Eleven mulled over all of her trauma. And, for awhile, she no longer fretted whenever she saw him.

However, when the image of her father figure struck after what felt like hours since she closed her eyes - interrupting the peaceful darkness of her sleep - she was convinced it was something else. Because he didn't have the dried blood on his face like before, or the printed shirt with the wings on them. No. His appearance was different. Hauntingly different. He looked older with his unkempt beard and a head of long shaggy hair. But his deep blue irises were shining softly with a bright light despite the bags underneath them. The last time he had gazed at her like that was before they split up at Starcourt, and he convinced her to stay low while he fought for her. Died for her.

He felt… real this time. So real to the point Eleven was beginning to think this was a peace offering from the world for putting her through Hell. Or even a sign her abilities, which were something she hadn't been able to access in months, might be coming back to her. Though that thought made a part of her feel relieved - maybe even hopeful - it terrified the rest of her to the core. Because for the first time in all fourteen years of her life, she finally had some semblance of normalcy. Which only became a reality once she left Indiana.

It pained her sometimes whenever she thought about being away from her friends. From Mike. However, she had talked with at least one of them with her walkie, or traded letters if Cerebro was out of commission and their parents didn't want them to rack up the phone bill. Not to mention the fact that she was close enough for them to visit without it being a big inconvenience. She missed Hawkins, but it was just a reminder of how she suffered and what she lost despite the good packaged with it. Ottawa Hills was her clean slate, her chance to move on her with her life. And If her powers were coming back, so was the Mind Flayer and whatever messed up plan he had for her world.

Her past would flood back into the future she was already struggling to make for herself. That was the last thing she wanted, but she was more fearful of getting her hopes up. On feeding off of the idea that Hopper wasn't dead, only to have that door slammed into her face with proof that suggested the opposite down the road. No. She couldn't put herself through that pain again. She refused to put Joyce and everyone else through it.

Eleven sat up from her slouched position, glancing to the clock at her right. She groaned, realizing that she had slept for no more than a few hours. She was tired, but didn't want to experience another nightmare about someone she had lost. So, she figured fixing herself something to drink was a decent distraction, slipping out of her bed and strolling over to her bedroom door. Her hand grasped the handle, and she pulled it, widening the three-inch crack as she took a step through the threshold.

She stood still for a few moments, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. After that, she took notice of how bright the end of the hall was in comparison to where she was. Squinting, she quietly continued her trek, her bare feet leading her down the corridor. She heard a sound as she walked, which only added to her rising suspicion. It sounded like a door slam, but softer. Like whoever carried out the action was mindful of the noise that would follow.

When she finally left behind her and Joyce's hallway - stopping to survey the conjoined room - her honey brown eyes ceased from their narrowed form once they found the kitchen. Specifically, the culprit standing in it.

She was seconds away from calling out to him, but Will cut off her train of thought as he met her gaze, freezing from behind the kitchen island with a carton of chocolate milk in his grasp.

No one said a word for a few moments. Then, he blinked away his shock and cleared his throat, slicing away at the uncomfortable silence, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I-" Eleven hesitated, wrapping her arms around herself in a snug hug. "I couldn't sleep."

Will only gave her a nod, blinking again before he resumed filling his cup.

While he did that, she took it upon herself to make her way over, her steps slow as they trudged into the living room, passing through the space between the table and the television set.

Once Eleven met him at the island, stopping beside the row of four stools guarding its exterior, he peered at her again. The look was not reciprocated with her opting to stare at the countertop. She missed the hints of understanding in them, the sympathy. A sharp contrast to the way he had looked at her seconds ago, and all of the other times they were in the same room and he had managed more than a glance in her direction.

"I have them too: nightmares."

Registering his words - and the genuineness radiating from them - Eleven turned to him, her eyes significantly wider than before.

"I had them before… I disappeared," he continued softly, gulping down the anxiety that filled him at the memories, "But they were child's play compared to the ones I had after I came back. Instead of Freddy Krueger or a zombie, I saw the Upside Down. I saw myself getting possessed by the Mind Flayer all over again."

Will let out a pained breath, the puff of air trembling its way out of his mouth as he set the milk carton down, letting it thud against the ironwood. "And now, I see Jonathan telling me that my mom didn't make it… Sometimes it's just her. Sometimes it's both her and Hop-"

He caught himself before he could finish, but not before watching Eleven as she shrunk in on herself, tilting her head down and away from his eyes. Her arms latched back around her once again, which appeared similar to the way she held herself before. And it only made him feel worse about opening up an old wound.

