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He’s already running hot by the time he makes it to the creepy shack in the woods at the edge of town the Byers family apparently call home. He doesn’t think it looks all that different from the cabin in The Evil Dead : decrepit, single floor wooden thing surrounded by trees on all sides except for a narrow road from the main road that only opens up into a clearing at the very end, not even five hundred feet wide and most of it plunged in darkness. This would actually be a great horror movie set.
But when he sees none other than Steve Harrington, fucking King Steve, sauntering out of the house like he owns the place, it stings like the slap he knows his old man just barely stopped himself from delivering, and only because Susan had been right there all over their business. Steve Fucking Harrington, with his perfect hair, and perfect skin, dark brown doe eyes, rolled up sleeves, black tee tucked into his jeans bringing stark attention to the flats of his torso, and the kind of cool confidence Billy himself has had to fake to make. He’s suddenly convinced that Harrington was born with it just like he was born with the trust fund and the pretty face. It brings it up a notch from running hot to making his blood positively boil in his veins.
“Am I dreaming or is that you Harrington?” He just has to ask, even when he already knows.
King Steve might not give him the time of day outside of basketball practice - and sometimes even then - but Billy’s become uncomfortably, irritatingly familiar with him, the whole picture of him, and there’s just enough light to be certain it is him and no one else, definitely not weirdo Jonathan Byers.
“Yeah it’s me, don’t cream your pants,” Harrington throws back with an air of bored annoyance that gets under his skin, like he wouldn’t get his ass handed to him for making that kind of comment in Hawkins, Fucking Indiana.
And he probably wouldn’t, it doesn’t escape him, the irony that Billy doesn’t have that luxury even when he doesn’t hail from some lost hick-town most people have never even heard of. It also doesn’t escape him that Harrington doesn’t tell him at all what he’s doing at the Byers place and only deflects back, and sure, he supposes he doesn’t need to explain himself to an outsider like Billy. There could be a hundred fucking reasons for Harrington to be there and ninety-nine of them wouldn’t be Billy’s business, but unfortunately for the King, the hundredth is staring at them with wide eyes from the front porch window like the moron kid she is.
Pity too, because Harrington was actually doing pretty good; not nearly as good as Billy’s devil may care attitude, but definitely enough so that he would’ve just written it off entirely if it had only been the boys there in the window, one part “this is none of your business” and another “God, do you never shut the fuck up” that he’d been pulling off almost effortlessly. Probably because Harrington does stare Billy down like he’s some small, dead, half-rotten thing stuck on the soles of his overpriced white sneakers.
Billy doesn’t think he imagines the way Harrington deflates in defeat when he realizes the gig is up, how his voice changes entirely into something more honest, almost raw, explanation on the tip of his tongue, except he doesn’t give him the chance. Fool me once, yada yada.
He only pays the creepy house’s equally creepy interior half a mind, even less than that, zeroing in on Maxine and her friends easily, because the idiots are just standing there like they’ve somehow grown roots on the spot and can’t just make a run for it through the fucking windows or a back door or something. He almost has to be grateful that it’s him who’s gotten saddled with his father’s anger, because he can’t really see her or any of her little friends escape that particular Hell, and they sure as fuck wouldn’t last as long as he’s done staying locked up in it.
Going after Lucas - It’s not easy per se, it’s not entirely logical, but it’s also not some rage-blind move either, not the way it would be for his father, who’s stacked up so many layers of bullshit on top of each other with his reasons and excuses and whatnot. It’s just a blind bet on who will leave this exact moment the most frightened of him. The problem, after all, isn’t just that Lucas is black, and Neil made it clear to Billy that he hates black people in a way he hasn’t done with Max yet, but also the mere fact that he’s a boy, and Max is already pushing it too far with her unladylike hobbies and clothes and attitude. All her friends are boys now? Well, that’s just inviting even more trouble where Neil’s concerned, the kind of trouble Billy is supposed to protect Max from, supposed to nip it in the bud.
It’s just too bad the kid’s got more fire than Billy expects, because he really hadn’t wanted it to go beyond some very loaded talkdown, he really hadn’t wanted it to go beyond the barest roughing up, the kind that Neil gives him when Susan is watching - not the kind the old man dishes out when the house is empty. And even when he keeps running his mouth, when he can barely feel the pain on his groin from everything in his bloodstream, he’s still thinking about keeping it nice and simple, keeping it light, just a little smack, maybe a single punch, one well aimed kick, nothing more. Just something to put the fear of God and the Hargrove men in him, he’s not so far gone that he would actually go and kill a fucking kid.
