Jim Hopper hated Halloween.

It had been fine when he was young—what kid didn't love free candy and an excuse to stay up past bedtime?—but the novelty wore off fast. By high school, he didn't need excuses to stay out late, and he indulged in candy, booze, and cigarettes whenever he damn well pleased. The only thing difference was on Halloween, his other classmates stayed out too. The cops started busting people, hangout spots got crowded, and everyone and their mother asked to bum a smoke. No, he avoided those situations at all costs. If the crowds were out, Hopper stayed in.

Then he'd become a cop, and he'd hated Halloween all the more. Crime rates always skyrocketed at the tail-end of October. When he'd been walking the beat in New York, it was all hands on deck at the precinct. Looting, assault, murder—Halloween was a goddamn free-for-all in the city. Once he was back in Hawkins, the worst he had to deal with was rowdy teens and a little vandalism.

At least, that used to be the worst of it. Now there was also the annual return of a parallel dimension and monsters that wanted to enslave the human race. Or whatever.

Hopper sat on his couch, nursing a beer and half-watching the television, even though he didn't have enough energy to follow along with the M*A*S*H rerun. It had been a long weekend—a long year, really. He wasn't sure he'd known a day of peace since Joyce Byers stormed the precinct trying to find her son. Not that he could blame her; she'd been right, after all.

Hopper had done everything in his power to save Will Byers. He'd lied and fought and schemed to get the kid back into his mother's arms, but even then, he wasn't really safe. Will was sick for weeks: hypothermia, lung damage, dehydration—and that was just the physical stuff. No one knew what to do about the nightmares, the PTSD. Hopper had seen his fair of shit, but even he couldn't imagine what the kid had been through, and as confident as the doctors at Hawkins Laboratory seemed, he doubted they understood it either.

Unfortunately, they were still Will's best shot. Every month, Joyce took him in for a check-up, and every month, Hopper went with them. He couldn't do anything to help the kid medically, but he wanted to stay on top of the case, remind all the snooty scientists that he was keeping an eye on them. He wasn't about to let Joyce lose a kid—especially not in a hospital.

And that had only been half of it, because while he was trying to keep an eye on the lab and counseling Joyce on how to help her kid, he was coming home to his own kid.

Eleven.

That had been another ordeal in itself. Finding her had been hard enough, but then he had to gain her trust. He had to find a way to keep her a secret without making her feel like she was trapped. He had to raise her—a whole-ass daughter, by himself, without asking anyone for a smidge of help. Even without the superpowers it would have been a challenge. In some ways, she was more mature than any kid should be, forced to grow up way too fast by the doctors that had been training her. Of course, she was behind in a lot of ways too—language being their biggest barrier.

But they were tackling it together. Taking care of Eleven might not be peaceful, but it was something he wouldn't have traded for all the damn peace in the world.

Hopper muted the television, listening to the water running in the bathroom. El always took long showers, but at this point, he was starting to get antsy. He had to keep checking to make sure he could hear her moving. It had been two days since she'd closed the gate, but Hopper was still terrified she might drop and slip away from him when he least expected it. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Once he was certain that El was still conscious and splashing in the shower, Hopper reached for the remote again. Before he got a chance to crank the volume, there was a knock on the front door.

Hopper froze. He held his breath, praying he hadn't actually heard it, hoping for once that his fear was getting the better of him and he was imagining things. But after a few seconds of silence, it came again.

Knock. Knock. Knock, knock, knock.

His gun was in his hand in an instant. No one should be knocking on the cabin door. No one ever had, except for him. Rapid fire, his brain cycled through the possibilities.

The government: by far the worst possibility, but would they really knock? If a bunch of armed agents were waiting outside, then they knew what Eleven was capable of. They could lure Hopper to the door to unlock it for them, but it would give her time to prepare to defend herself.

Dr. Sam Owens: a slightly more comforting thought, though that wasn't saying much. He knew that Eleven was alive, knew that Hopper had been hiding her for a whole year. Even if he wasn't backed by a special ops team, he could be sneaking around looking for intel to take Eleven away. On the other hand, he probably wasn't sneaking anywhere with that bum leg.

