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The Albany Police Academy had just spent three long hours presenting Hopper as some kind of mythical hero who had single-handedly wrestled his way out of a Soviet prison. It was a lot of handshaking, a lot of flashing cameras and a lot of stale catering. By the time Hopper finally broke free and got into his truck to make the drive back to Montauk, he felt less like a decorated war hero and more like a bear that had been poked with a stick for half a day.
He figured he’d break up the miserable drive by stopping at the kids' apartment. It was supposed to be a safe bet. The place was a shared fortress housing Will, Lucas and Max, three kids Hopper actually liked, plus Mike Wheeler, whom Hopper tolerated only because the law frowned upon beating the shit out of teenagers.
Hopper had mentally prepared himself to make a brief, grunting exception for Wheeler’s presence. He figured he could sit between Lucas and Max, talk to Will about his art classes and completely ignore the gangly, loudmouthed bundle of rusted jumper cables in the corner. It was a foolproof plan.
Except it wasn't.
The universe, Hopper rapidly realized upon walking through the door, possessed a deeply twisted sense of humor.
"They're in Hawkins," Will had explained five minutes ago, offering a small, sympathetic smile as he handed Hopper a mug of diner coffee. "Lucas and Max caught a bus back home yesterday morning for his dad's birthday. They won't be back until Tuesday."
Hopper sat frozen on the floral sofa, the ceramic mug clutched in his massive fist. He didn't blink. He just stared into the middle distance, the awful reality settling deep into his bones.
Lucas was gone. Max was gone. The entire buffer zone had evaporated.
He was trapped in a state-line apartment with his absolute sunshine of a stepson and across the room, the bane of his entire existence.
The threadbare, mustard-yellow floral sofa in the corner of the apartment smelled faintly of someone else’s cheap tobacco and decades of damp winters. Hopper sat right in the dip of the broken springs, his large frame making the flimsy piece of thrift-store furniture groan in protest. He had his heavy work boots planted flat on the linoleum, his thick forearms resting on his knees and his eyes locked onto the kitchen counter.
Across the cramped, open-plan space, Mike Wheeler was fighting for his life against a jar of Ardmona's crushed tomatoes.
He had grown since high school, sprawling upward into a collection of sharp elbows and lanky limbs that never quite seemed to know where they belonged in a room. Right now, those limbs were rigid. Mike’s knuckles were white, his palms slipping against the metal lid, his face darkening to a dangerous shade of maroon as he tried to force the seal open. He was deliberately looking anywhere but at the couch. The shallow rhythm of his breathing was what gave him away. He knew he was being watched. He knew the heavy, unblinking glare of the former Hawkins Chief of Police was pinned directly to the back of his neck.
Hopper didn't move a muscle. He just watched the kid sweat, a dull, familiar ache throbbing behind his temples. Two years. That was twenty-four months of Hopper being forced to accept that the universe wasn't going to magically delete Mike Wheeler from his family tree.
Looking at Mike now, with his oversized gray sweatshirt bunched up at his elbows and his dark hair falling into his eyes as he grunted against a glass jar, Hopper felt his mind violently yanked backward. His memory skipped like a scratched vinyl record, landing right on the exact afternoon his illusions of a quiet home had been shattered forever.
It had been late autumn, months after the Byers moved in with him, in a cabin that was supposed to be a sanctuary.
Hopper had walked through the front door, the smell of damp pine clinging to his office shirt, expecting nothing more than the sound of the television or the scrape of Will’s pencils against a sketchbook. Instead, he’d walked into the kitchen and found Mike Wheeler, who had Will backed against the counter, his large hands awkwardly cupping Will’s jaw, their mouths pressed together in a way that was far too soft, far too desperate and entirely too loud for a quiet afternoon.
Sanity had instantly left the cabin. The protective, primal instinct that had kept Hopper alive in the woods and Russian prisons took the wheel before his brain could catch up.
In one fluid, practiced motion, Hopper’s hand had dropped to his holster. He drew his service weapon, the heavy steel catching the dull light of the cabin window and leveled the barrel dead between Mike’s wide, terrified eyes.
"Hop! No!"
The scream had torn from Will’s throat so violently that it cracked. In a flash of oversized flannel, Will threw his entire body in front of Mike, his arms spread wide, pinning the taller boy against the sink. "Put it down!"
