In which Jim Hopper helps. I'd like to continue it to include a Christmas spent together, but I'm very easily distracted.

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It was two days before Christmas when Joyce's heat finally went out. Their furnace had been on its last leg for years, but she or Jonathan would tinker with it, apply some duct tape to the right spot, pay a repairman for a quick fix, cobble together some heartfelt prayers—anything to extend the life of that old heater, because God knows we can't afford a new one. But in the early morning hours of December 23, it sputtered and died.

There was a fresh blanket of snow outside, obscuring the tire tracks and footprints and any signs of the epic snowball fight that occurred in the front yard the day before. As it was holiday break, the kids had been splitting their time between each others' homes, and it had been the Byers' turn. No one agreed on an official winner, but the Mike-Dustin-Lucas-Max-Nancy team had gotten much soggier than the Will-Eleven-Erica-Steve-Jonathan team.

It took Joyce a couple of hours before she awoke, shivering, in the darkness. She could see her breath coming out in white puffs, and she abruptly sat up in her bed, that familiar sinking feeling in her stomach appearing out of nowhere. This had been a long time coming, but she had always hoped for just one more winter, and then another.

She climbed out of her bed and pulled on two more pairs of socks, then yanked on another sweater and zipped her coat up to her neck. Dragging the blankets from her bed, she hurried across the hall into Will's room. He was already bundled up in a cocoon of quilts, but she silently added the new blankets, spreading them over his sleeping form. He rolled over in his sleep but did not wake.

She exited Will's room and continued down the hall into Jonathan's, where she plucked his discarded blankets off the floor and deposited them back onto his lanky form, sprawled sideways across his rumpled bed. She paused to brush his hair out of his eyes, overcome with love for her eldest son and all that he had become.

Joyce sighed and left the room, composing a To Do list in her head as she tugged on her snow boots next to the front door. She added her hat and gloves, steeled herself for the gust of icy wind which was sure to greet her, and opened the front door.

() () ()

Joyce made four trips out to the woodpile next to the shed, carrying in a few logs each time. She stacked them next to the living room fireplace, then set to work building a fire. Once that was burning well, she put a kettle of water on and pulled out the phone book. It seemed futile to attempt to hire a repairman this close to Christmas Day, but she knew she had to try.

Glancing at the clock, almost five, I should wait until eight to call anyone, she suddenly remembered that Eleven was scheduled to spend the day and night with them. Joyce smiled to herself—she loved having the girl over, as her presence seemed to brighten whatever room she was in—but then the smile turned into a grimace. Without heat, the house would be a miserable place for them to spend the day. What had begun as a plan to celebrate the holiday and spend a relaxing time together had now turned into an uncomfortable chore.

I'll call Hop and cancel, Joyce decided. I don't want her to freeze over here.

The wait-until-eight rule didn't apply to Jim Hopper, and this fact had always comforted Joyce. He answered his phone on the third ring.

"Yeah?" He sounded groggy but lucid enough for conversation.

"Hey Hop, it's me."

"Are you okay?" he asked quickly, sounding fully alert now. Joyce's heartbeat quickened, suddenly transported back to all the times she had called him when she was not okay. Thankfully, no one was in trouble at the moment.

"Yes! We're all fine. Sorry to worry you. I'm just... calling to cancel our plans with Eleven."

She heard Hopper sigh, and she pictured him scrubbing a hand over his face. He would definitely be disappointed, mainly because she would be disappointed. Joyce knew Eleven had been looking forward to coming over, and it broke her heart to have to say no.

"Are you sure everything is okay?" He sounded like he wanted to say more, perhaps to grill her on why she was calling at the break of dawn to cancel plans.

It was Joyce's turn to sigh. "Yes, everything is good. It's just that our furnace finally died, so it's about forty and dropping in here. I don't want her to get frostbite." She said it lightheartedly, trying to make it a joke, but she wondered if he caught the waver in her voice. There was no way she'd be able to afford a new heater. Even when their heat had been functional, it had done the bare minimum. Most evenings they spent at least a few minutes in front of the open oven trying to get their hands warm. Their space heaters did little to keep their bedrooms inhabitable. She wondered if winter might be an enjoyable season to a person whose house was properly heated; it had certainly never been her favorite. Joyce tried to take a steadying breath, but it hitched in her throat and her eyes filled with tears.

