"So, cradle your head in your hands."
Joyce stares at the broad expanse of Hopper's back from the entryway of his (their) cabin. He's shifted since she pulled away with the promise to return with some strong caffeine; he's pressed his side against the railing, threadbare tee darkened where the wet lumber soaked through his clothes.
She notes the tear in the armpit of the gray shirt when he lifts a palm, sets it on the handrail, and starts picking at the wet wood with jagged nails; it splinters beneath blunt fingers, and he flicks away the chips with a derisive snort.
She clears her throat and watches as the muscles of his back bunch, coiled tightly with tension; it takes a bit of a moment before she sees him visibly relax.
(She is not an immediate threat.)
"Hot coffee, coming right up," she cheerily announces, easing the door nearly all the way closed with the heel of her foot.
(Three-inch minimum.)
The morning air has significantly cooled, the sun has risen above where even the decaying foliage primarily blocks the faint stream of light.
She carries a ceramic mug of piping hot coffee in one hand and a small, russet bag in the other; Hopper eyes the familiar leather kit with a wary eye.
"Careful," she says as she holds out the mug by its base; the heat against her palm is welcomed but just bordering the edge of pain.
He grabs it by the proffered handle with a grateful smile; her heart leaps in her chest at the site. The lip of the mug is chipped on one side, but before she can even warn him, he twists it around to place his mouth on the unblemished edge.
He was always so silently observant. Still was, she supposed, as he sat on the porch of their (their) cabin and trained his steely gaze out into the partial wilderness; the lush grass, the abundant leaves, the wild shrubs - nearly all turned to ash.
He takes a deep whiff of the ascending steam, the rich aroma heady in the face of such disaster.
But the dank smell of wood continually encroaches, the lumber superficially rotting away before their eyes. And the visceral stench of decay still lingers, the remains of wildlife unable to escape the eruption.
(Dustin had crowned the intersection of the four gaping trenches "The Crossroads," of course, it had stuck.)
Hopper takes a sip of the black brew and lets the bitter coffee ground him; he feels Joyce's presence, her incoherent mumbles cutting through his thoughts as she paws through the kit.
She grounds him; even when her flighty personality breaks through, her feet nearly off the ground from how hard she buzzes, she grounds him each and every time.
He reaches out with his free hand. It's no more than a second before she's lacing her fingers through his; the bony knuckles of her hands are pink against his paler skin.
(Russia had placed him in a dark hole; the return to this Hawkins kept him there.)
"You don't have to do this now," she says; she can see how he keeps looking askance at the bag. "It can wait."
"I know." He cuts his eyes to the side before flicking them up to meet hers. "I want to. I trust you."
She holds his gaze, then nods. "Here." She had ditched the Afghan inside but had come out with a scratchy towel draped across her bony shoulders. "And move down a step." She considers his height, then hers. "Two steps."
Hopper doesn't flinch when he hears the telltale zip of the bag being opened; it's not what's bothering him. It's the tools inside: the shears, the electric razor.
(He can already feel the pull of metal teeth against the skin of his scalp, tearing through the thin membrane.)
Subconsciously, he runs a hand over the top of his head.
He can feel Joyce settling behind him, her legs not entirely able to bracket him in between her knees, but she gives it a good try.
"Ready?"
"Yep," he pops, eyes trained forward as her bottle's first spritz of water moistens his hair.
(She calls out her next move before doing it; she keeps him apprised of every motion. He could almost fall asleep to her soft murmurs; he trusts her enough to close his eyes at least.)
There's a comfortable near-silence interrupted only by the occasional soft snip.
"Okay," she brushes away a few wet strands plastered to his ears. "I just need to clean up your neck and sides. So, now I'm going to use the razor."
He doesn't open his eyes; he squeezes them a little tighter instead.
"Okay."
"Ready?"
"Mmhm."
The razor brrs to life; she lets it run for a few seconds, allows the tension in his shoulders to ease before she tells him she's going in.
It doesn't take long, and she's nearly finished squaring away the nape of his neck when it happens-
An inhuman shriek pierces through the air - it abruptly cuts off.
But the damage is already done.
The noise rips Hopper from his light doze, and he erupts in a burst of energy, nearly tumbling down the stairs as he surges unsteadily to his feet.
"It's okay! Hopper - Hop!" Joyce is scrambling to her feet, trying to avoid the spilled hot coffee seeping into the wood.
She loosely grasps his hands in her own, feels the rapid thrum of his heartbeat in the soft skin of his wrist, where she presses her thumbs in an effort to bring him back.
"Jim! You're okay! It was just the TV - The kids are fine. You're fine!"
She can barely see the cornflower blue of his irises; a thin ring circling, blown, unfocused pupils.
He's breathing fast, too fast, so rapidly that he's on the verge of hyperventilating.
(Joyce wonders if she should just let him drop when he inevitably passes out or attempt a hail-Mary catch for the ages.)
"Goddamn it!" She digs her thumbs into the crease of his wrists; Lonnie had unwittingly taught her a few pressure points over the years.
"Look at me-" she presses down harder, feels his body reacting to the pain. "I need you to come back to me, Jim. Okay? I need you to breathe."
She drops one of his hands but doesn't let it go for long; she tugs up the limp appendage and places it atop her chest just above the swell of her breast.
"Do you feel that? Do you? That's my heart and it's beating and you can feel it because I'm real. You're home, Jim, you're not there. You're home. Okay?"
She inhales slowly, steadily, exhales the same way. She repeats it again. And again. And again.
"Breathe, honey. Breathe. In: 1-2-3. Out: 1-2-3." She doesn't know if she stepped closer or if he's actually swaying, but she can feel the denim brush of his jeans against her own.
His breathing audibly hitches, but then he exhales on hers. Then inhales. He follows her instruction, lets her set the rhythm, and relinquishes whatever tenuous control he thought he had as she grounds him again.
"That's it - Good - Come back to me, Hop," she softly coos in between deliberate breaths. "Hey," she sighs in relief when his vacant eyes start to clear. She brings her hands up to his stubbled cheeks and cradles his head in her hands. "There you are."
He brings trembling limbs up, places a shaky hand on both sides of her hips. Lets her anchor him.
He lets out a shakey whoosh of spittle-flecked breath; a whole body shudder rips through him before he steels himself.
"I'm okay," he manages hoarsely. "I'm okay. I'm sorry."
"Stop it," she demands, not unkindly. "It's not your fault."
She pushes herself onto her toes, and he complies with the silent request to lean down; she presses her lips to his forehead, loose pieces of shorn hair tickling her lips. He sighs under the reverent motion.
"Let's go inside, get you cleaned up."
He only has the energy to grunt his assertion; she smiles gently in understanding before pulling away.
"I'll throw in a massage too," she gives him a grin, and he dutifully follows, led by her firm grip on his forearm.
She doesn't miss the upturn of his lips at the offer.
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