Chapter Text
There was an unspoken agreement amongst a good portion of the adult population of Hawkins, Indiana to never give Richard and Amelia Harrington a reason to come into town. But it wasn’t always that way.
Everyone in town knew of the Harrington family. They knew of the stoic business man who swept into town late in 1963 and bought up several vacant lots right outside of the town square. Of the modern new office complex he had built next to the library that didn’t quite fit their small town aesthetic but brought new employment opportunities no one could turn their noses up at. Of the factory he added on the outskirts of town to replace the decrepit old steelworks that was a workers comp suit waiting to happen, providing better, regulated working conditions for the families relying on it to put food on their tables. They knew of the gorgeous, if not very out of place, socialite wife he brought with him who had made the biggest house in Loch Nora a home, throwing an annual open house soiree that made all the housewives burn with jealousy. Who was the founder of the Hawkins chapter of the Junior League. They knew of a lovely, determined couple who had taken little Hawkins, Indiana and made it somewhere to be.
A few years later, they knew of a proud father and a doting mother of a sweet little baby boy with doe eyes. They knew of spreads in the local paper about the long awaited Harrington heir and what preschool the young darling would be attending. They knew of ribbon cuttings with the Mayor portraying the broad shouldered business man in a smart suit, the delicate beauty always at his side, and the impeccably dressed toddler adorably clutching her skirt. They knew of hospital wing dedications and charitable contributions and book readings at the orphanage a town over. The Harringtons were a picture perfect family adored by all.
Because the thing was, Hawkins needed the Harringtons. It was a simple fact. Which made it easy to brush off past nannies that whispered of a mother that immediately handed her child over the minute the cameras stopped flashing. Who had forgotten his second birthday all together, but never the first, because little Steven’s first birthday was the social event of the year in ‘68. Who told the house help to shut him up when he tripped on the concrete by the pool and skinned his knee. Who’s response to an art project from school proudly held out in front of her was “Am I supposed to be impressed with mindless scribbles, Steven?” It made it easy to ignore concerned murmurings from teachers who noticed an abnormal number of bruises on a five year old the first week of Kindergarten and questions from photographers about how tightly Richard gripped the boy’s arm during photo ops. Easy to ignore the way little Steven nervously glanced at his father before he spoke in public as if terrified to say the wrong thing. Easy to ignore that a small child shouldn't slightly flinch at every sudden movement.
Hawkins needed the Harringtons, so their good was celebrated and their bad was quickly swept under the rug with sad, quiet glances sent the little boy’s way. Until Jim Hopper stepped into the picture.
The Spring of 1973, Hopper was starting in on his eighth year with Hawkins PD. He had just made Deputy, he and Diane had just bought a new house, and Sarah was finishing up Kindergarten. The Hoppers kept to themselves for the most part. Jim worked long hours at the station, and Diane was usually busy with work or taking Sarah to playdates. The Harringtons had never really been more than a blip on Jim’s radar. They never really had a reason to be. It was a cold night at the beginning of May when Flo pushed her way into Jim’s office while he was filling out reports with a hard look on her face. Well, harder than usual.
“The Harringtons' neighbor called again,” she said with an even tone, visibly sizing the man up. Jim put his pen down and raised an eyebrow at Flo. “Protocol is all calls involving the Harringtons goes to the Chief, but he’s still out with the flu. Have you been briefed on the Harrington Protocol?” Jim’s other eyebrow shot up on his forehead.
“The hell do they need their own protocol for?” He asked gruffly. Flo nodded and her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Good,” she said, completely ignoring his question. “The neighbors have called in a noise complaint. Said it must be a party, but they are requesting someone come break it up immediately. Lady on the phone sounded really upset. Told her you’d be there in a jif. Don’t use the siren.” The woman said before turning on her heel and walking back to her desk. Flo was known for being short and not taking anyone’s shit, but this was different. He felt like she was speaking in a code he never got the key for. He huffed and got up to grab his hat and jacket before heading out the door.
“Hop?” He heard Flo call out from the station’s side door as he was about to get into the car. He looked over at her in acknowledgement. “If the hospital needs to get involved, don’t take him in the main entrance. Enter through the west atrium and ask for Claudia Henderson. I got her name from Millie Montgomery. She’s brand new, and she wouldn't have needed to be debriefed yet. She’ll be less clinical.” She went back inside before Jim had a chance to respond.