Joyce: the most hopeful option, but Hopper's hopes weren't high. Will was still recovering at home, which meant the chances of Joyce leaving the house were, frankly, below zero. Even if she'd wanted to stop by to check on Eleven, he was sure she would have tried to radio him first, or else call the station repeatedly until she annoyed Flo into trying to radio him.

Hopper moved silently toward the window, nudging the curtain a fraction of an inch so he could peek out onto the front porch. At once, he bit back a groan. It just had to be option number four.

He discarded the gun and grudgingly moved to disengage the locks on the door. He only opened it halfway, blocking the threshold with a wide stance and glowering through the screen door at the teenage girl standing there.

"You realize I almost shot you?"

"That's why I knocked," said Christine, unperturbed. "Did you think the military was gonna announce themselves with a secret knock?"

"That wasn't the secret knock."

"It was my secret knock. El knows that."

"Well, El is in the shower."

"I can wait."

She looked at him expectantly, prompting Hopper to raise an eyebrow. The girl had some gall, he had to give her that. He searched her face for any signs of weakness. He could still see the bruises from Sunday night, hidden under a few layers of makeup, but she'd managed to keep most of the swelling down. She narrowed her eyes at him in determination until he sighed. He'd fleetingly dreamed of slamming the door in her face and telling her to go home, but her unblinking stare told him everything he needed to know. Christine Walcott wasn't going anywhere until she saw Eleven. He could let her in, or subject himself to an endless stretch of knocking, and once Eleven realized she was here…

Hopper gave her a tight smile and opened the door. Christine nodded.

"Thank you, Chief."

She certainly didn't waste any time. The moment she was inside, she spun on the spot, doing a cursory sweep of the house and then moving to inspect everything in it. Her eyes lingered on the windows, covered in tarp and plywood where Eleven had blown them out during a tantrum. Hopper worked at the locks on the door while Christine moved onto snooping around the living room.

"Guess I have Wheeler to thank for this surprise visit," he called over his shoulder.

"Jonathan, actually," Christine replied. "He wrote out directions for me."

"Thought you two didn't get along."

"We don't, but I asked for Eleven, so—huh."

"What?" Hopper asked, turning to face her.

"Oh, nothing. Glad to see you finally fixed your TV."

She gestured to the television set, humming away without a single flaw, and gave him a snide smile. Hopper pressed his lips into a thin line; he probably deserved that one.

"Listen," he began, taking another peek out the window, "I get that you're pissed, but I didn't tell anyone about this for a reason. The more people know where she is, the more danger she's in, so when you come charging in here with your babysitting club—"

"I didn't tell the kids."

"…You didn't?" Hopper frowned at her in suspicion. "What happened to 'we all deserve an explanation,' huh?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong," she said with a shrug, "it's only a matter of time. Even if I don't tell them, Mike will annoy it out of Nancy eventually and after that you'll never know another day of peace."

Hopper snorted. "If this is peace, I'm in trouble."

Christine didn't seem to find that as funny as he did. She watched him sourly as he joined her in the living room, grabbing his beer off the table and draining the last few drops. If they were going to have this conversation, he needed another drink. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and was just heading for the fridge when Christine cleared her throat. When Hopper looked back at her, she was holding out a fresh can of beer, her backpack open at her feet.

Hopper narrowed his eyes. "Are you seriously bribing a cop with alcohol?"

She didn't think that was funny either.

"Look," she huffed, "take it or don't. I really don't care. I was just trying to—"

"Okay, okay! I was kidding, jeez…"

He took the can from her and gave it a quick once over, trying to surmise if it was safe to open. He wasn't worried about poison or sabotage—though it crossed his mind—but if Christine had biked miles through the woods with the can in her bag, there was a good chance it was about to explode in his face.

Well. He was pretty sure she'd find that funny.

Hopper drummed his fingers against the side of the can to be safe, then cracked it open with a satisfying hiss. He took a cautious sip and wrinkled his nose; it wasn't exactly cold, but it probably wasn't poisoned.

