Archive of Our Own

He’d be lying through his teeth to say he hasn’t thought about it before, no matter how the guilt tries to itch at his skin. It’s not like he’s been going out of his way to wind up in her bed–the opposite, no matter what the devil on his shoulder says–, but it does, eventually. Hopper can’t say he’s all too shocked, either. 

Hopper’s business with Joyce could’ve ended after Will was found, but that’s not how it goes. Of course it doesn’t. It never does. 

A couple months down the line, he finds that visiting the Byers has worked its way into his schedule, most days. Whether he has an actual reason or he makes one up so he can sit with Joyce in the kitchen, talking about everything and nothing, it happens. 

It’d be another lie to say there hasn’t been something in the air. He’s been leaning toward the notion that the little touches and batted lashes are simply things that he needs to quit reading into for his own sake until one dreary afternoon, when his regular check-in on Joyce and the boys turned into her hands on his face and her ridiculously soft lips on his. He doesn’t even let his hands fall to her waist until she shoves him down when he shifts to stand, promptly straddling his thigh, and the thin string strapping his conscience down snaps in two. 

“The boys,” is all he manages to get out in between hard, demanding kisses. The fact that he’s sat in the very communal, very open Byers’ dining room is something that smacks him way more delayed than it should’ve had to. “Joyce–”

She makes a disgruntled little noise against his lips, barely shaking her head as she briefly pulls away. “Mike’s,” she pants, and then she’s kissing him again, her cold hands cupping his scruffy cheeks. 

Warmth stabs through his belly in a sharp little jab. There’s not a universe where he’d ever dream of putting this to a stop, but she’s so worked up and frantic that he doesn’t think he’d be able to if he did. He’d be the moron of the decade to, especially when she’s rocking her hips on his jean-clad leg and leaving lipstick stains all over his face. He’d be happy to die here. 

“Bed?” he moans before he can give it any thought, but she’s already nodding her head yes and sliding off his lap. 

Joyce leads him down the hallway like she's on a mission and Hopper stumbles behind her like a damn dog on a leash. Hoisting her up and throwing her over his shoulder crosses his mind–Christ, she'd probably like it, too–but then she pushes open the door near the end of the corridor, and the next thing he knows, he's being reeled down again.

Idly, while he nips at her bottom lip and urges her backwards until the backs of her legs meet the edge of the bed, Hopper realizes he's never actually been in her bedroom before. He’s pretty sure he can make his way around the house blindfolded, given how many hours he’s spent there lately, but it’s only now that he’s been inside her bedroom. It’s what he expected, though; cozy and endearingly cluttered, half-empty water glasses and the bed half-made like she might’ve been in a rush. There’s a slightly self-conscious look that crosses her face, and he leans in to kiss it away as he coaxes her back against her teal bed sheets.

He kisses her slowly, deliberately. Deeper, too, now that he’s hovering over her and knows he’s allowed to, tasting her so deeply he can’t help but groan right along with her. It’s when she reaches to tug one of his hands down between her squirming thighs that his cock finally twitches in the confines of his jeans.

Hopper groans into her mouth, low and guttural, like it’s been caged up in him for too damn long. His hands slide against the shape of her, feeling the heat against his palm as he traces his fingers between her thighs through her jeans.

Her legs squeeze around his hand. “Hop,” Joyce whispers through a breathy gasp, her own hand reaching down to hastily undo the button and zipper on her jeans, and he doesn't need much more convincing before dipping beneath the hem of her grey panties to stroke through her warmth.

“God, you’re wet...” And gorgeous, and so damn perfect.

He hears himself say it, raspy, slightly wrecked, and Joyce reacts almost immediately, canting her hips to meet his touches. Hopper watches as her wet lips part in a stunted moan, nose wrinkling a little like a bunny rabbit. He strokes her lazily, playing his fingers in her heat, watching her breath fall ragged and her pretty little face scrunch up beneath him. It’s filthy and simultaneously so, so sweet. It’s already burned into his brain before he can do anything about it.

“C’mon,” she breathes, just loud enough to hear. A small noise tumbles from her mouth, shimmying to meet his touches. “More.” 

There’s something demanding peeking through her tone, tangled with desperation and want. Not annoyed, not really, and it only spurs him on.

He hides a smug smirk into her neck, pressing his prickly jaw against her soft skin as he dips his fingers into her. “More?” 

Joyce is already nodding her head before he says it, hips arching against his hand and groaning when he curls his digits. He does it again and again, mouthing at her neck and greedily prying every little helpless sound from her throat until her thighs begin to quiver around his wrist.

“There you go,” Hopper murmurs, voice rough against her ear. “Just like that.”

Her hands grasp at his back, clenching in his flannel as she tenses, mouth falling open in a silent shout as her hips begin to slow against his hand. His mouth finds her’s like it already knows where it belongs, groaning when she slides her tongue along his, and a part of him wants to bite into her. Bite into her and lick her and keep her, just like this–shaky and spent, wrapped around him, just like how he’s been wrapped around her. 

Joyce squirms beneath him as her hands reach down to fumble at his belt. “Get this off,” she gets out, and he doesn’t need any further instruction from there.

He keeps his mouth on her’s, undoing his belt and shrugging out of his jeans. She’s working at the buttons of his flannel with shaky hands, so he helps her out and tugs it off, tossing it somewhere behind them. Hopper makes quick work of her own shirt, breaking away from her bruised lips only to take it off, and he near damn whimpers at the sight of her.

There’s something so raw about her here, flushed and breathless beneath him. He’d known she wasn’t wearing a bra before–trying to avert her perked nipples before she’d frankly trapped him down , but now that he’s here, he allows himself to look. To adore and gawk, a little. She’s softer than he remembers her being, way back in their junior year, but by no means is he complaining.

She’s real and worn, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath, and his eyes linger on the constellation of little freckles at the curve of her breasts, right where his hands have already found themselves at.

Joyce’s lips stutter open, sighing and leaning into his touch, but there’s something fragile in her deep, dark eyes he doesn’t miss.

“Jesus, Joyce,” he mumbles, half-way into her mouth when he dips his head to kiss her again. “You’re perfect.”

It comes out before he can think about it. Half of him hopes she doesn’t hear it, but the little moan she responds with while her body nestles closer makes his heart swell–and his dick when she reaches down between them to stroke him through his briefs. Jesus. 

Hopper buries a sigh into her mouth, twitching into her palm involuntarily. She blows out a pleased little hum, sounding almost proud, so he swipes his thumb over her peaked nipple and draws out a whimper from her.

