Archive of Our Own

There was no reasonable explanation that Steve could conjure in order to explain why he chose to do such idiotic shit. That wasn’t entirely true; he had some inclination as to why he acted like a dumbass, he simply had no intentions on unpacking all of that. This used to work; getting drunk and surrounding himself with people who all but worshiped him. Any time he felt inadequate or had any similarly negative emotions brewing, his solution was to fill his house with other dumbasses like himself, get shit faced, and then repeat the cycle whenever he inevitably began to feel down once more.

Since his encounter with the Demogorgon, his interest in partying had gradually lost its appeal–or maybe he had just lost his touch. He wouldn’t doubt it; Hargrove had shown him that much. Though, he couldn’t exactly blame his fall from grace on Hargrove; Steve had felt himself slipping since his decision to distance himself from Tommy and Carol. Given the reception he had been given that night, Steve would argue that neither of those factors had any effect on his status as King of Hawkin’s High.

A hand wiped beneath his nose: wet–cold. He hadn’t needed to look to know he was smearing blood across his skin; he just hoped it wasn’t broken. The path beneath him was uneven–or perhaps he’d simply tangled his feet in his drunken stupor; regardless, he’d tripped. Curses escaped beneath his breath as he, thankfully, caught himself on a nearby tree. He took the momentary reprieve to lean his weight into the trunk, releasing an unsteady breath. He watched it hit the cool air, swearing again. He was drunk–beyond drunk. His stomach lurched, and the ground beneath him swayed. The last time he’d drank this much had to be as a young teen, before he’d known how to properly pace himself. He couldn’t dwell on the thought, instead, he devoted his energy to refraining from vomiting where he stood. 

A kegger in the woods had sounded like a great idea to a sober, past Steve Harrington–equally as moronic as his current counterpart. It was especially enticing considering he had been struggling with nightmares over the past week–give or take a few days. A handful of months had passed since his encounter with the demodogs and his meeting with Hargrove’s fists. Immediately after, he’d had his typical handful of bad dreams–honestly, he wouldn’t have even classified them as nightmares. They hadn’t compared to the true, unadulterated terror of the ones he’d faced directly after facing the demogorgon. Either way, he had some bad dreams and then he moved on, just as he had the first time. Why, then, months later he had these awful nightmares began to plague him? More than anything, the situation left him feeling irritable–likely from exhaustion. 

If he’d had to guess, it was most likely that they were stress induced; even his sloshed brain was able to reason that much. Graduation was coming up and it was official: Steve blew his chances at going to college! He wasn’t sure which reality was worse: that he’d spent the last four years not giving a damn about his grades or that he had actually tried and still couldn’t manage to do a God damn thing that was worthwhile. Maybe reality was a mixture of the two. Regardless, college was out and so was working at his dad’s business because the old bastard refused to hire him. Furthermore, he’d been resigned to hearing him bitching about Steve getting a job: he wasn’t sitting his ass on the sofa all summer! So, it meant he should have been job hunting and he hadn’t because he still had school and he still had track and he just couldn’t convince himself to do much of fucking anything outside of taking the kids places because he wasn’t going to let them down–not them. 

Speaking of graduation, he’d begun to wonder if his parents would even show up. They would be shipped off again in mid to late April. When Steve had reminded them of the date, he was met with proper hems and haws. They would be there to save face–they had to be. Unless his dad had some big business meeting or some shit, then he would spin a yarn that he couldn’t believe he missed his only son’s graduation. Oh, poor Steve Senior, he works so hard for his family.

Once again his hand was raising to wipe at his running nose; he ignored the blatant stinging of his eyes. Fuck–fuck! God dammit, he was meant to be having fun tonight; a last hurrah of sorts. Something to take his mind off of everything; to make up for the sleepless nights. God, he just needed any excuse to get shit faced, really. He supposed he’d accomplished that goal and then some–he couldn’t even fucking drink right. 

The beginning of the night had been good–great, even. It felt like old times, before he’d been thrust into a word of literal fucking monsters and everything had become so heavy and difficult. His classmates had actually been happy to see him. They'd busted his balls for laying low and made some remarks about him becoming a prude before shoving a solo cup into his hand; it was one of the many he downed that night. It was funny; he'd thought he would have forgotten how to ease into this after all of the bullshit he'd been through the past year and a half. Instead, it was quite effortless that he’d managed to slip back into the flow of things; mingling with his peers, talking sports, dancing. Granted, the alcohol definitely helped, but more than anything, he enjoyed the distraction. 

He liked having girls approach him; he liked getting to talk about mundane shit like sports and teachers. He liked being able to speak freely and to unwind–more than he had in a long ass while. Sure, it was yet another facade, but it was an easier one to manage than adult Steve or babysitter Steve. King Steve Harrington came naturally and it was a persona he almost missed–had it not been for Nancy shattering it. 

Steve knew that had been for the best. King Steve Harrington was an asshole, and it was a fitting persona for the evening; he knew he was being an ass, especially given all that had happened. He just couldn't be asked to care. 

All had been going well, that was, until a playful remark had been made regarding Nancy. 

Steve was typically level-headed–or, at the very least, it was a skill he’d honed over the past year and a half. Stupid shit being said to him didn't bother him as much as it once might have. Now that he was so tightly wound?

The worst part of the situation was that Steve didn't even remember what had been said, just that it had involved Nancy and that it pissed him off and that he'd gotten mouthy. 

“Dude, chill out.”

He’d remembered that much, and that statement had only served to piss him off further. One smartass remark led to a shove, which led to a swing, and eventually resulted in a full-blown fist fight. Steve wasn't necessarily sure he would say he won, but he sure as hell didn't lose. 

Hah. That didn't make this better at all. 

“The hell’re you doing, Harrington?” 

He was practically an adult–not that he hadn't been acting as one for years at that point. He was supposed to be a role model–Christ, what if they needed him? Steve could hardly help himself let alone anyone else while he was in a drunken stupor in the middle of the woods. It began to dawn on him that, even if he was needed, no one knew where he was; he neglected to tell anyone that he even planned on going to this party. Perhaps that was because he knew it was stupid. He knew it was an immature decision, and one that had ended miserably on Halloween as well. 

There was no dwelling on it at this point; the best he could do to remedy the situation for himself was to just get home without any further incident. Unsurprisingly, the thought was far easier than the actual execution–even that was an understatement considering his currently jumbled mind. He hadn't driven; not that there was much of an option, all things considered. He couldn’t exactly drive his car through the woods. Either way, the walk to the party had been easier than his return, especially considering he’d had a flashlight–wait. Fuck–he’d come with a flashlight–where the hell had that gone? 

