Time had hardened her. The soft and welcoming shell she recognized from the reflection in the mirror had taken a backseat in the constant state of her personality. Of course, her children still received the unconditional love and comfort from her, but the rest of the world wasn't so lucky. Time had left her viewing only damage in that same reflection, most commonly after the steam of her morning shower had fogged the glass, showing the true image of the bags beneath her exhausted eyes. Scars on her body, just a shade lighter than her skin tone had gained such a quantity that she couldn't remember where half of them had come from. The same scars she had watched her blood run from too many times, swirling in crimson down the drain along with another shred of hope and peace.

Time hadn't been the only culprit for the change. The new life she had adapted to; built from the ground up, that had played a large part in the transformation. The gun that remained rightfully attached at her hip. The hard-earned golden badge that had been pinned to her uniform. The job required this new lifestyle. The harsh and detached nature of her words, the thicker skin that doubled as kevlar for the horrors of the world that she had seen. Cigarettes and cups of coffee that had been brought to her lips were no longer meant for the stress from the demons taking residence under her bed. Now, they were utilized to clear her head enough during the sleepless nights of active cases and working overtime. 

Detective Byers — that always did have a nice ring to it.

She was good at her job. Damn good, thank you very much. She had been given a new life, and even under the awful circumstances that had warranted that, she knew to do better than her last life. Retail and sales wouldn't feed three hungry mouths at the table, not including herself. She had made the decision to enroll in the Police Academy not long after the move. Maybe it was for change, or maybe it was to torture herself with exposure therapy to what she was most afraid of — which, for a while, was everything. After more time had passed and she had broken in the uniform, she had grown to love the job. It made her feel stronger, putting away the thoughts in her head that convinced her that she was weak. All of which were usually residuals from Lonnie's vocal stabs. Anyone who had the gall to say she was weak was someone who clearly hadn't seen the things she had seen. She wasn't weak. She knew it took a hell of a lot more balls to become a better version of herself than to chase the ghosts of her old life.

Sometimes, she wondered if her old life was worth chasing. Obviously not. That much had been given the clarity it deserved, especially after she had sacrificed it all. The move, the job, the home, the lifestyle. There was no getting it back. She could try and try. She could fight until the beds of her nails were tarnished with blood and flesh. She had spent two and a half years trying to pry her old life back into her own grasp before moving. That all changed after Will had gone missing, she just wasn't ready to admit it to herself. But Hopper... she was sad to say that it was different that time around. Not because he was worth more than her son. Not at all. But rather, she had nothing left to stay for. Nothing at all, really. He had always been the non-variable that Hawkins would always have; anchoring her back. That was how the world worked. It questioned how badly she would fight for things to remain the same, and then it began to pick away at the details that had made her case solid. Her kids weren't safe, her home wasn't safe, and now there wasn't a damn body in Hawkins who could make an impact on her decision quite like Hopper could. The world had won its sick little game. It always did. 

A part of her was proud to look in the mirror and see the change. As terrifying as it was to look and no longer recognize the reflection, she was proud to see the growth. Her eyes weren't dark and tired from the stress of fearing for her and her family's lives. They were shaded and sunken from the effort she was putting in to make the world a safer place. Even if it was just a town slightly bigger than Hawkins, she could die someday knowing that she helped at least one person. She could admire the muscles that had hardened in her arms from learning to steady her shooting aim. She could praise herself knowing that she was doing everything she could to feed her family and provide them with a better life. The change wasn't pretty, but it was necessary. Necessary was all she needed anymore. 

Just when she had thought that life couldn't change any more than it already had, the world had thrown her another earthquake. Murray — it always started with Murray, didn't it? Badgering her with claims that he believed Hopper was still alive. The first few times, she had rightfully wanted to slug him in the eye socket. Everything just burned. God, it burned so deeply in the lining of her stomach. Alive, dead, captured, or free; none of it mattered. It still fucking stung. But he made his case stronger with each phone call and informational spontaneous blitz attack on her at the station house. When had she woken up and traded spots with Jim? 

She must've read Murray's composed file at least eight hundred times before it occurred to her that he made a strong point. Still, she tried to remain cautious. Murray was a conspiracy theorist. Getting her hopes up even just the slightest bit could cause her irreversible damage. So, he hunted for more. He had become so hellbent on the idea that Hopper was in Russia, she felt crazy as she started to believe him more and more. 

