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Hopper had meant to leave. He had gotten in his truck, had even turned the key in the ignition and put the truck in gear, but somehow, he just couldn't bring himself to drive away.
He'd left Joyce in her living room, lamely telling her to try to get some sleep. He'd left her there, after he'd stood in her home, and told her that her child was fucking dead.
He shook his head, sitting in the cab of his truck, letting out a breath. He had been mad with grief after Sara, capable of anything. He couldn't just leave her out here, going on about monsters in the walls and talking lights. True, her older boy was still here, might be enough to tether her, and she had always been stronger than he himself had ever been. But still, he couldn't leave her. So he tipped his hat over his eyes and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible.
It wasn't very comfortable, but it wasn't like he slept much these days anyway. True, if he'd gone home he would have had a few beers and then jerked off to help him on his way, but even then, sleep had never come easy, had never stayed long. Not since Sara. He must have dosed a little, though, because he woke with a start to a light tapping on the glass of his window.
He startled awake, fumbling at the window crank, finally getting it rolled down.
“Jesus Joyce, what's wrong?”
What's wrong? Her kid is fucking dead. That's what's wrong.
She was looking at him with those eyes of hers. Big, and brown, and deep in despair. She stepped back a little, and he fumbled at the door handle, hands still sluggish, but she was coming around the passenger side, and hoisting her way in. He stopped working on his door and turned to look at her. There were those eyes again.
“What are you doing out here?”
He sighed, not sure how to answer her.
I couldn't leave you alone.
I thought you might need me.
I'm afraid of what you might do.
She must have seen something of an answer in his face, though, because instead of pressing him on it she plucked his pack of cigarettes up from the cup holder and fished one out. He fumbled again a little, but managed to find his lighter and pass it to her. She lit it and took a deep drag.
“Thanks,” she whispered, smoke curling around her face, as she passed the cigarette to him.
She had stopped crying, he realized. Her eyes were red rimmed and fever bright, but she wasn't crying anymore. He took a drag himself and tapped the cigarette gently against the ashtray, then passed it back to her. Her hands were surprisingly steady now. They were quiet for a while, just passing the cigarette back and forth. Until Joyce whispered again.
“He's still out there.”
Hopper's heart sank. He knew, he knew this part. He had watched his daughter die, but he still hadn't believed it. Not for a long time. Sometimes he still woke up a father, only to have to again live through remembering that she was dead.
“Joyce…,” he tried.
She turned those eyes on him again. “He's still out there, Hop.”
He sighed. There were no words for this. He had already looked her in the face once tonight and told her that her son was dead. He just didn't have it in him to do it again .
So instead, he reached a hand out to touch her.
“Joyce,” he whispered again.
His fingers brushed her cheek, her hair, and then she was pressing her face into his hand. He could feel the weight of her in his palm, and the weight she was carrying.
He pulled her into him. He didn't know what else to do. She let him, leaning awkwardly over the center console, and rested her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her as best he could. She felt so small, like she might float away if he didn't hang on to her. He felt her press her face into his chest.
They sat there, quiet again, Hopper wasn't sure for how long. He thought he felt what might be crying. He hoped it was crying, anyway. She needed to cry.
Then she took a shaky breath, and scrambled over the console at him.
He was stunned for a moment, it had happened so quickly. One moment she was tucked against him, then she was practically on top of him. A knee to the stomach brought him back pretty quickly, though, and he managed to get out a what? before she was straddling him, pressing her mouth to his throat as she fumbled at his belt.
“What?” He tried again, still frozen in his seat.
What are you doing?
She shook her head against him, and went to work pulling his shirt out of the front of his pants.
The rest of him was still baffled, but his dick seemed to understand what was happening. It was suddenly pressing very hard up against his zipper, and he gasped when Joyce ground down on it.
“I need…,” she'd gotten his shirt untucked and his pants unbuttoned.
He tried to focus, tried to stem the flow of blood from his brain to his dick long enough to think rationally. He understood well enough. The desperate need to feel something, anything, other than the agony inside her. He'd tried to numb that pain himself, time and again. Alcohol, pills, pussy. He understood.
