#Harringrove implied

[weird-an]

"For fuck's sake."

Jim already has a headache and apparently it's gonna get much worse. He pours himself a cup of the shittiest coffee in Hawkins and turns to the kid sitting in front of his desk.

"What happened, kid?" he asks. "Why would you do that?"

Billy Hargrove reeks of cheap liquor, trouble and the metallic smell of blood. His lip is split and he looks like he hasn't slept in a week or so.

Billy doesn't answer, just glares at him.

"Breakin' and entering is no joke," Jim starts again. He sounds as pissed off as he feels, because he still has Mrs. Carters shrill voice in his ear, calling from Loch Nora about a burglar, about her fancy neighborhood getting sullied.

"I didn't do shit," Billy protests. "I…was just…"

He falls silent, mouth snapping shout like he regrets he even said a word.

"What?" Jim probes, because there's a piece of the puzzle missing.

Billy shakes his head, lips thin.

"Should I call the Harrington's and ask if you were invited?" Jim knows he's an asshole, but it comes more naturally to him than being nice.

Something flashes across Billy's face and his tan gets drained out by miserable paleness.

"Don't call them," Billy says, fingers digging into his thigh so hard his knuckles turn white.

"So, let's try again," Jim says, taking another sip from the dishwater the station claims is coffee.

"The key's under the flower pot," Billy mumbles.

Jim raises a brow. "And you know that why?"

Billy's eyes shoot dagger at him, the way only a pissed of teenager can look at an adult.

"Steve put it there for me," he says lowly, like it's a secret, something dirty and shameful you hide under your bed. "In case I need a place to go to…"

"So, you're pals?" Jim asks, huffing a laugh in disbelief. "Why didn't you say so?"

Billy's jaw tightens.

"Nobody knows," he finally says. His fingers find his necklace, tugging at the pendant. "It's better that way."

Jim is close to crack a joke about dramatic teenagers, but Billy's blue eyes are dark and there's a sadness there that doesn't belong to someone so young.

Whatever it is, Jim gets another piece of a puzzle - but apparently they're playing Hide and Seek.

"Okay," he says after a while. He'll put a stamp on the report, saying Confidential or similar shit. "You can go."

Surprise makes Billy look softer, less hurt. "What?"

Jim shrugs. "I've heard enough. Or do you want me to lock you up?"

It's a joke, but his throat clogs up when he looks down on Billy's file and sees that the kid had already spend a night the drunk tank a few weeks ago.

"Whatever, Chief." Billy lifts his hands. "I'm outta here, then."

The kid is halfway through the door, when it hits Jim. Billy can't go back to Loch Nora right now. Mrs. Carter is probably on guard.

"If you still need a place to stay, you can sleep in the break room," Jim offers. "The couch is a disaster though."

Billy stands in the doorway, eyes wide. He plays it cool when he catches himself.

"If I don't have to drink that shit." He points at the coffee. Jim can't blame him. Although 1 am is way too late to get cheeky.

"Just go to bed," Jim grumbles.

Billy salutes him. Jim can see his shoulders sinking, his whole body a bit less tense. Maybe he'll get them donuts for breakfast.

[el1ieez]

This is a gift for my friend @stellar-pexel I'm on a roll!!!

[harringroveera]

Billy: And you actually succeed??

[intothedysphoria]

One thing that Joyce hoped she’d never have to deal with again was a seriously injured teenager and blood dripping into a handkerchief.

The Hargrove’s boy, Billy, had come up on her radar a few times in the short time he’d lived in Hawkins. He had the bravado and swagger expected with being athletic and popular at that age, along with an air of sadness that reminded her of Jonathan.

She’d silently resolved to keep an eye on him and left it at that until she came back home with an unconscious but no longer possessed Will and found him lying flat on his stomach on the floor. Drugged by the look of his neck.

Hopper came over to help drag him onto the couch. Billy, still largely incoherent, mumbled something obscene about the police then passed out again.

He slept in Jonathan’s bed that night while Jonathan slept on the couch. And he disappeared by the next morning.

Billy would come around sometimes after that, particularly on holidays. The cigarette burns she’d notice sometimes on his shoulder was answer enough for the type of father Neil Hargrove was.

A shift happened around Christmas. Billy would still visit but with another person holding his hand. Another boy. Steve Harrington, to be exact.

Joyce saw this as a cautious sign of trust and invited them both in, even if her views on Steve were mixed.

He was actually remarkably polite. Something must have happened but Steve was an incredibly gentle, compassionate young man one on one. Billy seemed ecstatic in his presence and they were just incredibly sweet together, helpful and kind to Will.

Billy would still call Joyce Mrs Byers but sometimes it sounded like mom and she’d have to improvise a coughing fit to mask her tears.

Then things with Neil got worse. Billy started showing up in increasingly concerning condition and one day, stopped showing up altogether.

She’d heard something about a car accident and when Will went to visit the pool, he’d said his neck started tingling.

Worrying about a secret Russian base and Jonathan and Will keeping safe and trying to keep Hop alive had meant she hadn’t been able to talk to Billy. Joyce felt so guilty about that.

Will said he’d been punctured right in the chest. The fact that he’d survived had been a miracle.

Both Steve and Max had been there and were still there when she arrived at the hospital.

Hop was gone. Dead or disappeared, Joyce didn’t know. And that broke her heart.

But she had three sons to look after now.

Billy, who was holding Steve’s hand, murmuring to him before they kissed. Jonathan, who was holding his camera looking shocked and angry. Will, who was holding Joyce’s hand so tight, she was losing circulation.

She wasn’t going to let anything like this happen to them again.

[runraerun]

Billy with hanahaki disease ?🌸?

Pain!:’)

I love it! Here ya go🌸🩸

Fic prompts are: OPEN if anyone else is interested 💌 -> 📬

Tw; blood, slight body horror.

—

It started shortly after Billy moved to this shitty little town in the middle of assfuck nowhere. He chalked it up to the air quality being dogshit compared to California, or maybe he was allergic to that pungent smell of manure that the locals seemed totally nose blind to. The absolute last thing he would have considered was a goddamn plant had started growing inside of him–a love plant.

It was rare. You were only susceptible to it if you had a certain gene that you inherited from your maternal line. Lucky him.

Guess he can’t say his mom left him with nothing when she packed her shit up and skipped town. No, instead of a forwarding address, Billy’s mom left him her shitty, fairy genes. Thanks, Mom. Real swell of you.

“Has there been anyone you’ve had your eye on?” The school nurse asks, voice pitched low, gentle, like she was trying to soothe some kind of volatile beast.

Billy spits another mouthful of blood into the pan he’s holding, the crumpled up flower petals that he’d just finished hacking up look like chunks of his lung rather than a part of a plant. Runs his tongue along his teeth to try and fish anything out that may have gotten left behind in the carnage.

“No.” He says, stubbornly. He doesn’t look up from the pan.

“Well, Hanahaki disease can only take root under very specific circumstances. It feeds off a pheromone our bodies release when we experience a certain emotion; the stress of a love that’s unrequited. It’s the only–”

“I said no, alright?” Billy barks, voice still a little ragged from his coughing fit. Like he’d swallowed with a mouthful of gravel. “Get off my back.”

The nurse sighs, but she doesn’t move to stop him when he puts the pan down beside him and gets to his feet.

“It’ll only get worse if you ignore it, Mr. Hargrove.” She warns.

“Don’t fucking call me that.” Billy mutters, but he doesn’t have the energy to put any heat behind his words, so it doesn’t do much to wipe that stupid sympathetic look from her face. He grabs his jean jacket and leaves, shoving the door open with enough force that it slams back against the wall.

Despite his repeated denial, Billy knew who was responsible for this fucking mess.

Steve Harrington.

With his perfect hair and his stupid fucking Bambi eyes, lighting up every goddamn room he strode into with those long legs of his. Jesus… How could Billy ever have stood a chance?

Just thinking of him brought a tickle to the back of Billy’s throat. He suppresses a cough into his fist as he stomps down the hallway, now empty due to everyone else having gone home for the day. Except Billy, who of course couldn’t fucking breathe after gym class today after getting a little too rough with Steve.

It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, but something about the way Steve elbowed Billy away, how he barked at him to give him some breathing space, yelled at Billy to fuck off already—it had Billy’s chest acting up.

He held out for most of the class, fighting against the fucking petals that were pushing their way up through his fucking esophagus by beating at his chest, shouting to clear his airways, but then in the showers, Steve had avoided him completely. Had somehow managed to slip and out of the stalls without Billy noticing, depriving him of their usual naked back and forth banter that Billy had come to look forward to.

