Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Joyce finds herself getting lost in them. 

Hopper’s stoicism isn’t something he needs to work at. His face rings of it, like he was made to be in a position of authority. The crease of his brow and his thin lips beneath his mustache, but most of all, those eyes.

She’s seen him use these eyes to intimidate, to command. From playing high school sports to police interrogations. Narrowed and steel-like, cold and purposeful. But, for her, that hardened edge in his gaze tends to melt into something sweet. Kind, even. Beneath such a stern exterior, there’s a lightness that doesn’t take a whole lot of effort to bring out. They crinkle at the corners when she makes him smile.

Joyce doesn’t know how eyes so blue can be so soft–how a gaze so piercingly mean can become so gentle at the sound of her own voice. She knows blue as frigid and harsh, and maybe sometimes it is, but when it’s just the two of them, she and Hopper, blue feels warm. It feels familiar and full of understanding, and she can’t help but feel an urge to paint her whole life in this safe cerulean.  

“What?”

She blinks, and it only takes her a beat to register the amusement written all over Hopper’s face. 

“Hm?” Joyce hums. She doesn’t move her head from where it’s perching on her palm, holding her chin.

Hopper’s lips quirk, bringing his mug of coffee up to his lips. “You’re staring,” he comments gently, so she stares some more. He’s gazing at her through his reading glasses from where he’s sat at the counter, and blue blue blue. 

“You’ve got the prettiest eyes, y’know that?” Joyce murmurs affectionately, reaching up to smooth over the evidence of sleep in his short hair, and watches with adoration as Jim Hopper blushes. 

Chapter Text

The weather outside matches her stress. What started as a drizzle, the rain lightly tapping on the window, has become full-on a downpour since Joyce realized just how much time has managed to slip away from her while she and Hopper were doing a whole lot of nothing on the one day they have plans. 

Already perturbed that she doesn’t have the time to make use of that recipe she’s been wanting to try out, Joyce putters around the kitchen, her brain attempting to focus on ten things at once; trying to gauge Jonathan and Nancy’s arrival time with the Friday night traffic, starting a mental grocery list when she opens the the refrigerator and finds that they’re out of butter, where the hell the pot lid is, and–

“Damn. Tornado hit?”

Joyce only barely looks up from where she’s chopping up a tomato at the counter–not to the man behind her, but to the window, where the wind is blowing and the rain doesn’t seem to be slowing any time soon. “Feels like it,” she agrees distractedly, nodding to the window.

Hopper just closes one of the cabinet doors she must’ve left open. And then closes another, and then nudges the spice drawer shut. Joyce barely has time to roll her eyes before registering him close the refrigerator door, because how long has she had that open for?

She shakes her head. “Did you do what I asked?”

“Living rooms’ clean, yeah.”

“What about the baby gate? Did you put that up?”

“Yeah, I mean...” He scratches his beard and looks down at her like she’s being silly. “Addy can barely hold up her own head, Joyce.”

“Hopper, I–”

“Hey, I put it up, I’m just sayin’.”

Joyce bites back an annoyed eye roll as she finishes her cutting job and idly reaches for the orange bowl she could’ve sworn she had put right there, but apparently not; Hopper wordlessly brings it over from beside the sink. While she scoops up the pieces of tomato and empties them into the salad bowl, a big hand comes to settle on the small of her back.

“You doing okay?” Hopper asks, looking down at her. She doesn’t meet his gaze, but she can tell he’s watching her expression.

Joyce nods. “Yup,” she says tightly, taking a stride across the kitchenette to the sink, “Just trying to get the house ready.” She turns on the faucet and runs her hands beneath the water.

“Well, I don’t think it’s anything to be stressing over.”

“I’m not stressed,” she assures him through her teeth. Her voice goes against her words. “We’re a little more behind schedule than I’d like to be, that’s all.”

“...Which was both of our faults.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.” (It most definitely was his fault. He was the one who’d wanted to take advantage of the fact that their days off overlap for once. (It’s not like she had any trouble complying, but that’s besides the point.))

“I’m just saying,” Hopper continues, placating, “Nobody’s expecting perfection. It’s not like the president is about to walk in.” As Joyce shuts off the water and reaches for a paper towel, he comes up beside her again. She scoffs.

“Well, president or not, food is nowhere near ready. And I don’t even have pants on.”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“My son might!”

She squints up at him incredulously, drying off her hands, and makes a mental note to take her jeans out of the laundry load in a little while. Hopper looks down at her for a beat before taking off elsewhere and out of the kitchen.

Joyce allows her eyes to sink shut as she takes a small breath, but as soon as she decides she’s not sure she even wants to know what he’s up to, she hears the sound of a record crackling to life. Before she can begin to question, a low bass and a snapping beat begin to fill the space, and it only takes a brief moment before the tune starts to sound all too familiar.

When Hopper meanders back into the kitchen, snapping his fingers along stupidly and grinning beneath his mustache, the efforts to force down her growing smile are already useless. The Temptations give way, singing about sunshine on a cloudy day.

Joyce scoffs out a laugh. “What are you doing?” Amusement slips into her tone and outweighs the sternness, watching as he comes closer, mischief in his gaze.

“...I’ve got the month of Mayyy…” Hopper half-sings, off key, and he’s trying to get her to crack, trying to get her out of her frazzled state. This little display should only do more to fuel her annoyment, and yet she finds herself giggling as he lowers down to hold her at the waist. She squirms.

“Oh, Jeez…”

“What, no time for this either?”

“No, not really!”

They really don’t have time, but Joyce doesn’t shrug him away when he guides her over to the living room by the hand. He pulls her close, hands intertwined, moving along to the beat and she can’t do anything but follow along.

“I haven’t heard this song in years…”

“Striking up some memories?”

Joyce bites down on her grin, rolling her eyes at the knowing tone in Hopper’s voice. “A few, maybe.”

