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Murray tends to do most of his shopping late at night. When it’s close to closing time, and there are barely any people left in the stores. He has to cross state lines and drive into Indiana, but it’s the closest grocery store that stays open this late.
There’s also the benefit that there are less people to overhear him and Alexei conversing in soft Russian and get angry or scared. Owens managed to pull some strings and get him citizenship and a US ID, but they’re not stupid. Alexei’s a quick learner, but his English isn’t much past the basics yet, and his accent’s thick.
It’s not a secret that Murray doesn’t like most people, or that most people would consider him a bit paranoid. Murray, on the other hand, would like to argue that most people aren’t paranoid enough.
Still, they’ve gotten to know a few of the regulars. There’s an older man who must only be a few years short of retirement that works nights, and he usually stops by before going in for a shift. His wife’s health isn’t what it used to be. There’s also a woman Murray’s own age, a single mother working too many jobs. Her shift’s just ended, and she’s picking up groceries. She feels bad for needing her oldest, a pair of twins (Isabela and Antonio, they’re sixteen, Murray remembers), to make dinner most nights, but she has to work and the other two are ten and barely eight.
There’s a special quality to places like this that Murray likes. It’s similar to that of an airport, or when you’re exiting a cinema or theatre late at night. People all existing in different pockets of time. Murray’s seen all kinds of people here, all kinds of events. Twenty somethings dealing drugs, or truck drivers passing through, hitchhikers waiting for someone to pick them up, tired parents, nurses coming off their shifts, still dressed in scrubs, or stressed men who forgot an anniversary, looking for flowers or chocolates or some cheap makeup or jewellery. He’s even stopped a robbery. Twice. Those karate lessons paid off.
This is a first though.
Alexei comes back from the aisle he’d just turned down and grabs Murray’s arm. “There’s a boy,” he says, in English. “Doesn’t look… okay.”
Murray follows along as Alexei drags him round the corner into the next aisle.
There’s a teenage boy there, stood in the middle and dressed in denim on denim, with a blonde, curly mullet. He’s got a white shirt with some kind of dark print on it, but Murray can’t make out what it’s supposed to be. The kid’s leaning back against a row of baby clothes, his head tilted back and eyes closed. The hangers must be digging into his back. He’s got a white knuckled grip on a pack of coffee, and his breathing’s harsh.
Murray’s got good instincts. This isn’t normal. Something’s wrong. Alexei’s right.
He steps back a little, hoping to observe him unnoticed for a while longer, but his basket knocks against the aisle and it startles the kid. Murray doesn’t want to be made though, doesn’t want to have an angry, rebellious - and this one looks like he could be both - teen advance on him - not because he wouldn’t be able to handle him, he’s got a black belt, he just doesn’t feel like it - so he steps into the aisle, casual as can be, and starts looking at different pairs of baby socks.
“What do you think about these for Mickey’s daughter?”
“Ah…” Alexei nods, catching on to what he’s doing. “Yes. Cute. But maybe these…?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he continues glancing at the kid. He’s pretty sure Alexei’s doing the same.
The kid’s moved down the aisle towards the Health and Beauty section, the coffe pack tucked under one arm and a small bottle or tube in hand. Murray watches as he sticks his hand into the pocket of his jeans, and hears the telltale sound of coins clinking as they fall to the floor.
The kid crouches down to pick them up, and Murray freezes at the sound that slips out. It’s cutoff, clearly not meant to be heard, but Murray hears the pained little whine as the kid bends forward to reach his money. He looks over at Alexei, sees him looking directly at the kid with a concerned frown.
Murray leads them a little closer, now pretending to be looking at different types of diapers. He sees the kid straighten and reach for whatever it was he’d picked up before, sees him count out the money in his other hand, hears him cuss. He reaches for something else, staring at the price tag, then a third object, looking between it and the coffee he’s still got under his arm. His face screws up and Murray think he sees him bite his lip, hard enough to hurt. He looks like he’s trying his damnedest not to cry.
The kid tears his gaze away from the coffee and throws whatever product he had in his hand back down, harder than necessary, and stalks out of the aisle.
Murray gives it thirty seconds before he’s walking up to see what the kid had been trying to choose between, Alexei hot on his heels.
