Chapter Text
“Steve?”
Dustin was growing increasingly frustrated. After checking in on Will with the rest of the party, he’d doubled back to check on the older teen. He couldn’t explain it, but there had been a sinking pit of concern that had settled deep in his stomach; Steve wasn’t okay, no matter how adamant he was to paint that narrative. The issue was that Dustin had checked every room in the damn house and hadn’t seen a single sign of him. He was close to checking the shed out back–why Steve would be there he didn't know but he sure as hell wasn't inside–but before he could, he released one final wail:
“Steve!?”
“Dustin–everything alright?” Jonathan emerged from his bedroom, clearly confused by the kid’s hollering. The whole damn house likely was at that point.
“No,” his response held more attitude than necessary, “I can't find Steve anywhere. You didn't see him, did you?”
“Uhh–no. Not since we came in–and even then, briefly. Is his car still out front?”
That was a stupid oversight on his part; one he usually didn’t make.
“I didn't think to look.” Dustin openly admitted before he doubled back to the front window.
If he was nursing a brewing concussion, it made sense Steve may have wanted to escape all the noise. He pressed his knees into the couch before pulling back the curtains and stealing a glance outside, hoping to catch Steve sitting in his car–instead, he found it was missing entirely. Dustin blinked–still gone.
“Oh, shit.”
With a newfound conviction, Dustin bolted for the kitchen. Mrs. Byers and Hopper had made coffee a short while ago and the two had settled around the table; their exhaustion was apparent, and Dustin was not about to help ease it.
“Steve is missing.” The words left his mouth the moment he’d entered the room.
Needless to say, he'd managed to grab both of their attention.
“What?” Hop had asked, and his mug hit the table with a soft clink.
“Steve–he’s missing. His car’s gone.”
“Okay?” Hopper’s tone was–annoyed? Confused? Either way, Dustin hadn’t appreciated it. “He probably drove himself home. I don't blame him for wanting to sleep in his own bed.”
Dustin growled in frustration. He supposed he had no right to be annoyed; it wasn't as if the pair of them had been present to witness the full extent of that beating. And, presumably, Steve had downplayed it to Hopper. He had briefly seen them talking when he and Eleven had first arrived–albeit, he’d eavesdropped for selfish reasons. He'd only been interested for fear of Steve narcing on them. Considering none of them had been screamed at as of yet, he assumed the older teen had not spilled their whereabouts that evening. It only made his guilt run deeper.
“Is Steve alright?” Joyce was clearly concerned–at least one of them was. She, admittedly, hadn't noticed him upon her return. Understandably, her attention had been on Will and making sure he was safe and comfortable. By the time she had accomplished that, Steve had vanished. “What happened?”
“Apparently Hargrove showed up unannounced. They got into a fight.”
“See, that’s the thing, Chief, I don’t know if you actually understand just how bad of a fight it was.” He had to stress the gravity of the situation since, clearly, Hopper was unphased. “Like, Billy was literally beating Steve's face into the floor–we thought he was going to kill him. He was winning until Billy hit him with a plate.”
Hopper hadn't been able to disguise the concern he felt with that additional information. His gaze on Dustin narrowed.
“He hit him with a plate?” Joyce asked, only after gasping in response.
“How bad are we talking?” Hopper, meanwhile, was more composed in his line of questioning.
“Yes, a plate. And, like, unconscious for around fifteen minutes bad.”
“Jesus Christ–he was unconscious for that long?” It also begged the question: how in the hell he had held a conversation with Hopper? “What else did you notice?”
“See, that's the thing, I don't know because he was acting like everything was fine. I think he was dizzy; he sat down and then couldn't get back up. I literally thought he was going to pass out he went so white. And then I tried to get him to tell me how many fingers I was holding up which, okay, I guess he did but he hesitated. And now he took his car and I'm worried he crashed somewhere and no one's going to find him–”
“Kid–okay, calm down. Did he throw up at all?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, he was with us the entire time.”
“Okay.” Hop sighed; he pressed two fingers into the bridge of his nose. “I don't like that he was unconscious, but he seemed coherent. I would be more concerned if he hadn't been upright and holding a conversation, but that's not to say I'm writing off a concussion. I'll check in on him tomorrow, alright?”
