Work Text:
Calefaction
***
1
Will looks tiny where he lies, buried beneath the sheets.
The hospital room is bare and impersonal. The bitter smell of antiseptic washes over her as Jonathan perches on the edge of his brother’s bed and speaks in a hushed voice. Joyce listens from the side, cringing when Will coughs in the middle of his answer.
“. . . and this one has my–my favorites on it?”
She’s seated closer to the door; obsessively watching the heart monitor and hugging herself warm. The machine beeps loudly while the boys talk, but Joyce hears everything from a distance, clutching her elbows and gritting her teeth; she can barely understand the symbols on the dim screen.
“. . . I can make you another tape if you think this one sucks . . .”
Will giggles and hoarsely provides a suggestion, grinning as Jonathan laughs—a beautiful, rare sound. She almost moves to join them but something holds her back.
“I’m going to the ladies',” Joyce says, stepping forward to press gentle kisses into their hair. Offering them a small smile before she goes, she picks up her purse and carefully closes the door behind her. As soon as she’s in the corridor, she’s thrown into the bustle of the hospital and cut off from the sounds of the room. Taking a measured breath, Joyce begins walking toward the elevator.
Will isn’t alone, she reasons, pounding the down button with a fist. Jonathan will protect him—and her eldest can take care of himself—but she hesitates when she reaches the lobby, head spinning with exhaustion as she turns on the spot, mere steps from the exit. Her shoes squeak obnoxiously on the linoleum floor.
“Watch it, ma’am,” someone calls—a nurse wheeling their patient down the hallway—and Joyce careens to the side, bumping into the wall as her thoughts begin to spiral.
“S–sorry–”
The nurse and their patient trundle past, and Joyce stumbles through the glass doors until she’s on the front steps outside, struggling with the cigarette between her fingers because her damn hands won’t stop shaking.
“Hey.”
Swinging around and almost falling over, she finds Hopper standing in the shadow of the entrance; wedged into a nook in the wall and smoking.
“What-what are you still doing here?” The question feverishly warbles out of her, sounding like an accusation. Joyce cringes at his silence, bringing the cigarette back up to her lips, but it’s burned out. She drops the butt to the floor, glances up at the sky then gives Hopper her attention. Dawn is breaking above the treeline and his face is shadowed by the hat slanted low on his head.
If she didn’t know him as a sweet, mouthy kid, an intense, reckless teenager, or, most recently, the man who saved her son’s life, he would intimidate her.
Slowly, Hopper walks forward until he’s close enough to touch. Her question remains unanswered but this new proximity allows her to see his eyes—they’re bloodshot and dilated. The fatigue is clearly etched into his face.
Joyce bites her lip and turns away, fumbling with another cigarette. The lighter falls from her hands and she curses, swiveling to watch it bounce uncontrollably before it lands on the uneven asphalt a couple of feet away.
Somehow, that small inconvenience almost breaks her.
Before she decides whether to cry or bend down to retrieve it, Hopper’s hand hovers in front of her nose with a lighter burning bright between his fingers. She tips the cigarette up and moves toward the flame, puffing until the paper ignites. The smoke does its job; her raw nerves are quickly tempered by a few deep pulls. “Thanks,” she whispers, shivering.
“Sure.” He tucks the lighter back into his pocket, ashing his own cigarette on the ground. They stand together near the steps, silently watching people move in and out of the hospital. After a large group passes through the double doors and they’re left standing alone beside the entrance, he stomps on his third smoke, crushing it beneath his boot, and turns to look at her. “We need to talk.”
She nearly chokes but holds the cough in, clearing her throat instead. “About–about what?”
He's fixated on a point just over her right shoulder when he explains himself. “They want us to sign some stuff.”
“What stuff?
He still doesn’t meet her eyes, now staring at an ambulance carefully parking in the bay nearby. “Stuff that keeps our mouths shut, Joyce.”
Her exhausted brain struggles to process his words. She brings her cigarette back up to her lips and inhales. “So . . . they want us to pretend none of this ever happened?” She blows out the smoke. “We pretend that Will just got lost?”
“I don’t know what the official line will be–”
She almost loses her composure; cutting across him as righteous anger blooms in her chest. “Official–official line, Hopper? Who cares? Who cares?” Her voice rises with each word, and a passerby stares over in confusion as he walks closer, entering the hospital.
Hopper finally meets her heated gaze as he looks down at her, frowning. “This isn’t a choice. Those were the terms. To get Will back, we agreed to keep quiet. That’s the deal.”
“I–I can’t think about this right now.”
He doesn’t budge. “You have to,” he replies, turning away from her and moving to light another smoke. “They may try to contact you. That’s why I’m here.”
Joyce jolts forward, horrified. “I–I left the boys alone–”
“They’re fine. The whole town knows Will’s alive now, they won’t hurt him. My guys are all over the place, but . . .” He sighs, bringing his hand up to his face; rubbing his eyes and then his jaw. “But I don’t want to take any chances. So I’m here.”
She swallows. "You're–"
"Just in case," he states, nodding. "Keeping an eye out."
The cigarette between her lips burns out, and she lets the butt slip out of her mouth and fall to the ground. Her throat is tight as she brings the heels of her hands up to her burning eyes.
Lonnie doesn’t even know his son is alive.
“Joyce?”
“I–” She turns away, walking to face the wall, breaths labored and harsh. A whimper escapes her lips, pathetic to her own ears, and she covers her mouth with a palm.
He sighs. “Listen to me . . . I’ll handle as much of this as I can. You’re . . .” He sighs again, standing behind her as she lets her forehead rest against the exposed brick exterior of the hospital. She feels his hand on her shoulder; its warmth seeps through her thin clothes and straight into her skin. “You’re not alone,” he says, gruff and low.
A small sob climbs up her throat; she clasps her hand tightly around her mouth to stifle the sound.
“Joyce, it’s okay,” he murmurs, pulling her away from the wall with his palm still on her shoulder. She looks up at his tired face, twisted in concern. “It’s okay.”
Embarrassed, she wipes her face with shaky hands and meets his eyes. “It’s not okay,” she croaks, remembering the eerie darkness of the world below their feet, and the coldness of Will’s skin under her fingers. “Jesus, Hop. It’s not okay,” she repeats.
“It is,” Hopper replies, bringing his free hand to her other shoulder; bracketing her. “It is okay. You found him. You have him. That’s all that matters.”
“Hop–”
“Joyce,” he insists, bending down and shocking her with his earnest expression. He brings his palms up to her face, very gently cradling her head and forcing her to look up at him. “Listen to me. Nothing else matters."
They stare at each other in silence as the sky continues to lighten. His eyes are deep and blue; his pupils unusually large. For a moment the expression on his face softens—his eyes darken, and the pads of his thumbs sneak out to brush at the new tear tracks staining her cheeks. Joyce loses her breath and closes her eyes, feeling her emotions unfold.
Do you know what I would give? For a chance?
“Hop . . .” she replies, searching for the right thing to say and failing to find it. Instead, she reaches up to grip his wrists; pressing her fingers into his skin, hard and desperate. There is something bitter and rough about him, about both of them, but his calloused hands on her cheeks are cool and reassuring.
“Joyce." His voice is hard and clear, undeniable. Bringing one of his hands back down to her shoulder, he continues, staring straight into her eyes. “He’s alive.”
A sharp sob escapes her mouth, and she instinctively turns her head to the side, burying her burning face into the cool hand still cradling her cheek and brushing her lips against his skin in an accidental kiss. Hopper's breath hitches; the heel of his palm presses against the sharpness of her jaw, and she pushes back, digging her heated cheek into his fingers, but then he moves away and her eyes fly open.
They stare at each other until Hopper shoves his fists into his pockets, turning around. Joyce wipes her face with a shaky hand, collecting herself. A cool breeze blows through them, and she sighs, crossing her arms and allowing the jarring sensation to clear her foggy thoughts.
They stand beside each other for a few minutes more. It’s getting busy when Hopper clears his throat, shifting on his feet and lighting another cigarette. “Go be with him. I’ll find you later,” he says stoically. She nods, drained and empty; struggling to finish her final smoke. Giving up, she puts it out and turns away, taking the steps with care and leaving him in the shadowy alcove.
Just before she enters the hospital, she looks back to see him handling an amber bottle of pills; he knocks one back and she averts her gaze, pushing the door open and moving inside.
