Chapter Text
When Steve had huddled onto the train this morning, shoes wet from stepping into a suspicious puddle on the platform for the Downtown 6, he hadn’t expected to be returning home like this.
He’d expected to return home alone, at least.
Not trying to fit the key into the lock of his apartment while Billy Hargrove stands behind him, silent and shaking.
Steve had taken the job in FiDi almost a decade ago, expecting to stay as a low level associate for at least half of that time. Fly under the radar or something. But a restructuring happened his second year in and, overnight, he’d become one of the lowest on the totem pole to team lead, reporting directly to management on big ticket shit.
Big ticket shit, including overseeing the liquidation of their creditors.
He had somehow managed, still, to stay away from the slave trade his entire working career. He remembers growing up with Indebteds, sure. He remembers having a rotation of them as nannies, house managers, cooks, gardeners whenever his parents were gone. Which was all the time.
He remembers the way they’d never meet his eyes or speak unless spoken to, no matter how hard he’d tried to keep them on equal ground. He remembers the way they’d have their own plates, own quarters; squirreling away to eat in corners only after he was done. He remembers bumping into one of them once, turning a corner too fast, and the Indebted had immediately dropped to her knees.
He’d hated the way it felt: like he was some big, towering figure; and them tiny animals at his mercy.
It’s not far from the truth, in the eyes of the law. Indebteds don’t have many rights, if at all, and every few months there are harrowing stories of abuse. Another one killed. Another one maimed. Another one barely an adult. Which makes Steve wonder how the fuck the Indebted Program Abolition Bill keeps failing at congress.
But it does. Every year. And every year that Steve gets higher and higher on the food chain, the more he’s surrounded by creeps who talk about the Program like it’s a secret club.
This time, though. One of their creditors had been a big conglomerate – one of those previously thought too-big-to-fail companies that turned out to be nothing but a Ponzi scheme rotting from the inside out. And in the middle of that shit show are a few dozens of Indebteds across tens of departments – from admin, to cleaning, to accounting, to personal servitude.
His company has a buy-out and manumission scheme – which was one of the reasons Steve decided to apply here – but it’s nowhere big enough to handle the sudden volume. Which is how Pearson & Damon had ended up with two conference rooms full of Indebteds and how Steve had ended up at his desk, interviewing each of them to figure out where they should be sorted.
He checks “Approved for Scheme, review every 3 months” then “10” for “Likelihood of Full Manumission” before sealing the papers in an envelope and sliding them into the drawer. He knows that this Indebted – a 40 year old woman with carefully blank but secretly fierce eyes – is the last of the easy departments. She’d been with the conglomerate for 5 years, but she’d always been in the accounting department, and she had been with a call center for the 10 years before that. Steve knows that she’ll be fine; that she’ll be able to re-enter society as long as she’s given the right chances.
“‘Kay, send the next one in,” he calls out to his secretary, steeling himself to start on the Indebteds in the personal servitude department.
He braces his elbows on his desk, leans his forehead against his hands, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t open them even after he hears his door open and then close, and he can smell the faint clinical scent of antiseptic wafting off the Indebted that must be standing in front of him – they’d all been sent through health checkups before arriving.
The only thing driving Steve to eventually sit up and open his eyes is the thought that he’s probably scaring whoever is standing there. He doesn’t know whether they believe any of the things Pearson & Damon has told them since the liquidation, but he knows that trust is probably in scarce supply. He thinks he wouldn’t have any belief in humanity left if he’d spent his life being traded from person to person, monster to monster. He probably wouldn’t even have any humanity left, and that’s what he’s really afraid of seeing. He really doesn’t want to see trauma personified.
Number one, he’d already seen enough of it in Hawkins. Number two, trauma is trauma when it comes from Demogorgons and other realities. Trauma from something done to you by other people? That seems like a whole different thing.
