Chapter Text
The second Jim Hopper pulled the cruiser into the station lot, he knew he was beyond pissed. He did not have time for this. Not when the government was breathing down his neck, not when he was in the midst of unraveling a conspiracy that felt bigger than the state of Indiana, and certainly not when he still had a missing kid to find.
His own kid getting into suburban street fights was the absolute last thing he needed today.
He slammed the door of the car, the sound echoing through the quiet afternoon, and adjusted his hat with a sharp, impatient tug. He could already feel a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He had spent the morning dealing with secrets and shadows; now he had to walk inside and deal with a bunch of teenagers who seemingly had nothing better to do than beat each other bloody in an alleyway.
He marched toward the station doors, his boots heavy and deliberate on the pavement, with Joyce Byers hurrying to keep pace by his side. He didn't care who started it, and he didn't care who "won." All he knew was that if Alisson was involved, there was going to be hell to pay.
"Hey! Jonathan? Jesus, what happened?" Joyce’s voice echoed through the lobby, cutting through the constant ringing of telephones and the drone of the station.
"You. What the hell were you doing?" Hopper didn't even look at the other two. He pointed a thick finger straight at his kid, who was slumped on the bench with that specific look of 'sorry dad, please forgive me.'
"Dad, I—"
"Chief—" Callahan started, stepping forward to explain the situation as he approached the Chief and the frantic Byers mother.
"I'm fine," Jonathan’s voice came out as a quiet, strained whisper, his eyes fixed on his mother’s worried face, trying to project a strength he didn't feel.
"Why is he wearing handcuffs?" Joyce demanded, her voice rising, shaking with a mix of terror and fury as she stared at the officers. "Take them off him! Right now!"
"Why were you in the middle of a street fight?" Hopper countered, completely ignoring Joyce’s outburst. He loomed over Ali, his shadow stretching across the bench.
"It wasn't like that! Steve was—he was, Dad! He was—" Ali began, her words tumbling out as she tried to defend herself and Jonathan.
"Well, your boy assaulted a police officer. That’s why," Callahan spoke up, his voice sounding thick and wet through the reddening bandage on his face. He looked at Joyce with a smug, pained glare.
"Take them off," Joyce said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made even Powell look away.
"I am afraid I cannot do that, Mrs. Byers," Callahan said, attempting to sound professional, but only managing to sound condescending. "We have procedures for when civilians decide to use an officer's nose as a punching bag."
Joyce stepped right into Callahan’s space, her eyes blazing with a mother's desperation. "I said... take them off."
"You heard her. Take them off," Jim’s voice boomed, echoing through the station and silencing the ringing phones. He leveled a look at Callahan that clearly said 'don't test my patience today.' Callahan fumbled for his keys, grumbling under his breath as he unlocked Jonathan's wrists. Hopper didn't wait for the click of the metal to turn his fury back on his daughter.
"You," Jim growled, looming over Alisson. "You are going home. Right now. And you will not leave that damn house until I say so. I swear to God, Alisson, if I find out you disobeyed me, you will spend the next night in a jail cell. Do you understand?"
He was looking straight into her soul, his chest heaving with the weight of the day.
"But Dad, I—" Ali began, her voice small but desperate to explain.
"I said, do you understand?" He barked the words, his eyes locked onto hers, refusing to give an inch.
Ali swallowed hard, her eyes stinging with a mix of anger and shame. "Yes, dad. I understand."
"Chief?" Calvin Powell spoke up, his voice low and uncharacteristically grave. He was standing near the back exit, drawing everyone's attention away from the family spat. "I get that everyone is emotional here, but there is something you need to see. Out in the lot."
Hopper’s eyes flickered from Ali to Jonathan, then finally to Nancy. "You three. Stay," he ordered, his voice like gravel. "Do not move from those seats."
He turned on his heel and followed Powell and a limping Callahan out the door.
They led him straight to the red Chevelle. It sat under the harsh parking lot lights, looking out of place among the drab brown police cruisers. Hopper felt a sharp, bitter pang in his chest just looking at it. He had given her that car a year before as a surprise—a desperate apology for missing her birthday party just the day before. He’d been caught up at work, lost in a bottle and a cold case, and had completely lost track of time.