Hopper was silent for a few long moments. Joyce felt terrible for springing the bad news on him, she felt like a failure for disappointing Eleven, and she realized her attempt at humor had fallen flat. This was just not her day.

"Hop, I'm really sorr—" She began to apologize, wondering whether she could take Eleven to the library or shopping or on a hike somewhere soon, just a fun girls day for the two of them, but he cut her off abruptly.

"Find that old voltage tester, I think it's out on the workbench. And…" he was silent for a moment, "…breathe on your hands. Stand by the oven or something. Don't get too cold. We'll be there soon." Then he hung up.

Joyce stared at the phone in her hand.

() () ()

She heard his truck pull up at 5:28. It was still pitch black outside, but the fresh layers of snow gave her front yard an ethereal glow. Joyce wondered how he was able to wake Eleven and get her bundled into the car, then drive clear across town so quickly. She met them on the porch, beaming at the groggy teenage girl and swallowing her in a hug.

"Hi, Joyce," the girl mumbled into Joyce's shoulder. Joyce responded with a "Hey, Sweetie," then turned around and led her through the front door. She placed two folded blankets into Eleven's arms and sent her back to Joyce's empty bed for some more sleep.

Turning to Hopper, Joyce saw that his eyes were focused on her shaking hands. The temperature in the house had dropped considerably since she first awoke that morning, and she was shivering uncontrollably. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"I found the voltage tester," she said, not meeting his eyes. For some reason, she felt like this predicament was some sort of moral failure. Was she being punished for a horrible sin? Why was poverty so embarrassing? Joyce had long suspected that she deserved the bad things in her life and merely lucked into the good ones. This framework made it easier for her to justify other peoples' actions—and it helped her practice gratitude for the multitude of blessings she had no right to enjoy. Blessings like the kind, loyal man standing in front of her, grabbing the tool from her hand and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"You should sit by the fire… I'll get you if I need help." He said it with a nod, then headed unceremoniously toward the basement door.

Joyce wouldn't have been able to sit by the fire knowing that he was working in the freezing basement, so she started cleaning the kitchen. Then she pulled out the ingredients for bacon and cheddar omelets—Hopper's favorite breakfast, and Jonathan's too. She popped a can of cinnamon rolls into the oven for Will and Eleven—there was no telling when everyone would wake up, what with the frost forming on the insides of the windows. As she busied herself, she heard occasional clanking and pounding noises from the basement. An unmistakable string of curse words around 6:30 caused her to wince.

Joyce gingerly descended the basement steps, cradling a cup of strong coffee in her hands. She found him in the far corner, lying on his back almost entirely underneath the furnace. He was muttering to himself.

"Hop? Do you want some coffee?" she asked timidly. She had learned long ago to be careful around men who were fixing things. Her father's temper—and angry fists—were still legendary in Hawkins, and Lonnie had never been gentle with her whether she was careful or not. She knew Jim Hopper was nothing like those men; she had been on the receiving end of his frustration, annoyance, and exasperation before, but he had never raised a hand against her. Still, she treaded lightly out of habit.

At her question, he clumsily scooted out from under the heater and sat up. There were cobwebs in his hair and dust all over his coat, and a smudge of something black on his cheek. He reached for the mug, his eyes widening when he took the first sip. It was always impressive when someone was able to brew a cup of coffee strong enough for his liking, and Joyce always managed to come through for him.

"Thanks."

She snorted. "I think that's my line right now." She smiled at him and reached down to remove a long string of cobweb from the top of his head.

He shrugged, downing the rest of the mug in three gulps and handing it back to her. She nodded as she received it, still smiling. It was an ungodly hour in the dead of winter, and this is how he was spending his time. She blinked a few times in an effort to prevent the tears from escaping her eyes, then spun around and quickly climbed the steps back to the kitchen.

