(April 2nd, 1986)
"Any change?"
Steve could kick himself for asking the question, given how Sadie tenses almost immediately beside him in response, a faint twitch of a muscle making itself known along the fine line of her jaw. She doesn't look at Lucas in time to see his shake of the head in response, instead electing to slide into a chair opposite him beside Max's bed.
Sadie's hand seems to reach out on instinct to cover Max's, but the act stalls as soon as her fingertips brush against the plaster cast not so dissimilar to her own. And Steve can see her deflating. Retreating into a familiar bubble of guilt and self-recrimination.
He wishes more than anything that there was something he could do to stop it. Something he could say. But how can he do something like that when he carries his own guilt like a noose around his neck every day?
How can Steve tell Sadie a thing about not blaming herself when that is exactly what he does from the moment he wakes in the morning to the moment he finally falls asleep every night?
"Her mom around?"
"Not since a few days ago," Lucas replies, risking his own look at Sadie, and frowning at the carefully constructed emptiness in her expression before going on, "Work, I think."
"The others?"
"Dustin went to grab food."
"Of course he did," Steve says, almost laughing at the predictability in Henderson's behavior, though the humor fades quickly before ever truly coming to fruition, "And when was the last time you slept?"
"Last night."
"In your own bed, Sinclair."
Lucas doesn't offer a reply, and Steve knows exactly what that means. He knows that Lucas has hardly left Max's side. That it's only because Dustin or Robin bring him something from the hospital cafeteria that he manages to eat most days.
Steve casts another sidelong look at Sadie, still silent beside him. He thinks of her own reluctance to eat anything more than a bite or two of food at a time.
"You two are gonna be the death of me, you know that?"
Lucas manages a weak snort, and risks a look of his own at Sadie, his amusement faltering as soon as he realizes her own expression has not changed. And he wants to say something to her. To draw her into the conversation, somehow, but he doesn't have the first idea how, his gaze drifting back to Steve for a moment before he speaks again.
"You gave her the letter, didn't you?"
That particular remark does catch Sadie's attention, and Steve feels something not all that far from dread coiling in his gut as he catches her eye. He knows exactly what Lucas is referring to, but he'd been trying to put the reality of it off for as long as he can…
Sadie had asked him about Max's letter when she was still in the hospital, and he had put it off, then, claiming it was too soon. And he hoped she had forgotten about it, but by the look on her face right now, that hope is all but dead.
"You didn't give her the letter?"
"Haven't exactly had the time, man."
"Where—where is it?" Sadie asks, her brow furrowing as though the words are actually causing her physical pain. And, Steve supposes, they probably are, whether Sadie will ever admit to it or not.
Maybe that knowledge is what persuades him to opt for as neutral a response as he can manage, a steadying breath the only thing that separates him from what he really should have known is unavoidable.
"In my car."
"Can I—"
"Not now."
"Steve, I have a right to read—"
"I know," Steve cuts in, trying his best to ignore the frown Lucas wears as he watches the exchange from across the room, the steady beeping of the machines tracking Max's vitals the only other sound in the room, "I just think you should wait until—"
"Until what?"
The fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker a bit, and Steve can see the horror slowly dawning in Sadie's expression, her fingers flexing against her thighs as the pulsing of the lights only grows stronger. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to control it. Trying to push her emotions back behind the door of whatever room she's locked them in, in her mind.
Whatever efforts she exerts, though, appear to be too little, too late, because one of the bulbs above them pops from the pressure, bits of glass raining down on the floor, and Sadie is on her feet in seconds, her features pale as she tries to make a move for the door.
"I should—I should go."
"Sadie, wait!"
"I'll just—I need to get some air, okay?"
Steve lets her go, but he doesn't truly want to, the way she seems to curl into herself as she shimmies out of the door past an obviously startled Dustin only digging the knife of guilt deeper than it already is inside his chest. He wants to go after her. To at least make sure she's okay. But he knows doing that would only make things worse, and so Steve remains exactly where he is, gesturing for Dustin to take Sadie's recently vacated seat so the piles of vending machine snacks in his arms can spill out at the foot of Max's bed.
