Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In complete chronological order, starting with prequels:

1. The First Time

2. Body Slam

3. Photograph

4. Goodbye

5. Asshole 

6. Somnambulism

7. Packing Up & Stuffing Down 

8. Educating Billy - Breaking Free

9. Orphan Girls

10. Nail Bat

11. Runaway

12. Hank

13. The Mandated Reporter & The Designated Hugger

14. Xmas Vignette

15. Nicotine

16. Late

17. Billy's Mom (Teen Max)

18. Necessary Boogeyman

19. Birds, Bees & Extreme Discomfort

20. Surprises & Secrets

21. Steve Knows

22. Aces

23. Moral Compass

24. Lost In Translation

25. Bully

26. Daddy Issues

27. Seventeen 1 to Seventeen 2 (The Last Time)

28. Missing Scenes & Misc Requests

29. Freak out

30. The One Time Steve Lost His Chill

31. Unraveled

32. Max Graduates HS

33. Comfortably Numb

34. Golden Arches

35. Homesick

36. Billy's Last Brawl 

37. Hey, Jealousy

38. Steve Harrington Vs Pneumonia

39. The Thing With Max's Mom

40. MIA

41. Parting Ways

42. Legacy

43. Grunc

44. One For The Road

45. Rock On

46. Til Death do us Part (Eventually)

47. Goober

48. Aftermath of The Makeup Scene (in Goober) *Going by strict chronology this could be read as a prequel but might not make sense*

49. The Words

50. Stranger Things (Have Happened)

51. 4H

52. The Final Act

53. Emily & Max

54. The Little Moments in Between

Chapter Text

Billy Hargrove knows he's an asshole.

Hell, catch him at the right time, he might even revel in it.

Growing up with his Dad was all about survival, and survival meant becoming an asshole. Even if that meant most of Hawkins thought he was a sociopath, including his step sister, Max.

Not that she didn't have good reason, after what he'd done to Steve Harrington; after everything he'd done to her.

After Lucas.

When he thought of it at all, Billy liked to tell himself his shitty behavior was necessary; that he'd been preparing Max for life with Dad; toughening her up. After all, he wasn't planning to stay in Hawkins a hot second, once he had that diploma in hand. And with him gone? With him gone, she'd need to learn to watch her attitude, to be on time.....to stay away from "undesirables".

Some part of his brain; that traitorous, dumb, doe eyed part that he had all but shut down by 17 -- knew that his own personal road to hell was being paved with half formed intentions and plenty of bullshit. That same little voice liked to say he probably deserved to be drugged and left on the Beyer's cheap linoleum.

The rest of him was just pissed.

FINE.

Let Max learn the hard way. Just like he had.

Turned out, the old man was even less patient than Billy imagined. Once he stopped trying to manhandle Maxine off the train tracks of Dad's temper, it didn't take long at all. A couple conversations with that spineless wife about how her daughter needed a "firm hand" and he had free reign.

Max started taking her own lumps; he walled up what was left of his conscience, turned up his music, and let it happen.

She snuck out one too many times and got introduced to Dad's belt.
Billy went for a drive and pretended not to know what was happening.

She got caught kissing Sinclair (undesirable, per his father's fucked up values) and there was a Max shaped dent in the living room plaster.
Billy turned up his music and smoked every cigarette he owned.

Smoking in the girls room at almost-14 led to a black eye and a visit from Sherriff Hopper.
Billy swore up and down everything was fine. Then again, so did Max. FOSTER CARE had been carefully explained to her as the only just punishment for kids who ratted to cops.

His senior year, a phone call came in the middle of the night. He heard Susan's voice through the door, thin and urgent.

Max's dad was dead.
Billy's dad said he'd sooner fuck a goat than give "that kid" money to go back to Cali for the funeral.

He heard her sobs through the wall that night and he tried to think she deserved it but....well, the Beyer's kitchen floor had been months ago by then, and this was her father, after all.

He stood outside her door and thought about knocking.

In the end, he shuffled to the bathroom instead; took a leak and went to bed, stuffing his head under the pillow and counting down the days until graduation.

The day after Susan and Dad died, Billy got a letter in the mail. It was a copy of Susan's will, and a piece of cheap writing paper fell out when he unfolded it.

"What the fuck?"

He bent down, cigarette in mouth, and considered squashing it under his boot and leaving it there.

But, he was curious. Maybe she was planning to leave him some money or something, he thought, glancing ruefully at his shithole apartment building.

Dear Billy,

Enclosed is a copy of my will. By the time you get this, you will need it.

Please take care of Max. I know you two aren't close, but I still remember how good you were to her in the beginning. I've made a mess of my life and hers. I think you might be the only one who can understand her.

Maybe you can help each other.

Love,
Susan

He flipped the envelope over, shaded his eyes with a hand, and studied it. Although his box had been stuffed full with about 3 days mail, according to the postmark, this one had just arrived.

In the year that he'd lived on his own, back in good old California (which, the little voice reminded him, was actually not as good as in his memories), he hadn't heard a peep out of anyone in Hawkins, but he figured if she died, someone would have gotten in touch.

Then again, the note said he would need it, by the time it arrived.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He tried to put it to the back of his mind; slammed the mailbox shut without even locking it, and went for a walk to clear his head and have a smoke.

This had to be a prank. Everyone knew he and Max were combustible.

Next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the pay phone, outside the liquor store. He didn't think about why he was suddenly nervous, didn't think about the quarters feeling hot and sticky in his fingers, just dropped them in and dialed the phone.

1 ring. 2 rings.

"Hullo, Hargroves."

"Hey uh, this is Billy," he paused, licking his lips, "who is this?"

"Billy Hargrove?"

"Yeah, man, the fuck do you think?"

There was a pause at the end of the line, an exchange of male voices. A new guy on the phone.

"Kid, this is Chief Hopper, we've been trying to reach you. You need to come home. There's been an emergency."

Billy Hargrove knows he's an asshole.

He also knows, as much as he'd like to deny it, there are other parts to him.

One of those parts is currently yammering away in the back of his skull as he speeds along the interstate, trying to pretend he's not 100% shitting his shorts about whatever the hell is going on at home.

He turns up the music. Smacks the steering wheel. Tries not to think about the will.

By the time he finally gets there, he's got the little voice knocked flat and he's operating on adrenaline. He puts on his poker face and leaves it on while Hopper explains about the car, and the hose; the rags in the windows and the dead couple sitting inside. He keeps it on when he sees the suicide note that amounts to nothing more than one last, giant "fuck you" from his Dad.

He damn sure keeps it on when Max, upon seeing him, starts screaming hysterically and has to be sedated.

The next day she wakes up late, comes out and catches him staring at the papers in front of him. He eyes her warily, and she shrugs, slipping the paper from under his finger tips and muttering. "The hell is this?"

She sounds so much like him that it knocks his poker face right off and he stares at her. Suddenly, she shoves the paper back to him like it burned her, takes a step back and says, "NO."

"Jesus," he says, immediately irritated, "like I'm excited about it? You think I wanna move back to this shithole town and deal with your sorry ass?"

Max is staring at him. Her hair is shorter now, face harder. He can see the wheels turning.

"Look," he says at last, trying for sympathetic but his voice isn't having it, "I've been over and over it all night. I even asked the cop what he could tell me about it. As far as I see it, it's me or foster care."

She stares at him some more and the look in her eye is making him want to punch something but he's not sure why and he doesn't move.

"I can take care of myself. I'll run away." She says at last, sitting in the chair across from him like this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion and he has no reason to object.

And the thing is, he knows he really doesn't. Why should he care what she does, as long as she's no longer his problem? Just because Susan wrote him a few lines on cheap notebook paper?

But...what she'd written about the in the beginning. He has an involuntary flash of looking down to that little red head, bobbing in the sun beside him, sticky fingers holding his hand.

"That's a shitty idea." he says. "How are you going to support yourself?"

She snorts.

"How are YOU going to support me?"

"Well it sure in shit won't be with back alley blow jobs." he shoots back, angry.

That shuts her up. She studies him and he realizes, with a lurch in his gut that he honestly hates, that she knows he's right.

"I could work at McDonald's once I'm 16." She says, but it's half hearted. She sighs. "Look, I know you don't want to do this. I know you have a life back in California. I mean, we can't stand each other." She pauses, licks dry lips, "Maybe I can ask someone..."

A terse laugh escapes from somewhere in his chest, earning him a dirty look. He knows she has no friends left to call, she scared them all away even before he'd peeled out of this town, hell bent for leather. She did, after all, go to the Billy Hargrove school of survival, even if she never passed the final.

Friends are a liability

The seconds tick by.

Billy feels like should say something, but he mostly wants to run like hell, and he figures that's not going to help. He doesn't actually have much of a life "back in California", at all, unless you count an efficiency with broken A/C and a string of girls (and boys, the little voice reminds unhelpfully) who rightfully hate his guts.

Words stall in his throat, and the poker face goes on.

Finally, Max rolls her eyes, pushing off from the table. They both know he's no knight in shining armor. "I got it. It's not your problem, it's mine, and I'll figure it out. Just give me a day or two."

FINE, he thinks, headache blooming between the eyes. Every man for himself, she's right about that. Put a check in the lesson book, she finally figured it out.

He goes out to grab a couple beers but he runs into Harrington and that sure in hell isn't a hornets nest he wants to stick his hand into just yet, so he sneaks out the back and goes home. Goes in his old room, picking things up and putting them down, trying not to think.

He can hear Max's sobs through the wall, just like when her Dad died.

He thinks she must not know he's home.

He thinks she's such an ugly crier.

He thinks he probably owes her one. The little voice gets it's foot in that notch, and then it gets louder; telling him damn straight he OWES her, reminds him what a controlling ASSHOLE he was, reminds him how he turned his back the last time he heard her cries.

Before he knows it, before he can think about it, he's standing in her room with his hands shoved in his pockets and a smoke dangling out of his mouth.

"I'll stay in Hawkins until you graduate." he says, "Just quit fucking blubbering."

If he's expecting gratitude, he's sorely mistaken.

She chucks a water glass at his head.

Billy Hargrove knows he's an asshole, but he thinks he owes Max big time, too. So, he tells himself it's temporary, but he stays.

That doesn't stop him from wanting to kill her half the time.

He tries to establish ground rules a couple weeks after they bury the parents. He has to, because the county isn't altogether thrilled with the arrangement, will or no will, and the social worker spent their entire first meeting giving him the stink eye.

Also, he landed a job at the local garage, and damned if he can't sleep at night knowing she's out all hours. He tells himself, in a very firm internal voice, that he only cares because Dad spent so much time pounding "keep an eye on Max" into his head.

He comes home for a bite at lunch, on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon when she should be at school, and corners her.

"Look," he says, "I really don't give a shit what time you come home but that social worker," he pauses, warily taking in her glare, "if you want this to work you gotta pull it together."

"Fine," says Max, "I'll be home by midnight."

"Ten"

She laughs. "You high?"

He stares at her and she stares back. He used to be able to back her down with that stare, but those days are seemingly gone. She got toughened up, alright, one way or another. He knows he can't give in, but he's thinking about it, just the same, when she buckles; throws her eyes to the table and mutters, "eleven".

"Ten thirty."

Jesus Christ, he feels like he's haggling over a car he already knows is a lemon.

"Fine." She huffs. Crosses her arms. "Whatever."

"No whatever, shitbird. Ten thirty."

She doesn't say anything to that and he resists the urge to turn into his father and demand verbal compliance or start bawling her out for skipping school.

Mentally, he counts to ten.

"And you gotta quit smoking."

"The hell I do!" she shouts, jumping out of her chair.

"Social worker." he sais, voice low and even.

"If I have to quit," she says, "so do you."

"If I quit, I will kill you." He says, matter of factly. They both know that is quite possibly true. Smoking is one of the few things that keeps him calm.

"What else?" she asks, petulant.

"Grades." He grits out, and then, with an exaggerated glance around the kitchen, "And no more skipping."

"Fuck you, Billy. You barely graduated, you don't get to talk to me about grades."

That is it. 100% it. He's on his feet fast enough to wobble the chair on its legs. "For the last time," he says, loud but (he assures himself) not yelling yet, "it's not ME, it's the county. If you want to make this work and stay in this house and not have to go live with strangers, this is what you have to do."

She gets on her feet, too.

"And what do YOU have to do, while I'm doing all this?"

"Oh, I don't know, Max," he's shouting now, all attempts at patience gone, "maybe what I'll have to do is put my life on hold and come back here to a place I hate to help your ungrateful ass out?"

Those blue eyes narrow to slits.

"I think I'll take my chances with strangers!"

In a flash she's gone. Out and around him in a wide circle, out the front door, down the street. He strides after her but stops at the porch, watching her go.

She needs some time alone, and so does he.

Billy Hargrove might be an asshole, but he knows a long road when he sees one.

They hobble along with the new rules for about a month, mostly half assing things. She comes in at 1045, and it's pissing him off but he pretends he doesn't notice. Smoking is an ongoing argument. She lights them up, he puts them out or smokes them himself, giving her a shit eating grin all the while.

He doesn't ask about her grades, and he starts packing a lunch. He's going for blissful ignorance on the school situation.

Eventually, he goes out to the bar again, and this time Harrington finds him.

"Look what the cat dragged in." the familiar voice says, settling in next to him.

Billy sighs. Rolls his eyes. Waits for Harrington's next move.

"Hey man," is what comes, "sorry about your parents."

He stiffens. This isn't what he expected.

He knows only one of them should be apologizing here, and it's definitely not Harrington.

He nods, curt.

"How's Maxine?"

This earns a bitter laugh, bubbling up from his gut.

"She's a royal pain in the ass." He replies, succinctly.

Now it's Harrington's turn to laugh. "Some things never change, huh?"

They drink their beers in silence, and Billy leaves right after.

Maybe someday he'll apologize for trying to kill Steve. The little voice certainly thinks he should, but he's not exactly on speaking terms with the voice right now. That little fucking voice is what got him doing permanent big brother duty for the next 2.5 years, after all, and he's not feeling too charitable about that at the moment.

When he gets home, she's not there. It's midnight, school night, no Max.

Window is wide open. That goddamn window has caused him enough trouble to last a lifetime, and now he's pissed. Not yelling pissed, but calm pissed. Low voice and few words and brain not working right kind of pissed.

He waits on her bed, dozes intermittently. Thinks about killing her.

He wakes with a start when she bangs her head on the sash coming in, and he's up lightening fast.

"The fuck have you been?"

She at least has the decency to look guilty, for a split second. She reeks of cigarette smoke and beer.

"The fuck have YOU been?" She asks, eyes narrowed, face red. "Didn't see you sitting around reading the Bible tonight, either!"

"Yeah, we are not on the same level here."

"Why?" She sneers, "Because you're some kind of authority now, psycho?"

"Don't call me that."

His voice is deadly quiet.

"Some piece of paper does not mean you own me, Billy!"

"I'm trying to help you." He says, as evenly as possible, trying to keep the red out of his vision because hell if he doesn't hate to be called psycho.

"Please. Like you give a shit about me. Like you EVER have."

Max is swaying in front of him now. He makes to push her onto the bed before she passes out on the floor, but his hand flies out too fast, because he's pissed off so of course it does.

She flinches; hard, whole body type flinch. He swears to god for a split second time stops, and he thinks his guts are on fire.

"I'm not Dad." He says.

His voice is flat, the fight just drained right out of him.

And all of a sudden something in Max has jumped a circuit. She's on him, she's screaming and punching and calling him every name in the proverbial book and he's doing everything, literally everything in his power not to slap the absolute shit out of her because that is an instinct so old he can't even remember it's formation --

--so he just grabs her and hangs on and the next thing he knows she is sobbing so hard her whole body shakes and he's hanging on to her for defensive purposes, but hanging on none the less, and the goddamn little voice is crowing triumphantly in the back of his head.

When it's over, she promptly pukes down the front of his shirt (thank God he buttoned it for once), and passes out on him.

Max feels like walking death.

She sits at the kitchen table and looks at Billy, who is giving her a hard stare, in return.

She remembers breaking down last night, but sometimes.....despite her best intentions, she has become an asshole, too. Just like him. She'd rather pretend it didn't happen. She isn't ready to go there yet, and probably won't ever be, truth be known, so she's sitting on autopilot and waiting.

He grounds her for two weeks, because he's snuck enough girls (and a couple boys, shut the fuck up little voice) out of enough bedroom windows to know how normal people handle this shit, and she doesn't say a word. Not even an eye roll. She's not committing to anything, but she's not fighting it, either. If she gives an inch, her emotions might take a mile.

"Got it?" He says, when she doesn't respond.

She studies him; remembering that tone and that posture from what seems like a million years ago. Anyone who doesn't know him might think he's perfectly relaxed, but that tone actually means quite the opposite. It means he's not fucking around.

But the way he says "Got it?" reminds her of Neil, and it rankles.

"Three weeks?" He asks, when she still hasn't replied, and he's the picture of politeness, smiling like the damn Cheshire cat. He takes out a cigarette and lights it up right in front of her.

"2 Weeks," She mutters. "Got it."

She gets up and goes back to bed. Prays for death.

She has a dream about Lucas, she's talking to him on top of the old school bus. She's saying she doesn't want to be like Billy, but when she looks down those are his hands.

She wakes up in a cold sweat.

Two weeks last about 3 days and she can't explain why, really, even in her own head. Maybe some part of her thinks having Billy back in a position of authority over her will never end well. It's only a matter of time before he loses it and does something stupid, or chucks her ass into the system and walks away.

Or both.

In any case, she'd much rather cut to the chase than waste her time and optimism (HA. HA.) on a guaranteed heartache down the road.

Of course, she's not consciously thinking this when she walks to the quarry after school and stays there, shivering and stubborn, until well after the stars are out. She's not thinking it when Hopper shows up, either. She's just thinking she hates her life, wishes she could turn the clock back and tell her mom not to marry Neil Hargrove.

And then she's just thinking about her mom.

"Hey, kid."

Max rolls her eyes. Every kid is "kid" to Hopper. Even his own.

"Your brother is....concerned."

"Stepbrother," she corrects, "and bullshit. He's probably thinking up a dozen ways to kill me as we speak."

"Yeah, well" Hopper chuckles, "the two kind of go hand in hand you know?"

She kicks a rock and doesn't say anything.

"You gonna take me home?"

Long pause, followed by, "You be safe there?"

Max considers the question and shrugs.

"Safer than I was six months ago."

Twenty minutes later Hopper finds himself wedged into a worn kitchen chair at Casa de Hargrove, listening to these two siblings, because no matter how many times they correct him, he knows these kids have seen enough shit together to be good as blood, try to verbally eviscerate each other.

It's all good, really, because he's thinking of a plan while they go at it like roosters in a cock fight, and when he's ready, he stands up, puts his hands out, and barks an authoritative "SIT."

Billy stands there, eyeing him with dark, glittering eyes. Hop runs a hand over his face and gestures widely to a chair. He can tell the kid has grown in the year out from under his father's fist, but still has a hell of a long way to go.

"I'm good." says Billy.

Joyce's voice drifts through his mind, telling him to choose his battles when it comes to kids. He figures twenty year old punks apply, in this case.

"Suit yourself. I've got a couple things I want to say and I want you both," he pauses, levels a look at each of them in turn, "to shut up and listen."

Hopper surveys the kids in front of him. Both have short hair, now. Both are giving him the exact same look. He doesn't understand why they can't see it. Why they don't get that they're fighting the same enemy.

He clears his throat.

"OK. First." He points at Max, "I hate to break it to you, but your brother--"

"Step brother."

"-- is right about social services. That social worker, I've talked to her and she feels the same way I do."

"And how's that?" Asks Bill, a flicker behind shuttered eyes.

"That a 20 year old delinquent in charge of a 15 year old delinquent is bound to fail."

The Bobsy twins share side long glances. Hmm. Hopper files that under "useful information". If authority wants them to fail they might just kill themselves trying to succeed.

He takes it one step further.

"I'm not saying anything groundbreaking here," he continues, face full of earnest casual, "hell, I'm sure your Dad woulda felt the same way."

"Fuck you." Says Bill, but it's soft. It's a thinking curse.

Wheels are turning.

"Yeah." Hopper clears his throat, lets this second disrespect pass. "Anyway, my point is that social worker is WAITING for you to fail. And those rules," he pauses, catching Max's eye, "they're nothing compared to the rules you'd have in a county run group home."

She's staring at the table now, and Billy is staring at him. Hopper knows the kid isn't dumb, and he's not crazy either. Fact is, he's razor sharp and he rarely misses a thing. He sees what Hopper just did, and he's evaluating. Hopefully he's putting it in his bag of parenting tricks, thinks the Chief, because Lord knows his bag's pretty empty at the moment.

Hopper softens his voice. "Don't think of them as Bill's rules," he says to Maxine, "think of them as a contract you have with the county. You break them too many times, I get called to go find you too many times....and that social worker's gonna smell blood in the water." He pauses. Lets that sink in. "Look, I'm gonna be straight with you, she's just trying to do her job. She's trying to look out for you. Maybe a group home is what you need."

He glances up to see an angry flash of blue. He knows the way abusive parents use the threat of the system to their own end and he thinks it sucks. But at the moment, he's got bigger fish to fry. The fact of the matter is, if Maxine goes in the system, she will most likely hit the streets soon after.

That, is a scenario Chief Hopper would rather avoid.

"You say you want to stay here," he says, "that's the price."

He clears his throat, takes a breath.

"Second," he continues, pointing at the boy while he has his attention, "don't you let me ever, EVER, hear that things are getting physical."

Billy snorts. "Tell her that."

"I'm telling BOTH of you," he says, using a combination of Dad voice and cop voice that he hopes will drive the point home. "But you're bigger than her, and it's no secret your self control is shit."

"I'm not my father."

"Yeah? Well, Harrington's face said different a couple years ago." Hopper replies, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "If you've got things reigned in now, I can respect that, but you're gonna have to prove it first. Here's your chance."

They stare at each other. Max doesn't say a word.

"I'll be fine." Bill says, at length, tone a clear indication that this particular topic has a giant "do not enter" sign on it.

Hopper shrugs; he's made his point. It's hard to learn restraint when nobody's ever shown you any, but the kid needs to learn on the job now, and fast.

"Third," he says, "you both need to start thinking hard about who you are really pissed at, and why."

Two sets of startled eyes jerk in his direction before identical shades of indifference are put back in place.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, I said it. Engage your brains, work some shit out, have an actual honest conversation. Knock off the tough guy routines and communicate." They are both looking at him like murder now but he's not particularly bothered. "You're both mad at your parents. You're both pissed off at how damaged you are. You know what? Too bad. They thought you were fuck ups, so prove 'em wrong. Put in the work; say the hard stuff.....bottom line you either get your shit together or this isn't gonna work."

Nobody says anything, so he gets out of the chair, jams his hat on his head, and sees himself out the back door.

Let them chew on that one a while.

Billy Hargrove knows he's an asshole, but right now he's still so pissed at Max that he can't even see straight, and the Chief's words are zinging around his skull like bullets in a barrel, so when she looks at him, he says "Clock starts over. Two weeks."

And he walks away. He doesn't speak to her for 3 days, because he doesn't know where to begin; because he thinks if he shows her any weakness she'll take it and run.

Because he's confused as fuck.

But she stays home. Comes right in after school. Does her homework. Still smoking, but he figures there's only so much hypocrisy he can dish out at a time, and she at least has the decency to hide it, so he lets that one go.

On the third day she makes breakfast. Good breakfast too, not just half warm leftovers or burnt toast. Scrambled eggs. Some bacon Susan probably bought months ago, dredged up from the depths of the freezer.

Coffee.

She sets him a plate, so he sits, cautiously. Looks at her. She has bed head, red hair hanging in her eyes.

"What's this about?" he asks, voice rusty and strange to his own ears.

She shrugs. "Been thinking about what Hopper said."

He nods. Takes a bite.

"Me too."

Max looks at him then and for one second of sheer panic, he thinks she's going to cry.

"Sorry." She says.

He swallows, contemplates what the little voice is telling him to do, and blurts out, "Me too."

They eat breakfast. They both know what just happened is huge.

They're both determined not to think about it.

Things work for a few months. They don't get any insurance money, because Dad and Susan committed suicide, but Max does get social security and Billy hasn't managed to piss off his new boss, yet.

They are getting by well enough that they take a quick road trip back to California. They need to get Billy's stuff out of that apartment, if the landlord hasn't already chucked it. So, they load up his meager possessions in the middle of the night and he skips out on the back rent.

They aren't doing that well with the money.

He lets Max play some of her shitty music on the road, and he doesn't even yell when his tiny, black and white TV slips from her fingers and tumbles down the stairs. They drive to her Dad's old house and sit in the car, staring at it. They're both thinking about the garage back in Hawkins; the one they avoid like the plague, but neither says it.

He pats her head when she tears up.

She says THANK YOU.

A month later, she steals his car and leaves town.

Billy is so fucking mad, he feels like any headway they made just went out the window.

He feels like the Chief is a moron.

He feels like Max may be beyond reason and he seriously just wants to beat her ass to make a point.

He feels like his dad must have thought the same thing.

He realizes what he's thinking, and calls Hopper for help.

Chief pulls her over about twelve miles out of town, and he's not amused.

"You're lucky it was me and not someone else." he says.

"It's like you WANT to fail at this." he says.

"Call me if your brother loses his shit too much." he says, softer. "He might be an asshole, but he's trying."

Max is sitting on the couch and Billy is, in fact, losing his shit. He's thrown the phone and punched the wall and he's just about paced a hole in the stretch of floor in front of her -- but he hasn't touched her and he's learned enough to know that doesn't mean he deserves an award. He hasn't even called her any names except UNGRATEFUL BRAT and damned if she didn't at least deserve it.

Finally he calms down enough to ask, "The fuck were you thinking?"

She doesn't have an answer and somehow that's worse.

He loses it all over again, tells her to get out. He's right in her face and that's too close.

She's on her feet.

"Go Max! Stay Max! Sit Max!"

He levels a murderous look at her.

"If I have to look at you another second I can't be responsible for what I might do."

She walks to the quarry, and it starts to rain.

Perfect.

She knows Billy's coming before she sees the car. She can hear it.

He grinds to a halt on the road below where she's sitting.

"Get in."

"I thought you didn't want to look at me."

"Maxine," he says, voice level, "get in the fucking car right now or I'll call Hopper."

She doesn't want to deal with that again so soon. Can't face more of the Chief's disappointment.

The car is warm and dry, and Billy is staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. After a few miles, he pulls over, and she thinks "This is it, he's finally going to kill me."

But he doesn't.

He knows he's running out of options with Maxine. He won't do things the way his father did, and he can't go back to doing things the way he did before. Not after realizing how much damage it did.

"Explain yourself." he says, trying to sound neutral.

Max is looking at him. She doesn't seem to know where to begin and that is a sensation so intimately familiar that he sighs, and says, more out of desperation than anything: "Fine. I'll start."

She scoffs.

"Shut up and listen, smart ass, because you're on my last fucking nerve."

He glares at her. She glares back.

He counts to ten in his mind. Then twenty.

Takes a deep breath.

"You don't really know why you took off with the car, right? You were feeling like things were going too good, like things can't ever stay good and you'd rather be the one to fuck them up because at least way you're in control."

He glances at Max. She's staring hard at her hands in her lap. She doesn't say anything.

"Look, I get it." He pauses. No sign of life from her, so he plows ahead. "I mean, I'm the world's biggest fuck up and I have a track record of only being nice to people when I need something. You don't think you can trust me."

She keeps looking at her hands. He's waiting for a 'fuck off' but what he gets is a nod, barely perceptible, but there.

"Can't really say I blame you." He mutters. He's not sure if she hears but then there's movement in his periphery, and he can feel her eyes. It makes him vulnerable; makes him want to run, want to push her out of the car; go for cigarettes and never come back....anything.

But.

At some point he's started wanting this to work.

He's thinking if she ever finds that out, he's screwed.

He shakes his head. The little voice is telling him KEEP GOING. It's drowning out the other parts.

It's time to own some shit.

"I had this fucked up idea" he begins, lighting a smoke and taking a long drag, "that I was protecting you from Dad by keeping you away from Lucas Sinclair. And don't get me wrong, Max," he glances at her, guarded eyes in a hard face, "I was protecting my own ass, too. You know how he was."

She gives him one nod, and he wants to laugh, even though it's not funny. She's not giving an inch, and he knows right where she learned it. His chicken came home to roost, all right.

"Even though you had no clue that was what I was up to, in my head....fuck if I know......it was like I was trying to keep you from driving off a cliff and you just kept hitting the gas."

He steals a side long glance, and she takes the opportunity to pluck the cigarette right out of his hand. She takes a deep drag; doesn't even have the courtesy to look sheepish.

"I didn't know," she mutters, sounding defensive, "you coulda just told me what your deal was."

Billy bites back the urge to snap. "In case you haven't noticed," he replies, as evenly as possible, "the way I grew up didn't exactly teach me the worlds best communication skills."

She hands his cigarette back, wordless.

"I know," he says, "it's a shitty excuse."

"Yeah," She lifts a shoulder, "it is. But it's the truth. And I get it. Maybe nobody else would, but I do."

He studies her in the low light of the dash, lets a couple minutes drift by.

 "That's the same way I lost my friends." She says, at last.

"Friends are dangerous," he agrees, "they ask questions you can't answer. They think they're helping but they're only making shit worse."

She nods. "Lucas thought he could fix things, right?" She catches his eye, and they exchange sardonic glances. "In his family, somethings wrong and they have a family meeting and work it out."

Billy scoffs. "And Dad thought white skin made him better."

"Yeah," she pauses, "but the thing was, he didn't know any other way. He thought, like, if we talked about it enough, or made a plan to talk to Neil, or called Hopper--"

She lets that dangle, and it's fine, Billy knows this path by heart; doesn't need a compass.

He sighs.

"When I beat up Steve Harrington, part of it was because I hated how good he was. No problems at home. King of the high school." He taps the steering wheel like he's ticking offenses off a list. "Drove a BMW. Lived in a nice house. People respected him. And I know what I did to him was wrong. I do. But you know.....when you're life's a mess and someone like that comes along--"

"I know."

"And Lucas was just--"

"Neil?"

He blows out a stream of smoke. Nods. "That and I needed someone to hate. I can't put it all on Dad."

Max seems to still in his peripheral vision; solidify.

"I know it wasn't just Dad." he repeats. "I told myself I was trying to help but c'mon....I mean I knew I was taking my shit out on you, too. You get pushed around all your life it starts to feel good when you get to be the one doing the pushing. Not gonna lie." He pauses, takes a deep breath and muses about how fucking hard honesty is.  "After you drugged me, I twisted it around in my head like you were an ungrateful bitch who wouldn't take my advice. Like I was the victim."

"You coulda killed Steve." She says, but her voice is flat, non-accusatory.

"I know." He replies. "I think I should thank you for knocking my ass out or I'd probably be somebody's prison bitch right about now."

"Your Dad used me as an excuse to control you," she says, slowly, "and you used him as an excuse to control me. I get that. But the thing is, he was a grown up. You were just a kid."

Billy's throat closes up and he just sits there trying to breathe, because he can feel the way she's looking at him and fuck if he can take empathy from her. Fuck if he can.

"I can see how you felt like you hated everyone." She looks in her lap now, mutters, "How you could hate me."

"Max--"

She changes the subject so fast it feels like violence, wiping angrily at her eyes, "I hated people with their fucking sympathy, more than anything."

"I'm sorry."

She turns her head to look out the window, into the darkness. Mutters something he didn't even realize he needed to hear: "It's ok."

The only sounds now are the whirring of the heater, but he doesn't push it. He figures they don't need to do all their soul searching in one night. He's not going anywhere.

After a few minutes, he clears his throat. "Guess Jim Hopper never gave up."

"No kidding," she looks at him with an eye roll, "I would have been throwing us a bon voyage party the second I found the bodies."

 Billy Hargrove knows he's an asshole. But he doesn't so much revel in it, anymore.

The next day, he gives Max a very animated lecture about how she's not allowed to touch his car for at least another year. And then he lets it go.

Because Max is an asshole sometimes, too. And he gets that.

Over the next few months, he starts to notice signs of the nerd patrol. There's a note in the laundry, carefully folded up like a football, with her name on it.

Next comes a friendship bracelet of the type he's seen Jane Hopper making.

Eventually, a walkie shows up in her bedroom again.

Soon after, the pasty little Beyers kid is on their doorstep, his mom waving hesitantly from the car.

Mike and the weird kid, the one with the fake teeth -- they are next.

Lucas Sinclair is last. He's a tough kid, and Billy's surprised to discover he actually likes him best. He catches him on the back porch one day, and they have a man to man.

Billy apologizes for real.

They've rebuilt a lot of bridges, but the one that bothers him most is still in embers.

So, one night while Max is at a sleepover, probably smoking the cigarettes she stole from his top drawer and drinking beers snuck from the Chief's fridge, he heads to the bar.

By the grace of some God he gave up on long ago, Harrington is there, with an empty seat beside him.

Billy sits down.

Brown eyes flicker in his direction.

"Hargrove."

"Harrington." He says. There must be something in his voice, because Steve turns around fully, and looks. Billy spits it out: "Sorry, man. About the thing," He sucks at apologizing, and he knows it. "you know, in '84. What I did -- it wasn't right. None of it."

They stare at each other a few seconds and then Steve shoulder checks him lightly and says, "Just buy me a beer, asshole. We're all good."

Chapter Text

One year on from Susan and Neil's death finds Billy and Max eating pizza in an unfamiliar living room, surrounded by half unpacked boxes; Friday the 13th blaring out of the TV.

They've recently moved, that "one month plus security thing" was brutal on his wallet, thank you very much, into a house that's actually in worse shape than the old one.....but at least it doesn't have death and bad memories lurking down every corridor. And since that was the point, neither really cares that the woodwork doesn't match, the floorboards creak, and the toilet doesn't flush right.

 OK, fine, the toilet thing is gross, but whatever.

At this point in his life, Billy Hargrove is regularly cursing "the little voice". But he's also listening to it more. It's a weird, weird place to be.

He cuts his eyes to Max. She's newly 16 and ranking about a 50 on a scale of 1 to 10 for teen girl moodiness, although she seems pretty satisfied by watching Jason Voorhees in his ski mask, slashing people up, at the moment. In an attempt to spend the anniversary as quietly as possible, he'd sprung for the cheese and pepperoni, and even let her have a beer she doesn't have to sneak.

"Don't tell anyone." He'd said, holding the can just out of reach.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Max," he says, giving her a hard look, "for real. Not even your nerdy friends. Maria turned out pretty cool, for a social worker, but shit gets around."

And Maria actually is pretty cool, despite her earlier doubts about the situation. At some point, she seemed to have decided they are under dogs worth rooting for, and now spends an hour every other week mediating while they loudly air grievances in her depressing, county issued office space.

Max salutes, and he dismisses the urge to smack her; settles for an eye roll.

See? Progress. He's got it comin' out the ass.

They are 30 minutes into the movie when someone knocks on the door and Max jumps so high she spills her beer all over the couch.

"What the--" he's up and glaring down at her through heavy lids, "did you invite your little shitbird friends over or something? I told you I don't want a fuss."

"No!" she says. "Who invites people over to celebrate their parents dying?"

"We are not celebr--" he's interrupted by more knocking, changes track, "--that is now my beer." He plucks the dripping can out of her hand and sets it on the coffee table, before heading for the door and giving it an irritated yank.

What he finds at the door momentarily derails his attitude. Not only is the nerd patrol on his front porch, they've brought company.

"Harrington?"

"Hey, buddy," says Steve, like they're life long best friends and not two guys who make awkward small talk at the bar on occasion, "kids said they wanted to come see Max tonight."

Billy zones in on Lucas. Ironically, this is the one he has the best relationship with. Lucas is tough, logical, and he tells the truth even when it sucks -- all traits he can vastly appreciate. "What the hell?"

"Figured she could use some company." Lucas replies, deftly weaseling himself under Billy's arm and coming inside. "Mad Max! What's up?"

And just like that, they have guests. Steve stands on the doorstep, looking uncertain.

"Wanna come in, Mother Hen?" asks Billy, smirking.

"No, yeah. I was just, uh," his hand shoots to the back of his neck, "you know, I mean it's shitty out."

Billy steps onto the porch and takes an exaggerated look around. It is raining, but not hard. Not enough that Steve really needs to act as chauffer, because, let's face it, those kids aren't made of sugar. Nobody's in danger of melting. "Yeah, man. All this....water. It's deadly."

"Listen," Steve narrows his eyes, "they might be able to drive, but they don't have cars yet. They needs rides sometimes. Don't be a dick."

"Dick is my default." He shrugs, smirking some more. Then, right when he can see Harrington's clearly flustered and turning to leave, he says, "Nah, c'mon, I'm just bustin' your balls. I'm not really in any position to talk. I still have eighteen more months of permanent babysitter duty. Come in and have a beer."

"Counting down the months, huh?" Steve stands there with that ridiculous hair, regarding him, then steps back onto the porch. "Yeah, ok." He says, "Just one though. Driving."

Driving. God, he's still such a golden boy, thinks Billy, as they walk back through the door. The quiet of the living room has turned into something like a rock concert in their absence. Little Byers is in his kitchen making popcorn he wasn't even aware he owned, Lucas is sitting way too close to Max, and Dustin is already bickering with Mike over some trivial, nobody-else-on-earth-gives-a-rats-ass-about detail from the movie.

He arches an eyebrow at Max, and she snuggles an inch closer. She pops a kiss onto Lucas' cheek and sticks her tongue out.

Steve has not missed this interaction, because of course he hasn't. "Eighteen months, huh?" He practically purrs with self satisfaction, "Makes sense now."

There's popcorn all over the floor, the place smells vaguely of teen hormones and farts, and they're half way through the movie when someone slips. It's not a big slip, but Billy is sharp and looks like a brainless pretty boy, so he's pretty regularly underestimated, and this is no exception. Some blonde bimbo in the movie bites the dust, in full bloody regalia, when Dustin snickers, pops his thumb at the screen and says, "She shoulda had a nail bat!"

The room seems to still, only for a second, but long enough for Billy to notice the furtive glances sent in his direction. Long enough for him to realize, way down in his gut, that the something more he always felt under the surface of this shit stain town was not, in fact, in his imagination.

There's a loud knock at the door then, making everyone jump, and Max makes a suspiciously hasty exit to answer it.

"Hey, Red."

It's the chief, whom, at some point in the past year has traded kid, for red, with regard to Max. Billy figures he's probably dropping his spooky, curly headed daughter off, because sure, why the hell not? Wasn't half of Hawkins High already here?

He and Hopper exchange nods and he sees the guy do a quick visual cruise around the living room to take in the lay of the land before he leaves his precious cargo behind.

"One hour." he grumbles to the girl, before pulling her into a tight, one arm hug and letting her wiggle away. Then he leaves, quick as he came.

 "Maxine." says Billy, and fuck him but it's sharp. He can't help it. Someone has obviously planned this shit, despite his express wishes for a quiet, anonymous night; his stepsister is sitting way too close to a person with ownership of a dick, and now the nail bat is burrowing under his skin like a tick with a bad attitude. "Kitchen."

"But--"

"Now."

He goes in the kitchen and waits. After a minute or so, here she comes, looking equal parts embarrassed and nervous.

"Can you not treat me like a 3 year old in front of my friends?"

"How did all these kids know to come here tonight? And Hopper?"  

Max looks at him like he's crazy. "I don't -- they know it's the one year anniversary, ok? They're not dumb. They probably did it to, you know," she slows her speed so it seems like she's addressing a toddler,"be nice? See, it's a thing some people--"

 "Don't."

She sighs. "What's the big deal? Plans change. Besides, I don't know about you, but this is making me feel better than I have all week."

He studies her, and she studies him back. "The fuck with the nail bat, Max? You think I don't remember that?"

"Dustin." She mutters venomously. "Big mouth."

"Answer me." He grinds out, "There's something up around here, and I've been patient. I put my ass on the line for you this year, and you know I hate secrets."

Lies, he means, and they both know it. He has a thing about lying, and as far as he's concerned dishonesty and secrecy are back door cousins.

"Look," she says, shifting feet uncomfortably, "I can't make that decision on my own. OK? It's not that simple."

"No." He says, voice flat, "Not OK."

She sighs. "Give me a few days to work on them--"

"Now. Or I go throw everyone out and if you think you're embarrassed now...."

"Billy."

"Max?"

Steve Harrington pops his head in the kitchen. "Everything ok?"

Max turns to him, hands in the air. "He wants to know." she says, sounding exasperated and dangerously close to tears.

As it sinks in that Steve Fucking Harrington knows about a situation that he's not allowed to, Billy finds his blood pressure shooting from angry  to over it. He makes for the living room but she grabs the back of his tee shirt.

"OK!" she squeaks, "I'll tell you! Please! Just don't be weird! I finally have my friends back!"

Steve watches them scuffle, heaves a sigh, and heads for the living room, calling for quiet as he goes. Gets it pretty quickly, too, Billy notes with irritation. Way faster than he, himself, could have.

"We have to tell Billy." He says, at last, when the eyes are on him. The silence explodes into a chorus of outrage. Even with Max tugging a hole into the back of his shirt, Billy can pick out a variety of denials ranging from no way to you fucking crazy, Steve?

The only one who doesn't say anything is Lucas. He glances toward the situation in the kitchen, clears his throat, and loudly says, "OK."

Everyone stops to stare.

"That's just because you wanna get in Max's pants!" Mike Wheeler blurts out, causing Billy to casually wonder what size casket the kid will require.  

At that, Max lets go of his shirt and practically flies into the living room. "HEY!" she bellows, "NOT COOL."

Lucas rolls his eyes. He looks from Max to Steve to Billy, seems to steel his resolve.

"He's changed a lot in the last couple years," he says, "and I should know. I know Max better than anyone. I'm her best friend. She said he's trying to be a better person, and if it's good enough for her, it's good enough for me."

Billy's face feels like it's on fire upon hearing those words. He realizes, in an avalanche of shame, that threatening to embarrass her in order to get his way was a dick move. Abuse of power, the little voice hisses at him, chip off the old block.

She doesn't look at him, but Steve does. He seems to catch his moment of vulnerability, and lifts a shoulder.

"Yes." says Hopper's kid in a clear, succinct voice, before giving Mike an elbow and admonishing, "Not nice, what you said."

Steve clears his throat. "Well, that's 4 to 2 for telling him."

 "I never said how I would vote." Max's head jerks up, face twisted.

"Even without your vote, we'd still win." Steve reminds her, gently.

She glares at Billy through the doorway.

"Max gets the final word."  he says. They exchange a few seconds of sibling-not-sibling telepathy that mostly involves sorry for pulling a Neil on you, on his part, and a big old fuck off, on hers.

She huffs audibly, but mutters a begrudging, "Fine."

So begins the education of Billy Hargrove. They talk over themselves a lot, and there's a fair amount of bickering (because, he notes, they can't do anything without bickering) but eventually they lay things out, right up to his balls almost becoming pincushions.

He ignores the intense level of joy that part seems to bring them.

When they're done, he notices that Jane Hopper hasn't said a word. In fact, if he's honest, she's looking pretty annoyed. "You guys left some parts out." she says.

"He doesn't deserve that much trust." Mike says, eyeing Billy with blatant animosity, "And Hopper will kill you."

She gives Mike a soft look, then promptly ignores him.

"My Papa was a bad man," she begins, matter of factly, "just like yours."

That night, Steve drives all the little shits home, and then he comes back.

Max is asleep on the couch and Billy is sitting there feeling disgruntled that she's wearing his Megadeath tee shirt without permission, and trying to process what just happened.

"Life was so much easier when I didn't give a shit about anything." he mutters to himself.

That time never really existed, dumbass, says the little voice, but he doesn't have time to reflect on the honesty in that statement, because the front door pops open and here comes Mr. Hair Club For Men. He waltzes right toward the kitchen, grabs two beers out of the fridge, and parks his (mighty fine, but who's looking, certainly not Billy) ass in the recliner.  

He can't believe the balls on this guy.

"You fucking mind?" he demands.

"Nah," says Steve, nonplussed, "not really." He holds out a cold one like it's some kind of gift and not beer Billy actually purchased with his own damn money. "You feel better or worse now that you know?"

Billy stares at him. Tries to be pissed off, but it's been a long day.

"Things make a hell of a lot more sense," he admits, grudgingly, "but that's all I got for right now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Harrington. What's your deal? Why are you here?"

Brown eyes meet blue. Billy breaks first, pretends to stare at his beer. It unnerves him. He never breaks first, and he most decidedly does not want to think about why he did in this case.

"I came back because they don't know the whole story. There's more you need to know, but it's a secret."

He pointedly glances at Max.

Billy rolls his eyes, calls Steve a drama queen under his breath, and gives her ankle a healthy shake. When she doesn't stir, he climbs reluctantly out of the chair and heaves her off the couch in a movement that looks far easier than it is -- Max is fit but solid.  He deposits her onto her unmade bed and tosses a ratty afghan over her on his way to the door.

Steve is regarding him thoughtfully, but he can sense the amusement around the edges, and it makes him defensive.

"She's still a bitch." He mutters, but it lacks the venom it once had and all Steve gives him in response is an arched eyebrow. "Fine," he grumbles, "what's the big story?"

Steve takes a long drink of beer, sets the half empty can on the coffee table, and says, "There are still monsters out in the woods. They didn't all go back in. Some of them," he pauses, thinking, "I don't know, they mutated or something. Hopper can explain it better than I can but, when they couldn't go home, they sort of....adapted."

This new revelation is met with silence, followed by, "Fuck you, Harringon. Very funny. Now go home. I've had a long day."

"Bill," he says, and his voice is dead serious, "you think I voted for telling you out of the kindness of my heart? Huh? Think about it. If anyone in this town knows how hard you can swing, it's me."

Oh buddy, thinks Billy, you have positively no idea how hard I swing. But then he thinks about the prospect of otherworldly monsters in the woods of Hawkins; of red headed stepsisters wielding nail studded baseball bats; of Steve's face under his fists.

"What's your point?" He asks, and if he sounds a little sad then, well, fuck it. He is sad.

"I've been trying to think of a way to tell you for months now." Steve says, then nods toward Max's bedroom, "And nobody wants them to know, either, because it's too damn dangerous now. They're just kids."

Billy chews on that a minute. "By my calculations they're the same age you and Jon and Nancy were when little Byers went missing."

"Will. And yeah. But they weren't as dangerous then. I mean, for one thing, Jane used to be able to sense them but.....now they seem to be slipping right under her radar."

"Adapting." Billy mutters thoughtfully. "So you guys are trying to kill them on your own?"

"Yeah, but there aren't enough of us since Jon and Nance left for school. Now, it's only me, Hopper, and Joyce."

"So that's what you want? To recruit me to this monster killing dream team of yours?"

"Would you want Max out there instead?" Steve retorts. His answer arrives in the form of a glare that implies painful death and a shallow grave. He shrugs. "It's a good stress reliever, seems to me you could use that."

"Maybe."

Steve considers the tight, defensive tone that means he's clearly touched a nerve. He takes a moment to marvel at what a year of legal guardianship has done to Billy Hargrove, former King of looking out for number one, now worrying about Max's safety and trying to reign in that temper.

"Hey," he says, "if it helps, you're doing better than anyone expected."

"Oh yeah," Billy drawls, "that's real nice of you, Harrington. I feel a shit-ton better now. Everybody had bets going, huh?"

"I lost twenty bucks." Steve replies, unashamed. "So, you in or what?"

Chapter Text

No less than 24 hours later, Billy finds himself sitting across from Chief Hopper, watching his eyebrows practically knit themselves into a sweater. He's torn between wanting to laugh his ass off and wanting to kick his step sister's for landing him here.

Hopper tosses a carefully rolled down paper bag across the desk and grimaces.

"Look," he says, "I paid for the uh," he offers up a vague wave of the hand at the offending package, "the stuff. And I talked him into not pressing charges. But she probably shouldn't go into the drugstore for a while," he clears his throat, avoids Billy's eyes, "or, uh, you know.....again. Ever."

Now he definitely wants to laugh. Hopper looks like he'd rather gouge his own eye out with a rusty screwdriver than have this conversation, and Billy doesn't get it. What is it with old guys? He's been with a lot of girls (a lot), is intimately familiar with the female reproductive system and, frankly, doesn't get what the big deal is. Girls bleed. It is what it is.

He spends a distracted moment thinking about the fact that every girl in Hawkins is now batting her eyelashes at him due to some weird thing chicks have about Mr. Moms, and how he's not interested in a single one of them.

Spends another 30 seconds thinking about Patrick Swayze rumbling on the big screen, then he shuts that shit right down

Hopper is looking at him like an irritated school teacher (a look he knows all too well) so he mutters a half hearted, "Sorry, what?"

"I said, for the record, I think Harrington made a big mistake telling you about what we do."

It takes Billy a second to realize what he's talking about, but once he does, it raises his hackles. He can't seem to earn this guys respect, and he shouldn't care, but he does.

He smirks. "Noted." He says, grabbing the offending package, "We done here?"

"Yeah." Hopper stares at him a second longer then, as if he suddenly remembers the real reason Billy is parked in his office, goes for the door with rapid enthusiasm. "Leave her some money now and then," he murmurs before shoving him out the door, "and don't be hard on her. I think she misses her mom."

Oh, sure, just leave some money around. That's a good one, thinks Billy.  He puts his head down, leaves the office, and tosses the bag into Max's lap, where she sits outside the door.

"C'mon," he grumbles, "let's go."

He doesn't say anything while they streak down the road toward home. It's not because he's pissed at Max, though he figures it doesn't hurt to make her sweat, considering she did just knock over a drug store. He's busy stewing over Hopper's lack of faith and Harrington's inexplicable abundance of it, unsure as to which disturbs him more.  He glances at her when they're almost at the driveway. She's staring out the window, arms knotted up like some game of cat's cradle gone wrong. 

Before the car is even in park, she peels out of there and goes directly to her room. He hears the all too familiar sound of her propping a chair under the knob and stops short outside the door.

This is, really, the last thing he needs right now.

"C'mon, Max."

"I don't want to talk about it." She replies succinctly. "I'd rather die."

He rolls his eyes. "That can be arranged.".

No response. He lights a cigarette, sits on the couch to smoke it, and thinks things over. Maxine is a sneaky little shit, and he lets a lot of things go (like his ever dwindling supply of cigarettes or the fact that she spends more time sucking face with Lucas behind the arcade than she does playing games in it) but this really kind of takes the cake. Maria would definitely say they have to talk about it.

On the other hand, the Chief is probably on to something about her missing Susan, and that is a topic he'd rather avoid.

In the end, he decides that getting busted by, not only the store manager, but also the Chief of police, for stealing tampons.....is probably one of the most mortifying things a 16 year old girl can go through.

He spends the evening watching TV, drinking beer, and smoking way too many cigarettes; tells himself he's definitely not staying home so Max won't be alone, even though he and the little voice both know that's a lie. Eventually, he heads to bed, where he spends a fitful night dreaming about pretty boys with big hair who want him to fight monsters and baseball bats studded with nails.

In the morning, he stumbles out, feeling distinctly un-rested, and reluctantly chooses coffee over beer, because he has to set a good fucking example these days. He digs some bargain basement bacon out of the fridge. Sometimes, dealing with Maxine is like dealing with a feral kitten. A constantly hungry feral kitten, he amends, because she can eat like a dude, a trait he'd find endlessly amusing if it weren't so brutal on his wallet.

It take approximately 12 minutes for the bacon to do it's thing. She comes shuffling out, looking miserable. Her eyes are swollen and her hair is-- "Jesus," he says, "you need a shower."

She sits down; glares at him. "Shut up."

Right. Might as well get this over with.

"Listen, I know you miss your mother--"

She's up out of the chair but he sticks a finger in her chest because fuck if he's going to go through getting her out of that bedroom again.

"--and I know you hate your mother, at the same time." He says. "I get that. I do. So, whatever. You don't want to talk about that with me, it's cool. Save it for Maria, if you want."

Max shoots him a skeptical glance, but she does sit back down.

That, my friends, is the power of bacon.

"You coulda just asked me for a few bucks," he says, "but since that's apparently not an option....I'll keep some money in my top dresser drawer for you. You know my top drawer, right? The one you think I don't know you steal cigarettes out of?" She studies her fingernails like one of them just grew a mustache and started quoting Shakespeare. "Yeah." he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Thought so."

She glances up then, and God she looks so miserable he almost kind of wishes they were huggers, because it looks like she really needs one. Maybe he can drive her over to the Byers house. Drop her off, pick her up in 10 minutes, freshly hugged.  

"Sorry." She mutters.

Billy laughs. He can't help it -- he's been holding that shit in for almost 24 hours now.

"Max," he says, "don't do it again. But....in this case? It was worth it just to see the look on Hopper's face."

Later that evening, the very same Jim Hopper has him pinned, nail bat resting uncomfortably on his chest, and he doesn't feel quite so much like laughing.

"If I was a demodog," he informs him, "I'd be eating your guts right now."

Billy pushes upward, letting the nails bite into his chest, forcing the Chief to move. He's got a gun powder burn in the crook of his right thumb, a sore shoulder from swinging that damn bat, and singed right eyebrow.

He's in no mood.

When he gets home, all he's thinking about it a long, hot shower, but Maxine is standing in the living room like an angry wife out of an old time cartoon -- all she's missing are the curlers and the rolling pin.

"We were supposed to do the 'drive and yell' tonight." She hurls at him. 'Drive and yell' is Maxine's charming nickname for their rather explosive driving lessons.

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit."

"I forgot."

"How am I ever going to get my license at this rate? Lucas and Mike already have--"

"I know." He goes to the kitchen. Makes a face at the pan of congealed mac and cheese sitting on the stove. "But you need more practice. You drive like a maniac."

"You taught me!"

"Yeah, Max, and I told you--"

"You told me I should drive better than you. And I shouldn't solve problems with my fists like you did. Or smoke. Like you do. And you tell me that doesn't make you a giant hypocritical asshole."

"I never said I wasn't a hypocrite. And I'm definitely an asshole." He says, head stuck in the fridge. "I just said you should try to be better. You really want to repeat all my dumb shit mistakes?"

She makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a 'fuck you' camouflaged in a cough, and storms off to her room.

Awesome.

"You know," he hollers at her back, "I let you off the hook today, you little felon! Why don't you cut me some slack?"

God, she's impossible. He takes one last look at what was passing for dinner, and crashes on the couch; daydreams about Steve Harrington dying a slow, painful death for making his life even more complicated.

Chapter Text

Once school starts again, things get easier in some ways, trickier in others. Max is always staying after (sometimes clubs, sometimes detention -- sometimes she says for a club but he knows it's really detention), or at the arcade (or behind it), or playing D&D with the nerd patrol. That's good, because if he's out doing the monster thing, she doesn't notice.

On the other hand, two of the kids have passed their driver's test and are officially licensed, which means they're harder to nail down. He can't just drop her off somewhere and expect her to stay put. Now that they're mobile, those little shits could show up anywhere, any time.

Luckily, Sinclair's parents won't let him drive with other kids in the car. Mike, on the other hand, is a wild card. His parents can't stand each other (he would know, having gone a few lukewarm rounds with Mrs. Wheeler) and so nobody really has the energy to worry what he's up to. He tries to buy some time by telling Max she's not allowed to ride with him until he's been on the road a few months, but, honestly? There's no guarantee she'll obey, and he's acutely aware of that fact.

At the moment, the kids are all crammed into Wheeler's basement, which smells like moth balls and puberty, in case you're wondering, and he's staked out behind a tree with the Chief of police.

Hopper is still less than inspired by his presence.

"I can't believe Harrington thinks this is a good idea." He says, again, and Billy doesn't bother to argue. Fact is, nobody's ever put this kind of faith in him before (Susan has, reminds the voice) and as much as the Chief's disgruntlement annoys him, it's also familiar; puts him on solid ground.

This is the first time he's going to actually see one of these monsters, and his neurons are firing in a way that he normally has to be pissed off for. It's.....an interesting sensation, but he doesn't have much time to examine it, because right at that moment something materializes behind the older man, seemingly out of thin air, and Joyce screams from her and Steve's spot across the clearing.

Hopper is fast, he's gotta give him that, but the thing is fast, too, and it has the element of surprise. He ducks just as sticky tentacles sweep the air where his head was only seconds before, and Billy gets a surge of adrenaline that makes him soar. He gets to the side of the thing; swings that bat with all the force of someone who hasn't been able to vent their rage in months, and screams with laughter.

The monster stumbles, turns and makes a motion that looks for all the world like it's sizing him up, then opens it's petal head and roars

Billy roars back.

"C'mon, mother fucker!"

Next thing he knows, he's flanked on both sides by Hopper, Steve, and Joyce, in full on mother bear mode. Steve and Hopper both fire at once, bringing it to it's.....knees? He figures they're a close approximation to knees, at least.

In a blink (before he's even decided if they're knees or not knees, really), Joyce is literally on the thing. She drives a long, sharp knife into the back of it's head. He knows from his training that the head is the best "kill spot" on these things, so he's not surprised when it falls to the ground. What does surprise him is the way she clamps onto the thing with her knees and rides it right down, before wiping the sweat off her brow with a grin, nonchalant as you please.

"One more down." She announces, triumphantly.

Billy's (thinking Joyce kind of turned him on there, but that's another story) bouncing on the balls of his feet, literally, wishing another one would come along because damn that felt good, when he notices Steve looking at him. There's something new on his face that wasn't there before.

He likes the way that looks, too.

"You're fast." He says.

"Yeah, well. I did learn one thing from Dear old Dad."

"Quick reflexes." says Hopper, sounding dark and knowing.

Billy nods; tries not to stare because the Chief of police is appraising  him, and for the first time since he's met him, he feels like he might not come up short.

He's itching to change the subject. "That felt good."

"It did." Agrees Joyce, with a smile that fades too fast. "But that was new, wasn't it?"

Steve nods, looking grim. "Was it me, or did it just....appear?"

"If they keep evolving at this rate...." says Hopper, but he doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. Even Billy, as the new guy, can see where this is heading. If those monsters can start popping up with no warning, materializing out of thin air, the four of them won't be enough.

All of Hawkins won't be enough.

Early snow, a week before Thanksgiving, finds Billy in the passenger seat of Steve's beamer, his brain weighed down with thoughts of the holidays. This is his and Max's second turkey day sans parents, and while they don't have to worry about one wrong word ending in a plate to the face.....store brand chicken nuggets the previous year had left a lot to be desired.

And then comes Christmas. Max picked up a job bussing tables at the diner, but he's not about to take that money for bills so it doesn't really change the fact that they're broke. He knows she doesn't expect much.

Still.

What kind of shitty guardian can't get their little ward of court at least something to open on Christmas day?

He's thinking about all this while Steve drives along at exactly the speed limit, a fact he would absolutely be riding his ass about if he weren't so distracted, when suddenly the brakes are slammed on and he damn near goes through the windshield. Thanks to Max's 'drive and yell' sessions, he's gotten into the habit of wearing a seat belt (he's found at least one thing to be a good role model about), and it's a good thing, too, or he'd be toast.

"The fuck, Harrington?" he snarls, but then his eye catches Steve's face; he follows his gaze.

There's something in the road.  Something....invisible and yet.....not.

They look at each other.

"Think we can take it alone?" asks Steve.

They've been hunting together, with Hopper and Joyce, for about 5 weeks now. They know each others strengths and weaknesses like instinct; can toss weapons back and forth without looking, and bicker like an old married couple (Joyce's words, to which Hopper had rolled his eyes, but nodded).

He doesn't have to ask twice.

Billy is out of the car in a flash; wants another shot of the ol' adrenaline. Likes, actually, loves that he has found a productive way to work out his boundless anger.

"Whoa, gunner," says Steve, "take this."

He tosses him the bat, saunters around the back of the car and gets a gun out of his trunk. Closes it with a nice, loud, satisfying bang that makes the swirling, slithering, snow covered shadow stop.

They hear the tell tale snuffle-huff of a curious demodog, but when it shifts, just as they are tensing for action, it's gone.

They notice the foot prints too late, a millisecond, in fact, before Billy goes down hard, on his back; blinding pain as invisible teeth sink into his calf.

The only thing he can think, the only most ironic fucking thing in the world he can think is, thank God for Neil.

Because, thanks to Neil, he has a high pain threshold and the ability to think while his body is screaming.

While Steve is screaming.

The thing starts dragging him down the slick, ice covered road with surprising speed and he swings, wild, pulling himself up like a sit up and swinging toward his own feet.

He nails himself in the thigh and nearly passes out.

There's the sharp pop, pop of gunfire, and the thing slows, it's bulk forming a shadowy outline again, under the snow.

It's distracted.

He lunges one more time with the bat, hard as he can. It connects and he's free -- scrambling on slippery blacktop, half crawling, half running, and he can feel the damn thing with it's hot breath on his back; realizes too late that he's dropped the bat.

Another pop rings out and he feels the earth tremble behind him. Everything slows down and he's knocked flat -- pinned to the frozen ground by a slimy, now fully visible beast that is resting it's ugly mug on his chest.

Dead.

"Christ, Hargrove." Yells Steve, slipping and sliding toward him, "You ok?"

"You fucking think I'm ok?" he growls, hating the feeling of being pinned; the pain of his injuries quickly filling the spots left by his fading adrenaline.

Steve doesn't bother pushing the thing off him; goes right to the leg, instead. He feels his pant leg pushing up, hears the all too familiar sound of a belt being pulled quickly through loops, and feels it go around his leg, high above the wound.

He throws his head back against the ice, immediately regrets it, and wishes for a smoke.

"God you're such a fucking boy scout."

"Shut up asshole, where else are you hurt?"

"My thigh," says Billy, "and I know you'd love to get my pants off but--"

That particular train of thought is interrupted by the sound of wheels crunching to a stop beside them, doors slamming, and Hopper's size twelves coming to rest by his head.

"What the hell were you guys thinking?" He doesn't even try not to yell, is angry enough to pull the monster off Billy's chest by himself. "I ought to beat the shit out of both of you! You know how hard it is to take one of these down with four of us, why would you even--" he stops short, glares at Billy, "you reckless son of a bitch!"

"It was my idea." Steve says, "We were on our way to meet you guys and we almost hit it."

Hopper stands there breathing heavily. He lights up a smoke, takes a few shaky drags, and says, "Fine, in that case you're a pair of reckless SOBs."

Max is sitting on the ratty, frayed recliner, beside the ratty, frayed couch, looking at her stepbrother, who is snoring loudly on the couch. His jeans are hacked off like shorts on one side and he has bandages around his thigh and calf.

Steve is in their kitchen, cooking what may, quite possibly, be the first edible meal ever made in the place. She gets up and stands by the fridge. She's trying to give him the stare down that Billy always uses to get her to crack under pressure, but it's not working. Underneath that hair, Steve is a lot tougher than he looks, in a multitude of ways.

He ignores her.

"Tell me what happened, again?" she asks, at length.

"I already told you about a hundred times," he says, chopping onions, barely acknowledging her, "we spun out, he didn't have his seat belt on, and he went right out the door."

