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decayfreely · 12 days ago

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Part One

There’s a bloody and battered Steve Harrington on Phil Callahan’s couch.

There’s also a somewhat shellshocked (but otherwise perfectly fine, thank God) Eddie Munson passed out on the other side of it, having refused to leave after dragging Harrington to Phil’s front door.

Hopper and Powell both are unable to be raised via radio, dispatch is being cagey and keeps insisting they know nothing (but also cannot send an ambulance his way due to ‘unusually high call volumes’, what the fuck) and being that it’s now 3 am, Flo has long left the station.

Which leaves Phil as the last adult standing, slumped in a chair and quietly wondering if this is how the apocalypse starts.

(Given the ER has apparently been overtaken by some sort of government task force to deal with a “gas leak and related poisonings” --suspicious quotation marks very much implied-- it kind of feels like it might be.

“There are men in containment suites here. The big bulky white ones you only see in movies.”

The nurse he begged through back channels to talk to had hissed on the phone, voice low and frantic.

“There’s talk they’re going to quarantine the hospital. Do not bring that kid here. If you think he’s worse tomorrow, drive him to St. Peters in the morning, but otherwise just keep an eye on him.”

St. Peters, the next closest hospital, is a full hour and a half drive away--and that’s if Phil takes his cruiser and keeps the lights and sirens on.)

Callhan alternates between watching the clock and the rise and fall of Harrington’s chest as he breathes. Contemplates when his small town, boring life started going completely sideways.

The nurse had assured him Steve probably just had a concussion and a few fractured ribs. The head wound had already closed by the time Phil checked it and it likely won’t need stitches unless it reopens.

They are living out the best case scenario here. Steve’s (probably) going to be fine. He just needs to take things easy for a while, which Phil himself will be insisting he do, since that kid will not be going home to an empty house.

Not when he knows Steve's parents are gone and as helpful as Munson’s been, Phil can't ask him to watch Harrington.

For all the chains, swagger, and dumb habit of stealing Phil’s cowboy hat, Eddie Munson’s still a kid himself.

Nevermind that Phil’s pretty sure the two aren’t even friends, let alone friendly.

Sure Munson’s been spotted at a couple of Harrington’s parties, and yes there’s definitely rumors the brat's started dealing, but unlike most of Steve’s crew, Munson knows to bolt long before the cops show up.

Definitely isn’t the type to play sports, in the same way Steve isn’t the type to stage large scale lawn-flamingo heists. They just don’t cross paths much.

Plus it’s just downright irresponsible to even think of asking Munson and okay, maybe as a cop Phil himself has a responsibility to the city of Hawkins, but the city isn’t currently bleeding all over his couch.

Add on the little fact that Steve had repeatedly said that he didn't want to be left alone…

(That he hadn’t realized how bad off he was until he was already behind the wheel of his car, chasing down a half-remembered promise of help Callahan had once offered.

Phil would bet his last dollar that was why Munson hadn’t left yet.

That he’d watched the way Steve had clung, first to Munson and then to Phil, wrecked and shaking, his voice splintering as he pleaded, “Please stay, I don’t wanna die alone, I--sorry, please--”

Phil had been in a full-blown panic trying to reassure the kid he wasn’t about to keel over and he was a cop, for fuck’s sake!

Munson, who had once famously melted down in middle school over animal control’s attempts to put down an injured possum and tried to start a riot?

Even if he hadn’t needed the extra hands, Phil would’ve let the little brat linger, if only to head off the inevitable nightmares this whole screwed-up mess was bound to leave behind.)

No ones going anywhere until Phil has answers or orders.

The clock chimes in the background, a reminder of the late hour and he uses it to shove all thoughts of death and teenagers away.

Attempts, once again, to walk through what he’ll do if the next call he gets is about an evacuation, or a curfew, or some other government issued order, and he still can’t get a hold of Hopper or Powell.

If the hospital closes they’ll need to make a statement. Call some sort of town hall about what to do, where to go in case little Suzie or Bobby eats shit on their bike.

Calm some people down in case the gas leak thing gains traction. Starts going around causing the same panic Benny’s death and Will Byers disappearance had.

Wouldn’t be hard, given those two incidents happened last year.

(Would the county send the stupid staties if Phil was the one to call in? Say he can’t get a hold of his own people?

Would they care about the lowest guy on the force panicking, or would they think him a small town moron and ignore him until it was too late?

What if this really is the fucking apocolypse and Phil’s the only cop left around?

‘Can I survive the end of the world with two teenagers in tow’ is not a thought exercise he’s ever entertained.

If he had, King Steve and Menace Munson would have been his last possible pick for the role, definitely not with one of them injured, and oh, dammit, he’s catastrophizing again--)

Running on caffeine fumes and sheer panic, Phil’s thoughts loop relentlessly, the clock chiming again and again until the first light breaks through the windows and Steve finally stirs.

Finds he must have fallen into some sort of half-asleep trance because he’s jerked to full awareness when Harrington moves to get up and ends up falling back down, loudly hissing and clutching his head.

“Easy, easy.” Phil mutters, up in a shot, coming to hover over Harrington like the kid’s a nervous horse. “You’re with--uh, Officer Callahan? At my house.”

Then, like Steve might not know, adds; “You’re pretty hurt, kid.”