Whatever, the flashlight was a formality. Even while completely hammered, he knew the woods better than most. Granted, it may have taken a bit longer than normal, but eventually he saw the soft glow of street lights and knew he'd found his way back to the road. Hah–he knew his instincts were still top notch (never mind the heightened thrum of his heartbeat against his chest). Holding back a sigh of relief, he proceeded to stumble his way past the tree line, back to civilization–where he was promptly flash banged.

Steve swore under his breath and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the headlights that flashed him.

“Dude! Come on!” 

He wasn’t sure if his frustrated call had been the actual reason the lights flicked off, but he wouldn’t complain. Now that he was no longer blinded, Steve hesitantly lowered his hand, and squinted eyes observed the car. 

“God dammit.” 

The driver side door popped open and Steve briefly debated turning on heel and bolting back into the woods. It wasn't a question if he was fast enough, but rather, if he was stable. 

“Harrington.”

What were the chances of Chief Jim fucking Hopper showing up? Apparently with Steve's luck, pretty damn high. 

He could still bolt; he was probably faster than a middle-aged father–police chief or not. However, even intoxicated Steve knew that was a horrible idea. He’d been in this position too many times to count, though, it was typically hardass Steven Harrington Senior staring him down, grilling him about his whereabouts as Steve exhausted all mental effort responding normally. He wondered if dealing with his father wasn't worse than this; at least Hopper wouldn't give him a crack if he sensed he was lying. 

“Hey, Chief.” It was a God damn super power how clearly those words slipped past his lips. “What are you doing out here?” 

Hopper shifted his weight as he approached. Despite the patrol car, Steve noted he was in civilian clothing. 

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” There was a sharpness to his tone; it made Steve's skin crawl.

“Yea, I guess you could.” Steve mumbled. His nose and lips were wet. “I just needed to clear my head.” 

“What, did you do that by walking into a tree?” 

Huh? Oh–right. The wet–shit. The back of his hand added a fresh layer of blood. 

“I fell. It's dark.” 

“Come on, Harrington.” There was that sharpness again. “I wasn't born yesterday.”

“I'm not sure what you're referring to.”

“No? You don't know anything about a kegger in the woods?”

“I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if there was, but I wouldn't know anything about it.”

While Hopper wasn't a particularly emotional man, there was one he wore with pride: annoyance. He couldn't help but pinch the bridge of his nose, swearing under his breath as he did so. This wasn't his first time dealing with Hopper and in this context, nonetheless. No, he wasn't a trouble maker, per say, but he certainly had a talent for getting himself into trouble. Hell, this hadn't even been the first time he'd been busted at a kegger, this was just the first time he had his hands tied. Under any other circumstances, he was gone by the time the cops even broke the tree line. Steve ran track for God's sake and knew those woods like the back of his hands; like hell was he letting himself get taken in, not with the looming threat of Steve Sr at home. 

“Okay, kid, you don’t want to talk? Fine. Then you can march your ass into the back of the cruiser.”

Steve visibly paled. 

“Chief, wait–come on, I'm practically home. I didn't even drive–can’t you just–”

“Did I stutter?” Hopper stalked over to the back of the car and yanked the door open; he gestured towards the back. “In.”

He could easily bolt now; his adrenaline sobered him up, however minimally. It would be easy to lose Hop in the trees; he would just need to be careful not to lead him towards the actual party. His legs twitched, prepping for a sprint–

“Shit.”

Begrudgingly, he stomped his way over to the cruiser and slipped into the backseat. 

“Language, Harrington.” After a mumbled apology, the door slammed and Hopper was trailing to the driver's seat. 

Steve respected Hopper too much to run–unfortunately. It would have been akin to spitting in the man's face after he'd taken him into his home just months earlier. Hell, he'd done more than just take him in; he'd taken care of him. 

Steve had been no stranger to concussions, but the one he’d nursed after Hargrove’s beating had been unlike any other. The only person who’d actually shown up to check on him was Hopper–Hopper, who insisted he pack a bag and stay with him because he absolutely refused to leave him alone while in that state. Granted, at first he mostly slept, but after that, Hopper cooked for him–them; him and El. While he hated being a burden on them, she seemed to be pleased there was an additional person around to keep her company. Hop made sure he got to school on time; he awkwardly would ask about his homework. He showed genuine concern that Steve hadn't known how to handle because it was more than he'd gotten from his own parents since he'd grown old enough to care for himself. 

Still, it hadn't made this situation any less awful. Yes, Steve had gotten into trouble in the past, but never this type of trouble. He had never been ushered into the back of a cruiser because he got busted for drinking; usually it was a slap on the wrist or calling for a ride home. His stomach lurched and he slumped over in the back of the car; his elbows rested on his thighs, allowing his fingers to loop through his hair. He pulled at his hair; it stung his scalp, but it was grounding as the engine kicked on and they pulled back onto the road. 

“Got the spins?” 

Steve briefly considered his answer; at this point, he hadn't seen any benefit to lying any longer.

“Yea.”

“Good. Maybe you'll remember that next time you decide to be a dumbass.” 

Alright, he had that one coming–or, at the very least, he agreed with the sentiment. He knew he was pushing himself beyond his typical limit; he just couldn't convince himself to care in the moment. He was most certainly regretting it now–he regretted even making the decision to go to the damn party. A few hours of distraction were not worth all of this–embarrassing himself in front of Hopper, because this was unfathomably embarrassing. Getting a mark on his freshly turned adult record. Steve was really knocking the whole adult thing out of the park. Jackass felt like too kind a sentiment. 

They had come to a stop far sooner than anticipated. The station was definitely further than what they'd driven. Naturally, Steve had sat back to steal a glance out the window–home. Hopper had taken him home. He'd taken him home. Steve resisted the urge to sigh in relief with that realization. 

“Yea, don't get too comfortable, kid. Go pack a bag.”

“What?”

“You're drunk, not deaf.” With that, Hopper had turned in his seat to face Steve. “Go pack a bag and get your ass back out here.”

“Jesus Christ–Hop, come on don't start with–”

“Bag. Then back here.”

“Chief, I'm a grown adult; I can take care of myself.”

“Well you sure as hell aren't acting like one!” 

His voice boomed inside the cramped vehicle, leaving Steve speechless–and what was he meant to say when Hopper was hitting him with the truth? As much as he wanted to stare at his feet, he forced himself to maintain Hopper's gaze. He had at least learned that much in his dealings with his father. 

“You call getting completely wasted in the middle of the woods mature? I bet you didn't tell anyone where you were going–that’s really smart, Steve. You of all people know what happens in those woods! And if something did happen? What do you think those kids would do without you?”

“I know!” Steve's response was explosive; within seconds he'd sunk back into the seat. “I know.” 

“No, you don't know. You're out looking for trouble as if we haven't had enough of it already! I could've driven your ass to the station but I didn't. So, show some damn respect, get out of the car, and do what I'm telling you to.” 

