July 6, 1985
Dove's eyelids fluttered open, her vision blurry and her body feeling heavy as if weighed down by a thick, oppressive fog. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Everything felt blurry and distant, like she was trying to recall a dream just beyond her reach. The steady beeping of a heart monitor was the first thing to really register.
Her body ached, every muscle sore, and as she shifted slightly, a sharp pain shot through her side. She winced, her fingers brushing over bandages wrapped tightly around her torso. The memory of the glass shard sticking out of her side hit her like a wave, and panic began to bubble in her chest.
Through the haze of exhaustion, Dove caught the sound of voices just outside her door—one of them familiar. Her mom.
Dove tried to speak, but her throat felt raw, and all that came out was a soft, rasping sound. She blinked again, willing her eyes to focus. The voices outside grew clearer, her mom's hushed tone barely above a whisper.
"So, she's going to be okay?" her mom asked, her voice thick with exhaustion. "You're sure there won't be any lasting damage?"
Another voice, the doctor, responded, calm and clinical. "Physically, she should make a full recovery. Emotionally? Well, after what she's been through, that's harder to predict. We'll have to monitor her closely."
Dove's heart rate picked up, the beeping of the monitor beside her growing louder, betraying her rising panic. She tried again to make a sound, this time managing to croak out, "Mom?"
The conversation outside stopped abruptly, followed by hurried footsteps. The door opened softly, and her mom appeared in the doorway, her eyes wide with relief. She rushed to Dove's side, holding her bandaged hands gently.
"Oh, Dove, you're awake," her mom whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing back a lock of Dove's hair. "Thank God."
Dove's lips felt dry, her throat tight. She swallowed hard, trying to speak again. "What happened?" Her voice was barely audible, but the desperation in her eyes was clear.
Her mom sighed, her shoulders sagging as she sat on the edge of the bed. "There was.. an accident," she said carefully, her voice low and measured. "A fire, at the mall. It—it burned down."
Dove frowned, her memories still foggy, trying to piece it all together. The Mind Flayer, Billy, the battle in the mall courtyard—it all rushed back to her in broken fragments. But a fire? That didn't explain anything.
"A fire?" she whispered, her brow furrowing as she tried to reconcile her memories with what her mom was saying.
Her mom nodded, her grip tightening slightly on Dove's hand. The pressure stung, but only a little, the sensation grounding her more than it pained her. Dove's eyes flicked down to their hands, noticing the layers of white bandages wrapped tightly around her own.
Her mind flashed back to the mall. She remembered the glass cutting into her palms, sharp and unrelenting, as she tried to push herself to her feet, her body screaming in protest.
Then came the voices, frantic and desperate. Max's wide, tear-filled eyes as she crouched beside her, gripping her arm tightly, calling her name. Steve's face, pale and streaked with blood, leaning close to hers, his voice breaking as he pleaded, "Dove, stay with me! Stay with me!"
The memory hit her like a wave, threatening to pull her under, but her mom's hand squeezed hers again, anchoring her to the present. She swallowed hard, forcing the images to the back of her mind as she tried to steady her breathing. "What about the others?" she rasped, her voice shaky, the words barely making it past her dry throat.
Her mom hesitated, her eyes darting away, unable to meet Dove's gaze. "The only thing that matters is that you're okay," she said softly, her tone trying to be comforting but failing miserably.
The words hit Dove like a punch to the gut, her mind spiraling as her mom's hesitation sank in. Panic bubbled up in her chest, threatening to choke her. Her breaths came in short, sharp gasps, the rising anxiety making her feel like the walls were closing in.
The soft beeping of the machines next to her began to speed up, mirroring the panic coursing through her. Her mom reached out, her voice shaking as she tried to soothe her. "Dove, sweetheart, you need to calm down—"
But Dove couldn't calm down. Her chest heaved with sharp, shallow breaths, her vision tunneling as the fear and dread consumed her. The sound of the machines seemed distant, muffled, as if they were underwater. She barely registered the frantic chorus of voices around her, or the half-dozen doctors and nurses rushing into the room.
Her mom's comforting presence was suddenly ripped away as someone gently but firmly pulled her back, ushering her toward the corner of the room.
Dove thrashed weakly against the blanket covering her, her hoarse cries barely forming words. The overwhelming thought that all her friends were dead consumed her, spiraling in her mind like a vortex.
Through the haze, Dove's eyes flickered toward one of the doctors. They were moving with calm precision, holding a syringe filled with clear liquid. She barely registered their words—something about stabilizing her—before they inserted the needle into her IV port.
