I see you, but I do not know you.

by orphan_account

Summary:

It hurts a little that he avoids her eyes, but he lights each cigarette for her, puffing on it like old times before handing it over. She inhales each lungful deeply and observes him in melancholic sadness.

A look into the lives of Jim Hopper and Joyce Byers, 1979-1983.

 

I see you, but I do not know you.

 

***

 

His new, modest trailer borders one of the town’s lakes. 

On his first night back, he settles on the creaky porch and stares into its dark depths, aching for his daughter and ex-wife. The smells of wet earth and summer foliage gently assault his senses, mingling with the acrid smoke of the cigarette clutched between his fingers. Dawn breaks as he sits outside, alone and bowed, and light gently floods the world, rousing him from hours of stillness. 

Staggering to his feet and entering his home, he shifts through it silently, observing the boxes he’d carelessly thrown around and frowning with disdain at the mess he's already created. He’d placed Sara's box carefully in the corner of his bedroom, wanting to keep her belongings close, and he falls to his knees beside it, skimming his right hand over the smooth lid as nausea builds in his throat. The obsolete wedding ring he still keeps in his pocket seems to burn against his chest; he takes it out and places it upon the sealed box, wondering if he should finally lob it into the lake and move on. In the hush of the early morning, faced with nothing but the remnants of his former life, his loneliness seems infinite. 

In two weeks, he will start working again. There is plenty of time to settle in, to reintegrate, but the idea is repulsive. He doesn’t want to do anything or see anyone. 

Aimlessly, he wanders over to the main room; with no furniture to his name, he slides down against the kitchen counter and sits on the floor to smoke another cigarette. He feels lightheaded and bleak, and his stomach churns with hunger, but he resolutely ignores his body. The kitchen is still empty after all. 

Twirling the depleted packet of cigarettes between his fingers, lips twitching into a grimace as he closes his burning eyes, he wonders whether things will ever change. Seven years ago, he thought running away would save him, but now he’s crawled back like a coward and feels lower than dirt for it. Everything he hated about this town has persisted but he doesn’t want anything else. Not anymore. He doesn’t care. Hopper can’t bear the monstrous shame, the self-hatred, the grief anymore. 

The lighter flickers on and the cigarette burns steadily between his fingers. Lazily sucking on it, he watches, unbothered, as ashes drift onto the carpeted floor. 

Hawkins, sleepy and stale, is the kind of mindless oblivion he’s seeking.  

 

***

 

On a stuffy evening, over a month after his return, she broke their unspoken estrangement. 

A dark, difficult feeling in her gut, guilt and compassion melded into one, compels Joyce to reach out. She makes the trip to the lake alone, arriving unannounced as the last few beams of light fade across the rippling water behind his solitary home. The Pinto sputters loudly in the shabby yard; she parks beside his battered-looking car, and her hands shake with nerves when he forcefully swings the door open after her third round of knocks. Hopper appears in the doorway and surveys her silently, looking pale, disturbed, and old. She holds her breath and stares at him until he quietly invites her inside. 

The space is bare; two half-full boxes of personal belongings and a few empty beer cans litter the living room and kitchen. Except for a table and four chairs, there is no furniture. They settle opposite one another with little fanfare, silent and tense. Joyce gazes at him openly, and her brain buzzes with activity as memories speed through time and space to catch up and reconcile with the person in front of her. He’s almost unrecognizable, but, she notes with a pang of nostalgia, he still favors wearing henleys. 

Hopper offers her a cigarette, and they share a look as smoke cathartically fills their lungs. Eventually, she murmurs her condolences almost a year after the death of his daughter. After a long stretch of silence, he thanks her but averts his wet eyes and fiddles with a blue band around his wrist instead. 

She tries to engage him in small talk, but his replies are clipped and terse.

(What’s it like being back at the station?

Same as always.)

He doesn’t ask after her sons or her husband. She doesn’t blame him. 

They smoke another couple of cigarettes. It hurts a little that he avoids her eyes, but he lights each cigarette for her, puffing on it like old times before handing it over. She inhales each lungful deeply and observes him in melancholic sadness. 

After a while, she stands up with a soft farewell and walks out of the trailer. 

(Take care of yourself, Hop. Don’t be a stranger.) 

He stays seated, laconic. 

 

***

 

At first, it was enough not to wake up in his Brooklyn apartment and not look into his dead daughter’s bedroom every morning. It was enough not to face Diane’s stricken face, knowing she silently blamed him, wishing for her to shout at him or hit him. It was enough not to go into the precinct and deal with unwanted attention. Pity, concern - he couldn’t handle any of it. 

Then he starts seeing her again. He wakes up to her small form curled on the bed beside him, healthy and happy at two years old. She brushes past him in the hallway, tottering around the trailer like a ghost in her white hospital gown, hairless, pale, and thin as she was in her final days. He gazes at her from the doorway as she stands on the porch facing the lake, five years old and in a bright, yellow dress, elusively turned away from him. She bounces around in the passenger seat of his car, happy and excited, blonde hair shining in the sun. 

Hopper knows he’s losing his mind. Again. 

Confusing visions had plagued him in New York right after her death. Not only is Sara silent in these hallucinations (and he knows, now, that she is not real), she exists separately from him in a way she never used to. Their eyes don’t meet. They don’t talk. They don’t hold onto each other; she doesn’t run into his arms. There is no warmth, no substance between them. He can’t express his love for her - he is only a witness to her presence.

Still, he cherishes these moments. He welcomes the bone-deep ache that leaves him close to breaking point with open arms. 

One night, he revisits a particularly vicious treatment session in his dreams and hears her voice for the first time in months. Pained cries and whimpers ring through his head long after he wakes up, and he thinks about how fucked up he is to be happy that at least he can’t forget her voice this way. Even if it haunts him like a nightmare. When it happens every night for a week, he decides he was wrong and starts to avoid his bedroom. After purchasing a couch, he tries to sleep in front of the TV in the sparse living room instead. Drinking three cans of Schlitz a night seems to help. 

So does drinking one in the morning as soon as he’s awake. 

His work on the force doesn’t suffer, but Flo sees right through him. She corners him in his dingy office one morning and asks him what he thinks he’s doing with himself. 

(The hell are you talking about, Flo?)

They both know what he’s doing with himself, but he refuses to say it. Flo cares, but he doesn’t; he is so sick of self-reflection. He tells her to lighten up and shrugs it off in any way he can. In the following weeks, he makes an extra effort to look and smell clean, to catch up with his officers in the morning, and to smile when he sees her. 

His drinking, which started in New York, only gets worse. 

It’s not like he’s late to work, ignoring his “cases,” or being obnoxious. Mostly, he stays alone and holed up in his office when possible. He tries not to miss Delgado’s dry humor when the days drag on but finds himself thinking about how Captain LaVorgna ran the 65th. He sure as hell isn’t channeling any of his competence or passion. Or stress. He doesn’t care much about the Hawkins Police Department.  

For a while, he neglects his space, and the office stays uncharacteristically messy. Nothing remotely exciting happens either; it’s the same mundane trash he’d dealt with before he left town, except now he has a shitload of paperwork on his plate. He doesn’t need to work meticulously to get his tasks done, so he doesn’t. Eventually, he cleans that up, thinking it would help Flo get off his back, but after he clears his desk, it feels too neat. Empty.

When the old desperation for good cases starts to tickle his brain, he takes a sip of the whiskey he hides in his bottom drawer and thinks about how his father used to drink. Unlike him, Hopper is not an aggressive drunk and he holds his liquor well. 

 

***

 

Sometimes, when she feels morose and has time to disconnect from Lonnie, work, and motherhood, she wonders about him. She recalls his apathetic demeanor in the trailer and the new lines on his face. The unfamiliar, peppery-blonde stubble (Joyce never knew him with a beard). His hazy blue eyes, the way he avoided her gaze. The pervasive scents of alcohol and tobacco. The emptiness of his home.

Seeing him in the flesh after so long left her shaken. 

His behavior is not surprising, but it is saddening. They used to be friends and even something more, but the chasm between them now feels infinite. Even though their lives diverged long ago, she cannot stop herself from becoming retrospective. She mourns confusing and intangible possibilities - the what-ifs, the if-onlys. Shame buries those thoughts faster than a gunshot - nothing means anything without her sons, and her misery does not matter as long as she has them. 

She does not know if she could continue living if she was in his shoes, but he’s strong. Stronger than her. He went to war, for God’s sake. Worked as a detective in homicide - the thought alone makes her shudder. Death has played a notable role in his life. Joyce wasn’t around him enough before he left Hawkins, and can't picture Hopper as a doting parent, but she was around when he was young. She remembers his father with vivid clarity. Recalls the drinking and the shouting and the way Hopper would clam up if anyone asked him anything about it. 

Her dad had been hard to handle too, so in that way, they had always understood each other. She knew that Hopper had wanted to escape. Had wanted more. They both did. What she never saw was Hopper’s desire for a family. Love, on the other hand? Yes, she knew about that.

It’s been months since that evening in the trailer. Hopper is now their town’s police chief, so she has seen him around, but he remains distant. They do not speak. They do not seek each other out. A glance into her eyes, a nod in her direction. Nothing more. In her darker moments, Joyce can’t help but feel envious of his stoicism. She has never been able to do that; her messes and emotions are out in the open for everyone to see. 

For everyone to judge. 

She doesn’t understand him. Not anymore. She doesn’t try to, and truthfully, she doesn’t want to. She has no space to spare, or energy to give. There is enough difficulty in her life.

They aren’t friends anymore and she doesn’t owe him anything. Not really. 

After all, she only thinks about him when she feels bad. That can’t be good. 

***

 

The bed sinks below their weight, creaking as she pushes him onto the mattress and climbs over his legs, straddling him. Whiskey pulses through his body like a poison, slowing his thoughts and movements down; fumbling fingers clumsily brush over her hips, trembling as he grabs them and holds her still. A dim light to his left colors the room warmly, but unsettling shadows creep in from the corners, playing with his imagination. He can’t remember how he got here. He doesn't even know where he is.

It’s been a long, long time since he’s done this. 

The woman’s name completely eludes him. He jerks into her touch as her knee slips between his legs, brushing against his half-hard cock, but she doesn’t leave it there, slithering down his torso until her eyes are level with his crotch. Suddenly, his fly is open and she’s palming him roughly through his boxers, coaxing him into a full erection. Bucking weakly into her grip, he looks down in shock, but she won’t meet his eyes and takes him into her mouth instead, sucking hard. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, breathing rapidly. He squirms as she takes him down her throat, moaning around his cock. He can’t focus, eyes flitting around the room, unable to stop reacting to her touch but feeling increasingly trapped. His gaze lands on her blonde hair and he almost chokes, imagining a very different woman leaning over him. The panic swells in his chest, and he cups her shoulder, gently pushing her away as their eyes meet. He knows she isn’t Diane, knows that will never happen again, but he can’t do this. 

Shock wakes him and steadies his pounding head; he pulls the woman back towards his face, intent on finishing things as fast as possible and escaping. Feeling robotic, he whips her shirt off, unhooks her bra, and lifts her, roughly suckling one nipple into his mouth. He sits up and brings her fully into his lap, shifting his attention to her other breast as his fingers wander down and unbutton her jeans, slipping past her underwear. He goes straight to her clit, pushes down, and rubs in circles. He’s clumsy, out of practice. It takes some time, but eventually, he gets it right, and she moans, rutting back into his cock which is still exposed and obscenely sticking out of his pants. 

“More!”

He listens and pushes a finger into her, pulsing it gently while he sucks on her nipple. Adds a second finger. Her hands are on his shoulders, nails painfully digging into his skin until he feels her release him and pull his shirt up. He sits back and lets her. Dazedly, he watches her stare at his bare chest until she suddenly bends down and starts sloppily biting and sucking on his neck. Flinching, his breath hitches again; his neck has always been a sensitive spot. Diane used to kiss it so softly . . . 

No. 

His fingers push deeper into her cunt, fucking her now, and she mewls loudly. She rocks into him and her ass purposefully brushes up against his cock with each movement, seeking contact, seeking her release. He wants to give it to her and get out, so he withdraws his fingers and flips them over, pulling her jeans off her legs and guiding her onto her hands and knees. 

“Yes. Give it to me,” she murmurs, low and seductive. 

He does - pushing a finger into her from behind, hearing her moan again. He adds another to prepare her; she’s wet, warm, and tight. His jeans are still on, but he doesn’t care; his cock juts out, slightly limp on his thigh, as he kneels behind her. He grabs it and strokes it desperately, trying not to think as he spots the condom on the bedside table. He rolls it down himself, hands trembling again, and he pushes into her slowly. 

“Hurry up,” she urges. 

That’s fine by him. Grabbing her hips, he pumps his dick into her cunt, stretching her out. He gives her time to get used to him; fucks her steadily with shallow thrusts. After a while, he bends over her back; slides his right arm around her belly, down between her legs. Finds her clit again and presses down. 

Blood floods his cheeks, and he feels hot with embarrassment; this used to be easy, but his fingers falter as he rubs hard into her, seeking an angle that works, seeking her pleasure. Diane liked this position, but this is not Diane. 

He’s drunk and struggling to concentrate, and his dick feels like it’s getting soft again. He thinks he used to be good at this, but he can’t even remember the woman’s name. Fuck. 

“Fuck! Yes, I’m close!”

It's okay, she’s okay. She’s taken control - guiding his hand with the confidence he'd failed to achieve. Their fingers together are firmer on her cunt as he pushes his dick into her over and over again. 

“Yes! Yes, there. ”

The woman orgasms on his cock and fingers with a whine; he pumps into her a little more and reaches his own intense but short fit of ecstasy. Heart pounding, he pulls out as soon as his ears stop ringing. He feels almost good before guilt overwhelms him, filling his chest like acid. What the hell did he just do? 

The bedsprings groan as the woman falls face-first into a pillow, breathing loudly. He sits back on his heels as his cock flops sadly over his now-stained jeans; he slides the condom off and ties it up, holding it awkwardly. Slowly tucking himself back into his pants, his eyes search for his shirt, feeling blind and bare in the gloomy room. Stumbling off the bed, he lobs the spent condom towards the small trash can in the corner and misses. Cursing, he ignores it and turns around, finally finding his shirt on the other side of the bed and lunging over with no grace to grab it. 

“What’s wrong?” She’s looking over at him, clearly curious as he stands in front of her and hastily buttons the shirt up. He wishes he knew her name. Or maybe not. 

“Nothing. I need to go.” He doesn’t remember when he lost his boots, but he spots them by the door. He slips into them, avoiding her eyes. 

“Okay.”

“Um, thanks. For tonight. Thanks.” What the hell is he thanking her for? 

“Yeah, uh, thanks too?” 

He’s ashamed; this isn’t sexy or romantic. More than that, he feels like an asshole; he feels unhinged. He feels like he betrayed Diane tonight, betrayed Sara. Panic swells in his chest; he stops looking at the stranger but nods back. Feeling like someone punched him in the face, he leaves the bedroom and staggers down a small hallway he doesn’t recognize. Careening towards the front door, desperate for air and space, he shoulders it open and stumbles out onto steps. As soon as the cool breeze hits him, he falls on the side to his knees and violently vomits.

 

***

 

Rivulets of smoke waft around him as he stands next to the thrumming Blazer, and its headlights eerily illuminate the dark and empty street. She observes him from outside Melvalds, her own cigarette burning steadily between cold, trembling fingers. He’s far enough that she won’t be noticed unless he turns around.

Deep down, she knows he won’t seek her out. Even if he caught her watching him. 

Melvalds closed seven minutes ago, and usually, she would be running to escape, to get home to her young boys who are responsible but alone in a home empty of Lonnie.

(I’ll be out with the guys.)

Something obscure keeps her rooted in place. A biting breeze ruffles her navy shirt collar; the smoke goes straight to her head as she inhales deeply; her hair flutters and tickles her cheek and neck. Hunger rolls in her stomach and her legs ache. Shivers wrack her body as she stands outside, exposed to the January weather with nothing more than her open, ratty coat for protection. 

Nevertheless, she’s hypnotized by the headlights and keeps watching him do nothing, clutching the ignited cigarette and bringing it to her dry, cracked lips. Her vision blurs as she focuses on feelings and sensations. In these small moments, she rediscovers herself. Revels in the raw sensuality of being someone affected by time and space. Sometimes she forgets she’s a woman, an individual, a fucking person, and not just a role (mother, wife) to be fulfilled. 

 

***

 

“Did you hear about James Hopper?”

“Yeah, he’s been around a while now. Coming on half a year or so . . .”

“I can’t believe Diane left him after all that . . . ”

“That’s what happens when you lose a kid. Couples fall apart.”

 

***

 

When Lonnie left town last week, she wasn’t surprised or angry. 

