Chapter Text
The final bell’s echo had barely faded when Will said goodbye to his friends. He couldn’t join them on the walk home—his bike was still broken. At first, it didn’t matter. But as their laughter receded down the leafy street and he was left alone on the school steps, a familiar, cold unease began to knot in his stomach.
His feet carried him swiftly across the pavement toward the student parking lot, his eyes darting. He prayed to avoid another run-in with Troy and his gang. It had been oddly quiet for days, which was strange. Troy usually hunted for him like a shark scenting blood. But today, his luck ran out. There they were, loitering near the bleachers. Their eyes met—a frozen second that stretched into eternity. Will swallowed hard, the taste of dread sharp on his tongue.
Then, the impossible happened. Troy looked away. With a dismissive jerk of his chin, he turned and led his cronies in the opposite direction. Will stood rooted to the spot, confusion swirling with a mix of relief. It was unheard of. Troy never passed up a chance to shove him, to mock him, to make him feel small.
It was only after he’d taken a few more shaky breaths that he saw the reason. Leaning against the dusty brown Hawkins Police car, arms crossed and a cigarette dangling from his lips, was Chief Hopper.
Will hurried over, a moth drawn to a gruff, flickering flame. Hopper gave a single, slow nod and flicked the cigarette butt onto the asphalt.
“Everything in order?” Hopper asked, his voice a low rumble as Will opened the passenger door. He said it like they were embarking on a serious police operation, not a ride home.
Will nodded, climbing in. He was a boy of few words, but like his mother, his face was an open book. The dark shadow that had clung to him for so long had lightened in recent days, but it hadn’t vanished. A ghost of it still lingered in his eyes.
“We’re starting a new D&D campaign tonight. At the Wheelers’,” Will offered, breaking the comfortable silence that settled as the car pulled onto the road.
“Mhm,” Hopper grunted, almost by habit. A few seconds of quiet engine hum passed before he caught himself. He sighed, knowing he’d regret it. “I suppose you’ve got it all planned out, huh?”
The boy’s face lit up like a sunrise. He launched into a breathless torrent of names that meant nothing to Hopper. Will’s hands animated the air, weaving the story of their upcoming adventure.
“We’re even smuggling in those fruit candies Mike’s mom hates. She says they’re pure sugar,” Will confessed, carried away by excitement. “But I’ve got a good plan to get past the backpack inspection.”
“Backpack inspection?” Hopper’s brow furrowed. “So Karen Wheeler’s a gossip and a candy-patrol nurse witch? Good lord, now I see why she’s friends with your mom.” A rough chuckle escaped him. “And what’s this master plan for smuggling unhealthy, sugar-rebelling contraband?”
Will’s eyes went wide. He’d said too much. “Oh, ahm... It was… it was a joke.”
Hopper shot him a sidelong glance, a smirk playing on his lips. “I don’t think so. C’mon, kid, you’ve been caught by the law. Better confess, you little hoodlum.”
Will looked down at his hands, suddenly small. Hopper watched him, his cop instinct warring with a softer, unfamiliar feeling. “Hey, you’re not in trouble,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. The good cop routine didn’t suit him, but sometimes it worked. And frankly, if the kids were planning something, he wanted to know. It saved him the trouble of investigating. “Just curious.”
Will peeked up. “We leave the backpack with the candy on the porch. We wait until Karen gets on one of her long phone calls and Ted falls asleep. Then we sneak out, grab it, and it’s done.”
Hopper narrowed his eyes. It was a child’s plan, simple yet oddly strategic. “How do you know Ted will be asleep?”
“Ted? There’s a football game on TV tonight, but he gets up super early and… well, he's kinda boring… he’ll be snoring before halftime.”
A grin tugged at Hopper’s mouth. “And Karen? How do you know she’ll be on the phone?”
Will couldn’t help but have a small, knowing laugh. “Because we’ll have the basement, and Ted will have the TV. She’s too nosy to just sit there. She’ll need to talk to someone. The phone’s her best option. Probably her only one.”
Hopper stared at the road ahead, a genuine smile breaking through. He was quietly astonished. He’d always written these kids off as noisy, annoying nuisances. He’d underestimated them. “You know… you’re smart, kid. You could make a decent detective.”
Will laughed, but the sound died quickly, replaced by a somber shake of his head. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not strong like you.”
Hopper tapped a thick finger against his own temple. “You don’t need to be strong here. A smart kid can get anything he wants.”
Will looked at him, thoughtful, but ultimately shook his head again, a deep-seated doubt clouding his features. “That’s not true.”
