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The night sky is soft tonight, gentle with stars. The moon hangs low in the sky and seems almost to kiss the tops of the trees in the woods. It casts an ethereal glow on the man bundling the girl into the passenger seat of his truck. He jogs around to the driver’s side, glances up at the moon for a split second before hauling himself in.
The girl peels his attention away from the view outside his windshield. She’s barely skin and bones and far too short for her age. He knows she must be freezing, she’s trembling despite the winter coat tucked snugly around her, the truck’s heat on blast. Her knuckles and knees are all banged up; scraped and gooey with blood, but not scabby. She doesn’t seem to be able to focus on much of anything for long.
He looks her over anxiously between backing the truck out and away from the trees, noses it over towards the road. One hand on the wheel, he rummages around in the glove compartment for some bandages. Nothing -- he’s left them back at his place.
Malnutrition. It has to be.
Hopper mulls this over for a little and glances at Eleven. Kids like these perk back up with proper food, right? He knows a bit about child neglect, saw it far too many times during his old beat in the City. Kids there have usually been eating too much junk food, fast food, not enough of whatever it is kids are supposed to.
He makes a noncommittal noise, a part of him trying to figure out just what in the world Eleven’s been eating out there -- it sure as hell hasn’t been burgers. He drums the wheel for a minute as the truck eats up the road, yellow lines streaking beside them. The road...
It takes a little imagination for a picture to form but it’s suddenly laid out in front of him. There have been less reports of car accidents caused by deer freezing up in the middle of the road, less roadkill seen around the town. He rubs at his brow. It’s basic: meat’s high in protein and protein keeps you full. Jesus, this poor kid.
How can he lighten the mood…?
He considers the radio -- does she know music? Hopper peeks at her again and notices she’s asleep, hesitantly returns his fingers from the dial back to the wheel.
They drive several miles in silence.
Almost there.
Eleven’s sound asleep but whimpering. She’s barely audible over the gushing of the heater but her gentle keening cuts through Hopper’s core as if it were a banshee shriek. He reaches over to lay a protective hand on her shoulder but, again, checks himself. He’s unsure how she’ll react, scared he’ll jerk her awake. Awkwardly, he returns his mitt to the wheel for a second time, self-consciously flexes his fingers.
He doesn’t look away for long, worry creeping up on him. Hopper gives her a hasty once over to make sure the cause of her discomfort isn’t something physical, that she isn’t bleeding out her ears or some shit -- who knows with her! -- and sees, really, just how encrusted in filth she is. He grimaces at her black nails, matted hair, squalid clothes. With a start he realizes nothing she owns is hers; the dress a gift from Mike, Hopper’s favourite shirt layered on top.
He chews this thought over.
He can let her keep the shirt.
-----
Eleven is jolted awake when Hopper, carrying her, stumbles over something in the living room. They both nearly go down and the something is sent skittering down the hall, off in the opposite direction. Parental mode activated, Hop tightly hugs El against him, curling over her protectively and pivots, slamming his side into the wall in a successful attempt to regain balance. He doesn’t make a noise at impact -- he suffers more from a surprise than pain -- but El shrieks and he yelps in response. He murmurs soothing words until she remembers where she is; remembers herself. Like Hopper, she suffered no injury. She’s terrified.
They eye each other as they catch their breath but respite only lasts a second.
Something’s making its way towards them.
They tense.
The culprit, a beer bottle, glints menacingly as it slowly rolls back towards them, bounced back by junk in the hallway. Hopper’s jaw is clenched as he huffs a deep breath out through his nose -- Flo’s always telling him his drinking habit will kill him one day, but this can’t even be close to what she had in mind. Eleven’s eyes are wide in the dark, her shaking almost under control as she understands this was no organized attack.
“Hey,” he bends down to her height, “you okay?”
She doesn’t make eye contact but her eyebrows twitch in response, leading her head in a mechanic nod. She doesn’t know much but does, at least, know the answer to this question. She remembers when Papa used to show concern, the first time she asked for help—
She blinks rapidly to clear away tears, tries to draw attention away from her past and ground herself in the present. Eleven holds out her arms and examines the coat she’s wearing; to Hopper, she looks like a jacket with legs.
