“It still feels like a dream, ya know?” Hopper questions, his eyes finding Joyce from across the motel room, eyelids drooping heavily with exhaustion.
He is sitting at the edge of the mattress, testing the softness of the material beneath his fingers, the bedding a bit scratchy, but far more pleasant than anything he’s slept on in months, and he just can’t quite believe it, any of it. He’s clean, and warm, and comfortable aside from the constant nagging pain of injuries sustained over the last eight months.
He doesn’t push the pain away though, instead letting the throbbing of his ankles and the twinge in his ribs remind him this very much is not a dream. This is real, he is real, Joyce is real.
“I know,” Joyce responds, a small smile tugging at her lips, “it doesn’t feel quite believable that we actually made it out of there.” She walks over to him, bare legs bumping between his, her arms lifting and pressing into his scarred shoulders, hands clasping behind his neck. “I can’t believe that we got you back.”
There is a slight tremble to her voice, her eyes troubled, a slight sheen brightening them.
Hopper lets his hands settle on her hips, feeling the material of her cotton t-shirt press softly in the pads of his fingers. He wants to comfort her, wants to wrap her in his arms, wants to see her smile and laugh, and he wants so much more all at once. He ends up grinning at her, a slow smile curving his lips, “does that mean you’re not sick of me yet?”
She scoffs, a short puff of laughter leaving her lips, “Well, I didn’t say that.”
He laughs too, his hands sliding up, one finding its way to her face, the other settling with the fabric of her t-shirt bunched at her ribs, and he pulls her mouth to his, eager to feel her again, her lips warm against his.
When she pulls away he groans, tries to bring her back, but she stands firm, holding him, but not moving her mouth any closer, not deepening the moment.
“Hop?” Her voice is breathy, beautiful, everything, and he wants her to say his name again, he wants her to say anything. “You need to get some rest.” Well, except that, he didn’t want her to say that.
His eyes lift to hers, then back to her lips, then her eyes, and she’s smiling before taking mercy on him and kissing him again, this time letting their tongues slip together, the warmth nearly burning him. His hands are moving, along her back, just above the curve of her ass, beneath her shirt, her skin tingling under the slide of his fingers, and then she’s doing it again, pulling away gently.
“Hop, I’m serious,” Her hands press gently into his bare shoulders, “there will be time for this,” she looks at him, eyes big and certain, reassuring him “later. This isn’t a dream,” her fingers move to his cheeks, touching gently, “this is real, but you look awful, and you need sleep.” She yawns, a hand leaving him to rub at the back of her neck. “And so do I.” She sighs, a slight chuckle tumbling from her mouth.
She’s right. He knows she’s right, but he doesn’t like it. He drops his forehead to her chest, letting his breathing slow, but he refuses to move his hands from her body. He can’t, he won’t, and she seems to realize this because the next thing he knows she is guiding him down into the mattress, still letting him hold her as she climbs beside him, pulling at his body until they are pressed together, legs tangled, and he thinks she’s the softest thing he’s ever felt before he falls asleep almost instantly.