It was one thing for Steve to hate him, but it was another thing entirely for Steve to be indifferent toward him. That was way fucking worse.

The sting of rejection quickly turned to a coughing fit, worse than any he had experienced before. Like he’s hacking up a fucking lung. A few of the other boys had asked him, ‘you okay man?’ or, ‘should we get the coach?’, and worst of all, ‘oh shit is that blood?’

Billy was barely able to shove his legs back into his jeans and shoulder one of his classmates out of his way before he stumbled into the nurse’s office.

Fat lot of good that did him…

He’s gotta pick up Max. He can’t afford to hang around and talk about his pathetic, one-sided love with a complete stranger anyway. Billy leaves the school, gets into his car, puts the windows down and cranks the music as loud as he can stand it, and he tries very hard not to think about Steve and this ever growing thing that’s taken root inside of his chest, steadily consuming him from the inside out.

Christ, who knew he was such a fucking romantic…

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

The first time Billy Hargrove felt a thunderstorm shake Hawkins, he thought his rage must have borne it to life. 

He'd been driving toward the quarry, fresh blood on his teeth and a throb in his left eye when the skies ahead unleashed their fury. The wind picked up and the rain fell so heavily that he had to pull over because he couldn't see the road anymore. And instead of waiting out the danger in the safety of the driver's seat like a normal person…

Billy had gotten out to meet it. 

The rain had stung the wounds on his bare skin but he didn't care. No. It made him feel clean… .like the storm was washing away all his shame…all his sins. 

He screamed at the darkened sky and let his ire be known. He was done with this town. Done with his dad. Done with his pain. 

Done with this fucking life that he didn't even fucking ask for. 

He didn't ask to be born . 

So he'd screamed his grievances into the wind until his anger faded, until his body no longer shook with it. He'd screamed until his voice was raw, until the lightning stopped flashing. He's stood on the side of that sad gravel road until the rain became a drizzle and the tears no longer flowed. 

That first time he let the wet clothes cling to his body until his skin chilled and he shook with cold, because they didn't get thunderstorms like this in Cali. They didn't get storms that made him feel so…. alive .  So when that storm rolled away from him, disappearing into the distance, Billy decided that there was maybe one good thing about this shit town after all. 

Well, one thing other than Steve Harrington. 

***

Steve has never liked rain. When he was little, if he ever stepped in a puddle his mother would throw a fit about him trekking mud through the house, and when the thunder scared him in the middle of the night he'd try to find comfort in her arms, but his father put a stop to that when he was four. He'd lay awake all night hiding under his covers, under his bed, waiting for the booming to stop. 

Now, it isn't scary. He's not afraid . It just makes his house feel even more empty, the dull sky painting everything gray.  

Lonely.

Cold. 

Plus, he spends an hour on his hair. If it gets wet, it's game over. So rain is no bueno in his book.

Or it used to be. 

Until he'd seen Billy Hargrove, head thrown back and hair dripping in the middle of a downpour, laughing and screaming into the rain.

And look, he'd never given boys much of a thought before…but when he saw Billy…clothes clinging to his body and rain droplets running down his throat….it did something in him. 

Did something to him. 

He felt …moved . Or some shit.

Like it felt…poetic in a way…made Steve want to stick around. To see what may happen. 

But he didn't approach him. He never could bring himself too. He couldn't handle the weird feeling inside of him, so he just watched silently from the safety of his car as the thunder boomed as loud as his heartbeat, drowning out the sound of Billy's captivating insanity. 

***

Billy isn't sure when someone joined in on his little trips. One day, he just realized that he was being followed. And what had started out as anger and irritation at being watched in such a vulnerable moment had ended up becoming somewhat of a game to him once he'd figured out who his shadow was. 

Because it was the King of Hawkins High himself. 

Steve fucking Harrington. 

And it's not like Harrington was being subtle either. Billy would always spot his beamer slowing down, or if he ended up in the junkyard, he'd always hear a car's tires crackling on gravel not far away. 

He could feel those brown eyes on his face, following his movements as he paced back and forth in front of the Camaro, or when he'd take a bat to some beat up rust buckets. He just knew he was watching him closely and he wouldn't leave until Billy did. 

But since Harrington never bothered to get out or approach him, he just let it slide. Who cared if the other boy saw his deranged little act? If he told anyone, it would just give Billy more of a reputation as being someone these country bumpkins shouldn't fuck with. 

So, he let him watch. He let him see and hear the fury that lived inside him. And if he cried, how would Harrington even know ? It was fucking raining . 

Then winter came and he didn't see hide nor hair of the other boy. He may catch a look or two in the hall, but that was it. He wouldn't turn a corner and see the beamer waiting for him. He'd been so used to seeing him that it was almost…strange to not have him in his rearview mirror. 

By New Years Day he realized he kind of misses his little stalker.  So when the cold left and spring showers replaced the chill of February, Billy finally decided to do something about it. 

Because he needs to know why. Why Harrington is following him around whenever it rains? What he is even getting out of it. Because when Billy is looking that closely at someone….it's because he likes them. He's interested in them. In the Biblical way. 

Which is 100% good with Billy. 

In fact, If Harrington is anything like him, then he's going to need answers pronto. No matter what. Because he hasn't found anyone else like him in this town. He can't let this chance slip away. 

So, when he finally sees the beamer pull up just down the lane from where he's currently kicking rocks, he decides to make his move. 

***

Steve was surprised that Billy never approached him. He had to know that he was there. The guy wasn't dumb. But he never said anything, so maybe he doesn't care.

Maybe he is fine with Steven following him. 

So he just keeps doing it. 

He only takes a break when it's too cold for rain and chasing him around school would be too obvious. 

But it's warm again now. And it's storming. The thunder is so loud, in fact, that he is more focused on the crashing overhead and doesn't notice that Billy has spotted him and is walking right up to his passenger side window until he knocks on it. 

And like an idiot, Steve rolls it down. "Can I help you?" He asks, voice slightly shaky. The words sound haughty but he knows he's in the wrong here. He's been caught red handed this time. 

"I don't know, Harrington, you tell me."  He replies, and Steve can see the smirk on his face as the sky lights up once more. "You're the stalker." 

Heat flares up his neck and covers his face. "I'm not…" He starts and then stops himself. The jig is up. "OK, OK. Maybe what I'm doing could be considered…stalking…maybe but I'm not…I'm not trying to be…" 

"Creepy?" Billy finishes, and Steve nods. They both just stare at each other for a few seconds before Billy wiggles the handle and sighs loudly when it doesn't budge. "Well, are you gonna let me in or not?" 

Steve should probably hesitate and think about this a little more, but he doesn't. Instead, he just unlocks it and let's Billy slide into the seat beside him. 

They are both quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the rain against the roof of the car and his heart beating in his ears. He doesn't know what to say. 'Sorry' just doesn't seem sincere, because he's not sorry.  

He is simply curious. 

He just wants to know why Billy is always out here, letting himself drown in the rain. What can he possibly get out of it? It can't feel nice. Right? 

"So, you gonna tell me why you’re fucking following me or-?" 

Steve groans and runs a hand down his face. "Fuck. I don't…I don't know man. I just got…curious or whatever. I kept seeing you out at the quarry and I just…I couldn't stop watching you." 

"Sounds like you got the hots for me." 

Again his whole body heats up because…"What?! Nuh- no, what the fuck ?" 

Billy laughs and it sounds pretty nice to be honest. "It's fine, Harrington. I don't particularly mind." 

Well, that's… unexpected.

It's quiet again so he finally takes the time to actually look over at him and now that he's this close, he can see the fresh blood on Billy's lip. He can see the discoloration around his left eye. Things start coming together in his brain. This isn't the first time 

"You're bleeding." 

He pulls out a cigarette and cringes when he sees that the pack is wet. "No, shit." 

Steve pulls one out of his own pack and hands it to him. "You get in a lot of fights?" 

Billy shrugs and lights it up, taking a big hit before looking out the window. 

It makes Steve uncomfortable. Like he's stumbling onto something he shouldn't…but he can't stop himself from asking. "Why do you scream when it rains, Billy?" 

The blonde takes two more drags of his cigarette before replying, "You really wanna know?" Steve can only nod. "It's the only time I can cry without repercussions and no body cares how loud or angry I am." 

Steve thinks about that for a second. He could literally scream himself to death at home and not bother a soul. There wasn't anyone at home to bother. But obviously this isn't the case for Billy. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. 