It’s been five days, and he still hasn’t returned. She has no idea where he went; she doesn’t care either. She’s given up on calling his friends, and the boys stopped asking about him after the third night. 

These days she’s looking for a way out, not a way back. 

When she isn’t anxious about her marriage, she’s angry and resentful - that’s fine. Anger is better than trepidation. She doesn’t care about romance or being alone, and she’s learned her lesson. The headiness of passion, of losing yourself to someone, of losing your sense . . . she doesn’t want that again. 

The goodness between her and Lonnie is gone, and she doesn't know how to explain what's left. She doesn’t know how they ended up so fractured, except maybe he’s always been a terrible man, and she’s always been a forgiving woman. 

All she does care about is her family. Her sons and their livelihoods. Their happiness and their safety in the face of Lonnie’s neglect, aggression, and derision. She can’t stop herself from agonizing over Jonathan’s pinched face and Will’s doleful eyes every time he disappoints them.

Poor, sweet Will who still holds out hope that his dad cares.

Jonathan, however, sees him for what he is. Jonathan expects nothing and receives nothing. Somehow, that pessimism hurts her more than Will’s delusion. 

 

***

 

The battered Dodge Dart he’d driven to Hawkins stops working soon after his arrival. 

Forced to take the Blazer everywhere, he feels increasingly exposed and unwillingly identified. This didn't bother him in the past - he’d grown up here, after all. Now he feels like an alien and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. Hyperaware and uncomfortable, he rides the Blazer around town to run his errands but does his best to lay low, avoiding small talk and confrontations. 

New York had been different; he could lose himself in a crowd, could walk down the street, and blend in. He’d become good at it and learned how to do it for his job. Now that he wants to disappear more than ever, he can’t. He’s back in his small hometown, driving a car with his title splashed on the side of it. He can’t be anonymous, he’s the chief of police, and he’s reminded of that fact when he drives the Blazer around more than when he actually works. 

Living in a big city for so long, he’d forgotten that this is how things are in Hawkins. People know each other and stop each other on the street to talk. People take an interest in the lives of their neighbors; in their community. 

It unsettles him. It upsets him. 

 

***

 

On a bleak, cold day in the middle of October, they spend an evening arguing about money. 

Their fights don’t often end like this because Joyce is stubborn. She doesn’t want to show him how weak she feels and will not give him the satisfaction of pleading or begging. Joyce will scream in his face until her head spins, and she will tell him what he deserves to hear. 

This time, however, she is overwhelmed and has a panic attack on the kitchen’s shabby, linoleum floor while Lonnie laughs at her. Their dinner is left cold and untouched on the counter, and Jonathan, who had lurked outside his bedroom, races towards them when he hears her shallow breaths and shouts Lonnie down. 

“Don’t worry so much, Jonathan. She’s just being dramatic.”

“Shut up! Look at her! Why are you like this– ”

“Oh, you think you’re big enough to tell your dad to shut up now, huh?”

“LOOK AT HER!”

“I can’t believe this shit! I’m going out.”

Jonathan’s wiry arm is around her shoulders, and she jumps into him when Lonnie slams the front door. Her son moves away briefly; he returns with the bottle of Tuinal she keeps in the medicine cabinet and gives her a capsule. He hugs her until her breathing steadies, and she finally slouches against the uneven wood behind her back. They sit on the hard floor and hold hands for a long time. 

Will, thankfully, is at a sleepover, but this doesn’t alleviate any of the shame that ripples through her. The sensation drags her down like poison, and she silently berates herself while Jonathan's warmth presses into her side. Eventually, he gets up and goes to bed, and Joyce slowly retires to the couch. 

She chain-smokes the rest of her Camels and falls into a disturbing doze until Lonnie stumbles through the front door; it is still dark outside. Clearly drunk, high, or a combination of both, he stares at her and holds his arms out. 

“Come here, babe.”

Stiffly, she stands and shuffles towards him; he cuddles her under one arm and walks them to the bedroom. Shrugging her clothes off, she ignores him as he goes to the bathroom, crawls under the covers, and turns away from his side of the bed. The bed dips when he joins her quite sometime later. They do not touch, but she feels his heat beside her and wonders how you can feel so lonely, so fucking far away when you are so physically close to someone. 

 

***

 

Once or twice a month, he spots her around Main Street, having a smoke on what he assumes is her break or running out of the building after the store closes, looking hurried and careworn. He can’t bring himself to speak to her again. He doesn’t want to see the sympathy in her expressive eyes, the care in her voice, especially when he doesn’t deserve it. 

When he drives by the green Pinto, parked in front of Melvalds most days, he thinks about her and feels tense and bothered. Sometimes he even yearns for the easy, fierce friendship they used to share. Inevitably, the old resentment bubbles up inside of him instead. Things had not ended well between them, but these days it's not his memories that bother him. None of that matters anymore. 

No. His problems are different now; it's hard to talk to people with kids. 

Kids that aren't dead. 

Vivacious and fiery in her youth, Hopper had assumed Joyce would escape this place. Had shared her desperation to get out. She’d landed in Chicago for a while after high school, curious and eager to see a world outside their small town. When he’d returned from Vietnam in ‘68, she was back in Hawkins, attached to Lonnie with a baby on her hip. 

Over ten years later, she’s in a dead-end job with a deadbeat husband, and he’s heard rumors about her mental stability that rattle in his mind like loose screws. Lonnie, the piece of shit, has to be the culprit. His long-buried incredulity rises from its grave; he will never understand why she chose him.

Maybe Joyce is as broken as he is. He supposes he still cares about her in a disconnected sort of way. Somewhere deep inside of him, in a soft place he’s no longer willing to explore. 

He wonders if she finally cracked. He wonders if she feels empty or sees things. Hears things. Like he does. Does her life feel futile and pointless too? 

Probably not. Her kids are alive, after all. She hasn’t given them a death sentence either. 

He doesn’t dwell on her; there isn't much left between them these days. Nothing except the sad reality that they'd both ended up back in this forsaken town. 

 

***

 

Lonnie doesn’t care about Will, and he doesn’t hide it. It causes her stomach to flip with anger, guilt, worry, and desperation. She keeps this monster around her son, and she’s too weak to let him go, to kick him out, but she feels she can’t deprive her sons of their father when they express a desire to have him around, even if he’s a piece of shit. 

(The kid isn’t right, Joyce.

What do you mean?

Look at him. Timid, weak. Only cares about drawing? More a girl than a boy. 

Shut the hell up, Lonnie.)

Will sits beside her at the table, humming to himself. Joyce strokes his soft hair, watching him select colors, sharpen pencils, and rub out mistakes. Pride blooms inside her chest as she reflects on his skill and tenacity. Most of all, she’s so happy he’s found something he’s good at. Something he’s passionate about. Both her boys are artistic, visual individuals. She’ll do anything to ensure they can hold onto that. 

 

***

 

On a blustery February night, he thinks he finally loses his mind. 

It’s easier for him to allow women into his bed now. Striking the perfect balance between intoxication and sobriety is crucial. He’d gotten too drunk the first time and surpassed the easygoing buzz he’d needed to enjoy himself. He’s had many goes since then, has had time to reduce his idea of sex from lovemaking to fucking, to snuff down the guilt and shame he feels when he touches a woman that isn’t his ex-wife, or when he finds carnal pleasure as his daughter lies dead in the ground (and it’s his fault). 

This time he knows the name of the woman he’s fucking. Carol. They made it to his trailer sober, and after they’d polished off a bottle of wine between them, she’d led him to his bedroom. He’d tried to take control, tried to focus on her so that he could forget about himself, but she’d pushed him off and teased him until he was hard enough for her to slip his cock straight into her cunt. 

She fucks him fast, holding his shoulders for balance as she rides him, more focused on her pleasure. Slightly shocked, he finds himself enjoying her complete lack of interest in him. The robotic quality of this arrangement means he doesn’t have to emote - it’s a transaction, and to her, he’s a means to an end. That’s perfect. 

She starts playing with her clit, eyes closed, then leans her head onto his shoulder as she continues to ride him. Hastily, he grabs her hips and thrusts into her, increasing the friction and speed between them until she finally comes in his lap, squeezing down on his dick as he roughly fucks into her. His orgasm hits him hard and is more intense than any he remembers from a long, long time. 

They sit there, breathing heavily, for a few more minutes, then unravel sloppily; she flops onto the bed beside him, body languid and sated. He slouches until his head is on his pillow. Craving a cigarette, he reaches for the ever-present packet on his bedside table, lighting one up and puffing on it. He feels relaxed, and the novelty of that sensation is not lost on him. 

“That was nice,” Carol says, turning around to face him. He glances at her - full, sexy curves sensual and appealing in the low light of his bedroom - and skims his right hand down her thigh. 

“Yeah,” Hopper pauses, enjoying his smoke. “Round two in a little while, maybe?”

Carol smirks, bringing his large hand to her full breasts, letting him know what she wants from him. She catches Sara’s hairband beneath her own fingers and stretches it out and away from his wrist, clearly trying to be playful. He freezes. 

No. 

“Don’t do that.” He’s quiet but curt, waiting for her to let go of the band. Carol smirks at him. 

“Why not? Afraid of a little pain?” She lets the elastic go, laughing when it smacks back into his wrist. Immediately, he snatches his hand away from her. 

“I said, don’t. Do. That.” He’s still quiet, but the rage is flowing freely now. He rolls away from her and off the bed, finding his clothes and getting dressed as quickly as possible. 

“What the hell is your problem, Jim? It’s a hairband, for Christ’s sake. Are you crazy or something? Why do you even have it? Your hair is short!” She’s kneeling now, unashamedly naked and staring at him incredulously. He feels sick and disgusted. How dare she? 

“I think you should leave.”

“What?”

“Please leave. We’re done here.” 

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“You’re fucking crazy.” Shaking her head, she jumps off the bed and gets dressed faster than he did. Moving past him, she goes to the bathroom and slams the door behind her. Heart thumping hard in his chest, he stares at his bed and tries not to throw up. He cradles his right wrist with his left hand, stroking the band as if it was Sara herself. How fucking dare she? 

Carol exits the bathroom; he hears her walking towards the living room, shuffling around. Keeping his fingers on Sara’s band, he moves towards the room himself, feeling unsympathetic as he watches her pull her coat on. She turns around and stares at him, and he stares back. She shakes her head. 

“You know, I heard rumors about you. People said you were messed up in the head. Not quite there.” She pauses and sighs. “But I wanted to give you a chance. Thought we hit it off. I don’t know. And the sex was good. So what is this shit? Because right now, I agree with everyone. You have issues.”

Hopper freezes; he can’t decide whether to be angry, distraught, or incredulous. In any other situation, he’d have found her forthright attitude hot, but now he feels a panic rise through his body, eclipsing every other sense. He can’t breathe, Sara’s dead, Diane’s gone, it’s all his fault, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here with this woman who doesn’t understand anything. He turns around, bracing himself on the kitchen counter. He hears her scoff as his skin tingles, vision blurring. 

“You have nothing to say, then?”

He tries his best to reel his breathing in and calm himself down. The anger is fading, and all that’s left is bone-deep exhaustion. He doesn’t have the energy to lie tonight. He doesn’t feel like he has anything to lose by being honest. Mostly, he doesn’t care. Nothing more would happen between them now, anyway. 

“This hairband,” he begins, then pauses, pulling a deep breath in and squeezing his eyes closed. “This hairband belonged to my daughter. She’s dead.” He can’t say more about it, but admitting it to Carol is enough. Silence blankets the room, and it's oppressive in its heaviness. He opens his eyes, turning towards her. She looks shocked, abashed. He swallows and turns away again. 

“I think you should leave.” He repeats. 

She nods, and that’s that. She grabs her purse and walks to the door. 

“See you around, Jim.” She nods at him again and leaves, softly closing the door behind her. 

He stares into space and feels like he’s falling through the ground. Now that it’s over, his reaction seems stupid. Losing his shit over a hairband? What difference does it make if she touches it? Sara’s still dead. He’s still alone. And now another person thinks he’s crazy. 

Beer won’t cut it tonight; he fishes whiskey out of the cupboard and takes a few gulps straight from the bottle. He doesn’t want to think anymore. He slides onto the floor, ignoring the comfort of his couch. Head cradled in his knees, feet cold, and ears ringing, he tries to stop his brain from working but fails. He remembers the day Sara started losing her hair and recalls her pale face and pained eyes. Drinking the whiskey helps - it burns down his throat, giving him something else to focus on. Eventually, he wanders over to the phone, dialing a number he shouldn’t know anymore. It’s late, and the phone rings a few times before she picks up. 

“Hello?”

“Diane,” he croaks. “Diane. I can’t stop thinking about her.” His voice breaks, and he feels his eyes well up. He closes them and rejects the tears. He shouldn’t cry. 

“Jim,” her voice is quiet. “Jim, what the hell? Please, you can’t keep doing this to yourself, to me. Tell me you haven’t been drinking?”

“What difference does that make?” His voice trembles. 

“All the difference. We’ve talked about this, you can’t call me like this anymore. I need to move on, I can’t do this.”

“How can you move on without her?”

She’s silent for a while before answering. “Because I have to, that’s all. Because she’s gone, and we’ll never have her back.” Diane’s voice breaks too. He hears her tears, and it makes him feel even worse. 

“Please, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” His hands are shaking now, and he brings one up to wipe his face. “I’m sorry, I’m going to go.”

“Please, for my sake, don’t call me again. I need time, Jim. I can’t fall into the deep end with you anymore.”

“Okay.” He whispers and puts the phone down. The silence he’s left with feels deafening. 

The difference between him and Diane is that Diane doesn’t have to live with the knowledge she killed her child. The difference between him and Diane is that Diane still believes she deserves to live, or she’s still hopeful she can live. She retains some self-preservation that keeps her going, despite her grief. He, on the other hand, believes he shouldn’t be alive, and in fact, doesn’t feel alive. He wonders why he bothers waking up at all. 

 

***

 

The windy weather buffets her lithe body as she hangs sheets on the washing line. It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon, and she relishes the peace. For the first time in a while, the house is mostly empty. 

Will is with his small group of friends, and she smiles at the thought of him finally finding a place to fit in at his school. Jonathan is a little lonelier than his younger brother; it worries her, but she’d dropped him off at the library earlier today, and he’d taken their battered old Polaroid with him. He’s developed a liking for it, bringing it with him on walks, looking for inspiration. She encourages his hobby, and knows he has been saving his allowance (pitiful as it is) for a new, better camera. A Pentax, she thinks it’s called, but she hopes this one will do for now. 

Lonnie is home with her. Rarely do they spend their days in the same place, but this is a rare Sunday she doesn’t have work, and he has always had the flexibility to come and go as he pleases.

(I set my own damn hours, Joyce.)

Finishing her task, she lights a cigarette and moves into the warmth of the house as she does so. It’s a slow day by her standards, and she feels almost lost without the kids around. She wanders into the yard, intrigued by the loud scraping and banging, and peeks around the toolshed door. To her shock, Lonnie is tidying the place up. The dog sits obediently beside him as he hangs up his gun and tidies his box of bullets. He spots her, pausing his movements. 

“What is it, babe?”

“Nothing, just seeing what you’re up to.”

“I’m nearly done here if you want to grab lunch in a minute,” he replies. His pleasant mood is effervescent; Joyce feels better when he feels better. It’s always been this way, and she resents it, but he’s worn her down so much that she finds it easier to deal with him like this. 

“Okay,” she replies softly, finishing her smoke and trudging back to the house to make them some turkey sandwiches. He slips inside just as she’s plating them up. 

“Looks good. I’m starving.” 

“Help yourself,” she sits down at the kitchen table, scarfing down her first bite. They eat in silence for a few minutes until Joyce feels thirsty. 

“Want a drink?” She asks, standing up and turning around to grab herself some juice. She finds the carton in the fridge, concentrating on her task until she feels Lonnie sidling up behind her. 

“I want something else,” he murmurs in her ear, hands climbing up her sides, pulling her hips back into him. She closes her eyes, dropping the carton on the counter, feeling his body around her. She freezes, resisting for a moment before she feels those ties snap and sags into his arms. Lonnie twirls her around and starts kissing her hard. 

Stumbling, they trip through the living room and down the hall to their bedroom. Sloppy lips cover her own, hands holding her waist firmly. She reciprocates, feeling messy, feeling distant as he pulls away and rips his shirt off, stripping down to his boxers and staring at her. Joyce mirrors him, throwing her jeans to the side and toeing her socks off. She left her bra off this morning and now stands in front of him only in black panties.

“Keep them on,” he growls. Fine, she doesn’t care so long as he does his job.  