She tugs at the waistband, drawing him out. “I want you,” is what she murmurs, right against the corner of his mouth.

He bites back a groan, rubbing his beard against her skin enough to make her shiver. “Yeah?”

Her nodding is sure, and he knows not to second guess her when she shoves at his chest, urging him on his back so that he’s the one against the pillows. He coaxes her into his lap, their mouths meeting in another long kiss as she shifts to rub herself along his length in a way that has them both groaning.

“Condom?” he breathes, hands trailing up and down her curved sides.

She shakes her head, hair curtaining her face. “Pill,” she says, raspy and low, angling her hips down on his lap and the next thing he knows, she’s sinking down on to him with a filthy little moan that punches the air out of his lungs.

Holy hell.

“Okay?” she pants, cool hands on his chest.

Hopper nods wordlessly, jaw slack, the back of his head hitting the headboard with a quiet thunk. He swears up at the popcorn ceiling, but it’s got nothing to do with the small sting that follows it because, apparently, she’s decided to take advantage of his exposed neck, placing wet kisses to his throat while she grinds down on him in slow, fluttering circles.

“Christ,” he blows out against her temple, his hands finding her sharp hips, holding onto them while she begins to move. “God, you feel s’good.”

Joyce buries a small noise into his neck, breath coming out in hot puffs against his skin. She steadies herself, grasping at his shoulders as she lifts herself up again, beginning to rock with more confidence in her hips, and he can't take his eyes off of her; her chest rising and falling heavily with each thrust, hips rolling in tandem with his own movement, her face scrunched up in nothing but unadulterated pleasure as she grinds down on him.

He kisses the juncture of her neck, bringing a hand up to thread through her hair at the back of her head. “That’s it, c’mon,” he groans, coaxing her hips harder that has her gasping.

“Jesus, Hopper,” she hisses, shaking her head against his neck. “I need you…”

“Right here, honey, doin’ so good.” His fingers tighten in her locks on reflex when she squeezes down on him, kissing his throat; a little groan tumbles from her lips following it, babbling against his skin.

"...so good–God, I’ve been needing you so bad…”

Hopper’s eyes can’t help but widen, fingers clenching in her hair as if to keep her slurred words from knocking him off balance. He twitches inside of her, and the motion draws out a little groan from her–a groan that grows into his own name sliding off her tongue. 

“Jim–”

“Yeah?” he manages, and it sounds a little like he’s being squished. “That right?”

Joyce nods feverishly, nails digging into his shoulder blades. “Yes,” she swears–he can’t quite tell if she’s answering him or if she’s so far gone, lost in the bliss of the moment. “More.”

Her words sound like they’re being pried from her, raw and drawn; it takes a beat for Hopper to compute them–head spinning in the scent of her and what she’d just told him–but when he does pull himself together, he rolls her onto her back, spreading her out on the mattress with sweet nothings falling from his lips before he can think about it.

Easily, he hooks a soft thigh over his hip as he aligns himself again, moaning along with Joyce as he sinks back inside. He pumps into her harder, promptly ignoring the burn in his joints. He’d hustle past being a lazy ass whenever he had to if it meant watching Joyce fall apart beneath him like this every damn day.

The telltale signs of her finish appear within moments; fingernails digging into his back, her body trembling beneath him, teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she tightens around him sweetly, and Hopper follows right behind her—emptying deep inside her, swearing into the top of her head as he comes.

He tries to catch up with his breath before rolling off her, laying heavily beside her and trying not to pant too loudly. A part of him still feels like his head is spinning–he can feel his heartbeat everywhere on his sweaty body.

After a long beat, he sees Joyce roll onto her side from his peripheral. He lets himself look over at her, those dark doe eyes pouring into his face. She’s since pulled the comforter up her chest, but at the same time, it’s held loosely and still offers him a straight shot down her cleavage, the little moles that dot her skin–

“What time is it?” Joyce murmurs.

Hopper blinks. Once, twice, then pulls his arm from the sheets and squints at his wristwatch with a sniff. “Five.” He tilts his head slightly. “I think.”

She frowns. “You think?” 

Shrugging, he offers his arm over to her. She takes his hand, turning it to take a look at the watch. “It’s dark in here,” he says, lighter. “Shitty eyes.”

She smirks. “I thought you were about to tell me you didn’t know how to read a clock.”

"Yeah, that too.”

“Actually?”

“I’m kidding.”

Joyce snorts, batting away his hand as a smile takes over her soft features, quietly spreading to the creases of her eyes. It’s small, quick. Warm and maybe shy, one he’s become accustomed to, but that doesn’t stop him from watching for just a little too long. 

Maybe it’s the sex, but he’s fairly certain there’s nobody who compares to how close this woman is to perfection.

After a moment, she lets out a small exhale, shifting to sit up. “Jonathan gets off early today.” 

Hopper’s nodding before her words even get to his thick dome. He knows he’s pushing his luck, but there’s something in her soft tone that sounds regretful. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, okay.”

The idea of cracking a window and lighting a Camel with Joyce nestled into his side sounds sounds like a fuckin’ dream. But he picks himself up and reaches for his jeans, where they’d been laying in a heap on the floor.

“Gotta get home, anyway. Feed the cat,” he teases, and she chuckles from behind him.

There’s some truth to that, though. Except this “cat” is a telepathic pre-teen, who’s probably getting herself into the pack of Eggos he’d swiped from the store this morning. 

Hopper keeps to himself while he changes back into his clothes, hears her move and shuffle around behind him. When he’s buttoned up his shirt, he tentatively allows himself to look over his shoulder.

“Good?” he asks sheepishly. The little laugh she blows out only makes him flush, but he takes it as the green light and shifts to face her again. Her legs are still beneath the covers, but she’s pulled on her own flannel again, leaving the top buttons undone. 

Hopper straightens a little, his eyes lingering on her for as long as he can before he has to look away. “I don’t…” He smooths over his mucked-up hair, feeling her gaze on him. “I don’t want this to change us,” is what he settles on, because he really doesn’t.

Joyce’s eyes soften, lips pursed together in a thin smile. “It won’t,” she promises gently, and he almost immediately believes her. It’s hard not to believe and trust anything that comes out of her mouth when she’s like this. 

The mattress springs groan when she scoots over close enough to lean up and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I’ll call you, okay?” she murmurs. 

Her voice is soft, her breath hot against his stubbly skin. It makes him feel more dizzy than it should as he nods and tries not to stumble out of her warm bed. Joyce disappears into her sheets again as Hopper crosses the room, whispering the door open and closing it with a click behind him. He can’t do anything but stare for a couple beats.