2
Jonathan flies through the messy living room, throwing a rushed explanation over his shoulder. After reaching the front door he pauses, slipping his shoes on as Joyce follows; crossing her arms and watching him with weary eyes.
“When will you be home?” she questions, voice purposefully measured. He blushes and freezes with one hand on the doorknob. God knows he’s responsible, but she thinks of herself aged seventeen, careless and bursting at the seams, and wonders whether she should worry.
“Mom,” he murmurs, voice gentle as he reaches for her forearm. “We’re just going for a drive, maybe some food.” She gives him a look, and he coughs, breaking eye contact. “I’ll be careful, okay?”
Joyce sighs. There is a constant, low-level buzz in her chest—panic or paranoia, she doesn’t know—but her son deserves his freedom. “Jonathan.” She forces a smile as she tugs him into a tight embrace. “Enjoy yourself, and say hi to Nancy for me, okay?”
He pushes his face into her neck, squeezing his arms around her back. Joyce feels heat burgeon behind her ribs as his breath tickles her skin. “I will. You too, Mom. Relax.”
She snorts, pulling away and shaking her head. When he grins back she catches the faintest likeness of Lonnie in his brows, in his lips, but then it fades. His eyes are hers, his coloring is hers, he is hers. “Bye, honey.”
“Bye.”
After the door shuts with a soft click, she wanders over to the kitchen, bumping her hip against the breakfast table and staring at the fridge. It’s covered with old photos, notes, coupons, and Will’s newest addition, “Bob Newby: Superhero.”
Grief swells in her throat, familiar and heavy. Her fingers twitch against her legs and she jerks forward, intent on removing the drawing. She wants to stuff it somewhere, out of sight and out of mind, but Will walks out of his bedroom and she turns to face him with her fingers on the magnet.
“Dustin will be here any second, Mom,” he says, hefting a backpack over his favorite multicolored coat. Joyce follows his movements, dropping her arm back to her side as he shuffles closer. It’s been a bad week—he’s had nightmares, a lost appetite, trouble at school—but she hesitates, biting her tongue before she airs those concerns. “Okay, sweetie.”
Will’s mellow eyes catch hers as he speaks. “I’ll be okay, Mom. Really. Steve is picking me up and taking us to the arcade, and he’s gonna drop us back to Mike’s for the night.” He pauses, wringing his hands and looking a little uncertain. “I’m with The Party,” he adds. “And I–I just want things to feel normal . . .”
Joyce nods and smiles, ignoring the sudden pain in her stomach as she reaches out to cradle his face. He’s almost taller than her now and it’s still hard to believe. “I know, baby. I know. I want you to have a good time, okay? Nothing else.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
They slip out onto the porch just as Steve pulls up in front of the house, and then Will’s stepping forward for a fleeting hug. His chin digs into her shoulder and she smoothes her palm over his back, steadying her breaths. Eyes twinkling with excitement, he pulls away and leaves, throwing one last goodbye in her direction.
Joyce watches them drive until Steve’s car is a speck in the distance. Shivering, she turns around and goes inside.
For a little while, all she does is pace; she walks in slow circles around her home, arms crossed with a lit cigarette tucked between the fingers of her right hand. When she passes the large shelves between the living room and kitchen, she stops to stare at old photos of the boys, at assorted knickknacks she’s thrifted over the years, at the unfinished tambour frame she started working on two summers ago.
Eventually, late afternoon light fades into early evening darkness. It’s a cold January this year, but she’s reluctant to fire up the heat; money is tight, and she won’t bother when she’s home alone. Donald isn’t offering extra shifts but she isn’t desperate for overtime, not yet.
With a heavy heart, Joyce sinks into her favorite armchair with an ashtray in hand, draping an old blanket over her knees. She curls her cold feet beneath her thighs and tugs the sleeves of her wooly cardigan down to cover her knuckles. There’s nothing interesting on TV, so she smokes idly, ignoring the low buzz of a game show as she burns her way through a packet of Camels.
Once it’s empty, she stands and walks to the kitchen, clearing the ashtray and reaching for an open bottle of cheap wine. The quiet stillness of her home begins to bother her as she fills a glass on the counter. When Bob’s blank, bloody face comes to mind she quickly moves to her shoes by the door, clumsily toeing them on. Fresh air feels like a good idea, but before she steps outside, Joyce spots something on the sideboard and pauses.
Hopper’s cigarettes.
An open packet of unfiltered Camels sits in her key bowl. He’d forgotten it here last weekend, which is coincidentally the last time she saw or heard from him.
Dread, sudden and shocking, ripples through her body. She’s been lost in her thoughts over the last few days—sleepless and worried about the boys—but she’s shocked his absence has slipped her mind so completely. Confused, she runs through the week, trying to make sure she hasn’t missed anything, but she’s right. There has been radio silence from Hopper—no phone calls, no visits.
She places the glass of wine on the side table and strides over to the phone, snatching it off the cradle and punching his number into the handset. The phone rings and she presses it closer to her ear, waiting. The knot in her chest eases a little when she hears his gruff voice rumble down the line. “Jim,” he grunts.
“Hop?”
“Joyce . . .” She hears him exhale. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she holds the phone harder, unsettled. “Yeah, I . . . just haven’t heard from you this week.” She feels stupid as soon as the words leave her mouth, but they have an unspoken agreement to check in with one another every few days, and if she’s dropped the ball, so has he.
“Yeah,” she hears him sigh again. “Sorry, I . . .” he trails off, and she’s beginning to worry that something else has happened, that their nightmare isn’t over yet, but then he continues in a tired voice, words slow and quiet. “El’s sick.” He pauses, and she hears him swallow. “She’s okay. Seems like a bug or something, but I’ve been a little . . .”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. She thinks carefully before speaking, reluctant to bring his dead daughter fully into this conversation, even if she follows him around like a ghost wherever he goes. “I’m so sorry, Hop. Is there anything you need? Anything I can bring you?”
“No, no it’s fine. Thanks.”
She pinches her nose with her free hand. “Okay. And you're sure it's just a bug?"
He doesn't answer right away, breathing into the receiver and staying silent. "Hop?"
Something rustles down the line and he clears his throat. "Pretty sure. She's had a fever on and off, thrown up a few times. Aches and pains. I think the kids brought some junk over last week that didn't agree with her."
Joyce nods empathetically until she remembers he can’t see her.
"She's still, uh, sensitive to certain foods," he continues. “After everything.”
"Yeah," she says, though she didn’t know that. El’s presence in his life over the last year is still somewhat obscure. Hopper has never shared the details, though she admits she hasn’t asked for them either . . .
Something rattles in the background and then his voice, tight and abrupt, rings through the phone. “I need to go. Thanks for checking in.”
“Sure,” she replies, surprised. “See y–”
He cuts the line and she’s left listening to the dial tone. Sighing, Joyce hangs the phone up and walks back to her wine, taking a sip and making a hasty decision. Grabbing her purse and shrugging on her thickest coat, she scribbles a note and leaves it on the kitchen table, just in case Jonathan returns before she does. Securing the house, she rushes into the muddy driveway and jumps into her car.
The drive doesn’t take long—the roads are clear, thankfully—and soon enough she’s taking Denfield, turning past the gnarled, old tree, and trudging through mulchy woodland toward his home. When the cabin appears on the hill, warm light glowing through its small windows, she takes a deep breath and speeds up until she’s finally standing at his front door.
Knocking twice, she waits, staring at the rough wood until he appears in front of her, unusually dressed down in sweatpants and a paint-stained t-shirt. There is a confused expression on his face when he speaks. “What are you doing here?”
Joyce bites her lip as he moves to let her inside. The living room is messy; she glances into every corner, noting two broken lamps and the shelves beside El’s door that appear to have toppled over. She waits for him to close the door then follows him to the couch where they both sit down.
“Is everything okay?” He presses, face taut with stress as he turns to look at her.
“It’s fine, I just . . . the boys are out,” she replies, grimacing at his knowing expression. She turns away, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Hopper sinks back into the couch, nudging her shoulder as he moves.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she repeats, soft and quiet. There’s a fire crackling in the corner, a welcome heat. Angling herself toward it, she turns back to glance at him. "How's El?"
Hopper clenches his jaw and swivels in his seat to look at the girl's bedroom door. "She's okay."
Joyce peers up into his face, noting his bloodshot eyes. "And are you okay, Hop?” She asks quietly as he sighs beside her. “What . . . what happened here?" She nods at the broken lamp on the floor behind him.
