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runningfrom2am · 6 months ago

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michigan cherry // part six

summary: walking into a saloon in a nowhere town, billy meets a singer who he just can't get off his mind after she slips through his fingers; onto another town, another show- following nothing but the stars in her path. until he sees her again. another nowhere town and equally dusty saloon, but this time, the band of kids who made up her family is nowhere to be found. he's running away from something, and she is storming full speed toward something else, and tangling into each other's lives may just get both of them exactly where they want to be.

pairing: william h. bonney x fem!reader

wc: 2.4k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: singer!reader (she’s giving very much lucy gray), probably a little bit ooc billy but hey i tried- anyway he’s a sweetheart, use of guns and violence, murder and violence but i try to keep it non-descript, oh also she’s an orphan sorry (once again, lucy gray vibes), strangers to friends to lovers trope eee. also not thoroughly proofread oops

the songs in this chapter are: "scared of my guitar" by Olivia Rodrigo, "Michigan Cherry" by River Whyless, "Traveling Song" by Ryn Weaver, "Slim Pickins" by Sabrina Carpenter, and "Adore You - Acoustic" by Maisie Peters !!

a/n: ahhh hi it's my birthday! super excited to share this with you guys even though it isn't all that special or exciting but i'm just happy to be back :). last year for my birthday i posted in this life or the next and i wanted to finally get part 3 of that up today but that just wasn't going to happen BUT for everyone asking i am working on it. i swear. i'm not giving up on it!!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // pinterest board // playlist

You thought that you might have heard somewhere that music is to the soul as opium is to a stubborn cough.

Or, maybe you dreamt that. Regardless, you knew for certain now that it was bullshit. But, with nowhere else to place your heartache, you found yourself sitting by a fire nearly every night with your guitar in your lap, humming soft words under your breath and plucking the strings as gently as you could.

It was for work, yes, but like opium, you had long since become addicted to the routine. Billy had too.

"You can play a little louder, y'know." He hums, tossing a broken twig into the campfire that separates you. "I was promised music in exchange for my services."

"And you get your music." You chuckle, hand pressed over the strings to stop their hum. "You haven't missed a show in almost two months, that ain't enough?"

"Sure, I'm just sayin' don't hold back your practice on my account. I'm happy to listen again." He answers with a soft smile, the yellow glow from the flames warming his features and bathing him in light.

You can't help the matching twitch of your lips to return his, feeling the slight burn in your cheeks that you can't confidently attribute to either the fire or your own blushing. "Well, it ain't much to listen to yet. Not finished."

"Ah, somethin' new?" Billy asks, leaning back on his palms and watching you expectantly as you give him a slight nod.

You're leaning over your guitar to scribble in that little notebook of yours, the pencil almost nothing more than a little nub in your hands and the pages of the book almost filled to the brim with words and notes. The temptation he faces every day to just grab it while you're sleeping or out away from the camp on a little walk has become an almost unbearable curiosity.

Because yes, he loves the songs you do sing, but what he wouldn't give to hear the ones you don't.

Billy would dive at any opportunity to see just a little more into your beautiful mind.

"Yeah, kinda." You hum in response, distracted again by the strings of your guitar effectively wrapping around your heart and your fingers and dragging your attention back to it.

"Okay, then, let me hear what you have so far."

You hate doing that, normally. You would hardly even play incomplete songs for your family when they were around- that awkward moment where you just have to trail off and go "Um, that's all I have..." and try to laugh but not too awkwardly was something painful.

But, this was Billy. Something about him compelled you to agree.

The problem was, the song you were currently meddling with the idea of may or may not be about him. You'd like to confirm with yourself that no, it is not about Billy, but damnit- he's the only person in your life. What else were you meant to write about?

You look down at the pages next to you, narrowed eyes reading over your own writing.

'Perfect, easy, so good to me. So why's there a pit in my gut, in the shape of you'-

Nope, nope, no. He's not hearing that.

You could deny all you wanted that the unfinished song was about him, try and claim to yourself that it was about Max- but deep down you knew the direction it was going.

You flick through the most recent pages, trying to spark your memory of something safer.

