Chapter Text

I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

One year in, and they finally relented on books. Jim Hopper never considered himself much of a reader, until he had absolutely fuck-all to do but listen to the shrieks from the nearby cells when it was time for selection. They never came for him, though once, early on in his captivity, he heard their footsteps pause in front of his door. There was a firm murmur, and then the footsteps retreated. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but since the footsteps never again paused near his cell during those days, he assumed it meant he had a permanent reprieve. He had a purpose. He was useful, for once in his miserable life, though he couldn't even begin to imagine what sort of use he could be. A political prisoner was too far fetched, even considering the events of the past few years, and bait was simply too dreadful for him to dwell upon.

They kept him fed - meager bland fare - and they kept him clean, though they didn’t let him use razors. There was a small, oval mirror above his sink - warped and dirty but he could see that he was more old, eccentric prospector than Tom Selleck nowadays. Not that it mattered. At least he had his books now. Most of them were in Russian, but every once in a while, they would sleep in an old Popular Mechanics Magazine, or classic literature that Joyce always seemed to want to get him to read in High School, but he never did. He couldn’t wait to tell her that he had cracked open Jane Eyre and was devouring it. 

“You are ridiculously shaggy, Hop.”

And then there was her. No, he wasn’t losing his mind, thank-you-very-much - Joyce Byers was a deliberate creation of his mind, constructed and placed purposefully so he wouldn’t start eating his own fingernails. With her at his side, he could plan and discuss, even though there wasn’t much to plan and discuss. He was fucking stuck. It had occurred to him to conjure up Elle, but the poor kid had spent so much time locked away that he thought it wouldn’t be fair to bring her to this cold, squalid dungeon, even if she was a figment. Anyway, Joyce always knew how to ground him, and her wit kept him constantly on his toes. He had about 40 years of Joycisms to pull from, for nearly every occasion. 

“Well, what should I do, chew it off?”

“You should get the fuck out of here, is what.”

Jim turned away from the sink, his gaze settling on the edge of his cot, where she was perched ever-so-Joyce-like, a ghost of a half smile quirking one corner of her mouth, her hands folded primly in her lap. 

“Oh yeah, Smart ass, how do you suggest I do that?”

“Open the door.”

“Real funny.”

Joyce picked up a battered paperback that was resting at her side. She tutted at the dog-eared pages and she skimmed, opening it up to a page that Jim’s clumsy fingers had tread over many times before. 

“‘ I have a strange feeling with regard to you--”

“Stop.” He felt his chest constrict, hearing the words flow from her mouth. Not that passage. He had gone over it until his eyelids ached, but never with her voice in mind for fear it would break him.

“Is this how you feel about me? That I’d forget you?”

Jim shrugged. “Maybe you have.”

Joyce shook her head, setting the book back onto the cot. “If you feel that way, open the door and come home to me.”

Jim’s eyes stung then, he dashed away the threat of tears with the back of his right hand. “I can’t,” he whispered feebly. “I don’t know how.”

Joyce sighed and looked towards the door with a shrug. “I guess I really do have to do everything for you.”

The door flew open. Jim backed away, his lower spine colliding painfully with the hard porcelain of the sink. What appeared to be a short, squat man in a hazmat suit stepped into his cell, and Jim immediately felt the muscles in his calves and forearms tense as he pulled himself into a defensive position. Maybe it was his time to be culled, maybe so, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight. His stance eased as he came to a strange realization. 

“That’s not standard uniform, soldier. Who are you?” He asked, his voice tinny and hoarse from disuse. 

The man stepped forward until there was barely three inches of space between the two of them, and pulled off his face obscuring hood. It wasn’t a man at all.

“Someone who loves you.” 

“Joyce.”

She pulled at the front of his stained, grey uniform shirt and stood on her tiptoes in order to press her mouth against his. He wrapped his arms about her and lifted, eager to bring her to his level so he could deepen the kiss that tasted like… a filthy pillow case.

Jim’s eyes flew open, and all he could see was white. He pulled himself to a sitting position on his cot and looked down at his nearly flat pillow, the filthy, greying material slightly damp from his drool. He let out a hoarse sob, burying his face in his hands as his body was wracked with grief and frustration. 

Soft laughter floated down the hall, barely penetrating the thick walls of his cell. Curiosity overtaking his gnawing sorrow, he stood and walked to the door, pressing his ears against it. The guards were watching Return of the Jedi . It wasn’t his favorite of the trilogy, nor was it in English, but he closed his eyes and conjured the scene he imagined was playing. Sometimes he could pick up which movies they were watching, and he’d let his brain play them out, vivid and technicolor. 

Tears rolled down his cheek as the invisible string grew more taut. 

___________

“Open the door and come home to me.”

This was getting ridiculous. He had not brought Joyce to this place to torture him, and that was all she seemed to do lately. Pleading, and then relenting before offering him a false hope, a fake rescue. He wanted her to go away, and maybe he’d conjure someone less complicated like…

“How dare you!”

Joyce stood with her arms crossed under her chest, her dark brow furrowed into an indignant glare.

“What did I do now?”

“Trying to replace me with Chrissy Carpenter. What is this, High School? You haven’t even seen her since then. You’d have a… a teenager in here. Hop, that’s disgusting! You’re a pig.”

Oh thank god. He’d take bickering over torturing by possibilities any day of the week. 

“It’s nice to see you jealous for a change,” he smirked before getting up from his cot and crossing the room to brush his teeth and wash his face. 

“I am not, not have I ever been--”

“Lies.”

Joyce crossed the room to stand at his side. “I’ll just leave!” She announced.

“No you won’t, I’ll just bring you back. Maybe a sweeter version of you, too.”

“Ha!” Joyce leaned against the sink. “Won’t matter soon. You’ll get what you get.”

Jim whipped his head around to give her a hard stare.

“What do you mean?”

“Routine bed check!” A voice announced from the door he hadn’t heard open. Before he could turn to acknowledge the intruder, he felt a pinprick against the side of his neck. The world blurred and doubled as he collapsed onto his back. Two sets of big brown eyes set within a small oval face… and then he knew no more.

This time, he awoke to the sounds of beeping machinery, the bedding beneath him considerably more soft than the usual cement slab. Panic beat wild against his chest when he glanced at one arm and saw IV’s stick out, there were tubes in his nose too.

“Chiefo, you gotta calm down. You are dehydrated and malnourished,” came a soothing, male voice that had a touch of New York City to it. He turned his head and found himself looking up at Dr. Sam Owens.

“Wh-wha…” he couldn’t get the words out, his throat was so sore.

“Don’t talk. You’re safe.”

“Dream...ing…”

“God damn it, Hop, he said don’t talk!” Jim’s eyes widened as Joyce Byers appeared behind Dr. Owens. She appeared pale, and outraged, a bandage covering most of her forehead. He frowned and let out a low grunt of concern.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted. 

Dr. Owens immediately stood aside and excused himself from the unfamiliar room.

“You are in a hospital in Tokyo of all places.”

“But… why…”

“Another word out of your and I’ll pinch your feeding tube.” Tears sprang to Joyce’s eyes as her chin wrinkled up. He wanted nothing more than to stand and pull her into his arms, but he settled for interlacing his fingers with hers and squeezing as his own tears began to fall.

“You missed our goddamn dinner, Hopper.”