Chapter Text
Most of Hawkins does not survive the Mind Flayer. Only after the dust settled on Starcourt Mall was the full extent of his infection understood, when half the town lay dead.
In 1986, half the surviving business leave the town for good. By 1987, only a third of the original population still resides. Hawkins, Indiana, is a ghost town, and no one is coming to save it. It is dying, slowly, sinking beneath the surface and winking out of memory.
Soon, it might be gone altogether.
That’s why, when the option presents itself, when the choice is proposed and the possibility is laid out, you have no choice but to accept the offer. You’re not sure who exactly it comes from, if it’s some supernatural being or if it’s someone with abilities far beyond El’s or if it’s some God, but you can’t afford to question the opportunity.
A one way trip back to 1983, to the first shot in the battle that has raged for years. A chance to rewrite the past and change the future. A shot at redemption for Hawkins. A shot at life for its residents.
A way to fix everyone’s mistakes and craft a better world. How could you not take it?
“I don’t have a lot of time to explain,” you said, cupping Steve Harrington’s face in your hands, struggling to see him past the tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. “None of this is going to make sense, and I don’t have long enough to make it.” You pressed your lips together. “You won’t remember, anyway, but-”
Steve’s hand slid up your arms to your shoulders and his brows furrowed deeply.
“I don’t understand-”
“Please.” You caressed his cheeks with your thumbs, pulling him closer. “If someone gave you the chance to go back to the beginning of all this, to stop all the death and loss before it happened, would you take it?”
“Y/N, you’re not making sense-”
“Just answer the question.”
Steve pressed his lips together, shrugging, his lack of understanding only frustrating him.
You felt as if you could hear the clock ticking down in your head, the seconds unraveling in your hands. None of this mattered, and this moment would unravel with time, but you vowed to hold onto it, to use it as fuel; to remember what it felt like to stand in the flames.
You could fix this.
“Yes, sure, if I could, yeah-”
“I need you to know something, Steve,” you said. Your hands fell to his chest, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt and gripping it tightly. “I don’t regret any of this. I don’t regret meeting you, and I sure as hell don’t regret loving you. If you can, remember that. Try to remember that.”
“Y/N, please, tell me what’s going on-”
The edges of your visions blurred, lights dancing in and out, Steve’s form like static in front of you. It was like standing still in a world suddenly going two thousand miles an hour. Like being ripped apart and sewn back together and tossed around in violent waves before being shot out onto a beach.
It was not a beach you were shot out onto, though. It was somewhere else. Not another place, but another time.
November 7, 1983 - Day 1
Dear Steve,
I still don’t know what to refer to you as. From where I’m standing, you don’t exist, but you feel like a memory. Like I left you somewhere, like I jumped forward. Like you’re still there waiting for me, if I could make it back.
Technically, you’re future Steve, but technically, traveling back in time isn’t possible. Technicalities have long their meaning.
Not that it matters. You’ll never read this, because as of 8:43 AM on November 7th of 1983, the Steve I know - you - is gone. Erased, unwound, never a thing in the first place, however you want to describe it. You’re gone. The you that loved me is gone. The way you loved me is gone.
I took a one way trip because it gave me a chance to fix things. You of all people can understand that. There’s been so much death. So much loss. We’ve been choking on it for years.
I won’t let it kill us.
Unfortunately, on November 7th of 1983, I don’t know any of you yet. The game is just beginning. The Mind Flayer is rifling through his tricks, and in two and a half years, he’ll find the one that sends the house of cards toppling.
You, future Steve, or the Steve from Then, or whoever you are, are - were - the one person I could talk to that always made me feel better. If I don’t talk to you, I think I might lose my mind here. And since I can’t talk to this you, I’ll talk to the one I know. This one. You’re my diary, Steve. You’d laugh if I told you.
You’re not my mission, Steve Harrington. Maybe when this is all over, I’ll tell the real you - the new one? - the story.
For now, though, since I don’t have you, I need an ally.
Jim Hopper is a stubborn, paranoid man, but I’ve known him long enough to know how to get through to him. Or, I knew the old him. Past him? Future him? Who knows. Cross your fingers I don’t fuck it all up with a slip of the tongue.
