billy hargrove | dream
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words: 1.9k
warnings: brief mentions of domestic abuse, bruises, and sex (not on page!), but mostly fluff and a touch of angst
prompt: Billy is sleeping on Y/n. Reader is soft running he hand's through his hair while reading a book. He still a little groggy when he wakes up a little bit and sees Y/n's face and he says you're so gorgeous. I'm going to keep you and call you my wife
You don’t notice Billy has fallen asleep until a soft snore breaks you away from the paragraph you’re reading. You keep your thumb pressed to the book’s spine as you lift it up to see his face beneath, squished on your lap. Your other hand is knotted delicately in his sandy curls and his thick eyelashes are heavy on his high cheekbones.
You almost can’t believe it. He’s never been this peaceful, always a guard up even with you, especially after the night he had. It ended with him sneaking through your window after an argument with his dad.
He doesn’t usually sleep after those. Usually stares at the same spot on the wallpaper while you curl up next to him, waiting. For what, you don’t know. You know he won’t talk about it. He likes being here because you don’t pressure him to, though he knows he can if he wants. But now it’s eleven a.m., and the plate of breakfast you shared is empty beside your legs, and you’re reading on your bed because Billy isn't in the mood to go anywhere, do anything, and he’s asleep.
He looks so fucking peaceful it breaks your heart. Ever so gently, you pull your hand out of his hair and trace along his cheekbone, his ear, his jaw. It flutters, but he doesn’t. He remains asleep, nestling his face into your soft thigh, and you swear to god you’re about to cry because it’s the best feeling in the world. Like he’s chosen you. Like he trusts you to keep him safe while he drifts off for a few hours to somewhere better, warmer, than his usual life.
Carefully, you grab the old throw from the bottom of your bed and drape it across his bare shoulders, soaking him in just a moment longer before you go back to your book. His mouth is curled upwards for a change, serenity parting his pink lips as his breaths leave him in and out, in and out. Even that steady rhythm settles something restless inside you like a lullaby. He’s always angry or messing around or fucking you senseless, breaths always hot and fiery like a dragon’s, but not now. Now they’re gentle as a mild spring breeze, blowing across the cotton of your pyjama bottoms.
A smile graces your lips, unstoppable and unbridled. He’s peaceful, happy, and that makes you feel the same.
You settle back, spine resting against your headboard as you try to remember where you were in your book. Billy mumbles occasionally or adjusts his position, and you’re so desperate to keep him there that you brush your nails along his scalp the way you always beg him to do for you — he’ll usually draw a few figure eights and then get bored.
But not you. You could stay like this forever, even when your legs begin to ache and you’re desperate to stretch. You fight it all to make sure he stays like this.
Eventually you get back to your book, the midday light pouring through your curtains and the birds singing outside. Everything feels easier in this little pocket of peace. Your heart feels lighter. You’ve never been like this with another human, never coexisted beyond the need for conversation or activity.
As you turn the page, Billy shifts again, sniffing. You feel his eyes open a moment later and peer over your book at him. “Afternoon, sunshine,” you tease.
A breathy chuckle falls from him, and his hand finds yours beside your hip. He keeps his chin on your lap as he looks up at you.
“Watcha looking at?” you ask lightly, playing with his fingers and lowering your book.
“You.” His voice is still thick and throaty with sleep, the cheek that had been squished on your thigh rosy. “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. You slip your bookmark between the pages of your book and set it down, no longer able to live with it separating the two of you, blocking your vision of him. You want all of him, want to just be here, and that’s a first, too — to prefer reality over fiction.
“Shut up.” You nudge him playfully.
He smirks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Only then does he seem to acknowledge the blanket around him, and he props himself up on his elbows before shimmying closer to you. You spread your legs so he can come closer, so he can wrap himself in you, a laugh falling from you when he loops his arms around your waist and tugs you into him. “Billy.”
“That was the best nap I’ve ever had,” he admits, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. It causes the blanket to pool around his elbows.
“You probably needed the sleep. It was another long night,” you murmur, ruffling his curls again. “I hope you feel safe here, Billy. I hope you know you’re okay here. You’re home here.”
“I wouldn’t come here if I didn’t.” He takes your hand; peppers a kiss on each knuckle. “You know what’s weird?”
He flips around so he’s lying on his back again, this time between your thighs while you hunch over him, breathless and rapt with every little movement he makes. “What?”
“I love doin’ nothing with you,” he mumbles, blue eyes fixing on your lampshade hanging from the ceiling.
