billy hargrove | i need my girl

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words: 3k

warnings: sexual harassment, mentions of domestic abuse, billy being a drunk asshole (with an apology), strong language, alcohol, smoking, relationship angst, brief mention of reader having period cramps and brief mention of fatphobia.

prompt: Reader finds out that Billy get stuck at a party and reader had to drive to her house so he doesn't get in trouble by his father. Billy say some mean thing to reader while being drunk.

AN: I've been listening to "I Need My Girl" by the National A LOT and somehow this ended up fitting right in with the prompt. just in case you like music with your fics!

GIF by mistress-gif-deactivated2023111

You’re in your bedroom when he calls you, your pink telephone ringing. You’ve been expecting it. Nobody ever calls you on a Saturday night. Nobody but him. You’ve been waiting, anxious, because he’s at a party and you’re not, and you know what he’s like when he drinks too much.

“Hello?” you answer upon picking up, slipping a bookmark between the pages you’d been reading and crossing your legs.

Billy’s voice is slurred and gravelly on the other side as he yells, “Shut the fuck up. Shut up. I can’t hear my girl.”

You roll your eyes, though the term of endearment warms your chest.

“Babe?” he asks finally, and you imagine him swaying by the telephone, or maybe draped across a couch. You hear the sound of laughter in the background and wonder what kind of fun he’s been having tonight. Whether he misses you, or if the loud music is enough to drown you out of his thoughts for hours on end. Not like you. You’ve been worrying, imagining, all evening. It’s been a rough week with his dad, and Billy needed desperately to blow off steam, he said.

You never dare ask what "blowing off steam" consists of—not when he does it in the likes of Carol’s house, with prettier, popular girls. Not that you don’t trust him. You just know how he loses his head to impulse and self-destruction when he’s struggling. Worse when he’s drunk. Trying to talk him out of it only makes him feel smothered. He needs his space, and you have to live with that.

“What’s up, Billy?” You sigh and push the book away, rubbing your tired eyes.

“Not annoyed at me, are ya?” he asks. “Don’t be like that, baby. Don’t be grumpy.”

“I’m not. Just tired.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’re missin’ me. You can admit it.” It feels like he’s rubbing it in. Because all you wanted tonight was to stay in, rent a movie, and eat popcorn in his arms. But he hadn’t wanted to. He rarely does. Where you’re an introvert through and through, he only wants to jump from one rowdy moment to the next, never staying still for long enough to think, feel. And sometimes, you wonder if it’s because you’re not really what he wants. He claims to like your bookish, softer side, the fact you’re not like the other idiots he hangs out with—and yet when it comes down to it, he always chooses to hang out with them before you.

“Look, I’m about to go to sleep, so—”

“No, no, no,” he protests. “You can’t sleep. I need you…need you t’pick me up.”

You sigh and check the clock on your bedside table. It’s two am, you’re in your pyjamas, and you're suffering from a mean case of period cramps. Going out to pick up your drunken boyfriend is the last thing you want to do. “I can’t. It’s late. Can’t you catch a ride?”

“No. No. I can’t go home tonight.” Sadness shimmers in his tone. “Neil’ll kill me if he sees me drunk.”

“Then stay at Carol’s for the night. I’m sure she won’t mind.” It's petty, even for you, and you hate to be the jealous girlfriend.

His irritated huff crackles down the line. “I wanna see you. Wanna stay with you. C’mon, babe.”

You close your eyes, pain lancing through your chest. He knows you can’t deny him when he pleads with you like a desperate child. “Alright. I’ll be there soon.”

“Great. You’re the best.”

“Billy—”

He’s already hung up, leaving you to talk to an empty, droning receiver.

You slam it down and pull on the first clothes you find, exhausted and already dreading what you’ll find when you get to the party.

***

For good reason. As soon as you get out of the car, you hear the screeches of drunks twirling around the garden, abandoning empty beer cans and cigarette butts. Music blares from inside, silhouettes dancing in the window against flashing lights. Billy isn’t anywhere outside, which only makes things worse.

You steel yourself before stepping in, crossing your arms over your chest, since you didn’t have time to so much as put a bra on beneath your loose sweater. Your car keys jingle in your hand, your only comfort when sour, alcohol-laced breath wafts around you and bodies bump into you. “Hey, you’re Hargrove’s girl,” one of them mutters.

“Not for much longer,” you reply through gritted teeth. Not if this becomes a habit.

It’s Carol you stumble across first, bleary-eyed and smirking. “Lookin’ for Billy?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“He’s got you on a tight leash.” She sneers, looking you up and down before pointing to the couch. “Over there.”

Anger pricks through you, but you take a deep breath and march over to the couch without another word. A reaction is what they want, and they won’t get one from you.

Billy lays sprawled on the couch, a bottle of whiskey in his hands and his eyes unfocused. His face is slick with sweat, his torso bare and his T-shirt and jacket strewn on the floor. He attempts to sit up when he sees you, eyes brightening. “Baaaaabe. You came for me.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, picking up his abandoned clothes. “Put your shirt on.”

“Uh-oh. She’s moody,” he pretends to whisper to the boy beside him, Tommy, who laughs as his eyes rake across you with something you don’t like.

