heaven-sent | b.h.

11.

Billy has been driving around Hawkins for the better part of two hours. He couldn't sleep, his thoughts tossing between his father's abuse and everything that has happened with Frances. The night is pitch-black, the Camaro speeding past orange streetlights and merging shadows—and it's peaceful. He doesn't have his music turned on, doesn't need it so much in the dark. All he needs his the whir of the Camaro's engine whispering to him softly and the feeling of farms and forests passing him by. He can almost pretend he isn't in Hawkins anymore in the darkness, almost pretend that the grey, uneven concrete beneath his tyres is that of a Californian road.

His headlights catch movement in his peripheral vision, breaking him out of his daydream. A silhouette is walking down the road, body half concealed by trees. As he gets closer, he recognises the brown, knotted hair and tattered, loose denim jeans. Frances. Her breath is visible against the blackness, her face washed out by the car's lights. Of course he can still stumble across her here, in the middle of fucking nowhere, where there isn't even a side-walk between the woods and the road.

"For fuck's sake," he curses under his breath, pulling up at the side of the road and opening his door. The cold bites at his fingers, and he shivers.

She doesn't so much as look at him, continuing her determined tread, though there's no way she hasn't heard the Camaro.

"Frances," he calls irritably, stepping out of the car and leaving the door to swing open as he follows her. She spares him a scowl over her shoulder, her arms wrapped around her torso tightly. "Frances, what the fuck are you doing walking out here at 3 am?"

"It doesn't concern you," she hits back, her voice hoarse.

"Frances!" he yells louder, stopping in his tracks and dragging his hair through his curls in frustration. "Will you fucking stop and talk to me? What are you doing? You're gonna get yourself killed!"

"Like you care," she spits, finally turning around to face him. Her eyes are glassy, numb, her cheeks and nose flushed a bright red from the cold and her lips an unhealthy shade of blue. "Were you following me or something?"

"Oh, yeah, I was following you," he mocks, rolling his eyes. "What else would I be doing at 3 am?"

She doesn't answer, blinking dumbly.

"I was drivin', okay? I couldn't sleep."

"Well, you can carry on drivin'," she mutters, burying her face further into her scarf, "and I'll carry on walkin'."

"No, you won't," he counters, gesturing to the car still sitting with the driver's door wide open. "Get in."

"No."

"No?" he repeats in disbelief. "You gonna carry on walking until you get murdered or freeze to death?"

"Oh, give me a break, Hargrove." Her upper lip curls in contempt as she takes a step towards him. "You wanna drive me home again, see if it'll be a case of third-time lucky? Whatever this weird fucking act is where you pretend to give a shit, just drop it. I don't trust you. I'll never be stupid enough to trust you."

"I don't care if you trust me, Fran. Just get in the damn car and let me take you home. You can be mad at me for whatever imaginary scenario you've made up in your head tomorrow."

"It's not imaginary and I'm not stupid."

"Coulda' fooled me," he spat back, anger beginning to simmer in his stomach.