"Michigan?"
More than one voice piped up incredulously, enough that Lucas probably couldn't tell who was saying what, but he didn't buckle under their stares. He just muttered a goodbye (as well as a promise that he'd tell Erica to get her butt home if he saw her) and hung up the phone on the wall a little harder than necessary.
For a moment, the only sound in the basement was the static coming from the radio; everyone waiting to see if somehow they'd all misheard.
"That's what she said," Lucas finally responded with a small shrug (the look on his face giving away that he was far from lackadaisical about this) and although there were varying reactions from the audience, the energy was identical—baffled disbelief.
"Why would he leave so suddenly?" Nancy thought out loud, her brow furrowing, "Why wouldn't you know about it?"
"Right before his birthday?" Mike added, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the pile of decorations and presents that had accumulated in the corner over the past few weeks.
"Well, why would my mom lie about it?" Lucas replied, a bit snappy, but nobody could blame him for that. Not with everything that was going on.
"He probably lied to her," Mike pointed out, just as sharp, and even though he sort of started it, Lucas bristled.
He might've escalated that, taken his frustration out on Mike (and, maybe, pinned what had happened two days ago entirely on him, because the guilt over Will running out of the basement in tears had eaten at him ever since), if his attention hadn't been redirected and the irritable feeling in his chest disappeared in favor of sick anticipation.
Eleven's eyes jumped between each person in the basement, blindfold gripped tightly between her fingers and a stream of blood slowly flowing out of her nose, but it wasn't until they landed on Lucas did she wordlessly shake her head.
Lucas swore.
"How is that even possible?" Nancy demanded of no one in particular, but El still shrugged a little.
"Maybe something's wrong with El," Lucas offered, his words running together as he rushed to get them out, "Maybe that's why she couldn't find Will either."
"Don't put this on her!" Mike said, ever protective of his girlfriend, and even though that was the tone that had nearly set him off earlier, Lucas just sighed a little. He knew it was a stretch—El had never failed to find anyone before—but it seemed like the best option. Because otherwise…
"What if… Both of them…"
Jonathan's weak voice echoed like a gunshot in the Wheeler's basement.
Lucas felt the knot in his chest—the one that had been present ever since he hadn't been able to get ahold of his brother on the walkie-talkie, even if he hadn't acknowledged it—tighten until its ache was inescapable. Jonathan (who was biting down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling) had decided they weren't allowed to ignore the possibility anymore. They had to consider that their brothers were—
Even thinking it made Lucas want to vomit.
"That doesn't make any sense."
The familiar voice was what woke Lucas out of his terrible reverie, but it was the certainty in Max's eyes that had comfort washing over him, despite everything.
"Doesn't it?" Mike countered, contrarian and harsh undoubtedly because of the fear roiling inside, "They just happen to disappear right when—"
"No, no, it doesn't," Max insisted, hopping off the couch with a barely contained fire behind her eyes, "Billy wouldn't go after Henry."
"Billy hated Henry," Nancy pointed out; she didn't want this to be true, god, she didn't. But, ever the pragmatist, she knew that they couldn't pretend that this wasn't possible.
"Henry was the only person in all of Hawkins that Billy was scared of."
The basement fell silent. With shock, of course, the words had burst from Max like a rush of water from a destroyed dam, but that was far from the only reason. A strange energy followed it. A tightly coiled, skin pulled on too tight feeling, and dark looks crossed over the faces of the present party members. A kind of solemnity that appeared when a hard but undeniable truth had been stated.
"Why was Billy scared of him?" Jonathan murmured softly, barely disrupting the hush that had taken over. He couldn't question that this was something all of the kids understood to be true, but he also couldn't imagine ever being afraid of Henry.
"You weren't there last year," Lucas muttered back, the memory of his brother that night as fresh in his mind as it would be if it had happened just a few hours ago.
"He knew he couldn't push him around like everyone else. Even with that thing, the Mind Flayer, controlling him…" Max swallowed hard before pressing on, "Wherever Henry is, it's not—he's not flayed."
"Then why can't El find him?" Mike countered, but he didn't sound nearly as certain as he had before; that moment between Henry and Billy was too striking to ignore.
"I mean, she could see Heather, and she was flayed," Nancy offered with a thoughtful frown, Max nodding along, "Maybe something's blocking her. Or he's somewhere El can't see."
"Maybe," Jonathan murmured, everyone falling quiet at the sound of his voice, the can't-dare-to-hope tremor, "Wherever he is, Will's with him."
-.
"I can't believe after everything, what kills me is you four and an elevator!"
Will stared up the chute, looking as far as his eyes could manage and knowing he wasn't anywhere close to the surface. He'd spent hours scrunched up in this corner, gazing at nothing until the shadows played tricks on him, but he was still steaming inside. He hadn't even been able to sleep it off—his dreams angry and violent.
He'd just wanted Henry. He'd just wanted someone who'd understand. And now, here he was, stuck in some shitty elevator, probably going to get murdered by Russians, if he didn't die of thirst or something first. God, he could probably punch a hole through the pure concrete he was leaning against and make a path back to the surface with how he was feeling right now.
It wasn't just anger, even if that had been what exploded out of him hours ago. It was something else. Something bitter and cruel and mean. It was an awful feeling, but he couldn't help but revel in it. Sink into it. Let it consume him. Because if he didn't… If he let anything else in…
He'd rather rage mangle him beyond recognition than be destroyed by everything else.