“Joyce, you don't…”
You don't want to go down this road.
He shifted a little, used his hands to still her hips. She brought her face up from where it had been buried in his neck, and there were those eyes again, looking almost black in the darkness.
“You don't want to do this,” he tried, aware of just how hard his dick was, still pressed between them. “It doesn't…”
It doesn't help. Not in the long run.
That had never stopped him though. Hell, it still wasn't stopping him. He still used the bodies of others to numb himself into oblivion, if only for a night.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
Yeah, she did. Of course she did. He sighed, ran his hands up her sides, felt her shiver. Then she was pressing back into him, tugging awkwardly at his zipper.
“Please,” he barely felt her whisper, into his neck.
He closed his eyes. He could do this. He could do this for her. As though she even had to beg. As though he would deny her anything. It wasn't like this would be a hardship, his dick was quick to remind him. He could offer her this comfort; this comfort he'd sought in so many others over the years.
Still, it saddened him a little, to be relegated to this position in her life. Just a port in a storm. A warm body in the darkness. Well, this was what he could do. It wasn't like he could actually help her. It wasn't like he had actually returned her son to her, safe and sound. Really, this was the best he had left to offer.
He hissed a little as the cool night air hit his dick. She had it out now, bobbing ridiculously between them, as she leaned back to tug at her own pants. She'd come out here fully clothed, and was now frantically trying to squirm her way out of her pants, cramped in the space between his knees and the steering column.
“Shh, shh, easy.”
I'm not going anywhere.
He helped her ease her pants down over her hips, past her knees, kick them off somewhere into the darkness of his truck. She must have taken her panties off with them, he realized, as he felt the warm wetness of her press against him. She ground down again, sorely testing his resolve, easy, let her lead, and went to work on the buttons of his shirt.
She took care of them remarkably well, considering, but seemed stymied by his Henley. She grumbled a little, then began rucking it up under his arms, her hands scrabbling along his belly and up his sides. He had the wherewithal for a moment to remember that the last time she's seen him without a shirt had been back in high school, back then he’d actually had a set of abs to speak of. She didn't seem too concerned about that, though, finding his hands in the darkness and pulling them under her own shirt, pressing them against her skin.
He took the hint, even though it felt a bit like crudely cropping a feel. Like they were strangers here, and he was just pawing at her as she passed by. He gasped as her cold hands found his dick in the darkness between them. Then she was lifting herself up, and then she was on him. And then he was inside her.
She groaned at the feel of him, and grabbed at his hair with her hands while she pressed her face into the side of his neck. His dick, cold a minute ago, was now warmer than he could believe. He gasped, so startled he didn't know what to do with himself, afraid for one terrible moment that this would all be over before she had even got started. He'd known this was the direction they were headed, but he hadn't expected to get here so quickly. He moaned a little in spite of himself, into her hair, and let his hands find their place on her hips.
She didn't seem particularly interested in kissing him, instead keeping her face buried in the space where his neck met his shoulder as she writhed on top of him. Well, he couldn't really blame her, it had been a long time and a lot of cigarettes since he'd last brushed his teeth. He would have liked to kiss her, though.
She was already working herself hard against him, sliding up and down, grinding back and forth. Whatever blood was left in his brain was trying to remind him to get to work himself. Letting her do all the work at a time like this would be unconscionable. He slipped a hand between them, tried to feel his way to her clit in the darkness. He couldn't believe how wet she was, how quickly and thoroughly she had been ready. It would have been quite the ego boost under any other circumstances.
He seemed to be having trouble finding his target, though. She was huffing and groaning above him, moving unpredictably, and he just couldn't seem to get it together. In the normal run of things he would have used his mouth, but there was clearly no dislodging her now. Finally he settled on just holding his hand still so she could rut against it, and let her find her own pace.
