The room was cast in a veiled moonlit glow. Two shirts had been knocked down from their hangers, and a vodka bottle had rolled out of the closet. Out in the living room Neil Hargrove sat with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, glued to the TV playing baseball reruns. His rage had vanished as quickly as it had exploded.
The muted sound of cheering from the crowd resonated through the walls. Blue and white light flickered through the small crack beneath the shut door. Billy was hunched over at the edge of his bed. A string had been plucked and though the tenors of abuse had receded, leaving a vacuum of silence in its wake, they continued tremoring felt but unseen.
She bent down and picked up the vodka bottle; the liquid sloshed against the sides. There was a deadly calm in the room and her steps towards him were slow and cautious against his unnerving stillness.
Unscrewing the cap she placed the bottle to her lips and threw her head back, taking a great big swig. Her face screwed up hard and she spluttered a little at the acidic taste.
"How can you drink this?" She murmured, eyes guarded. If he could glean anything from her expression he'd use it against her. She couldn't be leading this laconic struggle between them if she was busy defending herself. He had only looked at her once since she had come in, but had looked away so quickly his current state was undecipherable.
"By complaining less and drinking more." His voice held a rasp to it.
Diane held the tissue up to the bottle and tilted it, allowing the liquor to seep into the thin material. She took her time screwing the cap back before setting it on the ground. Just by coming inside, she was walking precariously on a tightrope that was already strained too tight. Too much pressure and it'd snap and she'd be in free-fall.
Wordlessly, she knelt down in front of him. His eyes remained downcast. From where his hair had so neatly been in ringlets this morning, it was now a messy array sweeping over his brow. He straightened his posture with a stoic expression. For the first time, they were level with each other. His eyes snapped up, locking with hers. They held the barest tint of a scarlet hue, like he was viciously fighting off tears from forming. There was flickering darkness below the surface, though it wasn't devoid of any emotion. Rather, it's such a turbulent clash of every emotion, they'd mixed together to form a volatile darkness consuming him from the inside.
Corded muscles were like stone beneath the moonlight, yet she can feel the heat radiating from his body, burning like the fire that always seemed to be consuming him.
"It's not a big deal." It was a whispered growl with dismissive undertones, a powerful current hidden beneath uneasy waves. He was careful to keep his voice low enough that it wouldn't travel through the thin walls. "It's not, got it?"
He didn't bring up his dad. She didn't either. The look when their eyes had clashed earlier — he hadn't looked scared for himself. Something had shattered in his eyes, harsh as a bolt of lightning splitting a giant oak in half. He'd looked scared that someone had found out. But there was nothing wrong, was there? This happens everywhere. There was nothing to complain about, because nothing had really happened.
That's what he wanted her to believe. An illusion had been unveiled. Now he was trying to draw the curtain of normalcy back onto his life with every dismissal. She let him. But she knew with the same certainty the sun rose in the mornings and set in the evenings, that she hated Neil Hargrove.
Billy was a lot of things. But no one deserved that.
She slipped her hand into his, so delicate was her touch that there was still the barest sliver of space between the two. Even through the ghost of a touch, she can feel his tightly wound restraint.
"It was nothing." He said.
She was sure he was telling the truth, she was sure it was little compared to what Neil was likely capable of. He hadn't just chosen her that day because he thought she was a pushover (though it was obvious he'd thought that too). He'd chosen her because he'd already known she was a safe enough bet to get good results from. She could deliver a grade his dad couldn't complain about. She didn't know whether he had sought her out in the library her because he'd been too lazy to work through the assignment himself, or whether he'd already known that he couldn't get a result deemed acceptable by his dad.
Her thumb skims over his knuckles, and his hand twitches like he wants to tear it out of her feather-light grasp, yet he's anchored to the spot through some unrecognisable force. It's a force so distant and lambent, nothing more than a lone star in the vast dark sky, he doesn't even attempt to understand it.
There's a small stain of blood growing beneath his shirt, skin tearing up from the small wound caused by Neil. His gaze catches hers, and she doesn't break it. Both of them know there's an injury hiding beneath his shirt. There's a certain glint in his eye, like he's waiting for a certain reaction from her. Whatever he's searching for, she's adamant she won't give it to him.
As she reaches for a tissue from the box on the nightstand, she continues staring right back at him. The tension between them seems to swell as they try to navigate who is going to move first. Perhaps he doesn't know it yet, but she's already won. This game isn't between who is going to act first, because it's his decision. It's his decision to allow her to see the injury, or to kick her out. Now she waits with baited breathe as he tilts his head upwards a fraction as he considers.
For all the way he seemed to be an immovable boulder entrenched in the middle of the tumultuous river of life, he was much smarter than that. There was a certain finesse in the way he moved, and there were still steps she didn't know. It was difficult when he always seemed to be two ahead while acting like he was strolling at the same pace as everyone else. Now she was moving with exceeding caution, gauging his expression to see if they he'd accept her silent command: show me.