“Isn’t she always? You picked the most uptight bitch in Hawkins.” He nudges Billy as if he’s in on the joke, and he laughs just to prove it.

It stings. Burns. You didn’t come here to be mocked by your boyfriend’s friends. You came here to take him home. “You wanna walk home?” you ask him, voice clipped.

“Now look.” Billy pulls his shirt on inside out, an oily smile on his face. “You poked the bear. She’s gonna be a pain in my ass all night.”

It isn’t just the words that make your stomach twist, but the way he’s talking about you as though you aren’t even there. You get enough of it at school. You shouldn’t have to endure it now, too. Not from him. He can be hot-headed, loud, and you’re patient because you know it’s a result of his father, but this…this is different. This is dehumanising. It makes you feel so small, you want to disappear.

You can’t even walk out. Not with Billy in this state, his eyes hooded and his limbs clumsy. He could run out into the road or pass out, choke on his own vomit, anything. And you know even now, deep in your heart, that he wouldn’t have called you tonight if he didn’t need to. It’s not something he makes a habit of, and not just because his friends like to poke fun.

So you just stand and you take it, offering your hand. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

“Yeah, Billy. Do what your mom says. Off you go.” Tommy slaps his shoulder in jest as Billy attempts to haul himself off the couch. In the end, he only ends up pulling you back down with him, his unstable weight too much for you to bear on your own. You end up on his lap with an “oof.”

“On second thought, she’s got a pretty nice ass, huh?” A hand lands on your rear end, and it isn’t Billy’s. “Let me know when you’re done with her. I wouldn’t mind a go myself.” Tommy is chortling like a five-year-old as you slap him away, your cheeks turning a furious shade of red.

And Billy…you see the anger, the clarity, seep into his hazy eyes. See him stagger up off the couch. See him grab Tommy by the collar of his shirt, pinning him to the couch. “The fuck did you say?”

“Woah. Chill out,” Tommy says, eyes wide and his smug smirk long gone. “I was just messin’ around.”

“Yeah? Well you can go mess around with yourself. Don’t fuckin’ touch my girl. Asshole.” Billy is trembling, and you swallow as fear rises in you.

“Billy,” you whisper, attempting to pry him away before a punch is thrown. “Please. Let’s just go home.” Tears flood your vision when you realise everyone is watching. You’ve been humiliated by every single person in this room, including the only man you thought you could trust.

Billy doesn’t let go. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, rage tightening the tendons in his wrists, his knuckles turning white around Tommy’s shirt.

“Billy,” you beg again. “Please. I want to go home.” Your voice cracks pathetically, and you hate yourself for it.

But Billy loosens his grip slowly, the vein in his forehead throbbing. “Don’t even look at her again, or I swear to god, I’ll kill you.”

Tommy only lifts his hands in surrender, pale and shaken.

“Come on,” you murmur, dragging Billy by the arm. He follows, stumbling until he slips his arm around you just to keep himself upright. Your teeth clench with the effort it takes to guide him out of the house, glad when the fresh air hits your clammy face.

“What a fuckin’ dick,” Billy is mumbling in your ear. “I shouldn’t have come to this fuckin’ party. I hate that guy, Y/N.”

Finally, you reach your car, pulling open the passenger door and throwing Billy in with little tenderness. You slam the door on him, anger still rippling through you as you round the bonnet and slip into the driver’s side.

“Woah, woah,” he winces, “What’s with the slammin’ doors?”

You can’t say anything. If you do, you’ll explode, and there’s no use having an argument with him when he’s like this. Instead, you turn on the radio, fist the steering wheel with shaking hands, and drive.

“What, you’re not talking to me now?” He pokes you in your ribs, teasing, but you keep your glare on the road ahead. “Oh, c’mon. You know I hate the silent treatment.”

And you can’t help it. You explode. You veer off the road, coming to a halt by the tree line so you can face him properly. “You know what I hate, Billy? I hate being humiliated in front of everybody. I hate being talked about like I’m not there. Like I’m just the butt of your shitty fucking jokes. Like you don’t even want to be with me. I hate feeling like a piece of fucking shit because I came to get you, to help you, when you asked me to.”

He blinks, tucking his chin into his chest and sighing. “I know. And Tommy was way out of line—”

“I’m not talking about Tommy!” you scream—and regret it instantly when he flinches. He hates shouting. Hates being shouted at. You know that. You’re just so fucking angry, so hurt. You sigh; scrape your hand across your face before continuing, quieter. “I’m talking about you. The way you spoke to me, the way you laughed at his jokes. It felt…” your eyes well with tears, and you clutch your chest as though there’s a knife there, because that’s what it feels like. You’ve lived your entire life this way, getting nothing but laughed at by your parents, siblings, friends. For being too nerdy, too chubby, too everything. Everyone treats you like you're nothing. You just never thought he would, too. But he’s looking at you like you’re speaking a different language, a stray curl falling into his eyes, and you know it’s useless trying to make him understand. So you shake your head and focus on the road again. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Let’s just go home.”

