jim hopper

Dani moved through the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, wooden spoon tapping lightly against the edge of the pot. The sauce simmered low, filling the house with something warm and steady. The kind of smell that made a place feel lived in.

She checked the clock. Hopper was late. Not unusual. Not surprising. Still enough to make her glance toward the door every few minutes like she hadn’t spent half her life doing exactly that.

She stirred the pot again, tasting, adjusting, trying not to overthink the fact that she’d made enough for two without even meaning to. Habit. Muscle memory. Or maybe something she didn’t want to name.

(open roleplay)

Location: Forest

Time: 12:45 a.m.

When: March, 25, 1987

It all started when Eleven was sleeping peacefully. It was a good sleep—dark, but not the kind she had faced when she was younger in the tank chamber, where she had been held for long periods of time. For her, the past was never far away—not from her, or from anyone in Hawkins. Sometimes luck wasn’t around, and chaos was the only thing left to face; even surviving became the main goal. She opened her eyes suddenly, gasping for air as her hands clutched her chest tightly, trying to ground herself. As she did, the lights flickered, and the door in front of her slammed shut with her mind. The noise made her flinch. Blood began to drip slowly onto her sheets. Her eyes fixed on it as she moved her hand from her chest, wiping the blood away with the back of her hand. Eleven forced herself to breathe slowly, in and out, steady and soft. As she did, the lights stopped flickering. She got out of bed and walked to the door. When she opened it and stepped into the hallway, the house was silent. It was the middle of the night, and no one else was awake. At least, she thought so. She decided to leave—just to clear her head. The only way she knew how was to go for a walk. Somewhere not too far. Somewhere no one could see her or ask questions. It had been days since her breakup with Mike, and she was taking it… as well as she could. Of course she was sad, but it was something that had been a long time coming, and her mind was still trying to make sense of it. She wondered if Mike would ever forgive her, or if he would simply pretend that what they had never existed. And what they had was something no one could replace. Was it for the best? She opened the front door and stepped out into the night. The cool air filled her lungs and chilled her skin. For a moment, it felt like everything she was feeling might fade away—if only temporarily. As she walked, she pulled a hoodie over her head, just in case. Her mind drifted back to Mike for a moment. Her shoes hit the pavement with each step as she moved down the street. Her eyes caught sight of a small patch of forest, and she made her way toward it. Twigs snapped beneath her feet as she pushed through the trees, eventually reaching a small clearing. She sat in the middle of it, burying her head in her hands, trying not to cry—trying not to let the thoughts and memories consume her, the way they had consumed her friend, Ollie. The darkness seemed to close in around her as she sat there alone, breathing, trying to hold herself together. There were so many things she didn’t know, things she had never been taught. She had never really been taught how to live—only how to survive. To endure whatever the lab had done to her. To maybe understand why she was so important. It had been a while since everything with Vecna and the echoes had happened, but it still felt like too much. She didn’t know what to do. The sounds of the night filled the air as she sniffled, and tears began to fall from her eyes.

Hopper's voice came out low, rough, and unmistakably his—gruff but softer than most people ever got to hear. "Kid." Slowly, he stepped closer, hands slightly raised like he was approaching a spooked animal. "Easy. It’s just me. Saw the front door open when I drove by the house. Figured you might be out here trying to freeze your butt off instead of sleeping like a normal person." Stopping a few feet away, he crouched down on one knee so he wasn’t towering over her. The old leather of his jacket creaked in the quiet. He didn't look at her directly, giving her the privacy to wipe her face, instead staring out into the dark of the woods. "Bad dream again?" he asked, voice dropping even lower. "Or is it the other thing? The Mike thing?" Hopper rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling a long cloud of breath.

She followed his instructions, shifting her feet to ground herself back to the ground, attempting to calm her breathing. If it weren't for the terror still crawling up her skin, she might have felt embarrassed, this interaction only proving how insane she was becoming. Vickie took a long, slow breath, closing her eyes tightly—then thinking better of it, opened her eyes wide. It was just too dark.

She stammered at Hopper's observation—how could he be so right? How did he know? She hadn't told anyone about this, not even Robin, who was quickly becoming her closest friend. But she took another breath, swallowed past the dryness in her throat, and opened her mouth. "I—I, um, I... it was dark. I just—my imagination was probably running wild. With it being this late. And working at the hospital. I'm, uh, fine. It was fine. It was nothing."

