Chapter Text
1958
She’s been radio silent for the past week, and she intends to keep it that way for the rest of forever.
The chem final she’s been psycho-studying for and that missing english assignment she’s been stressing about feel laughable, now. Joyce can’t bring herself to care about anything else when she’s locked herself in her bedroom for the past week, trying not to drive herself insane and grasp onto some sort of comfort in her stuffed animals she can’t bring herself to donate, not yet, because everything else feels sick and twisted from where she stands. She feels like she’s going out of her mind, and she may as well be.
Mom normally doesn’t let her stay home from school when she tells her she’s sick, but she didn’t ask any further questions when she’d asked this time around, and Joyce doesn’t blame her. She doesn’t look well.
To say she doesn’t feel well is an understatement.
Dark circles and clammy palms and she can’t sleep no matter what she does, but these stupid, ugly, crooked teeth that have plunged through her gums in the middle of the night a couple days ago is the thing that’s been making this situation a little too actualized.
Will she be able to get old? Can she still be in the sun? These are only some of the questions that circulate throughout her mind, and the more she tries to read up on it to figure out what the hell is happening, the more scared she gets. The more real it feels.
It’s late one night and she’s doing just that; flipping through the pages of one of the books she’d snagged at the library in a confused, terrified act because she doesn’t quite know what else to do. The old lady at the front desk had given her a skeptical look when she’d plopped the towering stack of texts onto the counter, and now Joyce’s desk has never looked more cluttered–precarious piles of miscellaneous books on the undead and vampires are scattered across the space. As she reads, she's got an icepack is pressed to her cheek to numb her aching gums.
A faint knock at the window has her jumping out of her skin and her hand stuttering, sending the yellow ink gliding across the page in a jagged line as she whips her head to the sound like a bomb detonating, wide-eyed and frantic.
And then Joyce Maldonado sees James Hopper peering inside. He offers a small wave and in any other scenario, her first instinct would not be to close the curtains in his face and hide.
Her shoulders drop a little and she exhales through her nose, relieved, but she hesitates before reluctantly getting up from her chair. The way she keeps her mouth in a thin line, like she’s trying not to speak, is a conscious thing.
“Hey, she’s alive,” is the first thing Hopper exclaims when she pulls up her window.
Joyce shushes him. “My mom is sleeping.”
His mouth opens in an ‘o’ shape and he nods. “Where the hell have you been?” he whispers loudly, and she has no choice but to back up when he begins to haul himself through the window and into her bedroom. It’s not the first time this has happened, and usually, her annoyance is feigned and teasing, but today, unsolicited visitors are not the thing she needs. “Patel’s class has been a nightmare without you. I’ve been calling and–”
“Yeah, ‘phone’s broken,” she gets out irritably, picking at her nails and averting his gaze.
He blinks. “No, your mom answered and said you were on, like, your death bed.” He looks at her for a few beats too long, and she wants to hide again. “She wasn’t lying,” he murmurs, but it doesn’t sound mean or accusing. “Are you…okay?”
Joyce frowns anyway and gets out a huff. “Hop, I don’t feel good. What do you want?”
“I wanted to swing by and see if you weren’t dead, or somethin’.”
She nearly laughs at his wording, because according to nearly every single book she’s read, vampires are dead. She almost laughs, but then she almost cries.
Is she dead?
Joyce doesn’t reply as she moves to sit on the edge of her bed, bringing her legs up to cross over the other as she feels her eyes begin to burn. She doesn’t think she could get out another word without breaking in half if she wanted to.
A small pause fills the space. She watches Hopper’s feet move across the floor as he takes a step toward her desk.
He picks up the book that sits at the top of one of the piles, glossing through the pages; History of Vampires–The Undead. She doesn’t bother moving to swipe it from his hands.
“Is this for another weird Ms. Ratliff assignment, or are you just…”
Joyce forces herself to glance up at him to find him wiggling his fingers stupidly. He’s obviously teasing and he’s obviously not being serious on any level, but it doesn’t stop her from screwing up her face and letting out a shuddering breath. She brings her hand up to wipe away the tear that silently slips down her cheek.