The kid did not seem pleased with that response, but the fact of the matter was that Hopper was exhausted. It was a long, long day, and truthfully, he hadn't wanted to leave El after just getting her back. He emphatically trusted Joyce to watch her, but it wasn't comparable to being with Hopper himself. He wouldn’t claim to be proud of this sentiment, but in addition to the former excuse, he barely knew Harrington. Typically speaking, the only interactions Hopper had with the kid was when he was breaking up parties at his house or when the kid was running from him and his men. There were a handful of perhaps lighter interactions sprinkled in between, though they were generally few and far between. Hop knew he wasn't a bad kid; still, it hadn't changed the surprise he felt upon seeing him involved in this mess–more specifically, that he was involved with the children. Of course he still felt concerned, though, it was in the same way anyone might when they believed a kid could be in a bad situation. Truthfully, Hopper hadn’t thought the situation was as dire as Henderson was making it out to be.
“Fine.” While the kid relented, he continued to glare daggers through Hopper. “But please make sure you do. I don't think he would tell anyone if it was actually bad.”
After saying his piece, the kid left him and Joyce to finish their coffee–albeit, it felt a bit soured after that interaction. He picked up his cup and took a drink, meanwhile he could feel Joyce's gaze fixed on him.
“Jesus, Hop, the kid was out for fifteen minutes? He seemed okay when you were talking to him?”
“Yeah, I wouldn't have guessed he'd been out that long if that's what you're asking.”
“I wish I would've paid more attention.” She sighed into her mug. “I could've caught him before he slipped out. Had I known, I certainly wouldn’t have let him leave–”
“Hey–no, don't do that. Christ, Joyce, look at everything you went through tonight–the last week. Harrington’s nearly an adult, even if you were able to grab him, it doesn't mean he would've stayed. I'll take care of it. Now, it's time for you to focus on yourself.”
While Joyce gave a hum of acknowledgment, they both knew that wasn't going to happen. When their cups ran dry and their tongues grew tired, Hop had settled into one of the recliners, kicked back, and was fast asleep within minutes.
Hopper did not check in on Steve the following day.
He’d decided to take the day off from work for a multitude of reasons, the first of which being he’d wanted to give El the time to sleep. Secondly, Joyce had alerted him to the fact his front door was broken; a matter that required his immediate attention. Thirdly–and quite frankly–he was still exhausted.
The kids had been resistant to splitting up; they angled to gain as much time together as possible. After putting off the departure for long enough, he let Joyce handle the situation. Had it been Hopper, they would have left much sooner and with much stronger words. It was then he had to drag poor El to the hardware store so he could get the shit he'd needed to fix the door–and upon returning he’d, of course, had to fix said door. In addition, he found himself cleaning up after the pseudo exorcism that had taken place in his cabin the night before.
After cleaning both the house and themselves, finishing his handiwork, and cooking dinner for the pair, a random seventeen year old had been the last person on Hopper's mind. It was a genuine oversight–not that it made the situation any better.
It hadn't been until the proceeding day that Steve was forcibly put back on his radar. Initially, he had been thankful for the slow day in office–not that most days weren’t in Hawkins. At least, before all of the monster shit had started up. One call would quickly change that.
“I’ve got Steve Harrington on the line.” Flo’s voice droned through the speaker.
Hopper had heaved a dramatic sigh; admittedly, it was more fun annoying her in person, but he would settle for the clicking of her tongue on the opposite end.
“Junior?” He’d questioned, and attempted to keep an even tone.
“Senior.”
Hop was biting back an actual annoyed sigh with that response. He knew the answer to the question before even asking; there was no way in hell Steve Jr. would be calling the station.
“Send him through.”
While they weren’t exactly routine, it hadn’t been the first call Hopper had received from Steve Sr. The man had explained he’d gotten a call from the high school; Steve had skipped the past two days and Hopper felt his chest squeeze in response to that information. Unsurprisingly, this, also, had not been the first call of this nature he'd received from Steve Sr. Steve had skipped in the past, and Sr. had called looking to do a wellness check, not out of genuine concern, but with the intention of the PD scaring the shit out of his kid.
Granted, on any other occasion, the kid was most likely cutting to get up to no good. This time, however, Hopper knew damn well it wasn't malicious–his father would've known that as well had he ever been present in his son's life. Hell, had he been around for the past year he would've seen the shift in his son's behavior. Instead, he was off on the typical business trip, leaving Hopper to check in on his kid.
“Yea, alright, Steve. I'll swing by, make sure he's alright.”
“Thanks, Jim. I don't know what to do with the kid. He's a few months away from graduation and still can't manage to get his act together. Hopefully college straightens him out.”
Hopper hadn't much to say to that final comment; he'd simply hung up the phone, grabbed the keys to his cruiser, and begun his trip to Loch Nora.