A cool sensation spread through her veins, and almost immediately, a heavy drowsiness began to settle over her. The panic didn't completely fade, but it dulled, smothered under the weight of the medication. Her muscles grew sluggish, her head lolling slightly to the side as the room seemed to blur and tilt around her.
The last thing she saw before her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open was her mom's tear-streaked face in the corner of the room, her hands pressed to her mouth as she watched helplessly. Then, everything faded into a deep, quiet black.
July 7, 1985
When Dove woke up, the room was quiet, the only sound the soft, rhythmic beeping of the machines beside her. Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish as she tried to blink away the haze clouding her vision. For a moment, she thought she was alone, the sterile silence pressing down on her like a weight.
Then, she became aware of a presence beside her, a figure standing at the edge of her peripheral vision. The figure shifted slightly, their movements deliberate but calm. "Miss Henderson, you're awake," a familiar voice said, even and controlled.
It took Dove another moment to register the words, her sluggish mind struggling to process them. Slowly, her eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and the figure came into focus. The sharp features, the piercing gaze—it all clicked into place as recognition dawned.
Dove's stomach twisted at the sight of her. "Dr. Bennett," she said, her voice flat, betraying none of the unease bubbling under the surface.
Bennett stood beside the bed, wearing her usual crisp business attire, though now layered with a white doctor's coat. Her hair was pulled back into its usual tight bun, and her movements were methodical as she checked the machines monitoring Dove's vitals. She jotted something down on a clipboard, the faint scratch of pen on paper breaking the sterile silence.
After a moment, Bennett looked up from her notes and met Dove's gaze, her expression shifting into a practiced smile. "It's good to see you," she said evenly. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."
Dove's eyes narrowed, the panic and sorrow that had consumed her earlier now burning away, replaced by white-hot rage. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as she glared at Bennett, her voice sharp and biting as she asked, "What do you want?"
Bennett's smile shifted, becoming slightly more genuine—though not in a comforting way. There was an edge of amusement in her expression, as if she found the situation somehow entertaining. "Straight to business, as usual," she said lightly, her tone carrying an almost patronizing edge.
Dove's jaw clenched, her grip tightening on the blanket as Bennett reached into the stack of papers she was holding, pulling out a newspaper clipping and carefully unfolding it.
She held it up for Dove to see. "This," Bennett said, her tone measured, "printed Friday morning."
The headline caught Dove's attention immediately: Thirty Dead in Starcourt Mall Fire. Beneath it, two smaller subheadings stood out like neon signs: Hero Chief Dies in Fire and Lone Survivor Emerges.
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw her own yearbook picture beneath the survivor headline. She stared at the grainy black-and-white photo of herself, the caption listing her name and age. Her hands trembled as she looked back up at Bennett, confusion and disbelief clouding her expression.
"Congratulations," Bennett said, her voice calm but cutting, her faint smile never wavering. "You are the sole survivor of the Starcourt Mall Massacre."
Dove's breath caught, her heart pounding as the words settled over her like a heavy weight. Her fingers gripped the blanket covering her lap, the fabric bunching under the pressure of her trembling hands.
Bennett calmly refolded the newspaper clipping, smoothing the edges with meticulous precision before tucking it back into the pile. "That's the official story, at least," she said, her tone light, almost conversational.
Dove's head snapped up, her heart skipping a beat as a spark of hope broke through the haze of anger and despair. She tried to sit up straighter, but a sharp pain in her side made her wince, forcing her to settle back against the pillows. Her voice trembled as she hesitated, almost afraid to ask, "My friends?"
Bennett's gaze flicked to her, her expression unreadable. "Alive," she said simply, her tone neither warm nor cold. "Officially, they were never there."
Dove's jaw clenched, the relief she felt mixing with the anger already simmering inside her. The combination sparked a frustration that burned low but steady, threatening to boil over. Her voice was sharp, edged with bitterness as she said, "So, another cover-up. Another round of us saving your asses and getting nothing out of it but an opioid prescription."
Bennett's lips pressed into a thin line, her faint smile finally fading. "I understand your frustration," she said, though her tone lacked genuine empathy. "And as much as I would love to go round and round with you again, I'm afraid my visit here has a time limit."
She reached into the stack of papers, pulling out a single sheet and placing it carefully on the table. At first, Dove assumed it was another NDA layered thick with legal jargon for her to sign and seal her silence. But it wasn't.
