â„ Everything You Wanted â„
â„ pairing: william hillwalker x fem!reader
â„ word count: 8.1k+ words
â„ summary: Fifteen years ago, William made the agonizing choice to leave everything behind as his world unraveled, including his former best friend he abandoned without a word. He's convinced he made peace with that decision. Turns out, one phone call is all it takes to break open what he's spent years trying to bury.
â„ an: yo girl is back at it again with a william fic this timeâŒïž im still updating the jackson one dw. i know it seems out of place to make a plot like this but i promise ill throw in the lore later. also i almost got sent to the ER writing this gang. i might revise the summary later but uhhhh i kinda went overboard with this one. đ€
â„ possible triggers: abandonment, mentions of weapons, mentions of violence
â.. So yeah, if you ever find the time, just call me back.â
William passes by the house phone, fingers pressing against the worn out keypad, inputting a four digit pin with unconscious familiarity. The machine sputters to life once more. Static cracks through the speakers followed by distant and muffled rustling.
Jacksonâs presence is absent from the farm, finally quiet for once. He had left about an hour ago to grab something from the market, giving William time to complete the mundane tasks around the house.
William liked quietâ not the deafening silence that made him overthink but ones that were just enough to distract him from his own thoughts. The kind that pulled him from reality. The background noise of the TV, the subtle hum of the radio, and sometimes, that familiar voice coming from a voicemail.
He wraps his fingers around the handles of the hammer, its weight dragging lazily across the table. It feels heavy in his grip, the wood worn out from years of use. The plank hung crooked, nailed firmly on one end while the other side swung loosely in the air. He fished for the nail lodged deep into his pocket, his fingers getting pricked a few times before he finally had a firm hold on it.
Thereâs still shuffling coming from the black box on the counter nearby. Maybe if he swung hard enough, it would distract him, even just for a moment. So he slams his hammer against the nail, a sharp and metallic thunk echoing across the room, but it isn't enough. Your voice still manages to cut through the noise.
âHey, itâs me. Again.â
Of course it was you. For fifteen years, itâs always been you. No matter how many years have passed and how much your voice has changed, it always feels like the first time heâs hearing it again.
âI.. I don't even know why Iâm still sending you these. Fourteen years since youâve left and..â
You sound defeated, but the empty acceptance in your tone doesnât go unnoticed by him. Thereâs a resignation in your voice that wasnât present before. He gives the nail another blow, the sound rattling his skull, but not enough to block you out.
â.. I guess I was just hoping youâd answer. That maybe one of my calls would change your mind. I don't even know if this is your number anymore, but it's the only piece I have left of you. It was my way of pretending that you still existed somewhere in my life.â
He keeps telling himself he remembers why he left.
It wasn't supposed to be forever. Just until the worst had passed, when he began figuring things out. After the death of his mother, the disappearance of his father, and the sudden responsibility of stepping up as a parental figure for Jackson, everything began caving inward.
He wasnât planning on leaving you behind until his brother welcomed an entity into their home. When his sanity began to crumble and he began picking up psychotic tendencies, he let you slip through his fingers too.
He told himself it was an act of mercy. He didnât want you to be involved in his mess and he made sure you wouldnât be.
But on days like today, you found your way back into his life.
âI hate that Iâm still waiting for you. I mean itâs pathetic, isnât it? Sending voicemails to a ghost, not knowing if it'll reach you. I wish I could hate you, leave you like you left me--â
He can hear you breathe in sharply, as if trying to calm yourself. Then a laugh escapes your lips, sour and raw. He falters for a moment, the hammer in his hand hovering mid-air, as if he's unsure of what to do next. The nail is half-buried into the plank, his eyes glued to it but his attention on your words haunting him.
Heâs memorized every single one of your messages like a lullaby, but hearing it never gets easier.
Your voice falters and he finds himself lowering the hammer, walking towards the machine that spewed out your message. Despite the distance, you're closer this way-- almost as if youâre right next to him, saying the words out loud. Deep down, he wants you to despise him. Wants you to scream and tell him that heâs a piece of shit. Something definitive.
That way, you could finally give him closure-- the final push-- to bury you for good.
Unfortunately, you donât. Even after fifteen years of silence, youâre still tethered around him just like old times. The message is almost over and his finger hovers over the button, ready to end it before you can finish. For a moment, the static fades, silence taking its place.
He doesnât follow through, finding himself waiting for you to speak. He knows what you'll say next, but he listens because this is the only apology he can give you. Itâs the least he can do.