She had been devastated. The next day, he’d shown up with the keys to the Chevelle, hoping to buy back her smile. It had worked. She never left home without it.
"Look at this, Chief," Powell said, gesturing to the open trunk.
Hopper stepped forward, his breath hitching. The trunk wasn't full of school books or gym clothes. It was packed with a grim, calculated armory: the silver teeth of the bear trap, a big red machette, the heavy sledgehammer, the jagged box of nails, the gallon of gasoline and a gun.
He stared at the pile, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. He hadn't just given her a car; he had unknowingly given her a getaway vehicle for whatever insanity she was wrapped up in. The red paint of the Chevelle, once a symbol of a peace offering, now felt like a mockery.
With a rough, angry grunt, Hopper began grabbing the items. He piled the heavy bear trap, the box of jagged nails, the sledgehammer, and the gallon of gasoline into a large evidence crate. He didn't say a word to Powell or Callahan. He just hoisted the heavy box against his chest and marched back into the station, his boots thundering against the floorboards.
The trio—Ali, Jonathan, and Nancy—looked up as the door swung open. The air in the room vanished the moment Hopper reached the table.
THUD.
He slammed the box down on the wooden surface in front of them. The metal bear trap let out a sharp, hollow ring as it shifted against the wood. Hopper leaned over the table, his hands planted firmly on the edge, looming over the three of them like a mountain about to collapse.
"Explain," he commanded. The word was low, vibrating with a level of authority that demanded nothing but the absolute truth.
Ali looked at the box, then at the pulse jumping in her father’s neck. Beside her, Nancy’s breath hitched, and Jonathan’s eyes went wide. They were staring at the tools of their "movie," but in the harsh, flickering light of the police station, it didn't look like a heroic mission anymore. It looked like a felony.
"What is all this?" Joyce whispered, her voice trembling. She moved around the table, her hands hovering over the box as she peered at the jagged metal of the bear trap and the gallon of gasoline. Her mind was racing, trying to connect these violent objects to the son she knew.
"You went through my car?!" Ali’s voice cracked, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a surge of indignant rage. She couldn't believe this. She knew she was screwed, but the sight of her personal belongings being treated like evidence made her blood boil. "You had no right! That’s my car!"
"I have every right when my daughter is involved in a battery case and hauling enough gasoline to blow up a city block!" Hopper roared back, slamming a heavy hand down on the table. The box rattled, the metal teeth of the bear trap clinking against the nails with a chilling, metallic sound. "You want to talk about rights? Talk about why you have a bear trap and a gun in the trunk of a car I bought you for your birthday!"
The word gun seemed to echo in the small, cramped room, making the air feel even thinner.
"It was my gun," Jonathan spoke up, his voice steady despite the way his hands were shaking under the table. He looked Hopper dead in the eye, trying to shoulder the weight of the accusation to help Ali’s case. "It’s mine. I brought it."
Hopper’s head snapped toward Jonathan, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. He looked at the scrawny kid in the flannel shirt, then back at the box.
"Your gun?" Hopper repeated, his voice dropping to a low, terrifying hum. "You brought a loaded firearm into my daughter’s car? You let her drive around with a weapon she isn't licensed to carry?"
"Jim, wait—" Joyce started, her face ashen as she looked at her son.
"I want to see you in my office." Jim says, his tone was deep, leaving no room for argument. It wasn't a request; it was an order.
The three of them stood up slowly, the silence of the station pressing in on them. Jonathan’s chair scraped harshly against the floor. He looked at Hopper—not with fear, but with a weary, hollow kind of exhaustion.
"You won't belive me." Jonathan says.
Hopper paused, his hand on the door handle of his office. He turned back, his gaze narrowing as he looked at the boy. "Try me."
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Ali was shaking the entire time, her hands tucked under her thighs to hide the tremors. As Jonathan’s mom and her dad stood under the flickering office light, hunched over the grainy, distorted photo of the thing in the woods, she felt a sickening wave of vertigo.
