Chapter Text
When Billy finds his half-sister, he’s going to kill her.
That’s the only thing running through his head—how much he wants to destroy her.
The little pest pissing him off wasn’t anything new. She’d always been a thorn in his side, but tonight? Tonight, she had crossed a fucking line. Crossed it big time. She had disobeyed him. Lied to him. Snuck out right under his nose. Right under his dad’s nose. She didn’t even check to see when he’d be back. She’s always so fucking stupid. And reckless. Stupid and Reckless.
And like always, Billy is the one who gets the blame.
He's almost an adult, for fucks sake. He should be out getting his dick sucked! He’d even had a date planned and everything, but now he’s forced to drive house-to-house looking for Maxine, asking if anyone’s seen the little runaway brat. She’s thirteen for fucks sake, she should know better! He shouldn’t have to be her fucking keeper—or ‘responsible big brother’, as his father likes to say. She’s probably just off somewhere with her band of geeks: a whole bunch of nerds she magically befriended on her first day of school.
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
Thanks to her little disappearing act, the date was already cancelled. His dad had made him call it off, getting right up in his face about it. He had watched while Billy talked to the girl on the phone, telling her he couldn’t make it. The whole time it had looked like Neil was ready the snatch the receiver right out from Billy’s hands if he didn’t toe the line.
The shame is still hot on his face. He had acted like a fucking bitch in front of his dad, voice trembling and everything.
He hates the way his body always betrays him. He hates how his hands will shake, or legs go weak. Or worst of all, how his eyes will tear up, threatening to spill over. Today had been one of those days where he couldn’t keep it from happening. All it took was one punch, and he fucking lost it. He hadn’t even hit him that hard—he’s just that much of a fucking baby.
He hates it. He fucking hates it.
He hates being such a fucking pussy all of the time.
But most of all, he hates Maxine.
It wasn’t even that he cared for the girl he was seeing—he really, really didn’t. He just wanted a night out. Didn’t really matter who the girl was; they all look and act the same anyways. None of these small-town cows did it for him. They were nothing compared to the chicks back in Cali, with their tan, bikini-clad bodies, and sun blonde hair. He’d still fuck ‘em though, if they put out—preferably after they let them get him drunk off their daddy’s whisky. Not like there was ever anything better to do in Hawkins, middle-of-fucking-nowhere, Indiana.
He hates Hawkins. Hates that they had to move here. He hates the empty roads. He hates the buildings. He hates the people. He hates all the barren suburbs and perfectly mowed lawns. He hates everything it represents. Hates it.
And he hates all of these fucking trees.
They’re everywhere; just rows and rows of tall, leafless trees. They line the side of the road like an impenetrable wall, uniform and oppressive. He can almost feel them getting closer, sucking the air out of his lungs. It makes him want to scream.
Fucking bitch.
Like everything else, it’s all Maxine’s fault.
His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He wants to punch something; he wants to punch someone. He wants to destroy something; smash something. Drive his car off the edge of a cliff. Swerve it into a brick wall. Break his body into a million pieces.
Goddamn it, he could use a smoke right now.
There’s a crinkled packet of Marlboros by the gear shift. He knows it’s empty, but he checks it anyway. Hopes against hope. And yeah, it’s empty. Of course it’s empty. Why wouldn’t it be empty.
He swallows past the lump in his throat.
The only thing he can hear is the sound of his own pulse beating in his ear. He fiddles with the radio, desperate to drown it out. He finds a rock station playing Black Sabbath. It’s not Mötley Crüe, but it’s not bad either. He turns it up, louder and louder, all the way up, until the pounding beat of Paranoid rattles him to his bones.
He gets lost in it, swallowed up by the rhythm of the hammering drums and the heavy guitars. There’s a frantic energy to Ozzy’s voice that matches his own mood. His blood is pounding with it, making him angrier, more reckless.
The fog is so thick he can barely see past the short yellow sheen of his headlights. He knows he should slow down. He’s probably going to get himself killed if he doesn’t. Then again, would that be such a bad thing?
He goes faster, foot pressing down harder and harder on the pedal. The roar of the engine competes with the crushing guitar riff. It feels like the car is shaking apart; it feels like he is shaking apart. And maybe he is.
