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Billy answers the phone on the third ring.
"What." He's never really been one for pleasentries. At least, not when he's on the receiving end of a call.
"Oh, hello," says an alluring voice. "I was calling for... Jess?"
Billy sets his paperback facedown on the arm of the couch to hold his place. "You have the wrong number."
"Oh, do I, now?"
"Yeah," Billy snorts. He's being short, but Hard-To-Get is kind of his brand. "Bye."
He fully intends to hang up, when he hears, "Stay on the line or I slit your fucking throat!"
"Cute," Billy says as he brings the phone back up to his ear. "Don't forget to pick up dog food on your way home." Because some things take priority over indulging in your husband's live-action glory-days roleplay. Like dog food.
The modulated voice on the other end sighs, but says, "I'm literally on the way to the store right now," anyway.
"Wow, that's all it takes for you to break character now? Rusty," Billy chides, and he's laying the sarcasm on thick, but if Stu wants to be an instigator today, then so does he. "You're not doing that in public are you?"
"Yeah, 'cause I'm fucking stupid." The voice changer clicks off. "No, I'm in the car, obviously. And also, get off my dick about it."
"Never thought I'd hear you say those words."
Stu huffs again, and it sounds harsh and static-y over the line. So now Stu's in a bit of a mood because Billy won't play nice. Billy elects to ignore this.
"How long until you get home?"
"I gotta get gas, too. So like an hour?" They basically live in the fucking boonies so it takes forever to get home and groceries are a fucking nightmare.
"Alright. See you in sixty," Billy says.
"Love you," Stu replies, and then knows to hang up without waiting for an answer, because Billy never drops a casual I love you and he never will. Stu gets that. Gets him.
It's been 28 years since the Woodsboro Massacre. It's also been 28 years since Sidney Prescott threw the world's biggest wrench in their entire God damn plan by refusing to die. What a bitch.
The all-consuming hatred has subsided. Mostly. He's not having unstable teenage mood swings anymore, at least. But sometimes the rage boils over and he gets the temptation to hop in their Chevy Silverado and floor it to California to finish the job. He especially gets that way when he stops in at some ma-and-pop bookstore only to see Out Of Darkness: The God Damn Sidney Prescott Pity Party gracing their shelves. It also slightly makes him want to commit arson, but that would be unfair to the Stephen King novels inside.
(Stu gets the same way over Gale Weathers' published tripe. Mainly, because she called Stu some choice words in her extremely biased version of events. Those words being "...an attention-starved pound dog desperately nipping at Billy's heels." On page 8 she had also described Billy as "every sexually repressed Hitchcock character unceremoniously crammed into a single teenage boy." And like, yeah , she was spot on with both of those, but did she really have to print that shit?
Given the choice between the two, Billy actually prefers Gale's books. She's a cold bitch, so at least they're good for a laugh. Unlike Sid's woe-is-me semi-inspirational drivel.)
So, Sidney survived, as did her dad. So did Gale Weathers. And Randy fucking Meeks. And Officer Dudley God Damn Do-Right. Actually, they were 0 for 3 in the Gunning People Down Department. Kind of embarrassing.
Five people. Five people who could have testified and gotten Billy and Stu locked up for life. So, they had gotten the hell out of dodge. Tough, when Stu's face was bashed in by a TV set. And Sid had shot Billy with intent to kill (Thank God for dumb girls with shit aim). They had also both been sporting stab wounds (And okay, they had gotten a little carried away with that one, but when you hand a sadist a knife...)
Luckily, Roman Bridger was waiting in the wings. Roman was The Contingency Plan. Billy actually couldn't stand the guy - Creative differences. But since he so kindly involved himself in Billy's business, Billy was going to take advantage. Billy had never cared for deus ex machinas, but shit, was he thankful when he hit 3 on his speed dial and Roman picked up.
So Sidney shot Billy, he knocked her out cold with a heel to the face, grabbed Stu by the scruff (and Stu at that point was nothing more than a babbling mess), and bailed out the back door. Roman had picked them up in under 20 minutes. He was also the type of person "that knew a guy who knew a guy", so he dumped the two of them at some back alley doctor's doorstep.
"You should have left him there," Roman had said, fingers white and rigid as they death-gripped the steering wheel. They'd had this argument before. The need for a fall guy. But Billy had nixed that idea from his narrative months ago.
Roman had picked both of them back up the next day, regardless. They posted up in Roman's seedy-ass apartment in L.A. Stu had more stitches, but Billy's stab wound had gotten infected. So for one agonizing month, they crashed on Roman's couch, threw back antibiotics like they were shots, and generally stomped all over Roman's good graces - which weren't that good to begin with. But aiding and abetting two felons really puts you between a rock (Billy) and a hard place (Stu).
Roman promptly kicked them out come November. Which was fine by Billy, since all Prescotts had the uncanny ability to drive Billy fucking insane. Must have been genetic. Roman went belly-up two years later. Sid apparently took out her own flesh and blood, the brutal bitch. Billy might have given a shit, if he'd considered Roman a friend.
He hadn't.
For a year afterward, Billy and Stu just... wandered. Took shitty odd jobs and stayed at sleazy motels and had more than one narrowly-dodged police encounter. It took a year, also, to track down Billy's mother.
Billy had been keeping tabs on Sidney. It was maybe a little unhealthy. And a lot compulsive. It's not like he had plans to redux his revenge plot. Not this soon. But her whereabouts also felt like information he was very much entitled to. Not to mention, the news made it so easy - Sid's life was being sensationalized in a way that stirred a tinge of jealousy. According to Channel 6, she was going to college in Ohio, of all places.
As it turns out - like son, like mother, because guess who else had been keeping an eye on Sidney?
Dear old mom wasn't exactly enthused that her son was basically shacking up with some boy. She selectively ignored Stu's existence as a rule. Always had, even when they were 10 and Billy brought Stu over to his house for the first time. His mom hadn't made a plate for Stu that evening when dinner rolled around. She didn't feed unexpected guests, she'd said. His mother wasn't exactly known for her hospitable nature. Billy remembers risking his life to sneak a package of Sno Balls from the cupboard an hour later. Stu had bitched about hating coconut, but he had eaten them anyway.
But his mother was relieved that her son wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere, so she mostly held her tongue about the Stu thing.
More importantly, she knew exactly what Billy had done to Maureen Prescott. And she had been proud.
Billy misses her a lot.
They stayed with her for almost a year. They couldn't stick around, though. Even though Billy desperately wanted to. But they had to stay on the move. His mother had told them as much - and she would know, having disappeared herself a time or two.
They state hopped like they were prime suspects on America's Most Wanted. Hell, maybe they were. The plan was new IDs, a new location, every six months. It was fun for a while. But Bonnie and Clyde got shot to shit at the end of their movie. And Thelma and Louise took a fucking nosedive. Billy and Stu were toeing a very risky line as they bounced around from city to city. And the fugitive lifestyle really took its toll after a decade.