He hums lowly like he’s proud, swaying along to the rhythm. She cranes her head a little, reaching her free hand up to cup his jaw as she meets his gaze. He’s singing–singing to her, she realizes–and in those warm eyes, Joyce sees the same Jim Hopper that used to sneak through her bedroom window back in high school. He looks so young right here. 

“...this waaay, my girl…”

Blush rises to the apples of her cheeks, shaking her head. “You’re so dorky,” Joyce murmurs, allowing her head to settle on his chest when the song begins to lull.

He just cranes his head down to place a kiss to the top of her head.

Chapter Text

Joyce barely recognizes herself as she watches herself in the bathroom mirror. The reflection stares back and blinks in time, showing her a prettier, almost younger seeming version of the woman she usually is. 

It’s an old dress; she’d been digging around in her closet a few days ago, deciding whether or not she was going to have to pick out a new dress on her and El’s shopping trip, and stumbled across it. It’s been a long while since the last time she’s worn it and her figure certainly isn’t the same as it was pre-pregnancy, so when it fits her in the way it does, she’s a little surprised. Pleasantly surprised.

The red number fills her out in places she’s not sure she’s used to anymore–following the flow of her curves snugly, accentuating her freckled chest a little too proudly to be as modest as she usually prefers, but tonight, Joyce can’t help but find herself impressed, turning to her side in the mirror. She preens, feeling pretty and feminine in ways she usually doesn’t. Huh. 

There’s a series of gentle knocks at the door. “You decent?”

Her glossy lips curve into a small smile, putting on her gold earrings. “Yeah,” she says, and watches in the mirror’s reflection as it opens and in comes Hopper. Joyce bites down on her lip as she watches his face.

He comes close, slowly, his gaze never straying from her while his mouth remains parted in a small gape. Blinking slowly and his eyes deep, he’s looking at her like she's a prey of sorts. She straightens under his eyes and flushes, stomach flipping. She giggles.

“Hi,” Joyce says, looking up at him as he comes to stand beside her. 

Hopper blows out a breath. “I don't think I've seen you in a dress since the 70s.” Wetting his lips, his hand runs up the back of her dress until he drags the zipper up the rest of the way. Joyce doesn't know why she shudders at that.

She tilts her head playfully. “What? Don't like it?”

“Oh, yeah,” he replies, and everything from the tone of his voice to when he stands behind her, kissing the top of her head, lets her know that he very obviously does like it. “‘Should take it off.”

Joyce rolls her eyes and snorts. He looks so damn proud of himself, smirking beneath his mustache.

Emboldened, she presses herself back against him and bites down on her teasing grin. “Later,” she purrs, craning her head back against his broad chest. “I’ve got a date to make first.”

Hopper hums lowly, chuckling, but he doesn't move much. His big hands come to settle on either side of her arms, squeezing appreciatively. She meets his gaze in the mirror, locking his ocean eyes, and she feels too good to shy away. 

“God, you're gorgeous.” His tone is low, almost a rumble, and she flushes. Watching his eyes travel down her front in the mirror does nothing to help. They lock eyes in the mirror. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” Joyce returns softly, smiling as she turns around in his arms. She reaches up to urge him down by the collar of his shirt so she can kiss his clean-shaven cheek. “Handsome.” Pulling away, she smoothes over his fitted button-up, and cute might be a better word for his silly grin accompanied with the red lipstick mark she’d left on his skin. The greys in his mustache blend into the light brown beneath the warm lighting of the bathroom.

After a moment, Hopper’s eyes fall down to where his hand reaches in his pocket. “I, uh, got somethin’ for you,” he says, sounding almost sheepish.

Joyce’s eyes widen at the small, classy navy box he pulls out. “Did you, huh?” she teases warmly, taking it as he holds it out to her.

“On mine and El’s shopping trip the other day, yeah. Thought I’d pick something out for you…”

Her smile parts in a small gape as she removes the lid. Cushioned in black velvet is a silver chain necklace, simple and elegant, the small pendant centerpieced in the middle. Her heart warms at the mere thought, eyes twinkling.

“Aw, honey…”

“It’s okay if you don’t like it, I just–”

Joyce shakes her head immediately. “Of course I love it,” she tells him earnestly, setting the lid on the counter as she takes it out of the box. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

Hopper beams down at her. “Want help with it?”

Her nose wrinkles, nodding as she passes the necklace back, and turns around to face the mirror again. In the reflection, Joyce watches as he gathers up her curled locks in one hand, moving to rest it over her shoulder. He reaches around her front to drape the jewelry over her throat and she can’t help but bite her lip and grin.

Joyce has never needed to be spoiled and spent on, but she can’t deny that being pampered once in a while is fun. It’s been a while since she’s had a man spend on her, and watching Hopper in his clean slacks and tamed hair fasten the necklace clasp with just a beat of concentration makes her feel almost giddy.

He reaches around once more to straighten out the pendant, the metal back cool against her chest. His touch lingers but after he moves his hand away, he leans down to kiss her temple.

“What if…” he murmurs, hands snaking around to settle on her hips, “we stay home?”

Joyce snorts, shaking him off. “Come on. We’ve got a reservation to make.”

Chapter Text

“You’re gonna impale yourself holdin’ the stick like that.”

“Yeah, keep talking. This one’s going in.”

Squinting her eyes and drawing her lip between her teeth in concentration, Joyce lines up the cue, hesitating for only a beat longer before taking the shot…that doesn’t go in. Not even a little. The colorful balls clack and spin out around the green felt, but not one of them makes an effort to slide into one of the pockets out of pity, much to her dismay.

Joyce almost doesn’t want to look at Hopper because she already knows what’s on his face.

“Let me get on my feet a little,” she scolds up at his smug grin before he can get out the witty comment she can tell is simmering on his tongue. “It’s been a minute for me. I’m rusty.”

He grins. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he quips, handing back her red solo cup before circling around to the table.

