Chapter Text
There was one house on your street that you hadn’t managed to greet, yet. Your boyfriend already lived here; convinced you that it wasn’t worth it to go around and meet every neighbour.
You just thought it was a nice thing to do.
And then, when you realised that the cars always drove down your street far too fast, and some of the moms wanted speedbumps put down, it made it easier to get names on your petitions.
The police station was bigger than you’d imagined it being. You walked in without hesitation, locking eyes with the man behind the counter. Broad, tall, with a large moustache and slightly fuzzy hair.
“Um,” you breathe, forgetting yourself in his stare. “I need to talk to the police chief.”
“What about?”
He goes back to filing, not bothering to look at you.
“Speedbumps on Alloway Street. I’ve got all my petitions but-” he nodded knowingly, “-the mayor says I need the Chief to sign off. Submit a report. I’ve already got the papers.”
At this, he finally turns to you again. You set the paperwork down on reception, and he comes to look at it.
“You’re the one who put those flyers through my door.”
His voice is low, almost grumbling. Ah. So it’s him that you haven’t met.
“Yup. It’ll only take you like ten, twenty minutes, tops to fill this out-”
“Look-“ the sternness of his voice throws a wrench in your stomach. You know what’s going to come. You feel like a scorned child. “I appreciate what you’re doing. I don’t really have the time. Are you sure you need my help with this?”
He’s being honest. He’s being polite. You can respect that. The weight changes in your feet, lip bitten, eyes low.
“I guess I can- see. But I’ll leave these with you. In case you find the time. Sir.”
He raises his eyebrows at you in parting, and you leave with a bowed head. You like the guy, for as much as you know him- until your boyfriend seems sceptical.
And then, of course, you go back to the mayor. And he laughs you out of his office.
“If Jim Hopper can’t find the time, then it’s not important.”
You catch whispers on the streets, in the mall, when you meet up with neighbours. Your opinion sours completely independently of him. By the time you’re walking up to the police station, for a second time, you can feel your politeness wearing off, already anticipating a bad encounter.
There’s someone else behind the reception desk, and they let you wander through to Jim’s office.
You knock on the door politely. He looks up, face blank, then flashing with a recognition.
“Morning, Officer, do you have a minute?”
He gestures for the seat opposite him.
“I came last week, about the speed bumps. Turns out I can’t do it without your help. Are you any less busy this week?”
“Do I look less busy?”
Your face drops to a frown. It’s probably not about you as a person- but damned if he’s not rude, and slovenly at that.
“You’ll be busier if someone else gets mowed down on that road,” you argue. “Now if you just fill out those papers, I can do the rest of it on my own, and I can leave you alone.”
“I’m sorry,” he huffs, leaning forward in his chair. “I’m busy. I can’t spare the time.”
You press your lips together. Hm.
“That’s not what I heard,” you say lightly. God, you love how his face crashes. He’s almost- pouting at you.
“And what did you hear?”
“I heard that if ‘Jim Hopper can’t find the time’, then it can’t be that important. Apparently you’ve got more free time than you let on. So if you can just allocate some of that to this, then you’ll get even more free time, because I won’t be harping on in here, and nobody’s getting hit out there.”
He furrows his brows at you. You blink steadily.
“It’s called delayed gratification, Jim.”
“I know- I know what that is. Jesus.”
You smile triumphantly, and tell him again that all he needs to do is fill out the papers. He leans back in his chair with a reserved frown, like a child that’s just been told off, hands clasped over the desk. Your smile falls.
“The… papers. Where are they?”
There’s an awkward pause.
“A lot of papers come through this office-“
“Ugh,” you moan. This is just the icing on the cake.
You stand up angrily, stopping before the door.
“I’m going to give you a new set of papers, and it’ll take about five minutes to fill them out, and I’ll handle the rest myself.”
“If I say ‘no’-“ his voice rises. You don’t let the argument get closer. Hand on the handle, you tilt your head condescendingly.
“Jim-“ you say his name sweetly. “Come on. I’ll see you next week.”
You hear him sighing as you leave, the triumphs of winning burning in your stomach. Because you did win. Kind of. You will win.
You go back to the mayor’s, get new papers, give it a few days to let the Chief settle back into forgetting the conversation, and then go back to the office, nearly getting hit on that damned road on the way. There’s always some poor squirrel getting hit; some granny in danger. You don’t want to leave it longer before something worse happens.
