Chapter Text
Hopper’s already pleasantly warm and tipsy when he arrives at the station that morning, but gradually he sobers up until that evening he’s irritable and somewhat hungover, and bored out of his goddamn mind. He wants to go back to his trailer and watch Hawaii Five-O all night with a beer and a smoke and his rattling bottle of pills but he can’t, because for some reason there’s bar trouble. On a Tuesday. In fucking Hawkins.
So he swings round there, disappointingly sober, and doesn’t get back to the station to book in the latest drunkard until at least three-thirty am. (Even New York was rarely this bad, he thinks, but then again he was a homicide detective there, not a chief in charge of everything and nothing because in Hawkins the two are one and the same.)
She’s waiting for him.
Long hair tangled and loose, nails bitten to the quick. She’s thinner, bonier than she was back in high school, but those eyes are the same. Those same damn eyes that had boys falling at her feet, so large and fierce - only now they’re lowered to the floor, fragile, reddened with tears.
“Joyce,” he says softly. She looks up, jumps to her feet from the hard plastic of the chairs they make people wait on.
“Hopper- I’ve been waiting over an hour-”
“Why?” he asks wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face. He just wants to be snoring on his sofa right now. He doesn’t want to deal with whatever new crisis this is.
“Lonnie-” she starts, and breaks off. Seems almost ashamed, and he realises his own face has twisted into a bitter look. She bites her lip. “Lonnie was arrested. Drunk and disorderly, or some crap like that-”
“Yeah, but it’s not crap, is it? Powell’s lazy, he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t have brought him in if he didn’t do anything.” Something in Hopper defies the reluctance on Joyce’s face. She’s not facing reality, and she has to. Has to realise her husband is a piece of scum.
“Hopper, I need him home.”
“Why?” he says again, getting out a cigarette. She rolls her eyes, flaps up her hands desperately but no words come out. “Huh, so you don’t really need him home.”
“I do,” she insists. She’s eyeing his cigarette but he doesn’t feel moved to give it to her. He feels selfish, spiteful tonight. “Please, the kids are out but if they come home in the morning and he’s not there-”
He feels cold, then, and foolish. Imagines little Will, eight years old, two years older than Sara would have been. Pictures him coming home from some sleepover or other to an empty house. Running through the rooms, asking for his dad. Joyce having to explain to him, to Jonathan, where Lonnie really is.
It gets to Hopper, goddamn it. He sighs.
“Fuck’s sake. Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”
He goes past her into his office while she perches on the edge of her seat like a wary, wild bird. He just wants to file the papers, and get her the fuck out of here because honestly? Something about her presence puts him on edge. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but like everything’s heightened. The complete opposite of the drug-induced haze he likes to dwell in. And right now everything is tender. He doesn’t want her to add salt to his wounds.
But he comes across a problem. He goes to the cabinet where they keep all the paperwork, the release forms, all the proper protocol - and it’s locked. He gives it an experimental tug, and a harder one when it doesn’t open. He’s reduced to kicking it when Joyce appears from around the corner, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”
He stops, scrubs a hand over his face. “Flo- Flo’s got the goddamn keys. To the goddamn filing cabinet.”
“And Flo…?”
“... doesn’t get in until eight thirty,” he finishes for her. “Lonnie’s not going anywhere.”
She worries at her lip, pulls distractedly at a loose thread on her sleeve. All these anxious tics that seem to have crept up on her, since high school. She was never this highly strung. “And there’s only one key? Isn’t that a bit-”
“Yeah, I know, Joyce, okay? But this is Hawkins. If it was New York, maybe things would work a bit faster. But this is Hawkins, where nothing ever happens. Police hours are nine to five. There is no night shift.”
She sighs, and it’s like all the energy goes out of her. Her shoulders slump. “So I’ll wait.”
“You’ll wai- Joyce, it’s four am. Go home.”
She shakes her head. “I said I’m gonna wait.”
This is ridiculous. He wants to go home himself. There’s a six pack of beers with his name on it and more to the point his bed-
But she’s not okay, that much is clear. He can’t just leave her here, not without finding out why she’s making such crazy decisions as these. Why she’s holding on to the image of Lonnie like he might disappear, slip through her fingers like dust. Why that would be such a bad thing, in the end.
So he lets his posture soften. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll still be here in the morning, and I’ll release him without charging him the second Flo gets in. Okay?”