As soon as Murray's freelance research had located the exact coordinates of Kamchatka, Russia, the entire operation stepped up to a level she had never expected. It had taken more convincing than she had anticipated, but Sam Owens had finally started to believe there could be merit in Murray's findings. A full year had passed since any of them had even an inkling that Hopper could still be alive, but when the time had come, she had fished her old Soviet uniform out from the bottom of her closet. It had remained littered with the blood-stained bullet holes from when Hopper had sprayed the guards and techs with a clip of lead. Untouched, lying in the bottom drawer since the move. It had taken a thorough investigation with Owens' side of the law before getting the government clearance that they needed in order to infiltrate the prison. There were no meetings between government officials and liaisons. It was treated as a hostile rescue mission. Get in, get out, and stay the fuck alive. Five soldiers on loan from the army, Owens, Murray, and Joyce was what it had taken to finally receive the answer she had been begging to find out. 

Was he still alive? 

The moment his cell door had opened, she had been flung into the past when she had found him in the tunnels. Instead of being swallowed alive by the vines, he was shackled to the solitary windowless cement walls. Their reuniting wasn't how she had shamefully pictured it during the sleepless nights when her head hit the pillow. There was no colliding kiss where his calloused palms had grabbed her cheeks and enveloped her in a long-awaited kiss. Instead, it was a quick snap of the locks and her hand tightly grabbing and pulling him by the wrist. 

There hadn't been any time for monotonous small talk or reassurance. Each of their lives had balanced on the line of how many seconds they had left ticking away on the clock. How many grains of sand were left at the top of the hourglass? She barely had any time to confirm to him that El was safe and alive back at home before they had hauled him out of his cell as quickly as possible. They had made it out of the institution in the nick of time, dodging full metal jackets from the watchtowers as they disappeared into the night.

The moment she laid her eyes on him in the light of day, the crushing guilt had sunken in her stomach. Three years. Three long, torturous years she had dragged her feet. It was out of her hands; she knew that. But the thought of him rotting away in that prison while she refused to believe Murray's theories, it was already necrotizing her soul for the short time she had to even think about it.  

He looked different. Just as she had lost recognition of her own reflection, she had lost her recognition for his too. What the hell was she expecting? That she'd waltz in and see that the man sitting in the cell was the same exact man who had smiled and shed a tear for her the last time he laid eyes on her? He had changed more than she could've ever anticipated. The grey strands that lightened his chestnut hair had become more prominent. At least sixty pounds had been shaved from his body, leaving him smaller than she had ever seen him. He was left only as a whisper of himself. She did everything she could to avoid seeming alarmed by the change. Everything would be different now; the least she could do was to try not to inaugurate any more trauma within him.

Every few minutes she glanced over towards the passenger seat where he sat. He had been gazing out the window for several hours, staying nearly mute as the drive lagged on. They had fled Russia as quickly as possible, forgoing a nice night in the Hilton to catch up on beauty sleep. As far as the Russians were concerned, they could've been severely punished for their invasion. Staying even remotely static in the Union's jurisdiction could've jeopardized everything. 

In fact,  he had been nearly silent for the entire trip back to the United States. She had seen all that she needed to see to understand why he was completely shut down. The simple sight of the institution was enough to traumatize anyone. She'd never be able to erase all of the images from her mind, but it didn't matter anymore. Her bones felt as if they were weighted with bags of sand and it took every ounce of willpower for her to keep her eyes open at the wheel. They were finally on the last leg of the journey home. 

Home. Was there even such a place anymore? Their shelter was more like it. Nothing felt like home no matter how many times she had considering decorating the place to look like the cover of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. The silence between the family had carried out all the way to their new house in Illinois. Everybody ignoring their trauma by keeping themselves as occupied as possible. To hell with anyone who thought they'd be ready to face the pain after three years. 

Jonathan spent most of his time at the college he was attending — usually coming home only if he was needed. El had made a new group of friends at school who she spent more time with than anyone else. Will kept himself busy with the AV club he had helped start at their new school. And Joyce? Well, Joyce liked her nights to be spent with the lamplight of her desk, illuminating her DD-5's in the empty bullpen at the precinct.

None of them could stand the silence anymore. How it rang so loudly in the empty rooms of the soulless house. They were a family, but there was no room to deny that they were each broken in their own ways. For a while, the ringing within the silence was her mind's interpretation of another case of close-range gunshot tinnitus. That was before she had to allow herself to realize that it was just the loneliness echoing off of the walls. The family hadn't recuperated this time — not that she could blame them. How many times did they need to be traumatized before they understood that things would never go back to normal? 

