CXL
Three months after Henry's disappearance
No, she doesn't agree with this. She doesn't want to leave the house, or Poe. She doesn't want to…
"But Poe can come with you," Joyce replies softly. "He wouldn't be a bother."
This discussion started half an hour ago, and everything about it makes her uncomfortable, especially Joyce's kind gaze.
The gaze that has become even kinder now that she notices the state of her home. And yes, Eleven knows the house isn't the same without Henry; she's done the best she can, but she's not used to taking care of so many things, not to mention the loss of the powers she's relied on for most of her life, her school obligations, and—most crippling of all—the pain of Henry's absence.
"It would be stressful for him," she insists stubbornly.
Joyce and Hopper exchange conflicted glances.
"This is what Henry would have wanted," Joyce says then.
"How do you know?" she asks, convinced she won't get an answer.
"Because he asked me to."
This disarms her. "What…?"
"The day I invited him to our wedding," Joyce elaborates, "he asked me to take care of you if anything happened to him." Noticing her uncertainty, the woman adds: "Don't you think it makes sense, sweetheart? That Henry might have foreseen… not being able to be by your side? That he asked me for help?"
"But… But you already have Jonathan and Will and—"
"He left us money, kid," Hopper grunts with his usual subtlety.
"Jim—!"
"It's the truth," he grunts in response. Then he looks at her again. "That doesn't mean we wouldn't have taken you in anyway; I'm just tearing down your excuses. Besides, where two can eat, three can, and all that," he finishes with a carefree gesture.
Eleven lowers her gaze, staring down at her hands in confusion. A warm gesture shakes her: Joyce's hands wrap around hers tenderly, the kind of touch that only a mother can offer.
"It's not an obligation, Jane," Joyce says, kneeling in front of her. "But… we'd like you to be part of our family. You already are, of course. But this would be…"
She knows she's lost the battle when Hopper interrupts his wife to say, in a whisper: "It would make us happy… if you were our daughter."
Nightmares become the norm. Maybe it's because of the constant state of alert and lack of sleep.
Maybe it's because of the guilt.
The truth is, Henry often dreams of her. The dreams are diverse, mostly memories: moments of shared fun, photographs he's seen a thousand times, training sessions.
Fights.
However, the fights are not the type he's used to when it comes to her: the back-and-forth questioning, the clear frustration on both sides. No, the fights are him shouting into the void, and her looking at him, disappointed. Hopeless.
Like the last time.
No matter where he is—whether in an abandoned house or the bedroom furniture section of a shopping mall—Henry wakes up drenched in sweat.
It's in these moments that the impulse to reach out to her is strongest. Yes, he wishes he could call her, wishes… Wishes he could let her know that he's okay, that he hasn't given up, that he's looking for a way to fix this huge problem that he himself created, that he fully intends to return to her—if she'd have him, of course…
But he doesn't. He never does. He doesn't believe he has the strength—especially not after this survival mode he's been living in for half a year—and he's also afraid of being discovered by his other self.
...
And there's yet another reason.
The dreams, he thinks, wiping his forehead with his forearm, his body stretched out on a sleeping bag in the empty hallway of a supermarket—his latest refuge.
The other dreams.
The dreams where Eleven smiles at him, and his body reacts in ways he's not used to, just like that time when he watched her unfold a potential he hadn't even imagined. Dreams where it becomes confusing to distinguish where his skin ends and hers begins.
Dreams that, upon waking, force him to recall her disappointed gaze, strands of blonde hair stuck to his forehead. His body reacting in ways that once seemed repulsive to him but that he has lately been forced to accept...
The pitter-patter of rain distracts him from his thoughts. Relieved, Henry watches through the supermarket window as the bucket he left outside the previous night fills, warned by the rain clouds.
It's not that he's lacking water now, but he's not sure about anything.
His only hope?
That Hawkins has the answer.
However, the roads are full of abandoned vehicles, and driving for even ten minutes without getting stuck is a miracle. Logically, interdimensional travel is not an option. So, his only choice is to follow Interstate 90 on foot, with an old map and the midday sun as his guides toward the southeast.
He hopes to arrive before another month passes.
He hopes this isn't in vain.
Today, however, it's raining, so he won't be walking any further. No; he simply falls asleep again.
He prays that his subconscious leaves him alone, at least for once.