Chapter Text
Nancy Wheeler hated three things above all else: misinformation, improvisation… and noise in places where noise didn’t belong.
The Hawkins library fulfilled the last one perfectly.
“Okay, but hear me out for a second,” Robin Buckley whispered—though her concept of whispering was, at best, questionable. “What if all of this is just a super twisted statistical coincidence? I mean, Hawkins has a history of weird stuff. We might be forcing patterns where there aren’t any.”
Nancy pressed her lips together without lifting her eyes from the newspaper spread out in front of her.
“We’re not,” she replied flatly. “The dates match. The names too. And the circumstances are too specific.”
Robin rested her elbows on the table, leaning closer.
“Yeah, but ‘too specific’ is also the slogan of conspiracy theories.”
Nancy slowly raised her head and looked at her over the edge of the paper.
“Are you done?”
Robin blinked.
“Wow. Okay. That look kills dreams. And probably people.”
Nancy lowered her gaze again, ignoring her. She sat straight-backed, focused, several old newspapers spread in front of her, underlined and covered in margin notes. She’d been there for hours before Steve—with the best intentions and the worst judgment—had decided Robin was the ideal person to help her.
“You’re both smart,” he’d said.
“And you balance each other out.”
Nancy was still trying to figure out in what universe that made sense.
Robin, meanwhile, seemed incapable of sitting still. She bounced her leg under the table, fiddled with a chewed-up pen, and glanced around as if the library might attack her at any moment.
“I don’t get why we have to do this here,” she muttered. “I mean, yeah, archives, history, blah blah, but did you know these newspapers have decades-old dust? I’m literally breathing in the past.”
“That’s called researching,” Nancy replied without looking at her. “And if you can’t focus, I don’t know why you’re here.”
Robin went silent… for exactly seven seconds.
“I’m here because you didn’t want Steve doing this,” she shot back. “And because someone has to ask the uncomfortable questions.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow.
“And you think you do that?”
“I think I ask all the questions,” Robin said proudly. “Uncomfortable ones, uncomfortable for society, uncomfortable for myself—”
Nancy snapped the newspaper shut.
“Robin.”
She stopped.
“Yes?”
“This isn’t a game,” Nancy said quietly but firmly. “People are dead. Families are destroyed. If you can’t take this seriously, leave.”
The air between them tightened.
Robin stopped smiling.
“I do take it seriously,” she replied, lower than usual. “I just… don’t do it the way you do.”
Nancy held her gaze a second too long. There was something in Robin’s expression she hadn’t expected: defensive, yes, but also honest. Still, she didn’t give in.
“Then help me,” she said. “Check the articles from 1983 to 1986. Look for patterns. Not opinions.”
Robin exhaled through her nose.
“Clear orders. Love that,” she muttered, but she grabbed a stack of newspapers and sat across from her.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the soft rustle of pages and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. Nancy underlined, annotated, compared dates. Robin—surprisingly—read.
“Hey,” Robin whispered suddenly.
Nancy didn’t answer.
“Hey, Wheeler.”
“What?” she finally said, without looking up.
“Look at this.” Robin slid a newspaper toward her. “Victim: teenager. Official cause: suicide. But witnesses said he was screaming… nonsense. Same as Chrissy.”
Nancy froze.
Slowly, she looked up and read the article.
“This…” she murmured. “I hadn’t seen this.”
Robin watched her closely, no jokes, no sarcasm. Just waiting.
“Told you I ask uncomfortable questions.”
Nancy didn’t respond right away. She turned the page, read the full article, then another related one.
“Good job,” she said at last, almost begrudgingly.
Robin blinked.
“Was that… a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” Robin smiled. “I’m treasuring it forever.”
Nancy shook her head but kept reading. Still, something had shifted. Not much. Just a tiny crack in her perception.
“Nancy,” Robin said after a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Do you always carry all of this alone?”
Nancy tensed.
“Not your business.”
Robin lowered her gaze to the newspapers.
“Okay. I just… thought no one should have to do it alone.”
Nancy didn’t answer, but her fingers paused for a second on the paper.
In the distance, the library clock struck the hour.
The night was only just beginning.
⸻
Two hours later, the library was still nearly empty.
The fluorescent lights buzzed with the same insistence as always, but now the sound felt louder, more irritating. Nancy had been hunched over the newspapers for so long her back was stiff and her eyes burned, yet she kept turning pages with the same obsessive precision.
Robin sat across from her in an impossible position, one leg tucked under herself, the other dangling off the chair. She hadn’t spoken in a while, which, for Nancy, was almost unsettling.
“We keep checking the same stuff over and over,” Robin finally said, breaking the silence. “If there’s anything else, it’s not up here.”
Nancy didn’t answer right away. She marked a date with her pen, closed the paper, and stacked it with the others.
“There are more files downstairs,” she said at last. “The basement.”
Robin frowned.
“You mean the dark, cold, clearly cursed place?”
“That one.”
Robin sighed, leaning back in her chair.
