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Hawkins has a lot of strays. Jim noticed it more when he first joined the police force. He was able to take in the town a little bit more, notice all the hungry cats and dogs that he’d find digging in garbage cans and dumpsters.
He started keeping tuna cans and beef jerky in the truck about two months in.
These days, his stash has grown into a couple blankets, some water bottles, paper bowls to feed them in. There’s no telling what he’ll run into.
And it’s become sort of a game to him, to see if they’ll let him get close enough to put the food and water right in front of them. Most of the time no, but sometimes they’re so hungry they don’t care. Sometimes some of them will let Jim pet them, check them out a little bit and make sure they’re not sick or hurt or dying. It’s all part of taking care of the town, right? Making sure every living creature not of monster origin is safe to live here. Feeding the masses.
When Billy Hargrove and his angry little family move into town, Jim starts keeping a first aid kit next to all the shit for the strays. He does it after finding Billy nursing a busted lip at a gas station too late at night for a kid his age to be trying to buy beer at. Like all the stray cats Jim comes across, Billy had shown his teeth and ran in the other direction when Jim had offered to buy him a sandwich and bandaids for his bloody knuckles.
“Fuck off, pig,” Billy had spit at him before giving up on scrounging up enough quarters for a forty and storming out of the store.
The next morning, Jim had stopped by the general store and picked up a whole kit, tucked it underneath the backseat for just in case. He’s never used it, because Billy never lets him get too close, but it’s there if he needs it.
It’s not like Billy is a good kid, and most people would put him in the same category as the actual monsters that Jim knows hide in the darkest corners of Hawkins, but something in Jim’s guts tells him it’s not Billy’s fault he ended up this way. Call it intuition or maybe it’s just that he sees himself in the shittiest parts of Billy’s personality, but there’s something that reminds him of fear anytime he crosses paths with the kid. He’s skittish, won’t look Jim in the eye for too long, but makes a point to make contact when Jim’s talking to him, like he’s been told one too many times to look at someone when he’s being spoken to. And sure, he’s loud and he’s an asshole, but he flinches when someone raises their voice around him.
He drives too fast and his music is too loud and his pants are tighter than most of the women around Hawkins wear them. He gets into fights, drives under the influence, and sometimes Jim thinks he’s trying to get arrested. Maybe getting out of his house for a night seems worth the fines and marks against his record.
Sometimes he finds Billy with old bruises on his cheeks. Subtle bruises, ones that someone who doesn’t know what to look for would miss, but Jim knows what to look for. Jim’s pretty familiar with bruises like those, and seeing them always makes his blood boil. He’d step in if Billy would say something, would give him a reason to corner his piece of shit dad and let him know that Jim has dealt with enough scum to know how to get rid of it real fucking quietly. But as it stands, he can’t do anything without more proof than some shadowy bruises on a boy who’s known around town for getting in fights with anything that’ll give him the time of day.
As it stands, Jim just treats him like one of the strays. He stays a couple steps away and keeps trying to get him to quit running off.
But tonight, Billy is making it hard to keep his distance.
He’s obviously drunk. Drinking, in fact, holding the bottle of whiskey in a bruised, bloody hand, and ashing a cigarette onto the ground with his other. There were a couple other kids here when Hopper pulled up, but they scrambled away as soon as they noticed headlights. Billy is the only one left, hollering at Jim and waving the bottle around like he’s trying to scare off a bear. Make himself big so Jim doesn’t notice how much smaller than him he is.
“Hey, what the fuck, man?!” he’s yelling, as if Jim isn’t a cop, as if Jim isn’t just responding to a call from an eighty year old woman making a noise complaint about a bunch of kids in the field across from her house. “Who invited the fucking pigs to my party?”
“Party’s over, kid. It’s midnight on a Thursday and people in that neighborhood across the way have work in the morning.”
And Billy scoffs at him, shoves the cigarette in his mouth. He spreads his arms wide, whiskey sloshing around the half-empty bottle, and Hopper is staring at that instead of the shiner the kid’s sporting. The split lip, the scratches on his chest, exposed thanks to half his buttons being undone. “I sure hope I fucking never grow up into one of those lifeless sacks of shit, then, huh?”
“Rate you’re going, I don’t think you have much to worry about, Hargrove. How’s about you hand over that bottle, and I drive you back home?” Hopper’s careful about what he’s saying. Make no threats, no quick movements. He’s keeping a steady tone of voice, neutral body language. Billy’s all fluffed up like a scared cat, ears flat to its head.
But Hopper knows a cat that’s all fluffed up like that means it’s scared.
Billy says, “How about you kiss my ass, Chief?” and pulls his cigarette out of his mouth, flicks it to the ground all in one movement. “You scared off all my friends.”
“Maybe they just realized they should be getting some sleep for school in the morning instead of waking up a bunch of little old ladies with you.”
“Sure, yeah,” Billy says, and he’s staring at Jim with hard eyes, like he’s angry but won’t do anything about it. Like he’s watching his surroundings, making sure Jim doesn’t get too close.
It’s cold out tonight, and Billy’s got his shirt almost completely open, and all that whiskey ain’t gonna warm him up any time soon, so Jim offers, “I got a couple blankets in the back if you’re cold.”
“Do I look like a charity case?”
Jim doesn’t say yes even though that’s what he means. What he says is, “Got some water in there too, instead of all that whiskey.”
Billy’s shoulders droop. His eyes narrow, and Jim wonders if he’s about to bolt. Instead, he takes a couple slow steps forward, and he looks a little bit like when those stray cats chase lizards and frogs. And Billy may be akin to a stray cat, but Jim ain’t prey, and he doesn’t need to seem big to scare off bears, he is big.
So Jim pulls out his cigarettes, as nonchalant and unimposing as possible, lights one all before Billy is sighing, asking, “Are you going to arrest me?”
“Nah. You’re the least of my worries, Hargrove,” Jim tells him, and he means it.
He means it.
And when Jim looks at him again, his eyes have gone soft around the edges, and he looks tired. He looks like he spends too many nights like this, fighting nothing, swinging wildly and missing every time. The whiskey hits the grass and Billy scrubs a hand over his face while Jim hands him a cigarette. He’s nice enough to light it for him, too, cups a hand over it to block the wind and everything.
The night air around them is chirping with crickets, and Billy breaks the noise up after a minute or so with, “What about my car?”
“I’ll drive you to come get it in the morning,” Jim tells him.