Christine raised an impatient eyebrow, making him huff. He gestured for her to have a seat on the couch, then sank back into his plaid armchair. He took one last sip of beer before he sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable.

"So, how do you want to do this?" he asked.

Christine was more than ready.

"How long have you known?"

"…December."

The reaction was what he'd expected. Christine's glare returned ten-fold as her jaw dropped open. "She's been here since December?"

"No, you asked when I knew," Hopper corrected. "After everything that happened, I…I started leaving food out. You know, just in case. Then I started leaving food out, but locking it up. Wanted to make sure it wasn't just some over-achiever raccoon. Once I had Eggos disappearing from behind a padlock, I figured it was safe to say she was still out there."

"Eggos?"

It was the first thing she'd said that didn't sound angry. Hopper chanced a glance over at her to find her expression softer, her eyes picking him apart one thread at a time. It wasn't all that different from one of El's looks, trying to figure out the world around her and piece things together. He'd asked Christine about the waffles last year, while visiting The Hawk, but he wasn't about to bring that up.

"I found her in January," he continued, as if there had been no pause. "I figure she'd been watching me for a while, followed me back to my truck. That's when I moved her in here."

"Does she know?"

"Know what?"

Without moving a muscle, Christine's probing look turned back to a death glare. Hopper sighed and took another sip from his can. He didn't need the clarification, but he was hoping he could put this part off a little longer. Which made him an idiot, really.

"No, she doesn't know."

"Are you gonna tell her?" Christine demanded.

"Wasn't planning on it, no."

Christine shook her head, her hands clenching into fists he was sure wanted to collide with his face. It didn't look like she'd expected anything else, but the answer still enraged her.

"Listen, I'm sorry," he said, patiently as he could. "I did what I had—"

"What you had to in order to save Will," she cut him off. "Yeah, you've said that."

She didn't bother glaring at him anymore. Instead, she dropped her head, letting it hang off her shoulders while she propped her elbows on her knees, hands behind her neck. It wasn't all that different from what you supposed to do in a plane crash. Hopper had to wonder if that's what this felt like for her—biking miles into the woods just to get the same shitty answers from the same shitty cop about last year's shitty situation. The kid wasn't just pissed; she was devastated.

Hopper put his can of beer aside. He really didn't want to say it, knew that he'd never hear the end of it once he did, but he also knew that he needed to do it.

"You were right."

Christine lifted her head, looking more suspicious than ever. "What?"

"What you said last year," he clarified. "You were right. I made that call, and anything that happened after that…that's on me. If something had happened to her, that would have been my fault…and I didn't want it to be. So I did everything I could to find her, and then I kept doing everything I could to keep her safe. That meant hiding her here, it meant lying to the lab, it meant lying to you and Joyce and everyone else. I screwed up, and you can be mad about that, but everything I've done for the last year has been to protect her. Try to understand that, huh?"

He picked up his beer again and took another moody sip.

Christine considered him quietly. It was a few seconds before she spoke, but when she did, her words were sharp.

"Are you working for the lab?"

"No," Hopper answered, barely containing his eyeroll, "of course I'm not working—"

"Then why?!" Christine demanded, sitting up ramrod straight so she stare him down properly. "Why have you come to every single Saturday matinee at The Hawk since November? Why did you decide to invade my house and park yourself on the couch so you can hang out with my dad and make shitty, snide comments about kids who need protection? I wanna know why you've been doing everything in your power to annoy the shit out of me, piss me off, and screw with my life if—the whole time—you knew exactly where Eleven was!"

The question hung in the air, quiet but for the sound of running water in the next room over, which seemed much louder now. While Christine hadn't been shouting, her tirade still seemed to have winded her. She teetered on the edge of the couch, chest heaving, looking about one second away from leaping to her feet and tackling him.

Again, Hopper retreated to the comfort of his beer.

