Chapter Text
Billy knows what’s coming, when the big cop comes back through the door. He’s ready for it. As ready as you can ever be, when there’s a metric fuck-ton of pain headed your way.
The cop makes for him like a heat-seeking missile, his tread heavy and his stare dark, and this is going to be bad, the worst ever maybe, because this guy’s bigger than Neil, which means stronger too, and the only upside is that Neil isn’t here to add his own fists in the mix. But Billy knows: this is gonna hurt.
Fuck it, he decides. He can’t stop the inevitable. But he can show this bastard that he’s not afraid. Even though he is. He's so afraid.
Fuck you, he thinks, and sucks in a deep breath. Tightens his jaw, clenches his abs, and plants his goddamn feet to prepare for impact. And then—and then—
Then the cop steps around him with an odd look and heads into the little kitchenette, where he stows the plastic bag he’s carrying in the refrigerator with a chorus of heavy clinks.
What…
What just happened?
Then the realization dawns. The cop is playing a game. He’s making him wait for it, the same way Neil used to do when Billy was younger. For the dread.
It’s a dirty fucking trick: drawing it out, making you sit with your fear while you know what’s coming, as your pulse skyrockets and your knees knock and your guts tremble until they ache, until you’re on the verge of losing your mind, ready to beg him to Just do it! Just fucking hurt me already! because at least that would be better than the never-ending purgatory of fear and dread that eats you from the inside out.
No. Billy’s not playing that game today. He's not playing that game ever again. “Let’s get this shit over with,” he says through a still-clenched jaw.
“You and me, same page, kid.” The cop gestures back and forth between them, shutting the fridge with a heavy thud, and indicates towards the living room. “After you.”
“No.”
The cop cocks an eyebrow. “No?” he repeats back.
“You heard me.” Fucker. He doesn't say that last, but he's pretty sure it's understood.
Nothing Billy does will change the outcome, and Steve’s outside of the blast radius by now, so the idea that Billy is just going to go along gently? Yeah fuck that.
The cop fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “I thought we had a deal, you and me.”
Billy shifts onto his toes, readying himself. "Well I changed my mind. Fuck your deal.”
The cop frowns, stepping away from the counter, “Now hold on a second—”
And Billy stutter-steps back, outside the big man's reach. Shit. He forces himself to stop. Steps forward again, regaining the ground he’s lost. He is done running. He can’t do anything about the way his knees shake. But he can stand his fucking ground. “Just do it already,” he snarls.
The cop pauses in his momentum, frowns. “Kid, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I’m not going to do anything. I’m just here to talk.”
“To talk?” Billy spits, fury rising with every breath. He laughs mirthlessly, head thrown back towards the ceiling. "Ohhh, that’s such bullshit! There was never going to be any talking! So how's about we stop pretending either of us believe otherwise? Matter of fact—" and here he gives the cop his most taunting grin, a manic, defiant thing guaranteed to get his face smashed in, "—Let's just skip this whole fucking charade and get on with what comes next.”
“And what exactly is it that you think comes next?” the cop asks him, voice slow. Patronizing, like he’s talking to an idiot.
Billy can’t help but laugh again, hopeless. He mentally wags a finger at himself. Dumbass. He’d walked right into that one. And there’s no good answer that’ll walk him back out again.
Thing is, Billy doesn’t give a shit anymore.
“We both know what guys like you do,” he says, feeling the smile slip from his face. “So do it.”
The cop squints at him, tough guy, like he thinks he’s fucking DeNiro or something. “You wanna tell me what that's supposed to mean, kid? ‘Guys like me’?”
Now the big man is getting frustrated. Billy can feel it coming, a physical sensation almost, like standing on train tracks and feeling the rumble beneath your feet. Any second now.
His hands. Watch his hands. But the big man’s hands don't move. Not even a twitch. He just looms there, watching Billy, his expression inscrutable. Intimidating. Infuriating.
“Just do it already!” he growls, smacking his own chest, voice rising. “Come on! I’m not scared of you! Fucking do it! HIT ME!"
There's no more than a couple of steps separating the two of them. That’s all it would take: two, maybe three quick, rangy strides for the cop to bridge that gap between them. Between the dread Billy feels now and the pain due any second.