By now, it’s the third time you’ve been here. You announce yourself at reception and they wave you off to the Chief's office, where he sits in a pile of papers.
He huffs when he looks at you.
“What, you think I’d leave you alone? I said I’d come back.”
He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, exposing more muscular arms than you’d expected. You flit your eyes back down to the desk.
“Here are the papers. If you just fill this out, that’s all I need. I promise. Give me a ring and I can come and get them myself and get it back to City Hall.”
“Look…” he pauses, eyes on the papers. He looks back at you for a second. You tell him your name, and he repeats it, the words like honey-smothered-toast on his low, slightly gruff voice. “I- it’s-”
He keeps pausing, stopping, trying to find the words. The more he does it the wider you smile.
“Yes, Chief?”
“If I say ‘no’, it does mean no.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever told me no,” you play coy, biting a lip. “I don’t recall-”
“Very cute. Play that game all you want. I’m not doing it.”
He has the papers. They’re just on his desk, they won’t take five minutes, twenty tops, maybe, for him to finish. And you’ll do all the rest of the legwork.You decide to give him less wiggle room.
“If you want, you can just take them back home with you and I’ll get them from you. Saturday morning? Or- you know, I’ll just leave my number, and you can call when they’re done. I’ll collect them.”
He sighs again, a throaty sound, full of anguish. You don’t care how annoyed he is by this. He puts his hand down on the table as you jot your number on a post-it.
“I don’t have the time. Not for this, and not to deal with the village hippy who thinks she’s important. Now get out of my office, I’m not signing your papers, I’ve told you I’m busy-” he stops mid-rant. You probably should have gotten upset when he started raising his voice. You just threw your head back in the chair, waiting for him to finish.
You look back at him when you’re met with silence.
“Do you know what people say about you, Jim?” you ask lightly. He doesn’t respond. “They say you don’t care about your job. They say you’re a drunk. I didn’t want to believe that you had no respect for your town.”
“You think this is gonna get a rise out of me?” he raises an eyebrow. You shrug.
“I think you’d have the time if you made the time. I think you’re lying to yourself and wallowing in- whatever it is you’ve got going on.”
“Whatever…” he rubs his jaw, laughing darkly. “Listen, sweetheart. You’ve got a fun game going on, but this stops now.”
You lock eyes. For some reason, it’s this, and not the torrent of insults, that makes you sit there in embarrassment. You look up at him with large eyes, completely scolded.
“Go home. Go back to the Mayor. Get the concrete and do it yourself. As long as you get out of my office, I don’t care.”
“Jim, this is important.”
“It’s Chief to you.”
You don’t like how your bones ache with his authority.
“Chief,” you breathe, standing up. He’s got both hands on the desk, bowing over you, and you’re not going to submit to being under him. “Nobody’s helped me. And I’ll take it that nobody’s helped you in a very long time. We can do something good-”
“-I’m not listening to your sad little speech-” he rubs his hands over his face. In his grunt, a fire lights under you.
“Fine. Fine. Don’t help me. Go back to your pathetic little act of pretending like you’re doing enough, pretending like you’re the victim in a town of people who just notice how you’re acting, and don’t make any changes.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
You slam your hands on his desk, begging to match his height, his presence, his volume.
“I don’t have to know, Chief. It’s everyone’s fucking problem anyway. Do you know what I’ve been through? You know where my bruises are? No. ‘Cos that’s not your problem. You’re in a position of trust, a position of change, and all you do is drink on it and oversleep. You’re not just hurting yourself, here.”
“I don’t know why you care,” he scoffs. “I’m sure as shit not hurting you.”
The officer from reception comes to the door, and calmly asks if he needs to intervene. You both ignore him.
“-You’re gonna fill out these papers-”
“-No-”
“-And you’re going to call me when you’re done,”
“-Oh, am I?”
“You are. Because it’s going to be the last good thing you do before you drown in your own vomit.”
The other cop touches your shoulder. You fall away, the anger not necessary for him, and breathe heavily. You tell him you’re fine, you’re going, gosh you are going, and walk out without being manhandled.
Well. That could have ended better. Your third meeting with the guy, and you nearly got arrested.
Hm. Maybe you should have bitten your tongue. Maybe you shouldn’t have listened to the town, and forged your own opinion of him- but the evidence is there. Sometimes you catch him driving to work, at nine, sometimes ten, and coming home early. You walk down the street and his trash can is filled with cans. The house is unkempt. When you see him, he’s slovenly.
