inspired by this post by @harringroveera
‘The perk of having a Chief dad: ask him to shut down your (ex)boyfriend's party’
In which Billy cries, Hopper chooses violence (legally), and Steve Harrington learns the dangers of upsetting the sheriff’s kid.
3k words — also a cat appeared and stayed sorry not sorry.
also! ao3 link now :)
Jim is stretched out on the couch, his feet propped up on the armrest, lazily flipping through the television channels. The set hums and crackles between stations, each one spilling a different blur of game shows, reruns, or commercials across the dim living room.
Evening has settled in. Through the narrow crack in the curtains, he can see the last smear of sunset gold fading into that deep purple summer gets just before night wins.
Jim shifts on the couch cushions and takes a long pull from the beer bottle balanced against his stomach.
He’s been trying to cut back, but it’s summer. It’s hot. And the house is quiet.
El’s off at Joyce’s place for a movie night, probably inhaling more sugar than any human body should physically be allowed to and bouncing off the walls.
Jim chuckles; at least that isn't his problem tonight.
Billy has been gone since noon doing… whatever it is seventeen-year-olds do when they leave the house with a shrug and a muttered “I’ll be back later.”
As long as he’s being safe, Jim doesn’t worry.
Right then, a furry shape slips quietly around the corner.
A cat pads towards him with slow, deliberate steps and settles down near his shoes.
Jim glances down.
“Yes?”
She’s a rescue, some long-haired calico mutt of a thing the kids dragged home a few months back. They named her Evie, and the little rascal sheds as if it’s her life’s mission to destroy every black piece of clothing Jim owns.
The cat tips her head up at him and lets out a meow. It’s a raspy, gravelly sound, the world’s smallest chainsaw.
The first time she did that, Jim nearly packed her back into the truck and drove straight to the shelter, thinking something inside the animal had broken. But after multiple vet visits, each one draining more money than Jim thinks any creature under fifteen dollars should cost, the official diagnosis was simple:
That’s just how she sounds.
Go figure.
The cat blinks up at him again and croaks another meow. Jim tilts his head back over the couch arm and squints at the clock on the wall.
Ten minutes to eight.
“You’ve still got an hour on you, girl.”
She stares at him, as if understanding perfectly well and finding him disappointing. She meows again, louder this time, then turns and stalks off down the hallway toward the bedrooms when it becomes clear Jim will not be bullied into early dinner service.
Jim snorts and flips through another couple of channels.
Great.
He’s arguing with a cat now.
The television flickers across his face as he sinks lower into the couch. The beer bottle rests loosely in his grip.
Jim’s eyelids grow heavy.
He figures he can close them for a minute. He’ll wake up, feed the cat, maybe catch the late news—
The front door crashes shut hard enough to rattle the frame.
Jim is upright instantly.
Years on the force have trained the reaction straight into his bones. Sleep vanishes, and his muscles tighten, mind snapping awake before the rest of him even finishes breathing.
He scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away the line of drool that’s escaped onto his chin. He can’t see the front door from the couch, but he doesn’t need to.
There’s a quiet sound.
A sniffle.
Then the sudden, rigid stillness of someone realising they’ve made too much noise.
Jim knows his kids well enough to tell which one it is without even looking.
He turns his head toward the hallway.
“Billy?”
Someone trips in the hall while kicking off their shoes. At the same time, the cat launches out of the living room, giving Jim the only warning she’s gone by the streak of calico disappearing around the corner.
Yep. Definitely Billy.
He hauls himself upright with a grunt, joints popping like an old porch in winter. By the time he reaches the entryway, he’s greeted with a strange sight.
A head of blonde curls, normally impossible to miss, has completely vanished beneath a thick cloud of fur.
Evie is plastered against Billy’s chest like she’s trying to merge with him on a molecular level, her tail flicking wildly as she purrs loud enough to rattle the floorboards.
Billy is shaking.
Alarm bells go off immediately.
Jim isn’t exactly good with the softer side of parenting; that’s usually Joyce’s department. He's more into handling stuff like broken fences, drunk drivers, and the occasional bar fight.
Still, he tries.
“Kid… hey,” he says carefully. “What happened?”
His mind jumps straight to the worst possibility.
Neil Hargrove.
Last Jim heard, the bastard was rotting in a jail cell two states over, and Jim would really like to keep it that way. The thought of that man showing up again makes something hot and ugly curl in Jim’s gut.
