Thank you for reading! My apologies - I missed a chapter along the way, so I've added a new Chapter 169 and updated the chapter count from there.
"Crazy for You"
I'm crazy for you
Touch me once and you'll know it's true
I've never wanted anyone like this
It's all brand new
You'll feel it in my kiss
- Madonna
It had been hours. Yuri clanking away at the helicopter, Murray annoying everyone, Antonov slowly growing more impatient, Joyce watching the phone, Hopper's nerves jangling waiting for … something to happen. Something was bound to, and it wasn't going to be good.
Between them, they had moved 'Katinka' out of the shed, and Yuri kept proclaiming she was ready to fly and then dialing it back.
Murray and Antonov were on babysitting duty, watching Yuri, trying to catch him in whatever sabotage he was guaranteed to attempt, while Joyce paced back and forth by the phone. Between his injuries and his need to stay by the phone—and his unstated need to stay near Joyce, which he was pretty sure everyone got but her—Hopper had drawn the long straw that allowed him to stay inside, too. Watching that damned phone. Every once in a while picking up the receiver to make sure it still had a dial tone.
Bored, he started looking through crates, finding clean clothes. Garish, ugly clothes, but clean and not smelling like the sewer, which felt like a win. He dug through looking for Joyce's size. There wasn't much—Yuri was smuggling for prison guards, not their wives. "Yeah," he said, turning around with a t-shirt and a pair of jeans in his hands. "These are the smallest I could find. That's it for shirts."
Joyce unfolded hers, frowning at the image on the front. "Oh. Well. Cute." She displayed it to him. A muscle bound bald guy. At least he wasn't as hairy as Murray, Hopper thought.
He laughed. "Yuri has good taste. What can I say?" He handed her a pair of boots that looked like they might fit her, and a puffy red white and blue jacket. She'd be a walking target, but hopefully they wouldn't be going anywhere that she needed concealing.
Joyce surveyed the room, looking for a quiet corner to change. Heading toward it, she bumped into Hopper. "Oh. Sorry."
"Sorry." They both laughed awkwardly.
She hefted the pile of clothes in her arms. "I'll go over here."
"Okay."
Hopper found himself a quiet corner as well, relatively shielded. Not that he was particularly modest anymore, not after nearly a year in a Russian prison, but … well, it was Joyce, wasn't it? He was kind of hoping that if she ever saw him naked again, it would be under better circumstances than these.
As he was changing, he looked up, opening a fancy box that lay on a shelf in front of him. Bingo! Bandages, sterile ones, to replace the strip of filthy undershirt Joyce had wrapped around his arm. He unwound it and started carefully rewrapping the wound.
Joyce finished changing, looking over her shoulder across the room at Hopper. He was stripped to the waist—she could just see the edge of his shoulder and his arm. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. God, this was a stupid time to be thinking about … any of this. But they were alone, for the moment, and she had missed him so much. She had thought she'd never see him again, and that had only brought home to her how much she—yes, how much she loved him.
Slowly, unsure of herself at every step, she made her way across the room. When she came into full view of his bare back, seeing the scars and the still-healing wounds that criss-crossed it, she couldn't help herself. She gasped. "What did they do to you? Oh, my God."
Hopper turned around, looking down at his bruised and scarred body. It probably looked pretty unpleasant if you weren't used to it. "No, it's not that bad. It's … You know, I needed to lose weight anyway." He wouldn't have blamed her if she turned around and walked away in disgust, but instead she was coming closer.
Joyce rolled her eyes. It was one thing to make the best of things, but this was hardly a joking matter.
"It's actually given me time to think, you know? About who I've been and … what I've done." He couldn't look at her. He didn't deserve her. He never had; he never would.
There was a silence while Joyce tried to decide whether to ask what he thought he'd done and Hopper tried to decide what to tell her if she asked.
At last he said, "I never should have sent you that message."
She shook her head. "You didn't know what was going to happen."
"I knew it'd be dangerous."
"So did I," she told him. Like she wasn't able to make her own decisions. Like he wasn't worth risking her life for. "I made this choice. And I would choose it again, even knowing everything that I know. I would."
She was so brave, he thought. So brave and so much stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for being. How could he possibly deserve someone like this putting her life on the line for him?
When he didn't respond, Joyce smiled, ducking her head. "Plus, you know, we do have that date to get to. Remember?" She held her breath, waiting to see what he'd say.
"Remember? I've been dreaming about it!" The words were out before he could stop them. He couldn't tell her the way just the thought of her had gotten him through the dark nights, the dreams he'd had about her and them and their family, all together. It was too much, too soon.
Joyce laughed a little. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah." He walked it back, just a little, focusing on the food. "I have it all planned out."
"Pray tell."
"I'm getting two orders of bread sticks. Two. Those things knock your socks off. Enzo puts some spice on 'em, I don't know what it is, but it's good, and you dip it in olive oil. Forget about it. And, uh, I'm wavering on the main course between the veal and the lasagna. But I think I've got to go with lasagna, right?"
Joyce listened to this litany, her heart falling. Is that all he'd dreamed of? Nothing about them? "So … you—you've been dreaming of bread sticks and lasagna?"
"I've been on a diet of watery soup, moldy bread, and maggots, so, yeah, I've been dreaming about bread sticks and lasagna. I mean, sue me." She laughed, and he wondered if maybe, just maybe, this was all real, not just another dream, not her taking pity on him, but her really here because she wanted … him. Unable to stop himself, he took a step closer. "Should I have been dreaming about something else?" If she wanted this—God, if she wanted this—it had to come from her. Had to.
She smiled up at him, hoping maybe it hadn't just been the food. "You tell me."
"Well … there's wine." He was drawing this out now, almost certain of her, wanting to enjoy every moment. To savor it.
"Oh, well, wine's good."
"I was thinking about a nice Chianti."
"Chianti," she corrected, and he realized he had mispronounced it the way he had in the restaurant.
"Chianti, right." He grinned. "And then there's dessert."
Joyce was sure of him now, or almost, just waiting for him to take the step. He was the one who had been through so much, it had to come from him. "You've got to have dessert."
"Got to have dessert."
"And after that?" She smiled up at him again, knowing she was blushing, not caring at all.
He took another step forward, so close to her now. "I don't know."
"Use your imagination." Joyce lifted her face to him.
God, she was so beautiful. And she was here, for him, to save his life. Because she'd wanted to. Because—she cared for him. It was enough. "Who needs imagination?" And then he kissed her.
The smile she gave as he bent toward her convinced him he was doing the right thing. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back. He put his arms around her, still kissing her, and they moved across the room until his back rammed into a pile of things.
Both of them exclaimed, looked at the thing he'd run into, decided it didn't matter, and went back to kissing.
And, of course, that was when the phone rang.