It was a photo.
Dove's breath caught as she stared at the grainy image. It was her, clear as day, taken from what was obviously a security camera. In the photo, she was wearing the stolen Russian uniform, her posture tense and hurried. Her head was turned just enough to glance behind her, putting her face in perfect view of the camera.
Her heart dropped. She didn't need Bennett to explain. The implications were written all over the picture, and they hit her like a freight train.
Bennett tilted her head slightly, watching Dove's reaction with the calm detachment of someone who had anticipated it. "This," Bennett said, her voice sharp but measured, "is why I'm here."
Dove couldn't tear her eyes away from the photo, her chest tightening with every second that passed. "Where did you get this?" she finally asked, her voice low, barely above a whisper.
Bennett's gaze didn't waver. "The better question," she said coolly, "is who else might have it."
Dove nodded slowly, the weight of Bennett's words sinking into her chest like lead. Her whole body ached—every muscle, every bone—but she couldn't tell if the pain was from the cuts and bruises littering her skin or the sheer exhaustion pressing down on her. Either way, it made her feel smaller, weaker. Vulnerable. "The Russians." she said simply.
Bennett nodded, leaning slightly closer. "They know your face. And thanks to Mr. Harrington's.. unique ability to shout first and think later, they know your name, too."
The weight of it all hit Dove like a sledgehammer. She gritted her teeth, trying to suppress the rising panic. "So, what now?" she demanded, her voice rising. "What's the government gonna do about it?"
For the first time since entering the room, Bennett hesitated. Her professional, composed mask faltered, just for a second, but it was enough for Dove to notice. The faintest flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, quickly smoothed over, but the crack was there.
Bennett didn't answer immediately, her eyes shifting briefly to the photo before meeting Dove's again. "Nothing," she said finally, her voice quieter than before.
Dove scoffed, her anger flaring as her voice rose. "Nothing?"
Bennett's sharp eyes darted toward the door, her posture stiffening as if suddenly aware of the risk of being overheard. She leaned in slightly, speaking quickly but with precision. "Keep your voice down," she said, her tone low and urgent. "My superiors don't know I'm here. The head of my division was fired last week and it's likely I'm next."
Dove stared at her, momentarily stunned. "So, what? You're going rogue?"
Bennett's lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest hint of frustration flashing across her face. "Call it what you want, but the point is, I'm here because no one else will be."
She glanced at her watch, her posture stiffening as she straightened up. "And now," she said briskly, "we're out of time." Reaching into the pocket of her lab coat, she pulled out a small, stark-white business card and placed it carefully on the bedside table. "This is for emergencies only," she said, her tone sharp, emphasizing the words as if to warn against misuse.
Bennett turned and headed toward the door, her heels clicking against the tiled floor. As she reached the threshold, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. "For what it's worth," she said, her voice calm but final, "I hope we never see each other again."
Without waiting for a response, she walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Dove stared after her, a mixture of frustration and unease settling in her chest. Slowly, she reached for the card Bennett had left behind, her fingers brushing over the smooth, pristine surface. It was completely blank except for a single word, printed in bold, black letters across the center.
NINA
Dove woke up, blinking groggily as she tried to orient herself. She didn't even remember falling asleep, but the dull ache in her side was still there, slightly softened by the meds. The room was dim, the faint glow of the full moon casting long shadows across the walls.
She shifted slightly, grimacing as the movement sent a sharp reminder of her injuries through her side. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, taking in the vague shapes around her until they landed on Dustin. His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open as he snored softly. His wild curls were even messier than usual, and Dove felt a pang of guilt realizing he'd probably been there for hours.
A faint, tired smile tugged at her lips as her gaze drifted from him to the other side of the bed. Steve. His arms were resting on the bed's edge, his head slumped against them, his breathing slow and even as he slept.
Her chest tightened at the sight of him, the tension from the past few days surfacing in a wave of gratitude and guilt. He looked worn out, the bruises on his face stark in the faint light, a reminder of how much he'd been through. Of how much they'd all been through.
She shifted her leg slightly, nudging him gently to wake him up. Steve stirred, groggy and disoriented, mumbling something incoherent under his breath as he blinked himself awake.
"Hey," Dove croaked, her voice weak and raspy, but she managed a small smile.