"I'm fine,” he replies with a tiny shrug. “It’s fine.”
“Really?”
“Joyce . . .”
The fire flares and spits in the corner as a log collapses; she turns to stare at it, remembering Will screaming in the same spot a few months ago. “You can tell me,” she insists, eyes fixed on the bright flames.
Hopper shifts beside her; standing and walking to El’s door. Joyce gets up and shrugs her coat off, throwing it on the armchair as Hopper slides into the bedroom, checking on the girl. “Hop?”
He holds his finger up, steps back out carefully, closes the door, and finally turns to face her. “I’m fine, really.”
“Really,” she deadpans, gesturing around her. “This doesn’t look fine.”
Hopper sinks back into the couch where she joins him, waiting for an answer. “El’s powers . . .” he trails off, rubbing his jaw with one large palm. “They can get out of control when she isn’t feeling well.”
Joyce stares at his chin as he speaks, nodding with understanding. After they’d closed the gate she’d seen a glimpse of that. El had woken up on her couch the following morning, confused, scared, and lashing out unconsciously. “Has this been happening all week?”
“On and off,” he replies, stretching his arm out on the back of the couch. She feels his fingers briefly skim her neck and shivers. “It’s worse when her fever spikes. She’s been okay for a few hours.”
“God, Hop . . .”
“It’s fine, I guess I just . . .” He shakes his head and clears his throat. “I’m just worried that, uh, that she won’t feel better.”
“I think she’ll be okay,” Joyce soothes, trying for a smile.
He doesn’t return it, but he clears his throat again. “Right, right. I know.” Turning away, eyes glassy, he pauses before talking again. “It’s just . . . it’s funny. When Sara . . . when Sara got sick, everything moved so quickly, and before we knew it, she was gone.”
Joyce holds her breath, waiting, but Hopper doesn’t say anything else. He stares ahead at the TV with a vacant expression on his face. “Hop,” she whispers, leaning forward to rest a hand on his knee. He doesn’t react, and she aches for him. “Hey. I know this is hard, and I can’t–I can’t even imagine it.”
Hopper sighs, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “Sorry.”
“No, no, don’t–”
“I just, I feel crazy sometimes, Joyce.” He drops his arm from the couch and turns to stare at her; eyes hooded in the dim, yellow light. His voice is hoarse and low, and she has a sudden urge to run; to flee. “She isn’t Sara, but I feel like . . . I feel like I’m going to lose her too.”
Joyce swallows, shocked into silence. They’ve discussed Sara over the years, but only in broken, awkward conversations that have nothing to do with his loss. She knows parts of the story, but they don’t talk about his old life, not really, and she’s too afraid to ask.
It’s difficult to think about him drunk and high; suffering alone. It hurts her, now that she’s folded him into her life, to wonder how she could have helped in some way.
Maybe, just maybe, things could have been different for them.
“Hop,” she begins, licking her lips and gripping his knee harder. “I–”
She’s cut off by a trembling below her feet; the cabin floor is vibrating.
“Shit,” Hopper mutters, scrambling off the couch. Joyce tries to follow, stumbling into the coffee table, disoriented.
“Wait, what–”
A cry sounds out from El’s bedroom; Joyce whips around to face her door, watching as Hopper rounds the couch and pushes it open, rushing inside. She runs forward in his wake, hindered by the shaking all around her, to find Hopper perched on the edge of El’s bed, clutching her face with both hands. Joyce is shocked to see her nose bleeding.
“El. El, wake up.”
El doesn’t seem to hear Hopper’s voice—she whimpers, eyes shut and twitching in her sleep. The room is lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand, but Joyce still spots her flushed cheeks; blotchy and red beneath Hopper’s hands.
“Fever,” she utters, sinking on the bed behind Hopper, finding El’s calf and gripping it. “Hop–”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. The floor is beginning to still but Joyce feels like the air around them is disturbed. “It’s not that bad. I gave her some medicine an hour ago.”
“Okay,” Joyce replies, leaning forward with her other hand on Hopper’s tense shoulder. One of his palms has drifted down to clasp El’s arm, lying on top of her blanket. El is still not responding to his voice, so Joyce squeezes Hopper’s shoulder and tries to help. “El, sweetie. Wake up. Wake up, baby.”
“Kid. Wake up, you’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
“El–”
“Can you hear me, kid?”
El moans but her movements quieten down until she gradually relaxes into the mattress. She opens her eyes, sweaty and sluggish, and looks between them in confusion. “H-Hop?” She croaks. Her eyes shift to Joyce; questioning.
Hopper leans forward, gently wiping the blood off her face with his thumb. “Hey,” he says in a gruff voice. Joyce’s throat tightens as El shifts up, arms outreached. Hopper sinks down and wraps his arms around her, bracing her small head with his big hand. El sniffles as he whispers into her mussed hair. “You’re okay, kid. It’s alright.”
Joyce’s eyes itch as they hold each other; El coughs into his neck and Hopper moves away, giving her space. “Water?” He asks, reaching for the glass beside her bed.
El nods, taking a sip when he brings it up to her lips. Slowly, she struggles to sit up against the pillows, assisted by Hopper. Joyce reaches forward to smooth the blankets over her legs. “Joyce?” El says, hoarsely.
Joyce meets her eyes and smiles, “Hey, sweetie.” She finds her hand, squeezing it. “How are you feeling?”
El swallows, grimacing. “Not good.”
“I bet.” She glances at Hop, who stares at El with a frown on his face. “You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“It might help to eat a little something.”
El looks at Hopper, sniffing. He hands her a tissue and she blows the drying blood from her nose. “Eggos?” She asks, nasally.
Hopper exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure, kid. Eggos. Coming right up.”
After he helps her out of bed, Hopper stumps over to the kitchen while Joyce gently leads El toward the couch. She nestles into the middle with another cough, snuggling under a crocheted blanket Joyce finds on the armchair. “You just sit tight while Hop gets your food ready,” Joyce says, winking at her.
El nods, wiping another trickle of blood from her nose and looking sleepy.
Joyce pads over to Hopper in the kitchen, watching as he sets a plate on the side. “You okay?”
Hopper snorts, standing over the toaster. The Eggos pop out, steaming hot with a sickly-sweet smell, and he transfers them to the plate. He avoids her eyes as he walks out of the kitchen and back to El. “Food’s ready,” he says, voice low, settling in on her right.
El shifts as he hands her the plate, allowing it to rest on her lap above the blanket. Joyce stands by the fridge for a long moment then joins them, sitting on El’s other side. She bites her lip, watching as the girl hesitates to eat.
Hopper sighs, voicing his impatience. “El.”
Petulantly, she stares at the food, pressing down on a waffle until she squashes its corner.
“El,” Hopper exhales again, gently pushing her hand away from the food. “Kid. Either you eat the food—which you should—or we leave it ‘til later. Don’t ruin it.”
El shoots him an annoyed look but he stares back impassively. “Fine,” she replies, breaking the squashed corner off and bringing it to her lips. Slowly, she chews on it and swallows, reaching for another small piece. Hopper brings a hand up to her hair, ruffling it gently before pushing it behind her ears.
“That’s it.”
Joyce smiles, happy to see El become more animated with every bite she takes. Eventually, both waffles have been eaten and she hands the plate to Hopper who places it on top of a pile of magazines haphazardly scattered on the coffee table. El leans back into the couch, and suddenly the TV is on.
Joyce blinks, confused until she sees El’s face screwed up with concentration; staring at the screen.
“El,” Hopper sighs. “What have we talked about? Until you feel better, you need to avoid–”
“I am fine,” she replies, looking back at them both in turn. A hint of a cheeky smile flits across her face. “Battery recharged.”
Hopper shakes his head, incredulous. “Jesus . . .”
Joyce watches him sink back into the couch, rubbing his face and stretching one arm out over the back of the couch. His fingers land close to the edge of her jaw but he doesn’t move them. El shuffles; slouching into the cushions with her head under Hopper’s shoulder. Joyce fixes the blanket down over her knees and El stills her palm with one of her own. Joyce squeezes the girl’s small, clammy hand, smiling in spite of herself. “You sound better already, sweetie.”
“I am,” El says, self-assured. She coughs and Hopper cringes beside her, grabbing another tissue from the box squashed beside the armrest and handing it to her.