His eyes lit with defiance like sparks of the first flames being kindled by his challenge. There was a dare evident, fervent to be fulfilled. Let her see the damage then, from his very own father. Watch as she tears up with pity or looks away in disgust. She will, won't she?
Her fingers are careful but certain as she slides open a button on his shirt with a challenge gleaming right back at him in her gaze. But his hands remain on the bed as she parts the second one. He shrugs his shoulder downwards so she can slide it to the peak of his shoulder.
He seemed to have forgotten she looked worse tonight, and she hadn't run away from the image that'd stared back in the mirror. He was challenging her, seeing how far she could venture into the twisted undergrowth of his life that was dark and thorny and ensnaring to wayless victims.
She took in the damage with the pragmatism of a seasoned nurse at Hawkins Memorial Hospital. There was a tiny laceration in his skin where it'd tore upon impact with Neils ring. A blush of blue bruising was cushioning the cut. Her eyes flickered down to his own hands, to the three rings that gleamed in the moonlight languidly sliding between the blinds.
For a moment her hand hovered above the tear. They both know he could easily clean the injury — even ignore it without repercussion. When it didn't seem like he was going to renege on his challenge, she pressed the tissue on the wound.
His hand wrapping around his knee so tightly his knuckles whitened and the flare of his nostrils were the only indications he gave of pain as the vodka seeped into the wound, disinfecting the area with sharp vigour. Concern must have flickered across her features, fleeting as a gust of breeze rippling across a still lake, because he said, "I've had worse." His voice was a wisp of a drawl.
She dabbed at the edges. "I know it hurts a little. If you need something to hold onto . . . "
"You propositioning me, Dobler?" He rasped with flat eyes. But occasionally the deep humiliation would pierce through, with a current as powerful as an underground river, only witnessed through sporadic cracks in the jaggedness of his defensive expression.
"Isn't this what you're supposed to do after a night of drinking? I'm still getting the hang of this." She murmured.
Like the pain had already begun to bore him, he reached out moved the strands of hair that had fallen forwards behind her shoulder. His fingers brush against the exposed skin of her neck. While his touch is as light and innocent as her own had been, it sears like a trail of lightning. The sharp rays of teasingly innocuous touch pierced through her concentration.
Suddenly she's all too aware of just how close they were. She's aware of how her other hand had been unconsciously resting against the hard plane of his chest while she'd been tending the injury. She drops her hand, but the warmth is already seared into the side of her hand and it seemed to work its way across her skin quick as an inferno. Her initial confidence driven by determination was wavering beneath unfamiliar territory. Broad shoulders crowded her while his legs caged her. Now she felt like a doe who'd caught onto the trap it was about to find itself in, foot already on the gage, yet too light of pressure to trigger it — yet.
Sharpness had returned to his eyes as he'd found a goal on a path that had become so well trodden by him he could follow it blindly. If he was attempting to distract her from the palpable tension knotting through the room in favour of threading his own narrative, then it was working. The silence was quickly becoming unbearable, and she almost forgot why she'd been crazy enough to enter in the first place. Hopefully, she'd forget everything, like an artist wiping their canvas blank.
That grabs her attention and strengthens her resolve again. Of course he'd want her to forget, he was still trying to assess the damage that might be unfolding after she bore witness to what he kept hidden. It was so well concealed because he'd shove it so deep into a crevice of his mind. He only rarely passed it and when he did, it was on a level so shallow he skimmed by with barely any notice.
There were too many parts of him to mention at a glance she took issue with. And she couldn't fix him. It didn't matter, somehow. Not now. Maybe it would in a few hours, or tomorrow — even a few days from now. But right now, she could feel his hand brush the underside of her jaw while she can hear the sports commentator yelling excitedly through the TV.
Now the words come pouring out in a jolted murmur, rushed but resolute in her offer. "If you want, when I leave . . . If you want— we had detention together. We served it, right? That's all we did. So, we just— . . . What I'm trying to say . . . I was never here if you don't want me to be."
She paused, and then rose up. He met her with silence. As he peered at her through his lashes, all variants of goodbyes died in her throat. Instead, she treaded lightly towards the window. She swung her feet out the window and twisted into a sitting position. As she slid out, she thought the pain of the panel scraping across her back was more bearable than the one that seemed to be dully beating inside her heart. But it was a pain she knew well. It was distance. Untethered and far away from those she interacted with. The disappointment crept up on her, quiet and certain as a shadow growing against the setting sun.
Ahead she only saw light pouring from the living room window. Max must've gone to bed, then. The house neighbouring the Hargrove's had already gone to bed as well, it seemed. The few lone crickets still out at this time of the season were chirping their last songs before the ground was blanketed with snow.
As she was holding low to the ground, keeping an eye on the windows above, she collided with a body. They stumbled into each other near the edges of the underbrush.
"Max, what are you doing— oh." Diane righted herself. That's why Max had gone to the car without a fight. Their little group had discussed this beforehand. If Diane managed to wrangle any of them back with her, they'd just reconvene later. Max was as good at lying, whether purposefully or through omission, as her older brother. "Which one of their houses are you going to? Mikes?"
