Chapter Text
Billy never wanted the whole single dad gig if he were being perfectly honest. It’s not like he tries to hide it or anything either. He’d been a little reckless during his high school days, sure, but his dad had drilled it into his head enough times that if he were to get a girl knocked up, that Billy would be dead fucking meat. And Billy wasn’t overly eager to give his dad another excuse to beat the shit out of him, so he had always been sure to wear a condom when he was with girls. And guys too, but for different reasons. No exceptions.
But in the end, even though Billy religiously wrapped it up every time he stuck it in a girl, the single dad life still managed to find him. Like it was his destiny or some shit.
He could have just let Max go into the system after Susan died, of course. Or he could have the social workers track down her dead-beat dad and try to give him guardianship over her again, but that had ended in a shit show the last time they tried it, so why would it be any different now?
And with Neil locked up for the foreseeable future, and no other family to speak of, it was sort of a no-brainer. Or maybe it would have been more of a brainer for someone else, but when the lady from Family Services sat Billy down and explained to him that it was either Max move in with him, or be put into foster care, well, he bit the proverbial bullet.
He’s an asshole, but that doesn’t mean he’s heartless. The kid was barely 5 years old at the time!
So he signed the papers, scheduled a couple of home visits, and then got to work on actually finding a home for the folks down at family services to visit. It took selling two of Billy’s best surfboards to afford the security deposit along with last month's rent, but he managed to find a two-bedroom trailer that seemed to appease the social workers assigned to Max just fine.
And in less time than he thought, (just two fucking weeks, Jesus…), Billy had Max buckled up into his backseat, propped up on a booster, her little feet occasionally kicking at his back as they drove to their new place.
She didn’t talk much at first. Hell, Billy didn’t talk much at first either. It had been a few years since they had lived together, and even then it was when Maxine was just a baby. They were near strangers.
But Billy did all the shit he was supposed to—he got her some new clothes from Goodwill when someone mentioned her pants weren’t supposed to show her ankles like that, and new shoes when she said her toes ached. He keeps shit like Freezies, juice boxes and cans of Alphagetti in the house, and even though he never learned how to braid, he brushes her hair every night just fine.
And when some little dipshit at school said something snotty about the shade of her red hair that made her cry, well, Billy showed her how to properly throw a punch so that her hand didn’t hurt after she taught those dipshits a lesson in manners. He and Max both agreed that the visit to the principal's office that they both had to sit through afterwards was well worth it.
It’s a lot. But they’ve been stuck with each other for over a year now and they’ve learned how to make it work. Sure, they both have a tendency to yell and throw shit when they’re pissed, and Billy isn’t the greatest at remembering to buckle her when they first get in the car, and maybe she copies him and swears like a sailor all the fucking time, but overall she’s happy and healthy. And he’ll fuck anyone up who would try and say otherwise.
Bottom line is that the little twerp has grown on him. He even… loves her. And Billy’s never really loved anyone before, besides his mom, so it was kind of a big fucking deal.
He loves her so goddamn much that he’s out here running stop signs just trying to get home in time for her to watch that stupid TV show that she’s obsessed with. He’s still filthy from his shift at the garage. Every now and then he catches a whiff of himself—a combination of the inside of an engine and sweat that makes his eyes water.
Knowing Maxine, she won't even let him wash his hands before dragging him in front of the idiot box for the full half-hour program.
Now, Billy’s not exactly what you’d call a strict guardian, so schedules are never really a thing in his house, but over the past few months there’s been a few traditions he and Max have created and clung to for sanity’s sake. Watching Mr. H’s Treehouse at 6pm sharp every weekday evening is their most sacred of these traditions.
It’s 5:54pm when Billy rolls into their driveway. Max is on her feet immediately, jumping down the stairs from their neighbors trailer, furious . She doesn’t even respond to Ms. Jamison’s cheerful goodbye from her porch, too busy shooting daggers at her step-brother.
“You’re late!” She snaps, hurling the accusation at Billy like he’d just committed an honest to Christ crime. Billy, who’s bent over in the passenger's side of the car just trying to collect their dinner.
“Hey, don’t blame me. Those dipshits down at KFC took forever catching the chickens tonight,” Billy says, waving a hand towards their neighbor in thanks. He gives them a good deal on tires, and does most of their vehicle maintenance work for free. In return, Max has a place to crash during the few hours between when the school bus drops her off and when Billy gets home from work. And since it’s right next door, he doesn’t even have to park outside of his driveway to pick her up. She just cuts across their lawns and scampers over, though she’s usually in a bit of a better mood. It all evens out.
“Billy, I know they don’t have real chickens in the back of the restaurant. You’re just making that up,” She glares at him, but Billy can tell she’s not 100% sure about what she’s saying. They cross their postage-stamp sized lawn together, her Power Rangers backpack that used to be his hangs off of one of her tiny shoulders.
“Then why do their chicken always taste so fresh?” Billy brow furrows, shooting her an unconvinced look.
“You’re an idiot,” she growls, rolling her eyes. “A slow idiot! Will you hurry up? We’re gonna miss it!”
