Chapter Text
Somehow, despite his film-obsessed daughter playing what felt like every movie in existence for him, Billy had never seen When Harry Met Sally in the eight full years since it came out. Daisy, on the other hand, had certain film aversions – namely, movies starring her Golden-Globe-winning ex-husband or directed by her Oscar-nominated old ex-boyfriend. But of course she’d seen When Harry Met Sally. Who hadn’t?
Upon learning that her- well, she wasn’t sure what exactly to call Billy these days, but upon learning that her Billy hadn’t seen it, she was quick to rectify the issue. Daisy made it enticing – she bought the DVD, she promised to cook, she cuddled up next to him to watch. And as they watched, she’d snuck glances at the grump of a man beside her, catching him exhaling laughs and smiling quiet smiles throughout. A success, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud.
Now, as the final scene played out, Harry and Sally had reached their happy ending, and Daisy felt like she had, too.
“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
Next to her, Billy wondered quietly, “Does that part ever bother you?”
“Hm?” Daisy hummed, snuggled into Billy’s side, her left hand lazily lacing and unlacing with Billy’s, which floated over her shoulder.
“Just, I mean, long this took?” Billy explained.
Daisy turned her head to look at him, smiled gently. She told him simply and honestly, “No.”
“No?”
“No,” she shook her head softly, confirming. “I’ve thought, you know, ‘Should it?’ Like should I resent that we could’ve had this decades ago,” she went on, “But then, I think, it wouldn’t be exactly this. I wouldn’t get exactly this moment, or love you exactly like I love you, or kiss you exactly like,” she leaned in, a soft demonstration, “this.” Quieter and closer, she added, “And I’m really fucking happy with exactly how things are.”
Billy grinned at her, noticing how her eyes seemed to glitter as she told him about how she loved him.
“You don’t think we’d end up like this in every universe?” he wondered.
Fifteen years ago in their little pre-funeral bubble, when he was so sure they’d be together and they were so obviously not ready to be together yet, Billy hadn’t considered what sort of resentment might permeate a relationship they embarked on then. But if he had truly left his wife for Daisy back in ‘83, it could’ve affirmed a cruel simplification: she wasn’t enough for him at first, but she was enough for him by then. That wasn’t true, but it would’ve been so easy for Daisy to believe, so easy for her to fear, in moments of hardship or insecurity. Back then, a fear like that could’ve destroyed whatever shoddy foundation they had tried to build.
Of course, destruction wasn’t an inevitability. They could’ve worked through fears like that, could’ve grown strong together, could’ve walked a winding life path that brought them to essentially the same place they sat now. That was possible, too.
Although, then, Daisy wouldn’t have had Stella. And Billy might not have been the father to Julia that he wanted to be. Their girls were the most obvious reflections of the other needs they both had to attend to, the people they both wanted to become, but there were other elements of growth, too.
Musically, Daisy went on to prove to herself and to the world that she could be a massive success independently. Back in the band, she had finally become the somebody, and yet she was simultaneously still the muse. But she knew for certain now that she could enchant audiences who looked up to her for her own voice, her own writing, her own artistry. Not just crowds who looked through her, eyes hungry and appetites wet by imagery of wild guesses and see-through dresses.
Billy, too, had discovered a different sort of confidence when he started producing for other bands. He’d spent so much of his life chasing expectations of himself, just trying to be what everyone wanted from him. When he achieved something as a musician, or as a father, he had never really let himself feel proud – only relieved.
But as a producer, with each talent he recognized, each song he perfected, each album he helped jut to the top of the charts, it was his own vision, his own expectations, his own success. The young artists who he somehow ended up mentoring looked to him to determine what to expect of themselves, not vice versa. And so then he was earning achievements nobody but himself expected from him, achievements he could feel truly proud of. He was so damn proud of that Producer of the Year Grammy.
But then, when he’d look at it, all he saw in his mind was a miserable collage of Daisy eyeing him as they sang together, Daisy fleeing his hotel room, Daisy’s left hand with its sapphire ring, Daisy’s apologetic face in that arena holding room.
He’d stopped producing after that, for years. He was no less proud, but her absence from his music-making was too noticeable then, too hard to push through. Daisy, too, had spent so many hours over so many years in so many recording booths, fending off the same thought: that something – Billy – was missing.
There were probably other universes where they hadn’t been missing from each other’s lives, and maybe in each of those universes, Daisy and Billy were cuddled together watching a movie tonight, too. But in none of those universes were they quite the same parents, or artists, or people as they were here. Daisy loved who Billy was, and she loved who she was, too. She loved every single thing about her life in this moment.
Finally she answered, with a soft shrug, “I mean, mostly the same, I bet. But the couch might be different or something.”
“The couch, Dais?” He asked, as if she was being ridiculous. Really she was just being Daisy.
“It’s a great couch,” she defended.
He couldn’t help but smile at her, adoringly.
“Very sturdy, very supportive,” Daisy told him, “Really comfortable. It’s a great couch.” If she was implying something, she was doing a great job at keeping it subtle. Just subtle enough that if Billy took the bait, she could chastise him for being the horny one.
“It is a fantastic couch, baby,” Billy responded, recognizing her game and certainly not letting her win that easily. Not when he was still caught up on her saying this piece of furniture made two decades of waiting worth it, “But is it really the couch that makes the moment?”
“What, you thought it was you?” She teased. Her eyes, glittering again, betrayed her act.
“Yeah, I think it might be,” he teased back.
Daisy laughed, then sighed an easy sigh. She asked Billy, “You know the butterfly effect?”
“Butterfly flaps its wings and a, uh, hurricane happens, or something?”
“Mmhmm, yeah,” Daisy told him, “One tiny different decision can change everything.”
Billy raised his eyebrows, “You think there would’ve been a hurricane? If we got together sooner?”
“I think,” Daisy said slowly, looking right at him, “That our life now is so wonderful, I mean,” she was shaking her head gently, awed, “really… perfect, that I wouldn’t wanna live in any other universe. Even one where the only difference is one butterfly flapping its wings.”