He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is hit the gas until Hawkins passes by in his rearview mirror. Until the whole shithole town is behind him.
The Camaro speeds down the empty road.
Until the world becomes a blur.
* * * * *
It’s a miracle he doesn’t hit her.
He’s pretty sure he should have, really. The car couldn’t have been more than – Fuck, he didn’t even want to guess.
But one second he’s slamming the breaks, steeling himself for the impact. Preparing himself for the moment he’s about to run her over – run over a child.
And then the car just… stops.
He doesn’t even have time to register what’s happening—doesn’t have time to be grateful, or ask himself what the hell just happened—because the next moment the girl is yanking open the passenger door and wordlessly flinging herself into the front seat of the Camaro.
He just stares at her, feeling like his mind has stopped working. He almost ran her over, and now she’s just sitting in his car, like she belongs there. None of it makes sense. She should be dead, and now she’s just sitting here, not saying anything. Not yelling at him or nothing.
The initial wave of relief quickly passes, and he can feel himself getting worked up again. The blood is still pumping in his ears. He wants to yell at her, ask her what the hell she was doing in the middle of the road. Did she know how close he’d been at running her over? Did she even care? And what the hell is she doing in his car? What the hell is he doing?
With his fingers painfully digging into his thighs, he gives himself a minute to pull it together. Starts counting in his head. There’s only one person he should be angry with, he knows that. He’s always the one fucking up, breaking shit. Maybe he should try taking some responsibility for once, like his dad’s always telling him to.
He sucks in a deep breath. “Hey kid, what’s the deal? You’re tryna get run over, or what?” He asks, swallowing past a wave of nausea. “You’re not gonna say anything?”
The girl just looks at him, silent. Her dark eyes are piercing. Billy shivers. It feels like she can see right through him. There’s a voice in his head telling him something about her just ain’t right. But the rational part of his brain insists that she’s just a kid. Which yeah, she is. The girl must be around the same age as Maxine. Apart from that though, there’s nothing about her that reminds him of the snotnosed little redhead. She’s darkhaired, and she’s got this whole punk look going on, black eyeshadow and everything. Billy instantly thinks it feels off: like it doesn’t match her vibe, somehow.
He’s about to ask where her parents are, but the question dies on his tongue. He looks over to her again and realizes there’s blood under her nose. Too much blood. Suddenly he’s lightheaded. The streetlights ahead dance in his vision, whirling in a dizzying pattern. He is either floating or sinking, he can’t tell. Nausea hits him again, nearly making him puke at the phantom taste of iron.
The girl remains silent. She frowns slightly at her reflection in the sidemirror. For a moment, she just stares. Trancelike, she drags her sleeve underneath her nose, wiping at the blood. Some of it is dried and doesn’t come off.
For the first time he wishes that he knew how to be nicer. That he knew how to make his voice softer, or tone gentler. That he didn’t look and sound and feel so angry all the time.
But he doesn’t know how to do any of that.
“Could’ve run you over,” he tries again, voice unsteady. “You get that, right?”
The girl keeps staring at her own reflection. Her dark ragged blazer swallows her up, collar popped up to her ears. Paired with her rolled-up jeans and white converse it just makes her look younger. Like she’s playing dress-up with her daddy’s coat or something.
Shit. “You got a name or what?”
Nothing.
Goddamn it. He starts rummaging through his pockets, searching through all the shit he’s got stuffed away in his leather jacket. Somewhere between the loose change and empty packets of gum, he finds an old, crumpled napkin. It’s clean, probably.
“For your nose,” he offers.
“Thanks,” she says in a small voice, eying him with something like suspicion.
She takes the napkin to her nose, dabbing at the blood absentmindedly. She keeps staring at the mirror, seemingly transfixed by her own reflection. Billy watches her wearily. The far-away look on her face feels all too familiar.
“You just gonna sit in my car, then?”
“No,” she tells him. “You’re driving me.”
“Where?” he asks, taken by surprise. “Got someone you can stay with?”
“Yes,” is all she offers. “Please drive.”
He’s about to protest, but his tongue won’t cooperate. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing he can think of that will make it better; nothing he would want to hear if he was in her shoes. Besides, he’s never been good with words to begin with.
