this is one for the good days / and I have it all here in red blue green / in red blue green / you are my center when I spin away / out of control on videotape / on videotape
jancy fic week DAY 5 — immediate future (1989-1995)
call it 1993ish? squint and it could be the same universe as "a love supreme." sorry i'm a couple days late with this, life got in the way.
read it on ao3
He’s not sure what wakes him up.
It’s not a dream, or a nightmare; nothing sends him jolting. He’s just asleep one minute and awake the next, blinking up at the ceiling in the dark.
He takes a moment to breathe, take stock of the world around him. The walkup is a godsend compared to the garden unit he shared the last two years of college — the constant interruptions from street fights and breaking glass as 40s were discarded right into his window well — but the city noise persists no matter how far above ground he is.
He catalogs honking horns (taxis, probably) and the occasional shout penetrating the pane of the bedroom window but not much else; it must be late.
He rubs his eyes, sighing, and stretches out along the cool sheets. Turns on his side to try to fall back asleep and pauses; there’s a dim blue light coming from under the door.
The air in the room and beyond, he knows, is chilly; radiator heat comes in waves, boiling when it’s running full tilt, but when it decides to ebb it’s freezing. He snags a sweater off the chair in the corner behind the door and pulls it out before he pads out, barefoot, further into the apartment.
The light is coming from the living room and now that he’s in the short hallway he can hear a hint of sound from the television too.
It’s not a show; there’s no laugh track or live audience applause, and there’s too much silence for it to be a late night rerun of The Simpsons. Not the news either, as there’s no steady drone of anchor narration or reporter voiceover.
Jonathan pauses in the doorway to the living room, crossing his arms across his chest and watches.
On the screen the image goes out of focus for a long minute, then sharpens again. It’s Nancy, pale in her pink bikini and hair curly – frizzy even – in the summer heat. She’s surrounded by lush green foliage, the dark waters of the lake behind her making her fair skin stand out all the more. She’s moving in a slightly stilted but still graceful way, arms stretching delicately overhead, waist lengthening.
He had been sitting on the hood of his car to film, years before he’d ever thought to invest in something as logical as a tripod. That’s why the frame shakes and shudders, because he’s moving around, trying not to burn his legs on the hot metal hood, trying to keep her in frame, trying to tamp down the hard-on growing in his swim trunks watching her move like that.
They had driven from Hawkins to a lake two towns over, wanting privacy and to get out of the oppressive August atmosphere – thick with heat, humidity, grief and fear. He remembers this day. The house was on the market. They were trying to make every memory they could.
She had told him that when she was little, she took ballet. He had made her show him what she remembered.
He counts his breaths and guesses right about when the camera will suddenly tilt wildly, the moment he gives into her cajoling for him to get up and join her. Watches on screen as he comes into view – and they both look so impossibly young, though it hasn’t even been ten years since – and she maneuvers him behind her, shows him where to put his hands on her waist. She’s speaking intently, telling him how to do the lift, and it’s going to go wrong, he knows that too. Covers his grin with one hand as he watches them try and immediately trip, tip over, fall out of view.
If the volume was up beyond the barest hum, he knows he’d hear her laughing.
She had laughed for a long time after that, not the high girlish giggle she turned on for most people but the deep, throaty laugh that only came out when it was real. He had let her until it was all too much, the sound and how bright her eyes were, and he’d had no choice but to press her into the grass, kiss her until her giggles turned to moans, until her thighs locked his hips against her and her fingers pulled, hard, on his hair.
They’d had to check each other for ticks when they got back to his house and he had been so glad no one else was home. They took their time with each other that day.
He knows he’d left the camera running on the hood of the car but the scene has already switched, a hard cut without fanfare (tape was precious then, he did so much rewinding), to the Byers’ living room and an intense game of Trivial Pursuit; them versus their siblings, with Dustin, Max and Lucas too (because Mike, El and Will had all claimed Jonathan and Nancy were so much older, knew so much more than them, that six against two was fair).
He swallows against a sudden lump in his throat, seeing them all together like that. He made so many of these tapes in the months before they’d moved to California, trying to catch every memory, keep every moment for when she was out of reach. What they hold now is so much more loss than he ever expected.
A sniffle comes from the pile of blankets at one end of the couch, and he pushes away from the doorframe.
“Hey,” he says softly, not wanting to startle her, as he comes up around the arm. She jumps a little anyway. “When did you get home?”
“A while ago,” she says and her voice is thick with tears. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you up.”
“You didn’t.” He sits down on the cushion next to her. “Rough night?”
She just nods and throws herself into his arms, crying in earnest against his shoulder. He gathers her close, rocking her gently and murmuring soothing nonsense into her ear.
Nancy had joked, when she first started her beat after moving to New York, that she was pretty sure everything that had happened in Hawkins had broken her. Covering crime was nothing; once you’ve fought monsters and the American military, it’s all kind of small potatoes. And after you’d seen the things she had, well, compartmentalization was second nature.
Then she’d been sent to a gang shootout in Harlem where the only victim had been a 12-year-old kid on the way back from getting a quarter water at the bodega on the corner. He’d spent days helping her put herself back together after that one.
(“He looked just like Lucas,” she’d told him through sobs, hunched over the toilet and still dry heaving. “The sheet slipped and he looked just like Lucas when they were in middle school, and I couldn’t even breathe.”)
“You’re okay,” he reassures her as he presses a kiss to her temple. Feels the hitch in her shoulders as she starts to catch her breath. “You’re okay.”
“It was bad,” she says into his shirt. “It was bad, a domestic, a murder-murder-suicide and they were so young, and there were so many people there and her sister was just screaming and screaming—”
He swallows hard, a rock in his stomach at her words. Can imagine her sitting at her desk, at her computer, eyes blank and mouth tight as she filed the story, powered down and left the newsroom without a word. Her thousand-yard stare as she counted the subway stops, sidewalk tiles, stairs home. Forced distance to keep herself together until it was safe to fall apart.
“You’re home now,” he tells her, swiping her hair off her cheek so he can try to look at her. “You’re home, and you’re safe and I love you.”
Her smile is small and wobbly but it’s there as she returns his gaze, pushes herself up slightly so their mouths can meet. He feels her sigh into the kiss, relax a little against him. Her face is swollen and her mouth is dry, he can feel it, and their lips make a soft noise as they part.
“I’m gonna get you some water, okay?” He keeps his voice low and gentle. She’s tender right now.
She nods and gives him enough space to get up.
When he returns with the full glass and a handful of tissues, she takes them and drinks as he settles beside her again, sets it on the coffee table and blows her nose a couple times before tucking herself into him. He stretches them both out along the cushions, awkwardly rearranging the blankets she’d wrapped herself in to cover them both.
On the screen, he and Nancy are sitting at his mom’s kitchen table, playing a very fast and intent game of Egyptian Rat Screw. It’s being filmed at an angle, almost a Dutch tilt, because it was Will who picked up the camera that afternoon and he had never quite figured out how to settle the JVC level on his shoulder.
“Have you been watching home movies all night?”
“No,” she settles her open palm on his chest, over his heart. “I watched Letterman but nothing seemed funny. I just wanted… I just wanted to remember things that were good.”
On the screen he slaps his hand onto the pile of cards, shouts something triumphant. Her face is sour; her mouth is moving.
“Turn it up,” he says. “If I remember right, you came up with some really creative insults during this game.”
She chuckles softly and nearly tips them off the couch reaching across him for the remote.
When the volume comes up, she’s in the middle of telling him in vivid detail exactly what he can do with the pile of cards he’s now holding.
Jonathan keeps his right arm tight around her shoulders and settles his mouth against her hair as they relax back into the sofa, pressing kisses from time to time as the urge strikes.
She keeps her cheek to his chest and absently twists the gold band around and around his finger where their free hands rest together on his abdomen.
The shouts and murmurs of memories settle over them as their breathing syncs up, slows, and they drift off as the sun starts its slow climb over the horizon.
and live at peace with our hearts (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler)
rating: teen
word count: 15,588
rewriting the goo room
all of the credit for the core of this goes to @lunar-years, who posted this idea and then, with the utmost kindness and generosity, let me go HAM in her sandbox. my eternal thanks you, my dear, i hope this lives up to your imagination.
jancy fic week DAY 3 — canon divergent or fix it
“You’ve all seen Return of the Jedi?”
Jonathan casts his eyes about the lobby of the lab, taking in its odd blue cast and shadowed corners. He hates this place. Not just the Upside Down, but this place specifically.
