Chapter Text
November 7th, 1983
It was late, creeping towards that time when night owls and early birds overlapped, when Hopper pulled up to the cabin. The search was still going, still without much of anything. When his watch read one, Powell clapped him on the shoulder.
“You need to get home,” he said.
In a different world, under different circumstances, Hopper would have argued. Wouldn’t have even listened.
Wouldn’t have prompted Powell by checking his watch more and more frequently as it got later and later.
Instead: “Are you sure you’ve got this under control?”
Powell nodded. “We’re good, Chief. Go home.”
Hopper went home. He grumbled to himself as he stepped out of the car and saw the glow of a lamp through the living room curtains, accompanied with the flickering of a TV.
“You should be asleep,” Hopper said when he opened the door. “You’ve got school in the morning and I-”
Steve wasn’t awake. He was in the living room as opposed to his bedroom, the lamp was on, and the TV was turned to the news – a rerun of the earlier night showing footage of the search for Will Byers. But Steve was sprawled out on the couch, face smushed into the arm, fast asleep.
Hopper sighed, closing the door softly behind him. He did his best to keep quiet as he turned off the TV and lamp, looking back at the sleeping teenager every time the floor creaked under him. Hopper had quickly learned that teenagers slept like the dead, though. Steve would be out until morning, as much as Hopper didn’t love the idea of him sleeping in his jeans or on the couch. He needed his sleep and if Hopper woke him up now, it would be nonstop questions about Will and Hopper…
Hopper would have to tell him they hadn’t found anything. That kind of news could wait until the morning.
May 5th, 1975
Sarah died on April 29th, 1975. A beautiful spring day, the kind she loved. Diane couldn’t go back to the house, not even to get the dress that Sarah had picked for her-
For her funeral.
And hadn’t that been a goddamn stake in the heart. When they went shopping for more pajamas because Sarah couldn’t stand the coarser fabric of other clothing and she stopped them in the middle of the store, pointing at a bright yellow sundress with a big matching bow.
“I want that one,” Sarah said, her voice weak, but her eyes shining in a way Hopper hadn’t seen in months.
Hopper’s throat swelled.
“Sweetie, I don’t think you’ll like wearing it,” Diane tried to let her down easily.
The dress was multiple layers with a tiny row of buttons down the back, made for a healthy child to go see a movie or a dinner with the grandparents. Not a little girl who called a hospital room her bedroom.
“Not for now,” Sarah explained. “For later.”
Diane looked at Hopper, but he just shrugged.
“Honey, what do you mean-?”
“For my party,” Sarah pressed. “The after party. When I’m gone.”
Her funeral.
His girl was smart, Hopper always knew that. It didn’t matter that no one told her she was dying. The doctors wouldn’t even tell Hopper what he knew they knew as they poked and prodded at his little girl. Sarah was dying.
Diane screamed at him that night. For buying the dress and the matching bow, for giving up on Sarah. That was the day Hopper knew that Diane wouldn’t stick around After. He didn’t blame her, he understood.
So, Hopper went home to get the dress and bow and gave it to the mortician with careful instructions on how Sarah had wanted the dress to lay. The day of the funeral, May 5th, about an hour before guests would arrive and two hours into Hopper’s various calls trying to find Diane, the mortician approached him holding the bow.
“Would you like to put the bow in her hair?” The man asked. Hopper never remembered his name in the blur of everything.
It was both exactly like all the times Hopper had put a bow in Sarah’s hair before and nothing like everything he’d ever done. The hair felt the same, gave the same resistance as he clipped the bow above her right temple, the side she always preferred, but there was no giggle as the fabric tickled her face. No smart remark when Hopper fumbled, his watery eyes making it difficult to see. No satisfied grin or demands for a mirror when Hopper finished.
His little girl was gone. Forever.
Hopper tried to keep himself together when Diane finally walked into the funeral home. Spoke through the pain to greet the other mourners and accept their condolences. And it worked, for a while.
The ceremony passed. Hopper knew he said a few words, knew Diane did as well, but he couldn’t remember them for the life of him. At the small wake, he accepted more condolences, the faces and words running together in an awful kaleidoscope, until one of the last people.
A tall woman in a black pencil skirt with a matching suit jacket and white blouse, a woman Hopper was fairly certain he did not know, ushered a small, miserable looking boy with floppy brown hair towards Hopper. Diane had disappeared with her parents, probably to talk about her moving plans that she thought Hopper didn’t know about yet.
“Hello, Mr. Hopper,” the woman greeted.
“Who are you?” Hopper asked brusquely.
The woman seemed taken aback. “I apologize, I thought that you would have been- I am Miss Mahoney. Mr. Harrington’s secretary. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington were unable to attend on such short notice, but Steven was adamant on coming.”
That was when it clicked. Steve. Steve Harrington. It was frankly embarrassing that Hopper didn’t recognize the boy on sight, but…it had been a while since Sarah had been up for visitors let alone the playdates the two used to have.
“Yes, of course,” Hopper said. “I’m sorry, it’s just been- a lot.”
Miss Mahoney nodded in professional sympathy. “I’m sure. Steven, was there something you wanted to say to Mr. Hopper?”
“I- I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Hopper,” Steve sniffed, eyes trained on his shiny black shoes. He wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve.
“I’m sorry for yours as well.” It was the first time Hopper got to say those words. Everyone else in attendance had been friends and family of Diane and him. People there because they felt duty bound towards them and a tragically few who knew or cared deeply about Sarah herself.
It happened when you died as young as Sarah.
There was some sick part of Hopper that was happy to see Steve that day, to see how sad he was, because Steve didn’t care about Hopper or Diane. He cared about Sarah.
“You were a good friend to her,” Hopper said. “I’m sure she’s very happy that you’re here.”
At his words, Steve looked up at Hopper with big brown eyes and burst into sobs.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Mahoney sighed, looking around at the other mourners who were beginning to take notice. “I apologize, we’ll be heading out now.”
She whisked Steve away, her sharp, manicured nails digging into Steve’s upper arm before Hopper could say anything. The boy continued to sob, ignoring whatever Miss Mahoney was clearly whispering to him along the way. Hopper watched as Miss Mahoney deposited the boy in a waiting car that drove away without her, Miss Mahoney herself getting into a red convertible that looked a bit out of the price range of a secretary.
Later, Hopper would wish he interrogated that interaction at least a bit more. Would want to strangle his past self for ignoring the red flags. In the moment, however, Hopper felt bone tired and the next few months found him caught in the rigamarole of divorce.
Needless to say, it was a while before Hopper saw Steve again.