maxmayfield:

Hopper tells El about her adoption papers the morning after the Snow Ball, her hair still stiff with spray and her eyes tired but happy.

He’s waiting for her at the kitchen table when she wakes up, Eggos and some fresh fruit shaped into a smiley face on a patterned plate. He can’t remember the last time he felt so nervous—sure, El had been living with him for a good year now and they’d had bad times and better times, but how would she feel about being his daughter? Part of him regretted the decision, made several weeks earlier, to not mention the question of a birth certificate to her. He had been uncertain, at that point, whether Owens would pull through. And why get the kid’s hopes up when he couldn’t deliver?

“Jim?” Her voice, quiet this morning, pulls him from his thoughts and he glances over his shoulder to see her emerge from the bedroom in a pair of flannel pyjamas she inherited from Nancy Wheeler.

“Morning, kid,” Hop greets her, trying to sound as gruff as usual for Saturday mornings. “Sleep good?”

“Yes,” El nods, catching sight of the breakfast waiting for her and lighting up. She hurries over to the table and dives into the food, pausing once to offer some to him.

Hop shakes his head and takes a long sip of his now lukewarm coffee. “I’m good. I ate while you were snoring.”

El shoots him a quick glare, her eyes darkened daggers. “I don’t snore.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Hop chuckles, raising his eyebrows teasingly, “I’m gonna record you one of these days.”

El scrunches her face up at him before returning to her food and Hop feels his nerves settling back in, making his stomach tighten in anticipation.

“Hey El,” he begins, setting his coffee down in front of him. “I’ve got a question for you.”

She’s watching him then, with interested and eager eyes, her fork still playing between her fingers. Hop swallows, his fingers fumbling with the paper in his back pocket. 

“What would you say,” he begins, hoping to God that this is the right way to proceed, “If I were to be your—well, if I were to be your dad.” 

El’s eyes narrow and she looks thoughtful, though suspicious. “Not like Papa,” she says quietly after a long pause, setting her fork down, watching him intently. 

“No,” Hop shakes his head emphatically, “Nothing like Papa. A dad would be different. I’d take care of you. And keep you safe. Like Joyce looks out for her boys. You’d be my little girl.” 

El’s mouth opens, but then closes immediately, as if she wants to ask a question but isn’t sure how. Hop has a sneaking suspicion he knows what she’s curious about and it hurts him to say it, but he knows it’s what she needs to hear. 

“We’d be family,” he continues, “Like me and Sarah were family. But I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.” 

The corners of El’s lips twitch and her hand quickly moves to the corner of her eye. Hop blinks, wondering if she’s crying. When she speaks, her voice is thicker than usual, wavering, and he knows that she is. 

“Dads don’t lie?” 

Hop can’t help but to smile as he pulls that oh so heavy piece of paper from his pocket and slides it across the table. “No kids, dads don’t lie.” He reaches out for her hand, which she offers immediately. “I promise.”