“You don’t believe me?” Hopper asked, feeling an unexpected pang. The boy’s longing for something he felt he could never be was palpable in the close air of the car.
After a few more blocks, Will suddenly straightened up. “Oh! I almost forgot. Can we stop by the City Hall? I have to give Wendy the drawings she asked for.”
“Wendy?” Hopper’s cop-senses tingled. “What’s with you and all these trips to City Hall lately?”
“This time I drew something new. Way better.” Will’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
Hopper’s suspicion grew. This oddly specific friendship between a sharp-tongued secretary and a quiet boy needed looking into. He was about to press further when he had to slam on the brakes. “Damn it…” he muttered. Ahead of them, traffic was at a complete standstill, a solid river of red brake lights.
Will’s face fell instantly. “Oh, no… City Hall closes soon! We’ll be too late!”
Hopper turned to him, a glint of reckless authority in his eyes. “You sure about that?” He reached over and pressed a button on the dashboard.
The world exploded in a flash of red and blue and a deafening *WHOOP-WHOOP* of the siren. Will jumped, then stared, wide-eyed and awestruck, as the sea of cars before them began to magically part.
“Whoa!” Will laughed, captivated by the power of it.
As Hopper threw the car into gear and surged forward, Will turned to him, a flicker of conscience breaking through his wonder. “But… you’re only supposed to use that for emergencies.”
Hopper kept his eyes on the opening path, a mock-stern set to his jaw. “And this isn’t one? As I said, you just have to think about how to use the resources you have available. A smart guy finds a way to get what he wants."
A slow, thrilled smile spread across Will’s face. He nodded, pressing closer to the window. Hopper guided the car through the gap, weaving it free of the jam. He didn’t see the way Will looked at him then—not with fear, not with simple gratitude, but with a shining, hopeful admiration that lit up the whole car.
The heavy front door clicked shut, followed by the slow, weighted tread of boots on the floorboards. Joyce knew it could only be Hopper. Even now, it still felt strange—the sound of him coming home, the way it was beginning to feel ordinary, like a rhythm that had always been there. Yet, they had known each other for only a handful of months. Soon, his broad frame filled the doorway to her room, his shoulder leaning against the jamb as if holding up the weight of the day.
“Everything okay?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet.
Joyce shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as she nodded. “I’m getting better, I think. The pain’s almost gone, but moving my foot still…” Her words trailed off as her eyes stayed on him, tracing the weary lines of his face. He moved into the room with a tired sigh, heading for the dresser. The routine was so mundane, so domestic: the heavy-duty belt, the holstered gun, laid down with a soft thud. A man coming home, and trying to get comfortable. But it still caught in her throat—how easily, in these few days since her accident, he had carved a space for himself here. As if the imprint of him had always existed in these walls.
“Long day?” she asked softly as he finally turned and walked toward her, sinking onto the edge of the mattress with a heaviness that spoke of hours on his feet.
He exhaled, a sound worn thin. “Long? More like tedious. Mrs. Smith called again—some kid vandalized her garden gnomes. Again. Then I picked Will up from school. He’s over at the Wheelers’ now. Something about that damn dragon game… probably spending the night.”
Joyce nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. “Yeah, I just got off the phone with Karen.”
A low chuckle escaped him as he realized Will’s plan had unfolded perfectly. Ted was likely already snoring in his recliner, and just as the boy predicted, Karen had called. Which meant the coast was clear, the sugary contraband stash was breached, and a group of kids were now probably buzzing on candy-fueled chaos while the adults were none the wiser.
Joyce didn’t understand the sly grin that softened his features, but she didn’t need to. Drawn by the rare lightness in his expression, she leaned in and pressed a quick, tender kiss to his lips.
Hopper’s eyes met hers, and for a moment he pressed his lips together, savoring the fleeting warmth, the simple sweetness of it. Then he broke the silence, his voice rough but gentle. “God, I’m starving. Gonna go see if there’s anything left in that fridge that’s still edible.”
The late-night quiet of the house had taken on a new texture—a low, persistent hum from the television in the living room. Joyce lay in bed, listening. Eleven o’clock. Then half past. The glow from under her door was a stubborn yellow rectangle against the dark. A slow, gnawing suspicion began to coil in her chest: Hopper was stretching these hours thin, pushing himself to the very edge of exhaustion, a desperate tactic to outrun the nightmares that stalked him every night.
With a quiet sigh, she reached for her crutches. The journey from her bedroom was a slow, clumsy pilgrimage of pain. When she finally reached the archway, the scene was painted in the television's blue flicker: a half-eaten sandwich on a plate, and a beer can gleaming dully on the coffee table. And Hopper, a broad silhouette against the restless light, still stubbornly, achingly awake.
