#eight!reader

The funeral was, in a word, bleak. Six people showed up, including you. Two of them left before the end, not because they couldn’t face it, but because a nearby pub was showing the football on television and the pair didn’t want to miss it. His mother sobbed hysterically. The only one comforting her was you, but she was broken in a different way; she lost a son, you lost your lover. Two men dressed in black, hidden behind sunglasses, ducked beneath umbrellas, watched from a distance. You thought it odd that they’d wear sunglasses on a cloudy day, but your mind was too busy elsewhere to care all that much. It rained too. Nonstop. Yes, bleak was the word.

You were well into the grieving process too. The denial came first. You were at work when you got the call. It was from his crew, the other skywalkers, parkour lovers, thieves, people you’d grown close to over the years. They had been on a job in Kyiv, looking for a diamond necklace, the Kalahari, worth fifty million dollars. And he didn’t make it. Police showed up and shot at the team, taking down a few. Your boyfriend fell seven stories onto solid concrete and his body was never found. At first, you didn’t believe it. You got the call at work, teaching languages at a local high school. And of all the twenty languages you had dedicated your life to learning, not one had the words to express what you felt. You didn’t believe them. He was talented, skilled, thieving his whole life. He was your skywalker. But his friends were serious. Billy was dead. 

That took you to anger as they told you what happened. The members of the team who weren’t shot on sight ran, leaping across rooftops, racing over scaffolding, jumping through windows. Billy lost his footing. He had the Kalahari between his teeth and the ledge of a rooftop under his fingertips. Instead of helping him, a girl in the group grabbed the necklace, and Billy fell seven stories to his death as the others escaped. She left him. She took the necklace instead of his hand. With a fifty million dollar necklace, it’s easy to disappear and protect yourself, which was lucky for this girl, because if you knew where she was and had the means of doing so, you’d hurt her in ways she never knew possible. Because she left him to die.

But you didn’t know where she was, didn’t have the means of getting your revenge and releasing your anger. So you bargained. Your mind was polluted with ‘what if’ and ‘if only’. ‘If’ became the one word you couldn’t get out of your head. What if he hadn’t lost his footing on the roof? What if the cops shot the girl who left him, instead of shooting someone else? What if he never found the necklace? What if he never went to Kyiv in the first place? But none of that mattered now. Did anything matter now?

The numbness was depression. It crept in somewhere around the first ‘what if’. It didn’t leave for a very long time. The days spent lying motionless on the sofa melted into months. You hadn’t been at work since his death. You just lay here from sunrise to sunset. Immobile. When the TV in what was once your poky shared flat wasn’t off, it was on the news. You didn’t care about the car chase and gunfight in Florence when it was reported. Didn’t move to watch Turgistan’s evil dictator being overthrown a couple of months ago. Everything felt heavy to you.

It was almost one year since his death, but step five of grief, acceptance, wasn’t coming to you. His birthday was tomorrow. You had a cake, a tiny thing, but Billy was never one for massive shows. It was barely the size of your hand, fit one candle comfortably, and was sitting in your kitchen, serving as a reminder than the man you loved was gone and was never coming back. You’d been trying to move on, really, you had. But everything was sore, like part of you was gone. His pictures were still on the wall. The Polaroid of the two of you that you treasured was still in your purse. His clothes still in their drawers. You were very careful with how often you wore his jumpers and hoodies because you feared that if you washed them too much and too often, the scent of cologne, London’s sky, and Billy would disappear forever. The only thing you changed was the lock on the door to the flat. Something about the only other key to your home that existed being lost in the world unsettled you. Maybe it was the stress and lack of sleep controlling your train of thought. 

Lack of sleep... You needed rest. You retired to your bedroom, bare feet cold on the hard wooden floors. The room was not the tidiest. The bed was unmade, but that wasn’t a concern. You trudged past your dresser, the dust gathering on the photo of the pair of you atop a skyscraper when Billy persuaded you to let him try to teach you parkour. Only a few grazes and bruises were sustained that night. He kissed each one tenderly in apology when you got home. He was wholly sorry, forest green eyes glazed with concern when you limped home after the trip. Eyes as pure green as spring evolving into a warm summer. Eyes you’d never get to see flutter open again in the lazy morning when he’d just lay with you, sunlight peeking through your curtains.

You knew you wouldn’t sleep tonight, but your bed was still welcoming when you fell back onto it and closed your eyes. You could still see the last smile he gave you, like a memory seared into your eyelids. You couldn’t tell if that comforted you or killed you inside.

