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“The hell are they sniggering about?”
It’s nearing eleven p.m. on a Thursday evening, the day before Christmas Eve. Hopper is standing with one hand tucked under his arm and a drink in the other, leaning into the open doorway into his office, on the night of what passes for a precinct Christmas party. That is to say, those on duty have coffee in their mugs, those not have something stronger, there’s some gaudy Christmas music playing over one of the radios, and Flo even brought in a couple casserole dishes filled with finger foods that barely pass her own health standards.
“It’s Christmas,” she’d scoffed with a dismissive wave of her hand when Hopper had jokingly pointed out that this kind of went against her no-donuts policy, “Take it or leave it, you Scrooge.”
He definitely hadn’t complained again.
It helped that he wasn’t on duty. Otherwise, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have survived this party sober, and there was no way he would have been able to get out of coming. All those damned newbies had ganged up on him and tried as he might, they hadn’t taken no for an answer.
Lucas being home fresh from the Academy gave him something to celebrate, too, he supposed. He’d been so sure that the kid was going to go straight for the city once he got the chance, but here he was, divulging all his newly acquired textbook knowledge on poor Callahan who had always been too stubborn to do things by the book, and looking incredibly smug while he was at it. All things considered, he was a great addition to the team. Hopper had always said they needed some fresh faces around the precinct, and Sinclair’s arrival had certainly blown some new life into their little family.
If he thought about it for too long he’d risk getting misty-eyed, too.
Then there’s Harrington.
Currently standing opposite Jim, a mirror image. If you could call it that, anyway, considering... Well, considering the obvious, of course.
Harrington was a surprise addition. After everything he had seen and been through, Hopper had expected him to be running for the hills the first chance he got, disappear out of Hawkins, out of Indiana, and never look back. But when most of his friends had moved on to greener pastures, colleges out of state and jobs across the borders, Steve had lingered. And then one day he’d showed up at the precinct, asking for a job.
That’s when Flo had been thinking about cutting back her hours so she could spend more time with her grandkids, so it killed two birds with one stone. Steve had started out behind the desk, slowly learning the ins and outs of the job and what it meant to be on the force except from a relatively safe distance at first. Until one night Daniels had been called away for the birth of his first child and had left Jim alone for what was supposed to be a calm evening shift but ended up being—well. Decidedly not that. Hopper had needed backup and Harrington had been the only one around.
He’d proven to be very valuable and surprisingly skilled. A quick thinker, brave, light on his feet. And, also not unimportant, very good with people. Victims. Kids, especially.
It had been a no-brainer to take him out of the chair and put him in the field, as it were.
The others had doubted his decision. Hopper never had.
At his question, grumbled into his mug which was still filled about halfway with a concoction Lucas had sworn by, Steve looks up out of his own cup and moves is gaze around the room. The way his eyebrow quirks, Hopper figures that he must have noticed the way Flo and Powell have been bowed together, talking conspiratorially behind their hands and casting meaningful glances their way.
Hopper has known Florence long enough to be pretty sure that she’s up to something, and that the something can’t be good. He has half a mind to waltz up to her and push and prod until he gets an answer out of her, but she looks up and meets his eye before he can make up his mind about whether he will or not.
“What?” He challenges across the open precinct between them.
“Nothing,” she calls back, but it’s with an air of something that clearly states she knows more than he does and is pretty damn smug about it too, “You just keep standing there. Something might finally come of it, too.”
It’s not until Flo’s successor, a nice enough lady called Louise who moved to Hawkins three years ago and who half the precinct is sure has a little bit of a crush on him, walks past, looks up, says “oh, if you insist”, and leans into his space to peck him on the cheek, that something clicks.
He doesn’t even need to follow Steve’s amused finger pointing at something in the doorway above him to know exactly what is hanging there.
“ Goddamn Christmas traditions ,” he grumbles. He downs the rest of his drink to hide the redness in his cheeks.
“Welp,” Steve gulps comically, “Guess I should be careful about standing here, huh?”
“Why, you afraid Flo’s gonna come and lay one on you?” Hopper raises his brows at him.
Steve snorts out a chuckle that is more charming than it has any right to be. He’s a bit red in the cheeks, but Jim knows that it’s more from the alcohol and the warmth inside of the office than it is from anything else, as much as he might have liked it to be – but that’s neither here nor there. Doesn’t help that it just looks good on him, too.
