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𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢 𝐠𝐨?
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡
𝟎:𝟐𝟕 —|—————— 𝟐:𝟒𝟎
♯ 𝐀 ♯ 𝟎𝟐
𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 : ▮▮▯▯▯▯▯▯▯
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Monday, Nov. 7, 1983.

SEEING CHIEF HOPPER'S Chevy sitting outside twice in one day, Briggs decides, is two times too many. He parks the Jeep off to the side, a healthy distance from the two police vehicles outside the Byers' house, and spends a moment fiddling with the interior door handle in hesitation.

Maybe he should leave.

But Jon's probably freaking out, and so is Joyce, and Joyce is the sweetest human on the face of the planet and maybe the Byers just need a familiar face right now. So Briggs gets out of the car and beelines for the Byers' door, right past the chief and deputy vehicles and up to the front porch.

He doesn't let himself hesitate before knocking, three sharp raps with two knuckles on the old, familiar wood.

"Jon?" he calls.

There's some shuffling inside, some deeper voices that must belong to Chief Hopper and his colleagues, and then the door is swinging open at he's looking right at the chief for the second time today.

"You again," Hopper says, his face difficult to read.

"Me again." Briggs offers what he hopes is a convincing smile, faltering a little under the man's weary stare.

"Kid, I don't think now's a good time—"

"Briggs?" Jon's voice floats through the door, and Hopper sighs, stepping aside to let Briggs shove through.

"Hey, man, hey," Briggs breathes, folding Jon right into his arms. He looks exhausted.

Jon's not what Briggs would call sensitive. He's never been at the top of the social ladder, never had a ton of friends, never needed much to be content. Not a lot of things get to him. He tunes out Steve and Tommy Hagan and all the other dicks at the high school, doesn't pay any mind to their backhanded comments, doesn't worry too much about school.

The only thing that really gets to Jon is worrying about the people he loves, as evidenced by the bruise-like purple skin just under his eyes and the hair that definitely hasn't been washed since Will went missing. Everything about Jon screams worry and defeat. Briggs hasn't seen him like this since Lonnie and Joyce separated.

"Hey," Jon says miserably into Briggs' shirt. Briggs squeezes him a little tighter, a silent I'm right here. If Briggs were in this situation and the one comforting him was himself, he would probably not be very reassured, but he hopes maybe the way Jon's hugging him a little too tightly means he's not totally disappointed that Briggs is his current source of emotional support.

"Hey, kid," Hopper calls. "You get the little ones home?"

"Yessir," Briggs says immediately, biting back an I have a name, and then thinks maybe there's some kind of law about having so many kids in his car right after getting his license, but also, the order was from the literal chief of police, so he's probably off the hook.

"Thanks for doing that."

"Yeah," Briggs says awkwardly, pulling away from Jon. "Yeah, uh, no problem."

"They found his bike," Jon says quietly, looking at Briggs with wide eyes. "On the path home. Just left there."

Briggs feels his face fall, knows what that means just as well as Jon does. No way in hell would Will just leave his bike in the middle of the trail. That's about as likely as Corey leaving the house with her walkie-talkie.

"Can I help?" Briggs asks softly, fiddling with the belt loops of his torn-up jeans, and Jon just shrugs.

"I don't know what to do. I mean, we looked everywhere, we called everyone, we checked Castle Byers and the woods and like, we called Lonnie, and just... you know. Just... I'm glad you're here."

Briggs pulls his lips into a tight line. Lonnie. He and Jon have had their fair share of talks about shitty dads, bonded over it—and honestly, Briggs doesn't really do the whole "deep talk" thing with anyone else, even Mack.

Jon's always been the quiet one, the best listener. Mack is pretty soft-spoken everywhere else, but apparently there's only room for one quiet guy in a trio, so when he's around them, he never shuts up. Whenever someone calls Mack quiet, Briggs has to consciously attempt to keep his jaw from dropping, because it's been nearly twelve years of endless rambling from his perspective and he can't put Mack's name in the same sentence as quiet without the word isn't in the middle. It has the same unsettling effect as anyone other than Briggs and Mack referring to Jon as Jon and not Jonathan.

But the point is that Jon has always been there for Briggs, even when he didn't deserve it. He's always listened, only given advice when Briggs asked for it, and almost always been right about that advice. He's always been a shoulder to lean on. So now it's Briggs' turn to do that for him, even if the whole comfort thing's not really his forte.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too." He glances at Joyce, the woman's short brown hair messy from undoubtedly running her hands through it in exasperation all day. "Hi, Joyce," he says quietly. She gives him a halfhearted wave and a hey there, Briggs, but Briggs can't blame her for having her mind elsewhere right now.

The same deputy from earlier paces around the other side of the room, the one with curly hair and glasses and that expression of mild confusion that always seems to be plastered on his face. This time, he's joined by another vaguely familiar deputy with dark skin and a significantly more focused expression, and Hopper gestures to him before making his way out of the living room.

"If you found the bike out there, why are you here?" Jon asks, following Hopper into the kitchen. That's kind of what Briggs had been wondering, too, but Hopper's scanning the room now with his scrutinizing gaze and Briggs is just glad it's not on him anymore.

"Well, he had a key to the house, right?"

"Yeah?" Jon says, the connotation of so what? leaking from his words even if he'd never say it to the chief outright.

"So," Hopper muses, glancing out the window and examining a speck of dust on the countertop, "maybe he came home."

