It took Joyce another two days to go back to work. Will had gotten over his flu without needing to go to the doctor. But Joyce kept him home another day anyway. Mostly because she had a huge gash on the side of her head from when she fell over—when Lonnie pushed her over, actually—and she needed it to heal enough that she wouldn't be asked too many questions.

Of course, there were still questions anyway. People looked at her funny. Don asked her what happened, and she just said she tripped. Two days ago, she could barely get the bleeding to stop. Now at least it had scabbed over a little and she could hide the wound with her hair.

Joyce took her break the second she could. Usually she worked through them and worked late or weekends or holidays whenever possible so she could get time and a half. Today, she needed her break. Even without working for two days, she was exhausted. Her head still hurt and her arm was bruised and her heart was broken. Lonnie was gone, and she hadn't seen or heard from him since she threw him out. Good riddance. But it also left her with two sons wondering where their father was. Though in the case of her sons, they were more worried about him coming back than anything else.

It killed her every goddamn day that Lonnie was like this. He was critical and mean when things weren't exactly the way he wanted them, and he was too lazy to do anything for himself. They were all better off without him. Weren't they?

"Hey."

Hopper happened to be driving by the store when he saw Joyce standing outside in the alley. He pulled over and got out of his truck to see her. It had been like a week since their slightly awkward coffee together at the diner, and since Hawkins didn't really have a whole lot of need for a police chief most of the time, he figured he could take a minute to see her.

Something must be up, since he was only about five feet away from her and she didn't notice him until he said something.

A small, slightly pained smile appeared on Joyce's lips. "Hey, Hop. How are you?"

"Can't complain." That was a lie. He felt like shit. His bender the other night had only led him to feel worse once he got through it. He fucked that waitress and then last night he picked up some woman at that bar. He hadn't wanted her around all night, so they went out back by the dumpsters and he fingered her and then she sucked him off. He'd taken four pills when he got home. He was paying for it now.

Joyce might have been caught up in her own issues, but she could tell that Hopper wasn't as fine as he might have wanted her to think. He looked like he'd been run over by a truck and then slept under a bridge. But she wouldn't push him. Not right now. She had her own shit to deal with.

Hopper stood beside Joyce, both of them leaning up against the building. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his carton of cigarettes and took one. She watched as he put the carton back in his pocket and got the lighter. Must have been running low because he had to strike it a couple of times before it lit. He took a long drag and held the inhale for a second before breathing out with a heavy sigh.

God, she couldn't count the number of times she'd seen him do exactly that. It had been years since she'd thought about it, but here Hopper was, twenty years later and exactly the same. Tired and annoyed and smoking a cigarette when and where he probably wasn't supposed to.

Before she could even think about it, Joyce reached up, holding her hand out to him. And he, too, without thinking, handed her the cigarette. She took a few drags and gave it back.

Hopper chuckled lightly. "Damn, that was weird."

Joyce immediately felt herself blush. "Yeah, wow. Old habits, I guess."

He smiled down at her. "Kinda nice to know we can still do that."

"Yeah," she agreed, taking the cigarette from him again. It was weird. Weird but normal. Maybe weird that it was completely normal. It did not escape Joyce that she had never before or since shared a cigarette with any other person. Just Hop.

"What happened to your head, Joyce?" he asked bluntly.

"Oh nothing," she lied, brushing off his question. "Will was sick with the flu and the room was a mess and I tripped over something and hit my head on the desk. It was stupid."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. She didn't like that. He asked, "You get that checked out?"

"No, it's fine, Hop, really," she insisted.

"And where was Lonnie when all this happened?"

"I threw Lonnie out."

His eyebrows went halfway up his forehead. He looked away from her, just smoking his cigarette. "Good," he said simply.

Joyce gazed up at him and saw that haunted look he had. "Hop, you sure you're okay?"

In that moment, as he met those big, dark, warm eyes of hers, he almost thought he could tell her. He could feel it on the tip of his tongue, to confess his divorce and the death of his child and the hell he waded through each and every moment of every goddamn day.

But then he saw that barely-healed gash on her head that sure as shit didn't come from her tripping over something. And he knew she had way too much on her plate already. He wasn't going to burden her with his tragedies. Especially when there was nothing to be done for him. All he would do was cause her to worry. Joyce had worries enough.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he told her.

Obviously Joyce didn't believe him. But what could she do? She couldn't force him to open up to her. Especially when they'd only had about three conversations since high school graduation. "Okay," Joyce answered dubiously. "But if you ever need anything, I'm around. I mean, if we can still share a smoke after all these years, we're obviously still friends."

A memory from long, long ago popped into Hopper's mind. "The best of friends."

When they had to read A Tale of Two Cities in school—though neither Joyce nor Hopper actually finished reading the thing—and it opened with "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" Hopper had teased Joyce saying that it was a description of them. Joyce had thought he meant to say that he was the best of people and she was the worst of people, and she elbowed him in the rib for it, but he laughed and said that she was obviously the best of people and he was the worst. But if she was going to keep poking him like that, maybe she was the worst after all. Joyce had appreciated the compliment he paid her and compromised by saying that either way, they were the best of friends, and that was what matters.

From then on, they'd always call themselves that. The best of friends.

"Yeah," she agreed with a small smile. "The best of friends."

It was well past when she needed to get back to work from her break, so she took one more drag from the cigarette and told Hopper she'd see him around.

Hopper watched her go with a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pill bottle and took one dry. That should do the trick.