Big, Great "...What ifs?"ᥫ᭡
ᯓ★Jonathan Byers x Henderson!Reader ⋆.𐙚 ̊
Part Two of Under Pressure જ⁀➴ ♡
A/N: Hello! I'm SO happy so many people liked the first part of this series!! I'm sorry this took a couple of days, obvs it was christmas, then I was in Nutcracker shows, then vol. 2 came out! This is quite long, little over 4k to be exact, I got very carried away.... Anyways, it's the beginning of EVERYTHING, buckle up. if you're new, i highly recommend reading part one!! this part has lots of hurt/comfort, as well as supernatural-ness. im so sorry if some bits seem rushed, i wrote some of this backstage. I hope you guys enjoy what im doing!! i adore comments, and i adore you guys too!! :)
Warnings: will is "dead" (you've seen s1) the byers are dealing with it, descriptions of demogorgons, themes of parentification, reader and jonathan are going through it. jonathan especially, poor guy :((
~ Lunchtime. A hungover payphone call, Hawkins High. ~
“Mmm, no. She hasn't come home yet.” Mrs. Holland answers a very nervous Nancy down the crackling receiver.
After your and Nancy's antics last night, neither of you had spoken to Barb. Truthfully… you don't exactly remember much. Apparently you had to be slapped awake by Nancy, who was totally not wearing Steve's sweatshirt, in the middle of the night. In which you'd then thrown up everywhere while sneaking out of Steve’s, and back to yours. Real sneaky.
“But she did come home, right? After the vigil?” Nancy quivers.
“No, she said she was staying at the Henderson’s last night?”
Your eyes widen in horror, because she didn't. “Right, yes. She did, I forgot. I mean.. did she come home this morning?” Nancy wonders. You make a ‘book’ action with your hands, giving your friend a cover story. “I think she left some… textbooks? she needed to pick up.” You give her a thumbs up.
“No, I haven't seen her,” Barb’s mom says.
“Y-y’know what? I think Allie said they were at the library!”
“Nancy, when you find her will you have her call me?” The woman sounds dangerously skeptical.
“Yeah! Yeah I will.” Nancy hangs up, hesitantly. You make flashing eyes, 'something's wrong!’ eyes.
Barbara didn't come to school today. Sure, she could just be pissed at you and Nancy — but it's just unlike her. She's the type that wouldn't miss school unless her arm was hanging off, and even then she'd make an effort. Perfect attendance ruined over a fight? No. Something's not okay.
“Ah!” Nancy squeaks, suddenly being lifted and spun around by her boyfriend, Steve. His little flock clusters behind him, “Party girls!” Tommy calls you both. “Hey, hey, Henderson! Are you feeling… well rested, huh? Sleeping Beauty? Oh — guess what's in the cafeteria, the creamiest, warmest, chunkiest clam chowder. Mmm.” he plays on your prior drunkenness as you walk.
“Shut up, Tommy!” You snap, ready to gag with something worse than hangover. Fear — Barb. “Whoa! What's up your asses, Abercrombie and Bitch?” he hollers at you and Nancy, leaning on the hood of a car.
The others talk to this redheaded girl, Nicole, Carol’s lab partner, voices all blurring together.
Nancy glances to you, her pretty face void of all color, her eyes screaming: 'we need to do something.’ You don't take yours off her, you have a full conversation with just facial expressions. A plan.
You zone back in for all of two seconds, immediately locking eyes with an unexpected Jonathan Byers. You smile, fleetingly.
“Hey man!” Steve steps forward. “Nicole here, was telling us about your work.”
“Heard great things.” says Carol. “Sounds cool.” from Tommy.
“We'd love to take a look. Y’know, as… connoisseurs of art.” muses Steve. “I-I don't know what you're talking about,” huffs Jonathan, rushing away.
Steve snatches his camera bag, roughly. Tosses it to Tommy, catches it back. “Please, give me my bag!” calls Jonathan.
“Man, he is totally trembling. Must really have something to hide.” snarks Steve.
“Aw, Steve, lay off him, he didn't do anything—” You defend, only to be interrupted by Steve raving and passing around photographs, disconcerted.
The photos get passed around like contraband. Fingers smudge the gloss. Someone snorts. Someone whistles.