There were a lot of reasons he'd been keeping an eye on Christine Walcott. He was too proud to admit it, but she wasn't far off the mark. He wasn't working for the lab, but he had been…cooperating for the last year; at least, he'd been pretending to cooperate. It needed to look like he was upholding his end of the bargain with Sam Owens and the other scientists of Hawkins National Laboratory; they could focus on their science experiments inside their walls, and he would worry about the world beyond their fences. As long as the feds felt like they had an "inside man" on the police force, explaining away strange occurrences and reporting back to them, they could spend less resources on surveillance, giving Hopper a chance to operate under the radar.

In a way, he had been maintaining appearances for Christine too. Hopper had known that she'd never give up on finding Eleven. He'd known that from the first time he saw them hug, reunited after he'd found the kids at the old junkyard. Christine would keep looking for Eleven, the lab would keep looking at Christine, and eventually, she would get herself into trouble—either because the government would put a stop to her meddling, or because she'd successfully find Eleven and the lab would capture them both. Hopper wasn't about to let that happen.

So he played the part. He let Christine think that he was backing the lab, that they were sending him out to search for Eleven week after week. Hopper knew Christine was uncomfortable with the idea that she was under surveillance, but for the most part, it kept her from acting out, and so long as Hopper was the one doing the surveillance, she would be safe from any repercussions.

Hopper drummed his fingers along the side of his beer can, listening to the hollow ringing.

"I guess I was trying to protect you too," he admitted at last.

"Protect me?" Christine's eyebrows climbed higher. "By making me hate your guts?"

Hopper flinched; the words stung in a way they shouldn't have. It was hard for him to meet her gaze, her eyes wide and incredulous, fury clear in the furrow of her brow. It had only been a few days since he'd gotten the same look from Eleven.

"You are like Papa. I hate you!"

He'd deserved it. He realized that now, even if it had stung like a bitch in the moment. He'd lashed out, yelled, thrown things, lost his temper the way he had so many other times. How could he blame El for doing the same? She was right, and…as much as he hated to admit it, Christine was right too. He'd been protecting her the same way he'd tried to protect El: by lying, keeping her in the dark, suffocating her, and convincing himself that he knew best. Same tactic, same shitty result.

Hopper had learned his lesson, but his hands still trembled as he fought to contain his anger. He forced a deep breath through his lungs, flexing his fingers to expel the tension.

"You can hate me all you want," he forced out. "Like I told you last year: I know I deserve worse. But hating me is safer than hating the lab."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Christine's eyes narrowed further, looking more confused but no less angry. "I do hate the lab. I hate everyone in that damn building and everything they stand for."

"No, I know that. I mean—" He growled and wiped a hand down his face as he struggled to find the words. "All I'm saying is that it was better for you to fight back by cursing me out and shorting my change from time to time rather than storming in there and doing something stupid. Getting yourself hurt. But you needed to get it out of your system, so…I let you."

He nodded to himself, satisfied with the explanation, then drained his beer and crushed the can.

Christine had gone quiet, picking at her nails as she shrank back into the couch. She stole a few glances at him before she was able to clear her throat.

"You…knew I was shorting the change?"

In spite of himself, Hopper smirked.

"Yeah, I knew, Slim. Thought about turning you in, but it wasn't exactly grand larceny. You're not the type to keep it for yourself." He pulled his box of smokes from his shirt pocket to snag a cigarette. "I hope you were pocketing that. You wanna spend my money at the arcade, fine, but I don't want it beefing up Anthony's profit margin."

The click of his lighter was almost enough to mask Christine's breath of laughter. She ducked her head, and in the time it took Hopper to take his first drag, she'd composed her face into its previous scowl.

"Just so you know, this 'good intentions' speech doesn't change the fact that you're an asshole. You didn't need to be breathing down my neck every second to keep an eye on me—and there was no reason to drag my dad into it."

"Wait, what?" Hopper frowned in genuine confusion. "Your dad?"

"Yes. My dad. Pete Walcott. The guy you've been using and manipulating so you could spy on me for the last ten months."

The laugh escaped through his lips before he could stop it. Wrong move.

"Oh, you think that's funny?" Christine demanded, eyes on fire.

"No, no, no," Hopper argued, even though he was still chuckling. "No, it's not that. I'm not using your dad for anything. The hell would I get out of that?"