“Honestly, I'd rather you just take me to the station at this point.” 

For the first time, Hopper was left speechless. He gaped at the kid; after everything he just said–after that verbal lashing, he wanted him to take him in? 

“You know what, Harrington, I think maybe you have had one too many concussions–you need to get your head checked, kid. You'd rather be booked then stay a single night at my house?” 

Steve finally broke eye contact; his gaze turned towards the window, instead. 

“Yea. That's exactly what it sounds like.”

The hell was wrong with this kid? He hadn't put up this much of a fight when Hargrove smashed his fucking face in–quite frankly, he was pissing Hopper off. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath as he swung back around to face the windshield. He wasn't good with this sort of thing–he had a girl, two girls. He didn't know how to deal with an older, closed off teenage boy–hell, a kid who'd been forced into an adult role since he was as young as his own kid. A kid who wouldn't allow himself to be looked after because, frankly, he hadn't ever been and it fucking infuriated Hopper. His gaze turned to look at the house, so big compared to the kid sitting in his back seat. 

Steve had been doing so good, despite the whole–well, everything. The only time Hopper saw him was when he'd been supervising outings, or when the kids would show up, unannounced, to swim or watch a movie or just do anything because, for some reason, they just flocked around the teen. He would see him complain when dropping El off, but it was so clear it was forced. His partying dropped off and he could see the shift in his behavior. 

Truthfully, he'd been the last person Hopper had expected to see when he'd caught word of the party. Needless to say, when he'd flashed the kid with his headlights, he'd been beyond disappointed; that, and concerned. 

The kid wasn't sleeping; one look at him told Hopper that much. He knew the look–he’d seen it one too many times staring back at him in the mirror. It made his bloodied nose and split lip all that more concerning. This wasn't just a dumbass teenager; this was a kid who'd already experienced horrors most wouldn't, looking for an outlet. 

A light turned on–literally and then figuratively. Hah–so that's why the kid didn't want to go in.

“When did your parents get home?” 

The question was posed as nonchalantly as Hopper could manage. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror so he could gauge Steve's reaction. He could see the way his shoulders tensed–the tightening of his jaw.

“What time is it?” 

“Half past eleven.”

“No clue.”

Hopper's open mouth twitched. 

“Okay, smartass–”

“They must've gotten home earlier tonight. They weren't supposed to be back until late Sunday, early Monday.”

“Alright, here's the deal.” Steve had perked up; he turned to glance at Hopper's sharp gaze in the mirror. “You’re going to get out of the car and I’m going to drive down to the end of the block. I will wait there for exactly fifteen minutes–fifteen–and then I will drive home. Whatever happens in between is none of my business.”

Steve stared silently for a few moments. Eventually, his gaze turned back towards the house and once again Hop saw his jaw tighten. He reached for the handle–

“I’d wash my face if I were you.”

Right–he was probably still bloody. After a mumble of acknowledgement, Steve popped open the door and began the slow walk to the front door. He felt his heart hammering against his chest; nothing was more sobering than anxiety. He fished his keys out of his pocket and sorted through them. His vision felt blurry and his stomach lurched–God he really didn’t want to throw up. He pushed the key into the lock (finally making it after a third attempt) and swiftly unlocked the door and slipped inside. He bolted up the steps, praying neither of his parents would bother him until he had the chance to at least wash his face. When he’d slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

Tired eyes stared at his reflection as the water ran. Not as bad as he was used to–the thought would have been depressing if his brain hadn’t felt so fuzzy. He cupped the water with his hands and splashed his face. He kept his eyes closed for a moment, allowing the water to drip down into the sink. He grabbed the nearby bar of soap and lathered his hands–Nance yelled at him for that a few times, too harsh on his skin, but he hadn’t necessarily cared as he scrubbed the old and new blood from his face. After splashing his face again, clearing the suds, he fumbled around for the hand towel and blotted his face. Pulling himself back up to look in the mirror, he used a hand to brush back his hair; some of it had gotten a bit damp, of course, but he couldn’t deny he looked leagues better than he had previously. His brows knitted when he spotted the spatter of blood on his shirt–he’d need to change it. With a sigh, he pulled away from the mirror and proceeded into the hallway.

He hoped his mother was the one stalking around downstairs; it was a vague thought as he quietly crept into his bedroom and flopped back onto his bed. She was easier to deal with than Steve Sr; yes, he had done this song and dance before, but he’d never felt this drunk. Honestly, he wanted to pass out right where he was. And yet–

He pulled back his sleeve and stole a glance at his watch; the numbers felt nonsensical but he managed to catch the time. Hopper was out there. He didn’t know why that prospect was–even a prospect at all, quite frankly. He felt–selfish? Was that even the correct word? His parents had just gotten back–they would only be around for a fleeting moment before they were off again, leaving Steve to fend for himself. Somewhere in that timeline he would be reamed by his father again for his failure to get into college; it seemed to be the only thing he could harp on anymore. Did you find a job yet? If you applied yourself more you would have something lined up–better yet, you would be leaving for college in September. Jesus, Steven, we have a reputation to uphold. Can you be even remotely remarkable? 

It was absentmindedly that he sat up and pulled the shirt from over his head. He shuffled over to the dresser and dug around for a clean one; he settled on a t-shirt that could slip under his jean jacket he’d been wearing previously. At least he hadn’t gotten blood on that, he thought, as he fished his dufflebag from his closet. 

Hopper had his own kid; they really hadn’t needed Steve intruding on their personal space. He had parents; two parents who, up to this point, had provided him a comfortable life. They cared for him in their own way–they just weren’t like the other parents he’d seen. He wasn’t like El, he wasn’t a sweet young girl; of course she was easy to love. But then there were the Byers’s; Joyce clearly adored her kids, hell, she moved heaven and hell to find her kid. She made loving her children look effortless. Somewhere along the way, Steve couldn’t help but wonder if he was the common denominator. Perhaps his parents treated him the way they had because he was so difficult to love. Nancy all but reinforced that; if his parents couldn’t love him, how the hell was he meant to keep some else?

“Fuck.” The word was a whisper beneath his breath as he shoved a pair of socks deep into his bag. Again, he was meant to distract himself from this line of thinking tonight, not reinforce it.

The bag was zipped and thrown over his shoulder. He dug a palm into one of his eyes as he carefully pushed open his bedroom door and crept back down the stairs. He should have been grateful he still had two parents that let him live in their home–he was too tired to find it in himself. Fuck, embarassing as it was to admit to himself, right now, he felt safer at Hopper’s than he did here. 

“Steven?”

Shit. At the very least, his hopes had been confirmed–thank God, he thought, because something good had to happen every now and then. He turned to face his mother who held a wine glass in her hand, staring closely at her son–scrunitizing. He really, really did not feel like putting on an act. 

