#st 2

[holleighgolightly]

It will always piss me off that they nerfed the Mind Flayer by diminishing its truly awesome size.

None of the other characters were ever able to truly appreciate this moment

Oh. You don't see Will?

Here let me--

Those 2 pixels are a 13 year old Will Byers standing his ground against an ancient eldrich interdimensional monstrosity and telling it to fuck right off.

[milevenposting]

Do you wanna dance? I don't know how. I don't either. Do you want to figure it out?

[peachhcs]

stranger things masterlist ★ ☆

→ find all things stranger things related here!

UPDATED: 01/12/26

mike wheeler

imagines

you’re not crazy

through the tranquility

requests

you're burned into my memory

seventeen days | seventeen and a half days (part 2)

blurbs

playing with your hair

friends to lovers mini series (mike + y/n)

canon fics following s5 + my own add-ins

some protector

the turnbow trap

the sorcerer

shock jock

escape from camazotz

the bridge

final ep teaser chap

side stories that are interconnected

pretty far from the ocean

finn wolfhard

off the record au

a story of you and finn growing up on the st. set together and falling in love in the process

[jonathanbyersphd]

Acknowledgement | Resolution | Pursuance | Psalm

A Love Supreme

[velvet4510]

Mike's s2 Speech to Will vs. Mike's s4 Speech to El

The main similarity between Mike's s2 monologue to Will and his s4 monologue to El is that they are both speeches in which Mike remembers the first time he met each of them in an effort to save each of them from supernatural control. But the differences are profoundly baked into the artistic compositions of each scene, especially in three particular aspects: the writing, acting, and cinematography, which are all polar opposites. Nobody is "delusional" to notice the creative choices that were made in each of these scenes. No matter if the filmmakers were intending for the El speech to be romantic and the Will speech to be not romantic, the fact remains that the finished scenes are vice versa in pretty much every way.

Writing: The speech to Will is entirely unprompted. Nobody else in the room asks Mike to say anything to Will, nor does Mike have any preconceived notion of what exactly Will wants to hear at this moment; he just says it, without hesitation. When he does, he describes with great specificity something that Will did for him. He admits how alone and scared he was until he saw Will that day, until Will became his ray of hope. He then recalls how Will accepted his offer to be friends, a simple action that changed everything for Mike. Finally, he describes their whole meeting as an active choice: the best thing he's ever done. And that's it. He doesn't embellish or dramatize his speech; the topic is clear and focused. There's nothing he needs to add; he connects with Will by simply speaking from his heart. He does not say anything cliche like “I love you” or “I can’t lose you”; he conveys those very sentiments by showing how much that specific moment meant to him, and still means to him to this day. On the other hand, the speech to El is prompted. Will urges Mike to say it, and Mike knows there is something El wants to hear, so he says it, only after a noticeable hesitation. He then launches into a long ramble full of what the text of s1 proves to be lies. His only specificity is in what her shirt looked like that day, then he switches to generalities. Instead of mentioning any specific moment where she actually did some particular thing that deeply affected him, he just makes claim after claim - “I love you on your good days AND your bad days” and “I can’t lose you” - without anything substantial to back them up. In short, though both are technically telling, El’s only has telling, while Will’s has showing within the telling.

Acting: Finn Wolfhard’s performances in these two scenes are night and day. At 14, he does some truly astounding work in his speech to Will, far surpassing the talent of most child actors at that age. He uses the “Will voice” the entire time, telling the story in that soft, low, tender tone and pitch. There is a restraint and yet a deep heartfelt passion in his face and his voice. And, in an extreme rarity for Mike, he openly sheds a tear. He doesn’t overdo it; he simply speaks directly from his soul to Will’s soul. It is an achingly intimate and emotionally genuine piece of acting. On the other hand, with El, he never whispers nor sheds any tears. Instead, he basically shouts. He speaks loudly and emphatically to her, which adds such a sense of artificiality to all his words, as his volume feels performative, like he’s thinking “I’m saying it, okay? happy now?” There is tension and pressure in his expression and overall physicality. It feels forced, not genuine. The eye contact is also polar opposite; he looks directly into Will’s open eyes, but there is a barrier between him and El since her eyes are closed and her reactions are literally a world away.