Despite everything, Lonnie is still attractive. His full head of hair flops in front of his face, and taut muscles ripple as she takes in his slim figure. Their sex has always been explosive but not always fulfilling. For her. He grips the back of her neck, bringing her forwards and sucking her upper lip into his mouth. His hands move lower to fondle her breasts; he pinches her nipples, which makes her gasp out in pain, before dipping his head down and sucking one into his mouth, biting down hard.

“Ow, fuck!” 

“I know you like it, babe.”

She doesn’t know what she likes anymore, but something about this is working. With no love lost between them, this feels like a confrontation. She wants to punch back, so she grabs his cock through his boxers, roughly squeezing down on his length until he’s gasping, loosening his grip on her body, letting her go enough for her to find his own nipples and lick them, nipping at them quickly. He hisses; brings one hand to her cunt, roughly pressing down on her clit. The contact is pleasurable but a little too painful; she can’t orgasm like this, and he never seems to remember that, or maybe he doesn’t care, the fucking asshole. 

Pulling away from her, he pushes her towards the bed, onto her back. He’s rubbing his cock, now poking out of his underwear. She watches him stroke it, precum percolating at the tip, and stays still as he settles between her legs. Shoving her underwear aside, he pushes slowly inside her. It’s been a while since they’ve done this, and she feels tight around his length. 

“Fuck, yes.” Lonnie groans into her shoulder, rutting as she adjusts. He begins fucking her quickly afterward, gripping her hips so hard she knows they’ll bruise. As usual, he isn’t paying attention to her pleasure, just using her body to seek his own. She finds she doesn’t care in the slightest, lowers her fingers to her cunt, and closes her eyes, falling into the pure sensations surrounding her and rubbing two fingers in circles around her clit. 

She opens her eyes to see Lonnie staring at her, looking manic, and feels a jolt of pleasure sizzle through her body. Suddenly he pulls out and flips her onto her hands and knees, then pushes into her suddenly from behind. She yelps, feeling the burn in this position but soon starts moaning as he fucks into her, pleasure rippling through her body. They continue that way for a little while until he roughly pushes her head down into the mattress with one hand, bringing her hips higher and fucking into her deeper. 

That does it; she moans and pushes back against his cock as the orgasm hits her slowly, fingers still rubbing in frenzied circles over her clit, trying to draw it out. Lonnie thrusts a few times more, then groans loudly, pulling out and spraying his load all over her back. They stay there, panting, for a few minutes, then Joyce feels her momentary high disappear with a resounding crash. 

She had been so desperate to come, so desperate to release. So desperate to reach a feeling of completion. Now that it’s over, it feels definite in a way it has never been before.

She’s finished. 

Lonnie huffs; he moves to find the box of tissues they keep in the room and throws it next to her head. He gets off the bed and pads, still naked, out into the hallway. She hears the bathroom door close. 

The semen is sticky on her back as she cleans it off.

She’s never felt cheaper. 

 

***

 

Tuinal.

The doctor had advised him to take it in New York. Back then, he hadn’t wanted to use medicine; had only fulfilled the prescription at Diane’s behest. 

In the beginning, he didn’t like how it had made him feel - woozy and out of control - especially when he’d tried to continue working at the precinct. He couldn’t think or move properly under its influence. Alcohol was better; it took the edge off, but his high tolerance meant he wasn’t affected too much. 

Now? Alcohol isn’t enough. 

He digs the bottle out of the medicine cupboard, popping the lid and spilling a few capsules into his palm. Luckily, the medication has not expired yet, but he rolls the capsules around, fingers a few, ponders his decision.

He’s not going anywhere this evening, and the three beers he’s chugged are doing nothing for him. It's been too long since he's slept through a night . . .

He swallows a couple quickly and sits on the couch. The TV illuminates the dark room, its low volume disrupting the silence. Slowly, he feels his limbs go numb and slouches further into the cushions. His body is heavy; mind sluggish. 

Yes, finally. 

 

***

 

Unfortunate circumstances lead her to the police station one spring Saturday. 

Coffee and toast, low music, a cigarette. These slow mornings are a reprieve, a breathing point. A true pleasure. The boys are still sleeping; her husband is nowhere to be found. The sun peeks through the curtains, still drawn, as she sips her drink. 

The phone rings around 8.45; Flo is on the other end. 

“I’m afraid Lonnie was arrested last night, Joyce.”

It’s not the first time - this has been a recurring feature of their relationship. She smokes three cigarettes during the drive over, ruminating in anger and frustration, and arrives at the station feeling twitchy and wired. Flo nods at her as she walks in and leads her down the corridor to an office. The Chief’s. 

“He’s in there with Hop. I’ll leave you to it.”

She doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to see either of them for very different reasons, but she opens the door and walks into the room. Hopper is leaning back in a chair behind his desk. He looks up as soon as she steps over the threshold and surveys her with hard eyes, arms crossed against his chest. It’s been a while since she’d spotted him around town; he looks haggard and  stressed. Lonnie is facing away from her, slumped in a chair in front of Hopper. He doesn’t turn around or move at all. He’s also handcuffed.

His lack of acknowledgment feels like another slap in the face. 

“Joyce.”

“Hopper.”

Taking the only available chair, she sits down and stares at Lonnie. Bruises mark his left cheek and forehead, and his lower lip is swollen and bloodied. As are his knuckles. The smell of alcohol wafts over her, emanating from the rumpled clothes he clearly slept in. He avoids her eyes - no surprise there - and remains still, looking down at his feet. She absorbs this all with a concerted level of detachment then looks back at Hopper, who remains quite expressionless. His face has a washed-out quality she recognizes in herself. She clears her throat. 

“What happened?”

Hopper pauses before answering. “He ran into trouble down at Joe’s. Why don’t you explain the situation, Lonnie?” He nods at her husband, who finally lifts his head and snarls at Hopper. 

“Shut up, you pig. Don’t tell me how to speak to my women.” 

Women, plural? Joyce cringes, hating herself. Hating him more. Hopper blinks back slowly. 

“Fine. He owed some people money. When he couldn’t cough it up, he started a fight instead.” 

“Those assholes deserved it,” Lonnie retorted. “We had a deal, and they didn’t stick to it!”

“What deal?”

“They told me they’d give me a month to get the money, and now they want it early.” 

“Right.” Hopper reaches for his cigarettes and lights one, blowing the smoke slowly in Lonnie’s direction like an asshole. “I don’t actually care. You’re lucky they’re not pressing charges. Probably because they want your damn money, not because they give a shit about you.” Hopper stands up and moves towards him, unlocking the handcuffs. Lonnie glares at his wrists, rubbing them. Hopper leans forward, one large hand braced on the side of his desk, and stares him down. 

“Seeing as no one else was hurt, and Joe’s wasn’t damaged, I can’t hold you here any longer. Fine by me because I don’t want to see your face more than I have to. Joe wants it known that you are no longer welcome at the bar, so don’t try your luck.” He pauses. “Other than that, I suggest you pay up, or they won’t leave your ass alone. Stay away from those games, Lonnie. You never seem to win them. Go find a job that pays.” 

Lonnie looks murderous, fists clenched and body stiff. Joyce remains quiet; Hopper is not wrong, but she knows Lonnie. Their turbulent history aside, this will not end well. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Lonnie spits, jumping to his feet. “You get to do whatever you want to do. Your wife is gone, and as for your daughter? Well. You’re free. You don’t get to lecture me. I have to provide for my family, for the kids I never asked for. You don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.” Lonnie breathes heavily, then pauses, smirking. He pushes his face up to Hopper’s, who still looms above him. “I’ve heard the rumors, Jim. I know you’re a mess. A few fucks around town not doing it for you, huh? Turning to drugs? Are you crazy now, too? Madhouse next?”

Joyce takes a breath in, holds it, then releases it slowly as Hopper remains silent, face still blank. 

“That’s enough, Lonnie. Let’s go.” Her voice trembles slightly, but she grabs his arm and tries to pull him away. He scoffs, then laughs, shrugging her off. 

“Wow! Taking his side, Joyce? Still want him after all these years? Let me warn you - Jim's not with it anymore. Selfish in bed. Out of his mind. Can't keep a family together. Not much of a war hero anymore, eh Jim?" 

Hopper grabs his arm, pulling Lonnie close, then shoving him away hard. Lonnie knocks into his chair then stumbles back to the closed door, hitting it with a dull thud. Hopper strides towards him; grabs the scruff of his jacket roughly, bringing his own face close to his. 

“Keep talking, and this will not end well for you. Get. The hell. Out.” He forcefully throws him to the side, opens the door, and pushes him out. Lonnie trips as he glances back then trudges off without further hesitation.  

Left alone in the office, Joyce doesn’t know whether to apologize. Hopper avoids her eyes as he walks back to his desk but turns around with his packet of Camels and silently offers her one. She reaches out and takes it, allowing him to light it for her. She sucks the unfiltered cigarette hard, inhaling the smoke and holding in her cough, relishing the burn. 

Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, she observes the slight tremor in his hands as he smokes, the dead look in his eyes as he vacantly stares at his bookshelf. She feels cold - deeply chilled and uncomfortable.  

“Hopper, I –”

“It’s fine. Just go.” 

She takes his proffered lifeline and rushes out of the room. 

 

***

 

When Sara was diagnosed with cancer, he’d known, with painful certainty, that it was his fault. 

He didn’t tell Diane until afterward. 

She’d been aware, to some extent, that the men he served with had returned home in varied states of distress. Physical injuries, mental trauma, no career prospects. Hopper returned home with his own problems, but he’d been lucky. Lucky to find her, lucky to have retained a desire to make a difference. Lucky to have all his limbs intact. 

What Diane hadn’t known about was the guys whose kids were born dead; born with chronic illnesses. Born to die early.

He’d known.

Lost in his desperation to impart and receive love, to have a family, to find a purpose, he’d made the conscious decision to ignore the risks. Worse still, he’d hidden them from Diane. Until Sara’s diagnosis, this felt like no more than an itch at the back of his head; something so inextricably tied into his personal experience as a soldier that discussing it, even with the woman he loved most in the world, wasn’t an obligation. These thoughts were tremendously painful, and she’d been so supportive, had never pushed him for information, that it was easy to stay quiet. He’d taken advantage of her kindness and understanding because it allowed him to bottle up his feelings and box up those memories forever. Or so he’d thought. 

He didn’t purposefully keep secrets from his wife. He’d only hidden things she didn’t need to know about during his time as a soldier - violent and horrible experiences he didn’t want to remember. Except, of course, she did need to know this. 

He’ll live with that guilt forever. 

Diane didn’t understand, even after everything, but how could he blame her? He didn’t know how to explain himself - didn’t deserve to; he couldn’t tell her that he just wanted to forget. To move on. To build a family, to focus on construction rather than destruction. All of that pales in comparison to the lie, to the fact he’d knowingly sentenced his child to an early death before they were even born. 

No one understands except those guys who worked the drums with him. He doesn’t talk to them anymore. Doesn’t even know if they’re alive. 

So people don’t really know why Sara died. The war is ancient history in this town. Vietnam was barely acknowledged in the first place; he isn’t surprised and doesn’t push for a change. 

After all, he doesn’t want to think about it, let alone discuss it. 

His guilt is his twisted secret: he killed his own daughter. He knows, even if no one else does. He isn’t looking for forgiveness, but sometimes he wishes he could talk about it. The thoughts are so difficult to separate, to articulate. They’re so painful. No one understands that what happens there follows you home. No one understands how he feels diseased, tainted, and cursed forever. 

Even if he wanted another child, which he doesn’t, he can’t have one. He made sure of that. 

As for the war itself? He’s not a patriot. He joined the Army to get the fuck out of Hawkins, then after all that shit, he became a cop to help people, not the state. The state believed him to be disposable. The state had thrown countless men into a jungle to die. The state had knowingly thrown him into chemical warfare, which had altered his genes enough to kill his offspring. Uncle Sam has done nothing for him. He admits that, for a while, he reveled in travel, action, and adventure. The sheer physicality of the training and work. He was good at it. That was before Vietnam. After that, everything changed. 

Being a detective was rewarding; despite everything, he’d loved his work in New York. It didn’t make up for any of the bad though. Not one bit. He used to tell himself he had no choice. That he had to get away and out of Indiana. What else would he have done? With no money, no prospects, and a father who thought he was worse than shit, the military had seemed appealing when he was eighteen. A ticket out of hell. 

Now he accepts what he did, what he was part of. He knows, but he doesn’t know who to blame.  

(The government, the communists, the scientists, himself, his father.) 

He doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge either. He’d thought he could help make a difference in New York. Now he knows better. 

Maybe he deserves this pain for more than one reason. These days he treats it like penance. 

 

***

 

“Get the fuck out!” Joyce shrieks, pushing him towards the door. “Get the fuck out, you fucking prick. We’re done. We don’t need you. It’s over; we’re over. Get out!” She gives him one more shove, rips his jacket off the hook, and throws it at his head. He catches it and sneers. 

“What will you do without me, Joyce? The boys need their father!”

“Like you care! Get OUT!” 

She’s aware that Jonathan and Will are watching from behind her, but she can’t find the energy to shield them from this disaster. 

“We’re done, Lonnie. Go back to that- that woman you’re with now. Leave us alone.”  

“All my stuff–”

“JUST. GET. OUT!” She screams at him, voice breaking. She’s crying now, hands shaking. 

“You’ll regret this, Joyce. What will you do without me? Who’s gonna take care of you?”

She doesn’t answer but strides past him, opens the door, and shoves him out of the house. She throws his wallet and car keys onto the porch and slams the door shut. 

 

***

 

“Joyce left Lonnie Byers, did you hear?” Cal sounds incredulous. It pisses him off. 

“I heard she made him leave, kicked him outta the house!” Phil laughs. 

“Can you blame her? Apart from her children, that man only brought her trouble.” Flo, at least, has some fucking sense. 

“What the hell is she going to do without him?” Cal, again. 

“What does she do with him? The man is barely around. Last I heard, he was in Indianapolis most of the time doing God knows what.” He hears Flo get up, and she shuffles over to him at the table where he stands. He ignores her. Pours his coffee and focuses on deciding which donut to eat. She nudges him with her shoulder. 

“What do you think, Hop?” He doesn’t like that knowing look on her face. Sometimes he forgets how long she’s been around. 

“Good riddance.” He says, and strides away, seeking the peace of his office. 

 

***

 

For a while, she struggles worse than ever to stay afloat. 

Lonnie is gone, and with him went his meager and inconsistent, though not unwelcome, income. Then came the cost of the divorce, which obliterated the savings squirreled away over the years. 

On top of all of that was the gossip around town. Try as she might, she can’t shake the whispers off, the pity, the criticism. Everyone knows Lonnie, his nature, and his vices. They know he’s a deadbeat father, a gambler, and a cheater. Somehow, she still came out of the marriage looking like the crazy one. 

Shifts at Melvalds increase in length and frequency; Will has friends he can stay with after school, whose mothers understand and who don’t judge. Jonathan can fend for himself when required, though she doesn’t feel good about it. Reserved and distant, he retreats to his room whenever he's not needed, especially when Will isn’t home. She worries about his sociability but has no time to do anything about it. She doesn’t know who to blame anymore and can’t stop the feelings of guilt and failure that wash over her exhausted mind as she lies in bed and tries to sleep. 

The sun shines through the kitchen windows the following spring morning as she mulls her situation over; Lonnie has been gone for nearly a year, appearing intermittently to see the boys. More often than not, he forgets their scheduled visits. She sits at the kitchen table, thinking about him, and forces herself to chew the toast Jonathan made while her fingers itch for a smoke. 

(You skipped dinner last night, Mom.)  

He’s beside her, sipping on some orange juice. His hair is falling around his face and into his eyes - he looks taller and lankier. She feels a burst of panic overcome her; she’s missing everything. Her boys are growing up, and the world is moving on. Lonnie is unaffected, living his careless life in the city while she hardly makes enough money to keep them going. 

It terrifies her; she gives up on toast and reaches for her cigarettes. Jonathan sighs, but all she can do is roll with the punches. 

 

***

 

Joe’s gets busy on Fridays. 

Seated in a booth on the right-hand side of the bar, Cal and Phil discuss an absurdly stupid call-out they’d dealt with today while he nurses a whiskey, eyeing the exit and feeling paranoid. Nothing happens in this town, but his senses are on high alert, and he doesn’t know why. Rambunctious laughter bursts out of the far corner, and his shoulders seize, tense as hell. It’s one of those nights; he can’t reach the state of mindlessness needed to enjoy himself, and the alcohol is falling short more often than not these days. 

The Tuinal feels heavy in his pocket; he’d burned through his first bottle in a couple of weeks and found himself craving that semi-oblivion almost immediately afterward. He’d driven out to Indianapolis, hunted around for a drug dealer, and found a guy in a seedy bar after a few tries. It wasn’t hard; he knows the types - he’d had a few sources like that in New York. That didn’t stop him from feeling like a degenerate when he purchased several bottles and held onto his number. 