“No, I–” and he pulls a face, something hurt and angry all at once, “I’ve gotta drive Maxine to school in the morning. My dad will kill me if I’m being escorted home by a fucking cop at midnight.”
“‘S that who gave you that black eye there? Your pops– he, uh. He put his hands on you a lot?” Hopper knows he’s pushing too far, but Billy seems pliable right now. If he runs again, then he runs again, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten to Billy. Maybe he’ll let Jim give him some food, some water. A warm blanket.
But Billy just shoulders his way past Jim and heads towards the truck, the bottle of whiskey on forgotten on the ground, Billy’s Camaro unlocked and out of place in the empty field. Jim follows him, figures if Billy has nowhere to go, it’ll be easier to get him to talk. Or maybe he’ll just shut down completely, but either way, it’s progress.
In the end, Billy cranks Jim’s radio up too loud and Jim lets him, watches him drink a whole bottle of water and munch on some beef jerky. The only thing he says is, “Damn, are you one of those end of the world prepping weirdos or something?” when he spots all of Hopper’s supplies.
Hopper doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t want to tell him the truth.
In the morning, he picks Billy and Max up, tells Neil Hargrove Billy’s car got a flat last night, so they’re going to fix it this morning. He doesn’t know if he believes Jim, but Billy seems to deflate a little when all he gets is a grunt and a, “Be more careful next time, son.”
Jim doesn’t swing, but he wants to.
—
The thing about strays is that if you feed them once, they’ll keep coming back to that same spot expecting more food. And Hopper has had animal control come pick up the ones that look real sick or are friendly enough to be adopted quickly, but there are still some that hang around the same spots as when he first found them. A couple by the general store, one over by the gas station. Most people around town are nice enough to them, but he’s had to call a few folks down for being assholes.
The cat that hangs around the station is his favorite. She’s a gray tabby cat, full of stripes, skinny as a rail. It’s not like she doesn’t eat, she’s just thin, a lithe little thing that keeps all the mice away and greets Jim by the back door when he’s leaving for the night. She’ll hop up into the back of his truck and eat a whole can of tuna, let Jim pet her the whole time she eats. Sometimes she’ll even purr for him, rub against his legs before she takes off to go sit on the back steps of the station and groom herself.
He hasn’t named her, but she’s the closest thing to his pet as he’ll get.
Billy shows up at the station one night, sporting a fat, busted lip, and bruises on his ribs, visible because of his always mostly open shirt. He sits down, eyes angry and hard, and tells Hopper, “It’s my dad. Who does this to me, it’s–. Look, you asked me the other night, and I don’t need you to do anything about it because I’ll be out of this shithole town and away from him and his precious little wife soon enough.”
When Hopper opens his mouth to say something, Billy is moving with all of his limbs at once, making an angry sound in the back of his throat before spitting out, “I don’t fucking know why I’m here.”
“Sit down, kid,” Jim says, and he’s shocked when Billy listens. He’s chewing on the sides of his fingers, tapping out a rhythmless beat on his thigh with the fingers on the other hand. “You’re eighteen now, right?” Billy nods. “Do you want to press charges?” Shakes his head, brow furrowing deeper. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
Jim shrugs. “Alright. You ever want to press charges, you let me know. Until then, I’ll listen when you need to talk. When my old man was beating the shit out of me, I’d have loved if someone would just let me talk about it, even if it was just talking.”
That’s not exactly how this works, legally, but nobody but Jim has to know and if they do, then nobody has to know Jim knows. Billy gets into enough trouble with the law for petty bullshit that nobody is going to question why he’s here, so if he needs to show up every so often to bitch about his dad hitting him, then Jim can be here for him.
Feed the cats, fight the monsters, stop Billy’s slow self destruction.
Simple stuff.
“He thinks it’ll make me more of a man,” Billy grumbles, still chewing on the skin of his fingers, still looking anywhere but at Jim. “Tells me I’m a piece of shit, and the only way I’ll ever learn is if he beats it into me.”
And he scoffs around the last part, like it’s sour in his mouth.
Jim tells him, “He military?”
Billy nods, rolls his eyes. “I bet if my dream was to be a Marine, he’d be kissing my ass every chance he got.”
“I was drafted, uh. About your age, Vietnam. War is ugly. It’s the– It’s the worst thing in the world. I’m not trying to make excuses for your dad, or excuse anything he’s doing to you behind closed doors, but. War changes people. Makes them ugly, too.”
There’s a heavy pause, and Jim pulls the top desk drawer open, grabs his pack of cigarettes. He hates talking about this stuff. All it does is dredges up old, shitty feelings that he tries hard not to feel anymore. Things he’d rather not remember that he did. For what it’s worth, Billy furrows his brow, but his eyes are curious. They’re soft and concerned, for all of a second. He looks like he’s taking Jim in for the first time, like he’s seeing him as a person instead of a uniform. Jim’s got a feeling Billy doesn’t do that much, and with good reason. And for that split second, Jim is seeing Billy as just a boy instead of some scared, outside persona. The stupid mullet, the tight pants, the pretty-boy attitude– it’s all gone, for a flash of a moment while he takes Jim in.
The conversation pauses in the moment, hanging stagnant in the air, and then Billy says, “You don’t seem military, amigo.”
“Yeah, well. Guess I just didn’t want to be an asshole like my Pops was.”
“He dead or something?” And Jim can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him at that, an empty thing that aches in his chest just like it always does.
But he nods, distracts himself for a second to take a drag of his cigarette. “Yeah,” he says on the exhale. “About 20 years now, yeah.”
Billy’s eyes dart around Jim’s face for a beat, trying to settle somewhere before he’s finally deciding on Jim’s eyes. “You cry at his funeral? Sometimes I think I won’t cry at my old man’s. Sometimes I think I won’t even go.”
Jim shrugs. “I didn’t cry, no. Listen, you don’t owe him anything, alright? He croaks, and you want to forget the sorry son of a bitch ever lived, that’s on you. He won’t know either way,” he says. “Look, kid, you’re almost outta here, right? When you make it out, do better than your dad, alright?”
Billy’s still looking dead at him, eyes serious and alive. Insanely, Jim is reminded of his strays again. That looks they get right before they’re about to dart away.
Sure enough–
Billy’s all limbs again in a flash, saying, “Alright, therapy session over, Chief. See ya.” And then he’s out the door. Just like that.
Jim lights another cigarette with a sigh and tries to forget again.