Steve's head snapped up, the grogginess vanishing in an instant and replaced by a wave of visible relief. He straightened up, his posture suddenly alert, and without hesitation, he scooted his chair closer to her bedside, as though the short distance between them was unbearable. His hand hovered awkwardly over hers before he settled on just gripping the edge of the mattress, his body tense as if he was trying to contain the flood of emotions building in him.
"God, Dove, I—" He broke off, running a hand through his already messy hair, his eyes scanning her face like he couldn't believe she was really there. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice soft, yet strained. His usual cocky demeanor was absent, replaced by a vulnerability Dove wasn't used to anymore.
Dove hesitated, her gaze drifting away from his as she tried to find the right words. "Like I got hit by a truck," she muttered, a faint, wry smile tugging at her lips. "But.. alive."
Steve let out a shaky laugh, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Alive is good," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Alive is really good."
She glanced at him again, noticing the tension still lingering in his shoulders, the way his hands fidgeted like he wasn't sure what to do with them. Her voice softened. "Steve.. you okay?"
His eyes widened slightly at the question, like it had caught him off guard. "I'm not the one lying in a hospital bed," he said, his tone lighter but still edged with emotion.
Dove raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking upward despite the heaviness in the room. "That wasn't an answer," she said quietly.
Steve's shoulders sagged, and he gave her a faint, tired smile. "I've been better," he admitted, his voice finally matching the exhaustion on his face. "But seeing you awake? That's.. that's helping."
Dove's smile softened, and she shifted her hand to rest on his. Steve didn't hesitate—his hands moved instantly, wrapping around hers and lifting it gently, as if afraid she might break. He rested his chin against their joined hands, his eyes closing briefly, the tension in his body easing slightly for the first time.
Dove hesitated, her voice catching as she asked, "What happened? After I.." Her words trailed off, but she didn't need to finish. Steve's eyes opened, and he looked at her with an understanding that made her throat tighten.
He let out a heavy sigh, his thumb brushing over her knuckles absentmindedly. "Everything's kind of a blur," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "There were helicopters, fire trucks.. the whole place was swarming with military. And when they finally got you out, they wouldn't let me ride with you to the hospital."
Dove frowned, her heart aching at the frustration in his voice. He looked down, his shoulders tense as he continued. "When I got here, you were already in surgery. They wouldn't tell us anything. Just that you were in critical condition."
His voice cracked slightly, and Dove could see him swallowing hard, trying to keep his composure. "I uh.. I didn't know if you were gonna make it," he said, his grip on her hand tightening just a fraction. "And when you finally got out, they still wouldn't let anyone back to see you. Just your mom."
Dove could see the strain on his face, the way he kept glancing down at their hands to avoid meeting her gaze. She squeezed his hand gently, silently encouraging him to keep going.
"Nance had to convince us all to go home and get cleaned up," he went on, his voice thick with emotion. "No one wanted to leave, but she was right. We were all a mess. I drove Dustin back here earlier tonight after everyone else had gone home."
At the mention of Dustin, Steve's eyes flicked over to the foot of the bed, as if just remembering he was there. Dove followed his gaze, her lips twitching into a faint smile at the sight of her brother still slumped over in the chair, softly snoring.
Steve stood up slowly, his hand reluctantly leaving Dove's. He stepped over to Dustin, crouching slightly and giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "Hey, Henderson, wake up," Steve said softly.
Dustin snorted awake, his head jerking up as he blinked rapidly, disoriented. His eyes darted around the room before they landed on Dove. The sleepiness melted away instantly, replaced by wide-eyed excitement.
"You're awake!" Dustin exclaimed, practically jumping out of the chair and rushing to her bedside. He skidded to a stop, leaning over her with a huge grin on his face.
"Dude, you scared the crap out of me!" Dustin blurted out, his voice way too loud for the small hospital room. "They thought you were a goner for sure, but I knew you'd pull through! Do you need anything? Water? Food? I mean, hospital food sucks, but I can go grab something—"
"Dustin," Dove said, her smile widening slightly. "I'm fine. Just.. take a breath, okay?"
Dustin nodded quickly, but then his eyes widened, and he shot upright as if struck by a sudden realization. "I have to call everyone!" he exclaimed, already moving toward the door. "I need to tell them you're awake!"
Steve straightened from his spot against the wall, raising a hand to stop him. "Hey, it's like 3 a.m.," he pointed out, his tone exasperated. "Maybe wait until morning?"
Dustin turned back to face him, looking at Steve as if he'd suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Are you kidding?" he asked, his voice rising in excitement as he fished his walkie out of his bag. "They're all gonna come flocking as soon as they hear."