Hopper doesn’t really understand what she’s trying to do, but does sense her discomfort; almost sees it dancing off of her like sparks. He keeps his voice low, soothing, “Let’s get you to bed and we can figure out the rest in the morning, okay? If you need anything -- anything at all -- wake me up.”
El makes eye contact for a second, swallows hard. She looks back down at the floor, fear evident in the way she holds herself. For a split second Hop’s frozen solid. He understands as clear as day -- the problem has to be him. Racing thoughts: he’s big and tall and rough. He can be intimidating to adults on good days, eyebrows drawn tight over deep-set, angry eyes. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t look at her, look somewhere else instead. He looks away from her and focuses on on the carpet, feels the icy fingers clawing their way up his chest begin to melt.
Bottles litter much of the floor. He hasn’t really noticed before now.
He scoffs, “Hey.” Eleven looks back up, holds his gaze. “I’ll clean. There won’t be anything here that can hurt you. I promise.”
She nods. Her eyes flicker, only half convinced.
Hopper rolls his eyes. Kids.
“C’mon, let me show you your room.”
It’s his room, of course. Where the hell else is she going to sleep?
-----
He tidies while she’s curled up in bed, his hands working only half as hard as his mind is. He’s thinking of the bug they planted when they knocked him out. Ugh, hates those guys; even thinking about them makes him feel jumpy. After tearing apart the place, he’s pretty doubtful there’s another bug hanging around. On the other hand, he doesn’t believe for a second they aren’t keeping tabs on him. It’s only a matter of time before they discover she’s alive, if they haven’t already.
He stands a step away from the front window and slowly peels back the curtain, just enough to scan the area. He doesn’t see anyone or anything but that doesn’t mean much. He catches his reflection and sighs. She’s never going to have a shot at a normal life like this. The curtains slide back into place, sway a little in the chilly air.
Next on the list: food.
He pads over to the kitchen area, peeks into his cupboards. Nothing doing except a couple of cans of beans. He’s sure he’s got some hot dogs stashed somewhere. The fridge..? Okay, maybe not, but he can buy them bright and early tomorrow. Hop’s so relieved: everyone loves hot dogs and beans!
But that’s only one meal down — many dinners down at most. He’ll have to call in sick for the next few days, focus on loading up the place and getting the kid some clothes. He rubs his face at the thought of having to teach her basic math, reading and writing skills.
He thinks back to the night she found him in the woods. She can read, right? Hopper entertains, however briefly, the thought of Eleven having read his mind and kicks himself for doing so. She has no reason to trust him; the least he can do is extend the basic courtesy to her.
He stares blankly at a stain on the countertop — coffee? — as he considers entertaining an episode of self-hatred but yanks himself back; shuffles over to the couch instead. He’s too tired. An involuntary groan slips out as he plops down, physically and mentally exhausted from the day; his life, more accurately. He rolls his neck, pops his joints. Hop doesn’t think he’s going to sleep but gives it a shot anyway.
It happens like it always does.
Slowly, and then all at once: sleep.
-----
It’s still night when El prods him awake. Hopper snorts and starts, almost bats her out of the way to reach his service revolver, his ferocity startling them both. He looks at El. The familiar expression of a startled deer is pasted to her face, her hands curled close to her chest. Not much time has passed since Hopper fell asleep; half hour, 45 minutes at most.
“What’s the matter?” his voice is gummy.
El takes a step back. Her voice is barely above a whisper but steady, free of uncertainty, “Bed.”
Hopper looks up at her, dazed. It takes him a minute to find his bearings but he’s up in a second, “Show me.”
She scurries ahead as he stumbles down the hall behind her, one step for her three, and together they enter his — her — room. Immediately, his heart leaps into his throat.
It looks as if it’s been ransacked.