“Nah, just. Y’know. Expectations, in general. Doesn’t matter who’s standing under it.” As he says it, he lifts his cup higher and higher toward his face until he’s all but buried into his own drink, his voice tinny against the inside of his cup. The way his gaze flits between Hopper’s face, somewhere in the middle distance, and the ground beneath his feet, makes Jim feel some type of way.
What is it that he’s really saying? Because it sounds like he’s saying one thing, but Hopper’s pretty sure that it could still be something else entirely. Especially on account of the drinks he’s seen Steve have, and the fact that he’s something of a lightweight. Jim remembers inviting him over to watch a game not even that long ago, and it had only taken Steve two beers to be as rosy-cheeked as he is now – and he knows for a fact that there is something a whole lot stronger in his cup tonight.
So Hopper smiles. Laughs, just a little. Pretends like this is a joke he’s in on. Shifts a little when Steve does. Notices, belatedly, that the younger man’s only gotten closer to him.
“Doesn’t count if we’re not really under it, right?”
If you were asking Hop, he’d say that Steve’s shifting very much contradicted his words at that moment. But what does he know?
“Gonna have to stand a lot farther than that if you want to get out of kissing me, kid.”
Hopper fully expects Steve to go with the joke, take a couple wide paces and put enough distance between them that it’s ridiculous. But much to Hopper’s surprise, he doesn’t even shuffle, barely moves a muscle. Just lifts his mug to his lips again, and over the rim of it, before taking a sip, asks; “Yeah?”
Aside from Louise, Hopper can’t actually even remember the last time he was flirted with. Let alone by another man. Is that what is happening, or is Steve just being nice to his boss? Jesus Christ, since when have the lines become so blurry for him, huh? It’s either that, or he’s desperate, and at that moment he really doesn’t know which of the two is worse.
Either way, nothing comes of it. Lucas decides that is a good moment to want to show Steve something, and it leads him away from the doorframe, Hop, and the mistletoe between them. Thankfully, Flo takes that moment to start going around with a fresh tray of nibbles, because Hopper might have taken it just a little bit too personally if he didn’t have food to distract him from what had just happened.
Two more drinks later, Hop has given up his perch against the doorframe and is instead on the front deck sharing a smoke with Powell. He doesn’t know how the conversation gets where it ends up, but it does.
“Kid’s fond of you, you know?” Powell says. It’s so out of left field that it takes Jim a minute to realize what or who he’s talking about and even then figures out quickly that he’s got the wrong end of the stick. The only ‘kid’ he’d really consider a kid at this point is Lucas Sinclair, after all.
“Give him a couple weeks and he’ll start missing the Academy,” he huffs amusedly, smoke billowing into the wintery night air.
“Not Sinclair,” he says it like it’s supposed to be obvious to everyone involved, “Harrington.”
Since they both realized they were standing under mistletoe together and Hopper put his foot in his mouth joking about kissing, they haven’t really been in close proximity again – but that doesn’t mean that Jim hasn’t felt his presence. Keenly.
Hopper can’t decide if it’s always been like this and he has just never noticed it, or if there’s something in Lucas’s alcoholic Christmas concoction that’s bringing out this side in Harrington that he hasn’t seen before, but he’s been... different. Looking in his direction more often, letting his gaze linger instead of immediately glancing away, even if only for a fraction. Of course the only reason Jim has noticed that is because he’s been doing it himself. They’re equally to blame. It makes him wonder what exactly it is that the young man’s got on his mind tonight, and if it’s anything like what’s been going through his own head.
He tries to shake it off. None of this is particularly helpful. Certainly none of it is anything that Powell needs to know about, because if Powell knows, then Flo knows, and if Flo knows then he might as well just hand in his resignation immediately because that is absolutely not something he is going to be living down so long as they both work there.
The fact that Powell is pointing Steve’s apparent fondness out to him now? Unprompted, even? Highly suspect.
Jim gives him a very firm frown over his cigarette as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about right now. Or just how true Jim is starting to suspect that it is.
