something_incredible | (no subject)

Entry tags:

joyce,
the purge

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Hopper hates this shit.

He wasn't here for the last one, but he's heard about it plenty, not only leading up to it this year, but in the past, in connection to other crimes. It seems unsurprising to him that people who want to commit crime on a day when it's legal tend to do it again even when it isn't and it pisses him off that this happens at all.

They're going to the bunker. Hopper and Marcus know each other well enough that he extended the invite and Hopper isn't an idiot, he'd taken it and let Marcus know he would be bringing Joyce and the kids. That, it seems, had likely been Marcus's intention, as he knows there will be plenty of kids there.

What he hadn't intended was being late.

It's no one's fault and he feels a little better knowing Beverly and Will and El are all there already, but he's still stressed as he holsters his gun and heads down the hall.

"You ready to go?" he asks Joyce. She's grabbing a few more things for Will and the sun is setting and Hopper is just waiting for the indication this shitty night is about to begin.

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"Yeah," says Joyce, shoving the last thing into her backpack and zipping it before she shoulders it, settling the straps over her jacket. "Yes. We can go." She hates the sick nervousness she's feeling, oily and slick in the pit of her stomach. She hates -- has always hated -- feeling afraid. Still, if she's got to go through this, if they've got to risk going outside to get to the bunker, to get to their kids, at least she's doing it with Hopper by her side.

"We're going to be okay," she says, and it's not a question, not really, but she's asking him for reassurance, all the same.

"Hey," he says, going to Joyce and putting his hands on her shoulders. "We're gonna be okay. The kids are already at the bunker, which is what really matters. And Marcus is a smart guy. He's seen a lot of shit and I don't understand most of it, but I know he'd protect all those kids with his life."

He leans in and kisses Joyce's forehead, then takes her hand.

"Truck's ready. Let's go."

She loves his hands -- strong, capable -- and she lets herself feel that for a moment, drawing in a breath through her nose and letting his presence settle her. She doesn't know Marcus, not really -- only what she's heard about him from Jim -- but Hopper trusts him, so that means that she trusts him, too. He'll take care of their kids until they get there.

She nods, threading her fingers with his. "Let's go."

They've fought off worse than this, she reminds herself. At least everything they're likely to come up against in Darrow will be human.

The townhouse is as secure as they were able to make it. Hopper had nailed the shutters into place, hopefully preventing anyone from breaking the glass, and he knows if someone breaks in while they're gone, it's better than any of them being in danger.

But it's his home, it's his girls' home. Hopefully, soon, it can be Joyce and Will's home, too. He doesn't want that violated.

"Still no siren," he says as he helps Joyce into the truck. Even so, he's keeping an eye on their surroundings.

"Not yet," she says, hauling herself up into the truck and buckling herself straight in, her backpack on the seat between them. She keeps her eyes on him as he walks around the front of the truck. Right then, she can't bear the thought of looking away from him, not even for a second.

People are out there preparing. The worst part is knowing some of them are cops, some of them are men he's worked alongside and will work with again tomorrow, when all this is over. It makes him sick to think it, but Hopper knows even cops in Darrow are corrupt even on a good day, never mind a day like this.

He hasn't always been the best cop, but at least he hasn't actively used his power to commit crimes.

"We got time," he promises Joyce when he's in the truck and the engine has started. He hopes that's true, but even so, he's not about to speed. Not now. Some cop will just be looking for a reason to pull people over and delay them until the siren goes.

"We've got time," echoes Joyce, achingly, painfully aware of the anxiety that she's fighting to keep under control, even though something a little bit like relief trickles through her when the engine starts. She focues on Jim's handes on the wheel.

"Let's just get to our kids, Hop. Eyes on the road."

They would have had enough time, he knows, if not for the snarl of traffic they encounter once Hopper turns them onto the main road that would lead them to the bunker. It looks like people are trying to evacuate, which doesn't make a damn bit of sense. There's nowhere for them to go, no other towns they can run off to that will be safe from this bullshit.

By the time he makes his third detour, he's starting to think it isn't an evacuation, but people blocking the road on purpose.

