#badgeworn

[methodcop]

            “No -- no way, McNally.” He probably should have tried harder not to laugh, but he couldn’t help it -- there was a smile growing on his lips anyway. “You’ve been doin’ this for how long? And THAT’S the cover identity you come up with? I mean, it’s nothing near the creative heights you hit with an insurance conference but... I’m almost impressed you’re that lame,” he added fondly, reaching across the desk to snag a fry from her lunch. 

@badgeworn | SC.

[mageic]

their  hotel  was  not  too  fancy,  but  nice.   there  is   olive  green  floral  wallpaper,  2  beds,  a  giant  couch  in  their  living  area,   a   mini  fridge  and  a   TV.    her  chest  feels  funny,   she  has  learned  it  to  be  guilt.   she  lost   ...   and  max  is  not  better.  won’t  wake.   they  say  she  might  not.   and  jane  was  not  enough.   just  try  to  get  some  rest  tonight,  honey.    joyce’s  words  are  like  soft,  dulcet  daggers  that  poke  and  stab  at  her  skin.  she  wants  to  listen,  but  knows  she  can’t.    EXISTING   IS   SO   HARD,   NOT  KNOWING   WHERE   TO   BEGIN   NEVER  KNOWING,  ONLY  FIGHTING.   she  is  stripped  of  her  determination  to  save  everyone,  to  be  the  hero  they  needed.  she  failed  everyone.  SHE  IS  SO  TIRED.   seeing  him  again  made  her  happy,  helped  her  fight  the  monsters,  filled  her  with  a  different  feeling  in  spite  of  the  chaos  and  danger:   hope.   dad.

she   smiles  softly  at   @badgeworn​​  who  is   rummaging  through  a   suitcase   and,   with  sudden  realization,  she  pushes  off  the  bed  and  rushes  stiffly  toward  her  own  bag.  she  finds  it  right  away,  yahtzee  shoved  in  right  at  the  top  as  she  tugs  the  zipper  of  the  bag:  it  is  dusty,  cardboard  torn  and  top  half  missing.  it  has  seen  better  days.  so  have  they.   but  ...   still  here.       ❝     ...    miami  vice.       ❞        she  walks  up  behind  him,  says  it  like  she’s  already  decided.   a  show  she  has  not  watch  since  the  last  time  she  saw  him.   it  was  theirs.   glance  turns  briefly  toward  the  TV,  and  the  bright  red  digital  clock.      ❝      it  is  almost  10  o’clock.  we  can  order  room  service,    eat   snacks  and  we  can  play  a   ...   a   board  game.      ❞     arms  shrug  to  gesture  to  the  board   game  in  her  arms,   smile  wider  than  the  secret  one  before.

[k1ngdingus]

*    @badgeworn​    prompted:    sometimes    i    think    you    must    hate    me. 

  the    ground    is    cool    underneath    him,    denim    soaking    in    the    dew    of    the    morning    as    he    sat    against    the    barricade    recently    rebuilt    .    .    .        he’s    unsure    how    they    ended    up    here,    the    two    of    them.    most    of    his    younger    years    were    spent    running    away    from    the    red    &    blue    lights    of    hopper’s    patrol    car,    the    gruff    voice    calling    after    him    ‘                                                                get    your    ass    home,    harrington    !                                                                ’    lost    track    of    the    lectures    that    fell    upon    deaf    ears,    the    amount    of    shameful    glances    from    the    passenger    seat    while    he    waited    to    meet    his    fate.    bruised    knuckles    brush    against    the    metal    of    his    lighter    before    it’s    flicked    open    &    then    closed    again    (    the    perimeter    was    clear    but    hopper    wanted    them    to    stay    to    make    sure    .    .    .    just    a    few    more    minutes    ).    the    younger    man    understood    that    .    .    .    he’d    take    a    chunk    out    of    the    world    before    he    let    something    past    to    reach    the    others,    &    maybe    that’s    where    the    new    respect    for    james    hopper    developed    .    .    .    steve    knew    that    he    shared    that    mindset.    nods    to    the    mindless    bullshit    their    conversation    had    been,    small    talk    is    a    skill    neither    of    the    men    excelled    in    but    they    tried    (    they’d    say    it    was    for    joyce’s    sake    .    .    .    but    in    reality,    steve    liked    his    company    ).

