jim hopper | ours
masterlist | ko-fi
words: 1.9k
warnings: 18+
scars, bruises, blood, aftermath of the fight with demogorgon in st4 so spoilers. post-russia! hopper so the trauma of canon-level torture and starvation. mentions of pregnancy, body changes, and a brief reference to pro-choice options. strong language. grief. references to death and funerals.
in which the reader saves hopper from the russian prison camp, and after a soft reunion, shares life-changing news: a baby he had no idea existed awaits him in hawkins.
part two
Jim Hopper is certain he’s dreaming. He must be. Because he’d made his peace with never seeing you again. He’d gotten by, painful, dreary day by painful, dreary day, by trying to remember the exact colour of your eyes and the giggle that always left you when he nuzzled his stubbly chin into your neck. He called them his end memories. The ones he revisited as often as possible to make sure he had them close, ready to take with him, when his time came. When he starved to death or the Russians no longer found him of use. He wanted something nice to hold onto as he left the world.
Those memories, he realises now, would never be enough to capture you. Because you’re standing in front of him, covered in bruises and gasping, tears in your eyes, and he’d forgotten how beautiful you are. Like photographs, you’d been faded and wrong in his head. And now you’re in colour, alive, glistening, and he can’t believe it. He can’t believe you’re real.
He’s exhausted. Bloody and on the brink of collapse from fighting the Demogorgon. Maybe he never made it out, he thinks. Maybe he’s already gone. Maybe this is the only heaven he’ll ever get. “Y/N…” he whispers, taking an unsteady step forward.
You break into a sob, covering your mouth with your hands. “Jim.” You run to him, and it’s like he can finally breathe again. The constant aches and hunger he’s lived with for months ebbs. He’s full up. Content. At peace.
You feel so real when he holds you to his chest, clinging tightly so you’ll never be taken from him again. He needs this. He needs something to hold onto. He’s only had iron bars and grey snow for so long, and now he can smell the faint cigarettes and shampoo in your hair, and it’s you. His angel.
“I made it. I made it.” He doesn’t even know what he’s mumbling as he drinks in every inch of you, squeezing your waist and knotting his fingers through your hair. His eyes are filled with awe as they scan you from crown to toe. “It’s over now. It’s over now.”
“I thought you were dead.” You clutch his jaw, wincing through your tears at the sight of his injuries. “I didn’t think I’d ever get you back. I thought you were dead, Hop.”
“I am,” he murmurs, doing his damn best to inhale you as he tugs you back into his chest. “I am.”
But you pull away, fighting his imprisoning embrace. “What?” You frown, tipping his chin down with your thumb. “You are what, Hop?”
“Dead.” Tears fill his own eyes now, not of sadness, but gladness. He wishes it could have been real. Wishes he could have gotten home to you. But as long as he has you here, he doesn’t care. It’s more than he’s had in nigh on a year and it’s a blessing. Every second here is a blessing. “I’m dead, right? You’re here because I’m dead?”
“No.” Your face crumples with devastation, and he can’t understand why. Heaven doesn’t have faces that crumple like that. Or at least, it shouldn't. “No, baby, look at me. Look at me.” He does. “I’m here to take you home. Alive. You’re still here. You’re here. This is real.”
Clarity sharpens his blue irises finally, and he chokes on a mangled whimper as he finally sees past you to Murray, Joyce, Dmitri. He’s still in the prison. Still surrounded by bloody, beaten, uniformed bodies.
Still in Russia.
Still alive.
And you’re here.
“I got your message.” Your voice trembles. “We came for you. We’re here, Hop.”
A tear rolls down his cheek as he begins to believe it, and he pulls you in again, mouth agape for just a moment before a slow, relieved, awestruck smile makes it’s way across his face. “Even better than heaven,” he mumbles.
You half-laugh, half-cry in agreement. “God, I missed you. I missed you every day.”
“Ditto,” is all he can reply with, lost for words. “Every damn day, Y/N.”
***
You’re still shivering in shock when you huddle away in the church, waiting for a way home. Hopper sits still as stone on a pew, staring at you. He’s barely stopped since you got him back, and god, how you’ve missed the weight of that gaze.
But tension rolls through you still, thick and constricting your lungs like an elastic band. He’s missed so much. You don’t know how to tell him just how much.
You pick out all you can find in his size from the charity donations boxed up around the room: a graphic tee, puffer coat, and flared denim jeans. “I guess there’s a reason no one wanted this stuff,” you say, handing the clothes to him.
His cheeks break with the brackets of his smile, hidden by his five o’clock shadow. It makes your stomach flutter as though infested by intoxicated doves scraping their wings against your insides. You’ve missed that smile so much you’d forgotten how to breathe without it. And here it is. Here you both are.
You move to pick out your own clothes, but his fingers loop around your wrist, so much bonier than you remember. You melt between his legs, running your hands along his prickly buzzcut. “I’m never gonna take a burger for granted again, you know that?”
You choke on a laugh. “Is that what you’re thinking about right now?”