Joyce barely remembers the last time she’s been in a bar. The Hideaway is where Lonnie used to stumble back from at ungodly hours of the night with booze on his breath, so maybe that had something to do with it, but the atmosphere here and now has nothing bitter in the air at all. Summer’s nearing its end, the evenings are starting to grow chilly, and it won’t be long before the kids–young adults, now, really–are all packing up their rooms and heading off to their schools. It’s acting as one of their last hangouts as a group before they all start being grownups. 

(Joyce had planned on keeping an eye on Will and El. It’s not like she’s not peeking her head over to see what they’re up to every time quiet falls or they erupt into melodic laughter, but she’s quick to treat herself to a drink and peel off to the pool table in the back with Hopper following behind.)

She smirks and takes a swig of wine. “Form’s sloppy,” she teases, even though it really isn’t; squared feet, angled hips, flannel rolled up to the elbows to reveal forearms that shouldn’t be as distracting as they are beneath the dimmed fairy lights.

The comment, successfully, pisses him off more than he’ll ever admit, just like how Joyce can’t help but ogle him a little, thinking how damn good he looks playing this stupid game. 

Hopper shakes his head, ignoring her, letting Tom Petty’s voice fill the bar through the jukebox as he lines up his shot, wetting his lower lip, and sinks in a twelve. 

Joyce rolls her eyes while Hopper grins, standing up. “Forms sloppy,” he echoes, sounding far too proud with himself. She can practically see his tail wagging.

“Alright, do it again.” She nods to the table, gestures with her cup. “Since you’re so proud.”

“Hey, play nice…” He aligns the cue again, taking the shot with a satisfying thwack and a not-so-satisfying result. The balls scatter, but this time, not one goes in. Hopper looks at the cue like it's the stick’s fault.

Joyce tilts her head, pouting. “Hmm.”

“Alright, you're no Minnesota Fats either.”

“Gimme a second. I'll smoke you.” She takes a step forward, placing her drink on the windowsill and giving him a sideways glance. 

Hopper’s got an amused glint in his eyes as she breezes by him, leaning on his cue. “We’ll see about that.”

Ignoring him, Joyce posts up on the other side of the table, lining up her shot with precision in her squinted eyes. She sends the cue through the bridge of her fingers and watches as she knocks a solid into the pocket beside Hopper. She stands, wordlessly striding over to where the cue ball rolled to, and gets in another graceful shot with a smirk splayed on her lips.

“Huh,” Hopper hums as Joyce preens, straightening. “You’re getting better. I might have to start takin’ you seriously.”

She rolls her eyes, reaching for her glass. “What, you thinkin’ wagers?”

“Yeah. I sink this next one ‘n you let me take you out,” he challenges casually, despite the matching bands on their fingers already.

Her eyes widen slightly, hiding her smirk behind the rim of the cup. “I think you used that same pick-up line on me in high school, y’know that?”

He ignores her, leaning to set up his shot. “How’s that sound for a bet?”

Joyce bites her lip, nodding. “Alright…” She leans against the table, watching as he surveys his options through narrowed eyes. She moves her glass into her other hand, and languidly, she draws her fingers up along his back. “If you miss, you’re buying me a new dress to wear to that dinner.”

Hopper’s brow raises, keeping his eyes trained on the cue. He sniffs. “Am I?”

“Yup.”

“Kinda defeats the purpose if I win anyway, Joyce.”

“I guess,” she drawls. Her eyes flicker to where her hand traces up to his collar, toying with the fabric softly. A coil of uncharacteristic, bold warmth circles in her stomach as she hesitates. She hasn’t even had that many refills, but she doesn’t stop herself from murmuring against his ear, “So if you get it in, I’ll wear something underneath you'll like, too.”

Her own words catch her a little off guard, cheeks heating just like Hopper’s do. Mid-stroke, he chokes on a stifled cough and the balls scatter like scared birds, and not one of them cooperates. He absolutely botches the shot.

Joyce barely registers the roar of laughter that erupts from one of the booths the kids are posted up in, too busy watching the big bad Jim Hopper blush and dart his gaze to the sound.

She can't help but chuckle, smoothing down his hair before he straightens. “What happened to the pool shark?” she asks sweetly, leaning on her cue.

He scrubs over his face. “Don’t count if you're playing dirty,” he grumbles, but he can't hide the smile in his tone if he tries to.

Joyce tilts her head. “Thought you could use some motivation.”

Hopper waves her away like a fly. “Get outta here and let me make this shot.”

Raising her hands defensively, she does as told and circles around to the other side of the table as he lines up his shot again. This time, with no further distractions, he manages to sink a ball, and then another one.

Hopper looks up at her expectantly, smirking dumbly beneath that mustache and raising his brow. 

Joyce just rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her wine to hide her smile and pink cheeks.

“You started this, woman.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“I'll buy you the dress anyway, how's that?”

Joyce nods pleasedly. She tosses her empty cup in the trash can, shaking herself. “C’mon, ‘games not over.”

Chapter Text

 Her brain won't shut off. Not that it’s ever quiet up there–her brain operates like a hamster on a wheel most of the time–but tonight, it's worse than it normally is, which is saying something.  

Hooded eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling of the bedroom, Joyce idly fiddles with the ring on her finger, running the pad of her thumb over the small diamond over and over again. 

It’s not like it’s changing anything, not really. Their relationship status, sure, but it’s still gonna be Hopper she’s coming home to everynight from work. Hopper and his gruff voice, his flannels, the way he always seems to know when something’s eating at her. 

Like it's on queue, the lump of blankets beside her stirs and then lazily rolls over to face her with a soft groan.

“What?” he mumbles, the mattress creaking beneath his weight as he moves onto his side. She feels his hand slip down to where her shirt’s ridden up beneath the sheets, resting his hand on her hip. 

Joyce’s brow furrows slightly. “I didn't say anything.”