Steve Harrington however - with his hair still looking picture perfect, eyes dead fucking serious, one or two inches taller than Billy, fingers frigid from the cold he must have been stimming in outside where they dig into Billy’s skin, just below the mid-point of his collarbones…
Yeah, Steve Harrington doesn’t get that same grace extended to him, and all those assertive punches and the spot on ducking do is adding up to the pure unbridled rage consuming him from the inside out, painting his sight so red he almost wonders if he’s gotten some blood on his eyes. Except he’s gotten blood on his eyes before courtesy of his old man, he knows that shit stings like crazy and for once he doesn’t even feel the usual prickle of tears welling up when he gets angry.
Billy smashes a plate on Harrington’s head, because of course he does, there’s no such thing as a clean, by the rules kind of fight unless it’s in a ring and Billy’s not a fucking boxer, thanks. There’s a moment for him to probably recapitulate, get his head back on straight and cool for a second when Harrington takes a few dazed steps away from him and the kitchen, towards the family room where the kids have fanned out around them, cheering The King on and staring at Billy like he’s a fucking monster that should be rid from the face of the Earth. But he’s in too deep, the fire is all consuming, surely Harrington must understand it, the way the fast, loud pumping of his blood drowns out everything but the exhilaration, the sheer euphoria of the fight and the moment.
One of the weird kids - the one with a cap thrown on top of the mop of curls on his head - shouts out a warning but it’s already too late and there’s a fraction of a second when Harrington manages to turn and look at Billy with wide, dark eyes, face pale even through the exertion and framed by his brown hair, still looking ridiculously good. Billy wants to know exactly what it takes to ruin that fucking hair, the face, the whole damned body too, and he starts with a good punch right on the cheekbone, the frenzy of it masking the pain on his knuckles when he overdoes it and hits a shelf too. He doesn’t even know if the flimsy sounding wood splinters under his skin, he’s in that sweet headspace where none of the pain registers.
Billy even gets a real good headbutt that leaves Harrington feeling swayed, almost limp from where he’s propping him up with his own hands. It’s a satisfying sensation after all the bullshit from the past couple of weeks since the Halloween party. But it’s just not enough to make up for the last couple of months, and years, for his whole fucking life, so he pushes Harrington away in the general direction of the window overlooking the front porch, bringing them full circle. He’s not paying attention to anyone or anything but Harrington himself, the way he falls and slides over the smooth, paper-covered wooden flooring to the foot of the large couch, half curling into himself.
Maybe - just maybe - if he had paid even a sliver of attention beyond the bare minimum spatial awareness to everything around him before, if he’d taken an actual look to the drawings, to the smudged stain like coagulated blood near one of the windows, to the vials and syringes littered on a couple of places, then maybe he would have stopped and thought about what in the everloving fuck was going on in the creepy fucking house. Who knows, Harrington might have even shown him what he and the kids had only just managed to stuff into the fridge in place of all the food left on the dinner table and countertops, in lieu of a missing El shaped kid. Maybe if he had taken that chance to stop and backtrack with Harrington, he - or anyone else too, really - would have heard the weird animal-like noises coming from somewhere outside the house.
Instead he gets clued in to the whole fucking mess in perhaps the worst possible way: by getting jumped by something in the vague shape and size of a large dog or small wolf but leathery, cold and disgustingly wet to the touch when his hands push the thing aside and off himself.
The kids had already been screaming up a storm before, first fearing for Lucas, then in praise of Harrington and finally back to terror thanks to Billy - or at least, Billy had thought that had been terror, had just about delighted in it, but the sounds the nerds are making now? That is abject horror like Billy alone could never even hope to cause in another human being short of becoming some sort of a movie psycho killer like Michael fucking Myers. And the worst is that just one good look at the animal and its razor sharp teeth lining the lips on a mouth that opens like a messed up, nightmarish five petal flower, and Billy kinda gets it, almost screams himself.
“What the fuck is that?!” He at least manages to articulate instead of the frankly embarrassing panicked, garbled mess the kids are making, walking backwards and away from the thing disjointedly until he hits the farthest wall with his back, harshly.
The thing makes a noise he doesn’t think he can even describe, part hissing, part growl ,part spittle, part shrill, but the anger behind it at least does come across clearly, to him if no one else in the house. Billy realizes the creature doesn’t even seem to have eyes, so how the Hell is it even aiming its head - is that even its head - at him so precisely? What, is it like a freaking bat or something? It’s not like he can see any ears either for that matter.
“What the fuck?!” He asks again at no one, because it kind of bears repeating and the thing launches at him, mouth open and peeled back, and Billy wanted to make friends with Harrington’s fists, but he sure as Hell doesn’t want to do the same with those teeth.