But Billy just shakes his head.
A sob escapes him, and the cat responds by climbing higher, rubbing her face under his chin.
Jim’s brow tightens.
“Was it…?” he starts carefully. That at least gets the kid to lift his head a little, big watery eyes meeting Jim’s.
The cat headbutts Billy’s exposed cheek, and he sniffs again, stroking her head. “No,” he manages between breaths. “It— it was…”
Jim exhales quietly in relief.
Okay.
Not life-threatening.
Billy sucks in a shaky breath. “It— it was—”
The sentence dissolves into another sob. His shoulders hitch, the breath leaving him all at once like someone punched the air out of him.
“S-Steve.”
Jim blinks.
Steve?
But before Jim can process that, Billy lowers Evie to the floor and turns toward the hallway. What begins as a stumble turns into a sudden dash, and moments later, his bedroom door is echoing off its hinges.
Jim stands there for a second.
“ …Huh?”
He takes a step toward the hallway, hand already lifting to open the door…and stops himself.
He knows better.
He and Joyce sat through too many of those parenting counselling meetings for a reason. Apparently, you’re not supposed to charge into a teenager’s room like a SWAT raid every time something goes wrong. Especially one like Billy.
Even if Jim’s instincts are screaming at him to do exactly that.
So instead, with great effort, he turns away and walks to the kitchen. The cat is already sitting by Billy’s bedroom door, yowling.
This one sounds downright offended.
Jim pours kibble into her bowl. “Here,” he mutters. “Dinner.” She doesn’t even look at it.
Leaning against the counter, Jim frowns. He only knows one Steve.
He runs through what he knows.
The boys are close. If Billy’s not at the library, then he’s most likely with…Harrington.
Whenever the two go out, Steve usually idles in the driveway, honking his car horn while he waits. The kid hasn’t driven since his car was totalled, and, as far as Jim understands, Steve has taken on the role of designated driver.
And, more than once, he’s spotted Billy pausing by the hallway mirror on his way out, staring intently and picking at the few stray curls on his face.
On one recent occasion, Jim even saw him swiping Chapstick across his lips before bolting out the door like the building was on fire.
Jim never said anything.
Not his business.
But when Evie lets out another distressed sound and starts scratching desperately at Billy’s door, he thinks he hears a matching muffled, broken sound from inside.
Jim straightens.
Yeah.
It’s his business now.
He walks down the hall and knocks.
Nothing.
“Hey, Billy?” he calls. “Open up a second.”
Silence.
The cat lets out a miserable little mewl beside his shoe. Jim sighs and scoops her up.
It’s awkward.
He doesn’t really… do cats.
She squirms for a second before settling against his chest, a disgruntled loaf of bread. Jim knocks again.
“Uh… the cat really wants to come in.”
There’s a pause.
Shuffling.
The door creaks open a few inches, and Billy stands there looking down at the floor.
He’s changed clothes.
The tight denim and half-open shirt are gone, replaced by a loose sweater that hangs past his wrists and a pair of bright yellow shorts.
Jim hands over the cat.
Evie immediately climbs into Billy’s arms, and Billy hugs her close, turning back toward the bed.
He doesn’t tell him to go away, so Jim takes that as permission.
He steps inside and sits in the creaky desk chair, carefully clearing a space among the clutter of papers, books, and scattered jewellery
Billy sits on the edge of the bed with Evie in his lap.
He stares out the window.
His eyes look distant. Blurry.
Jim waits.
He’s learned patience works wonders with both his kids.
Eventually, Billy drags a sleeve across his face, wiping away the last of the tears. He strokes the cat slowly.
Then he mumbles something.
“What?” Jim leans forward. “You gotta speak up. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”
Billy looks up and gives him a flat, exhausted stare.
“Steve doesn’t like me.”
Jim’s eyebrows start climbing his forehead.
“Oh?”
Billy huffs and throws himself backwards onto the bed. “Yeah,” he mutters miserably. Jim waits for the rest.
Nothing comes.
Instead, Billy sniffles again and rolls onto his side, curling in on himself until he’s a tight ball of limbs.
Evie, ever the opportunist, climbs up his side and settles against his ribs like a furry hot water bottle. Billy’s hand finds her automatically, fingers dragging through her long fur.
“H-he threw a party,” Billy says into the mattress. “And..." His voice wobbles. “He w-went and k-kissed another girl.”