Lucas reaches forward for a packet of crackers, and Steve extends an arm to stop Dustin from following after Sadie, himself, the kid's stunned expression fading to something else entirely in next to no time at all.
Resignation.
…
Sadie makes it outside of the hospital with a single-minded sense of purpose, her breath coming in short gasps until she is able to lean against the brick of the exterior with one hand clutched against her chest just over her heart. She can't seem to stop shaking, her body seeming to sink into the brick behind her back because the act of standing upright is no longer possible.
This is stupid. So completely stupid of her, to get so worked up over a letter. Something she knows Steve is only trying to protect her from.
But maybe that's it. The protection part. Because as much as she appreciates Steve sticking by her side, a part of her also hates the idea of being seen as something fragile. Weak. Someone that can't survive without another person watching over them.
Sadie wants to be alone, because at least then no one will see how she is barely hanging on by a thread, but she is also poignantly aware of how being on her own will give her nothing but time with her own thoughts. Time with her guilt.
Time to think over every last person she has failed.
Shaking her head, Sadie tries to drag in a slower breath. Tries to force herself to calm down, because she cannot afford a repetition of what happened in Max's hospital room out here in the open. She doesn't want the attention. The scrutiny. The obvious attempts at secretive conversation, as though she is too stupid to realize everyone is talking about her.
For a moment, Sadie wonders how Eddie ever dealt with that sort of attention, seemingly without batting an eye, but then just the simple thought of him does what it always does…
Sends her to her knees in seconds flat, her jaw clenching around a shuddering sob.
"Hey—hey, easy, kid."
The voice comes from somewhere to Sadie's left, and she can feel a hand curling around her arm to keep her steady. That hand drags her back up to standing, and Sadie allows herself to be guided over to a nearby bench, the hand that is at her arm moving to rest against her upper back while she ducks down to bury her face in her hands, and her elbows come to perch upon her knees.
"The hell are you doing out here on your own, huh?"
"I just—I needed some air."
"Harrington here?"
"With Max," Sadie confirms, the words coming out somewhat muffled behind her hands while her eyes peek through the space between her fingers to look at a familiar pair of boots and khaki uniform pants. A sigh escapes as she straightens, placing her hands on the bench on either side of her, before forcing herself to look the man sitting next to her in the eye.
Chief Jim Hopper is apparently another person absolutely hell-bent on keeping an eye on her, and Sadie doesn't know whether his sturdy presence at her side relieves her, or makes her want to scream.
"Please don't lay into him about this—"
"Woah woah woah, where did I get such a reputation?" Hopper jokes, a soft laugh shaking his shoulders, and causing Sadie to manage a tremulous smile in response, "What the hell happened to innocent until proven guilty, huh?"
"So you weren't getting ready to go—marching up there?" Sadie asks, waving a hand in midair to demonstrate her obvious attempt at finding the right word to describe her assumption over Hopper's action, and her own amusement at the obvious failure not long after.
"Maybe I just wanted to sit out here and have a smoke."
Sadie nods, and Hopper fishes in his jacket pocket for the pack of cigarettes and a lighter, her body relaxing slightly against the back of the bench as the lighter flicks a few times, and the familiar smell of cigarette smoke tickles against her nose. For a moment, the two of them sit there, in companionable silence, and Sadie is surprised to realize the panic that had driven her to this point is slowly fading away.
But of course she really ought to have known such a feeling was never going to last.
"Things going okay with Wayne?"
"In general, or now that he knows the truth?"
"Both."
"It's—fine, I guess," Sadie supplies, aware of the skeptical look Hopper is giving her, and frowning as she realizes he is likely reading too much into her lackluster reply. That he may very well be finding fault with something Wayne has said or done, when that is the farthest thing from the truth, "I just mean we're—"
"Surviving?"
"Something like that."
"How's he handling what's really going on, here?"
"He isn't telling anyone, if that's—if that's—what you're worried about."
"It's not," Hopper says, ignoring the frown Sadie wears in response to the reassurance, the look giving him every reason to believe she doubts every single word he says, "Just has to be a lot to take in, that's all."
"Well, he hasn't committed me to Pennhurst yet."
"Something tells me he never will."