He ducks out of the way, and he just barely has the brainpower to duck for his left rather than to his right where the other wall is too close to him to really be of any help. Even if he does end up cornering himself, half sitting and half crouching in the narrow space between the wall to his right, the edge of the couch to his left and the stretch of wall next to the shattered window behind his back. If the window looking over the porch were closer to him, or if the couch wasn’t so large and heavy and he could push at it more easily, or even if the damned thing wasn’t right there blocking his way, maybe he could break out through the remaining glass or scrabble his way out and back to the rest of the otherwise open family room. Tough fucking luck though, because that sure ain’t the case.
Billy can hazily make out Maxine’s voice among the Banshee choir losing their minds by the kitchen partition, the only one screaming for him instead of for Harrington, for some fucking reason. Like sure, there’s the fact that Harrington can, in fact, just pick himself up and run with the kids like a bat out of Hell from the nightmare house of horrors like they’re all screeching, but also Maxine fucking hates his guts, he’s made sure of it for a lot longer than just tonight, or even all the sprawling, tedious months they’ve been in Hawkins for. Harrington in comparison, ought to be the movie hero she should be rooting for, even now, maybe especially now of all times.
The thing recovers quickly, quicker than even he had expected after almost braining itself on the patch of wall Billy had been leaning against the previous moment, an indentation left behind with what looks like a smudge of too dark blood. All it really does is get back up on its feet somewhat wobbly and shake its head clear while Billy tries and fails miserably to get on the couch, eyes stuck on the creature like he can’t physically tear them away. It’s just seconds, fractions of, and the thing is back onto him, hissing, spitting and drooling.
Billy watches the rows of teeth approaching with all the dread of a deer that’s only just noticed the wolf stalking it when the hunter jumps out of the bush, but also with all the resignation of it too. Fuck it but he’s exhausted, bone deep, and it’s not like he has anything kinder waiting for him back home and with his dad. Honestly, he made it farther in life than even he expected, nothing to scoff at. Really, he just wishes he’d gotten the chance to talk to his mom one last time, and at least it’s not precious King Steve, who actually gives a shit and will defend the kids from people and sci-fi monsters alike in a heartbeat.
King Steve, who rains down on the thing as lightning-fast and unexpectedly as Billy had done on him, or the creature had on them all, wielding a baseball bat that looks just as hellish as anything else does in this fucked up situation anymore, with gnarled nails poking all over the hitting end of it and the wood tinged with something dark like old dried blood. It’s fast and brutal, far faster and more brutal than Harrington had gone for him, almost like Billy was child’s play in contrast - or, maybe, like he’d been giving Billy little ways out that the creature wouldn’t even be able to take. Billy’s left speechless at the other end of it, watching the mangled corpse of the thing, it’s head looking an awful lot like a squashed fruit, maybe a grape, some of its blood splattered all over Billy himself, the walls, the couch, most of it pooling sluggishly on the floor, its appearance oddly diseased.
So he supposes he can be excused for not really processing Harrington getting all over his face and calling his name with a far too worried and frantic expression to dedicate to someone like Billy, circumstances considered. Billy can just barely see some of Maxine’s red hair poking from behind the older teen.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Billy croaks the moment he does realize it, anything just to shut him up and maybe also wipe that expression off his face too. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Harrington, that thing didn’t even touch me.”
“Okay, shit, okay, good,” Harrington breathes out with so much relief in his voice and face that it makes Billy’s skin itch. “ Jesus H. Christ ,” he adds, almost melting down half on top of Billy.
Almost like he actually cares.
“Can you get up? We should probably get out of dodge now, in case more come here. I’m soft on the Byers sure, but I don’t wanna risk it with the kids,” Harrington keeps talking, first questioning Billy solidly but devolving into a half-dazed sort of mumbling, sitting back on his haunches and checking over Billy without touching him at all, seemingly still unsure. “We can come and help clean up later, or something…”
Wait, what?
“Hold your horses, amigo,” Billy interrupts with a ghost of his previous rage showing through, the sentiment helping him get warmed up again after the cold shock of fear and the chill creeping in through the broken window with the thing . “I’m not going anywhere with you or anyone else except back home with Maxine before my old man blows a gasket, especially not without a fucking explanation. What the shit is going on here, Harrington?”
Harrington looks sharply back up at him, at his face, eyes clear and vaguely alarmed but devoid of any of the prior cool anger or even anything as mild as irritation. There’s a thready line of blood rolling down the side of his face from somewhere high on his head and hidden under his hair, likely from the plate Billy broke on him, and the arc of his left cheek is bruising and swelling faintly, slowly, but he seems to be feeling any of it just as much as Billy’s feeling his scratched up knuckles or his tender nose, which is to say, very little.