“Great. Because I was just thinking we needed more shared trauma.”
Nancy stood up, gathering her things without looking at her.
“You don’t have to come.”
That made Robin jump to her feet.
“Was that an invitation for me to leave, or a very passive-aggressive way of proving you can do this alone?”
Nancy looked at her for the first time in several minutes.
“It was an option.”
Robin pressed her lips together, studying her. There was something different in the way Nancy looked now—less impatience, more exhaustion. Like she was carrying too much weight.
“I’m not letting you go down there alone,” Robin said finally. “I’m not that irresponsible.”
“I could argue that.”
“Yeah, well.” Robin grabbed her flashlight. “You walk first. If something attacks us, I want time to run.”
Nancy didn’t smile, but she didn’t argue either. She started toward the door that led to the back stairs—the one that always seemed to lead to places where bad things happened.
⸻
The library basement was colder than the floor above.
Not just because of the lack of natural light or the smell of old paper and dampness, but because the silence there wasn’t comfortable—it was expectant. As if the shelves full of old newspapers were listening.
Nancy went down first, lighting the steps with her flashlight. Robin followed, a stack of folders under her arm.
“Great,” Robin muttered. “If I ever mysteriously disappear, please note it happened down here.”
“Focus,” Nancy said without turning around.
Robin clenched her jaw but didn’t respond.
The basement was filled with metal filing cabinets, stacked boxes, and long tables covered in yellowed clippings. Nancy set her bag down and began sorting newspapers by year, efficient, methodical, as if the outside world didn’t exist.
Robin, meanwhile, stood still for a few seconds, watching her.
“Hey,” she said finally. “Before this gets… weirder.”
Nancy didn’t look up.
“It already is.”
“Yeah, well.” Robin cleared her throat. “I wanted to say something. In case you’re uncomfortable or something.”
That made Nancy stop.
“Uncomfortable with what?”
Robin gestured vaguely.
“With Steve.”
Nancy slowly raised her head.
“What about Steve?”
“That we’re not…” Robin shrugged. “You know. That.”
The silence stretched.
Nancy looked at her, expression neutral.
“You don’t have to hide it,” she said. “I don’t care.”
Robin blinked.
“You don’t… care?”
“No,” Nancy replied, returning to the newspapers. “It’s none of my business.”
That was what lit the fuse.
“Of course,” Robin said with a dry laugh. “Why wouldn’t it be. You don’t care about anything.”
Nancy tensed.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you always act like you’re above everything,” Robin shot back. “Like nothing affects you. Like no one matters enough to make you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Nancy said firmly.
“I know enough,” Robin replied, stepping closer. “I know Steve still matters to you. And I know every time you see us talking, you stiffen.”
Nancy dropped the newspaper onto the table harder than necessary.
“Don’t project your issues onto me.”
“I’m not projecting anything,” Robin shook her head. “I’m saying this weird thing between us started because you think there’s something between Steve and me.”
“I don’t think that,” Nancy snapped. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything.”
“You’re lying.”
The word hung between them.
Nancy lifted her gaze, sharp.
“Watch it.”
“No,” Robin said, more agitated. “You watch it. Because you’re always looking like you’re evaluating, judging. Like I’m just another problem to solve.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Robin insisted. “And you know it. That’s why you don’t trust me. That’s why you don’t like me.”
“I don’t like you because you don’t take anything seriously,” Nancy fired back. “Because you joke when people are dying. Because you never say what you actually think.”
Robin went still.
“You want me to say what I think?” she asked, her voice trembling with anger. “Really?”
“Go ahead.”
Robin took a deep breath, fists clenched.
“I don’t know what to do with Steve,” she said. “I don’t know how to be around him without feeling like I’m pretending. And that’s what you can’t stand. Because you always know who you are. You’ve always known what you want.”
“That’s not true,” Nancy replied quickly.
“Of course it is,” Robin shook her head. “You have your path figured out. I don’t. And that bothers you. It bothers you that I don’t fit.”
Nancy stepped toward her.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Robin shouted. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t. I’m tired of you looking at me like I’m a distraction. Like I’m a lie.”
Nancy opened her mouth to respond, but Robin cut her off, her voice breaking.
“You want the truth?” she said. “I’m not with Steve. I never will be. Because I’m a lesbian.”
The word hit like a gunshot.
The basement fell into absolute silence.
Nancy didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
She just stared at her.
She didn’t know what froze her in place—whether it was the word itself, the way Robin said it, like a challenge, like an open wound, or the fact that, for a second, everything made sense in a way she wasn’t ready to face.
I’m a lesbian.
It wasn’t a surprise.
And that was what unsettled her most.
Because somewhere deep and uncomfortable in her mind, Nancy already knew. Or at least suspected. In the way Robin looked too long at other girls, in the way she tensed around Steve, in the constant effort to take up space without ever fully belonging. Nancy was good at reading between the lines. She always had been.
What she hadn’t expected was the violence with which the truth fell between them.