Mike looked like he was about to meet his maker. The blood had completely drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of curdled milk. His eyes were the size of tea saucers and through the gap beneath Will’s arm, Hopper could see Mike’s knees visibly knocking together inside his rigid denim.
He looked like a lawn chair caught in a tornado, but to Hopper’s immense irritation, he still didn't bolt. He didn't drop to the floor or scramble out the back door. Instead, Mike’s large, trembling hands reached out, firmly gripping Will’s shoulders, trying to pull the smaller boy away from the gun and behind him. He was terrified down to his marrow, his chest heaving, but he stayed rooted to the spot, trying to act like a shield. It was infuriatingly stubborn.
"Mom! Say something!" Will’s voice went up an octave, his head whipping toward the stove where Joyce was standing. "Tell him to stop!"
Joyce slowly stopped wiping the counter. Her expressions were casual, like it was just another Tuesday. The yellow dish towel stayed clamped in her hands as she looked at Will, then glanced at the heavy black barrel of Hopper’s gun and then looked back at her son.
Her face shifted into a mask of pure, fabricated helplessness. She tucked her chin into her collar, her eyes wide with an innocence that wouldn't have fooled a toddler.
"What can I do, honey?" Joyce meeped, her voice thin and entirely unbothered.
"He's going to shoot my boyfriend!" Will shrieked, his hand gesturing wildly at Hopper, his fingers shaking with pure adrenaline.
Joyce didn't argue. She didn't move toward Hopper. She simply raised both of her hands, her shoulders shrugging into a perfect picture of passive-aggressive compliance, as if Hopper pointing a loaded firearm at a teenager was just an act of nature they had to wait out, like a bad thunderstorm or a drafty window.
Will’s head whipped toward his mother so fast his neck practically popped. His face contorted into a mask of pure betrayal. This wasn’t the Joyce he knew. This was the most terrifyingly overprotective mother in the tri-state area who would normally tackle a government agent into a ditch if they so much as looked at her kids wrong. Yet here she was, casually standing, looking about as threatened as a woman watching a bad sitcom.
The absurdity of it made Will want to scream. Hopper, a man who weighed roughly the same as a small pickup truck, was currently using a deadly weapon to aim at Mike’s forehead and everyone was treating it like a minor domestic disagreement over who forgot to take the trash out.
To her left, Jonathan didn't even look up from his mug. He was leaning back against the wood paneling by the refrigerator, a faded corduroy jacket slung over his shoulders, slowly blowing the steam off his coffee. A slow, deeply amused smirk crept across his mouth. He took a long, deliberate sip, completely content to treat the situation as free entertainment.
They all knew. Joyce knew it, Jonathan knew it and Hopper certainly knew it. He had spent three hours that morning sitting on his bed with an oil rag, completely dismantling the gun, leaving every single round of ammunition sitting in a neat little row on his nightstand. The chamber was as empty as a dry well.
The only two people currently sweating through their clothes were the two boys clinging to each other by the sink.
"Three inches, Wheeler," Hopper had growled, his voice low, sounding like two heavy stones grinding together in the dirt. "The rule was three inches for the doors, not three inches into his face."
"H-Hopper," Mike choked out. The boy’s voice cracked spectacularly on the first syllable, but he forced his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with a desperate, clumsy defiance. "I know what you're doing. You can... you can shoot me. You can do whatever you want, but I'm not leaving. I'm not!"
Hopper had stared at him through the iron sights for three long seconds, internally cursing the Wheeler family tree. If the idiot had just run out the door like a coward, Hopper could have barred him from the property forever, but no, the kid had to go and find a backbone right there in the kitchen.
Jonathan huffed and Joyce smiled as if this was something they were expecting.
A sharp pop snapped Hopper out of the memory.
Back in the apartment, Mike let out a massive, ragged sigh of relief as the metal lid finally yielded, spinning loose in his grip. He looked down at the open jar with a flash of triumph, his shoulders dropping three inches. He wiped a hand across his forehead, realizing too late that he’d left a faint smear of dust there and risked a quick, nervous glance back at the mustard couch.
Hopper just shifted his weight, the springs groaning again under his flannel-clad bulk. He rubbed a thick hand over his jaw, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Two years later and the lanky bastard was still here. He’d survived the empty gun, he’d survived the move to college and now he was sitting in a kitchen that smelled like Will’s oil paints, looking like he belonged there. Hopper let out a low, gravelly sigh through his nose, his fingers tapping against his knee. The kid was a permanent fixture and Hopper was just going to have to live with it.