So why wait? Billy thinks suddenly. He moves, quick as lightning, closing the gap between them, rushing the cop and slamming both hands right into the middle of the big man’s chest, hard, because if he can just knock him off his feet, then—
It’s like ramming a brick wall. But it does the trick.
The big man’s eyes go wide with surprise, and he staggers back, falling in slow motion, a statue tilting off its plinth.
Billy has maybe a second to savor the satisfaction, just enough time to think got you, you son of a bitch. To think maybe he can do it: make a break for it, sprint out the door and never stop running, go as fast and as far as he can, until he’s away from this place, away from everyone who wants to hurt him. Until he's safe.
But then the cop catches himself with a hand against the counter, face darkening, that carefully neutral expression long gone. "You little—" And there it is, finally: the tick in the big man’s jaw, the twitch in his right hand. He moves. And Billy knows it's over.
Because there was never going to be anywhere safe. Not for someone like him.
He flinches back, unable to stop himself then, the old animal panic taking over as he crouches low, throwing both arms up to cover his head. Then...then...
Then nothing.
Still Billy waits. Any moment now, the blow will come. Any second...the cop's going to...he...
Nothing.
Eventually, curiosity wins out. Same brand that killed the fucking cat. Billy lowers his left arm, just a little. Cracks one eye open. Only to see the strangest fucking sight.
The big man’s staring at Billy, looking like he’s the one who’s been hit. Hard.
“Jesus, kid,” the cop says, voice half gone. And then he’s gone. Not gone gone, but…away from Billy, at least. Out of his space. It’s not much, not nearly far enough, but Billy finally has room to breathe again. He inhales deep.
“Jesus,” the cop repeats. He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest again, brows knitting together in a parody of concern. “Is that what you think? That I'm...? I’m not going to hit you. Christ.”
Billy shakes his head. “You’re lying,” he croaks.
But the cop doesn’t move. His eyes never leave Billy’s face. It’s almost…he looks almost…
Sad. Pitying.
It enrages Billy. What a fucking farce! This guy is just another Neil—another Bronson! So what if he’s better at hiding it? The signs are all there: that calculating gaze, the caustic tone, the tough guy posture. Those broad-knuckled fists. And the other thing. The thing lurking underneath the surface, dark and dangerous, like a crocodile skulking just beyond the water’s edge, waiting to reach out and snap its jaws shut on whatever dumb, docile thing that happens too close.
But Billy’s not dumb. And he’s sure as shit not docile.
But the cop must think otherwise, because he says, "Think, Billy. If I was going to hurt you, why haven’t I done it yet?”
To screw with him, obviously. Or...to scare a confession out of him. Get him to talk before he's too thrashed to be coherent. Or conscious. That's it. It's gotta be. Right?
“So…what?” Billy sneers, meeting the cop’s unwavering gaze. “I’m supposed to believe that you’re some nice guy, just the friendly neighborhood fuzz or some shit, because you haven't hit me yet?”
The cop shakes his head back and forth. His eyes never leave Billy’s. “I didn’t say that. But—”
“Good,” Billy cuts him off. “Because I don't. I don't believe it. So why don’t we cut the shit, and you tell me what you really want?”
“Kid, I wasn’t lying before. What I want is the truth. All of it,” the cop tells him with exaggerated patience.
Something snaps inside.
The cop wants the truth? He can fucking have it. “The truth is that I screwed Steve Harrington last night. Right here in this trailer. Right there.” Billy half-turns, pointing. “We got each other off, right there in the middle of your living room floor. And I’d tell you that’s when it started, but that would be a lie. Because this thing between us has been coming on for months. Maybe since the first night he took me home. And you know what? It’s all my fault. I did it. I made him.”
The cop’s eyebrows climb straight up towards his hairline. “Made him? Made him how?” he asks quietly. There it is—the danger Billy's been expecting from the start. Finally.
The fear prickles through his belly, like electric eels slipping through his guts.
“No! Not made him...n-not like that—" Billy stumbles over his words. "I wouldn't do that, ever! I just…just made him think he wanted me.”
