#these tiny ''small towns'' in the US are in the middle of bumfuck nowhere half the time and it's nuts

[dracolizardlars]

I've said it before but it really does mess with me how Americans simply do not use the word "village". It'll be like,

American Reddit user telling a story about their life: I used to live in a small town with minimal jobs.

Me: okay (imagining my nearest town, which has a 20-25K population, a shitty high street and a cinema)

American Reddit user: there wasn't really anything there, just a few roads with a few hundred people living on them

Me: ...oh, it was a village. (now imagining the tiny village nearest to the much larger village I live in, which has a population of 2K)

#draco speaks #like seriously I cannot get my head around 'small town' meaning 'a couple streets and a petrol station' #I cannot get my head around the fact that Americans would call where I live a town let alone the much smaller villages here #also ofc while Cornwall is rural and comprised of a million villages of varying sizes a couple towns and one very small city #It's all so compact compared to the U.S. #many of these villages are within an easy walking distance of one another #in fact many have merged together entirely over the decades #these tiny ''small towns'' in the US are in the middle of bumfuck nowhere half the time and it's nuts

[sarcasmisakindofmagic]

And I, seeking safe harbour, found it between the pages of a book

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x fem!reader

Word count: 2,200

Warnings: Tom prefers the movie to the book. one (1) swear word. This is a yearning sort of fluff.

A/N: This is unbeta’d so please forgive any typos 

It started, as so many things did for Santiago Garcia, in a bookshop.

The bookshop of his childhood had been haphazard and dusty, second hand books piled high above his head; unending towers of adventures waiting for him to read. They had been browning at the edges, marginalia scrawled in a rainbow of colours in thousands of different hands - previous readers accompanying him on his journey and adding wry remarks to the story. 

His abuela had taken him there every Wednesday after school. It had just been the two of them, the cousins relegated to helping abuelo on the farm, but Santi as the baby could help abuela with the town errands. She always got him one book to add to his collection.

Le Morte d’Arthur was a favourite, the binding long since giving up the ghost. Pages held together by string and Santi turning each page with a gentle caress, weighting down each pile with carefully selected rocks - flat, nothing to tear the paper.

Santi had gone back to the bookshop once after Abuela died. The day before he was due to leave town to hit bootcamp. He handed a fresh copy of Le Morte d’Arthur to the volunteer behind the desk, complete with scrawled annotations and inscription.

There hadn’t been many bookshops on the tours he’d taken, occasional lingering moments of perusing the shelves. Frankie knew to leave him alone with the potential stories, a quiet nod and he’d be off to stake out a quiet spot. The whole team would find him later, passively guarding enough space for them to guard each other’s backs. Tom never got the message always hovering, making comments about how he always preferred the movies anyway, Santiago stopped looking for bookshops with him around. Will and Benny usually came as a pair. Benny burning off energy, as Will followed more placidly. Ironically it had been Benny who understood the most, Will losing himself to music more easily than the written word.

“Books, man, I could do that anywhere. It’s active, y’know? Music just happens to you, but i can lose myself in a book.” Benny had told him once, dropping a Du Maurier novel in his lap with a sly grin and only offering a shrug when anybody asked where he’s got an english copy in the middle of bumfuck nowhere redacted.

On the long flights where Benny literally couldn’t sleep, and Santi had too many possibilities running through his head, they’d swap books, making little notes and hiding dicks in the centre folds so they’d get bigger as the book opened.

Half their friendship had been little doodles of dicks, drawn at the most heartfelt and profound moments of classics. Oddly it completely summed Benny up.

The local bookshop was a hidden gem. After Colombia he hadn’t sought out the written word for so long the impulse to go in surprised him enough that he was inside before he’d really thought about it. The shelves inside were crammed full, small hand-painted signs letting him know the genre in which he found himself. There was no military precision to be found here, plenty of space to get lost and find a gem no one had wanted to read in years. The ghost abuela murmured approvingly in his ear, old advice echoing ‘Books need readers, nieto, always find a story that has taken someone on the journey before.’

Occasionally, there would be little stacks of books as new orders came in, the shelves too full to make room for the new arrivals. Regulars moved round them, or paused to run the pad of one finger down the spines, a momentary introduction to a potential new companion.

Hidden around a corner was a tiny café area, only enough to seat maybe ten people, it wasn’t advertised outside - Santiago had never seen every seat taken, though he certainly recognised the regulars by now.

There was the local Rabbi who would tuck himself in the corner with a hot tea and write, occasionally muttering under his breath in Hebrew as he wrestled his sermon into existence. Two students, who were not dating but should be, occupied the table with book wedged under the leg to make it stop wobbling. They were always in contact with one another, limbs seeking the other’s warmth. They didn’t have a schedule but were never in before noon and had only once been spotted on a Thursday. 

A young mum who sat by herself on Saturday mornings and absorbed the quiet, she’d once fallen asleep, resting her head on the shelves. Santiago had woken her at her usual departure time, to flustered thank yous, ‘her twins were at ballet classes and her husband was away-’. She’d been out the store and earshot before she’d finished speaking but a little plate with a huge slab of shortcake had been waiting for him the Saturday after, with ‘Thank you’ iced across the top. There had also been a card with a little boy and girl dancing ballet together impressively drawn in crayon, with capitalised signatures.

Santiago had it in a frame at his house and refused to explain it to anyone that asked beyond a bland, “It’s a thank you card.” 

Only Will had taken more than a beat to move on, absorbing the bright colours and wobbly letters. The clap on Santi’s shoulder and soft look had been enough. Will had never needed words to get a point across, but a gesture like the card? Will understood that well enough.

The boys all knew about you, heard stories about the book shop owner who could make Pope blush with a well timed smile and look in her eye. 

Abuela would have liked her, was the way he explained it to Frankie, blaming the hushed tones on the baby cradled in his arms, rather than the strength of his crush. Little Nina was as placid as her daddy and slept like a rock from day one, Santiago could have yelled his love to heavens and she would only have huffed a little and snuggled closer.

Frankie had only cuffed him on the back of the head and asked if he would pick up some Spanish children’s books for Nina. Santiago didn’t need the excuse to go in there, but he grabbed it with both hands anyway.

You’d been delighted to help, piling his arms high with options before whittling it back down again, selecting tough to rip cardboard and silly rhymes over the school year novellas.

“I’ll pick those up once she’s grown a bit.” He promised, eyeing the reject pile guiltily. “If she takes after her godfather she’ll have her own library soon enough.”

“I was the same,” you laughed, stacking the books neatly by age group and sub-genre, “I used to drive my mother spare reading the book the same day we’d bought it.” “Would you like to go to dinner?” Santiago asked impulsively, talking over the end of your sentence, flushing a little at how abruptly he’d blurted it out. “I’d like to hear about your favourite books.” Your smile made his stomach flip, as you nodded fumbling with the book in your hands.

“I’d like that.” You agreed warmly. “I have quite a few favourites though, it might take more than one.”

Will met you first; in the bookshop without Santi’s supervision. There had been a break in at the shop and Will only lived five minutes away, rushing to calm you down as Santi drove like a madman to get to you.

The shop was in shambles, shelves torn down and books strewn everywhere. Loose leaves littered the floor, glass shards gleaming cruelly in the glaring streetlights. Will had wrapped you up in his jacket, careful of the bruises and nasty gash on your leg, lifting you off the floor and out onto the sidewalk.

He didn’t leave your side until Santiago arrived, waiting until Santi had you in his arms before heading back into the shop to check out what needed fixing.

Frankie met the shop before he met you. His house had the biggest yard, opening out into the woods without anything fencing him in. Will commandeered the space, Frankie happily helping out with the book repairs. His hands had never shaken under pressure, always sure on the controls of the choppers. He learnt the art of bookbinding quickly enough, humming along to Will’s playlists, the two quietest members of the team content to let the music fill the quiet for them.

The first time Frankie met you was when he and Will showed you the shop. The shelves Will had built, now firmly fixed to the wall and floor - they’d prop up the walls before anybody toppled them again. The undamaged books were separated from Frankie’s repairs, in case they weren’t up to your standards. He was pulled into a hug before he could summon up an apology for the amateur job. A stream of thank yous echoing in his ear as you hugged Will just as tightly.

Santiago was smiling, bringing him into hug with a quiet cabron. He always knew when Frankie was overthinking something. You pulled Santi away, demanding Will give a tour of the new, improved shop. Happily calling for Frankie to keep up, you needed to know everything he’d done too.

Benny volunteered to stay at the shop during the day, doing the heavy lifting while your bruises faded. Santiago worked from home but couldn’t help hovering in the shop, too concerned for you and too distracted by all the books he hadn’t got a chance to read.

Somehow this had turned into Benny painting little murals on any spare wall space and the edges of the shelves.

“Have you always painted?” You asked curiously,

Benny shrugged, scratching his chin and leaving tracks of paint over the stubble.