The sound of a heavy ceramic mug clinking against the counter finally broke the stand-off.
Will stepped into the kitchen area from the narrow hallway, his bare feet sliding quietly across the linoleum. He was wearing a knit crewneck sweater that was easily two sizes too big for him, undoubtedly one of Mike’s, with the sleeves bunched up around his wrists. His hair was slightly messy, sticking up at the back where he’d clearly been running his fingers through it while working, but there was a color in his cheeks that Hopper hadn't seen during those grim, shadow-soaked years in Hawkins. He looked steady. He looked like a kid who actually slept through the night without a nightmare. He looked happy and at peace.
The moment Will’s eyes landed on Mike, his whole face shifted, his lips curving into an easy, unburdened smile that made Hopper’s chest tighten with a complicated mixture of fierce paternal protectiveness and a sharp ache of relief.
"Did you actually get it open?" Will asked, his voice light as he walked over to the stove, where a pot of water was just beginning to rattle against its lid.
"Of course I did," Mike said quickly, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat to lower his pitch. He lifted the glass jar with a theatrical, defensive flourish, though his fingers were still twitching from the effort. "It’s all about leverage. Technique. I told you, these factory seals don't stand a chance."
Will laughed out loud, a happy laugh that seemed like it came from the depths inside his heart. It was something that Will never had the chance to do before. Without even looking, Mike smoothly transferred the jar into Will’s waiting hand, his fingers lingering against his wrist for a fraction of a second. It was a completely unconscious, hardwired motion, done with the kind of casual fluidity that only came from years of familiarity
He leaned in without a second thought to press a quick, affectionate kiss right against the center of Mike’s cheek. "My hero," he murmured.
Mike went instantly, violently crimson from his collar all the way to the tips of his ears. His entire posture locked up, his shoulders snapping back into a rigid line as his eyes darted frantically toward the sofa. He looked exactly like a man waiting for a tripwire to click beneath his sneaker, bracing himself to see if Hopper was about to reach back into his waistband.
Hopper didn't reach for anything. He just let out a slow, heavy grunt, shifting his weight so the couch springs let out another metallic scream and pointedly crossed his arms over his chest. He made sure his eyebrows stayed knit tight enough to form a single, disapproving line across his forehead. He wanted the kid to stay uncomfortable and paranoid. It was good for his character.
"We’re making spaghetti," Will announced, turning toward Hopper with that bright, hopeful look that always made it impossible for Hopper to stay entirely sour. "Mike bought the good garlic bread from the bakery down the street. The one with the butter."
"Thrilling," Hopper rumbled, his voice scraping out of his throat like gravel. "Glad to see the government checks are funding a culinary revolution up here."
"It’s a step up from mom's cooking, Hop," Will said, turning back to the stove to dump the noodles into the boiling water with a soft hiss.
Hopper’s eyes drifted away from the stove, landing instead on the clunky, cream-colored refrigerator tucked into the corner. The side of it was a chaotic mosaic of magnets, grocery receipts and a small, hand-drawn cardboard circle held up by a plastic strawberry.
Hopper squinted, studying the black handwriting on the cardboard. It was a chore wheel. One side had WILL written in neat, architectural block letters. The other side had MIKE scrawled in an aggressive, sloppy slant, followed by Max and Lucas' names.
It was the small, extra sticky note taped directly below the wheel that caught Hopper’s attention. Written in Mike’s frantic, heavy-handed ink, it read: Will's art studio cleanup throughout the week. Do not touch Picasso’s stuff. Just sweep the floor and dust the shelves.
Under that, it was another chore written: Buy more blue paint. Tube almost finished.
Hopper stared at the notes for a long time. He looked at the tiny, protective boundary Mike had built around Will’s space, even in a dump of an apartment where the radiator clanked like an old radio and the windows rattled every time a truck passed on the street.
The heavy black ink bled slightly into the edges of the sticky note, messy but deliberate. Hopper felt a strange, quiet shift settle behind his ribs, a sudden cooling of the old, defensive fire that usually burned whenever he looked at Mike. He knew what it meant to build a fortress out of matchsticks and scrap metal. He’d spent years doing it in a hidden cabin in the woods, desperately trying to keep the world’s rot away from a girl who had known too much pain.