“You think loudly.”

She stifles a yawn, exhaling through her nose as she looks over at him with a tiny, sleepy smile. He’s gazing right back at her, blinking slowly and drowsy. Kind of like a bear resurfacing from hibernation. His hair’s all mucked up, the sheet is half-covering his torso, and it’s stupid how bad she loves him.

“Gettin’ cold feet on me?” Hopper asks, teasing and soft like her pillow. His blunt fingernails drag up and down her side, right beneath the hem of her shirt. 

“No, just…” She shakes her head vaguely, warmth creeping at the corners of her mouth. “We’re getting married.”

He sniffs, scrubbing over his face. “Last time I checked, yeah.”

She ignores him. “Is that not crazy to think about?”

Hopper hums lowly, continuing to trace her hip with his hand. “A little bit,” he murmurs.

“I mean–” Joyce shifts, jostling the bed as she moves onto her side, laying across from him. “What do you think little twig, eighth grade James Hopper would think of all this?”

That makes him chuckle. “He’d think I’m full of shit.” His gaze falls over her face, watching for a beat before he smirks. “You would’ve slapped me, I think.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I wouldn't've!”

“Joyce, I think you forgot how bad I got on your nerves,” he muses. “You did not appreciate my efforts trying to pick you up back then, if you recall…”

Joyce snorts. “Well, you didn’t really know how to talk to girls. At all. ‘Member when you tried impressing me by smoking one of your dad’s cigars?”

“What, it didn’t work?”

“You, like, choked on it–”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off dismissively, turning onto his back completely as he stifles a yawn. “‘Think it worked, anyway. You’re in my bed.”

She rolls her eyes and grins lazily, gaze fixed on the slow rise and fall of his chest, and she doesn’t have enough restraint to not nestle in close to his warmth. The bed creaks as she scoots over, huddling into his side while his arm wraps around her. A contented sigh falls from her mouth as she props her chin on his shoulder. 

A soft heartbeat thrums beneath her palm as she brings her hand to settle at his chest. “Tell me something,” Joyce murmurs.

Hopper scritches at his beard. “Like what?”

“I dunno.” Her eyes flicker down to where her fingers trace along one of his scars. “Something cute and dumb.”

He lets out a little huff that’s close to a chuckle, but then he goes quiet, like he’s mulling over her words. She kisses his shoulder.

“I never really thought I’d ever be married again,” he confesses after a short while. “Not after everything.”

There’s nothing ill in his voice, but it teeters on the edge of sadness. So vague and so little words, but they speak volumes anyway. Joyce softens even further into his arms, blinking slowly up at him while he keeps his gaze fixed up at the ceiling.

“I dunno. I guess I made peace with the idea that it was all over for me, but…” 

Joyce smiles weakly. “But,” she agrees softly, and Hopper looks down at her, where her eyes are already waiting for him.

A big hand moves to hold her jaw, tucking a strand of frizzy hair beneath her ear. She hums, lashes fluttering as she leans into the touch, and gently, so, so gently, he coaxes her face up so he can kiss her; slowly, softly.

“God, I love you,” he mumbles, right at the corner of her mouth.

She blushes like it's the first time she's heard him say that to her. “I love you, too.”

Even when they pull away, the kiss still lingers–his hand at her face, continuing to breathe the same air until she surges up to press herself closer, capturing his lips with her own again. Hopper sighs and something swells in her stomach. It makes her giggle and suddenly, it’s like she's got a high school crush again. She shifts, never taking her mouth off his as she swings one leg over his lap, moving to lay atop his figure.

“This is how you’re dealin’ with pre-wedding jitters, huh?”

Joyce fights a grin against his jaw. “Shut up.”

Chapter Text

It’s not a big deal. It really isn’t, and certainly not in the face of the apocalypse, where there are far more pressing, urgent matters than her scratchy throat and her irritated sinuses.

She’s still upright, still breathing no matter how clogged her nose is. She's still functioning well enough to get through the day and that's more than enough in times like these.

Flu season has always been a hassle in her house, but it’s never Joyce who’s sick–it’s usually poor Will and his cruddy immune system, and it’s not been uncommon for Jonathan to fall into that same boat, too. She’s used to fussing over those two like any mother would, but she’s not used to being the one that gets fussed over. She’s not used to being sick.

“You look like hell,” is one of the first things Hopper tells her after opening up the door.

She rolls her eyes. “Rich coming from you,” Joyce grumbles, promptly moving past him and his big bushy beard and into the cabin. “Mountain man. Hi, sweet girl,” she says distractedly when she spots El in the corner of the couch. Instead of going to hug her or ask if she's eaten like she usually does, Joyce makes a straight beeline for the kitchenette.

Behind her, he closes the door. “Really, though. You feelin’ okay?” 

She vaguely waves him off, beginning to throw open the cabinets. “Yeah. I just caught some bug, that's all.” Joyce squints up at the shelves, frowning as she scans the contents. “Do you have Tylenol?”

Hopper hesitates, crossing over to her. “Uh, I should…”

“Thanks.” She buries a cough into her elbow. “Karen’s clear out and, for whatever reason, over the counter medicine was what everybody went and raided from Melvald’s when everything went to shit.” She glances over at El and it’s too late to bite her tongue. “Sorry.”

“Waitaminute, you went into downtown?” he asks. His voice takes on a sterner tone, brow knitting disapprovingly as he straightens back up.

Joyce shrugs, sniffling. “I’ve kinda been coughing up a lung here, Jim,” she mutters, taking the pill bottle from him. “It was last resort.”

He scrubs over his face. “Jesus Christ, Joyce, you're not supposed to—”

“I drove in and drove out. That’s it.” She picks a glass from the cabinet and moves to fill it up beneath the tap. “I’m not in the mood to fight with you right now.”

He makes some low, stupid noise. “You're the one who came in here with an attitude.”