“I can’t believe you persuaded me to let you come to London on this job,” One, the genius billionaire leader of the ghosts, complained to Four. Their mission went badly when Four got distracted by thinking he saw you, and when bad guys started shooting and instead of shooting back, Four ran to protect the girl who he mistook for you. A bullet nicked his cheek, but frankly, he’d have taken all the bullets in the world directly to the chest if it meant protecting you. “We have rules for a reason, Four, and this fuck up proves it. If you’ve been to the city before, you don’t get to go. Two didn’t get to go to Paris on a job-”

“Which is why I see this as a little unfair,” Five added, trying to stop the bleeding of a slash wound to Two’s bicep sustained during the fight in London. 

The sound of police sirens wailing stopped the group in their tracks. One and Seven were propping an injured Three between them. Five was trying to help Two, who was mumbling disoriented French to herself after being hit in the head and losing blood through her arm. Four was leading them through alleys and backstreets that he knew like the back of his hand. 

“We need to get off the streets. After that little incident back there, we’ve got every cop in London looking for us,” Seven stated, exhausted after the mission gone wrong. “Four, anywhere nearby? We need to get Two and Three patched up quick.”

He recognized where he was. This was the street he used to live in. The street that housed the love of his life and so many thousands of memories with her. The street he left and hadn’t returned to in nearly a year. He didn’t even know if you still lived here.

Four turned to the group and told One, “I’ve got a place, but you won’t like who owns it.”

Police sirens and urgent voices in the distance prompted One to answer faster. “I’m past caring, just get us there.”

He took them to the block of flats that he used to call home, to the flat that at one point was his paradise. He never let go of the key; it was the last tangible thing tying him to you.

The image of Billy’s smile disappeared as you opened your eyes. You heard something scrabbling at your door, muffled curses, frustrated voices. Slowly, your only armor being the last baby blue jumper that Billy wore, legs bare and chilled as you padded barefoot to the door, fear and uncertainty crept in. Billy was always the one to reassure you. He had a confidence about him, a comforting warmth that he exuded. You were just cold now. 

There was silence for a moment outside your door. You were barely a few inches from it, head hung back as you prayed the people would leave. It was the middle of the night, for goodness sake.

They knocked. Three brief raps. 

The fact that they knocked struck you as odd. You certainly weren’t expecting anyone. Your hand clasped around the door handle, and you opened the door a crack, then all the way. 

It was like the day you found out he died. No words in any of the twenty languages you knew could explain what you felt. Only this time, it wasn’t because he was dead, it was because he was standing in front of you. 

“Hi, love.”

You staggered back. You couldn’t help it. How? How was this possible? But then it started falling shakily into place. His body wasn’t found. The scrabbling noise? You changed the lock, he still had his old key. He wasn’t able to open the door.

“Y/n, I know,” Billy told you, hushed yet filled with concern and sympathy, and immeasurable guilt. “I know... but can we come in?”

You were silent and stepped aside, eyes not leaving the green of Billy’s, despite the strange sight of the people Billy was with just strolling inside your flat and setting about healing themselves, finding food and water, resting. At least they were polite enough to close the door behind them.

“You’re dead,” Your voice was a painfully quiet stammer. “They told me you died. You fell... you fell seven stories onto concrete... I went to your funeral!”

“I know, Y/n, please listen-”

“How could you do this to me?” 

Your words were barely audible, but Billy heard them. He felt absolutely guilt-ridden, heart breaking for what he did. But you didn’t know that in exchange for faking his death and joining a vigilante group, he made sure you were safe and looked after. Those months that you were off work, Billy asked One to make sure your boss kept paying you, since he always remembered how you would complain about your boss, Billy listening intently. When you fell hard into your depression, Billy made sure one made sure the bills were paid. He thought it would mean your safety was guaranteed; something he’d never been able to do before. He watched the funeral too. You did think the two men with sunglasses on in the rain was strange, but looking back, how you didn’t recognize Billy was what was truly strange. The other man who was with him? You turned your head and found One patting Three vigorously on the face back into consciousness. One and Billy were there. 

“William. Why?” 

William. That’s how he knew he was in trouble. It was always ‘Billy,’ ‘baby,’ or an affectionate ‘sweetheart’. It was never William. 

“That,” He pointed to One, “Is a billionaire arsehole named One. He faked his death and started a group of vigilantes trying to make the world a better place. That woman over there, the blonde arguing with your telly in French? That’s Two, but her name is Camille. The dude on your sofa is Javier, or Three. Five is the doctor with the first aid kit, helping Two.”