Cinematography: This is the most staggering comparison because the entire aesthetics of these scenes could not be less similar. The background behind Mike and Will is blackened, so that the room and people around them literally disappear, and they are placed into a visual world of just the two of them. They might as well be in the Void with how nonexistent their surroundings become. The camera is focused solely on the two of them; Mike’s baring of his soul, and Will’s reactions. Other people are in the room, but they are irrelevant, so they are entirely ignored. The shots of Mike include the back of Will’s head, emphasizing that Mike is saying this directly to him, rather than just sending words into space. Will’s reactions are brightly lit, symbolizing the light that Mike is restoring for him with his love. On the other hand, nothing is dimmed for Mike and El. The pizzeria remains visible behind him and the mindscape remains visible behind her. Not only that, but the camera does not stay with just the two of them. It also cuts away to draw attention to Will and Jonathan’s reactions, destroying any potential intimacy and adding to the sense of this being a performance with an audience. Also the shots of Mike either isolate him or frame him with Will visibly behind him; none of them frame him together with El. And El’s reaction shots show the vine tightening around her, and the lighting around her remaining dark and ominous and creepy; the visuals convey that his words are not moving her.

It’s not our fault that only one of these scenes was actually written, acted, and photographed to be romantic.

[manpleblog]

[sheisjoeschateau]

📁Hawkins’ Hottest Manny

♡ A Stranger Things Limited Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. 📼 ALL Episodes (+infodump file) below

☾⋆⁺₊ Welcome to the full series masterlist. ⋆⁺₊☾

Nanny!Steve Harrington x baby girl Prior King Steve turned unpaid babysitter turned full-time nanny to a newborn baby girl. Playboy turned protector, and eventual love story when Steve meets someone who finally helps him move on from Nancy. But the real love story is the paternal love he shares with little Mia Browne. 18+

🍼 SUMMARY: Steve Harrington had no clue that taking a beating from Billy Hargrove and protecting those kids in the tunnels full of demodogs… would make him go from pretty playboy to protector.

After the Starcourt Mall collapses and Hawkins calls it an “act of God,” the former king of high school hallways accidentally falls into the best job of his life: nanny to an infant baby girl, born into a ridiculously wealthy family that barely seems to notice her. Hired through pure small-town grapevine gossip and vouching moms who swear he’s responsible as hell, Steve goes from flunkout fuqboi Scoops Ahoy dingus to full-time “manny” faster than he can even process it. Mia Browne becomes his routine, his calm, and the only place his nightmares don’t follow him, turning him soft and fiercely overprotective in ways that confuse the hell out of him. While he’s still carrying a torch for Nancy Wheeler and rebuilding his life alongside his new best friend Robin, and looking out for the kids who roped into all this mess… Steve quietly discovers a purpose that feels a lot like family.

Translation? Hawkins hottest babysitter grows up by rocking six pounds of innocent little magic to sleep — and ends up completely whipped for it.

♡ AUTHOR’S NOTE: There's nothing I love more than when an insecure playboy of a heterosexual male, who's got both mommy and daddy issues, gets humbled by life and becomes a protector... then family man.

Especially if said male is Steve Harrington. <3

As always, this went from being a 45k+ word one-shot to an extended entity of its own. Same thing happened with "Tell Me What You Need" (TMWYN), it just became far bigger than I expected and expanded into a multi-part fic. Granted, this won't be like OSWDLS or MERCY — where's is a multi-chapter, 4-book saga. This work of mine simply lives in its own little snow globe on my self-indulgent library shelf.

this series is forever dedicated to my pen pal && uni sister @moonlightdreamer111 ♡

[see my author’s file scraps below with misc. details, face cards etc]

:) enjoy "Hawkins' Hottest Manny."

Xx, misha

starts end of S2 -> into pre/during/post S3 -> S4 -> S5

THIS IS AN 18+ FANFIC. Minors, do not initiate.

🍼 OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS/NOTES: strong language and mature themes, Upside Down mayhem ensued with real-life darkness, neglected childhood and postpartum, substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, etc.), deeply rooted traumas, mutually shared triggers and traumas, some graphic descriptions of injuries and medical procedures, very outdated mindsets and misogyny (the 80's weren't all that fun, guys, and here we are — still dealing with some of this shit), some Stancy pining and eventual smut when Steve's love story enters the picture... with a surprise crossover character.