“Good,” Joyce continues, resisting the urge to laugh at El’s stubborn expression. “A positive attitude goes a long way.”
“A positive attitude goes a long way,” El parrots, nodding up at Hopper as he stares down at her. Hopper shoots Joyce an exasperated look.
“Yeah, kid. Joyce is right, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take it easy and be careful.”
El ignores him. “I think Mike should visit tomorrow.”
Hopper sighs. “Right. Great. We’ll see.”
El seems to think she’s won the discussion and turns to face the TV, blinking repeatedly. Joyce notices the channels changing and meets Hopper’s eyes, still surprised by the casual use of her powers. Hopper’s lips twitch downward, clearly stressed, and she feels a desperate urge to help him.
“Hop,” she whispers over El’s head, but he silently replies, shaking his head. Joyce lets her stilted words of comfort go. Instead, she holds his gaze and lowers her face until she’s resting it on his hand where it lays slack behind her on the couch. He closes his eyes, inhaling, and she turns; hesitantly placing a light kiss against his rough knuckles.
She hears him take another breath while El sniffles between them, but Joyce stays there; closing her own eyes as her lips press into his skin. There is a sudden discomfort in her chest; a swooping tightness she struggles to define. The murmur of the TV sits low in her consciousness as El breathes beside her. Hop’s fingers stretch beneath her lips, catching the corner of her mouth in a fleeting caress.
She thinks about her boys; out in the world and susceptible to its dangers. Hopper’s warmth burns against her chill and she exhales, letting go of her worries and listening to the crackling of the fire in the corner of the room.
3
Their new home is huge; three floors, four bedrooms, three bathrooms. The street is wide and clean, and the weather is incessantly bright. None of it comforts her but she puts on a happy face for the kids and pretends that it does. She pretends that she’s fine, and they’re fine, and that this is the right decision for all of them.
This is nice, she’d said at the beginning, babbling about large rooms and new builds and modern amenities. This looks like a great neighborhood.
For a while, and for El, the boys tolerated the show. They never knew about Bob and Maine and Gary fixing the house. They had no idea she wanted to get the hell out of Hawkins months and months ago. To them, moving here was caused by several factors out of their control, and Sam Owens’ involvement only cemented that view.
It’s okay, Will said, crying in the bedroom he’d known all his life. It’s okay. We have to . . . to keep El safe.
I understand Mom, Jonathan said, much less emotional as they stood outside on the porch. I get it.
Now, however, it’s clear they don’t want to be here. Joyce doesn’t want to be here either. This is not what she’d imagined when she sat alone in her old, shabby kitchen, staring at Bob Newby: Superhero, and wanting nothing more than to run. This decision was supposed to feel cathartic, and rejuvenating, and empowering, but it turns out running is just running—the high ends as soon as you stop.
Besides, she never thought Hop would be gone when she left town. She never thought she’d become his daughter’s mother.
Not like this.
C-California, El asked, looking lost. Max’s California?
Yeah, sweetie. Joyce replied, unfolding a careworn map over the dinner table and showing her the state. California.
Joyce never cared about California—she wanted to go to Chicago. Familiar but still different. Illinois is closer to Indiana, and it would have been easier for her kids to handle a move that kept them near Hawkins. The city isn’t alien to her—she spent some time there before Jonathan was born—and, after everything that had happened, she liked the idea of keeping Murray closeby.
When moving was still a secret she’d kept hidden in her gut, like a stitch in her side, she considered Hopper too. Joyce envisioned quiet weekends when he’d visit with El. They’d putter around her new home in Chicago, having dinner in local diners; taking the kids out, and exploring her old haunts together. Then maybe, just maybe, she’d begin to feel better again. They could address the tension between them and it would feel right, and good. Like coming home.
Months later, after Hop was gone and the decision had been made, she suggested Chicago as their new home, but Owens said Illinois was out of the question. He wouldn’t elaborate.
Three months have passed, and she’s fully aware her pain doesn’t come from Lenora; it’s not California’s fault she’s sad and stressed. Empty and lost. She has a roof above her head, and she has her kids. They’re all healthy and safe, and she can support them. It’s all she ever wanted, except it isn’t. It isn’t what any of them wanted. No one wants to be torn away from everything they know and everyone they love.
She sits in the sunroom on a quiet evening and listens to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof above her head. The kids scattered after dinner and she doesn’t seek them out, somehow anxious and apathetic in equal parts and unwilling to expose herself to them.
She slouches in her wicker chair, staring at the wet windows, feeling her eyes droop in the low lamplight. Slowly, she drops her head until her temple rests against the pillow above her shoulder . . .
There is warmth; softness around her.
“Mom.”
“Will?”
“Mom, they’re here!”
She walks through the apartment; the old floorboards squeak below her feet and the living room is airy and light. She opens the door and Hop is standing on the other side, El in front of him, beaming.
“Joyce!”
She pulls her into a tight hug, kissing the girl’s temple then smiling up at her dad. “Hey, sweetie.”
Hopper winks at her, face dimpling, and they’re inside a moment later. He closes the door as El tugs her to the couch in the middle of the living room. Will and Jonathan are chatting, sitting on armchairs, and Hopper drags a chair from the small dining table, grinning and joining their conversation.
“Joyce?” El says, looking at her with confusion. “Max’s California?”
“No, no. Chicago. We’re in Chicago, El.”
“Oh.”
“I used to live here,” Joyce says, feeling hollow in the chest. “Before I had the boys.”
El talks but Joyce doesn’t understand what she says. The living room is darker now, and suddenly she’s hot and sweating in her bed in Lenora.
“This can still be your home,” Hop whispers, lying down and facing her. She’s under the blankets and he’s over them, wearing his uniform, looking shadowy and distant. She can’t make out his face, but his low voice rings in her ears.
“I don’t want to be here,” she whispers back.
Hopper says something but she can’t hear him anymore. She digs herself out of bed, ripping the sheets off her and reaching forward to touch him. He’s cool beneath her skin; she finds his hand and brings it to her lips, feverishly kissing his palm, gripping his big wrist with both of her small hands, but it’s limp and cold and unresponsive.
“I want to go back, Hop.” She pleads, but he’s dust now, and the darkness explodes with a blinding, shocking burst of light. She sees green and red and blue . . .
. . . there is heat all around her . . .
A crash from the living room wakes her up; she jerks forward, very confused and panting hard.
“Sorry!” Will calls from the kitchen. “All good. Broke a plate!”
Joyce swallows, slowly calming down. With trembling hands, she pulls her long cardigan away and untangles her legs from beneath her, standing up to leave the sunroom. As she swipes her hand through her tousled hair, she realizes there are tears on her cheeks.
With sudden clarity, she recalls Hopper’s face in his final moments; beaten and bruised but smiling, surrounded by bright blue light . . .
Pain shoots through her, sharp and undeniable. Angrily, she wipes her eyes and walks outside of the sunroom and straight into the wet yard. Digging in her pocket for her battered packet of Camels, she lights one and sighs, letting her shoulders drop and allowing herself a moment to cry.
Only a moment.
4
The lamp stays on and so does the heating.
A chill has settled deep under her skin; she feels ill and disturbed, tight in the shoulders and neck. There is one lone cut on her head—miraculous, all things considered—but the rest of her body aches. She’s bruised and strained from hours of running, hiding, and fighting.
Hopper twitches, restless under the blankets, but he’s quiet; curled into his right with his arms brought close to his chest. She watches him from her seat on the carpeted floor, hunched over her knees with her back to the wooden door, and struggles to accept what she sees. He takes up so much room—she’d forgotten how dominant his presence can be—and yet he’s thin, lean, and sharp in places new to her.
Staggering to her feet, Joyce makes her way over to him, kneeling beside the bed to stare at his face where it rests on the edge of his pillow. His brows are furrowed, the scrapes and contusions blooming on his dry skin. She’s seen his body; the lines crisscrossing his front and back, the gouges and cuts, and what she thinks may be burns, but he hasn’t complained once.
Bracing herself with both hands on the floor, she rocks back on her heels, throat tight and eyes wet, staring at his swollen bottom lip. El is going to see him like this—shockingly wasted, hurt in every conceivable way—and Joyce doesn’t know how she’ll react.
Joyce doesn’t know if the kids are even okay, not really—Stinson tells them they are, but who the hell is she? Who is Owens? Who are these people, working in the shadows while everyone she loves is thrust into the open; scrubbed raw, tossed around like ragdolls, losing then winning then losing then winning . . .