___
Sometimes, Eleven likes to help him feed Hawkins’ strays. At first, the first few times, she was scared. There’d be this look in her eyes like she’d just seen a ghost, and Jim would have to let her know it was fine. They would be fine. Now, she likes to ride along with him, help him drop off cans and check on all of them. She’s the one that starts naming them.
None of the names stick, and she changes them all every time she sees them, but she tries. Calls them things like Tom Cruise and Yoda. It’s the most normal Jim has ever seen her, and it makes his chest hurt every single goddamned time.
There was a time when Jim had thought they could both be normal. At the very least seem normal, but then the world exploded around them again, and boy did that smart. Thinking they were almost there, almost at a point where she could just be Jane Hopper and he could just be the Chief of police. A dad. Worried about boys and school and periods. Worried about having the talk with her instead of talking to her about staying strong while she’s facing off against things so horrible people don’t even have nightmares about shit like them. Things he never would have fucking dreamed of making up.
But Eleven dreams of them for everyone. She screams in her sleep sometimes, loud and drawn out, fading into wracking sobs that Hopper will sit on the edge of her bed and shush her through, rub her back with a hand he hopes is warm, late into the night, until she’s calmed. Until she can sleep again. They don’t talk about it too much, but sometimes she thanks him in the morning, tells him Papa never would have done that for her. Tells him she thinks he’s a good dad.
Eleven is a stray, too.
He doesn’t think about it too often, but he fed her until she stayed around, too. He felt responsible for her because someone needed to be. Someone that knew how not to scare fragile things away. Someone who could keep her safe, keep her away from things that wanted to hurt her. Jim had the means and the ability to keep everyone’s nose out of his shit.
He’s good at secrets. He’s got plenty of them.
This Billy situation is sort of like the Eleven situation. Only, Billy is more fragile, somehow.
Jim finds him at the Shop ‘N Go over by the bowling alley on a Thursday night, reeking of Jim Beam, and yelling at the clerk about needing to use the phone.
The clerk is some eighteen year old kid who looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over, and Billy has gone all red-faced, spit flying out of his angry mouth, hair sticking to his sweaty face. Jim notices he’s limping, favoring his right leg.
“What happened to your leg?” he asks, and he’s got his hands in his pockets, but he’s waiting for Billy to swing at him.
They’re outside in the cold air, Billy’s heavy panting visible around him. Out here, with the crickets and the frogs, against a pitch black backdrop, Billy looks a little bit wild. He looks unsettled.
“Fuck do you care?” he spits, full of vitriol and hate, and Jim knows that feeling. He knows that feeling of worthlessness. Why would anyone care about him?
“Just say I care. What happened to it?”
He doesn’t answer, just stoops to pull his pants leg up, shows Hopper all the anger and vitriol he’s got in him, localized in a fire-red, bleeding scrape that trails up leg, lost in Billy’s tight jeans. “Fell, Chief. The fuck does it matter? The fuck does any of it matter?” And now he’s talking around a cigarette like always, lips curled around something other than insults.
“Where are you planning on going tonight?” Jim finds himself asking, mostly to try and keep Billy from running again. Partly because he feels responsible for this, too. “That leg of yours won’t get you very far.”
“It’ll get me far enough,” Billy huffs, limping his way past Hopper. His eyes are wet. They’re wild and sad and Hopper insanely wants to wipe the tears away for him.
“I got a cabin,” Jim says. “Pretty far away from everything. Quiet. Nobody’ll know you’re there, if you need to get away from everything for a couple days. Fridge is full. There’s even beer I’ll let you have.”
Billy laughs, something sharp and unkind, and Jim knows he’s almost got him, from that moment alone. He knows that when Billy shoulders into him, trying to pick a fight. He knows that when Billy gets in his face, shouts something about Hopper thinking Billy is some sort of lost puppy, huh?
When Billy’s tears finally spill and he’s limping over to Hopper’s truck this time, because Hopper didn’t fight back, Hopper just put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You’re not a puppy, son, but you’re fuckin’ lost if I ever saw it. So get in the truck or don’t, but you can’t hang around here anymore tonight.”
Billy cries the whole ride to the cabin, a silent kind of crying, where he doesn’t even wipe the tears from his face. It’s the most resigned, pathetic display Jim has ever seen, but he just lets Billy have this moment. He keeps the radio on but low, rolls the windows down a crack so the night air keeps the truck dry and cool. It’s tense, but he does his best not to show it, just drives with his ears trained on the few sniffles he hears from Billy.
They get to the cabin, and he talks Billy through walking over the tripwire, showing him where the food and the bathroom and the couch all are. Apologizes for it not being much, but Billy stays silent except for asking if he can shower.
While he’s in there, Hopper finds something for him to wear. Stuff Hopper hasn’t been able to fit in for years. It’s all soft and worn, so Billy really shouldn’t have any issues with it, but something like embarrassment sits heavy in Hopper’s chest when he realizes all he has are some old long johns and a t-shirt.
Billy doesn’t seem bothered. Tugs both of them on while Hopper turns the other way, pulls two cold beers from the fridge and hands one to him.
They drink quietly at first, both leaning against the counters in the kitchen. Billy’s not crying anymore, so that’s something.
He breaks the silence for Hopper with a, “He threw one of my dumbbells at me.” Hopper gives him a moment, lets the silence settle around them again. It stings less this time when it’s broken by, “Maxine went missing again, and it was somehow my goddamn fault because all I do all the time is lift my stupid weights. So he threw one of them at me. Luckily he can’t aim for shit and it just hit my leg.”
“Max is over at the Wheelers’ house,” Hopper tells him. He takes a pull from the can and eyes Billy from the side, watches his face scrunch up in confusion.
“How do you know that?”
“My daughter is there with her. They’re all friends. Max, Jane, the Wheeler kids, the Byers kids. Sinclair. Henderson. The whole bunch, they spend a lot of time in the Wheelers’ basement. Good group of kids,” Jim says, because Billy deserves honesty. The closest thing to honesty Jim can give him about all of this, anyway, because he’s sure being told they’re close due to shared trauma from interdimensional monsters nearly killing all of them would be too much for him to handle right now.
But he deserves something.
And his scrunched up face turns into a scoff, and he’s saying, “Yeah, see, I gotta get kicked in the face because Maxine has friends and doesn’t have the decency to tell her parents when she’s having a slumber party. Does that not seemed fucked up to you, Chief?”
“It’s plenty fucked up, Billy,” and Billy goes quiet again. He looks tired.
“You’re serious about letting me hang out here for a little while? You’re not gonna call my pops while I’m passed out on your couch and have him come pick me up or anything, are you?” The lines in his face have smoothed out again, and Hopper feels something like he’s won.