"That asshole is always on me about the seat belt."

Steve shrugs. "Well," he says, "once he's better you'll have one more thing to bust his balls about."

"Mmm."

The whole thing sounds pretty cockamamie to her, but she can see she's getting no where. I mean, shouldn't he have a head wound or something? How does a person fly out of a moving vehicle without a head wound? And that leg was bleeding like a fucker, she'd seen Steve change it once already and they'd only been there a few hours.

She goes back in the living room. Blue eyes meet hers, and all her skepticism is replaced by much more relief than she wants to acknowledge.

She sits on the edge of the couch.

"The hell, Billy?" she asks, trying to sound tough but mostly sounding scared.

"Don't do that." He mumbles, in response to her poorly hidden anxiety. "I'm fine."

Steve comes barreling in at the sound of his voice. "Hey buddy," he says, too fast; too forced, "you remember what happened?"

Max is watching them carefully. She notices a muscle twitch in her step brother's face.

"No."

She listens while Steve gives Billy the exact same version he'd just given to her, in the kitchen; notices the incredulous glare he sends him at the seatbelt part.

She moves to the recliner and crosses her arms, wheels turning.

She's learned more about Billy in the past year, than she ever did in all the years at home. She's learned that put a coat on, shithead means like it or not, I care about you, that Maria wouldn't like it means I want to say no but I don't want to be the heavy; that Max generally means she's trying his patience, while Maxine means he's reaching critical mass and will, at this point, have no problem being the heavy.

And she's learned one more thing: the little face twitch means he's hiding something.

Chapter Text

Dustin's mother invites them for Thanksgiving.

"C'mon Billy," Max wheedles, "I don't want chicken nuggets again, and I don't want to spend all day thinking about them."

"Low blow." he notes drily. "You can go eat with the cat lady. I'll even give you a ride. I'm good with chicken nuggets."

She huffs, crosses her arms. "I'm not going without you."

"Then I guess you're not going."

There's a pause. He doesn't know why he's giving her such a hard time, exactly, he just knows that his leg still aches, his wallet's still empty, and it feels too much like charity.

"Steve's coming." She says at last, as if that changes anything.

"So."

"So, you're friends now, right? Friends hang out together."

He glares at her through his eyelashes, but there's no bite. He knows he's being curmudgeonly, is kind of touched that she won't go without him.

Also, Steve.

She senses his crumbling resolve and bats her eyelashes. Honest to fuck, bats her eyelashes.

"Jesus, ok" he grumbles, '"just don't do that again."

And so it is that Billy Hargrove finds himself in an afghan covered rocker recliner, with a small, purring loaf of feline on his lap. He's deeply, deeply mourning the death of his status as local badass, while Mrs. Henderson shows Max her "Cat o'the Month" calendar. 

"We should get a cat." Max calls to him from the dining room.

"I should smother you in your sleep for bringing me here." he mutters under his breath.

Dustin plops into the chair across from him.

"So," he says, "Max says you've been rammin' around with Steve."

Billy about spits out his drink that is, regrettably, not booze. "What?"

"Yeah," the kid gives him a goofy grin, "got thrown out of his car. Badass."

"Mmmm."

"Kinda funny, you know? I mean, a few years ago you almost killed him."

Coming from anyone else, he would probably suspect this comment is meant to get his goat, but he knows enough about Dustin, at this point, to understand his communication style.

Billy glances around for Steve, sees him in the kitchen. Probably basting the turkey or some other ridiculously domestic thing that he absolutely does not find endearing. Not even a little.

Dustin is still staring at him. Christ....just how fucking hot is it in this house?

"Water under the bridge." He says, getting up, patting his shirt for that comforting, familiar rectangle. "Gonna go have a smoke."

He catches Steve by the elbow on his way through the kitchen (dear God, he's actually mashing potatoes), and they stand on the back porch together, Billy smoking and Steve waiting.

"What's the problem?" he asks, after watching Billy suck half the cigarette down in one drag. "What's up your ass?"

"It's Dustin," he tosses his head toward the house, "I don't know. He's being weird."

"He's always weird," says Steve, sounding defensive, "we can't all be Greek gods."

Billy smirks at him through a cloud of smoke. He actually has a bit of a bone to pick with Steve, and this is as good a lead in as any. "Thanks for the seat belt bullshit, by the way. I have to hear about it every fucking time we get in the car, now."

This earns him a grin so bright it momentarily distracts him.

"I'm serious, you hear me Harrington? Believe it or not, I do have a couple lines in the sand. I hate hard drugs, and I hate dishonesty."

Steve studies him. "We're lying for a good cause." he offers, and damn it, he's not wrong. "Y'know, now that you mention it, Dustin has been asking me a lot of 'weirder than usual' questions lately."

"Max, too."

"Ah shit, you don't think--"

Billy shoots him a dark look. "I hope not. If Max is on to us, my life will get real difficult."

He studies a spot to the left of Steve's head; tries to figure out how much to give up.

"I gave her such a hard time about keeping them secret, and now I'm doing the same thing." He says at last, with a frustrated huff. "I know I'm a hypocrite, ok? But if she finds out she's gonna want in, and that is not happening."

"I get it." says Steve, in a voice that's way too soft, and suddenly he's pissed. Pissed that he shared so much; left himself so open. He's sure the guy's going to make it weird, try to offer up some half assed psychobabble -- but then Steve gives his momentary lapse of facade a smirk and a shrug and Billy can't help but roll his eyes.

"Oh, shut up." He says, but he's looking away with a grin . "Go mash your damn potatoes, Suzie Homemaker."

Christmas morning there is a present under their scraggly, under-watered tree, that he knows he didn't put there, and he's 99% sure Max didn't either.

He goes and pounds on her door, just in case.

"What?" She snarls, standing in the half light with her hair in her face, then, "Oh! Did Santa come?"

He smirks at her, and she flushes. She was trying to sound sarcastic, but it came out as excited.

"Santa's broke."

She shrugs. "I don't care." She's on her way past the tree, no doubt to the coffee maker. She's developed a raging caffeine addiction, courtesy of her job at the diner. He can't even express how thankful he is that she has yet another bad habit. "What is that?"

She's pointing at the foreign looking box on the floor.

"Was gonna ask you that." he mutters, coming to stand beside her.

"That wasn't there last night!"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Well then who--" she stops short, stares at him, eyes widening, "who has a key to get in?"

"Nobody."

Twitch.

Max studies him, hard. He can see the wheels turning; knows they're spinning to a place that's going to be nothing but one giant pain in the ass.

"C'mon!" he says with enthusiasm that's at least 50% bullshit, "go get some coffee so we can do presents."

It does the trick, almost as well as bacon, and ten minutes later they're sitting in front of the tree like a scene out of White fucking Christmas. She becomes the proud, official owner of his Megadeath tee shirt (she keeps wearing it to bed without asking, anyway, so what the hell), a Bon Jovi tape he swears to God she better not play in his car (he's firmly in the class of guys who refers to them as 'bon blow-me'), new skateboard wheels, and a ridiculous chocolate Santa that he had to break his boycott of the pharmacy to purchase. (Max definitely shouldn't have knocked them over....but that didn't stop him from holding a grudge that they called Hopper on her.) He gets a carton of cigarettes (she's going to steal half and they both know it), some Max-made cookies (he's going to eat them even though he's sure they are terrible), and a really nice earring. When he puts it in, she flips her head just so and points to her own ear, where the other one resides.

"Real nice," he drawls, "you took half my Christmas present."

They spend a second admiring their shit and his throat is not constricted over the earring, damn it. He coughs loudly, lights a smoke, and nods to the mystery box. 

"Open it." he says.

Max gives him an uncertain look, then scoots across the floor and tears off the paper. It's a white, Styrofoam cooler, and when she goes to pop the top open, his curiosity gets the best of him.

Inside, surrounded by half melted freezer packs, is Christmas dinner: a small ham, and some mashed potatoes carefully wrapped in Tupperware he knows damn well belongs to Joyce Byers. There are smaller containers (mostly margarine or cool whip) containing gravy, corn, rolls, yams. On the bottom, in it's own box, is a small, homemade carrot cake. A note on top says: Merry Christmas in block letters, like some kind of ransom note.

He wants to be offended by the charity. If he's honest with himself (which seems to be happening more and more lately), when people treat them as family, it makes him itch from the inside out. People who care about them usually wind up disappointed, and he's learned to save time by not letting them.

But, Max's eyes are sparkling in a way that makes him itch a little less. And this has Joyce and Steve written all over it.  He's seen Joyce finish off a demodog with a kitchen knife, for crying out loud. He knows his balls aren't big enough for that fight.

Chapter Text

Naturally, everything goes to shit soon after the holidays. It starts when Jim Hopper, chief of police, avid Jim Croce fan and unassuming badass in too tight khaki - almost gets finished off by something they well and truly can't see now that the snow is melting.

One second he's crouched behind a wall at the old lab, giving Steve and Billy the stink eye for bickering in whispers that aren't really whispers at all, and the next he is down. Joyce is only a dozen or so steps away, but by the time she gets there, and gets a shot fired into the empty space above him, he's already lost an impressive swath of flesh around his arm and his gut is bleeding profusely.

Steve gets there before Billy, a fact he will most certainly lord over him once the smoke clears, and manages to catch sight of the beast as it flickers in and out of visibility, struggling with the wound Joyce has inflicted. He swings, hard, knocks it off Jim and.....directly on to Billy.

"The fuck!" He yells, pissed by the shock and the possibility of having to explain yet another wound to an increasingly nosy stepsister.

Steve responds by taking one shot, then another, and diving on to the thing.

It would be comical if it weren't so damn serious. The monster is flickering like Godzilla on a TV with bad reception, in and out of his vision, with Steve riding it's back. One second he looks like he's flying; the next he's riding a mountain of gooey demodog.

Something shiny catches Billy's eye; it's Joyce's knife, abandoned in the snow while she attempts to drag Jim out of harm's way. He grabs it, yells for Steve -- which distracts the thing and causes it to pause -- and throws the knife.

Steve catches it by the wrong end, because that's exactly the kind of luck they're having, lately. Billy actually wants to roll his eyes, but the guy is tough, he's gotta give him that, because he pulls the knife out of his own flesh and drives it into the back of it's neck -- right in the kill zone.

It chucks him off his back, roars, and topples.

Billy can't stop laughing. In fact, he's laughing his ass off like a goddamn maniac when he sees movement behind a tree to their left. He stops short, grabs the bat and swings around, but the movement is gone.

Later, after they get Hopper loaded up and dispose of the dog, they walk over and take a look. There's still snow in the woods, and the spot in question is full of foot prints. A couple feet away is what looks to be a hastily abandoned mitten, and he recognizes it right away. For a few seconds, he's too blindsided to speak.

Maxine is supposedly at the library with Dustin, who has been trying (probably in vain) to help her pass their next science quiz.

But that mitten?

It's hers.

They spend the better part of the next two hours trying to figure out what their next move is going to be, now that they no longer have the snow in their favor, and helping Joyce patch up the Chief. He's easily the worlds grumpiest patient -- he's pissed off that he didn't see the thing coming, pissed at Steve and Billy for their endless bickering, and most of all, that he can't find his kid.

It's a sensation that Billy can definitely relate to.

"You two are gonna get us killed!" Hopper grouses, not for the first time.

He doesn't respond to that. For one thing, the Chief has already told them they need to either "fight or fuck or whatever you need to do to get it out of your systems" and didn't that cut a little close to the bone? Also, he's itching to go home and put Maxine's ass in a sling. Grounding her for the rest of her life is looking like a very appealing way to nip this disaster in the bud; but he knows it's not that easy. He can't keep them all home. And If she was out there today, they all were. No way is Jane's disappearance a coincidence.

"Going to get Max" He says, and heads out the door.

The kids, who are rapidly becoming not kids, by the way, are huddled in a semi circle, behind the arcade. They have their backs to the road, and it looks for all the world like there's some shady shit going down. In reality, Dustin is droning on about molecular structures and adhesive properties.

"It looks like baby powder." Will says, poking the bag of white dust with his finger.

"It looks like blow." Max says, distinctly, causing everyone to stare. She sighs. They are babes in the woods, in Hawkins, Indiana, and sometimes she forgets that. "Cocaine."

Will pokes it again, causing Mike to swat his hand away and mutter, "Don't, you'll make it lumpy."

"So, when should we tell them?"

That was Lucas, and Max flashes him a grin. "Not until after Wednesday."

Mike rolls his eyes. "We know. Wednesday is the driving test."

Dustin holds the bag of powder up to the fading sunlight. "What do you think they'll--"

"What the hell?" Billy is there out of nowhere, it seems; snatches the bag out of Dustin's hand.

Maxine barely has to time to register his presence before there's a fire in her upper arm and she's scrambling to find her footing while being dragged backwards over the lumps and bumps of the arcades scrubby spring lawn. The boys are running after them, yelling things she can't hear for the blood rushing past her ears; things she's absolutely certain Billy can't hear, either. 

He yanks the drivers side door open and shoves her into the car head first, finally releasing her arm, before getting in, himself, and hip checking her ungracefully over the shifter and into her seat.

"Billy!" she rubs her arm, furiously, feeling like maybe she's time traveled back to '85 with the way he's behaving --

--then she realizes what the problem is.

She remembers about his mother. Remembers Neil slinging words like "drug addict" and "needle freak" at him when he wanted to inflict a different kind of damage. Billy's smoked enough weed in his life to make Cheech Marin look like a poster boy for the newly minted "Just Say No" campaign, but never anything more. And now she remembers why. He has a thing about that.

They get home and into the house, and he cuts her off en route to her room; shoves the bag in her face.

"The hell is this?" He asks, voice dead flat.

Her brain is going a million miles an hour. She can't tell him about the Monster Dust without betraying her friends, and she doesn't want to admit she was spying on him. All she can get out is, "I can't."

"Maxine."

 "It's not what you think!"

 "Then what is it?"

 "I can't tell you, ok? I can't -- you just have to -- look I know! I know what it looks like! I know how you feel about that stuff, I--." she lowers her voice, doesn't finish.

 "You don't know anything."

 "You have to believe me."

 "That's a laugh."

He sneers at her, and her desire to avoid the subject of monsters goes out the window, as her indignation morphs into red hot anger.

 "Oh, like you're some patron saint of honesty? You've been sneaking off fighting demodogs for months!"

 "Nobody wanted you guys to know about that, because it's dangerous." He hurls at her, and he's too close, in her face. "You know what else? I don't have to explain where I go to you -- all I have to do is pay the fucking bills and feed your fucking face and keep you safe!"

"Well, aren't you just a knight in shining armor, these days?"

He takes a few steps forward and she backs up, on instinct, because hell if he doesn't look every bit as menacing as the old Billy right now and it makes her chest feel hollow; makes her want to run.

"I let you get away with a lot of sneaky shit, Max, but I'm done. You were supposed to be at the library today, and you weren't. You were out in the woods spying on us -- and then I find you behind the arcade with this?"

He shoves that bag of monster dust at her again and her frustration boils over. She smacks it out of his hand and it flies across the room; sprays out of the bag and sticks to the damn wall.

Nobody notices.

"I wouldn't be sneaking around, if you'd been straight with me in the first place!"

"I don't have to be straight with you about my business. You're a fucking kid!"

"That's a bullshit excuse, and you know it!"

 "Yeah? You wanna hear some bullshit? You can kiss your drivers test goodbye!"

 OK, that stings.

Max sucks in her breath.....and shoves him. Hard. He doesn't go over, because he's got his goddamn feet planted, but he takes a step back -- and then strikes like an angry snake. He gets a fist full of her hoodie and twists, yanking her up onto her toes so they can be eye to eye.

She squeaks, despite herself, and they seem to hang there a few seconds, suspended in time, before his eyes clear and he lets go; walks away from her in strong, determined strides like he can't get away quick enough.  

Walks right out the door.

Steve finds Billy on his third trip around the outskirts of Hawkins, 9 miles out of town, give or take. The clock is creeping up on 2 a.m. and he's exhausted, but he has a sobbing teenage girl in his house and, frankly, he'd rather be here than there.

The car is parked well off the road, and he can see a figure on the hood; the orange of a lit cigarette tip.

He pulls up behind it.

Billy's voice drifts through his open window. "Go away, Harrington."

He gets out and stands in the space of the open car door. Talks across his roof.

"Max is worried about you."

"Max is in some serious shit when I get home."

"Well," says Steve, "that's part of the problem. She's not home. She's at my place. Showed up about an hour ago."

Billy snorts, smoke drifting out his nose. "You think that's somehow better?"

"Look, they told us about the stuff in the bag. It's not what you think. I mean," he pauses, "it's not great, but it's not drugs, at least."

No response.

"God, you're such a stubborn fucking hard ass sometimes." Steve shakes his head. "It's something they made to help with the demodogs, ok?"

More silence.

He heaves a sigh; throws out something he knows will goad him into talking. "You said you were trying."

"I am!" Billy snarls, "Can't you tell by the bang up job I'm doing?"

Steve regards him in silence, then takes a pointed look at their surroundings. "Doesn't look like it to me."

He senses Billy's eyes on him, not unlike a monster, but he's not scared. Not anymore. The thing is, Steve's a lot braver than anyone gives him credit for -- a hell of a lot braver than Billy, truth be told. In fact, if he thought the guy was emotionally ready to face the urges that are so painfully obvious whenever they practice together, he'd cross the road right now, pull him close, and tell him it'll be ok; tell him his efforts aren't in vain, that Max is a way better kid than she was a year ago.

Tell him he sees him.

But. Right now is not the time, and Steve may not be the brightest bulb on the proverbial Christmas tree, but he knows that.

"Go home, Harrington." Billy says. "Get in your beamer and go home to your nice warm bed, in your nice part of town, and tell my step sister I'll pick her sorry ass up in the morning."

Steve watches the still glowing cigarette butt fly across the sky in an arc.

He gets in his car, and goes home.

Chapter Text

"How?" Hopper asks, for what seems like the billionth time. He's got his hands in what's left of his hair, and Billy is watching him from across his desk. It's like the tampon incident, all over again, except they aren't alone this time, and he doesn't feel like laughing.

"Because they're smart, " Steve replies, leaning on the filing cabinet, "and they do. Somehow, those little shits figured us out."

Joyce is pacing. Literally pacing

"Well, I can tell you one thing, Will is NOT going out there.".

"Neither is Max."

He feels three sets of eyes settle on him. It's the first thing he's said since they entered this room; first thing he's said all day, as a matter of fact.

Hopper clears his throat. "How's that goin'?"

"None of your business." says Billy, looking him right in the eye.

Truth is, it's not going. Thirty-six hours later and she's still at Steve's. All of their attempts at communication seem to end in fireworks. He was ready to literally haul her ass over his shoulder and cart her home during their last "discussion", but then she turned just right and inadvertently showed him the underside of her arm. She was sporting a set of angry, purple bruises the exact size and shape of his fingertips, courtesy of him dragging her from the back of the arcade to the car.

He promptly threw up in Mrs. Harringtons spring daffodils, then went home and got blind drunk.

I am not my father, he repeats in his head, before realizing he's missed something. Hopper is staring at him expectantly.

"Huh?"

 "I said, is everybody keeping their hands to themselves?

He growls at Hopper, something that sounds passable for a yes, and closes that particular subject by saying, "Now, what is this shit they think they've found to help us?"

"It's like baby powder," Steve rushes in, clearly on board with the whole 'subject changing' thing, "but it's sticky. I don't know. Dustin explains it better than I can."

Nobody is particularly surprised that Steve can't explain it. Billy feels a stir of affection; tamps it down. Now, is most definitely not the time.

"So....what?" he asks, bitterly. "We call them over all here kitty, kitty-like and ask them to sit still while we dust them in it?"

"We can find a way to shoot it at them." says Joyce, but it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"Bullets." The Chief says, after a pause. "We can encase it in bullets, maybe."

Steve emits a sigh that sounds like he's anticipating a slow, painful death. "We're going to have to ask them for help."

"NO. If we ask them for help, they're going to think that means they can come." Billy replies, and then, feeling Joyce's eyes on him, turns to glare at her, snarling, "What?"

She shakes her head, looks away. "Nothing."

"Look," he grits out, "social workers frown on letting your orphan get eaten by monsters, ok?"

"Hey!" Hopper says, sharp, in his quit being rude to Joyce voice. He takes his eyes off Billy, moves them to Steve. "I don't think we have a choice. They're the only one who know exactly how this shit works......and you know as well as I do you can't involve one unless you involve them all."

"Listen," Steve says, later, while they're standing in the parking lot, "I know she wants to come home. She's just...."

His voice drifts off, his eyes to heaven.

"Impossibly stubborn?" supplies Billy. He notes Steve's nod; lights a smoke. He doesn't take much satisfaction in the news, because he's surprisingly miserable without her dirty dishes and her mood swings -- her shitty attitude that,  defying all laws of human genetics, she has somehow gotten from him.

He also feels like a first class asshole about those bruises. He tries to tell himself that Neil put far larger ones on her, on both of them, but it's no excuse, and he knows it.

"I can't give in," he says, out loud, "it's too dangerous." What he leaves hanging is that it's too dangerous for him, too. If she goes into the fray, he's going to be too busy worrying about her to take care of himself.

"Dude," Steve's voice interrupts his thoughts, "I don't know how you do it. I seriously don't." Billy glances up, feels like laughing for the first time in days, at the manic expression on his face, "For one thing, where does she put all that food? She eats like she has a hollow leg."

Billy smirks. He offered Steve food money he didn't really have, but, of course, he wouldn't take it.  "Sure you don't want some money?"

Steve dismisses him with a wave of his hand. His eyes are glossy, like he's got some kind of PTSD. Makes Billy think of something. "Look, don't mention the food thing though, OK? Neil used to give her a hard time about her appetite, tell her she was gonna get fat or some shit. Told her it wasn't lady like, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean." He pauses, "She's really sensitive about it."

"Oh yeah? She's sensitive about it, huh? Well, that's a shocker......she's sensitive about everything!  It's like living in a minefield!"

"Now you know why I drink so much."

Steve goes on as if he hasn't heard a word, "One minute she's bitching about you, then she's crying that she misses her mom, then she hates her mom and she misses home -- then she's crying over her drivers test and how it's going to take months to reschedule. She's told me that about a hundred times....and 30 seconds later she wants to know if Lucas can comer over."

"You want me to try to make her come home?" he asks, not without a certain amount of trepidation.

Steve still looks shell shocked, but shoots him a sympathetic glance that makes him want to fuck him and punch him, all at the same time. "Nah." he says, "I wouldn't put you in that position. I know this sucks." He pauses, "But maybe after we meet with the kids you should come over and talk to her again. Maybe she'll be calmer then."

He snorts.

Harrington. Always the optimist.

Clusterfuck: noun

USvulgar slang

noun: clusterfuck; plural noun: clusterfucks; noun: cluster-fuck; plural noun: cluster-fucks

1. a disastrously mishandled situation or undertaking
2. what happens when they get the kids together to talk about monsters

They're having their pow wow at casa Byers, and it's going about as well as anyone expected.

Dustin, Lucas, and Mike are all firmly committed to not making any more monster dust, or showing them how to use what they already have, until they get a guarantee they can come with.  No amount of brow beating from the Chief, reasoning from Steve, or cajoling from Joyce, is changing their minds, either.

Max.....well, Max isn't speaking to anyone. She is pointedly ignoring her stepbrother, who is pointedly ignoring her back.

Will isn't even there. Nobody would be surprised if his mom has him hog tied in a closet somewhere.

Jane looks between the two parties (the yellers and the ignorers), rolls her eyes, and decides to keep to her own council. She's too bad ass for petty bickering, and she knows it. Eventually, though, there's a lull in the arguing, so she says in a loud, clear voice, "They are coming from the lab. I know the lab better than any of you--"

"No." says Hopper.

And then they're off again.

Finally, she stands, dark, curly head bobbing up from the couch, lowers her line of vision, and knocks a glass off the counter from across the room. It shatters spectacularly, which earns her a dirty look from her surrogate Dad but also shuts everyone up.

"I can slow them down." She says again, speaking evenly and succinctly in a voice clearly meant to remind them she can, actually, kill them if she wants to. "I can do it from a safe place, if that makes you feel better. I only have to see them, not get close to them."

There is a moments silence, while the kids wait with baited breath and Hopper stares from Jane to Joyce, his wheels clearly turning. Finally, he mutters a resigned, "Fine."

They spend the next hour arguing over the details of their plan, trying to find one that's a good compromise between safety and effectiveness.

Except Max. Because fuck compromise.

They've barely wedged themselves into Steve's beamer before it starts again, and this time it's not about who is sneaking where, who lied about what, or even who revoked whose driving privileges.

It's about the monsters.

"You are not going." Billy says, twisting around in the passenger's seat so he can glare at her properly.

"Oh," she spreads her arms wide, "I am so going. SO GOING! And if you're going, I don't know how you think you can stop me."

"I need to keep you safe!" He bellows, making her shrink back ever so slightly in her seat, "What do you think is gonna happen if you break a leg or have to get stitches, huh? How do you think that's gonna look to Maria? Hospitals report to social workers, Max!"

"Mrs. Byers can patch me up!"

"For real?? What do you think....she's a doctor?? Sewing up a cut is nothing! She can't fix a broken leg or a head injury!"

Steve pulls into his driveway with a bump and they are both out of the car at lightening speed; both slamming the doors.

Steve doesn't get out.

"I don't care!" She spins around to face him. "And you don't get to lecture me about safety! A few years ago, you were the person I needed protection from!"

"Quit throwing the past in my face, Maxine."

"You're a fucking hypocrite!" She screams, dragging out the last word.

He takes a few steps back, breathes deeply. "For the last time," he says, "I don't care about being a hypocrite. Get it through your head! I made so many shitty decisions in my life, as far as I'm concerned, if I did it -- you shouldn't!"

She crosses her arms. Plants her damn feet. "I saved up enough money. I can pay for the test myself."

"Oh yeah? Well, guess what, princess. You still need my signature."

She looks mad enough to spit, and goddamn it, he's feeling pretty smug about that, when she says in a slow, halting voice, "You are just like him."

Max wants to take it back, as soon as she says it. She's bracing herself for a response, but he doesn't make one. Instead, he dusts off that intense, unreadable expression he used to wear around Neil, lights a cigarette, and walks away.

Somehow, that's worse.

Billy is standing at the end of Harrington's driveway, sucking down a cigarette with shaking fingers and listening with one ear to what's going on up at the house.

It's a pretty magnificent display, and he should know, he's seen a lot of them.

Steve, who is almost always as cool as a cucumber, is yelling. 

"You just wore out your welcome, Max!" He hears, and he thinks, for the first time in her life, she must be too stunned to respond. "That was over the line! I want you out! Now!"

He tosses his smoke; grinds it out with his heel, then sticks it in his pocket because Steve is a fussy ass. He listens as footsteps make their way across the black top.

Steve shoulder checks him, gently. "She didn't mean it."

He looks up to say he's not so sure, but he doesn't get a chance. Steve shoves him up against a maple. Kisses him, hard.

When they break away, Steve's staring at him with wary eyes, and he realizes, the guy has been waiting a while to do that -- waiting for the right time, the right shot of adrenaline to make him fearless.

Billy smirks; watches the tension drain out of Steve's face in response.

"Didn't know you had it in ya, Harringon." He says.

Steve turns and walks back toward the house, just as Max comes out the door, looking embarrassed and weepy.

"Go home and work some shit out." He tosses at them, over his shoulder. Then he goes inside and locks his expensive front door behind him.  

Chapter Text

"What the fuck?"

Maxine stares at the hole where her door knob was, only seconds before; blinks a few times to make sure she's not imagining things.

She's not.

The door shoves open, toppling the now useless chair over in the process. Billy waves a dismissive hand at it. "Sick of that shit, Max. Come out so we can talk."

He wants to talk. He wants her to stay safe. She swears sometimes she's living in the Twilight Zone. Some kind of alien has stolen her step brother and replaced him with this quieter, less dangerous, more annoying as fuck version of his former self.

She stares at the hole in the door, thinks about what she said earlier. Thinks about all the shit he doesn't even know about; half smoked joints under the bleachers with Mike Wheeler, trips out the window while he's passed out on the couch with too many beer cans littered around.

He's got a point about her sneakiness. And, truth be told, he's trying to make this work a hell of a lot harder than she is, and she knows it.

Judging by that humiliating fiasco earlier, even Steve Harrington knows it.

On the other hand, he made such a scene at the arcade that she'd probably never live it down, and cancelled her drivers test over some monster dust and a lie that, frankly, was pretty fucking justified.

"Max!"

"I'm coming, Jesus!" She shuffles out and plops onto the other end of the couch; can't keep the snottiness out of her voice when she says, "Fine, let's talk."

He doesn't comment. Doesn't even look at her, and that makes her gut twist because it's a stark reminder that she said the most unforgivable thing in their world, earlier.

"I didn't mean to say--"

"Save it." he bites out, voice flat, poker face in place. He sounds bone weary. "I don't know what to do," he says, "I really don't. I can't let the other three down, but I know if I leave you here alone, you'll follow."

"Hopper said he'd build a safe spot, up in the trees, for Jane. I could go there, too. "

Billy shakes his head, tightens his jaw; doesn't say anything.

"Look, I was just so mad about the drivers test."

"You had that coming."

Maybe. But it still pisses her off to hear it. "Like hell!"

He shrugs.

Shrugs.

"What the fuck, Billy! You've been sneaking around fighting monsters since at least before Thanksgiving. And you lied right to my face about your injuries, because no way did you get those from flying out of a car -- then you have the nerve to be mad at me for lying about going to the library?"

He doesn't react; doesn't budge. It makes her see red.

"All I wanted was to know what the hell was going on! And you lost your shit over the monster powder! We were trying to help you guys, and you wouldn't even listen when I told you it wasn't what you thought! And now you want me to sit home, like some baby, when everyone else is going? I'm supposed to sit here and worry you're going to get --"

She stops abruptly. She was not planning to admit that. Not even a little.

But it's true.

All of a sudden, the room is too close, too quiet. She wants to flee, go back to her room but her goddamn door is busted, thank you very much Billy, so she opts for staring into her lap, instead.

"You're right about the monster powder." he says, and he sounds bitter, but sincere. "And I'm sorry I dragged you off like that, put fucking bruises on your arm. I'm a chip off the ol' block, ok? I'm an asshole, I know that."

"Save it." she mimics.

He lights a cigarette, smokes it down to the filter with alarming speed. "Listen to me. It's not the same as it used to be."

"No shit. You're an even bigger pain in the ass now than you were before. And believe me, I did not think that was possible."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs; rolls his eyes.

She can read between the lines well enough to know that means he cares about her. But it doesn't help much.

"Look," he says, "I didn't want you to know because I knew you'd want to be out there, and it's dangerous. Don't you think it might be nice for you to spend a few years not having to worry about getting hurt?"

She hates it when he's the reasonable person in their equation. Hates it.

"It doesn't seem to be an issue for you." she replies.

"I am an angry person, what can I say?" he shoots back. "I enjoy killing those things. It's a good way to blow off steam. Maria would be impressed."

"Risking your life is therapeutic, now?"

Max can feel him studying her. "It sucks, I know. I'm a hypocrite, and I know that gets under your skin but...it's too late for me on some things. I'm not exactly going to take up knitting or jogging to deal with my anger. This is the healthiest I get."

She can hear what's left hanging, that it's not too late for her to find better ways. "I hear you," she says, quietly, "but I can't let my party down any more than you can let yours down."

They're at an impasse. They've said all the things they weren't saying before, but it didn't fix a thing.

He knows it, too. She watches as the poker face slide back on, sees his jaw set.

"You show up there tonight, we're gonna have words." He says, shifting his vision to look her in the eye, "But you decide to do it anyway, you better stay in the safe zone -- and make sure you get those new skateboard wheels on, 'cause that's gonna be your only mode of transportation for a long time. You'll be skateboarding to your goddamn high school graduation."

Billy realizes she's gone, about an hour before the meet up time.

Out the window, just like the old days, and honestly? He's relieved. He's pissed, too, no doubt about it -- because he's Billy: everything funnels down to pissed off, in the the end. But he can also recognize, now, that his anger is infused with fear, and tempered by relief that he doesn't have to suffer through another scene that isn't going to change anything.

At this point, he'd rather handle the fall out; figures she must feel the same.

He starts getting ready to go, but it's not with much focus. His brain is spinning with memories of hard maple bark and soft lips; the word faggot, spat at him with the kind of vitriol most people reserve for their enemies and not their offspring.

He glances into Max's messy room one more time, on his way out. Respect and responsibility shouldn't be so damn hard.

Then he goes to kill some monsters.

Max gets to the meet up spot at dusk. She leans her board up against the base of the tree, smirking at the sound of her friends bickering in the makeshift tree stand, high above. She climbs the ladder as quietly as possible, pops her head up through the hole and roars.

Everyone but Jane jumps, and she's thinking this is the best she's felt in days, when she hears Hopper behind her.

"C'mon, Red. Get your ass up there. I was just about to have a discussion with you guys."

She pulls herself up through the hole and takes Lucas' extended hand, gratefully, to help her to her feet. She tries to listen to the Chief's sternly delivered Safety Lecture, honest she does......but God she's so tired of discussions, at this point. And the fact that she can clearly feel a set of blue eyes boring a hole in her skull from across the clearing isn't doing much for her focus.

She's accepted that she's making a decision that has consequences; has accepted that this is going to make life miserable for a while -- but she's still not excited to see the look on Billy's face.

"Hey Red!" Hopper barks, "You listening?"

"Yep!"  She's not listening. But it's pretty easy to figure out what he said: stay in the safe zone, don't leave the safe zone, I'll kill anyone who leaves the safe zone, etc..

It's not exactly rocket science.

"Do NOT move out of here." Hopper says, giving each of them the stink eye in turn, "I know you think you can handle it, because you've fought them before, but they aren't the same animal they were then." He pauses, takes a breath, and ends with an eloquent, "I will personally kick the ass of anyone who tries to get involved, for any reason."

He's mostly looking at Jane, who is blinking back at him with supreme boredom painted on every feature. Max half expects her to yawn in his face.

It's a feeling she can 100% relate to.

"OK." Mike pipes up, sounding unapologetically dismissive, "Remember, you only have 50 of those powder bullets and they have to hit them dead on or they won't blow."

The Chief nods one nod, then turns to head for his hiding spot, beside Joyce.

"Christ," Max mutters, "they have us so fucking far away we need binoculars."

"Got 'em." Dustin says.

Because, of course Dustin brought binoculars. Of course he did.

He hands them over and she turns the knob until Hopper comes into view, crossing the clearing in determined strides to where Joyce is waiting. Not far away are the boys; crouched together on the south end of the building. Her stepbrother is looking off into the distance and Steve....well, he's staring at Billy.

"I feel it, too." Jane says, quietly, from beside her. She's looking in the same direction, and Max feels in her gut that she's not referring to a demodog.

Max shakes her head, mutters, "Maybe Billy wouldn't be such an asshole if he'd just give in."

"Not an asshole." Says Jane, matter of factly, "Scared."

Max doesn't get what the big deal is. She's seen Billy with a lot of girls, and he never looked at even one of them the way he looks at Steve. But then she hears Neil's voice, calling Billy a faggot, slamming him against he wall; and she knows why he's scared.

"His papa was a bad man."

"Yeah." Max agrees, half heartedly. This entire conversation isn't doing much for her feelings of guilt. Then, right as she's about to hand the binoculars back to Dustin, something catches her eye. "Guys, look!"

"Whoa!" Mike jumps up, jabbing a finger at the roof above Billy and Steve.

Four clearly visible demodogs have popped onto the rooftop and are slinking slowly toward the edge.

"Son of a bitch!" Dustin hisses, "No way can they take four at once! Not even with the powder!"

The words are barely out of his mouth before one blinks out of sight -- then another.

"ROOF!" Lucas yells across the clearing, "Four on the roof!"

Without warning, Joyce goes down in the mud, hard and fast

That's really all it takes for them to blow Hoppers carefully constructed safety lecture to confetti. They scramble down the tree en masse, the distance across the clearing suddenly seeming like miles. Max finds herself sprinting for all she's worth, toward Billy and Steve; it's not even a decision.

Dustin is right beside her. Lucas and Mike are both hell bent for Hopper and Joyce, and Jane is holding the rear, walking with quick and deadly determination.

"Son of a bitch!" Dustin yells again, and she casts him a sidelong glance, missing a tree root in the process and going down hard on her chest. She scrambles back up, finds her footing -- and looks.

Billy and Steve are each fighting their own beast, and she catches sight of a third, on the roof above them, just before it blinks out of sight. 

"Look out above!" She screams. Steve twists around at the sound of her voice, then does a header, his feet knocked right out from under him.

Max runs faster than she's ever run in her life, a sense a helplessness blooming hard in her chest. Dustin gets there before her, skids to a stop next to Steve, and grabs a discarded bat; starts swinging for all he's worth.

There's a muffled pop, then another. The white, powdery outline of a demodog blooms into vision above Steve and Dustin gives it a hard thwak.

"Get down!" Hopper's voice tears across the clearing and she hits the ground right as more gunfire explodes around her. The beast doesn't go down, but it's flickering now, by turns hazy white and solid, slimy, greenish gray. She spits out a mouthful of mud; scrambles to her feet.

Dustin screams and before she can even comprehend what she's seeing, the thing has whipped him up, high into the air by the scruff of his jacket.

"Dustin!" Steve yells in a voice she doesn't recognize, and tears toward him -- bat in one hand, gun in the other. From the corner of her eye, she sees Joyce sprinting across the field, knife tucked in her belt. Hopper, Mike, and Lucas are on her heels, but they still seem impossibly far.

She turns, frantic, looking for Billy. He's right behind her; looking equal parts terrified and homicidal. He snatches the air for her, but he's tackled from the side; knocked flat by a still invisible beast. His arm makes an audible pop as the thing grabs it and drags him down the field.

Everyone else is too busy trying to save Dustin to notice. Max scrambles for a gun labeled POWDER in large, white letters, a few yards away; grabs it and changes direction to give chase. She fires awkwardly in the direction of the demodog, but nothing happens.

She screams at the top of her lungs, and shoots again. Suddenly she can see the hazy, white outline of a very startled demo dog, looking straight at her.

They both stop.

Billy manages to wriggle out from under the thing while it's distracted, yells something to Max that sounds an awful lot like a death threat but she can't hear for the drums in her ears. He gets a few steps and the demodog snaps back to attention; bats him like a cat with a mouse, and sends him flying.

Max is completely and unexpectedly livid.

"Back off my brother,  you asshole!"

Billy is scrambling to his feet a few yards away; stands there for a millisecond, looking stunned by the ferocity of her anger on his behalf. Then he snaps to attention. He zigs to the right, pointing emphatically to his left. Max realizes in a flash what she has to do;  plants her feet and fires.

The demodog lights up like a white Christmas tree, pivots toward her, and charges.

She runs for all she's worth, hears a whoosh and her back explodes in agony, making her stumble. She's on the ground in a ball, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, expecting an impact.....that never comes.

Jane's voice cuts through her fog. "Run!"

She twists onto her flaming back; sees the underside of a half visible demodog floating, midair, above her. She scrambles out from under it just as Jane flicks her wrist and sends it flying into a wall of the lab, it's lifeless body landing with a crunch that would probably be deeply satisfying if she weren't in so much pain.

Lucas is sprinting toward her now. She feels hands at her back; hears him breathe a stunned, oh shit, and promptly passes out. 

When Max wakes up the first time, her lungs and her back are throbbing. She feels the rhythmic bounce-bounce of being carried, smells traces of monster slime, cigarette smoke, and Farrah Fawcett hairspray. It takes a seemingly impossible amount of effort, but she slits her eyes open; takes in a view of Steve's shirt against her face, his hair dangling a few inches above her head. She has enough time to glimpse Billy, stony faced and cradling his arm, beside them, before the black dots take over and she slips under.

When she wakes up again, she's on Hopper's couch, at the cabin. There's a fire in her back and Lucas is holding her hand tight.

"Don't move!" He says, in an urgent voice, "Mrs. Byers is sewing you up."

"Sewing me--"

"Yeah, one got you in the back. Pretty bad, too."

She grimaces.

"Everyone else?"

"We're all a little banged up," he says, ducking his head, "me and Mike took one down on our own but....Mike got bit on the leg. Hopper's got some pretty good gashes. Billy popped his shoulder out but they got it back in. Had to put a few stitches in his arm, too."

"Steve?"

"Just messed up my hair," Steve's drawls from behind her, "thanks to Jane."

"It was nothing." Jane says, in that serious way of hers, and for some reason that makes everyone laugh. It's the exhausted, hysterical laughter of people who are thankful to be alive, but it still feels good.

When they're done, Joyce pats her shoulder and says, "OK, Red. Try to sit still, only a few stitches left."

"I'm ok." She responds, but she's mostly trying to reassure herself because damn does that sting. She hasn't been in this much pain in a long time.

But it was worth it. If she hadn't been there....she cautions a glance in Billy's direction, but his eyes are closed, face unreadable. She watches as Steve walks up to him, lifts his hand gingerly and places a plastic cup of amber liquid firmly in his grasp. Billy smirks without opening his eyes; takes a sip.

Max has an ache in her gut. She remembers what happened when Neil found out she was dating Lucas; what it felt like to want what she couldn't have. She wonders fleetingly what it's like to have responsibility for another human being foisted upon you, to try your best even though you're not really equipped, all the while your father's voice is echoing in your head, berating you for a lack of responsibility; hating you for being who you are and wanting what you want.

Joyce gives her a gentle squeeze from behind, on the good side of her back. "That should hold up ok."

Max takes a deep, grounding breath. "I hope so." she says, and she's not talking about her back.

The party spends the next couple hours eating Hopper out of house and cabin. They munch on hot dogs and work out parental cover stories that the Chief and Joyce can later back them up on.

Pretty soon, it's time to part ways. Will has already called several times to check on everyone, so Joyce loads the other boys up in her car for the sleep over they've all planned, at her place.

Steve gets in the back seat of the camaro, and Max is honest to fuck praying she doesn't get lit up over this whole situation until after they drop him off. Her pride has taken enough abuse lately, thank you very much.

As usual, God is completely blasé to her needs, because the first thing Billy does is fire up a cigarette and say in a particularly menacing voice, "You not hear the part about staying in the safe zone?"

"Yeah," she mutters, "I heard it."

"I knew you wouldn't listen! That's why I didn't want you there -- 'cause I can't fucking trust you to ever do what you're s'posed to!"

She bites her tongue. He's not wrong, but that last bit stung and she's pretty sure any response that flies out of her mouth will be ugly.

He takes a deep drag of smoke; turns over the engine and listens to it's rumble. Finally, he cuts his eyes to her. "You had enough monster hunting, now that you scared the fuck out of me and got twelve stitches in your back?"

Max really wants to say yes; wants to tell him what he needs to hear and make everything better. But --

"I know you're mad," she says instead, "but I couldn't stay in the safe zone and watch while you were in danger. I couldn't help myself, I --" she stops short, then blurts it out, "I care about you, asshole. And you're not like him, either. Not anymore. Haven't been in a long time." She pauses, suddenly drained, and mutters, "I was just saying what I knew would hurt you."

Billy stares out the windshield. "I think your arm might disagree with that."

"My arm is fine."

"It's not fine. Don't start thinking that shit is fine. Don't you ever excuse that from anyone or some day you'll end up married to someone who treats you like Dad did!" He stops short; gives his head an emphatic shake, "Promise me, Max."

"OK."

"No ok." He grits out, low and serious, "Promise. Promise not to excuse that kind of shit from anyone, ever. Even me. I swear I'll never put a mark on you again, but if something happens, if I lose my shit--"

"You won't."

"Promise."

"I do. OK." She says, and fuck if she doesn't feel like crying. "I promise."

The car drifts into silence; slows to a manageable pace as she stares out the window, trying to will her heartbeat to do the same.

After a few minutes, Steve clears his throat loudly and says, "How long are we doing this for?"

Billy shoots an eye roll at him in the mirror, but it's laced with fond exasperation. "Shut it, Harrington."

Max looks from one to the other, eager to be on familiar ground. And bickering is definitely familiar ground. "The hell you guys talking about?"

"Well," Billy drawls, "it's pretty obvious that I can't stop you from joining us unless I'm willing to nail you to the wall -- which I considered, by the way. And you blew the whole 'safety zone' thing right out of the water, so I guess the next best thing is teaching you to at least do it right."

"Yeah," Steve chimes in, "starting with target practice. Jesus, Max, I thought you were going to blow someone's head off today!"

She stares at Billy, mouth wide open. "Wait -- what? You mean I can come next time?"

"Not next time. But, sometimes." He shoots her an emphatic glance, "And not until I think you're ready, and you're not getting a gun--"

"But Steve just said--"

"Yeah, no. I don't care what Steve said."

Steve pops his feet up on the headrest, right beside her face. "Quit being such a hard ass." he says.

"What? She can have a bat."

"Oh yeah? What? With tacks in it? Toothpicks? How 'bout some training wheels?"

"I'm satisfied with a bat." Max says, hastily.

"Either way, you need some practice," says Steve, "you should probably join girls softball or something."

"If it doesn't interfere with detention." Billy mutters.

Steve chuckles. "Says the former king of detention."

"I have a condition."

Billy shoots her an incredulous glare. "You really think you're in a position to make demands?"

"Yep."

"Fine. Spit it out."

"You gotta pull over."

"Maxine, quit fucking around."

"No, I'm serious. Pull over and let Steve get up front."

Billy pulls over, and she can tell by the look on his face that it's not because she asked. It's because he's on to her. "This is not up for discussion."

"Oh, I don't know," says Steve, "I'm interested in what she has to say."

"She doesn't understand what's at stake."

"Yes, I do. And I'm sick of watching you try to be someone you're not. Everybody knows Freddy Mercury likes boys, and if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for you losers."

"It's not that easy, Max."

She crosses her arms. Gives him the look that means she's not budging. "Yeah, it is. It doesn't have to be anyone else's business but yours. I mean, c'mon Billy, we could move in with Steve and nobody would even question it. Everybody knows we're broke, and the people who care about us will accept it. I know they will."

Billy makes a noise that sounds a lot like a seagull with a french fry stuck in it's beak, but Steve sits up so his head is between them; says, "Why don't you quit being such a chicken shit? You know you want me."

"I do." He says quietly, into the steering wheel.

"Your dad was wrong," Steve's voice goes serious, "and he's dead. You gonna waste your whole life because of him? How's that any better than Max marrying some loser who hits her, someday?"

Billy nods; seems to smirk, despite himself. "You're such an asshole."

"Takes one to know one."

"Jesus," Max groans, popping her door open, "I'm so going to regret this."

"See?" Steve nudges him, "This is paying off already! Look how much we can annoy your step sister!"

Billy turns in his seat. He regards Max for a few seconds, waits for her to look his way.

"Don't call her that." He says, mildly.

"Don't call her what?"

"Step sister." he says, "It's not step sister. It's just sister."

*****

Epilogue added 7/11/19

Chapter Text

Epilogue

Eight Days Before Graduation:

"I'm saving up for a motorcycle."

"The fuck you are." Billy says around a mouth full of potatoes. "No way."

"Shocker." Max mutters. His answer to everything has been a solid "NO" for weeks -- ever since spring came and talk of her pending graduation came with it.

Parent night for softball team seniors: And have all the Hawkins housewives flirting with me? Don't think so. And if you ever ask me to go to a parent thing again I'll shave your head in your sleep.

College choices: How the fuck am I supposed to know what college you should go to? Am I getting paid to be your guidance counselor, now?

Visiting campuses: Do I look like an independently wealthy person who can take unlimited time off from work?

Financial aid: You need to see my taxes? Sure, shitbird, I'll get right on that. That's a real priority. I don’t even know where they are.....

'Thank GOD for Steve', she thinks, as she eyes him across the kitchen table. Because Steve might not be the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to numbers, but he was willing to struggle through the endless financial aid paperwork with her and sweet talk Billy into coughing up his taxes. He'd also been positively excited to visit campuses with her, a fact she felt kind of bad about when she remembered he hadn't been able to get in anywhere. 

Billy opens his mouth but Steve holds up a hand before World-War-Whatever-Number-They're-On-Now-He's-Honestly-Lost-Track can commence. "I think he just means they're danger--"

"No, I mean no fucking way."

 Max puts her fork down. "I'm almost 18."

"And believe me, Maxine, nobody is happier about that than me."

It probably shouldn't, given his general dickishness lately, but the sting in her chest catches her off guard. These last couple years; being in love, being less stressed about money, presumably getting laid regularly (gag me, she thinks, but still) -- he's been positively mellow. Ok, mellow-ish.....by Billy standards. But lately? Lately he's on the war path, and she's about had enough of getting the brunt of it.

"You're such an asshole!!" 

She runs for her room; slams the door loud enough for half of Hawkins to hear it.

Billy pushes his plate away.

"Nice job." Steve says to his back as he heads out the door.

Seven Days Before Graduation:

They stand toe to toe in the garage, where Max can't hear them.

"Why don't you just admit you're having a hard time letting her go?"

"Because I'm not." Billy says, arms crossed, eyes darting away from Steve's gaze.

"OK then, let's get her a cycle for graduation," he counters, earning a glare. "I swear you are like some kind of rabid bulldog lately. We're running out of time, we gotta get her something."

"You are not buying her one."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't need your fucking charity, for one thing."

Steve sighs a long, put upon sigh. "Babe. We've been over this. You guys are family. It's not charity. "

"Feels like it to me."

"Stubborn asshole."

"You can't just buy her whatever she wants!"

"Jesus Christ." Steve notes the tension in Billy's face; eyebrows arched, jaw ticking, blue eyes unreadable beneath heavy lids. "What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem."

Steve shifts his weight, props his hands on his hips. "God forbid you let her know you care about her--"

"Not now." Billy growls and shoots him a pleading glance. "Please."

"Okay." Says Steve, then changes tracks, "Listen -- it's not like we're gonna have kids someday, right?"

"I certainly fucking hope not. I never asked for this shit in the first place."

"So let me do this for Max."

A huff.

"Harrington." Billy mutters, sounding exasperated.

Steve smirks. Harrington, means he's won. "You know I love it when you call me that."

Billy rolls his eyes so hard Steve's kind of worried one might get stuck.  

"If you buy a used one, I'll fix it up."

Five Days Before Graduation:

"Yeah, you have anyone who can airbrush?" Billy barks into the phone, black cord wrapped around his dirty forearm. He's on break at work, flipping through the boss's rolodex for body men. "Someone talented, I mean. I don't want it lookin' like some tacky 70's van. It's for my sister."

The bike is sitting in a corner of the shop, under a tarp, in case Max stops in, which is unlikely since she's not speaking to him. Again. And he knows he deserves it. He still thinks the bike is a shitty idea, and it's not because he suddenly thinks she's some delicate flower who can't handle one. He's had to physically move her enough to know she's solid, and watched her whale on enough demodogs to know she's tough. And he knows she can drive one -- Steve told him months ago that she was driving Mike's dirtbike behind his back, and that he wasn't allowed to call her on it, because she'd probably tell you if you weren't such a fucking hardass about everything. The idea still irks him, though, and he doesn't like to think about why, so he bitches. He pretends he hates working on it; claims it's been a pain in the ass every step of the way, just like it's future owner.

He hangs up on the hapless body man. He didn't sound professional enough. This needs to be done right.

Billy does a couple oil changes and goes back to harassing body men.

He hates this. He does.

But it needs to be perfect.

Four Days Before Graduation:

"Who ate the leftover pizza?" Max stands by the table, looking like a pouting Chucky doll; red hair gone wild in the humidity.

"That's really the first thing you're gonna say to me all week?" Billy asks, without looking up. "I paid for it. I get the leftovers."

"I was looking forward to it all day."

"Yeah? And I'm looking forward to the day I can eat cold pizza without being interrogated. Have a hot dog."

"I don't want a hot dog." Max sticks her chin out. "I want pizza."

Billy narrows his eyes, finally looks at her. "Grow up."

"I did, and all you've done so far is be pissed at me for it!"

She slams the pizza box back on the table and shoves it toward him.

"Watch it." 

Steve has been standing by the sink, hoping this would blow over, and now that it hasn't -- he turns just as Billy heads out the door again, hears the camaro roaring angrily to life seconds later.

Max dissolves into tears.

He pats her back; pulls out a chair for her, then sits beside her.

"He says he'll be happy to get rid of me but he's being a bigger jackass than ever!"

"Well," Steve muses, "not ever."

"You know what I mean." she replies, slumping  down in the chair. "He's acting like he used to, when he hated me. He knows I love cold pizza. He always saves me the last piece!"

"Max, he never really hated you. You know that. And this wasn't about pizza. C'mon." He pauses, choosing his words carefully, "You guys aren't good at this kind of thing. It's like it's easier to let go if you're mad at each other."

Max doesn't have words to respond to that. She gets up. "I'm gonna go get another pizza and he's not getting any."

Steve listens to his door slam for the second time in 5 minutes; cracks open a beer and shakes his head.

Three Days Before Graduation:

Max leaves for graduation rehearsal at 8 am and by almost-midnight, she's still not home.

Billy is practically frothing at the mouth.

He calls the Chief, who casually informs him that Max decided to spend the night at their place.

"She didn't tell you?"

"You think I'd be calling you at 11 o'fucking thirty at night if she told me?"

"Yeah, yeah. OK. Well, she's here. Said she needed some space. Said you're turning into," Hopper pauses, and Billy can practically feel the way the man's mustache is twitching in amusement, "hmmm, I think it was a grumpy old man with ugly hair and a stupid car." Chief's voice muffles as he shifts the phone, "I get it all, Red?"

He hears Max in the background, drawling, "You forgot pizza hogging douchebag."

"She's got your mouth, Hargrove, you gotta admi--"

Billy hangs up; goes to find Steve.

"Did she tell you she was staying with El tonight?"

"Uh, no, but she's--"

 "I'm grounding her ass for a month."

"Mmmhmmm." Steve glances at him, noncommittal, then does a double take at his expression.  He sits up in bed. "First of all, she's graduating high school in three days. Second, she's almost 18." He smirks. "Third, we both know that’s not really gonna happen, because you've gone soft and you can't take the moping, anymore. And last.....honestly? You deserve the heart attack. You've been a nightmare for weeks now."

He can't really disagree with any of that, but he's also feeling prickly and distinctly un-amused (his hair is not ugly.....that shit's inexcusable) so he pretends to be indignant and says, "Have not."

"Oh, really?"

He huffs; stares at the bed, then at Steve, who is wearing an expression that says he can't decide whether to cuddle him or kick his ass. Something in his chest heaves a little. "Fine." 

"Look," Steve says, softly like he's addressing a wounded animal, "you've been counting down to this time for as long as we've been together. And she'll be ok. She thinks you're a massive pain in the ass, " he smiles, brown eyes crinkling at the corners, "that means you did ok. She's ready."

"I know." Billy runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "I don't know what's wrong with me, I don't know why--"

"Emotions."

He rolls his eyes. "Stop."

"No, babe. I'm serious. You suck at emotions. Especially when it comes to family, or the past. Remember how hard you were on Max when your mom popped back up on the radar and she set up that reunion behind your back?"

Billy shakes his head. That time he actually did ground her ass for a month , and he still feels like a heel about how it went down. Even though she'd been a sneaky, meddling little shit, her intentions were mostly pure when she dug the letter from his mom out of the trash and called the number it contained to set up a meeting. She hadn't realized the mine field she stumbled into; had naively thought he’d change his mind when he laid eyes on the woman. But when his mother showed up at their door and he found out how she got there -- he was so enraged he actually lost his vision for a few seconds. By the time he got a grip on himself, Steve was standing in front of Max with arms out, and Billy; well, for all his youthful violence, it was the closest he'd ever come to actually hitting Max beyond a slap, and the humiliation still smarts two years later.

"That's low." He says, quiet and serious. "Why would you even bring that up?"

"Because it's same shit, different day. When it comes to your family, you can't process it so you....."

"I know." He rolls his eyes. "Fine. I turn into a dick. I'm just--"

"Scared?"

Billy gives him a steady eyed glower. "God, I hate you."

"I know."

He sits down on the edge of the bed; whispers, "I'm not worried about Max. I know she can take care of herself. But.....what do I do with myself now?"

Steve is a patient man, but it's been a long ass few weeks and, "Excuse me? Am I chopped liver?"

"No. I mean, I'm glad I have you. I'm---that's part of my problem, ok? What if I lose you, too?  What if holding it together for Max was-- what if I turn back into who I used to be without that pressure?"

"Not gonna happen."

"But, how do you know?" Billy asks, and the fear is so raw, so evident, Steve's frustration washes away.

"Well, because for one thing, I'll kick your ass," Steve shoots him a filthy look, "and not in the fun way. And because I know exactly what we're going to do when she's at college."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And you're not gonna have time to turn back into an asshole. Trust me. You're going to be busy."

"Hmm."

"Yup. First of all, you're going to fuck me in every room of this house --"

"Except hers."

"Of course. Gross. And then, we are going to be 23 and without responsibility for the first time in years. We're going to party. We're going to get high without worrying about setting a bad example, and fuck some more, and drink too much, and go on vacation, and fuck some more. We're gonna be young a while. "

Billy regards him thoughtfully, before finally cracking a smile.

"You'll still make us turkey on Thanksgiving, though, right? When she comes home and we do family shit?"

Steve pauses; studies him. He'd missed it, somehow, how much Billy needs the stability of their little family structure. "Like a boss." He says.

A couple beats pass.

"Sorry." Billy murmurs.

"Tell it to Max." says Steve, with a penetrating glance.

"I will."

"Ok, then. I'm sure you can make it up to me somehow."

"Well, I mean, we are home alone, tonight."

"Huh. Would ya look at that...."

"We need to get in shape if we're gonna execute that plan of yours."

Steve grins. "Very true."

Two Days Before Graduation:

Billy finally finds an airbrush artist that meets his standards.

He draws complicated plans for what he wants, harasses the poor guy endlessly over the color mixing, pays up the ass for the rush job, and literally paces the floor outside the paint booth as it's being done, like a man waiting for a newborn baby.

It's perfect.

Graduation Day:

Billy sits on the edge of Maxine's bed, sipping his coffee and listening to her snore. It's still pretty early, but he couldn't sleep, and the cool air feels nice coming through her half open window.

He knows she's still really hurt about his attitude lately, and he has to concede he can't blame her. It gets him thinking about the last few years. He can laugh about some of their fights, now. Like when Steve actually moved out of his own house and spent a week in a motel because they quit smoking at the same time and he couldn't take the bickering. Or when she accidentally hit him in the arm with a nail bat because he got overprotective and jumped in front of her -- then they stood, oblivious, in the middle of a demodog battle and argued for ten minutes over who was to blame. The nerds still won't let them live that down.

Other things, he can't smile about quite yet. Like when she had a pregnancy scare her junior year and went to Steve instead of him (they still don't know he knows). He didn't care that she was fooling around, but he'd told her a billion times to be safe, even drove her to planned parenthood for the pills she was apparently really bad at remembering -- and then she went to Steve?

Or the thing with his mom. He's still mad at himself for his momentary loss of control. He'd only ever even slapped Max one time, and it was way back in high school, definitely not once she became his responsibility. Hell, hadn't he been the one to make her promise? If I ever lose my shit....

And now she's decided to grow up and get a goddamn motorcycle and go away to college.

The nerve.

He reminds himself of what Steve said the other night, in the soft lamp light when the rest of the town was asleep. You won't go back to "old Billy". I won't let you. And Max will always be your sister. Even if it's not blood, you guys are bonded for life. And I'll be here, too. Every day. Even when you're a giant pain in the ass.

And isn't that all anyone can ask for, really?

He listens to the birds chirping and feels a sudden rush of gratitude for Steve. Max has a nice bedroom, in a middle class neighborhood. There's an old prom dress peeking out of her closet, and more shoes than any human being should need. They're comfortable, now, and not just financially, but in other ways. Ways that matter.

Somehow, Steve has always known when to stand between them and when to let them have it out; been there through thick and thin these last couple years. He bandaged their fractured family the best he could; brought them stability with holiday traditions and trips to the Hawkins drive in with the nerd patrol; joining them on the occasional vacation back to Cali.

He thinks about one particular Labor Day trip when he and Max laughed in the sunshine at Steve's surfing attempts until they were rolling in the sand. How excited they'd been to get him boardwalk fries and share their pre-Hawkins way of life with him.

He studies her closely and tries not to push away the stir of affection that comes when he sees the scar under her chin. About six months after they moved in with Steve he'd gotten a call from the principal. Max was in a fight; wiped the gymnasium floor with a boy in her class and split her chin open in the process.

"The hell happened?" He'd asked, gruffly, when they got in the car.

Max crossed her arms tight, looked out the window. The car sank into silence. He wasn't going to move until she talked, and she wasn't ready to talk. This was a dance they'd been doing a lot lately, now that they were trying to scream at each other less.

Minutes ticked by, before she finally twisted around to face him, chin bandaged and daggers in her eyes. "He called you a faggot!"

"Oh."

Billy honestly didn't know what else to say. His emotions wavered between anger, pain and amusement. She was so damn scrappy, sometimes he was sure she really was a Hargrove. And he couldn't help but be heart-warmed by her ferocious defense of him.

"And you're not allowed to be mad," she told him, "because you've gotten into at least two fights over it, too. I know you have."

Jesus. Why couldn't he have been landed with a less observant kid?

"Not mad." He shot her a look. "I'm not that big a hypocrite. And for your information, it's been months since the last one."

She snorted. "That's not because of your ass kicking skills. That's because Hopper started threatening people."

He studied her, then put the car in drive; took her to the local ice cream shop and then threw her the keys. "Let's go to the quarry."

As she switched off the ignition, he gathered up their ice cream napkins and stuffed them in the glove box. "Don't tell Steve we got ice cream without him."

She held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

"That's a peace sign, dipshit." He stifled a grin, waited for her to look at him, and pinned her with a neutral, unflinching gaze. "You can't fight my battles for me."

"Like hell I can't."

" I mean it, Max--"

She flew at him; wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a fierce and completely unprecedented hug. He went tight as a guitar string. He couldn't make himself hug her back -- hell he wasn't even sure he could breathe. Finally he patted her awkwardly on the head, and she pulled away.

 She swiped impatiently at her eyes and gave him the most stubbornly defiant expression he'd ever seen on her (and he'd seen a lot of them). "If someone fought your battles for you when they should have, you might be able to hug now." She said, "So don't tell me I can't."

Billy shakes his head, sniffs loudly and shelves a pang of guilt that he couldn't hug her back. He sips his coffee and looks around her room; notes the college brochures on her dresser, sees the old skateboard abandoned in a dusty corner.

He knows he's been a first class asshole the last few weeks. He should've gone to parent night for softball; should've visited campuses with her and Steve and handed over his financials instead of being embarrassed by the numbers.

He should've saved her the last piece of cold pizza.