But she knew Jim Hopper wouldn't believe her sweep-it-under-the-rug explanation. Because it wasn't just nothing. It was something. So she took another breath, feeling guilty. "I'm not crazy, alright? It's just—well, I really did go somewhere else. At least, it felt like it. I was still here, in Hawkins, but it was... darker. Wet, almost. The sky was all cloudy and dark and—and the hospital had vines everywhere, crawling up the sides like it was alive, and—and please, I swear I'm not crazy, at least, I think. Hope." She shook her head, covering her face with her hands. "I can't go to an asylum, I have so much work to do!"

Ollie felt a small smile form when Hopper asked if it was every Friday. And it was. Her dad did what he could to make her happy, even if it meant spending two dollars on milkshakes and fries. Her dad worked hard, and money was never really an issue. Her mom and dad loved each other, even back then. Thinking about it made her worry less about being home alone with her thoughts. It was nice to have an adult who understood some things and could even give advice. “Yeah, he made sure it was a thing—even on days we had to miss it. We’d just do something at home instead. He really didn’t mind. Every Friday was special to us,” she said, smiling at the memory as she looked at Hopper over the menu.

The waitress came over and took their orders. She smiled at Ollie and said hello, remembering who she was. “Ah, Gregg’s little girl. I remember when you were so tiny. It’s nice to see you again. Hope Hopper isn’t giving you a hard time.” The waitress laughed along with Ollie as she placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about the bill, either of you. It’s on the house tonight. Ollie, don’t be a stranger, okay?” She pulled her hand away and smiled once more before walking off to give the cook their order. Ollie watched her walk away, then looked back at Hopper. “I will admit… being away from it feels like something has been taken from my chest. Something I feel like I’ll never find again… like a broken memory trying to repair itself. You know? But like you said, we can make this a memory, and I think my dad would have loved that.”

Ollie said this as her eyes grew glossy, but she wasn’t going to cry—not here. Not in sadness, but in gratitude. She watched as Hopper tapped his knuckles against the table, and his next reply made her laugh a little. Ollie loved ketchup with her fries, but if they were salted just right, she didn’t need it. Here, though, the fries were amazing—even with ketchup. The shakes were another story entirely. “I like my fries with ketchup, actually. With my shake… hmm, it depends on the day. And today isn’t one of those days.” Ollie smirked at him as she placed her hands on the table.

“You always do that,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the side of his hand. “You tell me I don’t have to carry anything alone… like you’re not already hauling half the damn world on your back.” She shifted closer, shoulder brushing his arm, her voice low and warm. “But I hear you. And I’m not fighting you on it this time.”

When he pressed his temple to hers, Dani closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to let herself feel it, the warmth, the weight, the quiet promise he didn’t know how to say any other way. The road hummed beneath them, the headlights stretching into the dark like a path they were carving together. Dani watched the trees blur past, then looked back at him, at the tension in his jaw, the determination in his eyes, the fear he’d never admit out loud. Her fingers tightened around his.

When he promised they’d find the girl and bring her home, something in her chest tightened, sharp and certain. “You don’t make promises lightly,” she said softly. “That’s why I believe you.” She leaned in, letting her temple rest against his for one more heartbeat, soft, grounding, familiar, before settling back into her seat, still holding his hand like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. “North entrance,” she said, eyes on the road ahead. “Let’s finish this.”

He adjusted his grip on the wheel with his free hand, steering them toward the north entrance. The trees were thick here, leaning over the blacktop like they were trying to listen in. He knew she was right—he did try to carry the world. It was a habit he’d picked up somewhere between the black fatigues and the tan uniform, and he hadn't quite figured out how to put the pack down yet. But having her shoulder against his? It made the weight feel a little less like it was going to snap his spine. "I don't make promises I can't keep because I'm too tired to deal with the paperwork of a lie," he said, his voice dropping into that gravelly and honest register. He squeezed her hand back, his thumb tracing the back of her knuckles. "We’re gonna get her. And then you and I... we're gonna have a very long conversation about you getting some actual sleep that doesn't involve a coffee pot."

As the perimeter fence of the north entrance flickered into view under the sweep of the high beams, Hopper’s expression shifted. He slowed the Blazer, the tires crunching over the gravel as he brought them to a halt just out of sight of the main gate. Letting go of Dani’s hand, he immediately felt the loss of warmth, but his mind was already shifting into a different gear. He reached over, killed the headlights, and sat in the sudden, heavy dark for a heartbeat. With a deep sigh, he stepped out of the car, not closing the door all the way because he didn't want the metallic sound to give them away just yet. Instead, he leaned back in, grabbed the heavy-duty flashlight from the glove box, and checked the sidearm holstered at his hip. "Stay close," he mouthed to Dani, though he knew he didn't have to tell her twice. Hopper clicked the light on, keeping the beam low, cutting a narrow path through the weeds and gravel at the edge of the fence line. His boots crunched softly as he moved toward the gate, his eyes scanning the ground with the practiced intensity of a man who spent his life looking for things that didn't want to be found.