See, the thing about strays is that once that trust is formed, they’ll allow themselves to be taken care of. Some of them let you take them inside, let you feed them regularly, make sure they’re not sick. They let you clean them up and keep them warm so they’re healthy and capable of being let outside again eventually.
“Couch is yours if you want it. I don’t have a landline and I’m off duty tomorrow,” Jim says before draining the rest of his beer and making a move to throw the can away. “Your dad can rot for all I care.”
—
Billy has nightmares.
They’re nasty ones, too, but Jim is pretty well-versed in the act of getting up to check on a kid thrashing and shouting in their sleep. He does the same with Billy that he does with Eleven: rubs a warm hand down his back, shushing him quietly, just until his breathing slows, the shouting quiets, and the crease between his eyebrows eases. Billy never wakes up, never has to know someone showed him some kindness without him being aware enough to fight back first.
In the morning, Jim wakes up to the smell of coffee. He’s never been good at this part of the day, the first moments of consciousness when his brain is still foggy but his body is awake. It’s always felt like a pit of anger in his chest, ever since he was a kid. He can’t explain it. The rest of his day, he’s fine, but these first few thoughts of being awake and aware always have him disgruntled.
So he stays in bed through them, until they fade and he feels like a person.
Which means that the coffee Billy’s made has gone room temp by the time he gets to it.
“Morning, amigo,” Billy greets him. He’s watching TV and eating Eggos off of a napkin. He’s ripping them into bite-sized pieces and munching on them like that, no syrup or whipped cream or butter. Just plain waffles, and Jim asks, “Do I need to buy you something else to eat? Jane’s kind of obsessed with those things, but if you need anything else, just. Let me know, alright? I can make a run.”
“Lucky for you, I’m on vacation. Otherwise, I’d be begging for some protein powder. Don’t suppose a cop could score me any weed though, right?”
“Not on your life, Hargrove.” The coffee’s pretty good, even room temperature, and he’ll have to ask Billy how he manages to make the stuff taste better than Hopper does.
He scrambles himself up a couple eggs, sits down on the chair in front of the TV. They watch shitty TV together for a while.
It’s nice. Like this, away from the situation, Billy is calm. He’s quiet. Like this, something about him seems more human, more relaxed. Hopper doesn’t give him any room to pick a fight, so he doesn’t.
See, if you remove the threat, scared animals don’t bite you anymore. Take them somewhere calm, give them a full stomach and something to set their security into, and they feel secure. It’s amazing, the transition of it all.
Later in the day, Billy says, “You ever do anything fun?”
And Jim’s a smart man. He should have seen the caution tape, the red flashing lights, the signs all telling him this was a bad idea. Instead, he just said, “Like what?”
Which is, honestly, legitimately, how he ended up with a lapful of barely legal in the middle of his cabin in the fucking woods. Billy is, for a lack of a better term, feral. He’s all teeth when he kisses, and Jim has a tinge of pity for all those girls Jim knows he’s hooked up with around town, if this is how he acts with them. He bites at Jim’s lips too hard for the fifth time, and it’s that that has him pulling away, getting a hand on Billy’s stomach to put some distance between them just long enough to say, “Let me– Like this, Billy,” and he slides his hand to Billy’s jaw, pulls him forward again, and takes control of it at last.
It’s shockingly obvious how unpracticed Billy is at all of this, despite having a reputation of being a womanizer. He melts into Jim when he slips his tongue into Billy’s mouth, when he changes the touch of his hand from a caress to a tangle in his hair. Jim’s not hard yet, but Billy is because he’s eighteen, and he’s rocking the line of his erection into Jim’s stomach before he’s making a sound deep in his chest like Jim’s hurt him and he stills his hips.
“Did you just–”
“Shut the fuck up. I can go again in ten,” Billy tells him, urging Jim to grab him again, to stick his tongue back in Billy’s mouth. It’s a headrush, something Jim hasn’t had since high school, and he moves his hands now, gets them on Billy’s thighs.
Hopper rubs at the tight muscle through the borrowed long johns Billy’s still wearing, working his thumbs in circles, trailing his hands up until he gets to the wet patch, the warm mess of come he finds there.
He groans, a deep, honest thing that he can’t seem to stop from bubbling out, says, “God, this is so fucked up.”
“Yup,” Billy agrees, bratty and fucked up in his own right. “Is your dick as big as I think it is?”
When he gets a hand on Jim through his jeans and says, “You gonna fuck me or what?” Jim has to think about where he might have lube.
He follows Jim into the bathroom even though Jim told him to stay put, that he’d be right back, and it’s really kind of insane how they end up with Billy leaning on his elbows on the sink, legs spread just wide enough for Jim to be able to press a couple thick fingers inside of him. He’d needed the petroleum jelly from the medicine cabinet, but Billy’s impatient, he tells Jim.
“You’re a brat, is what you are,” Jim counters, feels a bit feral himself, sweaty and so much bigger than Billy is, fucking him with two of his fingers like he’s being paid for it. And Billy looks good taking it, pants down around his ankles, shirt rucked up just far enough for Jim to be able to bend and mouth a hickey into the sweaty skin of his back, the dip of his spine right before his ass.
He thinks about moving lower, about seeing how Billy would react, but then Billy is saying, “Yeah, and you want to be my fucking daddy, don’t you, Chief?”
And Jim can’t really think beyond easing his fingers out, slicking up his own cock, and lining himself up. He gives Billy a second to catch his breath before he starts to press inside, listens for the way he sighs instead of pants, and then he’s going slow and steady, bottoming out without stopping.
Billy’s babbling, “God, it just keeps fucking going, doesn’t it? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Hop, it’s even bigger than I thought. How the fuck is every bitch in Hawkins not lining up at your fuckin’ door every night?” the whole time.
“Got the biggest bitch in town right now, don’t I?” Jim tells him, and Billy drools onto the floor where his head is hanging between his shoulders.
Hopper gives him a minute, because he knows he’s big, and Billy obviously needs it. He’s still drooling down onto the floor, face getting red from how it’s hanging, and he’s working his unsteady mouth around a shaky, “Fuck,” that sounds broken and bitten off.
Hopper says, “Easy. Easy, Billy. You ever done this before?”
“No,” Billy says, bites it out like it’s painful. “Didn’t even know I fucking wanted it,” and he laughs around that. It’s something harsh and wild, like a secret. “Not until you– You fuckin’-- Fuck, Chief,” and he breathes that last bit out like a prayer, like he doesn’t know, and Hopper tilts his hips, curls the rest of his body around Billy’s back to lean over him.