He ran a hand over his face before yanking open the door and pulling himself into the car. What the fuck was going on? Why did Richard Harrington get to apparently throw raging parties and then get special treatment at the damn ER? Why would he even need to go to the ER after a party? And why was there apparently an entire protocol built around his social life? The man wasn’t a god. He made it to the Harrington house in ten minutes, and spent the next minute looking at it in utter confusion. Most of the lights were off. There was no loud music. He wasn’t here to bust up a party.
He quickly got out of the car and made his way up the drive. There was a weird feeling of dread settling in his stomach, but he couldn’t place his finger on why. He had knocked three times with no answer and was debating on whether or not he should turn around and leave before the door swung open to show Amelia Harrington with an open wine bottle in her hand and a cigarette delicately balancing between her fingers. Her hair and makeup were still impeccably done despite the late hour. She still wore an elegant, emerald green cocktail dress and sleek heels. The only thing off about her appearance was the slight annoyed furrow to her brow.
“Looks like the neighbors still can’t mind their own business,” she said with a bored tone as she lifted the cigarette to her lips. She looked Jim up and down as if noticing his features for the first time. “You’re not Chief Rogers.” Which was an astute observation. They should sign her up for the force.
“No ma’am. Rogers is out with the flu. I’m Deputy Hopper here about a noise complaint,” he said with his best “pleasing the public” voice that usually only came out when the department had to make the rare public address. Not much happened in their sleepy town to be newsworthy. The woman in front of him rolled her eyes and mumbled something about busybodies who needed to worry about themselves as she reached over to the ornate umbrella tree in the foyer and grabbed her purse.
“Very well. It’s probably for the best. I think he broke something. Hasn’t shut up about his arm hurting and won’t stop blubbering. I’m sure we can count on your discretion,” she said as she pulled a handful of bills out and held them towards Hopper. His eyes widened.
“Ma’am?” At that moment he felt like every bit of his interrogation training had gone out the window, because there was no way to school the absolute shock off of his face. What the hell had Flo signed him up for? When he didn’t move, the woman sighed in annoyance and shoved the money in the front pocket of Jim’s shirt.
“I’ll go get him,” she said with a bored tone as she turned and headed into the house. Hopper then realized exactly why he was there. He had been tricked into carting some most likely drunk, rich asshole off to the hospital because his wife didn’t want to deal with him. Couldn’t they pay somebody for that? God knew they had the money. Jim didn’t get paid enough for this shit. But he guessed the wad of twenties in his pocket would help with that. It beat peeling Frankie Stanton off his stool at the local bar for the third time this week to make him sober up in the drunk tank.
“You better stop your whining and keep your goddamn mouth shut. I better not hear you misbehaved for the nice officer.” Jim heard her stern voice and the click of her heels on the hardwood floors before he saw her, and when he did see her, he wished he hadn’t. She rounded into the foyer with a bored look on her face as she all but dragged her kid behind her. Her sharp nails dug into the tender flesh of his right bicep. His left arm was held carefully and protectively against his chest. The left side of his face was bruised around his wide tear filled eyes. Amelia walked the boy to the front door and roughly pushed him towards Hopper. “Richard has to be up at five, so you better have him home before that unless you want to have to come right back.” She said casually before she shut the door behind her son. Hopper hadn’t even had a chance to process what the fuck had just happened.
Big, watery, brown eyes met his briefly before quickly diverting to the ground. The arm that his mother had previously been dragging him by came up to cradle the left, and the boy quietly whimpered as he touched it before he cut himself off. He stood stiff as a board. Jim had been trained on how to break up domestic situations. He’d been trained on how to comfort children as he connected them with a social worker or another family member. He had never been trained on how to react to the absolute nonchalance Amelia Harrington showed while handing her beaten son over to a stranger to clean up what appeared to be her husband’s handiwork.
“T-Thank you for taking the time out of your day to deal with me, Mr. Sir,” the small trembling voice broke Jim out of his thoughts, and he was finally able to switch his brain back over to cop mode. There was a little boy who needed his help. A little boy who talked way too proper, as if he’d been threatened out of talking like a kid, and thanked police officers for “dealing” with him.