But there was stuff going on in his brain; stuff even the little voice was at a loss to explain. His annoying kid sister, like it or not, had grown up. The day he'd been waiting so long for was fast approaching, and he'd been shocked to discover how much he hated it.

In the morning stillness, he finally has to admit: Max is his kid. And, even more terrifying, deep down under layers of emotional wreckage and scar tissue, he loves her.

He does.

She makes a noise in her sleep (he can't really tell if it's a burp, a fart, or a snort) and it makes him laugh; brings him back to earth. He drains his cup and shakes her leg until she stretches; gives him a bleary eyed glare.

"Wha?" She looks around at the half gray light. "I don't have to be up yet."

"I know," he says, nonchalantly, "you were fartin' in your sleep. I couldn't take it anymore."

"Shut up," Max looks hilariously indignant, "I was not."

"Whatever, man." He shrugs elaborately, then smirks at the rising color in her face; clears his throat. "Sorry for being such a dick, lately. You were right when you said I was pissed at you for growing up."

Max contemplates him a few seconds, then graces him with a smile he most definitely doesn't deserve.

"Come on," he says, quickly. He's not sure he can handle a heart to heart at the moment, so he wants to get her moving. "We got you something."

That gets her up, better than bacon. She stumbles down the stairs in the Megadeath tee shirt (it fits now), and a pair of sweatpants, hair in her face.

Steve has been waiting, over his own cup of coffee, and he stifles a grin at the soft look on Billy's face. He whispers every room in the house, very succinctly, before following him out to the driveway.

When she sees it, her eyes light up and her mouth hangs open.

"I guess you won't be skateboarding to your high school graduation after all." Billy says.

Max glances at him, then at Steve. "I'll be riding in like a badass!" she says before letting loose with an excited squeal and running over to look at it better. She runs her hands over the spotless new tires, the leather seat and the shiny, freshly cleaned motor. She stops when she sees the gas tank.

"Mad Max" is outlined in air brush, in all her favorite colors. She tears up; gives Steve a quick hug and turns to find Billy.

This time, he hugs back. 

Chapter Text

Thank you for reading!

The following chapters are add ons and requests that take place in a variety of periods. They include - teen Max / young Harringrove, progressing to college Max, and then a few where everyone is (allegedly) grown up, and Max has a daughter named Emily. 

Chapter 1 gives a rough chronological order for anyone who wants to read it in order.

I would really like to organize these into a separate series, but the only way I know to do that is to delete them and republish them as such -- and I'd lose all my wonderful reader comments -- which I'd rather not do. This is the next best thing I can think of to do. 

Chapter Text

The First Time

First time Dad decides it’s his duty to take Maxine in hand, Billy comes home in the middle of it. He’s viscerally familiar with that whistle, crack; flinches, despite himself. She's screaming her head off, and part of him wishes he could pause this nightmare to tell her: that only eggs him on.

She doesn’t want me to tell her things, he reminds himself, made that really fucking clear.

Still.

He stands as if he’s frozen to the kitchen floor, for about thirty seconds, then he’s back outside; pukes over the porch railing until there’s nothing left.

He gets in the camaro. It’s safe and quiet and still warm; chain smokes three cigarettes with shaking hands. He wonders how Susan can stand it.

Finally, he talks himself into trying again; one foot in front of the other. It’s blissfully quiet, this time, when he gets back in. Susan is standing at Maxine’s closed door with one hand on it, before Dad yells from the living room to leave her alone, she’s gotta learn!

She glances at him; eyes glazed over like glass. He bites back the urge to take off his own belt; crack her across the face with it so she can see how it feels. 

Maybe then she'd take their pain seriously.

He goes to his room and turns up the music so he can’t hear Max snuffling loudly through their thin, shitty walls.

Next morning, it’s a school day. Max is proud as Lucifer but she’s only human. She eats a tiny bowl of cereal and sits up ram rod straight and shifts around in a way he’s intimately familiar with. She gets up and washes out her dishes; heads back to her room but Dad says, you can sit here until we’re all finished, because he’s a sadistic fuck.

He pays her the only kindness he can think of, and doesn’t look at her.

When they get to school, he expects her to bolt right out the door the second the car stops, but she doesn’t. He really doesn’t want to think about any of this, but he can feel her eyes on his profile.

“What?” he asks, more savagely than intended; finally glances at her.

Her eyes are wide and round; pupils dilated.

She’s scared.

“What, shitbird?” he asks again, less confrontationally, but not warm by a long shot.

She chews her lip.

“I have swim today,” she blurts out in a rush.

OK. This is good. Practical advice he can do, any day of the week. It’s cut and dry.

“Use your period pass yet this month?”

The girls think the boys don't know about the once a month get-out-of-jail-free card they all get, for pool. It's pathetic. 

She goes bright red, mutters, “No.”

“Well, there you go,” he replies with a shrug, “but when you have gym again, change in the bathroom stall.”

“Do you think—” she starts and stops; eyes searching his.

Suddenly, he doesn’t like the look on her face; icy fingers crawl up his spine. As he watches, she inhales deeply before muttering a quiet, hasty never mind, and reaching for the door.

His arm shoots out so quickly she only manages to open it an inch. He grabs the handle; pushes it out so he can slam it shut better, and holds it.

“Don’t let anyone see,” he grits out, way too close and eyes boring into hers, “and don’t tell anyone. I know what’s going on in your little rat brain. I’ve been down that road. Doesn’t go where you think it does.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Max. Unless you want more stripes to go with the ones you already got, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Her eyes well up, and shit. He wasn’t expecting that. Neither was she, it seems, because she about punches herself in the face she swipes them away so hard.

“Look,” he says, quieter, “people talk a good game, but real life isn’t like that. No teacher or guidance counselor is going to risk their job to save you. Best bet is keep your head down, like I tried to tell you before.”

She glares at him, a firestorm of emotion behind her eyes.

“Yeah,” she snarls, “you were a real knight in shining armor.”

This time, he lets her get out; cringes when she slams the door behind her.

Max is tired and sore and wide awake; red digital numbers on the clock blink from 10:21 to 10:22 while she stares.

Mom and Neil are fighting.

About her.

They’ve been at it maybe ten minutes. Mom started out strong, and she couldn’t help the tiny flame of hope that lit up in her chest.

Then Neil played the big card. “You really want to be a two time loser?” he hisses. “What man’s gonna want a woman whose been divorced twice? You're damaged goods! You bring nothing to the table! No education. Shitty job. Spoiled, disrespectful brat for a kid. You’re lucky I put up with your bullshit, as it is!”

“Lucky?” asks Mom, incredulously. Max is cheering quietly from her spot when she hears the crack and the thump, against the wall; the crash of something falling.

She’s scrambling up and out of bed, when there are two loud knocks on her wall.

Billy.

It distracts her enough to giver her pause; enough to breathe and think.

She’s a kid. A 95 lb kid. Neil has overpowered her before, and all the puffy, welted parts from behind her knees to up the middle of her back seem to throb at once, in reminder.

There’s nothing she can do.

Nothing.

And, nothing Mom can do, either, it seems.

She goes back to bed.

The house quiets down as the clock flicks from 10 to 11, then 12.

There’s only one person who can understand the way her guts feel like battery acid. He's not comforting by any definition of the word, but he's here, and they're in the same boat.

And sometimes that's enough. 

She gets her afghan and pillow; tiptoes down the hall.

He’s awake, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t spare her a glance.

She spreads her blanket out on the floor and she’s gingerly lowering herself onto it when he finds his voice.

“Don't get caught in here.”

“I won’t.”

“Yeah?” he props himself up on one elbow, “You can guarantee that? Because it’s both our asses if he finds you.”

"You can say you didn't know," she offers, cautiously. "Say I snuck in."

Words are crowding her brain, blocking out everything else: lonely, terrified, desperate, confused. Aching, and heartbroken.

Hopeless.

Nothing comes out. She doesn't want to hear them out loud, and she knows they won't be welcome, anyway. 

She lays on the blanket; turns her back to him.

“I can't be your hero, Max," he says, on an an exhausted sigh. "Like I told you before. This is real life. Nobody’s coming to save you. Best you can do is keep your head down and your mouth shut; don't be home unless you have to. ” 

He pauses, and she doesn't respond; doesn't trust herself to. 

"When he lights into you, don't blubber an' carry on like you did today, either. Only makes it worse."

Her hands start to shake. All those words that won’t come out, they mix with a creeping humiliation that ferments to vinegar in her mouth. 

“I hate you,” she says; a malediction in the darkness.

“Good,” he replies, casual as you please, “now we're gettin' somewhere.”

Chapter Text

Body Slam

It’s eleven on the nose when Billy comes through the front door. He’s got beer on his breath, but he’s eighteen now, and beer drinking is one of the few things Dad seems to think he does like a man, so that’s not going to be an issue.

Unless he’s in a mood and looking for issues.

Then again, if that’s the case, he’ll be fucked no matter what, so he might as well be drunk for it.

The door is locked, and that gets his heart thumping quicker. It means either he’s in for it…or Max has already gotten it.

Great. Now he’s buzzing and shaking. Takes a couple tries, but the key lands in the hole, at last; turns the tumbler over with a clunk that seems deafening in the night’s silence.

He tiptoes into the house, while his eyes are adjusting to the light; almost pisses himself when something jumps at the toe of his right boot.

“Watch it, asshole!” Maxine hisses in the semi-darkness. She’s squatting on the floor, trying to coax a pile of broken glass and plaster dust into a dustpan; broom held too low at an awkward angle.

“The fuck happened?” He whispers, hoarsely.

His eyes have adjusted now. Part of him, deep down, wishes they hadn’t.

Max glares up at him. Half of her face is scraped and turning a nasty blue violet around the forehead and cheekbone. His eyes wander up the wall, beside her; take in the crack in the plaster and the way she’s babying her right arm.

He swallows down beer flavored bile.

“Gimme that,” he says, reaching for the broom.

“Fuck off,” she replies, yanking it away.

He’s not deterred. This isn’t personal, and he knows it. Wasn’t personal all the times he treated her bad, either. It’s the rage bubbling under the skin. It doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

He snatches the broom, and she rolls eyes but she does move the dustpan over and hold it still while he pushes the shit up on to it.

His ears are trained on the hallway; listening for footsteps. They aren’t supposed to help each other, after, unless he tells them to.

Cleaning up is part of the punishment.

She dumps the dustpan into the kitchen garbage, puts it away; runs some water in the bathroom and returns with a rag.

He fakes disinterest while she starts wiping up plaster dust. She’s having trouble doing it left handed; right arm still curled protectively into her side. He sits in Dad’s chair and leans his head back, like it’s a regular Thursday night; watches out of the corner of his eye.

She sits back on her haunches; huffs.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, bluntly. “Go to bed. I’ll do it

She wants to argue, because she’s Max. But, she’s also sore. It’s not lost on him that the crack in the plaster is the same size as she is. Also not lost on him how she’s injured all up and down her right side. In a different kind of home, someone would be settling her into bed with two tylenol and a heating pad. 

In a different kind of home, she wouldn't need it. 

He's tired of thinking, and she’s still not moving, so he sneers at her and says, “You’re not doing it right, anyway. I’m sure that’ll be my fault, somehow. Rather do it myself."

"But--"

He leans down into her face; gives her left shoulder a shove and growls, "Beat it, Max. Now.”

She tries not to struggle when she gets to her feet; and he tries not to notice. She turns on her heel and goes to her room without a word.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters, under his breath. He gets down on the floor much more smoothly than she could, and wipes up the dust. His ears are tuned in so sharp he swears he could hear a fly fart three counties over.

If the old man comes down right now, they’re both dead.  

Next morning, it's breakfast; Dad’s face behind the newspaper, Susan fluttering around with nervous, fake cheer. He’s keeping his expression blank while his brain notes the way Maxine’s face has blossomed overnight.

Susan hands him some coffee. He wants to scream at her to take your kid and run, you stupid bitch, but that’s not the way things work.

“Thanks,” comes out his mouth, instead.

Max has a long sleeved shirt on, even though it’s May and supposed to be up in the 70’s later, and the school is always boiling hot. The way the plaster caught her face left the kind of scratches and bruises that look like road rash.

He figures that’s why the old man is letting her go to school, today.

Believable cover story.

She catches him staring and glares at him for all she’s worth.

He can read her like a book:

Don’t need your help.

Don’t want your pity.

I can take care of myself.

Dad finally puts the paper down; glances between them.

“Your sister is grounded,” he says, “you are to bring her directly home after school and stay here with her. Make sure she doesn’t go out. I’m holding you responsible for that. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dad stands up. Billy doesn’t miss the way Max flinches.

“Son, I’d like to see you in the living room.”

Fuck him. Are they back to this, again? Him taking the heat for her every mistake? Christ sakes; he hasn’t even figured out what she did, yet.

He glares at Max and she deflates into her chair.

“Did you know what she was up to?” Dad turns on him, swiftly, the second they’re out of the room.

He concentrates on making his face neutral; voice bland but not so bored it's insolent.

“Not sure what you mean,” he responds, carefully, “what happened?”

Dad stares at him a few seconds, evaluating.

“You realize the kind of company she’s been keeping?”

Oh.

That.

“They keep the eighth graders in another part of the school,” he says, heart hammering hard in his chest. He can’t sound defensive or it’s all over. “I try to, but I barely see her for most of the day.”

The old man gives him a shove. His feet are planted; he doesn’t go back more than a step.

Takes it like a man, as Dad is so fond of saying.

“You can come right in after school too, next couple weeks; don’t let her out of your sight. She runs wild, you’re both gonna pay, next time," he growls, eying him up and down. "Might help you remember she's your responsibility when I'm not around."

“Yes sir. I’ll do better.”

I’ll do better was almost too much. Dad glares at him a few seconds; seems to decide he wasn’t being a smart ass and finally, right as Billy thinks he might pass out—waves him away.

Max is waiting by the back door, when he comes through the kitchen, and he meets her glare with his own, this time. Why the fuck couldn’t she have listened to him in the first place?

He grabs his jacket off the back of the chair and they’re out in the soft morning air in no time flat.

“Fuckin’ told you this would happen,” he growls, the instant the car doors are closed; turning half round in his seat to train eyes on her. “Now, I gotta sit home babysitting your ass every day? When I’m the one who told you stay away from him, in the first place?”

She doesn’t apologize. Pisses him off.

“You screw up at all, under my watch; he lays a hand on me because of you, you’re gonna be sorry.”

“Oh no,” she mutters, tonelessly, “and my life was already such a barrel of laughs.”

He closes his eyes a second, then fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up.

“Still think I’m the asshole, here?”

“I never asked for your help,” she says, irritation lacing each word.

“Yeah,” he snorts, “that's why your face looks that way.”

She cuts her eyes to him, in a glare.

He blows a smoke ring at her; turns over the camaro's engine and lets it's rumbling purr relax him.

“What are you gonna tell everyone?” he asks, eventually. They need to be on the same page. 

“Skateboard accident,” she mutters, “again.”

“Dad’s idea?”

She growls, and he figures this conversation is over. She crosses her arms, then grimaces and uncrosses them.

He wonders how bad her arm is, but doesn’t ask. Instead, he whips the car out in reverse and jams it into gear; accelerates hard enough to put her back in the seat.

Sometimes, making her hate him is the kindest thing he can do. It gives her an outlet, and it lets him feel like he hates her back.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into the school parking lot way too fast; satisfaction in his gut at the way kids scatter. It feels good to be the scarer, instead of the scareee, now and then.

Before he even gets the car in gear to park, he grabs a strap of her backpack, to hold her in place. 

“Stay out of trouble,” he growls, "and under the radar. Last thing you need with that face is some busybody calling Dad." 

"Your concern is touching," she replies, sarcastically; yanks her bag out his grasp, "but you really can shove it right up your ass."

She slams the camaro door and flips him off.

All is well.

Last period, he’s out of study hall on a gym pass. This fucked up, backwoods school only has one gym for both high school and middle school, so he has to cut through munchkin territory to get there. He’s looking forward to shooting some hoops; working out his aggression before he has to head home and babysit Maxine’s massive attitude all night.  

He turns a corner and sees them, at the end of the hall; his step sister sobbing with a red face and Lucas wearing an expression like she just hammered a nail bat down between his legs.

His heart and his legs grind up a gear. This is not staying under the radar. But, as he watches, she walks away and leaves Lucas standing there. 

He doesn’t think about how much it hurt to dump his best friend in 7^th grade, over his skin color.

He doesn’t think about how much it hurt when his first girlfriend dumped him.

He definitely doesn’t think about the way she cradled her arm when she walked away, or how hard she was crying.

When he gets to where Lucas is still standing, he shoulder checks him, hard; almost sends him flying.

"Asshole," Lucas mutters, not too loud, but loud enough.

“Tough break, Sinclair,” he sneers.  

People don't ask questions or call cops or have heart to hearts about you with nosy parents or guidance counselors, when they hate you. 

They don't expect you to take down walls you need, in order to survive, either.

It makes life so much easier.

He heads into the locker room, counting down the days until graduation, in his head; repeating the number like a mantra that blocks out everything else. 

Like how the hell Max is going to survive when he leaves.

Chapter Text

Goodbye

Billy spends most of June, pretending he's not going to warn her.

Every time she’s snotty (aka always) he feels justified in his decision. (I don’t owe her anything.) But, every time Dad makes her flinch, with a raised voice or a glower across the dinner table, he knows he should do it, anyway.

When he sees her behind the bus garage at school, having a smoke (which is the same reason he’s outside), during 4^th period when she should be in Math…he knows he has to. He comes around the corner and she’s standing there with a new group of kids; hip cocked wide, grungy wrist brace poking out beneath her jacket sleeve.

The image hits him harder than expected.

Maybe, if she were his biological sister, he wouldn’t feel so bad about watching her harden up. Maybe, then, it would seem like fate: stork screwed her over, same way it did him.

All’s fair in love and war.

The way it stands, though, it feels like a real waste: an ok kid with a shot at an ok future, until her mom made one bad decision when she was six fucking years old. And, just like that, she’s on her way to being a middle aged diner waitress who sells blow jobs to truckers, on slow tip days.

Jesus.

He pauses; shakes his head at himself.

Quit being such a drama queen. She’s not your fucking problem.

Except, she kind of is.

Max doesn’t see him coming right away because her back is turned to the school, which is a rookie move on her part, since the cigarette between her lips is his.  

The only warning she gets is when her new friend Michelle widens eyes at something beyond her head; says, “Uh, Max…”

“The fuck you doing?” he’s got her by the scruff of the jacket already, somehow. “That my cigarette?”

Ah, shit.

She can tell by the way he’s not letting go or dragging her off; he’s going to make this as painful as possible.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” he demands, gruffly. “You don’t skip an actual class, idiot. Get a study hall pass and then sneak out. And don’t smoke where everyone else does." He pauses, looks her up and down; gives a shake. "When you start doin’ that, anyway? You look like a fucking care bear with a cigarette stuck in it’s mouth. It’s just wrong.”

Michelle giggles, and she feels her face light up.

“C’mon, Billy,” she growls. He’s been relatively tame lately, ever since the thing where Neil found out about Lucas. He’d even quietly suggested to Mom that she needed to brace her right wrist, and it had helped.  

She tugs against his grip; gets nowhere.

“You all know she’s an 8^th grader,” he drawls, to no one and everyone, “right? Barely out of a training bra.”

That’s it. She jerks herself out of the jacket and stalks determinedly back toward the school. He lets her get a bit ahead, then catches up; grabs her right arm and that makes her squeak. It’s mostly healed, but still tender enough, if it gets yanked.

He lets go, fast; holds up both hands. “Forgot.”

“There’s a brace on it, asshole! Isn’t that reminder enough?”

He smiles.

Fucker.

“C’mon."

She tries to gauge his mood, but the sun is behind him and she can't see his face. Doesn't really matters. The options suck either way; best possible scenario is usually around 85% dickhead, as opposed to 100. 

“Not going anywhere with you,” she says, crossing her arms for emphasis.

He cocks an eyebrow. There are a multitude of implications in that expression, from I can tell everyone you cried during ET to I can throw you over my shoulder and carry you, in front of your new friends.

“Fucking hate you,” she mutters, with venomous sincerity, but all he does is snort and start walking.

She follows. The consequences aren’t exactly agreeable.

They wind up in a patch of woods out behind the soccer field.

He tosses his arms up at their surroundings; says, “This, is where you come to smoke.”

It’s been quiet since Max had to break up with Sinclair, almost a month ago.

Last week, they marched out to the car: Dad huffing and puffing in a too-tight polyester suit like Magilla Gorilla and Susan smiling vacantly. They were going to a pre-graduation thing at the high school.

It was no secret to anyone, why they were making this public spectacle of themselves.

“Can’t have people thinking we’re not respectable,” Dad said, over dinner the night before, with a pointed glance at Maxine’s wrist.

She’d kept her head down, shoveling in Susan’s awful meatloaf like it was her last meal.

“Right, Maxine?”

She glanced up; swallowed quickly and said, “Yes, sir.”

He shook his head at her; sighed as if they were all his own personal cross to bear.

“You eat like a pig.”

She’d slouched back in her chair and didn’t touch another bite and, honestly? Out of the all the shit the old man’s done to both of them, he’d never wanted to punch his lights out as much as he did right then.

Personal experience has taught him: welts heal quicker than words.

Ever since, she’s been quiet in in that ticking time bomb way he knows so well; the one that means she’s bottled up.

And now she’s being reckless.

It’s like clockwork.

When it happens to him, he picks a fight, kicks some ass, and feels better.

Well, better enough to get by. Better enough that he can think straight, keep his head down, and avoid the old man’s fists.

For Maxine, it’s not so easy. Dad doesn’t care if he fights; she’s another story. It leaves her without a steam valve.  

He shoves her, and she goes down on her butt in the leaves and twigs.

“What they hell is your problem, today?” she snarls.

He smiles, because she hates that.

“C’mon, Maxi pad.”

Her face is getting redder by the second, but she pauses; lightbulb coming on.

“I’m not doing this,” she says, looking disgusted, “it’s barbaric.”

“Maybe so,” he replies with a shrug, “but it works. And I can take it.”

She shakes her head.

“Do it, or I tell Dad you skipped Math and started smoking.”

One thing he’s gotta give her; she’s fast and she has one hell of a right hook. She doesn’t go for the face, because she knows better than that, but she lands it on his shoulder, almost hard enough to spin him around. Then, another in the chest.

Next comes the scream; guttural and heart wrenching and full of rage.

Finally, tears.

She sits down on a log, cradling her arm, and he sits down beside her.

“Should’ve used your left,” he says, conversationally.

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah. Better?”

She nods, mopping her face with her shirt.

“Listen,” he says, “time to tell you some shit.”

She smooths her shirt back down slowly; eyes him with suspicion. “Why?”

“’Cause I’m sick of listenin’ to you get your ass kicked, ok?”

“You’re a couple years too late.”

He glares, and she returns it. They both know he tried before; wound up with a hypodermic in his neck and a nail bat between his legs. The part they don’t agree on, is whose fault it was.

He pulls that rectangular red box out of his front pocket; taps it on the log a few times before extracting one.

Arguing about that night, now, isn’t going to get them anywhere.

“These leaves look awful dry…” Max remarks, like the biggest dork on the planet, when he pulls out his lighter.

She hasn’t figured out yet, how much better it would feel if she wanted to burn the world down. If he could stay, he’d try to keep it that way. Because, being conscientious about shit like that, is exactly why she shouldn’t be smoking behind the garage with fucked up high school girls.

But, he can’t stay. If he does, one way or another, he’ll die. Maybe it’ll be in prison or a bar fight or a bullet to the head while climbing out some married woman’s window (or some married man’s, a distant voice adds); doesn’t really matter. He can’t live in the same house as Neil, anymore.

Eventually, he’ll break.

“OK, first of all, you need to go back to the nerds,” he says, lighting up, “they’ll get you in less trouble.”

“I can’t,” she replies, flatly, “just a matter of time before they figure things out and tell Hopper.”

He inhales, deeply. She’s not wrong.

“Fine,” he says, “but use your head. Those kids are only pretending their lives suck. Yours really does. They might get grounded for the same shit that’ll put you in traction. And don’t smoke in a big group like that. Nothing says hey we’re out here smoking like a giant group of idiots all herded up together.”

She’s staring at him, now. He can see it out of the corner of his eye. He pushes ahead, “Always be at least ten minutes early getting home, because if he’s in a mood he fucks with the clock, but only by a few minutes. And don’t talk back—”

“I know. I’m not an idiot.”

“Max,” he says, jutting his cigarette at her, “shut up and listen. You could cut out half the shit you take if you’d learn to keep your mouth shut.”

“Like you keep your mouth shut?”

“Think about it,” he snarls in frustration, “when do I run my mouth?”

“All the fucking time?”

“No. Only when you came home drunk. When you mouthed off to your mom. When you broke his grandmother’s vase with your goddamn skateboard in the house.”

Realization breaks over her features. “You—”

“Yeah. And I can’t keep doing it.”

“I never asked you—"

“I never said you did.”

“What’s going on? Why--” she stops abruptly, and he knows she knows. She figured it out, and her expression makes his guts itch.

He gets up and starts pacing around in a circle. When he stops and turns, she’s right there; plants her fist, hard on his jaw. She wasn’t invited, this time, and every nerve in his brain lights up at once.

Instinct drowns his judgment. Before he can reel it in, he slaps her; knocks her back a few steps.

“You’re not my problem!”

“I never asked to be!” she yells; cheek already blooming hot red against impossibly pale skin. He's stunned by the sight of it and the realization he put it there. The pain in his throat cuts hard enough to block out the throb in his jaw.

She shoves past him and runs.

It’s Maxine’s third morning out on the front steps at the ass crack of dawn; favorite afghan wrapped tightly against the morning chill.

They’d all trooped off to graduation, day before last; bile rising in her throat when Neil shook Mr. Wheeler’s hand and made small talk about the kids, as if he’s a regular Dad.

Two days before, he’d told Billy at dinner, you get yourself a decent haircut for graduation and lose the faggot earring, or I might just forget to sign the back of that title.

In other words, he’s lorded the camaro (the one Billy actually paid for, by the way) over him until the very last second. At graduation he’d stood up there with the other kids, and she knew he was humiliated; short hair, no earring, watching other kids get cheered on by proud fathers. After, though, he plied Neil with beer and testosterone; finally got him to sign the damn thing.

That was when she started getting up early to wait.

She hates him for taking punches for her and she hates him for leaving, but nobody else in this rotting corpse of a family is going to see him off, so she sits.

Not that she’s spoken to him since the day in the woods, mind you.

Still.

Finally, the sound she’s been both anticipating and dreading, drifts toward her from behind the house.

Must be today’s the day.

She stares straight ahead, but in her peripheral she sees the cold blue of it roll down the driveway.

She doesn’t miss the way the brake lights come on, or the pause, when he’s almost to the end. She can feel his eyes, but refuses to look.

When he roars past, without a glance, she fully expects him to disappear forever.

Neither of them know it, yet, but fate has other plans.

Chapter Text

It’s not that Billy necessarily means to neglect Max. It’s more that Steve smells so fucking good.

And tastes so fucking good.

And he’s never felt this way about anyone before.

He buys groceries and he pays the bills; even leaves her a few bucks, for whatever. You know, essentials…her compliance, etc.. And, hell, she has company; their house is practically the new nerd den, these days. He knows she and Lucas aren’t fooling around, yet, because he asked point blank and her face looked exactly like it did the time he stuck a booger in her hair. And, beyond that, he’s happy to turn a blind eye to them getting drunk or playing spin the bottle or whatever the fuck else nerds do when they’re off leash.

As long as it buys him some time figuring out what makes Steve’s knees buckle, it’s all good.

These last couple weeks, though, it seems as if him being away so many nights has stopped being fun. She’s started to complain, started to hint (which she sucks at, by the way), and, you know what? He can’t help but get defensive. This is the first thing that’s gone right for him, in the history of ever. He just wants one thing. One fucking thing to call his own.

Also, the walls of their shitty little house are thin.

So, he might have snapped a couple times; might have told her to grow up and get over it – maybe reminded her how much he’s sacrificed for her.

Not his proudest moment, that’s true.

He tries not to dwell on it.  

Anyway, Billy’s currently got his face buried in that soft, freckled spot between Steve’s neck and his collarbone, causing the latter to moan in a way that gets the attention of every single hair on his body, when the phone rings for the third time in five minutes.

He’s alive with frustration, but Steve hoarsely mumbles, “Might be a monster.”

Billy’s thinking he couldn’t get so lucky, and sure enough, Steve immediately hands the phone over.

“What?”

“Got Red down here.” Says Hopper.

That throws him for a second; isn’t the voice he was expecting.

“Down where?”

“At the station,” he says, then, with finality, “get down here.”

Steve gets in the car with him.

“Hope you’re ok with the sight of blood.” He mutters, venomously.

“C’mon, you don’t even know what happened.”

Billy doesn’t answer that; throws the car in reverse and peels out of the driveway.

When they get to the station, Hopper’s waiting for him outside the door. Steve is in tow.

“The fuck did she do now?” He snarls.

“Whoa,” Chief holds up both hands, “calm down. It’s not a ‘yelling thing’.”

He wants to tell him everything is a ‘yelling thing’ with Maxine, but he keeps it together.

Barely.

“What’s going on with you and her?”

Billy grinds his teeth together. “Nothing.”

“Well,” says Hoper, “that’s pretty interesting, considering she tried to hop the late bus out of town, tonight.”

Wait, what?

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I was out on last patrol and I found her at the bus stop.” He explains, mustache rippling and a firm stink eye pinned on Billy, “She had a hat on, and I wouldn’t even have given a second look but there was some red hair sticking out the back.”

He's dumbfounded.

Then hurt.

Then, livid.

The nerve of that little shit. Over a year of permanent baby sitter duty and when she doesn’t get his full fucking attention for a couple months, she pulls this stunt?

“Where was she going?” He asks.

“She won’t say.”

He snorts. “Where is she?”

“She’s in an interrogation room,” Hopper says, opening the door and holding it for them, “and you’re goin’ to talk to her in there, before I let you take her home.”

He huffs at that, but doesn’t bother to argue. At this point, he knows the chief well enough to know that he doesn’t want to see their situation fall apart. If he’s cautious, it’s not only for Maxine’s benefit; it’s for both of them.

The police station feels like a ghost town inside. Hopper leads him to a room, lets him in, and leaves the door open a few inches behind him.

Max won’t even look at him, and that suits him just fine.

“Got nothing to say to you right now,” he says, “we're gonna give it a few minutes and then you're going to tell him we’re good, so we can split.”

“Not sure I like that idea,” she mutters, peeking up with one eye like she's in some kind of imminent physical danger.

“Keep sticking the knife in, why don’t ya?”

She glances up again now; seems caught off guard by the offended tone of voice. As if the idea of him having feelings is something she'd never considered.

It does not help.

“I laid a hand on you yet?” He asks, gruffly.

She shakes her head.

“Exactly. So, fuck you, and fuck Hopper for thinking we need this charade.”

She doesn’t respond to that; goes back to studying her fingertips where they rest on the table top, instead. The interrogation room is chilly and drab; a fitting place to ignore each other. After about ten minutes of sitting in silence, he gets up; shoves his chair in with a bang.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s get out of here. And sell it.”

They both smile and nod for Hopper, who looks dubious, but also really wants to get home to his warm bed and his soft Joyce. Finally, he shakes his head and pats Maxine on hers.

“You going with them?” He asks Steve, who nods once in reply. “Fine,” he says, after one last mustache smoothing, “get ‘em out of here.”

By the time they get home, the only communication has been stay the fuck away from me (Billy) and no problemo (Max). She’s out of the car and barricaded in her room, before the boys even get in the house.

Billy goes directly to the fridge, drinks three beers in rapid succession, and sits at the kitchen table, staring blankly at Steve.

“The fuck?” He asks, finally. He’s got frustration, betrayal and anxiety slugging it out for dominance in his gut, and Steve seems to sense it.

He’s told him, more than once in the last couple months, that he doesn’t need to separate the parts of his life; that Steve wants to be part of all of it. He’s also told him, in no uncertain terms, that this deal with Maxine isn’t like babysitting, anymore; that she’s a bona fide orphan and she needs more than for him to buy groceries, pay the power bill, and disappear.

Steve doesn’t hit him with any I told you so’s, though. (He totally will, later.) He just sits at the table with him and watches him smoke; doesn’t even bitch or make exaggerated coughing noises, like he usually does. 

Eventually, they end up in bed; awkward and mostly clothed (seriously, the walls are paper thin) under Billy’s cheap, scratchy sheets. He’s sleeping so deeply that he’s drooling, when an elbow in his ribs wakes him up to the sound of Maxine screaming her lungs out.

Shit. Again?

He climbs over Steve; trips on some dirty laundry he’s going so fast.

This doesn’t happen often, maybe a few times a year, but when it does, it’s never pretty. Of course, it’s going to happen now, he thinks, bitterly, when Steve’s here. He flips on the light and immediately feels like an epic asshole for thinking it. She’s thrashing around in bed, red hair plastered to her face with sweat; a sheet wrapped tightly around one leg and screaming her face off.

“Hey!” He yells, blinking hard against the sudden brightness, “Wake up!”

That does, approximately, jack shit. This must be that dream; the one about when Neil discovered she was dating Lucas and tried to remodel the living room with her torso. He tries to grab her shoulders but she’s moving too frantically, and experience has taught him she’s got a strong right hook, even in her sleep. He ends up looping an arm around her midsection and yanking her somewhat upright. “Max!” He yells in her face, “He’s dead! You're safe! Wake up!”

Finally, her eyes eyes pop wide. He backs up a smidgeon and stares at her, panting and waiting for her eyes to focus. The second they do, she’s clawing at him; crawling right over top of him and sprinting for the bathroom.  

Steve joins him in standing outside the door while she pukes up, what sounds like, everything she’s eaten in the last three weeks.

Then again, knowing Max, it could have been her afternoon snack.

He looks across the doorway, at Steve. He wants to help; knows it’s essentially his job to help, now, but his feet are stuck to the floor. It’s too soft; too intimate. Steve offers up a rueful, understanding raise of the brows, then walks right in there like he’s been doing this is whole life. He holds her hair and rubs her back; gets her a drink of water, after.

“Bed or couch?” Billy asks, when Steve helps her out on wobbly legs. He thinks that’s pretty soft, considering the fact that two hours ago, he wanted to kill her with his bare hands.

“Couch.” She mutters at her feet. He scoops her up and takes her there, more out impatience than valiance or sympathy. She curls up, immediately, and he brings over some blankets; dumps them unceremoniously on top of her, then heads for his room.

“What—,” Steve’s voice stops him, “we’re not leaving her out here alone.”

“Why not?” He asks, genuinely baffled. Fuck, even her mother would go back to bed in this situation. Granted, it would only be because she wouldn’t want to upset king Neil but, still.

Steve shoots him a disgusted look, then sits himself right on the couch with her. He’s about to roll his eyes, but stops when he sees Maxine quickly scooch up and put her head on his thigh. The expression on her face is so grateful, it’s alarming; hits him like a sucker punch. She’d sure in shit never let on, certainly not to him, how starved she is for a scrap of affection, but, when it’s offered…you didn’t know it, hisses the little voice, because you’re too chicken to ever give her any.

“You’re going to get sick.” He mutters at Steve; ignoring how hoarse he sounds. “Nerves don’t usually make her puke. She’s probably got something.”

“I don’t care,” he responds, quietly, “that’s what families do. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, I want to be part of your family, not just some guy you—” he stops short and makes the lewdest grin Billy’s ever seen; eyebrows going in three different directions underneath that hair.

He gets the point.

“Don’t need you, anyway.” Max mutters, and she must be truly exhausted because her bravado falls short, leaving her sounding like exactly what she is: a scared kid. “Go do whatever you want.”

His brain makes an involuntary detour back to her nightmare. He hadn’t been home the night Neil tried to put her through the wall, but he well remembers cocking an eyebrow at her bruises, across the breakfast table the next morning. She was oozing the same prickly, hurt energy then, as she is right now.

Don’t need your help.

Don’t want your sympathy.

I can take care of myself.

Yeah. That settles it. He sits on her feet; gets zero satisfaction from the dirty look she shoots him as she pulls them out from under his weight.  He clicks off the lamp, sighs deeply, and shuts his eyes, but nothing. Half an hour later, he’s still wide awake, and he can tell from her breathing; Maxine is, too.

The evening is piling up in his gut, and he really doesn’t want to do this, right now, but it’s clear nobody’s going to get any rest, until they do.

He glances at Steve; the thin beam of light from the street shows him to be passed out cold, with his head tipped back. Maybe that’ll help them keep their voices low.

Maybe.

“I know you’re awake, you little shit.” He says, in a quiet voice that he’s hoping will set a precedent.

“I’m sick,” she responds, primly, and it’s obvious she’s feeling mostly better. Knowing her, she probably ate a bad hot dog.

Or fifty.

“Why’d you do it?”

He feels the couch shake, slightly, and can practically see her shrug, in his mind’s eye. “Don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“You have Steve now—”

He groans. “You wanted attention. Don’t make it about anything more than that.”

“Think about it, asshole,” she shoots back, lowering to a stage whisper when Steve stirs, “you know this hair never lets me get away with anything. You think I’d have tried to hide it with a hat, if I was pulling some stunt for attention?”

Billy, for the first time in a very long time, is speechless; hadn’t considered that flaming red hair that always makes it so easy to pick her out in a crowd.

He swallows, hard, with the realization: this wasn’t done to bust his balls.

She was seriously trying to leave.

“You stuck around for two years,” she mutters. “It’s good enough—”

“One year.”

She sighs; deep like it’s dredged up from her toes. “No. Two years. The anniversary was last week.”

He counts back days in his head, and realizes she’s right. He missed it. 100% flaked out and left her here alone on the anniversary of her mother’s suicide.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I figured maybe I could use some warmer weather.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“Fuck, Max.”

“But you shouldn’t have to keep doing it, when you really don’t want to.” She says, voice breaking the tiniest bit, “That’s why you hated me, before. Because you were stuck with me. I don’t want – I mean, you’re in love now. You think I don’t know I’m baggage?”

“Yeah, but you’re my baggage.” He says, forcefully, “Got it, shitbird? Next time you decide to do me a favor, ask me if I want it, first.”

She makes a muffled noise that he’s totally willing to take for a yes, at this point.

“I’ll be here more,” he says, “whether you think you need me, or not.”  

She huffs, and he’d bet real money she’s rolling her eyes.

She sticks her feet in his lap.

He flicks at her toes.

By the time Steve rolls out of bed, in the morning, Billy’s nowhere to be found. He has a brief flash of panic; did he leave? Decide he really can’t do it? Most terrifying of all…did he stick him with Maxine?

He feels silly when he sees the note:

Went to store. Bacon.

Ah, Billy Hargrove: master of communication.

A few minutes later, he comes in right as Steve stumbles out of the bathroom. He’s carrying a full paper bag; catches the door with his foot, so it doesn’t slam, when he sees Max still conked out on the couch.

Steve follows him into the kitchen; kisses him deep. “I want you guys to move in right now.”

It’s not very easy to catch Billy off guard, but that does it. Steve stifles a grin at the hilarious face he makes while his brain attempts to catch up.

“OK,” he responds, slowly, “but not until after bacon.”

“Smartass.”

Steve starts unpacking the bag, sighs contentedly when he feels arms wrapping around his waist, from behind.

“I thought you said we shouldn’t rush Max?”

“Well,” he replies, “I don’t know, now. I mean, it seems like a perfect solution to the problem at hand.”

“It does,” he agrees, “but we’re still smoking.”

“I don’t care. You can move in first, then work on quitting.”

He feels Billy’s nose in his hair. “Your walls are a lot thicker.”

“Bet your ass they are, Hargrove. And we can put your sister all the way at the other end of the hallway.”

Billy disentangles himself; the cold air rushing in where his warm body was seconds before. Steve turns to protest, but stops short at what he sees, through the open doorway. He’s perched on the edge of the couch; lays the back of his hand against Max’s forehead and leaves it there for longer than strictly necessary.

Steve feels like he’s stumbled across a skittish kitten on the side of the road; barely breathes while surveying the scene. Billy glances up, turns a bit pink at being caught.

He clears his throat.

“She’s fine,” he announces, all business as he heads back toward the kitchen, “maybe she was just worked up over the dream.”

“Maybe.” Steve responds, in a neutral voice.

“Or from having such a shit heel for a guardian,” he admits, voice soft.

Steve shoulder checks him, gently.

“I might not have been as asleep as I let on, last night.” He says.

Billy cocks an eyebrow at him, then seems to deflate. “Was gonna make breakfast,” he mutters, “because I suck at saying sorry.”

“I don’t think making her puke again will be an effective apology,” Steve says, “and I’ve, uh…I’ve had your cooking.”

That earns him a rare laugh.

“What’s going on?” Max’s groggy, confused voice drifts in from the living room.

“Feeling better?” Billy asks, and she looks so stunned Steve has to stifle his own laughter.

“Yeah,” she replies, tentatively, “except my mouth tastes like ass.”

Steve catches his eye, then shakes his head at how proud he looks of her sailor's mouth. 

“Good." Billy says, "'Cause Steve’s making bacon…and we need to pack.”

Chapter Text

Nicotine

Day 2

Maxine is perched precariously on a chair, wobbly because it’s half in, half out of the closet. She’s got one arm thrown out for balance; the other stretched as far as it will go. Sweaty fingertips grasp at the tiny box, carefully hidden under the larger box, at the very back corner of the closet shelf.

Finally, she manages to flick the box closer, and she grabs it between index and middle finger; pulls it into grasp and listens for footsteps.

All quiet.

She pops the top and counts how many she has left: nine.  She smells them with the kind of melodramatic inhale that only a nicotine deprived sixteen-year-old girl can pull off, then puts them back and climbs down.

Her new bedroom at Steve’s house is a source of immense pride. It's the first one she's ever had that she's not embarrassed to let her friends into; easily twice as big as either of her old ones. And it’s upstairs -- so fancy. He’d picked her up from school one day, too, and taken her out shopping, before Billy could argue with him about not needing his charity. They got some actual bedding, that matches, a new alarm clock, and a shelf for her stuff, so the room feels like hers and not his parents guest room.

It's awesome.

Or it was, before she realized it was preemptive bribery for this hell currently being imposed upon her: quitting smoking.

She glances at the closet again and tries to ignore the ever-growing itch that seems to consume her whole being; for something to do with her hands, something to calm her anxiety. She wraps up in her old afghan from California, for a few seconds, before throwing it off in frustration. Then, she goes downstairs for a snack.

Again.

If those bastards are really going to make her quit smoking, she’s going to eat her weight in chips every day.

She hopes it costs them a fortune.

Day 3

“I want milk in it!”

“Too fucking bad.”

“Then I’ll make my own!”

“It’s the last can.” Billy says, and there’s no mistaking the smugness in his tone.

“Why can’t you ever just do anything the way I want?”

“When isn’t everything the way you want?”

“If things were the way I want, I’d be chain smoking right now!”

“You and me, both, sister, but this is how it’s gonna be. Quit bitching and deal.”

Max huffs so loud, Steve can actually hear it from the other room.

“It doesn’t taste right, anymore,” she whines, “if you put some milk in it, it might help.”

“It’s not going to help, for the fiftieth fucking time! Everything tastes funny because you’re not smoking anymore!” Billy shouts, “And milk in tomato soup is disgusting!”

Steve flinches at the crash that follows.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“It slipped.”

“My ass it slipped. You owe Steve a bowl!”

“Why not make it two?”

Another crash, some stomping, and the broom closet door bangs shut.

“Clean it up!”

“Guys!” Steve yells from the living room, “C’mon! This is the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard -- and I hang out with Dustin! It's just soup!”

He knew that both of them quitting at once was going to be rough, but he’d underestimated their capacity for drama.  In the last 72 hours Billy has told him some variation of “fuck off”, approximately 12 times, and yelled at Max, at least twice as much, for even hinting the same.

He’s lost track of how many fights he’s tried to pick and half assed apologies he’s attempted to issue. At least Steve is able to remember the circumstances, and keep his head. Max, on the other hand -- not so much. The two have argued tirelessly over his bossiness and her snottiness; along with whose turn it is for dishes, what to watch on TV, what to listen to on the radio, how loud he burps, how long she takes in the bathroom in the morning, and who didn’t replace the TP roll (it was actually Steve, but hell if he’s telling them that).

In the last 24 hours alone, there has been a fight about the tooth paste cap, hair in the shower drain, and her feet up on “Steve’s coffee table”. That one was directly followed by one between himself and Billy, about how he wants Maxine to feel at home and not like a guest...and that means it’s all of their coffee table, now.  

Billy insists that he’s handling it better than she is, but that’s complete and total bullshit. They’re equally awful. Steve is seriously wanting to kick his own ass for saying they could move in before they quit smoking.  

A decidedly feminine shriek of pain emits from the kitchen, and he sighs deeply; hauls himself off the couch to check on them.

Maxine’s on the floor, clutching her hand, which is slowly dripping blood onto the remains of two broken bowls; dustpan half full.

“Serves you right, you little shit,” says Billy, with even less empathy than usual.

And, they’re off again.

Day 4

“Sit down.”

“I can’t.” She growls, “I can’t sit still. I’m too jittery. How are you doing it?”

Billy waggles a beer can at her.

“No problem then.” She stomps toward the kitchen.

“Nuh-uh."

“Why not?”

Steve eyes him sidelong. It’s not unheard of for Max to have a beer now and then; he’s being spiteful and obstinate. But, sure, she’s the only one who’s a nightmare.

“Jesus. Just go to your room, so we can watch the movie in peace!”

Steve groans. That was a mistake. Too parental sounding. He counts down from three in his head.

Before he’s even at two, Max stops in her tracks to glare at her brother, “Did you seriously tell me to go to my room?” She asks, outraged, “Power trip, much?”

“Holy fuck.” Billy mutters to the ceiling.

“Who exactly do you think you are?”

“Go wherever you want,” he explodes, off the couch himself, now, “but quit pacing in front of the goddamn television!”

“Fine!”

And, she’s out the door.

Billy sits back down for about 12 seconds, then mutters angrily to himself, something about the fucking store, and bolts out the door, after her.

Steve can hear them in the front yard, through the half open door. It’s 9 p.m. and he’s suddenly really glad they don’t have any close neighbors.

He gets up and wanders to the window, parts the curtains a sliver, like some kind of neighborhood watch lady.

Maxine is right on the edge of where the porch light can reach her, about two thirds of the way down the driveway.

“You said to go wherever I want!”

“I meant in the house.”

“You never said that!”

There’s a pause, while he strides up to her, then, “Empty your pockets.”

“What?!” She looks mortally offended, and Steve can’t really blame her. It wouldn’t kill him to say please now and then.

“You have money on you?”

“None of your damn business!”

“Is if you’re gonna go out and buy smokes!”

“Quit bossing me around, asshole!”

Max turns on her heel and tries to take off, but that’s, really, a pretty bad idea. He catches her easily, right around the middle, and Steve can hear a distinct oof, even from his post by the window. It takes Billy a few seconds, because she seems to have grown extra arms, and they’re all assaulting him at once, but he gets her feet off the ground. He starts towing her toward the house; a rapid stream of insults hurtling out of her mouth.

He pauses at the porch, to hike her up, gets one leg in his grasp, at least, and hauls her up the stairs backward, her free leg hooking itself around a porch rail. He undoes it with a vicious yank and literally drags her into the house; slams the door and stands in front of it.

She goes for the back door.

Steve grabs the phone book and starts looking for motels.  

Day 5

“Babe, please, it’s your house. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Steve gazes at him, over the roof of the car. “You’re in no position to call anyone ridiculous, right now.”

Behind Billy’s head, he can clearly see Maxine, half hanging out her bedroom window with a cloud of smoke around her head, completely oblivious to their presence in the street below.

Steve’s sprung for a place with a hot tub and has a week’s worth of booze tucked away in the trunk. If he has to throw her under the bus to make his escape, well, he’s not above it.

“I’ll be back when you guys calm down.” He says, then jerks his head toward her window.

Billy turns to look; curses furiously before lighting out of there like his hair’s on fire.

Steve gets in the car and drives away.

Day 6

It’s taken the better part of 24 hours, but Maxine finally has her room put back together.

He didn’t break anything, at least he’s past that, these days, but he did take it apart inch by inch, not stopping after he found the stash in the closet, either. Not stopping until he was sure it was going to take her the rest of Saturday and half of Sunday to set it right.

He'd said he was searching for more hiding spots, but it was pretty obviously part of his campaign for the title of World's Biggest Douchebag. 

Granted, she’d had an opportunity to make things easier.

But.

“This, too,” he’d said, pulling a modest wad of cash out from the bottom of her sock drawer and stuffing it in his pocket.

“That’s mine!”

“Yeah, and you can have it back when I’m sure you’re not gonna use it to buy more!”

“Seriously fucking hate you,” she muttered, venomously.

That made him pause in his rummaging; only for a millisecond, but she caught it. They used to tell each other that on a regular basis, but, somehow it carries more weight, now.  “Right back at’cha.”

She huffed; tried a different track. “Like you don’t have a stash somewhere?”

“Nope.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t think Steve could smell it on me?” He demanded, flipping the sock drawer over and letting the soft, neatly rolled balls cascade to the floor for emphasis. There wasn't any need to do it; he'd already searched the entire thing.

Again, world's biggest douchebag. 

“You take my money, I’ll just lift some."

“Good luck getting out of this house," he responded, pointedly. "I can keep dragging your ass back here all weekend long."

“I’ll do it after school, on Monday.”

“Max,” he stopped, turned blazing eyes on her, “give me a fucking break, will you? You think this shit’s easy for me, either?”

“At least you have a choice about it!”

He took a deep breath, and she knew perfectly well he was counting; took an unusually perverse satisfaction from pushing him to it.

“Yeah, I have a choice alright,” he said, at last, “not like I’m between a rock and a hard place or anything. Not like this is the only way I can take care of you and actually have something for myself, or anything.”

And Max really wanted to back down at that admission.

She did.

She crossed her arms and didn’t say anything.

“I’m finding those cigarettes,” he said, and it sounded like a threat.

“Good luck.”

“Yeah, well, Steve just fucking left so you’re in luck – I got nothin’ but time.”

Day 7

It’s Monday morning, and Billy is packing a lunch when she arrives in the kitchen. She looks like hell, seriously; pale skin, bags under the eyes…did she even brush her hair?

He knows he doesn’t look much better. He definitely doesn’t feel much better.

She hasn’t spoken to him since Saturday morning, when he lost his shit and went through her room like a bull in a china shop. 

That, had been deeply satisfying, at the time. Seeing her face, after, when the nicest bedroom she’s ever had was in shambles -- drawers and shelves emptied all over the floor and closet pulled apart?

Not so much.

The worst of it is, he already had a hunch about the hiding place in the closet. He’d had one exactly like it, at her age; tiny box, sandwiched and pushed back between two larger ones, and she’d seen him get into it, once or twice. He could have gone right there and confiscated it but, well, maybe she’s not the only one being a monster.

She drops her school bag by the table, looks at him with a question mark.

“Yeah,” he says, even though he’s annoyed by her mere presence, “okay.”

She gets in the camaro and sits there as if she’s afraid he’ll change his mind. It would make him feel bad, if he wasn’t currently dealing with nicotine withdrawal, Steve withdrawal, and the urge to slap her every time she opens her mouth.

He climbs in, a few minutes later, cranks the stereo, and off they go

At work, he’s so fucking miserable, Hank sends him home early.

With pay -- and Hank’s a cheap bastard, so that’s really saying something.

It’s around one, and Steve doesn’t head to work until three, so he’s got one thing on his mind as he’s heading out the door: motel sex.

The phone rings right as he’s gathering his shit; Hank holds up a hand.

Fuck. Now what?

“For you.” He mutters, then makes a suspiciously hasty exit.

It’s the school nurse. He’s so irritated, he actually asks her if Max can stay there, on one of their shitty, green cots for the rest of the day – but no dice.

He would bet money she’s not sick. She can’t sit still, more like, and wants to kill everyone she meets.

They don’t speak, all the way home. He’s legitimately afraid of the abuse that might spew out his mouth if he unhinges his jaw. The little voice is telling him to be sympathetic but….motel sex, people.

Motel sex.

Now, they’re home and out of the car. She’s dragging ass like she has a fifty lb. weight on each leg, and before he even realizes what’s happening, his volcano explodes without warning; hand shoots out, seemingly of it’s own volition, and shoves her.

If it was was meant to be anything at all, it was a nudge; a hurry up type push, the kind his impatient ass serves up on the regular.

In actuality, it’s more like a whack that culminates in a hard shove, exactly how Neil used to start a surprise attack. It catches her off guard, and she goes sprawling, spread eagle on the front porch. Her forehead cracks down loudly on the floor planks before she scrambles up; staring at him with wide, stunned eyes.

Then, she bolts.

She’s packing her bags, again, thank you very much, when he knocks on the door, ten or so minutes later.

She’s got it locked up tight and a chair pushed against it, just in case.

“You ok?”

“Fuck off.” She says, and it sums her feelings up pretty succinctly. She should have left two months ago, when she had the chance.

Stupid Hopper.

She hears him settle in against the other side of the door; slams her underwear drawer shut with a bang.

“Sorry.”

“Wow,” she says, “that hurt? Don’t think you’ve ever said it before.”

“I’m an asshole.”

He sounds exhausted, and painfully sincere.

She heaves her duffle bag at the door and snarls.

This sucks.

This all sucks.

Hard.

She sits on the bed; sighs.

“You should’ve let me go, when I tried to run away.”

“C’mon, this is temporary. We’re almost there. Just got'ta, you know, not kill each other by then.”

“Yeah,” she snorts derisively, “right. There's always gonna be something, with us.”

“We’ll handle the next thing when it gets here,” he responds, mildly. She knows this current display of patience is a sign of true remorse, but it's not exactly helping. “This is hard, ok? I know.”

“Quit pretending you care.”

“I didn’t care, you really think I’d be sitting here with you, instead of getting laid in Steve’s motel room?” 

Ew, but yeah, point taken.

When she doesn’t answer, he goes back downstairs. She sits on the bed a few minutes; thinking. The expression on his face when she got up off the floor – it makes her stomach hurt. It was painfully obvious he hadn’t meant to do it in that way, so like Neil.

Hell, it probably wouldn’t matter much at all, a day in the life, to regular siblings, but their shared history seems to magnify every act of aggression.

And, speaking of their history, there’s something else she can’t deny. Without nicotine to soothe her anxiety, that brittle, bitter part of her that enjoys pushing him; that feels like, eventually he’s going to snap, might as well get it out of the way, is running rampant.

She knows she’s been...a lot.

Eventually, she hears him climbing the stairs, two at a time like always (unless he's pissed, then he can do them three at once), and the unmistakable sound of a chip bag rattling outside the door. Then, loud, exaggerated crunching.

“Mmm, these are really good,” he announces, dramatically, “how’d you con Steve into getting your favorites?”

She grimaces; yanks open the door to sit beside him in the hallway.

He passes the chips.

“I asked,” she replies, “and I said please. It’s a word nice people use.”

“Wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“No shit.”

That earns her a smirk.

“When’s he coming back?”

“Fuck if I know. He said when we calm down.”

“So, like, half past never?" She groans, "We get to keep the house, at least?”

He laughs a low rumble and rolls eyes down to her; stifles a pang of guilt. It’s got to suck, being 16 and doing this; going to high school, jonesing for a cigarette every waking hour while her hormones are all fucked up...and having him in charge of her shit.

She holds the bag opening toward him and he grabs a few more.

“These really do help,” he notes, sounding surprised, “you’re right.”

“Bubble baths do, too,” she mutters.

“Is that where all the shampoo is going?”

She acts as if she didn't hear him. He’s not exactly the kind of guy who thinks to buy bubble bath.

Billy's hands have been shaking like an earthquake from the second her head hit the porch floor.

I am not like him.

Slowly, warily, he manages to steady one and raise it to push her hair out of the way so he can look at her forehead; runs his thumb over the already fading red spot where she whacked it.

“No goose egg.” He says, letting her hair flop back into her face, as if to neutralize the rare, momentary display of tenderness.

“It sounded worse than it was,” she admits, with a shrug. “I was top heavy with that stupid 500 lb back pack on, too.”

“Don’t make excuses for me,” he responds, but decides to shelve the don’t take that shit from anyone lecture. There are a few seconds of silence, then, “Car rides help.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Beer, too.”

“So I heard,” she responds, drily.

He cocks an eyebrow. “You can have one, later.”

What’s this? A concession?

She pauses to lick the salt off her fingers, “Maybe I can try a bit harder, so you can have Steve back quicker.”

He appraises her, wordlessly; doesn't say he can try harder, too, but it hangs in the air. He gets up; sticks out his hand to help her up. “I really am sorry,” he says, instead, and means it, “I didn’t mean to knock you down like that. You want to punch me or something?”

“Nah, I’ll take a rain check.”

“You sure?” 

That gets a laugh that almost qualifies as a giggle, and the weight in his chest lifts.

“Let’s go for a drive, and get more chips," he says. "Then we’ll stop and see Steve.”

“You just want to try and talk him into coming home.” 

“Well,” he responds slowly, “I mean, it is his house. And, I didn’t exactly tell you all the ways I take my mind off smoking.”

“Gross.” 

Steve comes home the following Friday night.

They order all of his favorite dishes from the lousy Hawkins Chinese place, to make up for what they put him through.

And they don't argue all night....



...okay, fine, there's one tiny outburst when someone eats all the lo mien without checking to see if anyone else wants some, but that's it. 

PS: It was Steve.

Chapter Text

Set a few weeks after the events of Ch 14 "Nicotine" aka a few weeks after Billy & Max quit smoking - which puts it in teen Max / early guardian Billy territory.  In addition to fulfilling Spurius' request, I thought it might be fun to explore the adjustments of learning to live together and the boys growing as a couple. 

Aces

Saturday

“The hell you been up to, today?”

Max kicks her board vertical; stashes it behind the stupid coat rack that’s been in the front hallway since the dawn of time, that none of them use.

“Why? I’m not late.”

“I mean with who?”

“Jesus. The nerds, ok? No smoking there.”

He turns his attention back to the TV and she resists the urge to strangle him. She’s halfway to the living room when he asks, “Go to the store or anything?”

Oh, that is it.

“You know what—”

He rolls eyes over to where she is. “What’d you get?”

“A pack of gum, you fucking fascist.”

“And that’s it.”

“Yes.”

He scrutinizes her in that way that means he’s trying to tell if she’s lying, and it’s infuriating on, like, a soul level, because she’s not, and she’s over this. She gets it: quitting the smokes was a nightmare nobody wants to repeat. But this lack of trust is insulting, at best. Last week she caught Steve feeling around in the top, right corner of her closet; exactly where she used to hide them.

“Thought I heard a mouse,” he’d said, cheeks going pink under that hair before he scurried away.

Billy gets off the couch; wanders over and stops right in front of her.  

“Are you…sniffing me?”

“Yep,” he replies, unashamed.

“I wish I could fart right now,” she mutters, “that would teach you.”

“Good to know you’ve got goals, shitbird.”

“Oh my God. I hate you,” she says, with complete sincerity; stomps away to get the chips.  

Sunday

The boys are kissing in front of the stove and Max is chewing listlessly on a piece of lukewarm pizza.

It’s almost a month post-cigarettes and gray, dreary, early winter is setting in. Billy’s being an asshole in that way that means he’s anxious; probably missing the distraction of busy hands and brain-soothing nicotine. One by one, his old coping mechanisms are being kicked to the curb: first the fighting, now the smoking. Hell, there haven’t even been any monsters to slay, lately. At some point he’s going to have to learn to use his big boy words, she thinks, bitterly.

Admittedly, she’s been no day at the beach, either. She’s disgruntled that she was forced into quitting without a say; by the boys’ obvious lack of faith in her, and the fact that nothing tastes right, yet. Then there’s Billy, whose nerves have him on her ass, 24/7. In the face of his constant interrogation, her reflex is to clam up tight, which only makes him come at her harder. It’s a continuous cycle with no end in sight, and even Steve’s patience is wearing thin.

Life at Casa de Harrington currently isn't anyone’s definition of fun.

Part of her is glad they’re having a moment, over there at the stove; they’ve been bickering a lot lately and that’s definitely weird. Their fights are normally rare, blunt, and quickly blown over. One thing she’s learned about Steve, this month, is that when you wear through that generous buffer of patience, he loses the ability to let the little things go, and the result is highly unpleasant.

It's like living with a petty, constantly PMSing version of herself.

The other part of her is grossed out by the current show of PDA. Not because they’re both guys, or anything like that, of course. It’s gross because it’s them.

“Hey,” she says, loudly, “I brought pizza, remember?”

“Pretty loose definition of ‘pizza’?” Billy remarks; eyeing the pie with suspicion.

He’s not wrong.

The diner’s pizza is…well, it’s round, it’s got that going for it. Still, it was free, and she’s proud of her score. Sam, in the kitchen, put peppers on it by mistake; had to make the customer a new one and let her take this one home at the end of her shift.

Despite the quality, they’ve got the whole thing demolished in under 10 minutes, because free pizza. Max is running water for dishes and Steve’s cleaning up paper plates, when he pops the pantry door open and groans.

“Babe,” he snarls, “what the hell? Garbage is the only thing you have to do around here!”

Maxine’s thinking that’s not really fair, to be honest, because Billy does almost all the outside stuff and the fixing stuff…stuff. Sure, he’s no domestic goddess, but Steve is good at those things, so it’s a natural division.

Also, garbage has been Billy’s job all his life, and she’s seen him take some pretty hard licks for forgetting it.

“Shit,” he says, “forgot.”

“You always forget. Look at this! There’s trash all over the floor in here, now. Like you didn’t notice you were adding to a giant garbage pile all day?”

She hears the chair scrape; Billy gets up. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t bother,” he mutters, and she glances over right as Steve starts to yank the overflowing bag out of the can. She listens with one ear while they scuffle and swear at each other like toddlers fighting over the best toy.

“Get out of the way!” Billy finally erupts in frustration, “I said I’ll do it!”

“That’s not the point! I shouldn’t have to ask all the time!”

“Do you have to ask, when I fill your car that’s always on empty or mow the lawn?”

Steve steps back; puts his hands up, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Maxine takes the increasing volume as her cue to finish up and leave. In the living room, she pops her feet onto the coffee table and pretends to look at a magazine. They bang things around in the kitchen and shoot petty barbs at each other for several seconds before Steve yells, “Back the hell off!”

It's loud enough to make her jump.

“No problem!”

“You guys!” she blurts out; not really intending to. They both turn toward her with startled expressions, as if they forgot she was there.

“Butt out, Max!”

Steve glares incredulously at Billy. “Don’t take your shit out on her! Bad enough you’ve been up her ass every day for weeks, now!”

“You’re the one who doesn’t want any smoking in the Harrington family estate!”

She groans, internally. This is a contentious issue that’s always bubbling right under the surface; Steve’s money versus their poverty. She totally gets why Billy’s sensitive to it, but she can’t exactly blame Steve for being sick of the attitude, when he gives so freely, either.

