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For the first time in a long time, the Byers-Hopper household is quiet.
Still and motionless, quiet and content, with nothing to shatter the peace. Joyce and Hopper sit curled around each other, the television quietly buzzing with game show reruns.
The past week has been hard on Hopper, so much so that he couldn’t even put up token resistance to having “his time.”
That’s how they define it. His time and her time, alternating but rarely together. Their needs are too different for them to fall at the same time, but Joyce has been tempted more than once.
Hopper sits curled up against her chest, watching but not registering what’s happening. Where he goes when he checks out like that, Joyce isn’t sure, but that little world of his must be nice if he gets lost in it so frequently.
Then the quiet is shattered. It’s swift and severe, three swift raps at the front door.
The effect is instantaneous. Hopper bolts out of her arms, going from a puddle of goo to tensed for battle.
“Hey,” Joyce shushes him, petting his hair, but the damage has already been done. “It’s okay.”
She tries to stand, but his fingers wind into the hem of her shirt. Begging, pleading. Let her out of his sight and she’s good as gone forever.
“It’s probably just the mailman,” Joyce says, offering a smile she doesn’t really mean.
And Christ, the way Hopper looks at her nearly breaks her heart. There are still things he won’t tell her, about his job, about his time in Russia, but he doesn’t need to. She gets the broad strokes, and the strokes say that Joyce might just disappear if he gets complacent.
“I’ll be right back.” She drops a kiss on his nose, his cheek, his forehead. Making little trails over those old scars until the hands in her shirt finally relent. “Right back,” she promises, dropping one more kiss for luck.
Letting Hop out of her sight gives the same cold wash of dread. But she’s the one in charge, and she has to press on. Especially when a second knock comes, this one more insistent than the last.
She checks the peephole first, her chest folding over with relief as she pushes the door open. “Murray.”
Murray grins at her, and she’s known him just long enough to see that mischief twinkling in his eye. “There’s my favorite kiddo.”
He’s bluffing. He always is. He’s making shots in the dark. Don’t prove him right. Heat prickles at her face, but she pushes it away. “Is everything okay?”
Mentally, she runs down the checklist of possible roadblocks. El is at a sleepover with Max, and the boys are all at Steve’s. Everyone’s accounted for, but what if they somehow ran into trouble? It’s always a lingering thought in the back of Joyce’s mind, no matter how long it’s been since the last incident.
“They say we’re facing a cold snap this weekend.”
Joyce frowns. That’s her fault for not paying attention to the weather report this morning.
The cold has one of two effects on Hopper: either it will snap him out of his mindset or make him hopelessly tiny. Only time will tell which direction he’ll fall.
At the very least, that explains why Murray is here. Whether he cares to admit it or not, he’s the third in their trio.
“How is he?”
“Quiet. Sleepy.” Not that that’s anything new. If baby Hop were loud and active, now that would be a cause for concern. “The week’s been hard on him.”
Murray nods, the sharpness in his gaze speaking for itself. Well, tonight’s about to be even rougher.
Behind her, the floorboards creak, and a pair of eyes fall on her back.
Right. It’s been three minutes.
Three minutes is as long as Hopper can go being apart from everyone. He counts every second, and as soon as he hits one hundred eighty, he’s on the move. Even if there’s someone at the door. Especially if there’s someone at the door.
Nothing good ever comes from having a visitor, at least not from Hopper’s perspective, but it’s never himself he’s worried about. If that were the case, he’d be finding somewhere to hide, not toddling into the main room looking for an excuse to go “Fat Rambo in a diaper” on the nearest threat.
Joyce turns, offering him a reassuring smile. It always breaks her heart to see him hovering in the doorway like that, all scared and withdrawn and decidedly not Hopper. “It’s okay, honey. It’s just Murray.”
Murray gives an awkward wave. “Hey, kiddo.”
Hopper pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. Something else Joyce still can’t get used to, just how shy baby Hop is. “Hey.”
“Hope you like risotto.”
And immediately Joyce gets his game. Of course he didn’t just come over to tell her that the weather’s getting cold. Like he didn’t just come over to cook. But God forbid he ever mention he like kids, the lovable hypocrite. “Oh, Murray, that isn’t necessary—”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, I mean it. I have dinner all planned out. It’s no big deal.” Well aware he’s not going anywhere, she ushers him inside. Hop only relaxes once the front door is closed.
Murray, however, doesn’t hear her. He’s already pawing through her cabinets, double checking that she has what he needs to cook. As if he hadn’t gone grocery shopping with the two of them just last weekend. “I’m not letting a baby cook.”
Fuzziness nibbles at the tips of her ears, swift enough that she can brush it off as wind chill. Joyce knows she’s feeling small, but she ignores it in favor of sputtering. “Well, unless you think I’m letting Hop cook, you’re completely wrong, as usual.”