“You can call me Hopper,” he managed to croak out before clearing his throat and regaining some of his composure. The boy slightly nodded but didn’t raise his gaze from the ground. “What happened to your arm, Steven?” The boy tensed and his head snapped up, eyes welling up a little more.
“You’re not apposed to ask that. The other man never does,” he said softly, shifting his eyes from Hopper to his front door frantically. He remembered what Flo had said about the Harrington Protocol and all calls going through the Chief. About nurses being debriefed and what door to bring the kid through. About how Amelia was not surprised to see a cop, but surprised that he wasn’t Rogers. About how she so easily handed over a handful of bills before dragging her six year old to the front door. This wasn’t the first time that kid had been hit hard enough to need medical attention. And the Chief of Police was apparently spearheading the coverup. Anthony Rogers could go fuck himself.
“I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to upset you. Why don’t we go get that arm looked at? It looks like it hurts,” he said in his Dad Voice. The one that attended tea parties with Sarah and performed bear surgeries and patched up booboos. Steven’s eyes flitted between him and the door a couple more times before he nodded and started walking towards Jim’s car. Jim got the kid buckled up in the back seat, and started the car, seeing the kid jump slightly in the rearview mirror at the loud noise it made when it started up.
“What kind of music do you want to listen to?” he asked as he pulled out into the road. Hopper glanced into the rearview mirror again to see the kid staring at the back of his head in confusion.
“Whatever you like, Mr. Sir,” he said slowly, almost like he was answering a question in school that he wasn’t convinced he was right about. Jim wondered how much of the kid's brain power was dedicated to making sure he didn’t say the wrong thing. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown was currently playing, which didn’t feel like a song a kid would enjoy, so Jim switched it to the station he usually played when Sarah was in the car with him. One song was fading out as it transitioned to the next. The first verse started, and Jim heard a small squeak from the back seat. He glanced in the mirror again, and saw that Steven’s lips had slightly quirked up.
“It’s just Hopper, kiddo. Do you like this one?” he asked with his Dad Voice again, and Steven’s eyes widened like he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. He quickly focused his eyes back on his lap and shrugged his right shoulder.
“Crocodiles are cool,” the boy murmured softly. Jim turned the volume up a little, and let Elton John fill the silence the rest of the short drive to the hospital.
When they arrived, Jim followed the directions Flo had given him. He pulled up to the West Atrium, got Steven out of the car and took him to the nurses station there where he asked for a Claudia Henderson. After a few minutes a short, plump woman with light curly hair around Hopper’s age approached them.
“Hi, Deputy Hopper, am I in any trouble?” she asked warmly, not yet noticing the little boy trying to hide himself behind Hopper’s leg.
“Not at all, Mrs. Henderson. I was just wondering if you could help my little friend, Steven, here. He seems to have hurt his arm, and a Millie Montgomery told me you could help with that,” he said pleasantly, stepping to the side so that the nurse could see the boy. Steven quickly averted his eyes to the ground. Claudia’s eyes widened a bit as she shifted her gaze between Hopper and the boy.
“Of course! Let me bring you both back to an empty room.” Claudia glanced over to the nurses station where the nurses on duty were shooting them sad, knowing looks, before leading them down a hallway and into an exam room, pulling the steps leading up to the table out. “Alright, Steven, can you hop up on this table for me, sweetie?” The boy nodded his head and wobbled his way up the steps, the left arm clutched to his chest throwing off his balance a little bit. He mumbled something under his breath that neither adult caught. “I’m sorry, honey, can you repeat that?”
“It’s just Steve,” he said a little bit louder, taking a quick glance at Jim before looking back at his lap. Claudia gave him a warm smile.
“Well, Just Steve, you have some nasty looking bruises, and it looks like your arm is hurt pretty bad. Is it ok with you if I check those out?” The woman’s voice exuded warmth, and Jim saw Steve’s shoulders loosen up a bit. He nodded slightly. “Great, I’m just going to feel around them a little bit and make sure nothing’s hurt too badly. Will you let me know if anything starts hurting more when I touch it?” The boy nodded again. “Pinky promise?” Claudia asked very seriously, holding her pinky out. Steve’s lips quirked up again, and he wrapped his pinky around the nurse’s outstretched one.
Claudia gently prodded the bruises on the boy’s face, and Jim could tell they were painful, but Steve didn’t make a peep. It wasn’t until Claudia reached out to touch the boy’s arm that had definitely swelled since they had left the house that Steve made an audible reaction, whimpering sharply and jerking his body back.