When he gets his mouth close enough to Billy’s ear, he says, “Until I was nice to you? Hm? Until I didn’t give you anything to fight back against?” He rocks his hips forward, just grinds into Billy to hear him choke.
Pulling out a couple inches, he says, “Deep breaths, baby.”
Billy makes this sound from deep in his guts when Hopper fucks into him, a pitiful thing, whiny and desperate, and it settles right in Hopper’s balls. So Hopper tries to make him make it again and again and again.
And again.
He wants to feel it on the tip of his cock, wants to–
“‘M gonna come,” he hears, and he gets his hand in Billy’s hair, turns his head until he can see the mess that Billy’s face has become. He’s covered in spit and tears, and Hopper wipes at the corner of one red eye with his thumb. Billy laughs when he does, and slides his eyes shut. He hiccups, “‘M gonna come, Chief.”
“Yeah? Come on, then,” Hopper tells him, reaches down to get his free hand around Billy’s cock, holds his head down against the sink and works him through his second orgasm like it’s nothing. When he comes, he arches back into Hopper, tries to move his head and groans when he can’t. He makes a mess of Hopper’s hand, the floor below them, and it’s the slick feeling of semen on his hand, the rush of Billy coming twice for him that has Hopper coming.
He’s nice enough to ask first, just a gruff, “Inside?” that Billy nods around, seems like he’s trying to get his mouth to work, but can’t.
Hopper watches another line of spit make its way from Billy’s mouth to the floor, and as he’s shuddering through coming down, he tells him, “You drooled all over the floor.”
“Yeah,” Billy slurs around. “You want me to clean it up?”
“Yeah.” Hopper lets him go, pulls out, reaches behind him to find some toilet paper to help Billy clean himself up, wipe his hands down. They’re both kind of a mess. “Get yourself cleaned up, too, and I’ll, uh. I’ll make dinner.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
—
Billy ends up sticking around for a while.
He doesn’t ever say anything to his dad, Jim doesn’t think, but he’s also under the impression that Billy doesn’t spend too much time at home these days. Jim knows for a fact he spends a lot of his time disturbing the peace at as many places as he possibly can most nights.
Lately, that peace has just been the peace at Jim and El’s cabin.
(Which, that conversation was fun. Explaining to El why Billy was here, that he was going to continue being here, and that no, she wasn’t allowed to move out. Jim gets the impression Billy isn’t exactly nice to Max and that El doesn’t appreciate it very much.)
“Why is he still here?” Eleven asks him one day, loudly enough for Billy to hear. Jim is going to have to have a talk about discretion with her one day.
For now, though, he just sighs, hands her the plate of waffles he was making for her, and says, “Because he needed to be somewhere safe.”
“Is he hurt?” El asks him, brow furrowing in confusion. She isn’t concerned. Jim can still hear the frustration in her voice.
“Not anymore,” Jim says. “And he needs to stay here so that he doesn’t get hurt again.”
“He interrupts.” She rolls her eyes before Jim can even say anything, and sometimes raising a teenage girl is the absolute hardest thing in the world. Harder than preventing the apocalypse.
Jim gets what she means, doesn’t need it to be clarified, so as he’s deflating a bit, not letting this ruffle his feathers, he just tells her, “He’s going to stay here as long as he needs to, to make sure he won’t get hurt again. Understand?”
With a pursed mouth, she says, “Understand.”
El wasn’t happy, but Jim knew she’d be fine eventually, so he didn’t bother with a follow-up on the situation. Billy is calmer, here. He cleans up after himself, and he’s polite in a way Jim’s not sure he’s ever allowed himself to be. And Jim can remember finally getting out from underneath his shitty dad, all those years ago. Even though it was to go kill a bunch of people in the war, it wasn’t his dad yelling at him, calling him a piece of shit. Hitting him. He was away from it all, away from the tension. He’s willing to bet that Billy hasn’t uncoiled himself from the fetal position in a real long time. So all those muscles relaxing, not needing to be in constant ‘fight or flight’ mode– it’s doing him a world of good.
He’s nicer. Not nice, but nicer. The two of them– Billy and El– they bump heads for the first week. Jim has to butt into a few arguments before they get physical, because he can see that look on El’s face every time. It’s something they’re working on, not using her powers for every little thing, not setting herself in a completely different bracket when she doesn’t need to. And for his part, Billy just shows his teeth, snarls a little bit as he talks to her, but he never goes to swing, never really puffs up very much.
But boy, do they argue. Right up until they stop. Until Billy shouts at her one good time, “I’m trying, okay?!” and scrubs at his wet eyes with both hands, furious. And then his voice is lower, calmer when he says, “I’m trying to do better. I’m trying to apologize to everyone.”
El juts her chin out and says, “Say you’re sorry to Max.”
“I will.” And he’s lighting up a cigarette. “As soon as I see her again.”
Something about that moment shifts things, and they don’t argue anymore. Things fall into a weird, domestic little routine that Jim’s pretty sure Billy is the only one accustomed to. Jim hasn’t had a family in years, and El never has, and it’s awkward at first, trying to settle into it all. The cleaning, the cooking, the– the routine.
It’s a routine.
By the time El wakes up in the mornings, Billy’s already got her two waffles toasted and on a plate, at the table where he’s got two mugs of steaming coffee, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, two scrambled eggs with bacon for Jim, and a bowl of oatmeal for himself. They always have breakfast together, the three of them, and it feels weird at first, until it doesn’t.
Jim goes to work, El does her reading and the little bits of schoolwork Jim puts together for her. Billy cleans, works out, does whatever. And then, eventually, Billy helps teach El. He’s smart, smarter than Hopper, and he’s surprisingly good at Math.
At night, he cooks simple meals for the three of them, mostly because he got tired of eating TV dinners. Told Jim they were shittier than prison food, and that El deserved real meals. Said Jim should be ashamed of himself, and then sheepishly apologized later, after Jim had shrugged and said he was doing the best he could. To help, he starts putting together grocery lists and cooking things the three of them would all eat. Simple things. Filling things.
And maybe El was right. Maybe Billy did interrupt, but the interruption isn’t unwelcome. Maybe the sense of normalcy that Billy fuckin’ Hargrove brought into their home was what they’ve been needing all along. It makes sense though, right? That Billy would cling to the little rituals his family did that made them feel normal. That, during this weird and confusing time, Billy would want to start his day having breakfast with everyone in the house, and end it by having dinner in the same configuration. It’s safer to eat all together.