EP 1 | Season 2 (The Pilot: "The Manny") [takes place post-S2, after the tunnels] EP 2 | Season 3 (The Fall of Starcourt) EP 3 | Season 3 (West Wing Mornings)

EP 4 | Season 4 (The Calm Before the Storm) EP 5 | Season 4 (The Earthquakes) EP 6 | Season 4 (Aftershocks) EP 7 | Season 4 (Day 2: Volunteering in Hawkins) EP 8 | Season 4 (Day 3: A Career that Matters) EP 9 | Season 4 (A World in Motion) NOVEMBER 1986 — NEW YEAR’S EVE (-> into 1987) EP 10 | Season 5 (Crawling) EP 11 | Season 5 (Crawling Forward)

EP 12 | Season 5 (Saltwater, High Tide and Low Tide) EP 13 | Season 5 (Undertow) EP 14 | Season 5 (Little Gold Studs) -> Part II: Mia’s 1st Birthday 🎈

SOUNDTRACK [coming soon] Season 2 🎧 “Long Story Short” by Taylor Swift 🎧 “Right Where You Left Me” by Taylor Swift 🎧 “Take a Chance on Me” on ABBA Season 3 🎧 “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To” by Dinah Shore 🎧 “Don’t You Ever Grown Up” by Taylor Swift 🎧 “You Are My Sunshine” by Bing Crosby 🎧 “Healing Hurts” by BLÜ EYES 🎧 “August” by Taylor Swift Season 4 🎧 “Good Thing” by Fine Young Cannibals 🎧 “You’d Never Know” by BLÜ EYES 🎧 “When It’s Cold, I’d Like to Die” (Orchestra Version) Season 5 🎧 “There She Goes” 🎧 “I’m Not the Man I Used to Be” by Fine Young Cannibals 🎧 “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps” by Doris Day 🎧 “My Kind of Girl” by ABBA 🎧 “Epiphany” by Taylor Swift Series Finale 🎧 TBD

[honey-tongued-devil]

↞[Stranger things preference] After a street fight↠

▶ [Billy, Eddie, Steve, Jonathan] after a street fight

NdA: the relationship between the reader and the characters is still in an early stage, which allows me to keep (and analyze) them closer to their on-screen portrayals. Some entries may lean a little more into fluff and show the characters in a looser light, but my goal is to keep them as authentic and true to canon as possible. Hope you'll like it <3 If you’d like to read more of my work, I’ve published the first chapter of Why Do You Cry on AO3, a fix-it fic with Billy and Eddie. [Click here to read.] + [if you notice the layout is a bit messed up, it's because google doc is acting up I can't fixing]

↠If you have any requests, ask the devil.↞

Billy Hargrove

• Billy is still vibrating with rage when it ends. Not cooling off, as if instead of letting the leftover adrenaline and anger dissipate, he were setting them aside for a moment when they’d be needed again, and as if he expected that moment to come within the next five minutes

• Like his body missed the part where it’s supposed to stand down. His knuckles are split, one cheek already swelling because of one of the few hits the other guy managed to land, blood smeared across the upper part of his shirt where he wiped his hand after clearing the trickle running from his busted lip.

• He’s breathing hard, not from pain but from all the adrenaline that never got a proper outlet, mixed with the physical effort of hitting harder than necessary just to bleed off some pent up anger. That’s what he hates most, being interrupted before he can finish what he started.

• When you step in and call his name from across the street a second before rushing over, something in him snaps sideways

• “What?” The word comes out like a bark, sharp enough to cut. He doesn’t look at you at first. He spits to the side, wipes his mouth again, smearing more blood onto the concrete like grease.

• If you try to touch him, just a hand on his arm, instinctive and stupid, that’s the moment everything goes red. He grabs your wrist hard. Not calculated. Not careful. Fingers closing fast and tight, yanking you closer like his body reacts before his brain can stop it. The grip is bruising, angry, more than controlling.

• “Don’t fucking touch me.”

