𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐀 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃. Just as he was locking up his bike, head bowed down and thoughts swimming, the sound of a tired exhaust pipe fuming uncomfortably close by made him look up, a curse on the tip of his tongue for whatever high school asshole this time thought it would be funny to nearly run him over, Part of him was surprise and part of him wasn't to find out who it was — after coughing and waving away a small cloud of gas she had left in her wake.
Watching her jump out of the car — a grey, beat-up replica of the 1957 Volkswagen that had taken her all of ten seconds to name — Scout couldn't help but let his eyes wander as she neared. Her appearance was pretty much the same as it always was, but being friends with her for years came with the added ability to tell the difference between a normal school day and what she looked like after the events of last night. Her hair, normally primed and proper, was now tangled and poofy, as if she'd slept in it and merely decided to fix it by throwing on an old headband and calling it a day. She had foregone her usual red lipstick and instead left her lips chapped and cracked; her wide neckline shirt so loose it easily could have been mistaken for pajamas.
Figuring it was better to wait for her to pass, the blond forced himself to focus his attention on his bike lock, rough and silver and paint peeling as opposed to catching his best friend's (former best friend?) eye, soon becoming hyper-aware of a familiar pair of dusty canvas sneakers on the cracked sidewalk cement, his own foot tapping anxiously as he raised his head and peered at Letitia when she'd walked past, her head held high as if nothing had happened.
But behind her cool facade, Letitia Thompson was freaking out.
Not that he could tell, of course. Sure, he could see the difference between a hard day's night and the shit show that went down yesterday, but Letitia would let no one, not even Scout, tell how she felt, how disturbed discovering those photos had been. None of them had been inappropriate, maybe, but the fact that they existed at all, that someone had been following her around while she went about her business, unaware was more than enough to make her skin crawl and her throat itch. No, she would let no one know how unsettled she felt, because no one, least of all Scout, deserved it.
Too bad it was virtually impossible to go about the school day without running into him. Throughout the day, she realized just how many classes she sat next to him for, and how difficult it was to avoid looking at someone and give them the stink eye at the same time.
He didn't know what would happen now. He assumed he and Letitia would figure things out together, like they always did, but that, of course, was out of the question. Nothing he could say or do can possibly change her mind now, and he doesn't blame her in the least. Not to mention that he still had the photos, still buried in the bottom of his backpack from where he'd stuffed them inside the night before, not bearing to bring them out and hide them somewhere else -- that would mean having to look at them.
The hours he spent in class were useless. Like almost everyone else, Scout didn't bother to pay attention, only slouching in his seat and speaking when spoken to. Lunch was a whole other matter, however; standing there with his lunch tray and surveying the packed cafeteria to decide where he should sit was more than he could handle, deciding to dump his food and simply heading to the library to await the next half an hour before he had to return to class.
And that's exactly where he was. His teacher, an older woman with hair painfully resembling unkempt straw, had the look of a middle-aged housewife gone to seed. She peered at the chalkboard through unmade-up eyes that resembled crow's feet, her eyebrows so thin it was nearly impossible to discern them from her pallid skin that aged her beyond her years, and her eyelashes short and stubby. She had the misfortune of being a blonde, and while that might have been attractive back in her youth — during the stone age, no doubt — but now she only looked washed out. She kept her cardigan tight around her middle, probably due to the cold, perhaps new when it was loose, but in the light of the afternoon it looked worn and shabby. Her eyes so washed out it was difficult to tell their hue, it was no wonder no one cared to look at her long enough to find out. Either uncaring or oblivious to her indifferent students, she continued to teach as if everyone was listening, dodging the occasional projectile and carrying on talking.
Until a knock came at the classroom door. Every head turned to see who it was, some making an effort to sit up upon taking in the tall frame of the principal, who crossed the room to whisper into the teacher's ear. Unlike everyone else, watching the interaction curiously, Scout sat motionless, only raising his head when he heard his name.
"Scout Murphy?"
Scout, staring at his shoes, blinked up at the stares of his classmates, wondering what the question was. It wasn't until he finally looked to the front of the room when he saw the principal standing there expectantly when his heart began to beat twice as fast, wondering if, somehow, he knew. "Huh?"
The man nodded grimly toward the door, as if waiting for the blond to understand. He looked back and forth between his teacher before pushing himself up, wincing as he nearly tripped on the legs of his desk in the process; the last thing he wanted was to fall down in front of thirty kids that clearly had an interest in whatever reason he was being pulled out of class. As he followed Mr. Coleman out, letting the wooden door slam on its metal hinges behind him, Scout took in his stony expression; the picture of grief.