That seemed to do the trick, and she found a steady rhythm. She had her mouth on his chest then, he'd probably find some bruising there tomorrow, but it didn't really matter. God, she felt good. So, so good. He tried to keep his wits about him, tried to remember that this was about her, but that band of pleasure inside him was pulling taut. God, if he blew before she had taken what she needed… He was already an absolute son of a bitch for letting her son die. Robbing her of any possible comfort she might take from him here would be unforgivable. He set his teeth.
It dimly occurred to him that there was probably a handful of condoms left in the box in the glove compartment, and he probably should have offered to put one on. There was no danger of pregnancy, he'd seen to that after Sara, but he wasn't sure if Joyce knew that, had even thought about it her current state. Or heck, maybe she'd already seen to that herself too, in one way or another. It seemed too late to bring it up now anyway. She was clearly a woman on a mission. He let his free hand ghost up her back, under her shirt. She moaned against his chest, her mouth hot against his clammy skin, and he felt the wetness growing between them as she picked up her pace.
She rolled her hips, grinding on him, pressing him down and back into the seat, enough that the seat belt buckle dug into his back a little. He fumbled around with his free hand until he finally made contact with the correct lever, and the seat back fell away behind him, taking him with it. Joyce reeled a little in the saddle, grabbing at his chest and shoulders to regain her balance as she resumed her rhythm.
They were more perpendicular now, there was more space between them. More space for him to move his hand, to find her clit and rub correctly. His Henley was bunched up somewhat awkwardly in his armpits and her fingers were digging into his pecs, but he made some exploratory movements with his hand, trying to see her face in the dark for feedback. Facial expressions were hard in this low light, but he could tell that her eyes were closed. She wasn't looking at him.
This angle did seem to be better, though. He found her rhythm, and matched it. He even cupped a breast with his free hand, under her shirt, and felt her nipple harden under this thumb.
She made a noise that sounded almost like pleasure, rather than grief, so he kept rubbing one thumb over her nipple and the other over her clit, and just tried to hang on. Jaw clenched, sweating absurdly in this brisk night. He really hoped he had this in him.
But there it was, her legs were tensing, squeezing him between them, and he could feel the telltale ripples starting deep inside her. Hold on man, you're almost there. Just a little longer.
He felt her orgasm crash over her. Her head fell back, her mouth open, and in the darkness, just for a moment, she almost looked at peace. She was still rippling and pulsing around him, her tremors squeezing him deliciously, and he was rapidly losing himself in her. He had gotten her over the finish line, and his brain was starting to shut down.
She was slowing now, though, and batting at his hand between them as she crumpled forward onto his chest, breathing heavily. He blinked, his own orgasm teetered on the edge for a moment, then beginning to recede. He took the hint and removed his hand, gently rubbing her back instead.
He wasn't entirely sure what to expect now. It would have been nice to get off, sure, but that was now looking increasingly unlikely. Well, he could always jerk off later. It wasn't like this had actually been about sex, let alone about him .
She hadn't entirely stopped moving, though. She had slowed her frantic pace, but was still squeezing and grinding around on him, and he was still impossibly hard inside her. So hard it might have even been embarrassing had she not been the one that brought him to this state. Her body still felt taut, keyed up; there was no sign of the lazy, loose limbed slackness that usually came after. Maybe she still wanted more? Sometimes women did, he knew that, and he was certainly happy to oblige.
He swiveled his hips experimentally, thrusting gently up into her warm wetness. She responded immediately, digging her fingers into his shoulders and grinding down against him. She stayed there for a while, face buried in his chest, impaled, rocking on top of him. He ran his hands to her hips, traced slow circles with his thumbs, felt her breath against his skin, felt it picking up.
Then she was leaning back again, rising up and sliding down him in a way that had him pinching his eyes shut and flailing for whatever was left of his self control. He slipped his hand between them again, found her clit, still impossibly turgid and swollen, and resumed his ministrations, faithful doing what had worked before.
She seemed close, thank Christ, he wasn't sure just how much he had left in him, even with the break she'd given him. He was barely hanging on as it was. It did occur to him that blowing in now might not be quite as egregious as it would have been before she got one in. But still, he wanted to do this for her. To be this for her. If only for tonight. He could hold out until she got another. Maybe after that she'd be able to sleep.