“Y/N…”

You turn the radio back on to drown him out, but it does nothing to staunch your tears. You feel his gaze on you the entire time, and it only makes it worse, until soon your bottom lip is wobbling and you have to clamp down on it, have to wipe the tears from your eyes so the lights around you are no longer blurred.

“Shit,” Billy mumbles finally.

It’s all he says until you pull up in front of your house. Your bedroom light is still on, while the rest of the street is pitch-black.

You shut off the engine, exhausted and numb, and unfasten your belt. But when you try to get out, his fingers curl around your wrist, keeping you there.

You can’t look at him yet, so you look at the garden path behind him.

“Baby,” he says softly. “I’ve fucked up. I know. I know I have.”

You can’t argue with that.

Frustratedly, he scrapes his hair back. “I shouldn’t have made those bullshit jokes. I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I do a lot of things.”

More tears, this time flowing faster, rolling down your jaw, your neck, dripping onto your sweater. Your ass still burns from the feeling of Tommy’s hand. “You know, he wouldn’t have touched me like that if you hadn’t laughed at me first. When you treat me like that, you’re telling him it’s okay to treat me like that, too. That I’m just a joke to you.”

“You know you’re not.” He brings your hand to his lips; kisses the back of it, and then your thumb ring and your knuckles, so soft and bearing no resemblance at all to the man at the party. He stinks of alcohol, and it means nothing. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.”

You pull your hand away, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes and sniffing. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“No.” His brows furrow. “No. No. Don’t…please don’t. I said I’m sorry. Please don’t…please don’t leave me.”

Surprise flutters through you. You tilt your head. “What?”

“You can’t break up with me. You can’t.” He shakes his head, his own eyes glossy now, and no longer just with the booze. Fear is written all over his face. Fear like you’ve never seen before, even after Neil's beatings. “I know I fucked up. I know. I know. But we can fix it. I can fix it. I swear to god I can.”

“I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just upset. I’m upset, Billy, and I can’t talk to you when you’re drunk because I don’t think you understand why.”

“I do. I do understand. I was a fucking shit. I was so…god, I felt like him.” His upper lip curls with contempt, and you know who he’s talking about. His dad. “You deserve so much better than that.”

You press your head against the cool window, closing your eyes so you don’t have to look at his broken features anymore. You hear the click of him unfastening his seatbelt, and then the weight of his rough hands on your thigh as he shuffles closer. “It’s worse ‘cos I missed you so fuckin’ bad tonight. Kept thinking about how I could have just been home with you, but I was out gettin’ wasted, acting like a prick instead. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m ruining the only good thing I have. And I don’t know why you’re still with me.”

You know he’d never say these things if he was sober, never admit them. But you also know they’re true, because he isn’t in the habit of being vulnerable like this unless he really means it.

“I’m with you because I love you," you say. "I just…I just sometimes wonder if you feel the same. If we’re right for each other. I’m never going to dance with you at a party or get wasted. I’m never going to like your friends, especially not now.”

“He’s not my friend.” It was practically a growl. “And you’re wrong.” He squeezes your leg. “You’re the only good thing I have. You’re my girl. I need you. I’ll do better. I will. I swear to fuckin’ god, I will.”

You don’t reply; don’t know what to say. You want so badly to believe him, but you don’t know if it’s enough anymore.

Until he says, “I don’t think I know. Y’know. How to have a good thing without destroying it. I’m so scared of…of losing you. Of being like him. And I think tonight I was waitin’ to see how far you’d go. How much you’d take. Like I wanted to show you the worst part of me, the ugliest parts. Maybe I wanted to drive you away now so you wouldn't leave me later. But I never meant for it to get that bad. I never, ever want you to be hurt, not by me or anyone else. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I just—”

“It does make sense,” you croak finally, letting your hand wander back into his.

“I’m fucked up, Y/N.”

A tear rolls down his cheek. You swipe it away with the pad of your thumb. “Maybe I am, too. ‘Cos it was so goddamn easy for me to fall apart tonight. To feel like nothing. And maybe I was expecting that, too. That you’d realise sooner or later I’m not what you want. That I’m…” Your chin quivers.

“Don’t.” He shakes his head slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear so delicately it makes you feel like precious glass. “You’re all I want. You are.” He rests his forehead against yours. He smells like whiskey and cigarettes, and you don’t mind anymore, because it’s him, and you love him, and you forget sometimes how fragile this thing is between you. How easily one of you could break it. And perhaps how you’ve both been waiting for it to break, somehow.

But in the dark silence of the car, your hands locked together and your tears mingling, you forge it into something stronger.

“It won’t happen again. It won’t,” he promises.

“It can’t,” you reply, because it’s true. You’ll allow one mistake, one bad night, but your heart won’t take much more. Not like that, anyway.

“It won’t,” he repeats, brushing his lips against the tip of your nose. He doesn’t try to go further, doesn’t try to kiss you, and you’re glad. He’s drunk and you're tired, and you just need him to be gentle with you. “It won’t.”

You end up falling asleep with him like that in the car, uncomfortable but safe again, nestled against his chest. And in the morning, Billy’s grovelling begins.

billy hargrove | i need my girl

masterlist | request

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