“It’s, ah - It’s complicated,” Harrington stutters like Billy’s never heard him do, like he didn’t even think he could, King Fucking Steve. “I don't even know everything, and Hopper, uh, he’ll be back soon. Right, yeah, we should probably wait for him to get back and then, uh -”
“Are you shitting me?” Billy asks, voice deadly even. That at least shuts Harrington up, who stares at him wide-eyed with indecision and trepidation.
“It’s really complicated, I swear,” Harrington says despairingly, almost pleading with him. Well, at least Billy can’t sniff out any traces of bullshit off of him, now. Which gives him very little comfort when his next demand gets drowned by the sudden sounds of his car’s engine starting up. There’s a wild, very brief moment where Harrington and Billy only stare at each other uncomprehendingly, as if neither of them have ever heard a car starting up, as if Billy has never heard his own fucking car’s engine coming to life with a turn of the ignition.
Then they’re frantically scrambling up, off each other and towards the door all at once in a mess of limbs. Billy gets slightly dizzy with the motion, and he doesn’t suppose Harrington’s doing any better, but eventually they manage, just not fast enough to burst out onto the porch in time to really do much of anything to stop the kids from taking off in Billy’s beloved Camaro, Maxine’s red hair a riot in the wind and half pouring out of the driver’s window.
“I’m gonna fucking kill her,” Billy says softly, impressed despite it all. “I’m gonna kill them all.”
“I literally told them to stay put and where I could keep an eye on them, several times, and we can’t forget about Hopper and Joyce, so you’ll have to wait in line,” Harrington growls, sprinting back into the house.
He’s in there for less than a whole minute by Billy’s stunned reckoning, and when he comes back out he’s carrying a load of seemingly incongruent items: goggles, cloth, flashlights, what looks like a kitchen knife and his baseball bat.
“Come on, Hargrove, move it,” Harrington says with the kind of tone that leaves room for no argument as he speed walks to his BMW, throwing everything haphazardly onto the backseat and getting behind the wheel in the time it takes Billy to react and make his way to the passenger’s seat.
The car’s up and running and on its way to catch up with Maxine’s thankfully wonky driving skills - honestly, can she even see the fucking road - in no time, and Billy’s left in an uneasy silence, eyes glued to Harrington’s pissed as all Hell face. The staring might just be getting on Harrington’s frayed nerves too, because it’s a while of madly chasing after the kids that he starts making a conscious effort to relax and sighs.
“Okay fine, we’ve still got a little ways there, so you’re getting the book blurb version.”
“How kind of you,” Billy replies with none of his usual bite, almost worried about whatever it is that’s got him so wind up by now.
“Keep it shut and ask questions later, because I swear to shit if you start making snide comments I’ll use you as bait, even if we don’t need it.”
Billy raises his hands in surrender, notices Harrington’s eyes are strictly on the road and says instead: “Promise.”
Harrington just sighs again. Babysitting really is harder than movies make it look, huh.
“It started last year with Will Byers…”
Before the night is over, Billy helps Harrington and the brats burn down an underground tunnel network that makes him think about the Viet Cong of all things, just gone really fucking wrong , drives half of the so-called Party - fuck, they’re such nerds - back to the creepy Byers house where Maxine makes a quick call home with the littlest addition from Billy possible, cleans the place up with the kids to something that looks vaguely tidy, helps Harrington put some tarp up on the broken windows to stop the chill from coming in and freeze them all, and sits at the couch with the guy to wait for the adults to round back too after making a very, very late dinner for the kids. Harrington takes the time to explain some more of the frankly insane, unbelievable story over their coffee mugs, but also admits with something like guilt and embarrassment that he doesn’t know all of it, not by a long shot.
By the time Maxine and he make it back home, it’s past three in the morning and the only reason his dad doesn’t tear him a new one is because between Harrington, Chief Hopper, Joyce Byers, Nancy Wheeler and Billy himself they manage to concoct a very pretty but also believable enough story to tell Neil and Susan, some shit about Will - Johnathan’s little brother who looks like he’s gone through Hell and back - and the Hawkins Lab and how he went missing last year and all that shit. It definitely borrows from the truth, only omitting everything about Eleven , weird government approved experiments, sci-fi movie monsters and holes to other universes, of course.
When they part, Harrington has a nice purplish bruise high on his cheek that he doesn’t even bother explaining to Hopper or anyone else, and he insists on offering Billy his home, time and energy whenever, if he feels like he needs to talk about any of it. That’s probably the craziest part of the night, Billy thinks.