and finding only why

[10_20_15_5_50]

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.


For deadboywalking

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yes P L E AS E

[mommabear]

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.

[10_20_15_5_50]

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.”

[mommabear]

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."

[10_20_15_5_50]

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.”

[mommabear]

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.

[10_20_15_5_50]

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.”