[NATALIA DYER, FEMALE, SHE/HER] who’s that? oh it’s NANCY WHEELER. i hear they’re 22 and are known as NANCY DREW around MAPLE STREET. they’re also a JOURNALIST at THE HAWKINS POST. they’re known to be STUDIOUS, TENACIOUS and IMPRESSIONABLE, DISHONEST. some people say they remind them of the walk home from the library after an all-nighter, a pistol stashed in a floral-stickered caboodle under the bed, a wastebasket full of mascara-dabbed tissues, pink rollers shoved in a torn ziploc, the slightly dusted scent of the last drop of rose perfume purchased in high school.
Eddie nodded in response to Nancy's thank you, not believing he needed it, but knowing Nancy felt the compulsion to offer. "If it's any consolation, anyone I've talked to about this knows it's all bullshit. Hopefully when they find no evidence of their piss poor theory, they'll shift focus. Preferably to the actual killer, not random citizens who don't even have a criminal record. Then again, they might blame me with my record, or my dad's..." he trailed off, realizing he was talking too much again. However, this fact didn't register from his brain to his mouth, as he continued speaking. "Guess it's a good thing I wasn't there and have a solid alibi is all I'm saying. Though it sounds like your mom does too, so I really don't know what to expect. With any of this. But it's gotta be okay, right? This can't get much traction. If it does, I'll personally lead the revolution," he spoke over his shoulder as they reached Jonathan's door.
Eddie looked around the room, realizing he had no clue where to look first. He figured Nancy would have more of an instinct for this. Not wanting to just stand there while she perused through Jonathan's things, he headed toward his bed, looking underneath it for any boxes of photographs as Nancy started with his desk drawer.
Nancy couldn’t recall a time she’d ever heard so much out of Eddie Munson’s mouth at once. He was far more opinionated than she’d expected, and endearing in a way, with the kind of naivety that made her want to believe him. She hoped he was right: it had to be okay, or else Nancy wasn’t sure what she’d do with her father as their only capable parent. “Well, I’m glad the people you’ve talked to think that.” She couldn’t say the same, with how many sideways glares she’d gotten at work and on the street since her mother had been named in the paper. “I don’t know that Powell has any idea who it’d be if it wasn’t her, though,” Nancy mumbled while she opened the first desk drawer, filled to the brim.
Nancy pulled out the stack and brought it to the floor, crossing her legs as she pulled the first folder off the top. “You don’t have any idea what’s in here, do you?” It was a long shot, considering he didn’t even know where Jonathan’s photos were kept. She’d once sat with him to reorganize the whole thing, years ago, when she’d thought maybe his property would become hers. “When did you guys, uh, move in together, anyway? I never thought … back in high school, you two would get along so well.”
Chrissy nodded a little too quickly like she was agreeing to more than that. She felt it too, even if it came in different shapes and fonts. For Nancy, it was the headlines and whispers and the suffocating press of a whole town. For Chrissy, it was the kind of loneliness that wore a smile and said, 'let me know if there's anything I can do', while never really meaning it.
"I figured as much," a pause, "About Mike, I mean," she was quick to clarify, her fingers tugging at the strap of her bag. She always hated that about herself, that she always had to be tugging or fidgeting with something — a bag, a bow, a pen. "I guess I just hate that you have to go through all this with everyone watching. It's not fair to your family." And because if she was being honest, she didn't believe that any of the Wheeler's were involved with what happened.
"I wasn’t a very good friend to you back then," Chrissy said quietly, almost like it hurt to say. Because it did. And she could have given Nancy every excuse in the book, that it was Jason, or her so-called friends, or the pressure of being Chrissy Cunningham, but the truth was that Chrissy did it. She iced Nancy out, and there was no amount of excuses that could excuse it.
Chrissy thought about walking away. About the dozen other things she should be doing right now. But she stayed put. "I don't expect us to be friends again just because I said sorry, but I'd like to try and make it right," she added with a small nod of her head. "I wasn't there when I should have been and I know it's like, my karmic retribution for the rest of eternity," a small chuckle slipped through, "But seriously, I have this little place past Main Street, if you need to crash or like, talk or just get tired of Powell."
She gave a soft laugh and tilted her head, a hand reaching to scratch above her ear. "Or to brainstorm how to make Mike think showing up was his idea. Reverse psychology works best on the dramatic ones. Trust."
Chrissy's voice was a little lighter now, a kind of hopeful she didn't let herself feel too often. She wasn't sure what she expected Nancy to say in return, but for the first time in a long time, she didn't need an answer right away.
There was something in the air, some weird premonition people of her past must’ve been sharing that sparked these unprompted apologies and desire to do better. First from Tommy, now from Chrissy: both insistent that they hadn’t treated her right back in high school, that they’d try to do it now. There was a time when Nancy would’ve wholeheartedly believed them.
Now, she’d believe it when she saw it.
She couldn’t help but wonder whether this would’ve still come had her mother not been on public trial for murder, or had she not considered herself back in Hawkins for good. Having to face the ghost of one’s past for more than just a summer home from college proved to be far more difficult to ignore, apparently.
Or, maybe, they had changed. Perhaps this was simply the cynicism of the past few months speaking. Nancy had hardly gotten to know the versions of Tommy and Chrissy who had been through college and found themselves on the other side. They both could’ve joined the voices of Hawkins in chorus to blame Karen for Sully’s death, but they hadn’t. Instead, each of them had tried to make amends; shouldn’t that count for something?
