Chapter Text
She’s imagined the scenario half a hundred times since they left California, Murray tugging eagerly at her sleeve while she rushed goodbyes to the kids, confusion written across their faces one moment and hope flashing over them the next.
Joyce has imagined just how the conversation will go [“You stood me up, Hop,” she says, while grinning up at him, the roll of his eyes enough to tell her that it will all be okay], how the pair of them will slot back into old ways, how they will both grow increasingly frustrated with Murray but can’t ever get too angry with him because he brought them back together.
She’s imagined the teasing and the quiet talks and the shared cigarettes while Hop tries to recover from whatever the hell they’ve done to him while in that shitty Russian prison.
She’s imagined how he’ll fit right in at the new house, how she’d left a spare room available with his things in, couldn’t bear to store them in the garage, had to keep them close (and if she stole one of his shirts to sleep in, what did that matter?) how he’ll embrace El, his (their) daughter, and Will and Jonathan, and slowly, ever so slowly, things will go back to as close to normal as the Hopper-Byers group could ever get.
What she hasn’t imagined, however, is how she feels the instant she sets eyes on him, his back pressed against a wall, shaved head and a week’s worth of stubble adorning his face, a fierce look in his eyes as he faces demogorgon and guards alike, a lit spear in his hand and a trickle of blood running down his cheek from an injury that doesn’t seem to bother him. There’s a tug at her heart, a feeling that she’s taking the first full breath since she stumbled out of Starcourt into Will’s arms all those months ago.
There’s the sudden sound of gunfire, of Murray yelling something in Russian as a distraction, and guards screaming and scattering as the monster from the Upside Down chases them down with a violent ferocity. Joyce watches, horrified, as Hop whistles, draws the attention of the demogorgon and neatly skewers it as it rushes at him, the limp corpse falling to the floor in a heap and quickly forgotten.
The fight’s over in seconds.
Joyce stands on the far edge of the courtyard, watches as Hopper spins, looking for an exit, spots her and then freezes, a blank, almost dumbstruck expression on his face. She understands, she really does - she wouldn’t expect to see Joyce Byers standing in the courtyard of a Russian prison either.
Joyce doesn’t know what to do, all thoughts of words and conversations pushed from her mind, so she just… waves. A ridiculous wiggle of her fingers, as if she’s seen him outside of the store for the first time in a couple of days, rather than grieved for him over the last four months.
She hears his bark of laughter across the now quiet courtyard and Hop runs, sprints over to her, all long legs and power, with a speed he probably hasn’t achieved since high school.
“Hi,” she utters as he stops in front of her, and the tug at her heart, the desperation to have him close, to relay all the pain and grief and joy and love that she’s feeling, is completely overwhelming. Hop doesn’t reply, and Joyce doesn’t think he’s capable, probably still trying to take everything in. So, rather than confuse him with words, she goes for action instead.
She pulls him down to her, presses her lips to his as one hand rests against his cheek and the other clutches desperately to his arm, afraid to let him go. Joyce feels Hop’s hands rest at her waist, then encircle her, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss. There’s a sob too, but she’s not sure who it’s from, and nothing matters, nothing else except for keeping this man, this idiotic, boorish, incredible, brave man, close.
“J-Joyce? What the fuck are you doing here?!” he utters into her neck, as he eventually pulls away, breath warm against the cold of the Siberian air.
This is not how she imagined the conversation going, so she shrugs and simply says “I missed seeing your stupid face around the place, decided to come and get it back,” before pulling him down for another kiss, the urge to keep doing so overwhelming, the tight grip of his hand in her coat nothing to the feel of his chapped lips against hers.
“Hey lovebirds, now is not the time! As beautiful as this romantic reunion is, we need. To. Leave!”
Murray’s voice penetrates the foggy euphoria of their kisses and Joyce groans as Hop lets her go.
“Carry on this… conversation… later?” he asks, that familiar smile back on his face.
“Absolutely,” Joyce whispers, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips and tugging at his hand to pull him towards the open door to their left, Murray frantically ushering them inside.
They’re going home.