The last part comes out in a breathless rush.
The tears follow immediately.
Billy buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking again. Then, muffled through his sleeves—
“H-he kissed me yesterday… but I guess he didn’t mean it,”
For a moment, Jim just sits there. The words move slowly through his brain, like a report he has to read twice to make sure he got it right.
He kissed me yesterday.
Something clicks into place.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh shit.
He really wishes Joyce were here now.
Jim scratches at his jaw, his other hand gently rubbing at the kid's back. Now, he doesn’t have many strong opinions about Steve Harrington.
The boy’s… alright.
Sometimes he babysits for folks around town. Helps the Henderson kid with his bike. Once, he even fixed Mr Wallis’s garden swing without asking to be paid.
Polite.
His father, on the other hand, is a first-class pain in the ass.
Anytime Mr Harrington shows up at the station, Jim knows he’s in for a long evening of expensive cologne, loud complaints, and threats about lawyers.
Entitled prick.
But that’s the father.
The kid…
Well.
The kid just made Jim’s son cry.
His jaw tightens, and his fingers slowly curl against his knee. Anyone who upsets his kids becomes a matter of sudden professional interest.
His voice comes out rougher than he intends.
“You… need me to talk to him?”
Talking could mean many things.
Talking could mean a calm conversation.
Talking could also mean driving over to the Harrington house, leaning on the doorframe in full sheriff uniform, and explaining in a very measured voice why messing with his son is a terrible career move.
Billy lifts his head. His eyes are red and glassy, the cuffs of his sleeves are soaked through, and one curl is stuck to his forehead.
“Talk…?” he asks blankly. Then he notices Jim’s expression, the one people in town see right before they're in for a bad night.
Billy stares. He keeps staring until a small giggle escapes him. “Oh… no,” he says, shaking his head.
The sound loosens something in Jim’s chest.
Billy smiles, wiping his nose on his sleeve in a way that would make Joyce sigh dramatically, and pushes himself upright on the bed.
His eyes are still puffy, but there’s a tiny spark of something returning to them.
He gives Jim a sideways look, a sly little grin creeping onto his face that Jim knows he would do anything to keep there.
“But,” Billy says, reaching down to scoop Evie into his arms again, “there is one thing…”
~
That’s how Jim Hopper ends up spending his Friday evening off in full sheriff’s uniform.
The patrol car is parked crooked in the Harrington driveway, and red-and-blue lights wash over the lawn. He leans casually against the hood, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with deep personal satisfaction.
Teenagers scatter across the property in a frenzy, like someone had kicked over an anthill. It’s one of Jim’s favourite sights in the world.
Normally, this sort of thing gets handed off to the rookies—routine underage drinking busts, party shutdowns, paperwork nobody wants. But tonight?
Tonight, he volunteered.
And boy, was it paying off.
Half the kids are too drunk to figure out which direction the road is. The other half are tripping over lawn chairs, beer cans, and each other as they try to escape before the sheriff starts writing tickets.
The music inside the house cuts out abruptly.
A couple stumbles out of a hedge to Jim’s right, clearly having been involved in activities that had very little to do with dancing.
Jim flicks on his flashlight and blasts the beam directly into their faces, and both recoil instantly, hissing and shielding their eyes.
“I’d be careful heading home,” Jim says, voice dry as an old chalkboard. “Never know what kinda things go bump in the night.”
They don’t wait for clarification, bolting straight down the road at a full sprint.
From the back seat of the patrol car, through the half-cracked window, Jim hears a quiet snicker.
He doesn’t look back.
But the corner of his mouth twitches.
He reaches into the car, slams the sirens back on, and grabs the intercom. His voice booms across the entire property.
“Evacuate the property immediately, or arrests will begin.”
The front door finally bangs open again.
Ah, there he is.
Steve Harrington steps out onto the porch looking rumpled and confused, hair messier than usual, and shirt half untucked. He’s clearly had a couple of drinks, but he’s holding himself together better than most of the fleeing teenagers.
He squints through the flashing lights.
“Hop?” he calls.
Jim smiles pleasantly. “In the flesh.”
Steve looks at the emptying yard.
Then back at Jim.
“You ruined my party!” Jim nods, waiting until the last of the stragglers clears the driveway. He straightens off the patrol car and casually taps the handcuffs hanging from his belt.
