Chapter Text
Hopper had felt an unexpected, grounding sense of thrill when he and El finally packed up the cabin and moved into the Byers' home. Yes, it was undeniably a tight squeeze, boots cluttered the entryway, coats were stacked on the hall pegs, and the bathroom was a constant war zone in the mornings. But for Hopper, the chaos was a small price to pay. It meant he could keep a protective, watchful eye on all his kids under a single roof, and, best of all, it meant coming home to Joyce at the end of a long, exhausting shift as chief of police. But then Steve Harrington had entered the equation, throwing a wrench into Hopper’s carefully managed routine. Now, Hopper was far from stupid. He was the chief of police in a town plagued by top secret laboratories, demogorgons, and upside down nightmares. He hadn't survived all that craziness just to be outsmarted by a couple of teenagers. So when Jonathan first started bringing the Harrington kid home, Hopper’s internal alarms immediately began ringing.
He remembered Steve's reputation all too well. This was the same smooth-talking, high school king who had hurt Jonathan in the past. He'd flung cruel insults, calling him a creep and a fag, and even smashing his camera to pieces. Hopper knew Jonathan wasn't the forgiving type, nor was he someone to blindly trust a former enemy. If Jonathan was letting Steve into his space, something deeper was going on. Hopper begrudgingly allowed the visits to happen under his roof, but he instituted a strict boundary, whenever Steve was over, Jonathan’s bedroom door had to remain open at least three inches.
Jonathan had protested the rule at first. He argued that the "three-inch rule" was meant for Mike and El because they were young, whereas he was a working adult who paid taxes, thank you very much. But deep down, Jonathan recognised the unspoken warmth behind the chief's gruff exterior. He knew the rule didn't come from a place of malice, but because Hopper cared deeply for him, almost as if he were his own son. So, Jonathan compromised in classic teenage fashion. The door remained open, but it was ruler-measured down to the exact millimetre in silent defiance, kept firmly propped open by a heavy science textbook.
That balance held until one afternoon while Hopper was kneeling on the kitchen floor, trying to fix a wobbly kitchen table leg. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the gap in the doorway vanish. The door had clicked shut.
Hopper instantly knew something was up. What he certainly didn't expect, however, was the faint sound echoing from behind the wood, something distinctly wet, quiet, and breathy. Every instinct as a cop and a protective father urged him to kick the door off its hinges right then and there. But just as he started to rise, Joyce’s voice rang in his memory: “You gotta trust him, Hop, or he won't trust you.” Taking a steadying breath, Hopper forced himself to walk over and knock firmly on the frame. Inside, he heard the metallic springs of the mattress groan loudly as they practically catapulted apart. A second later, a breathless voice called out, "Yes?"
Hopper pinched the bridge of his nose. These kids must think I was born yesterday, he thought. He needed to separate them fast before anything escalated further.
"Jonathan? Is Harrington in there?" Hopper called through the wood, keeping his voice strictly business. "I need some help lifting this table." Almost instantly, the door cracked open, and Steve stepped out. His face was visibly flushed, his hair slightly dishevelled, and his eyes wide with anxiety.
Hopper didn't say a word. He simply turned on his heel, silently leading the younger man back into the kitchen. With a low grunt, Hopper pointed toward the heavy wooden table, signalling for Steve to lift it up so he could crawl underneath and finish screwing the leg into place.
Steve took a position at the edge of the table, his arms trembling slightly as he prepped himself. He was completely silent. Hopper could sense the sheer tension radiating off the boy. It wasn't a secret that Steve was terrified of him. Hopper had personally hauled the kid into the station multiple times over the years for noisy house parties, reckless driving, and local brawls. Steve clearly understood where he stood in Hopper’s bad books, and the thought of stepping out of line here made him practically shake in his vans.
Good, Hopper thought, adjusting his grip on the screwdriver. He brought that on himself. He deserves to be a little scared. As Steve heaved the heavy piece of furniture upward, Hopper slid under the frame, trusting, perhaps foolishly, that the kid wouldn't lose his grip and drop the full weight of the table right onto his head.
"So," Hopper began casually over the metallic scraping of the tool. "My son-in-law."
He left the statement hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke, deliberately letting the weight of it sink in. Above him, Steve hitched a sharp breath and lifted the table even higher. The kid was clearly struggling under the strain, his muscles tense and shaking. Even after Hopper finished securing the final screw and pulled his hands back, Steve didn't lower it. His eyes were clenched tightly shut, his teeth gritted as he held the heavy piece of wood suspended in midair.
He was trying to prove something, trying to demonstrate his strength, his endurance, or his worthiness to the Chief of Police. It was a jarring sight. Seeing the raw pain, strain, and stubborn determination etched across the boy's face, Hopper’s harsh exterior softened just a fraction. He slid out from under the table, reached up, and placed a firm, steadying hand on Steve’s trembling shoulder.
"Kid..." Hopper said, his voice dropping its aggressive edge. "You can let go now. It's fixed."
Carefully, Steve lowered the table back down until its legs rested solidly and even against the floor. Panting lightly and clearly having strained himself, Steve wiped a line of sweat from his forehead. Hopper gestured loosely back toward the hallway, giving the boy permission to leave. "Go on back down," he said, before raising his voice so it echoed down the hall toward Jonathan's room. "And keep it three inches!"
As Steve retreated, practically scampering away, Hopper leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms and staring after him. He had seen plenty of tough kids in his line of work, but watching Harrington practically throw his back out just to hold up a table was a new one. Was it an attempt to prove his physical strength, or was the kid desperate to show he could handle whatever responsibility Hopper threw at him?
It was a puzzle Hopper hadn't expected to solve today, and frankly, it was one he wasn't sure he quite understood yet.