heaven-sent | b.h.

08.

Any hope that Hopper is in the trailer is lost as soon as Frances and Billy reach the drive. It's empty, the way Frances had left it this morning. For a moment, she's glad: her anger and confusion has turned to a jagged hurt that rips through her stomach and chest each time she breathes.

She's adopted. From a lab. Everything she thought she knew is gone.

Billy is sober enough to walk himself up the steps onto the porch, though he grabs the wooden railing for support as he waits for her to unlock the door. She does, holding it open for him before she follows him in silently.

She places the keys down on the counter, sighing and scraping her hand through her hair. She has no idea what to do now. She just hopes to God that wherever he is, El is there, too.

She runs the tap to busy her hands, filling a glass with water and handing it to Billy. "Here. Drink this."

Billy must be able to sense her foul mood because he doesn't argue, taking a few big gulps before putting it down and looking at her.

"You didn't have to do all this for me."

"It's nothing," she replies, biting her nails distractedly. "You can sleep it off in my room. Come on."

He follows her into her bedroom, a tiny box room with a single bed. The walls are covered in pictures she's taken over the years, starting with a toothless, five-year-old Will Byers and ending with a sunset over the ravine. Her clothes are scattered around the floor, and she rushes to pick them up, trying not to blush at the fact that her bra is among the pile.

When she turns around, she realises that Billy isn't even looking. His attention is on an old photo of she and Sarah, the one she keeps on her desk. It's one of the last ones they took together — her last real good day, just after her diagnosis, when their parents took them to Coney Island. Sarah's hair hasn't yet fallen out from the chemo, and nobody who didn't already know her would be able to tell she was sick. She had fun that day. So did Frances.

"This you?" Billy questions, his thumb running over Frances's eleven-year-old face.

"Yeah," Frances whispers, pulling the photo from his hands and putting it back quickly. It's too late, though: he asks a moment later.

"Who's the kid?"

Frances inhales shakily, unable to meet his gaze. "My sister." She wonders as she says it if she even has a right to call her that now: all those years spent believing they were 50% of one another, and it was a lie.

"Where is she now? With your mom?"

"Gone," Frances says, shoulders burning and eyes stinging with more tears. She is sick of crying. "She's gone."

Suddenly, she can hear a thumping, constant pulse. Another one joins in a moment later, the sound consuming her so that she has to grip onto her dresser for support.

"Fran?" Billy asks, concern in his voice. He's talking too loud and it hurts her ears. His hands find her shoulders, and a pain shoots through her in protest so that she has to move away.

Her chest is constricting, her breathing laboured as she tries to ground her feet on the carpeted floor again. Her head is throbbing, and even though she can't see them, she is sure it's happening again, this time worse: her eyes are changing.

"Fran? You okay?" Billy asks again. "Fran? Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"Just shut up," she demands through gritted teeth, glancing at him for only a second.

A second is all he needs to see. He stumbles backwards until the back of his knees hit the bed. "Fuck, Fran. Your eyes."

She squeezed them shut, collapsing to the floor and gripping onto her dresser as though it's the only thing keeping her from falling through the ground and soil beneath. "I don't know what's wrong with me." Her voice doesn't sound like her own, distorted, echoing.

"Do I call an ambulance?" Billy asks desperately.

"No!" Frances shouts. Her entire body is trembling.

Billy is knelt in front of her now, his eyes wide in fear. She can't look at him, can't open her eyes at all. She's scared of what will happen if she lets him see again.

"Tell me what to do," he begs. "Tell me how to help."

She shakes her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. The two pulses have sped up frantically and she can't help but wince at his deep voice in her sensitive ears.

"Fran," he whispers. "Frances, listen to me. You're okay. You're gonna be okay."

His hand finds her knee, and this time she doesn't pull away as he traces soft lines across the bones jutting out. His voice is quietening again, and so are the heartbeats.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." The sob falls out of her without permission, forcing her eyes open.

"It's okay. Your eyes—They're back to normal, see?"

The pain is easing in her shoulders and chest. She bites down on her lip to stop it from trembling, her fingernails clawing the carpet when she no longer as the strength to grip the dresser. When she finally has the courage to look at Billy, he shuffles closer, leaning over to tuck her hair behind her ears.

"You're okay."

"No," she says. "No, I'm fucking not. Look at me. I'm— I don't even know. I don't know, Billy."

He knows there's nothing he can say to this. She sees it in the way he sighs in defeat and pulls himself against the dresser so that they're sitting side by side. He puts his arm over her shoulder cautiously, pulling her into his chest when she doesn't pull away. The smell of cigarettes and whiskey stings her nostrils, and yet still it calms her as her tears soak into his shirt.

"You a werewolf or somethin', angel?" he mumbles into her hair, only half-joking.

She closes her eyes, knowing that if she moves from his arms now she'll have to look at him again and figure this out. "When's the next full moon?"

His low chuckle hums through him and into her bones. "You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"I don't know how," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I ... I found adoption papers this morning with my name on them. Hopper isn't my real dad and I had no idea. He never thought to tell me."

"Jesus."

"I don't know who I am. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?"

"Shit," he says, just like he did when she told him about Barb. Only this time, he didn't feel unreachable, out of touch. Now he was holding her, his fingers running through her hair, her hands in his lap. Now they are tangled up together and she never wants to untangle. "Shit, Fran, I'm sorry."

For the first time, she pulls away to look up at him. "Aren't you afraid of me?"

His expression softens as his rough hand cups her damp cheek. "No, I'm not afraid of you."

"But what you saw ... What I did to you last night."

"I've seen monsters, Fran," he mutters. "Hell, I live with one. You're not one of them. Trust me."

"What if you're wrong?"

He smirks, but not in his usual, arrogant way. This is gentle, caring, warm. "I pride myself on always being right."

She sinks back into him. It is hours before she resurfaces again.