#triggee point billy washington

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Shadows at Dawn

Summary: After surviving Cranstead Fields but haunted by it's trauma, Billy finds comfort in the allure of alcohol and blurred faces of the women he's been with, desperate to find something that feels good | Word Count: 3k~ | Warnings: smut, alcohol abuse, trauma related behaviour, emotional distress, casual sex

A/N: based off the song 'Good Luck, Babe!' and the Billy brainrot continues 😅

The dreaded banner of a text at the top of his mobile phone screen stole his attention.

Mum: Billy, love, please ring me xx

Billy stared at the message, the screen's glow harsh against the dim light of the bus. He hadn’t been home much lately, hadn't seen much of anyone who knew him before it all went wrong. His mum’s words weighed heavily on him as the bus trundled through the city, a mix of guilt and defiance brewing in his chest. He knew she was right to worry. He was spiralling, his life a blur of lost weekends and forgettable faces.

Every unreturned number, every empty morning was another stamp pressed into an already soaring depression. He set the phone down, resolving to ignore the message, just as he had ignored the signs of his own unravelling.

He felt awful at first for ignoring his Mum, knowing that she was just worrying, as mothers do, in their own loving way. But there was a tight squeeze about her love. Almost controlling in its intentions, as if she had nearly let her son slip from her grasp once and didn't want to let it happen again.

But he'd had enough of screaming matches with his Dad every time he went over for a chat and a cuppa. Not that he expected him to understand the flurry of anxiety and self-hatred that marinated in his head.

It was the same script every time anyway.

Always 'I know it's been hard but you need to get yourself on your feet' and 'you had something stable and good with Becky and now look at you now that she's gone'. When really, Becky had been the one to insist that it was all too much for her after Cranstead, his sleepless nights, his fearful eyes at the slightest sound that pulled him back into that car on the hot July afternoon, were all seemingly beyond the compassion and care she was willing to give.

Billy had known it was over the second her eyes shifted from comforting and caring, to unnerved and weary. And it was all downhill from there.

As he turned away, watching the smear of red and amber street lamps as the bus clanged over a speedbump, a flicker of memory from the previous night came unbidden. Her face blurred, the girl from the club, looking at him with the usual detached amusement and fleeting interest. It was unsettling how a simple look could feel like a lifeline thrown into his roiling sea of numbness.

An interest from someone, whether marred by the effects of alcohol or not, felt like a small victory. But she was attractive, and in the moment, her willingness to be with him had been enough.

For a while, it made him feel something, anything other than the pervasive numbness that had become his constant companion. It was a shallow, fleeting sensation, a reminder of a life where not every emotion was dulled or darkened by the shadows of his past.

This spark, however minimal and fleeting, was a small victory. It wasn’t about her, not really, it was about the feeling of being seen, of existing for someone else, even if just for a night.

Billy had developed a habit, almost ritualistic in its regularity. Each time he left the club with someone, as morning closed in on that spark once again, unable to face them when they woke up, he’d scribble his name and number on a scrap piece of paper, leave it at their bedside and disappear to wallow in the inevitable shame that would soon follow after. It was an offer, a possibility for something more, something beyond the heat of their bed. 

But morning after morning, his phone remained silent. No calls, no messages. Each non-response solidified the growing emptiness inside him. It was as if with every unreturned call, the world reaffirmed the futility of his attempts at connection. These gestures, meant to bridge the gap between loneliness and companionship, seemed to only widen it. He began to think perhaps that he was just as forgettable as the nights he’d left behind, and wondered briefly what the point was in surviving Cranstead if this was the life he was supposed to lead after.

This cycle had become part of the bleak rhythm of his life. He wondered sometimes why he still left his number, why he continued to make a gesture he knew would likely be ignored. Perhaps it was a test, a way to keep proving to himself that he was still trying, still reaching out despite the numbing predictability of disappointment.

He needed to feel like he was still making an effort, otherwise the spiral would quicken even further. It was akin somewhat to feeling drunk, just not the nice kind.

Billy walked into the pulsing heart of the club, the thudding bass mirroring the beat of his heart, as familiar and oppressive as the tightness in his chest. The strobe lights sliced through the smoky darkness, the smell of cheap perfume and sweat humid in the air. Billy slipped into the crowd, his movements automatic and practiced. He had perfected the art of seeming available but never truly being present.

He approached the bar, ordering a drink he didn’t really want. As he leaned against the polished surface, his eyes scanned the room, not in search of someone specific but out of habit. The faces blended into one another, each one a potential story, a possible escape from his own spiralling thoughts. Yet, he made no real effort to engage. It was easier, safer, to remain aloof.

Billy knew the type of girls who gravitated toward him. They were often drawn by the same melancholy that pooled in his dark eyes, mistaking it for depth or perhaps recognising it as a kindred spirit in their own reflections of loneliness. His height and lanky frame, combined with the perpetual shadow of sorrow that draped his features, painted the picture of a troubled soul, romanticised in a way that was both alluring and cautionary.

