Chapter Text
Joyce Byers has spent the last thirty minutes chain smoking outside of the Hawkins Police Station.
Rather than step through the doors to her right and initiate the conversation she needs to have with Hopper, she lights her third cigarette and inhales deeply, hoping this will be the one to adequately soothe her nerves. Despite the warmth of the light at her lips, she can’t help but shiver as a breeze pushes the evening’s icy air through her hair. Today marked the winter solstice; a promise that days will get longer and brighter from here on out. That promise was always only partially true for Hawkins - yes, the sun would begin setting later, but the biting cold that returned at this time of the year typically kept anyone from enjoying the lasting daylight. In true Hawkins fashion, it was 5:37 pm on December 21st, and the sun was still lingering in the horizon while Joyce shivered in the frigid air. At the rate the temperature was dropping, they’d be having a white Christmas.
Logically, Joyce knew it was ridiculous for her to be standing outside, willingly freezing her ass off, when shelter was roughly five steps away. Yet, every time she’d pick up her foot to take that necessary first step, she’d freeze in place. Joyce is aware of her faults, and this is one of them - she’d rather suffer in the cold of an Indiana winter rather than swallow her pride, march to Hopper’s desk, and ask for the favor she desperately needs from him.
She knows for a fact he’s in that building, probably sitting at his desk and putting off the paperwork he so often complains to her about. She also knows that any visit from her is a welcome one; he’s begged her on more than one occasion to swing by the station and serve as a distraction from the daily annoyances that come with being chief. Regardless, that conversation has always ended the same way: with her explaining that being inside that station - inside his office, even - brings back memories that she’d rather not relive. And on a much more practical note - she works too, and her breaks are too short for driving to the station and back. With that logic, even the most stubborn man she’s ever known had been willing to (temporarily) relent.
Instead, Joyce had accepted Hop’s version of a compromise: him stopping at Melvad’s every day. Sometimes he’s only there for five minutes, often on the way back from a call, or if the timing works out and there’s a lull in foot traffic, he sits with her for as long as he (and she) can get away with. In fact, at this point, Joyce is pretty sure the only reason she hasn’t gotten in serious trouble with Donald is because Hopper is the chief of police, and her boss is just scared enough of men with guns. She smiles now, standing still in the cold, picturing Hopper loafing about Melvad’s. Neither of them have had an honest conversation about why their new routine started yet. If they did, it would force Joyce to ask Jim why he wants to see her every day, and she’d have to ask herself why she looked forward to it so damn much.
The sight of her breath creating clouds in the evening air is enough to pull Joyce out of her thoughts. She sighs, putting out her cigarette and deciding enough is enough. Turning on her heel, she moves quickly towards the building’s entrance…at the exact same time the door flies open. She jumps, flinging herself backwards so as to dodge the heavy door, when a familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Joyce?” Hopper calls out, immediately moving in her direction. There’s a smile on his face upon seeing her - the same one he wears every day at Melvad’s - that turns on something warm in her belly. She doesn’t even want to begin unpacking why that is.
“Hey, Hop,” she replies weakly, instinctively fixing her gaze on her feet.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, immediately concerned, as the reasons why Joyce might be standing here right now pour over his mind.
“Nothing! Nothing, Hop. I’m - um - I’m actually kinda cold, can we talk inside?” He closes the distance between them as she talks, and when she finally looks up to meet his eyes, she realizes how ridiculous her nerves are. Sure, Joyce hates asking people for help, but how could she hate asking Hopper - her Hopper - for help?
The blue eyes gazing down on her now are the same eyes that kept her strong while her son went missing; they’re the same eyes that reassured her she wasn’t crazy, that she was right. Those eyes belong to the man who let nothing stop them until Will was safe and breathing again, even if doing so dredged up the trauma from his past and put his own life in serious danger. She could ask him anything, ask for anything, and be safe in doing so.
“Can we talk in my car? I’m done for the day, and I really don’t want to go back in there until I have to.”
She laughs and nods, following him to his brown Chevy Blazer. She does her best to hide the fact that her teeth have started chattering as she settles into the passenger seat. Regrettably, her tan corduroy jacket was not a heavy enough layer to stave off the chill outside. As the engine roars to life and heat starts blasting through the truck, Joyce says a silent thank you to whoever may be listening above, rubbing her hands together in front of the car’s vent.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hopper asks, cutting through the silence that she had accidentally established in an attempt to regain body heat.
“Yeah,” she replies, “I just wasn’t ready for how cold it got tonight.”
“How long were you standing out there? It’s not too bad out” Hopper replies, and Joyce knows she’s caught. He’s right - the walk from her car to the building wouldn’t have left her shaking.
“I was…outside longer than I expected to be.”
“Joyce,” he sighs, and she thinks she may only like the sound of her name when it’s his voice saying it. “You’re kinda freaking me out. Is Will okay? His episodes aren’t back, are they?”
“No!” she says with a bit too much intensity. “No, Will’s fine, Jonathan’s fine, we’re all…fine.”
“Then why the hell are you being so weird?” Hopper asks, sounding exasperated. She knows by his tone that he isn’t trying to be rude. His abruptness has always been a part of him; if she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend they’re fifteen again, talking under their high school’s bleachers, passing cigarettes back and forth. Back then, Hopper was one of the few people who understood that Joyce wasn’t crazy or erratic, she was just excitable, and at worst, a little anxious. In turn, she understood that Hopper wasn’t a complete asshole. Sure, he came off that way, but
Joyce knew the man under his gruffness; a man who cared too deeply to allow himself to feel everything at once. It was a silent pact they had back then: you understand me, I’ll understand you; I’ll accept the parts of you that others don’t like, and you’ll accept me the same. To this day, she mused, they had not broken that pact.