Part of him was curious, wanting to know where exactly he was being led and why, but as soon as they reached the gym, the answer couldn't be more clear. The disgusting mixture of stale sweat and body odor hit his nostrils several feet before he walked in, resisting the urge to reach up and pinch his nose in an effort not to smell the stink. Pair that with an embarrassing amount of deodorant — as if that would mask the smell — the gym smelled like any typical school gym would, reeking of pubescent perspiration and raging hormones in equal measure.
There, in the middle of it all, stood a single table, its occupants appearing no more happy to be there than Scout himself. He lingered in the doorway, both unsure and not wanting to find out until the police officers caught sight of him, one of them jerking his head to indicate he should come over and sit down. The interrogation would soon begin.
He did it. The large space now empty — and eerily silent save for the officers' occasional heavy sighs, Scout sat, his leg far too busy anxiously bouncing up and down for his ankle to hook around the leg of the chair as per his habit. Although the men keep the stack of papers in their hands private, it wouldn't take that much of a wild guess to find out what this was all about. He had a feeling Letitia had gone through the same thing. Hell, for all he knew, the seat was still warm.
"We know about the photographs," Callahan said, as if that was enough to get him talking.
"What we don't know is who took them," Officer Powell weighed in, leaning forward for dramatic effect — either that or he really does think doing it will seem more intimidating — "Only reason why we haven't arrested you — again! — is because the Chief seems to think you didn't take them yourself. Neither does your friend either, the one in your photos. Y'all must be tight for her to defend you like that, huh?"
Scout blinked again, processing what the officer said. Letitia defended him? Distracted, worried, and barely seeing the look the two men shared, the blond stared past them, lost in his own thoughts as he tried to grapple for a reason for her to say anything that might even remotely help him. Another police investigation would surely have consequences this time around. Why say anything at all? And the Chief? Where was Hopper if not here, asking Scout these questions himself?
"Where did you get them, if you didn't take them yourself?" Callahan asked, raising an eyebrow with a mixture of curiosity and disgust, and it took more than a few moments for Scout to gather his words, unsure if what he dared to say would be used against him.
"I got them yesterday morning, in the mail," he explained, carefully pronouncing each word as if they stood on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to jump out, "I was on the phone with Letitia, then I hung up, because the door rang. I went to see who it was and all I saw was the package — the pictures were inside this big mailing envelope."
Once again, the officers looked at each other with meaningful glances, as if unbelieving of his story. Scout noticed this time, and turned his head to the side, if only to close his eyes without having to endure the weird looks he often received when he did it in public. When he looked back, his eyes met with two pairs of steely ones, and his heart jumped to his throat.
"I'm telling the truth," he insisted, glancing between them, "I didn't take them myself, I swear. And Letitia says that too, right?"
"We're not obligated to tell you what she said," Powell answered shortly, stacking his papers and shuffling through them nonetheless, licking his finger to turn the pages more easily, "Did you find anything else in the package?"
Scout immediately recognized this as a trick question. If he said no, they would know he was lying because Letitia had told them about the note — BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU. They're waiting for his answer, waiting for him to deny seeing anything else but the photographs and waiting for him to slip up, waiting for a reason to place him in handcuffs once again. This time, it wouldn't just be for money laundering or whatever the hell they thought he did with the hush money in the first place — it would be for stalking, for harassment, maybe even for something ten times worse. He suddenly wished he hadn't come to school today.
Then again, if he hadn't come to school, it would be all the more reason to paint him guilty. For all he knew, he might have stayed home, distracting himself with playing drums in the basement until the moment a squad of police officers broke down his door, guns drawn — no longer merely for show in their holsters — and canvasing the house until they found him, probably scared out of his mind to the point pissing his pants is a very real possibility.
On second thought, he was glad he didn't stay home.
"There was a note or something at the bottom," Scout mentioned, taking note of the small nod one of them made at his statement, "It was like, a postcard maybe? It didn't feel like a piece of paper, it was thicker, but I...I don't know. It was from 1984."
"1984?" Callahan repeated, looking doubtful at his partner, "Kid, it is 1984. You not paying attention?"
"No," the blond corrected impatiently, scooting forward, wincing at the sound of metal scraping on the floor, "It had the phrase from 1984 on it. The book, by George Orwell? The background was red and there was an eyeball at the top; underneath it was the phrase 'Big Brother is Watching You'." From their expressions, it was obvious it didn't ring a bell. He felt a need to explain further. "We read it in class a couple months back."