The closer he got, the more he felt his frustration mounting. Hopper would have liked to have lied and said it was a complete oversight but–hell, he really hadn’t considered things would be too bad for the kid. He’d taken his fair share of beatings, nursed a concussion or two. Even he knew that wasn’t a fair comparison; Steve was seventeen. Whether he liked it or not, he was still a child–a child who, while everyone else had been able to lean on one another, returned home to an empty house. He was a child who missed two days of school presumably because the injuries were far worse than Hopper had cared to believe. Maybe they hadn’t the best relationship in the past, but again, this was a minor who Hopper allowed to slip through the cracks. He attempted to calm his mounting irritation and anxiety as he turned onto Harrington's street.
The state of the beamer was an immediate red flag. In all of his calls to the Harrington’s residence, never had he seen the car parked outside of the garage. Now, it was parked crooked in the drive way, very clearly done so in a hurry–but hey, at least he’d made it home. The thought didn’t help as Hop did his best to park alongside him. It was with a small sense of urgency that he exited the cruiser and approached the front door.
He started with a few tame knocks and his typical spiel.
“Hey, Harrington, it's Chief Hopper, open up.”
The house was eerily silent; it occurred to Hopper that it had been the first time he'd shown up when it hadn't involved a house party or some sort of dispute. After receiving no response, he knocked again, and more forceful than the first. With each lapsed minute his heart began hammering harder against his chest; the anxiety was reflected in the way he pounded against the wood, threatening to knock the door off its hinges.
Finally, he heard a click, and slowly the door swung open.
Hopper’s stomach clenched; the kid looked like shit. Swollen nose, swelling beneath his eyes, all three of which sported various shades of blue and purple. His hair, usually pristine, was a mess; most likely, he’d fallen asleep when it was wet. The cuts on his head and lip were a deep red, scabbed over with blood. He squinted deeply upon opening the door; the light was clearly bothering him. A hand rose to shield his eyes, and Hopper could see by the way in which he looked at him he was struggling to pull his face into focus.
“Can I help you, chief?” His words were groggy and slow–Hop had woken him up.
“Yea. Got a call from your dad. School called; said you were skipping.”
Steve pulled a face in response to that, making it quite clear he was beyond annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.” That was more or less whispered under his breath–presumably he had hoped Hop missed it. He hadn’t. “I miss one day and the old man throws a fit. Obviously you see why I skipped today–sorry.”
While Steve's attitude may have normally annoyed him, Hopper was more concerned with the implication that came with his statement. His own brow furrowed as he continued to carefully watch the boy.
“One day?”
Steve gave him a funny look in response to that question.
“Yes?”
“What day is it?”
“What?”
“I said, what day is it?” Hopper repeated the question and Steve seemed genuinely confused.
“It's Tuesday.”
Hopper resisted the urge to run a hand down his face
“Yea, no. It's Wednesday, kid.”
To that, Steve had stared silently. His brow twitched and the expression he pulled showed Hopper he was trying to make sense of the information he had just been given.
“What?” Steve asked, again, and Hopper forced a lengthy exhale to remain calm.
“It's Wednesday. What were you doing yesterday?”
There were steps he had to take to process that question: first, he was stuck on the fact it was Wednesday. Steve was sure he remembered arriving home that evening–granted, it was a bit fuzzy trying to recall how he had gotten home; how he had gotten to his bedroom eluded him, but he swore that it had been less than twenty four hours ago.
Second, he had to actually process the fact it was not, in fact, Tuesday but Wednesday and that he'd lost an entire day. Hopper had no reason to lie to him, nor was it exactly in his character to do so, so Steve quickly threw that out of the realm of possibilities.
Finally, he had to answer the question: what had he done yesterday? His brow furrowed in thought, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not conjure any concrete memories of the day prior. Steve noticed there was water by his bed when he'd been unceremoniously awoken by the chief which had meant he got up at some point and made the arduous journey to the kitchen. He was almost positive he'd taken something for his aching head during that time which, truthfully, was still pounding against his skull.
Steve was taking far too long to answer; Hopper could see the gears in his head turning but the longer he delayed a response the more his concern grew.
“I don't know.” All of that work for that.
“You don't know?”
“No. I mean I–slept. I got up at some point. I–you’re sure it's Wednesday?”
That was really damn concerning. A pang gripped his chest; he'd left this kid alone for a day and a half in this condition.
“Do you know when your parents are supposed to be back?”
Just as before, processing the question took a moment and every additional second it took him to respond was agony for Hop.
“Well, they were supposed to be back on Thanksgiving,” Steve began, and a hand rubbed at his throbbing eyes; it was quickly followed by a muted grunt as he aggravated the swollen area, “but you can see how that worked out.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“What?” Steve squinted at the taller man.