The mattress is pulled halfway off the boxspring, the comforter tangled on the floor. A chair pulled from another room leans awkwardly against the wall, creating the drunken shape of an L. Pillows are stuffed under the base of the chair, his coat flung on top. She’s since changed into one of his T-shirts as a makeshift nightgown; her dress and shirt bunched up at the base of the mattress.
Hopper looks around, his heart jack-hammering at the thought of someone doing this to get to her, before resting his gaze on El. She doesn’t look as alarmed as he feels and he recognizes, fairly quickly, he jumped to a very false conclusion. He doesn’t say anything, just focuses on regulating his unsteady breathing.
She feels him looking at her and meets his eye. Her nose quivers as she tries to hold back tears. She didn’t mean to give him a scare. She shakes her head, “Not bed.”
Hopper doesn’t know what to say, tries to smooth his face into an understanding expression. The only way he knows to express fear is through annoyance, a hard and fast rule of self-preservation on the streets.
“That’s a mattress,” he nods towards the mess at the heart of the room, “people sleep on those.”
She flinches at his tone and he pinches the bridge of his nose at his inability to communicate. He takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry. I just— I don’t understand what’s wrong. I don’t know how to help you.” Implicit in those words: let me help you, please.
El senses his underlying feelings. She maintains eye contact to ensure he’s watching as she wordlessly advances towards the chair, ducks under it, and heaves a small sigh as she lies down. Only her head and part of her chest are covered, Hopper’s coat creating a sort of curtain. The rest of her body lies comically exposed to the room.
Hop can’t see El’s face from his position but he can hear her soft, determined voice: “Castle.”
He almost laughs. She’s seen Castle Byers before, he surmises. That’s funny; half-starved and filthy dirty and she wants her own Castle El; wakes me up in the middle of the goddamn night for a castle. He crosses his arms and shakes his head.
A memory tugs at him: chairs, blankets, pillows, hearty laughter — his or his daughter’s?
He now sees what she was trying to do.
Eleven’s slim face is peeking out from underneath the chair legs, waiting for him to respond. Her hopeful expression is snuffed out as Hop leaves the room on stiff legs. A minute later and a shy smile creeps steals over her face as he dumps blankets on the floor, leaves yet again and hauls in some chairs from who knows where.
“It’s not a castle. It’s a blanket fort.” Despite his authoritarian tone carrying over from outside the room, she can detect a hint of a smile, too, in his voice.
Blanket fort, El thinks. Just like Mike used to make.
Safe.
Before long El’s sandwiched between a bunch of moth-eaten blankets and a dozen scruffy pillows, snug in her shabby nest. Hopper pinches one corner of a trailing blanket and tucks it up and over itself, modifying the fort from four walls to three.
He squats down and tries to ignore his screaming muscles, “You’ll go to sleep for real this time, yeah?”
El nods. Her eyes are heavy and her voice is the barest scrap of a whisper, “Thank you.”
Hopper can barely hide an expression of startled pleasure before turning away, his eyes creasing at the corners. It feels like he hasn’t smiled something sincere for a long time. He feels something inside him crack open, in a good way.
Eleven’s voice rings out before he steps out of the room, “Don’t go.”
She can only see his legs, watches quietly as they step closer and closer then stop. Neither of them think he can get back up if he bends down to see her again. “You want me to stay?” he wants her to be sure.
“Yes,” she speaks to the hole in his sock.
Hop nods before realizing she can’t see him. It’s been a really, really long day. He clears his throat. “Alright, okay. Whatever you need. I’ll be on the bed.” She watches his feet retreat, hears the mattress get shoved back into place, a protest of bedsprings. His voice is thick with sleep, speech punctuated by a yawn, “If you need me, wake me up. But no forts this time.”
No response.
She must be asleep already, he thinks. He rolls onto his side, tucks his arm beneath the only pillow in the cabin not crammed into the fort. Sweet Jesus, he has missed his bed. He’s out like a light.
A soft voice from the tangle of pillows and blankets:
“Night.”
-----
He wants to be sensitive but doesn’t want to beat around the bush. He needs, so badly, to know that tipping Brenner in exchange for his life didn’t lead to El being stuck in the woods. He sighs; he needs it, but she doesn’t.