"Okay." Powell held up a hand, as if being inside a school and hearing about a literary reference was too much education for him to handle. "So, where are the pictures?"
At this, Scout clammed up, not sure what the right thing to say was. He could go with truth — that they were still in his bag, back in the classroom — but it didn't seem very wise to admit he'd brought dozens of stalker photos with him to school as if it was normal. Nothing was stopping him from telling them that they were at home, hidden, because that was the smart thing to do, but Scout had not been smart about anything during this whole thing. Had he been smart, he would have called the brown-skinned girl right back and informed her of what he'd found, rather than stupidly putting them in his backpack for her to stumble across like a fool.
"I — don't have them," he lied, forcing himself to look them in the eyes, hoping it would make it seem more believable, "I left them at home. I'm not gonna bring stuff like that to school. I'm not stupid."
Right.
This answer seemed to satisfy them, as if they really did believe no one would be stupid enough to bring such things to school. (Newsflash! Scout is.) The gym remained as silent as ever, still as a tomb, while the officers seemed to have an entire conversation with just their eyes and facial expressions, the blond too busy thinking to notice the language that apparently cleared him of suspicion — for the moment. Sounds of classes being let out one by one began to fill the hallway, students talking and shouting as school released for the day.
"You can go," Powell said, breaking the silence and shooting his partner a glance when he gave a small "Seriously?" at that. Just as he's about to escape, the man grabbed his wrist, the grip surprisingly tight for his age, a warning flashing within his eyes as the boy looked down. "You're mixed in with some deep shit, son. Whatever it is, you need to come clean. Bring the pictures by the station, and we can talk more then. Talk to your dad, sort things out, but whoever you're covering for, Steve Harrington, your girlfriend, whatever, it's got to come out. Before someone gets hurt. Got it?"
Scout wordlessly nodded, somehow even more spooked by the man's words than by the whole brief interrogation itself. With one more glance over his shoulder, he walked out of the gym, taking one step into the hallway and blending in with the crowd.
After retrieving his backpack from the classroom, now empty except for the teacher that so graciously informed him of the homework assignment he totally intended to do, he allowed himself to be pulled into the throng of high schoolers again, this time walking with the flow instead of against it, his head down as he followed the pair of combat boots in front of him, wherever they seemed to be going. The photos in his bag seemed to weigh ten times more than they did that morning when he forced the lot back into the envelope, not caring as he bent and tore a handful of them in the process; whatever it takes not to look at them.
There's absolutely no way he can tell his dad about this, if he doesn't know already. Clark Murphy might not have been the definition of a good parent, but if the police told him what they really thought might have happened, there was no way he wouldn't seize the opportunity to set Scout on the straight and narrow, as he called it. To punish him for wrongdoing — and for such an act, if taken at face value, too — and to be able to tell his friends he did it. "Got to keep a kid in line, no other way to do it." He reminded himself that his father had never laid a hand on him. Part of whispers back that that is all it takes.
He's heard the phrase "mama's boy" sometimes tossed around in such conversations. It always makes him scoff when it is, since the irony is too strong for him to let the comment pass him by. How could he be when his own mother wasn't around for him to become attached to? How, when the only motherly influence he had was fleeting moments with women who wanted nothing to do with him? Joyce Byers was all the proof he needed (and perhaps Letitia's mother too; her edgy treatment of him must have increased tenfold). Perhaps he is a mama's boy, and that was alright. The world was in desperate need of tenderizing; and from his perspective, the stronger the man, the more tender he could be.
He was fiddling with his bike lock outside when he got the feeling of being watched. Lately, it almost felt like he was used to it.
He continued to jam his key into the lock, cursing quietly under his breath when the damn thing just won't open, until it was impossible to ignore the shadow behind him, the figure probably much shorter and less wide than their silhouette made them out to be. What Scout least expected, however, was to turn around and find Steve standing there, hands shoved in pockets and looking pained.
"Steve...h-hey," was the only thing the blond could think to say to him first, his grip on the lock now loosening considerably as he took in the senior's presence.
"Hey," he answered back awkwardly, looking between the boy and the bike, a lightbulb of understanding lighting up when he saw his struggle, motioning toward his hands where the lock still resided, "Um, I can..."
"Oh," Scout looked down at the lock as if seeing it for the first time, a stray thought wondering if Steve had any underlying motivations for wanting to help him, "Um, no, I've — I've got it. Thank you, though..."
Steve nodded, watching the blond as somehow, he's able to open the lock finally and unravel the chain around his bike, kneeling down in the process. "I uh, heard you got pulled out of class."
