"Billy." Steve says again, so softly he almost can't hear it. He doesn't move to stand up, just

stays on the floor, staring up at Billy, somehow unafraid.

Billy fucking hates it. The one thing he's always been good is scaring the shit out of people, of running the halls, of having a reputation, of being a fucking psychopath. Hit and get hit. He doesn't fucking know what to do when his violence, his storm is met with quiet, with stillness.

"Get up." Billy says, and it's more of a plea than anything else. He hates the tremor in his voice. The uncertainty Harrington has brought him to. So he layers his words with extra venom, spits poison to cover his bewilderment.

Steve stands slowly, on his own. He continues to look Billy in the eye, steady and firm. Billy swallows hard, anxiety rising in his chest. He needs Steve to look away, to let him have a second to breathe. Steve doesn't do that. Instead he takes in a deep breath, letting it whoosh out through his mouth in a heavy sigh.

"Breath, Billy. You're okay. You're safe here. You don't have to say anything you… don't want to."

Billy's throat loosens ever so slightly and suddenly he's gasping for air without realizing he'd ever been starved of it.

"Water?" Steve asks, and Billy just nods, deflated. Steve nods back and then quickly leaves. Billy's knees go weak and he collapses back on the bed. His side fucking hurts and he can feel a drop rolling down his face. He swipes at it and sighs. The welt on his cheekbone must have reopened. Fan-fucking-tastic. His head buzzes.

Harrington comes back and presses a glass into his hand, then sets down a neatly folded pile of clothes on the bed.

"What're these?" Billy indicates them, voice gruff with tension. Stupid emotion.

"Just some sweats and tee shirt. Figured you'd wanna change out of your, um, bloody stuff. And take a shower?"

"Why are you being so goddamn nice to me, Harrington?"

"No one deserves this." Steve says.

"This? You mean the exact fucking thing I did to you?"

"Why'd you come to my house if you didn't expect me to help you?" Steve counters then, flushed.

"I thought you'd like, let me crash on your couch. Not fucking give me your clothes and play nursemaid."

"Why, are you mad I'm trying to keep you from a fucking infection?"

"No. Just surprised."

There's a pause.

"I don't deserve it." Billy mumbles, looking at the ground. He's not expecting the words when they come out of his mouth, but there's no taking them back, and he's not sure he'd want to if he could. It's the truth, as bitter a thing as that may often be.

"Well that's the thing about 'doing the right thing'." Steve says, standing with a grim smile on his face. "Doesn't depend on whether someone deserves it. It's still right."