“Pops always had Will out back helping with the farm, he learned the woodworking with him. I helped momma round the house until I was old enough to help paint the stuff they built together.” He broke off to gently shoo Hades away from the paints, the shop cat meowing plaintively at his curiosity being denied.

“Come here puss, you don’t need a paint job.” You coaxed, clicking your fingers to entice him up onto the counter. There was no way your bruises were going to let you bend down to pick him up.

“Anyway, momma was an art teacher she taught me the basics, after that,” he flushed, “a friend helped me practice.”

You had to bite down on your cheek to keep from smiling or asking anymore questions. Benny’s friend sounded interesting but his expression screamed please-don’t-ask-questions.

“My mum could knit anything.” You said instead, finally convincing Hades to have a cuddle and scritching under his chin. “I tried to copy her one summer, ended up having to be cut free from all the wool.”

Benny laughed, all the tension leaving his shoulders at the image of you all snared up like a kitten.

“Me and Will used to track footprints through the house all the time, ‘til we did it with whitewash after painting the barn. Momma had us camped outside for a month before she let us back in.” Benny said sheepishly, a smudged green handprint marking the back of his neck as he confessed. “Pops snuck us in for showers, said he felt bad we’d got punished for chores.”

Hades leapt out of your arms, startled by your laughter. 

“God, I dropped a whole bowl of tomato soup on a cream carpet? Does that count?” You wheezed, leaning back against the shelves to try and stretch out the bruising seeing if the new position would help. Benny winced in sympathy

“Sorry. I’ll try to be less hilarious.” He quipped dryly. “And no, not unless you camped out for a month.”

The decision to marry you was the easiest one Santiago ever made. How on earth to actually ask you to marry him, turned out to be a harder thing to pin down. The ring went on half the trips you made for a year: down to Hawai’i on a group holiday, camping up in the mountains and even the near weekly hikes you took on Mondays, shutting shop up and leaving the town far behind.

It was an old copy of The Princess Bride that eventually spurred him into action. Santi was helping with organising the basement which was full of donations and books to be shipped out across the county.

Golding’s novel hit him square in the chest, the achingly familiar cover making Santiago’s throat tighten. Abuela had loved this book, taking great pleasure in dramatically clearing her throat to read it to him when he was sick. The grandpa in the story was replaced with Abuela as she told him the tale of true love: Inigo Montoya switching between Spanish and English and easily as he switched his sword hand.

He’d long been enamoured with pirates and fighting evil kings, but The Princess Bride had been the book to remind him to find something to fight for. Perhaps he’d been clinging to the doomed romance of Le Morte d’Arthur for too long.

“The Princess Bride? Santiago, this is true love - you think this happens every day?” You quoted easily, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you passed.

Santiago sent up a garbled prayer of thanks to Abuela, she always knew what he needed before he did anyway.

And so, Santiago Garcia asked the love of his life to marry him on a rainy Thursday in a bookshop. And it was perfect.

‘But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.’ -William Golding, The Princess Bride.

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #triple frontier #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #oddly introspective drabble #i love books #so Pope loves books #the princess bride #william golding #le morte d'arthur #Ella wrote a thing #not quite fluff

[apollosvotive]

a fanfic about the cinnamon salt cinnamon characters written for the writeblr fic exchange for @apricotwrites. i chose to write about jay because i felt like i could grasp his character the best, but i dont know a lot about the characters so hopefully there arent too many inaccuracies aaaa. hope this is okay!

-------------------

Borneo is white sand shifting underfoot. Fat winged insects sluggishly dragging their heavy bodies from one flower to the next, the audible thrum of their wings. It’s the muggy air, the heat of the glowering sun as it pitches itself at the highest point of its trajectory. It’s the constant need to slap himself on the limbs multiple times to ward away a stray horde of hungry bloodsuckers. But still. Anywhere is better than home.

Jay lounges in the shade of a coconut tree, a hand beneath his head, listening to the sound of waves lapping against the shore. Even with his eyes closed, he can tell the rest are off a little ways down the beach from the loud splashing and occasional squeals of laughter. Sohla’s voice is clear and distinct. She’s shouting at Ruben something along the lines of ‘You have approximately half a brain cell in your head, Ruben, and that’s me being generous.’ Then comes Ruben’s indignant remonstrations and Birdie’s light, high laughter and Jay starts thinking all over again about how chance, how fortuitous, that the universe might allow the paths of these seven people to cross and become what they are now: together. A ragtag team of misfits, a family.

When he first set foot onto this island, it would have been impossible for him to even think about the fact that he might find a group of people who understand him on such a level. Of course, when he first set foot onto this island, he was still angry and alone and blameful, thinking thoughts about his leg or, more accurately, the lack of it. But then he met these guys, and he saw shy and quiet Will, prone to smiling to himself and listening, really listening when someone talks as if to make up for the fact that he cannot see them. Ruben, who, for all the clumsiness of his left foot, manages to banish any impressions of awkwardness with a simple, urbane smile. Or unpredictable Alison, lover of Shakespeare, Shelley, Dickens, names of the dead. She’s always got that strange smile playing on her lips as if she knows something he doesn’t. She keeps her thoughts close to herself, never one to wear her heart on her sleeve, but he has come to know to find glimpses of her in little things, like in the way her eyes are always roving, looking for her brother, never allowing herself to let him out of her sight.

Come to think of it, there’s one voice that he doesn’t hear, floating up to him from where the rest of them are.

“Why so antisocial?”

Warmth lands on his face, flooding the darkness of the back of his eyelids with orange. He cracks an eye open. Alison is in front of him. She has shifted a palm frond away so that it no longer blocks the sun from his face.

“Not my thing,” Jay says simply.

“No?” She folds her arms in front of her. “You’re the only one not down there. How about for once in your life, don’t be a sad ass party pooper?”

“You’re here with me,” he counters.

“Only so that you’re not up here withering by yourself,” she shoots right back, without missing a beat. She isn’t looking at him. Her eyes are directed at a spot on the sand. “Oh, look at me. I’m Jay, I’m so cool, too cool to go down to the water and have fun with the others. Sorry to ruin your daydream, Jay, but from down there, you don’t look like you’re in a 1080p montage shot in a Fincher-esque style with emo music playing in the background. From down there, you look like a sad… ant.”

“Ha-ha,” Jay deadpans. “And that’s all an English lit student can come up with? Now put back my leaf. And go find your brother.”

Alison gasps in mock-affront. “Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?”

“I do,” Jay says very seriously. “I do bite my thumb at you.”

“Unbelievable! Incomprehensible!” she cries. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here!”

Finally, she succeeds in wresting a laugh out of him. She’s obsessed with Shakespeare. She’s memorised hundreds of quotes across all his plays and she enjoys quoting it back at him to annoy the shit out of him, which is, evidently, an effective method in getting him to do things. He shakes his head, unable to stop the upward twitch of his lips, and he pointedly ignores the smug and satisfied look in her eyes.

“Come on, Jay.” She jerks her head in the direction of where the others are. “I won. Let’s go.”

He covers his eyes with his arms stubbornly.

She sighs. “What’s going on? Are you homesick?”

“Homesick?” He scoffs from beneath his arms, as if it's an absurd concept. “No.”

“Woah, okay. Must you say it like the Bubonic plague originated in the tiny town of Laurels, Maine?”

“Laurels, Maine,” he repeats slowly. Just saying the name brings back to mind the feeling of inexorable boredom. Days of endless repetition. Just work and sleep and work. Days of friendlessness and hushed whispering and guilt-filled glances at his leg. The problem with a small town is that everyone knows everyone. This means that everyone in the little town knows that it was an accident that took Jay’s leg away from him when he was twelve and everyone knows he’s never been quite the same since. “More like ‘Bumfuck, Middle of Bumfuck Nowhere’. Wouldn’t go back if you paid me to. I am perfectly happy where I am now, thank you very much. It’s up to the rest of them to not go all Lord of the Flies and start killing each other.”

“Oh, considering that out of the seven of us, the only person to not scream at the sight of spiders is Will and it’s because he’s blind, I wouldn’t put my money on it.”

“I don’t scream.”

“I saw your face when there was that spider in the toilet the other day. Face of a pants-pisser.”

“You’re dysfunctional.”

“Aw,” she says. “Thank you.”

“C’mon, Jay.” She tries again. One more attempt that sounds as though its approaching finality. Sometimes Jay wonders how many times he can push others away before they stop coming to him altogether. He’s spent so long in Laurels angry and alone, convinced that no one else in the world could understand him, that finding this group of people, on the island of Borneo, of all places, feels like a rare stroke of luck he isn’t meant to have, the only thing the universe has done right by him. And the thought of losing them, that he might push them away enough times for them to not bother anymore – it makes him scared.

There. He said it. It does. It makes him scared.

