Chapter Text
"Please," Valerie drawled, not even bothering to look at Rachel. "If he still needs a map to find the spot, you should’ve dumped him before the zipper came down."
The hallway parted for her like the Red Sea. Valerie didn't have to push or shove; she simply walked, chin high, the click of her heels cutting through the noise of the passing period. Rachel and Olivia flanked her like eager, yapping guard dogs.
“I just don't know what I’m doing wrong,” Rachel whined, clutching her binder to her chest. “That’s the third guy this month who tried to skip foreplay and go straight for the back door. He said it would help him ‘get there’ faster.”
Valerie suppressed a grimace, staring straight ahead. “Amateur hour.”
“Exactly! But Val, seriously,” Rachel grabbed Valerie’s arm, forcing her to slow down. Her eyes were wide, desperate for guidance. “How do you handle it? When a guy gets pushy like that? Do you just... let them?”
Valerie’s stomach gave a tiny, nervous flip, but her face remained a mask of bored detachment. She channeled every article she’d ever read in gossip magazines, every clinical term she’d overheard in her father’s medical journals.
“Rachel, please,” Valerie scoffed, pulling her arm free with a graceful shrug. “It’s about leverage. If he’s rushing, it’s because he’s lazy. You don’t reward laziness.”
“But what if he stops?”
“Then let him stop,” Valerie said, her voice dripping with absolute, unshakeable confidence. “If he can’t handle the build-up, he doesn’t deserve the finale. Never let them dictate the rhythm.”
Olivia nodded solemnly, as if Valerie had just dispensed ancient wisdom. “God, you’re so right. I always cave.”
“Which is why you’re consistently disappointed,” Valerie clipped. “Sex is a transaction of power, Liv. Stop giving yours away for free.” She checked her watch—a delicate gold band that felt suddenly tight against her wrist. Fifteen minutes. That talk was exhausting her. “Speaking of disappointed,” Valerie pivoted, cutting the lesson short. “Have you seen Cunningham? She’s vanished.”
“Haven’t seen her, babe,” Olivia shrugged. “You’re driving her today?”
“I am, and I’m losing patience.” It was a lie. She wasn't impatient; she was worried. But impatience was an emotion they’d understand better. "I have to find her before I’m late for practice. See you tomorrow, losers."
The girls giggled at the dismissal, waving as Valerie walked away.
As soon as she turned the corner, Valerie let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders hiking up toward her ears.
She checked the Chem lab. Empty. She checked the bathroom. Empty.
Valerie pushed through the double doors to the student parking lot, the humid Indiana air hitting her face. She scanned the rows of cars, her heart doing a nervous stutter-step.
Where are you, Chris?
Then, she saw movement near the tree line. A flash of a cheerleader uniform. Chrissy, walking fast, head down, disappearing into the woods.
Valerie didn’t hesitate. There were rumors about the woods being a spot for drug dealing—a place where "good girls" like her didn't go—but the sight of Chrissy’s retreating figure overrode the knot of anxiety in her chest.
She left the pavement. Immediately, the soft ground swallowed her expensive loafers. Mud coated the leather, cold and wet, and a vine snagged the sheer nylon of her tights. Valerie ignored it. She clicked into "performance mode," forcing her breathing to even out, her chin to stay high, even as she navigated the roots and rot of the forest floor.
She spotted the clearing ahead. Chrissy was sitting at the old picnic table, her shoulders hunched, looking small and fragile.
“Chris—” Valerie started, stepping forward.
But the words died in her throat. Another shadow detached itself from the tree line. A male figure, lanky and looming, stepping into the dying light. Valerie instinctively pulled back behind a tree, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She needed to assess the threat.
Through the screen of leaves, she saw him. The wild hair. The denim vest covered in patches. The combat boots that stomped heavily on the quiet earth.
Eddie Munson.
The leader of Hellfire. The Freak. The stain on Hawkins High’s reputation.
He wasn't just standing there; he was circling Chrissy like a vulture. He moved with a theatrical, chaotic energy, waving his hands as he spoke. From this distance, it didn't look like a conversation. It looked like intimidation.
Old memories flashed and Valerie’s vision tunneled. She had promised to keep Chrissy from spiraling. She wasn't going to let a burnout drug dealer exploit her weakness now.
The fear evaporated, replaced by a cold fury.
Eddie had circled the table until he was standing directly behind Chrissy. Chrissy twisted in her seat to look up at him, her neck craned, completely exposed. Eddie leaned down, bracing his hands on the table.
That was it.
Valerie moved. She marched, her steps silent on the damp leaves thanks to years of ballet training. Neither of them heard her coming.
She reached the table just as Eddie leaned closer. With a surge of adrenaline, Valerie lunged into the space between them. She slammed her hand onto the table and physically shoved her body in front of Chrissy’s, creating a human shield.