Murray raises an eyebrow, flaunting that infuriating smirk that says I know I’m right. “You and I both know how close you are to regressing, Joyce. Your pupils are dilated, the shadows on your undereye are particularly dark, and you’ve been fidgeting with your sleeves since I got here.” Murray grabs the ladle from the jar by the stove, leveling at Joyce’s face. “So why don’t you and the anklebiter find an episode of Baby Muppets and leave the cooking to the eighteen and over crowd?”
The worst part is that Joyce knows she’s beat. Murray’s got an idea in his head, which means he’s going to push and push until he gets his way. It only makes it worse that he’s right on the money.
“Come on, Bunny Hop,” she says. The way she guides Hopper out of the room, one hand on his back, the other kindly on his bicep, would be enough to convince anyone else that she’s perfectly capable of being a caregiver tonight, but Murray’s back is already turned.
“Miami?” Hopper asks quietly.
“No Miami!” Murray shouts back. “If you doze off before dinner you’ll kill your appetite.”
Joyce sticks her tongue out in his direction, if only to make Hop smile. Maybe she’d listen to Murray if he weren’t so insistent on acting like a know-it-all.
She flops onto the couch and turns the TV to Miami Vice, inviting Hopper to snuggle in close.
To be honest, she has no idea what Hopper even sees in this show. It’s just boring crime junk anyway. He’s done way more interesting stuff in real life. But now that Murray’s vetoed it, it’s the most interesting show on television.
One episode turns to two, then three then four. Hopper becomes a heavier and heavier weight on her, first with a head on her shoulder. By the time the third episode comes to a close, he’s sprawled out on top of her, head on her chest and more importantly, dead asleep.
She’s pinned.
The smell of pasta and garlic bread wafts in from the kitchen, making her stomach roil with hunger. Murray will be in here any second now.
“Hop,” she whispers. Somehow, she has to strike a balance. Just loud enough to wake Hop up without being loud enough to alert Murray. “Bunny Hop, you gotta let me up.”
Hopper gives a snore in response but doesn’t move.
“Hop-Hop,” she whines. To make matters worse, saying it out loud only makes her feel that much tinier. It’s practically admitting she’s stuck and—whether she likes it or not—might need some help.
She pushes at his shoulder but he doesn’t stir. Hopper has tons of trouble settling, but once he’s asleep, he’s down for the count. The biggest battle is confirming he’s safe enough to let his guard down.
But of course, it’s only a matter of time before she’s caught, and a voice says into her ear, “Looks like somebody needs help.”
Her face grows hot, but she still turns to glare up at Murray. Hop’s the one that hides, which means she has to be brave enough for the both of them. “It’s not what it looks like!”
Murray only raises an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks like you watched Miami Vice even though I said no, and you’re trapped under a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound baby.”
Joyce puffs her lower lip out. “Okay, maybe it’s exactly what it looks like…”
And Murray, the big jerk, snorts. “Dinner’s about ready. Go wash up and I’ll take care of the littler one.”
Before Joyce has the chance to ask, his hands slip under Hopper’s shoulders, guiding him against the cushions. There’s just barely enough space for Joyce to slip out, but she manages, and Hopper hasn’t suspected a thing. He merely curls into the blankets before his breathing evens out one more time.
Joyce heads to the bathroom, but she lingers just to hear Murray’s soft-sweet talking-to-babies voice. The two of them hear it so rarely, but if anything could prompt it out of Murray, it’s a cold snap. Because somewhere along the way, Joyce and Hopper’s bad memories became his as well.
“Hey there, junior.” His voice is like a bucket of honey dumped on her head, slow and sludgy and sweet. “Let’s open those little eyes, eh?”
Hopper gives a soft, inquisitive whimper as he’s finally roused from slumber.
“Did you have a nice nap at least?”
“M’ami,” is Hopper’s only response.
“I’ll pretend that’s a yes. Can you wake up for me while I set the table?”
Taking that as her cue, Joyce scurries into the bathroom to wash her hands. Murray wouldn’t scold her, she knows, but she’d rather avoid getting caught snooping.
Hands washed, she pads into the kitchen. Murray’s hardly one to hold a grudge, but she can’t help but worry she might be in trouble.
As if sensing her troubles, Murray musses her hair. “It’s not like he was going to eat much anyway. We’ll just set some aside for later.”
“Okay.” Hopper’s appetite never really recovered. For the longest time, anything richer than saltines and white bread would make him throw up. And while they’re past that point now, he still can barely clean his plate at mealtimes.
Not that that makes her feel better. If anything, it makes her feel worse. He needs those meals!
Murray hushes her, hands finding her face. She usually hates it when he smushes her cheeks like that, but now she can only lean into the touch.
“You’re doing a good job taking care of him,” he says. Intentionally or not, he’s pitched into that honey-sweet voice again. Maybe because it makes Joyce more inclined to listen. “Now let me take care of you. Both of you. Okay?”
Giving up control is the hardest part. Especially when that control was entrusted to her. While Joyce wants to fight back, she knows she can’t. It’s overdue for both of them.
“Okay.”
Murray smiles. “Good.” He pecks her forehead, sending a fresh wave of fuzziness washing over her.
And in that moment, she couldn’t feel safer.