This was about the time Billy and Stu happened to find themselves in Montana.
Stu had come back to their motel room one day - A real piece of shit that hadn't been updated since the 70s, by the looks of the peeling wallpaper and tacky green furniture - and loudly proclaimed, "I'm fuckin' tired of bedbugs. Let's get our own place."
They paid cash for a shitty little cabin in the woods. "Fixer-upper" didn't even begin to cover it. It had plumbing, at least; but that was as generous as it got. It was a few miles north of Afton, Montana, and man, was there fucking nothing out there.
So it was perfect.
Stu nabbed a job in town pretty much right out the gate. A local hunting supply store. The owner agreed to pay him under the table. And no background check, either. In fact the interview process really only consisted of two questions: "Can you handle a rifle?" and "When can you start?"
A decade later, Stu still works there, playing with knives and guns on the daily. Billy, on the other hand, does part-time at the local library (If you can even call it that - It's more like a loose collection of outdated textbooks and trash romance novels). But it's quiet, and neither Out of Darkness nor The Woodsboro Murders are on the shelves, so thank God for small miracles.
No one in town bothered to ask how two guys who absolutely reek of NorCal ended up in Redneck City, Population: 193. And if those two guys chose to live together in a secluded area outside of the town proper? Well. Don't Ask, Don't Tell.
And then, at the end of 2014, Montana lifted their ban on same sex marriage. Billy remembers the day specifically, because Stu came home and pronouncedly held the day's newspaper aloft with one of those all-teeth-and-gums grins of his, like he was going to drop to one knee right then and there.
Billy had, in all honesty, never considered the idea. Not even in high school, when he had been trying to convince himself he was attracted to girls (you know, right before he and Stu attempted to methodically mow down all their ex-girlfriends one by one).
It never occurred to Billy that it may have been on Stu's mind. Maybe it should have, though. You don't exactly kill all your friends just because your good buddy asks you to.
"What the hell is that?" Billy asked as he barely glanced up from brooding into his 4th cup of coffee that day. He was only a few chapters deep into Pet Sematary, which was splayed out to the left of his mug.
Stu threw the newspaper onto the table. The headline read: FEDERAL DISTRICT JUDGE RULES IN FAVOR OF GAY MARRIAGE .
"Good for them, I guess."
"Good for us." Stu corrected.
Billy cringed. He had never considered himself part of that 'us'. "What," he said, but didn't ask, because he didn't really want Stu to elaborate.
Stu elaborated anyway. "You know," he shrugged as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "We could do that, if we wanted. Get married. Or whatever."
Billy flipped his book face down so as to not lose his spot. "Why would we do that?" Why did Stu suddenly give a shit about this? He hadn't brought this up last week, or a month ago, or ten years ago, so why did it matter?
"What's the big deal, dude? We're basically already married."
"Why do you give a shit about it, then? If we're basically already married."
"I jus-" Stu started, and pulled a face like he was preparing for his intelligence to be insulted. And, if he was already preparing for it, well.
"Don't be a fucking moron. We're not playing house, here, Stu. We're fugitives. It's never going to happen." Billy's face was red now, but he couldn't tell if it was the gay-ass subject matter or the rage he was attempting to beam directly into Stu's brain that was causing his blood to boil. He flipped his book back over and turned his attention back to Jud Crandall's drawling exposition. Stu had been effectively dismissed.
"Okay." There was a pause so long that Billy became engrossed in the story again. Then,
"I could kill you, you know."
It was easy to forget how cruel Stu could be. Easy to forget that a lap dog could bite through your fingers, with enough provocation.
Billy threw the book onto the table with enough force to knock the coffee mug over, ruining the paperback's cover. Coffee started seeping into the newspaper, too, causing the ink of the headline to bleed and become indiscernible. Billy stood, pointedly ignoring Stu. Stu's vie for attention would not be rewarded. He stormed out of the kitchen, grabbing the newspaper and slaming it into the trash as he went.
When all was said and done, the ruined copy of Pet Sematary was thrown into the trash right alongside it.
They did get married. Eventually. Stu always ended up getting what he wanted. He had a knack for burrowing into Billy's brain like that fucking worm from Jason Goes to Hell.
When they were teenagers, he did it with promises of hunting knives and little to no adult supervision. And he had gotten exactly what he wanted - Billy's full and unfiltered attention.
As an adult, he achieved the same result with tongue and teeth.
But this argument was different. For one, it lasted weeks. Billy was surprised at how long Stu held out. He was usually the first to crumble. For two, Stu wasn't just Silent Treat-ing him. He was actively antagonizing Billy.
Carving out a cozy little life on the run, Billy had forgotten somewhere along the way that Stu was hostile and prone to severe mood swings. It had been fun, directed at other people. It fucking sucked being on the receiving end.
For weeks, they fought. And Billy was losing. Billy refused to lose.
Billy imagined himself at 16 - planning the murder of Maureen Prescott (and just before he opened the Pandora's Box that was fooling around with Stu). He was at his most ruthless, then. He imagined a 16 year old Billy twisting that bowie knife right into his gut, disgust in his eyes and a slur on his lips. So he packed his bags.
Stu caught him doing it, actually. He got home from work an hour early, and Billy really couldn't have timed it more poorly.
Billy looked him in the eye when he said, "I'm leaving."
And Stu had the audacity to look right back and say, "Good."
It was a relief. For exactly three months. Billy didn't go far - just the next town over. He stayed at some craphole motel (and holy shit, did he forget how much he despised those). He should have left the state, really. Should have fucked off and left Stu for dead. He justified staying nearby for his job. No way he could pull a new job as Woodsboro's Most Wanted.
It was a lousy excuse.
So Billy didn't go far. Pathetic. The nagging 16 year old that had made a home in Billy's brain glared at him and sharpened his knife.
That knife was made for severing relationships - A long-standing Loomis Family Tradition. His mother had used infidelity as an excuse to cut ties.
But Billy didn't have that excuse. Stu was a lot of things. Unstable, currently. But he had always been, first and foremost, loyal.
That level of loyalty always filled a very deep and very specific pit in Billy's stomach. Because his father had only ever remembered he had a son when he needed to take his anger out on a small and helpless person. And his mother hadn't even left a number to call when she abandoned him. That pit had almost swallowed him whole.
And then Stu came along. And he ignored all the warning signs. Caution: Empty Black Pit Ahead! And he just cannonballed right in.
Billy didn't get why back then, but he sure appreciated the power trip. If Billy said it, Stu did it.
If Billy wanted to kill Maureen Prescott, Stu would steal his dad's knife. If Billy needed a red herring, Stu would don Cotton Weary's jacket and risk getting caught. If the thought of Stu fucking Tatum Riley made Billy sick to his stomach, then Stu would gladly sacrifice his girlfriend for the cause.
