Chapter Text
The first time it happened, she was washing dishes in an empty house.
It was dark outside, her car sitting lonely on the driveway, and the only sound was the gentle splash of the soap suds - take, scrub, rinse, repeat. Joyce had once found washing up therapeutic, a nice break from staring at the bills marked red and the bottles accumulating under the sofa, where Lonnie was usually snoring, but now it was only lonely. She missed touch, human touch - she felt the ghost of hands on her waist, lips on her lips, and she shivered.
And still the kitchen remained stubbornly silent. Here - this very room - was where she’d danced with Bob, talked with Hopper over unfiltered cigarettes. Laughed with Jonathan and Will.
This feeling, this emptiness, was ridiculous, she knew. Jonathan was out with Nancy. Will was having a sleepover with the other boys. Hopper was doing movie night with El. (Bob was gone, but she tried not to think about that so much anymore.) They were all only a phone call away - but every time she considered it, put her hand on the receiver, she stopped. Thought about how ridiculous, almost crazy, she would sound interrupting their plans for- well, for her own selfish loneliness.
Joyce frowned down at her hands. They were frozen in the act of washing a plate, stinging in the soapy water, and she sighed, thinking of longer and lonelier nights to come. Jonathan was going to college soon, and Will wouldn’t be that far behind. Then it really would just be her, rattling around in her shabby house. Growing older and creakier alone.
She glimpsed movement outside in her peripheral vision and her head jerked up. At first she noticed nothing out of the ordinary - the yard, the shed, the leaves rustling in the breeze - but then she saw a point of light tucked at the edge of the treeline. It was dim at first, but it grew steadily brighter until the whole yard was illuminated in a soft, warm glow.
Her first thought - Will, something’s happened to Will, that thing is back - sent her racing out the back door, her hands dripping warm water. It was warm outside, and the stars were out; it couldn’t have been more different to those long nights back in ‘83. Still, her heart was pounding as she approached the trees, the light almost blinding.
But when she reached the spot, it was like a switch had been flipped - the woods were plunged into darkness once more. Almost frantic, she looked around searchingly. But there was nothing. No christmas lights, no monster clawing its way through the ground. The night was mild and calm, a gentle breeze nudging her hair.
She turned back to the house, shaking her head at herself. She had enough on her plate without adding seeing things to the list - and the two glasses of wine she’d had with dinner (a rather watery carbonara made from a box) can’t have helped.
So she walked back across the yard, her loneliness sitting heavy on her chest. Fuck this, she thought, and just like that light poured over her like liquid gold, pooling in the yard and spilling over the trees.
Joyce turned, more wary than frightened now. The apparent source of the light was still hovering in the trees, peeping through the branches almost shyly. She couldn’t explain it, but there was this- this feeling that radiated from it, a feeling that took up residence in her breast and stayed there. A feeling of hope, almost. Of warmth.
Hesitantly, she turned her back on the light and went inside. When she looked through the window it was still there, glowing stubbornly. Drawing her gaze, lighting up the trees in curious shadows. Like a beacon, calling out for company.
—
That night Joyce dreamt of a ceiling - white, with shitty foam board tiles. She was moving underneath it, the strip lighting flashing past in an endless parade. She could hear the rattle of gurney wheels underneath her, could feel the pinch of a handcuff on her wrist, and a sick jolt of hope rose in her at the sight of a red-lit EXIT sign in the ceiling, but the gurney turned away to more tiles, more flickering lights.
A vague, ominous feeling of anxiety hung over her as she woke, blinking in the early morning light. There was the smell of cooking eggs - Jonathan, no doubt, making breakfast as the only one who could cook in the house - and her stomach turned. She barely made it to the bathroom before she retched, gagging until there was nothing left.
Bitterly she sat back and wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. The optimism, the hope she’d felt the day before, had all but vanished. Instead everything - Will, Bob, the lab - pressed down on her chest and made it hard to breathe.
“Mom?”
That was Jonathan, hovering concerned in the doorway. Quickly she stood up, dusting herself off in a poor attempt at appearing fine. “Hey,” she said, trying for cheerful.
“Are you okay?”
Her son knew her far too well.
“Yeah, uh, I’m fine.” His gaze softened and he stepped closer, reaching out a hand. She took it gratefully. “It’s- it’s just one of those days.”
Joyce hated this, she really did. Her son - who had enough burdens to bear already - looking after his fragile, crazy mom in some weird perversion of the maternal relationship. It had been like this for a long time - too long - but she didn’t know what she could do to stop it, to take care of him for once. Not when he suffered in silence in the dark of his room, while she was all too painfully obvious about her panicked, disordered thinking.
“Come on, let’s get you some breakfast.”
Mutely she shook her head. “Jonathan, I can’t- I just-“
With every stuttered, halting sentence she hated herself more.