"Seriously?" she scoffed. "You just admitted you were spying on me. I'm sure my dad told you all about how I was being moody and difficult and arguing with him over stupid things, and you spewed whatever crap you needed to so you'd seem relatable."

Again, Hopper's instinct was to be offended, but for some reason, he couldn't manage it. Something about seeing a sixteen-year-old sitting on his couch, face stern, arms crossed, reaming him out for mistreating her dad, was hilarious to him. He was careful to keep his grin in check as he replied.

"Look, it's nice that you're worried about your pops, but I promise that's not what's happening. I wouldn't be over there every week if I didn't like the guy. Besides, I don't need to do surveillance to know that you're moody and difficult. I figured that out a long time ago, Slim."

Christine huffed. "Okay, what is that about?"

"What?" Hopper asked around his cigarette.

"Slim. Is it like 'slim chance?' Is it supposed to be a fat joke? Are you just annoying me for annoyance's sake? Because it's working."

This time, he didn't bother hiding his amusement. Hopper threw his head back, smoke puffing into the air with each laugh, wheezing harder every time he looked at Christine's baffled face. It took him a minute to collect himself and a few coughs to clear his windpipe.

"Yeah, I guess it is to annoy you," he said with a smirk. "But it's supposed to be a compliment, I promise."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Well, maybe if you didn't have such crappy taste in music, you'd know."

That was a deep dig, as he'd known it would be. Christine's jaw dropped, but before she could snap back, they were interrupted by the creak of the bathroom's sliding door.

"Chrissy!"

Eleven came hurtling into the living room, still wrapped in a towel, dripping water all across the floor. It wasn't enough to deter Christine, who was on her feet in an instant to seize the younger girl in a hug.

"Hey! There she is! How are you feeling?"

"You're here!"

"Yeah, I—thought I'd come by and surprise you guys."

"Not that anyone asked," Hopper grumbled as he got to his feet. "El, watch where you're running, will you? You're gettin' water all over the place. Damn safety hazard."

Eleven pulled out of her hug to squint curiously at him. "Hazard?"

"Danger," Hopper supplied, just as Christine said, "Risk."

They both paused, frowning at each other. Eleven giggled and covered her mouth with her towel.

"Okay, real funny," Hopper huffed. "Now will you go get dressed? I gotta mop up this ocean of bathwater you brought out here."

Eleven took one hesitant step toward the bathroom and stopped. Her eyes lingered on Christine, looking worried, and making Hopper sigh.

"Go on, kid. She'll be here when you get back. I'm not kicking her out…yet," he added quietly, the moment El's back was turned.

Reluctantly, Eleven returned to the bathroom. Hopper grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and tossed it on the floor, kicking it around in an attempt to soak up the small puddles she'd left in her wake. When Christine cleared her throat again, he groaned and rounded on her, but stopped short. She was holding out a large Tupperware container, filled to the brim with foil. She waved it insistently until Hopper took it from her with cautious hands and suspicious eyes, peeling the cover off and unfolding the top piece of foil.

"…You brought pizza?"

"I didn't want to come empty-handed." She shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "I wrapped all the slices individually, so if we—if you don't eat them all at once, you can save some for tomorrow. I knew you'd be mad so—"

"So you're bribing a cop with beer and pizza."

And hard as Christine tried to hide it, Hopper could still see her smile. He pursed his lips, pinched the bridge of his nose, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

"Fine. You can stay for dinner, but you're not staying the night and you never come by unannounced again. Next time, I shoot."

"Deal," she agreed at once.

The bathroom door slid open again and Eleven emerged marginally more dry than she'd been before. Her hair was still dripping onto her grey T-shirt, but it didn't stop her from beaming as she scurried back to Christine's side.

"Here," El began, grabbing ahold of her hand. "I want to show you my room!"

She half-dragged Christine behind her in her haste, but both girls were giggling as they retreated into the bedroom. Hopper listened as El showed off all her possessions: her teddy bear, her wooden duck, her dictionary, her tiny tape player, the Billy Joel cassette she'd begged and begged for until Hopper brought it home…

He smiled. Then he moved into the kitchen so he could heat up their food.

