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Jim comes sweeping into the police station, taking off his hat and sighing at the already melting snowflakes on it. He drops it down on an empty desk and surveys his station.
Powell and Callahan are the last ones on duty, and they’re already scrambling to pack up and leave, as though they’re scared Jim’s going to ask them to stay overtime. It’s almost exactly an hour past midnight, and Jim’s got the night shift alone. Back when he was working and living in New York, they would’ve never dared to dream of having only no one person by themselves during the night, but this is Hawkins. Nothing ever really happens this late, especially not during the weekdays. And even if something were to happen, it would definitely be Upside Down related, and Jim doesn’t want to drag any of his colleagues into that mess.
“Anything I should know?” he asks the other two, wandering over to the coffee pot. El’s gotten better with him having to work late, letting him sleep so he’s well rested and not looking mad when he leaves. In fact, she’s looked gleeful some times. Jim’s pretty sure she calls Mike as soon as he’s out the door and talks to him until they fall asleep.
At least Mike’s still too young to have a license, and the cabin’s too far out for them to sneak out to each other’s houses. Jim doesn’t know how he’s going to handle the late teenage years. If everything else doesn’t give him grey hairs, that definitely will.
“Mrs. Henderson’s cat has gotten out again,” Powell tells him. “One of these days, I’m going to put a tracking bracelet on that goddamn cat.”
Jim hums a laugh, taking a sip of his coffee.
“And the Hargrove kid’s in the drunk tank.”
Jim chokes on his coffee.
Callahan grins at him. “You alrighty there, Chief?”
“Why is Hargrove in the drunk tank?”
“Because he’s drunk,” Powell deadpans. He buttons up his coat and goes rummaging around it’s pockets until he finds his hat, putting it on.
“We found him speeding down Main Street, drunk off his ass. Couldn’t walk in a straight line.“ Callahan explains.
“Did you call his parents?”
“He said they were going to be gone for a couple days. We drove by his house just to make sure, but it was dark and no cars in the driveway.”
Jim nods. Still, he knows that had Hargrove been a Hawkins kid, he’d probably have been left off with a warning. But he’s not a Hawkins kid, he’s a stranger from the big city, all the way out in California, and he drives like a maniac and is always getting into fights with his peers, always bruised and bloody and drunk and sneering. Fake charm. A danger on the streets, disturbing their quiet neighbourhoods.
And Jim remembers what the boys told him when they came back that night, remembers what Hargrove did to Harrington’s face. He’d have wanted to take him in to the station then, rough him up a little until he understood Jim wouldn’t accept that type of behaviour in his town. But Steve hadn’t wanted to press charges, and Jim wanted to go home with El more than he wanted to deal with Hargrove, anyway.
He had been hoping for a quiet night though, during which he could just spend doing paperwork and sorting through stuff he doesn’t have time to do during the day. Hopefully Hargrove will just sleep through the night, and they won’t have to interact at all until Jim goes to wake him up and let him out for school. Who knows, maybe a night in jail will be enough to set the kid straight. One can hope, anyway.
He waves Callahan and Powell out, and settles in his office with the door left open. Much as Jim had been hoping, the first two hours go by peacefully. It’s just past three in the morning when he becomes aware of a repeated, muted clanging.
—
Billy wakes sweating.
His breath rattles in his chest, and he feels hot, too hot. At first it’s all he can feel; the way his curls stick to his forehead, the cold sweat down the nape of his neck to the small of his back, the way it feels like his brain is being fried inside his skull.
But then he tries to move, tries to swing his legs to the floor and stand up, because this is bad, whatever’s happening is bad and Billy’s exhausted brain finds panic and settles on that feeling. But when he moves his right leg, shooting pain explodes from his calf, rushing up his leg.
Billy cries out, because fuck, fuck, why does it hurt so bad?
He rolls off the thing he’s lying on - cool metal - and hits the floor heavily. He bites his lip until he tastes blood as he drags his leg up, reaching down to roll up his jeans.
He doesn’t get very far, a thick bandage stopping him, but he can see his skin looking red just below it. His calf seems swollen. The sight makes him feel ill, makes his thoughts swim. It feels like he’s on his surfboard, even though he’s collapsed on the floor in some unknown place.
Two thoughts manage to break through the fuzziness in his brain.
- This is bad. This is very, very bad. Billy needs help.
- There are bars, from floor to ceiling, just a few feet from Billy’s face. He’s in jail.
What the fuck happened? What time is it? Why hasn’t his dad been called, why-
Neil hasn’t been called, because Neil and Susan and Max are at a wedding. Family wedding. Susan’s family.
They left two days ago. Right after Neil pushed him into the new glass coffee table and a shard cut through his jeans and into his skin.
It hadn’t started hurting that bad until last night. And Billy had gotten drunk, and sat on the floor of the living room staring at the broken coffee table until he’d thought he’d explode out of his skin, and then he’d grabbed his keys and gotten into the Camaro and driven away. He’s not sure where he thought he was going.
He drags himself closer to the bars, and starts kicking his left foot against them, fumbling to get his trembling hands to unfasten his belt. Once he gets it halfway loose, he hits the belt buckle against the bars, hoping the noise will attract someone. He doubts his voice would carry if he tried shouting.