a soft laugh escaped her lips, brows raised in mild entertainment even if they both knew he wasn't lying. if he could, he would keep her in the safety of his own home well into her adulthood. "thirty?" voice higher in pitch then anticipated. "that's crazy. max would break me free." she joked right back, wanting more than anything to keep the tone of their conversation light. if she succeeded, for one moment she could pretend like everything was normal. kicking the dirt under her feet, the pale glow of the moon cast a silver glow across his masculine face now that her flashlight tilted towards the ground. he looked so much older and for one terrible moment she wondered if it was that had aged him. "she would hate to be stuck with the boys that long on her own." eleven continued, her voice light but grounded.

lack of communication was going to be there downfall. she could feel it every time they spoke. eleven couldn't tell him what was wrong. it wasn't because she didn't want to, she really did, but it wasn't that easy. the truth wound round her like a vine, squeezing until the very breath left her lungs. unable to scream into the dark of night, she looked up towards him with a wounded stare and hoped he wouldn't push. his intentions were good, she knew that ― he wanted her safe and to an extent, he had succeeded in his mission. eleven had a home, she had a family and friends. these were things she'd never have dared herself to imagine years prior, locked in a tiny room, forced to use her powers for a greater evil. times had changed, but it only meant she was now left with more to lose. with her abilities now completely unstable, she couldn't keep her loved ones safe and it ate away at her every day.

"i am okay." she briefly smiled in assurance, hoping for one fleeting moment that he might actually buy it. "i am tired, too." eleven explained, though there was more to her words than voiced. it wasn't just a lack of sleep that ached her bones, there were so many factors: the echoes were leaving her fragile, something was wrong with both eddie and billy, but no one seemed to notice, her powers were failing her and the dead were rising. she couldn't tell him about her dreams, didn't know how to explain her nightmares were bleeding into reality. the reason she was out in the middle of the night was because she feared what her waited for her when she closed her eyes. instead of worrying him, she fell instep, hovering by his side and gave him a small nod. "should we go back home?" she asked, holding out her flashlight once again to light the foliage that lay in their path. "maybe you could make me some of that tea you stash away for when i can't sleep? i will try and get some rest. i promise i will not leave my room again tonight."

"Thirty is generous, kid. I was thinking forty, but I’ll negotiate for good behavior," he grumbled, though the iron in his voice had turned to lead—heavy, but no longer sharp. At the mention of Max breaking her out, he let out a short, rough sound that might have been a laugh if he weren't so damn exhausted. "Yeah, well, Mayfield is a menace. I’d have to double the locks just to keep her from scaling the roof." He watched her kick at the dirt, the silver moonlight catching the traces of the girl she was trying so hard to be and the soldier she’d been forced to become. It killed him. It absolutely killed him that he couldn't just reach into her head and pull out whatever was rotting her sleep.

"Tea, huh?" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck where the tension was anchored like a hook. "The 'secret stash.' You mean the stuff that smells like a mown lawn and tastes like dirt? Fine. But you’re drinking the whole mug. No pouring it in the sink when I’m not looking." He fell into step beside her, his large frame acting as a natural shield against the wind. He didn't take the flashlight, letting her hold onto that bit of control, but he kept his hand hovering near her shoulder, just in case the ground got too uneven or the world got too heavy. "And El?" He stopped for a second, his boots sinking into the mud as he looked her dead in the eye, his expression stripped of the Chief’s mask. "I know you’re tired. I know it’s not just the 'need a nap' kind of tired. But you don't have to carry the nightmares by yourself. That’s the deal. We’re tethered, remember? That means when you’re sinking, I’m the one holding the rope."

He reached out, his large, calloused hand coming to rest on the crown of her head. His thumb brushed against her temple for a fleeting second—a silent promise that he was there, even when her world felt like it was dissolving. He felt the slight tremble in her frame and pulled her in, tucking her under the crook of his arm as they walked, his hand shifting to squeeze her shoulder. It was a clumsy, protective sort of embrace, the kind that didn't need words to say I’ve got you. Hopper nudged her gently with his elbow as they broke the stride, keeping her close to his side to share the warmth of his oversized coat. "Now let's get out of this damp. Before I catch pneumonia and have to listen to Joyce tell me 'I told you so' for the next three weeks. I’m not sure my ego can take that kind of hit." He didn't let go of her shoulder as they navigated the twisted roots and the thickening fog. His grip was firm—not like a shackle, but like a safety line.