“They’re waiting for you. ”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jay moves his arms away. He squints against the light flooding back into his vision, then his vision settles and his eyes come to rest on the black silhouette blocking out the rest of the light that is Alison.

She extends a hand to him. He takes it and allows himself to be pulled up.

“This better be good,” he tells her. She makes to place a hand on his back to support him but he shakes his head and moves away. All these years with a prosthesis and he’s gotten used to it even over tricky terrain. In fact, it feels no different from his old leg until he looks down.

“Come on, cranky old man,” she says. “Let’s go.”

They walk down the beach to where the rest of them are. Perched contentedly under a large beach umbrella, Will and Nolan sit, listening to music. They share Nolan’s headphones. Each one holds the muff to their ears as they quietly listen to whatever’s filtering in. Depending on who has control of the aux, the song is most probably either a romantic ballad or an orchestral score. Nolan turns one of his stimming toys over and over in his other hand. Lying next to him is a half completed drawing of the beach. Down by the surf, Ruben has sand packed on top of his entire body so only his head is visible. Birdie and Sohla stand on either side of him, and the three of them appear to be bickering lightly.

“Make me a mermaid!” Ruben is saying. “Give me a sweet pair of conch-covered tits and a cool tail.”

“No,” Sohla says. “Make him a mole rat. Give him grabby claws and a skinny tail.”

Ruben’s head swivels around frantically to look at Birdie. “Don’t listen to her, Birdie. Do not make me a molerat.”

Birdie quirks an eyebrow at him. A lopsided smile spreads across her lips. “You know I can’t do that.”

“No!” Ruben’s protests are nearly drowned out by the sound of Birdie and Sohla’s laughter as they begin patting the sand surrounding Ruben into a rodent-like form. “I am the sand guardian, guardian of the sand! Poseidon quivers before me!”

“Clam it, Stuart Little,” Sohla says lightly, inciting a string of rapid-fire protestations from Ruben, and Alison turns to look at Jay and Jay – well, Jay can do nothing more but smile.

#cinnamon salt cinnamon

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Get Your Feet to the Floor

(A fic that takes place the day before Season 2 starts, where Billy gets picked up by Hop for the first time and Hop sees Billy is clearly hurt and decides he can’t leave this boy on the street or in the drunk tank... so he takes him home.)

(catch it on AO3 here)

Word Count: 8,975

The first time Billy got pulled over in Hawkins, he’d only been there for a day.

He was red and angry and near sweating, mentally kicking himself and wishing he could leave his body to physically punch himself in the face for even thinking that things would be different here. That moving house would change the mind of the monster he has to legally say he’s related to by blood.

He hated everything about Hawkins, Indiana, and it had barely been over 24 hours for him to come to that conclusion. Then again, it had barely been over 24 hours for Neil to call him a “disgrace” and a “worthless bastard” who “wouldn’t know the meaning of respect if it hit him in the face”.

And Billy has to think that might be true. Billy has been hit in the face with a lot in the past 5 years. Rage, depression, irritation- all poorly mislabeled as “discipline” until it seemed to not matter exactly what it was for as long as it landed and shut him up. He definitely wouldn’t say any of those things were respect, and if they were, he thinks it would feel a hell of a lot like the back of Neil’s hand; so much so that he might definitely mistake it as such.

So when he got shoved into the wall for saying he was too tired to check something for Neil after a long day of moving, he got into his Camaro and tore through the streets. He set out to find some nice, quiet, straightaway roads that would be good for speeding down while blasting Zeppelin. He took a second to wonder how many cops the shithole of a town had and how often they patrolled.

He found out pretty quickly.

About 10 minutes into his drive, he got pulled over. Seemed like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He briefly thought about running him out, then thought better of it. Didn’t wanna make that much of a fuss on his first day here.

The cop was young. Curly hair. Had glasses that made him look like a nerd and a moustache that made him look almost like a perv that belonged in a porno, but overall…. Handsome.

Billy mentally kicked himself in the throat for the thought. Knew he had to be real careful about shit like that in the small town of Bumfuck, Indiana. Brief thoughts flashed through his mind that they might still tar and feather homos out here. Might send him out of town on a rail or some shit.

That didn’t keep him from batting his eyelashes up at the officer, though. Not when he saw the man stumbling over himself to ask the boy if he knew he was speeding.

No shit, Sherlock.

“Sorry Officer.” Billy made a show of leaning his elbow on the rolled down window. He kept his voice sweet and sickly. “See, I’m new in town and I’m not used to the speed limits yet.”

“Can’t read the sign?”

“Didn’t see one.”

“Well, yeah, guess when you’re going 85 you’re not gonna be able to read a traffic sign.”

Billy chuckled. Makes it sound amused and coy. Laid it on thick. Didn’t feel that sick about it, really, because the cop really was handsome. Didn’t seem to be the brightest in the bunch, but he was nice to look at. Billy only did just enough to hopefully confuse the cop into letting him go with a warning.

It worked.

But now it’s Sunday night, the night before Billy and Max’s first day at Hellhole’s fine schools, and Billy is getting pulled over again. The second he sees the lights on behind him, he gets foolishly excited. Thinks maybe the young Porno-stache cop is here again for Billy to pout at.

He’s drunk. Real drunk. Not hammered, but definitely drunk enough to swerve around as he drives too fast while listening to Judas Priest.

He had stolen some booze from Neil after the asshole had been a dick to him at the dinner table. He downed more than half of the bottle of whiskey before Neil caught him.

And being drunk makes him loose. Makes him flirty. Makes him forget where the fuck he is. So he thinks maybe he’ll get another crack at flirting up at the cop with the pretty face. It’s a small town, it’s not idiotic to think that it’s the same cop on the same road around the same time of night. There can’t be that many officers patrolling the tiny, silent roads of Hawkins. And Billy is definitely drunk enough to be foolish enough to want to bat his eyelashes at a man with a nice jaw and a bumbling personality.

The idea of outrunning him crosses his mind again. He already took his warning and if it’s the same cop, he doesn’t know if his flirting will be able to get him out of a night in the drunk tank, or worse, out of getting his car impounded. Then again, Neil had been pretty damn red when he threw Billy out the door, muttering darkly that he was still expected to come pick Max up for their first day of school tomorrow. Maybe a night in the drunk tank isn’t the worst bet to take.

He pulls over with a little more difficulty than he was expecting. The roads here in the backstreets of this stupid town aren’t paved like they are back in San Diego.

And when Billy turns off the blasting screams of the music pumping through his Camaro, he’s pitched dangerously into a deafening silence. Even with the bugs screeching in the night, the sudden quiet is overwhelming. He glances in his rearview mirror, stupidly wondering if he’s “presentable” enough to flirt with the cop when he takes note of the bruise blooming on his face. It looks like his skin was split on his cheekbone, if the red rawness of it is anything to go by. He looks away in a wave of shame that makes him ill and takes note of the bruises in the shapes of fingerprints on his arms. He curses Neil under his breath- not for the first time.

Damn, Neil. Fuck Neil.

He had been sloppy. He left signs that were visible. And Billy wasn’t kidding himself, the monster left some non-visible signs as well, but these were just stupid. Idiotic. He had school tomorrow and he was going to go in looking like he had already been in a damn fight. Neil usually never slipped up like this.

But maybe that was the point of it tonight. Once Neil noticed his whiskey missing, he marched himself into Billy’s room to find him looking in the mirror. In the mix of the grabbing and the shoving and the backhand to the face, he had called him queer. A self-centered little shit who liked his face too much. An asshole of a pansy who made out with his mirror every day instead of doing things that were actually useful, actually important, actually worthwhile. He shoved him out of the house and spit in his direction and, after his threat about how he “better be back in the morning for Max”, he stalked back into the house muttering about him being an egotistical homo.

It’s then that a loud sound comes from above him, and Billy jumps up and jerks left to see the source is the large hand of a cop who is definitely not young Porn-stache guy. This cop has a tan outfit and he’s built like a tank and his face is anything but bumbling. He means business. Billy feels stupid for feeling scared. But after the night he’s had, he almost wants to cut himself slack for shrinking a bit in the dominating presence.

He cranks his window down.

“G’evening, Officer.” Billy slurs. He feels stupid.

“Chief.” The man growls back.

Billy briefly wonders what he even did to deserve this man being so red-faced and huffy in his direction. He’s just a little tipsy going too fast down a deserted road. This is the smallest town Billy has ever been in and it’s located in the middle of fucking nowhere, he’s sure this isn’t the first time the damn “Chief” has caught a dumb teenager doing exactly what he was doing. Then again, Billy wonders why he even expects anything good from a cop.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” His voice is gruff. Irritated. Maybe even angered.

Billy feels rebellion boil inside of him.

“I feel like you’re gonna give me the answer to that.”

“Too fast.” Mr. Chief grinds out.

“I’m not surprised, considering I don’t think I’d have the honor of your company if it was anything less than too fast.”