"You think I didn't check my own house?" Joyce's frustration is a tangible thing, thick in the air, and Briggs bristles at the note of desperation in her voice. He loves Joyce like his own mother. Seeing her like this feels wrong, like it's not allowed, somehow.

"I'm not saying that," Hopper mutters, but his attention is drawn to something on the wall, a little indent in the wood that Briggs wouldn't have noticed himself. Probably because he's a 16-year-old, not a cop. "Has this always been here?"

"What?" Joyce sighs. "I don't know. Probably. I mean, I have two boys. Look at this place."

Jon's brows furrow a little at that, and Briggs gives him a tiny little grin that says she has a point, because yeah, Jon's stuff is all over this place and he's sure his bedroom is even worse right now. Briggs and Mack have slept over at Jon's a good number of times, but Briggs remembers one night in particular—seventh grade, maybe—he'd walked into Jon's room and literally not been able to see the floor. His clothes were everywhere, but somehow Jon knew where every single thing was, like the piles of crap all over his room were some intricate map only he had the key to.

Jon's cleaning habits haven't changed much since then.

Hopper pulls open the back door, fitting its handle right into the notch in the wall. Like someone slammed it open.

Before Briggs can recall if he's seen it there before, or if he's ever heard one of the Byers boys slam the back door, or if he's slammed it, insistent barking sounds from the backyard.

Hopper leads the way down the little staircase in the back of the house. Jon seems like he's not really sure whether he should follow, so Briggs jerks his chin in the direction of the backyard and starts down the steps.

Briggs fully expects Chester to pounce on him the second he's down the stairs, but instead the dog has his back to them. He's barking urgently at the shed.

He's a mangy little guy, a rescue mutt, and Briggs has known him since he was brought home as a not-at-all-house-trained puppy. As Joyce drags him away from a crouching Hopper and back to the house, Briggs plops down on the grass to greet him.

"Hey, Chester," he coos, scratching the dog behind the ears. "Hey, good boy. What's goin' on, huh, buddy?"

"Jon, feed him for me?" Joyce asks, and Jon extends a hand to Briggs, who takes it and gets to his feet, following his friend and Chester back into the house.

"I just don't get it," Jon sighs as he grabs Chester's bowl from the floor. "Where he could've gone, I mean. And I... this morning," he sighs, placing the bowl on the counter and running a hand through his hair, "Mom was just... she was so upset with me. And she was so right."

"Why was she upset with you?" Briggs asks, scratching Chester behind the ears as he pokes his nose around Briggs' legs insistently, like he's going food? You got food? Kind of like Mack on any given weeknight past five o'clock.

"I took another late shift last night without telling her," Jon sighs. "She was at work, too, so nobody was here to see if Will got home safe, and I thought it would be fine, I've done it before without her finding out, but... then this morning, he just wasn't here."

"Jon," Briggs says seriously, leaning against the wooden kitchen table where he's eaten so many bowls of cereal. "This isn't on you. The bike was in the woods. He probably didn't come home. Nothing would've changed if you'd been here."

"We could've been looking sooner," Jon sighs, refusing to meet Briggs' gaze. "What if—if he was taken, and they're already far enough away, and the extra time could've helped—"

"Jon," Briggs says, taking a few steps forward to grab the boy's shoulders and make him look up. "Jon, look at me. This is not your fault. You're the best big brother Will could ask for, okay? That kid adores you. You're the blueprint sibling. Take that from a guy who spent two years being the opposite."

Jon's quiet for a moment. He has that far-away look in his eyes, the one he gets when he's spiraling into thoughts that can't lead anywhere good.

"It's not your fault," Briggs says again, refusing to break eye contact. He's not great at reassurance, usually, not good with comforting people or dealing with crying. But right now, he's just stating hard facts that he knows about Jon. And fact number one is that Jon is a goddamn good brother.

"Yeah, well, it's getting kind of hard to believe that," Jon scoffs, scooping some kibble into the bowl and putting it back on the floor with a metallic thunk. Chester attacks it like he's never seen anything edible in his life.

"Jon—"

"How's Corey holding up?" he changes the subject, still looking at the countertop instead of meeting Briggs' eyes.

Briggs scoffs, because even though the subject change was to steer the conversation away from blame, there's a worried undertone in Jon's voice that says he really is concerned about Corey. Jon's brother is missing and he's still thinking about other people. He's just like that.

"Just worried," Briggs shrugs, thinking about Corey and Will talking up a storm in the kitchen, riding their bikes down the street, greeting each other enthusiastically at the school doors. The first time the Byers had come over for dinner after Ma got remarried, Corey and Will had pretty much attached themselves at the hip. But it's not going to help Jon to think about how dejected and worried Corey probably is right now, so Briggs says, "Honestly, I... I'm more worried about you, man."

Joyce rushes into the house then, the chief and deputies hot on her tail.

"They're organizing a search party," she says urgently, eyes flickering between Jon and Briggs, and Briggs nods firmly. Good. That's good.

He meets the chief's eyes. "Need volunteers?"

And Hopper has the audacity to say, "Adults only."

"Are you serious?" Briggs scoffs. "Will's missing and you don't have the slightest idea where the hell he is. Don't you think you need all the help you can get?" He winces as the words come out, knowing he should hold his tongue.

"What I think is that I don't need to be worrying about more kids running off in the woods in the dark when I've already got one missing," Hopper says firmly, glaring daggers at Briggs. Everything about the man radiates authority, as brash and irritating as he might be, and he doesn't move from his don't question me hands-on-hips stance in the middle of Joyce's kitchen.