Hopper had never been interested in drugs - unless you counted weed and alcohol - but he isn't looking for a gentle buzz anymore. The illegality of his actions doesn’t escape him either. He just doesn’t care. The low moods, intrusive thoughts, and sleepless nights have driven him to and from madness enough times, and he needs relief. He doesn’t want to speak to local doctors, and he doesn’t want to fill any prescriptions around town, especially not at Melvalds. He doesn’t care about buying drugs and losing his job, but people in this fucking town love to talk, and he doesn’t want to deal with that. 

Twitchy and unsettled, he excuses himself and stumps outside, seeking a smoke in the fresh air. Fingering the bottle in his pocket, he’s tempted but hesitates - taking the pills here feels like a reckless mistake. He’s driven to the bar, and he is with his coworkers in public. His car alerts anyone and everyone that he’s here - people know him at this bar. This is a risk, but exhaustion weighs him down. He’s so tired, he’s so sick of thinking, and he doesn’t want to feel anything. He doesn’t want to observe, deduce, act, or be. He wants to forget himself and everything around him. 

Without a drink to wash them down, the capsules feel sticky in his throat, and he struggles to swallow them dry. He stands outside for a long time, chain-smoking, waiting for his senses to dull. It’s a relief when they do. 

Slowly, he trudges back into the bar, feeling the environment waver around him. He falls into his seat beside Cal. 

“You were out there a while, Chief. Another drink?”

“Sure.”

 

***

 

The asshole has abandoned his son. Again. 

She doesn’t know why he bothers to make promises he has never once kept. She can hear Jonathan consoling Will in his bedroom, and her heart clenches in her tight chest. 

(He’s useless and doesn’t care about us, so let’s forget about him, okay?) 

Her boy just wanted his dad around for his birthday. She doesn’t know what to do for them. She can't fill this hole in their lives. She can’t be two parents - she barely has time to be one. 

Joyce screams and rants at Lonnie over the phone, which helps her feel better for about thirty seconds. She moves swiftly onto ignoring everything she possibly can to function. Feelings appropriately snuffed out, she plasters a smile onto her face and runs to her sons. They'll go out for dinner tonight, even if it requires an extra shift at Melvalds this week. 

“What do you want to eat, baby? It’s your special day!”

 

***

 

“I think he’s taking something, Flo.” Phil murmurs his thoughts to her, leaning over her desk and trying to be discreet. He does not want the Chief to hear him, but he’d observed enough strange behavior recently to feel concerned. After Cal asked him if he thought Hopper was going crazy, Phil started to watch his boss more closely. 

Hopper keeps a bottle of pills in his pocket, pills he seems to swallow every now and then. His physical movements are sometimes bizarre - shaky hands, dazed expressions, slurred speech. These changes haven’t been consistent enough to warrant a confrontation - his speech was sometimes slurred in the morning, and the shaking he’d seen a few times towards the end of the day. It could be the beers, for all he knows. 

Hopper’s drinking is an open secret, so at first, he’d chalked this up to the odd overindulgence, especially because the pill-popping didn’t seem frequent, and he didn’t even know what he was taking. After he saw Hopper swallow them in his office, at Joe’s, and even at Benny’s diner, he began to change his mind. He’d spoken to Cal about it, and they’d decided that Flo, who’d known Hopper for a long time, would know what to do. 

Phil respects Hopper; he’s a veteran. Phil has seen the referrals from New York and heard about his cases as a detective. He likes his easygoing attitude - Hopper has never lorded his experience or title over any of the officers and treats them all the same. The department feels like a little family to Phil, with Hopper as the reluctant head of the household. 

He also knows about Hopper’s dead daughter, and as a father of two children, he doesn’t like to think about what he’d do in Hopper’s shoes. 

Flo stays quiet, busying herself with some papers, avoiding his eyes. 

“What do you think?” 

“Let me talk to him, Phil.”

“Thanks, Flo.”

Phil feels relieved; if anyone could sort him out, it would be Flo.

 

***

 

Thursday evenings are always quiet.

Soft music warbles out of the old radio as she kneels on the hard floor, indifferently pricing products. It’s been a slow day and a stagnant week. Summer has stripped the residents away, leaving Hawkins sleepier than ever. The air conditioning is broken, and the fans dotting the store are sluggish; hot air shifts around her, dense and uncomfortable, as she struggles to her feet and walks back towards the counter, preparing herself for the final half hour of her shift. 

The bell rings out. She swivels around and spots him at the threshold. Out of uniform and dressed in worn blue jeans paired with a disheveled white t-shirt, he looks smaller somehow. It occurs to her that she has never seen him in the store in the three years since his return. She has never once served him at the counter. 

He looks straight at her as he walks over, booted footsteps loud and heavy. 

“Hey.” 

“Hopper, it’s been a while.” 

“Yeah. Uh, can I get a couple packs of Camels, unfiltered?” 

“Sure.” She pauses, turns around to get his cigarettes, and rings him up. “How are things?”

He shrugs at her question. “Guess I should be asking you that. Lonnie ever around these days?” 

She hears the edge in his voice and resents him for bringing that bastard’s name up.  

“What do you think?”

“Right. Sorry.” He’s not meeting her eyes but looking slightly to the left of her. He seems unwell - ashen and sweaty in the fluorescent lights. She realizes, suddenly, that his pupils are dilated. 

“Are you okay, Hopper?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He hands her the money. “Keep the change. Take care of yourself, Joyce.” He turns around and walks out, stumbling slightly on his step down. Feeling disoriented by his visit, she starts closing down, as usual, finally stepping outside twenty minutes later. She is shocked to see the Blazer still parked in front of the store and slowly walks towards it. Hopper sits in the driver’s seat, head tilted unnaturally backward, mouth wide open, and eyes closed. Gentle knocking on the window fails to stir him. Worried, she starts pounding on the glass until he shifts slightly in his seat. 

“Hopper! Hopper, can you hear me?” She doesn’t wait for his answer and opens the door, grabbing his broad shoulders and shaking him roughly until he finally makes a sound, mumbling under his breath. A pill bottle rolls out of his lap, and she dips down and grabs it off the floor of the car, popping the lid: Tuinal. Dread curls in her gut; she’d heard the rumors and guessed he was probably taking something. Where there's smoke, there's fire. 

Unfortunately, she hadn't known what. Or how much. 

Joyce intimately understands the draw of this medicine, the half-oblivion he likely sought. Joyce wonders why the doctor prescribed it - anxiety, insomnia? Somehow she cannot imagine steely Hopper having a panic attack. 

“Hop, are you with me?” He blinks a few times, clearly struggling to concentrate, but he moves his head in her direction and stares at her. 

“Hey,” he slurs. “Joyce.” His head flops forward, but his breaths come quickly. He’s also sweating profusely in the stuffy interior of the car. Drowsiness, shallow breathing - she’s scared. Fumbling with her handbag, she fishes her water bottle out and quickly brings it to his lips, urging him to sip it. Hopper drinks slowly; liquid dribbles down his chin and soils his shirt. Gracelessly, his heavy hand swats at the rivulets of water on his face, then he blinks a few more times, seemingly coming to his senses. She passes him the bottle properly now. He doesn’t look at her but takes it and finishes it off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He sits and stares out of the windscreen, and she stands silently beside him, the car door still open. She can feel the sweat dripping down the back of her t-shirt; the uncomfortable humidity finally registering. Once a few more minutes pass, she can’t help herself. 

“Why are you taking those, Hopper?”

He closes his eyes, head tilting down. His left hand is fiddling with a familiar-looking blue bracelet on his right wrist; on closer inspection, she thinks it’s a hairband. 

“You know why. Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m fine. Thanks for staying, for the drink.” He’s slurring his words, avoiding her eyes again. Clearly, he wants to leave, but there is no way he can drive right now.

“Hopper, you can’t drive like this. Just wait, let me take you home.”

“I’m fine, Joyce.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not fine.” She shakes her head, turning away from him. Quickly, she moves around the hood and opens the passenger-side door, jumping into the Blazer to sit beside him. Unbearable heat stifles the interior, so she closes the door but rolls her window down for the feeble breeze to pass through. Hopper glances at her but says nothing. Shakily, he reaches to the left and shuts his own door; mimics her, and rolls the window down. 

“Thanks,” He whispers, voice low and gruff. 

“Do you want a smoke?” 

“Yeah, okay.”

She digs through her purse, finds the cigarettes, and offers him one, along with the lighter. His hands are shaking, and he struggles to handle both items. Gently, she reaches over and takes the lighter back, igniting the cigarette for him after he sticks it between his dry lips. He inhales, then sighs the smoke out. He looks over at her; his eyes are wet. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be, Hopper.”

She lights her own cigarette, and they sit beside each other silently until his hands are steady and the sun has gone down. 

 

***

 

These days he’s turning up to work late more often than not. 

It’s a far cry from how he started as chief; he can’t be bothered to keep up appearances and doesn’t try to stifle his capricious behavior anymore. If any of his guys are halfway decent cops, they’ve figured out he’s fucked up already. So what’s the point?

Even Joyce knows now. 

It’s a sunny Monday morning, and he’s squinting through his sunglasses as he parks. Last night, he slept for about three hours, finding it difficult to drift off. He’d had some more beer and Tuinal and waited for his mind to stop buzzing. Dawn broke when he fell asleep. He is already an hour late for work. 

The pills haven’t been doing the job lately, and he’s thinking he’ll have to start taking them more frequently. He abstained this morning before leaving the trailer, so he’ll swallow one down as soon as he’s in the semi-sanctuary of his shitty little office, a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and the daily paper in the other. Tuinal doesn’t make him woozy anymore - it doesn’t even slow him down - but it takes the edge off, blunts his thoughts, and gets his panic down to an acceptable level. It’s just what he needs. 

He admits that his growing tolerance to both alcohol and drugs is not a good thing, but as long as he doesn't feel too much, he won't think about it more than that. 

Everyone greets him as soon as he gets in, and he’s thankful to see a few donuts left by the coffee machine. Eating junk food and drinking beer almost exclusively for the last year has seen him gain a few pounds, but who cares? It’s not like he has to run for his job, and who the hell is he impressing these days, anyway? He feels the back of his neck burning and turns around to find Flo staring at him, looking unimpressed. 

“You okay, Flo?”

“Yes.” Her curt response perturbs him for all of five seconds before he brushes it off and makes for his office. Sitting at his desk, he mulls over his to-do list (endless paperwork), finding nothing that captures his interest. Another quiet, directionless morning. Another mundane week. Fine by him. The Tuinal rattles in his pocket, and though he feels somewhat okay, it’s better to anticipate a bad turn than deal with one on the spot. So he swallows a pill and washes it down with the scalding hot coffee. 

“What are you taking, Hopper?” 

He looks up and sees Flo in his doorway. She looks disappointed and frustrated. Pissed. He knows she knows he’s self-medicating, and he doesn’t much care, but he doesn’t want to talk about it with her either. 

“Just under the weather at the moment Flo. Nothing to worry about.”

“Don’t give me that garbage, James Hopper.” It’s been a long time since anyone used his full name. He’s partly amused but annoyed she’s pushing it with him. 

“Do I need to tell you that it’s none of your business, Flo?” 

“It became my business when your officers asked me if you were taking drugs.” She walks into his office and closes the door behind her. Taking a seat in front of him, she stares him down. He’s not intimidated; he stares right back. 

“Who cares what they tell you? I’m telling you it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not stupid, you know. I know you, and I understand, but you must stop now. Before it’s too late.”

He scoffs. “Too late for what?” He pauses, wondering how far he’d take this conversation with her. He feels reckless this morning, uncaring in an unusually truthful way. Something snapped in him the other night when he lost control around Joyce, and he finds his inhibitions have slipped much lower than he thought. 

“You need to hold yourself together. This town relies on you. We rely on you.” Her face is sincere, but she’s wrong. 

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“No it isn’t, and you know it.”

Feeling like he would regret the words that came out of his mouth next, he strikes a match and lights a cigarette up, puffing on it and inhaling the smoke instead. He turns his head and blows it out to the side, avoiding Flo’s face. She huffs, reaches over, and snatches the cigarette straight out of his mouth. 

“I’m sick of seeing you like this, Hop. You’re better than this.”

He laughs derisively but feels his throat choking up. 

“No, I’m not.”

 

***

 

“You fucking asshole, Lonnie!” 

The phone goes dead as he hangs up on her, and she slams the handset back in its holder, shaking with fury. Jonathan stands beside her quietly. She doesn’t know what to tell him. 

“Mom. We need to get rid of them.”

“I know, baby, just give me a second to think.”

Insidious letters had been arriving in the mail for the last couple of months, addressed exclusively to Lonnie. Sinister and intimidating, they’d all asked for money owed and threatened action if Lonnie didn’t produce the amount listed, which was just under $5,000. 

She certainly doesn’t have that much stashed away. In fact, she has no savings at all. 

Joyce knew they must be the men he’d tangled with in the last couple of years, the men Hopper had advised him to avoid. Clearly, the asshole hadn’t listened because they’d turned up on her doorstep this morning. Before today, Lonnie had avoided all her calls and, as usual, hadn’t turned up to any planned visits with his sons, so she doesn’t know what else she could have done to avoid this. 

Joyce wouldn’t let the men into her house, but they lingered on the porch, waiting for Lonnie to turn up. It didn’t seem like they wanted to cause her trouble, but she wasn’t going to bet on it. If they don’t get what they want, she’s sure things will go south very quickly. 

“Is he gonna come?”

“No, he said he owed them nothing. Told me to tell them to go away.” Actually, Lonnie had told her to tell them to fuck off, but she’s not going to do that. Jonathan scoffs, shaking his head and turning towards Will’s room. He’d herded his younger brother away from the front of the house as soon as he heard what they wanted. 

As she watches Jonathan open Will’s door and hears him repeat his assurances that everything will be fine, she doesn’t think she has another choice; she’ll have to call the police for help. 

 

***

 

At first, he doesn’t know whether to hunt for Lonnie or run straight over to Joyce’s. 

The last few days have been terrible; never has his mood been lower or as volatile, and he’s struggling to strike the right balance between drugs and alcohol. As a result, the first option tempts him more; he’s exhausted, but beating some sense into Lonnie may prove a relief. Flo’s stare, fixed knowingly on him as she relays Joyce’s message, grounds him, and common sense overtakes his deranged thoughts. 

He sets a low-level officer on Lonnie's trail, hoping to find him quickly, while Phil and Cal grumble but jump into the Blazer with him. The drive to Joyce’s is fast; shame at the thought of their last meeting haunts him, and he agonizes over his twin desires to avoid her and find a way to pay her back for her help. He doesn’t think doing his job counts, but locating Lonnie strikes him as a suitable way forward. 

Later, and out of uniform, he might do just that. 

He spots three men on her porch as soon as it comes into view; he parks up and jumps out of the car, Phil and Cal hot on his heels. 

“What’s going on around here, then?” He barks, striding toward the leader of the group. He knows his name - Nick. 

Nick steps forward, squaring his shoulders. “Lonnie owes us money, Hopper.”

“Lonnie doesn’t live here anymore, and the son of a bitch never comes back to visit either.”

“He’ll come back.”

“No, he won’t, believe me. He’s a chickenshit who’s never known a day of responsibility. ”

“His wife called him.” 

“Ex-wife. And I’m sure he told her he wouldn’t turn up.” 

Nick lights a cigarette, calm and collected, staring at Hopper. This guy, Hopper knows, has a streak of madness in him that he wants to avoid triggering. Hopper isn’t afraid of him, but then again, Hopper isn’t scared of much these days, and he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing. 

“Do you actually expect us to let this go, Hopper? That scum owes us a lot of money, and we’ve been patient, as you know.”

“I don’t expect you to do shit except leave Joyce and her kids alone. They have nothing to do with this. You know Lonnie, Nick. He wasn’t giving any money to his family even when he lived here. Keep them out of this.”

“Do you know where Lonnie is?”

Hopper pauses; he wishes he knew for his own reasons. He’ll ask Joyce later, but he’s sure Lonnie will be running far away from wherever he lives right now. 

“I don’t, but it’s time you and your guys left.”

Nick stays silent, finishes his cigarette, and starts walking to his car. Gesturing for his men to follow him, he brushes past Hopper, pausing to whisper in his left ear. 

“You tell me when you find out.” Almost imperceptibly, Hopper nods. He has no problem with that. 

“Don’t come by here anymore, Nick.” He doesn’t receive a response, but he knows Nick won’t. 

He’ll make sure of it. 

 

***

 

Standing in front of the living room window, she witnesses Hopper take charge of the situation. Her heart stills when she sees the main guy walk up to him and whisper something in his ear. She hopes Hopper hasn’t gotten into trouble, but she shouldn’t worry about him. This is his damn job, after all. Hopper stares straight past the man, unspeaking, but she thinks he moves his head and nods. She has no idea what to do; holding her breath, she hopes her involvement in this mess ends today. 

