𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐘, 𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌. He'd awoken somewhere between Lovers' Lake and the police station, his cheek pressed against the cool glass of the backseat window, complimented with a thin stream of drool coming from the edge of his mouth, grunting as he'd tried to sit up only to realize his hands were cuffed painfully behind his back. Ironically, someone had fastened his seatbelt while he was unconscious — as if their biggest concern was driving safety.

After one of the deputies — not Chief Hopper, he'd noticed — had left him in the office, Scout presumed he was to make himself at home; despite the lack of clocks or watches anywhere in the room, he guessed he'd been sitting there for at least an hour, judging by the painful seizing of his ankle, which he'd hooked around the chair leg the minute he'd sat down. Bit of a habit, but then again, wasn't everything?

Part of him wondered if they were doing the same thing to Steve — plopping them alone in an empty room, leaving them to wait in silence for God knew how long — but it was with a bitter scoff, more to himself than anything, that Scout reminded himself that the brunette hadn't thought of him when he made the stupid decision to try and run away when the police had opened the duffel bag; why should he now?

The door, the blond noticed, wasn't locked, nor was the window. It would have made for an easy escape, but there was the question of where would he go? He certainly couldn't go to Letitia — she'd even told them to do the right thing and contact the authorities, but it was too late; the authorities had contacted them — and it wasn't like he could have gone home. Chief Hopper knew his father — but to what extent, he didn't know — and to ask Clark for help in such a situation... No. That would only be borrowing trouble, and Scout was neck-deep enough as it was.

After a while, an old woman with spectacles bigger than her brooch had come in, and without uttering a word, placed a tall glass of water on the desk before leaving as quickly as she'd come. Scout wondered what the point of that was, it wasn't like he could grasp the glass anyway, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless; his head still throbbed from hitting the hood of the car and who knew how hard he'd hit the ground when he passed out, too. If he was a cartoon character, no doubt there would be a freakish lump rising from the top of his head by now.

With jarring dismay, Scout realized his fanny pack was no longer slung by his side, leaving his already anxious and distressed self worse off than before. The rational portion of his mind said it was highly unlikely a bee would find him in the Chief's office, window sealed and all, but worse than that was that it stored his inhaler as well. It'd been awhile since he'd had a severely debilitating attack, but you never knew — maybe the time came when you were alone, arrested and doomed to wait for an eternity inside a police station for a crime you didn't commit.

Come to think of it, what exactly had they been arrested for? Either the deputies had read him his rights when he was unconscious or he was a lot more unobservant than he thought. He could see the headline now: Teenage Boys Caught With $100,000. If he hadn't been so scared he would have thought it fun to come up with theories as to what the authorities thought they'd been doing.

Then again, if they really did steal that money — assuming that's what the police thought — why would they flaunt it by going to a Burger King of all places in the middle of the day? Surely rich people could afford to go to better places, even if there wasn't anything remotely styled for rich people in the area anyway — rich in Hawkins meant your house was bought, not rented, and that your wife didn't work and stayed home with the kids. People like Scout would have killed for money like that, and look where it'd gotten them.

"Made yourself at home?"

The Chief of Hawkins had finally made his appearance, much to Scout's surprise, jumping at the sound of the deep voice and the creaking of the door as he closed it as quickly as he'd opened it, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Everything about the man screamed business — which was ironic, because he had a reputation for doing just the opposite — from the dull glint of his badge pinned against the chest of his uniform from the sidearm on his hip, although he wore it differently than the other deputies; like it wasn't for show, but a precaution, as it should be.

"Do you know why you're here?" Chief Hopper spoke when Scout didn't, collapsing in the chair behind the desk with a groan, heavily resting his boots on top of the desk. The blond only responded with a meaningless shrug as he kept his eyes trained on his shoes, his eyes taking in the newly made scuff marks from his struggle in the parking lot.

"Jesus," Hopper sighed, massaging his forehead with an exhaustion only a man of his troubles could have. But rather than the interrogation Scout was sure he'd be getting, he only gets, "Listen. You're a good kid, Scout. Your dad's not gonna be happy to hear his son got himself arrested for — what? Where did you get all that money?"

Again, Scout offered no answer, only flinching and diverting his gaze back at the ground at the mention of his father, as if it will make the talk any easier. Although he knew being silent will surely come back to bite him in the ass, he didn't even know what he would say in explanation, even if Hopper believed him: A woman in Night Vale has my mom's ring, even though I haven't seen her in seventeen years. Steve Harrington's involved, too. Oh, and the mayor gave us hush money. Yeah, right.

