Time After Time (a Stranger Things fanfiction)

These Dreams

"These Dreams"

These dreams go on when I close my eyes

Every second of the night, I live another life

- Heart

Some nights, sleep was impossible. It didn't matter how long Hopper had been awake, how hard he had worked, how little food he had been given to fuel his energy—images of home and the people he loved came at him, taunting him with brief glimpses of happiness, missed opportunities. Things he couldn't have.

Over time he had developed the habit of leaning in to these pictures, trying to lose himself in memory, in fantasy, if he couldn't lose himself in sleep.

Tonight was one of those nights, and so he retreated into one of his favorite fantasies—the date at Enzo's. The one that should have happened and didn't; the one that was supposed to happen and couldn't.

He imagined getting dressed in a nice shirt and tie. No flamingoes this time, no ridiculous attempt to impress her. Just him, in clean clothes, a splash of aftershave. Hopper could feel the butterflies in his stomach as his imagined self surveyed his image in the mirror.

Then, getting his keys, he got into the truck—conveniently forgetting that the Russians had blown it up. No one needed them in this fantasy. He drove to Joyce's house, where Jonathan and Will glared at him, making sure he knew that they expected him to treat their mother well. And Joyce—little Joyce, her hair done up ... no, flowing around her shoulders, and wearing ...

No, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see her in a dress. He gave up forcing the image, and just let her come along in her jeans and that black leather jacket she had. They talked about nothing in the car, conversation in fits and starts. Then they were seated—at a quiet table in the corner this time, not in the middle of the restaurant squeezed between other couples. And that smirking waiter approached them respectfully, nodding appreciation as Hopper masterfully ordered the wine. No mispronunciations this time.

The wine came, and the breadsticks—a double order. Even in memory, those things were good. Hopper rolled over onto his side, his stomach growling, imagining himself deliberating over the menu options. The veal, or the lasagna. One of those two. Lasagna was messy, but veal—well, what did it say about a man if he ordered baby calf on a date?

And then, the ordering done, looking across the table at Joyce, her face lit by candlelight, her eyes sparkling above her wineglass as she teased him.

Would he ever see her again? He had no idea how to get out of this prison, or how to get out of Russia even if he could escape. It was entirely possible he would die here, with no one knowing he was here. More than likely, no one knowing he was alive, unless El could see him in her mind.

Hopper couldn't hold on to the fantasy. Joyce was in Hawkins, and he was in Siberia, and the date at Enzo's was an idea that had come too late for both of them. He covered his face with his hands so the guards wouldn't hear him and wept, surrendering to despair.

*****

Joyce sat up and shook out the covers, then punched the pillow back into fluffiness, in the vain hope that maybe she could sleep.

She couldn't stop thinking of Hopper, those last moments, replaying them in her head to try to find some way she could have turned those keys earlier, some way she could have helped him fight off the big Russian. But there was nothing. In the moment, she had been helpless against the Russian. She had found a way to turn the keys, but much too late, and Hopper had died because of it.

He wouldn't want her to lie here and beat herself up for it. She knew that, and she tried not to. But sometimes in the dead of night, awakened by one of the neighbors out walking their dog, she couldn't hold off the dark thoughts.

Rolling over, she tried to lose herself in fantasy instead, imagining that date at Enzo's that they never got to have.

After they'd eaten, after dessert, and finishing off the wine, they would leave the restaurant and get in Hopper's truck—never mind that the Russians had blown it up—and they would drive somewhere. Not home, no, not yet, not with her children and El waiting at their respective houses to know how the date had gone. But somewhere quiet, peaceful, where they could be alone. Hopper would park, and turn off the car, and he would reach for her hand.

"Joyce," he would say. Then he would clear his throat, because Hop had to work up to sentiment. "I—"

She would kneel on the seat, turning to face him, and tell him he didn't have to say anything, that she already knew how he felt. And he would smile, that smile that had been making her knees go weak since they were in high school, and lean toward her. Joyce would close her eyes and lean toward him as well, and then—

But she could never get to the kiss. Always in that imagined moment, she would remember that he was dead and start to cry, knowing that kiss would never be.

Joyce covered her face with the blanket and twisted her face up to keep from surrendering to her tears. The kids would be up in just a couple of hours, and she didn't want them to see that she'd been crying. They were trying so hard, they needed her to be strong for them. Hopper needed her to be strong for them, she reminded herself.

So she wouldn't cry. And she would stop imagining things that could never be. And she would live this life in California where the kids needed her. And she would pretend that she didn't miss Jim Hopper with every breath.