“Is that… us?” Someone scoffs. “Mhm, this isn't creepy at all!” Carol spits.
The cruel comments pile up, Jonathan can't do anything but stand there, cornered. “I was looking for my brother…” he murmurs. He doesn't raise his voice, not once.
“No, no. See, this is called stalking!” says Steve.
“God, someone check this dudes basement!” someone else huffs. “Ha! You'll probably find his brother! Bet there's some sort of missing person reward.” snickers Tommy.
You feel that right in your chest, “Hey! This isn't funny, leave him alone—”
“Well, maybe you'd like to see this one? Saving this for later, huh Byers?”
You're handed a picture of yourself, a standalone. You're half leaning, half-smiling, your hair’s all mussed up and you're looking sideways, sultry, like it's your own personal photoshoot. …Beautiful, actually?
His pretty brown eyes flick up, just once, meeting yours — and immediately dart away, mortified.
A tearing sound cuts through the voices, Steve rips up each of Jonathan's pictures into tiny, tiny pieces. His work fluttering across the concrete.
“No, hey! Wait — not the camera!” Jonathan's voice cracks, and is immediately shoved back by Tommy. Steve shrugs and holds out the camera, and there's even a sigh of relief on Jonathan's part, it's over. Until—
The camera shatters all over the ground.
And just like that, the crowds strutting off, something about a game starting. You've been standing, completely frozen, since that snapshot of yourself.
You hesitantly drop down beside him. He startles again, his shaky hands uselessly scooping at broken camera pieces and torn up photographs. You scoop a good few up yourself, gathering a chunk together. He doesn't look at you — he can't.
You hand the only unruined picture back to him, the one of you.
“...I shouldn't of taken that. It's really not like what they said, I promise—” he scrambles.
“I know.” you whisper. “You're not like that, I know. It's.. good, actually. I look…”
“Pretty.” he blurts. “I-I mean…”
You beam back at him. “..Thank you, Jonathan.”
“Hey, um. How's your family doing? Your mom?” You try. In tandem, Steve Harrington calls out for you. “Henderson! C’mon!”
Something about being asked about his mom, something about her seeming to be slowly going crazy and ‘talking’ to his brother through lights, insisting he's in the walls. Something about you belonging to Steve Harrington’s group, something about them turning back to include you.
“Fine!” he snaps, shaking his head. “Gotta go.” he huffs, rushing off.
You watch him dash away, until he's out of your peripheral vision.
An hour later, you're essentially kidnapping Nancy from English class. Your little news-writer brain is just firing off headlines. One thing.. you don't have your license. Nancy does, however, she has no car.
“I am not stealing my boyfriends car!” she hisses.
“C’mon Nance! Something happened to Barb, and we both know it! We need to go checkout that backyard, anything could've happened! It's not stealing, we're going to put the car right back! And you're not stealing, I am!”
She huffs and puffs, scandalized. “Okay, fine!” she breathes. “His locker code is 123, I'm sure his keys are in there.”
“He forgets! Do you want me to drive you or not?!”
And so she's driving, speeding actually — you need to be back for next period. Driving, with a plan of breaking-and-entering into Steve's backyard.
“Okay, breaking in is where I draw the line!” she states. “Fine! You wait here!” you tell her, determined.
Steve Harrington’s backyard looks too normal in the daylight. The pool water is still, cloudy with leaves. You definitely shouldn't be here, but Barb was. So you are too.
You crouch and click your tape recorder on. Like a second set of senses.
You circle the pool. Something’s wrong with the ground. It's pressed down too deeply, like something crawled. Or was… dragged. The tape hums. Wind rustling leaves. A lawnmower.
A wet, screeching inhale. Like struggling lungs. Like… Mirkwood!
The tape stutters, warbling as the sound repeats. Closer. Closer. Closer.
A thing. A tall thing. Its face opens — does it have a face?! Petals of skin peel back, where a face should be. No eyes. No nose. Black, veined flesh. Teeth. Jesus — teeth!
You run. You absolutely sprint. You snatch your recorder and bolt forwards as fast as your legs can carry you.
~ Late-evening. The Byers House ~
After something horribly, horribly wrong, it's always been your first instinct to do something right.
