To say Jim Hopper didn't trust the government would be a vast understatement. American, Russian, Vallorian - it didn't make much difference. But the unfortunate fact of the matter was that he was tired and he was injured. His ribs were probably broken. His feet were fucked up in ways he didn't really want to think about right now. But he was still capable of walking, so he listened to the crazy spiel he was given and he watched the weird video. He gave his name - "Chief Hopper, Hawkins P.D." - even though that probably wasn't even remotely accurate anymore, and then he took the money they gave him and he walked out of the DOA office and straight into the woods.
The woods they told him were dangerous and he should stay out of. Those woods. He assumed there was a gate out there somewhere. Or that he might use one of those waypoint crystals to get back to Joyce. Find their way back to Hawkins. To their kids. To his kid.
If nothing else, he might find a cave to hide out in. Do some fishing in a creek. Anything to stay free.
He didn't expect to stumble onto his own damn cabin, looking a little worse for wear. The roof looked newly repaired and the walls were similar. But it was clear something violent had happened there. Hopper tried the door and when it wouldn't open, he pulled the spare key down from its hiding space on top of the door frame. He hadn't used it in ages because usually, El had been there and she opened the door after his special knock. He expected the chain to stop his progress, even, but the door opened into a dark living space and he frowned, hovering there in the entryway in his ragged prisoner clothes with his shaved head, feeling like an interloper in the strangest dream.
He wasn't sure why he bothered, but he couldn't help himself. His voice was quiet and rough, but it still carried.
"El…?"
Electricity was working in the cabin again.
Not well since more than half the lights weren’t working right, but it was getting there - much like the rest of it, a work in progress. El lacked the funds and materials and physical manpower (plus the knowledge) herself to rebuild this on her own. Her trust was put in the friends made here; most of them were well beyond her years but generous nonetheless, and she was grateful for them because it proved Vallo wasn’t anything like Hawkins. It had taken time for her to realize that - this world didn’t exist to use her, to weaponize her, that she could make a semblance of a normal life in this limbo while she waited to find out how things unfolded back home.
(She didn’t always like it. It didn’t have everyone she missed or loved, and she tried not to be bitter about it but it was hard and it still hurt.)
Anyway, the point was that despite the unreliable wiring (turns out some of it had been messed up during the attack, add that to the list of damages) there was enough for a small air conditioning unit to function through her bedroom window. It went out sometimes but it cooled the space enough to where she didn’t find herself unbearably miserable in summer heat. It made working in the cabin comfortable - because she’s been here a lot, figuring out what she could salvage (while Googling furniture restoration tips) and what needed tossing. Turns out that despite having zero material possession literally most of her life, she was kind of a sentimental fool about stuff.
Because there was stuff that was his. Her dad’s. Stuff that was from home. Stuff that helped make this cabin a home. Most of it was old anyway, musty and cracked but it proved difficult to let go.
El was at least going through the stuff. She always cried when she did. Stuff had memories tied to it, or held a story that her dad would tell her. In her bedroom there was a box labeled ‘keep,’ another labeled ‘toss.’ ‘Keep’ was getting full again. She had plans to move things into Skyhold to keep it out of the way while the cabin was in the middle of its repairs but ultimately she wanted to bring them back here, tucked away right where they belonged.
The Anne of Green Gables book, though - she’d bring this to her room in Skyhold, she thought. He used to read it to her when she had trouble sleeping (nightmares, she had a habit of having so many) and he had told her it was the same one he had read to Sara, too. “‘And father died four days afterwards from a fever too,’” she read quietly behind a closed door, fingertips tracing the words she once couldn’t even read. “‘That left me an orphan and folks were at their wits’ end, so Mrs. Thomas said -”
Wait. What was that noise?
Her eyes snapped up. It sounded like the front door opening - and the floors weren’t fixed yet, and they creaked under weight often. Many people knew this location. Sometimes friends would stop by and work parts here and there, always giving her the courtesy of a heads up. It could very easily be one of them.
It could also very easily be none of them? Maybe some kind of monster, or bad person. She didn’t come across the latter often here but it was possible so it was a good thing Steve armed her with a bat in case she was presented with any of those scenarios.
Slowly, cautiously, El rose to her feet. Grabbed the bat standing by her bedroom door. Turned the knob, not wanting to make the click too loud before pushing it open. Creeped out of her room, the dim yellow light of the small bedroom lamp spilling into the hall. She held the bat up just the way Steve taught her, bracing herself for the possibility that she may need to swing it at an intruder, except.
Except.
An undignified ‘hhhhh’ sound (like her mouth wanted to actually say Hopper) came out at first, the grip on the baseball bat so tight her knuckles went white. Eleven almost didn’t recognize him. Hell, it wouldn’t be surprising if he almost didn’t recognize her, features a little sharper from growth - longer hair pulled back into a ponytail, bangs that weren’t an abomination, with clothes that fit her properly (not flannel hand-me-downs) and appropriate to the more modern era.