When Hopper notices her lack of response, he looks over at her, and the energy in the room shifts almost entirely. “Are you–what happened?” His tone is more sincere, now, and he’s instantly at her side, the mattress dipping as he moves to sit beside her atop the off-pink comforter. “Did I say something? What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “It’s not you, no,” she assures him through a sniffle.
“Okay,” he says, gently, like he’s trying to placate her. He waits for her to reply or elaborate, but she doesn’t. “Joyce, look at me.”
She stiffens to stone when his hand comes up to her face, brushing loose locks of brunette behind her ear. It’s a soft little thing and he tilts his head, trying to understand, but she fights the imminent urge to swat his hand away as he pushes her hair back, exposing her neck and those two little scars in the shape of dots. She lets him. He was bound to find out one way or another.
“Look, I don’t–...”
Her eyes squeeze shut and her hands clutch the edges of her bed when his voice trails off. The silence that envelops the room is loud, deafening, and if her heart could still beat, she’s sure it’d be thrumming in her ears.
Hopper’s hand lingers at her neck and hair. Joyce can feel his eyes on her.
“Is that..?”
She forces herself to nod a little. “Yeah,” she barely says, a croak, more than anything.
She doesn’t dare look over at him, not yet, not when he’s not speaking and she can’t figure out what he’s making of all of this shit yet.
A long beat, then, “How?” is all he says. She can’t place his tone.
How? Joyce hasn’t begun to process that bit at all, among everything else. Every time she’s reminded of how she wound up in this mess, there’s still a part of her that doesn’t quite believe it.
How is Lonnie Byers , the same man that she was so set on marrying some day, the same man she used to see herself having a family with, the same man that could’ve very well drained her dry and left her lifeless that day? But, instead, he’s left her stuck.
Stuck as a bloodsucking predator.
Joyce opens her mouth to answer but the only thing that comes out is something close to a squeak, but she finds she doesn’t have to say anything:
“I’m gonna kill him,” Hopper grits out, like he’s reading her mind. He shakes his head as he runs his hands over his face. “I’ve never fuckin’ liked him, but I’m gonna–”
“–I’m not dangerous,” Joyce says quickly around the lump in her throat, cutting him off, because she needs to say it. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard her voice come so meek and shaky.
Hopper’s hands fall away from his face when she finally looks over at him, meeting his eyes only for a short moment.
“I’m–I’m not…” Her chest falls shakily when she sobs out a small breath, absently picking at the seam of her shirt. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. She sniffles. “‘M not gonna hurt you.”
He blinks, his gaze going a little soft. “I know that,” he tells her after a moment.
“I’m just–I don’t wanna hurt anybody. I don’t–I don’t have that urge.”
“I know.” Briefly, he half-stands up to reach over and grab the box of tissues on her desk, sitting back down as he offers it to her.
Lines appear on her forehead as she takes it and puts it in her lap, frowning. “Why’re you so calm ?” She blows her nose into the tissue.
He shrugs. “‘Cause I don’t gotta reason to not be,” he says easily.
Joyce laughs through a sob, though there’s no humor in it. “I can’t feel my heartbeat,” she exclaims in a loud whisper, squeezing the tissue in her hand, gesturing vaguely. “I can’t see myself in the mirror.”
He seems weirdly interested in that bit. “Really?”
“Yes!”
She sighs heavily and stares down at her lap, more tears falling from her eyes.
“Can you…”
Joyce’s eyebrow cocks slightly when she looks up at him again.
He squints at her. “Can you, like…turn into a bat?”
She scoffs. “What?”
“Wait, can you fly?” Hopper shifts to face her as he scoots closer, pulling up his legs to cross over the other. “That’s so cool–”
“–Get your feet off my bed.”
“Yep. Got it.” A pause comes after he shifts. “So…can you?–”
“– Hoppp,” Joyce cries, putting her face in her hands–half wiping away her tears and half trying to cover up her growing smile of pure bemusement.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” he says, sounding genuine.
