#and my car's like boxed in w snow and i dont have a shovel so idk how im gonna get it out

[maddogmp3]

sotd. im really tired.

[planetsam]

If you still want to write stranger things may I request fluffy mileven? Literally anthing post season 2 like I dont mind if its snowball, a week later, a month, a year, whatever inspiration hits. I'm desperate for post season 2 mileven fluff so anything you got would be awesome :)

Mike has a collection of flashlights.

They are overwhelmingly gifts from Jim Hopper.

“In case the power goes out.”

“Can’t have you tripping.”

“You can’t fight if you can’t see.”

Mike’s only confused with the first one. It’s an old camping lantern. He’s baffled when the Chief shoves it into his chest. He’s still angry at him, especially since nothing’s really changed except everything has. It’s comforting to know El’s around, but it’s also cruel to know he can’t see her. She can’t go outside and the occasional glimpse or stroll through the woods is one thing. Seeing her regularly looks suspicious. He can’t make it harder on her, not after all the stuff she’s done to protect him. So it just hurts. Metaphysically until Hopper smacks the lantern into his chest, nearly winding him.

“Here,” he says, “in case there’s another power outage,” Mike’s fingers tighten on the thing as he looks up at him, too bewildered to glare outright, “don’t put it too close to your bed,” Hopper orders and then walks away.

He puts it right next to his bed.

He leaves it on, waiting for as long as he can until he dozes. The lamp flickers, waking him instantly. Then it flickers again. He knows it’s El. He bites his lip and wonders if she can see him. If she’s watching now. Trying not to feel silly he waves at the lantern. It flickers again, almost desperately. Then the light blows.

The cycle repeats the next day, this time with a flashlight.

“Ow!” he complains because the force seems a little excessive. Hopper scoffs, “what’s this?” he demands.

“Flashlight, in case there’s a power outage. Don’t put it too close to your bed,” he says, “while we’re on the subject of survival,” he continues and smacks a book into his chest, “here.”

Mike opens his mouth to ask why he’s got a book of morse code but Hoppers already walking away. Mike rolls his eyes and shuffles home, wondering about over reactions. He sits on the bed and pulls the blanket up in complete defiance. He waits. Then he tries waiting with the flashlight on. Then he finishes his homework and the flashlight turns off. Then on again. Without him. He dives forward, grabbing a pen and a notebook and lets it flash, recording what is a long and a short response to spell out the message that’s being given to him.

“I miss you too,” he says, “I know you’re here though.”

He smiles as the flashlight switches on and off quickly as if to confirm.

He gets into less trouble at school.

His teachers are pleased. They say they’re glad his rebellious phase seems to have come and gone quickly. Mike wants to point out that an entire year with your heart being ripped out isn’t quick. And that he’s only behaving so they won’t watch him and when this year is up, he can be with El without anyone watching. When he confides that to Will, Will laughs and the flashlight rapidly reminds him that ‘Hopper is still Sheriff’ which makes him stick his tongue out at both of them.

“Take care of this one,” Hopper says sternly at flashlight number twelve. He’s not the one blowing the bulbs but he nods like he is. Hopper considers him quietly and then nods gruffly, “there’s an extra bulb in the bottom, open it carefully,” he says.

Mike immediately pries the bottom open in the bathroom and pulls out a letter. He knows spending lunch in the bathroom is suspicious as hell but he takes ten minutes and pours over every word. The morse code takes time even though they’re getting faster. Or he’s getting faster, she still has to take care not to blow the flashlight bulb. He gets to read her words uninterrupted and his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He misses her, badly. Even with their communication. Which is helping so much but it’s not enough for him. He gets a feeling it’s not enough for her either.

“I need you to look away,” he says that night. The flashlight gives an inquiry, “please? Just trust me,” he says, “also tell Hopper to bring another one tomorrow.”

He writes her back.

It’s stupid and he can hear his sister ‘aww-ing’ in his head. Folds the letter tightly and pushes it into the flashlight. After they say goodnight he breaks it and finds Hopper the next day waiting for him.

“It’s broken,” he snaps, shoving the flashlight at him.

“Okay,” Hopper says through gritted teeth, “try this one.”

They exchange them and the light works.

“Take care of that one,” he says.

Mike bites back the urge to say something stupid and nods instead, heading home. There’s no letter in this one but he doesn’t mind the moment it starts flashing from El. He’s gotten better at morse code, he just needs to check for references now. It’s almost like talking except he can’t hear her voice. He wants to cry sometimes at that but he tries to keep it together. He doesn’t know what it’s costing her to constantly move the flashlight but he hopes she’s ok. He hopes Hopper’s taking care of her even if it means they don’t always get to talk.