Again Billy shrugs. "It's not a big deal. So I piss my old man off sometimes. It doesn't matter." 

Before he can think better of it he blurts out, "Yes, it does. No one should hit their kid." 

Suddenly the door is open and Billy is escaping out onto the rain.

He has no choice but to follow him. "Wait! Stop!" 

Billy whirls around, lightning crashing behind him. His eyes are angry, and Steve thinks he hasn't seen anything more beautiful. "Fuck you! I didn't fucking say that-" 

Steve steps forward, unphased by Billy's anger. He can handle it. At least it's an emotion directed at him.  "You didn't have to, but it doesn't matter." He tells him, speaking slowly, palms up, rain dripping down his face. "I can read between the lines just fine. And I won't say anything. Just like how I never said anything about, " he fans his arms out, motioning to everything, " this ."

But Billy looks skeptical. "Harrington." 

"I can help." He insists because this is something even someone like him can do. "Or like…let me stand here by you. You don't have to do all of it alone."  

The rain slows to a drizzle and he can clearly see a tiny sliver of hope flash across Billy's face. "Are you sure you can handle me? You've seen what I do out here." 

Steve takes another step forward and this time Billy doesn't move away. "I don't think I'll have a problem with that." 

A smirk from that mouth and a chuckle make Steve melt. "Well, alright then, pretty boy. Let's see what you can do." 

[yikesharringrove]

Punk Steve!

Steve who feels so fucking lost bc robin went off to college and the kids can drive themselves around and he’s lonely and doesn’t know what to do with himself.

So he takes to driving around aimlessly on the evenings, because that’s what he and Robin used to do.

And one night, he stumbles on this building, out in the middle of (mostly) nowhere. There are beat-up cars in the parking lot, and he can hear the music all the way on the road.

He doesn’t totally know what he’s doing when he pulls in, and he’s out of the car before he can really decide if this is a good idea or not.

He’s glad he was wearing something plain, a dark green t-shirt and jeans, because he’d stick out like a sore thumb in his usual attire here.

He’d never seen so much black clothing.

Everyone had on similar items, black pants, all ripped up. Some people had put patches on their clothes. He saw names like The Dead Kennedys, The Runaways, The Ramones, The Sex Pistols. He saw leather jackets, clothes covered in safety pins and spikes. Big dark boots with blue, or yellow, or purple laces.

The band was playing some crashing song, and it was so fucking loud that Steve could hardly pick out the words, let alone differentiate the sounds of each instrument.

But something about the way the crowd was moving, head-banging and slamming into each other. Everyone had huge smiles on their faces, even as they all smashed together.

He didn’t join in the first day, sue him if he was a little scared, but he just kept, coming back.

And he made friends. Friends his own age. Friends with piercings in their faces, who shared cheap apartments on the outskirts of town. And they called him a yuppie, but they gave him hand-me-down clothes and helped him diy his first leather jacket, one that had been hanging, sad and forgotten, in his closet since last July.

He would go to the little venue every weekend, smearing black make up around his eyes in the car on the way there. He got his nose pierced in the bathroom, three people crammed into the tiny space. (He’s fucking shocked he didn’t get an infection).

He made out with a boy against the back wall while some shitty band raged up front, slamming their instruments into the floor.

(He ended up in tears later that night, black eyeliner staining his cheeks, because the boy’s blue eyes reminded him of someone he was too heartbroken to think about.)

It was a weird coincidence that led him to this little sea of punk weirdos, and nobody, not even Steve, had expected him to get so deep into this counterculture, but he finally felt free, and himself, and happy, and he can’t remember a time in which he has ever felt more comfortable in his own skin.

[hargrove-mayfields]

It’s day 3 of @harringrovemovember and today we’re talking about recovery! I’ll give a heads up that this snippet features talks of eating disorders and recovery from them. It’s mostly implied since this short little bit is pure fluff!

————

Steve’s nervous. Just a little.

Billy made a big promise to himself yesterday. That’s why it’s scary. Not because Steve is scared of being let down, never could he be disappointed by his Billy, but he doesn’t want Billy to feel bad about not meeting his goal.

Just in the past six months he’s gained back a good ten or fifteen pounds- they aren’t really counting too close- and knocked almost as many fear foods off of his list. Ice cream, chocolate candy: today is pancakes.

Steve got up extra early to make them. Usually Billy cooks, or at least doesn’t let Steve do it alone, but he wanted, really wanted, for this to be special.

He’s put butter and syrup and bananas on top and everything.

Billy’s still in bed, still cozied up in the most comfortable pajamas ever. That was another goal, to stop worrying so damn much about what he looks like and how he could be perceived and just embrace comfort. In every meaning of the word, being soft was okay. Really okay.

Steve surprises him with the pancakes on a little tray, and a black coffee to cut all the sugar, and tells him he doesn’t have to eat them, he’d just like him to try.

By the time he can’t take anymore they can see the bottom of the plate. Probably half of a pancake left if you added up all the little slices. Honestly that’s more likely because of Steve making too many, more than Billy could probably ever eat.

Steve looks at the scraps and remembers he forgot to feed himself, the pink flush on his face giving it away. Billy recognizes that look immediately and offers to help.

“My turn. You want french toast?”

[nyxalish]

“Cooling off Mister Hargrove?”

“Steve?”

Images from my cowboy au,,

[weird-an]

"This town sucks, Maxine. I don't get why you like it here," Billy says, sucking on his cigarette and flooring the gas pedal.

Max rolls her eyes - like Billy would ever like anything. Even in California, he talked shit about the dates he had been on, about how Neil wants him to drive her around, how the waves had been shit that day. She only ever saw him happy when he was hanging around with Argyle, the big dude with longer hair than her, who always smiled so contagiously that even Billy grinned occasionally.

She can't remember the last time she saw Billy smile, she suddenly thinks. Not in Indiana, only ages ago in the Californian sun.

"Because I've got friends," she tells him, thinking of El's shampoo smelling like strawberries and Lucas giving her his cone of blue moon ice cream. "People that really care about me."

Billy's jaw works.

"Wait until they find out you skate like shit," he says finally. It sounds strained and a bit wet, like he's about to cry. Which can't be, because Billy only cries when Neil leaves and he thinks no one can see him. "Wait until they think you're not cool anymore and they've got no use for you."

Is that what Billy thinks friendship is? A farce to get what one wants? She can't take the thought, thinks of Billy always smelling like hairspray and going to every party in town. But Billy hangs out with Steve, right? He doesn't talk about it at all, but Dustin always moans about it when she sees him.

"Not everybody is like that," Max says. Her heart feels funny in her chest, like it's too big to fit in there. "There are people that like you for who you are."

"Grow up, Maxine." Billy turns around a corner with screeching tires and Max grabs the door's handle.

"Steve likes you," Max says, because why doesn't he see it? Does Billy really feel like that? It makes her sick, even though he's an asshole most of the times. "Dustin says you're all he talks about."

"He does?" Billy stares at her, voice unsure and weirdly hopeful, cheeks tinged pink.

"Pretty sure he does." Max stares back, for a second, wondering what she's seeing right now, before she remembers they are still driving way too fast and Billy's big blue eyes are still on her.

"Billy!" she screeches. "Watch the road!"

"Don't be such a chicken, shitbird." Billy snorts and drives even faster, but keeps his gaze fixed on the road. His face is still red.

"I'm not a chicken!" Max flips him off. It's easier to pretend to hate each other. It's easier than to worry about him. It's easier to say he isn't her brother, because if he is, it's too complicated.

"You are." Billy makes a noise. He clucks. "That's what you sound like all the time."

"Fuck you!"

Billy clucks again. What an idiot. "That's all I hear."

But he smiles. It's tiny. It feels precious. Max doesn't want to pretend. Maybe one day she won't.

[prettyboybillyhargrove]

Billy inspired looks (+18 under 🫦)

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

Some things never change. It’s why Nancy is oh-so looking forward to coming home this summer, funnily enough.

She wants to have her mom’s meatloaf, pretend to be interested enough in sci-fi to sit through a movie with Mike, and stare at the photos posted on her vanity. She wants to feel like she’s seventeen again and worrying about studying for chemistry quizzes, not worrying about what Jonathan is up to right now.

If he’s talking to other girls. If he’s sliding up next to Argyle in the back of his van, too close for your average smoke session. If he’s having a blast with his time apart from her.

She knows they both need space — it still doesn’t feel good to dwell on it. She needs distractions or she’s going to blow a gasket.

