AN: Binged on Stranger Things season 3. Like in one week. I'm sure I'm writing this for pretty popular reasons: (1) Dacre Montgomery is a babe, and I am willingly adding onto his fanclub(2) asshole w/ abusive past is attractive (3) Billy's redemption arc is unsatisfying (4) try another romance story (5) my mind compels me-it makes me do this. CAN'T STOP. Hope you have fun reading and please review what you think!
Warnings: Billy Hargrove POV (and all that entails), rating subject to change
Chapter One: GirlEvery so often, he will find himself in a bar.
In an empty, mid-America, purgatory where people are bland smiles— God-bless-do-yonder hicks dressed in stained coveralls. A farmhouse odor soils the air as he tips back his glass and the whiskey burns its trail down his throat.
In the back, the Rock Ola chirps the strings of Conway Twitty's guitar through its speaker and Billy's scowl is reserved for the bearded patrons with bellies sagging over their belts.
The memory of a leather snap rings in his ears and a ghost pain makes his skin tingle causing Billy's hand to tighten around the crystal in his palm and his knuckles pale. He thinks to break it.
"How're you doin', hun?"
Billy looks at the waitress who takes his empty plate and his hand relaxes.
Her bangs float limply on the sides of her face as though the hairspray had worn away. Her makeup is off; the eye shadow smudged. It almost looks like a bruise. He wondered if she only works in this shithole bar in this shithole state because the job was its own escape from the disgusting things she'd have to face when her shift is over.
One of her brows rise. She's waiting.
Though the glass is empty, he brings it to his face and smirks. Billy likes to make people wait. He derives some control from it.
"Does it matter?"
The waitress purses her thin lips. "I know you ain't from around here."
"God forbid."
"Where're your parents?"
"If you want me to leave, get to the punchline."
The woman's sigh is one that extends the length of the room. "You remind me of my boy."
Except I bet he doesn't land half as many broads as I do.
"As long as you don't get stupid around these regulars..." her smile is not as wide as she thinks she's trying to make it, but he supposes it's encouragement— the type of encouragement mothers gift their sons. These are the smiles that lie the most.
He feels her eyes trail down the bruises coloring his arms. Did that remind her of bad decisions and consequences— did that remind her of her son? He really hopes it does.
"...you can stay until closing for all I care," she utters gently, "You're not the first runaway comin' round here."
As the waitress leaves him, his eyes follow her until they can't. He lowers his glass, stares at the glint of light.
Thinks.
Runaway?
The word is so despicably familiar; it ushers in memories that cut and wound. Memories of his hair and his eyes and how they're just really reminders of her— her hair, her eyes, her softness, her fairness. Reminders of how he's stuck in po-dunk-ville USA.
Billy feels himself growing increasingly annoyed. His chest flares with heat and he slams the glass onto the table. No one pays attention to the sound it makes.
That's when he decides it's time to leave— not that he sees the clock, not that he thinks it's late, not that he has to register for school tomorrow, but he makes the judgement that he's awake enough and sober enough to make the drive back. He slides into his jacket then out of the booth, striding down a hall leading to the restrooms.
Across the men's side, the women's door swings out and Billy stops a step short of being hit.
At first, he sees the hem of a cream smock dress swaying against knobby knees. Then, the dirt stained sneakers coming to a staggering halt as orange gloved hands press a dark blue book closer to the front of a purple quilted jacket. The girl who wears this nauseating outfit skirts around him with her head ducked low.
The alcohol worming its way into his thoughts puts Billy in a testy mood. Before she's out of reach, his hand snaps to her bare wrist and yanks her back. He hears her gasp, feels the muscle of his palm cramp lightly, but it's easy to dismiss as he glares at her black hair, a tangled web hiding her face.
"Hey," he says tonelessly.
Wide, startled eyes stare at him.
Suddenly, Billy remembers the last chick he slept with. Blonde. Busty. Hot with air. In his mind, her name is Yesterday Girl, because that's what they're all named. But, none of that was relevant. This girl didn't even look like them.
Billy looks harder, down her shoes, up to her black eyes.
Then, he mutters, "Watch it."
Her bowed lips part and fumble around sounds.
"S-s-...Sorr…mm..."
"What?"
Her forehead wrinkles and her mouth presses together as her face tenses. She stammers the word.
"...Sor— ry…"
He lets her go and brushes past. As he enters the restroom, the corner of his eye catches her purple jacket sliding out of view. And then the door shuts.
. — . — . — .
As Billy passes his booth, he's really just trying to avoid the attention. He sidles around the back of the bar, avoiding the row of drunk, rowdy fuckers in the front.
Then, the waitress intercepts him. He sees her on his peripherals and he halts. She puts her hand on his arm, refrains from squeezing too hard.
"I'm not trying to be nosy, kid."
Billy looks at her, hears the powdered sympathy sprinkled in her voice and feels disgusted.
He steps to the side, out of her reach and her hand falls.
"Then don't," he replies.
The waitress stares at him and he wonders what she sees.
"Wherever you're goin', you better think hard on where it'll take you." Her face softens with compassion and a few years are given back to her visage.
How many times has she used the same line on her son, Billy wonders.
"Yeah, whatever…" he mutters and he makes his way to the exit. The door is only half open when the waitress says:
"You take care of her."
He stops in the doorway and his eyes flick back over his shoulder.
"Who?"
The waitress crosses her arms and ticks her chin towards the main window.
"Your girl."
There's absolutely no humor in her tone, it's every bit serious. But, it doesn't encourage in him a revelation. When Billy follows her line of sight, he sees her — palms pressed against the glass. Her face, framed by her arrow straight hair, implores him.
He returns his attention to the waitress and she does it again; that cock of the brow.
She's waiting.
Billy doesn't hesitate. He's out the door and he ignores the girl all the same.
. — . — . — .
He tells himself he shouldn't care, that he's not interested in some hick's teenage daughter with a bad taste in fashion. But, when he walks to his car he hears her timid footsteps down the wooden treads leading to the parking lot, echoes to his own. She stops as he does.
"You," he says, turning fully.
Her eyes avert to the ground.
"Yes," she stammers quickly.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Yes?"
"It's not a 'yes' or 'no' question," Billy says, "Why are you following me?"
She nods.
Billy narrows his eyes. What a drag. He doesn't really have time to deal with someone who's stupid.
He doesn't know why this angers him, but the way she stands there in front of his car. Still clutching that stupid book…
Vulnerable. It's odd how readily the word comes to mind.
How it incites him.
Suddenly, he can't help himself— his eyes act out of their own accord. Notes her meek posture. Her awkward state of dress. Her delicate expression. Her thin ankles. She is a doll. Like an old doll with an empty stare and pouty lips, the ones people don't buy anymore because they look too sad and no one wants to look at a sad thing that reminds them of themselves.
"I'm out of here." His hand grips the driver's side door.
"Wait!" she cries.
Billy looks at her quizzically.
There's a watery film over her eyes that makes them shine. She digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out a wad of paper.
"P-p-please…"
Billy marches to her. When he is within arms reach she flinches as he swipes the paper out of her hand. He unravels it and discovers the twenty dollar bill.
He looks at her.
"What do you want?"
She grimaces out the word.
"Haw...k-kins."
AN: So, the girl does have a stutter. My depiction of this speech impediment is only accurate to my experiences when I was in middle-school and through my college friend. Also, I can't imagine what it would have been for people with speech impediments back in the 80s, but I'd assume someone with a temperament like Billy wouldn't have much patience for it. Hopefully you liked it; I welcome your thoughts. Based on audience reception, I might continue this. Thanks a bunch!