• It’s low, teeth bared, right in your face. His eyes are wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide, long lashes damp with sweat, daring you to make this worse. For a split second it’s unclear whether he’s angrier at you for stepping in or at the fact that you saw him like this at all.

• He lets go just as abruptly, like he suddenly realizes the contact burns, and shoves your hand away without stepping back an inch, like you crossed a line.

• “What do you think you’re doing?” Not concern. Not gratitude. Accusation. And if you say you were worried he could be hurt, he laughs, short and ugly.

• “The fuck do you want from me, huh?” He hisses this time, his eyes don’t blink, like he found the idea of you thinking he might be in pain offensive. Like it’s an insult to even point it out.

• He doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want sympathy. He doesn’t want witnesses, not while the heat of the fight is still warming his blood. The idea that someone might think he needs something makes his stomach twist with rage. Help implies weakness. Weakness implies leverage. And worse than that, the idea that someone could look at him, see him win, see him still standing, not faltering for a second, and still worry about him makes him feel like he lost anyway, like his teeth were on the asphalt.

• He paces like a caged animal, runs a hand through his hair, smearing blood into it without noticing. If you suggest leaving, sitting down, cleaning up, anything remotely practical, he cuts you off immediately.

• “I’m fine.” Louder than necessary. Final. He doesn’t explain the fight. Doesn’t justify it. Doesn’t soften it.

• “He deserved it.” End of story. If you question that, even slightly, his eyes harden. “Mind your fucking business,” is the last response you will receive.

• He gets in the car once he’s burned off enough adrenaline pacing back and forth, but he still slams the door harder than necessary. He drives fast, reckless, knuckles almost bleeding against the steering wheel.

• Even later, when he’s alone in his bathroom, he doesn’t check his injuries. Doesn’t wash up properly. Doesn’t wrap his hand. He doesn’t care enough to bother. He’s used to it. It’s not bad enough to be worth the attention, and covering up the torn skin on his knuckles would only risk his father noticing something that could quickly turn into an excuse to start a way worse fight than the one he had.

• Something Billy avoids as much as possible. 

• In the days that follow, he won’t bring it up. Ever. If you do, he shuts it down with a glare and a sharp “it’s done.”

• He knows that snap of anger aimed at you weighs between you, but Billy doesn’t want to be helped. And part of him, a small uncooperative voice in a dark corner of his head, expects that reaction to scare you enough to pull away.

• Maybe he even hopes it will.

• Not because he doesn’t like you. Not because he hates your reaction. But because the most reasonable thing to do with someone hard to love and hard to help is to give up. And in his case, that would prove that getting attached is bullshit.

• Still, in the days that follow, even if it’s barely visible, he stays on alert. Fewer comments. Always available for rides. Always an extra bottle of water in his bag. Just in case you need it, but not evident enough to let you know that he’s thinking about it.

Eddie Munson

• Eddie comes back from the fight buzzing like a live wire, adrenaline still chewing through him. Blood runs freely from his nose and split lip, knuckles torn, jacket half off his shoulder like he forgot how sleeves work. He’s laughing when he sees you, actually laughing, which is never a good sign.

• “Hey,” he says, breathless. “You should see the other…” He winces, presses a hand to his ribs. “…okay, no, actually don’t. He might be dead. Kidding. Mostly.”

• He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, rolls his shoulders, lets his arms dangle and swing, trying to shake off the pressure still bouncing through him from his heels to his ears with urgent intensity.

• He doesn’t register your concern right away. He paces. Lights a cigarette with shaking fingers and snaps a “don’t” when you step closer. Not loud. Sharp. Reflexive. Like he’s used to people getting involved the wrong way.

• “I’m fine,” he says, a lie so obvious it’s almost insulting. “This is just how I unwind.”

• If you insist, if you reach for his hand or his face, he flinches before forcing himself still. The flinch pisses him off more than the pain. “Jesus, sorry.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, smearing dirt and sweat everywhere. “I just… give me a second.”

• He hates being seen like this. Fights make sense to him. The aftermath doesn’t.

• He isn’t a violent guy, but in the trailer park it’s not uncommon for someone, a junkie or a hothead, to pick a fight. It’s not exciting, but it’s not unheard of either, and your reaction, so far removed from that reality, makes him realize just how different you are.

