Before she finds him, Eleven taps in to check on Papa and Dr Kali. They are together in his office, a television stationed on a rolling cart between their chairs. Papa is wearing a crisp suit with a lab coat over top, white hair brushed back. He always looks neat, not a strand out of place, and it only serves to make Eleven feel small, inadequate, and foolish. They haven't shaved her head on a while, and her hair grows to her chin in messy dark curls the color of sweet pudding she gets with dinner when she's good.

She hasn't had pudding in a long time.

In the void, all is black save for the spot light that illuminates the figures and furniture. Kali crosses her arms, watching the grainy, black and white footage of their appointment. Papa strokes a long finger over his chin thoughtfully.

"She's a growing girl," Kali is saying, "she craves attention, physical touch. Affection. This... situation is only a cry for help."

"I don't care about her feelings," Papa says, and Eleven bites her cheek when tears begin to sting her eyes. It's not news, but it doesn't hurt any less. "She needs to focus. There is much to do and she is still woefully ill-prepared. This distraction needs to end."

Tonight, Eleven agrees to herself.

She leaves them then, her mind seeking him out. It takes some time, powers stretching and ebbing as a hot, tacky drip of blood slides out of her left nostril. She pictures his face, the dots on his cheeks and his floppy black hair and pale, soft looking skin. It takes time, but once she senses the dreamscape of his mind, she sighs in relief and lets herself relax.

He's dreaming about his friends - the ones she saw him with in the woods. It was a while ago, but the memory would never leave her. It was the first time she had ever been outdoors. The first time she didn't have someone breathing down her neck. And then she found him, and it was like a piece of her was inside of him, and it made her feel... whole. Like there was more to life than Papa and Kali and the awful things she was forced to do.

Eleven watches a while, curious about his life and the people in it, putting off the moment she has to end this. It's been her reason for living for so long, it seems...

"Hey! Hey!" His voice is loud and Eleven senses that he's seen her. She's never let him see her face, and begins to quickly hurry down the hallways. This is his dream, she has no idea where they are, but her nerves and the people on the fringes of his consciousness make her edgy. Finally, she finds a room that is empty. She leaves the door open just an inch. He finds her.

"It's you," he says, slamming the door shut behind him. Eleven nods, biting her lip. "You're prettier than I imagined."

Eleven blushes. She's pleased with this.

"I've - always wondered," he admits sheepishly.

"Wondered what?"

"Why I never saw your face. I figured, like, you were some general dream girl my mind invented." He chuckles and steps closer. Eleven can smell him - wintergreen and pencil shavings and clean, like soap - and it makes her tension ease out slowly.

"No. I'm real." Eleven steps towards him, too.

"Ok, sure." He doesn't believe her. Maybe it's better that way? But something inside of her Kong's for him to believe, to know that she's out there, that she will always think of him. "If you're so real, what's your name?"

"They call me Eleven."

He pauses. "That's not a name. That's a number."

She holds out her wrist to show the marking there. "Oh-one-one," she reads out. "Eleven."

He is staring at her, then long fingers wrap around her thin arm and he's squinting like he can't believe it. "No way."

"What do they call you?" She has never dared ask.

"Michael - Mike for short." Eleven thinks that's a nice name.

"Mike."

But then suddenly his lips crush against her and Eleven melts into his arms, letting him pull her tightly against his body so they are flush together. She's wearing a nightgown, a peace offering after the cat incident. It is soft and pink, a color she likes very much, and Mike's fingers bunch the material up as he holds her. Tongues slide in a familiar but surreal dance and she can feel it everywhere - down her thin thighs to her toes and the center of her, where heat pools.

"If you're real," Mike says, breaking the kids but leaning his forehead against her's, breath fanning on her face, "then how are you here?"

"I don't know," Eleven says honestly. She doesn't know the how, just that it does. "I saw you in the woods.. by where I live. You were with boys like you. But I liked you best." She shrugs one shoulder and shivers as his lips go to her ear.

"I don't care," Mike whispers. "Real or not, it doesn't matter. You're here." And then they kiss again, and the fire in her veins is sure to set them aflame. He reaches for the hard part of him, the one that makes him whimper and beg her for more and he whispers Eleven as her hands help him to feel good.

"I can't come back," Eleven says once he's finished and panting against her.

"You have to," Mike replies.

"They want to hurt you. I'm not supposed to be here." Eleven steps back and his hand slides to cup her cheek. Gentle, sweet. Like he... cares.

"I don't care, Eleven." He kisses her forehead and then her lips and Eleven sighs against him, enjoying a feeling she's certain she will never experience again. "If you're real, come to me. When I'm awake."

"Mike..." How does she explain to him that she can't? That it isn't safe? Something pulls at the edge of her conscious, something is trying to pull her back. "I have to go. Don't forget me, Mike."

"Eleven!"

His voice reverberates in her head and when she opens her eyes, Papa is leaning over her with a frown.

"You've been so bad, Eleven. A very bad girl."

Mike flinches awake, drenched in sweat and his pants sticky. But he's not focused on that, instead the wide doe eyes filled with fear and soft, sweet voice and lips. He's shaking - none of his dreams have ever been like that.

For some reason, he believes her. This dream girl his brain made up - she's too detailed. He's not that creative. He doesn't understand it all, but he senses it's important. He reaches for the closest thing to write on, cursing in the dark as he feels for a pen, and begins to write it all down with an urgency that feels unreal.

Eleven. The tattoo, the way she spoke and what she said. He couldn't have made that up. Mike trembles as he writes, then sits back and re-reads it.

Eleven.

Hurt him.

Scared.

Saw me in woods.

Not supposed to be here.

What does it mean? Where is she? How does she exist?

He changes into clean shorts and lays back in bed with a thumping heart and a sudden indescribable euphoria that has nothing to do with the orgasm endorphins running through him.

She's real.