Damn Lonnie to hell. 

Eventually, they pull out of her yard, but she stays inside until she can no longer see their car. Moving quickly to the front door, she opens it and stumbles onto the porch. 

“Hopper!”

Hopper is speaking with his officers, but he swivels around to look at her once she calls for him. He looks terrible up close, even worse than he did that evening at Melvalds. 

“Joyce. Don’t worry. They’re gone, and they won’t be coming back. I’ll make sure of it.”

She hears him, but that doesn’t stop the panic. “How, Hopper? Lonnie, h-he owes them a lot of money, and I don’t have it. He won’t come here to deal with him, with them. I don’t know what to do.”

The deadened expression on his face is unsettling as he looks down at her. 

“Let me worry about Lonnie.” 

She feels dread in the pit of her stomach. Hopper seems more preoccupied with Lonnie than he does with her. 

“Listen to me, Hopper. Lonnie won’t come here!”

“Did I say he would? Trust me, they won’t be around here again, and you and your kids don’t have to worry about this anymore.” 

She sees Hopper’s officers exchange a concerned glance behind him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Exactly what I said. All you need to know is that you don’t have to worry anymore.” He whips a cigarette out, lighting it and puffing on it for a few moments. “Do you know where Lonnie lives now?”

Something tells her she might not want to share this information with Hopper, but then she remembers that Lonnie was willing to throw her and their sons to the dogs, and her anger returns. 

“I don't know about the address, but let me get you his number.”

 

***

 

The rain beats against his windshield aggressively, drowning out the quiet hum of the radio. It’s Friday and almost midnight as he enters the Indianapolis city boundaries, body tense, cigarette burning between his fingers. 

Hopper is sure he will find Lonnie tonight. After digging in Hawkins and working with an old pal in the Indianapolis PD, he’s received confirmation that Lonnie has a place in the city. He’d been spotted at it three days after Nick had gone to harass Joyce. The asshole couldn’t even lay low for a week. 

Lonnie’s home is in a trailer park, which he isn’t happy about. Wanting to be discreet, he pulls up a little distance away and walks into the area. The Blazer isn’t exactly incongruous, and while he doesn’t really care, he’d rather people didn’t know that the Hawkins Chief of Police paid Lonnie a visit today. 

The rain has slowed to a drizzle; he smokes another cigarette, peering around in the darkness as he looks for the right trailer. Apart from the soft patter of water, the night is silent and still, and he feels strong and confident as his boots crunch on the wet gravel leading up to Lonnie’s home. Knocking hard on the rickety door, he waits, straining his ears for any sounds. 

Lonnie swings it open, looking disheveled. 

“Hopper? What the fuck– ” He doesn’t finish his sentence; Hopper pushes into his trailer, shoving him roughly backward and watching with contentment as he lands on his ass on the floor. He shuts the door behind him, walking towards Lonnie and lifting him up by the scruff of his stained, white undershirt. 

“I think it’s time we had a little talk,” he tells him, locating the nearest chair and throwing Lonnie into it. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing in my house?!” Lonnie looks pissed but nervous. 

“I think you know exactly why I’m here.” Lonnie stays silent, glaring at him but making no move. 

He sighs. “Where the fuck is the money, Lonnie?” 

“I don’t have it.” 

“When will you have it?”

“I’m not giving those guys shit. They played dirty.”

“You are going to give them everything you have. ”

“You can’t tell me what to do, you fucking pig. This is a private matter.”

“Well, consider this my way of dealing with it privately. As a concerned friend.”

“Joyce put you up to this, didn’t she? I told her to get rid of them by herself!”

“You’re willing to put your family in danger because you don’t want to deal with your mess like a man?” Hopper shakes his head, turning away, thinking of Sara and Diane. “You don’t deserve them.” 

Lonnie snarls. “This is none of your business, Hopper! Get the fuck out of my house!” 

“I’m not going anywhere until we reach an agreement.” 

Lonnie leaps up, swinging for his face. He clips Hopper on the left cheek, busting his lip. Hopper takes the punch, feeling disconnected as he retaliates on autopilot, bringing his fist up and straight into Lonnie’s gut, winding him. Another easy uppercut to the jaw leaves him dazed and wheezing on the floor. Hopper breathes heavily as he watches him struggle, then scoffs loudly.  

“Joyce forgave your sorry ass too many times. You got used to it. Got comfortable, screwing other women behind her back, ignoring your kids. Pissing your money away." Lonnie, still breathless and sprawled in front of him, doesn't answer. 

When he left Hawkins in '72, Hopper had thought Lonnie would sort himself out. Support his wife. Support his growing family. He was convinced that there had to be a good reason why Joyce stuck with him.  

He was wrong. 

Lonnie finally looks up at him and chokes a laugh back. 

“Don’t tell me you’re still bitter I got the girl, Hopper! Joyce is a free agent now. I don’t give a damn who she screws. Why don’t you go ahead and take her?"

Hopper's blood boils. He doesn't want Joyce, and he isn't looking for love. No, that ship sailed a long time ago. This is about Lonnie having everything and wasting it. 

"What did I tell you, Lonnie? Don't mess with those guys. Now I’m here, stepping in and sorting out your shit so things can get back on track. Something about that isn’t right. ”

Lonnie scoffs. Hopper crouches down and grabs his shirt again, resisting the urge to strangle him.

“Tell me how you’re planning to deal with these guys, you fucking asshole.”

“I told you: they’re not getting shit from me!” 

“That’s not the answer I’m looking for.” Hopper stands, pulling Lonnie back into the chair and dragging one in front of him to sit himself down. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m here to ensure nothing happens to Joyce and your kids. For me to do my job, you need to do yours. Give them everything you have. Sell your piece of shit home, sell your piece of shit car, sell your ass down on the nearest corner – I don’t give a shit. Get it done. You have one week to sort it out, then these guys will come for you, like it or not. This is my first and only warning – you do not want to fuck with me, Lonnie.”

“Fuck you!”

“Yeah, whatever. One week, Lonnie. Get it done.” 

He gets up, carelessly throwing the chair over to the side. It topples over, and he kicks it out of his way as he stumps over to the door, throwing it open and slamming it shut.

That piece of shit. 

 

***

 

Another extra-long shift at Melvalds. 

Money is tight. It’s always fucking tight, and today she doesn’t know how much more of this work she can take. The store is busy, and she’s been here since opening at seven. It’s almost five now. Donald asked her to stay for another couple hours, but she refused, head spinning and stomach rolling with exhaustion. She is more than ready to leave. 

“See you tomorrow, Donald.”

She hears his faint reply as she hurries out the door, but doesn’t turn back. The weather is fairly mild, and she’s thankful for it as she stands by her car and smokes a cigarette. This is her second chance to breathe all day; she’s going to take it, and enjoy it, before heading home. 

Not that she has anything to go home to. 

Both her sons are away for the night; Jonathan has picked up a low-paying part-time job at the movie theater after school on Fridays and during the day on Saturdays. He’s going to a birthday party at his co-worker’s home today after his shift. She hadn’t hesitated in saying yes when he shyly floated it past her, afraid that at fifteen Jonathan was still less social than she’d like him to be. It’s a late gathering, so he’s sleeping over tonight, then going straight back to the theatre for his weekend shift the following day. She was more than happy with that once he’d given her his friend’s address and landline. 

Will is at Lucas’, playing a game with their little group that she still doesn't quite understand. He’d gone there straight after school, and all she knows is that there is a long “campaign” that will take them hours to work through. She’s happy if he’s happy. 

A low breeze ruffles the hem of her shirt as she fires up another cigarette. One isn’t cutting it this evening. She feels low and depleted, and she tries to breathe her stress out with each exhale of smoke. She fails miserably but enjoys the fresh air after hours in the stale environment of the store. 

“Hey.”

She spins around to find Hopper walking up to her. Feeling a burst of frustration, she moves forward, meeting him halfway between the parked cars lining the front of the store. 

“Where have you been, Hopper? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week!” 

“Sorry. Stuff came up.”

“What happened with Lonnie?”

“You tell me. Have those guys come back?

No, but that’s not what she’s asking. “You know they haven’t.”

“So then.” He shrugs. “All good.”

“No, Hopper, not all good! I need you to tell me what you did.” 

He looks stony and fiddles with the hat clasped in his hands. 

“Nothing. I just spoke to him. Told him to get his shit together. Nothing else.”

“Look, I appreciate your help more than you know, but if you’ve pissed him off it’ll backfire on me and the kids.”

“He won’t come near you, trust me.” 

“How the hell can you know that? You’ve been back here three, maybe four years, and you have no idea what he’s like.”

“Really, Joyce? I’ve met a hundred assholes like him, and I know what he’s like!” 

“No, you don’t– ”

“Joyce, just leave it. I told you I didn’t do anything to him, and you don’t need to worry anymore.” 

“That’s easy for you to say!”

“How the hell–”

“You have no one who depends on you, Hop! I have to think of my sons!” 

Hopper goes quiet, looking stricken. 

“No, I didn’t mean–”

“It’s okay. Whatever.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, fumbling for a cigarette, lighting it, and turning away from her, striding to his car. She sees him reach for his pants pocket and feels her heart sinking . . . 

“Hopper, please, I didn’t mean anything–”

“I need to get going anyway.”

The Blazer tears away from the square with a loud screech, and she’s left feeling guilty and desperate. 

 

***

 

The pills blunt the pain, but only just. 

By the time he reaches the trailer, he’s feeling less anxious and more defeated. He stays in the Blazer for a few minutes, looking out at the lake. The sun is low in the sky, and the water is tinged with red and yellow streaks. He sighs, kills the engine, and slips out of the car, slamming the door loudly. His uniform feels constrictive, and he wants to change and kick his fucking weekend off as soon as possible. As he walks through the door, he halts and turns to his left, stopping to stare at Sara’s drawing. A reminder that he hasn’t always been alone. 

He strokes the hairband on his wrist, tugs it between his fingers, and sighs. 

The living room is just as messy as when he left for work this morning, but he doesn’t care enough to tidy it up, instead moving straight for his bathroom, stripping hastily, and jumping into the shower. He remembers how obsessively neat and ordered he used to be after Vietnam and scoffs as the scalding spray pounds against his back. If he had anything or anyone to care about, maybe he’d rediscover that discipline, but now, chaos rules his mind and his spaces. 

The water helps, and he lets it wash over him for a long time, leaning against the discolored bathroom tiles and trying not to think. It starts to run cold, so he switches it off, secures a towel around his waist, and moves to the sink and mirror. He observes himself, dripping slowly on the linoleum floor, staring at his growing belly and weaning biceps. Once upon a time, he ran, lifted weights, and ate decent meals. Right now, the can of half-full Schlitz beside the kitchen sink is calling to him, and the pack of Camels in his uniform shirt is just as appealing. 

He brushes his hair, applies deodorant, and moves to his bedroom. A worn pair of jeans lay crumpled on his chair; they’d do, paired with a fresh, black henley and dark, plaid shirt. Whatever. He hopes they’re all coming off later this evening anyway. A sprig of cologne around his neck and his comfiest boots complete the look. As he’s shuffling around in the bathroom, digging his cigarettes and Tuinal out of his uniform and chucking the clothes in the laundry basket for tomorrow, he hears a car rumbling in his front yard and pauses. Who the hell would be visiting right now? 

He moves to peer out of his window and spots a green Pinto.

 

***

 

The car vibrates underneath her hands, but she doesn’t switch the engine off, unsure whether to stay. The sky is darkening, and she’s conflicted. It feels like she’s working against an invisible timer. 

Joyce had sped home from Melvalds, battling shame and anger, and arrived at her messy and shabby home feeling deeply unsettled. Falling straight onto the couch, she’d allowed her body to wearily sink into the sagging cushions. She lit another cigarette and thought about how empty everything felt at this very moment. When she didn’t occupy herself with loving her sons, all she had was the neverending maintenance of everyday life; chores and finances and Lonnie and all that fucking bullshit that meant everything and nothing. 

She’d reached a point where she didn’t know what she enjoyed or desired. For once, she couldn’t push it to the back of her mind and chug along, mindlessly lost in stress, like she always did.

Joyce had the house to herself. She could have had a bath, read a book, controlled the TV, eaten whatever she wanted, slept, masturbated, gone out, stayed in, done every chore under the sun, or done nothing at all. Instead of resting, finally, after a long and shitty day, she’d chosen to agonize over her pathetic life. Like it even mattered. Like she hadn’t decided a long time ago that her desires came second to her sons, because it was her and them and no one else, and she wouldn’t rest until she knew they were self-sufficient and happy. Safe and loved. 

So what had been different about this evening? 

Hopper had pissed her off. Hopper had supported her, but he did it like an asshole. Hopper had answered her call for help, then avoided her for days. Never followed up or checked in. Treated her like a stranger. Like someone he didn’t owe answers to. Like someone who hadn’t already tangled with her and Lonnie and lived to tell the tale. 

Hopper is not a reliable man. Hopper is a suspected alcoholic and a confirmed pill popper. Hopper walks around town looking worse than she does. Hopper turned up at Melvalds high on Tuinal and didn’t care about driving home when he could barely see straight. Hopper had hated this town in their youth and hated it more when he returned from Vietnam. Hopper had uprooted his small family eleven years ago and moved to New York because he hated it so much. She’d witnessed his conviction in ‘72; that this was the right decision, that it was needed. She’d never asked him why, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Now his family is gone, and Hopper clearly does not want to be back here. 

She has an unpleasant feeling that Hopper does not want to be anywhere at all. 

Knowing all of this, why had she expected more from him? 

Her neck had prickled with uncomfortable memories as she sat on her couch. She’d sucked down on a second cigarette with unnecessary force, fidgeted, and kicked her legs up onto the coffee table. If one thing hadn’t changed between them, it was this push-and-pull, this fire they’d always had. Their own unique dynamic. These days it almost exclusively took a tense form; frustration, resentment, maybe anger. Sometimes it edged on understanding and sympathy. Once upon a time, there was friendship and more.  

Despite everything, Hopper had made her feel something today, and maybe that’s what startled her. His chaos and presence had inspired her frustration and made her confront something in herself that she hadn’t wanted to deal with. Self-reflection. Usually, she had no time to think about the things she believed she’d lost. Self-control, peace of mind. Friendship and trust. Passion. 

So Joyce had gotten up from her couch, shed her work clothes, freshened up, and left her home. It felt barren without her sons anyway. She’d ended up in Hopper’s neck of the woods, sitting indecisively in her busted-up car. 

Sighing, she now leans her head forward and rests it on the trembling driving wheel, breathing deeply for a minute and trying to center herself. 

This evening she wants to be reckless and frivolous, but she can’t do it. She wants to apologize and explain herself, but she doesn’t know if she should. She doesn’t know if she needs to. Something in her even wants to scream at him and pound at his broad chest until he opens his mouth and the truth comes spilling out. Hopper is pigheaded and evasive, but she knows in her gut that whatever he did helped her. The problem is that she’s sure he dealt with Lonnie as Hopper, not as a policeman. Joyce does not want to be indebted to him.

A small part of her also wants to show him she’s strong enough; she can handle this too and doesn’t want him to protect her, especially not from Lonnie, but exhaustion weighs her down as she considers the fragility of this lie. Why is she so desperate to prove to him that she’s strong when she thinks a stray wind could knock her over? Especially when she also knows that Hopper himself is strong but also weak. Weakened enough by grief that his vices that could easily destroy him. 

She admits that she’d been overwhelmed with relief seeing Hopper himself, not just his officers, turn up at her house and chase Lonnie’s mess away. She’d wanted him to come, to help her, to talk to her. 

Lifting her head up, she looks around the yard, wondering what to do, and spots Hopper’s old rowing boat. Idly, she imagines taking it out onto the lake, staring at the rippling water all night as the sound of gentle waves subjugates her thoughts. 

The car engine dies, and she opens her door. 

 

***

 

He feels his stomach drop as Joyce gets out of her car. Even if he hadn’t left her mid-conversation on the street outside Melvalds a couple of hours ago, he wouldn’t have wanted to see her. Closing his burning eyes, he grips the kitchen sideboard and wishes he could sink through the floor, straight into the ground. 

Joyce knocks on his door, soft and hesitant. He blinks a few times and tries to shake the disorientation off. Thinking that his careless housekeeping will do nothing for his credibility, he moves to the door and opens it, looking down at her. 

Joyce seems as tired as he feels, which gives him a perverse sense of satisfaction. 

“Hey.” She focuses on his face, and he can’t look away. 

“Joyce. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.” He’s not lying. After all, her words had been entirely correct. He has no one to care about. That’s why everything in his life, and maybe life in general, feels meaningless and dispensable. He doesn’t think he’s working especially hard to hide that facet of himself these days. 