location: woods

silent winds, darkened skies and boots caked in mud. this was a familiar sight, one that now came with experience and knowledge. but just because something was known didn't make the dread vanish from the pit of her stomach. different circumstances with the same motive and yet, eleven still couldn't fight off the fear that clung to her bones like a second skin, something that screamed to her something was wrong.

these trees had become the backdrop of her most inquisitive days ― the ones that held her captive in sheer determination and reckless decision making. if these leaves could talk, they'd whisper her name, her secrets until they fell to the ground, crumpled and broken like parts of her she could never speak out loud. she shouldn't be here. she knew that. if hopper found out, he'd kill her, but staying in her room was worse.

the four walls boxed her in, toyed with her brain until she became a shell of the person she had been before. left alone with her thoughts was a dangerous place for her mind to wander and while she knew sneaking out wasn't the wises choice she could've made, it at least provided a temporary escape.

the wind brushed against exposed skin reminding her that while she lost part of herself, she was still here. there was part of her still fighting and giving up now wasn't an option.

florescent beaming from the flashlight held in an iron grip guided her way, throwing light onto the uneven ground ― twigs she almost tripped on, pinecones lost to time and the odd insect or two she'd became far too familiar with over all these year. still, her senses were on high alert. not just for spiders or moths, but for anything else that might threaten her peace.

opting to leave her house in the middle of the night, eleven suddenly hated her own naivety. a cracking sound of broken debris, the rustling breaking through the silence and a distinct loud footsteps hollowed her chest. something was out there. she could feel it.

edging closer, goosebumps rose against pale flesh as her frantic frame turned in every direction to locate the source of disturbance. nothing. no one. and the suddenly, something grasped at her shoulder and eleven found herself unable to prevent the frightened gasp that escaped the gap between her chapped lips. she turned expecting to find the worst. only for her tolerant, brown hues to latch onto something more familiar.

"you scared me!" her voice echoed in the silence, a single hand moving to her rapidly rising chest in a failed attempt to calm her racing pulse. "what ar― i'm sorry... what are you doing here?" the gentle questioning tone of her voice paired with a doe-eyed look she barley registered. the fear of being alone was gone, but was that truly for the best? she had no idea. "are you okay?"

Just like magic, the fear on her face knocked the anger out of him, leaving only worry. "Kid," he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be, "you can’t just disappear on me like that." He dragged a hand down his face. "I’ve been out here half the damn night following your footprints. Thought something dragged you off into the dark. Then I find you jumping at every little thing…" He shook his head, letting out a breath. "You scared me a hell of a lot more than I scared you." Hopper shifted closer, lowering his tone. The forest creaked around them, branches swaying, but his focus stayed locked on her. "Look, I get it. Those four walls back home feel like they’re closing in sometimes—I know what that’s like." His voice softened in a way it rarely did. "But running off into the woods in the middle of the night? Alone? That’s not escaping. That’s walking straight into trouble without backup."

He paused, letting the words settle between them. "I’m here because you weren’t." For a moment, he just studied her—her shaking hands, the dirt on her jeans, the brittle edge in her breathing. A sigh escaped him. "And yeah, I’m fine. Tired, and bout two seconds from grounding you until you’re thirty." His mouth twitched almost into a smile. Hopper took a step closer, lowering himself just enough to meet her eyes. "What about you? You hurt? Cold?" His voice gentled even further. "Or just scared enough to finally tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?"

Ollie was always good at putting on a brave face; it was what she had always done. It was the only thing that seemed to have saved her back at the lab. His words were soft but kind of rough-sounding, though she knew he meant well. Ollie didn’t say anything—she didn’t really have to. She would talk when she felt it was right to do so.

She watched as he opened the door for her, and she walked in first. As they entered, Ollie adjusted the strap on her bag. The door chime startled her a bit, but she remained calm. Her boots hit the ground with each step as she made her way to the booth. When she heard him tell her to sit down, she looked at him and nodded. She slid into the seat, and Hopper joined her on the other side of the booth.

Ollie couldn’t help the small smile on her face, knowing that she and her dad would always get milkshakes together. It was a good memory, one she had held onto for so long when days became too hard to deal with. When Hopper mentioned milkshakes, it made her smile a little more. Her green eyes looked at him for a moment before she grabbed the menu.

“I know I don’t have to fix everything, but it’s nice to be away from it for just a while. And yeah, I’ll take that milkshake and a burger.” She paused. “Also, my dad and I used to come to a place like this every Friday after school. Don’t worry, this memory is a good one,” Ollie said softly as she set the menu down on the table.

