strangerThings oneshots

undertow

undertow

Kypros

There is something unsettling about it, he decides—about the way two people could hold an entire conversation with neither of them really hearing one another. 

“Tell me,” the woman says, tapping the end of her pen against her notepad. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” he says, because it’s what she expects to hear, but not what she wants.

“Any changes?” she asks.

“No,” Jonathan tells her, his voice perfectly bland.

The woman across from him frowns, the pale curve of her mouth settling into a slight frown, and she shifts in her seat. She unfolds her legs, crosses them, then settles herself, the end of her pen still taping against the notepad.

“And the nightmares you mentioned,” she says instead, her pen suddenly scribbling against the clipboard. “A couple of days back, during last weeks’ session—are you still experiencing them?”

Jonathan fidgets, but he doesn’t break.

“I’ve been taking my medication as prescribed,” he answers honestly, but not completely. Carefully, he watches her watch him, his face reflected back in miniature, floating in the dark browns of her eyes. Her frown deepens.

“Any unusual side effects from taking it?”

“...dry mouth and minor headaches,” he admits quietly. “But Dr. Brenner says that these sort of things are common.”

“Anything else?” the woman smiles.

“Sometimes I get dizzy.”

The woman hums and continues to scribble on her notepad, her mouth still frozen into a half-formed frown.

“Well,” she eventually says, drawing out the word until Jonathan can hear all the things she isn’t saying, like how nothing has changed and how she knows that his words are half-truths at best. “That’s good, that’s really good.” She flashes him a quick smile, and the pen on her paper stops scribbling, coming to a rest in her lap.

Jonathan just nods, but he’s not sure what bothers him more: that he can see the lies dripping from her face, voice as sweet as his brother’s breakfast cereals, or the fact that they can’t be bothered to find him someone who will tell him the truth.

—

The knock on the door comes when Jonathan is in the middle of peeling potatoes, sleeves rolled up past his elbow and peelings dusting the bare skin of his knuckles, slippery and wet.

“Doors open,” he sighs, because he’s expecting them. Whoever it is. Someone always shows up when they know his mother is at work. Sometimes it’s Nancy, sometimes it’s Hopper. It doesn't matter if he shouts because they always let themselves in anyways. The door creaks open before jostling shut, a loud thump of shoes quickly being kicked off near the door mat and he knows that today it’s Steve.

He rolls his eyes, feeling an irrational stab of anger hit him like a sharp wave.

A curious nose peers over his shoulder.