Work Text:
God, Stu hates the night shift. Working at the Quikstop is boring enough as it is, but at night there’s no one coming in, no one to talk to, no one to peer at creepily through the packed convenience store shelves, which is the main thing that keeps him entertained during his shifts. Like he said, boring.
On this particular Friday night it’s almost pitch black outside, not even the moon daring to peek its head from behind the trees. Stu’s gas station is just a little ways outside of town, maybe a few minutes at most, but it makes it feel like he’s alone and isolated in the middle of nowhere. It actually gets a lot of business, on most days, being the first convenience store for a good twenty miles along the highway coming north. A lot of hikers and road-trippers use the road to shortcut across and just skip Woodsboro altogether.
Because of that, Stu’s seen some interesting people in his day. He’s laughed, he’s cried, he’s feared for his life behind the register, but he does enjoy his job most of the time. Even if a gas station attendant isn’t the flashiest of job titles.
He yawns and leans over the counter, stretching his arms out in front of him. Only four more hours to go. When he gets off, he’ll probably take a shower and a long nap, then curl up on the couch and maybe put on a movie…
Suddenly, the door chime rings and Stu bolts upright, as to not make it look like he was just dozing off. He hadn’t even heard the guy’s car pull up, but now there’s some kid in a wrinkled gray hoodie wandering around the store. Stu tracks him through the aisles, trying to suss him out. He looks kind of beat-up, not just his ripped sweatshirt but he’s got a cut on his forehead that’s dripping a little bit of blood down his temple. He’s also not from Woodsboro; looks about high school age, maybe a little older, and Stu’s never seen him before. Which only makes him all the more intriguing.
His car is also nice; a mint green Cadillac convertible, from what Stu can see. Certainly not the kind of car that he would expect for some random teenager in the middle of NorCal.
The kid skulks through the refrigerated section, occasionally opening the doors and then changing his mind. Stu frowns as he wanders to the candy and chips, grabs something, and then continues on to the back corner. He stays there for a while, which is frustrating because Stu doesn’t have a good view of what he’s doing. He can just hear him rummaging through the shelves, like he’s trying to look for something important. Could be anything back there; sunscreen, hand sanitizer, nail clippers, condoms…
Stu huffs in annoyance and leans out across the cool linoleum again. Finally, after an eternity, Mysterious Gray Hoodie reveals himself again and walks up to the checkout, holding at least five different items from all across the store. Stu eyes him warily as he sets them down, wordlessly digging into his back pocket for money. Up close, he can see the guy’s face better, and the beginnings of a bruise forming around his left eye. The hoodie is clearly not his size, and thrown on carelessly, like he’s going to take it off after he leaves. Interestingly, the items also turn out to be band aids, duct tape, a box of pads, a Heath bar and Fritos. Strange, but not the weirdest assortment of things Stu’s checked out by a long shot. He shoots the guy a questioning look, but doesn’t say anything as he hands him a couple bills and asks, “Can I get a blue raspberry slushie with that?”
Stu nods, and turns around to go make his drink. The blue raspberry slushie is almost out, so it takes a long time to fill up the cup and he curses at the machine for its incompetence. He didn’t even notice the guy had left for a second, but when he finally returns to the counter there’s a bottle of ibuprofen sitting with the rest of the items. He raises an eyebrow, “Y’know, we have a first aid kit in the back if you need it.”
Gray Hoodie shakes his head, “It’s fine, just ring me up.”
“Okay, well it’s gonna be another ten for the ibuprofen.” The guy grumbles and pulls out more cash, counting the bills in his hand.
“C’mon man, you don’t have to pay for all this shit. Just lemme help you,” Stu pleads. He’d like to say it comes from the kindness of his own heart, but really he’s just nosy and he wants to know what this kid’s deal is.
Fortunately, Gray Hoodie pauses in counting the money. Maybe he was won over by Stu’s agreeable manner and natural charm, but he can see that the kid doesn’t have enough for the medicine. His lips are pressed into a very thin line, maybe from reluctance or maybe from pain.
“Here,” Stu walks over and opens the employee-only gate for him to come behind the counter. Gray Hoodie follows him into the back room, which is a crowded little area with only enough room for a small sofa, a ramshackle old coffee table and a TV to the side. In the corner, another door leads to the single-stall bathroom and sink.
“You can sit,” Stu tells him, reaching under the table to pull out the first aid kit. He’s never actually looked in it before, and is kind of intrigued by the old tackle box that’s surprisingly heavy. Peering inside, he finds some tweezers, band aids, gauze, hydrocortisone cream, rubbing alcohol, and a little medical emergency field manual.
He turns back around to face the kid, glancing up to see that he’s stripped off his sweatshirt to reveal a white t-shirt that’s got a disturbing amount of bloodstains on it. He doesn’t meet Stu’s eyes as he brings over the tackle box. “Hey, it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen,” Stu says, trying to lighten the mood a bit. It doesn’t do much.
The kid pulls up his t-shirt, and Stu stops himself from swearing because holy fuck, there’s even more blood on him than on his shirt. At least two or three large gashes under his left arm and on his lower back, mostly clotted over but still bleeding a little bit. Stu whistles, “Those are some nasty wounds you got there.” He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until the kid clears his throat and asks, “Can I get some gauze or something?”