() () ()

Joyce had frosted the cinnamon rolls and they were in the warmer. She'd finished Hopper's four-egg omelet and had it covered in the microwave in hopes that it would stay hot. There were freshly-washed grapes and strawberries on the table and she was nursing a cup of lemon tea at the counter when she heard a few more clanking noises and then the most beautiful sound in all the world (or something close to it)… the quiet whirring of the furnace.

Her eyes widened. She rushed over to the floor vent near the back door and bent down to hold a hand above it.

Hot air.

The heat was back on.

Joyce's mouth fell open, and her eyes grew even larger. He did it. Her face split into an elated smile.

Just then, he clambered through the basement door looking exhausted. She jumped up from where she had been crouched and stared at him in awe. She stared at him as if the sun shone from his eyes, as if she had never seen anyone so wonderful and never would again. He withered under her gaze.

"Hey. I… uh… it's fixed. I'm not sure how much longer it'll last, but…" he trailed off, wanting to avoid giving her false hope. It was a crappy furnace which had long needed to be replaced, but he knew she'd never be able to afford it. And she'd never let anyone help her pay for it, so these repairs were all he could offer. He absentmindedly rubbed a hand in his hair, accidentally knocking some dust onto his coat.

She was still standing by the back door, staring at him with entirely too much affection for seven in the morning. The sun had begun to rise, so the trees outside the kitchen window were gradually turning from a murky sea of black into a slightly distinguishable gray. The house was still freezing, she was still bundled up in most of the clothes she owned, and he was covered in grime. Hopper didn't know how long it would take the house to warm back up, but he suspected it'd be a while.

He cleared his throat. She shook herself out of whatever reverie she'd been lost in.

"Do you want your omelet now?" she asked, hurrying over to the microwave and pulling out a chipped plate which held the most beautiful breakfast he could have imagined. He grinned at her.

"Of course! Let me just wash my hands."

() () ()

Once he had eaten his breakfast—including one cinnamon roll, just to make sure they're not poison, which he said with a wink—he followed her into the living room. She wrapped a blanket around herself and settled on the couch. He added two more logs to the fire, then removed his soiled coat and carefully hung it on the rack next to the front door. He left his dirty boots sitting underneath it. She had lifted her knees to her chest and was now huddled in a ball at the end of the couch. He collapsed next to her with a groan.

The house was finally starting to warm up, and the adrenaline which had carried him from the early phone call across town to her house was now wearing off. He grabbed the quilt from the back of the couch and draped it across himself. Looking over at her, he was surprised to find her watching him.

"Hop, you got up and dragged your daughter over here at five in the morning to fix my heater." The unabashed affection in her voice was unexpected and uncomfortable, but he chose to ignore it.

He nodded. "Yeah. Couldn't have you guys freezing on me."

And then her smile was watery, and she was leaning toward him, and her cold, shaking hands were cupping his cheeks.

"Thank you. I don't deserve you."

() () ()

Around 8, she had convinced him to take a shower—come on Hop, you're off today anyway, just spend it with us?—and he was now wrapped in a towel, talking to her through the bathroom door. In whispers. Because all three teenagers were still asleep.

"Something in here has got to fit you."

She was holding a bundle of clothes in her arms: random pants, shirts, socks, and sweatshirts which had turned up over the years and never been claimed; some things which were left over from Jonathan, his friends, Lonnie, or—her breath hitched—Bob.

Hopper opened the bathroom door and took the pile of clothes from her. "Thanks," he whispered.

Steam escaped around him and Joyce found herself staring at him with her mouth open. He wasn't a bodybuilder by any measure, but she had forgotten how tall and muscular he was. Seeing his damp body clad only in a towel—her favorite towel, the one with the blue and green stripes—was unexpectedly sexy.

Joyce trailed her eyes up his entire frame and swallowed when she finally met his gaze, her mouth finally clamping shut. Hopper's eyebrows were raised, and he cocked his head to the side as if waiting for an explanation. What is happening? Is Joyce checking me out? Does she like what she sees? Can this day get any stranger?

