Archive of Our Own ^beta

Something’s wrong.

Okay, that’s… probably the biggest understatement of Frank’s life, because something’s been ‘wrong’ all fucking week. Honestly put a real damper on what should have been an awesome spring break, and– shit.

Not the point. Anyway–

Something’s wrong in a way that has him scaling up a telephone pole at one in the morning to break into the j-box, which, he supposes, as he opens the panel hidden inside, isn’t that out of the ordinary for him. He’s habitually checked the tape recorder once or twice a month since he started tapping it back in ’83.

What is out of the ordinary, and what led him to where he is now, tossing pebbles at Gareth’s bedroom window, is that the tapes aren’t empty like they usually are. And, yeah– since it’s a voice-activated recorder, no secret government calls meant no secret (i.e., illegal) government recordings. Which meant normally, they were blank.

Except for when they weren’t. Like in fall of ’83 and ’84, when those kids went missing, or last year, when the mall blew up and the whole town was crawling with feds. Except for now, when the whole town was calling Eddie a murderer, and there was nothing Frank could do to prove him innocent.

Until–

Gareth’s window finally opens, and Frank can see him peering out behind his bedhead mop.

“Psst!”

“Dude. What the fuck are you –”

“Can you come down?” Frank whisper-shouts up at him. Jeff’s head pops up beside Gareth’s, looking rumpled with sleep.

“Oh, Jeff’s here too? Sick, that saves us a trip.”

Gareth opens his mouth, probably to ask, ‘who’s ‘us’?’ but then Jeff’s shoving him out of the way to call back to Frank.

“We’ll be down in a minute. Wait there.” And then the window slides shut again.

For the record, it takes way longer than a minute for them to sneak through the side and out to where Frank’s waiting, but he doesn’t have time to waste moaning about them dragging their feet. They have, as Eddie would put it, negative time to get moving, and that’s under the optimistic assumption he can convince them to come.

But Frank doesn’t get to start explaining before Gareth’s shambling over, kicking at the backpacks he left scattered on the lawn.

“Why do you have– Frank, are those guns??” he asks, staring slack-jawed at the shotgun poking up through one of the bags.

Frank nudges it aside with his foot, placing one hand on either of their shoulders, desperate for their attention.

“And a couple of M72 LAWs, but ignore that for a sec and just listen to me,” he urges, shaking Gareth when he tries to argue again.

“Listen! I found Eddie, and he’s in danger. Like, full-on end-of-the-world, government conspiracies, danger. There’s too much to explain, and I’m probably going to seriously regret this, but I– I wanted to ask you guys to come along. Help save him.”

“And the whole world, probably, but that’s sort of a secondary concern,” Frank adds, unable to help himself.

“Whoa, hold on. Can I ask –?” Jeff shakes his head, rubbing at his temples.

“Whatever. I’m going to ask anyway. Is– is this shit tied to your CIA dad?” Jeff asks, lowering his voice.

“Former CIA dad, how many times do I have to tell you?” Frank mutters. “And… kind of? In a super roundabout way that also involves interdimensional monsters, and, more importantly, saving Eddie’s life. Which means I just need a yes or no response.”

“Wait a minute, this –”

Gareth starts to talk, but Jeff interrupts him with a hand to his shoulder, closing their circle in.

“Can you explain on the way?” he asks, nodding once at Frank.

“Uh, yeah– what else are we going to talk about on the way? The weather? That chem assignment you haven’t started?”

“Yes, of course I’ll explain,” Frank mutters when Jeff shoots him an expectant look.

“Alright. In that case, I’m in,” he says after a moment, shrugging when Gareth shoots him a betrayed look.

“But the guns –”

“I raided my dad’s closet for all the beefy shit he can’t sell at the store,” Frank says, waving away Gareth’s protests.

It was less ‘closet’ and more ‘underground bunker,’ but the less they knew about that, the better. Whatever shit his dad sold outside the War Zone (i.e., off the records) was his business. Literally.

“Are you in or not, Gareth?”

He glances warily from Frank’s earnest expression down to the bags, and back. Sighs heavily, like this is all one big inconvenience instead of life or death.

“Fine, yeah. I guess I’ll tag along for the suicide mission.”

Frank slaps him on the shoulder cheerily.