“Thank you,” Nancy said finally, an acknowledgement of all she’d apologized for: from her mother, to what had happened in high school. “I’m sure there are things we’d all like to change about ourselves back then.” The benefit of the doubt, the ounce of grace she was able to shed for Tommy extended toward Chrissy.
“You have your own place?” Nancy was impressed, but it made sense; Chrissy was planning on staying here, as far as she could tell, and her parents had never been short on cash to lend their daughter. “That’s exciting. You don’t need to, um, invite me over because of karma, though—you know?” She paused, not trying to be cruel. “I will accept the help with Mike, though. You are the professional.”
MISSED EVENT ONE? LOOKING TO JOIN A SILLY GOOFY COLLABORATIVE STRANGER THINGS GROUP? WELL LOOK NO FURTHER!
for the next week or so, we'll be posting quotes by our muns in character during the first event as promo on main! we'd love to have all our blog and tag lurkers to join us before our second event! favorite character taken? no worries! we're looking to drop our second round of skeletons, so go ahead and message the main with who you'd like to see in that batch (:<
He finished rolling the cigarette, realizing it would be rude to spark up at this point as he set it back down on the coffee table. His hands suddenly felt empty, so he awkwardly clasped them together as Nancy finished her story.
Eddie knew he wasn't the only one in town who heard the news concerning Ms. Wheeler. And while in normal circumstances, he would tell Nancy he couldn't give permission for her to enter Jonathan's room unsupervised while he wasn't there, his heart was twisted toward her plight. He had a feeling her needing to see the photos had something to do with that. And he would certainly support clearing her good name.
"Truth be told, I have no idea where Jonathan keeps his photos in his room. We usually hang in the living room when we're both home. And I feel a little weird about letting you in there by yourself. I'll go with you, okay? I'm just as eager to prove your mom's innocence as you are. I'm sorry about that, by the way," he added, looking over at her with a cautious expression. He rose from the couch, walking a few steps from his seat, lingering a moment to see Nancy had any intention of following.
She nearly opened her mouth in defense, until Nancy remembered that she didn't know where Jonathan kept his photos, either. She could see them in his childhood home, in a folder, neatly stacked in his desk drawer. Maybe they remained there, or moved across the room, or Jonathan had gotten a different desk entirely in the time since they'd both been at the Byers' house. "Of course." Nancy couldn't blame Eddie for looking out for his roommate, and she could use the extra set of eyes to help her look, anyway.
"Thank you," she said as she stood, "for the help, and for … I don't know if condolence is the right word." It wasn't as if her mother had died, or had even gone to jail yet. There was still time to prove her innocence. "She didn't do anything, I mean, I was outside with her the whole time." Maybe not speaking to her mother the whole time, but Nancy could have sworn the only time she'd lost sight of her had been when she'd had a moment to herself in the pantry; a second of reprieve that she'd rather not share with anyone except the woman who'd found her there.
Eddie pushed open the door to Jonathan's room, leaving Nancy in the doorway for a moment. The details might have changed, but the bones remained the same: the comforter she'd slept under, the dresser that used to have a drawer reserved for her. Despite how long it'd been, she could picture herself all over the version of the bedroom that had existed before Jonathan had transported it to his apartment. If she thought on it too long, maybe she would've wished him here, now. "Should we start looking?" Nancy asked finally, breaking from her trance.
Robin chewed on the end of her pen, the plastic digging into her gums. It was a nervous habit, one she’d picked up during particularly stressful band practices, and right now, stress was radiating off her in waves. Eddie had just stopped by, a whirlwind of energy as usual, but his visit had only amplified the unsettling feeling twisting in her gut. Now, alone with her thoughts, she felt uneasy. She needed to get ahold of Nancy to make sense of this mess. But getting ahold of her was proving to be more difficult than cracking a Russian code.
Karen Wheeler. A murderer. The words churned in Robin's mind, a bizarre headline ripped straight from a conspiracy tabloid. The idea of such a seemingly normal and calm woman being capable of such violence didn’t sit right with her. Not at all. Earlier, before Eddie showed up, she'd tried calling the Wheelers' residence, letting the phone ring until her neck ached from holding it against her shoulder, only to be met with the hollow drone of the dial tone, and the voice mail lady talking her ear off. Maybe Nancy was out, maybe she was avoiding the calls, maybe she was in custody too? Robin shoved the “maybes” aside, she needed answers, and she needed them quick.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone again, her fingers twitching slightly as she punched in the familiar number. Each ring felt like a hammer blow to her chest. Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up…
And then, the sound of the phone clicking off the receiver could be heard. “Nancy? Is that you?” She asked immediately.
Life hadn't been so bleak around the Wheeler home in a long time. It was starting to get to Nancy, who'd been trying to avoid going into work as much as she could while the editors still found it funny to stick plastic spiders on her desk and deem her mother a black widow. She'd found nothing amongst Jonathan's photos to help her mother's case, leaving Nancy to have riddled the notebook she was supposed to be using for work with ideas for ground to cover as she began her own investigation. If the police weren't going to act quickly to clear Karen Wheeler's name, she was just going to have to do it herself.
