This could be read as a companion piece to "5 + 1 = Eleven," or could be read as a standalone.

It's early in the evening when Hopper finally enters the house; the sun is dipped low, casting muted shadows where rangy trees defiantly stand tall. The simple act of crossing the threshold makes him sigh in relief; Jim Hopper isn't afraid of the dark, but he is afraid of what otherwordly creatures lie within.

He inhales, catching a whiff of what could possibly be the beginnings of a promising dinner. He doesn't quite believe the thought, that it'll taste good this time, but it beats a freezer-burned TV dinner anytime.

He wipes boot-clad feet on the pilled rug at the entrance, beige fibers worn from years of foot traffic.

Hopper hasn't really moved into the Byer's house, not officially, but the boys had quietly made space for El's belongings, and Joyce had cleared a drawer (or two) in her bedroom.

He calls out a name to ringing silence, feels white-hot tendrils of panic begin to fester in his chest; he tamps it down with a deep and steady breath. He closes the door behind him.

Removing his hat, he treads as carefully as a man of his heft can down the hallway, keenly aware of his heavy step in a house fraught with bad memories.

Will's bedroom door is ajar, enough for Hopper to unobtrusively poke his head. The boy is sitting on the carpeted floor, sheets of white paper strewn in the space before him.

Hopper clears his throat, shamefaced as the sound makes the boy jump. He carefully eases the door open with his foot and steps in.

"Hey, sorry, kid," he says placatingly. "Your mom around?"

"Hey," he parrots, wariness receding from his eyes and the tension that had hiked his shoulders up to his ears easing out. "I think she's out back."

Hop nods and starts to turn toward the door before he hesitates, suddenly unsure. He looks down at the hat in his hands, turns it by the brim before he sighs to himself, turns back toward Will, and takes a step further into the room.

"Uh, what've you got there?" He draws his brows together, mentally kicking himself for his ineptitude in polite conversation.

Will seems startled, as if he hadn't expected the Chief to still be there. He looks down at the sea of papers fanned out on the floor, the flimsy material holding a wealth of talent in bold lines and splashes of color.

"Nothing," he says automatically, but at Hopper's slow blink, he adds, "Just some pictures. Doodles, really."

Hopper wants nothing more than to turn on his heel and leave. He doesn't care about art in any sense; he wouldn't know a Picasso even if the artesian himself painted a self-portrait before his eyes, but those doodles had saved his life once upon a time.

He also doesn't like the meek form downplaying the significance of what's lying before him.

So, instead, he finds himself asking, "Mind if I take a look?"

Will's brows shoot upward, but he scoots back a little, leaving the Chief some space to stare down at his life's passion. "Uh, sure, yeah."

Hopper still doesn't know anything about art, still doesn't give a lick, but there's no denying the sheer talent on the paper by his feet. He cocks his head to the side and gestures at one near Will's sneaker.

"I really like what you did with that one there." He scratches his brow with the nail of his thumb.

Will smothers a small smile and bows his head. "It's okay, Chief, you don't have to pretend to like it."

Hop furrows his thick brow. "I'm not pretending. I really do like it." He pulls his thumb away from his face, feels his hand opening and closing as he struggles to find the right words. "I just don't know much about it," he admits, then corrects himself with, "About the technique."

The boy looks surprised at the genuineness; Hopper honestly seems to like the drawing. He looks up, cheeks tinged pink as he asks, "You mean it? Really? You like it?"

Hopper scoffs, though not unkindly. "Yeah." He resists the urge to scuff the floor with the toe of a boot as he adds, "Listen, kid, you've got a real talent, and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you didn't."

Will is quick to shake his head, quick to reassure him. "You never made me feel that way! You're not like-" He cuts himself off and lets the unspoken name hang between them. "You know."

Hopper sighs and drags his hand down his face before letting it drop to his side. "Lonnie was an ass, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for not stepping in sooner; for not stepping in at all."

Will offers him a shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance that he doesn't quite pull off. He looks down at his drawing, the one Hopper had liked; he doesn't remember picking it up. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

"No, it wasn't my fault, but I could have stopped it. I should have stopped it. It was my job, and I was just- I was-" Hopper frustratingly cuts himself off, waves his fingers toward his temple. "I was just so in my head about-"

"Sara?" Will freezes, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, as if merely uttering her name would bring the world crashing down around them.

But the older man smiles, soft and sad, as he breathes, "Yeah. Sara." He seems to mull something over in his mind, maybe lost in a sea of memories, but he surprises even himself as he adds, "And my divorce. And that damn war in Vietnam."

The muscle in his jaw tics and jumps as he lets the memories wash over him; then, he looks down at his boots in shame. "Still, I should have been there."

Will considers the words, the guilt-ridden admission, and blinks. "You're here now. You've always been here. And that counts for something."

It's so simple when the kid puts it that way, yet there's something in his voice that Hopper notes but can't quite decipher. He clears his throat. "You know I love your mom, right?"

The boy's face crinkles in bemusement at the turn. "Yeah, of course I do."

Hopper lowers his body toward the ground, resting his larger frame on his haunches and his elbows on his thighs, his hat in his hands as he meets Will's eyes. "And you know I love you too, right?"

Hopper watches him closely and sees dark eyes narrow in disbelief before brightening in childlike hope.

Will's voice doesn't quite crack, but it's a close thing as he pushes one shoulder up and cuts his eyes to the side. "Yeah."

"Do you?" His tone is firm yet undeniably soft. "Because it's important to me that you know that I love you. It's important to me that you know I feel as if you're my own son, that if I had ever had one of my own, I would have wanted him to be just like you."

He watches as tears well up and threatens to spill; lashes clump at the edges as he avoids meeting the older man's eyes. He tries to wipe at them before they can fall with the back of his wrist.

"Why?" The word is forced through a throat tight with emotion. "Why would you want them to be like me?" The tears spill over; glistening tracks down his strawberry-striped cheeks. "I get bullied. I like art and D&D. Everyone thinks I'm - I'm a faggot."

Hopper reaches out slowly, places a finger beneath Will's wobbly chin, and lifts his head from his navel-gazing.

"You're also one of the most talented, smartest, bravest boys I've ever met." He lowers his voice an octave. "And even if you were gay," the boy's eyes dart away from his, and Hopper moves his own head to hold the gaze, "Even if you were, your mother and I would never love you any less."

He pulls away and drops his hand from Will's tear-streaked face. "I wouldn't understand it, not right away, but I would try. For you. Because you're my son and that's what fathers do."

Hopper can feel his heart-wrenching in his chest as Will scrambles to his knees and launches himself into his arms. He hugs the scrawny frame close, senses as the boy's fingers scrabble for purchase on the dense fabric of his jacket. He shushes him quietly, murmuring, "It's okay. I've got you. You're okay." He pulls his head back to place a chaste kiss at Will's temple. "I love you, son."

In a thick voice, Will whispers into the crook of Hopper's neck:

"I love you too... Dad."

The End.

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