He nodded back, visibly shivering against the cold and quite possible something else, his fingers nearly snapping off in the simple act of pulling free the chain. All he gave in response, however, was "Yeah," keeping his attention on the silver irons weaved through the tire, as if the silence he's met with isn't an answer enough.
Somehow, though, he felt like he owed him more. Steve might not have been the one in the photographs, but he, perhaps more than anybody — second to only Letitia — knew of the whole ordeal. One of the only people he might be able to trust, even. The police certainty weren't keen on their story, save for Hopper, but God knows where he is, leaving Scout to sigh while still kneeled, his thumb grazing the cool, cold metal as he thought.
Finally, he stood up, slinging his backpack off his shoulder and balancing it on the metal of the bike rack, shoving the chains inside, careful not to look at the envelope. "I fucked up, Steve," he said finally, zipping it close and tossing it on his shoulder again, "I-I'm really freaking out, the police questioned me, Letitia's pissed — and I don't blame her — and everything, everything's so much worse than I thought it would be." He was talking fast now, much faster than he intended, sucking in huge breaths as fast as he could take them, unsure if it was his anxiety or the freezing cold weather, "And I made it worse — like, way, WAY worse than if I just like, said something before. I don't know why I didn't. No. That's a lie. I do know why I didn't. But that's not an excuse..."
"Whoa, Scout, just take a breath, okay?" Steve stood there, his eyes wide after the whole dump Scout just took on him, his hands held out in front of him like he was calming a wild animal, "I don't know what happened, but I'm sure you can fix it. Whatever you did, Letitia'll forgive you. You guys are best friends."
Best friends. Ha! For all he knew, they were anything but. He had absolutely no right to claim that title anymore, not after last night. All he wanted to do was go to her house and beg her to listen, beg her to hear him explain, but there was nothing more to say, not on his end. He had made that clear the night before, when he spilled his guts and she left him standing there as she walked away without a word. He wished she'd yelled at him. At least then he'd know exactly what she was thinking. That way he'd be sure of her opinion of him.
Because what was that Powell said? Letitia had told them she knew he didn't take the photographs himself; at least that was something. Whatever she was thinking when she found out, something in his explanation had convinced her that he hadn't done it. If nothing else, that mention, that tiny sliver of information — it was comforting.
"I don't know what to do," Scout admitted when he was calm enough to speak again, embarrassingly shy to look Steve in the eye. The words seemed to hit home once they were out of his mouth, and he repeated them, softer than before. "I...I don't know what to do."
Watching his every move with an air of worry, Steve nodded to himself before taking his keys out of his pocket and flipping them over his finger. "Okay, come on."
Scout raised his head. "Huh? Where?"
Steve was already walking away when he answered. "I don't know."
○ ○ ○
Scout was grateful that Steve had parked in the teacher's parking lot. Apart from his momentary breakdown in front of him (and yikes...was that embarrassing) part of him just wants to say 'fuck it' and climb into the car and drive away, not even thinking about the consequences of taking up one of the many assigned parking spaces resigned for the educators behind the school. At least it stops other people from staring, and for now, that's all Scout wants to think about.
Neither of them had spoken since they'd driven off. Although the thought of having to initiate conversation with someone he didn't quite know — and have that person be Steve Harrington, of all people — would normally make him shudder beyond belief, Scout had a feeling that the Harrington boy knew more than he let on. For as long as he could remember, Scout had been pretty proficient at reading people, whether that stemmed from his anxiety or something else he wasn't even aware of, he didn't know, but it certainly didn't take a detective to see that the brunette was nervous; the way his hands shifted on the steering wheel, the way his eyes always seemed to dart somewhere sideways whenever Scout tried to chance a look at him — all tells he knew how to read, yet didn't know how to interpret.
Or maybe he did. He just didn't want to. It was much easier thinking about Letitia and his own problems than roping in Steve Harrington in the middle of it.
The cold winter wind pushed on the car to no avail. At one point, it almost seemed as if Steve was having trouble controlling it, but a quick grunt in response to his half-winded question says more than if they'd had a full length conversation about it. Scout simply left it at that — it was clear neither of them were big on talking at the moment, and he was very much okay with that — and turned his attention outside, watching the scenery he'd seen a thousand times go by in a blur at the speed they were going. He frowned, thinking of it. The more rational part of him said it was dangerous, but Scout's more philosophical, think-deeper side almost whispers the question that's bugging him. Steve himself admitted that he had no idea where they were going, so why the hurry? It wasn't like they had somewhere to be.
