#s2 billy russo x reader

Finally, I bring to you part two of a request by @something-tofightforfor image 7 of my image prompt list, choosing season 2 Billy Russo as the subject. You can find part one, titled “Zoom”, here. Thank y’all for reading and I really hope you enjoy!

Rating:R

Word count: 2300 on the nose.

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@yannii04@gollyderek@carlaangel86@maydayfigment@vetseras@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@crushed-pink-petals-writes@delos-destinations@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@tenhargreeves@witchygagirl@fific

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

The room was spinning, tilting, like a terrible, sudden case of vertigo. You needed to sit down; you were dizzy and heady and nauseated and your hands had started to tremble. Russo. Billy’s voice echoed in your ears, over and over again and it was all you could hear. Everything else fell away. 

This was the man you had fallen in love with, a fact you’d admitted to yourself when it was the end, when he kept doing tour after tour after tour and the letters and Skype visits stopped. Everyone experienced lost love, the one that got away, and Billy was that for you. 

How did he end up here? What had happened to him— did he get injured overseas? How long had he been in the psychiatric ward at Sacred Saints? Who had he killed? 

Taking a few steps back, you sank down onto one of two hard, uncomfortable chairs against the wall, clipboard on your lap. You stared at his signature there again on that release form and cleared your throat. 

“Excuse me, of course. Mr. Russo.” His name burned your throat like straight whiskey; felt abrasive on your tongue. You harbored no hard feelings or ill will, but you had so many questions. And another one invaded your mind then, blinking on and off like a neon sign,  blinding and intrusive. Why is he pretending not to know me?

 The two of you spent years together, passing time with greasy food in a neighborhood diner and dripping ice cream cones for dessert melting in the park; you’d spent time tangled in sheets, sometimes for most of the day; you’d lose time taking picture after picture of his perfect face with your old instant Polaroid camera… pictures you had somewhere in a shoebox in your apartment, stacked with other forgotten things you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of, collecting layers of dust. Your heart continued to race, You had to say something…  so you said the first thing that entered your mind.

“How’ve you been, Billy?”

                                           ________________

“How’ve you been, Billy?”

Howhave you been, Billy? Fucking peachy. 

“Best time of my life,” he answered, glancing at you out the sides of his eyes, his view partially obscured by his mask. It took a few moments for it  to hit him, but when it did, he immediately bristled, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. It wasn’t easy, but he stood, the barrier of the bed along with a few feet of tile flooring between them. Holding his stance, he turned to look at you straight. Billy.  He always signed as William Russo, but you had called him… 

“Billy?” He almost spat the name. It meant one of two things: either that you knew him— which was impossible, he had not one iota of an idea who she was until you volunteered to introduce yourself— or his reputation had preceded him. “You’ve been told,” he continued, jutting his chin angrily toward the windows. “Didn’t they tell you I’m afelon? A dangerous man, to myself and others. A murderer.” His lip was curled beneath his mask, heat from his anger causing beads of sweat to form at his brow. 

“Part of it’s true.” He rolled his left shoulder, feeling a satisfying crack. “I’ve killed a lot of people, I could be a dangerous man.” He paused to let out a laugh, smirking at the horror in your eyes. “I’m a Marine. Bet they didn’t tell you that part, did they?” 

His eyes flashed with anger, and you quickly attempted to diffuse the situation. Abandoning your camera in your lap, you shook your head vehemently. “I know you were a Marine.” I know what it’s like to watch you leave for another tour overseas. I know what you look like in your dress blues. I know what it’s like to live with the thought of possibly seeing you for the last time. 

“Were?” His laugh was muffled, but not enough to disguise the darkness behind it. “I’m a lieutenant. Special Forces.”  

Your heart bled for Billy then. You heard the clear conviction and pride there in his voice behind the slight anger. His accent was thicker than you remembered. And it hit you in another harsh, sudden rush of realization that Billy wasn’t pretending not to know you; he didn’t know you.

 He didn’t know a decade had passed since he’d seen you, because he had no memory of your existence, your name. The last thing he remembered was fighting in Iraq. He’d lost years of his life, a life where he’d made a name for himself in the name of corruption, a life when he’d been living on sex, money,  power, manipulation and murder. It was a life he didn’t know and a life you didn’t know either. To both yourself and Billy, it was ten years of nothingness. 

“Lieutenant.” You corrected yourself softly. There were so many questions you wanted to ask him, but you were skittish about asking. This wasn’t the Billy Russo you knew. This was a phantom of someone you used to know.  Concentrate on your work, Y/N, you told yourself. You’re here to do a job, not get yourself re-involved in Billy Russo’s life. 

With two quick strides, Billy crossed the room, sitting in the identical chair a yard away. You managed to look at him and found him peering at you intensely, a curious yet accusing look in his eyes softening into one of desperation.  You’d never seen desperation in Billy’s eyes, and it was heartbreaking to the point that your breath caught in your throat. What happened to him?