Finding Hopper isn’t as easy as you’d hoped it would be. Unfortunately, you’re a junior in high school again, and the concept of not going to school is shot down by your parents before you even get the sentence out.
It’s a setback, but school let’s out at 4, and technically, you already graduated, so it can’t be all that difficult to slug through a day of classes before tracking down Hopper. You know where he’ll be, after all; you know the paths everyone is taking, because they’ve all walked them before.
Driving through town, a bustling and lively place, is unsettling after what you’ve seen. The Hawkins you left behind was half dead. You can’t even remember a time it was like this.
The sight only reminds you of your goal, of the reason you left behind everyone you love and erased them from existence. There’s no way of knowing who they’ll be after this. And once you start making changes, you’ll know less and less about the path they’re taking: the butterfly effect.
You feel like Atlas, balancing the world on your shoulders. No one can see it, and passerby can only wonder why you’re so dim in such a bright world.
Despite the oddities, the school itself is almost a comfort. It’s just a few classes. No saving the world, just solving math problems and listening to some professor drone on about Shakespeare. Seven hours of pretending.
It takes an hour to fall back into the role you held in 1983, to remember what drama was going on in friend groups and who wasn’t talking to who, or what projects and tests people were stressing about.
The bubble holds until lunch. You exit your English class and head for your locker, stopping halfway down the hall.
You knew Steve Harrington existed here, but it wasn’t until a few days later that you really took notice of him. Before, he was just another wannabe cool-guy jock.
Then he wasn’t. Then, he became everything.
A seventeen year old Steve Harrington wraps his arms around Nancy Wheeler, spinning her and pressing his lips to hers, quieting her delighted squeal. She swats him away, but her protest is half-hearted, and she doesn’t even try to hide her smile. Barbara stands beside her - still alive - and looks on with quiet disapproval; you can’t blame her for it, as you shared a similar opinion of him at the time.
Now, though, seeing him look at Nancy like that, hold her and kiss her, is like jamming a flaming hot rod right through your ribs. You lose your breath, moving to the side and leaning against a locker, a hand coming up to your chest.
Steve Harrington is not the mission. You chant the words like a mantra, but it doesn’t make the pain in your chest any lesser, doesn’t make the nausea rolling through you any less overwhelming.
Your Steve doesn’t exist anymore. This is not him; this Steve is still virtually a stranger.
You turn and head down the hallway without another thought, only objective getting away from all these people before the tears pricking at the backs of your eyes fall. Your feet lead you on autopilot, and you push through one of the side doors.
The back lot is quiet this time of day, and you head to the small bench against the brick wall, dropping onto the metal.
In the future, this is the spot Robin waited to get picked up by you or Steve. You’d pull into the parking lot and find her plopped on the bench with a walkman on, bobbing her head to the music and smiling when she saw you.
The bench is empty, today, and there will be no trips to get ice cream or snacks with Steve and Robin, not anymore.
The loss bubbles up in your chest and threatens to choke you. Tears pick at the backs of your eyes and your throat constricts, and the pain in your chest is so powerful you think you might pass out.
You can’t help but wonder if you made a mistake. If you coming back here will only fuck up the timeline and kill Hawkins even faster. If being here will make things worse than they already are.
It doesn’t matter, really, because there’s no going back. You took a one way flight, and no begging or crying or screaming will land you back where you came from. This is the world, now, again, and if you’re not careful, it’ll end just as it did the first time around.
You wish Steve were here. You wish he was here to wrap his arms around you and tell you that it’ll be okay; you wouldn’t have believed it, but you’d give anything to hear it. You’d give anything to have him look at you the way he used to one more time.
Tears slip down your cheeks, falling onto the metal bench with little ping sounds. You wrap your arms around your torso and lean forward, trying to hold your breaking heart inside your chest.
You didn’t realize how hard this would be. How impossible it would feel.
A door off to your left pops open and Robin Buckley steps onto the concrete sidewalk, holding a lunchbox in her arms. She lifts her head, catching sight of you halfway to the bench, and she stops, her brows furrowing.