“Oh.” Steve says, squints up at him, holding his head in both hands. “Alright.”

That's a dramatic under-reaction, and Phil’s instantly worried about brain damage as Munson starts to come alive next to them.

He crouches down next to Steve, hands hovering uncertainly. “You remember what happened?”

Steve stares at the floor, then at Phil.

“Sort of?”

“Waz’ goin’ on?” Munson says, blinking rapidly into awareness.

“Go grab an ice pack for Steve,” Phil says distractedly, as he reaches out, telegraphing his movements. Begins gently combing through Steve’s hair to get a look at the cut. “Top shelf, left side of the freezer.”

He earns a foggy stare and a grunt that might’ve been “Sure”--or possibly, just a default teenager noise, before Munson tumbles upright, staggering off like a baby deer.

Phil might’ve rolled his eyes and made a comment on teenage zombism, if Steve didn’t flinch every time his fingers so much as brushed against his skull.

“Scale of one to ten, how bad’s the pain?” He asks, only just remembering to keep his voice down.

“It’s throbbing, man.” Steve replies, which isn’t as concerning as the fact he’s allowing Phil to manhandle his entire head without complaint, despite the pain.

Thankfully, Phil’s prepared.

“Let’s fix that, then. Pick a hand, any hand.” He jokes lamely, as he fishes in the pocket of his pants, finally pulling out the little pill bottle he’d retrieved earlier.

“Uh…” Steve stares at him uncomprehendingly until Phil holds out his palm and shakes the pill jar, two pills bouncing down.

“Oh.” Steve says. “That hand then.”

“This will make you a little loopy, but it’ll help with the pain.” Phil warns, handing them over. “I’ll get you a glass of water to take it with.”

Not that he apparently needed to because Steve’s already popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed them dry.

“Hope that’s because of the pain and not because you’re used to doing that.” Phil chides sarcastically, rising to his feet. Water will do Steve good anyway, he could barely get any down the kid last night.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Steve tosses at his back, the first real sign of his usual attitude.

Which means the kids’ definitely going to be okay, at least.

Phil rolls his eyes, fighting the urge to show relief as he passes Munson, the older teen now looking far more awake despite his hair looking like a rat made its home there.

“Munson?” Steve says, startling loudly when Eddie drops down next to him on the couch. “Shit I thought I hallucinated you.”

“No such luck, your majesty. Here, ice pack,” The older teen still sounds like he gargled gravel. “Put it on your head.”

Phill grabs a water bottle for him too.

He returns as Eddie manages to wedge the ice pack into Steve’s limp hands, holding two bottles of water himself; one for Harrington and one for Munson, who sounds like he could probably use it too.

“Do that, drink this, then,” Phil says, trying not to push but needing answers as he hands out the water, “Start talking. What the hell happened?”

Harrington presses the ice to his temple, and meets Phil’s eyes.

“How much do you know?”

And nope, no, fucking no, that is not how this is going to work today, thanks!

“Uh-uh, you answer first!” Phil snaps, arms crossing over his chest. “All we have established is that you showed up here looking like you went ten rounds with Michael Myers and then tried to drive afterwards.”

He’s been balancing on the knife’s edge of panic all night, and now that Harrington’s finally stringing full sentences together, it’s starting to show.

Phil needs something here, he’s beyond desperate.

Even if it’s just normal dumb teenager bullshit.

“No, like, how much has Hop told you?” Steve clarifies hesitantly. “About the--the stuff? With the lab?”

Which just makes things worse, since all roads seem to circle back to them.

(He knew that lab made evil space lasers and shit!)

“I'm sorry, who's asking questions here? From the top, Harrington.” He raises his hand in the air, just in case Steve needs visual representation as Phil’s anxiety grapples with him. “Pretend Hopper hasn’t told me anything. Right now, you can pretend he doesn’t even exist.”

Harrington squirts at him disbelievingly under the ice pack.

Mutters; “I forgot you get bitchy when you’re upset.”

Which is rich, coming from a Harrington. Their entire family turned being bitchy into an inherited skill set!

“The hospital says there’s a gas leak happening.” Phil prods, tone tight despite himself. “Is it from the lab? The government?”

Was this a weapon that got away from them? Did they have Hopper? Is that why he wasn’t answering his damn radio!?

Phil knew they were on a time limit here, with the meds, but he hadn’t exactly anticipated Harrington starting off by talking about the lab. Selfishly thinks he’d have held off for a second if he had known this was related to whatever the hell was happening in town.

“You kept mentioning the junkyard and some kid named Dustin.” Munson interrupts, hanging his elbows on his knees and peering at Steve. “You said you were going to be pissed at him if you died because he was being stupid.”

Phil resists the urge to shush him.

Unfortunately Harrington grabs onto that and runs with it, launching into a rambling, half-baked story involving babysitting, Hargrove being one of the kid’s racist stepbrother (unsurprising, Phil’s met his jackass of a dad), fighting with loose dogs and helping Hopper in the tunnels.

Every mention of tunnels and dogs is delivered with sharp little glances at Phil, like he’s supposed to be in on something here.

Phil isn’t, which he does not like, given the overall feeling of impending doom.

Fortunately for Harrington’s head, but tragically for Phil’s sanity, the meds kick in after just twenty minutes.

On an empty stomach, ill-advised as that is, they hit even faster.

