Warning: There might be something slightly disturbing here, but I'm not sure.
Disclaimer: They are so not mine, it's not even funny. And frankly, if they acted like this, I wouldn't want them. NO SPOILERS
To Zen, who delights me to no end, and to Melissa for the catalyst.
;-)
Thanks to the super cool ladies of the Craft and the RSM for beta-type
stuff and all around wonderfulness.
Summary: Pre-film time Billy ramble
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I'd give him anything. Absolutely anything he ever asked me for, I would break my neck to do it for him. He's got something...some indescribable hold on me that I couldn't break even if I wanted to.
When he called me at three in the morning to come bail him out of jail, I didn't even ask what he was in for, just how much it was going to cost me. Then I drove the seventy-five miles to another town and brought him home. He laid his head on my lap and slept all the way. He woke up when we got to his place and stumbled to the bed, pulling me down with him. I lay wide awake with him wrapped around me for hours, telling myself how angry I should be at his complete self-absorption and utter thoughtlessness. Telling myself how fucked up I was for not being anything more than mildly irritated.
I didn't even get mad the time we were trying to drink ourselves into oblivion and he pissed on my guitar case. It was dark, he couldn't see, it was an accident. I know it wasn't jealousy, no matter what the little voice at the back of my head whispered. He's too direct for that. If it bothered him that I was fooling around with that girl, he'd have said so. And I *know* he's not jealous of my musical skills. He plays when he wants to and I do my thing, no problem.
I wish I had his way with words. He's the writer, not me. He's not eloquent or elegant, but damn, he can pour emotion, pure and intense onto the page like boiling water that sears away all the useless stuff. I've never been able to capture a moment like he does.
Like the stories he can spin at the drop of a hat. He can come up with things from dead-on believable to outlandish fantasies that leave me shaking my head. No matter what kind of story, he always leaves me smiling. Even when I know I should be so angry or hurt over something he's done, he turns it around and I'm grinning at him, just so damn happy that he's there.
One time he dragged me into a bar fight with some...fuck, lumberjacks or something. He was being an asshole, but that didn't matter when the fists started flying. I was right there at his side, swinging just as hard as if I was hitting him and not some total stranger in a flannel shirt. When I heard the sirens, I pulled him out the back door and we limped a good three blocks before stopping in a dark alleyway. Slumping against a brick wall, he looked up at me with this big grin and said, "We showed those fuckers, eh?"
Yeah, we showed them, and then he showed me what a bloody kiss tasted like. It was hotter than I could have ever imagined, the taste of salt and sweat and fire on his lips. My insides curled up and I had to wonder what was going on because this kind of thing did not happen to me. Me and him. We'd been together for years at that point, since the age of thirteen and the carnival of bizarreness that is puberty. We'd gone through all that growing up crap and now he was changing the rules...
...and it felt good. It felt fantastic and right, and completely wrong. I pulled back wondering what the hell we were doing, but he held my head hard between his hands and licked at the cut on my cheek. I was paralyzed with confusion--where was the disgust I *should* have been feeling?--and desire. I wanted more, more of his mouth and more of his blood. I craved the taste of him so much that I shoved him back against the wall and latched my mouth to the crook of his neck. I licked the beer tinged, sweat slicked skin until it wasn't enough and then I bit him, digging my teeth in hard until he howled and slammed his fists back against the wall. The slow pulse of his blood on my tongue was the greatest aphrodisiac, but I didn't know...couldn't take the next step.
Pulling back and looking at his face, eyes shut tight, the edge of his
lower lip caught between his teeth, I knew I'd do anything he asked.
If he told me to strip naked right there, I'd have been helpless to resist.
But he didn't say a word for a few moments, then he adjusted the obvious
erection in his jeans and turned back toward the street. "Come on,
Billy, let's go. I know another bar that's just two streets over."
What does he give me? He gives me friendship, closer than a brother, and words to go with my music. He gives me black eyes and headaches and laughter. He tells me he loves me, then tries to take advantage of me. He tells me that he's all I've got, and then tries to drive me away. He tells me I'm free to go anytime, but makes it clear that he expects me to stay. He gives me a place in this world that's not always easy, but it's always mine...and his.
But me, I'd give him anything. All he has to do is ask.
The End.