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Joyce woke before the alarm, throat burning and head heavy like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of her body. The rain had started sometime in the night and now tapped steadily against the window, dull and persistent, the kind that made everything feel slower. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, a feverish heat under her skin. That faint ache behind her eyes.
She exhaled, pushed the covers back, and sat up anyway.
Whatever was wrong with her would have to wait. Joyce told herself it was just one of those mornings that would loosen its grip if she didn’t acknowledge it besides she had things to do.
Hopper groaned in discomfort when he felt her small frame untangle from him. He opened up his eyes and matched her gaze.
“Five minutes?” He quietly pleaded,
“No Hop, I’ve got things to do.” She replied instantly, a bit too rushed and abnormal for Joyce, who normally craved moments like this.
She pulled on her top followed by a pair of jeans and her familiar brown jacket which once again had another hole. Great, another thing to add to the to-do list for today. She stepped into the bathroom closing the door behind her. Staring back at her disheveled reflection she almost couldn’t believe it was herself. Her eyes had a hint of crimson around. Her eye bags hung lower than Hoppers belly, now that she’d fattened him up since his time being imprisoned in Russia.
…
A little while had passed. The rain had ended and now the sun showcased its rays through the windows, illuminating the rooms with a bright yellow. She’d just finished helping Will with homework and was now juggling the laundry basket. Hopper noticed how she’d misplace items, coughs and sneezes escaped her, he noticed the way she paused while doing things. He constantly tried to help Joyce but she wouldn’t allow him. Gosh how stubborn she was sometimes.
Her body constantly argued with her. Her head hammered with pain, she felt as if someone was playing around with her insides, sometimes taking breaks to give a regular punch. She pressed her palms against her skull, trying to silence the throbbing.
By the fourth time in an hour, Hopper didn’t even pretend not to notice.
Joyce slipped out of the living room quietly, like she thought if she moved gently enough her body would cooperate. The bathroom door clicked shut.
Then the sound.
Hopper froze where he was standing.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the unmistakable hitch in her breathing, the awful wet echo she was trying and failing to swallow back. She was being careful, like she always was, like she didn’t want to inconvenience anyone with how bad she felt.
That was it.
He was on his feet before she was even done, the chair scraping softly against the floor. He stopped just outside the bathroom door, jaw tight, hands clenched uselessly at his sides as it happened again. Quieter this time. More exhausted.
“Joyce,” he said, firm now, not angry but done. Completelydone. “That’s enough.”
There was a pause. A sniff. The sink ran.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice thin and wrong and absolutely not convincing.
Hopper rested his forehead against the door for half a second, breathing out through his nose, steadying himself. He hated this part. Hated that she always pushed until her body forced the issue. Hated that she thought she had to.
He knocked once, gentle but final.
“You’re not,” he said. “And you don’t get to decide that alone.”
When she opened the door, she looked smaller somehow, wrapped in his jacket like it might hold her together. Her face was pale, eyes glassy, stubbornness still clinging on by muscle memory.
Hopper took one look at her and softened instantly.
“Hey,” he murmured, hands already on her arms, grounding, real. “You’re done for today. I don’t care what you think still needs doin’. I’ve got you. Okay?”
She didn’t argue this time.
She just leaned into him, and Hopper placed a warm hand around her waist, his body radiating heat and comfort.
“Bed. Now.” He spoke gently but sternly, making no room for protsests.
Once in the room he helped her get dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of plaid Pyjama bottoms. His shirt drowned her and the bottoms pooled at her feet. Her hair now tied into a messy bun with little strands of soft brown curls sprung out, refusing to be tied. Even her hair was stubborn.
…
Hopper later returned with a tray. Steam arose from the bowl of soup, a boiling cup of tea, that Joyce could swear she heard the kettle squeal and a small paper which had numerous tasks ticked off.
“Told you I could help.” He spoke, his voice cracking slightly as his cold exterior melted at the site of her, every time he laid eyes on her. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, frowning when he could feel her burning. He leaned in giving her cheek a small kiss while he tucked a fluffy wool blanket around her before finally placing the tray on her lap
Hopper brushed her hair back with his thumb, slow and absent minded, like it was muscle memory. Joyce smiled at him, small and tired and real, and Hopper felt something in his chest finally settle. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was just them.