Does that mean it’s obvious and has he been less subtle than he thought he was? Unfortunately that would not surprise Hop a whole lot. After all, he has been drinking enough that Florence is going to try to convince him to take one of the drunk tanks for the night instead of driving home. But he’s stubborn, and the roads will be deserted by the time he packs his things, and—it’ll just be the same slew of excuses he uses every year.
He’s not drunk. He wouldn’t say he’s drunk. He’s pleasantly buzzed, enough that the bitter cold doesn’t affect him as much as it does Powell, standing outside as they are. Enough that he doesn’t feel the need to so forcefully push away the thought of Steve’s eyes on him for the majority of the night and just how that makes him feel, when normally he’d at least try to have the decency to think of things like that only in the privacy of his own home. Maybe his own bedroom.
But now that Calvin’s brought it up, it’s like it is all his brain can provide him with in terms of coherent thought.
It must somehow show on his face, because Powell shakes his head with this knowing huff.
“Alright, well. Just, you know...”
If this hadn’t been excruciating, Hopper would have been able to appreciate the effort Calvin is putting into showing his support for something he absolutely does not understand.
He lets his colleague flounder for another moment before putting him out of his misery with a firm, companionable pat on the shoulder. Almost immediately, Powell deflates with a sigh. He turns to Hopper and points an accusatory finger at his chest.
“If he’s running for the hills before I get a chance to retire, you’re paying for my vacation to Miami and you’re on your own for the hiring process.” He finishes his threat with another poke of his finger and then a fond shake of his head as he starts to head back inside.
Jim puts his cigarette out on the wooden deck railing. It sizzles briefly on the layer of frost.
Nothing will come of it, he thinks. It’s a warning he doesn’t need to heed, because Steve Harrington can look his fill, but Jim is pretty confident that it is all he’ll ever be doing.
Lucas and Glenn are on their way out when Jim goes back inside and they bid him a quick goodnight in between some animated conversation that he doesn’t even attempt to understand what brief snippet he heard of it. Powell is behind his desk, Louise is gathering the last of the snacks into Tupperware to go into the precinct fridge to be consumed over the next few days, and Florence is in the process of putting on her coat. The music has been turned down to a more respectable volume again but the lights have yet to come back up.
With the party winding down and his own appetite for another drink dwindling, Hopper decides then that it might be a good time to call it a night. He’ll follow the others’ example and grab his coat to brave the cold outside. He’s already thinking about the hot shower that’s waiting for him at home and the fresh sheets that he put on his bed just that morning, when he comes face to face with Harrington.
He had wondered where he’d gone off to. The answer, apparently, is in the door frame into Hopper’s office.
He’s standing there so casually. So relaxed. Arms folded loosely across his chest, which accentuates the shape of his arms even under the hideous Christmas sweater he’s wearing. He’s got one shoulder blade against the door jamb and he’s looking up like he’s considering the little twig of green hanging from a red thread stuck to the wooden frame with a bit of tape. Whose doing that was, Hopper doesn’t know, but he might have to thank them later even just for this view alone.
Steve doesn’t notice him standing there at first even though he’s only a few feet away, but when he does, the way his face both lights up and flusters deeply is going to be a very big problem for Jim.
The way hope flares in his chest for how just this makes the impossible feel suddenly not so impossible anymore, should have Hopper turning and running for the hills. But they say the heart wants what it wants, and lately his has been pretty set on who’s standing directly in front of him, looking for all intents and purposes so damn pleased that he’s here.
It’s all he can do not to stride over there and do that silly muscle’s bidding.
Even when every fibre of his being is screaming to bridge the distance as quickly as possible, he takes his time crossing the space between them, searching, testing. Steve looks about the same as Hop feels; unsure, but hopeful. Knowing that it’s just his way of interpreting the expressions flitting across the young man’s face, there’s no real way of telling what is truly going on inside that pretty head of his, not until something is already set in motion that Jim can’t very well take back.
So his approach is cautious. Steve steps aside, mostly out of the doorframe into Hop’s office, and he must see something in Jim’s expression deflate because he’s immediately holding up his hands in a placating manner, trying to get through some kind of justification.
“Not standing directly under it. If that’s what you— or, if that’s not—“
Somehow, that’s all the confirmation Hopper needs. A smile curves at the corners of his mouth as he continues forward, one hand falling to Steve’s waist when they’re close enough to touch and bringing him along on his way back that step and a half toward the door opening, gently guiding, coaxing.