The cop won’t believe him though. Won't even try. Men like him never do.
“Harrington’s not…he’s not messed up in the head like me! But I made him think he is. I must have. ‘Cause he wasn’t...like this before. He…he only thinks he wants—because he’s spent too much time around me! Do you understand? He, he's lonely, and he caught this stupid idea, and he wouldn't've, if it wasn't for me, and that’s all there is to it, so you leave him out of it! This is all on me.” Billy pounds a fist hard into the middle of his own chest, gaining momentum, practically screaming the words now. “I ruined your golden boy. I did it! Is that it? Is that what you wanted to hear? Well there it fucking is! So have at it!”
Silence follows.
Shit. He’s done it now.
Billy takes a deep breath, squares up, bracing again for the inevitable.
But the cop doesn’t make a move. Just sits there, gaping. Kinda looks like he’s just swallowed a goldfish.
Billy might laugh, if he wasn’t so goddamn horrified.
Finally the cop runs a hand down his face. Clears his throat and says, “So, let me get this straight: you and Steve, the two of you have been…” He makes a roundabout motion with his hand, looking expectantly at Billy.
Billy nods. “Yeah.”
“And you both wanted it?”
“Yes. I told you already: I didn’t force him. I wouldn’t. Ever. But it’s not on him. If he hadn’t been around me so much, if I hadn't—”
The cop holds up both hands. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that works. At all. And anyway, it doesn’t matter—”
“No! You promised you’d leave him out of this! That was the deal! I tell you the truth and you leave him alone! You can’t—you can’t blame him! None of this is on him!”
The cop’s face is tight. “Kid, I think we might’ve had a fundamental misunderstanding somewhere along the line.”
No. The bastard can’t do this. He’d sworn he’d let Steve go if Billy stayed. “It’s over now,” he repeats, wringing his hands in front of him. “I swear! I’m fucked up and I know it, okay? I know. I did it. Me. But I’m not going to fuck him up. Not anymore. So if you need someone to blame, you fucking blame me. None of this is Harrington’s fault! The only thing he’s guilty of is having a bleeding h-”
“Okay, stop, stop! Pretend that you’re talking to someone who isn’t interested in your sex life for a minute. Jesus Christ, kid.” The big man closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.
Wait. What?
If this isn't about the thing between him and Steve, if the cop hasn't already figured out what they did, then Billy just…he just fucking…? Oh God. His stomach bottoms out.
“Why did you let me...?” Billy's voice is faint with nausea, his pulse pounding in his ears. Shit. What the hell else could he possibly want to know...?
“I wanted to know about your father. About the things he’s done. To you. To your family. To anyone else.” The cop’s eyes search his. “I want to know about what really happened to Matthew Barton.”
The room narrows around him. Matty. The inside of Billy's head starts to buzz; he can taste his own heartbeat in the back of his throat. There's a low sound, distant, someone moaning no no no over and over again. Belatedly, Billy realizes that it's him making those sounds. He keeps making them, he's pretty sure, but he can’t really hear anything over the hurricane gale that’s kicked up inside his skull.
“Whoa, kid. Easy. You’re okay.”
A blurry form takes a step in his direction. NO!! Billy stumbles backwards out of reach.
He can't help seeing it then: Matty’s gentle, handsome face, beaten and bloodied. Hearing it: the awful wet sounds of fists and boots making contact with flesh. Feeling the roughness of the bricks scraping against his own back. Smelling the cold burn of spearmint-scented breath in his nose.
Billy claps a hand over his mouth and runs, fighting the hot lava-rush of bile at the back of his throat, barely making it, knees colliding with the floor in a hard thunk just in time to retch a burning gush of sour liquid into the toilet.
There shouldn't be anything left in him after last night. But his stomach tries valiantly to heave itself inside out anyway, and he gags until there's absolutely nothing left, then gags some more for good measure. When it's finally over all he can do is collapse, forehead pressed against the blessed coolness of the toilet seat, body against the bowl, too hollowed out to do anything but sit there and try to breathe.
“...holy shit, kid. Are you alright?”