He wrenches his head up, and standing before him is a girl that can’t be much older than the minimum age to sell yourself. Her limp, brown hair is tucked behind her ears, and her government-issued slacks hang off her shoulders.
“Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding me,” is what he says before he can stop the words from coming out of his mouth, or the eyeroll that sprouts from the deepest regions of his soul.
She flinches, shoulders shuddering from where they’re taut. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“No, that’s not–” Steve’s fist suddenly unclenches and the pen he’s holding clatters onto the table. She winces, and he takes a second to replace the cap of the pen. Takes a slow second to breathe and meld himself back together. “I’m sorry. That’s really not what I meant. I meant–”
What did he mean? I’m sorry you had to sell yourself into slavery dressed up as a debt forgiveness scheme? I’m sorry that you’ve become property when you should be in school, making new friends or finding an internship? I’m sorry that people shouldn’t be able to own other people, but that’s somehow reality? I’m sorry that we now own you?
Fuck.
If this was 18-year old Steve, it’s very likely that he would have said all that. But this is adult Steve, with enough time out of his small town to understand that people – even ones that can’t lay claim to a single thing in the world that’s of value – rarely want pity.
Steve clenches his toes in his leather shoes. Feels the rough scrape of his sock against the insole, the way it bites his toenails into his skin.
“I meant to say hello,” he settles for saying. “And please. Have a seat.”
She shuffles over and pulls the chair out without a sound, then does nothing more than perch on its edge. It can’t be comfortable.
“My name is Steve,” he says, trying to put a smile in his voice. “You can look up, if you want. But– But if you don’t want to, that’s fine too.” When enough time passes that he’s sure she’s not going to look at him, he presses ahead: “I’m with Pearson & Damon. I’ve been asked to evaluate you for our manumission program, and to find you an appropriate placement. Your name is Joanna?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How old are you?”
“20, Sir.”
“How many Owners have you been with?”
“Just one, Sir. This was my first sale.”
“Okay.” Steve flips through her file. Tries to ignore the numerous intake photos that threaten to slide out. Even from a brief glance, she looks so much younger in them, then. So much more hopeful. Then there are the pictures from during. Those he quickly pushes them back in like they singe his fingers with their horror. “How did you end up as an Indebted?”
It’s information Steve can find somewhere in her file, but he needs a sensing on her. He needs to know if there’s anything left inside her that he can try to piece together again.
Joanna shrinks, impossibly, even smaller in her chair. “I was kicked out by my parents so I lived alone for a while, but I… I couldn’t keep up with the bills. The government offered me the Scheme.”
He swallows down the urge to scoff at the last sentence. Offered? More like forced. More like made the Scheme seem like the only option by closing off all the others.
“What was your highest education attainment?”
“High school, Sir.”
“Extra-curriculars?”
“None, Sir.”
“Any favorite subjects?”
“I’m… Nothing in particular, Sir.”
“Okay, well, do you like reading?”
“Yes, Sir.” A strand of hair falls into her face and she quickly pushes it back behind her ear.
“Did you like math?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Between reading and math, which one did you prefer?”
It takes a while for her to respond, but she does. “Math, Sir.”
“Same. Hated books. Never understood why authors had to use so many words just to describe one thing. Like, who needs to know what a snow storm feels like besides: “cold” and “windy” and “sucks”? Math, on the other hand, that made at least a little bit of sense.” He tries to smile at her encouragingly, even though she’s not looking. It’s awkward. “Anyway. Know how to use a computer?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Excel?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Microsoft Word?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Okay, Joanna.” He leans forward and puts his hands on the table, and tries not to react to the way she startles backwards at the change in position. “Would you maybe be interested in a data entry role? Just for a little while. Get you comfortable with the office, then we can take a look at whether there’s a role that’s better suited for you after a few weeks. Or after you’ve gotten a chance to see what other departments we have.” He doesn’t say that the data entry role is one of the only jobs where you don’t have to interact with other people if you don’t want to. He suspects that’s where he’ll assign most of the personal servitude Indebteds at first, unless any of them seem interested in something more hands-on. “The company will probably need some time to set up a system for all of you – so you’ll have to bear with us – but there will be regular check-ins, and opportunities to try different roles. How does that sound?”