Sadie lifts a brow, but doesn't say anything out loud to disagree, her attention drifting to the parking lot just a few feet away to watch the cars seeking parking spaces, or the exit to head out for the rest of their day. And Hopper sees, then, how tired she is. The lines of exhaustion that bracket around her eyes. Her mouth.
He sees echoes of what his own reflection must have looked like in the months—years—after losing Sara, and wonders what the hell was wrong with the world to throw that much grief on someone so young.
"You been to your brother's—"
Sadie shakes her head, her teeth digging into her lower lip while her gaze flicks upward in time to see the dim flickering of a flood light hanging overhead. She can't go to Jason's grave. She didn't even go to his funeral, a small slip of scrap paper in the bag her father had dropped off at the hospital in her mother's perfect handwriting making it very clear she would not be welcome there.
After the funeral, her parents had left Hawkins behind, and now all traces of Sadie's family are just—gone. Gone, except for Vincent…
The one person she cannot bring herself to face, and the one person that might actually succeed in making her feel like she is not so alone.
"Wanna go back up? See Max a bit?"
"Is El here?"
"She's at the Wheeler's. Probably stopping by later with Mike."
"How's she—how is she doing?" Sadie questions, once again forcing herself to look Hopper in the eye, and praying with all she has that she can stay in control of her own emotions—her own guilt—for long enough to hear his reply. There hadn't been much time to talk to the younger girl since everything had happened, but Sadie would have been a liar to pretend she wasn't curious to learn more about her. That she wasn't worried about her.
Hopper seems to sense at least some of that, because he offers Sadie what she can only surmise is his best attempt at a smile, the hand that is not holding his cigarette reaching over to land upon her knee for a moment before he responds.
"Seems like she's tearing herself up about as much as you are, kid."
"I was—I was worried you would say something like that."
"Yeah, but she's gonna get through it," Hopper assures, dropping the nearly finished cigarette to the cement and grinding it out with his boot before standing, and turning to look at Sadie, instead, "You will too."
"Sure."
"You will. Trust me, Sadie. You will."
Sadie doesn't know if she can believe him. If she ever will. But she wants to. She wants to with a sort of desperation that she wishes didn't exist.
She knows what will happen if she clings to that desire. If she allows herself to hope, for even a second, that what Hopper is saying can be real. Because if she believes she can survive this—that some day, she won't feel as though a large hole has been carved out of her chest—and then that day never actually comes?
If that day of blessed relief never comes, Sadie is all but certain that there will be absolutely nothing that can save her.
…
Six days.
Six days, and still the thing that remains at the forefront of his mind is the hunger. It's a gnawing, uncomfortable thing, clawing at his insides, and burning at the back of his throat. He can think of little else, even with the odd, prying presence hiding in the far reaches of his mind.
He cannot place it. No matter how many attempts he makes, he can never find it. Grab hold of it. Figure out what it is.
It simply lingers there. Silent. Watchful.
And he lingers on, too. Alone. Ravenous. Lost.
With each day that passes, the hunger grows, and there is nothing in the dark, primitive world he woke in that can sate it. Nothing to make the fire in his veins go away. He is nearly driven mad from the ferocity of it. Whatever conscious thought remains in his mind that is not held captive by the other presence rattles around, and is nearly consumed by it.
Occasionally, over the last few days, something else would break through that urgent need. A dim memory of who he was, before. A person with friends. With a woman he loved…
It was during those times, though, that the other presence in his mind would take over, and the blinding pain—the white hot fire that swept through him until he could no longer see, and he was forced to curl into a ball on the ground, waiting for the tremors to stop shaking him—was always more than enough to persuade him to stop trying to remember the past, altogether.
It was better that way. Even with the hunger that never leaves, or so he thought.
But then, if it truly is so much better, why is he here? Why did he leave that darker world to wind up in a place that echoes with familiarity, even though he cannot place why that is to save his life?
He continues to pace the narrow alleyway between stores his subconscious seems to know, even if he cannot bring their name to his lips, and his steps grow agitated as the answers to why he is here continue to elude him.
Answers escape, and hunger grows, a low growl escaping as the sound of distant footsteps grow louder, and he finds that he can hear the frenzied pounding of two heartbeats as they draw near.