"Uh, good morning!"
Will looked over and found that Dustin was poking his head through the hatch that he'd hopped through hours ago, after he'd spat those last words at them. Before he could say anything—and truly, he had no idea what—Dustin was clambering up fully onto the elevator roof, and Will supposed he couldn't exactly tell him to go away.
"The mall's open," Dustin offered, flashing his watch and laughing nervously, "So I thought I'd try to contact someone. Do… Do you have your walkie?"
Will felt his jaw clench impossibly tighter and the memory of throwing it against the wall so hard the batteries went flying out flashed in his mind. Lucas and Mike wouldn't stop trying to get him to answer, and turning it off hadn't seemed like enough.
Henry hadn't been picking up anyway.
"No," Will said, and Dustin was quick to nod, even though the look on his face gave away just how uncomfortable he felt right now.
"Okay, okay," he said, his voice a little too high, "That's fine. I have mine."
Dustin extended the antennae and started to tune into different frequencies, saying things about the "Red Army" and torture, throwing glances at him the entire time. Will knew he was making him uncomfortable, and there was a part of him, probably the truest piece remaining, that felt awful about that. He didn't want Dustin to feel bad, he was his best friend, he hadn't even done anything wrong. But this feeling, the one that he'd let eat him alive, left him incapable of caring.
"Will?" Dustin said, and Will looked up to see the hesitancy in his voice matched his expression, "Are you—?"
"Hey!"
Both boys jumped, and while Will was the one in the sour mood, he wasn't alone in rolling his eyes.
"You better be taking it easy on that thing, you're going to drain the battery," Steve said, unaware of how unwelcome his presence was as he also pulled himself up onto the elevator.
"The mall just opened," Dustin replied, incredibly patient compared to how Will was feeling right now.
"So?" Steve said, and this time Dustin didn't have the same self-restraint.
"So someone could be in range," he replied like Steve was an idiot, which Will was starting to suspect was true.
"What, you think Petey the Mall Cop is going to rappel down here and save the day?" Steve demanded, and although he had a point and just as much of a right to be in a bad mood right now, his tone only exacerbated the anger already pumping through Will's veins, and he looked down so he'd be shooting glares at his shoes rather than Steve.
Dustin wasn't quite as put off, though. Probably because he had a healthier temper right now, or maybe that was just how those two communicated—Will had noticed the vaguely confrontational rapport they shared (and secretly thought his dynamic with Henry was better). But, it worked out for the best, because Dustin remained even, although his voice dropped a little. Not nearly enough to be considered a murmur, but still lower and softer.
Almost as if he was trying to be conspiratorial.
"Alright, why're you such a crankypants after getting to spend the night with Robin?"
Just this once, Will didn't mind that everyone overlooked him, because that meant neither Dustin or Steve noticed his head jerk up.
"Shh! Jesus Christ, would you just give up on that creepy dream already?" Steve replied, theoretically whispering, even though he really wasn't any quieter. He sent a quick look back down the hatch, making sure that only the boys on top of the elevator had heard that, before he raised his eyes and they landed squarely on the dark corner across from him, "Byers. How're you doing?"
Will knew why he was asking. It wasn't because he cared. He didn't look away from Dustin like that and switch topics because he was just so interested in how he was holding up. No, Will was a useful pawn in whatever it was that Steve was trying to run away from. And he might not exactly know what that was, but he more than suspected.
Will fought the urge to scream.
It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.
Suddenly, it was all too much, and he stumbled to his feet. He couldn't be here, not another second, he couldn't keep looking at Steve's stupid face.
He wished he could yell, tell him what a fucking moron he was, but how could he? Anything he said would just make it worse. So instead, his lips curled into a nasty smile that made Dustin's expression drop, but he didn't care. Right now, he hated them all.
"Great!" He said, and both boys recoiled.
Robin and Erica looked over at him when he dropped back down into the elevator, but neither one said a word, which meant he could hear Steve clear as day.
"Well, he's still in a mood."
Will snorted softly, finding a relatively stable box to sit on in the corner; he had no fucking idea.
Above him, the elevator lights flickered, but he barely noticed—they'd been doing that ever since they'd hurtled down here.
"Wonder Twins getting on your nerves?"
Will looked up to find Robin glancing sideways at him as she messed with the stupid buttons that had gotten them into this mess in the first place. He was pretty sure that in the past eight hours they'd tried every possible combination, and he really doubted Robin had turned to them again because she had some new brilliant plan to get them out of here.
"Hmm," he hummed (grumbled) and Robin smiled a little at him. Will wished he could hate it.
"Steve's never going to be allowed in my house after this," Erica declared, turning that container of green goo over in her hands like she was looking for an opening—although he couldn't imagine why, "If Henry won't listen to me I'm telling my mom he tried to get me killed."
Robin huffed a soft laugh, but any amusement quickly disappeared when she looked back over at Will. It wasn't like he'd exactly had a smile on his face before, but at the mention of the friend he'd been trying to find in the first place, he'd only wilted.
It was quiet for a moment, then Robin gave up any pretense of looking at the control panel and shuffled closer.
"Hey, Will?" She murmured, and he looked up to find her fiddling with one of the rings on her fingers, "I know I'm not Henry. But, we're friends and I—I think we're a lot alike. So if you want to talk, I'm here. Not like we're going anywhere."
