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1.
The thing is, Annabelle doesn't even understand herself how it really started. The first time she holds a gun in her hand — a real one, loaded and everything — is also the first time she takes something that doesn't belong to her.
Her Daddy taught her how to shoot, of course. Just so she could be safe from all those dangerous men out there, he used to say.
Annabelle had a real talent for it, too. Daddy used to line up empty whiskey bottles on a wooden log for her to shoot down one after the other. It was real easy. After years of stumbling through life, confused about everything a woman was and wasn't supposed to be—the gun just made sense. So of course she took it from Daddy while he was sleeping real tight, to show it to the only other person who’d truly understand what that weapon meant to her.
Joanie Josie didn’t live far away. Her family’s farm was a lot bigger than Annabelle’s Daddy’s, and they had tons of cows. Huge fields full of them. But Annabelle didn’t like Josie because of the cows.
It was pretty much everything else about them that Annabelle liked.
The tie they religiously wore around their neck. The brown curls. The boots Annabelle had been endlessly jealous of last summer. The way they smelled. The way they rode. The way they smiled whenever Annabelle came into view—as if their whole face lit up, like Annabelle was the sun itself: radiant, shining, warm. And Joanie delighted in being around her.
Joanie was her best friend. Joanie was the first to see Daddy’s gun and get the same mischievous spark in her eyes, the same one no doubt reflected in Annabelle’s own.
She slid closer to Annabelle, pressing her arm tightly against hers, and leaned forward a little further to keep an eye on the gun in all its terrifying beauty. "Well, what do you wanna do with it?" she asked.
Her voice made Annabelle shiver.
Annabelle couldn’t tear her eyes away from Butch’s lips. She gazed up, and Butch was already looking at her. The tips of their ears were red.
She had the feeling she wanted to say something else, something big—a tickle at the back of her throat—but when Annabelle opened her mouth, all that came out was: "Let’s rob a bank!"
And they went with that.
The plan was simple: head to Annabelle’s house to get masks and bags, a second gun if possible, and then get that motherfucking bank fucking robbed. Yee-haw!
On the way to her Daddy’s house, they rode together on Joanie’s mare. Annabelle had her hands loosely wrapped around Joanie’s stomach, enjoying the feel of the body in front of her. Joanie’s body, to be precise.
"What d’you wanna do with the money, Joanie?" she murmured into her friend’s back. The gun was a welcoming weight at her hip.
Joanie was still for a while, then shrugged.
"Dunno. Doesn’t matter. We ain’t robbing a bank for the money, are we?"
"Well, my Daddy would never admit it, but I do hear the old house creaking at night where it don’t need to be. Some dollars might do him some good," Annabelle mused, leaning a bit more of her weight against Joanie’s back.
Joanie made a vague humming noise in agreement. "We’re there, Annabelle. Now let’s look at those masks!"
They jumped from the horse, landing a bit wobbly but quickly righting themself again. Then she held out her hand for Annabelle to take, like she was a proper lady or something. It made Annabelle giggle lightly—which made Joanie, in return, blush.
"Why thank you, Joanie. You’re a real gentleman."
Joanie’s cheeks were getting all dark, blotchy, and adorable. They made a happy noise when Annabelle took her hand and didn’t let go as they walked to the porch of her house.
Joanie cleared her throat. "Y’know, you can just call me Butch. That’s what everyone calls me now," they said. They were smiling, and there was a happy, excited air about them that tasted like summer and sun and laughing together until their faces hurt from smiling so much.
Annabelle frowned. "Do you want me to call you that?" she double-checked.
Butch nodded, their shoulders going up to her ears. "I kinda like it. It suits me anyhow, don’tcha think?"
"Yeah," Annabelle smiled, relaxing, when her friend was looking like that—sun-kissed and beautiful, "Yeah, it does, Butch."
Butch’s grin took up her whole face. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. Annabelle was so distracted she didn’t even notice her Daddy opening the door, hands on his hips, shaking his head when he saw the stolen gun Annabelle was carrying.
"Where do you girls think ya goin’?"
