Your bedroom (well, temporary makeshift bedroom) door creaks before the knock even lands- three short raps, firm and familiar. The kind that doesn’t ask permission so much as announce itself. It’s Butcher. Of course it is.

He’s only been gone half the day, running errands with the lads- supplies, contacts, the usual dodgy business- but when he steps back into the safehouse, there’s a certain focus to him. Something tucked beneath the 24/7 scowl. The kind of purpose he silently carries like a second skin.

Without a word, he shoulders open your door and lobs a plastic grocery bag onto your bed. It lands with enough weight to make you blink. You sit up, peering inside, and your face twists into that perfect mix of surprise and confusion. Not one, not two or ten- it’s dozens. Dozens of singularly wrapped protein bars. There’s got to be fifty in there, easy.

You blink, realization dawning. Yesterday’s morning drive flashes back- he gave you an earful about not eating breakfast, then shoved one of his protein bars into your hand before you could argue. You’d mentioned it was good, more than once, and looked pretty pleased while eating it. Guess he noticed.

He always does. He just can’t let you know that.

For a moment, you don’t speak. You just stare up at him like you’re not sure whether to smile or ask if he’s lost it. Billy catches that look, the one that means you’re about to ask questions- and he dreads it. Let this be casual, damn it! His jaw tightens. He huffs through his nose and shrugs his shoulders, blinking around the room like the wallpaper suddenly got interesting.

“Shop had a good deal, yeah? So I figured you’d stop skippin’ breakfast if it’s somethin’ you like.”

The shop didn’t have any deal, actually, but again, you don’t need to know that. Hunting, gathering; maybe the only way he knows how to say he gives a damn.

But actions speak louder than words, right?