Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air reeks of beer and gasoline. The single flickering light in the trailer casts long, jagged shadows, stretching over the form of Neil Hargrove, who leans against the kitchen counter, a half-empty bottle clutched in his hand. His knuckles are white around the glass, his jaw tight as he takes another slow pull.

Billy stands at the threshold, tense, fingers curling and uncurling into fists. He doesn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here. 

"I came to get my things." His voice scrapes out dryly, barely above a murmur.

Neil snorts, doesn’t even bother looking up. "Like hell you are, boy," he mutters, knocking back another swig. "I need this month’s rent."

Billy’s jaw clenches.

Then Neil turns, finally, and there's a slow, ugly grin spreading across his face. The kind Billy’s known since he was a kid. The kind that comes before something bad.

"Word is," Neil drawls, "you got a pretty penny in those pockets of yours."

Billy stills.

For a second, everything in the room stretches thin, tight as a rubber band about to snap. The only sound is the faint hum of the fridge, the distant croak of cicadas outside.

Billy swallows down the burn in his throat. "I’m not giving you a fucking dime."

The world tilts.

He doesn’t see it coming—the sharp crack of his father’s palm catching him across the face, sending him reeling against the trailer door. Pain flares behind his eye.

"You ungrateful little bitch," Neil snarls. He grabs Billy by the front of his shirt, shoving him into the counter.

Billy’s rib still hurts from Starcourt, but he doesn’t make a sound. He won’t give the old man the satisfaction.

Neil’s voice drops into something dangerously low. " You think you deserve that money? What, for playing hero? You’re just a broken little piece of shit that cost me a wife, a son, and a goddamn fortune ."

Billy spits blood onto the floor. A broken little piece of shit. Yeah. That about summed it up.

"I don’t owe you anything ," he rasps.

Neil lets out a growl of frustration before bringing his fist down. The world flashes white-hot, his jaw snapping to the side as pain explodes behind his eye.

The next few moments are a blur. He remembers the taste of blood, the weight of his father pressing him into the floor, his body coiling up like it used to when he was a kid, waiting for it to be over.

And then, something snaps.

Billy moves on pure adrenaline, kicking his father back just long enough to scramble up, grabbing the nearest object, the beer bottle, and smashing it against the counter. Sharp, jagged edges in his grip.

Neil doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even move. He just sneers.

"What, you gonna do it? Gonna kill me, boy?"

Billy’s whole body trembles. He wants to. He wants to so fucking bad .

His grip tightens on the bottle. His breath comes fast and uneven.

He roars—a sound ripped from deep in his chest—and hurls it against the wall.

Glass explodes, shards skidding across the linoleum floor, the crash reverberating through the trailer like a gunshot.

Silence swallows the room.

And then—a laugh.

Low at first, barely more than a breath. Then deeper, rolling, growing, swelling into something loud, unrestrained. Ugly.

Billy’s breath stutters. His chest heaves as his eyes lock onto Neil’s. Wild. Frantic. Scared.

Neil knows.

He watches, eyes dark with satisfaction, the smirk carved deep into his face.

Billy stares back into that twisted expression—too alike to his own.

The resemblance is suffocating. Sickening.

A sickness coils in his stomach. His limbs feel weak and powerful all at once, like a wild animal backed into a corner, claws unsheathed but useless.

Neil’s laughter doesn’t stop. It rolls over him, through him, twisting something deep in his gut, echoing in the hollow parts of him.

It’s not just mockery.

It’s victory.

Billy stumbles out the door.

The roar of his Camaro’s engine barely drowns out his thoughts. The world outside the car is nothing but dark roads and empty space, stretching out into oblivion.

His body hurts. He’s bleeding somewhere, he knows, but he doesn’t care enough to check. His lip, his eyebrow—doesn’t matter.

The car rolls to a stop on its own. The quarry looms before him, black and endless, the water below swallowing the moon’s reflection whole. Deep. Cold. Final.

His fingers curl around the wheel, knuckles bone-white.

It would be so fucking easy.

A sharp gust cuts through the open window, howling past his ears, and for a second—just a second—he swears there’s something in it. A scream. A name.

"Billy!"

And then, suddenly, he's burning alive again.

