100 More One Shots ✔️

Family >> Jim Hopper X Reader

Title: Family

Paring: Jim Hopper X Reader

Warnings: contains fluff, family and El being a cutie.

Spoilers: yes, for Stranger Things 2

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It's dark when he comes home, but you're awake. You've been awake for almost fifteen hours, and despite sore eyes, an aching headache, and sore limbs, you're sitting up, to see the door open, and close very slowly. To see the way Jim takes off his shoes, peels off his socks, puts his hat upon the rack by the window. He looks as tired as you feel – in the moonlight through the window, you can see the lines above his eyebrows, beside his eyes.

Jim's barefoot and stifling a yawn, working on undoing the buttons on his uniform. You watch as he walks toward you in the kitchenette, but as he turns the paraffin lamp, he jumps a little, but still quiet. You're sitting on the bench, beside the sink, legs dangling like a novelty made-at-home dolly, wearing one of Hopper's holey old shirts and boxers.

"You scared me," he says, low, quiet. "What are you doing up so late?"

You shrug, gesturing to the cup of tea growing cold beside you. "Story came to me, couldn't stop, and then couldn't sleep." You take a sip from your cold tea, and wince, "Why are you home so late?"

There could be a myriad of answers. Kids egged a house down on an avenue in town – perhaps he'd helped an elderly lady at the grocery store pack her bags into her late husband's station wagon, maybe the paperwork wasn't done on time and Flo stopped him until it was completed. But there wasn't any egg on his wrinkled uniform, nor groceries in his arms, or ink on his hand.

"Found a kid walking around town, all alone. Drove them home." His smile wan, he moved past you, flicking the stove on heat up the soup you made earlier for yourself and El. "Flo wanted to know how the story's coming along."

You make a noise. "Slow. Be better if I didn't screw up my last typewriter." You hummed, showing your hands to your boyfriend, hands that were covered in pen scratches and ink transferred from the paper.

"________, those things don't come cheap," he mutters, taking his dinner from the fridge, shoving it in the microwave.

"Ellie went to bed happily again." You change the subject, tapping your bare foot lazily on the cabinets.

Jim raises an eyebrow. "Ellie?" he asks.

You shrug, drawing a knee to your chest, watching as the screen on the magical microwave oven counts down the seconds until it pings! "She doesn't like me calling her Jane, and you know I feel funny calling her a number. She's a teenager, Jim, Ellie suits her, I think." You pause, and sliding down from the countertop, you add, "She was kind of bummed she didn't get a goodnight kiss from her dad."

The clock on the wall clicks over to the new hour, reading the hour that the witches come out to play. Or at least, that's what your mother used to tell you back home in Boston, before the split as a child when your dad moved you to Hawkins.

"She called me Dad?" Jim asks, just as the sausages and gravy are ready.

You nod. "Right before nodding off. Said she missed your scratchy kisses." You grin, eyes scrunching up like there's no greater happiness in the world than seeing the person you love described so simply. "I missed your scratchy kisses too."

Jim takes his meal to the table, smiling to himself. You stand there in the kitchen, still, swaying. It's almost like you're caught between being awake, and overtired, or perhaps you're imitating a ghost caught between this world and the one beside it, swaying in the breeze of life. But you snap out of your moment when Jim's fork clanks against the table, and carrying the paraffin lamp to the table, you sit opposite, silent.