Billy still has enough left in the tank to startle like a scared rabbit at the sound of the cop's voice in the doorway behind him. He makes a rough, noncommittal noise low in his throat. Tries to shrug, but isn’t sure he manages.
No, he's not alright. He’s thinking maybe he’ll never be alright again.
“Right. You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
If he could, Billy would laugh. Where the hell else is he gonna go?
He closes his eyes, tries to breathe around the nausea still hovering at his edges.
He’s almost too out of it to be startled again when the large hand clasps his shoulder some minutes later. Almost.
“Here, sit up, come on.” The big man exerts pressure, guiding him up and back with the one hand at his shoulder and another pressed flat between his shoulder blades, settling him into a sitting position propped against the side of the tub. “Take this.”
Billy opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing to see the cop squatting before him, holding a glass half-full with what he assumes is water.
Billy shakes his head wearily. His skull feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. “Can’t," he whispers, "I’ll just puke it up again.”
“It’s not for drinking. Just try rinsing your mouth out.”
Billy takes the proffered glass and complies.
“Good. Now spit it back into the glass,” the cop tells him, anticipating the question Billy can’t ask around a mouthful of liquid, and takes the glass from Billy when he’s done, dispensing with its disgusting contents in the sink.
Billy sighs, pulling a sore knee to his chest and letting the leaden weight of his head drop forward onto it. He tries to muster the energy to fight back the tears prickling at his eyes and comes up wanting. How did everything get so fucked up? He wishes he had enough left in him to scream.
The cop clears his throat.
“I’m gonna get up, I swear,” Billy rasps, no idea how he’s going to make good on that promise. “Just…gimme a minute. Okay?”
“Actually, I’m thinking you should stay right where you are.”
Fuck it, fine. Billy’s too exhausted to argue.
It could be ten seconds or ten minutes later, when he hears the cop say, as if from very far away, “Incoming.” There’s a sound, glass rolling across linoleum, then something bumps to a stop against his thigh. He lifts his leaden head. Finds a bottle of Gatorade lying there.
“Drink,” the cop instructs. “Small sips. Real slow.”
But Billy makes no move to reach out and take it. The nausea has finally started to ebb, and even lifting a hand to pick up the bottle feels like too much effort. He tips his head forward against his knee again.
The cop whistles through his teeth, a short, sharp note. “Hey no, come on, lift your head up, Billy. Come on, I need you to lift your head now. C’mon. You can do it. There you go. Now pick up the Gatorade.”
Billy squints down at the bottle. Decides it's not worth it. Even if his mouth does feel like a desert.
But the cop is relentless. “Listen to me,” he enunciates from somewhere across the room, “You’ve thrown up at least four times in the last two days, that I know of. You are running on empty right now, and you need to replenish electrolytes fast. So either you pick up the bottle and keep at least a couple of sips down, or there’s a trip to the ER and an IV hook-up in your immediate future.”
Billy sighs and releases his legs, letting them collapse onto the floor in an ungainly sprawl. Makes his hands obey him by sheer force of will. At least it’s the red Gatorade. He’d probably just say fuck it and take the cop up on that hospital visit if it was the yellow or the orange shit.
Just twisting the top off the bottle feels impossible, a Herculean task, but finally, finally it gives way with an airy thwop! Billy looks down at the liquid inside with stomach churning dread.
“Small sips,” the cop repeats. “Slow.”
Billy lifts the bottle to his lips and takes the tiniest sip possible. Cradles the cool glass bottle against his sternum and waits for the little bit of liquid to come ripping back up the same way it went down. It never does. Finally, he sighs and tries another small sip.
The big man is nodding. “Good. Take your time, drink some more. We’ll worry about the rest later.” It’s probably just a dehydration-induced hallucination, but Billy thinks this is the first time he’s ever seen a cop—any cop—making a face with that particular constipated mix of concern and sympathy.
He looks away, uncomfortable, focuses on getting more liquid down. It does help. A little.
Finally he recaps it and presses the cool glass against the heated skin of his forehead. “I really don’t understand,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.
“What’s that?” The cop is on the floor now too, seated on the other side of the small bathroom, his back pressed against the doorframe and his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. The room is so small he could easily reach out and nudge Billy with his boot if he tried.