The Chief's reaction to his lack thereof wasn't what he was expecting, however. He certainly wasn't expecting the man to let out another, heavier sigh before clomping around the desk to where Scout sat uncomfortably, his hands still cuffed behind his back, the metal digging painfully into his wrists, no doubt leaving a deep imprint; nor did he expect to hear the jangling of keys behind him as the Chief knelt down and worked on unlocking the handcuffs, breathing a sigh of relief when his wrists fell free of them. Wincing through his teeth, Scout untangled his arms from behind the chair and cradled them against his chest, holding them there, rubbing at the raw skin and feeling the burn.

"Are you ready to talk now?" Hopper asked, swinging the keys lazily around his pointer finger as he stomped back to his seat. Scout supposed he should thank him for releasing him from the cuffs, but the best he could manage was a curt nod in thanks. Hopper seemed to understand the message.

Distracted for a moment, Scout glanced through the tiny window carved into the door of the office. It was tiny, as if whoever made it hadn't planned on doing so but had gone through with it nevertheless, giving the room the impression of a bare monk's cell had it not been for the clutter that covered every available — and some non-available — surface. Of course, because he was sitting down, there was no way to tell if Steve was in the next room, being chewed out by whatever offhand deputy that wanted to take a stab at the job. Given his reputation, however, the blond knew it would not be the first time the Harrington lied to the cops, and he knew it would not be the last.

"Look, Scout, if Steve forced you to do something you didn't want to, you don't have to protect him. I know his type, regardless of what he's said about changin' 'cause you and I, we both know how easy it is for people to say they've changed then for them to turn around and do squat. Just be honest with me. Maybe we can work something out."

As much as he didn't want to, Scout found himself muttering, "Steve's a dick. But that doesn't mean he deserves to be punished for something he didn't do."

At first, Scout thought the Chief was going to throw something, what with his barely contained scowl and jerked nod as he rubbed his hand back and forth against the stubble on his chin. "I wasn't gonna do this, knowing you, but now I feel like I ain't got much of a choice; you won't say anything," Hopper said, and after a moment, leaning forward in his seat, his elbows perfectly balanced on his knees, "Here are your options: You can either tell me where the hell you got all that money — did you steal it, find it, how the hell you got it — or, I can call your dad and tell him to come pick you up after he gathers your bail. 'Cause from the looks of it, you're in some deep shit. Don't say I didn't warn you."

With that, Hopper stood to leave, grunting as he pushed himself to standing, pretending not to notice how Scout visibly paled at his words. Before he knew what he was doing, a frantic, "Wait!" slips through his lips, his hands instinctively reaching out in front of him as if he was either pleading for a second chance — which, in retrospect, he was — or protecting himself against a physical attack. For a second, the sensation of déjà vu washed over him, but when the second ticked over into the next, the feeling was gone.

He did not dwell on it.

Scout forced himself to raise his gaze and look at Hopper in the eye, clenching his jaw in an attempt to ease his nerves. "With all due respect — er, sir — but you wouldn't believe me."

If Hopper was caught off guard by his words, he didn't show it. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, his face no longer bearing the mask of an impassive listener, and returned to his seat, a clear indication that he's listening. But instead of going on, the two ended up staring at one another in chilling silence, the blond not knowing what to say — No. That was a lie. He did know what to say, he just didn't know how to say it. How to form the words that explained what might have only been his paranoia that led them into a town every adult in Hawkins had warned their kids against for as long as anyone could remember. At least with Steve, there hadn't been a need to explain himself; he was backed by the boy's identical demand for answers, an exigency neither knew nor could explain, but its mere existence had been enough — enough to fuel their trek to Night Vale, and enough to involve them with the mayor.

At the time, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with Mr. Macaulay. He didn't seem creepy or surly or crazed, or any of the other words he'd heard people describe him, under their breaths or through hushed whispers. Quite the opposite, really, charming and hospitable — and the latter was clearly demonstrated by the bills he'd given them, too. But thinking back now... Scout made the observation that something odd was up with the mayor, remembering his peculiar outfit and youthful assistant, in addition to things he couldn't properly remember even though their interaction was less than a day ago — hell, it had only been hours; prolonged, draining, and lengthy hours, but hours all the same. Either his brain was still fuzzy from passing out or he was truly starting to lose his mind.

It wasn't until Hopper gave an expectant, "Well?" that Scout was thrust back to reality, his senses adjusting to the fact that he was still here, in Hawkins, at the police station, sitting across from possibly the one person who could get him out of trouble. Another awkward beat passed, the silence leaving his lips and throat dry, before there wasn't anymore excuse to not to speak.

