Chapter Text
They're finally on US soil. They speak the language, they have the currency, they begin to relax. They find a hotel, any hotel, and book two rooms. Joyce steers Hopper to their room, she isn't letting him out of her sight for a minute.
At the threshold he hears Murray tell her he saw a gas station, maybe a general store, in town, and is going out for supplies. He's so tired, and he hurts everywhere. His arm, his ribs, his feet, he's going to fall over any minute. Joyce must see this, she aims him at one of the beds. He collapses on it, and his world goes dark.
He wakes to low voices, soft light. He's up in a flash, heart pounding. "Joyce!"
"Shh shh, I'm right here. Murray is here too. You're safe. We're all safe."
His eyes register his surroundings - A nondescript motel room, two beds, a TV, Murray at the door - but he doesn't relax. He nods, sits back on the bed. The dip surprises him - an honest to god real bed. He feels the soft comforter under his fingertips.
Joyce thanks Murray, closes the door, and comes to him. She approaches him carefully, making sure he sees her and is here with her. She gently touches his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers, leaning into her. "Waking up was...bad." She just nods, pulls his head into her as she stands next to him.
"Murray brought some food, are you hungry?"
He is. He is hungry. She gives him bread with peanut butter and jelly, beef jerky, water from the tap. And an orange. Where on earth did she get an orange? "Hop, I want you to eat this. You need vitamin C."
He nods, tearing into it, and it is the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. He eats it slice by slice. He is tearing up, it's so good. She eats too, watching him. She can't take her eyes off him, as though he'll disappear if she so much as glances away. Eventually he starts to feel full, slows down, but keeps looking at the food.
"Hey, it's okay. The food will be right here when you get hungry again."
He nods slowly. They sit together in silence for a while, then, "Hop? I don't know everything that happened, but you can tell me as little or as much as you want to, okay? Whatever you want to say, whatever you want to talk about, that's fine. Okay?"
He looks at her. She can see him trying to pull the words up from somewhere deep inside him. Now that they are out of immediate danger he seems to be shutting down, turning off, retreating somewhere deep inside himself. Shock maybe? His body mounting some sort of defense against the horrors it's endured? She's desperate to keep him with her.
"Waking up was bad," he says again. "Mornings there were...bad."
She nods, lets him lean into her, but he doesn't say anything more. She wants to let him rest, but he needs to get cleaned up first. They both do. And she wants a look at his injuries.
"Hop, we need to get cleaned up, okay? You'll feel better when you're clean."
"Okay."
"Here, Murray brought toothbrushes, there's soap in the bathroom. You go ahead and go first. Then we'll get you bandaged up, okay?
He nods, but doesn't move away from her. "Do you want me to come?" She asks. He nods again.
She takes him to the bathroom, gets out the soap, washcloth, and towels while he brushes his teeth. He takes a long time brushing them. When he's finished, he balks, eyeing the shower.
"Hop?" She touches him.
She feels him shiver. "Showers there..." he trials off.
She nods, her imagination filling in the rest.
"A bath. I'll run you a bath. How would that be?"
He nods, mutely. She turns on the water. While the tub is filling she considers him.
"Feet first I think. Just sit on the edge of the tub and put your feet in."
He sits on the toilet lid, starts working on his boots. He groans at the pressure it puts on his ribs.
"Here, let me." She carefully unlaces his boots, gently slips them off. She tries not to wince. She rolls up the cuffs of his pants.
He sits on the edge of the tub, water off now and faucet dripping slightly, contemplating his next move. Slowly, he swings one leg over the side, gingerly dips a foot in. He hisses, pauses, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed.
"Easy." Joyce says, perching on the edge of the tub next to him. "Take your time."
Determination sets his features. He gives himself another beat, then swings the other leg over, tensing again as his other foot enters the water. They sit together there, on the edge of the tub. Hopper breathes heavily, fists clenched. His eyes still closed, Joyce's taking in the dirt and dried blood darkening the water.
"I'm going to get a washcloth and some soap, okay?"
He doesn't reply.
"Hop, hey Hop, are you with me?"
He opens his eyes, looks at her. Piercing blue into soft brown.
"Yes," he whispers.
"Okay." Her stomach unclenches a little. "I'm going to wash your feet okay? Might be uncomfortable, but we need to get them cleaned up. Alright?"
He looks down into the tub, stops, looks away.
"Okay."
Okay. She thinks about this. Swivels toward him, carefully lifts one foot out of the water, swivels him a bit too, and gingerly brings it to her lap. She wets the washcloth and softly brings it to his toes. He pinches his eyes shut again and hisses.