Which means any good information Phil might’ve squeezed out gets steamrolled by Harrington’s slow-motion nosedive into delirious nonsense.

The kid’s answers grow less filtered and more disjointed, stopping part way through one sentence to start another. Phil makes the mistake of asking about the lab again right as Steve drops the word mindflayer, and suddenly Munson is firing off questions like it's a pop quiz on some weird board game.

Wings his hands in the air and drops back down in his chair as he mentally writes off getting anything when it dissolves into an argument over what a ‘demogorgon’ looks like. And sure, maybe he shouldn’t have expected too much, but then, he’s running on zero sleep himself here.

He turns on the TV with a frustrated sigh and flips it to the news station, keeping the volume down as low as it’ll go.

Half-heartedly tunes in just enough to catch Stacy Whitherspoon droning about the weather, while listening for anything that might signal their impending doom.

“--I’m telling you man, I don’t care what the kids say, it doesn’t have claws--”

“Were you fucking there? No you weren't, cause you woulda seen the claws coming through the wall--”

Eddie keeps throwing side-glances towards Callahan, like he’s checking to see if Phil’s clocking all this, and Phil mostly ignores it, because it’s more fun to watch Munson think Steve’s serious about actually seeing a monster.

(Considers it payback for all the lawn flamingos that the brat’s stuck cowboy hats and sheriff badges on, and then splashed dramatically with red paint.)

Of course Steve can’t just stick to the monster shit, and apparently, takes a jump into ‘whoops I may have given him too many pills’ land when he abruptly stops talking to just stare at Munson.

“Dude,” he says, with a thunderstruck expression, “did you know you have like, really pretty hair?”

“Thanks, your majesty.” Eddie snarks in return, but it's too soft to be a reprimand.

“Can I touch it? I wanna touch it.”

Yeah, the drugs have definitely kicked in.

“If you let Callahan put the ice pack back on your face you can. You keep taking it off.”

“Nooooo.” Steve whines pitifully, “It’s cold!”

“Jesus Harrington, you really hit your head.” Eddie chuckles, now looking outright panicked as he coughs and looks pointedly at Phil, doe eyes seemingly sending out both ‘Are you hearing all this?’ and ‘Hello!? SOS!’

“I gave him some Percodan.” Phil finally admits. “He’s fine, he’s likely just a little loopy from it.”

He does not mention the pills are his own, left over from a minor surgery and not something all cops just happen to have on hand.

He also does not comment on the fact that Munson looks instantly relieved, like he knows what a Percodan is.

“I’m only loopy because Hargove cheated.” Steve grumbles in complaint, one foot in the conversation and the other off in space. “He hit my head. With a plate. Which is cheating.”

“With a plate?” Munson and Phil both blurt out, nearly in unison.

“With a plate!” Steve repeats with a bitchy undertone. “He tried to attack Lucas!”

Another disbelieving scoff, much like the King Steve persona Phil’s grown familiar with.

“Lucas is like,” Steve pauses and looks down, counting on his fingers. Pauses again, then looks back up at them. “Maybe ten?”

It’s stupid to even ask, but Phil can’t help himself. Steve had never truly clarified anything in all his rambling, and the Hargrove part had mostly focused on Steve’s worry over the kids, and the fact that the guy apparently had some sort of hard-on for bullying Harrington.

“Is that where all your injuries are from? The fight with Hargrove?”

He kind of hopes Steve says yes, if only because that’s normal shitty behavior.

Phil can deal with normal shitty. He knows exactly what to do with normal shitty!

(Government agents in hazmat suits taking over the hospital is crazy shitty and he has zero idea how to even approach that mess.)

Steve raises a hand, wobbily tilts it side to side in a ‘sort of’ motion.

“I mean half was Billy, half was the demo, the dem, the dogs.” He struggles, before making a comically upset face. “An’ the tunnel. Fuck those tunnels, man.”

Then corrects himself by saying, “Language, asshole.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, and Phil can tell he’s struggling not to laugh. “You’re the one that said it.”

“Oh.” Steve’s face untwists, taking back on the overall confused air. “I shouldn’t do that. Hey,”

He tries to sit up, lean forward. “Did you know you have really pretty hair?”

This would all be way more entertaining if Phil didn’t still need actual answers out of Harrington.

Lesson learned: next time Harrington needs meds, he’s getting a pill. As in one, as in singular.

“You should let me--like,” Steve trails off for a moment, apparently fighting the drugs and his messed up head both. “Like..style? That’s not the right word…”

“You can play with it later. You have melted ice on your face.”

Steve is horrified instantly. “I have mice on my face!?”

“No.” Eddie's struggling not to grin, and it's so easy to tell it's a real one when Phil has seen every shade of fake on that brat’s face. “Here, let me get it.”

He bats Steve’s hands away when the other attempts to ineffectively wipe at his cheeks, pulling out one of the black hanky’s he’s been sporting since about fifth grade to help and Phil freezes, because this one is different.

This one he recognizes, because it’s from a specific bar in Indiana.

“Just remember when this is over that you're mad at Callahan, not me.”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“King Jockstrap, accepting help from the Freak? You tell me why that'd go badly.”

A specific, special bar. One he himself visited a couple times, first on a dare and next out of curiosity, before he met Tracy and got engaged/married/divorced.