“Michael!” his mother calls up the stairs one morning, “phone for you!”

He picks it up, half hoping it’s Eleven even though he knows they’re listening to the phones and it can’t be. Not unless something’s really, really—

“I’ll give you a dollar to shovel my driveway.”

“Excuse me?” he sputters.

“Driveway. There’s gonna be snow on it. When there is, I need you to shovel it. That’s what you kids do right?”

“Yeah, okay,” he gets out finally.

He hasn’t been this excited for snow in years.

He’s almost bouncing when it falls, he gets Nancy to get Jonathan to give him a ride. He falls out of the car and runs up the driveway, frantically knocking on the door with his shovel in his hand. Hopper’s disgruntled face greets him for an instant before his collar is seized by invisible hands and he’s yanked into the house. El throws herself at him and they collide together, her warmth pushing away all the cold from his time outside. Hopper wipes a hand over his face and pulls back on the curtain, somehow surprised it’s snowing out even though Mike’s been watching it fall for hours.

“Your hair got longer,” he says and she nods.

“You got taller,” she says as they inspect each other for changes in the months they’ve been apart, “wanna see my room?”

“Okay that’s not—no,” Hopper intervenes, “no closed doors. And he needs to shovel the snow okay? Or this doesn’t work.”

“It’s okay,” he says as her face falls, “I’m really fast. Nancy taught me so she wouldn’t have to anymore.”

“Will you teach me?” she asks.

“Yeah, I can teach you,” he says, “next year. We can shovel together so it’ll take half the time.”

She grins and he beams even though he’s never wanted to shovel snow that much. Hopper makes them all breakfast and Mike shovels quickly. Hopper comes out when he’s done and looks around, even though the tires on his car can definitely get through this.

“I’m going to the station,” he says, “I’ll give you a ride back when I get home, okay?”

Mike’s heart soars and he nods.

Hopper leaves.

He looks back at the house, realizing that he gets to spend hours with El. He bolts up the driveway, scrambling out of his shoes the second he gets into the door. El’s got a pile of sheets in her hands and a hopeful look on her face.

“I want a blanket fort,” she says, “for when I talk to you.”

“Okay,” he agrees instantly.

She pulls him into her room despite Hopper’s words and Mike pauses, looking around. It’s cobbled together from old stuff, but he can pick out things that are her. There’s a few books, a tube of lipstick, a flashlight. There’s a half open box on a chair too, when he glances inside he sees the edge of a pink dress. El looks back at him and then comes over, resting her chin on his shoulder and looking down at the dress.

“I’m glad you figured out how to talk to me,” he confides and she nods against his arm.

They build the fort by her bed. She beams when it’s done and pulls him in, settling across from him in the small space. They grin at each other. All the things he wants to say he can’t seem to think of, not in the face of the joy in his chest.

“We should think about what we’re gonna tell people for how we know each other,” he says, “next year when you come to school. Maybe we were pen pals or something?”

“Pen pals?” she asks.

“Yeah, pen pals. They’re friends who don’t live near each other but write to each other. So they know each other even if they don’t see each other.”

She nods happily and that passes most of the afternoon. They’re both really aware when Hopper pulls up. El looks down, playing with his knuckles with her fingertips. He chews his lip because he doesn’t want to go either. When he turns to say something to her, she dives forward and presses their lips together. He’s learned that she doesn’t half ass this—not that she half asses anything—and that when they kiss it’s like she puts her entire self into it. He kisses her back, trying to memorize the feel of it. Cupping one hand around her cheek to keep her there a moment longer. When they pull back they rest their foreheads against each others, sharing the same breath.

“You two are so lucky she can’t be grounded,” Hopper says to them, pulling back the sheet carefully, “this counts as a door.”

El rolls her eyes as they get up, walking over to the door. He has to stop putting on his coat and layers several times to hug her but finally he’s ready to go. El looks up at Hopper who sighs at her silent question like he’s learned to read her too and nods. El flies back into her room and then appears again with two boxes in her hands. She sets them down and pulls the lids off them, looking at him anxiously. He stares down at the two boxes. All the contents familiar to him because they were his. All the toys he had to give up for the yard sale.

“I don’t—“ he begins.

“I—we—“ Hopper corrects, “didn’t want you to lose anything else because of what happened,” he says.

“You got in trouble because of me,” El adds.