Anything to alleviate the stress. Even if just for a night. Hell, even if just for a minute.

As much as it feels wrong to admit… she’s also looking forward to seeing Steve. To teasing him a little bit since she’s back in town, maybe flirting with him like she used to.

She has no idea what’s coming over her, what’s possessing her to have these thoughts — she doesn’t like Steve, at least, not like that, but just knowing that part of him will always love her brings an odd sense of comfort. It’s the normalcy that she’s craved while away at Uni. While she and Jonathan are taking a break.

It’s shitty. And she knows it.

After a quick ask around, she’s pulling up to a trailer at Forest Hills, parking next to the Beamer and stepping out of her car.

Steve might not have gotten into any of his choice colleges, but he’s making something for himself nonetheless, so she’s heard. Nancy wonders if he’s looking to reminisce about old times too when she knocks on the door, only… Steve isn’t who answers it.

It takes a few moments. Nancy can hear fumbling and a quiet curse before the deadbolt turns and the door cracks open.

“Uh… hey?” Billy greets lamely.

He squints in the sunlight, his posture hunched as he leans his arm on the doorframe. Nancy clutches her purse at her side, all of her scripting for this interaction bursting to flames in the back of her mind.

“Hey,” she says. Leans back enough to look at the plaque above the doorbell. “Am I at the wrong place?”

Back in school, she never really interacted with this guy. Just heard rumors, mostly. Saw him strutting around the halls like her worst testosterone-filled nightmare come to life. He doesn’t seem so big and tough now, confusion plastered all over his face.

She still doesn’t expect him to sound so gentle when he speaks.

“Steve’s out right now,” he says. Stands up straight and rubs his eye with the heel of his palm before gesturing over to the Beamer. “He took mine. Asshole always uses my shit.”

Nancy glances over her shoulder. Nods, more to herself than anything, and sighs.

This was a bust.

The door hinges creak from Billy leaning more of his weight into it.

“You, uh, wanna come in?” he asks.

Nancy presses her lips into a line, considering making up some lame excuse to run off until he spreads a little smile. It has her mind going blank in under a second.

Right. She forgot how charming this guy can be.

“Sure,” she murmurs.

Struts inside when he clears the doorway, trying to ignore the fact that she can smell the faded remnants of Steve’s cologne on him as she passes by.

Come to think of it, it looks like he’s wearing Steve’s clothes too. They fit better on him than they ever did on Nancy.

“I’m gonna make some coffee,” Billy says.

He shuts the door, and Nancy nods. Looks around, subtly trying to scope out the place. It’s not the stereotypical bachelor pad that she was expecting — the couch has a decent amount of pillows, the curtains match the rugs, and the posters on the walls are actually framed.

It looks lived-in, but not messy.

There are trinkets and tabletop things kind of strewn about, and it feels homey. More so than Steve’s parents’ house ever did.

The only thing that really catches her attention is the fact that there’s a single bedroom.

Billy brews a pot and glances over his shoulder when he opens a cupboard.

“Coffee?” he sighs.

“Sure,” Nancy says. Watches as he pulls two Garfield mugs out. “So, you guys… live together?”

“Mhm.”

He pours both mugs generously. Sets the sugar and the creamer on the counter so Nancy can fix hers how she likes. Surprisingly, he takes his coffee fairly sweet.

She half expected him to drink it black.

“How did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Nancy stirs her mix vacantly until the color lightens, watching the way that Billy’s lips quirk up into a smile again.

He splays his free hand against the counter and leans into it, shrugging his shoulders.

“He begged me, really,” he lilts. “Or did you mean how did we become friendly?”

“The ladder.”

Billy nods. Sips from his mug and hums to himself.

“I dunno, it kinda just happened. He’s a lover, not a fighter, after all.”

He fucking winks at her, and her face starts to feel warm.

She wants to chalk it up to the fact she obviously woke him up when she knocked. His hair isn’t primped, his curls less defined and perky than usual, and his eyes are half-lidded. Like he hasn’t quite adjusted to being awake yet.

Something tells her that’s not the only reason, like a little siren in the back of her head is going off.

It’s the same feeling she got when she noticed the disproportionate amount of time that Mike started spending with Will, as opposed to their other friends. When she noticed that they started sharing the bottom bunk of his bed rather than splitting up during sleepovers.

Her eyebrows quirk up ever so slightly. Really, it should be obvious. Billy isn’t even trying to hide it.

“He always has been,” she says.

Amused, Billy leans forward a little more. Lowers his voice like he’s making accusations in church.

“That why you decided to swing by unannounced?”

There’s no hint of danger just yet. Nancy knows it’s lurking around the corner, though, so she chooses her words wisely.

“Just… wanted to catch up.”

She shrugs nonchalantly, still stirring her coffee. Billy nods, but his eyes suddenly look dark. Like the surface of the ocean at night.

Eerily still and almost black in the absence of the moon.

“Sure,” he says. Stares hard at her for a moment, like he’s picking apart everything, reading her mind. It sends a chill up her spine. “Y’know what I want?”

Nancy stops stirring when his eyes flick down to her hand.

“What’s that?” she asks, almost breathless.

He taps his finger against the countertop, and his smile returns. It doesn’t feel as charming and suave as it did earlier.

Reminds Nancy of the fake smiles that the preppy girls would give her at school when she first started dating Steve. Come to think of it, it’s exactly that.

“I want you to call first next time.” He chews his lip while he thinks. “I want you to keep this little visit between us when you catch up,” he warns. Chuckles after a moment and tilts his head to the side. “And I want you to say hi to your mom for me when you leave. Think that’s too much for lil’ old me to ask?”

Nancy shakes her head, face burning now. Billy seems fairly pleased with that.

“I’ll… let myself out.”

“Door gets stuck, so be sure to pull hard on it.”

He waves goodbye before she even moves. Once she does turn away, he grabs her untouched mug and dumps it down the sink. She breathes a sigh of relief once she’s outside and the door is closed behind her.

It doesn’t feel good, leaving the trailer park with this rotten feeling stirring in her gut. Funnily enough, she’s not even mad at Billy.

She’s mad at herself.

As embarrassing as it is, she needed this. She’s glad it happened this way, because simply knowing that Steve is taken makes her heart feel a little lighter. Like she didn’t fuck him up too bad to find love.

Like she can finally let him go.

The walk of shame up the driveway to her parents’ house still makes her sick.

“Back so soon?” Karen asks. She has a pan of meatloaf ready to go into the oven. “I thought you’d be out for a while, I was gonna surprise you.”

The look on her face is disappointed, like the highlight of her night was going to be presenting her daughter with a fairly average meal. It does good to make Nancy think.

About how she’s been putting too much thought into things that don’t matter. About how she’s been worrying about things that are out of her control. Obsessing over them, even.

It makes her think about how she should have just been excited to eat her mother’s meatloaf and watch shitty movies with Mike.

From the start.

Nancy smiles, and Karen mimics it even though her plans are clearly ruined. She thinks they can fix it together.

“Billy says hi.”

[harringroveera]

Good job at not telling Nancy about the plan, Steve

[demobats]

Read on AO3 2263 words 

She’s giving her back to them, kneeling down to pick at this patch of pretty wild flowers. Steve can’t tell if she’s plucking them out or picking at the weeds surrounding them. Doesn’t make a difference either way. Some people like flowers. Some people don’t. 

Billy’s stiff by his side, quiet. But he’s been quiet the whole drive. 

“Uh, hi,” Billy says. 

And she sort of glances at them out of the corner of her eye but doesn’t do much else. “You kids selling something? I’m not interested, sorry.” 

Steve waits for Billy to respond but a too long moment goes by and he says nothing. He’s frozen to the spot, staring at the back of her neck. So he clears his throat, shuffles dirt with the heel of his shoe. “No,” Steve says. “We’re not selling anything. We’re—uh, well. It’s—” 

And Billy interrupts him then, says, “ Mom .” 

Mom. Such a simple word. 

Billy says it like it means something else entirely. Something holy. Something ugly. Something that refuses to die even though it’s been beat down time and time again. 

She stands up and turns around so damn fast Steve gets whiplash just by looking. 

Finally he sees her. She’s Billy, through and through, just like he imagined. All golden hair and sunkissed skin, wide blue eyes and a too aggressive stance, ready for anything. 

“Oh,” she breathes, voice empty like she’s someplace else. “Oh, Billy.” 

Billy always described his mother as someone kind , caring , everything Neil Hargrove was not, and he never had to say the words for Steve to understand that he loved her so damn much it felt like drowning. Steve’s not sure he ever loved his own parents like that.