“Frank.” His voice was just a shadow louder than a whisper. “Frank Castle… I need to… do you know Frank? I need to see Frank.” Dropping his head, Billy ran a hand over the short spikes of hair on his scalp. Once upon a time, you’d had a soft spot for his hair. You wondered why it had been shaved. “Please.”

Your chest seized and felt tight like you were in a vise. You suspected that Billy wasn’t quite this open with so many people, his therapist perhaps, but why you? You were only there to take a few pictures; you should have been gone, on your way home to a glass of red wine and some reading in bed, relaxing before returning to Sacred Saints. Tomorrow was photo talking day, but something nagged at you that photos of Billy couldn’t wait. Even before you’d known who he was, you had felt that intuition. 

But things hadn’t gone to plan, weren’t going to plan. So many wrenches had been thrown into your plans that they were barely recognizable. And you knew you had to answer Billy, but how?”

“Frank Castle,” you repeated. You had just moved back home to New York recently; you’d done a lot of traveling over the years, rented a place on the West Coast close to Napa Valley for most of that time. After you were satisfied with the bulk of your portfolio when you’d come back. “How do you know Frank Castle?” You had no plans to lie to Billy, and you wouldn’t allow a wrench to be thrown in that. 

“Frankie, he’s…he’s my best friend. My brother.” Again, he dipped his head and fixed his eyes on the floor. “I have to speak to him, please help me.” 

Swallowing past a lump of emotion that had become lodged in your throat, you dreaded what you knew you had to say. “I’m sorry, Billy. I don’t know a Frank Castle.” Why would I? You were quick to add, “But I’ll… if there’s a way, I’ll try to help you. I want to help you.” 

You paused for a moment, cursing yourself for getting involved. This wasn’t just a quick, professional snap of a few photos any longer. This had turned into you, a stranger in Billy Russo’s inky black eyes, offering to see what you could dig up on this Frank Castle; this became  you, foolishly putting yourself in a position that would inevitably lead to more time spent with the man you’d once loved that had, at one time, alluded to a future with you. But the question that seemed branded in the foreground of your mind the whole time, gnawing at your nerves and on the tip of your tongue… it was ringing in your ears, constantly threatening to tumble out of your mouth: What happened, Billy? How did you end up here? 

And despite all that was happening, this unfamiliar version of Billy Russo that you were still coming to terms with– the man sitting across from you was not at all the man you’d known so many years ago– wasn’t off-putting. You weren’t frightened, and you wanted to ask him. You had all but decided to, but suddenly, you remembered you were there to do a job. You had photos to take. You needed the images you’d capture of Billy, and you were afraid that if you asked a question that was considerably personal, your initial reason for reintroducing yourself into his life purely by chance would be foiled. Swallowing the words back down with the lump that had formed in your throat, you double-checked the settings on your camera that you’d mindlessly fiddled with earlier. Everything was ready. 

“Is now a good time?” You gestured to your camera that you held in one hand.

Billy remained still for a moment, not saying a word. He was still thinking about Frank, and he was thinking about the woman in front of him who had offered to help. For what? What’s in it for her? What’s her motive?

“You help complete strangers search for people often?” he asked, and you were struck once again with the thickness of his accent. He wasn’t trying to hide it at all, and you wondered if that was intentional, or if he just didn’t care. Either way, your memory didn’t recall such a stark accent; it had always been there, but not so obviously.

His question hung heavy in the room, and slight movement caught your eye. He had leaned forward in his chair, tilting his head to the side, eyes narrowed through the two holes of his mask. The way he regarded you with suspicion unnerved you, because what was also apparent in his eyes was a calculated coldness, and even that was partially removed. Billy’s eyes were, underneath it all, empty. You felt your chest constrict, followed by an awareness that you couldn’t seem to inhale an adequate amount of air. Your thoughts were on rotation. Billy, what happened to you? 

Before you could answer, he spoke again, asking the questions that had originally popped into his head. “Why– for what? You get what?” His eyes narrowed a fraction more. “You got a motive.” 

The last of what he said wasn’t as much of a question as it was a statement. The surprise you felt was written all over your face, an unconscious raise of your eyebrows and widening of your eyes.

“A motive?” you repeated. Your expression of shock melted into one that mimicked confusion: a furrow of your brows. You felt almost dumbfounded, and you looked around the perimeter of the room. “What kind of motive could I possibly have, Billy? What could I “get” from doing it? Maybe helping someone to have some peace of mind, because it doesn’t seem like the people around here are giving you much of it.” Your voice was soft, but firm in your conviction. You felt like this man was an imposter, a total stranger. Yet,  in a contradictory manner, you were still utterly jarred at the fact that he didn’t remember you. There was no looking past it. How was it possible to be so affected by someone you no longer knew?