If there's one thing Briggs despises, it's doing nothing. And being ordered to do nothing makes him angry. But he clenches his fists at his side. Fine. He'll help the Byers in any way he can, and he doesn't need to be in the search party to do it.

"Understood?" the chief asks when Briggs doesn't respond. He hates the way the guy is looking at him, like he's ten years old and about to jump off a bridge because all his friends did it too.

"Yes, sir," he mumbles, fighting the urge to roll his eyes as the chief nods and turns away, talking quietly to Joyce as they make their way to the front door.

"Okay," Jon sighs. "I gotta go find photos of Will. For missing posters."

"Right," Briggs nods. Jon's always got a camera within arm's reach. He could probably cover a wall in photos of Will if he tried. "Let me call my mom quick."

Jon nods, and Briggs heads to the phone while his friend heads down the hall.

His mom picks up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Ma," Briggs says, leaning against the wall and pressing the yellow phone to his ear.

"Hi, sweetheart. Did you find Jonathan?"

"Yeah, I'm at the Byers' place," Briggs says. "The police department's forming a search party. Adults only. But Jon's working on missing posters and I was gonna stay and help for a while, if that's cool."

He realizes as soon as the words are out of his mouth what's about to happen.

"Briggs, honey," his mom says in that I'm about to let you down softly voice, and Briggs leans his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling. "I know you want to help, and you're a good friend for doing it, but I don't love the idea of you being out and about right now. I mean, we have no idea what happened to Will. We don't know how safe it is out there."

Briggs opens his mouth to argue, but his mom won't let him get a breath in.

"It's supposed to storm tonight, anyway," she says, "and I'd hate for you to be driving home in that in the dark. Plus, Corey's probably worried sick, and if she finds out you're at Jonathan's place helping, she'll want to do something too, and—"

"Okay, Ma," Briggs sighs, accepting defeat despite the feeling of his heart sinking deeper into his chest. "Yeah. I got it. I'll be home soon."

"Thanks, baby. See you. Love you," Ma says, relief seeping through her words.

"Love you."

Out in the living room, Jon's spread out photos on the low table. He and Joyce huddle together, flipping through them, the mismatched lamps on either side of the couch casting a soft glow over them. Briggs smiles softly.

"Hey, I gotta go," Briggs says softly, feeling a little bad about interrupting such a sweet moment. But there's no resentment in Joyce's gaze as she smiles at him. Jon nods.

"Your mom want you back?" she asks, and Briggs nods. He thinks maybe her voice catches a little at the idea of his own mom having her two kids safe at home, and he feels a swirl of guilt low in his gut despite knowing there's nothing he can do. "Makes sense. Thanks for coming by, sweetie."

"Thanks, man," Jon says, eyes flickering between the photo in his hands and Briggs.

"You call if you need anything, okay? Anything. Both of you," Briggs says as he opens the front door. "Got it?"

"Got it," Jon says. Joyce waves as Briggs lets himself out. The makings of a storm turn the evening sky a looming shade of gray, and Briggs double-checks the Jeep's windows as he starts it up and pulls out of the Byers' path.

The Clash's Should I Stay or Should I Go thrums through the car, and Briggs remembers the time Jon had excitedly told him that yeah, I think I got Will into the good stuff, and Mack said when the fuck did you become a stoner and Jon just slapped him, not hard enough to hurt, and then proceeded to tell Briggs and Mack how he'd shown The Clash to Will and he liked it, like, genuinely liked it.

"Please don't raise another you," Mack deadpanned.

But Jon had been glowing with pride in an unusual show of emotion, and remembering that smile, that almost giddy interaction, Briggs knows Will never would've run away. Even if he wanted to have some sort of preteen act of rebellion, which is the most not-Will thing in the world, he'd have wanted Jon to know.

God, Briggs really hopes the kid's okay.

▮▮▮

Drops of water form a map of rivers across the windows of the Jeep by the time Briggs gets home, the guttering of his engine turning off echoed by a strike of thunder too close for comfort.

He pulls the hood of his swim team jacket over his head, kicking his shoes off just inside the front door.

"Hey," Ma says softly, appearing around the corner from the living room and leaning against the wall. "Thanks for coming home. Corey went to sleep early."

Briggs' brows furrow. Corey's a night owl if he's ever met one. He remembers the way she was bursting at the seams earlier, eager to do something.

"Weird," he says, hanging his jacket by the door and giving his mom a quick hug. He waves at Danny over her shoulder. "I should probably change," he says, pulling away and glancing at his water-stained jeans and wet socks. Ma snorts.

"Go on," she says, returning to her place next to Danny.

Briggs doesn't go to his room and change. Instead, he sidles up to Corey's door, pressing an ear against it. Nothing, but...

He knocks softly, enough for Corey to hear but not Ma in the other room. No response.

It can't hurt to just crack the door and make sure she's really asleep. He turns the knob slowly, easing the door open in an effort not to alert Ma and Danny, and—

Corey is standing there in the middle of the room, wide awake, just staring at him with the window half-open and her hair dripping with rain.

"Hey!" she hisses, eyes widening. "What are you doing?"

"Jesus," Briggs mutters. Sometimes he hates being right.

"Close the door!" Corey whisper-shouts. "What if I was changing?"

"Then you would've screamed at me when I knocked," Briggs hisses back, obliging Corey by slipping into the room and easing the door closed behind him.