Yes, it had hurt to hear those words thrown at him by Joyce, of all people. Yes, she had reminded him that Sara is dead; that he is selfish; that Diane left him. Still, she wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want her apologies. He just wanted to be alone. 

“I do. I didn’t mean what I said. It was . . . I was just, I was annoyed, Hopper. Okay? I’m sorry. But you didn’t tell me anything, and I deserve to know!”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t do anything to Lonnie?”

“I’m not saying you hurt him, but I just want to know what happened!”

“Nothing happened! I paid him a visit and told him to get it together; get the money. What do you want me to say, Joyce? That I beat him into the ground? Nothing happened. Nothing. I told him he’d have to answer to me if he didn’t get the money, and that’s it. Now it looks like that bastard sorted his shit out, so we’re all good. Like I said.”

For a split-second, he imagines the satisfaction beating Lonnie Byers into the ground would give him and looks away from her. Joyce’s expressive eyes feel too sincere for him right now.

“Okay. Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. 

“Okay, then.”

They awkwardly stand in the doorway. His hands are sweating, and he doesn’t know why. He feels Joyce’s jacket brush against his side, floundering as the wind picks up. They’re standing very close to each other, but he’s still avoiding her eyes, looking down at her right shoulder instead. She’s so slight; he thinks she’s even lost weight. 

Silently, he gestures behind him, feeling sluggish and defeated. The energy he had before, the urgency to find a bar, get wasted, and fuck a random woman, has left him. The worst she could do was decline his offer to come inside, in which case he’ll spend his evening drinking and smoking alone. Either scenario is acceptable. 

Joyce freezes, then ducks under his arm and enters the trailer. 

 

***

 

Ochre beams of light filter through the trailer’s windows as the sun dips lower in the sky. Joyce’s eyes flit around the sparse living room, noting the pill bottles spilling over numerous surfaces and the empty cans of Schlitz dotted around. She can smell smoke, cigarettes, and firewood, lingering in the air. At least there’s more furniture now and even a few personal touches. Books, records. Some pictures are even on the wall. 

Hopper shuts the door, snapping her out of her reverie, but cracks the window open next to it. Stepping over to the kitchen, he rummages around in a cupboard; locates two glasses, and sets them on the counter. 

“Drink?”

She pauses. Fuck it. 

“Something stiff, if you have it.” She knows he does. 

He pulls out a bottle of whiskey, pours two glasses, and moves back toward her. She sinks into an empty spot on his couch, which houses a pillow and a soft-looking woven blanket, and he hands her the drink. Knocking his own gently against hers, Hopper downs the amber liquid in one go and sits in the maroon armchair beside the fireplace as he does so. They stay silent, facing one another. She breaks the stillness after a few minutes.

“What happened to your old place?” He’d lived in this town with Diane and Sara, once upon a time. It didn’t seem right to ask when she visited him here almost four years ago. 

“Sold it before New York.” 

“Hmm.” 

She sips her whiskey. 

“The lake is nice in the morning,” he murmurs. “It’s quiet. I like to take the boat out sometimes.” 

She pictures his lonely form on the lake in the early dawn, the smoke from a cigarette curling into the endless sky as the water gently laps around the beaten wood of the boat. She almost asks him if they could take it out right now; she craves the cold wind on her heated cheeks, the blankness of the coming night. 

“That sounds really nice. I haven’t been out on the water for a long time.”

“Yeah. Helps with, well, you know. Relaxes the mind.”

Looking back at the pills, she recognizes the light blue of Tuinal and cringes at the sheer number of open bottles. There were so many . . . 

She feels his stare on her and she looks up at him to see his eyes are glazed over, face falling. He stands up suddenly and moves back to the kitchen to refill his glass.

“Do you want another one?”

“Haven’t finished my first yet, Hop.”

“Ah, right.” 

“Yeah.”

The atmosphere is so awkward, so uncomfortable. So she does what she knows will help them both. Digging into her purse she finds her Camels, but annoyingly, her lighter is empty. 

“I’ve got one,” Hopper says, leaning forward and throwing his Bic into her lap. She strikes it, igniting the cigarette and inhaling deeply. Her nerves settle slowly as she puffs a few more times before her gaze shifts to Hopper and she stands up to hand the cigarette over to him. 

“Thanks.” She's burned through half of it already, so he finishes it off in the kitchen; she feels him watching her while she slowly walks around the living room, observing the space more closely, eyes like a hawk. 

While her home is messy and falling apart at the seams, she knows it’s a warm and happy place for her family, and she loves every shabby inch of it. Hopper’s trailer just looks neglected; a couple of crumpled flannels are flung on his dining room chairs, several books and old newspapers cover the surfaces, and of course, the beer cans and scattered capsules are everywhere. Even his gun has been left on the dining room table, though admittedly holstered. His kitchen is relatively tidy, but she has a feeling there’s nothing much in his fridge. 

Not that she can talk, but she’s waiting for her next paycheck before buying groceries again. 

Sensing movement behind her, she turns around to see Hopper has gotten up to retrieve his lighter from where she’d left it on the couch. He fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and ignites it, puffing on it before looking over at her and extending it out towards her hand. Joyce takes it, inhales his unfiltered Camel, and braces herself for its strength. It’s intense, but she holds her cough in, eyes watering, and only clears her throat. Turning away from Hopper, she spies a drawing beside the front door and moves to inspect it. Three stick figures and a house. It’s not hard to guess who drew it. She thinks of Will’s sophisticated pieces and tries to contain her sudden stab of emotion. 

Hopper has moved behind her; she can feel him close now, probably staring at the crude drawing himself. 

“I look at it every day on my way out.” His words are a whisper, and it makes her stomach drop. She spins around to look at him, handing him the cigarette, and he takes it from her quickly. Walking back to the kitchen, he sucks on it and fiddles with his empty whiskey glass, leaning on the counter and staring at his worktop. 

“What are you doing here, Joyce?” He’s still not looking at her, but she’s staring at him. The lingering light from outside is falling over his thinning hair; she spots the lighter blonde strands, and a few grays, and wonders when they’d gotten so old. She holds her breath in, then exhales. She won’t lie to him. What’s the point? 

“I think I just want to feel something, or maybe nothing. I don’t know.”

Hopper looks up at her, face blank. 

 

*** 

 

As he stares at her hesitant face, Hopper wonders whether he’s sad, insulted, or touched that she’s decided he might help her feel something and nothing. 

(What’s a black hole, daddy?)

“Right.” His chest aches; he knows what Joyce wants from him. After all, his extracurricular activities are a point of gossip in this town, and wasn’t he planning to look for just that right before she turned up anyway? And yet, Joyce singling him out for a casual fuck makes him feel very, very low. After all these years, the heartbreak, Vietnam, their failed marriages, and failed careers, Sara–

“I–I don’t, I’m not here to use you. Please. It isn’t like that. I just. I have, nobody. Nobody, Hop. I feel so tired, so alone. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t remember who I am anymore. I just want to breathe. ” 

He knows these feelings intimately; knows how a person can collapse quickly and then slowly until there’s nothing left except pain. Even pain numbs with time, and then what? 

“Join the club, Joyce.” 

“What?” 

“Join. The. Club.” 

Joyce looks at him, mouth hanging open slightly. He licks his dry lips and levels her with his burning eyes, feeling fucking sad.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Just come out and say it, Joyce. Tell me what you want.”

Now she looks pissed. Good, because he’s beginning to feel desperate. Angry too. 

“I should have known you’d react like this.”

His words are quiet, but he can’t help his response. “What do you want me to say? We both know why you’re here, but before anything happens I want to hear you say it. I want to hear that you want me. After all this time, after everything, you want me.” He’s ashamed to feel his voice break as he finishes speaking. This is all he’s going to ask of her. If she wants to feel something and nothing, then so does he. 

Nothing is all he has these days, he wants fucking something. 

 

***

 

Hopper’s face is pinched, eyebrows drawn. Regret shoots through her and suddenly she sees him as he was at eighteen; face rounder, eyes wider, clean-shaven, desperate. 

(Why, Joyce? Just tell me why!)  

Right before he left for Vietnam. Right after they fell apart. Her vision blurs with tears of frustration and confusion. 

“Hop, please–” she cuts herself off, not sure what she wants to say. Does she want him? Yes. Sexually. Saying it out loud feels cheap, and unsettling. Reminds her that they lost out on a lot more. Now all they have is this, whatever the hell it is. 

She doesn’t know why it hurts after all this time; she doesn’t really know what she wants from him apart from a night of something different. A fucking break. This isn’t the right time for regret and fuck, what good would it do them? To open up a conversation neither of them is ready for? 

Hopper is still staring at her; his eyes are bright, and she thinks he knows. There’s always been so much tension between them, so much feeling left hanging in the ether that neither of them knows how to address. He sighs, tense shoulders collapsing. 

“It’s okay, Joyce. Forget it.” 

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea–”

“I don’t have the wrong idea. It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t okay. None of this is fucking okay.”

He stays silent, looks away from her, and takes out another cigarette; he lights it and inhales slowly. It’s fully dark outside now, and a ray of moonlight filters through the thin kitchen curtain, aiding the light emitting from the solitary lamp that illuminates the living room. Smoke from Hopper’s cigarette fills the air between them; he blows breath into it and it twists in and around itself hypnotically, lingering in front of her face. He hands the cigarette over to her, eyes still averted. 

“Thanks,” she whispers, pinching it between her fingers, and bringing it to her lips. She stares at his eyes as he stares at her mouth; she takes her time, sucks the smoke in, and savors the burn. He licks his lips, straightens, and steps towards her until he’s close, close enough for her to see the shades of blue in his eyes, the faint scar on the side of his head, the crack in the middle of his bottom lip. He’s wearing cologne; she catches a whiff of it, can’t help but lean in, and angle her nose towards his neck. 

She sees the way his throat bobs as he swallows, and she holds her breath, unsure of where to go next. 

 

***

 

Hopper reaches for her; brings his right hand up to engulf the left side of her head, cradling it gently. His stomach jolts as she leans into his touch, letting her neck relax as he holds her head up. Eyes closed, her lashes look dark and long against her pale face, and he observes the way time has changed her. He thinks about the Joyce he keeps locked in his memories and breathes out, trying to let her go as he slowly allows this Joyce to take over. 

This Joyce came to him for sex. Or intimacy. Both. It’s okay. It hurts but it doesn’t; it’s something but it’s nothing. It’s probably all he can give her anyway. It’s fitting. 

He pulls her into his arms, brings her flush against his chest; holds her there, rough palm resting on the back of her warm neck. Feels her stiffening before she softens all at once; brings her arms up to loosely circle his waist. He hasn’t held anyone like this in years. Not since Diane. Not since their broken and bleak final months together.

For a long moment, they breathe together, quiet and close. 

 

***

 

Heart pounding in her chest, she squeezes herself against his broadness. Feels the world still between them, feels the years they’d lost, the heaviness of them. 

Hopper’s heart is beating frantically; she hears it beneath her left ear, which lies flat against his chest. Gripping his shirt with tight fists, she pulls him into her more, trying to get closer. Hopper reciprocates, squeezes her into his body until it almost hurts, then gently lets her go. He steps away, gripping both her tense shoulders, looks into her face with blazing eyes then moves back to the counter. Picking up the whiskey bottle, he takes a gulp right out of it; offers it to her and she does the same. Feeling her hands tremble, she turns away from him and sets the bottle on the coffee table. She hears no movement until suddenly he’s stepped right behind her, touching her neck tentatively. Stroking it and moving her hair out of the way. 

“How do you want it?” He murmurs into her ear; his large hands are gripping her waist, thumbs slowly stroking her sides. Now she can smell his sweat, his deodorant, the harshness of their cigarettes, her arousal. Her back is against his broad, warm chest, and she leans into him as they sway before she swallows and answers his question. 

“Hard.”

She feels him freeze for a moment before his hands spin her around; he dips his head down and sucks on her neck, stubble rubbing up against her sensitive skin. She shivers; feels her clit throb as his jaw skims her own, the intimacy making her breath hitch in her throat. She desperately grabs his shoulders, nails sinking into his flannel as he pushes her back down the hallway. 

Towards his bedroom. 

The backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, and she falls down onto his cold sheets, exhaling on impact. He looms over her, and she feels the wetness pooling between her legs. Fingers roughly grab her worn jeans and find her belt hoops; he tugs on them, dragging them over her hips and legs along with her underwear. Their eyes meet for a second before he shifts his stare to her cunt, pausing again before he moves back, removing her boots and socks and pulling the clothing off her body. 

Her skin ripples with goosebumps as he strokes her legs slowly, callused hands spread as wide as possible; she can hardly believe how easily they cover the width of her thighs, which he firmly grips and pushes apart as he props her feet up on the edge of the bed. Heart pounding and feeling disoriented with her need for him, she looks down at her own body and sees his blue eyes, strikingly bright in the moonlight peeking through the window. He moves to kneel on the floor, and his head disappears between her legs. She jerks, feeling his tongue lap at the soft skin inside her thighs, alternating between right and left, and his strong hands keep her in place as she instinctively tries to close her legs. Her clit throbs harder than she can ever remember, hands clutching his sheets in frustration as he continues to tease her, licking lower until he reaches her lips. 

Her eyes are closed, but she hears his heavy breathing as he pauses; there is some rustling and a zipping sound as his body shifts around on the floor. Seconds later, his tongue is flat against her slit, and he licks up to her clit hard but slow. She cries out, thrashing around as he applies pressure before moving down again, maneuvering his tongue between her folds and fucking her with it. She can hardly breathe, freezing in shock and pleasure; his left hand holds her right leg back, thumb low and teasingly near her lips, while her left leg rests over his shoulder. His right hand covers her belly, under her shirt, pushing her down into the bed as he fucks her with his tongue.

He’s completely in control. 

She flails in his grip, unable to move her hips as he eats her out. Her wetness and his spit leak obscenely down her cunt and onto the bed as he moves his tongue back to her clit, flicking at it lightly before he sucks it into his mouth. She cries out and jerks towards his face uncontrollably, twisting and turning in pleasure; he moans with her, and she feels her arousal spike at the sound. His left hand leaves her thigh, and suddenly he’s pushing his finger into her. She moans, and he pulls it out only to add another finger, scissoring them inside her gently. He releases her clit and starts licking around it instead, steadily fucking her with his fingers as he does so. 

“Ah, Hop! Please.” She doesn’t know what she’s pleading for, she just rocks into his fingers, clenches down on them, and feels herself get wetter, tighter. He adds a third and she lets out another filthy moan, squeezing her eyes shut and feeling her cheeks burn with the heat of it all. She moves her hands blindly towards him, grabbing his head and pushing it further into her cunt. She hears and feels him groan, deep and masculine, and she is so aroused by it that she can hardly breathe anymore, pulling on his hair roughly, directing his head as he tongues her clit. 

“Please, please, please, please,” she chants, feeling her body tighten. He takes his fingers out and starts rubbing her clit with his thumb, fucking her pussy with his tongue again. She opens her mouth in a silent scream, but gasps as he pushes two fingers back into her and hooks them forward, rubbing inside her as his tongue returns to her clit. This time he’s harder and faster. She rocks back up into his mouth and fingers, feeling her pleasure build until the orgasm hits her so hard her vision blacks out. She cries out, sobs, and thrashes around wildly, but his ministrations don’t stop. With his right hand squeezing her heaving stomach, he licks her through the high, groaning loudly with her. Tremors shake her body until he finally stops.

Breathing heavily, she keeps her eyes shut as emotion wells up inside her chest; a few scant tears leak out and stick to her lashes; she focuses on the relief they bring her. The relief he’d brought her. Fuck. Yes. 

Eventually, she hears him move again and opens her eyes to see him sitting back on his heels on the floor, staring at her silently. His eyes are wide open and dilated, his mouth and chin glistening with her wetness. The mattress springs creak as she lifts herself up gingerly to sit at the edge of the bed; he’s palming his cock lightly as it bulges in his boxers, jeans unzipped but still around his waist. 

Her need to touch him is staggering.  

She reaches down to cradle his face with her right hand, stroking the rough stubble. His eyes soften and they hold their gaze as she moves in for a kiss, but he turns his face away from her at the last minute and she catches his left cheek instead. She hears his breath hitch and feels his shoulders trembling, but has no time to think before he pushes her back. He stands up, shoving his jeans down, taking his own boots and socks off, and stripping down to his boxers and vest. He bends towards her and gently pulls her shirt off and over her head. Her bra is the only thing left, and she reaches back to unclasp it, meeting his eyes again as she frees her breasts, pulling him closer afterward by grabbing his hips and feathering her fingers up his sides to remove his vest. His hair fluffs up as it comes off, and she eyes his boxers, heart pounding in her chest. 