Will knew the gruff - and at times brash - police chief for as long as he could remember. But he never knew him like his mother did. And he didn't have to rely on him for protection and care, like the timid girl standing before him, who was still avoiding his gaze. Just like those first few weeks of processing that her father figure wasn't coming back.

Things between them were still in a… strange place. They were better than they were when Eleven had first moved in that Monday after Starcourt, which felt more tense with the grief added in. Will accepted his share of responsibility in that, seeing as though his issues with Mike still stained his mind, despite his want to keep their friendship. It was easier to blame her for that since she had been the source of the problem after all. Additionally, she literally lived in the same house, so he did his best to avoid her - his tactics a mix of limiting the amount of eye contact, avoiding conversation, or simply ignoring her as they walked in the same vicinity.

It worked well enough until the weeks passed, and Will came to realize something very important about Eleven: she was genuine to a fault. Whether it was with actions or words from her growing vocabulary, she was honest about almost everything. Especially her feelings, which seemed to focus more on him and their strain since they had left Hawkins. She made several attempts on rebuilding that bridge and was very persistent in getting to the bottom of what was wrong while he shoved it all under the rug, pretending like it never existed. She cared, and once he was able to truly understand that, he was willing to let go of those negative feelings.

Though Will's gesture didn't alleviate the tension still lingering as quickly as he had hoped, it was a start. And what he was going to say next took it a step further.

"Yeah. Nightmares, they uh- they suck. But I've found ways to take my mind off of them when I'm awake and don't want to go back to sleep."

His last sentence brought Eleven out of her shell, and she turned to him again, her unkempt waves sliding to one side as she tilted her head., "What ways?"

Will did his best to hide his amusement at her enthusiasm, but a smile slipped through his wall, illuminating his umber irises.

"Well, first I get something sweet. Nothing too sugary, just something to help fend off the drowsiness. Like this," he poked the side of the carton with the tip of his forefinger. "Want some?"

Wordlessly, Eleven gave her consent with a nod, recalling that a drink was the reason she came to the kitchen in the first place. A soft exhale left her once she slid into the nearest stool, watching as Will turned his back from her and went to retrieve another cup from the cupboard.

"Then I do something to pass the time. Like a hobby, but nothing that could wake up Mom or Jonathan," he continued over his shoulder, and her expression grew pensive as she thought about examples of what she'd seen him do in his free time.

Reading fantasy novels written by someone named J. R. R. Tolkien came to mind, but there was also something else. Something that - for whatever frustrating reason - had a name she couldn't place. At least until she glanced to her left, practically ignoring the two seats standing between her and the opened book bag as its contents caught her narrowed gaze. Particularly, the camouflage skin of his sketchbook.

"Like drawing," she observed, the words falling from her lips in a distant whisper, "I don't think that's my hobby. I'm not good at it."

Will strode back to her in just a few steps, her declaration prompting him to spare a sheepish glance her way, his hand shooting up to the back of his neck as the other sat her cup down, "I wasn't that great either when I started. You just need more practice."

Eleven just shrugged one shoulder and helped herself, plucking the carton from the counter while her other hand latched around the clear side of her cup, the bottom of it scraping against the wood as she pulled it toward her.

"Seriously. I was terrible at it," Will insisted, his features twisting into a brief grimace, "but I kept doing it, especially when I didn't feel like it. Now, instead of multicolored blobs and scribbles, I can draw the outside of our house. Or the shoreline by Lake Erie."

He paused, pressing his lips together as he turned slightly to his right, his eyes narrowing as he found his bag. "I can teach you, if you want."

Eleven froze just as she finished pouring her serving of milk, the carton in her grasp easing as she let it land next to her filled cup. Soon enough she recovered, but didn't meet his gaze, opting to stare into the dark depths of her beverage instead.

"It could be anything," Will offered sheepishly., "As long as it - you know - helps."

Several beats of silence served as her response, until she broke out of her reverie and looked up, shooting him a wary glance and asking, "Can I... can I draw Mike?"

Will paled, feeling like his heart was going to plummet into his stomach. He tried not to show it in his expression, but failed miserably. All he could do was gawk, frozen in place, his eyes as wide as a pair of saucer plates.