You swipe your tears away, clearing your throat and pushing to your feet.
“Sorry,” you say. “Didn’t realize this bench had someone else’s name on it.” It’s a lie, because you did, but it’s not like you can tell her that. She’d run away screaming if you told her the truth; she’d think you were nuts. Maybe you are; you feel a little nuts, right now.
“It’s a free bench,” she says. “You don’t have to go.”
Robin continues forward and siting down on the bench. She pats it with a hand, and you hesitate, dropping back down beside her. You wipe your eyes again, leaning back against the metal bench.
“You wanna talk about it?” She asks. “I’m Robin.” She gestures to the bench. “I’ve done my fair share of crying on this bench, too, so…”
You can’t help but smile, affection for your old best friend unfurling in your chest. Even now, when she doesn’t know you, she’s still kind.
“You might regret that. I’m a walking cliche.”
Robin snorts.
“How so?”
You fold your arms across your chest, inclining your head and letting out a breath. Your attempts to hold the tears back fail, and they rake rivers down your cheeks.
“I fell in love with a boy, and he has no idea I exist,” you say, a sad smile tugging on your lips.
Robin lets out a humorless laugh, flashing you a supportive smile.
“That’s the story of my life,” she says. She looks like she wants to say more, but she decides against it.
A sophomore Robin Buckley is still deep in the closet, still in love with a girl who is in love with another boy. She’s at the beginning of her journey. The Robin from the future, though, is unapologetically herself, is confident, is happy and loved. The Robin from the future has a girlfriend who she loves, who loves her back.
“It sucks,” you say. She nods slowly, lips pulled thin. She shifts to meet your gaze, cocking a brow.
“Have you thought about telling him?”
You shake your head.
“If only it was that simple.”
“Make it that simple,” she says. “What’s stopping you?”
An image of Steve and Nancy flashes behind your eyes and you close them, squeezing the image away. There are a million things standing in your way, but the most important is your mission.
Steve is not the mission, as much as you wish he was. But right now, Steve is not yet intertwined enough to justify bringing him into the fold. In a few days, he’ll jump into the water with you, and by next year, he’ll be intimately familiar with the Upside Down, but the Steve standing in the school hallway is still untouched. He has another night of peace, and as much as you’d love to burst that bubble and go to him, he isn’t the Steve you knew, isn’t the Steve who loved you.
“His girlfriend,” you say. Robin crinkles her nose, huffing.
“Ah. One of those.”
“Yeah, one of those.”
Robin lets out a long sigh and slumps down on the bench.
“Maybe they’ll break up,” she says.
“Fingers crossed.”
She flashes you a sympathetic smile, and says, “I’m sorry. I know it feels to…to love people who have no idea you exist.”
You may not have Steve, may not have any of your old - future? - friends, but maybe, just maybe, you can drag a few aspects back. Maybe, instead of waiting to meet her at Scoops Ahoy, your friendship with Robin can come quicker, earlier.
Robin Buckley was your best friend. If you can have that again, maybe you can survive this. If you’re not alone, maybe you can survive this.
“Thanks,” you say. “For listening. And letting me crash your bench.”
Robin smiles, shrugging a shoulder.
“Feel free to crash it again. I could use the company.”
The bell buzzes inside the school, signaling the end of lunch, and Robin begins gathering her stuff, tugging her backpack on and pushing to her feet.
“You coming?” She asks.
“In a minute,” you say. She nods, hesitating, shifting her weight.
“I am sorry. About that guy. Maybe he’ll figure out what he’s missing,” she says, and heads for the door, ducking back into the building.
“Maybe,” you say, though she’s already gone by the time the words pop out.
You have three more classes to slug through, but the day’s refresher only reminded you what will be waiting for you in your next class. Steve Harrington is like your own personal ghost, haunting you without realizing it. You don’t think you can deal with being plagued today, even it is for an hour in a science class.
This is your life now, for better or worse. Your happiness doesn’t matter, your survival doesn’t really even matter. There are far less people to miss you back here if things go wrong.