She blows out a quiet sigh after a beat. “I don’t know what I can or can’t do,” she murmurs, sniffling. “I just–I don’t really know what this means. You’re, like, the first person I’ve told, and I just…” She shakes her head and forces herself to look up, meeting his gaze through her tearful eyes. “I don’t wanna lose anybody over this.”
Hopper’s smile is weak as he bumps his leg against her gently. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “you won’t lose me.”
He wasn’t lying; they get married three years later in Ms. Maldonado’s backyard on a cool, spring day.
It was small and a little thrown together at the last minute, but Joyce wouldn't change a single thing about how that day went.
From the exchange of their rings to their moonlit dance, it’d been perfect. Mostly. The decade-old umbrella she’d had to hold during most of the ceremony and reception made any chances of getting cute pictures to reminisce over when they’re old and wrinkly (or only a few years down the line, like she is now) near impossible, but other than that, they'd be normal wedding photos if Joyce actually showed up in any of them; Hopper looks handsome in his clean, sleek suit, but he's slow dancing with nothing but a white gown—in another, he looks plain silly, looking dumb-in-love at the flowy dress in his arms and the floating veil.
She’s not visible, but the small yet visible bump of her belly is, outlined in her dress.
Joyce tilts her head and smiles fondly, the brim of her floppy sun hat shading the monochromatic figures in the photos. For most, the seasons changing into the warmer months means spending more time outdoors and getting in as much sun as the usually dreary Hawkins allows, but not for her.
She’s gotten used to it over the years, as she has with everything else that’s come with vampirism, but she can’t help but miss feeling the sun on her skin, sometimes. The only reason she’s outside at all is because Hopper is with Jonathan in the backyard, and the image of him chasing his four year old son through the sprinklers and hearing his little baby giggles is enough for her heart to try and beat back to life, just like it used to.
Absently, Joyce traces her little baby bump in the photo as she looks up from it to the scene in front of her, her fangs prodding her bottom lip as she smiles.
“Jonathan, c’mere real quick,” she calls out after a while from where she sits on the porch, moving the photos scattered across the table to the side as she reaches for the jug sunscreen she’d bought at the store a few weeks ago. It’s in the highest SPF, and she still wishes it was at least a little higher.
He frowns, brow furrowing adorably. “Why?”
“We gotta redo your sunscreen.”
“I wanna play!”
“Baby, you’re gonna burn,” Joyce tells him lightly, pressing on the bump and squirting it into her palm. “You can keep playing afterwards. C’mere.”
Jonathan grumbles and slouches dramatically with each step he takes as Hopper encourages him up the porch with a hand on his back. The boy is wearing a striped swim shirt that hides his sensitive skin away from the sun, shorts that fall just below his knees, and it’s probably only been twenty or so minutes since the last time she’s interrupted his and Hopper’s game to smother his sweet little face in sunscreen, but she can’t help it.
“...this is only gonna take longer if you keep squirming, y’know.”
“Moooooommy!”
“Hold still, Mister, Just let me–” Joyce makes one more effort to rub the cream into the apples of his freckled cheeks before she finally releases him from this torturous act of abuse. She begins to holler that he’s supposed to let it sink in before he gets back in the water, but her words trail off when she quickly realizes that her words have no meaning as he runs back into the sprinklers with his little arms outstretched.
She sighs. “He’s gotten so sassy,” she remarks, slumping back into the chair as he watches him. She can’t help but be fond, despite it.
“Hm. Wonder why.”
Joyce blinks before she looks over her shoulder, frowning up at the man beside her. Her sunglasses slide down the bridge of her nose a little as her brow furrows. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”
Hopper shrugs. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” His gaze remains averted from her’s as he continues to gloss over the photos on the table, but his eyes crinkle at the corners and she makes out a small smile on his lips. Joyce rolls her eyes and tries not to smile, too. “I thought we lost these while moving,” he says after a beat, picking up one of the pictures.
“I was looking for something in the attic the other day and I found them,” she explains, turning her chair around to face the table, fangs protruding as she bites on her grin. “Aren’t these the cutest?”
