𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍’𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌, 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 — 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐃.

An impending sense of dread plagued Scout through mind and body; heart, he thinks, would have made an interesting but troublesome inclusion, and so pushed it away as far back as it would allow, hoping doing so would not end up meaning more trouble than it was worth. The feeling flourished for minutes at a time, gone only when he convinced himself it wasn’t there, only to have it return bigger, faster than before. It continued like this, a constant warring cycle between brain and -- metaphorical -- brawn, aided by his spiraling thoughts. With nothing to distract him, all his questions merely simmer, awaiting the moment when he won’t be able to take it anymore to boil over. 

So he walked. Alone, weary, and teeming with questions after his interaction with Jonathan, he walked onward, devoid of any purpose or destination as his blood rushed throughout his body pulsating with alarm and confusion and anxiety. Nothing he can come up with can distract him from the boy’s last chilling statement, whatever that meant, and there’s little to be done about that except his head practically screaming at him to leave leave leave until his legs finally get the message and start moving, leave because part of him says so and he doesn’t have the energy to protest why. 

And so, he walked. 

The journey began nearly twenty minutes ago, right after Jonathan left him with that final unsettling statement in the record store, before leaving without word of explanation. He’s known for some time what he wants to do, just has never had the guts to go out and do it, if he’s being honest. But now was not the time to reconsider or get cold feet; he had questions, and he knew just the place to get answers -- that is, if she lets him in at all.

The fact that she might not even want to see him has, of course, crossed his mind. He doubted there was anything he could do to change her mind, seeing as how he hadn’t exactly done anything in the past to make her possess this… grudge she seems to harbor now -- not that Scout even remembered anything about that to begin with. Even so, he hoped her good will would be enough to let him in through the front door, even if her intuition -- always strong and nearly always right, that one -- might say otherwise. 

Even though his legs feel like they’re made of jello, he made no effort to turn back, telling himself over and over again that he’d left, almost there; all he needs to do is just make it there, make it and all his questions will be answered, why isn't he there already, just MAKE it, make it there, make --  

It’s right there. He’s now in a less, well -- expensive part of town, where kids show up to school in hand-me-down jackets from siblings who’ve long moved away and allowance money is skimpy compared to people like the Wheelers. In fact, it reminds Scout of his own home, with its shabby walls and dying grass out front, and he wonders if the thicket of woods that shelters the back is more of a cover than people realize. It’s perfect; providing a bit of privacy from those who already consider the family to be weirder than normal, not to mention the whole ordeal the year prior. The Byers never did seem to get a break. 

The stagnant Chevrolet was not parked on the dirt path that functioned as a driveway, but instead sat on a bed of thatch that at first glance, seemed to encompass the tires -- waning, yet overgrown at the same time. As he made his way up the drive, his shoes raking up handfuls of gravel and dirt with each step, a moment’s hesitation granted him the wave of doubt he’s been trying not to think about since making up his mind. What is he doing here? He’s far from Joyrce’s favorite person, yet here he was, standing in front of her door, hoping to ask her about a past she might not want to revisit. Even if her problems weren’t with him, Scout was still a reminder -- a loose connection, no matter how strained and secondary, still inspired the bones in her closet. 

Nevertheless, he knocked. 

And to his surprise, it opens. The woman standing in front of him shares the same exhausted look she wore constantly in Will’s absence, except far less distinctive; her eyes, set and glazed over, refocus on Scout, who stood frozen as he waits for her to say something. Mrs. Byers gave him a once-over -- having to raise her head to do so, the blond suddenly wished he were shorter, given their difference in height -- but the look doesn’t harbor the surprise he expects. Instead, it’s overshadowed by disbelief, as though the last thing she expected to have on a weekday afternoon was a distraught teenager nearly twice her size. 

“Scout? What are you… what are you doing here?” 

Honestly? He wasn’t so sure anymore. Part of him is still tempted to sprint in the other direction, but he stands his ground and replies, “I… I was kind of hoping to talk to you. If that’s okay?” 

He eyed the grip she had on the door, her small frame leaning against it as if it were a cane. And perhaps it is, functioning as support from something that might cause her harm -- emotional harm, that is, not physical (God forbid) but harm nonetheless. 

When she said nothing, Scout began to think that his quest for answers will just have to be cut short until he suddenly registers something: Mrs. Byers had stepped aside to make way, her shoulder still pressed against the doorframe. Probably been standing like that for a few moments, actually, except he’d been too engrossed in his thoughts to notice. For extra measure, she added -- a little pointedly -- “Come in, Scout.” 