It’s the kind of place with blacked out windows and multiple exits. Where he had made damn sure no one in there knew he was even associated with the police, let alone training to become a cop.

Steve sounds downright hurt. “I gave all that stuff up. I gave everything up.”

“What, being King Jockstrap?”

“Bring King of anything.”

Phil felt that intuition of his kick in again. The one that said things like a Darcelle XV’s handkerchief weren’t exactly something a teenager just casually found.

Definitely not in a town like Hawkins.

(Absolutely not a kid like Munson.)

“I can’t do it and help the kids. Jonathan and Nancy are both--” Steve cuts himself off. Starts again. “They keep telling me it's just me and. I don't want them to feel like they're…”

“Alone?” Eddie finishes for him, voice soft.

Steve hums.

“Yeah.”

Phil only went a handful of times and he doesn’t recall what all the colors for the hankey’s meant, but staring at it, he’s hit with the same feeling he gets when he helps Flo complete a puzzle, or when he has one of those moments where he helps someone, instead of making their day worse.

It doesn’t take much to change an entire worldview, but processing it?

All the interactions Phil’s ever had with Munson, the complaints, the rumors?

It’s like watching an explosion in real time, everything falling into place so fast it almost hurts.

“Hey. If you're uh, if you're actually not mad at me, after this? I wouldn't mind continuing to make sure you're not alone.”

“What's that mean?”

What that means is Eddie Munson is going down in flames in real time, directly in front of the straightest kid Phil's ever met.

Well. Okay. He's seen the hairspray, maybe not straightest ever, but…

Phil takes one long breath as the situation recontextualizes itself, then follows his gut and barrels over whatever clearly ill-advised, teen-crush filled nonsense Munson looks ready to blurt out.

“I went to Darcelle’s a couple times, when I was in my early twenties.”

Phil has to talk to the ceiling, because he really doesn’t want to see Munson’s face right now.

Harrington’s either, but Harrington likely won’t remember shit later.

“I wouldn’t be let in if I went back now, not unless I pretended I wasn’t an officer, but.” He swallows. Tries to think on how much he wants Munson to know, and what actually would be a reassurance, here.

Realizes, in that weird, back of the head sort of way, that offering reassurance is what he’s trying to do.

“It’s a cool place.” He finishes awkwardly.

Dead silence meets his words and after a moment Phil pulls his gaze back to Harrington.

Who is half leaning into Munson’s hands like a cat, completely unaware of the conversation happening around him, while Eddie stares frozen at Phil in a sort of mute horror.

Silence stretches uncomfortably between them, long enough that Phil’s gearing up to say something really stupid to get himself out of this, when Eddie whispers;

“Would you go back?”

And shit, he hadn’t known Munson knew what a whisper was, let alone how to get his own voice to do it.

Phil thinks honestly on the question though. He started this, he’s the adult here and he knows damn well he’s being asked something else.

“Yeah.” He says, and can’t even tell if he’s lying or telling the truth. Figures it doesn’t matter, so long as Munson understands what Phil’s actually saying back. “Yeah I think I might. After the uh, divorce finalizes.”

Eddie carefully extracts his hands and hanky both from Steve, fiddling with it in his hands.

“I really want to go there again.” It’s spoken like a secret spilled, a careful thing Munson’s still unsure that he wants out there, attached back to him.

Phil nods. Feels a weird lick of fondness he probably shouldn’t have for him, given the way the brat seems to enjoy being Hawkins PD’s self-assigned pain in the ass, but, well.

He already opened his door for Steve.

What’s another wayward kid?

Except this one he recalls, isn’t as wayward as he seems, or at least, not anymore, and he feels a little guilty as he remembers that Wayne Munson both exists and might be worried about where his nephew is.

“You’re a good kid, Eddie.” He says, and watches as that seems to hit the teen harder than not-quite admitting Phil’s been to a gay bar. “Phone’s in the kitchen. Go call your Uncle, he should be home by now. Let him know where you are.”

“Yeah, okay.” Eddie says, and then actually goes to do so, like a proper citizen who listens to adults and authority figures instead of a semi feral rugrat.

Which just leaves Phil with Steve, who’s slumped sort of sideways on the couch.

“Hey Callahan?” The kid says quietly, drawing Phil’s attention to him.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

The knee jerk response Phil has is to ask What for, but drops the idea the second he realizes the kid’s eyes are drifting shut.

Internally curses himself for apparently deciding to half-adopt teenager asshole’s while he himself is barely in his 30s, but fuck it.

“Anytime, Harrington. Anytime.”

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decayfreely · 12 days ago

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“Alienate.” Flo mutters, the first thing Phil Callahan hears when he enters the station. “No, that's eight letters. Darn.”

“How’s the crossword, Miss Flo?” He asks, as he always asks, every morning.

It’s part of a little routine he’s established with their doting receptionist, partly out of boredom, mostly because she sometimes asks him for help.

If there’s one thing Phil enjoys doing, it’s helping.

(It’s why he became a cop, after all.)

“Hi, hun. I’m stuck.” Flo responds, staring down at the New York Times spread out before her.

It’s a quiet Friday morning and a quick glance at the open and dark-empty office of the Chief says the man’s not in yet, and so Callahan rounds the big wooden desk to stare at the puzzle over Flo’s shoulder.

“Which one?” He asks, seeing most of it’s already been filled out.

