𝕾𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗 - [𝗦𝘁𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘁𝗼𝗻]

𝐱𝐢. 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 - heathen, steven

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 𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇 and six days had passed by without a shard of fear; that was something new for Scarlet. She had lived in perpetual fear and guilt, but now, as she sat by Hopper's side, snug in his car whilst swathed in one of his old flannel shirts... Scarlet felt utterly content.

 Hopper's keys rattled when he pulled them free, but he didn't immediately vacate his smoke-scented vehicle. He slumped back, head meeting the headrest as Scarlet peered out of the window with the beginnings of a grimace.

 Originally, Scarlet had thought Hopper had simply brought her to a place within the town that she had yet to visit during her sight-seeing trips with Steve Harrington; the teenager had flourished his hands, fingers wiggling close to the sky as he announced his plans for a tour. A very boring tour, he had warned, pointing his finger towards her nose.

 But this place wasn't an old diner that perpetually stunk of fried onion rings. It wasn't a movie theatre with stale popcorn and... oddly stained chairs. Nor was it an old plot of land where they had to weasel through the woods and smack away bugs just to reach an old rock in the shape of a skull. No, this wasn't either of those...

 "A bar?" Scarlet withered, her eyes following an older gentleman who had beer spilt down his front, turning his formerly white shirt a musty yellow colour. Scarlet slid her eyes towards Hopper, an incredulous brow climbing her forehead, "Really?"

 He only chuckled, "Don't give me that look; I'm not here to drink..." His eyes narrowed at her and Scarlet couldn't bring herself to shrink beneath the fatherly stare planted upon her — if anything, she quite enjoyed the warmth it brought to life, "And I don't know how old you are."

 "Mhm... Good job, Chief."

 He pushed her shoulder and clambered out of the car before she could retaliate — he'd gotten used to having a crumpled piece of paper smothered in crimson wisps flying at his head whenever he'd make a comment or so much as ruffle her hair.

 Scarlet followed suit, hands shoved into the front pockets of her denim jeans that she'd spent days scrubbing the gunk of Demo-dogs from... as well as grass and mud, of course. The oversized flannel fluttered around her, just as her hair did — scooped up by the December chill.

 "Seriously though —" Scarlet called out as the car door slammed shut and her pace drew her closer to Hopper. Her eyes trailed over the letters; HIDEAWAY, "— Why are we at a pub?"

 Hopper said nothing more as he wrenched the door open and waited for his eldest to step through the threshold. Scarlet maintained his stare for a moment, and just as always, it reminded him that she wasn't just a teenager. Her face might have the familiar roundness of youth, her features might have been free from aged lines and indents that grew over time... But the stare she could plant somebody with was ominous; as though she had the wisdom of centuries behind her eyes.