Her hand feels as if it doesn't belong to her as she reaches out to cup his balls. Revels in the way his breathing stops as she does. He’s tenting the blue underwear, trapped and leaking through it. She slips her right hand down the hot juncture between his legs, feels the soft hairs on his body, and reverently strokes his velvety cock. 

 

***

 

He can taste her on his tongue, and he swallows, savoring the flavor, still in disbelief that he’d laid her out on his bed and fucked her with his mouth, in his home, after all this time. 

Her soft fingers stroke his cock; it’s so hard it almost hurts. Desperation to take her and to pleasure her, to hear her moan around him again, spreads through his body. His fingers twitch on the bed as he leans forward, one knee slipping on the edge of the mattress; her hand is small and tight between his legs. He’s finding it harder to think straight as she pumps him steadily. His boxers are slipping off his hips, and he looks down to see her pushing them lower. He rolls away to shuck them off himself, and she moves to face him, lying on her left side as he settles on his back. 

Her lithe form is illuminated by the moonlight flooding into the room. He reaches out for one breast, ghosting her right nipple with his left hand, observing the way it hardens, the way her body erupts in goosebumps. She shifts; brings her right leg over his own, slipping it between his legs, brushing his cock with her knee. He jerks forward eagerly, exhales, and before he knows it she’s sliding down the bed, moving her body to rest between his legs, head level with his crotch. Breathless, he stares into her eyes; her gaze is steady, eyes blazing, holding him in place silently while she squeezes his balls and sticks her tongue out to lick his tip. 

Fuck.

“Fuck, fuck.” He’s panting, and she’s sucking, bringing more of him into her mouth. Effortlessly, she bobs her head up and down, holding his base, moaning as she takes him, and he can’t breathe, can’t believe how good it feels– 

“Joyce, I–, fuck !” He’s groaning; she’s taken him all into her mouth, and he feels himself hit the back of her throat, but she isn’t stopping, cupping his balls, stroking his thighs, gripping his base. He’s closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on not blowing his load so early– 

He opens them, glances down, and sees her fondling her breasts, pinching her own nipples, while his cock disappears down her throat, and he nearly comes right then and there. 

“Jesus, ” he hisses, sitting up, bringing his hand to her hair, holding it back from her face, brushing one cheek then pushing her off him gently. His hands move to grip her arms, to steady her as she sits up. “I can’t keep going if you don’t stop.”

Joyce looks lost for a moment, dazed, before she licks her lips, brings her hands up to his own, gripping them, and he feels his stomach drop again. Hopper closes his eyes, squinting against the tide of emotion that hits him. He feels her stroking his knuckles and swallows his absurd desire to stop and cry all over her. Instead, he moves his hands over to her breasts, weighs each one in his palms, then dips his head down to suck on her nipples, alternating between each one. She moans and his cock twitches; his desire to fuck her is maddening, but the way she pushes her chest into his face and brings his cock back into her grip stops him. She kneels over him on the bed and they face each other, pleasuring each other until her nipples feel rock hard and raw beneath his tongue and his neck starts to ache. He lets them go, sitting back and moving his hand down to feather her pussy, still wet from earlier. He brings her into his lap and moves to rest against his headboard, slipping two fingers back into her, letting her rest her forehead on his shoulder as he prepares her. 

“Please, Hop,” she whimpers, rutting against his hand, breath warming his neck; his cock twitches again. He’s aching and leaking precum as he pushes a third finger into her slowly, moving her back to slip his mouth over her left nipple. She’s rocking into him harder now, whining and groaning, but he’s not going to let her come like this. 

Gently, he pushes her off him, leaning over to his bedside table; opening the drawer, and finding a condom. 

Joyce glances at him “Um, you don’t have to. I–I can’t have kids anymore. After Will. It wasn’t easy.”

He stares at her, surprised. “I can’t either. I got snipped.”

She looks confused, but he’s not going to tell her why right now. 

“Okay, well I’m clean.”

“Yeah, uh, me too.” He knows it’s irrational but he’s worried; he doesn’t fuck anyone without a condom, terrified to take the risk. Just in case. He swallows a few times, mouth dry as he focuses on the logic of the situation, reassuring himself. 

It isn’t the time for this conversation and they're both infertile. It's okay.  

He drops the foil package back into the drawer, shutting it and returning both hands to her hips, pulling her back onto his lap. She looks nervous now. He’s nervous; it feels like they’ve dropped another barrier by accident and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He looks into her dark eyes, trying to steady his thumping chest, then she shifts against his cock. Suggestively. He inhales sharply, and that seems to get them back into it; she leans forward again, looking like she wants to kiss him but he can’t– 

He buries his head into her chest quickly, licking her breasts, tugging her backward and forward so that she grinds against him, and he feels her sharp intake of breath, hears her little moans, feels her nails digging into his shoulders and her legs tightening around his thighs. He slips one finger back into her, teases her, feels her clench as he brings another in, and sucks on her pulse as he adds a third again. 

“Hop, fuck, please–”

“Joyce–” 

He thinks she’s ready; moves away, needing her to call the shots next, unsure how she wants him, but he shouldn’t have bothered because she shoves her hand in between their bodies and handles his cock. Suddenly, she’s sliding down on him, moaning as she takes each inch and breathing heavily onto his chest. 

“Oh my– fuck–” 

She finally sits with him fully inside, and they take a moment to gasp and adjust to the sensations before she lifts herself up and starts fucking him. Hard. 

“Hopper, please. Please fuck me.”

“Oh God– ”

He grabs her hips and slams up into her, meeting her thrust for thrust. She cries and he groans; both loud and uncontrollably. The headboard is smashing up against the wall, and the bed squeaks, caught in their momentum, but they move against each other harder, faster. She’s clenching around him, and her breasts brush against his bare front. He focuses on her nails scratching into his back; hands grabbing at his body. He pushes his head down to her clavicle, licking and sucking whenever he can; moves his right hand down to her cunt to feel them rutting together, thumb landing on her swollen clit and pushing down, wanting to hear her scream again.

She does. 

“Come, come for me again,” he pants into her right ear, licking the shell slowly, blowing into it. She sobs, bowing into his shoulder and moving over his cock wildly. He feels her angle her clit into his hand and he rubs harder, trying to help her, moving his left fingers over to her right breast, pinching her nipple, squeezing her breasts. She starts begging him again. 

“Please! Fuck, I need, I need–”

“What do you need, Joyce?”

“Please just, fuck– ”

He dips his head down again as he slams his hips up into hers, bringing her nipple into his mouth, trapping it between his teeth, and rolling it around with his tongue. She cries out, clenches down on him, and comes with a sob, helpless as he continues to rub her clit and pound up into her cunt. Eventually, he stills and shifts so that he’s holding her close again, arms wrapped around her back; body cradled entirely in his lap as she shudders, still impaled on his hard cock. His pulse is thrumming in his ears, heart hammering in his chest, and he focuses on Joyce’s trembling, bringing one palm up to her back and stroking it slowly. 

He closes his eyes again, overwhelmed by his emotions; the closeness, the passion . . . he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. 

Joyce is calming down; he can feel her fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin around his neck and he shivers. Sweat covers them both; his back sticks to the headboard as he collapses against it, and his duvet is tangled up between their legs. He feels himself softening slightly inside her, his sexual desire ebbing away as they sit still and silent. 

He doesn’t want this to end yet; he closes his eyes, leans his head back, and basks in this modicum of peace, for once not achieved with drugs. 

 

***

 

The room smells of sex; she’s surrounded by his heat, still in his lap, but she can’t hold herself up anymore and slumps forward into his chest. All she wants to do is roll over and sink into the bed with him, encircle him in her arms. Fall into the darkness of their passion, even if it’s only for one night. She feels shivery and spent, but she clears her throat, digging her forehead into his right bicep, hiding her face.

“Thank you. It’s been so long since I’ve had this.” In fact, she doesn’t know whether she’s ever felt this way after sex. Lonnie was never this attentive, but she recalls a woman or two in Chicago who had known their way around her body with breathtaking finesse. 

He stays silent, but she focuses on his hand, stroking up and down her back, and a strong feeling runs through her that she can’t quite define. 

What the hell is wrong with her? 

She swallows a few times; represses the urge to cry and tries to calm her heartbeat. She can still feel his length pressed into her, nudging her insides and creating a blunt ripple of pleasure each time. She wants him to come too. Overcome with a sudden stab of guilt, she remembers their conversation from earlier; she doesn’t want to make him feel used. At all. 

If all she wanted was an orgasm, her fingers could have done the trick. And the dildo she keeps stashed at home. No. She’d come here looking for more. A connection. 

“Hey. I want to make you feel good too, you know?” Her words are quiet and shy. Her fingers idly stroke the damp hairs at the base of his neck, and her nipples start to pebble again as she grazes up against his chest, pulling away to look into his face. Hopper almost looks pained at the thought, squinting in the darkness and bringing his large hands up to her shoulders, squeezing gently. 

“Joyce, it’s okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’m not worried. I want to do this, Hop.”

“Don’t feel obliged–”

“It’s not an obligation, Hopper. Come on–”

“Right, yeah. Is it okay if we just pause a little? Take a break.”

She is stumped; hadn’t expected this reaction at all. Did she do something wrong?

“H-hey, did I do something, did I upset you? Was this bad for you?” She can feel the nervousness growing in her chest and she makes to move off him but he holds her down. 

“No, no, no. I just, um, I think I just need a break. Not so energetic these days, you know?” She can see a ghost of a smile on his face, but she knows he’s trying to crack a joke to ease the tension that’s blanketed the room. He squeezes her shoulder again and gently lifts her up, gasping as his half-hard cock slips out of her. She maneuvers over his legs and turns around to sit beside him, leaning against the headboard, feeling unsettled and unsure. Hopper’s body is pressed against the left side of hers, and she looks down at their nakedness, marveling at the length of his legs next to hers. He’s so much bigger, but he’s so soft, warm, and inviting. She closes her eyes, thinking to herself. 

She wants to be encompassed in the sureness of him as long as possible; wants to be held. She’s so tired of being strong all the time. But of course, she would never say any of this out loud. She opens her eyes, adjusting to the semi-darkness as they sit in silence. 

Hopper stares into space in front of them for a moment, then reaches over to his bedside table. She hears quiet rustling, the scrape of a lighter as it ignites, and then Hopper turns back around to her with a cigarette between his lips. He smokes it and she watches the flame glow and pulse with every puff he takes. He offers her a turn, and she accepts; tapping on the cigarette lightly when he hovers the ashtray beneath her hands. He places it on his right thigh and tilts his head back. It hits the wall with a thump, and he sighs. She continues to smoke, finishing off the cigarette, and raises her eyebrows at Hopper, who gets the hint and lights a new one. 

For a few minutes, there is peace. She feels his shoulders drop down and relax next to her, and she leans over into him, lightly placing her temple against his arm as she takes her turn with their second smoke. She can’t help herself; she breaks the silence when she feels his left hand move and realizes he’s rubbing his face and pressing his fingers into his eyes. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

She pauses, tasting her next words before they come out of her mouth. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Joyce.”

She’s getting frustrated again. Who the hell is he kidding? “We both know that’s a lie.” 

He shifts against her and she senses his tension; his annoyance. 

“Just drop it, okay? I just needed a break.”

Her temper flares; insecurity battles with confusion and impatience. “From me?”

“Why are you making this so personal? I needed a damn break, there’s nothing else to it!”

“Because it is personal, Hop! We just had sex, and after all this time . . . I don’t know what you’re thinking!”

“Why do you even care? You came here for exactly that.”

“How could you even think that–”

“That what? You’d only want a casual fuck tonight and nothing more? Forgot you’d dumped me before, did you?”

“You know it wasn’t that simple!”

“Yeah? Well, you never told me why Joyce!” 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this right now!”

“What’s so special about right now? Why not right now?”

“We just spent the night together! And you know what? It felt special to me. It felt like something when so much of my life right now feels like nothing .”

He turns to face her properly, and she almost cowers when she sees his incredulous expression. Almost. 

“You’re kidding me, right? You think I don’t know that? Don’t feel that too? Do you think I’m such a piece of shit that this means nothing to me?”

“I’m not saying that, but you’re not telling me what’s wrong with you! What am I supposed to think, Hop? We’ve stopped halfway and you’re silent and I don’t have a fucking clue what’s happening!”

He’s shaking his head, looking down at his lap, and she feels dismissed. It pisses her off.

“Don’t shake your damn head at me!”

“You just don’t get it at all, do you? I can’t get into this Joyce, I can’t do it. I can’t. I’m so fucking empty. You shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be doing this, it shouldn’t be this way between us. You came to me, and I had no power to say no. Because it’s you. It’s you. ” His voice breaks, and she feels her stomach drop, anger evaporating. The history between them feels so palpable, so heavy. The emotion rises up in her throat, choking her; she closes her eyes against the threatening wave of tears, swallowing. Reaching for his hand, she grips it, needing to tether herself to him somehow. He continues talking, quietly and slowly, and she strains her ears to listen. 

“But I should have. Because this is too hard. It’s wrong. I’m not right; I can’t think straight. It shouldn’t be like this. ”

“Hop,” her voice quivers and dies. She swallows again, willing herself not to cry, and plows forward. “I wanted this, I wanted you. I don’t know what will happen after tonight but God, I just wanted something.  You. Just for tonight. And I don’t expect anything else. I don’t know. I can barely deal with my life right now and I just wanted a– a reprieve. A reminder that I’m still me, and not everything has to be about surviving, and my fucking job, and my sons, my babies who I love with every fiber of my being, but I just needed– ” 

“Your kids are alive, Joyce. You’re lucky.”

Of course, it comes back to this and she isn’t surprised. She can never resent him for this attitude, even though she knows he resents her. Resents her happiness - her luck. That her kids are fine. How can she blame him? She didn’t do anything but she gets it, she understands. She knows it isn’t personal. However, she needs to make him understand what she feels too, otherwise they’ll never move past this. 

“Hopper, I know, God knows they’re the only reason I do anything. I don’t know what I would do without them. But does that mean I can’t think about myself once, Hopper? Just once?”

“I’m not saying that.” The response is so quiet she nearly misses it.

“So believe me then!”

“You’re not listening to me, Joyce. God, I fucking get that. I do.”

“So please, please, can we just . . . just let things go? Because Hop, I can’t do this either, I don’t want to think about the past. I can’t. I don’t know what to do, Hop, it’s happened now and it’s over and we’re here a-and there’s nothing we can do about it. But I wanted to feel close to you. And I know, I know, you feel the same way, but I don’t expect this to go any further than tonight. Okay?”

He stares at her; his eyes are wet and so are hers. She holds her breath, squeezes his hand again, and exhales when he squeezes it back. His thumb sneaks out and strokes her knuckles and she closes her eyes; allows a few tears to escape, and allows her breath to hitch. He’s shaking his head again and she hears him sniff. He lets go of her hand and slides down the bed until he’s lying flat on it. Turning around, he curls up on his right side, facing her. She pauses before mirroring him; resting on her left side and reaching down for his left fist, tight and curled up on his thigh. She loosens his fingers, threads her own through his, and sighs, letting a few more tears out. His eyes are closed but she sees the water clinging to his lashes, visible in the faint moonlight. 

She thinks about how desperately sad they both are. 

“Okay,” he says gruffly, bringing their hands up to his chest, holding them there and squeezing. 

“Okay,” she responds, chancing a small smile, clasping his hand tighter. He opens his eyes and looks down at her. He’s expressionless for a moment before a tiny quirk of his lips tells her they’re okay. For now. 

“I’m sorry, Joyce.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

“I feel sorry.”

“For what? You’re right to be confused. I’m confused too.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

She smirks a little at that. “Join the club.”

His eyes crinkle, a grin spreading over his face. 

 

***

 

They lie down for a little while, hands gripped together against his chest. He calms down slowly, trying not to think too much, trying not to worry.

It’s unfortunate; this is what the Tuinal is usually for. He won’t take them now. He can’t. 

“Um, this is the shit that happens if I don’t take the pills” The words slip from his mouth quietly, unexpectedly. He regrets them as soon as he hears them. 

Joyce opens and closes her mouth a few times, but stays silent. Dread builds in his stomach again. Just when everything was getting back on track, he put his foot in his mouth. He stares down at their hands, stressed and annoyed. Why the fuck did he say that? She clears her throat and he glances at her. 

“I-I understand. I’ve taken them before, sometimes I need them. For anxiety.”

“Oh.” He’s heard the rumors about her, but he is surprised she needed medication. Like him. 

“Yeah. It started years ago, with Lonnie. After Will. I used to get so nervous, but he didn’t get it. He never got it. Told me to watch out because we have problems that run in the family.”

A flicker of rage runs through him; that fucking asshole. 

“Right.”

“It had nothing to do with my aunt. He just didn’t care.”

