"Shit!" El swore, wrenching her hand away from the pan. She lifted her burned thumb to her mouth and sucked on it. Hopper glanced across the room, suppressing a smile at the sight of her, covered in pancake batter. It was on her nose and in her hair, clumping in her eyebrows and staining her flannel. She struggled with the pan, still wincing.
"What did we talk about, El? Watch your language."
Living with Hopper meant she'd acquired a, well, colorful vocabulary. The first time Hopper caught her swearing, he nearly pissed himself he laughed so hard. He tried to explain, through his laughter, that swearing was "wrong" and "unladylike" and "just because I said those things doesn't make it okay". It wasn't the first time she'd heard those words. All those kids she used to hang out with, Wheeler and Sinclair and Henderson, they all had foul mouths, too.
Apart from the Don't Be Stupid Rules, Hopper tried to establish other rules, and boundaries. He reinforced stuff like don't talk with your mouth full and say "please" and "thank you" and eat your peas. That one was a particular favorite; El despised peas.
Hopper figured he'd add swearing to that list, as well.
"Shoot." She said, matching his glare.
Hopper nodded, satisfied, and helped her scoop the pancakes onto a plate. They were a little burned around the edges, and a little lopsided, but they'd do. Hopper smiled, spotting her attempt to make a Mickey Mouse shaped pancake.
"You did good, kid." He said, putting butter and syrup and whipped cream on the table. El sat down, grabbed the whipped cream, and piled it onto her pancake.
"Hey, hey, that's enough." He said, snatching the whipped cream from her hands. She glared at him, and grabbed her fork, stabbing the pancake.
"What're you going to do today?" He asked. He'd been asking her that question a lot, lately, mostly out of guilt. He resented leaving her more and more. He could tell the confinement was taking its toll on her. She was bored, all the time. Sometimes she never even left her room, never even got out of bed. She slept for long periods of time, during the day, and woke several times a night, screaming at things inside her head. She hardly had an appetite, some days. He knew she needed sunlight and exercise and company. She needed to get out. She needed to see those kids. Wheeler, especially.
Tensions were high, too. She got annoyed extremely easily, about the smallest things. She snapped at him, threw fits. She was testing her boundaries, too. He knew. And the more she threw fits, the more he yelled, and the more he felt so terribly guilty.
So he asked, to make sure she was occupying herself. To make sure she was still with him. Because he knew she was showing at least four or five signs of clinical depression, knew she was losing a little bit of herself, every day she stayed here. He knew it wasn't fair, keeping her locked up like some animal. But what choice did he have, really?
"Nothing." She snapped, moodily, not looking up from her plate.
"Nothing?" He asked, frowning. "You gotta do something. How about a puzzle? A movie?"
She shook her head, furiously.
"There's nothing to do. Boring."
He sighed. She looked at him, finally.
"Go outside?" She asked, in a voice so quiet and wistful he thought his heart might break in half.
"No, El. You know we can't risk it." He said, almost pleading with her. "I'm sorry."
He watched her nibble at her pancake, taking a few bites, then push it away.
"I'm not hungry."
"El, you gotta eat."
"Not hungry." She said, again.
Hopper reached for his knife and knocked over his coffee mug, spilling the stuff all over his lap.
"Fuck!" He yelled, jumping up.
"Watch your language." El mumbled, mockingly, shooting him a look. Hopper rolled his eyes, grabbing a napkin.
"Yeah, I guess that's two dimes for the swear jar."
"Swear . . . jar?"
"Swear jar." He repeated, thinking it might not be such a bad idea. God knew the kid had a foul mouth. And if she didn't talk much, a good percentage of the words that came out of her mouth were filthy. "You get a jar, and every time you curse, you have to put money in it. Like a bank." He explained. She knew about banks. He'd taught her about money, explaining dimes from dollars and what you could buy with what, what a bank was and what taxes where and the concept of interest. She was fascinated.
El nodded.
"It's incentive, to stop swearing. That can be your word for the day. Incentive. Do you know what it means?"
El shook her head, slowly. Hopper paused amidst the business of cleaning the spilled coffee off the table.
"Incentive is like . . . motivation, for doing something. It's like encouragement. It can be good, or bad. In this case, it's bad. You don't swear because you want to avoid losing your money. Understand?"
"Yes." El said. Hopper shot her a look.
"Yes, I understand." She said, exasperatedly. He'd been encouraging her to speak in full sentences, lately. Redirecting her one-word questions and answers into complete phrases. It was helping. Sort of.
"Alright. I have to go, El. Don't go outside. Eat something decent for lunch, okay? Not just Eggos and pudding and whatever other crap. I'll be home by five."
"Promise? You're always late."
"I'll be home by five." He said, firmly. "I promise."
"Fuck." He said, checking his watch. Five-thirty. Late.