The shelf’s in disarray from when he threw the last thing down, and Murray quickly figures it’d been a pack of gauze. It’s knocked over a small tube of aloe vera gel with lidocaine. Left on the edge of the shelf is another tube, this one for an antibiotic cream, and a pack of ibuprofen.
Murray puts all of them, along with a few other supplies, into their basket. He ought to restock their first aid kit, anyway.
They finish shopping quickly, and end up two customers behind the teen as they queue for the checkout.
Murray’s eyebrows raise as he watches the kid start to flirt with Emily, the thirty-three year old cashier, as she counts out the cash he hands her and bags up his coffee. He can’t hear what he says to her, but Emily blushes and looks flustered. She’s at least fifteen years his senior. Murray’s all for people finding love and getting off however they want to, but that’s just not right. It’s eerie, seeing him act all easygoing and flirty, when minutes ago they’d seen him clearly in pain.
He glances at Alexei. He’s wearing a similar uncomfortable expression to the one Murray is sure is painted on his own face. His hands are fidgeting. Murray wishes he could reach out and hold them.
He’s thankful he doesn’t have to revaluate his good opinion of Emily when it’s their turn, and she looks out toward the door the kid disappeared through, her hands still busy scanning their groceries even as her mind seems elsewhere. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“No,” Murray agrees.
She tells them the final cost and looks down at all the first aid supplies they’ve bought as she bags them. She shakes her head.
“I think he was hurt,” Alexei says, and she looks up at him, smile almost grateful. She likes them, always laughs at their eccentricity and calls Alexei ‘Alex’.
Murray takes the bag from her as she finishes packing, thanking her. “We’ll deal with it,” he reassures.
When they step out into the dark autumn night the kid is nowhere to be found, and Murray curses their luck. The kid’s probably already in his car, has already left the car park.
But for the second time in less than half an hour, Murray is left shocked. They’ve just exited the car park, and there the kid is, struggling along on a bike. Murray’s headlights land on him, and he sees it’s pink, with little flowers.
What the fuck?
Murray pulls up beside him and rolls his window down. “Hey!” he calls. “Hey, kid!”
The kid throws one glance at him and almost falls off the bike. It’s too small for him. “Fuck off! I’m not interested!”
‘Not interested?’ Interested in what?
Murray sighs. “Hey, no, kid- You’re hurt! You can’t- Let us drive you home!”
“Fuck off, old man!”
Oh, wow. He decides this can’t get any worse, and shouts, “Fuck off yourself, kid, I just-!” at the same time as Alexei yells, “He’s not old! Just turned forty-one!”
Murray did. Had a party and cake and everything. Joyce and Jim, and Jonathan and Nancy, came, and they played games and joked around and danced to Billie Holiday.
“What?!” the kid shouts and Murray’s brought out of his memories.
Murray tries to explain, “We saw you- Hey, kid, slow down, we just want to-“
The kid starts pedalling faster, head still turned towards his car. Murray just presses the gas pedal and keeps at an equal pace down the empty street.
“I’m not in the mood, you pervert-!”
“Hey!”
“Murray…” Alexei says, voice hesitant.
“Besides, you’re not my type!” the kid yells.
Murray does not have time to unpack that.
“Murray!” Alexei calls. Then, “Look out!”
“What?” Murray exclaims, panicked, and turns his gaze back to the street.
There’s a bottle thrown to the side of the road, directly in the kid’s path, Murray’s headlights catching on its broken edges.
“Kid!” Murray shouts.
“Leave me alone!”
“No, kid- Look out!”
The kid turns his head just in time to see the bottle, but he veers to the side so sharply the front wheel of the bike goes down the ditch on the side of the road. It tilts to the side underneath him and the kid is knocked to the ground, bike collapsed on top of him.
Murray puts his car in park right then and there and steps out, his headlights still on and illuminating the child in front of him.
Who’s crying. Shit. Had this been last year, Murray isn’t sure he’d have gone to all this trouble. He might’ve just given up when he saw the kid wasn’t in the car park. But Starcourt changed him. He’s more desperate to make sure children stay okay, and, well. Alexei makes him better.