Looking at that sloppy handwriting, which indicated that Mike couldn't even write, Hopper realized that he was doing the same thing, just in a different kind of wilderness. He couldn't stop the ceiling from leaking or the train from shaking the floorboards, but he could stand guard over a handful of paintbrushes and a tube of blue oil paint. He can hold and comfort Will while he has nightmares. He can open stupid cans and jars and boast about it, earning sweet kisses in return. He can give Will a sense of normalcy. In his own clumsy, anxious way, the boy was offering Will the one thing Hawkins had always stolen from him: a quiet place to just exist.
Hopper closed his eyes for a brief second, a slow, grudging respect dragging its way to the surface when he realized Mike Wheeler was a shield.
He looked back at him, who was currently trying to clumsily set three mismatched plates onto the small wooden table, nearly dropping a fork in the process and looking thoroughly terrified that Hopper would judge his table-setting abilities. The kid was an awkward, neurotic disaster. He was Ted Wheeler’s son, who inherited his stupidity; he had a mouth that ran a mile a minute when he was nervous and he still looked like he might snap in half if the wind blew too hard, but he treated Will like he was an angel from Heaven. He kept his space clean, he bought his favorite bread and he stayed between Will and the rest of the world without even being asked.
Hopper let out a quiet, frustrated breath through his nose, his large fingers digging into the hem of his sleeves. It was incredibly annoying. He’d driven all the way up here ready to find a reason to drag the kid out into the hallway by his collar, to give him the old Hawkins precinct speech about keeping his hands to himself, but looking at the calm, easy rhythm of Will’s shoulders as he stirred the pasta, Hopper realized he couldn't find a single legitimate reason to put a fist through the Mike’s jaw.
It was a terrible realization. It meant he was going to have to sit through dinner and actually watch them be happy.
Will suddenly stopped mid-stir, his wooden spoon hovering over the bubbling red sauce as his eyes went wide. He dropped his chin, staring intently into the small, frosted freezer compartment of the refrigerator, then let out a sharp, disappointed hiss.
"The ice," Will muttered, tapping his fingers against his chin. "And the garlic bread is still sitting on the bakery counter down on Fourth. Mike, you forgot to grab the bag after you paid, didn't you?"
Mike froze, a half-folded paper napkin clutched in his hand. He blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish trying to locate oxygen. "I-well, the guy at the register was talking about the game, Will and I got distracted—"
"It's fine," Will cut in with a soft laugh, already reaching for his corduroy jacket hanging from a wooden peg near the entryway. "The corner shop has those little bags of cubed ice and I can run down to Fourth in five minutes flat. The noodles have another ten minutes anyway."
The color that had just started returning to Mike’s face vanished instantly. He looked at Will, his eyes widening into two massive plates of pure panic. His gaze flicked frantically between Will’s jacket and Hopper’s massive, silent form anchored into the mustard-yellow sofa. Mike’s lips moved silently, his face contorting into a desperate, pleading expression that screamed: Do not leave me alone with the grizzly bear.
"I can go-"
Will, however, seemed entirely immune to the silent atmospheric distress signals. He zipped his jacket up to his chin, his expression perfectly calm, perhaps a little too calm, with a slight, knowing tuck at the corner of his mouth that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. He stepped up to Mike, giving his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze and pressed another quick kiss to the corner of his jaw.
"No. You always know when pasta is al dente, but I can't figure it out. Keep an eye on the sauce, too, okay?" Will said cheerfully.
Before Mike could physically grab the hem of his sweater to tether him to the kitchen, Will crossed the small living space in three long strides. He leaned down, throwing his arms around Hopper’s broad, flannel-covered shoulders in a quick, fierce hug that smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh autumn air.
"Be nice," Will whispered near Hopper’s ear, a gentle but firm warning before he pulled away. "I’ll be right back."
The heavy wooden apartment door swung open and with a quick wave, Will stepped out into the hallway. The latch clicked shut into the frame with a solid, echoing thunk.
The silence that followed was immediate and dense.
The small apartment suddenly felt much smaller. In fact, the walls were caving in to squish Mike. The only sound remaining in the room was the rhythmic, hollow plop of the thick tomato sauce bubble on the stove and the distant rattle of traffic down on the main avenue.