She managed a weak laugh, maybe a little nervous, but it was nice, in an awkward way.
But, all Will could feel bubbling up inside of him was contempt.
Because he didn't care if she was nice, or cool, or whatever. She was the reason Steve was going to break his best friend's heart.
Just another stupid girl ruining everything.
He knew what Henry would say. He'd insist that he wasn't being fair. That it wasn't Robin's fault. That it wasn't right to hate a girl because of some guy's feelings, it wasn't like she had any control over Steve. And Will knew that was right. Hell, Will even knew that Henry really liked her, that they were friends, but he still couldn't help but feel wounded on his behalf.
Will tried to swallow down the anger, like he knew Henry would want, but it only went part way. Maybe he could fight the urge to be mean, but that didn't mean he would ever open up to her.
Besides, even if he could, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't in front of Erica. He knew she was listening intently—she was an eavesdropper through and through, Henry had given him a heads up a while ago—and he really didn't want to know what she'd have to say about the situation that had made him go looking for her eldest brother.
"I'm fine," he finally muttered, and he knew he wasn't the least bit convincing, but that didn't matter. So long as it made Robin back off, he didn't care.
Will waited, ready for whatever snappy comment Erica had locked and loaded that ironically would get on his nerves the least right now (probably just used to it after spending enough time with the Sinclairs).
But, it never came.
Will looked over to find that his suspicions were correct, Erica's undivided attention was on him, but it wasn't the usual unimpressed scowl seeping in sarcasm. She was just… looking. Really looking. Nothing mean, nothing snarky, just genuine contemplation.
For the first time, Will saw the strong resemblance between her and Henry.
He hated it.
-.
Henry doubted he'd ever heard a silence so loud, and yet he barely even noticed.
"You're one of the kids," he said, his voice low; stunned, but certain, "From the lab."
The boy didn't reply. He didn't have to. His expression did all the talking.
His eyes flashed to the door, and Henry knew he was thinking of bolting. He took a step closer without really considering—he'd never put a hand on him, even if he did run for it—and regretted it immediately. The kid pushed himself back into the bed the slightest bit; just enough to be noticeable, but so little that Henry knew it was instinctual.
"I'm Henry Sinclair," he said, shuffling backwards a little, hoping that would reassure him, "I just want to know if you're the one who's been sending me letters."
The boy continued to stare— uneasy and distrusting— but his brow furrowed, and Henry felt his stomach sink. He'd hoped that his name would be all that he'd needed to hear and he'd finally explain himself, but this kid didn't look any more certain of what was going on than he had when he'd first blearily opened his eyes in this hospital room.
Then, all at once, Henry was put on the backburner.
The boy's head jerked to the door (despite nothing that might've called his attention), and as he stared at it, he unconsciously slipped his hands and feet back into the restraints.
Henry realized with a jolt what was about to happen.
"I told them you're my sister's son," he said, anticipation twisting into anxiety in his gut as he watched the door.
At least, until he realized he wasn't getting a response.
Henry turned back to the boy, and he was looking up at him again, but this time his expression wasn't shocked or hateful or even just suspicious, it was blank. Utterly empty, carefully arranged vacancy, and he had to fight the urge to swear.
He'd had plenty of experience with this from his own siblings.
"C'mon, man," he sighed, his voice bordering on a whine, but the kid didn't waver. Henry breathed hard through his nose and glanced at the door again; knowing in the pit of his stomach that time was running out, "You're the one who asked for me."
Still the kid stared up at him, unmoved. Henry could feel the hand landing on the doorknob.
He jerked back towards the boy, hissing out one last ditch effort before the door swung open.
"I know Eleven."
Henry straightened up right as the nurse stepped inside the room; her eyebrow arching.
"So, our mystery patient is awake," she said instead of mentioning the guilty atmosphere that surrounded them, "How're you feeling?"
"… Fine," the kid muttered after a moment, not sounding particularly happy about having to answer questions but knowing better now than to put up a fight. The nurse hummed a little, scratching her pen on some form, before she peered over her clipboard.
"And you know this man?"
The boy looked up at him again—Henry trying to silently communicate a million different things without giving it all away—before he turned his big eyes back to the nurse; his expression miles away from the snarled anger that he'd been wearing during a majority of their time together.
"He's Uncle Henry."
All of Henry's self-control went into holding back a deep sigh of relief, and he tried to put all of his appreciation into a look sent to the boy, who made sure he knew it wasn't accepted with one glance. The nurse, now with her concern satiated by that oh-so innocent answer, went back to business, and after a moment or two of checking the medical equipment around the bed, she turned her attention away from her patient.
"Can I get that form?"
"Hm?" Henry muttered, having been far more interested in the way the kid leaned away whenever it seemed like she might brush against him than anything she might have to say.
"The form," she repeated slowly, like he was the one who'd been drugged into oblivion, "The one I gave you to fill out."
"Uh." Henry's eyes darted to the side table, where he'd put the clipboard down hours ago and never picked it back up, "I'm sorry, it's not done, I fell asleep."
And even though he was balancing precariously in unknown territory and any slip-ups might send him crashing down, there was no denying that the corner of Henry's lips tugged when he heard the kid snort.
"Just…" The nurse said, clearly annoyed but swallowing it down, "Have it ready when I come back."