"We're gonna need to walk," he says in a low voice.

"Shit."

Joyce is capable of a lot of things. She'd be willing -- and hasn't she proved it, more than once -- to walk into Hell for the people she loves. She would. She has. More than once.

She still doesn't want to get out of this truck.

"How many guns do we have?"

"Four," he says. "Two handguns, the rifle and the shotgun I showed up with."

He has all of them right now, but before they get out of this vehicle, he's going to make sure Joyce to armed, too. As he drives slowly, watching the other cars around them, Hopper opens the pack he'd brought and takes out his second handgun. His own is his police issue gun, worn in a holster at his hip, and the two from Hawkins are laid carefully along the back bench of the truck. He needs to have the extra gun in Joyce's hands before anything else.

"Clip's in it," he tells her. "You know how to work the safety."

Joyce learned to shoot when she was a girl because, like a lot of girls in Indiana, she used to sometimes go hunting with her dad. Handguns were more unfamiliar, but Jim's made sure that she knows how to handle one. She can handle herself. She'll feel better with a gun in her hand; something settles as she takes it from him.

"How far out are we?"

"If we move quick and don't get blocked again, we can make it in ten minutes on foot," he tells her, pulling the truck over into a space where he hopes it'll mostly be ignored. Someone might mess with it just for the fun, but he can replace the windows or repaint it if it happens. He's more concerned with getting Joyce safely to the bunker.

"Ready?" he asks, turning the truck off. "We got a few minutes yet before the siren goes off, we need to move."

Ten minutes isn't a long time but, right then, the day darkening to night around them, it feels like a long, long time. Joyce nods, shifting her grip on the gun in her hand. She puts it down, long enough to shift in her seat enough to shrug into the straps of her bag, settling it across her back before she picks up the weapon again.

"Ready as I'll ever be," she says, forcing a smile that she knows he won't fall for. "Let's go, Hop."

Hopper gives Joyce's arm a squeeze, then opens the truck door and steps out. Before she can get out, too, he makes it around to the passenger side so he can cover her, even if the siren hasn't gone off yet.

People are looking at them. They may not have visible weapons, but they're looking, and Hopper nods at Joyce to follow him in the direction of the bunker.

"This way is clear by foot," he says, hurrying, but not going so fast she can't keep up.

It is, she thinks, easier than the Upside Down, easier than the prison in Russia, mainly because at least she knows that the people looking at them are just that: people. People who are up to no good, sure, but people. And, if you have to put a bullet in a person? Generally they stay down.

She notices when he adjusts his stride, but it doesn't stop her hurrying to keep up. "Just following your lead, Hop. We'll be okay."

Hopper nods to let her know he's heard her, but he's fallen quiet, listening to the street around them as they hurry onward. The sun slips lower, the buildings cast shadows, and dusk slips away.

In the distance, a siren screams.

"Fuck," he hisses, glancing at the street sign they're approaching. They're close, but not close enough, and he draws his weapon and switches off the safety as they keep moving.

That soft curse word is all the warning and instruction that Joyce needs; she shifts her grip on the gun in her hand, flicking off the safety. Her palms are sweating, and she takes one hand off the gun long enough to wipe her palm on the denim of her jeans.

She doesn't speak.

They move in the direction of the bunker for long enough without incident that Hopper starts to let himself believe it might be okay. They might make it without anyone getting in their way or either of them having to fire their weapon.

He should have known better, shouldn't have let his guard down even for a second. It's as he turns back to say something to Joyce that he sees someone moving in the shadows and he grabs Joyce by the shoulder and shoves her aside, trying to get her behind him.

But the first person is a decoy. The second comes at Hopper from the side, knife flashing in the dim light, and Hopper lifts his arm too slow. The knife sinks into the skin of his forearm and is dragged toward his elbow as he shouts in pain.

He shoves her hard enough that she stumbles backwards a few steps, the soles of her boots skidding on the sidewalk. For a moment, she isn't sure what's happening, but then she sees the flash of a blade in the streetlight, the sudden brightness of blood through the slash in Jim's sleeve.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck.

"Hey!" she yells, getting her gun up, willing her hands steady. "Back off!"

