The puddle of brackish water could have been avoided. Had Jim Hopper been at all focused on where he was in the moment, he would have looked down as he stepped out from the sleek black car.
Instead the water soaked into his socks, coloring them a muddy brown. Reflexively he shuddered, fumbling for the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket as his handlers smirked from behind tinted glass in the front seat.
"Yeah, yeah, what're you looking at?"
His words held no bite, just exhaustion and weary acceptance. The passenger-side window slowly rolled down with a mechanical drone.
"You don't have to do this." The man's voice was smooth and calm, with a touch of mirth.
Hopper set his teeth, ignoring his instinct to grind as he accidentally bit down on the cigarette that had already made its way to his lips. He wasn't certain as to how.
"Yeah well," Hopper said while flicking his lighter. Sparks flew but the flame refused to stay lit.
"Goddamn it."
"Allow me," the man said.
A gloved hand reached out of the open window offering the bedraggled officer a light. Hopper begrudgingly leaned over the window in the same awkward fashion that he had been stooping down to fit since an eighth-grade growth spurt — doorways, cars, petite girls at high school dances, he was always a bit too large for wherever he was.
"Thanks," he muttered before taking a long drag and continuing. "Yeah well, you see. I kind of do, have to do this."
"Suit yourself," the man chuckled. "Keep an eye on her for us, will you?" The window whirred shut before the car drove away, leaving Hopper still standing in a puddle in the light of the hospital's brightly lit sign.
"Go to hell," Hopper muttered under his breath as the car pulled away from the curb. Chucking the half-smoked cigarette into the puddle, he ground it into mush with his wet shoe. He wasn't certain what "hell" even meant anymore, having lived through the closest things to it that he could imagine.
The mats at the hospital entrance were rubber, the kind that hardly dried any sort of moisture and instead let out a horrific squeaking noise should anyone attempt to wipe their feet. Hopper smiled nervously at the receptionist, a striking redhead with a body that stretched her uniform tightly in all the right places.
"Sorry."
She waved him off, unconcerned, as if hulking men stood in the doorway sheepishly wiping their feet at four in the morning every day. When he drew closer to the desk, she let out an audible sigh and looked up at him with a bored expression.
"Which patient?" she asked.
"Uh, how did you know?"
Hopper's response was weary and hesitant, the boundaries of his trust in others had been completely shattered, and he now eyed the receptionist — her name tag read "Christina" — with a mixture of caution and suspicion. She sighed again.
"You're here at four in the morning with no injury yourself as far as I can see, and you would have gone straight to the E.R. if you were."
"I'm here to see Joy— I mean, Will Byers. William. Byers," he stuttered.
"Everyone has been in to see him tonight." She then quirked her head and looked at Hopper quizzically. "Is he famous or something? I saw a lot of people in fancy suits in and out of here to see him."
"Something like that, I guess." Hopper said. He refused to let his guard down for even a second with the chance that she too was another trap waiting for him. Christina sighed again and shoved a clipboard at him.
"Write your name, patient, time, and approximate time of stay."
For a moment, Hopper contemplated visiting under a pseudonym. Given how well he was likely to be watched from this point on he quickly realized it was pointless, and quickly scribbled his name down before tossing the clipboard back at her.
"He's on the twelfth floor but the elevator is broken. Sorry about that Mister . . . Hopper." She paused to check his name before finishing her sentence.
"I'll take the stairs then."
Hopper tried to smile nicely at her before leaving. Based on her slightly terrified reaction, it had come out more as a grimace or wince of pain.
He wasn't particularly in the mood for elevators, but taking the stairs required steeling himself in a way that had nothing to do with his lack of physical activity, love handles, or chain smoking habits. The resuscitation of Will Byers had allowed all manner of memories to bubble to the surface of his mind, thoughts of Sarah and other flashes of emotions that he'd prefer to keep buried.
"Plus, they're a goddamn chore," he said aloud to no one, his voice echoing in the stairwell.
He had to duck slightly again through the doorway before making his way down a brightly-lit hallway that was eerily similar to the maze of Hawkins National Laboratory — buzzing fluorescents and a sterile, soapy smell that reminded him of elementary school, or his many trips to hospitals as an adult.
There was no name tag outside of Will Byers room — something that Hopper noted immediately, filing it away in his mind for future reference. Instead, he found the room by noticing the petite woman soundly asleep in the waiting room outside of it. Hopper looked around for any sign of a guard, Hawkins representative, or anything amiss, but there was only Joyce. Drawing closer, he took a moment to take in Joyce Byers face, her entire presence.
Joyce was always nervous, always moving. Throughout the entire experience, Hopper doubted that she had slept, eaten, or done anything other than smoke cigarettes and possibly hit the bottle a few times, although the latter wasn't really a characteristic of Joyce as much as it was of Lonnie Byers, or himself. Now, Joyce slept peacefully, despite her seated position in a hardback chair, and had a slight smile on her face.
Hopper reached over and ran a finger down the side of her cheek before brushing her hair from her forehead. Even his hand made her look tiny in comparison. He smiled. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to relax.
"She's asleep. Finally."
Hopper jumped at the sound of Jonathan Byers' voice. The teen leaned on the waiting room doorway, slouching as he stood with two dripping cups of coffee. Blinking, Hopper quickly withdrew his hand and made an effort to sit up straight in his chair.
"Well, that's good." He shuffled his feet. Still wet from the puddle, they made a squelching sound against the tiled floor.
Jonathan nodded.
"I came to check on your brother," Hopper said slowly.
Without moving his head, Jonathan flicked his eyes towards his mother, and then back at Chief Hopper. He slowly nodded.
"Do you want one? I figured I'd get one for her but . . . " Jonathan's voice trailed off and he finished his sentence with a shrug.
"Sure, kid." Hopper reached out his hand.