Mike remained glued to the linoleum beside the counter. His knuckles were white where he was now gripping the long handle of the wooden spoon, holding it diagonally across his chest like a medieval guardsman bracing for a cavalry charge. His shoulders were hunched forward, his chin tucked into the collar of his sweatshirt, his chest rising and falling in shallow, nervous hitches.
On the couch, Hopper didn't move for a long time. He slowly let his head fall back against the worn floral fabric, his eyes locked onto the cracked plaster ceiling grid above him. He let out a long, gravelly sigh that sounded like iron chains being dragged across cement, then slowly, deliberately turned his head.
His heavy, unblinking gaze settled squarely on Mike shivering by the stove. He didn't say a word. He just stared, his jaw set, his thick fingers tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against his crossed forearms.
Mike swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed violently against the throat of his shirt. He shifted his weight from one sneaker to the other, the rubber soles squeaking loudly against the floor, making him flinch at his own noise. The wooden spoon trembled slightly in his hand.
From somewhere deep inside the wall behind the kitchen sink, a sudden, metallic shudder rattled through the pipes. It started as a low, ominous rumble, like a freight train passing half a mile away, before violently escalating into a furious, rhythmic CLANG-CLANG-CLANG that made the mismatched plates on the table dance.
Mike practically jumped out of his sneakers, dropping the wooden spoon onto the counter with a loud rattle. He stared at the base of the cabinet under the sink as a thin, high-pitched hiss of steam began to whistle through the cabinet doors.
He glanced back at the couch. Hopper hadn't blinked. The big man’s expression remained perfectly, agonizingly passive, as if the plumbing of the building were completely beneath his notice.
Desperation, sharp and frantic, took over Mike's face. He puffed out his skinny chest, adjusting the cuffs of his oversized gray sweatshirt with trembling fingers. He needed to look like a man who had things under control. He needed to prove he wasn't just a useless kid from the Hawkins suburbs who let someone else handle everything.
"I've got it!" Mike announced, his voice cracking slightly on the first syllable before he forced it down into what he clearly thought was a commanding, masculine register. "Don't worry about it, Chief!" He said as if the Chief was worrying about it in the first place. "It’s just... the pressure valve."
He practically lunged for the dark cabinet beneath the sink, flinging the warped wooden doors open. Reaching blindly past a bottle of dish soap and a bucket of old rags, his fingers closed around a heavy, rusted crescent wrench that had likely been left behind by a previous tenant during the Ford administration.
Mike shoved his upper torso into the cramped cabinet, his long legs sprawling out across the linoleum floor. Hopper slowly tilted his head down, watching the soles of Mike's sneakers twitch as the kid grunted, cursing under his breath.
"Just needs... a turn..." Mike’s voice echoed hollowly from inside the dark cabinet. "A little bit of... muscle..."
There was a sharp, screeching sound of metal scraping against old iron, followed by a sudden, sickening CRACK.
A split second later, a high-pressure jet of brown, rust-choked water erupted straight out of the pipe fitting. It hit the back of the cabinet, deflected perfectly and caught Mike square in the face.
"Holy shit!" Mike shrieked.
He tried to scramble backward out of the cabinet, but his limbs scrambled in too many directions at once. His wet sneaker slipped violently against the smooth linoleum, his elbow clipped the edge of the counter and he went down hard, flat on his back. The rusted pipe continued to hiss furiously, spewing an aggressive, sputtering fountain of dark brown water all over the kitchen tile, the ceiling and Mike’s entire front. The dinner was completely ruined.
Hopper didn't move an inch. He sat on the mustard sofa, his large hands still laced together over his stomach. He slowly lowered his eyes, tracking the path of the water as it dripped from the light fixture, before finally looking down at Mike.
He looked like a drowned rat. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead in thick, wet strings, brown water was dripping steadily from the tip of his nose and his oversized sweatshirt was completely soaked through, clinging to his ribs. He was still gripping the rusted wrench tight against his chest like a security blanket, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling in crushing defeat.
The silence stretched. The plumbing hissed. Hopper just watched him, his face an unreadable block of granite.
Something inside Mike finally snapped. The years of carrying the weight of Hawkins, the terrifying memories of the cabin, the absolute exhaustion of trying to look brave in front of a man who could break him in half, it all came pouring out of him in a frantic, breathless, classic Wheeler monologue.
