a collection of everything i've written about billy hargrove. imagines/oneshots/stories, whatever you would prefer to call them. all fics are either fem!reader or gn!reader.
none of the gifs i use are mine! credit to the original sources/owners!
gn!reader word count: 1,192 warnings: swearing, possible allusions to depression, brief mention of death, a tiny finger injury, comfort a/n: my brain does not seem to be in a writing mood right now, but i did manage to crank this out. i do enjoy making billy cry, so there's that. i hope it's alright! please let me know what you think. i'd really appreciate it. <33
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Billy's been fidgety since he woke.
You hear the soft thud of his boots, muffled against the carpet of your bedroom floor. He makes his way towards you and kisses your forehead, knowing you're probably too sleepy for a real kiss this early.
He doesn't tell you how badly he needs one—that his hands are shaking with it. Though he doesn't need to tell you.
You'd heard his alarm clock go off, felt him stay in bed longer than usual, glimpsed him rubbing his face on the way to the bathroom. He hadn't wanted to get up. Not one bit.
And even though you can feel sleep calling you, feel the way it presses at your eyes, the way the warmth of the bed pulls you in—you sit up.
Billy's closer to the door now, but he hears you shuffle, and he's quick to move back to you.
"You need to sleep, baby."
But your hands are already on his cheeks, and then you're kissing him, shutting him up and telling him you're right here. And you'll be right here when he gets home from work. You'll be a phone call away if he needs you during his shift.
"I'll walk you out," you say, and your tone informs him that there's no room for arguments.
You hook your fingers in his belt loops as you push off the bed, hoping that this will keep your half-asleep form from slamming into the wall.
You kiss Billy again on the stoop, even if he is berating you for being barefoot in the cold. You watch him walk to the car, catch the way his fingers fumble with the keys, the way he doesn't even have it in him to slam the door shut.
He waves at you from behind the steering wheel.
"I love you," you mouth, blowing a kiss. He's quick to catch it in his hand, gesturing so that he's tucking it away in his pocket for later. He responds just as he always does, but you can tell he's still sleepy.
That he's tired.
————
You aren't home when Billy gets back to the house. There's a note on the counter in your sweet scrawl, telling him that you ran out to pick up dinner. Eating at all had completely slipped his mind.
Billy's just having a day. He'd wanted to stay home but couldn't, and not only has he been fidgety, unable to focus for want of home, of you, but his thoughts are getting the better of him. They're suffocating. Telling him he's not good enough for you, that he's a waste of time—of your time. That he should've died like he was supposed to in that fucking mall.
And he knows it isn't true. He knows that you loved him before any of that, when he was just being an asshole, when he was just pissed that he'd had to move. And you love him now, even when he has bad days like this.
But his head. His mind. It tells him otherwise. It fights and it claws and it screams at him. And today he is losing that fight, letting his mind yell and tear at him.
Billy tries to distract himself and wash the dishes, but he only gets so far before he drops something and almost breaks it, before he cuts his finger on a knife he put in the damn sink. After that he tries to find a band-aid but spills all of them on the floor, and the first one he opens gets stuck on the wrapper and he can't use it.
Once he does secure the pink bandage around his pinky, he goes to clean up his mess and hits his head on the counter. He tries to change clothes and trips, gets his belt loop stuck on a drawer handle.
"God fucking dammit."
After that one he gives up and throws himself on the kitchen floor, choosing a beer with a pull tab rather than a cap for fear he might actually hurt himself and bleed out.
He hears the sound of you locking your car, the door squeaking when you open it, and he knows he should've gotten up to help you, but he just couldn't. He starts to cry.
"Billy? Where's my baby?"
The sound of your voice causes him to hiccup, and you're on the floor in front of him in a matter of seconds.
He's covering his face with his hands, and you know then that the day must've gotten the better of him.
"Hey, let me see you. It's okay, honey, I'm right here."
Billy looks up at you, lashes clumped together with tears, nose red and lips all swollen. He looks so frustrated with himself, so beat, that you ache for him.
He wishes he was stronger. That he wasn't breaking down in the middle of the kitchen, but you told him once that it's okay to have bad days. That you're always going to be there on the worst ones.
He puts the beer down the moment you hold your arms out, crawling into your lap and burying his face in your chest. You don't care that he's heavy or that you're not entirely sure you're getting any air in your lungs. You care that he's letting go and that he's showing you this vulnerable part of himself.
Billy cries, he weeps, against you for what seems like forever. But you don't mind. You only want him to feel better. You rub his back, play with his hair, anything to soothe him just that little bit.
When he's finished, when he's caught his breath, he pulls away. His cheeks are pink and you're sure he's berating himself for having just sobbed like that. He's sitting on his knees, fingers scratching at the freckled skin of his arms. He looks young like this. Lost.
"Was it just a bad day? Or is it the bad shit?"
That is Billy code for I'm spiraling and I need help. For I'm having a hard time and I can't do it alone. I don't know how to say it.
You established that little code pretty early on in your relationship, knowing it would be helpful in getting Billy to talk about his feelings with you.
"The bad shit," he tells you.
"It's not true," you say. "Whatever your head is telling you today, it's not true. Not today, not ever. You gotta say it for me, okay?"
He gives you the barest shake of his head before he pauses and tries to steel himself so that he can do it. He doesn't want to let you down.
"It's not true."
You grin at him. "Right. And you're a badass. And we're gonna eat dinner, and then we're gonna talk it out, and then we will lay down. And maybe I'll scratch your back for you."
Billy nods. He hates that his breath catches at that, that the offer brings him pure, unadulterated joy.
"Okay."
He can do that. He knows he can offer that much.
Because he is a badass. And he can try for you. For himself.
