Well, this is my attempt at a Billingsley story. I know it starts off as sort of a...romance I guess? But it's actually going to deal more with Don's past and why he has the relationship he does with his father. Kind of a look at his past. Just because I think that will be more of a challange than anything else I could write for Don Billingsley. So let me know what you think, good or bad.


Don lay on his back in the cool grass of his backyard. With his arms positioned over his head, he stared up at the sky and watched the clouds. He chuckled when a cloud shaped like a penis floated by. Before he could turn to make a smart-ass remark to his companion, she punched him in the side. She returned to cloud gazing, smiling peacefully as she observed the sky through heavy lidded eyes. A warm summer breeze swirled around their lazy bodies, hugging them with tepid comfort. Once the breeze had passed them, Don rolled onto his side and looked at his friend.

"What do you want to do in high school Josie?" he asked softly, picking at the grass in front of him.

She shrugged, still staring at clouds. "I don't know Donnie. Maybe I'll be a cheerleader."

"You're better than cheerleading Jos and you know it," he sighed.

"Am I? I'm only fourteen. Maybe I'm the best cheerleader in Odessa," she mused. "But chances are I'll just…go through the motions until I know what I want to do."

"You should…you should be a counsellor. For drunk people," he suggested. "You've always been good at talking my dad down."

"That's because I know your dad Donnie. I know his triggers and I know what calms him when he's so…wound up," she explained.

"Just say drunk Josie. I know what people say about him. You don't have to tip toe around it just because I'm here," he mumbled.

"I'm not. I don't like thinking of him that way. I prefer to remember his sober days, when he actually WAS wound up and not stumblin' drunk," she stated, rolling onto her side to face him. "I know it's hard for you, but don't give up on him Don."

"Easy for you to say Jo. He's not your dad," he sighed, returning to his back.

She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. "He may as well be."

Don sat up then, turning her to face him. "Josie, no one judges you for what your dad did. You were too young to understand."

"I have to go Donnie. Mom wants me home before dinner so we can go school shopping," she announced, rising up and brushing stray grass from her pants. "I'll see you later."

Don sighed as he watched her jog toward her bike. He followed her retreating form with his gaze, running a hand through his hair. Not ready to go inside and spend time with the passed out man that was his father, he decided to go for a walk He let his feet lead the way, his mind to preoccupied with thoughts of high school. It was inevitable, playing football for all four years. That's the way things went when your father was a local football legend. But the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to play, because he knew that he would never be able to please his father unless he won a state championship. The more Don thought about football, the angrier he became. As he made his way down the long dusty road, kicking at pebbles and dirt, he decided that he had to play football. But he didn't necessarily have to be good at it. A shout tore through the silence of his thoughts as he smiled with childish glee.

"Billingsley! Yo! Billingsley! Wake the fuck up man!"

His blue eyes burned with fatigue as they slowly obeyed the command of the voice. Through blurry, hung-over vision, he saw Chavo standing over him. Don groaned and sat up, clutching his pounding forehead. He became suddenly aware of his cottonmouth and began to fumble around stupidly, looking for any kind of liquid to soothe the sand-dry feeling in the back of his throat. Chavo looked up at the two others with him and shook his head. They had all celebrated their first victory of the season, but Don took it too far, as usual. It was becoming routine for the three; find Don after a victory party and cure his hangover so that he would be able to function in practice. It was rapidly getting old for them.

"Can you get me something to drink?" he croaked, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Water, Don. That's what you need."

He shook his head. "No Mike. I don't need water. I need another drink to get rid of this fucking throbbing in my head."

"Stop drinking so much Don. Maybe then you'll wake up without a headache and the taste of vomit in the back of your mouth," Mike snapped, leaving the room to grab Don a drink.

"What's his problem?" Don grumbled, sitting up and scanning the room for his shirt.

"How long are you going to keep this up Don?" Chavo asked.

"Keep what up?"

"This rebellion against your dad or whatever it is you're doing. Each time you wake up like this, you're just as bad as he is. I thought that was something you were trying to get away from?"

Don snorted, but didn't respond. He knew they were right. With each drink he took, he became more and more like his father. The thought alone unsettled the bile in his stomach. But the more he drank, the less he thought about her. The more he drank, the easier it was to replace her with someone else, if only for one night. He sighed and ambled into the bathroom, ignoring Mike who was on his way back from the kitchen. Don slammed the bathroom door and ran the hot water for a shower, hoping they would be gone when he came out, but knowing that they wouldn't.