It wasn't until after Woodsboro that Billy realized that the pit in his stomach had been replaced by something large and entirely unspeakable.
Stu had no problem saying that word; He wasn't exactly a closed book. But Billy? Any time his thoughts strayed dangerously close to returning the sentiment, 16 year old Billy - wild eyed, crazy ( "Actually, we prefer the term psychotic,"), and desperately in denial - would wrap his corn-syrup-soaked fingers around Billy's windpipe and squeeze.
But Stu had kept on loving him anyway. And Billy had straight-up ditched him for it.
So he came back. Not crawling back, per se. Loomises didn't grovel. He came back casually, like he had just been at the store for a quick, three-month shopping trip. And the 16 year old version of himself, the one that would not get out of his fucking head, Kubrick-stared him down the entire hour and a half drive back.
Everything was pretty much the same as he left it. But the trash was piling up in quintessential bachelor pad fashion, and the laundry was thrown haphazardly on a chair instead of folded in the dresser. Slob . He cleaned up and he fed the dog (and fuck, he actually missed that dog), and waited for Stu to come home from work.
Stu got back at 6:04 (Billy had been boring daggers into the analogue mounted in the kitchen). He was carrying a 24-pack of PBR, but when he noticed Billy on the couch, that shit thunked to the floor. It was actually loud and obnoxious as fuck, so Billy said "Watch it, asshole," instead of something more normal and appropriate, like "Sorry I left you for three months," or "I'm a selfish dick," or "Please forgive me." But Stu - God, Stu - acted like Billy said all those things anyway, and rushed him.
And, okay, Gale's pound dog metaphor was really astute because Stu was all over him in an instant, tail wagging (metaphorically), licking his face (kind of literally; Stu had always been a freak), the works.
"I missed you so fucking much," Stu said, when he finally removed his tongue from Billy's mouth and let him come up for air for two fucking seconds.
And Billy was so far removed from Woodsboro in that moment, from Sidney Prescott, from his parents' crumbling marriage, and his own self-loathing, that he said "I love you."
It only took 20 years.
And that angry little pissant with a knife that had taken up residence in his brain for the past two decades vanished.
So they got married shortly after, that same year. They went to the county courthouse an hour south of Afton. An uneventful and largely boring affair, really. It was a marriage ceremony in the same way that standing in line at the DMV was considered a good use of your Saturday morning. Lots of paperwork, mostly. It was also clear that the county clerk was legally bound to, but did not approve of, issuing a marriage license to two men. Billy mentally added her to the hit list.
Billy wouldn't have wanted a ceremony anyway, because he believed in neither God nor public displays of affection. If either of them had even stepped foot in a church, they'd have surely burst into flames. But Stu lamented the lack of a reception. He missed playing the host, and he really missed throwing all-night ragers. But fugitives don't exactly get to fight for their right to party.
Instead, their reception consisted of Billy and Stu, their pitbull, a couple of beers, and one of those shitty pre-made grocery store cakes. Stu had gotten the baker to pipe "Congrats on Getting Hitched, Wifey!" in blue icing, just to be a smart ass. Billy wouldn't have let that slide a few years ago (or even earlier that day), but he was kind of super drunk just then, so instead, he scooped out the "Wifey" part with his fingers and smeared that shit across Stu's face. Stu started wearing glasses a few years back, so it mainly just smudged up his lenses.
That's really the only tradition they snuck into their "reception". That, and the fact that they fucked like 23 year old newly weds. It bit them in the ass the following morning, though. God, they were old; Neither of them could brush a hangover off with coffee and a Tylenol like they could in 2001.
When he woke up, Billy's head felt like it was going to implode. Stu's knees cracked when he hauled himself out of bed, and Billy had told him to "just put your knees the God damn pillow if you want to go down on me so bad," but Drunk Stu was an even worse listener than Regular Stu. Billy's right shoulder had a tendency to ache pretty awful after excessive use - that's where Sid had shot him all those years ago - and his arm had done plenty of excessive use the previous night. Stu hissed when he sat down for breakfast that morning, and Billy's face was permanently affixed to the table with the weight of the world's shittiest migrane. So, okay, they got a little carried away. But it's not like they could have had a real honeymoon. It's not like they could have gone to fucking Maui or some shit.
They've carved out some semblance of a life. Their 1996 hit list remains incomplete, but. They're not dead, and they're not rotting in prison. It's the little things.
And they hardly ever kill people anymore. That's what happens when you're trying to lay low. They're a little stir-crazy about it, really.
They've dabbled a bit since the Woodsboro Massacre, but it certainly hasn't been the same. There's something so personal about stalking your friends and lying to their stupid fucking faces that you just don't get with random strangers.
A homeless man - Stu's idea. They swiped that guy in the middle of the night from a bus bench. Since Stu came up with the plan, he got the honors of slicing the poor sucker's neck clean open, and that was fine by Billy, whose favorite version of Stu had always been the one wrapped totally up in his own bloodlust, with wide eyes and blown pupils. Stu kind of uncontrollably guffaws when he gets a kill, and Billy's always thought it was kind of endearing.
A lost hiker that stumbles across their place - That one was on Billy. He couldn't really help it. But, come on , you don't approach a cabin in the middle of nowhere unless you want to get Texas Chainsaw Massacre'd.
So a few people go missing, but it curtails the bloodlust when it gets to be a bit too much. And they can't really risk more than that.
They never, ever don the Ghostface costume. They still have Stu's costume - Billy nabbed it while they were fleeing out the back door. Billy's mask and cloak remained upstairs and were certainly accumulating dust in some evidence locker in California, which chapped Billy's ass a little bit. They don't do the phone gag, either, even though crafting the rising action with a terrifying phone call was always Billy's favorite part. It's just too risky.
Besides, they keep up with the papers (and the movies, ugh, don't get him started). There are plenty of psychos out there eager and willing to keep the good Ghostface name alive and well. That nutjob, Mickey Altieri, for one. Their first copycat - A Serial Killer's Rite of Passage. That's how you know you've gone legit. So, Mickey was flattering.
Roman, for two. Billy had been there when Roman was working out the details of his own Sidney Prescott Revenge Plan, so he wasn't surprised to see that one in the papers. And some kids in Woodsboro tried to fuck with Sid like a decade later, which, good on them for trying, but if Billy couldn't kill that cockroach, no one else stood a chance.
The Stab movies, though? Billy cannot stand them. Stu loves them. "We've basically got a biopic!" he says, as if the first movie isn't based off of Gale's sensationalized - and frankly insulting - version of events. And Luke Wilson as Billy Loomis? Not exactly who he would have chosen to play himself. He's pretty sure Hollywood Hotshot Roman Bridger's fingerprints are all over that one. Bastard.