“Call me Amelia,” Five added as she bandaged Two.

“Seven, Blaine, is the only one with common sense, clearly,” Billy stated as Seven checked all the blinds and windows were closed so that they wouldn’t be spotted by the helicopter that watched London after the ghosts’ incident. “I’m Four.”

You, as much as you were absolutely baffled by the scenario you found yourself in, figured that this little explanation was better than nothing. “Where’s Six?”

“He died on our Florence job,” One chimed in, finding a beer in your fridge and cracking it open.

You didn’t put two and two together, so Billy explained, “Did you watch the news about Florence? Massive car chase? Gunfight?”

It hit you like a ton of bricks. There was news helicopter footage of a man running down the Duomo. You never watched but knew it happened. “That was you?”

“Yeah. We also did Turgistan. Evil dictator was overthrown ‘cause of us.” Billy had a hint of pride in his voice.  

You waved your hands slowly, flippantly, to stop him. “Hold on... you let me believe that you died horribly a thousand miles away, so you could join a group of vigilantes?”

“Well when you put it that way it sounds pretty shit-”

Your arms locked around him and you buried your head in the crook of his neck, hands trailing through the curls of blond hair on his head, breathing him in, savoring the feeling of him being back in your arms. “You’re back. You’re back...” You mumbled it like a prayer into his skin, clutching him as sobs wracked your body. The others of the team were too tired to care; they were busying themselves in your kitchen, living room, exploring the flat; they took no notice of you two whatsoever. Billy, however, Billy wrapped you in a tight embrace and held you there, grounding the two of you to the spot. Almost a year of wondering if he made the right decision. Almost a year of wishing he could apologize to you. Almost a year of wanting to feel you in his arms like this again. Almost a year without you, and it drove him mad. 

His voice trembled as he whispered so only you’d hear, “I’m so sorry, Y/n. So fucking sorry for what I did to you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Your voice was quieter than his but just as shaky, “I know, sweetheart, I know... But you’re here now, and that’s all I wanted. The chance to tell you I love you, just once more.”

His arms held you tighter, “I love you too.”

You and Billy sat on the end of your bed as time ticked onwards towards the morning. You patched up his cheek where the bullet grazed him earlier, just about burst into tears when he told you why the mission went bad in the first place, and made small talk about what you’ve both been up to in the last few months. Your stories weren’t quite as action-packed as his. 

When the two of you returned to the kitchen to be with the others, you found Camille still slightly dazed, talking to Amelia in French, and Amelia nodded along with not a clue as to what Camille was saying. Being fluent in French, and nineteen other languages, you were happy to translate. This seemed to impress One. He had heard a lot about you, not just from Billy, but from the research he had done. If Billy had been taking the team anywhere else but here to rest up, One would have said no. But it was useful being here. He wanted to have a conversation with you at some point. 

Blaine had picked up on the cake with the sad single candle and Billy’s name iced on and was counting down the minutes to morning. You noticed this and grinned, overjoyed, and joined him. Three... Two... One... You lit the candle and brought the cake to Billy, who couldn’t stop grinning. He blew out the candle and the room filled with ‘happy birthdays’ from everyone. 

“What’d you wish for, Cuatro?” Javier asked, raising his brows curiously. 

Billy smiled at you. The same smile that haunted and comforted you when you closed your eyes when you still thought he was dead. “I got part one of my wish already,” He squeezed your hand across the kitchen counter. “Part two... maybe Y/n would be able to take me back after fucking up in the worst way you can fuck a relationship up?”

Everyone looked at you in anticipation. You nodded, too choked up to speak, and framed Billy’s face gently with your hands, kissing him tenderly. It always felt like the first kiss with him, excited and loving, but this one was more serious, as if every ounce of love for you he possessed was being projected through the action. 

When you pulled back, One nodded slowly and finally asked, “Y/n, I’ve been doing some research on you. Fluent in twenty languages, graduated early, got your degree in teaching after a brief stint working as an analyst for, who was it, MI6? Translating in the big leagues looks great on any resume. I’ve got a job opening. We’re always on the move, ghosts don’t tend to stay in one place for very long, but we need someone who can make sure we say the right thing.”

All eyes fell on you. Billy’s hand held yours a little tighter. If you said yes, he’d be over the moon. If you said no, he’d likely quit with the ghosts to be here again; leaving you felt like part of him was across the world and lost.

One continued. “I’ve got a job opening for a number Eight.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips.