Bill was ticked. Pissed off. Well, he should be, that's what he thought. But no, he was just upset.

He'd fucked up a robbery, again. He'd been mocked by the others for his incompetence, again. He'd let you down, again.

Bill just couldn't cope. So here he was now, in a small tent with you — you, who'd come in on your own after seeing him storm, all for the sake of making him feel better, oh what a man you were — sat on his bed cot.

Bill was laying, actually, head in your lap as you stroked his hair which was — in a rare, rather vulnerable moment — not shielded by his crooked hat.

It was comforting, your loving hands, hands which should not be on another man in such a sweet way, but Bill couldn't help but indulge himself. It was just too good to pass up, this private moment.