Flo jabs a finger at the offending clue, her nails painted a light pastel blue. “Pushed away through inattention.” She reads dutifully, then traces her finger to the blank section of the crossword, tapping at it. “Nine letter word.”

Phil cocks his head, thinks it through.

“It wasn’t alienate.” Flo says, non-helpfully.

“Ignored?” Phil tries.

“That’s seven letters.”

They both stare down at the puzzle, the black and white squares taunting them.

“Neglected.” Phil says suddenly, triumphant. “It has to be neglected--the word has to end with a D to make sense in the puzzle. See?”

One of two words that crosses over with their missing piece is ‘abandoned’, which fits nicely with the apparently gloomy theme of today’s crossword.

“Doesn’t work with the other word that goes through it though.” Flo points out, defeating the proud little glow that had been building in Phil’s head.

The other bisecting word is ‘isolated’, making him wonder if the puzzlemaker is in the middle of a rough divorce.

(Or maybe just a rough day, and he’s the one projecting…)

“Well, hell.” Phil grumbles, staring down at it.

“Try estranged!” Powell calls as he passes by with a mug full of coffee.

Flo carefully pencils in ‘estranged’ and makes a pleased noise when it fits.

“Thank you, hun!” She calls, and Phil huffs at himself for not seeing it, but also refuses to let Powell’s one upping ruin his day.

The man himself offers their receptionist a smile, before tossing a casual reprimand Phil’s way.

“Callahan, get to work, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah, smartypants.” He says, going to fetch his own cup of coffee. “Save the bitching for the Chief.”

Powell rolls his eyes at him, and Callahan makes a face back, and the two of them go on to have a very boring, small town cop sort of day--right until a legitimate call finally comes in.

Well.

Sort of.

“The Harrington residence is having a too-loud party again.” Hopper says, having finally shown up sometime between nine and noon. “Drunk teenagers are throwing up in people’s lawns.”

“It’s not even dark yet.” Powell mutters, staring at the clock as if he couldn’t imagine a party taking place before 8 pm.

“Teenagers don’t care about that shit, that’s why they’re getting the cops called on them.” Hopper snips back. He’d been in a mood all day, and not the fun, jolly kind.

“Come on Callahan, let’s go remind Harrington Jr. that it’s his daddy that owns this department, not him.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” Phil says as he follows Hopper out the door, waving goodbye to Flo as he goes. “People are going to think you’re serious.”

(Sometimes, Phil thinks as he swings into the patrol truck, that Hopper is serious.

That they are being paid to look the other way.

Then he takes a sip of their god-awful coffee and hears Hopper’s ancient truck cough to life, and figures, if anyone was getting cash here, there would at least be evidence of it.)

xXx

Harrington Jr.’s party isn’t quite the chaotic disaster it was made out to be, though there are a handful of tipsy teenagers stumbling around the lawn.

“One of these idiots is going to drown in that damn pool someday.” Hopper complains through gritted teeth as he storms up the driveway, kids scrambling into action the second they spot him.

One loudly screams; “Cops!” and the rest of them scatter, running in so many directions it makes Phil’s head spin. He briefly moves as if to give chase before deciding there’s simply too many to bother.

(Knows that it’s unlikely they’ll arrest anyone but Harrington tonight, anyway.)

“If the right kid bites it, Dick Harrington might even have to come deal with it personally.” Over his shoulder Hopper tosses Phil a shark’s smile, barging up the porch to bang hard on one of the two front doors. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

“No, not really.” Phil says, because he’s thinking about dead teenagers in pools.

“Also I don’t think Richard likes to be called Dick.” He adds cautiously, just in case the man himself happens to be home.

It’s unlikely, doubly so given all the drunk minors, but that just means Phil isn’t surprised when it’s not the Vice President of Indiana Corporate Consulting, LLC that opens the door but his son, Steve.

“Officers.” The kid drawls, shirtless in swim trunks, not a single strand of his perfectly styled hair out of place. “What can I do for you?”

He leans casually in the doorway, as another kid screams out a warning inside.

“You can cut the shit.” Hopper says. “You know the drill. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Harrington does neither of those things, instead tilting his head and making a face like he just smelled something foul.

“I’m not drunk. And anyone who is drunk brought it without telling me. You should go arrest them.” Steve jams a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the rapidly emptying house.

Then he smirks at both of them, every inch the newly crowned King the kids insist on calling him.

“You think your old man is gonna believe that?” Hopper snarls, infuriated. He never was one that dealt well with teenagers. Or at least, these kinds (and that damn Munson kid, who just loved stealing everybodies lawn flamingos.)

“I think you’ll find ‘my old man’,” Steve mockinly mimics, “doesn’t care.”

“He will when the neighbors start calling.” Hopper tosses back as Phil pushes past Harrrington Jr. to begin the process of trying to wrangle drunk teenages. “That’s Janet Wilkinson’s prized hydrangeas Hagan’s been throwing up in. You wanna see what happens when she talks to your mother?”

“She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.” Steves snarks, instead of pulling out his usual charm. “Why do you think she called you instead?”

This isn’t Phil’s first call to the house, but it is the first time Harrington Jr. has been this combative. It’s new, but not exactly unexpected.

Not when Steve Harrington has been hurtling towards this ever since he started hosting parties.