But Joyce knew when she was out of her league, when she had lost, when she should just pack up and go home. This was unfamiliar territory, probably dangerous territory, and so she shook her head to clear it and hurried away from the bathroom door without a word.

() () ()

Hopper had found a pair of sweatpants and a Rolling Stones t-shirt which fit him well enough, and he was wearing two mismatched socks when he returned to the living room to find Joyce bundled back into her ball of blankets. The ball of blankets mumbled something, but he had no idea what it was.

He grabbed the top blanket off of her pile, heard an annoyed grumble in response, and draped it over himself as he settled on the couch next to her.

"Oh shut up, it's almost warm in here anyway. You'll survive."

The small mountain of blankets shifted, and Joyce's face appeared out of it. "Don't be so sure of that. I got frostbite waiting for you to finish playing around in the basement."

He snapped his face toward her, more than ready for a fight. It was one of the things they did best. But she was smiling. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

"You still cold?" he asked. She nodded.

He sighed—not a frustrated or exasperated sigh, mind you—and turned his body sideways, along the length of the couch, while grabbing at the Joyce-sized jumble of fabric. He shifted the blankets around until he was able to find her actual body, then pulled her over to rest on him. Her head settled on his chest and her body was comfortably snuggled between his side and the back of the couch. One of her legs came to rest between his. Hopper covered them both with the blankets, one by one, until they were impossibly close—and impossibly, wonderfully warm.

To anyone walking by, they might appear to be two people cuddling on a couch. But Joyce knew this was strictly for warmth, and she wrapped her arms around Hopper's torso to enjoy some more of it. His arms were tight around her shoulders, and she felt him sigh into her hair.

"Better?" he mumbled into her hair.

"Mmm. Perfect."

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When Eleven woke in Joyce's bed, she was confused for only a moment before the pre-dawn excitement came back to her. She remembered being shaken awake by her dad, who seemed stressed. He had mumbled something about needing to hurry because it's so cold and she had no idea what he was going on about, but he had helped her into her boots and coat and even buckled her into the truck since she was still half asleep. Then, she remembered Joyce's kind smile and her tight hug and then ending up here.

On the bedside table, there were photos of Jonathan and Will when they were much younger. A few black-and-white photographs that El assumed Jonathan had taken. Some artwork by Will. A chapstick which was missing the lid. Sunlight was streaming in through the gray blinds.

El stood up and crossed the hall to the bathroom. When she emerged, she wandered toward the kitchen. She thought she might smell cinnamon rolls.

She made it into the kitchen, but before she could dig into the breakfast which had been left in the warmer, she caught sight of something odd in the living room: her dad and Joyce asleep on the couch, together.

It wasn't odd to see them together—they seemed to be together more often than not these days—but this was a level of together that she had never witnessed before. Her dad was lying on his back, his body taking up the entire length of the old couch. And Joyce, well… she was asleep on top of him. Stretched out, comfortable, as if they were dating or married or whatever and they'd just fallen asleep after cuddling by the fire. And both of them were smiling. Who smiles in their sleep? Why are his hands in her hair? Why are they covered up in blankets, like they planned this whole thing out and fell asleep together?

She grabbed two cinnamon rolls and headed for Will's room.

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Joyce's first thought was, it's so warm. Her second thought was, how am I so warm?! As someone who was perpetually cold, even wearing sweaters randomly in the summer ("the temperature drops in the shade, Jonathan!"), it was foreign for her to wake up feeling this comfortable. She opened her eyes and also registered the fact that she was in her living room. Then, she realized she was sprawled out on top of someone, and that was the source of the warmth. Also the multiple blankets tucked over and around both of them. It was a comfortable cocoon of warmth, and she sure didn't want to climb out of it—but she gingerly tilted her head upward to solve the mystery of The Warm Body.

Jesus Christ.

No, it wasn't Jesus Christ himself. It was Jim Hopper.

