AN:

So.

Haha How are we all?

I do apologise in advance for the length of this chapter. It's not actually the longest by far, but considering that it's basically six thousand words of Mike and El hashing out their issues, I just thought I'd give the heads up. Lots and lots of angst in this one. LOTS.

Well, anyway, won't beat a dead horse any longer. Enjoy!

-Inara x

*EDIT: Okay, in the cold light of day, have tweaked the chapter a bit. No massive changes, but just re-shaped bits and pieces and added a few more lines of dialogue. Just letting any returning visitors know. :)

Ten Nicotine

Every exchange was fraught with expectations.

It was the first real lesson about communication that Jane had ever learned. She hadn't needed a personal look outside Hawkins Lab to recognise that indisputably. Papa had always needed something—everyone had always needed something.

It was only after she had escaped that she amended it to 'every exchange with purpose.' Small talk was not something she had encountered prior, but she quickly came to understand it as the human race's most banal and frivolous invention. It lacked any and all value—either by wasting both parties' time on a train going nowhere or by prolonging the tension before the inevitable confrontation of an issue.

Or, in their case right now, the inevitable confrontation of many.

Mike had never been one for small talk. Since she'd met him, Jane had never wanted nor needed it. Small talk was a safety net, and they'd never wavered from complete free fall. But that was when they'd been a team—when they'd trusted each other.

Jane couldn't claim she didn't trust him now, but she knew the feeling wasn't reciprocated. No free fall, but no safety net.

The silence itself was their exchange—achieving nothing, advancing nothing, yet so fraught with risk that they scarcely dared to breathe too deeply.

And so it stretched between.

Jane had started the dialogue—what felt like eons ago now. She mildly wanted to bash herself now; why—why—had she said "so" if she had nothing with which to follow it up?

He'd echoed her; he'd looked at her with a hint of longing, a thousand questions, and enough doubt to turn her blood cold. But now what?

Time was slipping by.

It was, in the end, Jane's traitorous stomach protesting its long-suffered neglect that overthrew the finely tuned equilibrium of tension in the room.

The noise briefly distracted from the overload of expectations hanging over them, as dangerous as icicles, and Jane skirted around Mike to ladle herself some soup.

Taking a seat back on her side of the bench, she asked finally, "You're not hungry?"

He watched her spoon clinking against the sides of the bowl as she stirred the steaming broth before shaking his head slightly. "I ate earlier."

"At the office?"

He shot her a look. "Does it matter where?"

His sharp glare made her shift her attention back to her dinner. "I guess not."

"Except it does." He crossed his arms. "I can hear it in your voice."

She slammed her spoon down exasperatedly. "Jesus! I'm sorry I asked you one question about your day!"

She hadn't been expecting to lose her cool so quickly, but Jane had enough Mike-related concerns than to let his continued unwarranted aggression be one of them. Maybe they weren't the team they'd used to be, but they were meant to be on the same side. Every chance he got, it was like he wanted an excuse to be enemies.

Jane didn't want to be his enemy—it was almost physically painful being so at odds with him—but she couldn't keep this up; she couldn't walk on eggshells forever.

It seemed he hadn't been expecting the sudden change in demeanour either.

The silence surged up again, and Jane felt for a moment as if they were underwater. Maybe she would have preferred it that way—then they couldn't have talked even if they'd wanted to. She could have pretended they'd wanted to.

Finally, Mike sighed.

"I ate at home," he said. "One of my roommates cooked pasta."

Jane paused a moment before asking, "Are you eating enough?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Who are you, my mom?"

"I'm just asking," she said quietly.

Another minute passed. Eventually Mike caved, grabbing himself a bowl.

"So," he tried again, blowing on his first spoonful. "Where do we start?"

"Where do you want to start?" she asked.

He shrugged. "The obvious?"

"You're going to have to be more specific." Another mouthful. "That could mean any number of things."

"I think those scars are pretty obvious," he said flatly.