As if written from a script, a girl who'd been separated from her mates leaned beside him in some dark corner of the club, leaning against the wall, a double vodka and coke sipped through a tiny straw, and big eyes looking up at him as if they were in the privacy of a bedroom already.

She was exactly his type, or rather, he was exactly hers. Billy could see it in the way she tilted her head, her gaze sizing him up, as if she could peel back the layers of his façade with just a look. There was an undeniable appeal in that recognition. Here was someone who did not need him to smile or pretend. She sought the mystery in him, even if it was only for a quick, interesting fuck.

He thought with some hatred pointed inwards, that that was all he was good for. For a girl to brag to her friends the next day about this mysterious, romantically sad creature she'd let have several minutes of heaven between her thighs.

And after the initial excitement had faded, he would once again fade into ambiguity. Nothingness. Nothing more than just a subject of a story that he had both not heard, and yet somewhat at the butt of a joke he didn't know about.

“I'm doing my PhD this year. I feel like one of those in between girls, half of my mates are married with kids and buying houses and the other half are drunk getting pissed and shagging anything with a heartbeat-”

Billy listened, nodding along, but his responses were sparse. He couldn't shake the feeling of performing.

She spoke about herself, too hazed with alcohol to ask him about himself. Or perhaps it was that she wasn't particularly interested in that. She seemed interested in him, or at least, she imagined herself in bed with him later.

As the night wore on, she continued to monopolise the conversation, filling every silence with stories and questions. She seemed to latch onto him, her laughter a bit too loud, her proximity a bit too close. Billy recognised he was a few drinks deep, like her, and feeling dizzy, but half aware at the same time.

"I swear I’ve seen you somewhere," she insisted, the third time she'd said it that night, squinting as if trying to place him in her memory. "Were you at that concert last month? Or maybe at the park during the summer festival?"

Billy shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just one of those faces, I guess," he murmured, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned by her fixation.

She hummed, a playful glint in her half-lidded, tipsy eyes. After a sharp grimace at the harsh taste of the vodka dregs in her glass, she set it aside and leaned closer, her voice a sultry whisper.

“Fancy coming back to mine?”

Billy didn't even feel the tug of impulse. He just did as he had always done, and left with her.

Her apartment was a small, unremarkable space, sparsely decorated and functional. As soon as they entered, she tossed her keys on a table and gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. “I’m just going to grab something to drink. Make yourself comfortable, I guess.”

The transition from the club to her bedroom was brisk, businesslike. And as he walked to her bedroom, he instinctively pulled a condom from his wallet and shoved it into his pocket so that he wouldn't have to awkwardly find it later.

The sex was just as unremarkable. 

Actually, no.

The sex was okay, serviceable but largely fueled by the alcohol coursing through their veins, which lent an exaggerated intensity to their movements. Their mutual inebriation made them more enthusiastic than the encounter warranted, each responding more to their own heightened sensations than to any real chemistry.

At least this made him feel something.

In the humid air, he watched with a dreamy gaze as they changed positions and between ragged breaths, her breasts moving with every push into her, she slurred.

“I know where I recognise you from…” she started, “...didn't I see you on the news a few months ago…”

Though Billy didn't stop, the question hit him, overshadowed the buzz of intoxication and jolted him back into a brief moment of complete sobriety.

She'd recognised him from the Cranstead Fields coverage.

His heart beat rattled with a guilty rhythm, not from the shame of this soulless one night stand to boost his fractured confidence, but from the sudden intrusion of his other life into this detached moment.

Instead of forming a reply, he pulled her towards him by a hard grip at her waist, lifting her as he renewed his anxious energy into sex, hoping she wouldn't either bring it up again or remember.

And as she moaned loudly, throwing her head back, he closed his eyes in relief and attempted to focus on the feeling creeping up his spine. But the seed of discomfort that had been planted wrestled with his pleasure, and when he finally let out a choked whimper and came hard into the condom, it didn't feel the same.

It was hollow, this feeling. Like shame.

That was the first time Billy started not leaving his name and number. Even leaving her apartment the next day, the embarrassment and vulnerability he'd felt when she'd asked, haunted his eyes and tortured his already withered soul.

He no longer kept track of days of the week, only doing so by how busy or empty the local clubs and pubs were on any given evening. The place where Billy could find some semblance of belonging, even if it was to find some girl who looked at him the right way, now felt like a shackle. Casual sex became a monotonous task. Each time chipped away at him and became less and less effective, like growing resistance to a drug.

The usual pleasantries, once peppered with the possibility of future contact, were now clipped, impersonal. Billy moved through these spaces like a ghost, visible but insubstantial, his presence noted but not remembered. He'd always introduce himself, but doubted they would actually remember who he was.

