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.”