It was now the fourth time today Nancy called her brother's name to get the phone, having only gotten Mike to the phone once successfully to answer a call from their father. The line had never been busier, and their mother had simply instructed that if it was so important, the caller would simply leave a voicemail. But, with the hope that someone might have information to give, Nancy couldn't let any call go unanswered. Time was ticking, and if she couldn't find another suspect soon, her mother would be in handcuffs before she knew it.
With a sigh, she rolled off her bed, shuffling down the stairs to pick up the phone on the kitchen wall. "Wheeler residence, this is--" she started, only to be cut off by a frantic voice on the other end. "Robin, is that you?" Nancy's voice turned in confusion, the call an unexpected one. "Yeah, it's me--it's Nancy. Are you okay? You sound … panicked."
tommy doesn’t say anything at first, mostly because he doesn’t know how. he just stands there, still rooted to the spot like something’s holding him there - not stubbornness, not pride, but something closer to shame. the kind that hits low in the gut and makes you suddenly aware of every inch of yourself, like the floor underneath you might buckle if you shift too fast.
it’s not the worst thing anyone’s said to him since he got clean. not by a long shot. but it might be the one that hits the deepest.
because of course she thinks he’s here to ask for something. of course she’s looking for the angle, the scam, the hidden motive. it’s what he would’ve expected, too, if the roles were reversed - if she had come up to him, out of nowhere, five years after high school with some weird half-apology and an offer for coffee. he has no idea what it must’ve taken for her to say that out loud, to hold the line like that and he’s not going to punish her for it. he’s not going to snap or scoff or throw back some self-deprecating defence. because the truth is, it did come late. and it was at her desk. her safe space.
he swallows around it. the silence. the fact that she still feels small in his presence - not because he’s trying to make her feel that way anymore, but because he once did it so thoroughly that the shape of it never really left. “i’m not writing anything,” he says eventually, voice low. not defensive - just steady, like he’s holding the words carefully. “not unless you count copy for the high school car wash this saturday.” he tries for a half-smile, but it doesn’t land. he’s not really joking anyway. “and i’m not trying to get anything from you. i mean that.”
he risks a glance up, meets her eyes for a moment - not long enough to challenge, but long enough to show he means it. long enough to let her see how much effort it’s taking him to stand there and not try to fix it with charm or deflection or the kind of cocky shrug he used to hide behind in the hallways at school. “i just thought maybe the person i used to treat like shit deserved more than silence.”
there’s a long pause. not loaded. just real. quiet in the way real things are. he looks back at her desk, not too closely - just enough to clock the amount of work she’s still got to do,, the fact that he’s standing here in the middle of it, bringing high school back into a space she’s clearly fought hard to make her own. “i dunno what rumours you’ve heard about me around hawkins these last few months,” he goes on, slower now. measured. honest. “or if you’ve heard nothing at all.”
he doesn’t offer an explanation beyond that, doesn’t mention rehab or flyers or the quiet panic of staying sober when the town only remembers your worst day. he figures if she’s heard anything, it’s already coloured how she sees him. if she hasn’t… well, that might be worse. it might mean he’s not even on the radar anymore.
“just… for what it’s worth, this wasn’t about anything except-” he cuts himself off. not because the sentence wasn’t worth finishing, but because it started to sound like an excuse.
instead, he shifts one more step back, gives her her space and enough room to breathe again. “nevermind. have a good day, nancy.”
Amidst the feigned happiness and curiosity of her return had come so much guilt that had been thrown into Nancy's hands like piles of someone else's laundry. She'd seen it in the faces of ghosts of her past, people who had wronged her feeling like they had to repent for what they'd done to her, or clear their names in the hopes that Nancy might allow them to finally wash their hands of her.
It was what Tommy was doing now, even if he swore he wasn't trying to get anything from her. What he sought was forgiveness, to relinquish the weight of the guilt he'd been carrying for years that he wouldn't have had to face had Nancy not come back home. For someone who'd worked so hard to let go of the past, granting silent passes of pardon to herself over the years, it felt different now to actually face it.
At this point, she would've preferred the silence.
"Tommy--" Nancy started before he could turn away completely, refraining from letting out a sigh. He thought she deserved more than silence, but what she wanted was something more closely resembling a fresh start; having left their past back where it belonged. She didn't need the song and dance, the silent compulsion for her to grant forgiveness like it was a wish.
"It's fine," she insisted. "It was a long time ago." It was, back when she thought she was responsible for her best friend's disappearance, and her worth had been attached to being his best friend's girlfriend.
The gossip he spoke of, though, wasn't something she'd been tuned into. Nancy had tried to remain out of the happenings of Hawkins while she'd been away, hoping that it might make her feel further away. "I didn't hear anything," she confirmed, curious now. It seemed like he'd hit a nerve of his own, deeper than Nancy wanted to dig. "For what it's worth, I don't think rumors should be anyone's business but your own. You know the truth." She meant it, having found herself at the end of her fair share, even ones started by the boy she was now trying to comfort.
Chrissy had been halfway through sorting the stack of leftover permission slips in her bucket bag when she caught sight of her. And really, she didn't mean to stare, but she definitely didn't expect Nancy to take notice and greet her. Chrissy smiled the way she always did, soft and obliging.
"Oh... yeah," she answered, pushing a strand of hair behind one ear with a hand that felt too visible all of a sudden. "Work's fine. Good. Busy, I guess." Liar. Turns out, being guidance counselor of the year wasn't going to be easy and she had gotten mistaken for a student at least thrice by students and faculty.