Three years without seeing his face or hearing his voice. Three years of her raising his daughter in hopes to make his memory proud. All that time, she had actually believed he was only but a memory anymore. Just another body turning to dust because the right people got the wrong idea. 

But there he was, drowsily watching as the passed the trees on the endlessly long road. She wanted to ask him what was running through his mind; what had he seen for three years that had nearly left him mute. The glassiness of his eyes, the never-ending days of survival, and the shell of a man in front of her. Who was he? 

"Joyce," he whispered, breaking the silence. His voice sounded deeper and more hoarse than she had remembered. As if he had spent weeks screaming until his vocal cords bled. She tried to contain her knee-jerk reaction to the change in his timbre. "Where are you going? This isn't the way to Hawkins."

She closed her eyes for a split second before refocusing on the road. Her forehead creased with a shaky exhale as she tried to search for the right words. Did she need to be soft and sensitive? Did she need to just treat him as if no time at all had passed? What did he need?

The truth. 

The truth, she told herself. 

"Hop," she murmured before taking a thick and audible gulp. Her chest rose and fell as her breathing began to speed up. She was violently forcing her eyes to stay forward and away from his. "We can't go back to Hawkins." her words were annunciated slowly, ensuring that he heard the deep regret in her voice. She bit her lip as her head shook slightly, losing the battle of her focus remaining on the road in front of them. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the hurt and confusion written on his face.

With his brows furrowed, he slowly turned his head to stare at her. She had her eyes closed once again, just long enough to keep them straight forward on the road. His jaw dipped slightly, trying to register her words and their meaning. "Joyce... I just wanna go home," the pleading tone of his voice caused her to take in a sharp inhale. Nothing quite like a straight shot to the heart. 

This conversation was bound to happen. She had prepared for each and every scenario of how it was going to happen. Not that it made it any better. None of the options she had thought about seemed as if they would slide nicely into a conversation that wouldn't cause more harm. There would never be an easy way of saying it — any of it. Anything she knew, anything she had discovered. It would always burn. Taking another deep breath, she tried to channel the detachment she had learned how to execute in the academy. "You don't have a home in Hawkins anymore, Hopper." Carefully, slowly, painfully. "The cabin was destroyed, we fixed as much of it as we could but we sold it and put the money into a college fund for El,"

Before she could even finish, a sharp shift in his voice filled the cab of the car. "You're keeping something else from me," his stare was burning a hole in the side of her face, lasering through the whites of her eyes as he waited for her to finally face him. 

Her detachment was faltering and she knew it wouldn't work for much longer. How could a man she hadn't seen in three years still have this impact on her? To read her like a book, knowing that her next words would only be another stab to the abdomen.

"I made a deal in order to get you out of Kamchatka." she white-knuckled the steering wheel as she ground the words out through pressed teeth. "Everybody in Hawkins thinks that you're dead. They only allowed me to go to Russia if I promised we wouldn't step foot back in Hawkins again. Especially you."

Her head flickered to the side, just long enough to capture his incredulous expression before finishing her statement.

"If you show up after everyone thinks that you're dead, people are gonna start sniffing around. Someone is bound to pick up on the fact that you were taken somewhere by someone. They couldn't risk any civilians picking up on clues that they were covering something up. Even after Will, they struggled to keep it a secret." she glanced back over at him to read his final expression. With tears welling heavily in her eyes, she cocked her head and gave him the most sympathetic look she could possibly conjure up. "I'm sorry, Hopper. We can't go back." 

She heard him gulp as he shifted his view down into his lap. Once again, the silence rose back up to unbearable levels. Her eyes burned. Her chest burned. Everything fucking burned from the inside out. She let her grip loosen off the steering wheel, fearing she might rip the damn thing right off of the dash if she wasn't careful enough. Her eyes focused on the dotted yellow lines of the midnight road, anxiously counting them as she listened to the wind blow against the frame of the moving car.  

"So uh..." he exhaled deeply, turning his head back to look out the window at the rows of greenery. "Where is home now?" 