So. They didn’t really rob a bank. But the idea took root anyway, and Annabelle was already way too addicted to that excitement she and Butch were sharing to ever think about robbing a bank the same way again.
2.
"Butch? Butch! Butch, where are ya?"
When Butch skidded around the corner of the farm, her boots were all muddy from dealing with the cattle and her shirt was sweat-soaked, as was her hair — but the exhaustion didn’t last long once she got a good look at Annabelle. Or maybe at the two firearms she was carrying.
"Gosh-a-livin’s, Annabelle! Where’d you get these two beauties from?" she exclaimed, touching the gun like it was something sacred.
"Well, I don’t want ya thinkin’ I’m all hat and no cattle, Butch, soooo..." She batted her eyelashes, all coy-like, like she’d seen women in town do with the sheriff.
Butch's smile was big and radiant when Annabelle asked: "Let’s rob a bank?"
They get further than last time.
This time, they make it through the front doors and all the way up to the counter. Butch pulls out her gun, deepening her voice, which does something funny to Annabelle’s heart she ain’t sure she’s willing to address.
Unfortunately, her idea of a threatening line is: "This is a bank robbery — or my name isn’t Joanie Butch Josie!"
The old lady behind the counter stops counting bills mid-stack, blinks once, then lets out a sharp laugh that bounces off the marble walls. "Joanie?" she says, squinting. "Well, I’ll be damned — aren’t you the one who tried on six new ties and bought none? From my shop? Down the street?"
Butch flushes scarlet. Annabelle, standing awkwardly to her left, lowers her mask an inch.
And just like that, the whole thing unravels. Neither Butch nor Annabelle can bring themselves to raise a gun at an old lady. Butch keeps nervously apologizing, and Annabelle, well... she tries not to find it too endearing.
By the time the sheriff shows up, they’ve already peeled off their masks and stuffed the guns back into their holders.
The sheriff makes a show of leading them outta the bank by their collars. But after a long pause — where he just looks at them for an uncomfortably long moment—he sighs.
"Do I need to talk to your father, young lady?" he asks, all condescending, and Annabelle hates him with a sudden ferocity that shocks even herself.
"No, mister, we learned our lessons, didn’t we, Butch?"
Butch rocks back and forth on their heels. "Oh, yeah! We ain’t criminals, Sheriff. Just some girls lookin’ for some fun." But their voice isn’t as upbeat as their words suggest, and Annabelle can see that they're beating themself up over their misstep in the bank.
The sheriff’s mouth turns downward. "Act like girls, then. I dunno — look at dresses, husbands… well, what do I know. Skedaddle, ladies."
"What a dunderhead," says Butch as they walk away, leading their horses by the reins. But she’s still too quiet for Annabelle’s taste.
Then, real guiltily: "I’m sorry, Annabelle, I really am."
Annabelle grasps her hands, squeezes real tight. "It’s not your fault, Butch. Maybe we just ain’t meant to be bank robbers."
"Oh, balderdash, Annabelle! We just need some time to get in the groove of things, y'know? I just hope the sheriff ain’t gonna run to your Daddy and tattle on us. On you."
Butch’s hand is slightly sweaty, but Annabelle likes the way it’s bigger than her own. She feels real secure — even better than with a gun in her hand.
And then, when she looks at Butch — their deep brown eyes, their handsome face all sweaty from the mask, their non-replaceable tie — all Annabelle can suddenly think is I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—
And well. That sure was something.
3.
Annabelle’s scared.
If Butch keeps looking that fucking beautiful, she’s gonna do something she’ll regret.
It’s just the way she walks — with that awkward, endearing swagger in her step. The way she rocks on her feet. The way her hands never seem to stay still, always in motion. Sweet, handsome darling Butch. Annabelle rests her head on her hands and just keeps looking at her.
"What’cha lookin’ at, Annabelle? I ain’t got somethin’ on my face, do I?"
Annabelle sighs dreamily, twirls a blonde strand of hair around her finger, and tugs. Butch is coming nearer — she has that happy air around her again, like she’s just glad to be near Annabelle.
"Well, now that ya mention it, you do got somethin’ on yer face. C’mere."