“Hey. You and dad are back early.” 

“You’re home late. We were wondering where you were.” 

No preamble, then. Fine. 

“Yea. I had track practice then I was hanging out with some of the guys.” Which, really, wasn't a total lie. “I came home to grab some stuff–I was going to sleep over Matthew's.” 

“Without your car?” 

Shit–fuck. Of course they'd seen his car in the garage. 

“I got a ride.”

“Steven.” 

“Alright, mom–look. I had two beers. I know it was stupid but I didn't want to even risk driving.” Her tongue clicked and Steve swore he was trying not to sweat in front of this woman as she glared daggers through him. “I know, it was stupid,” he repeated, “but I won't lie to you–and I'm not driving.” 

Steve knew that was a huge gamble; even if it did work, he was getting ripped a new one when he got back home. However, the lashing he would receive had she not chosen to believe him would undoubtedly be worse than two beers.

Her hardened gaze finally softened, much to Steve's relief. Instead, it had been placed with a certain tiredness and what Steve would have undoubtedly classified as disapproval. 

“Be careful. Your father went to bed just after we got home. I'll let him know where you are tomorrow morning.”

Which basically meant I'm telling your father what you were up to when he wakes up because he won't approve. Steve couldn't even dwell on it; he was still riding on the high that she had actually believed him. 

“All right I will be. I'll see you.” 

Steve quickly snatched his keys and exited through the front door. That interaction had taken just about all of the energy he'd had left. He was feeling particularly shitty and exhausted and he just wanted to stay in a home where he didn't need to worry whether or not he'd be forcibly awoken the next morning and chastised for his decisions. That, or ambushed the moment he came out of his room. Hell, he just wanted a weekend with an adult who didn't question his every waking move. 

For about a minute, he thought he'd been too late and would need to trudge back to his front door and come up with another story as to why he was back. At that point, sleeping in his car almost felt like a viable option–that was, until he spotted it: Hopper's car that had been easy to miss when the lights were off. As he approached, the driver's side window was cranked down. 

“Up front.” 

Steve steered around the front of the car and popped open the passenger's seat. He threw the bag at his feet and slipped in. 

“Seatbelt.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s my car. Put your damn seatbelt on.”

Steve grumbled as he fussed with the belt. It took him a few attempts, but he eventually succeeded and leaned his head against the window. 

“I'm surprised you came back, Harrington. You cut it pretty close.” 

“Yea. Well, I show up when it counts.”

Hopper found it hard to fight the amused puff of air that escaped him with that comment. He knew Steve hadn’t thought much of that statement; hell, it was all but mumbled as he eased into his seat, but Hopper couldn't deny the truth behind it. He was there for those kids when they needed it–even for the stupid, small things. That thought in mind, a soft sigh escaped him as he flicked on his headlights and pulled out of the neighborhood. 

He knew he was being hard on the kid, especially considering he knew this was uncharacteristic behavior for Steve but–dammit, he'd made him worry and that was how Hopper expressed himself; by yelling and throwing insults. It didn't help that he added anger to the mix: for Christ’s sake the Harringtons’ kid came home drunk off his ass and they just let him walk out the door. Of course he couldn’t confirm he’d run into either of them, but the point stood. And, of course, Steve didn’t know his annoyance and anger equated to concern; he wasn’t accustomed to it. He wasn’t sure if the kid was necessarily accustomed to anyone worrying about him period. That thought was enough to get his blood boiling again. 

The Harringtons’ had a living breathing kid–a good kid and they left him alone 90% of the time. They hadn't the slightest idea what was going on in his life nor, from what Hopper had gathered, did they care to unless they could use it as social currency. But that was always the way it shook out, wasn't it? The parents who shouldn't have kids could always keep them. And then there was Hopper. 

God he needed a smoke. He'd fish one out of his stash when he was home and Steve and El were asleep. For the time being, he had to focus on the kid beside him. 

“Hey, kid. You with me?” 

“Yep–focusing on not throwing up, actually.”

“Well you better focus pretty damn hard because if you hurl, you're cleaning it up. And I mean spotless.”

“Jesus, you sound like me.”

Hop side eyed Steve; he remained unmoving, head head pressed against the window, arms crossed over his chest but oh, he saw the twitching of his lips–a ghost of a smile. 

“Yea? How’s that?”

Steve’s nostrils flared as he released a puff of air. 

“First off, they–the kid’s–never wipe their damn feet. Should make ‘em vacuum the mats.” Finally Steve shifted; he raised a hand to scratch at his jaw. “One time Henderson asked me to pick ‘im up at Wheeler’s house. He had the stomach flu–I told him if he puked in my car he was scrubbing the interior.” 

That information wasn’t even remotely surprising; he knew how much the kid loved his car. 

“So?” Hopper asked, unable to conceal his own small grin.

Steve’s brows furrowed.

“So what?”

“Did he?” 

“Oh yea, everywhere.” 

A puff of a laugh escaped Hopper. 

“And did he clean it up?” 

“Of course not. He was sick and he’s a kid.” 

Hopper could have, also, seen that answer. He knew damn well Steve never would’ve done that to the poor kid. 

“You’re lucky you didn’t get sick. The stomach flu spreads like the plague. Especially with kids.” 

“I don’t get sick.”

No, he just got his face caved in every so often. That, of course, was an inside thought as he continued their drive back to the cabin. He could see the flickering of lights from a crack in the curtains which told him El was still awake, most likely watching whatever movies were playing at this time at night. The car stopped and he threw it into park; after a moment, he turned to face Steve who remained unmoving. The kid was out cold and, for a moment, he wondered if this wasn’t also the desired effect of his night out. It was a funny, fleeting thought, but had Hopper been able to carry him in without waking him and without risking Steve having a massive freak-out over the whole affair, he honestly might have. Instead, he settled on placing a firm hand on his shoulder and giving him a shake. 

“Hey, Harrington. We’re here–”

Steve jerked awake and Hopper was taken by surprise by the violent reaction. His grip on him tightened, and his crazed look quickly calmed when he recognized where he was. 

“Ugh–still spinnin’.”

“Just need to walk inside, bud. Then you can go back to sleep.” 

Hopper was hard enough on him as it was; he hadn’t needed to give him any more of a verbal lashing than he already had. Instead, he took his bag from his feet and slung it around his shoulder. He then moved to unbuckle his seatbelt; it allowed him to wrap a hand around his arm and help him out of the car. Steve was unsteady at first, though he quickly found his footing as they approached the cabin. Hop kept a gentle grip on him just in case, and Steve was too tired to kick up a fuss. Upon entering the cabin, his suspicions had been confirmed when El glanced over at them from the sofa. Hop slipped the bag from his shoulder, and she near instantly perked up when she saw Steve wrapped around Hopper’s arm. 

“Steve?”