This dark mirror image of the world he knows, this ground zero for a crack that first took his brother and then, when they scrabbled him back by the skin of their teeth, just kept consuming; his family, his home, his dreams, his future.
Dustin is still talking, fighting off interjections from Steve, and Nancy’s mouth is set in a hard line, and he can feel the impatience radiating off her in waves.
His relationship. His happiness. Eat, eat, eat.
He hates this fucking place.
“Yeah, cool,” Steve snarks at Dustin. “Thanks for the summary of a movie we’ve all seen.”
“It’s an oddly relevant movie, Steve,” Dustin snarks back. Jonathan wonders which one of them Nancy will threaten to shoot first. He gives her sixty seconds, tops.
He knows what Dustin’s getting at; the supernatural parallel of the energy shield that protected the Death Star. He’s not sure if Dustin remembers it but he was the one to take them all to that movie, eager to use his new driver’s license. He’d had to listen to Will, Dustin, Mike and Lucas argue about it all damn night and nearly a week after.
When they asked him to take them to see it again, he made them ride their bikes.
He knows Dustin can go on about this for days. Someone’s gotta move this along.
“So if we find this dark magic shield generator…” he prompts.
“We destroy the wall,” Dustin concludes with a flourish.
He sees the light turn on in Nancy’s eyes. “Find Vecna, save Holly.”
“Medals for all.”
“And it looks like what?” Steve interjects.
Dustin glares, waves his hands. “How would you expect me to know that?”
He has a headache. He’s had a headache for days now. Longer, probably. But right now, Jonathan thinks, he really has a headache.
They turn back to the stairs.
“Up or down?” Dustin asks.
“I say both,” Nancy says with a firm nod. “Search in teams of two. Cover more ground.”
“Yeah, that’s cool with me, but can we just switch the teams up?” Jonathan watches Steve turn a plaintive gaze on Nancy, tipping his chin down to make his eyes bigger. “Nance, you and me to go up?”
“Oh, I mean…”
His spine goes cold.
He is sick of this, Jonathan realizes. He is fucking exhausted, to the marrow of his bones, by this dance they’ve been doing for months; not the whole time he’s been back but much more of it than he ever would have expected. Especially when Nancy made it abundantly clear that they were still together. That things were a little weird and he knows they’re not being fully honest with each other and, of course, the world was literally ending, but it was still Jonathan-And-Nancy, they were still them.
And while that hasn’t wavered, neither have Steve’s efforts to keep testing the waters like there’s an unspoken promise that was made he’s trying to collect on. Which Nancy has told him, multiple times, isn’t the case. And he thinks Nancy is a lot of things – stubborn, brave, arrogant, brilliant, selfish, spoiled, the love of his life – but a liar she is not.
She also clearly hasn’t put the kibosh on what Steve’s doing. And for months, that’s made Jonathan irritated, and sad. But not now. This time the sad doesn’t come.
This time he’s just angry.
“Sure,” he says before anyone else can chime in. “New teams. New eyes, new thoughts; maybe we’ll find something different. Maybe we’ll finally break through.”
you're one of my kind (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler)
rating: explicit
word count: 12,739
What do you think? Can’t think at all. Whatcha gonna do? Gonna live my life. How do you feel? I’m lonely.
jancy fic week DAY 2 — December 1987 - May 1989
He lands in New York raw; from the years of fighting, from his wounded family, from his breakup with Nancy. His muscles ache from packing, from moving, from sitting in a car for 11 hours. His mind aches from planning and wishing and hoping for a different future. His heart aches from… well, his heart just aches.
Staring up at the massive dormitory building he's about to call home, an endless array of futures ahead of him and his family receding in the distance behind him, he makes a decision: he's going to be selfish.
And if no one likes it, fuck them.
He rearranges his dorm before his roommate gets there, sliding one desk out of the main room and one bed out of the bedroom, effectively giving them two singles instead of a double plus. He takes the back room, takes the privacy, and doesn't even mention it when the other boy shows up, confused and wary, like it's always been that way even though it doesn’t match the pictures in the housing catalogue.
He gives his mom and brother his phone number, tells them not to give it to anyone else (and they know who ‘anyone else’ means). Claims he doesn't know his address (he memorized it the first hour he was in the city) and that he'll send them a postcard soon, so they have it. He puts it off for a month.
She haunts his dreams. She hovers in his peripheral vision. He still feels her touch, her mouth, her hair when he takes himself in hand late at night and uses his memories of what she felt like, tasted like, smelled like to bring himself off.
Sometimes when he comes back to himself it feels like he's done something wrong, thinking about her that way, but fuck it. They're his memories too.
He realizes he's started college way later than his so-called peers, that he's older than them by almost as much as the gap between him and his brother. He gets a job at a bar to meet people his own age, does his best to stick with the upperclassmen on campus when he can figure them out.
Girls flirt with him constantly; in class and out, and especially when he's on shift, trying their best to trade fluttering eyelashes and eyefuls of their cleavage for free drinks. He lets them get away with it about half the time
He remembers Argyle joking about how he must be tired of his hand and decides his old friend was right. He's a single (reluctantly) guy in a big city (happily) with a buffet of women to choose from. He decides to be greedy. He doesn't owe Nancy anything, after all.
It becomes his mantra: fuck her, fuck them, fuck it. Just fuck.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
- "wild geese" by mary oliver
read on ao3
jancy fic week 2026 DAY 1 — post-final battle
She’s shivering.
Squished in the back of a rattling Humvee, the cheap paper pajamas she’d been handed after the rough trip through decontamination do little to fight the November chill. Her dripping hair isn’t helping. Neither is the adrenaline crash.
Her mom and dad are still in the hospital. Her sister and the other eleven kids they rescued are still at the base for observation, to see if any parts of the Upside Down or the Mind Flayer are incubating inside them like they did Will. Joyce and Hopper are with them, standing watch as the adults.
She’d shouted and fought and clawed at the soldier who held her back from the doctor in the white lab coat as she demanded to stay – that is her sister, she’s 20 years old she’s an adult too – but Hopper had stepped between them, assuring her she could come back tomorrow, that it’d be better to have less of them here and she wasn’t capable of handling the fallout.
As she drew a breath to unleash a new diatribe about that assumption, Jonathan’s hand had fallen gently on her shoulder, warm and solid, and that had taken all the wind out of her sails.
He is still warm and solid on her right, pressed together in this paradoxically tiny backseat from shoulder to sneaker. That warmth is the only thing keeping her from shivering to the point of shattering, frozen solid.
On her left Mike is rigid and blank, paralyzed with grief. She has tried to take his hand more than once, to be the comforting big sister. He meets her eyes but he’s not seeing her; he gazes a thousand miles beyond her, beyond the surface of the earth, searching for a lost dimension and a girl inside it.
Nancy swallows against the lump in her throat and keeps her hands to herself.
Jonathan has his head turned away from her, speaking quietly with his little brother, but it’s inaudible under the engine. She wants to lean her head onto his shoulder, but doesn’t do that either.
When the truck shudders to a stop, she doesn’t realize they’re parked on her cul-de-sac. It’s not ‘til a soldier yanks the back door open, revealing the softly lit Wheeler house standing silent and calm, that she grasps it.
“Don’t forget anything,” the soldier orders as they spill out of the vehicle on weak, exhausted legs.
She is gripping a paper bag they handed to her on the base; it has her keys and a few things from her pockets, other objects that rattled around during the rough ride. They kept their clothes and, to her chagrin, her weapons and ammo. She has a whole riot act to read them about the second amendment as soon as she can get back behind their perimeter.
“When can we see our sister?” Mike asks, and she’s surprised he even had the thought. “When can we see Holly?”
“We will be in contact tomorrow.”
“And if we want to contact you first?” Nancy challenges. The soldier sighs, and looks pointedly down at the bag she’s holding, specifically at the white slip of paper stapled to the front.
“Contact information is included.”
The soldier doesn’t wait for a reply. The Humvee rattles away, leaving the four of them staring up at her house.
Mike moves first. She remembers belatedly about her keys, but she doesn’t need to; when her little brother tries the handle, the front door swings open with ease.
No one has to lock their doors in Hawkins, after all. Middle America. Safe as houses.
She can’t remember the last time she ate, or slept, and in the cool dark of the foyer it’s sleep that wins over any growling her stomach might eventually produce. Still trembling, she moves to the stairs, toward her room.
Jonathan doesn’t follow.
She pauses at the bottom step, turning back in time to see him make a move toward the hall leading to the basement.
“What are you doing?” she asks. He freezes.
“I—” That’s all he gets out before his mouth snaps shut and he moves his arm weakly in the general direction of her basement door.