She held his gaze stubbornly for a second before conceding. "Fair enough."

"You want to explain them?" he prompted. "They don't exactly look new."

"They're not," she confirmed, using another mouthful of soup to buy herself a second to think. Where to begin? "I've had them for years."

"How many years?"

She watched him carefully, on alert for any minute reaction. "About six."

"Six…?" His disbelief drove him to silence. He was paler than usual.

Jane knew what he was thinking:

When you and I were still together.

When we were happy.

How could you have those if we were happy?

Did he feel guilty?

Jane didn't want him to feel guilty—not for that. Not for much.

Did he feel like she did, like the butt of some horrible cosmic joke?

He cleared his throat, the look on his face breaking Jane's heart. "Well, wasn't I the world's shittiest boyfriend?"

Jane didn't think she'd ever felt soberer in her life. "You weren't. I hid them from you."

His eyes flashed as he looked back at her. Jane couldn't tell if it was just confusion or if there was anger there, too.

"Why?"

She shook her head. "I didn't know I was doing it. I didn't even remember I had them until tonight. Yet another gift imparted by Welling."

"Wait, Welling?" He pushed his bowl to the side, done with the charade of sharing a meal. "I thought he was at CSH?"

"He was." She sighed. "He is. He just… Turns out I met him a long time before."

Mike nodded measuredly, taking it all in as efficiently as he dared. "And what exactly did that entail?"

Jane bit her lip. "You remember my sleepwalking, right?"

"Obviously." He seemed offended that she could have any doubt, but at the same time apprehensive.

She decided to just rip off the bandaid.

"Turns out I was going to a lab for experiments then brainwashed to forget. I'm still not too clear on the 'how' of it all, but I think it was a combination of Ford's drugs and Welling's behaviour modifying conditioning."

"Behaviour modifying?" Mike echoed.

"They didn't like it when I didn't obey." She couldn't hold his eyes. "They got pretty good at making sure I didn't like it either."

"El…"

It sounded half like a question, but Jane could tell he was scared. He wanted her to elaborate—obviously, he wanted to know the truth—but she didn't blame him for being uncertain. Hell, last night she'd been afraid to go to sleep. How completely screwed up their lives had become...

"Electric shock," she explained dully. "He had this whole apparatus set up to make sure I didn't fry. That's what the scars are from."

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she adjusted her T-shirt over them, ensuring it was baggy and gave no shape away. She wanted them to be invisible again. She didn't want to forget, but it wasn't exactly like she was all too keen to remember. She just wanted them to go away.

"There were screens," she recalled aloud, her voice sounding as distant as she felt, seeing them around her once again. "Lots of screens with images—layers of video. They were teaching me."

"Teaching you what?" he urged on a breath.

"He told me it never made a difference, no matter what I did." She swallowed thickly, feeling as if she were losing herself again. Staring straight ahead, she saw through Mike—saw Welling's face. "He said, 'The less you resist, the sooner you won't feel the need.'" Her eyes pricked with tears but she ignored them. "Like it never happened."

She glanced up at Mike, hearing the emptiness in her own voice and seeing plain on his face how he had heard it, too.

But even he seemed far away.

"Like it never happened," she repeated, feeling a heavy slowness in her chest—like her heart was struggling.

Was this what it felt like then? She'd felt hopelessness before, but that was when she'd been alone. She never thought she could feel this way with the party, with Mike—the notion had never even crossed her mind.

And yet, here it was, weighing her down like rocks in her guts.

She was underwater again, but this time she was sinking.

Bracing both hands against the counter, Mike asked again, more firmly this time, "El, teaching you what?"

Jane studied his chest—the stillness of it. She realised he really was afraid to breathe.

"Not just to obey," she murmured. "To want what they wanted."

Easing out a breath, she dropped her voice lower.

"To play the game."

It wasn't immediate, but something about her choice of words clouded Mike's sombre expression.