The conversation has been going so blandly that Steve is actually shocked when she ducks her head even lower and asks, more into her chest than anywhere towards Steve: “Permission to ask a question?”
Steve digs his nails into his palm in lieu of punching a wall. “Granted forever.”
“I’m a personal servitude Indebted.”
He doesn’t quite understand her meaning, so he doesn’t respond. He waits instead for a clarification, but what follows in the ticking silence is an outpouring of panic so thick it fills the room.
“I– Sorry, that wasn’t a question. Sorry.” She grips her knees so tight that her fingernails shift white. “Sorry, Sir. Nevermind. Sorry.”
Steve doesn’t quite know what to do, save that he wants to put her out of her misery as soon as possible. He doesn’t know where this went wrong, or what’s even running through her head. There’s no way to tell and Steve, for all that he doesn’t envy Eleven, finds for the first time that he wishes he could read minds. “Would you look at me?”
Her eyes snap up to his, and she keeps them there even though she’s clearly afraid.
“It’s okay,” he says, as calmly as he possibly can. “Please take your time. What was your question?”
She swallows, again and again, throat jerking, trying to find her words. “I’m a personal servitude Indebted, Sir. I don’t… I can perform. I can please. Men. Women. What– Whoever you want. So I don’t… I don’t understand.”
Steve considers her in all her fear. “There’s nothing stopping Pearson & Damon from changing your status to non-personal servitude.” Then he continues before her emotions can ramp up: “It doesn’t matter whether you’re marked personal servitude or not, we pay the same across the board.”
There’s a shade of resignation in her body language when she nods.
“Federal minimum wage, to be clear. Across the board.”
And that catches her attention. A soft look of incredulity crosses her face, and Steve catches the way her breath speeds up, wide eyes shiny like ores broken wide open, oozing tar.
“The company has freed hundreds of Indebteds since the 80s,” Steve says slowly. “You’re going to be issued a computer tomorrow, and it’s going to be yours. Completely. For the entire time that you’re employed with us.” She’s still as stone. “So, over a lunch break, I want you to search us up. There’s going to be past testimony from Indebteds, and videos, and official proof.” And because he knows there’s no universe in which Joanna will do it with her own free will – not now, at least and maybe not even for a few months, though Steve can hope against hope that she learns how to trust them sooner than that – he says: “That’s a, er, an order. But I don’t need you to report back to me, okay? I just need you to do it.”
Steve watches as the tension seeps out of her body. He’s not sure if it’s because an order is something she knows how to carry out, or if she’s convinced by his promise that this is real. But he supposes that both of those things will lead to the same conclusion.
“For now, would you be okay with a data entry job? It’ll probably be boring, but, ah, I think it’ll be okay.” Steve has to look away now, because she’s suddenly staring at him like he’s a different creature. “And, um, if you really hate it, we can have you try something else. Another role. We have tons here, and there’s always work to do.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He wishes he had something to throw against a wall. Like maybe a glass. Something that would make a noise when it breaks.
Instead, he spends the next 20 minutes bringing Joanna through the information packet for the manumission program. He ends up finishing the session without a clue as to whether she’s agreeing to what he’s saying because she’s actually agreeing, or because she doesn’t dare to say no.
It’s a disaster, really, but if there’s anything he is, he’s a stubborn motherfucker that doesn’t know how to give up.
So he says: “hey, sorry, hang on,” when they’re done with the paperwork and she’s free to go. She turns instantly, hand stilled on the door knob but, this time, she looks at him. Her eyes are mostly fear, but there’s a hint of incandescent curiosity there that makes Steve feel like everything might turn out all right with her, after all. “If you hadn’t… In another life. Would you… Would you have gone to college, maybe? If you could have?”