Henry nodded, appropriately chastised, and with one last look, the nurse turned on her heel and headed out the door; undoubtedly to handle plenty of other little fires that made a kid who'd had a seizure seem trivial.
For a moment, it was so quiet that her shoes were still audible against the linoleum, until they disappeared into the sounds of the hospital entirely. Henry looked over to find the kid slipping his arms and legs back out of the loosened restraints, and he let go of the breath he'd been holding in the moment he'd realized they'd have a visitor.
"What should I put down on this?" Henry asked, waving the clipboard a little. He didn't actually need to know, he could fill it out with total lies for all he cared, but he wasn't against an excuse to find out anything he could about this boy.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered back, slowly sliding out of bed and grimacing a little; clearly still feeling the effects of whatever the doctors gave him, "Not gonna be here long."
"What?" Henry said, his brow furrowing, but his question went unanswered. The kid didn't even seem to hear it.
"Where's my stuff?" He demanded, a deep frown worming onto his expression as his eyes danced around the room. Henry followed his lead, and maybe because he wasn't working off heavy sedatives or because he was quite accustomed to hospital rooms, he spotted a small bin filled with a pile of clothes and a backpack. Wordlessly, he grabbed it and held it out to the kid, who snatched it away as soon as he laid eyes on it.
Henry watched him unzip the bag and dig through it; a fervor to his movements as whatever it was that he kept in there jostled against each other loud enough for him to hear.
"Can I least have a name?" Henry asked after a moment, his eyes flashing between the kid and the bag he pawed through, "Because I don't think the nurse will like it if I refer to you as Ten."
The kid's head snapped up, his fingers tight around the weathered canvas, and he glared at Henry with a look so icy cold it sent a shiver down his spine.
"Don't call me that."
His voice was somehow harder than his expression, but Henry didn't back down. Didn't even shrink. Only softened.
"Okay," he agreed after a beat of silence, "What is your name?"
For a second, the kid just stared. The deadliness gone now, he silently studied the man in front of him. Henry wondered what he was thinking. Reflecting on the few interactions they'd had? Weighing his options? Wondering whether he should answer at all?
"Sam," he finally muttered, quickly turning his eyes back down to his bag.
And the mere fact that he'd told him his real name, despite everything, made Henry soften even further.
"It's nice to meet you, Sam," he murmured, getting a grunt in response, "What do you mean you're not going to be here long?"
"I'm not giving them a chance to stick me in a home or arrest me or some shit," Sam replied, finally pleased with whatever it was he was checking in his bag and turning his attention to the clothes that he must've been wearing when he'd been brought in. He made quick work of pulling his pants on under the hospital dress and shedding it to replace it with a tank top.
"Where are you going?" Henry asked, maybe playing it a little innocent, but knowing he failed entirely when Sam sent him a quick look; he could practically hear him muttering nice try, "Listen, I'm just trying to figure out why I was being sent letters, just explain that and—"
"I can't explain because I don't know."
Every one of their interactions had been painted with his hostility, but the way Sam flared now made Henry's mouth snap shut. It wasn't the denial that caught him off guard or even the aggression, it was the pure desperation. Like he wanted nothing more than to leave this whole thing behind. Like the thought of it was torturing him.
For a long moment, it was quiet, the two of them staring at each other.
Even though he'd never seen him before today, Henry knew that Sam looked far more like himself now. The kid who stood in front of him (the one he barely had to look down at to make eye contact with) matched his prickly behavior way better than the one he'd seen peacefully asleep in bed a few hours earlier. A permanent scowl on his face, an appearance that scared off anyone who even thought about getting a little closer, a clear refusal to play the game of social niceties that everyone tried to shove down his throat. A punk, the kind of teenager that most people hated on sight and then never took a second glance at—unless to glare.
Henry was far from most.
The longer he looked, the clearer things became. His jeans were ripped up and ill-fitting, his tank top threadbare and stained, and his jacket fraying; a chunky cuff and a handful of bracelets wrapped around his left wrist, concealing something that most people wouldn't even consider; and a backpack was slung over his shoulder, his fingers curled tight—too tight—into the strap, like he thought someone might try to take it away.
In that moment, Henry knew two things:
One:
He was seeing far more than this kid ever would've wanted.
And two:
Sam had absolutely nothing.
And it might not have been much (or, maybe, it was everything), but now that he had a hint of who it was he was looking at, Henry couldn't tear his eyes away.
That's why—even with no reason for it, no external trigger that might've caused it—he saw the instant Sam stiffened.
But, that's not why things froze inside of him.
That was the alarm blaring in his own head.
BANG
Just like that, the even existence of the hospital was disrupted. Audible but muffled by distance were the unmistakable cacophony of screams and shouts, but nothing compared to the sharp sound that had split through the silence and sent everything spiraling. Sam and Henry stared at the closed door, only able to imagine what exactly was happening on the other side, but knowing enough for their hearts to pick up at the second pop that flooded the hospital with yelling and pounding feet.
They might've lived very different lives, but both recognized the sound of gunshots.
Henry grabbed the chair he'd spent most of the morning in and shoved it under the doorknob, silently sending up a prayer that whoever was shooting right now would pass them right by.
"Yeah, that's really gonna help," Sam scoffed, and Henry couldn't really argue; it wasn't for nothing, but the flimsy plastic probably wouldn't do much if someone was committed to getting in.