She shakes her head. “Please don’t.”
“Nancy…”
She can’t say what she means, because her brother’s there and because she doesn’t have the words for it yet. Not beyond, stay close, stay here, stay with me.
“Don’t sleep on a sofa tonight. Please?”
He quirks a tiny grin at that, one that makes her heart feel too big. “Ok. But I need pajamas.”
“Upstairs. Mom was doing laundry when—” The words stick on their way out and she has to clear her throat, hard. “There’s clean clothes upstairs. For all of us.”
“We’ll be up in a second,” Will says, following her brother into the kitchen. She supposes in their internal war, their stomachs won.
She stays perched on the bottom step as Jonathan watches the pair go. When he turns back to her, his eyes move like he’s searching for something and she waits, still. He must find it because he exhales and follows her up the stairs.
She leaves him to dig through the laundry in the dryer as she brushes her teeth and goes searching for her own pajamas. Once upon a time she wore delicate matching sets her mother picked out for her. Now she grabs a soft blue boy’s t-shirt that falls to the tops of her thighs and only bothers with a pair of clean underwear.
She shoves the paper scrubs in the trash and steps on them for good measure.
She’s already under the covers when he comes in. He’s in a familiar long sleeved thermal shirt and she almost chokes on it, but his pajama pants – while still paisley – are brown and not yellow. He stands nervously in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes her feel like she’s staring back in time.
“Nancy,” he says again.
“Jonathan,” she answers, and turns his side of the covers down.
He chews his thumb for a moment then nods to himself, like he’s made a decision. Gently pushes the door closed behind him and strides over to her.
They wrap around each other on instinct, a practiced movement honed over years, him at her back and their knees angled together. She drapes her arm heavy over his at her waist and holds his hand tight against her stomach, like if she doesn’t, he could disappear in the night.
Who knows, maybe he’s planning to.
She is braced to have to talk about this but he’s silent, his breathing even and slow, and she thinks perhaps he’s as tired as she is. It’s a battle to keep her eyes open.
Before they slip shut – before she can think too hard about it – she takes the hand she’s holding and pulls it up to her face, drops a gentle but lingering kiss on his knuckles. She feels no reaction at her back; maybe he’s already fallen asleep. She moves him back to her torso and gives into the weight of her eyelids.
Just before the darkness claims her, she feels his lips press behind her ear, and a smile.
+++
She’s not sure how long she sleeps but it’s still mostly dark when her eyes open and every muscle in her body is screaming.
“Oh god,” she groans trying to figure out what hurts worse – her legs, her back, or her head.
She’s alone in the bed, in the room, she realizes as she looks around. On her nightstand there’s an orange bottle with a white label and a glass of water. Jonathan must have put them there.
But she’s not sure where he is.
She twists her lamp on, bleary eyes scanning the label. She’s never heard of Percocet but it says to take one to two every six hours as needed. They gave her pills at the base, maybe these are more of the same? Probably.
She takes two.
As she waits for them to kick in, she stares at the ceiling and tries to puzzle out where she thinks Jonathan went. Maybe Will needed something, or Mike, she supposes. Maybe they came and got him and she didn’t wake up. She barely remembers falling asleep and even though she’s throbbing, she’s still so tired.
The thought nags at her, though, that he simply waited until she was out and then got up, went back down to the basement and the sofa he’s been sleeping on for the last few months. It gnaws at her gut – displeasure, sure, but guilt, too, that he had been sleeping down there at all. That things had gotten bad enough between them that he’d stopped sneaking in and out of her room, had stopped trying to kiss her good night, or good morning, or eventually pretty much at all.
When the Byers had first moved in it had been glorious, having him so close after the cold, hard months in California. She’d delighted in it. She can’t remember when that delight went away. She can’t remember when it changed into something else.
Somewhere between the fiftieth crawl and the hundredth, she supposes. Somewhere around the millionth nightmare. Somewhere between the bottles of wine she snuck out of her mom’s stash.
But she doesn’t feel like that anymore. Not even a little bit.
Even when they thought they were going to die, he'd only kissed her forehead. She felt bereft in that moment, and feels it again now, remembering. She could have died without kissing him again. Why didn't she?
The pain is receding, and something warm and buoyant is taking its place. She stretches her arms and legs, rolls out her neck as she formulates a search plan for the house. She’s gonna find him.
As her head rolls toward her window, though, she catches a plume of white smoke float past the pane.
Bingo.
It takes her a minute to dig around for bottoms, for a sweater to meet the November chill, but it’s worth it because when she slides her window open, he’s there, sitting on her eave with his back against the siding, a joint in his hand.
And promptly nearly falls off, he jumps so high when she climbs out.
“Jesus fuck, Nancy,” he whispers harshly, righting himself and his balance. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“That goes to my room.” She points to the window as she settles down next to him.
“I know, that was a rhetorical—”
She doesn’t let him finish, just leans in and presses her lips to his.
She can feel in the way his face moves that he’s surprised, but his lashes flutter against her cheekbone as his eyes close and, even better, his free hand flies to her cheek so he can deepen the kiss.
Relief floods her and she opens her mouth without hesitation.
He kisses her with a meticulousness that she hasn’t felt since their earliest days together, when they were fresh back from Illinois and neither of them knew exactly how far this was going to go. The way he kissed her after school in his bedroom, The Cure playing too loud, and his mom and Will carefully giving them space. Like he was cataloging every corner of her mouth, of her neck, of her body just in case she decided she was done with him and called it quits on the spot.
It makes her toes curl against the rough roofing tile.
They sip from each other’s lips, neither willing to be the one to call stop, until her shoulder hits the siding on the wrong spot, catching what must be a bruise, and it makes her flinch, hiss.
“You ok?”
“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” she admits, running the side of her nose along his.
“Yeah, it got me too,” he just barely brushes his lips over hers one last time and lifts his head. “They gave me those pills before they sent us home. There’s probably one in your bag, too.”
“It helped,” she affirms and lets her head drop onto his shoulder. Adjusts so they’re side-by-side, not a centimeter between them. The way they sat in the middle school, when she told him she wanted to kill a monster and he agreed. A careful foot between them then, it was still the first time she ever realized how much bigger he was than her; in front of that tiger, he seemed huge. “Did you take any?”
“Yeah. But then I couldn’t stop thinking and I was just staring at the ceiling so…”
She hums acknowledgement and kisses the corner of his jaw. She knows it should bother her, it’s bothered the hell out of her for the last few months, but right now just seems like a very silly time to care about him smoking weed.
He contemplates the mostly gone joint in his hand, then flicks it out past the roof edge without a word. Nancy frowns.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know. I was finished.”
“Maybe I wanted some.”
“You never want some.” He snickers. “Weed makes you paranoid.”
“Maybe that weed wouldn’t.”
“You tossed my purple palm tree, which is the actually good stuff. That’s just Indiana schwag. It’s probably half oregano; I bought it from Steve’s old dealer.”
She snorts. “How do you know Steve’s old dealer?”
“Ok, fine, he’s everyone’s old dealer.”
She takes his hand, lacing their fingers together, and stares out past the streetlights. The night feels quiet, quieter than it has for a long time, and for once it feels nice to just sit next to him and be. It’s been a long time since she’s done that.
Her eyelids grow heavier, her blinks slower; with the pain receding the exhaustion comes rushing back in.
“Are you still thinking?” she asks. Feels him huff a laugh more than hears it.
“Not really.”
“Then let’s go back to bed.”
Even though it’s her idea she sighs in protest when he moves, knocking her head from his shoulder, but they’re both smiling when he offers a hand to help her up.
She’s wobbly on her feet, her limbs heavy and slow, so she hangs onto him as they climb back into her room, strip off their extra layers. Refuses to let him go to round the bed; she climbs in his side and shuffles over, pulling him behind her, even as he turns her lamp off again.
Darkness pulls at her, but it still comes out on a sigh, as thoughtless as any breath, into the crook of his neck.
“I love you, Jonathan.”
She feels his breath move her hair but she’s asleep before her ears can register what he says in reply.
+++
The day after is weird.
For one thing, it’s raining.
She contemplates the sheets of water and flashes of lightning though her bedroom window and tries to recall how long it’s been since they’ve had a thunderstorm. She can’t. Now that she thinks about it, Hawkins had one of the driest summers she can recall. She hadn’t noticed it at the time, was too focused on their mission, but now she wonders if Venca and his alien world had something to do with it. It had been a giant desert, not a drop of water to be found. Maybe it was bleeding over. Maybe it was sucking them dry.