âIâve tried to forget you. Iâve done everything. Deleted your number. Got rid of memories of you. Fuck, I even drank myself stupid. So why..â You sigh, the house breathing with you as if reacting to your words. The wind slips through the cracks of the window, humming softly. He feels your presence-- the way it constricts around his throat, the weight it brings on his chest. It lingers like a scent that wonât fade. âWhy do I always come back?â
There's a faint click on the other end. He hasnât heard your voice since then, a year passing since your last attempted call.
He doesnât move or breathe, but the draft wrapping around him reminds him to. When he does, he realizes his finger is still where he left it, like a ghost of indecision mocking him. The unbearable quiet returns, only broken by the hiss of the wind and his slow, measured breathing.
William was convinced that what he did was necessary. You should've just been a dust of memory in his mind, a small part of his life. Leaving you behind shouldnât have been a compromising situation.
He says heâs over it, but people who move on donât save voicemails. Moving on doesn't long for a return and it doesnât feel guilt at the end of its string. The thought of you shouldnât flood his mind, drowning him in your words that he left unanswered.
Moving on doesnât look like this.
Moving on doesnât sound like you.
He finally shifts, fingers travelling to punch in the same four digit pin, only to replay another voicemail.
âStupid fuckinâ rabbit,â William hisses as the white blob stares back at him. Its large eyes gleam with curiosity and its nose twitches slightly. Despite his sharp glare and his venomous tone, the rabbit stays perfectly still, unbothered.
There's a cigarette trapped between his lips, the end of it illuminating the dark of the night. He lets out a slow, angry puff, the smoke coiling around his face before he speaks uselessly to it again. âBeat it or Iâll skin you with my own damn hands.â
He doesnât realize how ridiculous he must look-- a towering 6â3 man arguing with a rabbit barely the size of his hand. A murderer, a psychopath, bothered by the presence of something so harmless and innocent. His eye twitched at the sight, rage flickering behind his exhaustion.
This was supposed to be a moment of silence, a trace of peace for the storm building. He only intended to clear his mind for a few minutes, wanting to take a short walk before dealing with Jacksonâs antics at home, but now here he was, having a staring contest with a wide-eyed woodland creature.
He shouldâve brought his knife like he usually did. He had rushed out, not wanting to prolong his trip, and had forgotten his knife in the process. Now his words felt hollow, nothing more than an empty threat.
The rough bark of the tree pressed into his back as he leaned against it, his free hand stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. The cold is evident, the trees rustling as the wind begins to pick up. The road is close, just enough within reach, but far enough to keep him concealed in the shadows of the woods. The occasional sound of a car passing, the distant thrum of music from a speeding vehicle, was enough to distract him from the uncomfortable silence that hangs in the air. It would only drive him more mad than he already was.
William wasn't a smoker, only ever picking it up when he needed to shut everything out. Tonight was one of those nights, the burn in his lungs and the taste stuck on his tongue serving as a lifeline. He takes another pull, a harsh cough leaving his mouth, and when the haze disappears, the stupid fucking rabbit is still there looking at him. .
He sneers, irritation boiling over as he realizes that heâs more frustrated now than when he left the farm. This piece of shit was ruining his whole purpose of his departure and to make matters worse, it wasnât exactly doing anything to provoke a reaction from him.
âYou little shit--â He reaches down in an attempt to take the animal in his hold, half-blinded by rage, wanting to wring its neck with his hand, but the sound of rustling nearby startles it. In an instant, the rabbit scurries into the nearest bush, and William is left frozen in place with his hand outstretched towards nothing.
Before he could process the situation fully, a sudden light to his right blinds him, catching him by surprise.
It burns through his vision for a moment, his arm instinctively moving to shield his eyes away. He squints from the harsh glare, attempting to recover from the assault. It takes a moment to piece out the situation, but eventually, he sees two figures in the distance making their way towards him, the faint echo of voices rising in the air.
Once his vision adjusts, he notices the glint of their badges reflecting in the dim light, the unmistakable tan of their uniform, and those absurd hats they always wore. The realization slowly creeps up on him and soon, their words register, his arm lowering.
A part of him freezes-- not out of shock, but from the growing tension in the air. The cigarette still dangles in his lips as he observes the two, straightening himself out a bit.
The older officer steps forward, face weathered by time and experience. Thereâs a subtle confidence to him, his movements measured, only adding to the air of authority that was obvious. His gaze is sharp, focused on William as he eyes him in a suspicious manner. Behind him, a more youthful man trembles slightly, jittery as he flashes the light around him as a reassurance. His face is pale, clearly shaken up by the eeriness of his surroundings.
âEvening, sir,â the older man is the first to speak, nodding towards William as a poor attempt at a neutral greeting.