It’s a level of sass that would get him slapped faster than lightning at home. A sick and twisted and fleeting part of him expects to get slapped right now. A tinier part almost hopes for it. It’s the only damn consistent thing in his life right now: bitch and then get hit. The consistency feels secure in his frightened, too fast world. Reminds him he’s a physical entity in a very real space instead of an intangible thought in a sea of memories now flavored like nightmares.

When Billy is able to focus again, he sees Mr. Chief isn’t happy. Billy would flirt if he wasn’t near shaking.

“Get out of the car.” It’s low and angry.

“Thanks for the offer but don’t think I wanna do that right now. .”

He doesn’t wanna get into the light and let this man see the state he’s in. He knows he already looks like a jackass hoodlum who drives too fast and “disrupts the peace” or whatever bullshit cops hurl on teens they catch being dumb, and he doesn’t want to add to the part he’s already playing. He knows this town is too small to have a police department that doesn’t talk about each and every case they encounter. There probably aren’t a hell of a lot of blue Z28 Camaros in Hellhole Hawkins, either, so Officer Porn-stache more than definitely made Mr. Chief aware of Billy’s presence.

Maybe that’s where some of this man’s anger stems. It’s been less than a week and it’s the second time he’s being pulled over. But Billy kind of feels like he should be thanked. He’s sure not a lot happens around here; he’s just making their jobs actually fit the description of one. Make them worth whatever money they’re being paid.

A large hand slams against the windowsill of Billy’s car now, and it makes him jump. He leans back instantly, turned towards the hand like it’s gonna reach for him any second. The threshold breaks. He can’t hold it in anymore. He’s shaking like the leaves on the early fall trees all around them. He feels fear pool in his eyes and he can’t make it go away. He’s breathing fast.

The cop’s face changes.

Billy is briefly aware that his current position has put him in the pool of light that the streetlamp above him is giving off. He’s sure the man sees his growing injuries on his scared shitless face.

“Just-” The Chief’s anger has shifted into something confused. Billy might be dumb enough to call it worried. His tone mirrors his face. “I just need you out of the car, kid. Need to know how drunk you are.”

“Who says I’m drunk?” Billy is stupid. Billy is supremely dumb. He shoves his heel into his foot for his words.

Mr. Chief looks disbelievingly at him.

“Just make it easier on both of us and get out of the car. I’m not here to hurt you.” He finally takes his hands off of Billy’s car, even puts them up in some kind of surrendering motion. “Just wanna get you off the street.”

Damn this man.

Billy is suddenly aware enough to take annoyance with the tone being used on him. He’s acting like some damn martyr for “saving” Billy or whatever the fuck he thinks he’s trying to do. Thinks he’s “doing his job” by getting “riff-raff” off the streets.

“Who says I’m drunk.” Billy grinds out this time. Billy’s irritated as hell this time. Billy’s the gruff and angry and threatening one this time.

“I do.” Mr. Chief is back to gruff again, too. Two can play at this game is what the response says to Billy. “I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here. Just get out of the damn car and maybe I’ll be nice.”

Billy hates it. He wonders why he even expects anything different than this from any authority figure in this goddamn country. In this goddamn world. Show him a grown man who doesn’t threaten young boys like it’s a dying art and he’ll look up towards the sky to find the flying pig.

“Get out of the car.”

“No.”

“I know this isn’t your first warning, but I’m trying to be fucking nice here and I need to get home to my daughter so-” Mr. Chief’s voice cuts off. His eyes widen, like he fucked something up. Like he broke a vase in a house that’s not his. “Just- just get out of the damn car and I won’t impound it. Might not even stick you in the drunk tank.”

And what if I was hoping for the drunk tank? Billy’s thoughts are bitter.

He sizes the man up and comes to the conclusion that he could probably drag Billy out of his car through the open window if he really wanted.

He opens the door and steps out. It’s more difficult than he thought it would be. There’s more than a ghost of pain in his ribs and abdomen as he bends over and straightens up.

“Alright.” The Chief sounds exhausted. “Billy Hargrove, right?”

Billy’s whole body tenses like a cat on edge.

“Why do you know that?”

Mr. Chief gives Billy a look like he’s a naive little boy. Billy can’t find a single thing to not hate about it.

“This is a small town, kid. You’ll figure out that means there’s not a lot to do around here but talk.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means a coworker of mine met your mom-”

“She’s not my fucking mother.” Billy spits. Mr. Chief jumps on it to makes amends.

“Step-mother. A few days ago in the grocery store. They got to talking about how you guys just moved in.”

“Right. And they had a little pow-wow about me?”

“She mentioned your whole family. Plus my other coworker nearly had to impound your car a few days back. Didn’t recognize you or your vehicle, neither do I, so two and two together, you’re the Hargrove kid.”

Billy is fuming. He wants to get out of here. Wants to find some place to crash for the night. He’s tired and the damn bite of the late October air is making the cut on his cheek burn and he just wants out. Wants this cop to do whatever it is he thinks he needs to do to him and just let him fucking leave.

“Whatever.” Billy is sick and tired and done. He leans against the door of his Camaro with too much visible difficulty. He feels naked with his bruises and cuts open to the air and, consequently, to Mr. Chief right in front of him.

Fuck Neil. He thought he was just hurting his ego but now he’s hurting his damn chance of lying low at all in this shithole town. He thinks he probably looks like a fucking thug.

Billy gauges the look on the Chief’s face. He’s still got that stupid concern drawn all over it. Billy’s head is spinning from the alcohol and the thought of someone worrying. He filters all of his emotions into irritation.

“Need me to strut for you or what?” Billy asks. Slurs. He’s still shaking. He’s pretty damn sure he won’t be able to walk in a straight line at this point, but for a number of reasons other than alcohol. But he’s able to take a step away from his car and holds his arms out like he’s ready for it. Ready for something.

Mr. Chief is still looking concerned. It makes Billy want to hurl. Maybe that’s the alcohol swishing inside his bruised stomach. He wants his music back to drown out his stupid thoughts that feel warm over the idea of someone caring.

Suddenly the man in front of him is eyeing him up and down. Surveying him. After a second Billy wonders if this cop is queer, too; if he’s about to make some kind of salacious proposition like those horny moms back in San Diego used to make at him when they’d catch him having a smoke outside the gym after basketball games. He figures it’d be nice to know if the cop is gay and might be willing to take a few… favors to get Billy out of a jam. It makes Billy a little sick. He doesn’t wanna do it, probably never would. Talking and thinking and acting up a big game is different than actually doing the things he thinks, but it’d still be nice to know if the cop was a perv.

But the more the cop looks, the more worry paints his face. That almost sickens Billy more than the thought of anything else.

“I-” Mr. Chief starts and stops himself. Billy spits on the ground and can’t help but wince at the pain that makes a wave through his abdomen. “Okay kid, listen to me. Give me the name and number of someone who I can call to take care of your for the night and I’ll forget about this. Understand?”

No. Billy doesn’t understand. He eyes the cop under his furrowed eyebrows and Mr. Chief sighs like he’s tired of this. Billy knows the fucking feeling.

“Just trying to get you off the street and under a roof, but I’m gonna need a name and a number.” The Chief takes a second to think about his words before he speaks again. “And I’m talking about someone who has your best interest in mind, alright kid?”

That last admission is what sends Billy spinning again. His mind is swirling away, swishing around like the liquor in his stomach as the faces of the people he knows around here come to mind, and there’s only three and they all live in the same damn house. His damn house. One of them being the damn man who kicked him the fuck out earlier tonight.

His head lurches in what feels like sickness. He’s quickly reminded of how alone he is here. He has no one. No friends around here, no fucking family to run to who will support him. He’s spiraling down into his thoughts, falling fast like he’s been flipped upside down and the earth isn’t under him anymore but instead reaching up to swallow him whole and-

“Damnit kid.”

The Chief sounds exasperated. He sighs like he’s tired and Billy is boiling.

“Excuse me, Chief. Hate to break it to you that I don’t fucking know anyone yet.” The cop grimaces when he cusses and Billy doesn’t give a single shit. “Look, just take me to the drunk tank.”

“It’s a school night.” He says it like that’s all he needs to say.

“I think I can manage.” Billy scoffs.

“I’m not putting you in the drunk tank on a school night. You need rest.”

“Yeah, and in there there’ll be a roof over my head like you so sweetly said you wanted for me, so let’s just go.” Billy gives himself a second to think. “And don’t impound my car.”

“C’mon kid, there’s no one who’ll take you in?”

“Goddamnit, you just acted like you know every fuckin’ thing about me, no. There’s no one to call. Just take me in. I’m complying aren’t I? Isn’t this like a wet dream for you pigs?”

Mr. Chief seems to be burning in irritation. Billy would get a kick out of it if he wasn’t so cold and tired. Mostly just tired, especially of this stupid conversation.