'Tart and sweet like a wild berry Tart and sweet your words to me Dark and red like a Michigan cherry Dark and red as the Iliad sea Here we lie in the deep night ready Here we lie, our skin is bare'-

That's definitely not going to work either. Your cheeks get somehow hotter and you clear your throat, flipping the page again.

Okay, this is much better.

"Like I said, it ain't done, so... not much to it yet, but..." You say, clearing your throat and avoiding his eyes as you quickly scan the new page again and position your fingers over the guitar strings.

Billy gives you a steeled nod, sitting up a little straighter ready to listen as if he would be a judge of the quality of your music. It was a joke, you both knew it. He knew he couldn't come up with a critiquing word toward your music if he was held at gunpoint and forced to try.

"Nobody knows where they are going Oh, how we try to wrap our minds Over the edge of all our knowings Be it a bang or the divine Tip of my iceberg blues are showing I've never been one for goodbyes So, 'til I meet you there, I'm singing A traveling song to ease the ride And so you know, everywhere I roam I'll see you on the road."

Your voice is steady, focussed on getting it out rather than dwelling on the meaning of the words and Billy could tell.

"So farewell to my friend, He who taught me to love like a beast And to feast like the queen that he fed turtle soup Little boy from Paris to the States, check the facts That was Magical Max He was black sheep and mischief and love for his craft..."

His heart leaps at the little laugh that falls from your lips at the memory of your friend, your fingers slowing their strum to a steady halt. He doesn't expect you to continue, but you do, your smile quickly fading again back into an attempt at indifferent focus.

"Then he told me that I was starlights that shine On that very last day, he said "Shoot for your dreams, little girl, to the stars" Well, I'm taking you with me Now this one is ours and I know what you'd say you'd say "On with the show!" So on we go."

How embarrassing it is to almost cry singing a song that isn't done, for your best friend who would never live to hear it. Whose memory deserved to be shared. It wouldn't get very far if you couldn't even share it with one person; if you couldn't even stomach finishing it.

"Um, so... I'm not sure about chording for that last bit, or honestly the lyrics. I think it feels better without the guitar, but..." You say quickly, focussing yourself on your book and pretending to scribble something in it just so you wouldn't have to look at the boy sitting across the fire from you.

"I think it's perfect." Billy tells you, a softness to his tone you only had the pleasure of hearing once in a blue moon.

What he meant to say was that it's beautiful, that it's a flawlessly fitting tribute that he felt lucky to hear, that when sung by an angel's voice like yours he didn't doubt for a second that your friend Max had heard it from beyond the veil and loved it too. Even unfinished.

None of that was what came out though, essentially awestruck the way he always was at your shows- but this time he was able to actually speak to you after hearing it instead of just clapping, whistling, or if he was lucky, catching your gaze with a smile and a corny thumbs up that told you he thought you were doing great. Not that you needed it.

"Thanks." Your sweet voice replies, watching him for a moment you determine to be too long before your focus is back on the notebook next to you. "Anyway, um, if you want to hear something else unfinished, this one I think is going to be kind of funny."

"Show me what you've got, then."

Billy simply couldn't resist anymore.

Sitting absentmindedly on a hay bale in a barn where a local owner was gracious enough to let the two of you stay, that damned notebook seems to be glowing right in his face from the sunlight streaming through some bullet holes in the wood paneling that made up the side of the stable.

It's taunting him, he's sure of it.

This stare-down has been going on for about ten minutes since you left it out on the ground next to your guitar to go use the homeowner's washbasin to clean up when his wife offered- you weren't going to turn down a bath that wasn't in a creek.

That would probably take you a while though, you'd likely savour it, so he could just take a look. You'd sing him pretty much anything asked, and what could possibly be more vulnerable than that song you wrote about Max that you shared with him a couple of weeks ago? Surely you wouldn't mind all that much. On the off chance you ever found out. Which, of course, you wouldn't- because he would put it right back where it was after just skimming it.

It's not Billy's fault your handwriting just looks so pretty and you're a poet without publication privileges- it would just be a waste if no one ever read your pretty musings written oftentimes to no one.

And still, he convinces himself again, that you would never know.

He gets up and studies the book to make sure he could put it back down at the right angle before picking it up, hands gentler than they have ever been- like he was touching his mother's precious crystal vase, a wedding gift that had been long lost to time in several moves across the sea and then the country.

