Chapter Text
"Welcome to Family Video, how can I help you?"
The girl is standing beside the romantic comedies section, her leopard-print purse clutched tight to her side. She's young, maybe your age, her hair curled into an attractive blonde fluff that reminds you of Sandra Dee from Grease, her eyes circled with blue eyeshadow and doll-like lashes that must have taken an hour to perfect.
Obviously, she's not here to see you.
"Does, um, Billy work here?" She asks, smiling shyly.
You sigh. Deeply.
Just to screw with her, you begin, "Billy…?"
Her face falls.
You take mercy on her. "Billy Hargrove?"
She brightens, "Yes, him!"
"Yeah, well, he's stocking behind the red curtain," you wave vaguely behind you, towards the silky red curtain that separates the, ahem, adult movies from the main lobby. "I'd be careful though, he's got his panties in a bunch today."
She gives you a startled look, either because you said the word panties casually or because perhaps she's disillusioned herself into thinking that Billy Hargrove is a pleasant person. She gives you a glossy smile as thanks and makes her move, slipping behind that red curtain with a trilling, "Hi, Billy!"
You feel sorry for her, just like how you've felt sorry for the poor souls that have been approaching Billy at Family Video for the past six months, all of them dolled up and fresh from college, looking for the smooth-talking charmer that they knew through their school years. You remembered when he first rolled into Hawkins, an egotistical jackass with a chip the size of Jupiter in his shoulder and a face too pretty for his own good—but he's different now (not necessarily less egotistical or pretty,) but…different.
You hadn't liked him then and you certainly don't like him now, not with how many times middle aged moms come in here with necklines lower than their standards, asking Billy in low, sultry voices what he thinks they should watch. He always passes them off to you like diseases and you would be the one to have to deal with disappointed, sulky women that always pick Valley Girl or Dirty Dancing to rent, their eyes glaring watery holes through you as if it was your fault they weren't getting laid tonight.
Sure enough, the Sandra Dee lookalike storms from the red curtain with her face crumpled like a newspaper, her mouth screwing up as if she were about to cry. "How do you deal with him?" She demands on her way to the door. "He's such an ass!"
You shrug and watch her leave, her lovely pink heels carrying her into a car and out of view, something you have wanted to do since eight this morning.
"Really?" You say loudly, glancing towards the curtain. "She was sweet—you didn't have to make her cry."
His voice echoes from the curtain, deep and irritated. "Fuck off, kid."
You flip off the curtain, though you know he can't see it. "Ditto, jackass."
His tone sharpens."What did you say?"
"You heard me," you respond sweetly, picking up a box of returns that have to be put back in their proper places on the shelves. You set it on a nearby cart and begin filing the movies away, genre by genre—you know most of them by name now, since you were prone to taking a handful home every week and working your way through them. You've loved movies since you were little, which is what made you apply here six months ago when you wanted an after-school gig for your senior year.
Family Video isn't the worst job in the world, but it's boring and summer is right around the corner—all you want to do today is climb into a swimsuit and float in the blowup pool in your backyard, drinking red Kool-aide and reveling in the heat and harsh sun. Homework can be damned tonight, you'll play catch-up over the weekend when the sun has set.
"Hey."
You don't look up, too focused on shoving The Breakfast Club between Sixteen Candles and Pretty in Pink, Molly Ringwald's pretty, round face smiling up at you from the plastic covers.
"Hey, kid." A foot nudges your knee.
You look up into Billy Hargrove's frowning face, his arms crossed over his chest—somehow, he had intimidated the boss into allowing him not to wear the customary Family Video uniform, just a simple name tag in his Led Zeppelin shirt, his worn jeans slung low on his hips.
You hadn't been so lucky—it had been hard to find pants that would go over your large hips, much less a dress shirt that would button without gaping over your chest, so you ended up with a baggy Family Video shirt, jeans, and the ugly green vest.
"What, Billy?" You sigh, pushing your hair out of your face.