Your life, for now, means trying to stop the Mind Flayer. Steve Harrington isn’t a part of that. He can’t be, at least not yet.
Instead of heading back in for class, you spend the rest of the school day on the bench, letting yourself roll through the greatest hits of 1986 and 1987, the world you left behind. It was a broken and dying world, but it was yours. It was yours, and as fucked up as it was, you were loved in it. Here, you’re not sure what you are.
Flo is even more gullible in 1983 than the time you left, making getting into the precint simple. You just waltz in like you have a reason to be there, and tell her Hopper asked to see you in his office when he gets back. Flo, too concerned with the drying paint on her nails, allows you back without much protest, and you wait in one of the chairs across his desk.
Hopper comes in twenty minutes later, hanging his hat and dropping down into his chair, leveling you with an accusatory look.
“So,” he says. “Flo says I set up this meeting. What exactly did I set it up for?”
You crinkle your nose, an apologetic smile flickering on your lips.
“Sorry. I needed to talk to you.”
“About?”
You hesitate. You have a plan going into this, albeit small and underdeveloped, and you need to stick to it. You’d love to spill your guts right here, but Jim Hopper is the last person who would believe you right now. Unfortunately, he’s the person whose help you need the most.
“I need your help,” you say. “But I can’t tell you with what until I’m sure you’ll believe me.”
Hopper huffs impatiently, pushing to his feet, and you stand, stepping into the closed doorway to block him. He frowns.
“Look, kid, I don’t have time for this-”
“This morning Joyce Byers reported Will Byers missing.” Hopper stills, and triumph flares in your gut. “You’ve been looking, but you can’t find him. And you won’t.”
Something akin to anger flares in his eyes, and you back up a step.
“What the hell do you know about Will Byers?” He snaps. “Are you telling me you’re a part of that?”
“No. No. Not like that,” you say. He doesn’t believe it, and you sigh. “If you need an alibi, I was at the diner studying last night from dinner to closing. You can ask Sally at the diner, or the girls I was with, Angela and Rose.”
Technically, that night was years ago, not last night, and the memory is blurry. You’re grateful to your old self for setting up a perfect alibi, though.
“I need to get back out there,” Hopper says, trying to move past you again. You lunge sideways, blocking his path, and irritation knits itself into his expression. “This isn’t a game, kid.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a war. And if you don’t listen to me, more people are going to die.” Your words leave no room for argument, and something about the intensity of them renders Hopper silent, at least for a moment. It’s long enough to spit the words you need to. “I know it sounds crazy, because it is crazy, but I’m telling the truth.”
“What do you know?” He asks, still frustrated, but resigned.
“I know that Will Byers disappeared in the woods. You found his bike, right?” Hopper hesitates, but nods, and you continue. “He wasn’t taken from the woods. He was taken from his shed.” Hopper’s lips part, but you don’t allow the time for argument or protest. “Tomorrow, you’re going to get a report from Benny’s-”
“That’s enough, kid.” Hopper says, taking you by the shoulders and moving you out of the way. You protest, but he manages to pop the door open and step halfway out. You lunge, grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt, and he turns, murder in his eyes. “I said, enough.”
“Listen to me,” you snap. He tugs on your hold, a warning, but you don’t release him. “The kid in the report isn’t Will. Benny-” He shakes his head, and you can see yourself losing him and his attention.
“Hopper,” you say, and he pauses, sighing before meeting your gaze over his shoulder. “The body isn’t what it seems. You need to get closer. And, when you need to, check in the light. Not the lamp, but the light. You’ll know what I mean.”
“Sure, kid,” he says, and slaps his hat on, heading down the hall and toward the front doors. You let out a breath, shoulders sinking. You’ve done all you can, for now. Until the pieces present themselves to Hopper, though, you can do no more.
For now, you just have to wait. You have to pretend you’re a junior in high school again - except, it’s not really pretending anymore - and pretend not to know what comes next. You have to keep your head down and your mouth shut until the time comes to fight.
If you know one thing, it’s that the time will come. And this time, you’ll be damned if you and the others aren’t ready.