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Hosea isn’t always fond of Bill, but even Hosea agrees that the others sometimes go too far in their teasing of Mister Williamson. It’s all fun and games until John laughs at Bill for going bald, and Arthur later catches a very drunk Bill trying to rip his own hair out. It’s just brotherly teasing until Javier claps his hands behind Bill’s head, making Bill jump, and Bill shrieks in terror and punches his brother around the face. He knows that his boys all care for each other, but Bill always takes the brunt of their bullying. And Dutch insists that their behavior is normal, but Dutch doesn’t share a tent with Bill, unlike Hosea, who regularly wakes up to find Bill missing, off sulking or getting drunk or having a breakdown. And whilst a lot of Bill’s problems are beyond their control… Arthur, John, and Javier (and, by extension, Dutch) don’t help a lot of the time.
From all the times he’s kicked Bill awake for napping on guard duty, or jumped out of his skin when Bill wakes up screaming, or yelled at Bill for saying something bigoted (again), Hosea knows Bill pretty well by this point. They don’t get on well, but, at the end of the day, Bill Williamson is still like a son to him. So, when the others push Bill to his breaking point without meaning to, Hosea feels compelled to help a man he isn’t exactly friends with.
Dutch sends Arthur and Javier on a job with Bill (John wants to come, but Dutch orders him to stay in camp with Abigail and little baby Jack), and Hosea knows everything went wrong when the three boys return in a foul mood. They snap at each other from atop their horses, both Javier and Arthur mostly angry with Bill, whilst Bill spits insults back at the pair, his comments getting ruder and crueler as those two continue to harass him for whatever went wrong.
And things come to a head when they hop down from their horses, and Bill grabs Javier by the collar. Javier says something rude in Spanish, trying to shove Bill away from him, whilst Arthur puts his hand on Bill’s shoulder, trying to heave him away from Javier. Bill jumps, flinching like Arthur stabbed him, and his voice is oddly slurred as he yells at Arthur to quit touching him.
“Boys, boys, boys, what’s the matter?” Dutch says, approaching the hitching posts.
They spring apart instantly, Bill ducking his head and rubbing his hands against his long leather coat. Usually one for arguing, Bill stays quiet, unlike Javier and Arthur, who are quick to explain what happened. Walking over, Hosea listens to Javier and Arthur rant about the robbery, learning that Bill fucked up setting the dynamite, and they were almost caught by the law.
“…So we got nothin’, Dutch,” Arthur says, sighing. “We nearly got shot to death, and it’s all ‘cause of him.”
Again, Hosea expects Bill to defend himself, but Bill stays quiet. His shoulders tense, his trembling hands balled into fists, thumbs rubbing his knuckles repetitively. The sight is strange, and Hosea wonders why nobody else has noticed how odd Bill is behaving. Perhaps something is wrong, and that’s why Bill made a near-fatal error.
But before Hosea can pull Bill aside and find out what’s wrong (yes, he doesn’t particularly like Bill, but Hosea still doesn’t want to watch him suffer; just like when he finds Bill crying after terrifying nightmares, and Hosea gets him some water and pats his back, he doesn’t want Bill to feel so awful), Dutch steps closer to Bill.
“Again, Bill? I thought you was our dynamite expert,” Dutch says, his voice playful, and he tries to touch Bill’s shoulder—
“Get off!” Bill shrieks, and he turns and bolts out of camp. For a few, long seconds, Arthur, Dutch, Javier, and Hosea stare where Bill just stood, baffled by what just happened.
“What the hell was that about?” Arthur says, breaking the silence.
His hand still outstretched towards where Bill stood, Dutch turns to Hosea. “Old Girl… did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Hosea says, certain that Dutch touching him was just the final straw that made Bill snap, rather than the cause of his outburst. But, glancing at Arthur and Javier, Hosea can tell that those two were probably the ones who pushed Bill to his breaking point—once again, their kids were clearly picking on Bill and took it too far. But there’s no point causing an argument, so Hosea doesn’t bother yelling at Arthur and Javier for teasing their brother too much, and instead says, “Let me go check on him.”
Hosea isn’t Bill’s favorite person (and Hosea feels the same way), but Hosea wonders if out of the four men he broke down in front of, perhaps Bill will feel most comfortable with Hosea approaching. Either way, he doesn’t trust Bill by himself when in such a state, so Hosea hurries off after Bill, hoping that Bill hasn’t done anything stupid.