Billy twirls the keys around one of his fingers as he stomps up their paint-chipped porch steps. Max is behind him, pushing him forward with all the strength she possesses in her little six and a half year old body. So not much.
“Y’know, it’s not the end of the world if we miss one episode of your little dorky show,” he says, deliberately taking his good old time. They wouldn’t miss it, after all. They were right fucking there.
“Urgh! Just move your fat butt! You weigh like a hundred pounds!” She yells in her shrill little voice.
She turns around and begins pushing him with her back, planting her feet the way he taught her in an attempt to shove him into their shack quicker.
Billy scoffs, as he unlocks the front door. He barely gets the key out of the slot before she’s barreling past him. “I weigh a hell of a lot more than a hundred measly pounds, you little turd–Hey! Boots!”
A beat later, Max’s bright yellow duckies fly from the living room towards their entry way, nearly hitting him. Billy curses as he toes off his own boots, arms still cradling his long awaited dinner. Hopefully, the chicken wouldn’t be too soggy.
He unfolds the TV dinner trays with one arm, dropping them down in front of their usual spots on the couch and starts divvying up the grub. He picks out a couple of drumsticks from the bucket for Max, ‘cause she’s picky as fuck and those are the only bits of the chicken she’ll eat, followed by a scoop of Mac and cheese, then a handful of fries that he drowns in an ungodly amount of ketchup. Just how she likes it. Everything else is his.
“Max, what did I tell you about sitting so close to the TV?” He barks at his little sister, whose nose is damn near pressed up against the glass screen.
“That my face will stay like that?” She says, not budging.
“…No. No, that’s something else. Just–” he snaps his fingers and points to the tray of greasy chicken and even greasier fries. “Just come eat your dinner, runt. You can see it fine from the couch.”
She huffs, but she scurries over to him on her hands and knees until she’s behind her tv dinner tray. She plucks a ketchup covered fry from her foam plate and munches on it, before she growls at him with her mouth full. “We almost missed it.”
“But we didn’t,” Billy cuts back, mouth also full. “Look. They barely even started the Hello Song.”
The Hello Song is this annoyingly up-beat, albeit catchy song that always plays at the top of the show while the main dude, Mr. H, goes around to all of his puppet neighbors in the Treehouse neighborhood and says hello to them all. He greets some of them in a handful of different languages, including sign language, and they’re all always happy to see him. It’s the kind of song that worms its way into your brain and gets stuck in there, and you end up humming for days after against your will. But the song goes on like this until Mr. H finally ‘spots’ the camera, (aka the audience), and gives the old, ‘oh, hello! I didn’t see you there!’ act. Max, clearly charmed, always says hello back.
Billy doesn’t say hello. Obviously. He just sits next to her, stuffing his face, happy to let his brain switch off for the next half-hour.
At first he’d hated the fucking show, with its bright pastel palette and repetitive songs and how everyone is just so sickeningly cheery all of the goddamn time. But the more episodes he’s been forced to consume, the more used to it he’s gotten. Hell, he’s even started looking forward to it. It’s become a ritual. A time reserved for nothing but peace and quiet—a time where he and Max can just relax, where they can put down whatever worries or hurt they lug around throughout the day. At least while this dumb show is playing, anyway.
And Max has had her fair share of worrying and hurt in her short life, so if she gets to just be a little kid and watch a dorky little show about the power of friendship and helping others and eating your vegetables or whatever the hell Mr. H is on about that night, then that’s something Billy can get behind.
The fact that the host, Mr. H, looks like sex on legs doesn’t hurt either. Billy could watch that dude file his taxes and he’s sure he would be entertained. But you can’t blame Billy—dude’s a total knock-out.
Mr. H is all soft sweaters and squeaky clean sneakers, speaking to the camera with so much damn eye contact that even Billy has to look away sometimes. Those big brown eyes are just… pretty, there’s no two ways about it. And he has these moles splattered all over his face and neck, over the adams apple that bobs up and down every time he laughs. It’s almost too much. Damn near obscene. Not to mention those pillowy pink lips that Billy just wants to bite down on until Mr. H cries. Billy is sure that Mr. H is the type that even cries pretty.
Billy would say that’s the whole reason why he’s the star of the show, but he’s also really good with the kids that come on the show with him. He’s got this whole cool big brother, fun best friend you’ve always wanted, storybook Prince Charming sort of energy. He’s funny too, in a wink at the camera sort of way that maybe little kids would miss or just think he’s being goofy.
Which he is. God, he’s ridiculously goofy. Goofy in a way that Billy would never feel comfortable enough being. Mr. H, on the other hand, never seems to shy away from being the butt of the joke when the story calls for it. He does this thing where he’ll laugh along with everyone else, like he’s showing kids how to take the power away from someone who’s laughing at you, not with you. It’s… really sweet. Like give you a goddamn toothache levels of sweet. Billy wanted to hate him, wanted to tell himself that Mr. H had a punchable face as opposed to an objectively beautiful one, but he’d have been lying to himself.
And that hair! Jesus H. Christ. Even the show itself acknowledges how distracting it is. They had this one episode where one of the bald puppets wanted hair like Mr. H’s so they stuck a brown, fluffy wig on him and had all the other puppets chase him around because he was ‘such a dreamboat now!’