“You said Thanksgiving.”
Steve’s face scrunched in response.
“No, pretty sure I said Halloween.”
That had been Hopper’s breaking point.
“Yea, alright. Go back a bag, Harrington.”
The confusion on his face was hardly new, though it was now more understandable.
“What?”
“You heard me; go pack a bag.”
“Why?”
His exasperation was mounting and Hopper was doing his damnest not to let it show because it wasn’t about Steve–this was frustration in himself. Yes, he had been irritated before, but now, actually seeing the state of the kid? And knowing Henderson had warned him–was frantic over Steve’s well being because, apparently, he saw what Hopper couldn’t. That both annoyed him and stung his pride. He’d unknowingly allowed the kid to fall through the cracks. His spectacular oversight had led a seventeen year old to trudge back home and clean himself up after getting his lights knocked out. After a night of dealing with horrors beyond belief, protecting a group of four mouthy kids, and being injured the worst out of any of them, Steve had gone home to an empty house while the rest of them banded together. It made Hopper sick.
He did his best to compose himself before responding. Still, some annoyance managed to bleed into his tone.
“Because, Steve, you clearly should not be on your own right now. Frankly, I should’ve driven your ass to the hospital that night, but I’m not surprised you downplayed the extent of your issues. So, go pack a bag, I’m taking you back to my house.”
“No–what? No, chief, come on–I’m fine, seriously.”
“You’re not fine, Steve, Jesus Christ you’re as far from fine as you could get. You’re clearly concussed–when’s the last time you ate?” Silence, as was expected. “You can’t even remember what you did yesterday–you slept an entire day away. So, no, you are in no state to take care of yourself, kid. You’re still a minor, and either you go and pack a bag and get your ass in my car or I’m taking you to the hospital where they’ll hold you until your parents agree to have you released into my care.”
“That’s not how that works–I’m seventeen, they’re not going to hold me for a concussion.”
“Want to test that theory out?”
Hop hated to use it against him, but he knew Steve wouldn’t want word of this getting to his parents. It was a dirty move, and he knew it, but he sure as hell wouldn’t back down now. Steve glared back, his jaw fixed; his eyes tired and glassy.
“Are you gonna call my parents either way?” Steve sounded so small with that question. The fact he hadn’t wanted Hop to call them really did a number on his heart.
“No. If you don’t kick up a fuss and let me take you somewhere you can actually get some attention, then I won’t call them.”
The muscles in the kid’s jaw twitched before he finally relented.
“Fine. You’re overreacting, though. ‘S not my first concussion.”
At least he admitted to it, though, it had only stoked the flames. Presumably, he had dealt with them previously and, similarly, on his own. Steve pulled away and turned to face the staircase; Hopper, meanwhile, had stepped inside to hang by the door. While he didn't think Steve would try anything, he figured it was best to stay put just in case he was feeling cheeky. He was half regretful that he had; it meant he had to watch the kid clamber back up the stairs, knuckles white as he gripped the banister–his lifeline. He would climb a couple, stop, expel a heavy breath; on a few occasions Hopper was sure he would tumble backwards down to the bottom but he was damn stubborn, he had to give him that.
He waited impatiently by the front door as the kid rummaged around upstairs. He had reappeared briefly, only to cross the hallway and disappear into a different room. Finally, he reemerged, his face pale and eyes fixed on the steps. Once more he gripped the banister, his jaw fixed. He was carefully eyeing the step, and Hopper watched as he lifted his foot, hovered it in the air, then brought it back and down. Dustin had mentioned he was seeing double; he made a mental note of that before he began his own ascent to meet him. By the time Hopper had neared the top, Steve's foot slipped over the corner of the second stair, causing him to slip down to the third with a thud; Hopper was quick to steady him, grabbing him under his arms and preventing him from toppling the rest of the way down.
“Easy, kid–”
“I'm okay.” The claim came too quickly; Hopper heard the shaking of his voice, nevermind the death grip he had on his shoulders. “I'm alright I just–missed the step–”
“It's alright, I've got you.”
While Steve hadn't responded to the reassurance, he did keep a firm grip on Hopper as he directed him back down the steps. When he was confident the kid was grounded, he released his hold and readjusted to keep a hand on the kid's back. It was hardly as firm, but it let him know he was there if he needed the help. He, of course, was stubborn and continued towards the cruiser where he promptly threw his bag at his feet and slipped in.