“Oh, sweetie, I think we need to get an x-ray. I’m going to take you to get some pictures of your arm. Then once we have those, and I let the doctor take a look at them, I can get you some medication for the pain and get you patched up. Does that sound ok?” Steve looked between the two adults in the room, trying to decide what he was supposed to say. Jim gave him a small nod.
“Can Hopper come with me?” he asked softly
“He can’t go into the x-ray room with us, but he can walk to the door,” Claudia said gently. Steve seemed to mull over the compromise in his head before he nodded his agreement. “Great! It’s a really slow night, so let me check one thing with the nurses station, and then I should be right back to take you there.” Claudia slipped out the door quickly, but Hopper didn’t miss the way her face crumpled slightly as soon as Steve couldn’t see her anymore.
“Not too much longer, kiddo. We should be out of here soon,” Jim said as the door shut behind her. Steve looked up at him and cocked his head to the side, examining the man in front of him.
“Why are you being so nice to me? The other man never talks to me, and he doesn’t take me to the nice nurse. He takes me to the doctor with the mean face and jerky hands.” It’s the most words Jim has heard Steve say at one time all night, and it breaks his heart that a six year old feels the need to ask why someone is being nice.
“You seem like a good kid, Steve. Why wouldn’t I be nice?” Jim said, not quite knowing how to respond to his question. Steve looks at his lap again.
“I’m bad. I’m not worth it,” he said softly, and Jim’s heart felt like it dropped to his stomach.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re-” He was cut off by the door opening again, and Claudia fluttering into the room.
“Alrighty, let’s go do a photoshoot,” she said, clapping her hands together gently. She helped Steve down off the exam table and led them to the radiology department, before turning to Hopper. “This is as far as you can go, Chief, but I should have him back out in thirty minutes or less.”
“Thanks, is there a payphone around here?” Claudia nodded and pointed down the hallway.
“If you take that left, you’ll run right into them.”
“Great. I’ll be right out here when you’re done. Ok, kiddo?” He asked crouching down slightly to be more on Steve’s level.
“Pinky Promise?” he asked quietly, holding his right pinky out, looking up at Jim with shiny eyes.
“You bet,” he said, wrapping his pinky up with Steve’s. Claudia smiled at him before directing the boy through the door. Once it had closed, Hopper beelined for the payphones, dropping a quarter in and dialing the station’s number. It rang three times before the line picked up.
“Hawkins PD. This is Flo,” came her bored voice through the line.
“You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Jim breathed into the phone, looking in both directions to make sure no one was listening in. Flo sighed.
“I take it you’re at the hospital,” she said with a sad hint to her voice.
“Yes, I’m at the goddamn hospital with a six year old with bruises on his face, possibly a broken arm, a mother who basically threw him out the door, and a hospital staff that doesn’t seem surprised to see him. Flo, tell me this whole damn town isn’t involved in covering up Richard Harrington abusing his son. What the hell happened to mandatory reporting?! I know it’s a fairly new law, but it’s still the damn law. Who’s looking out for this kid?!” He was trying to keep his tone even, as to not draw attention, but he was having a hard time holding back. He had been holding back all night, and he finally wasn’t in front of an easily frightened child. Flo sighed sadly through the phone line.
“People do what they can for him, Jim,” she said dejectedly. “Well, most do.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? People let him go back to that house, so they’re obviously not doing much! I’m sure as hell not about to bring him back there after this.” Flo sighed again, sounding exhausted.
“Yes, you are, Jim. You have to.”
“Like hell I do!” he fumed into the phone.
“Jim, who do you think paid for most of that hospital? Or the new uniforms and guns we got last year? Or the mayor’s goddamn re-election campaign? I’m not saying that it’s right, and lord knows I’ve been reading Rogers the riot act for years, not that he gives a damn, he’s more than happy to take the hush money, but the Harringtons own this town, Jim. If people at the hospital speak up, they’ll lose their jobs. Their livelihoods. If I speak too loud, Rogers will fire me in a heartbeat. I’ve got kids to feed, Jim. I’m not saying it’s enough. I know it’s not. But we do what we can. Mrs. Jameson, who put the call in tonight, knows what signs to watch for to know when it’s been a particularly bad night, and the kid will need more help than his parents are willing to give. I had you take the call tonight, because I knew you would care. I knew, if just for one night, someone would be in that kid’s corner. I had you ask for Claudia Henderson, because I knew she was new enough to have not gotten the “disengage or lose your job” talk yet. I have Millie keep tabs on that. Rogers just usually ignores my suggestions.” Her voice was desperate for him to understand. For him to maybe even absolve her of her sins, as if he could. And he did understand. She was right. Michael Harrington owned this town almost literally, and Amelia Harrington owned it in every social way possible. It would be nearly impossible to work around that.
