"I hope you're proud of yourself," Hopper groans as he climbs into his truck, weary and looking more like the Chief of Police than the exasperated father he's trying to come off as. His police jacket's thrown over a sleep shirt and pajama pants, and his gaze has gone stony.

The truck engine roars to life underneath the two of you, and Hopper exhales sharply before backing it out of the precinct's parking lot. "Dragged me outta bed at one in the morning, and all because you think it's fun to smash Merrill's pumpkins with your damn friends than to be at home, in bed, like a normal person."

No one's normal in Hawkins, he reminds himself, but his words ring true nonetheless. No sane person got themselves involved with top-secret government affairs involving MKUltra and telekinetic girls and monsters from otherworldly dimensions, but that's just something Hopper's come to accept. You slump further into the passenger seat with a far-away look in your eyes, and he just sighs. "You drunk or high?"

You're his kid, alright. Jim sometimes feels like he doesn't recognize you, but maybe he never really did. He's got the Vietnam War to blame for missing the first years of your life— a one-night stand between deployments that results in a child will do that— but he really thought he had it handled when he had Sara, married Diane, and blended the mismatched pieces of his family together.

But then Sara died, Diane left, and Hop hauled the two of you out of New York and back to Hawkins. Things are hazy between then and now due to all the booze and the pain meds, but he's sound and present now. He has to be; he's got El to raise, you to wrangle into shape, and a town and people to protect. He's the damn Chief of Police, and his kid can't keep getting into trouble with the law— his law.

"Look— I can't keep bailing you out, kid," he rasps, the truck's wheels hitting dirt as he heads for the cabin. "You gotta get your crap together, if not for me, for El."

If anyone deserves normalcy, it's her. "Y'gotta grow up."