"He was there when I had them before. And I wasn't scared. Joyce helped too, but I don't want her to worry. Not this time," Eleven explained, averting herself from his wide-eyed stare.

He didn't offer a reply, so she straightened in her seat with a frown, small hands winding around her arms and cradling both elbows as she dejectedly added, "Nevermind. It's stupid."

Her words triggered Will out of his daze, but not because of how she said it. It was what she said that brought him back to reality, and him realizing that he actually sympathized with the idea of finding comfort in Mike. He did it himself sometimes, recalling the little adventures they had whenever he was in a dark place and nothing else he could imagine helped.

"It's not stupid," Will finally objected, the last bit of shock melting from his features as he revealed, "I do it too."

Not even a minute passed between Eleven avoiding his gaze before she looked up again, just as fast. Her warm, honey brown eyes blinked back the surprise, "You do?"

He nodded. "I haven't tried drawing him though. So, I guess we're both new at this."

Then, for what felt like the first time since she had known him, Will Byers smiled. A genuine - and maybe a bit shy - smile beamed her way. Unforced, not a single hint of coldness. Only warmth, and Eleven couldn't help but reciprocate the expression, hers just as kind and inviting.

...

Later that morning…

...

Joyce struggled to stifle a yawn as she stepped into the hallway, the hand over her mouth useless against her lips as her inhale softly slipped through. Her footsteps were lazy as she passed the bathroom and pushed on toward Eleven's bedroom, trudging down the hall until she stopped in front of the door… which was wide open. The complete opposite of how Eleven usually had it closed.

That sobered her up, but there was still some grogginess left in her system as she peered into the room, expecting to find the bed occupied when it was empty instead. Then the worry began filtering its way through, erasing any feeling of tiredness as she did a brief scan for the familiar head of hazelnut curls.

She did her best to make sure Eleven was as comfortable as possible, but she was still getting used to having another kid to look after. Not that she minded, because she didn't. She knew how awful the girl's life was before, and she wanted to do anything she could to make things better. She just didn't expect it all to happen so fast. Not without-

... Not without Hopper.

Joyce clenched her jaw and swallowed the lump in her throat. She turned from the doorway and resumed her trek down the hallway, her feet picking up their previous pace in the process.

Thoughts of what she would say to the girl she was beginning to see as a daughter plagued her mind as she walked, and she had some sort of comforting speech stringed together once she reached the end. Though, within seconds of catching sight of her new surroundings, those words didn't seem to matter as she froze. They were quickly sealed away and set aside for another time, because there was a more... immediate matter capturing her undivided attention.

About six feet away, in the compact area sufficing as the living room, lay the two youngest members of the house. They were asleep, and judging from the relaxed expression on their faces, it was a peaceful slumber. Something they all had been lacking lately.

Joyce strolled in and made her way over, stopping to stand beside the navy blue sofa. Her dark eyes first darted down to her boy's cocooned form, her features softening as she reached down to carefully smooth back a stray strand of hair from his face. After, she took in more of the area, her gaze shooting over to the cluttered table, she took note of the scattered colored pencils and the sheets of scratch paper stained with little sketches. At a closer glance, a few looked to be features of a person. But before she could piece together whom they belonged to, she heard a soft grunt from her left.

She turned toward the reclined La-Z-Boy just as Eleven let out another heavy snuffle, the breathy sound more drawn out than the last snore. She was on her stomach, one arm keeping her head from sliding off of the backrest while her other limbs lay stretched out like a starfish. Her position was a sharp contrast to Will's, who was huddled like a ball underneath his covers.

Her eyes were also hidden underneath disheveled, chestnut curls, and Joyce had another itch to brush them away. But she ignored it, opting to just stand still, her lips curling into a soft smile. While she watched them sleep - noting the shift in Eleven's exhales as they began to even out into regular breaths - she fully succumbed to the peacefulness of this moment.

She held on for as long as possible, knowing for certain that this was a rare sight. Her gut told her it wouldn't last, that its chances of occurring as often as she liked were slim. But she kept a firm grip anyway, too determined to let this image slip from her fingers.

I hope you liked my interpretation of El and Will's relationship!

As always, please be sure to let me know what you thought in the comments section below. To keep an eye out for updates on future parts, my handle on Instagram is extraordinary_fangirl, so feel free to follow me on there if you want.