The latch clicks almost immediately once he knocks the special knock. When he opens the door, creaking loudly, the background buzz of the TV fills his ears, and his eyes land on the mess of dark curls, just visible over the back of the couch.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Hopper’s mouth, shrugging out of his jacket. “Hey.”

El glances over the back of the couch, blinking up at him with big, deep eyes. She’s got her stuffed bear nestled into her side. “Hi.”

He steps inside, nudging the door shut with his boot, and hangs his coat on the wall hook with a familiar, practiced motion. The air inside is warm, lived-in. He moves toward the table, where her plate sits wrapped in tinfoil, untouched.

Hopper frowns. “What happened with dinner?” he asks, lifting up the foil to find congealed spaghetti. He grimaces.

A beat, then, “Wasn’t hungry,” El voices.

He nods with a sniff, picking up the plate. He can’t bring himself to even be annoyed. “How ‘bout I just make a fresh batch, okay?”

The mess of brunette curls nods quickly before plopping back down on her designated spot on the sofa. 

He exhales, tossing the paper tray into the trash by the counter, and moves over to the cabinet. The chatter from the television blends into background noise as he putters around the kitchenette, picking out a thing of Spahgettio’s and sticking the saucepan on the burner. He wedges the can open with the edge of a knife and empties the contents out, the shade of the sauce not unlike the lipstick stains he’d scrubbed off his mouth just an hour ago. 

Hopper shudders, turns, and swipes a cool beer from the fridge. Lately, a part of him’s been making a lousy effort to cut back a little–and he has, miraculously–but he can’t bring himself to give it a second thought now.

He takes a swig, his eyes flickering over to the black and white glow of the TV set, tuning into the familiar, muffled voices and grainy edges.

Amusement tugs at his lips. “Andy Griffith, huh?” He rests his hip against the counter, taking another sip.

El doesn’t look up, but he can tell she heard him. “I like the sheriff,” she says, and there’s a rare ounce of enthusiasm in her otherwise default, monotone voice. “He’s kind.”

Hopper pauses briefly, moving to stir the pasta around as he smiles to himself. “I used to watch this back in my heyday, y’know.”

That’s what has the kid looking over her shoulder. Her brow furrows cutely. “How old is this?”

“The show?”

“Yeah.”

“Only came out in, like, ‘61. I’m not that old.”

El’s smile is small but it’s there, and it, absurdly, reaches his own heart before she turns back around.

“Hey, food’s almost done. Come sit down.”

She has that look—half a question, half a habit—as if she’s going to ask to eat on the couch. But then she hesitates, shifts, and makes her way to the too-small table against the wall. Hopper keeps his eyes on the pot, stirring until the sauce starts to hiss and spit, then ladles it into two mismatched bowls.

“Good stuff,” he murmurs, bringing them both over to the table and placing one in front of El. She gives him a soft thank you before beginning to pick at her plate, and he sits down across from her. 

They lull into comfortable silence as they eat, the TV voice’s mingling in the background while Hopper’s head attempts to return to wildly offensive places for something close to a family dinner. He exhales, reaches for his beer, and tries to think about something, anything, that doesn’t involve Joyce and her insistent, chilly hands or the words she’d murmured or–

“I saw you with Joyce,” El pipes up simply, nowhere near accusatory, and Hopper chokes on his beer.

He muffles a violent coughing fit into his elbow, half convinced he’s seen God himself as he waves the air away. El watches the whole show, looking closer to a puffed up, scared cat than a human. 

“You–” More coughing. He reaches for a napkin and chases down the attack with more beer. “You saw me with Joyce?” Hopper echoes once he stops hacking, his voice still raw. “Today?”

El nods carefully. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look so damn petrified. “Yes.”

“In your head?”

“In the void. Why are you–”

“I’m good. I’m all good.” Hopper stifles another cough into his fist, taking another swig of beer, and sighs into his sweaty palms when the storm in his lungs calms, finally. Still, he can’t bring himself to meet El’s big eyes. 

This is not the segue he would’ve preferred to take into the birds and the bees talk. Hell, he hadn’t even thought about that yet. Andy Taylor’s kind voice seems to taunt him in the background. If only he could dig himself an early grave and let him do the explaining.

He swears into his hand before prying it away, meeting El’s quizzical gaze. Get yourself together, old man. 

“You gotta be honest with me, okay?” Hopper says, attempting as neutral of a voice as he can muster.

She nods tentatively. She seems more mortified by his spasm than what she would’ve stumbled upon earlier.

“I need you to tell me what you saw, alright?” He’s not sure if he’s ready to hear it, but he has to. It’s his own fault. He’s the grownup. She’s the kid.

El still looks confused as ever. “The kitchen,” is what she says. “You made her laugh.”

Hopper blinks. “That’s all?”

The kid blinks back. “She looked sad. You made her happy.”

He pauses for a beat, waiting for her to continue, but when she doesn’t, waves of relief crash at the shore and drown the rest of Hopper’s impending doom away. He blows out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding into his hands. “Okay, El, you can’t…”

Hopper shakes his head. “Kid, you can’t spy on me in there. Boundaries.”

“Boundaries?”

“Yeah. Y’know.”

El stares at him. Maybe she doesn’t y’know.

He clicks his tongue once. “They’re, uh, rules. Rules that make everyone feel comfortable. Privacy, okay?”

She nods slowly, understanding, and then she picks up her fork again. “You get happy around Joyce,” she tells him after a couple beats, softer.

It’s not a question. Not something to answer, so he doesn’t. But he sits with it for a moment, mulling it over in his head.

“How ‘bout we pop some Eggos in after we’re done. Stay up late and watch TV, yeah?” he offers instead, and El’s eyes light up. His do, too.

It’s not like he’s waiting for her call. Expecting, maybe, but only because the words came out of her own mouth. Only because she’d looked at him with hooded eyes and a promise in her drowsy voice.

It’s been a few days since he was last at Joyce’s house, and things have continued on as usual in their mundane, regular ways–work, coffee that tastes a little bit like dirt–and he’d be kidding himself to say that she hasn’t been on his mind lately. She usually is, anyway, but even moreso, now. He’d taken the long way home a couple nights ago to swing by the Byers’s, just to see if the lights were on, which cars were in the driveway.

Hopper doesn’t know why he feels guilty. He’s not stalking her, God, no. Just–keeping an eye out. Quietly floating around in her orbit, just in case she needs him. On duty or just as himself.

So, when the phone blares at too fucking early in the morning, shrill and grating against the quiet of sleep, something in his subconscious has him up faster than he is getting ready for work, most days. Even still, he damn near rips the receiver off the wall. 