She was about fifty percent sure that her next stop wouldn't be a jail cell, but the nearest mental facility. She could already imagine the look on her father's face—the pity, the horror, the realization that his daughter had finally cracked under the pressure of the town's tragedies.
The silence in the office was deafening, broken only by the sound of her father’s heavy breathing and the distant, muffled noise of the precinct outside. Ali’s gaze flickered to Joyce. She didn't need her dad to understand right away; she just needed Joyce to believe them. Joyce was the only one who had seen the lights, heard the walls, and felt the presence of something that shouldn't exist.
Hopper squinted at the photograph, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of the paper where it had been torn from the contact sheet. He didn't dismiss it immediately, which felt like a small, desperate victory in itself, but the way his jaw was set—hard and immovable—made Ali’s stomach do a slow, painful somersault.
"You said blood draws this thing?" Hopper asked, his voice low and gravelly, barely louder than the hum of the overhead lights. He looked up from the photo, his eyes moving between Nancy and Jonathan.
"We don't know for sure," Jonathan said, his voice steadying as he realized the Chief wasn't laughing.
"It's just a theory," Nancy added, her voice quiet and unsure, though her eyes remained fixed on Hopper.
Ali let out a long, shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her dad. He believed them. The crushing weight of being labeled "insane" lifted.
Jim’s mind was moving a mile a minute. He looked back at the box on the table—the gasoline, the bear trap, the box of nails. The "felony" was starting to look more like a survival kit. It was calculated. It was desperate. It was exactly the kind of thing he would have done.
"So the bear trap," Hopper gestured toward the box, his gaze finally landing on Ali. His eyes weren't angry anymore; they were filled with a raw, terrifying realization. "That wasn't for Steve. You were going to use yourselves as bait."
Ali nodded slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Oh shit.
The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. Hopper looked at his daughter—really looked at her—and saw the scratches on her arms and the dirt under her fingernails. He realized she hadn't just been "hanging out" with the Byers kid; she had been staring into the mouth of hell while he was busy chasing shadows at the Lab.
He felt a cold hollow in his chest. He’d been trying to solve a puzzle, but Ali had been trying to survive a war.
"Jonathan. Can I talk to you for a second?" Joyce’s voice broke the silence, surprisingly soft but firm. She was looking at her son with an intensity that ignored everyone else in the room. "Outside."
Jonathan hesitated, his eyes flicking to the box of weapons on the desk, then back to his mother. He stood up slowly, the weight of the last few days making his shoulders slump. Without a word, he followed her out of the office, the door clicking shut behind them.
Inside the office, the air remained heavy. Hopper didn't move. He just stood there, staring at the grainy photo, while Ali and Nancy sat on the edge of their seats, waiting for the axe to fall.
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"I'm sorry, Mom," Jonathan said, his voice pleading, cracking under the weight of her gaze. He had spent his whole life trying to be the "man of the house," the one who didn't cause her extra stress. He never meant for any of this to happen. He never meant for her to find out how close he’d come to the edge.
"What, you're sorry? You're... you're sorry?" Joyce’s voice was high and sharp, vibrating with a frantic, nervous energy. She paced a small circle in the hallway, her hands flying through the air. "That is not good enough, Jonathan. Not even close."
"I know. I just—"
"It's not even in the... in the ballpark!" she cried, stepping closer to him, her face pale.
"I wanted to tell you," Jonathan started, his eyes stinging. "I wanted to, I just—"
"What if this thing took you, too? You risked your life... and Ali's, and Nancy's." Her voice cracked, silent tears streaming down her face.
His eyes fell to his shoes, his vision blurring. He had spent so long trying to hold himself together for her—trying to be the pillar of strength while she was unraveling. How could she ask him not to try and fix it? How could he sit still while his brother was out there in the dark?
"I thought I could save Will," Jonathan whispered, his voice thick with a grief he couldn't hide anymore. "I still think I can."
"This is not yours to fix alone, Jonathan," Joyce said, her voice steadier now, though the tears were still falling. She reached out, cupping his face so he had to look at her. "You act like you're all alone in the world, like it's just you against everything. But you're not. You are not alone."
