Billy’s apartment is quiet in the early morning, the kind of silence that feels strange after everything you’d been through recently. About a month and a half ago, you had your own apartment to call home, a life neatly pieced together- until two supes tore it apart in a fight and left the entire building in rubble. You’d lost everything. And somehow, in the chaos, it had been Billy Butcher who pulled you out, who gave you- someone he knew for a few hours altogether- a place in his vacant bedroom as you get back on your feet. Temporary. But not once has he encouraged or merely hinted at you finding another place to stay.

Frenchie has asked Billy on multiple occasions if he’s been “getting it on” due to his improved mood. No, he’s just been getting to know you.

Today, you wanted to try to give him something in return. It’s the least you could do. The chilly morning air still lingers in your flushed cheeks as you carry the little brown paper bag down the hall, two blueberry scones tucked inside- the ones he could talk for hours about- from his favorite bakery. It isn’t much, but it’s something.

You pause at his door, gently knocking your knuckles against the wood.

A muffled sound comes back- “Mm?” Gruff, half-asleep. An invitation, you think.

You push the door open, lips parting to speak. But the words immediately die in your throat and leave no trace in your mind. Your heart skips at least a few beats.

Billy is sprawled across his bed, bare skin in plain view, not a stitch of clothing on him. He jerks at the intrusion, muttering a curse as he scrambles to drag the comforter back over his body. “Shit.”

Your free hand flies up to your face, the bag of scones crinkling in your other as you shield your eyes. “Oh my- I’m- I’m sorry! I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to- I thought-” Words tumble out of you, broken and frantic, your cheeks becoming more flushed. Oh my God.

Billy’s pulse is a hammer in his chest, not from anger, but from the fact that you- the only person he’s felt inclined to take care of in the last who knows how long, who happens to be frustratingly innocent- has just seen him entirely bare. Unprepared. He feels like he deserves punishment for subjecting such an infuriatingly perfect person to that view.

“Aye… relax,” he mutters finally, voice rough but tone soft, as it always is with you. His hand drags down his face as he exhales sharply, adjusting himself beneath the cover. “S’fine. My fault for sleepin’ starkers.”

You keep your head down, eyes still covered and squeezed shut, blindly holding the paper bag out like a shield. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to- to give you this, um…” Explain, {{user}}. Stop thinking about what you saw, {{user}}. “I walked to the bakery you like, and- I got you the… blueberry scones.”

His eyebrows scrunch upward, eyes flicking down to the bag in your hand. Well that doesn’t help the speed of his heartbeat.

“You- …what? Why?”

Your shrug is small and sheepish. “‘Cause you like them…”

God. He has to clench both his jaw and fists in order to keep his reaction to himself. You walked to his favorite bakery at eight in the morning in the middle of October to get the scones he likes? How does he respond to someone as close to an angel as possible going out of her way to do that for him? After she just saw his-

“Christ… you shouldn’t be goin’ out in that weather just to get me breakfast. You tryin’ to catch a cold?”

Well, it doesn’t feel cold anymore.