The jukebox started playing music in the background. Ollie could smell the coffee grounds and the food being prepared, hear the chatter of other people minding their own business. She waited for Hopper to say something. For a moment, he seemed relaxed. She could feel it, even if she wasn’t completely sure.

"Every Friday, huh?" He repeated, his voice dropping into that gravelly, quiet tone that somehow managed to be both commanding and incredibly gentle. He traced the rim of a ceramic sugar pourer with a calloused thumb, his gaze softening at the mention of her dad. "Sounds like your old man had his priorities straight. Friday is a hell of a day for a tradition. Keeps the week from swallowing you whole." He flagged down the waitress with a brief nod, ordering the burgers and shakes before turning his full attention back to Ollie. He looked at her over the top of his coffee cup, his eyes steady.

The silence that followed wasn’t bad. Not tense. Not the kind that made his stomach twist. Just… quiet. A quiet he didn’t have to fill. When Hopper told him he’d done the right thing, Mike swallowed hard, jaw tightening. He didn’t look over. Couldn’t. If he did, he might actually believe it. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I know.” But he didn’t. Not really. He still felt like he’d messed up somehow. Like he should’ve noticed sooner. Like he should’ve stopped it. The “no more solo missions” thing made him shift in his seat, guilt prickling under his skin. “I wasn’t—” He stopped. Lying to Hopper was pointless. “Okay. Fine. I’ll call. I get it.” He did get it. He just didn’t want to need it.

When Hopper brought up El, Mike’s stomach dropped. He stared harder out the window, watching the trees blur past. “I haven’t been avoiding her,” he said quickly—too quickly. “I just… I’ve been busy. School. Stuff.” It sounded pathetic even to him. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye, trying to blink away the sting of exhaustion. “It’s not your cooking,” he added, voice cracking into something almost like a laugh. “And your personality’s always been terrible, so that’s not new.” He finally glanced over, just for a second. “I’m not staying away because of you,” he said, quieter now. “I just… I don’t want her to worry. About me. Again.” He looked back out the window, shoulders curling inward. “And I don’t want to screw things up with her. Or with you. Or with anyone.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “I’m trying, okay? I’m just… tired.” He didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. But he didn’t take it back.

"You don't have to walk around bracing for impact like you're made of fragile-ass glass. You're allowed to crack. The world isn't gonna end just because you let a few pieces fall," Hopper went on. "You’re allowed to be tired. Hell, kid, after what you all went through? I’d be worried if you weren’t." He let that sit for a moment, then added, "And you sure as hell don’t have to protect me or El from worrying about you. That’s not how this works. That’s not how family works." Now he did look over at Mike—just a glance, brief but solid. "You're not screwing things up if you're being honest. That’s the opposite. That’s how we keep things from going sideways again." A pause. "And El… she doesn’t want the polished version of you. She never has. She wants you. All of you. Even the messy parts."

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, jaw shifting like he was considering something heavier than he usually said out loud. "And listen," he added, voice dropping, "you didn't screw up. You saw something that wasn't right and you didn't just sit on your hands—you spoke up. That’s doing the right damn thing, Mike. That's what being brave actually looks like." The trees blurred past in the headlights, dark and quiet. "And for the record," Hopper muttered, the words catching in his throat like gravel, "I’m not old. I’m just… heavily weathered. Like a good pair of boots or a very tired oak tree." Another nudge to Mike’s shoulder.

Then Hopper’s hand found her forearm, warm, solid, grounding, and Dani’s breath caught. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just enough that she felt her pulse jump against her ribs. God, she’d missed that. Missed him. Missed the way he could steady her with one touch like she wasn’t the one who’d spent a decade learning how to stand on her own. Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it, soft, real, the kind he used to tease out of her on long night shifts. “You always did like when I laughed at you,” she said, shaking her head. “Guess some things don’t change.”

But then he said You’re not losing anyone else, and something in her chest tightened, sharp and immediate. She turned toward him fully, the dashboard glow catching the gold flecks in her eyes. “I’m holding you to that too, Hopper,” she said quietly. “Because I’m not losing you again. Not to this town. Not to whatever’s crawling around in those tunnels. Not to your damn hero complex.” Her voice didn’t waver, not once. “You and me? We’re finding that kid. And we’re walking out of that mill together. I don’t care what’s waiting for us down there.” She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist, not lingering, not needy, just a steadying touch that said I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere. The blonde settled back into her seat, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “North entrance it is. Let’s go get her, Hop.”