Most likely, he was embarrassed by the display, and Hopper chose not to comment on it as he entered the driver’s side and was mindful of closing his door. He shoved the key into the ignition and the two of them sat silently for a moment, listening to the engine humming; it gave Hop a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Alright, here's the deal,” Hopper began, his pace slow and tone deliberate–he definitely wasn't making a plan as he went along, “I’m gonna take you back to my house. I want to go give you a proper look over and you're not going to bullshit me. So make a little note in your head right now of what's bothering you because if I'm going to help you I need to be informed. Then you're going to shower and I'm going to make you something to eat because I doubt you've done that in the last forty eight hours. Does that sound reasonable to you?”
He did not get an immediate response; instead, Steve had moved to rest his head against the window.
“Hello?”
“Yea, okay.”
With a soft hum, Hopper set the car to reverse and pulled out of the driveway.
The drive to the cabin was quiet; quick glances at Steve caught him drifting in and out of consciousness. He wasn't a medical professional by any means, but he was almost positive that this fatigue was not good. While he had wanted to keep him awake and alert, Hop hadn’t wanted to make him any more uncomfortable than he already had–at least not for the time being. He'd just dragged him, more or less against his will, from his house; he was already the bad guy and he would give him the drive as a short reprieve.
When they pulled up to the cabin, Hop released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He really had acted before giving himself the time to think this through. He had taken in a young girl with little thought and that had been enough of an adjustment–he had no fucking clue how to deal with a teenage boy, nonetheless one who was heavily concussed and, by all intents and purposes, had been a major pain in his ass up until the previous year. No matter his feelings on the situation, Steve was here, and he had made him his responsibility. A hand gripped the kid’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
“Hey, kid, we’re here. C’mon.” Steve came to slowly; it was clear he was a bit disconcerted. Hop’s brow wrinkled with concern. “Know where we are?”
Steve blinked at him and his head turned to look out the windshield, then to his window.
“No.” Steve answered, his words still groggy. “Your house?” It came out more as a question than an answer. “I dunno, I’ve never been here.”
That was coherent enough to calm Hop’s nerves–however mildly.
“Yea, this is my place.” He confirmed before removing himself from the vehicle.
Steve seemed to follow suit, popping his own door open. He swung out of the car and as soon as he’d stood up he was leaning heavily against the car. God, he was so dizzy–he just wished the world would stop spinning every time he moved. Hop clasped a strong hand against his arm, steadying him.
“I got your bag, kid. Take your time.”
As mentioned, Hopper took his bag and, when he was ready to move, directed Steve into the cabin. Unsurprisingly, El had instantly perked up at Hopper’s return; he was much earlier than normal and she had double checked the time to be sure. The addition of the older boy, Steve she believed his name was, had been even more surprising.
“Hey, kid.” Hopper had called as he directed Steve towards the kitchen table.
Hop had swung a chair around and prompted him to sit. El, meanwhile, had wandered into the kitchen to meet with the two.
“Early.”
“Yea, I know. I had to check on Steve, here–Steve, you haven’t really met El, have you?”
“In passing.” He mumbled and Hop watched as he pressed his head into his hand.
“Well, El, this is Steve. He helped your friends out the other night. He’s going to be staying with us for a bit, so you'll be seeing a lot of him. Right now, would you mind giving us some room to breathe? Go sit in the living room for a bit.”
While she wasn’t exactly thrilled by the idea, she huffed, and returned to her designated spot on the sofa. She did, however, keep a careful eye on the pair. Hopper, meanwhile, had swung another chair around to sit directly in front of Steve.
“Alright, kid. Honesty. Sit up.”
While he grumbled, Steve obliged, and tired eyes met with Hopper’s own.
“Obviously your head hurts; is that a fair statement?”
“Understatement.” He desperately wanted to press his palms into his eyes but it wasn’t worth the explosion of pain that would follow. “Skull feels like it’s gonna crack open.”
“Did you take anything?” He couldn’t give him anything until he was aware of what had already been consumed; not that he would tell Harrington that. He would most likely lie if given the opportunity, especially considering the pain he was in. Pretty damn bad, Hopper assumed, if he was admitting to it with little prompting.
He could tell Steve was really considering his answer; not that Hop could blame him. He was likely desperate for any relief he could get.
“Just Tylenol.” He finally responded, though there was an edge to it; he was still thinking. “And none today.”
“Alright. What year is it?”
Steve's eyes rolled; this hadn't been the first time he'd sat through this line of questioning.
“1984.”
“Who's the president?”
“Reagan.”
“Okay, good.” So, his inability to identify the date had really just been from his grogginess. Hopper continued: “Dizzy?”