You've felt wrong ever since Steve’s. You sat in the newsroom and wrote about nothing. Wrangled a rich geek into more coverage on Will Byers. Did the most mundane tasks imaginable at the record store, avoiding tapes altogether. Blamed it on that time of the month when asked what's wrong.
Monsters aren't real. Monsters aren't real.
You're stiff as a board outside the Byers house. A couple years back, if you felt wrong and couldn't tell anyone, you'd have come here, too. Deja-vu, huh?
But the woman you'd have ran to, Joyce, is now screaming and shouting at.. the Chief? like a madwoman.
“I’m telling you I heard him! I heard my son! He's here, I can feel him!” she screams. “In the walls, Joyce? C’mon!” the Chief shouts back.
“We don't want your goddamn Girl Scout cookies!” He groans upon noticing you. He's not incorrect, you were technically a Girl Scout, and you're holding cookies your Mama baked…
“God, that's our babysitter! Just — Just let yourself in, okay? Sweetheart, you can't be here — just go inside! Jonathan's there!” Joyce hurries, steering you in frantically.
The door slams behind you, and it's like stumbling into another world. Christmas lights hang from every wall, every crevice, every ceiling. Some flicker from overexertion, overloaded extension cords snake across the floor. In messy black paint, you read A, B, C…
“Oh, my god..” you gasp, guilty for even coming, bothering them. For thinking coming was right.
“Ah, hey.” startles Jonathan, who'd been sitting on a countertop, listening in to Joyce and Hopper's conversation.
“Hi!” you smile, sadly. “I'm so sorry, is this a bad time?”
“No, no! Um, I'm sorry about all this — it's not as bad as it looks, we're fine, really!” he rushes.
“Okay.” you nod, he doesn't need pity right now. “I-I have something for you! I think you'll like it..”
He frowns, surprised. “Oh? Well, do you wanna—” he looks around shamefully at the insanity of his house, “come to my room?” He grimaces at how that sounds.
You nod. This would've been normal pre-eighth grade, why not now?
You take your jacket off in his room, flinch when you graze the tape recorder in your left pocket,
“The Clash!” he surprisingly smiles, pointing to your shirt. You beam back.
“You like them?” he asks. “What's that supposed to mean? I like lots of things.” you answer.
“No, nothing, just — I love The Clash.”
“I know. I remember.” you whisper.
He blushes something terrible, and you jump up for fear of doing the same. You rustle through your bag, for what you initially came here for.
“Um, here.” you hold out a horribly old camera Mr. Murdock had lying around. “I'm sorry, it's like, literally from the 60’s. I don't even think it has color! I'm sorry about Steve, and Tommy, and I've said sorry maybe 5 times—”
“Thank you!” he sighs, utterly relieved to just be holding a camera after today.
“And I brought cookies. Hungry?” you smile.
He nods. Joyce being completely checked out means no cooking, no groceries, but he'd never say that. “..Sit?” he says.
You sink down on his bed beside him. “Also…” you start, “Y’know that nerdy kid, Ernie Floyd?”
“Yeah, he's on the newspaper with you?”
“Mhm, well — he's kinda scared of me.. and his dads loaded, so I made him agree to get Will put up on the little billboard in town square. No one’ll forget him.”
He blinks his brown eyes like a deer in headlight, “...Really?”
“Course! It's Will. That's my little buddy, I'll do anything to get him home safe.” You shrug. “He's a cool kid. Think I know where he gets it from…”
Jonathan laughs a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, me. Duh.” you joke. Obviously, it's him. He nudges you teasingly, like nothing ever changed.
“Hey, you remember the 4th of July?" You grin. "When him and Dustin set my backyard on fire?”
“They tried to light a firework with a magnifying glass, cause they—”
“Saw it in a movie,” he finishes, snickering. You laughs back, “And we—”
“Blamed the cat!” you both say in tandem.
“Or — or when we made him cover for us? To go to the theme park in Indianapolis! God, he was such a bad liar!”
“Horrible!” Jonathan gasps, “And I remember you, after all your bragging, got so scared on that roller coaster you threw up all over your PF Flyers.” he teases.
“No! I totally don't remember that!” you deadpan, sarcastic.
He suddenly stands, reaching up for something on top of his wardrobe. A photobooth strip. From that day at the theme park. You're both sunburnt and have the faces of two evil little liars high on cotton candy.