“What?” he barks into the receiver.

“Hop!”

A high, panicked tone filters in through the speaker. His eyes pinch shut. “Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his tired face. “Do you know how late it is, Joyce?” 

“I know, I know, ” she rushes out, “ I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t have to.”

Right when he begins to wonder how on earth this woman has this much energy at the ass-crack of dawn, those words are all it takes. He softens, sighing. “I know that. ‘M sorry.” He sniffs, doing his best to shrug away the sleep that clings to him. “Sorry. What happened?”

A breath crackles through the receiver. “It’s Will,” she says, and he’s practically halfway out the door already, stomach pitting uglily. “Hard night, I just…Jonathan’s asleep, and I didn’t know what to do–”

“I’m on my way."

He doesn’t let her finish her downplay as he places the phone back on the wall, blowing out a breath as he moves for the coat rack. But it's the creak of the floorboard that makes him stop in his tracks, putting his instincts on a temporary hold when he spots El. El, widening the crack of the door he’d left open when saying goodnight to her, wrapped in a patterned quilt with her hair all tousled. Even in the dark, he can still see those big, sad eyes of her’s. 

Damnit.

Hopper sighs. “Hey, kid.”

El stays unmoving, careful. Anybody would be shaken by the jarring noise of the phone blaring during ungodly hours of the night (morning?), but she seems more than just flustered, breathing heavily and blinking rapidly. 

Knowing as much as he does about what this kid has been subjected to, the implication makes his chest tighten. She looks so small.

“The phone–?”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice low, “Sorry. Got me too, ‘s okay.”

She nods, only a little bit, and fuck he wishes he could be in two places at once. God knows what the hell’s going on with Will–at this rate, he believes just about everything–and Joyce wouldn't have called if something wasn’t wrong, but it’s something close to second nature, the way he feels himself pulling toward this kid.

Hopper shuts his eyes briefly and tries not to swear into his hand. “Look, I gotta go,” he tells her after a moment, “That was Joyce, who called. Everything’s fine, I just–I gotta go check on her, okay?”

Tentatively, he reaches over to press her door open just a little more. Just so he can see the way she picks her gaze off the floor.

He meets her eyes, and he barely gets out a c’mere before she’s in his arms. She doesn’t even shift until he brings a careful hand up to cradle the back of her head, threading through her curls as she smushes her cheek against his heart.

“You’re okay,” he finds himself whispering. Whispering in the way he thought he’d forgotten how to. “You’re okay, kid.”

Slowly, he pulls away, letting his hand fall just barely to her cheek when she looks up at him. “I won’t be gone long.” There’s a firmer edge to his voice now, but he can’t shake the gentleness even if he wanted to. “I’m gonna be right back, and you’re gonna be okay.”

El pauses briefly, taking in an almost even breath as she nods. “Promise?” she asks timidly.

Hopper only nods. “I promise.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever driven somewhere so fast. The last of his calm gets spent on bringing El back to her bed, making sure he leaves her door open a little. No time to light a cigarette, turn on the heaters–dead set on getting there, seeing Joyce, seeing the kid. The streets are empty, most of everybody’s still dead to the world, and there’s nobody to stop him. Not in the Blazer, at least, where CHIEF is printed on the side in bold lettering.

When he turns into the dirt road at the end of Cornwallis, Joyce’s house is dark, asleep, aside from the soft yellow glow in the kitchen. Hopper parks up beside the lime green pinto in the driveway and rubs his hand over his weary before he gets out. His sigh crystalizes in the air as he pads up to her front porch, hand barely grazing against the doorknob before finding it’s already unlocked, creaking when he pushes it open. 

Hopper steps inside, slow and quiet, instinctive like he’s entering a scene already heavy with something fragile. His eyes follow that warm light into the kitchen, and he finds a familiar silhouette leaning against the counter, eyes emptily fixed on the floor with a mug cradled in her hands. Joyce doesn’t look up with a tired gaze until he gives the wall a series of soft knocks.

Joyce winces, shaking her head and scrubbing her hand over her face. “Hi.” 

She looks even smaller than she usually does, shoulders curled in, which is saying something, especially when she’s next to him. Her hair’s all frizzy and untamed, night shirt half-buttoned and her sweatpants baggy. 

“Where’s the kid?” he murmurs, shaking himself slightly.

“Back asleep.” She traces her thumb against her mug as the tiniest of smiles crawls onto her mouth. “You hung up before I could tell you to stay home.”

He ignores her. “He’s okay?”

Joyce shrugs, falling quiet. She looks helpless. When he moves closer, he can see the sleepiness in her under eyes, the way she’s been nervously biting on her lower lip. A part of him feels ashamed for noticing that in the first place.  “Now he is, but…”

One of her hands comes up to rub at her temple, and when she flutters her eyes shut, he can feel the way sleep still sticks to her. “I was just checking on him, and he was–sitting up straight in bed. Not doing anything.”

Hopper gazes at her, coming to stand beside her, frown only deepening as she continues.

“I mean, he sleepwalks sometimes, y’know, so ‘s not un heard of, but…” She shakes her head slowly, face scrunching into something upset. “It wasn’t like that.”

“How?”

“‘Cause his eyes were open.” 

The words float around in the air, even when she stops talking. He shudders as her voice begins to break.

“He wouldn’t–he wouldn’t respond to me,” she croaks, blinking against her eyes. “He wouldn’t wake up, and when he did, he just started crying. It was like he wasn’t even there. I just–” Her lips press together, hand coming up to cover her mouth. She can feel her voice breaking and he can hear it. 

Hopper stays quiet while something inside of him threatens to shatter. He wants to reach out–hold her, kiss her until the pain goes away. But he stays put, because he knows better.

He hesitates before opening his mouth. “Do you think…”

Joyce is already nodding. A tight, sure nod. She knows what he means; she doesn’t need to elaborate, not when she finally picks her gaze up off the floor and looks up at him with a pair of the saddest eyes he thinks he’s ever seen.

Maybe he doesn’t know better.

Maybe that’s why, before he can think twice, he’s reaching out. Bringing his hand up to her shoulder, smoothing over the wrinkles in her shirt, letting her lead; he’d go if she wanted him to. He’d fuck her until she forgot what pain felt like, if that’s what she wanted. But she wordlessly places her mug on the counter, and before he can wonder if he’s got her all wrong, she’s curling into his chest, merging her bubble in with his til his arms are wrapped around her and her face is buried in his shirt.

It’s what she wants, so he holds her. Holds her until her shoulders stop shaking and her breathing begins to taper into something more slowed.

