𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐏𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐔𝐏. His first view of him was the beat up pick up truck he'd had for long over a decade — hell, he would even bet good money it was older than him — as it screeched to a stop in the first available parking space; that is to say, as close as you could get to the door without bulldozing the building down.

Watching him get closer, the blond simply sat on the hard plastic chair he'd been offered by Hopper before he was told the man took up his heat and left without another word, leaving Scout to wait for the deputies to reach his father. It had been so long that he had watched Steve be escorted home by his own father, a suited man with a sour expression that looked like a bomb waiting to go off, his fist clenched as if he were holding himself back from dragging his son out by the ear. Despite how he felt about the Harrington, Scout couldn't help but feel a pang of pity as he watched him walk away.

It felt like hours had passed. And maybe they had, he didn't know; no clock existed amongst the cluttered, overcrowded police station, leaving Scout to tell the time by the sun's slow descant through a grim window just over his right shoulder. An officer, apt as they come, had been instructed not to keep his eyes off him, but for once, he was glad for the police stereotype, for the man had stared at him for a mere fifteen minutes before walking off, bored. Scout was free of any lingering prying eyes — save for the men that busted him in the first place.

Deputies Callahan and Powell had returned with questions as plentiful as freak accidents — or so they claimed — in Hawkins, Indiana, pestering until it became painfully clear Scout would not say a word. Many of them were accusations, but without any clear proof or word of law, only the chief's instructions, they were forced to leave it alone, soon becoming busy by the pressing demands of their job. From what it sounded like, Steve hadn't said a word, about the money, the lying, any of it, so it was thanks to Scout that they were being allowed to go home instead of shivering on the bed of a prison cell that night.

Only when his father neared him did Scout stop fidgeting. In fact, he stopped moving altogether, willing his leg to stop bouncing and his fingers to stop tapping; hell, he would force himself to stop breathing if he could, because at this point, he might as well have run a marathon with the rate of his breathing. With one last glance at the door before it was wrench open, the bell chiming mockingly, Scout pulled the brim of his baseball cap over his eyes as far as it would go before slouching even further in his seat, wishing more than ever he were anywhere but here.

But as much as he hoped, it obviously didn't happen. Instead, he listened to the dreaded clomping of thick work boots across the linoleum floor until they stopped mere inches from his own. Breathlessly, he waited for an indication, anything, a sign that they could go home, foolishly thinking they could put the day's events behind them.

Scout was the first one to break, lifting his head tentatively where it was tucked into his chest and lifting the brim of his cap until he could see properly again, twisting it around out of habit should it provide any semblance, no matter how small, of comfort. Unlike father and son, not a single person pays attention to their wordless interaction, except maybe Deputy Callahan, who looks as if he wanted to stop him from walking out, but deciding against it upon taking in the silent fury on Clark's face.

It takes only a jerk of his father's head to get Scout stumbling over his shoes to stand, following him right back out the door like a wounded puppy desperate to please its master. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his faded pink hoodie, his eyes hitting the floor as he walked, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

With the thought still fresh in his mind, the teenager hurried to tug open the car door, knowing what would happen if he dawdled, scrambling into the passenger seat while wishing there were more than just two seats so he wouldn't have to sit next to his father on the ride home. If the man were a cartoon, he wouldn't be surprised to see clouds of billowing smoke to come out of his ears, despite the silent performance he had going on. It hadn't hit him yet, but Scout was yet to realize that it was not an act, but instead what could only be described as keeping a raging temper in check...an instinct that might not have found itself had it not been for the matter at hand.

Scout knew better than to say anything as they drove home. In fact, the best possible thing he could do was scrunch up in his seat without a sound and do his best to help his father forget he was even there, resting his chin on his open pal while he stared out the window, taking in sights and scenes he'd seen hundreds times before from every possible angle — except this one. The route they were on, the one that led to and from the police station was one he'd never had occasion to take before; even when his father didn't appear at home for days on end, the blond knew better than to involve the authorities. It was always better to sit back and be patient, to wait for things to cool down on their own — to be wary of bringing attention to yourself, even if gut instinct said otherwise.

After all, it hadn't failed him yet.