"Illinois. 'Bout an hour or two away from Sesser. Bigger than Hawkins," she responded, her voice turning somewhat upwards for the first time in days. She was proud of her home in Illinois. More than anything, she was prouder of her new reputation. She had shed from the rude and unrelenting notions that Hawkins had about her. 'Crazy Joyce' was now just Joyce Byers. Mother of three, hard-working cop, secret international war hero. Illinois' version of herself was just Indiana's but refined. A fresh start that, to her surprise, had actually worked. So far, Hawkins had somewhat returned to its status of what it was before the events of '83. Granted, it now housed a few fearful families and conspiracy theorists. But the same way the wind blows, everything after Starcourt had blown over within a few months. As far as she knew, no more monsters had risen. No gates to be closed or evil scientists to be put down like a junkyard dog. 

Once she left, it all went quiet. 

"You moved near Murray?" he broke the silence, cracking a small smile for the first time since she had rescued him. A rare and fleeting moment before the upwards of his lips dropped back into their new and nearly permanent state of flatness. 

"Couldn't have saved your ass without his help," she smirked, finally feeling some relief after seeing a hint of the familiar sparkle in his eyes. "You'll like the place. It's a farmhouse, we got it for a steal, really. Enough room for everybody. Big ol' backyard for the dog to run around in. Tons of room for the kids."

"Dog?" he asked. "I thought Chester died?"

"Yeah," she replied, momentarily losing the kid gloves she was wearing to crack an actual joke around him. For just a split second, she had jumped off of the eggshells she had been walking on. "We resurrected him while you were gone. You missed it, we had a whole Pet Semetary problem for a while... Kidding!" she added quickly as soon as she saw the mortified shock on his face. "We got a puppy when we moved. I figured the kids deserved some happiness after... everything."

Just like that, the decrescendo. Her voice plummeting levels as soon as she realized that walking on eggshells was the safest option around him. Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip, hoping to buffer the reaction he would have. She didn't know what to expect from him anymore. That scared the living shit out of her. Old Joyce could've predicted every single one of his next words or movements. Three years changes a person. Three years of torture — God only knows. 

Even in the anxiety-ridden moment, she couldn't help but to be grateful just for his company in the silence. A feeling she had long since forgotten what it had felt like. Just to hear the soft and steady breathing of someone she cared about sitting next to her. Someone she had longed to see more than anybody in the world could ever understand. 

In fact, just the thought of it all pushed her closer to the inevitable breakdown she was bound to have. It was getting better though. She was learning to save her tears for the pillow. She needed to be strong for him, and she was getting increasingly better at that part too. Working every day with people who needed her help; who needed her to be their strength. 

The new Joyce. 

Once again, he had chosen to break the silence for a record-breaking third time. Even before he had spoken with his first breath, she could hear the drop of his tone. "I feel like saying 'thank you' wouldn't even begin to cover it," he choked out, slowly closing his eyes to keep his gaze from crossing paths with hers. 

Her brows knitted together, slightly taken aback by the sentiment in his words. "You don't need to thank me. If anything, I should probably be the one to thank you instead," she replied, huffing out a nearly incredulous-toned breath. 

"For what?"

Eggshells, she repeated in her head. 'Eggshells, Joyce.' She blew a breath from between her lips, praying it would cure the ache of her stomach where the splash of adrenaline had begun to burn. "Jesus, Hop." her eyes closed briefly before she reminded herself that she was the one driving. "None of us would even be alive right now if it weren't for you." the tears prickled in her eyes, stinging as she did all she could do to force them to dissipate. 

He paused for a moment, looking back up at her as he started to soak in her words. His mouth opened and closed a few times, digging deeply for the right words to say. Or at least the most correct version of whatever it was he could possibly say to her. "I was ready to die, Joyce." 

Her head nearly whipped off of her shoulders as she shot him an angry glare. "Normally I'd tell you how selfish that sounds, but given the circumstances—" she stopped herself, knowing that he understood exactly where her statement was heading. A warm tear started to fall and drip down her left cheek, yet her voice showed no indication that she was crying.

"I've been ready to die for a long time," he whispered, staring softly at the side of her face. "That doesn't mean I wanted to. It just means that when the time comes, I'll accept it. It's been that way ever since Sara... and my job, and Vietnam." this time it was him forcing a deep breath out. "I was ready to die, but I wasn't ready to hurt the people who... loved me."

"Well," she sniffled, wiping away the stray with the sleeve of her jacket. "You're done being ready to die. A long time ago, you told me how badly you wanted a second chance. I know this isn't the second chance you wanted, but it's the one you got. Actually, I think this is more like the fourth chance... but it's a second chance for all of us. Don't throw it away." 