"Chief. Just say it!" Mike yelled, his voice rising into that familiar, defensive screech as he scrambled up into a sitting position on the wet floor, wiping a streak of muddy water out of his eyes. "I know I’m not strong! I know I’m just a lanky boy who talks too fast and gets completely panicked by a leaky pipe! I know you probably still think about punching me, or... or shooting me with your revolver!"
He gripped the wrench tighter, his knuckles turning white as he glared up at Hopper with a raw, desperate intensity that finally stopped his trembling.
"But I’m not going anywhere! You can stare at me until my hair falls out and you can let the sink flood the entire block, but I’m staying right here! Okay? Nothing you do is going to change that. If I have to sit in a puddle of rusty apartment water every single day just to make sure my Will has a place where he feels safe, then I will! I’ll do it! So just... just do whatever you’re gonna do!"
Mike stopped, gasping for air, his shoulders shaking as he braced himself for the fallout, his eyes locked onto the giant man on the couch.
Hopper let out a slow, deep breath through his nose. He didn't look angry at all. He just looked incredibly, profoundly exhausted. He placed his palms flat on his knees, grunted as his joints popped and stood up.
The physical presence of the man instantly filled the kitchen. Hopper towered over the boy, his shadow completely covering Mike’s soaked form. Mike flinched, pulling his chin down into his wet collar, fully expecting a heavy boot or a hand grabbing his shirt.
Instead, Hopper reached down. His thick, calloused fingers closed around the handle of the crescent wrench, pulling it out of Mike’s rigid grip without any effort at all.
Before Mike could even blink, Hopper nudged Mike’s wet hip out of the way with the toe of his heavy work boot, not hard, just a blunt, careless shove to clear a path. Hopper dropped to one knee, leaned his massive upper body directly into the spraying dark water without a single flinch and reached deep into the back of the cabinet. His thick forearm muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he found the main shut-off valve.
With one violent, iron-wristed twist, he wrenched the old valve clockwise.
The sputtering fountain died instantly. The loud, hissing screech of the pipe faded into a pathetic, dripping silence. The entire repair took exactly four seconds.
Hopper slowly pulled himself out from under the sink, tossing the rusted wrench onto the counter with a heavy, metallic clink. He didn't bother wiping the water off his own face; he just stood there, looking down at the shivering teenager.
"You're a total disaster, Wheeler," Hopper rumbled, his voice low, heavy and completely devoid of any hesitation. He pointed a thick, grease-stained finger directly between Mike’s eyes. "An absolute, clumsy, loudmouthed one, but you're his disaster. He picked you. God knows why, but he did."
Hopper leaned down slightly, his shadow falling dark across Mike's face, his eyes narrowing into a hard, unforgiving stare.
"You keep him happy. You keep him safe. You make sure he keeps painting and you keep his head straight. That's all good for me, but if you ever break his heart, or if you ever make him look the way he looked back in those days... there won't be a conversation and the next gun I pull out won't be empty. Do we understand each other?"
Mike stared up at him, the water dripping from his chin entirely forgotten. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, but he managed a single, firm nod. "Crystal clear, Chief."
Hopper grunted, reaching into his pocket for a dry handkerchief to finally wipe the rust off his own brow. "Good. Now get off the floor and find a mop before he gets back. You look ridiculous."
Ten agonizingly slow minutes later, they both emerged from inside, finally clean and changed. The wet slap of a yellow string mop hitting the linoleum was the only sound left in the kitchen when the front door latch finally clicked.
Will stepped into the apartment, a brown paper grocery bag balanced against his hip and a small, sweating plastic sack of ice cubes clutched in his other hand. He stopped right at the threshold, his eyes scanning the scene.
Mike was currently working the mop handle with a frantic, trembling energy that looked more like an exorcism than housecleaning. He had changed into a dry, faded Hawkins High track sweatshirt that was slightly too short for his long arms, but his hair was still damp, sticking up in strange, spiky directions. A faint, brownish watermark on the lower half of the kitchen cabinets was the only remaining evidence of the great plumbing war.
