𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟

Billy refused to picture his life without you in it. He refused to imagine how empty his arms would feel without your body molded perfectly within them. He refused to let his mind wander back to a time before he had you almost all to himself. Because you were here now and was the only thing that mattered.

Your bed was barely big enough to fit both of you on it, but he wouldn't have moved if his life depended on it. You needed him and he wasn't going to leave your fucking side until he knew you were one hundred percent okay. And the only person who got to decide that was him. 

Every so often you would mumble and roll over in your sleep, kicking your injured foot to elicit subconscious painful whimpers. They did their best to wrap your ankle before you fell asleep. Stu cradled you against his chest, hushing your choked sobs while Billy played doctor, pretending that his mind wasn't reeling with fantasies of taking the motherfucker who attacked you and gutting him open on the forest floor.

He'd gotten really good at that—hiding his urges.

Once they put you to bed, they had their first-ever argument since they stole you back from Windsor. If he wasn't already wanted for several counts of murder, he probably would have killed Stu for suggesting they take you to a hospital in the city.

If Billy had to guess, the poor sap was probably still moping around downstairs, fiddling with his knife as he surveyed the house for the millionth time since they got home and found you tripping over yourself in the woods. You'd gotten way farther than they would have guessed, which was good because you didn't die, but some alterations definitely needed to be made to the backup plan.

Billy knew you would rather give your right arm than run away from him, but only idiots ignored the if factor.

It took them longer than either was willing to admit to figure out how he got into the house in the first place. There were security cameras at what they thought was every considerable entrypoint. It was frustrating to realize that no matter how far away they took you, no matter how many witnesses they killed, they would never outrun everyone else's bullshit.

Against his chest, you babbled incoherently again. After you woke up screaming the first few times, Billy realized that you felt much safer when he was in the room with you. 

What was that old saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?

Yeah. That.

In small, comforting strokes, he smoothed the backs of his fingers across your face, petting back your hair and lulling you into a deeper state of sleep. He rolled his thumb over the shallow divot of scar tissue on your cheek and slowed his ministrations.

Billy never felt guilty about the people he killed. For all he cared, Casey Becker was a whore, Sidney Prescott was a conceited twit, and Tatum Riley was just another means to an end. They were pawns. Pieces in a shitty board game. They were of as much importance to him as the dinky little plastic houses in Monopoly. But Mickey Altieri would probably haunt him for the rest of his life.

Thinking about what that asshole did to you at Windsor made Billy's stomach rollover with regret. He hadn't noticed until you made a muffled sound of protest that his fingers had tightened against the exposed skin of your waist. Letting go instantly, he pressed a gentle apologetic kiss into your collar.

He could forget that he ever dated Sidney Prescott, but he couldn't so easily pretend that Mickey hadn't put on his mask, pinned you down, and carved up his final girl while he and Stu were helpless to interfere.

The mention of the mask made a smirk twitch at the corner of Billy's lip. It was the very same one he slid over his head just a few hours ago to play a good old game of psycho killer.

 Their lie slid past you easily enough. You were a smart girl, but way too trusting and oblivious as all hell. It was far too easy for him to smile, pat your head, and tell you that they were going to Nevada to take care of some business—planting fake evidence for the idiot police to sniff around and dig up. Billy liked seeing his face in the news every so often when they thought they were onto him. Made him proud.

And the entire time, you had no clue where they really were.

Woodsboro.

Or what they were really doing.

Severing the very last ties you had to that dog shit town—your parents.

Now came another lie. Did he paint it as a double suicide? No, that was too obvious. Especially considering their track record of maiming the people you cared about. Could he tell you that they ran away to escape the one place that reminded them of their missing daughter? It was an unstable story, but it would have to work until the press cleared away and they could hide the bodies more carefully.

With a content sigh, Billy leaned down and tucked an extra strand of hair behind your ear before kissing the crown of your forehead. He could never touch you just enough, always craving more. More of you. 

The room was bathed in a faint green light from the glow-in-the-dark stars that you insisted on sticking to the ceiling. He continued to play with your hair as he blinked up at the plastic stars. He always thought they were dorky, but he would've bought you a billion more if you asked.  It was a shame you haven't asked him to kill anyone yet. 

The stars reminded him of the ones you had hanging up in your old bedroom, and that reminded him of a very specific night that felt like forever ago and yesterday all at once. It was the night that he first invented Ghostface. The very first night he decided to take his obsession with you to an entirely new level. 

(A/N: Ahaha hi. I promised more Billy content but this chapter isn't as long as I would have liked it to be so he's going to be like 100% of the next chapter as well. I edited this like wayyy more than I usually edit my chapters, but it still feels off? So if you catch poor grammar or details that feel off, let me know! Bye!!)