“‘Gonna get on the phone with the doc tomorrow,” he tells her lowly, “‘n we’re gonna figure this out.”

Sureness manages to cut through the lingering sleep in his tone, even though it’s treading on a white lie. He’ll get in touch with Owens but it’s that second part he’s not sure of. He’s not sure of much of anything when it comes to this Upside Down business. Nobody is, and he’s too tired to turn this into something it doesn’t have to be. All that matters is that Joyce nods against him lazily in response.

Hopper doesn’t know how long they stand there, but it’s long enough for him to notice the buzz of the refrigerator, to notice how the tap drips every now and then into the sink. 

She’s not crying anymore. Her breath evened out a while ago. He should go home.

But he doesn’t move. Neither does she. 

Joyce stays pressed up against him in every way. Her hands tighten where they’re planted at his coat, and he allows his to make a slow, thoughtless drift down and up her back. He really should go home.

She smells good, familiar. Like traces of cigarettes and sleep. Like the sweet-scented, floral shampoo she uses, the same smell he’d been enveloped in a couple nights ago in her wrinkled bed sheets. Here, somehow, it feels almost more intoxicating.

Then, in the softest way to break silence, “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I was panicking. I wasn’t thinking when I called you.”

Hopper shakes his head immediately. “Don’t be.”

“I woke you up and made you drive halfway across Hawkins.” Her voice is muffled into his chest, but he can pick out a twinge of amusement that accounts for the absurdity of it all. “It’s really late.”

“You didn’t make me do anything.” It slips out before he can stop it, low and almost too honest. He’ll come when she calls, and he knows it damn well. It’s a moth to the flame. It’s unreasonable, if anything.

Silence settles between them again, but it’s not the comfortable kind he finds easy to slip into with Joyce; it’s the kind that suddenly makes the air feel too heady for his lungs, gets his big head thinking about nothing and everything all at once.

It is late.

“Do you want me to go?”

It’s a dumb question. He does need to get going, no matter what she wants; even in the best case scenario, where El managed to fall back asleep after he’d put her back to bed, he still needs to be there. But the way Joyce shifts to crane back in his arms, just enough to look up at him, makes him hesitate.

There’s something in her dark, sleepy eyes that make him pause altogether. There’s no hiding, like they can get away with in her dimmed bedroom. No disappearing beneath a teal duvet, here in the warm light of the kitchen.

Hopper swallows thickly. 

Her hands are still balled in his coat. Her mouth is parted and soft. Her eyes are hooded, dark, sleepy and on him. 

Joyce doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to. 

Nodding her head up, tilting, she nudges his nose just barely. He can feel her breath ghosting his face. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and the softest little sigh tumbles from her mouth that makes him feel dizzy.

It’s late. He really should go home. But she’s got a hand on his chest now and it would take only the nudge of her chin to be kissing her and–

Down the hallway, a door opens, and they both land face first onto reality’s pavement. 

Joyce is peeling off him within a blink, hastily returning to her spot beside him as she picks up her mug. It’s not until he hears another door open–the bathroom, probably–that he blows out a long sigh. He can still feel his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

Neither of them speak. Hopper thinks he might’ve forgotten how to until he pulls himself together enough to lamely get out, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” she says quickly, quietly, and that feels like his cue to go the hell home.

He zips up his coat, wishing he’d brought his hat or something to make himself look more busy, because he quickly finds himself continuing to stand around aimlessly in her kitchen for a couple long, dragged out beats. 

“You gonna be okay?” he manages to say without stumbling over his words. 

Joyce blinks like she’d forgotten the reason she’d called him over in the first place, but then she looks up at him, features softening through her pinkened cheeks. “Yeah.”

Hopper nods. This is when he’s supposed to leave. He knows that, but his feet remain anchored to her tile floor. He sniffs.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, moving to place her cup in the sink. “Sorry, again.”

He chuckles lightly. “‘S okay. I wasn’t really sleeping.”

She crosses over to him with a skeptical look on her face. “You sounded pretty asleep on the phone,” she quips, and before he can argue, before he can think of something halfway clever, she’s kissing him. Properly, this time.

It’s softer than he’d expected, lingering and kind, but it lands like a meteor in his chest anyway, scattering every outside thought he has into dust. Her cold hands are cradling his cheeks and he can’t do much else besides let her pull him down. 

When she pulls back, just barely, there’s a tired smile on her lips. “Go home,” Joyce whispers, words ghosting against his face, and Hopper kisses her again.

It’s been a couple days. More than a couple, actually.

It hasn’t been on purpose, not really. Not like he was before Joyce called at the ass crack of dawn a week ago. It’s just that January isn’t a very forgiving month in terms of snowfall and with the weather came one sniffling, curly haired little girl to match. He’d told Flo that he’s the one with a nasty cold and too-icy roads to up a couple of his sick days at the cabin, nursing El through a low-grade fever that doesn’t seem to be backing off no matter what they do. 

Hopper knocks his boots against the doorframe before stepping inside, kicking it shut behind him while he holds the small stack of firewood from the shed to his chest. 

“Can’t remember the last time the snow’s been this bad,” he murmurs, more to himself than El, because he already knows she won’t reply; sprawled and curled into the couch while she half-watches the TV.

He pads over to the furnace, leaning down to open it up and feed the dying embers, starting to bloom into bigger flames with each piece of wood. Hopper lingers by the fire after closing it, letting it warm his chilled fingertips. He sighs. He doesn’t remember the cabin being so damn drafty.

Stifling a groan as he stands back up, he rubs the back of his neck. He really shouldn’t have let himself doze off in the armchair last night.

Hopper shrugs out of his coat, hanging it on the rack before circling to where the lump of blankets lazes. “Doin’ any better?” he asks, leaning down to move El’s curls out of the way to place the back of his hand against her forehead.

The girl shrugs noncommittally and sniffles.

“You don’t feel as warm as you did last night, so that’s good.” Her eyes flutter shut a little as his hand lingers, combing back through her dark hair before pulling back. His eyes flicker to the TV, where a show he doesn’t recognize plays in black and white.

Then, after a beat, “The phone rang,” El voices, muffled and stuffy.

“Just now?” 

“Mhm.”

Scrubbing over his beard, Hopper looks over his shoulder at the phone, and how the answering machine blinks a little red light at him.

It’s Joyce. He already knows it is before he picks up the phone. It’s not like he’s given the cabin number to anybody else. It’s not like she hasn’t already called just a day or two ago.

“Hey, it’s me. Will’s fine. Nothing’s on fire, I just–wanted to…I dunno. Check in. Haven’t heard from you in a minute. Call me back.”