And just like that, Scout entered, hesitating at the front door even after Joyce closed it behind him. From the distance, it might have looked normal -- your average small family home, cluttered living room and all. But now that he’s inside, Scout started to notice the little things, details he knew for a fact didn’t exist anywhere else in Hawkins. From the peeling wallpaper that looks like it’s been stabbed in corners to the dried patches of something here and there on the rug, the sense of dread that followed him all the way here returns in full force, as though this was the place it was trying to warn him. 

The urge to turn around and run has never been so strong. 

Still, he fights it. He surveys the room with unease, as though the house were a ticking time bomb about to blow the place sky high. Mrs. Byers, who has already moved away and taken position in the kitchen, to her credit, didn’t look over her shoulder to see if Scout had followed her, but goes about whatever she’s doing anyway, as though she knows his curiosity will surpass whatever innate impulse he has to run. 

He’s a stranger in this house. However similar his own may look on the outside, the inside couldn’t be more different. They share certain qualities -- the fluctuating memories, of photographs adorning the walls, each of them conjuring some sort of raw emotion from moments over the years. But the scrubbed splatter of what guessed to be black paint on one wall certainly doesn't match his, as does neither the axe in the corner of the room, leaned against the bookcase like it’s a precaution that hasn’t been taken in a while. 

For a second, Scout lost himself in the swell of his surroundings. It feels dark, even though the sun was still very much high in the sky, it being barely late afternoon and all. The curtains, although pulled back enough to let woven strands of sunlight fill in, hung pale and blanched on the side facing the window. But when a few seconds start to feel like a lifetime, he comes to, blinking as though it will help clear up his confusion, and when the clinking of glasses penetrates through the fog, Scout turned and found himself staring at Mrs. Byers, who in turn was staring at him. 

They sat together on the sagging couch. Scout, stiff and unsure what to do, merely stared at the tall glass of water Mrs. Byers brought him. It stood alongside an identical glass she had brought for herself, but the handful of mixed messages the woman beside him has given off, both now and in the past, offer no indication as to whether HER glass really only contains water, like his. He wondered if drinking might get rid of the constant edge he seemed to carry around. Surprisingly, he’s never tried it; never had the desire to, either. 

She surveyed him, as though mulling over her decision to let him into the house. Her words are just as stiff as he feels. “What did you want to talk about, Scout?” 

For the first time, his mind goes blank. As in, no thoughts, no spiralling -- nothing. He must look like a fool, sitting there like that with his mouth partially open like a dying fish. But Mrs. Byers seemed to understand, waiting for him to gather himself as she takes almost practiced sips from her drink. 

“I want to talk about my mother.” 

There. 

It turns out, shoving down any thought of his mother over the years has really come back to bite him in the ass. It’s always been something he’s conditioned himself to ignore, as if it were as easy not to think about the woman who should have helped raise him as his math homework. Like clockwork, the blond cycles through an endless pattern of forgetting, coping, and remembering. It’s hard to say which is the easy part, because to him, each stage always feels like the worst when he’s in it. That’s the only part that never fails to change. 

“Isabel?” Joyce says this like it’s a name she’s long forgotten. “Honey, I’m sorry. I know your mother’s not here, but…” 

“That’s just it,” interjected Scout, just a little bit too loudly. He lowered his voice before repeating, “That’s just it. I know she’s not here and I want to know why. Why isn’t she here, Mrs. Byers?” 

She gave too long of a pause and stared blankly at the loveseat to their left, as though pleading with a ghost to give her strength. Strength she’s long proven she possesses -- Will’s disappearance is proof of that -- but vanished right at the moment she needs it. Perhaps looking for a way out of the conversation, she asked, “Shouldn’t you talk to your father about this, Scout? I hardly think I should be the one to tell you, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart? That’s new. “My dad avoids this conversation at all costs,” the blond answered bitterly, “It’s infuriating. He has no problem talking about them in high school, but the second I ask why she left -- nothing. It’s like he can’t handle anything afterwards.” 

Joyce says nothing, but at least he’s got her attention. She meets his eyes and must see the aching and pleading within them, too, because after a full minute of silence and hesitation, she sets her glass back on the dining table with a barely discernible clink and proceeds to place a hand upon Scout’s own. 

“I’m sorry. I know it must be difficult for Clark to talk about her, but for you… it must all seem very confusing and complicated.” 

The first thing that came to mind at her words were, “I’m not a child.” Immediately, he felt the sting of his own words, and regretted them the second they were out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he apologized, although the sentiment still stood. He wished he said it differently. “I mean, it doesn’t seem complicated at all, actually. You know? She left because she didn’t want to take care of a kid -- Me. How complicated could that be?” 

She looked at him questioningly, shaking her head. “I don’t understand. If you already knew, why are you here?” 