Isn’t that a thought? The person who’d called him a ‘bald pig’ the first time they met, who Murray called ‘soviet scum’ back, makes him a better person.
Murray sighs and steps a little closer, but somehow a switchblade has found its way to the kid’s hand, and he holds it out in front of himself with a shaking hand.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
It’s not very threatening, mostly just looks sad. One of the bike’s wheels is pointing up at the night sky, still going round and round.
A headache’s staring to form between his temples. He wishes he had a bottle of vodka, so he could take a shot. Would offer one to the kid, too.
“Listen here, you little shit, I’m not trying to hurt you and I don’t want to fuck you, you’re a little young for my tastes, okay?” Never mind that Murray does like men. Men, though. Like Alexei. Not teenage boys who can’t even grow a meagre little moustache, can definitely not consent.
“W-What?”
Alexei shoots Murray a reprimanding look and crouches down so he’s more level with the kid, speaking gently to him. “Did you hit… head?” he asks, holding one hand up to the back of his own head, in case the kid doesn’t understand his accent. They’re never going to have kids of their own, because it’s 1985 and they’re two men living in a warehouse converted into a bunker and Murray doesn’t like kids, but if they did, then Murray is certain Alexei would be the more nurturing out of the two of them.
The kid shakes his head, blonde curls bouncing around his throat.
“We saw you at the store,” Murray tells him, doing his best to soften his tone. “Wanted to catch up to you in the car park, but you’d already left.”
“But it’s okay to be scared,” Alexei says, still speaking gently. “Strange men asking you to stop.”
“I’m not-“
Murray hums. “And I guess you’re not crying, either?”
The kid furiously starts trying to blink the tears away. He almost succeeds, too. “I’m not-“
“You’re in pain, it’s natural.”
“Yes,” Alexei says, nodding. “Nothing to be… how do you say, embas… embera…?”
“Embarrassed,” Murray helps. “Exactly. Nothing to be embarrassed over.”
“I’m not fucking crying. I’m not embarrassed. And I-I’m not scared .”
“Right,” Murray says, smiling in exasperation. “Can I lift the bike off you now?”
The kid’s expression is still wary, but he does nod.
Murray takes the bicycle and carries it to the back of his car. So he’s got a bike rack on the lid of his trunk, so what? They like to go take bike rides, sue them.
When he gets back around the car he sees that Alexei’s somehow managed to coax the kid up to standing and is holding the door to the backseat open for him.
Murray sits back down in the driver’s seat, looking at the kid through the rear view mirror as he gets in. He sees him winch as soon as he sits down.
Murray sighs. He waits for Alexei to get in on the other side of the backseat before speaking. “Okay, shirt off, come on.”
The kid startles, winching again. “What?” He looks seconds away from scrambling out of the car and walking home.
Alexei holds up the bag they got at the grocery store. “We saw you looking at these.” He takes out the gauze.
“Oh,” the kid breathes. He still looks hesitant.
Murray sighs, and starts rummaging around the glove compartment for a pack of cigarettes. “He won’t even have to touch you, kid. You can patch yourself up. Just let him look, make sure I won’t have to drop you off at the hospital.”
“It’s okay,” Alexei urges.
The kid takes off his shirt, but Murray’s busy lighting his cigarette and isn’t looking, not until he hears Alexei’s shocked voice saying his name.
There are scars all over the kid’s torso. He’s holding his shirt in front of his chest, but it’s not doing much to hide them. They’re big, circular, still healing, and Murray gets the sinking feeling he might know who this boy is.
“Kid… what’s your name?”
The kid swallows. “Billy.”
Murray closes his eyes. “You Max’ brother?”
“How did you-?”
“We were there,” Murray hears Alexei answer. “Mall. Below.”
Murray opens his eyes. “We were dealing with the Russians underneath the mall with Jim and Joyce while you… while you saved the others.”
Billy exhales shakily. Neither Murray nor Alexei’s ever met him, the most they saw of him was a bloody hand hanging of a stretcher being loaded into a chopper and his blood all over his little sister’s shirt. Murray doesn’t know much about what happened to him afterwards, just that he was eventually released from the hospital at the end of summer, and that he seems to keep his distance from the others who were involved. He’s never there when Murray and Alexei go to see them, although admittedly, it’s not often they do.
