Chapter Text
It isn’t until a few minutes have passed that Joyce even realises what she’s doing. She’s leaning against the arm of the couch, head supported by her hand as another infomercial starts; the remote is hidden somewhere under the cushion at her back but Joyce doesn’t have the heart to shift and disturb the man lying on her.
Her other hand, the one not not supporting her head, drifts through soft hair, carding slowly through the surprisingly soft texture, her almost blunt nails scratching gently at Hop’s scalp as he twists slightly to make himself more comfortable.
She can feel the slight bump of a scar, the one he got in ‘Nam and doesn’t talk about, brushes over it gently as if trying to memorise it, a part of him. There’s a new scar too, above his right ear, where a guard had caught him in that final, brutal fight with the demogorgon three months ago.
Her hand continues to drift through Hop’s hair, no sense of pattern or rhythm, just small delicate movements so that she doesn't disturb him. He’d passed out from exhaustion 20 minutes ago, a long shift at the station and then a short run with El to the edge of town and back enough to cause him to flop on the couch as soon as he’d entered the room. (It was something he’d not been able to shift since Russia, a need to keep moving, keep alert, to breathe in the fresh air and embrace all the wide open spaces he could. El appreciated the chance to get out, spend some one on one time with her Dad.)
Joyce peers down at her hand, watches her fingers disappear through the short, brown hair that seemed to be taking an eternity to grow. It had taken a few weeks for it to be more than uncomfortable stubble, and she had frequently observed him in the morning sweeping a hand over his head and frowning at the different feel - he’d confided in her that he’d not had hair this short since he’d shaved it off at boot camp, and he hated the way it felt as it was growing.
When Joyce had first seen him in the courtyard of that Russian prison, she’d appreciated his shaved head and stubble - it had given him a different, tougher look - but it hadn’t been her Hop. After their escape and return to California, the hair (or lack of it) had been a strange talisman for their combined trauma surrounding the events at the Starcourt Mall. It had upsetting connotations for them both (trapped, alone, scared, always scared…) and so he’d started to grow it out as soon as he’d planted himself back into the Byers’ house.
His head rests on her lap, his long legs poking off the end of the sofa, the furniture too short for all of the men in her life now, both sons included, and it’s almost farcical how much space Jim Hopper fills, even when dozing. He snores slightly, the sound muffled by his arm over his face; it’s rare to see him so at peace - he’s still jittery and wary in places filled with familiar faces and strangers alike, situates himself in the corner of rooms so he can see all the angles, so he can watch people as they approach (he hasn’t been able to get coffee for the last month, too afraid of his back being open and vulnerable, always waiting for someone, something, to approach him from behind after someone shoved into him by accident at the local cafe…)
Joyce, in a moment of clarity at her actions, suddenly stops, realises he probably doesn’t appreciate being touched without permission (they’re taking it a step at a time, the rushed, frantic kisses of their reunion the furthest their relationship has gone in the months following.)
The feelings linger, words have been mumbled and shared and taken in (I thought of you, every day. I missed you. I’m sorry. I love you. Me too.) but it’s a slow process; they both have so much baggage that she’s willing to wait.
Joyce draws her hand away from the soft growth of his hair, the slight cowlick that he tries to hide under his hat starting to grow back. It’s still short, but soft, and Hop seems more himself the longer it grows.
“Don’t stop,” she hears him mumble then, his eyes still closed and breathing steady as he drifts back slowly from unconsciousness.
“Sorry,” Joyce mutters, resting a hand on his shoulder, and weaving her hand back through his hair. “Didn’t know if you wanted me…you know… to touch..." She trails off, unsure of what to say, failing to find the words to explain that she's finding it calming and reassuring herself, knowing that he's safe and here.
“‘s comforting… nice,” Hop hums and Joyce smiles as his own hand drifts down over the edge of the couch, traces a slow, ghosting trail up her bare calf, before coming to rest on her knee, not possessive or sexual but comforting, as if he’s making sure she doesn’t leave him.
"I'm not going anywhere Hop," Joyce utters, feels his hand squeeze her knee a little and hears him mumble a soft "I know... thanks," under his breath. She smiles, and continues to run her fingers through his hair as she feels him drift off again.