“Did Neil put you up to this?” It makes no sense, but Billy's got to ask. He’s not sure Neil even knows Matty’s name. The only thing Neil had ever addressed him as was “that little fag.” None of this makes any sense.
“No.” The cop’s voice is calm, gentle even. “Just breathe. Take another sip.”
Billy uncaps the bottle, complies again. “Then how did you…?”
“This is my town,” the cop says. “And I make it my business to know everything that’s happening in my town. To know about the people who make those things happen. And about the people those things happen to.”
What a load of crap. “Horseshit,” Billy returns, pulse kicking up a little. “No one knows about what happened. No one.”
The big man leans back against the doorframe, arms crossed. “We both know that’s not entirely true. There's at least a few other people that know, aren't there?”
He’s right. Felder and Patterson had been there that night. Bronson, too. Even Matty’s friend Sam had been working a shift that night. He might have seen. But there’s no way any of them would have told this bumpkin cop.
“Thing is,” the cop is continuing, as if Billy had agreed, “Cops gossip like old ladies. And Marines? Marines are even worse. I know a guy out on the West Coast, from Oceanside as a matter of fact, owes me a favor. Owes me a couple of ‘em, actually, and I—whoa kid, what’s going on? Why are you making that face?? Did I say something? What's happening right now?”
One word. That’s all it had taken for the world to go wobbly and strange again. One word for the static to start back up in his ears: Marines.
Billy scoots back. Tries to anyway, but the tub is at his back, and there’s nowhere to go.
“Easy there,” the cop says. “Come on, tell me what’s going on. What did I say?”
“You didn’t tell me you were a Marine,” Billy croaks. He feels another wave of nausea. No, please.
“That’s because I’m not. I'm—I was Army. Special Forces.”
Oh. That’s—oh. The static in his head grinds to a halt.
Neil and all his buddies were Marines. Billy doesn’t see why Special Forces should be any different, but he’d never known Neil to associate with Army vets. Or any member of the other military branches that he viewed as inferior, for that matter.
Something inside unclenches, just a little.
“You good now? Yeah? Okay. Good. So, as I was saying—before I was the chief here, I was a detective in the city. And I got really good at connecting the dots. Filling in gaps. So let’s just say I know about Barton because I connected a very long line of dots, and called in a couple of big favors to fill in the gaps. Got my hands on the official report.”
Billy fiddles with the ring on his thumb, spinning it ‘round and ‘round as he digests the big man's answer. Finally he says, “If you’ve connected all the dots, what do you need me for?”
“Because some of the dots are still missing." The cop's voice is flat. "And because you and I both know the official report is bullshit.”
Of course it is. It paid to know a guy on the force, that’s what Neil has always said. It fills Billy with a jagged black rage so sharp he could slice himself open on the edges—could, and has—whenever he lets himself think about it.
But the cop wants too much. He might as well be asking Billy to open a vein and bleed directly into his hands. Even that might be easier.
And what if it’s all just a game? A ruse?
But why would the cop do that?
Nothing makes sense. Billy wants to believe him when he says he’s looking into Neil, but…fuck. How can he? How can he?
Harrington’s words from earlier echo inside his head. You gotta let somebody help. Please.
“Steve says I’m supposed to trust you.”
“I’d like it if you did,” the cop offers, but Billy shakes his heavy head.
“Thing is, Steve has no idea what the world is really like. What people are really like.”
“You’re underestimating him. Steve Harrington knows more about what the world is really like than you can possibly imagine. And he’s right. You can trust me.”
Billy wants to. He does. He’s been carrying this around for what feels like forever, and it's fucking heavy, and all he wants is to do is hand it off to someone else—someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Someone who doesn't fuck up everything they touch.
But he can’t. He's run out of gas, and he's run out of road, and still he fucking can’t. It’s like there's a padlock on his jaw. A fairytale curse turning his tongue to lead when he tries to speak the truth.