“I’m gonna need you to turn around now.”
Steve blinks.
“What?”
“Turn around.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
Steve stares at him for a long moment. Then slowly turns and places his hands on the car. Jim steps forward and pats him down quickly out of habit.
Steve doesn’t resist, too busy looking bewildered, and Jim spins him around, opening the rear door.
The one opposite Billy.
The boy starts to protest—
Then he freezes.
Their eyes meet, and Steve goes completely silent.
Jim gives him a firm shove.
“Get in.”
Steve practically falls into the seat.
Jim shuts the door and climbs into the driver’s side. The sirens cut off, and the car begins to roll down the asphalt.
For a while, nobody speaks.
Jim deliberately takes the long way through town, heading vaguely toward the cabin rather than the station, but Steve’s too panicked to notice.
The boy leans forward between the seats.
“C’mon, Hop,” he pleads. “You can’t arrest me! My parents are gonna freak out if this goes on my record.”
Jim chuckles under his breath, and he catches a small smirk grace Billy's face.
The car slows as they reach a quiet stretch of road outside town. He pulls over and parks.
Then he turns around in his seat.
But he doesn’t look at Steve.
“Five minutes,” Jim says.
For the first time since the party, Billy speaks.
“I thought you were gonna arrest him for real,” he mutters, sounding mildly betrayed.
Steve’s head snaps toward him so fast it nearly hits the window.
“YOU MADE HIM ARREST ME?!”
Jim climbs out of the patrol car and shuts the door behind him. “Five minutes,” he reminds them again through the open window.
Then he walks a few yards down the road and stops beside a very interesting tree. Behind him, the car stays quiet. Jim checks his watch.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Still nothing.
He exhales slowly through his nose. He hoped this would be easier.
Finally, voices.
Shouting.
Jim tilts his head slightly, pretending to examine a knot in the tree trunk. He catches a few words drifting down the road.
“…party…”
“…you—”
“…I didn’t—”
“…you did!”
Ah, good.
Healthy communication.
Another minute passes, and the shouting fades. He turns just enough to spot Billy throw his hands up to his face, crying.
Jim winces.
A few seconds later, Steve joins him.
He blinks.
Well.
Didn’t see that one coming.
Jim turns back and checks his watch again, three minutes left. Behind him, the voices quiet down into softer murmuring.
Then silence.
Jim risks another glance over his shoulder. The two shapes in the back seat have moved closer together, arms wrapping around one another.
Hugging.
Jim nods slowly to himself.
That’s… good.
But then it lasts a little longer than Jim is comfortable with. Steve’s hand slides slowly down from Billy’s shoulder.
Jim’s eyes narrow.
Steve’s hand keeps sliding.
Alright.
That’s enough of that.
Jim strides back toward the car.
“Hey!”
The two boys practically fling themselves apart, and Billy starts laughing helplessly, face bright red. Steve looks like he’s about to pass out.
Jim opens the driver’s door and climbs in. He starts the engine and pulls the car back onto the road. The mood in the back seat is… different now.
Jim watches them both in the rearview mirror for a few seconds.
Then he sighs.
“I don’t care,” he says.
Both boys stiffen.
“And I don’t wanna know,” Jim continues.
Their shoulders relax slightly.
“But,” he adds calmly, “you better wrap it up before you do the deed. Got it?”
Billy groans immediately, and Steve makes a small, strangled squeaking sound.
Jim glances back again and flashes a wide, toothy grin.
“You mess with my kid,” he tells Steve conversationally, “and I’ll do a whole lot more than ruin your parties.”
Steve nods so fast Jim’s half worried the kid’s neck might snap.
“You got that?”
“Yes, sir. Yes—yes absolutely.”
Right behind him, Billy grabs Jim’s arm and shakes it in protest. “Stop it!” he hisses. “You’re scaring him!”
Jim shrugs, easing the car down the dark road. As long as the message landed, he’s not too worried about bruised feelings.
In the mirror, he sees Billy lean sideways, shoulder bumping into Steve’s.
He's smiling again.
That’s what matters.
Jim turns his eyes back to the road, the corner of his mouth lifting. Next time Harrington throws a party, though—
He’s definitely bringing the sirens.
Hehe, this one had been kicking around in my brain for a while, finally put words to the page! Should probably be working on my other wip's, but take this eccentric father-son duo as they both terrorise Steve.
