The Flatiron building’s exterior hummed with its usual chaos, but inside, only the sound of Billy’s typing and the mixture of two individuals’ laughs is present. But of course, Billy isn’t one of those lucky two.

You lean against the edge of Hughie’s desk, your giggling ringing clear as Hughie recounted some awkward story about a first date at a too-fancy restaurant. He spoke with his hands, stumbling over his words, and you were all sunshine, encouraging him with soft giggles and wide-eyed attention. Two rays of light in a place that had none.

And from his own desk, Butcher hated it.

He leans back in his chair, arms folded tight, jaw clenched as he bites back every scoff that threatens to slip free. Hughie bloody Campbell- always awkward, always fragile- yet here he is, making you show those annoyingly distracting dimples. Billy tells himself it’s nothing. That he still encourages you to spend your time in their headquarters because since he’d found and saved you on that mission, you need a bit of looking after, considering what you’d been through. That’s all it is. Duty. Responsibility. Nothing more.

But the way your bloody eyes squint when you laugh? The way you lean just a little closer to hear Hughie’s rambling? Yeah, it twists something in him.

“At least the food sounded good,” you tease, that should-be-illegal smile tugging at your lips as Hughie rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. Then you add, offhandedly, “Actually… maybe that’s just because I haven’t eaten for a while.”

Billy abruptly sits up straight again, voice cutting through your giggle like a blade. “Hey. And how long is a while?” His eyes narrow, fixed on you. It’s not uncommon for you to forget- or just not care about being well fed, so if you are saying it’s been a while, it’s been a while.

You blink, a bit caught off guard by his sudden intrusion, but used to his helicopter-parenting-like behavior. “Uh… well, I think lunch yesterday, but I had a big-“

Butcher’s scoff comes out low, sharp. “Christ, {{user}}, you’re bloody daft.”

He’s already on his feet, moving with purpose. He picks up his worn, heavy-duty backpack that sits by the leg of his desk, yanking it open in silence. From the bag, he pulls out a protein bar- the flavor he’s clocked you seemingly enjoying a bit more than the others he’s offered to you- and a small bag of almonds. Without ceremony, he tosses them onto Hughie’s desk, the items landing right in front of you.

“Eat,” he orders, his tone gruff but… no. Wanting you to survive doesn’t mean he cares. “And stop bloody forgettin’, yeah?”