“You think your parents won’t care when I call them?”

“Well they haven’t before, so--”

Phil rolls his eyes as the kid and Hopper trade more barbs, the adult’s growing sharper and sharper as Steve makes a couple of arguments about being held accountable for other people’s actions (and something else about unreasonably high standards and making his own bail.)

Let's them argue it out as he quickly realizes he will definitely not be catching teenagers, and pivots to scanning for too-drunk stragglers in need of help.

“Keep running your mouth, Harrington, and I’ll let you cool your heels overnight in a jail cell. That what you want?”

“You already did that, remember? Swore you’d never do it again because I was too annoying.”

“You can’t annoy me if I’m not the one there watching you--”

Phil tunes out the rising voices, his attention snagging on something else.

The Harringtons’ entryway was sparse, and the rooms beyond weren’t much better. The whole house had the sterile feel of a museum; untouched and unlived in.

Not even a swarm of teenagers had managed to leave much of a mark. Or at least, not in these few rooms, anyway.

Which is what makes the scraggly note stand out.

It’s taped to the wall right above the phone, but slightly askew, like it’d been thought of last-minute. A little crumpled, like someone half-heartedly tried to peel it off before giving up and pressing it back down.

‘Who puts a phone in the entryway?’ Phil wonders, but then, it is the Harrington’s.

Maybe they need it to find each other in this huge fucking house.

He leans in to read the note, spotting the bold letters at the bottom informing everyone the entire notepad had been custom ordered for RICHARD HARRINGTON, VP.

‘Darling,’ beautiful cursive starts, at odds with the footnote, ‘Sorry that we couldn’t get a hold of you. Your father had a business opportunity, you know how important those are. I’ll send you a postcard. Take care of the house, remember that Martha is coming on Wednesdays now to get the dry cleaning. Do something fun for your birthday!’

It’s signed XOXO, Muffin.

Muffin is, of course, Richard Harrington’s wife, and also a walking punchline. Or at least she is when people aren’t tripping over themselves to stay on her good side.

Weird that she signed it as such instead of with ‘Mom’, but then Muffin always has been a bit…much.

More importantly (besides the fact that they skipped out on their own kids birthday) is the date at the top, which says the note was left Tuesday, March 17th.

It’s currently the middle of May.

Flo’s crossword springs to mind, each guessed word clicking into place beside Steve’s own, still warm, spoken just moments ago.

Abandoned, and ‘She has to get a hold of my mother to talk to her.’

Ignored and ‘I think you’ll find my old man doesn’t care.’

A cold realization sweeps through Phil, as he recalls the things they’ve all heard other kids say about Steve.

No parents.

Big house.

Always down for a good time.

(‘Neglect is the failure to give somebody proper care or attention.’ Powell had argued on their lunch break, as Phil complained that ‘neglected’ fit the stupid crossword better than ‘estranged’ had.

“Estranged works because it’s when you’re not really talking to someone. Hence the pushing away part. They’re different. Similar! But different.”

“That’s dumb.” Phil argued back.

“You’re dumb.” Powell replied, then laughed when Phil gasped in mock offense. “It’s why you’re getting taken to the cleaners in your divorce!”

“Hey man, come on, too far!”

“Sorry, sorry--” )

All cop’s develop intuition, even the small town ones, and Phil’s kicks in as he stares at the note.

Neglected might be a hard sell for a fifteen year old that drives a BMW, but estranged definitely fits the bill.

(He’s pretty sure neglect does fit the fucking bill no matter how much money the kids parents have, but he’s been on the force long enough to know how these things go.)

He turns on his heel and marches over, sticking himself right in between his boss and the only remaining teenager.

“Where are your parents at, again?” He asks, right over whatever point Hopper was butchering.

“What?” Steve and Hopper both say, before giving the other a look for it.

“Do you know where your parents are at?” Phil asks again, switching up the wording a little just like they’d taught him in the academy.

“Uh…No?” Steve says, seeming too startled to lie. “You’d have to call dad’s receptionist.”

“Okay. And when are they coming back?”

This time Steve tosses a look at Hopper, like Phil’s the one being weird here.

“When they get back.” He says, and it’s like he’s trying to still sound tough, to put forth that King persona, but is fumbling a little now that it’s not Hopper who's asking the questions.

“So you have no idea, at all.” He clarifies, and feels his stomach sink a little.

“I mean, I could also call dad’s receptionist.” Steve says, like that makes it better.

“Whose in charge of you while they’re gone?” And yes he knows it’s a stupid question, knows that Steve is fifteen (he thinks, anyway) and is perfectly old enough

“...I am.” Steve says, right over Hopper’s annoyed; “What the hell, Callahan.”

“Chief, can I talk to you?” He says, turning to face his boss.

Hopper stares back at him in disbelief, before making a show of summoning the last of his patience with a loud sigh.

“You.” He points at Steve. “Sit. Stay.”

“Want me to shake too?” Harrington Jr calls out in an attempt to recover, but Phil’s got a hand on Hopper’s elbow and is dragging the older man away before he can get sucked back in.

“You better have found something good Callahan.” Hopper warns, as Phil snatches the note on the wall as they pass by.

“Hopper,” Phil says quietly, leaning in as he pulls Hopper all the way into the kitchen, kicking empty solo cups as he goes. “I don’t think his parents have been home in a while.”

