#these arent like. billy centric i kinda feel bad for tagging them as x readers

[lucysgraybird]

another lil farmers daughter!reader x billy. extremely self indulgent, not proofread, the whole works. enjoy!

it's been a few weeks since billy first arrived in your little jagged slice of midwest, and trust has bloomed between you two faster than the grass you coax life back into after every brutal winter. he indulges you in a way that no one ever has - hes never once criticized your choice to stay in this tiny, failing town, or asked why you ramble through places so ruinous. instead, he indulges you, pointing out wildflowers that might be nice to pick and place on graves on one of your walks through the local cemetery, and accompanies you on late-night wanderings through town. on more than one occasion, especially as the dog days of august start to roll in, these walks end in his motel room. it's nothing untoward; he's never once tried anything with you, but honestly, for all its failings, the motel is air conditioned and as temperatures hover around 80 even in the darkest depths of the night and humidity makes everything sticky and thick, the icy air that rattles from the window unit is more than welcome.

he pulls you to lean your head on the soft muscle where shoulder meets chest, perfectly angled for him to pet through your hair, which is sticky and tangling with cooling sweat. it is quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the neon sign outside, and you stare at the whorls in the wood paneling on the walls.

it is not so much that you were expecting billy to never leave as you were trying to ignore the eventuality. you know no one stays in a place like this, but your heart twists in a way you've never felt before when he tugs on a strand of your hair and tells you that he's gotten word that the job is starting soon - a tornado tore through the site, can you believe that? it's taken them weeks to get it back up and running - and he'll be driving out in a few days' time. he indulges your silence for a moment, then rushes out a plea for you to come with.

you think about the past few weeks. it's cheesy, but you realize how much of a monotony you've been living in when you're with him. he never tries to interrupt it, but by just being there he has lit up your world. things are less aimless while he's around, ramblings have a purpose beyond something to just occupy your time.

in your contemplation, you have become silent, and billy presses his cheek to the top of your head. he says he knows it's a big ask and, hey, listen, this job will take a couple of months. why don't you think about it and talk to your parents? he'll understand if you can't leave, he won't hold it against you. he told you he admired your connection to this place when he first met you, and that hasn't changed.

when you're tucked into bed that night, you pray and question and think. what, exactly, is it that keeps you here? is it your parents? they're not elderly and they do well by themselves as much as anyone does here, they'd be okay if you left so long as you promised to visit. it's not any old friends or valued places. as you tumble these thoughts in your head, you realize that nothing is keeping you here so much as you've never had a reason to leave, and suddenly, maybe, you do? you do. it's not abandoning your history, it's something that you'll always carry with you in the way you talk and love and pray, in the way that your first instinct will always be to help a neighbor. it's expanding it, allowing for more, allowing for...well, you suppose you'll find out.

so over the next three months, you pack up your life. you talk your parents into letting you go at all - you have money saved, you promise your mother, if things go south, you can make it on your own or come back home. you won't be stuck. it's something that's equally as important to you as it is to her; you refused to be stuck in the narrative that you should've left this town years ago, you refuse to be stuck anywhere else, either. your childhood bedroom in boxes is staggering to see. there's an ache to see how few boxes it took to pack up your life.

when billy returns, he insists on loading them into his truck. your father insists on helping him, presumably to give billy the shovel talk that you catch snippets of and has you burning red in the face. at the end of it, though, he's clapping billy on the back and shaking his hand, then turning to hug you in a way that is both more fierce and more tender than you think he ever has. your mother just squeezes your hand and extricates a promise of a labor-day visit home from you before you climb into the passenger seat of billy's truck. he lets you choose the cd for the drive from your hometown down to new mexico, and just rests a hand on your thigh and rubs with his thumb when you begin to cry a few hours in. somehow, he knows that you don't need to talk about it, that you can't talk about it.

the drive takes longer than it should, because you've confided in billy that you've never travelled out of your hometown and he's determined to show you every landmark (of his designation) along the way. sometimes these are kitschy tourist stops, like an enormous dinosaur statue or ball of yarn, but more often they're smaller things, like a natural spring or a pretty outcropping of rock or a hike he insists on because you have to see the view. you realize that he is a rambler too, just on a bigger scale than you've been able to be, and something hot flares in your chest. you will wander, with him and apart. with him, it will create moments that are just for the two of you, inimitable by any other people in any other time. apart, you will create stories for each other upon reunion, and in each other there will be something grounding - a home - to put a happily ever after on every fairy tale you get to live.