Billy loved her, and then—she left. 

Her calls got less and less frequent until they eventually stopped. By the time the Hargrove-Mayfields got to Hawkins Billy hadn’t heard of his mother in years. 

And Billy asked him to come on this road trip with him, sounding small and hesitant, as if he didn’t already know Steve would follow him anywhere. He’d follow him to hell, really—what’s California sunshine and a white suburban to that? 

She raises a hand up and Billy flinches back. 

She has to know what went through his mind. Know why he’d be afraid of a raised palm. 

But she smiles something tight, desperate, and carries on. She curls a piece of Billy’s hair around her finger, tucks it behind his ear. “Your hair’s so long, baby,” she says, sounding wounded. “You’re—you’re so big. You’re taller than me now, aren’t you?” 

It’s all very tender. Just as kind and caring as Billy described. 

But Billy—he reacts just as Steve thought he would. 

He shuts down entirely. Stands there and looks his mother in the eye and says nothing. He’s hurting, Steve can tell, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

All he can do is exhale a shaky breath and turn to face his mother. 

“Hey!” Steve says, that polite-young-man persona he used to put on for teachers and parents slipping into his tone without his say so. “Hi. I’m Steve Harrington. I’m Billy’s, uh—Billy’s friend. I hope we didn’t catch you at a bad time, it’s just—we’ve been driving a long while and we wanted to, y’know, make this stop first. Billy couldn’t wait.”

He extends a palm out and she takes it, nodding, taking in all of his words like something precious. “ Steve . You kids—where did you drive from?“

“Oh. Uh, Indiana?”

Her eyebrows go up to her forehead. She glances at Billy, alarmed, confused out of her mind. What was her son doing in Indiana of all places?

“Hawkins, Indiana. Billy moved with his family a couple years back, but he’s eighteen now and we’re both done with high school, so—yeah. Here we are.”

And—did she really not know that? It seems like such a trivial bit of information, the very bare minimum. Did she think Billy would be exactly as she left him—waiting for her in a little run down house by the beach in San Diego, perpetually eight years old?

She nods. Again. 

There’s something he can almost recognize about her, something that’s hurting the exact same way Billy is, deep, and rooted , excruciatingly obvious to anyone who’ll look. Truly impossible to miss. And just like Billy, Steve can pinpoint the exact moment she chooses to bury her hurt. 

“Christ,” she mutters, laughing something shrill. “That’s—I don’t want to know how long you’ve been driving for. Do you have someplace to stay yet?” 

And then, oh-so-hesitant, hopeful: “You could stay with me, if you want?”

Steve's eyes go to Billy. This is not something they talked about. Although, in all fairness, they didn’t actually plan any of their trip beyond getting behind the wheel and driving. The idea that Billy’s mom might offer them a place to stay never even crossed their minds. 

“Billy?” she asks, softly. “How’s that sound?”

But Billy’s still—drifting, eyes wet. He shrugs, mutters, “Yeah.”

And she smiles. She smiles. But then the smile is dropping and she’s twisting around to face her big house, white and welcoming, all wide windows and large porch. She snaps her eyes shut. Opens them. “Fuck, okay. I can call my husband at work but—can you give me, like, ten minutes tops so I can talk to my daughter? It’ll be quick.” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

She doesn’t give them a chance to respond before she’s climbing the steps to the porch and yelling for a Nicole. Nicole . Nicole, come down here for a moment, please. 

Nicole. Nicole. Nicole. 

Not three seconds later there’s this tiny voice shrieking “Coming!” and down she comes, Nicole , stopping to a halt in the doorway when she sees them. 

She’s got to be about eight or nine years old. Golden hair and sunkissed skin. A flowy white dress to match the ruffled shirts Billy would wear as a kid in the few pictures he’s shown Steve, down to the embroidered patches in her chest, flowers, and flowers, and flowers, so many damn colors. 

Steve feels Billy tense by his side. 

And he sees it before it happens: Billy, bursting. 

“You have a kid?” 

His voice is heavy, unsteady. Measured but hot, teetering on the edge of something. 

She understands then, that Billy is not okay with—whatever the hell this is. 

He’s all clenched fists and flared nostrils in a moment. Steve reaches for him, clasps his wrist in a too tight hold, hoping it’ll ground him, because—well. Nicole . So not her fault her mom made the choices that led to this moment. 

And, yeah, yeah, Billy breathes out heavy, locks his eyes with Steve’s for a moment before looking away, shoulders dropping. Once upon a time he would’ve gone for Steve’s throat, but not anymore.

Billy’s mom is still there, just there. Still everything Billy ached for for years and years on end. And she mutters something to her daughter that has her nodding, walking back into the house. 

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she says, first and foremost. 

She approaches them again, oh-so-slowly. 

“I should’ve told you, I know. I just—it wasn’t safe. I didn’t feel safe. You know how Neil gets, I—she’s not even his but that wouldn’t have mattered to him. He would’ve made me stay and I don’t even want to imagine how he would’ve treated her knowing she’s someone else’s, and I—” 

“Mom,” Billy says, and her rambling stops altogether. 

She looks nervous, terrified. 

And if that kid there isn’t Neil’s then—well, Steve’s always been shit at math but he can put two and two together. She has to have cheated. Neil was a bastard to her. She cheated, she got herself knocked up. She ran off and she never looked back and her son became nothing but a muddled memory that wouldn’t haunt her half as much as it should’ve have.

Billy was so young. Could he have thought of that scenario, back when he was so young? His mother brushing someone else’s hair back, telling bedtime stories he’d never get to hear?

“I’m sorry,” she says, pleading. 

And there it is: Billy, bursting. A flicker of something that cannot be described dancing behind the shiny blue of his eyes. Anguish. 

“Fuck you.” 

“No, Billy—”

“Fuck you,” Billy repeats. Then, “ Steve .”

And Steve understands it for what it is. Billy wants to leave and he wants to leave now . 

Billy takes a couple steps back and Steve lets him, their hands brushing briefly as he walks away—it’s his mother though, the one to step forward and get on his way, to cling to him any way that she can. “Billy, please .”

She tries holding on to his shoulder but he shakes her hand off, keeps walking and walking and walking. Steve huffles behind them both, unsure. 

“At least let me explain!”

“What’s there to explain? Fucking Neil was right.” 

“What—? No, Jesus, what did he even tell you? It wasn’t safe, okay? That’s all there is to it. I did what I had to do to protect my daughter .” 

And Billy stops dead in his tracks. Looks at her with hard set eyes. 

She seems to realize the meaning behind her words that very second. It also seems like she had been telling herself those words all over and over and over again ever since she left. How else would she have slept at night, then? If it weren’t for the knowledge that she did everything in her power to keep her daughter safe? 

But about Billy? What about her son? 

Billy keeps looking at her. 

And she—stands her ground, at the very least. Looks him dead in the eye and doesn’t cower in the slightest even if Billy is fuming, about ready to start throwing punches. 

But he wouldn’t. He won’t. 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he says, voice monotone, dead. 

“Billy—”

“No. I don’t—I don’t care. I don’t want it,” he says. “I don’t care,” he says.

And he walks off towards the street, leaves his mother gaping. 

Steve watches as he angrily hops into the camaro’s passenger seat, even if he spent the past week swearing up and down he wasn’t going to let Steve drive for a second once they got to California. He shuts the door forcefully, noisily. Slumps in his seat and sticks a cigarette in his mouth, lights it up with shaky hands. 

And then there’s only the two of them, Steve and Billy’s mom, the woman that he loves so dearly, the woman that keeps finding ways to hurt him, even after all this time. 

She looks at him with wide blue eyes and Steve sighs. What else can he do? He sighs. 

He sneaks a glance towards the house and finds Nicole watching the damn scene with her little face pressed up to a window. If Billy didn’t know about her then Nicole sure as hell didn’t know about him. Must be weird. Must be maddening. 

“Neil’s still an asshole, if you were wondering,” Steve says, because he might as well. 

And she barely even reacts, eyes wet, brows furrowed. 

So Steve carries on. “It’s a miracle he never put Billy in the hospital. Last time he hit him I was there, and—fuck, I—I thought he was going to kill him. I just—he wasn’t stopping. We had to call the cops. They held him for a couple days but you know how it is with domestics, they just—he twisted it around to say Billy attacked him. We ended up having to pay bail.” 

“Why are you telling me that?” 

Good fucking question.

Steve wants her to understand . 