“You have to eat, Mom.” No doubt he was thinking of that awful morning in ‘83, when Will was missing-
No one was missing, everyone was fine and happy (relatively). So why the fuck was she so torn up? Why were her hands shaking?
Jonathan squeezed her hand and she exhaled slowly, trying to control her breathing. She let him guide her into her chair in the kitchen, where he placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of her, and this was all too familiar.
But he said, “Eat,” and she did.
—
The next time it happened, she was leaning in the doorway of the living room watching Will teach El to play noughts and crosses. Dinner was in the oven - not something out of a box this time - and Hopper was due to arrive any minute. Just picking up El, he would say, and she’d convince him to stay for supper, and they’d all pretend like he hadn’t intended to in the first place.
(Dancing around him was somehow tiresome and exciting at the same time - but she thought she’d had enough now.)
But when he arrived, opening the door with a gust of warm April air, his face was stormy and troubled.
“Jane,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument. She turned her eyes to Joyce pleadingly.
“Hop, what’s going on?” she asked, for her own sake as well as El’s.
“Jane, we gotta go.”
Joyce stared at him. Had he not heard her? “Hop.”
His gaze finally snapped to hers. “What?” he answered, brow lowered with something that looked like anger.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” she said, trying her best not to let his expression cut too deep.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Joyce felt anger rise within her. The room was getting hotter, brighter. “What the hell, Hop? You can’t just-“
“I don’t have time for this!” he almost yelled, and something snapped.
The lightbulb above them popped.
“Fuck!” Hopper said, showered in glass. Forgetting herself, Joyce rushed forward and began to pick the pieces off his jacket.
“What was that?!” Will said, staring in amazement at the lamp which now hung malformed and ruined. He looked to El, but she looked just as surprised as he was.
“The bulb blew, that’s all,” Joyce said, injecting as much conviction as she could into her tone. But she wasn’t the type to believe in coincidences.
Hopper’s look had softened and he looked almost embarrassed, as embarrassed as Hopper ever did. “Look, I’m sorry. I- I can’t explain now, but we really need to go.”
She watched him carefully. Something was up, she could tell that much. His shoulders were tight, his hands clenched in his pockets - a stark contrast to his usual relaxed disposition around them.
“You call me, yeah?” she said, her voice hard. He nodded briskly, and then El hugged Will, then her, tight.
“Bye,” the girl said, and followed Hopper out the door.
Joyce put her head in her hands and sighed deeply. They’d been getting back to normal, all of them - and now she had no idea what the fuck was going on with Hopper, with her.
She’d been having the same tense dream for weeks, and now this thing with the lights-
“Mom, what was that? With the light? It wasn’t El, she looked really surprised-“
“It just blew, baby. That’s all.” She didn’t know why she was feeling so defensive- but then again, she’d been labelled crazy often enough to know when she sounded it.
“But you of all people-“
“It’s nothing!” she said, only belatedly realising she’d raised her voice. Will looked shocked, and alarmed, and she dropped into a chair. “Sorry, sweetie. I- there’s stuff I need to work out right now.”
It was as close to the truth as she could get without sounding like a lunatic, and her son didn’t look particularly convinced. Still, he gave her one of those uncertain yet bright smiles he’d been showing more lately, and she was off the hook. For now.
She sighed and stared at the mess of glass on the floor, thought about getting a broom. Her nose told her dinner was burning, and wasn’t that just a metaphor for how life was going about now?
—
It happened twice more after that. Once in the store, just before closing time - it was dark outside, and she’d hoped to sneak away early, but a regular customer snuck in with ten minutes to spare.
He spent a while wandering the shelves before coming to the till with a carton of milk, and as soon as he approached she wrinkled her nose. He reeked of whiskey, clearly having just come from the bar down the street, and he was reeling, almost falling over.
“Just this, Mr Walker?”
He huffed, stared at her with unfocused eyes. “Why’d’ya look so disa-disapproving, Joycie? Is it cos I’m drunk?”
She pinched her lips together. She was used to rudeness and coldness at the till, but drunkards were rare.
“If so, thatsa bit hypocritical, from th’woman screwing Hawkins’ most notor-notorious drunk.”
She forgot herself. “If you’re talking about Hopper, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Walker smirked lopsidedly. “So y’admit it? Ha! Crazy Joyce th’slut.”
Fury burned white hot in her veins, and the strip light above them was glowing ever brighter, almost blinding.
“Jesus, what th’fuck?” he muttered, shielding his eyes - and it was lucky he did, because it shattered into a thousand pieces, showering them both in glass. His eyes met hers and she saw that he was terrified. “You’re- you’re fucking crazy, what th’fuck did you do?!”
If this was a more superstitious town, she probably would have been burnt at the stake by now. As it was, Walker ran sloppily out of the store, leaving the milk behind. That’s one way of getting rid of him, she thought dryly, and considered the mess she’d have to clean up. This was getting out of hand.