He opens the notebook and immediately he can see how you've grown since this book was first picked up by your delicate hands. How your print has changed from beginning to almost end, the pages all wrinkled from spills and humidity and time.

How lucky, he thinks, to be chosen by you for this journey of your life. Why does he feel so much camaraderie for a book?

He skims the pages, delighted to see that it isn't just full of words but drawings too; the sweetest most delicate doodles of little things like your guitar or a flower here and there squeezed in amongst the words on the pages. The amount of talent one young woman could possess astounded him, it's shocking that it doesn't drip out of your every pore in the very black ink that you use to write.

He can't help smiling a little to himself as he reads the scrawled titles and lyrics to songs he recognizes and he can practically hear your beautiful voice singing every word he's already heard.

'A boy who's nice that breathes- I swear, he's nowhere to be seen.'

That was the funnier song you sang to him those odd weeks ago, and just remembering the small laugh that fell from your lips as you sang the words makes him chuckle too as he reads it.

You had told him you wrote it with Sarah, and he could tell- based on the two distinctive styles of handwriting squeezed onto the small page.

He begins to realize as he flips through the pages of the small tattered notebook resting in his lap, that you had been dating the pages. Finished songs had dates of beginning and completion going back a little over a year, and he figures this must not be the first one you've gone through.

Billy comes to the near back of the notebook, as much as he would love to spend all day reading every word you'd ever translated turning your life into poetry or ballads of melodic storytelling, he knew his time was limited.

One song in particular catches his attention, though.

'So high that I am floating, So good that I'm out of my head. So low baby I was hurting, you made it better again.

Oh, we got caught in a moment, and I'll lay with you all night. So good that now I'm hoping you'll hold me down for life.

I adore, I adore, I adore you.'

The corners of his lips twitch up in a smile as he reads the words, scribbled out and rewritten several times in some places.

It's unfinished, but dated to have been started a couple of weeks ago. He remembers you had asked him what the date was that day, and saw you write it down as he answered- your hair falling over your face and brushing your shoulders as it shielded the book from his view.

A couple weeks ago.

And the drawing- oh, how his heart flutters in his chest so quickly it feels like his ribs have transformed into a sparrow's cage.

To Billy, it looked like him. He knew he must be thinking crazy, after all, it had been a while since he had had a proper look in a mirror, but it sure felt like he was right now- down to the little feathers on his hat and the shape of his cupid's bow. You had given yourself away with the scope of your artistic faith.

"What are you doing?"

At the sound of your voice, slightly hesitant as you stand in the entrance to the barn, he slams the book shut and jumps just about a foot in the air; a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"N-nothing! I just, it just- um..." It was still clutched in his hands, already weary of parting with the precious object of your affections. "It, um... It fell, and I- I just picked it up, and-"

When he looks up at you, you look mildly horrified; cheeks burning the same way his are and eyes blown wide like you had been the one who was caught doing something wrong.

Neither of you move, both frozen on the spot, terrified of the next words that might fall from the lips of the other.

You weren't about to incriminate yourself by asking in a shaky voice if he had read or looked at any of it, knowing he did, and he wasn't going to ask if that song or any others he skimmed (and wish he took more care reading) were about him like he hoped they were.

After a moment of staring at each other like both of you were hostages with guns to your head respectively, you both decide to make the first move at the exact same time. He quickly holds the book out to you at the very moment you reach out to take it, and the awkward exchange makes you want to curl up under the hay bale you were meant to sleep on and rot there.

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

#michigan cherry !#billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid imagines #billy bonney #billy the kid #william bonney x you #william h bonney x you #william h bonney x reader #william bonney x reader #william bonney #william h bonney #tom blyth fic #tom blyth #billy the kid 2022 #tom blyth x reader

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runningfrom2am · 24 days ago

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michigan cherry // part nine

pairing: william h. bonney x fem!reader

wc: 1.9k

masterlists / nav / requests

a/n: and what if i said this series is almost done...

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // pinterest board // playlist

Billy had walked out on you.

Not truly, not officially, though nothing you had really was "official" beyond what you believed, and what you were under the impression he believed as well. However, you knew better than anyone the power of spoken word- something you were too scared to value in their entirety over the last months with him.