“Thank you,” he gets out, looking at all of the things he thought were gone. Things that he’d give up in a heartbeat to get her back. “I wanted you back more than any of this stuff,” he blurts out, trying to get her to understand, “promise. I wanted you more—“

She nods and rushes forward and they’re hugging again. He’s held it together for a year but somehow between then and now, between her and Will and everything, he’s cried more in the past six months than he has in a long time. It’s six more months from here and when the snow stops it’s going to be even harder. He wants to scream at the unfairness of it all but right now she’s got her arms around him and that’s all he can really focus on. When they pull back Hopper’s in the kitchen pretending he can’t hear them.

“I’ll still signal,” she promises and he nods, “does it help?”

“It helps a lot,” he says, “but I still miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she says, pressing her cheek to his sweater again, “I miss you most.”

His heart soars at that and he nods, he misses her most too.

He blocks out the actual goodbye and getting into the car. He can’t even look at Hopper even though he knows he should say thank you. Say something. At the very least he should tell him he’s sorry for punching his chest. But the lump in his throat is bigger than his words.

“I had a daughter, a long time ago,” Hopper says gruffly, “she was sick, when I’d have to leave her in the hospital—the goodbyes were never easy,” he clears his throat, “I know this is hard kid. But this is the easy part.” Mike sucks in a breath, “she’s going to need you a lot,” he continues, “she wants to go to school next year. Be with you guys more. She’s spent her life in a lab, you know that’s going to be hard.”

“She’ll be okay,” he says and Hopper nods, “I’ll be there, I’m not—“

“You’re a kid,” Hopper says, “a kid whose had a lot of bad shit happen to him. But you’re still a kid. You guys should be doing kid things like—“ he fumbles, “whatever you kids like to do. I don’t know.”

“We like to hang out with our friend,” Mike says, “that’s what we like to do.”

He enlists Will for El’s christmas present.

Will draws them all together, which was the instruction. But he draws them the night she came back, the night he got free. They’re dirty and bloody and crowded on the couch, talking over one another and motioning wildly. It takes Mike a good minute to get his thank you out. Will just smiles, happy in his art. He puts it in a frame, making sure El knows. But there’s another drawing that he puts over it, one he makes sure El can’t see. Hopper’s waiting for him outside of school.

“Here,” Mike says.

“You getting me christmas presents now? That’s—“

He stops and Mike pats himself on the back. Will’s nearby and Hopper looks over at him, then back to the picture then at Mike, like he isn’t sure what to do. Probably yell at them. But he grabs them both and hugs them so tightly neither is sure they’re going to breathe properly again.

“Back to class before I arrest you or call your mothers,” he says gruffly, shoving them back towards school even though it’s over.

Will drew him and Eleven walking towards the cabin, but if you look close enough, there’s another figure tugging them forward. With pigtails and a pink dress. When El thanks them for the picture, she tells them he got her a different frame and kept Will’s drawing in that one and both are hung up right at the entrance.

It doesn’t snow much that winter.

Spring is a blur, summer is ok. Every day though means that they’re one day closer. They end their communications with the number, he starts having trouble sleeping because of excitement when they hit the double digits. He’s never looked forward to school like this before. Even Hopper sees him and glares, like he’s going to give away a secret. El’s messages become farther between because she’s worried about them being found out so close.

“Learn anything interesting?” Hopper asks one day when they’re exchanging flashlights.

“Algebra,” Mike says.

“Huh,” Hopper shrugs, “I remember that stuff, I was pretty good. If you ever get stuck.”

They all did this last year when Will was out of it, copying notes and making extra sets. As a result they did a lot better academically. And Will’s caught up mostly. They kick the system into place. Lucas has the best handwriting so he transcribes everything, handing the notes to Hopper under the guise of if he’s going to tutor he might as well do it right.

He gets to school an hour early on her first day, but lingers outside until just before the bell rings, looking for her anxiously.

“Mister Wheeler, you’re going to be late.”

“I know, I know,” he waves the teacher off as the sirens hit his ears. The car comes skidding to a stop and he bolts for it, getting there just as the door smacks open and El stumbles out. They stare at each other for a moment, gasping around six months of separation again. Hopper clears his throat loudly and Mike remembers his earlier warning, “come on, we’re going to be late,” he says, grabbing her hand.

“Don’t get into too much trouble!” Hopper yells after them.

“Bye!” El cries over her shoulder as they run for it, so fast the teacher inside the door is nearly bowled over.

“Mister Wheeler! Where are you going?!”

They skid to a stop, the teacher looks between them.

“And you are?” he asks, looking at her.

“I’m Jane Hopper,” she says, “I’m his pen pal,” the bell rings and her fingers tighten around his.

“And look at the time, we’re going to be late,” he says.

The teacher sighs and nods, motioning them along, making a note to keep an eye out for another trouble maker in Mike Wheeler’s circle of trouble making friends.