He claps his palms against the sides of his head, trying to jolt the words loose. Just say it, shithead. Nut the fuck up and say it! He grunts. Bangs his hands harder. Uses his fists this time. SAY it. Does it again. Again. Goddammit, you coward, just fucking SAY—
“HEY!” The cop’s boot knocks against Billy’s shoe. “Stop that. STOP. You’re going to hurt yourself. I said stop!" That last word is a whip-crack of thunder, echoing around the tiny room.
Billy freezes.
"Put your hands down, Billy. It’s okay. It’s okay, I promise. Put your hands in your lap.”
Billy puts his hands in his lap. Clenches and unclenches them. Tucks them under his thighs finally, to hide the way they shake.
“Good. Nice job. Now look at me. C’mon kid, eyes up here, look at me.”
Billy lifts his heavy head. Looks at the cop. Sees the way he holds himself: posture calm, almost lazy, and—his hands, watch the hands—his hands are as relaxed as the rest of him. One elbow is propped on a bent knee, hand dangling casually. The other hand rests open in his lap, palm facing up. Nothing about him looks ready to strike.
No way he could maintain an act this long…right?
Neil certainly never has.
Billy drags his eyes all the way up to meet the cop’s. Narrows them at the big man, checking one last time, just to be sure. Neil would see that as insubordination, take it as a direct challenge.
But the cop just raises his eyebrows a little. Find what you’re looking for? the gesture seems to say.
He leans forward, just a little, something imperative in his posture. “Look, kid. Billy. I know you don’t know me. And you’ve got no reason to trust me. But I am not going to hurt you. No one hurts kids in my town. No one. And if I ever find out someone is, that person is gonna answer to me. You understand?”
He’s full of shit. He’s gotta be. People aren’t decent like this. Cops aren’t decent like this. But knowing that doesn’t stop Billy’s eyes from welling up at the cop’s words.
He curses, shaking his head. Drops his chin to his chest. But he can't stop the hot wetness that spills from his eyes, rolling down his face, dripping off his chin.
You can’t trust guys like this. Billy knows better. But...
“You fucking swear?” He hates himself for the way his voice wobbles.
“Billy, I swear. I swear on my daughter. I’m not going to hurt you. Or Steve. And I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you either.”
Billy shudders and nods. He doesn't tell the chief the story then; nothing so intentional as that. It's more like...unlocking a gate and stepping out of the way, finally letting everything well up from that deep, dark place inside. Then he opens his mouth and lets the words spill out.
Afterwards, he'll never really remember what he said. Won’t remember much at all, just a series of unpleasant visceral flashes: his arms wrapped around his ribcage, hands clenched and shaking. The loud sound of his own breath in his ears. The wetness that slips endlessly down his face, splattering his denim-clad thighs over and over, plop plop plop-plop-plop, like a indoor rainstorm. The pattern of the wood paneling on the wall behind the cop’s head—the way it goes fuzzy, then clear, then fuzzy again. The one word the cop growls, soft and dangerous, two-thirds of the way through Billy’s story. Bastard. And the immediate understanding that, for once in his life, the word isn’t meant for him. The sharp ache that still twists inside every time he speaks his old friend's name aloud. Matty. Mattymattymatty.
Then it’s over, and the words are gone. Exorcised from his body. Someone else’s problem now.
Billy's head is an empty, ringing thing. Hollow as a cave. All he wants to do is close his eyes and let go. Sleep for a thousand years.
“Billy.”
He looks up. His head feels too heavy for his neck, and he wonders, distantly, how something can be so empty and weigh so much at the same time.
“It’s alright, kid. You did it. Thank you for telling me. You did good.” The corners of the cop’s mouth are turned down, but his eyes are soft. Gentle, even. “C’mon. Let’s get you up off the floor. I don’t know about you, but I could do with having some circulation back in my ass.”
Billy blinks. Oh. Yeah. His butt is completely numb. Has been, for a while, maybe.
The cop climbs to his feet with a grunt. Leans down and wordlessly, offers Billy a hand.
Billy hesitates. The better part of a minute ticks by.
The cop shrugs. “Up to you.” But the proffered hand up never wavers.
Billy reaches up and takes it.
*****
He'd meant to lean his head back against the couch for a second, just to rest his sore, gritty eyes. But when he opens them again, he’s lying on his side with a blanket tucked over him, and it’s nearly dark outside.
