Chapter Text
THE PALADIN
HAWKINS — INDIANA
1992
Mike Wheeler felt sick again. Hollow. Desolate. Grief-stricken, yes, that was the word his psychiatrist used. But none of it mattered, not when he picked up yet again another vial of Prozac and watered a dose or two down with a bottle of wine; the expensive type, the kind his mother stashed away in hidden places like beneath the stair drawers and in-between dish cabinets.
He took a small sip first, barely half of a mouthful. The bitter fluid trickled down his throat like thousands of ants swarming his oesophagus in a vengeful fury.
The green, oblong capsules didn't budge.
He took another sip, but this time it was ambitious enough for his bodily functions to reject it and, in place, expel a gravelly wheeze as splutters of wine spilt from his mouth.
There, at least the happy pills made their way down.
Mike shuddered as he took a third sip for good measure, carefully resealed the Merlot with trembling hands, and unhurriedly situated it between the porcelain ceramic plates and bowls of the china cabinet. None of it mattered, on account of the daunting fact that nobody was home to catch him red-handed; Holly was at Derek's, his father was at work, his mom was at the mall shopping for Christmas presents.
In all likelihood, his mom wouldn't even notice, and if she did, she wouldn't approach him about her now half-emptied wine bottle. He was an International best-selling novelist; he had already paid off all his college debts, drove a Cadillac, and owned a loft in San Francisco, a Victorian house in Niagara Falls, and a cabin in. . . He let out a sigh, chased away the thought and indulged in the numbness that overcame him.
None of it mattered.
A high-pitched beep, beep, beep, tore through the silence. Startled, Mike jerked his neck backwards, and his head collided with the wooden cabinet with a great force that earned a curse and a groan out of his mouth.
"Shit, man." He rasped, his fingers stroked at the crown of his skull, "The hell do you want now?" he continued, his eyes flickered over to the glowing pager on the dining table behind him. He didn't need to check it over; it was his pestering mouth-breather of an agent. He wasn't going to answer now, or later, or the day after tomorrow. Mike was aware of the call's objective, but he barely revised his first draft, and he was certain it was absolute trash.
His first two books were works of art; he won't deny it, but his foolishly signed contract and greedy agent insisted he turn his duology into a saga. Demand by popularity, right? He was in a business where he provided high-quality manuscripts of his own stories and controlled the narrative. Yet Michael T. Wheeler was at a dead end because he simply didn't want to resurrect the monster to torment his characters. They were content in their own little world that he had meticulously constructed for them, but it was the nintees — and apparently, happy endings were so out of fashion; people wanted bloodshed, tragedy, and generational hauntings.
'Assholes,' Mike thought to himself. The world (self-proclaimed fans of his) didn't seem to want his Paladin to live a blissful domestic life with his Mage in a small, seaside cottage. They wanted bloodshed, raised stakes, and tragedy. But God, he already killed off three beloved characters to try to appease their bloodlust. His hands were soaked with the blood of those innocent, fictional lives. Simply put, he was exhausted. Mike Wheeler didn't want to slaughter anymore.
He was done with The Curse of Vecna, he decided; it didn't matter what legal consequences he'd face. He was done.
Mike slammed shut the china cabinet in exasperation and took heavy-footed steps through the kitchen, dining room, and up the stairs of his childhood house. He needed a nap before finalising any rash decisions.
Beep, beep, beep.
He heard it again by the time he reached his childhood bedroom. He ignored it again.
Beep, beep, beep.
He heard it again by the time he kicked off his sneakers and fell onto his bed. He ignored it again.
Beep, beep, beep.
Sleep almost claimed him as he lulled in and out of consciousness. He ignored it again.
Mike Wheeler closed his eyes and welcomed the most beautiful dream he had had in months. He dreamt of basking beneath the blazing sun near a misty waterfall, of a small, dark-haired girl playing by the stream, and of a sound so precious that it made his chest ache. It was laughter, loud and distinct, the kind that made him smile like a fool purely for hearing it. The kind that he would recognise anywhere, anyplace, anytime. The kind he hadn't heard in years.
El.
He awoke with his chest caved in, his heart detonated into a thousand little pieces. The sickness returned once more, leaving him no choice but to go down those godamned stairs and call his stupid agent to tell him he'd be done with the manuscript by the end of next month.
𝄪
"So, how's the new book coming along?" Nancy asked as she bit into the roasted turkey off her fork with a graceful precision that had been natural to her since childhood.
Mike raised an eyebrow as he turned to meet her gaze. Nancy sat parallel to him, beside Holly, who quietly hummed the melody to some new TLC song that played through her Walkman.
His older sister had grown into a sturdy young woman with a no-beating-around-the-bush look about her, and she certainly didn't beat around the bush with him. Nancy was an ambitious war correspondent who could perfectly read into any room; she must've known by the look on his face that he was struggling again.
"Uh," he clicked his tongue, "Superb." He answered, flashing her a tight-lipped smile.
Karen carefully, and rather slowly, inspected her son, an uncertain and inconclusive expression evident on her face. Ted merely nodded his head in approval, oblivious to the intensity of the moment.
"Real proud of you, son. You've really made something of yourself." He said, his hand extended to pat Mike on the back with a firm, fatherly force.
"Thanks," Mike said, his fork sifting through his roast in an attempt to segregate the peas from the carrots. "What are you doing here, anyway?" He turned his eyes back to Nancy.
"Am I not allowed to visit anymore? Is there some kind of rule I'm not aware of that prohibits me from setting foot on —"
"Jesus, I didn't mean it like that. You know what I mean." Mike snapped back, his brows furrowed tightly together.