They kill both him and Stu off at the end of the movie, which is garbage. Stu always jeers and and launches popcorn at the screen during the finale, as if that'll change piss poor screenwriting. And when the movie's over, Stu will usually turn to Billy and say something along the lines of, "Y'know, I think this movie's missing a few key scenes," and he'll wiggle his eyebrows suggestively. And somehow that always works on Billy, because Stu usually ends up folded in half while they recreate those missing scenes in Stunning HD Resolution.
So yeah. He really misses the cloak and the mask. And he misses the chase. They make up for it by hunting game.
It's Stu's thing, obviously. He'd been hunting with his dad since before it was actually legal for him to be handling a firearm. He's good at it, too. When Stu field dresses a doe and guts it just so from chest to pelvis, Billy's reminded of Casey Becker's lifeless body swinging from that tree branch.
Billy really wishes they hadn't had to bail immediately after stringing her up, because, hell, it would have been nice to take it all in. He wonders if Stu would have taken the care with Casey that he takes with the deer he hunts. Probably so, if time had allowed. Stu's very precise with the knife (and if Billy's a little jealous and also a lot turned on about it, that's his business). Billy hadn't paid this much mind when they were seventeen, but it's also kind of hard to pay attention to details when your all-consuming need for revenge is preoccupying your every waking thought.
Stu cuts through the skin, underlying tissue and musculature like it's butter. The innards spill out more often than not by way of gravity, but Stu will scoop out whatever remains by hand. He always wipes the blood off his blades by running it through his fingers - Billy did notice that when they were seventeen, because Jesus, how could he not - and it's just as effective at getting Billy riled up now as it was back then. It's obscene, actually. Billy has the fucking patience of a saint to not jump his bones out in the woods. He usually (usually) waits until the man is finished with his craft and showered before he rides him like Stu's dick is the only thing keeping him alive.
As a general rule, Stu usually bottoms - It's just the way they naturally fell into things, ever since they stabbed Maureen 18 times and then had sex about it. But when Stu's like this, cool and in control - fucking Ghostface - Billy's brain short circuits and all he wants, all he needs, is to just get absolutely pummeled into the mattress.
There was a time, not so long ago, when the last dredges of his masculinity felt like they were hanging on by a thread. It was a line he had refused to cross, getting fucked by another man.
And no, the irony was not lost on him. He'd been fucking Stu like it was his full time job by that point. But.
You learned a lot in boy's locker room in the 90s. Eye contact, for example, was pretty fucking gay (even if there was a girl present). Jerking off in the same room together was decidedly not , as long as there was porn on the TV. And taking it up the ass? Well, that was basically a social death sentence. You learned a lot in boy's locker room, and if you were a young and impressionable Billy Loomis? You really learned to hate yourself.
It took a lot of coaxing to get over that one. Stu had never been, by nature, patient nor kind, but for Billy? He attempted to be.
Now, Billy's 46. And married. And when he kisses his husband, their glasses clink together. And Billy's just starting in on the salt and pepper look, in his hair and his beard, but Stu started going grey at 30, and his hairline had started receeding even before that. It makes Stu appear way more mature (until he opens his mouth, at least). It's handsome.
Honestly, it's a miracle they're both still alive. It was part of their script, sure - " Carry on and plan the sequel." But plot armor doesn't actually exist in real life, and definitely doesn't apply to dumbass 17 year olds who wave guns around like they're toys. They lucked out, really, because their plan went to shit as soon as Sidney decided she was too good for the genre. It should have ended like that one Offspring song. One got wasted and the other's a waste. It nearly did.
But Billy's still kicking, and Stu will be home with the groceries in - Billy glances at the time display on the VCR - a few minutes.
And as he has the thought, actually, he hears Stu's truck pull up. The dogs hear it too, because Ash's head jerks up from where it had been resting on Billy's lap, and his tail starts thumping against the couch.
They've had Ash so long that his brown muzzle is almost completely grey. (Stu stole the damn pitbull from someone's yard in Wyoming, so add that to their list of crimes. Ash had been practically a puppy, chained up outside in the snow, and Stu has no sympathy for most living things, but for some reason he was drawn to that dog.) Ripley and Laurie come running in from the back (Rottweilers from the same litter that had been dumped on their property about 6 years ago).
These are all, technically, Stu's dogs. His parents never let him have one, so now he's overcompensating. Billy couldn't really have given a shit at the time. They've grown on him, though. Apparently, bully breeds have a ferocious reputation. So they suit Stu and Billy just fine. And they're well-trained, which by Stu's definition means they'll rip a guy's face off if he so much as looks at Stu funny.
Then, about three years ago, Stu came home with a little carrier.
"He reminded me of you," Stu had said, and set the carrier on the floor. Inside, shaking like it had hypothermia in the middle of summer, was one of those fluffy brown chihuahuas.
"Funny," Billy had deadpanned, and leveled Stu with a look that let him know exactly how unfunny he really was.
That little dog didn't play nice. And he did not get along with the big dogs. He growled 95% of his existence, and his bug eyes bore into Stu's back any time he so much as moved. Billy was immediately taken with the thing. He named him Norman, which seemed only appropriate for an anxious little terror with an unstable temper. The rest of the dogs are Stu's, but Norman is his.
The big dogs gather at the door to greet (tackle) Stu, but Norman stays perched on the back of the couch, glaring down at the others like a true Loomis.
"Can you let a guy in? Jesus." Stu's trying to scooch the dogs back, but he's doing a piss poor job thanks to the industrial sized bag of dog food that he's hauling in his arms. "Hey, babe," Stu offers up as he squeezes past the dogs to set the bag on the table. Billy hums a hello as he sets his well-worn copy of Misery on the coffee table. His eyes had just been glossing over the words, anyway.
Billy parts the sea of dogs so he can kiss his husband like he's some sort of God damn 50s housewife. Stu's got kind of a goatee situation going on recently, and it suits him. He likes the feeling of it when Stu kisses his neck, and he really likes the feeling of beard burn against his thighs. Stu tried for a full beard several years ago, but it came in really patchy in the cheeks, because of the scarring. From when that bitch smashed his husband in the face with a TV.
Stu's got one long, jagged scar up his right cheek to his eye, as well as some smaller ones that aren't super noticeable unless you're looking. His forehead is where he took the blunt force of most of the television set, and where he had the most stitches. His left side looks marginally better, but he's missing a top molar on that side because he basically ate glass when he got nailed. The broken screen had pierced through his cheek into his gums. Stu's nose is also permanently crooked because his nose broke on impact and Billy did an awful job of resetting it while they were being driven to the doctor.
The scars are extremely attractive, really. Stu pulls of the rugged fugative look well. It's bitter, too. A reminder of what Sidney did to him - to both of them. Then again, it's also a reminder of what they did to her.
