I can't get a hold on it. I'll think I've got it under control and then I'll remember a face turning blue, John with half his leg missing, you, finding out I'm dead while you're stuck in a well and the first thing I felt being how glad I was that you were mourning for me—
[ There he goes. Back to a brink again, all spilling out the second he opens the door. He slams it shut, takes a deep breath. ]
I'm not safe. If I lose my mind, I don't know what I'll turn into. I need to do this.
[His silence stretches on. It stretches on in a way that might feel too long, like he's slipped away, if not for the constant thrum of connection that is Jim. He remembers, though it's not the same, coming home from Vietnam and not knowing how to cope in Hawkins. The quiet would spook him; he couldn't sleep at all unless he was on a floor, or if the radio wasn't on. Diane made him go to a doctor, and then it became that Jim couldn't cope without pills, without the regime of getting up, medicating, and getting on with it. When they moved to New York, his first real night sleep was with the window open, listening to the sound of cars passing by.
There are no fixes here. There is nothing to take that will make the quiet nights feel safer. ] We both know that has a name, Stephen. [He sighs, weary. ] I'm not going to stop you. Maybe I should, because I think we both know it won't fix anything. But I won't.
[ It hits him with a jolt, a few-second stretch of shocked silence. Stephen's never once thought about it in those terms, not here and not any time before, but he's - right.
And still: what else is there to do? He's dangerous. Terrified. And the very real risk of transformation looms ever closer the longer that goes on. ]
... I'll reach out when I'm back.
[ Thank you implicates. Sorry is hollow when he's going to do it anyway. This will have to do. ]
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cw: gore ref, suffocation ref, weird intense proxy thought processes ref...
I can't get a hold on it. I'll think I've got it under control and then I'll remember a face turning blue, John with half his leg missing, you, finding out I'm dead while you're stuck in a well and the first thing I felt being how glad I was that you were mourning for me—
[ There he goes. Back to a brink again, all spilling out the second he opens the door. He slams it shut, takes a deep breath. ]
I'm not safe. If I lose my mind, I don't know what I'll turn into. I need to do this.
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There are no fixes here. There is nothing to take that will make the quiet nights feel safer. ] We both know that has a name, Stephen. [He sighs, weary. ] I'm not going to stop you. Maybe I should, because I think we both know it won't fix anything. But I won't.
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And still: what else is there to do? He's dangerous. Terrified. And the very real risk of transformation looms ever closer the longer that goes on. ]
... I'll reach out when I'm back.
[ Thank you implicates. Sorry is hollow when he's going to do it anyway. This will have to do. ]
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[Which is a threat. A promise. It's all he can offer, now, isn't it? Quiet, unhappy acceptance of the reality of it. ]
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[ And he almost leaves it there, but - ]
It'll be a friend who does it. So don't think too hard about it.
[ It's going to be as easy as it can be. Nobody, including himself, is going to be able to turn it into punishment. And then he'll be back. ]
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[Relenting, just a little. ] I'll see you in a few weeks.