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Billy watches Graham snort a line of coke off the collarbone of a blonde who looks just a little bit too suspiciously like Karen and wonders why exactly he agreed to go out tonight. It had seemed like an alright idea when they first got the checks, and Cam had encouraged him to go out and enjoy the success.
The latter probably has a lot to do with it. The idea of surrounding himself with the chaos of the strip pales in comparison to the idea of destabilizing their current peace.
It hadn’t been so bad at first, when the live band was still playing and everyone was drinking more beer than shots. Now that the drugs are fully out in the open and at least three girls have brushed fingers over his elbow and given him their best smiles, he’s not sure how much longer he can handle being here without a drink.
And he can’t drink.
But at least he can smoke. He ducks out into the alley, leaning up against the brick. He’s on his second cigarette when the door opens and an unmistakable shock of red hair stumbles out.
Courtesy dictates that he say hello. That he thank her for helping them release a hit. Instead he just prays – to God or the devil or anyone else listening – that she doesn’t notice him.
She doesn’t look his way, just stumbles to the right of the door, wobbly on her feet. It takes her three tries to light her joint, and she slides to the ground to smoke it, the short skirt of her dress riding too high on her thighs. Which he shouldn’t notice, because he should have looked away the moment he saw her. Or, even better, he should go back inside.
He’s about to when he sees her go from half-awake to entirely passed out, sees the slump of her shoulders and the way the joint hangs too lose between her fingers.
Billy’s an asshole. He’s a shitty person, a cheater, a barely passable father. But he’s not so horrible that he’s going to leave a girl passed out alone in an alley, whether it’s Daisy Jones or not.
“Daisy.” His voice is too soft, and he knows that. Knows she can’t hear him about the music coming from inside. Tries again. “Hey. Daisy. Wake up, this isn’t a good place to sleep.”
She doesn’t move, so he gets closer, crouches down in front of her and shakes her knee gently.
“Daisy?”
Her head lifts from where it’s resting on her arm, and the look she gives him isn’t remotely clear enough to convince him she’s entirely conscious. “Oh look. The broody one.”
“I’m not- fuck, never mind. Daisy you’re sleeping in an alley right now. It’s not a great look.”
Daisy huffs a laugh, squinting at him in the dark. “Well would you look at us now?”
Billy remembers being like this. Remembers thinking everything was a comedy, or at least pretending as much to get past the haze of alcohol taken way too far. His hand is still resting on her knee, and her skin feels too warm. He pulls it away, rocking back on his heels.
She’s already halfway to passing out again, the joint falling from her fingers to the pavement. It shouldn’t make him sad, because it should have nothing to do with him at all.
“You should go home, Daisy.”
Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.
This ethereal, sad creature whose voice he can’t scrape from the inside of his skull, who he knows next to nothing about beyond how beautifully they sing together and how vibrant her eyes are when she can keep them open.
“Got no way home.”
“How did you plan on getting home in the first place?”
She looks at him properly then, smile showing her teeth, eyes handing out a challenge. “I was going to go to someone else’s home.”
Of course she was. She probably does often. And if he weren’t here, that would be fine, and he would never think twice about it. The problem is that he is here, and she’s fucking hammered.
“Okay get up, I’ll take you home.” He straightens and offers her his hand. She takes it, lets him pull her up. She feels featherlight. The idea of her following some stranger home twists something in his gut and he tells himself it’s because he would hate to see his wife or daughter like this. “Cab?”
“No, I can walk.” And she does. Heads off down the alley and back to the street, not looking back at him. When he follows, she doesn’t say anything, just winds her way down the strip as if on auto pilot. He starts to think she might not, in fact, need anyone’s help.
Then she leans against a stop sign before almost stumbling into the street and into traffic, and he’s changing his mind again.
“Well fuck.” She murmurs when someone lays on the horn. Then, louder, “Watch where you fucking drive, dickhead!”
“Okay.” Billy heaves a sigh and watches as she slides down the sign to crouch on the ground. “What are you doing?”
Daisy looks at him like he’s fucking stupid. And he probably is, so he can hardly begrudge her thinking so. “I’m taking a fucking break, obviously.”
“We should really get you home.” He’s not sure what the use is in saying it when she’s already leaning her head back, eyes closed, and appears to have passed out again.
He chews his lip and looks around, seeking some solution for the predicament he’s managed to get himself into. When he doesn’t find one, he squats on the pavement with his back to her and tugs on her wrist. “Come on, up you go.”
Billy isn’t sure she’ll listen, but she wraps her arms around his neck, then her legs when he stands.
“Which way?”
“That way. Like. Four blocks.” She gestures lazily.
The walk would be peaceful in different circumstances. As it stands, her face is buried against his neck and he can smell something sweet – her shampoo, maybe. She’s so warm on his back that it warms him even in the unseasonably cool air. He doubles his pace, does his best to ignore all the useless, stupid messages his body gives him.
There’s no denying Daisy is beautiful. But she’s chaos, too. The sort of chaos he learned to stay away from a long time ago.
It’s farther than he thinks, and Daisy mostly slumbers until he asks her for directions. She’ll lift her head lazily, murmur a brief bit of instruction, then tuck her head back against his neck with a soft sigh.
Finally, he’s standing in front of the stairs of an apartment building, trying to consider whether Daisy can manage stairs on her own. In the end he gives up and carries her there, too. “Is anyone home?”
“Key’s in the flowerpot.” She mumbles.
When he gets it open, she sets her down on unsteady legs inside the doorway, and she looks up at him with doe eyes. He’s turning to go when she says, “Can you help me get my boots off?”
He assumes it’s a come on until he looks down at her feet and realizes the laces may in fact be too much for her to manage. He should let her sleep in them. He steps through the doorway after her instead, following her down the hall until she’s collapsing on an unmade bed.
She looks like a painting. He looks away, starts unlacing one boot and then the other.
“I don’t need your help, you know.”
“That’s not what you just said.”
Billy looks up in time to see her shaking her head, “No I mean. To be famous. To sing. I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Daisy breathes a sigh of relief when he sets one boot on the floor and moves onto the other.
“No. I don’t think you do need my help.” It’s too honest, but he doubts she will remember anything in the morning anyways. “Whatever makes people successful, Daisy, I’m sure you’ve got that.”
She’s quiet then, and he assumes she’s fallen asleep as he pulls the other boot off. But then she’s unbuttoning her shorts and trying to slide them down. He’s grateful for the instinct that has him shielding his eyes.
“What the fuck?”
“Do you sleep in jeans?”
“I- yeah. When I used to drink, I did.” He tugs blindly at the blanket, and when he hears her shorts land on the floor he tugs it over her until he’s sure it’s safe to open his eyes again.
She’s laughing at him. Drunk beyond function, sprawled across the bed having been carried home, and she’s laughing at him.
“You’re a prude,” She murmurs. Then, softer, so soft he almost can’t hear her, “A good one, though.”
Billy moves to sit up from the edge of the bed and she opens her eyes again. Blue and endless.
“Don’t leave.”
“Daisy.” There’s a warning in it, but he’d not sure why.
“Just. Until I fall asleep.”
He should say no. He’s gotten her here safely, and she’ll be alright in the morning, minus a few missing memories and a painful hangover. But she’s looking at him with a vulnerability that makes him feel small again, and he can’t find a way to tell her no.
Instead he settles beside her on the mattress, not touching, and waits until her breath begins to rise steady and relaxed. Until he’s sure that she’s asleep.
Then he slowly stands and treads his way carefully to the door. Looks back over his shoulder at her, beautiful and lonesome, and murmurs softly, “If things were different, I would stay.”