Chapter Text
“Ain’t no shame in holding on to grief… as long as you make room for other things too.”
- The Wire
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Max Mayfield becomes an intrinsic part of Wayne Munson’s routine. He thinks. Maybe she’s been a part of it this entire time but for a while there Wayne and Max are just in each other's peripheries. It doesn’t happen until after everything. And he’s pretty damn sure his nephew has something (everything) to do with it. He breaks down, see? Lies on the lumpy pull out bed Wayne calls his own and in broken, gasping, whispers tells him exactly how he got himself put in the hospital. Why those weird little freshmen think his trailer’s door is revolving.
That night Wayne holds him tight, like he used to when Eddie was eight, nine, ten years old, because it’s one thing to know he almost lost his nephew— he’s better off calling Eddie his son, frankly— and it’s another entirely to know he almost put an empty coffin in the ground.
He was going to buy that Harrington kid the finest bottle of whiskey he can find. His reservations about the guy, with a reputation among the other fathers at the plant as a heart breaker, all soothed with every word Eddie spoke. The Harrington name wasn’t a good one, associated with running out all the small business in favor of the mall, associated with bad looks and fancy cars and big long strings of zeros on checks. Steve, though? He didn’t seem like much of a Harrington anymore. He’d cared enough to drag Eddie’s dumb ass back through that gate thing he talked about. Cared enough to show up and make sure Eddie didn’t drown himself in liquor and weed. Brought along those little chucklefucks and the girls.
Speaking of which.
He’d been aware of the growing familiarity between the little girl across the way and his own kid. Slight nods here and there of acknowledgment before the whole mess started. And then Eddie gave up most of his after school activities to offer up his van and time to get the girl to and from physical therapy. Instrumental, Eddie said, to saving the world. A little badass in the making, and the second meanest little girl he’s ever met.
It means, among all the things Eddie told him and all the things he didn’t need to say, that Wayne is entirely unsurprised with the way things have turned out.
It’s not till the girl is back to walking, cane in hand that he opens the door not an hour after his shift, Eddie nowhere to be found (he had a sneaking suspicion that if he wanted to find his boy he should head down to Loch Nora. There’s a big house down the way and he hears there’s really only ever one car in the drive most times) that she finds herself braving the Munson’s front door.
She looks confused for half a second, out of it. Then she looks to where the van is usually parked and realization dawns on her. Her hands reach up to tug at the edge of her unzipped sweater, placing her hands over her heart. She looks back at him, meets his eyes. Wayne can respect that.
“Sorry I—”
“Come on in, little red,” he said with little fuss, “weathers lookin like you need a cup of hot chocolate.”
She sways in her spot. Not voluntarily the way the Robin girl rocks on her heels when left standing too long. More like how Steve or Eddie do when they haven’t been sleeping all too much. If he looks closely— and he does— he could find deep purple bruises painting pale skin and shoulders slumped like there’s a heavy weight on them. Eddie explained to him that what killed the Cunningham girl in his trailer was the same thing that almost took little red. Little Maxine Mayfield, a punky and puny thing that didn’t back down from a fight. She reminded him of Eddie at that age, angry scowl set in place and a closed off-ness that came from being hurt and abandoned one too many times.
If she makes her excuse to not come in, Wayne will be fine with it. Maybe in the next few days he’ll keep a better eye out make sure she’s not sneaking off to hang out with the wrong types. Make sure he didn’t make the same mistakes he did with his own boy. She looks around, as if willing Eddie’s music to break into the trailer park before he even turns onto the road. He doesn’t show up. Those wary, critical eyes study Wayne. If he weren’t used to kids looking at him with distrust he’d likely squirm under the intensity behind tired eyes. Unfortunately most kids making the trailer a revolving door have that same look to them. Wayne has to wonder what’s wrong with the world that so many kids have been failed by the adults in their lives.
Her nod is curt. And she looks back to her own little home with a longing he understands. She wants to be seen. She wants for someone to come out and talk to Wayne and make sure nothing bad would happen to her. But his boy and his boy’s boy aren’t here right now and they trust Wayne. Enough to tell him. Enough for Steve Harrington to show up the next day after Eddie tells him about the horrors that used to sleep beneath their feet and sit down to better explain and fill in the holes Eddie can’t patch.
He wants to vomit when they finish telling him, shove these children into a bubble where the world can never touch them again. He’s never known how to reach out, how to be a parent. But he likes to think he does alright.
He asks Steve about his parents that morning even though he doesn’t want to know the answer he suspected he’d get and he hates that he was right. The confusion in his face at the question was a surprise. Like he’d never gotten asked that before and didn’t understand why he was getting asked then. He thinks maybe Maxine is a little more on Eddie’s side of that question. If he were to ask her right now he’s sure that instead of confusion he would receive something more bitter, more contrite because she knows things are supposed to be different and they aren’t. She’s had a taste of different.
He makes the hot chocolate with little preamble. Makes himself a coffee to stay awake. He can sleep when he’s dead or when there aren’t kids knocking on his door because the closest they can get to a parental figure is Wayne Munson.
“Want to talk about what’s bothering ya, little red?” He asks as he hands her the mug that caught her eye. Nobody’s used it yet, he needed to rinse it out before pouring the chocolate in. She scrunches up her nose and takes the mug. Usually it stays on the counter, facing out towards the window to get an eye full of the trailer park. Eddie made it in seventh grade ceramics. Why anyone let that boy near a kiln still is something Wayne wonders about and is eternally grateful Eddie never found an affinity for it. He was proud of his creation back then, still is. It’s a wonky thing with sculpted bulging eyes and a smile with twisting equally sculpted teeth. There’s cracks in the glaze and one of the teeth chipped off ages ago all on its lonesome. Wayne would be remiss to throw it out. Eddie presented it to him with a shit eating grin and a prideful stance. He took pleasure in Wayne’s grimace.