The tentacles coil, sinking into his flesh, his mind. The heat of the fire crawls over his skin, but the memory that guts him is colder. The weight in his hands. The warmth. Blood pooling in his palms, slipping between his fingers, staining his skin. He had liked it. The power. The control.

Billy chokes on a sob, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The engine rumbles beneath him, waiting. Daring him. All it would take is one motion. One second of surrender.

His fingers tremble. His breath shudders. His foot presses down—too close to the edge.

Max.

She’s there—etched into the backs of his eyelids. Terrified. Desperate . Small hands pressing against his chest. Shaking him. Holding him.

His fingers shake as they fumble for his wallet. He rips it open, searching, desperate for something—anything.

And then he sees it. A crumpled slip of paper. A phone number.

He doesn’t even remember writing it down. He just remembers a gruff voice.

"If you ever need a place, kid. You call me."

His heart lurches.

The engine revs as Billy’s hand shoots out to the gearshift, yanking her into reverse with a barely contained rush, his foot slamming onto the gas.

Just a few seconds longer and his hand wouldn’t have made it—but his foot would have.

The Camaro shrieks backward, tires skidding, gravel flying as he peels away from the edge. Away from the water. Away from the dark.

He doesn’t think. He just drives.

He pulls up to a shitty gas station, hands still bleeding, jaw aching.

The payphone is faded blue, sticky with old soda spills and cigarette ash. The fluorescent lights hum like wasps in his ears.

Billy shoves a quarter into the slot. Dials the number with a barely contained tremor in his hand.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

Then—a click. A voice.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Billy doesn’t say anything. He tries, but the words wedge in his throat like glass.

A pause. Then, gruff, but not unkind.

"Kid?"

Billy presses his forehead against the dirty payphone glass.

His whole body shudders. His breath hitches.

And then, barely more than a whisper.

"Help."

Chapter Text

Billy squeezes his eyes shut, like maybe that’ll shield him from the weight of it all. His forehead stays pressed against the smeared glass of the payphone booth, breath fogging the surface.

His fingers clutch the receiver too tightly—bloody, shaking, the metal digging into bruised skin.

He grimaces, trying not to break. He's porcelain, chipped at the rim. Just a brush away from shattering.

Then, a voice.

"Where are you, kid?"

Billy swallows, his throat raw. His jaw aches from the hit, his ribs screaming. Every word tastes like blood.

"Gas station. Off Route 6. Near the… Near the quarry."

A chair scrapes back. He can hear keys jingling, the sharp exhale of a man already moving.

"I can be there in five."

Billy grits his teeth. Closes his eyes. He can feel his heartbeat slamming against his ribs, the engine of his Camaro still running behind him, a low growl in the night.

"No. I gotta—" His voice shakes. He grips the receiver tighter. "I gotta bring my car."

It’s the only thing left. The only thing that’s his.

Hopper doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is steady.

"Alright."

He rattles off directions to the cabin, slow and clear. Billy listens, forces himself to focus.

And just before the line cuts out, Hopper’s voice drops.

"If you’re not here in fifteen, I’m coming to find you."

Billy’s breath catches. His fingers tighten around the receiver.

Not a threat. A promise.

His chest aches, something raw and unfamiliar twisting in his ribs. Something he cannot name.

"Yeah," he murmurs. Soft. Uncertain. "Alright."

The headlights cut through the trees, casting long shadows over the small, worn-down cabin at the end of the dirt road. A rickety shed sits just behind it, half-swallowed by the dark. Rusting metal and broken tools are scattered outside, forgotten.

Billy kills the engine.

For a long moment, he just sits there. His hands rest on the wheel, aching, his knuckles split and raw. His whole body feels too heavy to move.

Then, the front door swings open.

Hopper steps onto the porch, dressed in sweatpants and an old flannel, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. His stance stiffens the second his eyes land on Billy.

Billy barely gets the door open before Hopper is there.

And then—it happens.

Hopper pulls him in. A full, crushing hug. Not careful, not tentative, just there .

Billy doesn’t know what to do.

His body locks up. He can feel the heat from Hopper’s chest, the tight grip around his shoulders. His brain short circuits.

No one— no one —has ever held him like this.