Thunder shakes the whole house, and Corey rushes to shut her window. Briggs notes her half-open backpack discarded on the floor, a walkie-talkie poking out.

"Okay, what the hell is going on?" Briggs asks, gesturing to the wet backpack and the puddle rapidly growing underneath Corey's soaking wet shoes, thick drops of rain sliding off her red and blue windbreaker and into the stained carpet.

"I—" Corey crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "I was at Mike's. Don't tell Dad and Leah, please, Briggs."

Briggs drags his hands down his face. "Corey. What were you doing at Mike's? Ma said you went to sleep early—"

"We had to finish the campaign!" Corey says, but she's an awful liar. Her voice shoots up at least half an octave and she avoids eye contact at all costs, finding a sudden interest in the ceiling.

Briggs leans back against the door, biting his bottom lip as he considers.

"You snuck out of the house in the pouring rain," Briggs says slowly, "in the dark, to go to Mike Wheeler's house and finish your game, which involves Will, which Will loves, but you did it without Will?"

Corey's face is turning bright red. "It—it wasn't raining when I left," she mumbles.

"Corey."

He and Corey don't have a lot of... deep talks. They tease each other and talk about school and movies and music and their parents. But by now, Briggs has learned she hates silence so much she'll do anything to fill it herself. So he just waits, looks at her expectantly, until she cracks.

It takes maybe twenty seconds.

"Fine!" she groans, kicking off her shoes, shedding her jacket, and flopping onto her bed. "Fine. We went to look for Will."

"Who's we?" Briggs prompts, already knowing the answer but wanting to ease her into it.

"Me and Dusty and Lucas and Mike."

Briggs had tried to call Dustin "Dusty" once, and Dustin's infuriated glare looked more like an indignant chihuahua's, but he got the point. Apparently that rule doesn't apply to Corey.

"And you looked for him where?"

"Mirkwood," Corey says. "You know the path he takes home by—"

"Yeah," Briggs says, watching Corey twiddle her thumbs in her lap, feet kicking just above the ground. He breathes in slowly, trying not to snap at her for searching in the literal woods in the dark during a storm. "And... did you find anything?"

Corey's mouth opens and closes, once, twice—then she seems to consider something. "No, just—we just—we had to do something, you know?"

"Corey, the cops are looking," Briggs sighs, exasperation lacing his voice. "There's a search party, and they're out there, and they're looking, and Mirkwood was the first place they checked, okay? I just—you can't just be reckless like that, you could've gotten hurt, and if whatever the hell happened to Will happened to you—"

And then Briggs realizes the water lining Corey's eyes isn't just rain. He sounds like Hopper, he realizes, telling Corey to sit here and do nothing the way he hates so much. God, he's such a hypocrite.

"Corey," Briggs murmurs, crossing the room and sinking onto the edge of her bed. He wraps an arm around her, squeezing her tight, feeling the water clinging to her dark hair dampen his skin. "Hey, it's okay. I know you're worried, Corey, I just—Corey, come on."

"What?" she sniffles, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're gonna look at me and tell if it was Jonathan, you wouldn't go look for him?"

Briggs stills. She's... she's not wrong.

"You're right," he breathes, burying his face in his hands. "Okay. Okay, I get it. It's just... okay, how about this? Next time you and the boys feel like doing something heroic and reckless, you let me know and I'll drive you, okay? I'll come with you. Just... don't do that again. Not alone. Please."

Corey tucks her knees into her chest, sniffling.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles. Then she smiles a little, resting her cheek on her knees and looking up at Briggs. "To be fair, the whole don't be reckless thing is a little rich coming from you, Mr. I-Bet-I-Can-Skateboard-On-A-Slanted-Rooftop—"

"Corey, it was one time! You weren't even there—

Corey dissolves into muffled laughter, worries forgotten at least for the moment.

"I'm sorry about Will," Briggs says after a moment of quiet. "They'll find him, you know. He's Will. Isn't he, like, a sorcerer or some shit—"

"He's a wizard," Corey corrects. Briggs really doesn't think there's a difference, but he indulges her.

"Right. So I'm sure he's fine, Cor. Really."

"Right," Corey says softly, staring at the ceiling again.

Briggs stays at her side, falling into a comfortable silence, until she's fast asleep.

▮▮▮

Tuesday, Nov. 10, 1983

Briggs sets the phone back in the receiver on the wall, frowning. He'd tried to call Jon, but nobody picked up—the phone doesn't even go through its usual cycle of obnoxious ringing before the tone.

He hopes their power didn't go berserk during the storm. Like they need anything else to deal with right now.

"Corey!" he calls, rapping his knuckles on the door and throwing his head back in frustration. "Corey! We're gonna be late! I don't want to go to class, either, but reading books written by dead guys is better than Ma kicking my ass because you missed school, so get up, okay?"

The door opens to reveal a very disheveled-looking Corey, even more so than she usually appears in the morning. She doesn't look at Briggs, just pushes past him into the hall, her backpack practically dragging on the floor behind her.

Well, then. Something is bothering her that's more than just looking for Will last night.

Briggs decides he'll get whatever it is out of her in the car. Clock's ticking. Corey pulls on her Converse and tugs her tucked-in striped shirt out of her jeans a little before following Briggs outside.

The first few minutes of the drive pass in an absence of conversation, Culture Club floating from the car speakers. Briggs lets a song pass before he takes a deep breath and glances at Corey.

"Okay, spill it," he says, taking the offensive. He's hoping it's early enough that she won't have it in her to resist too much.

"I'm fine."