He practically felt Steve’s muscles tense under his hold. Right–he hadn’t thought this through, not entirely. Steve prided himself on his image, but especially so when considering how he was viewed by the kids.

His mouth had opened, attempted to form some coherent, normal sentence, but before he could speak, Hopper jumped in. 

“Steve’s not feeling great, kid. He’s going to stay the night, I’ll be out in a few.” 

Without waiting for a response, he promptly swerved into his bedroom. It was only when the door shut behind him that Steve began to grumble. 

“I don’t want to take your bed.” 

“It’s fine. You know how many nights I sleep on the recliner?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Hop pulled back the blanket and directed Steve onto the bed. While he kicked his shoes off, he initially resisted laying down. 

“C’mon, kid.” Steve flopped back onto the pillow, and Hop’s brows furrowed. “No–come on, side.” He carefully maneuvered him to lay on his side; Steve hadn't resisted at that point, either too tired or too ashamed. Either way, Hopper wasn't going to complain with the outcome. “I'll be right outside if you need anything. Sleep tight, kid.”

He had received a soft hum of acknowledgment before he flicked off the lights and returned into the main area of the cabin. Unsurprisingly, El’s eyes were glued to him as he began his own nightly ritual; kicking off his shoes, grabbing a beer from the fridge, and eventually settling into his recliner. 

“Is Steve alright?” 

Damn, she hadn't even waited for him to crack open his beer.

“Yea, he'll be alright. I figured he'd be better off here than at home.” 

“Like last time he was hurt?” 

“Just like that.”

El perked up. 

“Will he be staying for a while?” 

“Not this time. Probably just tonight.”

“Oh.” And, as quickly as she had perked up, she deflated.

“He's got his own place, kid.” With that, Hop had taken a swig from his can and focused on the television. 

Just as he'd thought, she'd had some weird, B-roll horror movie playing. Despite his attempt to disengage from the conversation, El was not ready to let the topic go. 

“But he's alone most of the time.”

“A lot of people are.” God he hated that answer the second it left his mouth. 

“I'm alone a lot.” He knew that was coming. “And you used to be alone a lot.” And that one. “Does that mean it's ok? I like being with you more than being alone. And Mike. And Dustin. And Steve. And–”

“Yea, kid, okay, I get it.” With a heaved sigh, he placed down his can on the side table and leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Steve is eighteen. I can't force him to go where he doesn't want to. He likes being independent.” 

He wasn't entirely confident with that last statement and El made sure to make a face in response. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't been independent most of his life. He was certain his parents had begun leaving him alone at their earliest convenience, ie, as soon as they could trust the kid wasn't going to burn the house down or kill himself in their absence. Did Steve like being alone? Maybe. Was it more likely he was just used to it? The thought pissed Hopper off. 

“That doesn't mean he liked being alone.” El, of course, correctly pointed out. 

“Look, El,” finally, Hopper had to throw up his hands, “I'm not his dad. I can't make him do what he doesn't want to. I can offer, but that doesn't mean he'll accept.”

“Then I'll ask. He’ll stay if I ask.” There was no arguing with her; she was completely resolute in her conviction, proven by her shifting to face away from Hopper and, instead, choosing to watch the television.

“Okay, but just–”

“What?” 

Hopper didn't have a follow up for his interjection; it wasn't as if he hadn't wanted Steve to hang around. Hell, it was clear as day he was happier–and why wouldn't he be? Sure, he stressed about being a burden; he hadn't needed to say it for Hopper to understand that was what was happening. A rich kid who presumably had gotten everything he wanted growing up and yet he insisted on making dinner while staying with him so he could pull his weight–of course Hopper had swore up and down he didn't expect that from the kid but no amount of reassurance could convince him to just sit back and relax. He always had a spot there at the cabin and maybe Hopper hadn't put it in those terms exactly but he shared the sentiment. 

“Ah.” He finally relented, grabbing his beer as he leaned back in his chair. “Just take it easy on the kid.”

El smiled in response to that comment. She leaned back herself, intent on watching her movie. 

He wasn't sure when he nodded off; not that it was an uncommon occurrence. Hopper couldn't begin to count how often he fell asleep in his recliner before he dragged himself into his bedroom. 

God, he was getting old was his initial thought as he stretched out, and a groan escaped him as his back popped. It was dark; he wasn't sure when El had gone to bed, but it meant he was free to go steal a smoke. He'd stashed a pack in his glove box; one of the few places that would remain untouched. He grabbed his keys and crept towards the front door. Carefully, he pulled it open, trying to keep the volume to a minimum–and then he paused. Through the screen door he could see the back of one Steve Harrington, leaning against the banister. 

So much for that cigarette. 

Hop pushed open the screen door, and was surprised to find Steve still hadn’t acknowledged him. He proceeded forward and swung to his left. Steve’s arms hung loosely over the banister with one hand gripping a glass half full of water. His gaze was far, far into the distance. He still looked completely exhausted–this wasn’t one poor night’s sleep, this was a chronic issue. Hopper could assume what was plaguing his mind at night. 

“Mind if I join you?” Not that he would’ve been particularly keen on being denied. He wanted to give Steve space, but he wasn’t sure that was the best for him. 

“Hey, it’s your house.” 

With the confirmation, Hopper proceeded to mirror Steve’s stance against the railing. 

“Feeling any better?”

“Yea–oh yea. Spins were successfully slept off.” 

“Still tipsy?”

“Oh, yea, I’m–I was going to say feeling good, but I’m not really sure anyone would after that.” 

They shared a weak laugh with that comment. 

“You’re up early.” It was a light-hearted comment from Hopper; while he hadn’t checked the time, he would guess it was probably around three or four in the morning.

“I had to run to the bathroom.” 

Hopper snorted.

“You know you could’ve gone inside, right?” 

That had gotten a soft laugh out of Steve–a genuine one. It was enough to bring a smile to Hopper’s own face. 

“Hey, I would’ve made sure I went far enough from the cabin.” 

“Ehh probably best you don’t wander off in the dark. I think I got everything I set up but–well, it’s better not to risk a drunk kid stumbling into a trip wire trying to take a piss.” 

Again, Steve laughed softly. He allowed the silence to hold for a moment; the crickets and frogs filled the dead air. 

“Just wanted to get some fresh air–clear my head.” His hand rose to brush his hair from his face. 

Hopper hummed in response to that, and he mirrored Steve by scratching at his beard. Fuck–this was the part he really sucked at. 

“Hey, kid. I wanted to–apologize. For earlier. Look, you were being a jackass, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you–and I shouldn’t have made that comment about the concussions. It wasn’t called for.” 

Steve’s shoulders promptly raised and fell. He lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip; it gave him time to form a proper response. 

“I didn’t think anything of it. Honestly, it’s not like you were off the mark.”