You take the conversation as a hit, and don’t try to talk to him for a week or so. You go back to city hall and say there’ve been some- complications- and you don’t exactly get on, and you really have to do this without Jim. You get laughed out of the office again.
It seems like a failure.
But how are you meant to know that- Jim’s done it already. After you left the office he let the fires subside to an ember, and really thought about what you said. He didn’t like being the town drunk any more than he enjoyed his job. He didn’t like not enjoying his job.
It was more habit, now, than a coping mechanism, and if he thought he was completely numb before, the sweet young neighbour he would have liked to date, in another time, poked a great big pain in his chest.
You left the office and he kept thinking about you. About what you said. And about you. The papers sit, completed within an inch of their life, a begging plea to the mayor to truly consider it because he does genuinely think that that road needs speed bumps. He sobered up to write them. Make sure they were the best. And he didn’t drink for the rest of the night.
When you stayed behind his eyes, feisty, a passion that could match his own temper, he went for a run to get rid of you. A run.
Turns out, the running gets rid of you. Limbs aching with exhaustion, sweat pooling down his face, a night-time jog gives a different kind of numbness that the drink does. It gets him to sleep quicker. For nearly two weeks now, he’s come to work on time, jogging just about every day, wondering how long he has to wait before he can say- hey. I did your papers. I’m sorry.
Maybe he wouldn’t say that last part.
He bites the bullet and knocks on your door before work. It’s probably the right one. He vaguely knows who lives where, and while he doesn’t know where you live, he knows that this was the only single guy who owned a house on this street.
You open with wide eyes. He’s taller that you remember, the hat casting even more of a shadow from the spring sunlight. You blink into his face.
“Turns out I found the time,”
He hands you an envelope, and you peek inside briefly. There is actual handwriting on the pages. Good. The lump in your throat forms, quick to come after the events of last night. Are you just raw? Is that why it hurts your heart, to see him stood with hands in pockets, not quite managing to look at you, an apology in its own right.
“Oh- th… Thank you. I’m sorry for-” the words tumble out. You can’t really do this today. You can’t have older men being nice to you, not now.
“I think I needed a bit of a fire under me,” he admits uncomfortably. “Don’t try it again.”
You nod, then quickly shake your head.
“I won’t. I- thank you.”
“Well, I won’t keep you from your partner,”
He turns away, noticing that there’s no car in the driveway. He looks back at you. You press your lips together, eyebrows raising, waiting for him to remark on it. You know your eyes are puffy from crying all night. You know that for all he doesn’t seem to care about the job, he still is the chief of police.
“Nice guy,” he remarks, tongue in his teeth. You lean against your doorframe. It’s sunny, and there’s birds chirping, and though it’s not warm it’s really not that cold. “Is this, that bruise?”
Somewhere within you, you find the energy. Maybe Hopper created that energy.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” you tease limply. He scoffs. And in that short exchange- an exhale of air, an eyebrow raise, a nice gesture. It’s all gone. He turns back, walking down the driveway.
“Chief-” you call. He stops. “Thank you.”
And there’s a quiet moment. With no remarks, no aggravated huffs, and just- quiet.
“No problem.”
He’d known the ball was in his court. To apologise, to do the damned thing you’d asked him. But seeing you- almost forlorn by the door, in your pyjamas still- almost his to kind of, nearly, joke with… It drives him slightly crazy.
You return to city hall, triumphant with the papers. The mayor seems impressed. Of course, now he needs a meeting with the guy. And then a town meeting with a vote. This will come out of their money- the taxes will increase slightly.
At every hurdle, there’s just another one more. You start to feel like the mayor just has it out for you, or simply doesn’t want to believe you.
And you go back to Jim Hopper. Of course you go back to Jim Hopper.
You walk in with a box of chocolates, as a thank you, and hopefully to soften the blow. He must like chocolate. He probably does.
The guys behind reception watch with careful eyes as you walk through. You still make the effort to knock on the office door.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” you ask politely.
“What’s it look like?”
“Looks like I’m gonna talk to you, so put your pen down.”
You want to be polite. You really do. But something about his tired remarks make you put your teacher voice on; talk to him like he’s a naughty child. You’d rather that, than you feel scorned.
