By the time they reach the motel, they're all cold, exhausted, and they go to their respective rooms—Murray to his, Joyce and Hopper to theirs, Murray giving them a knowing look.
Joyce is still overwhelmed by all of it, having him back. Jim Hopper, who had been presumed dead for almost a year. Even Murray had tried to tell her he couldn't possibly have survived.
You saw him die.
Yet, here he is.
In all her gentility, Joyce Byers is fierce, stubborn, fearless in protecting the ones she loves.
Murray knew there was never a chance of her giving up once she realized there was a chance Hopper was alive. He'd been willing to entertain her wild theory, helped her get from Hawkins to–
"Hey," Hopper is changing the bandages on his arm again and looks up with a tired smile when she approaches him, her eyes soft. "Here, let me."
His steel blue eyes follow her hands as they work nimbly, gently, and he doesn't know how long it's been since he's felt a gentle touch, a woman's touch. His head feels hazy. Hot. It's hot, but he welcomes it because he hasn't felt warmth either.
Has it been eight months? That's what they tell him.
"Are you real?" His low voice cracks and her smile brings warmth to his chest and blooms there. "I'm real," she finishes tying the bandages, his open wound clean for the first time, "I'm here."
He's tall enough sitting to be level with her chest and she rests her hands on his shoulders and he looks up at her with love in his eyes. His blue eyes look at her like every woman wants to be looked at, but they're hollow in a way she's never seen. Haunted. Her thumb runs gently over a criss cross of raised flesh, hard and healed now. So many scars litter his once healthy body…
"Joyce" his large strong hands on her waist pull her down to his level, maneuvering her with such ease, it's laughable. "Hopper" she bites her lip, doe eyes under fringe bangs, blinking up at him with the kind of innocence that would never betray the things they'd done in that church.
"Kiss me again so I know you're real," he rumbles and she can feel it, his chest, his beating heart, and she kisses him eagerly, reaching her hands up to touch his stubbled jaw and letting it fall, roam his neck, the crude cut of what used to be hair, mindful of the cuts and bruises. "Joyce" he says her name, recites it with reverence.
"Hop," his kiss swallows a moan and his marred flesh is hot beneath her touch, too hot. "Hopper," her mind reels as she pulls herself back down from the high of kissing and being kissed, "Hopper, you're–I think you have a fever."
He mumbles something that sounds like Russian in protest, trying to pull Joyce back toward him with waning strength while she brings his arm closer to the bedside lamp and examines it.
She'd just cleaned it, but the area around the clean rags is red and puffy. It's a wonder he hasn't picked up anything worse in this godforsaken frozen hell, she thinks.
"Let's get you to bed."
Getting a man who still dwarfs her in size up and into bed is easier said than done.
"C'mon," she grunts, his arm heavy across her shoulders "just…there." She breathes out as she eases him down onto the mattress. "Joyce—" he takes her wrist, can feel her pulse under the thin skin when it quickens. "Lie back," she instructs firmly, encouraging him until he does, "good.
I'll be right—"
"Don't" he croaks
"Hop, honey, I'm just going to get you some water," she insists
Joyce hears him mumbling in Russian again, but it's nothing she understands. She'd learned some basic words and phrases en route to the SSSR but whatever he's saying is nothing she can comprehend.
His eyes are still closed, but he drinks greedily when she brings the glass of tap water to his lips. It spills down his face and her fingers ghost his upper lip, remembering his mustache.
"M-le-su–" Joyce frowns "More," she asks, "you want more?"
He doesn't answer, but she pads barefoot to the small bathroom and she can hear Murray snoring through the paper thin walls as she refills the small glass and wets the washcloths provided. It's not much, but it's more than Hopper's had in—
"Sarah" his eyes are glassy when she returns, sitting on the edge of the bed. "No, it's Joyce." she says gently, placing the cool damp washcloth on his forehead. God, he's burning up.
Joyce knows how to treat a fever. She strips the bed of everything but the sheets and adjusts the pillows before searching her travel bag for anything she might have brought with her for–
"Ahah" she knew she had a small bottle of painkillers on hand and shakes two into her palm, dismayed when she realizes there are only four.
"Szal-sa–" Jim mumbles. Sarah? Who is Sarah? She wonders as she tries to get the pills into him and meets little resistance, so weak Joyce knows he must've been fighting an infection.
She gets into bed beside him and it is warm in the small room, but the heat radiating off of Jim's body is making Joyce sweat. She strips down to her underwear and the Hulk Hogan t-shirt Yuri had provided, blowing her bangs away from her face, wishing she could pull her hair back.
Hopper moans and Joyce gets the washcloth. "Shhh," she soothes, patting his head and chest down. He flinches away from it, her touch. "Jim," she turns his face toward hers and his eyes struggle to focus. "Joyce," he rasps and she places a kiss on his cracked lips. "Yeah, it's Joyce. I'm here."
Hopper seems to hear her, and finally falls into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, and when the meds seem to be kicking in, Joyce feels herself giving into sleep, her heavy eyelids drifting shut.
It's dark and quiet when Hopper screams in his sleep. It's the same word he keeps repeating, Russian, foreign to her but familiar to him. Joyce's body jolts awake before she does and she turns the light on, trying to wake him from whatever nightmare he's in.
milo-ser-de
"Jim, JIM–" He turns to her, and she thinks he's awake but he's half on top of her before she knows what's happening. She gasps, frightened when his large hands grip both her arms, pinning her down, his eyes wild. "Wake up," she says forcefully. "Jim, wake UP."
"You have to be quiet," his face is close to hers, "they'll hear you."
"O–okay. Okay." She agrees and he helps her up so gently she doesn't recognize the force with which he'd just used on her. "Okay, quiet." Her voice is hushed. "Shhh," she eases him back down on the mattress, soaked and cold with his sweat and hers.
Joyce realizes Hopper's fighting a monster she can't see and it breaks her heart.
His fever must've spiked again. Still shaken, Joyce retrieves the small bottle and gets the last two painkillers into him before pouring cold water onto the rest of the towels, wringing them out in the bathtub and covering Hopper's flayed flesh until he's shivering, then dries him off and pulls the sheet back over him.
She lays on top of it beside him knowing she won't go back to sleep.
Joyce did fall into a dreamless sleep, and when she wakes, it's to the sound of gentle snoring. Her hand reaches out, eyes still closed, and finds that Hopper is sleeping peacefully and his skin is still warm to the touch, but it isn't on fire.
Relief floods her own tired body, but she gets up, gets dressed, lets him sleep.
The battle isn't over.
"Joyce?"
She looks up, surprised to find that Hopper had already woken. She's getting their clothes together, preparing to go back out into that bitter cold. The cold here is unlike anything she's ever felt. It cuts through to your bones. Joyce shivers at the thought of it, but offers Hop a smile.
"Hey, how are you feeling?"
"Great."
She laughs at that. He's still in there, she thinks.
"Joyce," he frowns, staring at her upper arm. She hadn't realized it, but when he grabbed her in the night, his large fingers had left bruises on her fair skin. "Did I–"
"No, no" she says, quickly pulling the sleeve of the large t-shirt down, forcing a smile. "Course not."
Later, Joyce asks Yuri what it means, the word Hop had cried out over and over in his sleep. She mangles the pronunciation and he smirks, but looks down for a moment before he corrects her.
"I think you are saying miloserdiye" he replies. "How you would say mercy."
Joyce understands now. Though the fever had broken, for Jim, the nightmare is far from over.