Lilith

The sun has long since set by the time Hopper pulls up outside the cabin. The headlights of the squad car slice through the trees and cast angular shadows on the wood siding. There’s only one light on inside, which means you’re still up but Eleven is in bed (or pretending to be, while actually reading under her covers). He hopes she’s actually asleep, and he also hopes that the rumble of the car doesn’t wake her up as he pulls up in front of the house and kills the engine.

He’s been thinking about this all day—getting home to his girls and getting a good night’s sleep. 

His heavy footsteps make the front porch creak as he walks to the door. He keeps meaning to do something about that perpetual squeak, but there never seems to be time. When he steps inside the living room, he surveys the scene of a lazy night in: a crumpled pizza box stuffed in the trash, El’s books and colored pencils scattered across the coffee table, a blanket hastily folded over the arm of the couch. 

Guilt twinges in his gut at the sight. It looks like the two of you had a fun night, and he wishes he could have been home for it rather than slogging through endless paperwork until well after sundown. 

As he wanders through the small space, it turns out that he was right about the lights. A quick peek into El’s bedroom finds her asleep in her twin-size bed, one hand limply holding a flashlight and an open book across her lap. Hopper steps into her room as lightly as he can and tugs the flashlight from her hand and dog-ears her page before setting it all on her bedside table. She doesn’t wake up, even as he pulls the door shut behind him and heads in the direction of his bedroom. He lets out a quiet snort at the thought of her passed out, book in hand. Eleven seems to genuinely think she’s getting one over on her dad by staying up late to read, and Hopper isn’t inclined to let her know otherwise. 

The single light in the cabin is coming from your shared bedroom. Hopper knocks gently on the door and you answer with a muffled response that sounds somewhat like come in. That’s good enough for him.

The bedside lamp casts a low golden glow over the shape of you curled up on your side of the bed, the coverlet and sheets still in place underneath you. You’re wearing pajamas, like you made it halfway to getting into bed before stopping.

“Honey, I’m home,” he says. 

That greeting started out as a joke, but saying that always makes you grin, so he says it every time he gets home. 

All you manage is a weak attempt at a smile, and the smile slides off Hop’s face. “What’s wrong?” 

He moves to sit on the opposite side of the bed, but you’re already pushing yourself upright. As the light falls across your face, Hopper sees the exhaustion evident in your weary expression and the circles under your eyes. You still look pretty, as always, but you look tired all the same. 

You rub your eyes with the heels of your hands. “Nothing. What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” he says. He keeps his voice low, mindful not to wake El in the room next door. 

You nod in response. Your left hand falls to rest in the folds of your loose sleep shirt. “‘s late.”  

Hopper grimaces. He knows it’s late, and he also knows that he made a promise to you and El about coming home earlier. So far, he’s done a pretty terrible job of keeping his word. He reaches for a joke to bring that smile back to your face and comes up with nothing. 

“Looks like I missed a fun night,” he offers.

You blink, like you’re not sure what he’s referring to. Then the realization registers: the takeout in the trash, the clutter all over the living room. “Shit. I’m sorry.” 

Hopper frowns. 

Apparently that wasn’t the right response, because you notice the look on his face and double down on your apology. “I’m sorry. I know we said we weren’t gonna do pizza on school nights anymore. It’s just... it was a long day, Jane was tired, and I was tired, so we ordered takeout…”

Hopper shakes his head, bringing your ramble to a halt. “It’s okay. Pizza on a school night isn’t gonna kill her.” 

Your eyes finally meet his, studying his face, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You’re not mad?” 

The frown returns. He doesn't know where this comes from, the assumption that you’re always doing something wrong and someone is going to be angry with you. It makes him worry that he might have contributed to it. He shakes his head and kicks off his boots so he can join you on the bed. As he stretches his legs out in front of him, he lets out a tired groan and beckons for you to lean against him. His broad palm settles on the curve of your hip as you nestle against his side. 