On the mustard-yellow sofa, Hopper looked like he hadn't moved in ages, but somehow he had changed into one of his own sweatshirts that Will stole when he was in Montauk because it was soft. He had his heavy legs crossed at the ankle, leaning back into the broken springs with a dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated held up inches from his nose. He didn't even look up when the door opened and shut.
Will looked from the wet floor to Mike’s guilty, wide-eyed face and then over to Hopper’s completely unbothered posture. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Will’s mouth as he set the groceries down on the counter.
"Everything went all right while I was gone?" Will asked, his tone dripping with an innocent curiosity that suggested he knew exactly what kind of disaster usually occurred when these two were left in a room together.
"Perfect," Mike said immediately, his voice jumping an octave before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, leaning heavily on the mop handle to try and look casual, though his knuckles were still white. "Just... doing some light maintenance. The valve was a little loose. No big deal."
Hopper turned a page of his magazine, the paper making a sharp, deliberate snap in the quiet room. "The kid’s got a lot to learn about wrenches," he rumbled, his voice low and deadpan. "But the pipe’s dry now."
Will let out a soft, breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he begins unpacking the ice into a plastic bowl. He walked over to Mike, reaching up to gently smooth down a stray, damp curl behind Mike’s ear. The tension in Mike’s shoulders seemed to melt away at the touch, his whole frame slumping into a more natural, comfortable posture.
Hopper caught the movement over the top edge of his magazine, watching the way Mike instantly leaned into the small gesture, his defensive armor dropping the second Will was completely within arm's reach.
He closed the magazine with a soft thud, tossing it onto the coffee table. He grunted as he pushed himself up from the sagging cushions, his large frame instantly dominating the small living space again as he grabbed his lined denim jacket from the back of the chair. He walked over to the kitchen counter, his heavy boots leaving dull smudges on Mike’s freshly mopped floor. Mike watched him approach, his body locking up with a remnant of that old, familiar caution, but he didn't back away this time. He stood his ground next to Will.
Hopper reached into his hip pocket, pulled out a worn leather wallet and extracted a crisp, green twenty-dollar bill. He tossed it onto the counter right next to the loaf of bakery bread. The paper bill fluttered for a second before settling against the laminate.
"What's this for?" Will asked, looking up from the stove with a slight frown.
Hopper zipped his jacket up to his chest, his eyes settling briefly on Mike, his gaze hard but completely devoid of malice.
"Take him out to that diner down on Main tomorrow," Hopper growled, jerking his chin toward Will.
Mike made a face that was deeply offended yet still scared as he slid the bill back to him.
"I'll take him, Hop. Don't worry."
Hopper looked like he didn't like the audacity, but he let it go.
"Will, get some actual meat into the kid." Will snorted, hugging Mike's arms. "Whatever you're doing with that sauce over there smells like someone set a carpet on fire."
"Hey!" Mike protested, his face flushing a light pink. "Will's an amazing cook and this is an old Wheeler family recipe!"
"Yeah, well, your family tree is built on boiled unseasoned chicken," Hopper said, stepping past them toward the front door. "I'll take my leave, kiddos. I miss your mom and also, that sauce has rust water in it. Don't eat it."
He reached out, his thick hand dropping onto Will’s shoulder for a brief, heavy squeeze, his thumb rubbing against the knit fabric of the oversized sweater. "Call your mother on Wednesday. She worries."
"I will, Hop," Will said softly, his eyes warm. "Drive safe."
Hopper gave a single, gruff nod, pulled the heavy apartment door open and stepped out into the dim, linoleum-lined hallway of the building. The door clicked shut behind him, the latch settling into the frame with a solid, final crack.
He walked down the corridor, his heavy work boots echoing against the concrete walls. As he reached the top of the stairwell, the sound of Will’s clear, unburdened laughter floated through the thin wood of the apartment door behind him, followed quickly by Mike’s loud, indignant voice carrying down the hall.
"I am not dramatic, Will! The man is terrifying! He walks around like that just to intimidate me!"
Hopper stopped on the first step of the concrete stairs. He pulled his collar up against the autumn draft coming through the stairwell window, a slow, grudging smile finally breaking through his mustache in the dark. He shook his head, letting out a quiet, gravelly chuckle through his nose.
The kid was an absolute idiot. A loud, gangly, neurotic suburban pain in the ass, but as Hopper started down the stairs toward his truck, listening to the faint sound of Will’s laughter echoing through the old building, he figured he would do just fine.