The whole thing had Max in stitches—Billy may or may not have chuckled too. But In the end, the puppet decided (with Mr. H’s help, of course) that he’s happy just being how he was. And it did not make Billy feel any kind of way. It didn’t! He was just happy Max got to see it play out, that’s all. He hoped she learned to love her red hair, since she was gonna hear her fair share of bullshit about it, no doubt, but Billy didn’t fucking know how to teach her any of that. Didn’t know what words to use. Thankfully, Mr. H knew. Mr. H always seemed to know.
Billy cleans off another chicken thigh and drops the remaining carcass onto his plate, wiping his grease-covered fingers on the papery thin napkins from the take-out bag while he watches Mr. H pull out a story book and start reading directly to the camera. Billy always likes this part the most. His reading voice is this soft, just-above-a-whisper sort of voice that feels like someone’s running their fingernails directly across the surface of his fucking brain. That, paired with a gratuitous amount of close up shots of Mr. H’s hands as he holds the book, points to the words, the pictures... Fuck, this guy was pretty everywhere, huh?
And even though Billy’s hanging off of Mr. H’s every word, he’s not entirely sure what the story is even about. Something about tadpoles, looks like.
“I wish Mr. H was my daddy,” Max says wistfully from across the couch. When Billy glances over at her, she seems surprised. Like maybe she didn’t even realize she’d said it out loud.
It would be easy for Billy to get jealous. Maybe even for his feelings to get hurt… but, he gets it. They don’t exactly have a traditional family structure going on here. Max sees Mr. H in his fun little tree house, surrounded by a sea of friendly puppets, with all the time in the world to play games and read stories and do all sorts of crazy things together.
In direct contrast is Billy, her older brother who’s not even really her brother, just some 23-year-old college drop-out with anger issues and a butt-load of student loans. He’s always fucking working—struggling just to keep the goddamn lights on and a shitty roof over their heads. He doesn’t have any time for her.
And even when he does manage to carve out an hour or two, it’s not like he even knows how to play. Hell, the truth of it was that even when Billy was a kid himself he didn’t really know how to interact with the other kids his age—outside of sports anyway.
He was always too rough, too competitive, constantly getting hauled off to the principal's office for starting fights. Back then, it was like he went out looking for excuses to get angry, to lash out—like his dad did with him. He hated Neil, but the twisted, base part of his little kid brain had decided that instead of breaking down under his fathers fists, he would mirror him.
He’d get tough.
He’d get mean.
He’d hurt kids around him before they got a chance to hurt Billy. He would beat the shit out of people just because he knew he could, because he got the shit beaten out of him by someone who knew they could. Life hit him, so he hit back. It was simple. It was… shitty. Billy knows that now.
Especially now, when he looks over at Max and her frail little bird bones, her feet hanging over the edge of the couch, too short to even reach the ground… Trusting him implicitly. Billy can’t imagine hitting her—can’t imagine himself ever being that small, and his dad looking over at him and reaching a different conclusion.
Don’t get him wrong, Billy would still knock someone on their ass if they got in his face, no question. But that part of him was never directed towards Max—even though she got in his face all the fucking time. But she was just a little kid. It was like, her job to be an annoying little shit. And he may have been dropping the ball in a lot of ways, but that wasn’t one of them. He’d never hit her.
So, yeah, Billy knows he has no business raising a kid, and Max definitely deserves better than him, but unfortunately he’s all she’s got. And honestly, as pathetic as it is, she’s all he’s got too.
Maybe he could try bringing her out for basketball a few more days a week. Surfing too. She liked that. And she was getting pretty good at the both of those things too.
“I just mean…” she tries to explain, but after a long stretch where she looks like she’s searching through her noggin for the right words, they never come. She scowls at herself, “nevermind. It’s dumb.”
“S’not dumb,” Billy says immediately, wishing he could say more. Explain to her that he knows what it’s like to feel alone in the world, like you don’t belong anywhere, or to anyone, even though you desperately wish you did. That Billy was once the same lonely, abandoned kid that Max is now.
But he’s never been good with putting words to his feelings, no one ever taught him, so he doesn’t say fuck all. He just watches as Max slowly turns back to the screen where Mr. H is showing the camera a line up of tadpole filled jars, all in varying stages of growth. No one speaks for a while after that.
Except Mr. H, of course. Dude never shuts up.
“For what it’s worth,” Billy breaks the odd, heavy silence with what’s probably a stupid joke that he’ll regret saying, but whatever, it’s better than nothing, right? “I kinda want Mr. H to be my daddy too.”
Max’s nostrils flare as she gives him a contorted, confused face, like she’d just watched him eat dog food straight from the can. This, of course, only makes Billy laugh harder.
“You’re so weird,” She tells him. And she’s probably right. But eventually she starts laughing right along with Billy even though he’s entirely certain that she doesn’t get the joke. But it’s good. He may not have the right words, but he always seems to be able to get Max to laugh when she’s about to cry.
That’s gotta count for something.
Art by Racketti