William sighs, his fingers capturing the bud between his lips, turning his head away to exhale a final huff of smoke into the night air. The younger officer scrunches his nose at this, the scent clinging to the air around them. In one swift movement, he flicks the bud on the ground, crushing it under the weight of his boot before sparing them his attention.
âYeah, evening,â he replies simply, his voice flat. Thereâs a disinterested look on William's face, but the hint of annoyance slips out.
âIs there a reason why youâre out here so late, son?â The older man's voice is not hostile, but it isn't exactly welcoming. He crosses his arms, waiting patiently for his response.
âLittle late for a walk, isnât it?â The officer is unconvinced, eyes scanning him carefully and with clear intent, looking for any tell.âSeems like an odd place to take a light night stroll, especially with the way things have been lately around town.â
William doesnât shift his weight, showing no concern or panic at his accusatory words. He has no reason to feel antsy about the whole situation-- all he had to do was play it smart, enough to make them believe, and then heâd be let go. Refusing would only give them more of a reason.
âDidnât know it was a crime.â
The officer doesnât flinch or show any kind of negative reaction, instead nodding at his words as if agreeing, âI know it isnât, but you arenât on any trails and thereâs been a string of disappearances linked to an area a few miles away from here. It doesnât exactly sound promising.â
William thinks it over for a moment. The officer does have a point--a man of his size, suspiciously brooding in the forest at this time of night, under those circumstances, was bound to raise red flags. He knew he shouldâve been more cautious, especially with the cases getting more attention in the media. There wasnât a day that passed where it wasnât mentioned at least once.
A novice mistake, he thinks, but it's nothing he canât adjust to.
Before he could muster up a response, the officer cuts him off shortly, his voice now firm, no longer buying his act. âYou got an ID, son?â
William doesnât move for a second but decides to at least pretend, patting several pockets of his jeans and jacket. His hand digs through the opening of his jacket where his knife usually rested, silently degrading himself for leaving it behind. This interaction wouldâve been long over before it started if he had brought it along.
âMustâve forgot it.â
The reply is casual. Too casual where the officer's demeanor changes. It's subtle, but William notices. The manâs stare hardens, his shoulders tightening at his response and he comes to the realization that this isnât a casual check anymore. Heâs officially under the radar. Despite this, heâs still far more irritated than worried about the situation.
The rookie behind him looks up at the officer, his voice a bit shaky and tight, âThat doesnât sound right.â
However, he immediately shuts his mouth upon receiving a glare from his superior, his gaze averting to his feet in embarrassment.
âSo let me get this straight. Youâre taking a stroll, after dark, in the middle of the woods near a restricted area, and you donât have an ID?â He says in disbelief, a little more hostile. âThat doesnât sit right with me.â
The hole is deepening, his position not looking too good, but William stands there, clearly peeved regardless of his attempts of remaining calm, âDo I need an ID to walk around now?â
The heaviness in the air is prominent. The young man looks uncomfortable at the tension, but the older man seems to pay no mind to Williamâs comment, his voice cool and deliberate.
âAlright, hereâs what's gonna happen. Weâre not looking for trouble, but with everything happening, weâre not just going to ignore this. Youâre not under arrest, but until we know who you are and your business for loitering out here at such an odd hour, youâre coming with us.â
William feels himself grow taut for a second, but he shakes it off before they could notice, his glare is unintentionally fixed on them as the anger simmers beneath the surface. All of this trouble over a stupid fucking walk. He sets a very strict reminder to never stray away from his routine again. Stick to the farm work and use that as an outlet for his emotions.
He doesnât respond but remains rooted to his spot. The man takes that as a silent approval (not that he had a choice) and moves to pull out his radio, walking a good distance away from them before speaking into the device. The younger officer pulls out a pair of cuffs, just for safe measure, but shrinks at the sight of Williamâs expression darkening at him, a promise of violence hidden beneath it. The cuffs are gone faster than they appeared.
Williams' sights linger on the poor boy-- lanky, fearful, and not suited for his job. He was an easy target, one blow to the neck and heâd be a goner. It was an easy escape, a fast solution, but with authorities on his ass, it might have not been the best option. Especially not with the farm on the line.
The officer soon returns, cutting off whatever sinister thoughts brewed up in Williamâs mind.
âWeâll take you to the precinct, have someone verify your story, and weâll let you go. If thereâs nothing to hide, there shouldnât be anything to worry about.â
A curse threatens to spill from his mouth, but he swallows it down. He shouldâve killed that damn rabbit with his bare hands or ventured to a deeper part of the forest. Maybe that way, he couldâve been home finishing up some chores or taking a well deserved nap.
Maybe then, he couldâve lost himself in the comfort of your voice before resigning for the day.