She whipped her head up, hazel eyes blazing, staring directly into the startled face of the Freak.
“Back off, Munson.”
The words came out sharper than she intended, breathless and laced with venom.
Eddie stumbled back a step, his hands freezing in mid-air. He blinked, looking down at the girl who had just materialized out of the gloom like a vengeful woodland spirit. It took his brain a full second to calibrate.
“Whoa,” he muttered, his voice scratching against the quiet of the woods. A slow, incredulous grin split his face, revealing teeth that looked too sharp for a friendly smile. “If it isn't Her Royal Highness.”
Valerie planted her feet in the damp leaf litter, chin tipped up, shielding Chrissy with the rigid barrier of her own body. “I said back off. If you think you can intimidate her just because no one is watching—”
“Intimidate?” Eddie scoffed, the sound rough and amused. He didn't back away. Instead, he leaned into the table, crossing his arms over the ragged denim of his vest. The movement brought a waft of his scent toward her—clove cigarettes, cologne, and something darker, like motor oil and earth. It was repulsive. It was overwhelming. “I can assure you, this isn’t what you think it is.”
“I know exactly what this is,” Valerie snapped. “You think because you wear a leather jacket and skip showers that you're some kind of dangerous rebel, but you're just a cliché, Munson. A predator looking for an easy mark.”
Eddie’s grin vanished. His dark eyes narrowed, shifting from amusement to something sharper. He pushed off the table.
Valerie’s breath hitched, but she held her ground. He was tall. Much taller than she remembered from the hallways. He loomed over her, blocking out the fading light.
“You’ve got a dirty mind for such a clean girl,” he murmured, stepping into her personal space.
“I know your type,” she lied, though her pulse was hammering a frantic rhythm against her throat. “I’ve dealt with plenty of guys like you. You’re all noise and no substance.”
Eddie stopped inches from her. He tilted his head, studying her face with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
“Is that right?” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, intimate and mocking. "You think you know me?"
He leaned down until his face was level with hers. Valerie could see the flecks of brown in his eyes.
“Wow, that’s rich,” he said softly, the mockery bleeding out to reveal something else. “Must be nice to have the view from the top... Vee.”
Valerie stiffened, her spine snapping straight as a rod. She looked at him with icy confusion that quickly hardened into disdain.
“We are not on those terms, Munson.” she cut in, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You don’t get to be familiar with me.”
She took a half-step back, re-drawing the line he had tried to cross.
“To you,” she said, looking down her nose at him despite his height, “it’s Valerie. Or better yet, it’s nothing at all. Because we’re done here.”
Eddie didn't look chastised. If anything, the rebuke seemed to delight him. His grin returned, lazy and jagged. He raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes were dancing.
“Loud and clear,” he drawled. “Valerie.”
He made her name sound like a dirty word—or a prayer. She couldn't tell which, and she didn't want to stick around long enough to figure it out.
Valerie turned her back on him, severing the connection with a sharp exhale. She reached out, taking Chrissy’s cold hand in her own warm one. The sharp angles of her face softened instantly, the icy facade melting into the protective friend.
“Come on, Chris,” she said, her voice dropping to a gentle, anchoring tone. “Let's go.”
“Vee, wait—it’s not what you think,” Chrissy stammered, casting a desperate look back at the table. “We were just—”
“We’re going,” Valerie stated. She gave Chrissy’s hands a reassuring squeeze, her eyes communicating a silent promise: I’ve got you.
Chrissy opened her mouth to protest again, saw the immovable set of Valerie’s jaw, and slumped in defeat. She nodded, letting Valerie pull her toward the path.
They took a few steps, the leaves crunching wetly under their shoes. Valerie focused on the tree line, on the safety of the pavement ahead. She shouldn't look back.
But the itch was there. A strange, magnetic pull she couldn't rationalize.
Just before they reached the edge of the clearing, Valerie glanced over her shoulder.
Eddie hadn't moved. He was still leaning against the table, a dark silhouette against the dying gray light. He was looking right at her.
The flick of a lighter rasped in the quiet air, illuminating his face in a brief orange flare. He took a drag of a cigarette, his eyes crinkling at the corners—not quite a smile, but something else.
Valerie’s breath hitched. A shiver that had nothing to do with the evening chill raced down her spine. She didn't understand the look on his face, or why the sound of her name in his mouth felt so heavy.
She turned back around, gripping Chrissy’s hand tighter.
She forced her legs to move faster, marching them out of the woods and toward the safety of her car, desperate to put distance between herself and the boy who looked at her like he knew all her secrets.
The slam of the passenger door echoed like a gunshot in the quiet of the parking lot.
Valerie didn't wait for Chrissy to buckle up. She threw the car into reverse, tires crunching over the gravel with controlled aggression. She peeled out of the lot, putting the woods and Hawkins High in the rearview mirror, but the adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, making her hands tremble on the steering wheel.