“That’s the spirit.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re rolling Forest Hills, bags heavy with all the shit Frank had to haul solo on his initial ride. He’s done his best to fill them in on everything – his dad’s paranoia, tapping the j-box outside the nondescript building the feds didn’t want anyone to know they occupied when shit hit the fan in Hawkins, how often shit hit the fan here; all of it.

They only had to make one pitstop along the way to pepper spray the absolute shit out of Jason Carver and his cronies. And, yeah, it was possibly (mostly) unprovoked, but Frank figured there was no way they were out this late to do anything good.

And besides, they fucked up Gareth’s drumkit, so Frank assumes they deserved it.

But now that Carver’s taken care of and everyone’s up to speed, there’s a lull in the conversation as the three of them drop their bikes on the familiar steps leading up to the Munson trailer. Maybe less familiar, as it currently stands, with the windows vacant and dark. With the knowledge that Chrissy died here, and knowing that, without understanding how, it wasn’t Eddie’s fault.

“And you’re sure this is where Eddie’s hiding?”

“Seems like the last place he should go in a situation like this,” Gareth mumbles, eyeing the graffiti-covered trailer. 

“He is here… kind of,” Frank says firmly, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels.

From what he’d gathered from listening back to the recorded calls, the feds were aware of something they were calling ‘exits.’ That they’d been popping up everywhere the kids– where Chrissy had died. Didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out the rest.

And while the feds were too busy circle jerking to finish assembling a ‘task force,’ that meant Eddie could have slipped through unnoticed. Which meant they were about to follow.

Any further questions were met with a resounding, terrifying answer – one that took the unfortunate shape of a ‘YES’ spread out in a jagged chasm across the ceiling. The three of them stared at each other, at the anomalous sheet-bend ladder dangling from nothing.

There might have been a moment of second-guessing, of wondering if they were getting in too deep, but then they could hear voices coming through the chasm, and that was enough to get Jeff reaching for the ladder.

He pauses for a moment, just before he begins the climb, looking back at Frank and Gareth with an air of grave solemnity. 

“If I die, tell Rebecca Ives I’m in love with her.”

Gareth rolls his eyes, but kneels to give him a boost up anyway.

“Like we’d let you die without us.”

Gravity goes weird as Frank hauls himself up (down?) the ladder, everything shifting, flipping as he falls into the awaiting mattress landing pad. He thinks, god, the trailer’s seen better days, huh, even as they’re picking themselves up and following the voices toward the not-Munson-trailer front door.

He doesn’t have time to contemplate the nightmare reverse quality of everything here, or even worry about the spores floating in the air that have him itching for the inhaler he left at home, because Gareth’s already at the door, flinging it open with one hand. He’s got his other hand firmly latched around one of the tire irons Frank had brought.

The earth – if they’re even on earth anymore – seems to stand still. Because there’s Eddie, alive and mostly unharmed. Eddie and Dustin, and– well, shit. A whole fucking gaggle of others.

At the sound of the door opening, everyone outside whirled around to face them, hands on their weapons like they were expecting a fight. Which, yeah, they might well have been. Wasn’t that the whole reason the feds had been calling each other like crazy? Why they were out there, somewhere, assembling a task force at this very moment? The reason Eddie was here at all?

Because there was something out there, too large and inhuman to comprehend. Something that was just that – too much – and they needed to fight it. Had to kill it.

 “Jeff?” Eddie asks after a long pause, glancing surreptitiously back at the older group, as if making sure they could see them too.

“Eddie– Holy shit, dude,” Jeff breathes, taking an aborted step toward him.

He stops when Wheeler – yes, Nancy-goddamn-Wheeler – lifts her shotgun and aims it directly at the three of them, still smushed together in the doorway. Harrington shoots her a scowl, and she lowers it a little, but her fingers stay locked, ready to fire.

“How’d you get here?” Nancy asks warily, eyeing the three of them suspiciously. Frank wonders what else he has missed in the tapped calls – what other tricks of the mind the rest of the group experienced before they got there.

“Uh, we used the front door?” Gareth mutters, side-eyeing Frank like maybe Wheeler had a few screws loose.

“And the rope, don’t forget the rope into another dimension.”

 Wheeler frowns at this, opening her mouth to say argue – probably ‘go back, it’s too dangerous’ or some other noble, heroic shit, but Eddie’s already lifting a placating hand.