He wishes he could offer her some sympathy, some kind words, but he doesn’t think he can talk about Lonnie without getting visibly pissed. 

“I um, I get it. It’s hard to control.”

“Yeah. Jonathan knows what to do though. He always did, even when Lonnie was around. I hardly use the Tuinal but he’ll get it for me if I need to, um, calm down.”

“Yeah. Diane used to do that for me.” Another slip-up. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

He doesn’t think he’s spoken to Joyce about Diane since his return. 

Joyce looks interested. “Yeah?”

“She was the one who wanted me to use them. After Sara, I-I couldn’t handle everything sometimes.”

“And it helped?”

“I guess, but I felt out of it. I wanted to keep working. I wanted my head screwed on straight.”

“So you didn’t take the pills?”

“I did. A few times. Not often.” She looks skeptical. 

“So, um, why do you use the medicine now?”

He swallows. How much further would this go? He won’t spill his guts in front of her tonight. He can’t. 

“Because . . . because nothing else works, Joyce.” He knows he sounds defensive, but he can’t help himself. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not judging. I just wondered. You know, that day at Melvalds, I was scared. I’d never seen you like that before. I was so confused when I saw the pills because I knew why I needed them but I never thought you’d be using them too.” 

He swallows, recalls his behavior that evening, and feels the burn of shame and embarrassment. “I just lost track that day. It’s not usually like that.” Weak excuses, he knows. Why is he even bothering? 

“Really?”

“It doesn’t affect me like that usually.”

“You need to be careful. It’s addictive. It can make you worse.”

He knows. “Yeah. I know.” He’s glad he popped some after he saw her earlier that day. Otherwise, tonight might have taken a different and even more depressing turn. 

Her gaze is sharp, and he knows she knows. Just like Flo. He’s bullshitting no one. 

“I’m okay, Joyce.”

“Okay.”

He can’t believe how many ups and downs they’ve experienced in the last few hours. He’s exhausted, physically and mentally, but somehow, despite the arguing, the confusion, the pain, he’s so fucking glad. So glad that he still could feel something toward another person. Maybe he wouldn’t always feel stuck in his mind. Stuck in the past. Even for one night. 

That had to count for something. 

“Hop?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry about everything.”

He stares into her face, sincere and sad, half-shadowed by the darkness of his bedroom. Somehow, he knows what she means. 

Sorry about them.

Sorry about Sara.

Sorry for him. 

“Thanks.” He whispers. He means it too and squeezes the hand still in his grip. She leans forward, cups his jaw with her other hand, and brings her face forward. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her, feeling certain that would somehow seal her fate, that he would curse her like he’d cursed everyone else he cared about, but she catches the corner of his mouth, where the stubble meets the softness of his lips. A half kiss. His eyes flutter shut and he inhales, holding his breath in until she retreated, stroking his jaw as she went. Her presence beside him feels so nice, so comforting. 

For once, there is a woman in his bed who sees him as more than a fuck. 

He brings his own hand up to stroke her arm; pulls her body towards him to nuzzle her neck, pressing a kiss into her pulse. Ducking down, he rediscovers her breasts; palms one, and skims his thumb against her nipple. She brings a knee up against his leg; brushes against his cock, then reaches down to grasp it again. His hips cant forward automatically, seeking friction, and she jerks him off in response. 

“J-Joyce,” he stutters into her neck. She doesn’t say anything but her grip tightens and he groans, thoughts failing him. 

“It’s your turn, Hop.”

Fuck. 

Finding his bearings, he creeps a hand down to her cunt, teasing her clit again. Joyce shudders into his palm and his cock jerks in hers. God. He needs her right now– 

He lifts her hand off his cock and falls back, gently pushing her face down onto the bed and shifting away. With as much care as he can muster, he molds her into position; ass up, on her hands and knees, with him kneeling behind her. 

A hushed whimper catches him off guard. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers, lowering himself over her back and hovering his mouth beside her right ear. He can’t resist the planes of her body; brushes his palm down her soft back and cups her ass. 

“Yes, God. Yes. ”

“Is this okay?”

“Yes. Please, Hop. I want this.”

His heart clenches. “Me too.”

Squeezing her ass, he retreats; kneels in position, and lightly circles his cock with his palm. Not wanting to hurt her, he starts with his fingers again; one then two, pulsing slowly. 

She’s so wet. 

The sounds she’s making are going straight to his dick; he pushes in a third finger once she’s loosened up and starts fucking her harder. Joyce is panting, shifting forward with the force of him, moaning, and he can hardly breathe again. Leaning forward, he slips his free left arm around her front, fondling a nipple, pinching, squeezing, and she yelps, moaning his name. 

That’s enough.

“Hop, please!”

His cock is weeping, hard, and ready to fuck her. He palms it, aligning himself with her cunt, and pushes into her heat slowly; doesn’t stop until he’s fully sheathed inside of her. 

“Oh, Jesus.” He stills, trying to control himself. She’s so fucking tight, clenching around him, hot and ready to be taken. 

“Hopper, please, move!”

He does; he holds her hips down and thrusts into her, hard. Like she asked. 

She screams. 

He falls into a shallow rhythm; fucking her quickly but not pushing deep. Warming her up. He knows how to do this, and God does he want to do this well. Her cries fill the room, and soon he can’t stop himself from expressing his own pleasure; he grunts and groans with every thrust into her hot cunt. He pulls her hips back and up, straight onto his cock, and gently pushes her head down so he can fuck her deeper. 

She feels so good. 

“Fuck!” Her curse is muffled by the pillow; her hands are making fists, clenching his sheets as she moans around him. He leans forward, slips his arm under her again, and finds her cunt, never once letting up his thrusts. Two fingers land on her clit; he pushes down and starts moving them in circles, needing her to come again. To come before he does. 

Joyce is nearly sobbing, powerless in his hold as he fucks her cunt relentlessly and circles her clit. He feels her getting wetter, getting tighter, and moans, ducking down to find her earlobe and nipping at it. 

“Joyce,” his voice is gruff, low, and strained. He can hardly think, he’s so close, but he can’t let go yet. “You feel so good around me. So good. But I need you to come for me one more time.” She nods frantically against him, mussed hair sticking to his sweaty neck, and pushes her shoulders down further, angling herself so that he can hit an even deeper spot. Fuck. His fingers are wet; her cunt is soaking his palm and she’s rutting back into him now and it’s so fucking hot–

“Come, Joyce!”

She breaks for the third time, clenching around his cock; whimpering as he continues to fuck her and push his fingers on her clit. 

“H-Hop-p-please,” he doesn’t listen; continues to rub her clit until her own hand comes up to clutch his wrist and stop his movements. He’s shallowly fucking her now, and he brings his hands back up to kneed her ass as she pants beneath him, slowing down to catch his own breath. 

“Hop, that was–God. Fuck.” She flips her hair back and turns around to survey him over her shoulder. His cock jerks; he needs to come now. He pulls out of her. 

“Turn over.” 

She does; lies back on his bed and lets him settle between her open legs. Her thighs are wet and trembling; he grips them and pushes his cock into her tight heat again, groaning around her. She hisses, but holds him closer, urging him to move by wrapping her legs around his hips. He can’t control himself any longer; fucks into her hard and deep, reveling in the way she moans right into his ear. He grips her left leg and brings it up higher and over his shoulder and her noises get so loud he thinks she’s going to come on his cock again–

“Hop, please– please. I want to feel you.” His balls are tight, her heat all around him, and he is pounding into her so hard that surely the bed is going to break and fuck– 

“Please.” Her quiet whimper and her nipples brushing up against his chest send him flying off the edge and he comes so hard he loses his breath, closing his eyes and feeling his semen pulse out of his cock and into her cunt. 

“F-fuck,” he thinks he’s sobbing; can’t help but fall head-first into the sensation. He allows the pleasure to take him right out of his mind. 

“That’s it, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she murmurs in his ear with a soothing voice, stroking his neck, his hair, his face, his shoulders. He trembles and angles himself to the side so that he doesn’t crush her, and lets his body sag to her right, falling onto the bed with a muffled thump. 

***

 

Hopper’s chest is heaving beside her, body shuddering as they both calm down. They’re covered in sweat and semen but she doesn’t care; she brings his head down to her chest, and tries to circle his shoulders with an arm but falls short. She strokes his damp back instead; closing her eyes and focusing on the wheezing sounds he’s making. 

He’d sobbed a few times mid-orgasm; she’d felt his shudders, heard his cries, and held him through it. It’s over now, but the moment was surreal. Unnerving. 

She feels one of his hands moving, sliding onto her stomach, curling into her flesh. Her free hand moves to join it; holding onto his wrist, feeling the blue hairband underneath her palm. She realizes she’s never seen him without it; wonders why he wears it. Clearing her throat, she asks him, quiet and tentative. 

He stays silent for a couple of minutes; his breathing is slower now, even, and she wonders whether he’s dozed off. 

“It was Sara’s.” 

“Oh.”

“I told her, I-I told her I’d take care of it.”

What can she say? It’s heartbreaking. She almost wishes she hadn’t asked. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t think she can say anything else, but she tightens her grip on his wrist for a moment before reverently stroking the band with her fingers and pulling away, holding onto his forearm instead. If she’s learned anything tonight, it’s that every happy moment, every second of tranquility, is followed by heaviness. It’s hard to escape; it’s hard to forget. 

But for tonight, she’s content. Reassured that her decision to come here was a good one. Happy that it had been him she’d shared this evening with, and not a stranger. Sad as it is, Hopper understands that the world is not black or white, even though she thinks he wants it to be so. Even though she knows he was motivated, once upon a time, by the idea of being a force for good.  

She thinks that Hopper has lived in the gray for so long that she wonders if he even believes in such a distinction anymore. She wonders if she does too. 

They stay curled together until she shivers and he jolts into action; pulling away from her and grabbing the box of tissues on his bedside table. He cleans her up, heart-wrenchingly gentle as he reaches between her legs. He excuses himself; moves out of the room and into what she assumes is the bathroom down the hall. When he pads back into view, he gestures behind him, clearly offering her the same opportunity to freshen up, which she does. 

The carpet feels soft under her feet as she moves away, naked but uncaring. Using the facilities, she observes his small bathroom; just as unkempt as the rest of his home but not dirty. 

Cold water splashes into the sink, and she pools some up to her face, letting the iciness dry on her skin. She stares into his mirror as the water runs; observes the sensitive redness around her jaw, neck, and collarbone. The small, purple bruise on her pulse point. Her puffy lips and eyes. She smiles a little, and feels her pussy throb, sore after the activities of the last few hours. 

When she returns, he’s on his bed again, a glass of water in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. 

“Here, thought you might want this.” He hands her the glass and she accepts it gratefully, chugging it down, not realizing how thirsty she had been until that very moment. 

“Easy, easy,” he chuckles, bringing the cigarette up to his lips, inhaling then tapping it gently over the ashtray balanced on his right thigh. He hands it over to her and she climbs onto the bed beside him, inhaling it. She notices the window has been cracked open but the curtains aren’t drawn yet; the room is lit up with the white light of the moon, and she can see the lake from her view perched on his bed. She shivers again, chilled by the night breeze. 

“Hey, lift up,” he says, tugging the blanket out from underneath her, trying to cover her with it. She grabs the ashtray off his leg as she moves, feeling the finished cigarette fall apart in her fingers and not wanting to create a mess as they jostle around. She slips beneath the covers, placing the ashtray on the side table, and curls up on her right side, facing him. He stays seated above the blanket, naked. She can see the goosebumps rippling over his body, blonde hair standing up on his legs and arms. 

“Why don’t you get under here with me, Hop?”

“It’s okay, I’m okay. Cold helps ground me, you know.” 

She gets it; she likes the way the seasons affect her and has allowed them to take her out of her mind on occasion. Windy weather, especially. 

A large palm falls onto her covered thigh, squeezing reassuringly. Its warmth permeates through the blanket. 

She sighs, shutting her eyes. 

 

***

 

Joyce’s soft breathing fills his bedroom as he sits quietly beside her. He doesn’t want to wake her up, but he needs some fresh air. Carefully, he slides down to the foot of the bed, locating his jeans and henley as he does. He pulls them off the floor, slipping into them with a soft rustle. Digs a new pair of socks out of his drawers and slides them on too. He needs his smokes; pads over to Joyce’s side where the Camels sit on the bedside table. Grabs them along with the lighter, and looks down at her peaceful face as she slumbers. 

Swallowing, he turns away and opens the door a crack, slinking out onto his back porch and closing it before too much cold air gets into his bedroom. He can hear the water out here, faint but reassuring. The moon is full and bright tonight; small, but reflecting on the surface of the lake. It ripples in the light wind. The night has been strange, and emotional. He’s drained, he’s confused. 

He’s still sad. 

Now that the excitement is over, he can feel himself falling back into the darkness, the loneliness. The isolation. It lands on his shoulders as he smokes, leaning on the railing in front of him, heavy but comforting in its familiarity. It’s frightening, he thinks, to feel like he’s back where he should be when the place he’s in is bad. 

He knows it’s bad. He just can’t get out of it. 

His cigarette burns out; he’d been lost in thought so long that he’d forgotten to puff on it. He lights it again, sucking the smoke into his lungs. It’s killing him; the fucking cancer will get him too one day, and he’ll deserve it when it does. For now, he revels in the burn and in the headiness it can bring him. 

He tries his hardest to ignore the image of Tuinal his brain conjures up. He doesn’t want to take the pills while Joyce is around; feels guilty at the very thought. 

(“You have no one who depends on you, Hop! I have to think of my sons!”)

Accountability. He remembers the feeling, remembers it as a different kind of heaviness on his shoulders. A burden willingly taken, with pride and love. He’s not accountable to Joyce, but he’ll admit to himself that he doesn’t want to disappoint her again. Not tonight. He’ll wait, at the very least. Maybe it’ll help her pretend he isn’t such a piece of shit. 

God knows he used to do that with his father; hide so that the criticism would stop. Run away so that he didn’t have to hear it anymore.

Well. His dad was probably right about him after all. 

He stands in silence for ages, thinking about his father. Thinking about being a father. The sky is getting lighter, slowly but surely. 

He reaches for the Camels again; only two are left in the packet. He laughs out loud, feeling manic; he was going to Melvalds this afternoon to buy some more then all this happened. Now he’s got two left to last him the rest of the night, and he can’t see himself sleeping the hours away either. He stares at the packet, half crumpled in his fist and tries not to think. 

“Hey.”

He whips around; Joyce is standing in the doorway, fully clothed apart from her shoes and jacket.

“Hey, sorry, did I wake you?” 

“No, I woke up when you left the room. Just stayed in bed.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Not your fault, Hop.”

“Hmm.” He turns around to lean on the railing again. She creeps forward, joining him and surveying the lake in front of them. 

“It’s beautiful. I’m jealous.”

“The only good thing about this damn place is the view,” he sighs, fiddling with the cigarettes. Fuck it. He slips one out of the packet; lights it. Takes a single puff and hands it over to her. 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

They’re silent again, but the best thing about standing on the porch isn’t just the view. It’s the sounds; the soothing susurrus of foliage, the gentle lapping of water. The wildlife. He loves it; considers it a pleasure. Wonders, as always, if he even deserves such a thing, and tries to snuff those thoughts out as much as possible. 

“I really wanted to go out on the water today. I don’t know why. It’s not like I sail all the time.” 

“You don’t need to sail all the time to want something like that. I can take you out one day if you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.” He’s sincere, but somehow he thinks she’ll never take him up on the offer. This night feels like an outlier; it won’t happen again. 

An opening and a closing. 

It’s so late; so early. The sunlight is starting to break on the horizon, and the sky is a light, pinky-blue. They stand, both of their bodies falling forward to watch the view. 

She finishes the cigarette off, and he lights the final one. He’s content to share it with her before the darkness closes around him fully and the night ends. 

 

***

 

She thinks back on that night in the months after. 

Spring passes, and summer hits their town with its usual stifling heat. She catches him at Melvalds a few times in July and August; small talk dominates their discussions, nothing more. The tension is still there, but they will never address it. He’s still distant. Sometimes he looks worse than ever, but she doesn’t allow herself to linger on that fact. Can’t worry about him. 

She knows that she can’t fall into him. Not like this. She’s compromised, she knows. But he’s worse. He’ll drag her over and under, and the passion, the feeling of it all, will drown her. 

She’s already drowning as it is. Life hasn’t changed; the pressures haven't eased up. She’s broke, she’s tired, and she's lonely. Her kids are growing up, and she has no time to breathe and take any of it in. 

In the quiet hours of the night, when everyone is asleep, she thinks of their writhing bodies and touches herself. It doesn’t go further than that. She doesn’t seek him out again.

Until one cold November morning, when her life turns upside down. 

 

***

Fin.