A/N - This chapter was inspired by Jackie and Wilson by Hozier. For this one, Reader and Billy are both in their late 20s, so we're a while after the end of the show. Reader is described as being a bit of a hippie, so sorry if that doesn't fit your aesthetic, but tough. I hope you all enjoy it.
Billy's entire young adult life had been turmoil. From the moment his mom had left, he'd been constantly fighting to keep his head above water.
When his dad was being an asshole, drinking heavily, yelling, and hitting, he would struggle to hold himself together in a single, unscathed piece.
In high school, when he was getting shitty grades, barely scraping by to graduation, he had been pushing it down as best he could, never talking about it, never uncovering the true cause of his outbursts of pure fury.
And when he hadn't gotten into college, moving out of his dad's house and getting some shitty job in the garage on the other side of Hawkins, he'd still been fighting to pretend that everything was normal. That he wasn't a broken human. That his drinking was completely within his control.
And then, out of the blue, something had shifted. You'd walked into the garage, God, you'd practically come floating in, looking like some Hippie poster child, complaining about some weird sound your car was making whenever you tried to drive faster than 60. He'd immediately stepped in to help, gently stealing you from the girl at the front desk and following you out to your old beat-up Chevy. Shit, the thing looked like it was about ready to give out on you. It was hard to imagine that the only issue with it was the funny noise it made when you were speeding around town.
She's my baby, you'd told him, looking so damned concerned that Billy had taken an immediate liking to you. It was rare that people in town loved their cars the way you loved yours. They were a means to an end. A run around. A convenience. But it was clear how much you loved yours, despite how crappy it looked right now.
Of course, he'd promised he could fix her up for you, praying that if he showed the car a little love, you'd keep coming back for tune-ups with him. And you had, any time the car needed an oil change, or a tyre needed changing, or if it just needed a standard service.
It had taken him a year to finally ask you out. A year of you flirting whenever you came in, which was probably more often than you actually needed to. And you had been happy to agree to a date, turning up all pretty and made up for him.
And God, he was infatuated with you. You were so soft, so gentle, so good, and he knew he didn't deserve even an ounce of your time. But here you were, giving it to him so willingly. Leaning into his touch when he steered you through the bar with a hand on your lower back. Laughing at his jokes when they weren't even funny. Smiling at him like he was the most important person in the room.
He'd started calling you his girlfriend within 3 weeks of that first date. He was staying over at your place 2 nights a week; you were at his place another 2 nights. Any day you weren't together, you would spend your evening on the phone to one another.
You soothed him, more than he had ever really thought possible. You took the turmoil right out of him and buried it out in your backyard, keeping it from getting back to him. Every time the word baby slipped from your tongue, he got butterflies in his stomach - fucking butterflies - and his mind would go blank from the affection. And at night, curled up in his bed, your fingers tangled in his hair, your heartbeat steady in his ear, his head resting on your chest, he felt safe. God, he felt younger than he ever had as a teenager. And it was all your doing.
One evening, tucked up together on the couch, he released a soft sigh, tugging you closer to his side, like he was worried someone was going to come and snatch you from him. Like a child with his favourite toy. And you'd immediately perked up, your head lifting from his shoulder so that you could watch his face properly.
"What're you thinking about, Baby?" you hummed quietly, your hand resting on his knee, squeezing gently, reminding him that you were there to listen, to help.
"Nothin'", he murmured, his eyes straying from the TV to glance down at your face for just a second, though his gaze ended up lingering, locked on your eyes for a moment longer than he'd intended. "Just watchin' the TV," he added softly.
You nodded slightly, squeezing his knee a little harder, a clear sign that you didn't believe a word he was saying, that you knew he was hiding something from you, but that you weren't going to force him to talk.
"You're so beautiful," he finally added, lifting his hand to cup your cheek lightly, watching as your lips tipped up at the compliment. "So beautiful and so good," he pressed, drawing a soft snort of laughter out of you.
"You're such a goof-"
"Way too good for me," he pressed.
Your smile faltered slightly. "Well, that's bullshit," you uttered, shifting out of his grip, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.
"I didn't mean-"
"You know, you're the only person who thinks that you don't deserve good things, right?" you finally breathed, interrupting his excuses before he could make them. "Everyone else knows that you're a good man."
He hesitated for a moment. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Billy, I love you because of who you are," you told him softly. "I would love you if I didn't think you were a good man, but you are one of the most thoughtful men I have ever met, alright?"
"Alright," he breathed out. "I'm sorry," he added quietly, reaching for you ever so gently, like he was worried you would bat his hand away.
"I don't want you to be sorry," you hummed, taking his hand in yours, linking your fingers through his. "I just want you to believe me when I say that you're amazing, because you are, even when you're not feeling it."
"I do believe you," he murmured. "Shit, I'm pretty sure I treat every word you say like it's gospel."
A soft chuckle slipped out of you at his comment. "Good," you hummed, leaning in to press your lips to his. "I love you, Baby," you added, your lips still brushing his.
"I love you more, Sweetheart."
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