“I don't feel good.”

“I can tell.”

Shutting off the faucet, Joyce just shakes her head and pops two Tylenols into her mouth, taking a swig of lukewarm water from the cup. She exhales, falling quiet for a couple beats while TV fuzz fills the space.

“Sorry,” she says finally, managing to remove that hardened edge in her stuffy tone.

Hopper sighs. “‘S okay,” he assures her, and there’s something surprisingly gentle in it—like maybe he's been worrying about her for longer than she’s known.

She looks up and their eyes meet.

His are worn but weaved with concern, studying her face as she blinks up at him sleepily. His short hair has grown back, longer and a little messy, nearly resembling a cut he might've had before all this Soviet Union business. It’s a little longer and idly, she wants to run her hands through it.

But Hopper beats her to it. “How long you been feeling like this?” he asks, voice low and dropping to a near-whisper, reaching out to push a lock of her tangled, frizzy hair behind her ear. 

“Only a day or two.” Briefly, her eyes flutter, body leaning into his gentle touch before she can stop herself. His palm cradles her cheek, now; thumb tracing beneath her eye, and something sweet tickles in her stomach.

“You feel pretty warm,” Hopper says quietly.

Joyce hums, noncommittal and raspy, cheek smushing against his hand like it's the most natural thing in the world, because now, it’s beginning to be. They're still getting used to this—them, together—but when she's too damn sick to overthink it all, everything about it feels so right. 

He exhales, clicking his tongue. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You're stayin’.”

“Am I?” Her brow raises amusedly, slowly opening her eyes.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head slightly and drops his hand to go putter around the kitchen. “Go sittdown.”

Joyce blinks, straightening. “The boys are still at Karen’s,” she explains, putting a firmer filter to her tone. She coughs weakly. “I can't just leave them, Hopper.”

He blows out a breath. “I get it,” he starts, “but I’d rather you get me a little sick than infect Karen ‘n company.” He nods over to the couch. “Sit, Joyce.”

Joyce stubbornly stays still for a couple beats longer, watching as he turns on the stove and pulls out the kettle, and she can't do much else but follow his orders.

She wakes up slowly, throat raw and her face stuffy, body warm beneath a patterned quilt. It takes a few moments for her to remember where she is. 

Joyce rubs over her face, cold hands dragging down her cheeks, squinting out the window as she notices how dark it's gotten outside since she’d fallen asleep. Outside, pine needles bristle, dusky and cold, but inside, the cabin’s warm and cozy, and it almost seems out of place from the madness going on out of this sleepy little snow globe, if she ignores Hopper’s big rifle against the wall. And the faint boom in the distance.

A heavy sigh falls from her lips as she stirs, running her fingers through her hair that’s in desperate need of a trim. El’s door sits cracked open by three inches and Hopper’s nowhere to be seen, either, but the pitter-patter of shower water tells her he hasn't gone too far.

She rolls her neck over the crick, grimacing. There’s no chance she’ll be getting anything close to a good night’s rest on this thing. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she glances at the curtain. There’s an obvious solution to this dilemma, but she's sicker than she cares to admit, and it’s not like they've been shacking up together already, exactly. 

(Not like how she'd like to be, at least.)

The Wheeler house is where she and the boys have been squatting for the past few weeks, packed in tight and ever grateful for Karen’s generosity. It’s a little chaotic but it’s been working (sort of) but still, Joyce would much rather be cramming into this little cabin with El and Hop. Logistically, it makes close to zero sense; it’d be more comfortable in the domestic sense but five people to two bedrooms is a little bit inconvenient.

But she can’t bring herself to care. She misses him when he’s not around, and the idea of waking up in warm arms, pressed into his heat, is almost enough to make her forget how awful she feels. Her stomach flutters, but she winds up shaking it off and pads over to his bedroom, only stealing one of his pillows, hugging it to her chest as she brings it back over to the couch.

“Hey,” a lower, familiar voice says.

Joyce looks over her shoulder, mid-fluffing the pillow. “Hi,” she murmurs, and it sounds more like a croak. She muffles a small cough into her sleeve.

Hopper ruffles his damp hair idly. “Feel any better?”

“A little.” She moves to face him from where she’s sitting on the couch. “Stole one of your pillows.”

He sniffs. “Why’s that?”

“...’cause I’m setting up bed?” she says; more asks, really, because she’s not sure if it’s the correct answer. There's a look on his face–not quite disapproving but close to it–that lets her know she’s not fooling him for a second.

A tiny smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Hop, I’m sick,” Joyce reminds him.

He shrugs. “And I doubt crashing on my shitty couch is gonna do you much good.”

She shakes her head, burying her grin into her palms as she scrubs over her face. She sniffles, and then, “Are you asking me to bed right now?” 

A pause. “I mean…”

When she lifts her head, she catches his stupid smirk, watching him scratch the back of his neck.

“Literally, yeah. If anything, you’re takin’ the bed and I’ll take the couch.”

Joyce’s brow raises amusedly.

“Look, if you want–”

“Shhh...”

Hopper looks far too pleased with himself, but she’s already standing up and rolling her eyes, grabbing the pillow along with her before padding over to where he stands beside the bedroom.

She lingers, just for a tiny beat as she finds her footing. “You sure?” she murmurs, making herself look up at him.

He softens, blinking down at her slowly, and then he smiles weakly beneath his beard. “C’mon.”

“You’re kinda asking me to get you sick, y’know,” she says, pushing the curtain aside.

Hopper shrugs easily. “Eh. I’ve dealt with worse.”

Chapter Text

The kitchen smells like burnt toast and the black coffee Hopper brewed for her, the sun only just beginning to filter through the windows and Joyce can hear the pitter-pat of water running from down the hall.

“Big plans today?” Hopper asks from the coat rack. His voice is rough but easy, like the littlest remnants of sleep are still lingering in his tone.