Billy blinked, and any shadow of emotion he’d held in his eyes was erased, replaced with the blank emptiness you’d seen when you first walked into the room. You looked away, out the window, and saw that the sun was hanging low, just over the horizon. You needed to get home. 

“I’m going to take a couple of shots if that’s okay with you. I’ll be back tomorrow to do some more work.” You turned your attention back to Billy, glancing upward into those empty eyes.  Hopefully, I’ll have some information for you.

He seemed as if he were far away, somewhere else entirely. His eyes were almost glazed over, and within two seconds, he was back again, though he wasn’t looking at you; instead, he dipped his head and ran two hands roughly over the short, dark hair on his scalp while rolling his left shoulder. Then, he raised his head and focused on you. Two tilts of his head, first to the left and then to the right, had you holding your breath. Some of his mannerisms were uncannily familiar. All at once, Billy was finally still, and with a sniff, he nodded his approval.

Finally able to do what you’d come to do originally, you held your camera to your face and peered through the viewfinder. Your heart dropped into your abdomen; Billy had once been your favorite subject to photograph, equally as attractive in any photo as he was in real time. It was he who was in full control of the camera with his defined, angular jawline, a smirk of his full lips or his dazzling, full grin that could light the entire city during a blackout. You thought you might give anything to take just one more Polaroid of that man that had been replaced with the phantom you had in focus.

I’ll work with what I have, you thought to yourself, and with the light pressure of your index finger, you pushed the shutter.

I have neglected this for so long, and here I am to remedy just that! This is the third part of a drabble request from @something-tofightfor way back from my 150 followers milestone event that grew into what I thought would be a three-part miniseries but is taking on a life of it’s own. Parts one and two can be found on my masterlist here. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Rating: R (angst and more angst)

Trigger warnings: Normal The Punisher-type stuff (swearing, emotional distress, mentions of war)

Word count:1554

Tag list:@obscurilicious@the-blind-assassin-12@something-tofightfor@logan-deloss@lexxierave@madamrogers@gollyderek@yannii04@carlaangel86@vetseras@maydayfigment@thisisparadisemylove@malionnes@thesandbeneathmytoes@delos-destinations@tenhargreeves@luminex3@fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes@fific7@everything-lost-and-unsaid@pheedraws@my-rosegold-soul@commanderlola@leeanncodes

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask!

Thanks for reading!

With a flash of light, Billy’s brain erupted into chaos. The flash from the camera triggered the images he saw in his relentless nightmares: menacing skulls, spatters of blood, shattering glass and intermittent blinding blazes of light. He blinked his eyes violently, feeling the adrenaline that rushed with fear surge throughout his body. It was a war zone, and for a split second, he was back in the desert, clutching his weapon to his chest, waiting, trembling with anticipation. Only now, he was burrowed in a foxhole, but there was no reprieve from the enemy. Like a fault line, his head seemed to crack, and replacing the dense darkness of Afghanistan was the overwhelming intensity of another flash of light, and the terror and confusion flooded over him again. 

“No, no, no!” His voice rose with each syllable, a whisper to himself ascending into a desperate command, his voice breaking. His breath was coming in hitched spurts, cold beads of sweat popping up over clammy skin. Billy ripped his mask off, throwing it to the ground, and jumped up with a wild look in his eyes— they darted around the room erratically. He realized through his confusion that he was awake.

Awake, I’m awake and this has never— it comes when I sleep, I… I can’t, there’s not… I… 

Billy didn’t understand— there was nothing he could fucking understand. 

“Where’s Frankie, huh? What did I do to get in here, how long have I been here, when the hell am I going to get outta here?” Dipping his head, he shook in back and forth slowly before raising a hand to the side of his skull, a series of frustrated blows to his head. “I can’t, I don’t…” Billy raised a hand and smacked the right side of his head almost violently once, twice, three times, over and over. 

Clenching his eyes shut, he pressed the heels of his hands to both because he had to block it out, he had to make it stop. But the darkness, the black void of nothing he needed to see brought nothing more than a bright, blinding flash of light, one that lasted and lasted. Billy let out a guttural scream. No words, no in incoherence, just an explosive bout of agony. 

His voice trailed off as he regained composure, dropped his hand back into his lap and raised his head. He regarded you as if you’d materialized into his space when he wasn’t looking, and the look in his eyes was jarring. They were so dark, there was no distinguishing iris from pupil. They narrowed at the sight of you as his vision became sharper and his mind back into focus. 

Billy rolled his neck from side to side, then shrugged his right shoulder. The quick, unconscious movements were so familiar, so naturally Billy— your Billy— that you became weak, unsteady. And then, he tilted his head to the side, regarding you with unreadable eyes. Your jaw agape, hands trembling due to Billy’s outburst— and the displays of little nuances you were all too familiar with— all you could do was weakly attempt to force yourself from staring. 