Billy shakes his head. “I’m not-“
“Shh,” Alexei says, reaching out and placing a hand over Billy’s, still holding his shirt to his chest. “Yes.”
Murray starts the car. To Hawkins, then. “Let Alexei look you over, Billy. Where do you live?” He drives gently, the two in the backseat not wearing any seatbelts.
“Cherry Lane,” he mutters, and through the rear view mirror Murray sees him lower his shirt to his lap.
“What happened?” Alexei asks.
Billy chuckles with humour. “I spilled some coffee over myself.”
Murray frowns. He’d thought the smudge on his shirt was from some kind of print, but it must’ve been a coffee stain.
“Cuts,” Alexei says. In Russian, he tells Murray, “Scrapes and bruises.”
Murray sees Billy look down at himself. “Must’ve happened when I fell off the bike.”
”Hmm.” Alexei gets something out of the bag. “Here.”
He keeps glancing back at them through the rear view mirror as they get closer to Hawkins. True to their word, Alexei doesn’t touch him. He just hands him supplies from the bag, and watches, worried. Billy rubs the cream and gel on his skin, biting his lip, small hisses and winches escaping, putting plasters on some small cuts.
“Murray,” Alexei says, speaking to him in Russian. “Some of his burns look almost second-degree. He needs help to wrap them.”
“Kid,” Murray says, bringing Billy’s attention to him. “Billy. Alexei says some of those burns look like they might be second-degree. Let him wrap them for you.”
Billy swallows, but Murray sees him nod to Alexei. Alexei hands him the gauze, and Billy turns, his side towards him. He puts the first layer across his stomach, then hands Alexei the gauze to wrap around his side and back, and on they go.
Billy looks down at his bandaged torso. “Can’t say I haven’t got used to this,” he jokes.
If Murray bought his excuses, if he thought this was an accident Billy’d done to himself because he’s clumsy, it would’ve been almost funny.
He stops the car at the beginning of Cherry Lane. “You want me to pull up to the house?”
“No,” Billy shakes his head. “No, this is fine.”
All three of them get out of the car, and Murray gets Billy’s bike of the rack, puts it down by Billy on the sidewalk.
Alexei holds out the grocery bag. It’s not as full anymore. Murray guesses he’d thrown out all the stuff they bought for themselves on the backseat, only leaving the things Billy needs inside. “Here.”
“No, no, I can’t-“
“Take it, kid,” Murray says. “If you don’t, I’ll just tie it up and throw it at you from the car.”
He takes it, pauses, then, “Thank you.”
Alexei smiles the smile that makes him look like a puppy. “You’re welcome.” It’s one of the first phrases he’d learned, one he can say almost without any accent.
“Take care,” Murray says. They watch as Billy puts his bags on the bikes handles, and leads it down the dark street. “Get some sleep, kid.”
Billy shoots him a grin. “Can’t. I’ve got a test to cram for. Why do you think I was drinking coffee this late?”
Murray huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. They get back into the car, Alexei taking his place in the passenger seat.
They’ve just left Hawkins when Alexei speaks, in Russian. “Murray. His cuts. The blood was dry, had started to coagulate. If he’d hurt himself when he fell off the bike, they would’ve still been bleeding. And bruises don’t form that quickly.”
“I know,” Murray says. “I know.”
People - his mother - would like to assume that Murray, with his mind full of conspiracy theories, lives a life without logic, but the opposite is true. Murray devotes his entire thought process to logic, he doesn’t just believe any old theory. No, it needs to make sense.
And nothing makes sense about this teenage boy with a coffee stain covering the entire front of his shirt and burns and bruises and cuts hiding under it, getting on a bike that clearly belongs to his little sister instead of in a car - and he must have one, must at least have a drivers license, boys that look like this one always have cars or motorcycles, they don’t ride around on pink bikes with flowers painted on them - and going out of his way, passing the sign saying You’re Now Leaving The Hellhole That Is Hawkins, Indiana, Good For You, Hope You Have The Sensibility To Never Come Back, to the only store open this late, just to buy coffee because he had a test to cram for.
He’s going to call Jim tomorrow.