She felt a sudden heat in her chest, something like guilt, followed closely by another sensation she refused to name. Something that had nothing to do with Steve. Something that shouldn’t be there.
This isn’t about you, she told herself.
Don’t make it about you.
But her body didn’t listen.
Her heart was racing. Her hands were cold. And worse—there was a sharp, unfair ache that didn’t come from rejection… but from fear. From the fear of having looked without understanding. Of having judged without knowing. Of having been unfair.
Nancy thought of all the times she’d interpreted Robin as a system error. An annoying variable. A distraction.
She thought of the way she’d reduced her to noise.
And for the first time, she wondered if that noise hadn’t actually been a desperate way not to disappear.
She wanted to say many things.
She wanted to say you don’t have to shout it, but she understood Robin had needed to say it that way to survive the moment.
She wanted to say I’m sorry, but the word felt too heavy to come out clean.
She wanted to say I wasn’t uncomfortable because of Steve, because the truth was far more complicated and far less defensible.
She looked at her.
Robin was breathing hard, like she’d just jumped off a cliff. Her eyes were bright, defiant and vulnerable at once, waiting for something. Anything.
Nancy swallowed. Then lowered her gaze.
“Okay,” she said.
And went back to the newspapers.
She turned a page. Then another.
Robin stared at her, confused, hurt, furious.
“That’s it?” she asked quietly.
Nancy didn’t look up.
“We have work to do.”
The silence that followed was different.
Heavier.
Charged.
Nothing had been resolved.
But something had broken… or maybe, something had just begun.
⸻
The Wheeler house was silent.
Too silent for a night that refused to end.
Nancy closed her bedroom door carefully and leaned back against it for a few seconds, as if she’d been holding her breath since leaving the library. She took off her jacket slowly, mechanically, putting everything in its place, trying to convince her body that everything was normal.
It wasn’t.
She sat on her bed without turning on the light. The window reflected her silhouette against the dark, unmoving, rigid.
I’m a lesbian.
The sentence came back, uninvited.
Nancy pressed a hand to her chest. There was no pain. There was something worse: recognition.
She wondered when she’d started looking at Robin in that strange, uncomfortable, overly aware way. When annoyance had mixed with attention. When she’d noticed her more than necessary. She didn’t have a clear answer—just a series of small moments that now carried a different weight.
The closeness in the library.
The way Robin moved, nervous, alive.
The way she’d looked at her before shouting it, like she was ready to lose everything just to not lie for one more second.
Nancy closed her eyes.
She thought of Steve. Of how easy it had always been with him. Of the familiar. Of the safe.
Then she thought of Robin—and none of that applied.
That was what terrified her.
She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know if it meant anything. She only knew it wasn’t indifference—and that she’d said it was.
Guilt tightened her stomach.
I should’ve said more.
But what?
“Thank you for trusting me”?
“I’m sorry for assuming things”?
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable”?
Or worse: it matters?
Nancy let herself fall back, staring at the ceiling.
She’d spent her whole life learning to name things. To investigate, to find answers, to put words to the unexplainable.
And now she had none.
She turned her head toward the window. The curtain shifted slightly in the night breeze.
For some reason, she thought about how Robin had spoken her truth like a final battle.
And for the first time, Nancy wished she’d been braver than a simple okay.
⸻
Robin didn’t go home right away.
She drove aimlessly for a while, the radio off, hands tight on the steering wheel. Hawkins at night felt smaller, narrower, like the streets were forcing her to think.
I’m a lesbian.
She’d said it.
Out loud.
To Nancy Wheeler.
A short, humorless laugh escaped her.
It hadn’t been the plan. There hadn’t been a plan. Just built-up anger, fear, and that unbearable feeling of being misunderstood once again.
What she hadn’t expected was the silence.
That okay.
Robin slammed her palm against the steering wheel.
“Right,” she muttered. “Okay.”
It hurt more than she wanted to admit. Not because she needed approval, but because she’d expected… something. Anything. A reaction. A question. A spark.
Not indifference.
She parked in front of her house but didn’t get out. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, breathing deeply.
She’d spent years rehearsing that sentence in her head. Making sure that when she said it, it would be in the right context. The right moment. With the right person.
And she’d thrown it out in a basement, like a weapon.
She wondered if Nancy would see her differently now. If she’d avoid her. If the awkwardness would become unbearable.
Or worse—if nothing would change.
That scared her the most.
Robin straightened, running a hand through her hair.
You shouldn’t have said it like that, she scolded herself.
But you shouldn’t have stayed silent either.
She went up to her room, dropped onto the bed without turning on the light, and stared at the ceiling, just like she did when she couldn’t escape her thoughts.
Nancy Wheeler wasn’t someone Robin wanted to explain things to.
She was someone who—against all logic—she wanted to understand.
And that left her dangerously exposed.
Robin closed her eyes, with the uncomfortable certainty that something had shifted that night.
She didn’t know if it was for better or worse.
She only knew there was no going back.