By the time they got home, it was long past dark. Somewhere along the way, it had started to rain — not a drizzle kind of rain that did nothing but inconvenience, perhaps cause a groan of frustration as clothing gets wet, but a hapless kind that belongs in a cartoon after a character is struck with the worst expected news imaginable. The kind that makes adults shudder and hurry inside while lightning shook the fragile sky, droplets falling to Earth in quick succession as if their descent is more important than anything else in the world.

The sky overhead was overhung with a blanket of jet black, darker than the squid ink for which it was named from the layer of thick, angry clouds that covered the sky, so much so it was impossible to discern the difference between clouds and sky. Wishing his jean jacket had more than just a few holes — a hood, for one thing — Scout simply ducked his head and hurried over to the safety of the porch, waiting for his father to climb out and unlock the door. As always, his own keys were stashed safely in his fanny pack — something he hadn't gotten back from the police just yet, something about it being another piece of evidence, whatever that meant. As far as he knew, he hadn't been taken down as committing any sort of crime, no matter what anyone other than Hopper thought. He just hoped he would get it back soon.

After fitting the silver key into the keyhole, Clark opened the door more calmly than Scout was expecting, simply stepping inside and shaking his head like a dog before sitting down on a wooden stool as he tugged off his boots. He acted like nothing happened, only going through the motions, and another second was going to make Scout scream.

Watching his father, the blond lurked beside the door, now safely shut against the howling wind and rain, anxiously wringing a hand around his wrist. "I'm sorry," he blurted. His voice was strained by the day's events.

Clark didn't turn around, nor did he acknowledge him. For a moment, Scout considered the possibility that his father hadn't heard him, seeing as the commotion caused by the weather outside made it difficult to discern whether or not the inhuman sound he heard came from him or was simply a product of a wild animal outside scrambling to find shelter, for that was exactly what it sounded like.

Even then, however, the blond was ignored, the rubber band of tension snapping back to exactly where it had been before he spoke. But instead of reading the room, Scout made the mistake of strumming the rubber band again. "Dad, I-I said I'm sorry, okay, if you'll just hear my side of the story, then — "

Bang!

Something slammed on the other side of the room, Scout jumping back several inches as soon as it did, afraid to lift his head to confirm what he thought it was. When he finally did, his eyes settled on his father's fist on the kitchen counter, a tall glass of water teetering dangerously on the edge of the ceramic countertop. Part of him was tempted to point it out, but before he could, the blond caught sight of the look on Clark's face, and decided against it, his eyes flickering back and forth between the glass and his father for several seconds before going back to staring at his shoes, which were covered in mud and rain and blades of grass — in other words, an utter mess, just like him.

"Did I ask for your side of the story?" his father's voice, while dangerously quiet, packs more jarring severity into every word than if he had been yelling.

Scout dared to answer, not realizing he's forgotten to perfect the delivery until too late, his own voice nothing but a whisper. "No."

"There's your answer," Clark snapped, his eyes falling on the glass of water only a hair from falling off the counter, pushing it back to safety with a single finger. "Go to your room. Now. We'll talk about the shit you pulled in the morning."

"Dad, I — "

Wrong answer. "What did you say?"

Scout didn't want to repeat it, knowing it was a trap; there was no right answer for such a question, built on a foundation of skittering nerves and forced eye contact, a structure that would come crashing down the moment an ounce of pressure was placed upon it, like the straw that broke the camel's back. He said nothing, only digging his bitten nails into the palms of his hands at his sides, where, unbeknownst to him, their jagged edges would cause the most miniscule dots of blood to pop up like the flecks of color in Letitia's eyes.

Oh God, Letitia. He'd forgotten all about her, so caught up in his own shit to give her a second thought. A small voice in his head whispered that it was justified; after all, it wasn't her who had been found with thousands of dollars in cash, nor had it been her who had been arrested for possessing such money. Hell, she had told them to go straight to the police station in the first place, but they had done no such thing No, instead he would rather spend time with Steve Harrington, and look where that had gotten him. If things cooled down, he swore he would listen to Tisha for the rest of his life. It was clear her judgement was far better than his own.

His lips parted to provide himself with some defense, but nothing came out, only an exhalation of air that forced him to close his mouth before it was too late and he would need his inhaler again. He hadn't used the thing in quite some time, but things kept up the way they were, he had a feeling he would be spending some time digging around his room looking for a spare.