It hurts, deep inside somewhere. “...What happened to us?” you blurt, barely above a whisper.
He realizes he doesn't exactly.. know. Maybe he was stupid. Jealous. Of Steve Harrington and Tommy Hagan, and the fact you were a prissy cheerleader who got invited to boy-girl parties, and didn't need to hang out with him anymore. Resentful, how it all came so easy to you — while he got left behind and called a ‘freak.’ He can see it now, though. You're still the same girl you've always been.
So he doesn't answer, instead, picks up the camera and asks: “...Wanna test it out with me?”
“I-I like to take pictures of things around Hawkins. My mom won't be back for a while, we could walk out to the lake—”
“Lover’s Lake?” you ask. The lover in Lover’s Lake makes him blush and stutter and exclaim: “Not like that!”
“Okay.” You laugh, unjudging. “Let's try it out.”
The path toward Lover’s Lake is one you’ve walked before. Not with Jonathan Byers, though. He walks a little ahead of you at first, awkward as anything. It feels like when you were kids, walking just far enough to feel free.
You eventually get him talking, talking enough to end up rambling on about photography. He's cute, very cute when he does. “I.. like observing people, rather than actually… talking to them. I know it's weird—”
“It's not.” you whisper. “It is.. it's just, sometimes people don't say what they're really thinking, but you capture a moment, it says more.” he says.
“What did my picture say?” you ask.
“I really shouldn't’ve taken that… I'm sorry.” he looks down at his feet, shy.
“Mm-mm. I liked it. You have a good eye. You should take another sometime…” you muse.
It's quiet after that. And he's not blushing, definitely! Your hands keep swinging too close together. Your pinkies knock, both accidentally and on purpose.
“Sorry!” you both murmur at the same time, flinch like you’ve been shocked.
However… neither of you pull away.
You curl your hand just enough to meet him halfway. You don’t look at him when your fingers finally lace together. If you did, one of you might chicken out. Is this weird? Is this too forward? Am I prying? — all run through your brain.
He squeezes once, tentative.
You squeeze back, electrified.
That feels like an answer.
Suddenly, the woods around you erupt. Shouting. Chattering. The unmistakable clatter of bike tires hitting roots and rocks. Someone yells, “Holy shit! Wait! Wait for me!”
Bikes crash through the underbrush like feral animals. Tires skid to a half unexpectedly. You whip around, still shaken after Steve's backyard earlier.
“Dustin?! What the hell are you doing out here?!” You call protectively.
Him and his friends come into focus — them, and… a kid with a buzzcut? Wearing your clothes?!
“Dude! Your sister!” Lucas Sinclair calls. “We gotta go, now!” Nancy's little brother shouts.
Dustin's mouth gapes open. He points and stutters, like he's seen a ghost.
“Ew! EW!” he screams in horror. “They're holding hands! That's my sister! I'll kill you, Byers! God, I'm gonna puke—!”
“Aw, shut up!” You snap, both you and Jonathan letting go like you've been caught committing a felony. “Now, what the fuck are you boys doing out here?! Why is that kid wearing my clothes?!”
Mike steps forward, breathless, “We found something. Or — we think we did.”
Mike swallows. “The quarry.”
The buzzcut kid pipes, eyes huge. “Will.” she says quietly.
Jonathan goes rigid. Worse than fear-freezing, it's hope. It's like every nerve in his body just lit up at once. You've never seen him like this.
“Where?!” is all he manages, and when they point, he’s already moving. So now you're chasing after everyone, sprinting.
You eventually swing a leg over your brother's bike, hopping on back. “This could be good! Really good!” he shouts. “Or bad! We don't know! I'll tell you everything later!”
You expect little Will Byers to pop out behind a tree any second, saying gotcha!
But no. You hear shouting. You hear sirens. You hear news reporters, and crying, and screaming. Worst of all, a shape in the water, a small sneaker bobbing against the rocks.
Just not how you'd thought.
You feel Jonathan’s knees buckle beside you. You catch him, before he falls flat and breaks his nose. You can feel the shock vibrating off him. “He's dead!” He sobs, heartbreakingly. “He's, god — I'm gonna be — I'm gonna be sick, Jesus!” he gasps.