“You’re welcome to leave any time it doesn’t suit you!” he replies; quiet with narrowed eyes.

Maxine’s mouth falls open. She knows Steve’s only blowing off steam that’s been pent up for weeks, but the way Bill’s face goes blank tells her everything she needs to know about how he took it.

Sure enough, he stalks out the back door; camaro roaring to life a second later.

Steve swears an impressive string of curses for a guy who rarely ever goes bluer than hell or shit, in the kitchen. He hangs his head and stares at the floor a few seconds, and she pretends to be invested in the magazine she’s holding.

Next thing she knows, he’s standing by the couch, peering down at her.

“Sorry Max,” he mutters, to which she shrugs.

He flips on the TV and plops down on the couch, beside her.

“I’ll be glad when we’re all feeling back to normal,” he mutters.

He’s clearly already on his way to being over it; oblivious to the level of angst she’d bet her life is happening in the camaro, right now.

She thinks about telling him how Neil would lose his shit if the garbage wasn’t taken out the second it filled up.

She thinks about telling him how often she quietly took it out, herself, to keep the peace; how she had to sneak it so he wouldn’t come down on both of them.

It also probably couldn’t hurt to remind him: when you grow up in a house like theirs, your fight or flight kicks in at every raised voice. You see every ounce of tension as an attack, because you’ve learned to keep your guard impossibly high up.

Then, she thinks about finding him in her closet, looking for smokes, and her brother grilling her every time she comes home; keeps her mouth decidedly shut.

They’re on their own this time.

Takes about an hour of fast driving and mind numbingly loud music for Billy to start thinking some semblance of clearly.

It’s hard to explain to outsiders, the way he and Maxine use each other to blow off steam. They’ve been doing it for so long, they’re well-practiced sparring partners, now. They know how far to push; where the line is between steam release and serious shit, and when the other is aiming to cross it.  Steve can’t always tell the difference, even after a few months of cohabitation, so every fight feels like the real deal to him, and he's obviously exhausted.

Steve, himself, has variations of angry; a pre-game anger that comes before he’s seriously pissed. It rattles Billy’s cage, this bitchy, cutting, half-mad state. He grew up without a buffer: Neil was either absolutely going to fuck you up right that second or he wasn’t. Flip of a switch. And, yeah, they’re obviously two totally different relationships but, still; Steve’s complexities feel like well-hidden trip wires and booby traps, to him.

Maybe some day he’ll understand it, the way he does Max’s anger.

Today is definitely not that day.

His gut’s twisting, even though his brain knows it’s ridiculous, when he pulls into the garage. Steve’s not going to physically attack him. Even if he were, they’re evenly matched; not like a full-grown man going after a twelve-year-old. Certainly, no reason for his muscles to be coiled up as if he was walking into Cherry Lane two hours late and high as a kite.

When he gets into the kitchen, the object of his anxiety is slamming stuff around and glowering at him with hands on hips in no time flat.

Jesus, was he serious about kicking Billy out? He thinks he might throw up, but then Steve hisses, “Your sister!”

Steve and Max never fight, so this is a whole new mountain of shit to worry about, but, at the same time, looks like he’s off the hot seat.

He straightens.

Yelling at Max is solid ground; been doing it since he was eleven years old.

“What happened?”

“This happened!”

Steve reaches behind him; makes the remains of a crumpled up Marlboro box appear.

Shit.

“Where you find those?” he asks, face muscles pulling taught with practiced ease.

“Top cupboard!”

Shit, shit. He knows exactly where he means. Top cupboard, behind that ugly casserole dish with so much dust on it he was sure it hadn’t been touched in years.

He forgot he’d even put them there.

He closes his eyes; tries to talk his pounding heart down.

“Where is she?”

“She took off. Just like you do.”

He doesn’t actually trust himself to say another word, so he turns on his heel and goes back to the camaro.

Max is about a mile up the road, savagely kicking herself along on the skateboard and scowling; red hair whipping in the wind.

He pulls over in front of her; hollers out the window when she skates around him.

Finally, she stops, several feet ahead of the car.

“They’re not mine!”

He climbs out of the driver’s seat; takes a deep breath. “Come here, will ya? Don’t feel like screaming.”

“That’s new,” she mutters, eyeing him suspiciously. She comes a few feet closer, only enough to bridge the gap by half. She puts her foot, pointedly, up onto the board, ready to flee if necessary and Jesus…is he really that terrible?

He stares at his feet a few seconds; takes that thought in and breathes deeply.

“I know they’re not yours.”

“Wait, what?” she asks, incredulously. He hears the skateboard roll slowly closer. “You son of a bitch!”

“I hid ‘em the first day and I forgot about them. I haven’t touched them since, like, the third day.”

“Oh, you mean around the same time you tore my room apart and swore you didn’t have a secret stash?”

“Yeah,” he says, on an exhale, really, really wishing he had one right now, “that’s about right.”

“You giant fucking hypocrite!” she hollers; punctuating each word with a hard punch on the arm.

“I know.”

“And you’ve been on me all this time when you—”

“Cut the victim act, Max. I saw you sharing one with that weird emo chick in the mall parking lot a couple weeks ago.”

Her mouth falls open; a perfect O that would make him laugh under literally any other circumstances.

“You know I hate that kid,” he adds, with a glare that he hopes will drive the point home.

“Michelle,” she supplies, tonelessly; pulls a sheepish face and asks, “So, we’re even, then?”

That makes him snort. “Not so fast.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Cool it. I need a favor.”

Max lets the skateboard roll backward a few inches; eyes widening. “I’m not taking the fall for those cigarettes.”

“What fall? It’s Steve. Hell, he’ll probably give you a medal for not smoking the whole pack, but he’ll be pissed at me. We were supposed to be on the same team.”

“I can’t believe you,” she replies in a tone so sincerely disappointed it actually hurts. She shakes her head, slowly. “Why didn’t you say anything when you saw me with Michelle?”

It’s a valid question. He’s not exactly known for letting things slide. “Yelling at you is actually not my favorite past time, you know.”

“Since when?” she scoffs.

He’s not about to give her any more than what he already has; it’ll make his life a living hell. But, yeah, sometimes he’s too fucking exhausted to hassle her, so he lets shit go and hopes she’ll make a not-too-terrible decision on her own. “Look,” he says, “you don’t have to admit to anything, just don’t tell him they’re mine.”

“How’s that any different?” she narrows eyes. "And when did you become ok with lying?"

"I'm not. Jesus, Max, all I'm asking is for you to keep your mouth shut. Don't lie, just let him think what he already does, anyway."

She glares. "What're my options?"

"Figure it out," he responds; grinding teeth together. He knows he’s being inexcusably shitty, abusing his so-called authority for extortion; a first class, grade A dick.

He also knows now is his last chance to say gotcha; let her off the hook, go home and tell Steve the truth.

The thing is, even though it’s irrational and illogical and clearly some kind of hind-brain-Neil-bred-bullshit, he’s terrified of Steve walking away.

Lightheaded, spot seeing, can't breathe, ready-to-puke kind of terrified. 

“Can’t believe you,” she says, again, with more venom. “This sucks.”

“I know,” he says, way softer than intended. Her face registers sympathy and, honestly? He kind of wants to slap her for it.

“Fine,” she mutters.

She skates away without another word, and he lets her.

Maxine comes home on the razor’s edge of late, goes directly to her room, and doesn’t speak to either of them.

Awesome.

When he’d come in, after chasing her down, Steve wasn’t in the mood to talk, and that suited him fine. Now, they’re on the couch together, watching a new release he brought home from work. Steve’s head is in his lap; dark hair spilling over his knee.  

They fooled around a bit while Maxine was out, but not much. Nothing felt right…at least, not to Billy. His conscience is bothering him an awful lot, for a guy who didn’t even realize he had one, until a year ago.

And it’s hard to get off with the little voice yammering in his head a mile a minute.

Steve sits up, as Max’s door slams, hard enough to let Billy know she still thinks he’s king of the douchebags.

That’s not necessarily new.

Still sucks.

“Did you find her, earlier?”

“Yeah,” he says, pretending to be engrossed in the movie, “took care of it.”

He can feel Steve staring at his profile; points at the TV screen and asks, “Thought that was guy was dead, now?”

“No, that was the blonde and what aren’t you telling me?”

Well, shit. He tried to abort the mission, but he didn’t account for that stubborn streak.

He inhales; exhales slowly.

“If you took care of it, where’s she been all afternoon? I know how you operate.”

He lifts a shoulder; keeps his eyes on the TV and chooses his words carefully. “Guess they’ve been there since we first quit.”

Technically true. He licks his lips; forges on when Steve doesn’t reply. “She hasn’t touched them lately.”

Also, true.

“So, you let it go?” Steve asks, dubiously.

“Yeah.”

“Listened to what she had to say and let it go,” he mutters, all facetious amazement.

Billy suppresses an eyeroll; steals a glance.

Steve looks proud of him.

It’s literally the worst possible outcome.

Tuesday

Maria’s office is the gray, bureaucratic dingy of a cheap county space, but she tries her best to make it cheerful. A terrible scented candle burns in one corner and a Hang In There poster hangs precariously beside the window. On her desk are some fake flowers.

They have a few more months of compulsory sessions, related to Maxine’s guardianship; after that it will be voluntary.

Billy is definitely not going to be coming here on his own free will, although he secretly hopes his sister might. She always seems lighter after an appointment, even on days they do nothing but yell, with Maria acting as referee.

She’s turned out to be pretty cool, though he can tell they severely test her professionalism at times like this.

Max hasn’t spoken more than the bare minimum since Sunday; stayed tucked away in her room all that night. When Billy got up for a fresh beer, Steve had disappeared up the stairs, coming down later with a puzzled brow but no questions.

After that, they slid into the work week; Steve working nights, he and Max rattling around opposite ends of the house.

Avoiding each other.

The fact that she hasn’t even been riding his ass about what happened, is downright alarming.

So is the current situation. Normally, Max busts wide open with complaints (mostly about him) the second her ass lands in one of Maria’s ugly, purple-gray chairs. Today she’s answering in grunts and nods; the barest possible minimum.

Maria glances between them; arches an eyebrow at Billy.

“So,” she says, for the second time, “nothing new since I last saw you guys.”

Max shakes her head as he says, “Not really.”

She glances through her notes; asks, “Quitting smoking – is that getting any easier?”

She knows it was rough, in the beginning. They talked at length about all the ways they were betraying each other’s trust and privacy, last time. Not his idea of an hour well spent.

He nudges Maxine’s calf with his boot. She tips her chin up at Maria and smiles, right on cue.

Exactly like Cherry Lane; a nudge or kick to say hey dumbass, play the game right.

His stomach doesn’t feel so hot.

“It’s been ok,” she says, lifting a practiced shoulder, “I think we’re pretty much out of the woods, now.”

Maria sits back; eyes them both cagily.

“Look, doc,” he says, even though he’s well aware she’s a social worker, and not a doctor, “sometimes it’s a slow couple weeks.”

“Not with you two,” she replies with a grim smile, “at least, not in my experience.”

“Maybe we’re getting better,” he says, flatly; challenging her to argue that without sounding like an asshole.

“Yeah,” Max chimes in, all false brightness; flash of teeth and an eyelash flutter he hasn’t seen since Neil was alive.

Ugh.

Maria’s clearly not buying it, but she makes some notes and lets them go early, anyway.

The second they’re out of her office Maxine’s expression turns sour; eyebrows furled.

She stalks off in the opposite direction of the camaro.

“Walking home.”

“Max—”

“Go fuck yourself! I thought I was done lying about my home life!”

“I never asked you to lie, I said—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t lie, just let him keep thinking they’re mine. Except Steve came and apologized for jumping down my throat, other night. He asked why I didn’t just explain it to him, the way I apparently did to you.”

It’s terrible; it really is, but he can’t help asking, “What’d you tell him?”

Max shakes her head. “Who are you, lately? Asking me to do the thing you hate the most? No, not even asking – forcing!”

“It’s not lying,” he repeats, through gritted teeth; knows he’s full of shit.

“Bull! And now we’re lying to the people who try to help us? Back to that, again? Steve’s not Neil, Billy!”

He closes his eyes; huffs out an exhale.

“Get in the car.”

“Not. Happening,” she bites out; plants her feet.

“Please,” he grunts, trying not to let it sound as if he wants to throttle her as much as he does.

She’s not wrong.

That’s exactly the problem.

He doesn’t let the surprise register on his face when, after a few seconds, she does as she’s told. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, when he slides in the driver’s seat.

She’s staring at him. He can feel it in his gut: whatever’s getting ready to come out her mouth is going to hurt.

“You know,” she hisses, hitching those arms impossibly tighter, “there aren’t many things I can depend on in life. Your brutal-fucking-honesty used to be one of them.”

Saturday

“Hey, we’re thinking about going out tonight,” Steve says to Maxine’s back, as she walks through the living room, “but we’ll probably hit a movie first, if you want to come.”

She rummages around in the fridge; pulls out a soda and pops the top. “No thanks.”

Then, she’s out the door.

She’s been making herself scarce lately, like he tried to teach her to do, those last few months at home.  

Steve blinks at him a few times.

“I think your sister is malfunctioning.”

Yeah, he thinks, more like I broke her.

“You sure you guys didn’t have words over those cigarettes?” he asks, eyeing Billy suspiciously.

“A few,” he hedges, “not bad, though. She’ll get over it.”

She’ll get over it, is what he’s been telling himself all week; turning the situation inside out, in his brain. What she said about his honesty being one of the few things she can depend on; it makes him feel guilty in a way he’s never quite experienced, before. Steve told him, back before they moved in, that she was starting to rely on him for more than the material basics, but it never really sunk in. As far as he can surmise, she doesn’t need or want him to be more than the person who gives her a place to live and yells at her when she does dumb shit.

And yet; she’s definitely hurting over this.

The little voice keeps saying it’s because he has more aces now, and he knows what that means, even if he doesn’t like to dwell on it. It means having your brother extort a favor from you is not the same as having your legal guardian do it. Same reason why he’d never actually slap her now, despite having done it once or twice in the past. When you’re siblings, you’re each playing with a fair hand. When one has to start calling shots, that changes. 

He's got more aces than her, now, and up until the other day, he never used them to cheat.

Shit.

Steve’s studying him with those dark eyes; full of suspicion that makes his gut flop. He kisses him, deep; puts him back against the arm of the couch.

Puts those suspicious thoughts right out of his mind.

Sometime Between Saturday & Sunday

Maxine’s lost count of how many shots this makes.

Well, they aren’t actually shots; more like half a paper cup each.

She’d planned to go hang with her usual crowd tonight. In fact, she’d been looking forward to some D&D and bickering; exchanging the occasional boys, am I right? eyeroll with El.

She knows it’s a petty, silly thing for Billy’s request to have thrown her as much as it has, but the knowledge doesn’t really change anything.

People have been letting her down, all her life, including him. When he first came back, she tested and pushed; tried to make him leave. But, he hung on. And lately, she’s been starting to think he might not fuck her over, after all.

The fact that he’s unchanging in who he is, as impossible and incorrigible and demanding as that may be, is a comfort.

The fact that he doesn’t lie about shit or accept lies in return, is a comfort.

Now, she’s back to doubting.

Michelle’s giggling to her friend, across the campfire. She’s a senior, now, and more obnoxious than ever. But, she never tries to ask what’s wrong. Max bailed on the nerds, a couple hours before, for committing that particular sin.

She drains her paper cup, and gets up on wobbly legs, for another.

Steve has this thing; if he stops before his third beer he gets sleepy. Once he gets past the third, he’s in fun drunk guy mode, but that didn’t happen tonight, so he’s snoring, softly, in the passenger’s seat, when they pull in the driveway.

Headlights wash over a denim lump at the base of the front door.

Billy stops the car short; gets out fast and clears all three porch steps in one jump, lightening quick.

Maxine is passed out cold, in the November night air.

“Shit,” he mutters, getting on his knees and giving her a shake, “Hey! Wake up!”

She doesn’t stir.

She smells like a distillery.

He’s seen people with alcohol poisoning; knows it’s not pretty. If that’s what this is, they’re going to have to take her to the hospital.

If that’s what this is, they’ll have to go through evaluations and guardianship hearings all over again.

Her skin is cold and clammy when her arm falls over his as he lifts her up. He brings her inside, sets her on the couch, and throws a blanket over her.

“Max!”

Nothing.

A couple taps on the cheek, not very hard but her skin is cold and the sting is enough to make her finally stir.

“M’fine,” she mutters, head lolling back on the couch pillow and eyes slitting open.

He snorts. "Sit up."

“M’tired.”

“That what we’re calling it now?” he asks.

He’s surprised by how gentle it comes out; realizes he’s not even pissed.

He knows who’s really to blame for this shitshow.

She slides down into the blanket; closes her eyes again.

“No, Max. Come on. Need to see you can stay awake for a while. Just—" he pauses, his brain casting around for something to motivate her; decides to use one of his extra aces for good, this time. "Listen, if you sit up and keep your eyes open, I won’t give you any shit about this in the morning.”

Cold, clammy skin and can’t stay awake: neither of these are good signs.

She squints at him, and he can see her pupils dilating in and out in an attempt to focus. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. One time offer."

He wonders if he can get her to puke, as he pulls her up to sitting, again; parks himself next to her so she can’t slide back down.

“Where’s Steve?” she asks, with a slur; rolling her eyes around in her head to try and see.

Oh yeah...Steve.

“Asleep in the car,” he says, “lucky for you. This would freak him right the fuck out.”

“’Sokay Billy,” she mumbles, “we don’t have to tell him.”

“Max—”

“I’m a good little secret keeper.”

She grins, hiccups, and barfs all over the couch.

Steve wakes up in the passenger seat of the camaro, his pleasant, sleepy buzz replaced by creeping cold and disorientation.

The car’s parked right up by the front porch, instead of the garage, and Billy’s nowhere to be found.

He’s annoyed that he was left in the car like forgotten luggage, and he’s planning to verbalize it, loudly, when he gets inside. What he sees when he pops the front door open, stops him.

Billy’s got the seat covers off the couch and he’s scrubbing one arm of it; muttering to himself and slinging an anxious eye at Maxine every few seconds.

The room reeks of liquor and puke.

Max is huddled up in the recliner, drifting off under a blanket.

“Hey!” Billy snaps fingers in her face, “Eyes open.”

“What the hell, babe?” he says, sounding more savage than he means to, but seriously?

He turns around, slowly; panic in his face that makes him look twelve years old.

Steve wonders if he ever really got to be a kid at all.

“What happened?” he asks, quieter.

“Sorry,” he says, “Jesus, Steve. I’m sorry. I fucked everything up.”

“Define everything.”

Max sits up straighter now; eyes going wide. “It’s not his fault,” she says, with effort.

Billy glares at her; stalks over and hisses a soft but lethal sounding zip it, while putting his knuckles up against her cheek.

“Warming up,” he mutters. “Almost killed yourself, you fucking moron.”

“You said no shit,” Max whines, at the same time Steve finds his voice again.

 “What. The hell. Happened?!”

“I said no shit in the morning,” he points at her, “it’s 11:53 now. I have seven minutes.”

“Guys!”

Billy glances at him; sighs and stares at his feet.

“Those weren’t her cigarettes,” he mutters, “they were mine. I put them there when we first quit and forgot about them.”

“What?” Steve asks; not necessarily surprised, but not thrilled by any means. Is this what’s been off about them all week? Some secret they’ve worked together to keep from him? All the subject changing and the phantom resentment from Max… betrayal hits hard in the chest when the lightbulb comes on. “Did you make your sister lie for you?” he asks, sounding every inch as disgusted as he feels, “To me?”

For once, Billy doesn’t hide behind the mask. The pain is clear and obvious, but Steve’s too blindsided to think straight.

“Fuck this,” he says; goes to their room and locks the door behind him.

Definitely Sunday

Max is, as they say, one hurtin’ unit, when she wakes up the next day. Her head is pounding, and her stomach feels as if someone literally turned it inside out.

She’s been hungover once or twice before, but this is next level.

There’s a glass of water by the bed and two Tylenol so she scarfs those down; immediately regrets it when her stomach threatens to send them right back up.

Steve must have put those there, she muses, because no way was it Billy. This is only the second time she’s stumbled home drunk since he got back, but she knows he won’t be sympathetic to a hangover the same way she knows the sun comes up in the morning and disappears at night.

It's not in his nature.

Actually, the more she thinks about it, she didn’t literally stumble home, either time. The first time she came in through the window on Cherry Lane and this time she…wait, how did she get home last night?

She groans; throws an arm up over her face and digs back through hazy memories. She remembers leaving the nerds and going to a bonfire at Michelle’s; remembers guzzling no name vodka like she’d been in the desert for a year. She has a vague, hazy recollection of trying to get up the porch steps.

She remembers the sudden light hitting her eyes and the feeling that her body was on fire; that nothing in the world would feel better than sleep.

Did she throw up? She picks at a fleck of something pink on her shirt; sniffs it.

Ugh. That’s embarrassing.

She drifts off for a few minutes, and when she wakes up; thinks some more. Something happened. It's scratching and poking at the edge of her memory, refusing to show it's face. All she's got to go on is the half formed memory that it made her feel off kilter; a sensation of reversed roles and anxious uncertainty.

Billy was being patient, and Steve was pissed. That’s what it was.

She glances at the empty water glass on her nightstand; realizes it wasn't Steve, after all.

This uncharacteristically taciturn, tolerant, by-Billy-standards softness can only mean one thing. It's rare like finding a diamond in your own backyard, but she's seen it before: he's sorry.

She hasn't thought about it in a couple years, but the last week between their fight at the school and when he left home, even though they didn't speak a word, she found a pile of quarters on her dresser after he was gone.

She can’t remember the exact words the boys exchanged, last night, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what must have happened.

She climbs out of bed, with massive effort. She has to detour to the bathroom; dry heaves over the toilet for a couple minutes, swearing to God she’ll never drink to forget her troubles again. (This, it will turn out, is bullshit)

Finally, she makes it downstairs.

Billy’s scrunched up on the love seat; one leg hanging off the end, the other tucked under him at a terribly uncomfortable looking angle. His eyes are open, but he’s clearly a million miles away.

She feels too shitty to act tough; is kind of touched, too, truth be told. She goes over and sits in the only square foot of empty real estate on the love seat, in the hollow by his chest.

“Hey, shitbird,” he says; voice hoarse.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I gave you a free pass but do not try that shit again. You could have wound up in the hospital. You realize what would’ve happened then?”

She nods. “Unfit guardian.”

“Exactly. You gotta learn your limits.”

“I know my limits,” she mutters, “I wanted to cross them.”

He sighs loudly, “Maybe I’m not fit.”

“Don’t say that!” she hisses, anxiety ratcheting her heartbeat several notches, “It was my fault!”

“Yeah, it was," he replies pointedly, bumping her hip with his knee, "not talking about that, though.”

She slumps back against him; tries to pretend it's not comforting to lean into his solidity. She huffs out a quiet, “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“It’s ok.”

“It’s not ok, Max. You know I hate that. I fucked up. End of story.”

She shrugs. “You were scared.”

He doesn’t respond to that, which is no surprise. He does nudge her off him, though. She climbs to her feet; takes a second to swallow down more dry heaves before asking, “You tell Steve? Or am I imagining that part.”

“Oh, I told him,” he says, sitting up and scrubbing a hand over his face, “why you think I’m on the damn couch?”

They’re still in the living room, an Abbott & Costello movie on that neither are watching; feeling sorry for themselves, when Steve comes in.

“Max,” Billy says, pointedly, first thing, and she gets up to leave.

“No. I want both of you here,” Steve replies, jerking his head toward her still warm spot on the couch, then glaring at Billy, “And you’re going to let her talk, too. Even if you don’t like what she has to say.”

He doesn’t miss the matching flashes of anxiety that dance across their faces; groans inwardly.

He loves them but…damn.

Why is everything so difficult?

“I want the story,” he says, “the whole story. From the beginning.”

Max keeps her mouth shut; glances at Billy in a move he figures must be instinct, by now.

“I told you last night, the cigarettes were mine—”

She clears her throat; shifts in the seat and seems to falter at the glare Billy sends her.

“What?” Steve asks, trying to sound gentle. He did a lot of thinking over night; realized his patience has easily been as low as theirs, lately.

Realized the siblings are a lot more fragile than anyone could outwardly guess. 

“That’s not the beginning,” she says, quietly, avoiding Billy’s gaze.

“The fuck you talking about it’s not?”

“It’s not,” she repeats, still soft but insistent, “the beginning was the garbage.”

“Maxine—”

“I don’t care! You can get pissed if you want, but it's the truth!”

“You’re being a drama queen,” he announces; crosses arms and leans back in his seat dismissively.

“I am not. He scared you. I’m probably the only person alive who knows what that looks like, but I know.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, loudly, before they can really get started.  

“Well,” she glances at her brother, rolls eyes when he gives her the death stare, and continues, “when you told him he could leave any time.”

Wait...when did he tell him he could...oh, man.

Seriously? That’s what caused all this? That one flippant remark that was out his mouth without a thought about it, after?

“I wasn’t serious,” he pauses and turns to address Billy, who, per the expression on his face, is planning cold blooded murder right there in the living room, “I was blowing off steam. You had to know that.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t know,” Max insists, “that’s the problem!”

“Yes. I did,” he growls.

“Yeah but—”

“Shut it!” he yells, on his feet now.

“You didn’t know on the inside!” she yells back, desperation painted across her features, “Part of your brain knew, but the rest of you didn’t!”

And, fuck. That deflates Billy like a popped balloon.

He drops back into his seat, looking defeated, exposed, and suddenly, incredibly young.

“There’s somebody else here with us,” she mumbles, "all the time. Like, in our heads."

Huh?

Steve raises eyebrows at her; waits for her to explain.

“I know it sounds crazy," she says; cheeks flushing pink, "but it’s like, Neil’s still here, sometimes, even though he’s not.”

The tumblers click into place. He doesn’t quite know how to respond, so he doesn’t say anything, and after a second, she rushes forward.

“Garbage was always Billy’s job, as long as I knew him and Neil would lose his shit if it wasn’t done the way he wanted,” she pauses, casting eyes downward when her brother makes a threatening growl. “I don’t care,” she says to him, again, though she's obviously trying to reassure herself, “I mean, it's Steve, ok? He already knows you're not really made of stone."

He gets up; practically sits on top of Billy, on the love seat. 

"S'true, babe," he says, "cat's out of the bag."

"I knew he freaked you out when he said it," Max mutters, staring at her bare feet. "I even thought about telling him, but you guys were driving me nuts with the smoking stuff and I was pissed.”

She glances up, and Steve notices how awful she looks. 

"What happened last night?"

"Like I said, those cigarettes were mine. I guess, I kind of freaked out when I saw how mad you were. And I had something on her..."

It's obvious he's not proud of what happened, and Steve knows he's responsible for his own shitty decision. But. "I'm sorry."

“Don’t even,” 

“Well, I am. You came home after the garbage thing and I’d just found the cigarettes; I was having a hissy fit and you panicked.”

“Pretty much,” he admits, grudgingly. “And when I made her take the blame I think she shorted a wire or something. Almost gave herself alc poisoning last night." Max gets up for a hasty retreat, but he says, "Nuh-uh. Your turn, now."

She doesn't sit, at first; only turns around and crosses arms over her chest. 

Then she sways the tiniest bit, throws a hand up over her mouth, belches, and sits. 

"Yeah, that's what I thought," her brother says, gracious as ever. 

Steve can tell she's got a fuck you on the edge of her tongue, but she must not want to take the chance. 

"It wasn't fair." Billy continues, staring straight at her.

"Oh, I know," she replies.

"You drink that much again, I will end you."

"Know that, too," she mutters, sinking down in the chair, ever so slightly.

"Sorry, shitbird."

She glances up; startled, then nods. 

A significant part of Steve wants to knock their heads together. He wonders if she realizes how close I will end you for doing dangerous shit is to I love you, in Billy-speak. 

“What exactly did you think I was going to do to you?” he asks, instead. 

Billy lifts a shoulder. “Dunno. Wasn’t logical.”

“He thought you were going to throw us out,” Max supplies; clearly glad to have the focus back on her brother.

“OK now you can leave, if you can't shut the fuck up.”

“Babe,” Steve says, softly, “she’s not wrong, though, is she?”

“No, she’s not,” he snarls; defensive, “but I fucked everything up over nothing! Over a stupid little argument that — it just hit me funny. Dug up old shit and got me in a panic and I fucking broke Maxine over it.”

"I think we're square, now," she replies, grimacing. 

“It’s ok.” Steve says.

“It’s not.”

He climbs right up into his lap.

“Quit using yourself as a punching bag. I know you were taught that's what you deserve, but it's not."

Billy puts his head in his hands, and he can’t tell if he’s crying or too exhausted to hold it up anymore. He rests his head against his; doesn’t miss the dry heave Max makes before getting up to go.

“I need to remember the way things are for you,” he says, “and you need to tell me when I do something that freaks you out.”

“Yeah,” he replies; voice muffled behind his hands, "sorry."

“Don't be,” Steve continues, softly. "Listen, the only Hargrove I want out of this house is your father.”

Chapter Text

Nailbat

Billy guns the car over a knoll and they spend a second airborne, before landing hard, brakes squealing and gravel flying, swerving into Steve’s driveway.

Max glares at him, sidelong, rubbing her shoulder where the seatbelt dug in.

“Be nice to have a smoke before all this starts,” she says, pointedly. “Especially after that near-death experience.”

“Yeah?” He puts the car in park, settles back in the seat, “Guess it sucks to be you.”

“Please?”

He turns up the music, in response, and she huffs. Asshole. She climbs out of the car on wobbly legs; shuts the door just short of a slam, and goes around to the back seat. Steve’s already jogging toward them, wearing an expression that’s half monster-hunting-anxiety and half love-struck-puppy.

She’s A-OK with giving him the front seat, the sap; she and Billy have been at odds all week.

It started small: Sunday was a disagreement about whose turn it was for dishes.

Monday was a passive aggressive game of ‘change the thermostat’ that escalated into him yelling at her to put on a sweater and quit being a baby.

Tuesday she outright stole the last few of his cigarettes, partly in retribution for the thermostat thing, partly because she was broke. She’d blown her meager paycheck from the diner, on a Sunday matinee with Lucas.

Wednesday, he bought more smokes, put them in his closet and got a padlock for it.

By now (Thursday dinner time), she’s jonesing for nicotine so bad she’s annoyed by his mere existence. She won't be able to afford more smokes until payday, tomorrow, and he's wearing the padlock key on his chain; dangling there beside his mom's medal. She had literally just asked him why are you breathing so loud?  when Dustin came over the walkie, screeching about a monster sighting.

She kicks the back of his seat when she realizes they’re at the meet up spot and those two goofs are choosing now to start kissing. They promptly ignore her, so she takes aim, again, but Billy’s got some kind of preternatural sense about his car; manages to reach back and ring strong fingers around her ankle, before she can.

“Knock it. The fuck. Off.”

“You going to get out or you going to suck face all night?”

Steve glances back; cheeks pink, but Billy pins her with a penetrating glare that promises potential death in the near future.

“Let’s hear it.” He grunts, not letting go of her ankle.

“Stay with you guys.” She recites, monotone.

“And pay attention to your—”

“—surroundings. I know.”

“Keep it up. Be overjoyed to take your ass back home.”

“Come on,” she says, giving her leg a futile yank, “I’ve learned everything you wanted me to and I never complained once, but you still try to get out of taking me, every time. It’s not fair!”

Steve clears his throat, from where he stands in the space of the open door. “Dude, they’re waiting for us.”

Finally, Billy releases her ankle, and she’s out of there in a flash; sprinting toward Lucas and El.

The gang fills her in: Chief had been out by the old lab earlier, doing a routine sweep, when he’d come across an underground entrance that bore all the hallmarks of a demo dog den. It even had fresh prints, and since Joyce threatened to leave him if he tried to take one on by himself, ever again, he’d put out the call.

They assemble quickly with well-practiced silence, to creep through the woods in three groups: Mike, El, Will, Hopper; Dustin, Lucas, Joyce; Steve, Billy, Max. Between her nicotine withdrawal and her simmering irritation at the week’s many injustices, Max is more than ready to kill something. She’s holding up the rear, slogging along with wet sneakers, and when they’re only a few feet away from the den, a twig snaps behind her.

She whips around, bat up over the shoulder in a move that softball drills have made automatic. Her brain registers the thing before her, right as it rears up on two legs and roars.

What happens next is, honestly, a blur: a flash of denim, the feeling of her bat connecting, a distinctly human yelp. Everyone turns at once and begins to sprint after the retreating monster.

Everyone, that is, but her brother, who is standing there looking dead murderous with her nail bat dangling from his arm.

"What—” She stops; jaw dropping wide. A few yards away, a second demo dog has clawed it’s way out of the den.

“Shit, I didn’t—” she stops, glances at the second monster hungrily, then back at him, “—how did that—”

“Because you weren’t fucking paying attention!” He snarls; yanks the bat out of his arm without taking his eyes off her.

“I was, too! You—wait a second did you jump in front of me?”

“I knew you should’ve stayed home!”

“How is it my fault you jumped in front of me?”

“GUYS!” Steve yells, from the fray, and they look up simultaneously. She starts to head back in but he snags her by the hoodie.

“You stay here!”

“Why? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Oh yeah? Tell that to my arm!”

“You got in my way!”

“I was trying to protect you and if you didn’t have your head up your ass, like usual, you would have seen me!”

“I did not have my head up my ass!” She sputters, indignant, “And I don’t need your protection!”

“Like hell you don’t.” He says, dismissively; turns and starts stalking off toward the fight with one arm dangling.

She stays for approximately one and a half seconds, and then she loses it, every recent frustration bubbling up to the top with that dismissive tone.

She tackles him.

Her weight’s not enough to take him down, even with the element of surprise, but at that moment someone screams duck! and they hit the ground together to the pop pop of the powder gun. Max feels like her brain is having some kind of short circuit; she didn’t exactly have a plan but is determined to make her point: she can take care of herself.  

They scramble around until she’s face first in the muck, feet struggling for purchase in the muddy snow. She elbows out, wildly, at what she sincerely hopes is his groin, and yells, “You’re such a fucking pain in the ass!”

“What I wouldn’t give to be a pain in your ass right now,” he mutters; snakes his good arm under her and flips her flat on her back, with a grunt, “but I’m trying to do things right.” He sits on her stomach; panting and cradling his arm, “You don’t exactly make it easy.”

And that’s the truth. At times like this; arm throbbing and his own litany of pent up frustrations percolating in his gut, his hindbrain would happily pay any price to be allowed a few solid, well placed whacks.

She’s a fucking handful.

But, there’s no such thing as a free shot for people with their history, no matter how justified or harmless it seems in the moment, and the rest of his brain knows it. Thanks to Neil, he lies awake at night, as it is, remembering how girls from abusive homes used to throw themselves at him, instinctively drawn to his mean streak.

Now, he can’t see their faces without frantically checking for hers, too. 

Anyway,  with his luck, she’d run away and Susan would haunt him forever. Probably make his kitchen smell like burnt toast and come to him in dreams, looking impotent and pathetic.

Totally not worth it.

He puts on his poker face and watches with seeming detachment while she flails around in the mud, spitting an impressive string of expletives at him.  He’s putting just enough weight on to make her uncomfortable and get his point across. Now he only has to wait for her to tire herself out.

He makes a mental note that nicotine depravation essentially turns Maxine into an angry four-year-old. Steve’s already on his ass about quitting. That’s going to be a blast.

Speaking of which – he digs a crumpled cigarette out of his pocket and switches views to survey the scene, a few yards away. They’ve got one dead, and the second wounded.

Steve catches him looking and shoots him a killer glare.

Awesome.

“Are you being serious right now?” Max’s outraged voice tears him away, “You’re going to sit right on me and smoke and not let me have any? You know I’m dying!”

He narrows his eyes, smirks at her, and blows a smoke ring.

“Douchebag!” She hurls at him, squirming some more, before giving up and throwing her head back against the soggy ground.

“Shut up and breathe a minute, you little psycho.”

“Me? Are you—”

“HEY!” Hopper yells, “We GOT IT, no thanks to you guys!”

Billy gives him two thumbs up and a sarcastically facetious smile. Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Ugh,” Max groans, “we let them down.”

“You put a nail bat in my arm, and you’re worried about them?”

“What was I supposed to do? I was already swinging and you hopped in my way!”

“You should’ve seen me coming, in your peripheral.”

“You shitting me? You know how fast you are.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

She’s not wrong.

(The little voice chooses this moment to suggest that she might be half justified in losing her shit. Maybe, he helped push her to this ridiculous tantrum. A teacher once told him, he could drive the pope to murder, it reminds him.)

“Didn’t think you could get it on your own.” He admits, at last.

“Thanks a lot.” She says, and it clearly stings. She turns her head; hides her face.

“C’mon, Max. Breathe a minute.”

"No!" She turns back toward him; eyes on fire, "You have to decide: either actually let me hunt with you guys, or be prepared for me to sneak off on my own."

"Those are terrible terms," he replies; amusement creeping into his voice, despite his best efforts. "I'll try to back off."

"Believe it when I see it," she mutters, “And it was your turn for dishes.” 

“I know. Okay? Happy? I was tired.”

“So was I! School and sports are tiring, too, in case you’ve forgotten in your massive old age.” She glares at the condescending expression on his face, “And 65 degrees is too cold for inside! I’m not being a baby about it!”

“Look,” he says, “I can’t afford the fuel oil if we put it higher, ok?”

That gives her pause. “Why didn’t you say that, in the first place?”

“Fuck, Max, you think I want to go around admitting I can’t really afford this? Your mom way over estimated my ability to hold shit together.”

“She did not.” She says, with a sigh. Sometimes she forgets she only sees the tip of the iceberg. But so does he, damn it. She squirms again; doesn’t get anywhere, and an acidic flash of panic floods her system.

“Billy.”

“You going to chill out?”

She nods frantically, and he can see it in her face. He shifts his weight off, then he hands the cigarette over; attempting to soothe both her agitation, and his guilt for causing it.

It shuts her up for two golden, glorious minutes. Which is crucial, since the rest of the gang is staring at them now, with less than appreciative expressions on their faces, and her current attitude would not help.

“She got me in the arm.” He offers; sounds weak even to his own ears.

“Yeah,” says Mike, “we know. We all know.”

“Two dead monsters here.” Chief says, pointedly, before shuffling everyone else back toward their cars. “Get the place cleaned up, you know what to do.”

Not even Steve is willing to stay and help.

They torch the bodies as best they can with Billy’s arm, pick up shell casings, and fill in the den. It’s almost midnight by the time they climb into the camaro and head for home.

“How long you think they’ll be mad?” Max asks, from the passenger’s seat; hair caked with mud and yet another of his cigarettes dangling from her mouth.

He glances at her once, then twice.

“We’re going to have to quit, eventually,” he warns, “Steve won’t let us smoke in his house.”

She snorts. “You think we’re still welcome?”

“He’ll get over it.” He says. “They all will. They know we have our own way of settling things.”

“Is that what that was?” She asks, barking out a laugh that’s equal parts amused and embarrassed.

He smirks and guns the gas. He’s not above a flash of satisfaction when it puts her back in the seat. His arm is throbbing.  

“Yeah.” He says, “I guess it is.”

Chapter Text

Heyguys request:

I placed this as being a few months after moving in with Steve, Max is 16 the boys 21-ish. So, not long after Ch 9, but before any of the extras that come after. 

Steve hears the page of Auto Trader turn with enough force to make a rip, and glances up from the TV.

“She’s fine.” He says, for the third time.

“No note.” Billy grunts. Again.

Way back when they were still in their parents’ house, there’d been a knock-down-drag-out about Maxine pulling a disappearing act. The next day, over dinner, he’d jabbed a fork at her and growled leave a fucking note if you’re not gonna be back by 9 and I won’t give you any more shit about it.  She’d scrunched up her face, jutted her chin, and muttered fine….freak. But, the following Saturday there was a big sign (the underside of two sheets of math homework taped together), with giant letters declaring, in crayon no less, that she was at the arcade and going to be late. It actually made him snort. She thought she was getting the last word, but the truth was, she could’ve written it on the wall and he wouldn’t have cared, as long as he knew she was ok.

Not that he’d admit that to her.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve hears; notes the searing tone of voice that means it’s going to be a long night, “where the fuck is she?”

He tosses the magazine on the end table and gets up; paces up and down in front of the TV until Steve finally gives up on his show.

“She’s fine.” He says, mentally noting the uptick from three times to four.

Billy actually stops pacing, specifically to glare at him. “You don’t know that.”

“Dude, it’s Hawkins.”

“Exactly! Hawkins, where there are actual fucking monsters in the woods!”

“We haven’t seen a sign of them in six months.” Steve points out, evenly. He thinks to himself that she knows better than to go in the woods, anyway, and if she did - he’ll kill her, himself.

“You never know what kind of pervs are roaming out there,” Billy goes on, as if he hasn’t said a word, “what if someone’s got her locked up in their basement?”

“One less perv these days, now that you’re housebroken.”

Billy shoots him another glare, but this one has genuine anxiety between the lines. “Not funny.”

The phone rings and he manages to cross the entire living room in what seems like two steps; grabs it on the first ring.

“Hello?”

Steve grabs the discarded Auto Trader; pretends to look at it while he listens with one ear.

“No, she’s not here. You know where she is?”

“What do you mean you had a fight?”

“Yeah, ok. Yeah, I do know how she is.”

“Ok, Lucas. Bye.”

He glances up, sees furrowed brows and watches as Billy jabs numbers into the phone with stubby fingers.

“Max there?”

“No? El know where she is?”

“Yeah, I know she’s probably fine but –” a frustrated huff, “You’re the sheriff don’t you think you should—I am not overreacting. It’s after 11 on a Tuesday fucking night. Haven't seen her since morning!”

Billy snarls something unintelligible at Hopper and slams down the phone; stalks back into the living room.

“She better have a very good reason for this shit.” He says, and when he gets no response, “I am not over reacting.”

“Not yet.” Steve mutters to himself; offers up an I said what I said type shrug when Billy glares at him. He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to put Steve’s head on a pole, when they hear the kitchen door pop open. Steve can actually see the circuit in his brain pop directly from worried sick someone’s killed Max to I’m going to kill Max, myself.

“The fuck have you been?” Steve hears from the kitchen; notes that low growl and hopes Maxine has a really good excuse and the common sense to not cop an attitude.

His hopes are quickly torched. 

“Keep your boxers on,” she says, “I fell asleep.”

Steve literally groans; watches as she stalks into the living room with her brother on her heels.

“Oh, fuck no.” Billy says when she heads for the stairs; snags her by the wrist. “What?”

And, they’re off, Steve thinks, feigning sudden interest in Auto Trader and sinking down into the recliner. If there’s a wrong way to approach Billy when he’s angry-scared, Maxine just took it.

“I had a fight with Lucas so I went to the movies after work,” she explains tonelessly, “Tuesday night, double feature for five bucks.” She shrugs, “I would’ve been back sooner but I couldn't sleep last night and I was tired. I passed out and I was way up in the corner. Must be the usher guy didn’t notice, 'cause I slept through, like, two more movies.”

“Oh, I see, so you were gonna be here sooner.” Billy says; offers up that predatory smile and syrupy politeness that means shit’s about to go south.

She eyes him warily. “Prob’ly.”

“No. Note.”

“Oh my God.”

“Watch it.”

“So, I didn’t leave a note?! I was upset!.”

“Yeah?” Billy’s voice shoots up in the volume, “Well now I’m upset and you’re in deep shit. I went out looking for you! Drove all over town! I talked to Lucas, I called Hopper – and you were sleeping?”

“Look, it happens, ok?” She hollers back, “People make mistakes! You should know that better than anyone!”

That knocks Billy back a couple steps, literally. He crosses his arms tightly, like he does when he’s afraid he might lose control. “You selfish fucking brat,” he growls, “everything isn’t about your feelings or your stupid high school boyfriend.”

“I’m selfish?” She sputters indignantly, “Do you not own a mirror?”

Billy narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to retort but Steve cuts him off.  “Guys—”

“You stay out of it!” Maxine rounds on him and practically screams; red face a storm of emotion.

He’s surprised, but he’s not mad, because he gets that she’s only lashing out. Billy’s got her on the ropes and she’s pissed and embarrassed and…something else. Steve knows what it is; why she didn’t leave a note. He’s told Billy a thousand times, but it always falls on deaf ears.

He watches as she runs toward the stairs and he tosses down the magazine when Billy pounds right after her, in case he needs to intervene. There isn’t any yelling, and that's actually not a great sign. He hears a short scuffle, a bump, an ow, asshole! and a certain tone of voice drifting down the stairs; the one that means a threat is being spelled out letter by letter. He makes out the words so fucking long you and got it? and it's not too hard to piece together the rest. Next thing he knows, Max is standing in front of him, arm in Billy’s vice grip. She looks truly miserable and not at all repentant, but after a couple seconds he gives her a shake and a halting apology comes tumbling out.

“It’s ok, Max.” He says, softly, because he genuinely feels for her at this point.

Finally, Billy releases her arm.

“Beat it.” He tells her, and she doesn’t waste any time.

She waits until she's all the way upstairs before screaming back, “Happy to, asshole!” 

“And don’t slam the fucking door!” Gets hurled right back.

“Babe,” Steve says, “breathe. Jeeze. Let her have the last word now and then, huh?”  

“Fuck you, Harrington.”

And he knows that was a reflex but even Steve has his limits. He cocks an eyebrow. “For real?”

When Billy doesn’t respond, he climbs out of the recliner and heads for the bedroom; tosses a pillow at him and shuts the door in his face.  

Billy wakes up on the couch with a crick in his neck. His nose and his guilty conscience lead him to the kitchen, where there’s coffee and a hopefully-not-too-pissed-at-him Steve.

“Hey.” He says, carefully, sitting down with a mug and casting a sheepish glance across the table. “You still mad?”

“Nah.”

“Okay, good.”

Silence stretches between them, and he knows with a sinking gut that Steve is full of shit. He’s mad, alright, just not in the explosive way. He’s mad in the I have something to say and you’re not getting off the hook until I say it, way, and that’s even more painful.

“Spit it out.” He says, casting a wary glance at brown eyes that are much sharper than normal.

“You’re a fucking bonehead, for starters.”

Billy just about chokes on his coffee, but keeps his mouth shut.

“You and I both know why she didn’t leave a note, and we’ve talked about this before.”

Oh, man. This conversation is his least favorite in the entire Steve Harrington lecture series.

“What do you want me to do?”

Steve snorts. “I’m not here to tell you what to do, princess.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Slips out before he can stop it. They stare at each other over the table until, finally, Billy cracks. “Sorry. I’m just – you don’t get how scary it is!”

“I don’t? Why’s that? Because I don’t care about her, too?”

“Sorry.” Billy mutters into his coffee cup, again. If someone had told him, five years ago, how much he’d be apologizing today, he would have punched them in the face.

“Shove your sorry,” Steve says, “and shove the one you bullied out of Max last night, too. I don’t need sorry. I need you to show her you care about her now and then.”

“Listen,” Billy points at him, stung by bullied, “I’ve worked my balls off to get as far as I—”

“I know that, babe,” Steve says, softer, “everyone knows that. I’m just tryin’ to help all of us out so it’s not a war zone around here every time she needs to know she’s not alone. Or a burden. Or whatever goes on in that little red head. Point is, if you don’t show her, she’ll keep doing things to make you.”

Billy doesn’t say anything to that; doesn’t really know what to say. He’s still got her snotty attitude ringing in his ears; still thinking about that anxiety that makes him feel like he’s going to pass out or puke or both. And, at the moment, he’d sooner face down a full grown velociraptor than talk to Maxine. She’s no doubt still nursing a sore ego and waiting to see what kind of revenge he’s going to exact for this monumental bullshit.

In other words, she’s going to be a complete fucking nightmare.

Finally, he gets up without a word; climbs in the camaro and goes for a drive.

When Billy gets home 90 or so minutes later, his brain is finally clearer. He’s been putting some things together and thinking them over and he wants to talk to Steve, but he’s gone.

There is, significantly, no note.

Great. Still on two separate shit lists. It’s enough to make him want to roll his eyes right out of his head.

Quit stalling.

“Oh, fuck off.” He mutters to the little voice, but he goes upstairs all the same; pounds once on Maxine’s door and listens as the lock clicks open.

When he gets inside, she’s already burrowed herself back under the blankets and is in the process of dragging a pillow over her head.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and she moves over; not to make room, but to make a point: he’s not welcome.

“Get it over with and go away.”

Well, at least he was right about the nightmare part. “Not in trouble. Just wanna talk.”

A skeptical snort drifts up from the mountain of blankets. "Right."

“Swear.”

This is enough of a bone to soothe the raging attack dog that lives in her brain. She emerges from the blankets; blinks at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, “but it’s gonna cost you another way.”

She rolls her eyes. “How?”

“We gotta talk about some shit.”

Max legitimately looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. He might as well have said he wanted to borrow some underpants and start cross dressing.

“Just fucking listen for once.” He growls, trying to ignore her smart ass face. “My mom bailed on me, our parents gassed themselves to death,” he pauses, sees her flinch at that and tries to soften his tone, “so, excuse me but I don’t exactly take it well when people disappear.”

“Never thought about that.” She concedes; hugs her knees to her chest and stares down at them. “Sorry.”

“Ok. And I know I flew off the handle.” He steals a glance; knows he should apologize but fuck if he can squeeze out another sorry, today. “What’s your deal?”

“I don’t have a deal,” she mutters, “I fell asleep. Period.”

“Cut the shit. You knew you were going to be late before that.” He replies evenly, and when she shifts her eyes to his medal and doesn’t respond, “Steve sure thinks you have a deal, and as long as he’s riding me about it, I’m gonna ride you about it.”

“I see,” she looks up at him, face like she just sucked a lemon, “so this is about making Steve happy.”

“No, Maxine, I need to know what’s going on with you. Because we’re having a fucking Hallmark moment here, ok, drama queen? And you better not pull that shit with Steve ever again, am I clear?”

"You were clear last night." She mutters. "I didn't mean it."

"Don't care."

Max huffs, but doesn’t say anything. God help him if she ever finds out he turned around and did the exact same thing to Steve, not ten minutes later. He sits on her bed and waits, without saying a word; knows the silence will get her to spill it. 

Finally, she rolls her eyes and says, so quietly, “I feel….alone sometimes.”

“Alone.”

“Yeah!” she snaps, fierce and defensive. “I feel alone, okay? Especially if I’m fighting with one of my friends. Happy now?”

“What's that got to do with--you mean you start shit on purpose?"

“No. But I know you worry." She glances up and he catches the full weight of her expression; desperate, embarrassed…vulnerable. She snarls in frustration and flops back on the bed. The blankets go up.

“Why do you think I parked my ass back here in good ol’ Hawkins, Indiana, in the first place, huh, shitbird? For the fun of it?”

A pause, and then, “Guess not.”

“Exactly. And now you’re mad at me for being mad at you when...Jesus, you're fucking exhausting.”

“It’s the only time I know you care about me, ok asshole?” Her voice is muffled, but he definitely heard that; knows what it must have cost her to say it.

Goddamn, but he hates when Steve is right.

He pushes himself back against the wall, his boots dragging across her comforter.

Sniffling drifts up to his ears and he slumps down a little against the wall, feeling a close approximation to dog shit. A few more sniffles and one particularly gross sounding snort and he can’t take it anymore. One bare calf is sticking out of her cocoon and he smacks it.

“C’mon,” he says, “sit up.”

She does, albeit reluctantly and not until she’s spent a few seconds drying her face off so she can pretend she wasn’t crying. She scooches over close enough so they’re touching shoulders, and he lets her.

“So, the not leaving a note part was on purpose, but the falling asleep was accidental.”

“Yeah.”

He eyes her sidelong. “Plan kinda backfired, huh?”

She nods, and they sit there in silence for a couple minutes. He’s thinking about how alone he felt after his mom left, and all the shit he did to get attention, even if that attention sometimes lead to a fat lip.

He finally gets it. Steve was definitely right about the bonehead part.

He snorts and shakes his head. Everyone thinks he’s this scary, over the top hard ass with Max, but really, most of the time he’s fucking things up and she’s actually schooling him. 

He's going to owe Steve big time. The idea is not entirely unpleasant, but he has other things to do first.

“So,” he shoulder checks Max gently, “tell me what dumbass thing Lucas did now.”

Chapter Text

It’s almost midnight when Hargrove knocks on the cabin door; nearly gets a bullet between the eyes for his trouble.

Chief stands there in his boxers, eyeing him through the crack he's opened. It’s pouring down rain and he’s soaking wet from the walk in.

“What the hell, kid?” he asks, setting his pistol on a pile of mail, beside the door.

He shifts weight; doesn’t make eye contact.

“Gotta talk to you.”

“What, now?”

“Yeah, now!”

He’s doing an awful lot of snarling for someone who showed up on the doorstep in the middle of the night. Still, there’s emotion behind it; an uneasiness that tickles his Sheriff-Spidey sense.

Hopper pops the door open and steps out of the way. “Fine,” he grumbles, “I’m not putting on pants, though.”

Thank God El’s over at Joyce’s for the night, lured away by promises of a bubble bath, gossip, and painted toenails.

“Do not put your wet ass on my couch.”

Bill stops mid-sit, mutters a distracted, “Shit, sorry,” before heading toward the kitchen table.

He has literally never heard this kid apologize before. For anything. Not even in the remotest, most half assed way possible. Christ, he almost blew his head off with the powder gun once and didn’t say anything except, “Watch where the fuck you’re goin’, Chief!”

So, yeah. This must be big.

He sits across from him at the table; notes the way he’s staring at his hands and still not making eye contact.

He’s barely in the chair when he says, “Can you take Max?”

Jim doesn’t think he heard him right, at first. “Wha?”

“You heard me,” he growls, finally tipping his chin up to lock eyes, “don’t make me say it again.”

“What, you mean, like for a weekend?”

The two gaze at each other steadily.

He…doesn’t mean for the weekend. Hopper glances, wistfully, in the direction of his bed; scrubs a hand over his face.

“Start at the beginning,” he says.

“You mean, like, my Dad was abusive dick, beginning?”

He shrugs, unable to help the wince because, if I’d only known when they first moved here, “Start where you need to start.”

Bill zones out; long stare past his head a few seconds, then, “The girl here? El?”

“No. Just us.”

“Was it hard, at first?”

It takes Hopper a second to figure out what he’s referring to, operating on zero caffeine and trying not to smoke, out of courtesy. Doesn’t seem like it would take more than a nudge to get Hargrove started up again, at the moment. Then he’d have Steve all over his shit.

No thank you.

“Kid, it’s still hard,” he says, “Every day. Girls are different than us.”

They glance at each other; exchange knowing, sardonic grimaces.  Then, Bill’s face smooths out like he flipped a switch.

“Almost hit Maxine last week,” he says, in what the Chief can tell is a blurt, even though most people would find it toneless, “would have hit her, no doubt about it, if Steve didn’t get in the way.”

Hopper processes this information in silence; remembers the day, last week, when he came home to find El traveling, with Mike taking notes at her side. He'd known something was up, right away, by their feigned nonchalance when he asked what they were doing. Never did get it out of them, but he could've sworn he heard Red's name, when he first walked through the door. 

“Why?” he asks.

“Sneaky shit,” he replies, blowing out a huff, “Huge. Had to do with my mom and I can’t – that woman makes me –” he stops; waves a hand around the side of his head.

Chief nods. He gets the idea.

The kid leans the chair back on two legs; crosses arms and lowers lids. He knows him well enough to know that’s something…a hybrid defense mechanism and  challenge. What he can’t figure out, in his befuddled state, is what he really wants from him.

“So, what? You want me to arrest you or something?”

The chair comes back down with a bang, but the expression doesn’t change. “No,” he replies, mildly, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.”

“But I would’ve.”

"Coulda, shoulda, woulda. You didn’t.”

“You don’t understand,” he growls, low and haltingly, “I didn’t know what I was doing. I blacked out. I don’t remember going after her, and that means—”

“Means what?” he asks, when the words stall out mid-sentence. He leans over to flip on the lamp El put at the edge of the table, months ago, before announcing “COZY” and beaming at him proudly.

Yeah, girls are different. But worth it.

“So, can you take her or not?”

In the light, Bill’s eyes take on a desperation he missed, before.

“I can’t take her,” he replies, carefully, “she’s too much. She’s a handful.”

He watches a nerve jump in the kid’s jaw; wonders if he’s imagining the flash of pain that dances across his face and disappears.

“Come on, man.”

“No, I mean it. And if you’re really going to give her up, you better get used to hearing it. ‘Cause that’s what every set of foster parents is going to say, too.”

“Jesus Christ, are you not fucking hearing me?” he explodes; eyes bulging and arms flinging wide, “She’s not safe with me!”

Hopper leans forward; speaks low, “You are the only person who can relate to her. You speak her language. This is your job, now. You took it on, so quit bitching and do it.”

The kid hops out of his chair like his ass is on fire; eyes narrowed, “That’s not what this is about!”

“No?” he responds, nonplussed, “Because it sounds to me like it is. Things got hard, you made a mistake, now you’re ready to run.”

“Goddamn it, Hopper! We’re not talking about a tap, here! We’re talking I chased her and got her corned! Hundred percent, ready to knock her into next week, before I realized what the fuck I was doing!”

Jim waits; watches. After a few seconds, Bill quiets under his stare. He hangs his head; says, “I don’t think I would’ve stopped once I got started, either.”

“And if you’d done it, you’d be sitting in my holding pen right now. Probably on suicide watch. Because that’s not who you are. Not anymore.”

“Yeah, well, apparently it is.”

“Look,” Hopper says, gently, “sit back down. I’ll get you a beer.”

He sits, but shakes his head at the beer. “I’ll fall asleep.”

Chief appraises him in the low light. He’s got bags under his eyes like he probably hasn’t slept since it happened.

“Steve’s pissed at me, too,” he offers, sounding explanatory, when he catches him watching.

He shrugs. “And you deserve to be pissed at. But you don’t deserve what you’re thinking about doing. And she definitely doesn’t.”

“What if it happens again?” he asks, then, more bitterly, “What if I’m really not any better than him?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t know your Dad,” Hopper replies, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “because I would’ve kicked his ass, if I’d had any idea. But, I do know the type. And, I’m guessing the fact that you’re in love with Harrington, well, that probably puts you out of the running on the whole like father like son thing.”

“More than one way to skin a cat,” he replies, darkly.

“Yeah, but see, here’s the thing: I never met your father because he stayed under my radar. Sure as hell didn’t show up on my doorstep with a guilty conscience, in the middle of the night.”

Bill stares at his hands. “You’re not getting it. I didn’t know what I was doing, until Steve took me out of it. Which means I can’t control it.”

“Nah, only means you didn’t control it that time.”

Blue eyes jerk upward; startled.

“Look, I know learning is a painful process with that thick skull of yours, but I got a feeling you’re doing it.”

He scoffs a soft, “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, too,” Hopper replies, tipping his beer at him. “So, Harrington’s pissed at you, which, by the way, I’ve experienced and I know it’s not fun. And your stepsister—”

“Sister.”

“Right, sorry. Force of habit. Your sister, I’m betting she’s not even going to think about getting involved with your mother again, now.”

Bill shoots him a steady eyed glower, but doesn’t disagree. He gets the distinct impression Red won't be coming around the cabin, asking for El, any time soon.

“I’ll make you a deal. You give it one more shot and if you ever come that close again, I’ll take her. OK?”

The relief on the kid’s face is palpable, and understanding finally slides into place: he doesn’t trust himself, so he needs someone to hold him accountable. Someone who doesn’t love him.

Well, that’s fine. He can do that: be the necessary boogey man.

“If I go over the line?”

“You won’t.”

“But—”

“You put a mark on that girl, or Harrington, for that matter, I’ll arrest your ass and run you right the fuck out of this town. Clear?”

An almost imperceptible nod before he chuckles softly; the way a person does when even they are amazed by their own bullshit. It makes him realize, the guy was running on instinct, not even sure what he, himself, needed to hear.

“So, what do I do about Steve?” he asks, sounding as close to shy as he’s ever heard him, “Got any tips on that, oh wise one?”

Hopper can’t decide if he wants to punch him or make him a sandwich and pat him on the head. It’s a weird thing to feel, for Bill Hargrove.

The fucking kid has no clue what he’s doing, but he’s trying.

“Well, I’ve never dated a dude before, but still...there’s this one thing people in relationships do. It’s called an apology….”

Chapter Text

One thing about the camaro: it's loud.

When Max comes out of student housing, she knows where it's idling, immediately; sees the dark form in the drivers seat, probably getting impatient. She grins to herself as she makes her way along the snow covered sidewalk to where it's parked.

"Didn't think about the snow, when you wanted a motorcycle, did ya, shitbird?" Is what greets her, even as her breath is still foggy. She throws her duffel in the back seat, before sliding up front. The car is nice and warm; runs hot, like it's owner.

"Yeah," she says, "but how would we get this quality time together, if I had?"

Billy offers up a wicked grin, then guns the engine, fishtailing out of the parking lot.

"Hey!" She protests, "You're gonna get my parking pass revoked!"

"I paid for your parking pass, so I figure I get," he glances at her, "a pass."

"Oh my God," she snickers, "don't ever do that again. I've only been gone 3 months and you turned into a dork while I was away."

"It's Steve's influence." He says, "I'm still a badass."

She fakes a yawn. "Uh-huh. You guys probably sit around watching Jeopardy and knitting sweaters all the time now."

"Nope. Actually we have lots of--"

Max immediately sticks her fingers in her ears. "LALALALALA."

"Fun." He says, when she stops. He looks the picture of wholesome innocence, but there's an evil glint in his eye. "Lots of fun."

And for the record, they are having lots of fun, among other things. But, in the moments between the fun, the house can get way too quiet; no nerds coming and going, no walkie squawking from upstairs, no Max trying to wheedle him into letting her take part in some hare brained scheme. The time with Steve is great, don't get him wrong. But in those still, quiet moments, he does something he never, in his whole entire life, thought he'd do: he misses Maxine.

Her stomach grumbles so loud, he can hear it from the driver's seat; over the roar of the camaro.

"Please tell me Steve's making dinner," she says, "I'm so done with cafeteria food."

"He is." He confirms, "Something you like, too. He missed you for some strange reason."

"Mmm-hmm." She shoots him a knowing glance, out of the corner of her eye. Apparently they aren't going to talk about all the times he's called under false pretenses, to make sure she's ok.

Hey dork, where'd you leave the uh, the scissors. We can't find them.

Hi dipshit, you got mail from Publisher's Clearing House. You want me to open it? If you won a million, I get half. You've cost me at least that much in groceries.

Listen, nerd, I need to know what channel A-Team is on, again....

Maxine, did you stick your fuckin' gum under my dash before you left?

OK, she had left the wad of gum. She couldn't really count that one.

They're almost home when he asks, "So.....Lucas?"

Max shrugs, and he doesn't push it.