“Not home, huh?”

Billy is scowling. Hard.

Don’t know everything, do ya, Chief?

For a second, Billy thinks about telling him to drop him off at home just to be fucking done with this. He can get dropped off and then go park somewhere for the night. But that’s the issue with that: he won’t have his fucking car. There’s no way the Chief can get it to him. He’d have to walk Billy up to his house, and not only was he kicked out, but coming in with a cop? Christ… that’d make it ten times worse.

He thinks about saying a random address, but the same issue stands: he’d be sans car. And he needs to pick Max up in the morning for school or Neil will most definitely flip his shit.

So he’s silent. Stands helplessly there in front of the fucking Chief of Police of Hawkins and letting the chill of the October night scratch at him like he’s defenseless. Because he is defenseless. He has no one and nothing and he’s here, hypervisible to this fucking cop and it’s not even the cute one with the pornstache.

Mr. Chief has his hands on his hips. His foot is tapping a cadence on the ground before he shakes his head and jerks a thumb to his cruiser.

“You’re coming with me, c’mon.”

“What?”

“I said you’re coming with me.” He rubs a hand down his face like all of the bad decisions in the world have just ran through his head and he’s decided to act on all of them. “I’m taking you home.”

Billy’s blood runs cold. The October air has nothing on the chill that runs through his body immediately, like he’s been wiped out at the beach.

“No.” Billy is adamant. He reaches for the handle of his car, thinks about making a break for it and just getting in and ripping away. The Chief seems too tired to follow him out into the night.

But in the whirling of his head, he forgot that he isn’t leaning on his car anymore, but rather a few steps away from it. He stumbles back a bit, still reaching but not finding purchase. He briefly worries in his still semi-drunken state that someone swiped it from under them while they were arguing about Billy being alone.

“C’mon kid, you have to come with me.”

“No. I don’t have to fucking do anything.” Terror takes root in Billy’s bruised up chest as he makes another idiotic reach for his car. “I’d rather sleep in my car than go back home with a cop.”

Something like realization washes over the Chief’s face when Billy says that. He shakes his head, eyes looking concerned again and Billy is going to scream from all the pressure in his chest.

“Look kid-”

“No.”

“Look! Billy! I need you to know that I’m not doing this to punish you or get you into trouble or... whatever else.”

This gives Billy pause. He stops palming the air for his car, just lets his hand fall to his side. He has to think about the words and he feels stupid all over again but he really has to wonder how this man can promise not to get him into trouble when he’s the very definition of it for Billy.

Mr. Chief sighs.

“Because I know-”

Billy doesn’t let him finish his thought. Of fucking course this stupid cop thinks he knows something about Billy and his situation. Probably got hit once by his own old man when he was a teen and wanted to try badmouthing an authority figure. Probably thinks he understands crystal fucking clear. Bruises and cuts and pain and he gets it but it’ll be okay because he’s your dad and he loves you.

“No.” Billy seethes out, harsh and angry and bitter and red like Hell. Like the Devil. He feels it in his face. “You don’t know!”

He’s yelling now, swinging his hand out and wanting it to come off as a punch but it’s too slow and too clumsy in his fogged up mind and the Chief just grabs it with ease. Billy struggles immediately, his heart racing in trained fear. Very, very real fear.

“You don’t fucking know anything get the fuck off of me!” Billy screams at the Chief and into the night and the grip on his arm won’t let go. Part of his fingers are grabbing where Billy was grabbed previously. It hurts like fucking hell. The blunt pain aches through his arm.

“Billy!” The Chief yells back, like he’s a little kid acting up and maybe he looks the part- he probably looks the part- but he’s not letting this shit happen. Maybe he is still that little kid that learned to run when his father raised his hand to him. He shouldn’t be fucking faulted if he is.

The Chief is reaching his other hand to grab onto Billy’s other arm and Billy is about to start fucking kicking just to get away. Mr. Chief isn’t having it.

“I don’t know how blind and stupid you think I am, but I can promise you, you’re dead wrong!” The Chief is shouting, still reaching and grabbing and holding. “I can tell something’s not right!”

“Fuck off!”

“Goddamnit kid!”

It’s then that Billy feels the grip on his arm get tighter. Fingertips dig into hour-fresh bruises and it makes pain shoot through his arm. All of the squirming has reignited every injury to Billy’s torso. The cold of the night air has flooded Billy’s lungs and left his throat raw and scratchy and used. New bruises feel like they’re blooming under the grip of the cop.

Billy submits.

He knows where he is and what he’s facing and that he can’t run and he just… submits. He stops jerking around and stands still, letting his captured arm go limp and seethes at the pain blossoming like a fucking garden.

“Please.” He whispers, feeling weak, because he is. He’s weak and defenseless and so damn tired.

And the man on the other end of the hand on Billy’s arm seems to freeze. Billy’s looking at his boots on the ground and feels shame at being so damn weak. He’s trying to play dead like an animal in the face of a predator. This is what he has to do now.

But the Chief does the unthinkable… he loosens his grip.

He releases the pressure of his fingers and Billy shifts his eyes up to look at him through curly strands of hair.

The Chief’s face is full of shame. He’s not even trying to hide it, he looks surprised and shocked and slightly sickened by what he just did. Billy doesn’t understand it.

But he feels shame inside himself as well. It’s in his chest and projecting up onto his face, he knows it. He feels like he betrayed himself somehow, letting himself get so weak. He eyes the cop and sees the look of shame never leave.

In a split second, without any thought involved behind his action, Billy shoots his chin up and spits in the Chief’s face. The action stems from the anger and resentment boiling inside of him; through him. He’s mad and he spits because of it.

The Chief flinches. Takes the hand once gripping Billy’s arm and wipes his face.

Billy just watches, frozen in place because he can’t believe what he’s done. He should be dead, decimated on the spot for pulling a stunt like that, but the man on the receiving end of it is calm; calmer than he’s been all night. He takes a breath and gets even more collected before he looks Billy in the eye and says in a controlled and authoritative voice: “Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”

Billy doesn’t think. Feels like maybe he should start thinking right now but he can’t. He doesn’t move anything except his feet as they take him to the passenger side of the Chief’s cruiser. He climbs in without a word. The pain in his body is dulled as his mind races. The confrontation has made him so dull and nervous that he’s just numb. It takes about a minute before the Chief is in the car with him. He puts his key in the ignition and the car starts up.