"Spill. It. Or you can walk the rest of the way," Briggs says. They both know it's an empty threat, but Corey does her big fine, you asshole sigh, which means Briggs has won.

"It's just," she starts, slumping back in her seat, "it's like, the Party is finally starting to realize I'm a girl."

"What, they didn't know that before?" Briggs asks, baffled. "They just looked at you one day and went oh my god, Corey doesn't have a penis, what the fuck?"

Corey scrunches up her nose at the word penis. "I know it sounds stupid, but it's like, I can't have sleepovers with them anymore, and there's just some things that aren't the same." She plays with the zipper of her bag in her lap.

"There's this... new girl," she says hesitantly. "El—Eleanor. And the guys keep arguing about whether they should let her into the Party, right, because she's new, but also because she's a girl, and I told them I'm a girl, and Lucas was all, that doesn't count! You even have a boy name! And then Mike was all, no, she's right, she's a girl, maybe we should make this a boys-only decision!" She mimics Lucas and Mike in a voice at least two octaves higher and three times as whiny than the real things, but Briggs thinks it's hilarious.

"Last night?"

"Uh," Corey falters. "Yeah, I mean—not that we met her last night, she goes to our school, she's in A.V. club—it's just they were talking about it last night and I was annoyed."

Her voice is higher than usual. Briggs doesn't push it for now.

"Then make a girls-only decision just to spite them," Briggs smirks. "Corey, they're stupid teenage boys. They don't know what they're talking about. They're all hormones and overconfidence."

"You're a stupid teenage boy," Corey points out, but Briggs sees her little smile and knows something he said got through.

"I'm trying to be nice to you, dipshit," he shoots back, but he's smiling a little. "Just—don't read too much into it, okay? Those idiots adore you."

"Yeah," Corey leans back in her seat, seemingly satisfied. "They do."

Briggs reads the situation, the little smile on Corey's face as she gazes out the car window at the never-changing landscape of Hawkins. All's well in her little middle-school-drama world now.

So he can tease her.

"But be careful, because now that they know you're a girl, with like, cooties and everything—"

"We're not five, Briggs," Corey interjects, but Briggs keeps talking.

"—they're gonna realize you're a cool girl who hangs out with them and plays their dumb board games and skateboards, and doesn't have a boyfriend, and then it's every man for himself. They're gonna be all over it."

Corey mutters something under her breath, something sounding vaguely like not all of them, but then he finds something far worse to observe. She's blushing.

"No," he gapes at her, loosening his grip on the wheel. "Corey, please don't go out with one of those tiny idiots. Please, for me—"

"I'm not—oh my God, Briggs. Gross. Whatever," Corey huffs, and then decides to swiftly change the subject. "You know Steve from swimming?"

Briggs' hands tighten on the steering wheel. "What about him?" he asks carefully. There's something mildly amusing about Corey referring to the king of the high school, the arrogant co-captain, the guy juggling girlfriends like tennis balls, as Steve from swimming. What a drastic oversimplification.

"Mike said he saw him sneak into Nancy's bedroom last night."

Something tightens a little in Briggs' chest. He's not really sure why.

He wonders if Corey has also convinced herself that Briggs has a crush on Nancy, and that's why she's telling him, or if she genuinely just thinks it's funny or relevant information that his swim captain was caught by little Mike Wheeler sneaking into Nancy's room. Briggs has to admit that mental image is a little funny.

"That guy can't sneak for the life of him," Briggs says. "I saw him walk into the girl's bathroom the other day, and I think he was fuckin' whistling. Like that actually makes you look inconspicuous."

"Well, it worked, as far as I know," Corey shrugs. "Mike didn't tell. Mostly 'cause he was sneaking out, too." She glances at him, expression calculating. Briggs defensively schools his expression into neutrality. Whatever she's thinking, it's wrong.

Briggs pulls up along the curb behind the long line of parents dropping their kids off at school.

"Don't kiss your idiot friends," Briggs calls out the passenger window as Corey hops out, slinging her backpack over a shoulder. She flips him off without looking back as she walks through the front doors, and Briggs smirks before pulling out of the middle school lot and making the less-than-a-minute trip to the high school.

It's the same overwhelmingly dull scene as always, flimsy Tiger Pride banners and girls clinging to their jock boyfriends' arms and a group of sketchy students in the parking lot corner, probably dealing drugs or something, which Briggs thinks is a pretty stupid thing to do on school property, but if they haven't been caught yet, he supposes they probably know what they're doing, so whatever.

Mack is already leaning against the beige lockers, flipping through a notebook crammed with barely legible handwriting and mouthing words to himself as he goes.

"Morning, Old McDonald," Briggs says, spinning his combination lock and making to shove his backpack inside.

"Morning," Mack says without looking up, then twists show Briggs something in his notebook. "You think this says ethylene or acetylene?"

Briggs stops what he's doing, one hand his backpack halfway in his locker and the other in his pocket, to stare at Mack without expression. He squints at the mess of dark ink.

"Dude, I don't know what the hell either of those words are," he says. "Aren't these your notes?"

"Yeah, but I can't read them," Mack says in exasperation, turning away again. "You are no help."

"Shame," Briggs says, smirking and glancing to the cluster of seniors gathered across the hall, now joined by Nancy Wheeler and her redhead friend Barb.

"Also, what are you learning in gen chem?" Mack asks. "Kind of concerned that you don't know what acetylene is—"

"I'm learning that anyone who voluntarily takes a version of chem that's harder than gen chem deserves their suffering," Briggs says, not looking back at Mack as he observes the scene across the hall.

