Chapter Text
The station was empty when Joyce arrived at nine-thirty on a Thursday night. She'd told Bob she needed to check on something with Hopper about Will's appointments—another lie in a growing collection of them, though this one felt different. Heavier.
The truth was, she didn't know why she was here. Or maybe she did, and that was worse.
Hopper looked up when she walked into his office, surprise flickering across his face before something darker replaced it. Something that made Joyce's stomach tighten.
"Joyce." He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Everything okay? Is it Will?"
"Will's fine," Joyce said quickly. "He's with Bob. They're watching a movie."
The mention of Bob's name hung in the air between them like smoke. Hopper's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Then what—"
"I don't know," Joyce interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. She closed the office door behind her, and the click of the latch sounded too loud in the quiet station. "I don't know why I'm here, Hop."
But that was another lie, and they both knew it.
Hopper stayed where he was, his hands flexing at his sides. "You should go home, Joyce. Back to Bob."
The way he said Bob's name—careful, deliberate, like he was reminding them both—made something crack open in Joyce's chest.
"I know," she said. She took a step closer. "I know I should."
"He's a good guy." Hopper's voice was rough. "He treats you right. Makes you happy."
"He does," Joyce agreed. Another step. She was close enough now to see the tension in Hopper's shoulders, the way his hands had curled into fists. "He's kind and patient and everything I should want."
"Then why are you here?" The question came out almost harsh.
Joyce looked up at him, her heart hammering. "Because he's not you."
The words hung between them for one breath, two. Then Hopper moved.
His hands came up to frame her face, and for a moment Joyce thought he might push her away. Instead, his thumb traced her cheekbone, his eyes searching hers.
"This is wrong," he said, but his voice had gone low and rough in a way that made heat pool in Joyce's belly.
"I know."
"Bob doesn't deserve this."
"I know." Joyce's hands found his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palms. "I know it's wrong, Hop. I know I shouldn't be here. But I can't—" Her voice broke. "I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop wanting—"
Hopper's mouth crashed against hers, swallowing the rest of her words. Joyce made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan, her fingers clutching at his shirt as he backed her against the door.
It wasn't gentle. There was too much pent-up frustration, too many months of pretending they didn't feel this pull between them. Hopper's hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, sliding up under her shirt to find bare skin.
"We shouldn't," he muttered against her mouth, even as his hands contradicted his words, pulling her closer.
"I know," Joyce gasped. She tugged at his belt, desperate and graceless. "God, Hop, I know, but I need—"
He lifted her then, and Joyce wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to his desk. Papers scattered as he set her down, his mouth never leaving hers. His hands made quick work of her jeans, and Joyce helped, kicking them off along with her underwear.
"Joyce," Hopper said her name like a warning, like a prayer. His forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged. "If we do this—"
"I know what it means," Joyce interrupted. Her hands found his face, forcing him to look at her. "I know, and I'm here anyway. Please, Hop. I need you."
Something in Hopper's expression cracked. He kissed her again, harder this time, and Joyce felt him fumble with his own jeans. Then he was there, pressing against her, and Joyce's head fell back against the wall behind the desk.
"Look at me," Hopper commanded, his voice rough. One hand came up to cup her jaw, turning her face toward his. "I want you to look at me."
Joyce met his eyes as he pushed inside her, and the intensity there nearly undid her. This wasn't like before, in the dark days when Will was missing. This was deliberate, conscious—a choice they were both making even knowing how wrong it was.
Hopper moved slowly at first, his eyes never leaving hers. Joyce's hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in through his shirt.
"Hop," she breathed, and he groaned, his control slipping. His pace increased, the desk creaking beneath them. Joyce wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck, Joyce," Hopper muttered against her neck. "You feel—God, you feel so good."
Joyce couldn't form words anymore. She could only hold on as Hopper drove into her, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through her body. The guilt was there, sharp and insistent in the back of her mind—Bob's kind smile, his gentle hands, the way he'd looked at her tonight before she left—but it couldn't compete with this, with the way Hopper made her feel alive and desperate and whole.
When she came, it was with Hopper's name on her lips, her body shaking in his arms. Hopper followed moments later, his face buried in her shoulder, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, both breathing hard. Then reality came crashing back.
Hopper pulled away slowly, and Joyce felt the loss of him like a physical ache. She watched as he tucked himself back into his jeans, his movements mechanical. When he looked at her, his expression was unreadable.
"Joyce—"
"Don't," she said quietly. She slid off the desk, her legs unsteady, and reached for her discarded clothes. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say it was a mistake."
"Wasn't going to." Hopper's voice was rough. He watched her dress, his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn't trust himself not to reach for her again. "But we both know what this means."
Joyce pulled her shirt on, not meeting his eyes. "I know."
"You're going home to him."
It wasn't a question, but Joyce answered anyway. "Yes."
"And tomorrow?"
"I don't know." Joyce finally looked at him, and the pain in his eyes nearly broke her. "I don't know, Hop. I just know I can't—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "I can't regret this. I should, but I can't."
Hopper crossed to her in two strides, his hand cupping her face. "I don't regret it either," he said quietly. "And that makes me a bastard."
Joyce leaned into his touch for just a moment, letting herself have this. Then she stepped back, putting distance between them because if she didn't, she'd never leave.
"I have to go," she whispered.
Hopper nodded, his hand falling to his side. "Yeah."
Joyce walked to the door, her hand on the knob, before she turned back. Hopper was watching her, his expression raw and open in a way she rarely saw.
"Hop—"
"Go home, Joyce," he said, but there was no anger in it. Just resignation. Just the weight of what they'd done and what it meant.
Joyce left, the cool night air hitting her face as she walked to her car. She could still feel Hopper on her skin, still taste him on her lips. When she got home, Bob would be waiting, probably asleep on the couch with Will curled up beside him. He'd wake up when she came in, smile that sweet smile, ask if everything was okay with Hopper.
And Joyce would lie. Again.
She started the car, her hands shaking on the wheel. She should regret this. She should feel nothing but guilt and shame.
But all she felt was the ghost of Hopper's hands on her skin and the terrible, undeniable truth that she'd do it again.