There was probably no avoiding this if he's honest with himself. They should have left earlier, he should have planned the route better, he should have done a lot of things, and maybe he wasn't prepared enough, Joyce has her gun up, aimed at the one with the knife, and the decoy is giggling as she circles the two of them. His arm is bleeding heavily, it'll probably need stitches, and he grabs for his sidearm with his left hand.

The shotgun and rifle are useless, he needs both arms for them. The sidearm is okay, but he's not left handed. It looks as clumsy as it feels.

"Knees and feet," he says to Joyce in a low voice. He doesn't want her to kill someone and have to carry it.

"Got it," says Joyce and, maybe, once, she wouldn't have been as good at taking that instruction from him, wouldn't be immediately adjusting her stance, her grip on the gun. The guy with the knife lunges again, blade up, and Joyce squeezes the trigger without even really realising she's doing it, watches blood bloom when the bullet hits. He falls back.

"Can you move?" she asks Jim, keeping her eye on the two men, one sprawled on the ground now, the other not laughing anymore.

He nods once, short and quick, still keeping his eye on both of their attackers. He hadn't expected Joyce to shoot, but then, he hadn't expected the guy to come at him again once they'd both drawn firearms, and he's grateful she was here to keep him back. The attacker will live with that scar and potentially some life changing issues and Hopper doesn't give a damn.

The guy deserves it.

"Let's go," he says, sticking close to Joyce. "And let's get me cleaned up before El sees this."

He's bleeding freely and his forearm throbs with every beat of his heart, but he doesn't think he's in any danger of passing out. At least, he won't be, if they get to the bunker soon.

Once upon a time, Joyce wouldn't have pulled the trigger. But she's been a lot of versions of herself between them and now and the woman she is right now would do anything to keep the man she loves from harm. Turns out she's capable of a hell of a lot more than Joyce Maldonado ever dreamed.

She's wearing a scarf looped around her neck and she fumbles for it, holding it out to him.

"Here," she says. "Put pressure on it." There'll be things in the bunker to clean and dress the wound. They'll stop Eleven seeing it. Everything will work out.

They'll be okay. They have to be.

He hates ruining her shit because he let his guard down, but he also knows better than to fight Joyce on this. Taking the scarf, he wraps his arm tightly, staunching the flow of blood as they move.

"Down there," he tells her, nodding at an alley to their left. "All the way to the end, then right toward the water. Marcus said it's the warehouse right at the end of the street."

She doesn't relax when he wraps the scarf around his forearm, but she does feel better when he staunches the flow of blood. She's seen him bleed before, but it never gets any easier.

"Right," she says, keeping moving, keeping her gun up. "We can make it. Not far, right?"

"Not far," he promises. A bit further than he'd like, especially now that he's bleeding, but they can make it. They have to make it. Hopper isn't going to let anything happen to Joyce and, it turns out, she's not going to let anything happen to him either.

He feels safer with her by his side.

"Here," he says as he turns. It's a straight shot from here to the water and he can see the warehouse from where they are.

She can see the warehouse, utterly unremarkable, but it might as well be shining like a beacon, for all it represents. They head down towards it, not running, but moving quickly -- with purpose. Joyce finds herself turning, looking over her shoulder and watching their back. "You holding up okay, Hop?" she says, her eyes darting down to the blood soaked scarf wrapped around his forearm.

"Still standin'," he answers, not taking his eyes off their target, but aware all the same of their surroundings. It's ingrained in him, a habit from a long time ago, one he's glad he never lost.

This isn't Vietnam, it's not war, but he's not treating it much lighter.

They reach the warehouse and Hopper follows the instructions Marcus gave him. He goes to the right door, then uses his fist and bangs twice, hard and fast, then pauses, bangs again a third time, another pause, then three hard knocks in quick succession.

"That'll do," she says, knowing that they've been through worse, and made it to the other side. She half turns as he knocks the door, the gun still in her hand, still on guard. There's a long, sick moment and then she hears the door starting to unlock.

"Oh, thank God," she says, the words rolling out of her in a quick, sick sigh.

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