Chapter Text
Billy
The bar was stifling and packed, wet hands leaving wet glasses on wet counters, condensation dripping slowly down the pint glasses.
When Daisy Jones died it wasn't in a bang, wasn't on a high...
Or well, it was.
The world didn't tilt on that random Friday evening, cars didn't halt, the birds didn't stop chirping, the rivers didn't cease flowing, nobody had changed.
The exception was one man.
Billy never thought this was how Daisy would go, an overdose.
Of course, that had been on his mind, when you're doing however many shows a week, a day, even, taking fuck knows how many drugs within an hour, it's inevitable, isn't it?
But not Daisy, not larger than life, larger than most things, Daisy motherfucking Jones.
Although, Billy should've expected it.
Daisy never did things the easy way, there was always a fight involved, and no matter what else, Billy had no doubt Daisy went out fighting.
The Guinness in front of him was calling to him, whispering that it won't hurt, that it'll be just one time...
He hasn't felt anything remotely close to this since Teddy died, but at least Teddy went out doing something he loved.
One of the last conversations he and Daisy had (that wasn't aggressively making out in a back alley, bitter resentment on their tongues), was how she wanted to get better, she really, truly, fucking did, that was what made Daisy Jones tragic.
Billy tilts his head and lets the drink go down as easy as he would water.
It tasted like regret and want.
And Billy knew for a fact that the regret wasn't for throwing away his seven-odd years sober, and the want wasn't to have Camilla in his arms, and his girls asleep in the room next door.
"Maybe you should ease up."
Billy put down his pint glass beside the five others he'd downed in a row.
"Excuse me?" Billy almost scoffed, looking up, hat still tilted low on his head.
"I'm just saying, you've been here three hours and every time you finish a glass you motion for me to pour another."
The bartender looked from Billy to the glasses he'd accumulated beside him.
Billy huffed, " I don't think that's what you should be saying to a paying customer,"
The man in front of him laughed, throwing his tea towel over his shoulder.
"We also shouldn't be serving people who have an obvious problem, bosses orders," The man was leant against the counter now.
"A bar with morals is like a dealer who claimed he didn't mean to get you hooked."
The barman paused, Billy almost smirked at watching the guy think it over.
"Touché."
The barman wiped a small bit of the counter before asking, "What's your name?"
Billy huffed a laugh, elbows on the counter top.
"Well wouldn't you like to know"
The barman raised an eyebrow, hating to admit that this lonely, drunk man in front of him was nothing if not charming.
"Well I'm Grant, and I would say my last name, but it's a bit touchy since Lennon died." The barman who has a name, (which will likely be forgotten when Billy is unfortunately sober) said sheepishly.
"Well Grant, I'm Bi-" He paused before shaking his head.
"Sorry, was about to say my nickname,"
Grant laughed, fiddling with a shot glass.
"We not at nickname stage yet?"
Billy only rolled his eyes, covering his almost identity reveal with, " The name's William."
Grant stuck his hand out for Billy to shake.
"Nice to put a name to the drunken face,"
Billy hummed in false amusement.
"My shift's almost over, "
Billy only raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
"That means no more free drinks."
"Oh really?"
Grant takes off his apron, balling it up and shoving it under the counter.
"I couldn't in good consciousness let you pay, you're fucking hammered and it's obviously for a reason. " Grant says it almost like a question, it's not, he's prying and Billy is aware of what it is Grant is looking for.
Billy's not so sure he can even articulate it, even if he could it would be a short fire to being swarmed for autographs and all that shit, something he can't bare the thought of doing right now.
"Y'know, I can't make you out, and usually I'm good at that typa shit."
"Obviously not." Billy mutters, watching as Grant grins and joins Billy on the other side.
The two men are perched on the barstools when the speaker switches from some Dylan song, (Warrens favourite version of 'It Ain't me babe', which Billy is certain has been fought on by Karen and Camilla), to...well.
"Shit man, I love Honeycomb, y'know, I saw their last performance before Daisy died."
Billy freezes, because yeah, Chicago won't be known as just 'their last performance', it's the last time Daisy was on stage, alive...
"I hate this song."
Grant snorts, " No one hates this song."
"Yeah? Well I fucking do."
Grant turns to Billy, shocked to his core, because no one, hates Honeycomb
"Well, you and Billy Dunne, the man himself are the only ones mate."
Oh the irony, Billy thinks to himself, holding in a snort.
His eyes side line to look at Grant.
"British?" He asks, taking a final sip of his last free drink.
Grant nods, somewhat sheepish.
"I try to keep it on the down-low."
Billy shrugs, spinning the glass in his hands, "You shouldn't, it suits you,"
Grant scoffs.
"Yet another thing you're alone in thinking,"
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I've been told I have an American face."
Billy has no response, his mind too busy focusing on and picking apart his and Daisy's vocals, trying (and failing) to not think about Daisy, how full of life she was when they met, how much of an asshole he was, how she was so kind, and warm, and patient, an-
"So what'd you think about it?"
Billy's suddenly brought back to the dingy bar, Grant now has his own pint he's slowly sipping, as opposed to Billy's chugging.
"Bout what?"
"Daisy Jones's death,"
"Oh, right. "
Billy's gaze drifts out the window.
" I mean, I think it coulda been prevented."
Now that catches Billy's attention more than anything ever has.
"What do you mean?"
Grant shrugs, "Just think about it, how different it coulda been if Teddy Price hadn't died, everyone knows who got Billy the help, you know, it's just sad to think, like, what if Daisy and Billy had been together? Y'know?"
Billy nods slowly, "Yeah, yeah you're right."
Grant hums, taking another slow sip.
"So what would you change?" The musician hears himself mutter, he's not even looking at Grant as he prys.
Billy Dunne has never been a dreamer, he knew they were good at music, great even, and he knew for a fact they'd get somewhere, that isn't dreaming, the dreaming was always more for Graham, but this...
He needs to dream about this.
Grant shrugs a shoulder.
"I dunno mate, maybe have them meet before Billy met Camilla I suppose, and they wouldn't be, y'know, "
"Drug addicts?" Billy finishes for him.
Grant finishes his pint, "Mhm, yeah."
Billy hums, worrying his lip between his teeth.
Honeycomb is being drowned out by their conversation, but for once Billy wants to listen to it properly.
His and Daisy's first number one...
"Shit."
"What?"
Billy realises he said it aloud and shakes his head, saving his second slip of the night with-
"The situation, it's just shit,"
Grant huffs a laugh, "Not wrong there,"
Billy racks his brain, something he could say to keep this going, to dream, pretend things were different, that his life was different.
"How do you think it would've started?"
Billy was surprised Grant was the one to ask.
"Huh?"
Karen has joked and said that he's all brawn no brains, (Billy likes to think it's in jest, but the way Eddie nods, he doesn't think it is).
"Well, you can't have the end before the beginning," Grant explains with a blasé shrug. "So, where do you think it starts?"
Honeycomb has finally ended, but for once, Billy is upset about it, and would be shouting for it to be played on repeat if he weren't already saying-
"I dunno, what about 'The strip'?"
Grant grins, " I like it, let's say Daisy's a waitress, and Billy's looking for a job,"
Billy would find this strange, re-writing his life like this, if he weren't so pitiful and desperate.
So instead he flashes a smile he knows is charming.
" Lets."