Jesus Christ, how had she fallen asleep with Jim Hopper? As far as she knew, no woman within a hundred miles of Hawkins had ever woken up with Hop—he was more of a screw-and-run kind of guy—although lately he'd seemed different, better, kinder… whole?

Joyce stared up at him, confused at the predicament and remembering that he had shown up before dawn to help with her central heat—bless him, the ridiculous man—and had cleaned up and then sat with her. She wondered what time it was, wondered whether the kids had woken up, wondered if—oh shit—they had come looking for them and found them in this position.

"Hey," she whispered. Evidently it was too quiet of a whisper, because he didn't rouse. He was asleep with his mouth slightly open. He looked so content, and Joyce hated to ruin it—but they really should move or there would be awkward conversations later.

"Hey, Hop," she whispered a little louder. He flinched, and she felt his arms tighten around her waist. To be quite honest, his arms around her felt good. Safe. Comfortable. It was a feeling she could get used to. Don't get any ideas, Byers, she told herself. Just be grateful he's willing to hang out with the Town Crazy. And be extra grateful that he got your furnace working again.

He finally cracked one of his eyes open. The sight that greeted him was unexpected but most certainly not unwelcome. Joyce was snuggled up against him, her head resting on his chest. Her hair was a bit tangled, her eyes looked tired, and she had her bottom lip pulled under her teeth, chewing on it like she sometimes did when she was nervous. She was gorgeous.

"Joyce?" he asked, groggy and smiling and uncertain of how he ended up here but grateful for whatever led to it. She released her lip from its bondage to smile back at him.

"Good morning," she said quietly, trying to memorize the lines of his face. She had been this close to him before—sharing cigarettes or the occasional hug, leaning in to whisper something she didn't want the kids to hear—but she had never been able to study him openly.

"It is now," he agreed, somehow drawing her closer, shifting her up his body, slightly closer to his face. Joyce's breath caught in her throat. It is now? Is he saying this is good? Waking up like this? Waking up with me?

"…It is?" she asked, the uncertainty she usually kept masked beneath fluttering energy slipping out. There is no way he could mean it. There is no way he could enjoy waking up to me, waking up with me. She tried not to bite her lip again.

"Yeah. It is." And he leaned down and kissed her forehead. She could feel his smile on her skin. His breath in her hair. His hands settled on the small of her back, one of them at the bottom of her spine, flush against her skin since her shirt had accidentally ridden up overnight. His hand was warm and it felt calloused.

It felt like it belonged there.

She closed the remaining distance between them, pulling herself up to brush her lips against his. His hands tightened around her, which she took as encouragement. She smiled into his lips and kissed him more insistently, and he responded by moving one of his hands from her waist up to cradle the back of her head, tangling into her wavy hair and pulling her closer.

"Joyce," he murmured into her mouth, his breath warm, his I want this, I want you, this is good resounding clearly, "…we can't do this right now." He pulled back, looking up into her wide eyes which were now slightly hazy. "Although I really want to." He added it as an afterthought, hoping that she knew his only hang-up was the kids. All it would take is one of them walking in. The questions, the accusations. They could answer them all, of course, but he'd rather do it calmly and after some deliberation than half-asleep and dangerously turned-on.

"Yeah. You're right." She agreed, swallowing and lifting herself up onto her elbows. She didn't move off of his chest. His hand which was lazily running through her hair finally made it around to her cheek, and he cupped it.

"You're beautiful." He said it hoarsely. It was painfully true, and he was well aware that she hadn't heard it in a long time. He'd certainly never told her. Lonnie sure as hell didn't, and he wondered if Bob was too shy to ever say anything about it.

"I… uh… thanks." She looked away and began to shift sideways, preparing to climb off the couch. To see whether the kids had eaten any cinnamon rolls. To wash dishes. To put on real clothes, as she was still in the pajamas she'd worn for their early morning adventure.

He pulled her back. She met his eyes.

"You're beautiful, and I want to kiss you. Just not here, with the kids walking in and ruining it." She had to understand. He didn't want there to be any confusion, any subtext, any chance that she would doubt his intentions.

"Okay… I, uh… okay. Yes. That would be nice. And… me too."