Before he could offer any words of empty comfort though, Sam spun around and purposefully strode to the other side of the room. But, it wasn't until he was forcing the window open did Henry realize what he was thinking.
"We're four stories up," he pointed out, crossing over to stand beside him; his stomach dropping as he looked down at the parking lot.
"I'm gonna climb down," Sam replied as if it was obvious, and Henry turned to stare at him incredulously, but was very quickly derailed when he noticed where he was looking. To the left of the ledge underneath the window was a large metal pipe—although not without a sickening gap between the two—fastened to the wall with pieces of metal that hypothetically someone might be able to use to shimmy down.
It would've been Henry's turn to scoff, if it weren't for the anxiety thrumming in his veins.
Sam swung his leg over the sill without another word, and the version of him that Lucas and his friends had created by doing absurdly dangerous things took over. Unthinkingly, Henry grabbed ahold of his arm before he could get any further, and it was torn out of his grip just as quickly; Sam leveling him with a piercing glare.
"Sorry, sorry," Henry murmured, putting his hands up and taking a step back, "I just really don't think this is a good idea."
"You're welcome to stay here and wait to get shot," Sam replied, pulling his other leg over and hopping onto the ledge.
But, he didn't keep going.
Sam didn't continue on his path to the pipe and then struggle down to the ground. He stayed where he was on the sill, and Henry might've thought the height had finally hit him, if it wasn't for the look on his face.
A frown.
Not frightened, though.
Thoughtful.
Sam ducked down so his head was sticking back through the open window, his expression more genuine than any Henry had ever seen from him.
"You won't fall."
Simple but certain. It wasn't meant to comfort him. It was only the truth.
Henry glanced back at the door as his thoughts turned faster than ever. That commotion was getting louder now. Closer. He could either play the odds and hide in here on the chance that the shooter continued down the hall, or…
Or he could trust this kid.
Henry turned back to the window and found that Sam had straightened up and was looking anywhere but the hospital room he'd crawled out of. But, he still hadn't moved from his spot just outside, even though he probably could've made it to the ground by now.
It wasn't even a question.
Sam got out of the way before he ever moved towards the window, which Henry might've noticed if he wasn't focused on the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Maybe it wasn't that high up when you were looking from inside, but now that he was standing out here, Henry felt himself getting dangerously lightheaded. Quickly, he snapped his attention away from the ground far below him and to the kid who—in spite of all of the hostility and attitude—was waiting for him to acclimate. The moment Sam realized that he was looking at him though, he turned away, almost like he hadn't wanted him to notice the way he'd been watching.
The pair made their way across, Henry forcing his eyes forward, and as he watched the certainty in the way he walked, he realized that being somewhere like this must not be entirely out of the ordinary for Sam. There wasn't even a moment of hesitation when he grabbed onto the pipe and started to shimmy down.
Henry, of course, wasn't quite as cavalier about it. But he'd gotten this far, and frankly he wasn't about to let this kid out of his sight.
"Wasn't so bad, was it?" Sam said once both of them were firmly standing on grass, and Henry could only find it in himself to send him a dirty look as he leaned against the brick wall, waiting for his lungs to fill with oxygen again.
"My car's over here," he said after a moment, pushing himself onto his feet and heading into the parking lot.
"What makes you think I'm getting into it?"
Henry turned back around to find that Sam hadn't moved an inch, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.
"Because you want to get away from the shooter?" Henry suggested, unable to keep himself from getting a little bit snarky.
"I can do that fine by myself," Sam replied, cool and bitter.
Henry opened his mouth to snap back, probably to point out that getting out of here fast was more important than anything else, but he didn't get the chance. Instead, he watched as the expression on Sam's face shifted. His stubbornness disappeared in an instant and was replaced with wide eyes that Henry only saw for half a second before—
Before Sam was diving forward.
BANG
With a grunt, Henry hit the concrete; Sam landing a little softer in his arms (because he'd instinctively wrapped them around him). Even if he hadn't been caught by surprise, that fall onto the hard ground would've knocked the air out of him, and Henry was far from regaining his bearings—flat on his back with his ears ringing from the sound that had just split through the air—when his eyes intuitively traveled up the building until they found the window they'd just climbed out of.
And the man holding a gun.
Just like that, what Sam had just saved him from became obvious.
Any and all disagreements instantly forgotten, the two boys staggered to their feet and ran off into the parking lot without having to say a single word. Maybe not the smartest idea to head into a wide open area, but they were lucky; the shooter was reloading when they were exposed, and by the time he was trying to aim for them again, they were hopping into the Cutlass.
Henry slammed his foot down on the pedal, and the last thing he heard before everything was overtaken by rubber on pavement was the distinct sound of a bullet hitting his car.
They were quite a few miles away before Henry felt like he could breathe again, and far more before he eased up even a little on the gas. Only once they were well into the city did he stop, pulling into an open spot only out of necessity; his hands were shaking too much to keep going. Henry's head fell backwards, and he looked up at the roof of his car as he fought to stave off hyperventilation.
For a very long moment it was dead silent.
"Well. Thanks."
And Sam hopped out of the Cutlass.
For a brief second, Henry was frozen, too surprised to do anything but watch Sam walk away. He knew he couldn't let him slip through his fingers, not when he still had so many questions, but what made him jump out of the car and follow after him wasn't anything so logical; it was the fact that he didn't even glance back.