He set his jaw and focused on what he fingers were doing to her rather than what she was doing to him. Still, his own pleasure was ratcheting up, coiled inside him, ready to bust.
He took a deep breath and redoubled his efforts. She was close now, he knew it, starting to flutter and ripple around him. Then she was digging her nails into his pecs, he knew he'd see the evidence of them tomorrow, and she was gasping, arching her back and bearing down on him.
Oh thank Christ.
It did occurred to him, briefly, as his vision was going fuzzy, that the polite thing to do would probably be to pull out. Well, that ship had clearly sailed, he wasn't going to try to move her now. She was still gasping and grinding over him, thrusting in time with the pulsing inside her, and it was all over.
He groaned, long and low, as he pumped into her. She must have felt him let go, because she moaned again, pressing her face into the side of his, and gave him a few more gentle rolls with her hips to help him along. That was generous of her, he hadn't expected that.
They lay together quietly, her head resting on his chest, just catching their breath. He rubbed her back a little, just making slow, gentle circles. He could feel himself starting to soften and slip out of her, the space between them rapidly moving from warm and wet to cold and sticky. He was starting to get a little uncomfortable, and, thinking of his upholstered, wondered idly if there were any napkins in the glove box. He didn't want to disturb her, though. Maybe this had helped, maybe now she would be able to sleep. His own exhaustion was certainly creeping up on him, now coupled with the usual post orgasm haze. He had to stifle a yawn.
She moved off him suddenly, shifting herself back over the console and into the passenger seat. He winced a little as the cold air hit his dick, still wet from being inside her, and he moved quickly to tuck himself away. His pants and underwear seemed to be doing most of the work absorbing their mess. Well, that was alright. They'd wash. He brought the seat back up, and let his Henley fall back into place over his stomach.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
“Don't be.”
She started rooting around on the floor then, and it took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize she was looking for her pants. He went to help, wishing, as his hands found burger wrappers and empty cigarette packs, that he kept his truck a little cleaner. He finally found her pants in a tangle under the brake pedal, and handed them to her. She shimmied into them.
He wanted a cigarette. He wasn't sure what was coming next, but he was pretty sure he'd want a cigarette to deal with it. He knew this part, too. This part after, when she'd remember, again, that her kid was dead. He found his pack, slightly crumpled now, and lit one up. He took a deep pull, then offered it to her, realizing too late that she was still on his fingers, and now probably on the cigarette too.
If she noticed, she didn't care. She took a long, slow drag, and settled back into the seat. He shivered a little, feeling the chill now that her warm weight was off him.
Eventually she passed the cigarette back, and he took it. They sat for a while, just passing the cigarette back and forth in the darkness. The low, deep fear that she would never want to see him again, in any capacity, for a variety of reasons, was starting to find a foothold.
“Do you want to stay?” So low he barely heard it.
“Um…,” he faltered, voice failing him. “Do you want me to stay?”
Her silhouette nodded in the darkness. “Yes.”
He nodded too, “okay.”
She got out first, he certainly wasn't going to rush her. He followed quietly behind her, suddenly very aware that her other kid was in the house. Hopefully he was a deep sleeper. He'd already come into this kid's house and told him his brother was dead. And now he'd just… Well, he'd have to make sure he was up and out in the morning well before the kid woke up.
She shucked off her pants before climbing into bed, but left her shirt and panties on. He took his shoes off, but wasn't sure where to go after that. It seemed ridiculous after what they'd just done, but modesty and propriety suddenly seemed to matter. He settled on taking off his uniform shirt and emptying his pockets, then he lay down next to her in his pants and Henley. She curled up under the blankets, facing away from him, while he lay on his back and stared up into the darkness. After a while she scootched back a little, until her back was touching his arm.
Carefully, slowly, he turned toward her, tucking his body around her tiny frame, and put an arm over her. She didn't stop him.
He was pretty sure she slept, at least a little.
He might have even slept a little too.