Dani let out a quiet laugh and Hopper felt something in his chest unclench. God, he’d missed that sound. He glanced over at her—just for a second—but long enough to catch the tired steel in her eyes, the kind that only showed up when she was holding too much together for too long. So he didn’t think about it this time. Didn’t overanalyze, didn’t talk himself out of it. He simply reached over and slid his hand into hers, his fingers threading through hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Dani," he murmured, giving her hand a soft squeeze as he steered one‑handed. "Please know that you’re not carrying this alone."

She turned fully toward him, the dashboard glow softening her features, and Hopper felt the moment settle around them—heartfelt, familiar, like something lost finally found its way home. He shifted their joined hands, guiding them to rest against his thigh—firm and close. Then he allowed his thumb to sweep slowly across the back of her hand, a silent confession in its own right. After a beat, he leaned over just enough to press his temple gently against hers, a brief, intimate touch that lingered for a breath. The kind of contact that said I’m here without needing any words. "I’m with you. All the way down into those tunnels. All the way back out." Outside, the woods raced past in a blur; inside, the cab felt small and warm and alive with something he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Hopper straightened, gave her hand one more squeeze, and nodded toward the dark road ahead as he shifted gears. "We'll bring her home. I promise."

He felt Eddie inch closer, practically breathing down his collar. Hopper didn’t push him away. Truth be told, the kid’s presence grounded him more than he wanted to admit. "What I need you to do,” Hopper said slowly, "is breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Before you hyperventilate and stab me by accident." Hopper kept going. "We’re not running. Something that moves like that? It’ll outrun both of us before we get ten feet." The creature’s harmonic tremor rolled through the dirt again, a long, vibrating note that settled in Hopper’s bones like an unwelcome truth. "We’re not fighting either," he added. "Not unless it decides to come at us first. And if it does, keep that knife low. Aim for soft spots—joints, eyes, anything that looks like it shouldn’t be there." He shifted his weight, just enough to reinforce his stance. "What we are doing is backing up. Slowly. No sudden movements. No loud noises. Whatever this thing is, it’s not hunting. Not yet. It’s scouting." Hopper finally glanced over his shoulder, meeting Eddie’s wide, terrified eyes. And beneath that he saw the quiet determination. Fear turning into something sharper. "You stickin' with me is stupid," Hopper said bluntly. "Dangerous. The kind of decision that gets people killed." He paused. "But I respect the hell out of it." The creature let out another low, quivering note. Hopper’s voice dropped to a whisper only Eddie could hear. "On my count, we back away. Three steps. Slow." He raised his free hand behind him, fingers splayed in a silent signal.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself before she spoke. “The kid’s name is Anne,” she said, keeping her tone level even though her pulse had kicked up. “Anne Whitaker. Fourteen. Sharp as hell. The kind of kid who sees patterns before anyone else does.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out the folded map she’d been gripping for hours. Her fingers brushed his when she handed it over, a small, accidental touch, but it sent a flicker of heat up her arm all the same. “Last seen behind the mill,” she continued. “Said she was meeting a friend. Never made it. And the static started three days ago. Same frequency as before the quake. Same… wrongness.” Her jaw tightened, but her eyes softened when she looked at him again. “And no. No one else knows. They don’t want to. So yeah — looks like it’s us again.”

His comment about her being here for him earned a breathy, disbelieving laugh. The kind she used to give him when he said something that hit too close. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, though her voice wasn’t nearly as sharp as she wanted it to be. “If I came back just for you, I’d never admit it.” Her lips curled into a small grin. She didn’t step back. She couldn’t. Being this close to him again felt like standing in the doorway of a home she’d once lived in — familiar, dangerous, warm in a way she’d forgotten she missed.

She angled her body toward his, shoulders squaring like she was sliding back into an old rhythm she’d never quite shaken. “You’re right,” she murmured. “If she’s gone quiet, we’re behind. And if Hawkins wants something from us again…” Her gaze hardened, but her voice softened. “It can get in line.” She pressed the map into his hand fully this time, her fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. A tiny, traitorous admission she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Come on, Hop,” she said quietly. “Anne’s out there. And whatever’s stirring?” Her voice dropped, warm and fierce and painfully honest. “I’m not losing anyone else.” She stepped past him, but her shoulder brushed his as she did. A touch that said everything she wasn’t ready to say out loud. “Let’s move.”