"I'm so sorry honey. We have to do this"
He makes no response, but grits his teeth. He leans back against the tiles, straddling the edge of the tub, one foot still in the water, one foot in her hands. She wipes away the blood and dirt as gently as she can. Bile rising as the extent of the damage becomes clear. Cuts and bruising all over, the bottom as raw as hamburger. One toenail cracked, another missing entirely. The water has reopened many of the cuts, bright red blood smears on the cloth. The flesh appears pink though, or red and angry. Not white or black. She hopes he's avoided the worst of the frostbite.
"Let me get your other one."
He pivots further, gingerly placing the clean foot on the tile floor, and lifting the remaining one from the water and into her hands. His eyes stay closed, head back against the tile wall. She suppresses a gasp. This one is so much worse. There is a huge gash along his ankle, the soft tissue swelling dark and mottled. She gets to work. Hopper flinches and groans when she gets to the gash. Blood is flowing again, she's going to need a proper bandage for this one.
"I know honey, I know. Almost done."
She places it on the floor together with the first, swiveling him so his back is to the water. He rests his elbows on his knees, hands dangling, head down. Looking at his feet.
His feet? His body hardly feels like his own anymore. He hasn't inhabited his body for some time now. It's not his, it's just a vessel for cold and pain. It's not a safe place to be. It will just hurt.
His feet. His body. He tries to remember.
"I'm just going to change out this water okay? Then you can finish getting cleaned up."
As the tub drains she washes the washcloth in the sink. As it refills she refolds the towels that really don't need refolding. When the tub is full again she carefully touches his shoulder. "Ready for you, Hop."
He nods slowly, eases himself to standing. He tries to take his shirt off and groans as his arms raise. "I can help with that." And she does, carefully easing it off his shoulders. Her eyes close at the sight of his back.
His hands move to his waistband. She moves toward the door and he starts to panic.
"Stay," he rasps. "Please."
So she does. Sitting on the toilet seat, looking away as he sheds his pants. She keeps her eyes averted until she hears him sit down in the tub. Glancing over, he is sitting bolt upright, knees bent and poking up out of the water. Seeing his large frame crammed into this tiny tub would be comical under any other circumstance.
His body. His body. He can't look at himself - too damaged, too broken. He can't come back into himself. It will hurt too much.
She gives him a few minutes, then a few more, but when he doesn't make any move she says carefully, "Hop, honey, we need to get you cleaned up, okay? I'm going to take this washcloth and help you. Is that alright?" He looks at her again. His eyes are wet. He looks at the soap and cloth in her hands.
His body. "Yes."
She starts with his head. Gently wiping away the sweat and grime and blood. Careful not to let the soap run into his eyes. She wipes his brow, swishes the cloth in the water and carefully starts on his face. The scar on his nose looks pink and puffy. The bruising around his eye and his cut lip look fresh. He closes his eyes and exhales heavily, face pushing into her hands. Some of the water on his cheeks might not be from the cloth, she's not sure. She moves to his ears, his neck, across the top of his shoulders. He's lost weight, and his muscles feel like rocks. She swishes the cloth again, adds more soap.
"Lean forward a little for me, okay?"
His back is a rainbow of colors. She rubs as gently as she can. He sighs again, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"There you go, you can lean back now."
He does, and he looks more relaxed. She risks a small smile at him. He gives a small smile back.
"Guess we don't really need shampoo," he mutters.
She smiles wider. "It'll grow back."
He grunts in acknowledgement, but keeps smiling at her.
His eyes are open now. He's watching her, paying attention to what she's doing. She moves to his front, careful of his ribs. He sighs again as she runs the cloth over his chest, under his arms. It feels good. His body feels good. It's been so long since he felt good.
So many scars. She feels the raised welts, the pink puffy skin. She tries to keep her face neutral, but she feels tears threatening. Steeling her resolve, she washes him as gently as she can, taking satisfaction in seeing all the dirt and grime washing away. She wants to wash his pain away too.
He relaxes further into the water. The water is warm, her touch is soft. His body. He's in his body. Here, with Joyce.
"Thank you," he sighs.
She just smiles at him, moves to his arms, carefully washes the injury. She carefully takes his hands. They are rough and hard, fingernails broken and knuckles cracked.
Well, that explains the muscles.
He holds her hands while she carefully washes his fingers, checking for signs of frostbite. He holds her hands even when she's finished.
