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The first time it happens, he’s alone. Cold. Locked away in a cellar, the unforgiving bitterness of Russia’s air already nipping at his entire body. In those eight months, he never slept – nine hours a day on the railroad in freezing temperatures, only to be held in a cell for the rest of the night. Just a cold, filthy tile floor. But, the nights where faded images of the people he used to know found their way into his head were somehow even colder.
Distorted. Broken. Wrong.
He knew somewhere deep down that it wasn’t them – it couldn’t be – but he’s learned that his heart tends to get in the way of his logic. These faces, as wrong as they were, felt so real. The way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the strands of gray intertwined in with her auburn locks. Her innocence, her big brown eyes. Every detail was there; so real and so vivid.
They felt so alive. So much so that he could’ve sworn he felt the warmth of their gazes. The warmth of them, a light shining in his peripheral, but every time he’d try to get close, he’d awaken. He’d find himself right back where he started.
Alone. Cold. Locked away in a cellar.
A cycle that continued for eight months, each day becoming more and more unbearable. A cycle he thought he’d never fall out of.
Jim is no longer in Russia, but in a little cabin, hidden in plain sight; not too deep in the forest along Eno River. It’s warm, with the fireplace that crackles and the hot food that he eats every night. He could find ways to argue that he’s finally out of the agonizing cycle he’d been trapped in for so long. But, there are still nights where he finds himself chilled to the bone, despite the breathing body next to him and the sheets that are meant to keep out the cold.
Sometimes, a warm bed can’t keep away the numbing nights.
-
The second time it happens, he’s warm.
Or, he should be. He had fallen asleep with his head on his pillow, Joyce’s body drawn close to his own. Everything about the way he’d managed to doze off should have promised a night of comfort and stability.
Yet, his own being betrays him.
It’s dark, cold, everything it shouldn’t be. He feels as if his scars are being reopened as he finds himself back in that cell. The silence is blaring, a high-pitched frequency that won’t get out of his head. A faint voice he can’t quite place keeps fading in and out of earshot, and the more he tries to pay attention to it, the more he begins to feel his own heartbeat in his chest. His head. His ears. It’s everywhere, and it won’t stop.
“ Hopper !”
Jim shoots up, eyes wide, fighting for air. There’s not enough air. He can’t breathe. His irises dart around the room, trying to scramble away from whatever is going on as he searches for some sort of familiarity – anywhere, anything, and then he nearly jumps out of his skin when something touches him.
He doesn’t realize the ringing in his ears is still going on until he sees her, her face filled with absolute terror. Her lips are moving, obviously trying to talk to him, but her words are muffled, the frequency from before only louder. There's not enough air.
In the middle of the panic, he meets her eyes.
Joyce’s eyes.
He lingers on her gaze for a moment, holding onto it like it’s the one thing that’s grounding him from floating away. An anchor, the only thing keeping him from being washed away to sea.
It's still cold, a vignette in his vision that's only now beginning to clear up.
“Hop?”
Jim’s eyes refocus, landing on the rest of her other features. How worried she looks. Scared, even. The room is familiar again. It's not spinning like he could've sworn it was moments ago. The more he comes back into his own, the more his eyes burn.
“Fuck,” is all that falls from his lips as he puts his head in his hands.
The crashing aftermath almost feels more intense than the actual episode; what should provide stability only provides an empty void. Joyce’s touch is soft and delicate, but he flinches anyway. The bitterness is still there. It won’t leave. He needs to get out.
“Where are you going?” Joyce asks when Jim slips from the bed, tone concerned.
“I need some air,” he says stoically.
He doesn't look back. He only notices how his hands are shaking when he reaches to grab his flannel before leaving the bedroom.
—
He doesn't know how long he's been outside for, standing on the porch.
It's still cold. Of course, it is. It’s the middle of the night and the only thing ‘shielding’ him from the chill is the flannel he had haphazardly pulled onto his figure. He can see his own breath in the early September air.
It's quiet. Faint sounds of crickets chirping come from somewhere in the distance, the wind softly whistling. Jim doesn't know if it's helping or not — being alone out here, him and his thoughts — but he doesn't make an effort to go back inside. Not yet, at least.
Tears continue to put up a fight, trying to fall down his cheeks. He doesn't let it happen; not really. He's unsure of the last time he actually let himself cry. Maybe one of the nights in the eight months he was a dead man, but he's blocked a lot of it out.
It's funny how vivid memories can be when you can't even remember them, like they're somewhere in his far peripheral; not quite there, but always looming over him.
It's been nailed into him ever since he was able to tell his father “ yessir , no sir.” Crying equals weakness; it's all he's learned, growing up in the 40s as a young man. He’s kind of come to terms already that he may be weak after all, under his burly build.
But he still can't allow himself to cry.
The sound of the door opening is louder than usual. He wonders if she does it on purpose in an attempt not to spook him. It works, for the most part. Somewhere, in the back of his head, tells him to hop back into fight or flight mode. But there's no danger here.
It's only Joyce, illuminated by the porch light above her.
She’s standing in the doorway, seeming hesitant. She looks so warm , with those dark doe eyes. Her hair is longer than he remembers it being, way back when – cascading down her back and shoulders in deep chestnut waves. Her lips are pulled into a weak smile, fixed gaze almost wary; like he’s some kicked puppy that she doesn't want to scare off.
In the middle of his numbness, the tiniest fire spark ignites inside of him, because how could anybody not fall in love with her?
“Hey,” he says, looking over his shoulder. He tries for a smile, but it cracks right down the middle.
“Hi.”
He vaguely offers her the cigarette he has in between his fingers, turning his body. She shakes her head and mouths “no,” but she comes to stand next to him, leaning on the railing of the porch.