And yet, as he put more thought into it, Scout settled the nagging thought by chalking it up to Steve being Steve. Hell, for all he knew, he drove at neck breaking speeds just for the fun of it, and he was pained to find that, as usual, one thought led to another, his father was once again the subject of his internal ramblings.
Why hadn't he stayed the morning after? Scout highly doubted he forgot about his promise, and while he for one was very much not looking forward to taking part in that conversation, he didn't want to delay it, either, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There hadn't been a note, a sign, anything — although he was kidding himself if he thought he would have noticed anything else after receiving the package — but now that he thought about it, was there something that he'd missed? Had his dad left him something saying that they were to talk elsewhere? After school, maybe? Why hadn't he checked?
Shit, maybe there was something in their mess of a kitchen. He was usually the one who ended up cleaning around the house when things got so messy he couldn't stand to be around it anymore, learning how to do laundry — at the expense of many of his sweatshirts, unfortunately — and pay rent whenever Clark wasn't home, amongst a whole list of things he was fairly certain teenagers weren't supposed to learn how to do until they were functional adults. Sometimes he was greeted with a surprise, like the dishes washed or take-out, but it wasn't as enough as he wished it would be. He deserved more than that.
So consumed in his thoughts, Scout failed to acknowledge the tension in the car as they sped past stop signs and suburban houses, the movie theater and probably half a dozen other small town landmarks that have probably been up for half a century. No, the boys were quiet and absorbed in their own problems, moving forward to nowhere, and nothing but a blessed tragedy could change that. The tires made a monotonous hiss over the slick country roads, the air making its way through the filters filling the small space with a rain-soaked smell that caused the blond's mouth to tug at the corners. Inside the ratty vehicle destined for the horizon — perfect for road trips and adventures, not so great for the car itself, it wheezed to rival his asthma attacks — the world outside continued like some choreographed dance, yet lacking the soul it so desperately needed. Everything was so normal, even when he wasn't.
Steve fiddled with the radio as he drove, if only to make some effort to fill the silence. Music from the latest popular tunes filled the car until Scout had had enough, a headache threatening to form with the way the Harrington boy zoomed through each station, hardly stopping to listen to one thing before racing onto another. He reached out and turned the dial all the way down until he could no more hear the static from the radio than the incessant humming in his ears from the loud noise. He could feel the odd look Steve was giving him, without even having to check; he could practically feel those hazel eyes boring into him with a slew of questions he isn't ready to answer. Either to get him of his case, or merely for his own sake, Scout found his voice cutting through the silence with an explanation. "You were giving me a headache."
If Steve took offense to that, he certainly did a good job of hiding it. Instead, he only nods and turns back in front of him, his hands on the steering now even more clench than before, his side glances now painfully ricocheting from Scout to the road, as if he kept forgetting he wasn't supposed to be looking over at his passenger. Eventually, Scout knew he was going to drive himself crazy, trying to figure out whatever the hell was going on within Steve Harrington's head, and his thoughts once again turned back to Letitia, the word sof what he might possible say to her if they saw one another again flipping over and over on the tip of his tongue like a fish out of water: awkward and out of place. Wrong.
"Wait," Scout found himself saying, turning in realization; he could go over to her now, maybe see if she was willing to talk. Didn't that officer say he had to drop off the photographs for some kind of further investigation? At least this way he could have an excuse to talk to her — that is, if she even answered her own door, which he really really hoped she would -- and hand over the envelope once and for all. The matter might not be out of his hands, but at least the physical evidence could be. Good. The sooner those photographs were out of his sight, the better. "C-can you take me to Letitia's house? I have something I need to give her. And something...something I need to tell her too. I think."
He faltered, not bothering to fake regaining his composure, earning yet another poorly concealed look from the brunette before he decided to let it go, simply nodding again. "Sure, man. Uh, where's she live?"
"Turn here," the blond said suddenly, now recognizing the route Steve had been taking the whole time, recognition dawning on his features until he was unable to hide his reaction at the senior's choice of driving, feeling much more cheery than he felt when he asked, a shadow of a smile, "You were going in circles this whole time?"
The Harrington boy hesitated, seeming lost for a moment as he looked over and saw Scout smiling faintly. "Um, yeah, kind of. I didn't really know where to go, like, go, you know, so I've been making right turn after right turn like someone else is driving the car, not me. I was so busy thinking that I wasn't really paying attention, I guess. Probably not the safest move, sorry."
"Steve Harrington, thinking?" Scout teased, the anxious feeling in the pit of his chest soothing just the tiniest bit, "I didn't think it was possible. Don't worry, I'll tell you if steam's coming out of your ears so you know when to stop."