She shuffles toward his bed, leaning closer and docking her chin on the mattress. His breaths rattle in his chest, loud and labored, and each of his exhales tickle the skin of her arm. This is evidence that he’s here, alive and close, but she’s out of touch regardless; stuck in her confusion, stuck in the chaos of the last few days.
This doesn’t feel real.
The urge to hold him overcomes her. Scrambling up, she rounds the bed and slips into it, shivering as the cool sheets settle on her bare feet and arms. His body is a furnace, and she slides toward his back, stopping just before she touches him, scared to aggravate the old wounds that mark his skin. She lays stiffly on her side, staring at the back of his neck until she realizes his even breaths have stopped—his body is still.
“Hop,” she whispers into her pillow. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” he rumbles back, voice hoarse. Exhaling, his body sags into the mattress, large and limp. Joyce inches closer, skimming her nose against his skin. He smells of the cheap soap she’d cleansed him with two hours ago and nothing like the scents she’d dreamed of for almost a year—woodsmoke and cigarettes and sweat.
“How do you feel?” She asks, nudging her hand beneath her cheek on the pillow; bringing her arm across her chest.
“Not good.” A short chuckle escapes him; incredulous, self-effacing. “I–I don’t know if I can even move.”
“Then don’t. Just stay still. Rest.”
“I feel like I need to keep going.”
“Going where?” She replies, almost frustrated.
“To El,” he utters, simple and straightforward like it’s an option.
She squeezes her eyes shut. “We’re going to see them all. Tomorrow.”
“I know . . . I just can’t relax, until . . .”
Joyce opens her mouth wide, breathing out a dry, silent cry, ignoring the incessant press of fear in her chest and trying to hide the shakiness in her voice. “You need to rest.”
He doesn’t reply. “We can’t go anywhere tonight,” she adds, trying to convince herself. Every instinct is telling her to find a car and leave; to run back to Hawkins as fast as she’d run away from it.
“Right,” he breathes. “Joyce?”
Her name on his tongue is surreal, even as they lay together, inches apart. “Yeah?”
“Jesus . . .” He swallows audibly, shifting and turning further into his side of the bed. He’s wearing nothing but a towel under the sheets, and she feels the terry cloth brush against her waist as he moves. “I can’t believe I’m here.”
She bites her lip, hard, keeping her composure as she listens. He repeats the words, voice guttural, quiet, and she holds her breath.
“Fuck,” he says, voice tight and croaky. “Fuck. I’m out.”
Joyce nods into the pillow, though he can’t see her. She has no words to air, no loving sentiments to share, because she’s in shock too. Throwing caution to the wind, she huddles her body up to his; flattening her cheek against the hot skin of his neck and palming the hard muscle of his bicep. He shudders as he takes a harsh, deep breath in.
“Joyce,” he rasps, voice wavering. “I’m sorry. God. I’m sorry.”
She hugs him closer; kissing the tense muscles beneath her mouth; digging her nose into the bony rise of his neck. He keeps repeating his apology and her chest clenches with pain at the breathless pitch of his voice.
"Hey . . ." She tries, voice breaking as her own tears rise to the surface. “Jim–” She pulls him around to face her, to say something—anything—comforting, but he hardens beneath her and then pushes her away, sitting up and gasping.
"Just–just give me a second," he chokes out, clutching his throat with one hand and pawing at his chest with the other. She recoils, watching as his eyes flit around the room, wide and bloodshot.
"Jim, Jim look at me–"
"I’m–I’m fine, I just–”
She rises on her knees, swinging a leg over his lap, tugging him closer, and guiding both hands away from his body. “Hey, hey, I’m here, just focus on me,” she pleads, reaching up to hold his face with both palms, knocking her forehead into his. “Jesus,” her voice breaks as fear pulses through her veins. “Just breathe, Hop. Just breathe.”
A high-pitched humming rings through her ears, and her own face tingles with panic, but she pushes the tips of her fingers into his skin and tries to lead him off the ledge. After a minute or two, he calms down, sagging into the mattress until he’s leaning against the headboard. She climbs off him, sinking into his side. He’s shivering now. “Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes hidden behind one palm. The back of his hand is bloody; his knuckles swollen.
“You don’t need to be.” The last thing she ever wants to hear from him is an apology. They sit in shock for a few moments, and she registers his wheezy breathing as she sifts through her memories, trying to remember if she’d ever seen him break down before. “Hop,” she begins, tentatively. “Is your chest–”
“I’m fine,” he interrupts, face still hidden by his hand.
She doesn’t reply, but he sighs, shaking his head.
“I’m not usually like this,” he insists, sounding strained and rough and so painfully Hopper. “I–I don’t know what to say,” he mutters. Something breaks in her chest and she reaches for his right hand, curled into a fist near her thigh.
“Do you think I’d hold this against you?” She looks up; meeting his blue eyes. They’re wet behind his blonde eyelashes; pinched and sad. Suddenly she can’t hold back her own tears. She laughs, incredulous and pained, shaking her head as her cheeks get wet. “I wouldn’t. I would never. God, Hop.”
“I–” he stops talking, licking his cracked lips and letting out a long exhale. “Damn.” He scrubs his free hand across his jaw, wincing and shaking his head again. “Damn.”
The headboard is hard and unyielding behind her as she drops her shoulders, bringing their hands up to her chest and holding them there. “It’s–it’s going to be okay, Hop.”
“Right,” he replies, voice soft and quiet. “Yeah.”
“You’ll see El soon,” she adds, squeezing his hand.
He smiles a little, turning to face her. “And you’ll see the boys.”
Her chest cracks wide open, and her words come out shakier than she wanted them to. “I know.”
“Joyce?”
She turns her head to look at him, aching when she spots his tender expression. He opens his mouth, then closes it, allowing another tiny smile to bloom on his beaten face, tight but beautiful. She waits for a moment, taking him in, then her own lips quirk up halfheartedly, unable to resist him. She shakes her head, pulling him down by his warm hand until they’re both lying on their sides, facing each other.
Hopper looks older than she’s ever seen him, and an abrupt surge of protectiveness shocks her. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she says, grazing her free hand up his jaw until it’s curled around the back of his neck. He shuts his eyes; turns and brushes her inner forearm with a kiss. She ignores the jolt in her lower body but tries to pull him closer, wanting to burn him into her skin. Hopper draws back, flinching.
“Wait,” he says, grimacing. “My ribs.”
“Are you–”
“Yeah, let me just . . .” He groans as he moves onto his back, still holding her hand when he settles into his pillow with his other palm flat on his chest. Their fingers remain threaded together, nestled over the swell of her breasts, and she feels him tighten his grip.
“Okay?” Joyce asks, still on her left side; his arm is bent up awkwardly but she won’t let him go, closing in on his body until his elbow is digging into her navel.
“Yeah.”
Darkness pulls at the edges of her vision as she listens to him breathe. She lets out a quivery sigh, leaning down to kiss his battered knuckles, one by one, reveling in the contented noise he makes beside her.
“Sleep,” she whispers, closing her eyes and falling under, lips grazing the skin of his ring finger.
5
The first time it happens, Will rolls right out of his cot and lands on the dusty wooden floor, yelling into the night.
They all scramble for him; suddenly awake and panicked. Joyce can barely breathe through the fear, recognizing his cries and struggling to stifle her own. She and Hopper both hurtle out of his bedroom just as El’s door flies open. They find Will with his eyes shut, writhing beside a terrified-looking Jonathan who struggles to hold him down and away from the furniture.
“Baby,” she whimpers, collapsing on her knees and reaching for him. Will relaxes slightly when she curls her hand around his, panting and muttering unintelligibly. She places her other hand on his clammy forehead. “Honey, we’re here. We’re here.”
Will thrashes between them, punching Jonathan’s thigh and moaning. “No, n-no–”
“Buddy, hey,” Jonathan says, clasping his brother’s shoulder. “It’s me, just me. Wake up, Will. Wake up.”
Will’s eyes stay shut but he stops resisting them and starts shivering instead. He’s breathing hard like he’s been running.
“Mom,” Jonathan says in a thin, hoarse voice, clasping his brother’s hand. “Help me . . .”