Two weeks ago, she called the house collect; crying hard from the dormitory pay phone. Billy already knew what was going on; knew that Lucas had called her the day before, saying he was confused and needed a break. (Lucas told Dustin; Dustin told Steve; Steve told Billy). For all her bravado, part of Max is still very much a scared kid who's been smacked around too much, just like Billy, and he knows it. So, he'd been half expecting the phone call, but  was still knocked sideways by the wobble in her voice and the fact that she wanted to talk to him, not the gentler, more patient, Steve. And as much as he clearly remembered being 18 and wanting to play the field (all of the field, as a matter of fact), part of him still wanted to go find Sinclair and shake him until his teeth rattled for making her cry.

You'll be ok without him, Max, he'd said, low in the phone; unable to help the softness in his voice, you're strong.

Suddenly, she perks up; points toward his favorite watering hole as it whizzes past. "Oh! Let's stop at Ralph's!"

"What?" He asks, brain scrambling to catch up with the subject change, then a knee jerk, "No."

"What do you mean 'no'? I'm 18! C'mon, Billy, you don't have to be my guard dog anymore. I'm legal." She wheedles; bats her eyelashes. "One beer. Maybe some fries. You know dinner will be late."

He glances at her and smirks. She's not wrong. Sometimes he forgets, but they are both legal adults now, and he'd put money on Steve having started dinner late, given he was wrapped up in some ridiculous sci-fi movie when he left. He pulls over by the "Welcome to Hawkins" sign and turns around. One beer can't hurt. Besides, ever since that gut wrenching phone call, he's been secretly (he does have a reputation to protect) trying to think of some way to cheer her up.

They settle in on bar stools, and he can not describe how weird he feels, sitting next to her in a place he'd have busted her ass for going to, just a year before. She seems to sense his discomfort; elbows him in the ribs.

"Hey, RJ." She says to the bartender. RJ is short for Ralph Junior, his Dad having been the original Ralph the place was named after.

The guy nods; mutters, "Hey, Max."

Billy gives her the fish eye. "How you know RJ?"

Max gets a bit pink around the cheeks; looks cagey, though not necessarily repentant. Ralph's never has been  particularly fussy about the age of their patrons. "You guys have fries?" She asks, hastily, even though there's a giant chalkboard directly across from them, with FRENCH FRIES written in hot pink.

RJ makes a face like he’s witnessing the most un-smooth cover up of his life, then walks toward the kitchen door; yells out, "FRIES".

"Maxine."

"Oh come on," she smiles sweetly, "you can't yell at me for it now."

"Statute of limitations is three years in Indiana," he mutters, "try me."

The little voice in his head laughs a low rumble.

He glances around the room. Ralph's is a dive, no doubt about it. It smells like fryer grease, cigarette smoke and beer someone spilled, probably in the mid-50's, by his estimation. It's seen a lot of bar fights, too; just like Billy. He feels a certain kinship with the place.

Apparently, so does Max, he thinks, dryly.

RJ brings their beers and fries. He pops the TV on, even though there's little hope of hearing it. It's around 6 p.m. on a Friday, and while Ralph's isn't exactly a hot spot (that's one reason he likes it) there are enough people milling about to make for a low, constant buzz of conversation. Outside, it's already gotten dark, and through the window he can see snow falling, lightly, in the glow of the lone light Ralph Sr so tastefully hammered above the front door.

He's starting to feel warm and soft around the edges, between the comfort of a familiar place and his annoying little sister, by his side again. He's just about to tell Max this was a good idea, when the bitter wind blows a couple more guys into the bar.

They aren't guys he knows, per se, but he's definitely seen them around, and they're definitely already half in the bag. The decibel level in the place near doubles with their presence. RJ, like his father before him, isn't particularly bothered by things like ID's or overly drunk patrons. In fact, there's a handmade sign tacked above the bar that reads I'm a bartender, not a babysitter, so it's not surprising when he serves them without batting an eyelash.

They're bickering over the last French fry (he's going to let her have it, but not without a fight) when Drunk and Drunker, from down the bar, start hollering about buying the bar a round. RJ makes his way down the row, taking orders; stops in front of Billy and Max.

"Those guys are buying." He says, jutting a disinterested thumb over his shoulder.

"Yeah, we're good. Only staying for one."

"Oh come on!" Yells one of the guys. He stumbles off his stool, in a way that makes Billy decide this one must be Drunker. He weaves a path to where they're sitting. "Where's your hops-a-tality?"

That's....not a word. Ninth grade English might've earned Billy a black eye and a trip to summer school, but he at least knows that. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Max smirk.

Drunker, as he's been dubbed, is running his mouth ahead of his feet, so by the time he arrives in front of them, he's already done talking. He narrows his bloodshot eyes to study them, then grins like a dim light bulb has come on in his head. 

"Hey, aren't you that queer who lives in Harrington's house?" He asks, sounding more oblivious and curious than hostile.

Billy puts a firm grip on Maxine's arm, first thing. He knows she'll go to war over comments like that; is now on a first name basis with the high school principal, as a result. But, honestly? He can't be assed to get upset with people like this, anymore.

He gives the guy a glare that would shut any sober, intelligent man right the hell up.

But.

"And you're that little coon loving red head!"

OK.

Deep breaths.

That is going to require more than a threatening look. He never believed that bullshit from his father. He listened to it for years; ghosted his best friend in eighth grade because he couldn't risk being turned into a punching bag over it. He had to take it then. He does not have to take it now. And, whether he's currently dating Max or busy trying to figure himself out, Lucas is still family.

He gets up. Maxine is doing the same, so he uses her shoulder for leverage and shoves her butt back on the bar stool, in the process. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah!" The guy seems genuinely excited to have made a connection, and Billy can't tell if he's really this oblivious, or he's being facetious. He turns his head to his buddy and hollers down the bar, at a volume that drowns out all the other chatter, "Hey Bob! Bob! This is the one I was tellin' ya 'bout, from the high school graduation last summer! 'Member I was saying about the little red headed slut and her ni--"

Sometimes, Billy loses his shit because he's genuinely lost control.

Other times, he knows exactly what he's doing.

This time, it's definitely the latter.

He smiles; hits the guy with a vicious upper cut, hard enough that he flies through the air and lands, sprawled on his back, at his friend's feet. Billy follows him down the bar; stands there while the guy flails around. "There," he growls, voice low in the now silent bar, "now you don't have to yell."

Bob steps over his pal, quick as a snake; lands a hefty sucker punch to the gut, that doubles him over for a split second. He hears Maxine, in the background, screaming at people to get the fuck out of my way. On his way back to upright, Billy gives him a right fist in the face, then tackles him while he's distracted. He's in a rage, now, for sure, because Max is about to get involved, which he does not want, and because the bastard landed a punch, and that always makes him short a wire. He gets two more good slugs in before he hears her voice, again, and it stops him; grounds him. 

Bob is still conscious, and he takes that as a win. He is not about to go home and have to tell Steve he did it again; kept punching a man after he was down. And he's definitely not doing it in front of Max, who is currently--

"The fuck, Max?!" He hollers, sprinting to where she's riding piggy back style on the first guy's back, punching him mercilessly as he spins around trying to dislodge her.

A quick assessment tells him what happened. The first guy must have recovered, and was coming to help his friend, so she jumped him. Literally.

Billy's brain goes sideways at the realization that she's is in a bar fight with a full grown man, but then he remembers this is the same guy who called Lucas the unthinkable, and herself a slut, for being with him. He holds himself back; something that would have been impossible a few years before. Despite their current situation (which, at least, was a deliberate decision), he really has learned some self control. Coming so close to hitting Maxine, a couple years ago, really kicked his ass; finally taught him to temper the fire in his gut. He stays tense, in case she needs him, but as he's watching, it becomes clear she won't. She snakes one of her wiry arms around the guys neck and squeezes. He pitches her off, but Max's life has taught her to be quick on her feet, and she doesn't even stumble. He stops for a split second, apparently stunned by her agility, and she promptly kicks him square in the balls.

Billy really kind of wishes he could have a moment to shed a proud tear, but there's no time. He goes straight for her. Bob is trying, unsuccessfully, to get up; clearly still seeing stars. The other guy is on the floor, howling and holding his jewels. The rest of the bar is in chaos. People are yelling and shoving and it's obvious fists are about to start flying. He clamps a hand on her arm and heads for the back door.  They slip and slide through the fresh snow and slush, in the dark, before arriving breathless and wet at the camaro.

They pass Hopper, on the road, lights flashing on his cruiser, and what's left of their adrenaline spurs them into a bout of hysterical laughter.

Once they pull into the safety of the garage, Billy can't get out of the car fast enough. He half helps, half drags Max out her side; scrutinizes her up and down.

"You OK?"

"I'm fine," she insists, "are you ok?"

He hears the door between the kitchen and the garage open behind them, and turns just in time to see Steve's eyes go wide as saucers.

"What the hell did you guys get yourself into, now?"

Max grabs her bag, gives Steve a quick, tight hug, and disappears up the stairs.

"That little traitor." Billy mutters, before catching the concern in Steve's eyes and giving a wary sigh. "Okay, you have to hear the whole story before you say anything."

Steve is not impressed that he took Max to Ralphs and, for some reason, the rationale she used to talk him into it, doesn't seem to fly when Billy relays it. But, the deeper he gets into the story, the more his brows furrow in a familiar, time to  kill something, kind of way. By the time he tells him what they called Lucas and Max, he wouldn't be surprised if Steve decided to go back to Ralph's, himself, with the monster bats.

"That's Ike and Bob Stephens," he growls, "fucking assholes." Then, he leans across the table and gives Billy a kiss that promises greater rewards down the road; eyeballs him. "You've come a long way, Hargrove."

Billy glances away and clears his throat. "Hopper prob'ly show up here in a bit. We should eat before he does."

Two hours later, Steve has his feet in Billy's lap on the couch, watching a movie. Max is out cold, sprawled face down on the carpet, drooling.

"That does not look comfortable." Steve observes, idly.

"Serves her right, throwin' me to the wolves like that."

"Oh, so I'm a wolf now?" Steve pauses; smirks. "Actually, that could be fun."

Billy's, no doubt filthy, response is derailed by the ringing telephone. It's late, and they never did hear from the Sherriff, so there isn't much guesswork in who it could be.

"Need you to come down." Hopper says, when he picks up.

"Huh," says Billy, "figured you'd come right over."

"No," says Hopper, and he sounds serious enough to put Billy on edge, "I got a couple gentlemen here, talking about pressing charges."

"Jesus. And you want me tonight? It's late, Hop. What are you even still doing there?"

"Yeah, well, we had dinner plans but I spent my evening sorting out a bench clearing brawl over at Ralph's, instead. I'm sure you know nothing about that, though."

Ah, shit.

"Max is in bed." He says, despite the fact that she's currently standing right before him; messy hair and a carpet imprint on her face. He points at her emphatically and makes a zipper motion across his mouth, "I can't bring her, and she wasn't really involved, anyway."

"Red and her mouth are the last thing I need here right now, so leave her home."

As it turns out, Red is not so quickly left behind. Worse yet, college has made her a much better arguer. She insists she is so going and he is not doing this alone, then parks herself in the camaro while he's in the bathroom, and refuses to get out. When he peers into the backseat, there's Steve, too.

"Fuck sakes." He mutters under his breath as he climbs in and turns the key. "Max, Hopper doesn't want you there, and I don't want either of you there. What if they arrest me? You really think I want you guys to see that?"

Nobody says anything, so he figures they've ganged up on him and decided not to debate. They do that shit, sometimes. It makes him want to roll an eyeball right out of his head.

"Fine." He hisses, peels out of the garage and drives like 1985 Billy all the way there for retribution.

When they get there, Hopper puts up a hand. "Just Bill."

"I'm going, too! I was there! I kicked that guy in the--"

Billy shoots her a withering glare. "Shut up!"

Hopper closes his eyes like he feels a migraine coming, says with finality, "Red. No. You're a good kid, but your mouth will only make things worse." He nods at Steve, who reluctantly takes Max by the arm and starts guiding her toward a chair. Billy can hear her bitching from behind the thin walls of Hops office, but she's not getting anywhere. Steve has a strong grip, don't even ask how he knows. "She's in bed, huh?"

"She was." He responds, but it's half hearted. "Phone woke her up."

Hopper cocks a furry eyebrow; asks what happened. Billy tells him the whole story, watching his face closely, but it doesn't move. He's in professional mode.

"So yeah," Billy says, at the end, "I threw the first punch. I meant to do it, and I'd do it again."

Hopper's stroking his beard, and now he's looking across the desk at him with his monster hunting team mate face on, rather than his impassive, professional cop face.

"Seems they left a few parts out of their version."

Billy scoffs. "I'm shocked."

He nods slowly; says, "You know, the Stephens have a farm, out on route 8. They grow some potatoes and have a few cows roaming around. Old man's the salt of the earth but those boys," he grimaces, "not so much. They have their own special crop; a clearing way out in the woods. Pretty well hidden, but I came across it back when I was looking for those tunnels, and I check it now and then to make sure it's not getting any bigger."

"Chief." Billy says; shakes his head in mock disapproval.

"Can it, Hargrove." Is what he gets in return, but there's no masking the affection. "It's small enough, I can tell it's mostly personal use. I never busted 'em because I have a lot of respect for the old man, and he doesn't deserve to have his name all across the Hawkins Post because his sons are idiots. But," he shrugs, "still illegal."

The two men study each other a few seconds, then Hopper gets up. "Go sit with your family," he says, "this shouldn't take long."

And, it doesn't. Five minutes later, Ike and Bob pass them by in the waiting room; silent under Hopper's watchful eye. Ten minutes later, Max and the boys are back in the camaro, heading for home at a reasonable speed. Thirty minutes later, all three are piled on the couch like puppies, finishing the movie, and Hopper's crawling into a warm bed, next to Joyce.

She's been waiting, anxiously. She puts a soft, steady hand on the back of his head. "Did you have to arrest him?"

He snorts into his pillow. "Nah. Never planned to. Just wanted to get the real story; maybe rattle his cage a little for blowing our dinner plans. I knew what I had in my back pocket." He rolls over to face her; waggles his eyebrows. "You know," he says, thoughtfully, "I thought for sure the Hargroves suicide was going to end with Red hitching to the city and living on the streets. Never even crossed my mind the kid would step up like he has. Kicking and screaming, half the time, but they did it. Now, she's in college."

Joyce gives him a lopsided grin. "You're a good man, Hop."

And that he is. 

Chapter Text

The Thing with Billy's Mom

Max is taking advantage of Mr. Fussy Pants The Hair Harrington not being home, by eating peanut butter straight out of the jar, when Billy comes home from work.

He's got a stack of mail in  his hands, but he glances at her long enough to take the scene in and smirk. "Take it Steve's not home yet?"

"Nope." She says, popping the P.

"Make sure you make it look like knife marks."

"What?"

Billy sighs in mock exasperation. "Fucking amateur." He holds out his hand and she gives up the peanut butter, then the spoon when he does it again. "Look, you gotta stab the spoon in sidewise. It makes it look like you made a sandwich with a knife. Otherwise, he'll know. He has a sixth sense about this shit."

He hands back the peanut butter and starts shuffling through the mail. "Peanut butter master, you are." She says in a fairly decent Yoda impersonation.

"Nerd, you are." He mutters, distractedly. His brow furrows, and she hears him mutter the fuck, under his breath. He tears open a smallish, pale envelope with a big yellow FORWARD sticker on the front. Maxine idly muses that he probably reacted the same way when Susan sent him her will, but when she sees the way his hands start to shake -- "Billy?"

He shoots her a glance that lasts a millisecond too long for casual. "Nothing."

His says it much too firmly for actual "nothing". His eyes are narrowing to slits and then he's crumpling the paper with way more force than necessary and shoving it down deep into the kitchen garbage. He goes right back out the door without a word and she hears the camaro tearing out of the garage seconds later; music mind numbingly loud.

When Steve gets home, Maxine fills him in as best she can. They're both eyeballing the garbage, but he seems to catch himself first. "We're going to respect his privacy, ok?"

Max gives him a half hearted once over. "Yeah."

"He'll tell us when he's ready." He says, and she can feel his gaze but she's pretty sure he's not going to be telling her any time soon.

"What?" She focuses on him; rolls her eyes. "Yeah. Yes. Ok."

A couple hours later, they hear him pull into the garage (actually, they can hear him from a block away), and Steve goes out to meet him. The two of them sit in the car so long she starts to worry they've pulled a Neil and Susan, so she goes out, but gets waved away.

And that is something that's been happening more and more, lately. Ever since he hooked up with Steve, Billy has someone to work his shit out with. And that's great, it is. She loves Steve; loves the way he makes them into a family, as opposed to two wild animals trying to piece life together. Hell, hadn't she been the one to push them into taking the next step?

But.

The person he talks to about stuff is no longer Max, and that stings. After everything she and Billy have been through together, they were finally learning to be a team and now, after not-quite-a-year of  living with Steve, she feels decidedly benched. Sure, she loves her friends, but they didn't survive Neil with her. They weren't in California with her; never met her Dad or took her to the skateboard park. It's not the same.

She eyes the garbage can; finds herself walking toward the door between the kitchen and the garage. "One peek," she mutters, flipping the lock, "then I'll put it back."

Billy stuffed the balled up letter into the garbage with so much force, she has to paw through the remains of  "Taco Tuesday" (as opposed to "Fishy Friday" or "Meatless Monday".....Steve is such a dork) to find it. When she finally does, she casts one last guilty glance at the door and spends a few seconds listening for the sound of footsteps, before smoothing it out on the floor.

Dear Billy,

I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but I heard about (guacamole stain) from an old mutual friend of your Dad's and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am -- for everything.

I hope you can find it in your heart to at least meet with me and hear me out. I really would love to have you back in my life. Please, please call me at 312-654-3165.

Love,

Mom

 Holy shit. Max stares at it a solid 30 seconds, before stretching to reach her book bag; sliding it across the floor and fishing out a pen and paper. She jots down the number before she can think too hard about what she's doing, and stuffs the letter back in the trash.

Billy never talks about his mother, other than to say the St Christopher's medal belonged to "who she used to be". The information Max has on her is scant: she definitely left, and she definitely left her son behind with a monster. According to Neil she'd had a drug problem and an affair, but really, what did that add up to? Billy clearly thinks those things are true, that much she doesn't doubt. Nobody is reminded of his hatred for hard drugs and dishonesty more gruffly and regularly, than Maxine.

She unlocks the kitchen door and heads upstairs; stays there all evening mulling things over between bouts of talking D&D with Will and bickering with Lucas on the walkie.

On one hand, she knows, for all the awful shit Billy did to her growing up, he's also done a lot to help her in the last few years. If it weren't for him, she'd probably be in a group home, somewhere. Or juvie, given the way things were going, if she's honest.

On the other, he's made it pretty clear it's not something he wants to involve her in. And if she does it, anyway, she thinks he might chuck her ass into a group home when he finds out. He'll be pissed, that's a no brainer. He might have mellowed out since they moved in with Steve....but he's still Billy, after all.

Then again, the rage that's ever present under his skin might be exactly why she should do it. Maria once told them the root cause of both their anger was unresolved pain. (Billy scoffed, but Max knew it was true) So, isn't the stuff with his mom a huge chunk of that? If she pushes him to resolve it (which he'd never do on his own) isn't that a good thing, even if it upsets him at first?

Doing what's best for people, Max thinks, doesn't always make them happy. Maybe once he lays eyes on his mother, he'll soften up about it. (Maybe, whispers the green eyed monster in her chest, he'll remember you can help him with stuff, too, and not just Steve).

Then again, maybe he will actually murder her for going behind his back.

Someone pounds once on the door and she jumps so high she's surprised she doesn't smash her head on the ceiling.

"Wait!" She hollers, stuffing the paper under a pillow.

She knows right away who it is. Steve knocks, then waits for a response, like a civilized person, but Billy just knocks once, really loudly, then gives her a few  seconds to scream if she doesn't want him coming in. No response means come in. It's a whole thing. So, she's not surprised to find him on the other side.

She's also not surprised to hear him muttering, "Swear to God I'm gonna bust that lock one of these days."  Because she still locks herself in every time she's upset, and it still tries his perpetually low supply of patience.

What does surprise her is the lack of heat, or even teasing, in his voice. His eyes are sort of glazed over; lackluster.

"Forgot I locked it." She mutters, then grimaces. "Are you ok?"

"M'fine, dork. Dinner's ready. Been calling you."

Once he's gone, she folds the paper up neatly and sticks it in her underwear drawer. Because Steve might be a Badass Baseball Bat Wielding Monster Fighting Domestic Goddess, but even he won't go so far as to put away her undies.

The next day, Saturday, she comes home early from El's and finds Billy sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. There's a photo album she's never even seen before, open on the kitchen table, but he pops it shut when she walks in.

She teases him that his hair's flat, but he just stares.

She offers to get him a beer. He says no thanks. (She has literally never heard him say that before.)

She tells him she ran into the Camaro with her bike and scratched the paint job (she didn't).

Not a blink. Nothing.

This shit is not normal.

"Not now, Max." She hears, softly, from the doorway; realizes Steve has been watching.

Not now. Dismissed.

For all the time she's spent weighing pros and cons, when she actually makes the call, it's not really a decision at all. She listens to the buzz of the dial tone amidst a storm of emotions: protectiveness, jealousy, frustration; next thing she knows she's punching in numbers.

Later, she'll realize she should have thought things through a lot more. But, in the moment, she really only means to tell the woman to go fuck herself, because that letter has clearly caused Billy to short circuit (the appropriate response to want me to get you a beer? is what did you do, now, shitbird?, not no-fucking-thanks.)

But, the voice on the other end of the line is soft and sad; disarming.

"I didn't want to leave him," she tells Max, once they've established introductions, "I didn't have a job or a home, and my new guy didn't like kids."

"Your old guy didn't like kids much either." Max says, flat. The line goes silent, then she hears sniffling. When she speaks again, Max can hear the tears in her voice.

"If I could just see him," the woman says, "and have a chance to tell him why I did what I did. My friend said  your mother committed suicide, too? Wouldn't you talk to her if you hade one more chance, Maxine?"

And that's, well, that's dirty pool right there.

Max gives her directions to Steve's house; tells her to come Wednesday evening, when they're all usually home.

Crosses her fingers.

Wednesday finds Max loitering around downstairs all evening, too much on pins and needles to watch TV or do homework. Billy is working on the camaro and Steve is in the garage flirting with him as if he's not already a sure thing. She walks in and out, watches the two of them (makes gagging noises), watches TV; runs upstairs now and then for a peek out the window.

Billy's in the kitchen washing up when a timid knock makes them all pause. He gets to the door first, swings it open; stops dead.

She peeks around the corner and sees the pretty, familiar-but-unknown face in the doorway.

"The hell?"

"I'd know you anywhere!" His mother gushes, then collects herself, and offers a timid smile. "Hi, honey."

If she's expecting a warm welcome, she's disappointed. Billy's voice is a low, halting growl that gives Max her first indication this is not going to go down as smoothly as she'd hoped. "The fuck are you doing here?"

She takes a deep breath. He'll calm down, she tells herself, give him a second to process.

Lost in her thoughts, Max unintentionally shows her face around the corner, right as Billy's mom is looking that way. She pauses; seemingly about to lose her courage, but rallies when she catches sight of Max. "Is that your step sister? Is that Maxine?" She waves a small, girlie wave. "Hi there! I made it!"

Time seems to come to an abrupt halt. She muses, numbly, that Billy kind of looks like he's made of marble.

Steve's incredulous voice finds her ear.

"Max?"

Billy's tone is clipped and coldly furious. "Maxine called you?"

"Yes," she pauses, clearly realizing what's happened, "but--"

"She wouldn't do that to me." He says without an ounce of warmth, shifting his gaze to Max. "Would she?"

It only takes a glance. It's painted all over her face.

He drops his chin; takes a few deep breaths and twists back toward the woman on the porch. "Guess she would. And she's gonna deeply regret it, I promise." He starts to shut the door, but his mother puts her hand up. "Get off my porch."

"Please, you have to hear me out--"

Something snaps, and before Max can really even comprehend how quickly this is spiraling out of control, he's screaming. "I don't have to anything! Get off my porch, get out of my town, and if you ever come here again I'll have you arrested for trespassing, you understand me?! GET. OUT."

He slams the door in her face, hard, and swings around to find Max; offers up a predatory, slow budding smile that she knows from deep rooted experience means run like hell.

She makes it to her room but she can't get the door locked in time and he slams it open, making her scramble back a few steps. His eyes are blank and he's coming at her like a freight train, pulling back hard and across in a stance she knows all too well from his father, but Steve is fast, too; up and over the bed and between them in a blink.

The boys are in each others faces and Max is behind Steve, who has his arms stretched out in front of her. "Hey! Breathe! C'mon! You made her a promise! Remember?" Steve is not calm; backs up so Max is right against the wall. "Babe," he says, and his voice holds a clear warning, because this isn't Fussy Pants Steve, this is Monster Hunting Steve, "Wake up! Breathe!"

Maxine can see Billy's face from where she stands and when Steve pokes him, hard, with two fingers, just like that night at the Byers, so long ago, she sees something start to shift. We've been here before, that poke seems to say, don't make the same mistake again.

"You hit her, you're going to lose her." Steve says forcefully; adding more softly, "And you're going to lose me, too."

That seems to snap Billy out of it. Max sees his eyes come in to focus; watches his chest heave as he tries to get his breath to come steady. He still looks like an angry bull about to charge, but he doesn't have that dangerous air about him now -- the one that says he's going to enjoy the violence. Steve studies him a second, then puts his arms down (a move Max wouldn't voted against, had she been asked) and sits on the bed, breathing hard, himself. She drops her chin, stares at her shoes; tenses for whatever comes next.

She doesn't see him walk away, but she hears the door slam, hears him barreling down the stairs. Something catches the corner of her eye, and she sees him through the window, stalking toward his mother, who is standing by her car with wringing hands. She can hear him through the glass. "Get out of here and don't come back! I'm not telling you again!"

When she tears her eyes back to Steve, he's too disapproving to even put his hands on his hips.

"You fucked up." He says.

Lucas plunks his lunch tray down beside Max. "Friday pizza." He grins at her.

She pushes her tray away, shoots him a look. "School pizza."

"Still better than anything else we have in Hawkins." He shrugs, and he's not wrong. The diner's pizza can best be described as an abomination.

"Where's Dustin?" She asks halfheartedly. It's been just over a week since The Incident, and she doesn't actually care where Dustin is, but she needs to keep the conversation rolling so Lucas doesn't ask what happened. Again. "Still in line?"

He shrugs again, says, "Why aren't you eating?"

"Because it's gross."

"You never pass on pizza day. It's like a religious holiday for you."

"Not hungry."

He gives her a critical once over. "C'mon Mad Max, tell me what happened."

"Did you know Dustin's mom has a TV show?"

Lucas rolls his eyes, hard, at the subject change, but all she can do is shrug. 

"I only know because Billy figured out how to disable the cable box. Does it every morning so all I can watch after school is --" she pauses, glances furtively at the lunch line to make sure Dustin's not on his way, "Mrs. Henderson's cat show on Hawkins Public Access."

Lucas pretends to choke on his pizza but it's pretty clearly a laugh, and she sends him an appropriately murderous glare. "Frisky Feline Friends?"

"Yes, and it's not funny. He fixes it when he gets home so he can watch whatever he wants."

"That's brutal."

"Tell me about it. She has a moment of silence for Mews every episode." She repeats herself, slowly, "Every. Single.  Episode."

Lucas pauses, then asks in a careful tone, "What's Steve say about all this....whatever it is?"

She stuffs a bite of pizza in her mouth in lieu of answering. Her friends know she's on permanent dish duty, and that Billy is using, literally, every dish Steve's family ever owned, every day, just to be vindictive. They know she's not currently in possession of her walkie, and that she's riding the school bus. They know she's "grounded for don't even fucking ask how long", but not that those were literally Billy's words; definitely not the betrayal and fury on his face when he said them or the way it made her stomach ache.

They know the effect, but not the cause, because when they ask why, something inside her cringes into her chest and refuses to let the words go. She can’t bring herself to tell them that nobody is speaking much right now; that she has no actual clue what Steve thinks, beyond the vague, uncomfortable sense that he's had it up to his eyebrows with both of them. Because, if she told them that, she'd have to explain that the boys aren't saying much to each other, either. She'd have to explain the cloud of angry confusion and anxiety that's settled over the house since Billy's mother showed up at their door, and that it's her fault she did, and how awful she feels about it.

Lucas is still looking at her expectantly from across the table.  When Dustin arrives in a shuffle of papers, with a big smile on his face, Max has literally never been happier to see him.

"Mr. Clarke said I can use the lab after school."

"Awesome!" She says, with enough fake exuberance that he takes it for sarcasm; shoots his straw wrapper at her.

"What're we doing?"

"Trying to get Mad Max to talk."

"Did you try apologizing?"

"Dude," Lucas sounds scandalized, "you don't even know what happened!"

Dustin shrugs; shoves his straw into the gap in his teeth and waggles his eyebrows. "My mom says it never hurts."

Max shares a grudging grin with Lucas, at the mention of Dustin's mom, but it doesn’t bring her any warmth. The fact is, she already tried to apologize. And Mrs. Henderson is wrong.

Granted, it had only been a few days when she'd blurted out an urgent, desperate sounding, "Billy, I'm really sorry."

"You're what?" He stopped in his tracks, then turned around, lids hooded, poker face locked in tight.

"I didn't mean to--"

"Didn't mean to what? Dig through the trash to find the letter? Call her on the phone? Set up a meeting behind my back? Because those are all things that seem pretty intentional to me, Maxine."

She tried to explain about her good intentions, but he started yelling at her to shut her fucking mouth and get out of his sight and, well, that was the end of that.

"I tried." She says, gathering her books and giving Lucas a wink. "Bathroom," she mutters, ignoring the incredulous look they send each other, "Bye, nerds."

A few days later, she's hiding out in her room, avoiding the mountain of dishes and the person who dirtied them, when there's a surprisingly soft knock at the door. 

It's Steve.

He regards her with wide, sympathetic brown eyes, and comes to sit on her bed.

"I'm sorry," she says, for what feels like the millionth time, "I know you guys are fighting because of me." She pauses, mutters, "I'm sorry you had to get between us."

Steve lifts a shoulder. "He's responsible for that, not you."

"Still."

"Everybody makes mistakes." He says; ruffles her hair and the weight on her chest lifts slightly.

"You think he's ever going to forgive me?"

"Yes," says Steve, with an immediacy that makes her want to hug him, "but right now he's downstairs eating cereal out of three bowls with two different spoons," he pauses for an eye roll, "so I'd say it needs more time."

“I’ve never even seen some of those dishes before.” 

"Be glad he doesn’t know about the ones in the attic.” He says, drily. “He's on a slow burn. That stuff with his mom, it's--" Steve stops abruptly at the look on her face; tosses an arm over her shoulders and squeezes. "What do you feel like eating? I'll make whatever you want."

Later, she hears angry, raised voices drifting up the stairs. She can't make out every word and she's not about to move closer; figures eavesdropping falls into the category of sneaky and that box is pretty full of checks, at the moment.  She can hear the loudest of it, though, and she's certainly not above listening. Words like stubborn and pig headed; then taking it all out on Max and you need to own what you almost did in Steve's voice; Mr. Perfect and knew what she was doing and don't you think I know that? in Billy's.

Soon, the yelling subsides to murmurs; then she hears a warm, throaty laugh.

He made up with Steve, and she has a moment of relief before the green eyed monster roars in her ear; of course he made up with him, first. He needs him more than you.

Mike Wheeler finds her in a library cubicle, a week or so after Lucas' Pizza-Friday attempt to get her to crack; pulls a chair around backward

"Meet me under the bleachers, after school?"

She looks at him like he's out of his mind. "You think I'm crazy?"

"What? C'mon, nobody's ever bothered us before."

"Not risking it," she says with finality, "not right now."

Mike rolls his eyes.

"I'm serious. If I get suspended on top of everything else, they're gonna have to fish my dead body out of the quarry." Then, immediately remembering the story about Will. "Sorry. I forgot."

"Billy was the king of weed in high school." He snorts.

"Yeah, well, he's made his peace with being a hypocrite." She shoots him a flat look. "Trust me."

Mike studies her a few seconds, clearly weighing his options. Sharing the occasional joint under the bleachers when shit's hitting the fan is just between them; the others would not approve. But, Max and Mike have an edge the others do not, and they speak a similar language.

"Fine," he caves, "but you can't get mad about what I have to tell you."

Great. She thinks, This can't be good if he wanted me stoned, first.

"Everybody is worried about you, and El," he pauses; looks guilty in a way that immediately terrifies her, "she doesn't come to school and you can't go see her so she was, you know--"

"She didn't."

"It was only me and her, ok? Just us. And it was her idea. She knows you guys are fighting and she wanted to make sure Billy didn't lose--"

"He didn't." 

"OK, but--"

Max sighs. She wants to be mad, but she can't. Not really. She knows her friends love her, and she knows, very acutely at the moment, that people sometimes go behind your back when they love you and they want to help.

"What did she see?"

Mike's visibly relieved, and she feels a stir of reluctant affection.

"She said to tell you it can stay a secret."

"What?"

"What almost happened."

"Jesus, Mike, for real if Hop finds out --"

"He won't. " He says; emphatic, "And she said to tell you Billy's not all mad at you."

"Be nice if he eased up a little, then." She mutters. Steve told her the same thing; didn’t help much then, either.

"She said he's really mad at himself because he almost hit you, and he's scared some day he might. And he's mad at the lady, the one at the door --and his Dad, too." Mike pauses; lowers his voice, "And he's really scared because he loves Steve a lot and he thinks he messed it up." He studies her; seems to be weighing his words. "She saw Steve get in the middle, between you."

She shakes her head and blinks rapidly to discourage the tears that seem to always be there lately; getting emotional at school is not on her to do list.

"What happened?" He asks.

And it's Mike, so she tells him. Not because he cares more than Lucas or El, but because he cares less; won't sugarcoat his response or make it personal.

Because he won't give her much sympathy, and she doesn't feel like she deserves any.

"I thought he'd forgive her and everything would work out," she says, after laying out the details, "I'm such an idiot."

"You really are." He agrees, absolutely serious, which makes her want to both slug him and hug him. This is exactly why she told him and not Lucas. But then he gives her a look that's genuinely sad, and fuck if she can take that from Mike Wheeler.

"Please don't tell Lucas I told you." She says, gathering her papers and glancing at the clock. "He's been trying for weeks. He's fucking relentless."

Mike rolls his eyes; shoots her a conspiratory glance. "I know. Believe me."

The following Saturday evening, the boys go to dinner, then the sporting goods store where Steve buys Billy a punching bag. Max hears them hanging it in the garage while she stands at the kitchen sink, chipping away at an actually- almost-normal-sized stack of dishes and hoping the lower volume is a sign her brother is starting to cool off.

Despite the fact that she's unhappy to have missed a trip to the mall, she thinks a punching bag is a great idea. Part of her really wants to go out there and say so, but she doesn't budge. El and Steve might be right that he's mad at himself more than her, but he hasn't spoken to her in forever, now, and she's not itching to give him a opening. 

While Billy's out in the garage giving it a test run, Steve comes in, shoos her away from the dishes with a wink, and starts doing them himself. She sprints up the stairs and burrows into her ratty old blanket like some kind of angry burrito; sore that she's stuck home a fourth Saturday night in a row and fearing Billy might never actually let this go.

She isn't planning to fall sleep, so when she wakes up later, she's disoriented and out of sorts. It doesn't help that a  rhythmic smack, smack, smack, is ringing out in the dark. Bleary eyes make out 3:27 in red digits on her alarm clock, and as she listens, the sound gets louder and less rhythmic; less controlled. Some part of her brain is reminded of Neil, whacking the hell out of Billy, back in the day, and she's unnerved. She creeps down the stairs and stills at the door between the garage and the kitchen. The kitchen light is off, and the garage is well lit, so she can see him very clearly. He's slugging the shit out of that punching bag, pounding it so hard he finally collapses against it and slides down it's sweat slicked sides until he's on his knees. He makes a noise that sounds like his foot is caught in a bear trap; a choking sound that twists her gut and brings Steve running.

He shakes his head at her in the darkness and goes to Billy; talking in low, gentle tones. She peeks back into the garage and sees them huddled together, head to head; hears a voice she barely recognizes say, "Why didn't she want me?"

She makes a hasty exit back to bed; stares at the ceiling until it's time to get up, eyes refusing to close. 

In the morning, she catches him on his way to the bathroom.

She's determined.

"Billy--" she says.

He doesn't turn around or even look at her. "Not now." he says, slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.

She marshals her courage; pounds on the door just like he does to her. "You can't ignore me forever!" She shouts.

"Get dressed," he says, and it's surprisingly flat, "I'll take you to breakfast when I'm done. You need to eat."

Maxine doesn't feel like eating. Her famous appetite ran off the second she realized what an awful mistake she’d made, and has yet to return. She gets ready to go, anyway; waits for him in the camaro so he can’t change his mind about letting her out of the house.

They ride half way there in stony silence, then he glances at her and she realizes his face is a puffy wreck, almost like he went a round with his father.

All of a sudden it clicks; why he wouldn't look at her earlier.

The great, tough as nails, king of cool, Billy Hargrove has been crying.

And she's seen it before, but not in a long, long time.

What's left of her own tenuous control evaporates, and before she knows it she's sobbing in the passenger seat, so hard she can't even breathe.

"Jesus, Max," he mutters, doing a double take; pulls the car over abruptly on the side of the road.

He watches, seemingly impassive as she tries to catch her breath, then reaches across her to the glove box; pulls out  a clean-ish automotive rag and drops it in her lap.

Once she can breathe again, he asks, "Why are you crying?"

"Because I did something that made you cry! And you haven't cried since --"

"Neil was alive. Yeah." He eyes her sidelong, "Gee, Max, I didn't realize you were the reason my mom dumped me with him all those years ago. Pretty impressive considering you were only two at the time and never met her until last month."

"You know what I mean." She huffs; looks at him out of the corner of her eye. The rag smells a little like grease, and she finds it vaguely comforting. She heaves a sigh and blurts out, "I should've minded my own business."

"Yeah," he replies evenly, "you should've. But my problems started way before you."

"I thought once you saw her you'd want to let her in."

"Maxine," he growls, "real life isn't like some after school special."

"I wouldn't know, all I get to watch these days if Frisky Feline Friends!" She bursts out, startling both of them. Billy breaks first; snicker blossoming into a laugh. Max is laughing and crying at the same time, despite herself, but after a few beats she says, "I made a huge mess."

"Yep."

"I'm really sorry."

"You’ve mentioned." He says, not unkindly. "But, I need you to stay out of my business when it comes to her, ok? I know you're curious and smart and sneaky as fuck -- but you need to leave it alone. She's like, a trip wire in my brain or something. I don't know."  He pauses; stares at the steering wheel. "God, I want a fucking smoke."

"Me too."

"Yeah, well, we're not going through quitting again." He says, shaking his head as if to ward off the urge. "Listen, Max. I fucked up and I'm sorry. I should've stepped back or walked away or something. Anything. I could've lost both of you -- right when I thought I was starting to get my shit together. I mean, I don't even remember chasing you up the stairs like fucking Neil. I couldn't even see until Steve poked me. You know how scary that is?"

"I know how scared I was." She says; notes the way his jaw jumps and flushes hot with regret.

"Know I scared you. And for what it's worth, I don't like scaring you, anymore." He looks out the window, "Hated it, actually."

"I woulda deserved it if you did," she mutters darkly, "you know. If you did it."

His gaze snaps to hers; the sharpness in his voice catching her off guard. "You even think that again, you and me are gonna have a new problem. Got it?"

She wells up with fresh tears, in lieu of answering; gives up on the rag and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

"I wasn't kidding when I told you not to take that shit from anyone!" He shoots her a glare, but it's got guilt and pain written between the lines. She hears him take a couple deep breaths, and when he begins again, it's softer. " Fuck, Max, will you please stop crying? I feel terrible, and that's the Gods honest, alright? I don't even know if I'm fit to -- look, you should be pissed at me, right now."

"Well," she says, with a gross, wet sniffle, "I don't know. This time is different. I--" 

She stops abruptly; can't seem to get the words I hurt you out, because it seems so impossible.

She cautions a glance; finds him staring out the windshield with lowered lids. He clears his throat, "Speaking of what you deserve and don't deserve, you're off the hook. After breakfast I'll dump your ass at Wheelers or Byers or wherever those little dorks are hanging."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We're square. Steve says I took all my anger out on you. He says I came down too hard." He pauses; thumb tapping against the steering wheel, "He might be right."

She makes a non-committal noise because "gee, ya think so?" doesn’t seem like the wisest choice at the moment. After a few seconds, she clears her throat; tries to sound unconcerned. “So you guys are good?”

"Yeah," he replies, but he's eyeing her steadily, in that way that gets her to spill her guts; makes a soft hmmm.

"What?" She asks, sounding much more defensive than she intended. She can feel the heat crawling up her face. 

"You have a problem with Me and Steve, now?"

"No."

"Okay," he replies, sounding thoroughly unconvinced and more than a wee bit sarcastic, "so when you made the brilliant decision to do all this, it was 100% out of care and concern for my mental health."

"Billy--"

"Nuh-uh. Spit it out. No games."

"I'm--" She starts, then stops. She was not even remotely expecting to be called on her jealousy; didn't realize he even had a clue. But, whatever his shortcomings as a person, Billy's not dumb. And whatever his shortcomings as a brother, he does know her. A few seconds of silence tick by and then, finally, "It was 85% good intentions."

He studies her through his lashes; waiting.

"Before it was kind of like we were finally on the same team," she blurts out, "and now it's more like you and Steve and I'm on the bench."

"Jesus," Billy mutters, sounding like he's torn between laughing and throttling her, "You can't stand me half the time," he reminds her, "I'm an asshole, remember?"

"Every time I have to watch the fucking cat show." 

" 'Atta girl." He smirks; gets an eye roll for his trouble. "And for the record, I'm not trying to shut you out of my problems. I'm trying to protect you from them."

"I don't need protection! I've been through more stuff with you than Steve can even imagine!"

"That's my point, dipshit."

She twists in her seat to look at him directly; startled out of her indignation. "What?"

"We have a pretty good life now that Steve's in it, you know?"

Max stares at his St Christopher's medal in order to avoid the pointed, penetrating gaze he's got laser focused on her, because it clearly states he thinks she's being a spoiled brat. "I know that. I love Steve and I really do appreciate everything he's done for me. But I can't help it." She glances up; is relieved to see the expression has softened, "I see you guys talking and you stop when I walk in and it just....bubbles up."

Billy's gazing at his hands, now, and the silence feels like it might explode at any second, but it doesn't. Instead, he looks at her and sighs; says, "Here's the deal, Max. I like that you get to be a normal teenager, okay? So, sue me, I don't want to unload my shit on you all the time. I feel bad enough that you have to deal with the whole gay thing, at school, I'm not adding to that."

"I don't mind, though."

"I mind. You having a regular life makes me feel like staying here was one decision I didn't fuck up." He studies her until she looks away; says with soft, rare earnesty, "You're stuck with me, shitbird. Steve can dump my ass any time he wants. You didn't get so lucky."

“Asshole.”

“There ya go.” He says, encouragingly. “That’s more like it.”

She eyes him sideways as he shifts in his seat and reaches for the ignition. El's message is zinging around her brain: really scared because he loves Steve a lot and he thinks he messed it up with him.

“Steve's never going to dump your ass.” She says; quiet. “He's too far gone. He’s in love with you."

A millisecond of gratefulness flickers over his features, before it's replaced with a cocky smirk.  "I am one fine piece of ass."

"Gross." She rolls her eyes, then grows serious,  "We should do something nice for him, after what we just put him through."

"After what you just put him through." He teases as he pulls back onto the pavement and heads toward the diner.

Over breakfast (he talks her into ordering four pancakes, and she pretends to protest, but eats every bite), they decide to combine their savings and take Steve to California that coming Labor Day weekend. They'll get him some boardwalk fries and teach him to surf; show him how much he means to them, since they both suck at saying it.

But the thing is, they aren't showing him anything he doesn't already know, because Steve's got an old soul under all that hair. He knows they appreciate him; knows they're too messed up to show it, too.

And he loves them for it.

But he takes the trip to Cali, anyway. Because who turns down free boardwalk fries?

Chapter Text

Steve knows he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, when it comes to facts and numbers. He knew it long before his father started pointing it out, his eyes filled with the kind of outrage only the wealthy seem able to muster, when they feel the world has wronged them. 

Steve knows his feelings about his father are part of the reason he ever forgave Billy in the first place, let alone fell in love with him. He might have been out to lunch when the intellectual genes were being passed out, but growing up a constant disappointment earned him extra helpings of empathy and patience, and that suits him just fine.

Steve is really glad his father died before finding out he was gay. Not because he’s afraid of more disapproval, but because his real family would be out on the street. And they deserve better. They’ve been through enough.

Because Steve knows that disappointment hurts, but he knows Billy and Max had it worse. He knows Billy has nightmares, that he wakes up wild eyed and covered with sweat; medallion stuck to his chest like a red hot brand. He knows that Max sneaks into their room and sleeps on the floor, sometimes, too proud to let them know she needs them, but too scared to be alone.

Steve knows that Billy always wakes up when she come in, but they never talk about it and he never moves her when she falls asleep; never wants to blow her cover. He just lays there, blinking at the ceiling with a clenched jaw until Steve throws an arm over him; brings him back to the present.

Billy never says thanks, but Steve knows that it helps, because he always goes to sleep soon after. He also knows that thanks is hard for them. If you say thanks then you’re admitting you needed the help; showing weakness. 

Steve knows weakness and affection are hard; feels honored to be the one Billy shows them to. 

Steve knows Max smokes weed occasionally (he assumes it's under the bleachers at school -- that's where he always did it), and he knows she does it with Wheeler, because, let's face it, he's the obvious suspect. But he doesn't tell a soul.

Because Steve knows Mike Wheeler's home life sucks, enough, as it is. Anyone who comes to the Harrington-Hargrove-Mayfield house to escape bickering, is pretty desperate. 

Steve also knows, as much as Billy claims it doesn't bug him, he really hates being a hypocrite. Having to be one, more accurately. That's why he doesn't tell him about the weed. 

Steve knows before Billy does, when Max and Lucas start fooling around. He starts leaving condoms in Maxine's room, and he's still working out how to handle it when Billy stumbles upon them.

Because, yeah, Steve knows about that, too. They aren't as good at keeping secrets as they think they are.

Steve knows that Billy has built tall walls, and that he wants to get over them, but he gets snagged on the bricks when he tries. Like when someone hugs him and his body goes rigid despite himself; or when he goes silent because the right words won’t come out, but he refuses to say the wrong ones anymore.

Steve knows that Billy took on Max’s guardianship because of all those wrong words. Even though they were like gasoline and matches, and he was woefully unprepared, he did it to make things right. Because he knew she'd have been much better off if her mother never met the Hargroves, and, deep down, he felt responsible for his part in that.  

Steve knows the real reason Billy didn't speak to Max for so long after the thing with his mom is that he was trying to decide whether or not he was still fit to be said guardian, and it hurt too much to look at her until he'd made up his mind.    

Steve knows that Max would implode if she found out Billy ever considered giving her up, even if it was out of fear he might hurt her, so he never says a word. He just gives her extra hugs while Billy's working out his shit, and prays he doesn't do it.

Steve knows Max hugs him sometimes when she really wants to hug her brother, but can't. He knows he's a stand in for the real thing, and he thinks it sucks it has to be that way, but he's happy to be there. 

Because Steve knows Maxine has never looked at him the way his father did. 

Steve knows that Max still thinks Billy’s an asshole, sometimes. He also knows that now it’s for different reasons than it used to be. Now, it’s because he bawled her out for failing math or staying out too late; because he grounds her ass when she does something stupid enough to scare him. (Steve knows exactly how much anxiety Billy has about his sister, because while Max only gets to see the anger, he's privy to the anxious pacing and what ifs that come before the storm hits.)

Steve knows that Max knows…..Billy loses his shit the most when she scares him, because he loves her. He also knows that affection is mutual -- even though they'd both sooner die than say it out loud.

Steve knows, sometimes, Max scares Billy on purpose. It's worth it, just to make sure. 

Steve knows there are beautiful souls inside those hard shells. He thinks of them like spring plants,  trying to escape the seed and send up a flower.

Steve knows this is the happiest he's ever been, because he gets to be the rain.

Chapter Text

Seventeen

Max is trying to peek in the front window, but, somehow, it keeps getting away from her. She can’t tell if they’re still up; can’t tell if it’s morning or night, to be honest, but she’s fairly certain the pink sky behind her indicates a sunrise, and not a sunset.

So.

That ain’t good.

She’s seriously contemplating praying when the front door pops open and there’s a fist in her hoodie; a good, strong yank and she’s in the house without even being sure how it happened and – and fuck. There’s Billy; pale with black bags under his eyes and furrowed brow. Behind him, Steve’s struggling to sit up on the couch, looking disoriented and flat haired.  

“The fuck were you?” Billy growls straight in her face; fist still lodged in her shirt. The world shifts a tiny bit back onto it’s axis with the danger in his voice, but not enough to give her a solid grip on the whole brain before mouth thing.

She pops a thumb at the door. “Out…side.”

OK, so that was possibly not the best response, she realizes, as he snarls “Swear to God, Max,” and makes an abrupt turn toward the living room, dragging her along with him.

If she could get her fingers working properly, she could maybe unzip this hoodie from the bottom and slip out of it, but that ship sailed several shots ago.

“Babe,” Steve’s up now, alert and looking alarmed; intercepts them at the couch, “let her go. Whatever’s in your head, you’ll regret it later.”

They hang there for a few seconds. She makes out clock hands on the wall; big hand two dots past 10 and little hand on the…5? Uh oh. That pink sky was definitely a sunrise.

Steve and Billy are having some kind of facial communication that she swears she could get a grip on, if their faces would stop swimming.

Billy lets go of her shirt, drops his chin, and steps back a few paces; crosses his arms so his hands are tucked, each under an opposite elbow.  

That, is a move she can recognize even in her current condition. It means he’s struggling for control. He explodes so loudly and suddenly that it literally makes her jump. “Been up all night for you! Drove all over this shit-stain town! You were s'posed to be at Hoppers, with El! Then I get a fucking phone call at midnight?! Tellin' me you snuck out of his goddamn house?! Do you want to be in a group home?!” He takes a step closer; lowers his voice. “Humor me, Max. Where was the party? Because I looked everywhere.”

Even as drunk as she is, Maxine isn’t about to tell either one of them it was in the Hawkins, Indiana, woods: home of demodogs and all manner of other things that go bump in the night. Even Steve is strict about the woods, and it’s pretty clear he’s the only thing saving her ass at the moment.

She keeps her mouth hinged tightly shut.

Billy’s yelling at her to answer him; threatening I'll make your life a living fucking hell, which, in fairness, she knows he absolutely will. But, at the moment, his voice is going thin and muffled; as if some blessed angel took pity on her and stuffed his mouth with cotton.

The floor has literally never looked so comfie.

She sits down cross legged.

“You’re the best brother ever?” She says, offering up a lame grin. “And, I love you?”

“Get the hell away from me,” he growls, “right now.”

She hears that perfectly fine and, let the record show, she tries to comply, but her legs won’t untangle. Frankly, it seems like a fuck ton of work to get them to do what she wants, at the moment. She flops back on the floor, legs still crossed, and everything fades to soft, peaceful black.

When crusty eyes slit open over a pounding head, the next day, Max is still on the living room floor, and there is way too much sunshine. She’s not on her back anymore, mind you, someone at least propped her onto her side with a pillow, so she wouldn’t choke to death if she puked, but it’s clear they were in no mood to carry her ass to bed.

The thing about getting drunk, now, at 17 and in the last month of her junior year, is that it’s technically ok as long as Billy knows where she is and use your head about who you do it with because people are shadier than you think. She failed at both of those, spectacularly, last night, so she’s truly shocked not to have been awoken at 6 or 7 by Metallica at top volume. Judging by the amount of sunshine pounding directly into her skull it’s got to be at least noon.

Then again, from the sounds of it, nobody got any sleep until after 4, thanks to her.

She stays on the floor for a good hour or so, evaluating her life choices, which haven’t exactly been stellar, recently. She’s been telling herself she’s outgrown the old group, but Maxine has her own little voice, and it’s been regularly saying she’s just being an asshole.

See, when she was still living at home with Neil and her Mom, she’d dumped the nerds in favor of a rougher crowd – one that didn’t question her occasional black eye or cast disapproving glances when she pulled out a smoke.

Later, when she stumbled ass backward into Billy’s haphazard care and made up with the nerds, she still maintained a loose contact with the other group. It wasn’t much, in part because he laid eyes on that crew once, saw himself in their posturing, and made it his life’s work to say NO to anything that involved them. But, it was still a hey in the hallway at school or a cigarette behind the gym, before she'd been strong-armed into quitting.

After the first couple times she got shot down on trying to hang with them, to the tune of c’mon Max, those kids are goin’ nowhere fast, she started to see why. They were disloyal, fair-weather, and, well, honestly? Not that smart.

Her mom used to say, “every place you fit in, isn’t a place you belong”, and, despite her detour into badassery, her higher self was nerd, through and through. (A fact her more-observant-then-she-thinks guardian is aware of, even when she forgets it.)

Then, this past May, over spring break, she and Billy had taken Steve to Cali. They’d literally rolled around on the warm sand, laughing hysterically while Steve tried to surf. They’d eaten boardwalk fries and gone beach combing; showed him all their old haunts…Billy’s junior high and her favorite skateboard park. They carefully avoided the dark spots, and Steve gracefully pretended not to notice. It was exactly the balm their sore souls needed, to repair the lingering damage from the thing with his mom, the autumn before.

It was something she’d never forget.

But, for whatever reason, even though they’d avoided places that would bring them down, they still loomed large in the back of her mind. The trip got her thinking about her parents, and Neil. She started feeling her old battle wounds, and, somehow, the chip on her shoulder reappeared; jagged and sharp and digging in painfully as ever.

When she got back to Hawkins, the earnest naiveite of her more well-adjusted friends suddenly grated on her, the same way it had before. The new found closeness she and Lucas had shared since they started sleeping together, suddenly felt cramped and airless. El, who she knew, logically, was a bigger badass that she’d ever even thought about being, seemed childish and weighty at her side. Don’t even get her started on the others.

Granted, she didn't dump them; couldn’t, really, the way their lives were all intertwined by then. But, if she’s being honest, she’s been a shit to them, lately, all the same. Billy hasn’t noticed, but Steve has tossed a few carefully arched eyebrows in her direction; the nerds being much more likely to communicate their confusion to him, than her brother

In any case, when she got the chance to party in the woods with the other crowd, last night, it seemed like it might scratch an itch she’s been trying to reach for months.  

Sometimes a person needs to see faces that reflect the shadows in their own.

She groans out loud.

El is probably never going to forgive her. She’d taken off, out her window, the second she fell asleep. She’d planned to be back before anyone woke up, but that was, clearly, a spectacular bust.

Fuck.

Chief.

She hadn’t thought about him, either. He’s going to kill her.

Of course, they’ll both have to wait for whatever’s left, after Billy gets done. She’s fully anticipating getting grounded long enough for her clothes to go out of style. He’s only actually done it a few times, thus far, so it’s not like he’s on a power trip or anything, but it still wounds her pride. Worse yet, he’s proven to be very committed to making it as miserable as possible, once he’s been pushed far enough to do it. And, he’s stubborn as a mule about making it stick.

Not fun. The thought is enough to flop her tender stomach and convince her to get up off the floor. She tiptoes upstairs with a glass of water, plops three alka seltzer into it, and sets it on the sink to dissolve, while she goes to investigate.

Their bedroom door is half open, bed unmade but empty.

Huh.

She starts the shower; stands under it until the water runs cold.

When she gets out, the house is still dead silent. She throws on some sweats and a tee shirt; wanders downstairs. There’s some mail on the table but nothing that resembles a note (the irony of being annoyed by that, is not lost on her).

She pops open the garage door and stops short; blinks rapidly.

Both cars are there.

What the fuck?

They aren’t the kind of guys who go out for bike rides or walks. Also? The sun is shining now, but it's clear from the humidity and the puddles -- it was raining cats and dogs, not long before.

“Hey!” She hollers out, “Where are you guys?”

Nothing.

Further investigation finds nobody in the basement, in the yard, or on the porch.

She can maybe see them taking off for the day without telling her, just to make a point, but it’s a stretch. No way would Billy ever have the patience to choose delayed confrontation over immediate neck wringing, and they wouldn’t leave both cars.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Max firmly tells herself she should be grateful they’re out; remembers the zero sympathy with which he made her wash the camaro, pounding head and all, last time one of her adventures left her this hungover. She gives her shoulders a shrug that's maybe a tiny bit forced, and pops on the TV. She flips around the dial; settles for Frisky Felines, on public access, for a laugh, before stretching across the couch. She wiggles her toes, and determines not to think about it anymore.

She’s back to sleep before Mrs. Henderson has even completed Mews moment of silence.  

The ringing telephone wakes her up like a sledgehammer between the eyes; alka seltzer having worn off mid-nap. The living room is in the semi-darkness of evening, and the house is still quiet as she snatches the phone off the cradle.

“In the woods?” Hopper yells, directly into her aching head, “Are you kiddin’ me, Red?”

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“Hopper?”

“No, it’s Santa Claus, and you’re getting coal.”

She groans. “Please don’t tell Billy.”

“Why would you even consider going out there at night? Those delinquents you were with wouldn’t even party out there, if they knew what we know!”

“’M sorry,” she mutters, “it was a really bad decision. I was only going to stay an hour, but...”

If it’s possible for a pause to be unsympathetic, this one is.

“El was terrified when you were gone this morning!”

“Sorry.” She repeats.

“Have a feelin’ that’s about to get worse.”

So much for him not ratting her out. It reminds her, “You know where the boys are?”

Hopper pauses, then, “They’re not home.”

“Haven’t been here all day.”

“Friends don’t lie!” El chimes in, at a distance, and Max’s face flushes hot with regret.

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Tell her yourself.” He says, “I’m sure they’ll be home, soon.”

Then, he hangs up.

At ten, she calls him back.

“I think something’s wrong, they’re not home yet, they didn’t leave a note, they haven’t called, and their cars are still in the garage.”

There are a few seconds of silence, during which she assumes he’s processing.

“If you’re scared, I’ll come get you.”

Uh…no. An empty house where everyone’s pissed at her, is still better than an occupied house where everyone’s pissed at her. Also? She’s totally killing them, the second they walk through the door. Can’t do that if she’s not home.

“No, but—”

“You’re ok, then?”

“Yes,” she responds, impatiently, “But—”

“They’ll be back, Red.”

“But their cars are still here!”

“Well,” he responds, “they might be idiots, but they’re technically adults. Hang tight and don’t go anywhere. I don’t need you missing, too. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Wait—"

“Call me if you get too scared.” He says, with finality, before hanging up the phone.

Ugh. She definitely picked the wrong time to piss Hopper off. His interest in helping her is clearly less than zero. She considers calling Joyce, because she would light a fire under his ass immediately, if she knew what was going on. But, if there's even a glimmer of hope he might not tell the boys she was out in the woods, she doesn't want to risk it by pissing him off further. 

She opts for distraction; spends the next couple hours trying to watch TV, checking the window, and trying to ignore her hammering heartbeat. As much as she’d like to blame the booze from 24 hours before, for the way her stomach feels, she knows that’s not the reason.

She’s telling herself to be rational, reminding herself they can take care of themselves, saying, out loud, at times, that she’s over reacting, but it’s not working.

Where the hell are they, that they wouldn’t take a car? Did they get a sudden urge to go walking in the rain? Or, maybe it hadn’t been raining at all when they left. Maybe they were out for a walk, and came across a gang of homophobic rednecks. They’re tough, no doubt, but not invincible.

Maybe they came across something far worse. Sure, nobody's seen a demodog in months but, still, you never know.

She groans when she catches herself thinking that. It's the exact reasoning Billy gave her for not going into the woods unless it was with the team; armed. She thought he was on a paranoid power trip, at the time, but now...shit.

At a few minutes past midnight, she starts thinking about who she can call, and it occurs to her that she doesn’t even have numbers for any of the people she was with, the night before. So much for don’t get drunk with people you don’t know and trust. She goes up to her room and digs out the walkie she’d ditched a couple weeks ago, thinking it childish, and asks if anyone’s up.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rings.

She gets it on the first one.

“Billy?”

“No,” Lucas’ sleepy voice finds her ear, “it’s me. What’s up?”

“The boys are gone,” she blurts out, “their cars are here and they’re gone and I don’t know where they went. No note, no –”

She stops abruptly, realizing how much she sounds like a certain bossy older brother.  

"Huh?" 

She can tell he's trying to wake up and take it all in, at once, so she bites back the urge to snap.

“The boys are missing," she repeats, levelly, "you know where they might be?” 

“No.” He replies, but it's slow, in that way that means he's thinking, “But, now that you mention it--”

“What?”

“We were all over at El’s, hanging out. 'Member, you were supposed to be there?”

Yes. Yes, she does. She'd purposely blown it off, and now she feels like a heel. 

This has been one hell of a day for realizations. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok, I get it. I need space sometimes, too. Don’t really get your choice of crowd, lately, but--”

“I know."

An awkward pause fills the line, and she knows now would be the time to explain herself, but her mind is too full of the crisis at hand. "So..."

A soft huff, then, "I was coming out of the bathroom and Hop didn't see me there. He was on the phone and your name came up."

"Like how?" 

"I don't really know; said you were fine and then something about picking up whoever it was, later.”

That son of a bitch. He knew the whole time, even when he called to yell at her about the woods. Her brain flashes back to their conversations and she realizes, belatedly, that he never said he didn’t know they were gone; only ever asked about her wellbeing.

“You there, Max?”

“Yeah,” she replies, breathless with anger, “then what?”

“That’s pretty much it,” he says, and she can tell he’s shrugging, “he noticed me there, and he tried to brush it off, said I heard him wrong -- but he was nervous. His mustache was doing that thing, you know?”

She grunts in response, and he continues, “I would have called you about it, but, I don’t know...kind’a feels like I’ve been bugging you lately – and then we got hanging out and doing stuff and I forgot.”

“I'm such an asshole.”

"Nah."

"Well," she pauses, "I haven't been a great girlfriend lately, anyway."

Lucas makes a half hearted, token attempt to disagree, but she's distracted by a sudden flash of headlight, as it slips over the lawn and beams through the window. When she peeks out, there’s the sheriffs’ cruiser; Billy and Steve climbing out of it.

“Gotta go,” she tells Lucas, “they’re here. But, I’ll try to call you tomorrow. And, if I can't, just -- I love you. Thanks for not dumping my ass.”