"Are the rest of the groceries outside?" Billy asks as he pulls away.
"Passenger seat. The dogs eat yet?"
"Yeah," Billy answers as he pushes the screen door open. Ripley bolts out the front along side him. She likes to sprint around off leash, and they're out in the sticks, so whatever.
He snoops through the bags before bringing them in. They're supposed to be having spaghetti tonight (Billy's request), but Stu's been known to go shopping for pasta and come back with a carton of Marlboros, a Sports Illustrated, and four discreet flavors of energy drink. And no pasta. So forgive him for having little to no faith in Stu's attention span.
But everything seems to be in order, so Billy brings the bags in. Stu's sitting on the counter now, throwing their voice changer with his left hand and catching it with his right. He holds it up to his mouth as Billy sets everything on the table.
"Hey, sexy," Ghostface's voice purrs. "Are you alone in the house?"
Stu's clearly determined to play this game today. Billy wasn't really playing along earlier, but Stu's wearing him down. It's not hard to fall into character. They've both done this scene a thousand times.
"What's it to you? Who is this?" Billy asks as he looks Ghostface directly in his unmasked eyes and puts a gallon of milk in the fridge.
"Let's just say... a friend."
"I don't have any friends," Billy says, just to be annoying. It makes Stu laugh.
"You must get pretty lonely, then. Maybe I could be your friend?"
"What are you, Pennywise? Get the hell out of here with that shit or I'm calling the cops."
"Call the cops and I'll slit your throat so fast, you won't even be able to get out a 'hello'."
Billy breaks character. He's not giving Stu the win for that. "Five out of ten. I've heard that one before. Pretty sure I've said that one before. Take it again."
Stu snickers, but it sounds kind of sultry through the voice box. He clears his throat. "Call the cops and I'll jam my knife so far up your chest cavity, you'll be deepthroating it."
"Eight out of ten," Billy concedes. Stu looks pretty pleased with himself, perched on the counter, like he knows he just gave Billy a miniature heart arrhythmia with that line. So Billy slots himself right between those legs and mouths at the junction between Stu's jaw and neck. Stu lets out a contented hum, and Billy plucks the voice changer from his hand.
"Okay, Ghostface, why don't you put those knife skills to use and cut some fucking garlic."
Stu throws his head back and groans, because he's got a flair for the dramatic, and Billy pockets the voice changer.
"You are cruel," Stu whines in his regular voice, but he slips off the counter anyway.
"So I've been told," Billy shoots back as he pulls a pot from the cabinet and turns on the stove top.
Stu makes quick work of the garlic. "How was your day?"
"Boring." Billy was off today. "I read, mostly."
Stu puts the garlic in the pot before the butter has a chance to heat up, which drives Billy a little crazy. "New book?"
Billy shakes his head and hands off the onion so Stu can dice that, too.
"What, then?" Stu asks as he slices.
"Guess." Billy can play cheeky little games, too.
"Hmm..." Stu takes a beat as he finished chopping. " Red Dragon?"
Not a bad guess. Billy's read that cover to cover twice. "Think King."
"Oh, of course, how could I be so stupid," Stu deadpans, because the bookshelf in their bedroom is lined with Stephen King. "Misery, then." And damn, he got it in two.
"How'd you guess?"
"You're obsessed," Stu laughs as he opens a can of crushed tomatoes. He always uses a knife to pop the cans, even though they do actually own a can opener. It's never been used. Not by Stu, at least. He has a compulsion to show off whenever Billy's in the room. "Should I be scared? You gonna tie me to the bed later and break my ankles?" Stu's referring to the movie, but in the book, the hobbling scene is so much worse. Annie amputates Paul's foot with an axe and cauterizes it with a blow torch. It's all terribly romantic, really.
Billy was always disappointed with the movie for that reason. Censorship is where creativity goes to die.
"Maybe. If you ask nicely." Actually, if either of them were going to go full Annie Wilkes, Billy's money would be on Stu.
Stu breaks out one of his huge grins, the one that makes him look like he's got more teeth than can fit in his mouth. It's one of Billy's favorite looks.
Billy has to elbow him out of the way, though, because he's letting the sauce burn in favor of staring at Billy.
"Ow, easy, man," Stu says, just to bitch a little. But he's been relieved from kitchen duty, so he pratfalls over the back of the couch, avoiding Norman, and faceplants into the cushions. Norm remains mildly annoyed, but refuses to move.
"What did you do today?" Billy returns the question, even though he knows what Stu is about to say. It's the end of February - A brief slow season before hunting picks back up in the spring.
"Fat load of nothin'," Stu laments, muffled by the couch. "What do you want to watch?"
"Dealer's choice," Billy offers, since he's not necessarily in the mood for anything in particular today. Stu takes a minute to slump, boneless, from the couch to the floor in a pile of limbs. It's a mistake, because the dogs are immediately on him. Stu plays like they're devouring him alive ("Oh God, the blood!" and "Not my fucking spleen!") while Billy finishes the sauce and drains the pasta. Once he gets the garlic bread in the oven, he leans against it and watches Stu writhe on the floor in pretend agony.
"You gonna choose a movie or what?"
"Oh, yeah," Stu says, like he completely forgot what he was doing.
Their VHS spread is lined up beside their 20-inch Panasonic from the 90s. They never transitioned to DVDs. A DVD player was just another piece of junk they'd have to pack up when they were still state hopping, so they never invested. It means they've never really seen anything released after like, 2006, but they couldn't really give a shit. They prefer the old-school, genuine quality of tapes, anyway.
They've been here long enough that they've been able to rebuild their collections. Stu's original VHS collection, which was well-loved, was probably packed into a box and shoved in his parents' attic, rotting with mildew. Billy's own set of tapes was not as worn, as he mostly watched movies at Stu's house. He's sure his dad chucked all that shit in the garbage within a year of Billy disappearing.
They inaugurated their new collection with Halloween, because how could they not? Then, of course, they had to round out the Big Three by grabbing Elm Street and Friday from a garage sale in '98. Later that year, Stu got Billy a Hitchcock collection for his birthday.
Billy was thrilled, and had kissed Stu full on the mouth (which, up to that point, was an action so intimate that Billy had forbidden it any time they fumbled around in dark motel rooms). Completely mortified, he hadn't talked to Stu for two days after.
But that Christmas, he bought Stu a Child's Play box set. Just to make it even. It was extremely embarrassing. It was also Stu's prized possession. (Although they did lose Child's Play 3 when they had to bail from a motel in Colorado in the middle of the night due to a drug bust three rooms over. Stu was devastated. But it never stopped him from quoting the God damned movie every time he downed a deer. "Presto! You're dead!" Ugh. Billy's not a Chucky fan.)