Her words hit him harder than any of the punches in the alleyway. The wall he’d built around himself finally crumbled, and he felt the first hot tear slide down his cheek. "I know."
"God damnit, Jonathan. God damnit."
Before he could say anything else, Joyce pulled him in. She held him with a desperate, crushing strength, hugging him so tightly it felt like she was trying to pull him back from the edge of the world. Jonathan buried his face in her shoulder, his hands clutching the back of her coat, and for the first time since Will disappeared, he let himself go. He really needed that hug.
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Inside Jim’s office, the air felt thick and pressurized. Alisson was quiet—too quiet. She didn't even dare to look at her father, keeping her gaze fixed on a coffee stain on his desk. Hopper remained standing, still as a statue, his eyes burned into the grainy photo of the creature in his hand.
He took a slow, deep breath, the sound of it raspy in the small room.
"You're not doing this," Hopper said. His voice was dangerously quiet, the kind of tone that made the hair on the back of Ali’s neck stand up. "None of you. Not another step into those woods. Not another trap."
"Dad, I—"
Ali started to protest, her voice small, but she was cut off before she could even finish her sentence. It wasn't her father who stopped her, but a shrill, piercing voice from the other side of the office door.
"I demand an apology! Right now!" a woman’s voice shrieked, echoing through the main lobby and vibrating the frosted glass of Hopper's door.
Hopper’s jaw tightened. He didn't look away from the photo for a beat too long, then shoved it into his pocket as the town's drama came crashing through the walls of his office. He looked like he was about five seconds away from losing his mind.
"An apology for what, exactly?" Callahan’s voice echoed through the station, sounding even more ridiculous with his nasal, muffled tone.
"Where is the Chief? I want to speak to him right now!" the woman shrieked.
Jim let out a long, weary sigh as he opened the door from his office. He turned to the girls inside the office, then glanced at Joyce and Jonathan standing just outside the door. "Stay here," he ordered, his voice flat and uncompromising. "All of you. Do not move."
He stepped out into the lobby, the heavy door swinging shut behind him with a definitive thud.
In the center of the station stood a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a country club, her face flushed a deep, indignant red.
"Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down," Callahan said, hovering nearby with his small notepad. He looked pathetic, trying to take a statement while dabbing at his bloodied nose with a stained handkerchief.
"What is your name, Deputy?" the woman asked, her voice dripping with venom. She was clutching a young boy—he couldn't have been older than twelve—who was sitting on the edge of the wooden bench. His arm was wrapped in a fresh white bandage, and he looked terrified, his eyes darting toward the closed office door.
"Well, I’m an officer—" Callahan began, trying to puff out his chest despite the nasal whine in his voice.
"Name and badge number!" the woman screamed, stepping directly into Callahan’s personal space. Her face was inches from his, her voice echoing off the station's high ceilings. "Both of you!" She jabbed a finger at Officer Powell, who was standing nearby, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
"What the hell is going on here?!" Jim interjected, his patience finally snapping.
He didn't realize that behind him, Joyce and the three kids had slowly trickled out of the office area, drawn by the commotion. They stood in a small, tense cluster, watching the scene unfold.
"Chief..." Powell began, stepping forward to explain, his face tight with concern.
"These men are humiliating my son!" the woman cut him off, her eyes wild as she looked at Hopper.
"No, no, no. Okay, that's not true!" Callahan defended himself, dabbing his nose frantically. "We were just trying to get a statement, and she—"
"Yes you wer—"
"There was some kind of fight, Chief— ," Powell interjected, finally raising his voice to command the room.
"A psychotic child broke his arm!" She grabbed the boy's shoulder and shoved him slightly forward so Hopper could see the heavy bandage and the makeshift sling.
"A little girl, Chief," Callahan spoke up, finally finding a gap in the screaming. He moved his hand to chest-level, gesturing the height of a child. "A little one."
"That tone! Do you hear that tone!" The woman was practically shouting at this point, spinning around to look for anyone who would validate her outrage.