He shakes his head, watches Billy sulking in the damn car. “Neil also remarried?” he says, because it’s true. It’s such a fucking pivotal moment in Billy’s life. “Years ago. Billy’s got a stepsister. Max, she—they’re family. And Billy’s also my family. I guess what I’m trying to say is—he’s got people who love him and it’s up to him whether he seeks you out again or not. He doesn’t need you.” 

A slap would’ve been kinder. A blanket insult much less cruel. 

She takes a shaky breath in and a shaky breath out and she does nothing but bob her head up and down. She understands. Of course she understands. 

And—she’s Billy, she’s Billy . She’s the stubborn way he holds back tears and digs his fingernails into his palms, neck bared, shoulders drawn back. She’s every single moment he’s pretended he’s fine only to turn right around and shatter into a thousand pieces. Neil was never that angry and ugly part of him. She is. 

She keeps nodding, clenches her jaw. 

She made a stupid choice and she’ll stand by it for as long as she can. Has to, or else it’ll kill her. 

Steve smiles muted. Small. He turns to the house for a moment to wave at Nicole and waits for her to wave back. This whole situation will be confusing for her, if Billy decides to come back at some point. Steve doesn’t want her to be scared. 

He walks to the car and slips inside, squeezes Billy’s thigh. 

“Where to?” 

He shrugs. “The beach?” 

“You got it. You have to give me directions, though.” 

Steve smiles and then Billy smiles and shakes his head, takes one long drag of his cigarette. Then they’re driving away. They’ve got all the time in the world.

[magniloquent-raven]

everybody's saving grace

(cw the karen and billy thing. but this is mostly about joyce finding out and getting protective of billy, so)

(read on ao3)

Jane didn't speak for seven days after they lost Hop. 

Joyce made space for her in their home, accommodated as best she could. Will offered her his room and promised he didn't mind sharing with Jon, they used to bunk together on the rare weekends when Lonnie remembered he had kids anyways. More often than not though, Jane would sneak into Joyce's room in the middle of the night, awkwardly hovering in the doorway until Joyce patted the empty space next to her and Jane would crawl into the covers silently, cheeks wet with tears. 

That first night Joyce tried to talk to her about it, with soft words and a story or two about the trouble she and Hop used to get up to as teens, hoping to coax a smile out of her, or at the very least a story of her own in response. Something. Anything. She tried to tell herself it was only because she was trying to help, but there was a selfish part of her deep down that just wanted someone to share her grief. Jane was the only other person in the world who felt his loss as much as she did, and she needed help shouldering the burden. 

But Jane would only listen. Curled on her side and squeezing Joyce's hand, blinking up at her with red-rimmed eyes. 

Joyce would wait until Jane fell asleep to shed her own tears. She's up at all hours nowadays, watching every shadow, listening in the dark, a cigarette between her shaking fingers. Her boys have noticed, she knows it. Jon's picking up more slack than usual, cooking meals and cleaning house and making sure Will is always accounted for. And Will. Will has barely said more than Jane has. He's always been a quiet boy, but…well.

Even his friends spending all their time around the house hasn't brightened his mood. Mike has been glued to Jane's side, getting more and more drawn and frustrated the longer she goes without speaking. Dustin and Lucas have been the loudest of the group, trying desperately to fill the silence, and Joyce can't say she isn't grateful for it. The house feels more full when they're here. It's easier to keep busy and not let her mind wander.

On the seventh day after the mall fire, Max Mayfield asks her if she can spend the night. She's been paler than usual. Withdrawn, but only when no one is looking. 

Joyce puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, "Of course."

She gives the girls her room, and says she'll sleep on the couch. No one believes her, but they don't bring it up. She sits at the kitchen table alone, fiddling with the ashtray Jon made her when he was eight. There's a chip in it from when Will, young and clumsy, dropped it while trying to present it to her with all the puffed-chest pride of a toddler given a task. 

He cried for twenty minutes after that. No amount of hugs and forehead kisses would get him to calm down until Jon told him, his dark brown eyes big and solemn, that he hadn't broken it, he'd given it some character. 

Things were so much simpler back then.

Not easier, not really, just…less complicated. 

At two am she decides to brush the stale coffee taste out of her mouth, but stops dead in her tracks on the way to the bathroom. 

"I hate him," Max's quiet sniffling filters muffled through the closed door. 

She shouldn't be eavesdropping. But she can't…not. The walls are thin, and the floor creaks, and she can't move without everyone in the house knowing she's frozen awkwardly in her own hallway. 

Well. She toes at the carpet with socked feet. She might be able to sneak away. Maybe. But…

She's concerned. 

God, she's becoming her mother. Nosy to a fault.

"I'm just…I'm just so angry, you know? He—he saved your life, and I'm grateful for that, but," she pauses, and there's rustling, a sigh, "Stupid asshole up and left me. Everything we've been through and he…he's gone, just like that, it's not fucking fair." 

Joyce had heard about Billy Hargrove from Jonathan. Just a little bit, vague details. "There's some new guy at school," with a scrunched up face, nose wrinkled with distaste. And a week later, "He got into it with Steve, knocked him around pretty bad." It made Joyce nervous, whenever she saw him around town, picking up cigarettes from the store on the corner, driving that loud car of his up main street. She'd always think of the Harrington boy's face, bruised and swollen, the worst-case-scenario that used to haunt her thoughts after Lonnie gave Jon a black eye when he was ten. 

Then, "Max's brother, he, uh…" Solemn brown eyes. It's not broken it has character. "He got…possessed, I guess." Standing in the Starcourt parking lot with a shock blanket around his shoulders, sweat matted in his hair, Jonathan pieced together what he knew. It wasn't much, and she couldn't stop thinking about Hop's teary nod, the white light that burned her eyes even though she closed them, the empty space where he'd been standing seconds before. 

She feels horrible now, for only half-listening. For not giving much thought to the boy who died saving Jane. 

He was just a kid. Only a few years older than Will. 

"How did he even get caught up in this bullshit?" Max's voice breaks, despite the force of her anger, cracks under the strain of her grief. "Did…did you see? When you looked into his memories."

The silence is heavy. Strained. Joyce chews the inside of her cheek. She doesn't expect Jane to reply, and figuring she's heard enough she goes to tiptoe away.

"Yes." 

Joyce freezes. Jane's voice is barely more than a crackly whisper, but unmistakable. There's a pang in her chest at the sound of it, emotion welling up, thick in the back of her throat. 

"What happened?" 

She can't help leaning in a little, stopping just shy of pressing her ear directly to the door.  

"It was…nighttime. He was driving." There's a pause. "Mrs. Wheeler wanted to see him."

…What?

"What?" Max echoes, breathlessly scandalized. She can't think it was like that. Was it?

No, there's got to be an innocent explanation. She struggles to come up with one, but it must exist. Karen is her friend. Sort of. They went to school together. They've known each other their whole lives. Back when they were teenagers Karen had a bit of a reputation, sure, she was a ditz with lofty romantic notions and a string of boyfriends willing to play along, but she's settled since she got married, and she isn't a predator. 

"He was going to. A mo-tel," Jane sounds out the syllables carefully, a child repeating an unfamiliar word. 

Joyce's heart drops. 

Her first, and worst, thought is about how that boy used to parade around town, drawing as much attention as possible. She'd never seen him with the same girl twice, and she'd never seen him in modest, weather-appropriate clothes. Karen was always weak for a flirty guy, she was easy to take in with a few flattering words, and by the time she realized they didn't mean any of it they'd already gotten what they wanted from her. 

She assumes Billy must have laid it on thick, as he was prone to do, and Karen fell for it, like she always did.

But that was when she was a teenager too. When she was a silly, impressionable girl, not a married woman with three children of her own. 

Her children, Christ. Joyce's stomach turns. Billy was in Nancy's year. He was Jonathan's age. 

Bile burns the back of her throat. 

She'd been hearing gossip about Karen and half her book club spending every day at the pool all summer and she hadn't thought anything of it. Not a goddamn thing. How long had it been going on? Was she sleeping with him when he was still in school?

Joyce puts her head in her hands and lets out a slow, silent breath. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She doesn't feel any calmer but she feels less like throwing up. Confused, directionless anger prickles under her skin. It's easier to be angry. At Karen for taking advantage. At herself for not caring soon enough. At everyone for not seeing it before it got him killed.

She hears Max swearing, ranting, none of it makes sense and she can only make out every other word. She's not sure Max even knows what she's saying.

There's this…itch. In her brain. That little buzz at the base of her skull, when she needs to get up and do something, when she can't sit still, stay quiet, but. But there's nothing she can do. There's nothing to be done. 