They drive.

~~~

Billy should have known when Mr. Chief didn’t ask for his address that he wasn’t taking him back to Billy’s house, but in his stupor, he can’t really see or understand much of anything. It isn’t until they’re about 2/3rds of the way to their destination that Billy is even aware that he doesn’t know what that destination is.

“Where are we go-” His voice still sounds raw and used. Mr. Chief cuts him off.

“Home. My home.”

A wave of discomfort flows over Billy.

“What kind of a pervert are you?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mr. Chief is exhausted-it’s evident in his sigh. Billy cuts him some slack for being exhausted at this point, because he is too. “You need sleep. I need sleep. You have school tomorrow. I’m just taking you home.”

Billy doesn’t understand. What kind of cop finds a kid out in the middle of nowhere, being dumb and reckless and breaking laws, pulls him over, gets spit in the face, then decides to take him home to let him rest? Even if it’s because he put 2 and 2 together about his bruises and his desperation to not go home, what kind of cop picks up misfits like this? This isn’t his job and surely he uses that line a lot. Billy’s pretty sure every cop does. He was pretty sure every cop does.

Billy is letting himself swirl away again in his thoughts. He wonders how he’s going to get back to his car, what the cop is going to do to him in the morning, if he really is queer and if Billy really should be worried.

He’s gone in his thoughts when the Chief is speaking again. He tunes back in to: “I have a daughter.”

Billy knew that. He mentioned her before. It comes out like some kind of admission of a secret, though, and that confuses Billy, like just about everything about this night.

And Billy really, truly thought he was too tired and scared to be any more of a dick, but his mind flips the switch on Dick Mode and he goes after the man. He’s irritated and freaked the fuck out and he just wants to be in his bed with no bruises and no scars and no pain and no fears. He just wants to have a fucking simple life. He doesn’t want to have to deal with any more bullshit but now he’s being taken home by a cop who’s telling him about his daughter like Billy’s trying to date the girl or some shit and Mr. Chief needs Billy to know that he has to respect her. It’s idiotic. It feels unreal. Billy is so fucking exhausted and he can’t help it when he spits out his next words.

“Good for you, Chief. If you think I’m going to take her precious virginity just know-”

“She’s thirteen!” The Chief is yelling as Billy continues with:

“I don’t even swing that way.”

The air in the car is suddenly stale. Paused. Breathless.

Billy looks over to the Chief who just has an eyebrow quirked. The words of the last 10 seconds are still tangible in the air and it makes Billy’s entire body freeze over. He just jumped into an ice bath.

In a second he’s sitting rod straight, freaked out to high hell. Probably looks like a fucking tweaker from how on edge he is. Four days into living in Hawkins and he’s fucking outed himself to the Chief of Police.

Shit.

“Don’t know why I said that…” Billy begins bumbling like an absolute moron. He used to think himself smooth but this night has been a nightmare and his head hasn’t stopped spinning since it started. “Holy fuck god fucking… fuck…. Holy shit.”

“Kid.” Billy is pretty sure he hears the Chief’s voice but Billy is reeling.

“Fuck...”

“Billy!” Mr. Chief yells, his voice sharp and unforgiving. Billy freezes as the Chief sighs again. “I don’t care what your preferences are or who you like or whatever. I just wanted you to be nice to my kid, alright? That’s all.”

Billy is still frozen. He has to process the words for a few seconds more to understand them.

He’s in shock. He gauges in a few seconds that Mr. Chief is serious about this. That he’s exasperated and actually, truly, could not give a fuck about who Billy likes. Billy’s jaw is dropped.

“And don’t cuss like that in front of her, either.” Mr. Chief adds for what seems like good measure.

Billy sits and lets the words sink in. Within a few minutes, they’re pulling up to a small cabin in the middle of the woods. When Mr. Chief parks the truck, he’s looking down at his steering wheel like it’ll give him the secrets of life.

“And…” He begins, questions in his eyes. “... don’t worry about it. It’s not mine to tell.” He looks over to Billy. “I know I just said this town talks, but it doesn’t have to. You don’t want anyone to know? I won’t say anything.”

Billy doesn’t know what to do but nod.

And after he shakes off his shock, it takes a grand total of 2 seconds before red flags are coming up left and right. It’s like he’s just realized his position: in an unknown forest with a cop he just met, in a town he’s just moved to, no home to return to for the night, no one to call but people who don’t give 2 shits about him from what he’s seen. He’s not sure where he is and this man has shown concern, sure, but he’s a fucking cop in a tiny town picking a teen up he doesn’t fucking know and taking him to his home and this? This is just weird. And sketchy. And Billy’s heart is pumping blood through his body fast as he tries to gauge how successful an escape attempt might be. He promised Billy he wouldn’t take him in. Billy can go find his Camaro and sleep there until morning.

But… he can’t. He knows he can’t. That’s maybe the scariest part of all of this is he doesn’t know where the fuck he is and he didn’t know where the fuck he was when he got pulled over and now?

Now he’s just… tired. It hits him again like a freight train. His body is going through waves of anxiety and exhaustion, cresting and crashing. He just wants to go to sleep.

But when Billy goes to open the door- not even thinking, just acting -it’s locked. Anxiety starts to swell again as he looks to the cop next to him and sees his eyes are tight. Real tight. Like he’s trying to convince himself to do something-or maybe to not do something? Billy isn’t sure. But he pulls on the handle of the door repeatedly to indicate his panic. He can’t think straight. Everything is still swirling and at this point it’s definitely more to do with the exhaustion than the alcohol.

In a second the cop seems to start up again, quickly. Like a generator. He reaches to unlock the doors and climbs out of the car immediately. Billy follows his lead.

It’s when he’s passed the cruiser and is trudging toward the cabin that he’s stopped again, large hand and hard pressure on his bare wrist.

And he’s waiting for the anxiety to well up in a crest of fear but… it doesn’t this time. It swells slightly but it crashes down just as fast, mushy and soft, like the waves in Santa Barbara would when him and his parents would take a trip up there for spring. He’s the smallest bit fearful but mostly he’s compliant. Loose in a worse way than before. Submissive due to carelessness rather than willingness.

And some part of him, the unthinking and overexerted part, is glad that he’s reached this level of uncaring. There’s no rush of anxiety begging him to flee, there’s just tired eyes connected to a tired brain that wants whatever this next argument is going to be to just be over already so he can crash on the next available surface that isn’t dirt.

“I have a daughter.” Mr. Chief says for the third time tonight.

Billy blinks slowly.

“I know, Chief. I remember.” Billy blinks again. “Do you remember when I just told you I like dick a second ago?”

Mr. Chief glares.

“I need you to understand something here, kid.” He’s threatening him again. Billy can’t find any bone in his body that cares. “This is serious shit. You-”

Mr. Chief takes a big labored breath. His hand gets a little tighter on Billy’s wrist. Billy subconsciously wriggles it in his grasp.

“Fuck…” Mr. Chief says under his breath before he’s trying again. “You can’t say anything about her to anyone, alright? Not a damn word.”

Billy feels something sick in his chest at this conversation, but it’s small and it’s quiet and he just wants to crash.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Doesn’t know what to say. He wriggles his wrist a bit more.

“Do you understand me?” Mr. Chief is asking again, gritting his teeth like an angry dog.

Billy nods.

“You have to say it.”

“Yeah, I get it, don’t say anything. Got it. Fine. Whatever.”

“Not whatever, this is serious shit, alright? You tell a single soul and I fucking find you and make you wish you couldn’t speak to begin with. This is a small town, kid, I’ll find out where you live real fast.”

And like… wow. Okay. This seems way more than a little sketchy and definitely isn’t helping Billy’s anxiety any. His mind feels like it’s swirling through the wind around them. It feels like he’s not here, like he’s in a place outside of this, like he’s in a dream state where everything is altered and intense and everlasting.

But the pressure on his wrist gets stronger and he’s too tired for this shit so his knees buckle a little and-

“Yes, I understand. I won’t say anything.”

Billy just wants his wrist to be let go. His wish gets granted by the man who is red faced and breathing a little unevenly. Billy watches him wipe his hand down his face again like his struggles are drowning him.

“You know…” Billy begins, voice uncaring as he rubs his now sore wrist. “That was pretty fucking sketchy. Don’t know if you’re aware how damning that sounded.”

“Yeah kid.” Mr. Chief’s voice is gruff, but it’s clearly from tiredness this time around. He’s got a large hand over his eyes and a grimace on his lips. “Yeah. I’m aware.”

Mr. Chief starts walking to the cabin, taking a big step over a wire that Billy doesn’t notice until the large man mentions it. Billy still can’t see it, or even process it’s existence, but he hears Mr. Chief sigh and in a few seconds there are two hands holding him and lifting him a bit, making him lighter as he steps over the thing he can still barely see. Billy doesn’t think much of the help in his state.

Mr. Chief knocks on the door in some cryptic way that Billy can’t focus on because he’s too busy paying attention to how many stars there are in the sky. He doesn’t hear the handle turn but when he turns back to the cabin, the door is open. There’s a small voice floating through the air the second they wander in.

“Late-” The voice pauses sharply and Billy sees where it’s coming from: a small, short girl with short curly hair and a large flannel that she’s swimming in. Must be her dad’s.

That’s weird.

“Who is he?” She asks, pointed and glaring at her dad in a way that matches her voice.

It’s when Billy’s places his weight oddly and his body tries to rock forward that he feels it: immense and oppressive pressure. It’s like someone has his face pressed up against a wall so he can’t move. Nothing is giving way and his anxiety starts to pick up again, even if it’s still small in his tired state.

“This is a… a friend.” The Chief is unbelievably unconvincing. “He just needs a place to stay for the night.”

The girls eyes are wide in very obvious confusion before they turn to angry slits, eyebrows knitted down over them. She’s pissed. If looks could kill, she’d probably snap someone’s arm.

“Why does he visit and not Mike?”

The Chief is back to his exhausted sighs. If someone told him this man carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, Billy might actually believe it.

“Ugh…” Chief’s eyes are screwed shut and his fingertips are pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look kid-”

“Why?”

“Because it’s… different-” Mr. Chief is proving he’s shit at explaining things.

“Why is it different?” The girl’s fists are clenched hard, knuckles white and face scowling.

“It just is, alright?” The Chief’s voice booms, vibrating Billy’s chest. The pressure on his body hasn’t ebbed. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, just… have you eaten yet?”

“Table.” The girl says by way of an answer. She points to something behind Billy and it takes all of his energy to turn and look at the small table with two TV dinners atop it.

“Alright.”

The two make no moves to do anything but share a silent staredown. There’s some kind of tension that Billy would be able to cut if he cared to notice.

Billy doesn’t care to notice.

“Is there a place I can take a piss?” Billy’s voice is loud.

The pressure on his body is gone in an instant as the young girl tilts her head in clear confusion. Mr. Chief is sighing again.

“Yeah.” Chief nods before looking to his daughter. “Eat, alright? I’ll be right there.”

The small, curly girl holds her stare on the Chief for a while longer before she trudges past Billy and sits at the table in a loud huff.

Billy watches the Chief as he leads him to the side of the cabin and pulls back a large curtain. Billy eyes it strangely as he steps into the makeshift room.

“Hey, uh… we don’t have lots of food but I can make you up something if you want.” It’s the Chief. Being nice. Concerned. Again.

Billy is too tired to be irritated.

“I already ate.” He replies immediately, turning around to see Mr. Chief has the most unconvinced look on his face. It’s the fact that it’s laced with worry that digs under Billy’s skin.

Billy rolls his eyes.

“Believe it or not, but they do still feed me at home.” He shuts the curtain quickly before he can see the Chief’s expression, just grateful that he finally gets to piss half this alcohol out.

He does his best not to look in the mirror.

When he’s drying his hands, head down at the towel, he hears the hushed whispers of Mr. Chief and his daughter.

“I told you I’ll explain tomorrow. Now please promise you’ll behave. Don’t…. Do anything. Alright? You have to promise me.”

Billy decides then that he’s not going to pretend to understand what’s happening, and he sure as hell isn’t going to go against the Chief’s wishes, even if he’s aggravatingly threatening when he describes them. This is the Chief of Police of Hawkins and even through his pitying concern, the man is hard and a little scary. Billy isn’t going to take this roof over his head tonight for granted, even if it might be getting him mixed into something he probably doesn’t want to be mixed into.

He walks slowly back into the room where the two are having dinner, but the girl is staring at Billy as soon as he’s in sight. She won’t stop staring either, eyebrows a little furrowed in some major distrust. They frame hard eyes that aren’t liable to give in easily. Billy would be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little intimidated.

“Uh… hey.” Billy starts, uncharacteristically timid, like he’s approaching a wild animal in the woods or a stray dog in the street. “Didn’t introduce myself. Name’s Billy.”

Her stare doesn’t let up. She makes no move to speak. Where he would typically get impatient, his tiredness wins out.

“You got a name?”

The girl glares a bit longer before she finally succumbs.

“El.”

Billy nods.

“That’s a nice name.” He means it. He’s tired. He feels stupid again.

But it’s worth it because her eyebrows unfurrow and those crinkles in her face are gone and her eyes are a little wide. She blinks twice.

Billy shifts his focus.

“I never caught your name either, Chief.” Here he’s playfully rude. His tiredness can’t win out over making this large man sigh at least one more time. Billy would have to die before he stops getting a kick out of being a little bitch. “Kinda rude, now that I think about it.”

He’s smirking down at Mr. Chief, who looks like he hates the world and all of its inhabitants.

“Jim Hopper.” He says, leaning back in his seat and staring down at his now empty tray.

Mr. Chief Jim Hopper.

A few seconds go by, Billy feeling accomplished, before El is angry again.

“You lie.”

“Huh?” Chief Hopper looks like he wants to stop speaking.

“You said you’re friends.” El begins, eyes hard again. “He asks your name. You lie.”

“We just… hadn’t made it to that part of our friendship, yet.” The Chief says without making eye contact as he picks up his tray to throw away.

“What about Mike-”

“Enough about Mike, alright?”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Mr. Chief throws his tray into the trash and Billy is fully unaware of what’s happening. His brain has decided that functioning is optional.

He clears his throat.

“Hey, Chief Jim Hopper.” He has just enough energy to be a brat about how he says it. “When do I have your permission to crash on your couch?”

“Now.” Mr. Chief says gruffly, walking over to El to ask if she’s done with her tray. She gives it over. “Head to sleep, alright?” The Chief’s voice is suddenly soft; gentle and caring as he crouches down a bit to look her in the eye. She eyes him poisonously, before her scrunched up face relaxes and she nods, curls bouncing. She heads into her room and Billy hears the door close.

Billy goes to sit on the couch but the Chief gestures for him to stay standing before he pushes the couch back from its position in the middle of the room so that it’s all the way up against the front wall. Billy lets Chief Hopper give him an extra blanket and pillow. He’s quieter and slower than before, full of those concerned and surveying looks that Billy feels naked under.

“You good, bud?” Mr. Chief asks quietly.

Billy resents it. He is okay. He’s more okay here than he is at home and he hates it. This man fucking knows. He knows, somehow, that this is better than the place that’s supposed to be his to go to for comfort and support and safety. He’s better here with a stranger than with the people he’s supposed to call family and he’s pretty fuking livid about it.

“Whatcha gonna do about my car?”

Chief sighs.

“I gotta get to the station early tomorrow so I’ll drive you out there and get you to your car before you have to go to school.”

Billy doesn’t have anything to say, doesn’t wanna sound ungrateful for this for whatever reason, so he just nods. The Chief fidgets.

“Do you-uh… Do you need me to tell your dad something?”

He means well. Billy hates that he can tell that this man means well. He looks up from where he’s hunched over on the couch and sees the Chief shifting his weight on his feet. His arms are crossed too, his right hand picking at his left sleeve.

“I just need to be back to drive my step-sister to school.”

The Chief doesn’t seem too thrilled about that answer.

“Okay, but-”

“I was told to be back to pick up my step-sister.” Billy tries to make it clear, more than a little irritated that this man thinks he knows what’s happening. “Get it?”

The Chief gives a blank look for a second. He nods.

“Night.” He grunts before leaving for his own makeshift room and sitting heavily on his bed.