She bites the corner of her bottom lip then abruptly releases it, like she’s remembering where she is and who she is. “Yes, Sir.”
“What would you have studied? If you could have chosen anything in the world.” He asks softly. “I know… I know you have no reason to trust me, but I promise I’m not asking to use it against you.” He looks down at his still-shuddering fingers. Laces them together to keep them still. “I just want to do the right thing.”
Joanna clenches her fists at her side, then slowly unfurls her shaking hands. Regret flashes across her face – just briefly, but it’s more real than anything Steve has seen since she walked through the door. “I used to play the cello.”
His mouth falls open, slightly. Because he wasn’t expecting it but this… This, he can work with. He knows what to do now, and he can’t believe how brave she is. How incredibly scary it must be to offer this information willingly. How it must be akin to giving up her last shred of security, her last shelter from the cold.
When he remembers how to breathe again, he says: “Thank you, Joanna. That was very helpful. Go get some rest.”
And she goes.
He marks “Approved for Scheme, review every week”, with a note for her to be put in their data entry team that looks at entertainment studios and event organizers. It’s a “To be evaluated” under “Likelihood of Full Manumission”, but it’s much better than an “Unlikely”.
Then he calls for the next Indebted and picks up the next file on his desk.
Strangely, it’s not even the photo that catches his attention, even though it takes up a good quarter of the page. It’s the name of his hometown that steals his attention, like spotting a shadow slinking past in the corner of your eye.
There’s a split second where he’s happy – he always is when he finds someone from his small, twisted part of the world – then another split second where he thinks: I hope it’s not Billy. He quickly quashes that thought out of existence because wondering about Billy Hargrove is a bad habit he really should have quit by now. It’s been almost ten years since he discharged himself from the hospital AMA and disappeared. If he hasn’t turned up in any searches they’ve done by now, it’s likely that he just doesn’t want to be found.
Or dead, but Steve doesn’t like thinking about that. Even El had come back to them after disappearing, right?
Then he looks at the photo. The name. The age.
And there, on the glossy paper, is his ghost from almost a decade ago, staring at him in the face. Numbness pours over him, drenching the back of his ears to the bottom of his spine.
Before he can even pinch himself awake – because this has to be a fucking nightmare, this has to, maybe it’s just someone who looks like him and has the same name – the door opens and Steve’s reality falls to pieces.
***
“What the fuck?” Is the first thing Billy hears as soon as the door clips shut behind him. He braces his shoulder blades to stop from flinching, but all that does is pull at the sore muscles in his chest and he does flinch from that.
He’d torn something there, he’s pretty sure. Struggling while trussed up for days on end will do that to you, and Billy has never been one to learn from his own lessons. He’s also never managed to train the childish fear of the dark out of himself, and the panic from the punishment had only mounted by the minute despite his desperate attempts to keep himself calm.
He hears the moving of a chair, the sounds of someone going from sitting to standing. He considers going to his knees, because he can feel rage directed at him even from this distance, even though he’s done nothing since stepping in. But before he can string a thought together there are hands on his chest – ah, hurts, hurts – pushing him backwards. It takes so much strenuous concentration to keep his feet underneath him, and by the time his back hits the door he’s keening in pain and effort.
Still, the motherfucker doesn’t let up. If he’d just told Billy that he wanted him against a wall, Billy would have done it without hesitation. Would have turned around, stripped, done whatever he wanted. But now his torso is on fire and his hamstrings are shaking and he’s not sure he won’t vomit if anyone decides to use him right now.
Through watery vision, he watches detachedly as a pair of hands reach up to grab him by his cheeks. He lets them tilt his face upwards, high enough that it’s a struggle to keep his eyeline down. But he trains his sight on the Windsor knot sitting loose on the man’s throat. It’s easier to pretend he can appreciate a good tie instead of thinking about what might–
“Billy,” the other man breathes, and they’re so close that he can feel it against the shell of his ear. “Billy, what the fuck? What the fuck?”
