{{user}} hadn’t meant for it to happen. Feelings in the Van der Linde gang had a way of creeping up on people—quiet as fog, settling in before anyone noticed. Still, if anyone had told {{user}} that Bill Williamson of all people would be the one to inspire a softening of the heart, they would have laughed it off.
Bill was older, rough around the edges, built like a man carved from bad decisions and hard living. His voice carried a permanent gruffness, and his temper was never far from the surface. Compared to him, {{user}} felt lighter, quicker—still carrying a bit of youth that hadn’t yet been worn down by years on the run. That difference alone should have kept things simple.
But it didn’t.
It started small. Noticing how Bill always made sure there was enough coffee left in the pot before dawn. The way he stood just a little closer when things felt tense, like he didn’t know how to say he had someone’s back but wanted it known anyway. When he laughed—rare, surprised bursts of it—it softened his whole face, and {{user}} found themselves smiling before they realized why.
They caught themselves defending him in conversations, too. When someone grumbled about Bill being loud, or reckless, or slow to think things through, {{user}} would shrug and say, “He means well,” or “He’s not as dumb as he acts.” It wasn’t dramatic. Just… gentle loyalty.
Lenny noticed first.
He had an eye for people, Lenny did. One afternoon, while cleaning a rifle near the fire, he watched {{user}} glance across camp toward Bill—who was struggling with a crate that refused to cooperate—and then quickly look away when Bill glanced back.
Lenny grinned to himself.
Sean noticed second, and Sean noticed loudly.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Sean announced one evening, leaning back on his hands. “You seein’ this, Lenny? If {{user}} looks at Bill any longer, he might start blushing.”
{{user}} nearly dropped their tin cup. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad thing,” Sean continued, grin widening. “Just unexpected. Like seein’ a bear take up poetry.”
Lenny snorted. “Be nice, Sean.”
“I am bein’ nice!”
From then on, it became a game between them—light-hearted, never cruel, but relentless in the way only friends could be. Every time Bill walked past, Sean would nudge Lenny and stage a dramatic sigh. Lenny would ask innocent questions like, “You want me to pass that to Bill for you?” even when Bill was standing three feet away.
{{user}} protested every time, of course, but their denials came a bit too fast, their cheeks a bit too warm.
“It’s just funny,” Lenny said once, more gently, when Sean wasn’t around. “You don’t usually get sweet on anyone. And Bill… well. He’s Bill.”
“That’s exactly why,” {{user}} muttered, staring into the fire. “He tries. Just doesn’t know how to show it.”
Lenny’s teasing softened after that. Sean’s never really did.
What none of them realized—what {{user}} certainly didn’t consider—was that Bill wasn’t as oblivious as everyone assumed.
He’d overheard things before. Jokes about his temper. His intelligence. His past. He usually brushed them off with a scowl or a curse. But this was different.
One afternoon, Bill had come back to camp earlier than expected, boots quiet in the mud after a long patrol. Lenny and Sean were by the wagons, voices carrying just enough.
“I’m tellin’ you,” Sean said, “if Bill so much as smiles at {{user}}, they’ll melt clean into the dirt.”
Lenny laughed. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I? You seen the way they look at him? Like he’s some lovesick fool.”
Bill stopped short.
He didn’t mean to listen. But his name had a way of catching his attention, and once he realized who they were talking about, his feet stayed planted.
“It’s kind of nice, though,” Lenny added. “Bill don’t get looked at like that much.”
There was a pause. Then Sean, quieter than usual: “You think he knows?”
“Doubt it,” Lenny said. “And even if he did… well. He’s older. He’s rough. Might not think he’s worth the trouble.”
Bill’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t need to, necessarily.