Max crossed her arms. "Will's."
With the defiant look Max was levelling her with, Diane wondered if she'd even known what had just happened to Billy, or to what extent. "Your brother—"
"Is going to be angry anyway, so I'm going to go help Lucas and the others first." Max said, undeterred from her mission.
A van parked inconspicuously between two cars down the road came to life with a flare of headlights and a gentle rumble of its engine. Diane whipped her head towards the street.
Five men wearing blue electrician uniforms jumped out of the van, heading towards her with measured steps. The blonde with the receding hairline stepped forward while the others flanked him. Max was shoved into the bushes, going down with an oomph. "Be quiet, don't move." Diane's lips were rigid as her gaze remained on the men. Max wasn't going to get involved in this.
Max must've sensed the urgency in Diane's voice, because there was not even a whisper of argumentation from her.
Their guns were raised and trained on her. There is uniformity in the way they all stare at her: like she's a deadly threat. Defenceless and unarmed, she raises her hands in surrender and one of the mens fingers twitches on the trigger, causing her to flinch.
The man leading the group had deep set distrustful eyes with swollen pouches beneath them. His mouth was an angry red line that hardened with intent the closer he got to her.
"Freeze." The man barked.
"I think you've got the wrong—"
"We know exactly who you are." He sneered, coming to a halt in front of her. The angry crimson birthmark on his neck looked like a misshapen heart.
He lowered his gun. As he holstered it he looks up at her, the ghost of a smirk forming. His fist swings out, connecting with her stomach with a thud. The air left her as her legs gave out. Hands took hold of her before her knees could hit the ground. Faster than his hulking stature perceived him to be, the guard spun around her.
Her hands were forced behind her back and cold metallic handcuffs slid around her wrists, locking with a sharp click. Two men on either side began dragging her towards the van, as her mouth opened and closed like a fish, struggling with desperation to breathe again. She was hoisted up into the back. The side read Hawkins Power and Light.
If there was an award for worst night ever, she was fairly sure she'd already been up on the stage to collect it without recollection. Too bad she didn't realise there was going to be an encore. They shoved her down onto the metal bench. Guards sat on either side of her as they leapt into the back without one word exchanged between them. She inhaled sharply, the first shot of air dragged down her windpipe with desperation. The doors swung shut. Her wary eyes darted between the men, and they gazed back at her with such cold and unyielding expressions they may as well have been wearing masks. Her chest moved in quick, shallow movements as she gulped in oxygen.
Sitting opposite her was the guard who'd punched her. He leered at her, "Try anything on me, or my guys, and there's a bullet in your head."
As they stare at her like she was a rabid animal moments away from lashing out, it had her thinking that maybe they're right. Maybe she is a threat. She just needs to figure out how.
A/N: To spare everyone the details of my life: this did come out a few weeks later than anticipated.
Guest: That's so nice of you to say, thank you :)
Em: I love you and your supportive words.
Creation City Street: Thank you! Writing description is always a fun task, especially for this chapter since so much of the interaction taking place between Billy and Diane is silent.
Crzychigurl343: Diane's can't win a fight about strength on his terms, but she can change the rules of the game.
Belovedfinch11: Me too in all honesty. Neil's an awful human, and there's a chapter coming up where my soul withered a little at an interaction that'll take place between them. (Between the show's version and the reaction in this story, Neil was going to be out for blood regardless of what excuse he needed).
As for the Max and Susan thing this is definitely where his ability to completely disengage from Neil fails. His relationship with Susan is still pretty icy. I think he doesn't want to see that Susan is a victim as well (though she's a complex character too, it's just not as noticeable since she hides in the background of everyones lives, including her own). Because to call her a victim would make him a victim too, and I don't think he's ready to acknowledge that yet. But he loves Max even if he'll deny it. He would never risk her being alone with Neil — which puts him in the middle of Neils rage-fuelled war path quite often.
smokey-eyed amazon warrior: Steve is still in his Pre-Robin Era. Cool Babysitter Steve still has a a few months to go.
ReidsLittleGenius: You're the Will to my Mind Flayer.
Bad boys, bad boys, what you gonna do, what you gonna do when hawkinslightandpower comes for you?
I-am-sarah123: Sorry. As the writer I really could've made him have a more pleasant time. I choose not to because torturing characters is fun.
MulishaMaiden: I see his character as being someone with high emotional intelligence, just not a drive to use it in a significant way (unless it involves maladaptive behaviour) or inhibited by his own impulses/anger.
Never trust black vans. Unless the side says it can get rid of student loan debts. They did kidnap her, and they are not nice people going to a not nice location. What better way for a character to experience an arc and change than throwing them into horrifying and terrifying situations?
Fairy: Stay alive until the end, it'll be worth it (or it won't and you can write a scathing review on how I've ruined the ending).
Pinkrainbow: Just a temporary disappearance! I'm here to stay until this story is done.
Thank you rain-and-smiles musicluver246, Guest, GreY (I'M BACK!), and Runaway Fantasy Princess, New World Order for your reviews! :)