“We don’t have time to ask why they’re here. They’re here, and we need all the help we can get if we’re going to stop Vecna –”

“– the DnD guy?”

“– if we’re going to stop him before he gets Mayfield,” Eddie continues, ignoring Gareth’s muttered outburst. “And I don’t know about you guys, but I think I’ve seen enough kids die in the last week to last me a lifetime.”

“Go. Do your job. And make sure you get that fucker.”

The three of them – Wheeler, Buckley, and Harrington – all nod in eerie unison, resolidified by Eddie’s conviction. And they’re about to take off, head toward some unknown, separate danger, when Jeff nudges Frank’s shoulder, nodding to the bag of weapons. Right.

“Wait!” he calls to them, closing the distance with the bag of offerings held out. Wheeler’s eyes go wide.

“Holy shit, is that a bazooka?” Robin sputters, taking a step away from them.

“It’s an M72,” Frank and Nancy say in unison, then eye each other appreciatively.

Seems like Wheeler knows her shit.

“Where’d you –” Nancy cuts herself off with a shake of her head, accepting the bag Frank thrusts into her hands. “This is– wow, thank you. Honestly, it’s impressive.”

“What good would we be if we showed up empty-handed?” he says, grinning at her.

Feels good, knowing all this work wouldn’t go to waste. Nancy smiles at him, shyly, before hoisting the bag over her shoulder. Nods once, and then Wheeler, Buckley and Harrington disappear into the woods beyond.

Frank’s still staring after their retreating forms when he hears Eddie come up from behind, clapping an arm over his shoulder.

“As much as I’d love to bask in the warmth of this surprise reunion, we’re kind of busy preparing for battle,” Eddie says, smiling down his nose at him. “So, if you don’t mind a little walk-and-talk crash course, we can get each other up to speed.”

Frank laughs because, despite everything, it feels right being here with him. Together. Ready to fight for their town, for each other.

“Yeah, man. Let’s get to work.”

THREE DAYS LATER

They’re fourth (fourth!) in line to visit Eddie in the hospital once he wakes. The first and second positions were obvious – Wayne first, because yeah, they’re family; followed closely by Dustin, who was already here for Mayfield this morning when she woke.

But Gareth’s been moaning nonstop about the third person, who currently stood somewhere beyond the closed door of Eddie’s hospital room. His federally guarded hospital room, Frank might add, which was making his skin crawl, reminded of the very tapped, very illegal recordings he had stashed somewhere at the bottom of his bag.

“I just don’t get it,” Gareth’s saying for probably the tenth time since they got here. “We go through all that trouble – bringing the weapons, saving everyone’s ass, crushing all those interdimensional bats into bits–”

One of the feds gives Gareth a wary look, which he waves off with an annoyed flick of his hand.

“Look, buddy, I’m not breaking any NDAs if you pencil-pushers are the only ones to hear me,” he mutters.

“Anyway, point being! All Harrington does is ride in at the last second like a goddamn knight in shining armor, performs a little CPR on Eddie, and now we’re playing second fiddle to him? Where’s the rationale in that!”

Frank and Jeff share a look over Gareth’s shoulder, knowing that’s not… exactly how it went down, and he knows it, too. Frank certainly wouldn’t call what they saw Eddie and Steve do, pressed up against the driver’s side door as they left for the hospital, CPR for CPR’s sake.

More like the ‘holy shit, I almost watched you die’ and ‘holy shit, I almost died and now you’re carrying me, bridal style, to safety’ kind of embrace. One that included a lot of crying. And tongue.

“None of us broke our ankle saving him,” Jeff supplies drily. “I think that’s earned him a little favoritism, at the moment.”

More than favoritism, if Eddie’s blood loss induced, romantic whispers to Frank on the way to the hospital could be believed. But Frank was currently saving that embarrassing piece of blackmail for a rainy day.

“Sorry we were good at saving everyone’s lives and didn’t need to break anything to get the job done,” Gareth mutters sullenly, checking his watch again.

“Hey. Sunglasses,” he snaps at one of the guards, nodding at the closed door.

“Can you knock or something? Tell them their time’s up or–”

Gareth’s interrupted by the door swinging open, revealing a rather pink-faced Steve Harrington, beckoning them in.

“Sorry for, ah. For the hold up, guys,” he mumbles, scrubbing at the back of his neck.

“He’s ready for you now.”