Nancy's saying something quietly, hesitantly, her big doe eyes flickering between Steve and a set of flashcards in his hands that are way too organized to belong to him. Briggs rolls his eyes. Steve's flanked by his jackass friends, Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins. Just looking at Tommy makes him want to break something, the guy's such an ass, and Carol is so irritating with her curly hair and her giggles so high they have to be fake.

"Okay, dude, gotta dip," Mack says, and Briggs waves a hand dismissively. "I need to cram for this exam."

Briggs glances back at his friend. "Mack," he says. "You probably know the whole damn textbook backwards and forwards. And it's in, like, ten minutes. The hell are you gonna accomplish that you haven't already? You'll be fine."

But Mack is already in an entirely different headspace, forcing the crowds to part for him as he books it down the hall, not once looking up from his notebook.

Briggs is just starting to worry for Jon, who hasn't appeared in the locker bay yet, when he walks through the door with a faster gait than usual and a piece of paper in hand.

"Jon," he calls, but he doesn't react. Briggs rushes over to him, slamming his locker door shut without having actually put anything inside it, backpack still in his hand. "Jon," he says again. Jon turns around, slowly, wearily, looking honestly like he's half-dead, maybe sleep-walking. "Dude. Hey."

Jon doesn't say anything, just offers Briggs a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes and turns back to the board, pulling spare pins from the cork to use to hang the poster. He's wearing the same clothes as last night, denim on denim and a wrinkled brown shirt, and looks like he's about ready to keel over from exhaustion.

Briggs thinks he hears laughing behind him, and he turns around, away from the black and white poster of Will, two little square photos of him with his silly bowl cut and Jon's surprisingly legible handwriting explaining the situation.

Tommy Hagan is grinning, laughing his obnoxious laugh, looking between Carol and Jon and elbowing Steve like hey, are you seeing this?

And Briggs doesn't think. He doesn't let himself. Because Tommy Hagan is a piece of shit, and he doesn't get to do that, stand there and make fun of Jon for worrying about his brother when Tommy probably hasn't cared about a single other human being in his whole pathetic life.

"What the hell do you think is so funny, huh?" Briggs says sharply, getting right up in Hagan's face, making the boy press against the crinkly brown paper of the poster hanging behind him.

"What, nothin' about the kid walking around all sad, hanging up homemade posters seems even a little pathetic to you?" Hagan drawls, utterly unconcerned, even amused.

"No," Briggs spits. "What's pathetic is you not having anything better to do with your time than laugh at people who have actual problems."

"Actual problems," Tommy drawls, raising a dark brow.

"What's your biggest concern right now, Hagan? Huh? That Carol's finally gonna realize your dick's not as big as you made it out to be, and she's gonna leave you for the next piece of shit?"

"Oh, you fucking—"

Briggs' hand is in a fist before he even finishes speaking, and he's ready to go at it with Tommy Hagan right here in the school hallway, but then Steve's elbowing Tommy in the ribs and Jon's pulling Briggs away by the shoulder and his fist is hitting thin air, and Nancy Wheeler, Nancy fucking Wheeler, is stepping in between them like some kind of junior referee.

"Stop," she says firmly, eyes flickering between Briggs and Tommy and Steve and Jon. "Just stop. You're not children."

"Oh, c'mon," Carol Perkins mutters under her breath, her tone laced with condescending mockery. Nancy hears it and stares at the ground, any trace of the confidence she'd had only moments before dissipated in the blink of an eye. She looks so out-of-place with them, her necklace with a ballet slipper charm and a little purple bow on her collared shirt. She looks too good—not in the attractive sense, though Briggs knows Nancy Wheeler is conventionally pretty, courtesy of Jon's bug-eyes whenever he sees her, but in the decent person sense, the kind of decency that doesn't befall people like Tommy and Carol and—and Steve.

"Hey," Steve says, shoving Tommy to the side a little and edging closer to Nancy. But he looks at Briggs, then at Jon, when he says, "I'm sorry."

He juts his chin toward Briggs. "Don't go getting yourself suspended from the team for Tommy, Reyes."

Because this is about the team. About Steve and his place on the team. Of course. Briggs shoves his clenched fists into his pockets.

Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, irritated, and Carol leans into his side territorially. As if anyone else would be vying for Tommy Hagan's attention. Honestly.

Steve's eyes flicker back to Briggs when Jon just shrugs, and he looks almost pleading, his brown eyes wide like he's afraid things have gone too far, which they have, but he's just staring at Briggs like his acceptance means something to him. Probably because he doesn't want Briggs talking about Harrington's Big Hallway Standoff to the whole team. Probably because Briggs is only worth something to Harrington because the better his times are, the better the team's reputation, and the better Steve's reputation as a successful captain. Whatever. 

Briggs doesn't answer. He just stares Steve Harrington down, ignoring his own uneven breaths, then grabs Jon's arm and pivots toward the school doors. He doesn't let himself look back until he and Jon are safely out of sight against the brick wall of the building's exterior.

The door squeaks open, then, and he half-expects to have to throw hands at Tommy again, but... it's Nancy Wheeler, walking toward the both of them with a tight-lipped smile on her delicate face.

"Hey," she says.

Jon looks like a deer in headlights. If it weren't for the gravity of Will's absence hanging over them, Briggs might've laughed. "Oh. Hey."

"I just—" Nancy glances at him, then Briggs, then back. "I wanted to say, you know, um... I'm sorry. About everything."