"That's it?" Henry demanded, "We get shot at and you're just—"
"What am I supposed to do? Huh?" Sam interrupted, whirling around to level him a withering glare, like he'd just been waiting for him to try to stop him.
"Tell me what's going on," Henry said, unable to stop himself from raising his volume to match, "Are you the one who's been sending me letters? Why was that guy trying to shoot you?"
"How do you know he wasn't after you?" Sam demanded, and their yelling match came to a screeching halt—everything going quiet for two seconds too long.
"I…" Henry cleared his throat, "Don't."
Sam smiled, but it didn't seem like he found it particularly funny.
"Well, then why would I stick around when all you've done is gotten me shot at?" He asked, and once again Henry didn't exactly have a good answer for that.
Without another word, Sam turned and began to walk away again. Henry knew he couldn't let this happen, he couldn't let him disappear back into the city, not when he'd finally found him, but he couldn't force him to stay. Even if he could abide kidnapping a child he'd known for all of half an hour, he'd never talk to him if he did. He'd never get the answers for what gnawed at his insides. He'd never know why he'd been called here.
He needed for him to open up, and to do that he needed to get on his good side. He needed to offer him something that would make him comfortable, that would entice the kid to stick around him a little longer, that might make him sit still for like twenty minutes. He needed—
"I'll buy you lunch!"
-.
The sound of a straw sucking up nothing was at the decibel level of a jet.
Henry watched, vaguely unimpressed, as Sam tried to get the last little bits of the Coke he'd slurped down from the bottom of the cup. Thankfully, it probably wasn't annoying anyone else, because the rest of the restaurant was filled with the sounds of chattering and eating. They were lucky with the booth they'd gotten, somewhat sequestered away from the other diners, but it wasn't enough to dull the ever irritating sound of a full building.
Sam perked up in his seat, and that was the only warning Henry got before a rather large pepperoni pizza was placed down on the table in front of them.
"Another refill?" The waitress asked, and Sam nodded—his mouth already full. She smiled before disappearing to go service one of her many other tables, and Henry returned his focus to the boy in front of him.
Eating wasn't quite the right word for what Sam was doing, shoveling felt more correct. But, even though it was kind of gross to watch him stuff his face like that, it never crossed his mind to tell him to stop. Must be his mother in him, that woman couldn't stand to see a kid go unfed—even if that meant she was handing them a second plate after they insisted they were full. And ever since he'd noticed his hollow features, Henry had suspected Sam was more than a little hungry.
Unfortunately, he couldn't let him just enjoy the meal.
"You're one of the kids from the lab," Henry finally said, after weighing all the different questions he had and realizing there was no good place to start, "Like Eleven."
"Why do you keep calling her that?" Sam asked through a mouthful of food, his eyes narrowing a little.
"That's what we've always called her," Henry replied, shrugging a little, and Sam frowned.
"Hm," he muttered, as if he wasn't quite sure of what to make of that, but that he definitely didn't like it. He didn't say anything else though, and Henry decided to leave it alone.
"Can you move things?" He asked instead, and he watched as Sam's chewing slowed.
For a long moment, the pair of them stared at each other; Sam as still has he had been while knocked out in the hospital bed.
And then, without a word or breaking eye contact, Sam grabbed the salt shaker and slowly slid it across the table.
Henry let his head drop and he sighed hard through his nose.
"With your mind," he specified once he felt capable of any amount of patience, "Can you move things with your mind?"
"No," he said around the bite in his mouth, and Henry knew that was the truth.
"You have gifts, though, right?" He asked, and Sam snorted, flippant as ever.
But, this time, Henry didn't back down.
His gaze remained steady. Firm, not piercing, but unyielding. And Sam…
Sam had no choice but to let the pretense of irreverence fall.
It was quiet between the two of them, neither one looking away. None of the sarcasm or fake void existed in Sam's expression. He was just looking, considering, like he was trying to see what the face of the man sitting across from him had to offer. Like he was trying to figure out who this stranger was that wanted the truth so badly.
Henry didn't shy away. In fact, he welcomed it. He wasn't afraid of what he might find.
Sam dropped his eyes before he replied.
"I… see things," he muttered, studying what remained of the pizza slice he'd already devoured most of, "Things that… haven't happened yet."
All at once, Henry's certainty vanished.
The racket of the restaurant melted away. The loud voices and kitchen noises disappeared, none of it audible over the blood rushing in his ears. Hell, the waitress came back long enough to set another Coke down in front of Sam, but Henry didn't even notice. He was stuck where he was, unmoving, a statue of a young man whose whole world had been turned upside down, staring at the boy who'd been the one to upturn it.
"You can see the future."
Sam didn't seem to notice his breathlessness. Just hummed, reaching for a second piece of pizza, and refused to meet his eye. Probably for the best, he might've seen the look on Henry's face. He might've wondered what he'd said to elicit that reaction.
"Can you do it right now?" Henry asked, barely above a whisper.
Sam sighed, and there was a hint of frustration in there, but he mostly just sounded tired. Like the topic itself exhausted him.
"It doesn't work like that," he mumbled.
"Then how does it work?" Henry prodded, even though everything about Sam's demeanor was a blinking neon sign screaming back off. But, he couldn't. He just couldn't. He needed to know.