  chocolate    hues    snap    up    when    those    words    leave    the    former    chief’s    lips,    brows    pulling    together    in    confusion    while    the    processing    worked    in    what    felt    like    slow    motion.    ❛                                                                what    .    .    .    ?                                                                ❜    if    anyone    had    a    question    of    who    tolerated    who,    shouldn’t    it    be    the    other    way    around    ?        ❛                                                                i    don’t.    hate    you,    i    mean.                                                                ❜    isn’t    sure    he    hated    many    anymore    as    it    was,    didn’t    seem    worth    the    limited    energy    had    these    days.    he    just    .    .    .    he    wanted    to    help,    if    that    meant    sticking    to    hopper’s    six    &    actually    listening    this    time    around    .    .    .    he’d    do    that    (    his    stubbornness    wasn’t    worth    risking    the    safety    of    robin    .    .    .    who    was    insistent    on    going    with    him    unless    he    was    in    the    opposite’s    company    ).    there    was    a    sense    of    purpose    in    all    this,    one    that    made    him    feel    useful,    like    there    was    a    difference    being    made    in    picking    up    their    pieces    of    their    crumbling    town    ❛                                                                y’know    .    .    .    i    didn’t    really    know    what    having    a    dad    looked    like,    til’    i    saw    you    with    el    &    the    rest    of    those    little    shits    .    .    .    for    what    it’s    worth.                                                                ❜    a    peace    offering    of    sorts,    an    olive    branch    the    emotionally    stunted    has    to    offer.    hands    fidgeting    once    more    with    the    lighter    in    his    grasp,    attention    drawn    to    it    instead.    ❛                                                                definitely    don’t    hate    you    though.                                                                ❜

[fogels]

*                   𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡   𝑎𝑡  𝘩𝑜𝑚𝑒      .       /      @badgeworn​   ,

𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳  𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙴𝙺𝚂  𝙲𝙰𝙽'𝚃  𝙷𝙸𝙳𝙴  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙾𝙵  𝙹𝙰𝚆𝚂   .    she  met  him  when  her  feet  couldn’t  reach  the  floor  of  his  cruiser  .   when  she  didn’t  know  how  to  hide  black  eyes  or  unsightly  bruises  .   but  she’s  a  bit  older  now  ,   hopes  to  god  she  knows  better  words  .   maybe  the  words  to  help  things  ,   to  ease  something  .

❝         𝑦𝑜𝑢  𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟  𝑚𝑦  𝑜𝑙𝑑  𝑚𝑎𝑛  ,   𝑟𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡  ?         ❞        her  brow  furrows  .   she  nudges  her  knee  against  his  .         ❝        you  n’me  ,   we  had  crummy  dads  .   and  they   ―    they  weren’t  scared  of  hurting  us  .   they  did  .   so  how  can  you  sit  there  and  worry  you’re  just  as  bad  ?   you’re  worried  .   hop  ,   i’d’ve  killed  for  that  .         ❞

[artisanals]

           she does this often — bakes too much and brings it into the station. it’s a good pastime, a productive one she tells herself. besides, god knows those men need something homemade to eat every once in a while. so the smell of scones wafts in before her as she raps gently on @badgeworn​ ‘s door. honey-brown eyes peek around the door before offering a greeting.   ❛   morning !   ❜   comes a cheery smile. small tupperware reserved for the man in charge is placed on the broad desk.   ❛   had some extra so i thought i’d bring some by.   ❜   half a beat.   ❛   they’re scones — blueberry.   ❜

sc.

[b1gerror]

⠀⠀   @badgeworn​​​ asked  — -  ⠀       “    you needed a father.    ”       —    ⠀⠀            your family could be likened more to ᴬ ᴷᴺᴵᶠᴱ than blood,       sometimes that is all you thought you were— -         a body created 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚,   not from them.   the likeness in freckles dotted across skin were drowned out by the abrasiveness of your voice,     your desire for something more never dampened by the walls adorned with memories made 𝑖𝑛 hawkins.     (there is a shoebox under your bed:     polaroids of when they were young,   when you think they might have understood you more),      before they became the cool metal blade that never stopped cutting.       does anyone ever really know their fathers?    you could list everything you did know:        hates family dinner,   stopped opening the bills stamped with ‘𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄’ when you were 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 years old  (you used a flashlight for weeks in case you were to blame),      sometimes you weren’t sure he ᴿᴱᴹᴱᴹᴮᴱᴿᴱᴰ your name.        but you had a father,   you were half of him;    all of his faults were at the kitchen table built inside your ribcage,    inherited his unwillingness to compromise,    the way he closes himself ᴰᴼᵂᴺ when 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐.        is it learned habits or was it just in your blood?      would you too, become jaded in old age,   no longer fascinated by what the world had to offer beyond the ᵀᴴᴱ ᶜᴼᴺᶠᴵᴺᴱˢ of 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛, america?