But it doesnât matter now. None of it does as both of them wait for his reply, staring at him in a way that makes him feel like an animal in an exhibit. If they wanted to play this game, heâd gladly play along to get them out of his hair. With a deep breath, he manages to get the words out through gritted teeth.
The room smells sickly. The walls are sterile, the scent of bleach and watered down coffee wafting the space, and the overhead light above keeps flickering in a way that makes his head pulsate. He pulls his jacket closer to him, the cold of the room and the unease of people watching him behind the glass pane making him only more antsy and irate.
William slumps against the chair, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes follow the assigned officer. That deafening silence is back again and it's only making him more aggravated than he needs to be. The only thing thatâs keeping him grounded is the soft hum of the fluorescent light above and the sound of papers flipping from the officers clipboard.
Theyâve asked him the same eight questions, the pressure palpable, but William doesnât feed into it. They ask him a plethora of questions and he complies, giving just enough to seem cooperative but not enough for their liking.
His eyes glance to the clock hanging nearby, following the hand tick every second they waste of his time. He keeps count, his patience thinning.
The questions stopped for a good five minutes, the officer quiet as he flips through papers for the fourth time around as if trying to decipher something deeper in his words. Itâs clear that heâs trying to find a reason to keep him in longer, but heâs confident they canât. Williamâs almost convinced heâs in the clear, giving them everything they needed to prove his innocence.
Everything was going smoothly, just as anticipated, until--
âWhere do you stay, Mr. Hillwalker?â
The question catches him off guard and leaves him exposed. William pauses, his shoulders tightening. He feels the dread flicker in his chest for a moment, his mind stuttering when he fully processes the question.
He doesnât reply and it only makes him appear more suspicious. The only answer he can think of is the farm, but itâs not an option. Not when everything was on the line. Not when his home was practically a graveyard, a burial of secrets and all the hard work theyâve built up over the years.
He canât give away something that heâs sacrificed everything for.
So he says nothing and the officer just stares, waiting. Not pressing him to answer, but not moving on either.
He can hear the hand of the clock ticking right next to him, suddenly sensitive to every noise playing in the small, finite room and he feels himself slipping for a bit, the pressure finally getting to him.
A minute longer would only give them another reason to detain him for an extended period of time, to suspect him of crimes he did commit, the blood on his hands only getting more conspicuous every second. Every lie in his head is jumbled up into one thought and he tries to sort through them, desperate to conjure up some fake but plausible story.
And then his mind drifts to you. The only thing that heâs able to pick out in the fog and before he knows it, his mind grabs onto the thought with nowhere left to turn.
The words leave his mouth faster than he can stop it.
âIâm staying with a friend.â
It knocks the breath out of him, his heart beating out of his ears at the escaped lie. Itâs the next worst thing he can say, feeling the after effects and the dread that follows. The officer writes something down on his clipboard and William tries to prepare himself to be pushed further.
âA friend,â the officer repeats, raising a brow. âName?â
He considers changing up his story because at this point, anything is better than talking about you. Saying your name felt like bringing the dead back to life and he doesnât want that.
He has no choice, now that heâs dug his own grave. His tongue feels like lead and his mouth is full of cotton, but he manages to push through, the words too familiar. A name that held too many memories.
He jots it down, not giving William time to recover before the next question slips out.
âDoes your friend have a number?â
Of course you do. After hearing it repeat for the past fifteen years, it was practically etched into every crevice of his being. He holds back because giving the officer an answer is like pulling a trigger.
If he blurts it out now, heâll only open an entryway heâs been attempting to block out his whole life.
His mouth feels dry. You couldâve changed your number, right? You havenât called him in a year. A sliver of hope flickers inside him, grasping onto the possibility that you might not pick up, but deep down, he knows it's wishful thinking. He knows if they call right now, youâd answer and that thought alone terrifies him.
He doesnât want to involve you. He doesnât want to see you.
Yet, the number escapes his mouth, emotionless as if spitting it out that way could make it matter less, but he doesnât miss the way each digit burns his throat or how his hands clench and unclench in the pockets of his jackets.
With a final scribble of his pen, the officer nods towards him with a tight smile before rising from his chair. The legs scrape across the tiles and William flinches at it.
âThank you,â the man says, already collecting the items on the table. âWeâll make the call and get back to you.â
The officer doesnât wait for a response and the room is silent again. Only this time around, the background noise doesnât pull him from reality.
The room feels suffocating, as if the air itself is being drained, sparing just enough for him to barely breathe.
Heâs lost track of time since the officer left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It couldâve been ten minutes, maybe even an hour for all he fucking knows, but time doesnât feel like its moving in here. Everything feels like a fever dream, one that he wants to wake from.