“What are you doing up?” His voice was gravelly, worn smooth by the long day.
“Oh, I’ve been horizontal all day with nothing better to do,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn't feel. “Thought I might join you for… Miami Vice?” She didn't wait for an answer, maneuvering toward the sofa. The crutches were awkward extensions of her body, betraying her with every shift. As she wobbled, his hand shot out, a steady anchor on her arm, guiding her down until she sank heavily into the worn cushions. A sharp jolt of pain shot through her leg, and she bit her lip hard. Don't let him see. He’ll lecture you without mercy.
But Hopper missed little. After a few minutes of her silent, stiff adjustments, his eyes left the screen. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah… it’s just… I need to get my leg up, and just… let me…” She wrestled with the geography of her own small sofa. For her and Will, it had been perfect. Hopper changed the equation, his presence rewriting the space.
She only meant to shift, to prop her cast on the armrest. But then his arm was around her, solid and certain, drawing her into him. And somehow, impossibly, she was lying down. There was no way they both fit. Was there? Then she realized her head was pillowed on the solid warmth of his thigh. A flush of heat crept up her neck—until she felt his arm settle over her shoulder, his fingers sinking gently into her hair, cradling her skull with a tenderness that stole her breath.
She tilted her head up just enough to see his face. He gave it no ceremony, no weighty look. His eyes were fixed on the flickering screen, his free hand lifting the beer for another sip, as if this intimacy was the most natural thing in the world. As if she had always belonged right here.
Minutes bled into one another. Soon, she could feel the fatigue claiming him, his fingers moving slower and slower through her hair, their rhythm fading into stillness. Finally, the episode of Miami Vice ended, and he seemed to stir back to life with a long, weary exhalation. She tried to sit up, but a whip-crack of pain shot through her leg—too long in the same position. This time, she couldn’t stifle the soft cry.
“Joyce?” His voice cut through the haze as he shifted to look at her.
She gripped the sofa cushion, her fist closing tight over the fabric, fighting to steady her breath. “I’m fine,” she lied, trying to soothe him, hating that he had to see her like this. She didn’t want to be a burden. “Just… just need a minute. Then I can get up and get to bed.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she could feel his gaze, heavy and concerned, upon her. “You’re stubborn. You shouldn’t have gotten up in the first place.”
She closed her eyes as if she could blink away the wretched feeling. “Just a minute. Once I stretch it out, I’ll be okay. Maybe I shouldn’t have bent it so much.”
Then she felt his hands slide under her back and behind her knees. “What’re you doing?” Her eyes flew open as her body was lifted from the cushions.
“Taking you to bed. What’s it look like?” His voice was strained with the effort as he began to walk, her weight solid in his arms.
Instinctively, her arms coiled around his neck. “Hopper. Put me down, I can walk. You shouldn’t be lifting, let alone a whole person!”
He ignored her completely, navigating the dim house toward the bedroom. She soon felt the firm surface of the mattress against her back, and then him leaning over her, breathing heavily from the exertion, his arms braced on either side of her. Their eyes met, and a flutter of nervous wings took flight in her stomach.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, unable to look away from the startling blue of his eyes.
He smiled, a faint, tired thing. “Look who’s talking.”
Once he’d caught his breath, he maneuvered onto the bed and collapsed beside her, spent. It had become their unspoken ritual, a wordless agreement. She would settle her back against him, and he would envelop her completely, pulling her into the fortress of his arms, holding her as if she were the only anchor in a stormy sea. He fell asleep with the certainty of her presence, clinging to her like a light in the suffocating dark. She felt his warmth, his protection, a living blanket against the world.
He was asleep quickly, a skill she envied. Her fingers crept along his forearm until they found his wrist. She hadn’t asked permission. He’d never allow it if he knew. But she slept during the day so she could keep her vigil through the night. Protecting him. Her fingers pressed firmly against the pulse point in his wrist. It was the only way to pull him back from the nightmares before they could fully claim him. The moment she felt his heartbeat gallop, his muscles tense with unseen terror, she would wake him, sparing him that descent into anguish. But to do that, she had to stay awake. It was a price she would pay a thousand times over if it meant saving him from drowning in those pills—those false promises that offered fleeting relief in exchange for prolonging the misery.
She had to find a solution, and soon. She couldn't bear to see him consumed in that bottomless pit, yet talking to him about it was impossible. She would have to look for information elsewhere.