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265 days. Almost nine months. That's how long they spent apart, that's how long she just let him rot in this stupid prison, how long it took for her to finally get him back. But now he's here, and he's alive, and Joyce still can't believe it.
Hopper sits across from her at the table, his hand resting on hers. It's late. She can hear an owl from somewhere out in the woods surrounding them. Jonathan is at Nancy's, Will and El have gone to bed already. They're talking quietly so they don't wake them. Hopper's small cabin is definitely not the ideal living situation for the five of them, but it's not like they had much of a choice.
He smiles at her, and Joyce can't help her own lips twitching upwards, too. She'd describe it as peaceful if it weren't for... well, everything. Vecna, Hawkins in ruins. It's like the world is ending right on their doorstep. Her smile falters once more.
"Hey," Hopper says softly. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I..." She pauses. "Yeah."
He gives her hand a light squeeze. "You can tell me the truth, you know."
Joyce reels backward almost unconsciously, pulling her hand away. "I'm okay, Jim. I promise." They both know she's not. She never could get away with lying to him.
But he lets it go. "Alright." She takes a breath. This is fine. It is. They're all alive; that's what counts.
Hopper yawns. "Let's go to bed." She nods, even though she knows in her heart she won't be able to fall asleep any time soon tonight. It's just one of those days. But there is no need to bother him with that. If any of them deserves some rest, it's him. There is no way he was able to properly sleep in any of the nights he spent in Russia—while she was lying awake in her bed in Lenora, thinking about him.
Their room is small, but it's their space, and that's the only thing she cares about. The room she shared with Lonnie had never felt like theirs, and with Bob, she never even got far enough for any of that, so in a way, this is something new entirely.
He grabs his pajamas and disappears into the bathroom, pulling the curtain shut behind him. Joyce can't deny that it stings a little. They've been together for a good three weeks now, and it's not like she hasn't seen before what she's so sure he wants to hide from her, that day in the church. She can't exactly forget it, the image of it burned into her mind. They tortured him, for a while, too, by the looks of it. Bile rises in her throat at the thought alone.
They haven't talked about it, not really. It's not like she didn't try, but every time she comes even close to broaching the topic, he shuts her off. It shouldn't frustrate her the way it does; she's well aware of that. He's been through something incredibly traumatic, and she can't just demand for him to immediately open up to her about it. So why does her heart still ache uncomfortably every time he pulls down the sleeves of his flannel further, every time he gets defensive when she asks if she can help him in any way? Can she expect him to trust her with something like this at all? She never trusted Bob enough to properly open up about her own trauma, why is this any different?
By the time Hopper steps back into their room, she has already changed and crawled under the covers. He has this sort of tired smile on his lips, the one she's seen on him far too often in the past few weeks—as if he is never actually happy.
He gets into bed, wrapping his arm around her. The warmth of his body against hers calms something inside her. She closes her eyes.
"Hopper?" Joyce whispers after a few moments of silence.
"Yeah?"
"You know you can tell me the truth too, right?"
She can practically feel him tense. "What?" he breathes, pulling away.
"I'm just saying—"
Hopper doesn't let her finish her sentence. "I'm fine, Joyce. I don't want to talk about it." How can he say that when they both know he'll wake up from another nightmare in a few hours? How can he say that when they both know that that couldn't be further from the truth?
"Okay, but if you do..." she tries as she sits back up, looking down at him.
"Well, I don't. I'm not pushing you to talk about this shit either, am I?"
He rolls over, and for a few seconds, Joyce doesn't say anything. Because he's right, he doesn't push her. What right does she have? She's going about this all wrong. This is stupid; she is stupid. "I—" The words don't come out the way she wants, her heart rate picking up. "I just want to help."
With a sigh, Hopper pulls himself into a sitting position. His voice goes soft. "I know you do. But I... can't. You wouldn't understand."
"At least let me try! Please. You've helped me so much in the last few years. Just let me do this one thing for you. You're not alone in this, Hop. You're not."
He tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, his palm lingering on her cheek as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. "Not today." It sounds a bit like a promise. For her sake, she chooses to see it as one.