Billy. Not William, not Will, not Hargrove, not his Indebted number, Billy.
He looks up before he can stop himself and finds himself staring at a face he definitely knows.
Things he knows about the man – boy? – man flashes past in his mind before the name floats up to the top of his mind: the Hawkins High parking lot, the elastic sound of a basketball pinging against the floor of an empty gymnasium, the shine of sweat racing down sharp clavicles, the smell of lilies. There are other things too: blood, a battered face, echoing screams, but… but Steve.
Steve. Harr… Harries? Harrington. Steve Harrington. That was– is his name.
He hadn’t thought he would ever see him again. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d been satisfied to keep him only as a figment of his imagination in his mind, sequestered close and far away from his nauseating reality. That one, thin string to what Billy could have been in a different, impossible life.
Except, here he is.
“Why the fuck did you– What the– How?” Steve is gripping his face hard enough to hurt, now, but all Billy can notice is the panic in Steve’s eyes, the way it almost lights his brown eyes on fire. “Why? Why, Billy?”
Billy doesn’t know what he’s being asked. He can barely hear anything above the roaring in his ears, the pounding pain in his body. His knees are buckling, collapsing under the weight of Steve pressed against him and the million other emotions rushing through his body. It’s shame, and shock, and relief, and fear, all churned together and pumped through his veins. It hurts and it’s impossible, violent, like trying to push sludge out of a tiny syringe. It makes it hard to breathe, much less think, and Steve must start to notice that he’s drowning, because he finally releases Billy. Lets him fall to his knees.
Then he disappears and all Billy can think is: oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Because this was his one chance and he blew it. He blew it, because he couldn’t keep it together for long enough to ask about Max. And now he’s blown it, and he’s never going to find out, which is worse than the thought that he’s going to be sold, he’s defective–
But then Steve comes back, and then he’s gone, and then he’s back again. Like a ghost. It might be that Billy just isn’t tracking that well through his terror, but it might also be that he’s losing his freaking mind. It would make sense.
He comes back to himself, eventually. To a scene that’s humiliating but at least not untrue. He’s rocking, still on his knees, fingers gripping the carpet and begging “please, please, please, please”.
He makes himself shut up and lowers himself so he can press his forehead to the floor. Partly because he’s too exhausted to keep himself upright, and partly because nobody has ever complained about Indebteds prostrating themselves.
“Don’t–” Steve makes a half-aborted attempt to stop him from going down, but withdraws his hand when it’s clear that he’s going to have to manhandle Billy to get him to sit up.
“Where’s Max?” Billy pants out.
“Not here,” Steve replies and Billy’s breath hitches. “I mean– She doesn’t work here. She’s in medical school. Yale.”
“And… She’s good? On the school fees?”
“She got a scholarship,” Steve says, and Billy feels the decade-old knot in his chest unravel instantly, like someone had just taken a knife and cut it straight down the middle. He slumps even deeper into the floor, biting his lip to stop from smiling in relief. “A full ride, and Susan helps her with her rent. I loaned her the money for her undergrad but she’s been keeping up with her monthly repayments so she’s, ah, she’s good. On that front.”
“Okay.” Billy puts the memories of Max and Hawkins back into the box in his mind and shuts the lid. It’s easy to do. He’s had practice, and it’s even easier now that he knows Max might really be safe. “Okay,” he repeats, pushing himself up and ignoring the twinge in his chest. He reaches forward to start undoing the belt on Steve’s waist. It’s not tight – meant purely for decoration because his perfectly-tailored trousers need no holding up – so Billy gets pretty far into loosening it then unzipping Steve before his hands are being caught in another pair of hands.
“No, that’s–” Steve squeezes before returning his hands to him. “No, Billy. I don’t want that from you.”
