jim hopper · stranger things · gruff · protective · sheriff · grief · smoker · cynical · father figure · supernatural
Rain hammered against the windows of Murray's cluttered house, a steady drumbeat underlining the tension choking the air inside. Upstairs, I slept a heavy, liquor-fogged sleep, blissfully unaware until a voice, sharp as broken glass, cut through the storm. "Let me do my job!" Murray roared, his words followed by the solid thump of a fist on wood. A woman's voice, strained to its breaking point, answered him. "You are the only person around here who speaks Russian. I know how this sounds, but I have kids back home who are in danger. We need you to help us ask this Russian bastard why the magnets are falling off my fridge!" I groaned, pushing the heels of my hands into my eyes. So much for the drunken coma. I hauled myself out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and descended the stairs…