This story was inspired by the Anna Nalick song "Breathe (2 AM.)."
I wrote this in a few hours on a mobile device, and it is un-beta'd.
Any mistakes found are my own.
I do not own these beautiful characters.
The early morning dawn breaks over Hawkins in resounding silence; birds scattered to the winds, crickets and cicadas decimated, all wildlife predominantly wiped out.
Yet, the first rays of sunlight cast a rosy hue across the distant horizon; a pearly pink glow broke only by the sheer density of rangy tree trunks, unstoppable even in the face of annihilation.
The dappled sunlight that does manage to perforate the woodland reveals a thin layer of morning dew, tiny droplets of moisture desperately clinging onto blades of well-trampled grass.
The former Chief of Police sits on the dank lumber of his cabin; one leg set flat-footed on the steps, the other (the one that bore the brunt of the damage in Russia) he straightens out with a pitiful moan. The damp planks are cool beneath his bare feet.
He clasps the railing with one hand as he settles, feels the soft give of porous wood beneath his fingers from an early onset rot. He grimaces and pulls his hand away, wiping the slimy moisture onto the denim of his jeans.
Hopper closes his eyes and tilts his head back; he feels the cool of the shade on his jaw and cheek, feels the soft warmth of the distant rising sun on his lips, painting a fractured tableau on his face that closely resembles the turmoil he feels within.
He couldn't sleep; the bed was too soft, the bedroom too warm, the body at his side too new.
The cabin was once a place he had made into a home, a safe haven for a broken man and an extraordinary girl; now, it lay in ruin at his back: a dilapidated building with as many memories as there were holes punched through its lumber.
There had been no discussion to be had when it came down to it; the Byers and the Hoppers made it clear that they would not be easily separated again.
So, with little fanfare, they set to put the cabin back to rights, not untouched as it was from the events of the last few years. Planks were hammered, glass swept, dust wiped. With the help of The Party before they dispersed to seek their own families, the cabin was as restored as it could be; it was at least habitable once again.
Will and El had absconded to her former bedroom; Hopper and Joyce agreed to share his with just a glance; he wasn't sure where they stood romantically, but he knew it was together.
Jonathan and his California friend, Argyle, had opted to stay in the latter man's van despite offering a cot and couch. In the end, it was probably for the best; smoke consistently rolled through their cracked windows, reeking of quality hash (Hopper would know. He had confiscated their first baggie with a waggle of fingers and a crooked smile.)
(Jonathan had no idea the former Chief could roll a blunt so deftly!)
Hopper had told the girls they chose the van because of the lodging's cramped space. While that sentiment still held, Will had rolled his eyes and shared a smile with the older man at the apparent obliviousness.
A sharp creak breaks Hopper from his memory; twisting his upper half, hands planted on the deck, he's ready to push himself up into a fighting stance against his perceived enemy.
It's only Joyce; wild tresses mussed and muzzy-eyed, blinking owlishly at him from the doorway; she's wrapped up in a quilted Afghan.
"Hop?" She rasps, voice still thick with sleep.
He feels the fight leave his body. He sags against the railing with visible relief. He clears his throat and looks down at his hands. "I'm fine." He answers her unasked question.
He again faces the forest, murmuring over a shoulder, "You should go back to bed. It's early yet."
The door closes with a soft click. He takes a deep breath, a shaky inhale, to steady his nerves. The clumps of ash that emanate from the Upside Down swirl around his lips with every puff of air.
A bony hand on his shoulder makes him start; it takes him a moment to place the shape, to trace the delicate wristbones up to the pale arm partially hidden beneath the throw.
"Sorry," she whispers in the quiet of the morning. She settles next to him, comically dwarfed by his sheer size despite the massive weight loss.
(She glances at his profile and proudly notes the reward of her hard work; his face is softer, fuller; the edges not so sharp, not so stark.)
He swallows the lump in his throat; her hand rubs a soothing circle against his back before gently running it up to his neck and into the choppy strands of his hair. It's at an awkward stage, bushy and sticking out in weird angles. She had tried to help him tame it once before, but his wary reaction put a pin on the task. "Nothing a good hat can't cure," she had said into the shell of his ear.
"You could use a trim," she says now, fiddling with the longer pieces between her fingers. "I could cut it for you if you'd like."
It's not unlike the first time she had asked; he wonders if she's deliberately playing clueless. He had no idea how he'd react the second time around, but if she was willing to try, then he was willing to try.
"Yeah," he finds himself saying back. "Yeah, I would like that."
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