𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖

𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟓, (𝐘/𝐍)'𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞

From the roof of your next-door neighbor's house, Billy could see everything.

You always kept your bedroom light on when you were home alone. He didn't even think you knew that you did this, but you did. Tonight you were downstairs, sliding around the kitchen floor in your socks and waiting for your popcorn to finish popping in the microwave. You wouldn't discover your gift for cooking Jiffy Pop for another few months.

Earlier that night, Billy took his dad's mobile phone off the dresser before sneaking out the back door. He wrote your landline on his wrist in black sharpie, thinking he was all too clever for asking for it through Casey, who thought that you two would have been the 'cutest couple' if he wasn't already taken. Casey Becker wasn't the biggest fan of Sidney Prescott.

So as far as you knew, no one else knew your phone number or had the means to climb onto a roof to call from it.

Pacing back and forth on the slanted tile, Billy tapped the phone against his forehead. You can do this. Just punch in the numbers. 

Under any other circumstances, it would have been cute. Romantic even. But he had a voice modulator in his other hand and his fingers were jumping against the buttons.

The phone rings, and even though he can't hear you from where he's standing, Billy notices the exact moment that your ears prick up at the sound of your landline going off. Turning around, you reached across the counter to pull the red phone off of the hook, not caring that your pajama shorts had ridden up over the tops of your thighs.

Because no one was home. Why should you care?

"Hello?"

Your voice was like smooth honey, dripping sticky warmth over his body that had been sitting in the open, chilly air for the past half hour. Billy's breath hitched and the script he had committed to memory ceased to exist. You shift your weight impatiently. "Hellooo?"

At an agonizingly slow pace, he clicked the voice box on and held it up to his lips. "Hey, dollface."

Billy can hear your smile through the phone. "Randy? Is that you?" you hiccup. He squints and crouches low on the roof. You sound...off. Maybe he should have done a little more observation before jumping the gun on the phone call.

"Randy? Who's that?"

"Oh...sorry. Who, um, who is this?"

Billy watched you like a hawk through the kitchen window. You reached across the countertop again to pull something toward you. Not the phone this time. A bottle.

"Have you been drinking, sweet thing?" He asks, answering your question with another question. If he was right, then you wouldn't even remember that you were talking to a stranger in the first place. Lucky him.

You hiccup again and lean your entire top half over the marble countertop. "Yeah."

He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head and letting his hair fall messily across his forehead. "Oh (Y/N)," he sighed.

Billy knows you. And he knows what you're like when you're drunk. Lonely, clingy, and touch-starved. It would kill him not to go down there and be with you in person.

"But you can't tell my mom because she'll flip and keep me home from school and then I won't be able to go see my friends."

"I promise I won't tell," he purrs, considering you. You went quiet for a few moments and the only sound through the receiver was white noise as you hauled yourself up onto the counter.