willscuella fanfic maybe 👀
i gotchu 😽 (SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG!) also i might do a pt 2 of this uhmmm. cuz i kinda want them to smooch but not juuust yet.
Bragging Rights
Pairing: Javier Escuella x Bill Williamson
Word Count: 1,359
Warnings: Nothing crazy! Drinking and mild swearing.
Summary: Bill seems to have a new side when he's drunk and Javier doesn't quite know what to make of it.
Set in Clemen's point.
Credits: @bbyg4rlhelps for divider below
"See, y'all? I'm putting in my share." Proudly, Bill adjusts his gun belt as he stands by the donation box. Most of the camp don't pay his theatrics any heed — they were pretty busy doing their share rather than saying they were. Whether or not he knew this, though, was hard to tell, as he continues waiting for a response from... someone, literally anyone.
Dutch glances up from his book; Evelyn Miller, no doubt. "Thank you, Bill."
The little acknowledgment from Dutch has the man practically cheesing, though he'd never show it. All from three words of validation, no less. Hands resting on his gun belt, Bill nods slowly and saunters over to one of the tables, lowering himself onto the chair with a satisfied sigh. All in a days work... He spares greetings to the others sat with him: Uncle, Pearson, and Karen, before taking a bottle of whiskey from the box on the table.
Of course, Bill and alcohol was always a foul mix. It wasn't that he couldn't hold his drink well; one would never catch him wasting a drop of alcohol by spewing it up, but it brewed up quite a storm inside of him instead. An insecure, antagonistic mess. That's what he became, usually.
He stumbles around the camp aimlessly, his boots squelching against the mud with every heavy, clumsy step. Bill can barely remember getting up from the table in the first place, let alone why. Perhaps he just wanted something new to focus on; a change of scenery.
The strum of a guitar in the distance causes the drunken man to perk up a little. Searching for the source of the noise, he comes up near the lakes shore, and sat on a log is Javier; his fingers brush against the guitars strings gently with his eyes shut. He doesn't notice Bill at first.
"What're... you playin'?"
Javier opens his eyes. Sparing a glance toward the man behind him, he eventually replies. "La Calandria."
Bill stares.
"What? Is it too, eh... Mexican... for you?"
The drunkard continues his staring. "No." He finally speaks. "It's nice."
Fully expecting a nasty comment from the man, Bill's words cause Javier to shrug. Silence hangs over the two for a couple of moments before Javier slowly faces forward again, continuing to strum his guitar.
Bill lingers. He isn't sure why, but he does. The guitar seemed to push down the dirt and filth that he found himself blurting out every now and again — honestly, it seemed everyone else but him seemed to have this filter between their brain and mouth. Maybe he was just born with it broken. Either way, the gentle song soothed his usual fiery rage and he takes a seat next to Javier (though he nearly falls face first into the sand as he does so).
"Después que la sacó... tan luego se vio libre... voló, voló y voló!" Javier finishes the song with a collection of swift strums, leaning back slightly with a grin on his face. He sure loved that guitar.
"Voh-low, voh-low, voh-low." Bill reiterates with a mutter.
Javier shakes his head. "No, no. It's voló."
"Yeah. Voh-low."
"It's- alright, yeah. Voh... voh-low."
Javier didn't feel like handing out Spanish lessons tonight. Instead, his fingers pick at the metal once again, an easy instrumental filling the silence while he watches the water hit off of the shore. The whiskey in Bill's hand seems to be forgotten about now.
"You sing well."
Full of compliments tonight. It was out of the ordinary for Bill — Javier knew that from experience. Last time he approached Javier with a bottle in his hand, he spoke some... words. Unkind ones; so like the true outlaw he was, Javier put a knife to his neck. If anything, he was kind of in awe at the pure balls such a drunken Bill had to have to try approach him after such an event. Curiousity getting the better of him, Javier leans forward a little and glances at Bill, the song coming to a halt.
"Someone spike your drink with something?"
"No."
"Then what's your play?"
"I- Honest to goodness, I ain't got any play. You sing nice, is all."
"I sing nice?"
"Yeah."
...
"You don't need to... kiss my ass. My knife isn't coming out again." Javier snickers.
"It ain't that."
Javier releases an exasperated sigh and shrugs. His guitar playing is resumed once again. "You are somethin' else, Bill. You really are."
"Well, thanks. So are you."
It was never intended as a compliment but it seemed Bill took it that way. Javier didn't feel like arguing back this time — come to think of it, Bill actually seemed quite nice when he wasn't throwing slurs and insults around. Sparing the man another look, Javier grins and shakes his head. A comfortable quiet fills the air. Behind them, the camp is still and most, if not all, of the gang have drifted off into a slumber. Everyone but them. Interrupting the silence is Bill, who clears his throat and glances down at the half-full whiskey bottle resting in his hand. He carefully raises it toward Javier.
"You want some?"
"...Eh, sure. Yeah. Why not?" Javier rests his guitar against the log and takes the drink from Bill with a nod. One swig, and it's returned to its original owner.
"Good?"
"It's good, yeah."
Bill takes a hesitant sip, though his eyes don't seem to fully leave Javier.
"You... stare a lot, Bill."
"I do?"
"Yeah. You got something going on up there? In your head?"
Handing the bottle back to Javier, Bill shrugs. "I dunno. I can't tell sometimes."
"I get it."
"You do?"
"Of course. It's kinda like when... I know what I wanna say, but I only know the Spanish for it. So no one understands, and I get annoyed."
"Yeah. Yeah. It's like that. I don't know the words for it."
Javier tilts his head at him, taking a sip of whiskey. "You're pretty alright. You know, for an asshole."
"You're pretty okay too, Mr. Escuella."
"Mister Escuella? Come on."
"Javier?"
"Yeah." He leans forward and pats Bill's shoulder gently. "Javier."
The bottle slowly empties. Of course, Bill wasn't going to stop at one, and neither was Javier. It was a miracle they didn't wake the rest of camp with their back and forth. The discarded bottles around the log only pile up more as the night continues. Drunkenly, they laugh, and lean against eachother for support as they move from the log to the ground, and share stories about their lives before joining up with Dutch. It felt good — to talk without worrying.
Javier tilts his head at Bill with a curious look. He hesitates; the words seem caught in his throat, but eventually they find their way out. "You always gotta… state the obvious ‘n stuff, don't you? Like you feel like you gotta say everything.”
"Watchu mean?”
"Just... I saw you earlier. At the donation box. You gotta trust that we see you, and what you do, yeah? What's that phrase, er..." Wagging his finger in the air as he thinks, Javier looks to the ground. "Ah." He returns his gaze to Bill. "Actions speak louder than words, that's it.”
"Words speak, Javier. Actions don't." Bill's expression, clearly dumbfounded, forces a chuckle from the other man.
"I..." Javier shrugs. "Don't take it so literal. It just means not everything has to be said.”
"Right."
Javier traces circles in the dirt. For a bit, he avoids Bill's gaze; God, was that man practically boring a hole into his skull, but after too long of a silence he eventually looks back up at him. He doesn't say anything. His face doesn't even twitch. Instead, his knee brushes against Bill's and he plays with his ponytail as his elbow rests on the log. Bill swallows. After spending all evening with his eyes on Javier, this is the first time Bill's been stared back at — like really stared back at. He gulps again; it seems there's a never ending lump stuck in his throat.
Man, was he in trouble.