He shoves the note in the Chief’s face.

“No shit, kid.” Hopper spits, and the nickname sits badly, now that Phil’s heard it spat at Steve the same way.

(Hopper doesn’t mean it, Phil knows he doesn’t.

Hopper’s the best boss Phil’s ever had. The guy’s just a little rough sometimes, gets lost in the little things and needs to be brought back down.

‘He’s got a lot going on, hun, but we’ll get him there.’ Flo says when he’s been really mean, and Phil knows they will, he’s seen it himself, but sometimes he wishes whatever the Chief was healing from would let him go a little faster.)

He grabs the note, eyes scanning over it, and Phil talks a little faster.

“No, I mean, look at the date, Chief. They’ve been gone for months.”

Hopper looks up from the note and gives him the world’s flattest state. “So?”

Phil gapes a little at him. “Isn’t that abandonment?”

In response, Hopper simply steps more into the kitchen, then throws open a door next to the stove. Reveals a huge, walk-in pantry, piled high with all kinds of food.

Stands next to it like it’s a party trick he just unveiled.

“Given the lights are on and that fancy little car of his seems to have gas, I’d say they’re providing for the kid just fine.” He says crossly.

Which isn’t wrong exactly, but it’s not right either.

“Yeah,” Phil protests, “but--”

“Trust me, things could be a lot worse.” Hopper cuts him off. “Save all the pity for someone who actually needs it, and not a kid whose parents’ lawyers will cut both our balls off for even suggesting they don’t care about their kid.”

“Harsh, Chief.” Phil mutters, stung. There’s a small, growing voice in his head that says Steve Harrington does kind of need someone.

That a kid, even one as old as Steve is, shouldn’t be left like this.

“Life’s harsh. Now unless you’re volunteering to watch the kid all night in a cell, I say we call the brat’s parents and this time, we’re gonna hit them with a citation when they get home. See if they ignore that.”

“Please do!” Steve calls loudly, from where he’s still seated on the couch. “It’ll be funny, trust me.”

Hopper goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, before glancing sideways at the island counter covered in solo cups and bottles.

Changes course to pluck an unopened whiskey bottle from the pile, tucking it under his arm.

Storms back out to whatever the Harrington’s call the room Steve’s in, pausing only to stop in front of him.

“Hey.” Steve says, spotting the bottle.

Hopper holds it out. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this yours?”

Steve’s mouth opens, before he catches Callahan’s shaking head. Thinks better of it, and slams it back closed.

Grumbles; “No, sir.”

“Oh it’s sir now, is it?” Hopper says with a snort. “Since you’re so good at eavesdropping, you already know what I’m going to do. Congratulations Harrington, you get out of jail tonight, but,”

He leans forward, putting himself almost nose to nose with the surely teenager, “I will be making sure that this time, your parents pay attention.”

Quick as a shot he’s up and out the door, slamming it close behind him like he forgot Phil was there.

“Good luck!” Steve shouts after him, but it’s clear even he thinks the Chief won their little sparring match.

“Have your parents really been gone since March?” Phil says when the coast is clear, and watches Steve blink at him like he hadn’t realized the younger officer was still there.

“Yeah.” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Every kid’s dream.”

It’s not. Even Phil can tell from the way Steve’s face looks just then, that he knows it’s not.

He doesn’t know what exactly posses him, but the next words out of his mouth are; “You ever get too lonely here, you can stay with me.”

“What?” Steve says, eyes snapping right to Phil’s face like he misheard him.

He’s embarrassed for two entire seconds before deciding, fuck it.

He already offered, he’s not taking it back.

“It’s a big house, kid. You shouldn’t be alone for that long.” Phil thinks about his impending divorce. On the emptiness of the house, with his soon to be ex wife long gone. How that eats at him, sometimes. Adds; “No one should be.”

Harrington Jr. stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Whatever.” He scoffs, but it’s not quite the waspish tone he’d used before.

“You ever need help either, you call me.” Phil says, because that seems important to say too.

He points up at one of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, impossibly high over both their heads. “Even if it’s just to hold a ladder to change one of those lightbulbs.”

Steve’s eyes go up with him then back down, like he’s still not sure this isn’t a joke being played on him.

“I mean it.” Phil says, right as one of the front doors whips back open. Reaches into the pocket of his uniform, and pulls out his card. “You need me, you call.”

“Callahan!” Hopper bellows, and Phil calls out a loud; “Coming!” before making eye contact with Steve once more.

“Take it.” He says, holding out the card, and hopes he sounds like a proper adult when he does.

(Phil often does not feel like an adult, least of which because he’s the youngest in the department by two decades, nevermind the failed marriage.)

“Okay.” Steve says dismissively, but he reaches out.

Takes the card.

It feels like a victory and Phil lets it be one as he leaves the Harrington residence and Steve behind with it. Feels the rot of that be soothed by the fact he at least did something.

(Also see’s Hopper didn’t wait for him, but is instead sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck.

Knows his boss is gonna be pissed at him, but faces the noose anyway.)

“Puppies are expensive.” The Chief tells him darkly, the second Phil opens the door. “And they shit all over the floor.”

“What?” He asks, not always used to his bosses nonsensical ramblings.

He eyes the thermos the Chief’s holding, and wonders if already dumped the whiskey he stole in it.