She could feel Nancy’s reluctance hanging there and for a second, Chrissy nearly let it pass. Nearly just nodded and said something polite about the weather, and move on with her day. But she couldn’t quite let herself.
"I'm really sorry, Nancy," she said and for what? The murder investigation? High school? Chrissy shifted her weight from one foot to the other while she gripped the handle of her bucket bag like a lifeline. "People in this town have always been fantastic at assuming things. Or twisting them."
Her tone wasn't accusatory. If anything, it was empathetic towards Nancy. Hawkins did always have a way with loving people one minute and devouring them the next. And Chrissy had been interrogated too. Surely not to the same extent as the Wheeler's and any subsequent metaphorical beheadings they were getting from the town, but there was a level of everything that she could understand.
Chrissy hesitated, glancing toward the front doors of the school before looking back at Nancy. "You know, if you ever want to talk. Not, like, professionally, um, I just mean... I don't know, I'm sure it might be pretty lonely right now," and before she could fully word vomit, Chrissy followed up with, "I know I would be."
She offered a tentative smile. "And maybe you could give me some pointers on how to round your brother up into my office. I would like to talk to him, professionally."
Nancy could feel she wasn’t done; words still lingered on Chrissy’s tongue that she knew couldn’t be left unsaid. Had it been any day before the party that had put her family in the headlines, maybe Nancy could get away with small talk about high school, or some quip about the article she’d written in the paper.
It hung between them, the silent condolence Chrissy offered, until it dropped in one fell swoop, one sorry that spoke a thousand words. It wasn’t the first apology she’d heard in the past few days, but the one coming from Chrissy felt strangely sincere, without the trace of judgement she’d expected from someone who tended to turn her nose up at anything less than perfection.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “they are.” Maybe that was part of her problem, theirs, that Nancy assumed that Chrissy was still the same as she had been five years ago. But, the girl in the cheer uniform would have never stopped in the parking lot after school to apologize for how the public opinion of the Wheelers had shifted.
Between the lines, Nancy could read a subtle offer of friendship. Friends talked to each other when their family was being interrogated for murder. Being friends again with Chrissy Cunningham, though, meant forgiveness for all the events that led up to them not being friends anymore.
Nancy paused, leaving the offer on the table for a moment. “It is,” she admitted, “lonely. Though, I’ve been spending a lot more time with Chief Powell, so, at least I’m not alone.” A smile cracked through, the same shape as the one she dug the tip of her shoe into. “Anywhere but my house, though,” Nancy added, the grin remaining.
“Try summoning him during class, if he won’t come on his own.” She stifled a laugh at the thought. “Mike just takes a little work to crack, I think, but he—he’ll come around. He likes feeling like something's his idea."
Eddie wanted to believe her. Really, he did. Nancy Wheeler showing up to their apartment out of the blue asking for some photos? Sure. That could be legit. Stranger things had happened. He should know. But something about it didn’t sit right.
For starters, Nancy didn’t exactly look thrilled to be here. She was seated on the couch like it might bite her, arms crossed so tight they nearly formed a human straight jacket. And yeah, she had that stiffened posture like she was auditioning for the role of “Girl Most Likely to Confront a Crooked Lawyer,” but this was different. Twitchier. Too still and too unsettled at the same time.
Eddie tilted his head. He wasn’t exactly an expert in the subtle art of interpersonal relationships. His last “serious” thing had ended with a broken amp and a tearful mixtape exchange. But even he knew that Nancy and Jonathan weren’t exactly tight these days. He knew because Robin had explained it to him over coffee like she was breaking down Cold War politics. Jonathan had also approached the subject off and on, but Eddie didn't press too much. Then Jonathan came home one day and told Eddie Nancy was not only back in Hawkins, but also working with him. It'd been a whirlwind to say the least. Which is why Nancy coming here to collect something of Jonathan's just didn't make sense. Especially with no warning from him on the matter.
"Nancy, I'm gonna cut to the chase and make this awkward for the both of us. I can ask for your forgiveness later..." he trailed off, beginning the remnants of rolling a cigarette as he spoke. He needed to keep his hands busy through this next portion. "I know Jonathan wouldn't willing send you here for... obvious reasons which I don't need to get into. And if he had planned to send you here in his absence, he would've given me a heads up on account of I sleep during the day before my night shifts at The Hideout. So, why don't you tell me why you're really here, and let's see if I can help?" he finished; eyes locked onto her for a moment before returning his gaze to the coffee table.
It was wishful thinking that Jonathan's roommate wouldn't know about their past. Practically everyone in Hawkins had known about Nancy and Jonathan by the time they'd called it off; they were old news, already gossiped about, and expected to be one of the longstanding, Hawkins High bred couples that would stay in this town, together, forever.
Still, Nancy hardly wanted Jonathan himself knowing about her quest for something, anything, in his photos to help her. To ask him for help was the kind of level above professional she hadn't yet reached; it meant she needed him, and Nancy hadn't needed anything from Jonathan Byers in years.
Caught red handed, Nancy contemplated her options. She could beg Eddie simply not to tell his roommate about her presence, or what she'd come here for, but even if he didn't have much allegiance to Jonathan, he had even less to Nancy. She wasn't above a bribe, either, but what could she possibly have to offer to Eddie Munson that just might make him take the bait?