Hopper stared at him–really stared at him as he processed what Steve had just said. He wasn’t off the mark. There was a lot he had said that night, but he had a sneaking suspicion he knew what the kid was referring to.

“That includes what I said about the kids. Completely uncalled for. You’re barely eighteen, Harrington. You shouldn’t be worrying about when the next monster’s gonna pop up–”

“But that’s the reality. And if they did need me, they would’ve had no idea where I was–I wouldn’t have even been helpful.” Despite the weight behind his words, Steve released a laugh–an anguished laugh. “I was stupid–and selfish. I needed someone to give me a kick in the ass.” 

Once again they fell to silence, and Hopper continued to study Steve’s features. He squirmed under the scrutinizing gaze; his own turned down to stare at the water in his glass. 

“I know the kids come to you with a lot of their problems. Hell, they come to you with just about anything, and it’s nice they have someone to turn to.”

Once again, Steve was shrugging.

“It’s not like I’m doing anything special. I just let the little shits annoy me. I dunno–they need someone around.”

“They do–and you’re a good kid for being that person, Steve.” Hopper allowed him to sit with that for a moment; he could see the smile, however vague, dance across his lips. “So, who could you have turned to tonight?”

As quickly as it had come on, it disappeared, and his brow furrowed. 

“What?”

“Not even tonight; what about after Hargrove? Who’d you turn to after that?” 

Steve’s lips pursed. Hop could see the way his muscles tightened as his jaw clenched. 

“I didn’t need–”

“Who does Henderson go to when he needs a ride? Hell, who does Max turn to when she needs a ride? Or when she and El want to see a horror movie–who do they ask? Or Sinclair? Who’d he ask to help with his shot? Who’s house are they planning on going to over the summer because they have a pool–yea, I know, El tells me just about everything because she’s excited. So, I ask again: who do you have?” 

Silence–that was, until Steve released an amused puff of air and gently shook his head. 

“Those kids need someone.”

“What, and you don’t?”

“I did. But after enough time passes, you learn how to man up and deal with it.” 

Hopper swore his vision went white–he was silently seething beside the kid. He wanted to hop back in his cruiser, haul his ass back to Loch Nora and beat the ever living shit out of Steve Sr. He could hear him in that phrase coming out of his neglected son’s mouth: man up. The kid had been beaten within an inch of his life and he thought he had to man up and get himself home–he thought he had to man up and deal with a fucking traumatic brain injury on his own because that’s what he had been doing for years. The kid clearly hadn’t been sleeping and he ended up dealing with his trauma by drinking because he sure as hell didn’t have a parent he could talk to–he was certain he’d been chastised for it in his youth, as with every other thing in his life. 

“Okay, then let’s deal with it. Wanna tell me why you aren’t sleeping?” 

Steve had quickly come to understand there was no bullshitting Hopper. He wasn’t his father; he couldn’t give him a line, tell him what he wanted to hear and he would leave him alone. Though, like his father, when he got caught on something, he refused to let it go. He shifted again, used the water as an excuse to once again prolong his response. Finally, he relented with a sigh. 

“I'm just–stressed out. Track's finishing up, school's finishing up–I still don't have a job. I've got a lot on my plate.”

“Yea? That's it?” 

Again, Steve shifted, and he resisted the urge to groan. 

“Look, my dad's been riding my ass, alright? I fucked up. He's pissed I didn't get into college and, don't worry, he keeps reminding me every time he's around. I'm sick of him telling me I'm not spending the summer on my ass–but I'm busy–and he’s not even here half the time, how the hell does he know what I'm up to? He hasn't the slightest idea of what I get up to.” 

Steve paused again, finished off his water. 

“And I have–I’ve been having nightmares. In some of ‘em I'm dead. Hargrove finished me off–or one of the dogs. And the kids are there and they have no one to protect them. Or we're in the tunnels, and the demodogs didn't just run past. And I can usually take a few but Dustin can't. And he just–” He couldn't even get the words out. The thought alone made him sick. “I guess that's why I can't believe I was so stupid tonight. Christ, if they needed me I would've been useless.” 

Again, his hand was running through his hair as he took the time to process all he'd just said. It had been the first time he ever articulated his thoughts aloud; it was a lot for him to process. 

“I think, once graduation is over with, and I finally get a job, they'll stop.” Changing the subject was one of his favorite ways to avoid sharing; at least, in this case, sharing further. 

“Hey. Look at me.” While he was hesitant, Steve's tired eyes slowly turned to meet with Hopper whose own expression was serious–beyond serious. “Hanging onto what if scenarios will eat you alive–believe me. I am speaking from experience. You protected those kids with your life–they are here with us, all of them, because you protected them. Hell, some of us are probably still standing because you were with them.” 

Steve swallowed–hard. Hopper continued. 

“And another thing–you need anything–anything, you come to me. I don't care how small it is. I don't care if you just want to talk through some stupid shit–you have job interviews coming up? Call me. Swing by. If you don't want to talk to your parents, you come and talk to me. You're hurt–you’re sick? You're not manly for refusing help, Steve. And you didn't fuck up. Hey, listen to me. You didn't fuck up.”

“I did. If I would've put more effort into my grades then maybe–”

“You think I was valedictorian? My report card would probably send you into cardiac arrest, kid. Listen to me: you're eighteen and acting like graduating is a chore. It isn't. You've got your whole life ahead of you–don’t listen to the shit your father is saying. If you ever need to get away, my door's always open. You know El is happy to have you.” 

Steve couldn't hold his gaze any longer; he turned back to the woods. It was hard to miss the occasional sniff that escaped him. He quickly raised his hand and used his wrist to wipe at his face; it was followed by a breathy laugh. 

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but–”

“You're not intruding. You're not burdening me with your presence. I like having you by. It's nice to have someone that isn't Wheeler around.” 

Again, Steve laughed, one mixed with the obvious tears he was trying to make less obvious. What hadn't helped was a strong hand wrapping around his wrist and pulling him in. 

“C’mere, kid.” 

He was pulled into a hug and Steve genuinely gripped onto the material of Hopper's shirt as though he were a lifeline. He knew Steve took pride in his hair but, considering the circumstances, Hopper found a hand pressing into the back of his head, strands of hair coiled around his fingers. He couldn't help but wonder when the last time was that Steve had received a hug–a genuine hug. He vaguely wondered if his father had ever hugged his fucking son. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

The question was soft and so damn innocent it made Hopper's chest physically ache. 

“What do you mean?”

Steve broke the hug, pulling back to allow him to somewhat face Hopper. His hand rose to rub at the back of his neck, likely to relieve his stress.

“This–just–you should've thrown my ass in jail so many times and–I mean this isn't the first time you've had me stay over. I know I've been an asshole in the past so I just–want to know why.” 

