Chapter Text
He's digging in the freezer for a frozen dinner to stick in the oven when his phone starts to ring, shrill and annoying.
Jim Hopper grunted, pulling himself out of the depths of the freezer and trudging over to the phone. Normally he wouldn't answer, but a phone call this late might be the nursing home, and he didn't want to miss a call from them. He grips the receiver, cradling it between his face and shoulder as he flips through the stack of mail he'd brought in earlier but ignored.
"Hello?"
There's silence, then a sniffle, and Hopper frowns. Before he can say anything else, though, a female voice speaks.
"Hop?"
The whole world narrows and then stops at the sound of Joyce Maldonado's teary voice in his ear, the sound of The Hideout muffled in the background. His frown deepens.
"Joyce? What's wrong?" he asks, concern lancing through him. They hadn't spent much time together since he'd returned home last year- she'd started dating Lonnie Byers during his time overseas, and the loser monopolized most of her time.
"Can…can you come pick me up? Please?" she asks, and sniffles again. "I'm at The Hideout. I don't have a ride home."
Her words don't abate the concern lodged in his throat, but he figures he'll get more out of her in person than over the phone. "Yeah, Joy. I'll be there in five."
At her quiet goodbye, Hopper shrugs into a flannel draped over the back of a kitchen chair and grabs his keys, glad he hadn't cracked into the case of beer he'd shoved in his fridge earlier. The old, beaten up truck he'd inherited from his father thankfully starts up without an issue, and he speeds down the dirt road towards town. The Hideout was a slimy dive bar just on the Hawkins town limits, but in the opposite direction from where his dad's cabin resided.
His anxiety is up by the time the bar comes into view- the sun had set, casting everything in dark blue, but as he pulls into the gravel parking lot, he sees the bright red of a cigarette cherry flare in the dimness to the right of the entrance. Hopper parks just a few feet away and gets out of the car, heading in her direction- watches as Joyce tosses the spent cigarette to the gravel below and stomps it out with the toe of her boot.
"What happened?" Hopper asks, and Joyce looks up, eyes wide and expression startled, like she hadn't realized it was him walking towards her. The bar door opens, light spilling out, and that's when Hopper sees it- the beginnings of a bruise high on Joyce's cheek. It's clearly fresh, and there's a small cut just beneath her eye dried with blood. "Where is he."
It isn't a question- he knows who hit her.
Joyce shakes her head, and both of her hands grip one of Hopper's wrists, squeezing gently until he looked down at her.
"He's gone," she says, and Hopper's frown deepens. "I swear, Hop. He- he hit me, and then turned tail and ran when I started to cry. I just want to get out of here. Please."
Hopper studies her, lifting the hand not in Joyce's grasp up to tilt her chin to better study the bruise. It was starting to swell, and she needed to get some ice on it.
"I'm not taking you back to the shithole he lives in," Hopper tells her bluntly. He'd heard the rumors that she'd essentially moved in with Byers despite the lack of a ring on her finger, but he wouldn't bring her back to him if he'd already hit her once. "You can stay with me tonight."
"Hop, I can't ask that of you," Joyce said softly, and Hopper shrugged.
"You're not asking. I'm telling. Come on. That cheek needs to be iced."
The ride back to the cabin is quiet- Hopper had fiddled through radio stations at first before eventually turning it off, the sound of crickets chirping through the open truck windows. It was a nice night for April in Hawkins, but Joyce still gave a little shiver, dressed in a red t-shirt and jean skirt.
Hopper couldn't stop stealing looks at her from the corner of his eye. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about her when he was at war, but his imagination couldn't compare to the real thing. She still looked beautiful, even now, and his stomach tightened.
Joyce follows him up the steps of the cabin, arms wrapped tight around herself, and Hopper winces the moment they step inside.
"Uh…sorry, for the state of the place. Wasn't really expecting company," he apologizes, but Joyce shook her head.
"Hop, it's really fine," she assures him, and bites her lip against a smile as he rushed to pick up the scattered empty beer cans and pizza boxes. He shoves them in a trash bag, then digs around in the freezer. He unearths a bag of frozen peas, wrapping it in a clean dish cloth and gently touching it to her cheek. In the kitchen light it looked worse, the whole left side of her face swelling up, and Joyce winces at the chill.
"Sorry, gotta get a little pressure on it," Hopper said, and Joyce's eyes find his. She looks tired, dark circles marring her under eyes, unhelped by the swelling bruise and small cut. "Hold that there. I'll get something for the cut."
He disappears to the bathroom, pulling antiseptic and gauze and a small bandage from the medicine cabinet, along with a handful of ibuprofen. Back in the kitchen, he fills a clean glass with water, then hands her the pills along with it. Once she'd taken the medicine, he has her pull the ice pack away so he can properly clean the cut and dried blood. His touch is gentle as he placed the bandage, then guided her hand back to her face with the ice pack.
"I'll take the couch," he says quietly, and shook his head when Joyce started to protest. "I'm not sleeping in the bed while you're on the couch, Joyce. I'll grab some sweats and a shirt you can sleep in. Then tomorrow, we'll…figure something out. Yeah?"
Joyce looks at him for a handful of blinks before she nodded, and Hopper offered a small smile before he stood, disappearing into his bedroom to rifle through his clean, unfolded laundry that had been living in a laundry bag since he'd brought it home from the laundromat the other day. He manages to find a pair of gray sweats and an old Hawkins High t-shirt- they'd swamp Joyce's slight frame, but it was better than the skirt she was currently wearing.
"Thanks, Hopper," she says as he hands her the clothes, and then directs her towards the bathroom. It's only when she closes the door that he realizes what he hadn't previously accounted for- which was that his bedroom currently did not have a door. He lived alone, so he'd never been bothered by it, but the living room looked right into his bedroom, which was currently a messy disaster thanks to his bachelor ways.
A soft groan escapes him, and he forces himself to at least attempt to tidy up the space while Joyce was in the bathroom. He does manage to get it at least slightly presentable- no more clothes on the floor, the insane amount of water glasses he'd had precariously stacked on his bedside table were in the sink to be washed in the morning, and he'd changed the trashcan full of used tissues to a new, clean bag. Then he changes the sheets, using his only spare set, and smooths down the comforter after fluffing the two pillows at the head of the bed.
Joyce reappears after a moment- she's got the sweats rolled up so the length of the legs wasn't quite so long, and the shirt did swamp her, but Hopper would be lying if he said the sight of her in his clothes didn't do something to him. He clears his throat.
"I, um, changed the sheets for you," he says, and gestures to the bed. "But I…did kinda forget that I don't have a bedroom door."
Joyce blinks, taking a moment to comprehend his sentence before she lets out a soft little laugh.
"You don't have a bedroom door?" she asks, and there's just a trace of amusement in her question- a hint of the girl he'd spent high school falling in love with. Hopper shrugged, sheepish.
"I live here alone, Joyce. Why would I need a bedroom door?" he asks, and another chuckle escapes her. It's a good sound. But then Joyce swallows, wincing at the pull of her bruised cheek, and it's a stark reminder than neither of them are the kids they were in high school. "Do you need anything else?"
"I'm okay, Hop. Really," she says, and she squeezes his arm before she slips into his bedroom.
He brings his pajamas into the bathroom with him, brushing his teeth and staring at himself in the mirror for a long moment before he walks into the living room. In the bedroom, Joyce was a tiny little ball under the sheets, and Hopper pretends not to see the way her shoulders shook.
Hopper flicks the television on low, I Dream of Jeannie filling the screen. He settles himself on the couch, tugging a blanket over himself, and doesn't fall asleep until the sound of Joyce's soft sobs stopped hours later.