But this - this couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be real. This was a trap. A dream. Something Vallo cooked up to mess with her. She was sure of it. This wasn’t Hopper. This could possibly even be a man that had looked similar (like the way Nico had a resemblance to Mike) but this wasn’t him. He was really skinny, and his head and face were bald. Couldn’t be Hopper. Hopper died with a head full of hair, a mustache, and a belly that screamed ‘I drink a lot of beer.’
Still didn’t stop her from swallowing the lump in her throat and saying, “Dad?”
Hopper was still blinking against the dim light versus the sun outside, so he couldn't see her right away. But her voice was enough to turn his face towards the source. It was more than enough to move his big lumbering feet in her direction. The details in the room started to take shape. El started to take shape. And he realized suddenly that six months had felt like years. Maybe it was how awful those months had been. Or how he'd convinced himself that he'd never see her again - and that maybe that was for the best. Or it could've been how grown up she looked. Whatever it was, it twisted emotion up in his chest and he stumbled towards her.
"Jesus, kid. Today could not get any weirder, but you are a sight for sore eyes." He realized as he got within reach of her that maybe she wouldn't believe he was himself. Hell, this whole thing could be in his head though too. Maybe he had finally broken and he was back in that Russian gulag right now.
Still, his hesitation lasted only long enough to grimace in irritation and say a mental "fuck it" before Hopper was pulling her into a hug. "You look way too grown up. You need to cut that out, you hear me?"
For something - or someone - that was supposed to be a trap, a dream, it sure as hell felt real. It felt like warmth, smelled a bit like sweat (and maybe blood, was it blood?) and the weight of his arms felt solid and so, so familiar.
The bat hit the ground. Her vision blurred, misting with tears, and her heart - its rhythm was so erratic and fast, threatening to burst with hope and relief. El didn’t want it to. She wasn’t sure if she could trust what was even happening, if this was still really even happening. But she wanted it to be real; she wanted him to be alive and here. For days now all she wanted was her dad despite it being a title she rarely used to call him by.
And if this was it, if this was real, that would be changing immediately.
“You died,” she croaked out, her bottom lip wobbling as she dug her fingers into his arms and looked up at him. His face was different. Pale skin, hollowed cheeks, narrow and tired. “You died. Joyce said you died, you died.” There it was - a sob. The sound that rattled out of her was unmistakable. “You’re dead.”
That hug didn’t go unreciprocated for long. Eleven hugged him back so tight, the kind of embrace that could make bones ache and keep breath out of the lungs.
The pain in her voice was enough to make Hopper angry on her behalf, let alone that face. She'd suffered enough without his lunkhead self added to the list. He hugged her head and pressed a kiss into her hair. Was she taller? She was taller, wasn't she? It made his chest ache and his eyes tear up. Or maybe that was his broken ribs. But he was so relieved she was alive that it drowned out everything else. He was being selfish enough staying put and not carrying his cursed self right back out the door and as far away from her as possible. A little pain was the least he could trade for the chance to make sure she was okay.
"I'm sorry. I know what it looked like." Hopper pulled back and pressed her face between his hands, giving her a soft grimace of a smile before he let her go. "I fell down where Joyce couldn't see me and the Russians found me." He didn't want to tell her more than that. He really didn't. And he was stubborn enough to change the subject with a hard glance around the cabin. "Is this really another world? A lot less Nightmare Homes & Gardens than I've come to expect," he tried to joke.
El’s face was kind of a mess. It always was when she cried - and always cried a lot, so expressive with her grief despite how often her face was set to something more deadpan. Blotchy eyes, wet cheeks and a quivering mouth that was beginning to form a smile without her realizing it. The more Hopper talked and stood there simply existing, the more she knew for sure. This wasn’t a trap. This wasn’t a dream. Hopper was here. Hopper was alive. This was real, and he was real, and it almost felt like things were going to be okay again.
“It is,” she nodded vigorously, taking a deep, rattling breath since she was still a crying mess. It was beginning to lean towards a happy crying mess but she was working on getting it together. “I have been here since - beginning November?” Another deep breath, this time through her nose but all that proved was that it was full of snot. “Seven months. It’s okay here, I promise, but you -”
Get it together. Eleven wiped her face with the back of her hand, determined to calm herself. “Tell me everything. You can sit. The couch is broken and sinks a little but it could be worse.” The lighting wasn’t the best but she’d brought in a lantern when she walked in earlier - she snatched it from the counter to turn it on. “I brought water! Do you need water?”
Seven months? That couldn't be right. Had he lost track of the days? Dimitri had been the one to tell him the date eventually and he could've lied. Or any number of things could have made Hopper lose count, he supposed. It didn't matter. Only Eleven mattered right now and she was crying. He didn't have a handkerchief; he wasn't really a handkerchief kind of guy in the best of circumstances. But he frowned and started to reach out with a sleeve to wipe at her face anyway. Thankfully, she beat him to it. God knew what was on his filthy prison uniform at this point.
