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December. They’d made it to December.
She shattered what was left of the lab and its reputation, carried a gun on her shoulder, pierced Will’s skin—out of exigency—with a fire iron, made Jonathan whimper her name into her ear over and over again in a stranger’s bed…not in that exact order, of course. It all took up so much of her emotional energy, so much of her strength. Her exhaustion should last till 1985 at least. But somehow, getting a good night’s sleep is the hardest thing in the world tonight.
It’s the 16th. The house is empty, just her and him. Mom is staying over with Holly at Nancy’s aunt’s, Mike is at Lucas’ house, her dad is at some work conference thing that she knows nothing about. She doesn’t know anything about his job. Okay, a little, but not much.
Earlier when Jonathan had come over, everything was fine. In her warm house they read some of their book for school together, watched TV, cuddled—he even helped her fold laundry. The folding laundry part started innocently enough, but when she playfully sprawled out on the pile of hot clothes from the dryer that he’d poured on her bed, he lay down next to her and kissed her. One thing led to another, but he was more than happy to wash the clothes again for her after.
Now, though, he’s not happy; a minute or so ago, he woke up to her having a nightmare.
She stirs uncomfortably, mumbling something incoherent that he’s sure is some type of plea. Weary, he looks over at her bedside table and finds the bright white numbers on her clock. 2:30am. He wishes he could go ahead and wake her up, but in the past that’s made everything worse. It startles her, she gets more upset, it takes longer for her to breathe normally again. So he moves closer slowly, pulling the fleece blanket up to her waist with caution.
“Where do I...where’s...I can’t,” she slurs weakly.
He plays with the cloth of her shirt hem, moving it back and forth between his fingers to give himself something to focus on. Through all her words, English and her own Nancy language, he doesn’t close his eyes. He plays with the shirt and looks at shadows on the moonlit wall. When she makes a small sound of fear, the need to help her overwhelms him. It’s not on purpose, but he wraps his arm around her waist. He is grateful she remains asleep.
“I’ve—I...leaving,” murmurs Nancy.
She shifts a bit, struggling. It’s strange, seeing someone so brave in such a state of weakness. Even if it’s not real weakness.
Many pleas later, her quiet moans begin to fade. Suddenly she’s awake.
She inhales sharply, eyes wet, mouth dry. Immediately she looks back at him. But as he gets ready to hold her, expecting her to roll over and face him, she sits up.
“Fuck this,” she curses, palm to her sweaty forehead. He stares at her in the dark blue haze, at her mess of curls, wanting to comb through them or do something to calm her. That’s Nancy—from weak to strong in a split second, not needing his reassurance. He is very in love with this girl.
She gets out of bed and paces a little, arms crossed, sniffling. He pushes himself up onto his knees and crawls to the edge, reaches out for her hand to pull her into a hug.
He shyly kisses the damp spot under her ear. Before all of this happened with her, he was not exactly what you’d call a contact person. (Like, he liked hugs. He liked ruffling his little brother’s hair at breakfast, liked having his head on Mom’s shoulder whenever they perused old photo albums. Familial closeness. That was it.) But he’s getting used to the touching in different scenarios now, how to give and receive.
“I’m really sorry,” she says with a rattle in her voice, irritated.
He backs away, folds his sleeve over his hand, and uses it to wipe the wetness from her face.
“I think I can forgive you,” he settles on saying, because he knows she won’t believe him if he tells her she has nothing to be sorry for.
She reluctantly climbs onto the mattress, gets back in place, her place, her side of the bed. “God, this sucks,” she chokes out.
She leans against the pillows, assuming a semi-upright position unlike Jonathan who is lying down again, nuzzling her above the ribs.
“It’s so unfair.”
“What is?” he asks, his tone serious.
“Don’t you...don’t you realize that it’s never going to not be like this? That I...all of us here...we’re always going to have this baggage a-and be afraid. There’s the feeling something bad will happen. Maybe something bad is happening,” she rambles worriedly. And honestly, she’s only making so much sense to him. But she is making sense.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of everything we don’t know! Isn’t that what you’re fucking afraid of?” she whispers, not angry, but panicked. What is going on with her? He sits up, putting his weight on one arm, sleeve stretching, collar stretching.
“Every time a light goes out, or the house makes a sound, or—” she cuts herself off.
He waits patiently for her to come upon the right words.
“I’m sick of not knowing whether I’m in danger or not. I’m sick of worrying, but this...it’s real, right? This is real, I can’t move out of town and there still not be another fucking dimension.”
He can’t tell her everything will be okay because she’s right, this is their reality.
He understands where her panic is coming from. Everything that happened the month previous is weighing her down. Its implications are weighing on her.
The first time Will almost died was disturbing, but the second time was worse because it signaled a pattern. Unlike the first, it told them they’d never be free of disaster. Wasn’t a one-time thing.
They’ve known about all the supernatural stuff for a while obviously, so it’s not that she’s just now processing, it’s that she’s anticipating another catastrophe. (And heartbroken; her best friend left her forever.)
He avoids thinking about it. He operates under a constant strain of anxiety anyway, yeah, but he avoids thinking about it. There are bills to fuss over, assignments to complete, shifts to catch and cover, errands to run. The nightmare she’d just had forced her to think about that hellish dimension, though.
“You don’t believe you’re in danger right now, do you?”
“Well, I mean…maybe not right this very second,” she mumbles.
“And you weren’t feeling like this earlier,” is his gentle reminder.
She isn’t reacting to his attempts much. He wishes he could see her better, see two stunning eyes made even sparklier with tears, but it’s dark. His gaze stays fixed on her silhouette. “Gate’s closed, we know this. Your dreams are sabotaging you. Not gonna let ‘em sabotage you, okay, you’re not gonna do that,” he murmurs, sleepy.
“Mhm.”
“Nancy, if something happens...”
She shakes her head.
“When something happens,” he says, keeping it toneless, emotionless, so that she might be validated, “we’ll live. We’ll live, and I don’t know what then. But I don’t want you to worry all the time.”
The way he worries all the time.
She takes a deep breath. “I know, I know. Last month, though, I just...that was like a horror movie,” she laughs dryly. “Thank you for staying with me then. By my side.”
“I needed to stay.”
“Yeah, well, I needed you to stay.”
“Needed you more.”
She reaches for his shoulders and kisses him. He tilts his head up, coaxing her soft bottom lip into his mouth, chin to hers.
A fuzzy feeling building in her, she pulls him down with her, on top of her. She rubs one of her socked feet on his calf.
“We need to sleep,” he drowsily decides.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on,” he tries while getting onto his side. She rolls onto her side, too, pressing her back to his chest. He drapes his arm over her waist, holds her hand. Pushes his nose into her messy hair. A strand of it gets stuck to his lip, but he doesn’t move.
“Have fun sleeping,” she says bitterly. He closes his eyes, still playing in her hair with his nose, and responds, “You too.”
Maybe he’ll ask about her dream in the morning. For now, everything is warm and soft and okay.