10_20_15_5_50 | and finding only why

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and finding only why

It was something like a fifteen-hour drive, from Porcupine River to Hawkins; when Sam had first looked it up, that was the conclusion, and when she'd first driven down, that was about how long it had taken her. For that first trip, she'd often been over the speed limit, but not by much. She hadn't spent the whole haul alternating coffee and gingerale, hoping the latter would calm her nervous stomach, which seemed to be both colder than anything she drank, and doing slow somersaults. (The way it had been since she'd first read Will's last letter, though her stomach had turned faster then, when the dread was fresh; it had slowed over hours.) She hadn't breezed by every opportunity to eat real food, rather than the bag of raisins she'd grabbed in the process of packing---a process which was, thankfully, all but automatic after too many concerts to count, and the errands she'd undertaken for various associates. Criminal records were common among adepts, but she'd been lucky.

Rabbit's foot, the other rabbit's foot, pennies, buttons, coral, red thread, twenty bucks and that better be it. She might've missed something in her hurry... but she hadn't missed a trick, pulling over before the border to find the stub of eyeliner perpetually in her pocket and print GUILELESS across her forehead, hoping to ensure she'd be through customs quickly.

The Label had worked, and ten minutes into the United States of America, she scrubbed it into illegibility with the side of her hand. The last thing she wanted was---

Well.

The last thing she wanted was the worst case scenario (everything bad, her too late to help) but she didn't want the backlash of the spell to bite her in the ass; the last thing she needed was to be stopped for speeding and seem like a shady motherfucker to the cop who'd stop her in that hypothetical. An hour of backlash, an hour wherein she would not exceed the speed limit, that was... bearable, though it wasn't easy.

It was something like a fifteen hour drive from Porcupine River to Hawkins, but despite the hour in which she'd had to behave herself, Sam arrived after only twelve. Stiff and sore and stumbling for the first few steps, she limped up to the Byers' door and knocked. Three times. And another three. And another three; insistent ~~and afraid.~~

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deadboywalking

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It's a good hug, enthusiastic enough to be almost aggressive (since Sam's body language was in a tone to brook no argument when she pulled a friend into an embrace, now as ever) but not uncomfortable. Holding it for a few more moments, Sam shrugged before releasing Joyce and stepping back, brushing both hands up and over her cheeks as if she could brush off her exhaustion before answering. “Letter. The last letter I got from Will was super short and spooked me. I woulda sped down sooner, but I was out of town for a while and it was in with the accumulated mail, though I opened it as soon as I saw it and I...” She let the sentence trail, flicking her palms up.

“I came as quick as I could. I think I can loiter for like four days, if you'll have me; I'm fine crashing on the couch. Told Will as much when he let me in. D'you wanna head in for a few, or you want a hand, maybe?” Sam gestured at the bag Joyce had been hauling. “I don't know what the hell happened but I'm not going to ask til tomorrow unless you want to tell me sooner. The only things I'm asking today are do you mind a guest? What can I do? ...Anything I should say to the big guy on your behalf?” The last was an attempt to introduce a little levity; as she asked, Sam clapped a hand (the inked one, annotated up to the elbow) onto Joyce's shoulder, giving her a small smile. She still wished she could've seen Breakdown meet the Byers by the side of the road, and was still touched that the big brawler had softened enough to think a handful of humans, at least, were okay... or okay enough.

"...ah." Joyce glances towards the house, biting hard at her lower lip, thinking for a moment. She should go inside, check on Will, but the idea of trying to stay strong with everything looming over her head seems too much. So instead she offers the bag, gestures towards the recycling bin at the side of the house. "I can...give you the quick version, depending on what he told you. Inside, or...in the letter."

Then, quieter, arms coming to cross over her stomach: "How'd he seem? To you?"

Sam took the bag without hesitation, and as readily limped over to the bin; though her bad leg was uncooperative after such a long time spent just sitting, the opportunity to move a bit more now that her long drive was done was welcomed.

And, anyway, Joyce could probably use the few moments (as well as the few more moments Sam's speed bought her) to sort herself out.

“Well... worn out and sore. Worn out more than anything. Maybe a little scattered, too. He said there's a lot he can't really remember.” The skin-witch made a point of being back by Joyce's side before she continued, settling a reassuring arm across the smaller woman's shoulders. “I didn't get it cleared up, but I healed the spot on his stomach. He didn't tell me too much---inside or in the letter---but you can give me the quick version now... or later. I can wait, if you want to talk it over later tonight; now that I've seen him and seen you and know you're.... maybe not okay, but maybe managing, I can wait, if you want. I want to know, but I'm here for you guys, y'know? So you can tell me what happened, or how I can help, and I'll take what you tell me.”

Sam paused then, stepping closer, sideways, to bump the side of her head carefully and lightly against Joyce's. “Also tell me I can claim your couch tonight because I am some next-level knackered. Please?”

Joyce's shoulders shudder at the mention of the injury -- god, she'd almost forgotten about that, about that awful moment with Will's hand around her throat and Nancy grabbing for the hot poker, the scent and sound of the hot metal making contact with flesh. She drops her face into her hands for a moment, breathes in shakily.

"Thank you," she manages finally. The marks on her neck are still visible, very small finger-shaped bruises. "And of course you can. Of course. It's all yours." She lifts her head, eyes glassy with tears, a rare moment of weakness now that neither of her boys are watching. "It's been a...bad couple weeks."

The shift in her aura was like watching a wave break; light should've been a flare, but that word was too warm for the harsh muddle of emotion Sam saw. This---whatever one wanted to label the feeling, feelings---was a sputter of something cold and dark, to be shaken off, to some extent, and otherwise worn away.