“I know- but-” She hesitates. “I don’t want to be alone in that house. Just waiting-”
Huh. Somehow he knows the feeling. God, he knows the fucking feeling, even though their situations are so utterly different. “Okay. But at least try to get some sleep on the sofa in the break room. I know it’s not much-”
Again, she’s shaking her head. “I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “I rarely can.”
It’s little wonder the shadows under her eyes are engraved, and suddenly he realises it’s like looking in a mirror. What happened to her, he wonders? What is still happening to her, behind closed doors? What might happen if she isn’t here at eight thirty on the dot to pick Lonnie up?
He makes a snap decision, and starts talking before he can change his mind. “Come on, then.” He starts walking across the room and looks back impatiently when she doesn’t follow. “Come on.”
After a moment’s hesitation she joins him, follows him up the steps and out onto the roof. It’s not a great view, since the building’s only one story, but the sky is clear and the stars are bright.
“You come up here often?” She indicates the two chairs positioned haphazardly near the edge.
He shrugs. When he can’t face his empty trailer, the vacant chatter of the TV, the rank sweat of his sofa and the clatter of the bottles on the floor, he spends his nights up here. Watches the stars and tries to map out the constellations he used to teach Sara about, only he’s beginning to forget them all.
But he can’t tell Joyce any of this. Not yet. “Flo doesn’t like me smoking in the station.”
She nods, like this makes sense. Maybe it does. He’s not sure. She takes a seat and stupidly he’s distracted by watching the way she does it - folding herself down carelessly, not elegantly but with a certain unconscious grace. Then he curses himself, because he’s pretty sure it’s out of bounds to wax lyrical about some other man’s wife. Nevermind that he’s certain Lonnie’s never paid a single moment’s attention to the way Joyce sits down.
She takes out her own pack of cigarettes and lights one, the quick flicker of flame lighting up her face in warm shadows. Then she exhales and watches the sky silently, while he watches her.
“I was sorry to hear about your mom, Hop,” she says softly. “I know it happened a while ago now, but-”
He shakes his head. His eyes are dry, but in a moment they might not be and he doesn’t want to cry in front of her. He really, really doesn’t. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t say what they’re both thinking, that the loss of his mom pales in comparison to the loss of his daughter. He hopes Joyce is wise enough not to go there either.
“Thank you. For waiting with me. I-” She looks down at the gritty roof beneath them. “I don’t really like being alone, not anymore. Not since having the kids.”
Kids, plural. “How are they? Your boys?”
A sudden smile breaks out on her face in the gloom. “They’re good. Really good. Jonathan’s twelve now, Will’s eight. They’re busy, they have friends- well, Will more so than Jonathan, but he’s always been a loner type.”
“Not like you or me, then,” Hopper quips. Her smile is turned on him, and the force of it- it knocks him sideways.
“He’s not like you or me,” she confirms. “Neither is Will. Thank god,” she says, and there’s laughter in her voice, “because I can’t imagine parenting either of us. It would be a goddamn nightmare.”
“Eh, I don’t know. We were alright.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, we were.”
They relax into a comfortable silence for a while, smoking and staring at the stars. Hawkins is peaceful at night. Quiet. The sounds of traffic from the interstate are faint, intermittent. If he looks up high enough he can pretend there’s no town, only the sky, and he can unmoor himself from the ground and float away into space. Find his home beside Orion the Hunter, and the Big Dipper.
“Joyce-” he starts, sitting up, because there’s something he has to get off his chest. “About Lonnie-”
“Don’t. Just- don’t. I’m not in the mood for your recriminations- your I-told-you-so’s-”
“I wasn’t going to-”
“Yeah,” she says bitterly. “Yeah, you were.”
He sighs. “I just- I need to know, Joyce. Is he hurting you?”
Her silence tells him everything he needs to know. He wonders where she’s hiding it, under her t-shirt and jeans. Her wrists are unblemished, so far as he can tell in the dark. Still, he feels rage flood through him anyway. “I swear to god, Joyce- let me charge the asshole-”
“No!” she shouts suddenly. “No, please- god, please don’t. He’d only make me pay bail and then we’d be stuck with court fees and the kids-” He hears her take a breath. “We’re dragged through the mud enough in this town as it is. They can’t handle anything else.”
He sighs. “Please, divorce him. Please. I won’t-” It physically pains him to say it. “I won’t charge him, but you gotta divorce him, Joyce. It’s not right, him treating you like that-”
“You don’t know shit about it,” she mutters, but her resolve is weakening.
He sits back in his chair. It’s all he can hope for, really. It’s not a flat out denial.