They all thought the Chief had been getting better, but maybe not…

“Puppies,” Hopper stressed, jamming the hand holding the thermos in Phil’s face (no liquor smell, thank God.) “who have very rich owners, are typically well cared for, even if their idea of care and your idea are different.”

Phil’s face contorts in confusion, eyes following Hopper’s finger pointed middle finger to the fading tail lights of Steve’s BMW.

It takes him a second, but he gets there.

“Steve isn’t a puppy.” He says instantly offended, because teenagers and puppies are very, very different, thanks, and yes okay, he knows it’s a metaphor, but it’s a stupid one.

“Acts like one.” Hopper says, before taking a noisy sip of the thermos.

“He really doesn’t?”

Phil wants to say he complains right back at his boss, but really it comes out as more of a question--because Steve Harrington has never acted like a dog. The kid’s not clingy, or whiny or even loud.

He’s a kid, sure, a teenager that’s obnoxious, but aren’t all teenagers that way, by default?

Phil’s mother certainly said so, though she’d been teasing about it.

(She also said something about how kids who can’t get what they need the right way, will revert to trying out the wrong ways instead.)

“Whatever. Just don’t come running to me when you get too close and Mommy and Daddy show up to remind you it’s none of your business.”

Hopper starts the cruiser, expecting that to be that.

And normally it would be. Phil would leave it alone, even if he disagreed, but today he finds he can’t.

Not when the words from Flo’s crossword are still haunting his head, ‘abandoned’ and ‘neglected’ and ‘pushed away’ lighting up like little warning signs, all pointing towards one very sad kid.

“If they come back.” He finds himself saying.

“Oh, they always come back.” Hopper snorts right back. “Just not when any of us ever want them too.”

Phil doesn’t like that answer, but this time he does leave it alone.

Figures the best he can do for Steve is what he already did. Let him know he saw him. Let him know he understood.

If Steve needs someone, he now knows Phil will come.

He won’t let anyone make him feel bad for offering that, either, because this is the exact thing he signed up to do, when he became a cop.

Even if Harrington never reaches out to him, at least Phil can say he did something. At least he can live with himself.

xXx

Weeks go by.

A month.

Two months and more.

By a year Phil has kind of forgotten about his promise to Steve Harrington, and by the time the Chief has gotten them all involved in some kind of--poisoned pumpkin patch problem, he’s too caught up in trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Hawkins to really think about it.

That is, until the kid himself shows up on his doorstep, with a black eye and a hand hugging his ribs.

Which would be concerning on its own, but it’s worse given that known lawn flamingo thief and constant pain in the police department’s ass, Eddie Munson, is right there with him.

“Hi Officer Callahan.” Munson says, and he, Phil quickly realizes, looks perfectly fine, despite clearly being the only reason Steve seven on his feet. “Uh…Harrington said I should take him here?”

He does not sound certain, and frankly, looks two seconds from bolting.

Given how much Steve is bleeding on him, Phil can’t blame him for it.

“What the hell.” He says, shocked and loose tongued for it. “Did you two get in a fight!?”

“No!” Munson yelps, then immediately stills when the act of it jostles Steve. “I found him like this. He was fucking trying to drive and was weaving all over the place--I got him to stop, and get in my van, but the only thing he’ll say is that I needed to bring him to you!”

Like it wasn’t bad enough the chief had been out of contact all night or that there had been weird people swarming all over town, nevermind all those damn phone calls about loose dogs and--

“You said.” Steve interrupts Phil’s spiraling thoughts, voice sounding oddly strangled, and he'd pay more attention to that if he wasn’t finding new and concerning injuries every second he looked.

“You said I could go to you, for help. If I needed it. Cause Hopper--Hopper’s busy,” Steve’s slurring, Phil realizes and oh god a lot of that blood is on his head, “An’ I didn’t want the kids to worry, but I think…i was wrong, I don’t--I think I’m…I don’t wanna be ‘lone--”

“Okay, okay.” Phil reaches out, tries to take Steve’s weight off of Munson. “Get in here. You too, Munson.”

Expects the latter to protest and is a little surprised to watch as the kid instead helps Steve hobble inside.

“Put him on the couch while I get my first aid kit.” Phil orders, trying not to panic and failing. He has first aid training--more than, actually, because he took it as an elective back when he thought he was going to go to medical school, but that was years ago and Steve looks like he went head first through a blender.

‘Stabilize him now, panic later.’ He orders himself, as Munson settles both of them down on the couch.

“Am I dying?” Steve asks vaguely, to Munson’s increasingly panicked face.

“Nope.” Phil says, voice as firm as he can make it. “Not today.”

He comes over, looking over Steve once again

“You staying Munson?” He asks, more an out for the kid than anything else.

Watches as the older teen clocks that for what it is.

See’s Steve unintentionally lean into his chest, breathing a little weird.

“No man, you’re going to need an extra hand.” Eddie says. “I’m staying right here.”

“Me too.” Steve slurs nonsensically.

“What the hell, me too.” Phil says, just to lighten the mood a little.

Then he drops to his knees and goes about stabilizing Steve.

(At some point Munson decides to help tell his latest flamingo heist story. Phil let him, even if no one had realized he’d pulled off another one again.

He got Steve to laugh, so Phil figures it was worth it, at least. )

Part Two

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