~~~

Billy’s attempt at sleep is nothing less than fitful.

He sits on the couch with the blanket the Chief gave him draped around his shoulders. It takes him too long to lie down and then even longer before his eyes close without force. He slips in and out of rest for a few hours. He’s so tired that his body refuses to lay down. His eyes burn.

He looks around the cabin. It’s dusty. Completely made of wood. There’s only one real room and he’s given it to his daughter, which makes sense. The Chief is snoring loudly from his bed which is about thirteen or so feet from Billy’s spot on the couch.

Most of the curtains don’t match and the patterns on them are kind of horrifically tacky. The ones that cover the large window behind him have trees and what looks like little buildings on them. Billy is sure that nothing ever gets cleaned, everything on the exposed shelving near him is haphazardly placed, the rug is fraying something awful, and he’s pretty sure the couch is covering a small exposed piece of furniture holding various records. There’s a record player behind him too. And as he looks, Billy’s heart yearns. Pines. Wants. There’s something about this place that makes him feel out of place but perfectly positioned and it’s maddening. Loses him in thought. Keeps him awake.

It’s as he’s sitting there, staring at the frayed carpet like it’s the answer to all of his grossly domestic dreams, that he sees feet. He didn’t hear the door open, but there’s 2 socked feet in his peripheral vision and he turns his head to see El, standing next to the door of her room and staring at him.

He jumps a bit, making sure to keep silent even though the Chief is snoring so loudly he’s sure nothing could wake him.

Her gaze is open and curious and unjudging. She looks him over like she’s never seen another human before. He wonders if he really looks that bad that he can’t even classify as human. Her brows furrow for a split second before she’s heading to a cupboard and pulling a large blanket out and hugging it to her chest. She pads silently over to the kitchen and grabs a glass from the side of the sink and fills it with water.

Billy watches her, confused and transfixed by the way she moves like a timid deer in the forest, thinks she’s going to head back into her room, before she comes to a stop in front of him. She stares for a second before holding the folded up blanket out to him. He allows himself to stare for a second as well before he takes it slowly.

He nods his thanks. She holds out the glass of water once the folded blanket is in his lap, and he takes that as well. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, glass of water in both hands in front of him, and takes a sip. El doesn’t make a move to leave.

“Thanks, kid.” He mutters quietly. She gives a small smile and nods before she moves.

She sits right next to him.

It’s… strange. She seemed so angry at his presence before that Billy can’t make sense of her opting to be this close to him.

She’s shorter than him, even as he’s crouched forward a bit, so she cranes her neck just a tad to look up at him. He eyes her as he takes another sip of water.

Maybe a minute goes by, maybe two, when Billy hears it. A soft voice whispering a soft word.

“Pretty.”

He looks down at her.

“What was that?” He asks her, watching her eyes go immediately wide. A deer in headlights.

“Nothing!” She says quickly with a quick shake of her head. Her curls bounce all around her face. She stands quickly, still staring at him with wide eyes. “Sorry! Goodnight!”

And with that, she rushes off to her room, little feet pattering on the ground and door closing silently behind her.

Billy is left staring at the door, and then at the water as he nurses it before finally placing it on the ground next to him. The early light of the sunrise is just barely teasing its way over the horizon, turning the whole sky a soft fluorescent blue, before he’s actually able to fall asleep.

(once again, find it on AO3 here!)

#billy hargrove #chief jim hopper #eleven #jane hopper #el hopper #stranger things #fic #billy gets adopted #hopper is getting closer to being a good dad #for now he's just tryin his best to not be a bad person #honestly????? i think it's working #billy hopper #angst #dad jim hopper #aka hop will one day be a good dad maybe possibly probably yes

[asryakino]

I want to work. 

I like working. I have a decent job working with kids that’s fullfilling mentally and is worlds better than the soul crushing retail and food service (and the dreaded retail/service job of handing out demos) jobs I had before. 