Butch draws closer, trustingly tipping her cheek toward Annabelle’s finger. "Look at ya, all busy on yer farm. No time for me anymore?"
Butch blushes real prettily. "I always got time for ya, Annabelle. You know that!"
Annabelle rubs the dirt streak on Butch’s cheek with her thumb, wiping away the traitorous sign of work. "I know. And I—" Love you.
Stupid. She’s gotta stop talking before she does something idiotic.
"You what?" Butch is still looking at her. There’s a soft look in those eyes that Annabelle wants to keep in her heart forever. It makes her feel all warm and tingly again.
"Just—"
"Yeah?" Butch’s tone is still soft, a teasing lilt in their voice.
Annabelle takes a deep breath.
Come on, Parker. Come on! "Just wanted to say that… y'know, uh… let’s rob a bank!"
Fucking hell, Parker.
"Well, sure!" Butch responds — either oblivious to the turmoil going on inside Annabelle’s head or too confused to mention it. "Third time’s the charm, right?"
And third time is the charm. It’s easy with Butch — now that she’s not blurting out her whole name immediately — and she doesn’t even have to try that hard to pass as a man. Annabelle’s getting the hang of it, too.
It helps that the gun makes her feel real good. She knows what she can do with it. She ain’t scared of nobody — not the sheriff, not the dangerous men Daddy always warned her about, not even her Daddy himself.
If she could now be less scared of her feelings too, that’d be dandy.
But with the extra dollars, they buy real expensive whiskey and drink it together under a nice big tree on Butch’s family farm. And when she looks at Butch, sees the way her lips curve up when she notices Annabelle watching her — she thinks that someday, someday she might be brave enough. Brave enough, in the excitement of robbing a bank, to tell Butch how she really feels.
She takes another gulp of whiskey, lays her head on Butch’s shoulder, and sighs. Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow she’ll tell her.
4.
Her Daddy finds them dollars in her room, and then all hell breaks loose.
He knows he would kill Annabelle if he forbade her from seeing Butch, so he takes the next best thing that’s gonna hurt — “Never give Annabelle a gun.” That’s the new rule.
He drills it into Butch, into Annabelle as well, and it does hurt. She loves those guns. She really does. But she knows her Daddy only means it well. He’s a good man. A good father. He did his utmost best after Momma left, and Annabelle would never try anything intentionally to hurt him but—
It’s not her fault that every time she tries to confess her feelings, she asks Butch to rob a bank instead! It’s really not!
It was hard enough admitting those feelings to herself, and now she’s gotta let Butch know as well? That’s hard. It’s harder because Daddy would never understand — his daughter, a lesbian.
She should be lucky he didn’t throw her out after finding out about the robbery. She can’t imagine how mad he’d be if he found out about the lesbianism.
But her Daddy’s right: no more robbing banks. It’s childish. It is.
She really doesn’t know what comes over her every dang time she holds a gun.
Butch and her still meet every day. Butch respects her Daddy a lot, so she truly tries not to bring any guns into the house — even finger guns are forbidden.
They’re sitting on Annabelle’s bed when she decides she’s going to confess. It’s not a slow realization — it’s spontaneous, perfect. She turns to look at Butch, who’s in the middle of telling her about the stubborn cattle she dealt with today while fiddling with her tie.
Annabelle leans closer. Butch immediately stops talking. There’s a wide-eyed look on her face, a high blush on her cheeks that’s only gonna deepen in color.
And suddenly they’re very close to each other. A dark lock of hair curls over Butch’s forehead, and a sudden warmth fills Annabelle’s stomach. So sudden and fluttery that she feels it all the way down to her toes, in her fingertips, and in the tips of her ears as well. Butch’s eyes are dark and endlessly deep and filled with such longing that Annabelle almost dares to hope. She can’t tear her gaze away.
Butch opens their mouth, exhales shakily. Their cheeks a blotchy red.
Before they can say anything, Annabelle takes both of their hands in hers, closes her eyes, gathers all her courage, and says—
“Let’s rob a bank!” Goddammit.
5.
“Daddy, who’s downstairs at the front door?”