The machine clicks, her tinny voice disappearing into quiet static until he presses the stop button. He lowers the volume, and listens to it again.

Hopper’s eyes shut as he blows out a breath. He’s been thinking about her more than he’d care to admit after the night in her kitchen. He could call her back. He should call her back.

But right as his finger hovers over the call button, a sneezing fit erupts from the couch. His hand falls away from the phone and he moves to stand over the back of the couch.

“You gotta eat something,” he says gently, tugging her blanket up where it’d been sliding down her arm. “Why don’t I heat up some soup in a while, ‘kay?”

El only nods drowsily.

It’s one more day before he caves, because of course he does, eventually.

When he takes El’s temperature the next morning, he finds her fever’s drawn back, thankfully; one more day of this, and he would’ve started getting worried. She’s less miserable, more lively. After a warm shower, she even eats the grilled cheese he makes her, sans the crust, and settles back on the couch while cartoons flicker across the TV set.

But Hopper can’t stop thinking about Joyce. Her voice through the answering machine, her body against his. Her hands, her mouth. 

He misses her. 

El seeming considerably better puts him at ease, but still, he hesitates. So he winds up waiting just a little while before grabbing his jacket and telling the kid he’s gonna head out for a while, giving her hair a gentle ruffle before crossing out the door. He makes a mental note to clear off the walkway when he gets home.

Somewhere between soon and later, Hopper shows up at Joyce’s door with a bag of takeout from the new Italian place down the road and a knowing that he definitely should’ve called her back. Women are tricky sometimes. He should’ve started worrying about whether bringing over dinner would piss her off even more before he’d driven over to Enzo’s; not while standing outside her house and watching through the glass as she comes to the door.

Usually, he’s pretty good at reading her mood. It’s hard to not be when she wears what she feels on her face, but as she stares up at him in the doorframe, Hopper can’t put a pin on it. All he knows is that she’s not particularly delighted.

“Hey,” he says lamely. 

Joyce holds herself, like the chill of the outside is pricking at her arms. It’s poorly timed to admit he’s thinking about how he could warm her up, but he’d be lying otherwise.

“Are you done hiding from me?” she asks, sounding as annoyed as she looks.

He sniffs, shifting his weight. “Think so.” Like it’s a peace offering, he holds up the plastic bag. “I got Italian.”

It doesn’t faze her, not immediately, but then she’s softening, shaking her head stepping aside. “It’s freezing, get in here,” she mutters, taking the bag.

Hopper only grins, relaxing some as he brushes some of the fallen snow out of his short hair. 

“Was your plan to woo me with breadsticks?” Joyce asks, heading to the dining room to set the bag on the table as he shrugs out of his coat.

He shrugs. “Flowers felt too on the nose,” he teases, but it’s not untrue. “And I was hungry. Figured you might be too.” Hopper smirks as she comes back into view, hanging up his jacket. “Why, ‘s it working?” 

Joyce doesn’t reply; he barely turns around before she’s reeling him down by the front of his shirt, and everything else melts away entirely down to the heat of her mouth on his.

The food in the dining room is quickly forgotten, bound to be cold by now, but Hopper finds himself buried back in warm, wrinkled bed sheets and the smell of her hair, wild and spread out around her pillow, so he can’t be bothered to move.

She doesn’t have him leave, like he’d have been half-expecting; staying limp in his lap, lazily dragging her mouth along his stubbly neck and jaw, and Hopper thinks this might be the calmest he’s ever seen Joyce ever. She does wind up sliding off of him at one point, but only to reach for the pack of Camels on her nightstand, settling back beside him while he pulls his lighter from his jean pocket before she can start tearing apart her bedroom to find her own.

“You could’ve called me,” Joyce murmurs after a long while. Her voice is soft, a little scratchy, and Hopper takes a lengthened beat before even processing her words.

He blinks slowly, gaze fixed on somewhere between his feet beneath the covers and the dresser against the wall. “I know,” he barely says.

Hopper brings the cigarette to his mouth, pinched between his fingers as he takes a deep inhale until his lungs start to sting. It’s not until he idly holds out his hand to her, smoke curling out his mouth in a long exhale, that he notices her lack of response. She looks like she’s waiting for him to continue.

Joyce’s gaze flickers away as she plucks the cigarette from his fingers. “Are we…” Her words trail off, pausing briefly and taking a drag. “Are you okay?”

He scratches at his beard, offering something close to a shrug. “Yeah. Why?”

“You just…went into hiding,” she sighs against the cigarette. “Or something.”

Those words sharpen the air in the room, despite how soft they are. “Yeah, for a couple days,” Hopper mutters. “‘S not like I went missing.”

Joyce squints. “Still.”

He doesn't glance over at her, even after she pauses. Half because he knows he’ll be the first one to look away, half because she’s on her side, facing him sat up against the headboard without bothering to pull the sheets up her chest, and right now, while he can feel her narrowed maple eyes on him, he's not sure if he's allowed to look.

“I’ve just been busy lately,” Hopper says neutrally after too long of a beat. “Station’s been packed this week.”

“You weren’t there yesterday.”

“What, you're keepin’ tabs on me?” 

It comes out more defensive than he would've preferred—Joyce stares up at him incredulously, and he feels himself tense.

“Yes,” she bites, “I called your work because you have, apparently, thrown out your phone. Sorry I give a shit about you. Jesus, Hopper.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t make it worse. And that moment—brief and bright and stupidly soft—where she’d been curled around him like she trusted him, like maybe things could be good for more than five minutes? It’s already slipping out of reach.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cigarette flare as she takes a drag, a real slow one, right when he figures out he should probably say something. But before he can even begin to piece something, anything together–a half-assed apology, an insult with no real weight behind it–she’s leaning in close, only for smoke to hit him square in the face.

“What is your problem?” Hopper grumbles, swatting her away.

“What is your problem?” Joyce fires back, sitting up and tugging the sheets to her chest. “You screw me in my bed, we kiss in my kitchen, and then you ice me out for days and I’m the bad guy for wanting to know why?”

Christ.

He scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I’ve got a lot on my plate,” he says, a little too sharply, muffled into his palm. “‘M just dealing with my shit. It’s not about you. Not everything’s about–”

He catches himself before he can finish, but the words ring around in the air– especially the unsaid ones. It’s all over Joyce’s face, staring at him with those darkened eyes, hair falling and framing around her face messily. 

Something knits in her brow, weaving hurt into her face in the dim light. Now you’ve done it, jackass, Hopper thinks, but then she’s shaking herself slightly, straightening.