I like my job. I like my work. I even like my coworkers and that I get to make kiddos happy by being ‘the cool adult’ who knows things like video games and social media. 

Which is why I’m so fucking gutted that I’m goddamn terrified to drive my truck in its current condition because I have NO brakes. At all. None. I can hear the grinding, stopping is almost non existent and the tires were already pretty shite to begin with but it’s a reliable truck otherwise. 

But I haven’t been able to afford maintenance. Because I can’t even afford basic bills. I’m constantly behind, trying to scrape enough by to cover gas and food. I’m trying to care for mom, and dad. Which is harder when one of them lives out in the middle of bumfucked NOWHERE literally a place that is nothing but farms and barren hills 

I drive out there on weekends so he doesn’t have to live on his own, I take care of her when I’m not at work. I drive her to doctor appointments, out shopping, all over town. I take her anywhere she wants if it gets her out of the house. 

I have a full time job in trying to take care of mom. A weekend job of trying to keep my dad sane and from ending up BACK in the hospital. But just... 

my job isn’t in one place. I get sent AAAAAALL over the city to go where I’m needed. And it’s not a tiny town. It’s a fairly big city (fifth largest in the state and quickly beginning to dwarf out the fourth)

I need my job. It’s how I keep MY sanity. I’m only allowed to get out of the house to work. Because if I go out for self-fullfillment and social reasons I get guilted for a week. Because I have friends and a social life sometimes. When the stars align and the planets power up and the moon is blue and black all at once. I get to have a social night out. 

But only if I remember to bring mom a thithe for having a night out that didn’t include her. Because otherwise it’s a week of using silence as a weapon and refusing to tell me -anything- and then getting MORE angry because I don’t read minds and can’t tell what she wants, when she wants it and how she wants it all done. 

But... fuck it. This is a rant. I was going to apologize but it’s under a readmore already. 

I just spent an hour and a half bawling my fucking eyes out because I need money. I don’t WANT money, I literally NEED it. Because if I don’t get the fucking truck fixed. I can’t go to work. If I can’t go to work, I can’t earn money to continue doing things like - eat... and go to work. I Two things on the top of my list that I would like to do. Continue eating and continue going to work. 

Work is a sanity replenishing place. Even when it’s frustrating. I need to be able to go to work. Because it means I’m not a fucking failure to the small handful of people who matter. It means I’m not everything most of my family already believes I am and going to work means they can’t just write me off as being a lazy, entitled, shitlord. 

Like the exact lazy, sleeps-until-noon, selfish, entitled, uninformed,filthy, ignorant fucknugget my mother presents me as to literally everyone else in the family.   “Well she’s a horrible maid.” - said about the house being a mess, she’s a fucking hoarder and was buying 400$ worth of shit every fucking month for a YEAR until I quit working at the store she was constantly buying from. And she goes into panic attacks and anxiety attacks if I try to clean anything, move it or throw it away. “SHE has seven cats.” - About the cats we’ve rescued BECAUSE SHE INSISTED WE TAKE THEM IN AND NOT ADOPT THEM OUT BECAUSE “No one will love them right.” The very same cats that I said ‘let’s just get this one TNR’ed and set up a shelter, he doesn’t need to come inside we have too many cats.’ and she insisted that it was too cold for them, they needed to come in. I end up with the blame for the house being ruined by cats she insisted we take on. “She locks me in my room at night.” - Said in ‘jest’ whenever anyone asks what she does. She tells this to random strangers. She tells this exact words to absolute strangers. In reality she refuses to leave her room 90% of the time. She outright wastes my whole damn day on a regular basis by saying she wants to go out, refusing to get ready to go out, then languishes in her room and claims that everyone hates her, she doesn’t want to go out because the world hates disabled people and that she’s worthless and unnecessary and I don’t need her to go do (whatever) because I only need her money. All in a tone that implies that I don’t care about her or anything that I’m only after her money.  She’s racist, rude, disabled, and narcissistic. There is a massive list of words I’m not allowed to say in her presence but I’m not allowed to know them until after I’ve made the mistake of saying them and utterly ruining her day. (One of which is ‘hoarder’ because mentioning the term around her immediately shuts her down. I am also not allowed to mention her weight, age, or looks. But I am subject to being called ‘porker’ ‘fatback’ ‘full moon’ and other phrases connected to my weight and what I look like in my preferred clothes.) I’m not allowed to be in her prescence while displaying ANY emotion except pure joy and happiness. No matter WHAT she says, does, or how my life is going. Because to do so means that I am personally attacking her, and that I hate her, wish her ill, and want her dead. So no matter what she says about ANYTHING (and she has plenty to say about everything) I am to smile, nod, and agree. And she will read off graphic, disgusting articles from dubious police reports about rape, murder, physical violence and animal abuse. And expects me at all times to never interrupt her, to simply listen, and wants me to be angry at absolutely no one with her because SHE has made herself angry and “Has a good strong angry going” and doesn’t want me to “ruin it”. All this despite my begging, pleading, and eventually yelling at her that I didn’t want to hear about shit like that. That I am fully and wholly aware of how much SHIT is in the world and how the world is utter garbage, but that I am trying very, VERY hard to remain positive, to create the change I want to see in it and to be happy, DESPITE all the bullshit.  This break only came after she had been snappy with me for daring to visit my best friend after work, TELLING her, well in advance I was going to. And when I got back home she IMMEDIATELY decided to read to me an article about SOME nameless college girl who’s roommate (also nameless) microwaved her kitten because she was angry at her. There was no solution, no justice at the end of the piece. She was reading it, in graphic detail with plenty of imagry just because it made HER angry and she wanted ME to be angry, but not to show it. I finally snapped and screamed at her for an hour about how I didn’t want to hear anything like that, that I was trying to claw my way out of depression and shit...

She has since gone back to reading that kind of fucked up bullshit to me no matter what and it has, predictably, not helped me at all. 

ON TOP OF ALL THAT FUCKED UP SHIT

I am the only child. My parents are fucked up. And I have the social expectations to take care of them.  She’s going through early onset dementia/althemiers. Not that anyone in the medical field believes me because she’s cognitive enough on tests to lie about how she feels and is doing. And they don’t live with her 24/7 to observe the shit I see on a daily basis. She has cancer, it’s making things worse. She has diabetes, and THAT isn’t helping. And it’s all through the VA, and between that, HER depression (which counts because it’s her’s and I obviously have NOTHING to be depressed about) she can’t talk on phones for appointments. She’s mostly deaf because of the tinnitus. 

I am her companion, appointment scheduler, valet, cook, support system, personal assistant, and overall caregiver. 

I don’t get paid for it.

And on top of ALL that... On top of everything else I have to handle.  I just want to go to work.

But the brakes are out on the truck. And I didn’t get paid.

Not one fucking cent becuase I work on a school schedule. We had fall break, and I got sick the week following and couln’t speak, so I couldn’t work. And THIS paycheque period was for THAT EXACT TIME so.. no cheque. At all.

No money.

I have a quarter tank of gas in a truck that has NO brakes, the oil needs changing, the battery doesn’t actually start the car every time I turn the key, and the tires are so bald they are nearly slicks for racing. I am currently TERRIFIED to drive. At all. Because if I don’t skid off the road due to the brakes suddenly giving out, I may get to my destination and the truck just.... NOT START because the battery has decided to be a fucking dick about it being one degree colder than it feels like providing power in. 

Every time I get in the truck I run the risk of not leaving for work, or not coming home. And when I’m on the road I run the risk of ‘if the car ahead of me slams on his brakes, will I actually be able to physically stop. Can I pull hard to the side if I can’t?’. 

I pray for some company vehicle to hit me, to crush the vehicle so I can get the repairs done that I need to be able to just drive... because I can’t afford them. I don’t get paid enough to survive and pay what small amount of bills I have. I can’t get a loan... my student debt has utterly and completely ensured that the most money I will EVER qualify for is 200 bucks. 

I need brakes. And I know for a fucking fact that they won’t replace my brakes without tie-rods, calipers, and bearings. Because they NEVER replace my brakes without refusing to do so unless I get tie-rods, calipers, and bearings. Because fuck me, that’s why. Becuase I’m a GIRL I don’t know about cars. 

And if they write off that my car’s not safe because I didn’t get the tie-rods, calipers, and bearings replaced. I CAN GET ARRESTED FOR DRIVING AN UNSAFE AND NON ROADWORTHY VEHICLE

Brakes are 87 a piece, but tie=rods, calipers, and bearings? Well that’s 500 at LEAST.... and that’s just the tie-rods and bearings, calipers and brakes will be another 700... 

I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do.

I just want to work. I want to be able to make a positive change in the world and work... and prove to the people around me that I’m not what they think I am... 

I want to be able to stop crying when I get home...

I want to feel safe on the road and be secure that if I hit the brakes, the car will stop. 

And it seems like it’s all too much to ask.