He doesn’t go out as much, either, and Jim doesn’t pry, really. It’s none of his business. However Billy decides to handle his life is none of Jim’s business. All he wanted out of this was for Billy to know he had somewhere safe he could go, if he needed it. Whether or not he leaves is up to him. Jim doesn’t mind having him around, that’s for sure.
And things change for real the first time Max comes over about two weeks into Billy’s extended stay, says, “Holy shit, this is where you’ve been this whole time?”
Billy tells her, “You breathe a word of this to my old man, and I swear to God, Maxine, I’ll–”
“Jesus, chill out, man,” Max laughs. “Neil doesn’t really…seem to care that much. He hasn’t, um, asked or anything, since you told him– whatever you told him. And I– I wouldn’t, anyway, Billy. I’m not that much of a bitch.”
And Jim watches him ruffle her hair on his way out the room, lighting a cigarette with a smirk on his face and letting the door slam shut behind him as he heads outside to do some push-ups and whatever else he does.
“That was–,” Max starts, and her mouth is agape for just a second, before she closes it and shakes her head.
“Weird,” Eleven finishes for her, a little bit stunned.
And it’s from then on that El tries, at the very least. She spends less time sneering at him, tries to talk to him. They don’t have a lot in common, and Billy is still Billy at the end of the day, but Jim can tell they’re both trying.
—
It’s after about a month that Jim finally asks, “Does your dad at least know you’re safe?”
“Did you not notice all the shit I brought over here?”
“You mean ten pairs of jeans and that box of keepsakes you keep in your trunk?” Jim asks, pouring himself a mug of coffee.
Billy socks him in the shoulder, no heat behind it whatsoever, eyeing him meanly. “I told him I was leaving. Didn’t tell him where I was going, but I got what was important and left.”
Oh. That settles weirdly in Jim’s stomach, because he really never intended to become this person, right? This guy that takes care of the wayward strays around Hawkins, no matter the sacrifices.
Not that much has changed since Billy’s been here. Sure, the couch is full at night now, and he’s got to make sure there’s food for three instead of just two, but otherwise, it’s the same.
Well, no, it’s different. But it’s better.
Hopper hasn’t felt good about things in a long, long time, but something about this weird situation works.
He interrupts, El had said.
Hopper’s going to have to correct her on that, soon.
—
Billy goes to a party one Saturday night. Eleven’s over at Max’s house for the weekend, so Hopper gets off work, comes home to no Billy, no Eleven, and the cabin feels cold and empty for the first time in a long time.
He could call Joyce, see if she wants to watch a movie or have dinner or something, but what he does instead is strips down to his boxers and falls asleep in his recliner watching old westerns. Stuff his grandad and him used to watch.
The sound of Billy’s Camaro doesn’t wake him up, but the sound of the door opening and closing does. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him it’s sometime after two in the morning, and when Hopper catches a glance at him, Billy looks–
Well, he looks good, is what he looks.
His hair is a bit wild, messed up from the perfect head of curls he always has, half a can of hairspray holding everything in place. His eyes are heavy, red-rimmed, and Hopper is going to conveniently forget about that for now. Lips shiny, shirt open, jeans tighter than anything Jim would ever dream of wearing.
And he’s looking at Hopper, leaning against the counter with a look on his face.
“Hey,” he says, licks his lips.
Hopper goes to sit up, closes the recliner and tries to blink the sleep out of his face. “Hey,” he returns, sounding as half-asleep as he feels. “Good party?”
Billy shrugs. “Coulda been better, coulda been worse.” And he’s moving, opening the fridge, the light from it nearly blinding in the low light of the cabin. “Good weed, shitty music.”
He’s got a can of beer, when he makes his way into the living room, plops down on the couch across from Hop. But he’s sitting on the edge of the couch, and he’s got this look on his face like he wants to laugh. Hopper almost feels scrutinized, like Billy is digging through layers of Hopper’s psyche just by looking at him, perched on the edge of the ratty couch Hopper used to sleep on when his grandad brought him out here to hunt.
This place was Hopper’s escape as a child, too. Away from his shitty dad, too. Away from everything, too, just like Billy, and Billy’s looking at him now, licking his lips, eyes heavy.
“What?” Hopper asks, because he can’t not.
“I never thanked you,” Billy tells him, and doesn’t break eye contact when he takes a sip of his beer.
“For what?”
And Billy’s laughing softly, draining the rest of the beer in one go. Hopper thinks, insanely, that maybe he should get one, too. Something harder, maybe, to level the playing field. He’ll talk to Billy in the morning about driving under the influence, but for now, he’s too focused on trying to fully wake up, trying to watch the way Billy’s tongue wets his lips.
The can ends up somewhere on the floor, and then Billy is telling him, “Just say ‘you’re welcome’, Chief.”
“You’re welcome,” Jim says, and then he’s shifting in the recliner as Billy moves, makes his way over, straddles Hopper’s thighs.
They haven’t gotten this close to each other since that first time, and this time Billy smells like cologne. He smells like cigarettes and booze and the night air. His hair is crunchy with hairspray when Hopper gets a hand in it, tugs a little so he can manhandle Billy how he wants him, how he knows is good, and Billy just goes with it. Makes a breathy little sound in the back of his throat, and gets his hands on Hopper’s bare ribs. His fingertips dig in when Hopper fucks his tongue into Billy’s mouth, tastes the beer there, the weed.
When they pull apart, Billy tells him, “Didn’t let anybody touch me tonight,” all airy and right in Hopper’s face. “They all fucking wanted to though. But I wanted this, instead. Wanted you instead.”
“Yeah?” Hopper breathes right back, tugs at Billy’s hair until he’s looking straight up at the ceiling, leans forward to press a sloppy kiss to Billy’s Adam’s apple. “Too choked up about my dick to get any ass tonight, ‘s that it?”
Billy groans, somewhere deep in his chest. So loud that Hopper can feel it against his own, and Billy’s thighs are trembling when Hopper moves his hands down to them. He squeezes, lets Billy squeeze at him, too, handsy and desperate.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you made me drool on the bathroom floor,” he says. “You called me a bitch, and I wanted to say ‘thank you’.”
“‘S that what this is?” Hopper laughs. “You gonna let me fuck you again for calling you the biggest bitch in Hawkins, Hargrove?”
