house exists in a state of negotiated truce, a ceasefire drafted between rot and necessity. it is an abandoned and rural thing, wallpaper peeling itself into curling hieroglyphs of domesticity. jim hopper plays sentry, sitting knees up and boots planted and spine curved forward. smoke coils from his cigarette thank god, he found another pack in slow spirals. thoughts do not arrive so cleanly as they meander on useless comforts: a kitchen sink, a warped pan, a dusted dining table.
maybe ellie would like to eat their makeshift breakfast there. these fantasies bloom briefly, delicate and treacherous, and are crushed just as quickly beneath the barely-audible sound of her stirring awake behind him.
of course. when he glances back over his shoulder, ellie is stirred and sitting up in diluted darkness, hair a disordered halo. hopper turns back toward the open doorway. “ what're you doin' up? ” this verbal equivalent of setting something back where it belongs. and it belongs in that sleeping bag .. sleeping. he taps his cigarette free of ash and lifts it back up to his mouth with one hand, the other folded comfortably across his knees.
“ bad habit a'yours, ignorin' good advice. ” half-chiding, half-humored. maybe it is, instead, his bad habit that leads this night. because he tells her every night they'll take turns on watch and he never does. lies can be pretty useful when they're relatable things. “ sleep. i got it covered. ” the cadence of a promise not to be negotiated but rather, kept. i will watch the dark. time in all its indulgence stretches and allows them this moment. this is not peace, truthfully. as peace usually implies permanence. but it is reprieve and reprieve is sometimes the closest thing to grace that this version of the world allows.
＊ ☆ * verses starter call. ... @nectarot ( ellie )