His frown deepens—you don't think he's quite gotten used to a girl that doesn't want him, especially an eighteen-year old virgin that's twice the size of the women he dates. "What time did the head honcho say to close tonight?"
"Eight," you answer shortly, pushing yourself to your feet. Billy isn't the tallest man in the world but he's certainly taller than you, which makes any glare you try to give him ineffective. "By the way, if Janice Carver comes in here just before closing again, you're going to be the one "assisting" her this time. I'm tired of middle-aged women looking at me like I'm getting in the way of their hot date."
"I think not, sweetheart, I have shit to do," Billy says briskly, pushing past you to pluck Lethal Weapon off the shelf. "My shithead sister Max needs a ride home tonight, I can't stay past closing."
"Isn't that convenient?" You say dryly, moving back to the register to pull yourself up on the counter as you watch him scrutinize Mel Gibson's square-jawed heroism, his hand tapping his rings against the metal shelf. He's not the same boy he was, not with those endless purple circles under his eyes, or the hollow look to his cheeks.
Something happened to him last year—maybe a relative died, or a girlfriend broke up with him, but whatever it was did a serious number on Billy.
"What did you tell that girl to make her cry?" You ask suddenly.
Billy looks up, eyebrows raised. The two of you have operated on a don't-ask-don't-tell basis for the past several months of working with each other, neither of you exactly interested in the gooey details of each other's lives.
"What do you care?" He asks. It comes out more hostile than you had been expecting.
You shrug. "I don't. I'm just bored."
Billy looks at you for a long moment, his blue eyes dull and tired. "Kid, I didn't even know who she fuckin' was. Maybe I screwed her, maybe I didn't. It doesn't matter anymore."
"Why?"
"Why, what?" He snaps impatiently, ready to be done with the conversation.
"Why doesn't it matter anymore?"
That makes him pause, the clinking noise of his rings against the shelves pausing. Your skin prickles at the empty, blank look to his eyes, the way his mouth tips up into a sharp grin that doesn't disturb the rest of his face. "It just doesn't, sweetheart. Now piss off."
This is what you get for trying to talk to Billy Hargrove. You roll your eyes and bury yourself in the latest film magazine, taking your lunch break outside on a bench so you wouldn't have to feel his eyes on you—but it doesn't work, you still feel watched even with bowl of chicken salad.
It's almost creepy. In fact, you have half a mind to grab a newspaper and peruse the job offer section, just to get away from this strange man that acts like he's relearning how to be a human.
But, you've always had an overactive imagination—and where else would you get your free movies?
In fifteen minutes, lunch break is over and you're stuffing your brown lunch bag into the trash, another four hours of keeping pubescent boys from ducking under the red curtain and smiling at couples choosing a movie for their date ahead of you.
You watch a boy in a jersey throw his arm around a freckled redheaded girl as they walk through the door—they're younger than you by a few years, but the girl seems to recognize you, her mouth stretching into a reserved smile. "Hi, is Billy still here?"
You sigh once more, if only you had a dollar every time someone said that to you…
"Yeah, let me go get him real quick," you say reluctantly, slipping into the backroom where he likes to smoke when he thinks you're not looking, the door closing shut softly behind you.
"Billy?" You say, switching on the weak, yellowing light. Shelves of broken or old tapes line the walls, the distinct stench of cigarettes in the air; your hand brushes an old movie reel and a cloud of dust erupts, curling into the dim light. "God, Billy, why are you so fucking creepy?"
"Go away."
Billy is against the wall, his palms pressed into his eyes as if the light was hurting him. He's hunched into himself, his skin slick with sweat as his body shakes, his eyes glinting up at you between his fingers hatefully as if you were causing this unknown hurt.
"Billy," you whisper softly.
"Leave me the fuck alone." He bares his teeth but it has no venom, his face paling as he slumps farther against the wall.