“I get that, Flo. I do. But I’m not bringing that kid back to his house tonight. I can’t. I'll deal with the consequences,” he said evenly. Flo let out a breath that he couldn’t tell if it was relief or anxiety. Probably both.
“Just. Be careful, Jim. This might not end up the way you want it to,” she said with more sincerity than the man had ever heard in her voice.
“I know, but I’ve got to try,” he said with finality before bidding Flo a good night and hanging up the phone. He rested his forehead against the phone bay for a quick minute before taking a deep breath to compose himself and heading back towards Steve. He walked up to the door just as Steve and Claudia were walking out.
“I told you I’d still be here,” Jim said with as much of a smile as he could muster. Steve’s lips quirked up softly.
“Alrighty, I’m going to take you back to your room real quick. It will take about 15 minutes for your pictures to develop, and then the doctor will need to take a quick look at them. Between you and me, waiting for the doctor usually takes the longest,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper as they walked down the hallway, causing Steve to let out a sound that almost sounded like a giggle. “But fear not, because I already have one on standby to take a look. It really is a slow night.” Or the hospital’s in a hurry to get the injured child out before too many people see him. It seems like the majority of the hospital has a smooth system for making sure news doesn’t travel fast in their small town.
“Thank you for taking care of me tonight,” Steve said quietly, looking quickly over to Hopper for approval as they entered his room again. Jim could only give him a weak smile, but Claudia beamed at him.
“You’re just the sweetest boy. My Dusty is still just little, but I hope he grows up to be as polite as you, sweetie,” she said as she helped Steve back up on the table.
“I bet you’re a really nice mom,” Steve said to her as she turned to leave the room to catch the doctor. Steve didn’t see the way tears fill her eyes, but Jim did.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said softly before composing herself and clapping her hands together. “I’m going to see if I can get some answers from that doctor, and then I’ll be right back.”
“Let’s play a game” Hopper said as soon as the door closes, trying to lighten the mood. They spent the next thirty minutes until Claudia got back playing I-Spy. She came back with a positive verdict. The arm wasn’t broken, just badly sprained. Claudia set Steve up with an arm brace, a sling, and some children’s pain relief and told Hopper he could take him home. There were no discharge papers. No records to file away. A six year old came into the hospital after being beaten by his father, and there was no record.
“When you take me home, you have to bring me to the back door. They leave that one unlocked,” Steve said once they were in the car and moving.
“I’m actually going to take you to my house. It’s late, and I have a daughter your age. The two of you can have a sleepover,” Jim said gently.
“NO!” Jim didn’t think the boy was capable of making such a loud noise.
“Ste-”
“No, I’ll be in so much trouble,” Jim could hear the tremble in his voice. He was sure if he looked in the back seat, he would see the boy shaking.
“Steve, I’ll make sure you don't get in trouble. I'll go talk to your dad tomorrow and explain that it was late,” Jim said in full, comforting Dad Voice.
“H-He’ll be so m-mad at me when I get home,” the boy was crying. Jim pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road. He put the car in park, and turned his body as much as he could to face the boy.
“Steve, please look at me,” he said gently, and the boy slowly lifted his head. He had tears pouring down his cheeks and his whole body was slightly trembling. It made Jim sick to know how scared he was of the man who was supposed to protect him. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure your dad isn’t mad at you. But in order to do that, I need to trust me. I know that’s a lot to ask, and I know you don’t know me very well. But I promise, I’m going to make sure you’re safe.” Steve took a shaky breath, and held his right pinky out.
“Pinky promise?” Jim linked his pinky with Steve’s
“Pinky Promise, kiddo.” Steve nodded his head and leaned back in his seat, the anxiety seeming to drain out of his body. After all, everyone knows you can’t lie on a Pinky Promise. Jim just really hoped that was true.