You rub his shoulders, down to his chest. Sometimes you catch him tensing when you touch him without warning, but not today. Not now. Something’s changed. “Me too,” you admit.
“Know what else is weird?”
You hum in question.
“Had a dream you were my wife just now.” His lips twitch with a hint of a smile, irises gleaming wistfully. “Best damn dream I ever had.”
You falter above him, breath hitching in your throat. He’s never talked like that before, and you don’t expect him to. You’re young, only just figuring this thing out, only just learning how to love and he’s Billy damn Hargrove, former king of messin’ around with whoever he can get his hands on.
But you’re certain — dead fucking certain — he wouldn’t say shit like that if there wasn’t some part of him that meant it. And you hope to god he does, because you can imagine it too. Sunday mornings spread out on the bed like this, or road trips on a Saturday, him tapping the steering wheel of the Camaro while you sing along and rest your hand out of the window to feel the breeze. To catch it, bottle it, because you’d do anything to keep every moment with him forever.
“What else happened in this dream?” you ask carefully.
He laces his fingers through yours and places your hands on his chest, where his heart pounds beneath. “Nothin’ exciting. We were just dancing in the kitchen, making breakfast, a little like this morning. Only you had this wedding ring on and I kept kissing it. Kept kissing you. And the kitchen, the house, it was ours. White picket fence and everythin’. And I said I wish I could marry you again over and over, because once wasn’t enough. And then you did your usual pretty little blush and looked at me with those fucking eyes you know I can’t look away from, and I just…” He trails off and shakes his head.
“You soppy jerk.” You slap him lightly, teasing, because you’re not sure how else to manage this colossal amount of love. Your heart is full to bursting and tears are pricking your eyes.
“There it is,” he whispers, looking at you upside down and tapping your cheek. “Pretty little blush.” He groans. “And those fuckin’ eyes.”
You roll them, half-tempted to cover your face before you melt into a pathetic puddle of goo. It’s rare he says things like this out loud, even if you know he feels them. But you never imagined they’d sound like this coming from his mouth, hoarse and honest and sincere and enough to turn you inside out. There’s no coming back from this, you know. No way to stop loving him now. You’re in too deep, and there won’t be a life, a time, where you don’t feel this way. It’ll follow you forever, through fire and thunder, because it’s real. It’s so fucking real you can feel it in your bones like an itch, an ache.
You’re in love with him.
“Could be real,” you comment bravely. “That dream of yours. Doesn’t have to stay a dream.”
He smiles, sighs. “One day, baby.” He kisses your left hand, your ring finger, where the wedding band must have been in your dream, and his lips alone feel like a branding of gold. A promise.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you beg, because it’s devastating you. Even when you know he’d never say things like this without meaning them, you can’t imagine a life past him sneaking into your room every night, broken and bruised. You can’t imagine him keeping his guards down like this for another hour, let alone the rest of your lives. You can’t even really imagine him getting down on one knee or saying he loves you just because he can.
But you probably wouldn’t have imagined him sleeping in your lap or talking about marriage this morning, either. And now look at you both.
“I’m not.” A shadow crosses his features, and you regret your words immediately. He sits up and twirls around so you're face to face, finally on the same eye level. And then he cups your jaw, eyes boring into yours. “I’m gonna be good enough to be your husband one of these days, baby. I swear to god. We’ll get out of here, find somewhere new. Somewhere where it’s not always so heavy. And you and me…we’re gonna be as happy as I dreamt. Forever.”
Your eyes flutter closed, a tear trickling down your cheek. “You’re already good enough, Billy. You’re all I want. Exactly as you are.”
His fingers filter through your hair as he pulls you closer to kiss you properly, deeply, until heat stirs in your belly and you’re so dizzy you’re seeing stars.
And because you’re feeling safe, right, courageous, you whisper, “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” The words could break you, especially the way he says them. Like it’s true. Like there is nothing in the world that’s truer. Like you’re it for him.
And he’s it for you.
You smile, resting your forehead against his chin and breathing him in. “Must have been some nap.”
“Was,” he admits, and then picks up your book and hands it to you. “Will you read to me for a little bit?” He lies back down, hugging your leg again. “Just wanna hear your voice.”
Your entire body is fluttering, but somehow, you find the steadiness to read aloud. He dozes in and out of consciousness, but whenever you stop, he begs you to keep going, like he can’t bear a world where you’re not talking.
And you feel needed. Important. Special. Because the rest of the world gets Billy’s walls and barbs and armour, and you…you get so much more.
You get soft Sundays in bed, and you get to catch his tears when they fall. You get a life with him.