"To play the game?" he echoed, his eyes narrowing.

He wasn't, for once, frowning at her, but his expression grew increasingly severe as Jane watched his mind work. She'd always been able to see it, like she had an all-access pass through his eyes to his brain. She'd always felt so proud of him; she'd known from the start that he was brilliant. No matter what they were grappling with—whether it was an evil lab or demogorgons or, hell, AP Chemistry, eventually, he always figured it out.

Always.

"El, what do you remember about the screens?"

She blinked. "Not a lot. None of the clips were pleasant—I remember that. It was weird, though." She shook her head. "It was like…at some point, it wasn't what I was seeing anymore that was important. It was…what I was feeling? Like, there were no speakers, but I could hear things. I could smell things…" She met his eyes. "Mike, I could taste things."

"What things?" His voice was as low as hers.

She suppressed a tremor, her voice hollow. "Fear."

She remembered the crying, the begging. Broken bones and broken china. Blood. A neglected child.

"Mike, I don't think any of it was fake," she whispered. "Some of the images, they weren't real—they were animated—but I felt them: a dying old woman, an abused wife. I think, even a murder victim—at one point, it was like I was choking on bleach. It's hard to explain but some things, I saw happening. Others… Others were happening to me."

"And those were the ones that weren't real?" he clarified. "They were animated?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I can't remember—separating them was really hard."

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. How could she be tired? She'd slept all day.

"But I know what I felt." Shattered china flashed through her mind and she turned her palms up, half expecting to find blood. "I know they're not mine but, animated or not, I think those experiences belonged to someone. I don't know to whom, and I don't know to how many, but I think Welling and whoever's been bankrolling him have been making these memories happen and then…duplicating them somehow?" Seeing Mike's expression, she dropped her face into her hands. "I know. It sounds crazy."

"It does."

She heard him sigh.

"But…"

She glanced up.

He looked torn.

"I mean, we're down the rabbit hole now, right?" He offered a half-hearted smile. It barely qualified, but it was probably the closest he'd come to a supportive expression since he'd seen her again. "Crazy's starting to make sense at this point."

"Mike, can I ask you a question?" she asked suddenly.

Immediately, any distance he'd closed between them opened up as he pulled back, and his eyes were immediately guarded, his expressive eyebrows drawing together. "I guess."

She didn't want to create distance again, not when they were finally talking—properly talking—but she had to know.

"While I was gone," she prefaced. "Did you ever… Did you ever think maybe I wasn't guilty?"

His guarded eyes turned cold, but the faint waver in his voice betrayed him. "You can't ask me that."

Jane couldn't help herself, reaching for his hand across the counter. "Mike—"

He whipped it away, turning his back on her, pacing to the other side of the kitchen. All five steps away.

He stared at the floor, then the ceiling, raking his fingers through his hair as Jane watched in loaded silence.

She wondered how he'd react if she walked around to him. She could picture it: sliding off her stool, rounding the counter, reaching for his forearm, turning him gently... She could imagine him angry, but she could also imagine catching him in a moment of doubt—not in her, this time, but in the walls he kept building. Maybe he'd allow her to come in close, to cradle his face, to tell him he was safe—safe with her, safe from her. She'd go back to confinement before she'd hurt him again.

Maybe.

She didn't get to find out.

Two counts passed and then he spun on the spot, cutting straight toward the front door and shutting it hard behind him.

Jane sat there deliberating: run after him or wait?

It would have been a lie to say that his unerring volatility wasn't growing wearisome. She wasn't a saint in all of this, Jane knew, but she couldn't help feeling sick of saying sorry and nothing else. It wasn't fair anymore. But she had known upon seeing him—hell, at just the prospect of seeing him again—that she'd have a lot to explain. She knew how much she'd hurt him; the cheating and the lying and the callous spite were enough to make her stomach heave at the mere memory. She knew that healing would take time—for him, even more so than most. He'd lost more than just a girlfriend four years ago; he'd lost faith.