They carefully maneuver him until he’s sitting up and leaning against the couch. Joyce bends forward, clutching his cheeks; watching as his eyes rapidly flit under his closed lids. “Will, baby. Can you hear me?” Her throat tightens when Will stays silent, clearly caught in his nightmare.
“Will–” El whimpers, kneeling down and clasping her brother’s arm. Jonathan is on his other side, holding him upright by the shoulder, but none of them can get through to him. Will is non-responsive; lost somewhere they can’t go.
“Will, baby, please. Please look at me, listen to me–”
Hopper crouches down behind her, gently squeezing her shoulder. “Joyce, let me.”
She shakes her head, refusing. “Will,” she repeats, pushing her forehead into his. “Will–”
Hopper guides her arms away from Will and then drags him forward, pulling her son into a tight embrace. His palm lands on Will’s sweaty neck, supporting his head, and she watches with bated breath as Hop murmurs, over and over. “We’re here, kid. We’re here.”
Desperate, Joyce leans over Hopper’s right arm, circling her own around them both and tucking her face into Hopper’s neck. Will moans again, and Hopper hugs him closer, rocking slightly. After a minute or two, Will’s shakes and pants begin to subside.
“Will?” Jonathan asks in a hoarse voice, shuffling on Joyce’s side. She feels his palm sliding up her back before it rests on her shoulder. “Mom, move back.”
She does and so does Hopper; he keeps Will upright with a hand on each arm as he shifts away, allowing Joyce to see her son properly. Will blinks, flushed and confused; covered in sweat. She opens her mouth and whispers his name. “Will?”
He looks at her, finally focused. “M-Mom?”
“Oh–oh, Will. Honey. You’re okay.” She pulls him into her chest, wrapping her arms around him as tight as she can. “You’re–you’re okay.” Her voice breaks as the tears fall from her eyes. Will cries too, voice croaky as he apologizes.
“Sorry, Mom. I–I don’t know what happened–”
“No, no baby, don’t apologize. It’s okay.”
The hard floor starts to register and her stiff knees ache with pain. She moves as Will pulls away, wiping his face and forehead with a shaky hand.
“Here,” murmurs Hopper, standing somewhere close. She feels something brush her cheek and watches as he hands Will a towel over her shoulder.
Will shivers, looking up at him. “Thanks.”
Hopper curls a palm around her bicep and gently tugs her up; Joyce moves with him, letting him guide her to the busted recliner next to the couch. Hopper perches beside her on its arm and they watch as El settles down on Will's right, gripping his hand as Jonathan hands him a glass of water.
Joyce’s heart beats hard in her chest; she leans into Hopper’s knee, pressing her fingertips into the worn flannel of his pajama pants, and watches the children interact. Hopper’s palm skims her shoulders and lands on the back of her neck, squeezing it.
Will shuts his eyes and apologizes again, face lowered to the floor. “I don’t know what happened,” he repeats. “I–I thought I was dreaming, but then . . .” he swallows, shaking his head.
Joyce leans forward, feeling her heartbeat accelerate. “Was it like before? When–”
“No,” El interrupts. She looks angry. “That is impossible.”
“Why?” Jonathan asks, face tight with apprehension. Joyce clutches Hopper’s knee harder, desperate to hear El reassure them; desperate for her to tell them all that the monster is dead . . .
“I can’t find him. I have tried.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s gone, El!” Will bursts out in a watery voice. “I–I can feel him, it’s like he’s staring at the back of my head . . .”
El’s face breaks and her eyes fill with tears, but she shakes her head resolutely. “I–I know, but I’m keeping an eye on things.” She wipes her eyes, staring at Will with an anguished expression on her face. “I’m trying–”
“El,” Hopper says, clearing his throat and straightening out his injured ankle. Joyce can see the bandage still peeking out under the hem of his pants. “This isn’t on you, kid.”
El shakes her head again, avoiding Hopper’s eyes. Joyce shuts her own and rubs the drying, itchy tears off her cheeks.
“Listen, all of you.”
Joyce looks up when Hopper begins to talk; he slips off the armchair and kneels on the floor in front of the children. “I know that right now nothing is easy, but it’s going to be okay. The last thing I want you to do is to handle anything alone. This . . . this isn’t gonna work if we’re not honest.”
Will swallows, nodding. Jonathan stays quiet, staring at Hopper while El looks down at her knees. Joyce crosses her arms, trying to breathe; to stay calm.
“Will,” Hopper continues, reaching out to grip his shoulder. “Kid, you have to tell us when things don’t feel right. You can’t brush this off again.”
Joyce remembers her son’s disturbing drawings, covering every surface of her cold house. Bob’s hollow eyes burst into view and she swallows, trying to forget, like always.
“But what can we do if . . . if this isn’t a dream?” Jonathan’s soft question echoes the fear she feels. Turning to look at Hopper, she bites her lip and waits, not able to find an answer herself. Hopper pauses, appearing gaunt in the mellow light of the living room. His hair is growing in errant patches; uneven and upsetting to see.
El speaks first. “I . . . I am sure that he is not here. Not yet. I can’t find him, and . . . I know that he will come after me when he is ready.”
Hopper shuts his eyes and she holds her breath. They have both spoken to El about this monster; they both know what’s coming, one day, but Joyce’s skin prickles with fear at her daughter’s frankness.
Jonathan shakes his head. “I don’t know, El. Maybe–maybe you’re wrong.”
Will looks hesitant too. “This didn’t feel like a normal nightmare,” he says, staring at Joyce. “But maybe it didn’t feel exactly like it did before.” He sniffs, wiping his face. “I’m . . . I’m just afraid that he’s going to get into my head–”
“I won’t let him,” El says, fiercely grabbing Will’s hand. “I promise.”
Joyce blinks her own tears away, suddenly seeing El as a slight little girl, barely able to speak, yet willing to help find her son.
“All I’m saying,” Hopper adds, looking at El, “Is that we tread carefully, kid. Just tell us anything that feels off, no matter how small.” Hopper sighs, turning to Jonathan. “And you’re sleeping in the same room for now, so I don’t want you feeling like this is all on you either. We can take it in turns to watch over each other–”
“I’m fine,” Jonathan firmly replies. “He’s my brother, Hopper.”
Joyce's heart clenches; those words are still beautiful and important no matter how many times Jonathan expresses the sentiment. He’s my brother.
“I know,” Hopper says, reaching out with his other hand to grip Jonathan’s bicep. “We’ve been here before. You trusted me to find him, and now you need to trust that I won’t let anything happen to him.”
Jonathan grimaces. “That’s not the problem. It’s not about trust. None of us can control this–”
“I know,” Hopper assures him. “But we can take care of each other, okay? That’s all we need to do.”
Joyce exhales and slides off her seat, moving down next to Hopper. “You all know you can come to us about anything. Anything.” She stares pointedly at Will. “We’re here.”
“We know, Mom.”
The five of them sit still for a long moment, quietly looking at each other before Hopper struggles to his feet and pulls El up with him. “Bed. Come on.”
Joyce watches them walk into her room but she turns back to her sons. Will is wiping his neck with the towel, still looking shaken, while Jonathan has moved back to his cot. “Are you both okay?” Joyce asks, leaning forward to brush damp strands of hair from Will’s flushed face.
“I’m okay,” he replies. “Um, I’m gonna just lie down again.”
Joyce remembers holding him in his bed years ago, clutching his hands and curling her body around his small form as he struggled to sleep through his nightmares. He’s older now, and she doubts he’d let her do that anymore. “Do you want me to stay?” She asks anyway, in a low, quiet voice.
“No, Mom. It’s okay.”
“I’ll be here with him,” Jonathan says, lying down on his bed. “We’ll be okay.”
She nods and stands up just as Hopper slips out of El’s bedroom. He limps over to her but he’s staring at the boys as he does. “You guys good?”
When they both reassure him, Hopper nods. “You know where to find us,” he says, gaze lingering on Will. “Don’t hesitate.”
Will looks back at Hopper with a watery expression on his face, but Joyce and Jonathan lock eyes across the room, and she knows at that moment that they’re both thinking, horribly, of Lonnie. They say goodnight and Hopper follows her into his room where they both sit on the edge of the old, sagging mattress. She lays her hand on his thigh, and he covers it with his own.
“Is this gonna keep happening?” She whispers, staring up at his darkened features.
Hopper nods slowly. “Probably, if they’re nightmares. I don’t know if that’s all they are, but for now, we can’t be sure they’re anything else.”
“This happened before and we nearly lost him.”