***
It's chilly when he steps out onto the porch—at least, Hopper assumes it is. Eight months spent half freezing to death did mess with his perception of temperature a bit. He lights a cigarette, staring out into the darkness. It doesn't feel real, none of it does. Not being home, or actually being with Joyce. Hell, not even being alive. He shouldn't be. After everything that happened, he should be dead. Sometimes, he wonders if maybe that'd be better for everyone involved.
The door behind him creaks open, and he can't help the shiver that runs down his spine at the sound. "Hop?" Joyce steps next to him.
He turns to cup her cheek, kissing her softly. "Hey. Everything alright?"
"Can we talk?" There's a seriousness to the way she speaks that he can't quite place. It alone is enough to make him nervous. It's stupid how scared of the little things he feels suddenly. He never used to be this anxious before. Is that what it's always been like for her? She tried to explain it to him, back in high school, but he isn't sure he ever fully understood until now.
"Yeah, sure," is all he says, taking a last drag of his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray, standing on the railing. "What is it?"
Her expression is enough for him to know what's coming next. Not again.
"Look, I know you don't want to speak about it—and we don't have to after this—but I need you..." She takes a deep breath. "You don't have to hide your body from me. And don't try to tell me that you don't; I'm not stupid. I love you no matter what they did, no matter how it changed the way you look. It doesn't make you ugly, and it doesn't make me any less attracted to you. Can you try to believe me on that?"
"That's not why," Hopper gets out.
"Then what is? Seriously. I've seen your scars before. I know they hurt you. I know it was bad and I don't expect you to give me any details. But you're not protecting me, or whatever the hell it is you think you’re doing by just hiding everything."
Oh, but he is, big time. "You wouldn't understand," he repeats, the same sentiment he has echoed so often in the past weeks. And thank god she doesn't. If she had been there, if they had taken her... He doesn't think he would be able to live with himself.
"Hop, I..." Joyce sounds quieter now, almost timid in a way. She bites her lip, turning away. "I have scars, too, you know."
"What?" He didn't know that, actually.
"Yeah," she breathes. "Figured I had to tell you at some point anyway. If we want to be serious about this whole relationship thing."
"I don't— Why do you have scars?"
"Jim..." Her voice has this sort of sad quality to it and that's when it clicks. Their eyes lock.
"Oh." Hopper stares at her. "Oh my— I didn't... I'm sorry!"
She chuckles softly. "Don't be. It was ages ago—back when I was still with Lonnie. I don't do it anymore obviously, but, uhm... yeah." A pause. The silence feels almost deafening. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make this about me. What I'm trying to say is: you don't have to worry about me seeing your scars and all. It doesn't change anything. And, I know."
"Where?" He can't help but cringe at how hollow his own voice sounds—and hopes she doesn't notice the way he deflects from himself once more.
"Thighs, mostly." Joyce shrugs. "Really Hop, it's okay. I'm fine, it's been ages since then."
"Mostly?"
"Jim!"
He shakes his head. "I'm serious, Joy. I want to know, alright?"
She draws in a sharp breath, closing her eyes. Maybe he shouldn't push her on this; maybe he's overstepping boundaries here. But he is serious, he does want to know. And not only because he'd much rather talk about her than about the scars covering his own body. She breathes back out but turns her head away so he can't see her face. "Look, I have some other scars too. From Lonnie. There's one—"
"What?" he cuts her off.
Joyce snaps back around. "I thought you wanted me to tell you where they are."
"Well, yeah, I do. But first, you gotta explain what the hell that bastard did to you!"
She rests her face in her hands, and for a few seconds, he's worried he made her cry. Then, she sighs, slowly shaking her head. "It's not as bad as all that. They were accidents—at least that's what he said, and—"
"What did he do to you?" Hopper repeats, struggling to keep his anger at bay. He needs to know; why can't she see that?
"Will you stop cutting me off? This is not what I'm trying to achieve here. This isn't about me, or Lonnie, or any of the shitty things that have happened to me. It's about you, okay? About what they did to you and how I can help you feel comfortable with how you look now. Because I know you don't, and it's killing me."
He opens his mouth, closes it again, doesn't speak a word. What the hell does she expect him to say to that?
