Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

vii. face the music

𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐏𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐔𝐏. His first view of him was the beat up pick up truck he'd had for long over a decade — hell, he would even bet good money it was older than him — as it screeched to a stop in the first available parking space; that is to say, as close as you could get to the door without bulldozing the building down.

Watching him get closer, the blond simply sat on the hard plastic chair he'd been offered by Hopper before he was told the man took up his heat and left without another word, leaving Scout to wait for the deputies to reach his father. It had been so long that he had watched Steve be escorted home by his own father, a suited man with a sour expression that looked like a bomb waiting to go off, his fist clenched as if he were holding himself back from dragging his son out by the ear. Despite how he felt about the Harrington, Scout couldn't help but feel a pang of pity as he watched him walk away.

It felt like hours had passed. And maybe they had, he didn't know; no clock existed amongst the cluttered, overcrowded police station, leaving Scout to tell the time by the sun's slow descant through a grim window just over his right shoulder. An officer, apt as they come, had been instructed not to keep his eyes off him, but for once, he was glad for the police stereotype, for the man had stared at him for a mere fifteen minutes before walking off, bored. Scout was free of any lingering prying eyes — save for the men that busted him in the first place.

Deputies Callahan and Powell had returned with questions as plentiful as freak accidents — or so they claimed — in Hawkins, Indiana, pestering until it became painfully clear Scout would not say a word. Many of them were accusations, but without any clear proof or word of law, only the chief's instructions, they were forced to leave it alone, soon becoming busy by the pressing demands of their job. From what it sounded like, Steve hadn't said a word, about the money, the lying, any of it, so it was thanks to Scout that they were being allowed to go home instead of shivering on the bed of a prison cell that night.

Only when his father neared him did Scout stop fidgeting. In fact, he stopped moving altogether, willing his leg to stop bouncing and his fingers to stop tapping; hell, he would force himself to stop breathing if he could, because at this point, he might as well have run a marathon with the rate of his breathing. With one last glance at the door before it was wrench open, the bell chiming mockingly, Scout pulled the brim of his baseball cap over his eyes as far as it would go before slouching even further in his seat, wishing more than ever he were anywhere but here.

But as much as he hoped, it obviously didn't happen. Instead, he listened to the dreaded clomping of thick work boots across the linoleum floor until they stopped mere inches from his own. Breathlessly, he waited for an indication, anything, a sign that they could go home, foolishly thinking they could put the day's events behind them.

Scout was the first one to break, lifting his head tentatively where it was tucked into his chest and lifting the brim of his cap until he could see properly again, twisting it around out of habit should it provide any semblance, no matter how small, of comfort. Unlike father and son, not a single person pays attention to their wordless interaction, except maybe Deputy Callahan, who looks as if he wanted to stop him from walking out, but deciding against it upon taking in the silent fury on Clark's face.

It takes only a jerk of his father's head to get Scout stumbling over his shoes to stand, following him right back out the door like a wounded puppy desperate to please its master. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his faded pink hoodie, his eyes hitting the floor as he walked, the irony of the situation not lost on him.