death is nothing at all.

         ‘ is that a... fixed... expression? ’ he isn’t playing  ---  he really doesn’t know what’s inspired such a look from summer. does he owe an apology for something? has he made a fool of himself and failed to notice? ‘ growing concerned. i’ll be honest. ’

chris is more a man of action than speech, so in lieu of a ‘thank you,’ a ‘hello you,’ or a ‘christ, i like you,’ he leans into it. smiles with a closed mouth, finds hopper’s cheek with his palm, and lives in the warmth as long as it’ll last.

          ‘ my only crime was that i was down to clown. ’

they’re riding the high that only jobs-well-done can provide: adrenaline still pumping and enough amplified mutual respect to drive the conversation. reagan and chris’ chairs needn’t be so close now they’ve mostly gotten work-talk out of their systems, but he finds he doesn’t mind the way they bump knees every once in a while.

and it means that he can steal bites of her appetizer even under the weight of a disapproving stare.

         ‘ --- nuh. ’ he jerks his hand away, fork suddenly beyond her reach. ‘ i earned this. ’

“by birth americans,” they amend, giving a tiny shrug as they do. “i live here too. sort of. i live here currently.”

          The dog is interested, Jack is not. She attempts to pull him away from Chris, but the dog’s stronger than she is, and is set on getting a pat. That’d be right. Jack makes a mental note not to give it a treat for a week, for committing the terrible crime of forcing her into a social situation. Without looking him in the eyes, she gives permission to pat the dog, who eagerly awaits.  ‘ Go ahead. ’

      “you’re right. also it’s a rat king. a bunch of rats are frozen and dead and tied together by their tails now. probably because of poop.”

     “do you wanna see.”

“oi! irish man! solidarity!”

“we have to stand together against the americans.”

free fire.

he takes it in stride, as he does; as he’s learned to do over the years and through the abuse. you don’t pick up a skill as unforgiving as sharpshooting and expect to be treated with respect at every any turn. although it’s primarily been from the mouths of individuals he’s had designs on killing, chris has heard far worse.

llewyn gets a quirked brow and a slow reply. smoking takes precedence.

                  a small look of disagreement ; soft but doubtful, “  there’s more of a need than you’d think. not a lot of people like a clever girl, think that i’m being a smart arse or something. “ she shrugs and looks to her fingers, picking at the skin around her thumbnail, chewing her lip as she contemplates this, “ plus latin is for losers. sorry to subject you to it. “

❛  Why  did  I  just  count  twelve  AR-15s  in  our  basement?  ❜  she  wasn’t  aware  he  was  doing  business  WITHOUT  her!        @scriose  sc

          @scriose​ gets a boyfriend.

          jane is with mike and the rest of their — what did they call it? the company? the company. jesus. anyway. that’s where she is for the night. chris and hopper are huddled up nearly knee-to-knee, asses set firm on the low, brick wall serving as their impromptu bench. everyone around is bundled up in thick jackets to ward off the winter chill, hawkins’ the two of them included.

          conversation is hushed. there’s a countdown. an uproarious applause.

          someone is singing auld lang syne off-key as hopper tugs chris in for a kiss.

chris can’t imagine having ever been anything but embarrassingly weak in the knees for jim hopper. tucked away in the back of his mind, sure, he knows that there was a time when they weren’t attached at the hip, but christ  ---  what was he doing every other new year’s? this already feels like ages-old tradition.

it might be the self-reflection or happy stomach swooping that delays him in realizing they’ve kissed for a crowd. hey. hop’s done it. he’s happy. why waste time fretting?