And so, Scout confessed. All of it. He told him about his mother's ring, how the woman found dead in Night Vale wore an identical copy, how Steve Harrington's father was involved somehow. He told him about how he and Steve — leaving out Letitia, of course — had gone to Night Vale to investigate, and had returned from their lovely chat with the mayor with a duffel bag of $100,00 and some not-so-subtle instructions to keep their mouths shut. The truth, now no longer the red herring it had been, clustered and tangled like the web of lies it had the potential to be, was now out, spoken out loud and waiting to be comprehended.

And this was where, for the first time, Hopper was surprised. Caught off guard. Scout's breath came out shakier than it had been before he'd spoken, and he followed the man's gaze over to where the duffel bag must have been placed before the deputies had brought him in the room, its cloth handle peeking out from where it was cleverly stashed inside a white filing cabinet — where they had even gotten room to put the thing inside, Scout didn't know, but the fact was irrelevant; the bag, along with the money, was in the room with them, and he knew he wasn't the only one tempted to open it.

Hopper finally spoke, his words penetrating a fog so thick it was as if he were hearing them from miles away, like they're the first thing he would hear if he were waking up from passing out. "Want to tell me why the hell you went to Night Vale, kid? I appreciate the speech you had going on, 'bout finding answers and all, but you gotta know that no one's supposed to go there. The people there... they're just not like us. They're not normal."

Scout didn't think he was in the best position to scoff, but that was exactly what he felt like doing. What was normal now, anyway? Not that Night Vale wasn't eerie enough on its own, but Hopper's statement would have felt a lot like a double standard he didn't want to go anywhere near. After everything that happened with Barbara Holland, with Will Byers... normal didn't seem like a word anyone could casually toss around anymore.

"Look, I know going to Night Vale...probably wasn't the smartest idea, right?" Scout began, "But I gotta get some answers, Chief — er, sir. My dad, he's always talking about how great my mom was, and how she loved that ring probably as much as she loved him, and now there's a dead lady in Night Vale who's got the same one? If there's an explanation to all of it..." he gestured wildly with his hands, waving them in any direction that it suits them as if it will finish his thoughts, his shoulders slumping. "I gotta find out. I'm sorry."

Hopper didn't say anything for too long of a pause, staring intently at the blond until the boy squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable from the intense gaze. Then, as he rubbed his chin with his hand, running it over the rest of his face tiredly, "Jesus, you're outta your reach, Scout."

Scout was almost afraid of confirming what he thought the man said. "You mean you believe me?"

"Wouldn't be the craziest shit I've heard, if you can believe that," Hopper groaned, sighing again before continuing. "Look. Like I said, I think you're a good kid. Your friend Steve, though, eh, not so much. But your dad's been in my good graces and I think I owe it to him not to arrest his kid for — well, whatever we could've charged you with, with that much money on you. Now, if you promise to drop this, drop everything about a ring and Night Vale, everything, then this little visit won't go on your record. But, you mess around in police business again, I won't be as generous, you understand?"

And although Scout had no intention of leaving the mystery be, he nodded, if only to do anything in his power to get the hell out of there, even if it meant lying to the Chief of Police.

Desperate times called for desperate measure.

Nodding in agreement, the Chief stood up, this time with the corner of his lip tugging upward apologetically. "You do realize I still have to call your dad, right?"

"Good luck," the blond muttered in a voice so quiet it was a wonder how Hopper had heard it all, biting his lip and slouching even further in his seat. If he'd been looking up, however, he would have noticed the man's expression soften ever so slightly, for despite his friendship with Clark Murphy, Jim Hopper was not oblivious to the man's flaws.

Hopper opened his mouth as if to say something, but to Scout's surprise, he instead told him, "You know, it's funny. Your buddy Steve was practically begging me not to call his parents."

And with that, the Chief wrench open the door and walked out, leaving Scout alone with his thoughts as if they hadn't just shared what easily was the weirdest conversation he'd ever had with an adult in his life. Sure, he'd left out some things, but that was for a reason. Hopper couldn't know, not yet, not when Scout didn't even know himself.

○ ○ ○

Mere hours after questioning Steve Harrington and Scout Murphy, Jim Hopper felt he had little choice but to visit where it had all started — Night Vale.

It might not have been the only choice, but it was clearly the obvious one. The mayor had already been on his radar after the murder of Dawn Pruitt, forty year old secretary with no familial connections whatsoever; it all seemed too easy. How she died, however, had not been by her own hand, but rather by someone else who had everything to lose and everything to gain.