She runs the cloth over his knees, poking out of the water. Runs down his legs towards his feet.
Uh oh. He hasn't thought about that in a long time. Is this his body too?
He shifts awkwardly.
"It's okay Hop, we've already done your feet."
He grimaces, looks down.
"Am I hurting you? Does something hurt?"
He clears his throat, looks away.
"No. Feels good. Too good," he mumbles.
She looks up at him quizzically. Then she sees where he's holding his hands, sees the blush creeping up his neck.
"Hey, it's okay." She's relieved he still can, honestly. "It happens, no big deal. I'll just step out okay? Give you a minute to, ah, finish up in here." She puts the cloth on the edge of the tub.
She's moving toward the door when he takes a deep breath.
"I didn't," he starts. She can see him trying to dig up the words. "When I was there. I couldn't. I... It was too..." He trails off. Her imagination supplies the rest, too cold, too dangerous, too frightening, too painful. She nods. "It's okay Hop."
He shakes his head, eyes cast down. It's not okay. His hand moves toward her - stops - rests on the edge of the tub. He doesn't know what he needs, certainly doesn't know how to ask for it.
"I can stay, if you want."
He doesn't look at her, but she can see the tension in his jaw. "Would you?" He breathes.
"Of course." She settles on the floor next to the tub, back to him.
When she doesn't hear movement, she risks a glance back at him. He's slouched in the tub, his head in one hand, the other clenched in a fist on the edge of the tub. Neither hand moving where it needs to go.
His body. He can't do this, it's better to not be in his body, better to not risk letting his guard down.
"Hop... I can... I can help. If you want. I'd like to help, if I can."
He looks at her, and she can't read the look in his eyes. He nods. She picks the cloth back up, kneels to face him. She starts with his thighs, working slowly upwards with the cloth. She glances at his face. His head is back against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.
"Lift up a bit, okay?" He does, and she washes his backside. He sits back down, eyes still shut.
She pauses. "Hey Hop? I'm going to touch your penis now, okay?" You tell me if you want me to stop."
His eyes open. He glances at her, nods, then looks away. She gently brings the cloth between his legs, softly swirling around and under his sack. He leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes again. He spreads his legs ever so slightly further apart. She runs the cloth gently over his shaft. She doesn't quite manage not to notice the size of him, the hardness. He makes a noise, somewhere in the back of his throat. His fingers twitch where they rest on the edge of the tub. She carefully retracts his foreskin. Fearing the cloth will be too rough directly on the glans, she uses her hand to gently wash the head. A gasp escapes him. She pauses. What does he need?
"Hop, I can stop now. Or I can keep going. It's up to you."
He is quiet for a long moment, her hand still on him. She's about to let go, tiptoe out of the bathroom, when he whispers, "Don't stop. Please. If it's okay."
"It's okay. I've got you." She settles sideways on the floor next to the tub, keeps one hand on his dick, and gently wraps the other around his torso as best she can. He leans into her, dampening the front of her shirt. She doesn't care.
It's been a while since she's done this, but it's like riding a bicycle, right? You never really forget. She starts slowly, gently running her fingers up and down the length of him, feeling the veins, the ridge of the head, the slip of the foreskin, the hair at the base. He's hard as steel, soft as velvet, hotter than the water around him. He sighs and his shoulders drop a little. She wraps her hand around him, gently at first, and marvels at the length and thickness of him. She strokes slowly up and down, foreskin moving over the head. He snakes an arm around her and pulls her closer to him. Her back is wet now, and her knee knocks awkwardly against the side of the tub, but it doesn't matter. She slowly increases speed and pressure, the water starting to move.
He can hardly handle the sensations. It's been so long. But Joyce is here. He's safe. It feels good. He feels good. His body feels good.
He sucks in a breath, an ancient insecurity bubbling up, groans out, "I'm not going to last."
"That's fine. Just cum when you're ready."
His hand around her grips tighter, fingertips pressing hard into her side. He is breathing rapidly, face pressed into her neck, arm squeezing around her. The water is churning now, she's getting splashed, but that's okay, she'll dry. She feels him tense, hears his breath hitch, and then he groans, long and low, pumping into her fist. Thick hot ropes of cum erupt over her hand and into the water. She works him through it, slowing down and easing her grip. He moans into her neck, his grip on her slackens. She lets go of his dick, but keeps her arm around him, and wraps her other arm around him too. She holds him as best she can as he breathes heavily against her.
"Thank you," he whispers. His eyes are wet.