Hopper grips her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “He’s a strong kid, and we’re all here for him.” He sighs, “El is keeping an eye on things, or so she says. She won’t explain anything to me.”
Joyce frowns. “You won’t talk to her either.”
Hopper sighs again and replies in a hoarse, broken whisper. “To tell her what, Joyce? That I was beaten? Is that something she really needs to know about?” He shakes his head. “What I need to do is be there for her, for the boys. For you. That’s it.”
Joyce closes her eyes. “Jim, she wants to understand what happened to you–”
He’s firmer this time. “This isn’t about me, Joyce.”
She sighs and murmurs back in a defeated voice. “They all know, anyway. They all know, Jim. Will isn’t the only one having nightmares.” She doesn’t want to hurt him, but it’s true. “You told them to be honest, and well, we need to be too.”
When he doesn’t reply, she tugs him gently back onto the bed; they lie down, adjusting themselves, and she pulls the blanket over their bodies. Hopper spoons her, facing the doorway, and wraps his arm around her stomach. Joyce pulls his hand up to her lips, kissing his calloused palm.
“Jim?” She whispers, feeling his breaths steady as they skim the sensitive skin of her neck.
“Yeah?”
“My boys . . . they’re lucky to have you.”
His body is stiff, but he kisses the spot behind her ear and sighs.
+1
Despite his objections, both El and Joyce insist on tagging along.
“You both realize,” he says, puffing on a cigarette and ignoring El’s scowl, “That this is all for show. This is Stinson’s way of covering her tracks.”
Maybe he’s playing it down a little, but he’s still right. They don’t need to be here for this. He doesn’t want to be here for this.
Joyce crosses her arms, frowning up at him. “You keep repeating yourself.”
“And apparently,” he replies, crushing the cigarette butt beneath his boot, “You still don’t get it.”
She shakes her head, looking annoyed. “I’m not an idiot, Jim.”
“I’m not saying that, but–”
El steps forward, slipping her hand into his and leaning into him. “We want to be here. For you.”
He turns to face his daughter and brings her closer with a sweep of his arm. “I know, kid. All I’m saying–”
“Stop saying it,” Joyce advises, throwing him an irritated look over her shoulder. “We’re here now.”
They are. Joyce boldly leads them into the station, still standing, somehow, in the middle of all the destruction. El follows, gripping his hand and pulling him along. Jim limps in their wake, observing the building with a mixture of discomfort and curiosity. The entrance is still the same; the decor is completely unchanged. Some of the papers pinned to the notice board are almost a year old; he recognizes a poster for a missing cat and wonders if it was ever found.
He grips El’s hand and lingers in the hallway, hesitant to enter the bullpen for the first time in his life, but Joyce plows forward, rounding the corner and calling out a greeting.
“Joyce?” Flo’s voice hits him like a sack of bricks; he breathes in, waiting for the inevitable as he moves past the open window. “What do you need?” Flo says, sounding careworn.
Jim finally follows and enters the room—empty, apart from the two women standing in the middle—nudging the low doors open with his shins. El trails behind him now, still clasping his hand.
“Nothing,” Joyce reassures her, watching the older woman bend over a desk and rummage through a drawer—Phil’s, although Jim supposes that may have changed in his absence. Flo’s face is turned away from them but Joyce speaks to her anyway. “I, um, have someone here I think you’ll want to see.”
Flo looks up—clearly exasperated—and Jim straightens his back, pushing his cap off his head and meeting her eyes. “Hey,” he says, trying to smile but failing.
Flo’s mouth gapes open; she freezes, staring in open disbelief, then drops the papers she’s holding and rounds the desk until she’s standing right in front of him. “Am I going insane?” She asks, voicing her shock, and for one, fleeting second, he allows his emotions to rise to the surface.
“You’re not,” he replies, eyes watering. A choked laugh escapes him.
“Hop . . .” Flo whispers, shaking her head. “How–how is this possible?”
El lets go of his hand and moves to Joyce’s side but his focus is on Flo, who is staring up at him with tenderness, despite everything. “It’s a long story,” he bites out bitterly, hating himself, hating Stinson, hating everything–
“I—your–your face, you’ve lost so much weight!”
He grimaces, “I know.”
Flo reaches out a shaky hand and clasps his forearm in a tight grip. Suddenly, she’s yanking him down and wrapping her arms around him. “Jesus, Hop,” she breathes, pushing against his broken ribs. He hugs her back, patting her back lightly and cringing against the pain in his side.
When she pulls away, dislodging her large glasses to wipe her eyes, he hears movement behind him.
“Joyce?” Phil asks, sounding surprised. “What’s wrong?”
Jim turns around to face him and Phil looks confused for a second before he gasps.
“Chief?” He asks, voice low and hesitant, eyes raking over Jim’s form. “What the hell?”
Before Jim can reply, there is a commotion in the hallway and they both turn around to find Stinson walking through the low double doors, flanked by two men in black suits. “I see you’ve already arrived,” she says with a small smile. “We have a lot to talk about. Let’s get started.”
Jim nods; he swivels back to Phil who is staring at him with a strange, calculating expression. When Jim opens his mouth to talk, Phil beats him to it. “How–how are you alive, Chief? We looked for you. There was nothing in the mall, the fire–”
“It’s a long story,” Stinson interrupts, walking past him to stand in the middle of the bullpen. “Where is Chief Powell?”
“I’ll, uh, get him from his office.”
As soon as Phil leaves, Flo rounds on Stinson. “So who are you, really?” She asks, measuring Stinson with her eyes.
“I’m from the Department of Energy,” Stinson replies, short and sweet and completely unhelpful.
Flo raises her eyebrows and turns to Jim, expression incredulous. “What have you been doing, Hop?”
Before he can say anything, Phil returns with Cal. “Hopper?” He says, eyes bugging in his face. “What the hell–”
“That’s what I said,” Phil mutters, leaning against the doorframe.
“Chief Powell,” Stinson says, striding forward to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming. As discussed over the phone, we have a lot to talk about.”
Cal’s eyes flit between his and Stinson’s; Jim doesn’t look away from him until Stinson begins to pedal her story. Their body language tells him no one is buying it.
“Undercover work for the government?” Flo narrows her eyes at him and he can barely stop himself from breaking down and telling her everything. “Why Hop? Why you?”
“We can’t divulge that information,” Stinson replies, firm and stoic. “All you need to know is that Mr. Hopper was working for us, and now that work has been completed.”
Jim turns around to stare at Joyce and El, seeing pain in both of their faces. For a long moment, everyone is quiet, but Flo speaks up again, this time turning to address Joyce. “Did you know?” She asks, narrowing her eyes. “Is that why you left and came back?”
“No,” Joyce sighs, crossing her arms and glancing back at Jim with a tight expression on her face. “I–I thought he died. We came back because—”
“That’s irrelevant,” Stinson says, cutting across her. “What we need to focus on now is letting the town know Mr. Hopper has returned.”
“No. That’s insane,” Cal replies, shaking his head. “We had a funeral, a whole service, everyone came out. They think he’s dead, they think he’s a hero–”
“He is a hero,” El snaps, jerking out of Joyce’s grip. Jim stares at her and she stares back, face angry and flushed. His chest aches, and suddenly he’s blinking rapidly, trying to prevent the water in his eyes from spilling.
“Who is that?” Phil asks.
“My daughter,” he replies, crossing the room to stand beside El and curl her into his side. He’s sure the town knows by now, but he never spoke to anyone on the force about her. She was just starting to leave the house and come out of hiding before he’d been taken.
Phil opens his mouth, clearly full of questions, but Stinson shuts the conversation down and addresses Cal directly. “Even so, Chief, we have to let the town know that he’s alive. Maybe they’ll find it hopeful, after everything.”
“Hopeful?” Cal replies, scoffing. “They have no hope left. This will only cause confusion.” He turns to Jim, eyes wide. “They think you’re dead. How the hell do you explain ‘undercover agent’ to these people? They won’t believe us, and they’ll resent us even more.”
Jim sighs, “I know.”
“So what do we do?” Phil asks, looking around at the group. “Everyone thinks this place is cursed. They’re looking for answers. This won’t help.”
“We have to control the messaging here,” Stinson says. “Otherwise the wrong people will be blamed.”
“Messaging?” Cal looks really angry now. He raises his hands; gesturing incredulously. “Do you even know what’s happened here?”