Steve's shoulders raised and fell non-committally.
“Comes and goes.” Hop’s glare lengthened his response. “When I stand–or move my head too fast, yea.”
Next, Hopper held his fingers up in front of the kid's face.
“How many?”
That was enough to silence him. Steve stared, his lips pursing.
“Three.” He finally responded and slowly at that.
“You're not seeing three, are you?”
Steve was hesitant. He did not immediately offer up a response, instead he stared silently at the fingers presented before him.
“No. But you can't have six fingers on one hand.”
“That why you missed the step earlier?” Hop asked and dropped his hand into his lap.
Steve shifted in his seat.
“I couldn't–I mean obviously I could see it, but I couldn't judge how far away it was from my foot.”
He wasn't sure he'd ever be thankful for the lack of steps in his house, but now was perhaps the first time he gave it any thought. At least the kid didn't have to worry about taking a spill whenever he needed to get something out of his room.
“Are you nauseous?”
“Not now.”
“Not now.” Hop repeated. “Does that mean you were? Did you throw up?”
Once more he was shifting in his seat, and his gaze turned to stare beyond Hopper.
“Yea. A few times.”
Hop slowly eased back into the chair, but his gaze remained fixed on Steve.
“Obviously I'm not a doctor,” he began, “but I think it's safe to say you have a concussion, kid. Now listen to me very carefully: is there absolutely anything else that I should know about? I'm not screwing around here, Harrington. Head injuries are no joke.”
Once again Steve's lips were pursing, and he continued to avoid Hop’s gaze.
“Billy–he hit me. With a plate.” Steve began, his words slow–unsure. “I think–when it broke–there might be some pieces–yea.”
“You're joking.”
He wasn't irritated with him; Steve shrunk at the admission and it made Hopper angry because, again, he'd neglected to check on the kid who most likely had shards of fucking glass embedded in his scalp and he assumed Hop was pissed at him for it. No, Hop was pissed as himself for the entire situation–for forgetting he’d been hit with a God damn plate but, frankly, why would he have even thought to check for shards? It was abruptly that he stood from his chair and pressed a hand into Steve's shoulder.
“Stay.”
Was the firm command as he stalked into the bathroom to retrieve his first aid kit. His return was swift and, after placing the kit down on the table, he turned to grab a dish. His final move was to grab a pair of tweezers and douse them in rubbing alcohol. Before he left the bathroom for the final time, he grabbed a washcloth and finally returned to Steve whose head was dipping dangerously close to the table.
“Alright, kid. Sit back.”
It was clear he jarred him awake and Steve did as he was asked, pressing his back into the chair. Without warning, Hopper's fingers began to work through the kid's scalp searching for any shards of glass. His finger nicked one and Steve jerked under his grasp.
“Sorry.” It was a soft apology as Hopper grabbed the now sterilized tweezers. “And I'm sorry for this; it's not going to feel great.”
“Yea, I'd imagine not. I'm prepared for this one.”
Even with his word, Hop squeezed a hand into Steve's shoulder before attempting to grab the glass and pluck it from his scalp. Once successful, he wrenched it out and placed it onto the dish he'd retrieved; a gentle clink resounded. While he tried his best, Steve still squirmed with each subsequent piece removed from his scalp, and Hopper offered soft apologies and reassurances. When he was certain he'd gotten them all, he pressed the washcloth to the back of the kid's head and held it in place.
It would be a lie to say Hopper wasn't still fuming. Everything about this situation enraged him, including his own negligence–the kid's life was mottled with it, and he was beyond pissed he was a contributing factor. He forced steady breaths through his nostrils; after all, he still had the kid under his grasp, slowing the flow of blood on his head.
“You should press charges.” The words slipped out before he even had the time to consider them.
While he couldn't see his reaction, Hopper felt Steve shift under his hold.
“What?”
Hopper bit his tongue; he initially was going to make some sort of snippy remark but decided against it given the kid's situation.
“Against the Hargrove kid.”
“Should have guessed I'd be hearing something like that from you.”
“I'm serious. Look, I was your age once, I get it. I know this isn't your first fight and that it all comes down to your pride, but this wasn't a fight–Christ, kid, you're lucky he didn't give you brain damage.”
“Yea, I know.” Steve's acknowledgement came as a surprise, reluctant as it was.
“Okay. I'm waiting for the inevitable but–”
“I doubt you got the full story.”
“Then enlighten me.”
Steve's hand raised to take hold of the cloth Hopper had been holding against his head. He allowed him to take over, giving Steve the room to pivot and face the chief.