Tonight, Stu decides on Dream Warriors. It's the weakest of the original Elm Street movies, in Billy's opinion, but at least it's miles better than, like, Freddy vs. Jason. They eat while they watch it, and all four dogs stare daggers at their plates until Stu puts them in the sink.
They're at the part where Jennifer gets her head rammed into the TV, when Stu's hand winds its way up from absently playing with the cuff Billy's jeans (Billy's default position is to use Stu's lap as a footrest).
This scene used to make Stu laugh - " Welcome to prime time, bitch! " But Stu's not really a fan these days. Been there, done that. It's horrible. So he focuses on groping Billy's thigh instead.
And okay, Billy's sick of this movie, too. He's only seen it a thousand times, so he refocuses his energy into getting Stu all worked up and distracted. He doesn't take his eyes off the screen, though, as he drags one boot up Stu's leg (yes, he's a shoes-in-the-house type of person, and yes, Stu calls him psychotic for it).
He readjusts his feet absentmindedly. Like he doesn't know, or even care that his foot is inching further and further up Stu's thigh. Billy takes his time, does this through the whole group hypnosis scene. He can tell Stu's getting a little antsy, because his hand is still on Billy's leg, but it won't stay put, grabbing at his calf, fiddling with his pant leg. But it's a game he likes to play: Stu's not allowed to make a real move until Billy does, or else he'll go to bed sexually frustrated.
But Billy figures Stu's tolerated his teasing long enough, though, and rewards him by pressing the toe of his boot into Stu's groin. And Stu rewards him with a delicious little moan. So Billy presses down with more force, and Stu groans out, "Shit, baby."
And Billy really likes the way that sounds, wants to elicit more of that from Stu, so he adjusts his boot, takes his heel, and grinds down. That one must hurt, because Stu whimpers on impact. He spreads his legs like a slut, though, to give Billy better access, and yeah, Billy couldn't give a rat's ass what's on the TV - it could be the world's sexiest snuff film for all he cares - because Stu had his full, uninterrupted attention.
Billy brings his other foot up underneath himself to readjust his weight. With the newfound leverage, Billy can put almost his full weight on his heel. Most guys, Billy thinks, would hate the sharp and heavy pressure of a work boot heel digging into their dick. But Stu is not most guys. No, his head is thrown back against the couch in full-on ecstasy, and he's bucking into Billy's boot like he's being fucking blown.
And then the God damn dogs start barking like crazy; There must be a possum or something outside, because holy shit. It's super distracting, and it's kind of breaking his rhythm, so Billy says, "Don't even think about moving," and goes to let the dogs out the back, even little Norman, to go tear that fucking possum apart. Serves it right, really.
When he steps back into the living room, Stu has, in fact, moved. Just to be a prick. He's now languishing across the entire couch like Billy being gone for 30 seconds is ten times more painful than getting stepped on by Billy's steel-toed Timberlands.
"Is it seriously that hard to follow instructions?"
"You gonna punish me for it?" Stu asks, because his brat streak is a mile wide. His head is hanging upside down over the arm of the couch so he can look at Billy.
Billy's still got the voice changer on him, so he grabs it and holds down the talk button . "Well, since you asked nicely." And he reaches into his back pocket and takes out his knife. He actually carries two, but the 3" Mini Osborne is just for Stu. "Yeah."
"Oh, fuck yes, whip it out, baby." Billy presses the release on the blade, and Stu's pupils go wide and dark.
This is something they've gotten better at over the years, by way of necessity. Once, when they were dumb and twenty-something, they had been fooling around with knives and Stu's fight or flight kicked in involuntarily. He had jerked forward suddenly, and Billy hadn't been prepared, so he had practically run through Stu's shoulder. They were both kind of super into it, actually, but Stu needed stitches afterwards, and Billy's first aid skills had always been severely lacking. (Stu's got chronic pain in his left shoulder now to match Billy's right.)
That, combined with the incident in the Macher's kitchen? Turns out, being stab-happy is quite literally a fatal flaw. Go figure. And when you don't have health insurance...
Like any normal, healthy serial killer, Billy had jacked off to the thought of Stu bleeding out more than once. But in practicality? Stu's death had been written out of the script the moment Billy pulled him out from under that television set. So they had to force themselves to get better. Picked up an anatomy textbook. Worked on control, precision.
And honestly? What he did to Maureen Prescott was sloppy in comparison to what he did to that hiker twenty years later. Or compared to what he does to Stu on an average Wednesday night. And Stu's so fucking good at taking it. He doesn't involuntarily jerk backward anymore, no, they trained that out of him.
He stays calm now, even as Billy drags the pocket knife under his chin and exceedingly close to his jugular.
"Open," Billy orders, in Ghostface's voice, and Stu does. The angle is awkward, as Stu's still upside down, so Billy accidentally stabs Stu a little bit in the tongue with the blade. He only knows this because Stu says, "Ouch, asshole." Or at least, Billy thinks that's what he says. Hard to articulate when he's giving oral to a knife.
"Suck it up," Billy says, and Stu's tongue darts out to lick the place where the blade meets the handle, as if he's planning on doing just that. And sure, Billy can make that happen. So he takes his knife deeper. The metal clacks against Stu's teeth as Billy runs the blade point down, following the path of Stu's tongue, down his throat.
Billy presses the flat of the blade against Stu's tongue, and he probably does it with more force than strictly necessary. He may have actually sliced Stu's tongue open with that one. But Stu won't tap out (Billy can count on one hand how many times Stu's actually used a safeword), so Billy doesn't stop.
If Stu swallows right now, he could slice his throat to ribbons, and Jesus, that's a mental image: Stu's blood spilling from his esophagus, running down Billy's knife, his hand. And God, Stu would let him, too. Stu has zero gag reflex, though, so he stays still as Billy slides the tip of the blade further and further, until the width of his hand halts his progress. Now Stu's deepthroating the knife, and holy fuck. Billy stays like that for a moment, taking it in. It must be hell on Stu's jaw, which is working against gravity to stay open.
"God, you look so fucking good like this, taking my knife whole," Billy breathes. Stu makes a happy noise, but cuts himself short, probably because the vibrations of his vocal chords are edging too close to the knife.
Billy doesn't realize how fucking tight he is in his jeans until he eases the knife out of Stu's mouth and slips it back into his pocket. Stu only gets a second of reprieve, to catch his breath, before Billy's mouth is on his. It's like one of those Spiderman kisses, with Billy cradling Stu's head (the guy's going to give himself a headache with all this neck strain). And yeah, Billy definitely sliced Stu's tongue open, because he can taste the copper tang of blood. He hadn't actually intended to do that, per se, but he laps it up all the same.
"God, Billy," Stu pants directly into his mouth. "I need-" He cuts himself off like he doesn't have the wherewithal to continue.