He fishes in his pocket, produces his flask. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it earlier, in fact. He’s been dying for a drink since the afternoon. But ladies first - he still has his manners - so he offers it to Joyce. She takes it slowly, warily almost. Sips it and immediately screws her face up in disgust. “What the hell is this, Hop? Jet fuel? Jesus.”
“Cheapest whiskey money can buy,” he proclaims as he takes it back, and yeah. His tone is definitely a little too proud of that.
“Why? I mean jesus, we’re not teenagers anymore- surely you can afford something a little nicer-”
Sure, yeah, he can. But decent whiskey’s not for wallowing in. Decent whiskey’s for chasing a nice meal, and for sharing with friends and lovers. This is the kind of shit perfect for nights alone wishing he didn’t exist - Joyce doesn’t deserve it, but he does.
He relishes the burn as it scalds its way down his throat. Relishes the faint haze that begins to kick in. “Whiskey’s whiskey, right?”
“Yeah, if you’re trying to get drunk. Why the hell do you carry that around in a flask, Hop? With your uniform?”
It’s his turn to look away. “Come on, it’s not like no one knows,” he mutters. “You’re not the only one they gossip about.”
“Yeah, but you always said-” She’s standing up now, hands fidgeting by her sides. He’s not sure what’s got her so worked up. “You always said you’d never turn out like your dad. And now you are - you’re like Lonnie, and your dad, and my dad-”
“Yeah, but I’m not anyone’s dad, am I?”
Silence descends. Joyce is biting her lip again, and her chest is heaving like she’s run a marathon but she hasn’t, she’s only taken a step closer to him, and on instinct - anything to stop that fucking worried frown - he grabs her by the waist and pulls her closer. Collides their lips. Nearly loses himself in the heat of it-
And she’s kissing back.
She’s kissing back, and it’s like high school all over again as she moves to straddle him and her lips part under his, his tongue gently roams into her mouth, her hands fist in his hair as his own clutch at her waist. God, he’d forgotten this. Forgotten how beautiful she is, and how sinful. Sinfully good, because technically she’s committing adultery right now but is it really adultery when her husband is abusing her and fucking other girls every night and her lips taste so good on his? When she’s kissing him with more heat than she probably ever kissed Lonnie in thirteen goddamn years-
“God, Joyce-” he whispers. He’d be happy to take her right now, right here on this fucking station roof, and by her body language he’s pretty sure she’d let him-
But then she freezes. Stills against him, and pulls back. Runs a hand through her long hair and tangles it even further, and god all he wants to do is to press another kiss to that tender column of neck-
But she’s caught like a deer in the headlights, like something feral backed into a corner. She’s trembling as she snatches herself away. “Hopper- I can’t-”
“Don’t say you’re married,” he snarls despite himself. “Don’t you dare fucking say that- not after everything-”
“But I am!” she bursts out, and are those tears shining in her eyes? “I am, goddamn it, you know I am, and I can’t-” She sighs. “I can’t do this again. I can’t be torn between you and Lonnie, not again. Besides-”
“Besides what?” he presses.
“Besides, you’re goddamn fucking right. He’d probably kill me if he knew we did anything. He’d kill me for this- a kiss-”
“So divorce him!” Hopper’s voice is loud, desperate.
“For fuck’s sake- just because you want to get me into bed-”
“Jesus- you can’t think that. You think that’s all this is? You think I don’t care about you?”
“Do you?” she challenges. Her face is in shadow, now. He can’t see her expression.
He stands up too. He’s not gonna listen to this, this bullshit. Who is he kidding? These are the same issues they had in high school, the same issues they’re having now. Joyce is different, which just makes it worse, but her insecurities are the same. Her fears. And maybe in high school they were justified but now they’re just irrational.
“I’m not listening to this,” he says, as he moves to the stairs. Then he stops, looks back at her. She’s lit in a rosy golden hue by the coming dawn, the sky straining to lighten with the sun. It turns her hair to spun gold. “Joyce- in high school- everything was different. But now- now I’d drop everything. For you.”
She shakes her head, a little sadly. “Oh, Hop, god- you can say that. You don’t have anything to drop. You don’t have anything to lose and I- I have so goddamn much.”
He stares at her. It stings. It really fucking stings - because it’s true. Joyce has a husband, two kids, a life - what does he have? A shitty trailer, bottles of beer mouldering under his sofa. Soaps on tv and women in bed whose names he forgets.
“Fuck you,” he says. It’s immature, rude, and it makes her flinch, but he’s done with confronting painful truths. He’s done with opening up his fucking heart.
He leaves her there on the rooftop, watching the sun rise alone.