runtowardsomething | (no subject)

It's more than a little strange, how everything seems increasingly far away. Perhaps stranger still is that she doesn't seem to be the only one for whom that's the case. Having Eddie here helps on that front, as well as many others — with the two of them here, maybe they can't forget, not entirely — but try as she might to hold onto it, what happened in Derry feels more and more like a dream than anything she actually lived.

A few things, though, stand out as real, and Beverly refuses to let herself lose sight of them. The blood that spurted out from her sink and coated her bathroom. The crack when she'd hit her father in the head, knowing that he would never try to touch her again. Bill's cheek under her hand, sticky from the cut he'd put there. There's a scar now, a jagged little sliver across her palm. She hopes it doesn't fade. If anything could serve as a reminder of that summer and the promise they made to each other, it's that.

Cold as the weather is — a far cry from the summer she remembers leaving behind — she peels off her gloves and sticks them in her jacket pocket, tracing a fingertip across that line on her palm and drawing in a breath before she bends down, picking up a rock by her feet. The park is all but empty at this time of year, apparently, and she's glad for it. Living in a goddamn Children's Home has afforded her next to nothing in the way of privacy, and while it's still several steps up from living at home before here, most of the kids at least a shade nicer than the ones she went to school with, it's nice, relieving, just to have a few moments to herself. At least they let her wander a little, as long as she's back by curfew, which in itself brings with it a few hazy reminders of Derry and missing children.

People still don't seem to give much of a damn when someone up and disappears, but at least there's that.

The surface of the lake is nearly — close, but not quite — frozen, chunks of ice floating, but she gives the rock a hurl anyway, sending it skimming across the surface as best as the weather will allow, smiling a little to herself when she actually gets some distance on it. Then she bends down for another to try again, not yet noticing someone else on the path nearby.

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It isn't just for any amount of common sense that Beverly has no interest in trying to sneak a boy into her room. The thought alone is an unsettling one, at least now. Maybe one day, it won't be; maybe one day, she'll be as interested as some of the other girls are in seeing how far she can get with whatever boy she happens to be interested in at the time. Contrary to the rumors that used to follow her around, though, that's nothing she's looking for right now. A good-bye kiss, soft and sweet, was one thing. Letting someone touch her is a different matter entirely.

She can't tell him that, though, not without it likely raising questions, given what she's said already. Instead, she focuses on the rest of what he's said, wondering why he's offering such a thing in the first place. It's a nice gesture, and he seems like a nice guy, but it's not exactly something she can imagine anyone back home doing. Besides, she's just some girl, no one to whom he owes anything. He means it, though, or he seems to, and maybe that's enough.

"Yeah, okay," she says, one corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. "I can do that."

Hopper nods and says, "And in return, you can show my kid around if she ever shows up here. She's gonna need some help."

Truthfully, he's not sure what Eleven might do without Mike. She's a smart kid and she's independent and fierce. She'd made it a year without him, but Hopper knows she had been waiting for the day she she was able to see him again. Sometimes it had seemed it was the only thing she was living for, the only thing he had to offer her was the possibility of being with her friends again.

Without Mike, she'll need someone. Hopper won't be able to help her the same way another kid can and it might do her some good to spend some time with another girl.

"Of course," Beverly says, that much, at least, coming easily. Her track record with other teenage girls may not be the greatest, but there are a few here who aren't so bad, and the way he talks about his daughter, she'd guess the same would apply there. Besides, she's already dealt with adjusting to this place herself and knows how difficult it can be, even with someone from home here. Hell, that much is probably the same anywhere. Ben was the perpetual new kid — she wouldn't have even known his name had she not run into him that day, though she barely remembers now how that happened, only that it did — and that was in a town as small as Derry, with far less to see than there is in Darrow.

She pauses a moment, then adds, "I hope she does. Show up. For your sake. It sounds like you really care about her." Maybe it should go without saying, where a parent and a child are concerned, but that's never been her experience. Besides, given what he said before, she kind of wonders if maybe it might help to hear it.

He really does and realizing that had been scary at first. Caring about her meant she could hurt him. Not intentionally, but if he ever lost her the way he'd lost Sara, Hopper doesn't know if he could survive that. Sara's death had nearly killed him, but to lose two children would have ultimately been the end of him.

It doesn't matter that he's not Eleven's biological father, it would still kill him.

"I can't even say I wish she'd show up," he says with a faint smile. "I want to see her again, but this place isn't exactly bursting with opportunity." And he wants a better life for her than a place like this can give.

"Yeah, you've got a point there," Beverly replies, her smile small and wry. She can't say she minds that entirely, mostly because it's still got far more opportunity than Derry ever did, and for all the weird shit she's heard about happening, it all seems to pale in comparison to what she remembers about that last summer. It may be hazy now, occasional details coming back in bits and pieces, but she's pretty sure that if she could survive that — and if she could survive thirteen years living with her father — then she can probably make it through just about anything this place has to throw at her.

In its own way, it seems almost painfully nice, that he wouldn't want his daughter to show up for her sake, regardless of the fact that it means he might never see her again. She wants to say that, but it seems too revealing in its way, giving away too much of what she means to try to keep to herself.

"I barely ever get to do anything. But I guess that comes with the territory, having people watch you all the time or whatever."

"What would you want to do?" he asks. "If you could."

Even now, if someone asked him that question, Hopper isn't sure he would be able to come up with an answer. Within the confines of Darrow, there's not much that interests him, which is a little dangerous. The last time he was bored -- and depressed, he has to acknowledge that -- he'd spent a lot of his time drinking and taking pills just to make sure he could get through a day. It's Eleven that changed that in him and while he still likes a beer with his dinner, the pills never found a foothold in that little cabin they'd shared. It's not something he wants to go back to, even if it would be an easy way to alleviate the boredom.

What he needs is a damn job. What he needs is to go down to the police department and lay out his credentials and see where it gets him in a place like this where he can't actually prove anything. If he has to retake some kind of exam, he thinks he could pass, but he'd be more concerned about a physical test.

"I don't know," Beverly says, shoulders lifting in a shrug. It's not really something she's given a lot of thought to where specifics are involved; mostly, it's just hard to go from very little supervision to nearly constant, so that she couldn't do anything now even if she wanted to. Oh, there are times like this, when she gets to wander without anyone looking over her shoulder, but for the most part, however much of an improvement this may be over her last circumstances, she can't pretend that it isn't somewhat stifling. Though she'd take this over that, without question, knows that, in a lot of ways, she's gotten lucky here, it would be nice if there were a little more of the world available than this. "But something. More than having to tell someone where I'm going every second of every day."