"Joyce..." Her name, the only thing he does manage to get out.
"Sorry." Tears glisten in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you." He knows what she's trying to say without her having to speak the words out loud: Not when they just got each other back. "I just want you to feel like you can talk to me. Whatever it is, whatever happened, I'll try to understand. You don't have to be ashamed."
The truth, the whole truth, threatens to choke him, the reason why he can't possibly tell her everything. Hopper knows Joyce too well for that. If she finds out they tortured him for information about her, it's going to tear her apart. He can't breathe suddenly, his throat closing uncomfortably. The entire world seems to freeze around them as blood rushes into his head. There's this ringing in his ears, and it's only getting louder.
"Hop?" Joyce's voice cuts through the fog. "Hopper, are you okay?"
No, he wants to say—because how could any of them be okay after what happened? —but his voice fails him. Then, Hopper's body finally does move, almost as if on its own. In only a split second, he pulls her close to his chest, clinging onto her as if his life depended on it. One of his hands is buried in her hair; the other one rests right between her shoulder blades. This is stupid. He's supposed to be the one comforting her, helping her, not the other way around. That's how it's always been. That's his job. Who is he if he can't even do that?
"It's okay," she whispers, her arms wrapped around him just as tightly. "It's okay. We're home. I've got you."
Tears burn in his eyes, and Hopper almost pulls away again, mortified. He can't cry, that's just not something he does. He isn't sure if he has since Sara. He tries to blink them away, but it's useless. They run down his face, warm and salty. And embarrassing.
Joyce rubs circles over his back, but that only makes it worse somehow. She can most definitely feel some of the ugly scar tissue—even through the fabric of his flannel—the unevenness of his skin. He hides his face in her hair, his hold on her only tightening. The tears don't feel like they're ever going to stop, like this is somehow supposed to make up for all the years he spent bottling up his emotions. He cries.
They remain like this for a while, just the two of them holding each other. The warmth of her embrace grounds him, and slowly, the tears dry, and his breathing slows back down to a normal pace.
"I'm sorry," she says suddenly, so quiet he isn't sure if she spoke at all. "I'm sorry." Again, louder this time.
"What?" He pulls back just enough so he can look her in the eyes. Her bottom lip trembles, her eyes are all watery. She's crying, too, and he didn't even notice. Man, he really isn't doing a great job at being an attentive boyfriend, is he? "Joyce, what are you sorry for?"
"I just..." She glances up at him. "You were stuck in that awful prison for eight months, and I didn't look for you once before you sent me that message. I should've known that you were alive. I should've gotten you out earlier; I should've done something. But I didn't, and I'm sorry." He opens his mouth to intercept, to tell her that he could never blame her, but she continues speaking. "And now I feel like you don't even trust me enough to talk to me about it. And I know that's stupid, I know that's not what's happening, but it still feels awful. I want to be there for you because I can't stand to see you just bottle everything up. That's not healthy in any way."
Slowly, Hopper lets go of her, though only to hold her face instead, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I'm okay. You got me out; that's all that matters."
"No! Hop, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You're not okay, and that's fine. No one expects you to. I don't want you to comfort me and then turn around and not let me do the same thing for you."
"You rescued me from a Soviet prison. You saved my life more times than I can count. If one of us has to give back to the other, it's me." He chuckles softly. It's not really all that funny.
"This is not transactional!" she pleads. "I want to help you because I love you, and you need support right now, even if you can't see it. That's all. I know you'd do the same for me if the roles were reversed. I'm just trying to show you that you're allowed to receive the same kindness you grant others. You're allowed to be hurt, and scared, and confused. None of that could change the way I see you. None of that makes you weak."
She doesn't get it—and how could she if he doesn't tell her? But then again, maybe she does. Maybe there is more to it than he has allowed himself to admit. It's not only about the fact that they wanted him to give up her name, is it? Not when part of him does feel ashamed at the mere thought of opening up about just how bad it was.
Hopper takes a step backward, closes his eyes, rubs his chin. "Let me sleep on it for a night, yeah?"