Her fingers clench in her hair, hands trembling as she aimlessly pushes her bangs back.

She can't do a goddamn thing.

**

It takes Joyce three weeks to lose her shit.

She's been trying to get Jane settled in—with a few new things and a lot of hand-me-downs, she's tall enough to fit into a lot of Joyce's old clothes—but it's been…challenging. She still barely speaks. Joyce isn't sure if that's normal for her, and that's part of the problem. As much as she wants to take care of this child she barely knows her, and the universe doesn't seem to be that keen on giving her the time to change that. 

Because she has…a lot on her mind. Looking into places to move, for one. Sunny places. With minimal suspicious deaths. And work has been much busier now that the mall has burned down. And people all over town are still talking about it, people who have no idea. Who don't know. They still pat her hand and tell her Hop was a hero, like that will make her feel better about pulling the switch that got him killed. 

And then there's…the Billy issue.

Max comes around the house a lot. Always wearing a denim jacket that smells like Marlboro Reds. Snapping at Mike more and more often. And Joyce has no clue what to say to her. 

If there's even anything she could say.

She keeps…failing. She failed Will. She failed Bob. Hop. Twice over, when she couldn't get him out of that base alive. And now. His daughter is struggling. Her friends are struggling. Joyce is doing everything she can but it's not enough, and it's driving her crazy.

She can't scratch that itch in her brain, no matter what she does. No matter how much often she rents Jane's favourite movies to watch as a family, or sits with her after dinner and goes over the writing and grammar worksheets they got from the library, or insists on cooking dinner and pretends Jonathan isn't hovering over her shoulder the whole time expecting her to burn their grilled cheeses. 

Because every time Max stays over they all act like they can't tell she's been crying, like they don't see her eyes go vacant whenever someone lights up a cigarette or a car engine rumbles in the background or any number of tiny things Joyce doesn't catch that must be tearing Max up inside. Joyce lets her stay and puts food on her plate and a comforting hand on her shoulder but none of it helps.

And four weeks after Billy died, Karen Wheeler walks into Melvalds General, her hair perfectly curled, a tiny, sad smile pulling at her lips when she spots Joyce in her employee vest. She's coming over, hands folded to her chest, freshly manicured nails sparkling, the picture of grace and sympathy, with her soft eyes and pouting lips. 

The whole routine has never rung so hollow before. Discomfort tugs at Joyce's insides, writhing in her guts. 

"Joyce," Karen calls, stepping delicately around the half-unpacked box of mouthwash on the ground. Stocking shelves has never been Joyce's favourite part of her job, but she'd rather keep doing that than have this conversation. Karen reaches out, grasping Joyce's elbow. "I'm so sorry. I should have come to see you sooner…I know you and Chief Hopper were close." 

Joyce shakes her hand off. "Sort of busy here, Karen. Work. You know how…it…" She pauses, and shrugs awkwardly, gesturing to the bare shelf behind her. "I'm in the middle of something."

That earns her a frown, a pitying look, sympathy to the point of condescension. "Did you take any time off? After…you know."

Like she can afford that. Jonathan's making less at his new job than he did working for the Post and she's got another mouth to feed now. Two if she's counting Max, which she might as well. 

Max, who's a ticking timebomb nowadays. A raw nerve trying to pretend she isn't. A shell of the vibrant girl Joyce met last November. 

Because her brother is gone, and it's Karen Wheeler's goddamn fault.

The itch returns with a vengeance. Crawling up her spine, a thousand tiny needlepoint fingers prodding her back. Her stomach feels like dropped jello, jittering fragments smashed on the ground. 

She hasn't been told, in so many words, what life in the Hargrove household was like—is like—but Max says just enough that Joyce can put the pieces together. It's not a pretty picture.

And Karen got to go back to her cushy little life, getting her nails done and making casseroles like there's nothing wrong in the world, like her children haven't been fighting monsters right under her nose for years. Doling out advice like she knows a single thing about what any of them have gone through. Walking around with her head in the clouds because she can still pretend she's living in a normal town with normal problems.

Something bitter an angry takes ahold, all spite and thorns and a gnarled lump in her throat. 

"What about you, Karen?" Joyce manages to keep her voice steady, calm on the surface and cold underneath. 

Karen blinks at her, tilting her head in confusion. "Me?"

"Well, you knew someone who died in the fire too." 

"I…a few of them, yeah." She folds her arms around herself. "It's a small town. But I didn't know any of them that well."

"No?" Joyce grits her teeth, venom sour on her tongue. "What about Billy Hargrove?"

He died saving Hop's daughter, and no one will ever know. As much as Joyce hates that everyone has an opinion about Hopper's death, she's starting to hate even more that Max will never once be told her brother was a hero.

Calling Karen out won't change anything, Joyce is just tired of being angry in secret. 

It's almost satisfying to watch the colour drain from her cheeks. Less so to see her eyes start to shine with tears. "He…taught Holly a lot. She used to be terrified of the water, you know." 

There's guilt colouring her grief. If Joyce didn't know to look for it she wouldn't have been able to tell, but it's there. It's also not enough. It's the vague regret of a woman carrying one tiny little secret, a woman who carries her past but isn't haunted by it. The rest of them have ghosts that following them every waking hour but Karen doesn't seem to be aware of hers. 

"I know what you were doing!" Her voice cracks this time, strains under the weight of everything she has to hold back. "Don't act dumb, I know you aren't," she snaps when Karen opens her mouth.  

"I—I didn't do anything—"

"Bullshit! Half the town saw you at the pool every day, drooling all over that boy, treating him like a piece of meat." That's all he was to anyone, wasn't he. Eye candy. Cannon fodder. A body for the Mind Flayer to take and use up. Joyce's eyes sting, and she jabs a finger into Karen's shoulder. "He was a child! How do you justify—"

"He was eighteen!"

"Exactly!" Joyce throws up her hands, the rage thrumming through her flares, all motion and energy and flushed cheeks. She doesn't care that her voice is getting shrill, her hands are shaking, Karen is glancing around the store nervously. "You took advantage of him, and you should have known better!"

"Joyce—Joyce, I swear I never—I have a husband for god's sake! I was just, I was just—he was just so nice, and, and I was lonely, but I never…" She breaks into tears, shoulders shaking, she presses a hand over her mouth when a sob tries to escape her. "It was a mistake," she says, voice wet and muffled by her palm. 

Joyce clenches her jaw, and grinds her teeth, swallowing some of the bile crawling up her throat. "It never should have happened in the first place. None of it." 

"I know."

"He was far too young for you."

"But—"

"A teenager, Karen! He was a teenager! In high school! He should have been worrying about zits and homework and goddamn prom, not middle aged women preying on him because they're trapped in failing marriages and trying to relive their youth." 

Karen's eyebrows shoot up, and she mouths wordlessly, tears still dripping down her cheeks. "That's…" she sputters. "At least I still have a husband." She winces as she says it, with an immediate look of regret.

"That's what you're going with? Really?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"I don't give a damn what you think of me and my life. And I'm not the one you owe an apology to." 

"I'm trying to do better, okay," Karen sighs, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. She looks tired. "I'm working on my marriage. And the kids…things have been so strained lately, but…I'm trying. I really am. It's not like I ever made a habit of going around flirting with random men!"

"What about boys."

"No—listen, it wasn't like that! He was—"

"Oh please don't say 'mature for his age'."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, is there a problem here?" Joyce's manager appears around the corner of a shelf. She'd almost forgotten there are other people in the store, but suddenly she'll aware of every eye turned in their direction. The nosy old church lady in the next isle, peering through the stacks. The pair of teenagers gaping at them from over by the watch display. 

It's not the first time she's been a spectacle, but it seems like Karen isn't as acclimatized. She pales, and her eyes go wide. "N—no," she pastes on an unconvincing smile.

"Joyce, that shelf is still bare."

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, and mock-salutes. "On it."

Karen scurries out of the store, whispers following her the whole way out.

It doesn't feel like a victory. It might just make everything worse, who knows. There's petty satisfaction in seeing Karen embarrassed, but Joyce is sure she didn't get through to her, not really. She doesn't understand the depth of her mistake, and she probably never will. 

Joyce scratches the back of her neck. And gets back to work.

**

A week later Steve Harrington shows up on her doorstep with Billy Hargrove, bloody, bruised, and half conscious, plastered to his side. 