“I mean it when I say I just don't want to. But–I don't–” his eyes stole a quick glance at El before returning to Hopper. His tone notably decreased in volume. “I don't want the kids involved. More than that–the only reason my skull isn't currently caved in is because–Max may have–” Hop’s vision narrowed. “She used the tranquilizer on him.”
Quiet fell over the pair. Hopper supposed he should have been enraged over that fact, and yet, the kid had most likely saved Steve from an even nastier head wound–if not death if Henderson was to be believed.
“So, that's a big part of my decision. I just don't want her involved with any of that. Don't know if you've had any run-ins with Hargrove, but if that's who she has to live with, her life's hard enough as is without me going and making it more complicated.”
Of course. Because nothing in any of their lives could ever be cut and dry.
With a sigh, Hopper eased back down into his own seat.
“Yea, alright. I get it. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. Look, ultimately it's your decision but I would really think about it and reconsider.”
Steve grunted.
“Try and ask me again when my head doesn't feel like it's about to split open.”
“I'm going to hold you to that.” And by the tone of his voice, Hopper sounded completely serious. “I want you to go shower and I'll make you something to eat. I don't want to give you pain meds on an empty stomach. Think you can handle some soup?”
While eating hadn't exactly been at the top of Steve's desires, if it meant getting something for his head he wasn't going to shoot it down.
“Yea. I think I can manage that.”
With that, Hop had picked himself up from the table and grabbed a towel for him. Steve retrieved his bag and, towel in hand, disappeared into the bathroom. As mentioned, he pulled a can of chicken noodle soup from the cabinet, threw it into a pot, and began heating it over the burner. While that was heating up, he moved to the phone and promptly dialed the station.
“El, you want something? I think we have another can in the cupboard.”
“Eggos.”
“No, kid, you need something with actual substance–soup.”
“Grilled cheese.”
“Hawkins Police Department, Flo speaking.”
Hopper tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he meandered over to the fridge, dancing around the cord.
“Hey, Flo, it's Hop. Something came up–I need you to give Harrington a call for me, tell ‘em his kid’s fine, was skipping because he's sick, nothing serious.”
He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a nearly depleted pack of cheese slices; enough to squeeze one sandwich out of, but it meant a trip to the store.
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
That woman worried about him more than she really needed to. He shifted the phone to his opposite shoulder as he set a pan on and lit the burner.
“Yep, all fine. Thank you as always, Flo.”
Hopper returned the receiver and when he turned back around he stifled a shout–he did, however, jump when he noticed El was standing directly behind him.
“Jesus, kid. What’d we say about you sneaking up on me like that?”
He slid past and cursed when he noticed the soup, now rapidly boiling over. He quickly shoved a spoon into the pot and stirred, lowering the flame. It was then he turned to butter the bread slices while El met him at the counter.
“Steve's hurt?”
Hop paid her a quick glance before slapping the pieces of cheese onto the sandwich.
“Yea. He's not doing too hot right now.”
He swung around the other side of El to place the sandwich in the pan; he quickly stirred the soup once more.
“What's wrong?”
“He's got a concussion. Basically his brain’s hurt.”
El’s eyes bulged in response to that information, which Hopper couldn't blame her. Without any prior context, he supposed that could sound horrible. There was a part of him that was vaguely relieved she had not been there to witness the beating; the kid had seen enough horrors as it was at her young age. In truth, Hopper knew having El around could work in his favor.
“I honestly might need your help, kid.” Hop commented idly as he reached for both a bowl and a plate. “I'm gonna let Steve stay home with you tomorrow, but I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye on him–keep him awake. Think you could manage that for me?”
El emphatically nodded in approval, and Hopper couldn't hide the smile that toyed with his lips.
“One last favor: would you mind letting Steve take your room? You can sleep in my bed. I think we should give him some privacy when he isn’t feeling his best.”
While this one was more hesitant, she ultimately nodded again, prompting Hopper to press a hand into her head and muss her hair. He moved to flick off the flame beneath the soup afterwards. Just as El had settled at the kitchen table, Steve had reemerged from the shower, hair brushed back and tight against his scalp with the weight of the water.
“Hey, you look better now that your hair isn't growing its own colony.”
Steve pulled a scowl as he took a seat across from El.
“Alright–it wasn't that bad.”
“Pretty close.” Hop mused as he dumped the soup into a bowl and placed it in front of the haggard teen.
