This Means War // Billy Hargrove x Reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

Pain is the first sensation you register. A deep throbbing in your forehead that wasn't seeming to go away no matter how much you tried. Your lids remained closed as fingertips twitch against soft fabric, the warmth from it coating you all the way up to your neck. 

When you pry your eyes open, coaxed by a soft voice guiding you, your vision was blurred and dazed. You wonder briefly if you were drunk, or high - not yet remembering the final moments before you passed out and what had led to it. 

"Steve?" You grumble, though even to your own ears it sounded more like some kind of animalistic grunt. 

"Always calling me other guys names." The voice seemed amused to you, but there was no way you were a reliable source for anything right now. "Come on, you gotta wake up. I think you got a concussion." 

The accent and deep husk to the voice attached to it finally registers with you then and your lids pin open. Even in the low lighting of the room, your eyes were screaming at you to close them once more from how sensitive they were - but you needed them to see, so they'd have to get over it. "Billy?" You breathe, an uneasy edge to your tone as you try to move. "Get the fuck away from me." A disgruntled noise, trying your best to sound tough though it was futile. 

He shifts from what you now realise is a bed and moves further down it, an unreadable expression on his features as they go into the light and finally into focus as your eyes start to work properly once more.

"Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you." He shrugs ever so slightly, a half-assed attempt at showing some form of emotion as he looks down at you. "I never intended to, anyway. You shouldn't have got in the way."

"Oh, right. It was my fault, I'm sure." Not that you remembered very well right now. Even in your pained daze though, you managed to muster up enough internalised anger to help you to a sit. He starts to protest, but ceases at the sight of your glare. Looking around the room, you could see you were still at the Byers' house, in Joyce's room. You were tucked beneath three blankets and as you reach up to try and soothe pain from your forehead, you wince as fingertips brush over the band-aids covering a cut just on your brow. 

There's a soft crumpling sound beneath the first blanket so you search a moment and find a piece of paper. When you unfurl it, a quick note is scribbled across it in familiar and shitty handwriting. Your brother. 

'(Y/N). Gone to help El. Can only fit one more in the car so taking Steve for backup. Billy will still be unconscious by the time you wake up, so take Steve's car and meet us at the spot I told you about on Will's map. I'll be safe, I promise. Mike.'

Your stomach drops, a sour taste rising into your mouth as you read it - which was difficult enough with your confused brain. You couldn't even remember where he'd told you to go beforehand, where the entrance was, or even why you were here though the last one came back soon enough at the mention of El. 

Yep. Definite concussion.

"I hit something." You confirm more to yourself than anyone else, recalling the sensation of falling before everything went dark. It was the last thing you remembered. "The table." Billy confirms and you jump a little in your space, having forgotten entirely that he was even there. 

God, your brother was clearly overestimating how long Billy would be out for - hell, what did he even mean, 'out'? Did Steve manage to get one over on him after all? "What happened after?"

"No clue. Max drugged me, told me to leave her friends alone and next thing I know I'm waking up on the floor in the hall." He tells you, shoulders tensing at the recollection of the moment. Hah. Good for Max. "Went looking for her and found you in here instead. Guess they tried to hide you from the big bad Billy." He  chuckles, though there was only malice to it as it rumbled in his chest.