Her lips twitch, palms cupping around her mug. “Mhm,” Joyce hums. She runs a hand over the top of her head. “Whole lot of nothing, for once. Probably being a homebody with El.”

“She feelin’ any better yet?”

“I think so.” She sighs and brushes a hair off her forehead. “She sounded less stuffy yesterday.”

Hopper makes a noise of agreement, fumbling with his jacket. “Yeah,” he voices after a long beat, “she’ll be fine. Give her a day.”

“Mm.” Joysce sips her coffee as he crosses into the kitchen. “You should call in and stay home with us.”

“Yeah? Tell ‘em what–can’t come in, playing house and watching Magnum?”

“Exactly.” She smiles tiredly, as he moves over to her and leans down close enough so that she can smell the sharp tang of aftershave beneath his faint cologne. He kisses the top of her head, once then twice.

“Bye, honey,” he murmurs against her hair, lingering, casual and sleepy.

Joyce blinks, leaning back in her seat as he stands back to his original height. Her brows lift in an amused little quirk and butterflies flutter around in her belly like she's sixteen. “Honey?” she echoes, low and teasing.

He shrugs. “Trying it out,” he explains, and he looks sheepish. He reaches for his hat and there’s a tiny little smile beneath his bushy mustache, avoiding her fond gaze. He’s being cute.

Her nose wrinkles, a little smirk crawling onto her mouth. “I kinda like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He clicks his tongue, putting his hat atop his head. “Good to know,” he murmurs, and leans down for one more soft kiss to her mouth.

Chapter Text

…Joyce’s eyes drift down to her glass, thumb brushing against the side idly. Gunfire rings out in the distance—nothing close enough for immediate panic to kick in, but definitely close enough for mountains upon mountains of concerns to be hiding in her peripheral. It’s frustrating, sitting around in the Wheeler house, while the world continues to crumble. She hates feeling this hopeless.

She takes a sip of orange juice, her eyes flicking back up as she sets the glass down. Karen’s eyes, gazing from across the island, are more knowing than Joyce has ever seen them. Maybe traumatic shit does bring people together.

“So,” the blonde sighs, brushing a lock behind her ear, “how’s Jim?”

The change in topic has her brow jumping slightly, but Joyce softens. She can’t help it.

“He's okay,” she says, shrugging. “Okay as anybody can be these days, but...” 

Karen tilts her head, offering a gentle smile. She’s known this woman since freshman year, but she thinks this is the most genuine she's ever been with her. It’s nice. She’s nice. 

“He's lucky to have you.” Her eyes flicker with something Joyce can't put a name to as she takes a sip of her drink. “You're lucky to have him.”

Joyce blinks, then squints up at her, remaining quiet until she sets her mug down and meets her with the tiniest little smirk. “What?”

“Nothing!” She gives a defensive little look as she puts both her elbows on the counter, leaning in closer. “It’s just…I dunno. Watching you two reconnect has been nice.”

"'Nice'."

“Very.” Karen’s grinning. Knowingly. Too knowingly.

Joyce already feels warm; she shifts her feet, shaking her head and desperately trying not to crack into a smile. “You're so…” She doesn't even know how she was going to finish that, but Karen’s looking at her like she's already got it all figured out in her head.

“Okay—” the blonde leans closer, dropping her voice “—I need you to level with me.”

“Is this a 9:00 AM conversation?”

“Nope, but it’s 5:00 PM somewhere. Now spill.”

“Spill what?”

“You know what.” 

Joyce scoffs, averting her blue gaze as she lifts her glass. This is so ridiculous.

There’s a beat, then,

“...comin’ back to the house with your hair all tousled and red in the face—”

Joyce chokes on her orange juice, throat burning and her hand flying to cover her mouth as she stifles a cough into her palm.

Karen’s grin is criminal, physically holding back her laugh as she reaches to hand her a napkin, neatly folded with little bunnies printed on the fabric.

“You're insane,” she mutters into it, but there’s no real bite behind it.

The blonde giggles. “Just—humor me, Joyce.” She leans forward again, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth. “C’mon. Details.”

She hesitates, continuing to hold the napkin to her face as she stares down at the marble counter, because there's no way in hell she’ll be able to meet Karen’s eyes.

“I mean—” Joyce shakes her head, sighs; fails to hide her pinkening cheeks and her smile as her mind wanders to only a couple nights ago, where it'd been late at night and she’d been stifling back moans as he sucked kisses to her thighs. “Jesus.”

“Joyce Maldonado…”

Karen’s eyes are sparkling at this point, voice in a giddy whisper that reminds her of two teenage girls gossiping on the floor of a bedroom; painted nails and magazines and rotary phones. It’s obvious that she's waiting for more.

“I can't believe I’m telling you this.”

“Continue. Please, actually.”

Joyce wipes the corner of her mouth with the napkin, though there’s nothing really left to wipe—just a flimsy excuse to hide her smile, to stall.

Something swirls in her belly, warm and fluttery. “He’s…attentive,” she murmurs, carefully choosing her words. 

“Attentive?”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “God. I dunno. He's so—careful, but also… not? This is crazy. I don't even know.”

“Oh, I sure do,” Karen purrs, and Joyce doesn't think it's possible to blush any harder as she is, shaking her head into both of her hands.

“No, listen, like–” Joyce lifts her head, gesturing at nothing in particular as she drops her voice. “He just…Jesus. He talks, Karen.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And he, like, grabs on me. Like, he can be…”

Karen’s lips quirks, brow cocking as she scans over her face. “What, rough?” 

Joyce exhales through her lips, nodding. “Oh, yeah.”

Karen is enjoying this far too much to be comfortable anymore, but it’s only when the stairs start to creak that any remote shame starts to make itself known again. Joyce might as well be mistaken for a tomato as Will comes down, his pajama pants plaid and his hair all messy from sleep.