And Billy’s laughing again, neck still arched back, but he’s moving his hands, getting them on the hem of his own shirt to tug it up and off of himself, and Hopper’s met with golden skin. Soft and smooth because Billy shaves religiously, and when he touches his chest, Billy shivers.
Billy says, “Fuck. I’ll let you do whatever you want,” and Hopper believes him. Hopper thinks if he wanted to reach inside Billy and pull out all the sick pieces of him, everything that hurts, that aches deep inside him, and chew them up, he’d let Jim do it.
He thinks if he wanted to dig his fingers in too hard and reshape Billy into someone new, he’d let him.
He already has, really.
This sweet, soft, pliable Billy that lives in his cabin with him and his daughter isn’t the same Billy that arrived at Hawkins last year. Fuck, it’s not the same Billy that Jim was escorting out of the Shop N’ Go three months ago for being drunk and disorderly for the first time.
Cause, you see, animals are creatures of habit. They get scared when they don’t know what’s going to happen or where they are, and Billy? Billy’s skittish. He’s easy to scare off, but easier to provoke, and Jim never gave him the option for either one. Jim gave him a place to have a routine.
So when Billy presses forward for another wet kiss, sucks on Hopper’s tongue like he’s made for it, and arches into the pressure of Jim’s hands on his chest, it’s the closest thing to supplication Jim’s ever going to get from him.
He’ll take it.
And a few beats later, when he’s got Billy sprawled out on his bed like he should have been six weeks ago, he takes it when Billy gets between his thighs and sinks his teeth into the soft part of Jim’s inner thigh. It makes him yelp, has him reaching down to tug at his hair some more, but Billy’s still laughing softly, so Jim just says, “Jesus Christ, kid.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he says in a warning before he’s sucking the head of Jim’s cock between his lips. His brows furrow almost immediately, and he tries sinking down more, too much, too fast, and he’s pulling back up with a gag before Jim can even manage to get any words out. Breathing roughly through his nose for a few beats, he steels himself and tries again, shuts his eyes in concentration as he sinks and sinks and sinks and only manages to get Jim about halfway down and it’s blindingly hot to watch this unbreakable man, this angry, spitting animal crying on the end of Jim’s cock.
Jim scratches gently at his scalp, murmurs, “Slow, Billy. Don’t– Don’t hurt yourself, alright?”
And Billy’s pulling off, sniffling loudly, rubbing at the tears with his shoulders. “Shut up,” he gruffs, and then he’s wrapping a hand around the base of Jim’s cock, guiding it into his open mouth, trying again. He doesn’t get any further down this time, but he jerks off what he can’t seem to swallow down, and Jim feels it curling down low in his guts. He feels his whole body vibrating, can’t help the rolling moans tumbling out of him as Billy tries his best, works him over like he’s being paid for it, a slick mess of tears and spit all over his face, but he’s looking up every so often like he’s checking to see if Jim’s into it, still.
And god, how could he not be? Crystal blue eyes rimmed in red, tracking tears down Billy’s face, his pretty mouth open around Hopper’s cock, thanking him for calling Billy a slut.
So he says, “Coulda been you tonight, you know? Some bitch on her knees in front of you, face a fucking mess, trying to swallow down that pretty dick of yours.” Billy shivers, moans around Hopper. “But you– You’re so hot for my cock instead that you just couldn’t make yourself, huh? ‘S that it, Billy? Fucked you once and ruined anything else for you?”
Billy’s choking on a sob now, full-on blubbering around Jim’s dick, looking up at him like he owes Jim the world. It’s the nod that has Jim coming, has him getting his hands back in Billy’s hair, just holding him like that while he comes down his throat, and he’s got to murmur, “Good boy, Billy. Fuck, such a good fucking boy,” while he does because Billy’s shaking and Jim’s not an asshole.
But when he pulls out, Billy’s telling him, “Oh my fucking god,” slurred and messy, and he’s got come on his face, looks like a real fucking mess. So Jim lets him wriggle out of his stupid fucking jeans and the tiniest pair of briefs Jim’s ever seen on a grown man, lets him press the line of his cock against Jim’s thigh and rut against him like he’s starving.
Ten minutes, Billy had said, and Jim’s going to hold him to it, because he wants to see how much he can take.
Before he comes, Billy slurs around a, “Thank you, Hopper,” that has Hopper’s guts flipping.
He asks Billy, “Can I finger you?” and all Billy does is roll onto his stomach, flops his arms out to his sides with a grunt that Jim thinks is a yes.
Billy doesn’t protest when Jim gets a slick finger inside him, at least. He just hums into it, arches his back for Jim. He says, “Feel nice and hot in there for you?” like he’s in a dirty movie or something. And then, “You like ‘em tight or are you gonna put a couple more of those in there?”
Jim kisses the dip of his spine, gives him what he wants, but the third finger comes slower than the second. Billy’s breath hitches a little bit when Jim goes to press inside with it, and Jim kisses him again, mouths at the sweaty skin there, gives Billy a minute to relax some more. For good measure, he adds more lube, gets him nice and wet, and eases his ring finger in alongside the other two.
Billy holds his breath for a second, so Jim just holds him open until he’s letting it all out in a rush, and then Jim curls them all, listens to the way Billy groans with it, watches his hips start to shift against the sheets.
“You drooling on my pillow over there?” he asks, because he’s willing to bet he is. But Billy shakes his head no, grits his teeth when Hopper goes to press in with his pinkie. “I bet you are. Bet you don’t even realize it, you’re so full right now. You should see yourself like this.”
“You gonna fuck me or what?”
“I’m fucking you,” Jim tells him, wriggles his fingers around to remind him. “I’m fucking you real good, baby. Can’t you tell?” and he mouths at the line of Billy’s shoulders, pressing wet kisses there just to feel skin against his mouth. He listens to the pretty little sounds Billy makes, low, grumbly things, breathy and nasally all at once. He sounds like a dream. “Can’t you tell how good I’m fucking you, Billy?”
He curls his fingers again for good measure, searches and searches until Billy is gasping, burying his face in Hopper’s pillow, arms gripping too-tight around it, something to ground himself with. The entire line of Billy’s body goes taut, and Hopper presses into that same spot over and over and over, until Billy is all but howling out a, “Yes, yes, god, fuck, oh my god, Hopper.”
And this is the real supplication. This, right here, the sound of Billy’s voice, the trust of letting Hopper do this, of letting himself do this. He’d walked into this cabin tonight thinking he had the upper hand, but Jim’s not stupid. Billy doesn’t want the upper hand.