"Ha ha," Steve deadpanned, although he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel the corners of his mouth tugging upwards too, "Now, are you ever gonna tell me why you looked like you saw a ghost before? You — you seemed really freaked out."
"I am really freaked out." He exhaled, watching his breath turn into a brief cloud in front of his face; so tired all of a sudden, it takes a bigger effort than it's worth to open his mouth and continue to explain. "Something happened with Letitia and — I really messed up, man. I could've made things right and things wouldn't be as bad right now, but I didn't, and like, for what?" he laughed bitterly. "For what, 'cause I wanted to have a good night? That's fucking selfish, and now everyone's super fucking pissed at me, like they should be, Letitia, the cops, my dad, you — "
"Whoa, whoa, hold on," the Harrington boy interrupted, holding up a hand and glancing at him, "Since when am I pissed at you? I never said that."
"You don't have to," Scout managed, rubbing his hands over his face as if it offers him some consolation, "You went to Night Vale with me, and then I dragged you into this mess by association, that's like, the definition of — I mean, why wouldn't you be pissed me? You have the cops on your back because of the money the mayor gave us, does that not bother you?"
The senior shrugged, focusing on the road, relying on his own memory of the small town's residences to find where the brown-skinned girl lived, seeing as directions from Scout clearly seemed to be taking a backseat. "I mean, yeah, it does, but it's not like I've never gotten in trouble with the police, you know? Remember last year when — when Barb...died? She disappeared and the last place she was at was my house, for Christ's sake. I had the cops up my ass for weeks, probably even longer." He sighed. "Trust me, it's nothing new."
Something about his answer didn't sit quite right, Scout thought, lips parting to answer or question what he'd just heard. But before he could get a chance, the car suddenly rolled to a sudden stop, causing the blond to lurch forward in his seat, his heat almost colliding with the mirror in front of him.
"Letitia's house," Steve announced brightly, although his expression immediately dimmed when he took in the look on the boy's face, reconsidering his words. "Hey, look, man. You'll go in there, give her what she needs, then say whatever you need to say. She's gonna listen to you, it's really obvious, you guys love each other. Right...?"
This time, it was Steve who faltered, whether he realized while speaking that his words weren't having the impact he intended or because something compelled him to keep his mouth shut; whatever it was, Scout wasn't playing much attention, instead staring at the window at one of the windows, as if imagining how badly their interaction would go, then and there.
"Okay." Scout breathed, more to himself than to his companion, and with another deep breath, he wrenched open the car door and stumbled out, making his way across the yellowing lawn, hands in pockets and head tilted down, like a condemned man tasked to build his own coffin. Strands of his blond hair fell loose from his fringe and lay in front of his eyes, but he made no move to brush them away, only reaching a shaking hand — whether from the cold or something else — to ring the doorbell before standing there, alone, as the Harrington boy intently watched from the street.
Even the doorbell had a weariness to it too, as if it had been rung one time too many. Great. He'd never related to a doorbell before, but here it was with its strangled shrill and draining energy as it continued to ring; this was too pathetic. He was too pathetic. He had half a mind to walk away right now —
"What are you doing here, Scout?"
Just as he'd hoped — or perhaps, feared — Letitia is standing there with her hand on the door, looking utterly unimpressed as she takes in all five feet and ten inches of his hunched frame. Dressed in thick, and if he was being honest, comfy pajama combo that he instantly recognizes was a gift from her twin cousins last Christmas, the brown-skinned girl's clothing clashes horribly with the deep frown she wears on her face. Her face nearly contours to match with it, and one of Scout's first thoughts was that it didn't suit her. His best friend may have had a resting bitch face — something she often flip-flopped from complaining about to laughing about it — but he hated the fact that he was the reason for her suffering.
If only he had reported the damn photos!
And yet there's nothing he can do about it now, except offer her the photographs and apologize his heart out again like he very much wants to, but doubts Letitia is willing to hear. The silence between them is momentarily drowned out by some kind of loud crash on the television in the next room, to which they both turn their heads to, as if someone really did total their car in the middle of the Murphy living room. Scout wished he was in that explosion. At least then he wouldn't have to be here, despite it being entirely his idea.
"Well?" Letitia crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe — without even falling; if things weren't so tense, he'd be impressed and point it out. "I'm waiting, Scout. Why. Are. You. Here?"