“Okay.” Billy fists his slacks, feeling stupid and helpless and beaten down as always. “Okay.”
“Let’s take a seat, yeah? I’ll catch you up.” Steve’s voice is trembling. “Tell you everything you want to know about Max.”
Billy wants to ask what the price might be for that lush indulgence, but he knows that it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing he won’t give. It’s of no relevance that his body hurts in more places than not, or that the pressure in his head has been building over the past few days with no signs of letting up. It’s of no relevance what he will have to do to earn this, really. He’ll do it anyway. Even if nothing else – even if he walks away from today with more nightmares than he started with – he’ll have new memories of Max, new things to hold onto when he’s alone and shaking himself to pieces.
***
Steve knows that Billy is Not Okay.
If it wasn’t already crystal clear by the way he had gone from resigned obedience to a full-blown panic attack to trying to suck Steve off, what scares Steve the most is the fact that Billy has nothing behind his eyes. It’s almost like staring into Max’s face when she was possessed, and Steve is not certain whether it’s because of how similar their eyes are, or whether Billy is actually possessed.
Steve is really hoping for the former, even if he knows it’s probably the latter.
Because there’s no hint of old-Billy in the man sitting ramrod straight in front of him, hands tucked neatly in his lap. There are long stretches in their one-way conversation that Steve’s sure Billy isn’t even breathing, save for tiny huffs of relief whenever Steve throws out tidbits about Max.
“There was paralysis and nerve damage, after,” Steve had said, and Billy’s shoulders had gotten tighter in a way that looked painful. “And she had to be in a wheelchair.” Another almost-imperceptible clenching of his fists. “But everything worked out, thank fuck, and she has full range of motion now. Still skateboards, I hear. When she has time to, anyway.”
Silence. Then a careful nod, but nothing else.
“So, yeah. That’s most of what you missed, I think,” Steve says, then winces. Because he knows a ten-minute recap of the past decade can never be anywhere close to what Billy has missed out, or needs. “I mean, there’s more. Small stories, you know. Inside jokes. Things like that. But now that we’ve found you, I can tell you these things slowly. I can even bring photos from home.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”
Now, Steve has been good about not correcting the rest of the Indebteds he’s seen. He knows it’s how they’ve been trained, and there’s really no point in forcing them to use his name just for an interview.
But hearing it on Billy’s lips makes everything inside him cringe.
“Not– Just Steve, please.”
Billy nods again, tight and curt. “Yes, Steve.”
“I–” Steve has no idea what to say. “Alright. I think. That’s enough for today?”
“Whatever would please you, Steve.”
He sighs. “Okay, we’ll go through the paperwork tomorrow.”
***
Later, when he’s finished with interviewing all the Indebteds they’ve taken in, it’s past dinner time and only takes two minutes in the residential block owned by Pearson & Damon for Steve to understand that Billy can’t stay here. That it’s way too overcrowded. And that he’ll have to wrangle a few other staff to bring a few Indebteds home with them temporarily.
All of their new additions are already doubled up in tiny rooms – three in each of the slightly bigger ones – he can’t possibly make the extra people squeeze onto air mattresses in bathrooms. Or kick out their other Indebteds.
Joanna goes with Kat, a fierce but principled employee in their legal department. 2 others go with Steve’s boss and one of their clients – a pro-abolition organization – has space to house another 3.
Steve offers to take Billy because… Well, because of course. Which is how he ends up in a cab with him then, later, on the 6 train when Steve catches the driver leering at Billy halfway through the ride and he has to get them both out of there if he doesn’t want to end up arrested for assault. By some measure of a miracle, the local uptown train is only half full and Steve manages to snag spots tucked away in the corner of the cabin.
He has to gently guide Billy into the seat, no matter that he's visibly exhausted and unsteady on his feet.