She doesn’t wait for him to respond; there’s too much adrenaline pumping through her veins.  She’s planning to go upstairs and pretend she hasn’t been waiting up in a frenzy of panic; they can shove their little plan right up their asses -- but when the door opens her brain shorts a wire. She makes a flying leap at them, blindly furious; nearly gets clotheslined by Billy’s outstretched arm.

She snarls at him.

“How’d you like it?” He asks, bitterly; eyes glittering with a combination of emotion she’s in no mood to decipher, “Not fun, huh?”

“Fuck you!”

“Yeah,” he flings back, “now imagine we were out in the woods.”

That puts a chill in her blood. Her mouth falls open.

“No monster weapons.”

“Billy—"

“With people we barely know,” Steve puts in.

Max glances from one to the other of them. “You can’t—” she sputters, “its not the same! I’m only seventeen! You guys are all I--”

Maybe it’s the words, or maybe it’s the crack her voice makes; the one that stops her midsentence, but Billy winces. Now, she can see the storm of conflicting emotions, but it’s too late. Steve’s got his monster hunting face on; steps between them before she can even comprehend the movement. He jabs a thumb at Billy, angrily. “And he’s only twenty-two! You think it's fair to to put him through that? Just 'cause you feel like being an irresponsible brat?” He pauses, brown eyes sharp and hair flying, “That’s a lot to ask, Max! Especially since he didn’t have to step up in the first place!" 

Billy’s giving Steve a murderous glare in the rooms dead silence, and that’s something she hasn’t seen since they finally admitted they were in love, two years before. The whole thing feels like something out of the Twilight Zone. It tosses her, unceremoniously, out of her self-righteous anger, leaving her with a numb, hollow sensation that closes her chest up like a fist.

He glances from one to the other of them; softens his tone a bit. "You can show a little gratitude, sometimes, you know?”

“Okay,” she responds, tonelessly, “I hear you.”

She heads for the stairs, and nobody stops her.

The rest of the night and the next day are weird; charged with uncomfortable energy and passing so slowly, she actually thinks her clock might be broken, at one point. She hangs out in her room; avoiding the boys and dozing on and off. In the afternoon she awakes from a fitful catnap, to angry voices drifting up through the floor boards. Last time that happened, she stayed where she was, but this time, she goes to sit at the top of the stairs; listens. It’s faint, because they’re not only one floor down, but also a few rooms over – the kitchen, by her estimation. She pulls her knees up and wraps arms around.

“You’re the one who’s always saying we’re a family! You undid all of that!”

“Sometbody had to say it! I can’t stand to watch you two like that, anymore! You almost lost it, the other night, and then you’d have never forgiven yourself!”

“I had it under control!”

“Like hell you did!”

There’s a pause, and when Billy speaks again it’s lower; she can barely hear it.

“I know what you’re saying, ok? But you don’t make a kid feel like they owe you for existing. Neil did that shit all the time. Like he was justified to beat the fuck out of us because he bought food and kept the lights on.”

Steve's response is quieter; flat. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s close enough!  When you grow up like we did, you never get to be selfish. You gotta think about every move -- walk on eggshells every second!”

“I never asked her for every second, ok? I only asked her to think about you now and then!" Another pause, during which Max gets to her feet, just in case, then, "You only see it that way because of Neil!”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’m pretty sure she sees it the same way I do!”

Shit.

At first, when she was still really upset at what they’d done, she was enjoying her fair share of schadenfreude at them being pissed at each other. But now? Not so much.

She tries to ignore the prickling behind her eyes. Last fall, when she placed that one single phone call that turned it all to shit, it was like some kind of damn broke in her gut. She hadn't shed a single tear in so long; not even when her mother died, but since then they seem to be there all the time, ready and waiting. 

Billy shows up at her door at the worst possible moment; she's puffy and red faced. She's not interested in having him fulfill his long standing threat to bust her lock, though, so she lets him in. 

He only takes a few steps past the doorway; observes her emotional state but doesn't say anything. 

“Let me guess,” she finally mutters at the metal on his chest, “grounded for life.”

He snorts.

“Only a week, shitbird.”

She's so surprised, she looks him right in the face; a rarity on occasions like this, and he clearly wasn't ready. She catches a wave of guilt and sadness before the blank, hard edges of the poker face take over.

“Last night was rough enough,” he mutters, by way of explanation, and she goes back to pointing her gaze elsewhere. “Meant to be back sooner but Hopper's cruiser broke down."

She hears the implied apology. They hadn't meant to scare her that much. She's still bitter, but this doesn't exactly seem like the best time to push her luck.

He clears his throat. "But stay the fuck out of the woods, hear me?”

She nods; catches the sharpness in his eyes and says, "Yes."

”You better.”

He takes a few steps closer; softens his tone, “About Steve—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“You're not exactly in a position to call shots.”

“I know but -- please?”

He’s giving her that uncomfortable laser focus and not moving a muscle, and fuck. The idea of doing this, right now, is overwhelming on multiple levels.

She gets up quick and heads for the only place she’s guaranteed to be left alone: the bathroom.

She's both surprised and relieved to find he's not on her heels, when she gets there. In fact, after a few minutes she hears him go back downstairs.

She goes to their bedroom, where there’s a phone. She calls El, to apologize, then Lucas, to say thanks. When she gets back to her own room, Steve is there, loitering at the door.

“I got pizza,” he says, sounding sheepishly conciliatory.

“Not hungry,” she responds, heading into her room.

He raises eyebrows, then glances up and down the hallway and slips in after her, closing the door behind them.

“It was my idea,” he confesses, sitting on her bed, “and we meant to be home a lot earlier, just so you know. That was the compromise. He said he’d go along with it, but we couldn’t be out all night.”

Maxine had kept her mouth shut with Billy, out of self preservation, because it's hard to make up with your friends when you're grounded forever. But, as much as he tries to police her tone with Steve, the fact is, Steve can take it. In fact, sometimes when they're alone, he reminds her that she doesn't need to be polite at the moment; tells her to say what she needs to say. So, she's certainly not about to hold back, now. 

“That shit was below the belt! You can’t..." she trails off; shakes her head dismissively.

"Listen-–"

"I know what I really am, ok? All that family talk aside, I’m an orphan with a stepbrother who happens to have a boyfr--”

"No."

“But—”

“No!” he repeats, adamantly; slings her a glare so sharp she actually moves back a tiny bit. 

“Ok,” she says, “ok. Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you would--”

“Alright, I hear you! I know it's more than that."

He's still glaring, so she blows the hair out of her face and repeats, "I do."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But, I don’t have anyone except you guys and you scared the hell out of me!"

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” She demands; eyes narrowed.

“Think about it, Max. Every single thing you felt in the last 24 hours is the same as what he felt the night before.”

She pauses; caught off guard.

“Listen, it wasn’t to hurt you. It was to show you how it feels. I’m sorry I called you an irresponsible brat, and I’m sorry if I was,” he pauses, rubs the back of his neck, “I don’t know, Billy says I played the you owe us, card, and I didn’t mean to."

"Ok."

"It’s just – listen, I’ve watched you push his buttons to see if he cares, and I got that. And I’ve watched you push ‘im to see if he’ll break--”

“I never—”

“Max, c’mon. Yes, you have. And honestly? I get that, too, coming from where you guys did. But, it’s been a couple years now, and you’re still pushing.” He cocks his head to catch her eye; holds it, “When does he get to pass the test, huh? It sucks to watch him go through it, every time. And then Hopper called in the morning and told him about the woods—”

“I get the picture,” she interrupts, quickly, before he can get started on demodogs and the sheer stupidity of being drunk in the woods of Hawkins. The realization that he’s got a point takes her breath away; makes her want to start crying again, but she doesn’t. “I guess, I can’t really be like other teenagers.”

“Not really, no," he responds, and his voice is sad, but he doesn't stop, “he wants you to but, other teenagers have parents they can take for granted. You have him, and you could be that selfish – you could push it as far as you want. He’d let you, because he feels like he deserves it.”

“I don’t know about that,” she scoffs.

Steve shakes his head emphatically, “He would, Max. He’d let you until he blew a gasket, and then he’d beat himself up over that.”

And, yeah, there's truth in that. She can't deny it. She sighs, deep. “He’s pissed at you, huh?”

“Yeah. He says I made you feel like a burden. That I reminded you, you're an orphan.”

She glances up at him; startled to hear the mysterious hollow sensation articulated so accurately.

“He’s more perceptive than he lets on,” he responds to her expression, drily. “I didn’t mean it that way. I swear. I only meant you’re old enough to be more considerate, now."

They sit in thoughtful silence, a few seconds, then Max says, “I guess I can forgive you, since that’s probably the reason I got off so easy.”

“You’re welcome.”

She offers up a crooked grin.  

"Seriously, though -- I only meant you should respect other peoples feelings. I didn't mean because you're an orphan or a burden or anything like that, but because you're not a kid anymore. Period. Just," he pauses; lifts a shoulder, ”try not to be so hard on him, that’s all I’m asking. He’s really only human under all his bullshit.”

"Ok, I'll try."

Steve gets up and stretches. He's trying to be nonchalant, but he's not very good at it. 

"El mad at you?"

“Nah,” she replies, letting her surprise and relief filter through, “she forgave me like nothing.”

“Yeah, us dorks are good like that.”

“You’re no dork, King Steve.”

He gives her that goofy smile, and she’s overwhelmed by the need for a hug; throws her arms around him, fiercely. He smells like Farah Fawcett hairspray and dryer sheets, and she hugs him for a really long time, because that’s the best thing about Steve – you can squeeze him forever and he never lets go first.

After he leaves, she takes a few minutes to think things over and pull her emotional shit together. The camaro roars away from the house, and returns ten or fifteen minutes later, then Billy screams ice cream up the stairs.

What a softie.

At this point, they've bought two out of the three foods that most cheer her up. Those aren't the actions of two guys who don't want her around. She takes a minute to think about that, too, then she heads downstairs to eat with her family.

And she doesn't even complain about having to do the dishes.

Chapter Text

Set After "Seventeen"

The Last Time

Monday

Shit is definitely weird.

For one thing, he grounded her, and she’s still speaking to him. That's usually worth at least two days of mostly-silent treatment; studded with the occasional, pointed remark about what a hypocritical asshole on a power trip he is. 

In fact, when he came home today she’d made grilled cheese and tomato soup, even though it wasn’t her turn for dinner, and did the dishes. Well...the dishes are part of being grounded (look, she’s stubborn, ok -- he has to be a dick about it) but still, she didn’t even complain. In fact, she hasn’t nagged him to let her call Lucas, or go anywhere, or…anything.

And, she didn’t disappear into her room with her homework, the second dinner was over, either. She set up shop at the coffee table, instead; struggles with math while he watches TV.

She’s been stuck on the same problem for like, 10 minutes, so finally he says, “That x is squared, dipshit,” and she reworks it again; grunts a soft “thanks”, in reply.

Thanks??

“You can pay me back with a beer,” he says, and he's half kidding, but damn if she doesn’t get right up and do it, no fucking around. She doesn’t even pop it open and take a swig first, like every other time in the last two years.

She was facing him, before, but when she settles back in at the coffee table, it’s on his side, right by his leg.

He’s not even sure if she meant to do it, but it’s giving him a sinking gut, all the same. By their standards, this is downright clingy, and as much as he knows he should be grateful for the agreeability while it lasts, it's telling as hell.

She's not over it.

Eventually, she shuts all her papers into her social studies book and curls up on the other end of the couch; doesn’t even bust his balls about what he's watching, which is just...goddamn it.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, Max," he says, staring hard at the TV. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her sink down into the cushions. She pulls her ancient, ratty afghan more tightly around her shoulders; doesn't say anything.

Why does she look for fucking small, lately?

“You good?” He asks, being careful to be less hack saw about it than usual. 

She shrugs, and he doesn’t push it.

Wednesday

When Steve came up with the idea, he'd intended it to make an impression on Maxine, about how scary her own disappearing acts are. At the moment, he's thinking that plan worked a little too well. 

She's been alright during waking hours, although Billy did mention she's been, as he so charmingly put it, stuck up his ass in the evenings. And, it's true, he's noticed her passed out on the couch when he gets home from work at night, brother at the other end, watching TV. Definitely unusual, but still, she’s stuck at home, and even if she weren't, things are weird with her friends, right now. She's probably lonely, and bored.

Overall, he still thought Billy was being over protective about the whole thing, until she came in to their room, two nights ago. She hadn't done that in a long time, if he stretches his memory back, it was probably around the holidays, the year before. 

She never wakes them; comes in with a soft click of the door and sets her pillow and blanket down on the carpet like some kind of bed making ninja, before curling up in the silence.

Steve doesn't always hear her come in, but Billy does; lays there in the inky black with a clenched jaw and a body so granite tense that it usually wakes him right up. Most of the time, he can throw an arm across his chest or nuzzle up right under his chin; get him to relax and fall back asleep.

Sometimes, it's not that easy. 

Sometimes, whatever demons are haunting her, remind him of his own, and he lays there staring at the ceiling so long, Steve has to give up.

It's been like that, the last couple nights; Max on their floor in the middle of the night and Billy laying beside him, more than merely tense, now: angry and guilty, too. Steve knows; he'd gone along with it, against his better judgment. And he knows, while he wasn't necessarily wrong in terms of the lesson, he hadn't fully accounted for all of the issues at play, in it's execution.

"Susan," Billy reluctantly explained, after the first night, "dumped Max a long time before she killed herself."

"I don't..." Steve trailed off, lost for words. He just couldn't grasp it, from where he was standing.

Billy rolled his eyes and got up; shoving his chair in with a bang. "Forget it."

"No, babe. Help me get it."

He'd looked at him, eyes hooded. "My mother left me, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, so did hers. Only, she did it in stages. First she kept choosing Neil over her kid and then she just," he shrugged, "chose him one last time." 

It fell into place, like a sledgehammer, and he sat there for a long time, after; thinking. Maxine's issues from Neil were clear; obvious and justified. And, to be fair, he knew she resented her mother, but only in vague, nebulous terms. In his mind, abandonment issues were exclusively a Billy thing. 

And now it's the third night in a row she's come in; she's tiptoeing but there's really no need.

They're both awake. Steve can feels Billy's body go rigid; sighs. 

"Max," he says, and gets an elbow in the ribs, which he ignores, "don't sleep on the floor."

She stops; frozen.

"Okay," she says, at length; picks her pillow up and turns around.

"No. I mean, get in bed."

That, gets him another elbow, but, fuck it. He messed this up, he's going to fix it. 

"Really?"

"Yeah," he responds, climbing out of bed and holding the covers up. She glances at him, he can feel it in the dark; takes them gently from his hand. She smooths them back down and climbs on top, using her own blanket to cover up.

She's on top, and they're underneath, which makes sense, he thinks, really: it's close, but not too close. And, he doesn't mean physically. More, it's the level of soft she's comfortable with, emotionally.

Not too far out on a limb.

He can tell, it's still too soft for Billy, but he's not moving or complaining, either. 

She skootches over to make room for him; lays on her back in an only slightly less stiff parody of her brother.

"You guys are hopeless." Steve mutters, shaking his head. He throws an arm over both of them. "I guess maybe my idea wasn't as smart as I thought it was, Max."

"It's ok," she mumbles, "you made good points."

"We won't do that again," says Billy, with finality.

"I know." 

The room grows quiet; a sniffle, a yawn, and Steve can feel the bodies beside him slowly begin to relax. 

He wakes up, briefly, a few hours later, with Billy's knuckles resting against the side of his head; arm stretched wide between them.

In the half-light, he can see Maxine is curled toward her brother, face smooshed into his bicep; drooling a puddle.

He manages a snicker, before he falls back to sleep. 

In the morning, he's in bed alone; sunlight streaming down across the rumpled blankets and the scent of burnt bacon, heavy in the air. He can hear them downstairs, sounding lighter than they have in days; making fun of Frisky Felines together. 

Max never feels the need to come in their room, at night, again. 

Chapter Text

Unraveled

A loud crash wakes them up with a start; out of bed and pulling on whatever pants are laying around on the floor. Steve’s got the nail bat before Billy’s even got his jeans buttoned, so he follows him down the hall.

It came from Max’s room. That gets his heart pumping even more. When they get there and he reaches for the light switch; bat over Steve’s shoulder like he’s about to hit a homer, he doesn’t know what thought terrifies him more: burglar, demo dog, or the odds of stumbling across a half dressed sister.

“Jesus, you guys, it was me,” she gripes, blinking at the sudden light, “I fell out of bed.”

Sure enough, she’s on the floor in a mess of blankets and it smells like…

“Ugh, you puke?”

“Yes,” she hisses, “and I got caught up in the blankets. Now go away. I can handle this. I’m 18, now.”

He rolls his eyes and refrains, barely, from pointing out that she just fell out of bed like a toddler. I’m 18 now is her answer to everything, lately. Given the fact that he’s been waiting 3 long years to hear her say it, he’s surprised how much it always annoys him.

She turns a shade greener; panicked expression taking over her face. She throws her hands up over her mouth and runs for the bathroom.

He glances at Steve, whose grimace matches the way he feels inside: a combination of disgust, concern, and frustration.

Sick Maxine is a jumbo sized pain in the ass.

Steve sighs. “You want the kid or the blankets? Gotta wash them tonight or they’ll stink forever.”

“You mean the full-grown adult who doesn’t need our help?”

“Yeah, that,” says Steve, with a face that tells him he’s not getting out of this.

He picks the blankets, because he sucks at domestic shit, and he feels bad that Steve does most of it. Also? The guy has this quietly stubborn way of doing what needs to be done, no matter how much she bitches. Of course, it helps that she bitches a lot less, when it’s him. Billy likes to think there are maybe two things he’s successfully gotten through her skull, and don’t be a shit to Steve is one of them.

He holds his breath and balls up all her disgusting blankets and drags them to the washer; one ear on the situation in the bathroom. Sounds like Steve’s trying to convince her not to go back to sleep with her head in the toilet.

Personally, he’d leave her there.

Probably another reason he’s better off on blanket duty.

Max is zonked out on the couch, midmorning, and Billy’s in the recliner watching this Saturday's rendition of the road runner blowing past the coyote. She’s even paler than usual; mouth wide open and one leg up the back of the couch. Her puke breath is stinking up the whole neighborhood, but it doesn’t feel like she has a fever. (He checked, ok? Whatever. It’s not a big deal. Quit looking at him that way.)  

He's draining his coffee cup and wondering if he can close her mouth without waking her, when what can best be described as panicked squawking comes from the laundry room. He’s not really sure if it was Loony Tunes or if a goose got into the house or what, when Steve comes to the top of the stairs and says, “Uh, babe. Come here.”

Steve’s got that Houston, we have a problem expression on his face, so he goes right up there; stops short when he turns the corner and sees what he’s holding.

“What the—”

“You weren’t supposed to wash this!” Steve hisses, shaking Maxine’s afghan at him; one corner devolved into a mass of tangled up yarn.

“I didn’t know it was in there!”

“Yeah, because you stuffed everything in there in a ball, like I’ve told you a thousand times not to do!”

“Hey,” he backs away slowly, puts his hands up, “you know I suck at that stuff. Neil never let me touch anything he thought was women’s work.”

“Oh, please. I’ve shown you how to-“

“Ok, ok. You’re right. Just…look...alright, the thing was filthy, anyway. It needed it?”

Steve shoots him a flat, unimpressed look. “The filth is what was holding it together.”

He shifts weight; scrubs a hand over his face.

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“I'm fucked.”

“We’re fucked, more like,” Steve replies, “I didn’t notice it when I put it in the dryer, either.”

“Seriously? You let me think it was all me?”

“It was mostly you!” 

He gives him the laser stare, but all he gets is, "Fine. I panicked. And don't give me that look. I'm not Max; it doesn't work on me."

He can’t decide if he wants to laugh or smack him. “Well, she keeps saying she’s an adult now…” is what he lands on.

“You can’t seriously think she'll be ok with this?”

He makes to say that she’ll have to be, but his brain flashes to the image of her sitting on the front steps with it, the day he left home. Then, her wrapped up in it when he tried to help her, after Neil almost drown her in the kitchen sink.

The way she always brought it, when she came to sleep on his floor because their parents were fighting, and then, later, to him and Steve’s room after a nightmare.

“There has to be someone around who can fix this,” he says, “I mean, it’s Hawkins. There’s probably still quilting bees at the church or some shit, right?”

“Sure,” says Steve, with an obscene amount of sarcasm, “the church ladies are all dying to help the town queers out of a bind.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Unnecessary.”

Steve huffs. “We have to hide this until we find someone.”

They’re in the bedroom, bickering in hushed tones over the best place to hide it, when Maxine knocks at the door.

Billy throws the blanket at him, in a panic; goes to crack the door with his foot against it, so it won’t open more than a few inches.

She gives him the hairy eyeball; pulls a face as if she might puke some more. She obviously thinks she interrupted sex, and, honestly? It’s the lesser of two evils.

“Hank’s on the phone,” she mumbles.

“Tell him I’ll call him back.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You guys are gross.”

Billy spends the next forty-five minutes on the phone, sweet talking every woman he knows in Hawkins (and Dustin), trying to figure out who can fix the blanket.

Ok, well, every woman he hasn’t had sex with. Because, awkward.

Steve’s downstairs, plying Max with saltines and ginger ale. She’s definitely got some kind of bug, because she barfed up the eggos he made her, not long after Hank called. Steve’s trying to play it cool, which he sucks at, and Billy figures once Max thinks to ask for the blanket, it’s all over. His eyebrows are going to give them away, even if his conscience doesn’t.

Steve’s conscience is a massive pain in the ass, sometimes.

He’s made it this far; he is not going down over this.  He dials Joyce, who, frankly, does a shit job at hiding her amusement.

“Does it have squares?” she asks.

“Uh,” he holds it up; squints, “yeah. I think those are squares.”

“It’s crochet, then,” she says, “so stop asking people if they can knit, for starters.”

He thinks about all the ways Chief will make his life miserable if he tells her to fuck off; grinds his teeth together.

Speaking of chief, the man likes Jim Croce for cryin' out loud, maybe he knits, too. What was that weaving shit they all did in the 60's?

He conjures up an image of Hopper with long hair; making one of those macramé owls and humming Time In A Bottle.

It helps. 

“Can Jim fix it?”

Joyce laughs like that’s the funniest think she’s heard all year, so he hangs up on her.

The phone rings, a minute later, while he’s flipping through the phone book and wondering if he and Steve could escape to Mexico, rather than tell Max what happened.

He’s pretty sure it’s Hop, calling to chew his ass out for hanging up on Joyce, so the unexpected voice surprises him.

“Hey, kid, you forgot to give me your hours yesterday.”

“Uh…”

Shit. He never called Hank back.

“Max give you the message?”

“Yeah,” he says, “sorry. We got some stuff going on here.”

A pause, then, “What’s up?”

Ugh.

He really doesn’t want to tell Hank he’s freaking out about a fucking blanket. The man is the epitome of backwoods masculinity: grease covered, built like a French bulldog, and rides a Harley.

Then again, he knows Billy and Steve are more than roommates, and he’s never said a bad word one way or another. And, he knows Neil used to beat the fuck out of him and Max; has a soft spot for her as a result. In fact, he always gives Billy extra at Christmas to “get that little spitfire somethin’ good”.

“It’s not really an emergency,” he hedges, feeling like an idiot.

“Out with it, Hargrove.”

“Fine,” he says, “jus’ Max has this blanket. She’s had it as long as I’ve known her, you know? Came with her from Cali.”

“Yeah?”

“And, it got fucked up in the washer.”

“Oh, man,” Hank says, sounding suitably distressed, “what kind’a blanket?”

“I don’t know, the kind made with yarn.”

He is absolutely, 100% not going to say the word crochet, to Hank.

“Hol’ on.”

He listens as the other man puts the phone down and hollers, “Arlene! C’mere a sec!”

There’s a clunk and a curse and Hank picks the phone back up.

“My ol’ lady does that shit.”

“Oh,” is about all Billy can think to say. For one thing, he’s seen Hank’s “ollady”, as he calls her, and she’s not exactly what he pictures, when he thinks of someone who cranks out baby blankets in front of their afternoon soaps.  She’s…well, she’s got a good heart, but he’s seen her threaten a customer with a tire iron, over a bill, and heard her swear like a truck driver who used to be a sailor; worse than Maxine, even. And he's not one to judge a book by its cover, being a gay man who fixes cars and gets into bar fights, himself, but still: he’s feeling a bit skeptical.  

Her and Hank are going back and forth in hushed tones on the other end of the line.

“Bill?” she says, after a second.

“Yeah.”

“When you need it by?”

“Sooner the better,” he replies, weakly, “or my ass is grass.”

Arlene chuckles; says, “Bring it by this morning. Bring all the yarn and shit with it. I’ll see what I can do.”

Steve’s in the shower and Max is on the couch, sitting up now, with a giant pot he didn’t even know they own, on the couch beside her.

She’s not looking too hot. Billy feels bad enough, between her peaked listlessness and the goddamn blanket, that he’s enduring Beverly Hills, 90210, without complaint.

When he’d gone over to Hank’s, the “Ollady” was already on the porch, having a smoke.  

She clenched her cigarette between the teeth and reached for the blanket.

“Lemme see the damage.”

He handed it over; avoiding her smoke cloud so's not to spend all afternoon jonesing for one.

She held it up and whistled low.

“You make this mess?” she asked, then cackled. “Come back in a couple hours with a sixer of Bud. We’ll be even.”

Even.

Sure.

If he lives that long.

Max is stirring on the couch. She pulls up her socks, burps, and swings a leg over.  

“Hey,” he rips his eyes off Luke Perry’s ass (turns out there are some perks to this show, after all), alarmed, “where you think you’re going?”

“I need something upstairs,” she mutters.

“What?”

She narrows bloodshot eyes at him, in suspicion.  “My—what’s it to you?’

“Don’t feel like cleaning more of your puke,” he says, “what do you need up there? I’ll get it.”

He holds his breath. He knows what she wants; has all his proverbial eggs in the basket, that she’ll be too proud to admit it.  

“Never mind,” she mutters, flopping back against the couch. 

He exhales. That was close.

"So, Brenda and Dylan back together now?" he asks with a nod toward the tv.  

"Are you watching this?"

He scoffs. "Only because you're sick."

Actually, he tells himself it's to distract her. He's totally not getting hooked on it or anything.

And he's not going soft, either. She's got a stomach bug. She'll be fine.  

"Uh-huh." She grins. It's weak, but definitely smug. "Well," she says, "I mean, not that you care or anything, but yes. They broke up last season and now they're back together."

He sinks down in the chair and ignores her smart ass expression; wonders if there's anything in the medicine cabinet that'll knock her out a few hours. 

Finally, finally it’s time to go back to Hank’s.

“Some of the yarn was too old and broken,” Arlene says, “so I used some of mine.”

She holds it up and, fuck, there’s no way Max won’t notice the newer yarn. The color is right, but it stands out way too bright among all the faded old stuff.

“Sorry, kid,” she says, “it's fixed, but if you wanted to hide it, you're out of luck. Did the best I could, though.”

He offers up the six pack, along with a pizza he grabbed on the way there; tells her it’s ok (he’s screwed, but he’s still grateful), and heads for home.

When he gets there, Max is off the couch and Steve’s looking deeply harassed.

“I couldn’t stop her!”

“I told you what to do,” he hisses.

Steve shakes his head, says, “That only works for you! She doesn’t care if I know she wants it!”

Well, that’s…not surprising. He knows she hates to show him weakness, it's the same reason she never asks for help with math, even though she knows he's good at it. It's some leftover reflex from growing up how they did. The best he can do is be grateful she has Steve.

Still kind'a stings, though, if he's being honest. 

Steve's eyes are bulging like he's going to have a stroke, any second now, so he rolls his and hollers, “Maxine!”

“What?” she snarls from the vicinity of her bedroom.

“Get your ass down here! You’re supposed to be resting!”

“I’m looking for something!”

“Oh yeah,” he leans against the railing, “what?”

She comes to the top of the stairs, evidently so she can glare at him better. She's the kind of pissed that means she's worried, and he knows that sensation well, thanks to her.  

“None of your business.”

“Uh-huh.”

He holds up the blanket.

“Oh,” she says; face going still, “well…that’s not what I was looking for.”

Right.

It’s not what she was looking for, but she comes downstairs now, anyway; snatches it out of his hand and promptly returns to the couch, pulling it over herself as she goes.

Three days later, they’re eating dinner when she says, “I know you guys wrecked my blanket.”

Billy keeps his mouth shut, because his instincts say to tell her suck it up, buttercup, but his brain is saying to see where she goes with it.

Steve chews, thoughtfully, then swallows and say, “Sorry, Max. We were rushing around and you were throwing up and…it was an accident.”

She glances at Billy; shrugs.

“It’s ok,” she mutters, “thanks for getting it fixed. I figure, the patch is...fitting.”

He cocks a quizzical eyebrow at her, and she shifts in her seat. “You know. It’s like us, now. It’s been beat up and put back together, but it’s mostly ok.”

He can’t help but be impressed; snorts out a soft laugh.

Mostly ok. 

“Thank God,” Steve says, sounding touched, “we thought you were going to freak.”

She pulls a disgruntled face, and Billy can’t even work up any irritation when she says, “Well I am 18 now, you know. I’m practically an adult.”

Chapter Text

The hardest part about living with them, Steve thinks, is figuring out when to step in and when to shut up. Because, they really do have their own way of communicating. Granted, listening to it is like watching a train wreck in slow motion…but still. It works for them. Usually. And, when it doesn’t, that’s when he steps in.

The rest of the time, he plays this game where he translates their arguments into what they're really saying. 

Ok, so,  maybe he takes some liberties, here and there.

What? It’s a coping mechanism. And, they bicker a lot.

Like, a lot.

What can he say? Translating their conversations keeps him amused; passes the time.

Helps him understand them.

Take right now. It’s Saturday, so they’re both home. Billy came in with the mail a minute ago. He stood next to where Steve is staked out on the couch and shuffled through it, then growled and stalked off to find Max.  

Steve stays put. He’s not eavesdropping; they’re just loud:

“The fuck is this?”

Darling sister, I’m concerned you may be in trouble, again. I’ve had communique from the school.

“How should I know?”

I’m not admitting to anything until I know what this is about.   

A flat, unimpressed, “Seriously?”

I doubt your veracity. I suspect you know exactly what this letter’s about.

He hears paper unfolding. Max takes a couple steps out of the kitchen; tiptoeing in a way that tickles his funny bone.

“Nuh-uh. Get back here.”

Please rejoin me in the kitchen, I may wish to slaughter you momentarily.

A huff; strands of red hair get blown out of her face.

My escape plan has been foiled.

“How are you failing math?”

You’re failing math. How can I help?

“Dunno. It’s hard.”

I would like to speak to my attorney. I’m familiar with your interrogation techniques, and I'm not a fan. Also, you yourself taught me to never give more details than asked for, and the lesson stuck.

“Hmm.”

I find your evasion tactics annoying, particularly since you learned them from me.

“What?”

I’m proceeding with caution, until I can discern your exact levels of caffeine intake for the day and grumpiness.

“Going to class would help." 

You will never understand the lesson, if you don’t attend the class.

“Does it, uh...say I'm not going to class?”

I plead the fifth amendment, as to my attendance record.

“Guess.”

You know perfectly well what’s in the letter. I might kill you. Seriously. It’s not off the table.

“I’m the future valedictorian?! I knew it!”

I feel threatened and sarcasm is safe. Also, there’s a miniscule chance you’ll find that funny and back off..

“C’mon Max, quit breakin’ my balls. You know I hate this shit.”

I’m not amused by your sarcasm. Failing classes are a red flag to social workers, so we have to do this, but I don't like it any more than you do. Truth is, I’m uncomfortable with my so called “authority”, in cases like this, because I prefer to think of myself as a bad ass, and lecturing you about math grades is decidedly uncool. Also, it’s Saturday, and I’d rather be cuddling on the couch with my super-hot boyfriend, Steve, who is a prince among men and a real big stud.

“Fine. I don’t get it.”

Alrighty, then. I’ll admit that I don’t understand the math. I’m not verbally committing to my spotty attendance, but it’s implied, and we both know it's in the letter. Let the record show, I only caved because you’re losing patience, and I want to meet Lucas at the quarry later, even though I will 100% tell you we’re going to the arcade. (Super stud Steve will suspect I’m full of shit, but won’t say anything, because that’s how awesome he is.) 

“Again. Go. To. Class.”

I repeat: you will never understand the math, if you don’t attend the lessons. 

“Like you went to class?”

I’m feeling defensive, now, because you’re repeating things like I’m stupid.

“I never failed math.”

Great, now I’m defensive, too. I dislike having my past brought up when I'm trying to sound like an adult.

“Big deal. Can we talk about the time you had to go to summer school for English lit?”

Reminding you of your shortcomings might take your focus off me. Plus, I’m annoyed now and willing to risk a make out session at the quarry. I mean a Dig Dug session at the arcade. Whatever.

“Just go to fucking math class!”

I’m mad. We both know I wore a black eye to the first week of summer school. We’re approaching dangerous territory, now. You're lucky I'm horny or I'd make you sit your ass home, tonight. That would suck, for all of us, especially my handsome, irresistible boyfriend, Super Stud Steve, who would totally still do me, but hates when we have to be quiet. 

Intermission begins when Max storms into the living room. She pauses to glare at Steve.  “What’re you smirking about?”

“Hey,” Billy sticks his head out of the kitchen, “watch it! It’s not his fault you suck at math!”

An unintelligible snarl (even he can’t translate that one), and she’s off to her room.

He watches the Saturday afternoon movie of the week; sips a beer and counts how many times Billy stomps back and forth between the kitchen, the living room, and the bottom of the stairs. He stands there about thirty seconds, each time; mutters under his breath, shoots daggers at her closed door, and repeats the circuit.

Occasionally, he pauses at the couch; stares intensely at the tv and asks, "Why is she such a pain in the ass?" as if he's not the exact same way.

Steve offers obligatory, noncommittal grunts and wonders if he could go watch TV at Dustin's. He probably could, but...so many cats. Also, he's never really sure if Mrs. Henderson is hitting on him or not. 

Best to stay put and wait for Act II. 

About forty five minutes later, Max comes back down, with her math book.

“Sorry, Steve.”

I’m mostly sucking up to my brother, because Lucas time is approaching fast, but I also feel a tiny bit bad for snapping at you. Somewhere. Deep down.

He winks at her, in reply; turns down the TV, and buckles in for the rest of the show.

It starts with a slam.

Hark! I have brought you my math textbook.

“What?”

I’m going to make you say it, because I’m stubborn, and I’m still stung that you brought up summer school.

“Come on. Don’t be a dick.”

Not to going to say it. We can continue this standoff, or you can help me. Decide.

Steve hears pages flipping; a chair scrapes against the floor.

A dramatic sigh.

“That’s what you’re having trouble with?”

I’m good at math, and bad at empathy. I don’t understand how something that comes so easily to me, can be difficult for others. Also, I’ll never admit it, but I know you’re smart enough to get this if you put some work into it.

“Forget it!”

You have embarrassed me, dear brother. My honor must be defended.

“Ok, ok. Jesus. Don’t be so touchy.”

I have insulted you. Half assed apologies are in order.

A pause, followed by a muttered, “Not touchy.”

You hurt my feelings.

“What don’t you get?”

Your tone of voice reminds me that you’re only a kid, and now I feel like a bully. Again.

“Any of it!”

You, sir, are an asshole. It’s my duty to remind you of that on a regular basis, even though I can tell you feel guilty, now.

Paper crinkles.

“Was this your homework?”

This is a nightmare.

“Yeah.”

I know. It’s embarrassing. Why do you think I didn’t want to show you?

A pause, then, “OK, look, here’s what you did wrong.”

Dear God, you really are terrible at this. Why don't you ever want me to help you?  Wait, don't answer that. I know why.

“Yeah, but then what do I do with this?”

No, seriously, what the hell do I do next?

“This…see? Get it?

I. Am. So. Patient. Look at me go. I’m a goddamn legend.

“I guess.”

You are so not a goddamn legend. But you were helpful. Gold star.

“Good. Don’t skip class when you’re frustrated, ok disphit? You do that when you get to college, you’ll really be fucked. Nobody's gonna make you ask for help, there.”

I know you were skipping because you felt dumb. Whatever. Been there. One more year and I’m free. Then, you’re not my problem anymore. But don’t screw it up. And you better call once a week. Maybe twice.

“You never ask for help. Hypocrite.”

Thanks.

“Fuck off, Max. Don't you have some place to go?”

No problem. By the way, I know you're really going to the quarry to fool around with Lucas. I'm not an idiot, but I'm also not calling you on it, because (a) I don't like thinking about it (nope, nope, nope) and (b) I want you out of the house tonight.   

On the couch, Super Awesome Steve (a prince among men and totally awesome guy) fluffs his hair and stretches.

Finally, some peace and quiet.

Translation? I'm jumping Billy's bones the second she goes to the "arcade".  

Chapter Text

Freak Out

“Why can’t she drive herself?”

“Because she’s having her nails done, too, she’ll need help.”

“Seriously? I don’t think her nails have ever been painted.”

“Babe.” Steve says; shoots him the world’s most exasperated grimace. “I know you hate this stuff, ok? It’s not like I asked to get called into work this afternoon. And I’ve done everything else with her.”

“Because you like this kind’a shit. Think you like it more than she does, to be honest.”

“It makes her nervous,” Steve allows, quietly, “not sure why.”

Billy knows why, but he’s not in the mood to think about it.

“Can’t she reschedule?”

“It’s prom, tonight. There is no rescheduling. Besides, I talked Sunny into giving her some extras.”

“Jesus.”

“Come on,” Steve steps in closer, turns on the puppy dog eyes, “do something nice for your sister.”

“I’m supporting her,” he huffs, “and I haven’t killed her yet. That’s nice.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, backing him up against the kitchen wall, kissing him deep. He’s got his hand halfway down Billy’s pants when they both hear a distinct ewww from behind them.

"We need to put a bell on her," Steve mutters, hoarsely. 

Billy notes the way his eyes have gone liquid black; inhales shakily.

“Fine,” he says, “I’ll take the little cock block to the salon.”

Maxine has felt off all morning. Actually, all week.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to go to prom with Lucas. It’s their junior prom. It’s their junior year. They’re having sex, for crying out loud.

Should be a no brainer, right?

Honestly, she was excited until it was time to get ready. And it’s not necessarily Steve, although his enthusiasm can be overwhelming. (She’s definitely not telling him that, though, don’t be rude to Steve is right up there with don’t lie and leave a fucking note if you’re going to be late.)

Thing is, there’s something about trying on dresses and getting made up that makes her feel like…like she’s doing something wrong.

She tries not to think about it; tells herself she finally has a normal life and this is a good thing. A fun thing.

At this point, she’s swallowed that sense of dread so many times, her gut is full of it.

Of course, Billy isn’t helping. He’s fucking miserable; not ranting and raving, at least, but far too quiet and driving like a maniac. He grimaces at the full parking lot, when they arrive.

“C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

When they open the door, the energy hits her like a slap in the face; frenetic, excited, stressed out. There are girls from school everywhere, mostly the girlie-girl types who like to snicker at her comfie old sneakers and faded jeans; whisper about her gay brother and her black boyfriend.

Yep, these are the girls she trips when the teacher’s not looking. She’s even put her fist in a few of these faces.

Ugh.

There aren’t any seats, so Billy’s standing next to her while she checks in. She stammers getting her name out; sees him cock an eyebrow out of her peripheral, but there’s no time for words. A perky blonde, whose name tag reads Sunny, whisks her away for combing and curling and endless, banal chatter.

When she finally stands back and turns Max to face the mirror, she doesn’t recognize the person who stares back.

She glances at Billy. He’s traded the poker face for an expression she can’t pin down; like the transformation has caught him off guard.

Sunny’s gushing over how beautiful she is; hair swept up with wispy curls in front of her ears. She can feel the jealous glances of other girls, too, but when she looks in the mirror, all she feels is shame.

You look like a whore.

Steve booked her for some kind of full service detailing package (is that a thing, or is she thinking of cars?) so they paint her nails, next. She endures small talk about her dress color, nail polish types, and what a mess her cuticles are (she's not even sure what a cuticle is) while her gut roils like a runaway pressure cooker.

Right when she thinks it’s over, they lead her to a smaller chair, by the door, instead.

“We don’t usually do this,” Sunny informs her, bursting with excitement over this apparent surprise, “but Steve asked.”

Max has to work very hard not to roll her eyes. This is where Steve gets his perfect hair coifed and of course, the girls all love him.

“Do what?” she asks, as evenly as possible.

Sunny grins widely and holds up a pallet of eyeshadow, in every glittering color you can imagine.

Something busts in Maxine's head. Without warning, her stomach plummets to her toes; ears going fuzzy with the sudden rush of blood and adrenaline.

You wear that to school? 

I’ll teach you to put that shit on your face.

The salon slides sideways. She grabs the back of the chair for support, but it swivels unexpectedly and she knocks over the makeup tray with a crash.

Sunny gasps, audibly; jumps back.

She’s on the floor, same as she was that day: humiliated, hurting and confused.

She can’t breathe, or, rather, she’s breathing too fast.

Billy’s there; gets her under the armpits. He hauls her to standing and steers her outside, one hand on her back and the other curled around a bicep.

“Can’t. Sit still,” she manages to get out, when he pops the car door. “Can’t. Breathe.”

She hasn’t seen that panicked expression on his face in a long, long time.

“Come on,” he says, pulling her away from the wide glass window of the salon, where leering faces are crammed together like sardines with bad bleach jobs.

He pushes her up against the side of the building. “Head down and breathe,” he orders, gruffly.

She bends at the waist; puts hands on her knees.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” he mutters. “Slow, ok? Concentrate on it.”

Sure, she thinks, I’ll just breathe slower. Why didn’t I think of that?

When Billy pats her back, hesitant and halting like he’s not sure he should, it gets easier.

Finally, she can breathe deeply. She sinks down against the wall; sits in the grass. The wetness seeping through her jeans seems to tether her to reality; grounds her. 

She can’t see his expression, because he’s still standing and the sun is behind him. Experience tells her it’s most likely tight and carefully blank.

“Made a scene,” she says, “sorry.”

He shrugs. “Not your fault.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, quietly, “you probably do. You just don’t want to think about it.”

He reaches out a hand; pulls her back to standing.

“Same with me and hospitals,” he says.

“I know,” she sneaks a glance, surprised by the admission. He rarely talks about things like this. “Does it ever go away?”

“Wish I knew, shitbird.”

Now, she can see his face; can see she was wrong about his expression, too. It’s not blank.

Not at all.

The sight of it is the last straw, and the levee finally breaks; tears and snot and arms crossed tightly over her chest. “What is wrong with me – I can’t even—and now everyone—”

She throws her fists back against the brick wall of the salon, hard. Pain blooms in welcome relief; takes her out of her head.

She does it again.

“Hey, no!”

When she pulls forward for a third, he tackles her; arms wind tightly around, pinning hers to her side. Two big steps back, and they're away from the wall. She tries to shove him off, to wrench herself free, but he’s not budging. They stand there a few seconds while she sobs and snots up his tee shirt.

Finally, the boulder in her chest shifts; tears stop.

"Done trying to break your fucking hands?"

She nods, and Mister I-Don’t-Do-Hugs gives her a hard, unmistakable squeeze, before turning her loose.

“Want to slug me?” he offers. "Make you feel better."

She shakes her head, too drained to even conjure up a smirk or an eyeroll.

“I can’t go back in there.”

“I’ll go pay, then we can leave. You sit in the car.”

“How’m I going to show my face, tonight?”

He catches her eye; holds it. “Keep your head up, and if anyone says something, punch ‘em. You have my permission.”

She snorts. “Your permission.”

“Yeah. For punching. And for hair and makeup, too.”

Suddenly, she can’t look him in the face; chooses the medal, instead.

“Just so we're crystal clear,” he continues, “Neil was wrong. It's your body and your face; your decisions. Got it?”

“Tell that to my nerves,” she says, quietly. “They have a mind of their own.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe you should make a couple appointments with Maria. Been a while since you saw her. An' if it helps…he’s dead, so It’s on me, now: blanket permission to make yourself less hideous. Whenever you want, however you want.”

He cracks that rare, goofy grin that he usually keeps hidden. It's pretty clear he's proud of himself. It's not easy to be supportive and annoying, at the same time, but he's done it.

“You’re an asshole,” she mutters, hiding the bud of a smile behind her hand.

She gets in the car and stares at her brightly painted finger nails, while he goes inside to pay the bill.

It's stupid, really, because his permission is token, at best, in this scenario. But, somehow, she feels better about them than she did, before.

“I told them you didn’t eat breakfast and you had low blood sugar,” he says, a moment later, as he climbs into the car. “Said you were dizzy. They don’t seem too bright,” he shrugs, “probably bought it.”

“Thanks.”

They study each other a few seconds. She hopes it’s obvious; she’s not only thanking him for the cover story.

“So,” he clears his throat and turns the engine over, “bacon, ice cream, or both?”

Chapter Text

Comfortably Numb

Max is in the passenger seat of the camaro, loudly singing some stupid song from some lame musical the school did last spring; one hand out the window riding air waves.

He grimaces; turns the radio off.

He’d never admit it to another living soul, but it’s actually pretty cute, how she’s so carefree right now.

Even if it is drug induced.

Even if said drugs are going to wear off soon and leave her a whiny, drooling, wisdom-teeth-less mess.

Even if Steve is working tonight, and can’t rescue him.

Still. It’s rare to see her so… pure Max, sans defenses.

In the deep recesses of his memory, he recalls how annoyingly naïve and unselfconscious she was at 6, 7, 8 years old.

Before Dad started chipping away at her self-confidence.

Before he, Billy, started his mission to toughen her up, which, if he’s honest, was at least 65% being mean to her for the sake of it.

Because it felt good to be the bully, instead of the bullied.

He cuts eyes sideways to where she’s got both arms out the window, now.

“Did you see that bird?!”

“No,” he says; mild and preoccupied with his memories. “Get back in here. Gonna fall out if you go any farther.”

She puts her butt back in the seat and sticks her tongue out at him. “No fun.”

“Nope,” he agrees with a sterling, facetious grin, “never have been.”

He glances at her as he slows, in front of the house, pulling the camaro into the garage with a bump. Red eyebrows are crumpled together. “That’s not true. You were a fun little kid.”

“Was never a little kid,” he counters, killing the engine. He climbs out of the car and goes around to her side.

“I can do it,” she says, slapping his hand away.

She stumbles magnificently over nothing, on her way out; takes a header toward the concrete floor.

“That right?” he asks, catching her with one arm before she makes contact and putting her back on her traitorous feet.

“Whoopsie!”

That, ok, that deserves an eyeroll. He’s not even going to feel bad about it.

“You were a fun kid,” she continues, on the couch now, as if no time has passed, “remember we used to go to the beach and the skateboard park and play hide and seek?”

He stares at her; pulls the poker face down like a window shade.

She’s eighteen, now. She graduated high school a month ago, and is heading for college in another.

But she still hasn’t figured it out. Or, she’s blocked it out.

He took her places to get her out of the house, when Dad was looking ready to blow; when there was a fight brewing.

As for hide and seek?

No.

They were only hiding. He just told her it was a game.

“What?”

“Nothin’” he responds, quickly, pushing his mouth into a smirk, “guess I forgot that stuff.”

“Dipshit,” she snorts, then giggles.

Fuck sakes.

He’s starting to wish he’d asked for some of that laughing gas, too.

He plops down beside her, on the couch. Suddenly, it seems real important that she not figure things out; that her version of the early years remains intact.

“Remember Sanjo’s?”

“Yeaaaah,” she grins, cocking her head like a curious puppy, “best French fries ever.”

“So I’m told,” he replies, drily, “I never got to eat many of mine.”

Another giggle. She throws arms in the air; announces, “I’m the fry bandit!”

He huffs a laugh out through his nose; spends a few seconds watching her hold a hand in front of her face and examine it. “I have stubby fingers,” she observes, languidly.

He’s not going to say anything to that. He has a private rule about commenting on her appearance. Dad did enough damage there, already.

Anyway, it’s not biological but still. She’s his sister. It’s weird.

She flexes her fingers a few times; burps loudly.

He laughs. Like, for real.

Feels good.

He's felt like laughing, even less than usual, lately. This procedure wasn't cheap, and Hank's tiny grease monkey pit sure in shit doesn't offer dental insurance. Even if it did, Max is 18, now; too old for coverage. Not that the old guy hadn't come through in other ways; chipped in almost a third when he found it was for her. Maxine baked him some terrible cookies and went down there to do oil changes for free one day, when she found out. 

After she left, they put the cookies away; only bringing them out for customers they hate - with a shifty smile, of course. 

Steve threw in about a third, too. It got under his skin, but he's learned to be quiet about it, even if he can't quite work up to gracious. 

Max paid some, but he wouldn't let her pay much. Hell, whatever she paid, he knew would come out of his pocket in the fall, anyway, when she couldn't afford books, as a result. 

So.

He scraped together the rest. 

“The dentist noticed my molar is shoved over on one side,” she says, out of the blue, tearing eyes off her fingers and bringing him back to present.

“What?”

“My molar,” she repeats, sitting up and staring at him; wide eyed, “it got shoved out of place.”

Got shoved?

Oh God.

He can literally feel the stomach acid flooding his gut.

“How?” he asks through gritted teeth; sounding harsh and not caring.

She pulls back a bit at his tone, glances over his head and giggles again.

“Steve’s mom had terrible taste.”

He follows her line of sight to the curtains on the living room window; relieved and hopeful she might forget the molar, in her scatterbrained state.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but don’t tell him that.”

“Been thinking it for 3 years,” she scoffs, “haven’t told him yet.”

Her eyes come back to his.

“It’s a secret,” she says, nodding at him confidentially, “like the tooth.”

So much for scatterbrained.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, asks, "Dad?"

“Yepper. They were fighting, and I jumped on his back.”

“Jesus.”

“I know,” she replies, shaking her head, “you said to never do that. That's why I didn't tell you. But he was hitting her and it just happened. And his elbow came back—”

She stops short and rubs her jaw.

“That was right before…you know. The garage.”

Awesome.

Right before they killed themselves. While he was in Cali screwing everything with a heartbeat and trying to put Hawkins, Indiana, far behind.

Her eyes are wandering around the room now, so he nudges her.

“Huh?”

“Sorry, Max.”

Blue eyes crinkle together in confusion. “You’re always sorry.”

He forces himself to lift a shoulder, as if she didn’t just innocently drop a thousand pound weight onto his chest. “I should’a been there.”

“But why? Not your responsibility.”

She stumbles on responsibility; rubs her jaw on the other side now.

“Well…”

She makes a tentative half giggle. She seems to sense she’s stumbled into tense territory. He can tell she’s starting to come down, by the way her jaw is bothering her, but she’s still too out of it to grasp his level of discomfort. “I mean, I know I am now. But not then,” she says, waving a dismissive hand in his face and snuggling down into the couch, “quit bein’ sorry 'bout things you couldn't help. Alright?”

He gives a tense nod; lies. “Yeah.”

She drifts away for a few minutes; eyes going in and out of focus and staying closed longer each blink. Right when he thinks she's asleep, she sits up with a start, glancing around before narrowing eyes at something across the room.

“Shit,” she mumbles, “all the way over there.”

He gazes in the same direction as her; realizes she’s referring to her nasty old afghan. Steve folded it up and set it on the love seat this morning, knowing she’d want it, later.

The bright spots where Hank's ol'lady patched it stare lazily back at him. 

He gets up, without even grumbling; grabs it off the chair and shakes it open before dropping it over her.

She burrows herself up in it; yawns big. “Sanjo’s had good pizza, too. Not like in Hawkins.”

He snorts. “That’s for sure.”

“When I wake up I’m gonna be sore.”

“Yep,” he agrees, with gusto, “and bitchy.”

Another giant yawn.

“I’ll want ice cream.”

“Way ahead of you, shitbird.”

She nods; pulls the ratty blanket up under her chin. “OK, good.”

It catches him off guard, when she sticks her sock feet in his lap, but he doesn’t move.

He spends the next few minutes watching her fall into drooling, open mouthed sleep; snoring softly.

He thinks about Sanjo’s back in Cali. Thinks about trips to the skateboard park and the beach.

Thinks about the fact that he unintentionally gave Max some happy childhood memories.

How she doesn’t think he should be sorry for anything.

And for the first time in, well, ever…he thinks they might turn out ok.

Chapter Text

Bully

September, 1988

He’s driving Max to school, the first time he sees the guy; hair in a swoop that would make Steve jealous and a brand new, candy apple red Monte. Little punk leers at Billy as he cuts him off, making him slam on his brakes and mutter, “Watch it, asshole.”

“That’s the new guy,” says Maxine, in a voice that’s clearly unimpressed. “First one since us, and an even bigger pain in the ass than you were.”

He shoots her a sidelong glance and asks, with complete sincerity, “For real?”

“Eeeeyup,” she responds, popping the P.

He pulls up behind him, in the parking lot, to let her off; watches as he gets out of the car and oh yeah, he knows this guy without even knowing him. He’s the worst kind; like if Old Billy and King Steve got together in 1984 and had a love child. In five seconds he recognizes all the arrogance and privilege Steve had, back before Nancy taught him humility, and all the recklessness and violence of his own former self, before Steve’s love and Maxine’s guardianship kicked his ass into shape.

He's parked diagonally, taking up two parking spaces in the school lot.

Really, what more do you need to know?

Billy idles the camaro; watches as Maxine heads toward the high school with this obvious douchebag not too far behind her. The kid yells something, and she flips him off.

Despite the fact that he’s been on the receiving end of that finger a billion times over the years, and sometimes still is, he’s blindsided by the urge to run the guy over.

The camaro is heavy. You don’t recover from something like that.

Five years ago, he would have chased the guy down, beaten him to a pulp, and found a way to twist it around in his brain to be her fault, so he could keep needlessly hating her. But? He knows better now, on all those fronts. Not much better, sometimes, but still. So, he pulls out and heads for work, instead. He can’t fight her battles. If he tried, he’d probably end up in prison, and her in foster care, so he has to behave.

At least during daylight.

January, 1989

The douchie kids name is Riley, because of course it is, and he knows this excruciatingly well because there has been a tremendous amount of bitching about him, not only from Max, but Lucas and the other dorks, as well.

In November, right before Thanksgiving break, they tried to enlist El to dispose of him, but Hopper overheard and had a shit fit. Billy had to go pick her up at his house, after that fiasco. He stood there and listened to the Chief bawl the kids out and privately thought to himself that, honestly, it wasn’t a half bad idea. (He sure in shit wasn't telling her that, though. By that time, he'd learned not to tell her anything she could use against him, later.)

“What happened?” Steve asked, when they got home.

He shrugged and jerked his head at Maxine, who shot him a tentative look before carefully responding.

“Hop’s pissed because we were going to have El…uh…get back at Riley for some stuff.”

He snorted. “They wanted her to drop him into the quarry.”

Steve coughed in a way that totally meant he was trying not to laugh, and said, “Oh.”

Billy was deeply entertained by the entire situation, but he'd kept his poker face on because, again, she didn't need to know that. As usual, when she couldn't gauge his reaction, Maxine opted for not pushing her luck; snatched up her duffle bag and hoofed it for her bedroom: out of sight, out of mind. 

The poker face can be very convenient. 

In any case, that was the last they heard about Riley, until now.

Now, Billy’s sitting in the principal’s office, right next to her, and she is seething so hard he can practically feel the heat radiating off her.

“You threw the first punch,” the principal says, for the third time, tacking on an exhausted sounding, “again.”

“I keep telling you – he felt me up!”

Every time she says it, he has to fight down the urge to go find that kid right now and put his head through his big, pristine windshield.

Rarely, but sometimes, he misses the way his former self conducted business.

It’s obvious his sister is telling the truth, and it should be obvious to the woman before them, as well, because the kid doesn’t even lie about fighting when it was her fault. There’s no reason to – even he’s not a big enough hypocrite to bust her for fighting.

But.

When it comes to Maxine, the principal has a blind spot that, he thinks with a pang of guilt, started way back with him.

She suspends Max (again) and they get the hell out of there before one of them says something that will further piss her off; the ever-present threat of the school calling CPS hanging over their heads.

“I’m not lying!” She bursts out, the second her butt hits the camaro seat.

“I know, and you didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m tellin’ you right now, don’t even talk to that kid again this year. Ignore him. He touches you, walk away and go right to the principal. Leave it alone,” he says, then tacks on an ominous sounding, “or else.”

“How'm I supposed to -- why are you threatening me? How is this my fault?” She demands; outraged.

“It’s not. OK? 100% not your fault. I would’a told you to do exactly what you did, in that situation.”

“You have told me to do it,” she says, pointedly.

“Am I yelling?”

She doesn’t respond to that, but she’s clearly still furious, and he can’t exactly blame her. “How can they just let him—after he---,” she sputters, then seems to stall like an out of gas engine.

“After he what, exactly, Max?” he asks, as gently as he’s able, given the fact that (A) he wants to kill this boy with his bare fucking hands and (B) logic is telling him he needs to know details, but the rest of him would very much rather not know.

She whips her head around, glares at him with cheeks that are getting pinker by the second.

“Ok, ok,” he says, “but, I gotta know, was it tell Hopper bad, or I need to kick the shit out of him bad?”

“Jesus, Billy."

“It’s my job, ok? It’s in the big brother handbook.” He pauses, "We’re talking upper body, right?”

“Yes. Co-ed basketball in gym, which is fucking stupid to start with. And I was supposed to be guarding him,” she responds, through gritted teeth, “because the gym teacher is a tool and we got paired up for drills. So, we were, you know,  facing each other -- and the second the teacher turned around he stuck his hand under my shirt and...”. She stops abruptly; stares hard out the window in a move that clearly means there are tears on the horizon and she's attempting to swallow them. It makes his entire being flush red hot with fury.

They could probably go to the school board, but frankly, that's a laugh. The only way they'd take her seriously was if Steve was there, with his big last name. And, honestly? Having her brother's gay live in boyfriend come to a board meeting, in 1989 Hawkins, probably isn't going to help her get justice. If Hopper knew what happened, he'd no doubt have a talk with the kid, but that would be all he could do. Boys will be boys is still the accepted theology, and Billy knows it very well.

"It happened really, really fast." Maxine says, quietly, from the passenger seat. "I couldn't do anything about it."

"Not your fault," he bites out, savagely.

He's going to kill this Riley kid. Right now. Slowly and painfully. Possibly his parents, too, for bringing him into the world.

He peels out of the parking lot, and they drive around for about half an hour, until she's not sitting so rigidly and he's talked himself out of doing anything that will only end up hurting her more.

Unable to decide if this is an “ice cream emergency”, or a “bacon emergency”, he ends up stopping at the store for both.

Luckily, Steve has the day off. He makes breakfast for dinner, followed by ice cream, which she doesn’t even eat all of, before disappearing upstairs.

“What are we going to do about this?” He asks, and he’s got his monster hunting face on, which Billy really appreciates, but he’s not about to tell him what’s going on his head.

Steve is a very law abiding citizen, after all, most of the time.

“I don’t know yet,” he replies, avoiding his gaze, “make them change her schedule, so she doesn’t have any classes with him but otherwise – no clue.”

Steve murmurs a dubious hmmm, but he drops it.

May 1989

There was a hiccup, with Riley, right after she went back to school in January, and he made himself jump her shit for it, even though he felt like a heel the entire time. He came to her room, later, where she’d been sulking all evening and told her he had his reasons for telling her to ignore the kid, and to trust him, but without being able to tell her why, he sounded like an authoritarian dickhead, and he knew it. He didn't blame her a bit, when she stayed mad at him for two days, after. 

But.

He had a secret plan stewing angrily in his brain, and he didn't want it being pinned on her or traced back to him. If she was constantly taking this kid’s bait, at school, and something happened, well, it would be obvious who was behind it.

So, on a quiet Tuesday evening in May, during spring break, he talks her into spending the night at El’s, because really, what’s a better alibi than “I was at the chief of police’s house all night”?

After she’s gone, he waits until late, then puts on the darkest clothing he owns, and tells Steve he’s going to the store.

“Right,” he replies, eyeing him up and down.

“What?”

“Don’t lie to me, you asshole.”

“Babe—”

“Give me five minutes to change.”

He nods, then walks out the door as soon as Steve runs up the stairs. He can’t take the camaro, it’s too damn loud, and the kid only lives four blocks away, so he cuts through back roads and wooded areas and right as the house is in sight—

“You stubborn dickhead, I told you to give me 5 minutes!”

His patience is rarely ever tested by Steve, but this is coming close. He’s already wound up; has been for months now, actually, at the thought of this punks hand up his kid sister’s shirt without her permission, and now this?

“If I wanted you to come, I would’ve invited you!” He hisses.

Steve issues a flat, unimpressed sounding, “Fuck you.”

“This isn’t your problem!”

“Oh, it’s not?” He shoots back, and now he sounds pissed, “You’ve got a lot of nerve saying that to me!”

Billy steps closer, in the darkness, reaches around to find him, but can’t.

“How did you get here before me?”

“Because I know Hawkins better than you do, moron. And I’m ‘bout sick and tired of trying to tell you we’re family now. Your problems are my problems, and this is a Max thing. I've been looking out for her since the second she first found out about the upside down. So, this is definitely my problem.”

Billy stares at the ground. He hadn’t realized Steve was going through the same protective, emotional shitstorm as he was. “I didn’t want you to get into trouble,” he mutters.

“Well,” he responds, still sounding annoyed, but also resigned, “too bad. You’re not the only one was saw red when that little shit did what he did.”

Steve must have better night vision than he does, because he finds him in the dark. He punches him in the arm, a bit harder than joking, and Billy takes it; figures he deserves it.

“So, what’s the plan?” He asks, in a voice that is clearly done getting the run around.

“Sharpened up a flat head screwdriver,” he concedes, “and you might notice a bag of sugar missing out of the cupboard.”

“Nice,” Steve responds, appreciatively.

Huh.

Apparently, Mr. Law Abiding Citizen can be shady when it comes to certain issues, too.

The idea of bad ass Steve is…tantalizing….but he shelves it for the moment. It’s late, now, and the house is quiet and dark save the dim flicker of a television, somewhere near the back. The car is parked off the side of the driveway, half on the grass, barely out of reach of the porch lights beam.

Steve crouches in the bushes outside the front door, listening for stirring, inside, while he carves a thick, screaming line down the entire passenger side of the Monte.

Billy might not have learned a ton of shit in school, but he knows how to fuck up a car. He sticks the screwdriver in his back pocket and slowly pops the gas tank. The sugar is in a plastic bag and it folds into a neat crease, allowing him to pour it all inside.

He tightens the cap back up, then they split; go home and fool around to make up.

The first day back to school, after spring break, finds Maxine sitting at the dining room table, waiting for Billy when he gets home, like he’s in some kind of trouble.

He’s been expecting this; he and Steve both, but they’re not going to crack. If she finds out they did this, she’ll think she can do it, and he already gets called hypocrite enough, as it is, thank you very much.

“What’s up?” He asks, taking in Steve’s smirk, behind her head, and ignoring it.