"Whitaker," he muttered, the name clicking into place in his mental filing cabinet. "The house out on the edge of Mirkwood. Quiet family. Explains why no one's been banging down the station doors yet." He let out a long, weary huff that was half-sigh, half-growl. He rounded the front of the truck and climbed into the driver's seat, the springs groaning under his weight. The interior smelled like old coffee, stale tobacco, and—now—the faint, sharp scent of Danica that brought back a decade’s worth of things he usually kept buried under a layer of police reports.

He didn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he reached over, his hand hovering near hers on the center console before he shifted gears. "Anne’s a smart kid, you said?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. He turned his head to look at her, his eyes searching hers in the dim light of the dashboard. "Then she’s probably hunkered down. If she saw the patterns, she knew to hide. We just have to be the ones to find her before the 'wrongness' does." Hopper finally reached out—a move that was uncharacteristically gentle for a man built like a brick wall—and briefly squeezed her forearm, his thumb grazing the fabric of her jacket. It was a grounding touch, a silent promise that he was in this with her, and that this time, the outcome would be different. "I missed that laugh, Dani," he murmured, a rare, honest crack appearing in his armor. "Even if it is at my expense."

Then, as quickly as the moment had softened, he snapped back. He turned the key, and the car roared to life, the vibrations rattling the loose change in the tray. He threw it into reverse and swung it around. "The mill is a maze of old tunnels and drainage pipes," he said, his eyes back on the road, hard and focused. "She might have slipped into the lower levels. We'll start at the north entrance. And Dani?" He glanced at her, his jaw set. "You're not losing anyone else. I'm holding you to that."

"Vickie," the same voice called, deeper and more insistent. But there was still no one there. Vickie squinted her eyes—maybe it was just too dark to see them, maybe they were in the shadows.

"Doctor—" And then it was like something erupted. A thousand voices closed in on her, pressing in, drowning her ears in her name. Vickie. Vickie. Vickie. Vickie. She stumbled back, barely keeping herself from falling over, her hands flying to cover her ears. But it was no help, the voices would not stop.

And then she was slipping and falling, the dry asphalt wet and moving. The air was thick, and Vickie was finding it hard to breathe. Her eyes met the dark sky, the stars no longer visible, covered entirely by dark murky clouds, swirling like smoke. And she could swear she saw large bat-like shapes flying above her, screeching, somehow breaking through the cacophony of voices blasting through her ears. The shadows around her were moving, the hospital dark and covered in moving and creeping vines, and Vickie couldn't move. There was too much darkness, too much emptiness, too much sound...

And then nothing. A car door slammed in the parking lot, and Vickie stood a few feet away from her car, her ID badge still clipped to her waist, her car keys sharp and digging into her palms. No voices, no strange darkness. Everything was back as it should be.

He waited for a minute, letting the sound of the slammed car door settle, before he pushed off the truck. His boots crunched on the gravel, a heavy, rhythmic sound meant to pull her back to reality.

"Vickie," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut through the silence. He didn't rush her; he just closed the distance until he was a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He saw the way her knuckles were white around those keys. "Take a breath," he commanded, not unkindly. It was the voice of a man who had spent too many years de-escalating panic. "Just one. Deep. All the way down."

A walk. It was definitely a better idea than just standing out in the open where Nancy was sure they had been spotted already. So, with a deep breath, she nodded. “Lead the way,” she expressed with a barely-there laugh, one that didn't even try to reach her eyes. “I guess, if anyone asks…I'll just say it's for a movie Mike wants to make.” 

"Yeah, Mike the visionary," Hopper muttered as he began to lead her toward the outskirts of the park where the trees grew thick enough to swallow a conversation. "Tell him if he needs a lead actor for a 'grumpy cop who’s had enough of everyone’s crap' movie, I’ve got the wardrobe ready."

Ollie sat there, sniffling as Hopper talked to her about how hard it must have been. Maybe Hopper understood because he, too, had lost someone he loved. The days never got easier because Ollie didn’t know if her dad was alive or dead. All she knew was that she felt betrayed by his leaving—angry that he hadn’t left with her, angry that her mom had cheated and ruined her life. All she wanted was her dad back, and that in itself was a wound no one could ever fill. She swallowed back her tears and gently wiped her eyes and cheeks.

In all, what he was saying was right, and Ollie knew that—knew it full well. Life at home sucked, but she did have people who were her safe escape, people who loved and cared for her more than her own family. It was heartbreaking for her, but she remained strong until that strength turned to vulnerability. She remained quiet, wiping tears from her face as she felt his hand on her shoulder. Her green eyes looked at him as she gave a small smile, her gaze turning slightly glossy.

