Chapter Text
Billy’d been warned against stopping in Stark County, but when you gotta go, you gotta go—and anyway, he was running low on gas. And snacks.
And, since he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore, it’d be wise to get out, work the rust from his joints a bit.
Glancing around as he filled the tank, the town looked normal enough; your average main drag in Middle of Nowhere, North Dakota. Couple sleepy shops, general store, dinky diner—one of those blue lives matter flags hanging limp by the door, vivid polyester garish against all the beige.
Basic shit.
No obvious signs of a place under the iron thumb of a white nationalist evangelical militia, and he was just about to roll the dice on that diner, maybe snag a coffee and a slice of pie, when a police cruiser ambled into view, pulled into the fueling station opposite.
Just his fucking luck.
Billy studied the pump, face schooled a pleasant bland. Marveled at how, even after all these years, his days of tussling with fascist pigs long behind him, the same wolves were stirring in his head. One baring its teeth on a low growl, ready and willing to tear the fucker to shreds, the other poised, still as stone, itching to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble.
At fifty years old—fifty plus, but who was counting—he preferred neither option. The meter clicked off, and he watched his hands replace the nozzle, screw on the gas cap.
Even his hands were fucking old. Thicker—blocky knuckles. Veins starting to bulge. Grandpa hands.
Sense memory flashed, suppressed so quick and smooth it left barely a ripple. Wouldn’t do to indulge in fond longing for those gay glory days, for the hands he still missed like phantom limbs, some nights, this aching absence. Not within spitting distance of a patrol car.
Because why test the thought police, right? He could reminisce on youthful love lost when he was back on the highway, heading west.
Good boy, he heard, like Billy had a tin can cupped to his ear, the string trailing off into the fog of time.
So strange what stayed sharp, he mused, rounding the hood, gripping his keys. Behind him, the cruiser door swung open with a creak. Like—despite the photos, it was hard to really conjure the face, hold it steady in his mind. A face through a window in the rain, and more so as the years slid by. But that voice still whispered clear as day—sometimes a Jiminy Cricket, keeping Billy out of trouble, sometimes a little prankster demon, pure trickster.
And the hands. The feel of those hands had never left him, touch embedded in the skin.
He sniffed, ducking his chin, scolding himself. So much for smothering his inner queer.
The door was open, sanctuary of the driver’s seat calling his name, when something drew his attention across the way—some movement, maybe, or shift in the air. Pulling his gaze, against his better judgment, to meet the bored stare of the emerging cop.
His chest—seized, breath caught in tight lungs by a tighter throat. Distantly wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like—crushed in a cold fist.
Because the eyes... the eyes staring back at him were Steve’s. The furrowed brow above lips pinched in a frown. The lines of his jaw, his nose. Like the rain had stopped and he could see him clear through the pane. Then the lips twisted, a sudden sneer, straight out of senior year.
“Got a problem, pal?”
Billy blinked rapid, took in the flak jacket and badge announcing him as the Sheriff’s stooge, the douchey camo hoodie layered underneath, dark hair slicked back, sides shaved like he’d stepped off the cover of Nazi Vogue.
What the fuck.
“Asked you a question, old man.”
Billy coughed, half a laugh, half choke, and shook his head. Same voice—his voice. Steve’s. Only the tone was all wrong—mean and self-important—more like… like Billy, once upon a time.
Like if his old bratty attitude and Steve’s voice had a baby. That’s what he was hearing right now. Like—
Wrenching his brain back on track, Billy rebooted. Cut him off before the brat could launch another volley.
“Sorry, officer,” he said, and couldn’t help it—the amusement thrumming beneath the words, or more accurately, the unhinged hysteria. “Must be going senile.”
The eyes narrowed—assuming that if he wasn’t in on the joke, he must be the butt of it.
“In fact,” Billy went on, blindly following some instinct, he knew not where. “Think I might be having some heart trouble.”
The cop did not spring to the aid of a needy citizen, but eyed him skeptically. “You smell burnt toast?”
“That’s for a stroke,” Billy corrected, and he’d gone and done it again—only this time a fondness threading the wry mockery. “Heart attack is pain in your arm and whatnot.”
The brat didn’t shoot him dead for perceived disrespect, which was something. Really he just seemed—confused. Baffled. And boy, Billy was right there with him.
This wasn’t Steve, he reminded himself. Wasn’t him. Just a random dead ringer in Somewhere, North Dakota, a likely foot soldier in the brutal local militia.
And Billy should just leave him to it, obviously. Because this wasn’t Steve.
So—bid the doppelganger adieu, get the hell out of dodge. Billy cleared his throat.
“Don’t suppose protect and serve extends to helping some geezer find a place to eat while he rests awhile?”
Now the perplexed indignation was out in force, head tilted so far to the side it was liable to roll off his neck.
Hand to God, Billy thought he’d kicked the death wish long ago—his Y2K resolution—and yet here he was. Still talking, coaxing the neofascist to come closer, chucking all caution to the wind for a pair of pretty, over-familiar eyes.
“C’mon,” he said, and made the smirk self-deprecating. “I make it across the street without keeling over, I’ll buy ya a coffee.”
The brat straightened, something like tolerant intrigue settled in the quirk of his brow. “All right, then, old timer.” As they stepped off the sidewalk: “Don’t expect me to hold your elbow or nothing.”
“Oh, nah,” Billy replied, waving him off. “Dignity won’t allow it.” And then—he winked. Winked at the boogaloo boy. He’d lost his mind. Farewell, sanity. “Name’s Billy.”
No response from the boy in blue until they reached the diner steps. “I’m Gator,” he said, hauling the door open, gruffness at odds with the tinkling bell.
To his credit, Billy didn’t break down into gibbering laughter.
Gator. This asshat wearing Steve’s face, this Duck Dynasty heir apparent—was named Gator.
Way off in Indiana, Steve must’ve been rolling in his grave.