Not enough. Alicent - I was trying to keep her calm. Eddie's been silent for days, but I know Billy has him. Grady - I assume you were in on that, too?
[ Nothing, then. God. He'd half hoped Eddie had been with him, filled him in, that someone might have told him. But this is the very least he owes him.
And then—Grady. Stephen's blood runs briefly cold as he's reminded of everything he's done. ]
Yeah. [ He can't. Not yet. He will, he has to, but - a minute. ] Do you still have her? Alicent.
[He doesn't ask: when did it take Eddie. He thinks he knows; a night that was stranger than most. He tries not to dwell, except - he has to know exactly how long he didn't notice that something was terribly, terribly wrong. ]
[A quiet follows. Jim understands, to some degree, that this must be difficult for Stephen to say. It doesn't make it easier to know that Stephen came to him and Jim didn't notice a thing wrong. It doesn't make it easier to think that Stephen came to him because perhaps he thought Jim might be easy.
After a long moment, he finds his voice again. ] I didn't see it. I didn't see it in you. I should have - [should have known something was wrong when Stephen came and took Jim straight to bed. ]
[ They've had an echo of this conversation before, not so long ago, only then it was the signs of a murderer Hopper thought he should've caught and now it's Stephen wanting him that he thinks was the give away he ought never to have missed. His throat burns, clenched tight with the urge to cry. ]
Don't. [ Think that, don't think that. Even if it's true. Without something else to be terrified of, would Stephen ever have been so uncomplicated? ] Jim.
[ Can't be a coward now, not now (John had been right to call him one, but he can't own it this time - ) ]
I came because I needed [ safety, comfort, home ] you.
cw: internalised homophobia, by god he's on one this month
[Eddie came to him, too. The irony, Jim thinks, is that he's never been good at providing comfort. He's a conditioned stiff upper lip; he's an awkward cough, a pat on the back. Without the claustrophobic expectations of Hawkins, he's (perhaps) become better at it, here. Allowed himself the time to think, to consider his actions, to allow other people the time to express themselves, to coax something warmer than a stilted acknowledgement out of him.
But he's still, he thinks, slightly frigid with his feelings. Stephen came to him despite this. Eddie came to him despite this. Despite his slow crawl to self-acceptance. Despite how, even now, Jim sometimes thinks he's become broken just because he finds comfort in other men, and how that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Makes him want to lock his doors, shut the curtains, make himself unavailable because he's too weak to resist when one of them comes calling.
He doesn't know what to do with all this affection. He doesn't know what to do with the compacted, roiling love he sometimes feels for Stephen, or Billy, or Javert, or Alicent, when it's all based on fiction. The very fact he can't shake it probably made him the perfect target; made him easy to manipulate. He wants to be angry. He wants to tap into some of the rage that Billy is capable of and feel it down to his bones. Two years ago, this would have been easy. Here, and now? He's tired. He's just really fucking sad.
His voice is thick, eyes damp, when he finally coughs and manages to get out: ] Why?
[And maybe he should be angry about asking this too. About the weak, miserable part of him that needs to know what on Earth Stephen Strange could possibly see in or need from him. He thinks: you're a grown fucking man, Jim, like this will make the feeling go away. ]
why have exclusively outer turmoil when you can have outer AND inner turmoil for the same price
[ In the quiet of nature, cold breeze through sparse leaves, Stephen listens to the brief nothing on the other end of the mental connection and steadies his breathing, calms himself down on the surface. The rest of him churns, waiting for Jim to speak again.
When he does, his eyes press shut. What can he say? What does he dare? So much of it is still an untouched mess, tangled and knotted, threads loose and scratching. If he'd spent any measure of time trying to pick apart the strands of another life before he tangled them with the reality of this one they might never have found themselves in quite this position. But he didn't. And now here they are. And what he has to say is as much as he can. ]
I've never been with anyone that long.
[ The first and predicating truth. Stephen may have loved one woman for the vast majority of his adult life, but they were barely together for a fraction of it. He's not lived with another person in a long time. Not shared space, much less a life. No marriage, no kids. ]
You'd have expected it to be perfect. If I was going to dream up a life, you'd think I'd stretch to wedded bliss, no? [ He lapses. Quiet for a moment. Spurs himself on again. ] I think that was point. That it wasn't perfect, that I wasn't perfect, and you still -
[ Stayed. Gave up a life to carry him through the hardest moments of his, in spite of everything he was. Because of it. ]
We were other people in another place that didn't exist. I know. But I've spent plenty of time with you - every time I do I recognise you more. I just don't think I made that much of you up.
[ The surrounds, maybe. The city and the time, the context of the life, the easier attitudes, the technology, the disaster that tied it all together. But the man? No. Stephen could never have written Jim Hopper like that. He would never have conceived of him to begin with. So with his inhibitions lifted, fear and reason turned to weaponized tatters only primed for specific use (none of which reserved for protecting himself from the things he's been running from for months)...
The answer is long, and its lack of being an actual answer to the question asked is extremely loud. But he doesn't have the words. It's as close as he can get. ]
You didn't see me at my worst. [This is a fact; this is the thing he can't quite let go of. He sat with so much of Stephen's agony, so much of his anger and trauma and found ways to love him through it all. But Jim was - half himself, maybe. He was the parts of himself that had never suffered loss, that had never spent years in a jungle mixing up chemicals. He was a pristine version of himself unmarred by all the shit that has made him Jim Hopper.
He's dragging his hands down his face, he's always endlessly frustrated with himself. ] I'm not good at this, Stephen. Talking. Comforting. I wasn't even good at it in that life, really.