“Hey, baby,” she manages to get out after she clears her throat a little. “Sleep okay?”

“Mhm,” Will hums, tolerantly leaning down and letting Joyce plant a kiss to his temple. “Hi, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Karen softens back into suburbia instantly as if she never would even think of prying for dirty details. “Hey,” she lilts, grinning warmly. “I was just gonna start on breakfast. I think I saw the pancake mix in the pantry.”

Will smiles sleepily, offers to help, but it’s when the blonde’s crouching down to fish the waffle maker out of the cupboard and the boy is temporarily busying himself in the pantry that Karen shoots a little smirk up in her direction.

Joyce hushes her wordlessly, hiding her grin behind the rim of her glass. She takes another swig of her orange juice, and as Will comes back into view with the bag in hand, Karen mouths “good for you ” to her before flipping back into her mom-self, and Joyce can only flush and try not to think about it too hard. At least not in Karen Wheeler’s kitchen at nine in the morning.

Chapter Text

Joyce can't help the soft moan that tumbles off her bottom lip as her back hits the stocked shelves with a soft thunk, the noise muffled by Hopper’s mouth as he holds her there. Her feet are off the ground, her heels are hooked behind his back, and her name tag’s already fallen off, somehow.

It’s still early—early-ish, at least, with a couple minutes to spare before Melvald’s opens that he decided he could make good use of. She can't even pretend she wasn't egging it all on; it’d been her who’d given his ass a smack while he helped stocked the shelves she can’t reach, her who’d tried extra hard to be late to her shift this morning with nips to his throat and wandering hands beneath their duvet.

She fumbles with his hat before taking it off, hears it land somewhere on the floor as she threads her fingers through his curls; messing up his combed hair.

“You smell good,” Hopper mumbles against the corner of her mouth, and Joyce lets out a lazily little chuckle. 

“Mm.” She grabs his face and coaxes his mouth back on hers, shuddering at how easy he goes and the way he adjusts her grip on her thighs with a simple hoist, and everything seems louder in the backroom, she notices vaguely. His little moan when she tugs on his hair, the giggle she makes when he nuzzles his face into her throat; the proximity and closeness makes warmth trap down in her belly.

“I kind of need to open shop, y’know,” Joyce murmurs against his head, craning her neck as he kisses at the skin there, and Hopper only hums.

“We've got—” he maneuvers her weight, slipping one hand out to glance at his wristwatch. “—like, three minutes.”

“Oh, three minutes?”

“Mmm.”

Joyce kicks one of her heels against his lower back in the weakest protest imaginable, biting on her lazy smirk. “Well, you better make ‘em count,” she purrs, and he’s on her mouth again, muffling her laugh with his mouth.

Chapter Text

1947 Hawkins, Indiana 

Recess is Jim’s favorite class. 

No more books, no more of Miss Carter writing cursive letters on the chalkboard that he can’t read. No one telling him to sit still or to learn to tie his own shoes. Just thirty whole minutes of running as fast as he wants and clenching fistfulls of rocks and kicking pinecones across the blacktop like they’re soccer balls. 

Dad told him that time flies by when you’re having fun, so sometimes, he tries to focus on having absolutely no fun at all so that he can stay outside longer–or at least feel like it, staring up at the clouds and thinking about the numbers he’ll have to look at when he comes inside. It works only sometimes.

But then Jim sees her–crouching in the dirt over by the stump of the big tree–and he finds another way to stop time from passing by, because Joyce Maldonado is the opposite of fun. 

She’s little. Littler than all of the other girls in the class and even littler than Bob, who Jim is pretty sure still cries when his mom drops him off in the mornings. But Joyce doesn’t cry; she acts like she’s bigger than she is. She’s loud when she talks and she always has bandages on her legs and arms. At the beginning of the day, her hair always looks nice; nicer than it does by the end of the day, at least, because it’s usually always messed up and frizzy when school’s over. She plays outside like a boy and she’s weird. 

Jim crosses over to her, kicking a dead clump of grass til he loses it. His face scrunches up as he notices the smudges of dirt on her freckled cheek and baby blue dress.

He sniffs, his shadow casting over her as he stares. “What are you doing?” 

The girl doesn’t look up. She’s humming a little, mumbling as she puts her hands in the dirt again.

“What are you doing?” Jim says again, louder and frowning. 

Finally, she glances up at him. “Finding roly-polies,” she tells him, not bothered but not exactly happy, either. 

He blinks. “What?”

Joyce tilts her head like he’s the weird one. “Bugs.” The sun catches on her eyes when he moves to look at her skirt when she adjusts it–they look gold, almost. “See?”

She straightens her rumpled, dirty skirt, revealing three little fat, pill shaped bugs crawling around on the fabric. She preens, scooping them all up, cradling them in her palms as she lifts them toward his face. Her fingernails are dirty.

Jim frowns, leaning away slightly. “Why are you looking for them?”

She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. There’s more dirt smudges when she puts her hand down. “I like ‘em. They curl up when they get scared, but they don’t do it when I hold them.”

“But you’re a girl.”

“Yes.”

“Girls don’t like bugs.”

She stares at him for a long moment as something angry appears in her big eyes. “I do.”

Jim ignores her, looking down at the fat bugs in her hands again. “You’re weird.”

She doesn’t flinch at the words even a little. She just blinks, gaze dropping down to his sneakers.

“You have big feet,” she decides on, flatly, and that’s all. 

His mouth parts, and right as he looks down at his shoes, the recess bell rings. 

Joyce stands up–leaning down to carefully place her bugs back in the dirt before she dusts off her still-dirty dress and breezes by him without a second glance.

Jim watches her go, and then he looks down at his shoes. He sticks his tongue through the gap where his baby tooth used to be.

His feet aren’t even that big.