Jim has noticed she doesn’t smoke as much as she used to. He’s managed to get off alcohol for the most part, but he’s only smoking more.
Neither of them talk for a while. The sound of their soft breathing fills most of the empty room, but there’s no denying that there’s a small tension looming over the two. It’s not awkward, or anything – the silence is kind of comfortable, actually, until she breaks it.
“Are we not gonna talk about it?”
He pulls his attention from the wooded area in front of the cabin to Joyce beside him. She’s looking straight ahead, expression neutral as she blinks slowly.
Jim shudders. He can’t tell if it’s the cold that’s getting to him or what this conversation might bring up. “Talk about what?” he states, more than asks, because he knows damn well what she means. He takes a long drag of the cigarette.
“I know you’ve had nightmares before, but that was…” Joyce trails off, shaking her head slightly.
His lip sets in a thin line. “I don’t want you worrying about me,” he says stoically. He’s not looking at her anymore, staring off into the darkness of the forest, but he can tell she’s frustrated.
There's a beat before she scoffs. “Of course, I’m gonna be worried, Jim,” she says, “It was like it didn’t end, even after you woke up,” she insists, voice quietly exasperated.
He knows the weight of what she’s saying, but he can’t help but notice how he’s been reverted to Jim , now. She used Jim for arguing. Are they arguing?
He waves his hand dismissively, chest tightening. “I'm fine, Joyce.”
“I'm worried about you.”
“You don't need to be. I’m fine.”
She gapes up at him. “So, ‘fine’ is waking up in a cold sweat every night, hyperventilating? That’s ‘fine? ’”
He doesn't reply; just flicks some of the ashes of the cigarette.
“You’ve always been like this, and I dunno why.”
He pauses, head catching up to her words. “What do you mean?” he asks, almost defensively.
“ I mean you like to shut people out so you can try and deal with things that you don’t have to deal with alone. You're doing it right now. ”
A pang shoots through his heart because he knows it’s true. “What are you talking about?” he says through gritted teeth, jaw set as he stands straighter.
“You shut down, ” Joyce admonishes, face wavering between something close to anger and sadness. “The second something happens, you think it’s you and your job alone to fix it.”
“It's not your job to fix, either.”
“It's not yours either! Not on your own!”
He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring out into the forest.
After a moment, she sighs, reaching to place her hand atop his own on the railing. “I don’t want to fight,” she murmurs, tentatively leaning her head against his upper arm (because she’s too short to rest it on his shoulder.) “I just need you to know you’re not alone. Not anymore. You can talk to me about what's happening.”
Jim catches her gaze when she tilts her head up to look at him. Her eyes are glossy, genuine. He melts under those eyes.
You're not alone. Not anymore.
He looks away, taking a few moments, shuddering.
“Sometimes I just wake up there,” he begins quietly, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I just wake up in that cell.”
He tries to swallow the lump in his throat as Joyce laces her arm through his, never looking away from him. He just can't bring himself to look at her.
“I dunno…it's so real, every time it happens,” Jim continues, feeling himself begin to crumble as he speaks. “Warmth wasn’t a thing in Russia. Every time I wake up in that place, I feel that exact same cold.”
He chooses to leave out the brutal details. Joyce has bad anxiety as it is and Jim doesn't know how much he can actually talk about this stuff without breaking in half. Hell, his eyes are stinging all over again.
“I don't know. I'm still half convinced that this—” he gestured vaguely around him “—is all some dream.” He plays it off as a joke, nothing serious, but she doesn't laugh.
Joyce sighs a stuttering sigh, hand lightly running up and down his arm.
Those eight months stuck in Russia have undoubtedly fucked with his head – but not that he already wasn’t fucked in the head; from ‘Nam, to Sara, and now here. Guilt is something he’s had to live with for as long as he can remember, but when he forces himself to look at her, seeing those beautiful eyes he’d gotten lost in over so many years, the feeling hits him like a pile of bricks.
“‘I’m just sorry,” he barely whispers, mouth setting in a thin line as he does his best to not let his tears fall.
Joyce’s brow furrows, face softening into something closer to worry. “What for?”
He looks away. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Jim, you’re not making any sense.”
“I sent you to die, Joyce.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” He scrubs a hand over his face, eyes squeezing shut briefly. “You almost died because I sent you that note. The second Dimitri told me he managed to ship it off to the States, I regretted even thinking about writing to you.”
A beat.
“Well, I don’t regret a thing, ” she insists, voice firmer now. “Because now I have you again.” He feels her press a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “I was this close to falling off the deep end back in California. Getting your letter gave me hope. I hadn’t felt hope in eight months , Hop.”
Well, he’s back to being Hop .
His chest loosens ever so slightly, but the immense guilt doesn’t dissipate by much, if not at all. “Me neither.”
A few more beats of silence go by. Joyce’s arms are still wrapped around his own, thumb carefully brushing over his skin like he’s a delicate wine glass. A particular chilly gust of wind whistles toward them, making him shiver as the hairs stick up on his arms.
“Let’s go back to bed,” Joyce says quietly, gently nuzzling her head against his arm. “It’s late. Let me warm you up.”
If he weren’t about to fold in half, he’d probably tell her that he’ll be inside in a little bit. But her voice is just so soft and he is starting to get cold.
Jim lets Joyce lead him back to their bedroom, hands intertwined. He lets her slide up behind him once they're under the covers again, lets her arm drape over his torso and draw him close. He can't help but tense faintly when she places tender kisses along his back, probably following the path of a healed-over scar.
For the first time in a long, long time, he sleeps through the rest of the night, without any nightmares daring to wake him.