Two of a Kind

Reunited

Joyce was a wreck when they found Will half alive in the suspects basement later that day. She was scared to see her son like that, but thanked God that he was alive. She spent the night cuddled up next to her son in his hospital bed, swearing to never let him out of her sight again. Hopper had spent the night with them, too, in a chair on the other side of Will's bed, holding the boy's hand. Joyce acted like she didn't notice Hop cry that night. She couldn't even begin to express her gratitude to him. He found that jacket. He worked endlessly to find her baby boy. He was there for her through it all. He was her hero. They had been great friends, but she felt like she owed him her life now. And she would've gladly given it. She was a ball of emotions watching her son's kidnapper be arrested, minutes after being beaten nearly to death by Hopper before the local police showed up to the scene. That whole day felt like a blur now. She felt more than grateful to Hop. Now, she was focused on spending time with her son after being reunited with him, but at night when she fell asleep next to Will in her bed, she dreamt of that dinner they had yet to plan out.

Hopper had allowed himself a week off of work to catch up on cleaning his trailer and getting some sleep since Will was found. It felt surreal. He couldn't believe the events that transpired over the last few weeks. He woke up groggy-eyed most mornings, wondering if that had all just been a dream.

It was now a cold January evening, and Hop was watching an old movie about five beers in, feeling relieved, but also a bit lonely. He hadn't seen Joyce since that night a few weeks ago when they found Will together. His right hand was still sore— he probably broke a bone or two in it when beating the shit out of the asshole who took Joyce's son at the bus stop that morning, but he didn't bother having it checked out. He preferred to self medicate with alcohol, anyway.

Again, he felt the buzz from the beer and his mind began to drift off to places it shouldn't. Sure, Will was home safe now. He did his job. But it was still inappropriate to think of Joyce as anything more than a friend. If they went on a date and it didn't work out, he would lose his best friend. He had enough heartbreak for one lifetime. Losing Joyce would be too much to handle. He wouldn't be able to live without her. She was the thread holding his pathetic life together. He could not, would not take that risk.

He walked over to his kitchen, opened his cabinet, and poured four fingers of whiskey and chugged it. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to feel. He went back to the couch and laid down, staring at the ceiling as it began to spin. A haze started coming in from the corners of his eyes. He rubbed them and his thoughts went back to Joyce. Her sweet, fruity scent. Her soft, flirtatious voice. He had too much alcohol coursing through his veins at this point to stop the thoughts from swimming around in his head. He didn't care this time as he laid half naked on his hand-me down plaid couch, only wearing boxers as the heat blasted through the vents. So what if he fantasized about her firm little breasts in his big, strong hands, his thumbs gently caressing her nipples? What did it matter if he pictured her in lingerie, sitting on his lap, his lips gently kissing her neck as she let out a soft little moan. It's not like he hasn't pictured all this before. Sure, it didn't help his attraction to her die down, but in this moment he didn't give a shit about that. His hand had slowly crept down his hairy chest, across his stomach, into his navy blue boxers, and down to his throbbing hard erection. He let out a chest full of hot, boozy air as he began to slowly stroke himself, his mind swirling with the thought of Joyce on top of him, her nails digging into his biceps, screaming his name as he thrusted into her. He didn't last long with the thought of her naked body getting off on his. He came into his hand and panted, feeling ashamed only moments later once he caught his breath. This was wrong. He knew it. He hated himself and felt disgusting. What a loser, he thought of himself. He stumbled to the bathroom, washed the warm, sticky liquid off his hands, and stepped into the shower to wash himself of his guilt before making his way back to the couch to pass out, naked and drunk.