Thereâs a twisted part of his mind that hopes you donât answer, that theyâll see through his world of make-believe and theyâll just continue on with the interrogation. He convinces himself that no sane person would pick up a call from an unknown number at four in the morning. That once it reaches you, you'll let it run to voicemail like he always has with your calls.
He hopes that when you donât answer, this would be his sign to let go of the past.
When the door opens and the officer walks in, William moves quicker than heâd like to admit. His head snaps up, looking over towards the doorway to see him standing with nothing in his hands this time around.
Itâs straightforward and simple, but the words feel like a huge blow on him. He doesnât visibly react, but internally, his world stops at the confirmation. It shouldn't have surprised him, but it does and it shakes him to his core. It isnât until the man speaks that heâs able to breathe again.
âSheâs on her way to sign papers and after that, you should be good to go.â
The officer's mouth is still moving and he can hear the words, but it all feels muddled up. He says something about waiting elsewhere, some kind of procedure, and William catches enough to follow the manâs directions, but his mind still hasnât exactly caught up.
The door soon shuts again and heâs left there once more with the weight of something far more unbearable.
For the first time in forever, he doesnât know what the hell to do.
They transfer him to a more public waiting area. Thereâs more noise than before-- the idle chat of two police officers behind the counter, the news report that places from the TV hanging on the far right corner of the room, and the occasional sound of the door opening.
Each time it opens, he holds his breath, eyes shooting up to it. His hands are sweating in his pockets, his leg bouncing relentlessly since he first sat on one of the stiff benches. The room is cold and hot at the same time despite the occasional breeze coming in whenever someone steps inside the establishment. He considers taking off his jacket for a moment but he stops himself, knowing that itâll only make him feel more vulnerable than he already was.
Thereâs not a lot going through his head except for the fact that youâre coming and whenever the hand of the clock ticked, it served as a countdown, heightening his anxiety.
Somewhere around the thirty minute mark, he stops looking up, his heart jerking upwards to his throat one too many times for his liking. Itâs only making everything a lot worse for him.
But eventually, the door opens again.
He doesnât register it at first, the familiar jingle of the bell ringing, but the stillness of the air is distinct and he just knows. Then his body moves on its own, head lifting and eyes searching for you. Once he finally makes the effort to do so..
Youâre already looking back at him, both of your gazes meeting for the first time in fifteen long years. Suddenly, the years waiting collapsed into the space between you both and for one full second, everything-- the voicemails, the station, the dread, the time, the guilt--
For the first time, itâs just the two of you.
Youâre the first to break contact, a sigh leaving your mouth before you walk over to the front.
William watches as you sign something with an officer, his gaze trapped as he takes you in with the desperation of someone who's been deprived of something that he was sure he could live without. He sinks in his chair, uncertain of the feeling rising in his chest as everything begins to crash over him.
He knew youâd look different-- after all, fifteen years will do that to someone. Youâre older, that's a given, but youâre not unfamiliar. Youâre just more solid somehow, the once innocent features now grown into. It only reminds him that he allowed time to pass and despite his actions, youâre still real and here with him.
You wear the years, but it's still undeniably you and it only solidifies reality for him.
His observations are soon interrupted by the small of your voice quietly thanking the officer, one that heâs heard countlessly through voicemails that helped him cope. You send them a final, awkward smile before turning to face him, his body immediately reacting to your eyes. He sits up straight, his hands clench in his pockets, and he feels himself choke on air.
It doesnât take long before you make your way towards him and for some inexplicable reason, he canât sit still. He stands as if pulled by an invisible thread but his knees feel unsteady and his body rigid as he towers over your form. You stop short of him, showing no signs of recognition. You donât spare him a greeting, a smile, a curse-- just silence that digs under his skin, frustrating him more than heâd like to admit.
Heâs not sure if that was the reaction he wanted, but he didnât really know what he was expecting.
William finds that he canât say anything either despite listening to your voice on repeat for fifteen years.
Luckily, you save him the trouble of doing so, speaking in a muted tone that he was no stranger to.
Your question is left unanswered as he gapes at you, a look of reminisce in his eyes as if heâs trying to find pieces of what you used to be. You let it happen for a moment but when he doesnât give you proper response, you finally look down, a defeated sigh leaving your mouth before you turn your heel.
He thinks youâre about to leave and he tries to prepare himself to let it happen, but then your voice cuts through before he can make the decision.