But he wasn't going to find it again if she just kept on sitting here.

Stalking into the bedroom, she grabbed the crocheted throw from the night before, threw it around herself, and beelined back to the front door. Ripping it open, she staggered to a sudden stop on the unwelcome mat.

He was right there; facing away from her, leaning on the iron railing.

Jane couldn't believe what she was seeing.

He was smoking.

Besides the obvious health risks—and Mike was goddamned smart enough to appreciate the gravity of those—Jane just couldn't rationalise it in her mind.

Mike.

Smoking.

There he was, in tan corduroys and a form-fitting geometric grey sweater. The ensemble had Karen written all over it—Jane had no doubt it had been gifted to him, probably in lieu of some computer game or A/V device. Mike had never given a flying fuck about what he wore, which was probably why it seemed like his mother still dressed him at twenty-two: all the clothes he owned were pre-devised outfits.

That was Mike.

Jane knew she hadn't seen him in four years but there were some things that just didn't change, no matter how much time passed.

For example, he'd suaved up his hair a bit—no more adorable bowl cut—but the sheer volume remained, flopping around and even into his face. It was even a little curly now.

As little as Mike cared about his appearance overall, Jane remembered how difficult he'd always been when the time for 'start of a new school year' haircuts rolled around. Before he moved to Indianapolis, Jonathan had always driven Mike and Will and Jane had always gone along for the ride. Upon arrival, Mike would actually still appear fairly serene. But come his turn, it had been like trying to wrestle an alligator into the barber's chair.

Ugly sweaters and mass amounts of hair.

Sweet, awkward professions of love.

Secret confidence that only came out when he let go.

Dungeons & Dragons.

Riding the clutch for two years before he broke the habit.

In all the time Jane had known him, that and skipping study hall to make out with her in his car had been his worst habits.

That was Mike.

This, on the other hand, wasn't.

"Are you kidding me?" she demanded, coming to stand beside him and staring at the cigarette between his lips.

She wasn't angry, exactly—more dismayed.

He drew deeply from it and held the breath in, not looking at her, then released a long stream of snowy white smoke into the bracing night air.

He flicked ash over the railing.

"Oh, and what, I got you back perfect?" he muttered.

She gaped at him. "'Got me back'?"

He rolled his eyes, bringing the fag back up to his lips. "It's not a big deal, El."

"Put it out," she ordered.

He scoffed. "Or what, you're going to make me?"

"You know I could!"

He laughed humourlessly and glanced down over the railing. They were standing directly above his car.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't."

She took one last step toward him, erasing the distance. Her fingers locked tightly around his wrist and the sudden contact made him tense.

"It's been a long time since I made that promise," she hissed. "Do you know what I could do to you?"

"Yeah, well." He glanced at her grip on his wrist and the nonchalance that followed sounded painfully manufactured. "We both already know what I can do to you."

The first response Jane had had ready evaporated with her breath. She felt as though he'd slapped her.

Somehow—she had no idea how—she managed to find her voice. "I could've stopped you."

"But you didn't."

It was strange; it was almost as if he were accusing her. But of what?

She set her shoulders. "No. I didn't."

"And why was that, exactly?" he spat, rounding on her with blazing eyes.

Jane couldn't believe they were arguing about this, but now he wasn't the only one glaring.

"You know, that's a fucking good question, with the way you're acting now." She flared up. "Hell, with the way you acted last night! What was that disappearing act, Mike? There I was, cherishing the five seconds that you let me in, but as soon as you were done, it was 'trousers up!' and out the door! I never in a million years thought you were the type."

"Okay, it was more than five seconds," he muttered.

Jane didn't stop to think. She slapped him—hard.

"I did not spend four years locked up like some animal so you could punish me like one!" she seethed. "'Ride 'em hard and put 'em away wet'? Works for horses—why not the bitch who broke you? Was that your way of thinking?"