“You might be new to this, but I’ve done this before,” he says, quietly. His right hand finds your left one, interlacing your fingers. “Sometimes you just gotta accept that if she’s eating, that’s enough.”

You let out a small huff of laughter. “She can’t survive on waffles and pizza, Jim.”

He nods and tucks his face into your hair. You smell like clean soap and floral shampoo, that particular heady scent that he associates with women, with you. “Yeah, I know. We’ll do better tomorrow.”

Your next breath is a sigh as you slump onto his shoulder. Exhaustion weighs on your body, every muscle feeling sore and cramped and the ache centering on your gut. Hopper notices the heaviness of the noise and nudges your chin with his other hand. 

“Wanna tell me what’s really going on?”

You wrinkle up your nose. It feels silly to admit, but Hopper’s blue eyes pierce through the tough shell you’ve been wearing all day. “I started my period today,” you confess.

Hopper grunts in understanding. 

“I know, it’s dumb. I should know how to deal with it by now, but I just feel like crap. All day I wanted to come home and lay down and do nothing but sleep. Hence pizza for dinner.”

Hop’s hand finds your hip. “Does it hurt?”

As much as you want to put on a brave face, it always melts in front of him. It does hurt, and you spent all day trying to hide that from your coworkers and from Jane, but you don’t want to hide it from Jim. You give a small nod. 

“Where?”

Everything inside you melts at the sound of Jim’s voice so low and soothing. It’s so different from how he talks when he’s in public or on duty—he reserves this voice for you and his daughter alone. 

“Everywhere,” you admit. “But mostly my back and my hips.” 

He nods. Then he shifts, rearranging himself on the bed and nudging your side. “C’mon,” he encourages.

You shuffle across the bed, mindful of your various aches and pains. Hopper cups your lower back and encourages you to settle down in his lap and lean your weight against his broad chest. Slowly, his hands creep down your spine, the blunt tips of his fingers pressing into your back.

“Here?” he says. 

Oh, that’s nice, you think. Laying against his chest like this, you can feel the rumble of his voice through your body. You nod your assent and your cheek rubs against his uniform shirt. 

His fingers press into your skin, gently kneading the sore muscles that have been bothering you all day. You stifle a groan in the khaki fabric of Hop’s shirt as his clever hands release the tension in your back. He alternates kneading with his fingers with pressing down with the meat of his palms, and it’s everything you’ve needed since you woke up sore and cranky many hours ago. With each press of his palms, you find yourself relaxing more and more into his chest. The ache melts out of your hips and your ability to stay awake quickly disappears with it.  

“You know I wasn’t mad at you,” he murmurs.

The words barely register in your tired brain, but you manage another nod. The itchy polyester of his shirt scratches against your face. “Yeah, I know,” you mumble.

“I’m only gonna be mad if you tell me you two ate it all and there’s none left.” 

You can’t help yourself—you snort out a laugh and look up at Jim with your chin propped on his chest. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes deepen as he looks down at you, his smile half-hidden by his mustache. His hands don’t stop working, slowly inching around your waist to knead at the knotted muscles of your belly. 

“There’s a whole pizza left if you want it,” you say, cutting yourself off with a yawn. “Pepperoni. Jane insisted on ordering pineapple too, but we finished that one.” 

You know you’re rambling, but Hopper doesn’t seem to mind—he just keeps rubbing your back as you mumble into his chest. You nestle further into his arms, seeking out the comfortable softness of his belly above his belt. Maybe it’s the late hour or maybe it’s the gentleness of his touch, but something cracks inside you and lets your vulnerability slip through. You want to cling to this moment as long as you can, wrapped up in Jim’s strong arms, his hands working out your pain and the worries of the day.

“Please don’t move yet,” you whisper. 

Jim responds by planting a kiss on the crown of your head. His hands wrap strong and firm around your hips as he drags you further up his lap and wraps you in a bear hug. 

You press a lazy kiss on his throat, right where the collar of his shirt is parted. “Thank you,” you murmur against his skin.  

“Of course, sweetheart. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”