You felt a little foolish regarding your inattentiveness to the situation. Leaving the bar by yourself, walking through the now familiar trails toward your shared camp hidden by the seclusion of trees a ways out of town, you could feel vulnerability creeping up on you like a cat in the dark- claws bared and silent in its hunt.

Without Billy, you realized, your eyes were open wider.

Not just to your surroundings, keeping an eye out in the fear of being robbed again and letting go of the safety he had offered you in his presence, but laid bare to the opportunity of overturning every one of your interactions with the man with a keener eye, no longer blinded by the flickers of light in his blue eyes.

And damn him, he'd taken the horse, too. Now that you really thought about it, every crunch of your heels in the gravel mimicked the flap of a red flag in the wind; warnings you couldn't be bothered to heed.

Among an array of other signs, Mr. Booker's trembling finger on the trigger of that rifle stood out. The look in his eyes, tinged with fear when as far as you knew, you were just young people in search of shelter from a dangerous storm. What had happened to southern hospitality? To the reported kindness of these people who had it in their hearts to take in your little brother and keep him fed and happy with that smile on his face you had seen outside the school that day a couple of weeks ago. The way he spoke to Billy and the way it confused you at the time, only to be blissfully blown away in the storms strong wind that couldn't budge the way he had kissed you in that ditch.

When you get back to camp, you're a tempest in and of its own when you see Billy sitting by the fire he had started upon his return.

"Where did you go?" You ask, dropping your guitar down beside your bedroll with more force than you intended.

Billy looks up at you, his head tilting curiously and you have to see past how he lowered his hat to imagine his expression. "Here." He answers, gesturing vaguely, like it was obvious.

"Here." You repeat, glancing over to the horse tied to a nearby tree. Affectionately, months ago, you had named the creature Dolly, though you were more like a doll to her than she was to the two of you.

"Yeah, here."

"Why?" You prompt, unable to help it as he pokes at the fire with a stick and shrugs unhelpfully.

"Okay, well, if you're not gonna be honest with me I'll have to assume it's because your ears were bleeding from my singin'. Which, mind you, as I promised, was the oh-so-coveted song about you."

The admittance was as uncomfortable as it was unavoidable, because you were sure he had known.

"That's not it and you-"

"I know it?" You interrupt, arms crossing over your chest. "Tell me, how am I supposed to know that? We don't talk about these things, we-"

"We talk about things!" He protests and you sigh, running your hands down your face. Everything was falling apart.

"Obviously, that's not what I meant. We talk about music and horses, and I talk about my family, and you don't tell me much of anything since that first night."

A moment of quiet follows, and you're sure he's just as scared to break it now as you are but clearly, he won't. He's prone to keeping things to himself, the same way you are prone to writing it down and chucking a guitar behind it before displaying your feelings to the world. Or at least how you used to be, until you met him.

"What happened at the Booker's?" When you ask him, he looks at you like you've thrown him a curve ball- knocking back the rim of his hat to make eye contact with you.

"Doll, you're gonna have to clarify a bit, here." He replies after a moment with a slight shake of his head, brows raised in perceivably genuine confusion.

"Mr. Booker pointed a gun at us, and said he knew who we were, and that he should kill you for it." You explain, trying to refresh his memory as calmly as possible but he can see the fire of accusation in your eyes. It was a look he was familiar with from many others, but never you- his precious you, who could sing about trust issues all she wanted but had hardly ever shown an ounce of it with him even if it wouldn't have been without reason.

Billy chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, his gaze finding the fire again. "Listen, I... I'm not-..." He cuts his train of thought short, sitting up a bit straighter and looking down at his hands. "It's... it's a real long story."

That's the best he can give you? When so few words has thrown your mind into a frenzy? Granted, it didn't seem like he was lying, but what could you assume if not the worst? It was hard to imagine.

"Do you... do you know them?" You ask, trying to get to the bottom of it by starting easy. He shakes his head. "Then how did he know you?"

"He doesn't." Billy insists, and you scoff, throwing your hands up as you turn a little bit.

"I'm throwing you a bone, here. All I'm asking is that you're honest with me, Billy. Clearly he knows you, okay? We've established that. So tell me how."