Jon just stares at her like she's some kind of unusually attractive alien.

"Everyone's thinking about you," Nancy says. And Briggs feels a little swell in his heart at the way Nancy is so obviously trying to make Jon feel better about the pricks waiting inside, who were laughing at him just moments before. Briggs realizes Nancy's probably seeing the effects of Will's disappearance at home, too. Corey wasn't alone when she snuck out last night. He wonders if Nancy knows that Mike was there.

He doesn't get why Nancy Wheeler, of all people, hangs out with Steve and Carol and Tommy. He doesn't get why she and Barb are always around them in the mornings, not when the girl with the clipped red hair looks like exactly the kind of person they'd have a field day making fun of.

But Nancy is being... nice. And Briggs respects her for trying. So when her gaze flickers to him, a little self-consciously, he smiles a little and nods.

Jon hasn't responded to Nancy, and she seems to reconsider her approach.

"It sucks," she says. Yeah, that's more Jon's language.

"Yeah," Jon says. Nancy bites her lip and glances at Briggs.

"I should've let you punch him," she admits. "He's a piece of shit."

Briggs barks out a laugh, not expecting Nancy Wheeler to even have the vocabulary to call Tommy Hagan a piece of shit, but wow, here they are.

"Yeah, well. He'll do something mean tomorrow, too. We'll get him sometime."

Nancy smiles hesitantly, then turns back to Jon. "I'm sure he's fine. He's a smart kid."

Jon gives her his little half-smile, and then the bell rings.

"I have to go. Chemistry test," she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

"Yeah," Jon says, smiling sheepishly.

"Good luck," Nancy says.

Jon murmurs his thanks as Briggs says, "You too, Wheeler. Don't forget about, uh, acetone."

Nancy gives him a quizzical look, but doesn't ask questions. Briggs gathers that whatever word Mack said he needed to know for general chemistry was not that one.

And yeah, the bell just rang, but Jon and Briggs have the same first hour English class and it doesn't seem like Jon has any intention of going, so why should Briggs?

Some announcement comes on through the speakers inside the school, sounding muffled from outside the doors, the sound slipping through the door as Nancy disappears inside.

"Briggs," Jon sighs.

"I'm—" Briggs starts to apologize, but then catches himself. He remembers the anger he'd felt in that moment, that familiar sensation begging to be unleashed on a deserving target, and yeah, Tommy Hagan was a deserving target. He was a dick. "No. I'm—Jon, I'm not sorry. Not for that. I'm sorry to bring more attention to you, but I'm not sorry about almost giving Tommy what he deserves."

Jon sighs again. He's doing that a lot lately.

"Okay. Okay, yeah," he runs a hand down his face, seeming to accept that that's the best he's going to get out of Briggs right now.

Briggs glances at Jon's ratty messenger bag, the one he's been using for years. It's not filled with books like usual.

"You're not staying," Briggs says. It's not a question.

"No."

"Okay. Fill me in. Also, don't expect me to take notes in English. I didn't do the reading." He actually hasn't done the reading in a solid two weeks now. He's sure he'd be just about as clueless about the material if he had read it, so what's the point?

Jon updates Briggs on the situation, which is that there are no updates and nobody has found a trace of Will. Hopper and his deputies are still looking. No luck, no leads, no trace. Of course.

Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than Briggs has ever seen.

"I have to go to Lonnie's."

Briggs' mouth is hanging open before he even registers the words. "Lonnie's? Dude, why? Didn't you already call him?"

"Yeah, but his bitchy girlfriend answered and hung up on Mom," Jon sighs. "Hopper's looking into it, but I just—he's a cop, you know? Better chance of him coming to me, if he's really hiding out down there."

"You think Will would actually... willingly go with Lonnie?" Briggs asks hesitantly. Lonnie wasn't even around for most of Will's life.

"I don't know," Jon sighs. "I just have to check. I have to feel like I'm doing something. He's my best bet right now." He wrinkles his nose. "I hate that he's my best anything right now."

"Do you want me to—do you want company?" Briggs asks, and admonishes himself for hesitating halfway through. Part of him is begging Jon to say no, selfishly, so he can stay here and make sure Corey doesn't pull anything like she did last night.

"You're hesitating," Jon says. "What's wrong?"

Briggs is silent for a moment. All his problems, his worries, just seem so pathetic and insignificant next to what Jon is going through right now. Is he really about to tell Jon he's worried about his sister when Jon's brother is missing?

"Briggs. C'mon, dude, don't do the let's treat Jonathan super fragile because his brother is missing thing. I don't need more of that shit."

It's like Briggs can hear the music blasting through the Jeep again, The Clash serving as his internal debate: should I stay or should I go?

Stay for Corey, go for Jon. Family, best friend. Best friend, family.

Briggs sighs. "You're right. Sorry. It's just—Corey snuck out last night. With the boys. To look for Will in the rain in the dark on their own, and I know they want to find him and I don't think they're gonna stop, so—"

"Stay here, man. Someone should be here in case anything about Will comes up while I'm gone," Jon says, putting a hand on Briggs' shoulder. "Just... could you check on my mom sometime today, maybe? I don't even know if she went to work. This morning was really... she's not doing great. And the storm fried the phone, so."

Briggs nods rapidly. That's why the call hadn't worked this morning. "Of course. Of course, dude, I can check on Joyce. And I bet Mack would go to Lonnie's with you if you asked."