“Someone destroyed Riley’s car,” she says, eying him cagily, “keyed the shit out of it and put sugar in the gas tank. Gonna cost thousands to fix it all.”

“Oh yeah?” He responds; eyebrows shooting impressively upward. “That sucks.”

“Does not suck, and you know it.”

He makes a confused face at her; shrugs his shoulders.

“You’re going to tell me you didn’t do that?” She asks, her own eyebrows raising dramatically, “Right to my face?”

“I’m not telling you shit,” he replies, “other than destroying someone’s car is a very serious thing to do. A person could go to jail for it.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do they have any leads?” He inquires, with polite disinterest, as he begins shuffling through the mail.

“Well,” she responds, slowly, “they called me in and asked me if I knew anything about it, but I told them I was at El’s all that night, and they could call Hopper to confirm it.”

Billy hmms. He can practically feel Steve suppressing a snicker, behind him.

“Funny how you wanted me to stay there last Tuesday.”

He shrugs. “Funny.”

“C’mon Billy!”

“Hey,” he says, being as dismissive as humanly possible, “like I said, property damage is serious business. You shouldn’t do it.”

Maxine huffs and shakes her head, but she drops it; goes up to her room, and he swears there’s a spring in her step, that's been missing these last few months.

Saturday, when he gets up, she’s washed and waxed the camaro to a blinding, sparkly blue; vacuumed the interior and polished the leather with Armor all that she must have bought, herself.

He stands there, dumbfounded. “You feeling ok?” he asks, when she comes over to stand beside him.

“Oh yeah,” she replies, breezily, “I was thinking, you know, car washing is serious business. You shouldn’t do it.”

Then she sprays him with the hose.

Chapter Text

Stranger Things (Have Happened)

“See?” Goober points at the laptop screen like he’s some kind of mutant caveman which, he supposes, he seems like to her. “All ordered!”

He shoots her a dubious glance. “And they’re gonna bring it here?”

“Yeah,” she suppresses an eyeroll, but he still knows it was coming; watched her mother sit on about a thousand of them back in the day, “see how it says delivery date?”

She slows the last few words enough to be noticeable at the end, so he pokes her bony ribs and says, “OK, smartass.”

“You can order from dealerships on here,” she continues, with a smirk, “and some junkyards, too.”

She’s officially a teenager now (by barely two weeks), and a nervous idea worms it's way into his brain at her words.

"Oh," he replies, with a pause, "that mean they find the parts for us? We don't get-- have to go looking for them?" 

Goober glances up, and she either hates the idea as much as he does, or she's picked up his anxiety (she's too goddamn sharp at reading him). She goes a bit sheepish; rushes her words when she says, “Not many of them are online. And, y'know, I mean they probably screw it up a lot. We should still go looking and stuff.”

And stuff is how they always get out the old camaro for junkyard trips and stop at McDonald’s after. When she was smaller, he’d given her a quarter for every vintage part she could name, as they poked around in the dented up hoods and rusted off fenders. Now, he'd have to refi the mortgage to do that. 

Sometimes, her mother puts on her old converses and comes, too, but Max isn’t as interested in earning quarters as she once was. She did buy an old school ATARI on ebay, though, and she's still as competitive as ever. He and Steve go over there sometimes for beers, nostalgia, and Space Invaders. 

Goober does something to the screen with a swipe of her finger and it turns blue and white.

“This is facebook.”

“Huh?”

“Remember? You asked me what the hell is this facebook thing, the other day?”

He shakes his head at her impression of him; checks out the screen while she taps her fingers and makes his favorite parts store appear under the blue banner.

“Yeah, ok,” he replies, slowly, “but what’s the point of it?”

“It's a business page. You can rate them or ask them questions. It’s advertising,” she explains, “and it’s free, like I was telling you. I can make you an account and a business page. Then customers can find you easier.”

He cocks an eyebrow at the screen, then her. “Not so sure I want people to be able to find me easier.”

“Grunc.”

Yep, that was definitely an eye roll. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“Ok,” he responds, “ok. Go for it. But only the phone number, no address. US will shit a brick if people start coming over all hours, parking on the lawn.”

It’s 90% that he doesn’t want her to think he’s that much of a fossil, but, what the hell. Might drum up some business, too.

The air compressor roars to life and she jumps, making both of them laugh; her girly giggle dancing over his growling snicker. She types in his e-mail (he has that much mastered, even if Max did have to set it up for him and busted his balls mercilessly the entire time) and gives him a password: Goober98

“The hell makes you think I want your name for a password?” He teases, giving a red loc a gentle tug.

She sticks out her tongue without taking her eyes off the screen; makes a few more clicks and announces she’s finished.

And, just like that, he has a facebook page that he has no idea what to do with. He hears the front door open; Maxine’s voice greeting Steve inside the house.

“I’ll have to set up your business page tomorrow,” Emily informs him, hopping off the stool right as her mom sticks her head into the garage.

“What are you two delinquents up to?”

“I signed Grunc up for Facebook!”

Max bursts out laughing; is only spurred on by the evil eye he shoots her.

He mouths a sincere fuck you over top of Goober’s head.

He’s never felt so damn old.

It’s actually a couple weeks before Emily gets around to setting up his business page. She gets wrapped up in school stuff, then spring break arrives, bringing Lucas along with it. He likes to go places; always keeps the girls busy with trips to the beach, restaurants, and the retro roller rink downtown. He’s not a half bad surfer either, for a guy from the middle of nowhere. (Steve taught him. That was hilarious. Talk about the blind leading the blind.)

He’s planning to move in this summer, finally. It’s been a slow crawl to this point, partly due to the difference in teaching requirements between Cali and Indiana; partly because Max sucks at commitment. Billy can’t fault her for it, after what they grew up in, but he understood it even more after he learned about Eric.

The fact that Lucas has hung in there so patiently pretty much proves he’s the one, in his book. Doesn’t hurt that he’s been endlessly tolerant in the face of Goober’s tests to his limits. Also doesn’t hurt that he’s not a pushover, either, because she’d 100% walk all over him, if she could. He likes the way he handles her; puts his mind at ease that he can do the job without losing his shit.

And he treats Maxine like a queen.

Billy gets why she didn’t want to tell him about Eric, but it hasn’t changed a thing: anyone who lays another hand on either of their girls is still going down.

Hard.

At the end of the day, it’s a deep relief to both him and Steve, to know the person she finally settled on is Lucas. Reliable, decent, intelligent, patient Lucas.

Also, forgiving. Billy knows that better than anyone.

By the time Goober comes bouncing in off the school bus, after spring break, he finds himself loitering around the front door waiting for her. Luis aged out of the system, so they’re letting him crash there until he can save up money to find a place of his own, but he’s working ‘round the clock, and he’s not Emily.

The house has been way too quiet and redhead-free, the last couple weeks.

She must have missed him, too, because she gives him a big, tight hug before she remembers she’s thirteen, now, and pulls back into cool / no big deal mode. He doesn’t take it personally. He spent too much time stuck in that mode, himself.

“How was break?” He asks, in the kitchen, over chocolate milk, because some things change, but others stay the same.

“Not bad. I might join a teen roller derby team at that place Lucas takes us to.”

“Tough crowd,” he responds, but stops himself from saying more. Max has been on his shit about being overprotective. (”She doesn’t have our baggage. It’s good for her to get knocked down now and then, so she knows how to get back up.”)

Goober curls up her arm and flexes a tiny bicep. “I can take it.”

“Sure thing, hulk.”

She does her math homework while he gets the engine running on a ’79 Charger. By the time he bangs the hood shut, she’s finished and has her laptop out.

“We need a picture for your busin—what’s this?”

“What’s what?” He asks, coming to peer over her shoulder.

She juts a finger at the little red 1 sitting over one of the symbols at the top.

“You have a message,” she responds, thoughtfully, “bet it’s spam.”

Or an old girlfriend, he thinks with a shudder. He’s heard stories. He’s thinking about that when she clicks on the notification and the name Cheryl Hargrove appears on the screen. His hand flies out and shuts the laptop before his brain even fully engages.

“Hey!” Goober sounds outraged, “Not so hard!”

He shakes his head; takes a deep breath.

“Get rid of it.”

“What? Why?”

She stares at him, wide eyed and taking everything in.

He feels naked in front of those sharp little eyes; barks out a forceful, “Now, Emily!”

She shrinks back and turns pink at the use of her real name, like he slapped her or something, but it works. She opens the lid and makes it go away with a click of the mouse. Then, she shoots him a confused, wounded expression, tucks the laptop under her arm, and leaves the garage.

Fuck.

He takes her place on the still warm stool; tries to calm his quaking hands. He should have thought about this ahead of time; should’ve known it was a possibility. The truth is, he doesn’t really think about his childhood that much, anymore. He’s moved past Neil’s insidious manipulations and the abuse, both emotional and physical. He focuses on his own family, now, thank you very much.

He thinks about her even less; doesn’t like to dissect the reasons why.

He'd seen enough of the message to know it was a phone number.

Again, with the phone numbers. He prefers not to think about the last time she sent him her number; how it almost blew their fragile, hard won domestic tranquility apart.

He rubs a hand over his face; sits there a lot longer than he realizes, until Maxine comes banging into the house.

“What’s up with you?” He hears her ask her daughter who is, no doubt, pouting on the couch. It’s her favorite place to pout. He gets the feeling, if she still had a room there, she’d be locked in it right now, ala teen Max.

The apple did not fall far from the tree, with that one.

“Grunc’s being weird.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I was trying to help!”

Ah shit, that stings. He doesn’t move as Maxine’s footsteps approach the doorway.

“What happened?”

He shakes his head emphatically. “It wasn’t her fault, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh,” she says, studying him a few seconds, then, “well, call me if you do.”

And, she knows it’s a Neil thing, he can tell by the tone of her voice and the way she folded so easily. He stares at his hands, ignoring her gaze until she walks away. He sits there until well after dark, only getting up a few minutes before Steve’s due home from work, and even then, only to avoid more questions.

He wishes he’d never let Goober sign him up for this bullshit.

Some things are better left buried.

The thing about Facebook is, nothing ever really goes away.

Billy, of course, doesn’t know this. But Emily does.

Mom reads the name at the top of the message; glances down at her with wide, startled eyes, and says, “It’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

“Good. But, leave it alone, now, or whatever happens next will be.”

She studies her mother, closely. Mom and Grunc are like a maze sometimes; you think you know what path you’re on and suddenly it turns into a dead end.

“Who is it?”

“His mother.”

“Grunc’s mother?”

Mom nods; pulls out a kitchen chair and sits beside her. “She—I, look Em, it’s hard to explain and he definitely won’t want to talk to you about it.” She makes a sour face, mutters, “Trust me on that.”

“What did she do?”

She doesn’t answer right away; grabs an orange out of the fruit bowl Lucas bought them, in a vain attempt to improve their eating habits, and rolls it around absently. “I don’t know all of it. But, she abandoned him. She,” another pause, a furtive glance, “left him with his Dad.”

Oh. Him, she knows about. He was like her Dad, and even though it’s still an abstract concept she’s trying to work out in her mind, she knows that’s bad.

“Did she know how he was?” She asks, feeling quiet and sad, all of a sudden.

Mom nods. “I think so. Just, please, you do not want to open that can of worms with him. Whatever he does about it, he has to do on his own. Please.”

Two pleases is, like, a record, so she agrees.

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” she responds, looking Mom in the face, because she means it; figures if this is the only way she can help, she’ll do it, “I promise.”

She keeps her word. She might not understand why her mother reacts the way she does, in certain situations, but she knows when something’s serious. And this seems pretty damn serious.

She goes back over to the Uncles’ on Saturday morning. It’s not terribly early, but they must have gone out the night before, because US is still drinking his coffee when she lets herself in and drops into a kitchen chair.

He appraises her from under a curtain of unruly hair, asks, “How’s it going, lil Miss Thing?”

“OK,” she responds, with a shrug.

US isn’t half as dumb as he thinks he is. They both know she came to talk.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, pushing hair out of his eyes, “I’ve been sitting here thinking about blueberry pancakes. You in?”

“Can I help?”

“You pretty much have to,” he replies with that that boyish grin, “'cause I’m not ready to get out of the this chair, yet.”

She sighs a mockingly exaggerated, put-upon sigh; says, “I have to do everything around here. You guys would die without me.”

“Ain’t that the truth…start with the Tylenol, please.”

By the time US is fully awake and vertical, she has everything out on the counter. They mix up some batter, and she’s dropping blueberries into creamy round circles of it, before she gets up the courage to ask where Grunc is.

“Probably still sleeping,” he says, with a smirk.

He flips the pancakes; tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Finally, he glances at her.

“He mad at me?”

“Nope,” he replies, sounding as if he’s been waiting for the question, “not at all. He thinks you’re mad at him.”

She watches while he slides the last of the pancakes onto a plate. They settle in at the table (US always says no eating drippy things on the couch) and spend a minute attacking breakfast.

She’s about half way through the second pancake, when she realizes he’s watching her closely.

“He’s upset,” he says, with half a mouth full, when she makes eye contact, “but not with you. It’s complicated.”

“Mom said.”

“Well, she would know. That’s a story for another day, though,” he shakes his head. “It’s one of those things.”

She nods, knowingly; has heard this a few times before.

“It’s not the end of the world,” she says, trying to sound tougher than she feels. And, it’s not. Nobody really treats her with kid gloves, it’s not as if she’s never been snapped at before. Granted, that’s more of a Mom thing, than a Grunc thing.

Still.

US takes a swig of coffee, says, “Caught you off guard, though.”

“Yeah,” she says, “exactly. The bomb.”

“Right,” he affirms.

"When they get upset about old stuff, they don't really have any place to put those feelings, because the people they need to yell at are gone. So, they carry the bad feelings around inside them, like a bomb."

She glanced up sideways at Uncle Steve, beside her on the swing; stuck her fingers in her mouth.

"Sometimes, the bomb accidentally goes off, and anyone standing near it gets hurt," he continued. 

"But, it's not fair!"

"You're right, and you can tell them that, after they calm down," he said, twisting in his seat and wiping her tears with his shirt sleeve. "I'll even help you do it. Just because they got hurt, doesn't mean they can get away with hurting others."

"Well," she paused, thinking hard, "they don't do it a lot."

"Hardly ever, since you came along," he said with a wink, pulling her up into his lap. "The real thing to remember is, it's not about you, so try not to feel like it is."

"Don't take it personally," she mutters to herself, aloud and in the present. 

US nods at her; asks, “How’d you get so smart?”

“Born that way, obviously.”

"Hmm. Or you had some really smart uncle around to tell you things."

"Nah."

US laughs; throws his balled up napkin at her and fakes a horrified face when she sticks her tongue out, in response. 

She takes another bite of pancake; chews it thoughtfully.

“But, one thing I don’t get is – his mom’s still alive. He could get...that thing. What's it called? When somethings...settled?"

"Closure?"

"Yeah. He could get that, with her. Not like his Dad. I mean, she's still alive, so, why doesn’t he want to talk to her?”

“That’s the complicated part.”

“Wouldn’t it make him feel better to talk to her or yell at her or whatever he needs to do?”

US takes a breath like he’s going to answer, then stops himself. His eyes focus above Emily’s head, out into the living room.

“Mornin’ babe.”

Emily sinks down in her chair, then straightens back up again, when US shakes his head ever so slightly. She’s fairly certain Grunc heard the last part of their conversation, but it doesn’t show on his face. He tugs her hair, on his way to the coffee maker and says, “Junkyard trip, today, Goob. Already cleared it with the boss lady.”

US winks at her, and she hides a happy grin behind her hand. She knows what this is. This, is what she secretly thinks of as a Grunc-pology. That’s when he doesn’t say he’s sorry with words, but makes it up with his actions, instead. Usually, they take the old camaro somewhere; he lets her play her music, and they do something fun like junkyard picking, mini golf (which he sucks at and normally refuses to do) or ice cream.

The re-emergence of fun uncle is enough to chase away all her more serious concerns. 

Or rather, it is until a few days later, when she stumbles across him having coffee with a woman who looks exactly like him. 

Technically, she’s not supposed to be at the mall by herself.

And, technically, she’s not. She’s with two other 7^th graders.

But. She doubts mom would be amused by her reasoning, so when they round a corner and she sees him sitting there, she stops short and takes a few steps back.

Grunc might be the fun uncle, but he also says the mall is a pedophile’s wet dream (eww) and she’s 100% certain he’d blow her in to Mom. His good humor always tends to end, where her safety begins.

Her friend Katie turns around; raises eyebrows at her, so she shoots her a text. Look in coffee shop.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzes in her hand. Uh oh. Hot uncle at 3 o’clock.

Seriously, Katie? Ugh. Gross.

She texts her back an eyeroll emoji, then, Catch up w u tomorrow.

From where she is now, it’s not too hard to slip into the store across the hall, if she walks in the crowd. Once she gets there, she positions herself behind a rack of outdated sweaters; peeks out.

The idea of Grunc hanging out in the dainty mall coffee shop would make her giggle, under normal circumstances, but this does not appear to be a laughing matter.  

He looks like he does when he’s royally pissed at mom; arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyebrows knitting together, eyelids at half-mast. His legs are splayed out under the ridiculously small café table, most likely because they won’t fit, otherwise. The woman across from him, holy crap do they ever look alike, is leaning toward him; talking earnestly.

He shakes his head, once, but very emphatically; she puts her hands together and places them on her chest, leaning even closer. All at once, Grunc is up; almost takes the table over with him in the process. Emily ducks down lower, to be safe. This doesn’t exactly seem like the best time to get caught some place she’s not supposed to be, spying on him, no less.

The lady stays at the table, even after he stalks away. She puts her head in her hands and Emily feels her heartstrings tugging tight.

It’s not difficult to figure out who this woman is. And, she’s supposed to be a terrible person.

But.

She seems so sad; it roots her to her spot behind the ugly sweater rack.

When she finally gets up and starts walking away, Emily follows.

Precisely one bus ride and two blocks later Grunc’s Mom finally slows in front of a tiny, wood frame store that’s tucked in between two larger, brick buildings.

Em stops across the street and squints into the sunlight to read the sign; is says HOPE, in large, peeling letters, with Second Hand Shop, in smaller ones, below.

She debates what to do next, chiding herself for being a scaredy cat. There’s no way this lady will know who she is, and at this point, she’d be in so much trouble if she got caught (she is officially way out of their neighborhood), she might as well get something out of the risk.

Tiny bells tinkle when she pushes the front door open; it’s glass and surprisingly clean, considering the state of the building. The woman, Cheryl, she corrects herself, is setting her purse down behind the counter; glances up at the sound.

“Hi there,” she says. Her eyes still look sad, but her voice sounds easy enough.

“Uh, hi.”

Smooth, Em. Real smooth.

“Can I help you with something?”

No thanks, just looking.

She knows that’s what she needs to say, but it’s not coming out of her mouth. Her heart is fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, in her chest. There’s a hand made sign right by Cheryl's head that says volunteers needed, and the next thing she knows she hears herself blurt out, “I’m here to volunteer.”

“Not coming after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, for a while,” Goober says, over the dinner table, staring steadfastly at her plate as she does.

“Oh yeah,” Steve glances up at her, “how come?”

It’s Sunday, which means they’re having dinner together. They definitely aren’t religious, but this is the only day Steve always has off, and it’s really important to all of their gastro intestinal health that he do the cooking. (They used to take turns, but Maxine gave them all food poisoning a few years ago, and hand to God it was worth it, because it convinced her to stop “helping”.)

He sincerely hopes Lucas knows his way around a kitchen.

“Science project,” Goob mumbles, “with Katie. She has to go right home after school to watch her brother, so we’re meeting there. Probably all marking period.”

Billy studies her a few seconds; doesn’t say anything. Max always fidgets when she lies. He’s never told her that, because then she’d stop doing it, and it came in pretty damn handy when she was a teenager. Sometimes, it even comes in handy, now, to be honest. But, the bigger issue is: Emily does it, too.

He watches her fiddle with her napkin as Max remarks, Jesus Christ, at how long it’ll take, and asks what it’s about. She gives a vague topic for an answer; doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t complain about the assignment, or at having to go to Katies twice a week. He notes how her eyes dart up at him and right back to the food she’s pushing around Steve’s favorite dinnerware.

Reluctantly or not, he’s been doing this parenting shit a long time, now, and he can tell when something’s off. He considers calling her on it, but then he remembers he hasn’t been a pillar of honesty, lately, himself.

He'd agreed to meet up with his mom, after overhearing what Goober said about closure. He thought maybe she had a point, so he gave it a shot, and quickly realized that, somehow, he still wasn't ready.

He feels guilty as fuck that he didn't tell Steve. He shares everything with him. 

He glances up at Goober's anxious little face, and decides to let it go; returns to his food, instead.

Cheryl puts her to work right away. She doesn’t ask her age, or if her parents know she’s there, or any of the other things she’s been worrying she might. She does ask if she knows how to sew, and Em quits chewing her fingernail long enough to say yes, a little.

A few years ago, Mom got it in her head that she didn't have enough girl friends (this is what US calls extreme irony, by the way), so she put her in 4H for a while. Emily hated it. The woman running it only wanted to teach them things girls were learning in home ec during the 50’s, and scowled whenever she mentioned the uncles.

It was only a few months before she started flat out refusing to go, and when Mom tried to call in muscle, Grunc laughed right out loud and told her she was being a hypocrite. He seemed to really delight in calling her that, too, for some reason.

That’s your apple, Maxine. Didn’t fall too far.

Finally, she explained to mom about the elderly fascist who ran the thing, and that sealed her as the winner of the 4H battle, but not before some basic sewing had been crammed into her head.

Cheryl perks up. “Can you embroider?”

“What’s that?”

A soft laugh, and she stands up to point toward a curtained off doorway. “Here,” she says, “follow me.”

The back room is smaller and more cramped than the front part had been. Cheryl pulls a pair of jeans out of a neatly folded stack and unfurls them to reveal a beautiful rose, sewn over the knee in red and black. Em goes breathless, looking at how pretty it is.

“Did you do that?”

“Yep,” says Cheryl, sounding proud of herself, “and I can teach you, if you want. See, there used to be a hole there. A lot of the clothing I get for the women’s shelter is pretty beat up, so I do that after I patch things, to hide the repair.”

Now that she’s seen it, she notices the whole back room is full of exquisitely hand detailed items. There are posters here and there with arrows for women, men, and children.

“Is this, like, a separate store from the other?”

Her eyes light up as she nods. “The other part is my business. This part back here is a charity, that’s why I need volunteers.”

“A charity?”

“Yeah,” she replies, quieter, rubbing her fingers softly over the rose, “I work with a battered womens shelter. Sometimes they leave and they don’t have anything; all these clothes are free to them. I get them from donation boxes and fix them up, with the money I make from the business part.”

“They’re all so beautiful,” Emily replies, staring around with wonder.

“Well,” she comments, softly, “they deserve nice things. And, the more help they get, the easier it is for them to leave. Some women have to leave everything behind to get out. Even their kids…” Her voice trails off, and she takes a deep breath, “Anyway, let’s see what you can do!”

He stares absently out the front room window, waiting for the school bus. It’s partly that he misses her presence, in the afternoons; partly that he thinks she’s up to something, and he’s anxious. Billy’s instincts are screaming at him, about what it is, but he’s closed the Mom subject so firmly, he doesn’t feel like he can re-open it, now.

Not even to share his suspicions with Max or Steve.

The school year is almost over; mercury on the thermometer creeping higher every day. Soon they’ll be spending their days camped out at the beach or hiding in the air-conditioned house, with not a hell of a lot in between.

Gets him thinking.

Of all the shit his father ever did to him, from the relatively harmless smacks upside the head to the fractured rib that seeded his fear of hospitals; he didn’t even lift a finger for the worst of it.

There weren’t any welts or bruises when he kept him alienated from his new family, by pitting him and Max against each other, or insinuating that Susan didn’t like him. She has her own kid. One it’s not too late for. Not like you, with your faggot hair and your stupid earring.

Or, when he insisted the camaro be put in his name, even though Billy paid for it with a thousand mowed lawns and surfing lessons given to handsy, middle aged women. He used the power in that signature to keep him dancing like a marionette; knew it was his only hope for escape. You’ll stay right out of how I handle your sister, if you want to get out of this place. Don’t forget my name’s on that title.

The worst of it happened on a warm, spring day like today, right after his mother left. It was so disarmingly gentle that it slipped right under his already well-honed defenses and got him where it hurt; not a broken bone in sight.

“Hey, quit cryin’, will ya?”

The touch at the back of his bowed head was uncharacteristically soft; affectionate even.

“She’s not worth it. None of them are.”

She is. She is worth it, but he knew better than to talk back, particularly about her.

“C’mon, son. It’ll be ok. I’m gonna toughen you up; teach you how to be a man.”

He found himself wondering how much tougher he needed to get.

“What kind of woman leaves her kid behind,” he heard him mutter. He wasn’t sure if Dad was talking to him, or himself; didn’t really matter much. “Fucking whore. Sleeping around all over town. Getting’ high. Sticking me with her responsibilities.”

The hand left the back of his head and he tensed, involuntarily, wondering where it would land, next.

“Probably for the best, anyway, you’re already such a pansy, the way she always coddled you.” He snorted out a wet chuckle, like this was some kind of inside joke between them, “Hell, that’s prob’ly why she took off in the first place. Couldn’t stand your whining. Lucky for you I’m made of tougher stuff than that.”

Yeah.

Lucky.

The sound of a rickety school bus pulls him out of his thoughts; clears his head. Goober comes inside, and he makes her the usual: chocolate milk. They normally hang out at the counter, and she lets him in on all of the day's middle school gossip.

She’s been a bit more reticent with the information, these past few weeks.

“How’s the project going?” He asks, casually, as she cracks a book open on the work bench in the garage. She’s got her play clothes on, now, a torn up pair of jeans and a—“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“On your knee.”

“Oh,” she responds, going a bit pink but sounding proud, “it’s called embroidery. I fixed my pants and I made a little butterfly there.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

She shrugs; goes back to her homework without another word.

Goober supposedly doesn’t know he met with his mother; definitely doesn’t realize there were similar butterflies embroidered on the purse she wore to meet him.

He doesn’t want to believe it. He knows damn well both Max and Steve warned her about getting involved.

“How’s the project going?” He asks, again; more pointedly now.

“It’s going good,” she mumbles, suddenly engrossed in seventh grade global studies.

“What did you say it was? I forgot.”

He leans against the counter; watches her intently. “I told you,” she says, without looking at him, “it’s a volcano.”

“Huh. Your mom made one of those once, too.”

Yep, she did. Susan helped. Seems everyone on the planet has made one at some point…everyone but Emily.

Which is why she doesn’t know it only takes a couple days.

He’s staring at her now, watching her get squirmy. She offers up an unsure smile, fidgets with her pencil, and goes back to homework.

Emily has got herself backed into a corner, and she knows it.

She also knows it’s going to blow up in her face, eventually, but she’s so enthralled with this new person in her life, that she pushes everything else right out of her head.

Cheryl is, literally, the kindest, most patient person she’s ever met. Under her tutelage, Emily learns fast. She’s already mastered sewing a patch with the machine, and several basic embroidery stitches.

HOPE is pretty quiet on the weekdays, so they usually work together; knees side by side. Em loves the soft, shiny embroidery floss in it’s rich rainbow of colors. Cheryl’s workshop windows are covered with light, gauzy bits of fabric and she keeps mason jars of brightly hued water on her windowsills.

It’s like working in a kaleidoscope.

She always claps her hands together when Emily gets there; big smile on her face and a glass of chocolate milk. She almost fell over the first time she saw that. She wondered how she knew, and then it hit her: she didn’t know. Grunc got chocolate milk after school, from her, not the other way around.

She's told Em that she’s an old hippy.

She's told her she loves purple, and lunar moths, and thunder storms.

She's told her she struggled with drugs, in the eighties, and how hard it was to get clean.

She's told her she was an only child; that she was very sheltered.

She's told her she went to community college and married young.

Emily doesn’t say much at all. What can she? You’re my uncle’s mom, which makes you family, even if he hates you. And, I’ve always wanted a grandma. So, I broke every rule and lied to my family and came here to sew patches on pants with you.

That’s…not going to cut it.

It’s taken three weeks, but Emily finally gets up the courage.

“Did you have any kids?”

Her face contracts the tiniest bit, flattens out, almost like Grunc’s when he’s being stubborn. She doesn’t answer right away; mouth working around the large embroidery needle that’s clamped between her teeth, while she rolls out some floss. Finally, she says, “Yes. I did. But, I lost him.”

“Oh.”

Emily concentrates on the new stitch she just learned, making bright golden zig zags back and forth over a pair of ripped shorts. She wishes Grunc could be here now; tied up maybe and gagged, so he’d have to listen.

Cheryl puts her sewing down; seems to draw into herself.

“My marriage was bad. That’s why I started working with the women’s shelter,” she says, softly, “to try to make up for what I did.”

Goosebumps pop up on Em’s arm, despite the coziness of their surroundings. Her voice comes out much smaller than she’s ever heard it before when she asks, “What did you do?”

“I had to leave my son behind. His father was abusing me, and I didn’t have any money, because he didn't want me to work. The man who offered me a place to crash wasn’t any better, to be honest. Guess my taste in men wasn’t all that great in those days,” she glances up at Emily; embarrassment painted on her features. “I was naïve. I thought he wanted to help me but he really wanted…well, anyway, he said he wouldn’t take my son, but we could get him later.”

“But, you didn’t?”

“Couldn’t, is more like it,” she says, an edge coming into her voice that Emily’s never heard before, “by the time I realized the new man wasn’t worth a damn, either, and saved up some money, it was too late. His father had moved him away from me. I didn’t have an address or a phone number or anything.”

Emily’s stares at her, wide, and she bows her head.

“It wasn’t like today,” she goes on, softer, “there wasn’t any google and I couldn’t afford a private detective. The police would only say I abandoned him.”

“You’re not a bad person,” Emily whispers, and means it.

Whatever else happens, she knows that much is true.

Billy takes a customer car, which is the kind of shit he’d actually get fired for, at a regular job but, fuck it, he’s the boss.

And Goober would recognize his car.

The red hair makes it easy to find her, as soon as she comes out of the school building. (Max used to complain about that all the time; said she wished she had “regular colored hair” so she was harder to identify.) She talks to Katie for a few seconds, then waves goodbye and walks off in the opposite direction.

His heart plummets into his gut.

He almost loses her, when she gets on the city bus; keeping up with that thing as it lumbers in out and out tight spaces, especially in a customer’s classic car, is tricky.

When she finally gets off, it’s in a not-so-great part of town, and he’s struck by how small and vulnerable she is in this setting. He has half a mind to go grab her right now, but he takes a deep breath; tightens his knuckles on the wheel.

She goes into a tiny, run down shop, and he makes himself wait five minutes before he follows.

When the bells tinkle over the door, Goober and his mother are standing side by side, talking softly with their heads together. They glance up at the same time; both mouths falling open.

He’s afraid to move for a few seconds, so he stands there and tries to breathe.

Emily finds her voice first.

“Wait,” she says, coming around the counter, “before you get mad.”

“Too late,” he growls, snatching her arm when she gets close enough.

Cheryl looks between them; realization dawning in her face.

“Is she Maxine’s—”

“Yes!” He snarls.  

“Oh my—I didn’t know! I told you I wouldn’t bother you anymore and I meant it! I would never-"

He doesn’t wait for her to finish. He tugs on Goober’s arm, and when she doesn’t immediately move, he swoops her up; tucks her under his elbow like he’s carrying a package. When he gets to the car he shoves her into the passenger side, notes his mother running across the road toward them, and gets down to eye level.

“You move out of this car, you’re gonna be sorry. I promise.”

“She was only curious,” Cheryl says from behind him, panting. “What’re you going to do? Don’t hurt--”

She stops short at the expression on his face, clearly realizing her mistake. He’s so fucking offended, he almost loses what’s left of his shit right there in the street. “You’ve got me confused with someone else, lady.”

That must be mean enough, finally, because she steps backs; stunned and wounded. He climbs in the driver’s seat, cranks over the engine and barrels into traffic.

"How did you find her?" he demands; jaw so tight he can barely talk.

"I saw you at the mall," she admits. 

Oh, that loosens his jaw up, alright. He can't help yelling, now. “And how the fuck did you think this was going to play out, huh? All these lies?”

Goober looks at him with wide, frightened eyes and shrinks back in her seat.

The little voice points out that he’s scaring her; that she’s not familiar with this side of him, but he ignores it.

“Answer me!”

“I didn’t know! I just wanted to see for myself!”

“See what? How much trouble you can get into?”

“No,” she responds, quieter, “see why you hate her so much. And maybe, what it’s like to have a Grandma.”

His chest contracts; hard and painful.

“I don't hate her.”

“Ok, but—”

“But nothing," says, voice flat, "quit trying to change the subject.”

“She was coming back for you!”

He doesn’t respond; can’t, he so upset. He’s heard the story before, about Neil moving away; about the man who wouldn’t let her bring him. It’s all part of a swirling noise of pain and mistrust that he can’t even begin to sort out.

“She’s been sewing all those clothes to help other women. To make it easier to bring their kids.”

He pulls up in front of her house; stares straight ahead.

“You have until 7 tonight to tell your mother what you’ve been up to. After that, I’m doing it.”

“Grunc—”

“Get out.”

When she was small, almost so little she can’t remember, Emily had a fascination with fire. She knew she wasn’t supposed to touch the lighter or get near the blow torch; but it was so beautiful the way the blue turned to orange when flames exploded from it’s tip.

She’d seen Grunc light it a thousand times; figured she could get it turned on and back off again, before he returned from the bathroom. She turned the gas knob as high as it would go (high enough to blow us right off the map, he told her later), grabbed the torch, and tried to flick the lighter.

Once, twice.

Before she could give it a third try, he was there with terrified eyes; cracked her on the butt so fast it seemed to shock him as much as it did her. It wasn’t the first time anyone had done it (do not set your 3 matchbox car pile up on fire on Uncle Steve’s front porch swing or repeat the word faggot to Mom, after you heard it at school) but it made her burst into tears and then his eyes filled up.

Making Grunc tear up like that, broke her heart more than anything else in the world. 

Until today.

Mom gets home about 40 minutes after her, and she’s still crying so hard she can hardly breathe.

“Jesus,” she says, sitting on the couch and pulling Em into her lap, “are you ok? What happened?”

She tries to explain but everything comes out in a rush, making her mother grab a tissue out of the box on the coffee table and order her to calm down. “Come on,” she says, “breathe with me.”

Mom takes several slow, deep breaths and she does her best to follow.

It helps enough that she can talk. She tells her the whole story while staring at her hands. When she finally has everything out, she cautions a glance at Mom’s face.

It’s perfectly still, but she does gather her up closer with both arms.

“Grunc’s going to hate me, now, too!” she wails into her work shirt.

“Ah, no.” Mom pushes her out to arm’s length and grabs another tissue; dries her tears. “That’s not possible.”

“But it is! He didn’t forgive his own mother, why would he forgive me?”

“Not the same.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Look, Em,” Mom says, giving her another squeeze, “he forgave me for every dumb thing I ever did and there were a lot. Including trying to get him to talk to her once, myself.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” she grimaces, “it wasn’t pretty, but he forgave me. He’ll forgive you.”

Emily’s not too sure about that, but she doesn’t respond. It seems like an unwise time to argue. Especially now that Mom’s getting that hard glint in her eye that means she’s pissed.

“Does that mean I’m not in trouble?’

“Oh, you’re totally in trouble. You promised me you’d leave it alone, and then you told about 45 lies and rode the bus to a shit hole neighborhood all by yourself.” She pauses, “But. I do understand your motives.”

She gets off the couch and puts her shoes back on. There’s an edge in her voice when she says, “Get yourself into a bubble bath or something, and calm down. I’m going to go have a chat with him.”

Shit.

“You can’t yell at him! That’ll make him hate me more!”

Mom gives her a hard look. “You don’t exactly get to dictate how I react to this. Got it?”

Emily nods; waits until she leaves to start crying again.

He’s punched the bag until he can’t lift his arms anymore, and now he’s drinking a beer, splay legged at the kitchen table; torn between wishing Steve was home and being grateful he’s not.

When Maxine pulls into the driveway way too fast and storms toward the house looking ready to slug him, he realizes he’s poked the mama bear.

Shit’s about to get worse, and part of him relishes it. She’s a formidable sparring partner, and she’s not afraid to tell him the truth.

Part of him is afraid of what she has to say.

“She thinks you hate her!” she hisses as she bursts through the door, slamming it healthily behind her.

He squints up at her; genuinely surprised. “What?”

“You heard me! You told her to get out, she thinks you’re going to cut her off just like your mother!”

“That’s ridiculous. I told her to get out, because I didn’t want her to see me lose my shit, Max.”

“Oh, well, excuse me, then. Not sure how she ever got the idea you’re an unforgiving person.”

His adrenaline spikes, and he gives her the deadliest glare he can muster; climbs out of his chair. “Forgiven you for plenty.”

“Yeah? You think that was a one way street?” she scoffs. “Like I didn’t have to do any forgiving? Like you didn’t terrorize me every day in that car and break my shit? Or try to beat up my boyfriend? Like you didn’t leave me there the first chance you got?”

“That was low,” he growls, “I was a kid. It was every man for himself in that house, and you know it.”

“Which is why I forgave you! You had reasons – things that were beyond your control, and so did your mother! You want to talk forgiveness, let’s talk about Steve!”

He takes a step closer; pokes her in the chest and say, “No. Too far.”

Fuck her.

Fuck this.

He’s going to walk away but she grabs his arm and the touch makes him recoil. Next thing he knows, he’s screaming. “She left me with Neil! She wouldn’t take my calls or answer the pitiful goddamn letters I wrote! The worst beating I ever got was when I tried to run away to get back to her! Then there was Neil mind-fucking me, making me think it was my fault she left!”

The expression on Max’s face is enough to make him stop short. She’s not scared but she’s…sad.

For him.

And, shit if he can take sympathy from her. Never has been able to.

He drops back into his chair.

She pulls the opposite chair out with a scrape; sits down, hard.

“Feel any better?”

“No.”

She sighs; grabs his beer bottle and takes a long pull. “It’s not as easy to leave, as you think it is.”

“Max—”

“No, listen. Please. If Eric hadn’t been in that car crash, there’s a good chance it would have taken me years to get away from him. And that’s without a kid to support.”

“You’d have had us,” he offers, quietly.

“Maybe. You know how Neil kept us all alienated, not just from each other, but everyone around us. Family, friends, didn’t matter. Anybody got too close they were out. Same with Eric. Remember how I stopped calling you guys?”

He doesn’t answer but, yeah, he remembers.

“They keep their victims alienated. That’s what they do. And Em says your Mom was an only child. She didn’t even have a pain in the ass brother to come around and put the fear of God in him.”

He snorts.

“Lucky Cheryl,” Max mutters, drily, cracking a sad grin at his scowl. “Even if you can’t justify what she did, it was still over 30 years ago. How long are you going to punish her? She’s tried to make up for it.”

“I know.”

“And now, Emily loves her, you keep cutting her out, you’re hurting both of them.”

“I know.”

"She's not going to live forever, either," she says, quieter.

"Jesus, I know, Max. You think I haven't been through it from every angle, a million fucking times?" 

She gets up; grabs two more beers out of the fridge, and sits back down. They drink in silence for a few minutes. She’s peeling the label, as usual; dissecting it like it’s frog day in Biology class.

He groans. “Steve’s not going to like how I handled this.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, “but, you know he’s going to tell you the same thing I did.”

“Yeah. I do. Super annoying how you guys are on the same page, all the time.”

“You have Emily,” she retorts, with a grin.

He shifts in his chair; thinks about what he can possibly say to Goober, to make her understand. There's nothing on earth that could make any of them hate her. He knows he sucks at words, but this is probably going to require them. 

“What’re you gonna do with her?” he asks.

“Probably the same thing you did to me," she rolls her eyes, "but I'll skip the brutal silent treatment part."

And the almost backhanding her into next week part.

They stare at their respective beer bottles; neither saying it.

"Sorry," he mutters. 

She shrugs; breaks the spell with a flippant, "Whatever, asshole." 

"Hmm."

"Don't even."

He gives her his best all-purpose-kiss-ass-I-want-something smile.

"You are a soft old--" 

"Watch it."

"She went to the mall by herself, tailed your mother way out of the neighborhood, and lied to all of us for weeks. All I did was make a phone call and set up a meeting. But, you think I should go easier on her."

"She can't help being smart and curious."

Max shakes her head. "Oh, is that what we're calling sneaky, these days? Does it hurt to be wrapped around her little finger that tight, or what?"

"Fine. But, I'm pulling rank. She still gets to come hang out with me after school."

She grimaces, but she'll go along with it, he knows. 

"And, you shouldn't follow my lead on anything," he continues, more seriously. "Those days, I was still pissed off all the time; didn't know what the hell I was doing. I was tryin' to get shit through your really hard skull, but the only reference point I had was Neil."

Max glares a warning, but doesn't say anything. Once, Steve ratted him out; told her Billy secretly thought he was a shitty guardian. Next time she saw him, she straight up threatened him: quit being so fucking hard on yourself or I'll kick your ass, swear to God. 

It's ridiculous, of course. 

But.

She does have a hell of a right hook. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“She's cute?" he offers, in a last ditch effort.

"So was I."

"That's debatable," he teases, collecting their now empty beer bottles and throwing them in the recycling (Steve is a freak about the whole green thing). "Just, don't be too hard on her."

“Oh my God,” Max shakes her head, ruefully, “you’re such a hypocrite"

“Do you need more, or will it reach?”

Emily squints up at Grunc, who shifts his weight and flops the end of the Christmas light string down for Em to see.

“No, I think we’re good,” she replies.

Cheryl looks a thousand times happier than she did in all the time she was sneaking down to visit her. Emily knows; it’s more than Christmas joy.

Every Saturday, someone drops her off to come help with the charity shop. The first time, back when school was getting out and she was finally done being grounded, it was Mom. (Grunc may or may not have snuck her out to the go cart track while she was grounded, once...or twice. He said to make sure Mom didn't find out, though, because he was always real stubborn about letting her off the hook and she'd never shut up about it if she knew.)

Cheryl hugged Mom very tightly, the second they walked through the door. “I’m so sorry about the last time I saw you, Maxine.”

“It’s ok,” she said, into her shoulder with a muffled voice, “you didn’t know.”

“Still, I never should have opened my big mouth.”

Mom shrugged, cheeks turning pink, “After your ex, anything Billy dished out was child’s play.”

The older woman stood back, appraising her at arms length. “I guess we have more in common than I thought.”

“More than you know,” said Mom; clearing her throat loudly and swiping an arm over her eyes. “You think you can use another set of hands around here? I can't sew for shit, but I can do other things."

And, just like that, Mom started coming on Saturdays, too. She and Cheryl have wine and make Shirley Temples for Emily. They talked about the uncles a lot, at first, and whether or not Grunc would ever come around.

One time, when she had too much wine, her mother slipped and called Cheryl Mom.

She turned fire red.

"Jesus, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."

"The wine," said Cheryl with a giggle. She glanced at Mom and swirled the burgundy liquid around in her glass, thoughtfully. When she spoke again, she sounded shy. "We haven't known each other long, but it feels like we have. I mean, if you want, you can call me that. You're Billy's sister..."

Her voice trailed off, and Mom patted her knee. 

It was the first time Em saw herself in the bigger picture; realized she wasn't the only one missing something in her life.

Uncle Steve met her on that same day, after Mom called and told him she couldn't drive home. He came waltzing in, ruffled Em's hair, and said, “How long until you’re driving age, again?”

Cheryl gave him a hug, too, and for a second Emily thought it was going to be a battle of the epic huggers, to see who would let go first. Then, she said, thank you for taking care of my boy, Steve, and US fell apart all over the place.

Grunc was last. At first, he only dropped her off out front. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t say anything about it, either. Mom said she could make up for breaking her promise, by making a new one, and keeping it: don’t pressure your uncle about going in with you. And that includes making mopey faces or crying. 

Along around fall, when the temp was starting to drop and it was time to shop for school clothes, HOPE blew a lightbulb. That’s when she learned something new about Cheryl: she’s terrified of heights.

“I promised Mom I wouldn’t bug you to come in—”

Grunc cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Ok, ok. She needs someone to go up on a ladder and change a lightbulb. That’s all. Maybe Mom or US can do it, next time. It’s only she’s afraid of heights, and I’m too small.”

“I know she is,” he muttered, so quiet she almost missed it.

When they got there, he stayed in the car until she crossed the street, then she heard the door slam; turned around to see him making long, determined strides toward her.

“Let’s go,” he growled.

Cheryl kept her distance when he came in, like he was a wild animal she didn’t want to spook.

Didn’t really matter, her face said it all.

“Where is it?” he asked, gruffly; turning to follow his mother's finger when she pointed to the ladder, propped up in the corner.

He fixed the light and went home.

It was a start.

In October, she needed help hanging Halloween decorations. He came and went with no fanfare whatsoever; talking most only to Emily.

But, he was there.

At Thanksgiving, they had a family meeting, and decided to invite Cheryl to dinner. Emily, Mom, and US chatted with her and laughed, carefully keeping the conversation rooted in the present.

Grunc stayed quiet; drank too much beer.

He'd said he was ok with it, but now...

“Don’t you wanna talk about the old days, Mom?”

US was pissed, after she made her hasty, embarrassed retreat. Emily was too, but she wasn’t about to fracture their bond again, so soon. She and Mom sat on the couch and listened to Uncle Steve tell him he was being a huge child and a selfish asshole because you said you were good with it, or we never would've done it! 

She helped Grunc do the dishes, later, when the house was quiet with uneasy silence; kept her thoughts to herself.

“Sorry, Goob,” he said, after a while, “I’m doing the best I can. I swear. Really thought I could take it, but once she got here…”

“It was harder than you thought?”

“Yeah.”

He nudged her, gently, and she threw a handful of soap suds at him.

“Maybe you can tell Cheryl that. Instead of me.”

The following Saturday, he came inside, even though nothing needed fixing. He and Cheryl went out into the store, in a far corner where Em couldn’t hear.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like eavesdropping.

They stayed there a very long time and when she peaked out, he was letting her rest one of her hands on his loosely crossed arms. When they were finished, he came into the back to say goodbye to her; pulled up short and stared when he saw all their treasures.

“She says they deserve nice things,” Emily said, showing him a shirt she was repairing in teeny, tiny stitches.

He stared down at her a few seconds, then said, “Yeah, I guess they do.”

Now, it’s almost Christmas, and they decided to have a family get together at the shop. US is helping Cheryl get out food and chatting with her about cookie recipes; Mom and Lucas are in the back, she's giving him a tour and making space for everyone. Grunc is on the ladder hanging lights and getting more commentary than he probably wants, but he's not complaining.

Later, they eat too much and talk, and for the first time they all seem completely relaxed. They exchange small presents that they drew names for; the room going quiet in soft light, when Grunc hands one to Cheryl.

“Oh,” she says, “but you didn’t have my name.”

“I’m your son,” he replies, “I’m allowed.”

She stares at him a few seconds, and he doesn’t glance away.

Cheryl’s not a crier like her and Mom, but Em can tell she wants to. She clears her throat, tears off the paper and opens the box.

It’s an incredibly ugly coffee mug that says MOM on it.

“Figured I owe you about 35 years of tacky coffee mugs,” he tells her.

“Honey,” she replies, “you never owed me a thing.”

Chapter Text

Hey, Jealousy

“So, Steve and Nancy used to date?” Evie asks, for the second time, batting her eyelashes.

Max glances down the table at Jonathon, to see if he, at least, is sharing her discomfort, then to Billy. The former seems completely oblivious, gazing at his girl like she walks on water (almost as gross as Evie’s tactless flirtation); the latter looks…amused?

He thinks it’s funny.

Fuck sakes; the shit he finds funny. Nine out of ten times his response to her attempts at humor end with a deadpan face and a nice try, shitbird. But this? This makes him smirk?

Steve’s leg bumps into hers under the table, and she glances down in time to catch Billy’s hand on his thigh.

Ah, so that’s how he’s dealing with it. Marking his territory, even as Evie piles one compliment on after another.

“Gross,” she mutters, giving Steve an elbow; scooches over onto the other edge of her chair. She’d move it down a few inches, if they weren’t crammed around the table like sardines; the Hawkins gang having all come home for Thanksgiving to join them, along with Hopper, Joyce, and Evie.

Lucas, bless him, changes the subject. Granted, he’s 100% sucking up to her; trying to rebuild their friendship after having dumped her via pay phone, the previous winter, but she appreciates it, anyway.

At least someone else thinks this is bullshit.

She sighs and pushes potatoes in a circle around her plate. She likes Evie, she really does, but this turn of events has her blindsided. It started the second they roared up the driveway, the other girl perched on the back of the cycle. Steve made a big fuss over her roommate’s arrival, showing her around the house and asking what she liked to eat, so he could stock the fridge. She, on the other hand, got yanked into the garage for a rather intense ass chewing about how she shouldn't be driving double, already, courtesy of Billy.

She knows she’s partially to blame for the situation. She’d explained to Steve, when she called to ask about bringing her, how Evie and her mom don’t speak; how she had nowhere else to go. And, once Steve’s motherless kitten response system has been activated, there’s no going back. She knows that better than anyone, but, Evie doesn’t. In fact, she seems to have mistaken it for genuine interest. She’s been hanging on his every word since that first introduction, asking about his parents and his job; volunteering to help in ways Maxine never thought to.

The whole thing is disgusting.

When Evie starts raving about his cooking, she excuses herself; hides in the bathroom until dessert.

“Oh, I see, so you put extra cinnamon and vanilla in it?”

“Yep! My mother taught me that.”

“And how many eggs did you use?”

Max rolls eyes to her brother, who’s sitting at the opposite end of the couch. Evie and Steve are in the kitchen; him showing her his super-secret French toast recipe and her acting as if she’s hearing the cure for cancer or something.

Billy’s too engrossed in some stupid cop-blows-everything-up-and-nobody-bats-an-eyelash type movie, to notice.

She unfolds one leg from under her butt; aims a sock footed kick at his leg. It’s not very effective, since her leg isn’t quite long enough to do more than graze him, but, somehow, he manages to get a hand around her foot before she can reel it back.

Quick as ever.

“You have a muscle spasm?” he asks, nonchalantly; eyebrow cocked. "Or did a fly just land on me?"

She bites back the fuck off, on the tip of her tongue, while he makes a production of pretending to look for the fly.

She wants his cooperation more than she wants to tell him off.

This time.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” she asks, tossing her head toward the kitchen.

“What?”

He's the picture of boredom; puts his eyes back on the television.  

“You know what,” she hisses.

“Hmm.”

“I’ll turn the TV off.”

“And I’ll break your fucking fingers.”

She giggles.

OK, fine, maybe he’s not the only one with a warped sense of humor.

“C’mon,” she wheedles, “you know what I mean.”

Billy sends an exasperated eye roll in her direction.  

“Doesn’t bug me, ok? It’s not going to get her anywhere, and it gives him an ego boost.” He pauses; eyes her more closely, “Question is, why’s it bother you so much?”

She yanks her foot back. “It doesn’t.”

That makes him laugh.

Bastard.

“You got trouble on the horizon,” Billy says, watching with supreme interest while Steve pulls his shirt over his head.

He slides it the rest of the way off, then pauses, shirt still in hand and eyebrows set to huh?.

“Jealous woman,” he responds to the unspoken question. The image of Max, earlier, sunk down in the couch with a pouty face and arms across her chest, flits across his brain. “Kid,” he amends, thoughtfully, “woman-child. Brat. All of those work.”

“Babe,” Steve says, sitting on the edge of the bed to get his socks off, “what are you talking about?”

“Evie’s got a crush on you.”

He laughs. “No shit.”

“Hmmm.”

He unbuttons his jeans; glances over his shoulder. “Sure you don’t mean jealous man-child-brat?”

He growls, low in his throat; doesn’t miss the way the pants start coming off faster. “Not concerned,” he says, “I’m good at what I do.”

Steve chuckles; skin crinkling around deep, soft eyes. “Yes. Yes you are.”

Billy inhales deeply and tries to reel his libido back in. He’s been watching Max stew about this for three days now. He ignores it, because he's still annoyed at her recklessness (she's only been driving that thing two summers and now she thinks she can just throw an extra hundred pounds on the back?!) and, also, because he doesn’t like to feed her moodiness.

Still. 

It’s bugging her, and that’s secretly bugging him.

“I meant Max.”

“Max?” Steve repeats, nose wrinkling, “That’s just—”

“Not like that,” he replies, holding back a dumbass, because he’s pretty sure he has a shot, tonight. “I mean, as in she’s never had to share you with another kid before.”

He turns full around on the bed; dubious. “She’s never not shared me,” he counters.

“I don’t count. She’s been sharing shit with me since she was six years old. And the nerds all knew you first. Evie’s different.”

“That’s crazy.”

"S’not. I can see it. She doesn’t care about the attention you get. The attention you give, though. That’s another story.”

He can tell Steve’s still not buying it, but he’s just so damn adorable when he’s being dense.

“Time to stop talking about Max,” he says, watching as those brown eyes go liquid black.

Steve doesn’t seem to be in any condition to argue.

Steve’s bare feet pad into the kitchen, early Saturday morning; hair a rat’s nest on his head and nose leading him to coffee.

Max is already there; drinking out of his favorite mug and banging it on the table after each sip, like she does when something’s irking her.

He pours himself a cup, takes a sip and, “Jesus," he sputters, "did you make this?”

It’s terrible, even for her; somehow both weak and acrid.

“I know,” she replies, sounding touchy.

He takes another sip. Good God.

“This is an insult to coffee drinkers everywhere,” he teases, wondering if it’s beyond repair or if he can doctor it up with milk and sugar.

He wanders to the fridge; pops the milk top and takes a sniff because the Hargroves are fucking heathens who will put it back even when it smells bad, rather than dump it.

Max glances at him while he pours an indecent amount of milk into his mug; doesn’t return his cheeky grin.

If she only knew how many of Billy’s mannerisms she’s picked up, he thinks, as she tips her chin up, lowers her lids, and goes expressionless.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, sitting across from her. Max might be moody, sometimes, but she’s not at can’t-take-a-joke level sensitive. Something’s bothering her, and it’s more than his take on her coffee.

“Nothing.”

“Huh. Why are you abusing my favorite cup, then?”

She glances at the mug in her hand; sets it down carefully and mutters a petulant, "Am not." 

Billy’s words from the night before rattle around in his brain. Even in the light of day, sitting across from a clearly disgruntled Maxine, he thinks it’s crazy. She’s probably working through some leftover Lucas stuff, brought on by seeing him Thursday, or maybe a touch of PMS, which always hits her hard enough to be felt the whole house through.

“So?” he prods.

She glares; cheeks turning pink but mouth staying closed.

“I was only teasing about the coffee,” he lies.

She rolls her eyes and starts to get up, “Yeah well, excuse me but nobody ever showed me any super-secret recipes.”

“Whoa, hey! Not so fast.”

And, look, he’s not Billy, but he manages to get enough edge in there for her to pause; sit back down on the edge of her chair, slowly.

“Come on, Max,” he says, gentler, “for real?”

Arms go up and across each other. He wonders if she realizes what a huge tell that is, for her.  

“I know it’s dumb,” she says; glances at him and then lets it all out in a rush, “but you showed her how to make French toast, which I still don’t know how to do, and you bought all her favorite foods and stayed up all night with her the first night talking about the stupid Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

“Uh, excuse me, but I buy all your favorite foods every time you come home. And you hate Rocky Horror. So does Billy. I’m not passing up a chance to talk to someone about it.”

She levels an incredulous glare. “You glowed all the way through Thanksgiving dinner because she wouldn’t shut up about your stuffing and asking about your skin care routine and bringing up how you used to date a girl. That was just rude to Billy.”

He feels his eyebrows shoot up in amusement; tries, unsuccessfully, to make them behave. “So, you’re mad because you think it’s disrespectful to your brother? Who, by the way, couldn’t care less?”

She huffs, then deflates into her chair. “Not really. I mean, he can take care of himself.”

“Oh boy can he ever.”

If looks could kill, Steve’s pretty sure he’d be pulseless at the moment. “Not funny.”

"Fine. But, for the record, I’m really not into girls. I can’t go both ways, like he can.”

“That was to prove something to Neil,” she says, waving a dismissive hand, “you know that, right?”

“I do,” Steve says, “but I wasn’t sure you did.”

“Duh.”

He grins. Billy’s such a ridiculous hard ass about her being rude to him, he actually enjoys it when she hits him with the attitude; like an inside joke between them.

“Nancy was the only girl and it was not comfortable.”

Max holds up a hand. “I get it. It’s just…I don’t know.”

“You never had to share me before?”

He finds himself wishing the attitude would return, when her face turns sheepish. She might be a 19 year old college sophomore, but, in some ways, she’s still the 13 year old seventh grader he first met. And, that face is the exact same picture of embarrassed dread she used to wear, whenever she got busted doing something stupid.

That face has never failed to make him feel bad for her.

“Sounds so lame,” she groans.

He exhales through his nose; shakes his head. “I’ll be damned.”

“What?”

“Billy said that was your problem. I guess even a blind squirrel gets a nut, now and then.”

“Jesus,” she replies, derisively, “I hate it when he’s right.”

Steve laughs, and, after a second, she joins him.

It's enough to lighten the mood.

“Listen,” he says, “you’re practically my sister. Evie’s a guest. I’m being polite to her, you know? You’re family. We don’t need to be polite.”

“I know,” she replies, grudgingly.

He studies her a few seconds, then, “Love you.”

Her eyes jerk up, quick, same as all the other times he’s said it; startled. He wonders, fleetingly, if Lucas had the same experience; if there will ever be a day she's not surprised someone said it to her. 

“You too,” she mumbles. It's not the words, but that's ok. He knows that's the best she can do, and, anyway, her response to sharing him with Evie has already said it loud and clear. 

“She’ll be gone tomorrow. You live here. And, honestly, if it bothers you that much, you never need to bring her home again. Problem solved.”

She sets the now-empty coffee mug on the table, and he nudges it closer to him, protectively; makes her smile.

“So,” he says, “you want to know how to make the super secret French toast recipe?”

The terror on her face is priceless. Maxine's kitchen mishaps could be their own tv series. 

“You know me,” she responds, hurriedly, “I’d rather eat it than make it.”

He laughs right out loud; can’t stop himself.

“I knew that from the start,” he replies, pushing the mug back toward her, “why do you think I never showed you?”

Chapter Text

Steve Harrington Vs. Pneumonia

Billy’s heart is pounding fast enough to keep time with the music that’s pouring through the phone line between him and Max’s dorm. He hates calling this fucking pay phone; these kids who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground acting like it’s some big burden to get his sister on the line.

And tonight is so not the night.

He doesn’t even smirk when some girl yells over the music tell Maxine her hot brother’s on the phone, although his mouth does twitch when he hears Max tell someone she’ll break your fucking fingers if you touch my ass again. After all, he is the one who taught her the best way to break a finger, before sending her out into the big, bad world.

He might not know much about college, but he knows a lot about hormonal 19 year old boys, having been one not all that long ago. 

“Helloooo.” She sing-songs into the mouth piece, at last, and fuck it all, she’s drunk.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound like he’s not in the middle of a panic fueled melt down, “I need you to come home.”

When she responds, she sounds a lot more sober. “What? Why?”

“Steve’s sick.” He grunts into the phone; hating the admission of it, hating his weakness and his father for giving him a seemingly life-long fear of hospitals. “I need,” he pauses, licks dry lips, “you know I mean…it would be better if you were here.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“You will not.” He barks, “Come in the morning, when you’re sober. I don’t need two of you in the hospital.”

He doesn’t care that she gets drunk off her face at college; hasn’t cared about that in a long time, actually, as long as he knew where she was. But, she better not be driving that two wheeled death trap while she does it. 

There’s a pause, and her voice goes soft on the line. “He’s in the hospital?”

“Not yet, shitbird,” he sighs; too exhausted for the tough act, “that’s what I need you for.”

By the time Max hangs up the phone, she’s feeling positively sober. Billy said Steve was just getting over a cold, when it had suddenly gotten much worse, two days ago. He tried to get him to go to the doctor but Steve was being a stubborn moron about it, and now it’s Saturday; doctor’s office is closed and Steve is struggling more by the second.  She can still hear Billy in her head, If the dumb shit had gone on Friday like I told him to it would be fine but….

The but being, now there’s no place to go but the ER, and her brother has a well-earned thing about hospitals.

She really wants to drive straight home, but if she knows Billy, she’ll be dead even if she survives the trip. Anyway, she’s seen enough SADD posters around campus to know she shouldn’t, so she heads for the library instead; spends an hour looking up symptoms for everything from pleurisy to pneumonia. She goes back to her room and paces around; thankful her roommate seems to have passed out elsewhere.

By 7:30 a.m., she’s on the road; wet, spring air lapping at her face, a decent sized hang over, and roughly 4 hours of sleep under her belt.

“Jesus,” says Billy; bags under his eyes and a giant cup of coffee clutched in one hand, “how fast did you drive?”

She scoffs. “Learned from the best.”

He stares with glazed eyes. He doesn’t even give her his patented if I did it, you shouldn’t lecture, and she finds that even scarier than the late night phone call.  

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he pauses, stares into the depths of his mug, “m’just tired. He was making a lot of noise; talking in his sleep and hacking up weird shit. Then about 3 he started to….” Billy shrugs; trails off.

“He started to what?”

“I don’t know, Max, like…rattle? I guess? Gurgle?”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.” He glances at her feet; shifts his weight and runs a hand through this hair.

Max understands what isn’t said: he was afraid to fall asleep.

She isn’t familiar with the soft side of Billy’s fear, and finds it disarming, at best. She knows the hard edge of it excruciatingly well, thank you very much, but this is uncharted territory. She puts on the poker face she learned so well from him, and follows obediently when he says, “C’mon”.

They’re only a few steps toward the bedroom when an awful, wet noise greets them; sounds something like a cross between a cough and a gag. She sees his back tense and his tired, shuffling gait is replaced by a few quick strides that have him at the bed side in no time flat. By the time Max gets there, he’s lifted Steve up to sitting and is rubbing his back. It’s so uncharacteristically tender that she feels like an intruder.

He lays the back of his hand on Steve’s forehead.

“That doesn’t work.” She remarks, absently, suddenly needing to fill the air with the sound of her voice.

“Always works with you.” He chides; smirks at the pink creeping up her neck, then he’s back to pinched face and furrowed brow. “He’s burning up.”

Steve’s got a glob of reddish green mucus on his shirt that reminds her of demodog goo; her own anxiety spikes at the sight of it. That's not good. She goes for the thermometer; comes back and hands it to Billy. “We need an actual number.”

He nods and, for the first time in his life, does what she asks, with no argument.

It’s fucking terrifying.

“What should we do?” He asks, gazing at her over Steve’s tangled mop of hair. She’s tempted to respond with bust out the Farrah spray, to break the tension, but the beseeching look on his face stops her. She’s only ever seen him show that face to Steve; and rarely, at that.

