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The moment Joyce steps under the shower head, letting the warm water wash away all of the evidence of what she’s been through these last few days, she crumbles, like a piece of paper being thrown into a fireplace.
Nothing can get to them, now that they’ve made it to the motel in one piece, behind a double-locked door in a too-small room. No monsters, no villains, nothing that can hurt them. It’s the checkpoint of her journey, the last stop before she’s at home at last.
She craves peace. She craves calm. She knows she’ll have it soon, but war has come to a ceasefire in this musty motel room, and she’ll take it over anything.
As Joyce lathers the tangy-scented complimentary shampoo into her hair, she lets her tears fall. Now that she’s allowed to have some sort of quiet, the events of the past hours crash over her like a tidal wave.
The instant she realized what this expedition would mean, she still had been naive to just how life threatening it would turn out to be. She was held captive. She saw things she wishes she could unsee. She brought a dead man back to life, and if this doesn’t turn out to just be a nightmare with a happy ending, Hopper should still be in the room on the other side of the bathroom door.
Her mind hasn’t quite caught up with everything. Nearly nine months ago, Joyce had lost her person. They had grown up together. He made her feel like she wasn’t going insane. She grieved, and it nearly killed her. Hours of the night spent sobbing into her pillow and having nobody to lean on. The only person she would’ve leaned on was Hopper, but he wasn’t there.
And now, here he is again, but the wound his death left hasn’t been healed over. She’s grieving him, but he’s alive.
The water pressure starts to stutter as the heat drops; probably the universe’s way of telling her she’s spent enough time wallowing in her guilt and shock in the shower. Joyce shuts off the water, taking the folded towel on the counter and drying herself off when she steps out. Wiping away some of the steam from the mirror, she realizes how red the area around her eyes are from crying. She haphazardly splashes tap water on her face before pulling on the bathrobe she finds hanging on the door.
The Hulk Hogan shirt is about as dirty as she was before she scrubbed all of the muck off her body. She’ll change into it tomorrow, because it’s her only option.
In complete honesty, a part of her is convinced Hopper might not be in the other room – perhaps this truly was just a dream. But, she finds him right where she left him, sitting on the edge of the bed, fresh out of the shower, looking up at her when she opens the door.
“Hey,” he says.
She tries not to wince when she sees the open wound he’s trying to rebandage, a first aid kit that he must’ve found in her absence by him. “Let me help with that,” she offers, already moving to perch beside him.
Hopper has always been one to try and fix things on his own, but he doesn’t argue with her efforts. He doesn’t talk, and neither does she. She tries to focus on the task at hand and not the amount of scars that cover his body.
Joyce takes the gauze from him and gently lifts his arm. He will, without a doubt, need medical attention as soon as they are back on American soil. She can pick out multitudes of concerns by just looking at him, but all she can do is try her best to mend some of his gashes.
Still holding his arm, she digs around in the kit until she pulls out an antiseptic towelette. “This might hurt,” she warns him, voice coming out more shaky than she would’ve hoped.
She tears the packet open with her teeth and tentatively washes over the cut. Hopper inhales sharply, chest tightening, and she feels like she could cry all over again. Joyce wraps his arm with the gauze with care and expertise, blinking back her tears.
“How’s that?” she asks, ever so gently placing her hand atop the bandage, as if to seal it with a kiss.
“S’good.” He briefly meets her eyes and tries for a smile, placing his hands on his knees. “Thank you.”
She nods vaguely, swallowing around the lump in her throat. She has so much to say, so much to question and to talk about, but right then, it’s like all of her internal speeches are torn in half, illegible.
“I’m so sorry,” is the only thing she can find. It comes out after a few beats, something between a hushed cry and a squeak.
She’s not entirely sure what she’s apologizing for, among the many things she knows she’s wrong for. She’s sorry for every little thing that led up to him walking out of a torture chamber, body scarred and thin and eyes a little emptier than she remembers them being. Sorry doesn’t feel like enough – but what is she supposed to say?
There’s a pause. Hopper doesn’t look up at her, gaze fixed on the carpet. For a brief moment, Joyce doesn’t know if he will say anything, but then he does.
“ I’m sorry.” His lip trembles slightly, letting a few beats go by. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
His voice is delicate, and she’s known him long enough to know that he doesn’t break easily, but here he is, crumbling along with her.
‘ I never should’ve sent you that message, ’ were his words from earlier.
“I’m here because I made this choice,” she repeats from earlier, a tear streaming down her cheek. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you back.” She tilts her head over to try and meet his eyes, try to make him understand.
“You don’t think I didn’t want you back? Want El back?” His tone is frustrated and his shoulders are shaking, pausing to take a shuddering breath.
Joyce’s heart threatens to snap.
“They tried to get information out of me. 'Bout you,” he starts, tone more even. “‘Kept showing me this picture of you…”
She covers her mouth with her hands. She tries so desperately not to think of the ways they hurt him, but the scars that cover his entire figure are visible evidence of his pain.
“I never told ‘em anything.”