He mentally shrugs and presses his boot to the accelerator.
“So where are we going, kid?”
* * * * *
For the most part the car ride passes in silence. The girl tells him where to drive, and Billy does his best to follow. Her directions are a confused mess. He’s not even sure she knows the difference between left and right. Actually, he’s pretty sure she doesn’t; she mostly just points, which doesn’t give him much time to react. To keep up with her awful directions he has to drive like an old grandma. Even so, he only narrowly avoids missing a few of the turns. Biting his tongue, he does his best not to curse her off.
He’s got no idea where they’re going, and in a way he feels like he’s got no right to ask.
Shit, it’s not like he didn’t think of running away as a kid. What kid doesn’t, right?
At least back in Cali you wouldn’t have had to worry about the cold. In Indiana it’s a different story. It’s only November and it’s already freezing. Billy can’t imagine what the winter months are going to be like. He’s going to be freezing his balls off. He should probably save up for a winter coat instead of blowing his money on cigarettes and booze, but for now his leatherjacket will have to do. At least with the heat from the car’s air-conditioning it’s not a problem. Dark patches are already starting to form under his armpits, but he still leaves it on blast.
He hopes the kid has somewhere safe to be. Somewhere warm. He really hopes he’s not dropping her back off to wherever she’d been earlier. Maybe he’d be better off worrying about his own dad. But whatever. Neil’s going to be mad no matter what. He always is.
Goddamn it, he’s tired. Not sleepy tired, just… tired.
And he thinks maybe the girl is, too.
He's not convinced that she’s even got a destination in mind. Maybe they’re just driving around because she’s got nowhere to go. Billy knows the feeling. If he didn’t have the Camaro, he’d probably go mad. It seems Hawkins, Indiana has that effect on you. Or at least on him. It’s just grey, empty streets. Desolate roads. Gas stations and run-down diners. And trees; so many fucking trees.
What he’d give to see the ocean again; feel the warm sun on his face. Fuck, he misses it. Misses it so bad he could scream. Thinking about the beaches and that deep blue water almost feels dangerous. Like the memory alone could drown him. He swallows past another lump in his throat. California has never felt further away.
The silence in the car becomes unbearable. “Hey kid,” he tries. “Where you from?”
“The future,” she replies.
Okay, so she doesn’t want to talk. “Right, got it.”
Except he desperately needs something to distract him. “Like distant future, or…?”
“A year and a half,” the girl shrugs. “Maybe more.”
“Damn,” Billy whistles. “Future any good?”
“No,” she says. “Everyone dies.”
“Sounds rough.”
“Yes,” the girl agrees.
Doesn’t seem to be much of a talker, huh?
Playing along, he considers asking whether he dies as well. Being dead doesn’t sound too bad right now, but that’s probably not the thing you tell a ten-year old kid you almost just ran over.
Fuck. He needs to get a grip on himself.
He catches a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. It feels like the eyes staring back at him belongs to a stranger, a distant someone he doesn’t want to know. A relative once told him he’d gotten them from his dad. That stuck with him for some reason. His mom had blue eyes, too, but the ones in the mirror. . .
He risks another glance and immediately wishes he hadn't.
The light reflects off his dangling silver earring, one of the ones his dad really hates. It shines treacherously in the dark, shedding light on all the wrong things. He feels like ripping it out; feels stupid for even having his ears pierced.
The girl looks at him, expression unreadable. “I’m sorry, Billy.”
Hearing his own name said out loud startles him so bad he nearly drives off the road. It shocks him like a fist slamming into his ribs. When did he even tell her his name?
He opens his mouth, but it’s so dry it feels like he’s been eating sand. He doesn’t know what to say. He almost tells her he’s sorry too—for what, he doesn’t know. Sorry for all of it, maybe. There’s probably a long list of things to be sorry for.
God, he’s just so fucking tired. Nothing makes sense anymore.
He shudders. “Just tell me where I can drop you off, kid.”
“Do you know where Hawkins National Laboratory is?”
Hawkins Lab? “Isn’t it a little late for a field trip?”
“My friends are there.”
And fuck it, whatever, he just wants the night to be over.