He complies with your request, pen on the table, hands folded over his desk.
“What?”
“Thank you. For the papers. I appreciate it. But I went back to City Hall, and- he’s insistent to have a meeting with you.”
Jim huffs. You feel it in all your bones.
“I know, I’m sorry. I thought I could do it alone. But every time I meet his requirements he just puts a new one up. I’ve got the signatures, I’ve got data, I’ve got the papers. I just need… you.”
He frowns, almost exasperated, and you wonder if he always looks this tired or if it’s always for you.
“I really don’t have the time,” he affirms.
“Can’t you just- next time you see him, even-”
“I don’t have regular meetings with the guy,” Jim tuts. Huh. You were kind of banking on that, to just get him to mention it.
“Hopper, I’m running out of options,” you moan.
“And that’s my problem?”
“It will be if I get run down on that damned road.”
He tilts his head with a frown. You huff. Arguing with Jim is frivolous; you seem to be losing the upper hand more and more.
“I get it. I do. But I’ve helped as much as I can. I’ve done your papers.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot that all Cops do is sit around and sign papers. It’s not like they get time away from the desk or anything.”
“Are you kidding me?” he raises an eyebrow.
“Just a phone call, Chief. Just call the guy and tell him- tell him that you’re right. I’m not saying that you have to do what he’s asked, but if you even just call that will be such a difference.”
“It’s never good enough for you, is it?” Jim sighs. You smile.
“Of course not.”
“Get out of my office.”
He hates that he shoos you away. He hates that if ever he catches you out- grocery shopping, walking children out of the nursery that you work at, and worst of all, holding them, playing with them on the green outside- he has to jog for at least an hour until you go away.
He hates that when he gets another case on the table that he really doesn’t care about, he can’t help but think of what you’d say. That you’d berate him for being in this position and not wanting to help people. So he does what maybe he’s ‘supposed’ to do, and matches up the old woman with her lost purse, and reprimands the thief.
It’s more to think about. When he’s engaging in work, and exercising more. It's an effort, but it is more to think about, more to do.
Before you know it, over a month has gone by since you managed to deliver the Chief’s papers. The mayor organises a town meeting. The few who bother to show up already care about the cause; nobody’s really against it anyway. Until the Mayor insists that the money would come out of everyone’s own pockets. Because apparently there’s not a pot for this kind of thing.
Everyone starts to shuffle away. You pull your elbows to your chest, dizzied in the fluorescent lights of an emptying hall, and realise that Hopper is standing at the back with the same disinterest.
“Come to mock me?” you raise an eyebrow.
“I came because I’m part of the town.”
You nod, slightly guilty for that remark. Really, when you treat him like he’s going to be an asshole- then he’s an asshole.
“Your partner’s not here,” he remarks. You tilt your head.
“No. I represent the both of us.”
“Where is he?”
Hopper’s eyes are intense on you. Almost like- like he wants you to admit it. Like he’s pressuring you, begging you, pleading you to say. Interrogation and admission.
“He told me, work,” you say lightly. “Why, you think he’s somewhere else?”
You raise your eyebrows playfully. It’s easier to play with this kind of thing. If you make a joke about it, it’s not real.
The look on Jim’s face suggests he knows where your boyfriend is.
You bite a lip.
“Look, if you wanna help me out at all, you can track down that guy-” you point to the mayor- “and tell him that he’s an idiot, and he’s messing with me.”
“He is an idiot,” Hopper admits gruffly.
“There you go, you’re halfway there. Now tell him that.”
Jim regards you with an expression you can’t decipher. You’re smiling- it’s all still a game, really, everything’s a game here so you don’t get hurt. He looks at the flyers in your hand that you designed. He looks at your clothes- youthful and pretty.
And whether you’re telling him what to do, or scolding him, he gets better. He does things for other people, does things to look after himself.
He straightens up and walks over to the Mayor. You don’t let the shock stop you from leaving the building.
You don’t hear anything else from either guy. You assume it’s at a standstill, again, the other citizens either annoyed it’s not happening or not caring enough to fundraise.
But he did help. He continues to help. Your boyfriend accuses you of cheating with the guy, and you don’t think the truth sounds very convincing when you know the Chief does something to you. Those calm eyes, the firmness, the way he’ll let you have control of the conversation just for a moment. Buff and broad and masculine.
You try not to think about it.