"I do need to see photos of his," she admitted, slow. The truth was best revealed in bits and pieces, testing the lengths with which she could go without having to confess to its entirety. "But they're from the party--my family's party." Nancy watched his hands on the table, both taking comfort in the distraction of the rolled cigarette. "And I was going to tell him that, when I got here, but he's not here, and I don't know my way around this place," she gestured vaguely. "So, if you wouldn't mind showing me where he keeps them, I'll be out of your hair, and Jonathan never even has to know I stopped by," Nancy offered, hopeful.
"Sweet, sweet sleep..." Eddie sighed, grinning like a man who’d just made it through a war with consciousness. He collapsed, sinking into the worn cushions of the living room sofa like it was the most luxurious bed in the world. The apartment wasn’t big (his bedroom was literally five steps away) but that may as well have been Everest. And he was not in a climbing mood.
It was tradition at this point. A little smoke to ease into his signature midday nap, and today’s hit had rocketed him toward dreamland. The sunlight filtering through the blinds scattered the living room in a cozy golden glow, which felt like nature’s promise that he wouldn’t sleep so long he'd miss his shift at the Hideout. His alarm clock was...indisposed. Last week, it dared to ring too enthusiastically and was met with a half-asleep, full-strength sail into the wall. That wasn’t on him. If the manufacturers didn’t want their product airborne, they shouldn't have made it so damn throwable.
Now, stretched out like a lizard on a rock, Eddie gave himself to the nap gods. Confident that at least for the next three hours, his only responsibility was drooling into a throw pillow.
That is, until his sleep was interrupted by an insistent knocking on the front door. It took Eddie a moment to realize this was happening in real time, and not within one of those wasted dreams that involve actual real like circumstances. As far as Eddie was concerned, dreams were meant for things you couldn't do in real life-- like ride a dragon or punch the president. And the nightmares? They were worse than any horror movie Hollywood could dream up.
Eddie grumbled into the pillow, bumping his head against it a few times in aggravation before rising up from the couch. The doorbell hadn't worked for a few days. Neither Eddie nor Jonathan took initiative to find out why it stopped working; because who could be bothered with such brainstorming in times like these? Eddie taped a note to the door and went about his life. Whoever this visitor was better have a damn good reason for not yelling "Ding-Dong." Eddie was looking forward to that part of having a broken doorbell, at least. "Can't you read th-" Eddie threw open the door in dramatic fashion, shrinking back a half-step as he noticed it was none other than...Nancy Wheeler?
"Uh... hi?" Eddie returned, the end of his greeting sounding like a question. As Nancy peered around him, Eddie turned to follow her trail of sight, like he expected Jonathan to somehow pop up from behind the couch, Michael Myers style. But no, Jonathan was nowhere to be found, and somehow this seemed to perplex Eddie just as much as Nancy. Until he remembered a few nonspecific details for Jonathan's absence. "Oh, wait... uh, Will had this thing... I don't actually remember the concrete details, but it was something important that Jonathan needed to be at..."he trailed off, the post-nap haze still clouding his ability to think.
Eddie's expression turned into further confusion when Nancy asked if she could come in. "Um, you know what? Sure, why not," Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck before pulling open the door so Nancy could enter. More for his own curiosity than anything. He couldn't place why Nancy would come to the apartment to talk to Jonathan when they worked together. That was his first clue that her visit was anything but a casual drop in. He offered a seat on the couch, sitting beside her with a skeptical glance.
"I'm assuming the reason for your visit doesn't much depend on Jonathan being physically here, or else you would've left as soon as I told you he was gone. If you're here to rescue me from myself, you're a little too late for that. So, tell me, Nancy. Is this a social call or an intervention?"
Of course she’d read the note on the door, but before she could defend herself, Eddie greeted her, audibly shocked by Nancy’s presence. “Hi,” she repeated, plastering a tight-lipped smile atop her otherwise impatient expression. It didn’t matter why Jonathan wasn’t here, but the fact that he wasn’t, which made Nancy’s mission of gathering photos all the more easy, and absent of the small talk she and Jonathan still hadn’t quite figured how to master.
It was to her benefit now that Eddie Munson was perhaps the only person with fewer cares in the world than her ex-boyfriend. Nancy stepped into the apartment behind him, scanning the space like it was a crime scene to be studied. Posters she’d once seen in Jonathan’s childhood bedroom now plastered the walls of his apartment, the faces on them haunting her like old, familiar friends. The same ceramic bong he’d begun to smoke from in college sat on the coffee table Joyce had undoubtedly passed on to them once he’d moved out.
She once dreamt of the home she’d buy with Jonathan after graduation, and in her dreams, it’d looked nothing like this. Instead of stepping into the dream, though, Nancy was in his reality, as an intruder in the apartment he was renting with a roommate she barely knew.
Nancy hadn’t planned to stay, but her mother would’ve scolded her if she hadn’t at least taken a seat for a moment when offered to her. “Thanks,” she said as sat beside him on the sofa, her posture straight as Eddie returned to what she assumed was the same slouch he’d grumpily left to answer the door.