"Holy shit, Billy, you've got to get to a hospital." You kneel beside him and reach for his forehead to feel his temperature, but his hand snatches yours out of the air, his fingers so tight around your wrist you have to bite back a yelp.
"You don't know what you're dealing with," Billy hisses through clenched teeth, his eyes boring into yours. "I could hurt you."
You ignore him, craning to look into his pale, bloodshot eyes. "There's a girl and her boyfriend here to see you—do they know about whatever this is? Can they help you?"
He shakes his head, his fingers tightening on my wrist painfully. "No, no, tell Max I'm not here. She can't see this, she wouldn't understand."
"Your sister? But-"
Billy yanks your wrist, pulling you closer so you were face to face him. His face is pale and bloodless, his blue eyes eerily bright as his cracked lips mouth the word: "Please."
He doesn't say please often. You swallow hard, fear slipping into your gut like ice.
"Please," he repeats, eyes boring into yours.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay. Let go of me."
Billy blinks, looking down at his hand around your wrist as if he hadn't realized it was there. He lets go, leaving clear purpling imprints of his fingers on your soft skin.
You compose yourself at the door and walk out in the lobby casually, slipping your bruised wrist into your pocket. "I couldn't find him. He must still be out on break."
Max tilts her head at you, pale eyes scanning your face. For a moment, you think she knows you're lying, but then she sighs and pushes her red curls out of her face. "Shit. Well, could you tell him I won't need a ride home tonight? Mom said she wants me to stay over at her house."
You force a smile, "Yeah, I'll tell him when I see him."
"Thanks." Max takes her boyfriend's hand, yanking him away from the Action/Adventure section. "Let's go Lucas, Dustin will be pissed if we're late."
You wait until she's completely out of sight before dashing back into the backroom, finding Billy pushed up on a chair, his curly head placed between his knees as his nails dig ruts into the green shag carpet.
"Are you okay?" You ask cautiously, holding out a water bottle leftover from your lunch.
"Do I fuckin' look like it?" But he raises his head and accepts the water, draining half of it in one gulp. He wipes his mouth, squinting up at you in a tired, pissed-off way. "You're being pretty goddamn nice for someone who doesn't like me."
"I don't have to like you to not want you to die," you say, digging out a bottle of Tylenol. "I wouldn't want that on my conscious. Here, take these."
Billy's mouth twists as if he wants to laugh, surprisingly docile as he accepts the painkillers. He already looks better, the blood returning to his cheeks, the sweat drying on his skin.
"Did you have a seizure or something?" You ask, taking a seat beside him. "My aunt used to have bad migraines, sometimes it made her like this."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, sweetheart," Billy says, sounding more and more like himself. He slips a cigarette from his pocket but his hands are shaking too badly for him to light it.
"Would you mind?"
"These will kill you," you say, but you light it anyway.
"Trust me, I'll die long before lung cancer catches up with me." Billy pushes himself on his feet, swaying slightly. "What did Max want?"
"She said she doesn't need a ride tonight, something about her mom wanting her to stay with her for the night. Are you sure you're okay, Hargrove?"
"Goddamnit, Susan," Billy sighs, rubbing his eyes with his palms. In typical Billy fashion, he ignores your question and disappears into the bathroom—you wince as you hear his heaves, the distinct sound of someone vomiting their guts up making you a little nauseous yourself.
What could that have been? You've never seen a seizure but that seemed different, it was almost as if he was having a nightmare—a nightmare while wide awake.
"Christ," you whisper to yourself. You drift back behind the register desk, your head buzzing with the beginning stages of a headache.
Billy doesn't say another word for the rest of the shift. The minute the sign flips, he yanks his denim jacket over his shoulders and slams the door behind him, leaving you alone in the darkening shop, the shelves seeming to grow long, creeping shadows in his absence.
There is something wrong there—but is it any of your business? Is it really your problem if he doesn't want help?
No, it's not. That doesn't stop you from thinking about it on the way home.