Somehow, he managed to find his breath again, reaching blindly behind his back to try and grasp his backpack instead of simply slinging it over his shoulder, eventually doing just that when he realized how ridiculous he must look, groping behind himself like that. "I...I wanted to give you the photos. N-Not wanted, obviously, it's not like I want you to have them, it's just — I thought you should look at them, and I — wait, no, that's not what I mean either...Fuck!" He exclaimed, cringing immediately and looking over his friend's shoulder to see if her parents had heard. Judging by her lax attitude at his swear, they didn't appear to; a small relief. He shook his head slightly, averting his eyes. "I'm just really sorry, Letitia. More sorry than you know."
His eyes weren't on her to see it, but her tense behavior dropped for the briefest of moments, listening to his apology. Whatever made her soften, however, was immediately crushed as soon as Scout retrieved the envelope from his bag and handed it over, both taking care not to touch each other's hands as the mail changed hands. The brown-skinned girl didn't peek inside, only turning it over and over in her hands before raising her gaze and finding the blond still standing there, as if waiting for something else.
"Well" she asked again. The pleasantries had faded without a trace, leaving only a rightfully harsh tone. "Is that it?"
If it was possible for the boy's face to fall even further, it would have. Biting his lip as if contemplating saying anything else, he evidently decides to go for it, stepping back slightly to reveal more of Steve's car parked on the street, said boy inside giving a sheepish wave as if to apologize for his presence. "Um, we were wondering — well, more like I was wondering...if you wanted to come with us? Just, just anywhere, really!" he quickly reiterated, not wanting her to get the wrong idea, "Honestly, we don't even know where we're headed yet, but if you want...you could figure it out with us...?"
For a moment, he thought he had her sold. But he mistranslated the look on her face to mean something entirely different, because she drops the envelope on the small shiny wooden table beside the door and the moment she's able, dons a fake impression, one that clearly is mocking him. "Oh, come with you? You and your new best friend, Steve Harrington?" Not even a beat goes by before she drops the high voice and returns to her steely one. "Get lost, Scout. I don't want anything to do with you or your new friend, alright? You guys can go hang out while I do actual shit that matters. Like trying to fucking find out who's stalking me!"
With that, she slammed the door, the cool air from the brief whirlpool of wind cooling his burning cheeks, red from both embarrassment (or anger, he didn't know what the hell he was feeling) or from her implication. As he walked back to the car, like a shamed puppy with its tail between its legs, he hoped so, so hard that Steve hadn't heard that. Or, if he was feeling lucky, any of that, really.
"Man, you guys are really fighting, huh?"
"Yeah." The last thing he felt like dishing out was an explanation, despite knowing he should probably lay it all out for the brunette's sake. And yet, as the thought crosses his mind, the brown-skinned girl's implication echoes in his mind, and he stays silent.
Another beat. Steve turned the key, bringing the car's engine to a rushing roar. "Hey, don't worry man. You guys love each other, right, she'll come to her senses. Girls always do. Sometimes they're kinda crazy, but it all works out in the end, you'll see."
"Oh yeah?" Scout couldn't help but scoff at the boy's advice. " Like how it worked out so well with you and Nancy?"
"What?" All of his composure was momentarily abandoned for a defensive tone. He'd wanted to be nice for the guy, going through some kind of break-up on top of everything going around with Night Vale, but he wasn't going to just roll over and take it. "Nancy's got nothing to do with this man, I'm talking about you and Tisha."
"Letitia," the blond corrected. Steve was in no place to use that nickname, and he'd be damned if he let him, even if it led to another fight between them. "Besides, there is no "me and Letitia"," — he made air quotes in the air with his fingers — "We're just friends, okay? Literally nothing more."
Like everyone else who hears this, Steve gives him a look, as if he's somehow kidding himself and no, really, they really are in a relationship! Pretty shitty boyfriend he must make then, Scout couldn't help but think. All he ever seems to do is mess up big time. Imagine what that would feel like to a friend as close as Letitia, much less a significant other.
The Harrington boy made a poor attempt at backtracking. "Hey, man, I'm sorry, it was just a question."
"Pretty stupid question," Scout muttered, pulling his jacket tighter around his body, almost burrowing into it, slouching in his seat, "Why does everyone always ask that?"
Another pause. "I don't know," Steve admitted, whether honestly or not remained to be seen, "You guys just seem to have like a different kind of relationship than most couples — er, I mean, most friendships," he hastily corrected, seeing Scout's glare, "You're closer or something, but you don't like each in — in that way." As if it will lighten things, he joked, "Some people might take you for a queer."