“No, I was, uh—there are these photos he took, for an article I’m working on, and he forgot to bring them to work. So, I can just go get them myself, he said to stop by," she explained through a lie. “No interventions to be had from me.” Nancy paused, shifting as she crossed her leg over the other. “And Jonathan and I are just colleagues, so, I would call it more so an … errand, I guess."
he nods, slow and careful, like someone trying not to provoke a reaction they already know is coming. not because he’s surprised - not even a little - but because there’s something about hearing it aloud that lands heavier than he was ready for. she thinks he’s here to mess with her. a prank, maybe. a favour for the guys in the bullpen - and why wouldn’t she? it’s not like tommy’s ever given her a reason to expect anything else. he doesn’t blame her, not for a second.
he shifts his weight, one hand dragging across the back of his neck like it might ground him, like if he just presses hard enough he can smooth out whatever’s knotted in his chest. he doesn’t look at her directly - not because he’s ashamed to, though he is - but because there’s something in her voice that makes it harder to hold eye contact. like it’s too sharp. too knowing.
“yeah. no, i figured.” his voice is quieter than it was a moment ago, stripped down to something closer to real. he’s not trying to sound calm. he just is... or he’s pretending well enough to get by. his eyes drop to the desk - cluttered, but not in a way he can make sense of. papers, pens, maybe a folder, maybe nothing. he doesn’t linger on it. doesn’t pretend to understand the work she does or how she does it. he’s not here for that.
“just… trying not to be a jackass,” he mumbles, almost under his breath. “still working on that.” he huffs out a breath that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. his fingers twitch at his sides like they’re looking for something to hold but they don’t find it. “i didn’t come to bug you. or to make this weird. i just… i wanted to say i’m sorry. for how i treated you. back then.” he says it quietly, like it might break if he says it any louder. no excuses. no qualifiers. just the truth - as bare as it’s ever been.
and then, after a second, his voice catches slightly, not cracking, just uncertain. “...do you want coffee? i mean, i can get you something. if you want.” he shrugs, awkward, like he already knows how stupid it sounds. “i feel like i owe it to you.” he finally risks a glance up, not quite meeting her eyes, but close. just enough to show he means it. and he stays standing there - not expecting anything, not running from it either - just waiting, in all the awkward, quiet sincerity he can manage. he doesnt expect her to accept his apology - he really was an asshole. but he at least wants her to know he's being genuine.
For a moment, Tommy’s just stood, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Nancy glanced from her notes and back up to him, as though to be sure he was still standing there, or to somehow will him away with the simple power of sight. It wasn’t the first time she’d known Tommy to enter a space where he wasn’t welcome, but Nancy had half hoped college might’ve taught him the cues that would teach him how to leave.
But, he didn’t turn around, go back to where he belonged in the office, where their colleagues would entertain him with the kind of small talk Nancy couldn’t offer.
Tommy never had to try to be a jackass, but trying not to be one hadn’t seemed to be his forte, much like taking her silent willing for him to return to his office. A quip nearly formed on her lips, stopped only by the shock of what was shaping up to seem like an apology. Nancy had been working at the Post for months, and now, in the middle of this article that was due before she left tonight, Tommy Hagan wanted to apologize for all the terror he’d caused her in high school.
Maybe it would’ve been endearing had it come sooner, or somewhere other than at her desk. As much as he didn’t mean to make things weird, he had managed to make Nancy feel as small as she had beneath the sign that had branded her a Slut for the whole town to see.
“If you’re doing this because you’re trying to write something, and you want help, you don’t have to do … all of this,” she assured him. “I can just, y’know, help you. We’re professionals.” Because why else would Tommy be over here, giving an unprompted apology four years after they graduated high school, except if he wanted something from her? “And you don’t have to get me coffee, it’s—I can get my own coffee, Tommy. I’m just not getting coffee for anyone else in this office.”
who: nancy & @eddietheexiled
where: outside jonathan & eddie's !
For the first time, Nancy found herself on Shutter Street, outside an apartment she'd never set foot inside. She'd driven past this building all her life, though she'd never pictured anyone she knew living in it. There hadn't been a reason to be here before today; she'd never been invited by either of its residents, nor did Nancy think she ever would be.
Times as desperate as ones that might see her mother soon in jail called for measures that included standing outside of her ex-boyfriend's new apartment.
Her knuckles rapped on the door, and Nancy took a step back, like she'd knocked on a hot stove. The speech on why she'd shown up had been rehearsed on the ride over, carefully practiced and straight to the point, leaving no room for unnecessary conversation with Jonathan. She just needed to see his film from the barbecue, and then she could be on her way, never to speak to him outside of work ever again.
Except, it wasn't Jonathan who had answered the door. Nancy didn't have anything prepared for Eddie, whom she'd never spoken more than a word to outside the context of being one of Mike's Hellfire friends. "Hi," she started, peering behind his head of curls. "I'm just here for--is Jonathan home?"
Maybe this was for the best. Surely, Jonathan wouldn't mind if she simply sifted through his shots from the barbecue for evidence, would he? They were better left strictly interacting at the Post; this would save both of them from the awkward, inevitable apartment tour riddled with belongings Nancy would recognize from the house he used to live in. "Unless, um, you don't mind if I come in, even if he's not. It'll be quick."
who: nancy & @thequeenofhawkins
where: hawkins high school parking lot
Nancy preferred to stay as far away from her alma mater as she could, but when her mother had asked for her help picking up and dropping off her siblings at school in the midst of the police's ongoing investigation into the house on Maple Street, she couldn't say no. She'd heard the whispers around the office and downtown, the other housewives and former partygoers nitpicking every one of the Wheelers' actions the night their lives had flipped on its end, again.