"You want to know why I'm not in the mood to talk about it this instant, Scout?" his father asked, and this time it is abundantly clear he expects no such answer. "It's because I had to leave work early after getting a phone call about you getting arrested for stealing a hundred thousand dollars, for Christ's sake. A hundred thousand dollars!" he laughed in disbelief, disdain, as if it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day. "Where the fuck did you get it, huh, Scout? You just, what, waltzed into the bank and held the teller at gunpoint 'till they gave you what you wanted, is that it — "

"No!" Scout shouted, stiffening at his dad's accusations; did he really think that of him? A thoughtless retort formed in the back of his throat, and before he knew it, he was spitting it out. "If you would just listen for once in your goddamn life, I'd actually tell you the truth! I'd tell you where we got the money if you'd just listen like you're supposed to!"

Clark didn't waste a second in striding the short distance between the kitchen counter and his son, his face inches from his own, so close he could smell his sour breath. "If you're not happy with the way I do things then you're more than welcome to leave," his father sneered, his eyes searching Scout's own fearful ones, "No? Then I suggest you shut your fucking mouth before you face some real consequences...understand, son?"

Conflicting emotions are at war on Scout's face, his hands trembling even after his father stepped back and glowered at him expectantly. Part of him was screaming to do anything but answer, to scream and shout and shove him back, to demand a chance to explain himself before having to face a punishment for something he hadn't even wanted to accept in the first place. But when his eyes flickered back to the icy glare of his father, the blond knew he had no other choice but to obey — standing his ground, he realized, would bring nothing but grief.

"Yes."

The man, either ignorant in his unawareness of Scout's fear or simply uncaring, was not finished with his son. "Yes? Yes, what? I know I raised you better than that."

Scout didn't want to say it, but thoughts of being able to escape to his room if he did prevailed against the small, rebellious spark; between gritted teeth, he managed, "Yes, sir."

Only then, as if satisfied by his son succumbing to his authority, Clark merely threw him one more look, filled with daggers sharp enough to pierce the thick skin of the anxious teenager, before striding the narrow hallway to his bedroom, shutting the door with a loud slam! That would have made the blond jump just as much if he had slammed it, leaving the boy alone, listening to the lightning shatter as if a godly sized glass had fallen from the heavens, spilling its watery contents all over Mother Earth.

As if in a trance, Scout made his way to his own room, stiffening as he passed the door on his right in the hallway lest it open again and really hand him consequences. Although the door creaked just a little, the tiny sound was enough to send the boy running the last few paces into the comforts of his small bedroom, slamming the door and breathing heavily once making sure he was now truly alone.

Despite the shared wall — and therefore the possibility of his father coming in — the close proximity between their two rooms evaporates once he's inside his own. Somehow, the organized chaos of his hastily made bed, the overflowing bookshelf, and the various posters on the walls made time stand still, as if everything would reshuffle itself into something good by the time he managed to step outside the door. The lightbulb shining from his overhead fan — now covered in a thin film of dust, seeing how cold it was outside these days -- hung stationary above his head. All it takes is one swift motion and a moment later, the light is off, replaced by the softer glow of his planetary bedside lamp. Then, like a hapless puppet with its strings cut, he crossed what felt like the cavernous distance between the door to his bed, too devoid of energy to change out of his dripping wet clothes before collapsing on his bed.

Running a hand through his hair — damp, strands of blond catching on one of several rings he wore on his fingers, cursing under his breath as he fought to untangle them, his hands poised above his head like a fool — Scout brought his hand to eye level, as if noticing the rainwater coating them for the first time. But instead of drying them, or even wiping it on the sheets, he kicked off his shoes and curled up on top of his covers, his wet cheek a sharp contrast against the soft, cool surface of his pillow. With nothing else to do but think about the day's events — something he desperately wanted to forget; or, better yet, pretend none of it ever happened — he did his best to focus on something else, anything else, but all that was left to accompany the pounding rain was his hushed, shaking breaths.

Then, as if a switch was flipped inside him, Scout finally felt the tears stream down his face; and the next thing he knew, he was choking and sniveling into his pillow like a child, until the tears and the rain lingering on his face blending to become one.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄

At this point I'm hoping to breeze through the chapters and finally FINALLY get to my Christmas subplot that really would have been perfect like, actually during Christmas so I'm mad. Not really but you get the point — I'll give you a hint: unrequited love but mayhaps not for long ;)

Thanks for reading!