And Stu was so good with the knife, so Billy concedes. He drops the voice box and asks in his normal voice, "What do you need, baby?" Billy rarely busts out pet names, but when he does, Stu turns into a filthy mess.
Stu has to take a moment to collect himself. He puts one hand over his beet-red face, and Billy kind of hates how charmed he is by that.
"Spit it out," Billy adds, because he needs to cut the sweetness with aggression or else he'll go insane.
"I need you to choke me with it," Stu says, and it comes out deep and gravelly. Stu loops his fingers through Billy's belt loops and pulls him close. He doesn't move from his draped position over the sofa arm, so clearly he plans on taking up residence there for the entire night. The blood is rushing to his head, so his face is a lovely shade of vermillion as he noses at Billy's fly. And it's hard to argue with that , so Billy unzips enough to free his cock. He doesn't fully drop trou, though, because Stu likes the feeling of his face pressing right up against the metal teeth of the zipper. Stu mumbles a "Fuck yeah," which he does every time Billy whips it out, because he can't help himself.
Stu opens his mouth without being asked to this time, and his tongue is lolling out like it does when he's telling a joke that no one else thinks is funny; Or like it used to when he would spout off a particularly inspired idea during their murder-planning sessions, and Billy would compliment him for it.
Billy eases his dick in the same way he did with the knife. His head slips right along the slice in Stu's tongue - He can tell because of Stu's sharp intake of breath. The angle is interesting; Billy has to aim down, and Stu can't really get any bobbing action going with his head like this. Billy takes his agonizingly sweet time pushing down Stu's throat.
Once Stu's face is pressed right up against denim, Billy throws out an addendum, because he knows Stu too well, and he knows Stu's hands have a tendency to wander: "Oh, and if you touch yourself, I'm pulling out." Stu's hands tighten where they're gripped on the sofa, as if to show they aren't going anywhere. And he hums low in his throat in affirmation, and fuck, that feels good.
Billy pulls out about halfway before he's sinking right back into the wet heat of Stu's eager throat. Billy picks up the pace quickly and mercilessly, then. Fast and rough is how Stu likes it anyway. Billy doesn't have much else to grab onto, so one hand grabs a fistfull of Stu's hair (it's really short, so he does his best, at least). The other hand winds its way around it's favorite spot, Stu's neck, and squeezes.
If Stu's face was red before, it's purple now, and his legs are doing these cute, abortive kicks against the other end of the sofa. Billy places his thumb right over Stu's Adam's apple as he continues to pound into his throat, and he can feel himself inside, which is absolutely depraved. Billy's dick is actually doing a fantastic job of strangling Stu all by itself (and Stu's eyes are rolled so far back in his head he could be blacked out. He's not, though. His grip on the couch hasn't laxed at all). But Billy presses down against Stu's neck with his fingers regardless. Stu makes a nasty sound at that - It may be a very garbled plea of " Harder ," and Billy obliges easily.
Stu's hips are trying to find purchase, anything to rut against, but to his credit, his hands don't stray below the belt, just as Billy instructed.
"Shit, look at you. Fucking desperate whore," Billy babbles as he fucks into Stu's mouth. "And still not touching yourself? God, you're so good." Stu likes to be praised just as much as he likes to be degraded, so that two-for-one combo pretty much breaks him. He isn't moaning so much as he is destroying his vocal chords around Billy's cock. Billy has the fleeting thought that Stu may be cumming untouched, which is embarrassing when you're a teenager, but circles back around to impressive once you're almost 50.
Billy lets go of Stu's neck as he's wrecked by his own orgasm, so he can grip the couch and really pound the fucking shit out of Stu.
Stu makes a gallant attempt at swallowing, but since the angle is weird, he starts hacking up a lung instead.
"It's like fucking jumping into a pool wrong," Stu bitches between coughs, and yup, his voice is totally trashed. As he sits up, the blood redistributes to the proper places and his color slowly returns. "Shit. Where's my glasses?"
Billy stuffs himself back in his pants and looks around. They ended up halfway beneath the couch, so it's a good thing he hadn't accidentally stepped on them. He hands them over, and Stu sets them on the coffee table rather than putting them on. He looks so much younger without them.
The second thing Billy does is fill a glass of water from the tap, because Stu's still having a coughing fit. Stu takes it, but he's transitioning into that absent-minded post-nut space, so Billy runs a hand up Stu's neck, to his jaw. "Drink," he urges.
Sometimes Stu gets into a weird headspace after sex. Billy didn't actually notice it until they were like 21, and okay, he was slightly self-obsessed back then, so maybe he wasn't adept at picking up on the subtleties. But to be fair, Stu did his best to hide it anyway.
Until this one time - This was just after the Shoulder Incident. Billy had taken up smoking that year, so they were starting to incorporate burns into their foreplay. For all intents and purposes, Stu seemed to enjoy it when Billy stubbed out cigarettes on his chest. It was his suggestion, even. But after? Stu hadn't come out of the bathroom for like an hour and a half. He was just in there, spacing out.
Actually, it freaked Billy the hell out a little bit.
Actually actually, it kind of reminded him of how his mother was right before she packed her fucking bags.
And this was 1999, so you couldn't exactly Google "Why does the guy I fuck go catatonic after I brutalize him?" And even if you could, that would definitely land him on some kind of watchlist.
They had been back in California, at the time, up in San Francisco. And Billy had been scoping out this dingy hole-in-the-wall bookshop. It was owned by the biggest and butchest dyke Billy had ever seen, which wasn't saying much, because there were about as many out and proud lesbians in Woodsboro as there were competent cops.
What he wanted to do, when he encountered that bookstore, was run for the fucking hills. What he actually did was step foot inside. The owner was patiently sat behind a counter on a second-hand barstool that was frankly, way too small for her. Billy clocked her immediately, because, well, how could he not? Just look at her. She was so... obvious. And the worst part? He knew that she had clocked him in return. And he fucking hated that.
He left without buying anything. But he came back a week later. This time, she asked him what he was looking for. He said he didn't know. She was used to that answer, clearly, because she pulled a mile-high stack of books for him without hesitation. There was all kinds of shit in that stack. Discover Yourself, one cover timidly encouraged, while another screamed WE'RE HERE! in a colorful font. It made Billy want to shoot himself dead on the spot.
He had sex with men (Or. One man.) But he wasn't - He couldn't do... this. So he left again.
He came back a third time, a month later. She remembered him.
She looked up from the book she was reading. "Back again?" She marked her spot in the book with a thumb, as if Billy's presence was just a short interruption. "You gonna buy something this time? Or are you just gonna get pissy and leave again?"
Billy said nothing. He wasn't used to getting called out.
"You remind me of my girl." The way she casually dropped this to a stranger made Billy's head reel. "Too stubborn for her own good. She gets in a mood, then gets mad when I can't read her damn mind." She placed a bookmark in between the pages and slid her book to the side so she could level with him. "Can't read yours, either; So drop the cagey act or quit wasting my time."