She stood against her car in the parking lot as the last bell rung. Nancy preferred to hear the chatter amongst the students while her notepad laid in the passengers' seat. Amongst the students came teachers toward their rides, some of her old ones offering hints of silent condolence in the glances they gave her from across the parking lot.
She'd hardly noticed the first-year counselor, who looked like she belonged amongst her students rather than her colleagues. Chrissy had hardly changed since she'd donned the same green and gold uniform a pack of girls walked out of the doors with, headed toward the football field while her former classmate headed home. Nancy nearly found herself ducked in the driver's seat, desperate to avoid whatever quip she had to give about her mother being Hawkins' most wanted.
Instead, Chrissy's eyes had caught hers, and Nancy's window of opportunity to hide had slammed shut. "Hey," she greeted quietly, hoping the interaction would just be quick, in passing. Nancy should've known better than to think anything with Chrissy Cunningham would be quick, as she now stood prisoner to conversation with one of the most talkative girls in town. "I'm just, uh, here to get Mike." She paused, grasping for a subject besides the one that involved a certain sergeant. "Work's ... going good for you?"
𝐖𝐇𝐎: @nancydrewheeler & tommy
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: hawkins post
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: an apology, years late.
tommy tries not to think too hard about how he got here. but every time he closes his office door - every time he hears the latch click and the fluorescent hum settles over the room like a weight - he remembers.
the job wasn’t earned. his dad handed it to him like a leash, right there at the end of rehab, when his skin still felt too tight and his voice still sounded like someone else’s. his father had already bought the hawkins post - another hagan rescue effort, another mess to control. half the staff dead or gone after starcourt, the rest dangling by threads. tommy barely had his name back and suddenly he had a job.
marketing, because it sounded respectable. because nine-to-five looks better on paper than “fresh out of rehab.” and he took it, because what else was he going to do despite not knowing a single fucking thing about marketing?
at first, he kept his head down. smiled when it was required. did his job. didn’t drink. didn’t push. didn’t look too closely at the people still grieving the ones who didn’t make it. but lately, something’s been churning under the surface.
nancy wheeler.
tucked into the back corner of the bullpen like an afterthought. her desk shoved next to the women’s bathroom. no privacy. no space. just overflowing folders, half-dead office supplies and story drafts marked up with red ink that no one ever thanks her for.
she does good work - better than good, really. her writing has edge. clarity. the kind of fire that used to get kids mocked in high school. the kind of fire tommy used to smother with ridicule and cheap laughs. and now he sees it every day, burning quietly under fluorescent lights no one looks directly into.
and still, they treat her like she’s temporary. she doesn’t always get the choice assignments. she doesn’t get the laughs in the breakroom. the men here - even the ones who act progressive - look right through her. talk around her. like she’s decoration. like she’s waiting to fail.
it makes him feel sick. not just because it’s happening, but because he absolutely helped set the tone for it years ago. the way he talked to her in school. the way he’d parrot carol or egg on steve. it was so easy to make someone like nancy feel small.
and now? now she’s still paying for it.
and he’s got an office.
so one thursday, when the building’s thinning out and the press room’s gone quiet, he finally stands and leaves his office. walks past the bullpen - past desks with better chairs and brighter lighting - and heads all the way back.
her corner. her world.
he stops by her desk, careful not to crowd the space. his hands are in his jacket pockets, heart making a mess of things behind his ribs.
“nancy..” his voice is low, stripped of whatever bravado used to carry it. it’s the first time her name’s felt like a real thing in his mouth - not a punchline, not a warning shot. just her. “you… working on something? probably sounds stupid, i just - i dunno. figured i’d ask.”
It hadn’t been ideal to learn that her ex-boyfriend was working at the paper where they’d once been interns, together. That would’ve been enough to place the stamp on this position as temporary, a simple stepping stone to get Nancy’s resume where she wanted it to be before she could find another paper to place her tagline on. She didn’t need another reason to write off the Post, but one had in fact come, in the form of yet another boy she had been keen to avoid on her return.
Nancy had spent years mentally hoisting Tommy Hagan to the pedestal of a key villain in her story, the one whom she’d spent her fair share of time blaming for the downfall of her first real relationship. He was an easy scapegoat for her and Steve’s shortcomings, a target for blame before Nancy had been ready to accept her own place in her breakup. Tommy had never been nice to her, not even when she was Steve’s girlfriend; she certainly didn’t expect things to change now.
So, she’d kept her distance. Reporters didn’t need to interact with marketing anyway. It was abundantly clear to anyone who could see the Post on every front porch in Hawkins that it wasn’t the kind of business that needed advertising. But, if this was how Tommy’s father wanted to keep him occupied, so be it. Nancy would remain in her corner, sneaking quick glances toward the office that belonged to the boy who had made her life hell once she’d become Steve Harrington’s ex.
Nancy had seen him coming; she was always aware of his presence. But, her desk was never a destination, unless the passerby was the secretary or the lead editor’s assistant, who had to pass it on the way to the women’s restroom.
Tommy had never once asked her what she’d been working on; it could’ve been something she’d place money on never happening. Maybe it was a prank, something he’d been put up to by the rest of the guys in the bullpen. “Yeah, I’m working on an article.” She paused, glancing toward the empty chair behind the front desk. “If you’ve come to ask for coffee, I don’t really do stuff like that anymore.”