Even back in January, Hopper had known that Eleven and Christine were going to be a package deal—not just because Christine hated him for losing El, or because she'd never taken down El's blanket fort, or even because she spent so much time in her room listening to static that her dad thought that her stereo was broken. Even if Hopper hadn't known any of that, he would've known because of Eleven and her two favorite words: "Chrissy said."

Hopper wasn't surprised that Eleven was quiet at first, but when she did start talking, almost everything was about Christine. El seemed eager to share what her babysitter had taught her.

"Chrissy said music is Billy Joel."

"Chrissy let me sleep lights on."

"Chrissy made waffles with cream."

"Chrissy said don't pull apart tapes."

It was always "Chrissy this" and "Chrissy that," with the occasional "Mike" thrown in. Considering they'd only been together for three days, El had certainly gotten attached. Most of the time, it drove Hopper up the wall, but some of it came in handy. When he started laying ground rules for Eleven, he was relieved to find that she was already comfortable with most of them.

"Chrissy said stay away from windows."

"Chrissy said door stays locked."

"Chrissy said listen for secret knock."

The truth was that they never would have gotten this far without Christine's help. She'd given El a foundation to build on and given Hopper a place to start—something he desperately needed. It had been a long time since he was a dad; he was out of practice.

That was one of the reasons he liked talking to Pete Walcott: he'd been a single father for about a decade, and he gave great advice. That didn't mean that Hopper was using him, but it was nice to have someone help him talk through his problems. Whenever Hopper ran into a wall with Eleven, after they'd had an argument or before he broached a delicate subject, he could go to Pete—because while Pete didn't know about Eleven…he did know about Sara.

Even now, Hopper wasn't sure why he'd told him. The memory was hazy, a few drinks deep at the local bar. Pete had been talking about his late wife—the long nights at the hospital, the never-ending list of medications and treatments, the impossible balance of trying to prepare for the inevitable while still hoping for the best, and the guilt—all that guilt…

And suddenly Hopper was spilling his guts.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd told the story. He didn't need to anymore, not the way gossip spread through Hawkins like brushfire; everyone knew about the chief of police and how he'd tragically lost his daughter. It wasn't the same thing as losing a wife, but whenever Hopper spoke to Pete about it…he didn't feel pitied. He felt understood, and that was something he couldn't say about much of anyone these days.

It was the first time Hopper was glad he'd told someone. When he wanted to talk about Sara, he could, and when he needed to talk about Eleven, he could pretend he was talking about Sara—some hypothetical future he never got to have. Pete never questioned him and never pushed. Some days he would talk about Christine, and some days they really wouldn't talk about anything. They'd just sit and watch the game, eating junk food, complaining about work, and laughing at each other. Hopper never would've imagined himself becoming buddies with some random, white-collar worker, but he was thankful he had.

When the pizza was ready, Hopper called out to the girls, warning them to pick up the pace before he ate all the pizza himself. Christine pulled a few more cans out of her backpack—she really had come prepared—passing Hopper another beer and Eleven a can of Coke. Hopper wrinkled his nose; normally, he didn't love giving El soda, but it wasn't turning out to be a normal night.

"So," he began, once they'd all taken a seat at the table started on their slices. "El, how was your day?"

"Good," El answered. "I saw Mr. Fibbly, and I finished math."

"Wait, what?" Christine look at her in surprise. "You're doing math now?"

"I got her a workbook," Hopper explained. "Just some basic stuff, but she's real good. Better than me, not that that's saying much."

He winked at El, who was basically shining with pride. Christine looked between them, looking impressed.

"Wow, well, you'll have to show me sometime. I love math and science."

El nodded fervently and turned to Hopper in excitement. "Can we?"

"Slow down, kid. One headache at a time, alright?" Eleven sagged back in her seat, and Hopper raised an expectant eyebrow. "Now, we were having a conversation. What do you say next?"

Eleven sat up straight, looking overly proper as she asked, "How was work?"

"Boring," Hopper answered. "Callahan's driving me up the wall and Flo keeps nagging me for more paid time off."