• He keeps deflecting. Jokes about it. Calls it a misunderstanding. Says the guy had a punchable aura. But when you kneel anyway, ignoring his nonsense and digging through whatever half assed first aid you have, he finally stops talking just to convince you to drop it and lets out a resigned sigh.

• Not calm. Not exactly cooperative. But he lets it happen.

• He complains the whole time. Hisses when antiseptic hits skin. “I’m starting to suspect you’re just a sadist, you know. Ouch. Hey. I wasn’t challenging you.” Then, quieter, almost embarrassed. “You don’t have to do that. It’s okay.”

• If you say you know, he scoffs and looks away, jaw tight. His face and body are a collection of small tics. A heavier breath, the compulsive biting at his split lip, the corner of his mouth twitching and creasing his cheek, then the shake of his head and the messy mass of curls as soon as you turn away.

• The thing is, he doesn’t pull back.

• He watches your hands instead, big dark eyes magnetically drawn to your movements. To the care in them. The familiarity. That unsettles him more than the fight ever did.

• When you’re done, he mutters something small and a little awkward. “Guess you’re not just here for my winning personality, huh.” It’s a joke. Kind of.

• He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t suddenly get soft. But when you stand to leave, he reaches out, fingers catching your wrist for just a second too long.

• “Hey,” he says, quieter now, stripped of the noise. “Next time… I’ll try not to bleed on you. Can’t promise, though.”

• That's his personal way of apologizing for the trouble, and of letting you know your attention didn’t bother him.

Steve Harrington

• Steve’s knuckles are already swelling by the time it’s over.

• He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, blood running warm from his nose down his chin. The other guy stumbles off with a curse and Steve doesn’t chase, not because he’s calm, but because his legs finally remember they’re human. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and winces.

• For Steve, the point of a fight isn’t to kill the other person. It’s to end up still standing on his own feet, or come out looking better. That’s why even if the guy were still on the ground at his feet, he wouldn’t keep going.

• “Shit,” he mutters when he finally looks down. It’s a lot more blood than he expected. Then, again, “…shit,” when he realizes you’re watching from beyond the fence by the parking lot.

• You arrived when the fight was just over, so you hadn’t to stop them. You just yelled his name once, sharp enough to make his ears ring. That alone pisses him off more than the punch did.

• “Don’t,” he snaps immediately, his ears ringing, before you can say anything. He straightens, squares his shoulders, tries to look fine while his hands shake. “I’m good.”

• He isn’t. One eye is already swelling shut from the hit to his brow. The blood is drying, cracking where his skin moves when he talks. His fingers are pale, his palms sweaty. He can read on your face that mixture of concern, maybe disappointment, and a pinch of sadness. Steve hates it. Not because it’s wrong, but because it feels deserved.

• “I said I’m good,” he repeats, louder, defensive. “You didn’t have to come over. See?” He opens his arms slightly, hands out, like he’s showing you his chest is intact and the blood is just splashback. What he really means is you didn’t have to see him like this.

• When you reach for his hand he pulls back on instinct, too fast, too sharp. Regret flashes over his face just as quickly, but he doesn’t apologize. Anxiety, adrenaline, anger, and now embarrassment and something close to humiliation are all too strong for that.

• “It was…” he says, voice rough. “The guy was running his mouth.” That’s a lie. It was more than that. It always is. But you don’t argue, he seems too stressed to handle whatever comment you’ll make. So you sigh, torn on how to react, dig through your bag for a tissue, and when you find one you offer it. Steve stares at it like it might bite.

• “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna make this a whole thing now? Can’t we go, I dunno, somewhere and go on with the day?”

• Still, after a beat, he takes it.

• He dabs at his lip too hard, hisses, swears under his breath. His jaw tightens, frustration leaking out sideways. Then he mutters that he’ll probably have to buy you a new one since it won’t come clean easily, maybe to make that moment a bit less awkward.

• The parking lot feels smaller. Colder. A little more miserable.

• You wait for him to hand the tissue back, like it’s a signal that he’s calming down, that the air has finally lost the electric tension of the fight. When he finally does that, you take it and after a beat, carefully reach for his swollen wrist.