The girls’ faces, names, voices. What were they anymore? They changed so often, and usually the only sound that came out was a faked moan.

The highs of sex were no longer enough to calm the worsening storm within. Alcohol became its counterpart, often holding hands and guiding him through drunken conquests. And though his performance was heavily affected, he could not bring himself to care. 

One Sunday morning felt a chip more peaceful than the average day. After another gruelling phone call with his Mum, Billy felt the shame and guilt nibble at the edges of him. The worry in her voice had made him briefly think, paired with the unusually sunny autumn day, that he should get out and let the warmth kiss his skin for a change.

Although, Billy wasn't perfect. He found himself at the local pub not 20 minutes later at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, moving towards the bar area, fishing in his wallet for his card and licking his lips, thinking of the pint he was about to have and how it would calm the flurry of anxiety in his heart. Even if it was brief.

A young woman rushed in to stack the glasses, hair up and bright faced. An employee he didn't recognise as his regular barmaid, but recognised her from somewhere he couldn't place in his mind.

She smiled warmly, in a way that made his heart flutter.

“Sorry about that. What can I get you?” 

He found himself just standing there, silent, for a long moment. His brain ticking away, trying to pin her in his memory.

“U-uh, just a pint of house lager, please..” he replied quietly, looking down to avoid her eyes, non-judgemental and kind. 

He watched in his periphery as she pulled the pint, eyes vaguely roving over her as if against his will. There was something familiar about the curve of her hips, the slope of her neck. Had he been close enough before to see these details?

She places it in front of him, and smiles, narrowing her eyes playfully, “I know you,” she muses, “Billy, right?”

His heart skipped. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Panic tightened its grip as he feared the worst connection. She knows Cranstead Fields. Shit.

"U-uh—" he stuttered, scrambling for an explanation or an excuse. But her next words cut through his panic. 

"Don't worry, I'm not holding a grudge about you sneaking off. It happens, right?" Her tone was light, dismissive of any offence. Relief washed over Billy, mixing with disbelief. 

"Yeah, I—Sorry about that. I didn't mean to, uh, leave like that," he managed, his voice steadying as the initial shock wore off.

She waved off his apology with an easy flick of her wrist, the ambient light catching the playful glint in her eyes. "Honestly, don't fret. We're all adults here, right?”

He let go of a breath, looking at her as if she were speaking some foreign language.

"Yeah…thanks for being so cool about it," Billy admitted, his guarded demeanour softening as he sensed no judgement from her. He ran a hand through his hair, a half-smile beginning to form. "It’s been a...well, it’s been a complicated time for me."

"Hey, no explanations needed," she replied, leaning forward on the bar, her tone reassuring. “We've all got our stories.”

"Right, right," Billy nodded, his response slightly halting as he processed her dismissal of the situation. He took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to ease, yet a trace of guardedness lingered. "I guess it's just been a while since I didn't wake up to some kind of drama."

She leaned against the bar, her posture relaxed and open, which seemed to soften the space between them. "Sounds like you could use more drama-free mornings," she said, her voice low and teasing. "Or maybe just better endings to your nights."

He chuckled, the sound more relaxed now, realising her intention was not to chastise but to lighten the mood. "Better endings would be a start, yeah."

"Consider this a step in the right direction then," she replied with a warm smile. She moved to pour another drink for a different customer, her motions fluid and confident, but her attention still partially on him. The casual ease of her demeanour helped dissolve some of his lingering tension, making the space around him feel less constricting.

Eventually, she tore off the receipt from the register, scribbling something on the back before sliding it across the bar to him. 

“Here’s your receipt, and a little something extra,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Billy picked it up, turning it over to find her number scrawled in neat digits. “No sneaking off without saying goodbye this time,” she added, her tone playful yet sincere.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Billy responded, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserved facade. He pocketed the receipt, feeling a lightness he hadn’t expected to find that night. 

His eyes lingered as she moved behind the bar, serving various customers, her smile ever-present and her laugh just as addictive. He felt a flip in his stomach, his skin tingling as if the sun had come out for the first time in the cold, long winter of his soul.

Billy found himself surprisingly content to just sit at the bar, watching the rhythm of her movements, the easy interactions she had with everyone. He sipped his beer, slowly, occasionally chiming in when she threw a casual question his way or made a joke that included him.

She’d loop back to him between orders, keeping him anchored to the moment, to the bar, to her. It was comfortable and unfamiliar in a way that both excited and soothed him. As the night waned and the crowd thinned, Billy found himself enjoying the lightness of their exchanges, feeling a spark of hope ignite within him. 

He willed the world to slow, even just for a while, so that he could keep talking to her, keep looking at her gorgeous warm face, to keep a little piece of who he used to be alive the more she eased her way into his life.

Perhaps, if someone could remember his name, perhaps he could start remembering himself too.

dividers by @cafekitsune

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