Jane knew she was really blowing up the issue now—she knew, in the moment, Mike probably hadn't actually thought about it that hard—but it was because he hadn't thought about it that she was mad.

He was staring at her now with gleaming eyes that she decided were mostly rage-filled, but that became increasingly less clear as she pressed on.

"You just had to 'get yours', didn't you? Is that how you treat all girls now, or just the ones you feel have wronged you in some way? You didn't even have the decency to stick around and lift me off the floor! You just fucked off and went God knows where—"

"I WAS RIGHT HERE!" he burst out.

The outburst came out of nowhere. One second, Mike was standing there, the very picture of silent fury; the next, he was bellowing.

Jane faltered, stunned confusion bringing her up short, but only for a second before she collected herself. "I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if you were on the other side of the door!"

"I made it to the bottom of the stairs!" he snarled. "I even almost made it to my car!"

Still livid, she didn't believe him. "And then you made it there and you drove off!"

"No, I didn't!" he snapped, setting his jaw stubbornly like he always used to do. "I stood on the bottom step for over an hour trying to decide whether to come back up or not!"

Jane's distrustful frown lost some of its edge. "You did?"

He rolled his eyes—more, it seemed, at himself—and conceded reluctantly, "Yeah."

Jane opened her mouth, trying to shape a response, but she was drawing a blank.

Mike shook his head, exhaling long and slow and turning back to the railing. "You know, I talked to Nancy just last week. She thinks she's pregnant. She hasn't told Jonathan yet."

Caught off-guard by the sudden change in subject, Jane was still grappling for an appropriate response when he continued, "They got married last fall. For two people who've gone through so much crap, you'd think I could be happy for them for one day—just one day!"

Jane frowned. "Are you saying you weren't?"

He tilted his head from side to side, as if weighing his options. "I wouldn't say that."

"What would you say?" she demanded, unsure exactly how helpful this line of conversation would be for improving their tattered relationship.

She knew she loved him, sure, but with every word that came out of his mouth, she was finding she was liking this new Mike Wheeler less and less.

The cool breeze had put his cigarette out. Cupping his left hand around his lighter's flame, he relit and took another long puff.

He shrugged. "I mean, normal's gone, right?"

That pissed her off. Snatching the cigarette out of his mouth, Jane stamped on it hard and stomped back into the motel room.

He was being a brat.

Hopper had taught her that word, and it had stuck with her forever. To her, it meant someone acting needlessly petulant; childish and petty. Only children acted like the whole world revolved around them.

He followed her in.

"I thought about it, you know!" he exclaimed, slamming the front door. "Even then—even when I was so mad at you, it made me sick to my guts—I still thought about how you'd look in a dress like that, Hopper walking you down the aisle, flowers in your hair..."

She rounded on him halfway across the living room. "What are you trying to tell me here, Mike? That you love me or hate me? Either way, you need therapy!"

"Because that worked out so well for you, didn't it?" he called after her, and when she scowled and rolled her eyes, he chased her into the bedroom.

"You think it's fucked up if I still love you?"

"I think going from a hate fuck to marriage is a bit of a stretch!" she fired back.

"It wasn't a hate fuck—I'm just mad at you!"

"Yeah?" She threw a pillow at him, irritated when he caught it. "Well, I'm mad at you! What the fuck was that, acting like everything was normal while Steve and Dustin were here? Pretending like nothing happened?!"

He grimaced. "I'm not pretending it didn't happen, all right? I just don't know what to say about it—I don't know what it was."

"Well, it certainly didn't feel like forgiveness," she muttered.

His expression soured even further, more rage flickering just under the surface. "That's because it wasn't. You think one fuck and everything's going to be all right?"

"No, Mike, with your track record, I think you think one fuck and everything's going to be all right!"

"Oh, trust me." His bitterness was biting. "I'm under no illusion that one fuck has the power to do anything."