“Oh, right! Sorry.” Stu puts the first aid kit down the couch and hands him the roll of gauze. He bites the inside of his cheek, “Do you want some paper towels too?”
“Sure,” the kid mumbles. Stu hurries into the bathroom, pulling out a handful of paper towels and wetting some of them in the sink, before hurrying out again, “Here.”
“Thanks.” The stranger begins wiping up the blood from his own abdomen, although it’s a little difficult to see the wounds from his angle and he winces when he bends sideways to get a better view. Stu tries not to stare, but there’s nothing else in the room that’s as interesting as watching him. So instead, he picks up some of the wet paper towels and offers, “I can help you if you want.”
The kid shoots him a glare, but after a moment sighs and shifts so his back is facing where Stu’s standing. Stu takes that as a yes and kneels down on the linoleum flooring in front of the couch, bringing up the wet towel and pressing it against the gashes on his back and side. The blood starts to flow a little more, but as he carefully wipes it away Stu can see that the injuries aren’t actually as bad as he initially thought. Still gnarly though, and he gets the strange urge to lick up the blood, although he’s pretty sure most people would be pretty weirded out by that.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Stu decides he can’t just let this opportunity go without getting to know this stranger a little bit better, “So, you live around here?”
There’s a moment of pause where the kid seems a little taken aback by the question, but he eventually replies, “No, uh, not really.”
Stu nods his head, “What brings you here then?”
The kid shifts uncomfortably beneath the towel. “Look man, if you’re going to call the cops then just fucking do it, you don’t have to make small talk with me.”
“Hey, I’m not calling the police! I’m just curious,” Stu leans over to look him in the eye. “I’m Stu, by the way.”
“I saw on your nametag,” the kid grumbles. “I’m Billy.”
“Billy,” Stu repeats. “Nice name. Suits you.” Billy eyes him dubiously. “You’re kind of fucking weird, man.”
“Yeah, I know,” Stu tilts his head. He pulls the paper towel away, satisfied with his work. “ ‘Kay, I’m gonna clean it now.”
Billy nods, and Stu tips the bottle of rubbing alcohol onto a clean sheet until it’s evenly soaked. Then, he pushes it against Billy’s side again.
“Ow, shit!” He arches his back away. “That stings!”
“Yeah well, it’s supposed to,” Stu responds. He continues wiping down the gashes, Billy twitching away from him every time his towel slides over open wound. At least the blood is no longer dripping down, and it doesn’t look infected already. “See, wasn’t so bad!” Stu professes. Billy groans painfully.
“We just need to wrap it up, and you’ll be good as new!”
“Yeah, easy for you to say,” Billy mumbles. Stu frowns, and presses his finger up to one of the cuts, “Does it hurt?”
“Ow, cut it out, man! Yes, it hurts!”
“Oh, sorry,” Stu removes his finger. He reaches for the roll of gauze, giving one end to Billy to hold and reaching around his torso to wrap the rest around him. For the first time, Billy sort of relaxes and lets out a breath, releasing some of the tension he was carrying in his shoulders. This close, Stu can smell the sweat and dried blood caked onto his shirt. It has a weirdly intoxicating effect.
Billy holds the gauze down, occasionally brushing his hands against Stu’s as he finishes dressing the wounds and ties off the end. He leans back to admire his handiwork; not bad for three in the morning at a Quikstop. Billy runs his fingers over the rough bandaging, before pulling his shirt down and slipping the sweatshirt over his head again. He goes to stand up, “Thanks, man.”
“Wait,” Stu pushes him back down again, and takes another wet paper towel to dab at the small cut across his face. Billy blinks and tries to move away, but Stu holds him firmly by the chin to keep him in place. “Stay still.” Reluctantly, Billy lets him clean up the blood smeared across his temple, face so close Stu can feel the breath ghosting across his skin.
Finally, he deems it good enough. Billy groans as he gets up on his feet, clutching his side and leaning against the table. He looks as if to leave, but then hesitates and turns back around when Stu doesn’t say anything. He raises an eyebrow incredulously, “You’re really not gonna ask how I managed to fuck up my torso like that?”
Stu shrugs, putting the rubbing alcohol back into the tackle box and closing it up. “Guess not.”
“You get a lot of people coming in here with flesh wounds?”
“No.” Stu cocks his head to the side. “I’d say you were my first.” Billy scoffs, glancing around at the room amusedly. He lets out a breath, “Guess I should be going then.”
“You can crash here,” Stu offers, gesturing to the sofa. “I’ve still got,” he checks his watch, “three and a half more hours on my shift. ‘Could keep me company.” Billy pauses to consider it, but shakes his head. “Sorry, I gotta go. Maybe I’ll stop by again.”
Stu scrunches up his face, “Yeah, maybe.” He leans against the table and sighs, but quickly perks up again. “Oh wait, hold on.” He shuffles out of the break room and over to the register again, leaning over as if writing something. Curious, Billy follows him out.
“There,” Stu hands him a receipt and the bottle of ibuprofen. Billy furrows his eyebrows, “What’s this?”
“That’s for you. That’s so you don’t keel over driving home, and that--” he points to the receipt, “is my number.” Billy looks up at him, and Stu grins. “See you around sometime?”