[He thinks this is true, mostly because he can recall his own bad temper. His own frustrations. ] I'm not upset you came to me. I'm glad, I wish it had been enough to wake you up - and I don't know what to do with that.
You don't need to. [ Know. Or be good at this. Or be his best, or his worst, or any particular shade in between, for Stephen to be safe in the knowledge that new revelations about Jim Hopper won't stand much of a chance against the knot that's been tied between them. Tugging at these things only serves to tighten them. ] I don't either.
We can forget about it if you want to.
[ They can't. God knows Stephen won't, memories of Jim from those weeks seared into mind as still-beautiful patches of a moldy canvas. But they can never talk about it again, he means. If Jim's struggling with positive associations, they can put it away somewhere, hold onto it quietly and privately, where they aren't beholden to feel uncomfortable about what's already passed. ]
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How much do you know?
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Not enough. Alicent - I was trying to keep her calm. Eddie's been silent for days, but I know Billy has him. Grady - I assume you were in on that, too?
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And then—Grady. Stephen's blood runs briefly cold as he's reminded of everything he's done. ]
Yeah. [ He can't. Not yet. He will, he has to, but - a minute. ] Do you still have her? Alicent.
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[And that had been hard, leaving her. Wondering. Worrying. ]
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There's quiet for a long moment. He has to figure out where to start. ]
There was something in the woods, that part wasn't a lie. But I didn't need to hide from it. He had me almost from the start. All of us.
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[He doesn't ask: when did it take Eddie. He thinks he knows; a night that was stranger than most. He tries not to dwell, except - he has to know exactly how long he didn't notice that something was terribly, terribly wrong. ]
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[ Right to Jim's door, seeking comfort. ]
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After a long moment, he finds his voice again. ] I didn't see it. I didn't see it in you. I should have - [should have known something was wrong when Stephen came and took Jim straight to bed. ]
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Don't. [ Think that, don't think that. Even if it's true. Without something else to be terrified of, would Stephen ever have been so uncomplicated? ] Jim.
[ Can't be a coward now, not now (John had been right to call him one, but he can't own it this time - ) ]
I came because I needed [ safety, comfort, home ] you.
cw: internalised homophobia, by god he's on one this month
But he's still, he thinks, slightly frigid with his feelings. Stephen came to him despite this. Eddie came to him despite this. Despite his slow crawl to self-acceptance. Despite how, even now, Jim sometimes thinks he's become broken just because he finds comfort in other men, and how that makes him want to crawl out of his skin. Makes him want to lock his doors, shut the curtains, make himself unavailable because he's too weak to resist when one of them comes calling.
He doesn't know what to do with all this affection. He doesn't know what to do with the compacted, roiling love he sometimes feels for Stephen, or Billy, or Javert, or Alicent, when it's all based on fiction. The very fact he can't shake it probably made him the perfect target; made him easy to manipulate. He wants to be angry. He wants to tap into some of the rage that Billy is capable of and feel it down to his bones. Two years ago, this would have been easy. Here, and now? He's tired. He's just really fucking sad.
His voice is thick, eyes damp, when he finally coughs and manages to get out: ] Why?
[And maybe he should be angry about asking this too. About the weak, miserable part of him that needs to know what on Earth Stephen Strange could possibly see in or need from him. He thinks: you're a grown fucking man, Jim, like this will make the feeling go away. ]
why have exclusively outer turmoil when you can have outer AND inner turmoil for the same price
When he does, his eyes press shut. What can he say? What does he dare? So much of it is still an untouched mess, tangled and knotted, threads loose and scratching. If he'd spent any measure of time trying to pick apart the strands of another life before he tangled them with the reality of this one they might never have found themselves in quite this position. But he didn't. And now here they are. And what he has to say is as much as he can. ]
I've never been with anyone that long.
[ The first and predicating truth. Stephen may have loved one woman for the vast majority of his adult life, but they were barely together for a fraction of it. He's not lived with another person in a long time. Not shared space, much less a life. No marriage, no kids. ]
You'd have expected it to be perfect. If I was going to dream up a life, you'd think I'd stretch to wedded bliss, no? [ He lapses. Quiet for a moment. Spurs himself on again. ] I think that was point. That it wasn't perfect, that I wasn't perfect, and you still -
[ Stayed. Gave up a life to carry him through the hardest moments of his, in spite of everything he was. Because of it. ]
We were other people in another place that didn't exist. I know. But I've spent plenty of time with you - every time I do I recognise you more. I just don't think I made that much of you up.
[ The surrounds, maybe. The city and the time, the context of the life, the easier attitudes, the technology, the disaster that tied it all together. But the man? No. Stephen could never have written Jim Hopper like that. He would never have conceived of him to begin with. So with his inhibitions lifted, fear and reason turned to weaponized tatters only primed for specific use (none of which reserved for protecting himself from the things he's been running from for months)...
The answer is long, and its lack of being an actual answer to the question asked is extremely loud. But he doesn't have the words. It's as close as he can get. ]
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He's dragging his hands down his face, he's always endlessly frustrated with himself. ] I'm not good at this, Stephen. Talking. Comforting. I wasn't even good at it in that life, really.
[He thinks this is true, mostly because he can recall his own bad temper. His own frustrations. ] I'm not upset you came to me. I'm glad, I wish it had been enough to wake you up - and I don't know what to do with that.
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We can forget about it if you want to.
[ They can't. God knows Stephen won't, memories of Jim from those weeks seared into mind as still-beautiful patches of a moldy canvas. But they can never talk about it again, he means. If Jim's struggling with positive associations, they can put it away somewhere, hold onto it quietly and privately, where they aren't beholden to feel uncomfortable about what's already passed. ]