"I don't know," Christine offered casually. "She does sound pretty annoyed and overworked."

Hopper narrowed his eyes at her but continued as though she hadn't interrupted.

"She's only asking because her daughter's having a kid in a few months. And I get wanting to be there to pitch in and play grandma or whatever, but with the new system coming in, we're gonna need all the help we can get this summer."

"System?" El asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Yeah, computer system. It's big machine for filing and math and stuff."

"Wait, wait, wait"—Christine waved her hands—"you're getting a computer? At the station?"

"Yeah," Hopper said yet again. "Certainly not 'cos anyone wants one. County mandated. Came from the last dregs of funding from some government subsidy program. Problem is Flo's ancient and no one on staff has the time to learn BASIC."

Christine cocked an eyebrow at him. "You know what BASIC is?"

"I know some things."

He quickly took another sip of beer to avoid any more detailed questions, but Christine didn't press him. She smirked, doubtful and amused, and turned back to her food. Hopper watched her for a moment, trying to gauge her interest, but decided to let the subject go for now.

"Chrissy," said Eleven. "How was school?"

"It was fine," she answered with a shrug. "Nothing special really."

"What are you telling people about that shiner?" Hopper asked, nodding to her cheek.

"The truth, mostly. Steve got into a fight. and I broke it up."

"Bitchin'," El said with a wide smile, making Christine snort.

Hopper chewed thoughtfully on the crust of his pizza. "What was that kid's name again? The brother?"

Christine rolled her eyes at the mention of him. "Billy Hargrove."

"And they moved from California?"

"Yeah. San Francisco, I think. Why?"

"No reason." He shrugged, trying to seem casual as he took another slice. "He giving you any more trouble?"

"No one's heard from him," she sighed. "Max said he'd probably lay low for a couple days so he didn't need to explain anything to his dad. Of course, everyone at school's saying he was hospitalized after being beaten within an inch of his life"—she rolled her eyes again—"but the jury's still out on whether it was me or Steve."

"Who's got the most votes?" asked Hopper.

"Oh, me, for sure."

She tossed her hair, looking exceedingly proud for someone being accused of assault and battery, and Hopper had to smirk.

"Why did Steve fight Billy?"

Christine turned to Eleven in surprise. "Um…because he was protecting Max, remember?"

"But he was inside," El said with a frown. "Lucas said that you went outside to talk. Then Steve went out to fight. Why?"

"Oh." Christine's face fell and, unless Hopper's eyes were deceiving him, she blushed. "Well, I guess he was trying to protect me too."

"Did something happen?" Hopper demanded.

"No," she said at once. "It's fine, he—I was just talking to Billy, but Steve was worried and he just…jumped the gun."

She nodded firmly, satisfied with her story, but that wasn't enough for Hopper. He was already planning on pulling this kid Billy's record, just to see if he had any other violent incidents in his past. A fist fight was one thing, but if he'd tried anything else…

Eleven spoke before he could collect his thoughts.

"Was Steve jealous?"

Hopper's eyebrows skyrocketed. He looked back and forth between the two girls: El, who was smirking mischievously, and Christine, who was most definitely blushing now.

"Jealous?" Hopper repeated slowly. "Meaning…?"

"When you want something someone else has," El explained matter-of-factly.

"Uh huh…"

His eyes slid over to Christine, who was now glowering at Eleven.

"Watch it, El," she warned. "I know what happened last year."

For a moment, Eleven's brow furrowed in confusion. She looked at Christine, who looked back, both of them completely silent, but doing a lot of very expressive things with their eyes; it was like a different language. There was an entire conversation going on in front of Hopper and he had no clue what was going on.

When El's eyes blew wide, her cheeks turning pink, he put his foot down.

"Hey!" he said sharply, snapping his fingers between them. "What is this? What's going on?"

Christine and Eleven shared another look.

"Nothing," they replied in unison, and returned to their pizza.

Hopper sank back in his chair, suppressing the urge to slam his head into the table. Raising Eleven had been hard enough on his own. With Christine in the picture, he had a bad feeling that things weren't going to get any easier for him.