Work Text:
You went back to work in a daze, moving through the rest of your shift like a ghost; Murray Bauman had come into both of your jobs plenty of times in the seven weeks you’ve been in Sessler, and sure, he’s made small talk with you as necessary, but he never once indicated he had any connections to your past. You were careful not to tell anyone where you moved from, or what you ran away from - so how did he know?
As you drag a wet rag across the countertops, you wrack your brain trying to think of how the strange man who always had special orders at Radio Shack knew who you were, when, like a bolt of lightning, it struck you - when you, Steve, and the kids ran into Nancy and Jonathan in the woods after the demodogs fled the junkyard, Nancy said they had been in Sessler looking for a man who they thought might be able to help them take down the Hawkins Lab once and for all.
You realize that man must have been Murray, and as soon as you punch out from your shift, you run across the road to Radio Shack; it’s closed, but you have a key, and you know that the system logs the address of anyone who makes a special order. Using your order pad from the diner, you jot down Murray’s address, and run the three blocks to his house, pounding on his door. His voice calls out over an intercom, causing you to startle, asking “Who’s there?”
You look up toward the source of his voice, and spot a surveillance camera; you wave at it and knock again. Murray opens the door and looks at you, frowning. “How did you find where I live?”
“You make enough special orders at Radio Shack,” you say, pushing past him and into his living room. “We log the addresses of people who do that. That’s not why I’m here, Mr. Bauman.”
He shuts the door and sighs, going to his kitchen and pulling out a bottle of vodka, pouring you each a generous measure. “No,” he says, passing you a glass. “You’re here to ask about Hopper.”
You knock back the shot and he pours you another without prompting. “How long have you known who I am?” you ask, downing your second shot.
He takes his shot and pours himself a second, and you a third. “Since the day I walked into the Radio Shack and saw you working there. Hopper called me the day you disappeared, asked if I knew how to find people. He was drunk off his ass, which, I assume, is why he acted like it’s not exactly what I do.”
Three shots in, you feel the careful walls you’ve been building around yourself start to crumble, and the second Murray pours you a fourth, you down it and take the bottle from him, pouring yourself a fifth and then a sixth. He sighs and guides you to the couch, sitting on the armchair opposite you. You take a deep breath and lean back, tilting your head so it rests against the back of the couch.
“Does he know I’m here?” you ask quietly.
“No,” Murray says, taking the bottle back from you and taking a few more shots himself.
Your head shoots back up and you stare at him, wide-eyed. “You didn’t tell him?”
Murray shakes his head and passes you the bottle. “I thought about it, but you didn’t look like you were in trouble. It didn’t take much investigating to find out you had gotten your GED, landed two jobs, and signed on an apartment. I figured you’d had enough of the trouble in Hawkins, and if you wanted to cut all ties to the town, well that was your prerogative.”
At this point, you’ve abandoned the pretense of your glass, and take two deep pulls from the bottle before passing it back to Murray. “Thanks,” you say, voice full of sincerity.
Murray takes a swig from the bottle and shrugs. “Who am I to judge? Not even my mother knows where to find me.” He takes another drink and you reach for the bottle. “If you don’t mind me asking, though, why did you run away?”
“It seems stupid now,” you say, taking a drink and giving him the bottle. “I mean, it always seemed kind of stupid, but I guess sometimes it didn’t. Doesn’t. Whatever.” You lean back again, staring up at the ceiling. “It was a couple of months after Billy was sentenced. People at school decided I had somehow made the whole thing up and started bullying me. I wound up in the hospital again, and Hopper had nine teachers fired for fostering this culture at the school, I guess. Anyway, after the teachers all got fired, I overheard this bitch, Carol, telling her friends all about how she was convinced I lied about being raped. She said the only reason I got away with it, and the only reason Billy was convicted was because I was fucking the chief.”
You feel the couch dip as Murray comes to sit next to you, slipping the bottle of vodka back into your hands. You take another drink, and continue. “She started going on and on about how there should be an investigation, how nobody would stand by Hopper if this got out…she was talking about accusing him of statutory rape. And I realized that if she made enough noise to the right people…they might find out about Eleven. And I couldn’t risk that. Everyone in Hawkins who was on my side had a massive target painted on their backs, and I figured if I left, they’d be better off.” You take another gulp of vodka, and turn to look at Murray. “Are they?” you ask, voice wavering. “Are they better off?”
Murray takes the bottle from you and puts it on the coffee table. “No,” he tells you honestly. Your eyes flood with tears, and you don’t try to stop them falling. “Hopper calls me twice every day with a new idea of where you might have gone, asking me to look into it. The days he calls drunk are the days Eleven has a rough time with you leaving, I think. I’ve gotten about three calls from Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler each, asking if I’d heard anything.”
“And Steve?” you ask.
Murray sighs. “I haven’t heard from him directly, no,” he tells you. “Jonathan did say once that he was calling because he was tired of Steve being a dick, and if I knew where you were and I wasn’t telling them then I was the dick, because I was making them deal with Steve.”
You press the palms of your hands over your eyes, trying to force yourself to stop crying. Murray doesn’t say anything, just pats your arm awkwardly before getting up. When he returns, you look at him, tear tracks running down your face; he’s got a pillow and a stack of blankets in his arms. He passes them to you, and hands you a box of tissues. “You can stay here tonight,” he says, turning to the kitchen to fill a large glass with water and grabbing a bottle of aspirin from the cupboard. “You just had about half a bottle of Russian vodka, and Jim would kill me if I let you walk home like that.”
You accept the offer, setting up a bed on the couch, and before you know it, you’re fast asleep. When you wake the next morning, your head is pounding, and you reach blindly for the water and aspirin you know Murray left on the table for you. You finally pull yourself up off the couch, only to find yourself alone in the house; groaning softly, you drag yourself to the kitchen, in search of more water and something to eat. Just as your toast pops up in the toaster, the front door opens; you turn around, saying “Hey, I hope it’s okay, but I kind of raided your kit - ” You stop, the glass of water in your hand crashing to the floor as your grip goes slack.
It’s not Murray standing stock-still in the doorway staring at you.
It's Jim.