“Among other things.” He squeezes your hips, and you fight not to flinch. While Hopper has grown sinewy from whatever hell he’s been put through, you’ve gone the opposite way: soft, covered in stretch marks. And though it’s stupid, you’re afraid he’ll work out why before you get the chance to work out how to tell him.
So you step away, pretending to be interested in a Scooby Doo shirt. “We’ll get a McDonalds on our way home. My treat.”
“God, that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.” He stands up, peeling off his prison uniform.
You gasp at the sight of his marred skin, full of angry pink scars and welts. “Hop…” Your fingers hover gently over his chest, throat going dry as you think about all the pain he’s been through. All the trauma. You should have gotten here sooner. Should have known he was alive, even if you had his funeral. Even if you had other things to focus on. Your eyes fill with tears as you trace a particularly long, jagged line down the centre of his torso, to his belly button. You just want to smooth it all the way. Heal him. But you know it’ll take more than just wishing to fix this. It won’t end when the two of you get out of Russia.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “They didn’t break me. I… The thought of you kept me going. I imagined coming home to you so many times…”
A lump forms in your throat. He has no idea what he’ll face when he comes home, and that isn’t right. You turn your back again, shrugging off your coat and scarf.
“Hey… You alright?” Hopper asks.
You can only hum, closing your eyes to stifle the tears. Thoughts of your changed body are long forgotten now. You take your sweater off and swap it for the tee, but it only reminds you of home. Of who waits for you there. For both of you.
“God,” Hopper whispers, and you freeze, realising your mistake. You hold your breath; wait for the comment about how much your body has changed. But he only groans, hands sliding over your stretch-marked hips. “I forgot how perfect you are.”
Your throat aches. You haven’t felt beautiful in a long, long time. Magic, maybe, because you’ve brought new life into the world, but not beautiful. You’re all jiggly, and your boobs are usually leaking milk, and… you’re both so different from who you were before.
But you still love him. And he still has to know.
He’s already kissing your neck, and you can’t help but let him. Once more, just in case it’s the last time he ever wants to.
He puts his shirt on as he breaks away, watching you do the same with admiration glistening in his eyes. “How’s El?”
Your stomach jitters again. Here it comes. “She’s okay. She’s missing her dad, though.”
“Yeah?” His face wrinkles with tender joy, and you can only hope he feels the same way about your secret.
You dry your clammy palms on your jeans, working up the courage to find out. “She’s not the only one.”
“I bet the rest of Hawkins are doing just fine without me.” He sinks back down, propping his head against the wall.
You bite your lip, gathering your coat off the pew and rooting through the pocket. You pull out a polaroid, chest swelling with affection at the round, smiley face there, before passing it to Hopper.
His brows furrow. “Who’s this? Don’t tell me your sister had another baby.”
“No, Hop.”
There must be something in your voice, because his gaze snaps to meet yours. He looks at the picture again. Then you. “Who is this?”
You rub your sternum absently, all the grief, the fear, the confusion, coming back to you. “I found out the day everything happened. Fourth of July. Never got the chance to tell you.”
His breath hitches, face paling.
“I know you never really wanted more kids. I know that. And me and the baby... we’ve been getting on just fine, y’know, so if this is too much for you right now, I get it. We’re okay.” But you’re not. You’re really, really not. It’s been hell, being a single mother, trying to navigate El through normal high school experiences while taking care of a newborn. You never had time to grieve Hopper. Not really. You were thrown into this, unwilling to take your way out because it would mean losing the last piece of the man you loved.
“Jesus.” He leaves the photo in his lap, scraping his hands through non-existent hair. “Fuck.”
“We’re in a church. Don’t upset God, please. It’s the last thing we need.” It’s only half a joke, and he’s too overwhelmed to laugh at it.
But then he takes the polaroid again, and his lips twitch, eyes filling with tears. “She’s ours?”
You nod slowly. “She has your eyes. And the sweetest little smile. But god, she cries like a banshee in the middle of the night. She’s a handful, just like her dad.”
He snorts, cheeks dampening. “She’s ours.”
Relief whooshes through you so fast, you almost collapse.
“I’m a dad again. God.” He beams brighter than the flickering candles. “What about El? She okay with her?”
“Best big sister there is.” You grin proudly.
He sobers quickly. “It must have been hell, doing all this alone.”
“Yeah, well… it was worth it. Even the twenty-hour labour. And I had help, y'know.”
Hopper shakes his head as though in disbelief, cupping your jaw and tucking away an errant strand of hair. “I can’t wait to meet her. Our daughter. I wish I could’ve been there with you. Wish I’d been there for all of it. Have I missed a lot? She’s not walking yet, right?”
It’s all you’ve wanted to hear for so long. You close your eyes, finally letting yourself believe that this hell is over. That it’s going to be okay again. That you might actually be a family now. “No, baby, she’s not walking. You have time.”
He kisses you on the forehead, the eyelids, the nose. “I love you. You have no idea how much I love you.”
“Does that mean you’re happy?” you ask, scrunching your nose when he peppers more kisses, everywhere now.
“I’m happy,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. “So fuckin’ happy.”
And you are, too. For the first time in a long time, you’re happy.