Not a punch, not a shove, not pain. Just a hold. A weight that says I got you .

He doesn’t even realize his fingers have clenched into Hopper’s flannel until Hopper pulls back.

The older man looks him over, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line.

"Jesus Christ, kid."

Billy shrugs weakly. His whole body hurts.

"I’ve had worse."

Hopper’s jaw tightens. His eyes flash, dark with something dangerous.

"That son of a bitch."

Before Billy can fully process what’s happening, he’s being guided toward the porch, then into the cabin. The inside is small, but warm, cluttered but lived-in.

The moment Billy hits the couch, Hopper is already moving.

A med kit slams onto the table. A damp rag, a bottle of alcohol, a stack of ice packs. All appearing in a whirl of movement.

Billy just sits there, dumbstruck.

No words. No interrogation. No lecture.

Just care .

Hopper plops down on the coffee table in front of him, grabbing Billy’s wrist and inspecting the damage.

"This is gonna sting," he mutters, before dabbing a rag against Billy’s split lip.

Billy flinches. Not from the pain, but from the act itself.

He can’t remember the last time someone did this.

Hopper must notice, because he slows down.

"Neil do all this?"

Billy doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the floor.

"Yeah."

Hopper curses again.

"If I ever see that bastard again—"

"You won’t," Billy mutters.

Hopper watches him for a long moment. The air between them thickens, pressing down like a storm about to break.

Then, softer. More certain.

"Good."

The word lands like a nail in a coffin.

Neither of them say anything else.

They don’t have to.

Once the worst of the cuts are cleaned and bandaged, Hopper finally leans back, exhaling.

"Alright, kid. Here’s the deal."

Billy glances up.

"Couch is yours for now. We’ll figure it out later."

Billy nods, relief hitting him harder than he expected. It settles in his chest, unfamiliar and too large to put words to.

Hopper shifts, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He hesitates—like he’s trying to find the right words.

"There’s an old shed out back." His voice is casual, but there’s something deliberate underneath it. "Well, it used to be a guest cabin. Now it ain’t much more than storage, but with a little work, you could turn it into something half-decent."

Billy blinks. Something in his chest pulls tight.

Hopper exhales, scratching the back of his head.

"I know it ain’t a lot, but—"

"Why?"

The word comes out before Billy can stop it.

Raw. Earnest. Too damn real.

Hopper freezes. Stares.

Billy hates the way his voice sounds like it’s breaking.

"Why?" he repeats, quieter.

Something shifts in Hopper’s face. His whole demeanor softens, something soft settling behind his eyes.

He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees.

"I ain’t leaving you on your own, kid."

Billy sucks in a sharp breath.

"You’re not getting out of my sight," Hopper continues, his tone rough but resolute. "Plus… I, uh, could use a little help around the place."

Billy can’t speak. Can’t even breathe.

He just nods.

Hopper claps a hand to his shoulder.

"We’ll fix it up, alright? Together."

Billy is staring at the wall.

Or maybe through it. 

His body is here, in Hopper’s cabin, but his mind is still somewhere else. Maybe back at the quarry. Maybe back at the trailer, with his father’s fist crashing into his ribs.

Or maybe back at Starcourt.

The cabin is quiet. Not empty. Just quiet.

For the first time in his life, there’s no screaming. No threats. No fists waiting to fly.

Just the crackle and pop of flames in the fireplace and the faint shuffle of Hopper moving around in the kitchen.

Billy feels like he’s floating.

Like if he stops paying attention, his body might just disappear altogether.

"Gonna grab some extra blankets from the back," Hopper mutters, standing up and stretching. "You good for a second?"

Billy nods.

Or at least, he thinks he does.

Hopper doesn’t wait for an answer. He just grumbles something about the cold and disappears into the hallway.

Billy exhales. The tension in his shoulders is still there, coiled tight like a spring. His body feels too heavy, too stiff.

And then, the exhaustion takes him.

Like a riptide, pulling him under.

It drags him down in an instant, swallowing him whole. Too much pain. Too much adrenaline. Too much.

His head tilts back against the couch, body sinking. A stone finally giving in to the weight of the water.

By the time Hopper returns, Billy is already lost to the depths.