“I’m acting weird because…” the words stuck in her throat, but it was now or never. She forces her gaze over to him, making eye contact while she reaches over and squeezes his arm. By some miracle, his touch steels her nerves more than any nicotine had. “I need to ask a favor of you,” she finally admits, “and I hate asking for favors from, Hop. I hate it. I always have.”
His eyebrows raise in disbelief, and a chuckle rumbles through his entire body. “I thought you were going to tell me someone died, Joyce! Seriously? You look sick because you need a favor?”
“Whatever,” she mumbles under her breath. “Look, it’s hard for me to ask for help. It just is. Now, can I tell you what I need, or do you need another minute to get your laughter out?”
“Please, ask away so I can know what I’m saying yes to.”
“Hop, you don't have to say yes. Please, say no if you don't want to. I never want to be a burden, but you’re the only -”
“A burden? To me? Joyce,” he interrupts softly, her name a whisper on his tongue. “You’re never a burden. Never. Tell me, what’s up?” She’d forgotten her hand was still gripping his arm until this moment, because her whole body turns white hot at the sincerity of his tone, and she is suddenly very aware of how sweaty her palm is turning against the arm of his jacket. She pulls her hand back, moving her palms to rest atop of her dark blue jeans, silently praying that she’s successfully disguised the hot flash that just struck her body.
“Okay, here’s the deal: the only thing that Jonathan asked me for this Christmas was some new camera lens that is barely in my budget, but I have scrimped and saved every penny I can, and I can finally afford it. I figured the camera store in Hawkins would still have it in stock because, you know, only ten people live in this goddamn town, but I went by on my lunch break today and they’re sold out. Hop, I have called every single photography store within a twenty mile radius, and they’re all sold out. The only store I’ve called that has it and is willing to put it on hold for me is a little mom and pop photography store in Indianapolis. I spoke with the owner - she’s a really nice older lady - and I’m pretty sure she’s only willing to hold the lens for me this close to Christmas because I gave her a sob story about how passionate Jonathan is about cameras, and how their dad is useless, so I’m the only one left to pay the bills and support their ambitions. Oh, and there’s the fact that I cried on the phone. But, whatever, I don’t care if she pities me as long as she’ll hold the damn lens for me! I just need to be there by the time they close tomorrow.
You know Indianapolis is a couple hours from here, and it’s a good eighty miles. I just…don’t know if my car can handle that kind of drive right now. When I said I scrimped and saved, I may have taken some money from what was meant to be my car maintenance fund. My tires are closer to needing to be replaced than they are new, and I’m just worried I’ll pop a tire on the interstate, and miss getting to the store before they close. Is there any chance - and I mean it, you can say no - that you would be willing to take me tomorrow?”
Hopper’s eyebrows are pushed to the top of his forehead, a smile forming on his lips, as he takes in the speech that Joyce is spewing at him. He shouldn’t be thinking it at this moment - if he said it out loud, she’d punch him - but when she’s stressed out, her eyebrows furrow and create this cute little line in the middle of her forehead. If he squints, it’s like they’re sixteen again; but instead of stressing about her kid’s Christmas present, she’d be worried about the grade she’d scored on the latest math exam. In that moment, the passage of time felt inexplicable - here Joyce was, all these years later, but with the same expression, same line in her forehead, and the same warm brown eyes filled with stress that still melted Hopper at his core.
“Hop?” she asks, worried he’s going to say no. He hasn’t responded to her, just seems to be staring at her with a gaze so intense it makes Joyce’s cheeks flush. She silently thanks the heavens that her face is already red from the cold, or he’d know the way he was looking at her made her feel…well, she wasn’t sure what she felt. But she was sure that his steady gaze was beginning to cause a physical reaction through her whole body. She needed him to look away.
“I’ll take you,” he finally replies, breaking whatever spell seemed to be holding them in place. “What time do you want to leave at?” The smile that breaks across her face nearly undoes him. Has it always felt this good to be generous? No, he didn’t think it did.
“Well, I know it’s a Saturday, so do you want to drop El at my place? Jonathan will be home to keep an eye on her and Will. I agreed to take an opening shift, so I’m stuck at work from eight to two.”
“I’ll drop El off, she could use a day with Will and no Mike,” he sighs. Joyce can’t help but smile - she’s never seen a teenage boy slide under a grown man’s skin so easily. “I’ll pick you up at 2,” he says with a wink, and Joyce thinks she might start crying from the relief that floods her body. Before she can think about it, she throws her body across the cab of the truck, pulling Hopper into the biggest hug she can manage.
“Thank you,” she whispers against his skin. “Thank you, thank you, Hop.”
The combination of her skin pressed against his and her breath in his ear is enough to make his brain malfunction. “You smell good,” is all he manages to reply. She laughs, unwilling to admit she had sprayed on a cheap vanilla perfume that lives in her car after work. Joyce pulls away from the embrace first, and both of them shift uncomfortably, immediately missing the comfort of the other’s touch.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Joyce asks.
“Tomorrow,” he replies with a nod, watching as she climbs out of his truck and runs to her own green Pinto.
Hopper smiles the whole drive home; he doesn’t know it, but Joyce does, too.