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"The Search Is Over"

Now I look into your eyes

I can see forever

The search is over

You were with me all the while

- Survivor

Hopper paced back and forth. He hated waiting. He hated letting other people get things done. He wanted to be out there, protecting the kids, solving the puzzle, fighting the bad things, not sitting down here letting other people do those things for him. "It's taking too long!"

Joyce understood him, as she had since high school, but this was a lesson he had needed to learn all that time. She was proud of their kids, the whole bunch of them, glad to be part of a greater whole. She wished Hopper could feel the same. But this was the wrong time to have that argument, so she waved at him to indicate he should calm down. "It's fine."

"No, it's not. It's not!" After a moment, he added, "She could've died back there. She almost did." He couldn't help seeing Sara's face. Her sweet little face. And El's. His girls.

"Well, she's safe now. She's on her way to Murray's. That thing won't find her … not before we kill it." Joyce wanted to kill it, more than she'd ever wanted to hurt anything or anyone before.

Hopper stopped pacing and turned to look at her. How could she be so calm? Why wasn't she angry with him? She had been right all along—she should be yelling at him, blaming him. "Hey!" he shouted. "This isn't the way this is supposed to work, all right? You're supposed to say 'Yes, I told you so. That's why we needed to go back to the kids.'"

"Oh, yeah, and then you say something like 'Yeah, well, it's really hard to listen when you make everything sound like it's the end of the goddamn world'." She did an imitation of him that hit pretty close to home—she should, she'd been listening to him long enough—and then looked at him, daring him to argue.

He couldn't. He looked at her a moment, then turned away. What would he do without her here, always challenging him to be the best version of himself? Hopper felt strangely as though the world were slipping away under his feet, everything changing, and she was the only thing solid, real, left in it. "You know … I think, despite everything, I mean, despite the arguing, I think we make a pretty good team."

They always had. Looking at him, Joyce was struck by how often in her life he had been the solid ground beneath her feet, her certainty. She wanted to tell him so, but this was hardly the time. Instead she said lightly, "Well, we made it this far, didn't we?" She sank down onto the steps.

"Yeah. We did." He said it again, wanting her to know he appreciated her part in it. "We did."

"So, uh … did I get the job, or what?" She smiled at him, the audacious little smile she got when she had been especially clever. Hopper loved that smile. When he didn't respond, she went on, "Ah, come on. Detective Byers. It has a ring, doesn't it?"

In his mind's eye, he could see it—the two of them getting up in the morning, putting on their uniforms, going to work, arguing their way into solving all of Hawkins' problems. Assuming Hawkins still had problems after today. Assuming there still was a Hawkins after today. And, of course, assuming she didn't up and sell her house and leave behind his back.

He leaned on the railing next to her, pinning her with his gaze. "It's kind of hard to serve in a town where you don't live, Detective." She looked away, as if her fingers were incredibly fascinating. "You're still moving out of here. I mean, that is the plan, right?"

"Eh, we'll see how it goes." She had never been entirely sure she could leave Hawkins, especially not with him there. Maybe it was about time she let him know that.

"'How it goes'?" Hopper echoed. "How what goes?"

"You know, if—if we actually do make it out of here, we—we deserve to celebrate, right?" Joyce looked up at him.

"Yeah." Looking at her, it occurred to him that maybe she was going somewhere with this. Maybe, finally. Moving to sit next to her, he said, "I mean … yes. Absolutely."

Joyce dipped her head to look at his face, carefully keeping her voice level even as her heartbeat sped up. She was really doing this, after all this time. "I hear Enzo's is pretty good."

Hopper looked at her, his breath catching in his chest. She was. She was asking him out. For once in his life, he was at a loss for words.

She could see it, too, he could tell in the sparkle in her eyes. "What do you say, Friday, eight o'clock?"

"Uh …" Was this happening? Was he sitting here in a blood-stained Russian uniform deep in a bunker below the Starcourt Mall being asked out by Joyce Byers only days after she had stood him up? He couldn't resist teasing her, just a little bit. "El likes to watch Miami Vice on Fridays. It—it starts at ten, so I—I can't be out late on a Friday."

"Okay, well, how about seven, then?"

"Seven? Enzo's, Friday, I meet you there?"

"No, you pick me up."

This was, this was really happening. "Picking you up, seven p.m., Friday."

Joyce decided to spell it out for him, if only to forestall whatever punchline he was heading for, the ass. "Yeah, it's a date."

He looked away, because what he really wanted to do was kiss her, and he couldn't kiss her now, not here, not wearing these stupid uniforms. And he couldn't … quite … let it go. He took a deep breath. "Just for clarification, just because I … I mean, just … if … When you say 'date', just so that we're crystal clear—so there's no confusion—"

"Yeah. Hop?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking or I'm gonna change my mind."

"Yeah, okay, yeah. Okay." She always had been good at that, stopping him just before he went too far.

Friday night, after Enzo's, as he dropped her off, he was going to kiss her. And it was going to be great.