She stares back, wordlessly. It’s obvious what they need to do, but he seems unable to take the step, by himself. Every previous ER trip in his life involved fabricated stories; lies to social workers and his father hissing threats at him all the way there. (A year later, in the middle of a mid-level psychology class, to be exact, she’ll learn the term PTSD and a lightbulb will come on in her mind, but at the moment, all she knows is Billy’s shutting down.) It crystalizes in her mind, so strongly it makes her have to sit down. He literally needs her here, not just for convenience or moral support.

The fact that he’s willing to admit it, is testament to how much he loves Steve.  

A wave of fierce protectiveness washes over Max. Fuck Neil, she thinks, bitterly.   

When they get to the Hawkins ER, they’ve got a shivering Steve wrapped up like a mummy and Max is driving the camaro.

Billy’s not even attempting to back seat drive. It’s all kinds of wrong.

The woman behind the counter has a bee hive that’s been dyed some unfortunate shade of orange and a bad attitude. She takes one look at the boys and rolls her eyes; pulls the pen out from behind her ear very slowly.

“Steve Harrington,” Maxine says, “I think he might have—”

“Oh, I know who they are.”

“Maxine.” Billy’s voice is a low, threatening grumble, behind her.

She promptly ignores it; whips around at them, instead, and points at the bank of waiting room chairs. “Sit.”

He gives her the hairy eyeball, but he’s too tired and shut down to really complain. She glares at him like he's an errant toddler; waits for him to take Steve and do as he’s told, then turns back to the receptionist.

She smiles. “Meaning?”

“Everyone knows who they are.” The lady responds with a snort.

Max takes note of her name as she leans in, close. “Yeah, well, Sharon, everyone also knows Miss Clairol 49 isn’t working on you, but here we are.”

“Young lady—”

“You’re going to treat them exactly like you treat everyone else.” She pauses; moves closer and eyes the woman up and down, “If I remember correctly his father donated enough money here that there’s a plaque with his name on it somewhere.”

“Fine,” she says, smug enough to make Max want to slap her face off, “but only family is allowed in with him. You two will have to wait out here.”

She goes to close her window, but Max gets her fingers around the edge. “Wanna bet, lady?” she hisses, “If you can get off your high horse long enough to check his records, you’ll see that my brother is listed as his emergency contact and next of kin. That means he can go in.”

Color is creeping up in the woman’s cheeks, now. She casts her eyes around, nervously, at the attention they’re starting to draw. She’s glaring fiercely but it only makes Max want to laugh. She grew up with Billy Hargrove, for fuck sakes; no middle aged woman with a bad dye job can intimidate her.

Finally, she breaks eye contact. She shuffles some papers; seems to regain her composure. “Fine. Have a seat, but I’m warning you, it can take hours to verify that sort of thing.”

Maxine doesn’t budge. She clears her throat and loudly announces, “I can’t believe you’re denying care to a man with pneumonia! Do you have any idea how many people he could infect while he’s waiting out here?”

“Lower your voice before I call security!”

“You do that. The sooner I’m out of here, the sooner I can make some phone calls, myself. I figure I can get forty…maybe fifty college students protesting out front by lunch. I’m sure you’ll enjoy explaining to the board of directors that you are the one who delayed Steve Harrington’s processing and brought all that bad press down on their heads.”

OK, that’s a total bluff. She knows, like seven people at college, tops, and there is a fledgling gay alliance on campus…but no way do they number more than fifteen. Still, she pulls it off with enough bravado to make it convincing.

See, despite everything her brother ever said on the topic, she knew being a good liar would pay off, some day.

Troll lady starts muttering under her breath about the moral degradation of society and sexual deviants, and Maxine swears for a second she can see red. She pulls back, hard. She's not consciously sure what she’s going to do with that fist, but, said brother is behind her again, now; has her by the elbow before they can find out.

Sharon glances up at the sudden movement; narrows her eyes, but it happened so quickly she can't quite figure out what she's missed.

She sighs like it’s physically paining her, but she does finally pull out the necessary paperwork.

“Saw that punch coming.” Billy mutters on their way back to the chairs.

“Sorry.”

“Nah, Shitbird, you did good.”

Max actually stumbles over her own feet. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Fuck off." He responds, but it's got no heat, and it can't put a damper on the fact that he just paid her a compliment. 

Steve is in the hospital for three and a half days.

Not long after they finally get him into a room, a nurse who looks to be about 4’9”, with a poorly covered tattoo and a take no shit attitude, pulls Maxine into the bathroom.

“You're not going to have any more hassles,” she says, looking her right in the eye, “I got myself assigned to this room, on purpose.” She shrugs, “My sister likes girls, you know? I mean, who cares, right?” Max is overwhelmed with the urge to burst into grateful tears, but manages a nod. “Anyway, I heard what you said to that dragon lady at the front desk. I’ve been wanting to tell her off for 6 years now.”

Max waits until she leaves and has a mini meltdown; spends twenty minutes splashing cold water on her face, after, so her red eyes don’t add to Billy’s stress level.

When she finally comes out, he’s sitting at Steve’s bedside, looking determined…but distinctly caged; like a wolf, contemplating chewing his own foot off to get out of a trap. His face is hard enough to be granite-smooth, and he keeps casting suspicious glances into every corner of the room. It’s as if he expects a social worker or cop to pop out and yell surprise! We know it was really your Dad who broke those three ribs in ‘79!

She stands over him, nodding at the metal bedrail where his fingers are wrapped white-knuckle-tight, when he looks up. He doesn’t respond, so she gently pries them off; finds herself both stunned and alarmed when he lets her.

Beyond that rail, Steve is in some kind of clear, plastic chamber that they have strict instructions not to remove or enter, so she drags a chair over as close as she can get, and they sit side by side.  

They spend much of the next 12 hour period in those chairs; watching Steve sleep, and cough, and gag. He's such a harsh shade of pale gray, his skin is giving the starched, white hospital sheets a run for their money. Nurses come in to change IV bags and shoot him up with penicillin; to dutifully report O2 levels and point at chest x-rays.

Max knows that Billy isn’t hearing a word anyone’s saying; not really. She tries to pay extra close attention, but it’s overwhelming; leaves her feeling like she’s taking an algebra test and forgot to study.

Kallie, the nurse who has taken them under her wing, must notice, because she brings her a notepad with Hawkins Memorial printed at the top, and two matching pens. Then, she brings in juice and crackers; orders Billy to eat with such ferocity that he does, at least until she leaves.

Every time Steve coughs or gags (or moves, really) his fingers go back on that rail and he shoots Max a face that is somehow both blank and terrified. It’s almost as if he’s in his own plastic chamber. He can mime his emotions, but not really grasp them.  

They wind up pushing the call button so often that an unfamiliar night nurse yells at her.

“Look,” Max explains, quietly, “it’s not my fault. Can you go in and tell my brother what to worry about and what not to? Because you really do not want him losing his shit in there.”

Billy doesn’t stop pushing it, in fact she’s perversely relieved to notice he pushes it more after that; means his incorrigible ass is still in there, somewhere. When the night nurse comes in again, looking harassed, she pretends not to notice.

Kallie must catch wind of the situation, because when she comes back in the morning, she makes a list of things that are “call button worthy”; puts it on the tray table she’s wheeled between them for snacks.

They’ve been there almost 36 hours when she informs them Steve’s mostly out of the woods. What he needs now, she says, is to sleep, and she catches Maxine’s eye; shoots a significant look in Billy’s direction. He still looks like a wild animal in a cage.

She waits until Kallie leaves, then casts him a wary, sidelong glance. “Go home and take a shower.” She says, with more authority than she actually feels, “You smell like a foot locker. And you need to sleep.”

She needs to sleep, too, but she brushes that aside.

“No fucking way.” He responds; toneless and immediate.

“C’mon Billy, he’s sleeping,” she pauses, gets up to stand over him, “I won’t leave the room. I swear. You can be back in an hour.”

He shifts his focus from Steve’s face, to hers; doesn’t even bother to respond.

He’s not budging.

“At least get some—"

“If I leave, I don’t know if I can make myself come back!” He hisses, “Got it?”

She stares at the top of his head a few seconds; briefly entertains the very satisfying notion of punching him right behind the ear. Then she sighs, goes to stretch her legs in the hall and see if she can sweet talk Kallie into more coffee.  

When she comes back, he’s passed out in the chair. She whispers wake up Billy, then shrugs; grins smugly at his gangly, unconscious form.

Kallie comes in a few minutes later, and they pop the recliner part of the chair out, ever so slowly, then perform the world’s quietest high five.

He sleeps for seven straight hours.

Billy awakes red hot, when he realizes night has turned into day, and he missed it.

“I tried to wake you up.” Max says with nonchalance that is, mostly, bullshit. He’s towering over her, and, between the crazy hair and the whole wild animal vibe, he’s actually pretty fucking menacing, at the moment.

Granted, it’s a change of pace from glazed and anxious but still, not fun.

“How hard did you try, exactly?” He asks; eyes narrow and somehow still red rimmed.

Self-preservation keeps her from telling him: it mostly involved her unashamedly letting him snore while she watched MASH reruns all night; occasionally whispering hey, wake up, followed by, oh well, I tried.

He’s still glaring down at her, so she groans and say, “You needed sleep. And nothing happened while you were out. I would’ve gotten you up if it did.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever? Listen, asshole, I love Steve, too, and I’m trying to be here for you, so quit being a dick!”

He turns his back without another word; no doubt intending on a lengthy, frigid, silent treatment, when Steve mumbles from behind the plastic barrier, startling both of them.

“Always knew this was how I’d go out.”

Billy’s legs seem to give way. He lands on the very edge of his seat, and Maxine immediately regrets calling him a dick, even if it was, technically, quite accurate. She clears her throat; shakily asks, “You mean pneumonia?”

“No,” he responds; voice weak but distinctly sardonic, “with you two bickering in the background.”  

Billy makes a snort that could pass for a laugh or sob.

“Everything hurts,” Steve opens his eyes, then closes them again, “even my eyeballs. How long have I been here?”

“Two days.” Billy responds tonelessly.

“Oh, babe,” Steve’s eyes shoot open and he winces, “you’ve been here for two days? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” he says, gently, “not like you got pneumonia on purpose.”

Steve fumbles for a spoon; checks himself in the reflection. “Oh God, my hair.”

“Yeah,” Max puts in, drily, “that’s been our main concern, too. I mean, your blood oxygen was only 83%, your BP was down to 80/50 and you had a fever of 104, but we were like, priorities, people -- have you seen his hair?”

Billy is staring at her with an expression she’s never seen before.

“What’s that mean,” Steve mumbles, “83%?”

“Well,” she pauses; rubs the back of her neck where it’s getting inexplicably warm, “the nurse who admitted you said, it’s how much oxygen is in your blood. It tells how well you’re breathing and 83% is bad. You got up to 88% after 24 hours and this morning you were at 93 so that’s…why are you looking at me like that?”

Billy shakes his head; heavy lids go down like window shades.

She glances at Steve, questioningly, but all he’s got for her is a weak shrug. “What’s the rest of it, Dr. Mayfield?”

“Your blood pressure was low,” she continues, eyes darting between him and her weirder-than-usual acting brother, “and they were worried about something called Bacteremia, so they pumped you full of penicillin. And your temp was back to normal as of last night, but it was all over the place for a while.” She pauses before shyly admitting, "I took notes."

Billy still isn’t looking at her, though he does sigh, loudly, and glance longingly out the window.

“You took good care of us, Max.” Steve says; eyes blinking slowly before finally falling closed, again. “Just gonna rest my eyes, then we can go home.”

“Yeah, sure buddy.” Says Billy, shaking his head, but Steve is already out.

Fifteen or so minutes later, Billy stands in front of her; feet planted.

Max is flipping through a dog-eared copy of Seventeen that Kallie conjured up from one of the waiting rooms and watching him from beneath her lashes. He’s been pacing; more stable on his feet than she’s seen him all week. Something seems to have prodded his wheels into turning, whether is was his anger at having slept or his relief at Steve regaining consciousness, she's not sure. Maybe both. Whatever it was, his body language is more direct, now, like he knows where he's going after three days of wandering. He's not quite up to the usual cocky, yet, but he seems to be getting there.

“I hate this fucking place,” he mutters savagely, as if he's explaining something she didn't already know, then sighs, “come on, let’s go for a walk.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t be a smartass, you heard me.”

“I’m not—” she tosses the magazine on the snack tray, “dude, half an hour ago you yelled at me for letting you fall asleep, now you want to go for a walk?  Sorry if I’m surprised.”

“I know.” he responds, softer. He doesn’t offer any explanation, but he’s clearly waiting. She climbs out of the chair; glances down to see if there's a permanent Maxine-shaped-ass-print in it, yet. 

She yawns so widely that it actually hurts her jaw.

“When’s the last time you slept?” He asks; assessing her through heavy lids.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. At school, maybe?”

“Hypocrite." He smirks mischievously.

“Takes one to know one.”

They sneak into the maternity ward and check out all the miniscule, mostly bald, potato shaped bundles, before winding up in the cafeteria.

“No more coffee.” He orders, hustling her past the row of gleaming Mr. Coffee machines. “You need to sleep.”

She settles for a giant piece of coconut cream pie, instead; follows him to a deserted table in a relatively quiet corner.

The pie goes down rapidly, in silence. Billy’s gazing at her with that funny expression she’s been trying to ignore, but he breaks it when she smiles sweetly at him; rolls his eyes and digs another crumpled dollar bill out of his pocket for her.

“You’re one big, hollow leg.” He notes, not for the first time in her life, when she returns with more pie a minute later . She opens up wide and shows him the half-chewed contents of her mouth.

It makes him snort. "Nice."

“I can tell you’re dying for a smoke,” she points her plastic fork at him, “pie would help with that.”

He hmmms, but doesn’t get up.

“What’s your deal?” She asks, finally, cringing inwardly at how much she sounds exactly like him, “Spit it out.”

“You took care of everything.” He responds, slowly, gazing at her so intently that it makes her wants to crawl under the table. It occurs to her, suddenly, what finally popped his brain into gear. “I mean, I heard them tell us all that stuff but I couldn’t…it sounded like I was under water. So, thanks.”

“Don’t. Please. OK?” She pushes away the last bite of pie crust; an old insecurity creeping into her stomach. “It’s too weird. I mean, why wouldn't I take care of things? We're family. It's my job.”

“It’s not your job. It’s my job." He responds; stares at his hands like maybe he can actually hear Neil harping on him for being irresponsible. "I fucked it up, this time. I put it on you.”

“You did not!” She snaps, surprised by her own ferocity, “It’s not your fault; the shit from when you were little. And I'm not 15 anymore, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Tryin' to say--”

“I know what you're trying to say,” she blurts, “but you can’t thank me, because that makes me an outsider who did you guys a favor, like I’m not part of the family.”

Like it's you and Steve and I'm on the bench. God, she thought she put this to bed in 11th grade. 

“Jesus, Max.” He sits back; huffs a frustrated sigh, “When are you gonna figure out -- you are the family?”

Days later, back in her dorm room, she’ll process the sentiment behind his words, and cry so hard her roommate will flee to the library. And then, finally, it will really be put to bed. But, for the moment, she’s exhausted and overwhelmed, and she’s had enough of this bizzaro-world version of Billy.

She jumps out of the chair; goes for a forbidden cup of coffee. When she plunks it down in front of her and shoots him a challenging grimace, he shakes his head.

“You’re going to be up all night, again, now.”

She takes a giant, exaggerated gulp, then sets the cup down and flips him off with both hands. It makes him laugh; low, comforting rumble over the cafeteria din.

It's worth the scalded tongue.

“Go home and get some sleep." He orders; voice clearly announcing that he's on board with the subject change. It reminds her of how he sounds when he finally gets back behind the wheel of the camaro, after being stuck in the passenger seat. "Should prob'ly get to school, soon, too. I’m sure you’re missing all kinds of nerd-stuff right now, and that shit's not cheap.”

They study each other a second, before she sticks her chin out, says, “I’m not leaving until Steve comes home."

“Fine, but in the meantime, don’t drink all my beer.” He says, “I know how many are in there. And get some sleep -- I mean it. And once Steve can travel, we’re coming down there. I wanna be introduced to the kid who was trying to feel you up the other night…..”

Max grins like an idiot. He’s warmed up now; briskly moves on to and you can't shit me, I know you had to be doing 80 to get home that fast -- swear to God, Max, you drive that fucking thing over 70  again, I’ll burn it to the ground.

She shovels the last bite of pie into her mouth and nods. After seventy two hours of shell shocked and shut down Billy...she could listen to this all day.  

Chapter Text

1. Missing / Alternative Scene to The Last Time

This picks up with Steve coming home from work and finding Max asleep on the couch, in The Last Time, then hopping in the shower. It would have replaced the smaller version of Billy explaining her abandonment issues. Ultimately, it didn't work with what I'd originally written, and I really liked, so I scrapped it:

Steve comes home from work; wanders into the living room and pauses at the shock of red hair, barely visible behind the arm of the couch. 

"What's this about?" He asks, because, most weekdays Maxine disappears into her bedroom; walkie squawking away with gripes about teachers and homework for the rest of the evening.

Ah, wait, that's right. No walkie, no phone, no leaving the house. She's probably bored. 

He stares down at her for a second, wrapped up in that blanket that would fall apart if she ever tried to wash it. He secretly thinks of it as her security blanket, because it always makes an appearance when she's shaken, though he'd never point that out to her. 

And there she is, looking like some kind of granny square burrito. 

Well...shit. Maybe she's more than bored, after all.

Ugh.

He'd come up with the idea of taking off on her, in a fit of frustration, with the sole intention of making a point. He was sick and tired of worrying about where she was, and terrified that Billy couldn’t take many more of her disappearing acts. He never did ask what was in his head, when he started dragging her off by the hoodie, that night, but, whatever it was, he is sure of one thing: it wouldn't have ended well.

And, when Hopper called to tell them where the party had been? Talk about a punch in the gut. 

He figured they had it sorted, after he talked to her about it on Sunday, and filled her hollow leg with pizza. Later, he and Billy were too busy making up, to talk about much of anything. Besides, who wants to think about their sister when they’re, uh…making up? 

At one point, when they were done fooling around but the door was still locked tight, he thought he'd heard her out there; sock feet pacing softly over the carpet. But, Billy was zonked out cold, and his knees were still pleasantly jellied, so he didn't bother getting up.  

Billy breaks his gaze at the television to shoot him an unreadably chilly look, and lifts a shoulder.  

"Dunno. Up my ass all night, though," he says, "even made dinner."

He jerks his head toward the coffee table, as if to offer proof of her sudden clinginess. There's an eleventh grade global studies book in the center; algebra worksheet sticking out, haphazardly, and a pencil perched on top.  

Huh. 

When Billy's not home, Max will sometimes do homework at the kitchen table while he's cooking. It's kind of a bonding thing, with them. He cooks, they gossip, and she does homework. But, the second her brother shows up, she's back upstairs. He always figured it was some kind of weird sibling competitive-slash-pride thing, because she hates it when he helps her with stuff.

So, this? 

Yeah. This is unusual.

"She's fine," Steve says, mostly to himself. Thinking about their special homework gossip time makes him feel worse, and his feet hurt.

"Never said she wasn't." 

Right. 

He heads for the shower. When he gets out, the TV is off and both of them are upstairs. 

He pokes his head into Maxine's room; still out cold and mummified in grungy yarn, only now on her bed. Billy must've carried her, and that's telling in itself. He's way more likely to nudge her awake to the tune of c'mon, you got two legs or leave her where she is.  

In their room, he climbs under the covers; shimmies over next to him.

No reaction. 

“Hey, you awake?”

A noncommittal grunt. 

Alright, well, whatever. He shifts onto his back. Maybe they aren’t as made up as he thought they were. Or, more likely, maybe Billy’s still pissed at himself over it. 

He’s totally going to let this go. 

He no sooner thinks it than the words pop out of his mouth, “Babe, she’s fine.”

“M’ just tired.”

“Bullshit. I can tell you still feel guilty.”

Shrug. 

“Jesus,” he snaps; frustration masking his guilt, “she’s a tough kid, ok? Quit being so overprotective.”

That gets him to roll over; eyes sharper than Steve is expecting.

“You’re not getting it,” he says, “you think my mother’s the only one who abandoned her kid?”

“Well, yeah?” He tries not to make it sound so similar to well, duh, but he’s sure the tone isn’t lost, because Billy stares at him a long time, before he answers. 

"Susan," he finally growls out, "dumped Max a long time before she killed herself. Only difference is, she did it in stages. She chose Neil over and over and then—” 

He stops short; puts a finger gun to his head and pulls the trigger. Then, he turns back away.

Steve lays there so long that, when Maxine tiptoes in at almost 2, he’s still awake, and that’s when he knows: he wasn't wrong...but he wasn't necessarily right, either. 

Fuck.

She hasn’t done this in almost a year, but now here she is. 

2. Fingers, and Other Sensitive Areas

This was a request from someone, after "Steve Harrington Vs Pneumonia" where it's mentioned that Billy taught her how to break a finger before Max left for college.

“Hold your hand up.”

“Like this?”

“No, look.”

Steve glances across the room, involuntarily. He’s trying not to show his disapproval about this exercise, so he’s sitting on the couch, pretending to read TV Guide, and steadfastly ignoring them. Something about Billy saying look, though; always gets him to do it.

Max copies him; holds her hand up in front of her face.

He goes back to TV Guide. He’s seen her fight demodogs; watched her tackle Billy a solid half dozen times, in anger, and listened to her sling insults through endless girls’ softball games. Hell, when they first moved in together, speculation about their sexuality ran through the high school like wildfire and she split her knuckles on more heads than he can remember.

There’s no question: the girl can take care of herself. No need to bring bone breaking into it, in his opinion.

Then again, like most things with the two of them, he’s fairly certain this is about more. It’s mid-way through Maxine’s senior year; she’s almost never home and her 18^th birthday is looming large on the calendar. She’s completely clueless; assumes Billy will be nothing short of ecstatic to be free -- but Steve can tell he’s struggling. He sees it in the way he’s trying to simultaneously hang on to her and push her away; tightening and loosening his grip in an infuriating tango of mixed emotion.

Come to think of it, maybe he should just be grateful for the quiet moment of sibling harmony.

He glances up again; watches. Billy grabs her thumb, pushes down on it with relative softness.

“See how that won’t go any farther?”

“Yeah.”

“OK, well, it’s an easy breaking point if you try to make it.”

He bounces her thumb against its point of resistance, a few times; switches over to her pinky.

“Same with this one. Also, it’s tiny; it’s an easy target. So, say I grab your arm.”

He does, and there’s a split second of something between them; an exchange of glances before she offers up a half smart ass, half reassuring grin. “Doesn't hurt, this time.”

Billy clears his throat; acts like he didn’t hear her.

“See how, when your arm is like this, the thumb is on the outside?”

“Yep. I'd go for the thumb, there?”

“Out and away,” he explains, demonstrating on his own thumb, with the opposite hand, “same with the pinky, when it’s like this.”

He flips their arms over, so the pinky’s on top. “See how that’s exposed, now?”

“Ok. But, what if I can’t,” she pauses, “if a guy is like...you know, if I'm pinned.”

“If he's on top of you?” He asks, blunt enough to make her cheeks light up the tiniest bit.

“Yeah.”

“Knee him in the balls, then if he doesn’t let go, he’ll at least be distracted enough that you can go for the finger.” He stares at her with sharp, clear eyes. “Then call me, 'n I'll break the rest of his bones.”

3. Pregnancy Scare

This was another request, based on the epilogue "Max Graduates High School" where Billy is ruminating on the things that he can laugh about now, and the things he can't. The birth control references relate to "Birds & Bees & Extreme Discomfort" which is in the "Bonus Angst" chapter. 

Maxine has been in a bit of a funk, lately, so when Billy has to work a Saturday (everyone in Hawkins wants their fucking snow tires put on at once, he’d grumbled while pulling on his boots) Steve decides to take her for a movie.

They meet up with the nerds; spend some time watching Molly Ringwald in one of those John Hughes flicks where even the kids from the “wrong side of the tracks” are more sophisticated and stylish than anyone in Hawkins. After, they head for the diner; shoot straw wrappers at each other and get coke with their fries.

Max is still moody, but she’s also seventeen, and Steve remembers that shit well, so he doesn’t put too much thought into it, until they get to the diner. Normally, she eats her own fries and half of everyone else’s. (A person could lose an arm stealing a fry from Billy, and he’s starting to understand how he got that way.) But, today, she doesn’t even finish her own.

One sure indicator of trouble in Max-town is when she loses that appetite. The girl can eat. How she’s not 500 lbs is one of the great mysteries of the world. Billy says she has a hollow leg but, seriously, Steve thinks it more likely they’re both empty.

They say goodbye, after the diner, and the long, tearful hug she lays on Lucas isn’t lost on him at all.

“You guys have another fight?” He asks, when they get in the car and the BMer purrs to life.

She shakes her head; picks at her fingernails.

When they get home, the camaro’s still gone.

“I thought he’d be home, sooner,” he remarks, as they walk into the kitchen and throw their coats over a chair.

He heads toward the living room, but her voice stops him. It’s somehow smaller than usual; nervous.

“I need advice.”

“Yeah?” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, “’Bout what?”

“Ok,” she pulls out a kitchen chair; plants herself in it, “I know you don’t like this but, it’s got’ta stay between you and me.”

Ugh. She’s right. He hates this, and she knows better. He’s told her more than once, he won’t promise to keep something from Billy.

“Max,” he groans, backtracking toward the kitchen.

“Only for right now,” she whines, hitting him with pleading eyes, “please? It’s— it would stress him out if he knew. And it might be nothing.” She pauses; clasps her hands together on the table top and mutters, “He’ll make that face. You know the one.”

That doesn’t sound good. Also? He knows exactly what face she means. It’s the one where, a few years ago he’d have called you a stupid fucking moron, but now that he’s semi-housebroken, he thinks it, instead.

Loudly...with his entire face.

Steve pulls out a chair and sits across from her.

“What?”

“I think…”

She stops; glances up at him.

“Yeah?”

“My-period-is-late,” she blurts out so fast, it takes his brain a second to process. Then, she seems to dissolve right in front of him; elbows on the table and face burrowed into the hollow between them.

Steve is not a praying man, alright? But this? This might make him reconsider.

“How late?”

“I don’t know for sure. I don’t really keep track—”

“Jesus!”

“Don’t yell at me, ok? If I wanted someone to yell at me, I’d tell Billy!”

He takes a deep breath; says, “I’m not yelling.”

“You were thinking about it!”

“No, I wasn’t. I’m starting to, now, though,” he groans again, then reaches his hand across the table to nudge her elbow, “How late do you think, then? Estimate.”

“The last row of pills are sugar,” she mumbles, “and that’s when you’re supposed to get your period, because there’s no hormones. I know I’m off by a couple days but—”

“Off?”

“Yeah, I, uh,” she glances up at him and stammers, then steels her resolve, “I missed a couple pills.”

Steve has to take a page out of her brother’s book; counts to ten in his head. How could she be so careless?

“Anyway,” she continues, softer, “even being a couple days off, I blew through all the sugar pills and nothing. No period. So, that’s a week.”

A room away, on the couch; granite still and heart thumping jackhammer-hard in his ribcage, is Billy. The camaro blew a brake line, so Hank gave him a lift home and he passed out on the couch.

He’s sure in shit awake now, though.

A week is nothing. He knows this from years of experience with more girls than he cares to think about. But, still, come on! He’d taken her to planned parenthood, got her the pills, made sure she knew how to use them. And he knows perfectly well Steve leaves rubbers all over her bedroom, too. What the fuck else are they supposed to do? Take her out to get fixed like a stray cat? If she’s not responsible enough to take the pills, they shouldn’t be fucking around!

He wants to jump off the couch and right directly down her throat; scream that at her until he’s hoarse, but—

“You have to tell him.”

“What? No!”

There’s genuine panic in her voice, and it gives him pause.

“He knows more about this kind of thing than I do,” Steve responds, sounding sad and sympathetic.

“I’m afraid to.”

And sure, it’s not as if he doesn’t purposely give her a scare sometimes. But, there’s the fear that keeps her from doing something boneheaded, because she doesn’t want to deal with him, and then there’s real fear.

Real fear is the kind that shoots through you on a visceral level; leaves you feeling like a wild animal.

Demodogs inspire real fear.

So did Neil.

“You know an awful lot about this place,” she’d said, the day he took her to the clinic.

“Yeah, well, 'f you were me; would you want to go home and tell Dad you got a girl pregnant?”

She’d snorted at that, the answer being too blatantly obvious to grace with words.

The idea that he might have exchanged places with Neil, in her psyche, even on a much smaller scale, doesn’t feel great. Logically, he knows he’s nowhere near the atomic level his father was, but still, he doesn't want to be the boogeyman she has to hide shit from. Not even in miniature.

It’s enough to keep him quiet on the couch.

A chair scrapes and he hears Maxine’s footsteps, light and fast, up the stairs. After a few seconds, Steve mutters something that sounds like a cross between a prayer and a curse; goes up after her.

Billy rolls off the couch and goes directly out the front door. He takes a walk around the block to cool off, and think. Think about how, he might have been responsible about birth control at seventeen, but he was a reckless, dangerous, mean spirited asshole in every other way.

He’s not really in a position to be too much of a dick about this.

And he feels for Steve; he really does. The guy takes on a lot of shit he doesn’t have to. He could easily see Maxine as Billy’s problem; nothing more to him than a roommate he’s obligated to put up with until her eighteenth birthday.

When he gets back, he walks in the front door, as if Hank just dropped him off.

Steve looks like a man who has a flaming arrow pointed at his balls. It makes him want to laugh, but he stifles it.

“Where’s the car?” He asks, sounding shaky, at best.

“Blew a brake line,” he replies, nonchalant as you please, “Hank dropped me off. You’ll have to give me a ride on Monday. That ok?”

“Of course.”

Man, Steve is bad at covering shit up. He wouldn’t have lasted an hour on Cherry Lane.  

He decides to make his life a bit easier; runs upstairs for a shower.

He bumps into Maxine, coming out of the bathroom. Her eyes are watery but she has a ten thousand watt smile on her face. It’s pretty obvious she's dodged a bullet, and his relief is enough to make him want to shake her.

For a second, he considers abandoning the ruse so he can lecture her about taking the fucking pills on time, but he figures Steve probably has that covered. He shuts the bathroom door, loudly, then toes off his shoes and pads over to the top of the stairs.

She makes an excited squeal, below, and there's a pause, during which he'd bet his life she's getting a hug. Then Steve says, “From now on, don’t miss any pills! I’m not saving your ass, again! And use the stupid condoms, too. Use both, even if you think it's paranoid! You guys are seventeen -- there's no such thing as overkill.”

Yep, he’s got it covered. 

He's also adorable. At the top of the stairs, Billy grins. 

"We will," she responds, solemnly, "I swear. I promise." There's a pause, another happy squeak, and a breathless, "I have to call Lucas!"

They never do tell him what happened, and, although he never quite manages to look back on it and laugh, he lets them have their secret.

And, the next time she does something dumb, he puts more effort into holding his temper.

Chapter Text

MIA

It’s not as if Maxine is the center of their universe or anything. And, she is 23 years old, living out in Cali with some guy named Eric. Neither of them were surprised by the decrease in phone calls when she got together with this guy; rolling eyes at each other over her being so in love. There wasn’t any reason to worry, really. She said things were going great and she sounded fine, if not a bit forced, when she did call.

She brought Eric home once; a quick pit stop between flights. Steve thought he seemed bland, but alright. Billy wasn’t impressed but, the fact is, he’s not going to think anyone is good enough (read: safe enough), even if he won’t admit that’s the problem – so Steve didn’t pay it too much mind.

Truth is, a solid three-ish weeks slipped by with no phone call, before they even really noticed.

But now?

Now, it’s been almost two months.  

The phone rings, and he doesn’t miss the way Billy vaults right over the arm of the chair to get it on the second ring.

When she does call, they’ll have to flip a coin for the sheer satisfaction of ringing her neck.

Billy bangs the phone back into the cradle; sits down with a blank face that doesn’t quite hide the anxious eyes.

“You want me to try calling, this time?” Steve asks.

"Why?” he scoffs, “Just going to be Eric on the line with some smooth excuse, again.”

Steve hmmms; doesn’t say anything. While it’s true: nobody’s ever going to measure up – he’s starting to think Billy’s not entirely wrong about Eric. He’s shaping up to be a…well, he can’t quite put his finger on it but, there’s something…greasy about him.

“We should go out there,” Billy mutters.

He’s been saying that all week. At first, Steve was dead set against it. He’d talked him down; distracted him with sex, trips to Ralph’s, long camaro rides and anything else he could think of.

Worked alright, until now.

The phone rings again, and Billy glares at it; doesn’t move.

Steve trots into the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

It’s her. He can’t stop the “Where the fuck have you been?” that slips out, every bit as vitriolic as Billy would do it.

“I know,” she says; quiet, “I know. I’m sorry. But I have good news. Great news, actually.”

Billy rips the receiver out of his hand, then shoots him an apologetic glance and holds it away from his ear, to share.  

“You ok?”

“I’m pregnant!” she blurts out, loud and cheerful and he’d bet she knows full well this will derail the fight brewing on the other end of the line.

Silence while they exchange glances and scramble to switch gears. He watches as Billy’s face does an acrobatic act; finally settles into closed.

“That why you haven’t called in over a month?” he grumbles, Bossy Big Brother Voice lacing through the forced neutrality in his tone.

“Yep! Just got caught up in all the,” she pauses, lowers her voice, “excitement!”

“Excitement.”

“Yeah,” she responds, sounding wounded, “look, don’t be a dick, ok? I said I’m sorry.”

And, really, what are their options? Ruin this moment for her and risk another weeks-long silence?

She’s got them over a barrel, and the glance they exchange confirms their agreement.

“Congratulations,” Steve says, schooling his voice into something appropriate as he shrugs at Billy.

What else can they do?

“That’s what you want, I’m happy,” says Billy, cautiously.

“It is.”

“An’ you’re happy.”

“Yes,” she responds, quickly, in a voice that closes the subject, tight.

She spends five minutes or so talking about the weather, before they hear Eric in the background. “Babe, you almost done? I need to call my mother.”

“Kinda want to kill that guy,” says Billy, when they get off the phone.

Steve can’t exactly blame him.

A few months later, they get another phone call; this one from a California State Police woman, calling on behalf of Max, who is nearly catatonic.

A failed brake line did the job for them.  

Chapter Text

"Evie?" Steve squints at the kitchen cabinet, trying to place the familiar but not that familiar voice on the other end of the line. It sounds a lot like Maxine's roommate, who has been to their house the last two Thanksgivings, and various weekends in between; but there's a lot of background noise. 

"Yeah," she says, "can you hear me? This is Steve, right?"

"The one and only." He says, with a grin. He happens to know (ok, Max told him) that Evie thinks he's cute, and, even if she's not his type (what with having a vagina and all) and way too young (five years seems like a big gap when you've helped raise someone the same age) he's not above appreciating a little ego boost, now and then. 

"Max is, uh, in some kind of trouble, I think. Like, she won't get out of bed. And she's been crying forever." There's a pause, during which Steve immediately stops anticipating being fawned over; his heart taking a nose dive to his toes, "And she's been watching--"

"Not Mama's Family reruns.".  

"Well, like, not exactly...but she found this channel that plays the Carol Burnett show."

Ah, shit. Close enough. "How long's she been that way?"

Evie hmmms on the line, then says, "Since Sunday night so that's....today’s Wednesday, right?"

Three-plus days. Dammit. One day means somebody let her down and now she's sulking, but over three days is...alarming. He digs back through his brain for the last 72 hours; they got plastered with Hopper and Joyce on Saturday, so Sunday is a bit of a blur. Something nibbles at the back of his brain and he pauses to focus. They got up late, too gross and hungover for sex; he was making coffee when Billy wandered downstairs buck ass naked to get some because they can do that now and…ah, there it is.

He literally groans when it hits him; what’s snagged on the edge of his mind. Billy, Sunday, hungover as a dog and naked as a jaybird, making derisive noises at the sounds of Sunday Morning, drifting in from the living room TV.

Huh, he’d grumbled, Mothers Day. Guess that fits the mood.

“Your mom come up for a visit Sunday, by any chance?” He asks Evie.

“Yeah, why? It was the first time Max met her because,” there’s a pause, then a muffled, “well, you know.”

He does know. The reason Evie’s spent every college thanksgiving to date, in Hawkins, is she doesn’t get along with her mother. Must be they made up, and invited Max along for the day, which was well intended but -- Steve glances around the kitchen. It's still early, and he's supposed to be on the night shift, today. Technically, he could leave now, blow off work, and be back home before Billy even raises a suspicious eyebrow.

Because, bringing him along would be similar to actually bringing the proverbial bull to the China shop and letting it loose. The Billy and Max Official Formula For Depression goes as follows: Max gets depressed, Billy gets scared and tries to tough love her back into shape, which only pisses her off and makes her more depressed, making her brother more anxious and.....well,  you get the idea.

Usually, by the time Billy's threatened to throw the TV out the window so he never has to see Vicki-fucking-Lawrence in that wig again, Steve ends up stepping in. He does what his handsome and mostly-good-hearted-under-all-that-bullshit mate seems incapable of: he gives her some sympathy. He listens to whatever's bothering her (it's usually a bunch of things that have piled on top of each other like flammable rags in a match factory) and brings her ice cream (a lot of it).Then, he coaxes her outside for some fresh air and gently reminds her that Billy's barking is based in anxiety, and that is based in love. 

This time, he'd really rather skip through the in-between parts and get right to the ice cream.

Steve stands outside Max and Evie’s room, staring with disdain at the Bud lite bulletin board, behind which Evie has left him a room key. Did they really not raise her better than this? He figures Max most likely stole it from a local bar, so at least she didn’t pay for this ode to cheap ale, but it’s small consolation.  

Parenting is hard. You try to introduce them to good beer but…he sticks his hand behind the bottom left corner; feels around on it’s smooth, plastic back until he finds the key. He knocks, but isn’t necessarily surprised when nobody answers.

When he pops the door open, breezes into the room and snaps all the shades open, Maxine sits up like a befuddled vampire; throws her forearm over her face to shade her eyes.

“Evie?” She asks.

“Close,” he responds with grim satisfaction, “you’re missing two letters. Guess again.”

She flops back on the bed; world’s longest groan emanating from the depths.

“Evie.” She says again, this time with consternation.

“Yep. She blew you in.”

“Awesome. I was just laying here thinking, ‘what I really need is one of Billy’s motivational speeches being yelled in my ear.’”

“Well, princess, you’re out of luck.”

She sits up; blinks at him several times. “He’s not here?”

“Nope.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“Nope.”

She eyes him cagily. “Bring any ice cream?”

“Nope.”

She scoffs dismissively; flops back down on the bed.

“Sooo,” Steve tosses his jacket onto Evie’s bed and makes exaggerated sniffing noises, “weed’s not helping, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He rolls his eyes. “I swear, Billy's not hiding in my pocket. And he’s definitely not in the closet. So,” he clears his throat, repeats, “weed not helping, huh?”

“Not really, no.” She responds, morosely.

“What time Mama’s family get on?”

”Carol Burnett…and 7.”

“Good. That gives us time to get you out of here before you start to mold.”

“Steve—”

He picks his way across the room and starts pulling off blankets; completely oblivious to her threats and protests. “Jesus, you’ll be a butterfly when you get out.” He mutters. “Where is your arm?”

She yanks it out of reach. “You’re pissin’ me off!”

“And? I live with Billy. You’ve met him right? Blonde hair, blue eyes, really grumpy but great in the sack--”

“STOP.”

He’s over at the dresser now, trying to find her something to wear, “And you are no picnic, sometimes, either, FYI.” He steps back; hands on hips. “Maxine," he mutters, ignoring how much he sounds like Billy when he calls her that, "you really need to do some laundry. It smells like you have a tiny gym rat lifting weights in here and you only have--” he stops to count, “three socks. None of which match.”

“Why are you here?” She asks, but he notices she’s sitting up while she does it. “I’m 19 years old now, I can’t call my brothers every time I need moral support.”

Max started referring to them as her brothers, plural, thank you very much, not long after she went away to college. She says it’s easier to say than ‘my brother and his boyfriend’, and less likely to invite unwanted speculation and judgment by people whose opinions don’t matter. Billy thinks it’s creepy as hell and cringes every time she says it (God Max, can you quit it, already? I feel like I’m fucking my brother every time you say that), but it makes Steve feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

And she knows it, the little shit.

“OK first of all, stop trying to butter me up,” he says, finally finding a semi- clean shirt and tossing it toward her, “and second of all, did Billy tell you that? Because that sounds like some boneheaded thing he’d say, and if it was, I’m gonna kick his ass. You know he makes up reasons to call and check on your, right?”

“No,” she mutters, “he didn’t tell me that. It’s just common sense.”

Jeans, right at her head. He gives up on socks. “We’ll come back to that,” he says, “because it’s bullshit, but first, please, if you have a shred of compassion left in your heart, you’ll go brush your teeth.”

“Fuck you.” She mutters without heat, but she’s climbing out of bed.

“That’s right,” he says, with mocking reassurance, “that’s my girl. Fuck you, too. Now, go brush your teeth and get dressed and,“ he raises his voice because she’s walking toward the door, now; middle finger extended behind her back, “for the love of God don’t forget deodorant!”

By the time Max gets back from the bathroom, Steve has somehow managed to sniff out every piece of dirty laundry she owns, and cram it into the hamper they picked out together, her senior year.

She couldn’t quite scrounge up the motivation for a shower, but she did manage what Billy so charmingly refers to as a whore shower, meaning she washed off the important parts with a wash cloth.

Mostly.

Steve is standing there with a worried look in his big browns, and a ten-thousand-watt smile pasted on his face. She wants to thank him for his time and kick his ass to the curb, so she can go back to her blessed blankets, but she can’t seem to do it. Each time she opens her mouth, she hears Billy growling watch how you talk to Steve; a phrase that’s been wedged into her brain with jackhammer-force over the course of the last four years. A stale fuck you is one thing, but something that would actually hurt him is another matter entirely.

She sighs; swears it feels like she dredged it up out of her toes.

Forty five minutes later they’re sitting side by side on a dryer, while Maxine’s odd socks and ripped underwear (we’re going shopping after this, Steve had declared, dumping a particularly ratty pair straight into the garbage) are tumbling around inside.

She's feeling very nostalgic for the days when he considered her underwear drawer off limits.

The basement laundry area is freezing cold, and Max has tried getting out of this excursion with every fiber of her listless, tired being, to no avail. She’s always secretly thought Steve is way tougher than Billy, and she’s reminded again, of the truth in that sentiment. Billy’s louder about his strength and cunning, but when it comes to stubborn, there’s no competition.

“See,” Steve says, “it’s warmer now that the dryer’s going.”

“I guess.” she concedes. His arm is planted behind her, and she leans into the warmth of it.

“I guess.” He mimics, dolefully. “So, what’s the deal, huh Max?”

“Nothing some pizza and ice cream can’t fix.”

Steve hmmms like he thinks that’s total bullshit, which, to his credit, it is. “I don’t think so.”

Ugh. There is no way on earth she’s going to tell either Steve or Billy that she’s in a funk about her mom. How do you tell people who put their lives on hold for you, that it wasn’t enough? And, that there’s no way for them to fix it, because no matter how hard they try, that piece of her life will always be missing?

She lists off a bunch of other dumb shit that’s been crawling around under her skin: the bitchy girl in B213, the frat boy who tried to get his hand down her pants at a party (there’s a modest collection of boys around campus nursing nearly-broken fingers), the test she bombed in Bio327. She feeds him a somewhat truthful line about the pressure of college life and a skip in the motorcycle’s engine; glances at him sidelong to see if it was enough.

The dryer starts buzzing, right as she’s finishing up her list of irritations, and she feels distinctly saved by the bell, as they say. They hop off the dryer and Steve gives her a hug, but he doesn’t say anything.

He’s not buying it for a second.

Once they get the laundry done, they head out into the cool, spring air to get some new underwear and junk food, in that order. Steve pays for everything, which gets her internal Billy-voice yammering away in the back of her skull, again; don’t take advantage of Steve’s money.

When they get to the pizza place, she pulls a few sad looking dollars out of her pocket and he literally slaps her hand away; rolls his eyes.

“What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.” He says, in response to her unspoken thoughts, “You want to eat outside or inside?”

“Outside,” she mutters. As much as she’s loathe to admit it, he’s right about the fresh air helping her funk, “and thanks.”

There’s a huge, sprawling pond stretched out between campus and the pizza place, so they sit on top of a picnic table and eat their pizza; stare out at the shimmering ice chunks.

“Ice cream?” He asks, as she nibbles on the last few inches of pizza. She glances up in time to see him waggling his eyebrows.

“Nah.”

Steve gapes at her; mouth hanging open as if she’d confessed to murdering kittens in her spare time. “What do you mean ‘nah’?! That was like, the third thing you asked me when I walked through the door!”

“I know, but I’m not feeling it now. And you probably have to get back soon, right?”

He pauses; tries not to be offended at the obvious brush off, and says in a gentle, but firm voice, “Enough, Max. Something’s eating you, and it’s a lot bigger than bombing a science test. That was a nice try but,” he shrugs, “I’m not that dumb.”

“Not dumb at all.” She mutters, glaring at him. “Don’t say that.”

He crosses his arms, which is Steve for you might as well give up because I have my heels dug in, now. “I’m not leaving until you get it out. I know you. You’ll let it rot inside, until some little thing makes you blow and you shoot toxic waste everywhere.”

She crosses her arms right back; sticks her chin out for good measure.

“Ok, no problem,” he says, “I guess here’s my chance to finally go to college, huh? Just think, Max, we can go to all the same parties; take all the same classes. I’ll go everywhere with you, and, not to worry because any trouble you have, I’ll be a hotline straight to Billy.”

She really wants to tell him where to shove his ridiculousness, but he’s wearing that goofy grin that means he’s proud of himself, and this is Steve for crying out loud. Steve who quietly left condoms in her bedroom when she started having sex and who makes her favorite food whenever she comes home on break. Steve who buys tampons with groceries, because he knows she hates to; who put himself between her and Billy, that time he went out of his mind with rage.

Fuck.

The reasons she wants to tell him, are the exact same as the reasons she doesn’t.

“Is it because of Mother’s Day?” He asks; voice quietly but insistently breaking into her thoughts.

She grunts, lays back on the picnic table and puts her hands over her face.

“I don’t want to have this conversation with either of you guys.”

“So, just have it with me,” he says, “and I won’t tell your brother, it’ll be a compromise.”

“No.”

“OK, Max,” he says, after a pause; tugs on her hand to pull her up to sitting, “I respect your decision. But you need to find someone to talk to. You can’t hide in bed all day whenever things get rough.”

She nods and offers up a weak grin; gets another hug in return. They’re heading back to the dorm room when they spot the camaro in the parking lot, at the exact same time. Max’s groan collides with Steve’s what the, in the air between them. They park and get out of the car; stand around the parking lot with hands on hips, trying to spot that familiar blonde head. 

Maxine realizes she's standing exactly like Steve, and changes position. 

She heads inside; Steve at her heels. When they get upstairs, her dorm room is cracked open and the Bud lite bulletin board is crooked.

Billy’s sitting on her bed. He rolls his eyes up to them, then shakes his head and smirks.

“Fuckin’ idiots." He remarks, mildly, "What’d you do, go for ice cream?”

“Pizza.” Steve replies, and Maxine eyes him sidelong. He doesn’t seem too concerned about finding Billy here; never has been intimidated by that temper, but he’s definitely confused.

“You weren’t going to tell me she’s having a meltdown?”

“Eventually,” Steve replies, sounding defensive, “but for real, babe, the last time she was depressed you made her wash the camaro.”

Billy shrugs. “Always makes me feel better.”

“Look, you guys, I’m fine, really."

"Lie." Says Billy, pointedly.

"Don’t argue about me," she continues, as if he hasn't said anything, "Steve was only trying to help and really, none of this would’ve happened if my stupid roommate knew how to keep her fucking mouth shut.”

She is totally killing Evie when she gets back.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Billy stretches, reaching for the ceiling, “I thought she was pretty informative, actually. She called while I was home on lunch; wanted to know if Steve left yet.”

He reaches around; pats the bed behind him, and produces a beat up manila envelope.  "Here." He say, shaking it at Max when she stands there, immobile. He moves over on the bed, and she sits beside him.

Steve arches an eyebrow at him; gets a smirk in return. “You think you’re the only one who can keep secrets, Harrington?”

One clasp is worn off the envelope, and there are a couple greasy fingerprints around the other. She undoes it, and Billy moves over a few feet more.

“Dump it on the bed.” He says, pointing a stubby finger at the spot between them, and she does.

It’s a pile of cards; seven to be exact. You’re turning 13! one announces in glittery, garish pink lettering; love, mom scrawled inside. She sits stock still; breathing suddenly taking more concentration than usual. She numbly picks up another, this one more yellowed, with Happy Easter on the front. There’s a still-intact paper doll inside, right beside a second love, Mom.

“I didn’t play with the doll.” She hears herself say. 

“Never were much for girly shit.” Billy replies, and his voice sounds funny but she’s not going to look at him. “I found all that when we moved, the first time. Would’ve shown it to you, then, but you were still so pissed at her. I was scared you’d throw ‘em out.”

Steve moves closer to put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. He makes a very suspicious, sniffling sound and that’s about all Maxine can take. She scoops the cards up and starts shoving them back in the envelope.

"Sorry I forgot to call this year," Billy mutters, "hungover as fuck."

Steve stares at him, then at Max. "You called her last mother's day?"

"Well, yeah, " Billy mutters, "I mean, it's a weird day." He shrugs at Steve, and something passes between them. Max doesn't know what it is, but it makes the meteorite in her chest shift. Steve's concern, Billy's uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, the fact that they both drove out to check up on her; it's an outrageous amount of attention for a kid who isn't used to any coddling whatsoever.

Too much, actually.

Next thing she knows, she’s babbling semi-coherently about how I know you guys do a lot for me (and) I know you gave up California for me (and) Steve you didn’t even have to put up with my shit and you did (but) Evie made up with her mother and I realized I’ll never be able to.

Evie made up with her mother and I realized I’ll never be able to.

There it is. The grain of sand that's been under her skin all week. She's not even sure how she managed that without busting a rib, it was so painful to say out loud.

“Jeeze, Max,” Billy brushes the cards out of the way and moves closer; slings an arm over her shoulder in a move so rare it only serves to make her cry harder, “don't do that, c'mon. The fuck does missing your mom have to do with me staying in Hawkins, anyway?” 

"You're allowed to miss your Mom." Steve says, handing her a wad of scratchy, dormitory bathroom toilet paper. "Nobody can ever replace her. It's not like we're gonna be insulted if you miss her."

"That's what your deal is?" Billy asks, voice like someone just turned a lightbulb on his brain, "Look, it sucks that you never got a chance to make up with her. I hear that. But don't mix that up with me and Steve." He pauses; heaves a sigh that sounds bald faced desperate, because goddamn it he hates those fucking tears, "And hey, if I’d stayed in California, I never would’ve gotten together with this dork.” He tosses his head at Steve, whom Maxine can see flip him the bird, and smirk, from the corner of her eye. “Maybe you don't want to look at these right now,” he continues, softer, “but don't chuck ‘em. ‘Cause some day you might want to see 'em, or show your kids, you know?”

She nods; grabs a corner of her pillow case and wipes her nose.

"We just did the laundry!” Steve scolds, sounding scandalized.

Billy rolls his eyes, says, "See? Steve's your mom, now."

She grins at that, despite herself.

“You guys think she knows I don’t hate her anymore?”

Both boys emphatically assure her that they do, and she’s not sure if they believe what they’re saying or not, but their efforts are enough to make her feel like she can breathe, again.

“Thanks, you two.”

“No problem.” Billy says, giving her shoulders a squeeze that keeps getting tighter until it feels more like a vice grip, “Now. Why’s it smell like weed in here?”

"Evie." Max says, immediately. 

"Yep," Steve nods; shoots her a wink over the top of Billy's head, "must've been Evie."

Chapter Text

Grunc

Billy’s only about a third of the way conscious when he hears the heavy, unselfconscious breathing of an adventurous almost-toddler in his ear; soft, banana scented breath hitting his nostrils soon after.

Emily has pulled herself to standing; sways there beside the couch with an expression of gleeful triumph on her face for about 3 seconds before going down on her butt and clapping hands together.

He watches her, out of the corner of his eye.

He loves her to pieces, but half of him hopes she toddles off and lets him sleep. He’s running on about 4 hours, at the moment. She was up and down all night, Steve alternately getting up or poking him in the ribs until he did. (He’s got finger shaped bruises dotting his ribcage to prove it.)

About the third time, he’d marched over to the spare bedroom Maxine wedged herself into 9 months before; pounded on the door.

Get the fuck UP! Your daughter needs you!

 And, to his credit, she'd stormed out, elbowing him in the gut on her way past; ripped Emily out of Steve’s exhausted arms and retreated to her stinking grief pit with her.

The crying immediately stopped.

But.

Now they’re back to status quo: Max hiding in her room, laying in bed hour after hour, refusing food, refusing therapy, refusing Emily. He wants to shake her until her teeth rattle, but Steve won’t let him, and, honestly? He’s afraid to be too hard on her; afraid she might off herself.

So, now he’s on the couch, watching Goober out the corner of his eye, and trying to relax.

Nothing about this situation has been easy, not Maxine’s depression, not learning to care for a baby; definitely not trying to support them all.

He doesn’t complain, though. Can’t, really, when he looks at that tiny, delicate face and his chest does things he never really knew it could.

He would easily kill or die for Goober.

Easily.

And, yeah, he loves her mom in a way that’s a hybrid of emotion; still mostly fraternal but, he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t some paternal emotion in there, at this point, as well.

He definitely spends half his time wanting to kick her ass, if that counts for anything.

Still. At the end of the day, he’d lay his life down for her, too. Just, with a lot more bitching.

“Hey,” Steve comes in; maneuvers around a still unpacked moving box (yes, they’ve been in Cali almost a year now, but it’s been hectic, at best) and scoops Goober up off the floor, “what are you doing?”

“Jus’ laying here.”

“Liar,” he responds, switching her to the other hip, “you’re worrying. It’s all over your face.”

“’s not.”

Steve makes an exaggerated sigh; peers down at Goober. “Can you say grumpy uncle?”

“Gru!” Emily announces, clearly proud of herself.

“She actually calls me that, swear to God you’re never getting laid again.”

“Doubtful,” Steve snorts; carries the baby away, babbling at her all the while.

Billy heaves himself off the couch and stands there a few minutes; gazing around their haphazard living room, not sure what to do with himself.

He winds up at Maxine’s door; sits down outside it with knees up and sock feet side by side on the carpet.

“Hey.”

Nothing.

“Max!"

“What?” comes from the depths of the room and, judging by the sound of it, the depths of her blankets, as well.

“She’s trying to walk,” he replies, “she pulls herself up. You’re gonna be pissed at yourself, later; you keep missing stuff like this.”

“Fuck off,” she growls, “not in the mood for a lecture.”

He rolls eyes; reaches up and tries the door knob.

Locked, of course.

Sometimes he misses the days when he could muscle, threaten, or bribe her into doing what she should.

You mean doing what you want, says the little voice.

He bangs the back of his head against her door. “She needs you. Focus on that.”

“I. Can’t.”

“You have—”

He stops short, when Steve steps out in the hall and scowls at him.

Steve doesn’t think they should be pushing her, but Steve doesn’t understand her the way he does; doesn’t get that she needs his bluntness sometimes to light a fire under her ass.

Anyway, he’s tired of arguing about it; knows they’re both running on limited sleep, so he lets it go.

Steve puts Goober down and says, “Go see grumpy uncle, Miss Em.”

He goes into the kitchen and Billy watches, with bemused affection, as Goober crawls toward him at mach speed, giant smile plastered to her face.

“Hey Goob,” he says, quietly, when she reaches him and giggles.

How can Max ignore this?

She starts to climb him, pulling up on fistfuls of his tee shirt, reaching his knee and holding on tight; open mouth smile and bobbing head.

“Grunc!”

Jesus…did she almost just…

“Grunc-grunc-grunc-grunc!” she repeats; wide blue eyes locked on his own. 

His heart involuntarily skips 3 beats. 

“Babe!”

“I heard it,” Steve hollers back, steps into the hallway and beams, "that was closest she's gotten yet!"

Behind him, the lock clicks on Maxine’s door.

He picks Goober up; climbs to his feet and bounces her until she giggles, looking at his sister. She’s a wreck; black bags under the eyes, hair a tangled mass, tears leaking out the corner of one eye.

“Did she say grin?”

“She said Grunc,” Steve responds; clearly delighted, “I’ve been trying to get her to say Grumpy Uncle, for Billy.”

“Awww, baby,” she coos, softly; scoops her up out of his arms, “what a smart girl you are.”

She takes Goober back into her room, and leaves the door open.

Progress.

He stands in the doorway, staring in; feels Steve sidle up beside him.

“She’s gonna call me that forever, now, isn’t she?” he grumbles.

“Probably,” he drawls, softly. “Might as well quit pretending you don’t love it.”

Chapter Text

March, 1998

He would give any amount of money, right this second, to be somewhere else.

Anywhere else, really.

Max is panting and sweaty, but stoic; stares straight ahead with teeth gritted like she used to do when Neil hurt her.

That’s how he knows this pain is no shit.

That, and the death grip on his hand.

He didn’t want to come in here. Steve was more than willing; doesn’t even mind hanging out by her feet, peeking around the doctor’s head and shooting Max a thumbs up while he’s looking at her—

Christ.

Why can’t it be the 50’s again? Why can’t he be in the waiting room puffing on a cigar?

It’s Maxine’s fault, really. The nurses had exchanged sympathetic glances as they wheeled her in; bootied feet whispering across well-polished floor tiles.  

This is the one.

Baby’s father died three months ago.

They put her in something called twilight, as an act of mercy or pity; take your pick. And his sister, drug addled and bone weary, had looked at him and mumbled the first thing she’s said in days.

Love you.

It clearly slipped out; an unguarded, half-conscious admission. It certainly wasn't an attempt to get him into the delivery room. That much is especially clear, right now, as she glances up at him in between contractions, and grimaces.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says, peeling her fingers off his hand.

He doesn’t know how to respond, so he mutters, “I’m ok.”

Another contraction comes and goes; her body turning rock hard, more staring straight ahead while Steve talks, low in her ear, about breathing. The whole thing reminds him of those weird sci-fi movies Steve likes. Every few moments her body tightens up against her will, and she’s carried away on a wave of gritted teeth and impossibly clamped muscles, trying to expel some alien parasite.

“Dude,” she says, when it passes, blue eyes piercing his, “I mean it. Get out. You’re distracting me.”

And, it’s true, he’s not sure how he’s still standing. Between his fear of hospitals and the expression on her face, so reminiscent of days gone by – of pain he can’t make stop – he’s pretty fucking freaked. 

Steve opens the door as he heads toward it. “Get some air,” he tells him, “I’ll keep you updated.”

Turns out, he doesn’t need to. Emily Rose Dean has no problem whatsoever letting the entire maternity ward know she’s arrived.

When he comes in again, Steve is beaming and holding a squalling, squirmy, bloody lump.

Maxine is staring out the window.

June 1998

Steve may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he can read people like nobody’s business.

And Billy is head over heels in love.

Completely lost.

Totally out of his element.

But, in love, none the less.

He sits in the living room chair, head propped up on one elbow; watching. He’s not sure Billy’s ever met anyone who’s so completely indifferent to his machinations; who can’t be brought into line by an intimidating poker face or charming grin. Usually, he can get some kind of reaction from the fairer sex, be it adoration or, as the glory days of the 80’s fade into the more politically correct 90’s, indignation. (Actually, adoration often causes him to be offensive, on purpose, to get them off his back, but still – it’s a reaction.)

Not Emily, though.

Babies are the great equalizer. She doesn’t care that he’s handsome; that his hair curls down over one eye or that he can fight like a demon. She doesn’t care that he’s crafted his outer shell into the epitome of cool. So far, she’s peed on him once, thrown up right in his face three times, and farted on him enough times that it doesn’t even phase him anymore.

It’s pretty damn hilarious.

And this kid is Maxine, times a million. Not only in the way she’s indifferent to his bullshit (it’s too soon to tell if that will be a personality trait or not, but Steve’s betting it will), but in every other way, as well: red hair, pale skin, blue eyes.

“You’re gonna hate that hair, someday,” Billy says, as if he’s read Steve’s mind. He wonders if he should tell him about the way his face softens when he holds her; decides against it. “Better start investing in baseball caps, now, or you’ll never be able to sneak out.”

He thumbs the fuzzy tufts up into a mohawk.

Yep.

Besotted.

“Goooober,” he croons, “tough hairdo. Don’t worry, I’ll show you how to sneak out, right. Your mom’s got it comin’.”

That’s another thing: he’d come back into the delivery room that day, panicked but determined; strode over, peered into her little face, wrinkled his nose, and christened her Goober.

The only two people he’s ever heard Billy address by a nickname are himself and Maxine (granted, shitbird isn’t exactly endearing, but it holds a certain affection).

So, with that, he’d claimed her as part of the pack.

She’s family.

Little Goober.

And God knows, she’s going to need all the help she can get.

Billy gets up without warning; still clumsy and terrified with Emily, but he manages to support her neck and not drop her, so it’s a win.

“You going to try again?” Steve asks.

He makes an affirmative sounding grunt and heads toward Maxine’s room.

Steve listens while he knocks once; ears straining for the sound of a door clicking open.

He can hear Billy’s voice, low and gruff.

“C’mon Max. Get up, shower, eat. Let’s go.”

Silence.

“Putting her down next to you. Don’t roll over on her.”

He returns to the living room; brow cocked in irritation.

“Psychiatrist said don’t push her,” Steve reminds him, for what’s easily the fiftieth time.

“She needs pushing,” he grumbles back.

They’ve had this conversation so often, he doesn’t even feel the need to respond.

Both stop talking when she appears in the living room; a ghost of her former self, so pale you can see the blue veins, milky under a thin veneer of skin, her frame close to skeletal.  

She puts the baby in Steve’s lap and goes back to bed.

September 1998

Emily is six months old today.

Emily Dean.

Truth be told, she didn’t want to give her Eric’s last name. Mayfield would have been better. Hell, she’d even take Hargrove.

But, if she hadn’t gone with Dean, the boys would have asked why.

And that right there? Well, in a way, that sums up her entire dilemma.

She loves Emily.

At least, she thinks she does. But, she’s so numb, it’s difficult to tell if she feels that love, or if she just knows she’s supposed to feel it. She knows where the emotions should be; knows what columns the checkmarks go into, but she can't seem to find a pen. 

The hospital psychiatrist told the boys detachment is part of post partum depression. She heard her say it while she laid there, pretending to be asleep, so nobody would try to make her talk.