“I don’t know!” He blurted, and before he could even stop himself, he turned to face her, as though being face-to-face will help her understand his case. But it doesn’t, and Scout was left rambling, trying to keep up with his thoughts running a hundred miles an hour. “Technically, I’m not even supposed to exist, let alone be alive to ask about it. I’ve never even pushed it! I’ve always tiptoed around it for his sake, because I don’t remember her at all, but -- but it’s not fair! I deserve to know, right? Don’t I at least get to know the details?” 

“Of course you do, Scout,” Mrs. Byers assured, giving his hand a little squeeze. He felt his shoulders relax, this small motherly gesture more to him than she could ever know. “Of course you do, honey. But you want the details, and I -- I just don’t have them. Your mother, she kept things to herself, always valued her privacy. We might have known each other, but after she left… I don’t think I knew her as well as I thought I did.” 

“But you still know more than me,” he pressed, determined to find out more than what little he already knew, “Can’t you tell me something, anything? Please, Mrs. Byers, I just wanna know about my mom. She left, and it’s my fault, yeah, but she’s still --” 

“No, don’t you think like that, Scout. Isabel left for herself, alright? You had nothing to do with it. It never was your fault and it never will be, you understand?” 

Her eyes bear into him like a laser, and however he may feel about the truth of what she says, Scout instinctively nods, clearly enough to appease her, at least for the time being. She squeezes his hand again, and more of the tension dissipates. His eyes drift to the strip of pale flesh on the woman’s finger -- right where a ring should be. 

“There’s something else, though,” Scout recalled, biting his lip. The stoic expression he’s been trying so hard to maintain cracks, and he voices what’s been bothering him from the start, “My mother, she had a ring -- one that she wore all the time, and never took it off, even for anything. My dad’s talked about it sometimes, but he doesn’t have it, I don’t think… And I found out Steve Harrington’s dad has the same one, and then the woman who died in Night Vale -- she has the exact same one. D -- do you know what’s up with that? Why do our parents all have this same ring? Well, save for Dawn…” 

“Dawn?” Mrs. Byers asked, staring at him, almost with wild eyes. “Dawn Pruitt?” 

Scout nodded. He’s so close now, and is so giddy at the prospect of getting answers that he leans forward without thinking, his own eyes wide. “Yeah! Did -- did you know her?” 

“Know is a bit of a stretch,” she answered honestly, “Lonnie, he was always more a part of the group than I was. Your father was a few years younger than the rest of us in school -- explains why he’s like that, and well,” -- Joyce gave a dry chuckle -- “I’m the old bat that I am now. But Dawn, I remember, she was such a good kid. I don’t know how she fell into our circle, but…” Another pause, gazing away from him into the past. “I wish things had gone differently for her, you know? Better, at the very least. And look how she ended up…” 

Dawn, she explained, had more or less “fallen with the wrong crowd” at the time. Lonnie had never been a good influence, even back then, but Clark admired him -- the former was rugged, cool, and whatever else you needed to be in high school in the ‘50s; whatever failing grades he obtained be damned. Her sister tried to warn Dawn against hanging with the wrong crowd, but she didn’t listen, merely shrugging off what she considered to be nagging until something happened their senior year, and Dawn took off right after graduation. 

“It’s like she couldn’t get away fast enough. Isabelle tried to convince her not to, but as young as she was, when Dawn got something in that head of hers, there was nothing stopping her. She was feisty like that.” 

Her hands slumped back onto her lap as she began to shake her head. “It all happened so long ago. Those rings… they were a way of keeping the group together, you know? Mine is long gone by now -- I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s buried with some junk or if I just accidentally threw it away at some point. It was Isabelle’s idea, of course, she was always the energetic one, always imaginative. The design on the rings were all her, too, you know.” 

For the first time in ten minutes, Scout glanced away from Mrs. Byers, anxiously wringing a hand around his wrist. “But… What about Steve’s dad? Where does he fit into all this?” 

“Oh, Dick.” Mrs. Byers waved a dismissive hand, a seed of disapproval blooming on her face. Then, seeing the confused half-smile Scout gave her, she smiled in spite of herself, elaborating, “Oh, you know -- Richard, Dick, it’s all the same. Dick was just what he went by back then. Amusing now, I know.” She smiled wider -- an actual, genuine smile that radiates along with the sun coming through the windows. “He’s much tamer now -- and quite a lot of other things too, I’ve heard -- but he and Lonnie used to be good friends, if you can believe it. His family’s, well, better off than the handful of us, so he was the one who actually bought the rings. I think he really just wanted to be a part of it all; players were popular enough, but I suppose he wanted a taste of whatever Lonnie had going around.” 