"I know you're in a pissy mood these days. Moping around the house like a ghost. Mom said —"
"Mom said what? Mom said what?" Mike spat, his jaw clenched hard enough he could've sworn he heard a back molar crack. Nancy flinched slightly, and only for a second, her face was the epitome of pity. It made him feel sick again.
"Alright, enough. Both of you." Ted sighed, his thumb lightly rubbing his temple. "Holly's the only sensible one out of you three, and she's half your age. Christsake."
Mike stood abruptly from the dining chair, his hands still trembling as he reached for his unfinished dinner and half-drank glass of soda water. He couldn't take it anymore. None of this mattered.
"Michael — please, sit down." Karen started, tears threatening to spill from her brown eyes. God, that made Mike sick, too. But not any more than it was being in a place with people who acted like everything was normal, like everything was fine when he'd lost the love of his life barely three — four years ago.
"I'm sorry." He mumbled, "I'm sorry. Thank you for letting me stay here this week. I just — I gotta go back. Write the new book and everything."
"Go back where?" Nancy remarked as she swiftly rose to her feet, too.
"Where? San Francisco, where else, Nancy?" He retorted, a scowl contorted his face in an instant, and he looked more like a boy than he did a young man.
"I don't know — I call your house phone, and you never answer. I'm just assuming you're based in Niagara Falls now, unless you have some secret third house you own that you won't tell us about."
"I don't. . . I don't. I live in the city, alright? I don't answer your calls because you're a pain in the ass." Mike said, his face flushed red. He had to get out. He had to.
"Michael—"
"Language."
Everything else was a blur. He knew he made his way to the kitchen sink, where he left his dishes; he knew he made it past his sobbing mother and infuriated sister in the kitchen; he knew he made it out the front door and into his car, and he knew he made it out of hell when he finally saw the Leaving Hawkins sign.
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The Indianapolis airport was crowded; it always was this time of the year. Mike was well and truly doomed, he was stuck in a hectic building with teeming families, couples, friends, and screeching little toddlers. He'd believed Hawkins was hell, well, this must've been purgatory.
He just wanted a one-way ticket to San Francisco, back to his life. But nothing went right with him, just as it never had. Not when he saw El's perfect — angelic — no, godamn it, he was a writer, yet he was out of words to describe his mage. Well, he saw her face every time he closed his eyes, more now, more than ever.
"Destination?" The woman politely smiled behind the counter.
Mike stood at the check-in counter, his wallet in hand, his mouth slightly agape. San Francisco, he was supposed to say. But something in him stirred as the airport announcement blared out something he didn't focus on enough to comprehend. The words were meaningless, of course, no matter how hard he tried to focus on them, but it was the fact that he hesitated.
Why would he hesitate? There was only one option available for him.
"San Francisco. Business class." He responded, his head throbbing. He made a mental note to buy himself an aspirin if there was enough time.
The woman made a sharp tsk and sympathetically frowned;
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. There are no seats left in business class for a flight to San Francisco tonight. But there is one available for tomorrow morning at ten-thirty."
Mike drew in a frustrated sigh, though he faced instant regret. He was being a prick.
"Look, just check first class or economy, I don't care, I just need the ticket."
The woman nodded, unaffected by his brashness, but only offered him another frown.
"I'm so sorry, sir. It seems we're all out of any flights to San Francisco tonight. First class, business class, and economy. The next available flight is scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, as I said earlier —"
"Niagara Falls," Mike said, almost as shocked as the woman before him as he uttered the words. There was absolutely no correlation between San Francisco and Niagara Falls; she must've thought he was a fugitive. The woman ducked her head and checked the computer again.
"Alright, Niagara Falls it is. The next flight is at nine. We have a few seats available in business." She chirped.
What a joke. Mike Wheeler was well and truly doomed. He'd never really lived in that house; it was just a childish keepsake, something he purchased on impulse — A large, prepossessing Victorian with rooms he'd decorated like an idiot.
"Perfect."
Horrid. He couldn't spend a single night in that house without regurgitating the contents of his stomach. That house was sick, just like him. It was far too big for him, and he supposed that's why he bought it. It was the perfect house to pick up your wife bridal style at the porch as you carried her to the bedroom. It was the perfect house to spend a lazy Sunday out in the garden. It was the perfect house to settle down in and raise a family. And it was only a ten-minute drive to Horseshoe Falls.
𝄪
Mike found his seat and did what he had been doing for years now — he closed his eyes and thought of her again.
The cabin lights dimmed, and the cool air kissed his cheeks —
No. The cabin lights flickered. His eyes snapped open. Jesus, what was wrong with him? That was normal.
But the moment the plane lifted off the ground, his stomach dropped in that old familiar way—the way it used to when she moved things without touching them.
Mike’s breath hitched. He turned, half-expecting to see her in the aisle like a punchline to a cruel joke. There was only a businessman asleep with his mouth open, a crying baby, and a flight attendant clicking a seatbelt into place. The feeling didn’t fade.
A prickle ran down the back of his neck—the distinct, impossible sensation of being watched. Warmth flooded his chest, slow and aching, like sunlight filtering through water. This was not the first time he’d felt her presence: months ago, he had heard her calling his name in his sleep. Another time, he had sensed her watching him when he awoke in a bed that wasn’t his own.
"El." His voice trembled, "El. Please."
A few heads snapped to him in confusion. He must've looked crazy, but he didn't care. Mike let out a chesty laugh as tears he didn't realise welled in his eyes dripped down his face.
"El. I love you too." He said, lips quivering as the words escaped him. "Did you hear me? I love you. I love you too."
Michael Wheeler might as well have screamed it out; he wanted to scream it out; he wanted to make her listen.
For the first time in three — four years, the silence inside him answered back—not in words, but in the faintest echo of a laugh by a stream, in the smell of rain and something sweet he could never name, in the absolute certainty that she wasn’t gone, not really.