“Ah, fuck. C'mon, c'mere. I'm sorry.” Once she finished speaking, Sam drew Joyce into another hug, this one almost as insistent as the first, but a bit gentler. “I'm sorry you've been through such shit, and I'm sorry for going on at you, and I'm sorry for imposing but lemme say thanks for putting me up before I get to the important bit.”

She gave Joyce one more squeeze before she stepped back, this time keeping her hands on her shoulders, all sincerity since this was what mattered. “D'you want to fill me in now, or later? What'd be easier on you?”

This time Joyce hugs back wholeheartedly, swallowing back the tears. She's so good at that, at stifling what she's actually feeling or thinking. It's a relief to not have to do that so intensely, if only for a moment. Sam isn't asking anything of her except to let down the defensive walls a little.

So when Joyce pulls back, she's a little more composed, a little more in control. Her voice is low, tired. "I don't know if you'd believe it all, honestly. There was this...thing inside Will, and it almost...it almost took him for good."

The first sentence prompted what would've become a small and very crooked smile, but the expression fell from Sam's face before it finished forming; the next six words had her stopped cold, a very small oh, (small even for the small part of her which was almost always weighing favours against IOUs, risks against rewards, allies, and assets, what-ifs and and-thens in the back of her mind, a little voice like a radio in another room) echoing in her, and when Joyce finished speaking, she looked like she'd be sick.

She let her hands fall from Joyce's shoulders before smoothing both over her own hair, drawing a deep beath and cupping her elbows in her hands before she explained; “In that last letter, what Will said was 'I don't feel like myself anymore.' I hauled ass here to look at him, cause the things I see, I can't see over a screen. Now I know I was right to flip shit, but... there's good news?” Now she did manage a smile, though it was uncertain and didn't last long.

“There's nothing in his aura I shouldn't be seeing, nothing like---” And for a moment, frustration elbowed the dread and stale horror aside, because finding words for the things like this can be so hellaciously hard. Sam shut her eyes and fisted her hands, continuing carefully. “You know how, if a person just pulls a tick off, the head can be left behind? There's nothing like that here. What I saw when I got in and got a look at your kid? Was Will. Worn down, worn out, with healing to do, but wholly him.”

Joyce can't help it -- she makes a sound like a wounded animal, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. How recent had that last letter been? Before or after that -- thing had gotten inside her son and almost stayed for good? She swallows hard, trying to focus on what Sam is really saying -- that Will's okay, that he's himself again, exhausted and wounded, but himself.

So she exhales, a shaky, wavering sound and closes her eyes tight. "We had to burn it out of him. It -- god, Sam, I've never..." She never wanted to do something like that. She hates the monster for making her hurt her kid almost as much as she hates it for killing Bob.

At that noise (which, in its way, was as hard to hear as what Joyce had said only moments ago) Sam winced and reached out, acting on uncalculated instinct to take Joyce's nearest hand in both of her own. “I can't even imagine, not enough. And I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. And I'm sorry most everything I can say to you right now is 'I, I, I,' so I'm gonna get back to that later, focus oughtta be on you now.” She gave the hand she held a gentle squeeze.

“Your kid is coming back from this, because of you. You put so much into protecting and providing, doing whatever you have to for your boys' sake... you should hear---no, you should know, that no-one could do more, no-one could do better. So... be as kind as you can to yourself. Tell me what you want---to have it all out here and now, or later, or what---and how I can help. A hand with what you're trashin', run for food, sit with Will, whatever.”

There's another shudder, soft, stifled -- like always. But she squeezes Sam's hand back, tightly. She'll be able to articulate it, the lab, the tunnels, the exorcism -- later. She'll find the words later. For now she'll step away enough to open the trash can for the big bag, relieved to see it go.

"Newspaper. Insulation." She falters again, pushes her hair out of her face. "It got...noisy."

As soon as the lid went up, Sam swung the bag in; she could take a hint.

“That, I can imagine.” The adept offered a small, sympathetic smile, but no further comment, instead contenting herself with trudging back to retrieve another bag to bin, and then another, and another. Of all her unanswered questions, she concentrated on one, because it was trivial and didn't tie---at least, not directly---back to the Byers' hurt.

Christ on a cracker, how does anyone scrounge up so much newpaper without having it hoarded?

After a while, with the last bags piled beside the almost-overflowing trash can, Sam straightened and stretched, still sore from the drive. “Told Will I would only be a minute; he's probably wondering what happened. I'm going to go in, go get my stuff in, and then park my butt, unless there's anything more you want a hand with out here.”

Newspaper is cheap insulation. Also Joyce might be a little bit of a coupon fanatic (her secret guilt). But she helps with getting all the bags in and around the trash can, reaching to gather her hair up into a ponytail partway through and let out a heavy sigh.

"I can get your bags. If you...he'll be worried." He panics when he's alone, now, for longer than a couple minutes. To be honest, so does Joyce.

Offering to get her guest's things might've seemed like a small gesture to Joyce, but it got her a look of profound gratitude, one as loud as any exclamation and underscored by “Thank you.” Sam stood still long enough to indulge in a shoulder-slumping sigh of relief, then began patting her pockets down until she found---well, she found one rabbit's foot, the other rabbit's foot, a gas station receipt, lip chap and then the keys to her suburban. She handed them over with no hesitation, clapping Joyce on the shoulder as soon as her hand was free.

“Just got two; a duffel and a sleeping back, rolled up in the back. It's not locked right now. You'll probably be there and inside again in half the time it'd take me. And again? Thanks.” With that, Sam turned to head in. Only once she'd stepped back into the house did she remember she'd been out in sock feet; now that the soles were dark with dirt and dead grass, she peeled her socks off and went back to the sofa. “Sorry to take so long.”

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and finding only why

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this poor lady

she deserves a BREAK

girl's night, wine and tilts, practical magic up in here

yes P L E AS E

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