"Well, that's great, Mike. Let's just keep not talking and deal with things your way—let's just screw and screw and screw until there's nothing left!"

"What do you want from me?!" he burst out, making her jump. "I don't know if I'm glad that you're back! Okay? I don't know!" His breath hitched suddenly as his gaze swept over her, his knuckles turning white as they fisted in the pillow. "Do you know how it feels to see you and talk to you and, fuck me, be inside you again? El, I can't breathe!"

Jane felt like screaming in frustration. "Do you not understand what's happening? I'm back because it wasn't my fault!"

"No, you're back because Dustin had a hunch!"

She could have strangled him. Instead, however, she busied herself emptying the contents of Dustin's laundry bag onto the mattress. She didn't want to spend the whole night arguing with Mike and, once they were done, she expected she'd have some time alone to put her increasingly complex theories to paper.

He threw the pillow back at her, it landing inches from her face. The bed was their new countertop, it seemed, standing between them like a great wall separating two war-ready armies.

"It just so happens that that hunch happened to be true."

She'd been wrong before—now she could have strangled him.

She shoved the pillow aside, straightening up. "Do you want me to be guilty?!"

"No, I don't want you to be guilty!" he yelled exasperatedly, as if she were being purposely obtuse. "I'm just mad that I spent four years loving you even when you were guilty!"

He raked his fingers through his hair again.

"El, you treated me like you didn't care—you threw me out like garbage! I was a wreck! And now I understand why you did it but you still did it! Am I suddenly just supposed to be okay with that?"

She stared at him, taking a deep breath. They'd argued before, but this was their first screaming match. Even when she'd cheated and he'd broken down, he'd only yelled until he'd cried. There'd never been this much anger in a room with them before. Or, at least, this much that they'd set free.

Maybe the quiet rage, for them, had been like small talk—just putting off the inevitable, and making it worse in the meantime.

Now it was like they couldn't stop.

"So, last night was what?" she demanded. "Revenge? To hurt me? To change things? What? I don't understand why you would—"

"Because I wanted to!" he bellowed. "Because I wanted you—so badly!" There was that accusatory gaze again, but it was quickly eclipsed by obvious pain. "And I felt sick to my stomach after because of how I did it and when I did it and I still feel sick, because I still hate you! I hate that you have so much power over me and I hate that I couldn't get it together when you were gone! I hate that I'm still that stupid kid sitting on his walkie-talkie waiting for you and I hate that I don't even want to stop! Do you know how much of my life I've spent missing you? Do you know the last time I was happy?"

Jane felt like crying at this point. "I don't."

He deflated. "Probably the last time I had you on your back. How broken is that?"

Jane pressed her lips together firmly, controlling herself as her eyes brimmed. "So, we're broken. So, what? Who wouldn't be after the shit we've had to go through?"

"But that's my point exactly, El—we didn't have to!" He jabbed a finger at her. "You made that call. Not me. You decided that was it for us." He clutched his side, as if he were nursing a real wound. "I mean, I—I still wanted to forgive you. Did you know I tried to see you again—one more time after the trial?"

She looked down. There it was. "I did."

She couldn't see his face, but she could hear his shocked betrayal in his silence. It resounded in her ears.

He choked out a response. "Oh, you-you did? Great, so what? You decided it would be easier for me, did you? 'Give him a clean break and let him hate you.' Is that what you thought?"

Jane bit her lip. "Something along those lines, yes."

"Because it's so easy to make people hate when you don't let them understand?"

She took a deep breath. "Mike…"

"They ordered you to cheat on me," he cut in. "They ordered you to kill Hopper. Did they order you to send me away?"

Hesitantly, she met his eyes and she noticed his were gleaming—not with anger this time. Her heart dropped.

"I don't think they anticipated you coming back."

"So, that's a 'no', then," he translated. "You did that."