“Some of ‘em.” Hopper frowns down at the photo in his hand, squinting and turning it around as if it’s facing the wrong direction. “Why the hell did we let Benny work the camera? What am I lookin’ at?”
Joyce barely tries to piece together what could’ve been captured in the blurry photo he shows her, waving him off with a snort as he holds up more pictures. “But look at these ones!”
She leans closer to him and he crouches down a little. They’re some of the only photos in the collection that aren’t totally intelligible; she can make out the hearts in his eyes and the bouquet in her hands, both equally as lovestruck as the other.
“How many shots in do you think Karen was here?” Hopper presses his finger to the blonde in the photo, posing beside the bride and Joyce chuckles through a grimace.
“One too many,” she murmurs, shaking her head as she picks up another photo from the table. “Oh, look how cute you looked here!”
“What about you?”
She snorts. “What about me?” she asks. “You can’t even see me in these.”
Hopper shrugs. “Yeah, but I can see you now, ‘n you look the same.” He shoves down the brim of her sunhat teasingly, covering her eyes. “Still cute.”
Joyce’s mouth parts in an amused, small smile, nose wrinkling as she lifts her hat back up and meets his eyes–they have the same hearts in them as they do in the pictures she holds, deep blue and sweet. Pink rises to the apples of her cheeks.
“Daddy!” Jonathan hollers from the lawn.
“I’m comin’,” Hopper promises, and as he puts the photos back on the table, he pushes down her hat again and Joyce can't do anything about it before he's out in the yard again.
Her nose crinkles in a feigned scowl when he looks back at her; a scowl that's quick to shift into a mirrored grin.
The two of them resume their little game and Joyce’s mind wanders, hand idly caressing her own stomach as her gaze flips between watching her husband and son and admiring the photos sprawled across the table.
Later, much later–when the sun is far past the horizon, leaving the sky void of warmth and dotted with stars–she seeks him out.
Never has she fully abided by the natural clock her body had tried to adjust to after her turning. Most nights, she’s just in bed a little earlier than most would be, but tonight, Joyce makes an effort to busy herself and keep awake until Hopper’s in bed, too.
“You’re usually asleep by now,” he comments lowly, lifting the duvet.
She hums. “I wanted to wait up for you.” The mattress dips beneath his weight as Hopper settles into his side of the bed, and Joyce sluggishly moves to curl into his side and tangle herself with his limbs. She sighs happily and settles her head against his chest, practically melting into his warmth, listening to his heart beat in a steady rhythm in her ear. Having a furnace for a husband comes in handy when you’re coldblooded. “‘Jon asleep?”
“Oh yeah, out like a light. Wore him out pretty good today.” His hand settles on her lower back where her shirt rides up, thumb tracing in lazy little circles on her skin. He huffs out a small chuckle. “Think I wore myself out.”
Joyce bites down on her lazy smile as she threads her fingers through the wiry hairs on his chest. “Y’know,” she murmurs after a few beats, “I’ve been thinking.”
She can almost hear the raise of his brow. “That can’t be good.”
She ignores him with the roll of her eyes. She sighs. “You don’t…you don’t need to answer right now ,” Joyce begins carefully. “You can think about it. I was just…” She shifts slightly so that her chin rests on his pec, watching as her fingers rake through the light hair.. “What would you…think about trying again?”
It comes out soft and small–pillow talk, a little bit.
“I think we’d be more ready now, and Jonathan brought up wanting a brother a couple days ago, and I just…”
“You want another baby?”
Through her lashes, Joyce looks up to meet Hopper’s eyes. His voice is gentle and he says it more like a revelated statement than a question, and she can’t help the way her lips curve into a grin that reaches her eyes and heart. “Yeah,” she breathes.
Hopper beams a sleepy beam, pushing back her bangs as he tilts his head a little. “Girl or boy?”
She snorts. “A girl,” she whispers. Then, as he begins to shift beneath her and pull her closer, “Both.”
“Both?”
She giggles into his cheek. “I dunno.”
“C’mere, woman.”
“Is that a yes?”
His response is to kiss her soundly with his hands on her cheeks.