Which led to his presence on Maxwell Macaulay's doorstep. However cold the night air, it was nothing compared to the chilling atmosphere of the town,despite having waited over an hour for most lights to shut off before squinting at the hastily scribbled address on his hand and making his way to the mayor's house — silently, so as not to wake a soul. He cringed at the sound of his knuckles rapping the front door, ignoring the thick brass knocker less than a foot from his face.

The front door was thrown open mere moments later, revealing Maxwell Macaulay in night attire, one hand clutching the doorframe while the other steadily balanced a teacup in its saucer, as if they were in nineteenth century England and he was a lord enjoying a late night snack — hell, for all he knew, maybe that was exactly what was going on; he wouldn't put anything past anyone in Night Vale.

"Sorry to bother you so late at night, Mr. Macaulay," Hopper began, but even he could tell it was half-assed, "But I was wondering if you'd be willing to answer a few more questions about Dawn Pruitt's death — for the sake of a hunch. You mind?"

Because they were the same height, it's impossible for either of them to pretend to be taller than they really are, for the sake of show, for dominance. Towering at six feet three inches, both men stood across from each other for several moments, evaluating every aspect of one another before Mr. Macaulay answered. "Of course. Anything you think will help."

Nothing escaped Chief Hopper, but he had to admit, if his hunch was on the right track, Maxwell Macaulay knew what he was doing, and it certainly showed in his home. Led through a living room that looked as if not a single soul ever used it to an exquisite dining area, Hopper was ushered a seat at the mahogany dining table while his host prepared him a cup of tea that he had no intention of drinking — and not because he didn't like tea — leaving him to take in his surroundings.

The walls were covered with brick wallpaper that would have been tacky if not for the attention gone into making it seem as if that's what the entire house was made of, complimented by the glimmering chandelier bigger than a man hovering above his head as if it were to drop any second, killing him instantly. Down the center of the table was a runner with gold and green designs woven into the fabric itself, polished silver cutlery heavy to the hand, Hopper noticed, weighing them in a closed fist, laying beside a tall empty wine glass on top a beautifully folded napkin to match the runner. At the end of the table were floor to ceiling French doors, left slightly ajar to let in the brisk autumn air, the white curtains billowing in the breeze.

"Do you always leave your table set?" Hopper asked casually when the man had finally arrived with his tea, just making out the mayor's face amongst the shadows and soft lighting.

Mr. Macaulay seemed to mill the question over in his mind before realizing the chief was referring to his actual dining room table, giving an embarrassed chuckle. "Oh, sometimes I find it's better to make sure everything's set for the morning. Between you and me, I'm not much of a morning person myself, so I like to have everything in top shape for when I'm half-asleep, like a zombie." The man laughed, as if he'd told some kind of amusing joke, and Hopper forced a close-lipped smile. "Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?"

Then, despite everything he had mentally instructed himself to do — ask a couple vague questions, see if anything slips; get in, get out — all that went out the door the minute Maxwell was seated across from him. Blue eyes crisp with confidence only equanimous men could possess when they knew they had done something wrong and gotten away with it, the corner of the mayor's lips tugging upwards when he suspected something odd and unprincipled in Hopper's manner.

Something within Hopper lunged; a sharp, impulsive feeling that made him want to grab the front of Maxwell's shirt collar and slam it into the perfectly polished table. No doubt it would break his nose and spill at least a liter of blood all over the flawless furniture, the floor. Good.

"I know what you did," Hopper said finally, his voice low and breathless. "You bribed those kids, and you killed Dawn Pruitt. Why?"

Watching his every move with hawk-like eyes, the mayor said nothing against these accusations, only raising an amused eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Chief Hopper."

"Cut the bullshit," Hopper said sharply; quietly and quickly. He repeated, "I know what you did, and I'm gonna prove it. This whole town stinks, and you're right in the middle of it."

Mr. Macaulay's eyes reflected moonlight, but the soft glow of the candle-lit chandelier did nothing to hide their sinister gaze. He brought the teacup to his lips and took a long swallow, setting the china down onto its saucer with a small chink! before giving a knowing, twisted smile. "Oh, my dear Jim, I think you'll find that knowing and proving are two entirely different things."

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 

You guys have no idea how long I've been waiting to use that gif up above, Cheyenne looks so ominous and casual in it while he's just standing there n sipping tea, I love it

Also I just saw somewhere that an unofficial projection for Stranger Things season 4 is August 2021 and I'm gonna be totally honest, I straight up died. On the upside it gives me time to finish at least this fic and my future Robin Buckley fic but it seems so far away. (Watch me not finish either of them, I swear to God if I don't — ) Nancy Wheeler is gonna have to wait a long time to get her girlfriend :(

Anyways, thanks for reading!