She swallowed, resigned. "Yes, I did, but who knows what they would have done if I hadn't? Mike, I just wanted you to move on and have a chance at—"

"Do I look like I've moved on?!" he exploded, gesturing wildly around where they were. When she couldn't answer, he conceded harshly, "I've fucked a few girls, El. That's true. College was the perfect place to try to fuck you out of me."

He hung his head, wincing, as if remembering left a bad taste in his mouth and an ache in his chest. Now he was the one who sounded resigned.

"But every night, I'd come home, and I'd go to sleep alone, and I'd feel disgusting for what I'd done." His voice broke. "Because cheating on even the ghost of you just felt wrong."

As much as it hurt her to hear that he'd slept with anyone else, Jane pictured it: him coming home to his dark dorm room at night, lying in bed feeling empty, feeling like every new day he woke up to was just another opportunity to feel like the world was going on without him and he was stuck in the past—that feeling that this wasn't how it was supposed to be never leaving, never fading.

She didn't have to imagine, really, because she'd felt it, that same feeling, every day.

And it was because she knew how he felt that she knew she was done fighting now. She reached for him.

His shining eyes flickered to hers warily as she slid her hand into his and led him gently toward the edge of the bed, where they sat down side by side. Jane kept his hand clasped between hers in her lap.

"Listen to me," she implored gently. She could see that he, like her, didn't want to fight. He just didn't want to get hurt. He didn't want to go through that again.

"I can't make it better," she admitted. "You're right. We're new people—we're older. We're like broken bones that didn't heal right. I know."

She bit her lip, squeezing his hand, maybe more as her lifeline than for his comfort.

"I wanted to come back and change it all. I think, in some twisted way, I thought I could take it all back." The first tears slipped down her cheeks. "But Dad's gone. We're broken. I can't fix any of it." She tried to make a joke. "I think the last time I felt like this was Thanksgiving dinner, junior year." She shook her head. "I still can't cook."

Beside her, Mike slouched a little, the side of his arm brushing hers.

"You were good at other things," he murmured.

She could only stare at their joined hands. "You ever jump off a cliff again, I'm your girl."

"I'm not talking about your powers, El." He adjusted the way he was sitting, turning to face her. He still wasn't looking at her but he was getting closer.

"You listened," he murmured throatily. "Even when you were mad, you always listened. And you always said the right thing, even if I didn't think so at the time sometimes. It was never about fixing things back then, you just… You always knew how to make it better. And then…" He dropped his gaze even lower, if that were possible, suddenly awkward. Maybe even embarrassed. "There was the other stuff."

Jane's forehead crinkled. "What other stuff?"

"You know…" He glanced at her face for the first time in minutes—her mouth, more specifically, and Jane thought she sensed him lean the most indiscernible bit closer.

She half expected him to steer the conversation in a direction that, two minutes ago, would have seemed beyond impossible.

But he didn't.

"You were always strong," he confessed quietly. "You could survive anything."

"Some things were harder than others, believe me."

His dark eyes studied her. "But you're still here."

Jane felt a small tug at her hand and realised he'd pulled it onto his knee, his fingers lacing through hers.

"You always were stubborn as hell." He tried and failed to blink away the first traitorous tear that spilled down his cheek. "Drove me crazy."

"If I hadn't made the decisions, we would've never got anything done," she mumbled back, realising she'd just proven his point for him.

She slid him a sideways glance and realised that, at that, he'd almost smiled.

"You did make the decisions." He nodded slowly. "You made them fast, like… Like if you didn't, we might lose our chance."

Jane stayed perfectly still, processing his words, unsure of what to do with them—unsure of what to do with any of it. She didn't want to spook him again by saying or doing the wrong thing.

"There's this concept in Chaos Theory called the butterfly effect," he said after a moment. "A lot of people get it wrong because they think it means that everything happens for a reason, but really it's the notion that control is a human pipedream. Even though everything is cause and effect, the rational order of chaos is so complex that it exceeds our ability to predict beyond a certain degree of accuracy. There are just too many variables for us to comprehend."