you knew him before all of this,    before saving the world somehow fell in your lap and you didn’t turn away.      a haze of memories,     ᴿᴱᴰ&𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎  lights flashing outside your bedroom window,     siren drowned out with another loop of fleetwood mac’s 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 flooding your ears.      you were older too when will byers vanished,    a town set into a frenzy of protecting their children.    suddenly 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚢,    former latchkey kid was the daughter of ᶜᴿᴬᶻʸ ˢᵁᴮᵁᴿᴮᴬᴺᴵᵀᴱˢ concerned with whether their door was locked and their 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 daughter was behind it.         but jim hopper’s sheer presence was more comforting than that of your father’s arms around you:     suffocating you in a cloud of smoke and concerns that he might ᴺᴼᵀ ᵂᴬᴷᴱ when the sun rose.     you don’t quite remember when it happened,      it wasn’t like you had to mourn him the way others did,    all he had been then was chief of police,      𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 in your walks home.     but somewhere after the upside down,    staring your 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 in the face,     something had changed.    you think it had for everyone,    as if life was no longer a guarantee but became someone else’s ᴳᴬᴹᴱ.     but now you’re sitting on your couch,    family portraits lined the shelves but you no longer recognised the faces.       𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝,     packed up a few boxes and set off,    anywhere ᴮᵁᵀ ℎ𝑎𝑤𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑠, 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐀.       you couldn’t blame them,     in the past you had wished/begged that the ground would open up and swallow you whole,    just never thought that it would become a reality.     you would have never have left with them either,      for all you cursed the foundation your house sat upon,    it was home,      𝐡𝐚𝐰𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.

“   ᴵᵀ'ˢ ᴬᴸᴿᴵᴳᴴᵀ,  actually— -    ..          it’s always just been me.      ”

but your voice shakes,     it falters.      you didn’t know 𝑤ℎ𝑜 else to call,     knew that steve would have dropped everything,    but he was with the kids,    they needed him more than ʸᴼᵁ ᴰᴵᴰ,    and you couldn’t stand to spend another minute inside white,   sterile rooms;     the buzz of bodies clashing against the somber atmosphere.        “    uhm,     i  ..        i don’t know why i called.    𝑖 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡,     ..      i came home to just a note and they aren’t missing,    which means nobody really cares,   and steve—       i ᴰᴼᴺ'ᵀ ᵀᴴᴵᴺᴷ his parents are coming back either so i should really just talk to him and let you get back to your family.       ”            rings are twisted on&off of fingers,    interlocking digits as eyes bore holes into the worn carpet below,    blinking back the tears that formed.        “    i shouldn’t have called at all.        uh,    chief—   mr.   hopper?      sorry for taking your time.     ”

[banisheddie-moved]

@badgeworn liked !

❝ my name's been through a lot , i can take it . ❞

[mikewheelertmmoved]

@badgeworn​ rolled the dice ;; " i don't hate you. god, i could never hate you "  ⸻  (  * src  )

          MIKE NEVER CRIED IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE,  it was something  he promised himself when he was much younger,  always keeping his emotions close to his chest & afraid of showing them.    And yet,  why he felt an all too familiar sting behind fast blinking eyes  ?    ❝  You don’t. . .  ?  ❞    Quite words,  his tone unsure,  such contrast to the usual loudness that people were used to when dealing with Mike.    

          Perhaps one day he’d find such thing funny,  the way he doubted the older man’s words,  the way he questioned them,  but for the moment it was hard to believe it,  after everything that had happened and most of all after how hard he tried to push everyone away by being a complete asshole,  something that he was trying to fix,  but it wasn’t a easy feat,  he had so much apologizing to do.    ❝  Even after all the troubles I gave you  ?  ❞    How many times he talked back to Hopper  ?    Or blamed him for things that were out of anyone’s control  ?    Hell,  part of Mike was sure that he probably gave him at least a couple of early gray hair because of the menace that he had been.    ❝  You really mean that.  ❞    It wasn’t a question,  more like a realization.    Ah,  it was getting hard not to crumble right there and then for the sheer relief felt,  because despite everything,  Mike had always looked up to the oftentimes grumpy man,  perhaps because he was everything that his own father wasn’t.