You clutch him close to you, fearing he'll faint from fright. “I've got you, Jay. I've got you.” you coax, using the nickname you'd say as a kid. You shift him, so you're hugging him, comforting, rather than catching him. “My.. my mom! I need to—” he chokes.
“I can see your mom. I see her.” You soothe, looking out. “She's got him, she's got Will. She's with the Chief.”
He cries harder, clutching at his ears to block out the sirens, the news reporter's repetition of: ‘missing child found dead at quarry!’ from every angle.
“Let me,” you say, covering his ears, tears spilling down your face. “I've got you.”
You took your friend, Jonathan home, a while after.
You'd deeply fear you're overstepping — if he hadn't specifically asked you to stay. It's maybe the only word he's said since the quarry.
Joyce has been with police, answering questions, demanding explanations. She keeps insisting Will's body isn't his, it's not her son. You feel awful. It doesn't seem she'll be back soon. He doesn't want to be alone.
You have him laid down on the couch like a sick child. You can't do anything else but be a friend right now. You were just about strangers last week — but he doesn't know what he'd do if you weren't here, now.
Your hand drifts, absentmindedly, to the tape recorder in your pocket.
Hawkins doesn’t do this. It just doesn’t. Missing cats, maybe. A drunk grandpa driving into a mailbox. Not two kids vanishing in the same week.
The… thing in Steve’s backyard. Could it have…?
No. No! That’s stupid. Monsters aren’t real!
RING. The Byers’ landline spooks you right out of your thoughts. You rise to answer, just as Jonathan does the same. You nod and leave him be, you won't coddle him.
He speaks on the phone like a zombie, completely wrung out. It's all so fresh, it's like waves of feeling everything at once then feeling nothing for him.
He looks like it's physically hurting him speaking on that phone. Like someone's genuinely twisting a knife inside him. “Who is it?” you mouth. “Funeral home.” he replies.
“I'm… going to pass the phone, sir.” he says down the receiver, making those communicating type eyes you make with Nancy. And you know it's your turn to take the phone.
A man’s voice is on the other end, practiced. He asks questions. Things that shouldn't associate with the happy kid you babysit.
Answering “under five foot” in regards to coffin size feels atrocious.
This is what adults do, you think? And you can't leave your friend to be the only one in the house.
One of the strings of Christmas lights jolt out, falling off the wall.
He flinches. “...Sorry. You shouldn't’ve had to do that. That's my job, I'm his brother, I'm the oldest. I'm supposed to—”
You shut him up by taking his hand, again. Although, it feels much different than last time...
“I can't do this.” he admits, quietly. “We can't afford this. I don't know how to plan a funeral. I don't have any money, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. My mom’s—” he gestures at the house, the lights.
“She's… lost it. She's talking to the walls, she's seeing things. She thinks Will isn't him! I can't—” his voice cracks.
Swooping in feels less like meddling, more like emergency triage. “Mm-mm. I'm here, aren't I? I can do the… clunky bits. The planning, the arrangements, and stuff. I'm good at that kinda thing. Yeah?”
You're both interrupted, once again. This time by Joyce and Chief Hopper bursting in through the front door.
She's screaming, and crying, devastatingly, about some thing that's after Will.
It came out of the wall at her, she said. Like some kind of animal, almost human — but not. Tall, with no face. Kind of like… what you saw.
Before you can think, you're steered away by Jonathan, who's shakier than ever.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry about all that. Can you, um. Can you do something for me?” he asks. You nod, of course.
“Will you just — go to school, okay? Go to cheer practice, have lunch with Nancy Wheeler, make sure your brother’s okay. And.. call me, y’know, if you need me. And, I know the record store is near the.. the…” he looks almost nauseous, again.
“Funeral home?” you finish for him.
“Yeah. So, if it's not.. inconvenient or anything… will you meet me? If you're able?” he whispers.
“I will, course I will. I'll — I'll see you later?” you say, shaken.
So you do. You go to school, and cheer practice, and lunch with Nancy Wheeler, and everything else.
You and a horribly messed up Nancy are called out of class during fourth period.
Just to heighten your nausea, Karen Wheeler, your mother, and two policemen sit before you. You loop your arm through Nancy’s. You feel like a child in trouble.