Jon raises a brow. "Mack. I never skip school and spend my Friday nights writing persuasive essays Mack. We talking about the same guy?"

Briggs sighs dramatically. "He'd go for you. You know he would. I mean, especially if you waited until gym, you know that kid would rather die than catch a basketball—"

"Yeah," Jon agrees. "But he has that big-ass chem test he's been whining about all week today, I think. The one Nancy talked about. I'm not gonna put that on him."

"Oh," Briggs remembers. "Yeah, right. Well—"

"It's fine, Briggs," Jon says with a heavy sigh. "This is—this is something I gotta do on my own, anyway. Just—I'll be back tonight, and if Will's not with Lonnie, I'm going out looking."

"Okay," Briggs agrees. "Okay. But I'm coming with you. Tonight, I mean, to look. If he's not—you know, if he's not at Lonnie's."

"Okay," Jon says, and then he claps Briggs once on the shoulder and walks away, straight to his car, tossing his messenger bag in the passenger seat and going to find his shitbag dad.

Part of Briggs, a selfish part of him, is relieved to stay behind, and not because of Corey. But because... he's not sure what seeing Lonnie would do to him right now, what it would make him think about his own dad, whether it would make him want to seek him out, wherever the hell he is.

The bell rang a while ago, now. Briggs decided before it finished ringing that he wasn't going to class. Tommy Hagan is in his second hour, anyway—he failed general chemistry last year and had to take it again—and Briggs can't sit in a room with him without punching his lights out, not today.

Only one thing to do, Briggs supposes. Time to check on Joyce.

▮▮▮

There are no cars parked in front of the Byers', and Briggs doesn't think much of it. He'll swing over to Melvald's and see how Joyce is doing at work, kill some time, then head back to the middle school to pick up Corey.

He turns out onto Cornwallis, his fingers drumming along the steering wheel, and a navy blue repair truck drives past him. Briggs lifts three fingers off the wheel in a classic Midwestern salute.

Moments later, though, a white van passes him, too. Hawkins Power and Light, it reads, right above two narrow blue lines. Briggs doesn't wave this time, because something isn't right.

The Byers live in a relatively secluded area off the end of the road. No houses or other buildings occupy any space farther down. They're the last ones.

So the repair truck and the van are going to the Byers'.

But Briggs was just at the Byers'... and nobody is home.

Why the hell would Joyce be calling for repairs right now? Actually, how would she? The phone's fried, like Jon said. And Joyce can hardly focus on anything except Will—rightfully so—and with nobody around to sign off, that's... something's not right.

Briggs is just about to pass Steve Harrington's place when he makes a split-second decision and screeches to a stop against the curb. Nope. He just needs to check. Maybe Joyce just doesn't have her car or something. Maybe... he isn't sure, but he needs to go look.

Taking the back way through Harrington's yard—not like anyone's ever home there, anyway—and creeping up to a tree on the threshold of the Byers' property, Briggs crouches, but he's not sure why he's doing it.

Then he's glad he did.

That van must've parked out front, but the backyard is crawling with men in fully outfitted white suits—not business suits, but...protective suits, complete with gas masks and oxygen tanks and some weird scanner device. What the hell?

Joyce is definitely not home.

One of the guys walks into the shed, shortly thereafter followed by another, who seems to be a leader of some kind. Briggs doesn't think it could take more than a few minutes to look around that shithole, but they stay in there an unnatural amount of time. He thinks he might be sweating.

"What the fuck?" Briggs mutters under his breath, backing away slowly in an attempt not to draw attention to himself. "What the fuck, what the fuck—"

He throws himself behind a tree as one of the masked men turns around, but the figure only bends down to examine something on the ground. White vans. Are these Will's kidnappers? What kind of kidnappers actually use white vans? Jesus.

But Briggs has seen these vans before. All over Hawkins. Just vans for the electric company—

All over Hawkins. Holy shit. Nobody's safe. Especially if they're going around grabbing kids like Will. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Joyce clearly isn't here, and he'll go to Melvald's later, see if she's turned up. But there's one other person Briggs is worried about checking up on first.

"Corey," he breathes, and then he's running, running all the way down Harrington's street and launching his car into drive, fingers tapping the wheel like he's six years late for the most important interview of his life, and he's going, going, going, all the way to Hawkins Middle.

Briggs doesn't know what the hell is going on. But if anyone's touched his sister, there's going to be hell to pay.

▮▮▮

a/n:

in the original scripts, when it was still going to take place in montauk, it says the dog's name is chester! (also, joyce drops a lot of f-bombs and jonathan drives a moped. lucas' last name is conley and he has a kid crush on nancy. chrissy is friends with steve's friend group. it's crazy dude)

writing for briggs has been super different kind of refreshing for me because his internal dialogue is super rambly and scattered. i'm a punctuation freak, too, so i usually don't use run-on sentences a lot but 🤷🏻‍♀️

briggs definitely has undiagnosed adhd, and like, it's the 80s so it's gonna stay undiagnosed, but it's been a challenge to take on this different tone and i'm really enjoying it!!

also. to be clear, briggs is half mexican. his dad his 100% mexican. his mom is white. he is not related to danny and corey by blood. froy is half mexican!!! i think froy gutierrez gets whitewashed a lot, both intentionally and unintentionally, so pls keep that in mind when using him as a faceclaim!

also, fun fact: x-men 134, the comic will talks about with dustin, is about the hellfire club. the duffers rly planned this shit out didn't they

thanks for reading!! <3 lemme know what you think

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