Work Text:
It starts with a blinking traffic light.
Works into her subconscious and stays there for days.
Weeks.
But then it’s more overtime shifts and making sure her boys—no, her children—get to their jobs and school and all the meetings they need to be at.
Besides, it was just a normal traffic anomaly. Nothing more.
(If this was Hawkins, well, that would be different.
It’s not though.
It’s 150 miles north and about 8,011 light years away.)
The second time it’s her hair dryer.
Start.
Stop.
Start.
And then nothing for a solid two minutes until she just gives up altogether and rushes to grab breakfast before heading to the market.
(When Jonathan comes in mid-day from work he finds it on the bathroom counter, buzzing as though it’s brand new.)
It’s late now, the kids have been in their rooms for at least an hour and she’s giving herself just a little time to stop—to sit—before she needs to launch herself into the next project on their to-do list.
Sometimes she thinks she doesn’t stop because she’s too afraid to feel what they’ve all been feeling for the better half of a year, but then El will ask her which movie they can rent next or if they can play some music after supper and—
It feels right.
Fucking sad because he should be here to see the amazing young woman he helped nurture to this point, but…
Right, too, because every day she learns and grows and Joyce knows El got that from talking over waffles and late night movies with Hop.
The ceiling fan above her stutters and she huffs out a breath, thinking it would be just her luck for it to break on the warmest weekend of the year.
It continues on though and she closes her eyes, lets the slightly cool air wash over her.
When she opens them again, the fan is still going, but the light pull is moving unnaturally, circling clockwise then counterclockwise and back again.
She wonders if Jonathan left side door open when he came back from dinner with Nancy, creating some sort of draft or wind tun—
“Mom?”
Will is at the edge of the room, El standing next to him, her jaw set, hands clenched around the single sleeve of an old shirt of Hop’s. A sketch book hangs between them, the dark slashes and shading on the open page clearly the work of her son.
And she knows.
Has known on some level for awhile.
It’s time to make a plan.