"Usually it's just feelings. Instincts…" Henry swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, but Sam didn't see; his eyes were trained on the table, "And when it's more than that I get taken to the hospital for having a seizure in Beacon Park. What a gift."
Sam huffed a sarcastic laugh, brittle and sharp, and Henry winced—it woke him out of the shocked daze that had overtaken him, but he still hated that sound. Even if he was the only one to blame for it.
It was quiet for a moment. Had to be, in the wake of that.
"What about the letters?" Henry asked once he worked up the guts, "Did you write them?"
"I guess." Henry frowned, and Sam sighed a little; he knew he had to explain, even though he clearly didn't want to, "Sometimes when I… see something, I do things. Things that I don't even realize I'm doing. Looks like writing you was one of them."
Sam grimaced and looked away, shifting in his seat like it was the plush booth that was making him uncomfortable. He wasn't even trying to hide how he felt anymore, like he had all day with his eye rolls and sarcastic laughter. There was an ache in his voice now, one he might not even realize was there, that stole Henry's breath away.
Sam didn't like this— what he'd been seeing, the fact that he'd written him, any of this—not one bit.
Henry wanted to stop. Stop pushing this topic, stop thinking about the letters. Drop it all forever and never talk about it again, for Sam's sake.
But, he couldn't.
Because knowing Sam had sent the letter warning him about the blackout didn't explain why the darkness in Starcourt had sent a chill down his spine. Because there was no answer to why there was a Russian transmission being sent from a small town in Indiana. Because Sam had called him here for a reason, and neither of them knew why.
Because with each passing moment, it was becoming more and more apparent that there was only one path forward that might lead him to answers.
"Come to Hawkins with me."
For a moment, Sam stared at him blankly; vacant enough that Henry wondered if he'd actually spoken at all.
And then he laughed.
Loudly.
Henry winced and sunk into his seat. The nasty laughter wasn't so loud that it caught the attention of anyone else in the restaurant, but to him it was deafening. Pointed and harsh. It hurt to hear, but probably not in the way Sam had intended.
Guilt ate at Henry for drawing that reaction out in the first place—even though he knew what he'd said was right.
"I've spent the last six years trying to not get dragged back there and your genius idea is to just go?" Sam demanded with a vicious grin, "Sure, but let's call ahead, so they can have a room ready for me."
Sam laughed again, like he was sickly amused by this whole thing, but Henry didn't even notice.
He didn't see the cruel expression on the face of the kid in front of him. He didn't pick up on the insult inherent to every word he spoke. He didn't even really notice the spark in Sam's eye that he was trying so hard to hide behind vitriol and sneers.
He only heard one thing.
"You got out of the lab six years ago?"
Just like that, that mean smile was wiped right off of Sam's face.
For a very long moment, it was dead silent. Eerily so, on the heels of the noise that came before it.
Sam stared. No glaring, no sarcastic delight, just stared; his expression as blank as before. Except there were flashes of something in his eyes, something sharp and emotional, and his lips pressed tightly together like he was doing his hardest to force whatever that was back down to wherever he'd had it hidden before Henry had dredged it all back up.
"What happened?" Henry finally asked, his voice soft but firm. Not to demand an answer though, no, never. To show that he was here. Solid. Real. "How did you end up in Detroit?"
This time, there was no disbelieving response. No laughter. Not even an eye roll.
"Kali—E-Eight," Sam stumbled over the number, and Henry could hear—even though his voice was quieter, more genuine—that he hated to say it, "She was going to escape, I knew it, I could… feel it. So I followed. We got out."
Sam sighed, deep and heavy, and Henry knew no kid should ever have to carry that weight—even if he'd known plenty that had.
"We were going to stick together, figure things out, but… we'd get caught, they'd take us back, I felt that too." Sam's eyes scrunched shut for a second, the words bitter on his tongue, "So Kali went one way and I went another. Been here ever since."
For a very long moment, neither one said anything, and when Henry finally did speak, his voice was still soft, but it was far from firm. It couldn't be. Not now. Not when his heart was breaking.
"You've been on your own that entire time?"
Sam didn't answer. Didn't meet his eye. Just pulled his cup closer—the sound of the glass scraping against wood seeming to echo—and took a sip of his Coke.
He was running low again, Henry noticed, he'd need to get him another one.
This time, when it was quiet, it was long enough for the waitress to bring the check and leave again. Henry didn't want to say anything. He wanted Sam to have some time, to eat his pizza, and let the emotions that had made his voice so small dissipate.
And part of that was because of what Henry knew he had to say next.
"The lab's gone."
Sam snorted, but it wasn't so mean this time, and Henry couldn't really blame him for not fully believing that.
"Brenner's dead."
Now, Sam winced, genuine pain, and Henry instantly regretted mentioning that man at all. Sure, Brenner being gone meant that Hawkins was safer for Sam than it ever had been before, but he hadn't considered how it might feel to even hear about him. His secondhand horror story was Sam's life.
Henry wondered if he should drop it, forget this whole thing and stop reminding this kid of the hell he'd undoubtedly already suffered through. But, what said was said, and there was no point in stopping. Not now. Not here. Not before he could mention anything other than his suffering. Not before he could offer everything he had.
"I won't let anything happen to you. I swear."
Henry meant it. Heart and soul.