“Because you're a good kid. And you should have someone you can go to. I'd say without judgement but I'm not going to make promises I can't keep.” 

An amused puff came from Steve. 

“I don't think I ever really thanked you for uh–the concussion thing. I know I wasn't the easiest to convince but it was definitely better than being left alone for a few weeks. It was probably best I wasn't left to operate a car on my own.”

“Unfortunately I know you sure as hell would have tried.”

“Yea well, it's not like I would have had much of a choice.” Steve went quiet for a moment, as though he was debating whether or not he should continue with that train of thought. “You know I'm–I'm actually kind of glad my parents weren't home for all of that. First of all, how was I even beginning to explain that situation? I got my ass beat because Hargrove found me alone with some kids? Already a bad look. Second, I doubt my dad would've been thrilled to hear I got my ass handed to me. And uh–well, I mean, shy of like, bleeding out, I've always just managed myself. All of that was to say that I probably would've been back to school a lot faster–and behind the wheel.” 

Steve hadn't needed to say what he was suggesting plainly; Hopper was smart enough to read between the lines. And yet, perhaps to both of their surprise, he said the quiet part aloud. 

“Anyway, thanks. You probably were more attentive to me than my parents ever have been, honestly.” 

He tried to laugh it off–to diffuse the situation. Guilt clung to him; he couldn’t believe he’d just said something like that–and to Hopper nonetheless. Sure, he may have felt his parents did give a shit, but he still had two of them. Up until very recently, they also had given him just about everything he ever wanted; hell, they were still allowing him to live in their house even after he’d blown his chances at college. Again, it was more than many could say. And yet, here he was putting them down in front of the chief of police. 

“Hey–that’s not to say they don’t care about me.” He added, perhaps not as quickly as he felt he should have. “Obviously I didn’t mean–”

For the second time that night Hopper was hugging this kid; honestly, he was just making up for years of neglect. Steve proved he’d needed it by the very fact it was reciprocated. Perhaps not immediately, and not as eagerly as he had previously, but his arms still wound up wrapped around Hopper. Guilt continued to needle him, clinging to his skin, burrowing underneath for the very fact he hadn’t felt so cared for in–fuck, ever. The few times his mother hugged him it was always so cold. It was robotic: she hugged him because it was what was expected–or perhaps what she thought the situation called for. This was warm. Hopper hadn’t needed to say a word for Steve to understand how much he cared and maybe–it hurt just a little. Why couldn’t he have found this sooner? 

Hopper pulled him from his thoughts as he pulled back; a hand found itself on Steve’s head and he whined as Hopper mussed his hair. 

“Dude–come on!” 

“It’s the middle of the night–Jesus, Harrington, I didn’t realize you took the hair that seriously.” 

“Yea, well–okay that’s enough!” He finally managed to swat Hop away, and he struggled to conceal the amused smirk on his face. Granted, had it actually been styled, he would not have been as entertained. 

“Alright, you're keeping this old man up way past his bed time. Go back in there and go to bed.”

“Is the old man not following?” 

Hopper's jaw clenched, meanwhile, Steve's smirk blossomed. 

“Chief. Are you about to sneak a smoke?” 

“That was a pretty astute observation, Harrington. Any secrets you'd like to share?” 

“Ones that are only worth sharing over a smoke.”

“Get your ass inside.”

Surprisingly, Steve had laughed and thrown his hands up as a sign of defeat.

“Yeah all right. I figured it was worth a shot.”

And, with Hopper's hardened gaze, he turned around, grabbed his glass, and proceeded back into the cabin. It allowed Hopper to retrieve a cigarette from the cruiser, take a seat on the front porch, and enjoy his smoke in peace. 

Fuck. He was still fuming. Flashes of the kid's past came to the front of his mind: how many times had he been sick and returned home to an empty house? Or worse, had pushed through it for practice or for a game so he wasn't benched because God only knows what his father would have said in response to that? Hopper knew for certain he'd gone home on at least one occasion with a concussion he nursed on his own. The only thing he could say he was grateful to Steve Sr for was the fact he called him last fall in regard to Steve's absence from school. Quite frankly, he wished he would have received a call much sooner; then maybe he wouldn't have felt he needed to go home to an empty house and figure shit out as a teenager. 

And he knew–he fucking knew the kid was alone. If he were being honest, most of the damn town most likely knew he was home alone and they did nothing. What was there to do? And what were they to expect from a kid who'd been left to his own devices for years? The fact he'd ended up being the person he was despite the hand he'd been dealt was a miracle. 

At the very least, Hopper thought as he stamped the cigarette out, he knew he had a place to go if he needed it. Whether or not he'd take him up on that offer was up in the air, but it was extended nonetheless. 

He pushed the door to the cabin back open, making sure to lock it behind him before he moved back towards his recliner–only to find Harrington spread out on the sofa. God damn kid. With a sigh, he'd gone and retrieved a thin blanket to throw over him before he returned to his own bedroom. 

He was a good kid. He just wished his own damn parents could see it. 

When Steve awoke, it was to a pair of brown eyes staring him down. 

“Jesus Christ–you scared the shit out of me, kid.”

“Language.” Hopper's scolding came from–somewhere. 

He was around, but Steve was busy catching his bearings after being scared awake. El had leaned back on the coffee table, however, she continued to stare at Steve who took to running his hands down the length of his face. 

“Good morning.” Despite Steve's mini scare, El still seemed to be in good spirits. 

Steve released a soft puff of air. 

“Yea, morning, El.” 

“We made breakfast.” 

“I can smell that.” Finally, he glanced over to see Hop standing before the stove. “I'm surprised; no waffles?”

“I can make some.” 

“No.” Steve laughed as he pulled himself onto his feet. He proceeded to perform the same action he hated; a hand mussed El’s hair before he proceeded towards the kitchen. 

“Still hurting?” 

“No–dying of thirst.” And so he'd walked to the sink to rinse his cup out from the previous night. 

Hop glanced over at him as he flipped El’s omelette. 

“Seriously?”

“Yea. Just thirsty–and hungry.”

Lucky bastard, Hop thought as he returned his gaze back to the eggs in front of him. 

“Anything I can help with?” Steve questioned as he sipped on his water. 

“Nope, take a seat. Bacon and eggs; breakfast of champions.”

As he was told, Steve slid into a seat at the table and El followed suit, slipping into the one beside him. 

“Are you feeling better?” Again, she'd stared at him with those doe eyes and obvious concern. “Hop said you weren't feeling well.”

Of course he had; he'd preserved his image, at the very least. 

“Yea, a lot better. And even more so with breakfast.”

As if on cue, Hop had placed El’s plate before her. It was soon after he was following with Steve's and his own. He'd been shit with making himself hot meals as of late, and so, he was especially grateful for a good breakfast. He was happy to poke at his scrambled eggs and tear into the bacon–delicious, really. 