“Hop…”
“I had no idea if you were even alive, Joyce,” he rasps, “I was trying to protect you. But here you are, and the KGB is probably searching for us–”
“ Hop. ”
It’s firm, the emergency break to this runaway train. He pauses, scrubbing a hand over his pained face. This image alone would make her break down if she wasn’t already breaking down. She puts the first aid kit on the bedside table and scoots closer to him, hesitantly resting a hand on his shoulder.
“I was about to fall off the deep end in California,” she says firmly through her tears. Gently, she urges his hand down from his face and laces her fingers in with his. His cheeks are tearstained, too. “So was El. It wasn’t easy without you.” Easy feels like an understatement. She felt like she was going insane. “And when I got your – cryptic letter in the mail, I felt hope. I hadn’t felt hope in months.” Hopper finally looks to her, meeting each other’s damp gazes. It’s pure emotion, no filter to block out which words might be too early or too soon. “I’m here because losing you was the most painful thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m here because your little girl has been so fucking lost without you. I’m here because I love you.”
The few, short beats that come after feel deafeningly loud and painfully long. Joyce’s heart has cracked and utterly overflowed. She can’t tell what’s going on inside his head, and maybe, neither can he. He’s never been great with his words or with his feelings, but he reaches down to stroke along her jaw with his calloused hands.
Lips crash. She doesn’t know who leans in first, but It’s messy, hungry, and she’s more than ready to pick up right where they left off in Yuri’s church, but he pulls away slightly, as if to ask are you sure?
Joyce hopes the way she leans back in with just as much fervor lets him know that she's never been more sure of anything.
It's a little intense, and the fatigue from the eventful hours of the day are catching up to her and beginning to make her eyes feel droopy, but she can't stop. She tastes him like it's the last thing she’ll do.
He urges her to lay back and he hovers over her, deepening the kiss as she throws her arms around his neck. She hates that it’s taken her this long to realize that it’s always been him, from the very start; just by the way her heart flutters with every single touch, nearly rhythmically, she knows it's always been him. He licks into her mouth and she moans, needing him as close as possible.
Joyce wonders what it would be like to go slow with him, to really take their time and fall apart with him — but her bathrobe is being torn off and she needs him, and they've both fallen apart already.
“Want you,” she tells him in a broken moan, arching into his touch when he massages her breasts. He kisses away a tear that falls down her cheek. “Closer.”
He groans lowly, kissing down to her throat, where leaves open-mouthed kisses along her skin and sucking. She’ll find marks in the morning but she doesn't care; she needs him everywhere, now, and here.
Joyce whines when she feels his fingers tease her core by rubbing along the thin fabric of her panties she wishes she hadn't slipped on after her shower.
“Watch your arm,” she manages, noticing how he's using the arm she’d just bandaged for him. She’ll scold him later, if she finds him putting pressure on it again, but right now she's as close to heaven as she’s ever felt, and she selfishly does not want him to stop.
Hopper grins against her skin and elicits a chuckle as his hand falls away. Joyce would complain, but then she hears his zipper unbuttoning.
He lifts his head from her neck and meets her eyes. She missed his eyes. A lot. They're darker than usual, piercing into her own. It makes her weak.
“This won't be my finest work,” he warns her, lips cracked into a vague smile as he adjusts himself.
She sighs, shaking her head fondly. “I just need you,” she breathes, shimmying down to meet him as she throws her legs over his waist, pressing a kiss to a scar on his collarbone beneath him.
She whimpers when she feels him run himself through her wetness and her nails dig into his back with a moan when he begins pushing into her.
“Okay?” he manages.
Joyce nods enthusiastically. “ Please .”
The rhythm they meet each other at is nowhere near orchestrated — erratic and fast, but it has her nearly lifting her entire weight off the mattress, clinging to him as he thrusts his hips. Each touch sets her on fire, every moan he lets out makes her ache for more. His musk is punctuated by the sweat that covers his figure, and it’s nearly overwhelming — she's completely drunk on him.
“ Hop, ” she sobs.
The way his hand slides into her hair is so natural — everything about this feels so natural, like they've been making love for years. She hates that it’s taken a prison escape and so much pain for her to realize that she's utterly in love with him.
In love might sound too early, but with the way they've been dancing around each other for the last years, is it really?
She soon comes, his name on her tongue, her body shuddering in the aftermath as he finishes right after.
With her entire body exhausted and needing him as close as possible, she doesn't move when he practically collapses, holding him to her chest as they collect themselves. It's only the sound of the whirring heater and the way they pant into each other's mouths, nearly too tired to even kiss.
“I love you,” he mumbles in between a kiss, voice so thick with emotion, she could cry. “I feel like I'm gonna wake up tomorrow and be in that cell.”
She lets out a shuddering breath, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” she promises, nose brushing against his. “We’re going home tomorrow.”
The smile he smiles against her lips is delicate, genuine.
As she drifts to sleep in careful arms, she realizes that the peace she'd been craving had been right in front of her the entire time.
Now that she has it — him , she’ll never let him go again.