Hop clears his head, warmly regards her over the tower of Eggos, “What’s your favourite thing about Hawkins?” He’s half expecting the answer to be waffles. If she prefers frozen waffles to his company… Man, that’d suck.
“Mike,” she manages to squeeze out between whipped cream and strawberries. El’s eyes are shiny with delight.
Hop scans the table absentmindedly, trying to remember who Mike is. One of the friends from the Byer kid’s group but he can’t remember which one. He wants to ask what else El likes — books, games, music — but her expression is glazed over and she’s slowly turning pink.
He jumps up, knocking over his chair in the process. Can’t she telepathically clear the food from her throat?
El jerks away from him, a startle reflex, and he realizes she’s alright, she’s breathing, just... turning colours in front of his eyes. Is this a new trick? He looks at her flatly, “What?”
She swallows, “Dance.”
Dance? What? His forehead is wrinkled with confusion.
Blushing, dance, Mike -- Oh! He gets it, she has a crush! He rights his chair and sits back down. Isn’t she kinda young for this? Hopper doesn’t know which question to ask first, floored Eleven’s even this far ahead in the social game.
A delightful curiosity gets the better of him, “Do you know how to dance?”
It’s El’s turn to look confused. Her expression is tragic, a mix of confusion and fear, speared waffle halted halfway in transit toward her mouth. She shakes her head no.
Hop inhales to follow up with another question, namely where this dance is — is it even safe for her to leave the cabin? — when a bigger, better idea pops into his head. El keeps her eye on him as he slowly cuts a piece of waffle, sponges up some syrup, and pops it in his mouth. He keeps his voice casual, “Do you want to learn?”
Eleven pokes at her food shyly, her other hand rubbing a spot behind her ear. She doesn’t raise her head but does raise her eyes. Their eyes meet across the table for a second, two, three. She nods.
Hopper nods back, all business. He looks down as he tucks back into his breakfast, but not before El sees it: his smile is small and shy like hers.
——
Anyone watching them flail around the record player together would say they’re awful dancers. They were a poor match: one huge and gruff, one small and delicate. It was like watching a bear and a deer writhe their way through the classic rock and roll hits. Neither had a dancing bone in their body.
They laughed the entire time.
-----
Game night (also known as every night).
Tonight it’s Scrabble, Eleven’s favourite game!
Hop dusted it off about a month ago, hopeful it would be a fun and engaging way to help El get used to the nuances of spelling. So far so good.
She’s grown like a weed the past few weeks; seems like all she needed was some good food (waffles, hot dogs, berries, and beans). Her overalls are still pretty baggy and she needs to roll up the cuffs most of the time, but the majority of her thrifted clothes seems to be alright. Hop thinks he’s done a pretty good job, aches to engage in a celebratory light up but doesn’t want to smoke near her in case the smell offends her. Hey, his entire place might reek like alcohol and stale cigarettes but he does air it out sometimes.
Her clothes. A small hand pulls at his heart. To avoid busybodies he’s been playing the role of grief-stricken father who just can’t let go of his daughter. But it isn’t just a role, is it? He thumbs his bracelet. He can’t stand the way others’ looks of curiosity curdle into pity.
But if it’s for her, he can handle it.
Her brow is furrowed as she examines the board. She gets better and faster every time they play but she sure is taking her time this round. Finally, a small gasp as she leans forward, single tile between index and thumb, smile eating up half her face.
Victory is near.
Eleven places her tile on the board with utmost care, attentive in her goal of not disturbing the other wooden squares. ‘L,’ her single tile reads. Hop has a single eyebrow raised, a preemptive grin at what will surely be an excellent explanation for such a poor play.
“EL,” one finger is curled back at herself. El for Eleven; El for me.
Hop looks down at the tile, back at Eleven.
‘EL,’ a new word attached to the end of Hopper’s previous play of ‘HOME.’
He exhales contentedly through his nose, “Yeah, kid. You got it.”