“How'd you sleep?” He knew the question wasn't as nonchalant as Hopper was trying to make it.

Either way, Steve chose not to make too big of a deal out of it. 

“Good, actually. I mean, aside from waking up in the middle of the night.” And being on the couch, though he'd chosen that. 

“Yea, probably would've slept better if you were in a bed.” There was a tilt to Hop’s voice as he took a sip of his coffee. 

“You went into Hop's room when you got here?” 

“Yea, but I didn’t want to take his room, so I moved to the sofa.” 

“I don’t mind if you take my bed.” 

“Absolutely not.” Hopper’s mug hit the table with a bit more force than intended. 

“Why not?” One would think she would have learned that, unlike Steve, pouting got her nowhere with Hop. 

“You want me to let you sleep in front of the TV? You sit in front of that thing enough as is. Besides, moot point. That was a one night thing.”

“You stayed longer last time.” A soft protest from El, which elicited a huff from Steve.

“Yea, because I could barely stand straight last time.”

“Stay.” Now that was a louder protest from her. 

Steve was, mildly, impressed with her defiance and, perhaps, a bit surprised as he tore into a piece of bacon. 

“I’ve got a track meet Monday.” 

“So?”

“So–obviously–” Yea, he had nothing. He finished off his bacon hoping he would figure something out in the meanwhile. “So, I need to make sure I’m getting some good sleep.” 

Hopper scoffed; it earned him a slight glare from Steve. 

“Hey, well, good news, there’s a queen sized bed here for you.”

“Seriously?” Now the glare was real, and Hopper smirked as he shoveled some eggs into his mouth.

Hop knew he wanted to stay; he saw the size of the bag he'd brought. Perhaps the kid hadn't even acknowledged it himself, but his drunk self undoubtedly knew what he refused to admit. 

“I need to have pasta tomorrow too. Y’know, night before a run so–”

“It’s Saturday. You planning on staying until Monday?” 

Steve froze momentarily; he hadn’t exactly considered that line of thinking would imply he intended to stay until Sunday night at the earliest. Fighting a coy grin, Hop raised his mug to his lips once more. 

“I brought your bag in, by the way. Feels like you brought enough to make it to Monday.” 

He vaguely remembered packing his bag the night prior. Now that it was mentioned, he supposed he did overpack the damn thing. Frankly–had he wanted to go home? He glanced at El, cutting up her omelet while throwing quick, anticipatory glances in Steve’s direction. He briefly moved to Hop, unfolding the newspaper and sipping on his coffee. Hah–deja vu was spiteful. He recalled the few weeks he’d spent here recovering from his concussion, the mornings that mirrored this one. Even when they shared breakfast, never could the ones at home feel this warm. This felt more like home than his own house–then his own parents. And what was waiting for him there anyway? His judgemental mother? Another lecture from his father for drinking and being an overall waste of space in his house? 

“Alright–Christ the two of you are relentless. Especially that one.” He used a piece of bacon to point in El’s direction.

She was not shy about sharing her joy; she flashed him a wide smile in response and Steve couldn’t conceal his own. 

“You don’t mind swinging by my house on Monday to get my backpack–do you?” 

He’d have to get up earlier to do that, and to drop him off at school. 

“No, don’t worry about it, kid. Pasta tomorrow doesn’t sound half bad. Maybe I’ll run to the store. Grab some popcorn while I’m there. Movie night?” 

“Uno.” 

“No–no, absolutely not.” Steve’s tone was dead serious, as was his look. “Last time we played you had us grabbing cards out of the damn rafters.” 

“I won’t this time!” 

“You hit her with two draw fours in a row.” Hopper hadn’t even paid them a single glance; instead, he flipped to the next page of the paper. 

“That’s how you play the game! What, am I supposed to hold them? It’s called Uno, not–uh–one two–wait–four is–uno dos tres–cuatro!” 

“You laughed about it!” El heatedly shot back.

“Uh, yea, because it was funny. I’ll stop laughing when it isn’t funny.” 

“Do we really need a mediator for Uno?”

“Oh, no, you’re playing too, chief. I’m not staying in the blast radius on my own.” 

“I said I wouldn’t.” It was clear by her tone she was particularly annoyed by Steve’s continued adamance.

“Alright, calm down.” Despite his words, Hopper released a soft laugh and he finally moved his focus from the paper to the two kids sitting in front of him. “How about this: we can play when I get back from the store and I’ll sit on your left this time, Steve.”

“Yea. That works. So long as no one throws a reverse we should be pretty good.” 

“And no throwing the cards this time. I’m not looking around the outside of the house with a flashlight this time. Deal?” This time, Hopper turned his attention to El, who flashed a small, wry grin. 

“Deal.” 

“Alright. I’ll head to the store, then.” With that, Hopper stood–Steve was, however, quicker on his feet. 

He took Hop’s plate, along with his own, leaving El to pick at hers.

“I’ll get to these–as a thanks. I’m going to hop in the shower first. Find the cards while I’m showering, El. Maybe look for an actual deck. I can teach you how to play war.” 

“Okay.” 

With that, Steve had scooped up his duffel bag left by the front door and trailed towards the bathroom. That wasn’t, of course, before he went and grabbed a clean towel because he knew where their linen closet was; he knew where everything in that cabin was. An interesting thought as he strolled into the bathroom and clicked the lock behind him. 

El had turned towards Hopper, her soft grin turned into a much larger, much more smug one. 

“What?” Hopper mused as he finished off the rest of his coffee. 

“I told you so.” She stated, clearly proud of herself as she stood to put her plate in the sink.

“What did you tell me?” Now he was just playing dumb. 

“I asked. He’s staying. I told you.” With that, she trailed off to the living room where, unsurprisingly, she flipped the TV on and took a seat. 

Hopper couldn’t disguise his pleasure; it was hard to wipe the thin smile from his face. El loved having Steve around–he loved having Steve around. The house felt fuller when he was around; he didn’t return to the TV blaring, but rather, two kids arguing, or playing some game or another. Hopper realized that, while El still greeted him, sometimes it was a quick hello before she returned to whatever it was her and Steve were doing. He made her happy–he looked happier. It was better than him being alone any time he was in his own house, or being berated for not going to fucking college, or being ridden about getting a job. At the cabin, he got a warm meal, and conversations with people who actually cared about what he had to say outside of the normal pleasantries. 

In all honesty, Hopper had never put much thought into having a son. He had always been such a devoted girl dad that the possibility of having a boy had never particularly crossed his mind. He would want him to be brave, of course, to stand up for his beliefs. He’d want to instill his own morals in him; would expect him to defend others. He’d want a kid he could share his past times with, who would want to keep coming around into adulthood. At the end of the day, he would want a son who was a decent man–Hopper felt that Steve filled that niche fairly well.