Beyond her bedroom the house is too quiet. For eighteen months the Wheeler house has been daily chaos, eight people living on top of each other; now it’s near silent. Nancy stands frozen between her bed and the door, unsure of how to proceed. She should get dressed, get on the phone to the military, get to Holly, but she’s still exhausted, her body still aches, her heart hurts and her mind is spinning.
She wants to go get her sister, see her parents, get an update from Hopper on whether she can expect to face federal charges for all they’ve done or if things can maybe, finally, go back to whatever passes for normal for them.
She also wants, very badly, just to have a slow, quiet morning to herself, with Jonathan. She hasn’t had that luxury for longer than the rain’s been gone.
She eventually forces herself to move, pulls on sweatpants and one of Jonathan’s cardigans that’s been hanging out in her room for a while, and pads out into the hallway.
She can smell coffee and is powerfully grateful.
But before she goes down to fulfill that need, she breaks to the left, to Mike’s room. He’s still in bed, a long, lanky lump under covers and she catches his clock as she tiptoes through the mess. It’s earlier than she realized.
She sits carefully on the edge of his bed and threads her fingers through the top of his hair, the part that’s poking out. He feels warm, almost feverish; she remembers hiding in bed after Barb, wracked with chills and tears. There’s not as much difference between grief and illness as people want there to be.
Mike’s voice is muffled and thick when he says her name.
“Hey,” she keeps her voice at a whisper. “You OK?”
He’s silent but the covers move, revealing his eyes and a look that says she couldn’t have asked a stupider question, the kind only a little sibling can give.
“Fair enough.” She strokes her hand over his head slowly. “Do you need anything? Water? Are you in pain?”
His look sharpens into a glare and she almost wants to laugh.
“Physical pain,” she clarifies. “We have medicine for that.”
His voice is hoarse and thick when he finally speaks. “My body isn’t what hurts.”
Her heart breaks at the agony in his voice, at the way his eyes fill with tears and spill over. She leans down, cupping herself around him in a hug as best she can while he’s still cocooned, letting him sob into her shoulder. Feels her shirt grow damp with it, and the weight of loss on her shoulders.
“I don’t know what to do,” he’s whimpering as she tries to soothe him. “I don’t know what to do now.”
“I don’t know either,” she admits, hating that she doesn’t have the answer but finding the admission easier than it has been in ages. “I don’t know, Mike, but we’ll get through this.”
“The first time—” He clears his throat, snuffles loudly and starts to fight his way out of his blankets. She withdraws and gives him space to emerge, hands him the box of tissues their mom always puts on his nightstand and waits from him to blow his nose. “The first time she disappeared, I knew she was still out there. I saw her, in the backyard, when the FBI was still at the house, so I knew. I—” The tears start again and he hiccups, forces himself to continue. “I watched all night, Nancy, and I didn’t see her once.”
Her heart breaks for him all over again.
He clutches at her as he cries and she rocks him like she’s seen their mom do, like she did for Nancy after Barb.
“You’ll get through this, Mike,” she whispers in his ear, still petting his head. “I know it feels like it will never end, it will never stop hurting, but I promise it does. It never goes away, not all the way, but I promise one day you’ll think of her and it won’t just be pain, it’ll be all the love and the good memories, and it will feel like comfort, not like loss. It takes time, but it happens.”
“How would you know?” he snaps, pulling back and glaring. “Jonathan is still here.”
She offers a small, sad smile. “Barb isn’t.”
He looks shocked, then ashamed; he forgot, she realizes. And why wouldn’t he? It didn’t happen to him.
“I’m gonna get you some water, OK? And some of those pills they gave us for the pain,” she pushes him carefully back onto his pillows, takes the dirtied tissues from him to throw away, hands him some clean ones.
“One step ahead of you, there.” Will’s voice startles her. He’s hovering in the doorway, a glass of orange juice in one hand, a plate with toast and another orange bottle of pills on it in the other. His face isn’t tearstained like her brother’s, but it’s etched with grief and exhaustion as well.
“Thanks,” she says softly, rises and turns back to Mike. “It’s still early; can you try to get some more sleep? I’m going to call the number they gave us, find out when we can see Holly, see mom and dad. Sound like a plan?”
Mike shakes a pill out of the orange bottle and downs it along with half the glass of juice, shaking his head slightly as he does. Nancy frowns.
“You can try,” her brother says, looking knowingly at Will, who’s taken her place on the edge of his bed. “I told you, I was watching all night. She didn’t come, but they did.”
She looks at Will, who nods.
“Jonathan’s downstairs,” is all he says.
Nancy looks between the two boys (and they both look so tired; Will must have stayed up the whole night with Mike), then leans over to press a kiss on the top of her brother’s head.
“Sleep,” she instructs them both. “We’ll figure it out, and we’ll come get you, ok?”
She waits for them to nod and closes the door most of the way behind her as she leaves.
+++
There is an Army truck on the cul-de-sac. Three, actually, parked at regular intervals around the curve, dark and silent in the rain.
She stares at them through the glass panes that flank the Wheelers’ front door, arms crossed over her chest and thumbnail between her teeth, wondering what they mean.
Jonathan’s footsteps are heavy behind her as he approaches, intentionally, so she doesn’t jump when he speaks.
“Made you coffee,” is what he says. She turns and finds a steaming mug in his hand, held out to her. She flashes a grateful smile as she takes it from him, burns her tongue on the first sip. Milk and one sugar; just the way she likes it.
“Do you think they’re here to give us a ride?” she asks hopefully. He chuckles and shakes his head.
“Doubt it.” He motions toward her living room, and she follows him in where the tv turned to the news, volume low. “Whole town’s on lockdown again. They say it’s for flash flooding but…”
“Yeah,” she agrees settling on the sofa next to him. “Did you try calling the number they gave us?”
“Yep. Didn’t get very far. Finally told them I wanted to talk to my mom, they said she’d call us back. She hasn’t, yet.”
“It’s still pretty early,” Nancy points out, setting the now-half-drunk mug down on the low table. “Maybe they’re still sleeping?”
“Who knows,” he sighs, sounding frustrated. “They wouldn’t tell me shit. But I think if we try to leave, those trucks are there to stop us.”
They sigh in unison then laugh, also in unison, surprised. She gives herself a moment to take him in; he’s also still in his pajamas, hair messy and eyes as tired as ever as he leans back on the sofa cushions. She reaches over, gently touches the bags that are always there. He holds still, letting her.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Some,” he shrugs. “Not as much as you; you were dead to the world last night.” His lips turn up in a sly grin. “You snored.”
“I don’t snore,” she sniffs.
“You did last night.”
The urge strikes strong and sharp and she doesn’t resist; she cups his face with both hands and kisses him, slow and wet.
When she pulls back, his eyes are still closed.
“That’s the second time you’ve done that,” he says, not opening them yet.
“I’ve kissed you plenty more than twice.”
“In the last twelve hours.”
“I think I was wrong.”
His eyes fly open at that, exaggerated shock. It makes her want to smack him, or maybe kiss him again.
“Say that again.”
“Say what?” He doesn’t reply, just waits and she smacks his shoulder. “I was wrong.”
He just grins and waggles his eyebrows at her. “Do tell.”
“When I said this thing between us,” she holds up her hand, displaying the faded line that’s left of her scar, “was suffocating. I think I was wrong. Not about the suffocating feeling – I felt it, you felt it, that was real, right?”
“Right,” he agrees cautiously.
“But it wasn’t because of this,” she gestures between them. “It wasn’t because of us, or that part of us. Because by the time we finally said that to each other, by the time you un-proposed to me, that feeling was gone. For me, at least. I don’t think this is what felt suffocating. I think it was all the lying, all of the hiding, all of the things we decided not to tell each other. The second we finally started to talk about it again I felt… I felt…”
“Better,” he supplies.
“So much better.”
“But that doesn’t change the rest of what we said. What you said. About wanting space.”
“But it does,” She shakes her head, trying to figure out how to explain. She can’t seem to find the right words. “Because once we were out of that room, Jonathan, I didn’t really want space. I wanted you by my side. I wanted you on my team.”
“Of course I’m on your team. That doesn’t change.”
“I know,” she smiles at him, “Look, it’s morning now. It’s the morning after we killed Vecna and I still don’t want space. This,” she gestures between them again, “still feels like too much space.”
He doesn’t speak, wariness all over his face. She thinks about it for a second, scoots closer so that they’re pressed together from hip to shin again, like last night on the roof.
“This,” she says, softer now, “is better, but it’s still too much space.”
She shifts again, presses harder against him, so close she’s practically in his lap, her torso curled into the space he made for her automatically, lifting his arm as reflex, lifting her heart with the same motion.