Annabelle’s running down the stairs even before her Daddy tells her it’s Butch. Who else would it be, really?
"Well hey there, Annabelle, apple of my eye, my delightful daughter, who could never do any wrong."
"Daddy, you always sound so terrifying when you say that."
And then it’s the same old routine. The same thing she hears every day now that her Daddy found out about the bank robberies: “Never give Annabelle a gun.”
Annabelle’s glad her eyes don’t get stuck from rolling them too hard. Butch clumsily tries to wink at her behind her Daddy’s back and fails miserably — they always close both eyes instead of one — so that cheers Annabelle up a bit.
Outside, she grasps Butch’s hand. Interlaces their fingers. Butch starts humming happily, and Annabelle tries to control the weird burst of bravery that suddenly captures her.
"Daddy ain’t gonna approve of what I’m gonna tell ya, Butch," Annabelle says, turning to look back at the porch. She can see her Daddy through the window, mulling around in the kitchen.
"Oh yeah?" Butch looks at her.
"Yeah. He ain’t. I just know it." Annabelle sighs, furrowing her brows. "I’m gonna tell ya somethin’ important, yeah, Butch? Real important."
Butch opens their mouth, doesn’t say anything — just breathes a little louder. Annabelle closes her eyes, breathes in, then out. Opens them and—
She can’t. She can’t do it.
What about her Daddy? What about her Momma? Would she approve? And what if Butch tells her off, laughs at her, never meets up with her again?
She can’t. Can’t do it.
"Do ya wanna," she swallows, "ride into town? Rob a fuckin' bank?"
Butch’s expression shuts down a bit. There was something in her eyes that is now gone, and Annabelle tells herself that it’s better this way.
But one minute later, Butch is smiling again. "Shucks, Annabelle, I just noticed that I would do anythin’ for ya. Ya listenin’ to me?"
"I always do, Butch! I always do!"
"Well then! Let’s rob a darn bank!"
Annabelle nods, hoping that the adrenaline and the masks will give her the bravery — the bravery she never seems to lack when she’s holding a gun in her hand.
The bravery to tell her how she truly feels.
“Everyone get your hands down on the ground and your butts in the air!”
God, does she fucking love them.
+1
Henry McGillicuddy is fucking dead. And Annabelle kisses Butch on the mouth right after coming out to her. After coming out to her Daddy.
There’s blood on her sleeve, a split on Butch’s lip — but all she can feel is Butch’s arms around her waist and the way their lips taste like gunpowder and robbing a bank. The world could burn down around them and she wouldn’t care. Not when she’s finally, finally done running from what she’s always known deep in her chest like a second heartbeat.
Still, it’s her who pulls away first, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Butch,” she breathes, like it’s the first time she’s ever said her name. Butch stares at her and then she kisses Annabelle again.
With a dip. A real dip. And Annabelle sinks into the romance of it all with a sigh that’s all soft edges and fluttering lashes. Butch’s arm is solid around her waist, holding her like one of those dashing heroes from the dime novels Annabelle used to hide under her bed. Except this ain’t pretend. This is Butch. Her Butch.
And oh, they dip her.
Annabelle’s hat falls off. She doesn’t care. Her hand curls tight into Butch’s shirt, and—
“I love you,” Annabelle blurts out, like the dam’s finally cracked wide open. “I— I know I shoulda said it earlier, before the first bank, before all the dumb plans and the whiskey and your tie that I always wanted to pull you into a kiss by but I love you, Butch. I love you so bad it hurts.”
"Hell, Annabelle," Butch’s breath is breathy, shaky. They're red in the face, and Annabelle loves them so, so much it does hurt. It does hurt — and it’s the best feeling in the world. Nothing compares. Not a single thing. "I love you too. I loved you since forever, I think."
Annabelle presses her face into Butch’s shirt. She thinks about her Momma — a lesbian just like her. Her Daddy, knowing all along, supporting her since always. Her Butch.
She grasps both sides of their face, presses kiss after kiss to their mouth. And for the first time in forever, she doesn’t want a gun in her hand.
She’s already holding everything she needs.