Chapter Text
Eleven stared down at her shoes.
Joyce had put them all in the car—Jonathan, Will, and her—and driven away from Hawkins, all the way to sunny California, as if distance alone could mean safety.
You are one of us now, Jane, and you will always be. Jane Hopper-Byers, Joyce had said one night, after finding her outside, staring at the stars.
If Hopper hadn’t died, would they even be this open?
Would they spend this much time with her?
You are now my little sister, El. Welcome home, Jonathan had said while helping her pack the few things that remained in the old cabin.
Jonathan—who had barely spent time with her, who had barely acknowledged her. Not that she blamed him. They had all been trying to save the world, each assigned a role, each useful in their own way. Jonathan Byers, who had protected her at the mall.
Why had he done that?
Perhaps he had been afraid that without her—without her powers—Will would be taken again.
El, Will had said, simply.
He had looked at her for a moment too long. There was something in his eyes—was that pity?
She still struggled with verbal cues. The unsaid ones were worse, a nightmare to understand, even months after escaping Papa. How could she fit into this family? Hers was gone. Terry Ives was lost inside her own mind. Hopper was dead. And Mike—she didn’t know how to hold him anymore.
She was alone. More alone than she had been the first day she stepped beyond the lab’s fences.
She carried these thoughts with her from Hawkins to California. Held them close. Tried not to make a mess. Tried not to intervene in the life of the Byers family. She cleaned up after herself. Said nothing about the grass—weed, she would later learn—Jonathan smoked. Did her assigned chores, and more. She didn’t want to tire Joyce. At school, she kept her distance from Will. She was already a pariah; there was no need to drag him down with her.
She lied to Mike.
About having friends.
About doing amazing.
Sometimes she stared too hard at doors, willing them to close, before remembering she had to get up and do it herself. Those days were gone. El—or Jane, whoever she was supposed to be—remembered when she could lift trucks, uproot trees, snap necks with a simple nod.
She remembered when she mattered.