“This,” she murmurs, hovering her face just inches from his, “is more acceptable. But this—”
She tilts her head, uses the hand not stuck between her and the couch cushions to draw their lips together again.
“This is perfect,” she murmurs against his mouth.
It’s her turn to kiss him thoroughly, to explore his mouth like he did to her the night before. He lets her, pulling her more fully onto his lap, holding her tight to his body. Something warm and hopeful blossoms in her belly.
“What about college,” he asks between kisses, not parting, just finding space for words. “What about everything else that comes now, now that it’s after?”
“We’ll figure that out when we get to it,” she shrugs. “Are you going in the spring? Because I’m deferred until fall and the last few years of trying to map out my whole life in advance didn’t go very well, so maybe I need to try going with the flow for once.”
He snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
She nips at his lower lip. “Believe it, Jonathan Byers.”
“I want to believe,” he agrees and turns them, pressing her back onto the sofa and holding himself above her, and she has to tamp down the urge to kick her feet with glee. Winds her arms around his neck to keep him there.
He does pull back then, looking down at her thoughtfully and she tries to decipher the swirling thoughts behind his eyes.
“I love you,” she reminds him, deadly serious. “I loved you yesterday, and I love you still. I don’t know why I thought I had to do something else. I don’t think I want to.”
His expression softens. “I love you too, Nancy.”
She is drawing him down to her again when the phone interrupts, shrill and harsh in the rain-dampened quiet. They both jump, almost fall off the couch.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she whines but he’s already climbing off her, reaching for the receiver on the side table.
“Wheeler residence,” he recites politely, perching on the sofa arm. “Hey, mom.”
She rights herself, rests her cheek on his back as he speaks to his mother, closes her eyes and focuses on the way his voice vibrates through his chest cavity.
She feels scrubbed out, clean. From her confessions, from the final battle, from the sleep, from him.
After Barb she felt so hollow, barren. Her insides scraped, flesh salted on the way out. It had taken a year for anything to grow in her again.
The space inside her now isn’t empty, it’s full of more than she ever realized she could contain. She is bursting with possibility. She can’t remember the last time she felt that way.
Jonathan hangs up softly, is careful not to dislodge her as he turns, rests his hand in her hair.
“They’ll send a truck for us but not before three,” he says. “And they moved your mom and dad to a different part of the hospital. Until then, it sounds like we’re stuck here unless you really want to get arrested, but I don’t think that’ll get you to your parents or Holly any faster.”
She makes a face at the news, and it makes him smile.
“I’ll go tell Will,” he says, rising, but she catches his hand, entwining their fingers as she holds him in place.
“I told him and Mike to get more sleep, we’ve got time.” She sighs. “They both looked like they didn’t sleep at all last night.”
“I don’t think they did,” Jonathan squeezes her fingers. “I’m still waiting for it to hit me, I think. It doesn’t feel real.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agrees.
“So what do we do now? While they’re sleeping?”
Her body has not forgotten it’s been at least two days since her last meal. She gives him a hopeful look, pats her stomach. “Maybe you can make breakfast?”
He laughs and pulls her to her feet, not dropping her hand as he guides them into the kitchen. She sits at the table, shuffling a newspaper that is not from today, as he starts pulling ingredients out of her fridge.
“And after that?” he asks.
“We’ll tell Mike and Will when they wake up,” she answers. “And until then, I dunno. We can watch a movie?”
He pauses, eggs in hand, seemingly surprised at such a mundane suggestion. She supposes he’s expecting a fight from her, aimed at him or the government. And maybe it’s the painkillers in her blood, or the mood of the rain, or maybe it’s just that the fight – the long one, the battle that has shadowed her life for years now – is finally over, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to fight anymore. She wants the chance to heal.
She looks down at the remaining scar on her hand, sees it as ugly and red as the night it was first stitched up.
It’s not the cracks, the ravines, the cuts and gashes that matter; it’s the healing. It leaves marks, but that only makes them more beautiful. A record of a life that wasn’t given and taken passively, but that was fought for, that was earned.
The cracks between them are still there, she knows. But broken bones heal stronger at the fracture.
She thinks they will, too.
--------------
kintsukuroi // 金繕い (japanese, n.) - “to repair with gold”; the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken
a love supreme (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler) (5/5)
rating: mature (it's horny)
part 5 of 5
part 1 | ao3 || part 2 | ao3 || part 3 | ao3 || part 4 | ao3
1. acknowledgement 2. resolution 3. pursuance 4. psalm
what lies ahead for two lives that just can't seem to untangle themselves.
5. here comes your man
Jonathan breathes in. The soft red light calms his heartbeat and steadies his hand as he carefully tweaks one knob, then another, racking focus before he shuts it off, moves the metal plate.
A twist to set the time, a flick to the switch. A soft, solid click. Pause. A soft ding.
He exhales.
Every darkroom is different; every darkroom is the same. He slides the photo paper off the enlarger, pivots to face the developing table. This darkroom is small and sparse, but the air conditioning works and the monthly fee at the community college is cheap.
This has become his Saturday morning ritual; some rolls of film newly shot, others from the mountain that collected on his desk over the spring semester. There are location shoots, speculative framing, lost class projects he didn’t label properly and had to go out and shoot again. There are found collages in the East Coast urban wilderness, pastorals in central Indiana. There are people too, from school, from home, from deep in his heart.
He slides the paper into the first tray, watches the shadows appear and resolve into a face.
Nancy looks serene and relaxed, stretched out on the sofa and reading a newspaper. Well, he knows she’s stretched out; in the photo you can only see her profile, the fall of her sideswept bangs, the sheen of her teeth worrying her lip, and the fold of the newspaper. But he remembers snapping it from her kitchen, glad he’d tossed his camera onto the tiny table the night before when he turned, coffees in hand for each of them, and found the golden hour sunlight falling across her just right.
He holds it there, counting seconds, until the grays deepen just enough but the white doesn’t start to dull. Quickly slides it into the stop bath.
He is still feeling out what he wants from his life, but this is his small, warm sanctuary. Film is fun, film is frenetic, film is sexy and popular and cool, but it’s also exhausting and relentless and hard. He’s hated nearly everything he’s made – which everyone says means you’re doing it exactly right, but it’s frustrating too. Photography he knows like a well-worn footpath through the woods he made himself.
The photo has just slipped into its fixer soak when he hears the heavy clicks of the darkroom door opening, then closing, and the rustle of the curtain moving. Looks up to find a young man he doesn’t recognize amble in, backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Hey,” he says softly. The other guy returns his greeting in kind, then lopes over to the other enlarger and starts to unpack his stuff.
Jonathan would really prefer to line dry, but he also doesn’t want to be in this cramped space with anyone else, so he’ll have to split the difference. The photo gets a too-quick dip in the rinse, and then onto the line just to drip off.
As it hangs, he pulls off a few of the first photos he’d developed that morning; they only need a minute in the dryer to make sure the job is done and then he can label and file them. Adds the second batch to the shelves more directly in front of the fan, since they need more help.
He takes his time pulling up a stool to the desk next to his setup, organizing his binders and notebook, his labeling tools. Grabs his negatives and a couple extra plastic sleeve sheets, then finally unclips Nancy from the line and takes her to join the rest in the dryer.
Settles down, pops on his headphones, hits play on the Walkman and gets to work.
As Michael Stipe sings, he carefully organizes the negatives, slides them into the plastic sleeves, labels date and locations and clips the sheet into the correct half inch binder. That takes the first side of the tape. He flips it, then fetches his photos from the dryer and starts to repeat the process.
In the end, the photo of Nancy is still a little damp, but he won’t be back, not with the end of his summer sojourn so close, and he wants to give it to her, anyway, so he risks it.
The other guy is totally engrossed in his own work and his own headphones, but Jonathan gives him a nod anyway once his bag is repacked and his station cleaned up.
The darkroom isn’t that far from the east entrance of the school, so his eyes are still adjusting when he throws open the doors to the bright light of day.
Emphasis on bright.
It’s muggy as all hell, the air thick with humidity and the faint salty smell of harbor that lingers over Boston all the time, somehow, no matter how far from the harbor you actually are. He’s wondered, more than once, if the locals can even smell it or if that’s just his Midwestern nose, finely tuned to corn fields and cow shit, picking up the difference.
Still, he feels like walking. It’s not a short walk but his skin feels tight to his muscles. He gets like this sometimes, restless and buzzy, primed and poised for a threat that really isn’t coming anymore. But for four years it did, like a bad penny set to a doomsday clock.