***
The bed next to her is empty. Joyce sits up with a start, that same familiar panic creeping closer. She can feel it every time she isn't close to him, every time she doesn't know for certain that he's safe. It's still dark—a quarter past three, according to the clock on her nightstand—their door is slightly ajar, and the cigarettes that had been lying next to Hopper's side of the bed are missing: he had another nightmare.
Quietly, she gets out of bed and grabs one of his jackets from where he has carelessly thrown it onto the chair in the corner. It's almost comically large on her, but she couldn't care less. She sneaks through the living room, careful not to wake Jonathan, and slips into her sneakers. Then she pulls open the cabin door.
Hopper stands on the porch with his back to her, forearms resting on the railing, and a cigarette between his fingers.
"Hop?"
He startles and his head whips around. "Jeez, you scared me!"
"Sorry!" Joyce smiles, raising her hands apologetically. "I'm sorry."
He looks her up and down, and she's sure she can see a hint of a smile cross his face when his eyes land on the jacket she's wearing. "What are you doing out here? You should go back to bed."
She raises her eyebrows, stepping closer to him. "Could tell you the same thing." But she doesn't. Because she knows exactly why he's here, why he sneaks out of bed every other night: "Did you have another nightmare?"
"I, uh... yeah." Well, at least he's being honest. It's been almost a week since he told her he had to sleep on it for a night, and they still haven't talked about it. At this point, she's starting to doubt they ever will. They certainly won't if she keeps being so clumsy about it.
The pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his flannel is calling her name, and she reaches for it, taking one. It's quite a lot emptier than it had been just this evening. Her eyes dart to the overflowing ashtray, standing on the railing between them. "God, how many did you have?" Hopper shrugs, silently holding out his lighter for her. "So, what," she demands. "You had a nightmare, and instead of telling me, you've been out here chain smoking?"
"Didn't want to bother you," he mumbles, clearly a little embarrassed.
"You could never bother me, not with something like this."
They don't say anything after this for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth in quiet companionship. Hopper doesn't look panicked, but he doesn't exactly seem at ease either, stuck somewhere in that torturous in-between she knows all too well. She's spent enough of her life in it to recognize it in an instant.
Joyce takes a deep breath. If he's not going to answer her questions, she will at least answer his. "About the other day: Lonnie; I— You wanted to know what he did."
Hopper looks at her, a puzzled expression on his face. "What are you doin'?"
"Being open with you. Not to guilt you into doing the same, but because I want to. Because you deserve to know." If she takes the first step, maybe he'll allow her to walk this road with him. And if he doesn't, then that's his decision, but she won't make this harder for them by hiding her own demons while begging him to open up. That wouldn't be fair to either of them.
He tilts his head a little, his eyes narrowing. "Okay. Go on."
"So, uhm..." she starts. So many years have passed, and it's still not easy to talk about it. But putting this off any longer doesn't make any sense. He's going to see it all anyway, sooner or later. "I have some scars on my back from the time he pushed me, and I fell onto the glass I'd dropped. He didn't plan for me to slip, obviously, but you know, still not all that fun. I also got a handful of cigarette burns from that time. That's about it, though, I guess. See? Not that bad."
For a few seconds, he just stands there, frozen, his blue eyes open wide as if he were staring into the very core of her soul. Then, finally, he lets out a strangled noise. It sounds like half gagging, half coughing. "Joy, that's... That son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill him."
"No. Hop, It's fine, seriously. I told you, he didn't actively do it to hurt me. I guess he just didn't care about my well-being all that much." She sounds bitter. And maybe she is, maybe that's what twenty years of marriage to Lonnie Byers turned her into.
"Joyce, cigarette burns?"
She groans. "They were accidents. He was drunk and held it too close to my arm, or... I don't know. It's not like he purposefully put his cigarettes out on me or anything." Even after all this time, Lonnie still finds a way to make her defend him. She hates him for it.
He looks at her as if he doesn't believe a word she's saying. "Do you know how many times we smoked together? Has anything like that ever happened with us? No! Because you don't accidentally burn someone with your cigarette, and sure as hell not a handful of times."
"It sounds worse than it was, trust me."
"Did he..." Hopper pauses. "Did he ever actively hurt you?"