“So Lonnie has one of the rings, too?” 

“To tell you the truth, I doubt it, honey. Probably pawned it off long ago, if not threw it out.” 

“Then that means my dad must have one,” the blond realized with a start, scanning Mrs. Byers’ face for confirmation, “And my mom got one too, she just took it with her when she left --” 

He stopped mid-sentence, dead silent. Suddenly feeling very light-headed -- as if all his energy had just poured out along with his realization -- Scout fell backwards on the couch, feeling very grateful that he’s already sitting down. 

However much he doesn’t want to think about it, Isabelle Murphy will always be at the center. He’d put good money on the fact that this mystery, or whatever it is by now, would not carry the weight it did now had she never left. His mother, by Joyce’s own words, was profilic; with her involvement, the case might even gain more attention in Hawkins and find out who was really behind her death. Either way, one thing was certain: everything would be much, much easier for everyone if his mother had never left. And if he was the only one to gain from the scenario… Well, Scout was more than okay with that. No matter how much resentment he felt toward the woman who was supposed to do everything Joyce did -- there was no way he was ignoring that motherly touch she had upon his shoulder right now -- Scout couldn’t help but yearn for the same thing, only one of his own. 

Jonathan didn’t know how lucky he was. 

Still, something doesn’t make sense, and he voices this in a forced addition, “I don’t understand. Why would Dawn move to Night Vale of all places, if she wanted to get away? Why not move to New York with her sister? And why would someone want to murder her?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Scout,” Mrs. Byers sighed, “I can only tell you what happened in our past, not hers. I’m not even sure you’ll even be able to find anyone who’ll be able to tell you, anyway -- Dawn, of course… Well. My point is, there’s something more to what happened; you know that. But just please be careful, sweetheart, alright? Let the authorities handle it. Go home. Be a kid. You have plenty of other stuff to worry about without adding all this to your plate.” 

For a while, nothing can cut through the silence between them. Glimpsing through their own pasts in each other’s company proves to be more soulful than he imagined, but surprisingly, it doesn’t last as long as he would have expected -- this time, his mind is more than happy to pull him back down to earth as he rifles through what they found in Night Vale, and a certain couple -- or rather, ex couple -- pester him over and over until he finally breaks the silence himself, if only to give himself some semblance of peace for the moment. 

Somehow, Scout found his voice again. “Thank you. For, uh, answering my questions. And for, you know… telling me about my mom.” 

“Of course,” Joyce said, smiling at him lopsidedly. He couldn’t tell if it was forced. “I’m sorry you had to hear it from me, though. You father should have been the one to tell you all this.” 

“We’re, um -- we’re not on the best terms at the moment?” for some reason, his voice decided to frame this as a question. “It’s funny actually,” he chuckled dryly, “I thought you hated me. You know, whenever I’d see you anywhere, it always felt like you couldn’t stand to look at me.” 

“Really?” When he nods, the woman realizes he’s not kidding. “Oh, honey, I don’t hate you. It’s just… I’m not very proud of how I behaved back then -- made a lot of bad decisions that I shouldn’t have, and should have known better, I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it to you, but you look so much like your mother; the resemblance, it’s really uncanny. Seeing you, I suppose… it reminds me of a person I hope I don’t go back to being. My boys, they deserve better than that, you know?” 

No. He didn’t know. 

But he nods. It’s all he can do to nod. 

Because he didn't know. His father, he does his best, but deep down Scout knew nothing could compare to a mother, the love she must hold for her child. Joyce is a perfect example of it. Even now, whatever motherly instinct she has extends to him through her words, her reflex to gently touch his shoulder or his knee until he can properly sort out his words. No matter what risks it takes, she has proven multiple times over how willing she is to do anything for her children -- even cross the universe to bring back her son, if that’s what it takes. His own mother, on the other hand… she had taken off the moment things were no longer as easy as they were in high school. 

They stay like that, together in each other’s company for however long it takes for the sun to fall outside. But under the guise of being deep in thought, Scout begins to think about the mystery he so desperately wanted to solve, and whatever part his mother plays in it, even if she isn’t even here to do it. 

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

i am...so sorry

to be honest, that new stranger things s4 spot made me really excited and i honestly can't say that i knew what i was doing for this chapter, i really forgot about dawn and her whole ass murder and sort of just,,,funneled that into here?? so i hope it remotely makes sense. if not i have plans to rewrite this after i (hopefully) finish the stranger things trilogy i've got planned (though judging by how long it's taking me to write this fic, it's gonna take light years) and hopefully it'll be much better!

i also didn't really feel like editing anything all that much so if you see a pair of dashes that's just my quickie for an em dash :) love those things lol

thank you for reading!