In an instant, it all registers. Did he really do...all of that? Say all those things? The urge to curl up in a ball of disbelief and horror is strong.
Maybe that’s why it takes him so long to realize what day it is. Shit.
He sits up quickly. Or tries to. Covers his eyes and groans as his head throbs.
Work. He didn’t go to work yesterday. Or today. “Fuck me,” he says. “I’ve gotta call Gordo.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about that,” comes a voice from the kitchen area. Billy startles, but it’s just the cop.
Hopper, Steve had said. The cop's name is Hopper. Chief Hopper.
Then, "Wait, what?” Billy asks.
“I said, I wouldn’t worry about calling Gordon Pavelski. Or going into work anytime soon.” The cop enters the living room, laden down with two boxes of Domino’s and a six-pack of Cokes. “Who do you think called me about your little bender in the first place? Gordo is an old friend. And I can tell you, he was pretty damn pissed when he realized his employee had cleaned out his beer fridge and then didn’t even bother to show up for work on Saturday. Especially after he was generous enough to let the guy crash on the couch in his back office on Thursday and Friday night. Especially when the guy is a seventeen-year-old kid who has no business cleaning out anyone’s beer fridge, much less getting in his car and driving over to the Corner Pocket afterwards. MUCH LESS helping himself to a seat at the bar, and drunkenly harassing the nice, law-abiding patrons who are just trying to enjoy their drinks.
“Oh yeah,” he continues, when Billy groans again, “Got a call from the bartender there, too. So like I said, I wouldn’t worry about calling Gordo. Even if you still had a job there, which you don’t, smoothing things over with Gordo is the least of your worries.”
“Fuck fuck fuck!” Billy bangs his head against the back of the couch. “I needed that job! I am so fucked!”
“Hey! First of all, easy on the language, kid, c'mon. Second, the only kind of work you’ll be doing any time soon is community service. Third—”
“NO! You don’t understand! I fu- frigging NEEDED that job!” The cop raises an eyebrow, and it’s then that Billy realizes he’s pretty much bellowing at a man who is a) roughly the same size as an American Grizzly, and b) sitting just a few feet away.
But the cop takes it in stride. “Maybe should have thought about that before you stole Gordon's beer.”
The weight of Billy’s past stupidity drops hard on him then. “But…what am I supposed to do? I’ve got no family, no place to live—”
The cop raises an eyebrow. “So you’re dead set on not going back to Steve Harrington’s? Because it seemed like he was fine with it…”
“I told you—I’m not fucking up his life anymore! I’ve done enough of that already!” Billy’s trying to stay calm, he is. But his panic is rising, and with it, so is his voice. Again.
“Alright, alright, calm down. We’re going to figure this out. Here.” Hopper snags a can of Coke off the plastic ring and hands it to him, then opens the top box of pizza—pepperoni—and pushes it his way. “Have a slice. See if it'll stay down.”
This afternoon Billy had assumed he'd never even want to look at food again, but now the empty rumble of his stomach says otherwise. And since he's got no idea where the hell his next meal is going to come from...
He snags a piece, tucking in greedily. It goes down easy, and stays that way.
“So listen,” Hopper says, chewing around his own bite of pizza, “Here’s the deal: when it comes to family, you got the short end of the stick, no doubt about it. And that’s not on you. No one deserves the kind of shit you’ve been through. But when you decide to get drunk, and get behind the wheel, especially on a night like Valentine’s, that IS on you. You could have easily gotten yourself killed, and worse, you could have taken a bunch of other people with you. That is not a thing I take lightly, not in my town. And there are going to be consequences for those choices.”
Billy flinches back. He doesn’t mean to, and the shame makes him flush hot when Hopper sighs in frustration. “Relax. Relax. You remember what I said earlier about hurting kids? I meant it.”
Billy nods, cringing inwardly. “I know. I just…never mind.”
“It’s just that your body remembers, even when your mind knows better. I get it.” Hopper nods. “Took me a real long time to stop jumping every time a door slammed or a car backfired, those first years after I got back from ‘Nam.”