âIâll be outside. You have three minutes.â
With that, you push past the doors of the precinct, stepping outside shortly, the bell ringing as the door swings shut behind you. He has three minutes to decide if he wants you to disappear again or if heâll let you back into his life, even if it's only for a fleeting moment. It doesnât take long before he makes up his mind, a minute barely passing before he trails after you, his footsteps loud against the quiet of the precinct.
He soon meets with you, sitting on the hood of your car, hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket. The air is cold and the sun is steadily rising. The world feels still, as if waiting on one of you to make a move. Your head turns from the rising sun to face him, expression still unreadable.
You both stay like that for a while, neither of you speaking, until he finally does for the first time since.
âWhy did you come?â His voice sounds cold, but he knows it's anything but.
Itâs a stupid question, you both know it. He willingly gave your number and here he was, playing dumb, as if he didnât cause his own demise. But he knows why he's asking. He wants to hear what you have to say even if he's uncertain of what answer he wants.
You shoot him a glare, rolling your eyes, and he bites back whatever he has to say. You tell him words you know heâs not brave enough to.
âOh, and hey. Thanks for saving my ass, by the way,â you spit out, the words laced with mockery. The comment cuts through the tension in the air, aimed straight at him.
He hears the jingle of keys, watching as you dig into your pocket. With a click of a button, your car comes to life, the lights illuminating the dark parking lot. The light bounces off of the wall and gives him a better look of you.
You push yourself up, straightening your clothes out before stopping right in front of him. Your eyes are still narrowed, but he canât help but stare as you finally answer his question. Thereâs something in your expression that he tries to understand. âYou used my name and gave my number willingly. I only came here to sign papers and thatâs all that this is.â
Thereâs no room for argument, no space for whatever conversation heâs trying to conjure. You donât wait for a response, breezing right past him before you slip into the driver's side, the engine sputtering to life.
He watches, frozen in place, caught between staying or leaving. He stands there stupidly for a few moments before he makes his way to the passenger side, his hand grazing the cold metal of the handle, finalizing his decision.
The car ride is mostly quiet except for the song playing through the radio. Your attention is focused on the road ahead while he stares outside the passenger window, both of them pretending the last fifteen years never happened. The sun is slowly rising over the horizon, the sunbeams bathing the clouds in an orange glow. They pass by several different buildings and rolling hills, the scenery blurring as it slips by.
Heâs not sure what to do. His hands are on his lap, splayed out, and his body stiff as he tries to ignore your presence next to him. Finally, you speak, cutting through the stillness of the air.
âWhere am I taking you?â You ask, your voice flat as if it was a transaction.
âDowntown,â he replies. Itâs vague, but he can't risk you anywhere near the farm. âAnywhere is fine.â
His gaze shifts from the window to your face, just for a second. You nod, still not sparing him a glance as you continue to focus on the road ahead.
The silence stretches again, longer this time. Every breath feels too loud, the humming on the radio grating on his nerves, and the passing scenery doesnât provide enough distraction. He can hear your fingers drum against the steering wheel and somehow, it brings him comfort that heâs probably not the only one feeling this way.
âSo you never left town,â you speak again, this time with a hint of bitterness masked by casual indifference. It's not a question or an accusation, but a tired observation.
He fiddles with the hem of his jacket, âNo.â
A humorless laugh escapes your lips, almost as if youâre in disbelief but you don't press on.
The place begins to feel a little familiar as you take a turn. He recognizes several buildings and though he knows the ride is nearing its end, he finds himself struggling to speak. An apology rises in his throat for a second, but it doesnât sound right. He tries to remind himself that he left you as an act of mercy, not as a choice.
Somewhere through his self reassurance, he speaks.
âI wasnât expecting you to come.â
You donât respond right away, letting the words linger in the air as you drive a couple blocks down. When you do decide to spare him an answer, you sound defeated.
âI didnât come for you,â you murmur, as if speaking to yourself more than him. âI just came to see if you were real. Wanted the reassurance that I wasnât crazy.â
You exhale slowly, as if trying to compose yourself before continuing on, âI sent you years of voicemails and when I didnât receive anything back, I thought I made it all up. That whatever we had wasnât real. Then all of a sudden, you call me out of the blue--â
He sees your grip tighten on the wheel, your knuckles turning white.
â--and I needed to see you to prove to myself that it wasnât all in my head and that I wasnât dreaming. Just this once.â
You finally glance at him for the first time during the whole car ride, a flicker of something he recognizes flashes through your expression-- the younger version of you, staring back at him as if you both were children again.
âAnd now I know. Youâre real and you always have been. You just chose not to contact me.â
He wants to argue back, to defend himself and explain his reasons, but thereâs nothing he can really say to alleviate the situation. At the end of the day, heâs responsible for the rift between you two. Even if he did have good intentions, none of it outweighed the damage heâs caused.