Billy’s face— his perfect, flawless, beautiful face you’d photographed countless times— was mangled. Your heart seized. It felt as if it were in a vise, and all for Billy; the pain and grief he’d been through, which would clearly remain.

Either side of his face was slashed with puckering pink scars. There was an inch-long horizontal line just above the bridge of his nose. One cheek looked as if it had been shot through. Your eyes stung, tears filling them and threatening to spill over. No, you told yourself. Not here. Not now. You’re a professional. 

But your heart was involved, and though for many years you’d been certain you were over Billy Russo– for the months after it was all over and you knew, with every fibre of your being that you hated him– you were hit with the realization then that you’d been halfway wrong. You’d hated him, but you’d loved him, and that thin line between the two was one you’d teetered on for far too long.

You were over the Billy Russo who’d indulged you in ice cream or snow cones while walking through Central Park or greasy diner food when the city was blanketed in darkness, except for lit-up windows like glitter in the sky. You were over the Billy Russo who let you snap Polaroids of him no matter where the two of you may be when the natural light was ideal. 

The man that stood staring back at you who had referred to himself as ‘Lieutenant William Russo’ may very well share the mannerisms of that man, but he wasn’t the same person. You’d seen him go from arrogant to desperate to vulnerable to lost within his surroundings… whatever had just happened eliciting such fear and disconnect. 

Your camera was clutched in your right hand, knuckles white, and as much as you felt you had to say, no words would come. Your tongue was dry like sandpaper, and you realized suddenly that maybe your inability to form any coherent, complete thought was a blessing in disguise. 

“Who the fuck are you?” His voice interrupted your thoughts, and you brought yourself to focus on his face again. But you couldn’t hide your expression, a mixture of confusion, disbelief and a touch of fear. Billy’s face wore a sneer, and he raised his brows just a touch as your eyes met. His were cold; there was no touch of emotion there, and you felt a chill run down your spine. 

You knew this man. You knew the Billy Russo you knew was buried deep in there somewhere, obstructed by his broken memory. You’d never once been frightened of Billy before, and you weren’t going to let that initial fear response linger on. Pushing past it as much as possible, you finally answered, starting with your name. 

 Before you could speak again, reminding him what your purpose was for being there, he began speaking again? “Are you another cop? Because I ain’t got nothing left to tell, lady. I’m telling you like I told all those other bastards…” He paused to shake his head, to strike his skill with the heel of his hand. “I don’t remember.”

You had to keep yourself from going to him. You had to keep yourself from telling him the complete truth, who you really were– had been– to him, and what he’d been for you as well. All of this since you’d learned who it really was behind the mask felt like a fever dream, sleep-deprived delirium, a night terror– anything but real life. 

With a slightly trembling hand, you gestured to your camera, your eyes locked on his… it was still so jarring, looking into the eyes of a man you’d loved, exploring a set of eyes you’d lost yourself in an immeasurable amount of times, but seeing them as if they were the eyes of a stranger. Forcing yourself to look away, you picked up your clipboard and offered it to Billy. “You signed a release just here to allow me to photograph you for a publication… I only have photos of you wearing the mask, I can show you—“

Your offer stopped short as Billy narrowed his eyes at the signed release, his name signed at the bottom in black ink. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed thickly. One more steely look at your face and he sat back down on his mattress almost numbly.

Pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes, he scrubbed his palms down over his face. You felt a sharp, stabbing pain in your chest as you saw his shoulders slump, almost like a balloon deflating. His posture had melted away. Billy had always held his head high and shoulders back. You would poke him in the side every once in a while, tease him about walking like royalty, call him Your Majesty. 

When he dropped his hands to his lap, any coldness or suspicion that he held there was gone. He looked exhausted, and to say you were physically and emotionally drained was an understatement. Your spirit was broken, and the thought alone dropped the heavy weight of guilt upon your shoulders. Billy’s spirit was completely shattered. 

Your mind spun, fragments of your time with Billy firing like warfare in flashes of blinding light. The name Frank Castle pushed to the forefront of all other thoughts, and you knew your night was far from over. You had work to do.  Gathering your clipboard, you held it under your left arm as you fumbled with the task of putting your camera inside its case. Normally, you could slide it inside seamlessly. Nothing about this is normal. 

“My face hurts,” you heard. After a quick pause, you slipped your camera strap over your shoulder and turned to Billy. He looked like a stranger, but he still managed to make you feel the same he did so many years ago. 

“I’ll let your nurse know.” Swallowing thickly, you gave him one single box. “Goodnight, Lieutenant.” You managed to hold back your tears until you made it out of the door and past the haughty guards waiting outside.