“Yeah but Vietnam was a war zone.” Billy says, lip curling, disgusted at himself.
"And your old man's place wasn't?"
"Not the same."
It’s like the big man’s dark gaze can see straight through him. “Yeah? I wouldn't be so sure about that.”
“I’m not sure about anything." Billy shrugs. "Especially..."
"What?"
"I don't—what happens after this? What do I do?"
Billy's just blown up his whole life. And now that he's fucked things up with Steve, he's really got nowhere to go. He guesses he could try to sleep in his car again. If he knew where his car was...
Hopper raises both eyebrows, an unasked question. But Billy shakes his head, quick to reassure. “I’m not going back to Harrington’s.”
“Yeah, I guess you’ve made that pretty clear,” the cop agrees. Some strange expression flashes across his face, there and gone too fast for Billy to decipher. Was it disapproval? Disgust? He can’t be sure.
What does it matter anyway? Billy’s already admitted to boning Hawkins’ very own favorite son (even if they haven’t technically boned—he’s not about to share that detail with the cop—not like he needs more specifics at this point). Billy should just be grateful that the big man is only making faces, when most guys in his position would've taken Billy's head off at the shoulders by now. So what if it stings? Suck it up, buttercup.
The Chief nods, like Billy’s just said something. “Alright, new plan: you’ll stay here tonight. And any other night, for as long as you need. Full stop. But tomorrow, I want you down at the station as soon as school lets out. We’ll get you started on your community service. That’s how you’re going to pay back your debt to society for drinking and driving. When you’re finished with that, let’s say in a couple months' time, I’ll look into helping you find another job.”
A lot of questions run through Billy’s head, but the one that comes out of his mouth is, “What the fuck?”
The Chief cocks his head. “I’m sorry sunshine, was any of that unclear?”
Billy just shakes his head incredulously. “Why would you do any of that? Steve said this was your place. Why would you let me stay here? You know I can’t afford to pay you rent, not without a job. And besides,” he looks around to confirm, “There’s only one bedroom. Where would I—” An ugly thought rises then, and his jaw snaps shut. He feels his eyes widen involuntarily as panic starts to fill his chest.
The Chief frowns, then his own eyes widen.”No. No. Stop it, alright? Whatever’s in your head right now, get it out. I’m not letting you stay here because I expect compensation—of ANY kind. Yes, this is my place, but I don’t stay here anymore. I had to find a more, uh, kid-friendly place when my daughter came into my life. So you’d be staying here by yourself.”
“Oh.” Billy’s chest untwists, slowly. “Yeah, okay. I mean—“ He shakes his head helplessly. “But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do something like that? You don’t even know me.”
“Yeah, let's just say my old man wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either. So I get what it’s like, living like that.” The cop's gaze goes distant then. “And uh, like I said, I have a kid of my own. I didn’t even know about her for the first part of her life. And the man that raised her before me, well, let’s just say, wherever he’s at, I hope it’s Hell. Because if it’s not, and I ever find him, I’ll send him there myself.”
For a moment there's real anger in the cop's face, the kind Billy had feared earlier. But somehow, he finds it almost reassuring this time around. (Almost.)
“You’re right,” the cop continues, “I don’t know you that well, kid, but I do know where you’re coming from, and it’s a place no one deserves to be. Especially not someone your age. And besides, Steve Harrington's got good instincts—If he trusts you, so do I.
"But all of this is on the condition that you stop breaking the law. That you keep your head down and your nose clean. No more driving drunk. No more picking fights. Stay out of trouble. Do you understand what I mean when I say 'trouble'?"
He gives Billy a meaningful look, and Billy winces. Steve. He nods. "Yes sir."
“Good. You got one hell of a raw deal at home, and that’s enough to make anyone mad at the world. But it is a choice to decide that’s who you have to be forever. And it’s a choice to pass that deal on to someone else. I believe you can make a different choice, and I want to give you the chance. So, whaddya say?” The cop offers his hand to shake.
Billy makes the choice to take it. “O- okay. Thank you…Chief. I mean, sir. Thank you, Sir.”
The big man smiles. “My friends just call me Hop.”