Joyce tenses. It was only a matter of time before that question would fall, but god had she hoped that it wouldn't be today. "Few times." She can't look at him while she speaks, her eyes focused on some spot in the darkness surrounding them. "When he was drunk. Or really angry."
He reaches for her hand, squeezing it tightly. "Fuck. I'm sorry."
She shakes her head. "There's nothing you could've done. We barely knew each other when all that was going on. And... well, it's not like I would've accepted your help back then."
"Still, I should've done somethin'. I was chief of police, and he..."
"Don't," she cuts him off. "Don't blame yourself for that shit. Look, yeah, it fucked with me, but it was fine; I got out. I'm okay now."
He lets out something vaguely resembling a laugh, the disbelief in it clearly audible. "It was fine? Joyce, you told me you used to hurt yourself when you were with him." His tone is accusatory but not in any way she's used to. He doesn't seem to judge her for what she did; he just knows she's lying. And of course, it wasn't fine—only not as bad as it could've been.
"I did," she whispers.
"Why?"
Does he seriously have to ask that? "Why did I do it? Because I hated myself, Jim. And my life. Come on, you know neither of us are particularly good at coping healthily." And aren't all the pills he used to take and the booze he would drink a form of self-harm, too? She figures if anyone understands, it's him.
"Because of Lonnie?" Hopper pushes further.
Joyce scoffs. "Yes, because of Lonnie. Obviously, because of Lonnie. I was miserable. He wasn't the only reason, but he was certainly a factor." She takes a breath and when he doesn't say anything, she adds: "Hop, I swear to you, I am fine now. I don't do it anymore. I haven't in ten years."
He nods once. "Okay. Alright. Thank you."
Again, silence fills the air between them. So, what now? All her secrets are out in the open, and she has no idea if he will follow suit. There's been that sneaking suspicion—nagging at her since their last conversation—and if she doesn't ask him in this moment, she might never be able to do it. "Jim, I need you to be honest with me." All the frustration she felt just a few seconds ago when talking about Lonnie is gone, replaced by inexplicable dread.
He crosses his arms. "I'll try."
Her hands are sweaty despite the cold, her heart beats so fast she's sure he must hear it, but her voice is calm. "They wanted you to give up my name, didn't they?"
The look on Hopper's face is enough to let her know that she guessed correctly. Oh fuck. Guilt, shame, despair: it all seems to wash over his features in only a few seconds. His mouth stands open slightly, his lower lip trembles. In all the years they've known each other, she doesn't think she's ever seen him look this small.
"Yeah. Yeah, they did."
Joyce's stomach drops, her breath stuck in her throat. She thought she was prepared for the truth. She wasn't. Overwhelming nausea sweeps over her and threatens to take her down with it. She reaches for his arm, holding onto him as if she were to fall if she didn't. Oh god, she's going to be sick. Because of her. They tortured him because of her. It all goes back to her, every terrible thing he experienced in the past months. She turned the keys, condemning him to this fate; she's the reason they hurt him; she didn't look hard enough. It's all her. She can't breathe.
"Joyce, listen to me." Hopper sounds as if he were far away, barely audible over the ringing in her ears. She leans over the railing, gagging. Vaguely, she can feel his hand on her back, the wood beneath her fingers, the sweat running down her forehead. But it doesn't seem real, none of it does. "Joyce," he repeats. "It's not your fault."
"I'm fine," she chokes out. "One second." She asked him to open up, and when he finally does, that is how she reacts? Is she proving him right with this? She remains slumped over, trying to keep her dinner inside, her eyes shut tightly.
After far too long for her liking, her breathing finally evens, and the nausea fades, though her legs still feel unsteady. She slides down with her back to the railing, pulling her knees to her chest. Hopper sits down next to her. He doesn't say anything; just looks at her. "Is that—" she whispers. "Is that why you didn't want to tell me?"
He nods once, his lips pressed into a fine line. "You can't blame yourself for this. You can't. Please." He's never pleaded with her before, not like this.
"Holy shit, Hop! This is... I'm..." She shakes her head, unable to finish the sentence.