He grabbed his keys, bid Flo and Cal a hasty goodbye, and sped off in his Blazer. At the cabin, he pounded on the door. The lock clicked, and he stepped inside. A certain, telepathic teenager was nowhere to be seen.
The T.V. had been dragged into the room. Hopper followed the cord over to her bedroom and knocked on the door. No response. The T.V. wasn't even on. The house was silent and still. He tried the doorknob. Locked.
"El, open up. I'm sorry, Ellie."
No response. No sound.
"El? El, open up. Please."
Nothing.
Hopper began to panic. He slammed his palm on the wood, throwing his shoulder against it, yelling and screaming, hoping to dear God that she hadn't done something, hadn't hurt herself . . .
"El, open up! I'm going to break down this door. El? El!"
The lock clicked, and relief flooded through him.
He found El inside, curled in the farthest corner of the bedroom. She had her knees tucked up to her chest, and her arms hugged around her sides. She met his gaze, in the darkness, and Hopper's stomach twisted, unpleasantly.
Something was extremely, horribly wrong.
"El?" He said, gently. "El, are you okay?"
"You promised."
"What?"
"You're late."
"I'm sorry, El. I . . . I lost track of time. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you." He said, taking slow, measured steps toward her. There was something . . . off. In her eyes, in her voice. Removed, like she wasn't really there. Like she was somewhere else.
In that place.
Her lip quivered, and she shook her head, eyes filling with tears.
"You promised." She repeated, voice empty and distant. She sniffed, and stared at the ground, avoiding his gaze. "You promised."
"El . . ."
She screamed, a horrible, agonizing scream, and Hopper wondered how such a sound could come from her. It was full of so much grief, so much raw emotion and pain. It ripped through his heart, twisting the knife deeper and deeper, into the scarred, gnarled, broken parts of him.
"You promised. You promised. You promised!" She was screaming now, drawing into herself, clamping her hands over her ears. Hopper dropped to the ground beside her, aching, every nerve in his body hypersensitive and tingling. The hair on the back of his neck trembled and stood up, and sweat clung to his neck.
"El!" He called, reaching for her. An invisible force hit him square in the chest, sending him flying backward, against the wall. Something held him there, against the wooden panels, reaching for breath. Something kept him, frozen, watching her break. She was screaming, sobbing, and he couldn't really make out what she was saying. Blood streamed from her nose. The lamp on her bedside table flickered.
This wasn't a nightmare, nor was it a tantrum. It was something in between, a complete breakdown. This was weeks, months, of something bursting out of her, shaking the ground, rattling his bones, calling up monsters from the shadows.
She was hurting, breaking, and she needed him and he couldn't fucking move. He struggled against the telekinetic force overwhelming him, yelling for her. And she turned and stared at him, and something in her eyes scared him half to death. She looked at him like he was another monster, from the nightmares. From that place.
And then the force was gone, and he slumped, a little, taking a breath.
"El . . ." He pleaded. Her screams turned to quiet weeping, and he crawled toward her.
"El." He said, again. Her name became a prayer, on his tongue.
He touched her shoulder, and whatever strength left her. She slumped against him, and he held her, cradling her in his arms. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, sobbing, and her entire body was rigid, stiff as a stone soldier. Her knuckles were white as bone, her face whiter. And it all came tumbling out, fear and grief and anger and confusion, all forcing its way out, rearing its ugly head.
He held her, while she cried. And she poured everything onto his shoulders, sobbing. A small eternity passed, and he rocked her, speaking, trying to soothe her.
He liked to think he knew where this was coming from, knew it wasn't fair to keep her locked up like this. Knew she was coming to view the cabin, not as a home, but as a prison. And he knew she needed structure, and control. And freedom, most of all. God knew she'd been locked in small rooms her entire, short life.
He couldn't even begin to imagine it, though. What it was like, in that lab. Being poked and prodded and tested and punished, called a number instead of a name. He couldn't imagine it, wasn't sure if he wanted to. And God, he wanted to take all those memories away. He wished he could make her stop hurting, wished he could understand.
Hopper kicked himself, mentally, for being such a lousy caregiver. For being late, for neglecting her, for lying to her. And he hated this. Hated the way she looked at him, like he was just as bad as those lunatics in the lab, just as horrible.
He glanced at the curve of her wrist, against his chest, at the ink in her skin. And he cursed Brenner, for taking away her identity, her sense of self, her life. A flare of anger, rage, coursed through him, so hot and real and immediate that he couldn't catch his breath. He blinked, seeing red.
"I'm sorry." He said, resting his cheek against her curls. "I'm sorry, El."
Eventually, her sobs began to fade, then died out completely. And the air was still, and the darkness swallowed hem. She sniffed, gazing at him through her tears.
"I'm sorry, too."