“You’re not the only person going through shit, Hopper,” Joyce says firmly.

He hesitates, picking his words, and then, “I know that,” he murmurs, “do you?”

Joyce’s jaw tenses, her mouth twitching like she’s fighting every urge to say something that might slice him open, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

She shakes her head with a sniff. “Y’know what?” she gets out, leaning over to put out the cigarette in the ashtray, jostling the bed as she gets out. “I should get going and pick up Will. You should go, too.”

Hopper watches her, blinking as a layer of guilt cracks at his skin. Something in his stomach twists. “Joyce–"

"No, no, ‘sokay.” Her face is drawn, all too focused on tugging on her jeans like she might break in two. Never once does she look over at him. “Really. You’ve made yourself clear.”

“Goddamnit, Joyce–” He rubs over his face, pulling himself out from her bed with a sigh, reaching for his pants. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

There’s the shuffling of clothing and the bed spring when he shifts, but she remains silent.

“Can you–”

“Can I what?”

Hopper looks over his shoulder once he tugs on his undershirt and finds Joyce looking right back at him–flannel half buttoned, eyes like knives.

“What do you want me to do?” she demands, staring down at him expectantly, “What do you want from me, Jim?”

His mouth falls open, but there’s not one word that comes out. He wants to say something, something to kill this grating silence that makes his heartbeat sound loud, but he can’t.

Joyce lets the silence hang around longer than it should, long enough for it to feel like a punishment that he knows he probably deserves. She looks away and huffs after a beat, not quite a laugh but not quite a sigh. 

“I know you're dealing with stuff,” she starts, lighter as she buttons up the rest of her shirt. “And I won’t make you tell me. But you don't get to act like I’m not someone you've known since—what, high school?” 

She scoffs, shaking her head. “I’m just–not interested in being one of your hookups, Hop.”

He just…blinks, belt half-pulled through the loops in his pants. Those last words are a fucking wake up call through the thick fog of the smell of sex and smoke and whatever the hell this is.

“I…”

For a moment, as he watches her zip her fly and finish getting dressed, he seriously considers just telling her about El. How he’s acquired this doe-eyed, quirky little girl and taken her in like she was a stray, wet cat. How this has all been going on behind her and everybody else’s back, away from the rest of the world, a secret for himself to keep. How scared he is to lose her, after only now getting her back. 

And then Joyce meets his eyes again, and every single word he could say to smooth everything over. 

Pathetically, he stays quiet, and he kicks himself for it.

She glances at her watch and sighs. “I’m gonna go and pick up my kid,” she says–flat, but not unkind. “You can let yourself out.”

Hopper can't do anything besides stare stupidly as she snags her jacket from the chair against the wall, as she doesn't give him another glance before leaving the bedroom and out the front door. 

It clicks shut behind her, and Hopper’s left standing aimlessly, jeans rumpled, shirt clinging to his skin, with the weight of everything they didn’t say sitting heavy in his chest.

He rubs at his face again, lets out a breath, and reaches for his coat. Outside, the snow’s started up again, soft and steady, the kind that sticks.

By the time he gets in his truck and pulls out of her driveway, he’s nearly positive that he’s just allowed yet another good thing to slip right through his fingers, just like how he always tends to do in the end.

Friday bleeds into the weekend which bleeds into Monday, and he still hasn’t gotten around to talking to her. She hasn’t called him, either. Hopper doesn’t blame her. He’s just been kicking himself for not answering when she did reach out.

Guilt isn’t an unfamiliar sensation for him, not by a long shot, but this is festering. Crawling beneath his skin and itching at his bones. It’s different than it usually is; Joyce-shaped and stabbing. The way her voice broke, the way her Sleep’s been lost and his head’s been hurting. He’s been sitting in his own mess like some kicked dog.

Hopper doesn’t know why he does this. He doesn’t have the first clue why he says what he does sometimes, why he ruins good things. He knows he winds up digging his own grave every damn time.

El’s all better now, and he’s been throwing himself into work like it’ll fix all of his problems; spending the next couple trying not to get too fed up with the fact that close to nothing’s gotten done at the station in his absence, trying not to think about everything from Joyce’s hands on his body to what she’d told him on that same night. 

The second one’s been harder to avoid. Much harder. He’s not gotten much done, lately, falling in line with his just as lousy co-officers for all the wrong reasons.

Tuesday is when he runs out of smokes, though; it’s like the universe is finally fed up with his bullshit and makes him get in the Blazer, drive down mainstreet to Melvalds, where there’s coincidentally a little green pinto parked right outside the building.

Hopper sits in the Blazer as the engine continues to filter heat through the vents, waiting for an excuse to fall right into his lap so he won’t need to go inside. 

It never comes.

He sighs and shuts off the ignition. Stepping out the car, the chilly air pricks at his skin like it’s pinching him til he pushes his sorry ass to the door, the bell ringing overhead when he pushes it in.

The warmth brushes against the side of his coat as he steps inside, and the music selection sounding softly through the speaker has Joyce written all over it, and then he sees her.

Behind the counter, she’s checking out a customer, smiling all warm and sweet until her gaze lands on where he’s standing. It’s brief, but there’s something that shifts in her expression, blinking away like she’s trying to remember what to do with her hands.

And, of all things, Hopper flushes like he's seventeen again, like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to ask Joyce out to senior prom all over again; lingering awkwardly in the background until she finishes bagging a small bag, handing it off to the customer.

The man passes him with a nod— “Heya, Chief” —and leaves the store, the door swinging closed, and suddenly, there's an invisible, heady fog that clouds his lungs and swamps the air. It's thick and makes him struggle as he crosses over to the counter.

“Outta smokes,” Hopper murmurs. He keeps his head down, snagging a pack from the display as he rifles for a couple bills in his wallet, already knowing she’s not having it.

Joyce sighs softly, like she's waiting for more. “That it?” She clicks the register open, taking the small handful of cents and bills in his palm.

He shakes his head. Sheepishly, almost. “No.”

Averting her gaze as she avoids his own, he takes a cigarette from the pack. It dangles from his chapped lips as he tries to remember which pocket he’d stuffed his lighter in. He finds it and brings the flame to his mouth, frowning down at her when she holds out change. Hopper shakes his head.

Somehow, the silence only strengthens right then. Unspoken exchanges and words fly around in the air, invisible and just that, but they both stay quiet.

His hands play against the cool counter, sighing heavily and blowing smoke in the opposite direction. Wordlessly, she reaches behind her, placing an ashtray on the counter as if it’s an olive branch.