“This argument you and Barbara had, what exactly was it about?” one policeman, Powell, asks.
“It wasn't really… an argument. She just wanted to leave, and I didn't. So, I told her to… go home. Then I went upstairs to put on dry clothes.”
“And you, Miss Henderson?” the other asks.
“Well, after Nancy left, I-I spoke to her… She was outside, alone, and I thought I saw… something.”
“The same ‘something’ you thought you saw the day after?”
“Yes! Like… a bear? Or an.. animal, or something? I don't really remember — I told her to come inside, but then I passed out—”
“You were drinking, yes?” Powell condescends. Your mother gasps in horror. “She was drinking!” the other policeman laughs at you.
“We think it took Barb!” Nancy cuts in.
“Listen, Miss. We checked behind the Harrington house, no bear. No car either. We think Barbara took off. Ran away.”
“No, she wouldn't do that!” says Nancy. “Ever!” you agree.
“Maybe she was jealous you were spending time with this Steve? In his room? And maybe… Miss Henderson, you should watch your alcohol intake? You seem prone to hallucinations, doll…”
That's it. That's enough.
Nancy's mother drags her out of the building before you two can even hatch a plan. Nancy seems to be bawling, too. Your own mother won't even look at you, “Drinking! You're supposed to be the good example!” she had sputtered.
You rush into the newspaper room, ready to positively scream.
You could cry. You're frustrated, you're so fucking exhausted, you're not anyone's ‘doll’.
No. Whatever you saw… It took Barb. And it sure as hell hurt Will Byers. There's no doubt about it.
You scramble through your belongings, your messy notebook, the scraps of photographs you'd collected when Steve broke Jonathan's camera, your tape recorder.
It's that same sound, the same you'd heard on Mirkwood, on November 6th. The same you'd heard that drunken night at the Harrington's. The same you'd heard the next day in that same backyard.
Not a fucking coincidence.
You rustle through each individual scrap of photograph. You. Pool. Idiots. Barb.
There's one in particular, one with… something along the corner. And you're learning something's aren't things to ignore. Tall, faceless, animal but not quite — verbatim what Joyce Byers had said.
No. Definitely not a coincidence.
You tape the scraps of pictures back together messily, huffing in adrenaline.
What if… monsters are real?
So you're rushing. Cursing the fact you don't have a drivers license.
~ What should be 5th period. A funeral home. ~
“Do you have a budget in mind, son? And would your mother prefer a closed or open casket? It's a shame she wouldn't be here—” an old man speaks to Jonathan.
You stand in the door frame like something paranormal, breathless. “Jonathan.” you finally call. It makes them both jump.
“I.. need to talk to you. Right now.” You're not being weirdly creepy at all!
He's at your side almost instantly, shutting the door. “Hey, you came. You're early.” he says softly.
“Of course I came. Listen — you might want to sit down for this.”
You don’t even know where to start. Your hands are shaking so badly, so you just show him. The photo first. The one taped together crookedly, with that goddamn thing in the corner.
“I saw it. You can see it too. Tall, no face, not quite animal. Like your mom said.”
Then you pull the recorder from your schoolbag and press play.
“My—My mom, she said she heard… that! I've heard that — in my house, I thought it was just the power lines!” Jonathan’s face drains of color.
You're ushered out of the funeral home, and Jonathan Byers breaks maybe four speeding laws on the way to the closest darkroom.
You're now sat on an unfamiliar darkroom countertop, leering over watery chemicals with your childhood friend.
“I didn't even see her leave. I left after you went inside…” he admits quietly, somehow making you blush. “I should've believed my mom, I thought she was going crazy.” he whispers.
You shake your head. “...I could've done so much more. I was so wasted, I don't even—”
“Hey,” he starts to reassure gently — then his eyes wander.
“Hey!” he alerts, gesturing to the better-resolved photo.
Tall, no face, not quite animal.
You both stare like it might crawl out of the photo. “She was right.” you say. You should've known, Joyce Byers is always right.
“I think it has Barbara.” you tell him.
Jonathan exhales, shaky and sharp, half laughing. “What if… Will?”
“Him too?” you propose, conspiratorial.
Hope is a dangerous thing, but you hand it to him anyway.