Chapter Text

Between her and Hopper, Joyce tends to wake up first, she’s discovered. It’ll still be dark and she’ll find herself cocooned in big, warm arms, most mornings. He’ll still be asleep, snoring softly, and for a little while, she’ll remain curled up against him, content to stick around in the sleepy haze before she remembers what she’d been worrying about the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that one.

This morning is no different. Joyce crawls out of bed, spends an extra beat replacing herself with a pillow as he, just vaguely, begins to stir.

It’s been a weird couple months. She can’t decide whether they’ve felt long or short, whether she’s processed what’s going on or if she’s still in shock. Hawkins is in total lockdown, El’s a wanted man, and Hopper’s…alive. She can’t bring herself to think about it too hard, but still–being kissed goodnight and waking up to his face has become strangely innate, like her brain is remembering how to love in the way she’s quickly come to love Hopper. 

Joyce visits the bathroom, throws her hair into a bun, and manages to put on a pot of coffee before she hears familiar shuffling sounds from behind the curtain of the bedroom. She stays wordless, fighting a sleepy smile until a bigger, warmer body presses against her. Warm hands find her arms, a chin perches at the top of her head. He’s like a blanket.

She cranes her head up. “Hi.”

“Mm.” Hopper presses a kiss to her hair. “Why’re you getting up so early?” He nestles a little closer, hands making slow paths up and down her upper arms. 

She shrugs. “Can’t sleep anymore,” she says, reaching for the coffee pot. An amused frown crosses her lips after a beat. “Just ‘cause I wake up, doesn’t mean you have to, y’know...”

He doesn’t reply; Joyce squints as he leans over to kiss her cheek, his beard tickling her before he comes up to his full height with a stifled yawn and a final squeeze to her shoulders. Once she pours them each a cup of coffee, she lifts it up and he takes it politely as she takes her own sip, the mug working to warm up her chilly hands.

She lets out a soft sigh as she leans against the counter, her gaze falling to Hopper, only to find his set of matching eyes already on her like she’s something worth being stared at in her frumpy, ripped t-shirt and rolled sweatpants.

Joyce’s nose scrunches. “What?”

Hopper frowns. “What?”

For a beat, she watches him, torn between confusion and something else she can’t put a name to until he breaks into the tiniest little smirk beneath his mustache.

She blinks. Lips parting into a slow smile, watching him wet his lips and his eyes wander down. She shifts under his gaze, letting out a giggle that’s too breathy to sound like a real laugh.

“What’s your problem?” Hopper asks, frowning like he’s innocent.

Joyce snorts. “You.”

The man feigns some sort of hurt and only moves closer, placing his mug down with a dangerous, terrible little sparkle in his icy blue eyes. “You wanna fool around?” 

His voice is lowered, almost shy, fighting back a proud little grin. She can’t do much else but flush and gaze up at him incredulously. 

A scoff escapes her mouth as she shakes her head. “You’re so…”

“–Shh, c’mere.”

Hopper coaxes the coffee mug out of her hands and Joyce lets him, just like how she lets him back her up against the counter of the kitchenette and hoist her up to sit and perch there. Something flutters low and hot in her belly as he reaches to tilt her head to the side, exposing her vulnerable throat to him. Her eyes flutter as he trails kisses up the front of her neck; sleepy little things, drawn together with the gentle scrape of his teeth and the tip of his tongue. She moans, and he kisses up her face as if to muffle her noises.

Threading her fingers through his hair, she tugs him closer, giggling when he chases her kiss and goes back for seconds and thirds. The warmth of his body, the rough scrape of his beard against her skin, it all makes the world outside this little kitchen vanish. For a moment, there’s no Hawkins, no chaos, no danger. It’s just him and her, and the quiet hum of the coffee machine in the background.

Chapter Text

One thing that Joyce has come to learn about Hopper is that he's a charmer (when he wants to be, at least). The annoying part is that he knows it just as well as she does.

She doesn't entertain the flattery most of the time, no matter how amusing he might be. She knows better than letting him woo her out of being annoyed with him. But tonight, she's tired, her back hurts, and, no matter how petty she is, there are hundreds of other factors contributing to her preexisting crankiness. Hopper being mildly annoying doesn't need to be one of those things, she supposes.

Still—Joyce rolls her eyes down at her pile of unfolded laundry as he saunters into the bedroom, not bothering to look up at him. There’s nothing remotely inviting about her stance, but of course Hopper’s overseeing it. Impossible.

“What now?” she grumbles when he settles two big hands on her shoulders, making a weak attempt at shrugging him off.

Hop makes a feigned noise of hurt. “Ow. I’m not allowed to look at you now?”

She bites back a mean comment and just shakes her head incredulously, mouthing an irritated oh my god down at her hands as she folds one of her shirts.

“Shh. C’mere…”

He’s playing with fire and he knows it, but he also—somehow—has managed to figure out each and every one of her on and off switches. Slowly, his thumbs start to move and knead into the knots of stress woven in her shoulders. Joyce bites her lip.

“Good?” he murmurs.

She squints one of her eyes shut as he feathers a kiss to her temple. “You're pushing it.”

“Uh-huh. Stop tensing up.”

Stupidly, she listens, dropping her shoulders and letting him work out all the tension in her joints. She's barely doing anything with her hands, now, just letting her eyes flutter and her head bow slightly beneath his hands. 

“There you go,” Hopper coos, and Joyce really can't do much else but let out a little hum, torn between giving in completely and staying mad. With the way her body is melting into him, the latter seems to be winning, unfortunately.

He kisses her hair. “Who let you be so beautiful, huh?”

That’s what gets her. She can't help but arc into him a little and fight back a growing smile, stifling her amused giggles.

“What's so funny?”

“You.” She cranes her head back against his chest, blinking up at him sleepily. “You can't sweet-talk your way out of everything, y'know.”

Hopper gives a little shrug, clearly proud. “Seems to be working,” he reasons, and Joyce doesn't have the willpower to argue when he leans to kiss her forehead through her bangs.