Billy wants someone to take care of him. He wants someone to care enough to listen when he says, “Fuck me, god, just– I want it. Please.”
And Hopper says, “Been thinkin’ about it, right? Couldn’t stop thinking about it, remember?”
And Billy is crying again, choking on a sob that gets caught in his throat.
Hopper does press in with his pinkie, then. Four fingers, and Billy is saying, "Want you to--Fuck, Hopper, I need– God, please. Please, please, just fuck me, just–"
It's a sweet sound, something that lingers heavy and hot in Hopper's guts, and he's maybe a little bit cruel when he says, "Tell me what you want."
Even still, Billy chokes on a sob and says into the pillow, "Want you to fuck me."
Hopper hears him perfectly fine, but it's more fun to get a handful of Billy's hair and tug his head up, watch his mouth go slack and his face get red while he struggles to swallow. Holding him up like that, Hopper insists, "Sorry, I couldn't hear you. What was that?" and curls his fingers again.
"Put your cock inside me," Billy murmurs, strained from the angle his head is at, and Jim is careful about pulling his fingers free. He’s slow about it, just so he can watch the way Billy’s eyelids flutter a little, how he licks his lips, how he pulls a face at the loss.
And when Jim is lining up the head of his cock to Billy’s wet hole, Billy slurs, “Yeah, yeah, give it to me, come on.”
“You ever shut up?” Jim asks, groaning as he eases his cock into Billy.
Billy just laughs at him, a real, honest laugh, that tapers into a heavy groan, squirming against the sheet to get some sort of friction against his cock. Jim fucks into him good, still holding his head up off the pillow.
“Next time,” he gruffs, grinding into him, “I’ll eat you out until you’re crying for me.”
Billy makes a sound, something pained, and Jim watches the line of spit fall before he’s chuckling at Billy, saying, “Oh, there we go, huh? Gonna drool all over my fucking bed, aren’t you? Such a pretty fucking mess.”
And Billy–
Billy comes again, just like that, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching down around Jim’s cock, mouth working around a hiss of, “Fuck, oh my god.”
“Good boy, Billy,” Jim groans. He lets go of his grip on Billy’s hair finally, but leaves his hand there so he can use it as leverage to keep fucking into him. This should feel fucked up, in some way, but it just mostly feels good. It feels so fucking good, and Billy is babbling underneath him, most of the words getting lost in the sheets, but some of it strung together in a way that Hopper can make out.
He’s saying, “--just like this, forever. Don’t make me leave, Hop. Don’t–” and he chokes a little bit, swallows down whatever was going to come bubbling up out of him. “Come on, Daddy. You gonna fuckin’ come inside me?”
Hopper puts his hand over Billy’s mouth just to shut him up for a second, his ears going hot and his blood running cold. It’s filthy and terrible, and Hopper’s so close to coming it’s not even funny. Billy’s licking at his palm, breathing heavy and clenching down around Hopper every so often.
He fucks into Billy like his life depends on it, like the orgasm he feels curling in the base of his spine is going to fuckin fix everything. And when he moves his hand again, the way Billy’s talking to him makes him feel like it might.
“Feels so fucking good,” Billy says, “God, I feel– I feel like I’m actually alive, when you fuck me.” He laughs, something sharp and real. “Being here– I feel human.”
He doesn’t mean here. Here, in Hopper’s bed, with Hopper’s cock inside of him. He means here, the cabin. He means with Jim, with Eleven, with a routine and a purpose and freedom of knowing that he can just exist how he wants, how he’s comfortable, and not be afraid of anyone kicking his face in for no reason.
Jim’s not stupid. But he doesn’t say anything when he sees Billy’s eyes water, doesn’t get worried when his shoulders start shaking and he starts crying for real.
He doesn’t feel fucked up when he comes from watching Billy bury his face in the pillow so Hopper can’t see him cry.
Billy doesn’t cry for long, and all Jim does is collapse onto the bed next to him, manhandling him so that he can just curl up behind him without pulling out. It’s better like this, where he can just sort of hold onto Billy while he calms down.
They share a cigarette when he does, after Hopper has softened completely, pulled out of him and cleaned them both up. It’s quiet, save for the hum of the electricity in the cabin, and they pass a cigarette back and forth until it’s burnt to the filter.
“‘Daddy’, huh?” Hopper eventually says, because he wants to know if it’s a thing for Billy, or if it was just some bullshit he said to get Hopper to come.
Billy snorts, shrugs. “Yeah. You hate it or something?”
“Nah,” Jim says. “Hate it? I came my fucking brains out, baby.”
“Yeah?” Billy asks, and Jim would swear his cheeks were pink. “Shoulda known you’d be a dirty old man.”
Jim’s too fucked out to really respond any sort of way other than a soft laugh, tilting his head to lean it back against the headboard.
And then, “Hey, uh. You don’t– You know you don’t have to leave, right? I mean, not until you’re ready.”
Billy’s quiet, and Jim’s okay if he doesn’t want to say anything back. It’s not like this conversation has to be had, he just wanted Billy to know. He’s still trying not to scare Billy off, if he’s honest with himself.
It takes a while, sometimes, with strays.
But after a beat, Billy surprises him with a, “Sure, yeah. I was just– Look, I was just caught up in everything, alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Jim says. “Just wanted to make it clear, in case you were worried about anything.”
The conversation ends there, so it seems, and they both settle into the bed a little bit more in the silence. It’s easy, somehow, for Jim to pull the blankets up over both of them, and he’s only sort of surprised when Billy ends up squirming his way up under Jim’s arm, head resting on Jim’s chest. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Billy, and it feels like a win.
Billy doesn’t run, doesn’t try to leave and sleep on the couch, doesn’t seem like he’s embarrassed or angry or in denial about anything, and Jim feels like he did what he set out to do.
After a minute, he says, “I, uh. I feed the strays around town pretty regularly. ‘S what all the blankets and shit are for, in my truck.” Billy hums in acknowledgement. “Could use some help every so often.”
“You want me to help you feed a bunch of cats?” Jim can feel his mouth move against his skin. It makes goosebumps scatter across his torso.
“Only if you want. Figure it could be something nice to do.”
Jim doesn’t know why he’s nervous, but he feels a flutter of it in his chest. He kisses the top of Billy’s head absently.
Billy makes another soft sound against Jim’s skin, pauses. Then he says, “I’ll help you feed all your stray pets, Hop. Just make sure we’re home in time for me to cook dinner, alright?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Hawkins has a lot of strays, but–
Billy Hargrove ain’t one of them anymore.