-
The dreams continued, too. They felt darker, more intense, every time. The latest one she’d had featured the back of a greying head marching in front of her, a sight that filled her with inexplicable panic. She woke with heart pounding, all the lights in her room burning bright although she’d turned them off the night before.
Of course, Will chose that moment to knock on her door and come in without any hesitation. He stopped dead at the sight of her, trembling in her bed, surrounded by blazing light. “Uh, Mom, do you usually sleep with all the lights on?” He was squinting against the glare, and just like that they dimmed.
Will looked around like she’d just done magic (which- no- but- no- maybe she had). “You can’t tell me it’s the bulbs this time, Mom.” For the first time she noticed that his eyes were round with fear.
“Hey, hey.” She pulled herself out of bed and took him in her arms. “I don’t know what exactly this is, but I promise you you don’t have to worry about it.”
He looked up at her with eyes that understood more than she often gave him credit for. “Can you promise it’s not the demogorgon? Or the lab?”
She knew it would be foolish, and unfair, to lie to him. “It’s not the demogorgon. The lab- the lab’s been the center of everything weird in our lives, so I can’t promise you it’s not that - but I will protect us. That I can promise.”
It was shaky, and not the most comforting of promises, but Will looked reassured. When she pulled back she saw that the glow of the light, previously glaring and alarmed, was now warm and rosy. Her son looked at it with wonder, perhaps sensing that the feeling emanated was not malicious - indeed it felt caring, almost maternal.
God, she was in deep shit.
—
Hopper eyed the whiskey bottle stowed at the back of the cupboard with something like longing. It was right there, an answer to all his problems - well, not an answer, but a refuge from them for a while. God, he’d like to drown himself at the bottom of a long stiff drink. Forget the shit that was weighing him down so hard, like rocks in his pockets as he tried to stay afloat.
(It was the anniversary of Sara’s death in five weeks’ time, but surprisingly that was the least of his worries.)
He’d been thinking recently that he was going crazy - and wasn’t that a buzzword here in Hawkins? - but as a wise CIA friend had once told him, it’s not paranoia if they’re really after you.
Because he’d noticed vans, popping up all over Hawkins, parking in odd locations on weekends and holidays. (The nature of small town life was that it was impossible to get a tradesman outside of nine to five on a weekday.) They were there outside the school, emblazoned with ‘phone line maintenance’ as if that was a valid cover. (Again, the infrastructure in Hawkins was notoriously abysmal.) They hovered down the road from Joyce’s, squatted menacingly as if they owned the place - and he never saw anyone leave or enter them. They just sat there.
And so he’d taken to dressing El in caps and big coats despite the warm weather, referring to her as Jane in any place there might be a bug, and trying his best not to let her out at all. He was suddenly sick with gladness that he’d taken Owens’ advice - yes, he’d been letting her see her friends occasionally, which was probably a big mistake, but school was out of the question. (Instead he’d been trying to homeschool her, giving her rudimentary math and history, but he hadn’t exactly been a model student - he was tempted to rope in Joyce, who had often played the truant too but had more book smarts than he, but he considered she had enough on her plate. She’d been acting off recently, jumpy and pale, just as he thought she was recovering from the events of last fall.)
Not even six months since the gate, since the so-called mind flayer and the closure of the lab, and shit was going down again. He didn’t know if it was Brenner, some other mad scientist, or just his imagination - but he couldn’t risk it. He wasn’t stupid. (He was, however, in desperate need of a drink.)
The vans weren’t all. That day El had been at Joyce’s, he’d got a phone call from Owens. He barely heard from the man, which was probably for the best, and so as soon as he heard his voice he could tell something was up.
“Hey Chief, I got something important to tell you, so you gotta listen carefully. And I’m gonna fax something to your office.”
“I hear you, what is it?”
“You see in the news a few months ago, the Geneva summit, Reagan and Chernenko?” Owens’ voice was crackling on the phone, and deadly serious.
“Uh, yeah, tell me.”
“Well, they negotiated a lot, peace in our time type shit.”
Hopper scoffed.
“Yeah, exactly. Well, I found some files today, backdated from January. Photos of the meeting. And there, right in the back-“
The fax machine was whirring, and as Owens talked Hopper saw a photo come out. It was small, crappy quality. In the middle were Reagan and Chernenko, looking at a different camera out of the frame, but immediately he honed in on one particular face in the back, aged and worn but still with that sinister, sneering profile.
“Shit,” Hopper said, slowly and disastrously. Because this- this was shit.
Smirking in the back of that photo, right at President Reagan’s shoulder, as if he knew Hopper was looking and that he could do absolutely shit all about this, was Dr Martin Brenner.
So yeah, he needed a drink.