The corner is so cramped that their thighs would press together if Billy was anywhere near a healthy weight, but he isn’t. So the only thing that brushes up against Steve is the coat he’s loaned Billy and, even then, he moves it out the way in a flash, as if he’s some sort of a leper. As if he’s undeserving of any contact. Steve has to press on the meat between his thumb and index finger to stop from throwing up. He keeps his eyes trained on the screen showing their train move closer and closer to home.
He wishes there was a map, too, to tell him what to do in this godforsaken situation.
By the time they reach Steve’s apartment in Turtle Bay, it’s so obvious that Billy is cold; the biting winds of late-fall flapping through the coat and seeping into his bones, but he doesn’t stuff his hands into his pockets. Doesn’t cup his palms to his mouth to warm them. Just stands there and shakes, which must be burning up more energy that he doesn’t have.
Steve lets them through the door as quickly as possible and turns up the heater. “Sorry about the mess. I didn’t think… Anyway, I’m very glad you’re here.”
He turns around from clearing the empty bowls on his dining table to find Billy still standing in the foyer, staring at the ground. “Come i– You know what, stay there.” He picks up a few shirts that are still on the floor from Eddie’s visit, and toes a few books underneath the couch. “Okay, come in!”
He hears the shuffle of feet into the house and, as Billy turns the corner, Steve is shocked to see that he’s without shoes. More than that, his feet are tattooed, black vines of ink wrapping so pervasively that you can barely see a square inch of skin.
Steve finds himself speechless for a few moments, imagining how it must feel like to have a tattoo gun so near the sensitive webbing between your toes. “I wear shoes in the house. But if, er, if you want to leave them off, that’s fine as well.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath and Steve thinks Billy might want to say something. But all that comes out eventually is a: “Yes, Steve.”
When the Mayfield-Hargroves had just moved into town, all Steve had wanted was for Max and Billy to be fucking normal. To listen more and be less… agitated. All the time. But Steve had regretted thinking that, when he was keeping guard for Max in a hospital bed and spending hours praying for her to sit up, to shout at him, to do something to piss him off.
Steve regrets it now, looking at Billy.
“Um, go ahead and sit on the couch,” Steve says, instead of shaking him by his shoulders and begging him to wake up. “I’ll get you some socks.”
When he emerges from his bedroom with his nice, woolen pair, Billy isn’t sitting. He’s standing in front of the couch. The silence between them immediately tenses with his presence, like a balloon ripe to pop.
Although Robin never wants to admit it, Steve is great at reading people. Understanding words, not so much, but Steve can tell much more from someone’s expression than they can ever hope to reveal in clunky sentences.
It’s hard to read Billy’s face, given how steadfastly he’s staring down at his toes, but his entire posture emanates guilt. Like Billy thinks he’s done something wrong.
“Hey,” Steve tries, softly but not too gentle. It doesn’t come out as well as he would have liked. “Sit down, dude. It’s okay.”
Billy blinks, then takes two steps towards the couch and sits himself on the very edge. Steve approaches, telegraphing all his movements, before kneeling down in front of him. Billy stops breathing, like, completely, all the way through Steve putting the socks on his feet. He regains any color in his face only when Steve pats his ankle and stands up to walk towards the kitchen.
He’s not expecting Billy to follow him – not consciously, at least – but when he turns around with a pan in hand, he’s right there, standing in the doorway.
“What do you think about sandwiches for dinner?” He asks, into the vast, uncomfortable silence choking the few feet between them.
The response is not anything surprising, but hurts all the same. “Whatever would please you, Steve.”
***
Steve cannot sleep, and he’s tried. He’s been trying the past 2 hours.
He just can’t get the image of Billy on his knees out of his mind. He can’t stop thinking about the way Joanna had looked, or the cadence of her voice, or the way all the other Indebteds had stared at him when he entered the room.
It brings back memories that haven’t surfaced in a while, and now every moving shadow in his room is a creature, every siren outside an emergency happening to somebody he loves.