Heartbeats.
Two of them. Strong, and accompanied by the sound of blood rushing through veins.
Blood.
Something ugly rears its head, and the figure in the alley ceases his pacing almost immediately, a hand snagging at the brick of the wall beside him. His fingers dig in with surprising strength, and some of the brick crumbles out beneath them, clattering down to the ground.
He is suddenly consumed by an urge so strong it is nearly impossible to resist. The urge to attack. To kill. To feed.
He doesn't understand it. It terrifies him.
But at the very same time, it is alluring. Tempting. Natural.
Before he can fully reconcile it, he is turning to walk towards the sounds of those voices. His fingers are flexing at his sides, and a sinister sort of energy vibrates through his veins. The burning is also growing stronger, and it almost feels as though he will ignite from the sheer intensity of it all.
A dull sort of pressure—almost like an ache—pounds against his gums, but he ignores it, because now that he is getting closer to the alleyway's entrance, the heartbeats are overwhelming everything else.
Everything except for the suddenly potent scent of blood…
Another growl escapes before he can stop it, and his senses narrow to a pinpoint of focus. He bares his teeth, and waits until the two men pass him by. And they don't see him. Of course they don't, because the niggling memories eating away at the back of his mind assure him that he was never that noticeable, even before.
Suddenly, behind the hunger, something else erupts. Something darker. Something almost vengeful. He observes the jacket on one of the men. Green, and white, with gold lettering. And although he cannot place the exact significance of those colors, that darker something that is rapidly taking over him bubbles up until it is nearly overwhelming, joining forces with the hunger until there is nothing left to hold him back.
The man in the jacket is yanked into the alleyway with a startling amount of force, stumbling backwards until his back collides with the dead end of brick at the alley's opposite end. He makes an effort, futile though it may be, to run, but his attacker has him cornered in seconds, flat. And the collision with the brick of the alley wall has scraped his palms. Tiny droplets of blood litter his skin, and the figure looming before him steps closer.
It is then that the would-be victim freezes, a flare of recognition dawning in his expression, and his voice comes out scratchy—panicked—as his eyes widen and his heart redoubles its efforts to slam against his ribs.
"You—you're supposed to be fucking dead!"
The blood calls to the man's attacker. Fills his senses until he can think of absolutely nothing else. The man's panic only adds to the scent, and the attacker is on him in seconds, some instinct he doesn't even know he possesses driving him to sink his teeth into the man's neck. The hunger that has been building to an inferno inside of him leaps to the forefront as the first hint of the metallic taste hits his tongue…
In next to no time, he manages to drain the first man, blood now drying to a dull rust color on the white of a letterman's jacket as he drops the lifeless body to the alley floor. He turns just as the second man rushes into the alley to defend his friend, the hunger still not entirely gone.
After seeing the figure in the alley, though, and the carnage he has created, that other man has the good sense to at least attempt to run back out to the street, but he never makes it there, a hand locking around his throat in a vice-like grip to slam him back against the brick. And he struggles. Even manages to get a good kick to land against his attacker's shin. But whatever it is that holds him is far stronger, his struggles eventually ceasing.
Teeth sink into his neck, and he is soon drained and shoved aside, just as his companion had been moments ago, the attacker surveying the damage, and wiping at a mouth now dripping with blood.
The hunger is more of a dull hum, now, rather than a deafening roar. And that leaves the figure with enough time to resume wondering.
What was he? Who had he been?
And why the hell was he here?
…
Alright, so apparently, despite my best efforts to write for another one of my stories, the muses for Sadie and Eddie churned this out, instead. I think I'm having a bit too much fun here with this semi-post-apocalyptic world of what Hawkins might look like after the gates opened that is rolling around in my head. I suppose that's what I get when a Walking Dead obsession merges with my Stranger Things hyperfixation, and I have way too much free time on my hands?
In any case, I am so, so very happy to see that the first chapter was so well-received! Special thanks to all of you that gave it a chance, and of course a special shout out to the first chapter's reviewers as well (phoward, mistyagami, SailorErinViz95, and musicluver246, this means you)! I am thrilled to have so many of you on board for this next installment, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last!
Until next time, darlings…
MOMM