"Honestly, I'm just trying to state a fact!" Callahan barked back, throwing his hands up in total exasperation.
"I don't have time for this," Jim sighed, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. "Will you please take a statement?" He looked at Powell and gestured toward the front door, silently mouthing: And get her out.
"Yes, Chief," Powell nodded, his face turning solemn as he refocused. "So, what did this girl look like?" he asked, softening his voice as he turned his attention to the boy.
Hopper didn't wait for the answer. He turned around, his boots heavy on the linoleum as he began to return to his office, ready to lock himself in with Ali and the other two.
"She had no hair," the little boy began to speak, his voice thin and shaky. "And she was... she was bleeding from her nose. Like a freak."
Jim stopped dead.
"What did you just say?" He slowly turned back around, his eyes no longer tired or annoyed. They were sharp and focused. He looked past the screaming mother and stared straight at the boy.
"I said she was a freak!" the little boy repeated, shrinking back slightly into the wooden bench.
"No, her hair. What did you say about her hair?"
"Her head was shaved. She didn't even look like a girl."
Jim was stunned. His mind went straight back to the day Benny Hammond had died—to the reports of a "kid" seen running from the diner. The kid he had been looking for. The one he had originally hoped might be Will.
The silence in the station was absolute now. Even the mother had stopped shouting, sensing the shift in the Chief’s energy from annoyance to something much more focused—and much more dangerous.
"And..." the boy trailed off, his lip trembling as he looked down at his bandaged arm.
"And what?" Hopper asked, his voice thick with impatience.
The boy looked up at his mother, his eyes wide and seeking help. "Go on. Tell the man, Troy," she said, squeezing his shoulder for reassurance, her face set in a hard line of indignation.
"She can... do things," Troy said, his voice barely a whisper.
"What kind of things?" the Chief asked, leaning in closer.
"Like... make you fly. And piss yourself." Troy’s eyes trailed to the floor, his face burning with the memory of the humiliation at the gym.
"What?" Powell spoke up, an incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked at Callahan, as if waiting for someone to point out how ridiculous that sounded.
Jim brushed him off with a sharp wave of his hand before asking, "Was she alone?"
The little boy shook his head. "No. She always hangs out with those losers."
"'Losers'?" Hopper repeated, his brow furrowing as he felt the net tightening. "What losers?"
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Steve Harrington sat on the hood of his BMW, the cold metal biting through his jeans. His head was pounding with a rhythmic, dull throb that matched the sting of the cuts on his face, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the noise in his head.
Ali’s words played over and over again like a broken record, cutting through his mind: 'I always knew you were an asshole—but I never thought you were cruel.'
He stared at the gravel beneath his feet, the neon lights of the town reflecting in the polished paint of his car. He had spent so long trying to protect his reputation, trying to keep his friends in line and keep Nancy by his side, but he had managed to blow it all in one afternoon. Being an asshole was just part of the act. But cruel? That word felt heavy. It felt permanent.
Tommy stepped out of the convenience store where they had parked, carrying a Coke and some pills. He walked over and tossed a small packet of Tylenol onto the hood next to Steve.
"Hey. You owe me a dollar-twenty," Tommy said, handing him the drink while checking the battered look on Steve’s face. "Don't worry, he'll need more than aspirin by the time we’re done with him."
The thought made Steve’s stomach turn. He tore open the packet and swallowed two pills dry before pressing the cold Coke can against his swollen eye. The damn thing throbbed and hurt like hell.
He probably deserved it, though. He knew he had gone too far. He should have just dropped it the second Ali said she was there. He should have apologized and cleaned the billboard himself. Most of all, he should have just asked Nancy what happened—why she was so distraught that Alisson and Jonathan had to stay the night.
But he didn't. He had chosen to be an asshole. He’d chosen to be cruel.
"Yeah, if that creep ever gets out," Carol chuckled, stepping up beside Tommy. "The cops should just lock him up forever."
Her voice was like a piercing ring in his ear; it made his head throb a hell of a lot more.