Besides, itâs not like he could tell you the truth even if he wanted to. Youâd only avoid him more after you learned about the blood on his hands. So he just stays quiet and you refuse to wait for him to find the words.
Soon, you pull into a parking lot of a plaza, the closest to downtown you can get. Itâs barren, save for a few cars probably dining in early in the morning after their graveyard shifts or after a night out in town. The sunrise is more visible now, casting soft, filtered light through the window, illuminating your face in a way that makes you appear fragile.
âI just needed the reassurance that I wasnât the only one who remembered,â you say, you voice final and he watches, knowing that thisâll be the last time heâll see you. âJust consider this repayment for how things used to be between us. For you taking care of me.â
Heâs dreamt countless times for this exact moment where his chase would end, the closure he needed in the palm of his hand. Heâs imagined hearing you say it, the final word that closes the door for good, but now that itâs actually happening, itâs not what he expects.
He doesnât feel the relief, doesnât anticipate his chest to tighten, and how his body numbs at the words that leave your mouth.
But he has nothing left to say because he knows it's better this way. There's no excuse, reason, and comfort he can bring you thatâll land right. Youâre waiting for something from him but all he can do is spare you a nod, an unspoken agreement between you two.
The background noise fills the space where a goodbye is supposed to be. His hand reaches for the door, feet meeting with the pavement below before he takes a full exit. Youâre turned away, refusing to spare him a final look and he does the same, closing the door completely before walking away from your car, creating distance.
William only stops when he hears you pull out, but doesnât turn to look back when he hears you drive away. When heâs sure you're gone, he stays where he is, swallowing thickly.
Time moves slowly when he isnât preoccupied with the sound of your voice. William tries to pretend the world keeps spinning, but it becomes an increasingly difficult task as each day passes.
The machine that held your voicemails collected dust as the weeks dragged on. He refuses to touch it, not wanting to give into the temptation of hearing you again. Heâs aware of the agreement you both settled on and promises himself to not backtrack but it feels impossible, like holding onto something that keeps slipping out of his grasp. Only this time it's different.
It was supposed to give him peace of mind, release the guilt trapped in his chest but in truth, it only makes things worse. One encounter with you and the walls heâs been building for years finally crumbles beyond his control. All the effort he put into burying his past comes rushing back in and he tries his best to push it back down, unable to confront his emotions.
At first, he tries to drown himself in farm work. He throws himself into chores, physically straining ones, and even takes over Jackson's portions in an attempt to lose himself in the motions. His brother notices, but he knows better than to say anything.
When that fails, he takes up the more mundane tasks in the house, hoping the simple routine would help, but it only gnaws on him more. His thoughts catch up with him faster this way, a constant ache thatâs unbearable.
Soon enough, he turns to hunting, hoping that pursuit of something can relieve the pressure building in his chest, suffocating him to no end. Unfortunately, it doesnât do much. Even with the gun in his hand and his knife tucked securely in his pocket, the release he craves is absent.
Eventually, the dreams kick in, ripping off the band-aid that he desperately tried to keep intact. At first, theyâre infrequent, flashes of memories-- childhood moments spent with you, when times were simpler and his sole responsibility in the world was you and Jackson.
Then it escalates to something more vivid and beyond insufferable. The rejection you left weighs on him like a vice, and what he thought was supposed to be an easy separation only haunts him further.
Heâd wake up during odd hours, a cold sweat clinging onto his skin, his heart racing uncontrollably, as if heâs still trapped in the chaos of the dream, chasing ghosts heâs not supposed to. When he does manage to find to indulge in a full night's rest, the weight of his unresolved feelings pulls him deeper to exhaustion.
Three weeks pass before the final dream drives him over the edge. Heâs sprawled out on the couch in the dark, disorientated, eyes wide in a fit of panic. As soon as he grounds himself, the heels of his palms dig into his eyes, your name slipping from his lips in a restless, desperate groan. Thatâs when he realizes heâs no longer able to endure it.
William leaves the woods before dawn, when he knows Jackson is fast asleep and wonât catch him in the act. He finally makes use of his shit truck rotting in the back, driving into the dirt road and straight into town, not too far from where the farm was. His truck moves without direction, searching for the nearest payphone and when he does find it, he pulls in slowly against the curb.
His hands grip the steering wheel harshly, trembling and undecided. He realizes he doesnât have a plan--just your name, number, a pocket full of quarters he stole from Jacksonâs piggy bank, and the pressure of fifteen years heâs fucked up pressing against his chest like a vice. He leans his head on the cold leather of the steering wheel, letting out an audible groan before he musters up the courage to step out, shutting the door quietly.