---
Bill paces back and forth a short distance from camp, hands clenched into trembling fists. Everything hurts, his chest tight with panic and humiliation, and Bill wants nothing more than to grab a bottle of whiskey and drink until he passes out. But to get booze, he’d have to return to camp, and he can’t bring himself to see those bastards anymore.
Fuck, today has been awful. He didn’t sleep all night, kept up by nightmares of cannon fire and blood and death, and Bill has suffered symptoms of an upcoming breakdown all day—sensitive hearing, a headache, just feeling so goddamn wrong—and he just knew this was going to happen. And he didn’t want to go on that fucking job (when he feels like this, the last thing Bill wants is to find himself in a gunfight, or cope with the explosion of dynamite nearby), but Bill didn’t want to disappoint Dutch, heading off with Arthur and Javier despite how shit he felt. And, just as he feared, everything went wrong. Distracted and shaky, Bill didn’t connect the dynamite properly, and nothing happened when Javier pushed the detonator. And as they argued about Bill’s fuck-up, they alerted the law, and then they were running for their lives. The entire journey back to camp, Arthur and Javier yelled at him, their anger justified but hurting his ears as everything got louder and too intense, and he was frantically stroking Brown Jack’s neck as they bickered to keep himself from losing it. And then when he got back and Dutch immediately joked about Bill’s failure, he wanted to cry, and Dutch’s hand hurt when it touched his shoulder , and Bill just… lost it.
You’re pathetic, says a voice in the back of his mind, the same voice that taunts him after nightmares, You’re worthless. You’re a failure. They all hate you. Dunno why Dutch keeps a useless moron like you around.
“Shut up…” Bill hisses through gritted teeth.
So insane you’re talkin’ to yourself? Useless fuckin’ freak—
“Shut up!” he yells, and Bill smashes his fist against the nearest tree.
And with the jolt of sickening pain, something flips within him. He punches the tree again and again, his knuckles splitting open, blood trickling down his hand. It hurts so badly, but Bill can’t stop, punching and punching until the tree bark is stained with blood, and blood drips off his clenched fist, droplets of crimson landing on his shirt and pants and the dirt. The pain is nauseating, but he doesn’t stop, the agony in his hand distracting Bill from the roar of sensory overload and self-hatred in his brain. Everything is too much, and he wants to cry but men don’t cry, and someone is screaming—and it takes Bill far too long to realize that person is him, continuing to yell, “Shut up!” as he punches and breaks down.
You’re such a goddamn child. Screamin’ like a freak ‘cause of your own mistake.
“Shut the hell up!”
Bill’s legs buckle and he collapses to his knees, shivering with pain, and he lets out a pathetic little whimper. And then tears stream down his cheeks, his sobs loud and hysterical and humiliating, and Bill clenches his uninjured fist and smashes it into his forehead. Unable to stop crying, covered in his own blood and punching himself in the head, Bill has never hated himself more.
---
Having heard Bill’s screams, it’s easy to locate him. Hosea finds Bill hunched on the ground, blood pouring from his right hand as he sobs hysterically, rocking himself back and forth. With his eyes shut, Bill doesn’t notice Hosea approaching, so Hosea slips away again, not wanting to make Bill uncomfortable. After all, Bill must feel dreadful, and Hosea doesn’t want to make him embarrassed on top of that—having seen Bill breaking down in the night before, Hosea knows that Bill finds it humiliating to have an audience.
Furious at the others for accidentally pushing Bill to this state, Hosea returns to camp. But he doesn’t yell at Arthur and Javier, nor scold Dutch for touching Bill when he clearly wanted to be left alone, instead locating their medical supplies. Finding some clean bandages, Hosea grabs a bottle of whiskey and fetches a cup of water, before returning to the woods, hoping that Bill will accept his help when he has calmed down.
---
The breakdown only lasts a few minutes, thankfully, and Bill manages to stop screaming and hurting himself before someone wanders over (Javier once found him like this, surprising Bill by not mocking him and never bringing up what he saw, but he still fears someone seeing and then kicking him out of the gang for being a useless sack of crap). He sits with his back against a tree, clutching the sides of his head with his bruised hands, his right hand still bleeding, congealing blood trickling down his wrist and onto his coat. Everything hurts, and the tears won’t stop, but he now cries quietly, his sobs becoming muffled sniffles as tears slide down his face.
“Bill?” Hosea says, his voice unusually soft for when talking to Bill, and Bill jumps.
Raising his head, he watches Hosea approach, holding some stuff in his hands, and Bill tenses, wondering how long Hosea has been here. “Were… were you watchin’ me?” he says, voice hoarse from screaming and crying so hard.
“I saw you briefly, but I left, I promise. Do you need a drink?” Hosea asks, holding out a metal cup.
Bill sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Why… why you bein’ nice to me?”
Hosea sighs, easing himself to one knee at Bill’s side. Reaching out with his uninjured hand (well, his knuckles are still bruised, but not bloody and torn like the knuckles on his other hand), Bill takes the cup, sipping the water. It soothes his sore throat, and he guzzles it greedily.
“Bill… I know we don’t get on a lot of the time,” Hosea says, “I know we argue and… I can be hard on you. But… just like John, Arthur and Javier… you… you’re like a son to me. And I wanna help you feel better after what you just went through.”
Stunned by Hosea’s words, fresh tears spring to Bill’s bloodshot eyes. Never a fan of eye contact, he glances away from Hosea, his bottom lip twitching. He knows that he annoys Hosea (his nightmares keep Hosea awake, and Bill knows he can be a lazy bastard sometimes, and he’s often rude and cruel to people when he’s drunk or exhausted or just in a foul mood), but Bill has always respected Hosea. Not to the extent of his respect for Dutch, of course (nobody compares to Dutch, the man who took him in and gave him purpose in life), but he has always craved Hosea’s approval. And Hosea has never called Bill his son before, and to hear such kind words when Bill is crying and covered in his own blood after having one of his pathetic breakdowns, the tears spill over.
“You ain’t gonna get Dutch to kick me out?” Bill says.
“No, of course not. Where did you get that idea? Can I pour some whiskey on your hand?” Hosea asks, switching easily from having a serious conversation, to offering to clean Bill’s wounds.
Bill nods, holding his hand out. With his breakdown over, being touched should be okay. Sniffling pathetically, he says, “Because I, I’m useless.”
“Bill, you ain’t useless,” Hosea says, opening the whiskey bottle. He carefully holds Bill’s bloody hand at the wrist, dribbling a small amount of alcohol over his ruined knuckles.
Gritting his jaw, Bill holds back a cry of agony, his wounds burning as whiskey washes some of the blood away. Once Hosea stops, and Bill can focus on anything other than the pain again, he pants for breath as he says, “B-But I am. There’s no denyin’ it. I can’t talk to people o-or plan scores. Everyone thinks I’m annoyin’, and o-one bad job’s all it takes for m-me to do this to myself. I’m a mess and you want me g-gone. Just admit it already!”
“No,” is all Hosea says.
As Hosea takes a strip of clean, white fabric from his pocket, Bill sobs, “A-And why not?”
“Because it’s not true, you fool. We’re hardly the best of friends, Bill, but I appreciate everythin’ you do for this gang, and… I’d miss you if you weren’t here. So would the others. Now, are you gonna let me bandage your hand already?”
“Fine,” Bill says, shoving his sore hand towards Hosea. Sniffing, he processes Hosea’s words, and he mumbles, “D’you mean that?”
“I do,” Hosea says, carefully wrapping the bandage around Bill’s bruised, bloody knuckles. He finishes by tucking the end of the bandage in place, and smiles sadly at Bill. “Would you like to come back to camp? I promise I won’t let anyone yell at you.”
“Thank you,” Bill says, having genuinely worried about Arthur and Javier continuing to reprimand him for nearly getting them killed earlier. “But I, I’d rather stay out here. S’That okay?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.” Picking up the bottle of whiskey, Hosea holds it out to Bill. “For the pain. But don’t drink yourself into a stupor again, Bill.”
Bill nods his thanks, having a few swigs of whiskey, before handing the bottle back to Hosea. “Thank you,” he mumbles again. And it makes him feel like a fool, but as he looks at Hosea (avoiding eye contact once again), Bill asks, “Mind stayin’ out here with me? J-Just for a bit…”
“That’s fine,” Hosea says, staring at Bill’s bandaged hand. “Is there anythin’ you’d like to talk about?”
“Not really,” Bill mumbles, his words still not coming naturally. “But, but one of your stories might b-be nice…”
Hosea smiles fondly, sitting down cross-legged as he says, “Sure thing. So, when John was fourteen, I took him huntin’…”
And for the first time today, Bill relaxes, listening to Hosea’s silly story, and he finds himself feeling safe and wanted.