As the Blazer parked in the lot in front of the building, its neon sign glowed brightly, as if telling the world to show up there. The lights from the Blazer made the ground below shine from the rainstorm earlier that day. Moments passed as they sat there, and Ollie took a deep breath. The engine shut off first, and Hopper told her that, for now, the rest of the story would have to wait. They were in public now, and Ollie didn’t like crying in front of others. She watched as he got out first. She gathered her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, then unfastened her seat belt as it clanked behind her.

Ollie opened the door and stepped out, closing the heavy door behind her. Hopper was a few steps away as he leaned against the Blazer. She glanced at the car door mirror to make sure she wasn’t showing signs of crying. Then she walked closer to him, a silent sign that she was ready to face the world with a fake smile.

"Alright," he grunted, nodding toward the neon glow of the diner. "Mask on. We're just two people grabbing a bite. No world-ending problems. Just grease and caffeine." He held the door open for her, the little bell above the frame chiming with a cheerful irony that grated on his nerves. The smell of burnt coffee and onions hit them immediately—the universal scent of a place where you could disappear into a booth and not be bothered. He scanned the room out of habit, then gestured toward a corner table, far from the windows and the prying eyes.

When Hopper gestured him closer, Eddie obeyed instantly, like a spooked dog trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t spooked. He hovered near Hopper’s shoulder, close enough that the older man could feel the jittering energy radiating off him. “Flashlight,” Eddie repeated, patting himself down. “Yeah, yeah, I got one. A real one. Industrial. Heavy‑duty. Bought it after the whole… bat incident. You know. For emotional support.” He fished it out of a drawer, clicked it on, then immediately clicked it off again because the beam made the shadows look worse. He handed it to Hopper with both hands, like it was a sacred relic. And then Hopper gave the order. If I tell you to run… Eddie’s throat bobbed. His voice, when it came, was small but steady. “Yeah. Okay. I hear you. No guitar, no questions, no sequel. I’ll move. I promise.” A beat. Then, quieter: “Just… don’t go down there alone if you don’t have to, okay? I know you’re, like, Hawkins’ resident badass, but I’ve seen what this town does to people who go poking around in dark holes by themselves.” He swallowed again, eyes fixed on the vent like it might breathe.

Hopper shifted and reached out, his large hand clamping firmly onto Eddie’s forearm for a brief second. It was a silent acknowledgement—a stay sharp delivered through a grip that could probably crush a beer can. "I’m not going down there because I want to, Munson," Hopper grunted. "I’m going because whatever is making that sound is currently treating your home like a drive-thru, and I'd rather catch it before it places an order. But... fine. You're coming with me." He looked at Eddie’s empty, fidgeting hands. If things went sideways, the badass reputation wasn't going to keep him safe. He sighed, reaching into the waistband of his trousers. He didn't give up his gun—he wasn't that crazy—but he pulled a heavy, folding tactical knife from his pocket and held it out, handle-first. "Take this," Hopper commanded. "Don't use it unless something is close enough to smell your breath. And for the love of God, don't trip and stab yourself. I don't need the paperwork."

“And I know it’s not on me to fix,” he added, though the way he said it made it clear he was still trying to convince himself. “I just… I didn’t want to wait until it got worse. Last time we waited, everything went to hell.” He let out a breath, shaky but controlled, and stepped toward the car when Hopper gestured. “And I’ll call you,” he said, glancing back at the street like he half‑expected something to crawl out of the shadows. “If anything happens. Even if it’s nothing. I’m not doing the whole ‘keep it to myself until it explodes’ thing again.” He tugged open the passenger door, pausing with one hand on the frame. “And for the record?” he added, shooting Hopper a tired, crooked almost‑smile. “Corduroy is a bad choice. Comfort wear or not.” He slid into the seat, shutting the door with a soft thud, the kind that said he was still scared, but he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.

The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely. "And I'm holding you to that," Hopper continued, his voice dropping an octave, losing the defensive edge. "The calling part. No more solo missions. You see a shadow move funny, you pick up the phone." He took a sharp turn, heading toward the Wheeler residence. As they passed the outskirts of the woods, Hopper glanced sideways at Mike. The kid looked exhausted—the kind of tired that sleep doesn't really fix. "You know," Hopper started, his tone becoming deceptively casual, "El mentioned something the other day. Said the house feels a lot quieter lately. Mentioned you haven't been swinging by as much." He let the statement hang in the air for a beat, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, heavy beat against the wheel.

"What's the matter, Wheeler? Is it my cooking? Or is it my charming personality finally wearing you down?" He cut a dry, sideways look at Mike, one eyebrow arched. "Don't tell me I'm finally the reason you're staying away. I was starting to think we were actually getting used to each other."