She nods and smiles, even though he can't see it, and kisses the top of his head. He leans back against the wall of the tub, eyes closed. He feels like he might melt into the tub. It felt so good. He feels so good. He dares to let himself feel good. Here. With her.
"Hop," she says gently. "Don't fall asleep here. Let's get you dried off and into bed, okay?" He nods, opens his eyes, eases himself up. She hands him a towel, then thinks better of it. Gently she pats dry his face, his head, his shoulders, his arms, his back, his legs. He watches her, eyes soft and shining. She leads him out of the bathroom. Murray has found some sweat pants and 'Nome is where the heart is!' T-shirts. They almost fit him. He puts on the sweatpants, although a good deal of ankle is showing. He leaves off the shirt. Joyce steers him toward one of the beds, sits him on the edge.
"I'm going to take care of your feet and your arm, okay? Then take a shower myself."
He nods, and she gets to work. She does the best she can with what Murray was able to buy. She hopes it will hold him until they can find proper healthcare. When she's done he lies down in the bed, she pulls the covers up around him. As she turns away he grabs her hand, barely whispers, "you'll come back, right?" Her heart breaks a little. "Yes Hop, I'll just be in the bathroom, then I'll come right back. I'm never leaving you again buddy. You're stuck with me. Forever." He nods, smiles weakly, lets her go.
She showers quickly, brushes her teeth, puts on her own sweatpants and Nome! T-shirt. She is swimming in them. Coming back into the room, it looks like he's asleep. She doesn't want to disturb him, so she is just slipping into the other bed when she hears, "Will you sleep here? With me?"
"Of course."
She slides under the covers with him, careful not to jostle his ribs. Silently, he wraps himself around her. His thick arms around her tiny frame, his broad hands splayed across her back. Her is head tucked under his chin, resting on his chest. His body. He is warm and safe and in his body. With Joyce. He feels it, finally. His body.
She wants to touch him. All she wants to do for the rest of her life is touch him. She can smell the cheap hotel soap, the detergent they use on the linens. She can smell Hopper, clean and whole and here. She brings her hand up to his chest, runs it carefully across the expanse of his torso. She feels the soft hair between his pecs, feels a nipple harden under her touch, feels the ridges of the scars. She traces the contours of him, maps his topography. Her hands, her fingertips, drink him up. She can't get enough of him. He holds her tighter, puts his face in her hair, inhales deeply. His hands run up and down her back. She needs to get closer to him, needs to taste him. She puts her lips on his chest, breathes deeply. She brings her mouth along his collar bone to his throat. He sucks in a breath, hands stilling on her back.
"Too much?" She whispers.
"No, s'good. Just...Been a while." He mutters unto her hair. She smiles against him, moving her way up his throat to his jaw. The stubble is rough and prickly against her lips. His hands dip under her shirt, grip her back. He's desperate to touch her too, to get skin on skin, to feel she's real and here and with him. She lets go of him just enough to wriggle her shirt off. Chest to chest, skin to skin, she's so soft in his calloused hands. He groans at the feel of her breasts against him. One hand grips her shoulder blade, the other tangles in her hair. He hooks a leg around her and pulls her against him. He's not too worried about embarrassing himself, there's no way he's going to be able to get it up again so soon. He moves his face to her neck, inhales.
"Can I... can I touch you?" He breathes.
"God yes, please."
He groans, bringing his lips to her throat, to her chest. He buries his face in her breasts and just breathes, smells the sweet smell of her. His mouth moving on her, stubble prickling, he tastes her delicate skin. He listens to her heart beat, feels her breathing. Warm and soft and alive and here, with him. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to let go of her.
Her hands cradle his head, feel the rough stubble of his buzz cut. They cut his hair. She thinks about that. About his back. His feet. His ribs. The look in his eyes. All the other things she knows he hasn't told her. He feels her shaking. "I'm so sorry, Hop. I'm so sorry." He feels what might be tears on his head. He can't think what she's apologizing for. Breaking into a Soviet gulag and snatching him from the jaws of a demogorgon? What she...what she did for him in the bathroom? But as he feels her body shutter, it comes to him. The look on her face. The tears in her eyes.
"Hey, no. We had to. We had to save the kids. We had to."
She sniffles and nods against him. Cups his face in her hands, brings his head up, looks into his eyes, gives him a watery smile. "I'm never letting you go ever again." He nods solemnly, and gives her a gentle kiss. Then he tucks her back into his chest, enveloping her with his arms. He rumbles against her, "me neither." They hold each other, cling to each other, the rest of the night. Even in sleep, too afraid to let go.