In New York he walks for hours, traversing Manhattan and dipping into other boroughs, across bridges and back. It’s easy for him to keep a low profile so the dealers and muggers leave him alone, so he goes block by block, sometimes with headphones and sometimes without. Sometimes he brings his camera, but other times he finds himself striding out of his building’s front door and into the streets with no more than his keys and the screaming impulse of “away” and “moving.”
Boston is nice to walk, too. It’s smaller than the city, much smaller, but he likes to meander along the river and through the winding, knotted streets of its neighborhoods and adjacent cities. He’s become especially fond of the walk across the river to Cambridge, wandering the MIT campus or pushing further to Harvard Square, letting the low buildings and Ivy League landscaping calm his jitters and soothe his nerves until he feels himself back in his body again, feels how hard he’s breathing or how the hole in his sock has been drawn tight across the tip of his big toe.
After walks like that, he usually falls into Nancy’s arms on the sofa, physically sweaty and spent but mentally clear and quiet.
a love supreme (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler) (4/5)
rating: mature (it's horny)
part 4 of 5
part 1 | ao3 || part 2 | ao3 || part 3 | ao3
1. acknowledgement 2. resolution 3. pursuance 4. psalm
what lies ahead for two lives that just can't seem to untangle themselves.
Nancy runs her fingers through her hair for the twentieth time, trying to get the loose wave to sit just right. The cut is new and the girl in the salon made styling it look so easy, but she’s still learning her way around a round brush.
Finally cutting off the last remnants of those curls felt like the final push to shed her skin. She’s been in the habit of living in the past for a long time now. She hadn’t considered how long some things had been buried inside her. She never considered what, exactly, could come after.
She’d woken up early, uncomfortable in her childhood bed now that she sleeps on other mattresses, and spent the morning going through her closet, sorting the rows of pastel dresses, skirts and blouses into piles for herself, Holly, and the Goodwill. Two of them were notably larger than the other.
She considers herself now in the mirror, clad in soft neutrals and made up in a palette of rusted reds and browns. It’s all in stark contrast to the vivid purple of her walls, the pastel pinks and yellows of her bedding, the white wicker of the furniture her mom picked out. She used to match her clothes, her makeup, everything to those colors. She doesn’t anymore. But she doesn’t clash, either.
The night Jonathan stayed after they went hunting for a monster, when staring at her ceiling only worked for so long, she’d stared at his black t-shirt and black jeans against her bedspread and tried to reconcile the dark with the pastel. It was so sorely out of place. Even Steve snuck in through her window in soft grays and muted greens, synced with this suburban vision.
She had tried out her own dark clothes when they went to trap a monster, testing the waters of her own contrast. Like so many things that fall it hadn’t stuck, at least not right away, but it had burrowed its way inside her; a seed planted, one of many, that had taken root when she least expected.
“Nancy!” Her mom’s voice drifts up from the foyer. “Come on, we’re going to be late!”
She slides her feet into loafers and hustles down the stairs.
Mike left earlier, summoned to school early for… something. She’s not quite sure; the class of ’86 didn’t get a typical graduation. They didn’t get a graduation at all, actually. With the town overrun by the military, dozens of funerals to arrange and steel plates being screwed over glowing cracks to alternate dimensions, Nancy didn’t so much graduate as receive her diploma in the mail in mid-June.
(She’d cried in her bedroom after opening it, Jonathan rubbing gentle circles on her back and trying to soothe her, but he couldn’t, not when she couldn’t even put into words why it felt like such a failure.)
The day is bright and warm, and she wishes she had thought to grab sunglasses as they walk onto the Hawkins High football field. Holds a hand above her eyes as she scans the setup; a stage, curtains in the school colors, row after row of folding chairs, bleachers set up for friends and family. Her parents find their peers quickly, exchanging hugs and handshakes with the Sinclairs and Mrs. Henderson, congratulating each other on shepherding their sons successfully through high school, pointedly talking around the other things those boys had to survive.
Nancy accepts the hugs herself, fields questions about how college is going with a vague “Oh, it’s complicated, but Boston’s really great.” She’ll have to provide answers in full later today, when everyone has gathered at the graduation party her mom has been planning for weeks. Assuming they don’t already know at least part of the story from afternoon telephone calls.
When Joyce arrives, she’s pulled into the gaggle as well and Nancy scans the crowd of families behind her, searching for Jonathan. He’s not there.
After a moment Joyce catches her eye, a knowing sparkle in her gaze, and subtly cocks her head over to the side of the bleachers. She turns and sees him – still clad head to toe in black, still dark against the vivid colors of the bright day – with a small pile of equipment, building something she can’t quite make out. The sleeves of his blazer are pushed up, and she can see his forearms flex.
Her stomach does a little loop de loop, and she covers her grin with a hand.
a love supreme (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler (3/5)
rating: mature (it's horny)
part 3 of 5
part 1 | ao3 || part 2 | ao3
1. acknowledgement 2. resolution 3. pursuance 4. psalm
what lies ahead for two lives that just can't seem to untangle themselves.
Nancy adjusts the strap of her overnight bag, glancing down again at the hastily scribbled directions on the torn piece of last semester’s Introduction to College Writing syllabus, and is nearly mowed down by a man in a suit barking angrily into a Dictaphone, swinging his briefcase like a battering ram.
Seven million people. You can really feel it.
“I don’t know, I just feel antsy,” she said. It’s not the right word. She feels like she’s crawling out of her skin. Every assignment, every paper, every worksheet, even the articles she writes for The Berkeley Beacon, they make her feel like she’s trapped.
Jonathan hummed sympathetically from New York. She could hear crackling, or more accurately rustling, on his end of the phone, tried to decipher what it could be as she climbed off the bed and meandered the scant two feet to the window. She could see falling snow illuminated by streetlights.
There was a louder rustle, then a muffled crash and then Jonathan’s voice, clearer: Fuck!
“You ok over there?”
“Yeah. I mean, no, I mean—sorry, sorry, what were you saying?”
She laughed at that, clear and full, and imagined he had an answering smile on his face.
“I said I’m antsy. Or something worse,” she repeated. “Also, it’s snowing again.”
“You wanted Boston,” he reminded her and she heard something clatter. “Oh, I give up.”
“And we have this break next week—do you have a break next week?”
“A break?” he sounded bewildered and she finally had his attention back. “Nance, it’s February.”
“I know but there are no classes! I don’t know why, no one seems to know why, but Chelsea was saying they do this every year. Even the Beacon stops publishing for a week. It’s weird.”
“It’s not fair, is what it is. I don’t have Spring Break until April.”
“Me neither! I don’t know what this break is, but everyone but me seems to have somewhere to go? At this rate I’m gonna be snowed in with nothing to do but homework.” She plopped down on her bed. “It’s bullshit.”
“So come down here,” Jonathan offered and she nearly dropped the phone.
“What?”
“Come to the city. I don’t have class on Mondays, there’s plenty to do if you want to stay the whole week. I don’t think we’ll need to build you a tent or anything.”
It caught her right between the ribs the memory and the implication that there was enough room in his bed for two, that she’d be welcome to have a place there.
She couldn’t examine that. “You don’t have class on Mondays?”
“Look,” he sounded like he knew exactly what she was avoiding, “you don’t have to answer now, but seriously, you’re welcome. I really don’t mind. I think you’d even like it.”
She looked down at her own narrow, too-bouncy mattress, frowned.
“You sure you’ve got enough room for me?”
“It’s not a palace but it’s not bad.” It seemed to occur to him for the first time that maybe this was a bit forward. “We could, uh, probably find a sleeping bag, if you want.”
“If you don’t mind, I don’t mind,” she said carefully.
“I don’t mind.” His voice was warm and suddenly so was she. “I can give you directions from Penn Station.”
a love supreme (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler) (2/?)
rating: explicit (yeah it's porn)
part 2 of at least 4
part 1 | ao3
1. acknowledgement 2. resolution 3. pursuance 4. psalm
what lies ahead for two lives that just can't seem to untangle themselves.
The party mourns and mourns together, in each other’s basements and bedrooms. Nancy feels sometimes like she’s caught in a loop—they fight, they win(?), they mourn, they try to forget, and it turns out they failed. Second verse, same as the first.
Once again, Dustin and Lucas and Will (and Max, now, Max is there too) clomp into the Wheeler house, down to the basement, and stay for hours. Once again, she catches shouts and sobs through the home’s vents. Once again, in the smallest hours of the morning, she hears her brother tuning his walkie talkie – battered and worn now – and saying her name into static.
Just in case.