• He doesn’t pull away. That’s as cooperative as he gets. He watches you check it, jaw clenched, eyes flicking down and away like letting you help is a personal failure.

• “See? It’s nothing. I told you. You can stop fussing,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. There’s shame there, almost resentment. He didn’t want you to see the aftermath. The mess. And the messed up wrist, apparently.

• When he was younger, fights outside the school gates were met with cheering. The closest thing to concern was someone handing the winner a cold drink so they could cool their palms and feel triumphant.

• Sometimes it’s hard to remember that as an adult, throwing punches in a parking lot isn’t proof of strength, but of lost control.

• Somewhere in his head, he’s afraid you might see him as violent, reckless, someone looking for excuses to fight. The fear that you might be scared of him is where the spiral starts, but he’s good at ignoring his thoughts, so even while breaking out in a cold sweat, he keeps playing it off.

• “Hey, uh… I mean the wrist and the eye aren't that bad, let me give you a ride”

• He probably shouldn’t drive, but he does anyway. He offers, a little guilty, to take you home, or to your car, or wherever you were headed. His tone keeps dropping, calmer, quieter, less ironic, like he’s afraid you’ll realize he’s not the kind of person you want around.

Jonathan Byers

• Jonathan doesn’t look relieved when it’s over. If anything, he looks worse. Jaw tight, knuckles flexing like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact there’s no one left to hit.

• The alley smells like trash, cold metal, adrenaline. His lip is split. He doesn’t notice until you say his name, sharp, because you recognize him, because you know that stance. That’s when he finally looks at you. Not embarrassed. Not grateful. Guarded, like he’s afraid you might attack him too.

• “What are you doing here?” It comes out rougher than he means, but he doesn’t correct it.

• He turns away first. Always does. Presses the heel of his hand into his ribs, checking damage, keeping it contained. He hates being seen like this, angry, violent, out of control. But he especially hates that you saw it.

• Emotionally, you never get used to this. Physically, he’s been dealing with it since he was a kid, people in town taking shots at him or his brother, forcing him to become violent to defend himself when things got phisical, or lose control because all the bullshit adults were saying about a kid.

• You didn’t stop the fight. Jonathan isn’t even sure when you arrived, if you were actually there during all the punching and sharp insults, but part of him is grateful that, if you actually saw it, you decided to not intervene. Another part of him is unsettled. He isn’t used to people letting him burn it out instead of telling him to calm down, telling him he’s too much.

• When you reach for him after a while, gentle and instinctive, he flinches. Just enough to notice. Maybe the spot hurts. Maybe the fight reflexes were still firing. You can’t tell.

• “I’m fine,” he says immediately, you both know it’s a lie.

• Blood colors his knuckles. It’s hard to tell if it’s his or the other guy’s. When he finally looks at his hands, he does it like they belong to someone else. There’s a long pause while he decides whether to stay silent and let you walk away, or open up just enough to explain, letting you know about all the humiliation his family have been suffering for years. But making himself vulnerable when he’s not even sure his body could hold up another twenty minutes doesn’t sound right, honestly.

• If you offer help, he doesn’t accept right away. He scoffs, shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that,” like care is an inconvenience, like it comes with a cost. And he can’t afford it.

• But he doesn’t walk away either.

• If you insist without pity or drama, he exhales and lets you clean the cut on his lip, the dried blood on his hands. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say thank you. His shoulders stay tense, his eyes focused on something at the end of the alley, waiting for judgment that never comes.

• “This isn’t…,” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I’m not like that. Usually.”

• It’s the closest he gets to explaining himself. His cheeks color slightly when you dab his temple. His breathing steadies. Maybe grateful. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe it just hurts more than he wants to admit.

• Afterwards, he puts distance between you, not physically speaking, but emotionally. Hands in his jacket pockets. Back against the brick wall. He won’t ask if you’re scared of him now, what do you think about him. He won’t ask if this changes things. Probably doesn’t think he’s entitled to reassurance, but at the same time part of him simply doesn’t want to hear something he is not ready for while being in that state.

• But when you say his name again, softer this time, he looks at you, lips pressed tight. There’s something raw there. Not remorse. Not pride. Just the quiet fear that this is the moment you decide he’s too much and walk away.

• He’d let you help. He just wouldn’t make it easy.