“Of course, we do–”
“The military is all over town–”
“We know, Chief–”
“This,” Jim says, stepping forward with his arm still around El and catching Stinson’s attention. “Isn’t going to work. I told you it would be pointless, and to just let me help–”
“Hop, I don’t think you realize how big your death was!” Joyce’s frustrated outburst makes him turn around, but she is looking straight at Stinson when she continues speaking. “You died fighting for everyone! We mourned you. We can’t just bring you back like nothing happened.” She pauses to breathe, shaking her head. “Who’s gonna believe this? Why–why would Hop, of all people–”
“Mrs. Byers–”
“Don’t! This is ridiculous–”
“Enough,” Stinson says with finality. “You understand that this is a sensitive situation. We’re trying to help you–”
Joyce flushes with anger. “Are you kidding? You’re saying that to me after–after everything that’s happened–”
Jim feels El freeze beside him and he hugs her closer, calming her before she speaks too. “Joyce, it’s okay,” he says, nodding. “It’s okay,” he repeats, turning to Stinson again. “Whatever we say will sound bad. Some people may be happy to see me, others may hate me. It’s fine.”
“And what happens to us?” Phil asks, looking pointedly at Cal. “Are we gonna–”
“Nothing will change here,” Jim says, staring at Cal. “I won’t be working as a cop anymore.”
Everyone freezes, looking at him in confusion.
“What will you do, Hop?” Flo asks, voice quiet and concerned.
“I’ll be working with the military.”
“Doing what?”
“What else?” He sighs, gesturing to the destruction just outside of the window. “Helping.”
Stinson clears her throat. “There is no good way to do this. We’ll have to issue a statement–”
“No,” Jim says, shaking his head. “Forget all that. No one wants a fancy statement. Just–just let me do this my way, okay?”
“Mr. Hopper–”
“I’m done with this, all of this.”
“You have no choice. We will issue a statement, and you have to prepare yourself for the unavoidable interest your return will bring–”
He feels his temper flare. “After everything that’s happened, can’t you handle the press?”
“We can try to–”
“Right,” he replies, knowing better. “Fine.”
Stinson considers him for a moment then nods. “Okay, we’ll draft the statement and release it later today.” She steps forward, heading for the exit, but pauses to add: “We’ll ask for privacy but I advise you to brace yourself.”
She bids them all goodbye and leaves with her men. Awkwardness settles in the room. Jim turns to his old team, and grimaces. “I know you have questions.”
Flo steps forward first, shaking her head. “That was all a lie, wasn’t it?” When he doesn’t answer, she glares at him. “Hop. We weren’t born yesterday.”
Cal steps forward, hand outstretched. “I still can’t believe it but . . . it’s–it’s good to have you back, Chief.”
“That’s your title now,” he smiles, shaking his hand with a tight grip.
Phil laughs, moving forward and clapping him on the shoulder. “Damn, this is crazy.”
“Are you going to tell us what really happened?” Flo asks, staring at the wound on the side of his head with narrowed eyes.
Jim pauses, looking at each one of them before giving them an answer. “No. But it wasn’t planned, and it wasn’t my choice.”
“Well, that’s obvious enough, Hop.”
“Yeah, you look like hell,” Phil adds, shooting him a smile. Jim laughs.
“So, uh, your daughter?” Cal asks, nodding at El. Jim holds onto El’s bicep and inhales, looking down at her. She stares back with a hesitant expression but nods.
“This is Jane,” he replies, allowing her to step in front of him a little.
“How–” Phil begins, eyebrows knitted.
“It’s a long story.”
Flo, seemingly the least fazed by this revelation, turns to El and speaks in a soft voice. “Hello sweetheart,” she says, smiling at her.
“Hi.”
“When–when did you–”
“Another time,” Jim says, meeting Cal’s narrowed eyes. El’s birth certificate is a public record, and he wonders if Cal has seen it. He’d been there when Jim discovered Terry Ives, and he’s almost sure his former officer could make the connection between that woman, the missing “Russian” child, and Jane Hopper. “We should go.”
“When will you come back?” Flo asks.
He smiles at her, surprisingly warmed by the question. “Soon. I, uh, probably should stay out of the way when the news hits.”
“Hey, maybe it won’t be that bad. You look pretty different, after all.” Phil says, pointing at his now lean body. “Especially with that hat on, I don’t know if anyone would recognize you.”
“Maybe,” Jim replies. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“Hop,” Flo murmurs, grabbing his arm again. “It’s good to have you back.”
He exhales a laugh, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. “Good to be back.”
She tugs him down to her level. “I knew something was up with you, even before you left. I knew it. And when we lost you, and I found out about your daughter, it began to make sense.”
He stares into her steady eyes. “And now you know.”
“I don’t know enough, Hop.”
He laughs softly, “Well, I’ll try my best to fill you in. Soon.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
He smiles again and turns to Joyce. “Ready?”
She meets his eyes with a determined look. “Let’s go.”
He shoots the boys a nod and gently pushes El forward; they walk through the low double doors and out into the beige hallway. No other staff members seem to be around, but he’s grateful for the empty office. He doesn’t know if he can handle more of this today.
They step outside and walk to the car. Joyce bumps him out of the way and gets into the driver’s seat. “Keys,” she demands, extending her palm with an expectant expression. He doesn’t argue; he hands them over and settles into the passenger side, grimacing as his ankle burns with pain. She starts the car and pulls out of the parking bay, joining the trickle of early-morning traffic.
“Could’ve been worse,” he mutters, staring out at Main Street, or what remains of it. She looks stressed and annoyed, but she nods back, eyes on the road. Jim turns to look at El. “You okay?” He asks her, peering into the backseat.
El meets his eyes and nods. “Yes.”
“Feels strange, huh kid?”
“Strange?”
“After all this time. Bringing you to the station . . . it’s a little strange.” He sighs, turning back to the front. “I lied to them for so long. Now I have to lie some more.”
“Jim . . .” Joyce murmurs, shooting him a quick, sympathetic look.
“It’s fine, it’s just . . . I don’t know.” He digs into his pocket for his Camels and pulls out a crushed packet. Once he lodges a cigarette between his lips, he continues. “Stinson’s protecting El, and I’m not dead anymore. The town is on fire.” He exhales, shaking his head. “The hell’s the point of all this?”
“Maybe we should tell them the truth,” El murmurs from the back, shuffling in her seat. “I am tired too.”
Jim sighs. “I know you are, kid. I’m sorry. But it looks like we can’t. Maybe we never can.” He looks back at El, who avoids his eyes; she leans against her window and stares at their surroundings.
“Things will get better,” Joyce says in a soft voice. “We’re together. That’s all that counts.” She tries to meet El’s eyes in the rearview mirror but his daughter doesn’t budge. “I promise, sweetie. We’ll fix this.”
“Okay,” El replies in a small voice.
Jim turns back to the front and cranks his window open; he lights his cigarette and begins to smoke. The rest of the journey is spent in silence, and when Joyce parks up in a hooded spot beside the cabin, all three of them stay seated. He clears his throat and turns to stare at the two most important people in his life.
“Thanks,” he tells them, voice embarrassingly hoarse. “Thanks for coming with me.”
El leans forward immediately, stretching her arms out and over the back of his seat to hug him awkwardly around the shoulders. He lets out a small laugh, clutching at her arms and dipping down to nuzzle the back of her hand. “Thanks, kid.”
She squeezes him once in return and recoils, shimmying to the door and getting out of the car. A light breeze plays around his face as he watches her walk up to the house, shoulders hunched and tense. Sighing, he turns to Joyce, who looks at him with gentle, worried eyes, and reaches out a palm to caress his jaw. “Jim,” she says, quietly, in the voice he hopes she reserves just for him. “We’re here. And we’re not going to leave you.”
Smiling, he allows her love to wash over him like a gentle wave. “I know.” He reaches for her slight fingers, threading them through his larger ones and pulling them up to his mouth. Jim gazes into her beautiful, expressive eyes and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, lingering over her skin, then kissing the same spot again. With gentle movements, he turns her hand over, caressing her fingers and letting his lips rest against the inside of her wrist. “I know,” he repeats, tugging her closer across the center console; reaching out to cradle her neck and brush their lips together.
Joyce’s sigh skims over his skin, heating him, and a hushed laugh bubbles out of her when he ducks down and kisses the ticklish spot just below her ear.
***
Fin.