Always the interrogator, never the questioned. Nancy hadn't been subject to the kind of grilling she'd made everyone else answer to in years, when she'd first gone to the police about the disappearance of her best friend. Now back in the hot seat, Nancy patiently watched the seconds tick by on her wristwatch until the door finally opened, the two officers who had just been guests at her home stepping inside. She sat up straight as Powell took a seat, the screech of the chair on tile piercing the room as Callahan turned his around, arms folded over the top of the metal.
STATE YOUR FULL LEGAL NAME FOR THE RECORD.
"Nancy Marie Wheeler," she answered simply, as though it wasn't on the license she'd already handed over twenty minutes ago.
WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT ADDRESS?
"2350 Maple Street." Another thing they could've--or should've--known based on the very obvious fact that Nancy was an inhabitant of the home in question.
WHAT IS YOUR DATE OF BIRTH?
Nancy stared blankly for a moment before responding. She knew this was all just procedure, but did they really have to ask her everything that was already on the card she'd already surrendered. "September 13, 1967."
WHAT IS YOUR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT AND JOB TITLE?
"Hawkins Post, Staff Reporter." As though both officers hadn't been interviewed by Nancy himself more times than she could count. Nancy was the one who'd written the front page on the story she was here to answer for, after all.
WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE WHEELER FAMILY?
Nancy's eyes narrowed incredulously, as though she couldn't believe Powell or Callahan hadn't combed through their list of questions before each witness he'd brought in for questioning. "All due respect, Chief Powell, but I just told you my name ends in Wheeler. Do you really need further elaboration beyond that?"
WERE YOU FORMALLY INVITED TO THE BBQ?
"Well, I don't think my mother needed to formally invite me to something happening in my own backyard, but she did ask me to help prepare for it." She supposed that was as close to an invitation as she would get for someone who lived in the house that was hosting.
WHAT TIME DID YOU ARRIVE AT THE BBQ?
Nancy paused, trying to remember exactly when she'd left the house to free her friends from their wreckage on Main Street. "Well, I was home until about noon, and then, I got a call from Chrissy Cunningham saying she and Steve Harrington were stuck on Main. You remember--you were helping direct traffic, I think? Then, I took them back to my house ... maybe it was almost one by the time we got back."
HOW DID YOU GET TO THE BBQ?
"Well, besides having lived there, I drove everyone back from Main."
CAN ANYONE VERIFY YOUR LOCATION THROUGHOUT THE BBQ?
Seriously? Wasn't Chief Powell there himself to verify her location? "I don't know, I talked to ... well, Steve Harrington, um, my mother, my father, my brother, his friends ..." she trailed off. "Which friends of your brothers?" "Will Byers, Lucas Sinclair, El Hopper," she ticked off with a shrug. As much as she adored Max Mayfield, she was doing her a favor, not including her in the list of witnesses to her presence.
HOW LONG WERE YOU AT THE WHEELER BBQ, APPROXIMATELY?
"Well, it was from when I got home, until we all ... well, you were there." The Wheelers had all but been put on lockdown, under the eyes of Hawkins PD while the top floor of their home had been yellow taped off.
HOW DID YOU LEAVE THE BBQ? WITH WHOM?
She sucked in a sigh; Nancy knew it was best to remain as cooperative as possible, especially when she knew all of her family had shot straight to the top of the list of suspects, but boy, were Callahan and Powell bad at this. "I left when we all went together in the car, down here. I went home, to bed, right after, when my mom, Holly, Mike, and I left the station."
ARE YOU CURRENTLY UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ANY SUBSTANCES THAT MAY AFFECT YOUR MEMORY OR BEHAVIOUR DURING THE COURSE OF THIS WITNESS INTERROGATION?
Nancy was nearly offended by the question. "No, I'm not ... oh, my god, no. Am I going to be subjected to a drug test? Don't you need a warrant for that, Officer?" Powell held up his hands, as though to let the subject go.
HAVE YOU EVER KNOWN MRS. KAREN WHEELER TO LOSE HER TEMPER?
"No, not unreasonably so." Of course, her mother had seemed tense when her father had shown up at the party, but Nancy couldn't imagine any woman would feel particularly comfortable with their ex-husband arriving unannounced at their former home. Nancy herself had been briefly locked in the pantry at one sight of Jonathan. "She's firm, yes, but she remains calm. In fact, I think she only really yells when calling Mike up from the basement for dinner. So, no, I wouldn't say I've ever seen her lose her temper, and I'm one of the people who've spent the most time with her in the past two decades."
DID ANYONE SEEM PARTICULARLY AGITATED OR “OFF” AT THE BBQ?
Nancy thought back to her father's arrival, when he'd seemed particularly annoyed, more than anything, that he hadn't been invited to a party at what used to be his house. The Sergeant, too, had approached her parents, apparently seeing some tension between the divorcees. "Not particularly, no," she fibbed, unable to throw either of her parents under the bus. "Just the kids, maybe, when we had trouble getting the fire started for s'mores."
OFFICERS RECOVERED AN EMPTY KEG FROM THE BASEMENT. DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT?
So that's what Mike had been drinking. To admit that she'd known it'd belonged to her brother and his friends put them at risk for underage drinking charges, but, luckily for them, Nancy could have as many kegs in her basement as she wanted. "It was mine. I had thought some of the adults might want a drink during the party." It wasn't like the keg had anyone's name on it, for all Powell knew, it could've been hers!