And not just if Sam came back to Hawkins with him.
"Why should that mean anything to me?" Sam asked, and even though his words could've been harsh, it didn't sound that way. Not anymore, "I don't know you."
Henry sighed. He knew he was right, and that there wasn't much he could say to prove otherwise.
"Kind of hoping you'd just have a good feeling about me," he finally landed on, shrugging a little.
This time, when Sam snorted, it was almost like he'd thought he was funny.
Henry wished he could appreciate it.
Because he knew what came next, no matter how badly it scared him. He needed to be honest. If he wanted to get anywhere, he had to tell the truth. And not just to Sam.
You couldn't fix a problem if you didn't acknowledge it.
And Henry had ignored it for long enough.
"I think something's wrong there. In Hawkins," he finally admitted to Sam. To himself, "And I think that might have something to do with why your feelings had you write me."
He knew it was the truth. Had known it since he'd found Sam. Since Dustin had discovered the Russian transmission. Since the blackout. He'd just wanted so badly for it not to be so.
But, he couldn't pretend otherwise. Not anymore. Not with Sam sitting across from him.
It was quiet for a long, long moment. Sam stared at him with big eyes, but Henry didn't know if that was because of what he'd said, or the way he'd had to fight to say it. He knew he believed him—who wouldn't, after hearing that—but he hadn't expected an expression like this. Open and genuine, without a hint of distrust, almost like he'd gotten through to him.
Suddenly, like a flip had switched, Sam scowled again.
Henry retreated into the booth a little, his own eyes wide now. Sure, his initial reaction had caught him by surprise, but this one shocked him back.
"What do I have to do to get this through your skull? Write it down?" Sam hissed, grabbing the pen from the leather book the check was in and a napkin from the dispenser, "I'M. NEVER. EVER. EVER. GOING. BACK. TO. HAWKINS."
He shoved it across the table and Henry stared down at the scratchy handwriting that had once caused him so much distress.
"You misspelled half of that," Henry murmured after a moment, scribbling on the napkin before pushing it back over (Sam glanced down at his corrections just so he could roll his eyes at them), and when he spoke next, his voice was tired, just like he should be after dealing with this kid, "Listen, I'm gonna go use the bathroom. Just. Stay here. Please."
Sam grunted and Henry took that as a yes; sliding out of the booth and heading towards the restroom sign at the back without another word.
He didn't see Sam craning his neck to watch him go.
The second the door swung shut behind him, Sam grabbed ahold of his bag and shimmied out of the seat. He glanced back one more time before he swiped the napkin off the table and hurried towards the entrance; walking through the front door and back out onto the street, not giving a single damn about what he was leaving behind.
He quickly turned left, down an alley, and then left again behind the building, and then—
BAM
A yelp echoed throughout the back alley—part shocked exclamation, part air forced out of the lungs—but that was far from the only reaction elicited by being slammed into a brick wall. Shocked didn't even begin to cover it: slack jaw, breaths pulled in quick and hard, and wide eyes jumped back and forth in horror.
Shoulder to shoulder, Henry and Sam stared back.
"Why're you following us?" Henry asked, a sort of sarcastic conversational lilt to his tone that was miles away from his stony expression.
The woman, the one that Henry had grabbed and thrown into the wall, shrank even further.
"W-W—" She stuttered, practically trembling, but Henry's hands stayed tightly wrapped in her shirt.
"You've been watching us ever since we sat down," Sam said, and just like Henry, there was no hesitation, "I just had to be sure."
The woman's eyes widened, but there was no way of knowing if it was because of fear or the sight of the words scribbled on the napkin.
WE'RE BEING WATCHED
I'LL GO TO THE BACK MEET YOU THERE
"I-I don't know what—I—"
Her stuttered justification was interrupted by her own squeal, but Henry didn't pay that any mind. With one hand holding her steady, he reached around and grabbed ahold of what she'd been creeping towards during her blubbering. Sam's eyes might've widened a little at the sight, but Henry wasn't surprised in the slightest. Instead, he just cocked his head, expectantly waiting for whatever excuse she was going to cook up for why she was carrying a gun.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she stuttered, tears spilling over, "It's just for safety, I wasn't following you, I don't know you, I—"
"Really?" Henry cut her off, an eyebrow quirking, "Because we've met before. Twice now."
Henry could see in his peripheral that Sam turned to him, but he didn't look to see his surprise. He was too busy staring down the woman he held against the wall, like he was afraid she'd disappear if he so much as glanced away. Turn back into smoke and slip into the darkness she must exist in. Because she had to. She had to be some kind of ghost. A shadow.
"Haven't we, Marcia?"
It was the only way to explain how the girl who'd smiled at him over the counter at Sam Goody had found her way to the same restaurant as him in Detroit.
Marcia's eyes flashed back and forth between the two of them, still confused, still scared.
Until, all at once, it was gone.
Her expression, the one she'd been putting on since they'd first cornered her, swirled away like water down a drain and left in its place something Henry had never seen from the woman he'd fleetingly known in Hawkins. Her head fall backwards, eyes turning up towards the sky like she was looking to God to share on some inside joke, and a harsh sigh pushed past a disbelieving smile.
But, that wasn't what made Henry and Sam draw back. Made them share wide eyes. Made their hearts drop.
It wasn't even what she said.
It was how she said it.
"Fucking Americans."
Russian.