The cold morning wind hits him and he instinctively buries his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He scans the streets, ensuring that heâs alone, unwilling to risk any wandering eyes. Once he verifies that there's no one else, he drags himself to the rundown booth, shoving open the glass door before stepping inside. Itâs poorly lit by the streetlight above, but he could fucking care less at this point.
Then he digs into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a handful of quarters and feeds them into the machine slowly, as if each coin will delay the inevitable.
He still doesnât know what to say when he dials your number-- the digits repeating in his head effortlessly, his finger hesitantly pressing each button. Itâs like muscle memory, even though itâs the first time heâs putting in the effort to initiate a call.
He presses the receiver against his ear, the line ringing and he knows it's too late to back out now. Turning back now would do nothing but prolong his torment, knowing that this call has to go through one way or the other.
It rings once, then twice, and by the fifth ring, he feels humiliated, close to slamming the phone down, but a click on the other end stops him.
Then he hears your voice, groggy and confused, through the static.
He feels his jaw clench and his hold tightens against the receiver. Any harder and it mightâve shattered in his hands. He doesnât say anything at first, his voice caught in his throat but when you call out to nothingness again, he forces himself through the invisible wall that's preventing him from moving forward.
â.. Itâs me,â he says, his voice low and almost embarrassed.
He wondered what you looked like right now, trying to picture your reaction. Maybe you were confused, possibly furious, but deep down, he hoped you felt the same kind of relief he felt upon hearing your voice.
âWill?â You say and he swears he hears the hint of surprise in your voice, laced with something hopeful, as if you were waiting for him to call.
âDonât hang up,â he says quickly before you can fully process the situation.
He hears shuffling on the other end, hyper aware of your presence, and soon you let out a soft, resigned sigh.
âI thought we agreed to cut ties for good.â
He feels himself shrink at your words. He closes his eyes, trying to ground himself, searching for the strength to continue the conversation. He wasnât good with words-- never has been his whole twenty-eight years of living.
âI know,â he mutters reluctantly, âI know what we fucking talked about, alright?â
He doesnât mean to sound so harsh, but he canât help but put it in a way where he's able to deliver the message without hanging up the phone on himself. The silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again.
âI just..â his mouth opens then closes, struggling to find the right words. Somehow, he forces them out. âI havenât stopped thinking about it. About you showing up again and just ruining my fucking life.â
He didnât want the sentimentality that it came with, the rawness hidden deep inside. So he says it like it pisses him off, like youâre an inconvenience, when it's anything but that.
âI thought it would help if you were the one closing things off for good, but it only made everything worse.â
Nothing comes from your end and he shifts uncomfortably in the booth, his stature too large for such a cramped space. He runs hand through his hair, gripping it in exasperation before exhaling sharply.
âI know we made an agreement. Iâm not gonna beg, I donât do that shit, but I need to talk to you. Properly.â
When the silence remains, he almost takes it as a rejection, the humiliation creeping up, the booth suddenly feeling suffocating. A part of him that wishes you were here so he could shake an answer out of you.
The thought is broken when you speak, your voice hesitant and uncertain.
âDonât say my name like that,â he snapped, unable to bite his tongue this time around. You sound like youâre about to reject him, comfort him into sticking with the decision, and it doesnât sit right . He catches the sharpness in his voice, the tone he always used whenever things got on his nerves and forces himself to soften it. âJust.. donât.â
âYouâre confusing me,â you murmur, a hint of vulnerability peeking through. âYou left me hanging for so long without a word and now that Iâve decided to walk away, you suddenly want to come back. I donât understand what you want.â
âI don't know,â it's his turn to sound unsure, the words low but loud enough for you to hear. âFive minutes. Somewhere thatâs not this. Not through this shitty call.â
He doesnât have a plan but he knows he needs to talk this out with you. He doesnât like how long you take to respond, but when you do, he feels himself relax a little knowing that you havenât hung up on him yet.
âThat diner,â he says without a second thought. âYou know which one Iâm talking about. The one your mom always brought us to.â
Thereâs a long pause before you answer, your voice hushed when you do, âYeah, I remember.â
He swallows hard, the heaviness of it settling on his shoulders.
âMeet me there at eight in the morning. Whether you come or not, Iâll be there.â
He hangs up the phone just as fast the words leave his mouth. He knows that if he hears a ânoâ, he wouldnât be able to handle it. Not with the way things were going.
He takes a second to recollect himself, leaning his forehead against the glass pane of the booth, his breath fogging up the window. The dial tone buzzes in his ear and when it gets too loud and he begins to process the predicament he's put himself in, he places the receiver back into place.
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