“Just to clear the air,” Hopper starts, low and gruff, “I wasn't–trying to leave you hangin’. After the other night, I figured…I dunno. That some space’d be good.”

She doesn’t reply. Not immediately, at least; gaze lifted down, long lashes touching her skin as she blinks slowly down at the receipts she’s begun mindlessly organizing through.

He doesn’t know how to take her silence, so around his cigarette, “I just didn’t wanna make anything worse than it already was,” he tries. 

A beat, then, “I know,” Joyce murmurs. Not mean, but not exactly thrilled–a soft medium where her voice falls gentle but Hopper continues to hold his breath anyway.

“You workin’ doubles?” he asks carefully, unsure if he’s allowed to.

But Joyce meets his eyes, finally. It’s brief, flicking back to the register, but there’s a hint of a smile at her reddish lips, now. “You keeping tabs on me?”

He blinks, and something in his chest loosens, huffing out a quiet chuckle around an exhale of smoke.

“Lisa’s been out, so I’ve been covering for her,” she says, more even.

Hopper nods. “You holding up okay?”

Joyce sighs softly. “Alright.” She tucks a curl behind her ear, tilting her head up at him. “Should I bother asking you?”

“Eh.” He sniffs, flicking ashes into the tray. “I’ve been worse.”

Silence falls again, but it’s more bearable, this time. They’ve sat through worse.

Joyce eyes his hand, how he brings the cigarette to his mouth. Just when he almost thinks she’s about to tell him he should be cutting back, she reaches up and swipes it from him as he blows out a puff of smoke.

It’s his turn to watch, now–watch as she takes a deep drag, eyes squinted off somewhere behind him. She looks focused.

“I didn’t mean to blow up at you,” Joyce says tentatively. Hopper’s eyes widen vaguely. “I mean–I definitely did, but…” She shrugs. “I was tired and pissed. You weren’t exactly being talkative, so…”

“Yeah.” He sniffs, rubbing at his jaw. “‘S okay. I deserved it.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” 

Something sweet in her voice makes his gaze drift down to her’s, and he finds warmth in the corners of her eyes and a smile tugging at her mouth. Her face is more open now; less brittle, more the Joyce he’s so familiar with.

“I just…” she trails off to take another drag. “We’re both going through it. I know that, and I’m not asking you to tell me those–” she gestures the cigarette at him “–deep dark, brooding secrets, I just…”

Joyce exhales. She lifts her hand to pass him the cigarette back after a beat. “I want you to be okay.”

The words hang around in the air, so delicate yet so lethal, aiming and shooting directly at the ice in Hopper’s heart. Her eyes are genuine, not the fake kind of nice most of everybody else has going on for them, and he nearly melts.

He wants to tell her about El. He wants to tell her that he’s scared. That he loves her.

His mouth parts, blinking down at her slowly.

Behind them both, the door bell jingles. Joyce’s eyes flick to the opening of the door, watching as a customer pads inside, and the confused scrunch-up of her nose puts him off enough that he too looks over his shoulder. Hopper freezes, too.

“Bob?”

The name floats in the air after it comes out of Joyce’s mouth. At first, Hopper’s not completely convinced that it’s him–the same dorky, nerd boy back from high school–but then he looks between the two of them, lighting up like a damn Christmas tree as he beams.

“Holy smokes!” he exclaims, crossing over to them like it’s a scheduled reunion.

Yeah. Definitely Bob.

Hopper plucks his cigarette back from Joyce’s hand and tries not to roll his eyes.

“Wow, hi!” she says kindly.

He huffs out a chuckle. “The brain’s back.”

Bob’s expression doesn’t get even remotely dampened, but he catches Joyce’s glare out of the corner of his eye; the glare that tells him to be nice, for Pete’s sake. The man either doesn’t register the comment, or he ignores him. Probably the latter ‘cause he’s too damn nice. “Gosh, it’s been years!”

She smiles, and it’s a genuine one. Not the customer service-y one, not the polite one. “I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other before,” she muses.

“Came in last week,” Bob explains. “My mom’s been sick, so I figured—why not? Close to home, y’know? Just got a gig at Radioshack, too.”

Joyce looks utterly delighted. Too delighted.

Hopper clears his throat vaguely, cigarette hanging from his mouth. It’s not like he means to, not really, but it gets her attention–just not in the way he’d been quietly wanting, earning him one quick little look.

Bob, however, turns to him. “Wow, Jim,” he says warmly, “haven’t changed a bit.”

Real rich coming from him. He’s got the same damn face he had in senior year. “Neither have you,” Hopper returns through a puff, not unkindly. He doesn’t think he could ever bring himself to be mean to Bob Newby, no matter how he’s grumbling.

“Hey, I just stopped by to pick up some batteries,” he says, turning back to Joyce. “But it’s been really nice seeing you again. Would you ever wanna get coffee sometime?”

Hopper’s eye twitches. He almost opens his mouth–to say what? Hell, he doesn’t know–but then Joyce pipes in, her smile sweet and fuckin’ perfect.

“I’d like that,” she grins.

“Chief, come in.”

The two sets of eyes land on Hopper at the sound of his radio crackling, Powell’s voice filtering through like an angel coming down from the sky because, suddenly, he feels in need of an escape.

“Yeah, what?” he grits into the receiver, and he’s already halfway to the door. He doesn’t even hear what the officer says over the radio as he glances back at Joyce–and Joyce only–, nodding to the radio. 

She doesn’t seem too upset with him, at least. She gives him an understanding little look, and that’s all he can bear to fix his eyes on as he pushes the door open, the frigid air engulfing him once again. He can see his shuddering breath fog up in the sky as he asks Powell to repeat, crossing over to the Blazer.

The Blazer, parked right beside an off-red Camry that definitely wasn’t there when he’d arrived.

Hopper grumbles. Of course it’s a Camry.

He heads down to the scene Powell reports and does his job, just like he’s supposed to, but he’s not zeroed in like he usually makes himself be. Too clouded with Bob The Brain making his guest appearance and waltzing in between him and Joyce. He tries to shake it off–he really does, settling down beside El on the couch after the fact–but every corner he turns, the image of her smile and Bob’s innocent, too-perfect attention makes his chest tighten. 

The image only strengthens when he’s alone, when it’s late and he’s in bed, after El’s asleep. It keeps him up later, no matter how he tries to ignore it.

He’ll probably see her tomorrow, if she doesn’t want to ring his neck tomorrow. Which is always a possibility, especially lately. But Hopper already knows he’ll show up at Melvald’s again tomorrow, half-hoping Joyce yells at him, just so he knows she still gives a damn.

Oh, he's in trouble.