He then turned to Dove, his grin widening. "You're about to be the most popular patient in this whole place," he declared, his tone almost proud, before spinning on his heel and heading for the door.
Dove watched him go, amusement flickering in her tired eyes. His voice echoed down the hallway as he called out excitedly to the nurses station, "My sister's awake!" The faint sound of an enthusiastic explanation followed, growing fainter as Dustin disappeared down the corridor.
Steve let out a long sigh, shaking his head with a fond smile as he moved back to the chair he'd pulled up next to Dove's bed. He sat down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed. The faint glow from the hallway light cast shadows across his face, highlighting the toll the past few days had taken.
Dove studied him quietly, her gaze tracing the sharp line of his jaw, now marred by a series of butterfly bandages holding a cut on his chin together. His bruised eye was dark purple, still slightly swollen, the discoloration stark against his pale skin. He looked exhausted, his usual confident demeanor replaced by something softer, more raw.
"Steve," she said softly, her voice drawing his tired eyes to hers.
"Yeah?" he asked, his tone light, trying to play off the weariness in his face as if she wouldn't notice.
Dove hesitated, her words catching in her throat. After a moment, she settled for the simplest truth. "You look awful."
A soft laugh escaped him, more genuine than she expected. "So do you," he replied, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Dove chuckled, nodding slightly. "Touché," she said, her voice still raspy but lighter now.
She shifted slightly, trying to adjust herself into a more comfortable position, but the sharp pain in her side made her wince. Before she could even react, Steve was on his feet, his hands hovering over her, his expression a mix of concern and panic.
"Do you need help?" he asked quickly, his voice urgent as he leaned closer.
Dove let out a soft laugh, despite the pain, and waved him off weakly. "Relax, Steve," she said, her tone teasing. "I've got it."
He hesitated, his hands still hovering as he watched her carefully. Dove slowly pushed herself into a more upright position, gritting her teeth as she moved but managing to settle without too much trouble. When she finally relaxed against the pillows, she gave him a pointed look. "See? Totally fine."
Steve sighed, dropping back into his chair with a dramatic huff, but the worry in his eyes didn't fade. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "I'm sorry."
Dove's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. "For what?"
He leaned forward, his movements slow and careful, and rested his hand lightly over hers, his touch gentle, as if afraid he might hurt her. His gaze stayed fixed on their hands for a moment before he finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "I should have listened to you," he said, his voice thick with regret. "You told us—over and over—that we needed to stop. That we were playing with fire."
Dove studied him, her chest tightening at the raw emotion in his voice. "Steve—" she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off.
"No," he said firmly. "You warned us, and we didn't listen. I didn't listen. And look where it got us. Look where it got you." His hand tightened slightly around hers, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep his emotions in check. "You almost—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard, a single tear falling down his cheek.
Steve quickly reached up and wiped it away with the back of his hand, his movements abrupt, as if erasing the tear could erase the emotion that came with it. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice strained. He leaned back in his chair, putting a small but deliberate distance between them, as if stepping away could somehow quell the sense of dread building in his chest.
Dove watched him silently, her own heart aching at the sight of his struggle. "Steve," she said softly, her voice gentle but steady, "please don't apologize for caring."
"Sorry," he said reflexively, then immediately groaned, letting out small, self-depricating laugh as he leaned forward again, close enough that Dove could feel the heat radiating from his body.
She reached out and rested her hand against the side of his face, her thumb running gently along his cheekbone. Steve stilled at her touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he leaned into her palm, like he was drawing strength from the connection.
His hand came up slowly, wrapping around hers and holding it in place against his face. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze with a softness that made her chest tighten. "I'm just glad you're okay," he said quietly, his voice full of raw emotion.
Before Dove could respond, the door creaked open, and Dustin stepped back into the room. Steve immediately pulled away, sitting back in his chair as he sniffled, trying—and failing—to mask his emotions. Despite the distance, his grip on Dove's hand remained firm, as if letting go wasn't an option.
Dustin closed the door softly behind him and turned to look at them, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the scene. He tilted his head, his expression shifting from suspicion to his usual blend of curiosity and teasing. "Well," he said, breaking the moment, "everyone's on their way."
True to his words, within the hour, the entire crew had arrived. Jonathan, Will, El, and Max were the first to step into the small hospital room, their faces lighting up with relief when they saw Dove awake. Max moved quickly to her bedside, wrapping her arms around Dove in a gentle but firm hug. El hung back for only a moment before stepping forward, her eyes scanning her friend with a quiet intensity as if to confirm she was truly okay.