Jane looked down; he was stroking her knuckles now absently.

"What are you saying, Mike?" she asked.

He didn't sound angry anymore, but she wondered if he resented her denying him the little control he could have had. Or maybe his point was simply that he wished some butterfly could have made it all happen differently?

She couldn't really think about it like that. A butterfly flaps its wings and suddenly the Cold War never happened. She never went to Central State, Hopper never died, but she never even came to Hawkins and, if she were even born at all, her life was just so fucking incomprehensibly different to how it had turned out that she probably wasn't even the same person. For all the torment Jane had gone through in this life, Hopper had taught her one thing that she would never, ever forget: the way we handle our pain is what makes us. Like forging metal—the hammering in the fire determines the final blade.

But, in reality, Mike's response was nothing like she had imagined it.

"I used to wonder if maybe you could," he murmured. "I used to wonder if you were always so sure because, somehow, you could comprehend what the rest of us couldn't. I used to wonder if the reason you always acted first was because you knew what it could mean, if you left something you knew you should've done now until later."

"Do you want me to pretend I do?"

He was leaning in so close now, she could almost feel him.

Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. "I want you to tell me what happens next."

Jane could feel that finely tuned equilibrium in the air again, but it wasn't electric this time. It wasn't wavering under the pressure of years of anger and doubt and faithlessness. It felt like that split second of suspension when one steps off a ledge into empty space, like when Mike stood at the edge of the cliff at the quarry when they were kids.

"It's not up to me," she answered carefully. "Like you said, there are too many variables. It's not about now or later. It's not about when. It's about if."

"And if I were to choose," he murmured back, and Jane saw the evidence of his nerves as his Adam's apple bobbed. "If I said screw everything else and just thought about what it really comes down to—one question—what would you tell me?"

His gaze was fixed on her lips and, without noticing how they got there, Jane realised his hands had abandoned hers on his knee and were slowly sliding up the lines of her body, making her forget every scar and imperfection she'd ever had, before they came to rest, cradling the sides of her face.

Maybe Jane couldn't perceive all the variables—maybe she had no idea how any of this was going to turn out. Maybe everything they'd suffered to reach this point meant nothing and when they were all dead and gone, the Bad Men would be the ones who wrote history however they liked.

But not today.

The endgame didn't matter right now. Not to her. Not at all.

She felt she could hardly breathe as she whispered, "Now?"

His eyes flickered to hers, his deep and piercing and beyond betraying any kind of nerves. He couldn't blame this on spontaneity or anger or confusion or lust. This was it now.

His leaned in until their foreheads touched and his eyes were burning into hers; his lips were slightly parted like he could already taste her, his fingers knotting in the roots of her hair. "Don't tell me to stop."

She gripped his sweater's crew neck tightly as she pulled him the rest of the way into her. "Don't ever smoke again."

She didn't want to be strangers anymore. She was sick of bad habits and, more than anything, feeling like one.

She was sick of hiding and not recognising herself in the mirror.

Whether she was Jane or Eleven, she would always be a Hopper, and her father had taught her better than to be afraid.

She didn't want not to want anymore.

She just wanted Mike.

And with one silent nod, agreeing to her terms, he kissed her softly and the world swirled away.

AN:

Okay, guys, talk to me. I rewrote the ending what must have been almost a dozen times and, in the end, I decided to go with honest simplicity—and something for you guys to look forward to in the opening of the next chapter.

I know that, in some places, Mike and El both seemed melodramatic in this one, and I puzzled over how to fix this but I've ultimately decided that in such an emotionally strenuous 'discussion' as this, a fair bit of melodrama would realistically get thrown around.

Much love,

Inara x

*EDIT: Guys, I've re-edited, as stated above, but yet again, I'm publishing past midnight (typical me), so if you do pick up on any errors, please PM me to let me know so I can fix them! Thank you! x