Inside the car, the silence was deafening. It smelled of Valerie’s expensive vanilla air freshener, a stark, synthetic contrast to the rot and smoke of the woods.
Valerie drove fast, her eyes fixed on the winding road, her jaw set so hard her teeth ached.
"Vee, slow down," Chrissy whispered, her voice small.
Valerie eased off the gas, but she didn't relax. "What were you doing, Chrissy?"
"Nothing," Chrissy said, staring out the window, picking at a loose thread on her cheerleader uniform. "We were just hanging out."
"Hanging out," Valerie repeated, the skepticism dripping from her tone. "In the woods. Alone. With him."
"He's not a monster, Val."
"He's a dealer, Chrissy! He’s a burnout who has been held back twice. He’s dangerous." Valerie glanced over, her eyes raking over her friend, checking for invisible injuries. "Did he touch you? Did he threaten you? If he made you go there—"
"No!" Chrissy snapped, turning in her seat. "God, why are you acting like this? He was helping me. We were just talking. He's... he's actually really nice when you get to know him."
Valerie felt a sharp, possessive pang of jealousy. Chrissy was her person. They survived the hallways together.
"If you needed help," Valerie said, her voice tight, "why didn't you come to me, Chris? Why go to him?"
Chrissy went quiet. She couldn't tell Valerie the truth—that she needed something to make the voices in her head stop screaming, something Valerie’s logic and plans couldn't fix.
"It's not that simple," Chrissy muttered. "And you don't know him. You just look at him and see a 'freak' because that’s what everyone says. You judge people before they even open their mouths."
"I really don’t–," Valerie countered.
"You assume everyone is out to hurt us!" Chrissy cried out, the frustration finally bubbling over. "You treat everyone like a threat! It’s exhausting, Val. You can't just attack people because you think you know what they're thinking!"
"Why shouldn't I?" Valerie shouted back, the control finally snapping.
She slammed the brakes as they reached a stop sign, the car jerking to a halt. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Valerie gripped the wheel until her knuckles turned white, staring blindly at the empty intersection.
"I didn't assume the worst when I found you passed out on the locker room floor," she whispered, the memory tasting like bile in her mouth. "And—"
She cut herself off. The lump in her throat was sudden and painful, choking the rest of the sentence. And look what almost happened. Look how close I came to losing you.
The anger in the car evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, hollow grief.
Chrissy’s face crumpled. She reached out, her hand hovering over Valerie’s arm before gently resting on the tense muscle.
"Vee..."
"I'm sorry," Valerie breathed, blinking rapidly to keep the stinging tears at bay. "I'm sorry, Chrissy. But after I promised to keep you safe from... from all of it... I'm always scared. I'm always scared of you slipping away when I'm not there to catch you."
The rest of the drive was quiet, but the air in the car had shifted. It was no longer suffocating, it was fragile, like glass that had cracked but hadn't quite shattered.
Valerie pulled up to the curb in front of the Cunningham’s manicured lawn. She put the car in park and turned to Chrissy. The anger was gone, replaced by an aching tenderness.
“Are we good?” Valerie asked.
“We’re good,” Chrissy nodded, a small, tired smile touching her lips. She reached over, wrapping her arms around Valerie in a sudden, tight squeeze. Valerie melted into it immediately, holding her best friend close.
“Call me if you need me,” Valerie whispered into Chrissy’s hair. “Day or night. I don’t care if I’m sleeping. You call.”
“I know,” Chrissy pulled back, her blue eyes glistening. “Thank you, Vee. Really.”
Chrissy grabbed her bag and slipped out of the car. Valerie didn’t move. She sat with the engine idling, her eyes locked on Chrissy’s back as she walked up the driveway. She watched Chrissy unlock the front door, step inside, and she waited until she heard the distinct click of the latch engaging.
Only then did Valerie exhale.
She shifted into drive, peeling away from the curb.
As soon as she turned the corner, the silence became unbearable. The soft, ethereal crooning of Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love was still playing from the tape deck. Usually, Kate’s voice soothed her, but right now, after the mud and the adrenaline and the look in Eddie Munson’s eyes, it felt too soft. Too vulnerable. Valerie hit the eject button.
She reached into the glove compartment, bypassing the "Safe Mixes" she kept for when she was driving others, and dug to the back. Her fingers brushed against a scuffed case.
Black Sabbath.
It was visceral. It was loud. It was everything Valerie Hayes wasn't supposed to be.
She shoved the cassette into the deck and cranked the volume dial until it threatened to blow the high-end speakers.