He retrieved the Tylenol bottle soon after and popped two pills into his hand; they were soon transferred to the table alongside the soup. He moved back to flip El’s grilled cheese onto a plate and slid it in front of her. The chief was the last one to take his seat at the table, however the place in front of him remained empty.
“I'm giving you those now with the expectation you're actually going to eat that bowl–most of it.”
While the response was grumbled, Steve did knock back the pills and began to stir the spoon around in the broth.
“Here's the deal; there will be rules when you're staying under my roof.”
“You brought me under your roof.” Steve grumbled before finally shoving the spoon into his mouth.
“And you're a minor under my roof. I doubt you'll be doing much of anything in the next few days, but tomorrow we can talk.”
“By talk I assume you mean at me.”
“Well thank my lucky stars your attitude is still intact.” It was a ghost of a smile, but Hopper saw it creep across his lips as he spooned another scoop into his mouth. “Look, I'm going to give you the rest of today to lay around, but I want you up tomorrow. You don't have to be doing anything but you need to be awake. You're going to school Friday.”
“To be fair, I planned on going today. I just thought today was yesterday.”
“Either way, Friday. And tomorrow we go over house rules.”
“I can teach him.”
Hop had turned his gaze towards El, eager to pitch in. He couldn't hold back the amused puff of air that escaped him. Honestly, he hadn't considered the fact she would be grateful to have someone else in the cabin with her. Nonetheless, someone closer to her age than Hopper.
“While I appreciate the sentiment, Steve's rules aren't going to look like yours, kid. He's older–and more of a dumbass.” Steve pulled a face in response to that, though Hopper hadn't let him get a word in edgewise. “You're seventeen, Harrington, you're all dumbasses to some extent.”
Either Steve agreed with the sentiment, or he hadn't the energy to argue because his eyes turned back down to his bowl of soup that he continued to aimlessly stir. After all, it wasn't as if either of them could pretend Steve didn't have a past with Hop and the rest of the Hawkin’s PD. He'd give it to the kid, he was good at dodging them, but it didn't make Hopper oblivious.
Eventually, he came to a point where he began to listlessly stir the contents of the bowl, eyes occasionally flicking up to meet with the older man, presumably looking for approval. When no comment was made, he switched to a new tactic to remove himself from the table.
“Where do you want me to put my stuff?”
Pushing away from the table, Hopper moved to grab Steve's bag. After gripping the handles, he moved towards El’s room before calling:
“You just gonna sit there or are you coming?”
Thankful for the dismissal, Steve removed himself from the table–then paused. He grabbed his bowl first and trailed over to sink.
“Leave it–I’ve got it.”
While he was hesitant, he at least ditched the bowl in the sink before trailing behind Hopper. The bag was dropped beside the door and Steve stood awkwardly between Hopper and the bed.
“Make yourself at home.”
“I’m taking the kid’s room?”
Clearly, Steve was uncomfortable based on his tone alone.
“Yea. You have her seal of approval, don’t worry.”
Steve raised a hand, though it quickly froze; he'd clearly gone to run it through his hair which he'd realized was not his best idea. Instead, it moved to scratch the hair curling against the back of his neck.
“I mean, I don't want to kick El out of her room. I'm fine on the couch.”
“Yea, I'm sure you are. You're still staying in here.”
Hopper hadn't given him any opportunity to argue; he moved towards the door and grabbed the handle, briefly stopping in the frame to turn back and face the teen.
“If you need anything, I'm right out here. Just call.”
“Yea, alright. Thanks.”
And with that, the door clicked behind him. While she hadn't been waiting directly by the door, it was clear El had anticipated his return. She had angled herself towards the door, waiting for Hopper who, meanwhile, had headed towards the coffee pot.
“Steve's okay?”
He heaved a gentle sigh as he considered the question.
“Yea, for the most part. Just banged up. We'll keep an eye on him.”
Which, granted, was easy when he'd hardly shown his face for the rest of the day, barring his quick trips to and from the bathroom, few as they were. It had been late into the evening when he turned towards the kitchen and Hopper heard him rummaging through the cupboards, presumably for more pain meds. He'd begrudgingly removed himself from the recliner, startling Steve in the process who, again, offered to take the sofa. Hopper simply slipped the pills into his hand and sent him back into the bedroom.
Needless to say he wasn't surprised he hadn't seen him before his departure the next morning. El was always a crapshoot; some days she'd be there to send him off, others she slept in. Today was one of the former ones.
“Do me a favor.” Hopper commented idly as he slipped his hat onto his head. “Wake him up around nine. And keep him up until I get home. Think you can manage that?”
With an enthusiastic nod of the head, Hop flashed her a smile and headed out the door.