Then Nancy and Robin arrived, along with Mike, Lucas, and Erica, who somehow managed to bypass the usual rules with a mixture of charm and sheer determination. They crowded into the already cramped space, their voices a jumble of concern, excitement, and nervous energy.
Lastly, Danny walked in, his presence quieter but no less noticeable. He carried a small bouquet of flowers, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Dove. He gave her a soft smile, stepping around the others to place the bouquet on the small table beside her bed.
Despite the sheer number of people crammed into the room, no one seemed inclined to leave. Somehow, they managed to squeeze themselves into every available corner, their laughter and conversation filling the space with a warmth that pushed away the cold sterility of the hospital.
July 12, 1985
Dove sat on the couch in her living room, still feeling a bit fragile as the familiar comfort of home surrounded her. She was grateful to be out of the hospital, away from the sterile smells and constant beeping of machines, but her body was still sore, her movements slow. Dustin sat next to her, painting a D&D minifigure.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts, and before she could even muster the energy to respond, Eddie Munson entered with his usual swagger, balancing a couple of grocery bags in his arms. His smile widened when he saw her, and he raised the bags with a triumphant look.
"I come bearing gifts," Eddie announced, kicking the door shut behind him. "Everyone knows that hospital food sucks, so, I brought you the good stuff."
He made his way to the kitchen and unloaded the bags onto the counter: Dove's favorite snacks—sour gummy worms, cheesy chips, and a couple of sodas. "Figured you could use some proper sustenance," he said, walking back into the living room with that grin that always managed to make Dove feel a little lighter.
Eddie was holding something behind his back, and as he reached the couch, he pulled it out, holding up a black and white T-shirt with the Hellfire Club logo emblazoned across the front. "What do you think, Henderson?" he asked, glancing at Dustin with a smirk.
Dustin's face lit up like a Christmas tree, and he practically launched himself off the couch. "No way! Are you serious?!" he exclaimed, grabbing at the shirt as if it might disappear.
Dove laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine as she watched her brother's excitement. She leaned back against the cushions, her sore muscles protesting the movement, but the sight was worth it.
Eddie and Ronnie had visited her in the hospital a few days earlier—the first time she'd seen them since the infamous D&D blow-up. The gesture had surprised her, but it felt genuine. As an olive branch—or perhaps just an excuse to bring Dustin and his friends into the fold—Eddie had promised them a spot in Hellfire.
But that wasn't all. During their visit, Eddie had also proposed something more unexpected—a strict tutoring regimen for the upcoming school year, which Dove was determined to help him follow through with. The idea of helping him finally graduate gave Dove a sense of purpose, something to focus on that wasn't wrapped up in the Upside Down or the constant threat of danger.
They'd joked about it before—Eddie's perpetual senior status and his knack for just barely skimming by—but this time felt different. She saw the quiet resolve in his eyes, and it fueled her own determination to see him walk across that stage, diploma in hand. It was a goal she could work toward, something tangible, and in a way, it felt like a step toward reclaiming some kind of normalcy.
Eddie plopped onto the couch with his usual carefree ease, draping an arm lazily across the back behind Dove's shoulders. His familiar swagger was tempered by the warmth in his expression as he watched Dustin practically bouncing around the room, holding the Hellfire shirt like it was a golden ticket.
Dove leaned over slightly, her voice low as she whispered, "Thanks, Ed."
Eddie tilted his head toward her, his grin widening, and he whispered back, "Anything for you, Princess." He gave her a soft nudge, his tone becoming more playful. "How're you holding up, by the way? Sick of relaxing yet?"
Dove offered a small smile, leaning back slightly. "I'm good," she said, her voice even, though it was far from the full truth. Her whole body still ached, every movement a reminder of how close she'd come to not making it out of the chaos. And then there was the anxiety—this constant hum in the back of her mind, the gnawing fear that she was being watched. That at any moment, the Russians would come for payback.
Eddie studied her for a moment, his gaze softer now. He could tell she wasn't being completely upfront; he always could. But he didn't push, didn't press her for more than she was willing to give. Instead, he just nodded, his playful smirk fading into something gentler.
Dove felt a flicker of gratitude. Eddie had always been that way—able to make her feel seen without demanding she explain the weight she carried. It was one of the reasons she felt so comfortable around him, why his presence was so grounding in moments like this.