Billy doesn’t know how long he does it, but no one shows up. Exhausted from having moved so much when he feels so ill, Billy gives up and curls into himself, a little heap on the floor of a Hawkins jail cell. Either someone will come, or they won’t.
He doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes, not until he’s blinking them open because he can hear someone close by, can hear keys jingle in a lock. Then there’s a big blurry shape leaning over him, reaching out and shaking his shoulder.
Billy thinks he might throw up. He tries to move away, tries to wrap an arm tight around his stomach to keep the vomit down.
“… Hargrove? What’s going on? … What’s wrong?” A man’s voice. A cop. Billy can’t figure out which one, if he knows them or not.
“Leg,” Billy whines. “My l-leg, I… I need… help. I need help.”
“Okay,” Billy thinks he hears the man say. “Okay.” Then there are hands, down by his calf, pulling at his jeans and Billy thinks he hears the other man curse. He touches Billy’s hot skin and Billy shoots his leg out involuntarily, groaning.
“Alcohol,” Billy mumbles. “I need… alcohol. Gotta clean it.”
There’s some incredulous laughter, and then, “Kid, I think it’s a little late for that. What the hell did you do?”
Billy can’t figure out what to say, doesn’t know an answer that would be good, so he doesn’t say anything, just tries to curl away, tighter into himself. Wishes he could disappear. Wishes he were anywhere but here.
The cop’s face is shifting in and out of focus as he gets closer. Next thing Billy knows, he’s being lifted into the air. The movement jostles his leg, and Billy thinks he screams.
He looses time. He thinks he’s carried outside, because it’s cold and something soft and cool keeps falling down and landing on his burning skin.
He thinks he hears a car horn, he thinks he hears the cop cursing, he thinks he feels someone patting his cheek.
He is being jostled, and it hurts. Billy succumbs to the pull.
—
Once Billy’s brain catches up to the fact that he’s awake, he doesn’t waste a second before blinking the bleariness out of his eyes.
He’s in a hospital room. It’s dark outside the window, but that doesn’t mean much, not this time of year.
His thoughts feel muffled. Jumbled and strange. Everything feels numb, muted.
There’s a man, in the middle of crossing the room. His back’s turned to Billy, and he’s on his way to the door.
He’s not a doctor, he’s got the wrong clothes for that, but.
Billy tries to call out to him, but only succeeds in making himself choke on the sandpaper feeling in his mouth. At least the croak that leaves him is loud enough for the man to stop, turn, and look at Billy with a mixture of surprise and relief.
And Billy realises who he is.
It’s the goddamn Chief of Police.
What the fuck?
There’s a glass of water on Billy’s bedside table, and he reaches for it, his hand shaking. There’s an IV in the other one. He feels heavy, heavy and weak.
The Chief keeps staring at him as he drinks, not saying a word, just standing there holding his hat to his chest. Billy remembers being taken to the station in the back of a police car, but not much more after that. Remembers swallowing a bottle of alcohol to dull the pain in his leg. Figures the Chief must have found out about it somehow, must have taken him here. So does that mean…?
“Have you stayed here the entire time I was out?” Billy asks once he’s gulped down a bit of water and settled back against his scratchy pillow.
The Chief scoffs, like he finds the idea ridiculous. “No, I just came back to check if you’d woken up.”
Billy frowns. “Why?”
“The doctors don’t know where your parents are, and I don’t know how to contact them, so…” he gestures halfheartedly at Billy.
Billy nods. “When do I get to go home?”
“Tomorrow, probably. That’s a Saturday, by the way.”
“They’ll be back by then.”
“Your parents? Where are they?”
“Wedding.”
The Chief raises an eyebrow. “And they left you here?”
“Yeah,” Billy says. His head’s starting to ache. This is too much talking for Billy in the state he’s in. He’s not in the mood to explain his shitty family’s dynamics to the Chief.
But the man steps closer, and Billy resigns himself to his fate.
“What happened to your leg?” he asks, and it sounds like a trick question.
But Billy’s good at coming up with excuses. He tries for a grin, hopes it looks more cocky and less like the grimace it feels like. “You were young once. You know how it is. No parents means prime time to get drunk. Stumbled and broke some glass, got cut, didn’t realise how bad it was.”
“Yeah?” He’s looking at Billy like he isn’t quite sure if he should believe him.
“Yeah,” Billy replies, because he knows he will. It’s easier for the Chief if he takes Billy at his word, easier than to try to investigate something, easier than to try to force himself to care about a menace like Billy.
And just like expected, the Chief nods, looks satisfied with that. “Right then.” He puts his hat back on. “I’ll go let someone know you’re awake. Get well soon, kid.”
Billy stares after him as he walks up to the door, opens it and steps out. He keeps staring at it for a while after it’s closed behind him.
Like he’s waiting for something. Or hoping, maybe.
But Billy doesn’t need any saving.
He settles back down, facing the ceiling. Tries not to think about what his dad will say once he finds out about the hospital bill. The stupid look there’ll be on Susan’s face, like she wants to hug him or some shit, but doesn’t dare to. Max will probably say some shit about how stupid he is, driving drunk, and with an infected cut on his leg on top of that.
Like Billy doesn’t already know that he’s an idiot.
God, he wishes he had a cigarette.