She stole his walkie one night, years ago, snuck it out of his hand and into her bedroom, softly calling down frequency 565 until Will’s annoyed, sleepy voice answered. When she’d asked for Jonathan he hadn’t said anything and she’d held her breath until she heard his soft voice saying her name through the distortion.
It was the first night after everything that she didn’t dream. Mike woke her when he snatched it out of her comforter but never said a word about it after.
Once upon a time, she’d thrown herself into Steve; now, she focuses on the rest of her family. Holly comes home from the hospital first, physically in the best shape but full of guilt and questions and nightmares and new fears. She tries her best to explain to her baby sister how it happened, starting from the beginning, and sometimes Holly makes a face like something has reemerged from the corners of her memory.
Nancy wants to ask. She doesn’t.
Her mom comes home second. She is weak, she is bruised, and she is torn but ultimately, she is very much alive. She doesn’t go digging for her old turtlenecks, instead choosing vee-necked holiday dresses that show off her decolletage.
Nancy watches the gashes heal into scars and practices holding her head as high as her mother.
Her father takes the longest. His injuries aren’t as showy, but it takes time for the swelling in brain to go down enough to end his medically induced coma, and more time for him to regain his strength and mobility before they will let him be in a house with stairs.
For a while, Nancy finds it hard to breathe around him, as if the smallest disturbance to the air might send him right back to his hospital bed. Then one evening Mike’s voice drifts up from the basement – Oh, fuck that! – and without looking up from his newspaper her father simply calls “Language!” and she knows they all really will be OK this time.
(And if she has nightmares sometimes, some nights, every night, about melting rooms filling with liquid concrete, flooding mouths, choking off confessions and promises and declarations that must be made, if she dreams she is cowering with a monster’s hot breath and no flames stop it from sinking a thousand teeth into her, well, no she doesn’t.)
Jonathan remains. It feels like the winter of ’83 again, with him hovering around the edges as Joyce helps Hopper grieve and, as the Wheelers come home one by one, packs up and moves her family to the cabin with a week to spare before Christmas.
a love supreme (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler) (1/?)
rating: explicit (yeah it's porn)
part 1 of at least 4
1. acknowledgement 2. resolution 3. pursuance 4. psalm
what lies ahead for two lives that just can't seem to untangle themselves.
The house is too quiet. Her mom and dad are still in the hospital, her sister now too, and after three straight days of her heart hammering a heavy metal soundtrack of fear and determination in her chest, the quiet of the Wheeler home is almost painful.
Especially now that the steady din of the shower is turned off.
There was nowhere else to go. Nothing else to be done. As the soldiers slowly retreated, parting like the Red Sea – unsure of what was to be done without a Gate, a portal, a wormhole, or the prize they were after, the prize they saw blow herself away along with everything else in that place – as they got back into trucks and then vans and then cars, as the hospital staff reminded them – first gently, then nearly shoving them out doors – that visiting hours were over, as they stumbled over themselves on ever-weaker legs into the parking lot, all roads led back to her house.
“When did we last eat?” Robin wondered aloud. “I can’t remember the last time I ate.”
“Or slept,” Steve added.
“Or showered,” said Dustin, looking down at the sticky residue still clinging to his limp, soiled ghillie suit.
“Yeah, you stink,” Lucas chimed in, but his heart wasn’t really in it, not enough to draw the chuckle it was meant to. Nancy looked to her brother, still staring shellshocked into the middle distance like he had been since the Upside Down and everything inside it vanished before their eyes, but the sight of him so drawn and grieving was hard to take. Her eyes slid away and landed on Jonathan instead, a habit so well-formed over the last four years it was simple muscle memory.
He was dirty, streaks of black greasy ash on his skin from the flamethrower and the side of the truck where the soldiers had slammed him, and dusty, and there was still some of that goop in his hair from that Other Lab, and he was beautiful. Something tugged in her throat, her chest, the same tug she had felt when their eyes met as she cradled Holly against her in the trailer and she forgot why she had ever been upset with him for the last year in the first place.
These adventures always used to land them back in the Byers’ cramped living room, but that house hadn’t been theirs for years now. She wasn’t even sure if it was still standing, after all this (and didn’t that just feel somehow unfair). Now his things were crammed in her basement alongside his brother’s. Well, whatever wasn’t stashed in her own room.
“We can go to our house.” Nancy spoke without thought, offering the only answer available to them now. “We’ve got enough room.”
And no one had a counterargument to that, so away they went.
By her count there are at least nine other people in her house right now, with Joyce and Hopper still dealing, steely eyed, with the government. At least five of them are the naturally loudest group of kids she’s ever known, but she can’t hear a peep. The house is silent save for the sound of forced heat moving through the vents. She can’t even hear the television.
right where it belongs (jonathan byers/nancy wheeler)
rating: general (who am i? what have i become?)
word count: 1,853
read it on ao3
you keep looking but you can't find the woods when you're hiding in the trees
quiet moments between the chaos after the most romantic supposed "break up" ever put on tv.
Thump.
Thump.
THUMP.
Nancy closes her eyes, wiggles her toes on the foot that has lost its shoe to whatever had been slowly filling up the room before… well, before what, she’s not sure.
She’s not sure why it stopped.
Thump.
She’s not sure why it hardened.
Thump.
She’s not sure how they’re going to get out of here.
Thump. THUMP.
But she’s sure that Jonathan running himself into a wall isn’t going to do the trick.
“Jonathan.”
Thump.
“Jonathan.” She tries not to roll her eyes as he backs up, then tries not to giggle at his flying kick.
“Jonathan, stop!”
“What?!” He's out of breath.
“If we hurt ourselves,” she reminds him, “we’re really screwed.”
He leans against the wall, spent. It’s only how cold the Upside Down is that is keeping his t-shirt from showing sweat from his exertions, she knows, and she tries her best not to focus on that, or the way his shoulders move as he breathes hard.
She shouldn’t, she thinks.
Wait, why shouldn’t she?
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he sighs and plops down on the cool gray surface across from her.
There’s no bite in that statement, no strain in his voice. And when he asks her what they should do now, and the joke rolls off her tongue without effort.
“Got anything else you wanna confess?” she quips and he laughs without hesitation. They grin at each other, eyes meeting.
It feels easy. It feels so much easier than anything has felt for months now.
It feels light and airy and like when they stood at the trunk of his car, and he asked her what was weirder, him or the bear trap, and the joke rolled off her tongue without effort or hesitation then, too.
[you. it’s definitely you.]
And they had smiled, and chuckled, and her chest had felt so open and so free.
It rushes over her, the emotion of that memory and the echo in this moment, and she can’t help but wonder where the hell they went so wrong that it took this to clear the air and bring them back to center.
[to each other]
A crash breaks her train of thought, breaks their eye contact, and soon breaks the wall. It’s Steve and Dustin; they’re free. It takes everything she has not to grab Jonathan’s hand, not to wrap her arms around his waist as they grin at each other, not to grab his hand again when they make it through the hole and back to their friends.
She wants to examine that, wants to turn it over in her hands like a puzzle, but Dustin has a notebook and then Holly’s voice begins to echo from above and there is no quiet moment to reflect, no time to do anything but run. Run to her sister, run to triumph, run to victory.
Run to have it all snatched out of her fingertips. Run to fail, again.
+++
Their shoulders fit together.
This is something Nancy discovered in 1984, standing in a dark and dank basement in rural Illinois with nothing but her own determination and a solid chest with a soft sweater behind her. And he had stepped forward and the groove of her shoulder blade fit perfectly into the dip where his shoulder met his collarbone and she had felt invincible, like Lady Justice on fire and unstoppable.
She’s perched on a chair and he’s hovering behind it and they are both listening, brows furrowed, intent, as Dustin draws something hard to see on the clear glass of the Squawk’s DJ booth and explains something harder to understand at lightning speed. She wants to stand up, or perhaps drag him down onto the seat behind her, and fit their shoulders together so she can feel that again.
Too much is happening. Too much, too quickly, too new. She can’t remember the last time she ate, the last time she slept, the last time her back hasn’t felt rock hard with stress and tension, the last time she had a moment to process the new information thrown at them at a firehose’s pace without having to jump headfirst into a new hairbrained scheme, another plan, another try, another fail.
[she never read Slaughterhouse Five, but she did read Waiting for Godot, and she will never tell him how much she liked it.]
She wants to feel strong. Invincible.
She turns her head, catches Jonathan’s eye. Looks down at the space on the chair cushion beside her, then back up at him.
His brow furrows the tiniest bit under his bangs.
[she wasn’t entirely fair to his hair, but she liked the swoop from the fall of 1984 the best]
She repeats the motion. He looks pointedly at Hopper, who is now at the glass. She repeats it again.