Tough cop voice. She hadn't even meant to use it; it just came out with the same resonance she would hear echoing off the walls of an interrogation room. She hadn't meant to sound so callous and cold, it came as a second instinct. Sometimes, when she actually paid attention to it, it instilled a sense of fear into her. Using force or working up the courage to raise her voice had once usually taken at least five seconds of preparation. She hadn't been the type to step into a troublesome situation or even start one herself. Now, the near draconian essence of her words came to her like a second nature. Starting before she could stop it.

In the few months worth of preparations for the trip to Russia, she had often wondered how she was supposed to handle Hopper's presence. Constantly circling back to the never-ending question of whether or not the eggshells were actually necessary. Would he react better to the classic banter and the pretending notion that nothing had really changed at all? What did he need? That's all she wanted to know. 

Owens had warned her about this. When she had dealt with that very question running over and over in her head, she had turned to him and confided her trust in him. His answer was so simple, she felt like an idiot for not seeing it as black and white as Owens did. "Just listen to him and you'll know what he needs." 

But yet, who really would've thought of that as the solution whilst dealing with such a sensitive subject of a loved one. A person they cared so deeply for, they were petrified to make a wrong move. His actions and words would be enough for her to see what he needed, as long as she could read between the lines. It still didn't feel like it was enough. Maybe it never would. Who knows? Maybe she'll go to her grave while still questioning every move and word and thought and breath. 

There were about 850 ways she could handle this situation with him and none of them spoke to her quite like she had expected them to. How the hell are you supposed to treat someone whose been locked in a cage in Russia for three years? Maybe Barnes & Noble had some sort of handbook on the topic. If only, right?

It irked her how it made her feel to see him in the flesh. Suddenly, she had become nostalgic for the days she had learned to say goodbye to. She had laid that to bed long ago and made peace with it. How could one human being stir it all back to life? God, it was like he had time-traveled back to her.  A life from so long ago, a life she barely remembered. Now, she missed it. Not in the normal ways she missed her old life. No. Now, she actively missed it. No longer a longing for the past that had been shoved under the bed and silenced. A life she had so willingly run away from. So much work and progress to live day to day without missing that life. Then, it came back to her. Because when you love something, you're supposed to let it go. If it comes back, it's meant to be. For so long, she had just thought it wasn't meant to be. 

Why did it have to hurt so bad?

Why did the image of him have to stir so much dust? Why did it have to burn?

He didn't deserve that title to his name. The man who made Joyce Byers' ribcage light up in flames from the agony of trauma. The man whose existence alone rehashed old battles and tore healed wounds. 

But just as every thought in her mind did, this one came back to its form of a full circle. Maybe he didn't need to be pitied. Maybe he needed the tough love. Or maybe he just needed room to regrow. Maybe he'd never be the same person again so any efforts on her behalf to change that would be futile. Could she possibly save a man who didn't want to be saved? Or better yet, couldn't be saved?

Maybe just as the old Joyce Byers had died all of those years ago, the old Jim Hopper did too. Even as harsh as it was and how badly she wanted to believe otherwise, maybe his core personality was gone for good. Like Terry Ives after she took a few too many volts to the temples. Just... gone. 

She wasn't prepared for the consequences if that were true. If he was always going to be a shell of the man he was or if some small shred of him was still in there. None of the options were pretty. None were as elementary as that. Any outcome, any option, they all strung pain along with them. Would he need to regrow everything about himself to fit into the physical mold? Or would he desperately try to revive the last growing stem of who he was on the inside? 

Right now, she hated the fact that she looked at him and saw just an empty cave with a barely visible flicker of a candlelight. Probably even more than he hated it too. He had rescued men from POW camps on the soil of Vietnam. He had served countless years as a decorated cop in both New York and Indiana. He saved lives after Brenner's terroristic ways had reigned over Hawkins. Why hadn't that been enough to make up for the fact that he was once a shitty guy who needed to make a sacrifice? Hadn't he sacrificed enough? Why did all of that have to shrivel up and die as he lied in that Russian prison cell?

Through the corner of her eye, she glanced over at him. Every few feet she drove, the lines of street lamps illuminated the contours of his face. She wished with all of her heart's content that she could just rub her eyes and finally recognize the man sitting next to her.

But life was never that simple, and that just wouldn't happen. 

Whoever this man was, he just wasn't the person she remembered him to be. Now, all she could do was get to know him all over again.