"Anyone ever tell you your customer service skills are shit?" He was borrowing from Stu. Defusing with comedy - though perhaps a little too dry coming out of his mouth.
The shopkeeper sighed and rolled her eyes. "You got a boyfriend?" She was kind of a blunt bitch.
"No," Billy bit out. That word made his skin crawl.
"Well, kid, if you're just exploring," and he cringed at the implication. "Then the section behind y-"
"Stu." It spilled out of his mouth like some great secret. Maybe it was.
The shopkeeper nodded.
She asked him all kinds of questions. Billy ended up volunteering way more than strictly need-to-know information. But. He'd never gotten to talk about this before. It kind of spilled out of him, like the shopkeeper had nicked a very Stu-centric artery, and now it wouldn't stop gushing.
She didn't make a face when Billy described what he and Stu were into. She said she's seen "all sorts" and that "some of the shit that my regulars are into would make your head spin, kid." Billy doubted that. She hardly realized she was talking to a guy who popped a stiffy staging a murder scene, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
She used the word 'sadist' like it was a normal thing to be, though.
She recommended just one book, that time. The Sodomite's Guide to Whips, Knives, & Everything In Between. She flipped to a page near the back and tapped it with one thick finger.
"For your beau," she said simply. The chapter title read " 16. After All That. "
It was easily the most embarrassing purchase Billy had ever made in his life. She had bagged it in discreet black plastic, but Billy was convinced it was corroding the bag like acid his entire walk back to the motel. He couldn't even muster up the balls to read it at first. Just stuffed it under his mattress.
That book lives on the middle shelf of the bookcase in their bedroom now. Not everything in the book is for them, really. And the author probably didn't intend for the book to help the sex lives of two serial killers, but well. It did.
So while Stu drains his glass, Billy throws on one of their mixtapes (this is a Stu-specific request; music grounds him). He chooses a tape that Stu put together in 1996. He had first played it for Billy as they had been scribbling in their composition notebook - tying up loose ends in their Casey Becker Plan. The first track on the tape is Helter Skelter by The Beatles (a Manson Family favorite - Billy had approved immediately).
He goes into the kitchen to get some water boiling - Tea and honey is a Loomis-Macher staple these days, since both of them regularly get their throats wrecked. They can't exactly bounce back from a night of crazy-ass dick sucking like they used to. He also nabs the antisceptic mouthwash and Barbicide from the bathroom. In one glass goes the Barbicide and Billy's pocket knife. In another, he pours some mouthwash for Stu's tongue.
The disassociating clearly didn't hit badly tonight, because Stu's on the couch, drumming along with Ringo when Billy hands him the mouthwash.
"For your mouth." It must burn like shit, because while Billy's grabbing tea bags, he hears "Mother fucking God damn it," and a series of sounds that could be Stu taking out his pain on the sofa cushion.
As the tea steeps, Billy grabs Stu's robe, because Stu came in his jeans, and Billy knows that starts to feel nasty after about five minutes. This robe is just as gaudy as that one he used to wear to his stupid house parties. He drops it on the floor in front of Stu instead of handing it off, because if Billy is too nice for too long, he may just keel over and die.
When Billy finally settles in with two mugs of piping hot tea, Stu is rewinding Elm Street 3.
"We missed the entire movie," Stu laments. He takes one of the mugs from Billy and immediately sips at it without even trying to blow on it, because apparently his tongue hasn't faced enough abuse tonight. "Ow."
"Good thing you picked a shitty one, then." Billy sets his own mug on the table to cool, in between Stu's folded up glasses and the Misery paperback.
"Hm," Stu agrees. "If I'd picked the original, you would have been too into it to let me blow you."
"If we had been watching the original Elm Street , you would have been too busy jerking off to Johnny Depp to even think about blowing me."
"What is it, a crime to have a type now?"
The couch's lone pillow had been knocked under the table sometime during their antics. Billy hurls it at Stu. "God damn it, Stu, I do not look like Johnny Depp." This had been a long-standing argument dating back to at least 1995.
Stu ducks out of the way. The pillow smacks the TV, but some of Stu's tea sloshes onto the hardwood floor. "Shit. That's your fault."
"The fuck it is. Clean that up." Billy kicks his feet up onto the coffee table in a display that shows he's done being the responsible one for tonight.
Stu pulls their copy of the first Elm Street from the shelf. "Oh, Johnny, we're in trouble now," he sighs, and kisses the cover (of which Johnny Depp isn't even featured on).
"Commit to the bit and use tongue, or get off the stage," Billy jeers, so Stu licks a stripe up the cover, right across Freddy Krueger's claws. Billy rolls his eyes because now Stu's going to need another hit of mouthwash after licking a dusty VHS sleeve.
It's about that time that the dogs start going fucking crazy outside. Billy doesn't think much of it - probably another small and helpless animal about to get mauled by the pack - until headlights sweep through the closed blinds. Then, Stu's frozen in place, holding the VHS tape, and Billy probably isn't much better. No one drives out this way. The only people who know they're here are the old geezer that sold them the place and the hikers buried in their backyard.
They wait with baited breath. They're in shock, maybe, because this just does not happen. Then there's a knock at the door, and that seems to jolt both Billy and Stu into action at once.
Billy grabs the knife from the Barbicide soak. Stu's shoving his glasses on his face and rifling through his discarded pants for his own pocket knife. Whoever's at the door is pounding on it now.
"Just a minute!" Stu calls out as he wrenches his knife free and shoves it in his front robe pocket. He goes for the door. Billy hangs back.
It's the county sheriff. Billy has never met the guy, but he's in uniform. Stu does know him, as he stops at the hunting store occasionally. They're not on a first name basis, though; Stu tries to avoid him like the plague.
He's also brought his deputy along. Great.
The sheriff is looking at Stu, but the deputy is clocking Billy over his shoulder. Billy releases the blade of the knife in his pocket. It's evident that Stu's doing something similar; The way he's angling the door to hide his right hand is clear to Billy, but hopefully not to the cops.
"Officers." He plasters on a smile. Ever the charismatic host, Stu. Even when he's lying through his teeth. Especially then. "What, uh - What can we help you with?"
"Stu Macher," The sheriff starts, and that's bad, oh shit is that bad, because no one around here is supposed to know that name. "Billy Loomis." Fuck fuck fuck. The deputy is either reaching for cuffs or a gun, it doesn't really matter which. "You are under arrest for the murder of Casey Becker and five others."
Stu looks over his shoulder at Billy. Billy takes the knife out of his pocket. And the 16 year old Billy Loomis, that little psycho that has been squashed down under the weight of Billy's domestic boot for the better part of two decades?
He smiles.