"I..." He sighs, looking at you with slightly wide eyes. "I don't know, shit- could be anything, could be... stories, maybe? Posters? I ain't ever been here before, maybe in passing but not that I can remember-"

"Posters?" You echo, frozen on the spot by the chill that filled your bloodstream steadily and quickly. "What have you done?"

Stolen horses? You hope, sparing another glance to Dolly chewing obliviously on some grass a few feet away. Killed a man? You wonder, slowly turning your head back to him.

"Hey, listen, it's not-" He stands up then, and with his first step closer to you you're matching it with a tiny one back which he obviously picks up on when he freezes on the spot, hand stretched out in a reach for you.

"Okay..." He says lowly, looking at you like you were a frightened horse he had to calm. "I'll explain, just... just listen, doll."

Staring blankly at him in response, he gets the message that you want him to continue.

"I've done some things I'm not proud of, and I mean that. Really, I ain't- I don't even want to think about it, but... but you gotta understand, I didn't want to do those things." He tells you, a pleading look to him that was unfamiliar to you coming from him.

While you didn't see what happened that night outside your wagon, there's no doubt in your mind that Max had a similar look about him minutes before the light left his eyes- when he insisted that those men not look in the back for the sake of keeping you safe.

"I've hurt people, okay, I've killed people, and I'll come by that honestly but I don't want you to think- I don't want you to be afraid of me. I promise, I'll swear it on my ma's grave that you don't need to be. No one really does, I just... I got wrapped up in some shit, I lost myself for a bit, I'll admit that, but-"

You've shut down too much by now to absorb what he's saying in any meaningful way, the ringing in your ears drowning out his explanations and cries for your understanding.

Billy can see it, his voice getting louder to try and reach you as you take another small step back, the blood drained from your face and your eyes locked on him like he was some kind of threat. It broke his heart as you backed away, quickly turning to untie the horse like you couldn't even hear him anymore and he's sure that you can't.

Such a strong reaction was warranted, he understood. He wishes you hadn't been afraid, or angry, or that you had given him more time to explain- to pull together his words in a way you would understand more concisely. He should have just come out with it and told you that he loved you- that he left your show because someone had just pointed him out to the sheriff and he didn't want you to see him dragged away. He left you alone because he didn't want you to be left alone again, and the irony in that felt like it was crawling up his throat and choking him.

Because now you were alone, but this time it was by your choice.

Billy sat at your abandoned camp alone, worrying about you and laying on the grass by the coals of a dead fire wishing that the earth would swallow him whole like it had his family. He was alone now too, and he didn't know what to do now that he had found everything and lost it again in one night. He figures he deserves it, though. The blood on his hands was impossible to scrub clean; every time he thought that maybe it was gone there's a new stain on his clothes, and a spot he realized he missed between his fingers. And inevitably, it ended up all over you, too.

Time is merging into itself and folding over for him in hopes that you'd come back, so lost in it that he almost misses the snap of twigs indicating someone was nearby. He jolts up, gun already in hand fearing the worst- that you had turned him in.

But he sees no one.

Standing now, pistol a comforting weight in his palm, he looks around. "Who's there?"

There's a few tense moments of silence before he hears a quiet voice. "Are you Mister Billy?"

Billy's breath hitches with slight confusion at the voice of a child, holstering his gun as he looks toward the tree the small voice came from.

"Depends who's askin'." He replies, taking a quiet step closer.

"U-um... 'M Harvey."

There's small boy peeks out from behind the tree, hesitant as he mostly stays behind its cover.

"Alright, bud, come out, then." Billy says, waving at him to step out once he recognizes him. "Ain't gonna hurt ya."

The little boy steps out then, fixing the brim of his hat so he could look up at the man in front of him as he got closer. "You're friends with my sister, aren't you?"

"I am." Billy answers, trying to avoid coming across as hesitant as he felt.

Harvey shifts on his feet, looking down again more focussed on the way the grass crumples beneath his boots than looking at Billy.

"Then... I need your help."

#michigan cherry !#billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #billy the kid #tom blyth #william h bonney x you #william h bonney x reader #william bonney #tom blyth fic

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