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"Dukes of Hazzard"

Makin' their way

The only way they know how …

- Waylon Jennings

They had been walking for hours. Joyce was exhausted and hungry and hot and annoyed, and Hopper kept swaying toward her as he walked, bumping into her over and over again, and finally she'd had enough.

"God, can you not walk so close?"

"What?"

"Can you not walk so close to me?" She sniffed the air delicately, making a face at the mingled smells of sweat, car, blood, and irritation that came off him. "You stink."

He laughed, as though somehow that was funny. "Oh, I get it. I get it. You're upset, right? 'Cause I, uh, blew up the car?"

"Yeah. With me in it," she reminded him acidly.

"Well, I just want to—" He paused to slap a mosquito on his neck. "Remind you of something, Joyce: I am not a mechanic!"

"Yeah. Clearly. That's why you should have listened to Alexi." Joyce pointed ahead of them at their Russian prisoner, who seemed significantly less bothered by this extended hike in the woods than either of them—and he was handcuffed! She wished she had his cool.

"Oh, right, yeah!" Hopper laughed again, nastily. "Your new boyfriend, right?"

This again? Joyce stopped, raising her arms to emphasize how ridiculous he was being. "Yes, every man I talk to from now on has to be my boyfriend."

"You know what, he does, he reminds me a little bit of a Russian Scott Clarke." Hopper grinned down at her, thinking he was clever. Maybe that one was a little bit clever—there was some science geek in Alexi somewhere, Joyce was sure of it. Hopefully enough to get them some answers, once they could talk to him.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, here we go."

Hopper leaned down, putting himself face-to-face with her, bracing his hands on his knees. "Maybe you should go on a date. I don't know, I'm thinking like ... Enzo's?"

Before Joyce could respond to that bit of ridiculousness, she noticed that Alexi had lost his cool and decided to take advantage of Hopper being distracted. "Whoa," she said.

"What?"

"He's running."

Hopper turned his head to see Alexi dashing through the woods calling "Da! Da!" over his shoulder, his cuffed hands extended in front of him. "Son of a bitch!"

Joyce watched for a moment as Hopper took off after their fleeing Russian prisoner. Served him right, she thought, going on and on about things that didn't matter. Except that to Hopper it clearly did matter. She started after him, realizing that this not-a-date date at Enzo's had meant a lot more to Hopper than she'd thought it did, and eventually she was really going to have to—well, first apologize, but then figure out what she was going to do about this.

He was irritating. He was domineering. He thought with his fists first all too often because it was easier. He smoked too much and drank too much and yelled too much. He thought he was the boss of everybody. He was permanently scarred from the loss of his daughter.

But … he was also sweet. And thoughtful. And brilliant. And—yeah, when he looked down at her with those unforgettable blue eyes and really saw her, really appreciated Joyce for who she was, he was sexy as hell. And he needed someone. No, he didn't need just someone. He needed someone who knew him and who loved him for who he was, and Joyce did. Whether she wanted to date him or not, the fact that she had loved Jim Hopper, her friend, the person she had always been able to count on, for twenty-something years was not in question. It never would be.

What was in question was whether she was ready to risk giving her heart again, and Joyce didn't know how to be sure enough of that to start something with Hopper without risking his heart, too.

Hopper pounded through the woods after the Russian, yelling "Smirnoff! Get back here!" If he couldn't chase down one skinny Russian super-geek, he needed to seriously rethink some of his life choices.

Then, ahead of him, Smirnoff stopped. Hopper nearly fell over him, unable to halt his own momentum as fast. The guy was saying something in Russian, sounding very pleased with himself, and Hopper looked over his shoulder at—Shangri-La.

Okay, it was a 7-Eleven … but it was close enough. Cold drinks, a bathroom, air conditioning, and probably a phone.

Joyce caught up to them, too, and the three of them stood there looking at the heavenly sight for a moment before hurrying across the road toward it.

They headed straight to the rows of cold beverages in their glass cases in the back, grabbing cans of soda and guzzling them down.

"You all gonna pay for those?"

Turning, they saw the clerk leaning over the cash register with a magazine, looking at them with a lot less curiosity than Hopper would have imagined their general looks—or the metal cuffs on Smirnof''s wrists—would warrant.

But he had a lifetime of not letting pissants like this kid push him around, so he burped in response to the question instead of answering.

They picked out more Coke, and some snacks, a map, and a carton of cigarettes, and Hopper took them up to pay, while Joyce used the facilities and Smirnoff … ate red slushy off his fingers. Russians were weird.

"So what are you," the clerk asked, "some kind of bounty hunter?"

"I'm a cop." As if that wasn't obvious. Although, from the look the clerk gave him, clearly it wasn't. "I'm undercover."

A convertible pulled up to the pumps outside, blaring music, and Hopper could feel a plan coming together. He grabbed Smirnoff, who had managed to get him to buy a giant Slurpee, by the neck, and marched him out of the store toward the car. "Just keep your mouth shut," he muttered threateningly.

The owner of the car was in the process of filling it up, and while he was occupied, Hopper opened the door, pulled the driver's seat forward, and ushered Smirnoff into the back seat.

"Hey!" the owner shouted.

Hopper pointed a menacing finger at him. "You hey! You hey! This is a police emergency, all right?" That probably would have sounded more official if he hadn't had a giant Slim Jim stuck in his mouth. He dug his badge out of his pocket, flashing it at the guy. "I need to commandeer your vehicle."

"What?"

"What is your name, sir?"

"Todd."

"Todd?"

"Yeah."

"Todd."

"Todd."

Hopper took the gas pump out of the car and hung it up. "Todd, listen to me. That man in there—" He pointed at Smirnoff, who grinned at Todd over the top of his red Slurpee. "I know he doesn't look it, but he is one of the most dangerous men in the world. He's, uh …" He cast around for a suitably bad crime. "Murdered many children."

"What?"

He pushed Todd out of his way, heading for the driver's side of the car. Around a mouthful of Slim Jim, he said, "Yeah, he's a true psychopath. I tracked him over two state lines."

"Hey, what's going on?"

Joyce had finally joined them, right on time. "Detective Byers. This is Todd." He pointed at Todd, while Joyce assumed what she clearly thought looked like a detective's stance. "He's agreed to lend us his vehicle to transport our dangerous criminal."

"Yeah. Yes. A very dangerous … forger … er," Joyce said, sliding across the front seat to the passenger's side.

"Yeah. Uh, child murderer."

"Child murderer?" Joyce echoed, with a doubtful look back at Smirnoff.

"We should really get going!" Hopper climbed into the driver's seat, shutting the door.

"Hey, how do I get my car back?" Todd asked.

"You just call the station!"

"What station?"

The music blared as Hopper turned the key in the ignition. "Ooh, I like the sound of that, Todd!"

"Hey! What station?"

"You're doing the right thing!" he hollered over the music, peeling out of the parking lot, leaving Todd behind still shouting after them "What station?"

He'd figure it out. Eventually.