"Did you see the look on his face? Oh!" Carol started to fake-punch Tommy, twisting her features into a mocking, pathetic expression. They both erupted into laughter, Tommy joining in without a second thought. Of course he did. Tommy never cared about the consequences of anything. Like, ever.
To them, it was just a game.
"He probably had the same look when he killed his brother, right?" Tommy gave Steve a playful punch in the arm, oblivious to the way Steve flinched.
The words made Steve’s stomach drop. Was he really like them? Was that how the world saw him? Did Ali think he was just like these two—a hollow bully who joked about dead kids?
"Oh god," Carol groaned, leaning against the car as she laughed. "I just got an image of him making that face while he, Nancy, and Ali are all screwing."
The comment was like a bucket of ice water. Steve looked at Carol, then at Tommy, who was grinning as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard all day. These were the people he’d spent his whole life trying to impress. These were the people he had chosen over Nancy’s trust and Ali’s respect.
Hearing them talk about Ali and Nancy like that made the throbbing in his head shift into a sharp, focused heat. He wasn't like them. He didn't want to be like them.
"Carol, for once in your life, shut your damn mouth!" he snapped. He was done. He was done with the jokes, the cruelty, and he was done with both of them.
"What?" Carol asked, her smile dropping instantly, her face twisting into a look of genuine shock.
"Hey, what's your problem, man?" Tommy stepped forward, his tone defensive and challenging.
"You're both assholes. That's my problem," Steve said, sliding down from the hood of the car. His movements were stiff, his body aching, but his mind was clearer than it had been all day.
"Are you serious right now, man?" Tommy asked, looking at Carol as if searching for a punchline that wasn't coming.
"Yeah, I'm serious." Steve pushed Tommy out of the way, a firm shove that forced his former friend to stumble back so he could get to the driver's side door. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Done what?" Tommy yelled after him, his voice cracking with annoyance.
"You know what," Steve said, his voice low and final. He didn't need to list the insults or the graffiti. The weight of it was already sitting heavy in his gut.
"You mean calling her out for what she really is?" Tommy sneered, stepping closer. "Oh, that's funny, because I don't remember you asking me to stop."
Steve stopped with his hand on the car door. He turned back, his gaze cold and sharp enough to cut. "I should have shoved that spray paint right down your throat."
"What the hell, Steve?" Carol said, her voice high and shrill, finally realizing that the "King" was actually turning on them.
"You know, neither one of you ever cared about her," Steve said, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and realization. "You never even liked her, because she’s not miserable like you two. She actually cares about other people."
"Oh, please," Carol scoffed, rolling her eyes. "A slut with a heart of gold."
"I told you to watch your mouth!" Steve roared.
"Hey!" Tommy snapped, stepping in and shoving Steve hard against the side of the BMW. The metal groaned under the impact. "I don't know what has gotten into you, man, but you don't talk to her that way!" He snarled, stabbing a finger inches from Steve’s face.
Steve didn't flinch. He looked at Tommy and saw a pathetic guy who took pleasure in making others feel like shit.
"Get out of my face," Steve said, his voice low and dangerous. He reached out and shoved Tommy back with twice the force, sending him stumbling across the gravel.
"Or what?"
Tommy surged back, pinning Steve against his own car again. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper as he looked deep into his former friend’s eyes. "Or what? You're gonna fight me now too? Huh? You gonna fight me now?"
Tommy’s gaze fell to Steve’s swollen, busted lip, and a cruel smirk tugged at his mouth. "Because you couldn't even take Jonathan Byers... so I wouldn't recommend that."
The insult hung in the air, cold and sharp. Tommy was betting that Steve’s bruised ego would make him back down. He was waiting for the "King" to realize he was alone and crumble.
And he did.
He didn't swing. He didn't shout back. He just turned away from Tommy’s mocking grin and stumbled toward the driver's side of his car. His movements were clumsy, his vision blurred by a mix of pain and the sheer, stinging shame of it all.
He climbed in, the engine roaring to life as he pulled away from the curb. He drove fast, leaving Tommy and Carol behind in the convenience store parking lot. As he stared at the dark road ahead, his grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
He ran away, like the fucking coward he was.