At the comment, Scout was immensely glad he was already facing the other direction so Steve couldn't see the change in his face. When Letitia implied it, it was one thing — especially since they'd long made a promise to be comfortable around each other in their own skins, even though everyone around them disapproved; hated it, despised it — but to hear it coming from Steve? That was something else. What did he know about Scout? What did he know about his own identity, something he'd come to terms with not too long ago? He had no right to judge, much less say anything about it, even as a joke. And yet Scout knew how dangerous it was not to laugh and joke along, to agree as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he chose to go with his heart, squashing his more reasonable thoughts away as he forced himself not to slump even further in his seat. "Screw off, Steve," was all he said, but it isn't enough.
He looked Scout up, down, and back again — probably not the best decision for someone driving a car, so it's lucky that they've just stopped at a traffic light, back to driving aimlessly again — before the silence of a very long pause begins to expand between them like a balloon filled with awkward tension. It pops when the Harrington boy finally understands. "Oh. Oh." He looked like he wanted to say something else, but with his mouth still making a small ridiculous O shape in surprise, all he said was, "I uh — I didn't know you were one of — one of them."
"Just drop it," the blond told him, his tone as harsh as he intended. Before the harrington boy could say something else or protest, Scout fully turned his body to the window, not quite focused on the scenery going by, but straining to listen to something, anything that indicated more of Steve's reaction. Due to the frost covered window, however, all the blond was able to see was his own pitiful reflection, and he rubbed his ringed pointer finger on the glass to see outside, missing the meaningful glance his companion shot in his direction.
"I-I think it's brave," Steve offered.
What?
"What?" Scout was fully sure he hadn't heard correctly. "Why?"
Steve seemed to speak without thinking, his fingers no longer drumming the steering wheel, but rigid and stationary, his posture as straight as it had probably ever been. "I guess...the whole world hates what they are, but they keep doing it anyway. They don't want to pretend to be someone they're not, so they don't. Even though...even though they know what'll happen."
His words made Scout pause in his little artistic endeavor of drawing shapes in the fog of the car window, letting it sink in. He had never thought of it that way before. Liking boys and not girls had been something he realized early on as a kid, despite only actually really knowing what it meant much later on, mostly when words like that were thrown around as an insult. While most of the rest of his male classmates had been fawning over which girl in their class was the hottest — in all most disrespectful and disgusting ways possible — Scout had been infatuated with a boy that seemed to swim through school social standings like they were the waves of the ocean of his hometown. Christopher Vanderbatten — or Chris, as his friends knew him, which Scout was most certainly not — had a way with putting people at ease, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. At first, Scout had simply thought he was jealous, envious of the way Chris could make people more comfortable around him with so little effort, but it wasn't until after the boy moved away, back to the sunny high seas of Southern California when the realization made the blond stop in his tracks. Oh. So that's why.
Perhaps it was this reason he was so glad he had Letitia as a friend. They were able to be open about things like that to each other without having to fear hate or judgement if they were anything like the rest of Hawkins. Things seemed simpler when they were together; all the more reason why he was so freaking pissed off and upset and frustrated and embarrassed , plus a million other negative emotions at himself for his decision.
But right now, he was stunned beyond belief. Given the crowd he'd always hung out with, it seemed Steve too wouldn't be...the most accepting of someone being anything other than straight. Yet here he was, the same words out of his mouth that he would never find elsewhere. Putting aside the circumstances, they were comforting, almost. Forgetting Steve couldn't see his face, Scout allowed a smile, a genuine one that quite possibly might make him rethink a ton of things he thought he'd known. But for now, it was a smile, and that was enough.
Seeing the blond's reflection in the foggy window, Steve, sheepish and unsure, gave a small smile of his own.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄
Hi wow okay so a lot happened in this chapter! One thing I really hope I emphasized (and will hopefully become more clear as we go on) is that the reason Scout isn't being like, arrested on the spot for the photos despite being the primary suspect is that a) he doesn't own the type of camera that would have taken such precise photographs, b) Hopper doesn't think so and has (probably) shared his reasoning with the officers but they don't believe it, and c) Letitia is adamant (outside of the events of this chapter) that Scout isn't the one who did it. So yeah!
+ the interaction with Steve!! Slowly building up their relationship is honestly so fun, he's very hesitant to say what he said to Scout about lgbt+ people being brave for being who they are (and it's true!!) and lowkey might be more to please Scout but it's still there, even if it's... um... slightly recinded(SPELLING) sometime in the future ;)
++ why yes I did include that gif up top of Letitia because her outfits of Zoe Love Smith in Skam are so cute, she rocks literally any piece of clothing she puts on I can only dream
Thanks for reading!