Third time’s the charm. Using the tiniest sliding motions, like he’s afraid to get caught, he rounds the edge of the chair. She scoots to make room, but not too far. Not too much space. Just enough for his butt, and for his shoulder behind hers.
He sits delicately on the corner, a careful two inches between them. His eyes stay trained on the center of the room.
It takes all of Nancy’s willpower not to huff.
She scoots to give him more room and he follows, his posture relaxing as he leans forward and listens. When she lets her legs fall open, her knee just barely against his, he doesn’t jerk away.
Instead, she feels the stiffened crinkle of her goo-covered jeans as he presses, ever so slightly, back.
+++
Hopper hands out assignments like a drill sergeant. To no one’s surprise, she is assigned to the armory.
To perhaps Jonathan’s surprise, he is assigned to join her.
Nancy thinks she may need to remind him that it was just the two of them in that room.
The armory is dark and quiet, and Jonathan pulls the door shut behind them before walking to the center of the room and taking it in. He puts his hands on his hips, one just slightly cocked, as he surveys the walls they’ve covered with a stash of weapons that would probably make the federal government very, very afraid.
“OK, so—"
She moves without thinking, stepping up behind him and winding her arms around his waist. Resting her cheek against his shoulder blade; another place she found out they fit perfectly.
[we could hide you in the basement--]
She feels him stiffen up; she’s caught him off guard.
“Nancy, what—”
“Shh,” she hushes him softly, nose in the fabric of his shirt. She’s very glad this part of his clothing is not goo-ed. “Just for a minute. It’s quiet. How long has it been since it was quiet?”
He doesn’t answer. She lets her eyes slide shut, breathes him in, lets the hum of the building’s electricity and the muffled bustle of the rest of the station beyond the door fill her ears. Slowly, like if he moves too fast she will run, or perhaps simply dissolve, his hands leave his hips and come to rest on top of hers on his stomach.
“You said—” he starts.
“I know.”
“And I said—”
“I know.”
He turns without breaking her grip, and she leans back enough to let him, but her hands hold their clasp firmly. She doesn’t want to open her eyes but does and finds him already looking at her. She speaks first, because she knows he won't.
“It feels different. Doesn’t it?”
“It does.” The wary note in his voice is loud in her ears.
“It feels easy,” she presses, and he nods. She can see the questions swirling behind his eyes. “Can we just be easy for a minute?”
“It won’t stay easy,” he points out. “Nothing about what they said out there is easy.”
“Not that.” She shakes her head. “This. Us. Can we just be easy?”
“Nance—”
She cuts him off with her mouth, rising onto toes so fast she almost smacks their noses together in a way that would really, really hurt. But she doesn’t; he reacts just in time to meet her mouth to mouth, no pain, just soft warm lips and the taste of a tongue she hasn’t savored like this in a long time.
Neither moves to end it quickly; instead they let it stretch. His hands come up from her hips to cup her face, his ring finger and pinky behind her ear in a touch that has driven her mad more times than she can count. They don’t have time for that, not now. Maybe they should have, in the goo room. She feels a twinge of regret, and kisses him harder.
No time for that now, and maybe not ever. Because—
[how come we only hang out when the world is ending?]
He takes sips from her lips as they separate slowly, reluctantly. If she angled her hips forward she know she’d be able to feel the same want in him. She can’t bring herself to move back more than an inch for now.
“Just until the world ends,” she whispers, their breath still mingled.
“Or doesn’t,” he offers.
His optimism is like a shot of fire up her spine. She kisses him, short and hard, one last time before dropping onto her heels again.
“Or doesn’t,” she echoes, and there it is—that feeling that she can do anything. The Jonathan Byers special. The one she has needed – and gotten – before every mission they’ve ever gone on.
Another mission waits for her now, after the world doesn’t end for the last time. It’s finally her turn to stop looking for monsters and start looking for herself, past the façade and the armor, the career ambitions and the perfect GPA. Something she put aside the night Barb disappeared and has refused to return to since.
She has learned, in these intervening years, to see so many things so clearly. She has refused to turn that gaze onto herself.
[i don’t… retreat]
Not anymore.
[she found him once in a strange and confusing place. she thinks she'll find him again.]
She lets his waist go, reluctantly; he slides his hands from her face, down her shoulders and arms, catches her hands. His thumb unconsciously runs over the final faint traces of her scar.
She flips their hands over, drops his to set their scars end to end again. Cells on the palm turn over quickly, but she can see them without having to strain.
[it made me feel safe. but it also felt—]
For a moment everything in the room goes still and time seems to stop. There is an ache deep in her chest, but when she inhales she can breathe deeply with ease.
She looks up. He is smiling and his eyes are clear.
“I love you,” she whispers. His smile widens.
“I love you,” he repeats, and drops her hands. “Now, which guns do you want?”
generally? it's hard to describe? like, it's like Ye Olde Definition of obscenity: "i know it when i see it."
specifically? anyone calling jonathan byers "jon." jonathan and nancy using "babe" or "baby" or "honey" or pet names like that. pretty much any character written without a sense of humor.
if i can't hear it in the character's voice, it's OOC. if i can't feel its roots in the canon text it's OOC. (that doesn't mean it has to happen but like, if i'm sitting here going 'when has X ever done something remotely like that' ya done fucked up). and if i can hear it in the AUTHOR'S voice, then it's the OOCest of OOC.
that's a terrible answer, but it's the best i can do.
31. What was the most difficult fic for you to write (but in the end you made it)?
"untitled document". that fic was an absolute bitch. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO WRITE LOVE LETTERS??? THAT AREN'T YOUR OWN??????????
HI SORRY IT'S THE HOLIDAY SEASON LIFE GOT BUSY i'm back on my answering asks game:
2. Anything that you'd like to write but feel like you're unable to?
Like, so many things? There are active WIPs that are stuck, there are ideas that are stuck, there are entire genres and tropes I feel like I don't the skill or ability to do. Writing is eternal dissatisfaction, I swear.
15. What's your favourite plotless fic you have written?
Ooooh. Hmmmmmmmmm. Honestly probably like all of the birb prompt fics from that one post that went around, the one with the beautiful paintings of birds with INSANE titles like "if you clone me, my first order of business will be to kill you all" and honestly y'all sent so many prompts and they're all so unhinged and the only one that has a plot is "moments when my gaze go vacant" so i'm gonna say "all the other birb prompts." they're all in my ao3 under "Polaroids"
30. Describe a fic that almost happened, but then it didn't
I got a fic prompt for Jancy that was "Do you still love me?" and i wrote something so angsty I couldn't actually finish it and it has never been worked on since.
What is it about watching the same two idiots falling in love over and over again?
dude i do not know but it's like craaaaaaaaaack, like, the pleasure of getting to get these two dummies to kiss over and over in every possible way is THE BEST.
i love them only if we get resolution in a sequel (or if the author finishes the wip), otherwise i will rage forever about it. i can't bear to write them without resolving them.
Top three favorite fic tropes
One bed what do?, Fake dating/marriage, and.... enemies to lovers, probs. Or requited feelings we think are unrequited/talking at cross-purposes (whatever that's officially called)
Past or present tense? Why?
honestly, no real general preference, just what feels right for the story. i think i typically write in present tense because it feels more natural and it also lets me do flashbacks simply by switching tenses (or without having to go to past perfect or past perfect continuous tense, which is trickier to write consistently) and not having to do things like italicize or put in visual breaks.
to the nonny who just sent me the url of a stancy gifset with a “:(” -- yeah, dude, people ship stancy just like i ship jancy and they’re gonna make gifsets and write fics of their ship the same way i do with my ship.
i cannot stress this enough: CURATE YOUR FANDOM EXPERIENCE. fandom is not some sort of zero sum contest in which the goal is to convert everyone to your ship. block stancy blogs, block stancy tags, don’t go in said tags, and ignore posts that aren’t for you. just keep scrolling.
idk what you wanted to accomplish by sending me that. i do not care that it exists. (i also watched season 4; i i knew by the URL what gifs they were gonna pull and i’m over it.) i’m not here to fight anyone on the ship they ship.
i think jonathan and nancy are soulmates, and i think jonathan and nancy are gonna end up together because i can’t imagine it going any other way. i think they’ve been building it up this whole time. and we’ll see what happens, because i do not write this show. if it doesn’t go that way, well, that’s what fix-it fic is for.
in the meantime, i’m not gonna get into the ship wars fray. i’m here to enjoy the things about stranger things that i enjoy. i’m not here to pick fights with people.