"No. No, you're the reason I survived. You're the reason I kept going, despite everything. No matter what they did, no matter how bad it got—and trust me, it was bad—I kept going because I knew that I had to get back to you and El. I wouldn’t’ve made it if I didn't have that to hold onto."
"It was bad," Joyce echoes. At least he's finally starting to be honest with her. "How bad?"
Hopper scoffs. "Jesus, Joyce! They tortured me; you know they did. What more do you expect me to tell you? All the ugly details?"
The chaos that consumed her mind only a few seconds earlier is gone all of a sudden. She feels strangely calm, all her focus on him. This might be her only shot at this. "Whatever you want. Whatever you need to get out of your system because I'm not going to let you drown in this all by yourself. Tell me what's on your mind, and I'll listen. No matter how ugly." She takes his hand and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"They... I don't really remember the specifics, actually. Just how it felt. And that it hurt. They gave up after a while when they realized I wouldn't talk. Brought me to Kamchatka after that. Minor improvement, I guess. But I didn't— At least when they tortured me, I knew you were safe. I knew that they hadn't gotten their hands on you. The whole time I was there, I was terrified they were gonna find you, do the same shit to you. Or worse. Miracle, they didn't."
She can feel him tremble and squeezes his hand a little tighter. "It's alright."
"No," he snaps. "It's not alright. They would've torn you apart, and I could've done nothing to stop it."
"They didn't find me, Hop. I'm safe. Because of you. You protected me from that. And if they had, it wouldn't have been your fault." Joyce takes a breath. She tries her best not to be fazed by the thought of what would've been when. It's enough that one of them is losing sleep over this. "Just how it's not my fault that they did hurt you."
"You don't get it." He sighs. "Maybe we shouldn't be together."
She reels backward as if he'd slapped her. "What?" Is he breaking up with her? After everything that's happened, all that they went through together? "Are you insane? You can't just say shit like this, Hop. You keep telling me that I don't get it, but you never even try to explain it to me. What don't I get?"
"Everyone around me gets hurt, and it's all my fucking fault!" Hopper shouts, loud enough that Joyce wonders if their kids will burst through the door at any given second, startled by the noise. But they don't.
She gestures down at herself. "What are you talking about? We're fine. I am, and so are the kids."
"I'm a curse, and you all know it. Sara is dead because of me. Diane lost her because of me. I'm a shitty parent when it comes to El. And you... I almost got you killed when I sent you that message. You could've died because of me." He runs a hand over his shaved head.
"But I didn't."
"Not yet."
She grabs him by the shoulders. "No. I'm not gonna let you do that to yourself. You're not a curse, and you're not the reason shitty things happen to you. I know how you feel. Trust me, I do. You think I didn't blame myself after what happened to Will? After I lost Bob and you? But it's bullshit. I love you, and you're stuck with me. Whether you like it or not. Hop, you deserve to be happy; you deserve to have good things."
Hopper freezes. For a few seconds, they sit in silence, their eyes locked. Then, he leans forward and pulls her close to him, his arms wrapped firmly around her. This time, she doesn't let her emotions get the better of her. She holds him tightly and just lets him sob into her shoulder, the way he has done for her countless times before. "I love you," she repeats. "None of this is your fault. And I'll keep telling you that over and over again until you believe me. I'll do it for the rest of our lives if I have to."
He doesn't speak, but she hopes her words are able to reach him. If she can help him even a fraction of how much he helps her, it'll be worth it. He's finally opening up, and that's all that matters now. Later, she can grapple with what all that he told her means for her and how to work through her own guilt. But not tonight, not while the man that has always been so insistent on not showing emotions is crying in her arms.
Joyce doesn't know how long they sit like this until he finally pulls away. "I— Sorry, I don't..." he stammers.
"It's okay." She chuckles, leaning in to place a kiss on his lips. "You're okay. Thank you for talking to me."
A smile slowly creeps its way onto Hopper's face. "Thank you. And... I love you too. You know that, right?"
"Of course I do." She doesn't think she has ever felt this loved by someone before if she's being honest. He pulls her back to his chest, her head resting against it. His heart beats steady, and at that moment, she's sure that they can face everything that's going to come their way. As long as she gets to be with him through it all. Maybe everything is going to be just fine.