"I didn't know where else to go," he says all in a panicked rush. He wipes his forearm across his face and leaves a smudge of dirt over one eyebrow. Billy blinks at her, bleary, unfocused, seemingly unaware of Steve's vice grip on his waist, and the tiny, gentle stroke of his thumb against the arm he's swung firmly over his shoulders. 

Joyce's heart is in her mouth. She swallows, and tries to stay calm. There's an open, anxious plea all over Steve's face and she needs to get him through this somehow. 

"You did good, honey, bring him inside."

Will's asleep, and Jon is at work, but the door of her bedroom creaks and Jane pops her head out as Steve is hauling Billy into the living room. 

She goes wide-eyed. Then teary. "Max," she says after a beat, and slips back into Joyce's room, presumably to make a phone call. 

"You stay with him, okay?" Joyce pats Steve's shoulder. He's tense. Joyce wonders where exactly he found Billy, and what he had to do to get him here. 

Steve nods jerkily, an perches on the coffee table across from the couch he laid Billy down on, bouncing his leg. Staring. Flexing his fingers over and over again, fists pressed to his thighs.

There's something there and Joyce doesn't have time to unpack it.

She grabs a bowl from the kitchen. Fills it with warm water. Watches the water swirl, splash, droplets clinging to the plastic sides. Her vision is a little fuzzy. She's a little light-headed. 

Billy is alive. 

Somehow.

It's odd, seeing him in person again. He used to scare her. She can vaguely remember it. What it was like before. When he was an unknown, a new kid projecting danger as far as he could. It's like seeing behind an optical illusion. Figuring out how a magic trick works. Realizing that he was just a moth with a flashy pattern, hoping not to get eaten. 

But wherever he's been, he's lost weight, lost that mask he used to wear everywhere. He's cracked open and bleeding on her couch, looking every bit the scared kid he always was. 

Her heart aches.

Steve hastily folds his arms across his chest when she walks back into the room, a first aid kit tucked under her arm and a clean cloth floating in her bowl of water. 

"Is he doing alright?" Joyce asks softly, glancing between the two of them. Billy startles at the sound of her voice, and Steve folds his lips between his teeth, looking pained.

"He…um." He doesn't even glance in Joyce's direction. Not for a second. She was under the impression these two weren't friends, but maybe she was wrong. "I'm not sure."

"Okay." She plonks the bowl down next to Steve, and sits on the couch, keeping a careful distance between her and Billy. He's shaking like a leaf and she doesn't want to spook him even more. "Help me get him cleaned up a little? It'll be easier to tell if he needs medical attention."

God, she needs a cigarette. Her nerves are fried and it's taking everything she's got not to just collapse right now. She's been awake for nineteen hours and the real estate agent that was supposed to contact her today flaked, and none of that even matters right now because she just wants to do something stupid like wrap both these boys up in soft blankets and mother the hell out of them.

Steve takes the cloth, pinching it between two fingers and eyeing it like it's a bug crawling in his lunch. His movements are stilted, unsure, but Billy lets him wipe the mud from his face without incident while Joyce roots through her kit. She keeps it better stocked than she used to. And thank god for that. 

Though Billy's injuries don't seem too severe, Joyce notes as Steve continues to clean him up. The way he's moving his hands might mean trouble, he winced his way through Steve's ministrations and now he's keeping them curled in his lap, stiff and shaky, bruises darkening his knuckles. But other than that they seem to mostly uncover scars. 

"I, um. This water is…" Steve gestures at the bowl of murky water. His gaze flicks over Billy, jumping from his hands to his eyes to the scars crisscrossing out from under his shirt. He jumps up, suddenly, water sloshing onto the carpet as he picks up the bowl. "I'll be right back," he announces, voice high and strained.

Joyce blinks at his retreating back. Then turns to Billy, whose gaze is lingering on the doorway Steve disappeared through. "So, you two are close, huh?"

He startles, and recoils, and shakes his head. "Not really." His voice is croaky, low and dry. She should've gotten him water to drink too.

He's fidgeting, anxious, unable to meet her eye, like a kid caught doing something they shouldn't. 

"Well, he seems to care about you." 

She doesn't expect the tears that well up in his eyes, spilling over without warning. He ducks his head like he's trying to hide it, but she's already seen. And there's no hiding the way his shoulders shake as he tries to steady his breathing. 

Her heart breaks for him. Like it has been, again and again, for weeks now. 

"Oh, honey," she says quietly, sadly, and he finally looks up at her, eyes shiny, cheeks wet. They look nothing alike, not really, but she's struck by an image of Will, three years old and bawling his eyes out over a chipped ashtray. The same feeling wells up in her chest, the same overpowering need to scoop him up in her arms and keep him away from anything that's ever hurt him. 

She slides over and pulls him into a hug. 

"You're okay now, it's okay." 

He's tense, and trembling, and she thinks maybe she did the wrong thing here, but then he shatters, with a tiny, wounded noise, collapses against her, tucked into the crook of her neck like Jonathan used to when he was having trouble sleeping and she'd have to carry him for hours while he dozed. 

He's okay. She'll make sure of it.

~tag list @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[onstrangerthighs]

👑 After Billy encounters a demodog while on his way to pick up Max from a sleepover, Steve takes a walk to Cherry Lane with a flashlight to check on him, and it soon becomes an unintentional routine. Billy has yet to call him out on it, so Steve isn't sure if he knows (he does). Steve doesn't know how to bring up what he's seen through Billy's window. He's starting to understand what Billy meant when he said that he's no stranger to monsters. He also starts leaving a light on in his house to let Billy know he's always welcome. Steve may be facing a different kind of monster, but they're all the same in the end. They thrive in the dark and prey on the lonely. Billy won't be lonely anymore; he'll make sure of it.

📸Jonathan sees the bruises that Billy's jacket can't hide. He follows Billy whenever he can, like a friendly shadow. If Billy notices, he doesn't say anything. He does, however, walk around with a small smile and a pep in his step. He's a walking masterpiece that sticks out from the drab background plaguing everyone else in Hawkins.

🤝No one understands Billy better than Patrick and Jonathan when it comes to his life at Cherry Lane. They just get it. Patrick has a curfew, so he can't stay up late, and both Jonathan and Billy have work, but they find a way to meet up whenever they can. Patrick and Billy are partners in lab and in pranks. Patrick calls Neil regularly, pretending to be a scorned ex-lover. Billy calls Patrick Senior at his job (accountant) just to annoy him. They're also on the basketball team together. Patrick secretly enjoys watching Billy get under Jason's skin. Jonathan occasionally stops by to watch them. Billy asks him if he wants to join the team. Jonathan looks at he and Patrick, all sweaty, and goes right back to his sketchbook.

📔Nancy meets Billy at the library every night at a certain time, so if he doesn't show then she'll know something is wrong. She also gives him Murray's address just in case he needs a place to go. She and Billy have a book club with Patrick and Eden, where they suggest different books to read every Wednesday. Sometimes they read to the little kids.

📢Heather covers for Billy at work if he can't come in. She'll stay with him at the pool after closing times. She helps him with his injuries and doesn't ask questions. When he's ready to talk, she'll be there. She switches shifts with him so he won't have to deal with Karen and the other creepy mothers.

🍍Argyle is always up for talking with Billy. Most of the time, it's just Argyle going on about the first thing that pops into his head. Billy chimes in whenever he feels like it. Argyle always has a story about annoying customers, and of course, everything is funnier when they're both high as hell.

🫧Carol lets Billy borrow her makeup. She takes him to the mall and they try on clothes together. Sometimes, they sit in his car, and she tells him he can let it all out.

🥋Tommy takes him to their favorite diner. Whenever Billy is filled with extra energy, Tommy lets him use his punching bag. They watch cartoons and throw chips at each other.

📣Chrissy fixes his hair into braids and ponytails. Billy reminds her that Neil doesn't like that, and she replies, "You want it. Do you really care what he wants? I don't." If he wants a hug, then she's more than happy to give him one (or three). Chrissy is also kind of a cuddle bug, and Billy is her favorite person to cuddle with because he's warm. They both talk shit about their parents. "Neil's mustache looks fake," or "Are you sure your mother's hair isn't a dead skunk?".

She drives Billy to her safe place, a hill under the stars. She says they can share it. She tries teaching him cheer routines and even gets out a uniform for him whenever they sneak into the gym. Patrick occasionally joins them to practice his free throws.

🍨Robin lets Billy into Scoops Ahoy, and they eat ice cream. They talk about crushes. They have inside jokes about their fellow classmates. Sometimes, Robin brings alcohol from her mother's stash and puts some in the ice cream for them to enjoy.