Chapter Text
New York, Spring 1990
Mike Wheeler sat at his desk, fingers moving steadily across the keys of his electric typewriter. The machine hummed as it worked, each line appearing with the faint resistance he’d come to like. Writing felt easier when it required effort—when the words didn’t just spill out, but had to be pressed into place.
His dorm room around him showed clear signs of packing. A cardboard box sat open near the foot of his bed, already half-filled with books and notebooks. Another waited by the door with a roll of tape resting on top. He’d been packing in short bursts all morning, stopping whenever he got distracted or decided something didn’t actually need to go yet.
Mounted near Mike on the wall was Will’s painting. When it came time to pack it, Mike already knew it wouldn’t be wrapped with the rest of his things. He’d carry it separately, like something fragile but necessary. The decision didn’t feel emotional so much as obvious.
Next to his typewriter was a small framed photo of Eleven, looking beautiful as always. Mike looked at it for a moment, then turned back to the page in the typewriter and continued the sentence he’d been working on.
He stopped again, pulled the paper free, and set it on the desk with the others. He’d get back to it later. For now, it was enough that it existed.
The phone rang.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, standing and walking over to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hi Michael!”
He closed his eyes.
“Hi, Mom.”
Karen Wheeler sounded cheerful, which immediately made him suspicious.
“How are you sweetie?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Mike answered. “I’m done with my finals and just in the middle of packing.”
“That’s wonderful,” Karen said. “I’ve been telling everyone how proud I am of you.”
Mike winced. “Please stop doing that.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said. “You worked hard! I can’t believe you already finished your first year at Columbia!”
Mike leaned against the wall, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, and glanced back toward his desk. The typewriter waited, unimpressed.
“Thanks Mom. Sooo… how are things?”
“Well,” Karen said, and there it was—the careful tone settling in, “I wanted to talk to you before you made any definite plans.”
Mike frowned. “Like what?”
“Coming home,” she said. “Seeing friends. Resting.”
“That’s not ‘definite plans,’” Mike said. “That’s just… summer.”
“Yes,” Karen said quickly. “And you can still do all of that. Just maybe not right away.”
Mike sighed. “Why?”
There was a pause. A small one, but enough.
“You’re doing the pause thing,” he said.
“I am not!”
“Yes you are.”
Karen laughed lightly. “Your Aunt Margaret called this morning.”
Mike grimaced. “Okay. And?”
“She and Uncle Wentworth are going to be away for a short time,” Karen continued, “and they were hoping someone in the family could help out with Richie.”
Mike didn’t even pretend to consider it.
“No.”
“Michael—”
“Nope,” he said. “Absolutely not.”
Karen chuckled, like she’d expected this. “You haven’t even heard the details.”
“You’re asking me to babysit Richie,” Mike said. “I already know the details.”
“Watch over,” Karen corrected automatically.
“That’s babysitting,” Mike said. “And Richie is—”
He stopped, thinking.
“—a lot,” he finished.
Karen laughed. “That’s not very nice.”
“Mom,” Mike said, pushing off the wall and starting to pace, “the last time I saw Richie, he swore more than Dustin does when he makes a bad die roll.”
“He’s expressive,” Karen said.
“He once called Grandma’s stuffing an ‘act of war,’” Mike said. “Then threw it at me. At Thanksgiving.”
Karen paused. “Well, that was a strange recipe.”
“He also tried to teach Holly swear words,” Mike added. “While pretending he was teaching her Spanish.”
Karen laughed again. “He’s creative.”
“He’s rude,” Mike said. “And loud. And he does that thing where he talks even when nobody’s responding.”
“Michael—”
“And again I say that as someone who grew up with Dustin Henderson and knows Derek Turnbow,” Mike continued while exasperated. “Richie somehow outcompetes them both!”
There was a beat.
“Okay, I’ll admit that’s… impressive,” Karen admitted.
“Exactly,” Mike said. “You want me to be responsible for that?”
“He’s fourteen,” Karen said. “Not a toddler.”
“That’s worse,” Mike replied. “Fourteen-year-olds are old enough to be unsupervised and young enough to make terrible decisions.”
Karen laughed at that. “Just like you were?”
“Mom, I’m not going.”
Karen sighed. “It’s only for a week, Michael. Ten days at most.”
Mike stopped pacing.
“I don’t want to be stuck with a kid I barely know who thinks swearing is a personality trait,” he said. “In a town I don’t live in. In a state I don’t want to visit!”
“It’s Maine, Michael,” Karen said. “Not another country.”
“It might as well be,” he replied.
“You’re the closest,” she said.
“Mom, I’m in New York,” Mike said. “That’s not close.”
“It’s a lot closer than Hawkins,” Karen said calmly.
Mike frowned.
“You know, Nancy is a lot closer,” he said. “She’s in Boston. Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Yes, I know that,” Karen said. “But she’s very busy.”
Mike scoffed. “She’s always busy.”
“She has a job now,” Karen said. “A serious one.”
“So do I,” Mike said. “…Kind of.”
“You write,” Karen said warmly.
“I do,” Mike said. “Which requires time. And not supervising a teen who’ll try his best to get arrested the moment my back is turned.”
“Richie isn’t that bad,” Karen said. “You don’t have classes right now, you have a car. And you’re responsible.”
Mike snorted. “So that makes me a good babysitter then?”
“You were always good with Holly,” Karen said.
“That was different,” Mike replied. “At least she listened to me.”
“Exactly. I’m sure you’ll be able to get him to listen,” Karen replied.
Mike stopped pacing again and stared at the floor.
“What about other family?” he asked. “Anyone else even remotely available?”
“We asked,” Karen said. “Your grandmother can’t manage a teenager, and their usual babysitter isn’t well.”
“Can’t blame them,” Mike muttered.
“And Margaret would really prefer to keep this within the family rather than ask the neighbours,” Karen added.
“That feels like denial,” Mike said.
Karen laughed softly. “Michael.”
“I just finished my first year,” Mike pouted. “I was supposed to be done for a while.”
“You are done,” Karen said. “This is just a short detour.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” she said quickly.
Mike paused. “How?”
“However you want,” Karen said.
He considered it.
“You don’t volunteer me for anything else,” he added. “No other family favours. No surprise obligations.”
Karen laughed. “All right.”
“And,” Mike continued, “you don’t tell people I 'wanted' to do this.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said, smiling through her voice.
“… I dunno, Mom,” Mike replied, still hesitant.
“Tell you what? When you get back, your dad and I will help you buy that GameBoy thing you’ve been talking about. Our treat!”
Mike paused.
“So… when would I be going?” he asked while sighing dramatically.
Karen laughed. “Friday.”
Mike closed his eyes. “Of course.”
“Michael—”
“Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Karen let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“I’m still not very happy about this,” he added.
“I know,” she said. “But it’ll be over soon enough.”
“I hope so!”
Karen laughed. “Thanks again, honey. I’ll let them know. Looking forward to seeing you soon!” Then she hung up.
Mike stood in the middle of the room for a moment, phone still in his hand.
Then he shook his head and let out another sigh.
“Richie Tozier,” he muttered. “What the hell did I just get myself into?”
He went back to his desk, sat down, and pulled the page out of the typewriter. He fed in a fresh sheet.
At the top, he typed one word.
Detour.