Chapter Text
It had been 12 years since Vecna died. 12 years since the town of Hawkins finally knew peace.
12 years since El died.
Mike tried not to think about it too much - it was over a decade ago after all - but since it was the anniversary, it was hard not to. When he first woke up to the sound of his clock on his bedside table, he remained in blissful ignorance. Turning it off, he got up immediately, an unlikely feat. Yesterday his boss at the Washington Post had reprimanded him for his excessive tardiness, so Mike figured if he didn’t step up his game he would be out of a job pretty soon. He put his work clothes on - a button-up shirt and a pair of khaki pants - and freshened his hair while his coffee was brewing.
As he made his way back to the kitchen, his eye caught onto the book sitting on the hall table. Stranger Things, the book he wrote during college about him and the party’s adventures and horrors with the Upside Down. He tweaked some things so that no one could connect it with the events in Hawkins. Different town name, people, etc. It hadn’t gotten much traction unfortunately, with him attempting to self-publish it right after college and then switching to an actual publisher when only his family and friends bought the book. He hadn’t lost hope yet, and was still working on his next book with some of his own original ideas.
Mike poured himself a cup of coffee as it dawned on him what day it was, thanks to the calendar on the wall across from him. For a bit after everyone went to college, the party would meet up in Hawkins to reconnect and debrief, but after Will couldn’t make it one year due to his art final for NYU, they started showing up less and less until no one went. Now most of their communication was through rare texts and even rarer phone calls. At that point, Lucas and Max were at college together on the west coast, Will was at NYU, Dustin was at MIT, and Mike was in DC. As he sipped his coffee, Mike sadly considered that he may not see his friends again for several years. Even if he tried to make plans there was no accounting for who would actually be able to come.
A ding from the kitchen table informed Mike that his computer had been sent an email. Setting his coffee down beside him, Mike logged in and checked what he had been sent. It was an email from one of his coworkers. Mike skimmed it, and his heart dropped as he realized what this meant.
To: mikewheeler@gmail
From:staceybower@gmail
Good morning Micheal,
Yesterday I received a very important call- Movsky found the files you were looking for while rummaging around in storage, and so you officially have a new angle to write your article about y2k and the likelihood of the world actually ending. Franklin wants the article done asap, there’s only so many months left in the year.
Best of luck,
Stacey K. Bower
Staff Writer of the Washington Post
A month ago, Mike would’ve been overjoyed to find out that he could finally write his article he’d spent so much time researching about. However, since he gave up looking for more information after spending hours in the archive room, his papers about it had gotten thoroughly buried under newer articles he was working on within his home office. What made it worse was that apparently Mr. James Franklin, Mike’s boss, now was invested in him getting the article done. Damn you Stacey and Movsky.
Sprinting to his office, coffee forgotten, Mike started frantically rummaging through the ever-growing mountain of papers on his desk. As a teenager he never had much sense for organization, and unfortunately that had not changed much since he became an adult. His office consisted of the aforementioned desk, two bookshelves, a few lamps, and piles upon piles of papers and manilla folders scattered about. He tried to retrace his steps from a month ago to track down the papers he needed. After exactly two seconds, Mike gave up and just started throwing himself at each stack of papers, hoping to find what he was looking for. After 10 minutes of not-so-careful searching, Mike lifted off some papers about an article he did on the Clinton Impeachment, and found a manilla folder labeled Y2K in bold letters. With a hefty sigh of relief, Mike took the manilla folder and headed back to the kitchen.
He took a sip of his coffee, and choked a bit at the unexpected coldness. Putting the manilla folder in his bag, Mike put on his coat, grabbed his suitcase, and headed for the car.
The drive from his house to the metro wasn’t far, and Mike soon found himself parked and heading to buy a ticket. Walking to the platform, he arrived just as his train did, but the crowd was harsh as he tried to navigate a sea of hundreds of people, narrowly making it inside the train before the doors closed. Looking around, Mike was disappointed to see that there were no seats available, so he would have to stand. Wrapping his hand around the pole as the train began to move, Mike let his mind wander to El. He thought back to that day, what El had said to him- and what Mike hadn’t. It had taken a while for him to accept why he didn’t tell El he loved her. At first he made excuses like there was no time or it wouldn't have changed her mind anyway and he knew that in the moment. But he knew now. It stung, but he knew it was because he didn’t love her. Not in the way she did. What he still couldn’t wrap his mind around was - why?
- - -
The second he arrived at his office building, all thoughts of El and that day evaporated as he settled into his busy work. He had just finished his new first draft of the y2k article - besides any interviews he needed to do - when someone knocked on his cubicle. Leaning against his cubicle wall was Stacey. A year younger than him, the two quickly became friends after they both joined the paper around the same time. She narrowed her eyes at him oddly.
“What?” He asked, his eyebrows and nose scrunching up in confusion.
Stacey’s expression cleared as she replied, “just wanted to see how you were doing on your article now that Movsky found you more intel.”
“It’s going fine. How’s your article about Britney Spears going?”
“Really good actually. I found some-”
“Is this what being productive looks like?” A new voice joined in. Franklin.
The pair looked at Franklin, whose face was wearing a scowl enunciated by his wrinkles and sharp cheek bones. 30 years Mike’s senior, James Prescott Franklin was skeptical of new age technology, as well as workplace policy. Overall, he was not a huge fan of Mike’s interest in new tech, or Stacey’s existence as a woman in the company. Of course, half the time Mike was too oblivious to notice Franklin’s blatant misogyny.
“We were bouncing article ideas off each other,” Mike explained with a light smile.
Apparently this was the wrong thing to say, as Franklin’s frown deepened and he turned his attention to Stacy.
“Bouncing off ideas,” his mouth turned upward slightly, but his frown remained. “You couldn't use your own brain to figure out ideas, could you Stacey?”
Stacey, looking visibly uncomfortable, just mumbled a small no sir before retreating to her cubicle. Franklin turned to Mike with an oddly concerned expression.
“Wheeler, let me know if she ever tries stealing your ideas again,” Franklin said, his oddly southern accent lowering to a whisper as he leaned in. Stealing Mike’s ideas? That wasn’t even- “females are allowed to get jobs like this and suddenly start thinking they can take whatever from us hard workers.”
Mike just blinked, dumbfounded. Half the time it was Stacey helping Mike with ideas, not the other way around. Not knowing what else to do, he just nodded. Thankfully that was the right response, and Franklin gave a small smile before walking away.
Unsure about why that interaction ended the way that it did, Mike returned to his work.
At the end of the day, Mike headed out to go back on the metro, and this time actually secured a seat. As he sat, his thoughts drifted to Will. When he told Mike that he got accepted into NYU, Mike was happy for him - he was - he just wished Will had chosen somewhere closer to DC. If he wanted to see Will now he would have to drive 5 hou-
His eyes locked onto someone standing on the train, their back facing him, someone who he didn’t notice get on.
Even though his hair was different, Mike could recognize the back of Will’s head anywhere.