✓ | 3. soldier, soldier, spy [STEVE HARRINGTON]

twenty-three.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
THREE MONTHS LATER

[ THE BATTLE OF STARCOURT ]

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          Hey kid
Im grabbing lunch at Joyce's, I'll get you a sandwich and the chips you like (bad taste) so dont worry about using a vending machine. Drunk guy in the cell needs feeding, ask someone to help you. Be back for 1.
                      Hop

The note was the most simple thing Thomas had ever read, with punctuation all wrong and the handwriting jagged and the paper creased and turning dirty with fingertips and inkstains. But for the past three months, it had been in his wallet, touched almost every day since he'd found it on his last trip to the deputy station to collect his things.

It had been on Thomas' tiny little desk in the corner of the bullpen, stuck under a thumbtack to keep it pinned there even if a breeze ruffled through the room. Thomas didn't know when Hopper had left it there, and had been strangely annoyed at himself for not seeing it; he'd missed two scheduled shifts at work due to the Mindflayer, so had naturally been fired by the replacement chief. Plus, there was the issue of how nobody except Hopper knew why he deserved the position.

And, well, Hopper wasn't there to defend him anymore, was he?

So, he'd been collecting his things, thinking of Hopper and Stanley and of Joyce's plans for the end of summer, and he'd pricked himself on the thumbtack when he'd scrunched the note up. Unfolded it, read it, sat down, read it again.

Then it had slid into his wallet, and stayed there ever since, folded up into a small square of paper.

         The loss had hit Joyce and Eleven the hardest, and for the first month Thomas had tried to stay out of their way. The first week after the loss had been spent hugging, crying, consoling, cooking meals -- then, Eleven first, then Joyce (because Joyce had been holding it off, knowing it did no good, but eventually couldn't help it), each of them snapped at him. Harsh enough for his eyes to water. Then, he let them go about their own business, mostly isolated.

         Eventually, laughter came back. Joyce started to cook again. Eleven started to leave the house to see Mike and Max and the others. Started asking to be driven places. That first car ride had been tense and silent -- the second, when he picked her up from the movie theatre, had been better; she'd sang along to Queen.

         Sometimes, Thomas felt like he'd been so involved in helping them through the grief, that he hadn't properly grieved it all himself. His own sadness happened at night or in his car, when the tears blurred his eyes so much he had to pull over, or his body thrummed with so much anger that he had to punch something: his pillow, his mirror, his steering wheel, his headrest.