There’s a part of him that thinks this is a bad idea. Not for any reason that he might have thought a couple years ago, though. Right now, mostly because they’re at work, and while everyone still present is mostly busy, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll go unnoticed, even though chances are no one’s paying them any mind right now.
But fuck it. He’s got Steve here, now, he’s had enough drinks that he doesn’t care to think about the consequences on a professional level, and the way he could hear Steve’s breath stutter even though he tried his best to hide it when his hand landed on him? Worth it. So fucking worth it.
“Won’t you look at that,” he says and flicks his eyes up before quickly returning to watching Steve’s face. He doesn’t want to miss the way he looks up, notices they’re directly in the doorway and consequently under the mistletoe, and flushes possibly even darker.
Jim knows Steve’s had a couple as well. Maybe that’s what makes this so easy. Maybe that’s what makes him so receptive. Maybe that’s what makes him bold when Jim lifts his free hand up to lean his underarm against the side of the frame, effectively all but caging Steve in against it, but Steve does not shrink into the limited slot. Rather, he grows into it, squaring his shoulders, crowding further into Hop’s space with a confidence that Jim finds he loves seeing on him.
It’s high time he knows his worth and learns to take up space. All the better that he’s doing it so close to him.
“Guess it’s tradition, right?” Steve says, “And I mean, who are we to break tradition?”
He chuckles, and it has an awkward quality to it that is so endearing that Hop can’t physically stop himself from leaning in and kissing him to see if it tastes as sweet as it sounded.
Jim doesn’t know if it’s because he’s had a bit to drink, or if it’s because he hasn’t been close to someone quite like this for too long, or because he’s been tried stubbornly to ignore what has been slowly growing between them over the course of the past few months – but the fourth of July pales in comparison when their lips touch.
Few first kisses are perfect, and neither is this one, but it comes suspiciously close.
Steve’s mouth is warm and comfortably dry and he very obviously knows how to use it. He’s not shy about showing Jim, either. Suddenly, Jim is happy he’s not so belligerently drunk that he won’t remember this in the morning, because there’s something about the way Steve passes just a hint of his tongue teasingly across the seam of Hop’s mouth that already has him thinking longingly about the next time he’ll get to experience it.
For an instant, they both seem about to get a little too swept up in the moment. Steve brings a hand up to Hopper’s chest, which coaxes him in closer until their chests are touching and Steve is pressed most of the way up against the door jamb. Hop is very tempted to let that quick, dirty slide of Steve’s tongue turn into more, but then both of them become aware of their surroundings at the same time, and the kiss breaks.
They lock eyes. Steve licks his lips. Hop releases a breath.
At that moment, they both know exactly where they’re ending up tonight.
There’s a clatter of plates from the little kitchen down the corridor, and they don’t spring apart as much as they both sort of slink away.
“I’m gonna be heading out,” Steve says, turning in the doorway as Hop dips into his office to grab his jacket and pull it on. He eyes Steve from behind his desk.
“You good to drive?” He looks him up and down. The way Steve seems to squirm under his gaze kindles the steadily roaring fire in him. Jesus, he needs a cigarette. He checks his pockets for his pack.
Steve takes a second too long to think of his response, and Hop takes the opportunity as it presents itself.
“I was on my way out, myself. I’ll give you a ride. C’mon.”
And Jim fully intends to drop him off at home. He does. But then when they’re standing outside and Hop is smoking one last cigarette before the drive and Steve is checking he hasn’t left anything in his car he’s going to need tonight, the topic of the very nice bottle of whisky that Jane gave Hop as an early Christmas present when she was in town comes up, and suddenly a little nightcap back at his place doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
And well. If that’s not all the night ends with, that’s between them and the little mouse living in Hop’s walls.
When they pull up to the precinct parking lot the following morning to relieve Powell of his nightshift, it doesn’t take a lot for Calvin to figure out what exactly happened. Between Steve’s Beemer still in the lot, the pep in Hop’s step and the poorly concealed bruise over Steve’s jugular, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
All he can really do is shake his head, pat Jim on the shoulder on his way out, and save his shovel talk for later.
In the name of Christmas spirit, he’ll let those two float on their little pink cloud for just a little while longer.