You’re out with kids on a school trip, getting them to hold hands as they walk, when you see Jim around. You try not to smile to yourself- that’s just your luck. You feel him looking at you, and try not to think too much of it, before changing your mind as you pass.
“Everyone say good morning to the police officer!”
The kids chirrup their good mornings to him as they pass, voices sweet in the warm spring air. He makes eye contact with you- lips curled, eyebrows raised. You smile briefly, not giving him any more attention, walking the children back to their classroom in as straight a line as you can manage.
It’s soon enough the end of the day. You take the kids out to their parents, and Jim’s still out there, just standing on the pavement. The last child finds the last parent and you do a quick handover before Jim’s talking to you.
“I wondered what you did that meant you could bother me all the time,” he remarks. You try not to smirk. He’s closer, now. You cross your arms against the spring breeze.
“I’m a nursery teacher. Three days a week.”
He nods knowingly.
“Is there a reason you’re hovering?” you ask. You hope there’s no edge in your voice- it’s a genuine question, but it sounds kind of rude.
Hopper regards you with a gentle frown. He takes a few steps even closer to you, hands in his back pockets.
“I can’t do much on my end.”
You wait for there to be more. There isn’t more. That’s just it, the only part, Hopper ‘can’t do’ anything else.
“Why not?”
“He wants me to have some data for him, run the numbers, prove he’ll save money, and take it to a meeting and… basically, he wants me to grovel.”
You blink at him.
“Then grovel.”
He puts his tongue in his cheek, arms folded against his broad chest.
“I mean- you clearly think I’m right, Chief. You want there to be speed bumps. If the one guy wants you to grovel, just get on your knees. Everything will work out. It’s not that bad a hit- we all know he’s an asshole.”
Jim tuts.
“You are such a princess.”
You give a disdainful moan, knowing it’s childish, knowing you’re kind of proving his point.
“So spoilt. I did the papers, like you wanted. And I spoke to him. Like you wanted. Now I’m not debasing myself just so you can play the self-righteous good girl.”
His voice rises. You feel it in your wrists, your chest, your underwear.
“I’m not self righteous. I’m just right.”
“Oh,” he chuckles darkly. “You are, are you?”
“Yes. Now stop saying you can’t help when you can, and you’re refusing. Don’t lie to me. Tell me properly.”
This- you’ve set a fire under him again. You can see it in his eyes, dangerous, dark, the flames starting to lick your chest, too.
“Listen, Princess,” he starts gruffly.
“Oh boohoo, you think I’m pretty and important. Try again.”
His jaw twists. Eyes steel. He puts a hand to the wall behind you, trapping you in with his large frame.
“I’m not going to help you.” The words are low and slow and decided. You gulp. “I’ve done enough, and you’ve caused me grief already. I don’t want to help you.”
You lick your lips and glance down to his belt. You can’t even quite know why you’ve done it. If it’s a nervous tic, to look away; you look at his gun to remind yourself he’s a law enforcer; you look at his crotch to remind yourself that your boyfriend has a point being jealous.
Your eyes come up slowly, and God, you know he’s noticed. You settle back against the wall.
“Yes,Chief,” you breathe. It’s light and pathetic in his mouth.
Jim turns away a little, putting more distance between you, hand still on the wall.
“Now do the rest yourself. Be grateful for what you have.”
You nod subserviently. There’s only so long you can hold the power for in a conversation with him. There’s only so much you want to do before he’s towering over you, and still you feel safe, and worse, you kind of, almost, enjoy it.
How is Jim meant to forget you? You’re in his peripherals- either literally, in the street, or your number sits idly on the desk.
At night you’re behind his eyes. Arguing and matching passions or sinking into that sweet submission with that wide-eyed look on your face. Jogging won’t get it to go away. Drinking makes it worse; makes the want come stronger, hotter, begging to be silver against his bathroom tile.
Putting his head down at work, focussing on the few cases, actually doing them, helps it to go away. So he puts his head down.
And then, again, he sees your boyfriend out, canoodling with some woman who he doesn’t know but who is definitely not you, and he’s enraged. He could treat you better. You deserve better. And you should be told, but he doesn’t want to be the one to say, and not when you clearly already know. And you’re better than this. And you’re better than-
Jim realises he’s a bit of a hypocrite for thinking you deserve better from the world, and still withholding it from you. So he sighs. And he makes a phone call.