"I…yeah, kid. I do need some water. Thanks." He needed a lot of things but water was a good start. And he couldn't help but smile a little crooked smirk at her offer as he followed her toward the counter. There was one chair still upright nearby. He sank down onto it, failing to hide a wince at the pain in his ribs.
"Have you been here the whole time I was gone?" Worry twisted the next question into a growl. "By yourself?"
Water it was. There was a bottle she located that she had drank from earlier - was still relatively cool, sweating some condensation but mostly full. Eleven had so many questions, and maybe even more concerns but she did her best to consciously refrain from overwhelming him. He had been presumed dead due to the lack of body (the weapon destroyed him, was the assumption) but now that she was processing the fact that he was taken by Russians...
Yes, definitely more concerns than questions.
“No,” she told him, handing over the drink. “The cabin appeared over a week ago. I have been living in a castle with people. I did not… trust this place, when I first arrived.” El was doing her best to provide clarification considering her responses had always been blunt and clipped. She had trouble finding the words to do so in the past but here, and now, her speech had taken some steep strides towards improvement. The last thing Hopper needed to worry about was her at the moment. “I came to the woods. Tried to open gates but I couldn’t. The government left me alone. I made contact with people that came from other worlds after a few weeks. They were nice to me. We help keep each other safe.”
El's improved speech didn't go unnoticed. Hopper watched her as he drank, trying to figure out what other changes he'd missed. When he realized he had been quietly squinting at her for a long moment, he finally cleared his throat and looked around the room aimlessly.
"Right. A government that asks for your species left you alone." He didn't sound convinced, but he was too tired to sound properly suspicious. Besides, she looked strong and healthy. Much better off than him. And as much as he hated thinking about her finding new people - new family - he was glad someone she hadn't been alone. He took another drink and tried not to regret sitting down. When was the last time he'd slept?
"Anyway, I want to meet these people who were nice to you. Later. I need to--" Sleep, shower, see a doctor. "--Wait." Something occurred to him way too slowly. "Did your powers boot back up? You came out here with a bat…"
“They are gone,” she answered him curtly, mouth pressed into a flat line. It was a topic she was still sore about - and she’s tried many times to focus and bring them back but she couldn’t. Something inside Eleven wasn’t working. She didn’t know how to fix it; no one did. Maybe the people responsible for honing them knew but that did her no favors. They weren’t here.
And the man responsible for creating her into the little monster she was - he was probably dead, anyway.
Enough of that, though. “Steve is here,” she explained. “In Vallo. I got a bat from him. I can still defend myself. I am okay.” It was important to make a point out of that to him, she felt. “But you…”
El’s hands went to, tentatively, reach for his scalp. It felt like peach fuzz beneath her fingertips. He was dirty. There was blood. “Bad people did this,” she whispered, quiet but firm. “Bad people hurt you, didn’t they? The… Russians. The ones that tried to open the gate. How long did they have you?”
Harrington. He wasn't the worst name to hear. He'd done good by the kids on more than one occasion and he'd proven he was more than just the popular kid looking to hook up with chicks. But Hopper was more concerned with El's missing powers. And by the subject rolling back around to himself. He closed his eyes and blew a breath out through his nose as her fingers grazed his head.
"Yeah, bad people did this. I thought it was six months. Can't be sure." His voice took on the same firmness as her as he ducked his head to meet her eyes. "I'll be okay. Promise. I'm just banged up." He was more worried about Joyce than his own injuries, but he didn't want to bring El down further with things she couldn't change. Maybe when he'd gotten a better look at this place and confirmed they really couldn't do anything to get back home. To get back to Joyce. He hoped her history of being unstoppable, whether against monsters, men, or alternate realities, stayed true. It better damn well stay true.
Hopper took another long drink of water and stood - slowly. "Listen, kid, you show me where you've been staying and after that…I'll let you hand me off to a doctor. Deal?"
El wasn’t too sure about the timeframe of things, either. Steve had showed up with memories ahead of hers by a lot while she hadn’t even remembered what happened to Hopper - and then she experienced what people called ‘the memory’ dump and she was still behind. All she knew was that Hawkins was in trouble, her friends were in danger and some demon-thing named Vecna almost killed Max.
It wasn’t over. Far from it.
Her hands withdrew from his head and went to his shoulders, squeezing. It almost gave her a sense of deja vu from the last time she saw him at the mall but this time he wasn’t sending himself off for a heroic venture. He could rest now. “People travel by Waypoints here,” she explained even if it may have been covered by the welcoming spiel. “It will make things go by fast. I will show you the castle I am living in and then we are going to the clinic. So…” An affirmative nod. “Deal.”
They had a lot to catch up in but if Hopper was in Vallo? That meant they had time. Eleven wasn’t rushed, and she wouldn’t leave his side until he had a clean bill of health.