Valerie stepped on the gas. The engine roared in harmony with the drums. She gripped the steering wheel, tapping her fingers violently against the leather in time with the double-bass drum. She let the aggression of the music wash over her, scrubbing away the feeling of Eddie’s gaze, the fear for Chrissy, the suffocation of Hawkins
The music cut out abruptly the moment the brick building of the dance academy came into view.
Valerie killed the engine. She sat in the sudden silence for a count of three, letting her heart rate calm down. Then, she flipped down the visor mirror.
She checked her lipstick. She smoothed a stray hair. She adjusted her collar.
And she stepped out of the car, the cool evening air biting at her cheeks, walking toward the entrance. The building smelled the way it always did—a specific, nostalgic blend of rosin, old wood, and hairspray.
Inside, the waiting room was quiet. A few younger girls were tying their ribbons, whispering in hushed tones. They went silent when Valerie walked in. She ignored them, heading straight for the changing room.
She stripped off her "civilian" clothes—the pleated skirt, the blouse, the heels ruined by the mud—and began the transformation. Pink tights. Black leotard. The wrap skirt. She sat on the bench, pulling her pointe shoes from her bag.
Her feet weren’t pretty. That was the secret of ballet: everything looked beautiful from the outside, but inside the satin shoes, it was all blisters, tape, and calluses.
"Miss Hayes," a sharp voice clipped from the doorway. Valerie looked up, already fixing a serene, pleasant expression on her face. Madame Dubois stood there, a cane in one hand, her posture impeccable. "You are late," Madame said, her French accent turning the words into a judgment.
"My apologies, Madame," Valerie said smoothly, standing up and testing the ribbons on her ankles. "I had a... car problem."
Madame’s eyes flicked to Valerie’s hands. Valerie looked down. She hadn't realized her hands were still shaking slightly from the adrenaline of the drive.
Practice was merciless, as always. It left a satisfying, throbbing ache in Valerie’s muscles.
The drive home would have been peaceful if not for Freddie Mercury belting out Somebody to Love at top volume. Valerie sang along, hitting the high notes with a desperate precision, letting the music fill the silence of the winding roads.
When she pulled into the driveway, the house was dark. The spot where her father’s car usually parked was empty. Another emergency at the hospital. Another night of just her and the echo of the grandfather clock.
As she entered her house through the garage door, a shadow detached itself from the couch.
“Edward!” Valerie said gleefully, her voice instantly dropping an octave into baby-talk. The fluffy black cat trotted over, tail hooked like a question mark. “I missed you so much, my handsome Eddie.”
She crouched down, ignoring the ache in her muscles, and scratched him behind the ears. The cat purred like a small diesel engine, headbutting her hand.
“Yes, yes, I’m back home,” she murmured, picking him up. He was heavy, warm, and uncomplicated—the only male in her life who didn't give her a headache.
The rest of the night was a ritual of solitude. She made a simple salad (ignoring the hunger that wanted something heavier), showered the sweat and hairspray away, and retreated to her room.
She sat at her desk, the biology textbook open under the harsh glow of the lamp. Her cassette playing a mixtape. Usually, this was her moment of peace after a long day.
Tonight, the silence felt heavy.
She stared at the diagram of cellular mitosis, but the image wouldn't stick. Her mind kept drifting. Drifting back to the damp woods. To the smell of cologne and cigarettes. To the way Eddie Munson had leaned down, invading her space, his eyes dark and mocking, but almost hypnotizing—
“Okay, enough,” she snapped aloud.
Her cat, who was dozing on the end of her bed, lifted his head and blinked at her with yellow eyes.
“Not you,” she muttered to the cat. “The other one. The annoying one.”
She slammed the textbook shut. What the hell was she thinking? She was probably just shaken about what happened. Yeah, that’s it. She was still really mad at Munson for approaching Chrissy. That’s why she was still replaying their face-to-face moment. It was just anger.
Valerie abandoned the desk. She needed an escape. She climbed into her bed, pulling the duvet up to her waist, and reached for the paperback on her nightstand. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.
She flipped to her bookmark. The Prancing Pony scene. She needed to lose herself in Middle Earth, far away from Hawkins, Indiana.
She started reading, letting Tolkien’s prose wash over her. She pictured the common room, the smoke, the noise. She pictured Strider sitting in the corner—the mysterious, dangerous ranger with the hooded face and the gleam of intelligence in his eyes.
But as she read the description of Strider, the image in her mind twisted.
His wild, dark hair wasn't noble; it was messy and curled around a face that was all sharp angles and jagged grins. Valerie blinked, but the image remained. Aragorn looking at her with Eddie Munson’s eyes.
"Ugh!" Valerie groaned, frustration bubbling up in her chest. She shoved the book under her pillow as if it had personally offended her. She reached over and clicked off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the windowpane.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her brain to shut down, to think of ballet, to think of chemistry, to think of anything else. A loosing battle.
She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow, unaware of the fact that she was absolutely going to dream of Eddie tonight.