“It’s ugly as balls, right old man?”
“I like it, it has… character.”
“He gets that from you then?” She asks right back. It gets a chuckle out of him.
“I guess he does,” Wayne allows.
There’s hesitance in the way she shifts. She looks away from him, stares into the hot chocolate like it holds all the answers. Her brand new glasses (a miracle she needs them) slipping down her nose. Wayne has to stop himself from thinking about getting a chain for them so they don’t end up on the ground.
“Eddie said he told you,” Max starts. She’s off kilter. Unsure. She doesn’t know where to start or how or what she even wants outside of the hot chocolate. But there’s bags under her eyes and she wasn’t done healing from one tragedy when a truck of a different kind came ramming right into her. So he’ll sit here all damn day if that’s how long it takes for her to get her thoughts in order.
“Depends on what that means.”
“About everything that happened over spring break. He said it all weird too, like it was a secret that he was telling me.” Her nose wrinkles up. She’s a cute kid under all that armor.
“He’s a weird kid.” Wayne says fondly. That Eddie is and he loves him every bit for it. He’ll always curse out his father for turning him out like he did. Like he was any better, like he didn’t end up in jail immediately after. Ed likely tried to convey as much meaning as possible into whatever rambling and grandiose speech he gave the poor girl. It worked, kind of, probably. That part is still out for the jury. Whether that was all the encouragement Max needed or if she is just observant enough to know he won’t turn a kid in need out… Well, that’s also for the jury to decide.
“He’s lame. Like Steve,” Max huffs. She brings that accursed mug up to her face. It’s huge in her hands, covers most of her face as she sips. Makes her look much younger. She’s a cute kid. “The guys all say how cool he is but he still plays that nerd game and talks like he’s a medieval peasant.”
It gets another chuckle out of him. Eddie did always complain about how the boys he carted around were mean but none compared to Lady Applejack and Little Red . If this is a glowing review he certainly doesn’t want to know what a scathing one sounds like.
“He said… My mom locked the door. And,” Max looks up at him with wide eyes and then backs down. Wayne frowns. “I think she forgot I wasn’t home. Or forgot to check. And usually… usually I would just climb in but.”
But that was before Creel. When Eddie told him of this Vecna fellow, called him One and then Henry Creel, he felt vindicated. He wasn’t completely correct but Wayne got damn near the bullseye with nothing but a little gut instinct and closed eyes. That is besides the point. The point quickly becomes the part where she says usually and the part where she’s been walking around with a cane and a wheelchair at the ready in the back of Eddie’s van for when she has bad days. Worse days. The point is she’s been locked out before. Which means she either snuck out or had permission and Susan Hargrove still turned the lock key without checking for the child she is supposed to be taking care of.
He’s not stupid. He’s seen Max grow thinner, grow more tired, surlier. There is a distinct difference between the little girl that moved in at the end of the summer of ‘85 across from the Munsons and the girl sitting at his measly two person table, fiddling with that ugly ass mug his kid made and he will never find in himself to be rid of. Wayne didn’t wash his hands of his own volition. It was a combination of him being a grown ass man and her being a standoffish little girl. Even if he wanted to help it would have raised questions, it would have brought the girl unnecessary attention and back then he didn’t know it was bad.
But Susan Hargrove never takes her daughter to physical therapy, locks her out, has never once questioned the events surrounding her kid and her getting hurt. And he’s seen the growing pile of aluminum cans waiting for collection. A dime a pop at the recycling center. He knows these brands well. He knows Max ain’t the one drinking them. And he damn well knows despite never opening one of them trash bags that there’s barely a soda can in sight.
So that’s how it starts, a scared little girl looking for a place to bunker down until the door unlocks.
It’s clear by the way she starts to fidget that she’s done talking.
“Why don’t you take a nap on the cot?” Wayne asks. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the table. On hand still curls around his now lukewarm coffee. She makes a face.
“I don’t want to impose,” Max says with a shrug. “I should probably go knock or something.”
“Now, I won’t force you,” Wayne says with a nod, “if you want to go you can but you ain’t imposing. You don’t got to nap, we got movies and books and music. I’m sure you got homework in that bag of yours.”
She stares at him. Levels him with that same look she gave him at the door. He meets the stare.
“If you’re sure…” She settles on that. Wayne gives a firm nod. “I want to listen to Eddie’s music about as much as you do.”
He’s tempted to point out that Ed ain’t the only one who listens to music but he’s not in the mood for open season on his own taste.
“A movie then.” He stands and stretches out his back. She bites her lip like she wants to say something about it, there’s a slight glimmer to her that wasn’t there before. They don’t know each other well yet so she bites whatever attitude bubbles beneath the surface.
And so he coaxes her the short distance from the table to the couch in hopes that she takes a nap. Wayne lets her choose one of Ed’s little horror films despite his apprehension. But he let Ed watch them at her age and he’s his kid, so he doesn’t let the apprehension last too long. He falls asleep with his arms crossed and only wakes up when a completely different movie is playing and Eddie’s laughing, a small hesitant laugh joining. He turns to look. Steve, bless him, is kicking Eddie out of the little kitchen space and sitting him down at the table. Max ain’t looking at the movie, no, she’s laughing at Eddie and it’s quite a mean laugh too.
“You’re gonna let Steve boss you around in your own kitchen? You’re gonna let the guy that learned how to cook because Dustin bullied him about his freezer full of tv dinners? How low have you fallen Munson?” Max baits.
Eddie gladly falls for it, looks up to see Wayne and gives him that canary smile before going back to arguing with Max.