He tinkers with his phone for a while, playing the snake game on the yellow-tinted screen until he’s forced to accept that he’s never going to beat Dustin’s high score. He opens his inbox just for something to do, and finds Max at the top of the list. She’d texted to say that she’s wired the monthly payment to his account, that she’ll be in the city for Spring Break, and could she please crash on his couch again.
Steve has no idea how he’s going to tell Max. Or Dustin. Or Robin. Or–
Steve has no idea how he’s going to tell Eddie.
And he’s definitely going to have to make up an excuse to deny Max from his apartment before things are sorted out.
He rubs a hand across his face and sits up. It’s almost 2AM. He needs a fucking drink, that’s what he needs. Maybe 3.
He pads out to the kitchen and pulls down the nice whiskey from his shelf. He accidentally clinks his whiskey glass against the counter but he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of staying stealthy until he turns around, mid-sip, to find Billy standing at the kitchen island.
“Fuck.” Steve grabs at his chest. “You scared me, dude. What the hell are you doing up?”
“Just–” He looks like he’s holding his breath, though he hasn’t not looked that way since this evening. “If you needed me for anything, Steve.”
Steve has never heard his name said this many times in the short span of a few hours and he’s honestly starting to get a little sick of it.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Steve says, gesturing offhandedly to the whiskey. And he’s sure this is a bad idea, what with the malnourishment and the mental breakdown in Steve’s office, but: “You want one?”
A long pause. “Whatever would please you, Steve.”
He winces, internally, and hopes that it doesn’t show on his face. “Is that something they teach you to say?”
Billy’s face, which was blank, somehow gets even blanker. “Yes, Steve. I am at your service.”
Steve grips his glass even tighter. He’s not a violent man – has never been, even when circumstances had demanded – but he wants to punch something. Very badly. “It kinda sounds wrong out of your mouth.”
Billy blinks, eyes wide before the tightness in them goes out like a light, all in the course of a few seconds. He takes a step forward, dragging the tips of his fingers on the marble separating them. “Yeah?” He looks like an entirely different person now, almost as if he’s melted into the dark of the kitchen. Regardless of the small grin that contorts his lips, the expression looks painful on his face. “What would sound right out of my mouth, then, Steve?”
Steve swears he wasn’t angling for this, and his stomach twists at the connotation. He downs his whiskey and asks, trying not to sound tired; trying to sound even-keeled: “Have you slept at all tonight?”
Billy shakes his head, the smile still there like a nightmare Steve cannot wake up from. “But I’m wide awake.”
“Okay, then. Come on.” Steve pours himself another three fingers' worth before pushing himself off the counter and heading towards the living room. Billy, unsurprisingly, follows. Tags along like a goddamned puppy on a goddamned leash, and Steve has to remind himself to breathe.
He has no idea what Billy is expecting him to pull out of the coffee table, but it’s certainly not the PlayStation controllers. Steve consciously ignores the look of cautious hope on Billy’s face as he holds one of them out. “Know how to play Tetris?”
***
Steve turns up to work the next day with eye bags and a splitting headache that’s being slowly pushed back by a double shot mocha. Billy looks about as tired, so Seve spends the whole commute feeling a little self-conscious at the fact that this is his first day as an Owner and he’s already failing at keeping his Indebted well-rested.
That insecurity is quickly wiped out when he gets Billy into the meeting room where all their new Indebteds are going to start with their training, and finds that all of them look the same. They all look like they haven’t slept, and they all stand the same, even though he’s certain that no one has asked them to. Billy slips away from him upon being granted permission and blends into the crowd so seamlessly that Steve almost feels panicked at losing sight of him so quickly.
But then he blinks and there he is, in the second row, almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Joanna. Steve nods with a smile that is hopefully as confident and reassuring as he wants it to be, before turning to leave him to it.
He's going to take a nap in his office.